#the player having a thick skull in this one

[bloodweavefangnatic]

Player: What’s the difference between a vampire and a zombie? They’re the same thing aren’t they?

Astarion: You did NOT just say they’re the same thing. Undead yes. Same thing? No.

Player: Sooooo he’s a distant relative then?

Astarion: 😑

Player: No?

Astarion: God gods, someone needs to teach you on telling the difference between undead creatures. That’s a solid no by the way.

Original source:

[catchastarorten]

—“This one’s mine.”

Pairing: Hwang Jun-ho x VIP!fem!reader

Summary: after being pestered by your own brother, you agreed to accompany him to the island to watch the games, only to find yourself helping a waiter—Jun-ho—who was being eyed by a creepy panther-masked VIP.

Warnings: your sarcasm, mentions of death/violence in Glass Bridge, your brother is a VIP, brother & sister bickering/you put him in his place because he's being annoying, the VIPs—panther masked VIP being a weirdo, you save Jun-ho tho, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 2.6k

The golden fox mask felt heavy on your face, pressing against your skin in a way that made you want to rip it off and toss it across the room. But that would be improper, wouldn’t it? A VIP must maintain decorum. At least, that’s what your insufferable little brother kept reminding you.

Speaking of him, he was sitting beside you, his wolf mask barely concealing the delighted smirk on his face as he leaned forward, watching the players stumble and fall to their deaths on the Glass Bridge. He laughed—actually laughed—when a man made the wrong choice out of the two and jumped, crashing through the wrong glass panel, screaming all the way down.

You sighed, swirling the drink in your glass, watching the liquid catch the dim light. It was infinitely more interesting than the so-called “game” before you.

How had you let brother dearest drag you here? Oh, right. He had whined and pouted and gone on and on about how you never did anything fun with him. You had rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they hadn’t gotten stuck in your skull, but against your better judgment, you agreed.

And now here you were, surrounded by a bunch of snobby men—your presence wasn’t nearly enough to balance out the testosterone levels—draped in velvet robes, sipping on the finest liquor, and betting on desperate people fighting for their lives.

You suppressed a yawn.

“This is so much better than another charity gala, isn’t it?” your brother drawled, nudging your arm. “You have to admit, this is real entertainment.”

“Yeah, watching poor people die really warms the heart,” you said dryly.

“Don’t be such a bore, sis,” he said, rolling his eyes. “This is tradition. You should be honored to be here.”

Oh, you were honored, alright. Honored that your parents left everything to him, making sure he had enough money to play dress-up with his rich little friends while you had to fight for your own wealth. Not that you needed their inheritance, but the principle of it still burned. He got to be the spoiled prince while you had to claw your way up in the world. And now here he was, wasting it all on cheap thrills.

The Glass Bridge game was nearing midway. The players were hesitating, trying to strategize their way across. The VIPs around you were buzzing with excitement, shouting bets, clapping, drinking like it was the biggest sports event of the decade. But all you saw were walking corpses, their fear so thick in the air it nearly masked the expensive cologne in the room.

You took another sip of your drink, letting the burn coat your throat.

“At least pretend like you’re having fun,” your brother whined. “People are gonna think you’re some kind of a… prude.”

“Oh no.” you responded mockingly.

He huffed, crossing his arms like a petulant child. If there was one thing he hated, it was not getting his way. You could practically hear the gears turning in his spoiled little mind, trying to come up with a way to make you enjoy this, but his thoughts were interrupted when the other VIPs erupted into cheers and groans. You just exhaled through your nose, staring at the mess.

It was the players on the glass bridge, arguing, too afraid to jump. One shoved another forward, out of desperation or malice. The man screamed as he plunged to his death.

“Ugh, finally,” your brother muttered. “I hate when they hesitate. Just jump, you cowards!”

You turned your head slightly, studying him. Did he even realize how pathetic he sounded? Lounging in a silk robe, sneering at people who had nothing? He wouldn’t last a minute in their position.

“You should play,” you mused, tilting your head. “Next year.”

He snorted. “Please, I would dominate these games.”

You smiled behind your mask. “Would you?”

Your brother scoffed. “You doubt me?”

“I know you,” you said. “And you wouldn’t make it past the first round.”

He looked genuinely offended. “I’d make it to the finals, at least.”

You leaned in, voice dropping. “Tell you what. If you join next year, I’ll bet against you. Just to make it interesting.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. But you saw it—the flicker of doubt, of fear. As much as he enjoyed watching, he knew very well he would never survive playing.

And that? That was the only entertaining thing you’d seen all night.

A moment later, your eyes flicked toward the Panther-masked VIP, whose frustration over losing a bet had quickly turned into something much more unpleasant. His focus had shifted from the game to the waiter standing stiffly beside him—a waiter who, you observed, wasn’t moving quite like the other servers.

You weren’t an idiot. The way that waiter hesitated when he was called, the way his shoulders were a little too tense, the way his hands remained perfectly still as if not used to serving—it all screamed of someone who didn’t belong.

That was because he wasn’t really a waiter, it was Jun-ho disguised as one, though you didn’t know that. He had taken down one of the servers moments before the VIPs arrived on the island.

And now, the Panther-masked VIP was ordering him to sit beside him and take off his mask.

Jun-ho—recognizing the sharpness in his tone—tried to resist, his voice calm. “I need to serve the other guests, sir.”

The Panther VIP scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “Oh, come now, the others won’t mind if I keep this one for myself, will they?”

A chorus of laughter and amusement rippled through the room, the other VIPs agreeing without a care—“he’s all yours!” one of them laughed. Your brother even chuckled beside you, raising his glass as if this was all just another part of the entertainment.

You, however, did not find it amusing.

Before Jun-ho could be forced into something he clearly wanted no part of, you lazily raised your hand and gestured toward your glass.

“I need a refill,” you said smoothly.

Jun-ho’s eyes darted toward you, wary but sharp, understanding immediately that you were giving him an out.

Your brother groaned, shifting beside you. “Come on, sis, let him have his fun—”

Your hand shot out, swatting him hard against his arm before he could finish his whining.

He yelped, rubbing his arm. “Ow! What the—?”

“Shut up.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but the look you gave him through your golden fox mask was enough to make him think better of it. He slumped back into the couch with a huff, grumbling under his breath.

The Panther-masked VIP tsked in annoyance but didn’t say more as Jun-ho bowed his head slightly and stepped away from him, making his way toward you. You could see the tension in his shoulders ease, if only slightly.

As he reached your couch, he carefully took your glass and poured you another drink, his movements slow and precise. Up close, you could see the way his jaw was set tight, his eyes flickering with restraint.

You leaned in slightly as he finished pouring. “You okay?” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

Jun-ho hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding once. “Thank you,” he said quietly, placing your glass back into your hand.

You didn’t reply, just took a slow sip while he stood beside the couch you sat on.

However, the weight of the Panther-masked VIP’s stare was suffocating. You didn’t even have to look to know that he was still watching Jun-ho like a predator eyeing its next meal.

Annoyed, you turned your head ever so slightly, locking eyes with him through your golden fox mask. You raised your glass in a slow, mocking salute before downing the rest of your drink in one smooth motion.

The message was clear: Back off.

Unfortunately, subtlety was wasted on men like him.

“Come back here,” the Panther VIP drawled, waving his fingers in a lazy command at Jun-ho.

Jun-ho’s grip on the bottle in his hands tightened slightly, his body as still as a statue. It was subtle, but you caught it. He didn’t want to go back over there.

So, before he could even think about stepping forward, you reached out and grabbed his forearm, holding him in place. Your fingers pressed firmly against the fabric of his uniform—a silent message that he could stay with you.

You sat up straighter, your voice cutting through the noise.

“This one’s mine.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

Jun-ho stiffened beside you, clearly taken aback. You didn’t mean it in the way it sounded—he wasn’t a possession. But these men only responded to power plays, and if that was the language they spoke, then fine. You’d speak it fluently.

Your brother let out a low whistle beside you, his amusement clear. “Ohhh, big sis is getting bold.”

You didn’t even hesitate—your palm struck his arm again with a sharp thwack.

“Ow!” he rubbed where you smacked him.

“Shut up,” you muttered, leveling him with a glare. “If you don’t stop embarrassing yourself, I’ll give you a real beating in front of all these people.”

He grumbled something under his breath, soothing his arm, but he didn’t push it further.

The Panther VIP, however, was not so easily prevented. “Come now,” he chuckled, though there was irritation beneath his voice. “You can’t hoard all the fun.”

“Sure, I can,” you replied dryly.

A few of the other VIPs laughed at that, enjoying the exchange. The Panther VIP let out a breath through his nose, clearly displeased, but he wasn’t about to pick a fight with another VIP. That was the unspoken rule—annoyance was fine, but outright challenging each other was bad form.

Jun-ho turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. You met his eyes for a brief second, and then you stood up, keeping your grip on him firm.

“We’re leaving,” you announced.

Your brother groaned. “What? Where are you going?”

You didn’t even look at him as you responded, voice utterly monotone. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

More amusement rippled through the other VIPs, some watching with interest, others indifferent as they returned their attention to the game. But as you turned to leave, you felt it—that silent, looming presence watching you.

The Frontman.

He didn’t say a word, didn’t move to stop you. He simply observed, his masked face unreadable.

You met his gaze for a long moment before turning away, leading Jun-ho out of the room. No one stopped you. No one dared to stop you.

And just like that, you stole the only honest man in the room away from the wolves.

The moment you got him alone into a dimly-lit, empty room, you could feel the tension radiating off of him. Jun-ho wasn’t stupid—he knew he didn’t belong here, and he knew that you knew. His shoulders were taut, his breath controlled but just a little too shallow, and his hand was subtly reaching for something. A gun, maybe. A knife. Whatever he had managed to smuggle in.

You raised your hands slowly, showing you had no weapon, no ill intent. “Relax,” you said, your voice calm, softer even. You let go of his arm, stepping back to give him space. “I’m not going to turn you in… or whatever you’re thinking right now.”

Jun-ho’s sharp eyes flickered with suspicion. “And why should I believe that?”

“Because if I was planning to sell you out, I would’ve done it back there.” you tilted your head slightly, crossing your arms loosely. “Would’ve let that old man have his fun.” you said with a hint of distaste at the thought.

That gave him pause. He studied you, his gaze flickering over your golden fox mask, as if trying to gauge whether you were lying, or just the need to understand why a supposed VIP was helping him. You didn’t blame him for being on edge. This entire place was a slaughterhouse dressed up in gold. If you were in his position, you wouldn’t trust anyone either.

“You don’t belong here,” you stated plainly, watching for his reaction.

“And neither do you.”

That actually made you laugh, just a short, soft chuckle. “You’re not wrong.”

He hesitated. Maybe because your mask didn’t hold the same predatory amusement as the others. His fingers twitched, like he was still deciding whether to draw his weapon, but then he let out a slow breath.

You sighed too and gestured toward the door. “You should go. Before someone actually does come looking for you.”

Jun-ho didn’t move right away. He just stood there, looking at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle. And for a brief moment, you could tell—he wanted to ask.

Who are you?

Why are you helping me?

What’s under the mask?

But he didn’t ask. He just gave you a small nod before slipping out the door, disappearing like a shadow. You shut the door.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you turned back toward the empty room. Not even a minute later, a knock came at the door. You raised an eyebrow, opening the door, meeting the presence of a square-masked guard, who stepped inside.

“The Frontman sent me to check on you,” the guard said, his voice hollow under the mask. “Where’s the waiter?”

You gave him a blank look. “What waiter?”

The guard straightened. “The waiter you left with.”

You tilted your head, voice dry. “Oh. Him.” you shrugged lazily. “I got bored. Told him to get lost.”

The square guard didn’t buy it. “Where did he go?”

You sighed, as if this was the most exhausting conversation of your life. “Am I his babysitter?”

The guard didn’t move. He was pushing. You didn’t like being pushed.

So you took a slow step forward, closing the space between you and the guard. He stood his ground, but you could feel the slight hesitation in his stance as you slowly backed him up against the wall.

When his back hit the surface, the shift in atmosphere was instant. You weren’t loud. You weren’t aggressive. But the weight of your presence—the empty, unreadable calm of someone who knew how to lie—was enough to make the guard tense.

You tilted your head slightly, a slow, empty smile forming under your mask. “What exactly are you suggesting?” you murmured, voice smooth as silk. “That I’m hiding something?”

The square guard stiffened.

“Because that would be a very bold accusation to make against a VIP,” you continued, voice dropping to something almost sickly sweet. “And you wouldn’t want to insult a guest, would you?”

There it was—the slight shift in his posture, the hesitation and hint of nervousness.

“I—”

You stepped back, your fake smile still in place. “Good talk,” you said dryly, dusting off your robe like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Tell the Frontman to send someone more competent next time.”

The square guard didn’t argue, he just quickly stepped away from the wall, stiffly nodding before leaving the room without another word.

You sighed as the door shut behind him, rubbing a hand against the side of your neck.

This whole thing had been a drag, but at least you’d managed to do one decent thing tonight.

[thepencilnerd]

take a slice

Summary: No one could imagine a more cunning or manipulative player than Shuntaro Chishiya—until he meets you. complete fic on my ao3 here <3 Word Count: 3.8k Contains: Depictions of violence, unresolved sexual tension, emotional constipation

A/N: because I binge-watched Alice In Borderland in the span of two days and I am very late to the party (but never too late for self-indulgent fan service)

Chishiya spots you across the same floor, your black silhouette nearly lost in the shadows of the night. It’s only your movement that catches his attention, the dark outerwear a sharp contrast to his bright white jacket. You and he are the only players scouting from this vantage point, watching from above while the chaos brews below.

The night is eerily quiet—the calm before the storm, as they say. Your gaze locks onto his, and for a moment, time seems to freeze. Chishiya feels his heartbeat falter, a fleeting hitch he quickly tamps down.

Before he can fully process it, you’ve already vanished around a corner, just as a rain of bullets peppers the area behind you.

A boy’s voice echoes from below, frantic. "The only way to clear this game is to work together!"

Bullshit , you think.

There must be a reason behind the attacker's anchoring position, Chishiya muses.

Of course.

When you finally make your way to the safe room, you’re welcomed by four unfamiliar figures: the spree-killing horse, the brunette boy from earlier, a girl with a bob, and the blonde. 

Chishiya strikes swiftly, the crackle of his taser breaking the stillness. The masked attacker crumples to the floor, their face hitting the ground with a muffled thud. You waste no time, stomping down hard on their wrist, sending the gun skittering from their hand. Before they can recover, you grab the weapon and fire a single round into the crown of their skull. 

When you glance up, you catch the faintest trace of a smirk ghosting across the blonde’s face, but it’s gone just as quickly.

In the seconds that follow, the two other players in the room hastily slam their hands on the red buttons lining the walls.

GAME COMPLETE. CONGRATULATIONS WINNERS. 

Turning around, a pair of wide eyes greets you. 

“Thank you,” the boy finally speaks, addressing you and the blonde in a shaky voice. 

You respond with a nod, glancing over at the girl and seeing her return the acknowledgement. 

“Don’t mention it.” The blonde’s condescending tone from behind you is paralleled only by his burning gaze, locking onto you immediately. He almost misses seeing you slip something from the dead body into your pocket. 

You feel his focus linger on you as you leave the room. 

The night air is thick with tension, the distant cries from nearby arenas only amplifying the silence with each footstep behind you. You don’t bother turning around; you already know who it is.

Chishiya steps into your peripheral vision, his pace unhurried, like a cat stalking in the shadows. The forest buzzes with the threat of unseen dangers, but all his attention is locked on you.

"You didn’t have to kill him," he says, his voice casual, almost amused, as though discussing the weather.

You don’t stop walking. "You didn’t stop me."

A quiet chuckle escapes him, barely more than a breath. "True." His tone remains light, but there’s an edge beneath it, like he’s testing you, challenging you. "Still, you’ve got a certain efficiency. Impressive."

Your expression stays neutral. And yet, Chishiya’s presence beside you stirs something strange—a shared awareness, as if you’re both circling an invisible boundary neither of you are quite ready to cross—yet.

"You took something," he says, breaking the silence again, his voice calm but probing. His gaze stays forward, unreadable. "From the body."

You glance at him briefly, just enough to meet his eyes, which glint with curiosity under the moonlight. He’s trying to figure you out.

"And what if I did?" There’s a challenge in your voice now.

Chishiya’s smirk returns, faint but unmistakable. "Nothing. For now."

The tension between you tightens, pulling you closer in the silence. The game isn’t over. Not between the two of you.

As you continue walking, he trails behind, but soon loses sight of you in the dense trees. Shadows shift, swallowing you whole. He barely has time to catch his breath before a sudden force slams him to the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. The disturbed soil and decaying leaves soften his fall, but his back still hits the earth with a solid thud.

Your knee digs sharply into his sternum, pinning him down. One hand tightens around his throat, not enough to choke him but enough to strain his breath. The cold, unforgiving edge of a blade presses against his cheek—a silent threat.

Chishiya’s indifferent expression makes your skin crawl, yet his stoic, unflinching gaze cuts through the moment like a dagger—piercing both hot and cold at once. Neither of you speak. It’s a game of cat and cat, both of you testing the other's resolve in this tense, silent standoff.

For a fleeting moment, he wonders if you can read each other’s thoughts.

You feel him gulp beneath your hand, his pulse quickening under your fingers. Both of his hands remain raised in surrender by his ears, calm, unwavering, and empty of any weapon or defense. His eyes flicker to the deep scar on your neck, lingering there for just a moment.

The air between you thickens. What feels like minutes pass in the span of heartbeats.

Without warning, you spring up and disappear into the night.

Chishiya stays on the ground for a moment, catching his breath. He sits up slowly, eyes tracing the path you took into the darkness. His chest rises and falls unevenly, the phantom cold of the blade still lingering on his skin. Silence wraps around him like a fog, but his pulse betrays him—racing, driven by more than just adrenaline.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, he feels something—a strange tug deep in his core, like something vital slipped away the moment you left. A curiosity stirs, mingling with the remnants of tension, a silent acknowledgment that this game isn’t over.

It’s only just begun.

Chishiya’s lips twitch into a faint smirk. Your piercing gaze and the scar on your neck are seared into his mind. He knows he’ll see you again. And next time, he won’t be caught off guard.

“You look like you have something on your mind.”

Kuina sits down across from Chishiya, her curiosity piqued as she watches him stare off into the distance. The evening air is still, a rare calmness settling over the Beach after a chaotic night.

Chishiya leans back, crossing his arms, a faint hum escaping his lips. “Just an interesting game tonight,” he replies casually, but there’s a lingering spark in his gaze that betrays more.

Kuina raises an eyebrow. “Must’ve been some game, then.”

“Perhaps,” Chishiya says, his voice smooth and unhurried. The rush of endorphins from the near-death experience still thrums faintly through his veins. 

The cause? A player whose actions were as cunning and unpredictable as his own. The thrill of narrowing down their motivations felt like a puzzle finally worth solving.

His mind drifts back to the game, replaying each moment like scenes in a movie. The chaos, the desperate shouts, and the blaring alarms all felt distant—mere background noise compared to the razor-sharp focus he'd found himself drawn to. That focus was centered on one person.

You had been an anomaly from the start. There was a precision in the way you moved, calculated and unfazed by the panic unraveling around you. It was as if you thrived on the chaos, embraced it even, letting it fuel each step you took. While the other players were scrambling to find shelter or allies, you seemed to anticipate every move, predicting the patterns before they even unfolded.

