#the art was simply too beautiful. i had to do something with the idea when it popped into my head

[sleepy-steve]

Ok even though I am insanely interested in ALL of your WIPs, I'll start with a request for your Siren AU!

Please and thaaaank you 💖🥺

from the wip title game!!

aaa this one has been sitting in my drive for Ages now!! i haven't looked at it in a while but it's inspired by this beautiful art by resande.

it's set post-s3 and canon divergent, where steve's quiet spot is at lover's lake and there's a mysterious creature living in the lake... 😈

snippet below!!

The quiet spot that was currently being ruined by a bunch of basketball players with hero complexes. Just as Steve was wishing they’d leave soon so he wouldn’t have to talk to them, an aggressive splash came from nearby, sending droplets of water across Steve’s bare chest. Too big of a splash for a fish, surely. “What the hell…?” Steve muttered to himself, sitting up and leaning over the edge of the boat. The glare of the setting sun made him squint as he looked at the unusually choppy surface of the water. A strange kind of ripple was headed toward his—technically Rick’s—boat, and what kind of creature would make ripples like that? Steve’s frown deepened as he tried to look into the black depths, peering further over the edge of the boat.  Steve heard the loud thwack against the side of the boat before tumbling face-first into the water. When he’d watched Jaws some years ago, he wondered what it would have been like to have a boat smacked around by a huge shark that wanted to eat him, and now he figured it felt just like this. Fear seized him as the chilly water surrounded his body, because what the hell was in this lake that was big enough to push him overboard? Sharks didn’t live in lakes—at least to his knowledge—so he could rule that out for now. It took him a few moments to orient himself, to work out which way was up, before he started moving himself toward the surface. As his arms pushed through the water, he could have sworn he felt something soft wrap around his hand and then fall away. Some kind of plant? He thought briefly. But it didn’t have the slimy quality he expected from lake plants. He didn’t spend much time thinking about it, as he finally broke through the surface of the water, taking a huge inhale. 

[aleksatia]

What would the LaDS do if MC just had enough of the whole secret keeping/manipulation/stalking/controlling behavior and ran away? Like she made sure all of the ways they're keeping tabs on her don't work anymore, secretly leaves to live elsewhere, and never comes back? Like she's GONE gone and can't be found.

Thanks so much for the question and the idea — it made me spiral beautifully into angst territory. 🖤 At first glance, this is how I imagine things would unfold in my headcanon.

Every LaDS reacts differently, and honestly… some of them never really recover. I poured my heart into each of their perspectives, so if you see it another way, I’d love to hear your take. Always open to different interpretations — especially when it comes to pain like this. 😌✨

UPD: Requested continuation is here:

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne (coming soon) | Xavier (coming soon)

🦅 Sylus

(He doesn’t lose things. He takes, he keeps. But this—this is loss. A slow-rotting, world-tilting, soul-gnawing kind of loss.)

The Moment It Hits

It’s a shift in the air. An emptiness where something vital used to be. His breath catches, fingers tightening around the crystal glass of whiskey.

He calls you. Nothing.

He tracks you. Nothing.

He tears the city apart—contacts, satellites, underground networks. Nothing.

Then it hits. You’re not hiding. You’re beyond reach.

Does He Blame Himself?

At first, no. You’re just being difficult. Testing limits. He trained you too well in the game of power.

Then the days stretch. The silence rots in his gut.

Maybe he pushed too far. Held too tight. Loved too hard.

But if he had been softer, would you still be here? No. You were always going to run. He just never thought you’d win.

First Day

He sits in his study, staring at the last glass you touched. His fingers hover over the rim, but he doesn’t pick it up.

The Nest is in chaos, men scrambling for orders, but he says nothing. Just listens to the empty resonance where you used to be.

He doesn’t sleep. He barely moves. And when dawn breaks, he realizes—you’re still gone.

First Week

The silence is unbearable.

He smashes a mirror. Then a chair. Then an entire fucking room. But the noise doesn’t bring you back.

Music. That’s the answer. The organ swells under his fingers, but the sound doesn’t fill the void. It just makes it worse. The walls of his mansion tremble with the weight of his grief, but no one dares to stop him.

The first time he says Kitten, it’s barely a whisper. The second time, it’s a growl. The third—it’s a plea.

First Month

He kills a man just for saying your name. He kills another for looking at him wrong.

The city learns to be silent.

The organ plays every night, each melody heavier, darker—until one evening, he simply stops. Because music is agony now.

He thinks he hears you sometimes. A shift of fabric. A sharp inhale. But he turns, and there’s only the crushing weight of absence.

Five Years

People say he’s gone mad. That he talks to ghosts. That he’s lost his edge.

They don’t understand. He hasn’t lost it. He just has nothing left to prove.

He still feels you. Somewhere distant. Beyond his reach but never truly gone.

New Relationships? Don’t be ridiculous. He fucks, maybe. But no one’s ever allowed to touch his soul again.

He doesn’t chase anymore. Because one day, the universe will break in just the right way, and you’ll be within reach again.

And when that day comes—you’re not running anymore.

🌊 Rafayel

(He always smiled through pain. Painted beauty over grief. But when you disappeared, not even art could hide the collapse.)

The Moment It Hits

He waits three days before admitting to himself that you're really gone. Not late. Not upset. Gone.

Your studio key still sits on the shelf. The mug you always used — untouched. He tries calling. Messaging. Pretends he's not panicking.

Then he checks every port, every passage, every gallery, every alleyway where your soul might've left a trace.

You’ve vanished. And he knows—you didn’t want to be found.

Does He Blame Himself?

Every minute.

He retraces every word, every joke, every lingering glance he didn’t take seriously enough.

Maybe he should’ve said it clearer. Or sooner. Or not at all.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried so hard to keep it light, you would’ve known how deep he really felt.

First Day

He draws you. Over and over. Not from memory — from guilt.

He tries to remember how your mouth looked when you smiled through frustration. How your eyes dimmed when you thought he wasn’t watching.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep. Paints until his fingers bleed.

First Week

He keeps thinking he hears your voice in the wind. That you're just out of frame.

Sits by the harbor, waiting for a boat that never comes.

Finishes a canvas. Stares at it for an hour. Then sets it on fire.

Tells himself he’s fine. He lies beautifully.

First Month

People ask where you are. He says you're traveling. Or healing. Or chasing a dream.

But the gallery knows — there’s a new collection in the works. All unnamed. All in shades of drowning.

The walls of his home are covered in your outlines. He keeps the lights low. Pretends it’s intimacy, not absence.

The world starts to lose its color. For a man who once saw millions of shades, everything dulls. Muted. Grey.

He stops using yellow entirely.

First Year

He vanishes beneath the sea. A whole year. Gone.

They say he swam through old ruins, sang to coral reefs that didn’t sing back.

He gathers shells—perfect, fragile—and crushes them into powder, making pigments no one's ever seen.

But they all come out grey.

When he finally resurfaces, his skin is colder. His voice is softer. His art—wordless grief on stretched canvas.

When asked what inspired them, he says: “Nothing. She’s not mine anymore.”

And when no one’s looking, he traces your initials into wet paint. Every time.

Five Years

He exhibits a piece called "When Silence Learned to Scream." It sells for millions. He doesn’t show up to the opening.

He no longer draws faces. Only fragments—lips that look like yours, fingers that used to hold his brush.

He’s touched people. Kissed some. Loved none.

He still sets a second cup of coffee. Still leaves the balcony door unlocked. Just in case.

The color never comes back. He just learns to fake it.

He doesn’t wait. He just… exists beside the ghost of you.

✈️ Caleb

(You were the only thing that made him feel human. Now, he’s just another machine built for war—functional, efficient, and dead inside.)

The Moment It Hits

He notices the silence first.

Your messages stop. Your routine shifts. Something’s off, but he tells himself you just need space. You’ve always needed space.

He checks on you through the usual systems—his eyes, the satellites, the passive trackers he swore weren’t invasive, just precautionary.

Nothing. Not disabled. Not broken. Gone.

His knees hit the floor before he can stop them. His hand wraps around the metal tag you gave him—the one he swore never to take off. It digs into his palm so hard it leaves a mark.

Does He Blame Himself?

He doesn’t even need to ask. Of course, it’s his fault.

Maybe if he had held you a little looser, if he had let you breathe, if he hadn’t always been watching, waiting, bracing for the day you’d run.

Maybe if he had been less Caleb and more someone you could love without suffocating.

But it’s too late now.

First Day

His body stops feeling like his own. Like his mechanical arm, the rest of him loses sensation.

He moves, eats, speaks, salutes—out of habit, not need.

But sometimes, when no one is watching, the pain surfaces.

And when it does, it swallows him whole.

First Week

He takes every mission no one else wants. The more dangerous, the better.

Tells himself he’s just doing his job, but deep down, he’s testing fate. Daring it to take him.

It never does.

He always comes back. And he hates it.

First Month

He stops cooking. No more spices, no more warmth, no more shared meals.

Only bland, military rations. Fuel, not food.

He doesn’t touch your photo albums, but he doesn’t throw them away either.

Let them rot with him.

First Year

He hasn’t eaten apples since the day you left.

Too sweet. Too alive. Too much like you.

The dog tag you gave him is still around his neck. A brand. A wound. A curse.

He tries. Once. With a woman from the med bay. She was kind. Gentle.

But when she reached for his hand—his jaw locked, his throat closed, his stomach churned.

He excused himself. Never tried again.

Five Years

His name is legendary. His rank? Higher than anyone imagined.

The man who never dies. The ghost pilot. The one who walks away from wreckage without a scratch.

He used to hate attention, but now? Now his inaccessibility makes women chase him more. He lets them. But never sees their faces. Never lets them touch his scars. Never lets them hold him the way you used to.

Because pain is all he has left of you. And he’s not ready to let it go.

🧊 Zayne

(Some men burn in their grief. Some men drown in it. Zayne? He freezes. The world still turns, the city still moves, and he walks through it like a ghost wearing a doctor’s coat. Precise. Detached. Functioning. But never living.)

The Moment It Hits

He finds out through absence, not presence.

You were always predictable in small ways. The way you fidgeted when nervous. The way you always texted before vanishing for a few hours. The way you left traces of yourself in his space, even when you didn’t mean to.

But one day, all of it stops.

Your number disconnects. Your bank account closes. The security cameras catch nothing. Too clean. Too final.

You didn’t just leave. You erased yourself.

Does He Blame Himself?

No. Not at first.

Because blaming himself would mean accepting that he miscalculated, and he does not make mistakes.

He spends months analyzing. Running simulations. Mapping out every logical reason why you left.

None of them make sense.

Then, one night, while sitting alone in his office, he makes the mistake of asking himself the one question he’s been avoiding—

What if it wasn’t logic? What if it was just pain?

That’s the first time he doesn’t sleep.

First Day

The hospital is quiet. Too quiet.

He operates. He consults. He performs at peak efficiency because the alternative is stopping, and stopping means thinking.

At the end of the day, he unlocks his apartment and stares at the empty space where your things used to be.

He stands there.

Just stands there.

First Week

His routine doesn’t break. Not once.

5 AM runs. 12-hour shifts. Research until 2 AM.

No deviations. Because deviations lead to cracks.

The first time someone mentions your name, his scalpel slips.

It never happens again.

First Month

He starts closing doors he once left open.

Stops looking at his phone. Stops checking messages.

Your coffee order is deleted from his usual café’s system.

He doesn’t erase you. That would be emotional.

He simply moves forward.

First Year

He doesn’t say your name anymore.

When people ask, he says you’re gone. No details. No elaboration.

But his residents whisper.

How their attending stopped smiling. How he works more than sleeps. How his precision became ruthless.

They never mention the fact that he never, ever, takes cases where patients have your eye color.

Five Years

The rumors are true. He has a daughter.

No one knows the mother. No one dares ask.

He never talks about it, never brings her to the hospital, but he leaves every shift at exactly the same time—always back before she falls asleep.

He teaches her to count constellations on the ceiling. Reads her anatomy books like fairy tales.

She has your eyes. People notice. Whisper. But no one asks.

And when she laughs—it’s a sound that shatters something in him.

When she asks, “Was Mommy like me?” He pauses. Looks at her. Then, softly: "She was... the part of you I’ll never be able to explain."

He never married. Never will.

And sometimes, when the room is too quiet, and she’s asleep in his arms—he looks at her face and wonders if loving someone this much was ever ethical.

🌌 Xavier

(He doesn’t fall apart. He folds in. Quietly. Gracefully. Like a dying star still casting light no one realizes is already gone.)

The Moment It Hits

It starts with your resignation.

No dramatic exit. No farewell. Just one line in the system: “Resigned. No forwarding information.”

You, who lived for the Hunt, for duty. You, who said this was everything.

He tries to message. Silence.

Asks around. Friends. Colleagues. Command. They say you just… vanished.

Then one day, he walks past your old apartment—someone else lives there.

Your scent, your presence, your trace in the universe—gone.

Does He Blame Himself?

He tries not to.

Tells himself you were always drifting, always meant to disappear.

But the silence between you, the things he never said— “Stay. I need you.” “I was never calm, I just didn’t know how to show it.”

They echo in his mind louder than any explosion.

He doesn’t hate himself. But he never forgives.

First Day

He stays on duty longer than needed.

Doesn’t take off his coat. Doesn’t go home.

Doesn’t even speak, unless the mission demands it.

At night, he stares at the ceiling and wonders if you’re staring at the same stars.

First Week

He starts bounty hunting again. Harder. Deeper into uncharted zones.

He sleeps more—but worse. Dreams flicker like static.

When he returns, they say he’s become faster. Colder. Lethal.

No one dares ask why.

First Month

He stops wearing light colors.

White fades into grey. Grey fades into black.

He says nothing about the change.

But those who know him realize: he’s mourning.

And it’s a mourning that will never end.

First Year

Women try. Of course they do.

He’s distant. Beautiful. Untouchable.

He lets a few in—physically. But only when the emptiness claws too loudly.

He never sees their faces. Never lets them stay the night.

One once whispered, “I could love you, if you let me.” He didn’t respond. Just walked away.

Because you never had to ask. You already did.

Five Years

He’s still hunting. Still tracking the lost, the dangerous, the damned.

He walks through warzones like a shadow of starlight.

No one has seen him in white in years.

They call him a myth. A legend. A ghost.

But he’s just a man who would trade eternity for one more day with you.

Just one day.

Just once—to see your face again.

[unstable-samurai]

Instructions

Irene x Male Reader

word count: 3.2K

—

You drive up to Irene's mansion, where every inch of the lawn looks meticulously manicured, and the fountain at the entrance shoots water in a pattern that can only be described as "obscenely expensive." You still can't believe you were hired to train a woman who doesn't seem to need a single day in the gym, but money is money, right?

You step out of the car and walk to the front door, a massive wooden structure that probably weighs more than your car. Before you have the chance to knock, the door opens as if the house has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Irene appears, and the first thing you think is that the photos simply don't do her justice.

She's like an upgraded version of a classic diva, someone with a beauty that would be admired in any era of humanity, now enhanced by all the improvements time could offer. Black hair cascading in soft waves, feline eyes that devour you in a fraction of a second, and a posture that makes you wonder if you're standing before a queen or a trap disguised as a woman.

"Oh, I was excited to finally meet my personal trainer," she says.

"Ms. Irene," you reply, offering your hand in a gesture that feels outdated in her presence. Her hand is soft and firm, and the grip is just enough to make you feel that you are, without a doubt, in foreign territory.

"Come on, I'll show you the house," she says, turning quickly without waiting for a response. You follow her, walking through a house that is a maze of marble, stainless steel, and glass. Every piece of art on the walls screams in a flamboyant way, "I have more money than you can imagine," and the faint scent of fresh flowers lingers in the air, as if even the aroma of the house was custom-made.

"This here is the living room," she says, passing through a room larger than your entire apartment, and you pretend not to be impressed. "And over there is the kitchen. You might need something to drink after the workouts. Or during, if I decide to tire you out too much."

She smiles again, and this time you can’t help but smile back, with that kind of irony that only arises when you know you're in trouble.

"This is the bedroom," she says, stopping in front of a closed door. You feel the tension rise a bit, and she notices it. "Not that you’ll need it, but I thought you'd like to know where it is." She opens the door and reveals a room that looks like it came straight out of a decor magazine: an immense bed, silk sheets, and a view of the garden that seems hand-painted.

"Nice place," you say, more out of politeness than anything else.

"Thank you. Now, the gym," she says, as if this was the true purpose of the entire visit. She leads you to a room where all the exercise machines seem to shine with newness. "I need to stay in shape, after all," she says, leaning casually on a treadmill, her posture suggesting that the idea of sweat is something completely alien.

"Shall we begin, then?" you ask, already pulling out the water bottle from your bag, trying to appear professional.

You decide to start the session with the basics, which seems like the best approach when dealing with someone whose idea of physical effort probably consists of reaching for the remote control.

"So, Irene, have you trained before?" you ask, but in your mind, she doesn’t exactly look like the type who frequents a gym.

She smiles, that smile you're already beginning to associate with trouble. "Only if you count marathon shopping trips and half-hour Pilates sessions with my instructor who told me to breathe deeply and think of happy places. Does that count?"

You smile back. "Well, let's start with something simple. A warm-up. Just to prepare the muscles."

"Oh, I love a good warm-up," she replies.

You guide her through some basic stretches, and of course, she starts asking for help. "Can you show me how to do this one? I've always had trouble with it," she says while trying to touch her toes.

You approach, placing your hands on her waist to guide her, trying to ignore the fact that she’s perfumed for a workout. "Like this, push a little further forward... That’s it."

She lets out a soft sigh, almost inaudible, but you notice. "I don't think I've ever had someone help me like this," she says, making you realize that "help" has multiple connotations for her.

"Practice makes perfect," you respond, trying to stay focused.

After the warm-up, you lead her to the weight machines. "Let's start with something simple, like the leg extension machine. This will work your quadriceps."

She looks at the machine as if it were some kind of medieval torture device. "Quadriceps... Right. And this does what exactly? Makes me gain muscles?"

"Exactly. You sit here, adjust the weight, and lift your legs to extend the knee. It’s great for toning the thighs."

She sits down, but instead of following your instructions, she just pretends to be confused. "I don't think I'm getting it. Can you show me again?"

You lean in to help her adjust the position of her legs, and you feel her gaze fixed on you. "Like this? Is it good now?" she asks, her voice softer than it should be for a simple exercise instruction.

"Yes, it's perfect," you reply.

"So, have you been training for a long time?" she asks as you guide her through the exercise. "It’s noticeable, you know... by your physique, the way you explain…"

"I’ve been training for a few years. It’s a passion of mine."

"Passion? Interesting," she says. "And are you single? Or is there someone waiting for you at home after you spend the day helping women like me stay in shape?"

You hesitate, realizing that the conversation is veering off course.

"I'm single. I guess my work takes up most of my time. What about you? You told me your husband is always traveling, right?"

"He's away most of the time, yes. His work is... demanding. But luckily, I know how to take care of myself," she says, lifting her legs on the machine with a little more enthusiasm. When Irene was done, she paused to drink water, then walked between the machines until she chose the next one. “Hey, help me here. I don't want to mess up the movement, I need your guidance." She says, standing in front of the lat pulldown machine.

"Oh, great. This one’s for your back and shoulders," you explain, adjusting the weight. "You hold here, pull the bar down, and then release slowly, feeling the resistance."

She looks at the machine as if it were an abstract art piece.

"Looks complicated. Show me how it's done?"

You demonstrate the movement, feeling her eyes on every motion of your body. When you finish, she positions herself, but instead of pulling the bar, she holds it for a second, looking at you with a false expression of confusion. "I think I’m not doing it right. Can you guide me?"

You approach again, this time placing your hands on her arms, helping her execute the movement. "Like this," you say, your voice a little lower. "Pull with your back muscles, not just your arms."

"Since you’ve been working out for a long time, you must be very strong," she comments as she pulls the bar, her muscles tensing softly under your hands. "And you must be used to lifting heavy, right?"

"It depends on the workout," you respond, trying to ignore the fact that every word she says seems to have a double meaning. "But it’s always good to vary, to do a bit of everything."

"So, how many of these should I do?" she asks, as if she’s genuinely interested in the answer, but her eyes say something else.

"Let's do three sets of twelve reps," you reply, trying to keep a professional tone. She does the first set with you close by, watching every movement, and then asks for your help with the next machine.

The dynamic continues until, by the end of the workout, she’s sweating, but in a way that looks more like a healthy glow than discomfort. She stretches, her muscles relaxing, and looks at you with that same smile that started everything. "I think you made me work pretty hard today. Maybe I’ll need a massage afterward," she says, her tone provocative.

You smile, unsure whether to take her seriously or laugh. "Massages aren’t part of the package, but we can talk about a relaxation stretch."

"We’ll see," she says, stepping closer with that smile that always precedes trouble, the kind you should have learned to avoid. “It seems like I’m the only one sweating here,” she says, with a sweetness that’s pure venom, before leaning in and, without warning, licking your cheek.

You take a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. "Ms. Irene, what is this?!"

"I told you, you’re not very sweaty. And I licked you to prove it," she responds with the casualness of someone asking the time.

"But what the hell does that mean? I came here to work—"

"And you’ll get paid at the end, of course!" she interrupts, her smile widening in a way that only makes things worse. “I just want… to have a little fun with you. Include that in the deal. You could earn a bonus for it, if you’d like.”

She takes another step forward.

“Irene, you’re married. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not a good idea.”

“No one needs to know, sweetheart,” she whispers, as if it were a secret you truly wanted to hear. “You’re too young to be so worried about life.”

You try to speak, but the words come out jumbled, as if your mouth forgot how to work.

“I-I… This isn’t right.”

She laughs, a sound that makes you feel like a mischievous boy caught in the act. “I bet I’ll make you change your mind once you see what you’re missing.” With a quick, decisive movement, she removes her top, revealing small, pale, perfect, and provocative breasts. Her smile widens, and you feel your face flush with heat. Worse than that—you feel your cock pulse in your pants.

“What do you think?” she asks, each word dripping with irony and certainty.

“Cover yourself, please!” Your voice comes out louder than you intended, but the plea is almost pathetic.

“Oh, don’t play the saint with me,” she retorts, suddenly stepping closer, grabbing your hand with firm resolve and placing it on her breast. The touch is warm and soft. You swallow hard, but it feels like the lump in your throat is stuck there for good. And the worst part? You can’t pull your hand away.

“What do you think? My boobs are small, but they fit perfectly in your mouth,” she teases, her voice lower, more intense.

“This isn’t right, Ms. Irene…” you try, but your resistance is fragile.

“Shh! Just call me Irene,” she orders, and before you can protest again, she seals any chance of escape with a kiss—warm and commanding, as if she already knew you wouldn’t say no.

Before you could even process what was happening, Irene had already wrapped her hand around your cock. With force. With a desire that you felt reverberate down your spine. “You’re so hard for me,” she whispers, her lips pulling away from yours, but the heat of her proximity still clinging to your skin.

“Irene…” you murmur, the name escaping as a whisper, almost a plea, but for what? For her to stop or to keep going?

“That’s right,” she continues, giving you no room to regain control. “I want to hear you moan my name while you fuck me good.”

Before you could refuse—or worse, agree—she pulls you toward a weight bench like she’s practiced the move a thousand times. It’s astonishing how a woman so small, so delicate, can exert such absolute control over you. You feel like a toy in her hands, powerless to resist.

You take off your shirt while she kneels to untie your shoes, making sure every detail is perfect, that you’re comfortable—but not for you, for her. When she asks you to take off the rest, you comply without question, feeling the cool air caress your exposed skin. She compliments your physique, her words sliding over your skin like hot oil. Her hands roam over your muscles, her fingers tracing the contours of your biceps.

“You’re so hot,” she murmurs, kissing your chest, her lips warm and soft. The excitement builds within you, uncontrollable, wild.

You sit back down on the bench, Irene kneels between your legs, her smile a mix of wickedness and pure desire. She takes your cock with a confidence that makes you hold your breath, her touch firm, almost possessive. “Wow… you’re much bigger and thicker than my husband,” she murmurs, licking the tip, teasing, while her eyes remain fixed on yours. “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have something like this… I’m going to love gagging on this cock.”

She slowly opens her mouth, her lips stretching around the head of your cock, and the sensation is mind-blowing. You watch, mesmerized, as she starts to take you in, inch by inch, until her mouth is completely full. “Oh, yes,” she mumbles with difficulty, her words muffled as she struggles to accommodate your size.

She begins to move her head up and down, faster and faster, the wet, warm sound of her mouth creating a steady rhythm. Her small mouth adjusts to your cock, fighting the instinct to pull away, but instead, she pushes forward, making it clear she wants more.

The sight of her, drowning on your cock, is almost unbearably arousing. You can’t resist, your hands go to her hair, pulling to gain more control. With a decisive move, you push deeper into her throat, and the muffled moan she lets out is a mix of pleasure and challenge. “Just like that,” she moans, tears welling in her eyes from pleasure and effort, but with no intention of stopping. She wants this as much as you do.

You feel her throat tightening around your cock, each movement sending waves of pleasure through you as she takes you as deep as she can, not giving up even when her air becomes scarce. The mix of pain and pleasure on her face only fuels your desire further, and you continue, deeper and deeper, until she finally has to stop to breathe, gasping, but with a satisfied, lascivious smile on her face.

Irene stands up, her gaze burning with a desire that mirrors your own. She starts to take off her leggings, revealing she’s not wearing any panties. The sight of her like this, naked and ready, is enough to take your breath away.

Without a second thought, you grab her firmly, your hands holding her slim waist as you lift her off the ground with an ease you didn’t even know you had. Irene lets out a low, sensual moan as she wraps her legs around you, locking her ankles behind your back, pulling the two of you even closer. With a decisive movement, you press her against the nearest wall, the cold concrete contrasting with the growing heat between you.

“Ohhh, yes,” she moans as you penetrate her for the first time, her head falling back, hitting the wall, but she doesn’t seem to care. “You’re so thick!”

With each thrust, Irene responds with louder, more desperate moans. “Just like that, baby… more, please, more!” Her voice is a mix of command and plea, her nails digging into your shoulders, pulling you closer, as if she wants to merge with you.

“That’s it! Oh, God! You fuck me better than my husband!”

