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justdontaskme · 5 months ago

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It Was Always You (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

A/N: Here you go, just as promised, the second part to this fic here. You should probably read that first to better understand this one. I probably should have proofread it again, but felt like I needed to get this out or it would forever sit as a WIP. So please enjoy and I hope to see you at my next fic.

After finally finishing what felt like the longest season of your life, you were ready for a long vacation surrounded by beaches with plenty of alone time for you and Alexia. Hawaii had been screaming your name since Christmas. The surprise planned proposal was just an added bonus for your good mood.

Ever since you had exchanged Christmas presents, Alexia had been very tight-lipped, deflecting any and all questions you asked about the upcoming proposal you knew was coming, just not when exactly it would happen. She refused to give you even the slightest hint.

While you packed for your two week trip to Hawaii, you felt discombobulated, running around like a madwoman as you packed and unpacked an unhealthy amount of times. Knowing that you were going to Hawaii with your girlfriend and coming back with a new shiny ring and a fiancee was driving you insane in the best kind of way.

As the trip came closer, Alexia started sharing pieces of the itinerary with you. The schedule was very flexible, allowing you to add in your fair share of ideas of things you wanted to do while on the vacation islands. There was a good mix of adventure, romance, and relaxation packed into a short two weeks.

This extra information also had your mind running on overdrive. You were googling everything that Alexia was booking, mentally calculating how likely her plans could lead to a proposal that day. You were dissecting every tiny morsel of information she was giving you. It led you down a long rabbit hole of what-if scenarios that was literally scrambling your brain.

But the midfielder knew how to keep you on your toes because there were just so many possibilities. It could be during a cute, romantic dinner or an adventure with a picturesque background for a proposal. It could be during a morning stroll on the beach or a helicopter ride over the beautiful island. It could even be next to a raging waterfall or underwater during a snorkeling trip. The possibilities were endless and you felt as if you were going crazy with each new idea that popped in your head.

When Alexia came home the night before you had planned to leave, the apartment you two shared was an utter mess. You had to fit a handful of outfits you could mix and match during your two week vacation. But you also had to prepare for the wide range of activities Alexia was planning for the two of you. Narrowing down what to wear was an obstacle all on its own.

“Almost done packing, mi vida?” Alexia whispered, slipping behind you as she looked at your bags over your shoulder.

She held in her chuckle as she noticed there were more clothes laid out everywhere in the room instead of in your suitcase. They were still only half packed, clothes hanging all over the bed. Some draped over your opened suitcase, others thrown haphazardly in a pile.

“I don't know what I’m going to wear, Ale,” you whined, leaning forward to grab a top and holding it up as you contemplated whether it would make the cut.

“Just pack some sleep clothes and swimsuits,” she said, her eyes falling shut as she laid her head against your back, loving the warmth and comfort of having you in her arms again. “You won’t be needing much of anything else.”

“But I want to look good. This is a special vacation,” you whined.

“You know I think you’ll look good in whatever you wear,” she told you, reaching over to pick up an item from your discard pile so she could neatly fold it and make a new pile.

You glared at her because you knew she was trying to keep you happy, but she was being no help whatsoever. It also irked you slightly that she was already fully packed, her bags sitting by the door, ready to be whisked away in the morning rush to the airport.

“Half the time you’ll be dressed in a nice little swimsuit, so it’s not like you need much else. Anything else you need, we can either buy there or you can borrow from me. Besides, the other half of the time, we could be in our room which means, you won’t really be needing any clothes,” she murmured, teasingly nipping at your neck.

You giggled at the sensation, nudging her away, as you twirled in her arms.

“I want to look cute for this,” you amended.

“You always look cute,” Alexia said, leaning down to press a kiss to your nose.

“You're not helping,” you grumbled, slipping out of her hold and sitting on the bed. The pout on your face was adorable, but Alexia could tell you were taking this whole situation very seriously.

“Don’t stress about this too much, mi amor,” she cupped your cheeks, making sure you were looking at her. “This vacation is about relaxing. You shouldn’t be getting riled up over this.”

“I know, I know. But this time it's special. And since you won't tell me what you're planning,” she rolled her eyes playfully at you trying to trick her into revealing everything, “I have to be ready at all times.”

“Good try, but how about I actually help you back your stuff?” Alexia deflected, wanting to help wind you down from this overthinking tirade.

You sent her a relieved smile, quickly nodding your head as you both got to work sorting through your clothes once more until you had a full suitcase. With one less thing to worry about, you slowly felt a bit of the tension in your shoulders momentarily wash away.

After you set your packed bags next to hers by the door, we flopped onto your couch, the mental exhaustion catching up to you. It didn’t take much coaxing from Alexia to get you to agree to order in food and relax before the whirlwind of vacation swept in.

But for the rest of the night you planned on enjoying the fleeting bliss before your mind could conjure up more scenarios to work you up again. And it was always so much easier to do that with your girlfriend by your side, arms around you, her softly humming into your ear to help calm you.

****

As soon as the plane touched down in Hawaii, you found yourself buzzing with both excitement and a tad bit of anxiety. All you wanted was to know when and where the proposal was happening. You wanted to be photo ready and emotionally prepared, so the surprise was killing you.

Even though it was supposed to be all happy, you felt like you couldn’t relax. Your mind refused to let your guard down completely. Thankfully, it all came in waves. You could indulge in the nice moments between you and Alexia, taking in the sights and emptying your mind for pieces of time.

What sucked was the slightly quieter moments that allowed your mind to wander. When you had too much time to think, you always overthought everything. Your head was constantly on a swivel as you searched for Alexia everytime she was out of sight for a moment too long. Then you’d think about the outfit you were wearing and if it’d fit the occasion if you were to turn and find your girlfriend on one knee, staring up at you with a hopeful smile.

Fortunately for you, your girlfriend was quick to step in before you could work yourself into a tizzy. She was good at redirecting your thoughts, whether it’d be to point out the beautiful scenery surrounding you on these magical islands or if it’d be as simple as unintentionally flexing her tanned and defined muscles that’d leave you flushed as your mind wandered.

Alexia was extremely attentive this trip, and you made sure to soak it all in.