And then, the moment that had truly hooked him: the kill. Cold, efficient, and executed without a trace of hesitation. You weren’t just surviving; you were playing the game in its purest form—adapting, evolving, always a step ahead. There was no hesitation in your actions, no unnecessary flourish—just the unyielding will to end a threat. It wasn’t just about self-preservation; it was about winning. And that’s what made you different.

Chishiya’s curiosity flared the instant your eyes met his in the aftermath. For the briefest moment, he’d seen a flicker of something—recognition, maybe even a hint of challenge. Like you were silently asking him if he had what it took to keep up.

It was absurd, really, to feel anything in the Borderlands beyond the mechanical urge to survive. But something had shifted tonight. For the first time in what felt like forever, the game had become more than a series of calculated risks and rewards: it had become interesting.

Chishiya’s gaze shifts back to the window where lights scatter the sky. His fingers tap idly on the armrest of his chair, a rhythm betraying the restlessness he tries to mask. He’s always prided himself on being detached, keeping emotions and sentiment far from his calculations. Yet here he is, preoccupied with thoughts that don't have a place in his carefully constructed logic.

"You're quiet," Kuina observes, her tone carrying a hint of amusement. "More than usual, I mean."

Chishiya’s smirk is faint, barely there. “Am I?”

She shrugs, leaning back in her seat. “You’ve been lost in your own head since you got back.” 

Chishiya’s expression doesn’t falter, but there’s a slight shift in his demeanor—a barely perceptible sign of vulnerability, quickly smoothed over. “Maybe I’m just considering... possibilities,” he replies, the words coming slower than usual, as if he’s testing how they sound. 

Kuina’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Possibilities, huh?” She tilts her head, studying him. “That’s one way of putting it. Or maybe… a person?”

Chishiya’s silence is uncharacteristic. He feels the pull to dismiss the notion immediately, to scoff at the idea of being distracted by a person, much less affected by them. But instead, he pauses. It’s enough for Kuina to catch on, her curiosity piqued.

“Interesting,” she murmurs, a teasing smile curling on her lips. “You’re actually thinking about someone, aren’t you?” When he doesn’t respond, she presses further. “It’s a girl, right? Did she do something to catch your eye?”

Chishiya finally meets her gaze, his own guarded but not entirely dismissive. “She’s... unusual,” he admits, the words coming out almost reluctantly. “Not like the others.”

Kuina arches an eyebrow. “Unusual how? Smart? Dangerous?”

“Both,” he replies without hesitation. “Efficient, focused. But there’s something else.” He uncrosses his arms, feeling oddly exposed, as though admitting to these thoughts makes them more real, more tangible. “It’s like she’s not playing the same game as the rest of them.”

Kuina studies him for a moment, then lets out a soft laugh. “You’ve got it bad,” she says, shaking her head. “I never thought I’d see the day you’d be drawn to someone for more than their utility.”

He scoffs, a ghost of his usual arrogance returning. “Don’t get carried away. I’m only interested because she might be useful.”

“Sure,” Kuina says with a knowing grin. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Chishiya falls silent again, but the truth gnaws at him. He knows it’s more than just her utility in the grand scheme of escaping this hellhole. It’s the way she challenges him—forces him to reevaluate his strategies and makes him wonder if there’s more to this game than just surviving.

He hates how that thought clings to him, even as he tries to push it away.

Chishiya shifts in his chair, feeling a dull ache radiate from his chest. He’s been operating on a different level since encountering you, and the physical reminder feels almost like an anchor to what he’s been trying to navigate.

He glances at Kuina, who’s still watching him with an amused expression, still probing. “You look like you’re plotting something.”

“Just considering my next move,” he replies, a hint of a smirk returning to his lips. “The game is full of variables, and I need to prepare for them.”

“Variables, huh? Is that what you call her now?” Kuina teases, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the table.

“Focus,” he snaps lightly, but there’s no real heat in his voice. Instead, his mind races ahead to the next game, and how he can draw you in, maybe even observe you more closely. He’s already picturing the scenarios—the players, the setting, the stakes.

What he really wants is a way to see you again. To understand the force that pulls him toward you, the complexity that makes you more than just another player. The anticipation churns within him, exciting yet unnerving.

“What if I made a move to recruit her?” he muses aloud, considering the prospect. “She could be an asset. If she operates outside the norm, that could change the dynamics of our strategies.”

“Or it could blow up in your face,” Kuina counters, her tone light but her gaze serious. “You’re not exactly known for your emotionality, Chishiya. What if she doesn’t want to play?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, brushing off her concern. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

But the truth is, he knows that this isn’t merely about the game anymore. It’s about the way you make him feel—like a player in a game he thought he understood, now suddenly complex and exhilarating. Chishiya can’t shake the thought that if he wants to unlock the potential you represent, he’ll have to make a move soon.

He allows himself a moment of vulnerability, resting his chin on his hand as he reflects. “What if I want to see her again, Kuina? What if it’s not just about strategy anymore?”

Kuina’s eyes widen, clearly surprised by his admission. “Wow. You’re actually admitting you care.”

Chishiya rolls his eyes but can’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t get carried away.”

“Sure,” she says, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “Just remember, sometimes the best strategies are the ones that come from the heart.”

With that, Chishiya’s mind drifts again, calculating and assessing. He’ll be ready for the next game. He’ll be prepared to take any risk to find you again, to unravel the mystery of what you truly are: a partner, a rival, or perhaps something more. As the night draws to a close, the shadows deepen, but a flicker of determination ignites within him.

He will see you again.

A few days have passed since the last game, but the adrenaline still courses through your veins, lingering like a ghost. You survived, but the victory feels hollow, overshadowed by the memory of the indifferent blonde boy who’s drawn you in more than you care to admit.

Your thoughts drift back to that game—its intensity still vivid in your mind. It was like no other you’d experienced, where survival felt more like a dance with death than a struggle against it. And he was at the center of it, moving through the chaos with a calculated grace that caught your attention long before you understood why.

It wasn’t just that he was calm under pressure. Plenty of players had nerves of steel. It was his indifference, the way he seemed detached from the dangers around him, as though nothing could touch him. Where others flinched or panicked, he merely observed, as if the unfolding chaos was a puzzle to solve rather than a life-or-death situation. That kind of control was rare in the Borderlands, and in some strange way, it felt like a dare, an unspoken challenge that made you want to test him, to see if there was anything that could shatter that composure.

You remember the moment you locked eyes across the chaos, the way the world seemed to fade into the background. It was brief, but in that instant, it felt like a silent conversation—an understanding that went beyond words. There was something sharp in his gaze, a spark of curiosity that mirrored your own. It was as if he was evaluating you, sizing you up just as you were doing to him. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if you were seeing a part of yourself reflected back in those cold, calculating eyes.

But it wasn’t just his composure or his gaze that drew you in. It was the way he acted in those crucial seconds when lives hung in the balance. While others scrambled to save themselves, he made moves that seemed almost playful, like he was toying with the danger rather than simply evading it. There was a thrill in watching him maneuver through the madness with an ease that bordered on arrogance, as though he was always three steps ahead of everyone else—including you.

And then there was the moment when the game ended. You had both survived, of course, but there was something in the way he looked at you afterward, something that lingered, a faint smirk that hinted he had seen more than you’d intended to reveal. It wasn’t pity; it was as if he recognized a kindred spirit, someone who understood the game on a different level. For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt truly seen. 

That feeling unsettles you even now, as you sit by the fire, staring into the flames. It’s not that you seek validation in the Borderlands; you’ve learned long ago that the only approval that matters is your own. But there’s something about his quiet confidence, the way he seemed to acknowledge you without saying a word, that’s hard to shake. It makes you wonder if he was as unaffected as he appeared or if there was more beneath the surface, something hidden behind that cool exterior.

You clench your jaw, frustrated with yourself for even thinking about him this much. He was just another player—albeit a skilled one—and you’ve dealt with plenty of them before. But there’s a part of you that can’t ignore the way his presence lingers, like a splinter in your mind, a question that refuses to be answered.

Why did he make such an impression on you? Was it his composure, his intelligence, or the quiet thrill of crossing paths with someone who didn’t play by the same rules as everyone else? Or was it the way he seemed to see you in return, as if you were more than just a piece on the board?

You realize that you don’t know the answers—and perhaps that’s what’s most intriguing of all. There’s an unfinished quality to your last encounter, a feeling that your story with him isn’t over yet. It’s as if the game itself has drawn a line between you, daring you to cross it again.

You shake your head, trying to dismiss the thoughts that have become stubborn visitors in your mind. Why does he occupy your thoughts so much? Is it his calm indifference, the way he moved with calculated grace? Or is it something more that stirs a curiosity you can’t quite define?

Pushing the thoughts aside, you focus on your routine, an independent existence in the Borderlands, where survival means mastering skills few have the patience to learn. You've carved out a small camp nestled within the trees, camouflaged by foliage, a sanctuary of sorts amidst the chaos.

Every morning, you rise before dawn, the cool air biting at your skin as you check your traps. The gentle sounds of the forest waking around you are a familiar symphony, one you find solace in. You harvest small game—rabbits, birds, whatever you can catch—and meticulously prepare them, savoring the simple act of cooking over a small fire.

Hunting and foraging have become second nature. You collect wild herbs and edible plants, storing them in makeshift pouches crafted from scavenged materials. Each successful hunt reminds you of your resilience and strength. 

But even as you focus on these tasks, your mind drifts back to him—the blonde boy from the game. The way his piercing gaze seemed to see right through you, as if he was calculating your every move. It’s unsettling yet exhilarating, a contradiction you can’t wrap your head around.

The sun climbs higher, and you take a break from your chores to wash your hands in a nearby stream, the water refreshing against your skin. As you splash your face, you catch your reflection in the rippling surface, a mix of determination and uncertainty staring back at you.

You spend the afternoon working on camp, reinforcing the makeshift walls and clearing away debris that threatens your space. But even as you work to distract yourself, you can almost feel his presence lurking at the edge of your thoughts, his smirk dancing on your mind like a memory that refuses to fade.

Eventually, you settle on a log outside your camp, a piece of driftwood you dragged from the riverbank. Pulling out your small notebook, you begin to sketch the maps of the Borderlands, noting down resources and potential hideouts. It’s practical, a way to keep your mind sharp, but each mark on the page feels like a tether to the games, to the players who dance around you like shadows.

You reach into your pocket and pull out the small, crumpled piece of paper you took from the body during the game. You’ve looked at it countless times since then, trying to make sense of the chaotic scribbles. It’s a series of numbers and symbols—coordinates, perhaps, or some kind of code. Whatever it is, it’s not immediately clear, and that only deepens your curiosity.

You flatten the paper against the rough surface of the log, comparing it with your sketches. Could it be a location in the Borderlands? A clue to something hidden or an upcoming game? The patterns don’t align with any familiar maps, but something about the markings feels deliberate, as though there’s a message buried within them. You trace the lines with your finger, committing them to memory, trying to see what the original owner had seen. What was so important that they’d die with it?

Your mind drifts back to the moment you took it. The blonde boy’s eyes had flickered towards you—just for a heartbeat—when you pocketed the paper. Did he know what it meant, or had he noticed the same curiosity in you that you now feel?

As you draw, memories of the game resurface: his calculated moves, his indifferent demeanor, and the strange thrill of standing against him. There’s something magnetic about his presence, something that both fascinates and frustrates you.

In the fading light of dusk, you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the forest wash over you. The call of distant birds, the rustle of branches—each note a reminder that you’re alive, that you’re here, navigating a world filled with peril and unpredictability. But still, the thought lingers. Will your paths cross in the next game, or will you remain a ghost in his memory?

With a sigh, you shake your head and return to your sketches, determination settling in your chest. It doesn’t matter. Yet, in the depths of your mind, a part of you yearns for that inevitable meeting, that chance to unravel the enigma that is the blonde boy.

As darkness settles over the forest, you tuck your notebook away, the images of your maps a promise of the journey ahead. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new games to navigate. And if fate has its way, perhaps it will also bring him back into your orbit once more.

[plutoasteroids]

PAC How Will Your Future Spouse View You

Pile 1 Pile 2 Pile 3

DISCLAIMER THIS IS A GENERAL READING TAKE WHAT RESONATES AND LEAVE WHAT DOESN'T.

Strictly for entertainment purposes.

PILE 1

So, before I get into the tarot bit of the reading the overall vibe I am getting is that you and your future spouse will be that couple that are still doing cute stuff together even in old age. You know those older couples you see on TikTok on dates still happy and very much in love, yeah like that. One word I can use to describe it is cozy, just very warm and affectionate basically feeling like this person is your home. It's going to be like 'I'd rather come home to you then be anywhere else'.

On to the tarot bit, Your FS sees you as someone very confident and optimistic (even if you don't see yourself that way). They see you as being positive and very wholesome. Again, before I pulled cards I channelled and I still got the warmth.

Oh my gosh, if any of you have read The Song of Achilles that's basically it. Before anyone points out to me they were a same sex couple .Yes, I know but I am talking about the relationship dynamic between Patroclus and Achilles.

You may have gone through a difficult time in your life and your future spouse will admire how strong and resilient you are, how you're able to adapt to challenges and changes in environment. You may be the type of person who is connected to both their divine feminine and masculine and they truly find that attractive.

They certainly view you as their other half and I know its cliche to say soulmate but that's all your future spouse is saying. You just give them so much happiness and emotional fulfilment.

'They are my home, my soulmate, my forever'

PILE 2

Ugh Pile 2 your spouse will literally worship you😩. Like you'll tell them your insecurities and they'll just sit there kissing every scar, mark, dimple anything you're insecure about they'll adore. If you're a female or a feminine reading this and you have thick thighs I heard them say 'Come here and crush my skull with those sexy thighs'. Whoever you are you have someone's poor child down horrendous for you.

I think they may be the type to just watch your social media whether you are getting to know each other, dating, engaged or married your social media pages, pictures and videos will always be on their phone screen and they won't go to sleep without listening to a little voice message you sent. Once they get attached baby there's absolutely no getting rid of them, I heard 'You'll have an easier time getting rid of bed bugs'.

When you meet them, they may be a party animal or a player.

Disclaimer it's not toxic obsession more like they will let you be your own person but at the end of the day they are yours and you are theirs, you are their spouse, and they are your spouse and they will forever put you on a pedestal not to the open where they will neglect themselves.

They see you as a prize (again not in a creepy way) You may have options when you meet this person but best believe they'll make sure to stand out and win you over. They see you as the best the world has to offer in terms of what a wife/husband/spouse should be. Your person may have had a few letdowns when it came to love and just know that they see you as a dream come true and again, I know that's very cliche but trust me when Isay they view having you as a spouse as their biggest accomplishment and they want you to know that they'll prove to you every day they are worthy to call themselves your spouse. They feel like you have gone through a period of depression and sadness, and they want you to know that they acknowledge it and they see you as strong every day.

The couple I channelled for you guys is Queen Charlotte and King George from Bridgerton.

PILE 3

First thing I heard 'Sugar Daddy'. This person will spoil you but love you even more. Yes, they may have money and give you gifts but this person truly does love you, care about you and respect you.

They may be older than you that's why people may think that they are your glucose guardian which is not technically wrong and not technically correct either. I feel like that will be a long term joke you two have about them being your sucrose supplier..

They will definitely view you as delicate, I want to say that they are the protective type but not protective to the point of you feeling suffocated by them. They want you to be comfortable and have what you like 'If my spouse wants that watch I'll get it for them'.

They will view you as fun loving, yet you have this air of power to you that they love. Sure, they view you as delicate and they want to protect you, but they also view you as strong and beyond capable of taking care of yourself and those around you basically your spouse is saying 'they want me, but they don't need me'. They know that you can walk away from them anytime and they like that you're always in your power no matter what.

Your spouse admires how you don't need them to feel whole or for financial gain they see you as a breath of fresh air, a change of pace, an adventure.

He may touch you a lot with your consent obviously, like a hand on your waist, shoulder or they may steal little quick kisses. Also, there may be a lot of friendly banter in the relationship.

The couple I channel for you guys is Fallon and Liam from Dynasty.

[viiennie]

mdni 18+

Frontman! Gojo Satoru whose eyes stay stuck on you the moment you enter the facilities with that gorgeous face and those pretty doe eyes.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who thinks literally everything you do is adorable, each bounce to your step, each flutter of your eyelashes, and each tiny smile you send everyone you make eye contact with sends butterflies to his stomach, his heart pulsing with adornment.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who can't help himself, not having the power to just watch you through a screen. He needs to be closer to you. He needs to be the one you're smiling at, the one you depend on no matter what. He just has to have you.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who approaches you first, a friendly smile on his face as he introduces himself. He swears he melts on the spot when he finally gets to hear your voice in person. He almost feels bad when you finally enter the first game, the sparkle in your eyes telling him you definitely weren't prepared for what's to come.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru feels guilt gnaw his heart at the sight of your terrified expression when the first person for the season meets their end, bullet in their skull with the blood splattering on your cheek. He makes sure you stay behind his towering frame after realizing you couldn't control your trembling after that.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who comforts you after the red light green light game, arms wrapped around your trembling body as he whispers words of assurance into your ears.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru, who if he said he didn't take pleasure in the way you looked so small and helpless, then he'd be lying.

“W-what do I do Gojo? I-I’m pregnant too! My baby..” Your hands rest on your belly, the bump not being obvious because of the fact that you were only 3 months along. You were scared. So scared for both you and your baby’s safety. Had you known this game included losing lives, then you would’ve gladly burnt that card the recruiter gave you and endured poverty if it meant being alive with your child. 

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who feels his dick straining in his pants for some reason at the news of you being with child. He knows it’s the worst time to be popping a boner, but how can he control himself when you look so pretty with tears running down your face? How can he help himself when he imagines fucking you raw and deep with your pretty baby bump showing underneath that annoyingly thick jacket? He groans, biting his lip to stop himself from daydreaming, “Don’t worry pretty, I’ll protect you and your baby, yeah?”

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who thinks it’s the cutest thing ever when you tell him you wanna try befriending the other pregnant woman, hoping a bond would form between the two of you. He encourages you, giving you advice on how to start a conversation before gently pushing you toward player number 222.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who takes the chance to slip away while you and everyone else is distracted during break time, instructing all his pink soldiers to be gentle with you, and to make sure to specifically give you food that was good for pregnant women. 

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who is surprised when you wake him up in the middle of the night, asking him to come with you to the bathroom because you really, really needed to go but you were also too scared to go alone. He chuckles at your cuteness, easily agreeing to your demands before accompanying you to the said bathrooms.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who’s even more surprised when you pull him into one of the stalls in the women’s bathroom, your lips crashing against him in a messy attempt to makeout. He thinks it’s so endearing how you whisper to him about your raging hormones and how you just can’t take it anymore. 

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who doesn’t waste time to plunge his fingers deep inside you, the squelching noises further keeping him motivated to give you your sweet release. The way your knees quiver and your arms cling onto him for balance sends blood rushing straight to his dick, moans and whines leaving his lips, only to be muffled by your own.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who's got shivers going up his spine when he finally buries his cock deep inside your sore pussy, hips stuttering in movement as he tries to be gentle with you, reminding himself that you're pregnant and he couldn't be as rough as he wanted.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru, who resolve breaks down when you whine into his ears for more, for him to go harder and not to hold back because it felt so good. He's now got you in a full nelson, burying his cock balls deep into your pretty cunt without an ounce of hesitation.

