#there is a red thread running through all of it and at the center of it sits our beloved trickster “god”.

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

𝐒𝐎 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘, 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐖・h.j.

🎸 — you don't think jisung cares about you enough to tell your fans you're dating, fucking. he proves you wrong when he pulls you in on stage, and kisses you in front of everyone.

♟️ — paring・hanji x reader // genres・suggestive, band members with benefits, han writing hold my hand for the reader // words・1.5k // warnings・illusions to sex, kissing on stage, cursing and general crude language, han is kind of an asshole in the beginning, but he makes up for it, kinda silly kinda sexy, a little bit of my weird awkward writing style.

a/n・ ngl it was kinda crazy rewriting this. i wrote this near the very, very beginning of my old blog and i found it rotting in my drafts bc i never got to re-upload it...then i re-read it and remembered why... (why did i never use proper punctuation holy shit) but yeah i had fun writing them on stage ngl also what do we think of the new layout/theme?? (guys im still @lixies-favorite-cookie :))

"So you're okay with fucking me before the show, but telling people we're together—that's where you draw the line?" you spit, narrowing your eyes at a frustrated Han, stress-sweating as he wrestles with his guitar strap, huffing when it gets caught on a tuft of his hair.

He's flustered, cheeks flushed and red as he cards his fingers through his hair, untangling the rogue strand from the slider. It's a Han Jisung staple: rushing right before a performance because, before he can actually get ready, he has to hear the setlist 143 times, chat with the sound tech about his new gaming system, and—his personal favorite—drag you into the bathroom to screw the daylights out of you.

He calls it: jisung's good luck fuck™

You haven't decided if you love it or hate it.

He huffs, giving you an agitated look, "We really don't have time for this, the show starts in 5 minutes." He continues tuning his guitar, testing a few strings.

"You seemed to have plenty of time when your dick was inside of me!"

He buffers, his ears flushing red as he fumbles a loud, off-tune string.

The crew freezes.

"Jesus, just put your damn bass on, y/n." He mutters, his entire face painted dark red.

You clench your jaw, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes. The crowd roars from behind the velvet curtain, anticipating, your now, very soon arrival. He's right, you do need to get ready. Though, that knowledge doesn't make the crack inside your ribs any less painful.

It was futile arguing with him—if he wanted to, he would.

There's no wound getting on stage couldn't fix.

It's already an hour into the concert and the adrenaline still hasn't worn off, thrumming hot through your veins. Han's guitar explodes, threading its way into your last string fluidly. You whisper into the mic, your voice low and seductive, rolling over his riff like whiskey and wine.

The crowd goes wild, stomping so loud it makes the platform shake. Han eats it up, running across the stage and high-fiving a throng of women right before the final riff.

You finish the song with a dark, crisp chord that vibrates through the stadium with a bitter hiss. You're both gasping into the mics when everything's said and done, exchanging exhausted looks. You look over, watching as sweat drips down his forehead, making his hair stick to the back of his neck. The same thing is happening to you.

It's scorching up here, but it's worth it.

Han pants, scrunching his brows as the camera zooms in, tearing his IEM's out. You're both smiling, wobbly and slightly off center, but smiling nonetheless.

Then, he looks at you.

He's looking at you like he's plotting something, like he's in love with you, and like he's about to do something monumentally stupid all at the same time.

Whatever he was thinking, you were down.

Suddenly, the next song erupts from the speakers and he turns to you with a smile.

Han wrote the lyrics to this song after, finally, putting a label on the whole bandmates-with-benefits thing you two had going on.

It was three in the morning when you found him slumped over the bathroom sink, steam slipping out of the glass shower panels. He was butt-naked, a white towel slung over his neck, catching beads of water trickling from his wet hair. It was clear that he was troubled, a tight knit forming on his eyebrows as he stared at the single sentence written on his notebook.

First, you laughed at him for not putting clothes on before grabbing his notebook. Then, you spent the next three hours working him through his writer's block.

It was then, with your hair disheveled and mascara smudged underneath your eyes, he realized he was completely, irrevocably in love with you.

And in a typical Han Jisung fashion, he wrote a song about it

And, also, in typical Han Jisung fashion, he hid that song and his stupid feelings away from you, until, well, now.

You give him a 'what the fuck are you doing?' look before, right as he practiced, he slides towards you, plucking the first dramatic chord. You anxiously flick your eyes over his face, then the crowd, then back to him again.

"Numerous trials and errors and fights,"

A thousand eyes are watching him, and yet, he's only worried about yours. You stand there, looking both very awkward and very pissed, not knowing what to do with the bass hanging off your shoulder. He just smiles.

"Every time I see you cry

I feel like drowning in the dark

You said it's fine, but no, I'm not 'Cause all I want is you, not your tears

눈물이 마를 때까지

I wanna make you the happiest one, no fear"

His gaze never falters as he takes the final step forward, dropping his guitar and pushing away his mic. You were a mess—hair caked to your forehead by sweat, eyeliner streaming down your face from your tears, but, to him, you were as beautiful as you have always been.

It was just you and him in that stadium, when he cups your cheeks, and whispers—

"So baby, hold my hand now"

Then, he kisses you. He kisses you so hard, with so much passion it makes your knees go weak, melting into his arms. Confetti cannons explode around you.

There was no mistaking who he belonged to now.

When he pulls away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen and he just can't keep his shit-eating grin off his face. Tiny, colorful paper flutters around you, falling onto his shoulders and in his hair. It was magical, all of it was utterly magical.

It takes you a solid fifteen seconds to realize that there are other people in the room.

Forty four thousand to be exact.

He turns to the crowd, throwing his hands up into the air and finishing the song like nothing happened.

Han has been studying music for about as long as he has been alive, and in all of his 24 years of living, he has figured out three things.

One, music was the language of the heart. Two, music can only be created through passion. And three, his heart never stayed silent when he was with you.

[aleese1111]

Continue the seongje and baekjin one shot, plss 😭 I love your writing btw

three wolves, one flame three | geum seong je x union!reader x na baek jin

summary: she disappears for three days. the group chat stays active, but her silence buzzes louder than the messages. when she comes back, no one asks for an apology—but some things still need saying.

warnings: [slow burn] violence, blood, emotional repression, miscommunication, bruises, language, toxic coping, mild angst, vulnerability, references to mental strain, unhealthy attachment .

author's note: this is lowkey boring . next chapter i will end some fights, maybe . requests ,,

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , .. two .. three .. ??

she didn’t show up the next day.

or the day after.

she didn’t say anything in the group chat either, just read messages and left them on delivered. the trio thread kept lighting up—seong je sending blurry photos of some idiot who thought he could run with their stuff, his bruised knuckles front and center in half the shots. baek jin replied with deadpan sarcasm as usual:

you get off on sending crime scene selfies or what at least wipe the blood next time, dumbass.

she left no reaction. no thumbs-up. no eye roll. just silence.

seong je didn’t say anything about it, but every time the chat buzzed and her read receipt popped up, he stared a little longer than he needed to. his replies grew shorter. more photos, less commentary.

baek jin didn’t press her either. he already knew where she was—texted once, got a vague “need space,” and left it at that.

by the time she walked into the office again, three days had passed.

the air smelled like microwave ramen and disinfectant. the arcade outside was still warming up—machines humming, half-lit—but inside the office, baek jin sat alone at the desk, mechanical pencil in one hand, a half-solved sudoku in the other.

she didn’t say anything at first. just walked in like she’d never left, dropped her tote bag by the couch, and moved to the filing cabinet near the wall.

baek jin didn’t look up. “you look like shit.”

“thanks.” she pulled open the drawer, flipping through documents with more precision than necessary.

silence.

“you okay?” he asked, quieter.

she paused. “eventually.”

he nodded once. “fair.”

she didn’t look at him. “did you keep the delivery records from last week?”

“top drawer. labeled in red.”

she found them, tucked them under one arm, and started organizing them into the accordion folder she’d abandoned three days ago. her movements were stiff—robotic, almost—but her eyes didn’t have that wild look anymore. just tired.

“i saw the chat,” she said suddenly, still facing the files.

baek jin raised an eyebrow. “yeah?”

“seong je’s still trying to impress us with his selfies.”

“he’s consistent, i’ll give him that.”

she didn’t reply. just clicked the folder shut and slung it under her arm like a shield. “i need to take these to the garage.”

baek jin leaned back in his chair, watching her go. “try not to set it on fire.”

“i’ll try.”

she left without another word.

@ . !

the motorcycle garage still smelled like sweat and oil, like time hadn’t passed since the last argument cracked through its walls.

seong je was slouched on the couch in his corner, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, doing whatever it was he did when no one told him not to—probably scrolling, probably brooding, or both. his school shirt was off again—just a tank top now, stained with grease—and his hands were already a mess of oil and old blood, wrapped haphazardly in gauze.

he heard her before he saw her.

she walked in with the folder hugged to her chest, eyes scanning the shelves for the logbooks that matched her records. she didn’t acknowledge him. not at first.

seong je didn’t move, but his eyes tracked her. “didn’t die after all,” he said flatly.

she didn’t look up. “sorry to disappoint.”

“you ghosted.”

“i needed air.”

he let the silence stretch. then: “baek jin knew?”

“of course he did.”

his jaw tensed. “right.”

she moved to the shelves, tugging out a binder, flipping through it like she was looking for something worth fighting about. but her hands were steadier than before.

“you mad at me or just at the world again?” he asked, not moving from where he stood.

she glanced at him—finally. her face unreadable. “if i was mad at you, you’d know.”

“that a threat?”

“no,” she said, softer now. “a fact.”

the silence that followed was brittle, but not sharp. just... unsure.

he watched her for a second longer, then went back to the caliper, voice quieter this time. “i thought maybe something happened. something worse.”

she froze for just a second before kneeling beside the lower shelf, pretending to search again. “why would you think that?”

“you left. no word. that’s not you.”

“it is when i’m not interested in a second breakdown in the span of a week.”

he didn’t respond to that right away.

then, voice low: “you don’t have to disappear to handle your shit.”

“i do when it’s loud.”

“...was it me?”

she blinked at the shelf. slowly. “you didn’t help.”

“good,” he muttered, tone sharpening. “because i’m not gonna play nice just ‘cause you cry once.”

“didn’t ask you to.”

“good.”

she shut the binder.

they stared at each other again. neither moved.

then—somehow gentler—seong je spoke. “i didn’t mean to scare you. that night. i just... i get stupid when i think we’re losing something.”

she exhaled slowly, standing back up. “then stop getting stupid.”

he smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

she moved toward the desk near the corner, setting the folder down. her posture eased a little, like the fight had already drained out of her. like whatever she’d been holding in those missing days had been emptied somewhere between baek jin’s silence and this garage’s stale heat.

“i’m not mad,” she said finally.

he didn’t reply. just nodded, once.

“and i didn’t cry,” she added flatly.

he snorted. “sure. must’ve been rain indoors.”

she rolled her eyes and flipped open the folder. “shut up and hand me the maintenance logs.”

he passed them over without a word, but when their fingers brushed, just briefly—she didn’t pull away.

@ . !

the garage was quiet. not just physically—quiet in that crawling, weighty way that meant something unsaid was hanging in the air, uninvited and unwelcome.

she finished shuffling through the folders, double-checking figures on her phone with one hand while holding the corner of a page with the other. she didn’t make a sound until she shut the last file closed with a dull thunk against the desk.

seong je hadn’t moved. still on the couch, one leg bent under the other, his fingers idle now, phone dark on his thigh.

she turned slowly, stretched her arms overhead until her back cracked, then walked over. he didn’t say anything, just watched her as she dropped down next to him like it was nothing. like she hadn’t ghosted the groupchat. like she hadn’t gone missing. like he hadn’t noticed.

she pulled a cigarette from her pocket. offered him one, wordless.

he took it.

the first drag was silence. so was the second. the air filled with smoke and something sharp that had nothing to do with nicotine.

“…you good?” he asked eventually, not looking at her.

she exhaled through her nose. “yeah.”

that was all she gave him.

he nodded once, jaw flexing like he was weighing his next words, then letting them drop.

she leaned back into the couch, staring ahead at nothing. the kind of stare that meant her thoughts were somewhere else—untouchable, maybe even to herself.

he lit his second drag. “baek jin didn’t say anything either.”

she glanced sideways at that, just briefly. “he knew.”

“hm.”

they sat there in that stillness for a while, smoke curling above their heads, shoulders brushing occasionally in that too-familiar way that meant something used to be here, maybe still is, maybe not.

“…next time,” seong je said, after a moment, “just send a blank message or something. so i don’t gotta keep guessing if i should start digging.”

she flicked ash into the tray. “you don’t need to guess.”

“still did.”

she didn’t say anything.

didn’t have to.

then, softer—quiet enough that it could’ve been for her or for himself—he added, “hard not to.”

that silence after hit different. not sharp. not cold. just real.

she didn’t look at him. didn’t flinch either. just sat there, smoke slipping past her lips like it didn’t matter.

but it did.

even if neither of them said so.

the cigarette burned low between her fingers. seong je had already stubbed his out, leaning forward with elbows on knees, eyes low, jaw set in that unreadable way of his.

she tapped ash into the tray again. “you ever gonna say what’s actually bothering you?”

he blinked. a beat passed. then he gave a breath of a laugh—more air than sound.

“didn’t think we were doing that now.”

“maybe we are,” she said, voice flat. “maybe i’m asking.”

he leaned back, stretching his arms behind the couch. the motion pulled his shirt tight across his chest, scars visible under the loose neckline.

“…i thought you weren’t coming back,” he muttered. it wasn’t accusatory. just honest.

she didn’t answer right away. the truth sat heavy behind her teeth.

then—quiet—“i almost didn’t.”

that shut him up for a second.

he turned his head to look at her. really look.

“you leaving for good wouldn’t have surprised me,” he said. “but not saying anything would’ve.”

she looked straight ahead. “i didn’t owe anyone a goodbye.”

“but you left us on read,” he said. “that’s worse.”

that earned him a look, finally. she wasn’t angry. just tired.

“you make it sound like i ghosted my high school friends. i needed time. that’s it.”

“you left me wondering if i fucked up,” he said plainly. “and baek jin kept saying nothing. that’s how i knew something was off.”

she pulled her legs up onto the couch, cigarette now mostly forgotten in the tray.

“…baek jin saw something he wasn’t supposed to.”

he arched a brow but didn’t press. didn’t need to. whatever it was, he filed it away behind that quiet demeanor of his.

she tilted her head back against the couch, closing her eyes for a moment. “i’m here now. that’s all that matters.”

“that all?”

she didn’t answer.

a knock echoed from the other end of the garage—a metal-on-metal tap against the doorframe. baek jin stood there, leaned against it, holding two plastic bags.

“you two gonna sit in your own smoke all day, or you want shitty convenience store food?” he asked.

seong je didn’t move. “depends. you get the melon milk?”

baek jin nodded. “one for each of you.”

she stood, brushing ash from her jeans. “then i’m in.”

as she walked past him toward the back table, baek jin’s eyes met seong je’s. something unreadable passed between them.

then seong je stood too, cracking his neck with a quiet roll of his shoulders.

back to normal. almost.

but not quite.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , .. two .. three.. ??

[natsaffection]

Hey, I love your work especially Vampire!Natasha one shots and I have an idea for a Valentine's Day smut with vampire Natasha (I hope it's not too kinky) but the reader is expecting Natasha in bed covered in blood as a Valentine's Day gift

Happy Valentine’s Day. | N.R

Vampire!older!Natasha x Human!younger!Reader

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Age gap (N= 100+ r=23), much Blood, oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), multiple orgasm, overstimulation

Word count: 1,9k

A/N: Thank you so much for this!! Happy Valentines Day for everyone who is celebrating it. 🫶🏼

You had been planning this for weeks.

Every night, carefully and methodically, you had drawn just enough blood to store away, always hiding the tubes before Natasha could notice. You had gone to painstaking lengths to keep it from her, keeping the scent masked, ensuring she wouldn’t suspect a thing.

Because you knew. You knew if she found out, if she even caught the faintest whiff of your blood, she would never allow it. Not because she didn’t want it. God, no. But because she would lose herself in it..And that was exactly what you wanted.

As the final drops of blood spilled across your skin, you bit your lip, feeling the warmth spread over your body, streaking down your stomach, your thighs, your collarbones. You ran your fingers through it slowly, letting the fresh, thick red coat your fingertips before smearing it just a little more.

Perfect. It was fresh, it was warm and it smelled like a goddamn feast. You took a shaky breath, your heart pounding as you grabbed your phone, sending Natasha a simple message.

Before you panic when you come home, just know that I am fine! I promise!! But I smell like a crime scene. Happy Valentine’s Day, baby. ❤️

The response came immediately.

What?

You giggled, rolling onto the bed, getting comfortable. Oh, she was going to hate this…

Natasha smelled it the second she entered the building. The scent slammed into her like a force, wrapping around her, twisting into every part of her body, curling into her lungs. Her hands gripped the wall, her knees nearly buckling as the hunger roared inside her. For a split second, her vision blackened entirely. She exhaled sharply, tilting her head back, forcing herself to breathe slowly, evenly.

It didn’t help. God, it didn’t fucking help. Her fingers twitched, her jaw clenching violently as she stepped toward the bedroom, her movements slow, strained. Her body screamed at her to run, lunge, to take. But she forced herself to stay composed.

She stepped into the bedroom and she saw you.. You were sitting in the center of the bed, completely drenched in red. Your body was painted in it, fresh streaks running down your stomach, your thighs, pooling at your collarbones.

Natasha froze. Every muscle in her body locked up. She exhaled sharply, tilting her head, her eyes black as the void, her hands curling into tight fists at her sides. “What is this here?”

You giggled, “Weeks of collecting, just for tonight..” Natasha let out a sharp breath, her eyes black as the void, her restraint hanging on by a fucking thread. “Weeks..” she repeated, her voice thick with something dark, something dangerous.

You nodded. “Didn’t want to waste a drop. You always say it’s best fresh.” Her vision blackened for a second, her head tilting, her jaw clenching so hard it ached. Because fuck, she wanted you so bad it was killing her.

“You look very proud of yourself.” Natasha murmured, her voice low, teasing, slightly strained. “I am..” you hummed, tilting your head slightly, looking at her with pure, innocent mischief.

Natasha groaned softly, her nails digging into the doorframe, holding on like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She licked her lips, her tongue barely flicking over the tips of her fangs. “You planned this..” she whispered, stepping slowly, carefully into the room. “Spent weeks collecting all of this blood, just to test me?” You bit your lip, watching her closely, drinking in her struggle.

“Mhm..” you hummed, stretching out a little, letting the blood trail further down your stomach. “I wanted to see if you’d break.” Natasha exhaled slowly, heavily, tilting her head again, trying to shake off the hunger, the desire, the absolute desperation to taste you.

You saw it. And fuck, you loved it. “Come on, Natasha..” you murmured, slowly spreading your legs wider, making sure she saw everything. “Come get your present.” She crawled onto the bed, her hands sinking into the mattress, her body hovering just inches above yours.

You shivered, your breath hitching slightly at the sight of her, so close, so predatory, so completely wrecked. “You’re trouble..” she whispered, her lips grazing your jaw, barely touching, just enough to tease.

“I know.” you giggled, your fingers dragging over her shoulders, her arms, feeling the tension in her muscles. She was shaking. She was trying so hard. And fuck, it was adorable.

Natasha moved lower, her lips skimming down your neck, your collarbone, her breath hot, shaky, uneven. Her tongue flicked out, barely tasting the blood smeared across your skin. And fuck, she groaned. “You taste so fucking good.” she whispered, her hands gripping your sides, keeping you still.

You moaned softly, feeling her lips press against your sternum, her tongue licking up the red stains, slow and deliberate. She wasn’t just cleaning you. She was worshiping you. Her tongue trailed down, swirling over the dip of your stomach, lapping up every drop of blood she could find.

Her breath came heavier, her grip tightening, her fangs aching, but she still held back. Her lips lingered lower, kissing over your hips, your inner thighs, licking up every last bit of red.

Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening in the sheets. She smirked, flicking her eyes up, watching your face, drinking in every reaction. “Such a messy girl..” she murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, swirling her tongue slowly. You whimpered, your thighs trembling slightly. “Did you do this just for me, baby?” she whispered, her voice sweet, taunting, full of love.

“Y-Yes..” you gasped, shivering as she kissed higher, closer, teasing. Her tongue flicked out again, slow, sensual, dragging up your skin. You moaned, your thighs tensing around her. And fuck, she loved that sound. Your hips jerked slightly, your fingers grabbing onto her hair, tugging.

She groaned against you, the vibrations making you shudder. “You wanted me desperate, Darling?” she murmured, her tongue just barely flicking out, teasing, tasting.

“N-Nat..” you whimpered. Her tongue was relentless, circling, teasing, flicking, tasting, her hands keeping you spread, still, completely at her mercy. Your moans turned into gasps, whimpers, cries, your body trembling beneath her, already falling apart.

Her grip on your thighs was tight, bruising, possessive, keeping you pinned to the bed, keeping you right where she wanted you. Her mouth was hot, relentless, consuming, her tongue circling, flicking, pressing, lapping up everything you gave her.

She was lost in you. And fuck, you were falling apart. “Nat! G-God..!” you gasped, your back arching sharply, your fingers gripping the sheets in desperation. Natasha growled against you, the vibrations sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core.

Her hunger wasn’t just for your blood anymore. It was for you. For your moans. For the way your body writhed under her, for the way you trembled, gasped, begged. And fuck, she wasn’t done yet.

Her lips moved to your other thigh, lingering, her tongue trailing slow, teasing circles against the soft, sensitive skin. You whimpered, already knowing what she was about to do. Already aching for it. “You can take it..” Natasha whispered, her breath hot, heavy, wrecked against your skin. “Can’t you?”

You nodded frantically, your voice nothing but a needy whine. “Say it, Malysh (Baby).” she murmured, her fangs ghosting over your thigh, teasing, taunting. “I-Ican take it..” you gasped, your legs quivering beneath her hold. “Please, Natasha!!”

That was all she needed. With a low, primal growl, she bit down. Your loud moan echoed through the room, your body arching sharply, but Natasha held you firm, steady, pinned beneath her. Her fangs sank deep, just enough, enough to let your blood pool into her waiting mouth, but not too much, never too much.

She would never hurt you. And God, she moaned as she drank, her body shuddering at the rich, divine taste of you. Her hips pressed into the mattress, rolling instinctively, as if she needed something, anything to relieve the throbbing ache between her own legs.

Her tongue swirled over the puncture marks, lapping at them, soothing you, her lips kissing over the fresh wound before she moved back between your thighs. Her mouth latched onto you instantly, her tongue circling, pressing, curling, her fingers joining in, pushing inside you, filling you completely.

“Tasha- fuck!!” you gasped, your hands gripping her hair, pulling, trembling. She groaned against you, the vibrations sending you spiraling as the pressure coiled tighter, tighter, ready to snap.