The midfielder was an amazing girlfriend, but at times during the season, you and your relationship with the talented captain would sometimes have to take a backseat while she uplifted a legendary club and a thriving national team.

Even with you being on the same team, it could get difficult to balance everything. So Alexia, over the years, had come to affection overloading you in her break times, and you’d be a liar to say you hated it.

It had been almost a week of full bliss with your girlfriend in Hawaii and still no sign of a ring. You’d already gone on two breathtaking hikes, eaten at delicious hole-in-the-wall restaurants she had researched, and sunbathed to your heart’s content.

Each night so far had ended with a private, romantic dinner where the two of you would talk about anything and everything for hours. You found yourself throughout the trip feeling as if you had travelled back in time, and you were learning about Alexia all over again.

You reminisced on the dates you had been on at the very start of your relationship, and it reminded you so much of what you were feeling now. But instead of those crazy, scary nerves you had about possibly messing up a relationship before it even started, you now felt warm, loved, and safe.

The way the two of you had grown together throughout the years has been one of your favorite things in the world. Yes, the two of you would occasionally fight and argue, but in the end you were always in each other’s corner. Your bond allowed you both to step up and support each other whenever needed. When one of you felt down, the other worked harder to help bring you back up.

She was there to help heal you whenever you tried to deny you were sick even though you were coughing up a lung with snot running down your nose. She was there to lift you up when you felt your chances on your national team slipping away. She was there to make you smile whenever you felt upset about missing another milestone like a major birthday or even wedding in your family’s life as they lived a whole ocean away.

And just as she was there for you whenever you needed her most, you were there for her.

You were there to keep her company and out of her head and she watched endless game films after a tough match, win or lose. You were there to remind her to love whenever she and Alba got into any heated arguments that led to weeks of no contact between the two sisters. You were there to pull her from the depths of her despair when she tore her ACL and the devastating recovery that followed.

Each and every milestone in both your careers and life since the two of you made it official was shared and celebrated with one another.

Despite being in such close proximity to each other almost all the time between working and living together, there was never a dull moment. You took turns planning dates to help keep the romance alive. It was hard to feel like you never had anything to say because you two could talk for hours on end and still have more to add. And on the flipside, you could sit in complete silence and never feel an ounce of awkwardness.

You really felt like you won the dating lottery with Alexia.

This trip was needed for so many reasons, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. To begin with, you felt like you could decompress after what felt like a long, grueling season. There was also the opportunity to reconnect with your girlfriend, catching up on missed date nights or even spending quality time with one another that didn’t revolve around work. And of course, it was going to help move you two into the next step of your relationship.

You were ready to start the next day of your vacation, optimistic that today could be the day, just as you felt every morning since you woke up in the Aloha state.

While you had come to expect it, you still weren’t thrilled to wake up and find Alexia was no longer in bed with you. Being the athlete she was, and not being able to take off a full day, Alexia was always out for a morning run.

Checking the clock by your bedside, you saw that Alexia was due to be back any minute now, so you figured you’d get started on a quick breakfast to hold you over until lunchtime. With that in mind, you got up from bed, slowly sliding out from under the covers. The cold hardwood floors beneath you caused goosebumps to form up and down your arms.

There was a chill in the suite you were staying in. The warm air outside was nice and welcomed, but inside you both liked to keep the AC low, prompting you to search for a hoodie instead of turning up the heat. You knew Alexia packed one of her favorite hoodies, which also happened to be your favorite to steal, and you were dying to wear it right now.

Digging through Alexia’s stuff, you quickly find the hoodie you were searching for and throw it on. The encompassing smell that is purely Alexia immediately calms you. As you’re hugging yourself to warm up and breathe in her scent, you noticed something out of the ordinary in the back of the drawer.

Curiosity got the better of you, so you reached out and pulled out the offending item. A rather loud gasp escaped upon finding a black box sitting in the palm of your hand.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was. You knew she had to have hidden it somewhere, but you didn’t expect to find it before the time was right.

You couldn’t help yourself, your hand gently lifted the lid of the ring box, a small gasp escaping when you took in the ring perched in the middle of the box.

It was absolutely stunning. The diamond itself was just the perfect size for you, nothing too in your face but still big enough to catch the eye. The white gold shimmered along with the tiny diamonds set on the band, caging in the diamond in the middle.

The ring was perfect.

“You weren’t meant to see that yet,” you hear from behind you, snapping you out of the trance.

At the sound of her voice, you quickly shut the box in your hand, feeling incredibly embarrassed and insanely guilty. Slowly, you turned around, your eyes trained to the floor, afraid of her expression. Your mouth opened and shut a few times as you tried to find the words to apologize.

“It’s okay, mi amor. I’m not mad,” she reassured you, stepping into your personal space, her hands slowly taking yours.

You threw the box onto the bed, needing it out of your hands as you hid your face behind your fingers, mortified for messing everything up, “I’m so sorry, Ale.”

“Don’t be. In fact, I’ve been watching you for awhile,” she admitted, revealing that she’d been quietly standing at the door watching as you pulled the ring out and inspected it.

“I’m sorry, Ale,” you repeated, not even able to bring yourself to peek through your fingers to gauge her true reaction.

She shook her head, “Stop apologizing. I could have stopped you but I didn’t. Besides, you were going to see it soon anyways.”

Your jaw literally dropped as your girlfriend lowered down to one knee in front of you. “This isn’t how I planned it, but seeing you in my hoodie with the ring in your hand, I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“Alexia…” you breathed out, your voice wispy as tears began to well in your eyes.

“I’ve known since day one that you would be an important person in my life,” the midfielder started, reaching over to grab the ring box off the bed, opening it and staring down at the carefully crafted piece of jewelry. “Every day we spend together, I find another reason to never let you go and promise myself that I will do whatever I can to make you smile at me for the rest of our lives. I don’t want to wait to call you mine forever,” the slight crack of her voice told you she was nervous, despite you two talking about this very moment numerous times in the past. “Will you marry me?”

The question was barely out of her mouth before you were shouting, “Yes!”

With the biggest grin you’d ever seen, Alexia shot up, pulling you in for a deep kiss, as she slid the ring onto your finger. You pulled away from her, immediately hugging her close, not quite ready for her to anywhere but pressed up against you.