Frontman! Gojo Satoru who makes sure to take care of you well after several rounds, cleaning you up with his tongue and brushing out your messy hair with his fingers. He finds himself smiling at the way you blink sleepily in his arms. He's definitely going to whisk you away after these games are finished.

[luvfae]

DOC

summary: you’re a med student in the games and thanos has a serious case of blue balls.

parings: thanos/choi su-bong x f!reader

warnings: swearing, smut, semi-public sex, masturbation, oral (thanos receiving), mention of death.

The fluorescent lights in the facility buzzed faintly above you as you made your way down the dimly lit hallway. The air was thick with sweat, desperation, and the metallic scent of blood—remnants of the last brutal game.

You were exhausted. Being a med student in this hellhole meant you were everyone’s nurse, whether you liked it or not.

The moment word got out that you had medical training, you became the unofficial caretaker of the surviving players. You regretted ever letting it slip to the few people you dared to befriend.

Now, every time someone got a scratch, a bruise, or even a headache, they came running to you like you had a fully stocked hospital at your disposal. As if you weren’t just another desperate contestant, fighting to stay alive. Attempting to patch up the ones lucky enough to survive, all while knowing that your own life was just as disposable.

One night, after yet another O vote sealed your fate, you dragged yourself to the bathroom. Your body felt like dead weight, exhaustion sinking into your bones, the fight in you fading with every step.

As you passed the men’s restroom, a low groan caught your attention. Being a nurse in training meant you were wired to care for people, whether you liked it or not. So no matter how much you wanted to ignore it, you couldn’t just leave whoever was in pain behind that door alone.

You pushed open the door, stepping inside.

What you found made your breath hitch.

Player 230. Thanos.

Leaning against the sink, head down, his hand wrapped tightly around his cock.

Oh fuck, that wasn’t a groan of pain.

Your lips parted in shock, but before you could back away, his eyes snapped open, locking onto yours.

Instead of embarrassment, he smirked, completely unfazed. “Oh? Thought I was dying, huh, Doc?”

Doc. That damn nickname he had given you after he convinced himself he’d snapped his ankle, pestering you until you checked him out. It wasn’t broken—he was just being dramatic.

You swallowed hard, heat crawling up your neck. “I—uh, I heard a noise—”

“Yeah, you did,” he chuckled, lazily pumping himself, as if you weren’t standing right there, eyes glued to the scene before you. “Couldn’t help myself. Adrenaline’s got me all worked up. Can’t exactly rub one out in the dorms, can I?”

Your breath was shallow. You should leave. You should turn around and pretend you never saw this.

“Sorry, I’ll just go—”

“You don’t have to,” he replied smoothly. “You could help me out.”

You froze, a pit forming in your stomach. “Pardon?”

“Please, Doc,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “I’m in so much pain. I’ve got a serious case of blue balls. Can you help me drain them?”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snapped, your hands balling into fists. His puppy-dog eyes met yours, and you groaned, already regretting the entire situation.

You turned to leave, but before you could reach the door, he lunged at you. His pants slipped down as he tripped, crashing to the floor in a mess of limbs.

You spun around, kneeling next to him. “Are you okay? You fucking idiot. If you crack your skull, no one’s coming to save you.”

He lay there, looking up at you with a mix of desperation and a smirk. “I’m desperate, baby,” he purred. “You know you’re the only one who could help me.”

Something in your chest tightened, but you couldn’t place it. You hated this. He was an asshole, yet… yet there was something in the way he looked at you that made you hesitate.

His smirk widened, as if he could see the war waging in your head. “C’mon, señorita. You could die tomorrow,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t you wanna suck dick one last time? I’ll make it worth your while, promise.”

Your jaw clenched. "That's your argument? That I should suck your dick because I might die?"

He smirked. "Did it work?"

Your eyes flickered down-just for a second— and he fucking caught it. His smirk widened, full of arrogance and something darker, more dangerous.

Your stomach clenched. Your brain screamed at you to walk away, but the way his dark, hungry eyes raked over you had you frozen in place.

He rose to his feet, his arousal mere inches from your face.

“Come on,” he murmured, his tone low, coaxing. “Be a good girl and help me out.”

“What if someone walks in?” You whispered.

And he smirked because he knew he had you. He was about to get his dick sucked in a godforsaken hellhole like this. Now that was fucking rizz.

“Who gives a shit?” Thanos drawled, eyes hooded, lips curling at the corners.

“I do!” you snapped, glaring up at him. “Just because I might die tomorrow doesn’t mean I’m throwing all my self-respect out the window.”

Thanos snorted, seizing your wrists and yanking you to your feet. His pants hit the floor in the middle of the grimy bathroom, forgotten, before he dragged you into a stall and slammed the lock into place.

“Better?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement.

You huffed, arms crossed, refusing to acknowledge the heat curling in your stomach.

He grinned. “Get on your knees. Kneel for your king, Thanos.”

“Call yourself ‘King Thanos’ again and I’ll fucking break your dick,” you shot back.

His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming. “Kinky,” he murmured. “I like it, señorita.”

You rolled your eyes—but the sound that left your lips when he pushed you down was anything but annoyed. A sharp inhale, a gasp, thighs clenching as you landed on your knees before him.

You shouldn't be doing this. You weren't the kind of girl who got on her knees for men like him—cocky, reckless, insufferable. But here you were, on the ground, staring at the problem he so desperately wanted you to fix.

"Atta girl," Thanos murmured, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "Knew you'd make the right choice."

You glared up at him. "I didn't say I was gonna do anything."

His smirk didn't waver. "No?" He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. "Then why are you still here, Doc?"

Fuck. You had no answer for that.

His free hand trailed down his stomach, lazily pumping himself as he watched you. "C'mon, baby," he coaxed. "Open that pretty mouth. I bet you'll look real good with my cock in it."

A low heat curled in your stomach, shameful but undeniable. You should slap him. Call him a pig. Storm out.

Instead, you exhaled shakily, glaring up at him even as your fingers reached for the base of his cock.

His breath hitched at the first touch.

"Good girl," he murmured, watching you through heavy lids. "Now suck."

You parted your lips, let your tongue flick over the tip, teasing. His groan echoed in the empty bathroom.

And then you took him into your mouth.

His head fell back against the stall door with a dull thud, a low groan slipping from his lips as your mouth closed around him. His fingers tangled in your hair, not pushing, not forcing—just holding, like he couldn’t believe you were actually doing this.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice thick with pleasure. “Knew you had it in you, Doc.”

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, and he hissed, his grip tightening just slightly. His thighs tensed beneath your hands, the muscles flexing as he fought to keep still. You could feel his restraint, the way he wanted to fuck into your mouth but was holding back.

“You’re good at this,” he rasped, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Too good. You been practicing, baby?”

You glared up at him, but the effect was lost when he groaned again, rolling his hips just enough for the tip of his cock to hit the back of your throat. Your eyes watered slightly, but you took it, nails digging into his thighs as you relaxed your jaw, letting him have it.

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice rough, breathless. “Taking me so fucking good. Knew that mouth wasn’t just for talking back.”

Heat pooled low in your stomach at his words, at the way his voice had taken on a desperate edge, strained and wrecked. You felt powerful like this, with him falling apart because of you.

His breathing turned ragged, his thighs trembling. “I’m close,” he warned, his voice hoarse. “Gonna come down that pretty throat.”

You moaned around him, giving him permission. That was all it took.

With a strangled groan, he spilled into your mouth, his entire body shuddering as he came. You swallowed every drop, sucking him through it, milking him until he was cursing under his breath, his body twitching from overstimulation.

When you finally pulled away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he looked down at you with lidded eyes, his chest still rising and falling heavily.

“Fuck,” he breathed, smirking. “Guess you’re not as much of a good girl as I thought.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself to your feet. “Don’t get used to it.”

He caught your wrist before you could step away, pulling you close, his lips ghosting over your ear.

“Oh, I will,” he murmured. “You’re mine now, Doc.”

[miyamizuna]

Is it that sweet? I guess so~

Haikyuu boys as lyrics from "Espresso" by Sabrina Carpenter part 1 | part 2 ft. miya atsumu, kuroo tetsuro, semi eita

I can’t relate, to desperation (miya atsumu)

Being the MSBY social media manager means work- especially when it comes to Miya Atsumu. It seems like every other week he gets himself. caught up in controversy. Whether it be him being too touchy with an already-married older actress, or even being spotted on dates with multiple female idols. It’s your job to defend his already poor internet reputation. 

“Y/n~ c’mon now, one date is all I'm askin’! Throw me a bone here!” He pleads for the 5th time today. He was sure to be persistent after the many rejections before.

“Miya, how many times do I have to tell you no?” You sigh as you reject him once more to add onto the tally of 56 rejections over the course of a year. 

Sure he was attractive, what normal person would say no to a 6’1” professional volleyball player? Sadly you know firsthand about his player activities. You understand it though, a young early twenties male is bound to act like this. though the severity of actions vary on a case-to-case basis; he happens to be on the far end of the spectrum. 

“Besides, it’s unprofessional to have a relationship between the two of us. I’m your manager.” You explain to him hoping finally you’d be able to get the message through his thick skull.

“Professional or not, who cares! give me a chance to prove myself! C’mon I've been good recently, no contreveries!” He explains trying to persuade your thoughts.

“If you call being spotted with a married woman in a fancy restaurant ‘good behaviour’, I don’t know what to tell you.” You frown as you avert your eyes from him, back to your laptop, typing out a public apology for Atsumu’s recent events.

With a frown, he steps forward and closes your laptop whilst leaning over your desk. His figure obviously towering over your sitting self. 

“Enough of that, It wouldn’t be the same as those famous women who only want me to have an affair. It’s different with you.” He explains with sincerity as if this time he actually means what he says.

You look up at him with a smirk and now with crossing arms, leaning back on your office chair. “Oh really? Maybe when you give me an easier time with your little affairs, I’ll consider it.”

That's when his face lights up and puts on a stupid grin and leans in closer to your ear. i’m

 “Oh you bet.” He whispers seductively in your ear before pulling away and walking to the door of the office. 

“Well, see ya around Y/n, ya better hold up yer end of this.” He tells you before walking out of your office.

God this man. He's so… desperate for attention!

and I got this one boy, he won’t stop calling (kuroo tetsuro)

42 missed calls. Are you fucking kidding me? You had met this hot guy today at the cafe you work at, he was a tall man in a business suit, kind of built as you could see some of his triceps through the dress shirt, a really classy guy overall, though odd his hair didn’t match the aesthetic. You left your number on his cup just for the slight off chance he wasn’t in a relationship. Clearly, he’s not in one.

You decided to call him back, afterall you were busy with the cafe with the 8 hour shift you had just worked. Now lying on your stomach first, your leg hanging off the bed, you hit the call button.

“Hello?” a male voice says after only one ring. 

“Uhm, Hi. You left 42 calls on my phone.” You informed him as if he wasn’t already aware of what he did.

“Oh yeah, I did do that~” He teases through the phone. “So what’s your name, coffee girl?” 

“It’s L/N Y/N, and you?” You ask with a semi-interested tone returning the energy of his voice.

“I’m Kuroo Tetsuro. Y/n is a pretty name ya know” He flirts through the phone. 

You can just imagine his silly smirk, the same exact one as when he saw the cafe when he read your number, and then the “call me <3” written under it. 

“So I take it you’re not taken as you’re calling me” You suggest as you twirl your hair and kick your legs, god you feel like a teenage girl.

“Nah, I’m not taken. Haven’t really had a girlfriend before, closest was talking stages.” he explains you hear the ruffling of papers in the background. 

So that explains the 42 calls. Takes a man's guts to admit that.

“You don’t exactly know what you’re doing, don’t you~” You tease as you hear a sigh from the end of the phone.

“Well no- I do know what I’m doing! Just I wanted to get to know you- soon!” He fumbles words trying to explain himself which brings a laugh out of you.

“Suuuure…” 

There’s now a long awkward pause in the conversation. In which both of you don’t exactly know what to ask each other next.  

“Soo- Are you a full-time worker at that cafe?” He suddenly asks, speaking up to fill the silence.

“Well no, I’m still in college. I’m going there for an English degree. How about you? You seem like you got a pretty good job.” You explain, then follow up with a question about himself. 

“Well darling, I’m a sports promoter, specifically for volleyball. I work for the Japanese Volleyball Association.” He informs you with a proud tone. 

This does pique your interest, not every day do you meet a guy who works for a sporting association who happens to walk inside a hole-in-the-wall café.

“Well shit, that's cool! Did you play in high school or something?” You ask now, flipping over onto your back to a more comfortable position.

“I did- made it to nationals during my last year.” He answers with a cocky tone. There is more shuffling of papers in the background, maybe he’s still at work-

“Kuroo! We need the papers finalised by tonight!” A voice from the background of his end says with a very demanding tone. Causing him to groan into the phone.

“Well you certainly heard my boss…” He sighs. “Call you back cutie. We still need to finalise our date.” He tells you before hanging up the phone not even leaving time for you to respond to his statement.

“huh…? DATE?” You shout to the void that is your room. 

Man, this guy is confident. Both him personally, and you being too willing to give this man a chance. You know one thing though. You’re definitely going to come back to 42 calls again.

I'm working late bc I’m a singer (semi eita)

Oh, Semi Eita, the lead singer and guitarist of his little band. The foundation of what his band is about all stems from him. His rock style is unique, flashy if you call it. He always felt the need to stand out from others. You know that best as his significant other. Since high school, he’s always been a show-off or tried to be. Because of his show-off nature, he was benched on the volleyball team in his 3rd year. 

Now here he is, slumped over on his office desk at one in the damn morning, struggling to come up with meaning to his new song. 

“You know, Eita, This song must really got you stumped. You haven’t stayed up writing this late in forever.” You smirk leaning on the doorframe to his office. You both know that you’re right.

Eita usually has a set schedule; sleeps at 11 pm, unlike his teen days when he’ll pull all-nighters for fun. He sighs and turns his office chair around. 

“Well, I guess you can say that.” He replies as he tiredly smiles at you. 

You walk over to his desk, the wood planks creek in the silence of night, and lean over his shoulder to look at the song. 

“So what’s this song about?” You ask him while reading the lyrics. 

“A boy who fell in love with a girl and sees her with rose-tinted glasses.” He explains as he taps the pen on the paper every few seconds, clearly in thought.

“Well is she a good person, or a bad person.” You ask, sitting yourself at the corner of his desk. 

He sits at his desk long in thought. “That’s the thing. I don’t really know.” He admits and he runs a hand through his hair, the other hand twirling the pen around.

“Well when you think of this girl, who do you think of?” You ask him whilst  playing with the drawer of his desk that sits above you. 

as he sits there in thought, an idea suddenly pops into his head. There is one girl in particular that comes into his head.

“I think of you.” He lets out with a grin as he ruffles your hair, causing you to let put a laugh

“Me, huh? You really love me that much huh..?” You grin in response to his actions, with a proud tone of voice.

“I guess I do huh?” He smiles at your proud self. “I’ll write about you being the girl who I view in rose-tinted glasses,” He says as she writes down his ideas on the paper, making light scribble noises.

That's just when you get up and try dragging him away from the desk. 

“You know its bed time right?” You tease and you put him in a headlock and ruffle his hair.

“I’ll be there soon! Just, let me finish noting these ideas down!” He protests and he doesn’t look away from the page despite what you’re doing to him.

You sigh in response and let go of him. Walking to the door in the process. 

“Don’t stay up too late. We both know how grumpy you get without your beauty sleep.” You tell him in response to his protests. Finding a good opportunity to tease him in the process.

As you walk out of the room, all you can hear is a grumble in response. All for the fact he knows you’re right.

©miyamizuna 2024 do not repost

espresso is my spotify number 1 rn

[riahreadz]

Okay ideal Teen Wolf fanfic pack Take 2! 🎬 Sterek✨️

If Derek is Alpha, then obviously Stiles is Pack Mom and Alpha Mate.

All the good fics have Peter as a good little wolf or at least relatively good to the Hale Pack whilst protecting them doing some dirty work as the Left Hand. Peter and Stiles, as best friends, 🤌🏼✨️ is just t it's golden. Derek honestly gets scared when they team up - he knows it'll never end well, especially if Erica is involved. Peter supplies Stiles with all the family heirloom books and artifacts or from his own personal collections.

Stiles just has a habit of collecting Hales, first Derek, then Peter, Cora, and even Malia.

And in the rarity that I read a fic where Ell isn't Stiles's son well Stiles took one look at the kid (maybe before he even knew Eli was Derek's) and filed him under Lost (Hale) PuppyTM Derek is particularly fond of Stiles's seemingly sixth sense when it comes to protecting the Hales. Despite also yelling at the younger man who can't get it through his thick skull that putting himself in the line of danger won't help Derek losing him anymore than losing another Hale.

Somewhere along the way, Peter gets back together with Chris cause, yes, they dated as teens with an unfortunate near 20-year pause due to the Argent/Hale shit show extravaganza. They are raising their teen/young adult daughters Allison and Malia as sisters - bonus points if Jackson and Malia are twins.

Now I can't for some reason ever really see Allison and Isaac being romantically involved after her death and resurrection. Usually, Stiles figures some way to bring her back,and going forward, she gets back with Scott, Issac becomes dependent on Chris as a father figure, so Allison and Issac are just good friends once she's back. OR he sees Derek as a brother or father figure kinda situation being the Alpha that originally turned him, and skips over the emotional attachment to Chris all together.

Malia and Kira make for an interesting side ship that I never saw coming but a cute addition lol

Boyd and Erica are mates, obviously. Erica is a little shit just like Stiles and especially teaming up with Stiles, but Boyd balances her crazy. Crazy fun that iS.

I do love a good fic with Cora being involved. The dynamic of her and Derek finding their footing once again as siblings just makes me super emotional, okay? Plus, Cora and Isaac make for a good couple/mates.

Given that I love a good bad friend Scott fic, Isaac has pulled away from following Scott like a lost puppy. His lost puppy status belongs to Cora or Derek, depending on whose good side he's trying to get on that day. But back to Scott - his main roll usually is to tear down Stiles or attempt to anyway. Usually, Allison is there to gather his wits back together and reel him back into being a good friend. I'im game with a good redemption arc for him, but it ain't required.

Lydia and Stiles make a good team, and she makes a damn good motivational ass kicker when Stiles needs one, which is usually at least once in every fic, let's be honest. She's either with Jackson or just a bad ass that doesn't need a partner to ground her. Jackson is still an asshole - it's why we love him. But he and Stiles develop a pretty decent friendship when they bond over healing from losing control from the Kanima and Void. He'd kill to protect Stiles. They all would. He's with Lydia, Danny, or Ethan.

Now we can't forget Sheriff Stilinski, rather his name is Noah or John, he's a big player in this pack. Despite being only human, he has a lot of sway when it comes to this rag-tag group of puppies and puppy adjacents. Derek and him make for a good team in the fics. Derek is a deputy. Or just the Sheriff adopting Derek as an unofficial Stilinski once he realizes his son won't ever let go of the Hales but especially one Derek Hale - plus it's easier to expain to his across-the-street-neighbor that Derek is family rather than filter through the panicked 911 calls of astrange man in a black leather jacket climbing once again through his son's bedroom window. Cause the Hales don't know how to use front doors - a trait they passed along to the whole pack like a worst kept secret family tradition.

Oh, and it's recently been brought to my attention that the Sheriff is in a secret relationship with his deputy Jordan and eventually gets exposed by Stiles seeing them on a date. Bonus points if it turns into a double date. Didn't know I needed this one until I needed it. However, I'm down for seeing him with Melissa or even a thropple with Chris and Peter. If he's with Melissa, then Scott has to have a redemption arc, or he was the good best friend/step brother all along.