“Come for me.” Natasha commanded, her voice low, wrecked, demanding. You had no choice. Your body gave in completely, your release crashing over you, shattering you, pulling you under, under, under and Natasha? She took everything.

She swallowed your moans, your trembles, your pleasure, her tongue still working you through it, dragging out every last wave. She moved up your body, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, your throat.

Her fingers never left you, still circling, teasing, rubbing slow, steady strokes against your already overstimulated clit. You whimpered, your hips jerking, twitching, already sensitive, already on the edge of another release.

“One more..” Natasha whispered, her lips brushing against your pulse. Her fingers pressed harder, faster, pushing you right back to that breaking point. She smirked, her dark, blown-out eyes flickering over your body, taking in the way you looked beneath her, wrecked, spent, perfect.

“T-Too much…” you gasped, your back arching, your body still sensitive, but already aching for more. Natasha groaned, watching you with hunger, her fingers rubbing slow, deep circles against your clit, keeping you on edge, keeping you squirming.

“Look at you..” she whispered, her voice thick, reverent, worshipful. “So fucking pretty when you’re like this.” Her other hand slid up, trailing across your stomach, over your ribs, cupping your breast, rolling your nipple between her fingers.

You whimpered, your thighs trembling, your hips chasing the movement of her fingers. “You’re so perfect.” Natasha murmured, her eyes locked onto you, her lips parting slightly as she drank in every reaction.

The way your eyes fluttered shut, the way your lips parted, the way your fingers clutched at the sheets. Her fingers never stopped moving, never stopped building you up, never stopped circling, teasing, pressing.

She felt the exact moment your body tensed again, felt the way your thighs shook harder, the way your stomach clenched, the way your moans turned into desperate little whimpers. You were close. So, so close. And that’s when Natasha leaned in.

Her lips brushed against your throat, right over the place where your pulse pounded beneath her touch. Her fangs ached. Her entire body trembled as she inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of your blood, your sweat, your pleasure.

She was so fucking starved for you. “Give it to me, Y/n..” she whispered, her voice low, thick, dripping with possession. “Come for me, and let me taste you while you do.” The second her fangs pierced your skin, your body shattered completely.

You sobbed her name, your hands gripping her shoulders, your thighs clenching around her waist, your hips jerking desperately as the pleasure crashed over you, wave after wave, unstoppable, overwhelming.

She moaned into your throat, the sound deep, primal, wrecked, her tongue lapping at the fresh punctures, drinking you in, devouring every drop. Your blood rushed into her mouth, hot, perfect, intoxicating, sending a sharp, violent pleasure through her own body.

Her hips ground down against the bed, the taste of you pushing her to the brink of madness, consuming her completely. She couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. You had ruined her. And she would spend forever ruining you in return.

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[vegan-peppermint]

Frost and Flour

Pairing: Krampus!konigx reader

Cw: size kink, power play, slight cnc, breeding;

Inspired by this post.

Summery: in your village, men would dress as monsters on Christmas stealing women and children and run around the town. Your krampus had other ideas.

Did not proof read, I saw this post yesterday and tried to speed run this fic for it to be ready before Christmas. Might be bad and rushed. Will edit after new years.

Word count: 4k

The snow fell thick and soft, blanketing the jagged peaks of the mountains like a heavy quilt. The air was sharp and bracing, scented faintly with pine and the smoky warmth of wood-burning stoves. This was the village of your childhood Christmases, a place where the world seemed smaller, quieter, and steeped in old traditions. Nestled deep in the heart of the mountains, it felt like a hidden pocket of time where the modern world dared not intrude.

Traditions are the heart of the holidays, the thread that weaves magic into the season and shapes the way people celebrate. In every corner of the world, they bring warmth and wonder: streets lit up with strands of melted honey, the soft glow of advent candles peaking through the frosty windows and the -oh too comforting- aroma of cookies baking in old family kitchens.

But this village had its own unique tradition, one that set it apart from the glittering cities and quaint holiday fairs elsewhere. Here, Christmas wasn't just about warmth and cheer, it carried a shadow, a reverence for the old ways—

both enchanting and a little haunting.

When winter arrived and snow blanketed the wooden rooftops, the young people who had left for the city always hurried back to their childhood homes. So did you. This year, you came earlier than most, arriving in November to help at your family’s bakery. The holiday season brought plenty of special orders, far too much for your grandmother’s old hands to handle alone.

As your hands kneaded the cookie dough behind the counter, your mind was heavy with thoughts and debates. The life you’d built back in the States wasn’t bad—a steady job, a cozy apartment near the city center—but as the warmth of this small, close-knit community enveloped you, a cold stone pressed heavily in your chest. Before sinking any deeper, the bell on the door jingled.

"Hello! Welcome to Frost and Flour, how can I help you today?" you greeted with a cheerful smile.

The man—who, no doubt, had to bow his head to fit through the doorframe—returned the smile, his lips barely visible beneath a fluffy green wool scarf.

"Hallo," his voice came out muffled, the words soft behind the thick fabric. Snowflakes clung to his blonde hair, drifting down like sugar crystals. He shook his head with a swift motion, trying to flick them off, and the gesture reminded you of a puppy entering your shop on a snowy day.

You recognized him, yet you couldn't really match the face to the name. He was the son of the lovely, old woman living on your street, Frau Lieder. Unlike her son, who resembled the mountains that surrounded your village rather than a man, Frau Lieder was as delicate as a breeze, tiny as an ant. Even though she was always quiet and humble, she'd always sit upright and proud when talking about her son, the colonel.

"It's not too late to place an order, no?" He spoke, taking his scarf off revealing his red, frozen cheeks.

"No, not at all. Come in, come in!" You encouraged quickly running to the tap to wash your hands off. "It's really freezing outside! Would you like anything warm to drink? Coffee, or tea?"

He shook his head in refusal, but the way his frozen eyelashes trembled seemed to tell a different story. "How about a coffee? I made too much for myself already," you patted your hands dry on the apron.

The man opened his mouth to protest, but you didn’t give him a chance. Gently guiding him to an empty table, you set down the coffee before him and sat down beside him, placing your own cup next to his to ease the tension. He didn’t seem eager to speak, so you attempted to fill the silence, though your words came out a little more forced than usual.

"You came a long way, didn't you? You look like a snowman," you remarked, trying to break the ice.

He only hummed in response, a soft sound, and you hesitated for a moment before pressing on. "Want sugar in your coffee?"

"It's fine like this, thank you," he said, his voice calm but distant.

An awkward silence settled between you both, thick and uncomfortable. He looked tired so you decided to give up. Not everyone wants to chit-chat, you understood that.

"So, what do you want to order?" You got right to the point.

"Oh, Ja... I need two Stollen," he replied.

"Yeah, we can definitely do that," you said, quickly moving into a list of other things you could offer. You kept talking, listing the flavors and sweet treats, drifting in how they were made and why you made them the best. He seemed taken aback by your sudden burst, but after a while, you saw him relax. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs comfortably, and took another sip of his coffee, the steam rising around him like a cloud. His icy blue eyes didn’t leave you as you talked, causing your words to spill faster. They were fixed on you with a piercing intensity, scanning your every expression.

"So I think you should really add the chocolate cookies- we also make them vegan if that's the case-"

"That sounds good," he finally said, agreeing to the order. You jotted it down quickly.

"Great choice, I'll throw in some samples of the others as well!" You grinned, excited for people to try your new recipes.

The cups were filled with coffee still. You lingered as much as you could, writing as to avert his eyes. What's up with people with blue eyes and staring like that? You could still feel his gaze on you as you re-read the same 5 items for the thousandth time.

You shifted in your seat, unsure of what to do with yourself. He seemed to notice, and you caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful tease.

You swallowed, trying to regain your composure. "No, just... not used to quiet customers," you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

He hummed, just as you were accustomed. You stood up quickly, feeling the need to escape the weight of the silence, and found something to occupy yourself behind the counter, fiddling with a few stray utensils. The soft clink of ceramic was the only sound until, after a moment, he spoke. "You going to the Christmas fest tonight?" His voice was low, almost secretive.

"Yeah, so excited," you replied with a laugh, grateful for the change in topic. "It’s the reason I came all this way!"

"Me too," he said solemnly, and something familiar downed on you. That’s when it hit you. "You're the one dressing as Krampus, aren't you?" you exclaimed, a bit too eagerly.

The surprise on his face was brief, quickly replaced by an expression that matched your own newfound curiosity. "I—I remember you," you added, turning to face him, a rush of memories flooding back. "Last year, I brought my younger sister too—you stole her and lifted her up in the air—swinging her around. She loved it so much."

"Ah, seems like I did a shit job—kids are supposed to be afraid of me," he chuckled.

You thought about the scary outfit he'll wear tonight, the furs that will coat his big back doubling him in size. How he'll run around, stalking and shouting- you couldn't help but hope he will be chasing you as well.

"Being punished by Krampus sounds pretty good, to be honest—"

You caught yourself too late, the words already hanging awkwardly between you. Maybe if you played dead, he’d just walk away, pretend nothing happened. You refused to acknowledge what you’d said, refusing to even glance at him. Faking a heart attack or any kind of medical emergency sounded plausible—anything to escape the tension creeping up your spine. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable.

You opened your mouth but no words came out.

A Christmas miracle happened right in that moment as an elderly customer entered the shop.

"Welcome to Frost and Flour! How can I help you?" You beamed without skipping a beat, grateful you didn't have to start choking or throw yourself on the floor.

As you listened to the customer and answered his questions, you felt a heavy set of eyes pressing down on your frame. You didn't look at him again, tried really hard not to. He finished his coffee, got up, and left without saying a word. At the last possible moment, the second between the door hitting the frame, his eyes met yours for one last time. And as the door shut with a loud thud, leaving a sudden silence in its wake, you realized you hadn't asked for his name. You looked down at the empty line left at the bottom of his order and wrote:

Krampus.

The sun set down, the sky turned from blue to orange and back to blue again. You had met with some friends at the small Christmas market, wandering around the little wooden shops that lined the square. Laughter and chatter filled the chilly air as you and your friends picked up festive Christmas toys, nibbled on gingerbread, and sipped warm drinks. The air was alive with the sound of the Christmas choir, their voices drifting through the market and adding a touch of magic to the evening.

As time passed and the night grew darker, the atmosphere shifted. The carolers’ songs faded and adults began to gather around the tables, glasses in hand. It wasn’t long before Krampuses started appearing, stalking through the crowd. The sound of children screaming and running to their parents echoed through the square, while some men pretended to be brave, stepping forward to protect their girlfriends. You couldn’t help but laugh as some of your friends found themselves the prey of a particularly mischievous Krampus, who chased them with exaggerated growls, making the whole scene feel like a playful dance between fear and festivity.

"What's wrong?" Your friend asked through laughter. "Come on, why they long face?"

You suddenly became aware of your thoughtful expression and quickly excused yourself. You had been thinking about your Krampus- both embarrassed and hopeful to see him again. "You better cheer up soon, or the krampus will get you!" Another friend teased.

The air was suddenly filled with the deep, resonant thud of drums, each beat like a heartbeat pounding through the square. A group of men pushed their way through the crowd, their rhythmic movements sharp and precise, their boots striking the cobblestones with deliberate thuds. Their dance was primal and hypnotic, an echo of something ancient and untamed. Behind them, two towering Krampuses loomed, their enormous cowbells clanging with a deafening ring that sent shivers through the crowd. Draped in heavy, fur-lined cloaks that swayed with each step, their grotesque masks twisted into demonic faces that seemed to leer at anyone who dared to meet their gaze. The crowd recoiled instinctively, a ripple of nervous laughter and gasps breaking the tension as the Krampuses stalked forward, commanding both fear and awe.

The main drummer, the same one who had parted the crowd in two, struck his drum with a horrendous bang that swallowed all other noise. In unison, the crowd fell silent, their collective breath caught in their chests. Yet, despite the stillness, a distant rhythm lingered in the air—a pulsing thrum that echoed: the rapid, heavy pounding of every heart present.

Thud!

The crowed took a step back in anticipation as the Krampuses looked around hungrily.

Thud! Thud!

The beats served as a count down, a warning and threat before the krampuses will be set free. You were too mesmerized by the show that you haven't realized you were being watched.

Thud! Thud! THUD!

That's when you noticed the taller monster staying still, focusing on you. Shivers creeped unbidden down your spine, cold and sharp, leaving goosebumps as they passed. Your stomach plummeted, a hollow, twisting ache of dread settling deep within you, even before your gaze met his. You didn’t need to see his eyes to recognize it was him—undeniably, inescapably him.

The rhythmic pounding of the drums grew faster, more frantic, but the meaning escaped you, lost in the haze of your thoughts. Blurred figures rushed past, their panicked shouts blending into something you barely registered. Shoulders slammed into you, hands shoved, voices screamed, everything—the chaos, the fear, the blinding motion—blurred and faded, except for that mask. That awful, looming mask. Its hollow gaze pinned you in place, your focus narrowing until it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Then, like the sharp crack of a pin dropping onto glass, the veil lifted. The muffled roars of the crowd became deafening, the banging and fireworks thundered in your ears, and the swell of scared people pressed against you, pulling you back into reality.

Run.

The word tore through your mind, an instinct louder than the drums, louder than the crazy fantasies you had. Run. You have to run.

The adrenaline hit you in full force, blood pumping hot through your veins as your feet pounded against the uneven ground. The small, twisted streets were making it harder for you, but you didn’t dare look back—you didn’t need to. You knew he was there. You could feel it, like a cold breath on the back of your neck.

You knew in the moment you broke eye contact, the second your body shifted to flee, he was already moving. His feet swept through the mud, closing the distance with the precision of a predator. He wasn’t chasing—you realized, with a spike of fear—he was hunting.

Exhaustion hit you hard, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your legs felt like lead, slowing to a near halt. Your body begged for rest, and you made the mistake of glancing over your shoulder. The street was empty—silent. No sign of him, nothing but the faint echo of your own heavy breathing. As you huffed in relief, grateful for the brief moment of peace, a hand clamped down on your waist, and another shot up to cover your mouth, muffling the scream you let out instinctively.

It all happened so fast, the way he grabbed you and spun you on his shoulder as if you weighted nothing. He ran away with you through the crowds, some people cheered and others ran away in fear of being the next victim. He ran past the crowds, past the houses and the gardens. The snow was getting higher and the lights were getting dimmer as the two of you strayed further from the towns fest.

No matter how much you screamed or how many questions you'd ask, he'd remain silent, eyes straight ahead not minding you at all.

"Please, stop! Put me down!" you begged for what felt like the hundredth time.

This time, he paused. With a grunt, he hurled you onto the snow-covered ground, your body colliding with the icy surface.

"You make so much noise," he growled, his voice low and rough. "I wonder how much louder you can get."

You stumbled onto your feet but the slippery ground betrayed you as you slipped again. Above you, the massive figure loomed, his imposing horns casting jagged shadows across the snow.

Your eyes were getting watery and your lip began to tremble. You were scared- your heart thumping and body trembling, that was fear. But the excitement that grew in your stomach and the urge to rub your legs against each other were something else entirely.

"Please," you whispered as a last plea, curling up as to make yourself as small as possible.

"Don't play dumb with me, little one. You deserve to be punished, you'll take what I'll give you and say thank you," he said.

Your eyes moved frantically from his mask to his muddy boots, then up his legs to the hard erection visible through his black pants before meeting the black holes where eyes were supposed to be.

"Please," you cried out doe eyed not sure what you were begging for.

The beast fell to his knees with a heavy sound making you flinch. You tried to push yourself further, but his strong hand grabbed at your ankle harshly. He dragged you by the foot, your skirt rising up as your ass slided on the cold snow. He let go of your leg, hand moving to your inner knee, slowly dragging his nails up your thigh.

"So sensitive," he coes when your skin reacts so eagerly to his touch. You instinctively grabbed at his hand which hovered above your panties. He paused his movement, seemingly amused at your attempt. "Go on," he leaned closer, covering your body with his own, the mask mere inches from your face. "Fight back," he breathed out a threat. "Try and fight me off, little lamb."

His hand slapped your clothed pussy, the weak attempt at a stopping him completly ignored. You let out a loud moan at the sudden feeling of pain.

His calloused hand started rubbing up and down the thin fabric. The daunting realization of how wet being hunted down like pray made you hit you as the panties became drenched.

"Aren't you ashamed?" He teased, fiddling with the zipper of his pants, tugging them just enough to free his large cock. "Being violated gets you this wet, Schatz?"

You whimper and squirm trying to get away from his touch, thriwing your hands at him- scratching and grabbing at his horns and neck.

Pathetic. That’s the only word for it. You know you’re not trying to escape or fight back. No, you’re just edging him on, hoping he'll snap and take out all his built up anger on you.

He easily grabs your wrists in one rapid motion. No matter how much you'd try, pulling with your whole body and then some, his grip would effortlessly stay the same.

"I'm going to fuck you," he announced pinning your hands above your head with one hand. "You will cry and scream and plead- and you will swallow every inch I give you."

He pulled your panties to the side placing his angry tip at the entrance. In the dead of night, under the midnight sky the lewd, wet sound of his dick spreading your juices was so loud.

No waiting, he pushed himself inside your throbbing cunt splitting you open.

"F-Fuck," you plead. "T-Too big, 's too big!" Your gummy walls stretch around his girth, causing your to choke in pain. The resistance slowly fades away as your cunt leaks more with every shallow thrust as he fills you up in ways you've never thought were possible.

"You can take it," he hissed, allowing you to adjust to his size. His cock was throbbing inside of you, pulsating eagerly. "You feel that? Feel what you do to me? I'm so hard for you, Schatz. Don't you wanna make me feel good?"

"Agh~," you cry out as you feel more of his size slipping inside your wet cunt. He let's go of his tight grip bringing one of your hands down to your stomach. His hand on top of yours as he's bullying his cock inside you. You feel him moving, the buldge in your stomach rising and lowering in sync with his thrusts. He growled loudly as you spammed around his dick so soon, moaning loudly and rolling your eyes in the back of your head, finally allowing him complete access as you cum on his fat cock.

"You're the tightest cunt I've fucked in a long time," he said bringing his hands on your hips angling you slightly better. His balls were hanging on your ass and his tip was pushing twords your womb.

If you could think straight, you'd be embarrassed of cumming just from being filled, of the moans and gasps you made with every inch he gave you. But the warmth of the village is distant and the ground behind your back is freezing, you need him- his warmth- to keep the cold from swallowing you whole.

Through teary eyes, you look at him. The faint light spilling from the village clings to his mask and coat, tracing his silhouette in an otherworldly glow, as if he were carved from shadow and firelight. He is no longer just a man draped in beast's clothes;

And yet, his gaze lingers on you, heavy and unreadable, somewhere between a silent threat or solemn apology.

It started slowly, dragging his member out then pushing it back in with slightly more forced than before. Your whole body was pressed deeper into the ground, head bobbling to his increasing rhythm.

One if his hands reached up to your chest, cupping one of your breast through the cotton material of your dress, the other digging into the side of your hip. He found your hardend nipple with ease, rubbing it between his fingers. He'd pinch and drag them only to see them bounce more viciously.

"Shush," he'd scold through heavy breaths. "If you keep moaning like that people will hear you. They'll see you spread wide getting your pussy stuffed, is that what you want?"

When his words were only getting you more riled up, he'd let go of your hips moving it to your loud mouth. He fell onto of you, his heavy body crushing your smaller frame, one hand desperately pulling at your tits while the other pressing hard on your mouth. He pounded into you like a man starved, abusing your needy hole.

You looked so pretty right now, your Krampus thought behind his mask. Your face was flushed, your eyelashes sticking together from tears. Strands of hair, damp from the snow melting behind you, clung to your face, yet your eyes were hazed with pleasure. He got you like this, so pathetic and cock drunk. You tried to say something but your words were muffled.

"Shut up, just a little- a little longer longer-," he sounded desperate, a change in his steady demeanor. "You'll take all I give you, every last drop of cum- Fuck- I'll pump you full of cum, you horny bitch," he groand against your neck, thrusting into you deeper than before.

He fucked you through his orgasm, cock twitching and slaming hot cum inside your cunt, a white ring foaming where your body met.

He fucked you through your orgasm, his dick barelling into you making sure you won't spill a drop of this gift he had given you.

Your legs were shaking around him, hands dirty and tired from clawing at the ground. His chest rumbled against your own.

After he pulled out, he shoved his fingers in its place- pushing his cum deep into you. You'd lick them clean afterwards, after he pulled you back on your feet. Your eyes tried to find his behind the devil mask, as his fingers explored your mouth.

You didn't.

The night didn’t feel as cold as before, the stars no longer just wishes in the sky, but silent witnesses to everything that had unfolded. You didn’t dare move, or speak—not before he would at least. You tensed, waiting for words that never came, as he grabbed you with an eerie calm, lifting you once more, just as he had in the beginning

[archangeldyke-all]

more blue collar sevika and housewife reader PUHLEASE ANGEL 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

i'm tapping my fingers together like an evil villian rn heheheehe

men and minors dni

in your house, the weekends are sacred.

sevika works long, hard hours, in rain, snow, or shine. she's up before the sun, and she's usually out like a light before ten.

but on the weekends? sevika doesn't have to do any of that.

so, on the weekends, you wake up before the sun, before carefully sneaking out of bed to pull the blackout curtains down. you leave sevika to sleep for as long as she can, while you work around the house. you usually manage to run some errands, finish the chores, and make sevika a nice, big breakfast before she comes stumbling out of the bedroom.

"goodmorning, love." you giggle at the sight of your wife. her hair is standing straight up on the back of her head.

"mmph." sevika grunts, walking over to wrap you in a hug. you sigh happily, pulling her tight against you, slowly working your fingers through her bedhead while she wakes up on your shoulder.

from there, the morning moves slow. usually, sevika will make you drag all the food to bed so you can eat in each other's arms. it's the one time a week you allow the pair of you to eat in bed-- the sheets will be ruined by the end of the day anyways.

you'll exchange kisses, watch movies, read and nap. and then, when sevika's really relaxed, you'll shove sevika onto her front and straddle her waist, shoving her shirt up and lathering her back in massage oil.

and as hot as all the grunts and groans and 'fuck right there's she lets out are; you usually manage to stay focused on your task. your wife really needs a massage, and you've got all day to make her moan some more.

you've gotten pretty good at giving a massage over your years with sevika. most times, she's alseep by the end, drooling into her pillow.

you don't bother to wipe up the excess oil before laying down beside her. you'll just ruin the sheets later today, anyways.

when you wake up again, mid afternoon, sevika turns on her side and flashes you a cocky smirk.

"what's that look for?" you giggle.

"lemme take you out for dinner?" she asks.

