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elryuse · 17 days ago

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My Toxic Ex

Yandere Seola X Male Reader

Tags : Cheating Seola, Toxic Seola, Regrets, Yandere, Obsessive, Forceful Sex, Hatred, Manipulation, Pregnancy?

Words : 3,4509 Words

This Is a Commission Work for My friend @Pizza_anon on Ko-fi. I hope you like it Buddy.

"Seola..what the fuck". Y/n yelled, as He saw a terrible sight. His girlfriend of 2 years, have been sleeping with guys all around campus, as she giggles and moaned. Y/n was heartbroken, Seeing how seola clearly enjoyed it.

Seola his once pure and caring Girlfriend, was changed. She was no longer the cheerful, happy, and loving girlfriend once more. She became toxic, cruel, manipulative. Sometimes Y/n wondered what went wrong, What did he do wrong. As her habits grew more and more destructive, Y/n finally has enough.

After a ton of Cheating that she has done, Y/n was finally tired. He's tired hearing all of this news from his friends that Seola is with another guy, Seola slept with some guy, etc. He's done. And so, He simply left. He moved into a new College, far from Seola. He slowly composed himself, Getting his mentality into a better state. As he finally made new friends, and left the ties from his previous life.

Y/n met a beautiful girl. Eunji, was her name. She was cute, smart, and most importantly, Caring. It has been years, since Y/n felt loved, wanted. And it clearly shows, as after a few months of dating her, Y/n was committed to become his boyfriend. Eunji smiled, as she hugged him under the Apple tree. However, as Y/n may thinks this story would end on a happy ending. It was from happy, nor sad. It would be devastating.

Seola, Who all this time was busy having fun with guys all over the campus found herself stuck in a limbo. A sudden news, Her porn videos and naked pics were leaked all over the internet, and most importantly on her university. This made her popularity crumble into dust. As people began mocking her, slut shaming her, and what's even worse, the friends that she thought was there for her, turned out to be the monster that leaked all of her vids and pics.

They all laugh, as they sneered at her, mocking her. Seola was broken. The guys who she slept with, didn't bother to care for her. Instead they feel more proud than ever, as they still kept those videos and pictures all inside their phones. Seola trembles, as day by day, Her friends would leave her, and in the end, the were none left.

Seola suddenly remembered about Y/n. The man who truly cared for her. The man who actually cared for her. She suddenly cried, as She started to remember all of those good times she had with him. She remembered the time where the two got into a small fight, and even though it was unnecessary his fault, Y/n still decided to be the one who apologize first, which made Seola really happy and proud.

She imagined, if she still go back to him. Will he accept her apology. Will he still get back with her, after all of this time, and after all of this suffering that she gave him. Seola was stucked, didn't know what to do, what to act. But she thinks again and again, and not wanting to regrets her decision, she finally started to do some research on Y/n.

And to her surprise and shock, Y/n looked different. He seems happy. His smile, that once was shown to her, now shines brightly on the digital screen, He shares the world about his new girlfriend, Eunji. The two seems perfect, they lack any negativity, far beyond what Y/n and Seola used to have. At that moment, Seola cried. She had lost. She had truly made the biggest mistake in her life.

As she caresses the phone screen once more, a devious plan suddenly showed up. She could still win him over. She could still be with him. And even though this plan would hurt her and him, She didn't care. She only wanted Y/n to be with her again. And so, Any plans good or bad, suddenly become the pinnacle of the system. Seola laughed, as She opened a small wrinkled picture from her jacket. A photo of Y/n and Her. She knew, This wasn't going to be easy. But she knows, that whatever the outcome is, She'll have him back.

As Y/n and Eunji get up from their tiring slumber, He could see that today was a good day. The Sun was shining brightly, the clouds doesn't look cloudy. The evening air was crisp, the kind that made you want to pull your jacket tighter around yourself. Y/n walked home from Eunji’s apartment, his mind still buzzing with the warmth of her laugh and the softness of her touch. He couldn’t believe how different life felt now—how free he was. No more walking on eggshells, no more wondering if Seola would blow up over something trivial. For the first time in years, he felt like he could breathe.

But as he turned the corner onto his quiet street, a familiar silhouette caught his eye. His heart skipped a beat. No. It can’t be.

Seola stood under the flickering streetlamp, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked... smaller somehow, less vibrant than the girl he remembered. Her once perfectly styled hair was slightly disheveled, and her makeup, though still striking, couldn’t hide the shadows under her eyes.

“Y/n,” she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to make him pause. “We need to talk.”

He clenched his jaw, stopping a few feet away from her. “Seola, I don’t think there’s anything left to say. We’re done.”

Her lips quivered, and for a moment, she looked like she might cry. But then, her expression hardened, and she took a step closer. “You think it’s that easy? You think you can just walk away from me and start over like nothing happened?”

“I didn’t walk away, Seola. You did. Every single time you chose someone else over me, you pushed me further away. And now... I’m done.”

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “You really believe that? That it was all my fault? Maybe if you had cared enough, if you had fought for me, things would’ve been different. But you didn’t. You just gave up.”

Y/n stared at her, incredulous. “Fought for you? Seola, you were sleeping with half the campus. What was I supposed to do? Beg you to stop?”

Her eyes burned with intensity, and she closed the distance between them in two quick strides. “You were supposed to fight for me!” she yelled, her voice cracking. “Because I needed you! I needed you to show me that I was worth something!”

The raw pain in her voice stopped him cold. For the first time, he saw past the bravado, the cruelty, the arrogance. All he saw was a girl who was broken, who had been hurting long before their relationship fell apart.

“Seola...” he started, his voice softening despite himself.

But she cut him off, placing a hand on his chest. “Don’t,” she whispered, her nails digging into his shirt. “Don’t pretend to care now. Not when you’ve already moved on. Not when you’re with her.”

He frowned, stepping back. “Eunji has nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn’t she?” Seola’s voice was low, dangerous. “You think I don’t know about her? How perfect she is? How kind and caring and loving? Tell me, Y/n, does she make you feel like I did? Does she make your heart race? Does she make you want her so badly it hurts?”

“Seola, stop—”

“No,” she hissed, grabbing the front of his jacket and pulling him close. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. But you do owe me this. One last chance. One night. That’s all I’m asking.”

Her breath was hot against his skin, and despite everything, he felt his body respond. She was so close, too close, and the scent of her perfume—something sweet and floral—filled his senses. Memories flooded his mind: late nights tangled together, whispered promises, stolen kisses. But then, the darker memories followed: her cruel words, her betrayal, the way she always made him feel so small.

“I can’t,” he said firmly, trying to push her away. But she held on tighter, her fingers digging into his skin.

“Yes, you can,” she murmured, her lips brushing against his ear. “You miss me. I know you do. You miss the way I touched you, the way I made you feel. And deep down, you want me just as much as I want you.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine, and he hated how right she was. Even now, after everything, a part of him still longed for her. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not after everything she’d put him through.

“Seola, this isn’t going to work,” he said, his voice strained. “I’m with Eunji now. I’m happy. Please, just let me go.”

For a moment, she was silent, her grip loosening slightly. Then, without warning, she pressed her lips to his. The kiss was desperate, hungry, full of years of pent-up longing and regret. Y/n froze, torn between pushing her away and giving in. Her tongue slid against his, coaxing his mouth open, and he felt himself responding despite his better judgment.

When she finally pulled away, she looked up at him with pleading eyes. “One night,” she whispered again. “That’s all I need. Let me remind you why we belonged together. And then... if you still want to leave, I’ll let you go. I promise.”

His chest heaved as he struggled to think clearly. This was wrong. So wrong. But the ache in his body told him otherwise. The way her hands roamed over his chest, the way her hips pressed against his... it was too much. And yet, not enough.

“Seola...” he breathed, barely able to form the words.

Her lips curved into a sly smile, and she leaned in close again. “Shh,” she whispered, tracing a finger along his jaw. “Just let me take care of you. Like I used to.”

Before he could protest, she dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands already working to unbuckle his belt. His mind screamed at him to stop her, to pull away, but his body betrayed him. He was hard, achingly so, and the sight of her looking up at him with those dark, possessive eyes only made it worse.

“Wait—” he started, but she silenced him with a sharp tug on his pants. They pooled around his ankles, leaving him exposed to the cool night air—and to her.

Seola didn’t waste any time. She wrapped her lips around him, taking him deep into her mouth with a practiced ease that made his knees buckle. Her tongue swirled around the tip, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through him. He gripped her shoulders, unsure whether to push her away or pull her closer.

“God, Seola...” he groaned, his voice thick with desire.

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a wicked grin. “Missed this, didn’t you?” she purred, before sinking down again, deeper this time. Her hands gripped his thighs, holding him in place as she worked him with relentless precision.

He was losing control, fast. The rational part of his brain screamed at him to stop, to end this before it went too far. But the rest of him was drowning in sensation, in the heat of her mouth and the way she moaned around him, as if she couldn’t get enough.

“Stop,” he managed to choke out, though his body betrayed him by thrusting forward. “Seola, we can’t...”

She pulled away again, panting slightly. “We can,” she insisted, standing up and pressing her body against his. “And we will. Because you’re mine, Y/n. You always have been.”

Her lips crashed against his again, silencing any protests. She guided his hands to her waist, encouraging him to touch her, to feel her. And despite everything, he couldn’t resist. His fingers found the hem of her skirt, sliding underneath to cup her ass. She moaned into his mouth, grinding against him.

“Take me upstairs,” she whispered, biting his lower lip. “Let me remind you what you’ve been missing.”

He hesitated, torn between the guilt of betraying Eunji and the undeniable pull of Seola’s body against his. But in the end, it wasn’t a choice. Not really. With a groan, he grabbed her hand and led her toward the building, his mind racing with what was about to happen.

As they stumbled into his apartment, Seola pushed him against the door, kissing him furiously. Her hands pulled at his shirt, while his fumbled with the zipper of her dress. Clothes fell to the floor in a haphazard pile, and soon they were both naked, pressed together in a tangle of limbs and desperate need.

She broke the kiss, stepping back slightly to admire him. “You’re still so beautiful,” she murmured, running a hand down his chest. “And you’re all mine.”

Then she turned around, bending over the couch and looking back at him over her shoulder. “Come on, Y/n,” she said, her voice dripping with temptation. “What are you waiting for?”

He hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, his hands gripping her hips. She gasped as he entered her, her nails digging into the cushions beneath her.

“That’s it,” she moaned, arching her back to meet his thrusts. “Just like that. Fuck me, Y/n. Make me yours again.”

The sound of her voice, the feel of her tight around him... it was too much. He lost himself in the rhythm, in the way she whimpered and begged for more. But even as he moved inside her, a nagging thought crept into his mind. This is wrong. This is...

“Harder,” she demanded, cutting off his thoughts. “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”

And so, he gave in, letting the heat of the moment consume him. But as he glanced down at her, at the way her body writhed beneath his, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a mistake. A delicious, intoxicating, irresistible mistake.

“Seola...” he murmured, his voice rough.

She looked back at him, her eyes glazed with lust. “What is it? Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

And he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not until...

The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting streaks of gold across the rumpled sheets. Y/n stirred, his body heavy with exhaustion, his mind foggy from the night before. He blinked slowly, trying to piece together what had happened. Seola. Her name echoed in his head like a warning bell. He turned his head, expecting to see her gone, as she often was after their reckless encounters back in university. But this time, she was still there, curled up beside him, her hair splayed across the pillow like ink spilled on paper.

She looked so peaceful—soft, even. It made his chest ache. He shouldn’t have let this happen. He had Eunji now. Sweet, kind Eunji, who deserved better than this. He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to steady his breathing. His heart pounded, not from desire but from guilt. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating.

“Morning,” Seola’s voice broke the silence, smooth and melodic, yet laced with something he couldn’t quite place. She stretched languidly, her bare skin catching the sunlight, and propped herself up on one elbow to look at him. Her lips curved into a sly smile. “You look awful. Rough night?”

Y/n didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Words felt trapped in his throat, tangled with regret and confusion. He wanted to get up, to leave, to pretend this never happened. But his body refused to move.

Seola sighed dramatically, sitting up fully, letting the sheet pool around her waist. She leaned closer, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm. “You know,” she began, her tone casual, almost too casual, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

He tensed immediately, his instincts screaming that whatever she was about to say would only make things worse. “Don’t,” he said quickly, his voice hoarse. “Just… don’t.”

Her smile widened, and there was a glint in her eyes that made his stomach twist. “Oh, come on, Y/n. You’re going to want to hear this.” She paused, letting the tension build, savoring it. Then, softly, almost sweetly, she dropped the bomb. “I’m pregnant.”

The room seemed to tilt. Y/n stared at her, his mind struggling to process the words. Pregnant. The word hung in the air between them, heavy and unrelenting. He shook his head, disbelief coursing through him. “No. No, you’re lying.”

Seola laughed lightly, as if they were discussing the weather. “Why would I lie about something like this? It’s true. I found out last week.” She reached for his hand, placing it gently on her stomach. Her skin was warm beneath his palm, and for a moment, he felt frozen. “There’s a little piece of us growing right here. Isn’t that amazing?”

He jerked his hand away as if burned, scrambling to his feet. His chest heaved as he backed away from the bed, his mind racing. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not after everything. “You… you can’t be serious.”

Her expression shifted, her playful smirk fading into something sharper, more intense. “Dead serious,” she said, her voice low and steady. “And it’s yours. I haven’t been with anyone else since we…” She trailed off, letting the implication sink in. “You’re the father, Y/n.”