The next second the switch flipped as you both turned to celebrating this momentous occasion by slowly stripping each other of your clothes and finding the bed in your haste to feel one another.

After a few rounds, you found yourself lying on your back, Alexia on her side, watching you as one of her hands continued to trail innocent, lazy paths along your exposed body.

Both of you basked in the afterglow of your previous activities, the calm quiet allowing your minds to catch up to present.

“Will you tell me what you were planning to do? I know you had some crazy proposal actually planned out,” you said to her, turning over so you could face her.

She hummed, not quite ready to escape the state of bliss.

“Well your family and my family are actually flying in later today,” she started. “They know everything, so you’re going to have to pretend this never happened and act surprised when I propose. I think they’d kill me if they found out I already did it,” Alexia said, her voice wavering slightly because she would totally get berated by Alba and at least one of your sisters and possibly a brother.

Her admission started as a chuckle but quickly turned into a full belly laugh. Your laugh was infectious, and soon Alexia couldn’t find it in her to not join in.

“I like that. It’s like our little secret,” you said, sinking into the bed, Alexia leaning over until she was practically sprawled out on top of you.

She explained how your immediate families were coming in to witness the beginning of the next chapter in your life. The two of you agreed that as soon as you saw them, you had better act surprised to not arouse any suspicion. They were to keep any details about the proposal under lock and key.

Their first day there was meant to help them acclimate to the new scenery and time change. Alexia had planned a very chill day for that exact reason, allowing everyone to gather their bearings with a nice hearty meal and exquisite sights.

Your now fiancée then started to go into detail of how it was supposed to take place at a little private beach at sunset because it reminded her of that one sunset on a beach years ago where she first realized she loved you. And how a couple of weeks later, she took you back to that exact spot to confess it.

She showed you her notes on her phone about what she wanted to add to her speech, which was much longer and just slightly more heartfelt than the way she had thrown all caution to the wind, unexpectedly proposing to you in the middle of your hotel room.

Alexia went over every detail she had planned out, from photos and videos of the proposal to where she planned to take everyone to dinner afterwards. Each new detail made your heart stutter, as you felt the genuinity of each carefully masterminded idea.

While in bed with a new shiny ring on your finger, one you’d have to return temporarily so she could initiate the actual proposal in front of your loved ones, you realized you couldn’t stop grinning. You pictured everything she was saying to you, each little detail its own way of her saying she loved you.

The scenario you had playing in your mind was the exact way everything played out the next day.

It was the perfect second proposal from her. You couldn't wait to show everyone that you were now officially engaged to the love of your life.

#woso x reader #woso imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine

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zarla-s · 1 year ago

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We move forward, 'cause we can't go back...

It's the EIGHTH anniversary of Handplates, and the first one after I finished the comic back in July! I decided to dig up a very old wip that I never finished and finally do it. I've always loved WeMoveForward by The Midnight, and I think it applies not only to the comic itself but also this period after it... there's no way to go back to when I was doing it, only moving forward after it's done.

Even more appropriately, since I did this wip, these characters all moved forward even further... even as this sat in my files, they moved forward, in a sense. I don't know, the song gives me a sort of plaintive, longing, bittersweet feeling... it's hard to explain.

I had a very insistent voice in my head that always made me do a Handplates page over the years I was working on it, no matter what happened. I wasn't sure if that voice would ever stop, even when it's done, but it has! It's gotten quieter now, mostly only nagging me about other projects I should be working on (Defrag, the Ace Attorney/Frozen fic, web design, fic ideas, art ideas...) whenever I'm doing something, much like it did before I started the comic.

How I feel about Handplates finishing though is strange. At times it doesn't feel like it's over, even if I don't feel like I need to do another page. At other times I get sad thinking about it and I miss it, and other times I look back on it with amazement that I was able to do it. Sometimes I look back on it and think about what was happening in my life at that time, and sometimes when I look at it it's unreal and it's hard to believe I even did it, like someone else did the whole thing. It's like it's there but it's not, it's present but it isn't. It's a very strange feeling, it's hard to describe or pin down. I know it'll always be with me in some way, but it is strange to be able to focus so much attention on other things without that feeling of having to set aside a few days to do a page every two weeks... not bad or anything, but I'm not used to it still.

I don't know! When I read the comments on the last page a lot of them made me cry, especially those talking about how the comic had been their childhood, and now their childhood is over. It was sad to think that I had a part in something like that ending... but it ends for everyone, no matter what you do. We, you and me, everyone... we move forward, 'cause we can't go back. That line was so evocative for me that I even used it as a chapter title for the penultimate chapter on Comicfury.

I don't know, just nostalgic thoughts! I don't know if that's the right word for it... but thank you to all of you who read it and enjoyed it. Even now I hear from new people coming to it and reading through it again now that it's done. Even if it's finished, it's still new to people just finding it. It's still "living" in a sense. And thanks to those of you who stuck around even though it's done, I appreciate it. |D

(As a note, the Gaster ukagaka has a surprise if you boot him on the anniversary after seeing the brothers, if you haven't done that)

[index] [patreon]

#undertale #handplates #asgore #gaster #sans #papyrus #asriel #z art #man i like never draw asriel #i always feel guilty when i move on to something different than what brought people to me #but my interests never really die they just fall asleep for a little while #they always come back eventually

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high-dragon-bait · 5 months ago

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Literally just 538 contextless words of Davrin going down on my Rook

Okay I'll give a little context. This is from a MUCH longer WIP about my Rook, her trauma, and her relationships with companions. It ends with a smut scene with Davrin because 1. That's the most important relationship and there's a lot of themes of trust going on and 2. I can do what I want.

In this scene Rook is trying not to make any noise out of habit and Davrin is trying to encourage her to relax and enjoy herself. Given that I don't know if I'll ever finish it and how rarely I write smut, I thought I'll post this chunk because there's a pitiful amount of Davrin spice out there rn.

This is the middle of an ongoing scene so it starts very abruptly and ends very abruptly. It's E rated! He's going for it! You've been warned!

When she felt her voice try to escape, she’d catch it in her throat. Swallowing the sounds back into her chest and breathing out only in slow, short bursts to hold them there. A consequence of pure instinct and perhaps a bit of shame.