"how spontaneous." you deadpan. you do this every weekend. sevika darts forward to kiss you, and then the pair of you clamber out of bed to get ready for your date night. you take your sweet time getting dressed (sevika trying to match her outfit to yours) dancing, kissing, and giggling together.

date activities vary from picnics in the park to restaurants expensive enough they have a valet. the few common threads between all your dates are: a shared bottle of wine, footsie at any opportunity, and the two of you ending the night making out like teenagers on the hood of sevika's truck.

"you spoil me, you know." sevika mumbles on the ride home, her intertwined with yours on the center console. you chuckle.

"awfully funny coming from the breadwinner... and the woman who paid for dinner." you tease.

sevika pulls your hand up to kiss your knuckles. "you make our meals, and you keep our house clean and functioning, and you do all the groceries and errands, and then, on top of all of that, you manage to spoil me with breakfast in bed and massages and make out sessions."

you grin. "just wait 'til we get home and i get my hands on you."

sevika grins and when she pulls to a stop at a red light, she pulls you in for a nasty, passionate kiss.

the light turns green. neither of you notice. somebody honks. you break apart with guilty giggles.

when you get home, you ruin the sheets.

(and after, you drag sevika into the shower, soak her in steam until she's half asleep, then pull her into a freshly made bed to start the whole thing over again tomorrow.)

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@strawberrykidneystone @sevikasfan @fict1onallyobsessed @greenhazes @dvrkhcld

@sweetybuzz25 @sluttysierraaa

[monster-disaster]

For monsters would robots or mechs be considered under the umbrella? If so I'd love to see one of those

robot!2000 x human!Reader Good to know: smut, filming

A/N: I'm not sure they count as monsters, but we don't care about it here, so here it is:

-

"Are you sure it won't hurt me?"

"It'll be fine, Y/N," the director says, holding up a sleek, black remote. A tiny red light blinks at its center. "See? I can turn it off anytime. You've got nothing to worry about."

His words don’t entirely soothe the flutter of nerves tightening in your stomach, but you decide to let it slide. Instead, you take a steadying breath and let your gaze drift to the set. They've dressed it as a bedroom this time, with warm, earthy tones and fabrics that seem to glow under the studio lights. A plush comforter and layers of silky throws drape over the bed in the center. Their textures and hues are softened by the bright glow. It’s familiar and ordinary, yet there’s one aspect that pulls your gaze: the robot. Perched at the edge of the bed, it sits still and silent. Its steel-blue body catches the light in sharp reflections. Its hard lines and edges define a shape that’s more machine than man. Where eyes should be, two glassy lenses stare blankly ahead, they are more like headlights than anything else. There's no nose, no lips, just a featureless mask of metal. The craftsmanship is impressive, each seam welded with care, every surface polished to a mirror-like sheen, but despite the quality, it’s still unlike anything you’ve worked with before.

"It’s just a trial run, Y/N," the director assures you, a touch of seriousness entering his voice. He knows you are hesitating. "And remember, we can stop at any moment. You are in control."

"Yeah," you reply with a sigh. There's still a thread of doubt in your mind, but a spark of curiosity flickers to life as well. How would this even work? What would it feel like? Your imagination spirals through possibilities that feel both thrilling and unsettling.

“Think of it as a high-tech vibrator with some... extras," someone quips from the crew, breaking the tension. You let out a huff of laugh at the absurdity of it all but still feel yourself relax a little. Looking at it now, cold and mechanical, it’s actually easier to imagine it as an oversized toy than a person.

"Alright, let's begin," you finally say, shrugging the soft robe off your shoulders and letting it pool at your feet. Bare and exposed, you cross the set with slow, deliberate steps.

Though you've been on sets like this many times before, it feels strangely unfamiliar now. There’s an odd hollowness to the room; you’re acutely aware of being alone in front of the cameras. Each lens is trained intently on you, capturing your every movement. Before, there was always someone by your side to share the stage with.

But now, it’s just you and… it.

Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you can’t help but glance back and forth between the crew behind the lights and the motionless hulk of metal before you. It sits there, rigid and silent. You feel its presence but can’t shake how empty it seems.

After a moment, you call out, "What should I do?" You squint toward the lights, knowing the director is there, though you can’t make him out through the brightness.

"Get to know it better," he replies smoothly, his tone both encouraging and calm. "I won’t turn it on until you say so."

"Does it have a name?" you ask, stepping closer until your leg brushes his knees. It's cold against your skin.

"Two Thousand, for short."

"Still a mouthful," you mutter, earning a snort from somewhere off-set, and you roll your eyes with a chuckle of your own.

Turning your attention back to the robot, you take a cautious step forward, positioning yourself between its legs. The metal frame looms over you, so still that it feels both fragile and imposing. You shuffle carefully, aware of every inch of space, worried that a single misstep might send it toppling.

"Okay, 2K," you murmur, almost to yourself. Standing there, bare under the watchful eyes of the cameras, you feel a strange vulnerability with something that doesn’t even acknowledge your presence.

The lights catch the robot’s exterior, highlighting its metallic shell in shifting hues of steel and blue. With a slight tremble, you reach out, fingers brushing its cold face, feeling the smoothness of its mask-like surface. It doesn’t give under your touch; no warmth, no softness. Your fingertips trace along the hard lines and rigid contours, searching for something familiar, something human, or monster, that isn't there. Each feature is crafted with an almost unsettling precision, as though whoever designed it aimed to capture a form but left out the essence. One of your hands trails down from the robot’s face to touch its shoulder, feeling the ridges and seams where each piece of the outer shell connects.

"Alright, 2K," you whisper, inching closer. Your fingers explore further down, testing how it might feel to embrace this odd, unyielding body. Its chest is solid, a sleek, polished surface that feels strangely impersonal, and yet… as your hands slide over its torso, you can sense the immense complexity beneath the exterior, the intricate network of wires and mechanisms that make it tick. A part of you wants to press your ear to its chest, to see if you can hear something, a hum, a pulse, anything that might hint at life within this shell, but you know you would find nothing.

"I'm ready," you murmur, glancing up at the cameras and bright lamps surrounding you. The weight of their gaze feels heavier now as if just remembering that you are not alone. At least, not entirely. You give a small nod toward the lights. "You can turn it on."

A moment passes, and you catch a slight flicker behind the robot's eyes as the director presses a button on the remote. The room holds its breath, the silence thickening as you watch the lifeless machine come to life.

Slowly, there’s a shift. The machine’s joints emit a faint whirring sound as it adjusts its stance, trying to seem relaxed and comfortable. The blue lights in its eyes brighten, and its head lifts a little. Though you can't be sure, it feels like its unblinking gaze is fixed on you with a weight that wasn't there a moment ago. It’s subtle, but there’s a presence now, an awareness that sends a ripple through the air.

“Hello, 2K,” you say. Your voice is softer now, almost like a whisper. You reach out again, feeling the same cold metal under your fingertips, but this time, it’s as if the machine acknowledges your touch, its head tilting slightly in response.

"It can't speak yet," the director interjects, cutting through the charged atmosphere. "It can understand what you say, but we still need some programming before it's finished."

You nod, absorbing this information. "And what should we do?" Your voice is steady but laced with uncertainty. In any other filming scenario, you could rely on the other actor to take the lead, to help you navigate the scene if you feel lost, but right now, the only companion you have is the robot who merely sits on the bed, staring at you silently.

The director clears his throat, his gaze shifting from the monitor back to you. "Just engage with it. Think of it as a scene with a living character."

You nod slowly, but when you’re sure the cameras can’t capture your expression, you can’t help but grimace. It’s definitely easier said than done. The concept of treating this cold, unfeeling machine as if it were alive feels impossible.

You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the nervous energy buzzing in your veins. "Okay, 2K," you sigh again with a hint of determination in your voice. “Help me make this interesting.”

Your words seem to reach deeper than you thought they would because the next second, its, no, it doesn’t feel right anymore, his hands lift from his hard thighs, palms smoothing over your hips with a surprising gentleness.

"Oh," you gasp, taken aback by the shock and coldness of his touch.

“Told you it can understand you,” the director says with a hint of laughter dancing in his voice.

You blink, trying to process what just happened. “Yeah,” you breathe out. “Okay.”

The robot’s hands remain on your hips, steady and firm, yet the way they linger carries a strange tenderness. The cool metal against your skin becomes a focal point, heightening your senses, and making the world around you fade away just a little.

“Let’s see where this goes,” you say. “So, what now? Do you have a plan, or are we just improvising?” You mean it as a joke, but the robot reacts anyway.

The whirring sound grows louder, a mechanical hum resonating through the air as his grip on your hip tightens just enough to pull you onto his lap. Another shocked gasp escapes your lips as you feel the hard edges of his frame press against your own soft thighs. The contrast is startling yet strangely thrilling.

"We have to do something with the sound," some murmurs in the background.

Your hands instinctively find their place on his wide shoulders, fingers curling into the smooth surface of his metallic body. The way he holds you is surprisingly secure, his grip firm yet gentle, as if he’s navigating the balance between strength and caution.

“Okay, 2K,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, a playful challenge underlying your tone. “What’s your next move?”

His hand from your side slips up to your breast, gently exploring the softness of your flesh in his cold grip. The contrast of his metallic touch against your skin sends a ripple of sensation through you, hardening your nipple instantly. You hold your breath, the moment feeling both intimate and surreal as his fingertips glide over the underside, tracing the outline in careful exploration.

“Oh,” you murmur with a hint of chuckle. “You’re definitely more curious than I expected.”

You lean into him more, allowing yourself to embrace the moment. “Show me what you’ve got,” you say playfully.

Your heart races with anticipation, but his response is immediate. You feel his grip shift slightly, adjusting his hold around you so you sink more against him.

“What do you think of this?” you ask, cupping your breasts and pressing them together in a way that angles them for the cameras, ensuring they catch the moment. “Do you like it?” You try to shake off the awkwardness that comes from the robot’s silence, the lack of an audible answer hanging in the air tensely. Instead of words, 2K reaches out again. His movements are smooth and deliberate. His thumbs glide over your skin, brushing against your nipples. The coolness of his metal touch contrasts sharply with the warmth of your body.

“Wow,” you breathe out, caught off guard by how responsive he is, despite his silence. His exploration feels almost intimate as if he’s not just following instructions but genuinely interacting with you. You instinctively arch toward him, craving more of his curious touch.

The cameras continue to roll, capturing every word and every movement, but the watchful eyes are slipped to the back of your mind by now.

“Let’s move on,” the director says quietly. His voice cut through the haze of your focus. As usual, you want to follow his instruction without hesitation, but as you glance down between your bodies, you find… nothing. Your eyes widen in recognition, and confusion washes over you.

“Where- where is his dick?” you stammer, looking up at the bright lights as if they might offer some explanation for the sudden gap in your understanding, but before anyone can reply, the 2K reacts. With a smooth mechanical grace and a whirring sound, the plates beneath the sleek metal of its abdomen slide apart. His cock emerges, firm and gleaming. It juts out between your bodies, stealing your breath away for several seconds.

"This guy is full of surprises, isn't it?" You ask, almost laughing.

The director hums with a chuckle. "I believe you know what you have to do from now on."

A few silent seconds stretch out before you finally speak up again. “But how does it work? Does he need to consent? I mean-"

“Y/N, it’s a robot... he’s really just a giant vibrator."

“Yeah, but-" The longer you look at him, the more difficult it becomes to see him as just a hunk of metal, especially when his smooth, mechanical hands start to caress your bare skin. He draws delicate circles on your sides, the touch sending shivers up your spine, and gently pulls at your nipples with just the right amount of pressure to elicit a gasp from your lips. Each calculated movement blurs the lines between machine and human, igniting a flicker of warmth within you that makes it impossible to ignore the growing excitement.

"I think we can call it consent," somebody says in the background with a touch of surprise in his voice when the robot grips your hips firmly, lifting you slightly off his lap just enough to glide his cock across your damp folds. The cold touch on your heated center sends a ripple over your spine and your hands tighten on his shoulders with anticipation. You feel weightless in his strong grasp as he effortlessly supports your body, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he begins to ease you down onto his length. Each inch of him stretches you, testing your limits, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the preparation you did before filming. He slips inside you with surprising ease, filling you completely until every inch of his erection is enveloped within you. A soft gasp escapes your lips as you wiggle against him, seeking friction and fueled by a surge of curiosity. The coolness of his metallic form contrasts sharply with the warmth radiating from your center, creating a tantalizing sensation that dances between discomfort and pleasure.

"I want a close-up," the director says to someone.

As you adjust to the fullness, your body instinctively reacts, contracting around him, eager for more. With each subtle shift of your hips, your breath hitches in your throat. The robot responds to your movements, adapting to your rhythm with uncanny precision. His hands remain firmly on your hips, guiding you gently as you rock against him, drawing out moans that echo in the quiet room.

You can sense the curiosity of those watching, their eyes glued to the scene unfolding before them. It's new to them too.

You lean back slightly, arching your back for the camera as 2K's shaft glides in and out of you. Each thrust pushes you higher, and you can feel the pulse of desire building within you, throbbing and urging for more. You feel every subtle shift, every thrust, as he adapts to your movements. His body responds seamlessly to your desires. The sensation of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sends waves of pleasure radiating through your entire being. You feel like a raw nerve, perched on his lap with his arms around you, holding you and guiding you up and down on his cock. You rock your hips against him, half-delirious, seeking that perfect angle that sends your pleasure soaring. You feel him respond once again, adjusting his hold around you as his movements become more urgent, more insistent. He matches your rhythm, driving deeper into your bouncing heat.

In the back of your mind, you are still aware of the cameras filming you, and you try to do what you usually do for the right angles and records, but every fiber within you urges you to be selfish and chase your pleasure.

You bite your lip, stifling a moan as you feel the tension coiling tightly in your abdomen. Your breaths come in quick, shallow gasps, mingling with the soft, whirring sounds of the robot. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt before, a blend of raw human desire and robotic precision for your pleasure.

You grip his shoulders tighter. Your nails scratch over the smooth, metal surface. “I’m close,” you croak out. Urgency laces your voice, but before you can finish the sentence, something shifts. A high-pitched moan escapes your lips as you jolt on his length. The moment the robot's cock begins to vibrate, the world around you blurs, and all thought evaporates in your foggy mind.

The vibrations travel through you like a current, sending shockwaves of pleasure from your core. Each pulse ignites your senses, overwhelming you in the best possible way. Instinctively, you arch your back more, pressing down on him harder. The metal surface of his erection, once cool, now feels alive against your heated walls. The rhythmic buzz amplifies every movement, and with each thrust, you swear you can feel the vibration in your pussy on the tip of your fingers too.

You can’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips in a maddening rhythm. It feels as if the entire world has narrowed down to this one electrifying moment. Your breaths come faster, more desperate, each gasp mingling with the mechanical hum of the robot.

You are teetering on the edge, and then, with one final surge of vibrations and powerful thrusts, you feel it. Your body trembles as the pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and blissfully adrift in your climax.

As your mind clears enough for you to lift your head from the robot’s shoulder, you gaze up at the director, noticing that the lights have dimmed slightly, casting a softer glow over the room. “How was it?” you ask breathlessly, still suspended in the remains of your incredible release. You can feel your pussy still fluttering around his rigid cock, instinctively trying to milk something more, craving that sweet sensation once again.

The man watching from his seat smirks with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I think it will work.”

[bunnywithablogx]

Team O after dark.

“You voted O. Now you get your reward.”

Summary:

After a tense 50/50 vote, you, Su-Bong, and Nam-Gyu find yourselves with no answers, no guards, and one shared certainty—you’re not sleeping tonight. Not alone. Not untouched. Not without being reminded exactly who you belong to.

Word count- 2,741 (got carried away, whoops!)

Warnings:

18+ ONLY — NSFW / MDNI

Double penetration, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie x2, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, rough sex, praise kink, dirty talk, possessiveness, reader is wrecked, soft dom!Nam-Gyu (fuck yall my man is a soft dom) cocky dom!Su-Bong, pet names (“baby,” “flower”), nawt proofread

The sound of cheers and boos fill the cold, echoing hall with each vote, each one deciding whether you might live to see another day… or die trying.

You sit on the thin mattress of your metal-framed bed, cramped between Su-Bong’s legs as he sits behind you, arms wrapped loosely around your waist. His palms run up and down your arms in slow, lazy strokes—not comforting exactly, more like grounding. Steady. His usual cocky grin is gone, replaced by something quieter. Something you’ve only seen a few times.

Nam-Gyu sits in front of you, fingers threading through yours, thumbs gently brushing your knuckles. He’s close—so close his breath fans your cheek, and his voice stays low when he speaks.

“One more game, ok baby?” he murmurs, watching your face like he’s waiting for even the smallest flicker of fear.

You nod, slow and uncertain. The motion is more a reflex than anything else. Trust is a rare currency in here. But you’ve made it this far—with their help.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking between the bright screen in the center of the room and the guards standing at attention. The voice crackles overhead again, sharp and emotionless.

“Player 230.”

The air seems to pause.

Su-Bong’s hands still on your arms. Then he shifts—pressing a kiss to your cheek so quick and light you barely feel it. He hops down from the bed, flashing you a smirk over his shoulder as he strolls toward the walkway.

The voting panel glows blue and red—O or X. Stay or leave. Live or die.

He doesn’t even hesitate. He plants both palms on the button, leans forward, and presses it. The O.

Then turns around with his arms over his head, hands forming a big, dorky circle.

“Team O gang, let’s go!!” he shouts, chest puffed out, looking absurdly proud as he joins the blue side.

Cheers erupt from some players, boos from others. It’s chaos. You flinch at the volume, but Nam-Gyu just squeezes your hands tighter, trying to pull your focus back.

Like clockwork, more move down the line and more numbers are called.

“Player 124.”

Your stomach drops.

Nam-Gyu stands, gently tugging his fingers from yours.

“One more, ok sweetheart?” he whispers, eyes soft. “Just one more.”

This time, your nod is firmer. You watch him walk down the same path Su-Bong took—calm, confident, like this was always going to be his choice. His hand lifts to press the O button, and the light flashes blue.

He turns briefly to look at you before crossing to Su-Bong’s side. The two of them bump shoulders, sharing some whispered joke. You’re too far to hear it—but it makes Su-Bong laugh, and the sound cuts through the rest of the noise like a knife.

Then—

“Player 123”

Your number.

The air leaves your lungs all at once. You can feel dozens of eyes turn to you. Your limbs feel too heavy to move.

You stand on autopilot, moving slowly toward the walkway, footsteps echoing louder than they should.

The buttons flash in front of you. One blue. One red.

You stare.

Your mind spins.

You could press red and walk away. Start over. Forget this nightmare.

Or… you could press blue. Stay. Trust Su-Bong and Nam-Gyu. Just one more game.

Your fingers tremble as you lift your hand. Your eyes shut tight as your palm hits the panel.

A blue glow flares behind your eyelids.

You exhale hard.

The guard steps forward and hands you an O patch. You take it, silent. Rip off your X, slap the new patch in its place.

You walk toward the blue side, legs stiff. And the second you’re close enough, Su-Bong grabs you first—arms around your waist, spinning you in a quick circle.

“I knew you’d do it, señorita,” he says, grin wide and bright again.

Nam-Gyu’s arms come around you next, slower, more deliberate. He murmurs something soft against your temple that you don’t quite catch. But you nod anyway. You don’t have words. Your heart’s still pounding too loud to hear anything else.

⸻

You’d think the tension would ease after voting.

But it doesn’t.

Because the numbers tie.

Exactly 50/50.

And suddenly the room is a powder keg—everyone buzzing with frustration, anger, fear. No one knows what happens next. The guards stand motionless. The voice goes silent.

Eventually, food is passed around. Everyone lines up and is given a little rice triangle and bottle of water.

You eat in silence, back on the bed with Nam-Gyu and Su-Bong flanking you again—like magnets pulled to your sides.

They don’t leave you for a second.

Even with dozens of empty beds nearby, they sit close enough to touch—close enough their knees brush yours, their shoulders press into you.

Nam-Gyu gently unwraps your kimbap for you, offering it to you like he’s feeding a child. You take it with a small smile. He doesn’t let go of your hand even once.

Su-Bong eats with one hand, the other draped lazily across your lap. His thumb rubs absent circles over your thigh as he chews. His leg bounces occasionally—restless, like his body can’t keep still, but his eyes keep drifting back to you.

“I think she needs a reward,” Nam-Gyu murmurs after a while, voice low and intimate. His gaze doesn’t leave your face.

Su-Bong snorts. “Think? I already know what we’re gonna do.”

Nam-Gyu smiles faintly, brushing a thumb over your wrist. “A good girl deserves good things.”

You swallow thickly. The tension shifts—soft but charged.

Something electric crackles between you.

Their eyes on you feel different now. Not comforting. Not teasing.

Hungry.

After dinner, the food is cleared. The empty wrappers and crumpled paper napkins tossed aside like they never meant anything. You can feel the air shift—like everyone’s waiting for something. A fight. A scream. Another announcement. Anything to tell them what’s next.

But nothing comes.

No guards. No answers. Just the buzz of electricity and tension.

You stay sitting between Su-Bong and Nam-Gyu, your legs tucked under you, your heart still thudding too loud.

The room’s lighting is dim now, the flickering fluorescent bulbs overhead making everything look slightly off—like a dream that’s starting to twist at the edges.

“Lights out in 30 minutes”

Su-Bong stretches out his legs in front of him, his arm draped across your back like it belongs there. He talks, casually, but it’s not for the group. It’s for you and Nam-Gyu.

“She looked hot as hell walking up to that button,” he says, voice just low enough to avoid being overheard. “All nervous. All tense.”

Your cheeks flush instantly. He notices.

“You liked that, huh?”he grins, looking towards Nam-Gyu

Nam-Gyu’s smile is softer, but there’s something behind it now—something darker, heavier. “I did,” he admits, and he says it while looking right at you. “She was shaking.”

His fingers brush your knee.

Su-Bong leans in, breath warm at your ear. “Knew you were gonna pick O. Couldn’t bring yourself to leave us.”

You open your mouth to speak. Nothing comes out.

Nam-Gyu’s hand settles just above your thigh. His touch is light, lazy—but his thumb draws slow, possessive circles over the fabric of your pants.

You’re hyper-aware of every breath. Every graze. Every heartbeat.

Across the room, two players start bickering, voices rising. Someone throws a half-eaten rice ball.

But Su-Bong doesn’t even flinch.

“After lights out,” he whispers, voice low and smug. “You’re ours.”

Nam-Gyu hums, nodding. “We’ll be quiet.”

“Mostly,” Su-Bong teases, giving your thigh a squeeze. “If you can be.”

You swallow hard.

Nam-Gyu leans closer, his lips brushing your cheek, whispering so only you can hear: “You want us, don’t you?”

You nod.

But Su-Bong isn’t letting you off that easy.

“Use your words, baby,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“I… I want you,” you whisper back.

They both smile like wolves.