That somehow spurs you on, every movement becoming deeper, stronger, as if you’re trying to shove every inch of yourself into her. Irene bites her lip, her face in pure pleasure, and then she starts babbling, as if facial expressions weren’t enough to describe what she’s feeling. “Yes… fuck me… fuck me hard… do what my husband never could…”

But she’s not the only one on the edge. The heat of her body, the almost painful tightness around your cock, every moan and sigh, it all makes you want more, makes you lose control.

After what feels like both an eternity and an instant, you feel like you need more. With a quick move, you pull away from the wall and carry her to the bench. Irene drops to the floor, turns around, positioning herself on all fours while you sit down. She positions herself, slowly lowering onto your cock, moaning as she feels you stretch inside her, filling every inch.

She leans back against you, her head resting on your shoulder, her body sinking even further into your lap. Your hands immediately move to her small breasts, squeezing them, while your lips find her delicate neck, biting and sucking the soft skin. Irene lets out a loud moan, the sound of pure satisfaction, and arches her body, pushing herself even deeper.

“Yes… leave a mark… mark that you were here… that you fucked me like no one ever has,” she pleads, her words breathless, interrupted by moans that only grow louder as you squeeze and thrust into her.

You don’t hesitate, biting harder, leaving a visible mark on her neck, a testament to what’s happening. Irene shudders in response, her pussy tightening even more around you, each of her movements sending waves of pleasure through you, making you forget any shred of morality. She moves against you, her rhythm frantic, the need for more, always more, evident in every gesture.

“Yes… yes, baby… fuck me until I can’t take it anymore,” she moans, her hands reaching back, grabbing your neck, pulling you closer as she continues to move, to lose herself in the sensation.

Irene, breathless, leans in closer, and with a soft voice, almost a whisper, says in your ear, “I want you to fuck my tight ass.”

Her words are like a match striking the box, igniting something fierce within you. Irene rises off your lap and walks to a corner of the gym, where she grabs a bottle of lube. She returns with a mischievous smile, shaking the bottle in the air. “I brought this just for this moment,” she says.

“You had this in mind from the start, didn’t you?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Irene doesn’t bother replying. Instead, she kisses you before lying down on the padded floor, her pale skin contrasting with the dark material, her body exposed in a posture of pure submission, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they want. “Come here, you naughty boy,” she calls, her voice like poisoned honey.

You kneel beside her, your hands trembling with desire as you reach for the lube. Irene smiles at you, then gets on all fours and arches her back. With steady movements, you pour the gel into your palm and begin applying it to her ass, feeling the warm, soft skin under your fingers. Irene lets out a low sigh, closing her eyes, savoring the sensation. "That's it... get me ready, I want to feel every inch of your thick cock inside me."

You don’t waste any time. With one hand, you spread the lube around and inside her ass, your fingers gently penetrating to prepare her. Irene bites her lip, her body slightly writhing, a mix of pleasure and anticipation. "Feels good, keep going... make me ready for you."

When you feel she’s sufficiently lubed, you apply the rest to your cock, rubbing it until it’s fully coated, hard and throbbing.

Irene changes position, lying on her back on the floor. You position yourself between her raised legs, and she looks at you with eyes full of desire. "Come on, don't wait any longer," she begs, her voice low and sweet. You press the tip of your cock against her tight entrance, pushing slowly, feeling the initial resistance. Irene lets out a moan of pain mixed with pleasure, and you keep going, advancing inch by inch, feeling the heat and pressure around you.

"Ahhh… yes," Irene moans, her eyes closed, her hands gripping the padding beneath her as you penetrate her slowly. "It's so big… so tight…"

You keep pushing, feeling her ass open up, millimeter by millimeter, her body adjusting to your size. The heat, the pressure, the sensation of filling her completely is indescribable, and the low moan she lets out only fuels your desire. "Yes, yes, yes! Fuck me deeper," she pleads.

You obey, pushing deeper until you're finally all the way inside her. Irene lets out a muffled moan, a sound of pure satisfaction, her body arching with pleasure. "Yes… like that… don’t stop," she begs, her eyes shining with wild desire. You start to move, slowly at first, savoring every second, every contortion of her body, every moan that escapes her lips.

As you gain rhythm, Irene’s moans grow louder, more desperate. "Yes… fuck my ass… do what I never let my husband do… ahhh… harder… please," she moans, every word an encouragement for you to go deeper, to push both of you to the limit.

And you do, increasing your speed and force, your hands gripping her thighs firmly, guiding each thrust with precision, feeling her body tremble with pleasure until it all comes down to heat, sweat, the pure desire consuming you both.

Irene then begins to tremble, her body stiff with imminent pleasure. She looks at you, her eyes burning with lust and urgency. "Mmm, I’m about to cum, babe… Let’s cum together?" she asks, her voice broken by moans.

You feel her body pulsing around you, each contraction almost pushing you over the edge.

"Do you want to come inside my pussy? Fill it with your cum?"

The desire and madness of the moment take over you. “Can I?” you ask, your voice tense, almost disbelieving.

“Of course you can,” she replies with a wicked smile, "I'm on the pill, darling. I want to feel you unload everything inside me."

With that, you both move into the classic missionary position. Irene spreads her legs and bends them, her feet planted on the floor, while you kneel between her thighs, your cock positioned exactly where she wants it. Irene wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you closer. The warmth and tightness of her pussy confirm your decision: you need to cum inside her.

You start thrusting into her, each stroke deeper and faster than the last. Irene moans loudly, the sound of her moans echoing through the gym. “Ahhh, yes… more… harder…” she screams, her eyes closed in pure ecstasy. “Fuck my pussy… Make me your cum dump.”

You’re on the verge of exploding, your entire body tense with the anticipation of climax. Irene feels it and, between moans, murmurs, “I’m almost there… I’m going to cum…”

“Me too… I’m almost there…” you reply, your breathing fast.

She opens her eyes, her gaze burning with intensity. “Have you ever cum inside a stranger before, huh? Ever filled a married woman with cum, you pervert?” She asks, her words hitting you like a wave of heat.

Those words make you lose control. With one last, powerful thrust, you bury yourself deep inside her, feeling your cum release into the depths of Irene’s pussy. She screams as she cums at the same time, her body writhing beneath you, her legs tightening around your waist.

“Ahhh… I can feel it all… it’s so warm… so good…” Irene moans, her words loaded with pure pleasure, her breathing ragged as she feels every hot stream filling her. You keep moving, even as the orgasm leaves you breathless, prolonging the pleasure for both of you.

When you finally pull away, your cock slipping out, cum begins to slowly drip from her pussy.

Irene smiles, a satisfied and wicked smile, as she looks at you, her breathing still uneven. "That was… exactly what I wanted," she says, her eyes gleaming with contentment, as the cum drips between her thighs, and you watch, fascinated, as she uses her fingers to spread her lips, letting the cum flow freely. She collects some of the semen with a finger and brings it to her mouth, tasting the result of your mix.

Irene kneels beside you and leans in for a deep kiss, her lips warm and moist against yours, while her hands glide over your body, caressing you with a certain tenderness.

“So, handsome, what did you think of the workout?” she asks.

You, still with your body pulsing with residual pleasure, respond with a smile, “I loved it. It was… incredible.”

Irene smiles back. “Good to hear that,” she says, with a note of amusement, “you can consider yourself my official personal trainer now. And the best part, you’re still getting paid for it. Isn’t it the best job in the world?”

You laugh, a mix of incredulity and amusement, realizing that your concept of ‘job’ will never be the same. “So that’s it? Daily sex with a gorgeous woman and I’m going to get paid for it? What are the downsides?”

“There aren’t any. As long as my husband never finds out, of course. But that’s my problem. Your only requirement and concern is to keep me satisfied.”

With that, she gets up nonchalantly, and starts gathering the clothes scattered on the floor.

You also get up, and as you’re dressing, you can’t help but think about the absurdity of the job you’re accepting.

When you’re almost ready to leave, Irene approaches, casually adjusting her hair.

“Don’t forget, tomorrow is training day again,” she says, her voice full of light arrogance. “Same time. Don’t be late. I want more of that… energy,” she adds with a smile.

You nod, laughing to yourself as you try to regain some of your composure.

“Sure, I’ll mark it on the calendar.”

[urdreamydoodles]

Hello! First off, I need to let you know you had made me the happiest person when I found out there was a marvel comic x reader writer and your writing is beautiful! I was wondering if you would write a hc of marvel comic Matt Murdock, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, and Julian Keller (idk if you write for him since he’s formerly x-men) reacting to reader kissing them out of nowhere/when they least expect it. Thank you!

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson & Julian Keller

Reply to anon: I'm a Marvel & DC Comic book fan first and foremost, so I wanted to write for this version of the characters and to be honest, I didn't expect so much love for it...SO I'M EXTREMELY HAPPY to receive your type of message! The headcanons for Matt come right after in the "Marvel Comics Characters" headcanons I will post <3 (Btw, I love Julian)

Logan Howlett

- Logan smells you before he sees you, that familiar, intoxicating scent that always seems to linger in the air long after you’ve left. He barely has time to turn before your lips are on his, searing and unexpected, a wildfire in the dead of winter. His entire body tenses—like something wild, something caged—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he goes utterly still, as if afraid that any movement will wake him from this impossible dream. He has lived lifetimes soaked in blood and regret, but this? This is something he never let himself believe he could have.

- The taste of you is an ache, something he knows will settle into his bones and never leave. His hands twitch at his sides, the animal in him howling to hold, to take, to claim—but you are not something to be taken. And so, he lets you lead. Your lips move against his with the kind of softness he has never known, and his mind screams that this is dangerous. He is dangerous. But then you sigh into him, fingers curling in the worn leather of his jacket, and he thinks—maybe—he could allow himself this one selfish thing.

- When you finally pull away, his breath is unsteady, rough, the remnants of your touch burning through his veins like whiskey. His eyes—dark, stormy, something unspoken lurking beneath them—search your face as if trying to commit every detail to memory. He should say something. Tell you this is a mistake, that he is too old, too broken, too much. But when he sees the way you look at him—like he is not a weapon, not a thing made for war but a man—his throat closes around the words.

- “You got no idea what you’re doin’, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel. And yet, when you smile, soft and knowing, when your fingers trail the faintest touch against his jaw before you step back, he knows you do. You know exactly what you’re doing. And for the first time in a very long time, Logan thinks—maybe—he could let someone love him. Maybe he could love them back.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy never expects to be caught off guard. He is a man who thrives in the game of unpredictability, who lives in the art of mischief and charm, who always has the upper hand. And yet, the moment your lips press against his, he forgets how to breathe. His hands, so used to sleight of hand and stolen treasures, falter at his sides. He could swear his heart stops beating, just for a second, just long enough for the world to tilt beneath his feet. He has been kissed before, a thousand times over, but never like this. Never by you.

- When the initial shock fades, he reacts like a man starved. His fingers find your waist, his body pressing flush against yours as if he could sink into you, disappear into this moment and never return. He tastes of spice and something sweeter, something sinful, and you realize—Remy LeBeau does not simply kiss. He devours. He worships. His lips move with the expertise of a thief, stealing the breath from your lungs, the steadiness from your limbs, and he does it all with a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

- He doesn’t let you pull away easily. Even when you try, his grip lingers, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours like a confession neither of you are ready to speak. His eyes, those crimson-burning embers, flicker over your face with a hunger that has nothing to do with the usual games he plays. “Ma belle,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, like the slow drag of a match before it sparks. “Y’gon’ be the death of me.” And yet, the way he smiles—half-dazed, half-drunk on you—tells you he would not mind dying that way.

- There is something dangerous in the way Remy looks at you now. Not the usual teasing, not the flirtation thrown so easily to the wind, but something deeper. Something reverent. As if he is looking at a gamble worth losing everything for. And as his fingers brush your jaw, tracing the ghost of your touch, you realize—you have just become the only game Remy LeBeau is willing to play for the rest of his life.

Kurt Wagner

- Kurt is not used to being touched so freely. Not like this. Not without hesitation. When your lips meet his, it is as if the world stutters around him, as if time itself takes pause to marvel at the impossible. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp, startled sound, and for the briefest moment, he forgets how to exist. His tail curls behind him in a sharp flick of surprise, and he nearly disappears in a reflex of instinct, but something about the warmth of your hands, the softness of your mouth, keeps him grounded. Keeps him here.

- When he finally gathers the courage to move, it is hesitant, unsure—his fingers hovering at your waist as if afraid to break something sacred. His lips, gentle, trembling with quiet reverence, move against yours like a whispered prayer. You are warmth, light, something divine in his arms, and he drinks you in like salvation. He has dreamt of this—secret, foolish dreams whispered into the lonely nights—but never dared believe it could be real. That you could want this as much as he does.

- When you part, his breath is unsteady, his golden eyes wide with wonder. He stares at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have rewritten the very fabric of his existence with a single touch. His tail coils loosely around your wrist, a subconscious tether, as if to reassure himself that you are real. That this is real. “Mein Herz,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “What have you done to me?” And yet, the way he smiles—soft, awestruck—tells you he never wants to be undone by anyone else but you.

- He does not know how to ask for more. Does not know if he is allowed to. But when you lace your fingers with his, when you press the faintest of kisses to his cheek before stepping back, he knows—he would wait a lifetime for you to do it again. And again. And again.

Scott Summers

- Scott lives by control. He has spent his life suppressing, restraining, calculating every breath, every movement, every word, because one wrong step can mean disaster. But when you kiss him—without warning, without hesitation—every ounce of that control shatters. His entire body stiffens, breath stolen, mind racing with the sheer impossibility of what is happening. He has dreamed of this, a thousand different ways, but none of them prepared him for the reality of your lips against his.

- His hands—gloved, always careful, always distant—hover at your sides, caught between instinct and hesitation. He wants to touch you, wants to pull you closer, but the fear of losing control, of breaking something irreparable, holds him back. And yet, you do not waver. You kiss him like he is not a weapon, like he is not something dangerous, like he is just a man. And for the first time, Scott Summers allows himself to believe it.

- When you finally part, he exhales sharply, as if he has been holding his breath for years. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, and he pushes them up with a shaky hand, his fingers brushing against his lips as if trying to chase the ghost of your touch. “I—” His voice falters, rare uncertainty cracking through his carefully built walls. He swallows hard, eyes hidden but gaze heavy. “I wasn’t expecting that.” But there is something else in his tone, something just shy of desperate. He wasn’t expecting it—but now he wants more.

- You smile, tilting your head, studying him with a knowing softness that makes his stomach twist. “Would you like me to do it again?” The question is playful, teasing, but the heat that flares in his chest is anything but. He swallows down a million responses, a million emotions threatening to spill over, and simply nods. Because yes. Yes, he would. More than anything, he would.

Jean Grey

- Jean has always been attuned to the emotions of others. She feels them like echoes in her own mind, the soft hum of sorrow, the sharp sting of desire, the quiet weight of longing. But when your lips press against hers, she feels nothing but silence—beautiful, breathtaking silence. The world, usually so loud, so overwhelming, fades into something small, something insignificant. There is only the warmth of your mouth, the way your fingers tangle in the red silk of her hair, the way your heartbeat thrums against her own like a perfect melody.

- She gasps against you, not out of shock but something deeper—something fragile. She has lived lifetimes within the span of a single moment, has seen the past, present, and future weave together like a tapestry, but she never saw this. Never saw the way you would tilt the world on its axis with a single touch. Her hands, delicate yet unshakable, find your face, her thumbs tracing the shape of you as if committing you to memory. She knows, in the depths of her soul, that she will never forget this.

- When you finally pull away, she exhales a laugh—soft, breathless, incredulous. Her emerald eyes search yours, bright with something that flutters on the edge of joy and disbelief. “You—” She stops herself, biting her lip as if savoring the taste of you, as if reluctant to let it go. And then she shakes her head, a slow, knowing smile curling her lips. “You really are full of surprises.” There is a lightness in her tone, but beneath it, something deeper lingers. Something that tells you she does not want this to be a singular moment.

- And then, before you can respond, she leans in—this time, she is the one to steal the air from your lungs. The kiss is softer now, slower, but no less consuming. When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own. “I could get used to that,” she murmurs, voice warm as sunlight. And in the way she lingers, in the way she stays close, you know—she already has.

Ororo Munroe

- Ororo is a goddess, a tempest, a force of nature so powerful the very skies bend to her will. And yet, when you kiss her, she is caught in a storm she cannot control. Her breath catches, her usually poised frame stiffening for the briefest of moments as your lips mold against hers. She has always been the eye of the hurricane, calm amidst chaos, but now, she is swept away in a current she never anticipated.

- Her hands hover at your sides, unsure, not out of reluctance but reverence. To be loved by Ororo Munroe is to be touched by the divine, but for the first time, she does not feel like a goddess—she feels human. She feels the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers brush against her cheek, the way your lips move with something so tender it unravels her. The storm within her does not rage—it settles, it quiets, it softens into something resembling peace.

- When you finally part, her white lashes flutter against her cheeks, her breath uneven, her hands finally finding your waist as if to ground herself. She looks at you as if you have done the impossible, as if you have harnessed the wind and commanded the rain. And perhaps you have. Because for the first time in a long time, Ororo Munroe does not feel alone. “You surprise me,” she admits, her voice a whisper of thunder, low and full of something unreadable. “And I do not surprise easily.”

- A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, rare and breathtaking, the kind of smile that shifts the seasons. And then, with a gentleness that contradicts her power, she presses her forehead to yours, fingers threading through your hair. “Do it again,” she breathes, and there is something almost dangerous in the way she says it. Because now that she has tasted you, now that she has felt this, Ororo Munroe is not sure she could ever let it go.

Rogue

- Rogue has spent her entire life fearing touch. She has spent years mastering the art of distance, of longing from afar, of never letting herself hope for too much. And yet, when your lips meet hers—soft, unguarded, reckless—she forgets to be afraid. The world disappears in the space between heartbeats, and all that remains is the impossible, the breathtaking reality of you kissing her.

- Her mind screams at her to pull away, to stop this before it’s too late, before she ruins something beautiful. But she can’t. She won’t. Her gloved hands grasp at your arms, her body leaning into yours as if she has spent lifetimes waiting for this moment. And perhaps she has. Because for the first time, she isn’t thinking about control, about consequences. She is thinking about the way your lips feel against hers, the way your breath mingles with her own, the way your fingers press into the small of her back as if you could hold her together.

- When you part, her chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths, her wide green eyes searching yours with something almost desperate. “Sugar, you—” Her voice falters, thick with emotion, with something dangerously close to hope. Her fingers, still gloved, trace the ghost of your touch against her lips, and she swallows hard. “You don’t know what you just did.” But the way she looks at you—the way she stares as if you have rewritten the very fabric of her existence—tells you that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t mind.

- She should be afraid. She should be pushing you away, telling you that this is dangerous, that she is dangerous. But when you smile at her, when you reach for her hand despite the barriers she wears, she feels something shift. Something new. Something she is not sure she deserves, but something she wants all the same. And for the first time, Rogue wonders—what if she let herself have this? What if, just this once, she didn’t run?

Erik Lehnsherr

- Erik has built his life around steel and rage, around vengeance and pain, around the belief that love is a weakness he cannot afford. And yet, when you kiss him, every wall he has so carefully constructed crumbles beneath the weight of your touch. He stiffens, a sharp inhale slicing through the space between you, his entire body wound tight like coiled metal, but he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Because for the first time in a long, long time—he doesn’t want to.

- Your lips move against his with a softness he does not deserve, a tenderness he has spent lifetimes denying himself. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitant, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer. But when your fingers tangle in his hair, when your breath mingles with his, when you kiss him like he is not Magneto, not a man shaped by war and loss, but simply a man—he is undone.

- When you finally part, his breath is heavy, uneven, his storm-gray eyes dark with something unreadable. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, as if restraining himself from reaching for you, from keeping you tethered to this moment forever. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs, voice like rusted iron, rough and laced with something dangerously close to yearning. But there is no real warning in his tone, no true resistance. Only the weight of a man who does not know how to accept kindness, how to accept love.

- And yet, when you step forward, when you press your palm to his chest, when you look at him as if he is not a monster but something worthy—his resolve fractures. His fingers, finally, finally, find your waist, his grip firm yet reverent, as if afraid you might disappear. “Do it again,” he breathes, and in that moment, Erik Lehnsherr does not care if love is a weakness. Because if this is what it means to be weak—then for you, he will gladly fall.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier has spent his life knowing things before they happen. His gift is both a blessing and a burden, allowing him to read thoughts, anticipate words before they are spoken, sense feelings before they fully form. But when you kiss him, it is the first time in his life that he is truly, utterly surprised. For once, his mind is not a step ahead—it is caught in the moment, helplessly, beautifully ensnared in the warmth of your lips and the gentle insistence of your touch.

- His breath stutters as you tilt into him, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies. He has always prided himself on his composure, on the unshakable calm of his demeanor, but now he feels undone. Your lips are soft but certain, as if you have known this moment was meant to happen all along. His hands twitch against the arms of his wheelchair, caught between instinct and disbelief, between wanting to pull you closer and simply letting himself exist in this quiet, impossible wonder.

- When you finally pull away, his blue eyes flutter open, dazed, unfocused, as though waking from a dream too precious to be real. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips, something warm and unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “That was unexpected,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, smooth but slightly unsteady. And yet, there is something else beneath his words, something deeper—an unspoken truth that has lingered between you for too long, now given breath at last.

- He reaches for your hand then, his fingers ghosting over yours in a way that is both hesitant and reverent. “Would you mind terribly,” he breathes, his smile deepening, “if I returned the favor?” And when he leans in, when his lips find yours again, there is nothing hesitant about it. There is only the weight of time, of longing, of something that was always meant to be.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda has spent her life walking the fragile line between control and chaos, between the known and the unknown, between the world as it is and the world as it could be. And yet, when you kiss her, all of it—the noise, the worry, the restless ache of her existence—disappears. There is only you. Only the impossible softness of your lips, only the warmth of your touch, only the way time seems to slow, to bend, to hold its breath for her.

- She does not pull away, does not tense, does not question. Instead, she melts into you, her fingers curling into the fabric of your clothing as if afraid you might slip through her grasp like so many things before. You taste like something she has spent lifetimes reaching for, something she has never quite believed she could have. And yet, here you are. Here she is. And for once, the world does not seem so cruel.

- When the kiss finally breaks, she does not move far. Her forehead lingers against yours, her breath mingling with your own as if unwilling to let go of the moment just yet. Her deep, sorrowful eyes search yours, dark with something unreadable—something aching, something vast. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” she whispers, and yet her fingers tighten their grip on you, betraying her own words. “It makes me want to believe in things I shouldn’t.”

- And yet, despite her protest, despite the ghosts that haunt her, Wanda does not step away. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you as if memorizing every detail, every curve, every fleeting second. And then, as if deciding something only she can understand, she kisses you again—slower this time, softer, as if weaving a spell that neither of you will ever escape.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff moves faster than thought, faster than light, faster than anyone can keep up with. He is a blur, a flicker, a storm that never settles, never stills. But when you kiss him—when you reach for him without hesitation, without warning—time stops. For once, he is not ahead of the world. He is not running. He is simply here. And it terrifies him.

- His entire body locks up, caught between instinct and shock, between the urge to retreat and the unbearable need to lean in. No one ever catches him off guard—no one. But you? You have done it so effortlessly, so completely, that he feels as though you have stolen the breath from his lungs. He forgets to move, forgets to think, forgets everything except the way your lips press against his, the way your fingers grasp at him like you have no intention of letting go.

- When you finally pull back, his silver lashes flutter, his bright blue eyes wide, wild with something unreadable. “Did you just—” He stops himself, swiping his tongue over his lips as if to make sure the sensation is real. And then, suddenly, he laughs—a breathless, incredulous sound, full of something sharp and breathless. “You’re either very brave or very reckless,” he murmurs, voice tinged with something teasing, something warmer than he meant it to be. “Maybe both.”

- And yet, even as he tries to turn it into a joke, his fingers twitch at his sides, restless, uncertain. He has never been good at staying still, never been good at patience—but for you, for this, he thinks he could learn. “Do it again,” he says, grinning now, eyes glinting with something wicked, something real. “I dare you.” And the way he looks at you—the way he leans in, as if already chasing the next kiss—tells you that this is a dare neither of you ever plan to back down from.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is a man of intellect, of reason, of science. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, in understanding the mysteries of the world through logic and deduction. But when you kiss him—when your lips press against his without preamble, without hesitation—there is nothing logical about it. His mind, so accustomed to analysis, simply stops. And for the first time in a long, long time, he is left with nothing but feeling.

- His breath hitches, a sharp inhale caught in the depths of his chest, his large hands flexing at his sides as if unsure what to do with them. He is a scholar, a thinker, a man who prides himself on his control—but here, now, he feels unmoored. Your touch is warmth against the cold edges of his mind, a spark that ignites something deep, something unexpected, something he cannot name.

- When you finally pull away, he does not move for a long moment. His blue eyes flicker with something complex, something vulnerable, something profoundly, devastatingly human. “That was… unexpected,” he finally says, voice rough with something you cannot quite place. And yet, despite his words, despite the shock that lingers in his expression, his gaze is soft when it meets yours, unbearably gentle.

- He exhales a slow breath, as if steadying himself, and then—almost tentatively—he reaches for your hand. His fingers are careful, cautious, as if afraid you might vanish like a fleeting hypothesis unproven. “Would you, perhaps, consider repeating the experiment?” he asks, a small, wry smile curling at the edges of his lips. And when you lean in again, when his hands finally settle against you with quiet certainty, you know this is an experiment he never intends to abandon.

Emma Frost

- Emma Frost has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one can touch her—not truly. Her mind is a fortress of diamond walls and razor-edged wit, a citadel where no one is allowed entry without permission. She does not startle easily; she does not allow herself to be vulnerable. And yet, when you kiss her—when your lips press against hers without warning, without hesitation—she falters. Just for a moment. Just long enough for you to feel it.

- Her breath catches, but she does not pull away. No, Emma Frost does not retreat. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, allowing you just enough room to linger, to taste the cool, intoxicating sharpness of her. And yet, there is warmth beneath the ice, a slow-burning ember hidden beneath layers of frost. She is calculating even in this, assessing, analyzing—but there is something else in the way her fingers twitch against your arm, something unspoken in the way her lips part ever so slightly beneath yours.

- When you finally pull back, her expression is unreadable, a perfect mask of composure—except for her eyes. There is something dangerous in them, something bright and wicked and amused. A slow, knowing smile curls her lips as she tilts her chin, regarding you with the kind of gaze that makes people weak in the knees. “My darling,” she purrs, voice like silk and steel entwined, “if you wanted me, you only had to ask.”