His knees threatened to buckle. He sank into a chair, his hands gripping the edge of the seat so tightly his knuckles turned white. Father. The word reverberated in his skull, each repetition louder than the last. He felt sick. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He had finally moved on, found someone who truly cared about him. And now… now this.

Seola watched him closely, her gaze calculating. She slid out of bed, standing naked before him without an ounce of shame. She knelt in front of him, her hands resting on his thighs, her touch both grounding and suffocating. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” she asked softly, her voice dripping with false innocence. “A family? A future together?”

He shook his head, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “No. Seola, no. That’s not… we’re not…”

She tilted her head, her lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “But we could be,” she whispered, leaning in closer, her breath hot against his ear. “Think about it, Y/n. You could have me all to yourself. No more fighting. No more games. Just… us.”

Her words were like a poison, seeping into his veins, clouding his thoughts. He wanted to push her away, to scream that this wasn’t what he wanted. But the way she looked at him—like he was the center of her world—made something inside him waver. For years, he had loved her. Or at least, he thought he had. And despite everything she had done, some small, stupid part of him still craved the warmth she once offered.

As if sensing his hesitation, Seola pressed further. She kissed him, soft and slow, her lips moving against his with practiced ease. He tried to resist, but his body betrayed him, responding instinctively. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark with satisfaction. “See?” she murmured, trailing her fingers along his jaw. “You still want me. You always have.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. How could he deny it when his body screamed otherwise? When every fiber of his being seemed drawn to her, despite the chaos she brought?

Seola stood then, pulling him to his feet. Her hands slid up his chest, her touch deliberate, possessive. “Let me remind you,” she whispered, her voice a dangerous purr. “Let me show you why you belong to me.”

Before he could protest, she kissed him again, harder this time, her teeth grazing his bottom lip. His hands hesitated at his sides before giving in, gripping her hips as if clinging to life itself. She smiled against his mouth, triumphant. “That’s it,” she coaxed, guiding him back toward the bed. “Let go, Y/n. Just let go.”

He was falling, spiraling deeper into her web. And as she lowered him onto the mattress, her hands roaming greedily over his body, he knew he was lost. The guilt, the doubt, the fear—it all melted away under her touch.

For now, at least, she had won.

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thethronezone · 29 days ago

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High Consort Pt.2

Because I could not stop thinking about this mess of a relationship and if I have to suffer, so do everyone else... Here's more.

The Emperor promised to marry his Consort once he had successfully conquered Terra. And credit where credit is due because Big E actually kept that promise. Him in his armor, you in your finest clothes (specifically made for this occasion) and with only the Legio Custodes to witness the ceremony. There wasn't an exchange of vows, no reception or officiator. He simply declared himself Emperor and that you were, from this moment on and till the stars died out, his High Consort. The Custodes didn't sing, did not cheer, but stomped the ground, slammed their weapons agains their shields, all as one, making the air vibrate and the ground shake.

Guess what? You own Luna! Aka the fucking moon. Yeah, it was a wedding gift. I mean, technically the Emperor rules over it but in name? It's yours!

Like I said in the first part, if you want to work, then it's mainly administrative duties. It's actually quite important work, since you oversee some real secret government stuff. Not the worst of it, nah, the Emperor leaves that to Malcador.

Something Big E does leave to you? Organizing banquets, feasts and other festivities. Sounds more fun than it is, considering the fact that this also entails overseeing the guest list. Do you know how many people can fit in the (multiple) imperial ballrooms and gardens? A fuckton. And as the 'host' of the party, you get to greet most of them! Isn't that wonderful?

More things the Emperor calls you instead of your name! "Spouse", "my starlight", "dear one", "treasure". Those last three are only in private. Majority of the Imperium don't know your actual name and calls you High Consort. More accurately "the revered ruler of Luna, First Lord/Lady of the Imperial Palace, Keeper of Terra, the one and only High Consort to the one and only Emperor of Mankind". The title somehow gets longer each time.

You make the Emperor a bit less of a douche. He's still a bastard but you make him just a smidge more bearable. Probably because he does care about you. Will he steamroll you in every conversation? Yes. Does he not take your arguments seriously? Yep. Will he dictate every part of your life from the shadows? Yeah. But he does like seeing you happy so he refrains from doing some stuff that he knows would upset you. At least if you're there to see it happen.

The fights you have are fucking wild. You can be absolutely furious, screaming, throwing things at him, and the Emperor will just stand there and be like "You done yet?" which will make you scream and throw some more thing. Big E might try and placate you a little, "Dear, you are acting irrational, calm down", but most of the time he just waits until you get tired. And when you're all out of air he'll go "Good thing we solved that" and LEAVE. Fucking prick.

When Malcador ain't available, you vent to your personal Custodi bodyguard. Yes, they are ultimately loyal to the Emperor and will never badmouth him but this one Custodi will nod along when you call your husband a "rat-fucking-bastard".

It's not all bad of course. The Emperor can be downright romantic when he wants to. He knows all your favorites and always has this in mind when he gives you stuff or does stuff with you. New garden? Filled with your favorite flowers. Anniversary dinner? Your favorite food. A piece of jewelry he acquired on his resent battle on some distant planet? Your favorite color. When you reunite after a long time apart, he kisses your hands. The Emperor loves your smile, loves seeing you happy. All the art work he commissions of you depicts you smiling, from a subtle smirk to smiles where all your teeth shows.

In canon, the Primarchs were made out of the Emperor's and Erda's DNA (with some major gene manipulation in there) and yeah, that's still the truth in this scenario. Except there's also parts of you in there. Because if the Emperor likes you enough to marry you, then you probably have a bunch of traits that he likes. Wisdom, tenacity, courage etc.. So congrats! You now get to co-parent 20 18 of the strongest humans in the Imperium! At least one of them has your smile.

#warhammer 40k #the emperor of mankind #malcador the sigillite #adeptus custodes #x reader

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suosgirl · 7 months ago

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Keeping It Cute (& Dangerous) - Hayato Suo x Reader | Ch. 5

Word Count: 6197

୨ৎ Read me before interacting!

୨ৎ Pairing: Hayato Suo x Reader feat. Haruka Sakura, Akihiko Nirei, Taiga Tsugeura, Mitsuki Kiryu, Hajime Umemiya, Kotoha Tachibana

୨ৎ Warnings: mdni, smut, f!reader, manga spoilers (?), ooc (?), fighting, slowburn, penetrative sex, use of f!bodied language, teasing, creampie, squirting, oral (fem!receiving) praising, pet names, filth, 2 stubborn idiots falling for each other – if I’ve missed one, I apologize + please let me know!

୨ৎ Note: Long ass chapter. There's smut in here. I'm delirious - but happy. Hugs and kisses for all who waited hehe! ♡♡♡

୨ৎ Keeping it Cute (& Dangerous) Masterlist

“You don’t have to be so careful Hayato – I won’t break ~” He hums thoughtfully, before bending down to whisper in your ear. “And if I do? Break you, that is.” That catches you off guard. You laugh, loud and boisterous – “Then I expect you to fix what you break, pretty boy.”

Every couple of months, Bofurin holds a sparring match within their ranks.

It’s meant to be fun, friendly, and maybe just a little competitive. But, the main intention? To see where everyone is strength-wise. No one’s meant to get roughed up so badly that they’re out of commission.

At least, that's what you’d thought when Umemiya had extended the invitation to you. Still, as you stand in the sweltering, stuffy gymnasium room surrounded by the grunts and groans of the skirmishes going around you, you’re not so sure.

Granted, no one’s fighting with malicious intent, but you can feel how serious everyone is, and you’re starting to wonder now if your presence is really as needed as Umemiya made it sound.

“I think it’d be good for you to be there. It’ll be a nice change of pace for everyone!”

And it’s not because you don’t want to fight. Quite the opposite, actually.

You were itching for it – willing, ready, and eager to pounce. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d been able to let loose and enjoy the thrill of a well-matched scrimmage.

No… it’s because you were fully convinced that you’d absolutely obliterate most of them.

Within just a few minutes of observation, you’d assessed the fighting styles, expertise, and strength levels of almost all of the matches happening throughout the gym.

This wasn’t to say that anyone in the gym was weak. No, they were all incredibly strong – some intimidatingly so. But, you knew how to use their strength against them, how to parry, how to defend – which was so much more dangerous.

And now, you’re starting to get it – why Umemiya invited you.

Sparring against the same opponents year after year could only permit so much growth, but you, a wild card, could prove to be difficult.

You let out a small smile.

Alright, you were game.

You were so game.

“Heyyyy! Didn’t know you were coming – I call dibs on your first match!”

Tseguera’s calling for you from where he’s sparring with Kiryu, and you chuckle at the sour look on Kiryu’s face.

“Tsuge-chan, I’m fighting you right now – shouldn’t you be focused on me?”

“Oh! Ha, sorry Kiryu-kun, you’re right! Okay, I’m ready, hit me again!”

Kiryu, exasperated, sends a weary but good-natured smile your way, and you send him your condolences.

“Sure, sure — let me warm up first!”

You nod to everyone who you pass as you make your way to where Nirei’s got a table set up with refreshments and disposable cups. He’s got his notebook in his hand, furiously taking notes as he watches all the fighting unfold.

“Hi Ni,” you greet him with an affectionate pat on his head, and he leans into your touch.

God, just like a puppy.

“Hi! Happy you’re here! You don’t work today?”

You drop your bag on the floor behind him and gather your hair into a tight ponytail.

You can feel Suo’s eye on you, but you’re not sure from where – and you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching you try to find out.

Besides… what would be the fun in that?

“Nah, Kotoha said she’d cover my shift today so that I could come. What’s in the jugs?”

You stretch out your arms and roll back your shoulders before tilting your head from side to side.

Your little game with Suo was still in full swing, but you had to admit, you were starting to crack just a bit. Every touch lasting a little too long, every whisper cutting a little too short – but you knew, Suo was losing his composure too (if the way he was finding it harder and harder to not follow you into your apartment at the end of every shift was anything to go by).

You were starting to grow restless, but your pride stopped you every time – because you were set on him giving in first, not you.

“Oh! I’ve got sports drinks and barley tea for optimal hydration! Want some?”

“Ah… I’m okay Ni, thank you though! Have you just been watching everyone?”

Nirei turns to you in excitement, ready to prattle off about all the learning he’s been doing and all the notes he’s been taking, but the words die out as soon as he lays his eyes on you.

Because – you’d taken your sweatpants and jacket off.

You’d taken your sweatpants and jacket off, and all you had underneath those two bulky layers was a tight long sleeve and even tighter shorts.

And Nirei is just – well, he’s just caught off guard is all.

… and you looked very pretty, very cool, very strong.

His (surprising) lack of response has you looking up from where you’re seated on the floor, but you continue stretching out your legs.

“Ni, did you hear me? I asked if you’ve just been watching everyone?”

All Nirei can offer back is a strangled uh-huh, and now you’re starting to get a bit worried.

Standing up, you repeat his name once more as you press the back of your hand to his forehead.

“Oh… is it too hot in here? Do you have a fever? You feel so warm –”

Adept, familiar fingers are wrapped around your wrist before you can diagnose any further.

“Sorry bunny, it seems like Nire-kun’s a bit overheated right now. How about we let him cool down?”

You turn to Suo with your lips parted in surprise at his sudden appearance, but you let him pull your arm away from Nirei before enveloping your hand in his.

You peek down at your conjoined hands.

He was totally breaking.

(You are too, but the longer you can deny it, the better.)

“Hayato, did you come over to help me stretch?”

There’s a playful sparkle in your eyes that Suo knows is only reserved for him, and it makes him smile.

He hums in thought while his thumb softly strokes over yours, but you can see it – the hint of mischief on his lips.

“Depends bunny – what part of you needs stretching?”

You bite your lip with a coy flutter of your lashes, even though you and Suo both know that you’re anything but demure.

“All of it – every inch.”

He blinks at your words, but there’s a weight to them – it’s slow, drawn out, and ravenous.

You feel lightheaded just maintaining eye contact with him.

Thankfully (or not, you’re not quite sure yet), Tseguera’s calling out your name before Suo can further double down with an equally suggestive response.

You give him an apologetic smile before balancing on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

“Aw – I was really looking forward to you stretching me out Hayato, but I guess there’s always next time ~”

Just because he couldn’t double down doesn’t mean you couldn’t.

All is fair in love and war, you suppose.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

As you make your way to Tseguera, you don’t miss the trailing of eyes that follow you in your wake.

Eyes full of curiosity with a hint of skepticism.

Granted, you didn’t know everyone in the gym, but you knew a handful – at least, enough to be invited here.

The stares don’t phase you – in fact, they add more fuel to the fire. You were going to show them that you were someone to remember.

Fighting was your bread and butter, and you’d be damned if you let anyone else think differently – because you were your brother’s sister, and you kicked fucking ass.

You bow to Tseguera to show your respect, before assuming your position.

And then –

Everything changes.

You hear the comforting voice of your brother in your ear, and it eases any hints of anxiety that you might’ve had leading up to your first match of the day.

You breathe in – slow, controlled, and relaxed.

You breathe out – observing, calculating, and strategizing.

You blink slowly – a menacing glint in your eyes.

And then, you smile.

Tseguera briefly wonders if he’d bitten off more than he could chew, but he can’t deny the way he’s psyched to fight this version of you.

The real you that he’s heard so much about.

He’d watched you fight before, sure, but that was against someone who couldn’t even hold a candle to your raw strength. Tseguera on the other hand? Call him optimistic, but he liked to think that he had better odds than the average run-of-the-mill fighter.

So he rushes in, and you’re ready.