———-

Time moves strangely after that. Every minute feels like an hour. You try to distract yourself—lie back on the bed, close your eyes, count breaths—but every brush of their hands, every glance exchanged over your body, sets your nerves on fire.

You feel them watching you. Every. Single. Second.

Nam-Gyu pretends to be listening to a conversation a few beds down, but his hand stays on your lower back.

Su-Bong fidgets constantly. Not in the usual ADHD way. He’s wired—his leg bouncing, his knuckles tapping the frame of the bed, his gaze flicking toward the bathroom door again and again like he’s waiting for the moment to pounce.

When the overhead buzz dims and the lights begin to fade, your breath catches.

They move instantly.

Nam-Gyu shifts first—calm, quiet, nodding toward the bathroom like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Su-Bong is already up, walking ahead, shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets—but his eyes flash the second they meet yours.

Nam-Gyu brushes your knee under the blanket, and you take that as your signal.

The three of you make your way toward the bathroom together, steps quiet, calculated. Most players are already settling into bed, no one really paying attention. Except the guards.

Of course.

The stand in front of the door, already knowing what’s on the other side.

You knock on the door, a pink guard opening the slot.

Nam-Gyu speaks up first. “We need to use the restroom.”

The guard doesn’t react. Then, after a beat,

“No access at this time,” he says flatly.

Su-Bong blinks once. Then bursts out laughing.

“Oh nah,” he says, shaking his head. “No, no. I don’t think you get it.”

Nam-Gyu glances toward him, already trying not to smile. You, on the other hand, feel like your soul just tried to crawl out your throat from trying not to laugh.

Su-Bong steps up to the front, arms crossed, smirk curling.

“Ay,” he says, dead serious. “We’re gonna fuck. So unless you want us to do that right here—in front of everybody—I suggest you let us through.”

Silence.

The guard behind the door doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

Then—

Clank.

The lock clicks open.

The door swings inward.

Su-Bong bows mockingly. “Why thank you.”

Nam-Gyu snorts softly, guiding you by the small of your back as the three of you step inside. Su-Bong blows a kiss at the guard on the way in.

And the second the door shuts behind you…

That’s when things finally begin.

———

The second the door shuts, Su-Bong twists the lock behind you with a grin, then spins around like he’s just been let loose in a candy store.

“You heard what I said,” he smirks, stalking toward you slowly. “So now we better make it worth the guard’s time.”

Nam-Gyu’s already behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. His lips ghost along your shoulder, warm breath raising goosebumps on your skin.

“She was good today,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-sweet against your ear. “Voted with us. Didn’t hesitate.”

“Pretty little thing walked all the way down that aisle shaking like a leaf,” Su-Bong says, stepping in front of you. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “But still pressed that O like a good girl.”

Your mouth goes dry.

Nam-Gyu slowly lifts your shirt, his hands reverent but unhurried, letting the fabric slide over your skin inch by inch. He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, and you can feel the heat of him, the tension, the control he’s barely keeping in check.

“You want your reward now?” he whispers.

You nod. Then remember what Su-Bong told you earlier.

“Words, baby,” you hear him say again in your head.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Su-Bong chuckles darkly. “God, I love when she begs.”

He drops to his knees in front of you, fingers already tugging at the waistband of your uniform pants. “Bet you’re already soaked, huh?”

Nam-Gyu’s hands slip under your shirt, up your stomach, then to your chest, pulling your shirt over your head. “Let’s find out.”

You gasp as Su-Bong presses a kiss just above your underwear, teeth grazing your skin.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles when he pulls your bottoms down. “You really are dripping.”

Nam-Gyu tugs you closer to him, holding you upright while Su-Bong spreads your legs just enough. Your knees feel weak from him being so close, balance barely there.

But they’ve got you.

Su-Bong licks a slow stripe up your center, then groans dramatically. “Yup. Deserved this.”

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers curling as he dives back in—messy, greedy, like he’s trying to consume you. His tongue works in relentless, practiced motions, cocky little moans escaping his throat every time you twitch or grind into his face.

Nam-Gyu kisses your neck, then your shoulder, all while whispering praise in your ear. “Doing so well,” he murmurs. “You’re so sweet for us.”

When Su-Bong slips two fingers inside you without warning, your knees buckle. Nam-Gyu catches you easily, pinning your hips forward so Su-Bong can keep going.

“Oh my god—”

“You can come,” Nam-Gyu says softly. “Let him taste it. You deserve that, don’t you?”

You don’t even get a chance to answer.

Your orgasm hits like a freight train.

Your whole body shakes. You gasp, nearly cry out, but Nam-Gyu’s hand covers your mouth just in time.

“Shhh,” he whispers. “Quiet, baby. Remember where we are.”

Su-Bong pulls away with a wet grin, chin slick, eyes wild. “Best pussy I’ve ever ate.”

He gathers some of your release on his fingers, rising to his feet before pressing them to Nam-Gyu’s lips. He wraps his mouth around them without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut as a low groan escapes him, savoring your taste. Then he looks at you—dark, hungry—and without a word, turns you around, guiding you backward toward the far wall.

‘You want more?’ he murmurs.

‘Yes,’ you breathe. ‘Please.’

They don’t make you wait.

Nam-Gyu pulls his waistband down just enough, lifts one of your legs, and slides in—slow, careful, but thick and deep enough to make you whimper. He groans against your throat.

Su-Bong comes up behind you now, whispering dirty encouragements like a devil on your shoulder.

“She’s taking you so well,” he murmurs to Nam-Gyu. “Fuck, look at her face.”

Nam-Gyu buries himself deeper, fucking you slow and smooth against the bathroom wall while Su-Bong palms himself over his pants. “You want me next, right baby?” he grins. “You want both of us?”

You nod, eyes glassy, already gone.

“Good,” Nam-Gyu pants. “Because we’re not done until you forget your name.”

Su-Bong spends no time pulling down his own pants, lining himself up behind you before thrusting in, resulting in a deep groan from him, being muffled by your hair.

“Shit flower, taking us so well. So -fuck- so fucking tight. Bet you ain’t had two big ass dicks at one time, huh?”

Your brain can’t even make full thoughts, only you babbling nonsense at the feelings of both of their cocks ramming into your little pussy.

Your orgasm creep’s up quickly, the tight knot in your lower stomach tightening.

Nam-Gyu finishes first, spilling deep inside you with a breathless groan, his thrusts slowing as he presses lazy kisses along your shoulder. The warmth of him fills you up—but Su-Bong doesn’t stop.

If anything, he fucks you harder.

“Greedy little thing,” he rasps against your ear, voice low and wrecked. “Still squeezin’ around me like you want more.”

Your body trembles, the overwhelming stretch of both of them, the slick mess between your thighs, the feeling of being used and worshipped all at once—it’s too much. And not enough.

You sob out something incoherent, and Su-Bong just grins, his fingers curling around your throat—not tight, just enough to ground you.

Then he leans in close, lips brushing your ear as he whispers:

“Such a dirty little flower… letting us ruin this perfect pussy, moanin’ like it’s all you’re good for. But fuck—you’re so good, baby. So tight, so fuckin’ perfect. Made for this. Made for us.”

That knot in your stomach snaps again, harder this time, and you shatter—crying out as your orgasm rips through you, body clenching so tightly around him he swears and jerks forward.

Su-Bong buries himself deep as he cums, filling you with a groan that sounds more like a growl, like he’s branding you from the inside.

He doesn’t pull out. Neither of them do.

Instead, he kisses your cheek and murmurs, “Good girl. Took both our loads like you were born for it.”

Taglist:

@amoristt @lousypotatoes @infinetlyforgotten @mirahyun @takuma-talkz @sxmmerchxld @multifandomgirllol @gizaspicebag @trieuvietha-blog @d-dilemma @lovestruck-sky

[leighsartworks216]

You're My Favorite

Sylus x gn!Reader

Very self indulgent fic for me. Started replaying Pokemon Shield and the au thoughts have been haunting me. But instead of that what if cuddle with big man while play game??

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, cuddling, kissing, Pokemon references, literal sleeping together, rain, the author's obvious love for ghost type Pokemon

Word Count: 964

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third LADS Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form

Rain patters softly against the windows. It pours down the glass, painting the outside world in a waterfall haze. The glowing lights of the cityscape shimmer and shine in a vibrant bokeh. All the way up here in the penthouse, none of the noise of traffic and disputes reach.

The living room is dim, lit only by the light of the TV. The sound is turned down low. Upbeat music and exciting battle themes, barely loud enough to hear over the rain. Your character runs around on the screen. The controllers sit comfortably in your hands, and Sylus rests comfortably in your arms.

It’s a lazy night in. You wanted to return to a game you haven’t played in a while, a Pokemon game. Sylus decided to join you, if only to cuddle. Which is how you ended up laid back against one of the couch armrests, and how Sylus ended up sprawled across the length of the couch, his arms wrapped under your back and his head on your chest. When you get into a battle and can play one-handed, your other hand finds its way into his hair. Those are his favorite moments. Your quiet confidence or underlying anxiety about the fight on screen, all the while your fingers thread through his silky hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. You always win. He hasn’t seen you lose a single battle yet, even though you make a habit of saving before the important ones just in case.

For now though, you’re exploring one of the wide open areas. Little creatures hop around the grass. Some occasionally chase you around. One manages to catch up, starting up the battle theme. In one hit, the fight is done.

A blue screen comes up with one of your Pokemon in the center. A blue and black bird with red eyes that you’d had since the very start of the game, affectionately named Mephisto. He’d teased you initially, saying it looked nothing like his beloved surveillance pet. You get giddy beneath him, sitting up slightly and playing with his hair as Mephisto is bathed in white. In its place, a large black raven appears.

You tap against his back to get his attention. “See? Doesn’t it look like Mephie now?”

He grins softly. “It does. You were right, sweetie.”

“Mhm.” You linger on the screen for a minute, just looking at your newly evolved partner. “D’you think you’d have one of these for a Pokemon?”

“I already have one mechanical bird, and he’s much more reasonably sized.”

You snicker, finally clicking off the screen. You pick a move to be replaced with Steel Wing. Then your hand leaves his hair, and you continue running around the digital world.

“What Pokemon would you have?” he asks. He scoots himself up further, pressing his face into your neck, nuzzling against your collarbones. He’s such a cat. You almost expect him to make biscuits against your stomach.

You rest your head against his. You can feel your eyes starting to get heavy. Lids starting to droop. You stubbornly play on. Just a little longer. You don’t want to get up yet, not when Sylus’s weight presses down on you so perfectly and his lips brush your neck like delicate flower petals. A yawn slips through, regardless. “I don’t know. I guess it depends.”

He hums. “On what?”

“Whether I’m a gym leader or a normal trainer or, like, a normal person.”

You can feel the curve of his smile on your skin. He loves when you’re passionate about your interests. When you put more thought into it than others would. “All of them. What’d be different?”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, mindlessly going into menus and healing your Pokemon team as you think. “Well, if I was a gym leader, I’d be a ghost one - easy. And I’d have a Mimikyu, and maybe a Chandelure. Hmm, an Aegislash. And my ace would be a Dragapult.”

“Mhm.”

“And if I was a trainer, I’d want a balanced team of my favs. I’d still have Dragapult, and a Vaporeon, and a Mephisto.” He huffs a laugh. “And three others… And I’d train them all and be friends with them all.”

You’ve lingered on your Bag’s menu screen for a while now. You hug him a little tighter, muffling a yawn as you rest your eyes for a moment.

“If I was just a normal person… I don’t know what I’d wanna do. For a job. ‘Cause there’d be no Wanderers for me to deal with… Maybe I’d have a cute little cottage. I think if I did, I wouldn’t wanna have a fight-y Pokemon. Just one that I can chill with…”

He kisses your pulse. Squeezes you around the waist. “What would it be?”

You hum sleepily. “If you were a Pokemon, what would you be, Sy-sy?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I’d want my Pokemon to be you…”

“What if I lived in that cottage with you, as myself?”

“Then we could have a Mephie…” you murmur. The soothing sound of the rain has caught up with you. Your breathing becomes rhythmic, long and slow and even. The controller slips from your fingers. He catches it from hitting the floor with his Evol, depositing it safely on the coffee table. Your hands, now free, gravitate back to his hair. You play limly with the hair at the nape of his neck, petting the shorter hair at the back of his head. “An’ a Dragapult…”

He chuckles, low and content. He nods slightly. “Okay. We’ll have a Dragapult. That must be your favorite, hm, kitten?”

You rub your cheek against his head. “You’re my favorite…”

“You’re my favorite, too.” He hugs you tighter. “Sweet dreams, my beloved.”

“Mnmm… G’nigh’, Sy-sy…”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @moon-inthe-sea @perla-drg @leiakitty

[n0tamused]

A/n: I sort of strayed a little with this one I feel like, but thank you sm for the request, and I hope you enjoy this!

Contents: Mortefi x GN!Reader, jealous reader, reader is very stubborn I must say, not proof-read. lemme know what you think!

Words: 3059

It’s suffocating. Uncomfortably warm and slimy. This feeling that roils within your chest and throat, you’re sure you’re about to start feeling sick from the thoughts spiraling within your mind. And the lab papers in front of you and the endless sound of the machine’s beeping is not enough to distract you.

Beep-beep-beep.

Have you done something wrong? What could it be? Only minutes prior were you looking at these papers with some sense of pride, imagination running wild with the possible outcomes of this hypothesis, positive ones. Yet, they were so easily shattered when Mortefi breezed by, catching a glimpse of the words printed on top, leaving several comments of where you could improve - how you should improve if you want to go through with this. Had you had a clear mind you would’ve done as he said, taken his words as helpful advice and not as an attack on your work. But his tone remained the same as always, it didn’t soften nor did it grow warm. So it made you wonder what he meant, or rather - what he really felt towards you. The latter was a question that occupied your mind for a long time.

He moved past you to the center of the lab, nearing one of the many lit computers, just where Baizhi stood. From afar you could see them greet one another and begin to talk. And that feeling in your chest only expanded further, pawing at your ribs and making you frown at the helplessness. Mortefi looked interested in whatever their topic of conversation was, and it lasted some odd few minutes. Odd minutes you couldn’t keep your focus until both of them left to their own stations, and far out of your sight. 

A heavy breath fell from you, irritated but also… sad. 

With your mind in a strewn about yarn, threads hanging, you began to think if this work was even worthy for you. God knew you wanted it, you signed up for it, you spent nights studying and working to be better and get better than that but all that effort seemed to fall short and small within Baizhi’s shadow. And you don’t even blame her, she is excellent in her work, you don’t hate her. But you’d give a questionable amount of things to have a fraction of that sweet attention Mortefi was giving her. Perhaps you were being unreasonable, irrational - and you don’t argue with it - you’re seeing green and red everywhere, and with hasty hands you collect your papers after making small adjustments, crossing out lines of text and noting down new words. And moments later you’re off to another part of the Academy, away from Mortefi and Baizhi.

What little glimpse Mortefi caught of you as you left shows disappointment and, and in the way you held yourself he saw traces of turmoil that he didn’t fully understand from that one look. He remained at his station, engrossed in his research and unaware of the burden you carried in your heart. 

It wasn’t until the time for your report came and went. And when your break time came and went. And you were nowhere in sight.

That made an odd feeling settle in his chest, a vibration of an unknown bass playing amidst the bones of his ribcage, waves of it washing up to his neck. Unable to ignore it any longer, he bid farewell to his station for the time being, one hand buried in the pocket of his lab coat, playing with the lighter. Flick..flick..

There was not one spot in this wide and vast Academy that you could hide from him, not when he wasn’t particularly looking for you and even more so when he was specifically looking for you. He could spot you in a crowd by one lone look, to him you stood out like a flower amidst grass, how could he overlook you? Following the path familiar to him, he comes into a lab room smaller in contrast than the others, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of the center room and the halls. It is clean, it is comfortable. His eyes land on your back, your nose buried in your papers, your hands hastily fiddling with the apparatus in front of you. You barely acknowledged his presence.

As if to avoid startling you, Mortefi clears his throat, but he fails and watches as you flinch at the sudden disturbance. 

“Mortefi? Uh- What are you doing here? Did you need me?” the questions tumble out from your mouth out of habit rather than genuine curiosity. You turned to face him, brows lightly knit together and eyes regarding him with a mix of feelings and inquiries. 

“I grew curious as to where you vanished off to. Has your research been so indulgent that you forgot to eat or report in? It’s been 3 hours and some odd minutes since you began on this project this morning” he began, the nail on his thumb grazing underneath the lid of his lighter within his pocket, keeping still, yet tense in his hand. His sharp gaze moves from your eyes and down to the table you were working at, noting the sharpie marks across your paper and thinner lines from your pen, and giving a small nod at them he said: “You made those adjustments I told you about, I trust”

This pulls your attention from him and at the papers, and taking his words as some sign to move freely you begin to stack pages back on top of another. “Yes. I made the necessary changes to it all. I just need to put it all into practice and, hopefully, get the results I want” you respond, clearing your parched throat. His gaze is intense, you can feel it at the back of your head like two sharp points of a stick. 

“You’ve been pushing yourself today, unnecessarily so. I sense some growing frustration from you” he says, leaving the topic open ended, expecting you to explain yourself, but where do you even begin without looking like a fool? Like a child? 

You sigh, looking around the table yet searching for nothing as you shrug your shoulders. “No, no.. I just haven't been sleeping too well lately, and it seems that all is catching up to me” you offer a empty excuse, before reaching for a blank sheet of paper, a part of you yearning to keep him here, and the other wishing him to leave you with your own emotional burdens. “If a report is what you need, I can only offer what I have from the experiment thus far, but it is not concluded, I apologize”

“Ah, yes.. sleep. One thing that is most underestimated in its importance” he mused out loud, tone flat and ignoring your latter statement for a moment too long. He was pressing deeper into the crux of the matter, not letting you shift the topic too easily. “The report for an unfinished work will not be necessary, it’s much more preferable if you take a bit longer to get end results than to hand over a half-baked product”, he sighed, pushing his golden rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Your dedication is admirable, but we can hardly expect progress if you're operating on insufficient rest and mental fatigue”.

You have to stop yourself from either chuckling or spinning around to stare at him as if he was speaking backwards. But no matter what you tried, you couldn’t stop your heart from hammering in your chest.

“Perhaps you should have Baizhi take a look at you. She can prescribe you some soothing medication to help you sleep. But as for work.. You’re done for today” he stated plainly, looking to the side and barely missing your shocked eyes.

“What? Are you dismissing me?” you blurted out, suddenly afraid you have done something wrong or that you offended him in some capacity. He’d never send you home, especially not when you were in the midst of a project. 

“It's not a matter of dismissiveness, but rather a practical decision. If your exhaustion is hindering your ability to perform optimally, what benefit is there in insisting on your presence here?” he replied, his tone cool and detached. You blink at him owlishly, confused and, quite frankly, afraid. Previous anger, sadness and jealousy all melting away from your bones like wax over a flame. The flame being Mortefi himself. An eternal blaze that swallowed everything in its wake. You were wondering how it didn’t engulf you by now.

But in that thought alone you missed the point of it all. His flames didn’t touch you, didn’t scorn you because he willed them that way. The warmth of them kept you warm, kept you alive, kept you in this field and as his coworker, a place most others wouldn’t be able to handle. He would soften it all if he knew how, to show you he cares.

Sensing a shift in your emotions, Mortefi softened his gaze, a subtle nod of understanding replacing the usual aloofness he carried. He saw the confusion and fear in your eyes, and it pained him that he had inadvertently caused it. He knew that his words could often come across as cold and dismissive, but it was never his intention to harm or offend.

“Rest is not a punishment, but a necessary part of the work process. To push oneself to the point of exhaustion is unproductive. It only inhibits progress. Trust me when I tell you this."

Softness is undeniably present in his voice now, and your mind goes blank. Your mind was still stuck on this morning, on your project, but here he was breaking all illusions and thoughts by simply being kind. 

“I can’t say I don’t appreciate your concern, but..” you look up at his eyes only to find a scowl curling the corners of his lips, and you sigh again, looking away in embarrassment. “I can’t argue with you either, can I?”

“No, you cannot. Now, go pack up what you have. I’ll go contact Baizhi and see if she can get a check up on you before you leave”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary..” you wave your hands before you, shaking your head simultaneously to deny the offer with your entire being. “I already have some tea at home that can help me with this, no need for a check up. I insist” you try, but only get a cocked brow from Mortefi, you can already tell what he’s thinking. 

“Tea alone cannot be sufficient in treating issues related to poor sleep. Besides, it goes without saying Baizhi is well versed in medicine, and her prior check-ups of your health have been of great help to you, have they not? If tea was that simple of medicine, why have you not seen improvement?” he shot back sharply and you grew quiet, not wishing to prolong this argument further, but staying silent wouldn’t be the way to go either.

“I don’t want to see Baizhi right now” you said plainly, tone low and softened involuntarily. Your reply was met with a skeptical look, Mortefi’s head tilted in question. “And why not? Do I need to pull you to her office myself? You’re not a child, (Y/n)” he countered, not low on his arsenal of words and snappy remarks. He approached you closer, closing the distance between the two of you until he could peer into your avoidant eyes, making your heart skip a beat.

“I just.. Mortefi, I don’t know. I don’t want to see Baizhi and that’s final. Don’t make me go see her. I’ve seen enough of you two this morning” It slipped from your mouth sooner than you could pull it back, and immediately you regretted your choice of words, cursing the ability to speak. “Uh-”

Mortefi froze in his tracks, his sharp eyes widening subtly in surprise. The mention of Baizhi and himself seemed to strike a chord in him, and his stoic façade cracked just enough to betray a hint of confusion. “Hm? Have we done something to offend you to this degree of avoidance? I wasn’t aware of any discomfort inflicted upon you” he knitted his brows, looking at you for answers, his turn to feel on edge now. Were you implying he was acting out of line with Baizhi? He knew of how he behaved around others and he saw no flaws in his dealings with other colleagues, so it all left him in a more twisted maze. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, lips pressing into a thin line. “Mortefi- no. You haven’t done anything to offend me, I am not offended. I just.. uh.. No, it’s all too silly. I just meant that you two just seem to be too busy with your shared workload, and I just got tired of seeing it all” It’s a badly written lie, and the truth is bleeding through the cracks in neon colors. You’re cringing at yourself, really.. The lies you were uttering, however poorly woven, were evident in the way your face creased. He could almost hear your thoughts, almost see the jealousy and insecurity that plagued you through the lies you were trying to hide behind.

He paused for a moment, considering the situation carefully, before responding. "Is it really about our workloads, or is there something else that you're not telling me?" He asked calmly, his voice low and measured.

A pregnant pause befell your ears, only being interrupted by a distant hum of a machine outside of the room, and the footsteps of other workers in the halls. He does not push you to answer swiftly, instead he waits, patient as ever with you.

“I suppose…”

“You suppose..?”

It’d be a lie to say he wasn’t taut as a bowstring, ready to hear you out, anticipating your reply. His heart was squeezing painfully in his chest.