- And yet, when her fingers brush against your wrist—light, fleeting, almost imperceptible—it is not just a challenge. There is something softer beneath the bravado, something she will never admit aloud. You have surprised her. And Emma Frost does not allow herself to be surprised. So when she leans in again, this time on her own terms, you understand the weight of it—the rarity, the quiet surrender hidden beneath the smirk.

Laura Kinney

- Laura Kinney is not accustomed to softness. Her world has been forged in blood and survival, in the quiet brutality of necessity. She has been trained to anticipate every attack, every shift in movement, every threat before it even takes form. But when you kiss her, there is no time to predict, no time to react—only the moment, sudden and unrelenting. And for once in her life, she is caught off guard.

- Her body stiffens on instinct, muscles coiled tight, but she does not pull away. No, she stays still, frozen in place as if trying to process something unfamiliar, something she has no protocol for. Your lips are soft against hers, warm and sure, and for a brief second, she forgets to breathe. It is foreign, this feeling, this intimacy that is not laced with violence or pain. And yet, it does not feel wrong. It feels… safe. And she does not know what to do with that.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks up at you, her gold-green eyes wide, pupils blown. Her breath is uneven, though she would never admit it. Her fingers flex at her sides, a silent battle between instinct and something deeper, something softer. “Why did you do that?” she asks, voice low, guarded. But there is no anger in it, no sharp edges of rejection. Only quiet curiosity. Only the echo of something she is too afraid to name.

- And then, as if deciding something in that precise moment, she steps closer. Not much, just enough for her breath to brush against your cheek. Her gaze flickers down to your lips, and when she speaks again, it is almost hesitant—almost shy. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is a challenge. And when you accept, when your lips find hers once more, she does not freeze this time. Instead, she leans in.

Wade Wilson

- Wade Wilson never shuts up. He fills the air with words, with jokes, with carefully crafted chaos designed to keep people at arm’s length. He is quick and loud and relentless, because silence is where the darkness creeps in, where the thoughts become too heavy, too real. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without preamble, without warning—he falls completely, utterly silent.

- His mind goes blank. It is a rare thing, for Wade to be lost for words, for thoughts, for anything but the sheer, staggering reality of this moment. Your lips are soft against his, warm, steady, real. And for once, he is not a punchline, not a joke, not a monster wrapped in red and black. He is just Wade, just a man who is suddenly, unexpectedly being kissed by someone he never thought would want to.

- When you pull back, there is a beat of absolute stillness. Then, suddenly, he sucks in a sharp breath and blurts out, “Was that a pity kiss? Wait, no, don’t answer that. Actually, do answer that. But lie to me if it was. Unless it wasn’t. In which case—” He stops himself, blinking rapidly, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides. “Holy shit. You actually kissed me. I didn’t hallucinate that, right? Because, like, my brain is super messed up, and sometimes I—”

- But then, you kiss him again—shorter this time, softer, just enough to shut him up. And when you pull away, he just stares at you, his mouth slightly open, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. And then, slowly, his hands come up to his face, covering his mouth as if trying to hold something in. “Oh my God,” he whispers, voice slightly muffled. “I’m gonna have to marry you now.” He peeks between his fingers. “You cool with that? No take-backs.”

Julian Keller

- Julian Keller is not used to being caught off guard. He is sharp, quick-witted, arrogant to a fault, and always, always in control. People orbit around him, drawn in by the effortless gravity of his confidence, his charm, the raw, unapologetic force of his presence. But when you kiss him—when you take him by surprise for the first time in his life—his mind goes completely, devastatingly blank.

- For a split second, he doesn’t react. And then, his body catches up with him, his hands instinctively reaching for you, gripping your waist like an anchor. His breath stutters against your lips, and suddenly, he is no longer the Julian Keller who always knows what to say, who always has the upper hand. He is just a boy, completely and utterly at your mercy. And it thrills him.

- When you finally pull back, his lips are parted, his green eyes slightly dazed, like he’s trying to piece together reality again. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face—wide, cocky, but with something undeniably genuine beneath it. “Damn,” he breathes, running a hand through his dark hair, voice rougher than usual. “That was… unexpected.” His grin sharpens, his gaze flicking to your lips. “You gonna warn me next time, or is this just how you say hi now?”

- And yet, despite the teasing, despite the bravado, there is something else in his gaze—something that lingers, something that betrays just how much that single kiss affected him. He leans in again, close enough that his breath fans against your skin. “You know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways.” But the way he looks at you—the way his fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to pull you back in—tells you that, despite his words, he wouldn’t change a thing.

[rmadridcore]

SFW Alphabet

Pairing: Jude Bellingham x Reader

Requested & Requested

Word Count: 3K

Author’s note: Two requests for SFW Alphabet, so here it is 💘 hope you like it @judescorem & anon! Thanks for requesting 🫂

A = Affection (how affectionate are they? how do they show affection?)

Jude’s affection levels are truly off the charts, he’s like a walking embodiment of all five love languages. Quality time with you is his priority, and despite his demanding schedule, he’s intentional about squeezing in meaningful moments whenever he can.

He’s big on acts of service, too, and he’s memorized your favorite way to drink coffee to make it for you in the mornings, gives you a massage if you’re stressed, and even attempts cooking for you (though after a few near-kitchen disasters, he might just take you out instead). If you’re too tired to lift a finger, Jude will wash your hair or tuck you in. And gift giving? He’s your go to — he’ll come home with jewelry, art, plush toys, or quirky trinkets that made him think of you.

Compliments are another daily thing; whether you’re folding laundry or about to fall asleep, he’s telling you how much he loves you and how beautiful you are. He notices every tiny change, too, like a new shade of lipstick or a fresh haircut. Physical touch is his ultimate love language, though. If you’re out, he’ll keep a hand on your thigh or fingers intertwined, but in private, Jude transforms into a human koala, pulling you close in every possible way.

B = Best friend (what would they be like as a best friend? how would the friendship start?)

As a best friend, Jude is your ride or die, incredibly supportive and genuinely invested in every step of your journey. He’s like your personal cheerleader, hyped about even the smallest wins in your life, and you can count on him to be right there to celebrate or console you. He’s an incredible listener, letting you pour your heart out and providing advice when you need it. Jude knows the importance of having someone you can trust completely, so he’s that steady rock for you, creating a judgment-free zone where you’re safe to share anything. He’s also the friend who will notice if something is even slightly off and check in with a caring heart.

C = Cuddles (do they like to cuddle? how would they cuddle?)

I said it once, I’ll say it again: this man is a koala bear who just can’t let go. If there’s one thing Jude excels at, it’s cuddling. Surprisingly, he loves to cuddle even more than he lets on, and it’s become one of his favorite ways to unwind. Usually, he’s the big spoon, wrapping his arms around you protectively, feeling like he’s keeping you safe. But his secret favorite? Being the little spoon. There’s something he finds calming about resting his head on your chest, with your hands in his hair, listening to the steady beat of your heart. It’s his ultimate version of comfort, and he’ll fall asleep within minutes if he’s lying there like that.

D = Domestic (do they want to settle down? how are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Though young and still in the prime of his career, Jude is surprisingly domestic and absolutely sees a future with you. For him, settling down together isn’t just a fantasy; it’s his end goal. Even now, he loves the cozy routines you share — grocery shopping side by side, his enthusiastic (but often chaotic) attempts at cooking, and sharing chores, even if he’s hilariously clueless about both. Conversations about the future happen effortlessly, without a hint of doubt or hesitation, and he makes you feel included in every part of his life. He’s just as comfortable blending into your family gatherings as you are with his, and it’s that natural, grounded dynamic that makes him picture a life and family with you in it someday.

E = Ending (if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

The idea of breaking up is simply unfathomable to Jude. Even in the worst case scenario, Jude would do everything possible to mend things, believing wholeheartedly that whatever caused the break could be fixed. His willingness to put in the work is one of his most admirable traits — he’s devoted to you, even in difficult times, and he’d never let go without a fight.

F = Fiancé(e) (how do they feel about commitment? how quick would they want to get married?)

Jude may not be rushing down the aisle tomorrow, but he often catches himself imagining what your wedding day might look like. The idea of you in a wedding dress, the look on your face as you walk toward him, and the forever waiting on the other side makes his heart race. He loves being young and enjoying these years together, building memories and strengthening your relationship, but he’s made it clear he sees marriage as part of your future. Jude knows the proposal will happen when the timing feels just right, but he’s not shy about dropping hints and showing you in sweet, subtle ways that he’s already fully committed.

G = Gentle (how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

His gentle side is one of his most beautiful qualities, even if he keeps it subtle at times. Though vulnerability didn’t come naturally to him at first, his quiet softness shines through in the way he loves you. His compassion is deeply genuine, and his tenderness radiates through both his words and his actions. Physically, he’s incredibly attentive — he’ll caress your face with a featherlight touch, rub gentle circles on the back of your hand, trace his fingers through your hair, and cover you with delicate kisses. He’s patient and kind, making every touch feel intentional and filled with warmth.

H = Hugs (do they like hugs? how often do they do it? what are their hugs like?)

Hugging you is one of his absolute favorite things. Your scent, the warmth of your arms around him, and the way you tuck your face into his neck make him feel perfectly at ease. His hugs are comforting, strong, and incredibly full of love, he hugs you like he hasn’t seen you in months, even if it’s only been a few hours. He especially loves sneaking hugs from behind; he’ll wrap his arms around you while you’re cooking, brushing your teeth, or even doing your makeup, earning himself a playful scolding but never regretting it. To him, those hugs are worth any amount of teasing because they make him feel so close to you.

I = I love you (how fast do they say the L-word?)

He took some time to fully grasp his feelings for you, but he felt from the very beginning that there was something incredibly special about you. The moment he realized the warmth he felt around you was love, he felt more certain of it than anything else. When he said “I love you” for the first time, it was spontaneous, catching both of you off guard. He whispered those three words one morning, sleep still softening his voice, his gaze filled with sincerity and love as he smiled at you. At first, you thought he was joking, but the look in his eyes erased any doubts, and when he repeated the words softly and earnestly, you knew he meant it with his whole heart.

J = Jealousy (how jealous do they get? what do they do when they’re jealous?)

Jude has a love-hate relationship with jealousy. When you get jealous, he finds it endearing, using playful teasing and silly jokes to diffuse the moment, always making sure you feel loved and reassured. But when the tables turn and he’s the one feeling jealous, it’s a different story. Although he’s confident and tries to stay rational, but the sight of anyone openly flirting with you hits him harder than he’d like. It eats at him, casting a shadow over his entire mood, and he can’t quite laugh it off. You know exactly how to calm him down, though — reassurances, soft words, and kisses all over his face melt away his worry, leaving him certain, once again, that you’re entirely his.

K = Kisses (what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss you? where do they like to be kissed?)

Kisses are Jude’s favorite form of affection. He’s obsessed with them — quick pecks, lingering, deep kisses, and everything in between. His favorite spot to kiss is, of course, your lips, where he loves to indulge in make out sessions that leave you both breathless. He loves to take the lead in these moments, his kisses hungry and passionate, his hands gently holding you close. But he’s also a sucker for forehead kisses, finding them incredibly intimate, and he’ll linger there, pressing his lips to your forehead while he whispers sweet words just for you. And if you kiss his neck? His eyes close, his breath catches, and he’s instantly lost, eager for more.

L = Little ones (how are they around children?)

Around kids, he is a total natural. His playfulness and warmth instantly draw children to him, and he seems to know just the right way to make them laugh or keep them entertained. He’s got a knack for making them feel at ease, and kids light up around him, matching his energy and joy. Though he’s not thinking about kids just yet, he knows that when the time comes, he wants it to be with you — and he’s confident that he’ll be great at it, just as long as you’re by his side.

M = Morning (how are mornings spent with them?)

Early in the relationship, you discovered that Jude is anything but a morning person. He loves his sleep, and if he could, he’d stay under the covers all morning, cozy and content beside you. But as disciplined as he is, his career often forces him to wake up early, leaving him to grumble and pout his way out of bed. When he has an early training session, he’s practically dragging his feet, rubbing his eyes, and giving you a look that practically begs you to let him stay snuggled up.

On his mornings off, though, he becomes the laziest person alive. He’ll stay in bed as long as you let him, relishing the rare chance to wrap himself around you and relax without any hurry. When noon rolls around, you usually have to coax him out of bed, jokingly reminding him there’s a world outside the covers. He finally gives in, but he’d always rather stay in bed a little longer with you.

N = Night (how are nights spent with them?)

Nights, on the other hand, are his favorite. He cherishes those quiet, peaceful hours just before you both drift off. He loves the feel of you relaxing beside him, breathing deeply, your head on his chest as you start to fall asleep. Sometimes, before sleep takes over, you’ll end up having those late night, deep conversations that wander from lighthearted to profound. Jude’s often the one to ask those unexpected, thoughtful questions that get you talking about dreams, ambitions, and the mysteries of life. He loves these talks because they remind him of how safe and easy it feels to open up to you, and he feels so grateful to have found someone who just gets him.

O = Open (when would they start revealing things about themselves? do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

He took his time at first, careful to make sure you were the one he could share everything with. But it didn’t take long before he started to realize he could trust you completely. There was an ease between you that allowed him to open up gradually, sharing everything from his childhood memories to his career hopes to his biggest fears. Once he understood the depth of your connection, he didn’t hold anything back, feeling safe enough to share all of himself with you. He loves how you let him be vulnerable without judgment, and the sense of trust you’ve built only makes your bond stronger.

P = Patience (how easily angered are they?)

Generally, he is pretty patient and grounded, but there are times when frustration gets the better of him. If he’s facing a tough day or can’t get something right, he tends to feel the stress more than he’d like. He’s not one to lash out, though — he usually withdraws a bit to cool off and reset. His impatience doesn’t last long, and he’s quick to come back to his calm self, finding his center again, especially when he’s around you. You’re often the one bringing him back to his usual level-headed self.

Q = Quizzes (how much would they remember about you? do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

If remembering things about you were a game, Jude would be the gold medalist. He remembers the most trivial details effortlessly — your favorite snack, your go to comfort food, your shoe size, your favorite songs, the way you like your coffee. He doesn’t even try; he just loves listening to you and stores up everything you say. He’ll surprise you by remembering little things you’ve mentioned in passing, things you may not even recall saying. For him, it’s second nature, and he jokes that his brain is permanently programmed to think of you.

R = Remember (what is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Jude’s favorite memory is a quiet, seemingly insignificant moment but one that holds a lot of meaning for him. It was the first time you fell asleep on him, a night you spent watching a movie together. You were curled up beside him, claiming you weren’t tired even though your eyes were heavy and you were half-asleep by the opening credits. Eventually, you drifted off, your head nestled on his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but smile. He felt an unexpected happiness, a sense of peace, knowing you felt so at ease around him. Listening to your soft breathing and feeling your warmth, he realized that this was what he wanted for the rest of his life — moments of quiet closeness, where you were totally comfortable with each other.

S = Security (how protective are they? how would they protect you? how would they like to be protected?)

He is subtly protective, always making sure you’re comfortable and safe. He’s never overbearing, but he’s the type to always keep an eye on you in crowded places, his hand on your back or fingers intertwined with yours. If someone’s getting too close or making you uncomfortable, he’s immediately alert, his demeanor shifting as he makes it clear you’re not alone.

T = Try (how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He is effortlessly romantic, always putting thought and care into your relationship. He loves planning surprise date nights, booking a place he knows you’d like, or making sure he has your favorite snacks ready for a cozy night in. Whether it’s an anniversary or just an average day, he goes out of his way to show you how much he cares. Small gestures texting you sweet messages, or picking up flowers for you on his way home because he saw a bunch that reminded him of you. He especially enjoys the look on your face when he shows up with them unexpectedly, and he’s secretly got a favorite flower of yours memorized. He’s thoughtful with gifts too, remembering small things you mention in passing and giving them to you “just because.” He’s a firm believer that both big and little things are equally important in showing you how much you mean to him.

U = Ugly (what would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Jude has a tendency to bottle up his emotions when he’s overwhelmed. Rather than talking it out, he sometimes withdraws, getting quiet and distant. It can be frustrating because he keeps a lot of his struggles to himself, but he’s working on opening up more. He’s aware of this habit, and he appreciates how you gently encourage him to share his feelings when he’s ready.

V = Vanity (how concerned are they with their looks?)

This man takes pride in his appearance, knowing he’s a bit of a heartthrob (and rightfully so). He’s not obsessed with his looks but enjoys looking his best, especially when he’s with you. He loves when you show him off, and he takes a certain pride in knowing that he’s someone you’re proud to be seen with. He’s confident in his style and enjoys dressing up for special occasions or just looking nice for you. When you compliment his looks, it always brings out that cheeky smile, but he’s equally invested in making sure you feel beautiful and confident too.

W = Whole (would they feel incomplete without you?)

He is independent and driven, but being with you makes him feel complete in a way that nothing else does. He feels grounded by your presence, and knowing you’re by his side gives him the confidence and peace he needs. You’re his partner, his best friend, and his safe place all rolled into one, and without you, he feels a profound emptiness. He knows he can function on his own, but life feels so much better, brighter, and more meaningful with you in it.

X = Xtra (a random headcanon for them.)

Jude has been secretly trying to learn how to cook a few dishes for you. Cooking isn’t his strong suit, but he loves the idea of one day surprising you with a home cooked meal, just the two of you. He doesn’t think you expect him to master the kitchen, but he feels there’s something incredibly intimate about cooking for someone you love. So he keeps at it, watching tutorials, asking for tips from his mom, and even taking notes when you cook together, hoping to make you a meal that you’ll love (and one he doesn’t burn).

Y = Yuck (what are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Dishonesty is something Jude just can’t tolerate. He values openness and feels a deep sense of trust in your relationship. He wants you to feel comfortable sharing anything with him, and he’s never judgmental. Knowing you’re genuine and honest with him means the world to him, so dishonesty would hurt him deeply.

Z = Zzz (what is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Jude is a cuddle magnet in his sleep. Even if you fall asleep apart, he instinctively reaches out, finding you with sleepy arms and pulling you close. When he’s stressed, he has a habit of mumbling in his sleep, something you find adorable. He usually denies it in the morning, laughing it off and insisting you must have imagined it.

[apricot-blossomss]

Hi, I love your writings a lot. I have another Apollo idea don’t know if you like it but I wanna share it: So, Reader is a deeply devoted follower of Apollo; loyal, loving, kind and compassionate but very insecure, has many self-deprecating thoughts, still, very determined to learn something in his honour. So, she tries to learn the lyre but she is bad in it not talented at all. She is determined though and willing to sacrifice time and effort into practice.

I imagine this plays out in Ancient Greece, the reader is very poor but determined to learn it and then to try her best on the Pythian Games. Apollo is already so smitten with her; he follows her journey from far but doesn’t wanna bless her bc he wants her to success on her own. One night he shows up to her while she’s praying. First, she is afraid he is here to take away her lyre as she is not worthy of it but instead, he is super kind and supportive tells her this effort and hard work is far greater and more meaningful sacrifice than any of the treasures the kings offer to him.

So, he offers her to be her teacher from now on as she can’t afford a good teacher like the others. They have romantic moments, kisses as he continues to teach her. Of course she wins the Games, he has taught her things no human knows about the lyre. At the end of the Games, he shows up to the people and in front of everyone he offers her to go with him and play with the Muses.

This is long I know, so, please do with it whatever you want. Use parts of it if it is too long, I just wanted to share it with someone.

☛ apollo teaching mortal! fem! reader to play the lyre

☛ sfw; fluff; cw: self-doubt, stage fright; not proofread oops

"Just stop already!"

"Why do you keep trying?"

"You have no talent."

It wasn't like you didn't know they were right. A lack of self-awareness is wasn't the problem for you. It was, however, the unexplainable love you felt for the instrument in your hands. It washed out of the gentle wood of the olive tree- you heard that the high lords and ladies sometimes owned gilded or golden lyres, which you could hardly imagine. And it was your most prized possession.

You had given a lot to be able to afford it, since your family wasn't ready to pay for a endeavor as fruitless as your attempts to learn to play it. At night, you dreamt of being able to elicit beautiful tunes out of the instrument, but during the day, reality hit you like a hammer in the head as you awkwardly plucked the strings, sounding more like a dying cat than the musician you dreamed of becoming.

It wasn't fair, you thought, in moments were your frustration overwhelmed you. It wasn't fair that some people had such talent that they could effortlessly handle the instrument while someone as in love with the art of it as you struggled without seeing any results. Many times, you had prayed to Apollo, but the god had never blessed your attempts and by now, you figured it might be some sort of subliminal messaging.

But you didn't care. Well, you did, but none of it could deter you. No matter how many people shook their heads or laughed or told you to stop, you sat down for hours on end, trying to figure out the beautiful instrument. When you walked on the market or the town square, you would stop at street musicians demonstrating their craft, watching their fingers, trying to learn, but you never managed to replicate it.

Your family wanted you to learn some other craft to attract suitors and impress them, but you would not relent. You would practice, you would watch, you would pray. All in the hopes of getting the hang of the lyre someday. And no matter how many times you failed or screamed at your fingers to just do it right, resting them on top of the strings and running them along them always calmed you.

Carefully, you let your hands run up and down, simply tugging one string after the other. And somehow, you still managed to mess it up. It sounded stale and squeaky, no matter how much you tried to soften your movements. Not willing to let that deter you, you tried to play a melody you had heard one off the street musicians play yesterday on the market.

Unbeknownst to you, you had an audience you couldn't have dreamed of. Way above, golden eyes followed the movement of your fingers, listening intently, intrigued. Forearms leaned on the railing of his balcony, he had been watching you practice frequently over the course of the last months. In the beginning , it had been for his amusement. Now, it had become a part of his routine to see how you were doing.

"Brother!"

Apollo looked up from the sight of you practicing in your room to find Hermes sitting on the railing. After a short, distracted greeting, his eyes wandered down once more, as if they were attracted by a magnetic force. And, truly, you were magnetizing. Your unrelenting determination, your love for his holy instrument, the fact that you had set yourself a goal and were working so hard towards it: competing in his Pythian games.

"So, what's got you this distracted lately?" Hermes asked, letting his legs dangle. When he was denied an answer, his attentive eyes followed Apollo's gaze and found you. "Oh, so that's-"

Apollo hushed him to listen to your best efforts, a small smile gracing his lips when he realized with what care you had listened to the mysterious lyre player on the street yesterday that had conveniently played a song more fit for beginners to pick up on.

"Wow, that sounds bad," Hermes exclaimed, whistling under his breath. Curling over in laughter, he missed the pointed stare by his brother. "Planning on punishing her or why are you enduring this?"

"Shut your mouth, brother," Apollo shot back and the sharpness of his tone surprised Hermes. As he looked down once more, he watched Apollos face soften visibly as you stubbornly plucked at your strings. A small smile graced his lips and he propped his head up on his arms as he watched you intently. "She can do it, she just needs a little bit of help."

☀️

Taking a deep breath, your knees met the hard stone floor and you kneeled before Apollo's altar, bowing your head until your hair formed a curtain around your face. After all the unanswered prayers and fruitless attempts, you were still filled with admiration and wonder looking at his statue. Closing your eyes, your lips formed a hushed prayer, as every afternoon in his temple. One that always went unanswered, but if you were one thing, it was persistent.

But today, something was different. Your mind couldn't help but wonder to the humiliating exchange you had had with your mother this morning. Scoffing over your clumsy playing, she had laughed at you, telling you to the face to no longer make her and the world suffer the sound of your lyre play, that you were dishonoring Apollo himself by eliciting such horrid sounds from his holy instrument.

You couldn't help the tremble of your lip, nor the traitorous stinging of your eyes and took a long breath to calm yourself. "Great lord Apollo," you whispered into the ground, your voice laced with shame and doubt, "Please, if you wish for me to stop my attempts, if I am dishonoring you, if I am angering you, give me a sign!"

"Well, hello there."

You shot around, finding yourself face to face with a blond man in a simple but fine tunic and piercing eyes. Eyes that you knew, because you knew this man, and you had spent a full hour watching his fingers handle the lyre so gracefully. It was one of the street artists you had seen on the market, more specifically, the one you had spent your forenoon studying. Was this a divine sign or a simple coincidence?

Realizing that you still hadn't answered the greeting, you scrambled to your feet clumsily and bowed lightly, since you saw first-glance he was of higher social rank than you. Granted, the majority of people was of higher rank than you, but your eyes had picked up on the gold laced into his tunic, his jewelry and most importantly, the intricate craftsmanship of his lyre. Hidden give-aways of a wealthy pocket. "Excuse me," you said softly, smiling while bowing once more, "I'll be leaving." A musician as skilled as him was far more deserving of this temple's glory.

Hurrying past him, the sound of his voice had you stop dead in your tracks. "Do you know what talent is, m'lady?"

Several things in that sentence made you pause and turn around once more, finding the man already looking at you with those magnetic eyes. "I'm not a lady, m'lord," you said abashedly, but his smile only widened. "Sure you are. And you know the answer to my question, don't you?"

"Yes," you answered, wondering what he could possibly want out of this conversation. "It's a gift by the gods that they give to the deserving." The young man hummed with a smile on his lips. "I couldn't help but notice you look a little troubled. What did you entrust your god with, sweet lady?"

If it had been any other man, you would have retreated, excused yourself, exited the temple as fast as possible. But he radiated a feeling of safety and grace that you couldn't help but feel attracted to him, and not just in the physical sense. Even though you had no idea why a man like that would spare a girl like you just a glance. Maybe he was one of those men who took advantage of poor girls like you, but somehow, your gut told you that you could trust him.

"I-," you hesitated, but then, the words broke out of you like a waterfall as you told him about your troubles. Maybe it was because no one listened to you, ever, but you trusted this man with everything. "It sounds horrible," you ended your ramblings, trying to conceal your damp eyes. "Everyone keeps telling me to stop trying, but I want to learn. But, what if I'm disgracing god Apollo himself with how horrible I am?"

"You aren't," the man said with an enigmatic smile and you wrung your hands. "You haven't heard me play, I'm atrocious!"

"Hey," he answered soothingly, taking a step towards you. "You aren't. You just need a teacher. I could teach you," he offered kindly, but you shook your head in protest. "No, m'lord, I have no means to afford it. See, I am a poor woman, I don't have any money of my own and my family would never come up for it. I don't have the financial means to compensate you."