Davrin’s mouth moved then from her core back to her stomach. The warmth of his lips soothing a tension she hadn’t even felt.

“Hey,” he whispered. His hands sliding back up her thighs until his palms rested over the crest of her hips. He ran his thumbs through the hollow curve just beneath her ribs.

“It’s just me,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

She looked down at him. Taking one hand from its grip on the back of the sofa and gently dragging her nails up his cheek before resting her hand on the back of his head. Running her thumb through his curls.

“Yeah…” she said. “I know.”

He smiled, quietly. His mouth closed. He raised himself up to kiss her lips gently, then her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, back down, down, down her body, her hand still cradling his head, until his tongue was back on her clit.

A sound built in her throat. She tried to catch it again reflexively, but this time, she let it escape with her breath. It was still strained, dragged out, and ragged. Torn between her teeth. But Davrin seemed encouraged. His hands moved to her inner thighs, spreading her legs farther apart, his tongue diving farther into her.

Her eyes were still open, focusing on the lines in the paint above her. Lines that blurred more and more as her eyes rolled closed, her lips parted, her free hand moving from the sofa back to her throat. Where she felt the buzz of her own voice.

Her eyes closed, her shoulders dropped and her head rolled to the side, her hand dropped from her throat to her breast. She circled her nipple under her thumb and breathed. Moaned.

She began to smile as her tongue flicked between her lips, and her mouth fell open wider. As her sounds got louder and Davrin slipped his fingers inside her. As he touched her. Licked her. Loved her.

A sharp pitch formed in her voice. Her hand on his head slid down his neck, and her other hand left her breast to settle on his shoulder. She dragged her hands up and down his back, nails digging into his skin. She opened her eyes then, looking down to see his head between her legs. His own eyes closed in focus. His lips on her sex. The pink of his tongue sliding against the pink of her cunt.

“Fuck,” she said at last. Thinly. On the tail of a high gasp. Her body arched and one hand left his back to tangle itself in her hair, while the other clawed deep into the warmth of his skin.

He made his own sounds now, and she felt their echo within her. His fingers grew faster. Reaching in deeper to touch that perfect spot inside her. Her thighs twitched, she cried out, her cunt fluttered around his fingers, and she came against his lips.

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age veilguard #davrin #davrin x rook #davrin dragon age #dragon age davrin

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taegularities · 13 days ago

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ruin you: reflections | kth

Summary: Sometimes, you really refuse to truly leave, don't you?

⋙ pairing: Taehyung x female reader ⋙ rating: 18+ ⋙ genre: exes? au; angst, bit of fluff ⋙ warnings: rain and sadness, nostalgia, a phone call, the L-word, memories, sleeping jungkook cameo lol, this is original ry!oc and a!oc isn't in the picture yet – so basically a prequel to ruined and sequel to the ry finale hehe ⋙ word count: 4.3k ⋙ a/n: i know it's been years and we're possibly over this series now bc so much happened on taegularities dot com after it finished, buuuut.. i was listening to only love by pvris the other day and i ALWAYS think of ry!tae when the song comes on lmao. anyway, enjoy this little thing that i totally did not ever expect to drop in 2k25 :') come talk to me about it <3

⁂ part of the ruin you series

⁂ playlist 🎶

MASTERLIST | WIPS

This is barely what a promising spring Thursday is supposed to be.

The relentless winter lasted for ages already, and now it’s unseasonably cold, too. Not that Taehyung minds a harmless sprinkle, drizzling onto him as though to kiss his skin. But the coat is a little too thin and his umbrella nowhere near.

He could rush home and dive into some woollen blanket. Could fetch himself his favourite tea, sweetened with some honey, waiting for the last day of the week to break in. But the weekend is around the corner anyway, and he doesn’t leave on them much at all these days.

After work, at least, just like right now, he has an excuse to hide from his apartment for a while. It’s easier to walk around when already active; much more facile to carry himself back to this tiny park than when he’s at home, cosy and alone, tired and bitter.

Not everything is bad, though: Jungkook’s attitude towards Taehyung has long returned to what it used to be; albeit somehow, Taehyung can’t shake the feeling that in some sense, unspoken tension still lingers that neither of them will ever full be able to erase.

Taehyung smirks. Of course not.

You were in the absolute middle with them at far ends of the scale. Only, in truth, it wasn’t the perfect middle at all — you were leaning towards one decision so clearly. Turned left and right, but then chose the obvious direction.

For your sake, you settled on happiness, pure, unfiltered love that you knew and still know to be true. Taehyung wanted this for you.

But it’s ironic how you’re seemingly so whole, but left him stranded here in little shards that he glued together as if reuniting estranged puzzle pieces. And the ones he still hasn’t found, you took with you.

He wonders.

What do you do with them? Store them in your memory, reliving moments, or are they hidden somewhere in the back of your thoughts, not enjoying the relevance that you still so obviously do in his head?

Taehyung doesn’t move just yet. It’ll get colder once it’s dark, and the early April spring weather will do whatever it wants to. It won’t be gentle to him today, he reckons.

But he still stays seated here, just to take in the world, breathe in the breeze. His apartment is warm but stuffy. A blissful sanctuary that’s surrounded by invisible bars sometimes. He doesn’t know how to feel about this.

It’s hard to figure out emotions anyway.

He’s over a ton, but not quite all of it. A number of all that occurred still wreaks havoc in his brain, still a burning chaos and source of damned ruination. He doesn’t understand how to feel about most of his days.

And the wind, the dense grey clouds. The rain.

Or the feeling of the drops landing on his hand, running down his thumb when he turns his palm to the sky and it catches the rain. With each second, the pace picks up a bit more, and more and more raindrops touch his skin.

His long digits curl in; strands of his hair stick to his forehead and water drips off his nose and chin. Eyes close. He knew it’d be pouring, but he forgot how intense the universe can actually get. This is quite dramatic.

It’s been a while since it rained like this, too. It did a lot in his apartment, too.

He breathes in, lifting his head for a second, up to the sky and to the falling shower. The colours are far from vibrant and optimistic, but they don’t feel as hopeless as they could be. Maybe nature doesn’t mean to feel sad to others.

Or maybe because there are worse places to be. Right? Wait, why?