And last but certainly not least, Eli Hale or shall I say Eli Stilinski-Hale or Hale-Stilinski? Doesn't matter as long as we all can agree that Elis Stiles's son. l'm not picky on whether it's adoption, mpreg, or Stiles and Derek got together after Eliwas born. Stiles. Is. Eli's. Father.

If some of this seems repeated from my Steter Ideal Pack - well, that's cause it is, lol. I wrote this first but finished Steter before Sterek. I'll probably rewrite this cause it's rushed, but I need to get it out to link for my Secret Santa in the Sterek Exchange.

✋️🛑 Now, all of this is just my personal preference on fics I've read. A lot of these obviously stray from the actual character on the show but 🤷🏻‍♀️ show canon meet 🫱🏻‍🫲🏽 one person's fanfic canon. All respect and rights for the cast and crew in bringing these characters to life, though. Also, I'm not saying that I won't read fics that don't include this stuff - like I've mentioned just some stuff I've read over the years and liked. ✋️🛑

[amoristt]

trust i seek, and i find in you | alt finale

part 1 (x) . part 2 (x) part 3 (x)

「 ✦ seong gi-hun / reader ✦ 」

a/n: i had to make this im sorry i couldnt live w myself idc that its a weaker ending!!!!

original ending (x)

Rain poured dense and persistent from the angry sky above, thick clouds akin to raging plumes of smoke miles overheard. The dirt and gravel surrounding you resolved into slick mud under your dress shoes. Droplets of water gathered at the crown of your skull before cascading down the lines of your face, deepend with grief. Fat tears had long since begun to fall from your water lines and race down your cheeks, only hidden by the onslaught of heavy rain, a mirage that only bought you seconds before you would inevitably fall into Gi-hun’s arms blubbering like an inconsolable child. 

The game laid out before you both had already started but neither of you could bring yourselves to move. Just two players standing in static, unwilling. Gi-hun was, as always, as easy to read as a book. Every emotion that coursed through him was plain as day before you. His anger, his fear, his desolation all settled into the wrinkles of his frown, those puppy-dog like eyes downcast and swallowing you whole. You hated seeing him like that- broken. 

How could this be happening. 

Just the night before, in both of your monkey suits with full bellies and reeling from loss, he had said that he knew a way out of this. That since it was just the mere two of you left, he knew exactly how to make sure you’d both go home at the next game. He was confident, with a pipe dream in his eyes and a sense of bright urgency so determined that you couldn’t help but believe him too. You think you would have believed anything that passed his lips. Needed to believe that there was a light at the end of this dark, dark tunnel. He said that just like the first time you’d been chewed up and spat out by the games, you could both hold another vote to end the games and send you both packing. You could start your lives together having found something worth more than the weight of the gold the game makers had dangled just out of your grasp since day one.

Go on, and live for the ones who couldn’t. 

You sucked in every word he said. Leaned on it, depended on it, clung to it equally as desperate as you clung to his chest and buried your face in the scent of him. He said he would find you after you were both dropped off no matter what it took. He’d find you, and it would be the last time you were without each other. 

Clause three, He’d said, a dejection in his sorrowful voice. A majority vote will end the games.

It sounded too good to be true. And yet, you began to imagine it. You and Gi-hun. Life together outside the games, a life you wished you could have found years and years ago. Early mornings spent tangled together in bed sharing one lousy comforter. A dingy roof that always seemed to leak, floors that were always just a little too cold for comfort. Lights would flicker, your neighbors would be less than friendly. But you would be together. You’d patch the holes in the ceiling of whatever ramshackle shithole you’d both scrounged up the money for. He’d stand by the drafty windows and watch the world come to life in the early hours of the day, painted in the beautiful morning sun while you pretend to stay asleep just to drink in a few extra moments of his peace.

Eating dry ramen on a table made from a cardboard box. Sharing a bottle of Soju because you could only afford one. 

You’d work long hours day by day to afford what little you had, but then at the end of every shift your sore feet would wander you right back home and into his arms and it would all be worth it. Sore, tired, hungry. Loved.

It was a lovely mirage. It was everything you never knew you needed. You never needed money, or fancy things. All you needed was someone to push through life with you. Someone like Gi-hun, with his boyish smile and his dark curly hair and his gentle touches with even gentler words. Someone like him who made you feel as if the world wasn’t something to shy away from. Someone like him, whose eyes lit up whenever you were at his side. Someone worth going through the everythings with.

Even then, in the heavy absence of the other players who hadn’t gotten to make it as far as you had, he made you feel like in that moment everything was okay. There weren’t guards just outside waiting for the call to shoot you down. There weren’t mysterious figures and masked men watching every move and over joyously pitting you against one another. 

There was only him. 

Gi-hun had pulled you so close to his chest that you could feel the heat of him. You listened to the rhythmic beat of his heart and the hum of his soft breaths. You longed for the next chapter- the life outside of this that he swore up and down was within reach. 

Yes, you would both be painstakingly poor, but you’d also be richer than you could ever have imagined. 

There, together, money had become just a mere word.

When you were both escorted to the last game, you couldn’t help the way your nerves seized your heart up in the cage of your chest. Something felt wrong. Off. Difficult to wretch down as every step brought you closer and closer to the giant doors you remembered from the first game you played here. And even though Gi-hun squeezed your hand in his own, you couldn't bring yourself to return the sweet gesture he offered you. 

Sure enough, when the doors pulled open, it was that same field. The little girl statue stood looming in the distance. This time, however, something new caught your eyes. A white pattern on the ground- the unmistakable outline of Squid Game. It took your breath away.

A fight to the death. 

Gi-hun was quick to announce that he’d be drawing from clause 3 to end the games before they had even begun. He said it with confidence, without a single stutter or falter in his voice. Over the days, you’d noticed how much of a backbone he’d grown. You feel the opposite had happened to you, your soul crushing with the weight of the dead and your nerves threatening to choke you up at any given point. If not for Gi-hun you’d surely have crumbled into dust by now. He eyed the square guard as he spoke, demanding for the voting to commence. Once it did, you would both get to go home. 

”Player 456 wishes to stop the game,” He said into his walkie-talkie.

This would all just be a terrible memory behind you. You were ready to leave everything but him behind. 

So imagine the surprise when his request was denied. 

Imagine the dread, the pure and sheer defeat and rotten hopelessness that settled over your faces and into your guts like a pound of lead as the masked man spoke. 

“Your request was denied. The vote may not be held during the finale of the Games.”

Gi-hun, initially was at a loss for words, gaping at the guard with disdain and hatred in his eyes. If looks could kill, that masked man would have dropped dead right before him. You wished he would. 

You sputtered from where you stood, your head spinning faster than you could get a grip on. Those sweet and peaceful days you’d imagined with him shattered into nothing in an instant, the fragments running circles in your heads and taunting you. No mornings with him. No dinners. No drinks. No drafty window, no little shitty home that was rundown but still just perfect because it was yours. 

This couldn’t be happening.

“We won’t fight!” Gi-hun announced with grit teeth. His hands balled into tight fists at his sides. “We’ll just stay right here for as long as it takes!”

Without missing a beat, the masked man raised his hand. It was then you noticed he had some sort of remote, and with a single click, there was a great buzzer that sounded in the distance. Flashing lights gripped both of your attentions- the clock from the first game. In bold, striking letters, you saw the numbers flashing before your eyes. Your heart sank into your belly. 

5:00

Your mind could barely register the guards chatter behind you.

“If a player does not win before the countdown, both players will be eliminated.”

That was the moment the rain had first begun. Heavy droplets tapped away before it began to fall in raging streams. 

While you were busy spinning on your heel and pleading with the masked man to have a single shred of decency, of fucking humanity, Gi-hun’s eyes never left you. Memorizing you. Taking down every last detail before he would lose you. You swatted the guards chest and begged with desperate eyes and trembling hands. It didn’t even phase the man, who merely stood there unbothered. Only when your gaze singled with Gi-hun’s and you could see the way vain was written in those beautiful irises did you finally let your shoulders fall in defeated anguish. 

It was over. 

It was all over.

The timer began to count down.

There was no escaping this. You were both going to die here. 

Die, because there wasn’t a chance in hell you would even so much as raise your hand to that man. Nothing could force it from you- not even the always present threat of death hanging over your head closing in on you like walls. You couldn’t do it. Not to him. 

God, not to him. 

Judging by the way his eyes found yours, far away and crestfallen, you knew he was in the same boat. A sinking, drowning boat rocking in the sea of blood. 

But hey, at least you were in the boat. At least you got to be there together. Bearing the suffering and loss wrapped within the gift that was getting the blessing to know, and to love, Gi-hun.

An agonizing fate laid before the two of you, but you’d both accepted defeat before the game had even had a chance to begin. Your lives were laid down and bared, ready to go, only if together. The thought of him dying here struck you worse than your own untimely demise. He had a daughter he longed to see, a mother he wanted to take care of. You had nothing back home. No family. Not even a damn cat. And he was still willing to throw it all away for you. 

A part of you wishes you had brought the knife provided to you at your final supper. You could have plunged it into your neck by now, bled out and died content knowing that Gi-hun would get to continue life anew without the incessant burden of money. He could visit his daughter in America, he could go anywhere he pleased. He could pay for his mothers surgery and see out his days in the utmost comfort. He could leave this all behind.

Your friends wouldn’t have met their demise in vain.

But, you hadn’t brought it.

And neither had he. 

After your meals, when you’d both realized that there was a high chance the final game being a fight to the death, you left those knives abandoned at the table. A pre-refusal to fight. You didn’t give a damn about winning anymore. The prize had become nonexistent. Gone- fucking useless. Nothing more but fucking numbers- nothing compared to the sheer weight of his life. You’d gone through so much, swore up and down that it’d be you at that finish line and you’d go home with your head held high and proud for all to see. To prove to the fuckers back home that you were not the worthless, mooching brat they’d all made you out to be. 

The brat you'd turned yourself into.

Now, you would have given anything to go home with empty pockets and Gi-hun at your side. You truly had thought you would, too. 

All washed down the drain in the blink of an eye. 

You were a damn fool to ever think you could get out together. Of course this would be the end. Of fucking course. Either a final fight between found lovers, a spectacularly brutal scene indeed, or a quiet doom that would reach you within 4 minutes. 

So, you chose to wait. To let death come and find you wherever you may be. 

And it was an easy choice, especially so as he stood there watching you with those eyes. Because compared to him… Nothing else mattered. Absolutely nothing.

He called your name over the now deafening beat of rain. 

“I can’t-...” He’s struggling to speak, his lower lip quivers. It rips you to shreds. “I can’t hurt you.”

A response dies in your throat, caught by the lump you’re struggling to swallow down. You force it out regardless. “I know.”

His eyes fall. The weight of your fallen friends is unimaginably heavy on your shoulders. They’d all died, some so that you could be where you are now. And for what. To watch you throw in the towel from beyond the beyonds all because you found yourself in love with your competitor. To watch you throw it all away at the finish line because you loved him more than yourself.  

The clock ticks down. This is how you both die. When it reaches zero, shortly now, it would tick away at its last second and you would both be put down like miserable dogs. Really, the only comfort you could draw into yourself was thinking how you would find him in the afterlife. Drawn to him so intensely that you wouldn't be able to stay away even if you wanted to. Even if you tried. 

But that wasn't for another three minutes and thirty seconds. Until then, you wanted- no, needed to be near him. If this was truly the end, if you were to die, it would surely have to be in his arms. Your eternal resting place. 

He opens his mouth to speak, probably something so heart wrenchingly horrible that it would shatter you to pieces, but you stop him with a shaky, sad invitation.

“Could I have a second dance.”

Initially Gi-hun is stunned into silence. But then, that shocked expression melts away into a smile dripping in melancholy.  Downturned eyes. He tries to be happy for you but you can see it. The beautiful upturn to his lips that doesn’t quite reach his beautiful eyes. He reaches his hand out and beckons you. 

You all but throw yourself at him. 

Gi-hun grasps your hand gently, you move to him like a moth to flame. His fingers are soaked, yours are too, droplets racing down your wrist as he raises your knuckles to his lips and plants a chaste kiss right over bruises. So sweet, if not for the loaded gun mere feet away itching to toss led through your skin. Sweet if not for the whimpered cry that tears itself from your chapped lips when he brings his other hand up to graze the pads of his fingers down the curves of your face. Over your cheek bones, brushing sopping wet hair from your eyes. Your heart hurts- it aches. You feel like you’re being held up by strings, knees threatening to buckle at any moment now. 

Everything was all too much. It was too heartbreaking. Too bittersweet. Too intimate to display in front of whatever bastards were watching out of view. But yet, you sink into him like you’ve done it a hundred times before. It’s instinctual. You wrap your arm around his neck and squeeze his hand with the other. His eyes soften all over again and you feel tears stream down your cheeks. 

That hand gently tracing over your battered and bruised expression finds its way down to your shoulder, then takes its resting place on your hip. No words were needed this time. You’d remembered the dance down to the minute detail. Back, forward. If you weren’t in the final moments of your life, you’d be proud of yourself for being such a quick learner. Left, right.

Or at least praising Gi-hun for being such an excellent teacher. 

You move with him and let him guide you all over again. You feel the most subtle of tugs and then you’re turning with him, the mud beneath your shoes dragging as you go. He sways to a melody in his head, and this time, you can feel it as well. The gentle rhythm of push and pull. It entranced you. Everything faded into the endless sea of nothingness except for him. No games, no extravagant piggy bank overflowing with the spoils of blood money. Not even the square-faced guard’s looming presence just barely close enough to catch the corners of your eyes.

Just Gi-hun. 

It was almost like being there again- that night. You remembered the terror of watching over your friends while they slept, shaking in your shoes carefully to observe every last movement your field of vision allowed you to soak in. Bated breaths, a racing heart despite the silence. You remembered wondering if you would even survive that night after witnessing the sheer brutality of the evening before. You had wondered how ever survived anything at all. 

Gi-hun had pulled you from that haze of terror so effortlessly you didn’t even realize he’d done it until you were giggling and chatting away. There was something about him that you could never understand, something so unique that you couldn’t process yourself. His uncanny ability to make everything around you just… Vanish. And then you’d be at peace again, even for just that short while. Unafraid. Like death wasn’t waiting for you around every turn. 

You’d have given anything to go back to that now. You’d appreciate it more, let him spin you round and round until you were dizzy and drunk in his presence. Listen to him hum a tune that you couldn’t place and talk you to sleep with that tender voice. He was so full of life that it spilled over his cup and ran into yours. 

So full of life, yet so willing to throw it away if it meant you could carry on. Even now, at the end of the line he fought to climb, to make it to the top and to bring home riches for his family, to change the course of his life and finally do good for those who’d helped him along during his troubles, he wouldn’t finish it. Because that meant finishing you. 

And you did the same. Survived to the brink of winning only to discover that there was nothing worth more than this. More than him. 

How could this be the end? 

Haven't you given enough? Haven’t you both suffered enough? 

Were your lives just some long, cruel pranks played by a God with an abhorrent sense of humor? To throw you into the lion's den, to knock you down peg by peg until you believed the only way out was to kill or be killed, to dangle a prize dripping in blood just out of your reach. 

Even worse, to put this perfect man right in your path. An unmoving, unwavering road block that you couldn’t bear to hurdle over. You’d rather die.

And so, you would.

Gi-hun can see the way you start to choke back cries. Your steps are growing sloppy, your fingers are twisting in his shirt. 

“Look at me.” Rain and tears blur your vision, but you do. He sighs a breath of content. “Ah, there you are.”

He did it again- dragged you from the spiraling pits of your racing thoughts. 

The clock reads 1:00 in taunting LEDs. Time is running out- it’s almost up. Only one more minute with him. 

“Gi-hun,” You sniffle. “I can’t-”

He doesn’t let you speak, swiftly cuts off your incoherent cries by outstretching his arm and gently pushing you at the end of his reach. Before you know it, before you can register that your body is seemingly moving all on its own, you’re spinning. The world is a blur of grey and brown, and then you’re pulled right back into his arms.

He lets you shrink into him. Your chest stutters as you fail to hold back your sobs. 

He rests a hand on the back of your head, and lets you weep. Once the tears fall, really fall, they don’t stop. They faucet from your eyes and disappear into his sopping wet clothes in body wracking, chest heaving cries that almost seem to echo. Every noise you make seems to bounce right back into your ears and then you realize that Gi-hun’s crying too. He holds you so tight to him, so fervently that it almost forces the air from your lungs. Gripping onto you like if he lets up you’ll be gone by the time he could even open his eyes. 

You feel it to be true too, your hands gripping tight fists into the fabric of his shirt. You’d seen countless lives crumble to nothing at the drop of a dime- an entire life born, built and then erased in the blink of an eye. How were you ever supposed to let go of him?

By the time he’s just started to settle, you’re still shaking in your shoes, stuck in place and gripping him like a lifeline. He has to damn near pry you back just to get another good look at your face. Even though you’re sure that you’re red faced, snot nosed, and bleary eyed, he breathes out the softest sigh and the corners of his lip’s turn up to form a sullen smile. He tries to comfort you, wipe away at your tears, but between the rain and your incessant crying there isn’t much to be done. You’re babbling like an idiot, racing out anything you can think of. Desperate to fit it all in before it’s over.

Thank you for everything. You are perfect.

You are everything to me.

“I wanna go home,” You wail. “I want us to go home.”

Go-hun holds your face in his hands preciously. He pets his thumbs down your cheeks. Try as he might to comfort you, the timer settles on it’s final 20 seconds. 20 seconds to live. He shakes and presses his lips to your hair and breathes you in for what could be the last time. It hurts- you can’t breathe, you can’t think anymore. There isn’t enough time. It’s slipping through your fingers and you can’t catch it. 

You just want more time. 

“I love you.” 

He’s the first to say it. There’s tears rolling down his face but he still smiles for you. I love you too leaves your lips before you even have a chance to process it yourself. 

There’s an ear piercing buzz that cries over the sound of the thundering rain. 

0:00

No more time.

Gi-hun doesn't let you see anything. He shoves your face into his chest and buries you, surrounds you with himself as if it’ll stop the bullets from ripping through his wiry frame and slicing through you. Footsteps sound from somewhere you can’t place. Your lives are over. You’re going to die. The dirt shifts under the weight of them, stopping merely a foot away. You don’t get to see what’s going on- he refuses to let you face it. But the way his body tenses, his fingers grip into your skin, his breath pauses, tells you all that you need to know. It’s over. 

You wait, silent and trembling. Any moment and you’ll hear it- the shrill, air-slicing pop of the gun. You prayed it would be a quick death. You prayed there would be an afterlife at all. 

The only thing you can think of beyond Gi-hun’s arms is the selfish wish that you die first. 

But, it never comes. What does sound instead, is a muffled voice over a walkie talkie just quiet enough to be unintelligible over the sound of the rain. Seconds passed by- what the hell was going on?  Are you being lulled into confusion before you’re inevitably wiped out? You try to peek over Gi-hun’s shoulder to see just what in the hell is going on but he keeps you flush to his chest, unwilling to allow you to leave his cover. 

“What the hell is this?” Gi-hun demanded. The voice on the talkie continues to chirp.

”Yes, sir.” The guard suddenly says flatly, before he addresses you both equally as monotone. “Player’s 456 and 307. You are being offered a choice. If both players wish to end the game, you may do so now and forfeit.”