His smile only widened and looking up at him, it left you quite breathless. You couldn't explain it, but there was something about it that made you feel as if warmed up by the sun itself. This man had to be blessed by Apollo. "I don't ask for compensation. I'd give you lessons for free."

Now, that was really suspicious. You weren't stupid, there was a good chance this was a ploy to take advantage of you in some way, because the offer sounded too good to be true. Such a talented artist simply stumbling over you in a temple and offering free lessons? At the same time, you were also desperate. And this man was really talented. If he was being genuine, were you throwing out the opportunity of your life? After a short silence, you looked back up at him. "Why would you do that? Offer to teach me for free, I mean."

A sudden breeze disheveled the man's golden locks, his charming smile unwavering. "Ah, you see... It's because I'm Apollo." Because you had any chance to register the words, the light seemed to explode before your eyes and a reflex brought your hand up to shield them. When you removed it, the man had changed. His robes were of pure gold, as were his shoes, equally golden marks extended over his body like tattoos and his hair was crowned by a shining halo. You were looking at divinity, and it was nearly scorching your eyes.

Shit.

Thankfully, your body showed an above average response time as you dropped to your knees so fast they met the stone floor in a way that had a sharp pain shoot up your legs. The thrumming of your racing heart was louder than any thought you might have had. Bowing down so far you were covering before the god, you pressed your forehead into the marble and raised your hands in a pleading fashion. "Forgive me, great lord Apollo, for dishonoring you by attempting so many times to learn your holy instrument when you had clearly not blessed my endeavors. Please, punish me to any extent you see fit but have mercy on-"

The god interrupted your terrified rambling by placing a hand on your shoulder, rendering you speechless just as effectively as a slap in the face might have. When he spoke your name, you looked up at him tentatively. Looking at Apollo was like looking at the sun itself, and if the man had been handsome before, in this form, he was the most beautiful thing you had ever laid your mortal eyes on.

"Loving the lyre as much as you do is not dishonoring me," the god said and his voice was so smooth and beautiful it wiped your head clean of thought. "Quite the opposite, actually. Your dedication to my instrument is admirable. Hence the reason my offer is still awaiting an answer."

"But-" you squeaked in response and tried suppress the trembling of your nervously wringing hands. "Why would you do that? Why would you teach me?"

You wouldn't get an answer to that question for some time, but it didn't need a lot of convincing for you to agree to let him be your tutor. To avoid your parent's suspicion, you let him in a grove just outside the city gates where he first taught you the basics, gave you theoretical lessons on the functioning of the lyre and showed you the best way to handle it, which you continuously had problems with. But Apollo was incredibly patient, and your nervousness around him subsided quickly.

Over the course of the next weeks and months, he would show you how to approach the instrument, give you practice and help you improve your lyre play. And after some time, you found yourself looking forward to the lessons not only because of the lessons themselves but for the pleasure of his company. You couldn't deny that Apollo's charming wits had done a number on you, and the way you were ogling his hands as he so masterfully demonstrated it in his instrument would have been shameless if it hadn't been for educational purposes (along others).

There were moments when you yourself wondered if the god may reciprocate your romantic interest, as silly as that thought was. The way he lightened up seeing you approach him, the way he was always waiting for you and the way you caught him glancing at you instead of your lyre from time to time. But you stocked it up to your silly mortal delusions. Why would a god be interested in you?

At the same time, said god found himself falling head over heels for you. He had been smitten with you before meeting you, but being around you, seeing you come out of your shell and starting to feel comfortable around him, showing him your true colors- he was so done for. If he hadn't been his fathers favorite son (he was still working on that favorite child title but Athena was hard to beat) he would have earned a few stern talks by now for slaking off, as he procrastinated or full on ignored divine duties in favor of your lessons.

Your humor and laugh pulled him in, your dedication was unmatched and seeing your eyes light up when you succeeded in something did something to him. A blooming feeling in his chest that consumed his thoughts, sending him into the sweetest daydreams. And it was only fueled every time he got to be with you, be around you, enjoy your company. He tended to get caught up in it, and sometimes you caught him staring at you and he always wondered wether you knew what you did to him with those little glances and witty comments of yours.

Nothing excited you more than the progress you were starting to make. The strings were no longer squeaky and you had even managed to play some easy melodies that got more complex as time went on. You were astonished by your own progress, which was of course thanks to the fact that you had the best teacher anyone could dream of, but also hours upon hours of sleepless nights, practicing diligently.

When Apollo found out about those, he was surprisingly worried and you couldn't help but be giddy that he cared. But you listened and got your sleep that he insisted on, if only fleckig praise, seeing the showdowns under your eyes disappear. Also, you were convinced his presence in your life was some sort of good-luck-charm, because there had been no fourth year old suitors asking for your hand in marriage ever since you were a few weeks into your lessons.

But your strumming technique still wasn't as smooth as could be. "You need to feel the music flow through your fingers," Apollo told you, making it look criminally easy as he demonstrated it. "They need to move with the music, as smooth as the music. You are tugging, but you need to caress." His eyes met yours in a silent request to try it for yourselves.

Touched stuck in between your teeth, you tried to imagine the music flowing into your body down to your fingertips, trying to move them naturally along the strings. But still, it didn't sound quite right. To your surprise, Apollo smiled empathetically and leaned over, covering your small hand with his larger one and mimicking the correct movement.

You tried to concentrate, you really did, but it was hard when Apollo sat closer to you on the grass, settling behind you so that his arms almost caged you in, his breath fanning over your neck. Luckily, he couldn't see the redness on your cheeks like this. "Relax," he told you and a light chuckle left his lips. "Are you still scared of me, sunshine?"

Sunshine. It was his nickname for you, and the way he said it made it sound like a melody in itself. "I'm not," you answered truthfully, letting him gently guide your movements. "But I don't think you realize what divine proximity does to a mortal."

Because of your proximity, you felt his head shift as his gaze wandered to you. You didn't return it, because you knew you would get lost in it if you did. "What does it do to you?" the god asked in a hushed voice, and the teasing undertone had your lips twitch. "It feels weird when you touch me," you explained, your fingers taking a little more initiative in running over the strings. "Like you're too real and not at all at the same time. I can't really explain it, but it's like touching raw might. That would feel weird, right?"

"You always manage to surprise me, sunshine," Apollo said and you could hear the smile in his voice. "It looks like there is a poet in you." He let go of you, letting your fingers act on their own and it sounded much better than before. Nothing the difference, you smiled triumphantly. "Don't flatter me, I might get too much of the hubris, m'lord."

"It isn't hubris when it's true," his voice spoke softly as you started to play the tune from before. It sounded much more graceful now and Apollo's adoring gaze, hidden from your view, traced the movement of your fingers, up your arms to your face. When your fingers had become more sure, you turned to him, no doubt with a smart reply on the tip of your tongue, but you fell silent when you found yourself mere breaths away from the god, who seemed just as taken aback by the sudden proximity.

But he didn't pull away, and neither did you. Fingers slowing down, you couldn't rip your eyes away from the mesmerizing gold of his eyes. Apollo smelled of honey and flowers, a smell so sweet it made sense paired with his smile. Though he wasn't smiling now. His lips were parted lightly as he stared at you just as intensely as you watched him.

Slowly but steadily, the tension in the tight little space between you two got too much for you. Your breathing picked up and you had to avert your eyes when his fell down onto your heaving chest and snapped back up at yours with a new hunger. Coughing under your breath, you moved away from him by a few inches, trying to hide how flustered you were. But if you had turned around, you would have caught a rare sight: the god of music looking at you with heart eyes, his cheeks painted by a pink hue.

Little moments like these only pulled you in deeper. Embarrassingly, you had begun dreaming of Apollo, about his smile, his lyre-play, his voice. It was the most prevalent in your dreams, as if he was singing you a lullaby every night. You found yourself thinking about him every time of the day, getting caught up in vivid daydreams as you completed your chores, feeling as though he was with you every time you practiced.

Though that may have not been an entirely unfounded feeling. Sometimes, Apollo would say things during your lessons that had you suspect he was listening in on you practicing- at least sometimes. Why he occupied himself with something he could have so often, you didn't know. But you did feel honored.

Progress was coming, you were getting better, though there were also setbacks. As before, you didn't have natural talent, and sometimes you struggled to a point of frustration that had your movements grow sloppy and disjointed, gnawing on your bottom lip in dissatisfaction. "Hey." You looked up at Apollo who had picked up on your growing annoyance and sighed. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," he answered, gently prying the instrument from your hands. "I think you could use a break." And before you could protest, he added: "How about I play something just for you for a change?" Now, that shut you up real quick and you let him put your lyre aside. Apollo would demonstrate bits of songs or movements for you, but never whole songs, and the prospect of witnessing the god perform one made you giddy with excitement.

Under your curious gaze, Apollo propped up his instrument with great flair and began playing. The melody was unlike anything you had heard before. It was so interacted and beautiful, so masterfully crafted it brought tears to your eyes as you sat there and listened. But none of it could have prepared you for when Apollo started to sing. You had to close your eyes, because looking at him and listening to his singing at the same time was simply too much. You were pretty sure you could get addicted to the sound of his singing.

Apollo sing of pine trees, of secret meetings, of soft lyre tunes, the sounds of two instruments mingling. It was that last part that had you perk up. Could it be? Your grove who dusted of pine trees, you met him in secret- was he singing a sound about your lessons? Or were you just being delusional, thinking the god apollo would write a song- about you. Because now, he was singing about a girl under the pine trees with a lyre. Your heart was thrumming loudly in your chest, and it was the only sound resonating in your ears when Apollo ended the song.

You had to work up the strength to open your eyes, and when you did, he was watching you already, his eyes boring themselves into yours. With the melody still filling your head, you reached for your lyre, but Apollo didn't even register your movement. All he could see was you, as he desperately tried to gauge your reaction. Did you like the song? You had to, he had poured his heart into it. But he would write more. His heart was overflowing with memories as he watched the concentrated furrow of your brows.

And then, you started playing the song.

At once, Apollo snapped out of his trance as his insides roared with another form of adoration. You were playing his song, your song, the song he had written just for you. As if you were answering him. Sure, it sounded a little hesitant, but he was surprised about how masterful it sounded. You had become an expert player, in spite of your setbacks. And it looked like you had the same realization, because you looked up from the instrument and up at him with a glowing expression that said 'I did it!' and he could only nod in astonishment.

As the date of the Pythian games grew closer, so did Apollo and you, developing your inside jokes and becoming more comfortable with physical affection. It was safe to say you were friends with a god, which was something you could have never dreamed about. But as the date approached, your nerves were a little- tense, so to speak.

You cursed when suddenly, something snapped and a string of the lyre broke off, flinging your hand and marking it with a long red line. "Ow," you exclaimed and immediately, Apollo was all over you, taking your hurting hand into his. "Can you fix the string?" you asked nervously and earned a raised eyebrow from Apollo. "What do you think? And your hand is the priority here, sunshine."

"Right," you nodded, nibbling on your lip. "I need it to perform well." A long sigh left the gods lips as they ghosted over the palm of your hand. You jumped when they pressed down on your sore skin and an unfamiliar sensation, a warm prickling, emerged from the spot where he had bestowed a kiss upon you, rushing to your tummy where it exploded into a million golden butterflies, rummaging against your ribcage.

"Sunshine?"

"Huh?" you said, startled, and he showed you your hand, completely untouched, not a trace of the injury. You turned it around as if you were to find the mark, but it had vanished completely. "Thank you!" you smiled, picking up the lyre and holding it to his chest. "Now the string!"

Apollo sighed once more. Youn knew he could have easily fixed it, but for some reason, he opted to do it manually, pulling a spare string out of his tunic and getting to work removing the broken one. "Why are you doing it like this?" you found yourself asking, watching his graceful fingers as the expertly worked on the lyre.

"If you don't struggle from time to time, what's the point to life?" Apollo asked in a light-hearted tone, though you detected something heavier in the statement.

You hummed, thinking about that. "If you don't struggle, you can't succeed." Apollo looked up at you and nodded before returning his attention to the lyre. "That makes sense," you lamented, watching him intently. "But you don't seem like that kind of god to me." When he raised his brows, you attempted to explain yourself. "Of course, I don't know many gods, I only know you, but you don't seem very... human. You seem very content with being larger than life and divine."

The god hummed, inserting the new string. "You made me realize some things, sunshine. You have struggled so much, and have still persistent. Believe it or not, I think you're much stronger than I am. If I were you, I'd have given up a long time ago, because of what you said precisely: I don't need to struggle as much as you do."

Laughing to yourself, you shook your head in disbelief. "You're right, I don't believe you, but still, thank you. And I didn't know being untouchable could get to you like that."

"Oh, I'm far from untouchable," Apollo reassured you as he handed you back your lyre. "I have been touched and I am touched right now. Do you know why I take so many mortal lovers?" You shook your head and Apollo flopped down on his back, resting his head on his arm as he looked up at the sky above. "I love being touched by you mortals. It's an unimaginable thrill. To be a part of a life that is so fragile and so hardened at the same time is a privilege. Humanity is not a weakness but an unimaginable strength."

When he closed his eyes, yours were free to roam his resting body undetected, running over his golden marks and getting caught up on his face, as always. "I always thought... the fact that I had to struggle so much was because I was weak."

Apollo opened his eyes to look at you, and they were so heavy with emotion you had to avert yours. "Weak? Sunshine, you are so strong."

☀️

Delphi was an unsurprisingly beautiful city. As your travel companion, Apollo had disguised himself as a mortal once more and escorted you safely there, even arranging for your stay. During the religious ceremonies in his honor, he had been giggling in your ear in a way that had some priests give him pointed stares for interrupting the process and you jabbing your elbow into his side, making him whine at you being mean.

Then came the actual contest. The other performances flew by you as you had a hard time concealing your nerves, but Apollos calling presence helped. His hand squeezed you every once in a while, and when it was nearly your turn, he guided you to a spot next to the arena from which the performers entered the stage. His bigger hands engulfed your shaking once as he pressed them to his chest. You were surprised to find his heart drumming in a high frequency and widened your eyes at him.

"I can't help it, I'm nervous, too," he smiled cheekily and you bit down on your bottom lip. "Well, it's not you who is about to perform in front of hundreds of people. What if I mess up? What if I'm bad? I don't even have any real talent."

"Do you remember our first conversation?" the god interrupted your ramblings, pulling you closer to him. When you shook your head, he smiled softly and stuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You said that you mortals get your talents from us gods. Well, it's true. I didn't bless you with talent. Do you know why?" You shook your head and he continued.

"Because you tried anyway, and you would not give up. Because of the devotion and love you hold for the lyre. You fought and you struggled, and you made great progress, without any advantages. I never answered your prayers I didn't want you to lose that. You are greater than any of the other artists assembled because of it. I have rarely seen such determination. And I knew you could do it." The god took a long breath. "And it was what made me start to fall in love with you."

Your head snapped up once you processed the words. "You... what?" Apollo delayed the answer by bringing your hands up to his lips and kissing each of your fingertips, making a warmth flood through them that ended their shaking. "I love you. So much. If that song wasn't enough to tell you."

"So it was for me?" you asked, mesmerized, deaf to the announcement of your name. Apollo smiled down at you, leaning in to kiss your temple, your cheek, and finally, his lips met yours. As if they had been waiting for it all along, your arms flew up to wrap themselves around his neck, pulling him closer as his hands dug into your sides.

Suddenly, you felt something on the top of your head and broke from the kiss to feel it. It was a laurel wreath. It was Apollo's laurel wreath. Your eyes were as wide as plates, you were sure, and Apollo chuckled, pointing to it with his chin. "You have my favor, sunshine. Now go and show them what real prowess is."

When you stepped onto the stage, you were overwhelmed by the cheers of the audience. As it was tradition, you recounted a prayer to Apollo, who you spotted in the front row, holding onto your lyre like your lifeline. Then, the crowd fell silence and it was your turn to play.

☀️

In retrospect, you could have anticipated it, as you knew things about the lyre no other mortal could know, thanks to Apollo. But it still blew you away when the pronounced winner of the Pythian games was you. As if in a trance, your ears drowned out the cheers of the audience as you kneeled before the priest who placed the winner's laurel wreath- you had taken off Apollo's, of course - on your head, congratulating you on your outstanding performance.

But even as you barely registered the noise of the crowd, it did catch your attention when it suddenly subsided at once, giving away to a deadly silence. The priest gasped, he was the first one to fall to his knees. Because at the top of the arena's stairs stood Apollo in all his glory, emitting pure power and might. When he met your eye, he winked at you.

As Apollo walked down the stairs, all of the spectators covered, falling to their knees and throwing themselves at his feet. But Apollo didn't take notice of them, his eyes were locked on you as he approached you. A tugging at your skirt made you look down, where the priest made a motion, urging you to kneel as well. When Apollo spoke, his voice filled the whole arena.

"This woman will kneel for no one." His smile was so radiant it took your breath away. So magnetizing you almost missed the hand he was stretching out, waiting for you to take it. Apollo called your name. "I shall invite you to put your skill to good use. Take my hand and play with me and the muses, sunshine."

Gasped echoed all around you, but all you could see and hear and feel was him. Without hesitation, you placed your hand in his and it closed firmly around your hand. Urging you closer softly, the god put his free arm around your waist. "Ready to go home, sunshine?"

Your nod was all he needed before he raised you up into the clouds, leaving all bystanders speechless- but not for long. Soon, your story would spread through all of Greece, your name immortalized next to the muses, and held in prayers because it was realized how much more benevolent Apollo was to those who praised your name alongside his.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

[hanniescookie]

snow on the beach - wjh

pairing - junhui x f!reader

genre/warnings - college au, non idol au, fluff, incredibly soft sweet stuff, skinship, reader is down bad for junhui

wc - 978

summary - having unknowingly existed in your periphery, Junhui suddenly becomes the focal point, triggering a weird but beautiful, almost unreal feeling.

A/N - i know i promised to post jeonghan but i dreamt this really cute junhui today where i was down bad for him and during my exam i thought of how much he feels like this song, so i blended it all up and cooked this ｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡

| @maestro-net

Junhui always existed all around you.

The air you breathed sometimes had his scent, like sandalwood mixed with rain, though you just thought it was the way things smelled that day. In busy places, you might have bumped into him, a quick touch you didn't think twice about.

You might have heard him talking nearby, a certain way he said things or a laugh that now sounds so familiar. He could have been the barista handing you your coffee, his eyes meeting yours for a second before you looked away. Maybe you saw him walking across the street — just another face in the crowd. That cool piece of street art you liked, or that nice little café you found, were places he went to often.

Even when you were thinking to yourself, a certain idea or feeling might have somehow come from him being nearby, his presence just a quiet part of everything around you. He was like the background noise you never really noticed. He was just there, his life touching yours in small, unseen ways.

And today, you finally see it. The background noise has gotten louder, the blurry picture has become clear, and you realize all the times he was simply present, so close, without you ever knowing.

He's not doing much — just playing soccer in the college field. It's weird that he's the only one dressed in a white hoodie and not the team jersey. But your mind becomes more occupied with your heart that's beating a steady rhythm, filling with little flutters that are hard to ignore.

Why did you not see him before?

You question yourself because he's so beautiful, his smile is so contagious, and he's like a galaxy sprinkled with many many stars.

It feels strange, albeit a little. This sensation — your feelings right now for him feel unreal, like something incredibly rare and beautiful.

You don't even realize how long it has been since you've been standing there, admiring him. But all of his presence is making you feel calm and steady, something you've never felt before. He has a kind of glow about him that you can't look away from, and everything else on campus just fades.

This strong feeling you have for him suddenly feels almost too good to be true, but also weird in a way. You can't believe it's him who's stopped your entire existence by just being there.

It happens. You feel a little jolt of electricity course through you when his eyes lift to meet yours. There's hardly anyone on the field anymore, and when you blink, he's dribbling the ball, not looking at you anymore. That makes you wonder if he really looked at you or if you just imagined it.

The idea of him feeling the same way about you crosses your mind for a second, and your brain laughs at you. It's impossible.

But then you feel it again — his gaze on you. And to worsen it, he's walking towards you with a smile. It makes you feel like something important and beautiful is happening, spreading around you quietly like soft snow.

“You look like you're freezing.”

You hear his voice close to you, and only then you acknowledge that he's indeed standing a few meters away from you. His eyes are so otherworldly, almost magical, like those constellations you saw in class, and suddenly you just want to be near him.

You shake your head, registering that your body indeed is showing signs of being cold. Before you know it, he holds your hand up and places a heat pack in your palm, gently pressing your other palm on it too. “You've been standing here for over an hour.” He looks up at you, a small smile blooming on his face. “Admiring me?”

Oh no no no.

You cannot let this happen. Your new spell is delicate and special. He cannot know about it. Hell, even you can't. You're almost afraid to even think about it in case it disappears.

You blink at him, clearing your throat and mustering the courage to speak. You want to say no, scream no, but what comes out of your mouth is the raw, honest truth. “Yes.”

Junhui’s smile is mesmerizing.

He cocks his head to a side, sheepishly grinning with a sprinkle of blush on his cheeks. “That's direct.”

You cannot stop yourself. Maybe you really are in a spell where you're being controlled like a puppet, because you can't really tell how your mouth is slipping words.

“Your question was direct too.”

His smile broadens, and it's a full blown chuckle now. He leaves your hands and you instantly miss his touch — the warmth he had spread throughout your body.

“Well, I noticed you looking at me for so long so I just asked. Didn't realize you would actually admit to it.”

“Can you hold my hands again?” Your mouth betrays you again, and your otherwise cold face feels warm now. “I mean, I'm cold.”

Junhui bites his lower lip, and takes a step closer. He looks at you for a second longer, as if making sense of something before he closes any space between you two.

His arms wrap around you perfectly, and you feel ashamed at the sigh that leaves you. He's so warm, and so soft. The flutters in your heart increase before calming down when he speaks. “Figured this would be better.”

Your brain short-circuits for a moment. Is this really happening? Can this extraordinary thing be real between you?

Your smile is stupid as you hum against his shoulder. “It is.”

And in that unexpected warmth, the unreal begins to feel real. His arms around you feel undeniably so. This impossible feeling is unfolding, and Junhui is a part of it.

[jules-ln]

Viktor is literally art nouveau

I was looking at Viktor's design in league of legends and it hit me, Viktor in Arcane IS Art Nouveau

Not literally but yes literally in a way lmao

Let me walk you through my thought process

I was looking at the league of legends design, and I thought that the fact that Viktor still had hair was weird if the whole point of Viktor is human bad machine good, then why does he has something as human as hair?

Then I thought about the Arcane Herald design, and it actually made more sense that this Viktor still had hair, why? Just look at his robots

The first thing that called my attention was their shoes, because those aren't normal heels, no, those are heelless heels! and let me tell you

1) Viktor isn't straight (no straight man would know and like those shoes, you can't fool me)

2) That's like the worst shoes you could ask for to fight/run in, do you know how easy is to fall with those shoes? No, they aren't practical, those shoes are merely for visual pleasure

And it doesn't seems like Viktor would be the kind of man that would put looks above functionality but then you think about how his designs in general have a very heavy preference for art nouveau; which, is also very much beauty over function

His robots have the asymmetry, A flowing organic shape, a preference for a feminine figure, the reference to flora on the patterns. They're are art nouveau bots and theres no way to deny that, and Viktor's Herald design is too, to some extent

Again, preference for a feminine figure, flowing organic shapes, his staff looks like a tree (kinda), asymmetry to some extent (not as much a his robots), hair (very important). You can reasonably say that it was at least inspired by art nouveau

Then we have the design of his room/house in the commune, it's pretty much art nouveau inspired too. I've seen some people say that Viktor made this to reference the Hexgates because he missed Jayce, but now I'm thinking, what if it wasn't that he missed Jayce, but more that the Hexgates were originally his design

And listen, I know I know, both worked on the hexgates, both should be credited equally, but realistically, I think it's fair to say that both of them probably had different levels of involvement on different things? So what if Viktor was the one with the original idea for the outside design and Jayce then added the art deco elements? Then Viktor repeated it on the commune with a more art nouveau style simply because he likes it?

And you might ask. Why does it matters? Why does the fact that Viktor likes art nouveau means that he's the personification of art nouveau?

Well; now to the point, I studied a little of art history on college, and I was a bit obsessed with art nouveau back then, and you know what was the goal of it?

Art nouveau was made to bring art to the common person, to have every day objects being a piece of art. It was supposed to get art away from the rich and to give it to everyone. But it failed

And you know why Art Nouveau failed and was quickly abandoned?

Two things, 1) it was too expensive, and 2) World War 1

So ironically Art Nouveau ended up being too expensive to reach the people they wanted to help so it stayed a rich people thing, and then it had to be abandoned almost completely because of WW1; there weren't enough materials to make it and a lot of people that became poor because of the war didn't have the money to spend on it

It was very short lived even when it made a big impact on history (That reminds me of someone)

Now compare art nouveau's history to what happened to Viktor (And Jayce)

They wanted to make magic accessible to the common people, to help; but it ended up being so that Hextech only helped people in Piltover to get richer while people in Zaun got worse and worse

Then something happened, a war, and both Viktor and Jayce had to abandon their dreams

Add to that the name art nouveau means new art, and in Spain it was called "Modernismo" Why? Because it wanted to be the future of art, young, refreshing, a bright future different from the past. Who else wanted to be the future of something? Men of progress who?

Viktor (and Jayce to some extent but I think he's more art deco lmao) IS Art Nouveau. It's his story

(And funnily enough, you can find art nouveau in Zaun, but I don't remember ever seeing art deco in Zaun, while it's the main thing on Piltover)

(Also also, I have some thoughts about Jayce being Art Deco, but that's for maaaybe later lmao)

Listen I'm a death of the author guy, I'm going to find meaning on my own. But either someone in the art department had to know the history of art nouveau and made a point of making it Viktor's main style (because it is Viktor's style, like I showed before), or it's just an extremely funny and fitting coincidence

[respectthepetty]

Background Noise - Futtara Doshaburi

I liked that right after returning the umbrellas to the restaurant, the guys had to take refuge in a nearby building to escape from the unexpected rain.

And it gave a peak into their reactions when the unexpected happens. Hagiwara Kazuakia laughs. He finds joy in the break of monotony, but Nakarai Sei pauses and assesses.

Then he explores.

And while he reflects on the pieces and his placement with them,

Hagiwara Kazuakia gets far more personal with the art and inserts his physical presence in the art.

