#thank you button poetry

[divinesymmetry]

Some poetry on the feed for today - I heard Doc Luben's and wanted to give it a whirl

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

good grief I hecking hate Google

[honeekyuu]

stuck. [tsukishima kei x f!reader]

>>Tsukishima is the kind of best friend that makes you want to leave him, but you just can't bring yourself to.

or

You end up confessing in the middle of a fight and he fucks you to show you how much he really cares.<<

______________________________

tags: smut, fluff, angst, best friends to lovers, oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, rough sex, alcohol/drinking, college au, tsukishima kei is a dick, drunk sex, unprotected sex (dont do that), creampie, dom/sub undertones

a/n: ahahahaha this was my first hq work posted on ao3, and it is everything Mean Best Friend Tsukishima Kei that i needed. i hope you enjoy!

[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]

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

“Okay, I’m done! How do I look?”

“You look like shit.”

You sigh, trying not to let him get to you. 

Tsukki’s always been this way - dismissive, nonchalant, indifferent. Through middle school, he’d been sarcastic. He’d been snarky and brutally honest. And in high school, he’d only gotten worse. 

Anyone else in your position might have left him already. People you’d known in school had told you to find someone else, a better friend. Best friends don’t treat each other the way Tsukishima treats you , they’d said. His teammates had been in the habit of scolding him whenever he’d go too far, whenever he’d push your buttons a little too hard. The only one who could see your side had been Yamaguchi, and even he’d had his reservations at times.

But other people don’t know Tsukishima Kei. They know the Tsukki that would refuse to share his notes with you after you’d been out sick. The Tsukki that would steal parts of your lunch and hold it high above your head, far out of your reach, and call you mean names with a cruel smirk. The Tsukki that would often leave you behind after school and head home without you, leaving you to text him and wonder where he’d gone.

They don’t know that the same person would show up at your house with his notes, walking you through calculus and poetry lessons himself because he knows you learn better with a teacher. And, even though you never called him out for it, he would show up the day you’d been out sick, too, just to check on you. Just to watch movies in bed with you, waving off your concerns about him getting sick. He hated being sick, but he would ignore your complaints and force you to relax - because you’d only ever get sick when you overworked yourself, which meant he hadn’t been watching over you closely enough. 

They don’t know that Tsukki would secretly swap your lunch out for his own - better, homemade food that wasn’t the cafeteria slop you were often forced to buy because your parents weren’t home a lot. He would watch you push the food around on your tray while you’d laugh at something Hinata had said, identifying at least 3 things you were allergic to on that plate. So he would reach for it, leaving his own (allergen-free, thanks to Akiteru) lunch open for retaliation while he’d use his height as a way to take out his frustrations on you - his irritation that you never seemed to put yourself first, choosing starvation over just simply asking your parents for money before they go out of town.

And the times he’d leave you behind - well, half the time, it had been an accident. It was impossible to remember your packed schedule, all your clubs and student council meetings lumping into a vague ‘ Y/n’s busy ’ block of time in his mind. The other half of the time, it was because he needed to be alone. It’s not that he’s an asshole and loves to make you suffer - in fact, he would often call you later the same night, apologizing in his own, special Tsukishima Kei way and explaining himself. He gets overwhelmed easily, overstimulated by too many people, too many responsibilities, too many social expectations. So he would disappear as soon as he was allowed, needing to be alone with himself and no one else.

So, the people in your life had known a different version of Tsukishima than you do. Where they’d seen a bully, cold and unrelenting even for his best friend, you’d known nothing more than an introvert, expressing his care in a way that was unrecognizable to anyone but you.

Care that had carried over into college, the last three years filled with a Tsukishima Kei that even you hadn’t expected. A version of him that walks you from the library to your dorm at night, despite his increasingly hectic volleyball schedule. A Tsukishima who calls you in the morning on his walk to class to make sure you haven’t overslept, because - even if the calls consist of nothing but your crabby morning disposition, berating him for pulling you from your slumber - he knows you’ll thank him later, as you often do.

A Tsukishima who lets you drag him to parties, even though he hates them to his very core. He lets you tug him along to your dorm, lets you force him to sit through the hour-long ordeal of choosing your outfit. Lets you spin in front of him when you’re done, clearly pleased with yourself, and ask him how you look.

Lets you throw a pillow at his face when he tells you that you look like shit, even if he wholeheartedly believes otherwise.

“Tsukki, can’t you say one nice thing to me? For once?”

He scoffs when you put your hands on your hips, turning his gaze back to his phone as he lounges on your bed like it’s his own. It might as well be, with the amount of time he spends in this room.

“That would require you to have something worth being nice about, wouldn’t it?” He smiles mockingly when he catches the irritated twitch of your eyebrow.

“You’re a dick.”

“Nothing new about that.” Tsukishima watches as you turn back to your closet with a huff, taking the time to look you over appreciatively. No , he thinks, his eyes lingering on the curve of your breasts and the way your dress hugs your hips, the material tight but soft. His hand itches with the urge to touch it, to find out for himself. It’s not that you have nothing. It’s that you have too much.

He sighs, sitting up, and runs his fingers through his hair.

You have too much, and it’s fucking annoying. 

His eyes flick to you again, his own irritation growing. You’d always been too good. Too perfect, too overwhelming. He’d hated falling in love. It had sucked. High school had sucked . Having you cling to him every day and finding himself clinging right back. Not understanding these complicated feelings he has - ones that want nothing more than to hold you in his arms, against others that would tell him to push you away with his sharp tongue, to protect himself from this terrifying feeling. 

And now that he’s accepted it - it had only taken him the entirety of high school and at least a year of college - he almost hates it more. Being so close to you and somehow still feeling like he can’t breathe because it’s not nearly close enough.

So he stands, shoving his phone in the pocket of his jeans, and stares you down when you finally turn back to him.

“Can we go? The sooner we get to this stupid thing, the sooner I can go home.” He thinks he sees a flicker of hurt flash across your eyes, but that can’t be it. He’s said worse things before. You always bounce back, a retort on the tip of your tongue for everything he could throw at you. You always match him, blow for blow.

So why, then, can he see your jaw clenching as you turn away from him? Why does he feel like you’re pulling your jacket off the rack with more force than usual? Why are you leaving without responding?

What the fuck ?

-

Fuck Tsukishima Kei . 

It’s the only thought in your mind as you down the shot, wincing as the alcohol slides down your throat. You’d lost count of the drinks you’ve had about an hour ago, when the thought had been something more like ‘ Fuck Tsukishima Kei. Stupid fucking idiot. Never thinks before he speaks ’.

Clearly, you’d mellowed out a little, but the anger is still there, simmering in your chest and threatening to rise every time he gets close to you.

The walk to the frat had been silent, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about your mood, only scrolling through his phone and occasionally glancing over at you. You’d felt the irritation crawling under your skin with every pass of his eyes over you, but you hadn’t returned any of his gazes, only looking forward to getting to the party and being with other people.

But he hadn’t let you wander off so easily, his tall form following close behind as you’d tried to find some of your friends from class. You can tell he’s been trying to silently check on you, like he always does when he knows he’s bothered you. 

He’d brought you drinks, only smiling emptily when you’d glared up at him. It shouldn’t have made your heart skip that he’d done nothing more than offered you a drink, tapping his own red solo cup against yours and matching you shot for shot. It shouldn’t affect you when he does the bare minimum. 

He’d danced close to you, one hand on your waist and his warm chest pressed firmly against your back. You’d hated it - feeling so safe in the arms of someone who had derived pleasure from picking on you your whole lives. And even if that’s not true - even if you only take into account all the ways that he’d taken care of you, celebrating all your accomplishments with you and holding you while you’d cried about your failures - you still shouldn’t be feeling that familiar tug of nerves in your stomach when he presses his hips against your ass, slipping his fingers through yours and pulling you close.

And when that hadn’t worked - when you’d held your ground and managed to cling to your anger from earlier - he’d even tried to talk to you about it. That isn’t normal for him by any means, but you could see the confusion in his eyes when he’d leaned down to be heard over the music, mumbling his question against the shell of your ear.

“Are we okay ?”

It had taken everything in you to resist him, to resist the pull that is Tsukishima Kei. The same pull that had kept you next to him all these years, through all the teasing and the poking. The pull that kept reminding you that he’s just bad at expressing his feelings. He’s just bad at being nice. He’s just bad at holding his tongue.

But that doesn’t mean you have to sit and take it every time.

So you’d only smacked his hand away and glared when he’d cupped the side of your face, trying to get you to look at him. Stomping over to the bar, you had asked the frat boy for a shot of something random. 

After downing it, you try not to look back but fail miserably - you might be pissed, but you’ve never been immune to him. You probably never would be.

Glancing back, you can see his blond head in the sea of people. He’s trying to make his way to the bar, but his head is whipping to the side at the sound of something. A tall guy - you recognize it’s someone from his team - appears at his side, clapping his shoulder, and you can only assume he’d heard his name being called.

They start talking, Tsukki seeming distracted but drunk enough to at least pretend he’s interested in the conversation. You look away just as he’s turning his head back to you - you won’t be caught looking his way again tonight.

Luckily, there’s someone stepping up beside you, catching your attention with their bright smile.

“Y/n?!” 

You blink, startled by the recognition. But when you finally see who it is, you can’t help but beam.

“Oh my God, Bokuto?!” You leap toward him, wrapping your arms around the man’s neck and dragging him into a hug. You feel him laugh against you, his arms sliding around your waist and pulling you in tight. When you step away, he keeps you close, hand on your hips.

“What are you doing here?! You don’t go here, do you?” 

The man shakes his head, grinning down at you and pointing over his shoulder.

“Nah, I’m just visiting a few friends over the weekend.”

You glance past him, seeing a group of boys that seem like they could be familiar to you, but you can never tell - Bokuto Koutarou is friends with everyone.

When you look back, you catch his eyes wandering down the length of your body, his gaze snapping up to yours when you clear your throat. He has the decency to look ashamed.

“Sorry, Y/n - You’ve just, uh… grown up a lot since high school.”

You flush deeply, something that makes him grin when he catches it. 

At least someone thinks I look good tonight .

You’re smiling flirtily up at him, feeling confident enough to drag this conversation out. He seems to notice, an interested glimmer in his eye. But then he’s glancing over your shoulder, and his eyebrows are raising in surprise.

A hand wraps around your bicep, much tighter than necessary in your opinion. You barely have time to spot the blond hair in your peripheral vision before you’re being dragged away. You can only wave at Bokuto, who looks a little disappointed but mostly just amused.

Tsukishima only lets you go when you’re outside, his hand dropping from your skin like you’ve burned him. You whip around to face him, more than ready to yell at him on the front lawn of this frat house. But he’s already walking away, in the direction of your dorm.

“Dude, what the hell? You didn’t even say hi to him - he’s one of your closest friends!” You stalk after him, determined to figure out what could possibly be going through his mind. But he won’t answer you, just shaking his head and mumbling something that sounds vaguely like ‘exactly ’ as he makes his way down the street.

You scoff, turning back to the frat. He’s out of his mind if he thinks you’re just going to follow him home quietly.

You start to head back to the party, but you barely make it five steps before his fingers are closing around your wrist and tugging you back to him. When you look up, enraged at his entitlement, you see that he’s incensed, staring down at you with wild eyes. He looks pissed, which he has no reason to be. But there’s something else there, something that’s contributing to this almost panicked anger sitting just below the surface.

“Tsukishima, what do you want?” 

He bristles at the use of his full name, golden eyes narrowing as he stares down at you.

“You’re going home.” He punctures every word with barely concealed irritation, finally turning and dragging you back down the street. You don’t say anything this time, feeling that previously mellowed out anger returning full force as you stare at the back of his head.

The walk back is just as silent as the walk to the party had been, but this time you feel ready to explode. You’d been annoyed before, bothered and hurt by his words and the way he treats you.

Now you’re just ready to pick a fight. Which means you’ll probably say something you’ll regret if you don’t get away from him soon and take some time to calm the hell down.

When you get to your door, you’ve already got your keys out. He’d let go of you in the elevator, finally realizing that he’d been gripping you way too hard. You might just be able to get inside without him following.

But the second you unlock the door and slip inside, not a word said to the blond as you try to shut the door behind you, his hand is slamming down on the wood. He stops your attempt, staring down at you with annoyance.

“You’re joking, right?” And then he’s pushing into your room with an angry sigh, letting the door swing shut behind him. You only step back, crossing your arms over your chest as you look him over.

“What do you want?”

“What do I wa- What is your problem tonight ?” He squints down at you, eyebrows furrowed. When you only raise yours, his jaw is clenching. “Why the fuck are you so mad at me?”

“Because-” You stop yourself, taking a deep breath in order to maintain some semblance of control. “Because you’re an asshole, Tsukishima-”

“Stop fucking calling me that, Y/n-”

“-and maybe I’m just not in the mood for your shit tonight!” You yell over him, clenching your fists against your body. You need him to go. You cannot let him see you cry.

“I’m always an asshole! How is tonight any different-” He’s taken a step further into the small bedroom, and you take a step back, feeling overwhelmed. You’re immensely glad you don’t have a roommate, so they don’t have to deal with the mess that is your friendship with Tsukki.

“Tonight isn’t any different, you dick. It’s the same as it always is. I’m just tired of it tonight.” You feel yourself growing angrier when he just laughs, throwing you a mocking smile as he paces the room. He’s definitely drunk.

“Oh, excuse me, I didn’t realize I needed to account for Little Miss Y/n’s fucking mood swings whenever I open my mouth-”

“What the fuck did you just sa-”

“I just didn’t take you for someone who’s sensitive-”

“Well, maybe I am, you fucking asshole! ”

You’re definitely drunk, too.

Tsukishima stops short, taking you in. He can’t hide the shock on his face when he sees you - the way your hands are shaking at your sides, the quiver of your lip as you try your best to stand up to him. You’re trying so hard not to cry, he can tell.

Wow, I really am an asshole.

“Y/n… I-”

“Did you really think I would still want to go to that party once you’d made it clear how much you didn’t want to go? That you think it’s stupid to hang out with your best friend on a Friday night doing something she wants to do - because your idea of a good time is so different from mine that you would try make me feel like a fucking idiot for it?” 

Tsukishima’s starting to panic - had he made you feel that way? He’d just been talking. He hadn’t even been thinking about how it would make you feel - he’d thought nothing could hurt you, that your friendship is guaranteed and that having you next to him is a given. 

Now he feels like he’s losing you. 

“Maybe, once in a fucking while , it wouldn’t hurt you too much to tell a girl she’s pretty when she’s just spent an hour trying to look good for you.”

The frustration on Tsukishima’s face drops, and he’s left staring emptily at you. 

That’s what this is about? 

He stares for a while, his eyes just flicking back and forth between yours as he thinks of how to take that. It makes you nervous. You’d said too much. 

“Fuck this.”

You blink, staring up at him in disbelief. What is that supposed to mean?

“What do you- mmh -” 

Tsukishima had crossed the room in just two steps, taking your face in his hands while you’d been preparing to yell at him again. And then he’d smashed his lips to yours.

Your heart jumps into your throat, and you let out a noise of shock, muffled against his mouth. Your eyes remain wide open, flitting in a panic over his features as you feel his lips move against yours. His brow is furrowing behind his glasses, and you’re realizing that you still haven’t kissed him back. You push against his lips experimentally, watching that wrinkle between his eyes all but disappear when he feels it, and you think it looks a lot like relief.

He’s nervous.

Your body moves of its own accord, hands sliding up his chest to grip at his shirt, and your eyes slide closed when you feel one of his hands fall to your waist. He nudges you backward, and you feel the hard surface of your closet door against your back.

Tsukishima slides his tongue against your bottom lip, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he feels you inhale sharply in response. He takes advantage of your surprise, pushing past your lips and brushing his tongue against yours. When you slide your hands up and around his neck, tugging at the hair there, he groans and leans down. 

Planting a hand on the door behind you, he angles his head, slotting his lips against yours. He presses his hips into you, and you can feel how hard he’s getting. You sigh into his mouth at the feeling, smiling when his body reacts to the sound, his cock hardening against your thigh. 

Tsukishima Kei might be impossible to read sometimes, but he never could hide from you.

He drops his mouth to your neck, latching onto a spot under your ear and using his other arm to pull you flush against him. The sounds you’re making are clear now, soft gasps and whimpers echoing in your tiny dorm room.

“So stupid… ” 

You barely hear him, too busy wondering why it had taken so long to feel his lips on your skin.

“The only person in the world that can see right through me, and you were stupid enough to believe what I said. ” He mumbles it into your ear, taking your earlobe between his teeth and sighing when you moan against him.

“You’re so mean…” Your breath catches in your throat when you feel his hand drop to your leg, pulling the fabric of your dress up slightly. He grips at the back of your bare thigh, brushing against your panties and kneading into the plush skin just below your ass.

“What were you gonna do, Y/n, go home with Bokuto?” Tsukishima all but growls the question against your neck, dragging your thigh up and wrapping your leg around his hip. He feels your dress slide up, feels your warmth against his jeans. He’s desperate to get out of them.

“Y-You called me ugly-”

“I never said that.” Yes he had. He knows he had. He just hadn’t realized you would take it to heart. Now he hates himself for even saying it. For pretending you aren’t the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

“Bo said I looked good… Figured I might as well go for someone who’s actually attracted to me…” You whimper when Tsukishima presses his erection against you, your thin panties useless against the rough fabric of his jeans.

“Does it feel like I’m not attracted to you?”

You breathe out a laugh, clinging to his biceps as he sucks another bruise into your skin.

“How was I supposed to know, you dumbass? You only ever say mean things, and I thought I could get over you by-”

“By what?” He’s getting irritated again at the thought of what could have happened tonight if he hadn’t brought you home. If he’d left you alone, like his brain was telling him to. If he’d given you space and just texted you in the morning. 

“You thought you could just fuck some other guy and get over me?” He lifts his head, grinning cruelly when you look up at him, your lip trembling. “Because I didn’t call you pretty tonight? Because you were tired of me being mean all the time?”

You nod, a gasp leaving you when he wraps an arm around your waist and hoists you up so you’re eye-level, slamming you back against the closet door and pinning you there with his hips. Your dress is bunched up around your stomach now, leaving Tsukishima with a perfect view of the wet spot on your panties when he glances down. His grin widens, an evil glint shining behind his glasses.

“But it seems like you like it when I say mean things, Y/n.”

You whine in protest, growing louder when you feel him rut involuntarily against you at the sound.

“This is different, Tsukki-”

“Is it?” He’s distracted when he asks, too busy steadying you in his arms so he can lift you up and away from the closet. Making his way to your bed, he drops you unceremoniously on the mattress, smiling when you yelp. He removes his glasses and leaves them on your bedside table, dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed and wrapping his arms around your thighs so he can drag you toward him.

You sit up, taking his face in your hands and pressing your lips urgently to his - even on his knees, he’s tall enough to be eye-level with you. You feel his fingers, long and calloused, drift up your thighs and hook into your panties while he nips almost affectionately at your bottom lip.

“Tsukki… ” You whisper against his mouth, but he’s quick to shake his head, mumbling back to you.

“Not that. ”

You’re a little surprised - you never really call him by his first name. He’d found it uncomfortable the one time you’d tried it as a joke. But if he’s asking, then-

“Kei .” His pulse quickens under your fingertips when you murmur against his lips, his kiss becoming more full, and you realize just how much he likes it.

You pull away and press kisses to his face, peppering them across his nose and cheeks. It’s a moment that’s far softer than either of you had had before, one that has Tsukishima’s heart beating a little too hard in his chest. 

God, he hates being in love.

He pulls away from you, planting one hand on your chest and shoving you away from him. You fall back onto your elbows with a noise of surprise, bouncing lightly on the mattress. Tsukishima only reaches for your panties again, tugging them down and smiling to himself when you lift your hips to help him. 

He throws them somewhere over his shoulder, refusing to break his attention. Planting his hands on each of your knees, he pries your knees open slowly, glancing up at your face for any signs of discomfort. When he finds none, his gaze flicks back down to what’s in front of him.

And then his breath is cutting short at the sight of you lying bare in front of him. You’re glistening, even in this dark room, and his cock is suddenly unbearably hard. 

He’d been thinking about this moment for far longer than he’d ever care to admit. 

“Well, isn’t this just the prettiest little pussy I’ve ever seen?” 

You throw your head back at his words, moaning loudly. 

“Oh, shut up.” You know Tsukki’s slept with his fair share of girls since you’d started college - being a popular volleyball player has its benefits. You’d done the same, hoping to squash down that jealousy in your own, twisted way. To hear him praising you like this - like you’d always wanted - has you clenching and squirming from the desire coursing through your veins.

“First you get mad because I’m too mean, and now you’re mad because I’m being nice?” He tilts his head, his voice mocking. “You really need to make up your mind.” 

And then, before you can let out some kind of snarky quip, he’s dipping his head and dragging his tongue over your slit in one long stripe. 

You gasp loudly and moan out his name, falling back onto the mattress as your hands fly to his head. You bury your fingers in his hair, tightening your grip when he does it again, licking through your folds before latching onto your clit, pulling the nub gently into his mouth.

He moans loudly against you when you mewl and pull his hair. The vibration on your clit makes you squirm, and you’re involuntarily rutting your hips against his face. He only laughs against you, his breath tickling your skin, and wraps an arm over your hips to hold you steady on the bed.

He pulls his mouth off of you, and you lift your head to look at him in annoyance. He smirks, holding eye contact while he brings his other hand to your folds. When he runs his fingers through them, stopping briefly to circle your clit, you whimper. And when he drops his middle finger to your entrance, nudging gently at it in question, you bite your lip and nod furiously, just wanting him to touch you already-

“Oh my- Kei-” Your head falls back when he slides his finger in and drops his mouth to your clit to suck on it. He sets his pace with his finger, thrusting into you and curling gently up toward himself, repeating the process until he can tell by your squirming hips that you’re starting to feel something.

And then he’s pushing another finger past your entrance, his cock twitching when you moan at the stretch. He’s been painfully hard for a while now, and all he wants is to be inside you of already. He doesn’t realize you’re feeling just as impatient, only noticing when your hands drop to his shoulders, tugging on his shirt.

“Kei …” You pout down at him, your eyelids fluttering when he thrusts his fingers into you again. His fingertips are brushing against a spot you’ve never been able to reach yourself, his fingers much longer than yours. You think you might become addicted to his hands soon. But you only pull again on his shirt with a whine, hoping he’ll get the message. 

Luckily, he does, because he’s pulling away to rip his shirt impatiently off his back, wiping his mouth with it before throwing it to the floor. He unzips his jeans as he makes his way up to the bed, pausing to scoop you up into his arms and tossing you closer to your pillows so he can climb on top of you.

When he pushes his mouth to yours, you’re moaning. He tastes like you, something he’s apparently proud of, because he’s just smiling against you and shoving his tongue past your lips. He drops his mouth to your neck again as he fumbles with his jeans.

“You taste so good, you know that?” He latches onto your skin, sucking harshly. “So much better than I’d imagined.” He pushes his pants just past his thighs, growing impatient. You gasp quietly when his cock brushes against you, the sound changing to a moan when Tsukishima runs it through your folds, sliding against you.

He lifts his head to look at you, his eyes searching yours in a moment of astounding clarity given the insanity of this whole night.

“You sure?”

Your heart jumps when he asks. He’s got the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance, clearly holding himself back. But the way he’s looking at you makes you realize he wants this to be done right - after all, this had started with the two of you fighting. He doesn’t want you to regret this later and be even more upset with him.

He doesn’t want to lose you.

The idea that that’s what been hiding behind Tsukki’s eyes tonight - that vague panic that you couldn’t put your finger on - makes your heart sing and your stomach swoop with butterflies. You can only nod, cupping his face and bringing him down to your lips. His kiss is gentle and full of something that makes your nerves worse, something that makes you feel more than sure.

“I want this more than anything.”

Tsukishima’s heart skips, and he’s swearing softly against your lips. He hovers over you, keeping his mouth on yours as he presses his thumb against the head of his cock, guiding it past your entrance.

You gasp together as he pushes slowly into you, a moan pulled from your throat when he bottoms out and breathes out your name. The fog in your head - a mixture of alcohol, arousal, and nerves at the realization that you’re having sex with your best friend - worsens considerably when he drops his head to your neck, making an admission against your ear.

I’ve wanted this for so long …”

You whimper, curling your fingers into his hair and holding him close as he pulls out slowly just to slide into you again. You moan at the slow stretch, feeling his shaky breath against your ear.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you…” Tsukishima doesn’t know why he’s choosing now to have this conversation, when you very well can just talk about it after. But there’s a strand of fear twisting around the butterflies in the pit of his stomach, and his mouth is moving without his permission. He needs you to understand what this means to him.

“I didn’t know it would hurt you… I didn’t mean it…” His hips are still slow, moving languidly against yours. He’d expected this to be rough - sex is only ever rough for him - but he needs to concentrate on what he’s saying. And you feel so good like this, so warm and tight around him.

You’re having the same problem, your head completely empty as you feel him push into you inch by inch instead of all at once. You can barely hear him, your ears ringing and your skin overheating while you try to process that this is actually happening - that you finally have Tsukishima Kei the way that you’d always dreamed about.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Y/n.”

Your heart stutters when you realize what he’s been saying. Even with everything else going on right now - even as his hips are picking up the pace, even with his breath shuddering against your skin as he moans quietly in your ear - he’s distracted, trying to apologize. Trying to make things right between you.

“It’s okay…” You whisper forgiveness into his hair, but you feel him shake his head, his grip on your hips tightening.

“It’s not. I shouldn’t hurt you. Not you…” He gasps quietly into your neck, his hips stuttering momentarily before he returns to his previous speed. “S-Sorry… You feel really good… Trying to focus.”

You flush, clenching around him and pulling him closer when he groans. You think about what he’s saying. ‘ Not you ’?

You’re about to ask what he means, but he’s mumbling another admission against your skin, this one much more intense than the last.

“I love you, Y/n… So fucking in love, it hurts…”

You inhale sharply, your heart stopping in your chest. But then there’s a moan ripping from your throat, because he’s hitting a spot in you that you didn’t even know existed, the tip of his cock bumping up against something that makes the coil in the pit of your stomach twist harshly.

“I- fuck - Tsukki, I love you, too…”

Tsukishima lifts his head then, staring down at you with surprise written all over his face. You can only breathe out a laugh, moaning quietly while you giggle.

“What, you’re shocked? I just told you I almost went home with Bokuto just so I could stop thinking about you.”

His eyes darken at your words, and his hips are snapping harshly against yours. You moan in surprise, feeling your stomach flip at the way he’s looking down at you. He seems to remember now just how this night could have gone.

He sits up, knocking your hands away when you reach out for him with a whine, and pulls out of you completely. Slipping off the edge of the bed, he wraps his hands around your thighs and tugs you toward him roughly. He only smiles mockingly down at you when you slide across the mattress with a quiet yelp, pulling your hips flush against his.

When he slips into you again, the soft, caring Tsukishima is gone, replaced with the Tsukki you’ve always known. The one who has no problem running his mouth just to get to you.

“That’s it then, huh? If I hadn’t dragged you home, you’d be wrapped around another man right now?” He slams into you, watching with delight as you cry out and arch your back. He keeps this pace, his grip on your hips bordering on painful as he drives his cock into you.

“Tsukki-”

“What did I tell you? ” His tone cuts through you, yanking hard on that coil in your navel and setting off a fresh flurry of butterflies.

“I- Kei -”

“You think you can forget about me that easily? You think I would let you?” 

You’re writhing under him, hands gripping your sheets tight as you gasp with each hard thrust of his hips on yours. The sight makes Tsukishima’s hips stutter, and he feels his orgasm coming on. He drops his thumb to your clit to push you closer to the edge, throwing his head back with a moan when you clench around him.

“Kei, please- feels so goo- ah- ”

“S-Shit, Y/n, I’m not gonna last… Where should I-” Tsukishima almost loses it when you claw at his hands on your hips, latching onto his wrists as you moan.

“Insi-Inside… Inside, Kei, please…” You look up at him, taking in the flush of his cheeks, the way his eyelids flutter when you clench around him. The way he bites down hard on his bottom lip and moans after a few seconds, breaking his hold on you so he can slam his hands down on the mattress on either side of you, his hair falling into his face as he pants down at you.

“Fuck -” He reaches down, brushing his thumb over your clit again. When you tighten around him this time, he’s letting out a choked gasp and your name, and you’re suddenly filled with warmth as his hips stutter, as he spills into you. He drops his head to your shoulder, his breath shaky as he thrusts into you, riding out his orgasm.

And when he’s done - when his cum is dripping out of you while you squirm, feeling full but unsatisfied - he sits up, pulling you against him again. He wraps his fingers around your wrists, smiling breathlessly when you cling to his forearms, and uses you as leverage when he draws his hips back and snaps them harshly into yours.

You cry out, feeling yourself throb the more he all but drags you down onto his cock and tries to draw your orgasm out of you. He releases your wrists, his thumb circling that little bundle of nerves while his other hand grips the back of your thigh, spreading your legs even further. 

When he changes the angle of his stroke, you’re gasping, unable to handle all of the sensations he’s causing in your body. There’s too much going on, too many feelings happening, each of which is bringing you closer to the edge. You slap your hands down over your face, trying both to muffle your moans and also hide your face, feeling embarrassed that your body is reacting so strongly to everything Tsukishima does.

He only coos down at you, his tone almost insulting.

“Oh, is my baby going to come?”

You whine loudly at his words, so rude but so endearing - your stomach swoops as the coil tightens, but you nod anyway. His low chuckle reaches your ears.

“Let me see you, then.” When you don’t respond, only moaning into your hands with each thrust, he clicks his teeth at you in annoyance. “Come on, Y/n. I wanna see how pretty my best friend looks when she comes on my cock.”

Tsukishima beams when that does it, your back arching as you cry out his name. You screw your eyes shut and fumble desperately for his hands. He slips his fingers through yours, holding tight when you come, your walls fluttering around him. He fucks you through it, inhaling sharply when you become impossibly tight, and then drops down over you when you're done, pressing his lips to yours.

You let out a sob against his mouth, your limbs heavy as you try to catch your breath. 

“Tsukki …” You wiggle uncomfortably, wrapping your arms around his neck and clinging to him. He laughs against your neck, pressing kisses to your skin. And then he leans up again, pressing his lips to your tiredly.

“Let me get you cleaned up.” He snickers when you whine but joins in on your soft gasp when he slides out of you, both of you sensitive. Stripping you out of the dress that’s been bunched up on your stomach this whole time, he leaves you on the bed, kicking his jeans off as he makes his way into your connected bathroom. When he returns, it’s with a wet rag and a gentle hand on your thighs.

Tsukishima scoops you into his arms when he’s done, setting you carefully against the pillows and climbing into bed with you. Your head is still empty, and you reach your arms out uselessly for him, mumbling his name. He only smiles, pulling you against his chest and kissing the side of your head.