Because they hurt less? No, probably not. The pain sits in the middle of his chest, not just at a particular location. Or maybe…

Maybe this is a moment that he can somewhat learn to cherish because of the fingers slowly opening his own. Suddenly but carefully touching his palm. That’s strange, isn’t it?

Would it be weirder if it was a stranger? Or is it crazier that it’s somebody entirely else when he lifts his eyelids again, staring down to his hand and to what grazes him. To who grazes him.

He could swear you weren’t here before. Your smiling, soaking wet self, head tilting when he comes to look at you. The silver shines into his eyes, and he remembers. Remembers the earrings you’d always wear, sporting them when the three of you found a pleasant café or spent your evening bickering over ludo.

Taehyung looks at you. Looks at you carefully, just to ensure it’s you. You’re timid at first; this is your expression, alright. So distinctively you. How your eyes drift down when he gulps; and how you blink, your smile a tiny bit unsure.

Taehyung remains as mute as he hates to be, and eventually, you start with, “Hi.”

It takes another second of embarrassing shock. Then, “Hey… hey.”

He uprights himself, shifting on his spot, his coat stuck beneath him. Staring at the hand, he never closes his fingers around your warm skin; no matter how tempting, it’d be wrong, wouldn’t it?

So what are you doing? Why are you doing it; where did you appear from? It has been a while since he basked in your presence at all… so what’s going on?

“I, uh… I was,” you start, dampening your already glistening lips; he misses them like a bitch, “out and saw you here.” You look around; the area is blurred to Taehyung. “What are you doing?”

“…What are you doing?” Taehyung doesn’t mean to blurt it out like this, but his tongue doesn’t practice restraint at all. He snaps back into the moment, feet firm on the ground. Clearing his throat, he tells you, “It’s pouring.”

“So it is. But I’m not made of sugar.”

“You will get a cold.”

You roll your eyes. The audacity; the corner of his lips twitches up. “You’re not immune to these things either, you know, Tae? Being sick will hurt you, too.”

Now he surrenders; snickers a bit. Slick trait of yours, being this charming without realising it. Guess that has always made you desirable to others; you make people feel comfortable.

And it’s torture, how you’re still you. When he knew you better, you’d blabber such things, too. How sickness aches, how the cold leads to heat. You’d be surprised if you knew just how sick he’s been, and just how much the million passed seconds hurt.

God, if the flicker of guilt didn’t spark in him, he’d probably tread through this moment easier, too, relish the rush of hormones speeding through him. This is odd. Not what he expected from your first conversation after so long.

Breathing out an unsuspicious sigh, he finally pulls his hand back a little, just for the sake of appearing natural, and then asks, “How have you been?”

You give yourself a moment to ponder. A strange expression, as if you’re somewhat bewildered. As if your body isn’t yours and as if you’ve beamed in from another reality, differing from whatever you’re experiencing now.

Somehow, you look just slightly like a stranger now, and skilled, you dodge the question like one, too, when you blurt without a notice, “If… I told you that I was sorry… and that I wanted this to be forever—”

What?

He’s gone miles with you; way too far to ever justify. You were the one to pull away. So why is it that you’re this brave now? As if having come to a realisation that you’re attempting to share; that he is gradually trying to duck from.

“Don’t.”

The word leaves him in a whisper, cost him the day’s leftover energy. But you shake your head, gripping his hand again, and insist, “Please let me say it.”

He thinks you’re about to break, water collecting; and a moment later, strangely, your eyebrows kiss. Match his assumption. You utter, just quietly, “I wanted it to be forever… It’s dumb to say that because I can’t have two of these.” You wait again. Bring up a hand, cup his cheek until he meets your damp eyes. “And I’m sorry.”

Sorry… you’re sorry. He is, too. He doesn’t know what for. Or maybe he does — but he has apologised. He has made peace with his mistakes, even if not with the goddamn distance.

So this is… excruciating.

And for a moment, the emotions heighten, as if he’s hyper aware of what you’re feeling. A weird sadness floods him, mixed with his own. He’s on the opposite side of this misery, trapped in something entirely different than you.

But.

He still sees your heart so clearly, as if he was holding it, reading inscriptions. Scars. And he can almost touch, almost imagine the affection you house for him so vividly. What did you? Objectify your feelings and hand them to him?

Maybe something occurred; something celestial, a change in the world. Because he could swear he can read your mind — because you seem to cooperate with each of his thoughts. With how you touch his chin next, eyes glassy. Or how you inhale, as if tormented by something.

He can foresee it all before you do it. Maybe he’s come to know you this well. But the realisation that comes to him next is far more daunting.

Because, in these seconds of confusion, the surroundings changed and the moments changed, far too long but too short, too. Time feels nonlinear and nonexistent. How does he know what’s going to happen?

It’s easy to figure out, isn’t it? He should know. But how could he… even as a human being, a brain has the ability to trick him.

He knows because he’s telling his mind himself, isn’t he? Bending reality, deep in his unconsciousness. He isn’t here, and you aren’t here, and in truth, you’re just a figment of his imagination, a piece of what he conjures.

Just as you have been for the past months.

As the moment lingers and stretches, and then vanishes, Taehyung finds himself slowly pulling out of this fake memory. Wakes in the bed he’s probably already slept a dent into. And as clarity arrives, he realises that it isn’t Thursday, but Friday fading into Saturday morning.

He recalls thinking of little somethings before going to bed. How Thursdays were your favourite day of the week because they nearly introduced the weekend, and that Friday itself was never actually as relaxing as one might think due to all the traffic and the weekend chaos.

It was random yapping and it barely made any sense to Taehyung. But you had seemed to have it thought through, and you spoke about it confidently. Even when sometimes, you struggled to make your thoughts transparent effectively; but that was rare, really.

If anything, he was the one worse at this. You, as the experienced teacher in your trio, knew to win their hearts by a couple of thought out words only.

Honestly, today he thinks you liked Thursdays just because they were the shortest, most effortless days at school.

Taehyung sits up, half a smile at his face as he imagines your excitement about leaving the institution. You’d use many Thursday afternoons to indulge in hobbies or to ask Taehyung to join you for a round of chess because you both liked the game.