This was also seen in their responses to the "two types of women" question since Hagiwara Kazuakia, who is sexually frustrated with his girlfriend, saw women as objects to be fucked or not fucked, and Nakarai Sei, who is sexually attracted to men, viewed women as an aesthetic who either put on makeup in front of others or didn't.

The building they enter is an actual gallery, and a majority of the artwork is Akio Omori's, but without knowing the artist's intentions, his artwork seems to rest in a space of spirituality and the feminine, which is an interesting theme for these two to journey through together.

The flowers, which are viewed as feminine object, have some spiritual correlation. The translation of the first dark flower, which could be incorrect, is "Devil's Thoughts" and it seems to have dragon-like wings and thorns. The second red flower with its gold butterfly-like wings that Nakarai Sei closely looked at was titled "Angel's Face," so we have the abstract (thought) and the physical (face), but also good and evil.

And this dichotomy runs throughout the pieces, yet it's more of a question of the complexity of two supposedly different ideas since both flowers are still beautiful and tempting, which we also see with the celestial bodies.

Red is normally the color associated with the devil and aggression. But also love, and the red figure with its gold wings has the halo. It's the angel.

While the blue and white figure, which are normally colors associated with purity and heaven, has the dragon wings and the spiked tail. It is the devil.

Then we come to the grand piece that resides in another space separated from the rest.

As a Catholic, I immediately saw La Virgen.

But I also noted the shaped of the statue because it looks like a vulva.

And it wouldn't be the first time I saw a vulva in art when that was never the artist's intention (hello, Georgia O'Keeffe, we meet again!), but I do think it adds to the way each man reacts to the piece since they have already walked through a room that has planted the foundation for complex thought since the piece is about a devout woman who ascends to heaven while her chest is partially exposed. The piece is about heaven/God/good, and although the bare chest isn't sexual, there is something about the shape of the statue and the exposure that makes it feel a little tempting, like the flowers.

Hagiwara Kazuakia, the one who enjoys the unexpected, the one who gets closer to the art, the one who inserts himself into the art, sees it as a female statue that reminds him of his sexual frustrations. But Nakarai Sei, the one who pauses and reflects, the one who keeps his distance, the one who thinks about himself in relation to the art, sees it as a wooden statue which, although exposed, can't decide if the statue is obscene or sad. It's the "two type of women" question all over again.

Because just like Fujisawa Kazuaki stated, "no matter what I pick, it will apply to men too. Traits that befit women or men don't really exist," so the men aren't simply looking at art that is nestled in the complex relationship between the feminine and spiritual, but they are examining themselves.

Then the rain stops.

In their relationships, the men dream about the past and the future, but only question the present with each other. Hagiwara Kazuakia hates that he can hear the rain in his apartment because it reminds him of what he once had with his girlfriend. He is stuck in the same cycle of replaying the past.

Nakarai Sei hates that he cannot hear the ran in his apartment because it reminds him of how alone he is and what he will never have. He is stuck in a prison he refuses to leave.

And yet Nakarai Sei stood in the rain outside of the restaurant and Hagiwara Kazuakia tried to provide him shelter from the rain. The past and future collided in the present.

So when they arrived on the gallery's steps after returning the umbrellas, Nakarai Sei went inside to hide from the rain, and Hagiwara Kazuakia laughed as he enjoyed the surprise of it.

The art is them. Neither is simply one thing. They are complex. But they also a pair. We have the angel with its spiked tail and the devil with the halo. We have the winged flowers. We have a man who hates the rain yet laughs when it does rain and one who misses the rain yet hides when it does rain. And I think that is why they have this yin and yang quality to them. They see things differently, yet neither is fully right or wrong. They are the celestial figures. They are the statue. They are frustration and sadness. But they need the other one so they can understand that.

They are getting to know themselves by understanding the other. They want BOTH intimacy and sex, but they are figuring that out as they ask more questions of the other since for the first time they are focusing on the present, so their responses to finding out that their pen pal is right next to them after Hagiwara Kazuakia sends the email about the rain noise app is the same response they had when it rained. Nakarai Sei sits in it and thinks it over, and Hagiwara Kazuakia laughs. Because it's the unexpected.

And for two men who keep going through the motions of what is expected of them, they need the other one to shake up their expectations of what is right, what is good, what it is be a man

And what it means to love.

[hbyrde36]

Night Terrors & Daydreams Pt. 1 of 2

For @penny00dreadful 🖤

I don't know where this came from but as soon as I had the idea I knew I just HAD to write this for your birthday. I'm not sure what that says about me, you, or our friendship 👀😂 but I hope you enjoy! Happy (early) Birthday , Love!

Steddie | Explicit | WC: 2876 | AO3

Eddie stood in the corner of his new charge’s room, biding his time, waiting for just the right moment to strike. 

It was a strange existence, this push and pull between ethereal and corporeal. In his early years he’d kept entirely to the shadows, doing his work from a nice safe distance, paying his dues without ever really showing himself to his… victims. 

He’d always hated that word, victim. He liked to think of himself as something of a caretaker. The way he watched over his humans, so vulnerable as they dozed in their nice warm beds, was evocative of so much more than predator and prey. There were, naturally, much worse things lurking in the night than him, a mere sleep paralysis demon.

It was also a bit of an inside joke with himself, if he was honest. One needed such things to keep themselves entertained these days. The poor souls he pursued endured abject terror to give him life and help power The Underworld like living breathing batteries. 

Ergo, charge.

There was magic and meaning in the naming of things. He’d chosen to call himself Eddie for just that reason, to take control of his identity, abhorring the idea of referring to himself simply as Demon. His kind didn’t typically have names, per se, or at least they certainly weren't given them at their unholy creation, but nothing about Eddie had ever been what one might call typical. 

At the end of the day, he supposed, he could call things and people whatever he liked in the sanctity of his own mind, and the powers-that-be could…

What was the phrase again?

Ah yes. 

Suck it.

The man in the bed stirred, the most delicious whimpering sound slipping from the depths of his throat. Caught in the middle of what appeared to be a nightmare, he tossed and turned, eventually winding up flat on his back, chin tilted to the heavens.

“Perfect,” Eddie whispered to himself. 

He let his essence drift out of the shadows, his smoky half-form ruffling the curtains as he passed by a faintly glowing window, the city with her ever present lights and commotion—regardless of the storm that raged outside— persisting just on the other side of its glass. That glow fell over the figure in the bed to illuminate his face, revealing the gentle curve of full pouty lips, and the fan of long lashes resting heavy across eyes that were accentuated by dark, well-groomed brows. His perfectly tanned skin was dotted with beauty marks, a feature so aptly named when adorning such a lovely specimen.

At first sight, Eddie—who didn’t even need to breathe as a rule—felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room, from the world. Suddenly he understood why humans sometimes wept when they looked upon a particularly beautiful work of art. Why one look at Adonis brought so many to their knees. Why the Trojans went to fucking war.

The man’s eyelids fluttered softly, opening as Eddie continued to gaze upon his face and for a moment it was he, the demon, who was the one frozen in place.

Quickly, before the rare beauty in the bed could so much as cry out, Eddie forced himself to his senses, shifting his focus instead to his power and paralyzed the man with a single thought. The most disarming set of hazel eyes, the only part of his body that the man still had the power to move, stared up at him, showing too much white as they tracked his billowy movements overhead. 

He left in a hurry that night, not even taking the time to feed like he ought to, afraid of what he might do if he lingered long enough to make the necessary connection.

It should have ended there. He should have done the reasonable thing and switched assignments with another of his kind to avoid temptation entirely.

But, it seemed, reasonability had no place in Eddie’s mind. Not anymore. Not when he was consumed with the need to know more about the exquisite stranger who had ruined his very existence, mind, body, and soul.

Well… if only he’d had one, that is.

Three nights later, as drained of energy as he’d ever been, Eddie returned to that bedroom, hovering like a dark cloud over the man who had haunted his every conscious thought since the moment he’d fled. This time he didn’t wait, Hell, he didn’t even paralyze the body beneath him before plunging right into the man’s sleeping mind. 

And dove face first into a world full of nightmares.

His poor human was plagued by all manner of awful dreams. After so many years, Eddie was familiar with what humans feared—fire, darkness, the various things that went bump in the night—but it wasn’t the boogeyman, or any other such monster that lived under beds or in closets that hunted his sweet charge, no. The monsters that tormented the man were formed of disappointed hopes and unmet expectations, of cruel words hurled from the throats of those who were meant to love you most. 

Of loneliness, sorrow, and despair, that could remain unending until his last breath. 

Steve.

His human’s name was Steve. 

A kind soul born into an unkind world that he’d never quite found his place in.

With a mournful sob, Steve gasped awake abruptly. Eddie yanked himself back, freezing Steve in place as he did, leaving only a tendril of his smoke-like being behind to gently brush over the man’s cheek.

'Hush,' Eddie thought at him, for the first time ever projecting peace and comfort on the subject he intended to feed from, and set himself to his task, reverently.

Eddie visited often after that, far more so than was strictly necessary to sustain himself, and yet he couldn’t seem to get enough. Feeding from Steve was a singular, mind-blowing experience, making every human who’d come before him pale in comparison. They had been nothing more than an apéritif, and hors d'oeuvre at best, and Steve?

Steve was a full-course meal, complete with the most decadent, sinful dessert imaginable.

Delicious, addicting, dangerous.  

No other human would ever do for him again. 

Steve’s nightmares remained an unfortunate constant and, visit after visit, Eddie began to make a habit of waking Steve straightaway if he discovered his beloved human in the throes of a night terror.

After a while though, the bad dreams began to lessen, making way for something new. Calm, pleasant interludes started to unfold right before Eddie’s eyes. 

Steve smiling on his commute to work, watching the city race by through wide tinted windows, for once not feeling like a lone raindrop in a storm.  

Steve luxuriating in a warm, lavender scented bath, bubbles concealing much of his perfect form from sight as every muscle in his body relaxed for what felt like the first time in his entire life. 

Steve walking along a tranquil beach at dusk, no longer alone, but hand in hand with another, a faceless man with a head of wild hair, dark as night and curling to his shoulders.

Sadly, it wasn’t all like watching a feature film, much of Steve’s sleeping thoughts came in bursts and flashes.

A strip of pale skin, beautifully mottled with fresh red bite marks.

A prominent Adam's apple, bobbing along a pale, delicate throat.

The glossy sheen of silk sheets bathed in moonlight.

Pretty soon Eddie found himself in Steve’s company every single night, the temptation had become far too great, as did the sharp sting of jealousy for the man in Steve’s dreams. Eddie was completely consumed with his obsession, affectionately so, and had even begun manifesting himself in a full physical form to sit at Steve's bedside, gently stroking his soft, silky hair with real fingers, soothing his beloved while he was trapped in his frozen state.

It was too much, and still not enough, and before long Eddie started to fear that he was killing the man he’d come to care for more than his own existence. He was meant to do this slowly, to drain his victims over time—decades—taking what he needed and siphoning the residuals off to The Underworld to keep the lights on, so to speak. Instead he eventually cut off the outward flow of power altogether, and only took the bare minimum of what he needed to keep himself alive, spending the majority of his time with Steve now simply existing beside him.

Pining.

Yearning for more.

He was breaking convention. He didn’t know what sort of retribution there might be, but in truth it didn’t matter. He’d take whatever punishment was due and be glad of it, happy to pay any price necessary to be with his true love. He ached to have Steve in every way possible. He knew much of the man’s mind, but his soul, his body? That largely remained a mystery. Eddie wanted—needed—to know the taste of Steve’s lips, the touch of his hand, the way it would feel to have Steve inside him, an echo in compliment to the way he had been immersing himself in Steve for so very long now.

The night Eddie finally lost control, was a night like many others.

Already gripped by the nightmares he still suffered from now and then, Steve was thrashing in his sleep when Eddie arrived, his duvet falling off the side of the bed leaving nothing but a thin white sheet between his body and the rest of the world. 

Eddie willed his physical form into existence around him, the one he’d made piece by piece over time, taking inspiration from the mysterious figure who starred in so many of Steve’s less haunted dreams. Anticipation flowed through his veins like a drug as he stepped closer, holding Steve still with his power the way he always did, but this would be no typical night. 

Eddie was only a man. 

No, not even that. 

He was a creature of the night, an incubus, a pathetic wanton fiend who could only stare temptation in the face for so long before he could no longer resist the urge to take that which he desired. 

Sensing Steve was soon to wake, Eddie leaned down to press a kiss to his brow, pulling back just in time to see those honeyed eyes snap open. 

“Sorry I'm late, sweetheart,” Eddie said softly, settling himself on the side of the bed, reaching out a pale, ringed hand to push the damp hair back from Steve’s forehead. “And I'm sorry I couldn’t stop the other bad things from claiming you tonight.”

He imagined a world where Steve didn’t have to be held captive by his power to do this, where Steve would lean into his touch, knowing how cherished he was. But then, that was the goal tonight, wasn’t it, proving his love to Steve and making that world a reality.

Ever so slowly, he peeled back the sheet from Steve’s body, like opening a carefully wrapped gift and wanting to extend the excitement of the moment out as much as possible. He watched, rapt, as the sleek fabric pulled back, revealing bare, tempting flesh by mere inches at a time.

The hair on Steve’s chest. The blush pink of his nipples, hardening the instant they were exposed to the air. The finer line of hairs that trailed down the length of his stomach, dipping lower, and lower still, leading to a well defined groin bracketing his thick, half-hard cock.

It was more likely that Steve had always slept in the nude, Eddie wasn’t sure, and maybe it was delusional, but the sheer thought that perhaps this lovely little surprise was intentional and done specifically with him in mind, had his heart racing and drool pooling in his mouth.  

With a final tug, the silken sheets flew off the end of the bed to land in a heap on the floor below, and Eddie spent a short eternity standing at the foot of the bed, gazing down at the beauty before him, taking in the full effect of Steve’s mouthwatering physique.

Steve simply had to be one of the most gorgeous beings to ever walk the face of the earth, and here he was all laid out for Eddie, completely at the demon’s mercy.

At the wave of his hand Eddie’s own clothes vanished, and with nothing more to keep them apart he crawled back up onto the bed, determined to taste every square inch of his sweetheart’s skin.

He began with a soft tender kiss to the top of each of his beloved’s feet, kneading his fingers into Steve’s strong, muscular calves, at the same time dragging his lips up the length of legs that would have been at home on any Greek statue, worshiping them from ankle to knee with the deepest devotion.

Steve’s inner thighs were practically begging to be bitten, and Eddie was powerless to resist the siren call of them. He sank his teeth in gently but without hesitation, moaning as the soft flesh filled his mouth, sucking on the skin until he could sense blood pooling to the surface where it would surely leave a lasting mark.

A strangled cry suddenly broke through the heavy silence as Eddie pulled back, a high pitched whine vibrating through Steve’s throat. It was the first time the man had ever managed to make a sound, as strained as it was, while under Eddie’s power and it was like music to the demon’s ears.

He repeated the process on the other side of Steve’s body, marveling at the way his love’s cock twitched with each stroke of his tongue, or nip from his teeth.

When Eddie was satisfied with his own handiwork, knowing Steve would see and feel his presence long after he left this night, he moved on to the place he was most desperate to explore. Dipping his head down low, he opened wide, taking each of Steve’s balls into his mouth. One at a time he rolled his tongue around them, reveling in the feel of the loose skin between his lips. Steve’s body at least seemed to be enjoying his efforts too, his cock quickly filling out, now standing at its full height. Long, thick, and so incredibly enticing. 

Eddie ran the flat of his tongue up the underside of Steve’s length from base to tip, carefully swirling all around the head—teasing, testing, tasting the pearly white fluid that leaked from its slit. 

As if the salty, mildly bitter substance were Steve’s own source of magic, Eddie’s entire being began flooding with heat. The fiery desire filled him more and more as he swallowed the paltry droplets, lapping sloppily, desperate for more. 

Steve’s keening reached new heights, the sound nearly frantic when Eddie wrapped his lips firmly around the head of him, hollowed his cheeks, and started to sink down a millimeter at a time until Steve’s entire length was sheathed deep within his mouth and throat.

It was a fullness unlike any other Eddie had experienced before and he loved the way this act took command of all his senses. It was not quite the fullness he’d been craving, there was still an ache in his core, a deep pocket of emptiness that yearned to be stuffed, but there were still plenty of hours left in the night for that. 

Eddie pulled off with a gasp, finding himself panting for air. In his excitement he’d sort-of forgotten that he did need to occasionally breathe in this form. 

With a final kiss to the shining tip of Steve’s cock, now wet from Eddie’s own saliva, he moved on to explore the flat plane of Steve’s lower stomach. Like a cat, he nuzzled his cheek through the hair of Steve's happy trail, letting his lips brush over skin here and there as he shifted further up to Steve’s chest. 

After peppering the entire width of his collarbone with sweet, gentle kisses, Eddie ran his tongue all the way up Steve’s neck to his ear. He wasn’t ready to let Steve go completely of course, not yet, but he was ready to free his mouth, to finally hear Steve’s waking thoughts, in his own true voice.

“You may speak now, my love, but I’d advise you not to scream.” Eddie breathed the words directly into Steve’s ear. “Lest some well-meaning neighbor come investigating and interrupt us.”

Steve’s lips parted slowly, the tip of his pink tongue darting out to wet his plush lips, making them all the more inviting as he begged, softly… 

“Please.”

Eddie tilted his head, the gentle plea most unexpected. “Please what, pet?”

“Kiss me?” Steve asked.

“What did you say?” Eddie whispered on a sharp inhale. He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. 

Please stop. 

Please don’t. 

Please let me go. 

All of those he’d anticipated. All of those he’d been prepared for, ready to fight for his one true love, to show Steve how much he cared, over and over again if he had to, until the man came to believe it.

“Please,” Steve begged again, his eyelids half-closed and his tone breathy, bordering on a whine. “Kiss me, my Angel.”

Part 2

Many thanks to @pearynice for the amazing beta work and for always being the best, loudest cheerleader! 💕

Permanent taglist (open): @penny00dreadful @pearynice @hitlikehammers @sidekick-hero @firefly-party

@bookworm0690 @wonderland-girl143-blog  @goodolefashionedloverboi @themagicalari @awkwardgravity1

@rocknrollsalad @eternal-sunflowers @cringe-culture-is-dead-99

[heyimkana]

Desiderium - Chapter 3

Series Masterlist | AO3 Link

Pairing: Yuuta Okkotsu X Female Reader X Satoru Gojo

Genre: Reincarnation AU, Marriage AU, Fluff, Smut, Slow Burn

Summary: Set in Tokyo, Japan, you and Yuuta were past lovers separated by the cruel hands of fate. That same fate brought you to him again a century later, but while you hold no memories of him or the beautiful life you had shared with him in the past, Yuuta remembers everything. He's waited forever to see you again, yearning for your love, not knowing that you already belong to someone else.

Word Count: 13K+

Content Warnings: None for this chapter.

Art drawn by @alwhmd_ on Twitter (commission)

They discover a little game. It’s all Yuuta’s idea. 

“To expand our knowledge and interest,” he says before bashfully adding, “A-and so we can know each other better.”

One of those reasons convinces her to play along. It’s never about the books.

The rule is simple: he’ll choose short literature for her to read for the day—whether it’s in the form of poetry or novel, matters not, as well as its genre—and she’ll do the same for him. They’ll share their thoughts afterward, and whoever can make the other feel entertained with their recommendation will win the game. Yuuta chooses not to place any bets despite her constant suggestions to make the game more interesting, but he says he’ll allow her to ask him to do something—anything—she wants if she manages to impress him with her choice.

I can work with that, she thinks, and so they play. They do it once a week if the novels are too thick to be finished within a day or two. But if it’s a short story, they’ll repeat the game as soon as the last one ends.

She always wins, but only because he lets her. She knows that. And she feels terrible asking someone as pure and gullible as Yuuta to do something crazy, knowing that he will indeed do anything she asks of him and possibly dying in the process, figuratively speaking. Maybe even literally, seeing how his body nearly combusted into flames when she simply asked him to stop calling her by her surname. 

“It’s been weeks since we first met, Yuuta. Isn’t it about time?” She had argued then. “Aren’t we close enough to be on a first-name basis now? It doesn’t feel fair that I’m the only one calling you this way.” She left him no room to escape. 

He needed a few seconds to gather the courage, but he agreed. Her name flowed past his mouth, and it sounded exactly the same as the way he called her in the dream, so naturally as if he had been calling her that way for years, like a soulmate to another. She asked him to continue referring to her with her first name, saying they sounded more like friends that way. She did not mention a word about how warm and giddy he made her feel inside with every call of her name. He didn’t need to know; it was already dangerous as it was.

She’s stopped trying to win the game since then, deciding it would be funnier—and easier on her heart—if she played tricks on him instead.

So, today, she plays Yuuta’s innocent game with her wicked mind in charge, selecting a story that is too long to finish in three hours and too absurd for his mind to comprehend. “This book got me through some tough times,” she says, a complete lie. She hasn’t even read it, not once. She’d simply looked it up online a few minutes before, secretly grinning like a devil as she skimmed through endless terrible reviews from readers who were disgusted by the chaotic plot and even messier ending. The more bad reviews it got, the better, so she decided it was perfect for her to recommend. “Sharing this with you is like sharing my deepest secret, Yuuta, so please. Read it. It’s very important to me that you like it.”

Poor Yuuta nods with all his heart. He’s excited, super excited, probably thinking he’s on his way to a new adventure to understand her better, only to be frowning and glancing at her with concerned eyes for the rest of his reading session. By the time he’s finished with it, she asks him for his opinion.

He looks genuinely concerned for her. She’s having the time of her life.

Yuuta, on the other hand, is always so meticulous in choosing what to recommend. Whenever he finds something interesting, he does a quick research beforehand to make sure it’s universally loved instead of a simply biased opinion. He’ll be so nervous about it, too, adorably so. “I’ve read this before and, umm… The ending is pretty satisfying to me, and it got me wondering what could have been if—no, I shouldn’t spoil it, just, umm, just give it a try? Please? I think you’ll enjoy it.”

She takes the book away from his hand, scrutinizing the cover. 

He winces, “The cover doesn’t say much. Please don’t judge it from—”

“Yuuta, will you relax?” She laughs. “I’ve read books before; I know the rules. I wasn’t judging it from the cover. I was just reading the author’s name.”

“Oh… Okay…”

“Yukio Mishima… Hmm… Why does his name sound familiar to me?” Her eyes skate through the first page, moving from one passage to another. “His writing style, too. Have you recommended his other works to me before? I swear I’ve read it somewhere. I can’t remember it.”

Yuuta’s jaw clenches before he forces out a smile. “Have I? I don’t remember. He is my favorite author, though, so… Yeah, maybe.”

She looks at him. There’s something he’s not telling me. Since he doesn’t seem to want to elaborate, she has no choice but to end it with a shrug. “Okay. I’ll read it.” She heads towards an empty couch, snickering. “If this ends terribly, you’ll have to buy me dinner.”

Yuuta chuckles, adding a hushed, “I would’ve done that every day had you let me.” She misses it. Clearing his throat, he replies a bit louder, “If it exceeds your expectations, will you go somewhere with me after this?” She stops in her tracks, turning her head around to face him. He understands the silent question—and the slight worry—shimmering on her face. “It’s not a date, I promise,” he says, although regrettably. “I just…” He tucks his hair behind his ear, another part of his mannerisms that she finds incredibly endearing despite how simple it is.“There’s this place I’ve been wanting to take you to.”

He seems anxious, waiting for her response, blatantly so that she feels sorry for taking a few seconds to think. “Sure,” she replies with a small smile. After all, it’s his first time putting effort into the game instead of letting her win all the time. “But you have to know that I have huge expectations on this. It’s your favorite author, after all. I gotta judge thoroughly.”

“Yeah.” Relief washes over him. “Yeah, okay.”

Two and a half hours have passed since then, and Yuuta waits with bated breath as she closes the book’s final page. She places it on the round wooden table between them, pushing it toward him. She remains mute.

Searching her face and desperately trying to understand what goes through her mind, he asks, “H-how was it?”

To his surprise, she stands up without a word, gathering all her things at once and sliding her arms through the sleeves of her coat. “So.” She plunges her hands into her pockets, huffing out an air. “Where will you be taking me?”

He blinks.

Then he turns the happiest he’s ever been.

***

“I can’t believe you only asked me to go to a ramen shop with you,” she mutters as they stroll along the pavements, breathing in the evening breeze that tickles their cheeks. They don’t have places they plan on going, not really, not after they have their stomachs full, but neither of them is willing to bid farewell just yet. They enjoy being in each other’s company, silently wishing for the hours to dance slowly between them. “Making it as a bet…” She snorts. “You know you could’ve just asked me to go, right?”

Yuuta titters, “Where did you expect me to take you?”

“I don’t know, a charity gala for the homeless, maybe? You made it sound like a big deal.”

“I’ll take you to the gala next time,” he jests. “Did it, at least, suit your taste? The ramen?”

They have come across an intersection, fitting themselves between the other pedestrians while waiting for the crossing light above them to turn green. “Hmm, could improve a little bit on the broth, I think,” she says. “That tonkatsu topping was a killer, though. I’m drooling just thinking about it again. I’ll give it nine out of ten just because of that.”

He smiles, primarily to himself. And as she peers at him from the side, she mirrors it, too. "You have that look on your face again."

"Pardon?"

“Every time you managed to make me smile, either by recommending a good book or getting food or drinks that suited my taste, you always looked so happy. It’s as if my joy is your joy. And I think the world would be so much better if everyone acted like that. Just, you know, making each other happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as kind and gentle as you are. Thought it was all an act at first, but," she chuckles. “You really are the sweetest person I’ve ever met. I’m glad we could be friends.”

Her lines startle him enough to turn his body into ice. Did I say something wrong? She questions herself. “Yuuta? You okay? I wasn’t being too much, was I?” 

“N-no.” He loosens his collar, fire licking his cheeks. “I, umm... I don’t think I’m that kind of person at all. It’s just... When it comes to you, I…” His sentence dies before it meets its end; too distracted to finish it. His eyes stray away from her face as his ears pick up on words murmured by a couple of strangers nearby. 

With her brows drawn together in curiosity, she follows his gaze, turning her head slightly so as not to appear so obvious. She spots two men in matching red varsity jackets sneering behind her, also waiting for their chance to cross the road, it seems. The college boys are standing a safe distance apart from her but close enough for them to catch a word or two of their conversations had they listened closely. Even if they can’t hear them, the way they’re smirking while stealing glances at her body clearly indicates what they’re conversing about.