“You okay?” When you nod sleepily against his chest, he smiles, tugging you closer. “Not too mean?”

You giggle, planting a kiss on his neck.

“I like you a little mean.”

Tsukishima snorts, shaking his head.

“I know you do. But still…” He meets your eyes, suddenly shy, his cheeks flushing. “I’ll be better from now on. Less ‘ toxic boyfriend ’ and more ‘ insufferable but still cute ’.”

You beam at his words, your heart skipping.

“Boyfriend , huh?”

He rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry - I forgot you and Bokuto were basically married.”

“Oh, right, I should probably tell him the wedding’s off-”

“You’re a dick.”

[paxilprincess1]

thank you, moon

Sometimes I wonder if I ever will truly feel like I have a place on Earth Then I step out in to the darkness of the night Feeling the cool breeze dancing on my skin Hearing nothing but the sound of the waterfall in the distance I look up and I thank the moon Over and over again For if it weren't for that silly piece of cheese in the sky I never would have felt so at home

[orchidyoonkook]

PG | KTH

Title: PG 

Pairing: Older Brother's Best Friend!Kim Taehyung x (F)!Reader

Rating//Genre: (M) | One Shot, Friends to Lovers, Age Gap, Slice of Life, Angst, Smut and Touches of Fluff

Summary: You aren’t delusional enough to think anything would ever happen between the two of you, not for a damn second. Be it the age difference, the fact that he’s your brother's friend, or the extremely high likelihood that he sees you as nothing more than Fourteen’s annoying little sister that he can use to rile said best friend up.

But that’s about it. Nothing more. And reality is something you’re able to keep a solid grasp on when it comes to him. You don’t let it go for the sake of acting on a one sided and unrequited feeling you know will pass… eventually.

Warnings: nicknames! a disgusting amount, language, assholes being assholes but being put in their place, brotherly love, sibling antics, tae is a swimmer and knows judo, also a Dan is--for the lack of better phrasing--a high belt level in judo. think of it like a black belt, OC cant keep it in her pants and neither can tae, mutual pining, lots of great gatsby references because I'm tyring to be that bitch (I am joking), tae has tats, OC's brother is an overprotective idiot but we love him anyway, slight physical abuse not by tae or reader or fourteen--basically someone grips an arm too harshly, some panic but no panic attack,

Explicit warnings under the cut.

Word Count: 11,521

Release Date: September 15, 2024. 12:00PM

A/N 1: The biggest most huge thank you to @violetsiren90 for being my sounding board, tech support and beta. She's a real one and y'all are sleeping on her work if you haven't alread read it. Go check her out!

A/N 2: My access to the adobe suite was aha....revoked. So! this is my first time making a banner and divider without photoshop. Therfore, the banner and the divider are a bit different than what I'm used to having XD. Tumblr is also absolutely destroying the qualty which is sooooo great. It looks wonky and blurry to me on desktop but fine on mobile so it is what it is. If i ever get adobe access again I'll probably come back and update the graphics.

Explicit Warnings: *ahem* nicknames, teasing, kissing, biting, marking (several ways), hand and finger kink (duh), voice kinklet (duhhhh), hair 'pulling' (m rec), semi public if you squint, hella foreplay, tae has a big dick, penetrative sex, oral (m+f rec), fingering, handjob?, multiple orgasms, body worship, switch like activities but mostly dominant tae, posessiveness, confessions, reader takes what she wants but so does tae, exhibitionism if you squint, slight cum play/eating, implied squirting, choking, cream pie. Pretty sure thats all of them. i never reailse how many i need to put until the list is done and wow *chuckes while blushing*

“Oi, can you fucking not? My sister’s right fucking there,” your older brother, Fourteen—nicknamed for his forever mental age—ridiculously and unneededly overprotective as always, says.

It is especially unneeded and ridiculous as he’s saying it to Tae, when all he’s doing is taking off his shirt to go for a swim in your pool. Like he’s been doing since you were tweens.

Well.

Since you were a tween and they were nearing the legal drinking age. But that’s besides the point. 

Best friend to your knuckle head of an older brother, you honest to god have no idea how they became friends. 

Taehyung is poetry and jazz and button up cotton shirts. Old book smell and expensive cologne, ringed fingers and whiskey, neat. The kind of vibe someone would get from being raised by a very successful lawyer for a father and a top ranking university professor of literature for a mother, while Fourteen is… your older brother. 

Maybe it’s a younger sister thing to not understand how her older brother has any friends. Considering you grew up with him, know all of his weird and gross habits, have a lovely dash of sibling bullying thrown in that you two share equally, and more. Yet, by some miracle, he and Tae manage to balance one another out. 

Tae—fucking somehow—makes your brother into a more presentable human being. He showers more than twice a week and wears deodorant every day now—even puts the seat down after peeing, a habit you’ve been screaming at him to stop doing since you could use the toilet. While Fourteen gives Tae a rougher edge he previously never seemed to be able to grasp, despite trying his best too. 

For example, the several delicate tattoos he now has all over his body, your favourite of which is an old timey record player on the inside of his forearm. They were something he’d been wanting to do for years, but only finally bit the bullet on and did once Fourteen took him when they were twenty two. 

Since then the collection’s only grown, much to your inner glee and mental dismay. 

And don’t even get you started on the delicate, thin rimmed glasses he occasionally wears—golden and the perfect shape for his face—or the ear piercings that just really fucking cement the tortured poet look that makes your heart clench every. single. time. you look at him. 

Similarly to what it’s doing right now, though no one ever knows due to your truly oscar worthy talent for acting completely oblivious to the beautiful shirtless man about to dive in. Call it over a decades worth of practice, and the fact that it’s also nothing you hadn’t gloriously taken in all teenagehood long. 

Every time you could get it. 

Which was a lot because Tae was on the high school swim team. 

For four years. 

And then the university swim team.

For another four. 

Teenage you was a lucky bitch. Now you’re only blessed with this sight when he comes over to swim laps or attempt to drown Fourteen. Which, admittedly, was still often. But not nearly as much as back then. 

The sight in question however, is curled black hair that frames eyes so warm you swear the sun’s relocated to his irises, and a jawline that makes the Statue of David’s pathetic in comparison. It’s fingers that make your mouth water from the way they flip book pages and thighs that make you think thoughts and things you never thought you would. 

It’s the scribbled text: ‘To err is human; to forgive, divine’ tattooed across his ribs, and a lean torso, muscled but not outrageously so. Just enough to have you forcing yourself not to stare at the delicate lines of his abdomen every time he comes over for a swim. 

Thank god for sunglasses. 

“Nah, I’m sure PG can handle it, Dumbass. I’ve only been using your pool every summer for the last 15 years give or take,” Tae says with a quirked brow and a half smile directed at you. 

Behind your sunnies, you heat up a touch, and internally sigh. Have you mentioned his smile yet? 

Because oh yeah, his fucking smile. 

Tae’s a nickname kind of person, hence why even you call your brother ‘Fourteen’. Taehyung’s called him Fourteen for so long now that calling your brother by his birth name just feels wrong. 

This being said, PG is Tae’s nickname for you. 

It stands for the TV rating ‘Parental Guidance’ because you’re younger by enough that when you were still under the age of 18, they—see: your brother and Tae because they’ve been joined at the hip since they met—were usually assigned babysitting duty. Very much the ‘take your sister with you’ sibling, but they never complained. Not once.

As much as you and Fourteen bully one another, you’re actually quite close when you aren’t verbally sparring—which is where his annoying overprotectiveness comes in. Even when it comes to Taehyung. 

“Yeah, Dumbass,” you copy, earning a smirk from Tae as he leans down to take his shoes off. “It’s just Tae.”

“It’s not about that YN, it’s about respect. You’re my little sister, and Fuckass over here,” you brother jabs a thumb in Tae’s direction, which earns you a second hidden smirk from the Fuckass in question, “Still doesn’t know how to respect that fact even after a decade and a half apparently.”

You shrug as Fourteen finishes his point and narrows his eyes at his best friend. Tae gives him a shit eating grin that screams ‘what are you going to do about it’ and your brother gives him a two fingered salute before shaking his head and taking off his own shirt. 

You take that as your cue to put your head back down because you don’t need to see that. 

Currently in very comfortable linen shorts and tank, you’re sitting on a padded pool lounger, rereading The Great Gatsby for the hundredth time. It’s one of the classics that never gets old for you, has the benefit of being a shorter read—therefore perfect for the poolside—and happens to be the copy Tae’d gotten you for Christmas a couple years ago. Pure coincidence, you tell yourself. Nothing more. 

With the beautiful addition of your very darkly glassed sunnies, it also makes the perfect decoy as you watch Tae over the top of the open book without risk of being caught. 

You firmly follow the rule of a little looking can’t hurt. 

You aren’t delusional enough to think anything would ever happen between the two of you, not for a damn second. Be it the age difference, the fact that he’s your brother's friend, or the extremely high likelihood that he sees you as nothing more than Fourteen’s annoying little sister that he can use to rile said best friend up—see: current shirt stripping debacle. It’s not the first nor the last time he’ll do something like it, and you’re pretty sure you and Tae have an unspoken agreement at this point to push as many of Fourteen’s buttons as you can together, just to see how far he’ll let it go before freaking out.

But that’s about it. Nothing more. And reality is something you’re able to keep a solid grasp on when it comes to him. You don’t let it go for the sake of acting on a one sided and unrequited feeling you know will pass… eventually. 

Despite the flames that rage and roar on in your heart. 

Despite the green light on the dock across the way tackling your brother under the water. 

You hold on. And only in these little moments of in between do you allow yourself to look. Pockets of time where a peek won’t be seen or recorded, and a moment of self indulgence keeps your sanity from trying to escape its tightly locked box.

You look and look and look until the green light is covered in fog once more, and the lid of the box seals tight.  

Another day, another glorious abuse of best friend privileges, Taehyung thinks to himself as he continues his butterfly down the imaginary lanes in Fourteen’s pool. 

He tries to come over at least three times a week. Four or five if he’s able, the more he’s over the higher chance he has to see you, not just Fourteen. But he’s rarely able to these days. 

Though the wind appears to have shifted in his favour today. You’re sitting on the lounge chairs again, reading away in the afternoon sun. 

It’s his favourite view. And it’s sweetened by the fact that you’re in the shorts he loves and reading a book he gave you. Something he’s done since before he could remember, really. 

Christmases and birthdays, he’s always given you a book. Usually a classic, sometimes something else. If it caught his eye or reminded him of you, he’d grab it and save it until the next Christmas or the next birthday, whichever came first. And you’ve always loved them, so he’s never stopped. 

They’re gifts that seem harmless to Fourteen, and for the most part they are. But these last few have been…different. Had deeper thought put into them. The titles, the story lines, the prose. He swears you notice it, but maybe that’s just his own wishful thinking. 

And he sure as fuck can’t be doing any of that. 

This cold water isn’t doing its job well enough.

Finishing his set, Tae swims over to rest before starting on his front stroke. Forearms hold him up on the edge of the pool, his chin balancing on stacked knuckles while his breath catches. 

He also uses this little break as an excuse to talk to you. He only ever freely can when Fourteen isn’t around, and right now his best friend is inside grabbing drinks, towels and probably relieving himself–which, knowing Fourteen—could take anywhere from thirty seconds to thirty minutes. So he has to take advantage of every moment he gets. 

“Got any new recommendations for me PG?” 

Books are an easy starting point when it comes to you. Fourteen may be a graphic novel at best kind of guy, but your brain can’t seem to inhale enough books to satiate it. And just the thought makes his temples rush with heat. 

He should dunk his head again.

You lower your Fitzgerald by one inch and raise an eyebrow to counter it. Just like your brother, you’re always one to give him a hard time. Make him work for every millimeter of ground conquered. And he’s pretty sure you have a smirk hiding behind the pages, though he can’t be certain due to the sunglasses hiding your eyes. 

“Maybe,” you say. “What do I get in return?” 

Answering that question about fifty different ways in his head, Tae decides none can be said out loud. He seriously needs to fucking reel himself in. Fourteen could return at any moment and the last thing Tae needs to have is a problem between his legs because you never make it easy for him. 

But rather than listening to his very rational thoughts and very logical brain, he instead decides to say fuck it, and croons in the voice that used to fluster you as a teenager. 

“What do you want in return, PG?” Hoping to soften you up, even the playing field a bit. 

And it works like a charm. 

Your body releases its tension on an exhale, your page is marked, book set to the side, and your legs extend and stretch before crossing at the ankle. It makes him wonder if your little girlhood crush on him still exists somewhere in the back of your mind. Probably not.

Scratch that. 

Definitely not.  

“What if I wanted a new nickname?” you ask.

Both his eyebrows raise in surprise. “What’s wrong with PG?”

“It makes me feel like I’m eleven,” you explain. And then hit him with a dose of his own medicine as you croon, “I’m not eleven anymore, Tae.”

No you sure as hell are not. And it kills him in a way that has him wanting to die over and over again. 

He could consider it. But he doesn’t think he’ll change it, not when PG can stand for so many wonderful things. Things you would never think he’d let it when addressing you. Things that would have Fourteen trying for drowning attempt number two thousand four hundred sixty three, and succeeding. 

“I’ll think about it—Fair?”

You ponder before agreeing. “Fair.”

“Now about those recommendations…” He reminds you, and that’s all it takes to get you going.

Fourteen comes out about ten minutes later, but by then, Tae has a new list of books to grab from the store, two laps under him with eight more to go, and you’re reading again—one bare leg bent at the knee he’s trying very hard to ignore when he comes up for air. 

By the time he’s due for another breather, you’re talking to your brother about plans for the weekend. 

“I’m going out early on Friday for Rei’s birthday, remember? And I’ll probably crash at her place after,” you say. 

Fourteen is sitting on the second lounge chair across from you, most likely playing a game on his phone if Tae had to guess. But at your reminder, your brother looks up.

“Fuck that’s right. Okay so no dinner then, I’ll just grab something on my way in.”

“Sounds good. What about tonight?”

Fourteen gives it about two seconds of thought. “How about Don’s?”

Your face lights up at the suggestion. “Fuck yes! I’ve been craving their milkshakes for like a week. Hey Tae!” you call to him. “Don’s for dinner? There’s a chocolate shake with your name on it if you’re down.”

Tae pushes himself out of the water onto the pavement and doesn’t miss the sly once over you give him while Fourteen chucks a towel at his chest, covering your eyes with his other hand. 

He catches the projectile before it can knock him back into the pool, and uses it to dry his hair.

“Dude! Seriously? Go find a fucking shirt or something, no one wants to see that.”

You swat your sibling’s hand away and give him a look that screams ‘grow up’ while Tae drapes the towel over her shoulders, a hand gripping at each end. 

“I’m only down if Dumbass is paying,” he says, smirking at your brother. 

“—What—”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” you agree, holding out your hand in his direction. 

“—Hey wait a seco—”

Tae grabs and shakes just to watch the steam flee Fourteen’s ears at the contact. He meets your eyes conspiratorially, and you both nod before rushing Fourteen. 

“—You fuckers!—” is all he gets out before Tae and you are grabbing an arm and a leg each and throwing Fourteen’s fully clothed ass in the pool. 

He curses the both of you out several times as he treads, drenched and dripping, up the stairs and out of the water. Tae throws him the towel. 

“You’ll pay for that, Asshole,” Fourteen tells Tae, and Tae grins. 

“Oh, I’m counting on it. Worth it though.”

“And you!” Fourteen says, eyes on you. “What the fuck dude? The betrayal to your darling, one and only brother hurts. I’m wounded,” he lays it on thick, walking up directly beside you. 

You're a hairsbreadth too late to realize when he shakes his hair out directly over top of you and you shriek, pulling your knees up, protecting the book under your shirt and behind your legs at all costs.

“Fourteen! The book! I will kill you if you damage it!”

Fourteen chuckles. “Payback’s a bitch Little Sister.”

You sneer at him, checking your prized possession for injury. Not a scratch. 

“And sopping wet is your colour, Jackass.”

“Big words for someone who can just as easily be thrown in the pool.”

You pause. Eyeing him directly. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

Your brother looks at Tae with an evil plot in his eyes and you screech as they both nod once. You drop your book behind you as they yank you up by your arms and fling you into the pool, too much momentum from them and not enough resistance from you leaving you matching your darling, one and only brother.

As you come up for air, two colossal splashes ricochet from the left and right. Tae and Fourteen having both cannonballed in on either side of you. You choke on splattered water for a second before you’re attacking them with splashes, merciless in your pursuit for revenge. 

“You both suck!” you half giggle half yell. 

“Yet you love us anyway!” your brother falsely—correctly—claims. 

You roll your eyes before trudging out, heavier and dripping with your soaked clothes.

And it's not until weekend plans are cast aside for current memories, Taehyung treating you all to dinner, and you treating everyone to milkshakes, that all is forgiven. 

It turns out Rei’s dad knows the manager of the most exclusive club in the city—Youth—and managed to call in a favour. So now you, her, and your other bestie, Lea, are all on the dancefloor to celebrate her birthday. 

Rei’s first request for the night besides not paying for a single drink, was to dress up in the hottest, sluttiest outfits the club's dress code would allow for. 

This, for you, meant a black, square necked, low cut, and thin strapped satin slip dress that hugged you in all the right ways, matching heels adored with ankle strap bows and a sultry makeup look. Lea chose a dark blue shimmery number with a high leg split, vibrant graphic eyeliner, and wedges, while the birthday girl found the skimpiest forest green mini dress you’ve ever seen paired with heels that wrap ribbons up her legs, and a subtle dewy look on her lids. 

She’s glowing, and needless to say, they both look hot and so do you. 

Rei’s second request for the night was to dance until you either collapsed or threw up, whichever came first. A goal you were all making a steady descent towards as the night progressed. 

That is, until your blood runs cold at the sight of your cheating ex boyfriend making his way through the crowd in a direct beeline towards you. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You’re alone right now. Rei and Lea are taking a bathroom break. 

You insisted you’d be fine for ten minutes. It was just ten minutes. What could possibly go wrong in ten minutes?

But apparently god just loves to play jokes because here you are, three shots in, not emotionally prepared enough to be near him, let alone speak to him, and by yourself in this huge crowd of strangers while he’s making very good time on his route to you. 

Fuck! You do not want to deal with him right now or—fucking ever, actually. 

He’d cheated on you four times that he admitted too throughout your two and a half year relationship, all while faking being blindingly happy directly to your face. He’d lied to you and hurt you and made you wonder what you did wrong for him to do that to you. It took all of your third year of university and more therapy sessions than you care to admit to realize you were never the problem, and that he was a piece of shit. 

So, with the fifteen feet between you two quickly shrinking, you try your best to hide from him in the crowd, only to run directly into him when you duck past a fellow club goer. 

Son of a b—

“Heyyy Y/N, how’ve you been?” he says like he didn’t destroy your entire sense of self worth for a couple quick fucks. 

You want to down three more shots just to be able to puke all over him. Intentionally, you haven’t seen him in years and just the reek of his stale ass cologne has you close. 

“Fuck off Micah, don’t you have somewhere you need to be sticking your dick—like a garbage disposal?” You snark, doing your damndest to not let him get close. But the throng of bodies surrounding you have other ideas and you’re thrown against your least favourite person in existence.

Delusional as ever, Micah sleezes, “Doesn’t seem like you want me to leave just yet, Kitten,” and you shove him off you as hard as you can while bile rises at the horrible name you used to beg him not to call you. 

You need to get off the dance floor.

Now.

Before you can, Micah grabs your arm and he pulls you back into him, hard.

Tae watches you out of the corner of his eye, wondering why in the hell you came to this club, of all the clubs out there. 

The club he was at. Wearing that and truly testing the limits of his self control.

Music blasts through speakers that move the ocean on the dancefloor. Bodies sway like waves, some crashing into one another with teeth and tongues and passion, others pushing with the current, grinding and gripping and grabbing at anything they can get their hands on. The louder and faster the notes whirl over their swells, the harsher the storm rages on, people flowing in and out of the eye when needed. 

He’s sitting at a booth on a dais high enough to watch you in the hurricane whilst being out of eyesight, notably with one or two faces he barely recognizes enough to most likely be your friends. 

They appear to be currents. They drag you into deeper waters and you let them, helpless to their siren call. Leading you to your place amongst the sea life, and reveling in the way the melodies wash over you again and again with every song that plays. 

His eyes follow you as you dance, curious if Fourteen knows you’re here before flinging the thought out of his head as quickly as it entered. You’re grown now, don’t need protection anymore. A lesson he learned the day you returned from university after graduating. 

No longer his best friend's kid sister who they kept an eye on, but a woman who was and still is growing into herself beautifully. A woman who is steadfast, strong and more often than not, correct in her opinions. A woman who is well read and equally if not more so well spoken when she deigns to acknowledge his existence. A woman who knows how and when to turn all of that off in order to team up with him in a roast battle for the books against her brother. 

He thinks of that day as the beginning of his downfall. 

He can humbly admit that his intelligence, demeanor and education are things that have been nurtured into existence by his parents and carefully maintained by himself with practice and both mental and physical exercise. He takes care of himself, inside and out. Exercises regularly, eats well, has good hygiene. He’s level headed and patient. Respectful and responsible. Controlled and competent. 

He prides himself on these things. Actively works towards keeping them maintained. 

And yet. 

Somehow when it comes to you, he is little more than a single brain celled idiot. 

All of the things he uses to measure his self worth evaporate whenever you enter his field of vision and he becomes fucking ravenous. And all of his focus goes into controlling himself.

He’d never noticed before, never thought of you in the way he does now. How when your currents break from formation and head towards the bathrooms, their outgoing force creates a riptide that some fuckhead with a stupid haircut uses to sweep in and dance with you. 

But you push him away. 

He doesn’t get the memo, and the mophead tries his best to yank you out to sea again.

Magma flows through Taehyung's veins, thunder cracks in his ears and all he can think about is storming through the crowd to steal you from said fuckhead by claiming you for himself.

But he won’t. 

Can’t.

All because of his darling best friend. 

Fourteen doesn’t know about his feelings for you of course. And Tae rather likes being alive and in one piece, two things he most definitely would not remain should he act on any of these feelings.

You are wholly off limits, forbidden. A little too young, a little too immediately related to his best friend, a little too perfectly his fucking type. It kills him every time he can’t even look at you without Fourteen going into what he calls ‘asshole mode’. 

So you remain in his very close periphery. Untouchable to the fingertips he aches to caress you with as you dangle your existence in front of him. Your wicked tongue, your delicious intelligence, your sexy fucking legs—fuck!

He has to stop thinking about you like this.

But that only makes him want you more. 

It’s like the gods handcrafted you for him. Every piece, every detail of you immaculate, but he committed one to many sins in his past life, and now they’ve locked you away forever as punishment. 

You float across the night sky, stuck in a golden cell. Its fourteen bars hold you hostage amongst the stars, all while he’s chained to the bottom of the ocean floor gasping for air. 

But fuck the gods and fuck their gilded cages. 

He’d break from his chains, swim to the surface of the sea and grow wings. Would break your prison apart with the sheer force of his wanting, then drag you down to the depths if it meant he got to keep you for himself. 

He would. He really, really fucking would. If his world wouldn’t implode completely if he did. 

So he keeps these thoughts to himself. Forces them down as they try their damndest to bubble over and burn him, because they will if he lets them. If any of them get outside these little moments, the ones where he allows himself to feel, he would burn and burn and burn until there was nothing left. 

Therefore, Taehyung has never been more grateful that his best friend was stuck on the night shift while he watched you dance and enjoy yourself, because it granted him this sliver of time to pretend like your brother doesn’t exist. 

That you are something he could let himself have, if you wanted him to.

And he’s solid in his decision to only observe, to stay inside his little moment, until fuckhead doesn’t get the message for the third time and Taehyung is out of his seat before he can think. 

Because Fourteen isn't here. 

And old habits die hard. 

“What the hell? Let me go, Micah!” You see his eyes then, red rimmed and glazed. He definitely has more than one thing in his system as his grip on you hardens further. The more you struggle, the tighter he grasps and—ouch, ouch, ouch, yank, fuck! Ow!—it’s really starting to hurt. 

“Just give me one more chance Kitten, I promise I’ll do better,” he whisper in your ear over the music, and you cringe back from how loud he is. But that doesn’t stop him from continuing, “I fucked up, I know I did. But that was years ago, and I learned my lesson. Just one more chance Kitten, just one more, and I—I promise. I promise it won’t happen again. It won’t. I really miss y–AH! What the fuck!?”

The hand on your arm releases the second Micah yelps in pain. You look down to see familiar ringed fingers around Micah’s wrist, clutching so hard they’re white knuckled and skin bruising. 

A broad chest comes to rest at your back, and an arm snakes around you. Its large palm rests on your stomach and hip as it pulls you tightly against its owner. 

Words covered in sharpest ice are spoken from behind you, their baritone so recognizable they have you melting back into him. 

Safe. 

You’re safe. 

Exhale.

“Do. Not. Touch. Her.” Taehyung growls so deeply, so powerfully, you feel the rumble from behind his sternum reverberate into your body. 

Micah’s focus shifts from his wrist to the man several inches taller and several years his senior still holding it. You watch as his face contorts from pained to confused and then to murderous. 

“The fuck are you to tell me not to touch my girlfriend?” Micah seethes, and you stiffen because no the fuck you are not, and haven’t been for several years. 

How blitzed out of his mind is he right now?

You don’t even get the chance to deny his words before Taehyung’s on Micah like fire to dried grass.

“Don’t make me laugh, Asshole. No way in hell an pig faced looking fucker like you could pull a woman like her. Now,” Tae roughly shoves Micah’s hand back to him, and it forces Micah to stumble into the people behind with the force. “Get the fuck away from My Girl before I make you My Problem. And trust me,” Tae says in a tone so dangerous, you’ve never heard him sound so terrifying in the fifteen plus years you’ve known him, “You don’t want me to make you my problem.”

And you realize, that this isn’t the Taehyung you’ve grown up with; seen through his awkward teen years and watched come into his adult life with. This isn’t jazz music and poetry Taehyung. 

This Taehyung has only ever come out the handful of times you’ve ever been in trouble. The one who studied Judo with Fourteen growing up, the one who has his fourth Dan. 

The one who does not play when it comes to you and your safety. 

It’s enough to know that Taehyung is more than pissed off, and more than a little ready to beat the absolute shit out of Micah, if the whiskey on his breath says anything about his loosened inhibitions. 

Micah seems to sense this too, and decides to back off. But not without a stupid macho expression and two middle fingers directed at both of you as he disappears into the crowd, and out of sight. 

You can feel the tension radiating off Taehyung in waves, a coil so tightly wound that a gentle breeze could set him loose, so you turn around and attempt to safely unwind. His hand moves from your stomach to your lower back, and you ignore the trail of wildfire it leaves in its wake because Tae’s eyes haven’t wavered from the spot where Micah just stood. 

“Don’t.” You say, loud enough for him to hear. And his flame filled irises snap to yours, burning. “He’s not worth it.”

Your words seem to bring him back somewhat because Tae sniggers. “Damn right he’s not,” then softens. “Are you okay?”

You look anywhere but at him, the reality of the last three minutes crashing down onto your head like broken glass while the both of you are still caught in the middle of the dancefloor. 

The people around you seem to understand something’s happened, and you’re left mostly untouched aside from the gentle nudges of inebriated party goers whose balance isn’t the best at the moment. 

Like the mellowed waves in the eye of a storm.

Taehyung seems to make sense of this at the same time you do, and lifts his free hand for you to take. Slipping your fingers into his, he leads you to an unused and out of the way emergency exit hallway somewhere in the back of the club. It’s completely empty and dark, undisturbed besides the occasional server passing by. 

It’s private. 

It’s safe. 

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

He lets go of your hand and looks at you again. “Now, are you okay?” 

The adrenaline is wearing off, and you can feel yourself start to shake. You ignore it. Sort of.

“I’m okay,” you say. But he’s eyeing you suspiciously and rightly so, so you repeat yourself, trying to convince your own brain more than his right now. 

“I’m okay, really! I’m good. I’m–” you exhale a shaky breath and he doesn’t ask before pulling you to his chest. Wrapping both his arms around you, one around your back while the other holds your head protectively to him. Your own go around his waist as you grip him back tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“I’m okay,” you say again, muffled into his black high necked shirt, taking deep breaths of his soothing, familiar scent. You do it and again, and again. Repeating the pretty lie to yourself again and again until it becomes the truth. 

He doesn’t let go until you do, and you don’t let go until you’ve finally stopped shaking.

You look up into his eyes, and all signs of his previous wrath are gone. It seems the hug didn’t ground just you, it grounded him too. Got him out of the headspace that would’ve been required for action first, words later. But now the sun is back, it shines down on you, and you bask in its warmth. 

“I’m good now. Thank you,” you say in an even and unwavering voice, because you are. The panic and immense relief having washed over you, and you’re once again simply, pleasantly buzzed. 

Though you do have a new problem in the form of the warmth pooling low from the feeling of both his hands still on your lower back. 

You’re trying to convince yourself it’s his way of keeping you safe.

But the lock on your box has the key inside it, and it’s just begging for you to turn it. 

“Good,” he replies, still not letting go. And it’s chipping away at your sanity. “Who was that guy? I only caught the last bit of his pathetic ramblings.”

You wince. Due to a lovely combination of not being very active on social media, not being much of a picture taker, and the newly dyed hair Micah seemed to be sporting tonight, you’re not surprised Tae didn’t recognize him. 

“Ah. Uhm…That was...Micah,” you admit, unable to meet his eyes again. That’s when you notice his outfit tonight is all black. 

Oh you are so fucked.

 “As in Micah, Micah?” Tae asks neutrally, familiar with what your ex had done, just not what he looked like. 

“...Yeah...”

“I see.”

“Yeah...” You say again. Because what else could you say?

Tae cracks a smile. “Should’ve let me kick his ass. The balls on him not only to approach you, but to call you his—” he cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek before continuing in a hushed, caring tone. “After everything he’s done to you, you should’ve let me, PG. Consequences be damned.”

Your cheeks flame at the nickname so close to your ears. So tenderly said. And you honestly can’t tell if you still hate it in this moment, or if it’s only adding kindling to the fire his hands are fueling at the base of your spine. 

The new name he’d called you earlier, its ignition point. 

My Girl.

My Girl.

You swear, even in your panicked state, you’d momentarily forgotten how to breathe before inhaling far too much all at once. 

Fuck, what you won’t give to hear him say it again. But you’re 98.9% sure that’s the three shots of vodka talking. Trying their best to turn the damn key. And maybe they succeed in turning it half way—hell, maybe all the way, because you look him back in the eyes and hear yourself say,

“Maybe I should’ve, but I was far too distracted by the new nickname you finally gave me to give a single fuck about anyone else.”