“Ugh..I just.. Promise me you will not be angry at me, and that you will not think ill of me after I tell you?” 

“Well, this must be big if you’re asking that of me” he breathed out. Your hesitation was palpable, and the silence between them dragged on, only adding to the palpable tension. Finally, the words came, and he felt a strange mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

“I'll promise no such thing will come from me. Your words cannot change the way I feel about you” he replied, his voice tinged with a touch of irritation.

With a heavy breath you closed in on yourself, arms folded over your chest. “I was just.. watching how close you and Baizhi are this morning and for a long time now. You always spend so much time together, and despite you and I being direct coworkers and more than that outside of this Academy, I feel.. left behind”

“You are jealous?”

“If you wish to put it that bluntly - then yes. I am”

Mortefi’s coldness and stiffness seemed to melt, the answer finally clearing up the brain fog that had started to develop in his head. Things were looking clearer at long last, and with that he also felt as if he failed you. He has failed to make you feel appreciated as you deserved, and that makes his gut twist in on itself.

“I fail to see why you’d be jealous of Baizhi, even with the time we spent together. Baizhi and I are strictly work colleagues and nothing more. You are the one that gets to be in my presence, sharing stories and desserts after work hours..” Mortefi says out loud, moreso speaking to himself than you, as if trying to figure out your point of view. He wasn’t dismissing your emotions, but he failed to grasp them within his own two hands. He had been so preoccupied with his own work and responsibilities that he had failed to notice the toll it was taking on his relationship with you. His focus had been so singularly on his research, on his partnership with Baizhi, that he had unintentionally neglected the depth of the connection he had with you.

“I do have to apologize” he cuts you off before you can speak. “This.. area is not within my expertise, per se. If I had neglected you, I would’ve liked if you openly communicated this with myself” he offered, and the lighter in his hand feels like it will break apart under pressure.  “And while I can’t limit my time with Baizhi, as it is all just work, I can accommodate you as well by spending more time with or around you, if that will help you feel more.. at ease” 

There is clarity ringing its bell over your head as he speaks, already offering solutions to this problem you made out of irrational thought. Bless his heart, for all he is cold and aloof he is ten times more kind. Snappy as he is, he means well.

“Mortefi... Mortefi, I am sorry too. I did want to keep this with myself, it shouldn’t have come to this point where you try to resolve my issues by yourself”

At that he scoffed, almost chuckling but no laughter came from him. One hand perches itself on his hip and he looks at you with a look that screams of his desire to see this through. 

“Oh, but how can I ignore it now that it is in front of me? No, that will not do. Especially since it is you who we’re talking about. You go ahead now, I’ll think of something until the end of my shift. I’ll give you a call later this evening”

Afterwards your company would leave his presence and the lab, having left with more reason than conflict, and with a mind full anticipation of his words.

And just like clockwork, by the end of his shift he’d give you a call, telling you to come meet him at your favorite dessert place. 

Mortefi is special in his way of showing affection..

He is yet to learn his way with words when it comes to sweet nothings, but until then he can take care of you and help you out with work. Whatever helps you see that you, indeed, do matter much to him. 

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

Tags: @pinksaiyans

[thenotsofantasticlifestory]

Bet

Eustass Kid x GN!Reader

Kid's all out of chips, but he finds something else he can wager against you

+++++++++++++++++++++

“Hah! I win again!” you threw down your winning hand amidst the groans and boos of other crew members as they tossed their losing cards back into the center of the table. Taking the chips greedily you snickered, noting the pouty look of displeasure on your captain.

“Looks like you’re out of chips Kid,” you said with a sly grin. Kid scowled further, brow furrowing under his goggles. Killer’s shoulder shook with a silent laugh as he started to deal out the new hand of cards. You all took your hands, and as Kid studied his cards, his expression quickly changed into something more sinister.

You quickly noticed this change, “…Got good cards Captain?”

Kid huffed, placing his hand face down with a smirk, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Your eyes narrowed, “Well it’s too bad your all out of chips then, isn’t it?”

Kid jerked, his mind quickly running as he surveyed the table. Finally, he leaned his arm forward, aiming a cocky grin in your direction.

“Okay then, what do you want? I can bet something other than chips.”

You leaned back in your chair, pondering this before a sly smile pulled at your lips.

“Okay Captain, if I win…I get your jacket.”

This was met with a chorus of ooohs as Kid’s face fell, “Why do you want my jacket?” He subconsciously pulled the textured red coat closer around him.

You shrugged, “It’s cozy.”

Kid studied you hard for a long moment before he finally spoke, “Fine,” he leaned back into his chair with a creak, “But! If I win, I get a kiss from you.”

This brought more ooohs and chuckles from the others around you as you considered this. After a moment you stuck out your hand.

“Deal.”

Kid shook it with a firm pump, his own hand swallowing yours in his grip.

“Just don’t chicken out when you lose,” he sneered.

You laughed, taking back up your hand of cards, “I can read you like a book Captain, you have shit cards.”

Kid smirked, “We’ll see.”

As the round began, the others quickly folded, not wanting to interfere in the bet you and Kid had made and curious to see the outcome. The two of you held your cards close, eyes flicking from your hands to the other’s face, studying for any sign of weakness. After a long moment, you finally broke the tension.

“Four of a kind,” you laid down the field of red diamonds you’d collected with a flourish.

Kid let out a long slow exhale as everyone waited to see his hand, finally he threw them down.

“Straight flush,” he said in a dark voice, smirk pulling at his red lips.

You blanched, shit he actually had you beat. Kid leaned back, crossing his arms with a satisfied grin on his face as the others whooped.

You scowled in response, chugging the remainder of your drink before standing abruptly from the table.

“Aw come on,” Kid called as you left your seat, “Don’t be a sore loser,” you made your way past the others in their seats as Kid continued, “No need to get all shy now-“

He stopped abruptly as you approached him, threading your fingers through his red hair and forcefully tilting his head back up to face you. Before he could even blink, you descended, lips pressing against his, swallowing the surprised little gasp he gave. His eyes were wide as you pressed against him, lips moving gently before teasing your tongue against him. With a throaty groan, Kid felt his eyes flutter shut as he accepted you into his mouth, tongue dancing along his as he thrust his face forward to feel more of you. His skin broke into goosebumps as you devoured him, the tight pull against his hair only making him harder, and then just as suddenly you pulled away releasing him. Kid’s face trailed blindly after yours, already searching for that delicious warmth as he cracked his eyes open.

You swiped a thumb along your lips with a coy smile and heavy-lidded eyes boring into his and Kid felt his breath hitch.

“Well? Are we even now?” you asked.

Kid managed to close his gaping mouth as he swallowed thickly, giving a dumb nod.

“Good, I think I’ll call it a night then,” and with that you left the group.

Kid sat there, feeling the intense heat that was crawling across his face before he shortly rose as well.

“I gotta go,” was all he said as he marched off towards his own quarters to take care of the growing problem that was starting to tent his pants.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Tag List: @fanaticsnail

[tinycozycomfort]

made by hand

pairing: contractor!joel miller x housewife f!reader

day five of @pascalisbaby and i's joeltober: bondage -> read her day five here

summary: He has nothing to offer, after all; no love letter, no borrowed jacket, no wedding ring. This is all he has to show his devotion, to seal his promise—a fist full of glossy blue and the willingness to unfurl his body and scoop out his insides just to allow you a place to lay. All he can give you is himself.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, bondage, unprotected piv, joel's pov, age gap (joel is 40s, reader is not), yearning, dom/sub dynamics, joel is mushy, fixation, pet names (sweetheart, honey, etc), infidelity (reader is married)

word count: 1.5k

rating: explicit! 18+ only, mdni

a/n: in the same universe as this one-shot but set far enough after to be readable w/out it!

main masterlist

Joel doesn’t know what he did to be able to have you like this—to be able to steal this time from you—when you have so much else.

Even worse, you’re a dream. Soft and gorgeous and strung up for him, belly flush to the mattress with your wrists laid over the knobs of your spine, gathered in a twist of baby blue. 

He sits against the backs of your thighs, his own bracketing the swell of your hips, cock bobbing in a sticky pool over the smooth surface of your inner leg. You suck in a breath and punch out a whine each time you can feel the firmness of him, grazing over every slice of skin except where he knows you want him most. 

He peers down, runs a hand across the link of your wrists, smiling when he sees the way you’ve tucked two fingers into the hollow of your palm—holding your own hand—like you have to discipline yourself one extra degree.

After taking his mouth and his fingers for as long as he’d pleased without too much push-back, your efforts don’t go unnoticed, “Go on and ask me what you want to ask me, sweetheart. Think you’ve earned that much.” 

“Can you touch me?” He can see you tug against where you’re bonded, an extension of your plea.

Joel thinks it’s a sad thing, the made-by-hand contraption he’s used to restrain you—a wide loop of tall ribbon sewn through the center to leave a pair of loose cuffs. He’d originally crafted it because he wanted to give you something pretty—a gift that wouldn’t cause concern or raise any unwanted attention, perfectly mundane when stowed in the safety of your sock drawer. It was the first for-you-from-him that went beyond his body, something he selfishly hoped could also serve as a memento should he ever become just the past.

It took him one weekend to make and two months to bring to you, driving up that long stretch of unfinished pavement and pulling it out of his pocket, red-cheeked and anxious. The seams are jagged where he spent hours sealing them shut, barreling over each other in a weave to keep the integrity, the deep color of the thread more than a few shades off—steel against pastel. He had tried to hide the imperfections, smooth side up in his hand as he muttered some lame preamble about something nicer than using the underwear, sometimes. He remembers the face you made at him when you unwound his hold, no huff of laughter at his break in character like he thought, telling him you loved it. 

It’s the only thing you use now.

“‘M already all over you; already put so much of me on you, in you. What do you mean, baby? Be more specific.” 

“I need you—need it inside.”

He tugs on the center strip—the binding—rolling a finger over the lip to tighten the slack that allows the accessory to be slip-on. That feature, other than making the contraption reusable, alleviated the issue of markings; his stomach sinks when he’s reminded evidence is even a factor.

He bends down, initially careful to keep his cock at surface level when he hovers over you, the bristle of his beard behind your ear making him sigh, that spark of possessiveness bringing something hungrier, “Say it again.”

“Can you please put–”

“Don’t be smart. You know what I want to hear; say it again.”

Tipping forward on his knees, he lets the length of him run down the crest of your ass, passing through where he can feel your heartbeat, shining folds of flesh that beg to be parted—ever the fool who can’t deny you much for long.

“I need you.” 

His chest constricts, heart dimpling underneath where you’re always holding it in your clutch; just the weight of your desire for him is enough to pull his body down through the ground, to the other side of the earth. He needs you, too, so desperately. Naively, in moments like this, with declarations like that, he sees success in all of this—sees keeping you.

Joel leans back, thumb sliding against the stripe of wet at your cunt, peeling back the seam to get a better look at the hole he wants so horribly to fill. His cock aches, heavy and hot and ready to take. 

He wishes he could savor it—tries to every time—but he never knows how long this will last. How long it will be before you attend the couples counseling sessions your husband asks of you. How long before you decide that a house and kids and the life he can’t provide for you might actually be enough. How long it’ll be before you just tire of him. So he’s greedy, takes everything you feed him straight to the stomach; he doesn’t have the patience to chew, in fear of not being able to finish. 

He has nothing to offer, after all; no love letter, no borrowed jacket, no wedding ring. This is all he has to show his devotion, to seal his promise—a fist full of glossy blue and the willingness to unfurl his body and scoop out his insides just to allow you a place to lay. All he can give you is himself. 

And he does—uses that exploring hand to guide the head of his cock to the slip of warmth you so meanly demand him to enter, so sweetly beg him to stay in.

“Again.”

He rolls his other wrist to gather up more of that silk, dragging the mess of limbs higher up your back, both for leverage and to remind you he’s strong—worth that, too.

When he slides himself in, he can feel the squeeze run through to the very tips of his toes, the points of his ears—boiling, syrupy heat that forces his body to lock up, terrified to fall over and take his last breath as a result.

“I’ll give you as much of this cock as you want, honey. Just want to hear a few little words.”

He pushes in firmly despite his threats, and so easily does he meet the end of you, apex of your womb perfectly made to receive him, like you’d been fitted for each other. He pants as silently as he can, setting aside his pleasure in favor of yours, not even to be distracted by his own voice. 

Joel forces as much of his weight as you can handle on the bundle at your back, swinging into you with the power of everything he’s too afraid to confess. He can fuck that reassurance into you, instead—make up for his inability to be confident in those more tender moments with the role he takes in this swirl of lust. 

He can tell by the way you constrict around him that you’re close, the squelch of where you meet heightening every time he moves in to the hilt.

“I’m gonna come, Joel. Fuck.”

“Don’t like askin’ twice. C’mon, focus.”

He bows again, bracing his legs so he can wedge his right arm through the slot at your hip, elbow flat to the bed as he reaches down, in. Your clit is smeared in your slick, running down from where he’s giving you everything, and thinks maybe you understand what he’s trying to tell you without words. He pushes as best he can against the bead, fingers working rhythmically to bring you there, knowing he won’t be able to take much more.

You’re crying now, it seems, from the broken shape your words take as they fall out, “I-I, Joel. I need you. Please. I love you.”

He can’t handle that, the pulse of his orgasm almost immediate, the fierce curl of your cunt around him no help. You whine under him, and if it weren’t for the risk of crushing you, he’d take his mouth to yours.

He fucks you until he can’t, until he expresses his response to exhaustion. He’s heaving by the end, forehead to your shoulder where it’s glued down with sweat. 

It takes him much longer now to come down, to shimmy out from over your body, to release and turn and fold you into his lap. 

Cruelly, he keeps the silk in his palm, thinking he can force another memory into it by making it bear witness to all of this; another knot in your ‘relationship’—as close as this will ever come to being that, anyway. 

Joel breathes at the crown of your skull, hair tickling his lips when he finally decides to break the silence, “Do you really?” And before it has the chance to be taken away from him, “I love you, too.”

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: cussing, 1st time writing marvel, set just before the 1st avengers film.

Part 2

Gilded Façade - Part 1

You wake to the scent of lilacs and winter. Not snow, but the sharp, fresh coolness that clings to old stone halls and mountain air.

The bed beneath you is far too soft, draped in velvet and gold-threaded sheets, like something out of a dream—or a trap.

Your fingers tighten into the sheets.

The ceiling stretches high above, arched and inlaid with gold filigree, starlight flickering through panels of frosted glass.

Pillars line the room like ancient sentinels. This isn’t a hospital.

This isn’t Earth.

This… isn’t anywhere you’ve ever known.

Before you can begin to panic properly, the double doors—tall enough for giants—swing open with effortless grace.

A pair of guards flank a regal woman, soft-featured yet powerful, with gold-threaded hair and the scent of wild herbs clinging to her gown.

“I am Frigga,” she says warmly, hands folded in front of her. “You are safe in Asgard.”

Your heart skips, fear flickering. “I don’t know what that means.”

Her smile is patient, but her eyes betray something heavier. “Come. The Allfather waits.”

The golden halls glimmer like honey in sunlight, polished marble and carved gold catching every beam with celestial brilliance. The vaulted ceiling stretches high above, a tapestry of cosmic stories woven into the arching stonework.

Columns as wide as trees line the length of the throne room, and at the far end, Odin Allfather sits atop a gilded throne, one eye sharp with centuries of command.

You stand near the entrance, small and trembling in the vastness. Your feet press into the rich, dark red tapestry that runs the center of the hall like a vein. Two Einherjar flank the door, unmoving as statues.

You blink up at the ornate room, overwhelmed your body almost frozen with fear. Surely you where asleep. You had fallen asleep in your bed … and awoken here, beneath a sky filled with moons. Now here you are, standing in a hall from myth, surrounded by gods.

The only explanation is that you've surely lost your mind?

Sure you've heard of Thor, he worked with Tony Stark ... or was it for Tony Stark ?

Or do they both work for Captain America... since technically he was frozen so ... age before beauty—

Odin's septor comes down with a resounding metallic thump, jerking you out of your thoughts, his single eye like a storm about to break. Beside him stands Thor, all golden hair and a half-smile, and—

Your eyes catch on the man standing just behind them, arms folded, shoulders hunched in a way that says he'd rather be anywhere else, his emerald and gold robes make him look of importantance.

Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, green eyes narrowed not in hostility but in calculation. Like he’s assessing the situation and has already decided he doesn’t like it.

Odin’s voice booms, regal and final. “You have been chosen. As the realms shift, alliances must be sealed."

Your breath hitches. “Im sorry ... I—I don’t understand, I think you might have the wrong person”

Thor smiles awkwardly, and Loki rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in his head.

You clutch your arms, trying to shrink into yourself. “But I’m not—I mean, I don’t belong here. I don’t even know where here is... I’ve never even been out of my country.”

Odin nods, but there's no gentleness in it. “Gods do not make mistakes, and you will learn.”

Your voice sticks in your throat. “Wait hold on, chosen for… what?”

“To join our family,” Frigga says more gently, stepping forward. “You will wed our son.”

Your heart pounds, confusion rising like a tide. “Thor?” you breathe, eyes wide. “I—I know who Thor is…”

Odin looks over you solemnly. “Prepare yourself. The wedding will take place under the next moon.”

Your knees nearly give out. “I—wait—I don’t—I don’t understand—I’m not—”

Loki, breaks his silence, his voice is velvet over broken glass. “You expect me to marry a Midgardian waif ?”

Odin raises a hand as if to silence his son.

"Allfather you cannot be serious? A mortal ?” Loki is clearly as shocked as you are.

"Silence!" Odins voice booms through the throneroom.

You flinch, and he instantly sees it.

Loki's words sting, not cruelly—but perhaps truthfully.

You barely reach his shoulder. You look like a lost woodland creature thrown into a lion’s den. And though his instinct is to mock, to play the cold prince… something flickers behind his eyes. Guilt? Curiosity?

“I presume you are thrilled at the prospect of marrying into royalty?” he sneers, stepping closer, gaze appraising.

“I thought—I thought it was— I only know about Thor” you whisper, looking down, hands clenched in front of you.

That startles him.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters bitterly, running a hand through his raven-black hair. “Everyone does.”

He walks past you then—shoulder brushing yours a little too closely—and you catch the edge of tension in his frame, like a coiled serpent caught in a trap it didn't lay.

"I'm sorry— I don't even know him" you mumble to Frigga.

"Don't worry dear, you will" She gives you a motherly smile.

Later that day, Frigga finds you seated in a quiet Asgardian garden. The trees are silver-leafed and the flowers glow faintly under the dappled sunlight of a towering tree.

You sit stiffly on a stone bench, knees pulled up, arms aroubd your denim clad legs, trying not to cry.

Frigga joins you with a sigh and a graceful sweep of her gown. “You must be terribly overwhelmed.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” you whisper, tears shimmering. “I don’t belong here. I don’t even speak like you guys.”

She smiles gently, folding her hands in her lap. “Then let us begin there.”

She teaches you the basics to bow your head slightly when addressing Odin, never turn your back on the throne unless dismissed, and always refer to Loki as Your Highness in public, though she adds, “He’ll hate that. Which is why I insist you use it.”

When you look up, brows furrowed with confusion, Frigga’s eyes soften. “You fear him.”

You nod, cheeks warm. “He hates me, I don't know him, and he didn't look happy ... you saw him.”

Frigga gently brushes your hair behind your ear like a mother would. “My son's heart is guarded behind many walls. But he does not hate you. He fears this just as much as you do.”

You’re silent, unsure, but her words settle in your chest like a seed waiting to sprout.

The palace gardens open out into an expansive colonnaded courtyard, the sun pouring through arches carved with battle scenes.

Thor stands in the center, laughing—booming—his golden hair tousled, his hammer slung across his back like a casual afterthought.

He’s in light armor, relaxed, speaking with two Einherjar guards who clearly admire him.

You hesitate at the edge of the marble steps, your hands curled loosely in front of you. Thor spots you almost immediately and his face lights up.

“Ah! There she is!” he bellows, striding forward in wide, easy steps.

You’re not afraid of him.

You’ve seen him before—on television screens. Standing beside Iron Man, Captain America. A literal god who drinks coffee too fast. He’s familiar in the way famous people are.

Your awe is warm, not fearful.

Thor claps a hand on your shoulder, unintentionally making your knees wobble. “Loki’s bride-to-be! Have you come to train? Or perhaps watch me best three soldiers at once?”

You smile, shy but genuine. “I’ve just… heard about you. From Earth.”

Thor beams. “Midgard! Yes, yes! I’ve many admirers there! Stark once made me a playlist.”

You’re seated on a low bench beside Thor, the two of you laughing—really laughing—as he recounts an awkward Midgardian mishap involving an elevator, a burrito, and Tony Stark’s exasperated shouting.

“And then Stark shouted,” Thor booms, eyes alight with mirth, “‘You can summon lightning but can’t work a microwave?’”

You giggle behind your hand.

Thor leans back proudly, folding his arms. “The machine was insolent.”

You glance up at him, eyes bright. “You know, you’re nothing like I expected. I was kind of… intimidated. But you’re actually really lovely.”

Thor beams. “As are you, My Lady. You’ve a kindness to you. I don't see why Loki—” He doesn’t finish.

You blink, then glance over your shoulder—

Loki is watching as you tilt your head toward Thor, wide-eyed and curious. Loki can’t hear your words, but he's been reading the language of your body.

The unguarded trust.

The comfort.

When Thor slung an arm around your shoulders in a friendly gesture, Loki’s hand had clenched at his side.

Then he’s there. Standing between two golden columns, still as a statue.

“Enjoying Thor’s company, are we?”

His tone is mild.

Too mild.

Like honey with a razor blade buried in it.

You freeze, hands fidgeting with your sleeves. “I was just talking to him… I’ve seen the Avengers before. On Earth.”

Loki tilts his head, mock-curious. “Ah. Of course. Midgardian heroes. I imagine Thor features prominently in those tales.”

You swallow. “He’s kind. He made me laugh.”

The silence that follows is icy.

Loki steps forward, slow, deliberate. “Yes, Thor is very good at… inspiring affection. Especially from those unaccustomed to Asgardian ways.”

You finally meet his eyes, uncertain. “Are you upset?”

He gives a soft, humorless laugh. “Why would I be?”

But his eyes are sharp, flicking over your face like he’s searching for something you don’t understand.

He steps around you, his shoulder brushing yours—not harsh, not cruel, but cold enough to make your skin prickle.

Frigga leads you to a chamber that is large enough to be a ballroom by your standards. The ceilings arch like cathedral spires, and warm afternoon light pours in through tall, crystal-paned windows. Everything smells faintly of lavender and old parchment.

You stand frozen near the center, surrounded by soft sighs of silk as a dozen gowns are unveiled across golden racks and cushioned benches.