She grows uncomfortable, turning self-conscious of her appearance. There’s nothing unusual about what she’s wearing, just a simple pair of jeans and a sweater underneath a coat, and yet, the two men make her feel as if she stood there in the nude. Her hand moves to adjust her jacket to cover her body better, feeling embarrassed despite it not being her fault. She feels powerless, failing to protect herself from being seen as an object. And to have this happening in front of Yuuta somehow makes it ten times worse because—

She doesn’t get the chance to finish her thought, her eyes widening in surprise when she feels Yuuta’s hand sliding around her waist. He pulls her close without warning, erasing any distance between them and nearly causing her to land face-first on his chest. She looks up at him, face flushed. “Y-Yuuta, what—”

She stops, staring at Yuuta with parted lips. 

This is not the man she knows.

Anger pulses through his veins, and robs the gentle light out of his eyes—a glare so cold that it changes his whole demeanor. Had she known that Yuuta could display such an expression on his face, she wouldn’t have described him as kind and gentle a moment ago. The look he has in his eyes right now… It makes her blood curdle.

Staying still in his arms, she notices the way Yuuta maintains his eyes on them, like a protective wolf watching over his pack. She never thought a menacing stare like this would be such a good look at him, but it is. It charms her, her mind drifting off on its own, wondering if he would be this possessive over her if she were his. The thought doesn’t scare her as much as it excites her. 

It doesn’t take long before she hears the boys clamp their mouths shut behind her, followed by rustling sounds of footsteps that grow fainter with every second passing by. She can feel his muscles unwinding, but the darkness in his eyes remains as deep as an endless void.

“Umm… Yuuta?”

At that, he snaps awake. “Oh, s-sorry!” He quickly backs away, letting her stand on her own feet. He’s back to the awkward, diffident person she knows, his face turning crimson without any chance to blame it on the cold wind. He bows his head in apology, unable to meet her eyes. “I’m so sorry for suddenly grabbing you like that, I—” He takes a breath. “I won’t touch you without your permission again. I promise.”

The way he acts… It makes her wonder whether he feels like he’s just as terrible as the two men before for doing something without her consent. “Thank you,” she says, tugging onto his sleeve to make him lift his head. “I got the feeling they were staring at me. I wouldn’t have done anything about it ’cause, well,” she tries to make light of the situation by forcing out a chuckle, “It happens all the time if you’re a woman. I just feel… a bit ashamed that you saw that.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, staggering her a little with his solemnity. “No matter what you wear, what you don’t wear, what you say, or how you behave, it’s never a woman’s fault to have men act that way around them. It’s our fault. So, never feel ashamed about it. They should, but not you.”

He truly is kind, she concludes in her mind. “For someone with a heart of an angel, you can be really scary sometimes. Those guys were huge, and there were two of them. I didn’t think you had it in you to glare at someone like that.”

“I—I didn’t realize I looked like that. I just wanted them to stop staring at you.” His face distorts in worry. “Did I… scare you?”

He probably would have, had she not seen this version of him in the dream already. But compared to how infuriated he looked when he faced Naoya Zenin, this one was nothing. “No, just surprised. In a good way,” she adds with a little smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever had someone do something like that for me before. Satoru usually just told me to ignore them. So, thank you, really. I felt like I was in a shoujo manga therefor a second,” she chuckles before she notices the blinking lights above her. “Oh, the light’s green. Let’s go.”

She crosses the road with him trailing closely behind her, not realizing the changes in his expression. The mention of her lover’s name usually paints a sad color on his face, but tonight, it glows dark red.

***

They enter a coffee shop Yuuta recommended, a sudden change of agenda since the usual place they visited is closed for the day. She disrobes herself from her coat, plopping herself on her seat with a huff. “That was a long walk. I’m gonna feel it in my legs tomorrow.”

Following behind her with a tray in his hands (he insisted on carrying their orders despite her wish to help), he checks on her with concern. “Are you okay? See, that’s why I suggested we take the bus. The restaurant was too far away from here.”

“Well, sorry for wanting to take my time with you,” she pouts. “Was I the only one who enjoyed our long chat on our way here?”

“No, of course not!” He pales. “I enjoyed every second of it! I was just—”

“Relaaax, I was just kidding,” she simpers. “If my legs are still sore tomorrow, you’re paying for my massage.” She takes a sugar cube, watching it dissolve inside the cup as she stirs it with her teaspoon. Before she can take a sip, Yuuta drags the sugar bowl in her direction. “What?”

“You need more sugar than that. Try two more?”

“You think I can’t handle my tea?”

“It’s not that.” A peal of laughter escapes him, a bit tenser than usual. She wonders what he’s trying to hide. “I’ve had that before, and it’s a bit too bitter compared to what you usually have.”

“And how would you know how I like my tea?”

He freezes. “I don’t. I’m—I’m just guessing.”

“Uh-huh,” she narrows her eyes still. “Well, as much as I appreciate your concern, my good sir, I can handle my tea just fine.” She takes a sip, about to wince when the bitter taste hits her tongue, but she acts unfazed. “See?” She smacks her lips. “I’m fine.”

Yuuta watches her with adoration in his eyes as if trying to prove him wrong was an adorable habit of hers that he’s always loved to see. “You sure?”

It’s too tempting, and she’s only human. “Okay, fine, maybe one more.” She plops in another cube, stirs it, takes another sip, and it’s still too bitter. 

Biting his lip to suppress his grin, he nudges the bowl again. “It’s still here if you want it.”

She can’t hold it anymore. Her mouth still feels like she just munched a handful of saffrons. “But two would be too sweet,” she says, yet she drops another cube into her cup. The second her tea hits her tongue, she blinks. It’s the perfect balance. “Huh…” 

This time, he doesn’t tone down his grin. “Told you two would suit your taste.”

“Okay, you’re way too good at just guessing things,” she makes an air quote with her fingers. “How do you know so much about me? Are you my stalker?”

That wipes off his grin almost instantly. “N-no, of course not! Why would I—no!”

“I don’t know, Yuuta, that sounds exactly like what a stalker would say.” As he panics, she beams at him with a cheeky grin, and at that, his rigid muscles turn loose.

“You’re just teasing me,” he sighs in relief.

“A little,” she giggles. “But seriously. What is it? Am I that easy to read? Have I met you before?” She throws her options mindlessly, but her last question strikes him hard enough to have him perched still in his seat.

He tarries, cogitating on his response. “Do you… feel like you’ve met me before?”

She frowns, clueless as to what he’s indicating. Her heart wants to say yes, shout it out loud even, but a dream is just a dream, and it would be ridiculous to mix it up with her reality, wouldn’t it? No matter how real it felt.

“I think I would remember you if I’d met you before, Yuuta.” She chuckles lightly when adding, “You’re not easy to forget.”

She means it as a compliment, but Yuuta reciprocates with loneliness fleeting through his eyes. He separates his lips, eager to say all the feelings he’s bottled inside, but he clamps them shut before he can, dragging his gaze to his lap. “You’re right.” And yet, you did, his body seems to say. You’ve forgotten all about me.

Perhaps she’s just imagining things, or maybe she’s beginning to be as good as he is in reading his expressions, but her heart aches for him. Before she knows it, she reaches out, covering the back of his hand with her palm. “Yuuta,” she sounds soft, softer than ever, afraid to break the paper-thin glass he’s built around him. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

His eyes shake, his face contorting in sorrow, the kind that comes straight from the heart. The silence between them, despite briefly, suffocates enough to the point where it feels like both of them are holding their breaths. The answer is clear: yes, there is. A secret I’ve been dying to tell. She knows that. She just has to wait until he’s ready to come clean with it. But today is not the time.

“No.” Yuuta retracts his hand, running away from her touch. “Just like you said, we’ve never met before.” 

Then, why do you act like we have? 

“But I promise you, I’m not a stalker.” He keeps his smile intact as always, but it feels foreign. Unrecognizable. Empty. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but you often share details about yourself when you talk. I just happen to pay attention, that’s all.”

Her jaw tightens. “I see.” It’s no use trying to force an answer out of him. What if I end up hurting him even more? Or scare him away? She leans back on her seat, sighing. “Well, you must have an excellent memory, then.”

His gaze falls to the silver ring around his finger, the same one he wore around his neck on the day they met for the first time at the library. “Yeah.” He clenches his hand, bringing it down to his lap. “You can say so.”  ***

The clock’s ticking in silence, an eerie companion to the faint note of her breathing. 

Her apartment appears much more spacious than she remembers now that Satoru isn’t here. The absence of his voice and the constant clicking sounds of his keyboard feel almost unsettling, but it never perturbs her as much as the fact that her heart doesn’t clench in loneliness or emptiness, even when she stands here alone with nothing but the dull, white walls staring back at her.

It should’ve, right? And yet, it doesn’t.

Her beating heart only seeks attention, searches for affection when Satoru is here, sitting right next to her. And accepting that thought terrifies her more than being alone.

Her boyfriend hasn’t come home since last afternoon. He hasn’t given her any notice nor made any effort to ease her worry. It’s not something new. She’s grown used to it. Maybe Satoru assumed they had remembered and understood each other’s schedules by now, which is true, but still, a message would’ve been nice. 

The last text she received from him was around nine PM when she questioned his whereabouts, growing more worried about the dinner getting cold instead of his nose turning red from the evening breeze. 

Still out with some friends. Don’t wait for me.  - Satoru

She didn’t. The same way he didn’t thank her—or apologize—for the supper she’d taken an hour to prepare. 

I thought you said you’d come straight home after your meeting tonight, she typed down her reply before choosing to erase it. There was no merit to gain from arguing about it. Satoru would never change.

Okay, she responded instead. Be safe.

He left her on read.

Re-reading his dry text message causes her thoughts to drift back to Yuuta, realizing just how different they are even when her mind begs her not to compare. It saddens her that her lover pays no heed to her well-being or her feelings, not taking a minute of his time to check whether she came home safely last night.

While her friend, on the other hand…

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Yuuta asked for the nth time that night, still reluctant to bid her goodbye even after he escorted her all the way to the station’s gate. 

“Yuuta, I’ll be all right,” she chuckled. “I’ve taken this subway more than a hundred times already.”

“I know, but after seeing how those guys stared at you…” He exhaled restlessly. “How far is your place from the station?”

“Just a five-minute walk.”

He contemplated, mulling over the risks before he eventually let his muscles unwind. “Okay… But if you feel like there’s someone following you—”

“I’ll tell them, ’Excuse me, Sir, I already have a stalker of my own, and he’ll kill you before you could even lay your hands on me,’” she ended with a gleeful grin.

He pouted. “I’m actually worried, you know.”

“I know.” She replaced her amusement with gratitude this time. “Thank you, Yuuta. Really.”

“Will you, at least, text me when you get home? I need to know you’re safe.”

“I will.”

And she did, punching buttons on her phone screen with a giddy heart, her lips stretching from ear to ear, as soon as she arrived at her apartment.

No stalker in sight, Okkotsu-san. Only you.  PS: Yes, Mom, I’m already home.

To which he responded with, “Thank goodness you’re safe.” No silly remark came from his side, no cute scoldings for her chaff. He was just genuinely concerned and now, relieved. 

It felt… nice to be at the center of someone’s care and attention. She had forgotten that feeling a while ago.

Her phone screen suddenly flashes as she dwells in the memory, notifying her that it’s ten minutes to nine. Yuuta’s name flickers back through her mind. They had promised each other a few days before that they would attend a book festival this morning. The thought of meeting one of her favorite authors and getting her book signed certainly arouses her excitement, but it doesn’t ignite as much sparks as the thought of spending not only a couple of evening hours together but the entire day.

Spending the whole day with Yuuta…

A smile resurfaces on her lips, but she refuses to acknowledge it. 

There’s only an hour to spare before then. I should get going. 

Just as she collects her coat, the front door clicks open. Satoru steps inside with his black shirt unbuttoned nearly halfway to his chest, his tie unfastened, dangling loosely around his neck. As he fumbles around, trying to maintain his balance, he notices her standing near the kitchen counter. “Oh, hey, baby,” he greets her with a drunken smile, his eyes half-lidded. “I’m home.”

“Welcome… back…” She scrutinizes him with a frown. “Satoru, what—are you drunk?” 

He giggles, a clear answer to her question. “Just a little.”

Satoru has always been weak when it comes to alcohol. There were many occasions back in their college days when he ended up doing foolish stunts with liquor in his system, and yet, he never learned. “I thought you promised me you’d never drink again.”

“That is true,” he simpers, teetering toward her spot. “That. Is. True.” He taps a finger against her nose with each word spoken. “But, listen. I was ready to go home after my meeting, but then I remembered, oh yeah, Haibara’s got a new place. And it was close by from where I was, so I thought, you know what, let’s drop by for a while, and so I did. I figured it was only going to be about half an hour or so, but man, he was so happy to see me. You know how he is, right? He’s always happy. Haibara was all like, Dude, we should invite everyone to come and hang with us, and the next thing I knew, a bunch of people came. Shoko was there. Ijichi was there, but fuck Ijichi, nobody cares about him. Anyway, Suguru brought this sake he got from Tohoku, or whatever, and God, baby, it tasted sooooo goooood,” he slurs out the words, leaning his body weight on her as he buries his face in her neck. “I was only planning to stay for a bit, but… couldn’t resist a good sake.” 

“Satoru,” she tries to pry him away, her face scrunching as the revolting scent of alcohol fills her nose. 

“Honey Bunny, please don’t be mad. I only had, like, three glasses, I promise. Or five. Or maybe ten. Shit, I can’t remember,” he chuckles, the sound muffled by her sweater. “This is probably why I shouldn’t drink, huh?”

She’s fighting to stay on her feet, struggling as his weight weighs her down. “Did you get home by yourself? Why didn’t you call me to pick you up?”

“I would’ve, but my phone died,” he nuzzles his nose against her clothed shoulder, acting spoiled to win her mercy. “And no, I didn’t. I got some girl driving me home.”

The news stings her like needles piercing through her skin. She pushes him away by the chest, glaring. “What?”

“Hmm?” He blinks idly. “Oh, no, don’t worry. We didn’t do anything, trust me. I don’t even remember her name. She was the only one with a car, told me she’d drop me at our building, so I hopped in. I didn’t think much about it.” He places a finger below her chin, tilting it up to have her meet his gaze. “What?” Satoru questions, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. “You jealous?” 

Is it… really jealousy, she wonders. Or is it just a plain, vibrating anger that emerges from not being respected, appreciated, or seen and remembered by the person who’s supposed to care for her the most? 

“Babe, come on,” Satoru laughs. “I’m a faithful man. You know I am. I’ll never cheat on you.” Dismissing the resentment shimmering in her eyes, he strokes her hair, bending his head down until his smile ghosts over her lips. “And you’ll never cheat on me, too, right, Bunny?”

She freezes. In the split second before he closes the gap between them, her mind tries to understand why his question causes a guilty conscience to swell in her chest. She has neither done nor is planning to do anything like that. Yuuta is just a friend. She should not feel guilty about meeting a friend. No, if there’s anyone who should feel that way around here, it should be Satoru. Just look at him. He easily took a stranger’s invitation to climb into her car and had the nerve to giggle as he told me about it. 

But she can’t deny it—this guilt that’s swirling inside. Her heart still echoes it every time Yuuta’s name passes through her head.

You wouldn’t feel this happy if you were just meeting a friend.

“You’re so cute when you’re jealous,” Satoru traps her chin between his lean fingers. “Wish you could show this side of you more often.”

She throws her face to the side, avoiding her lover’s kiss just in time. “Next time you’re this wasted, Toru,” she maintains her distance, stepping away with a scowl, “call me.”

“I told you, my phone died—”

“I don’t care. Use someone else’s phone. You can’t just get inside a stranger’s car like that. It could’ve been dangerous.” 

Somewhere, deep within the labyrinth of her mind, a voice reminds her how similar, if not worse, her past actions were to what she chastised him of. Going to a coffee shop with a stranger… Spending hours talking, revealing parts of her that she shouldn’t have… Sharing food and laughter, wishing for time to move slower…

I’m a fucking hypocrite.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Satoru sneers, wrapping his arms around her waist. Getting such a reaction out of her seems to delight him as she usually just nods and forgives him for everything, assuming it would take more energy out of her to bicker over it. “Why didn’t you come to the party anyway? Everyone was there.”

It only exhausts her further to push him away when he weighs more than he can handle. She faces the other way, avoiding his breath as much as possible. “I didn’t get any invitation.”

“What? But I sent you one.” He furrows his brows, trying to remember. “Wait… I did, didn’t I? I swear I texted you.”

“You didn’t even tell me you had plans after the meeting. I prepared dinner for you.”

“Oh, well.” He leans backward a little to give her a playful pinch on her cheek. “Guess we’re a bit lacking in that department, huh? Communicating, I mean. It’s been a while since we last talked. How are you, baby? What is my little kitten up to these days?”

To have her boyfriend finally paying attention to her after so long should delight her, but she feels nothing, knowing that he won’t take any information into his head in this condition. It will be a waste of time for them both.

And I have no time to waste, not right now.

“You need to catch some sleep.” She places a hand on his chest, sighing. “We’ll talk after you sober up.” 

“I’m not that drunk—”

“Rest, Satoru,” she stresses firmly, trying to keep the sound of her impatience to a minimum. Stepping away, she turns around to collect her things from the counter. “I’ve made you some French toast and eggs for breakfast. They’re on the table. There’s plenty of food for lunch in the fridge, too. You can just heat them up later.” Slinging her purse on one shoulder, she gathers her key. “I’m heading out. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait, where are you going?” He catches her hand, tugging her body back toward him. “It’s the weekend, isn’t it? What are you in such a rush for?”

His question brings her to a halt. She knows she’s in haste since she’s running out of time, but is she so eager to get away from him to meet another man, one that her boyfriend has specifically mentioned to stay away from? 

“I’m—” She clears her throat, shredding the thoughts to pieces. “I’m not rushing.”

“Are you meeting someone?”

“No,” she lies, and it shocks her how fast and how easily it slips out of her mouth before her mind can decide. She shouldn’t have lied. There was no reason to lie. Why did I lie? She wants to correct it, but taking it back now will only make her sound… suspicious.

“W-what?” She asks out of agitation as she catches him staring down at her, examining her as best as his inebriated state allows him to. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Something’s different about you today,” he replies, crossing the distance between them. “Is it…” He investigates with unfocused eyes, too sleepy and intoxicated to process quickly. “Is it your hair? Did you cut it?”

“Umm… Yeah, I did.”

“Aha!” He exclaims, almost victoriously. “Don’t think I didn’t notice it. When?”

“Four days ago.” She’s grown used to this, too, to have the changes in her appearance—the changes in her world—remainunnoted in his eyes. The reason why he finally realizes the difference today is because she’s styled it differently. 

Instead of letting her hair brushed and tied up in a simple bun, she decided to put more effort into it this morning. Taking inspiration from her appearance in her dreams, she wore half of her hair down and weaved the rest of her strands together, forming two lace braids that circled her head like a crown while the rest cascaded gracefully past her shoulders. Just like on the night when she shared a kiss with the beautiful boy by the beach, she completed the look with a kanzashi her mother gave her, a golden ornament in the shape of cherry blossom petals. She felt pleased seeing her reflection in the bathroom mirror, admitting to herself that this style suited her better than her usual one. A certain charm exuded out of her, a sense of femininity that she never bothered to showcase before. 

“I’m trying on a new hairstyle,” she says. “What do you think? Does it suit me?”

“Hmm…” He squints his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. “Fuck, I can’t remember what your hair looked like before,” he gives up with a laugh. “It doesn’t look bad, don’t worry. I like the hairpin. And your dress… You look nice.”

She doubts he means it this way, but in her ears, just now, Satoru sounded as if he was asking who are you dressing up so nicely for? “Thanks,” she replies awkwardly, dropping her gaze to the floor. “This is how I usually dress, though.”

“Really?” He steps forward, cornering her against the kitchen counter as he parades his smirk. “Then, I should’ve appreciated you much sooner.” Burying his face in her neck, he has his hands roaming her sides, sliding down from her waist to her thigh. “And you smell so good…”

“Satoru.” She lands her grip on his shoulders when he bends down to pick her up, trying her best to halt his movements, but to no avail. He places her on the counter, his movements still wobbly but sure and forceful enough when he pries her legs open for him. “No, wait—”

“Pretty.” He takes possession of her mouth, his hand holding her firmly by the back of her neck. “You look so fucking pretty today, baby.”

“Stop—mmph—” With her protest being swallowed by his kiss, she resorts to using her strength, placing both palms on his chest, trying to push him away as much as she can. But it only excites him, thinking of it as a little game. 

“You’re fighting back? That’s hot,” he chuckles lowly. His desire to control and consume her paints a new shade to his hazy eyes. “Do your best, Bunny. Be rough with me.” 

He takes it as a challenge, more lust brimming in his stare, more bites in his drunken kisses. With his mouth latching against her throat—wet, hot, and needy—Satoru pushes her dress until it pools around her stomach. He catches her skin between his teeth, nibbling, sucking; the alcohol in his system makes him dismiss any sign of her discomfort and turns it into fuel for his desires, forcing him to focus only on what his body craves. 

“Toru—” She cringes in pain, her nails sinking into the back of his shirt. “That hurts!”

“Yeah? What should I do, then?” He pins her hands down against the marble, licking on the bruise. “Want me to be gentle?” Satoru distances himself just enough to let her breathe. His kiss may have turned soft, but he keeps his hand around her throat, his palm pressed against her front, ignoring the way she swallows heavily under his touch. “All right. I’ll be gentle.” He speaks his empty promises with his smirk returning to his face, his tongue peeking out to run across his lip as he takes in her flustered, breathless look. “I’ll be so gentle with you.” He spreads her thighs apart. “Do it nice and slow.” He grinds his hips against her, watching the way his zipper rubs against the thinness of her underwear. “I’ll do it just how you like it.” 

Her stomach twists and turns. She doesn’t want to admit it, but it feels so much like… fear.

“I-I have to go,” she tosses her head to the side, trying to seek a way out as her panic inflates rapidly. “I need to—”

“It can wait,” he growls, his thumb dragging her chin down before he smashes their lips together, tasting her as he pleases, owning her as if he weren’t the one who’s been neglecting her for the past few weeks. The kiss is all the chance he gives her to get accustomed to his advances, and it only lasts for a mere five seconds before he starts working on his belt. 

She’s scared. Terrified, knowing that it will hurt. They hadn’t gotten together in weeks, and even with enough foreplay—from his point of view, that is—it still feels painful sometimes. “S-Satoru,” she struggles, pushing him away with her heart rising to her throat. “Please, stop—”

Then he does, much to her relief. 

But not for her sake.

“I can’t get hard…” he mumbles rather drowsily, followed by a peal of laughter. “Well, that’s embarrassing. Probably because I drank too much.”

Quivers remain in her fingers, but the air feels less suffocating to breathe in now. “You… You should rest,” she whispers shakily. 

“Yeah…” He separates himself from her, unsteadily walking toward the living room, oblivious to what he has caused. He crashes face-first on the couch, groaning out, “Ugh, can you get me some aspirin? My head’s killing me.”

With her palm pressed over her chest, her heart continues to beat wildly despite her attempt to tame it down. “Okay…” She slides off the counter, her legs feeling like jelly when she returns to the floor. Ignoring the unnerving feelings that still linger, she focuses on providing him with what he needs. 

Satoru thanks her with a grunt, popping two pills inside his mouth and flushing them down with water. 

She takes a seat on the end of the couch where he rests his feet, her fists clenched tightly on her lap. “H-How are you feeling?” 

“Like I’m dying,” her boyfriend, with one hand draped over his eyes as he lies down, replies with a hum. “But I think I’m sobering up a little bit.”

She watches him closely, her thoughts branching in a thousand different ways. A part of her still reels in the fear from the previous moment. Another side—one that holds a soft spot for him—begs her to forgive him and grant him a moment to collect himself. The rest of her urges her to leave, her eyes darting toward the clock on the wall more than necessary. She’s running late.

I have to go, but… How should I tell him? “Satoru—”

“I’m sorry.”

She turns still. “W-what?”

“I’m sorry,” Satoru repeats heavily, his eyes trailing their way back to hers. “For not telling you where I went last night. I should’ve. And I shouldn’t have drunk so much after I promised you I’d take better care of myself. And also… Sorry for almost forcing myself on you. Should’ve stopped when you said no. I don’t know why I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

His words stun her enough that it deprives her of her breath. Despite how immature he could be, Satoru always apologizes when he makes mistakes—she just didn’t expect it to come so soon. But instead of giving her the sense of peace she desperately needs, it only adds to her already overflowing guilt. Here he is, tossing his selfishness aside and asking for her forgiveness despite still having the world spin before his eyes, while she, on the other hand, is busy thinking about her friend and the wonderful time they’re going to spend together instead of offering to take care of her lover.

“It’s…” She wets her lips. “It’s all right. You’re drunk. You weren’t being yourself.”

“That’s not an excuse.” Though his eyes remain hazy, the mischievous grin, his flirtatious smirk, everything has been washed away from his face without a trace. “Next time I do something like that, punch me in the face or something. I’d rather have a broken nose than find myself hurting you like that.”

She swallows, her stomach twisting under his heavy stare. “Okay…”

Satisfied with her answer, Satoru throws his head back, massaging his temple. “You said you had to go somewhere today?”

“Umm… yes.”

“Where?”

“Jimbocho. There’s a… book festival I want to visit there. One of my favorite authors is attending. I’m trying to get my book signed.”

“That’s cool. You’re going there by yourself?”

Her fingers twitch before she curls them tighter into fists. She takes a deep breath and confesses, “No, with a friend.”

“Who?”

“The… guy from the library.”

Her words, almost instantly, change the atmosphere between them and paint his eyes dark. “I thought I already told you not to get too close to him.” 

Had he said that a moment ago when she was still vexed by his drunk antics with a random woman he met at a party, she would’ve fought back with poison lacing her tongue. But now, as her legs still tremble from what nearly happened, her heart conflicted with the apology he just uttered, she can only chew on her lip, not having any strength left to cross swords. “We’re just friends.”

The more she repeats the word friend, the more gasoline she pours onto the shimmering flame inside him. “He invited you to go with him, didn’t he? Just the two of you together.”