The moment the last word is out Taehyung stiffens beneath your touch, fingers locked on your back, and you’re very pretty sure you just fucked absolutely everything up. 

Years of good behaviour, of keeping yourself in check. Of pockets of time and side long glances and knowing nothing would ever happen, stolen from you. By your own big, fat, adrenaline depleted, vodka loosened mouth. 

You're a second away from damage control before his grip shifts from your lower back to your hips. 

Higher. Tighter. Controlling. Oh fuck.

He leans down to murmur, “Liked the new name, did you?” in your ear.

Shivers shoot from your crown to your core and down to your toes. Having his deep, deliciously inviting voice so fucking close to your pulse point has you millimeters away from drowning in it. You know he can feel it course through you, just like you can hear the smile it makes him display away from your eyesight as he does. 

“You did then,” he responds for you, a cat toying with its meal as he lifts his head once more to look into your eyes. 

You don’t need a mirror to know the state of your pupils. Your gaze is glazed over in the sinful kind of way.

“I did,” you needlessly confirm, looking up into similarly blown out ones.

The fingers twined behind him release, and make their way around to his abdomen. They pause to splay for just a second at the defined ridges, before slowly crawling up his chest and meeting again at the nape of his neck. 

They play with the soft hair there, gently scratching their nails at the skin beneath where it grows and you watch as your ministrations cause his eyes to roll back, flutter shut, and his head to meet the wall behind him. A barely audible moan escapes the confines of his lips before he swallows,  the divine bob of his adams apple as he tries to regain his composure is the dawn of your undoing. 

“Fuck, PG that isn’t fair,” he groans towards the ceiling, his hands on your waist clamping down harder, pulling you so close your bodies touch in more places they definitely shouldn’t be. The contact has you reeling and all you want is more, more, more of it. 

More of him.

“PG isn’t the name you called me earlier,” you hum, yanking on a single loose strand and Tae sucks in a steep breath, biting the corner of his smirking lip with a canine. 

You want to hear him say it again. Badly. So you release the sensual grip you have on his nape, and let his head lul slowly back down to where it was, his deepening amber wholly fixated on your now entirely onyx. Your heart is begging for release from your chest, and for a moment you wonder if he can see your pulse thrumming in your eyes, because you sure as hell can feel it.

“No, it’s not. But it also hasn’t meant to me what it means to you for quite some time now,” his voice like honey, thick and dripping its way over your body. It’s making you dizzy and weighty with want. It has your mouth opening slightly as he leans closer still, knocking his nose gently with your own. Inhaling in your exhales. Teasing you. Making you work for it. 

“And what does it mean to you?” you ask, barely above a whisper, irises never straying from his as your bottom lip brushes against his in one solitary, intoxicating moment that has you more buzzed in one touch than three shots has had you all night. 

“Pretty Girl,” he breathes onto your lips, pushing his thigh between your legs at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer. You hear yourself moan ‘fuck’ at the contact it gives your throbbing cunt. Too focused on the need coursing through you like a live wire—your body pure water—to think about what you’re saying.

It’s a sweet sound and a violent pleasure he devours as his lips finally, finally, finally crash into yours, pinning you in place and allowing him to take every piece of you he wants. One hand slithers up your naked spine to hold you, your backless dress doing you every favour imaginable as his other continues to help you grind over his thigh.

His tongue slips into your mouth and you suck on it, causing him to jerk into you once with the rapidly growing want pressing into your lower belly. But your hands hold firm at his neck as you pull him into you, a knee lifting to meet his hip. Needing more contact.

The electricity filled pathways his fingers leave down your back, over your ass and across the bottom of your thigh to support your search for pleasure do nothing but spur on the overwhelming need to touch him everywhere. 

No holds barred. No clothes worn. Nothing stopping you. 

He uses his new grip to spin you around and press his hips into yours as your shoulders meet the wall. You’re left to moan sickly sweet sounds of bliss into his ear as Taehyung frees your mouth in favour of your jaw and neck, sucking gentle purple hues down the column of your throat and onto your collarbone. 

“Pretty Girl,” he whispers between love bites, “My Pretty Girl.” Over and over and it has you melting so far into him, the only thing keeping you apart is fabric and a potential audience. Though from the colour you’re going to have to cover with far too much concealer tomorrow, you don’t think he quite cares about that last part. 

It drives you farther into insanity. Years of want and restraint and pretty white lies you told yourself are crashing down on one another and it shows in the fervor of your touch, your wants, your pleads.

“Fuck, Tae—please. Please, I need you— please,” you beg, and the bite he leaves at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder has you gasping for air that refuses to be consumed gently. 

But Taehyung is a man on a mission. One who will not be deterred, and you can’t tell if he will be your pinnacle or your inevitable end. 

With what is very clearly great effort, Tae pulls himself back from your decolletage, only to kiss your lips once more. Open mouthed and dirty, tongue clinging to you like the only thing he’s concerned about is swallowing down as much of you as he can while you’ll let him, and you’ve never felt more desired in your life.

He’s hoarse as he says, “Not here. Not for the first time. Not…not here.” 

“Then where,” you ask, near impatient and far too eager as you let your hands roam wherever they want. And you find your thumbs tracing the waistline of his pants, dipping a nails width below where they should. They trail over the indented V of muscle you know is hiding under his shirt. He shudders. 

It makes you smile wickedly. 

“Then where, Taehyung,” you murmur into his neck with that wicked smile in your words as you trace your nose along his jaw. 

“Fuck, you’re something,” he says, almost pained, bringing you immense delight. To know you affect him as much as he does you. That you have him as much as he has you. 

Sly hands slowly pull his shirt from his trousers in an attempt to urge him on. It works, and his response is quick. 

“My place. It’s a ten minu—fuck PG,” he almost scolds as your digits toy with the hair at his navel, dipping lower—enough to feel the beginnings of something—but not low enough to discern anything. 

Yet.

 “Can you behave for that long?” 

You smirk. 

Retracting your hands, you hold them up to show you can be good, do a quick once over to make sure you're decent and spin on your heel to walk towards your booth. Tae is behind you immediately, hand placed low on your back, thumb rubbing circles on the sliver of skin it touches. You ignore the goose bumps that arise.

Rei and Lea are at your table, thankfully. You explain to them you ran into Micah and that it really shook you, so Tae’s going to take you home. They know who Tae is, so they’re not worried when they give you goodbye hugs or when they tell you to text them when you're home safe. 

You promise you will, and hope that the rest of Rei’s birthday goes well. 

True to his word, it’s a ten minute rideshare before you’re pulling up to a tall, black windowed apartment building.

You’ve only been to Tae’s a handful of times with your brother, mostly for things like pick ups for concerts and such, but now that you’re here—alone with him—you’re trying hard not to jump him in the fucking lobby. 

The pulsing between your legs has only worsened since you removed your hands from his waistline, and you’re close to crawling out of your skin with need. 

His hand stays in its place at your lower back as the elevator climbs. 

It’s not helping and completely helping at the same time.

Fuck.

Tae lives on the sixteenth floor and the view is incredible. It’s the first thing you see past the island when you walk in the front door. There’s the kitchen to the left past the entrance, which turns into the living space that’s furnished in a way you can only describe as pure Tae. 

Books littering every surface, warm neutral toned furniture to counterbalance the colourful artwork he keeps on the walls. There’s an old record player with a collection of vinyls in the corner and what you assume is this morning's coffee mug on the art book filled coffee table.

To the right of the living space is the bedroom. It’s a studio apartment, but Tae’s managed to keep the flow of the place beautifully with some creatively put, gorgeously decorated room dividers. And the tall floor to ceiling windows wrap around it all, showcasing the lights of the city as they blend into the stars in the night sky. 

Mesmerizing. 

Just like the man locking his door behind you.

A kiss is placed on the back of your neck as you slide out of your shoes at the front door. You angle your head to allow more space, letting the arm that folds around you bring you closer to him. The feel of his arousal begins to grow behind you once more and you push back against him. A faint grunt meets the shell of your ear before his hand delicately slides up from your lower stomach and past your sternum. It teases your neck for just a moment before it meets your jaw to turn your lips towards his. 

He captures them in a brutal kiss, drinking you in for all you’re worth and then some as his other hand replaces the one that now holds your jaw in place. He pulls you into him but you spin in his hold, throwing your arms around his neck once more and dragging him towards the living space. He sheds his jacket in the process, uncaring of where it lands on his floor so long as you are still kissing him. 

You only stop when your ass meets the top of the couch and Taehyung palms the back of your thighs to lift you, your legs wrapping themselves around his hips as you sit on its edge. 

He growls at the contact and it has you raking your nails down his neck and over his shirt as you open for him once more, tongues clashing and teeth scraping at the desperate nature you both share. You yank his shirt up and he breaks from your embrace for only the amount of time it takes for the fabric to hit the floor before he’s back on you, adding twin bruises to the other side of your throat. 

You let the strings holding up your dress fall naturally to the side, revealing your chest to him, and a  low, “Fucking hell,” is murmured somewhere below your ear before a nipple is in his mouth and you’re arching into his touch, slices of need shooting straight downwards. Giving no mercy to your attempts to draw out the pleasure. 

One large hand cups a breast, molding it to his wanting before he switches and you’re groaning into the air above you, begging him for more, determined to have his tongue anywhere and everywhere you can get it. He lavs at your peaked bud, roaming over the sensitive flesh, making you squirm at the sensations he’s drawing from you. 

You never want it to end as he makes his way back up to your mouth, dragging his bottom lip over all of the freshly deepend skin it trails in its wake, making you hazy with the feel of him and his marks. 

His delicate touch wanders the insides of your thighs and your cunt aches for it the higher it climbs. But it slides up not down, reaching around to your ass and hoisting you onto his hips. 

Turning, he walks the eight paces to his bed, places a knee on the mattress for support before setting you down. His lips never leave yours he crawls over you, settling his hips over yours for mere moments, allowing you to thrust only twice before he’s removing himself completely and sinking to his knees. 

The fingers you’ve spent way too much time thinking about can’t get enough of your skin as they skate down your sides, taking the dress bunched at your hips with them. You raise your hips to help him get the scrap of fabric off, leaving a delicate, black lace thong the only thing keeping any of your remaining modesty intact.

You watch as his now fully blackened gaze takes you in, jaw dropped in slight at the sight of you with your legs opened on his bed. Like you were the prize he’s been waiting years to claim, and now that you're here and that you’re his his, he can’t quite believe it. 

It’s then you realize that he wants you, and has been wanting you. That your attempts to stay in reality these last couple years weren’t just harder for you, but for him as well. 

It hasn’t been one sided.

He wants you. 

Taehyung. 

Off limits, older brother’s best friend, swim club participating, jazz and poetry loving, judo knowing, book gifting, perfect smile having, protective, Taehyung. 

Wants you. 

You can physically feel the gush that rushes from your core at the thought and you know Tae can see it through the lace.

“Holy fuck…you’re fucking drenched and I haven’t even properly touched you yet,” he rasps, unbelieving. 

“Then touch me and find out just how much I want this,” you whisper. Begging, pleading, praying your words have their intended effect. “How much I want you, Taehyung.”

The sound that leaves his throat is a mixture of a whimper, a groan, and a guttural noise indicative of pure desperate want as he takes hold of your legs and spreads them further. Those mother fucking fingers trace from your ankles to your knees accompanied by the occasional light kiss, back up your inner thighs, and finally to the spot where you’ve been weeping for him for the better part of thirty minutes with a heaping side of ten years yearned. 

He places one open mouthed kiss on the top of your clothed clit and that simple touch has you arching, lightning crackling through your veins with the pleasure it brings. Tae slides one single finger down your covered slit before pushing it under and pulling it to the side. 

At the mere sight of you he’s swearing so fiercely under his breath that you involuntarily clench and he can’t fucking take it anymore.

His mouth is on you and you buck at the sensation. Yielding you no mercy, his tongue swipes from opening to clit in one long lick that has you gasping, clutching bed sheets above and below your head to keep from screaming. 

“Oh my—Fuck—Tae. Ohmygodohmy—” you’re rambling. Incoherent. A mess. 

He’s consuming your very being, no nerve left untouched, no reaction too minimal for his learning as he snakes his hands around your legs to haul you closer, pull you deeper into his mouth and you can’t fucking take it. You’re screaming out at the intensity he circles you with, and you can feel your impending orgasm come rushing to the surface. You’ve barely even processed it’s begun before you’re spasming so hard Tae has to remove an arm from your leg to throw around your pelvis. 

His devious fucking eyes meet yours for one earth shattering moment as he slips two fingers inside and begins a secondary merciless pursuit on your already overwhelmed senses. Using the pads to press upwards in time to the motions he never ceased with his tongue, a second wave is cresting before the first has ceased and you feel yourself clamping down, legs holding him in place as the intensity of your release climaxes. 

You’ve never felt a pressure so intense before, it’s like your body is a volcano and you’re erupting for the first time while someone sets off fireworks from its peak. The lava flows in waves, your hand holding his hair as you ride his face, shuddering at the vibrations his moan into your cunt leaves on the most sensitive parts of your body. 

Gentle strokes and licks calm as your pleasure begins to wane and you can breathe in more than just stuttered inhales again. 

“Holy fu–” you try to get out, but your voice is hoarse, like you’ve been screaming the entire time. 

And fuck, maybe you have been. You sure as hell can’t remember or think of anything more than the warm fuzzy feeling currently radiating from every single pore in your body. The damningly  deliciously dizzying feeling in your head not allowing for coherent thoughts to pass. Your limbs are loose, your body wholly relaxed. 

You’re…Well. You’re fucking perfect right now. If you could stay in this moment forever you would without second thought. Locked in this room with him for all time sounds like the best way to live out the rest of your days.

Until you wince as Tae blows warm breath on your core and he chuckles, then does it again. 

“Hey,” you say, sounding much clearer now, “Stop that and come here.”

You slip your hand down his face and grab him by the jaw, pulling him up and over you. Tae tastes like fire and whiskey and ambrosia and you as you kiss him with abandon, near feral as you take what you want from him and he revels in it. 

He’s on his elbows and a knee over you, and you use it to your full advantage to palm him over his pants and—Fuck he’s big. No wonder he was so thorough on you. This is going to hurt no matter how much prep either of you did.

He hisses at the contact and that only spurs you on, grasping firmly at his base and roving up and over the head with the heel of your palm, squeezing gently in time with his reactions.

“Christ PG, if you keep doing that I’m going to cum in my pants,” Tae laughs into your neck before rising to sit back on his heels. He gets as far as undoing his belt buckle and button before you take over, sitting up and pulling him out. 

He is disastrously beautiful, just like the rest of him, and your mouth waters at just the idea of him in your mouth. 

Licking your lips, you hear him curse quite colourfully as you take the tip into your mouth and swish your tongue over the head. Once. Twice. Thrice. 

Tae raises one hand to his eyes and the other behind him to hold him up as you take him deeper, shaking from restraining himself so hard, murmuring to himself, “Oh fuck. Fuck me, can’t believe—so fucking good, pretty—perfect—ohmygod,” and you seal the motherfucking deal by taking him into the back of your throat and looking up into his eyes at the same time. 

Taehyung barks and bucks once into your throat before removing himself and throwing you down onto the bed. He looks furious in the way that gets your heart racing, your cunt thrumming and your breathing so fast your chest feels like it might shatter from the crosscurrents. 

He grabs each of your hands and raises them above your head, sliding his fingers up your wrists and between your own, holding them in place on his pillow.

Leaning down, he uses his lowest timber to speak darkly into your ear, teasing your swollen clit with the tip of his cock. Sliding back and forth, sending bolts of white hot need through you. 

“You drive me fucking insane,” he starts, thrusting, teasing, torturing. And you moan at the contact. 

“You make me want to throw away a decades old friendship just for the chance to touch you.” 

Thrust, tease, jolt, whine. 

“And what’s worst of all is you’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, and you turn me into a complete idiot the second you enter the room. It’s like your fucking presence takes away all the working functions in my brain and leaves me with only the incurable fucking desire to make you cum until you can’t remember you own fucking name. Only mine.”

Thrust, squeeze, glide, jolt. “Tae...” you whine, delirious with pleasure, drunk on his greed and  delighted by his torture.

“I call you PG because it’s the only way I can get away with calling you anything more than your name around him.” He sounds almost angry with how low he growls. “And it means so much more than you could think.”

He leans further into you, so close now that his lips brush your ear as he speaks. 

“My Pretty Girl,” thrust, “My Precious Girl,” moan, “My Perfect Fucking Girl.” 

He releases one hand to line himself up with your entrance. “That’s who you are to me. That’s what I’m calling you when I call you PG. My Pretty, Precious, Perfect Girl. My Girl.” He slips past your walls, sinking deep and you both groan in euphoric unison. “Mine.”

Tae pulls out, slow and controlled. 

Blissful. 

Then pushes back in, methodically. 

Torturous. 

Feeling every inch you can take, which is every single fucking one.

Inevitable.

Bottoming out for the second time, you whisper, “Yours,” into his ear, and he turns fucking ravenous.

Setting an absolutely ruthless pace, he claims your body, taking what’s so clearly always been his. Your legs wrap around him again, digging a heel into his ass as you drive him closer, harder with every push. Then lay claim to the one thing you’re able to, taking his lips with yours and biting down hard enough to draw the most sinful groan from the back of his throat. Hoarse, deep, almost broken with how raw it is. 

One hand bruises its fingerprints into your hip while the other holds him up over you, and you use this to your advantage, slipping one leg around his and flipping the both of you over. 

You trail your tongue down his jaw to his clavicle, he tastes of sweat and lust and sex and it is the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever consumed. Creating your own gardens of little blooming flowers down one side of his neck and up the other, Taehyung moans greedily into your ear as your ride to match his thrusts, sending him deeper while you decorate your willing canvas. 

Because as much as he wishes to lay claim to your body, you want to claim his as well. 

“Mine,” you say, positioning yourself to take over completely, using the springs of the mattress to do most of the work for you. 

“Yes,” he says. But that’s not good enough. 

“Mine,” you demand, and let loose, pressing down on the mattress with your knees rapidly, creating the glorious effect you wanted. You watch as the up force from the mattress causes Taehyung to be driven into you so quickly he throws his head back, mouth dropped in pure ecstasy. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, YN, What the fuck—” he rambles, lost to the pleasure, biting his lip, going slackjawed, clenching and unclenching his fists into bedsheets that already have your handprints seared into them.

And you keep going, a little torture creation of your own. 

“Mine,” you demand again, and this time, it clicks.

“Yours! Fuck, yours. All yours, only yours,” he surrenders and you slow back down to a regular pace, breathless. 

It’s a great move but it’s exerting. 

You all but collapse on his chest and he takes over, thrillingly pissed off due to your power play. 

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he asks, and you clench at his tone. 

He removes himself and you whimper, but he’s maneuvering you like a ragdoll on the bed and you’re more than fucking willing to be thrown around. 

He’s kneeling on the bed, lifting your hips and sliding into you in a doggy style, but then he’s doing the most insane thing you think you’ve ever seen. With an arm around your stomach he brings your back to his torso and twists you both to face the open floor to ceiling windows. One of your legs is thrown over his that’s up to splay you wide for the skyline to see, and you can see your reflection in the glass. 

You look beyond fucked out, and so does he, and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. But then his hand is sliding to your throat, and a whispered, “Is this okay?” finds your ears. You nod.

Gripping the sides of your throat, he slides his other hand to graze your clit before beginning his own version of the move you just pulled. Pumping into you at a pace that has your g-spot screaming from all of the attention it’s receiving, his fingers swiping deftly over the bundled nerves at the apex of your thigh whilst lightly cutting off the blood supply to your brain. 

It has you twitching and hazy and dizzy in seconds. You can see yourself losing to the feeling so steadily building at the base of your spine in the glass. Mouth open, body willing, the man who’s been at the center of your wanting for longer than you can remember, its deliverance. 

Dark, sex tousled hair, muscled forearms holding you up and driving you insane. Blackened eyes focused on you and only you through the mirror the darkness of the night’s sky has created for you. 

It’s that visual that sets you over the edge when he releases your throat, and you feel a gush flowing from where you two meet.

“Fuuuck yes. My Perfect Girl, cum all over my sheets, drench my cock. That’s it,” he purrs in your ear and it’s doing nothing but sending shock after shock into your already over sensitive and pulsing cunt, letting your consciousness float somewhere above or below you, you don’t really care. 

All you know is that you feel light as a feather and not of this earthly plane. 

Taehyung removes himself and lies you down gently. He’s back inside soon after and it just feels right as he fills you, like it’s where he’s meant to be. 

He hovers over you once more, and you lift a single knee to his hip, mimicking your position from the club as he thrusts into you with fervor, chasing his own high after delivering three mind shattering ones to you. 

Reaching one hand to his cheek, you hold him as he kisses you, working himself to completion. 

Using your other to deliver a few expert circles to your clit, so you can come together, you breathe in each other's release and  drown in once another’s embrace. 

You leave his name on your tongue this time. A gift. A cry so delicate that a tear falls from your cheek and he kisses it away.

Taehyung inhales sharply, before stuttering his exhale and an exquisite warmth fills you.

“F-f-uu-ckkk,” he shudders as he lets the aftershocks of his release claim you in the most basic and animalistic of ways. You drink in the vulnerable sound, taking his mouth with yours one final time as you bask in each other's pleasure. Silent but for catching breaths, exertion evident as you hold one another. 

Taehyung rests on your chest. Lines are sketched gently with your nails up and down his spine and into his hair as he comes down, content in the afterglow, where nothing is wrong and everything is perfect. 

Before consequences kick in and regrets form. 

When he decides he’s ready, Tae lifts and removes himself from you and you can feel the remnants of your combined efforts slide down to the bedsheets. 

Tae takes a single finger and gathers it up before pressing it back in. You hiss at the now tender flesh. Though the pain doesn’t stop the warmth newly pooling at the sight and feel and meaning. 

He pumps it back in once, twice before removing his finger and placing it in his mouth to clean off. Your cunt flutters at the sight and Tae smirks, leaning forward to share his findings with you in the form of a filthy, open mouthed, tongue filled kiss. It’s slightly salty, slightly metallic but you pull him back for one last lick when he tries to pull away. 

Watching him kneeling there, in the glow of moonlight, you realize just how truly beautiful he is. The shape of his illuminated profile, the expanse of his chest as he breathes in, the colour of his skin under silver rays. He’s stunning. 

You smile up at him, spent, sated and so astronomically fucked if your brother ever finds out. 

Tae must see the thought on your face, because he says, “Don’t worry about him. I’ll handle it.”

But you honestly don’t give a fuck about that right now. That’s a tomorrow issue. What you want to know is, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what, exactly?” He specifies. 

You sit up, eye to eye as he sits on the edge of the bed, one leg on the ground. 

“All of it. Any of it.”

There. 

Now it was out in the open. And the rest is up to him. 

You could drag yourself back down to reality. Chalk this night up to booze and bad timing and perfect timing. Could convince yourself it was just one night and that it would have to be enou—

“All of it,” he interrupts, the most sincere expression you’ve ever seen on him on full display. “Definitely all of it. Every last fucking word.”

You slump on your exhale, so fucking relieved you didn’t have to keep trying to lie to yourself that you could forget this happened. 

You’re laughing before you can fight it off, shoulders shaking. Smiling so wide it hurts. 

“Uh..YN?” Tae asks, clearly not sure how to take your reaction and you compose yourself. 

“That’s PG to you,” you say as you crawl onto his lap, and kiss him into oblivion. 

It’s interesting to finally sit on the dock across the way in East Egg. 

The fog is gone, the sky is a brilliant blue, and the little box you kept sits open next to you, the lock and its key lost somewhere to the depths below your feet. Funny how harmless it seems now that there’s nothing locked inside anymore, like it could never really have hurt you in the first place. 

You take in your newly emptied creation, and quirk a brow when you see it move. 

A wiggle at first, before it’s shaking and spinning and shrinking, turning from a box into a glass windowed locket. Golden and delicate and beautiful, with a matching chain. You ponder for a moment what it could be for, before turning to look down at the green light to your right. 

An idea strikes. 

Unclasping the little window, you lift the opened pendant to the green light. And to your delight, the emerald hue hops into its new home, closing its tiny windowed door. 

You smile at the clever little light, lacing the chain around your neck, resting it on the middle of your sternum, right above your heart. Its brilliant hue shining brightly through the pane for all to see.

Funny how the green light you so longed for, longed for you back, and is now yours for keeps.

A/N 2.5: This is what has been rotting in my brain for the better half of two weeks so please enjoy, it was supposed to be short and trope filled to cure my writers block but apparently I am incapable of short. But trope filled it clearly is. Overall tho, I'm quite pleased with this one.

A/N 3: As always, thanks for reading, loves. Xoxo, - Yoon <3

Masterlist

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Lovers to coworkers - Jenson Button x reader

cw: mentions of fingering, creampies, actual spanking and cockwarming, age gap (reader is in her 20s, jenson is in his 40s), author loves dilfs and hates her clichés

"I have a job for you." Jenson says to you when walking into your shared apartment.

"I am employed, honey. Even though I wish this deadline from my publisher wasn't real, it is. Just like the fact that your lovely girlfriend is a romance writer.". You knew how he felt about what you do for a living. It was an icebreaker during your first date, and when you made him laugh so hard, he did a spit take at your first commissions, you knew he was the one. Thankfully for you, the writing you did had evolved much since your "man gets turned into underwear for his ex-girlfriend" days in college. It was insane how you rationalized that 10 bucks was 10 bucks.

Ever since then, you wrote like a machine. You were versatile, pitching different things to your agent. Poetry books, essay collections, general fiction, all of those were your favorites, Jenson's too. But what skyrocketed you to fame was the romance book you started writing after a drunken night with your boyfriend. You teased him about his "grid slut" days of the past. Asked him to tell you about it, warts and all. And he did, loving the way you crossed your legs as his stories of the past. He kept his hand between your legs as he told you about menages a trois in Monaco and public indecency in Italy.

Jenson fucked you raw that night for the first time and he'd been obsessed with you begging to be filled with his cum. He called you needy, greedy, desperately horny, his little slut. And as much as he tried to deny it, it wears him out. He likes slow things now. Eating you out for hours, orgasm after orgasm melting the time together. Having you stroke him as he's doing research. So when you whine and cum around him, he can't help it. Two more pumps and he's out like a light.

He wakes up hours later, thirst making his throat almost painfully sore. And you're still naked, aside from a pair of glasses, typing furiously on a laptop. He doesn't question it anymore but still tries to coax you into bed. You shoo him off, claiming something about "being in the zone" and continued writing.

You're particularly cagey about that one, but he can guess it has to do with F1 and specifically him. You ask about whether certain events would be accurate in a race. Learn all about his girlfriends passed and how they coped with his stardom. Finally, after months of pestering him, he gets an advanced reader's copy. It's a romance, and it's obvious that it's based on him. The female lead also has some similarities to you, which Jenson loves to tease you about. Both of you expect it to be normal. But social media gets wind of it.

The Booktok girlies were a force to be reckoned with. You should've known that, considering Mark and his controversially young girlfriend. Their "internet meetcute" was as cliche as one of your new plots. But the couple sure made good company on secret double dates. Nothing like beating the assumptions that you're sugar babies with a friend. So when she and the rest of the F1 romance community found your book, it was chaos. Thank God for pen names, because being Jenson's girlfriend on top of writing smut about him would be too much. But after your steamy work, everything shifted. Thanks to the feedback and sales, the book had become a sequel. Then a trilogy. Now, with a fourth one in the works, your partner was getting tired.

That's why, at the mention of your romance writing, he quickly bends you over his lap. He wastes no time in pulling your pants down, making your skin prickle.

"You know, you're bad for my PR, sweets. Do you think your fans have any respect for me?" He asks as he traces shapes on your bare ass. He's waiting to strike.

"Of course they do." You reply. You know the people reading your smut could be a little too into it. And you embrace it. Liking fanart, aesthetic moodboards, playlist. You have your own community and you love engaging with them. That's what sets you apart and partially gets the bills paid. More realistically, it's what helps you buy more books and also spoil Jenson's dog.

"Yeah, then why are they in my Instagram comments, all horny? Thought they weren't supposed to know that your protagonist is based on me." He wonders and smack, comes the first slap to your ass.

"I've built this image, you know." Another hit and he doesn't miss your moan at it.

"A book, almost 400 pages of my deepest, darkest secrets, so many hours of labor." Spanked again.

"17 years, that's almost a two decade career in F1, not to mention karting before and endurance after." Another strike, this time harder. Jenson ignores your pleas, just like he ignores the wetness of your cunt. That would have to wait.

"Took me years to shed the playboy image, so much effort to be serious and reliable on Sky Sports now. And you could potentially ruin it. We can't have that, now can we, sweets?" He asks and smacks you one last time. He drags his nails against the redness of your ass, making you feel the sting of his punishment. Which wasn't finished.

Jenson tells you to be a good girl and mount him, facing the other way. You love how he positions his mouth right against your ear.

"Let me tell you about the opening. It's an open kept secret, but they're letting go of Danica. Backlash from the fans and all that. So I figured, why not get a costar I actually get along with?"

"Jenson, I have no credentials. The public knows me as your girlfriend, it's gonna give nepo sugar baby." You say, trying to ignore your partner's hands on the cotton of your panties. You hate bringing up the age gap as well, but maybe it will remind him why this is a bad idea.

"First of all, everyone knows you're dating me for my looks and sex appeal, not my money. Second, you've been learning while researching your little smutty romances. You've seen every race this season and actually made some interesting points. Why not try it out?" He asks. He's stripping you, leaving your pussy completely exposed atop his jean covered crotch. You try to argue that you'd be a terrible pundit, purposefully using that word to piss him off.

"You'd be a fucking stellar commentator, love. And also a very pretty one, not that it matters." He says, gripping your waist.

"Let me prove it." He turns on the TV and opens the Sky Sports app. He puts on a random quali from this year and mutes it.

"Tell me what's happening and you get a reward." Jenson says and you can feel him unbutton his pants under you. You start with a general overview of the season, and when a camera pans to a certain driver you try to give a little tidbit of information. Your boyfriend adlibs with you, his tender voice becoming more clear and "TV like". Surprisingly, you can follow what he's saying. Even when he slaps the tip of his cock against your clit.

"Keep going, you're on air after all. Don't expect me to carry all of the conversation now." He whispers in your ear as you go silent. You try, providing some more fluff about the country and cheating by asking Jenson about his experience there. He responds by spreading you open and slamming into you in one thrust. Then he actually goes into detail about the track and some challenges.

"Talk the fans through Q1 and I'll move." He says as you squirm in his lap. Jenson's hands grip your hips, making you go still.