Suo watches, sharp-eyed as ever. He notes the assertiveness in your body language, the fluidity of your moves, and the intensity of your power.

All of Bofurin could see it now – why you were called tiger.

You were patient, cunning, and precise. Never exerting more energy than necessary. Never wasting time on flashy moves. Never giving more than what you’re opponent's worth.

You took your time with your prey until they were in a position that benefitted you – and then you’d strike.

And, within minutes, Tseguera’s flat on his back, every little bit of air being pushed out of his lungs.

It’s gone quiet, everyone turning their heads just to try and catch a glimpse of what’s just happened, but all they can see is you.

You’re standing over Tseguera’s body, with a hand on your hip and a smirk on your lips.

And they see him shiver under the weight of your stare.

“Come on, Tsuge – don’t tell me you’re tapped out already~”

You give him your hand to help him up (no one could ever say you’re a bad sport), but with the way your hips swish from side to side as you head back to your starting position and the wicked gleam in your eye, Tseguera’s just the tiniest bit distraught.

Umemiya smiles – he was right.

You were a great change of pace.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

It’s meant to be fun, friendly, and maybe just a little competitive – but with you as an opponent, well…

You amped up the competitive aspect to a whopping 100% – and you were loving it.

Objectively, you could say that everyone else was too, based on how they were lining up to squabble with you.

And – it’s not like you won every single fight. But, you had even Hiragi huffing and puffing just trying to keep up with you – and that? That felt good.

Because fighting was so much more than just winning. To you, it was about learning, communicating, understanding, and most importantly – evolving.

That was something your brother had taught you.

You can’t strive towards your fullest potential without the guidance, support, and help of others – and fighting was an extension of that. Every person and every fight was a wonderful new experience to learn from, and you were so happy.

Suo, on the other hand …

Well, he was happy for you, but he, himself?

Absolutely, tragically vexed.

Because you really had no idea how much of a tease you can be when you’re not even trying.

Between every fight, you’d stretch out your body in those sinful shorts and that thin little long sleeve – and he wishes he was stronger, really.

Wishes he was strong enough to look away when you use the bottom hem of your top to wipe away the sweat from your forehead.

Instead, he drinks in the exposed skin of your stomach and lower back. It’s got a sheen to it, no doubt from the exertion that your body has been going through, but vaguely, Suo wonders if it would look similar to a different type of exertion.

One that involves him and only him.

He focuses on his breathing – no need to get worked over this… really.

He could remain calm and composed, just like how he’s always been.

But when he finds himself next in line to spar with you, well –

What can he say? He just really wanted to get stronger.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

You should’ve known. You should’ve fucking known.

But, feigning ignorance can only go so far.

And with Suo standing in front of you, his hands held loosely behind his back and an amiable grin on his face, you fear that maybe you pushed your luck a little too much.

Because, in all honesty, Suo’s the first person today to actually make you nervous.

And it’s not that you don’t think you can put up a good fight. No, it’s not that at all.

What you’re afraid of is more … personal.

Because when you’re in a fight, well, your hands will go wherever they need to.

And with how pumped you are with endorphins right now, you’re not sure if you’d be able to handle Suo’s hands anywhere on your body.

Even his hand on your thigh had you crumbling, but you held up the good fight as long as you could before excusing yourself under the guise of using the restroom.

But now? Here? You couldn’t simply call for a time-out because you’re getting bashful about his hands touching you.

Fighting, to you, could be intimate with the right person – and lo and behold, the right person just happened to be standing right in front of you.

“Oh? Don’t tell me you’re running out of steam, bunny.”

You purse your lips at his words.

Leave it to Suo to be so insufferable that it brings you back to reality.

You quickly bow towards him before rolling your shoulders back and raising your fists.

“Hmm, then why don’t you fill me back up, Hayato?”

He smirks at your response, and you feel the air thicken just the tiniest amount. His aura is overwhelming, and the hairs on the back of your neck prickle from the eye contact alone.

You take a deep breath in, before steeling your nerves.

Now was not the time to get shy.

You were on your playground, in your element.

You breathe out, feeling the sparks of your competitive spirit quickly fan out into flames.

And then –

Nothing happens, at least, not for a couple of seconds.

“Are ya gonna fight or what?”

You flush at Sakura’s words.

You were slow to realize this, but just like you, Suo (ever the gentleman) was also someone who practiced patience in a fight and let their opponents make the first move – and, you had a sinking feeling that this match was about more than just … fighting.

You shake your head in an attempt to garner back your focus, and once it’s there, you strategize.

Regretfully, you’d only ever seen him in a handful of skirmishes, so you weren’t certain about the exact moves he used, but there was at least one thing that you could go off of –

Suo was pretty damn strong.

You pause, gathering your thoughts as best you can in the little amount of time that you have.

You decide, then, that going on the offense is your best bet. If anything, it would allow you to witness firsthand the type of training he’s received.

So, you move.

You rush him, aiming for a kick to his midsection, but he grabs your ankle – and pulls you towards him.

Off balance and unsteady, you grab onto the first thing you can – his shoulders.

Belatedly, you realize his hands slid under your leg to grip the underside of your thigh, holding you flush to his body.

This … you’d never fought like this before.

As he holds you there, you can’t help the furrow of your brows nor the pout on your lips.

You’d actually wanted to fight, but he …

He was toying with you.

“... why aren’t you going full out?”

He’s looking down at you, and for the first time today, his face is unreadable.

“Would you like me to use my full strength?”

You sputter at his words, “Hayato, yes? Isn’t that the whole point of this?”

He laughs, and it makes you swoon just the tiniest bit – as if the way he’s holding you right now isn’t already making you feel that way.

“You’re right, I’m sorry bunny. It seems I got ahead of myself.”

He lets you go, and you only let yourself mourn the grip of his hand on your thigh for a second, you swear.

Once you’re properly standing on your own, you look up at him with a playful smile, and he can’t help the endearing furrow of his eyebrows as he awaits whatever amusing remark will fall from your lips next.

“You don’t have to be so careful Hayato – I won’t break ~”

He hums thoughtfully, before bending down to whisper in your ear.

“And if I do? Break you, that is.”

That catches you off guard.

You laugh, loud and boisterous –

“Then I expect you to fix what you break, pretty boy.”

All Suo does in response is smile at you, but you’re much too focused on the sight of him taking his jacket off and expertly folding his sleeves up to his biceps.

Because oh – oh.

That… that shouldn’t have been stupidly attractive but it was.

You take in his forearms, his fingers, his swiftness with it all – and you gulp.

And now you’re doing everything you can to desperately grasp onto that flame of competitiveness that you had just a second ago because –

He stared into your eyes the whole time.

“In that case, I’ll make sure to fix you right up when I’m done, pretty girl.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Watching the fight between you and Suo was almost like watching a tiger and a panther in the heat of battle – and it was mesmerizing.

In fact, it didn’t even look like fighting – it looked like the two of you were dancing.

It was a flurry of neverending moves, from flying kicks to evasive dodging, and it had everyone enraptured at the sight – because they’d never thought that Suo would be able to fight someone who matched his tempo so well.

But the best part? You both just couldn’t land a single hit on each other.

And that’s not to say that you both weren’t trying your absolute hardest, but more so, it was a testament to how adaptive you both were.

However, in all honesty, you were getting worn out.

It was easy to ignore it and push through at first, but you could feel the cloud of fatigue starting to infringe on your battle sense. It was showing in your moves and your muscles – that slight delay between your body and your mind.

And, you didn’t want to admit this, but the forced proximity of it all was starting to make you just the tiniest bit lightheaded – because Suo, despite having been in multiple matches, still managed to smell so good.

Every time you invaded his space, you’d catch a small whiff – and it was intoxicating.

So, when you try to step back from yet another attempt at a palm strike, only to sway just a bit from your lack of balance, well – you don’t blame him for honing in on your error.

What you do blame him for, though, is the position you’re in now.

He’s got you trapped underneath him, your body pressed against the gymnasium floor, and –

Whether it was the exhaustion getting to you, or the fact that Suo’s got both your wrists held in one hand above your head and the other latched onto your hip, you’re not sure – but a whimper slips out of you.

Good news, it’s low enough for only you and Suo to be made aware of it, but the bad news – Suo’s aware of it.

And if his mouth dropping in surprise isn’t a big enough tell, maybe the way his fingers dig deeper into your hips is.

For a second, one split second, you almost give in.

You almost wrap your legs around his waist.

You almost break his hold on your wrists.

You almost pull him in for a kiss.

Instead, you do the most sensible thing that you can think of given the circumstances.

You forfeit.

Did it feel good? Absolutely fucking not. Were you ashamed? Partially.

But the only thing that kept you standing on two feet, the only thing that kept you from running away in utter embarrassment and shame?

… the outline of something thick and hard just barely noticeable through his loose black pants when he sat back on his knees to let you go.

Safe to say … you were out of commission for the rest of the sparring event.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

When Suo offers to escort you home afterward, you don’t say no.

When he offers to hold your bag, you don’t say no.

And, when he drops you off at your door with a lingering look of want in his eye that compels you to invite him inside, Suo doesn’t say no.

You lead him to the living room and offer a seat on the couch to him, but he simply shakes his head, preferring to stand instead.

“Are you hungry?” you ask over your shoulder as you try to still the incessant beating of your heart.

You knew he wasn’t ever one to indulge in a meal, but it would … be rude, right? To just part ways after … all of that? That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. Plus, eating is casual. It’s friendly. It’s safe. You could sit across from him and maintain your distance, and there’d be no reason at all for his hands to be on your body.

And, there’d be no way for him to pull such an embarrassing noise from your mouth again.

You blush as you recall the chain of events that lead up to right now, and suddenly, you’re restless. To busy yourself, you go to get him a glass of water in your kitchen.

He follows you.

“... Starving,” he rasps out, and your body breaks into goosebumps because he’s right behind you.

Your breath is shaky now, his presence much too overwhelming in the cramped space of your kitchen, but you persist.

“Oh… w-what would you like to eat? I’ve got noodles and sp–”

“You, only you – bunny.”

You’re so so glad that you’ve got your back to him because you can’t help the way you bite down on your lip at his words to stifle a whine.

It wouldn’t hurt to get one more jab in, you convince yourself. Serves him right for pulling such an embarrassing noise from your mouth earlier.

“Maybe –” your voice breaks, and you let out a small cough to clear out any residual qualms that might’ve been stuck in your throat.

Screw it – the man could suffer in the same way he’d been making you suffer for the past couple of months with his heated touches and lingering words and his stupid little smile.

“Maybe I’ll consider it, Hayato, if you ask nicely on your knees –”

A soft thud cuts you off, and – oh.

Oh.

You’re turned around before you can stop yourself, needing to confirm with your own eyes –

He’s on the floor, his chest moving rapidly with his breathing, and an absolute disheveled look on his face.

Your lips part and your eyes flutter under his heady stare, and you desperately look away in an attempt to maintain some sort of self-control.

You think – no, you’re sure that you look just as disheveled as he does.

Because how the fuck did you manage to get Suo, the Hayato Suo, to fall to his knees on his own accord on the floor of your kitchen?

You felt dizzy and needy and powerful – and that was so so dangerous.

“Remember when you did this? The first time we met?”

There’s a smile on his lips as he stares up at you, and your knees buckle at his words. He’s chipping away at your resolve and he knows it – if the mirth in his eye is anything to go off of.

All you can manage is a shaky inhale and a small, pitiful nod in response – and he chuckles.

“I helped you up off the floor, remember that?”

You nod again, though he can see the slight glimmer of tears in your waterline from just his verbal overstimulation, and he takes pity on you – just a tiny bit, though.

Because although he was on his knees, he wanted you to be the one to finally break first.

Isn’t that how the phrase goes, anyway? Ladies first? And Suo really was a gentleman to the core.

“So, shouldn’t you return the favor? Don’t you want to help me out, pretty girl?”

You don’t even try to hide it anymore. You don’t hide the shifting of your thighs at his words nor the twitch of your fingers seeking his touch.

You were aching and Suo could see it – and all you wanted, all you needed was right in front of you.

But he doesn’t touch you. He wants to – no, he needs to know that you want it as bad as he does.

That the incessant teasing and flirting is affecting you just as badly as it's affecting him. That he’s not the only one filled with desire and desperation and greed.

He knows what to say, knows what to do to make you finally give in and release your inhibitions.

And all it takes, all it takes are 3 words.

Just 3 simple words, dripping with adoration and filth and yearning.

“My pretty bunny.”

You whimper, needy and desperate, and then, you’re on him – and it’s everything you’ve wanted for so long and not enough all at once.

You’re straddling his lap, and his hands feel so good running up and down your body. They’re mapping out every curve – squeezing, pinching, fondling – and you’re grinding down onto him with abandon.

His tongue is hot and heavy on yours, and the noises coming from your mouth are so obscene that you briefly wonder if the walls of your apartment are thick enough to block them out.

You bury your face into his neck as he grabs your hips to grind your body even harder against his, and he revels in the way that you twitch and moan in his ear.

“Please,” you whisper, so softly that you wonder if he even heard you.

He did. Of course, he did, but he wanted more. He wants you to keep begging so pretty for him with your sinful tongue and sweet words and soft body.

“Oh, bunny – I can’t hear you when you’re hiding from me.”

His words make you whine high in your throat – and oh god you might actually cry now.

You still your hips as you look him in the eye, and he’s kind enough to let you try and form some semblance of control with your words.

“Hayato, please – I’m asking you nicely and I don’t know what else you want but –”

Suo holds back a depraved laugh, because rambling out of frustration, and at a time like this? Because you’re just so desperate? He didn’t think you could get even more cute but you keep proving him wrong time and time again.