Greens as deep as forests, golds like melted sunlight, rich velvets, gauzy satins, and brocade embroidery that shimmers with every movement.

A wardrobe attendant, thin and quiet as a shadow, bows and lifts one dress toward you—a floor-length, emerald green creation with golden vine-like embroidery and sleeves that pool like liquid down your arms.

You shake your head almost immediately. “I—I can’t wear that. It’s too much. I’m not…”

Your voice trembles, overwhelmed, as you hug your arms around yourself.

Frigga, who had been behind you, steps forward and places a calming hand on your back.

“It is not too much,” she says gently. “You are to be wed to a prince. You are part of this family now.”

You turn toward her, eyes wide. “But they’re so— I’ll ruin them. I don’t know how to move in something like this.”

“You will learn. And you’ll wear his colors,” she says softly. “Green, and gold. They are not just his—they are yours now.”

She squeezes your shoulder. “Let them know whose house you belong to.”

Later, you’re dressed in one of the simpler gowns—a forest green number with gold beading across the bodice, fitted at the waist and flowing in a soft waterfall to the floor.

You feel like a child wearing a queen’s costume. You try to adjust the sleeves nervously, unsure if you’re allowed to breathe in something this fine.

You catch your reflection in a tall mirror framed in silver. Your hair’s been brushed and loosely pinned with delicate filigree combs.

You look like a stranger.

Frigga steps in behind you. “You look beautiful.”

You fidget. “I look… like I’m pretending to be someone else.”

She tilts her head, voice light but firm. “Pretend until its no longer pretense.”

She brings you to a smaller chamber—your own, apparently—and introduces a young woman in slate-gray robes with hair pinned so tightly it looks painful.

“This is Liva,” Frigga says. “She will help you dress, bathe, and manage your schedule. She answers to you now.”

You panic immediately. “Oh—oh no, I don’t need someone to— I can— I mean, I can wash my own hair—”

Liva’s eyes go wide. She glances sharply at Frigga, as if terrified of what she just heard.

“My lady,” she blurts quickly, bowing lower, “please allow me. It would dishonor the household if I—”

You wave your hands. “No, no, it’s fine! I mean—thank you! Sorry! I didn’t mean—sorry, I’m just not used to this. I’m not… I’m not anyone.”

Frigga’s eyes are soft with patience.

“You are someone,” she says, “because you are Loki’s betrothed. That carries weight child.”

You glance at Liva again, cheeks burning. She still hasn’t straightened fully.

You reach out, awkwardly patting her arm. “You don’t have to bow. Really.”

Liva looks horrified.

“I—I must. He would notice.”

You still, chest tightening. “Who?”

Liva swallows and nods. “Prince Loki”

The days that follow bring more lessons. Which fork to use at formal dinners. How to curtsy properly before the Allfather.

How to walk without tripping on a train of fabric that trails like a river behind you. Frigga corrects you gently, never cruel, but always with eyes that hold decades of unspoken truth.

But it’s the servants’ fear that gnaws at you most.

They go silent when Loki enters a room.

Backs straighten.

Hands still.

Conversations drop off mid-sentence.

You catch it one morning when he visits your chamber. He strides in unannounced, robes fluttering behind him like ink in water.

The servants freeze.

Loki barely glances at them, but his presence wraps around the space like a storm cloud—elegant, biting, sharp.

He looks you over once, noting the green silk at your waist, and raises an eyebrow. “They’ve made a doll of you.”

You flush.

“I—I picked it,” you whisper. “Well. Frigga helped.”

He pauses.

"Your Highness" You hurriedly add, with a wobbly curtsy.

His voice, lower now, still cool “You wear the dress as if it where a costume.”

Behind you, one of the maids drops a cup. You both flinch. The porcelain shatters.

Loki turns his head slightly, gaze flicking toward the servant. She goes pale, then drops to her knees, stammering apologies.

You rush to kneel beside her. “It’s okay—really—it was an accident—”

She won’t meet your eyes.

Loki sighs. "They are servants, your not suppose to coddle them,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. Before exhaling sharply and leaving.

The air relaxes like held breath being released. The maid bows to you shakily and rushes off.

[misasimagines]

friendship bracelets / reader x Caleb / (Love and Deepspace)

included characters: Caleb!

rating: SFW! Completely wholesome

warnings: Unrequited yearning on both sides. Reader is a little tsundere. GN!

You sat on the floor of Caleb's living room, the sun shining through the open window and down onto your lap. It kept you warm on this cool morning and additionally lit up the project you were working on. Sunlight made your collection of relatively cheap beads and charms glint and sparkle like diamonds.

You threaded another bead onto the bracelet and held it up against your own wrist to check the placement. It was a mix of orange, red, and purple beads, and at the very center, you had snuck in two charms that bore your own initials. It looked to fit your own wrist too well so you were adding on some extras to make sure it would fit Caleb's without cutting off his circulation.

It was silly, even though you took it completely seriously, to be making a friendship bracelet for your adult, male, military employed bestie. It was even sillier to put your own initials into it as if you had some kind of claim over him. Which, as you snuggled up in his hoodie, you thought it wasn't that far from the truth. Caleb was always very loyal to you. Any request you made of him, he did everything he could to fulfill it. Any mood you were in, he did his best to match or or fix it. Anything you wanted, he'd find a way to get it for you. And the way he looked at you when you rambled on about something or even just stumbled into the kitchen for coffee in the morning... You flushed to think of that look.

It was setting yourself up for heartbreak to think it was anything serious.

You finished the bracelet and pulled the ends together, tying them so it could be tightened and loosened to a certain point at will. Slipping it on your own wrist, you tested the fit again. It slid down to your hand and you had to splay your fingers out to keep it from falling off. It made you think about Caleb's hands, how much bigger they were than yours. If you thought too hard, you started thinking about his fingers fitting between your own- about the roughness on his knuckles, the calluses on his palms, the-

Again, heat filled your cheeks and you tugged the bracelet off and began hurriedly putting away your craft supplies. Caleb was your friend. He'd always been your friend, and no matter how much it made your stomach sink, you had the feeling he'd always think of you like a little sibling. You scowled at your own mess as you scooped beads back up into their baggies. This minor craft project had really invaded the entire coffee table and a good chunk of the floor. Part of you felt compelled to quickly tidy up before Caleb got back because you knew he would usher you away and clean it up himself. He would pat your head, lightly tease you for making a mess, and then put everything back away on a shelf in a closet you would have to climb to reach.

“It's more convenient for me to put it there,” he’d say. “You can always ask me to get it for you,” he'd say. “It's not my fault you're a pipsqueak,” he'd say, and then he’d ruffle your hair and make it a knotted mess.

Why were you making him a friendship bracelet again?

The front door swung open and Caleb walked through, startling you out of your frustration and causing you to spill a bunch of amethyst and ruby toned beads out all over the floor.

“No!” You whined petulantly, watching them scatter and roll away.

Caleb stopped at the entryway, taking off his earbuds and setting them down next to his keys. He had just gotten back from his morning run, still wearing his stupidly tight tank top and shorts that left little to the imagination. Not that you were wanting in that regard. When it came to Caleb, you had a VERY vivid imagination. Vivid enough to make you blush if you let your thoughts drift that far. Thankfully, his own annoying voice broke you out of that dangerous line of thought, “Interesting assassination tactic, pips. Alerting me to the old marbles on the floor tripping hazard trick?” 

You glared at his levity, “You won't be joking when it works and you fall on your ass.” You crawled around picking up the beads and swearing under your breath when they seemed to dart away from your grasp. It's like they had minds of their own, fleeing for safety under the couch and across the room into the hall.

“I don't know, I think I have it in me to crack a few jokes even with a cracked skull,” he retorted, crouching down and grabbing up a few beads to help you.

It wasn't even a question to ask him for help, and your frustration ebbed away at the familiarity of his presence. His constant, unsolicited assistance could be annoying, but there was something undeniably comforting in how reliable and predictable he was in that regard. “You'd be making dumb comments in the grave,” you snarked, a little softer towards him.

“Someone has to brighten the mood in the graveyard,” he agreed, already holding more beads in his hand than you had managed to collect. “Unless you plan on visiting regularly to keep me company?”

You looked up at his playful smile, and he held out a handful of beads for you. “Not sure how much brightness I’d bring when I'm mourning your death.” You held out your hand to accept the beads.

“Hmm,” he cupped your hand with one of his own to keep it steady before dropping what he'd collected onto your waiting palm. “And here I thought you'd be celebrating your successful assassination.”

Your cheeks flushed red and you felt frozen in this gentle touch. His hands were hot, maybe slightly sticky with sweat from his exercise. Breaking yourself out of your Caleb induced stupor, you responded, “I’d regret it immediately.”

The sincerity of your comment left you both quiet. He retracted his hand and found an empty bag for your beads, holding it open for you to put them back.

You quickly recovered, “Besides, when you're dead, no one cooks for me. It's really inconvenient.” You carefully directed your handful of plastic baubles into the bag.

Caleb sealed it up and tossed it next to you with the others, “All I am to you is a personal chef, I see.” 

You shook your head and grabbed the bracelet, “Nu-uh. Would ‘just a personal chef’ be the proud owner of a one of a kind, handmade, artisan bracelet from yours truly?” Holding it out, you suddenly felt a surge of embarrassment. What if this was too childish?

As you began to pull it back, he grabbed your wrist and pulled it back between you. “Go on then, put it on me,” he smiled warmly at you.

You felt nearly feverish as you pulled the bracelet down over his hand and cinched it around his wrist. It fit perfectly. He turned his hand over to admire it and you made yourself busy fidgeting with a bag of fruit charms.

“I think you missed your calling, pipsqueak,” he praised you with a grin. “But…these are your initials. Trying to tell me somethin’?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, “It's a friendship bracelet, Caleb…of course the person who made it for you would include their initials. You know, so you…remember who your friend is and everything.” Your explanation sounded succinct and believable enough to you, but the soft, knowing smile he continued directing your way made you think he believed otherwise.

“Okay, okay, I get it. For a second I was thinking you were trying to mark your territory on me or something.”

Cheeks lighting up, you crumpled your bag in indignation and embarrassment because he TOTALLY read you, “I'm not a dog!”

He laughed and patted the top of your head, “Whatever you say,” he ruffled your hair even more to prove your point and you wiggled out from under it with a deep pout. He pulled back his hand and regarded the bracelet again with an expression not dissimilar to the one he gave you when you spent an hour rambling about your latest hyperfixation. “If it's a friendship bracelet, I should make you one too, right?”

You shrugged, still too embarrassed to emote otherwise.

“Teach me?” He tilted his head down to try to find your gaze.

When you lifted your eyes to look at him, you knew the bracelet meant more than friendship to you. The adoration in his face reflected everything you felt for him but couldn't say. You wanted to hold his hand and tell him yes, the initials meant you wanted to tell everyone who saw him that he was yours. You didn't want anyone else to be able to look at him and have a place in his heart. It was so selfish, so controlling, it made your stomach churn with guilt. 

“Pips?” He prompted, concern etching itself into his face 

“Yeah, sorry. Of course, I'll show you,” you tried to quickly recover, turning back towards the coffee table and finding the string to start it 

Caleb gave you a second more of his worried attention, but when you stubbornly continued to set up for his own crafting session, he turned away and dug through bags of beads. You glanced over, curious what he was searching for, and narrowed your eyes when he found the bag of alphabet charms. He dangled it in front of your eyes with a playful smile, “Better start looking for my initials now, right?”

Chewing your lip, wondering what he was playing at, you shrugged indifferently though you felt anything but, “It's whatever you want.”

He tipped out some of the charms and started looking for a C, “It is what I want. Anytime we see these bracelets, we'll know we belong to each other.”

Your face burned and your heart raced. Rather than react like an adult, like someone who could admit to what they wanted, you elbowed him in the side, “Dorky ass,” you grumbled.

He just grinned as he kept sorting through the charms, occasionally looking at your own initials on his wrist with unabashed giddiness.

[dottores]

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

summary: the gods were sick and twisted. for five hundred years, he believed he was fated to be alone. he had long accepted it—embraced it, even. that is, until a midwinter night when that elusive red thread finally appeared on his finger. but as much as he wants to ignore it, the pull of a soulmate simply cannot be ignored.

genre: soulmate au, canon compliant for the most part.

warnings: fem!reader, worldbuilding for snezhnaya & fatui & fontaine.

notes: GUYS THIS IS MY FAV CHAPTER IVE WRITTEN SO FAR HDFISHDFSUAFDSDF

THE TIES THAT BIND

It was him. Distantly, his words resounded through your head but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t understand what he had asked you—his words sounded garbled and clear at the same time, as if he was speaking in an ancient language you couldn’t decipher. 

It was him, your soulmate, the man you had been waiting your whole life to finally meet, the man that the gods had tied you with.

The man that ignored you all of these years no matter how hard you tried. 

The man that attacked you at the inn. 

Any elation you might have felt whittled away the longer you stared at him, anger and anxiety beginning to take hold instead. What had he said? The Second Harbinger? You felt unnerved, you had a feeling that you would somehow run into your soulmate while trying to find the evidence to condemn your stepfather but you had no idea he would be… this. 

This is good, the more logical part of you tried to push through the turmoil of emotions you felt, you can use his position, this is your in. 

But nothing about you was logical right now—part of you wanted to pull away, part of you wanted to slap him, and part of you wanted to throw yourself in his arms and grant yourself the warmth you’d been denied for so long. The divide in what you wanted to do had you frozen in place, unable to do anything. 

Dance with me, he had said—phrased as a question but somehow you knew it wasn’t one. 

Thin fingers wrapped around your other arm, Artem forcing your attention back to him, a worried expression directed toward you. “You don’t have to,” he said, and you swore the temperature in the room dropped at his words—maybe it was just a figment of your imagination due to the eerily cold feeling that swept through you, something that was clearly his and not yours, but from the way Artem and his cousins tensed, you thought it might not be. 

He was angry, you couldn’t see it on his face—you could barely see his face, his mask hiding it from view, but you could feel it in your gut, an emotion that wasn’t yours pushing to the surface and threatening to break through. But it was more than just anger: if you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought it was jealousy… a part of you wanted to feed into it to test the theory but you had a distinct feeling that would end with Artem being killed and he had been nothing but kind and helpful to you and you didn’t want to risk him like that. 

“It’s okay,” you said tightly, a thin and unkind smile edging at your lips as you pulled your arm from his grasp and let Dottore lead you out to the large, empty floor in the center of the room, all eyes on the two of you. 

Your chest constricted as the Doctor pulled you just a bit closer than the acceptable dancing distance as the two of you found a place on the tiled floor—one hand sliding behind you, fingers dipping low to the small of your back, while the fingers of his other hand intertwined with yours, a more intimate version of the palm-to-palm expected in the Snezhnayan Waltz. 

You thought you should feel different. You thought that your chest should be light and you thought your heart should be skipping beats, adoring and enthralled, lost in the moment of finally meeting him… but all you could muster was a sense of dread. This man had never cared for you before—not to meet you, not to get to know you, not even to give into your childish desire to play the tugging game with him. In his eyes, you had probably forced his hand by coming here, even if it hadn’t been your intention.

“What game are you playing?” he asked, voice cold and unfriendly, but you were barely paying attention to him now, gaze wandering as other pairs began to make their way to the floor at the sight of you and Dottore, the necessary signal they needed to know it was now acceptable to dance. “Dance with me.”

“I am,” you replied, your surroundings blurring again as you focused back on him. “I’m not playing games.”

You were sure that the smile on his lips would not have met his eyes were they visible. “Yet you are here,” Dottore replied, the ensemble getting louder and the chatter across the floor masking your conversation from unwanted ears. “Somehow managing to track me down so you can force me into acknowledging you.”

You couldn’t bite back the scoff that rose to your chest. “How self important,” you said coolly. “Do you really think I have any interest in meeting you after all the years you spent ignoring me?”

You did, you corrected yourself silently, but he didn’t have to know that. It was humiliating enough to admit to yourself that even after all of the blatant neglect and lack of interest, you still had longed for meeting him, no matter how far down you might’ve pushed that desire. 

His lip twitched—the only physical reaction you managed to draw from him thus far but even then, you couldn’t tell if he was irritated or surprised. “Then why are you here?” he asked and for a moment, you regretted your quick tongue. You should have gone along with the lovesick soulmate act so that you would have an excuse as to why you had come to Snezhnaya but you were more focused on your pride than your mission. 

Now, you fumbled—a damning mistake—as you said: “None of your business.”

“Ah, but alas it is my business,” Dottore did not fumble like you did, an empty smile painted on his lips as he watched you from beneath the mask. You felt uncomfortable, you didn’t like not being able to see people’s eyes when you spoke to them. “You see, I was sent to figure out why you are here and if your answer is not to my liking, I am meant to… dispose of you. Now, if you would like me to help you, I suggest you answer my question.”

You took in a sharp breath—one that you couldn’t quite hide from him as you realized that you had been wrong. You had hoped that the eyes you had felt on you earlier were just him, that he had been the one to recognize you, but this confirmed that was not the case. The other Harbingers knew who you were and suddenly, the room felt all the more suffocating. 

Dottore leaned down, lips brushing your ear and breath warm against your skin. “Don’t you feel their eyes on you?” he murmured. “They’re waiting for my decision, I do implore you to start speaking.”

He leaned back just a bit but now you couldn’t keep your eyes trained on his face, too aware of all of the gazes set on you. You could feel Artem’s eyes heavy on you from the other side of the room, they hadn’t left your body once since Dottore had led you to the dancefloor, following the two of you as you spun across the floor in step with the other partners, but he wasn’t the only one. 

Your eyes flickered behind Dottore to where the dark haired girl dressed in white was sitting at the piano, fingers flying across the keys as she played an eerie tune that didn’t quite match the tempo or energy of the Snezhnayan Waltz—the lace over her eyes blocked them from sight but her head was turned in the direction of the two of you. A taller woman with silvery hair leaned on the instrument next to her, blatantly watching the two of you. 

There were too many eyes on you—even who you could assume were newly promoted Fatui captains were glancing your way, the other pairs on the dancefloor kept sparing looks in your direction, giving you a wide berth. You thought you were used to the feeling of being watched, after all in Fontaine, you couldn’t even step outside your quarters without the eyes of justice bearing down on you.

Dottore suddenly cleared his throat, forcing your attention back to him. “Is it not common courtesy to give your dancing partner your full attention?” he drawled. 

“Clearly you’re undeserving of my attention considering you can’t even hold it,” your tongue lashed before you could think. Instead of regretting your words, you doubled down. “It appears you’re not fond of being ignored, how fascinating.” 

How hypocritical, you didn’t have to speak what you meant for him to understand. Dottore let out a huff of amusement but you knew very well that he was not amused if the way his hand tensed on the small of your back had anything to say about it. 

“How ungrateful,” Dottore said quietly, the empty smile on his lips not faltering for even a second, “even when I’m going out of my way to try to make sure you stay alive.”

“We both know that you only want me alive for your own sake,” you countered, taking a small leap in speculation. You knew he didn’t care for you but the consequences of losing a soulmate could range from dire to lethal, if you knew anything about him, you knew that was not something he would want to risk. 

“Clearly I did not ignore you well enough.” 

The smile finally fell—he didn’t like that you could read him the way that you were, although you would argue that you weren’t reading him at all, just placing together the few puzzle pieces he had left for you to complete a small section, the majority of the puzzle was still empty. 

“You-” you began, but you were forced to cut yourself off, eyes darting down as you realized that Dottore had purposefully taken a wrong step in the waltz—subtle enough so that others wouldn’t notice his fault, but just enough so that if you took the correct step, you would twist your ankle over his foot. 

He’s trying to make a fool out of you, fury flooded you at the realization, shifting your foot just to the right so that you could avoid his. The next step of the dance, a half-spin of a turn, was jerky and sharp because of it, veering off track and into the path of a nearby woman and her partner, who were forced to scramble out of your way or risk drawing the Doctor’s ire.

Dottore’s lip twitched up when he realized that you hadn’t fallen for his trick and the waltz continued smoothly, returning to the graceful spins and turns and steps that the two of you had been dancing in tune with before his attempt at making you humiliate yourself. 

“I’ve been patient enough,” he said. “It’s time for you to answer my question.”

Your lip curled in annoyance, searching for an answer to give him before your silence became prolonged and suspicious.

“I’m looking for something,” you said simply. This time, you didn’t have to look down to know he had taken another false step—instead of having to shift at the last second and fall into another jarring turn, you altered the direction of the turn, spinning out just a bit further than was expected of the dance and forcing him to follow. 

“For what?” Dottore didn’t give you a second to recuperate or think and you forced yourself not to bite the inside of your cheek, irritated at the game he was playing no matter how much he might deny playing one should you ask. He was forcing you to focus more on the dance with his purposefully wrong steps so you couldn’t concentrate on coming up with coherent lies. 

For what? That was the question. What should you tell him? The truth? What would he do with it? Could you trust him? You doubted it, but you could trust in his self-preservation at least—you didn’t think he would do anything to damn you because that would mean damning himself. But would he get in your way? Maybe, if only to see you stumble. 

Finally, you spoke, and the words felt weighted on your tongue, mouth dry: “The Fatui killed my father.”

“And you’ve come for evidence. How noble,” Dottore mocked you—if he hated how you could deduce that he didn’t care for your survival beyond for his own sake, you hated even more that he had put together your whole reason for being in Snezhnaya just from the one sentence. “The Hydro Archon is so arrogant that she fails to see foreign threats within her own walls, forcing you to venture into a den of wolves to acquire the proof yourself. What a magnificent god.”

Again, you found sharp words leaving your lips in defense of your nation and Archon: “Perhaps the Hydro Archon is not the only god blind to threats,” you noted off-handedly at the hypocrisy, dancing around another targeted step and forcing another pair of dancers to dodge the two of you—the Hydro Archon might be blind the Snezhnayan spy that was your stepfather, but at least there wasn’t an entire organization working beneath her nose and in her court. 

“What exactly does that mean?” Dottore asked—was that confirmation that the Harbingers were unaware of the masked group that had approached you and the aristocrats? Or was it just Dottore trying to figure out how much you knew? Or maybe it was both. 

“Take it as you will,” you answered, eyes narrowing as instead of continuing the dance, he came to a stop in the middle of the floor.

His hand was still pressed to your lower back, holding your body close to his even as you tried to step away. You hated how you had to turn your head up to look at him and you hated the smirk that spread across his face as he looked down at you. Distantly, you noticed that the music had come to an end as the ensemble prepared for another dance. 

“You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment of silence, releasing your hand only to bring his to your face when you looked away. He used two fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head up in his direction, forcing you to look at him. “I’ll find you again.”

A promise or a threat? You couldn’t tell, throat thick and swollen as he stood straight again, stepping away from you and looking behind you. You looked over your shoulder, eyes falling upon Artem as he walked up to the two of you. 