In order to "motivate" you, he places one hand on your nipple and the other on your clit. You try your best. You comment on tire choices, and purple sectors. You prompt him to fill your gaps. You even get heated as the time runs out, unsure who'd make it. As soon as you announce the 5 drivers that are out, Jenson moves. The short break between Q1 and Q2 is hell, with your boyfriend absolutely going feral.

"Aren't you so good to me, huh sweets. Taking me so well when I fuck into you. Being the perfect little cock sleeve. Don't get too excited now, we're just starting out." He says, just about as Q2 is about to begin. Then TV Jenson is back, he's talking like you two have an audience. You're too busy trying to get off, pussy clenching over him. As soon as he feels you do that, he pulls out, stopping right at the tip.

"Behave or we're stopping right now." He says and you delve into your observation about the qualifying session. Jense is a full on tease now, sinking you down on him slowly, giving it to you inch by inch. Then he's buried to the hilt and he stops. You relax into your commentator role, despite him throbbing inside of you. He won't let up, purposefully moving his body forward to see a technicality.

"Need glasses, Mr. Button? I know eyesight goes with age, but you're only 44. " You tease and are met with him spreading your legs even more and landing a slap square on your clit. You half moan, half announce the drivers who are out and your "career" is cut short. Jenson presses you flat against the glass coffee table, loving how your breasts are smushed against it. He wraps an arm against your waist and fucks you in earnest. Tip brushing your cervix earnest. Thighs shaking, toe curling earnest. Moans so loud they drown out the fact that he's still commentating earnest. As somebody takes pole position, Jenson makes you come and when the interviews come to a close, he's spilling his seed inside of you.

"You know, if you don't want me writing you like a whore, you should stop acting like one." You say. And even though he's getting soft, you're pulled to Jenson's thigh, smearing his cum over both of you. Round 2 is more predictable than the fact that you did not try for that open Sky Sports position. Because your slot with your boyfriend would have to be moved to after midnight.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Stirring the Quiet - Hidden Verses

Jenna Ortega x Female Reader

Summary: Y/N's weekend spirals into something more after a simple Instagram follow sparks nonstop texting with Jenna. As a poetry night unfolds, hidden emotions and lingering looks stir beneath the surface, leaving Y/N wondering if there’s more to Jenna’s words than she realizes.

Word Count: 2.8k

I lay sprawled out on my bed, staring at the crumpled receipt with Jenna's Instagram handle scribbled at the bottom. "Jenna has neat handwriting." Mr. Noodles had busied himself with the loose string from my hoodie, batting it around like it was the most exciting thing in the world. I couldn't help but stare at the note beneath it.

"Thanks for the coffee and conversation again, Slick."

I huffed, running a hand through my hair. It was the weekend, and The Daily Grind was closed, but my mind hadn't stopped buzzing since yesterday. I wasn't sure if it was because I spent the entire night tossing and turning or if the note and handle staring back at me were messing with my head.

Mr. Noodles rolled over next to me, biting the loose string of my hoodie. I chuckled, tugging the string away only for Mr. Noodles to pounce on it again. "You're supposed to be giving me advice, Sir," I muttered to the cat.

"Should I follow her?" I muttered aloud, glancing down at Mr. Noodles as if the cat would magically start talking. Instead, he batted the string again, completely uninterested in my words. Sighing, I pulled out my phone. "Okay, maybe I'll just look at her profile... just a quick peek."

I typed in Jenna's handle, my fingers shaking just a little as her profile popped up. Her feed included behind-the-scenes shots from sets, goofy pictures with friends, and the occasional aesthetically curated post. It was everything I expected and more, yet somehow, seeing it all made Jenna feel both distant and approachable.

I glanced at the Instagram handle again, thumb hovering over the 'follow' button. My heart thumped loudly in my ears. "Do I follow her now? Is that weird?" A nervous flutter filled my chest.

I looked at Mr. Noodles, hoping for some sort of divine intervention. I sighed and turned the phone screen toward the cat, leaning in as if he might actually give me the needed advice.

"What do you think? Follow or not?" I asked, thumb still frozen in place.

Mr. Noodles tilted his head for a moment, and before I could stop him, his paw shot out, landing directly on the screen—pressing the follow button.

My eyes widened. “Oh no… no, no, no, no! Noodles! Why—" I yelped, sitting upright, heart jumping out of my chest. I stared at the phone silently as if it might explode. Great. She's going to think I'm creepy, I panicked.

Mr. Noodles showed no remorse. Unfazed by my mini-crisis, he merely stretched out his paw, pressed it on my chest, meowed, and held it there as if to say, "Chill, human, it's just Instagram."

I laughed softly, scratching behind his ears. "I guess I did ask for your advice, boss; maybe it's not the end of the world," I replied, setting the phone down and falling back onto the pillow. The nerves from before slowly faded as Mr. Noodles curled up closer, purring contentedly.

A few minutes later, a buzz from my phone broke the silence. My heart stopped for a second as I grabbed the phone. It was Jenna.

Jenna: "I see you found my Instagram, Slick."

I sat up again, staring at the screen. Slick. That nickname was going to stick, wasn't it?

My heart was still pounding. What am I supposed to say to that? I bit my lip, staring at the screen, trying to find the perfect way to respond without sounding like I was fangirling.

Y/N: "Haha, yeah, I might have had a little nudge from Mr. Noodles. He has a knack for pressing buttons."

Jenna's response came quickly.

Jenna: "I knew Mr. Noodles had good taste. Should I be worried he's the mastermind behind everything?"

I chuckled, panic subsiding. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as I thought.

Y/N: "Definitely. He's secretly running my life from behind the scenes."

Jenna: "Well, tell him he's doing a great job."

The conversation flowed easily after that. Jenna texted about how she was shopping with her mom and sister. I found myself smiling as I read Jenna's updates about their day. We talked about each other's Instagram pages, with Jenna casually mentioning how "quiet" my account was. She commented on some of them—photos of The Daily Grind, a bunch of funny pictures of Mr. Noodles, and random snapshots of L.A. life.

Jenna: "I didn't know you were into photography."

Y/N: "Just something I dabble in, nothing serious."

Jenna: "Well, you've got an eye for it."

Reading Jenna's message, I bit my tongue, stifling a snicker.

Y/N: "You've got an eye for a lot of things, don't you? Bet you could spot a diamond in the rough without even trying."

There was a moment of silence, a break in the rapid-fire messaging, and my brain immediately went into panic mode. As I reread my last message, my heart raced as I questioned every word. Was that flirting? Oh god, did it sound like I was flirting? Groaning internally, I debated whether to follow up or leave it alone, replaying the words repeatedly, hoping I hadn't crossed any lines.

Meanwhile, across town, Jenna stood in a boutique with her mom and sister, holding a pair of shoes, when her phone buzzed again. She glanced down at my message, a small, amused smile playing on her lips as she read it. Was that... flirting? she wondered, feeling a spark of something she couldn't quite place.

Aliyah, her younger sister, nudged her with a teasing grin. "You've been glued to that phone all day. What's up with that?"

Jenna shrugged, trying to play it off. "Nothing, just texting."

"Texting who?" Aliyah leaned in, trying to peek over Jenna's shoulder. "Come on, spill the tea! You haven't been this distracted since... ever."

Jenna quickly pulled her phone closer, shooting her sister a look. "It's not a big deal."

Aliyah raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "Uh-huh, sure. You're not fooling me. Who is it?"

Jenna smirked and shook her head. "None of your business, Aliyah."

Aliyah laughed. "Fine, keep your secrets. But I'm watching you," she teased, throwing a playful smirk as they walked away. Jenna's thoughts lingered on my message, the teasing fading into the background as she mentally filed away the moment for later.

Panicking a little, I started typing out an explanation. "I was just saying, you know, your Instagram feed is super polished. That post you did at the premiere? It definitely looks professional. Like, you've got an eye for these things."

I hit send, biting my lip as the message went through. Crisis averted, right?

But her reply came in almost immediately: "Are you flirting with me, Slick?"

My face immediately heated up. Was I? I hadn't thought so, but now… maybe? My heart raced as I stared at the words on my screen.

Frantically, I started typing again, trying to come up with something that didn't make me sound like a complete fool. My fingers danced over the keyboard as I finally typed, "Only if it's working."

I winced immediately. Did I seriously just say that? But I didn't have time to take it back because Jenna's reply popped up almost instantly: "Maybe it is ;)"

My brain short-circuited as I reread the message, swallowing hard. I needed to keep it together.

The rest of the day flew by. We texted back and forth, sometimes in rapid bursts and other times falling into a comfortable silence. I hadn't even noticed how much time we had spent texting. After cooking, I sent Jenna a quick message.

Y/N: "About to eat. What about you?"

But before I could wait for a response, Mr. Noodles let out a long, dramatic meow, reminding me of his presence—and his empty food bowl.

"Don't worry, I didn't forget about you," I muttered, hopping up to feed him.

Y/N: "Feeding Mr. Noodles before he stages a protest."

Jenna: "A well-fed Noodles is a happy Noodles."

I laughed and grabbed the little tray, setting Noodles' plate on it. "I even got the tray this time, Noodles." Noodles never ate his meals unless they were on his special tray. The cat had his dignity, after all. I took a quick selfie with Noodles eating his food in the foreground, my hoodie-clad self sitting beside him with a content smile.

Y/N: [Pic] "Noodles approves of dinner."

Jenna: "Noodles is adorable. Oh yeah, you're there too."

Gasping playfully, I put my hand on my chest and shook my head.

After dinner, I tossed my phone on the bed and stretched. Then, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, tugging at my hoodie strings.

"We've been texting all day… like we're—" The thought was abruptly halted by a text from Jenna.

Jenna: Oh, are you going to that poetry event?"

I paused. I had almost forgotten about the poetry night, but now the idea of Jenna showing up made me excited and nervous.

Y/N: "Yeah, I'll be there, "I can't get out of work that easily, sadly."

Jenna: Lol, good, because I was thinking about stopping by.

I smiled at my phone, feeling a strange excitement bubbling inside me. I mentioned the event casually, not thinking Jenna would actually show up. But here she was, considering it.

Y/N: "Yeah, come drop by! It's going to be tons of fun."

Jenna: "Fun's one way to put it…I was thinking about reading something."

I froze. Jenna Ortega, reading poetry?

Y/N: "Wait, you're gonna read something? Now I have to see this."

Jenna: "Guess you'll have something to look forward to then."

Y/N: "I guess we’ll see then. I'm heading to bed. I'll talk to you later. Goodnight!"

Jenna: "All right, get some rest. Goodnight!"

I flopped back onto my bed, my phone still in hand. Mr. Noodles, completely unbothered, was fast asleep, the very cause of my earlier crisis now resting peacefully. I gave him a light scratch on the head. "This is going to be an interesting poetry night, buddy."

A few days later, the poetry event was in full swing at The Daily Grind. The café's warm glow set the perfect stage for the poets to approach the mic. Customers sat scattered around tables, sipping lattes and nibbling on pastries, but tonight, there was no usual chatter. The air buzzed with something more—a soft, attentive silence layered with the energy of excitement and nerves.

I stood behind the counter, half-listening to the poems as I washed some dishes. My mind kept drifting back to Jenna, who'd arrived not too long ago. She was sitting in the middle of the café now, flipping through her journal, occasionally looking up when someone delivered a line that caught her interest.

I tried to focus on the cappuccino cup I was washing, but my stomach kept twisting with this weird mix of excitement and nerves. I'd never really imagined Jenna as the poetry type, but seeing her here, confident, made the idea of her reading even more intriguing. Jenna, reading poetry. Damn.

I’d finished the last of my batch of dishes when I heard the soft creak of a chair. Glancing up, I saw Jenna standing, journal in hand, making her way toward the small stage. Her steps were steady but confident, sending my heart into overdrive.

I leaned against the counter, gripping the edge as I watched her take her place at the mic. The background hum of conversation faded to nothing, and I could feel the energy shift as Jenna tapped her journal against the mic stand.

"Hi, for those who don't know me, my name is Jenna." The crowd softly erupted into a few snaps and cheers.

"This is something I've been working on for a while," Jenna started, her voice steady but carrying this vulnerable edge. "I don't usually share my poetry, but… here goes nothing."

My breath caught in my chest. The café was silent now, except for the faint hiss of the espresso machine in the background. My attention was fixed on Jenna.

She flipped open her journal, her fingers gently brushing over the worn pages. She took a deep breath and began to read:

"There's a space between silence and sound, Where words get caught, Lingering like an echo that never fades, A warmth that lingers in the coldest moments. It’s like a whisper I can't quite grasp, But somehow, it stays with me."

Her voice was soft but sure, each word hanging in the air like it belonged there. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, feeling my chest tighten as her words seemed to reach out and pull me in. The room felt smaller, more intimate, like it was just the two of us.

"There's a light that breaks through the quiet, A glow that touches everything in its path. And when it touches me, I feel—"

She paused, glancing up from her journal, and her eyes landed on me. For a heartbeat, we locked eyes, and I swear my heart stuttered.

"I feel like I could stay in that light forever," she finished, her voice dropping into something softer, almost like it was just for me.

The room stayed quiet for a beat, the kind of quiet that follows something that just hits everyone right where it counts. Soft applause and snaps slowly filled the space, but I barely registered it. I was too busy trying to breathe, trying to shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—that line had been meant for me.

Jenna closed her journal with a soft thud, her eyes scanning the room as she smiled nervously. I joined in the clapping, my hands slightly trembling. That line—"I could stay in that light forever." Damn, she had me more shaken than I wanted to admit.

Jenna stepped off the stage, her face still flushed as she sat at the counter where I stood. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until I let out a shaky laugh.

"Not bad for a movie star," I managed to say, my voice betraying me.

Jenna looked up at me, a smile tugging at her lips. "You didn’t think I had it in me, huh?"

I chuckled, rubbing the back of my neck. "No, I just… didn’t expect it. But yeah, you really had something there."

Jenna raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by how flustered I was. "Thanks, Slick. Maybe one day I’ll share the rest with you."

My throat tightened. I shook my head, laughing nervously. "Only if you want to! No rush or pressure."

She leaned in a little, her smile still teasing. "Yeah, I don’t mind. I guess I’m full of surprises."

Before I could reply, our hands brushed as I reached for a stray napkin left by a patron. That small touch sent a spark through me, my heart racing. Jenna’s fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary before her face grew redder, and she reached into her bag, pulling out a small, leather-bound journal.

"This," Jenna said, "is what I’ve been working on."

My eyes widened. "That’s amazing. Looks like a real book already."

Jenna smiled, running her fingers over the cover. "I’ve been working on a collection of affirmations and positive vibes. Something people can read to start their day off right."

I lit up. "That’s incredible! You should write a poem about The Daily Grind. You know, as an ode to caffeine and good vibes."

Jenna froze for a second, her blush deepening. "I—um—yeah, I could do that," she stammered.

I tilted my head, a little concerned. "You all right? You don’t have to if you're not up for it. I just thought you really enjoyed the café. It always seems to relax you."

Jenna let out a nervous laugh as she fidgeted with her journal. "Just a few after-butterflies. The crowd can be overwhelming sometimes... even for a big movie star," she said, her voice quieter than usual, clearly nervous.

I smiled, trying to ease the tension. "Come on, I know just the spot where you can get some air."

I led Jenna out to the back patio, the view of the city spreading out before us. The twinkling lights of L.A. cast a soft glow over the horizon, making everything feel a little more magical. It was quieter here, away from the usual hum of the café, just the two of us. The noise of the poetry event faded, leaving behind the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Jenna leaned back in her chair, staring out at the view, her journal resting on her lap. She seemed more at ease now, her earlier nervousness gone. I couldn’t help but watch her, still in awe of how someone like her could feel so grounded, sitting next to me like this.

I started humming softly, letting the cool night air relax me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Jenna turn her head slightly, listening. Her eyes softened.

“You’ve got a beautiful voice, Y/N,” Jenna said, her voice gentle.

I glanced down at my hands, caught off guard. “Thanks. I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

“You should sing more,” Jenna added. “It suits you.”

I smiled but didn’t respond immediately. Instead, I leaned back, closing my eyes for a moment, letting the peaceful atmosphere sink in. The night wrapped around us, soft and still. The only sound was the breeze weaving through the trees, and our quiet breathing.

Eventually, Jenna broke the silence. “I used to take acting classes as a kid. I thought it was fun, but it was also a lot of work. Everyone thinks it’s all glam, but it’s really not.”

I opened my eyes and looked over at her. “Yeah? I remember wanting to be a star when I was younger. My parents got me singing lessons, but I ended up with a lazy talent agent who only got me background roles in a few plays and on the occasional TV or movie set.”

Jenna chuckled lightly, her smile a little mischievous. “Hey, that’s how it starts. You’ve got to work your way up. Hollywood isn’t like the movies—there’s no fairy tale moment where someone discovers you walking down the street.”

I laughed with her. “Guess I’ll stick to making lattes.”

Jenna grinned, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. “You’re good at that, too.”

As we continued talking, it felt like the world outside the patio didn’t exist anymore. It was just me and Jenna, the stars above us, and the quiet stillness of the night. We traded stories—nothing deep or profound, but it was effortless. Like we’d known each other longer than we actually had.

There was something calming about being with Jenna, something that made me feel like I didn’t have to rush or worry. Just being in the moment was enough.

Jenna took a deep breath, breaking the quiet. “I guess that’s what I love about acting… it lets me escape for a while, but it’s not always what people think.”

I tilted my head, listening carefully. “Yeah? What do people get wrong about it?”

She paused, her fingers tracing the edges of her journal absentmindedly. “They only see the glam, the red carpets, and the premieres. But they don’t see the long hours, the rejection, or how hard you have to work just to land a role. It can get exhausting.”

I nodded. "I feel you. Sometimes, everyone only sees the end result and forgets all the effort it took to get there."

Jenna smiled, a little softer this time. “Exactly. I think that’s why I like moments like this… when everything’s quiet, and I can just be myself. No cameras, no expectations.”

My chest tightened a little at her words. There was a vulnerability there, a side of Jenna I hadn’t seen before. I nodded, feeling the weight of the conversation settle between us. “Yeah… moments like this are pretty rare.”

She looked at me then, her eyes lingering just a little longer than usual, like she was trying to figure me out. It was quiet again, but this time, the silence felt different—deeper.

Eventually, I spoke up, trying to lighten the mood. “You know, you really should write that poem about The Daily Grind. You’ve got to immortalize this place in poetry.”

Jenna laughed, the sound soft but full of warmth. “Okay, okay, I’ll think about it.”

We both sat there for a little while longer, the city lights twinkling around us like stars had spilled onto the ground. It was one of those rare moments where everything just felt… right. I didn’t want it to end, but as the night deepened, I knew we’d have to head back soon.

But for now, I was content to just sit there, with Jenna beside me, the world quiet around us.

[sscamanderr]

On Your Mark // JJK

~Pretty straight forward; headcanons for how they react to you leaving your mark on them in bed~

Characters: Geto, Nanami, Sukuna, Gojo, Choso, Toji

Disclaimer: minors dni. sexual themes obviously. pain, scratching, biting, hickies, blood mention, etc. Not proof-read, we post like men

Thank @rax-writes for getting me to post this <3 header image made by me too lol

Geto:

He plays it off cool, relishing the press of your skin on his in the throws of passion. He’ll chuckle into the crook of your neck when you grab for him, needy, breathless. But really it’s to hide the way he shivers when your nails or lips touch his sensitive skin. Not-so-secretly, he’s one of the worst about it. It turns him into a puddle. Likes to run his fingers over the raised skin or red and purple marks left behind with pride. He’s done a good job. So have you. Do it more often.

Nanami:

Loves your bites, and scratches especially. Needs to be needed. He’s muttering things like “Go on, honey, I can take it”. Filthy words feel like poetry from his lips. May even let out a realized laugh at how you’re clinging to him and marking him up. He’s not leaving, baby, he’s staying right here. But do continue. Likes the constant reminder through the day as his button-up catches on the scratches left behind. So much so that he’ll ask for more.

Sukuna:

Will forbid you from touching him at first. You’re his; you take what he gives you, take his marks only. Only during a real intimate moment does he let his guard down, and your arms circle his back and nails rake down his back. What’s this? His pathetic, weak, needy princess marking her territory? Turns him into a beast. Only lets you out from under him once you’ve created a map full of trails of pleasure. He makes you cry in return, in the best way. You’d catch him later in the mirror admiring deep welts left by you on his back. A ghost of a smile graces his lips.

Gojo:

Two words: the worst. Whimpers as soon as he feels your lips on his neck and chest, or your nails pressed into his back and sides. He’s panting into your neck, weight fully collapsed into you, half-way through your ministrations. Desperate. May even whine about it. He craves your touch like an addict needs a fix. And you’re his. Whether its your teeth, nails, or anything else you want to use on him, he’s at your mercy. His only request is to keep it below his collar bones, just for the sake of being around kids most of the time. Outside of the school, he’s showing them off like a prize, and he’s won first place.

Choso:

An actual baby. Will cry out and whimper. But wait. He likes it? Keep doing it, he really does like it! He feels it brings you closer. It tells him how well he’s doing, how much pleasure he’s bringing to you. He might let out a gasp or two, but his grip on you tightens and spurs him on to leave his own marks on you in return. The sounds he makes are animalistic; a chuckle that turns into a rumbling growl. A sigh that turns airy and breathless. Will absolutely ask you to do it every time.

Toji:

Asks you to mark him straight out the gate. Wants you to make him bleed while he’s buried deep inside you. Tear him up. Go on, mama, show him who he belongs to. Wants you to basically torture him. He can handle it, don’t you worry about it. He doesn’t mind if he looks like he lost a fight to a tiger in a telephone booth. The prickling pain all over his body only makes him want you more. Wants the contrast of your soft wetness and the sweltering scratches and bites you give him simultaneously. Probably will even ask to mark you back, if you really think you can handle him too.

[imreidswifey]

The Profiler’s Heart -S.Reid Fanfic-

Words: 20k+

Summary: The Profiler’s Heart, is a heartfelt romance with Dr. Spencer Reid, the brilliant yet socially awkward FBI agent from Criminal Minds. What begins as a simple, chance encounter at a local coffee shop transforms into a deep and transformative relationship. Over time, Spencer slowly lets you into his world, keeping his newfound happiness a secret from his team as he struggles with his own vulnerabilities.

A/n: As you may have noticed I have not been posting as much because I have been working on this!! It is a very long read so get comfortable (Around 20k+ words)

Warnings:

Mental Health Themes, Trauma & Emotional Struggles, Mature Themes & Emotional Content, Slow Burn Romance, Spoilers for Criminal Minds, Language: The story includes some strong language and emotional intensity in dialogue, Romantic Relationship Dynamics, Slow Development.

———————————————————————————-

The familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as you pushed open the door to your favorite coffee shop, the bell above jingling softly. It was a small, cozy space, tucked away on a quiet street—a haven for anyone seeking a little peace. You’d been coming here for months, drawn to the warm lighting, mismatched chairs, and the faint hum of classical music playing in the background. Today was no different. You approached the counter, exchanging a quick smile with the barista as you placed your usual order, then made your way to your favorite seat by the window.

You had just settled in with a book when you noticed him walk in. He wasn’t entirely new to the coffee shop—you’d seen him a few times before—but he always seemed to come and go without much interaction. He was tall and lanky, his slightly unkempt hair giving him an air of quiet distraction. Today, he looked even more out of place than usual, wearing a sweater vest over a button-down shirt and a tie that seemed just slightly too tight. As he reached the counter, he fumbled briefly with his wallet before ordering in a low, hesitant voice.

“Black coffee, no sugar.”

He stood awkwardly while waiting for his drink, his gaze darting around the room before landing on your table. The coffee shop was unusually crowded today, and there weren’t many seats left. When his coffee arrived, he hesitated for a moment, then approached your table, holding his cup with both hands as though it might steady him.

“Excuse me,” he said softly, his voice almost drowned out by the chatter around you. “Is this seat taken?”

You shook your head, offering a polite smile. “Not at all. Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, lowering himself into the chair across from you.

He placed his coffee on the table and pulled a thick book from his bag. You tried not to stare, but the title caught your eye—An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations.

“Light reading?” you asked, tilting your head toward the book.

He glanced up, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Adam Smith is… surprisingly engaging,” he replied, his tone measured and deliberate.

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s one way to describe it. Most people would’ve gone with ‘dense’ or ‘impenetrable.’”

His smile widened slightly, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for. It’s fascinating when you think about how his ideas laid the foundation for modern economics.”

“True,” you conceded, closing your own book and leaning forward slightly. “But do you ever read anything just for fun?”

He hesitated, as though the question caught him off guard. “I do,” he said after a moment, though his tone carried a hint of defensiveness. “But I suppose my idea of fun might be… unconventional.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Don’t worry. I’m not judging. I mean, I’m sitting here reading 19th-century poetry for fun, so I’m probably not one to talk.”

His gaze flicked to the cover of your book, and he nodded appreciatively. “Emily Dickinson. Her work is deceptively simple but incredibly profound.”

“You’re a fan?” you asked, surprised.

“Of her conciseness, yes. She had a remarkable ability to convey complex ideas with very few words,” he said, then added, almost shyly, “Though I can’t say I’ve read all of her work. There are still… gaps in my literary knowledge.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the way he spoke—thoughtful, deliberate, as though each word had been carefully chosen. It wasn’t the kind of conversation you were used to having with strangers in coffee shops, but there was something refreshing about it.

For the next half hour, the two of you exchanged snippets of conversation between sips of coffee and moments of quiet reading. You learned that his name was Spencer and that he worked in a field he described only as “challenging.” He asked about your interests with genuine curiosity, his sharp mind evident in the way he seemed to absorb every detail you shared.

When it was time for you to leave, you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should say anything. In the end, you simply stood, offering him a small smile. “It was nice talking to you, Spencer. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

He looked up from his book, his expression softening. “Likewise. And… thank you for letting me sit here.”

You nodded and walked away, feeling an inexplicable sense of warmth. As you stepped outside, you glanced back through the window and saw him watching you, his book forgotten on the table.

You didn’t know it yet, but that moment was the beginning of something that would soon become a part of your routine—and, eventually, your life.

The coffee shop was quieter today, the usual mid-morning rush giving way to a lull that left most of the tables empty. You had claimed your usual spot by the window, your coffee steaming gently on the table, and a fresh novel open in your hands. You weren’t expecting to see him again so soon, but as the door jingled softly, you looked up instinctively.

There he was.

Spencer walked in with the same slightly awkward air, his satchel slung over his shoulder and his tie slightly askew. This time, though, he spotted you almost immediately. His gaze lingered for a moment, a flicker of recognition crossing his face before he moved to the counter to place his order.

“Black coffee, no sugar,” he murmured, just loud enough for the barista to hear.

You went back to your book, though your focus wavered slightly. When he approached your table, coffee in hand, you glanced up again.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his tone polite but hesitant.

You gestured to the empty seat with a smile. “Not at all. Looks like it’s becoming a habit.”

He sat down carefully, placing his coffee on the table and pulling a notebook from his bag. The book from last time was absent, but he seemed just as engrossed in whatever he was working on. For a few minutes, the two of you sat in companionable silence, the only sounds the faint rustle of paper and the clink of ceramic mugs.

It was Spencer who broke the silence first. “What are you reading today?”

You held up the cover for him to see. “It’s a mystery novel. Nothing as dense as Adam Smith, but it’s a fun read.”

He tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “Mystery novels are interesting. They rely on a careful balance of misdirection and logic. Do you prefer ones with a twist ending or ones where you can solve the puzzle before the protagonist does?”

You considered the question for a moment. “I like the ones that make you think you’ve figured it out, only to completely surprise you in the last chapter. Keeps things exciting.”

He nodded, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of his coffee cup. “The element of surprise is important, but so is fairness. A good mystery should give you all the clues—you just have to know how to interpret them.”

“Is that something you’ve studied?” you asked, leaning forward slightly.

He hesitated, his expression shifting as though he were carefully choosing his words. “In a way. My work involves… patterns, logic, and deduction. It’s not exactly the same as a mystery novel, but there are parallels.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “That sounds fascinating. What do you do, exactly?”

He hesitated again, glancing down at his notebook as if it held the answer. “I work for the FBI,” he said finally. “In the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Your eyes widened. “Seriously? That’s incredible. You’re a profiler, then?”

He gave a small nod, his expression modest. “Yes. We analyze criminal behavior to help solve cases. It’s… challenging, but rewarding.”

“That sounds like the kind of job that would keep you up at night,” you said, your tone curious but gentle.

He gave a faint smile, his gaze distant. “It does, sometimes. But it also gives me a chance to help people, which makes it worth it.”

There was a quiet intensity in his voice that made you pause. It was clear that his work was more than just a job to him—it was something deeply personal.

“Sounds like you’re pretty good at it,” you said softly.

He looked up, startled, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “I… try to be.”

The conversation drifted after that, touching on lighter topics. He asked about your work, genuinely interested in what you had to say, and you found yourself sharing more than you expected. There was something disarming about his quiet attention, the way he seemed to hang on every word.

Before long, an hour had passed, and you realized with a start that you needed to get going.

“I should probably head out,” you said, gathering your things. “But this was nice. I’m glad we got to talk again.”

Spencer nodded, his expression softening. “Me too. And… thank you for letting me sit here.”

You smiled. “You don’t have to thank me for that. Besides, I’m starting to think you’re better company than I expected.”

A faint blush crept up his neck, but he didn’t look away. “I’ll… see you around, then?”

“Definitely,” you said, giving him a small wave before heading out the door.

As you walked down the street, you couldn’t help but feel lighter somehow, as though the conversation had brightened your day in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

Back at the coffee shop, Spencer sat for a moment, staring at the empty seat across from him. He pulled out his notebook and jotted something down—a brief note in his neat, precise handwriting.

For the rest of the day, he carried that moment with him, and though he didn’t say a word about it to anyone, his coworkers at the BAU couldn’t help but notice the faint smile that lingered on his face.

It was raining the next time you saw Spencer, a steady drizzle that painted the streets in a muted haze. The coffee shop was busier than usual, filled with people seeking shelter from the weather, and the hum of conversation blended with the rhythmic patter of rain against the windows. You were perched at your usual table, a warm mug in your hands, when the door jingled and Spencer walked in, shaking droplets from his hair.

He scanned the room, his gaze landing on you almost immediately. You raised a hand in a small wave, and his lips curved into a soft smile as he made his way over.

“Crowded today,” he remarked, his voice low but warm as he slipped into the seat across from you.

“Seems like everyone had the same idea,” you replied, gesturing toward the line snaking its way to the counter. “You might be waiting a while for your coffee.”

He glanced at the line, then back at you. “That’s all right. I’m in no hurry.”

There was an ease to his presence now that hadn’t been there before, a quiet comfort that made you smile. Over the past few weeks, your conversations had become more frequent, the once-occasional meetings in the coffee shop turning into something you both seemed to look forward to.

“Working on anything interesting today?” you asked, nodding toward the notebook he’d pulled from his bag.