Her chest tightens. Satoru managed to guess the big picture, but the details are even worse than that.  

“Hey, do you know they’re holding a book festival in Jimbocho this weekend?”

“Really?” Her eyes flickered away from the passage she was reading, returning to the pair of sapphires that always felt like home. She brimmed with interest, sticking a bookmark between the pages to give him her full attention.“This weekend? I haven’t heard anything about it.” 

“Well then, I have a surprise for you.” Yuuta, with a smile radiant enough to surpass the stars, slid a flyer down the coffee table that separated them. Among the fancy words written on the glossy paper, her eyes captured a string of letters forming the same name as the one embossed on the cover of the novel she was holding. “Kawakami-sensei will be holding a meet and greet session in the afternoon, so if you go there, you can have your book signed and—”

“No way!” She snatched the flyer with passion bursting from each fingertip, her eyes turning round, moving from one sentence to another as she skimmed over the details. Yuuta laughed a little to himself, warmth filling his gaze as he watched her body tremble with excitement.“Wait, Murata-sensei is going to be there, too? Yuuta, this list is insane!”

“I know,” he chuckled. “So, what do you think? Do you want to go with me?”

“Are you kidding? Of course, I'd love to—” She stopped as she skated over a certain line, her shoulders sagging almost right after. “Oh, no…”

“What?”

“It says here that they have limited seats for Kawakami-sensei’s session. It’s in two days. Do you think we still have time to reserve some seats?”

“You’re right, probably not,” he sighed, matching her disappointment. “But we can still try, and make a call. There should be a phone number somewhere in the flyer.”

“Yeah, I found it. Hold on.” She rummaged through her purse with feverish haste, punching numbers into her screen the second she found her phone. “Dear Gods in heaven, please just grant me this one wish, and I’ll give you the biggest mochi that ever existed as an offering.”

“That’s quite extravagant for a bribe,” he commented in amusement.

“Shut up. Wish me luck.” 

“Mm. Good luck.”

It didn’t take long before her line was connected, and it took her an even shorter amount of time for their rejection to ring through her ears and cut all the threads that carried her hopes afloat. Like a child deprived of her chance to visit her fantasy land, she sank back into her seat, tossing her phone carelessly to the table. “Seats are full. Damn it.” She tossed her head back, groaning, “Ugh, I was so excited about it. This is the worst day of my life.”

“Oh, no,” he commented, surprisingly, with one corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

“What?” She questioned, knitting her eyebrows together. “What are you smirking about?”

“Nothing,” he grins a little wider as he rises to his feet. He pushes his arms through the sleeves of his coat, fixing his collar as his face glows with amusement. “I’m just picturing how you’ll look like after spending ten hours on the train trying to get that mochi. You know the biggest one is in Iwate, right? That’s five hundred kilometers away from here.”

“Yuuta, what are you talking about—”

He slid another piece of paper down the table, smaller in size but thicker. She picked it up with a frown before her eyes widened in disbelief. “You… You got us the tickets.”

“I got you your ticket,” he corrected with a smile. “There was only one seat left when I made the call. Thank goodness I wasn’t too late.”

She jumped back to her feet, pushing the ticket toward his chest. “You should have it, then!”

His hand, cold yet gentle, covered her own, his smile melting into a softer one. “No,” he guides her fingers to close around the paper. “I want you to have it.”

“But… You like her work as much as I do.”

“There will be another chance, I’m sure,” he assured her, releasing her hand despite his entire being begging him not to. “I’ll spend some time wandering around the area, and I’ll meet you back at the venue when you’re done. After that, we can have lunch together. There's this great Chinese restaurant not far away from there. I’ll treat you to some dumplings. What do you think?”

It was as if he owned the map that led him straight into her heart, bathing it with joy over and over again with every word and action he made. “That sounds perfect,” she breathed out in delight, her eyes crinkling on the edges. “Thank you, Yuuta.”

And she knew her gratitude could never repay the kindness he’d bestowed upon her, but to him, it was everything he could ever ask for. 

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Telling Satoru the truth about what happened would end in a fight, she knows that for certain. “No, he didn’t invite me,” she answers, doing her best to remain unfaltering under Satoru's scrutinizing gaze. “I mentioned the event in passing when I met him at the library, and he said he wanted to check it out, too, so we… decided to go together, that’s all.”

A lie, one after another, and it sickens her to her bones, but what else can she say? 

The pregnant pause that follows feels suffocating to her, and she wonders if it’s because Satoru, even in this state, can sense something in her words. 

“Does he know about me?”

She knows the real question he’s asking: Does he know you belong to me?

“Yes. I’ve mentioned your name a few times.”

It doesn’t provide the assurance she wished for, but it elevates his ego just enough. “Good. This still pisses me off somehow, but I was a dick to you today, so…” He exhales, holding her gaze. “I trust you. You know what that means, right?”

She clenches her jaw. Those words are not born out of jealousy. This is him reminding her who owns her. “Of course.”

“All right. A book festival, huh?” he snorts. “Sounds like a party. Have fun.”

His tone irks her, but she doesn’t comment on it, not out loud. “I’ll be home before dinner.”

Satoru rolls himself to his side, snagging the throw blanket on the couch to cover his body. “Remember to tell Not Ugly Guy to keep his hands to himself.” 

He flaunts his irritation like a child, but that’s the only thing he does. He could’ve said those words to Yuuta himself if he had cared enough. He could’ve told her, “Hey, you know what? Why don’t we go together instead?” and held her hand like a lover would instead of handing her over to another man and sulking all day about it. But he doesn’t do any of that, does he? He doesn’t even care enough to walk her to the front door. He chooses to drown in his anger instead of kissing her goodbye. 

Satoru knows when he makes mistakes, and he takes responsibility for them. It’s the bare minimum a person can expect from a lover, but she appreciates that still. But this… This is the one thing he will never change about himself. His immaturity sticks to him like glue no matter how many years have passed between them.

If Yuuta were in his shoes, he would’ve—

No, she warns herself. Stop it. I’m being unfair to him. How would I feel if he started comparing me to another woman? 

There’s no point in thinking about it now. Satoru will never change. 

I just need to learn to accept him the way he is.

The way she’s always been for the last six years.  ***

“Hey,” Yuuta greets her with a smile rivaling heaven’s golden hue. He arrives at the same moment she’s tangling her fingers around the door handle, one foot ready to enter the coffee shop they’d agreed to meet at before they proceed to the venue together. 

She stiffens in surprise, mostly because she thought he was already inside with a cup of black coffee brewing in his hand—though a part of her doubts that he would, knowing how Yuuta would always prefer to wait for her before ordering anything, not wanting her to feel like he’d been waiting a long time for her arrival. He’d always ensure she was taken care of first, double-checking her order and running to the cashier to get it ready. She remembers how he does that in the library, too. Yuuta would never have his nose stuck between the pages if she weren’t there, afraid he'd fail to notice her walking into the room if he was drowning too far in his book. Only after she started reading her novel would he begin to indulge himself with his choice for the day.

“Good morning,” he beams, eyes thinning into half-moons. He’s holding his coat in his arm, looking effortlessly gorgeous in a black shirt that matches his raven hair. He’s out of breath, his forehead slick with beads of sweat that threaten to fall off his chin. “Thank goodness, you just arrived. I was worried I kept you waiting. Wait, let me hold that for you.” He opens the door for her, welcoming her in. 

“Thank you.” Her heart feels light, more of his presence than just his courtesy. “Did you run on your way here?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles bashfully. “My apartment is nearby, and it usually took me fifteen minutes of walking to get here, but my cat made a mess, so I had to see my landlord and—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No, please, continue. I want to hear what happened.” Embraced by the warmth provided by the heaters in the room, she takes off her beanie as she steps further inside. “And I wouldn’t have minded waiting for you, you know.”

“No, I would’ve felt awful if I had kept you wai…” He stands still, lips parted in what seems to be awe the second he sees her hair. “…ting…” 

There’s something written in his gaze, one that seems similar to the nostalgic feeling of meeting someone from the past. Not understanding why he’d feel that way, she assumes she read him wrong. His pretty eyes turn big and round as he gapes at her, utterly lost for words. “You… Your hair…”

“Huh? Oh, umm, yes.” She rakes her fingers over her strands, growing self-conscious. “I’m trying a different style. Does it look weir—”

“Perfect,” his compliment reverberates in the air before she can finish her sentence, his gaze, his heart, his soul enraptured. “You look… perfect.”

She can’t deny how much joy these little words bring. She feels appreciated. Satisfied. As if all the effort she’d put into styling her hair was for his sake and not for her own comfort. Yuuta runs his eyes over every detail, staring at her with such a longing gaze. His hand twitches, and for a brief moment, she thinks that he’s going to reach out to caress her strands, to give another praise, but through his touch, to make sure that she isn’t a dream even when she appears like one. 

He notices it at the same time, it seems, as he suddenly throws his gaze to the ground, his fingers clenching into a fist to stop him from doing what his heart begs him to do. 

“Y-you look amazing before, but—” He shyly looks at her again, smiling a little. “This suits you even better.”

The heat in her chest rises to her cheeks. Abashed, she tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, exposing a glimpse of the supple skin on the side of her neck. Thanking him for the kind words, she walks forward, her heart dancing out of beat. She expects him to walk by her side, but Yuuta is still trapped in the same place, standing still like a statue.

Only this time, darkness resides in his gaze. 

“Yuuta?” 

He blinks once, his stare returning to hers. They turn gentle once more, crinkling on the edges as his mouth twitches in a smile. “Hmm?”

He switches back so fast that she wonders if it was all happening only in her head. She may have imagined the look in his eyes, but she was sure she had seen him staring before. What was he looking at? She asks herself, recalling how his gaze dropped down to her neck. Was it my necklace? My collar? She fixes it, just in case. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” he smiles, but it’s the kind that leaves her queasy. The one that does not reach his eyes. He strides forward, asking, “So, matcha latte with oat milk like usual?” 

“Umm, yeah.” 

“Got it. Take a seat. I’ll order it for you.”

“Thank… you.” She walks separately with a frown, ruminating to herself as she finds an empty table for two. It’s not apparent, but there’s definitely a change in his behavior.

And if she had known him well as much as she knew Satoru, she’d realize that even though his words might come across as warm… 

They reeked of jealousy.

Later that day, as she ties her hair up in a bun and brushes her teeth, she catches a splotch of dark bruise on her skin. It blooms purple on her neck, terrible enough for anyone who saw it to wonder how painful it must have been when she got it. It didn’t show when she wore her hair down earlier, perfectly hidden by her strands, but when she wears it up like this… or has them pushed aside…

Staring wide-eyed at her reflection in the mirror, her heart plummets to her stomach as her realization sinks in. 

He must have seen it.

She’s ashamed, feeling like she just shattered the proper image of her in his mind—if there was even one to begin with. What will he think of me? She ponders, biting the nail of her thumb in her agitation. The thought of him perceiving her as a licentious woman who enjoys parading her lover’s kiss marks, wearing them as a badge of honor in public like that, terrifies her. She doesn’t want him to misunderstand or see her differently.

That following night, she can’t seem to draw her eyes to a close. The thought worries her so terribly that it chases her sleep away. But why does she care so much about what he thinks of her? No, more than that, why does it feel like… cheating? Not on Satoru, but on him. There’s this guilt that swells inside her, something similar to how she feels whenever Satoru questions her about him, only it’s worse. A million times worse. It almost feels like an act of betrayal, as if she was having a filthy affair behind his back with a man who knew how to hold her body but never her heart. 

It’s such a ridiculous thought, but she can’t find herself laughing.

She sighs, realizing that in a matter of minutes, the sun will glow golden outside her walls, and she’ll have to face him again. Yuuta is a gentleman. He’ll never ask her about it, even if he had a thousand questions sprouting in his head. 

Maybe I should just let it go and pretend he didn’t see it.

Easier said than done. Her chagrin and awkwardness still linger in her gestures when she greets him a few hours later, but Yuuta, despite looking like he couldn’t lie to save his life, wears his pretense perfectly. He acts the same way as usual, smiling and enjoying his endless conversations with her, doing it so well, that she begins to think…  Maybe he didn’t see it.

Or he did, but… he just doesn’t care.

And that thought hurts her more than the way Satoru sank his teeth into her skin.

Her hand absentmindedly finds its way back to the scarf she has wrapped around her neck, her lips itching to say, it’s not what you think; he forced it on me, but she remembers she has no reason to. Yuuta is just a stranger she met a few weeks ago. There’s no need to explain or apologize, no matter how much her heart wants to. It would’ve been weird if she did.

“Yuuta.”

“Yes?”

“Wanna go get some crepes before we go home?”

He brightens, fireworks in his eyes. “Sure!”  ***

From the first day she encountered the handsome stranger in the library, she always fell asleep with her heart fluttering. It almost feels like she’s a little girl, excited over her upcoming journey to the unknown. That’s what it is essentially, isn’t it? Every time she closes her lids and sinks deep into her slumber, she’ll wake up somewhere new, somewhere different, but what matters the most is that she will always, always wake up to his smile. It’s only right for her to be thrilled. After all, her dreams of him are always the sweetest ones.

Last night’s dream started with her walking down the street, stopping right before an intersection. As she looked around, her gaze stretching far across from where she was, she spotted the man for whom her heart longed, walking down the road that would lead him to her. She broke into her biggest smile, her hand raised high in the air, waving to gain his attention from behind the passing cars. She couldn’t wait for the lights to turn green. She wanted to run to him, to fall into his arms, to meet his lips with her own.

As the dream version of her drowned in the sweet fantasy of their reunion, her real self used the chance to collect all the details. She was still in Tokyo, she realized. The city—bright, colorful, and a hundred years younger—remained the same as it was in her last vision, still struggling to discover its identity by maintaining its traditional aspects while absorbing Western influence into its pores. Yuuta’s attire, however, was the perfect balance of that, with a white, collarless button-down shirt layered by an iron grey kimono, hakama bottoms that were a shade lighter, waraji sandals, and a dark flat cap to complete the look. 

The young man caught her gaze from across the street, surprise overtaking his face before it instantly brightened as if she breathed more life into him, only with a simple curve of her lips. “Stay there,” he mouthed. “I’ll come to you!”

She nodded, her heart beating fast in the novelty of a first love.

Yuuta crossed the road in haste the second the lights changed, his mind focusing solely on her presence that he didn’t bat an eyelash when the wind swiftly stole his hat away and knocked it over to the ground. A few disturbed pedestrians cursed at him when his shoulder brushed against theirs inadvertently. His legs continued to run as he uttered his apology, only coming to a halt once he crushed himself against her in a tight hug. With the biggest grin, he lifted her off the ground, twirling her once while they basked in the elation of reuniting with each other. They softened each other’s gleeful giggles with a sweet kiss, one that lasted only a mere second despite their wish to continue. Had there been no witnesses, they would’ve spent an eternity just drowning in their passion for each other.

“You surprised me!” he exclaimed, breathless from the euphoria running through his bloodstream. “I didn’t think I’d see you here. I was going to pick you up from work. I thought you’d be ready by five like always.” He checked on the ticking watch circled around his wrist. “There’s still half an hour till then. Why aren’t you in the library?”

“Why are you already here, then, if there’s still half an hour on the clock?” 

“Oh, umm…” He threw his gaze to the pavement, rubbing the back of his head as he turned shy. “I couldn’t stay still at the office. I kept thinking about you, and I just…” He slowly returned his gaze to hers. “I wanted to see you as soon as I could…”

Her heart soared and melted at the same time. “This is embarrassing for me to admit, but… I felt the same way. I missed you so terribly that I kept rereading the same page. Gakuganji-sensei told me I could leave early if I wanted to—I think he could tell my mind was elsewhere. I knew there was still time until you arrived, but I couldn’t wait any longer in that library, so I thought I’d meet you halfway. And maybe then we could spend half an hour longer with each other.”

Yuuta’s sparkly eyes turned round as he listened. “You… thought that…?”

“Yes,” she admitted with a bashful smile. “Don’t start crying now.”

“I won’t,” he sniffled, making her laugh. “Come here.” He pulled her into his embrace again, where she belonged, his arms tenderly enveloping her this time. “Maybe I should leave my office early every day so we’ll have more time together. Another half an hour longer with you… I’d love that.”

“I don’t think neither of us should make that a habit, but,” she tittered. “I’d love that, too.”

They traded smiles, her face scrunching adorably when he playfully rubbed the tip of their noses together. 

“God, I’ve missed you,” he sighed, cradling her head close and burying his face in her strands. “I’ve spent every waking hour thinking about you, Sweetheart. These last four days felt like torture without you.”

The butterflies in her stomach fluttered their wings. “Me too.”

“I missed you,” he repeated. “I missed you so much.” Romance laid thick in the kisses he peppered down from her temple, her cheek, her nose, but when he heard her giggling from it, he nuzzled his face to her neck, tickling her further until she chortled out loud.

“Stop,” she laughed, placing a hand on his chest. “We’re in public.”

“Can we go somewhere private, then?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I believe it’s too early for us to act so indecently, Okkotsu-sama.”

“No, I—” He blushed. “I meant to talk. I have something I want to tell you. It’s good news.”

“What is it?”

He smiled, his hand sliding down to fill the spaces between her fingers.“Let’s go somewhere nice first.”

***

With their hearts intertwined and her dress swaying with every step taken, they walked down a path together. Crafted by a romantic hand, the sunset blossomed red and gold before them, a sweet caress of warmth to their cheeks amid the cool autumn breeze. They arrived at a lush park teeming with vibrant flowers and plants that were beautiful and fragrant. The leaves had not changed hues yet, but it would only be a matter of time before they colored the soil gold and scarlet. 

A large fountain rested at its heart, confined by a ring of stones and concretes. The sound of water cascading, the shimmering reflection of light, and the beauty of the surrounding landscape had captivated the hearts of many, including their own, no matter how often they had visited the place in the past. It was there that they could be granted a moment of serenity, away from the briskness of the city.

They sat next to each other on the edge of the fountain, with her tilting her head in curiosity as he rummaged the insides of his bag. To her surprise, he presented her with a book, its thick weight unfamiliar when she held it between her hands. But once her eyes skated over the title and the author’s name, her stomach flipped.

It was Revival by Saori.

“T-this is—” Her jaw turned slack, searching for words. “Yuuta—”

“I did it,” he grinned. “I built your dream company.”

Her joy engulfed her so fast, so intense, she found herself jumping into his arms. He giggled endearingly at her reaction, his hands winding around her waist in reflex. With her hands circled around his neck and their hearts beating against one another, she whispered his name amid her gratitude in a voice laced with her upcoming tears. 

“Are you crying?” She shook her head no despite her eyes growing hot. He laughed softly in return, rubbing her head in return. “Don’t cry. Be happy for me.”

“I am happy. That’s why I’m crying.”

“I thought you said you weren’t crying.”

She landed a weak punch on his chest in return, feeling the vibration of his laughter against her cheek as she buried her face further in his warmth. “Wanna hear about our progress so far?”

Though enthusiastic about it, she could only nod in response, her lips still quivering from her tears. Yuuta smiled, telling his story as he continued to stroke her hair, a habit born out of his adoration.

“We’ve managed to sign a deal with six different authors. They’ve sent us a bunch of manuscripts—all of them are very interesting, and I honestly can’t wait for you to read everything. We’ve assigned some editors to work closely with them, and we’ll make sure to keep the authenticity of their works as best as possible. As of now, we have eight books we’re planning to release in the following months; three of them are from Saori-sensei. I know eight books are nothing compared to what other publishers release in a year, but… It’s a start. And you’re right. Seeing the joy on these authors’ faces when we give their stories a chance… It’s so fulfilling.”

She had a million things to say, yet she couldn’t say anything at all. Her chest felt so full that it left her breathless. “Words cannot express just how proud I am of you, Yuuta,” she curled her fingers around the back of his kimono, sinking her face into the crook of his neck as she struggled to blink back her tears. “I wish I could compose a better compliment, but… You’re amazing. Your bravery, your hard work, your resilience—I admire you so much.”

She might think that these words were far from enough to cheer his soul, but to him, they were everything he wanted to hear and more. “Thank you,” he whispered, brushing a kiss upon her temple. “This is all because of you.” She shook her head in disagreement. “No, really. I wouldn’t have done any of this if you didn’t give me the idea and motivation. You made this happen.”

She sobbed a little harder, stealing another chuckle out of him. “If you don’t believe me,” Yuuta splayed the book open on her lap, flipping the book’s first few pages. “Here. Look, even she thought so.”

She stopped breathing. There, written on the page before the first chapter began, was her name. Out of all the people to whom Saori could dedicate this book, she chose her. The author thanked her for making her dream come true, for giving her a chance and relight the hope she had once lost.

“Did… Did you ask her to write this?”

“No.”

“But you told her about me.”

“Uhh…” He winced. “A little bit.”

She shut the book closed. “Yuuta!”

“I just wanted her to know that this all happened because of you.” His eyes drooped as he pouted. “Was that.. something I shouldn’t have done?”

“No, it’s just… I feel embarrassed.” And happy. So happy, she felt tears prickling in the corner of her eyes again. “But this isn’t right. She should’ve been thanking you.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Looks like she wrote down the right name to me,” Yuuta grinned rather cheekily, lightly bumping his shoulder against hers. “If I were her, I would’ve written down your name, too.”

Though she couldn’t accept the appreciation just yet, she focused on what mattered. Wiping her tears away, she asked, “Just how did you get your father to agree to this?”

“It surely wasn’t easy at first. I had to come up with a bunch of different business plans, trying to find one that piqued his interest. It took me months to convince him, but he eventually agreed. What surprised me was that he also agreed to fund my company and let me run the business all by myself. Maybe this is his way of testing me since I was being really stubborn about making a company for myself, and if it is, then I’ll take it as a challenge. It’s frightening and exciting at the same time to be in this position. I like it. I feel like I’m finally starting a new chapter in my life.”

Watching him suffused with so much jubilation brought her the same joy. She pressed a hand over his cheek, her thumb caressing his cheekbone. “I know you’ll do well,” she said with a pretty bow of her lips. “I’m sure of it.”

Yuuta angled his face to brush a tender kiss against her palm. “I know it took me almost a year to get to this point, and I’m sorry for making you wait so long. I was really worried that I’d run out of time to fulfill my promise to you, but… Thank goodness I made it just in time.”

“I would’ve given you all the time in the world, Yuu. There was no need for you to rush.” She pulled away, resting her palms on his chest. “I still can’t believe this is happening… You never mentioned anything about this, and I was always too scared to ask. I thought you’d forgotten about it and chose to do something else.” 

“How could I forget about it? It’s your dream, isn’t it?” He pushed her hair out of her eyes with the gentlest caress of his fingertips. “And what follows after that… is my dream.”

If there was one thing in the world I wished of you… It’s for you to marry me.

Her heart hammered against her ribcages as though it was trying to find a way to escape. “Yuuta—”

“You said you would’ve given me all the time in the world, but Sweetheart, I don’t want that,” he sighed, yearning in his eyes, the kind that she imagined Saori aimed to portray in her book. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to hear your answer to my proposal. I want to know if you’ll… marry me…”

With his voice sweeter than a siren’s call, his intention so pure with nothing but affection in his heart, just how could anyone resist him? To decline his proposal would’ve been foolish of her—and she never wanted to. Every fiber of her being wanted him, needed him, loved himthe same way. Had she made a name for herself, something that could make her feel worthy to stand by his side, she would’ve stated her eternal vows right here, right then, to promise him that she’d love him until her dying breath, but— 

Your father must be ecstatic to learn how his little, obedient son wastes his time with a commoner.

Naoya Zenin’s honeyed yet sickening voice, filled with nothing but mockery and disdain, echoed through her mind, snapping away all threads of hope and keeping her bound to the ground—reminding her of the reality that they did not belong in the same world.

“Yuuta…” She cast her gaze to the side. She was unsure what to say to him. Knowing him and how stubborn he could be to achieve his goal, she could tell he’d dismiss the differences in their status in a heartbeat, but what about everyone else in his life? What about his father? She hadn’t gotten the chance to meet him yet, but the way Naoya mentioned him… 

I need to find an excuse. “Don’t you think we’re… too young to be married?”

He blinked once before scarlet painted over his cheeks. “W-we don’t have to do it right now! I know there are still things you want to do before you settle down, and I won’t rob that away from you, but…” He wetted his lips, restless. “I just—I want you to know that when I asked you to be my lover, this has been my intention from the start. I never dreamed of a fleeting romance. I want something that lasts, and I had never wanted to have anything like that with anyone until I met you. After knowing what it feels like to be with you, to be the happiest version of myself, I feel I can’t live without you anymore. It’s frightening to even think about parting with you for a second. It pains me every time we say goodbye, and I wish I never had to say that to you ever again. That’s why I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, each and every second of it. And I wish you’d feel the same way, too.”

She had her hand pressed against her chest, fingers curling as the same thought occurred in her mind, the same thought she wished she could profess out loud so he’d know she yearned for him just the same. “But.. What would your father think of me?” She finally spoke the truth.

He witnessed the crestfallen look she’d been trying to conceal. He leaned in close, taking her hand away from her heart. “I know you’re scared,” he intertwined their fingers together, kissing the back of her hand. “And I am, too. But we both thought my father would disagree with me about building my own company, and yet, he didn’t. Not only that, he has also become my main shareholder now. I wouldn’t have gone this far without his help.”

She gazed away. “I don’t think we can put our hopes based on that, Yuu…”

Sadness fleeted across his face, and it crushed her heart, but she had to say it to put a stop to his naivety before it was too late. He rested their joined hands on his lap, his voice quiet when he asked, “Is there any part of you that wishes to marry me?”

“Yes,” she said, without a second to waste. “Yuuta, every part of me wishes to marry you.”

He spun his head toward her, taking every detail of her expression. The tears that brimmed in her eyes, how she looked back at him… His heart swelled in joy, tugging on her hand until she fell back into his arms. 

“That’s enough,” he breathed in relief, his lids shutting in bliss as his lips hovered above her shoulder. “To hear that you want to marry me, too—that’s more than enough for me. This is the happiest I’ve ever been…” He tightened his embrace. “Thank you…”

Her heart shattered. “Yuuta—”

“I beg you,” he cut her off quickly with a broken voice. “Please… Let’s hold on to those feelings for now. Don’t think too much about the future, don’t think about anything else, just focus on what you want to do with me. Just… listen to what your heart tells you to, the same way I listen to mine. Please…”

With those words digging their way into her heart, she found no strength to fight. He won. All the battles raging inside her, all these thoughts begging her to distance herself before time could hurt them, he chased them all away. It was easy, so easy to give in when all pieces of her soul craved for it, too. 