“Your second dance?” he asked quietly, holding his hand out toward you. You took the escape gratefully and yet somehow, a part of you felt empty as soon as you stepped away from Dottore, a primal and fundamental part of you knew you were meant to be with him and was unhappy with your decision.

You wondered if he felt it too. 

“Are you okay?” Artem questioned as soon as your hand was in his and you stood in position for the next dance—an acceptable distance, unlike how close Dottore had drawn you in. 

You glanced back to look at him as you murmured out a ‘yes’ to Artem, but he was already gone.

His hands were tingling. 

This wasn't right, he wanted to spit out in protest of the way his body was reacting to you—itching to walk back over and rip you away from the Snezhnayan aristocrat who had the audacity to lay hands on what was his. 

His. The word echoed through his head, condemning—he was already beginning thinking like them, like a mortal, an irrational beast that cared for naught but personal pleasure, latching onto someone with the barest interaction. But no matter how much he tried to deny the attachment, his body was betraying him, begging him to turn back for another dance so he could feel your skin against his again.

He thought it might be different, he had abandoned his original body for an artificial one. He thought it could lessen the effects of the bond but he should’ve known better—having an artificial body did not change the fact that his mark had appeared on him, it didn’t change the fact that there was a thread connecting him to you. 

He should’ve known this would only make it worse. 

Dottore didn’t dare look back, no matter how much his body ached for one last look, he needed to retain some semblance of control over himself and he knew that if he looked back now, he would not like what he saw. His teeth ground together at the thought, scraping against his tongue. He imagined the aristocrat’s hand inching down your back, his fingers intertwined with yours. He imagined your body pressed close to his—a slower song was playing, a more intimate one, one that he should be dancing with you to.

As soon as the final thought crossed his mind, he nearly rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he made his way toward the other Harbingers.

“You looked like you enjoyed yourself,” one said, voice cold and mocking, Dottore’s eyes lifted to Arlecchino.

“Thoroughly,” Dottore replied, dry and sarcastic to mask the fact that yes, he had enjoyed his dance with you.

You were not what he expected. Your tongue was sharp and violent whereas he had thought you to be a docile noble girl, sheltered in the palace of Fontaine City. He could still see that part of you, thinly veiled behind the anger in your eyes; the part of you that longed for the sanctity of the bond between a fated pair, the part of you that still had hope things could work out. He wondered if that was the part of you that you showed to everyone else, the gentleness and the kindness. He thought so, if the way you looked at Artem Melnyk had anything to say about it. 

Then, he wondered if your violence was reserved only for him—for some reason, the thought left him pleased, smothering the way the corner of his lips twitched up. 

“Well?” Sandrone said sharply, garnering the attention of the Harbingers in the area. To Dottore’s absolute displeasure, he noticed that both the Balladeer and the Friar had come closer to listen in, two wolves drawn in by the scent of blood. 

You could keep up with him too, every attempt he had made to make you stumble, you caught and readjusted. He had never met anyone that could keep up with him the way you were able to—most didn’t even dare to try, backing down at the mere sight of him, and those that did tended to not be able to hold their bravado for long—even if it was just boldness because you knew that as your soulmate, it’d be unlikely he would do anything to put you at risk.

“A fawn,” Dottore told her coolly, “just as I said. You wasted my time, and my patience. You can explain to the Jester why I decided to leave the event early.”

Dottore thought you were closer to a wolf pup than a fawn, bearing your teeth against greater predators instead of fleeing because you thought yourself more dangerous than you really were—he wasn’t going to tell them that though.

Sandrone did not look convinced at his words. “Perhaps I should go talk to her,” she said doubtfully. 

Unamused, Dottore turned his full attention onto her. “You doubt me?” he asked, an edge to his tone that he dared her to push further. Sandrone looked at him but didn’t respond, he continued: “All she cared for was her first dance with her fiancé being interrupted. Air-headed and dimwitted—whatever you think that girl is, she is not.”

Dottore studied Sandrone from beneath his mask, wondering if she would push even further, but she only shook her head and walked away in the direction of the Captain, clearly unhappy but dropping it, for now at least. 

Perhaps the Hydro Archon is not the only god blind to threats, your words ran through his head again as Sandrone pushed past him. What did you mean? It was a dig at the Tsaritsa, that much was certain but what threat was the Fatui missing that was within their own walls? Could it be the aristocrats? If so, you were a fool to think that they weren’t addressing the more hostile families already… but somehow, Dottore knew that you were talking about something else, something far more worrisome. 

… and that begged the question of how you even knew of it when they, clearly, did not.  

Finally, Dottore’s gaze drew back to the dance floor where you were dancing slowly with the dark-haired aristocrat, arms draped around his shoulders as you swayed to the slow music. You were talking quietly to him, hushed, heads leaned into each other so no one could overhear the two of you. You looked far more at ease with him than you had been with Dottore, your shoulders lax instead of tense, your body loose instead of stiff. That feeling from before—ugly and green—resurfaced. 

“Sandrone,” Dottore finally said, stopping the lower-ranked Harbinger in her tracks, “if you’re so suspicious of her, then why don’t we keep her in the palace for a few days under observation? That way, we can figure out whether or not Fontaine is declaring war or not and handle it duly.”

A risk, Dottore noted, they’re going to wonder why he cares so much, but he thought it was a worthy one. He could knock two birds with one stone: separate his soulmate from her apparent fiancé and try to figure out what the cryptic comment meant. He couldn’t help but notice the long look exchanged by Arlecchino and Brighella, as if they knew something that he did not.

Sandrone hesitated, eyes narrowing for a moment before she nodded, “I think that’s a good idea.”

“And who, exactly, is going to care for this girl?” Brighella, voice high and reedy, interjected himself into the conversation. “Heh… if you’d like-”

“I’ll do it,” another voice interrupted as fury knotted Dottore’s insides so intensely that he thought he might lash out at the vulture. Pantalone was the one to step forward, eyes turned upward and a thin smile pulled tight across his lips, “I’d like to pick at her brains for her thoughts on the aristocrats anyway. I’m sure she’ll have some sort of insight.”

Dottore watched Pantalone carefully, trying to figure out what sort of game he was playing. He made sure that she wasn’t killed on the spot before—not that Dottore would have let that happen, but he would’ve been forced to reveal who exactly you were to him and he didn’t want to open up that weakness. He wanted something and from the way his smile fell and his violet eyes went cold, looking at Dottore as the Harbingers began talking amongst each other, he knew it was nothing good. 

Irritated, Dottore cast a cold look in your direction—one way or another, he was constantly being backed into a corner because of you. But looking at you was a mistake, evidently, because the annoyance swelled as he watched the aristocrat smile at you as you swooped under his arm in a dramatic spin.

Dottore shook his head as he looked away, rolling his eyes beneath his mask as he stifled the vile emotions rearing their head at the sight. As he turned his attention back to the discussion at hand, listening to them talk about the approaching missions, Dottore wondered if he should try to make his exit now, leave Pantalone to deal with her now that he had kindly offered to—the less interaction with her, the better, he thought, even though his body shrieked in protest—and he wanted to get back to the lab anyway. The Theta segment was down there alone and quite frankly, he didn’t trust him around his stuff. 

Alas, he did not get the chance to slip away. As he moved to turn, he noticed that Pantalone was nodding for him to follow.

Dottore bit back a sigh—you, Pantalone, the other Harbingers—this was all going to cut into his research, he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to get anything done for quite a bit. 

“What was that all about?” Artem asked you quietly as the music began to pick up again, masking your voices—it was a slower dance, one that was far less demanding than the waltz with the Doctor, who had you struggling to keep up mentally and physically. 

You were lucky that Miss Elyna had been so strict with your dancing lessons, not only did she prepare you by teaching you all of the popular dances amongst aristocrats across the seven nations but she also forced you to know how to dance with an incompetent partner so that the you were not made to look like a fool in public. 

Dottore was not an incompetent partner by any means, but he surely was a malicious one. 

“They’re suspicious of me,” you said softly, watching his expression twist into one that bordered between shocked and horrified, confirming what you already knew—you were not in a good place. 

But he didn’t know that you weren’t in the worst place, you couldn’t tell him about your relationship to Dottore. You didn’t know how he would react and you needed him on your side for the duration of this event. You figured that Dottore wouldn’t let them kill you, at least for his own sake, but there were fates worse than death and the thought of that made your skin crawl.

“After this song, we’ll head over to my father, I’ll ask him what to do,” Artem said, nodding to himself. “They can’t do anything, not without risking our support and our support is the only support they have amongst all of the Snezhnayan nobles. So unless they want every single aristocratic family against them…”

Your eyes drew across the room briefly, at the captains and the elite members of the Fatui lingering around the floor and dancing with their partners, at the Harbingers still lurking on the outskirts of the room, some still looking in your direction. There were so many of them and you didn’t have to face them in combat to know that they were all strong, the Harbingers alone reeked of power.

“... if you tell your father, he’ll be upset,” you finally said, voice low—you hadn’t phrased it as a question but you supposed it was one.

“He’ll be livid,” Artem confirmed, jaw tightening. “They… they all think that I’m going to propose to you soon—they were upset that I hadn’t introduced you sooner but they’ve been waiting for me to get married for three years now. If the Fatui try to do something to you…”

Maybe you shouldn’t say anything then, you wanted to say, but the words were stuck in your mouth. The Fatui were strong, you thought again. Artem had claimed that they host these events as a show of power, to force the aristocrats to understand just who they were dealing with, and even from this glimpse you knew that the threat the Fatui posed was beyond anything that the elites of the Fontaine court and the Hydro Archon imagined. 

You wondered, then, why did they not take control of Snezhnaya through sheer force alone? They could do it, surely, the Harbingers themselves could probably handle it on their own. You figured that the aristocrats held a lot of sway amongst the common people—if it was anything like the structure of the Fontaine countryside where each town was centered around one of the aristocrats' estates—and from there, you could assume that the Fatui did not want to rule their own people through fear. 

But you feared that if push came to shove, the Fatui would have no issue slamming their iron fist down upon the people of Snezhnaya and if that was the case, you didn’t want that blood on your hands because Artem had rushed to the defense of a girl he barely knows… especially because you thought if he knew who exactly your soulmate was, he wouldn’t be so quick to help you. 

“Don’t tell them,” you finally said, mouth dry, glancing away as you continued, “whatever happens, I’ll deal with it. Don’t risk pissing the Fatui off even more.”

Artem’s brows knit together. “What?” he asked, voice hushed. “You have no idea what they’re capable of, what they’ll do to you and if the Doctor of all Harbingers is interested in you then-”

“I’m not a helpless girl, Artem,” you said sharply, careful to keep your voice low. “I will do what I must to survive, you need to focus on…”

Your family, the other nobles, this organization that’s pulling all of the strings. Let me deal with this, it’s my mission.

Artem didn’t look happy, shaking his head again. “I didn’t say you were helpless,” he said, lowering his voice even more as he leaned his head down to you. To all others, you thought it probably looked romantic, but you could feel his arms tense around you, “but you can’t do this alone. They’ll find you out and-and you don’t want to know what they’ll do when they do.”

There was a haunted expression on his face, as if he had personal experience with the Fatui and what they would do to the people that actively worked against them. There was a pit in your stomach as you looked away—guilt, anxiety, maybe something else or a combination of both, knowing who your soulmate was and how even though Artem was terrified of him, he still was trying to defend you against him. 

“I need to use the restroom to freshen up,” you said, changing the subject abruptly—you didn’t want to talk about this anymore, if the Fatui were already onto you, you were running out of time to do what you needed to do. 

You didn’t want to rely on Dottore, not if you didn’t have to. 

Artem stared at you for a long moment before sighing, arm slipping around your waist as he guided you back to the front of the room toward the wide double doors that led to the entrance hall, “There’s only two ways in and out of here, the only other way…”

You glanced backward to another door on the opposite side of the room—the only way to get to it would be to walk past several Harbingers and that was simply not going to happen, not when a few of them were clearly suspicious of you already. You could only hope that they missed you slipping out of the hall but somehow, you doubted they would. 

Reaching the doors, you raised your eyebrows when neither of the Fatui subordinates moved out of your way. Artem stepped forward, slightly in front of you.

“Is there an issue?” Artem asked coldly, motioning to the door. “Are the hinges not working properly? They seemed just fine before. My lady needs to freshen up.”

The two men exchanged a long look with one another before shifting out of the way, albeit a bit reluctantly. You looked back at Artem, squeezing his arm, “I’ll be right back.”

And if I’m not, don’t come looking. 

“They’re a lovely couple, hm?” Pantalone smiled as the two of them walked the length of the ballroom. Dottore’s jaw clenched, irritation skyrocketing when he continued, “They look very happy together, don’t they?”

“Very,” Dottore agreed dryly, not letting the man get a rise out of him like he wanted, but unlike Pantalone, he did not look in your direction. 

Instead, he kept his gaze trained forward, mind-racing as he tried to figure out what Pantalone might want from him. If he had to guess, it was going to be something with the residue research and creating a stronger delusion for him but the man was as unpredictable as the wind—there was no telling what demands would spew from his mouth. 

“Do you think that’s why she was ignoring you?” Pantalone asked, trying to gossip like a pair of old wives as if they weren’t talking about his soulmate. “She finally found someone better and doesn’t want anything to do with you?” 

Dottore didn’t think that was the case. He finally looked back over to where you were dancing with the aristocrat. You looked comfortable with him, but not happy, and you looked safe with him, but not hopeful—not the way you had been with him, at least. You had been tense and stressed but there was no denying that lingering hope that swam behind your eyes, as much as you tried to hide it with your sharp tongue and harsh jabs. 

Dottore had never been able to read people well—he compensated with intimidation—but it came naturally when looking at you, probably because of the bond. He didn’t know whether or not to be appreciative of it or to resent it because you could clearly read him as well as he could read you and the thought of that left him uncomfortable.

“No,” Dottore finally said after a few moments of silence. “I think she was ignoring me to be petty.”

It appears you’re not fond of being ignored. How fascinating. 

He had recognized the underlying message, calling him a hypocrite—he wouldn’t put it past you to have spent the past two weeks ignoring him after he finally reached out to you just to be spiteful.

“Not quite the air-headed and dimwitted fawn you described to the others then,” Pantalone drawled, smile widening as he finally looked at Dottore. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t say anything… but there’s no way the others will fall for the facade once they realize who she is to you. Anyone fated to you is bound to be closer to monster than man.”

That was unacceptable. His chest tightened at his words, a foul feeling swirling his insides. It was not about the implied insult to him, nor was it about the subtle threat of the other Harbingers finding out who you were to him—it was the insult to you, the mocking comment Pantalone made calling you closer to monster than man. That was not acceptable.

And then he realized what he was doing, getting defensive over you for no reason at all. Careful, he told himself, this was what he hadn’t wanted. 

He pushed it away, again, focusing on the issue at hand. 

“Was she everything you hoped?” Pantalone pressed, a sardonic smile twisting his lips as he watched you.

More, Dottore answered silently. You were beyond anything he had imagined, but he kept his answer to himself, “What do you want, Regrator?”

“Fair exchange,” Pantalone spoke of the policy he had lived by since the day Dottore met him and Dottore knew that he wasn’t going to like this. Pantalone’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of it, that thin thread of control waning as it always did when he got the upperhand on someone. “I am owed. Our previous exchange has been fulfilled—you brought me into the Fatui and helped me obtain my position, I gave you better funding and support in meetings. This is the start of a new exchange. Twice now, I’ve protected her and now, I’ve brought her in so that you weren’t exposed. I am owed.”

“What do you want?” Dottore repeated again, unperturbed by Pantalone’s demeanor, wanting to get this conversation over with. “The residue research? One of my segments to help with your missions?”

“The prototype for the new delusion,” Pantalone said. Dottore raised his eyebrows—it’s a prototype for a reason, on his lips but he decided against it. If the Regrator wanted to use the prototype, all the better for Dottore: he would be able to study how he reacts to it, and how it reacts to him. “And a branch of the Northland Bank in Fontaine City.”

Dottore tilted his head, “How exactly do you expect me to help with that? Just take one of the segments and tell them what to do.”

Pantalone smiled again but this time, it was colder—the same smile he directed at the other Harbingers when they pissed him off. His head turned in the direction of where you were dancing with the aristocrat and then he asked, voice amused: “You didn’t think I was helping her for your sake, did you?”

There it is. 

Dottore stared at Pantalone emptily from beneath his mask. He had expected this from the moment he had initially offered his help in finding you, he knew there would be a catch but he did not think it would have to do with you. 

A branch of the Northland Bank set up in Fontaine City. What would that entail from you? Information on the court that only the upper echelon of aristocrats would know? Weaknesses and holes in their defenses? Either way, it would entail betraying your nation and he had a feeling you wouldn’t do that… which meant he would somehow have to get the information from you to pass it on to Pantalone, which meant he would have to betray you. For some reason, the thought left him feeling uneasy. 

“Very well,” he agreed. “Consider it done.”

Pleased, Pantalone looked back out to the ballroom floor.

“Oh?” he noted. “She’s on the move.”

Dottore’s head snapped to the side, eyes searching the floor until they landed on where the aristocrat was leading you through the hall and to the entrance of the room.

What were you doing? He had a bad feeling, exhaling as he waited. Were you really going to go out and try to find the evidence you wanted now? Right after he had told you that the Harbingers have their eye on you? You couldn’t be that stupid… unless you were trying to rush to do it before he could get involved but that would be ridiculous.

Dottore’s eyes followed you until the doors of the ballroom shut behind you and you were gone from sight. He didn’t bother explaining to Pantalone where he was going, turning on his heel and made his way to the door on the opposite side of the room, closer to where he and Pantalone were standing.

The Fatui subordinates scattered at his approach, allowing an easy exit for him. Pantalone followed, much to his distaste, but he supposed this way it didn’t look as suspicious. As soon as he pushed the door open, a rush of cold air met him—a welcome escape from the stuffiness of the ballroom and the endless chatter of the aristocrats and the music and all of the overwhelming noise.

The hall was dimly lit by candles mounted on the walls, there was no one in the hall besides them—Dottore assumed that you had turned down the hall on the right instead, heading to the washroom. 

Was that what you were doing? Faking going to the washroom so you could slip away and search? Why weren’t their subordinates lining the halls to make sure people couldn’t do that? 

“Are you going after her?” Pantalone asked, amused, slinking up beside him. Dottore gave him a cold look from the corner of his eye. “Relax, I won’t interfere.”

Dottore wasn’t sure how much he believed that but he didn’t have time to call him out for it. He wanted to get to you before you did something stupid. He gave Pantalone one last look before making his way down the hall in the direction of the washroom, turning left down two different halls until he was on the opposite side of the ballroom—just as he came to a stop outside of the door, it opened.

“There you are.”

REBLOGS APPRECIATED

[readerforexiao]

𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐈𝐬 𝐇𝐞: 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧, 𝐌𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

I looked into his eyes and the world unfurled. I felt love take root, undying and true, immortal. As if time bent to make room for what bloomed in my chest. My skin stirred beneath the brush of his fingers. For the first time in all my life, I felt safe inside myself. Parted from fear and self hatred and embraced by recognition. Acceptance moved through me like blood, finding its way to the corners I kept hidden. I grew to cherish the imperfections I once cursed.

And in his eyes held starlight— wild and wondrous— the stories from my books came alive. The tales of falling into the arms of what the world deemed a monster became my hero, my reality.

When he looked at me, I came undone. Years of misfortune and pain peeled back until I stood bare. Cracked open. My tears spent. My soul in pieces. He knelt before me and gathered the shards of my broken heart with bare hands, let them slice into his fingers, let blood draw forth. And not once did he flinch. He held them out to me, his declaration as unwavering as the steadiness in his eyes.

When he blinked, the emotions did not fade. It didn't flee. Did not run nor dull over the course of time. It remained. He remained.. a constant in the ever changing of tides and passing of moon cycles. And where the shattered pieces had been, there laid a gem, brilliant and glaring red, shaped like a heart. It pulsed. Its first beat echoed like a vow. Etched into its center: never will this heart cease to beat, never will it wither. And around it, wrapped in crimson threads, was his name. Bound to it. Bound to me.

[rosy-crow]

.𖥔 ݁ Binary Stars .𖥔 ݁

A oneshot centered around Sephiroth and Genesis for @altocat as promised. Hope you enjoy, girl! And best of luck in Japan, okay? <3

A brief flash of sequential memories surrounding Genesis that Sephiroth experiences as he reflects on his life from the Edge of Creation. Suggested Song: “Under the Milky Way” - The Church

~

The swirling hues of the cosmos danced together to the everlasting hum of vast existence and the dreams of infinite worlds therein. Glistening stars of purest fire, shades of red, purple, blue, and green, distant bows of light falling through interstellar dust….all of these coalesced and unravelled again….permitting the flow of memories from the past and future to meet and divide again in sequential harmony.

These streams of life and time were as reflective as water in the heavens, thus granting the keen-eyed observer to see what was there to be seen within themselves.

Sephiroth discovered his own river of memory in the sky, marred as it was by discord, and from it, he saw many smaller brooks running down in trickles. The archives of his long lost life. The remnants of his past. The streams of his abandoned nostalgia. With a steady peer into the web of light, he found himself drawn to one singular strain of memory….

A soft red thread of dewey blood that ran straight back to the beginning of a forgotten heartache.

To Genesis.

~

“He’s….well….quite the character….”

”What do you mean?”

Angeal stopped with a sudden intake of breath and folded his sinewy arms to ponder the question as if it were philosophical in nature. His bangs fell like shadows brushing across his eyes before he flipped them aside and looked at Sephiroth, his recently-befriended colleague, with an expression that carried a rare, juvenile uncertainty that he was prone to keep subdued in any other realm of conversation.

”I guess….Genesis is what I would call a spitfire. He’s a bit brash…he kinda has a quick temper…um…” he answered the weary-eyed silver boy, the latter cocking his head and squinting as if confused. A rather quaint trait that was befitting of Sephiroth’s mild manner, Angeal thought.

“I mean, he’s great and he’s still my best friend, don’t get me wrong. He’s just…somehow exactly like you and nothing like you at all. The difference is like…fire and ice maybe?”

Sephiroth hummed to himself and dropped his eyes to the glossy tiles of the SOLDIER floor, spying his keen reflection in the dark surface. He waited, refusing to fidget or betray his impatience. Impatience could imply nervousness. Sephiroth was not nervous. He swore it to himself.

Angeal made a noise in the back of his throat as Genesis’ imminent arrival loomed in all its glory and growing anticipation.

”Uh…you’ll see. Oh and, he has this thing….this dream that’s really important to him…it’s….”

”Angeal!”

The hasty conversation died right then and there.

He was in front of them suddenly, the echo of his call commanding the room to be still.

The fabled “spitfire” was merely a scrawny teen with a fair face and flyaway auburn locks to frame it. A sharp, dandy boy with dancing fires in his eyes and red painting the sweater of his second-class uniform like carmine.