He was never competitive, but you were. But you both knew to entertain each other. Sometimes, you did feel like a mirror to him, as if he was staring at his reflection.

Both of you knew what to say; when to say it.

Taehyung ruffles through his messy hair. It’s gotten longer; changed along with the world. But why is this feeling in his stomach still the same? Why is he still trying to relive what was? He should probably set his priorities straight; his brain is a mischievous traitor.

As he clicks his tongue, light breaks through the dark night. The phone on his nightstand beams when a random notification chimes. He grabs it, sighs at the G-Mail thing leading to some Reddit post. Then, checks the time.

Or, passes some time. He doesn’t know yet; he won’t fall asleep right away. Might scroll for a bit.

Cruel, how he’s here thinking of you, all weird and still nostalgic, and you’re probably sound asleep. Dreaming about anything but him.

At least that’s what he’d suppose now. You don’t ever message him, never call. He’s aware that you still have his number, and that he hasn’t deleted yours, either. Both of you still follow each other on social media, too.

Just today, you posted a picture of a cat, nestled in some woman’s arms as your hand petted it. The stranger was mentioned in a corner; probably a coworker. Taehyung didn’t check. He feels creepy enough as it is.

But you still see his rare stories as well; when he decides to upload an orange sunset or reposts his friends’ stuff. These days barely ever occur anymore, but whenever they do, you see them.

Yet, no comment. No reaction. Just looking quietly, just like he does.

He wonders. If it was him who called or said hi, would you respond? You have turned into a fleeting and transient ghost of the past — but would you become a temporary presence if he reached out?

If he… if he scrolled down to your name and pressed the call button right now, would you…

No.

If he gave in now, you’d probably not even notice, and he’d interpret it as you ignoring him. And he’d overthink. It’d backfire. And…

But…

Fuck.

Damn the human mind. Taehyung questions — is it a common problem? A painfully humane one, wanting ideas to be realised once they emerge? Stupid compulsive urge. Why? So he can sleep?

No, probably not. It’s because Taehyung knows he has nothing to lose. Nothing to regret. What more could still happen?

You aren’t his and you never will be.

So his thumb slides across the bright screen, scouring his contacts until he finds you there, collecting dust but never forgotten.

Don’t do it.

The reasonable voice of sanity isn’t wrong, of course, but when has he ever been sane anyway? Didn’t the two of you meet because he was as unhinged as could be? In hindsight, he wishes he could have made a different first impression, and not what he did.

What did you see in him at that moment? When you stepped in, into a room that barely seemed normal. What kind of person was he to you?

Was, is, could and would and should have,

If and when and might.

Nothing to lose now.

Fuck it.

He pushes his thumb onto your name and then the call symbol, phone pressing to his ear with shut eyes and teeth worrying his full lower lip. He’s an idiot, he knows. Still hung up on something like this, as if he never learned at all.

You were a lesson enough, so why is he…

Shit…

The call is going through. He might be waking you. Or you might not notice. And perhaps Jungkoo—

Shit, shit. Jungkook.

Why didn’t he think of the main damn reason you left at all? If this doesn’t disturb your nightly peace, Jungkook might register it. Is Taehyung screwing up again?

He brings his phone to his lap, ogling at the screen, thumb already floating over the button to hang up again. Because he can’t do this to you and himself and his best friend, so he should—

“Hey?”

The ringing stops; your voice nearly gives him a heart attack. A shiver inundates his entire body, the hammering beneath his chest aggressive and loud. And the dense fog… it’s shrouding his mind.

He listens in closely, wondering whether he hallucinated your voice, whether it was as unreal as his dream. But a moment later, he hears you again, his name penetrating the silence like a knife, “Tae?”

You sound groggy. He’s heard this very tone so many times before. He musters up whatever courage’s left in him and responds, “Hi.”

“…Is something wrong?” you immediately ask. “Are you okay?”

Of course that’d be your initial reaction. The first conversation after all this time, in the dead of the night. Why would he call if not for a favour or when in absolute need? But it’s neither, is it? This is something entirely else and there is no proper word for it.

Well, stupidity, perhaps.

“No,” he answers, “I just—” His mind is befuddled, no clear thought. He isn’t quite sure what he wants to say; maybe he should’ve prepared a script, something with reason and justification. Instead, he babbles, “I never got to tell you.”

Silence again.

He hears some shifting on the other end and a slight groan, still yours and not Jungkook’s. There are quiet steps, as if you’re distancing yourself from your sleeping boyfriend, to be able to listen to Taehyung’s thoughts properly.

Knowing something is up. Taehyung knows anyone would, but he can’t help but think of the mirror again.

A door opens, and then, a door closes. You whisper, “Wait,” before you let out a breath, probably, surely plumping onto the couch he still knows. “Taehyung…”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“…Where’s Jungkook.”

You clear your throat; the sofa shifts, and you sound more relaxed, as if you leaned back. You tell him, “In the bedroom. I stepped out for a sec.” Pause; and then again, “What’s wrong?”

“I was thinking of you and,” he lowers his head, the stillness between you a burning pain, “and I wanted to say hi.”

You laugh a little, followed by a hearty yawn. But you’re not bored, just exhausted. Still here, still jesting when you ask, “At,” another break in speech, “half past three, huh?”

“Hey, I don’t choose what my brain chooses to dream of.”

You stop laughing. The recurring silence fills your conversation; both of you seem to be arranging your thoughts, necessarily so after this long. Then, you state rather than ask, “You dreamed of me.”

“Yeah…”

“Was it…” you start, but then exhale, trying again, “What was it? A memory?”

“No… not really.”

“Something familiar?” He hears you shifting, your voice clearer. Sweet and tender. “I reckoned that’s what you… never got to tell me?”

“No… no, it was nothing,” Taehyung lies. “There was just rain. Us talking.” And then, some truth, “We apologised.”

You wait, voicing a sound of interruption and uncertainty, before you inquire, “Why would you apologise?”

“Because… it’s not like the time we had was so stress-free.” Taehyung stares up to the ceiling, leaning forward with a hand rubbing his forehead. “Maybe that’s what I needed to tell you. Apologise for what I did to you.”