You wrench yourself from Gi-hun’s grasp to stare in bewilderment, but he’s quick to pull you to his side, desperate to keep his hands on you at all times. The guard stands unmoving, that square mask staring holes through you. This had to be a joke. A sick, fucked up joke where the moment hope is within your grasp your hands are chopped clean off. 

“Forfeit…?” You parrot with a wavering voice. You can’t let yourself hope. Not yet. 

The guard nods once. “Yes. You will receive no rewards.”

Gi-Hun swallows thickly. The rain continues to pour. He rubs circles into your shoulder with his thumb. He speaks slowly, unsure, damn confused just as you were. “But we both leave?”

Another nod. “Correct.”

Your heart rate explodes into a race, pumping fiery hot blood through your entire body. You could go home. You could both go home. Gi-hun is immediately in front of you, grasping your shoulders with each hand, capturing your attention in one movement. You reach out and hold his face. You’re floundering in a whirlwind of emotions but one stands miles above all the rest- hope. Real hope- hope that makes you feel weak in the knees and has you buzzing inside and out. You aren’t sure what the change was- why you were suddenly being offered an out, but you jump on the chance in fear it would disappear. 

“I vote to end the game!” You cry. 

Gi-hun’s lips press into a tight line but you can see the way relief floods him as if there was ever a chance in hell you’d say anything else. He smiles- grins and the corners of his eyes crinkle with joy. 

“I also vote to end the games.” 

”Both players have forfeited.” The guard speaks into his walkie-talkie. 

A voice answers back but you can’t be fucked to give a shit enough to listen, too focused on the way Gi-hun’s smile is finally reaching his eyes again. Real happiness, drinking in the toothy boyish grin that you’ve come to adore with every fiber of your entire being, and it reminds you how you never knew you could feel so much for a singular person. 

“Yes sir.” The guard pockets his walkie-talkie and holds his gun close to his chest, taking a step away from the two of you and using his hand to direct you towards the doors you’d both come wavering out of merely minutes ago. 

Your heart is beating so quickly you fear it may burst from your chest at any moment, and even as the guard began to escort you both inside, you still have this gnawing feeling that this was too good to be true. That any moment now you would be sent hurtling back into devastation. You look back at the field one last time. You aren't sure why. You see the Squid Game laid out, the battlefield where you were expected to kill him, your Gi-hun. Where he was expected to kill you. You see the statue of the little girl standing at the end of the field. A gruesome reminder of where you’d started and where you were now.

Along the walls, just as the doors shut and block your vision, you swear you see something almost glistening, like glass. Like a window overlooking the field. But then Gi-hun is tugging you against his side and once more everything was nonexistent but him. 

Don't look back.

There is an entire life ahead of you.

“Let’s go,” Gi-hun whispers as he wraps an arm around your shoulder. “Let’s go home together.” 

It isn’t until you’re inside and those hulking doors slam shut does it finally sink in that you’re really going home- that both of you get to leave here with your lives. Tears well up in your eyes, make it hard to see as you stumble along, but Gi-hun holds you so right that it keeps you upright and walking at his side. He’d carry you if he had to, you were sure. You were sure he’d do anything for you.

And you’d do the same. 

You'd been pulled from the fire.

You can see it clearly all over again. Lazy mornings in bed, sharing every meal. One bedroom apartments and plants lined up along tiny little windows. A long life of making ends meet but doing it with him. 

You reach up to squeeze his hand, a smile finally gracing you. 

“Together.” 

[chamomiletealeaf]

Sweet as Pie

Chapter 5

Warnings: mommy kink, praise kink, sex muahahaha, slight drinking, tooth rotting sweetness tbh

About a month has gone by filled with walks, long talks, laughs, and delicious dinners between you and Simon. You cooked for him every time you were both home at the same time and even went food shopping together once. Spending time together became a habit, and you two started to have withdrawals from each other when you spent a few days apart. But, even away from each other, there was always something there to remind one of the other.

For you, little jars of honey at the supermarket or in your home, honey bees, and anything with a cute little skull or ghost reminded you of Simon. He told you about his time in the military as well as his counter, Ghost. And the bees and honey reminded you of his eyes, since you always thought they were the same color. Little did he know, that's why you always called him honey in the first place.

For Simon, his reminder of you was any type of pie, since you were just as sweet as one. Peaches reminded him of you as well because it was the scent of your shampoo and was the first pie you ever made him. Anything even remotely sweet reminded him of you too. But what reminded him of you the most, was the unexpected sight he saw in the mirror.

"What the-" Simon said as he was getting dressed after his morning shower. He looked in his mirror as he tried to pull his sweatpants up, fitting a bit tighter than they normally did. He untied the drawstring and stretched out the waistband so the pants would sit comfortably around his hips, which he never had to do before. Before he put his shirt on, he looked in the mirror again at his figure in confusion.

Why did everything feel tighter all of a sudden? He thought.

As Simon stared at himself in his body length mirror, he noticed a soft layer of fat pillowing his thick muscles. His muscles were still incredibly defined, but just the tiniest bit softer. His thighs, arms, and ass were definitely thicker, but what he noticed most of all, was the slight softness of his tummy and the little pudge that came with it.

That definitely was not there before. He thought as he turned in the mirror, making sure he was seeing this correctly, a confused and disbelieving expression on his face.

But then, he thought about all the food you have so kindly made for him and put all of your love into. And damn was it good.

The weight he was gaining was healthy. It showed him that he was finally relaxing, and it reminded him of the affection and care you showed him. Simon was finally learning to enjoy life, all thanks to you.

His shocked expression then softened into a smile.

Then, he remembered that he was supposed to go over for some drinks with you tonight, and his smile grew even bigger. Maybe he would get a chance to do something nice for you in return.

You spent the day preparing for the evening, doing everything you could to make the time pass in anticipation. You loved spending time with Simon, and every time you two saw each other, the stars shined brighter that night.

You asked him to come over for some drinks tonight, so you went out to get something he would like. He mentioned he liked bourbon, but you wanted to try something different with him tonight.

So, after standing in the liquor aisle of the tiny local store nearby for what felt like hours, you finally chose something. It was classic, yet rugged like him. You picked up the bottle and smiled down at it noting the liquid's honey hue that was the exact same as Simon's eyes, and placed it in your basket with the label facing up that read:

Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey

-

As the night fell, and you prepared your house for Simon's company, you found yourself getting even more giddy with every passing second.

You set out the glasses on the living room coffee table, had your record player out, turned on the fairy lights decorating the walls of the room, had a fire burning in the fire place, and even made a cute little platter of fruit and crackers as a little snack in case Simon got hungry.

Meanwhile, Simon spent the day thinking of what to bring you. He knew nothing would make up for the hospitality and kindness you've shown him. But he tried anyway.

Simon was never affectionate. He never had time to feel. But you were different. You made him want to catch every star from your favorite constellation and place them in a jar for you to put by your bedside to look at every night before you went to sleep, lighting up your room the way you lit up his heart.

But alas, he didn't exactly have the equipment for that right now. Maybe a quick call to Price and he'd be better equipped. But for now, he settled with a bouquet of the prettiest flowers he could find consisting of Azaleas, Magnolias, and even Cornflowers walking around the little town in Georgia you both called home.

When the time finally came, after sitting around his house checking the clock every five minutes, Simon gathered the flowers and made his way to your house.

As you stood standing in your living room, staring at your records, trying to decide what to play, the knocking of your front door caused you to gasp, snapping you out of your deep thought.

You placed the albums down and scurried over to the door with a smile, and opened it to Simon returning the same smile.

"Hi hun" You said with a giggle.

"Hi." He said back softly.

You glanced down at the flowers in his hands, wild, messy, and organic, and he held them out to you.

"Oh here. I got these for you. Sorry, they're kinda wild looking but-"

"I love them." You cut him off.

"Oh Simon they're absolutely gorgeous!" You smile impossibly bigger as you reach for them, brushing your fingers over his.

"Come on in! I got somethin' special for you." You say.

"Ah love you always have something special for me." He says in response. "Feel bad I can never pay you back."

"Oh hush with all that." You scold, as you guide him into the house and close the door behind him. "All you gotta do for me sugar is keep me company and eat all that damn food I can't stop cookin'." You joke.

"Speakin' of which, I made a little plate of snacks if you get hungry." You guide him into the living room, showing him the platter you made before you leave him to get a vase in the kitchen for your flowers.

Simon stands, looking around the living room slowly, taking in the ambiance of it. It was so nice, unlike anything he's every seen or felt before. It was just so domestic and cozy.

The warm, soft light of the fairy lights, the glow of the fire, the record player and records that have clearly been used multiple times, the two glasses set out, the worn in couch, everything was so charming and it overwhelmed Simon.

You come back into the living room with a vase filled with water and the flowers he brought you, and you placed them in the middle of the coffee table.

"Oh now isn't that lovely." You say, admiring the colors of the flowers and how they light up the dim room. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Simon says back.

"You like Chris Stapleton?" You ask him, walking over to your record player, picking up the records sat atop of it that you abandoned mere minutes ago.

"Who?" He asks, and you turn to him mouth agape.

"What do you mean who?" You say, with a fake accusatory tone. "One of the best country voices out there baby."

You take out the record from Chris Stapleton's "Traveller" album and place it in the player. And after a few seconds, the first song begins to play, livening up the room that much more.

Then, you turn to Simon sitting on the couch, and see the two glasses on the table.

"Oh! I almost forgot! I gotta show you what I got today." You leave him again on the couch for the kitchen.

Simon laughs to himself, loving how you could never stay still. You were always bouncing from one place to another, eager to show him everything you wanted in the shortest amount of time as if he would run away if you took too long. But Simon would never leave you, not even if you took days.

"So I went out today to find us a nice lil' drink for tonight, and I thought we could try this. I've never had it before, and hopefully you'll like it. I know you like Bourbon but..." You hold the bottle of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey out and Simon smiles at how cute you are, presenting him the bottle like it's your most prized possession.

You sit next to him on the couch and go to open the bottle. You struggle a bit and Simon gently and slowly takes it from your hands, silently asking you to let him do it. You've done so much for him already.

"It's a classic. I'm sure I'll enjoy it. Thank you y/n." He says as he pours the honey colored liquid into the glasses.

You both clank your glasses together as a little "cheers" and take a sip.

"Mm. Damn that's better than I thought." You say, licking your lips and looking at Simon to get his opinion.

"Not bad. Who'd've thought I'd enjoy Whiskey." He smirks at you, and you giggle, relieved he enjoys it.

"I picked it out because it reminded me of the color of your eyes. It's an exact match." You state matter-of-factly, taking another sip.

Simon perks up a bit and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, shocked that you even noticed the color of his eyes.

"R-really? You think so?" He asks taken aback by your statement.

"Yeah. They're both a deep, rich, honey color. That's actually why I call you honey sometimes. It's my favorite nickname for you."

You may have only taken two sips of the whiskey, but you spoke so truthfully and bluntly it seemed like you'd had 20.

"They're just brown." He mumbles, trying to hide his blush by taking a sip from the glass, hoping you'll think it's from the alcohol.

"No." You say, reaching your hand under his chin to tilt his face back up towards you, letting the fairy lights light up his eyes so you can get a better look. "They're definitely honey colored... honey." You tease him, and try to repress a smirk that creeps it's way onto your face anyway.

Simon's eyes widen and his lips separate slightly as his breath hitches at your assertiveness and touch.

Then, as you two stay in that position for a moment, you hear the intro to the third song on the record, which happens to be titled "Tennessee Whiskey", and is your favorite song on the album.

You gasp and look at the record player.

"Oh this one's my favorite! C'mon dance with me." You exclaim, setting your drink down and pulling him up with you, making him place drink down as well to not spill it.

"Hey! We're drinking Tennessee Whiskey just like the song says!" You giggle, giddy at the coincidence as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

"I- I don't know how to dance." Simon says, standing still with his arms at his side while you sway with your arms around his shoulders.

"Neither do I." You comfort him. "Just sway, like this." You pick up his hands and place them on your waist, and he lets you. You two sway to the music playing while you hum along, and Simon's hands drop lower to rest on your hips.

You smile at him. "See, not too bad is it?" You tease.

Simon smiles back down at you, following your rhythm, hands still firmly resting on your hips, not daring to move any lower. The warm light of the fire and fairy lights illuminate Simon's eyes and emphasize the dip of his cheekbones and shading of the curve of his nose, and you smile to yourself at the confirmation that Simon's eyes, were in fact, the exact color of honey and Tennessee Whiskey.

Simon looks down at you, admiring the curve of your smile and how it crinkles your eyes, and how cute your soft humming of the melody is. You just felt so right in his hands.

Then, after a few moments of syncing your sways with each other, Simon grabs your hand and twirls you around, making you giggle.

But as you twirl around, you notice a cowboy hat hanging on a coat hanger by the door. It was an old one you really only had for decoration, but you thought Simon would look cute in it.

You grab Simon's hands off your hips and you smile at him, stepping away towards the door.

"Where you going? He asks softly, slight panic on his face as if he'd done something wrong.

You giggle again, and pick up the cowboy hat hanging by the door and hold it up, letting him see.

You walk towards him with it, and when you get close enough, right below his chin, you place it on his head with a chuckle.

"Oh god." Simon laughs, dipping his head down and his confused and worried look turned into one of humor.

"What? You look cute." You say smiling up at him as you place your hands back around his shoulders.

Simon brings his hands back to your hips, pulling you a little closer.

"Well, I think it would look cuter on you." He says, and picks the hat up off his head and places it on yours.

You gasp, looking up at him with wide eyes, then you pressed your lips together to hide a smile.

"I was right, you look cuter in it than I do.... What's that look for?" He asks.

You press your chest up against his as you lean your mouth up to his ear, both of your swaying never stopping.

"You know what the cowboy hat rule is?" You whisper to him with a smirk.

"No?" He asks confused, eyebrows furrowing as he waits for you to explain.

"You see." You giggle. "You wear a cowboy's hat, you gotta ride the cowboy." You say softly in his ear, biting your lip to suppress the smile that won't seem to go away. "And you, sugar bear, just placed yours right on my head."

You and Simon both stop swaying and look at each other. You look up at him and he looks down at you, his cheeks flushing pink and his hands never leaving your hips.

He looks down at you with wide eyes, then down to your lips, and you do the same.

Then he's pressing his lips onto yours. His hands squeeze your hips and you wrap your arms tighter around his shoulders.

You both kiss each other in the light of the fire right in the middle of your living room. It all felt so perfect.

You then take your hands and place them on the sides of his face as you both pull away for air. You lightly rub your thumbs over his blushing cheeks and he doesn't move. You stare at each other in disbelief of what just happened, but then this time, you both go back in for another kiss.

It's even more heated this time as you walk Simon back towards the couch, his tongue making its way into your mouth.

The kiss is messy and slow, filled with lust and all that pent up pining finally being released.

You take off the cowboy hat and place it next to the both of you on the couch, breaking the kiss only to gently push Simon's chest to sit. You straddle his waist and place your hands on his chest, moving in to kiss him again, just as messy and slow as before. He runs his hands up and down from your waist to your hips, then he stays there, gripping them tight as you softly grind down on him.

"Fuck." Simon whispers breathlessly. He's only ever dreamed of this moment for so long.

You run your hands up his chest to cup his face again.

"Such a pretty boy." You coo at him, then kiss him again.

Simon whines into your mouth at the praise, letting himself fall apart in your hands.

"Please." Simon whimpers.

"Please what honey?"

"Please... been waiting for this for so long. Please... ride me."

You smile against his lips, your hands still holding his face.

"Well, we wouldn't want to break the cowboy hat rule now would we?" You tease him as one hand slowly drags down from his face, all the way down to his belt.

You undo Simon's belt with one hand and reach it in his jeans to stroke him, earning a whimper from him as he bucks his hips up into your hand.

"Yeah, like that baby? How's that feel?" You coo in his ear as you nuzzle your face into his neck.

"Fuck mama, please, keep doing that." Simon drops his head back against the couch as you continue to tease him in his jeans.

You pull your face away from his neck to look at him, realizing what he called you.

"Mama?" You ask him with a smirk on your face, slowing your hand a bit.

Simon realizes what he said and his eyes widen in embarrassment as he lifts his head back up to look at you.

"Oh- fuck- sorry. It just slipped out-"

"Say it again." You demand placing your forehead on his, the hand around his leaking cock jerking him off faster, causing his precum to leak through his boxers.

Simon moans and his mouth drops open.

"Fuck- just like that mama, please." He whines.

"Aw good boy." You praise him, making his cock throb in your hand.

"Need you." He whispers, squeezing your hips again and you smile at him.

You take your hand out of his pants and move both of them to the hem of your sundress. You slowly pull your dress over your head, making a show out of it for him.

You sit straddling him, now in just a pair of cute powder blue panties, and you threw your dress to the side.

"Fuck love, you're perfect." Simon says breathlessly, moving his hands to grab at your tits.

He rubs a thumb over your nipple and you moan in response, lightly wrapping your hands around his wrists. You then bring one of his hands up to your mouth and suck on his thumb, which makes his hips buck up into you again.

You giggle at his sensitivity and eagerness and reach for the hem of his shirt, which he then quickly pulls off, revealing his broad, scarred chest.

You take a second to admire him with a soft smile on your face, then your hands move to the waistband of his open pants.

"Hips up baby." You say, and he obliges, allowing you to pull down his boxers and jeans until they fall around his ankles, which he then kicks off to the side with your dress.

"Can I take these off? Please?" He asks you with the cutest puppy eyes as he toys with the waistband of your panties.

"Well, since you asked so nicely sugar." You say, and he wastes no time tearing them off of your thighs.

"Need to feel you." Simon whines, pulling you by the hips to try and get you to grind against his painfully hard cock.

You lift your hips up to hover over his leaking cock as you place one hand under his chin and the other on his chest.

"And how do we ask baby?" You ask, titling your head to the side.

"Please mommy. Fuck me." He begs, close to tears from frustration and pure lust.

You then place both hands back against his chest and sink down onto him, making his head lull back as he chokes out a moan and grips your hips impossibly harder. You swear there will be bruises in the shape of his fingers there tomorrow, but you don't mind at all.

You move slowly, up and down, and back and forth, making Simon a panting mess underneath you.

"Been wanting this since the first time I saw you." Simon admits as you pick up your pace, "seeing you all pretty and smiley all the time. God fuck you're so tight. Squeezing me so good."

You moan as his thick cock stretches you out, hitting just the right spot inside you.

"Fuck baby- mm-" You moan and place your forehead against his again. "So pretty for me, letting me ride you. Sitting there and takin' it like a good boy. Been waiting for this too. Always eatin' everything I cook up for you with such a pretty lil' smile."

Your praise makes Simon's hips twitch, and he's fucking up into you now, meeting you halfway as you drop your hips up and down. He picks up the pace and now you have to catch up.

"Call me that again. Call me your good boy. Call me honey. Love when you're so nice to me." Simon babbles, his voice trembling as if he's about to cry, still bouncing you on his cock.

"Aww sweetheart I could never be mean to you. Ah- fuck- Such a good boy deserves to be treated like the sweetest pie hm? Deserves to get eaten up and fucked nice and good till he's dumb." You say, bringing a hand up to squeeze his cheeks.

Simon whimpers at your words and furrows his brows. No one has ever been so sweet to him, let alone fuck him so good.

"You gonna cum for me honey?" You coo at him, his lower tummy rubbing against your clit as you ride him, making your orgasm approach as well.

He nods with his face still held in your hands, cheeks all squished and flushed pink, his whiskey-colored eyes teary with pleasure.