So, he concedes – you really had no idea how perfect you were, did you?

You lead him to your bed (“Sorry Hayato, but I am not fucking you in my kitchen after the day I’ve had.”), and once every article of clothing has been discarded haphazardly on the floor, does Suo finally eat.

“Might be a bit rough with you pretty girl, is that alright?”

“Oh my bunny, you’re dripping! Is this all for me?”

He dives in with long, broad strokes of his tongue as he laps up the heat of your cunt, and you writhe so pretty under his tongue. If he every so often dips down to push his tongue past the tight opening of your pussy, well – he was just really hungry.

“Wider bunny, can you spread your legs wider for me?”

“So noisy…”

And god were you the best meal he’d ever had in years. Your pussy was the gift that just kept giving, and he was savoring every little intoxicating drop that it pushed out.

“You’re making all sorts of sounds for me, aren’t you?”

“Won’t you make that sound for me again, bunny?”

But, even after you squirted on his skillful fingers with his tongue lavishly flicking and suckling at your spoiled clit, he still wasn’t full.

No, he needed more – he needed to be inside you.

When he finally slides his throbbing, neglected member into your warm fluttering hole, it takes everything in his willpower and a harsh bite to his bottom lip not to rock his hips into you with wanton – he was so so glad you were on birth control so that he could enjoy this to the rawest extent.

“Wow – ha –- you’re taking me so well –”

And it feels so so good to be stretched out over Suo’s cock. There’s a delicious drag against your walls with every thrust, and he’s so damn big that when he pulls back with just the tip inside, you actually feel empty.

You’re in such a delirious daze that you aren’t even comprehending the noises he’s pulling from your pretty plump lips, but Suo is. He’s greedily eating up every moan, every gasp, every whine – and it’s insatiable the way that he’s craving more.

He’s pushing your legs up into a mating press until your knees are pressed right up next to your head, and he’s so so grateful that you’re flexible enough to allow him to do this because now he can thrust into you even deeper, and hit that spot just right.

And now it’s Suo’s turn to feel powerful because you — who could easily break his hold, who had mercilessly crushed a man’s hand — were letting him cage you in his arms like a domesticated house pet.

“You’re being such a good little bunny, aren’t you? My good girl ~ ”

But Suo … he should’ve known better, really.

Should’ve known based on how long and drawn out this silly little game lasted between the two of you that you were just as filthy as he was.

And, before Suo can react, you’re swatting away his hands and using all your strength to roll him onto his back. It only takes a second for him to adjust to the new position, but the sight of you settled on top of him has his dick twitching and his mouth agape.

“Hayato… don’t you want your pretty little bunny to ride you?”

Your words bring him to ruin, and all he can do is manage a breathless, airy laugh before you plant your feet on both sides of his hips – and when you lift yourself he swears he knows what heaven feels like and it’s nestled right between your perfect plush thighs.

You’ve got just the tip in you now, and he really should take back control now.

He should, but he can’t – you don’t even give him time to think before you’re dragging back down achingly slow and all he can focus on is the agonizing tightness of your wet cunt and the drawn-out squelch of your conjoined bodies.

You’re no better – the feeling of him filling up every inch of you has you reeling from the pleasure and you let out a soft sigh once you’re finally sat and all of his cock is nestled inside you.

And then – you wait.

Because it was unfair, wasn’t it? Letting him be in control for this long, for still maintaining his composure.

You stare down at him with heavily lidded eyes and a coy smile on your face but Suo’s getting, dare he say, desperate. It was all fun and games earlier, sure, but now? He was simply claiming his prize that he’d worked so hard and so long to win and you weren’t letting him.

He grits out a curt “please”, but you’re not satisfied.

Instead, you trace a manicured nail all over him, from his tassel earrings to the sharp jut of his jaw to his collarbones to his chest – all the way to where his cock is currently entrapped in the warmth of your pussy.

“Oh, Hayato – I can’t hear you when you’re –”

You’re cut off by a change in gravity, and suddenly, you’re on your back again, with Suo peering down at you with thinly veiled annoyance and a strained smile on his face.

“On your hands and knees, please.”

Your breath hitches at his tone – because he was losing it. He was losing his composure, and that’s all you wanted, really.

And, with one of his hands pressing your head into the mattress and the other holding your hips in place, well, you get what you wanted real quick.

Because Suo’s thrusting into you hard, fast, and rough – and you love it. Your cunt is squelching with every rock of his hips, and your body’s shaking and twitching with pure pleasure.

“You want me to break you? Is that it? You – ha – need a handler, little bunny?”

When you fail to answer him, he chuckles, before snaking a hand underneath you to rub small, precise circles on your aching clit.

“O-oh my god –”

You’re keening high in your throat, your hands fisting at the sheets underneath you, and all you can do is take it. You press down harder onto his adept fingers and you feel it washing over you – your sweet release.

“Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop,” you whine out, your thighs quivering from the stimulation of it all, and you’re so fucking close.

Suo tuts his tongue at your words, but you can feel his fingers and his hips speed up at your pleas.

“That’s funny, I didn’t hear a please.”

You feel tears start to escape your eyes, all your inhibitions out the window as you try to appease the only person who can grant you the overwhelming satisfaction of coming undone.

“Please please please – Hayato please let me cum on your cock. I’ve been so good for you please –”

Suo doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of your desperate rambling. It’s just too damn hot.

“Then cum, bunny. It’s yours, it’s all yours.”

You scream into your sheets, your body spasming underneath his as you finally, finally allow for the crashing wave of bliss to run all over your body.

Suo coos at the sight, fucking you through it as you clamp down on him with everything in your body, and he’s not very far behind you.

He’s close, so close, but he wants to see what you look like unraveled and raw and vulnerable.

What he plans on doing is maybe lasting a little bit longer, fending off that incessant urge to let his cum paint your walls as he fucks into you nice and slow and deliberate.

But, despite your euphoric state and the puddle of drool collecting around your mouth and dampening your sheets, you manage to shakily reach your hands back to press your fingers into the lips of your cunt and you spread.

You feel his hips stutter as you present yourself to him, and his lips part open at the sight.

He can see the ring of cream coating the base of his cock, as well as the glistening dots of your juices decorating your lips, and he’s entranced by the sight.

A soft, obscene groan leaves his mouth as he looks down with his dark-lidded eye – and with the way that your body was still twitching with aftershocks, he couldn’t help but think that you really did look like a bunny right now.

A thoroughly fucked, thoroughly ruined bunny.

And when you open your mouth, well – it’d be rude, right? Not to indulge in your request when you’ve managed to ask it in such a polite and sinful manner?

“I’ve been such a good girl for you, Hayato…. Won’t you cum in your sweet little bunny’s pussy?”

He denies that he came from just your words alone, but you know better.

You feel his cock twitch, his fingertips dig harder into your lower back, and the jolt of his hips as he tries to bury himself inside of you.

And, when he does come, he lets out the prettiest string of gasps you’ve ever heard, and it makes your body slump with satisfaction.

Because, in your mind, you’d won. Sure, maybe you were the first to break, but as Suo carries you into the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your exhausted body and wipes you down with sweet kisses to your temple, you can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment.

And when he settles in behind you on your bed as he strokes your head and leaves a trail of kisses down your neck and across your shoulders as he lulls you to sleep, there’s no denying that sense of triumph.

… and when you ask him if he’ll be spending the night and he replies with, “Of course bunny, why wouldn’t I? You’re mine now, right?” – well, you can’t help the drowsy smile you send his way before you’re pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips.

You’d won – fair and fucking square.

And true to his words, he’d fixed you right up.

୨ৎ Chapter 6 (in progress)

#melody thirsts (& never stops)#wind breaker #wind breaker x reader #hayato suo #suo hayato #hayato suo x reader #suo hayato x reader #wind breaker (satoru nii)#hayato suo smut

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seat-safety-switch · 8 months ago

Text

When I was a kid, one of my favourite weekend activities was going along with my dad to get the lawnmower blade sharpened. For that, we went to an independent lawnmower mechanic. He wasn't interested in grinding his own razor-sharp metal blades in a domestic environment with a small child running around, for some reason. Whenever I went to the store, it was always a lot of fun looking at all the new mowers on the racks, poking my head into the garage to see the techs spinning wrenches, and smelling the hot stench of spilled two-stroke premix.

There's something about sharpening a lawnmower blade that most people don't understand. That is that there are two ways to do it: you can do it with an elaborate jig, producing perfect results every time, or you can eyeball it. Most of the time, the second method is the sign of a rank amateur. Human weakness and inconsistency produces a worse cut, or even prematurely damages the blade.

Never fear, though. There was an artisan in their midst. I first saw her when I was about ten, wearing an old motorcycle helmet as she free-hand ground a Kubota 42-inch-deck blade with a gently smoking angle grinder. The cut was perfect, every time. Even though I was an outsider, adults will talk in front of a kid about things they wouldn't dare speak to another adult.

Like I said, their jealous stories confirmed that she was a real artist: she was once commissioned to do a painting of a Prime Minister a long time ago. In that work, she tried to capture the true essence of the soulless vanity and greed for power, and he hated it so much he tried to have her deported. That got her huge acclaim in the art world, but "huge acclaim" doesn't really translate to "getting another contract," so she worked at the mower shop in the busy season, grinding blades, while waiting for a patron to show up and fork over some dough to see what the nightmare mirror would make of their portrait.

Eventually, we moved away, and I stopped going to that lawnmower shop. I wonder what she's up to now? Bet she'd be able to make one helluva guillotine blade by now. One thing is for certain, however: I don't bother sharpening my blades at all, knowing full well that I cannot compete with the unrealistic expectation set in my tender young mind. Instead, I just drag it behind my car on the highway for a few hours until it gets good and hot. Mother Nature is one helluva painter too, you know.

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postmoe · 6 months ago

Note

Moe Moe Sama is Backie ~

… Wu Wa brainrots :>?

It's been a while! I've missed you!

WUWA WUWA WUWA!! With all these games and adulting it can get quite hard to stay up to date so I hope these characters aren't too OOC.

Calcharo . Xiangli Yao . Mortefi . Scar

Calcharo will keep you in shape to fight along side him... For the most part. You'll never be faster than him, smarter than him or stronger than him, but you will be able to take down some of the smaller tacet discords and any thieves that try to take advantage of you.

You're going to be monitored by someone of the Ghost Hounds at almost all times. This world is far from safe, be it by TD's or humans alike, he will not take his chances.

"Your life isn't a price worth negotiating," he'd say, keeping you under his arm so you can't run into danger (run away).

He doesn't share you well, you're the sweetheart of the Ghost Hounds but most people won't go past saying hi or a gentle compliment though there has been punishment; see below. The most in terms of other human contact would be from people like Aalto and Jiyan who only get a hard, contemplated stare from him.

Calcharo is a surprisingly generous - and a little ignorant - lover. He'll always say no to something that seems new to a weird extent but is very easy to convince and will probably like it more than you do. Tongue in the bum? Don't be gross. Ugh but with how tight those rings of muscles knead around his tongue has something so tantalisingly delicious about it. Let's try his cock next-

Punishment is tight. Most of the time it involves ropes and chains, keeping you in place, locking you to one area. Red strikes across your thighs and arse from a good lashing or spanking is probable. On the harsher times you will be displayed in public, and a couple of times he has let them use you. "You want to act like a whore? Fine. Use her to your content, I'll be back in a few hours." It really makes you enjoy the sympathetic and kind touches you receive under Calcharo's care.

.~.~.~.~.~.

Xiangli Yao is a wonderful master to his puppy princess. Yes, you are his sweet pet that he raises with love. An adorned collar sits prettily around your neck, your nails are trimmed and cared for all by yours truly.

With a calm smile he holds out his hand expectantly. You place the scroll on his palm and sit on the floor beside his legs, the paper being passed from one hand to the other so he can now pet your head, "Thank you, puppy. Hm... It seems we have an urgent commission. We will have to put off your toilet training until I come back." You couldn't be more thankful.

No privacy, this man. Your business is his business and if you don't have business then he's not doing very well as your owner, is he? He will have to create some game of stimulation for you. Hide and seek around the home, "Where's your ball?" is one of his favourites for when he's doing papers.

The thing with Xiangli Yao is that he is fully aware with how demented this is. Embarrassing you 24/7, forcing you into uncomfortable situations that strip you of your humanity, showing you off to others as if this is the most normal thing, it just gives him such a rush to be so above you in every possible way.

If you don't pick which collar/leash combo you want for the day then he will choose for you.

"Oh, you brought (Y/n) in for the day! How nice to get them out of the house," people may say as he pulls you into work with him. You're fawned over after the initial shock of being his pet and not his partner.

Exhibitionist but more so forcing you then doing it himself. Bullet vibrators, ropes, ben wa balls, you name it. It's important that puppy has their toys with them, so along with your leash make sure you pick something fun to play with as well.

Definitely has a bone gag and those belts and mitts to make you even more puppy-like. Goodness help you if he finds a 'puppy playtime' event, anything to make his pet utterly red with shame <3

*~*~*~*~*

Mortefi is not into public affection and won't really touch you unless he needs or really wants to. He's not going to condemn you if you wrap your arms around his torso or hold his hand when anxious, but, you only need to follow his voice when he orders you to come to keep him happy.

That being said, going out is a privilege and not a right. You don't have to get on your knees for him or clean the kitchen ever hour, just stop breaking things and throwing a tantrum and he'll likely take you out of the house with him.

You have your own tablet to play games on and do your own 'work'. He won't say it out loud but he does find it cute and really enjoys when you're both staying late in the lab and on your respected devices, enjoying your company and giving him the motivation he needs to finish off this last equation.