“You… you didn’t do anything to me. I had fun, Tae,” you assure, your voice defeated. He can imagine what you look like; fallen face, droopy eyes, beautiful lips suggesting grief. “I don’t blame you for anything, you know? Just… not everything lasts. And it’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not everything is supposed to last.”

You don’t say anything, and he takes a deep breath. He knows you’d agree if you weren’t so cautious still, cherry picking your responses. And as you think it through, he imagines you looking out of the window; so he does, too.

His eyelids are heavy with sleep, and he’s so incredibly sorry that he’s robbing you of the sleep you love so much as well. But it’s not just him drowning in this moment, he thinks. Because you keep the words flowing, eventually ask, “How have you been?”

“I… I’m fine.” Closest to what’s true. At least in the grand picture, physically and all. He’s not dying, doesn’t feel like he is anymore. “Living.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s been alright,” he fiddles with his blanket, a stray thread, plays with his thoughts. “And you?”

“I’m good, too.”

“Good. I’d be mad if you weren’t,” he adds quietly, painfully uncontrolled, “I didn’t let you go for nothing.”

He squints his eyes shut, trapping his lip between his teeth. Maybe he should be more careful. He resists the urge to groan over his idiocy when you respond, “Yeah…”

But it doesn’t end here, does it? Taehyung might already be a fool for saying all these words in this constellation at all; but the dumb courage won’t falter yet. He reminds himself… nothing to regret anymore…

“Can I ask you something?” he lets out. “I might not want to hear the answer, but I think I will hate not doing it, too.”

You sound more unsure by the minute. Perhaps he’s putting you in a situation you’re not too fond of — but you’re an honest soul. If you wanted to leave, he knows you would. Instead, you say, “…Yeah.”

Now or never. One, two, three. Three, two, one.

Taehyung gulps and then—

“Did you ever love me?”

Your answer is, as expected, not immediate. In fact, you don’t say much at all, leaving the conversation wordless for a moment. It takes patience and sucking in some more oxygen until you finally mutter—

“Maybe.”

The sting is sharp and fiery, and he curls the hand on his forehead into a fist. It remains there, eyes still closed, as if to press against the hot head and calm the overwhelmed brain behind it. It’s so fiercely hurting over what could have been.

And the guilt pricking steps in immediately, too, thinking of the man in the other room at your place; how Taehyung never wishes him ill and how he is still selfish enough right now to wish you had ended up being his.

“Maybe, yeah?” he then asks.

“I wasn’t sure back then,” you tell him, still nearly whispering. “A ton was going on and now…”

“You’ve forgotten what it felt like.”

“No. I don’t think that’s it. And I don’t think I’ll ever forget you.” Taehyung sighs in defeat, hardening his jaw. Fuck. “You don’t seem to understand what you meant to me. But. I’m not at that spot anymore, so I can’t tell you without feeling like I’m… possibly distorting what it truly was.”

“Whatever it was,” Taehyung says, “he was bigger anyway. And I understand, you know? I do.”

“I… If he wasn’t,” you start, slowly, as if you’re not actually keen on saying what you have to say. But as Taehyung already deducted once more — honest soul. “I would’ve chosen differently.”

Yet another pause. Taehyung only nods, though you can’t see any of his movements, any of his expressions. You continue, “Maybe I’ll always feel some of what I used to for you, but— leaving him will never feel right. Jungkook is what I’ve always known.”

“I know,” Taehyung immediately chimes in; how much more can he hear? He asked for it, so when will he learn? “I know he is. It shouldn’t be any other way.”

And he means it. Wishing otherwise doesn’t erase his respect for him, does it? You mumble another, “Yeah,” before Taehyung adds, “It was nice hearing from you again.”

“You too, Tae.”

“Take care of yourself. I’m sorry for waking you up so late.”

“It’s okay.” You sniffle, but you’re not crying as you were in his dream. Just a habit, or an emotional toll. But you’re so achingly kind; how does one forget about you when you say things like, “It was important to you. So it’s okay.”

“Thank you.” Taehyung lets go of the jogger’s loose thread, fist opening as he says, “And hey. Do tell Jungkook about this.”

“Oh… yeah. Somehow I thought you’d tell me not to.”

“Really?”

Taehyung smiles. There was a time when he was in love and evil enough to make the wrong decision. But he knows that at his core, he’s good, and that you wouldn’t have fallen for him if he wasn’t. He needs to live by this very goodness.

He asks, “So, would you’ve kept this from him?”

You think. Only for a short second before you admit, “No. Because he should know. And because this isn’t anything wrong. Him not knowing would feel wrong, though.”

“Exactly. I’m no different, you know? I’m offended you wouldn’t think a bit better of me.”

You laugh again, a lovely sound. Just the right thing to end the day by. And as your snicker ebbs down, you find your voice again, gentle though it breaks his heart, “Good night, Tae.”

That’s it, then. Time to truly end the story.

“Good night.”

Another whisper from the other side, “Night.”

And then, you’re gone.

As soon as your voice disappears, the wild beating of his heart does, too. But not because the nervousness passes; rather, because it gives way to a void. The farewell in your last word opened it immediately, quickly.

One damn word, so many messages. Wishing him the best, as if permitting him a better future. Maybe you’re hopeful for him. For something lying ahead that he’s unaware of still. He doesn’t know.

For now, all he understands is that he’s alone, and that the moment the connection cut, the vacant space in his chest grew to stay for a bit. But…

Another Saturday has arrived, sunrise not too far.

After all the pain, he’s still gotten here. And he’ll remain to witness many more of these warm weekends, time speeding up once the wounds disappear. Maybe someday.

Maybe someday, his days will stop resembling survival and give way to sweetness, a remedy once more.

this was unedited; i'll do so tmrw. so if there were words missing and stuff, let me know :') i hope you read and liked it, especially if you were around for the ride that ry was back then. if not, then thank you still for being here <3 i just needed to get this out of my system either way, even if nobody read it at all lol. i still cherish them a lot sigh

come and chat with me about literally anything, i'll be thrilled <3

#taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #bts fluff #bts angst #taehyung x you #bts x you #bts x reader #taehyung x reader #taehyung scenario #taehyung #taehyung imagines #taehyung fanfic #bts fic

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roguishcat · 2 months ago

Text

The Best Laid Plans

Summary: Even the best laid plans may go wrong. Admittedly, Astarion's plan hadn't been that great to begin with. Part 2 of 'Part of His Plan'.