His hips smack up into you from beneath, bouncing you on him. You let him fuck up into you but keep control while you continue to ride him as he does so, and it feels so good.

"Come on do it. Cum for me sugar." You say, both of your hips stuttering and your paces get sloppier. You're both panting messes as you bask in each other.

"Fuck mama, gonna cum. Oh fuck gonna cum mommy. Let me cum inside, please." He leans forward and nuzzles his face into your neck while pawing at your hips.

"Do it baby." You say, feeling yourself start to flutter around him as you feel that familiar warmth start to brew low in your belly.

And with that, you feel Simon cum inside you with a sob. You feel his thick, warm cum fill you up and you cum at the same time. You throw your head back as you pulsate around him, squeezing and releasing him with your walls as you feel yourself gush, warm tingles running through your body.

You both come down from your orgasms panting and moaning, one of your hands tangled in Simon's hair, keeping his face nuzzled into your neck.

He thrusts shallowly a few more times and then leans back to look at you, his cock still inside you.

His cheeks are still flushed the prettiest pink and you reach your hand out to his face to wipe away stray tears of pleasure that escaped their way out of his eyes.

He couldn't help but let his emotions take over him. How could he contain himself when everything he's ever needed and wanted was given to him all in the same night?

He places his forehead against yours once again wrapping his arms around your waist while you wrap yours around his shoulders.

As you both catch your breath, you both let out breathy laughs in realization of what just happened.

"Stay the night." You whisper to him.

"Love, I'd stay forever if you asked."

Taglist: @pussypinkbarbie @thatonepupkai @confuseddipshit

[flor4de4amor]

𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤

click for palestine | read before engaging w my work+acc

warnings: smoking, drinking, party setting

summary: you’re the basketball manager of abby’s team. you hate her, and for why? she can’t help but notice you’re at the same party as her.

She’s a tough player. She bleeds stark crimson, screams confidence, and demands respect on the court. She owns the court and the crowd. As captain of the team and star player, she constantly has girls throwing themselves at her.

“Abby can you sign my tits?”

“Abby can I take a picture with you?” 

“Abby will you go out with me?”

Abby. Abby. Abby.

While, it’s an ego boost, huge, ego boost, she can’t lie and say it doesn’t get boring. Which is why, she absolutely adores you. Team manager, pain in her ass, and absolutely gorgeous. 

Always rolling your eyes at her, cutting her off when she speaks, “forgetting” to film her for the team’s social media. You work overtime to stay out of her way, but that only riles her up more. 

Now she’s got to piss you off. Get in the way of your shots of video, flipping off the camera in group pictures so now they’re totally useless, causing problems so you get in trouble. God, you’re so uptight. Can’t you learn how to have a bit of fun? Fucking stick up your ass. A good time has never hurt anyone.You’re the only one who gets her acting this way. Before you started the Anderson smear campaign, she was a dictator of a captain.

So imagine her surprise, when she sees Little Miss. Prissy at the latest frat party. Miss. Stick Up Her Ass, has quite the tolerance it seems, as she admires you smoking a thick blunt coaxed with a solo cup. She sucks her teeth, closes her hand into a fist, and runs over her knuckles with her thumb. Ms. Perfect, isn’t so perfect after all. 

She can’t help herself. She starts walking towards you, with that stupid smile on her face. “Hey L/N,” she says, looking you up and down. You look upwards at her, glancing away from your phone, and rolling your eyes. You grunt in response and offer a sarcastic smile for supplement. “You really gonna be that way?” She raises her eyebrow and presses her tongue against the side of her cheek.

You gulp down the remainder of your drink, and place the empty cup in her hand. “Yes, I’m gonna be that way with you Abby.” Bitterness is laced throughout your voice. 

She grimaces, though there’s no threat in the sound. “Fuck I ever did to you huh?” She questions, leaning into your frame. It’s too loud in here. Mo Mamba is playing for the eightieth time. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to get in your personal space.  Abby discards the plastic cup while speaking, aimlessly throwing it on the floor. If she had been trying, she probably would’ve landed directly in the trash can. Well, if the hosts had half a brain to even set up a trashcan in this stupid trap house.

You lean further back and fail. The back of your skull hits the dry wood with a soft thump. Abby’s cornered you against the wall. “Nothing.” You sigh. Alcohol glued to your breath. Eyes red and lidded, your lips jutted slightly. You’re too pretty to hate her. It’s a crime!  

“Nothing yeah?” She steals the blunt from your hands, holding it between her thick fingers. “So what’s your fucking issue with me?” She holds the drug to her lips, her arms still boxing you close to her frame.

You look her up and down. “I’m a mandated reporter y’know. I’ve gotta tell Coach you’re smoking.” 

She laughs heartily. Her breath fans against your face, and you smell the Fireball on it. “I get someone else to take my drug test for me, anyway.” She winks at you. You’re attempted to cringe, but maybe it’s the lack of space or your intoxication but you feel heat rushing to your face.

You’re complied to roll your eyes at her comment. “I also have to report that.”

She smiles, licking her lips. “Let me know when you send in the complaint.” The blunt still dangles from her hands and lingers on her lips.  

“Let me know when you’re gonna take a hint and stop teasing me.” You regret the words out of your mouth as soon as you say them. 

She inhales, ghosting impressively. “You wanna be teased?” Her smirk growing, “I’ll show you teasing. Anytime. Just say when L/N.” 

You laugh, tossing your head back, carefully so you don’t hit the wall again. “You’re so not my type,” you state firmly.

“That’s what they all say,” she takes another hit, now blowing rings.

You take the blunt once it leaves her lips. Snatching it from her fingers and capturing it within your own. “You’re being greedy.” You take a large inhale, holding for a minute. Once exhaling, you blow the smoke in her face.

She feigns a pout. You smile and take another inhale. But once ready to breathe out, Abby closes into your face, parting her lips. She gladly inhales your exhale. “That was practically a kiss.” 

“Gross,” you retort, but the smile on your face betrays you. 

“Gross yeah?” She wets her lips, staring heavily at yours.  You nod intensely. Your eyes find their way to her pink lips. “Hm, I’ll show you gross.” She kisses you, softly at first. When you don’t fight her, and in fact moan, she slips her tongue into your wet mouth. You follow suit. Her hand finds its way to your hair. She pulls away, a string of saliva connecting the two of you. “Thought you said I was gross?”

“Cause you are,” you say attempting to keep up your facade. 

“I’ll show you how gross I can really be,” her hand coming up to your face, smushing it. 

You swat away her hand, killing your soul a little in the process. “Absolutely not,” you reply without a hint of conviction in your voice. 

“Our secret hm?” 

When she says it like that who’re you to deny? “Fine. But don’t let me end up on the long list of names of girls you fucked.” You toss your blunt into one of the forgotten drinks. 

She pinches your ass, hand finding its way to your waist, leading you out the door. It’s gonna be a long night and embarrassing practice run on Monday.

divider by: @dollywons

[soysaurus]

Jason remembers standing by the edge of the field, right outside the fence, as the hockey ball shot across water-based green. Dick Grayson, the only surviving Flying Grayson, swam through the air. His movements were sharp but fluid, the perfect centre midfield that transitioned seamlessly between those pushing the game forward and the defenders growling at the back. Back then, Jason was thirteen. He'd never played hockey before but Bruce said he would. He said Jason was born for it. He said a lot of things, a lot of half-promises that would never be fulfilled. They made Jason smile nonetheless.

Maybe he was just smiling because Bruce owned the pitch.

Jason was fifteen when he joined the Titans—a rough team full of the best of the best. Wally West was a bolt of lightning on the left side of the field, and Donna scared even the strongest of strikers as she charged through short corners, no fear, mask or no mask.

But then there was Roy Harper—Speedy, Jason heard Dick call. If anyone was born for hockey, it was him. He didn't have the thick thighs of most defenders, but when he set his eye to the ball, he never missed. He was a support player, hovering in the background, but Jason couldn't keep his eyes off him. Every time the ball swung back, Roy swooped it up and ricocheted it to the front. Wally was one of the only people who could keep up with him, picking the ball up and guiding it through the goal before Jason could breathe.

Jason was only fifteen, only been playing for two years and leagues behind the likes of Nightwing and Batman. But he was Robin. And Robins were made to fly.

Like the final whistle, the world fell apart. The Titans crumbled: Roy Harper left, Jason disappeared, and Dick grew up.

Jason is twenty-seven now. He's clawed his way from the ground up, dirt and sand gritted against his stick. He's taller than Dick, taller than he even remembers Roy being.

His Red Hood is strong and still, a bleeding stain that marks every pitch he's hit a ball on. He's not a striker, but every striker that sees him shivers. Their knees quake. Jason's thighs are big enough to crush their skulls between his muscles, and they know it. All good defenders glare with just the right spark.

And all good defenders need equally as good teammates supporting their plays. When Jason hears the name ‘Harper’, he runs.

He meets a little girl instead.

“This is Lian,” Artemis, right midfield, says. She claps a strong hand on the kid's shoulder.

She has freckles like someone Jason knows, freckles he can't quite place. She sticks her hand out. It reminds him of something.

“Hi,” she starts like they've seen each other before. “My dad said you became one of the best hockey players after only starting learning at thirteen.” She holds up a stick, a red, orange, and black stick. There's a stripe—pointed, sharp, like an arrow—in it, and a feather. “Teach me.”

Jason doesn't know who this kid is, but the green of her eyes makes him say, “Okay.”

The Outlaws have gained a new member.

[nevadancitizen]

-> SEEING DOUBLE

synopsis: könig thought he was the only one that could hear and see you for a while. that is, until horangi mentions someone singing.

word count: 1.8k

characters: könig, horangi, player! reader, reader's unnamed friend

trigger warnings: mention of canon-typical violence, mentions of/thoughts of relapse (horangi’s past gambling addiction), hornagi is like obsessive too lololol (also forgot to add STILL insp. by/referencing @simp4konig 's self-aware könig piece)

notes: uh pov switches from omnipotent third-person könig to omnipotent third-person hornagi. oops lol also the temp. is in fahrenheit in celsius it would be ~26 degrees

König thought he was the only one for a long while. All these operators around him were only given minds through their code and pixels – König was the one with an actual brain in his skull. 

That was, until another operator heard you. 

You – and, someone else, maybe a friend from your world? – were singing along to some song unknown to König, mumbling the parts you didn’t know so well and bursting with energy at the parts you knew by heart.

König was waiting for the mission time to arrive in the armory, quietly listening to you and your friend. He felt some warmth from you – a small percent of what you’re capable of making him feel. Just enough to know you’re there, that you have eyes on him, to know the singing isn’t a delusion.

Horangi was also in the armory, his footsteps light as he peruses the wall of firearms. He plucks a Fennec 45 from the wall before turning it over in his hands and inspecting it – though he seems distracted while doing so. 

He turns to König and adjusts his sunglasses. “Do you hear that?”

König looks up from the stray skid mark on the floor he was looking at. “Hear what?”

“The…” Horangi gestures vaguely around him, then taps his earpiece. His voice drops to a lower volume, like he didn’t want anyone else hearing. “The singing. Do you not hear that?”

König stays silent for a moment. He checks over his shoulder to make sure no one else is in the armory before turning back to Horangi. “I hear it.”

Horangi breathes a sigh of relief, but doesn’t say anything else. He settles his ass on one of the thick, plastic ammo crates, fiddling with the Fennec 45, repeatedly pressing the magazine release before pushing the magazine back in. 

The singing stops, leaving only the music playing. Then, a voice is heard – “I’ve never seen Horangi do that. What is he, nervous?” 

And then, your voice – “Hey, don’t bully him!”

Horangi’s back snaps straight up as he looks around the armory. “What was that? Is someone else in here?”

König pulls at his hood so he can see Horangi better. “You’re really hearing them?”

“Yes.” Horangi looks at König. “Where are they?”

König shakes his head. “It’s best if we discuss this later.” In reality, König was dying to discuss this with another person – it was as if this heavy burden had been lifted now that he could talk to someone about you, about this video game they lived in, about everything while actually having something to back him up. 

Only a few seconds later, the siren sounds and it’s go time. Footsteps hit the ground and operators rush to the rooftops to be taken away to the hot zone. 

When both Horangi and König are secured on the helicopter, they don’t talk for a while, only sharing occasional glances (silent promises that no, the other is not insane, and no, this is not the start of a mass hysteria outbreak).

When boots hit the ground, König feels that oh-so-familiar warmth flood his body, blooming like a lotus from his chest to his limbs. He nods to Horangi to stick close. 

The music was turned down and all focus was on the battlefield – your silent guidance gave König commands to carry out, while your friend did the same with Horangi. 

Commands are barked out by the operators, you and your friend give excited praise, and the battlefield is a mess of noise. Bullets fly every which direction, sprays of brrrrrr-AT! echo off the abandoned buildings, some of which were still in the process of being built. 

This is urban warfare. 

As a SpecGru operator turns the corner, König pulls Horangi back behind a concrete half-wall (half because the rest of the wall had been sloughed off by explosions). To König, the touch is nothing, but to Horangi? Oh, that touch felt like bliss. 

It was you, striking a match and tossing it into the full burning barrel that was his lungs. Horangi pumped air into them like he was having a goddamn panic attack so that when his lungs caught fire, the rest of him did too. Your fire was slow, yet burning and hot all the same. It made him want to collapse in your white-hot flame and be consumed by you and not even care that he was ash and –

The feeling was gone, and Horangi was normal again. As normal as he could be when shivering in full tactical gear while it was eighty degrees out. 

König’s voice breaks through the haze. “Horangi?”

Horangi shifts so that he’s sitting with his back against the concrete half-wall. “Yes, sir?”

“You solid?”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. “The voices… our voices. The ones…” he gestures to his earpiece. “I heard them. And then I had a hot flash when you touched me.”

“Focus,” König hisses. “There’ll be time for that later.”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. He peeks out from behind the concrete half-wall, then ducks back behind it. 

“Ready, sir?”

“When you are.” 

The battle is easy for König and Horangi when a benevolent being and a lesser one are controlling their every movement. It doesn’t hurt that the warmth serves as adrenaline, a body high that keeps them both alive and bold. Battle chatter fades into the background when that song and your rushed praise fills their ears and makes them feel warmer than you already make them. 

When the last opposing operator falls, the message is relayed until every KorTac operator is back at the helicopters. 

“Wheels up in two!” the pilot calls out. 

König and Horangi move together up to the cabin of the helicopter and silently sit next to each other, hands working deftly to buckle themselves in. 

Horangi tilts his chin up and lets the back of his helmet hit the headrest. He takes his sunglasses off and wipes them of dust and a spurt of blood. His eyes wander over the ceiling of the helicopter, quietly listening to you and your friend celebrate. 

“Who are they?” he quietly asks König. 

König leans closer to Horangi, the hem of his hood brushing Horangi’s shoulder. His voice is quiet. “I call them players. I know the one who told the other not to bully you. We… I don’t think we exist on the same plane as them. I think of them as a god. They help me – us, now.”

Then, König leans closer and whispers your name like a single-word prayer. 

And, fuck, how Horangi wants to fall back into gambling so he could whisper your name into his cupped hands while he’s shaking the dice just as he rolls that blessed seven. His breath falters for a split second as he thinks of the divine luck you’d bring him at the craps table, your fingers – assuming you were even human, or humanoid – trailing down his arms, touching his wrist to imbue his hands with your power. He’d happily worship you if it meant feeding that rush when the payout is high, and… shit. Hornagi takes a deep breath before he quickly corrects his thoughts and directs them elsewhere. 

He doesn’t even know where those thoughts came from. Well, he knows where the thoughts of relapse come from, but he doesn’t know where the thoughts about you stem. He’s barely felt your warmth, yet in your presence, he doesn’t want to be the big bad tiger – he wants to be the housecat that rubs up against your legs and gets away with knocking pill bottles off the counter. 

“Can you feel them?” König asks in a hushed whisper.

Horangi nods. Your fire is a dull thrum in his chest, but your heart is beating right next to his nonetheless. “Yes.”

König knocks his knee against Horangi’s. “Focus on something small. Circular. Like a light. That’s how I see them.”

Horangi hums and looks at the ceiling. He focuses on a small red indicator light, his eyes unfocusing as he keeps eye contact with the tiny LED. And, slowly but surely – just as König said – something else came into view, slowly creeping into his peripheral vision. 

It was a small bedroom – a shoebox, really. Dimly lit by fairy lights. A bed, a desk, a dresser… Someone was on the bed, and the other person was in the desk chair. They were both holding game controllers, facing each other. Talking. 

“We need to play their Thanksgiving album,” the person in the chair says. 

“To what, pregame for Thanksgiving?” the person on the bed laughs. “That’s months away.”

And with that angelic laugh, Horangi knows that’s you. The person laying on their stomach on the bed, with your perfect smile, perfect fingers holding the game controller. 

You reach for your phone and unlock it, the screen lighting up your face. You tap at it a few times before too-loud music starts playing – a man yelling about how dangerous gas station tweakers are.

“Ay, turn that down!” your friend protests. 

You grunt and turn it down a little. The music is hard funk-trap, and you and your friend sing along. It’s something like – “Closed casket funeral, but Imma have to peek in; tryna get real, like, sorry, I was sleepin’!”

Hornagi quietly listens to the rest, keeping his eyes still so he can keep you in his sight. You and your friend prattle off the rest of the song, even going as far as vocalizing the instruments. 

When the song ends, you roll on your side and face your friend. “We should listen to their Halloween album next. Then their Christmas album. Then their Valentine’s Day single. And then start up their Thanksgiving album again.”

God knows how Horangi would let you. He’d love to watch you do anything – even if you’re doing nothing. He’d do anything just to reach out and touch you. Run his hands over your face and watch your nose scrunch up at his touch, your eyes squeezing shut. Your smile would be just like the one you’re wearing right now, accentuating the apples of your cheeks perfectly. 

And he’d love to sit with you as that artist’s Halloween album, Thanksgiving album, Christmas album and Valentine’s Day single play, even if he didn’t understand the slang the men used. He’d rub his hands up and down your back – anywhere he could touch you, really – as you explained what they meant when they said they were gonna “pop a thirty an’ get real sturdy.”

And maybe one day he’d make that a reality.

[wakeup01]

Hey, is it still open ? If it is, I've got something to ask. See, the university that I attend is apparently quite focused on sports, when compared to degrees such as mine in linguistics. It means that, on my way to class, I see a lot of hot men with great hairstyles, and I've always felt a bit jealous at that. Don't get me wrong, I love the eyecandy, but it always made me wonder what would happen if, one day, I entered the wrong building. Could you help me to see what would happen ? Just as an experiment, of course, I want to go back to my degree nice and easy after that...

Team Player

Linguistics? Oh dear, oh dear. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you won’t be getting anywhere with that. But don’t worry, I’m feeling generous today. Okay, listen up. It’s very simple, all you have to do is follow that hot jock with the gelled blond hair to the left. No, no, not the right, the left. Take note of his smile. The way he laughs at literally nothing. Why? Oh, no reason…

Whoops. The locker room you say? What a blunder. Egg on my face, I tell ya. But while you’re there, maybe it’s worth taking in the sights and….smells. Every step is like walking through the humid air of the jungle, a breeze of sweaty jockstraps assaults you from every direction as the Football team get changed. You fail to avert your eyes from their hot glistening bodies, the display of pure strength and testosterone.