He will make time for you whether you want it or not. Relationships will bond tightly if you rely on the other more, so, please don't do anything that will warrant a punishment as those tend to isolating.

Please please please please come to him with any invention ideas, questions, interests into his field at all. If you squint you may notice the reddening on his cheeks as his heart pounds from your attention. You want something made? Consider it done, the two of you will spend all night creating a little robot that pours the perfect amount of syrup on any size stack of pancakes.

In the early mornings Baizhi will walk in, inquiring, "Mortefi, I'm just checking in on the progress of the TD field barricades you were working on-" She stops, watching as you and Mortefi are eye level with the table to judge the collection of syrup amongst seven different plates of pancakes. The office is happy that day for a free and yummy breakfast.

Overall, he is a pretty good yandere, however things can definitely go south if you act out. It's exhausting and frankly hurts his feelings when you suddenly get a rebellious streak. Running away, throwing food off the table, attacking him, he's not one to let this sort of behaviour off the hook.

Emotions can be quite high in certain circumstances. He will analyse what is different about the recent weeks and act accordingly. Some days you need to be left in a cellar by yourself for a while, restricted from anything dangerous. Others you need a good fucking.

The sex ones are probably his preferred outlets. In all honesty, it's his fault as well. Working constantly is tiring so he can't always please you when he wants to. If you came up yourself then he would figure a way around it. Though when it's all on him then it gets difficult. If you're horny and angry from it then holding you down and giving you a few orgasms normally does the trick. As long as you're limping to the bathroom after and yawning from the exertion, he can tell the next few days will be relatively peaceful.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Scar is a maniac and thrives off of your unease. 100% carves something into your skin with a knife, whether it be his name, a heart, or something else meaningful only he knows.

He will hold your head and force you watch as a human/TD experiment comes this close to your face, only held back by a chain in the ground. Your face is flooding with tears and all you can hear is the wet snarling of the creature and Scar's raucous laughter, "Oh, darling, did I scare you too much? Don't be silly, you know I'd never let anything hurt you~."

Is an open killer to anyone who disrespects you. Your fear and tears are invigorating but only if he is the cause of them. Yet, no matter how sadistic he is to you, he will always end the day by treating you like a deity of worship. Soft touches, sweet caresses, gentle kisses... You could almost believe this were someone else if you closed your eyes.

... And then he bites you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as his cock sinks into your hole. Marking you, training your body to cave to him because you need to love him and crave him as much as he does you.

It may not seem like it to you but he certainly does have a softer side whenever you're involved. He's less irritable and more willing to hear people out, that's not to say the outcome will change for them but it at least gives them a false sense of hope before their inevitable demise.

Loves having debates with you, especially if they're based on morals. You're thinking is just so cute and deluded compared to his, to see how your mind ticks truly is a wonderful past time. Sometimes you say things that he doesn't expect and it really gets him going!

The reality of the world is forced upon you with Scar as your lover. Death is everywhere, pain ahead of it and despair accompanying that, too. To shed a tear for the world is understandable for people like you, and thanks to Scar (and his thing for dacryphilia) you will cry - a lot.

"Oh, you poor, sweet soul. Aren't we just so lucky to have found each other?" His eyes bore into yours, thumbs tenderly stroking either side of your face so he can keep you focused on him. His lips ghost over yours with every word, "I won't let another being touch a hair on your body. That's right! Only I can kill you, if you're going to die then it'll be from me alone." - he honestly finds this romantic. Please say you'll kill him back so that you can die together.

#yandere x reader #yandere scar x reader #yandere xiangli yao x reader #yandere calcharo x reader #yandere mortefi x reader #wuwa #wuthering waves #xiangli yao #scar #mortefi #calcharo #yandere wuwa #yandere wuthering waves #wuwa x reader #wuthering waves x reader

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joshym · 10 months ago

Text

Muse

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x f!Reader

Summary: Your struggling artist is desperate for some inspiration.

Word Count: 3.4k+

Warnings: smut (18+ ONLY), unprotected p in v, oral (f! receiving), a smidge of sir kink, some spanking, a lot of fluff because i can't help myself, Jake draws a naked portrait of you (let me know if i've missed anything)

a/n: special thanks to this lovely anon for this brilliant idea. this was way too much fun to write.

this was inspired heavily by that scene from the Titanic. (you know the one.)

as always, thank you to my favorite editor/motivator, @jakeyt.

i hope you enjoy. ♡

“I want you to draw me wearing this.” You reach into the lapel of the robe, retrieving his coin that now hangs from your neck. “Only this.”

.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.

His frustration is palpable, evident in the nearly incessant huffing emanating from behind the closed door of his studio.

It's moments like these that leave you feeling utterly helpless. There’s nothing you can do, no inspiration you can provide that will pull him from his artist’s block.

He's been holed up in there for hours, since the early dawn, lost in the depths of his imagination, sketching away. You know better than to intrude; he's never been keen on sharing his work until it's finished.

In fact, he's never once allowed you a glimpse into his creative process. "It's the strange doodlings of a mind overrun with ideas. It's not to be seen until it's in its final form," he's reminded you countless times when your curiosity gets the better of you.

Still yet, you're consumed by the desire to witness his beautiful mind in action, crafting masterpieces in real-time, each stroke flowing from his soul through his tireless hand on his Somerset velvet sheets.

But, like any artist, he’s his own worst critic. He’s never truly satisfied with anything he creates, though you are left utterly speechless after each piece he finishes. His mind is a beautifully profound chasm of endless wonder, manifested through his artistry.

You hate when he has these moments of doubt, these instances when he questions whether he’s truly capable of such greatness.

And you especially despise days like today, when he spends the better part of it feeling as though he has a mental brick wall in the way of his ingenuity, hindering his hand from bringing to life what his mind so desperately longs to conceive.

Commissioned pieces, like his project today, always hold the most weight for him— from the need to earn a living, to his persistent worry that his art might not meet the expectations of the client.

It’s not that he doesn’t love doing them, or that he’ll ever stop taking them; quite the contrary, they’re his favorite pieces to work on. They provide him with an added pressure that elicits some of his best work.

But, reaching that point can be rather strenuous for him. It can at times take days, weeks before he discovers the creative impulsion he needs.

And right now, he’s in that very rut, awaiting the surge of inspiration that will reignite his dulled spirit.

There truly is nothing you can do when he’s lost like this, and any effort you’ve attempted in the past has always proved useless.

The one thing you can do, however, is prepare him some dinner.

He’s hardly left his studio today, and you know he’s not eaten much, if anything at all. Perhaps a morsel of sustenance will ignite the dormant embers of his mind.

.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.

After a quiet tap to the door, he invites you in with a serene voice.

He looks tired, but lovely as ever. The golden hour has officially set in the sky, and the opened curtains on the windows have allowed for a warm hue to encompass his studio, enveloping him in its delicate lume.

“That smells absolutely divine,” he remarks as you enter his studio, his plate and yours delicately balanced in your hands.

“I figured a little homemade pasta would do you some good,” you tell him while you pad across the floor to his work station.

With a sly disposition and a playful glint in your eye, you aim to steal a glance of his day-long project, but alas, you’ve been caught. Your sweet Jake misses nothing.

"Not yet, my love," he murmurs, flipping the page over as he takes your hand, planting a tender kiss over your knuckles. "You know the rules."

“I know, I know.” Your response holds a bit of remorse. You know better, but can’t begin to help the relentless desire to see his mind at work.

Setting his dinner on the desk he’s working from, you move yourself across the small office to the green chaise lounge that sits across from him, silently seeking his permission with your gentle glances. The smile in his eyes tells you that he’s more than happy to be graced with your company for the time being.

After taking a bite of the spinach tortellini you prepared, he unbuttons his white striped shirt, removing it from his shoulders and stretching his arms high above his head as though he’s ridding himself of the weight of his frustrations.

You can’t help your glare, watching him do something so normal yet so intriguing all at once.

His skin is velvety smooth, his chest rising and falling with every breath he takes, his chestnut wavy locks sitting atop his broad shoulders. You’re in awe each time you look at him; the sheer magnitude of his beauty never fails to steal your breath away.

And his necklace, his most cherished piece of jewelry that he wears each and every day. The precious coin, a relic salvaged from a centuries-old shipwreck that hangs against his chest.

The way it sits on his bare skin is nothing short of elating, sexy. It’s a wonderful addition to his already captivating aura.

He’s flawless. Everything about him.

Once he catches your gaze, he responds with a sly wink, eliciting a blush that paints your cheeks a bright shade of pink.

Then, a thought begins to swirl around your mind for a brief moment. One that you’re shocked you’ve not conjured until now.

The vision of the pendant against his bare skin sets your own imagination alight.

“I’ve got an idea,” you propose, your voice soft and sultry, trying to pique his interest even just a little, something that may help the rusted wheels of his mind turn at full capacity once again.

While his focus remains on his work, his right eyebrow arches ever so slightly, and you catch the hint of a grin daring to curl in the corners of his mouth.

“And what might that be, my dear?” he asks with an unknowing, devilish smirk.

As you get up, he hastily flips the page back over to hide his work from you once again.

“Don’t worry,” you say as you move behind him, placing your hands on his bare shoulders. “I won’t peek.”

You glide your fingers along his skin, feeling the subtle rise of each goosebump in the wake of your gentle touch.

He hums inquisitively as you delicately take hold of the clasp of his necklace in between your index and thumb, undoing it in one fluid motion before slowly slipping it from around his neck.

“Be right back,” you say as you head towards the door. “Don’t move.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds, a myriad of questions splayed across his features.

With light steps, you make your way down the wooden floors of the hall towards your shared bedroom. Hanging on the back of the door is your sapphire hued satin robe, adorned with a delicate lace detailing along the hem—the one Jake has always fawned over.

The satin drapes coolly against your skin as you slip it on, wearing nothing underneath, save for the weight of Jake’s necklace resting against your chest that you hide beneath the fabric.

You run your fingers through your hair, adding a subtle tousled look, before applying a light blush to your lips and cheeks to impart a bit of natural color to your complexion.

And with that, you're poised and ready.

.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.

As you turn the corner to face his studio, you see a very weary version of your Jake. His head sits in the palms of his hands, his leg bounces up and down at a rapid rate—a clear sign of the mental battle he’s waging.

This is as good a time as any for your little idea, and you’re hoping that it’ll be the very thing he needs to find some much needed initiative to keep going.

“Hi, baby,” you venture, leaning your body alluringly against the frame of the door.

As he looks up, a familiar twinkle dances in his eyes—a sight you've longed for all day long. It's a glimmer that tells you he's rather fond of the vision before him.

“And what exactly is your idea?” he inquires softly, slowly standing from his chair. But you stop him, motioning for him to stay just where he is as you saunter towards the chaise you were seated on just moments ago.

“My idea,” you begin, making a very slow, deliberate attempt to untie the sash holding your robe together at the waist. “...is for you to draw me.”

As if your thought has affected him physically, his posture immediately straightens, and his once tired eyes hold a renewed sense of life as they watch you intently.

“I want you to draw me wearing this.” You reach into the lapel of the robe, retrieving his coin that now hangs from your neck. “Only this.”

Your robe suddenly falls to the floor, revealing your fully nude figure that was hidden beneath.

“Oh…” he utters, his tongue wetting his lower lip before tucking it between his teeth. “You can’t do this to me, baby. I can’t look at you like this an–”

“Consider it a commission,” you interrupt, tracing your fingers lightly up and down the skin of your torso. “And when you’re finished, if it’s to my liking, you’ll receive a full payment.”

With a raised eyebrow, his gaze sweeps up and down your form, while his index finger lightly grazes his chin.

“You’re quickly becoming my favorite client,” he quips, wiping a stray bead of sweat away from his forehead, tousling the front of his hair in the process. “Consider it done, ma’am,” he continues with a confirming nod of his head.

You lay yourself down on the forest green velvet cushions, positioning yourself sensually across the chaise. Your body is turned slightly to the side, your leg gracefully crossed over the other, an elegant display of your curved silhouette.

The warm glow that is so beautifully cast upon Jake, is now cast upon you, the aura laying over your nude body like a golden blanket of light.

“Is this okay?” you ask him, draping your arm over the back of the chaise, making sure the coin sits meticulously atop your chest before your other arm falls to rest against your body.

He simply grins while nodding his head, his eyes drinking you in, a mix of surprise and desire evident within his expression.

“Yeah, that um…that’ll do just fine,” he tells you, the slight crack in his voice eliciting a smile from you, a break in his professional facade.

With a deep breath, he takes his prized Faber Castell 9000, carefully sharpening the tip just a bit before putting it against a blank sheet.

And then, as the true artist you know him to be, he begins without a hint of hesitancy. The gentle sound of the lead scratching away at the paper fills the quiet room— a sound you’ve come to cherish, a sound that signifies his craft is steadily blossoming to life.

He seems charmingly nervous, his hand gently brushing against his nose every so often between a series of strokes from his pencil, clearing his throat more than usual. His eyes flint to you, then back to the paper, then back to you, a succession of his adoration and determination, ensuring that the likeness captured in his art closely mirrors your essence.

You try to keep your face composed, a seductive allure about your features. But as you watch him, immersed in his passion, the way he’s studying you so intently, it becomes nearly impossible to suppress the beginnings of a smile upon your lips.

But despite your efforts, he takes note of the curve adorning your flushed lips, mirroring it with his own. “Relax your face for me, beautiful.” The soft rasp in his tone is enough to send a blush throughout your whole body.