Spencer opened it carefully, revealing pages filled with neat, precise handwriting and diagrams that looked more like they belonged in a science journal than a coffee shop. “Just some notes,” he said, brushing his fingers over the edge of the paper. “It helps me organize my thoughts.”

“Mind if I take a look?” you asked, intrigued.

He hesitated for a moment before sliding the notebook across the table. You skimmed the page, your brow furrowing as you tried to make sense of the densely packed information.

“This… is definitely not light reading,” you said with a laugh, handing it back to him. “Is this for work?”

“In a way,” he said, tucking the notebook back into his bag. “I like to stay ahead, so I do a lot of independent research. It helps when I’m working on particularly complicated cases.”

You nodded, impressed. “You really don’t stop, do you?”

Spencer looked at you, his expression thoughtful. “I suppose not. But I enjoy it. There’s always more to learn, and I find comfort in that.”

Something about the way he said it made you pause. There was a vulnerability beneath his words, a quiet admission that spoke to the way his mind worked—always racing, always searching for answers.

“Well, if you ever need a break from all that learning,” you said lightly, “you know where to find me.”

His lips quirked into a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The line at the counter finally thinned, and Spencer stood to get his coffee. When he returned, he carried two cups instead of one, placing one in front of you with a sheepish smile.

“I noticed you were almost out,” he said, gesturing toward your empty mug.

You blinked, surprised. “Thank you, Spencer. You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugged, his cheeks faintly pink. “It’s nothing. Consider it a… small token of appreciation.”

“For what?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“For… this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the table. “Talking. Listening. It’s nice.”

You smiled, touched by his sincerity. “It is. I’m glad we met.”

For the next hour, the two of you fell into easy conversation, your voices weaving through the ambient noise of the coffee shop. Spencer told you about his love of obscure trivia and his penchant for collecting rare books, and you shared stories from your own life, finding common ground in unexpected places.

At one point, he hesitated, glancing down at his coffee cup as though gathering his thoughts. “Would you… be interested in going to the museum sometime?” he asked, his tone careful but hopeful.

You tilted your head, surprised but pleased. “I’d love to. Which one?”

“There’s an exhibit on mathematical paradoxes opening this weekend,” he said, his enthusiasm breaking through his usual reserved demeanor. “It’s fascinating how something can appear contradictory but still hold a deeper truth.”

His excitement was contagious, and you couldn’t help but grin. “Sounds like fun. Let’s do it.”

The smile that spread across his face was unguarded, and you realized then how rare it was to see him so openly happy. It was a side of him you hoped to see more of, and as the rain continued to fall outside, you felt a quiet certainty that this was the beginning of something special.

Unbeknownst to you, Spencer carried that same certainty with him when he left the coffee shop that day. For the first time in a long while, he found himself looking forward to something outside of work, and though he kept his happiness tucked away like a secret, it shone through in small, quiet ways that didn’t go unnoticed.

At the BAU, Penelope Garcia was the first to comment on the change.

“Spence, you’ve been smiling more lately,” she said one afternoon, leaning against his desk with a knowing look. “Something you want to share?”

He shook his head, his ears turning pink as he focused intently on the file in front of him. “Nothing in particular,” he murmured, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that didn’t escape her sharp eyes.

“Uh-huh,” she said, narrowing her gaze. “We’ll see about that.”

Spencer didn’t respond, but as Penelope walked away, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles, his thoughts drifting back to you and the quiet joy you’d brought into his life.

The BAU was a place where secrets rarely lasted long. The team’s job, after all, was to dissect behavior and unravel mysteries. As close-knit as they were, each member had an uncanny ability to notice even the smallest shift in one another’s routines. It was only a matter of time before they turned their collective attention to Spencer Reid.

It started with little things.

“Is it just me,” Penelope Garcia mused one morning, leaning dramatically against Derek Morgan’s desk, “or is our resident genius unusually… chipper lately?”

Morgan looked up from his case file, an amused grin tugging at his lips. “C’mon, Baby Girl. Reid’s always in his own world. What are you noticing?”

Penelope gestured emphatically with her glittery pen. “He’s been smiling. Like, actual smiles. And—get this—he whistled in the break room yesterday. Whistled!”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Whistling’s a crime now?”

“No, Derek,” she said with mock exasperation. “But it’s unusual for our dear Doctor Reid. He’s not exactly the whistling type. Something’s up. I can feel it.”

David Rossi, who had been quietly listening from his desk nearby, chimed in. “It’s true. Kid’s been humming, too. I caught him doing it while going through the case files last night.”

Emily Prentiss joined them, holding a mug of coffee and looking intrigued. “Wait. Reid? Humming? What’s next—Reid cracking jokes?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Rossi said with a smirk. “Mark my words: there’s something—or someone—making him happy.”

Penelope’s eyes lit up at the possibility. “Someone? Oh, now this is interesting. What if he’s secretly dating someone and didn’t tell us?”

Morgan laughed, shaking his head. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Just because he’s smiling doesn’t mean he’s got a secret girlfriend.”

Penelope crossed her arms. “Oh, you think so? Then how do you explain the sudden wardrobe upgrade? He wore matching socks two days in a row last week. That’s not a coincidence.”

Emily snorted into her coffee. “Matching socks are the evidence we’re going with?”

“I have my methods,” Penelope said dramatically. “And my gut is never wrong. I’m telling you, there’s a mystery here, and I am determined to solve it.”

Rossi leaned back, a knowing look on his face. “Whatever it is, let him have his secret—for now. If it’s important, he’ll tell us.”

But Penelope wasn’t about to let it go that easily.

Meanwhile, Spencer was doing everything he could to keep his private life private.

He’d always been meticulous about compartmentalizing his personal and professional worlds, but ever since he’d started spending more time with you, it had become harder to maintain the separation. The team’s inquisitive glances and subtle comments hadn’t escaped his notice, and it was making him increasingly anxious.

During lunch in the break room, JJ sat down beside him, her expression casual but her tone careful. “So, Spence. Anything new going on in your life?”

He froze for a split second, his fork hovering over his salad. “Uh… no. Not really.”

“Nothing at all?” she pressed gently.

“Nope. Just the usual,” he said quickly, focusing intently on his food.

JJ raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. She exchanged a look with Emily across the room, who gave her a subtle nod.

Spencer knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.

That evening, after a long day at work, Spencer met you at the coffee shop where it had all started. You were already seated at your usual table, a warm smile lighting up your face when you saw him.

“Hey, you,” you greeted as he slid into the seat across from you.

“Hi,” he said, his expression softening in your presence.

But you could tell something was bothering him. His brow was furrowed, and he kept fidgeting with the edge of his coffee cup.

“Everything okay?” you asked gently.

He hesitated, then sighed. “It’s my team. They’re starting to notice… changes in my behavior. Penelope, especially. She’s like a bloodhound when it comes to figuring things out.”

You tilted your head, concerned. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s just… they’ll want to meet you. And once they do, they’ll start meddling. They mean well, but they can be… overwhelming.”

You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I get it, Spencer. They’re your family, and you want to protect this part of your life for a little while longer. But…”

“But?” he prompted, his eyes searching yours.

“But maybe letting them in wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” you said softly. “From what you’ve told me, they sound like amazing people who care about you. I’d love to meet them someday—when you’re ready.”

He looked down at your hand on his, his expression conflicted. “What if they start analyzing us? Or worse, what if they don’t think I’m… good enough for you?”

You squeezed his hand reassuringly. “First of all, you’re more than good enough. And second, I can handle a little scrutiny if it means being part of your life in every way. Besides, I think they’d like me.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “They’d more than like you. They’d adore you.”

“Then what are you so worried about?” you teased gently.

Spencer let out a soft laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I guess… I’m just not used to sharing this part of my life with anyone. It’s new for me.”

“It’s new for me, too,” you admitted. “But we’re figuring it out together, right?”

“Right,” he said, his smile growing.

At the BAU the next day, Penelope was on a mission.

She cornered Morgan in the bullpen, her eyes gleaming with determination. “I’ve been doing some digging, and I think I’m onto something.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Digging? Garcia, you didn’t—”

“Relax,” she said, waving a hand. “I didn’t hack anything. I’m just observing. And based on my observations, Reid is definitely hiding something—or someone.”

“What makes you so sure?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“He’s been leaving earlier than usual, taking lunch breaks outside the office, and—get this—he turned down a weekend trivia marathon to ‘run errands.’ Who turns down trivia, Derek?”

“Okay, you might have a point,” Morgan admitted, though he still looked skeptical. “But if the kid’s got a secret girlfriend, don’t you think he’d tell us eventually?”

Penelope sighed dramatically. “Eventually? Do you know how long eventually could take with Reid? We could all be retired by then!”

Morgan chuckled, shaking his head. “All right, fine. Keep sleuthing. But don’t push him too hard. The kid’s entitled to his privacy.”

Penelope grinned. “Oh, I’ll be subtle. Like a ninja.”

Morgan muttered under his breath, “Subtle is not in your vocabulary.”

That evening, Spencer found himself staring at his phone, your encouraging words from the night before echoing in his mind. He knew you were right—his team was his family, and they deserved to know about you. But the thought of their teasing, their endless questions, and their well-meaning meddling made his stomach twist.

After a few moments of hesitation, he opened the group chat.

Spencer: Can we all meet for dinner tomorrow? My treat. There’s something I’d like to share.

The replies came almost instantly.

Garcia: OMG, yes! Is this about what I think it’s about???

Morgan: I’m in. But if it’s not about what she thinks it’s about, you’re buying dessert too.

JJ: Sounds great, Spence. Can’t wait!

Prentiss: This better be good. Rossi and I are skipping wine night for this.

Spencer sighed, already regretting his decision, but there was no turning back now.

The next day, as the team gathered at a cozy Italian restaurant, Spencer felt his nerves building with every passing minute. But then he thought of you—your steady reassurance, your warm smile—and it gave him the courage he needed.

“Okay, Reid,” Morgan said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been acting all secretive for weeks. Spill it.”

Spencer took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping across the table. “There’s… someone I’d like you all to meet. Someone important to me.”

The table fell silent for a moment, and then Penelope let out an excited squeal. “I knew it!”

Spencer winced but pressed on. “Her name is [Your Name]. We’ve been seeing each other for a little while now, and… well, she means a lot to me.”

JJ smiled warmly. “Spence, that’s wonderful. We’re so happy for you.”

“Yeah, kid,” Morgan added, grinning. “It’s about time you found someone who makes you smile like that.”

“Thanks,” Spencer said, his cheeks turning pink. “I just… I wanted you all to know. And she’d like to meet you, too.”

Penelope clasped her hands together, her eyes shining with excitement. “When? Where? I need details!”

“Soon,” Spencer said, his smile growing despite himself. “But… promise me you’ll go easy on her.”

“No promises,” Rossi said with a smirk, raising his glass in a toast. “To Reid and [Your Name]. May we get to meet her soon—and may she survive this group.”

Laughter erupted around the table, and for the first time, Spencer felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing for certain: with you by

The day had arrived, and Spencer was pacing his apartment like a man preparing for battle. He had gone over every possible scenario in his mind: what his team might say, how you might respond, and how much teasing he would inevitably endure. Despite your reassurances that everything would be fine, his anxiety hummed like static in the background.

“Spencer,” you said gently, stepping into his path and placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “Take a deep breath.”

He halted mid-step, looking down at you with wide, nervous eyes. “What if they don’t like you?”

You smiled softly. “Then they’d be the first people in your life to have terrible judgment.”

He let out a nervous chuckle, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “You don’t know them like I do. They’re going to analyze everything. And Penelope… she’s going to want to know everything about you.”

“Good,” you said, squeezing his arm. “I’m an open book. Besides, it sounds like she already likes me, and she hasn’t even met me yet.”

Spencer hesitated, then sighed. “You’re right. I’m overthinking this.”

“You? Overthinking? Never,” you teased, earning a small smile from him. “Come on, Spencer. Let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner you can stop worrying.”

The restaurant Spencer had chosen was cozy and unassuming, with warm lighting and a menu that promised hearty Italian fare. You arrived hand in hand, his grip tightening slightly as you walked through the door.

“Over here!” Penelope’s cheerful voice rang out, and you turned to see her waving enthusiastically from a large round table in the corner. The rest of the team was already seated—Derek, JJ, Emily, Rossi, and Aaron Hotchner, all watching your approach with varying degrees of curiosity.

“Hi, everyone,” Spencer said, his voice quieter than usual. “This is [Your Name].”

You offered a warm smile, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement as six pairs of eyes turned to you. “Hi. It’s so nice to finally meet all of you.”

Penelope was the first to react, jumping up from her seat and pulling you into a hug before you could blink. “Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to meet you! I’ve been dying to know who’s responsible for putting that adorable smile on our boy genius’s face.”

“Uh, thank you,” you managed, laughing as you hugged her back. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

When Penelope finally released you, Derek stood, his expression warm and teasing. “So, you’re the one who’s been keeping Reid all to yourself. I’m Derek Morgan. You ever need anything—or if he ever gets on your nerves—you call me.”

“Nice to meet you, Derek,” you said, shaking his hand. “And don’t worry, Spencer’s been a perfect gentleman.”

“Of course he has,” Derek said with a wink. “The kid’s a saint.”

The introductions continued around the table, each team member greeting you with a mix of curiosity and warmth. JJ’s smile was kind and welcoming as she shared stories about Spencer’s quirks, while Emily’s dry humor had you laughing within minutes. Rossi was effortlessly charming, offering you a wine recommendation before the server even approached.

And then there was Hotch.

He was quieter than the others, his expression measured as he shook your hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said simply, but there was something in his steady gaze that felt like approval.

As the dinner progressed, you couldn’t help but be impressed by how much this group felt like a family. They teased each other mercilessly, but the underlying affection was unmistakable.

“So,” Penelope began, leaning forward with her chin propped on her hand. “How did you two meet? Was it one of those adorable movie moments where you bumped into each other and spilled coffee everywhere?”

“Not quite,” you said, glancing at Spencer, whose cheeks had turned pink. “We met at a coffee shop, though. He was sitting in the corner reading a book, and I… well, I couldn’t help but say hi.”

“Classic Reid,” Emily said, smirking. “Always with his nose in a book.”

“Hey,” Spencer protested weakly, earning a round of laughter.

“It worked out, though,” you said, smiling at him. “Because he said hi back.”

“And the rest is history,” JJ said warmly.

As the conversation continued, you found yourself feeling more at ease. Penelope’s bubbly energy was infectious, and Derek’s playful jabs at Spencer had you laughing until your sides ached. Even Rossi, with his sharp wit, made you feel welcome, sharing anecdotes about Spencer’s early days in the BAU.

But it was Hotch’s quiet observation that stuck with you the most.

“You make him happy,” he said simply when the others were distracted by a debate about dessert.

You glanced at Spencer, who was laughing at something Derek had said. “He makes me happy too.”

Hotch nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “Good. He deserves that.”

By the time dinner ended, you felt like you’d known Spencer’s team for years. They walked you to the door of the restaurant, Derek and Penelope insisting on giving you a round of hugs before you left.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Penelope said. “We expect you to join us for trivia night sometime.”

“I’d love that,” you said, smiling.

As you and Spencer walked to the car, his hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a way that felt easy and natural.

“Well?” you asked, glancing at him. “How do you think it went?”

“I think it went… really well,” he said, his voice tinged with relief. “They love you.”

“And I love them,” you said sincerely. “They’re amazing, Spencer. It’s no wonder you consider them family.”

He smiled, his eyes soft as he looked at you. “Thank you for doing this. I know it wasn’t exactly a quiet night out.”

“It was perfect,” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder as you walked. “And now I understand why you were so nervous. They’re protective of you, but it’s only because they care.”

“They do care,” he agreed. “But I care about you, too. And seeing you with them tonight… it just felt right.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and when you reached the car, you turned to him, your hand resting lightly on his chest. “I’m glad we did this, Spencer. You don’t have to keep parts of your life separate anymore—not with me, and not with them.”

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I know. And I’m grateful for that. For you.”

As the two of you drove home, the city lights blurring in the distance, you couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of contentment. You had taken another step forward together, and as you glanced at Spencer, who was humming softly along to the radio, you knew that this was just the beginning of the many adventures yet to come.

The case had hit Spencer harder than he had anticipated. It wasn’t the nature of the crime—it wasn’t even the investigation itself that had him on edge. It was the familiar feeling of helplessness, the weight of memories he had long buried surfacing unexpectedly. The case involved a series of abductions, and the helplessness of the victims—who had been taken from their homes, without a trace—was something Spencer couldn’t ignore. It brought back too many painful memories of the time when he had been kidnapped, the hours that had stretched endlessly as he fought to stay alive. It wasn’t the first time a case had triggered his trauma, but something about this one felt more personal. The terror in the victims’ eyes, the hopelessness in their families, was too close to home.

He had been quiet all day, retreating inwardly, the weight of his thoughts dragging him into himself. His usual sarcasm and jokes were absent, and his responses to questions were short and distant. Spencer wasn’t the type to show weakness, especially in front of his team, but anyone who knew him well could sense the shift. Penelope had been the first to notice, giving him a concerned look across the room as he sat staring blankly at his computer screen. Derek, always the observant one, had seen it too.

It wasn’t long before Spencer excused himself, claiming to need a break from the team’s discussions. He knew they’d want to talk about the case—everyone was anxious to make progress—but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t give them what they needed. Not now.

You had been waiting for Spencer at home, preparing dinner when he texted you that he would be late. You knew the team had been working a difficult case, but you hadn’t anticipated how much it would affect him. As you set the table, your thoughts turned to Spencer. Lately, you had noticed that he seemed more closed off than usual. He had always been a bit reserved, but it felt different now. More distant. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bothering him, but you didn’t know how to help. You had tried talking to him a few times, but he always brushed you off with a smile or a joke.

When Spencer arrived home, it was later than usual. He walked through the door, his shoulders slumped, his usual energetic stride replaced by a slow, weary gait. You had been waiting in the living room, a quiet concern in your chest as you stood to greet him.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, your voice gentle.

Spencer didn’t immediately respond, his eyes lost in thought as he dropped his bag on the floor and hung his coat. You could see the exhaustion in his face, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way his shoulders sagged as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

“Spencer?” you said again, a little softer this time, stepping closer to him.

He finally met your gaze, his eyes glassy, though he quickly tried to mask the vulnerability behind a forced smile. “I’m fine,” he said, though the lie was evident.

You stepped forward, reaching out to touch his arm, offering him the comfort you knew he needed, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it. “Spence, you don’t have to hide it from me. What’s going on?”

His eyes flickered away from yours, and for a moment, he seemed like he might retreat into his usual defenses. But then, without warning, he let out a long breath, the weight of the day settling on him. “I… I’m not sure I can handle this case. It’s bringing up too much. Too many memories I’ve tried to forget.”

You nodded, understanding immediately. Spencer’s past, his time being held captive, his struggles with addiction, and the emotional toll of the job—it was a lot for anyone to carry. You had seen glimpses of it in the months you had been together, but he had always kept the more painful pieces of himself hidden, buried beneath his intellectual armor.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked softly.

Spencer’s eyes briefly flickered to yours, as if measuring how much he was willing to share. After a moment of silence, he sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he murmured, voice breaking ever so slightly. “I just… I feel like I’m reliving it. The helplessness. The fear. It’s all coming back, and I can’t stop it.”

Your heart ached for him, but you remained quiet, giving him the space to continue.

“I thought I was over it,” he said, his voice quieter now, vulnerable in a way you had never heard before. “I thought I had it all under control. But this case… it’s like it’s ripping open old wounds I never knew were still there.”

You took a step closer, gently placing your hand on his chest. “Spencer, you don’t have to go through this alone. You don’t have to carry this burden on your own.”

He looked down at your hand, then back up at you. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable. “I don’t want to burden you with my problems. You deserve someone who isn’t broken.”

Your heart swelled with emotion at his words. “You’re not broken, Spencer. You’re human. You’ve been through so much, and it’s okay to feel all of it. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here, no matter what you’re going through.”

He let out a shaky breath, the weight of his emotions beginning to show on his face. Spencer had always been the one to hold it together, to be the strong one for everyone else. But in this moment, you could see that he was human, too, and that he needed someone to lean on just as much as the rest of them did.

“Tell me what you need,” you whispered, cupping his cheek gently. “Let me help you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, searching your face as though looking for something. Maybe reassurance. Maybe understanding. Maybe even permission. “Just… stay with me,” he whispered. “Stay with me while I try to make sense of it. I don’t know how to handle this, but I don’t want to be alone.”

You nodded immediately, pulling him into an embrace. Spencer’s arms wrapped around you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt the full weight of his exhaustion. He didn’t have to say another word. You could feel the turmoil within him, the fear, the confusion, and the deep sadness that clung to him like a shadow. And as you held him close, you knew you would be the steady presence he needed to get through it.

“I’m right here, Spence,” you murmured into his hair, your voice steady. “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You simply held each other, letting the silence comfort you both. Spencer’s breathing began to slow as he relaxed into your embrace, but you could feel the tension in his body—the tightness of unresolved emotions still lurking beneath the surface.

After what felt like an eternity, Spencer pulled away slightly, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t know what to do with all this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to let it go.”

“You don’t have to let it go,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You just have to process it. And I’ll help you. We’ll do it together, okay?”

He nodded, his gaze softening. “Okay.”

Over the next few days, Spencer allowed himself to lean on you in ways he hadn’t before. He didn’t bury his emotions as deep, didn’t retreat into the quiet isolation that had once been his defense mechanism. You were there, offering him space to talk when he needed it, and offering silence when that was what he craved. You didn’t push him to get over it, didn’t try to fix him. You simply gave him the one thing he had needed all along: your presence, your unwavering support.

And slowly, he began to open up. He talked more about his past—the things he had never shared, the things he had never wanted to confront. He spoke about his time in captivity, the moments that still haunted him, and the way it had affected the person he had become. He spoke about his mother, his struggles with addiction, and how he sometimes felt like he was walking a tightrope between who he wanted to be and who he feared he might become.

Through it all, you listened. You didn’t offer solutions, didn’t try to change his perspective. You simply let him speak, giving him the safe space to express what had been locked away for so long.

One night, as you both sat on the couch, his head resting on your shoulder, Spencer spoke again, his voice quieter than before.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, his words barely a whisper. “Scared that I’m never going to be okay. That I’ll always be carrying this with me.”

You turned your head to kiss his temple softly, your hand gently tracing the lines of his jaw. “We’re going to figure it out together. You don’t have to carry it alone, Spencer. I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”

His eyes met yours, and for the first time in a long while, there was a glimmer of hope in them. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

You smiled softly, your heart swelling with affection for him. “I’ll never give up on you, Spencer. Not ever.”

And in that moment, as you held him close, you both realized that despite the challenges you faced, you were stronger together. Spencer had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but now, he didn’t have to carry it alone. You were his support, his rock, and in return, he had begun to trust that he wasn’t just surviving—he was healing. Together.

The journey ahead wouldn’t be easy, but one thing was certain: you would face it side by side. And with each passing day, Spencer found himself thinking more and more about a future that was no longer clouded by fear, but illuminated by the love and strength you had built together.

The drive to the small town was quiet, the world outside the car slipping by in muted shades of gray and green. Spencer’s hand rested on the steering wheel, his fingers drumming lightly to a rhythm only he could hear.

His gaze was fixed on the road, but there was an undercurrent of anticipation in the air. You sat beside him, your hand resting on your lap, but your mind was elsewhere.

Today was different. Today, Spencer was taking you to meet his mother. Diana Reid. You had heard about her many times—the challenges Spencer had faced growing up, the deep bond they shared despite the complexities of her illness. Spencer had always spoken of her with such tenderness, but there was also a sadness there. A reluctance. As if meeting her, truly being part of that chapter of his life, was something he had only now begun to feel ready for.

You could sense the nervous energy radiating from him, even if he wasn’t overtly showing it. He had always been a man of intellect, his thoughts swirling around his cases, his team, his work—but today, it was personal.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, your voice breaking the quiet between you. Spencer glanced over at you, offering a small, tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… it’s a big step, you know?” You nodded, understanding completely. “I know. But I’m here, Spence. Whatever happens, I’m here.” He gave you a brief, grateful look before focusing back on the road.

The drive was longer than you expected, and as you neared the outskirts of the town, Spencer’s usual quick pace slowed. He turned onto a smaller, tree-lined street, eventually pulling up to a modest house at the end of the road. The house had a quiet charm to it—simple, cozy, the kind of place where the walls held memories and time moved at its own pace.

Spencer parked the car in front of the house, but he didn’t immediately get out. Instead, he sat there, hands gripping the wheel, eyes fixed on the house in front of him. You waited patiently, knowing this moment meant something significant to him.

“I’ve never really brought anyone here before,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to meet her. But it’s not easy for me. I…” His words faltered as he turned to you, his eyes soft and vulnerable. “I want you to understand why she’s so important to me. But I also want you to understand that it’s not always easy with her. Her illness…it’s complicated.” You reached over, placing your hand on his arm. “I know, Spence. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you, for whatever comes.” Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

Slowly, he opened the door and stepped out, holding his hand out to you. You took it without hesitation, your heart swelling as you followed him to the front door.

Spencer rang the doorbell, his finger tapping nervously against the frame. A few moments later, the door opened, and standing there was a woman whose face you had seen in countless photographs and heard about in Spencer’s stories. Diana Reid. She was dressed simply, her hair long and silver, her eyes slightly unfocused but kind. There was a certain fragility to her, a delicate air that made her seem more like a bird than a person. But her smile was warm, genuine, as she looked from Spencer to you. “Spencer,” she said softly, her voice wavering slightly. “It’s so good to see you, my boy.” Spencer smiled, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. “Hey, Mom,” he said, his voice gentle. “I brought someone with me today. This is my girlfriend, [Your Name].” Diana’s gaze shifted to you, and you offered her a soft smile in return. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, searching your face. You could tell she was processing everything, trying to make sense of the new person standing in front of her.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said, stepping forward. Diana’s smile deepened. “I’m glad you’re here,” she replied, her voice soft but sincere. “Spencer doesn’t bring people around much, so this must be special.” Spencer chuckled lightly, though there was a hint of discomfort in his tone. “Yeah, well, I figured it was time.” Diana gestured for you both to come inside. “Please, come in. I’ve made tea. You’ll need it, with this weather.” As the three of you sat down at the kitchen table, you could sense the delicate dance taking place. Spencer and his mother—there was so much unspoken between them, so many years of history that only they truly understood. But as you watched them interact, you could see the love between them, even through the layers of complexity. Spencer was patient with his mother, always attentive, never rushing her. And Diana, in turn, looked at him with a quiet pride, her eyes softening whenever she spoke to him.

“Spencer tells me you’re very smart,” Diana said after a pause, her voice light and teasing. Spencer flushed slightly, but you could tell he was touched by his mother’s words. “Well, he’s a genius,” you said with a smile, nudging Spencer gently. Diana smiled, her expression softening even more. “I see,” she said. “You seem to make him happy.” Spencer’s gaze flickered to you, and for a moment, you saw the raw vulnerability in his eyes. His mother had always been his anchor, the one person who truly understood him. And now, you were here—his two worlds, the most important parts of his life, coming together.

“She does,” Spencer said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. Diana’s smile widened, and she reached out to gently squeeze his hand. “I’m glad,” she said simply. “I know how hard it is for you, Spence. You deserve someone who sees you. All of you.” You squeezed Spencer’s hand, offering him a silent show of support. The rest of the afternoon passed with small talk and shared laughter. You learned more about Spencer’s childhood, his mother’s struggles with her illness, and the depth of their bond. As you got up to leave, Diana hugged you warmly, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. “Take care of him,” she whispered. “He’s a good boy, but he needs someone who will help him believe that.” You smiled, a lump forming in your throat. “I will. I promise.”

On the drive back to your apartment, Spencer was quiet, but there was a peacefulness in the air. You could sense the shift in him, a weight lifted from his shoulders. “How are you feeling?” you asked, glancing at him. Spencer took a deep breath, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “I’m… I’m okay,” he said softly. “It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.” You nodded, offering him a smile. “I’m proud of you, Spence.” He glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small smile. “Thanks. I think I’m finally ready for this… for us.” You reached over, taking his hand in yours. “Me too.”

The rest of the drive was spent in a comfortable silence, both of you reflecting on the significance of the day. When you arrived home, Spencer turned to you, his expression soft. “I’m glad we did this. I’m glad you’re here with me.” You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I’m glad too. I’m excited for what’s to come, Spence. For all of it.” That night, as you both settled into bed, the weight of the world seemed lighter. Spencer’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and for the first time in a long while, everything felt right. The future stretched out before you, full of possibilities, and as you drifted off to sleep, you knew one thing for certain: together, you could face anything. The adventures, the challenges, the quiet moments—they would all be yours to share. And no matter what came next, you would face it as a team.

[elodieunderglass]

I am absolutely wild and feral over HDM (legit like, daemons fit SO well. I'm watching dunmeshi wondering where Laios' dog went) and super curious if you do plan a sequel or other fics following this AU??

(In reference to the His Dark Materials / Dungeon Meshi fusion fic)

thank you so much for this question I love this question god!!!! Thank you thank you thank you

God sorry about HDM being delayed, I’m going through hell over it at the moment. It’s meant to end a little after the dragon, then a timeskip epilogue, with special coding so that you can read it two different ways, depending on whether you want spoilers for the manga/season 2. (My idea is that you’ll click a button to reveal/hide it, and the spoiler-free epilogue will be like found poetry.)

Firstly, if you or anyone else would like to take the concepts/characters in His Delicious Materials forward for themselves, you must do this. You don’t need my permission (but I’d love a link! so I can read, scream, reblog, comment, link to it, etc. there is also the “inspired by” setting on ao3 so we can link works directly to HDM, forming a collection for anyone who reads one and wants more.) I don’t own any of it! We are all just having fun! YOU can be the sequel you want to see in the world! If your heart feels a way forward, then follow your heart!! A daemon AU is really about revealing character and I find them really inspiring, like adding a whole engine to a story idea.

If I were to write something to follow up, I do know what the sequel WOULD be! It would be a sort of Discworld novel about the slow social revolution occurring in the half-foots as a chain reaction to Bee settling as a weasel, all occurring behind Chilchuck’s oblivious and unhelpful back. Pushed into a sort of bottleneck of sparrow- and mouse-souls, and marginalised to the very edges of society, half-foots are precarious and endangered. Chilchuck is mostly eating a ham sandwich unhelpfully in the foreground, and at the end of the story looks back and sees to his bewilderment that his people have found a way forward (they don’t have a Shire or a Chosen One, but they do have a goddamn functional worker’s union and their own collective dignity.) kind of Discworld-commentary-comedy, kind of a loving argument with Tolkien, kind of Sharpe hostile-and-awkward-protagonist-POV-doesn’t-know-and-wouldn’t-believe-that-his-men-genuinely-love-him, kind of about the experience of parenting, and kind of gently warmly political BUT FUNNY so it would be ok. but feel it would be too much of a stretch of people’s patience and the original materials’s intentions to call it fanfic. Too many OCs needed to carry the weight, too little reference to the other Dungeon Meshi characters, almost too little “payoff” for what would be a full 70k word work. So maybe to let the story breathe, it would be better worked up as original fiction?