The jock you followed in notices you, notices certain inadequacies that need amending if you’re gonna be on the team. The team? Yes, the team. That messy hair for one. You barely get the opportunity to argue as he sits you down and scrapes the clippers across your skull. The buzzing sound makes you shiver. An overwhelming lightheaded feeling allows him to easily tilt your head down and mow the back. Running his hands through what little remains as he gells it up into a spiky jock style. Patting your strapped rear and padded thighs as the dirty, preused tight leggings pull up your legs and cover your cupped crotch. Your mouth opens, opens before your brain has engaged, just hanging ajar for several seconds. “B—bro.” The word is more of a proclamation than anything else. You impulsively adjust your junk, a clear shadow visibly outlines where your big balls push the cup outward.

He tells you that the newbies are liable if the team loses. That would be you. Taking one…or many, so to speak, for the team is the accepted punishment. He tells you this while stroking at his own cupped groin, a rather large bulge growing as you swallow hard.

Before you know it, you’re completely kitted out in the heavy uniform, a thick helmet lowering over your head - silencing those niggling doubts in the back of your increasingly tiny, sports obsessed mind. It’s like a deprivation chamber for your head, your inner monologue being blocked. The only thing that matters to you now is the game.

The game.

The ball.

The team.

The… punishment.

The twitching of your cock and ass makes you wonder if losing would be all that bad. You stand up and admire yourself. You barely recognise what you see, uncontrollably getting turned on by your own appearance. Were your arms always that chunky, that tanned? Like prime cooked beef hanging from your wide shoulders. Looking like a proper jock boy…smelling like one too. Huhuh. You turn, smiling dimly back at your bro. Laughing out loud for a reason you don’t remember. Uhh, I’m sure it’ll come to you…eventually.

I mean, you’re just trying out something new, right? No harm done, you rationalise as you sprint and achieve your first touchdown, your memory of…le..lin….lingizztics? Completely knocked loose from your ‘bro’d out, empty head.

Of course, the team loses anyway. Though you, and the rest of the team have suspicions about how accidental your ‘fumbles’ really were. Never-mind, that didn’t matter so much anymore, not while the whole team form an orderly queue behind your bent over rear. Your blonde bro is first up, he spreads your sweaty cheeks wide, spits on your crack and lines himself up for the ‘shot’. “You ready to learn how to handle some balls dude?”

“Hell yeah brah!”

[grudgecollector]

Dark Carnival | Daryl Dixon x Juggalo!Reader

Summary: Even in the apocalypse you couldn't part with your cd player. Music was just as important to you as survival, and when Daryl joins you on a run, you find a record store and he finds out just exactly what kind of music you love so much.

Tags: Swearing, would this be considered a crack fic? Oh well, unspecified era, oblivious idiots, twd typical walker killing, implied reader being younger than Daryl, Possibly OOC, fluff, somewhat proof-read

Words: 1.9k

A/N: THE WAY THIS IS SO SELF INDULGENT LMAOOOO

I honestly wrote this for myself.

I quite literally laughed out loud when I typed out the x reader title. But come on, if you know me then you know.

I wanted to specify what exactly kind of music would be of interest in this off the bat so nobody can be like "yo what the fuck i don't listen to this shit?". Which is exactly how I probably would if I was reading this and the reader was obsessed with some shit i don't listen to.

To the 3 other juggalos probably in this fandom... you're welcome, i love you *kisses you*

Also I have never written for TWD for Daryl so haii, I just started rewatching the show after eight years, this was one of original hyperfixations if not THE original. So you'll probably be getting a lot more out of me.

also made a playlist to set the mood

The town was small, broken down cars dusty and long abandoned. Some were crisp from an explosion, the singed remains scattered across the worn down asphalt. Grass protruded from some of the larger cracks, nature beginning to reclaim the remains of the long lost world.

Signs on the storefronts were barely hanging anymore, corroded with rust that slowly ate away at the hinges. They swayed with a creak, filling the silence alongside your quiet footfalls.

Your fingers were tight on the freshly sharpened machete, prepared to take out any unsuspecting shell that was once human. The calloused pad of your thumb mindlessly brushed against the strap of the backpack you wore, eyes steadily raking over the desolate road.

The smell of incoming rain hung thick in the air, grey clouds overhead and distant thunder signaling the little time you had left on this run.

Getting drenched in a storm was the last thing you needed right now.

Daryl gently pat the back of his hand against your bicep, pointing towards a hobbling figure just a few cars away. It was a younger woman, she was probably around your age before she turned. The dress she wore seemed to have been purple at one point, now torn and moth eaten, leaves were stuck in her matted blonde hair, dried blood covering the side of her left cheek.

"You wanna take 'er down?" He whispered, glancing through the cloudy window of the gas station you both stood in front of.

You nod, any hesitation you would have felt years ago now a distant memory. You were quick to tiptoe cautiously towards the walker, glancing around the surrounding cars to make sure she was alone.

It's gurgled breathing filled your ears as you stepped closer, quiet raspy growls rumbling deep within it's chest as it stumbled along. Her skin was grey and leathery, the summer sun evidently cooking it's rotted skin over the course of it's lifeless journey.

Once it's milky eyes landed on you it let out a hissing growl, teeth gnashing as it's animal-like instincts kicked in. Making it's way to maul you to the ground, before swiftly being brought down by the sharp blade of your machete. The blade cracked into it's fragile skull easily, a telling sign that she's been wandering around for longer than you ever would want to if you were one of them.

In some way it brought you some sort of peace knowing that you could at least put these poor creatures out of their misery. Just as you would want for yourself if that fateful day ever came.

Daryl kept his watchful eye on you as you made your way back over to him. You pulled the stained white rag from your back pocket and wiped away the gooey grey mater.

"Think she's the only one for right now." You tucked the rag back into your pants pocket. You glanced down the road to look at the signs hanging from the other store fronts, your eyes catching on one in particular, "No way."

"What?" Daryl asked curiously, following your eyesight, "You see somethin'?"

"Oh I see somethin' alright."

A record store.

Even after the end times you still couldn't force yourself to part from your CD player, or any other various ways to listen to music. It was one of the only things that you still had, a way to keep a grip on your former self.

"Oh come on. We don't have time for all'at." Daryl sighed.

"Just five minutes, please Daryl." Your hands clasped together in a faux prayer, begging in a half joking manor. "I'll give you three of my cigarettes." You tried to bargain pitifully.

"Four." There was a smirk ghosting his lips, his attempt to remain serious beginning to falter.

You groan, "Fuck, fine whatever. Four."

He starts walking down the sidewalk before you. He missed the way your first pumped up into the air but still heard the triumphant whispered 'Yes!' that left your mouth.

You were careful to step over a fallen light pole, the remains of a small skeleton trapped underneath the thick metal. You ignored the prickling thought bubbling in your mind, not wanting your excited mood to be ruined.

Daryl looked at the neighboring store next to the record shop, mannequins fallen against the stained window.

"Alrigh' make it quick. 'M gonna check in here for some clothes, we'll need 'em." He peered inside the broken glass door for any signs of walkers before glancing back over his shoulder at you, "Anythin' happens you call for me."

"Aye aye captain." You salute him, a giddy smile making its way to your lips as you slowly opened the door to the record store to check the inside.

"'ere, keep the door propped open." Daryl nudged a brick in your direction with his boot, effectively using it as a door stopper.

Luckily for you the store seemed empty, no distant sounds of shuffling or scratching catching your attention. But you knew better than to let your guard down, your fingers gripped a little tighter on your machete as a reminder.

The steps you took were careful, avoiding the broken glass scattered along the floor in front of the display case, where the cash register sat. You walked towards the back of the store, fingers slowly grasping around the doorknob that led to the storage room. Your ear pressed softly against the wood before you pried it open, thankfully only being greeted by cleaning supplies and empty boxes.

The bathroom was clear as well, making that same smile from earlier come back to your lips. Finally, it was time for your very personal hunt.

Your fingers combed through the dusty plastic covered vinyls like a kid on Christmas day.

The last time you've set foot inside a record store was a few months after the outbreak, which seemed like such a distant memory now. That run gifted you with some of your most prized possessions, CDs that were now so overplayed they would skip.

A small gasp left your lips at the sight of one of the vinyls, "Holy fucking shit. No way."

One of the things you missed the most was staring right back at you, you felt like you just struck gold, your heart fluttering at the mere sight of the all too familiar character. In a way you felt like you had just been punched in the gut, this really was Christmas.

You were quick to make your way to the CDs, combing through them in hopes to find the same exact album. And not only did you find that, but three others, you could almost cry out from happiness.

It was ridiculous, it was always easy to find CDs for almost every band you listened to. You could easily find those in grocery stores your group would raid, abandoned houses or cars, they were everywhere.

But this? CDs for Insane Clown Posse? That was nearly as impossible as finding Atlantis itself.

It had been so long since you've listened to their music, you've completely forgotten what it even sounded like, the vaguest of memories barely gracing your mind.

Sure it was dramatic, but you felt as if God had just kissed you on the cheek.

"Find anything good?"

Daryl's sudden appearance made you jump, your fingers tightening on the plastic CD cover, the fragile material groaning under your harsh grip.

"Geez, better be glad I wasn' anythin' else." Daryl couldn't mask the sigh that passed his lips, shaking his head at your sudden carelessness.

"Daryl... I think I might be religious now." You whispered, eyes still glued to the small stack of CDs in your hands.

A snort left your companion. He glanced over your shoulder with a raised eyebrow, "Yeah, whatever you say darlin'." His tone was teasing, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips before combing through the rows of CDs himself.

He picked up a much too familiar CD that you remembered fondly from your own childhood. A Creedence Clearwater Revival record your mother would play whenever she would clean the house.

"Oh man..." You gently grabbed it from his hand, the sting of tears threatening to form in your eyes. "This reminds me of my mom."

You were quick to stuff a few more CDs into your backpack, which was growing heavier the longer you wore it. Your shoulders were aching, but you persisted on your hunt, grabbing a few more before finally sighing.

"Alright I think I'm done."

"Ain't got no more room in your bag anyway." Daryl joked, knowing his was not much better, being weighed down by any intact clothing he could get his hands on.

The walk back to the truck was thankfully short, giving your tired legs a break as you finally slid across the ripped leather seat. Your fingers unzipped your backpack, peering inside with a smile. This was possibly the best run you've ever been on, all the medical supplies and food be damned, this was all you ever needed to keep you sane.

"What even is that anyway?" Daryl asked, glancing briefly at the CD you held gently.

You ripped the plastic covering off carefully, as if it would crumble if you were too rough. For a brief moment a memory of your teenage life flashed through your mind. A simpler time where all you had to worry about was failing your math class.

"This, Mr. Dixon, is one of my fondest memories."

You could feel his eyes on you every so often, "Well, you gonna put it on or what?"

"I doubt it'll be your taste." You chuckle, not exactly imagining Daryl to be one to enjoy circus music meshed with rap and lyrics about killer clowns brutally murdering people.

"Who gives a shit. Just put it on."

With the excitement of a child you quickly, but carefully, took the CD out. Pushing it into the skinny slot right above the small dusty screen. The second the music started you felt like you were placed right back into the springy seat of your school bus. An angsty look on your face as you tried to avoid eye contact with your bully.

Oh how it made your heart swell with happiness.

The sound of clown horns, cartoonish sound effects, circus music, and crude lyrics washed over you like you had been baptized.

You couldn't help but look at Daryl to gauge his reaction, his face was twisted in confusion. His brows were furrowed, blinking occasionally as he tried to process what he was hearing.

"This is what you were fixin' to cry over? You kiddin' me?"

A burst of laughter left you before you could catch it, a smile permanently etched onto your face as you recited the lyrics loudly. Even after so long, you still remembered every word, having listened to these songs more times than you could count.

You miss the almost fond look in his eyes when he looked at you for a second, a smile finding it's way to his face whether he wanted it to or not.

"You can't say it ain't at least kinda good." You pushed his shoulder softly.

"This ain't good at all." He shook his head, "You really listened to this shit?"

You couldn't help but snort at the question, "Does it surprise you?"

"Nah, I ain't surprised," He pressed the eject button on the radio, taking the CD out and handing it back to you. "Makes sense now why you're so fuckin' weird."

The plastic cover snapped closed and you fished through your backpack for another, "Is this more your speed, old man?" The Creedence CD gleamed softly under the sun that peaked past the grey clouds, and into the truck.

Daryl scoffed, shaking his head with a smile ghosting his lips, "I ain't old."

"Whatever you say." You teased, sliding the CD into the slot and pressing play after a second.

[uzurimisery]

chapter 2: the players. / coriolanus snow / nsfw

you can't tell me he wouldn't feel so pathetic for wanting you, for needing you. he'd always try and act like he didn't but when he jacked off it was always to thoughts of you.

wc: 6209

warnings: rough sex, male masturbation, hes a perv, not beta read

AO3 version | Series Master

Power and control were paramount to Coriolanus. The feeling of dominance, the ability to command respect, obedience, and even better fear, was a drug to him. It was need that drove him, an insatiable hunger for snow to always land on top.

In his eyes, the world was a game, and he was the key player. Moving and manoeuvring his pieces with calculated actions. The thrill of orchestrating every situation to his benefit pushing him further and further.

That need for control, for dominance, layered over fear and paranoia. He needed to be on top or every carefully crafted interaction he had ever had would be worthless. He’d be worthless. And he was not worthless.

It was so stupid how he lost composure from your naked form. They shaped you like sin, meant for bearing child after child. The swell of your breast suited for a babe attached to it rather than covered in fabrics. He could rut into you like an animal, just like those District filth did, and you could take it. Gnashing teeth, tearing skin, digging into your hips with every thrust. You were so fragile the night of the Gala, so soft, so breakable and by god did he want to break you. Make you pay for this vile feeling he had towards you now.

Maybe he’d even leave you with a child so you’d have a constant reminder of what he could do to you. He needed something to solve the thoughts that have been plaguing him.

For now, he had to keep dealing with this awful lunch with his former classmates and how all they wanted to do was talk about the current ongoing of high society. Idiots. Their conversations rang in his ears like nails on a chalkboard.

“Coriolanus, you never told us how you and the young Miss Gaul came to be together. I could have sworn you told us once that you hated her.”

What he wouldn’t give to take the glass in his hand and break it over Gaius Breen’s thick head. Maybe he’d finally shut up after that with half the glass lodged into his skull and the rest raining down around him. Blood pooling in his eyes as he stammered in confusion.

A shame he couldn’t. Still forced to contend with idiots.

Coriolanus responded with a disarming smile and soft chuckle, voice painting him as love struck. “You’re right Gaius,” he wanted to gag. “I said that once. Y/N and I, as you all know, constantly batted heads. She’s head-strong, never wanting to back down from a challenge. I don’t know when things changed between us, maybe when we were working on the 15th games, all those late nights in the lab.”

He trailed off.

“I started seeing her in a different light with all that forced proximity. Her mind is amazing, as is her wit. Ever since then, I’ve found myself drawn to her in a way I never thought possible.”

Lying was easy for him, but the shocking fact is that the last thing he said was true.

His words silenced the table for a second. The group was accustomed to his disdain of you, always one to be the first to find fault in your person. You were so far from his regular type.

“She’s rather big for you, isn’t she?” Didi Ring pointed out, malice hardly hidden. Clearly still bitter about being rejected by him in the past.

His smile faltered for a second, a flicked of anger flashing in his eyes. Nothing lingering around that anyone would notice.

“She is unlike anyone I’ve ever been with.” Despite his calm tone, his words were edged with venom. “Much appreciated difference to the delicate waifs I’m used to.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, bringing up an unrelated topic to move the conversation along.

Coriolanus relished her discomfort, enjoying the way he made her squirm. The master puppeteer pulling the strings. Each time the group came back around to talking about him, there’d be more questions about you, and he continued to tell the intricate tale of your relationship with him. Each part building you both us as the most in love couple in the Capitol.

Each word tasted like ash on his tongue. The whole luncheon only furthering the turmoil inside him.

He needed to sort his head quickly.

___________

Part of him wondered if what he said could change what the future looked like for the two of you. If he admitted that despite his dislike of your personality, he found the idea of taking you highly appealing. Consuming you, ruining you, making you high on lust. Would you let him? Or would you slap him in the face, scream and kick at him, call him names?

Both options appealed to him. You willingly lowered yourself to be on your knees in front of him, staring doe eyed while he fucked your mouth. But your fighting back excited him more. Pinning you down as you spat at him. A slap to your face when he tired of watching you struggle. To pull your mouth wide and force himself in. Maybe a mix of the two would be the best outcome.

This was clearly not sorting his head out. It was your fault.

The Capitol was unbearably hot today, almost oppressively so, now being three months from when your “relationship” started. He had nearly sweated through his undershirt at the luncheon. He was looking forward to getting into his private lab and getting his mind off everything. To realign with the cruel nature of himself.

As he stepped into the sterile, super cooled environment, the machines whirred, comforting him. It was his sanctuary. A place he controlled.

But you had to be there. Strolling out of your mother’s office in a high neck sleeveless dress that went down to your mid thigh. There were two slits on each side, showing off the expanse of your upper thighs. The cut was below being near any territory that ruined your modesty but was still provocative. When you turned to speak to an assistant, Snow realised the dress was backless as well. Only an intricate chain drew a line down the centre of your back, following your spine, securing the halter neck to the back of the dress. All a challenge to his self control.

He wanted to reach out, grab you by the neck, and press his front into your backside. Feel the warmth of your skin. He wanted to strip away your stature, and better yet, strip your clothes off. But he held himself back, his hands clenched into fists at his side. He still had to pay the part of a gentle lover.

Coriolanus walked up behind you, his footsteps echoing softly on the polished marble. He approached your side, movement purposeful, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Darling,” his hand slipped to the bare skin of your back. “I didn’t know you were going to be in today.” He kissed the top of your head, a display of his ownership of you. Even if you weren’t paper thin like his usual type, you still were small compared to his frame.

“Well, hello there! I was only stopping to drop something off for my mother. Tretonius asked me a question about something.”

“Oh, what about?”

Tretonious began explaining the situation to Coriolanus. Your eyes light up the whole time, animatedly talking through solutions and ideas with the assistant. Your voice was airy and carefree. You even shifted and leaned further into his touch.

Coriolanus, however, was barely listening. Lost in the sensation of your skin under his fingertips. Touching you made his mind go blank. All his plans put on pause and thought of you taking centre stage.

Goosebumps rose where his hand left.

God, you were so different from his usual type. You had sustenance, meat to you. Even strength, as much as a Capitol woman could have. But the draw he felt toward you guided him like the stars did to a lost man. He needed to touch you. To know that he influences you.

He had done leaps of faith for love before and never would he do it again. But he didn’t love you. Love was nothing but a weakness meant for fools. A mistake like that would never be made again.

As he watched you, heart pounding, the dangerous tightrope he was walking kept getting smaller. Teetering on the edge of the precipice, tempted to find salvation for his misdoings between your legs. The balance needed to be found, but god knows if he could do it.

“Thank you for your input, Miss Gaul. I’ll run the simulation with those parameters and inform you of the result.”

Ah yes, work. He was at work.

“Of course. I’m glad I could be of help to you.” You smiled widely, showing your perfect little teeth. Your lips coated in a peachy gloss with some glitter in it. The fluorescent lights of the lab making each particle sparkle.

He should sew your mouth shut and never let another person see your smile. He knew Tretonius was gay and had been married for the past five years, but he didn’t care.

“Walk me out Corio?”

“Of course, darling.”