Breathing in your nose and exhaling through parted lips, you’re able to reclaim your composure enough to steady your expression.

Every moment you share with him is a brushstroke of beauty, but something about this one stands out. The intimacy of it all, how he must diligently study every inch of your form to convey your image through his art, the intensity behind his focused gaze…your heart is racing in your chest, despite your relaxed demeanor.

.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.

With the sun almost hidden behind the early moon, he completes the final stroke.

He lays his pencil down, gently blowing on the paper to remove any stray lead before he picks it up, examining it closely while he walks it over to you.

As he holds it out before you, allowing you to at last see his craft come to life, you’re left entirely awestruck.

“Oh, Jake.” The sight before you leaves you nearly breathless. It exceeds every expectation, beyond the boundaries of your imagination. It’s a portrayal of you, but not just that— it’s how he sees you.

It’s the first time you’re witnessing yourself through his eyes, and in that, you feel a profound sense of beauty within yourself that you’ve never known.

“Do you like it?” He asks, a slight tremor present in his voice.

“It’s…incredible, Jake.”

Propping yourself up a bit, you carefully take the drawing from his hands, poring over his vast attention to the detail in your face, your body.

Specifically your breasts, how perfectly he depicted their round curve above your rib cage, encapsulating the fullness and allure of them.

You’re entranced by the way he drew the contour of your hips, how he captured the dip in them that you’ve always looked at with disdain, yet in his portrayal, you’re able to see the beauty in what you’ve considered a flaw.

He encapsulated everything, even the faint freckle beneath the curve of your left breast, and the mole under your belly button. He managed to immortalize all the intricate nuances that you typically overlook.

“Is this what I really look like?”

“Yes, but,” he takes the drawing from you, placing it on the mahogany table beside the chaise lounge. He helps you lay back down, gently caressing your face that he’s just conveyed through his artistry as he props himself above you. “The essence of your beauty defies any depiction.”

Then, his lips envelope yours in a kiss so fervent, so ardent, as though he’s waited hours to finally have you within his grasp.

His hand moves with a swift grace to your breast, fingers toying with your perked bud. This erotic moment with him has you already so flustered, so sensitive to every touch of his hands.

He breaks his lips from yours, only to land them down the column of your heaving chest.

“You’ve no idea how hard it was for me to look at you like this, to look at these,” he mumbles against the tingling skin, hands kneading the flesh of your breasts. “And fight the urge to come place my lips on every inch of this beautiful fucking body.”

And just as he said, he bestows tender yet hungry kisses down the length of your torso, maneuvering his body down the chaise lounge until he kneels before you. He nestles his face perfectly between your thighs, his warm breath tantalizing your wet center from his dangerously close proximity.

“I certainly hope you don’t let all of your clients pay you like this,” you mutter, breathless and yearning for his mouth.

“Only the ones that tickle my fancy,” he says, his words adorned with a playful wink before he delves into you.

He laps away at your pulsing cunt, like he’s been starved for your taste this entire evening. The lewd, lascivious sounds he’s emitting from between your legs only serve to heighten your need for him, causing your back to instinctively arch away from the plush cushions.

And when his lips envelop your throbbing clit, his tongue swirling around it inside his warm mouth, your body trembles and shudders. A rush of warmth encompasses you, starting from the depths of your core, the pit of your stomach, spreading to every inch of your being.

You surrender to the intoxicating bliss, your breath catching in your throat while your heart pounds in a crescendoing rhythm.

He guides you through it, gently holding your hips in place while the movement of his tongue slows in perfect time as with the ebb of your climax.

“Oh, that was so beautiful, my love.” He lovingly kisses the inside of your thigh before he stands, removing the belt from his patchwork jeans. “Turn over for me, baby.”

“Yes, sir,” you quietly utter as you obey his demand, knowing good and damn well what that specific name does to him.

Just as he commanded, you turn your body over to your stomach, placing your elbows against the arm of the chaise, your back arched as much as you can so that your ass is sticking up just right for him.

“Love when my sweet girl calls me that,” he purrs before his belt hits the floor, his jeans and underwear quickly in tow and freeing his impossibly hard cock.

“So, what’s the verdict, my love?” You feel the cushion sink in behind you as he settles himself between your legs, his right hand caressing your hip while the other teases your soaked cunt with the tip of his cock, leaking with precum. “Was my work to your liking?”

You giggle breathlessly, poking your ass out even further as an offering to him for his hard work. “Yes, I believe you’ve earned your reward.”

He steadily begins nudging his cock into you, going slow at first, allowing you to fully adjust to him.

Inch by thick inch, he fills you completely to the hilt, your breath catching in heavy gasps that are robbed from your lungs as he buries himself deeply within you.

Your nails claw at the velvet armrest as his thrusts quicken in their pace, your upper body nearly going limp as you’re no longer able to easily hold yourself up.

His hands hold a firm grip at your lower waist, pulling you into his cock rhythmically, yet becoming more and more disordered as he’s beginning to lose himself to the pleasure.

You cry out a slew of obscenities mixed with his name, begging him to fuck you harder, faster.

Without question he complies, landing an open palm against your ass cheek. “So good for me baby,” he hums, his thighs slapping against the backs of yours as he drives into you just the way you need. “So fucking good for me.”

With one more vigorous thrust of his hips, you feel that familiar rush throughout your whole body as your cunt throbs and pulses incessantly around his cock.

“Fuck, I feel you, baby. Pretty little cunt squeezing me so tight.” You feel the twitching of his cock inside of you, an indication that he's on the very brink of his own release.

“Cum inside me, sir. Please…need you to fill me.” Your voice is faltered, your body still reeling from your second climax.

“Jesus,” he groans, moaning exasperatedly as your words have him spilling within you, filling you with his warmth just as you requested.

He stays buried inside of you as he catches his breath, feeling his release slowly trickling down your thighs as you struggle to fill your own lungs.

You have to fight the urge to protest when he begins pulling himself away from you, not yet ready for the empty feeling he leaves you with.

You practically collapse against the cushion, your body exhausted in the most enthralling way, the kind of exhaustion that only immense amounts of pleasure can bring forth.

“My sweet, beautiful girl,” he whispers, kneeling himself before you as he softly caresses your flushed cheek.

You kiss the pad of his thumb as it crosses over your mouth, summoning the strength to lift yourself up enough to steal one from his lips. ��I hope it worked,” you say, gently cupping his face in your hand.

“You hope what worked, my love?” He asks, leaning into your soft touch.

“I was hoping this would help inspire you.” You reach for the drawing, savoring its beauty once more. “I was hoping I could help inspire you, pull you out of your moment of doubt.”

“My love,” he murmurs, setting the portrait back down before he gently brushes his lips against yours. “You inspire me endlessly, every single day.”

His tender smile warms your very soul as he leans in for a deeper kiss, imbued with all the love you could ever want for.

“You’re my perfect muse,” he utters against your lips, “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.⚘🀢⚘.

a/n: suffice to say, this inspired the hell out of me when i've lacked inspiration/motivation lately. thank you, anon.

if you have any juicy ideas, feel free to send them my way. ♡

love you guys.

taglist: (let me know if you'd like to be added/removed!)

@jakeyt @objectsinspvce @stayinginthesun @sinarainbows @stardustcordzz @klarxtr @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @highway-tuna @way-to-go-lad @reesetrippingthelight @jakesgrapejuice @sacredjake @notthedroidz @kiszkashousee @psychedelicstardust-gvf @jjwasneverhere @gvf-ficreads @stardust-jake @gretavanbear @gvfmelborne @sirjaketkiszkasharmonica @jaaakeeey @neptune2324 @jaketlove @myleftsock @joshskittytickler @audgeppp @jordie-gvf @gretavansara @gretasfallingsky @jazzyfigz @louiseecraigg @hippievanfleet @blacksoul-27 @sarafrusciante2 @heckingfrick @citylight-delight @electricgoldtendercare @musicspeaks @hollyco @gvfpal @dannys-dream @josh-iamyour-mama @edgingthedarkness @earthgrlsreasy @hernameis-heaven @mackalah @gvfmarge

Masterlist

#jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka smut #jake kiszka fanfiction #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka fluff #greta van fleet fic #greta van fleet smut #gvf fanfic #gvf fics #gvf smut #greta van smut #jake kiszka #greta van fleet

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arisewanekosuki · 1 year ago

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Traveler's little helper -Extra-: Curiosity - Nahida (feat Sumeru Boys x Fem!Reader)

This is something I wanted to post before... I went to the small hiatus, now I finished this short thing but sorry for mistakes, it's 1 Am now and I'm tired... [ Teyvat , Mondstadt , Liyue ] ------

Nahida found it interesting, how can you still not be able to see those boys holding affections towards you. At first she wondered “Are you really blind for their courting? Or maybe you don’t want to see it?” You’re very friendly, no matter if it’s a guy or girl, if you want to take someone somewhere you won’t hesitate to hold their hand, if someone is sad you always offering a hug. But she did notice that when it comes to guys, there are sometimes a moments when you do realize that you got ‘too close’ and start to feel a bit shy, apologizing to them. But then how could you not notice how they pout for not feeling warmth of your hand anymore? The easiest way is to ask you and she did. -“Those boys really like spending time with you…but I can’t help and wonder…which one do you like the most?” you looked at her with confusion -“Which one? Hmm.. I like them all, after all they are my good friends!” You smiled so brightly to her. “Ah so you’re just that oblivious.” She thought back then. Nahida always liked to observe people and because of this she noticed the difference in behavior for some of the guys. Wanderer was the first one she noticed the changes in him. That’s not a secret that Wanderer enjoys watching people expressions, especially the negative ones. Making others angry is his little fun in everyday live. And at first it was the same with you, being rude or ignoring you to just see your angry face but this changed. To Nahida’s surprise she noticed how lately he have been only teasing you just to see your embarrassed face and not only that. It seems Wanderer started to like seeing your smile. When at first he would complain when you asked him to help with commissions, now he ‘offers’ help himself to do them. The next one was Kaveh. Always stressed and troubled by many things. But after you invited him to the Teapot he seems more relaxed and happy, of course you couldn’t take away his debt but you helped him a bit whenever you could. She noticed that Kaveh is more calm when discussing things with the clients about his projects. Before he would get angry quickly because of the stress and not wanting to be scammed again but now it looks like he’s more clearheaded to find common ground on both sides. There is less arguments between him and Alhaitham those days as well, but in exchange now most of the time they clash with each other when it comes to you. The General Mahamatra have two modes, the work on and the work off, but at some point Nahida noticed that there one more “(Y/n) is here mode on”. You don’t mind his jokes, you would smile or even let a small laugh when he tell ones and when you do that, Nahida can see Cyno smiling too. Everyone knows how serious Cyno is when it comes to TCG, he won’t even show mercy when playing against you. But if someone paying close attention to Cyno they would notice how sometimes he gets deconcentrated by watching you choosing next cards. You’re good player but sometimes he lose because he got lost in his thoughts about you. Tighnari was better at hiding his affections towards you, at least when there were more people around. Nahida was watching you two as a little bird, you would listen to Tighnari talking about flowers but sometimes he would decorate your hair with some or giving you bouquets but you never knew the meaning behind them, this is only fact that Tighnari hid from you. You’re the only person who have permission to brush his tail or touch his ears, Nahida can’t count of her fingers now how many times Tighnari was so close to kiss you in moments like this. The little Dendro Archon can always see how Tighnari is protective over you, especially if you get hurt. No matter if the wound is small, Tighnari will always take care of it and softly scold you.

The hardest one to see their affections towards you is Alhaitham. Nahida is sure many other people didn’t even realized that he too takes part in the race of winning your heart. Alhaitham is very subtle with his affections, many may even mistook them for just him being kind to you. But if they know him better they can notice how he would enjoy to have conversations with you, after work he would invite you from time to time for some coffee or tea whichever you prefer. To Nahida, and even your surprise he do offer to read some books for you, when he sees that Paimon is busy and you are curious of the new book you found in your adventures with Aether.

The little Dendro Archon can’t help but be curious how this will go. Will one of them manage to win your heart? Or maybe someone else from another Nation will charm you? But there is something that has been bothering Nahida for a while now, whenever you spend time with the boys and they leave for moment or don’t look at you, she can see your eyes fill with sadness. The Dendro Archon started to wonder “Maybe you’re not that oblivious like everyone thinks?”

#Genshin Impact x Reader #Traveler's little helper #Genshin x Reader #Genshin Impact x You #Wanderer x Reader #Scaramouche x Reader #Kaveh x Reader #Cyno x Reader #Tighnari x Reader #Alhaitham x Reader #My stuff #Platonic Nahida

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kiryoutann · 8 months ago

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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

SOMETIMES, you'd like to know who your mother was before she became your mother.

You want to know where the acidic and corrosive elements that precede each of her statements come from. Perhaps she acquired it from your father—someone even more poisonous than she was. However, from how it blended with her expression every time she said: “a man’s heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing!” you can't be convinced otherwise that before she met your father, she wasn't like that—that she was once a loving girl before he wrecked her and made her your vengeful mother.

Time heals all wounds, they say. And yet, as far as you know, your mother's is still dripping with blood. Rotten. Maggot infested.

You believed it was exactly what she wanted—so that it wouldn't heal, so that she wouldn't forget how much it burned and constricted her. Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, and she will undoubtedly carry it with her until death. “A man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing,” she says, as if she's sure you'll forget what happened to her—to both of you. As if losing the love of her life was hereditary. “Don't you see, sweetheart? We are a paradox of contrasts and twins.”