“Just believe in us,” Yuuta whispered, before he added with a shy chuckle, “Love will find a way. Isn’t that what they say?”

She blinked back her tears, finding herself smiling just the same. It sounded too good to be true, but she chose to believe in it—no, she chose to believe in him. She knew, one way or another, he would find a way for them to be together. Whatever path he took, no matter where it’d lead them, she’d walk it with him if it meant she never had to let go of his hand.

A small space stood between them, a space that, judging from the way his eyes fell onto her lips, he longed to replace with a kiss. “C-can I be selfish and ask for one more present?”

Witnessing how his cheeks bloomed in the same shade of the red tulips flourishing around them, she knew the perfect way to answer him. She slid her hands in a graceful dance up his chest, her eyes drooping as she leaned in close. A whisper of “Yes” fell upon his lips, followed right after by the perfect kiss.

Perfect, until she wakes up. ***

[pankowcrumbs]

Love in every corner X Dad Harry Styles

MasterList

Harry Styles Masterlist

The house smelled like dust and old books.

Moving boxes were scattered around the living room, some neatly taped shut, others still waiting to be filled. The walls looked bare without the pictures and little trinkets that had made this place ours for so long.

I knew we were doing the right thing moving forward, starting a new chapter but that didn’t make it any easier.

I sighed, wiping my hands on my old hoodie before reaching up to open one of the kitchen cupboards. A little cloud of dust floated down, making me cough.

"You alright over there, love?"

Harry’s voice drifted from behind me, amused and affectionate.

I turned to see him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely too relaxed considering the mess surrounding us.

"Fine," I muttered, stepping onto my tiptoes to reach the back of the shelf. My fingers brushed against something small and wooden. Frowning, I pulled it out.

Harry’s eyes lit up the moment he saw it. "No way."

I turned the little carving over in my hands. It was a tiny, lopsided heart, the initials H & Y carved into the centre in scratchy, uneven lines.

"You kept this?" I asked softly.

Harry pushed off the doorframe and came closer, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Course I did."

I looked up at him. "You made this for me in Year Nine."

"That I did," he said proudly, wrapping an arm around my waist. "We had Design & Technology together, and I spent the whole lesson trying not to lose a finger while carving that for you."

I snorted. "It was a terrible carving."

He gasped in mock offence. "Excuse me! That’s a priceless work of art, that is."

I turned the heart over, running my thumb over the familiar grooves. "It’s sweet, though. You gave it to me right before you asked me out for the first time."

Harry hummed, his chin resting on my shoulder now. "And you said no."

I grinned. "I did not!"

"You did!" he insisted, laughing. "You said, and I quote, ‘I’ll think about it.’"

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. "I was just playing hard to get."

"Well, it worked," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "I was smitten, remember?"

My heart melted, like it always did when he spoke like that like he was still the same curly-haired, lovesick boy from school, looking at me like I’d hung the stars just for him.

I sighed, leaning back into him. "We were just kids."

"Yeah," he murmured, squeezing my waist. "And now we’ve got kids."

I turned my head slightly, looking up at him. "When did that happen?"

He chuckled, kissing my temple. "No idea. Feels like just yesterday we were sneaking out to that field behind your house and lying under the stars."

I smiled at the memory. "You played me that song you wrote for me. You were so nervous."

"Was not."

"Harry, your voice cracked on the first line."

He groaned, hiding his face in my shoulder. "Let’s not relive that part, yeah?"

I laughed, patting his arm. "Come on, let’s see what else we can find."

We spent the next hour digging through cupboards, reminiscing over every little thing we found.

An old school photo of us Harry with his wild curls and dimples, me with a shy smile and braces.

A crumpled note he’d passed me in class that simply read, You’re beautiful. Don’t argue with me.

A mix CD he made for me when we were sixteen, titled Songs That Remind Me of You (featuring an embarrassing amount of early 2000s love songs).

We found our old wedding invitation, the edges slightly yellowed with time.

"Best day of my life," Harry murmured, tracing the date with his finger.

I glanced up at him, feeling my chest tighten with emotion. "Yeah?"

He looked down at me, eyes warm. "Yeah."

I swallowed, reaching up to brush a curl away from his forehead. "Mine too."

We kept going, and soon we were finding things from when our children were little finger paintings, old birthday cards, a tiny shoe that neither of us could figure out why we still had.

"Look at this," I said, pulling out a crayon drawing.

Harry peered over my shoulder. "Oh, this one’s a classic. That’s me, isn’t it?"

I grinned. "Obviously. See? You’ve got the massive green scribble on your head that’s your hair."

He laughed. "Brilliant. And what’s this?" He pointed to a small blob beside him.

"That’s Hattie. She told me once she drew you as a giant because you were her hero."

Harry’s breath caught slightly, and when I turned to look at him, he was gazing at the picture with something so tender in his eyes it nearly made me cry.

"She really said that?" he murmured.

I nodded, resting my head against his shoulder. "She adores you."

Harry exhaled softly, setting the picture down carefully, like it was the most precious thing in the world.

We fell into a comfortable silence as we kept sorting through memories. Every now and then, I’d feel Harry’s lips press against my hair or his arms tighten around me as we unearthed another cherished moment from our past.

Finally, as the sun began to set, I sighed, stretching my arms. "Well. That was emotionally exhausting."

Harry chuckled. "Think we did more reminiscing than packing."

"Maybe," I admitted. "But I’m glad we found all of this. Makes it a bit easier to leave, knowing we’re taking the best bits with us."

He hummed in agreement, pulling me back against his chest, his arms wrapping around my waist.

"You know," he murmured against my ear, "it doesn’t really matter where we go."

I turned my head slightly. "No?"

He shook his head, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Nah. Because as long as I’ve got you, I’m home."

My breath hitched, warmth flooding my chest.

I tilted my head up, meeting his gaze. "You always say the perfect thing, you know that?"

He grinned. "That’s because I mean it."

I turned in his arms then, winding mine around his neck. "I love you, you soppy idiot."

Harry’s dimples appeared as he leaned in, brushing his nose against mine. "Love you more, sweetheart."

And as he kissed me, surrounded by boxes and memories, I knew no matter where we went, no matter how much time passed he would always be my home.

[sinister-sincerely]

hi sin... :3c ... >:3c

we care youuuuuuu 💜💜💜

much sillies!! & much lovely art!! from @midnight-mourning @luckyyyduckyyy @soupdweller @wyervan & i, for you!!! 🫵

we hope that you are doing well! and that you are taking care, giving yourself grace through the highs & lows alike. it's not always easy, but you're not alone. hopefully this gets a laugh for ya to enjoy 💜

& in the future, if you'd like to draw together, or simply chill ambiently... the offer is always open!

... In full disclosure this took me a wretched amount of time to pull myself together to actually respond to.

(Its a long one, just a heads up. I do think its worth it though)

To say I was floored~ moved~ touched~ The words pale in comparison.

I believe the saying that a measure of someone being a good person is how they treat those that can do nothing for them.

And here I am, a stranger, being shown a kindness that I am not so sure I deserve but am grateful nonetheless.

To think that anyone, let alone all of you, amazing writers, artists, … people I respect and admire thought of me for even a moment to do something like this.

Depression- it holds me back a lot of the time.

It convinces me, like I am sure it does MANY of those readin' this, that your absence in this community, in this world, would not be felt.

There is a reason that I am a part of this community.

Its because it has a way of pulling together some of the most wonderful people I have ever had the pleasure of getting to know.

Now. I wanna return some of that kindness and talk specifically about the ones that pulled together to do this for me. (And also a few that are never far from my mind too)

@divinit3a

You are one of the only people I know that can just be there and your presence felt. Charismatic in the most brilliant way, I love the way your personality shines through everything you interact with (whether that be your writing or something as simple as a Tumblr post)

There is a reason that when you entered the community that people were drawn to you. You have an ability that is both captivating as it is striking in how powerful that magnetism is.

I am so grateful I get to know you, and I am so excited to see what else you create whether that be in this community or elsewhere.

I will always be a supporter, a fan, and most importantly a friend.

Read their stuff!

@midnight-mourning

Sometimes I get caught up in the fact I actually get to speak with the person who has wrote one of my favorite works on AO3.

I first stumbled upon your fic the day it was published and immediately fell in love with the snarky depiction of Sun (and the beautiful mysterious Moon) that you created in a world that has so much more left to be uncovered.

You manage to balance your life along side updating which in of itself seems like such a superpower that I envy to the core.

You also floored me with the kindness you've shown through out us chatting back and forth. Sometimes I feel just in awe that I can say we know eachother…

@luckyyyduckyyy

Talk about someone I've been actively following for awhile- Lucky, your ANE fanfic was one of the very first I read when stumbling upon the DCA community! It inspired me to take a chance at writing myself and posting it for the first time.

If I hadn't come across you- well, I wouldn't be here now… How do you even begin to pay that back?

I have no idea how I can thank you enough for doing that for me, let alone thank you for doing the above for me…

Its my hope that I get to continue to be friends with you, learn more from you and maybe one day manage to give back a fraction of what you've given me…

@soupdweller

AHH! Hi! So- I have no words but thank you.

I've admired your art for a very VERY long time and its such a cool, (and a bit) intimidating (but in a good way) gesture to have this coming from you too.

Your rendering is beautiful.

The way you laid out the DCA's internals still give me steampunk vibes in the BEST way with the colour palette~ I can gush forever but I also wanna seem cool and somewhat mysterious in that 'kinda quiet way'…

… I'll cut that out for now ^^

on a serious note, thank you, you don't know me very well but you still did this and what I mentioned before about the measure of being a good person- that describes you.

@wyervan

… Would it be weird for me to say that anytime I think of the DCA as humans I can't for the life of me not picture the AU forms that you created that has single handedly metamorphosized into a community Slasher Y/N multiverse?

That is an amazing talent, I am just in awe at what you've managed to not only do, but also how you've brought so many people together!

I have so much to say, and yet I don't wanna put my foot in my mouth by actually following through with the amount of admiration I wanna express.

Thank you for taking part in this for me, we don't really know each-other much just yet but I hope that changes. You seem like such an amazing person, I'd love to gossip about skinny, scrawny, somewhat unhinged guys with you sometime.

-

I have a few people I wanna shout out too

@amarynthian-chronicles:

Thank you for always supporting me, even when I don't think I deserve it. You've been an amazing person to me, and I hope I get more opportunities to return the favor

@gniteruirui

Gosh. You've been such a beautiful person to get to know this past year or so. Your artwork gives me life, and seeing your name pop up in all the ways it does makes me smile.

@lets-zofifi-stuff

I hope you continue to have more good days vs bad- I hope the sun shines on you and you always find random luck whenever its needed.

You were one of the first people I made friends with here on Tumblr… I may have also looked back and saw that you even made a post about me when I left Tumblr the first time.

@bubbiethesaur

I don't have enough words to express how much I adore you for just being you. Thank you, I hope I can be a friend that deserves you.

I just wanted to tag you- You are so talented, wonderful, and kind.

Something about you just makes me smile whenever I see your username come up. I've always wanted to get closer to you, friendship wise, but I also get scared because you're so cool.

I've been working on it.

Just know that our conversations in Qwille's discord have always been some of my favorite moments in this community.

@maldefekt

Thank you for reaching out to me- even that most recent time when you saved me from something I know would have haunted me forever!

I am looking forward to getting to know you more

[obsessedwhyyes]

The Art of Not Admitting a Thing (1/2)

Summary: You can't help but notice that Gale and Astarion have been acting... differently towards one another lately. Perhaps it's time to investigate!

Alternatively: one simple question leads to some big thoughts!

Rating: T Word Count: 1177 Pairing: Astarion x Gale Content: First Person Gale POV, interview format, mutual pining, yearning, denial of feelings, character study, Gale is bad at feelings, fluff, a teensy bit of angst but not much!

A/N: So here we have my first ever Bloodweave! I am both exceedingly nervous, and very excited about it. I've had ideas in mind for Bloodweave for months, but actually writing these ideas and sending them off into the big, wide world has been a rather intimidating affair. But we're finally doing it! And what better way for me to dip my toe into Bloodweave waters than by being incredibly predictable and writing yet another first person fic?

Chapter 1: "What do you think of Astarion?"

What do I think of Astarion? Well, that's a rather loaded question, is it not? Not that I don't have an answer, of course. No, quite the opposite, actually. I have too many answers, all vying for precedence. Because, you see, Astarion is not the sort of person one can sum up in a single sentiment. He is… how shall I put this? He is an equation with variables that simply refuse to behave. Utterly unsolvable.

Come now, don't look at me like that.

It’s just that Astarion is - well, to put it plainly - a lot. A relentless force of nature wrapped in silk and a layer of his own smugness. He walks into a room and suddenly you're aware of him. No, not just aware - attuned. It's all deliberate, of course. All part of the performance.

Yet, somehow, despite knowing it's all a performance, I still find myself watching.

And it's not just his presence. He's also clever, which is, dare I say, the most irritating thing about him. Not just sharp-witted, but… strategic. He understands people, knows exactly where to sink his teeth. Not just the literal ones - though those certainly warrant consideration - but also the more subtle. A smile, a look, a well-placed word. He plays people like instruments, plucking their strings just so, and I… Well, I have spent a great deal of time telling myself that I, of all people, should be immune to such things.

Alas, I am not immune. 

Which, of course, presents something of a metaphysical conundrum. Feelings, after all, are best understood when dissected. Laid bare and examined like lines in an ancient tome. One does not simply experience something without questioning its nature, its source, its… implications. No, the wise approach - the rational approach - is to study it with the same rigour that one would apply to any magical phenomenon. To categorise it, to determine whether it is genuine or merely some arcane anomaly. A peculiar resonance of the heart, if you will.

And so, in pursuit of intellectual honesty, I find myself studying Astarion with perhaps more dedication than strictly necessary. Any lingering thoughts are purely academic, I assure you. Elminster once told me that understanding the world means understanding its people, and what is Astarion if not a mystery to be unravelled? The way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he wields his beauty like a blade.

… Yes, he is beautiful, but that is besides the point. The point is–

…

I've lost the point.

That's what he does to me, you know. He derails my thoughts. I'm speaking perfectly rationally one moment, and the next, I'm somewhere else entirely, wondering if that grace comes naturally to him. If, behind closed doors, he rehearses those cutting remarks, those honeyed words.

Of course, I’m hardly special in that regard. I’ve seen him turn those honeyed words on just about everyone. He gives people what they want with such artful sincerity that they can’t help but believe him. He doesn’t mean it - not truly. And I would be a fool to imagine I’m any different. The world is his stage, and he is quite the performer.

And yet…

There are things about him. Real things. Beneath those rakish charms. I see them sometimes, in the quiet moments, when he doesn't realise anyone's watching. A weariness. A wariness. He's always aware, it seems. Of every room he walks into, of every person in it, of where the exits are. I recognise that sort of awareness. It's the kind you learn when you have been made someone's pawn for too long. When you've spent years convincing yourself that you're the one holding the strings, only to realise the strings are wrapped around your throat.

It unsettles me.

Dare I say, it even hurts me.

Not that I would ever say so. I doubt he would ever want to hear it. I doubt he would believe it.

And, anyway, it's not as if–

Not as if what?

No, truly, what was I about to say? That it's not as if I care? That would be a lie. That it's not as if I think about him more than I should? That would be another.

Perhaps I should stop talking.

…

You know, there was a time where I thought myself above this sort of thing. I thought I understood love completely. How could I not? I had experienced love in its most divine form - quite literally, in fact. My devotion to Mystra is… was… something transcendent. Something cosmic. I thought that was all love could be. All it should be. That anything less would be settling for a pale imitation of true devotion.

But lately, I find myself wondering if perhaps I’ve been rather short-sighted about the whole thing. Mystra herself appears in many forms; adapts to what her followers need. Perhaps love is similar - not always a grand, cosmic force that reshapes reality, but something more… subtle? The way a person looks at you when they think you aren't watching. The way their voice changes when you say their name. The way they make you feel like you are something more than what you were before. 

But if I did feel something - hypothetically, of course - it would hardly matter. Because what could I possibly offer him? A man who’s spent centuries under the control of another, only to find himself finally tasting freedom… What could he possibly want with someone like me? A wizard with borrowed time, carrying within him a responsibility so great that I am expected - destined - to lay down my life for it?

I’ve seen the fire in his eyes when faced with that which threatens to cage him. That fierce, burning defiance - the look of a man who has faced centuries of servitude and vowed never to be chained again. And what would I be, if not another form of binding? Another tragedy waiting to unfold? No. No, I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted nothing to do with such complications.

And yet… sometimes, I wonder.

If things were different - if I were different… If my fate weren’t already destined to end in sacrifice, would he look at me differently?

If he did - and that’s a big “if” - would I be so willing to accept that fate? To willingly embrace my end, if it meant never knowing what this - what we - might have become?

I was so sure the answer was simple. But then he looks at me, and for just a moment, I feel something I thought was long beyond my grasp. A foolish, reckless thing. It makes me hesitate.

And hesitation, well… that’s dangerous, isn’t it?

But stranger things have happened.

… Perhaps I have rather a lot to think about.

But I believe I’ve taken up quite enough of your time with these philosophical meanderings. No doubt you have better things to do than listen to a wizard ramble about matters of the heart. Besides, I have some rather important reading waiting for me. Something about… well, anything other than this conversation, really.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat, @davenswitcher, @silverfangmarks, @sparrowbard, @chonkercatto, @stokzr , @trafalgarussy , @asterordinary , @bite-me-tonight , @transparentkittenheart , @vividiana (thank you for being so supportive with this one <3), @bg3-fanfic-reblogs

[starheavenly]

AAAAA SORRY I WANTED TO MAKE SURE!!!! I was the anon, so here u go! Zenith!SoundRod bc SoundRod is my TF OTP in general and I loved seeing them in ur AU. I hope I did them justice, I rly love ur art! 💖

His digits moved smoothly across the keyboard. It was that split klik when he looked up, it all went downhill.

Usually, Soundwave worked alone, focusing on his ideas. Either in silence or accompanied by the music he loved so much. But just that solar-cycle, Rodimus asked to join him. So he agreed. Obviously.

Yet, there was something peculiar about this, right at the back of his processors. Rodimus was quiet. Barely any move, barely a peep. Someone usually so full of life, then still, reading through a new speech he had given him before. Soundwave had never seen him that thoughtful and… Strangely, there was beauty within it.

Though, it must’ve been enough of a puzzlement for Rodimus too, as he looked up. When their optics met, Soundwave decided to cave in, “Is something wrong?”

“Haha, nothing’s wrong by your side!” Startled, Rodimus answered. “Just… Just wanted to focus on work for once. Like you always do.”

Soundwave hummed underneath his vocoder, “Thank you. But I do feel rather strange with you not talking.”

“You want me to talk? Cause oh man, be careful what you wish for, just ask Cyclonus, she… She can word things pretty bluntly,” he joked around. Obviously no matter what, she still cared for Rodimus.

“I don’t mind it. I like your voice,” he reassured him, voice steady as it could ever be.

To which Rodimus smiled. As a gentle rock ballad played from Soundwave’s speakers, he could hear the lyrics being repeated by Rodimus. That was when his confession from before finally came together.

Was Rodimus trying to impress him? Soundwave wasn’t sure. Simply, he scooted closer, their shoulders brushing against each other.

If it was the truth, though… Then it wouldn’t be a surprise why suddenly warmth spread all across from Soundwave’s spark.

OUGHHHH thank you so much!! I did a doodle for the ficlet:

ITS SO SO SO CUTE!! I had to pace around my office just from the cuteness. I LOVEEEEE SOUNDROD. THANK YOU IM SO HONORED AND HAPPY AND THANKFUL

[sports-on-sundays]

hello hello, saw you were a bit bored apparently and had open requests soo…😛

how about a fic where gavi meets the reader during media day for the new kit launch, and as gavi doesn’t really like these events where cameras are, he’s a bit nervous hihi

the reader is the photographer or videographer and she’s shy too, but something between them sparkles🤭 they’re both too shy to talk but in the end gavi makes a move and he takes her on a date or something? just some cutesy fluff:) ty!💞

camera-shy / Pablo Gavi

Summary: Pablo x photographer!female!reader - Two shy people are drawn to each other.

Requested?: Yes!! Thank you lovely!

Author's Note: WHAT A CUTE IDEA! LOVE IT! 💞

"Gavi- Can you look at the camera, please?" the young Spanish man is asked for about the millionth time.

"Hm?" he asks, and looks up once more at the camera.

You snap a few pictures as the PR person who had spoken before says, "Come on; relax your face a bit. Smile. Yes, good. But brighten your eyes, please-"

"How am I supposed to 'brighten my eyes'?" Pablo Gavi asks in confusion and slight exasperation.

It's been a long media day for everyone, but especially Gavi, you can tell. He's not the type that likes the being filmed.

In photography, one of the biggest obstacles are people who are just simply, naturally camera-shy.

And you can tell this footballer, with his big brown eyes, is one of those people. The way he's averting his eyes, getting distracted. His stiff smiles and awkward laughs.

He's a nightmare.

But you, unlike a lot of people with your trade you know, don't get as upset about it.

Because you're one hundred percent more camera shy than him.

Besides the fact that you love the art of it, that's why you became a photographer.

You always get to be the one behind the camera.

A famous footballer being camera shy, though? That doesn't work out as well.

Suddenly, the PR guys taps your shoulder, and asks you, "Don't you have any methods of making his... you know... Appearance, better?"

"S- Sorry?!" you ask softly. Yeah, you're not only camera-shy. You're just shy-shy.

"You know, making him smile bigger, or angles for him to look-"

Suddenly, he's interrupted by Pablo Gavi saying, "Stop bothering the photographer."

You look up in surprise, but quickly look away when your eyes meet Gavi's. You silently thank him, though, as the footballer continues, "There's nothing she can do." He clears his throat, taking a deep breath, and nods, opening his eyes, looking at the camera. "Better?"

"Oh, God, perfect," you murmur as he looks at the camera with a certain playful yet thoroughly serious glint in his eyes. You quick snap some photos.

Pablo will admit he hates PR, and he hates being on camera. As his career has progressed, it's gotten better, for sure. But some days? Some days, he just isn't in the mood to do it.

It's unfortunate that today is one of those days, and it's a whole day completely dedicated to media.

His brain is spinning with the dark room, screen behind him, flashing cameras, rambling managers, and-

And, well, with the pretty photographer.

She's cute, he thinks with a small, shy smile at the girl.

She thinks he's looking right at the camera, and snaps a picture of the little smile. Right after, the PR manager snaps, "Good smile, but put a bit more strength into it!"

What the hell is a 'strong' smile?!

Then, finally, after over two hours of snapping pictures, he's done. He sighs a huge sigh of relief. Apparently, 'that will have to be good enough,' as the PR manager says.

Right, then.

But suddenly, as Pablo is about to leave, a slight disappointment in his chest stops him.

The cute girl. That photographer, I might not see her again...

He looks back over his shoulder, watching as you pack up your camera carefully.

Oh, get over it, he thinks, shaking his head.

You're too awkward to actually talk to her anyway. Just leave it. She's so beautiful, she's probably taken already anyway.

You'll just make a fool of yourself, Pablo.

Suddenly, though, from across the room, you look up.

And your eyes meet.

Pablo can't look away. It's like there's a magnetic force, a spark, holding your gazes together in the air, across the room.

Pablo, it's no use, his anxious brain screams as his legs begin walking over to you. Give it up.

Too late now.

"H- Hey," he smiles when he reaches you.

You gulp. "Uh... Yes... What can I do for you, Gavi?"

Aw. Her voice is so soft, he thinks as he says, "I... I just wanted to thank you for being so patient with me today..."

"Oh," she smiles shyly. "Of course. It's my job."

He lingers, and says, swallowing, "What's your name?"

"Y/n Y/l/n," you smile softly, scratching the back of your neck nervously.

"Oh," he smiles. "Nice to meet you... Uh... so..." he gulps, before sort of blurting, "I was wondering... if, uh, I could have your number...? Maybe, if you're free tonight..."

Your eyes widen as your face flares up pink at the handsome football player's suggestion. "Are you- asking me out?" you breathe.

"I- uh, I mean, if- you know, if-"

"Yeah!" you giggle. "I mean, sure!" You, without thinking, grab a pen and his hand, before scribbling your number on his hand. "That- That way you won't forget it."

"Oh," he nods, loving the fleeting feeling of his hand in your softer, smaller one, for just a moment. "Yeah, sounds good!" he laughs. "We can text the details!"

"Uh, yeah, right!" you laugh awkwardly.

Your head spins as he walks off.

You sit across from Pablo Gavi, over dinner. "So, uh, Gavi-"

"You can call me Pablo," he says right away with a little smile.

"Oh... Okay... So... I'm, uh, sorry... I know I'm kind of awkward..."

He smiles, hastily resting his hand on top of yours. "No, it's fine. I am, too. I was almost too nervous to talk to you."

"Oh?" you laugh a bit. "And don't worry about the filming thing today... I'm actually pretty camera-shy myself, so I get how it is..."

"Oh, you are? That's funny, for a photographer."

You grin with a little giggle, "I always get to be the one behind the camera."

He smiles warmly, his eyes almost shining in a strangely dreamy way, for a girl he just met today, as he says, "You're really cute."

You flush pink. "Oh- Uh- Thank you. You, too..."

He gives a little adorable crooked smile. "Thanks, I guess."

Throughout the dinner, as you continue talking, your fingers slowly entwine with each other. Once you're both finished eating, you're tightly holding one another's hands.

"Thanks for... talking to me, even though we're both a bit hopelessly shy..."

He smiles. "It was worth it... So, would you maybe like to go out again...? I've had... a really nice time with you."

"For sure," you giggle as you stand up together. "I've had a great time, too."

Just as you're about to slip your hand away from his, he uses it to pull you to him, into a hug. You gasp a little by the sudden touch, but immediately lean into it, hugging him back.

You stand there together, for a few moments, arms wrapped around each other, before he whispers, "Thank God I got over my nervousness and just asked you today, because I have a feeling this little date is going to go places beyond what either of us can imagine."

And in that moment, you know, deep down inside, that he is completely correct.

And you smile big, because you can't wait!