(Plus, that is actually an actual novel: if people write their own novels and manga about orc coffeeshops and dnd parties, I could just write my own too: wait but how do you know if you should?)

Anyway, that is an entirely separate kettle of weasels and my own cross to bear! If your heart cries out for a sequel the best way to manifest it in the world is to write it!

If you feel that A Weasel Heart In Defiance feels like it would scratch that itch, here is a bit that is mildly relevant to Dungeon Meshi, which is Chilchuck and Bee starting to work away from home while the girls were still small. You’ll probably see what I mean from it.

About seven of the village children, including his own three, had a snake in a wooden bucket. They didn't look up.

The reappearance of a random guy who functioned mostly as a postal service and occasionally shouted at them about bedtime - in a way that could be easily blanked out if something more interesting was happening - simply could not be expected to compete for attention with a snake in a bucket.

Chilchuck could recognise this on some level, but as his own children ignored him, he felt very hot and angry, in a way that he had never wanted to feel about children, especially his.

Bee, also rigidly pissed off, growled, "Easy, boss."

This was where Chilchuck did the only thing so far that he was proud of, in this day. He did not start shouting, even though his temper was going something like What the fuck, kids, but worse. He stopped, took a minute, and remembered he'd had this whole thing where he'd wanted his kids to love him. He rubbed his nose, said, "Remind me," and his daemon reminded him: "What do we want them to actually do?"

And he said, "The bare minimum fucking acknowledgement would be nice."

And Bee said, "Have we explained that to them? Do they know?"

So Chilchuck and Bee, hot and tired and cross and still on the job apparently, sat down on the ground with the kids and looked in the bucket. The snake, poor bastard, looked very limp and tired. Chilchuck could relate.

After a while, Chilchuck said, "Girls?"

Or more accurately, something like, "Girls! Girls. Meifleurpatti-I mean Puck-PUCK. Listen up. Mei! Fleur, I'm talking - thanks Fleur - Puck. (Ryeland, stop the baby.) PUCK. Mei, Fleur, Puck - PUCK, eyes on me - thanks, Ryeland - PUCK. EYES," which condensed in parent-speak to a single roar of "Girls!"

When he had them more or less listening, he remembered to set his voice to the more singsong cadence one used for children, instead off the deeper version of his natural voice that he used for shouting at the top of his abilities at tall people; making the choice to be patient and gentle, or at least pretend to be someone who was; and in this manner he said reasonably, "Now, your dad's been away for a very long time and missed you all very much. What do you say? What do you say when your dad comes home?"

Six children stared at him blankly, and the baby toppled gently into the bucket. He fished it out, stuck it sideways under his arm, allowed the snake to escape in the confusion, acknowledged someone's grievously injured finger, stopped Fleur from pinching, took out his pocket handkerchief and wiped Puck's nose in essentially one continuous motion.

To be completely fair, now that he'd let go of the initial anger, he could see that the kids had absolutely no idea what he'd wanted of them. Kids had practically no social instincts at the best of times. Chilchuck coming home was remarkable, sure, but beyond their influence; how were they supposed to react? What do you say to a comet? What do you say to a hailstorm? What do you say when daddy comes home?

He repeated the question, as the children had universally drawn blanks and devolved into staring vacantly.

"Good morning, Daddy!" A child chirped helpfully, setting off the rest in an automatic drone of "good morning, Daddy," in the strangely universal dreary tone of all children saying that.

"So close, Fernwise! Is it morning? What else do we think?"

Bee, fighting for order among the kit-daemons, was simultaneously washing Fleurtom's daemon, Pantoufle's, face; receiving a long rambling report of a grievance from three incoherent witnesses; and minding the baby's chick-daemon; up to her ears in parenting. She said, around a mouthful of Pan, "Speed it up, boss, you're losing them."

"Where are your spots, Daddy?" Pan asked him. He was in the form of a young ferret and scrabbled against his mother's grip on his scruff.

"My what?"

"Your freckles," Bee said grimly, and seeing he'd been temporarily disarmed - and being a valiant beast in her way - charged in to her human's defense, "Is that nice, Pan? We don't want to make people feel bad about their looks, do we?"

"Yes we do," said Fleur.

"Fleur! We've just - we haven't seen much of the sun, that's all," said Bee, taking charge, the best and most loyal soul a man could have. "They'll come back, and they're not spots."

"Mei has spots."

"Freckles."

"Grimbob has spots."

"Yes, and you shouldn't notice," Bee said. "Think of Grimbob's feelings."

"I do, I think he feels spotty."

"I'm thirsty," Puck said flatly.

"Stick to the point, kids," Chilchuck said, recovering from the fact that his usual face was apparently indistinguishable to children from Grimbob's, who had been taking puberty hard. This was surprisingly difficult to do.

Ryeland, a mildly bright spark who was older than the Chils girls, connected two dots and suddenly roared "WELCOME HOME DADDY," so six children all repeated that automatically, and Fleur added sunnily, "I missed you Daddy!"

And just as a very small piece of Chilchuck's heart was finally allowed to melt, she added, equally sunnily, "Mei didn't."

"I did a little," Meijack said vaguely.

"That's great kids, well done, we got there in the end," Chilchuck said. "Remember it for next time, okay? It makes Daddy feel better about his stupid life. Now, next time, let's remember that it's traditional to do a hug."

He realised his mistake instantly, as six children and their daemons all bore him - and the baby he'd forgotten he was holding - to the ground.

___________

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

an ocean in a world full of puddles ◦ Chapter 1

-After being brushed off by Chan once again, you are stuck waiting in the lounge room for him to arrive. What are you going to do when it isn't Chan that arrives, but instead Felix? And it feels like you've known him for years."

words ◦ 5k

genre ◦ series, angst, fluff, the beginning of a wild ride

warnings ◦ chan is painted in sort of a negative light because he is always busy, felix is sort of shy around you at first, but lowkey flirty near the end as he starts to get more comfertable, theres a lot of fucks in this, i keep calling yall im dumb im sorry, fem!reader, felix calls her a lady once,

a/n ◦ The strikeouts are intentional to show how chaotic the reader's mind is and how she feels like her emotions are so invalid she has to just erase them away. I'm sorry if this isn't what you expected. I found myself struggling to describe certain aspects of this and was quite disappointed by the outcome (but please do not let this deter you. If anything, read it and let me know what you think/what I can change. Plus, I know the other parts are going to be way better than this).

also i listened to heather while writing this up until the phone number bit... then i listened to slow down by chase atlantic...do with that information as you will

A VERY VERY SPECAIL THANK YOU TO THESE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE that helped me through the different struggles and stages in this fic I thank most of my unnecessary errors being fixed because of them @yongbun, @jeonginsleftcheek, @luvtak

masterlist ◦ a loved lived in between the stars and the sea

The human condition: a soul filled with passion, but not a mouth to spill it into.

It was ironic really. 

Your soul was filled with passion, but you had a mouth to spill it into.

That mouth just didn't want your passion- 

Your fervor-

Your ardor-

Romance practically coursed through your veins, your blood cells shaped like the hearts you saw the world through. 

Chan was filled with passion.

Chan was filled with ardor.

Chan was filled with romance.

But Chan didn't want poetry-

Chan spilled too much soul into songs. 

Songs that made him too busy for you.

The two of you saw the same goal, but spoke different languages- 

Your love was often- 

Lost in translation. 

You shout, frustration poking in the pit of your stomach painting the car red you dig the pencil into the words scratching them out so hard you cut holes in the page that sounded so stupid

all of this was so stupid

your feelings-

stupid

your issues-

stupid

the thought that Chan was anything other than perfect-

stupid

Why couldn't you just be content with everything you have? So many girls would pay to be in your place, tripping over each other just to be in his presence, and yet, what, you're unhappy because you spoke different languages? 

What the hell does that even mean?

You were trapped inside an inescapable box, the sharp edges of your unrealistic expectations like shackles that cut into your skin, bleeding with a passion only ever found in fiction. 

Why were you always stuck?

stuck in the stars, stuck in the sea-

stuck in this stupid line of stupid traffic, waiting for a stupid meal that Chan probably will be too busy to eat with you, writing some stupid piece of poetry that was about as poetic as the rotting innards of unidentified roadkill.

stupid

stupid

stupid

“Finally,” you mumble as the car in front of you inches up, allowing you access to the next window. You politely bow, grab the trays from the worker’s hand, and drive off.

Your life quickly turned from the hope of a story to the reality of a routine. The road, the walls, the button your finger grazes as the doors to the elevator slam shut, the number of steps it takes to get to his room, the feel of cold metal underneath your palm as you open the door, the same hunch of his shoulders, the same glow of his laptop, the same empty look in his eyes.

the same

the same

the same

Most of your relationship is spent looking at him like this.

"Hey channie," you say, setting the food down on the empty spot beside his keyboard.

"Hi, love." His voice is nothing more than the ghost of a mumble, blending with the click and shift of his mouse, moving different blurs and blobs of color on the screen. Chan tended to get tunnel vision when he was working, even if that meant you were left stranded in the shadows of his forgotten responsibilities. 

"I um brought you dinner." you clear your throat, pointing lamely at the boxes beside him like he couldn't clearly see they were there. He perks up, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours. 

"Oh baby, thank you." The tension in his shoulders melts. "I'm sorry, you know how busy I am sometimes; right now it feels like I'm drowning in work," he chuckles, absentmindedly shifting in his chair.

you're always busy

You push a smile through the tangled ball of suppressed emotions climbing up your throat.

"I know you're busy, but do you think I could eat dinner with you today...please?" Your stomach twists in painful knots. It was pathetic really, the way you begged for attention like a needy dog more than a doting girlfriend, but you were desperate, scrambling to fan a flickering flame that felt long sputtered out. 

stop

You knew what you were getting into when he asked you out—the stress, the anxiety, the workload, the long hours. Chan was always upfront and honest about the struggles of being an idols girlfriend, never wanting to veil your eyes from the harsh sting of realities rays.

then why does it still feel like your soul is burning?

He flicks his gaze to the screen, guilt gnawing at his core. There was so much to do in the day and just never enough time to do it. "I don't know, I don't really have a lot of time right now..." He mumbles, picking at the seam on his shorts apologetically, "Do you think you could wait about 20 minutes? I'm kind of on a roll here."

When your relationship was first blooming, your spirit would often shatter with those words, but pain only holds power when it isn't welcome, and as long as you are loved by him, you will accept the feeling with open arms. 

"I'm going to go sit in the lounge room then." You try to keep the disappointment out of your tone, but it leaks through the cracks echoing in your chest, radiating in palpable waves. You clench your jaw, picking up your tray of food.

does he not care?

"Okay," The squeak of his chair indifferently swiveling back to its previous place echoes in your ears. Louder than anything you've ever heard. 

he didn't even kiss you

1 hour 45 minutes and 13 seconds

That's how long you have been waiting in the lounge room for Chan to walk in the door.

that is how long you've been wallowing in a sad pathetic heap staring at your uneating supper

1 hour 45 minutes and 15 seconds now

16 seconds

17 seconds

You spin around when you hear the door creak open, anticipation fluttering in your stomach, only to plummet when you see Felix standing in the entrance, too busy shoveling a fork full of noodles in his mouth to notice your presence.

Felix was a familiar face, mostly associated with sweet smiles and bouncing eyes; you have only ever talked to him on a handful of occasions, possessing the basic relationship of hellos in the hallways and smiles when you enter the same room, but besides the couple times where he offered you some of his freshly baked brownies or told you which room Chan was in, you haven't actually had a conversation with the boy.

You groan, dramatically deflating in your seat.

Of course, it wasn't chan

Felix yelps, his heart leaping in his chest, only to wrap around his bones, doing trapeze tricks inside his ribs when he lays eyes on you—why, out of all the days he could have seen you, it was on the one day he was least ready, and the way your whole body slumps like a deflated balloon, it becomes crystal clear you weren't exactly jumping up and down to see him either.

Does Cupid have a vendetta against him or something?

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know anybody was in here," he stutters awkwardly, running his fingers through his hair like he was trying to fix it without a mirror. Disappointment quickly brews into guilt watching the way his eyes shift, hurt drooping his shoulders down. 

"No, I'm sorry, it's not like that; I just thought—" You falter. What the hell did you think? Sorry, but I thought you were my boyfriend who left me here all by myself, and like usual, my stupid, hopeful heart really believed this time was going to be different. "You were someone different." You sink into the couch, a dull ache spiderwebbing through the chasms in your chest.

"Let me guess." His eyes crinkle with sympathy. "Chan."

You glance down at your ribs—some silly part of you really believed your shirt had blossomed with the crimson stain of your sorrows.

"How could you guess?" you mutter sarcastically, picking at the skin of your nails. Why did it seem like everybody else got the memo that if you were to search the thesaurus, your name would be the first word under forgotten?

"Well, really, it was a toss-up between you being with him for the past 5 years and the fact that he has been glued to his computer for the past 5 hours," he grins. "Pick your poison."

Your gaze drifts back to the couch that sits idly in front of you, lonely in the middle of the room, out of place, without the implant of another person's body.

"W-Well," he starts, shifting his bowl in his hands. "Do you... I don't know, want some company...maybe."

He's so awkward, so unsure, like a baby deer wobbling on unfamiliar legs, struggling to stay upright. You tilt your head, your lips pulling up into an adoring grin; you never really noticed it before, but he was sort of shy. You had a terrible tendency to take your time observing people unintentionally, causing discomfort to the victims of your restless brain—assessing in silence.

His ears burn when your eyes gloss over with an opaque glaze. His heart drops only for those silly little butterflies that always appear when you are around to swarm their wings around the lump growing in his throat.

Well, that was a bust.

Why couldn't he just be normal around you?

"O-Or not, that's fine too. I-I get it; you're probably l-like waiting for Chan or whatever. I-I can go get him if you would like." He jerks his thumb behind him, forgetting he was holding something for a second, stumbling to catch it right before it falls. You snicker, biting your lips to contain your laughter. His eyes flutter shut, scrunching his nose in embarrassment.

He was cute

Why haven't you talked to him before?

"No, please sit down," you lazily gesture to the couch in front of you. "It's not like Chan's going to be coming down anytime soon."

He sighs, his whole body melting with relief, practically forming into the couch when he shuffles over, adjusting himself to comfortably sit with his legs wide and his head tilted down. He picks up his fork just before whispering, "I'm sorry that he kept you waiting," and stuffing his face. You smile, the sight all sorts of endearing. The amount of food stuffed into his cheeks puffs them out, forcing his mouth into a pout that's smeared with red sauce. For a moment, you almost forget that you're supposed to be groveling, but why would life want to let you live when instead it could remind you constantly how much it sucks?

"I'm used to it." You learn to live with the absence of air when your hope always causes you to suffocate.

"You shouldn't have to be," he murmurs, his hand politely veiling his mouth while he chews. He's staring at his food like his noodles were an impossible labyrinth he's forced to escape, completely oblivious to the cataclysmic sentence he just uttered. Your jaw drops, stomach fluttering with butterflies, butterflies that you could’ve sworn burned out a long time ago. When most of your time is spent in a constant state of apocalypse, you forget the side effects of a romanticism, felt before your soul was littered with the echos of war.

"Oh?"

"Are you not going to eat?" He questions, forehead creased with concern as he gestures to the food that was currently burning a hole in the table. You stare at him stupidly, mouth ever so slightly agape. Did he not notice that there were swarms of zombified insects burrowing their way into your belly, kaleidoscopes charred wings creating panic in your pounding heart?

(cookie interruptions: I was today years old when I found out that a kaleidoscope was the technical term for a swarm of butterflies)

Why was he making you feel so jittery?

"Oh," you blink, giving an imperceptible shake of the head—a weak attempt to gather your disoriented thoughts.

Honestly, you had forgotten it was there.

"I was waiting to eat with Chan..." You mutter through the tufts of wool still stuffed in your head, wrapping your fingers around the tray, but when you pull open its flappy lid, your lips pull into a sneer glaring at the congealed sauce and cold noodles. You weren't surprised that your food had spoiled over the 2 hours you had been waiting, but it didn't make the frustration that bubbled in your gut any less apparent either. "But clearly, that hope was shortlived," you scoff, chucking the useless tray back on the table. 

Felix clears his throat, adjusting himself in his seat. He often found himself tiptoeing on the edge of insanity, always rewriting the words he wanted to say, terrified you had written a line in the sand the waves had washed away.

You were a star with a heart tied to the sea, where he would have more success breaking the bond of the moon than turning the tides of the ocean that suffocated your soul.

So for now, he will coast the cosmos alone, waiting for the day you will finally look his way.

"You can have some of mine... if you want," he whispers, shyly scooting his cup over to you. "It's salmon-flavored; it's really good."

"Are you sure?" you blink, utterly flummoxed.

"Yeah, of course!" You swore you could trace the stories of the sky in the gaps where his freckles glowed.

"Thank you; I promise I won't eat too much," you joke, pulling out your fork. "I don't mind it, really. I can always make more as long as you're eating I'm okay," he grins, sliding his hand out of the way to allow room for yours, grateful for his generosity; you bite back a smile, digging into the hot noodles; a spicy flavor pulled straight from the sea explodes on your tongue as soon as the food meets your lips.

You swear you just tasted heaven's gates.

"Holy shit, this is delicious," you moan, rolling your eyes back in your head.

"I'm glad you like it," he smirks. "It's my special recipe."

"So you do more than bake, huh?" you waggle your brows lightheartedly, though you were sort of impressed by his broad palette of skills. 

"You know that I bake!?" He was still recovering from the shock that you even knew his name—the way he often dissolves into the wall when you enter the room.

"Of course, I know that you bake; I always have to eat at least half of the plate of brownies Chan brings home." You giggle, picking at the noodles, wanting more but feeling guilty for hogging the whole bowl.

"Oh, I'm full," he stretches, rubbing his stomach like a stuffed cartoon character. 

"Are you lying?" Cynism was a side effect of being a creative romanticist—your artistic brain didn't limit itself to only forming one conclusion, while the stories that ended up on paper were solely portrayed as having happy endings—you knew this philosophy was neither sadistic nor realistic, for even if the fictional characters made up of the fluid of your mind betrayed each other, what would a human, evil in its rawest form, do to you?

well that was melodramatic

"You know you're a very skeptical person," he jests, pulling his lips ever so slightly up.

"I'm a hopeless romantic; there's a difference," you state, stuffing your face when you finish studying him down to the very twitch of his right calf muscle.

"Aren't hopeless romantics supposed to be happy-go-lucky all the time? Seeing the world through rose-colored glasses and stuff?"

"You know we are called hopeless for a reason," you snort, unrealistic standards were more of a curse than a blessing.

Scratch that, having unrealistic standards is just a curse

“Being a hopeless romantic is like being an ocean in a world full of puddles.” Your soul speaks like his fingertips have felt its walls a million times before “devastating.”

He stares at you gobsmacked, blinking like you just hit him over the head with a mallet. Your mind kicks into gear, anxious little butterflies flipping on the switch for damage control.

that must have sounded so self-centered

"I-I didn't mean, like, in a cocky way, I'm better than other people. I just meant it's impossible to pour my passion anywhere because everybody else doesn't have room to take it. If anything, I-Im the bad one in this scenario.” You stutter, sporadically shaking your hands, worried that the misconception is going to create a concrete opinion. He quickly waves you off, seeming anything but bothered. 

“An ocean in a world full of puddles that's pretty deep,” he implores, treating the words like age-old wine to be sipped with both time and deference. “You know you should really consider being a poet 'cause that like moved my soul.” Only Lee Felix can make humor sound so honest. 

Why was he so ...amazed

"I like to think I'm a poet." Your cheeks are painted red as you bashfully tilt your head down. 

but right now not so much

“You can't think you're a poet,” he chuckles. “If you ever wanted to read somebody your stuff, I would be happy to help…Maybe it could fix your uncertainty." Something twinkles in his eyes, something nervous yet desperate, something you couldn't quite pinpoint while your stomach was sprinting in circles—the mere thought of showing somebody else your poetry was the equivalent of slicing your heart in half and presenting it to the world on live television.

basically, something that will never happen never ever

"No, no, no, it's nothing like that. I don't really write poetry per se; I just write my..." You trail off.

What do you write?

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he reassures, his warm smile cooling the icy anxiety that crystallized around your core.

Why do you do this to yourself??

Stupid Felix and his stupid power to loosen your lips-

stupid. stupid. stupid.

To be a poet is to be vulnerable; no great art is ever created comfortably. 

Fuck it 

“I write my dreams,” you blurt, peeking out through your clenched eyelids to see if Felix caught the spit of a sentence; clearly, he did the way he lifts his brows thoughtfully. 

“Elaborate”

A man of many annoying questions you see 

“Why,” you groan, sinking into your seat almost comically. 

"Because I want to listen to you," he laughs like whiskey and wine, both husky and rich. You choke, your heart imploding into a million tiny, rose-shaped pieces.

"Nobody wants to listen to me ramble on about hopeless fantasies that will never come true," you sputter, still trying to reshape your rose-shaped shatters into something that resembles an organ. 

"I do."

Oh well, there they go again, forming right back into roses-

He made all of this seem like a complex game of chess, every move of hesitance quickly countered by a block of honesty.

From the moment you could write, you found out that paper was not volatile the way people were, how you could erase a word written but, in time, in life, you cannot erase a sentence said—that philosophy stuck with you, forever rendering you apprehensive to vocalize your feelings.

Maybe it was your soft spot for the stars that made you speak, but either way, when your mouth opened, it felt as though all your past doubts had washed away, and for once, you were free.

"I have always held onto my dreams through the tip of a pen, existing in between the lines of my poetry. But I don't write about deep philosophical pearls of wisdom; I write about love, passion, beauty. I write about coffee and cream, roses and vanilla. I write what I think romance tastes like, how the contrast of the most iconic confessions has been written in the rain, a usually gloomy, grey thing completely transformed through the lenses of love…" You sigh, tilting your head against the back of the cushion in bliss.

"I write the way I want to love, for I know it's the only way to quell my heart's aching urge to live anywhere but reality."

He stares at you eerily still, blinking once, twice, three times."

Why wasn't he saying anything?  

Perhaps you were drunk off Felix's promises, or the cracks Chan created in your chest made you bleed with a passion only ever reserved for your poetry. But either way, you felt naked—exposed under his exploring eyes.

"What?" You croak, picking at the sleeve of your shirt.

Why did everybody act like you were crazy?

Was there something wrong with you?

You are floating in the asteroid belt, a thousand tiny rocks hovering around your head.

"Maybe you're just not looking in the right places." There’s a deep intensity in his eyes, a million roaring waves crashing against each other; you run face-first into a meteor, bouncing around the surfaces of a weightless space.

How many brain-altering revelations could Felix bestow before your brain cracks?

"You know, I haven't even told my friends that," you deflect. It was a dangerous game, diving too deep into your thoughts, and right now, with him—with that statement, danger could quickly bleed into destruction.

"So, I'm not your friend?" Clearly, Felix catches on to the sudden swerve of the conversation, how he eases into it with such grace, jestingly poking your knee.

"This is the first time I've ever had a real conversation with you," you scoff, poking him right back. His jaw drops in faux offense.

"You know, I just gave you my food. I think that deserves an upgrade into friendship territory," he states matter-of-factly.

Two can play at that game-

"I don't have your number; usually friends have each other's number." You place your elbows on your knees. He has been playing a metaphorical game of chess with you this whole time, his pawns moving ever so slightly forward. He forced your hand, the comfortability in your eyes making openings on the board you never meant to create. His rook, his bishop, his queen—they kiss the place right below your king.

You had one more trick up your sleeve-

You were a creative romantic whose moves were nothing less than a story, and you were going to be damned if you let your king be captured.

Now, where's the happy ending in that?

(cookie interruptions… I dont know what this is nor why i am so dramatic but hey what can you do ALSO LISTEN TO SLOW DOWN BY CHASE ATLANTIC I BEGTH OF YOU )

He leans forward, pressing his tongue against his cheek. The fabric of his shirt stretches across the hard ridges of his abs—

No, stop it, bad y/n. 

"Do you want it?" He leans his head ever. So. Slightly. Forward  

"Maybe I do."

"Maybe I'll give it to you," soft, smooth voice- 

you narrow your eyes,

"What will Chan think?"

"It doesn't matter what Chan thinks-"

"Tell that to Chan-"

"Maybe I will." His lips-

"You know, if Chan saw us here right now, he would not be very happy." You suck your teeth.

Check-

He scoffs. Moves his bishop. 

You're right back where you started. 

"You're not his pet."

"Yeah, but I am his girlfriend." Block.

"Those two words are not synonymous," he says. Moves his queen.

Too many openings, too many moves, too many pieces on the board.

Too many outcomes.

Do you even still want to play?

Weren't you the one who started the game?

You bite your cheek, his eyes burning like molten amber, glinting in the overhead lights.

Should you have really asked for his number?

What would Chan think if he saw it in your phone?

Who were you kidding? He would actually have enough time to look at your phone.

"You know," he leans back, extending his arms to drape across the couch, pushing his thighs ever so slightly apart. Gone is the man with smiles like sugar; determination wisps across his face like spits of fire, overtaking every feature."If I give you my number, I'm going to have to help you unlearn your engraved cynicism." He's closing in on you, moving all his pawns in one fair swoop. You're surrounded, swarmed.

"You can't ungrave something it's scientifically impossible." You shift your king. One last dying breath-

Before- 

"I can try."

Checkmate

And like every person of honor does when they have nobly lost a battle they created- 

You run away. 

“I have to admit, as much as I loved this conversation, I really should be going,” you say, picking up your tray of forgotten food to chuck in the trash, leaving Felix's bowl on the table. He jumps up, scrambling to pick up his mess while you dart out the door, tossing the tray in the can just outside the room.

“Wait,” he gasps, stumbling to catch up with your speed. Your finger, out of habit, moves to press the button to the elevator doors—that is, before he catches it, his warm hand wraps around your wrist.

“Now, what gentleman would I be making a lady get her own door?” He bellows, voice deep and low, a sound echoing through his chest as the fabric of his shirt kisses your back. He’s so close, so close, so—

How long has it been since you've been touched? 

Heat. You're drenched in it, painted in it, enveloped in it.

His hand grazes your skin as he slides up your wrist, his finger extending to press the button.

Your breath hitches.

Body shutters. 

Every atom erupting in flames. 

The elevator doors slam open-

Your brain clicks back into place-

“Will I be seeing you again?” Your hot, so hot. He’s hot, so hot. Breath—it tickles your ear. Disoriented, so disoriented.

“I still don't have your number,” you manage to utter, slipping into the doors. His face will be the final thing you see as you descend down the shaft, lifelessly walking to your car where you will go home, go to sleep, and start your routine all over again. He smirks, flicking his eyes to your pants.

“Yes, you do.”

I do? 

The doors inch shut, and a small, teeny-tiny part of you wants to wrench them open, pull him in, force him into the stanzas of your story. You are tired—tired of waiting for your life to begin, tired of repeating the same vicious cycle.

But that wasn't you talking- 

That was the hopeless part of your personality,

The unrealistic-

The fiction- 

Life wasn't a game and reality wasn't a book. 

You had a good thing going wth Chris and you were going to be damned to ruin it just because of one fun conversation.

You reach one finger into the back pocket, feeling around for what Felix could have been talking about.

There's no way.

Your skin brushes across a smooth surface—something that definitely wasn’t there before.

There's no fucking way.

You pull it out.

It's pink and folded and definitely written on. You unfold it.

XXX-XXX-XXXX. Just in case you ever need an editor or a friend.

Oh well, fuck the game. He just flipped over the whole damn chessboard.

Read Chapter 2 here

[astracora]

Turning Point - Part 8 (Final)

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability. Sylus myth mentions.

Word Count: 5610

Written: 17th January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. This was rough... Truly romance is hell for me to write (don't ask why an otome game is the only game I write fic for, it's a mystery). I hope you enjoy, final chapter of Turning Point. Thank you for reading ❤️

Now Playing: I Adore You, By HUGEL

Masterlist AO3

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Sylus has spent a lot of his life alone.

It's an indisputable fact of who he has been, and who he continues to be.

A monster, a warlord and a criminal.

There was one fragment of time when he was surrounded by those that loved him, and then they were taken from him.

The dreams of cutting through thick scales, of tearing parts of himself off, throwing them across the cave floor, shivering in the corner. He begs and pleads with gods that don't listen, to fix him. To make him better. To make him worthy.

Good.

Instead he is punished, and reminded of why he is a beast. A failure. A creature to despise.

His hands useless when faced with the blood splattered members of his family. The once warm home turned to a desolate cave, full of nothing but remains.

Home is deeply embedded in a soul, the parts of himself that he wishes he could erase, will never leave him. He is a beast that has little value, outside of what he can provide. Be it a scapegoat, or sating greed.

Throughout his life, he has abandoned being seen as anything other than a monster. That even you, with eyes full of hatred and hurt, had seen him that way. Fury curling your lip, and snarl in your throat. Lunging for him with the knife in your hand.

He has been alone for such a long time, he has forgotten how to be around others. Luke and Kieran are the sole exception. They are unbothered by his harsh tone, finding him more amusing than terrifying. It should not surprise him that EVER are as capable of breaking a mind, as the Justiciers were. They may as well be cut from the same disgusting cloth. He sometimes wonders if they are.

So when he snarks, or bites, or teases, they respond with laughter and response. He has adapted to their countenance. Understands that they will mirror what he offers back.

You… sometimes you respond in kind, biting and scratching, little crooked smile on your face and a twinkle in your eye. Other times, you ache. Look at him like his words have cut somewhere he can't reach to heal. That is when he eases, remembers a field of flowers and the ways he wanted to be before the world decided to destroy dream and hope.

He thinks he is learning to be around you, how to hold you without hurting, and how to soothe your heart with his words and actions. How to be who he wants to be… a fragment of the man left over from the moment he truly thought you could be together after you shared your souls.

With poetry and music, he has carved out a place as himself, so that he can share it with you. In a world where he gets more time, and more space, to share and offer what he is to you. Regardless of what the world says about him, he has only ever cared what you say about him.

He is learning to believe the words you offer him, as who he truly is.

You may not remember, but he always will.

He is, however, still adjusting to the others. He has no basis for adjusting to others, it has been too long since he was in a home that was warm. He has approached them similarly to Luke and Kieran, and while their responses rumble his chest. Fill him with amusement at the discovery of something new, he is aware that they are not as unbothered.