The walk of you leaving the building was a blur in his mind. You had latched onto his arm as you walked, your chest pushed firmly against it. He didn’t know if it was the heat or your usual habit, but you were clearly braless. He could feel the pebbling of your nipples from the inhospitable environment of the lab. Wondering what they looked like, as he hadn’t seen them before. The sensation of them rubbing against his arm as you walked, sending jolts to his groin. You were intoxicating to him.

He hoped that the feeling would go away and his head would clear once you left the building.

But your presence lingered, a ghost in the laboratory, a reminder of the raw, untamed emotions he had so long suppressed. He couldn’t escape you, your presence would continue to haunt him, even in the privacy of his private lab.

His trousers were tight. You lecherous wench had reduced him to this.

He paced the room, his mind a storm of conflicting desires. One part of him craved the release of physical pleasure, the momentary escape from his emotions. Another part of him resisted, his pride too great to admit just the effect you had on him.

The tension was unbearable, the seam of his trousers rubbing against the head of his penis. The physical ache demanded his attention. With a hiss, he undid the clasp and pulled himself free. He was so hard he felt his head pounding. Even pulling his dick out made him groan.

Debased and depraved, he spat into his hand and tugged himself from base to tip. He thumbed at the slit on the tip, making him even more sensitive. A shudder ran down his spine.

He could picture you barging into his lab, like you had done so many times before, only this time, his cock would be out and on full display. You’d be so shocked, so embarrassed. Stuttering on your apologies and moving to close the door. He’d tell you to wait, he can get himself in order. Looking away while he half-heartedly tucked himself back in, unaware that he was already in front of you, pulling you into the room and locking the door behind you.

You’d get mad at him. Question his intentions. He would back you up against his desk, the ornately carved mahogany stopping just below your ass, forcing you to sit on it. You’d be so worked up, mouth running miles a minute as he grabbed your face and forced you to shut up. He wouldn’t be gentle while kissing you. It was about dominance and control.

One hand would squeeze your neck, cutting off just enough blood flow to make you lightheaded, while the other parted your legs and put his hips between yours, pushing your core against his erection.

You looked so cute when you were mad at him. He wondered how mad at him you’d be when he flipped you onto your back and pinned your hands behind you. Slipping off his belt, he’d secure them, leaving you unable to move. Then he’d flip up your little white dress and strike your ass. You never listened to him, but maybe you would respond to corporal punishment. He’d be hard with each strike, aiming to leave the outline of his hand with each hit.

He’d only stop when your cheeks were cherry red and tears ran down your face. He would be so glad they soundproofed all the private labs as you cried and cried about how mean he was being, how you didn’t understand what was going on. But you’d listen to him, do what he said.

After that, he’d slide your panties down, no doubt covered in sticky, heady wetness. You always struck him as the type to enjoy a heavy hand. He’d slip a finger inside you, testing the waters, before forcing a second one in. Scissoring your pussy, loosening it up for him, he’d tell you just how much he hated that you made him feel this way, pulling out to pinch at your clit. He’d bet the Plinth family fortune you’d squeal, and he’d watch your hole flutter around nothing.

Fuck, he had to know how you tasted.

He’d get down on his knees and push his tongue into you, familiarising himself with your taste, your scent. Then he’d slide down and circle his tongue on your clit. Sucking and pulling on it all while he slipped more fingers into your pussy.

He groaned, feeling himself come close.

He’d make you cum, at least three times analysing the best way to make it happen, before he finally stuffed you with his cock. His male friends had always said they enjoyed when their girls said it hurt, but he didn’t want it to hurt you. He wanted it to feel so good, drive you to the edge of insanity, and ruin you for anyone else. He’d make sure to take you to the edge and over it so many times.

By the time he’d finally cum inside you, you’d be a babbling mess. You’d even thank him for cumming inside you once he told you to. Then he’d pull out, tap his dick on your overly sensitive clit. You’d jump. All your muscles contracting as you tried to catch your breath and steady your mind.

Before anything could leak out of you, he’d take your panties and stuff them in you, making a neat little plug to keep his seed inside you. You’d still be so out of it, you’d moan when he did it too. He’d grab your jaw and spit into your mouth and you would smile while he did it.

His fantasies betrayed what he truly thought about you as he jerked himself off to completion in his lab after just a few minutes of harmlessly touching you. He came hot and heavy on his stomach, glad that at one point he had pulled his shirt up and was holding it by his teeth.

He had a mess to clean up, and this was not helping clear his head.

_________

You and Coriolanus had been asked to figure out a new pod for the upcoming games. Normally the process was a rough one, the two of you always clashing. But since the two of you had spent so much time together in the past six months playing your parts as lovers, and also working, you were more amicable with him.

Sometimes you even sought him out, valuing his mind and approach to design and solving problems. He was good at making the games. You really understood why your mother favoured him as her successor. You would be a great second hand for him one day in the future.

He had even become nicer to you recently. You could laugh and joke around with him if the mood was right. You found genuine camaraderie with him.

The transformation in your dynamic was a welcome change. You both spent so much time together. It was nice to have a solid relationship with him. The lines of where the act started and you began to feel harder to define. Perhaps the act just laid the foundation for a genuine friendship with him.

It was also complicated.

Coriolanus has always been attractive to you. His high cheekbones, pretty blue eyes, and soft blonde hair. He had only gotten more attractive as you both aged. Now at 26 he had filled out, some of his sharp-angles becoming defined muscle. He was tall too, with long slender legs. He was undeniably appealing.

The physical attraction, coupled with the new emotional bond, made a sticky mess of your feelings. It didn’t help that nearly everyday he would kiss and dote on you. The parts of yourself you never liked to admit relished the feeling of his hands on you, the brush of his lips against your own.

On the one hand, something real with him wouldn’t be the worst thing. You had similar views and came from similar backgrounds. HIs intelligence would keep you from ever getting bored in your relationship. It was clear that over time he’d even grown to value and respect your insight, as you did his.

On the other hand, the bubbling attraction you felt towards him complicated everything. You couldn’t help but fantasise about him in your private moments. You had caught him shirtless one day, trousers hung loose and unbuttoned as he got dressed. It was that day you had learned under his button ups and blazers his frame was well built. And that he had a very sizable member. Not super surprising since he was 6’4”.

Sometimes you caught him staring at you, eyes trailing up and down your form. He always thought he was so sly with it. Likely, the surrounding people didn’t notice, but you always did.

The initial stares were subtle, quick flicks to your chest and ass. Always when you wore anything form fitting or that showed more skin. You expected it to be honest. Men always are looking at your assets rather than your person. But things changed.

Now you could catch him staring at you from across the room, be it public or private. His eyes were always tracing the contours of your face, watching your every expression. You first had caught it at an event where someone told you a joke that made you throw your head back in laughter. It was like he was trying to memorise every detail or you and what each emotion looked like.

His body language also changed. It was more intimate. The distance between you is closer when you speak. His shoulders relaxed. He’d brush his fingers against you when motioning to things, not afraid to touch you anymore, even casually.

His smile, usually plastered on like a mask, became genuine when you were alone, laughter more frequent and uncontrolled when together. His voice would drop, raspy and slow, that went straight to your core when he spoke into your ear.

You couldn’t tell if it was part of the act or things had changed within him. He didn’t hate you now; you knew that much.

“What do you think about making a hallucinogenic that coats the Rovers’ teeth?” He tapped a pencil against his notebook. “If we got specific, we could make them picture their loved ones when they saw other tributes.”

An interesting idea, but synthesising something so specific would be impossible to happen before the next games. “It’s a good idea, but I think we need to be more general with it.”

“So just make them hallucinate?”

“Yeah.”

He made the face he made when he was creating different outcomes in his head. Eyes scanning the room as if there was a display in front of him. He could always create a list of variables that could come up.

Humming, he spoke. “I like it.” and then he went back to writing.

His hands were delicate. Long and slender fingers. You wondered if he played the piano. Surely he did. It was refined and gentlemanly, just like he likes to project. Though as more time led you to better understand him, he very much wasn’t. He watched you with hunger anytime you were out.

You often caught yourself questioning if that hunger was real. It certainly looked real. It felt real.

There was a time when one of your heels had broken during a night out and he had carried you from place to place until it was time to leave. During that night, his hands suspiciously were always on your ass. Once you even felt him squeeze the meat, saying that he was “adjusting his grip.”

He felt like fire. You knew the danger of playing with it, but you didn’t fear getting burned. So you kept him at an arm’s length. Always wondering if there was something more or if he had just fully committed to his role. Perhaps you’d never know.

But in the night, when you lay in bed, whispering your secrets to the stars, they’d be ones of him. How you wanted him, or at least to try him. To know him truly. And when you lay there desperate and needy, it was him you thought of between your legs.

“Coriolanus?” there was a question you had to ask him now. “Are we friends?”

It hung in the air. You felt like it was a mistake now to ask him that. He paused his writing, eyes locking with yours. They raged like a tempest, an unreadable depth you were afraid to swim in.

“Friends?” The word tasted strange on his lips. 

He had only ever had one friend, Sejanus. If they were really friends was something he didn’t know. He had simply not belittled Sejanus growing up and then, by the time they were mentoring for the 10th games, continued contact would imply that they were close friends. That’s why Dr. Gaul had made him go into the arena after him.

But he had killed Sejanus. It didn’t make him sad either. His “grief” was about being caught, that ‘d be the next to die. But since the guns were gone and everyone else involved was dead, he truly didn’t care about what had happened to Sejanus.

“Yeah friends. I think it’d be nice if we were friends. All things considered.”

You watched the surprise wash across his features briefly. He seemed caught off guard by your question. Like he had never considered the idea.

Coriolanus Snow did not have friends, only enemies. 

“I think so too.”

In that moment, a fragile connection became more solid, better defined the boundaries of your actions. It was uncharted territory. A venture into the unknown with a man who you hated months prior.

___________

A week had passed since you had last seen Coriolanus and somehow in that time he had gotten sour with you. Scowling at you the moment you were in private. You had no idea what caused the change. The two of you had officially been friends for four months now.

And despite his glaring, here you both were at some random high society member’s house for a “private dinner” of 80 people, and Coriolanus’ hand had not stopped rubbing up and down your thigh since you sat down to eat. He got dangerously close to your core, fingers brushing the crease of your thigh. You could almost think it was his own desire and not for show. And of course your dress just had to have a slit up to your hip on that side too, giving him plenty of access to your bare skin.

Despite the odd behaviour from him, you remained outwardly composed and playing your part. The dinner was in full swing; the drinks flowing. Both of you had had your share of them too, perhaps Coriolanus had too much.

By now, everyone around you was too intoxicated to notice if you told him off.

“Coriolanus Snow, remove your hand this instant.”

He paused, hand settling on the apex of your thigh. Then with a smirk he brought his mouth near your ear, he breathed on your neck making you shiver. “Or what?” His voice was laced with mockery.

“I will make a scene,” you hissed, eyes narrowed. “And I will tell everyone here how their golden boy can’t get it up.”

He laughed loudly, drawing a few eyes towards you both.

“Thinking about something you shouldn’t be? You know you wouldn’t have to worry about that.” he rose from his seat kissing you roughly as he left. He had drank too much, and felt too loose.

Sobriety was his norm. He hated the sensation of being intoxicated. But this was an event he had to drink at. That made it even harder to keep his thoughts straight around you. Every drink was so bitter and burned the back of his throat. Somehow, he wandered out to a balcony and found company in some semi-notable members of society. The cool night air helped him sober up some.

The entire purpose of him being here was to maintain the illusion of normalcy. For you both to blend in with the polished appearances and mannerisms of the crowd. To push the narrative that the Plinth and the Gaul families supported him wholly. He kept the idle conversation he had made with the group outside until they scampered inside, cold from the chill of the night..

Staring out over the city that one day he would rule, he felt only partially satisfied. Like accomplishing what he has sought to do since he was a child was lacking. Having the country would fulfil one of his goals, but he had more than he wanted. He was so close to that goal too. But even with the thrill of knowing it would all soon be his, a gnawing emptiness chewed through his stomach. The twinkling lights below are no longer enough.

He thought of you. Not even in a debauched way this time. He thought about your laugh, how you snorted when something amused you slightly. You always just wormed your way into his every waking moment. It had been nearly six months since you had started pretending to be lovers.

At first, he hated you. He thought you arrogant and entitled. Then he desired you. Your body is constantly dancing on the edges of his mind. Now he likes you, or thinks he does. You don’t annoy him anymore and you were even friends. He even sought out your company while in the labs. Or the idea of you he liked. Your rough edges cutting against him, making him bleed, but he’d bandage himself and touch you again.

This was the fine line drawn finally so blurred. Smudged beyond belief. The intangible made tangible. Ambition and desire. Power and control.

“You alright? You’ve been out here for nearly an hour.” There you were. Always so devoted to your role, to him. You’d come out here during the winter in your thin dress to find him.

God, that dress.

Red silk fabric draped and pooling around your body. The slit on your thigh and the deep plunge down to just above your navel. It was so unfair to him. How could he not want you when you looked so delectable?

He had had too much to drink. His ribs hurt from how hard his heart was drumming in his chest. Anguish stirred within him, regret and despair burning him.

He wanted to scream and cry. Throw his pocket watch off the edge of the building, shatter the illusion of his life. It was so unfair. He tried so hard, did so much. Then you just had to ruin it all. He had given up these feelings, the craving for intimacy. Lucy Gray had killed that part of him. Torn his heart out and showed him how weak he really was, and now it was happening again. Convinced him that he was immune to love’s allure, no longer beholden to such a useless emotion.

Your presence had infiltrated his every waking moment. He breathed and thought of you. The thoughts only stopped when he slept. Your effortless charm, captivating looks, it was just so unfair.

Was it love that he felt for you or just an overinflation of his own desires, an idealised version of you or the flawed person in front of him?

 But you just had to be you.

“Corio, are you okay? What’s wrong?” your hand cradled his cheek as you leaned over, scanning his face, trying to figure out what was wrong. Your touch was so gentle to such a broken man, sending jolts of electricity across his skin.

How could he tell you that there was something so irreparably broken within him? Something that wanted to lock you away and keep you just for himself. To study you and break you down. To wake up next to you in the morning. To know your darkest secrets. To consume your very person. He went from hating you to needing you in his life so desperately.

That he needed you carnally. He could never become the president, but die happy if he had the chance to lie with you.

Your words hung in the air, an invitation to open up and let him in. But he was so lost. He couldn’t tell up from down or left from right. And he was so, so scared. Scared of his feelings, scared of being honest, scared of losing control. But most of all, scared you’d run just like she had.

But he knew no matter how dark his thoughts were, no matter how strong the desire to break you became, he wouldn’t be able to do it.

“I don’t know,” he confessed, barely audible with the wind blowing, but you heard him.

Your eyebrows drew tight in concern. God, you cared for him. Or was it an act? You were so good at playing your part. He just wanted to know if you were honest with him or not. If you could just break his spirit again, he could go back to normal, get over this hump.

“You’re going to freeze out here. We should go inside.”

“I don’t want to.” His throat bobbed. “I just…” finding the right words to say was so hard when the curtain fell and the actor became just a man again.

You sat down next to him, wrapping your shawl around the both of you. “You just what?” you spoke your tone so soft and intimate it made his head spin. “Talk to me. We’re supposed to be a team.”

“I just…” fuck, why can’t he just be honest with himself for once? Stupid Coriolanus, weak and incompetent.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “It’s okay if you don’t know how to say it.” tender comfort spoken like a true lover. “Sometimes it’s enough to just be here together.”

He tilted his head back, tears threatening to spill. He shut them, letting out a sigh. He has never been a coward before. He had always been a man of plan and action. He didn’t have a plan now, but he could take action.

He turned, facing you, taking all of you in. The wind blew through loose hairs, making them flutter around your face. One got caught in your lipstick, the semi glossy sheen trapping it. He pulled it free, making sure not to mess up the colour, and tucked it behind your ear. He couldn’t take his hand away from the side of your face.

“Your hands are freezing.” You giggled as if he had told you a stupid joke that made him laugh in response.

“I think I’ve gone insane,” he confessed, more to himself than you. “I can’t play this part anymore. I can’t do this anymore.”

You interrupted him, protesting against whatever he was going to say. “Corio, we have to-” but he cut you off.

“I can’t,” his voice broke with desperation. “I can’t keep pretending that I love you and that when we’re alone, the lines are so blurred it’s not even a line anymore.”

Unspoken emotions hung in the air. He searched your eyes, searching for anything that might give away what you were feeling, but just like usual, he couldn’t read you. He only saw himself desperate and bewitched by you.

The weight of what could come next pressed down on him, tightening his chest. He couldn’t bear the act anymore. The constant struggle to only want you in show. But there was something on the undercurrent with you. Maybe he was projecting his own feelings on you, but he was so certain of it he could almost taste it. It was a risk, a jump into the unknown. He was asking for rejection. For humiliation, just like he had faced before.

Fuck it. Fuck it all.

He leaned in, breath mixing with yours, and kissed you. He actually kissed you. Softly and gently, like the whisper of change. He was ready to pull away, for you to tell him there wasn’t a crowd and you didn’t need to act, to say you were friends and nothing more. But as he was pulling away, your hands wrapped themselves into his hair pulling him back in.

It was an invitation, an answer, a reciprocation. A surrender to the moment, a mutual yearning.

He kissed you like he was starving and you were the last meal he would ever have. He kissed you like you were the cure for everything wrong with him. He kissed you like if he stopped, the world itself would never turn again, the sun would never rise, the tides would never change, that life itself would end. He would cut out his heart if you asked him to. He’d find a way to stay alive and watch you consume it.

His hands were groping at your side, kneading the skin. He was so gentle, so different from how he normally treated you. If he died tonight, pushed off the building by you, he would smile as he fell. Everything he felt, he always felt it so intensely and you burned through him like a wildfire.

There was so much passion. It buzzed in the air, drowning out the sounds of the dinner party. He would give you anything, done anything, to stay like this with you. But it wouldn’t last forever. So he kissed you with all care and longing he had in his heart, pouring his honest truth into it. He wanted to imprint himself on you, leave a mark that would never fade. He would stain you in his colours that would never fade.

In this moment, there was no pretence, no act, no script. It was just him and you.

He had crossed the line, finally shattering the illusion that you had both worked so hard to maintain and craft. He was terrified of the consequences, that if at the end of this you too would run from him. Scared of what he really was.

But he would never be the same. This had changed him forever. The never ending itch was scratched, but he needed more. His hunger for you only increased.

As Coriolanus pulled away, his eyes met yours. The guard you had was down and he could read something in them. Confusion clear, but the undercurrent of hope shining through. Your lips swollen and breaths quick gasps. 

You were so painfully beautiful.

You wanted the same thing as him, for the act to be over. The taste of something real changing you both. There was so much that needed to be said, but neither of you moved to.

Instead, you kissed again, and again, and again, each more passionate than the last. Your tongue was soft and wet against his. The chilly night air forgotten as you crawled into his lap. Coriolanus couldn’t stop his hands from running over every bit of you he could reach. When one reached your ass and he squeezed, you moaned into his mouth.

He had thought long and hard about what your moans would sound like, but the reality was so much better than he could ever imagine.

His kisses trailed down your neck, making you gasp and shiver. God, he loved your reactions. You brought out his basest animal instinct. He bit and sucked at your neck, leaving a hickey at the junction before going back to your lips.

You pressed your chest tight against his, hips grinding down against his own. He wanted to leave this party now, to take you by the arm and bring you back to his penthouse. There was no coming back from this, not stopping it. He couldn’t pretend anymore.

The death of an actor.