Genesis Rhapsodos was distinguished. Unique. Refreshing. He was a sparkling, crimson flare in a sea of greys and dull blues. A sense of novelty within a world of repetition.

He went on to greet Angeal with a familiar nod before standing in front of Sephiroth with an anxious gnawing on his lower lip and hands that were visibly shaking even as they folded together.

”Hello….” Genesis said. He spoke in a quiet voice that, for the time being, lacked any temperamental qualities.

Sephiroth remained expressionless save for an intrigued lift in his brow. He bowed respectfully, as he had been taught, acknowledging Genesis with the grace he afforded newly assigned teammates, yet also with the skittishness of any young man meeting the friend of a friend for the first time. No amount of formality could suppress the hero’s hemorrhaging humanity.

“I’m Sephiroth. You must be Genesis?” Sephiroth asked in a polite tone, holding back the nervous intrigue in his greeting. He swore to himself still that he was not truly nervous.

But it was undeniable. To Sephiroth, Genesis looked…

Well, he looked “cool.”

“That’s me, yeah,” Genesis cleared his throat and held out a book that he swiftly ripped from the inside of his jacket. The movement was so effortless and fluid that Sephiroth’s eyes grew round and he could have smiled had he not been so confused.

“Would you…be willing to sign this for me…?” Genesis asked, his question timid, the pen he had prepared shaking in his gloved grip. Amusingly, his confident uncloaking of the book had been followed by another shrink in self-assuredness.

“Genesis!!” Angeal glared. He was shaking his head in a scolding manner. “Come on, what did I say?”

Genesis ignored Angeal and bit harder on his lip. His eyes were locked on Sephiroth’s face with the oddest blend of determination and uncertainty that Sephiroth had ever observed. It was bewildering to watch someone temper their cold with heat so expertly, to see them wade through the clammy swamp of anxiety that encompassed the meeting of a famous hero with such fierce impetus. It was admirable, if anything.

Sephiroth silently took the book, which was sweet and brimming with stanzas of pretty words, and proceeded to sign it with his own attempt at resolve in spite of the pooling trepidation in his stomach. Genesis watched, arms folded behind his back, patient and studious. He was unlike any other fan Sephiroth had been made to engage with. One could have noted that Genesis seemed to be more than a fan and rather an individual with the makings of a peer, whether he knew it himself or not.

“I said no signings or stuff like that….,” Angeal said, exasperated. He watched them with repeated, awkward tugs at his hair. “Gen, he gets this all the time.”

“It’s just one book, Angeal. And besides, he did it. So…thank you, Sephiroth.” Genesis failed to hide his grin behind his rusty bangs when Sephiroth handed the book back with a satisfying scrunch of leather gloves. Genesis took one look at the signature and made a high “heh” sound that betrayed immediate amusement.

There was a pause. Sephiroth held his breath.

“Your signature needs work,” Genesis said suddenly and with no regret, studying the sharp pen work that marked the cream-colored page.

Angeal fought back an unexpected laugh.

“Come on!!” he scolded again and gave Genesis a swat on his arm. Genesis smirked, his devilish bravado rearing its head, and ducked away.

Sephiroth felt like someone had thrown a bucket of water at him. He was almost laughing at the comment himself. How peculiar.

“You think so, huh?” Sephiroth was admittedly bemused, and the faintest hint of a smile graced his lips, which in turn caused Angeal to calm down.

“It looks like a scientist’s writing. Too stiff. You need some flare, you know? Think rockstar! Rockstar style…..something that would fit on the face of an album cover,” Genesis explained, showing Sephiroth the book and writing his own name with a practiced, celebrity flourish. “Like that. You’re the hero after all….you have to have a good signature.”

Angeal watched, no words to spare, as Sephiroth considered the advice and rested his chin on a folded hand like an old academic before nodding with firm agreement. “Very well. I don’t know of any rockstars or how they write, so you will have to teach me then. I would rather not write like a scientist.”

That left both Banoran boys reeling.

“What? Really??” Genesis gasped with a quick flush of excitement warming his cheeks. “Did you seriously just say that?”

“Um….well, yes?”

Sephiroth wondered for a flicker of time if it had been the wrong thing to say. What was Genesis saying? Was he surprised at the comment on not knowing any rockstars? Oh dear.

But Genesis swiftly proved any such fears to be absurd. As it turned out, he was simply delighted that Sephiroth was seeking his help.

“Yes! I can teach you!”

The ecstatic thrill of Genesis’ reaction was nearly contagious as he broke into a roguish smile and folded his hands together like a child in eager prayer. Angeal sighed, knowing full well that his red-haired friend was fighting the urge to faint in front of his idol after earning such blatant approval.

Sephiroth only chuckled mildly, relieved, and inclined his head towards the training room to suggest a change of scenery.

“We should train first, but after that, I would like to learn…yes….” he said softly. There was a geniality in his expression that had overcome his nerves. Genesis pounced on it and heartily agreed.

“We…w-we should!! Yeah…uh….yes…..good idea….” he stammered, following along as Sephiroth started towards the entrance. Angeal huffed in blithe contentment and followed along, grateful that the meeting had gone well.

There was no jealousy, no mistrust, no imbalance.

There was only the clumsy innocence of boyish admiration and acceptance. The nervous exchange of youthful approval.

After all, they were only children in those days.

~

The memory was a bittersweet thing. A soft shade of rose in the midst of pooling, inflamed hues of vermillion nebulae. Sephiroth did not scoff at its innocence or naivety. He could not. But he did not linger.

The thread shifted forward through fingers of starlight….and the fraying began to show, but for the time being, it held strong, weaving through past passions and emotions.

Sweeter memories. Thrilling trains of thought.

Fleeting moments of joy….

The stars danced in Sephiroth’s eyes as he caught another glimpse.

~

Genesis was humming for his own ears, as he was wont to do on those clear and star-graced nights in Wutai when he magically refrained from quoting from his darling Loveless. If it was not poetry, it was song that left his lips. He would always find the time to serenade the beauty of life in some form or another.

But then, why was Genesis humming to himself?

Surely, he saw his own person as part of life’s majesty, of course. And who could deny the vanity? The bard with mako irises like robin’s eggs and hair that had darkened to auburn in the evening was, well, quite a vision under the moon’s faithful spotlight. The fragile glow carved out the marble in his pale visage and complimented the gleam of his smile like nothing else could. He was a sculpture most beloved by the goddess he worshipped.

But in that moment, Genesis’ near-perfect allure was faintly marred by a nasty gash across his right ear where a piece of shrapnel had nicked his flesh, tearing through cartilage, the hollow of his cheek, and part of his jawline.

Sephiroth was tending to the injury by hand. He had no more healing materia after the three day campaign that Angeal had led in Wutai’s densest jungles, during which the Emperor’s mightiest forces had been pushed back in fury particularly by the hero and his raging red partner.

Sephiroth, as usual, had emerged unscathed, but Genesis had not been so lucky. The humiliation over his misfortune was written on Genesis’ face, but Sephiroth said nothing as he quietly cleaned the blood from his friend’s jaw and began to stitch each thread of skin back into place.

“I could do this myself if we had a mirror….,”Genesis finally said with a bitter huff. The wind passed between them and drifted into the valley below, where the lights of their encampment glowed with gentle beacons of gold. “Or Angeal could….”

“Why do you assume I care?” Sephiroth asked quickly, his hands steady as a surgeon’s as he stitched.

“Ha. Rude.”

“I mean, why do you assume that I am reluctant to help you?”

Genesis, grasping the query, thought on it for a spell. His pursed his lips and squinted as he felt himself being repaired like a torn doll.

“I don’t want you of all people to need to help me. I don’t want your help,” Genesis finally answered, his response sounding colder than he intended in his embarrassment. He quickened to warm it ever so slightly. “You have enough to deal with.”

Sephiroth paused. He looked at his friend with a firm, pointed stare that made the latter want to shrink into naught but a single atom. The angel’s elysian gaze could have pierced through stone and steel.

“You and Angeal are my first priority on the battlefield. You are my immediate teammates. It’s my job to ensure you both survive and remain fit for combat. I must help if you require it,” Sephiroth said. He returned to his stitching and Genesis released his held breath. He could have laughed at the subtle twinge of indignation in the young hero’s tone.

Sephiroth. Always so serious. Justifying every display of care with duty.

Genesis almost wished he wouldn’t frame it so.

“I suppose….it’s a bit embarrassing….,” Genesis mumbled when he found the courage to do so. His hands shook faintly and he wrung them to conceal the tell. “To stumble…in front of the great hero like that….”

Sephiroth finished his work on Genesis’ wound and leant back, dissatisfied with his own first aid skills. He sighed and looked up again. He was flushed with a blend of vexation and bewilderment thanks to the comment. Genesis almost cackled at the irregular view, but then Sephiroth suddenly reached for Masamune, removed the leather glove from his right hand, and sliced the thick of his palm across the moonlit blade before another word could be spoken.

“What….why would you….?” Genesis sputtered and threw out his arm, astonished and dismayed, his mouth agape in his dramatics.

Sephiroth shook his head and sighed, holding his palm up to display the almost instant healing capabilities that his aberrant body possessed. Genesis observed with awe as the cells seemed to crawl back together, as if craving to be whole again, threading themselves into place, and repairing the pallid skin until Sephiroth’s hand was reconstructed. Perfect, once more. It had taken only five minutes or so.

“How….”

“I’ve been scraped in battle before. Bullets, debris, artillery blasts…..,” Sephiroth explained. He spoke mildly, but held his healed hand with a tentative look and vague tension in his shoulders. He appeared to be lost in distant thought. “My cells are abnormal, as if they have wills of their own…not wanting me to die….”

Sephiroth closed his eyes and smothered a bitter chuckle. There was something ironic in it all.

“But regardless, I’ve likely been wounded far more times than you have. In my early training, it was both common and inevitable with how clumsy I was at the start. Heh.”

Genesis nearly scoffed at the image of Sephiroth stumbling in combat, hardly believing it, but he held his tongue as his friend continued to speak.

“I suppose what I am saying is…,” Sephiroth went on. “I am not impenetrable either. I simply heal faster, so you never see me in the medical tent or asking for assistance. It causes everyone to presume that I’m perfect.”

“Well, you hardly ever put yourself in reckless spots where injury is common either. You follow the rules and only unleash when you know it will be precise,” Genesis retorted, tossing his head. He wasn’t certain of what Sephiroth was trying to say. “In a way that is perfection. Perfect discipline.”

“And you are a loose cannon that doesn’t hold back. It’s bold, but not without benefit. Even if it causes you to sustain these small injuries on occasion,” Sephiroth said. The shape of his breath arose in the cool midnight air as he sighed and lifted his face to the darkling sky overhead, studying the stars. “It’s a balance that is effective on our missions. So….I don’t consider the minuscule consequences to be worthy of humiliation.”

“Is that your way of saying I should stop fussing over this and grow up? Sounds like what Angeal would say” Genesis cackled. He lightly caressed the stitching on his jaw and hissed like an offended housecat when it stung.

“Angeal would want you to hold back to preserve yourself, but I prefer you remain as you are. Like I said, it’s effective,” Sephiroth responded, now smiling. “I don’t ever want you to hold back.”

“With anything” was what Sephiroth wanted to add to the mix of words, but he chose to stop himself. He was saying more than usual. Fortunately, Genesis seemed to be in higher spirits, if not vaguely amused by the effort Sephiroth was putting in to affirm him. It was a rare and relished thing for Genesis to hear Sephiroth praise his abilities at length.

Yet what Genesis would never understand was that Sephiroth wordlessly praised his every breath and proof of existence during all moments of their shared time, as he did Angeal’s. It was in the solitary warrior’s nature to cherish what he dared to allow near his heart. The choice to do so alone was a terrifying, dangerous, and delicate thing that Sephiroth knew could one day lead him down a road dead-ended in grief.

But in those midyears of youth’s passing, he was frequently blinded to such fears, clinging to his comrades as if they were the purest rarities of the earth. Nobody save Sephiroth himself knew of the clandestine depth of his attachment. He understood that it was unnatural, and kept the shame to himself.

“I will always help you, Genesis,” Sephiroth added. There was a tremor in his gentle utterance. “Just don’t hold back.”

There was silence for a minute longer before Genesis broke it.

“Thank you.”

It was all he said.

And it was enough.

Sephiroth bowed his head, saying all with the gesture alone. Genesis’ eyes flickered blue in the glimmer of starlight that waxed and waned with the passage of clouds. The young men sat in mutual serenity, their silhouettes in close proximity, their hearts beating wildly as they each overthought and processed the other’s words.

Time moved on. Moments with similar weight scattered themselves in between the years, but regretfully became few and far even between.

~

The ribbons of light pulsed and dispersed, the train of memory sinking into distorted nets of suffering and affliction. Infrared heat at the core of a violent rending of hearts. The stars clashed and collided, the torrents rushing out into a sea of bloodshed.

Sephiroth’s heart increased in its pace as he forced himself to look into the cosmic storm of ill-fated memories.

It all fell apart.

~

He should have known.

But that didn’t change how badly it hurt, how far into his heart the wound went. Searing, bleeding pain from a gaping hole in his chest that cauterized and throbbed, only to spill out with punishing vengeance all over again at the slightest touch of longing. Dusk till dawn. Every hour of every day.

Ring, ring

Sometimes the pain would numb out of sheer, desperate necessity. The fog would settle in like a sweet mercy. The ache dulled by empty, lifeless, distraction. A survival response. A way out.

A million questions that would be answered by silence. Always silence.

Perhaps the worst part was that there was no one to listen or hear.

Sephiroth was the hero. A savior of those who could never save him, even if they had wanted to.

There was no way to receive. No way to become one with their world.

They would be safe.

They would return to family and feel the warmth of their hearths and homes, welcomed by open hands and kisses, greeted by cherished souls; parents, friends, children, lovers, and even soft, doe-eyed creatures that curled beneath their chairs or in their laps.

Food would await them on aging tables, sweet hopes of changing seasons and holidays would course through their blood, rosy songs and the simple joys of life would grace their days.

And their lives…..their lives would go on.

Sephiroth’s would stay the same.

Ring, ring

All change was temporary for him. He was destined to the cold and sterile repetition of a war machine’s solitary existence. All that could shift was his utility and purpose once the dreamy, idealized Promised Land was dug up from the sleeping earth by Shinra’s mechanical hands. Once it was ripped from the womb of its mother and eaten alive; ravished, brutalized, taken, and used until it was another hollow husk of a blackened crater. Another discarded product of Shinra.

Then they’d come back to Sephiroth with frothing need on their lips. They’d dig his body up from the grave of wires and steel and mako, sending him back into the forests of the world to cut down the way to the next “Promised Land.”

Again and again and again.

There was no true death waiting for him, no true change in scenery once he was decommissioned. No, it would all be the same. A cycle never allowed to be broken.

Ring, ring

But he had wanted to hope….to hope that they could have broken it. That they could have been the ones to save him. Those familiar faces and kind eyes that once understood him.

The ones that bothered to pull him out of the dark when he felt like giving up. The ones that opened their arms as if welcoming him instead of possessing him.

There was no denying it. Sephiroth had hoped.

He had wanted. He had trusted.

And that was what hurt so much — all of it stinging and fresh, acidic poison gushing from the cut across his heart.

He should have known.

Hope was just another lie.

The ringing dragged on and faded.

It was the tenth time he had called Genesis that evening alone. The twentieth time that day. The fiftieth time that week. It must have looked pathetic to whomever it was among the Turks that kept track of his PHS activity.

But Sephiroth hadn’t cared. Every day he tried, and by now, he was convinced Genesis had left his damned PHS in a box somewhere. The rational thought should have stopped him, but it didn’t.

He let himself fall back onto the cold sofa in his private room, lying with his eyes locked on the grey tiles of the roof, fighting the ache by holding the phone close to his chest as if it were a temporary bandage. He listened for any buzz or beep for hours while forcing himself to stay awake. His lids were drooping. He had not slept in a week.

Please come back…

Genesis had gone. Angeal had followed soon after. Angeal’s phone went directly to voicemail when called, which likely meant it was dead or destroyed. There was no use trying it.

Please.

They are going to kill you.

But Genesis…his phone rang. His always rang.

Please.

Did that mean….?

It’s your fault.

Was there a chance that Genesis was ignoring every call with religious diligence?

You hurt him. That was all it took.

What was burning behind his eyes now? Why did everything smart and sting? The ceiling began to blur, and when it warped uneasily, Sephiroth bolted up and gasped with a wet, quivering exhale.

God, the feeling was physical.

It was all hanging by a thread. It always was.

The buttons clicked under Sephiroth’s cold gloves again and the ringing returned with zeal. He steadied his breathing and held a shaky hand just above his brow as if shielding his eyes in shame.

Shinra will kill them. You can’t save them.

Not that it mattered. There was no one there to see or hear.

Stop trying. They don’t care.

It rang for another several moments. His pulse was beating like a war drum inside his skull.

Genesis certainly never did.

Suddenly there was a click. Sephiroth’s heart leapt and he nearly forgot how to speak as he felt his body tense with a visceral intake of breath. He spoke in a stammering, soft plea, hope finding its way into his reddened eyes.

“….Gen……Genesis….?

Silence.

Weak, anxious breathing.

The moment lasted an eternity.

More silence.

“Hello?”

There was a strained, weary sigh on the other end of the call.

“Do not call me anymore.”

Sephiroth’s throat constricted. He could have sworn he choked on his own words as he scrambled to think of something he could say in time. Anything to make Genesis slow down.

Slow down and think. Talk.

Please.

“I’m sorry, Sephiroth.”

“Genesis wai—”

The line went dead with a static buzzing that muffled the sharp, small cry of protest that escaped Sephiroth’s lips.

Being pierced with a dagger to the lungs could not have shaken him so much. The brutal assault of mako in the veins couldn’t compare to the scalding ice that permeated the halls beneath his skin. A churning wave of nausea overcame him and Sephiroth slumped forward in defeat, the PHS falling from his hand. The battle was lost, and he had already predicted so just moments before.

He should have known.

You did this to yourself.

He did know.

To Genesis.

It was all over.

~

Sephiroth paused, glancing down at the starlit stone beneath his boots. He was detached from these memories. Whatever sorrow they carried seemed distant. Fading emotions that he had separated from himself.

But there was an inkling part of his soul that pondered their worth. He mulled it over, trying to understand why even now there was a faint touch of grief betrayed by his pursed lips and trembling fists. These were the memories of someone he used to be. They were inconsequential now.

And yet….

Sephiroth looked up one more time, following the last thread of light that dangled from the network of interlacing rivers, all overlapping and straining in their tension. The single and final stream of memory was crimson as a fresh apple.

Ripe. Raw. Poisoned.

~

“My friend, your desire….is the bringer of life, the gift of the goddess!”

Once upon a memory, those words had warmed a frigid, neglected part of Sephiroth’s soul. He recalled standing in the tender sunlight, the wind caressing his skin with gentle whispers, and Genesis’ lilting voice rising through the air as he had shared with his comrades the passion of his cherished play.

Sephiroth found it ironic as he heard the lines of Loveless being directed at him once again.

That day, Genesis had quoted from Act I. They had been at the beginning of the story then. Young and innocent. Possibly even something like friends.

Loveless was a tragedy.

Genesis stood before him in the reactor, half ruined and mad, quoting from Act IV as if expecting Sephiroth’s awaited reply to magically provide the ending to the ancient poem. The red warrior held his head high and proud; smiling, demanding a piece of Sephiroth’s being as a whole. A part of his soul and body. A strip of his flesh. A taste of his perfect, monstrous existence.

A gift, a symbol of reunion after bitter, stark separation. Yes, Genesis wanted the hero to stitch him back together again, to freely provide him with the blood Sephiroth once offered without hesitation many moons before.

Distance had become rejection. Rejection had become betrayal. Betrayal had become violation.

Genesis craved Sephiroth’s soul and strength and fellowship. After everything the raving apostate had done. After everything he had said and left unsaid. After all of the comfortless, silent nights of fear and solitude that he had gifted Sephiroth in kind. After every knifelike word and mocking hiss he had thrown at his old friend with no regard for the hits their bond had already taken.

In Sephiroth’s eyes, Genesis had gleefully torn his old “friend” down to his level before laying the offer out with a sincerity ignorant of the damage it had done by its very suggestion after months and months of heartache.

How endearing. How naive.

Sephiroth winced and ground his jaw. He could feel the anger stirring at long last. He had tolerated enough.

My cells.

My body.

My blood.

Sephiroth looked at Genesis with cold and empty eyes, before looking on the apple in the rotting man’s outstretched hand.

It was dark, purple-poisoned, dying.

My trust.

My affection.

My heart.

He understood now.

That warmth he had seemingly felt in his chest on that day two years prior…..that lulling, sweet tone in Genesis’ voice….it had all been as false as the sunlight and wind in the now-abandoned room where everything first fell into ruin.

A simulation. An illusion.

You only ever wanted what I had.

Genesis had never been different from any of the others. A fan, a rival, a betrayer. His honeyed words coated the unctuous desire to use and to take for his own gain. It was always the same. They were all the same in the end.

What I could give you.

Genesis shouldn’t have dragged his mother into it.

“Whether your words, are lies created to deceive me….

You crossed the line.

“….or the truth I have sought all my life….”

You lied to me.

“It makes no difference….”

What’s done is done.

“You will rot.”

And it still hurts so much.

There was pain in Genesis’ eyes. His brow lifted. His horror surged like a tidal wave swallowing his haggard face. The apple fell to the floor, and Sephiroth turned his back, vanishing into the dark. Genesis would not see him again, and he gagged on the realization as the knife of rejection wedged itself into his broken chest.

Sephiroth did not look back.

Now Genesis knew what it felt like.

~

The memories reached their ruthless end after that. Sephiroth looked away and the chilled air of a sigh left his lungs beneath the galactic swirls.

He thought of the last memory from his far viewpoint, weighing the possibilities of its validity. Lingering. Reconsidering.

The memories preceding it had melded with some of Genesis’ own emotions. There had been glimpses into the other man’s mind. Could that have been a product of the empathy they once tried to harness for each other? Did those memories hold insight into Genesis’ true feelings because of the brief, mutual understanding that had blossomed in days past?

Had it all truly been a lie?

Or had the rift between them prevented Sephiroth from understanding Genesis in the reactor? After all, that memory had only revealed one perspective. A perspective marred and fogged over with bleak hurt. Genesis had no say in that memory. His side of the story was dead and lost.

Sephiroth grit his teeth. He wanted to know now. The truth. The reality.

He didn’t know why he felt the desire now. It was too late. The past was not his to change or understand any longer. Genesis was gone. Missing.

Always missing.

The stars moved on and the red rivers bled into blue, washed over with cool, arctic tears….the burns soothed with numbing, glistering ice. The glimpse had reached its end, taking Genesis away again.

And Sephiroth regretted everything.

~