The doctor will ignore him if he teases, until his buttons are pressed enough that he will get a furrow between his brow and speak to Sylus in a voice that is deep and close to a growl. He finds the push entertaining, because breaking people who are so upstanding is a sick satisfaction of sorts.

There are, however, moments when he returns with a wound, and the doctor tends to it. Your hands aren't as steady yet to handle a needle and thread when his EVOL cannot help repair him. The shackles around his power too sturdy, too hindering, and he cannot keep pulling your resonance to him until you feel stronger. Wary of pushing you too far, or making you feel as though that is all he wants. As the doctor watches over him, carefully mending his skin, he wonders at the concern in the man's eyes. Teases him for it.

To worry for a criminal. Not many would.

It receives a huff and eyeroll, and a slight pressure in his wound as the needle pushes through skin, "What you are doesn't matter, who you are does."

Sylus finds himself thinking about it, he knows the doctor is a moral man. His files affirmed that much, observations to understand your life. To blend in better… to be part of it.

It still feels odd for the doctor to help tend to his wounds. Like he doesn't deserve it.

He finds the fish the most fun to tease, to argue with, no fire in his words as the fish gets more agitated with him. He reminds him of you, feline-like and prone to swishing his tail and baring fangs. You are jovial with yours ever since he has gained access to your life with affection. The fish it depends, on his mood, on his health, on the day of the week. Some days he enjoys the clash, Sylus notes, finding the chance to bite and growl fun, other days it is accompanied by genuine frustration. Evening out as the months have gone on, settling down to be less angry.

The more they argue, the more Sylus sees the entertainment in his eyes, even though the fish denies it. There are times when he sees the man painting, stepping over to watch the paint to canvas. Sometimes the fish will ask if he's looking for anything in particular.

"I'm trying to understand." He answers honestly sometimes.

He would be ashamed at the widening of the fish's eyes, but then he shrugs, and speaks as he paints, "Everyone sees something different in my work, some see nothing at all. I see something that others may not. Doesn't matter what you see, as long as it's what you see." 

So Sylus stands, and watches him paint, and thinks. The fish makes no other comments, but moves to the side a little, so that he can see better. So he can study easier. Sylus thinks he sees the sunrise over daturas, another day coming, this one with more hope than the last.

He later goes to buy one of the fish's paintings. To think about more.

The prince is more complicated, he is quiet and he sleeps often. Sylus is unsure if he's sick, or simply prefers the land of dreams to reality. If he had been asked many years ago, he would have agreed. Dreams had been the only time he had kissed you, afterall.

He teases the prince, but receives little in response, except for the occasional cold look. The moments he understands the man most are when Xavier is helping you. He notes the way he lights up, and takes account of the differences. It is in small actions, often that you may not notice, but Sylus does.

He, along with the doctor, ensure Xavier's pillow is clean, that he has food when he returns from missions, that he isn't eating junk food every day.

That when he returns, there is something warmer waiting for him.

Sylus thinks if it were him, that is what he would want, after long days working.

This process, of understanding, of learning, unsettles him to begin with. That he is changing, not just for you, but for others. He enjoys feeding you and your heart, and he begins to look forward to reactions to his food from the others. It is a strange feeling to sit down at a table with others, to share food.

It is… pleasant. The voice that sounds like yours speaks in his mind. Like your busy soul in his chest. Singing and dancing everytime he teases the fish, or chuckles at the doctor's dry wit, or realigns the blanket on the prince's shoulder.

He enjoys his days more, the more you grow and become yourself. No longer as restricted into yourself. No longer aching as dearly. He sees when the days are harder, but you are brighter. He knows that being able to hunt again, likely buoyed you beyond anything else. Still, he is relieved to have a hand in helping you climb the cliff out of the abyss.

Sylus was honest, when he told the others that he had no intention of leaving. That no matter what your heart spoke to you, his path would always lead him to you. That he would keep hold of your hand as long as you wanted it. No matter what form it took. That he was not simply there for your heart but every part of you, that no matter the snapping fangs of fate, you are his destiny.

He has spent too long without you, he is not about to lose you now that he has you again.

While he has long known himself to be greedy, craving your presence, what contact he can receive, every laugh from your lips, every look in your eyes that tells him more than your mouth has managed to… He has found himself craving more.

The warmth around a table he has never known.

The return to a home that is not empty, or full of skeletons.

A place that does not tell him he is a monster.

Perhaps it is the blood on the fish's hands, and the blood on the prince's, that he knows he is not a beast to them.

It is the lack of judgement in the doctor's eyes, that he still matters despite what he has been created to be, forced into being.

Every choice he has made, every path he has taken, he has never expected to find those who do not look at him and see what he is told he is.

You bring change to his life, no matter the time. Opening up worlds he cannot hope to understand in just a moment. He needs many moments, all of them. So he is greedy, he does desire, and he knows those feelings will never fade away from his soul. That hungers and needs and demands.

Seeking the warmth of this space for as long as he can, not leaving its embrace without good cause, just like he does not leave yours easily, when it is offered to him.

Sylus can only hope you will see his heart as well, and accept it once more.

He is, however, struggling with the fact that his kitten has decided to become jumpy once more. Skittering out of his grasp, fleeing at the first moment.

The recent weeks you had sat in thought, mumbling to yourself, keeping them at arm's length. He has seen you leave with Tara and Simone, and he has waited for you to come to him.

To explain the startled look that you give when he sneaks up on you. To finally stop running away from him.

He believes that he is growing accustomed to you, that he knows now when you run from him to hide in an alley, to lick wounds that you're too scared to show, when he would happily dress them for you. To when you are simply thinking, and processing, and trying to find the space to work out how to approach.

He did not lie when he said he did not wish to pry, despite his impatience, and his need to know everything there is to know about you. He does not want to pull it out with his EVOL or against your will. You will speak to him when you are ready.

Sylus does find the skittish nature somewhat adorable, but the fact that he has not been able to hold you, touch you for any long period of time, or share a bed with you as you slept and he watched over, is bothersome. He misses watching you lower your guard, and he does not want to go back to when you daren't even touch him casually with a tease.

So he uses the morning to try to… corner you. He will not pry into your mind, but he will seek out the touch of your hand. Place it against his chest, and let you feel your joined hearts beat a song against his ribcage.

Instead, however, as he approaches you before you leave, intending to go out with Tara, yet again, he is called by the twins. Demanding his time, a report that cannot wait. Time he cannot waste, because he needs to see to Onychinus.

As much as he wishes to tell them to handle it, he has not heard them sound so frantic and serious in a long time. While he has little desire to leave, he is not willing to abandon them or his organisation, when he needs both.

Sylus catches your hand before you pull away, tugging you into his arms and crowding you against the door.

"Sy?" Your voice shakes, soft against his ears, as beautiful as always.

He leans down, long fingers tilting your face up so that he can look at you. Mismatched eyes wide, and trembling with something. Something he wants, something he yearns for, something he desires desperately. Waiting for the moment you speak it into existence.

"Have a good day, kitten. Miss me." His lips brush against your temple, and he inhales against your hair, before leaving you.

Not before he feels the twitch to your fingers, and the tightening of your grip…

And the soft, pleased exhale against his skin.

—-----------

You have spent two hours setting up. Two hours spent scurrying around, cooking, decorating, arranging.

Tara has run in to grab supplies for you as well, eager and excited. You're sure it's so she can hear every single detail when you're done, but you're thankful. You can leave the house alone, but it is always to meet someone. Being alone in a supermarket fills you with dread, least of all because of your arm.

She doesn't question, and she helps. When she finishes lining the things up you forgot, she offers further help which you reject.

You have to do this, you have to make this worth it. They have raised you up off the ground, caught you when you slipped. You have to return it.

You know they would not ask, would not want you to see it as something to return, but you have to make them see.

When you have struggled, or been tired, or worn down, they have offered food, or gifts, or presence. If that is how they show you that they care, you will return it.

You can only hope you return it in the way you hope.

There are some half deflated balloons that you failed to breathe enough air into, your lungs aching before you could even get through one. You are not as dextrous with your metal hand, so when you cut ingredients they are uneven. You fight to swallow the irritation and the pain in your chest. Even though the need to cry burns at them at things you cannot quite get right.

That it has to be perfect. You have to be perfect. Even if you never were, and even if you never can be. At least for this, you want to be…

There's a voice in your head, cold as the chain around your ankle, that reminds you you're incapable of perfection. That you are going to mess this up, and hurt yourself and others.

The knife trembles in your grip as your limb shakes.

It is a squawk that shakes you out of it, Mephisto flies over in a flurry of feathers and glowing red. To settle on your metal shoulder, talons steadying him. He has gotten familiar with perching there over time, since you stopped flinching at anyone touching your prosthetic.

It has become his favoured perch.

His feathers settle, and he bumps your cheek with his head, keeps red eyes on you as your hand settles.

He does not move, as you resume cutting, as you breathe through the feeling, edges closer to the heat of your neck with his body overtime. You think if a robot bird can sleep, he would do so settled there.

His presence helps, he reminds you of Sylus, but he also reminds you that you're not alone. That even the robot bird that Sylus denies is his pet, cares to see you keep going. It silences the beast at your ankle enough that you keep going.

You prepare meals that Caleb taught you how to cook, when he worried you wouldn't be able to survive alone during your studies, even though he never left you alone long enough to really go that long without food. Turning up at the apartment you shared with friends when he got chance, to hand you over a tupperware of food. To poke around the place and make sure you were alright. To lie on your bed and listen to you tell him about what you had been doing.

Even if you lied. That things were fine, that you were doing well. You knew he saw the truth, but you think he just liked the moment to listen to you talk. To see you in front of him. Alive.

You think you understand better now, how he felt. It always hurts to remember that it took losing him to realise.

Tara's words about regrets flit in and out of your mind. That there would be things you wished you'd done if you died tomorrow. As you cook, and you think about the last hour you have before the people you care about return, you know there's a few.

You're going to make an effort to tick them off.

—-----

He has been listening to the twins talk for two hours, and he cannot help but feel like this meeting should have been a call. Or a message.

The twins aren't stupid, despite their chaotic inclinations and their need to cause trouble wherever they can, they don't often bother him without need. Not concerning work. He trusts their capabilities for a reason. Despite their curiosity over if someone will ever claim his head.

He has been tempted to tell them that you are the one, but has decided when the day comes for you to cut his shackles, he would rather see the looks on the twins' faces.

No warning. He imagines it would be quite a sight. He hopes they're not wearing their masks when it happens.

Still, as he reads through his messages, he thinks he knows why they dragged him out here.

So he looks at them, watches as they chat. Luke waves his hands as he speaks, and there is something he notes. The two are trying to feed off each other's energy. Getting more animated as they go.

They are running out of fodder.

"You two-" They jump as his voice drops, looking at him through their crow masks, "are you going to explain why Kitten sent you to summon me away?"

"We don't work for the Hunter!"

"We work for you, boss."

"That's not an answer to my question."

"Why would we follow their orders-"

"-when we don't work for them?"

He says nothing, watches them, watches the way their shoulders pull in, and they gravitate towards each other. As if being closer will defend them from the glowing red eye in Sylus' head.

Before he even gets time to pry, they deflate. "Aww man, we didn't even manage three hours like they asked."

"We got close though bro. Two hours and twenty minutes with the boss, that's good going."

"Is it enough?"

"You two!" He raises a brow, and watches as they look at each other, then back at him.

"We were told to keep you away for three hours, so they could do something at home."

"Don't tell them we told you, they'll be disappointed…"

He's joked before that you have the two acting like your henchmen, and he's starting to realise it is not simply a joke. He shouldn't be surprised, he supposes. You have full control over Onychinus, every password, the location of every base, access to all of his weapons.

Full dominion over him.

Of course you've won over the twins.

"They won't be disappointed." Sylus sighs, "I'll stay for the last fourty minutes." It's a small concession, time wasted in favour of not ruining whatever you are doing. He could check with Mephisto but there is some warning in his chest. Over the heart he has shared with you, that asks him to wait.

That the waiting is worth it.

So he will wait for the three requested hours, and not a second longer.

It is a long wait, however, so while the twins chatter to him, they have abandoned mission reports and are now sharing information on games they want to play, or places they've been, he messages the other three.

The minutes go slower than expected, but finally he watches it pass, and stands.

"Have fun boss!"

"Good luck!"

He doesn't question them, he's almost curious what you told them to gain their help, but he thinks if it was any plan to be mischievous with him, they'd accept without any reason.

There is a kind of satisfaction in knowing he has the twisted loyalty of the two, they certainly don't work in any way his enemies would understand.

He also doesn't hate the fact they bring a smile to your face, or you to theirs.

When he finally returns to the apartment, he sees the other three sat outside, staring at the door. "You all look like loiterers. You're going to get reported. How will the good doctor cope with a criminal record?"

"How does one suit you?"

"Always a story to tell at parties."

The prince's head is resting on the fish's shoulder, he blinks a little, "You're late." Before he stretches and stands.

"Yeah crow, we've been waiting."

"Rafayel almost walked a hole into the floor going around in circles." Xavier adds.

"You almost broke the door down."

"Impatient." He yawns, shrugging as if it's not a problem. "Sylus can replace the door again, it's fine."

"Have you forgotten your fingerprints are registered?" Sylus asks, raising a brow.

"Quicker to break through the door."

He watches as the doctor rubs at the bridge of his nose, sighing so deeply he's surprised he doesn't fall under the weight of it, "You two act like such children sometimes."

"Not gonna share the macarons I bought with you then."

The doctor frowns, the furrow of his brow deepening, turning his face so he can hide some of the blush on his cheeks, "I'm alright with that."

"They're strawberry."

"I apologise."

"Too easy doctor."

"Can we go in now?" Rafayel stands, barely holding himself back from beginning to bounce on the heels of his feet.

"Alright fish."

Sylus watches as Rafayel opens the door. When it swings open, and they enter, the first thing he notices is bunting.

Hung from the ceiling, along the walls, in purples and blues. There are large red ribbons tied around chairs. Balloons half inflated on the floor in pink and green. A banner along the length of the dining table that has 'Thank you' drawn onto it in messy block letters, yellow stars decorated around it.

All four of them pause. The smell of fresh food, plates and bowls piled high on the table. And gift wrapped boxes, messily wrapped with some torn paper, next to each of their seats.

You are standing in the kitchen, stirring a pot to music, bouncing a little on the spot. Singing along with Mephisto whose squawks leave a lot to be desired in the music department.

He is sure that in this they are unified. Watching as you sing, and move, and twirl to grab something from the side. The feeling in his chest is molten and bright and warm, and if he ever loses it he knows he will have truly died.

"Kitten." Escapes him on an exhale as you smile that familiar crooked smile to yourself.

Your spatula clatters to the floor as you twirl to face him, and see all four of them. "Oh, I lost track of time, shit." You squat to clean up the mess in a panic, receiving a disgruntled cry from Mephisto as he flies off his favoured perch over to sit on the top of a dining chair.

"What is all of this?" The doctor asks, as Xavier rushes over to help you clean up.

You hesitate where you stand, toying with your fingers, before pointing over at the table, "I wanted to thank you."

"You don't have to thank us, cutie. Is this why you've been so jumpy?"

You close your eyes and he watches as you take in a long inhale, steadying yourself, and shivering a little, before you open them again. Flames burning in the depths of them, "No. I wanted to tell you something."

He wants to make a joke that you look like you're about to go to war, as you walk past them and indicate the table, to where there are gifts on the table, each with an initial scrawled on the paper. Yet there's a feeling like if he jokes, he's going to shatter something, and he hesitates before pushing it down, to follow as you lead.

He finds the one with an S, and lifts it up, it's a cube wrapped in black and red paper, with a small golden ribbon. He can tell you've torn the paper, struggling with the hand you still can't control for intricate work. You have given him one gift before, the handmade crow phone charm, one he knows matches the charms for the others. It's crooked and it's not perfect, but you made it. For him.

He has shot a man for almost breaking it during a fight.

His chest feels too hot, as a dragon he isn't sure he's ever felt such a thing before. He thinks if he had really kissed you that day so long ago, before it had all shattered, it would feel like this. It makes him feel sick, but he wants it to last forever.

"They're nothing big, it's. I wanted- You needed-" You sit then, slumping and covering your face to force their air in and out of your lungs, "Sorry. Please open them."

The paper comes away easy, and nestled inside with tissue paper is a red mug with a crow that looks suspiciously like that plushie you'd had him catch, and a key inside, with a series of charms. A crow, a star, a snowflake and a fish. He hesitates as he stares at it, hand careful. Like he could crush it easily if he tenses too hard.

Like it will shatter if he moves just a little.

Disappear if he blinks.

"Rafayel was right, when he told me that the password to your place can change easily, your key can't." You're looking down as you speak, and he can see you out of the corner of his eye, though he doesn't want to look away from his gift, "Well I could change the locks, I guess, but it's- That's not the point."

There's a wince before you tighten your hands into fists in front of you, the air is still and they watch. He can feel something and he's not sure what it is.

"You all made sure I could stand back up again, you were here for me when I needed you and wanted you. I wanted- needed you to know that I'll always want you here. That when you go back home, you're welcome anytime, that I-" Your voice keeps trembling, and pausing, and he wants to reach out, to hold you, to take your face in his hands, to cry with you he thinks, "I love you all so much. I needed you to know, before you went. Before this was over, and I had to say bye to this life."

"Cutie, do-"

"I love you. The- ah- the kind with- shit. I should have written this down."

He finally releases the keychain, approaches you as your hand trembles, eases his thumb over your skin, and watches as Xavier hooks his chin over your shoulder. Zayne and Rafayel crouch down to look up at you, a hand pressed to your knees. The contact eases the strain out of your body, but you must feel the small tremor in his, because you tighten your grip on him.

When you speak, you have found your ground, "I never settled down long enough to think about it, what you all are. I knew you were important, precious, but I didn't have a name for it, or wanted to think about it. I was sure if I didn't think about it, if I lost you it wouldn't hurt as much. If something happened to me, you'd be alright." He watches hands tighten against your skin, because he knows his own does, losing you is not an option, "I was wrong. Even though so many days have hurt, or felt like agony, you were home for me. Safe. You feel like love should feel. When I think about where I want to be, it's anywhere you are."

Your hand shakes as you reach out, to ease over Zayne's cheek with your fingers with your metal fingers. Flinching when he gasps at it, when he leans into your hand, taking it in his to press it further against his skin. "I don't know where to go from here, or what you all want. I know I'm asking a lot, and I understand if you don't feel the same way. I needed you to know, before you left, when I was ready. I don't want to keep looking back, I want to move forwards."

There is a shudder in your frame as you swallow, you take the time to look at them all, even though the angle Xavier at pulls at your neck, and Sylus feels that feeling he got when he used to fly, when you hold his gaze. Freedom, falling, soaring. Able to go anywhere, and do anything. When he held you and soared when you could not sleep, while he can't do that now, he can always take you on the back of his bike. Every sleepless night.

Forever.

"I love you."

It is measured, it is careful, and it is spoken on a tremble. Unused to vulnerability, wilfully shown. A wound on display, not hidden and kept under covers. No longer smothered under the bloody blanket, no longer trembling in the darkness.

He watches you look at him, tears streaming down your face with the weight of feelings he knows you struggle to process, and he was right.

You truly are beautiful when you cry and let him see.

"We're not going anywhere, darling." Zayne whispers against your hand, as he kisses against your palm. Cool lips against cool metal. You close your eyes at the feeling, shiver down your spine.

"You're home, starlight." Xavier nods, brushing lips against your cheek.

"Of course we love you cutie, forever, and always."

Sylus watches as Rafayel kisses your knee and squeezes your leg, watches more tears spill from your eyes, in what he knows is relief. Turns your hand so he can press his lips to your wrist, to your palm, to your fingertips, and sighs against your skin, "Thank you for telling us, beloved."

Thank you for loving him again. For embracing him once more.

For seeing him as more than a monster. For seeing a future that he has a part in.

For walking the path with him once more.

For accepting him as your home.

Later when Sylus has had his moment of breathing in the scent of you. Eased against the junction of your neck, hand tracing shapes into your hip. Whispering affection and murmurs of beloved against your skin.

When they have eaten, when mugs have been placed in the cupboard of your apartment, waiting for when they are needed. When he has stared at the key you have given him willingly. Offering him entrance whenever he wishes, trusting him in your territory. That he watches you sleep against the doctor's chest. Relieved and exhausted.

He knows there is more to do, conversations to have, things to fix, to arrange, but he feels like he is finally back at the starting line, prepared for the race ahead.

As he places your prosthetic back on its stand, and pulls a blanket over the prince who has rested his head in your lap, and cleans up some of the mess, so that the fish can paint the image in front of him, he leans down to place a kiss to your head.

Sylus thinks back to the empty cave, the blood splatter and the bones of the past. He thinks about loneliness and eternal exhaustion, of a search for something he worried he may never grasp again.

He is a boy again, standing in the cave, surrounded by family and loved ones, and this time, he has the power to protect it.

[sissylittlefeather]

Sissy- I’m so excited you reached your 500 follower mark. You’re very talented and I love sharing this little Elvisey corner with you. ✨

This photo of him is gorgeous and dreamy and sort of gives me Sissy poetry vibes. I’ll trust you to create whatever feels good to you. A little smutty, a little fluffy, whatever tickles your fancy dear 🖤

Thank you for being who you are 😘

@lookingforrainbows Awww you're the best! Thank you! Love you sweet friend!

I might've gotten a little carried away with this one, but you said poetry, so here you go...

Just the Two of Us

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, kissing, fingering, o in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, public(ish) sex, and some really indulgent purple prose

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

"We're married."

"I know." You look at your new husband and you're in absolute awe. How did you get so lucky? As you walk hand in hand on the beach, you can't believe this is actually your life. You're married. And not just to any man. You managed to land the most famous man on the planet, but more than that, you love him more than you ever thought possible.

He stops and turns you toward him, wrapping his arms around your waist. The wind blows through both of your hair as the sun begins to set over the water. He leans in and plants a gentle kiss on your cheek.

"I love you so much, baby." He coos into your ear. You can't help but smile at his obsession with telling you how much he loves you as often as possible. This is probably the tenth time he's said it since you've been walking up and down the beach. "Let's lay down."

You spread out the towels you've been carrying this whole time, take off your gauzy white cover-up, and settle on the sand, lying on your stomach. He lays next to you, propped up on one elbow to look at you.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" He says with a sly smile.

"I'm starting to believe it. It's hard not to when you say it so often."

"I just want you to see yourself the way I see you, baby." He runs his fingertips down your cheek and leans in and kisses you again. Then, he looks out over the waves and surveys the beach around you. It's deserted, but of course it is since this is a private beach reserved just for your condo.

You're soaking in the last of the evening rays when you feel him fiddling with the strings on the side of your bikini bottoms. Your eyes pop open as he pulls on one and it comes untied.

"Elvis. What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just... playing..." He reaches across to your other side and pulls on that one too until it falls open.

"Elvis..." He slides his hand under the back of your swimsuit and takes a handful of your ass, squeezing it gently. The sound of the waves crashing fades into the distance as his hand drifts a little lower, his finger tracing the edges of your entrance. He moves his fingertip to your clit and begins to make slow circles. Without meaning to, you lift your hips and spread your legs a little. He knows this signal and pulls his hand back to press his middle finger into you.

"Mmm... Elvis we're on the beach."

"So? There's no one around for miles. It's just you and me, baby." He pumps his finger in and out of you and you moan softly.

"But still." He pulls his finger back.

"You want me to stop?"

"No!" He smiles and presses his finger into you again, using his pointer finger to rub on your sensitive button. He leans forward and presses his lips to your shoulder as he continues to play with you.

"I just want to please my wife on our honeymoon. Is that bad?" He adds a second finger to press inside you and continues to drag his other fingertip across your clit quickly.

"No... it's so good..." You can't help but moan as he works you with his hand. You feel your release building as he moves on you. His ability to bring you to a climax with just three fingers will never cease to amaze you. The pressure continues to build in your center and he stops pumping his fingers to focus on your clit. He moves his fingertip over and around you and the blood rushes to your core. "Fuck, Elvis!"

You try not to scream as your orgasm slams into you, spreading you open right there on the beach and burning you up like starlight. Everything is warm and pulsing and all you see is his smile. He knows how he's made you feel and it's all he wants. But there's one more thing he needs.

"Can I make love to you on this beach, baby? I need you... right now..."

Everything inside you is warm, sensuous honey, so the thought of saying no doesn't even cross your mind.

"Yes, please." He kicks his pants off, pulls off his shirt, and rolls over on top of your back, discarding your open bikini bottom. You spread your legs just enough for him to find your entrance with the tip of his rock hard cock. He pushes into you slowly from behind, filling you inch by gasp-inspiring inch. When he's got you fully stretched around him, he pulls almost all the way out and thrusts into you deeply again. He begins a steady rhythm of rolling his hips into you, pumping into you as you try not to make too much noise. You're up on your elbows with your ass raised to give him the best angle. He kisses your shoulder and then slips a hand up under the top of your bikini to play with your nipple. After a few more minutes of thrusting, he unties your top and takes that off of you as well. Now it's just you and him, naked together under the open sky, the sun setting over the water creating a kaleidoscope of cotton candy clouds reflected on the waves.

The places where your skin kisses his are lightning hot with passion and sweat. And his lips. He presses his lips to any place he can reach on your back as he continues to fill you with himself over and over again.

When he pulls out and rolls onto his back, you know exactly what to do. You've made love to him enough to know what he wants. You crawl on top of him, settling a knee on either side of his hips and sink down onto him. The change in angle makes you moan together in unison. Somewhere a dog barks, but you don't care as the wind brushes your nipples causing them to harden even more. He notices and reaches out with both hands to caress your breasts. The waves crest and break on the beach behind you as you move up and down on him, taking him as deeply as you can. The sun is just a sliver over the water, but the moon is full, replacing the purple and orange sunset with silvery beams and glittering stars. He looks at you like you've swallowed the moon, it's light emanating from every edge of you.

"You are the answer to every prayer I've ever spoken into the darkness." He whispers into the night. His hand finds your cheek and he drags his thumb across your lips. No one else on earth knows the poetry of your bond. But he breathes life into it every time he touches you. "I am whole because you exist."

You lean forward and lay on his chest as he thrusts slowly into you from underneath. He pulls you into a deep kiss, your tongues creating a medley of dance steps all their own. When the kiss ends, you whisper back to him.

"You are my sun. The center of my orbit. I am me because you are you." He kisses your cheek and smiles.

"The only thing that ever made sense to me was music. And now you're the only notes I hear." His voice is just for you in the inky black night. Your heartbeats match the rhythm of his thrusting and the waves pounding the beach.

"All I want is to be yours forever." You half-moan into his ear.

"You are mine, baby. And I'm yours. Until we ourselves are moonlight." He groans and closes his eyes.

Before you were married, your union would've ended now to prevent any too-soon consequences. But tonight, here on the beach as husband and wife, there's a longing from both of you to continue. Any uncertainty about the future is now replaced by hope. So he doesn't stop. Your movements create a tapestry of oneness and as he approaches his release, your pace is steady. It's an unspoken agreement, a covenant that doesn't need acknowledging.

"Oh, God, baby..." He moans, eyes closed and lips parted slightly. You look at him with endless admiration. He's almost angelic in this moment and you revel in his beauty as he tenses and then shudders into you. The warmth inside you is not just metaphorical and he fills you with everything he has. This is what it means to be joined forever.

"I love you. I love you. I love you." He whispers, his voice husky with post-climax emotion as he kisses your lips between each phrase. When he's finished and beginning to soften, you readjust to lay next to him. He rolls over to face you, tracing his fingertips along the outline of your body as gently as butterfly wings. There is no more separation between you. You don't end and he doesn't begin. You simply are, like pieces of tracing paper layered together to create a single image.

"My husband." You whisper, your fingertips gracing the side of his face with a kind of holy adoration.

"My wife." He replies, his eyes like oceans deep enough to contain you both.

You lay there under the summer moon, two naked souls bound together by a love beyond comprehension. Tomorrow will bring you back to a reality filled with concert dates and meetings. But tonight? Tonight is just for the two of you.

******

The End

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[empthy1]

mourning friends

once morning friends, now mourning friends. two broken hearts they seek to mend. one knew before what was set in stone, but left their twin to break, all alone. —kiera.

tw: emetophobia.

shitty poetry aside: brief best friend sequel ft. patrick zweig. came to me from one of diya's posts, so i guess this is full circle. pattashi. pre-art, post-injury, post-coco. apologies, awkward patrick, tired tashi. disappointed that patrick of all people broke me out of my slump. written in about an hour, apologies for any mistakes. ~950 words.

Patrick was pathetic. At least he was self-aware enough to realize that.

(Suck it, dad, he huffs silently.)

He's sat in his fine-ass hotel room, high from the girl who just left barely even waning and fluids still sticky-stuck to his thighs. But no. He doesn't think of the girl, the total bombshell he'd snagged (curls, brown, deep brown—) at his own victory party (didn't even go into the third set, thank you very much—) no. His eyes are glued to the screen of his shitty, cracked flip-phone, staring at the renamed contact and thinking about calling his ex. He's not even drunk.

DO NOT CALL, MORON. EVEN IF YOU'RE DRUNK. (ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE DRUNK.)

...so maybe he went a little overboard. But there had been multiple incidents leading up to the change. One involving one-too many beers and an eager girl. It didn't even matter that it went to voicemail, he'd still sent it (the sound of the girl smacking him and all.) He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd been blocked already, but he had, somehow, snagged some news through the grapevine. If it was true, than... just shit. Everything's shit.

The rings echo in the room, a crush-like curl in his gut—if a horrific amalgamation of it. Calling your ex isn't easy. Especially one you've been tormenting. But he does it anyway, punching the green button with a shaky thumb. He flops back onto the—ew—still gross sheets and tugs the phone up to his ear.

"...Pat. What are you calling about now." Comes an overly-hoarse voice. It's almost unrecognizable—but it's her. He's sure of it. She sounds terrible, but he's not narcissistic enough to assume it's all because of him. He's probably a far twenty on her list at this point.

"I... someone said something about Coco. I wanted to hear it from you."

His words make her inhale shakily, the sound crackily through the phone. Or maybe that's just how her voice was, he can't tell anymore. All he knows is she sounds two seconds from hyperventilating.

He doesn't say a thing. She would have hung up if she did. Any and all attempts before, when he was more than just a heartbreak, were rebuffed as well. I'm not a crybaby, Patrick. Just leave it. She'd huff and puff, as if she wasn't shaking like an autumn leaf with eyes so glossy he could see his own reflection. But he'd left it. And left it. And left it again. Though, in hindsight, it seems even being silent wouldn't stop her from lashing him.

"...she's gone. Cancer. All in her bones and lungs and... everywhere else. Should've fuckin' known, pushed for more when she broke her pelvis—"

Tashi's sobbed rant fades as he recalls, unwillingly, that day. Could he have done something?