You're still wondering whether it was a warning or a prayer. Good mothers ensure with all their body and soul that the past does not repeat itself, that their daughters do not embody everything they might become – their mothers. God forbid they dragged themselves across the floor, trembling fingers stretched stiffly clawing at doors that had been long since being slammed shut. However, your mother wasn’t always a good mother, and she often swore over her mother's grave that you would feel the same way she did.

And yet, despite her curses and how much you hate her as much as you hate your deadbeat father, apparently a sense of familiarity is what you're searching for.

Perhaps, that’s what made him catch your eye.

Soft footsteps were created when several pairs of ballerina pointe shoes came down the hallway after the performance ended. Smiles and laughter were among them—a familiar sight; the audience was satisfied with their performance, and they were sure that the ballet director had no more notes for them because, firstly, Marie, the main ballerina in the role of Giselle, had become the center of conversation thanks to her gifted movements, leaving no room for talking about little "building" errors for the other dancers. Second, this season has reached its end, which means they won't be showing "Giselle" again for at least the next few months.

“I saw you sneak chocolates before the show, El.” One ballerina teased.

“They're for energy!” Eloise insisted with a grin.

The ornaments on their heads moved as they both laughed. You flashed a smile but didn't dare enter into the conversation. Satin-clad feet kept moving in the direction of the corps de ballet dressing room door. More laughter and gossip ensued as you passed through the door to the small vanity you shared with another dancer.

"So where are you going after this?" someone at the next table asked, not at you.

You turned around, periodically glancing in the mirror to wipe away the last traces of makeup. "I don't know! Somewhere that can help me relieve stress, obviously. Soph?” Claudine directed her question at another, still not you.

“Sorry, girls, but I have to sit this one out. My mamma has been protesting about me coming home late lately ever since she saw some protests on TV. You two have fun without me.” Sophia declines—that leaves Jules and Claudine alone then. You were ready to return to your own thoughts when Sophia's hazel eyes fixed on you and called your name. "What about you?"

Claudine turned to you, her lips forming a teasing smirk. “Gonna go home and practice some more, no doubt,” she teased. “Live a little for once! Come out with us.”

You focused on untying your pointe shoes while the other two laughed. “No thanks, I'm tired. Think I'll just relax tonight.”

Rather than a teasing smirk, now Claudine's lips resembled a declaration that she was correct once more: "Look, I'm right, aren't I? She's still the same boring girl. No surprise that the best role she can get is dancing as a leaf in the background." It's no longer a myth. It is no longer a myth that other dancers—old and new—only see a robot prodigy, soulless in her single-minded pursuit of perfection. Your movements were full of precision, tempered by years of being under the training of a Russian coach your mother sought out for you. And yet your body is sharpened for nothing more than the purpose of being a vessel. Hushed jokes about you selling your soul to the devil for your skills.

“Aww, not even for one night? Loosen up that tight bun of yours?”

You shoved the last of your things hastily into your bag, not paying attention as someone else's hairbrush and chapstick were forced to sit on top of your toiletry bag—you can always return them tomorrow. The other girls are still laughing while you swing the overstuffed duffel over your shoulder.

“Goodnight,” you say tensely, clutching the strap of your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white. Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your shoes and hurried out of the dressing room, their taunts echoing in your ears.

London streets glistened wetly as you made your way down the sidewalk. The recent rain left dark spots on the pavement. You pull your coat tighter around you, shivering in the damp night air. As you passed a rowdy pub, loud voices and laughter spilled out onto the street. Warm light and the smell of beer beckoned from within, but you hurried on without glancing in, not wanting to face anyone's eyes.

The entrance to the subway glimmers under the streetlamps. You descend the stairs slowly, your shoes clicking on the concrete steps. The underground platform was nearly empty at this late hour. A lone figure dozed on one of the wooden benches, and a teenage couple whispered together further down the tiles. Your eyes roam over the tiled walls and ads for shows you'd never see—anything to avoid looking at other people and risking a confrontation.

The screech of brakes announces the arrival of your train, followed by beams of lights illuminating the dark tunnel. You boarded the mostly empty carriage and sat down, watching the dark tunnel walls pass by. On the opposite side, your weary reflection in the glass glances back at you.

Soulless.

Soulless ballerina.

TWENTY-THREE YEARS HAVE GONE BY: Thirteen times, you were part of the corps de ballet in Swan Lake. And now, the new director—whom they “imported” directly from somewhere in France to replace the old one—announces that the next season will be Swan Lake. You don't have anything against it—why should you? Thirteen times. Thirteen times in the corps de ballet, and this time will make no difference to you; just another faceless dancer in the flock, never the Swan Queen—they wouldn't risk a soulless ballerina in the spotlight. But wouldn't audiences grow bored of the same classic retold so often?

"Now now, I know you are all tired of this ballet," he said calmly. "But we will be doing something different - a new interpretation, with a fresh artistic vision. This will be Swan Lake as you have never seen it before. Rehearsals will focus on bringing new emotional depth and dimensionality to these iconic roles. Who knows – maybe some new faces will emerge for leading roles. I’m looking forward to seeing what you all can do. Now let us begin."

The familiar piano notes of our warm-up piece drifted through the studio as you took your place at the barre, fingers curling around the worn wood. You close your eyes and focus on steadying your breathing. Even when your muscles hurt from fatigue, you persist through well-known stretching exercises with a focused effort. Your eyelids flutter open, and out of the corner of your eye, you see the new director watching silently at the edge, his sharp eyes taking in each dancer.

“One.. and.. two.. and..”

As you move on to tendus and plies, you let the rhythm of the count wash over you – “.. three.. and.. four.. and..” Your burning thighs, your stretching calves, your flexing toes. "First position...and plié. Second position...and tendu. Third position...and rond de jambe." and the coach's familiar count. Your mind wanders as the dancers continue, thinking about the director's words about seeking new depths. Stealing a glance through the mirror, your eyes returned to the man—his ringed fingers in front of his lips as he pondered.

The music continues to play, swelling with a crescendo. You concentrate on your movements again, lifting your legs high according to standard and extending your lines through fingertips.

You found your eyes drifting to the director's reflection in the mirror more and more. The coach's voice faded into a blur as you studied his intense expression, watching for any sign of interest or approval. But time and again, his gaze passed over you without pause, lingering instead on Claire or Amelia as they executed perfect pirouettes or graceful penche poses. A familiar ache of longing and envy twisted in your stomach. No matter how hard you focused or how flawlessly you hit each position, you remained invisible to him.

Your breaths are shallow, and your head is whirling. Your eyes couldn't stop following him; he was walking around watching dancers who weren't you. He spoke to the coach, then stepped back with his hands linked behind his back. Still not you. As the music nears the end and the dancers have transitioned into combination movements, he still doesn't look at you.

You know the truth: this will be your fourteenth Swan Lake, and you will once again blend into the anonymous corps de ballet. The reflection of a woman in the mirror—your reflection, somber with lifeless eyes and dull hair pulled back in tight bun. The director stated that he wanted to bring forth new depths and emotional aspects to distinguish his Swan Lake from those of other opera houses, therefore it's fitting that he didn't choose you. As an empty ache expands in your chest, you accept the truth: this is your fourteenth Swan Lake, being another swan for the fourteenth time.

The director won’t choose you.

He won't choose you.

He won't choose...

You.

He chose you. You don't know why or how.

An hour later, you find yourself standing in Studio A, facing uncertainly across the hardwood floor. Five of the girls sat at the end of the room while the director watched Claire give her interpretation of Odette in her white swan act. You watch her movements critically, noting the slight wobble in her lower back and how her port de bras could be straighter. Her pirouettes needed more control and spotting—you counted two extra turns that threw off her balance. Then she launched into the black swan's sinister variations. Gone was the white swan, replaced by a vixenish temptress oozing sensuality from her pores. The director made a few thoughtful comments you didn't quite catch before dismissing her.

The director breathed out your name and you were quick on your feet. He crossed his arms over his chest as you took your place in the center. You looked at the girls behind you through the mirror reflection, then at the director, then signaled the pianist to begin.

The famous White Swan melody plays, and you start. Plie, tendu, glissade—your limbs moved through the steps as they had a thousand times, polished, technically perfect. Your movements rely on muscle memory, analyzing your every move through a critical lens. First pose: left arm extended, back straight, neck long. Check. The second one: right leg stretched to the sky, toes pointed to the max. But was your ankle tilted just now? You furrowed your brows while making a mental note to adjust. Entering another glissade, you land on the ball of my foot, keeping your plie low. One.. and.. two. You count the seconds, nitpicking any imperfections.

“Slow down, dear, find your breath.” The director's voice cuts through your thoughts. Find your breath? You were in complete control of your breathing, hitting every mark precisely as the music demanded. What more should you find?

You barreled ahead through the choreography, unwilling to let up on your own rigid standards even as he continued offering feedback. "Loosen your shoulders...savor each moment rather than rushing to the next...let us see you feel the music, not just hear it."

But you are feeling it. You feel every crescendo and decrescendo—you stay in rhythm with the music as the score enters the ritardando section. How could he say you didn't feel the music when you lived and breathed each score? You knew this piece inside and out. From the opening notes, you have remembered not just the choreography but every key change and tempo variation. By the time you sank into your final pose, you were a bundle of nerves.

“Your technique is superb, but so tightly wound,” the director said. “Try to loosen up your lines and embrace the artistry, not just the steps. Now, show me your Black Swan.”

As the dark notes of the Black Swan coda swirl, you pour all your focus into hitting each precise movement with flawless technique. You arch into an arabesque, extending your working leg to the maximum while maintaining perfect turnout. Your spot was fixed, and your balance was unwavering. You continue through the practiced motions, and you fly into your final fouetté combo. As the last note faded, you struck your ending pose.

Slowly, you straightened your body and lifted your gaze to meet his, pressing your sweaty palms together tightly. The director remained silent, hand in front of his mouth, and looked you up and down in a way that made you want to flee. But, you restrained yourself, waiting patiently for his consideration. The pressure in the room was so intense that it made you suffocate.

After what felt like eternity, he gave a small nod – neither acceptance nor rejection. “Thank you, Mademoiselle, that was… illuminating. Please check the cast list tomorrow morning – we will announce our decisions then.”

The compliment is ambiguous, with two implications that you know tend toward the negative. Your anxiety failed to calm down, and all you could muster was a hushed thank you before you left the studio in a daze, questions still swirling around unanswered like always.

Now here you are, unfortunate enough to be under the wailing sky of London with minimal cover from a shuttered cafe. The dense fog and wind impede your eyesight, making it difficult to see the towering structures. On the left side, several cafes and pubs radiate their orange lights from within, beckoning anyone in need of somewhere to go for a quick drink or two. Anyone but you, apparently.

The city streets felt hauntingly deserted through the deluge of falling water. Shivering even in your coat and tights, you knelt down and tightened your scarf. Puddles of water begin to form in the potholes, and you desperately hope that the rain will stop soon; you still have a long ride home on the subway to prepare for tomorrow.

Just then, a splash of heavy footsteps caught your attention.

Through the sheets of rainfall, you glimpsed a tall figure hurrying down the sidewalk, taking in what little details you could discern. His leather jacket and boots, yet the way he hunched his broad shoulders against the storm conveyed a certain roughness. You squinted to make out his face, only to find it covered by a mask and a hood pulled too low. It's unsettling, but disturbingly, it makes you enthusiastically guess what lies beneath it—was he handsome or scarred? Young or weathered by experience? It intrigued you so much that you didn't realize he was only three steps away from you.

As the stranger approaches, you take more details that should have set off alarms. His all-black leather jacket may have been fine material, but it was worn and faded. And although broad-shouldered, his build spoke more of hardened muscle than gentility. Everything about him screams danger. When he drew up beside you, you intended to duck past and continue on your way.

But something held you rooted to the spot.

Now, two strangers stood side by side, between them were raindrops dragged cruelly by the cold wind. His towering figure was as still as a statue; for a man his size, he was skilled enough to be almost invisible, almost. The scent of him washed over you then—alcohol, but not the refined wines and spirits of high society. This was something rougher, meant to burn away thought rather than enhance it. Beneath that, cigarette smoke and a musky men’s cologne, attempting to cover something.

The man is still silent, and you should've taken this as your second chance to leave. There are only two possibilities for a man like him: a perverted stalker or a serial killer—most likely the latter, because for what reason would he decide to take shelter under the awning of a dark bankrupt cafe with a woman when the surrounding pubs are still serving happy hour?

While the stranger settles against the wall, you notice his large hand drift casually into his pants pocket. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in panic wondering what weapon he might pull out – a knife, or worse. All instincts screamed to run away, but your feet remained rooted to the ground, frozen.

“Nasty night.”

Your body comes to a complete stop. The air is forgotten, and you wonder if you really heard him speak just now or if you were just hallucinating. He has a roughness to his voice, gravels, and a low range with a hint of timbre muffled by his dark mask. Unknowingly turning toward him, you stared at his side profile until he met your gaze, and you swiftly looked straight forward again.

“Uh, y-yes, quite a storm,” You stuttered in reply, cursing your trembling voice. Gripping your duffel bag tighter, you tried not to say anything that might offend him.

Minutes pass, the rain as the only noise. Finally, he spoke again, "Subway, yeah?" Between the sound of the rain and his muffled ones, you tried hard to make out what he was saying. After fully understanding it, you give it a nod.

“Yes, the subway. Though it may be closed by now with the weather.”

The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes. From the corner of your eye, you knew he was taking off his mask. Your heart beats fast as you resist the urge to turn your head, settling to look at the dark street in front of you instead. Smoke wafts between you both, creating faint, short-lived tendrils in the air.