He remembered the day she'd told him that—that Coco had jumped from the cat tree, as usual, and fractured her hip. She was an older cat, sure, but she wasn't geriatric. Unusual, but, they couldn't see anything wrong with her. Patrick had actually gone with Tashi on that vet visit. He'd held the unnaturally tired kitty in his hands—must be the sedative—and pet under a weakly purring chin.

And then Coco had opened her sleepy eyes and he almost cried there and then. The look was a familiar one, even if the amber color and the slitted pupils weren't the same. His uncle had the same one.

His uncle who'd died months ago, malignant, speedy cancer wrecking his body. That tired, exhausted look—he'd seen it. Knew it, almost like a second skin.

He had plenty of older relatives. Old age and dementia claimed grandparents and great aunts and far cousins, leaving nothing more than a whisp of memory—if they got that.

But cancer's a different look. A frightful one, but only if you know where to look.

Clearly this vet, fresh as a summer sprig of curling fiddlefern, didn't yet know it. Didn't even think to test.

He didn't know why he stayed silent that day. Why he didn't demand the test, put it on his card and stay there hours, days, racking up bills he didn't care about and eating vending machine candy for sustenance. He can see it clearly, now, so far in the future—he would have done it for that little bugger.

But he didn't.

No going back now. Not when she's... gone. Just as he thought she'd be.

"Tash..." If he couldn't save her now, she'd at least deserve to know. What possessed him to confess he didn't know. He could have schmoozed through the grief, charming and curling close, cooing a sympathetic do you want to talk about it? In person, I mean?

The thought almost makes him throw up. Bile fills his mouth unexpectedly, causing him to sputter.

"What? What, Pat, is so important?"

"...I knew she was dying that day we took her to the vet. For her pelvis."

There's... nothing. Just silence on the other end of the phone. And then a frustrating dial tone, the sound too-loud and obtrusive, his phone too close to his ear. He wrenches it away, flips it closed, and sighs. Both at the conversation's unsatisfactory end and the sticky coating him, now going frigid, the slick long-cold.

...Fuck. He's got to shower.

Game tomarrow! His coach's excited message rings, lighting his screen bright. He can almost hear the lilting, German-tinged exclamation, all down to the mispronunciation coming through in text.

It makes him want to sink into the shower tile. He slumps against the white, cold things, water rushing over his front. He lets his head tip up and dreams of drowning himself in the warm stream.

[regulusrules]

Yo, I saw your post about orientalism in relation to the "hollywood middle-east" tiktok!

How can a rando and university dropout get into and learn more about? Any literature or other content to recommend?

Hi!! Wow, you have no idea how you just pressed a button. I'll unleash 5+ years on you. And I'll even add for you open-sourced works that you can access as much as I can!

1. Videos

I often find this is the best medium nowadays to learn anything! I'll share with you some of the best that deal with the topic in different frames

• This is a video of Edward Said talking about his book, Orientalism. Said is the Palestinian- American critic who first introduced the term Orientalism, and is the father of postcolonial studies as a critical literary theory. In this book, you’ll find an in-depth analysis of the concept and a deconstruction of western stereotypes. It’s very simple and he explains everything in a very easy manner.

• How Islam Saved Western Civilization. A more than brilliant lecture by Professor Roy Casagranda. This, in my opinion, is one of the best lectures that gives credit to this great civilization, and takes you on a journey to understand where did it all start from.

• What’s better than a well-researched, general overview Crash Course about Islam by John Green? This is not necessarily on orientalism but for people to know more about the fundamental basis of Islam and its pillars. I love the whole playlist that they have done about the religion, so definitely refer to it if you're looking to understand more about the historical background! Also, I can’t possibly mention this Crash Course series without mentioning ... ↓

• The Medieval Islamicate World. Arguably my favourite CC video of all times. Hank Green gives you a great thorough depiction of the Islamic civilization when it rose. He also discusses the scientific and literary advancements that happened in that age, which most people have no clue about! And honestly, just his excitement while explaining the astrolabe. These two truly enlightened so many people with the videos they've made. Thanks, @sizzlingsandwichperfection-blog

2. Documentaries

• This is an AMAZING documentary called Reel Bad Arabs: How Hollywood Villifies A People by the genius American media critic Jack Shaheen. He literally analysed more than 1000 movies and handpicked some to showcase the terribly false stereotypes in western depiction of Arab/Muslim cultures. It's the best way to go into the subject, because you'll find him analysing works you're familiar with like Aladdin and all sorts.

• Spain’s Islamic Legacy. I cannot let this opportunity go to waste since one of my main scopes is studying feminist Andalusian history. There are literal gems to be known about this period of time, when religious coexistence is documented to have actually existed. This documentary offers a needed break from eurocentric perspectives, a great bird-view of the Islamic civilization in Europe and its remaining legacy (that western history tries so hard to erase).

• When the Moors Ruled in Europe. This is one of the richest documentaries that covers most of the veiled history of Al-Andalus (Muslim Spain). Bettany Hughes discusses some of the prominent rulers, the brilliance of architecture in the Arab Muslim world, their originality and contributions to poetry and music, their innovative inventions and scientific development, and lastly, La Reconquista; the eventual fall and erasure of this grand civilization by western rulers.

3. Books

• Rethinking Orientalism by Reina Lewis. Lewis brilliantly breaks the prevailing stereotype of the “Harem”, yk, this stupid thought westerns projected about arab women being shut inside one room, not allowed to go anywhere from it, enslaved and without liberty, just left there for the sexual desires of the male figures, subjugated and silenced. It's a great read because it also takes the account of five different women living in the middle east.

• Nocturnal Poetics by Ferial Ghazoul. A great comparative text to understand the influence and outreach of The Thousand and One Nights. She applies a modern critical methodology to explore this classic literary masterpiece.

• The Question of Palestine by Edward Said. Since it's absolutely relevant, this is a great book if you're looking to understand more about the Palestinian situation and a great way to actually see the perspective of Palestinians themselves, not what we think they think.

• Arab-American Women's Writing and Performance by S.S. Sabry. One of my favourite feminist dealings with the idea of the orient and how western depictions demeaned arab women by objectifying them and degrading them to objects of sexual desire, like Scheherazade's characterization: how she was made into a sensual seducer, but not the literate, brilliantly smart woman of wisdom she was in the eastern retellings. The book also discusses the idea of identity and people who live on the hyphen (between two cultures), which is a very crucial aspect to understand arabs who are born/living in western countries.

• The Story of the Moors in Spain by Stanley Lane-Poole. This is a great book if you're trying to understand the influence of Islamic culture on Europe. It debunks this idea that Muslims are senseless, barbaric people who needed "civilizing" and instead showcases their brilliant civilization that was much advanced than any of Europe in the time Europe was labelled by the Dark Ages. (btw, did you know that arabic was the language of knowledge at that time? Because anyone who was looking to study advanced sciences, maths, philosophy, astronomy etc, had to know arabic because arabic-speaking countries were the center of knowledge and scientific advancements. Insane, right!)

• Convivencia and Medieval Spain. This is a collection of essays that delve further into the idea of “Convivencia”, which is what we call for religious coexistence. There's one essay in particular that's great called Were Women Part of Convivencia? which debunks all false western stereotypical images of women being less in Islamic belief. It also highlights how arab women have always been extremely cultured and literate. (They practiced medicine, studied their desired subjects, were writers of poetry and prose when women in Europe couldn't even keep their surnames when they married.)

4. Novels / Epistolaries

• Granada by Radwa Ashour. This is one of my favourite novels of all time, because Ashour brilliantly showcases Andalusian history and documents the injustices and massacres that happened to Muslims then. It covers the cultural erasure of Granada, and is also a story of human connection and beautiful family dynamics that utterly touches your soul.

• Dreams of Trespass by Fatma Mernissi. This is wonderful short read written in autobiographical form. It deconstructs the idea of the Harem in a postcolonial feminist lens of the French colonization of Morocco.

• Scheherazade Goes West by Fatma Mernissi. Mernissi brilliantly showcases the sexualisation of female figures by western depictions. It's very telling, really, and a very important reference to understand how the west often depicts middle-eastern women by boxing them into either the erotic, sensual beings or the oppressed, black-veiled beings. It helps you understand the actual real image of arab women out there (who are not just muslims btw; christian, jew, atheist, etc women do exist, and they do count).

• Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. This is a feminist travel epistolary of a British woman which covers the misconceptions that western people, specifically male travelers, had recorded and transmitted about the religion, traditions and treatment of women in Constantinople, Turkey. It is also a very insightful sapphic text that explores her own engagement with women there, which debunks the idea that there are no queer people in the middle east.

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

With all of these, you'll get an insight about the real arab / islamic world. Not the one of fanaticism and barbarity that is often mediated, but the actual one that is based on the fundamental essences of peace, love, and acceptance.

[daenysthedreamersblog]

SECRET OF US - VI

us.

that night you were talkin' false prophets and profits

they make in the margins of poetry sonnets

you never read up on it shame, could've learned something

Robert Bly on my nightstand, gifts from you, how ironic

masterlist // previous chapter // next chapter

summary: you promised him a date, a date without mistrust and contention...you should have never made that promise as you're dragged deeper towards an admission you can't face

pairings: modern!coriolanus snow x reader

warnings: MDNI! swearing, drinking, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex (yk what hell ya)

notes: omg i meant to have this out friday but i rewrote the whole middle and with the holidays it set me back so much. legit spent 20min on my phone the whole past week

You don't dare tell Arachne or Clem as you swipe the lipgloss along your lips. You wished you could, wished your friends were helping you get ready, laughing about silly things. You frowned at your reflection, what were you so ashamed of, why were you hiding?

He finally bested you huh? Arachne's voice snaked through your head rattling a metaphorical tail. Don't be so surprised when he breaks your little heart. A small laugh. Or you break his.

Clemensia looked disappointed, He's using you. Soft hands landed on your shoulders. He's as selfish and manipulative as they come, let this go before you're in too far. Let this go before he looks too deep.

You sighed placing your head in your hands; no they couldn't know, not yet at least, not until you could figure out his intentions, or yours for that matter. There's a knock on your door and you slowly make your way over to it, to him.

"Hi." He looks so handsome in a well pressed button up and slick coat to ward away the lingering winter and you're sure he could take over the world looking like that. "These are for you." He holds out the bouquet of white roses.

You take them, backing up to allow him inside. "Thank you." You say digging through cabinets for a vase. 

"You...uh...You look nice." 

You smirk over at him cutting the stems, "Geez was that truly so difficult for you."

"No." He glared as you placed the roses in water.

"Do I make you nervous Snow?"

He scoffed, "Shut up let's go."

"Wow skip the pleasantries huh?" You joke sliding on heels, grabbing your own coat, and following him out. 

"You know me too well." But he helped you slip into your coat once the door was locked behind you, hands lingering too long in all the right places. 

You glanced over your shoulder at him, "Do I?" Because sometimes you felt like you barely knew him at all beneath hidden layers neither of you should dig up. He doesn't answer only tugs at your waist to keep you walking. "Did you call an Uber?"

"No." His jaw ticked as cold air blew your hair back. He walked a few steps forward to the sleek black car and pulled the door open for you. "Get in." He said tightly before you could even ask and got in quickly behind you. You raised a brow, "Don't even say it."

You shoved it all down, relaxing into the car's leather seat. "I was just gunna ask where we're going."

He turned his head away to hide the little grin, "No you weren't." The car is filled with silence, the slight tapping of your foot against the car floor the only annoying noise. "Fine. Ask."

"The car?"

He sighed, "The Plinth's."

"I thought..." You chewed on your cheek knowing this was not the subject to be breeched right now. "Never mind." Later, you'd ask later, or never you weren't sure when they were involved if you even wanted to know truly. He had become so upset when you had thrown their names back at him, and he obviously hadn't spent time with them during the holidays. You tuck it away readjusting yourself into the seat as you drove towards your date. You wanted to laugh at how ridiculous this all was; Coriolanus Snow taking you out on some date. "Hey, since we agreed on the no feuding and armor...let's try to be...nice to one another." It was a rule you're sure neither one of you could stick to.

"No snide remarks? No japes?" He came closer until his leg pressed into yours.

You nodded, "No glaring."

Two fingers tilt your chin up towards his face, "My sword is at your feet." His lips brush against yours. Your breath halts in your lungs waiting on bated breath for his kiss, "Will you surrender yours?" He whispers into your mouth his fingers running up your thigh, you let him, let him inch ever closer to the heat pulsing out of you.

Your rigid as his finger dip into your inner thigh feeling them part involuntarily. Yes. You want to say, want him to sprawl you over these leather seats to take you right here, right now. He smiles along your lips knowing it all too well; it was a trick to have you admit defeat all the same, to see if you were sticking true to your word about trying to be open to him. You pull back, "That's a tall ask."

"I'm a tall man." You glare at the him and his laughter is felt deep within your body. His fingers disappear under the hem of your dress, "There she is, never too far. I adore your glare, your claws, kitten." With the faintest feather light touch the pad of his finger ghost over the front of your underwear as you take in a sharp breath from his mouth. "Come on," His drags his knuckles up until the push gently into your clit. "Don't you want me to touch you? To make the driver take us back to my place while I make you whimper out my name from that wicked mouth."

You think you just might say anything, do anything to make him keep touching you, it had been your ask after all and you did want it, want him. But to be nice and to give over to him completely were two different things and you couldn't trust him; his sword may be down but he could just as easily take a hidden dagger to your back. You jut your bottom lip out to try and capture his, the submission a pathetic breath away when theres a knock on the window.

He chuckles slowly peeling his hand away, nearly eliciting a whine from your throat. You hated how badly you wanted him to touch you, hated how you wanted to scream his name out of these tinted windows, hated that he wouldn't give you that just yet, hated that he was making you work for it. He moves to open the door helping you outside into cool air that is welcomed against feverish skin. You're out of it, disoriented, you barely recognize where you're going until the bright cat walk comes into view. You're finally able to make sense enough of it to put the pieces together.

"Tigris." You say out loud before turning to look up at him. "She was launching a new line, this is her show." Something like a proud smile fights its way across his face as he nods; you return it. "Let's go find our seats then."

It's beautiful, filled with every color imaginable, bright fabrics of animal print you never knew even existed and feathers, tons of feathers in heavily powdered tall neon wigs. You glance over at him, an expression of comfort, but also grief written across his features as he watches the models pass. You want to reach out, grab his hand, but you can only cradle your palms in your lap.

That was the issue wasn't it? You had always promised to never let anyone in too close, to never let your guard down. It would only distract you, deter you from your goals...well your father's goals for you. So how could you ever let him in, how could you ever yield to the very man you had sworn to gut, who had made his own promise to do the same. It had always been anger, and hatred and competition. It had always been a game, and this final round would truly determine who wins.

You picked at your nails. There were new memories, new feelings; joy and sympathy and curiosity for him, with him. This passionate desire was the embodiment of all of those loathsome feelings coming through in a new way, there was no other explanation.

You glanced over at him as he clapped for the last model, you had to win, there was no other way to keep your heart safe. This passionate desire was the embodiment of all of those loathsome feelings coming through in a new way, there was no saner explanation.

"Come on," He motioned for you to take his arm. He led you away towards back stage where his cousin stood.

Her eyes brightened when she saw him. "Coryo!" She rushed over cupping his face before hugging him tightly. "I'm so glad you came."

He hugged her back. "Wouldn't miss it for the world." He pulled away from her slightly revealing you, "I want you to meet someone."

She took you in whatever joy she found in her cousin was gone as she recognized you no doubt. You held out your hand and introduced yourself anyways, "It was a wonderful show."

"Thank you." She shook your hand eyes confused as she looked to Coriolanus.

You took your hand back, "We went to school together."

She smiled, it was fake. "Yes, yes now that's where I've seen you before."

You didn't feel like explaining, he could do that later when you weren't around. "You know that play I'm in." She nodded at him while he looked at you, "She's in it with me as well it's how we became...friends."

"I can't wait to see it." She cups his face again with one gentle hand. "We're having a little after party at some shitty dive bar do you guys want to join?"

The two of you share a look before Coriolanus takes your hand shrugging. "Sure it will be better than the place I picked out."

It was everything a fancy restaurant was not; loud and gaudy, cheap and sticky, neon beer signs littering the back wall, and filled with older couples and too young college students who's fakes would never get them in anywhere else. You're overdressed, Coriolanus is too, but you didn't care, not as you carry two drinks to the pool table where he's breaking. 

"This is supposed to be a date kitten." He takes his drink from you as you grab the pool stick.

"I'm being nice."

He scoffs, "That's a first."

You roll your eyes, "Never mind then." He grabs the middle of the stick to keep you rooted urging you to continue. "That truce lasted shorter than the first one." You chuckle staring up at him, "What was the other place?"

"It was stuffy and overrated." He lets go laughing slightly. You walk around the table, "I should have known better to go to some overly priced restaurant with tiny portions that reeks of your father." He leans against the table watching you line up the cue ball. "You hate that stuff."

You knock a stripe in the hole and stand up straight. "I was being immature about all of that, there's some stuff I do enjoy." You did hate the reminder of your father, but it was a resentment you needed to face or let go.

He feigns shock, "Admitting immaturity? Am I in an alternate universe."

You shake your head to yourself and walk back around towards him holding out the stick for him. "I'm on a date with you so probably."

He wraps his hand around it, but uses it to pull you closer, "Are you enjoying it?"

"We'll see." You smile up at him biting back the honest answer. It felt nice, the banter without the hatred behind it, knowing he could kiss you, you could kiss him. The air felt lighter, sweeter, like the world had opened up to opportunities you never knew existed. You feel like your tucked away from reality until your eyes meet Tigris across the room and you recognize the worry for her cousin, you didn't blame her, she knew you, she knew him, and no amount of watered down beer would hide that.

Coriolanus takes the stick to walk around the table. "Answer me after I've beat you in pool."

"Oh please."

He does beat you, at least at that round. He orders food while you set up the next round sipping on your first drink from the night. You watch him over the table, lining up to hit the cue ball into the triangle of multicolored balls, and you're not nervous. You used to drown the anxiety in alcohol at the mere thought of being around him, using it as a crutch to excuse thoughts you didn't want to examine. 

"Do you want another?" He points the tip of his stick at your empty drink.

You shake your head, the small smile on your lips. "Maybe a soda." He raises his eyebrow at you as he hands the stick off to you. You weren't nervous anymore. You didn't want the excuses. You liked his company. You liked kissing him. It didn't need to be more complicated than that. Maybe it didn't need to be about winning or losing.

"Tell me something real about you." You sink three solids into holes before looking up at him.

"I ate paste as a child." He shrugged.

"How did it taste."

He smirked, "Pasty." He misses and the cue ball ends up in the corner hole. "Your turn."

"I know it's not a real animal." You blush, "But I love dragons, and I want one desperately."

"A fantasy creature?" He laughed at you. You whacked him, but he caught your wrist. "It's cute."

You scoff, "The dragons would disagree. They are fierce and vicious and-!"

He smiles, blue eyes alight with hidden joy. "Just like you." 

You're kissing him before you can think, soft lips and soft hands roaming bodies as you tug each other closer, as you let the dive bar disappear into the void. Your heart speeds up as his tongue dips into your mouth and every nerve ignites under his touch. 

Someone clears their throat behind you; Tigris. "I'm heading home it's been a long day." She eyes the pair of you. "I'll call you tomorrow Coryo." To discuss you no doubt, you find yourself sinking away.

He hugs her, "It really was a great show."

"What's the name of the line?" You ask to show interest, so maybe she could see some semblance of care inside of you, that you weren't the evil villain in his story. The fact that you did care what she thought of you had to mean something?

She smiled for real this time. "The Capitol." She walks away soon after leaving you two alone as some sad country song floats through the weary speakers.

"If only they could see us now." He cuts through it all turning your attention back to the game.

"See you losing." You sink another ball in when the thought crosses. "Do you...um...do you still speak to..."

"Livia?" He finishes for you grabbing the pool stick from your hands. "No, well...not like that." You continue to watch him. "She lives in the city, and we all went to school together, I run into her a lot." The striped ball he was going for bounces off the wall and misses the hole by a few inches. He sighed, "I mean...not typically, no I don't see her...like that."

You tightly smile. "It's fine, Snow. Just because we're on a date doesn't mean we are dating." You're lying. You don't want him to see Livia, see anyone for that matter, but you can't say that, can't reveal that part of yourself to him.

"Guess so."

You win the next round, but he wins the one after that. You dance to shitty music coming from the live band playing inside the bar. You even jump on stage to join in, singing along to the only song you knew they were performing while he records you making a fool of yourself. It's carefree, and fun, and plain stupid. "Delete that!" You shout at him as he pulls you from the stage wrapping his arms around your waist as the song slides into a slower one. 

"Never." He chuckled into you ear. "Was this a better time than overpriced ice cubes?"

You lay your head against his chest. "Of course." You glance up at him, "Not us."

"Not us," His voice is too soft as he says it has you spilling your unguarded guts.

"But any time with you would have been a good one."

He stares down at you sidelong the corner of his mouth turning up, "There is a heart inside of you yet, my fire breathing kitten." You roll your eyes, but don't bite back. Instead you let his hand linger to the bottom of your back, "Let's get out of here."

You chew the inside of your cheek the whole time he guides you back out into the real world, back into that black car. He doesn't take the route back to your apartment, instead it takes you towards a different side of the same town.

His side.

"Do you remember that night?" He asked watching the buildings glide by the tinted windows. The night of the party, the night he fought that man and brought you back to his apartment.

You remembered him cleaning your face, putting you to sleep in his bed, a soft finger running down your cheek. "Not really." You force yourself to break the tension coiling in your gut. "I remember you knocking me over to fight that man."

"You shouldn't have ran." It not cruel, or condescending. It was simply a fact he believed.

You leaned in close, "You shouldn't have been using me to make Livia jealous then."

"I didn't use you to make Livia jealous." His hand lands on your thigh as he breaths it back into your face. "I used Livia to make you jealous."

Your eyes widened, but then you squeeze them shut shaking your head trying to understand this new information. "But that-that means..."

The car came to a halt and suddenly he's ushering you outside into the wind whipping frigid air. He leads you into his apartment building towards the elevator to head up to his floor, you watch his fingers hit the button for the top. You glance over at him, "They're the floor below me." He answers the questions in your eyes.  

You won't allow yourself to push him any further regarding the Plinths, not as the elevator dings to let you out onto his floor. His apartment pent house was too dark to make out many details, but it was simple, not too many colors or design for his lonely one person home. You didn't remember taking in much detail the last time you were here besides the clean white countertops and soft comforter. He flicked on the lights letting you take it all in; the spacious room, the floor to ceiling windows, the long black couch in front of a flat screen hanging on the wall. "I know you didn't decorate this place." You look over at him watching you, "You don't have the taste."

"What does that say about you?" He prowled towards you.

"I am an exception and a sign of good judgment and-!" You squeal as he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder. "Coriolanus Snow!" It's not strong at all as you laugh towards the end.

He walks down a dark hall and into an even darker room before you're falling backwards into softness; his bed. "You're a pest is what you are, and a sure sign of poor judgement." 

"How so?" He climbs over your body, hands grabbing onto your waist. The light from the hallway spills into the room illuminating the side of him.

His lips hover over your neck, linger along your jaw as you barely feel the brush of his lips on your skin. "Cruel, wicked curse of mine." You need to stop him, ask him what he means because he had said that before about you but this time he wasn't obliterated. His drags his teeth along your jaw and you forget all about it, forget about everything.

He rewrites history as he kisses down your neck, tongue dragging across your carotid, lingering to feel the increase in your pulse. He smiles against the sharp intake of breath as his hand slides the strap of your dress off of your shoulder. You're happy you didn't drink, happy you could feel every nerve fraying under his touch, happy you'll remember every groove of him. He moves his head upward until his lips connect with yours and you're tracing the fabric of his shirt as his tongue delved into your mouth, slowly, exploratory, running over teeth, sucking on your bottom lip as your knees come up around him. "Coriolanus." You breathed.

He groaned pressing his forehead into yours, "Don't say it like that." He kisses your bottom lip palming your breast. "I'm holding on by a thread."

You cup his face, "Don't hold back." You brush a kiss along his jaw, "Please."

It snaps and he's slithering down your body, pushing your dress up around your waist as he yanks your underwear off. He pauses, on his knees in front of you as he stares down at your bare cunt, as he admires it. "All of this," His eyelids are hooded with lust as he drags his fingers through your soaked folds. "Just from kissing me." He pushes his fingers inside and you moan out into his bedroom. He shoves your thigh down as he curls his fingers inside of you rubbing against a sweet spot that has you fisting his sheets. "All for me." He growls down at you composure long forgotten into the past.

"Fuck," You hiss out as he dips down and runs his tongue along your clit. God fucking dammit you hated him for being so good at this as his tongue swirls around your clit, you hated yourself more for waiting so long to indulge in him, let him indulge in you. His fingers keep pumping in and out of you as his mouth devours your clit making you see stars behind your squeezed eyes. 

You're panting, you're grabbing onto his hair, you're pushing your hips up into his face more as he presses down hard, moving his hand faster. You bite down on your cheek as the orgasm washes over you with the tiniest whimper slipping through gritted teeth. He's still going, lapping you up, running his tongue along your entrance like a man starved. When you finally think you've had enough he pulls back and stands up. 

You don't even ask as you hear his belt come off, the rustle of clothing falling to the ground. He's crawling back over you, reaching behind your back to unzip your dress. He helps you tug it over your head until you're both bare, both equals.

"This okay?" He asks running his hand along your rib, thumb brushing the side of your breast.

"Yes." You whisper.

His hand shifts, thumb passing over your perked nipple. "What do you want?" He rolls your nipple between fingers kneading your breast. "What do you want kitten?"

You, Coriolanus, you.

But instead you whisper, "Fuck me."

Your head hits his pillows as his hand moves between your bodies, as he lines himself up with your wet entrance. You knew there was never any coming back from this, so you wrap your hands around his sides as he pushes inside of you.

You gasp into his mouth as he slowly pushed in deeper and deeper, your cunt throbbing around every glorious inch of him, until he finally stops, until he's buried inside of you. He's still for a moment, forehead against yours and he takes a breath like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. 

Then he pulls back to slam back into you again and again and again until he's moving at a pace that has you moaning pathetically for him. You drag your nails down his back as legs wrap around him tighter to pull him even deeper. He dips down sucking and biting along your neck as he thrust in and out of you, as you beg him for more, as he takes you to planes you'd never thought you'd see. You tilt your hips, letting his cock slide along a delicious spot. "Is it as good as you imagined?" He chuckles against your neck.

"I di-didn't."

"Don't lie." He sinks his teeth into your neck, lapping up the small wound. "I know you touched yourself to wet dreams of me."

You try to look at him as your face burns. "How do you know?"

He smirks, "Because I did it too." You moan loudly as his fingers find your clit, as he presses down while he pounds into you. "Cum for me kitten." He pants into your ear, "Cum for me baby girl."

You scream his name as you orgasm, as your body clamps down around him in one final blow of pleasure. Your head is half sideways in his pillows, feet grasping for purchase in sheets and skin, whining out for him. He cums soon after, stuttering slightly before spilling inside of you with a hard thrust.

He stayed seated inside you, head resting in the nap of your neck while you mindlessly run fingers through his hair. You search for regret, you search for apprehension, but you just feel content bliss.

You stare up at the ceiling, "You said that before." His head perks up at the sound of your voice. "That night you showed up wasted. You said 'cruel, wicked curse of mine.'"

"Oh."

"What does it mean?" You wince as he pulls out of you suddenly extremely empty without him there.

He rolls to his side next to you, "It doesn't matter."

"Why?" You glance up at him propped up onto his elbow.

"Because it doesn't." He pushes stray hair off your face. "I hated that I thought of you so often; I viewed it as a horrible curse that plagued my mind." He tucked a piece behind your ear, "But maybe it's not."

He sat up and moved off the bed, so you sat up as well. "When will you know?"

He shrugged as he picked up his clothes, "When does anyone know."

You get cleaned up, slipping on one of his t-shirts for bed and meandering around his room snooping when you know you shouldn't. You go to his desk the very same book you had been reading sitting there open; highlighted and annotated with various colors and scribbled words. The smile comes involuntarily as you trace his handwriting. It falls as quickly as it came as the picture comes in sight again. You pick up the small frame on his desk; a picture of him and Sejanus from school. You trace his face, the ambition deep in his eyes even then. "Curiosity kitten." You jump scrambling to put the frame back whirling on him standing in the doorway. He chuckles walking forward, "It's fine. It's just a picture."

"Do you miss him?" The question slips out of loose lips.

He eyed the picture. "Of course."

"Can I ask?" You voice was barely audible. "What happened that night?" You were ready for him to dismiss you, yell even, change the subject away from the death of his friend. He took in a breath before he began speaking.

"It was my fault. We snuck out, drunk after a graduation party, had a run in with one of Sejanus's old buddies from where he used to live. I started spewing out bullshit, one thing led to another and it turned into a big fight. He-Marcus knocked me out and when I woke up Sejanus was dead." He sniffed, "They tried to press charges but Marcus ran when they went after him." His fingers traced down the skin of your arm. "I'm not sure if they blamed me, but I blamed myself, sent myself away to military camp for some form of punishment, but uh..." He paused and you wanted him to stop because you knew it was hard, you didn't want to hear how badly his world had broken. "He wanted me back, said I was like a son to him too and they couldn't lose another one. They payed for this," He waved around to the dark room. "The car, my school, it was supposed to be..."

"Coryo." You squeezed back the tears. "I-I'm so sorry. I didn't...I'm sorry. It's not your fault." He didn't answer, he didn't believe you. "I wish..."

He darkly chuckled. "That you could have been there for me? You hated me." He sighed, "I've made my peace with it, no use trying to change it."

"I'm sorry." You whisper even if it didn't matter. "I've been taking all my anger for him, my father, out on you." You stare up at him, "It's blinded me for too long."

He doesn't say anything back, just tugs you back towards his bed to crawl under the blankets together. He's probably heard it all when it comes to Sejanus's death so you don't bother with over flowered sympathies, instead you tuck yourself into his chest and let his arms hold onto you tight. "Your question." Your ears perked up, heart pounding. "This isn't a game, you're not a game to me." You want to feel relief, but after everything you just feel more confused, by him, by yourself. "What did you think of it?" He mumbled into your hair and you're not sure what he's talking about until he adds, "The book."

You smile against his skin, "It was a bit pretentious." You pull back to peek up at him, "Why are you reading it again?"

He smirked to himself running a hand down your spine like you were a novel as well, "Boredom but now I must understand your analysis of pretentious."

Perhaps winning wasn't needed, maybe this was enough for you, or maybe that meant you were already losing.

next chapter coming soon!!