The two of you were in silence. You wanted to talk to him again but didn't know what there was to say; it could be that he just wants to smoke with a company, a quiet company. He let out a puff of fresh cigarette smoke, and you inhaled it all. Toxins are bad for the skin and lungs, and yet you're better off suffocating than giving the impression that you're disturbed.

“Subway's closed, like you said. No sense waiting in the wet.” He took the last drag and threw the cigarette butt into the gutter. “Come on then. Pub's the best place for now.” His voice muffled again – he had put his mask back on.

You hesitated at his offer, biting your lip as you weighed the options rapidly in your mind. On one hand, the rain shows no signs of letting up, and this awning provides only a little protection at best. But to follow a strange man through the streets, alone, allowing him to take you to a spot where inebriation may be present—where his worst pals might be waiting. Girls your age being spiked is something you hear about a lot.

Shaking your head, you manage a small smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I'll be right here. Best not to trouble you further on such a night.”

He tilts his head, his eyes peering from the mask's shadows as if reading your unspoken fears. Does he see the consideration behind your polite refusal—how now you are a vulnerable woman, and this relative anonymity without further conversation is a safe option, despite the discomfort? Within his dark eyes, there was a stirring that you didn't understand. Pity? Or mockery? Under his towering height and massive body, you were nothing but a frightened rabbit.

Gusts of wind drive cold droplets under the awning. You suppressed a shiver, hugging yourself tighter. “Really, I'll be fine. The rain can't last forever." A forced laugh follows your words.

You seize the chance to stare back at him. It was impossible for you to know what calculations were going through his mind, or what emotion lay beneath that mask. It's pretty unfair, you think, that he can hide under a hood that nearly makes him invisible in the dark of night while he can see all of you—a greasy-haired woman hoping the man in front of her will respect her dumb decision. It's the least he can do.

Just when you think this staring game would go on for another minute, he turns his gaze. “Suit yourself, love.” His voice comes out gruff, and your heart drops thinking you've let him down (but, for what?). "But you'll catch your death waiting in the rain."

A pang of guilt crashes into you as he turns his shoe the other way. For safety's sake, you rejected him, thinking you're being sensible; but there's an authoritative voice in the back of your mind telling you, "He's the first nice guy in a long time, and look what you gave in exchange for his kind offer." Self-doubt is playing in your heart. His back was already turning, boots squelching away into the rain.

“Wait!” You called after him, hating how small and frightened you sounded. He paused and searched back, eyes questioning through the mask. Steeling your nerves, you step into the downpour. “I'm coming with you.”

If this guy thinks you're an indecisive woman who can't even commit to a decision for more than five seconds, thank goodness he didn't say anything other than give you another stare. He led the way as he went, holding the door of one of the busy London pubs. More liquor and tobacco smells. You both entered, bringing a burst of damp wind with you. The warmth and noise within are a shock after the storm outside.

He steers you towards the fireplace, shrugging out of his soaked jacket. “Get yourself by the hearth,” he said, nodding to an empty chair. “Dry off.”

You did as he said gratefully, holding your hands out to the flames. The colors returned to your cheeks; fear slowly evaporated away.

“What'll you have, love?” He asked, and you frowned before understanding. Oh, drinks.

“Something light,” is all you say, eyes lowered again. The man gave a nod and went to give the bartender the order.

He returned not long after, setting the drinks down and taking the chair opposite to yours, stretching out his long legs toward the fire. You took the gin with a murmured “thank you.” He settled with his own—whiskey in a glass, neat. You glanced at the remains of rainwater dripping heavily from his clothes in a growing puddle at his boots. The drinks were enjoyed in companionable silence, still trying to find calm after the storm's fury.

The fire crackles merrily as you sit. Finding your voice, you clear your throat gently.

“Thank you, for…” Your fingers tapped nervously on the glass. “Well, for everything, I suppose.”

His eyes lifted from the flames to meet yours, and you offered a small smile. “I’m (Y/N).”

As the name slips out, you berate yourself. How stupid, giving up something as personal as your name! This man was still a stranger, no matter his kindness so far. For all you know, bad intentions could be lurking behind that calm gaze even now. But in the cozy glow of the fire, your sense of awareness wavered, lulled to sleep in a false sense of security.

He merely nodded, moving his hand to the mask hook over his ear without expressing much emotion. Your eyes widened, and your heart was pounding. The breath in your lungs stilled in anticipation as the fabric peeled slowly back, inch by inch. Is he about to...?

The man removed his mask, appearing at ease and lacking in secrecy. He looks at you, and you quickly look aside, pretending to offer him a little privacy. You wait for him to finish, to put it on again, but he never does. Is it okay to look-

Deciding to no longer be the uneasy one (since the guy looks completely unconcerned as he takes a long sip of his drink), you follow suit and allow the liquid to cascade down your throat. There's a slight thump as your glass hits the aged wood. Your curiosity is piqued even more by the fact that he hasn't made any moves to wear it again. Slowly, you raised your gaze, meeting that unveiled gaze – a secret not meant for your eyes.

Blonde eyelashes – pretty. Faint shadows hung under the eyes. Light stubble. Scars dotted his jaw, thin white slashes earned from unknown origins. His nose sat slightly off-center, clearly broken more than once in past altercations—bar fights, perhaps? Though something about the precise thinness of the lines didn't seem right for brawling. Regardless of which one, he is clearly no stranger to violence, and being near him is enough for someone to sense the danger he was capable of.

But, there is something about that powerful jawline, the intensity found only in his hooded eyes, spokes of steel and intricate details that defy explanation. Fire in his eyes. Even after taking off the mask and grasping it between his lengthy fingers—just when you think all the curtains have been exposed—he still remains a mystery.

(And you're just another gullible woman who believes she knows how to solve the puzzle.)

You wait; surely he will offer his own name in return now that you've bared yours. But seconds ticked by in the silence, and still he said nothing.

A flush crept up your neck at the realization that he had no intention of reciprocating. Did you misread this entire meeting? Why did he bring you here if not to talk? You observe his stony profile, wishing you could see past him. Did he intend to remain a mystery—an enigma full of intrigue? Or is it actually a test to see how long your curiosity can last?

Your fingers fidget with the condensation on your glass. Under this new tension, the easy silence fell away. Seeking an escape from the awkwardness, you looked for something, anything. Your gaze landed on a group of regulars in the corner, laughing boisterously.

“Do you, um, come here often?” You ask lamely, cursing your inability to make small talk. But there was an amused glint in his eyes that put you back at ease.

“Aye, I'm 'ere often enough,” he replied, taking another sip. You assume he finds humor in your discomfort, rather than mocking it. The knot in your shoulders loosened, and you relaxed into a smile again.

For good or ill, this man stirred something deep inside you—and you're desperate to scavenge for light, safe conversation topics to continue the conversation.

“So, um, what kind of work do you—” You catch yourself, cheeks warming. Too personal to ask a stranger met by chance. You let out a dry laugh. “Sorry, I don't mean to pry. It’s just… making conversation.”

At the small thud of his glass meeting the scarred wood of the table, your eyes darted up in surprise. Already empty—have you been so lost in thought that you missed him finishing? A swell of questions rose inside you as you watched his movements for a clue. Would he signal the bartender for a refill, extending your time together? Or was this the end—the strange encounter came to a close because you somehow offended him for prying too much?

“Military.”

Unexpectedly, he gave a single-word reply. Military—that explains a lot, from his physique and bearing to the scars and the lingering scents that cling to his coat.

"Oh!" was all you could think of as a response. More questions swim to the surface, demanding to be asked, but you quash them, not wanting to risk being presumptuous a second time.

Feeling indebted, you then offer, "I do ballet, with the Metropolitan Opera." The words slip out before you can check them, and inwardly you curse yourself once again.

Great. Name, job, and workplace. Why don't you give him your address next?

You bit your lip. Risking a glance up, you hope he won't take your openness as foolishness. His quiet acceptance has so far calmed your nerves, and now you find yourself craving that ease again.

“Must be rewarding,” is all he offers—you grow accustomed to his terse responses. Plain, perhaps even half-hearted, but you smile as though he had read you a lovely poetry full of flattery.

“Yeah, it's really rewarding to dance and like, share that joy with others.”

Liar. What can a soulless ballerina have to share? So far, frustration is what you inflict on your director, and criticism is secretly a “reward” for your fellow dancers. You understand perfectly well, from the top of your head to the balls of your toes, that there is no joy that you can share. However, this man didn't know. He doesn't know who or how you are. Since the very beginning, you have spoken truth to him; allow this one deception to pass.

Your fingertips made a gentle squeak as they rubbed across the condensation on your glass. “If I may ask… what inspired you to serve?”

For a moment, he was quiet, considering with eyes turned to the flames.

"It was a calling, I suppose," came the gruff reply. “The world had its darkness even then. Felt a duty to stand against it.”

After providing an answer, the two of you returned to silence. You gazed thoughtfully into the flames, thinking of how you might spark another conversation that didn't rely solely on question and answer. The last thing you want is for him to view you as overbearing or pushy.

“What drew you to ballet, then?”

It was unexpected for him to pose a question, and you were taken aback when he did. Your lips curved into a smile as you thought about the answer, and your mother's role in starting it all.

"Well, I think it started because Mom thought ballet was 'cute'." A tone of amusement permeates your voice. “She had no idea about the art or discipline—she just wanted to see her little girl swirl and spin in frilly costumes. But I had fun dancing, dressing up, and listening to the music...”

Somewhere in your head, your mother's voice echoes again. Bitter and resentful, encased in an everlasting nightmare. Your mother stood in the audience, and you ran towards her, tutu skirt fluttering gently. She wiped her eyes and knelt down in front of you, whispering, "You were marvelous, sweetheart," as she drew you in. She smiles, but it stops short of her eyes. Then a string of apologies, saying that he’s gone—that she knew he had promised you to be here, but he's gone. Dad is gone. And he'll never see what you can do.

“My first real performance, in elementary school… I was so proud when the curtain fell.” You continue, remembering another face that has long been a ghost in the past.

("Why did you let that man walk away?")

You clear your throat softly. “After that, it just felt right, you know? Like I'd found where I belong.”

Liar.

Steering away from the bitter past, you change the direction of the conversation again. “Are you from around here?” It's a simple question, maybe even stupid. His accent alone makes it plain he grew up in this land, but, no matter how long you've lived in England, you have a small grasp of regional dialects within the country.

“I mean, I know you're obviously from here—your accent kind of gives it away.” You waved. “I just meant—is this area home for you? Or are you from elsewhere originally?”

The barest upturn of his lips catches your eye. Was that a smile? On this gruff, grumpy stranger who has only revealed so little so far? Your heart beats at the sight, rare as a summer snowflake. He reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette, and held it between his dry lips. The lighter ignited, and white smoke was blown out.

“Manchester, originally,” he said, intonation hanging. He took another drag of his cigarette before exhaling slowly and adding, “A different world now. You?”

“I've been in the city for years now, but I'm from San Francisco.” You said. “When the chance came up to transfer here from my old opera house back home, I leapt at it. Felt it was time for a fresh start, to spread my wings and live on my own. And maybe get out from under my mom's feet—love her to bits, but she can be a bit much sometimes.”

From your own remarks, you can't help but question if mothers are as harsh on their sons or if this is solely reserved for daughters. Girls are taught to keep close to home and their hearts, while boys are free to roam and explore. Is it any wonder, then, that spreading your wings felt like escaping? You wanted to ask him but ended up lacing your tongue tightly.

The fire's burned low, just embers burning gently in the fireplace. Time passed unnoticed as the two of you sat chatting quietly. But outside, the rain began to subside until it was a fine patter on the roof.

“Storm’s passed, seems.”

As he speaks, you glance up to find his guarded mask has fallen once more into place. The easy openness that had soothed tired nerves now closed again – strangely making you bereft. A feeling of melancholy welled up in your chest at the thought of parting, of kissing away the intimate bubble the two of you had crafted and going back out there into the cold reality where you would be strangers again. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you searched for words.

“I suppose you're right… it has eased off some.” Your voice came out small and awkward to your own ears. Licking your dry lips, you added, “thank you, for your company. It was…nice, not to feel alone.”

He stood up, stretching his tall frame. After this, the spell of the evening will evaporate, and everything will return to the reality of loneliness once again.

“C'mon then, let's get you home,” he said gruffly, offering a hand to help you up. His strong hand envelops your smaller one—rough yet tender, sending warmth through your limbs that have little to do with the fire now dying.

Pushing through the heavy doors, the night air is a contrast to the warmth of the pub. Thick fog covered the streets, rain-slick stones glistening under the street lights. He waved at the first cab that passed—and you prayed it wouldn't stop so you could buy a little more time with him.

It stopped. The night was set to end.

He holds it while you slip inside. Through the open window, your eyes met his; he crouched beside the window, broad shoulders hunched. He's talking to the cab driver, but you can't hear it—not when your heart flutters madly in your breast over a single question. The ache of still not knowing his name. It seems wrong, unfair, that he knows you so well, yet you know nothing of him in return.

The cab lurches into motion, snapping the spell. Panic rises in your throat; you can't let him disappear into the night—to the back of your head like another passerby.

“Wait—please! I don't know your name."

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out in a desperate rush.

The second ticks by as you wait. He finds you foolish, for sure—just another desperate, nosy girl who wants to play detective the second she sees a puzzle. The clinginess in your request must have given the impression that you were a fool in love—gullible and name-obsessed.

Something shifts in his dark eyes, and you hope it's a wall crumbling away. Then, in his low rumble – “Simon.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, almost parting your lips in question before—

“Name's Simon,” he repeats.

(And the sun breaks through storm clouds.)

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