Pairing: Astarion x unnamed female Tav

Word count: 4k

Tags: Romance, Astarion is bad at feelings, Unnamed female Tav, Angst, Tooth-rotting fluff, Romance and feels

A/N: This story has a wonderful beta!! Thank you so much @preciouslittlebhaalbae! 💖💖💖 You are an absolute gem and the loveliest person ever for doing this! 🫂Thank you for your patience and kind suggestions! (because I'm a silly person who can't spot even obvious mistakes and @preciouslittlebhaalbae has the patience of a saint). You might remember me posting snippets from this back in January, so this is my second finished WIP for @thekindredcollective BG3 Spring Cleaning!

Hope you enjoy the story and please let me know what you think! 💖💖 Comments, likes and reposts are always loved! 💖💖

Tav had a shadow and its name was Astarion.

She didn’t notice immediately. She was far too concerned with saving Thaniel, breaking the curse, helping every single one of their companions on their personal quests, and combating the mindless creatures wanting to murder them from the moment they stepped out of the dome protecting the Last Light Inn.

At first, Tav thought that she was just imagining it. Because every time she looked up, she seemed to glimpse silver curls, feel feather-light touches of cool fingers on her neck, all but taste rosemary, bergamot and brandy on her tongue. This lasted only a moment, yet a moment was all he ever needed to leave a lasting impression on her.

At some point, Astarion seemed to decide to stop bothering to pretend that he wasn’t following Tav around, his ruby eyes all but boring holes into her back as he watched her closely.

Now, this wasn’t the first time that Astarion acted somewhat uncanny. Perhaps two hundred years of being forced to do someone’s bidding did that to an elf. Either way, Tav didn’t want to offend Astarion. So she chose not to comment on how odd his behaviour was.

However, the longer they travelled, the more Astarion seemed to insert himself into every situation, making sure that he was at her side at all times. She would round a corner and bump into his leather-clad back. Walk down the stairs and he was already waiting for her, tapping his foot in an impatient manner as he scowled at whoever was walking behind her at the time.

Finally, when she almost tripped over him, Tav decided to ask Astarion about it.

"Astarion, is there something you want?"

"Me? Why would you ask such a thing, my sweet?" Astarion said with a crooked smile, and Tav noticed how tensely he held himself. A coil waiting to spring upward at a smallest tap.

"Well.. Lately, I've noticed that you’ve started to… hover."

Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say. His expression shuttered and he took a step back.

“And I take it that you’d rather I didn’t, is that it?”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I -”

"If you do not wish for my company, you can just come out and say so! Send me back to camp to wallow in misery as Gale attempts to engage me in decidedly unengaging conversation," Astarion all but hissed at her.

Astarion regretted snapping at her almost immediately. He knew that it was uncalled for. Tav was nothing but kind and accommodating. But he couldn’t help the bitterness he felt when seeing her treat everyone else with the same thoughtfulness, the same caring. Was her protecting him nothing but an obligation? Was Tav offering her neck to him time and time again something that she would have done for any soul that needed sustenance? To him, it seemed that lately she led without making sure that he followed. Was whatever they shared coming to its logical conclusion sooner than he anticipated?

"I didn't say that I don't want you around," Tav frowned and took a careful step towards him, trying to mitigate the conflict before they started arguing in earnest. "I just want to make sure that everything is alright."

"As is your duty, my fair leader. To check up on any and all lost causes that seek your company, hm?"

Tav wasn’t sure exactly what he meant. His words felt cruel, though, and she felt herself flush.

"Sometimes I don't understand what you want from me, Astarion.”

He winced at how hurt she sounded. Another, better adjusted person, would be quick to apologise. Blame it all on being tired and frazzled, suggest with a rueful smile that the shadows were getting to him. Yet, Astarion only watched as Tav walked past the rest of the party. Shadowheart and Karlach, who had been standing nearby, choose not to comment on the exchange.

He'd rather have one of them punch him than have them silently disapprove. At least then he’d pretend he was angry at his companions rather than himself. Anger was familiar territory. Fear was nothing new. Whatever he felt now was a different, unfamiliar brand of torture.

An hour later Astarion found himself nervously pacing up and down his tent. Or at least doing something as close to pacing as he could in such cramped quarters. His thoughts a flurry of worries and poorly supressed insecurities, Astarion had no idea how to fix this mess. He wasn’t even sure why he was so worried about it in the first place.

By now he knew Tav well enough to be certain that she would not banish him. She would not do that to any of them without just cause. And no matter how unreasonable and hurtful he had been, she would not leave him to die.

So why did he want to fix this so badly? Surely not because he was worried that whatever this was, whatever tentative trust he’d managed to establish between them, would be over come morning once she had some time to think? Because even someone as forgiving as Tav had her limits. She was kind and warm, accepting and generous; but she was no fool.

Astarion stopped abruptly and put his arms around himself.

He had to fix this. Somehow.

Turning to his trunk, he lifted the lid and rummaged around, digging up the bottle that he was saving for a special occasion. Grovelling for his lover to forgive him seemed like special occasion enough.

Then Astarion spent an age making sure that he looked his best. After all, presentation was half the victory!

Thus primped and primed - and carrying a peace offering - Astarion stalked through the night, making sure to avoid his campmates. He really did not feel like getting some unsolicited advice from anyone for the time being.

Standing in front of the tent, he suddenly felt nervous. A strange, sick feeling in his stomach, he found he was unsure if he wanted to know what Tav would say to him.

Taking a breath he didn’t need, Astarion plastered his best smile on his face and moved the tent flap aside.

"Dearest, how about we both choose to be adults about this and make up, hm?"

"Sure," Tav said without looking up from whatever she was doing, effectively dismissing him. Clearly, it was 'thanks for the half-baked apology', but 'no thanks' to spending an evening together. Choosing to soldier on against all odds, Astarion pretended that he could not read her body language and sat down beside her on the bedroll.

"Now... Can I tempt you with some wine? Or perhaps with some other… delights?" Astarion drawled seductively, fingers dancing down the wine bottle’s curved side.

He was a vision and he knew it. Hair coiffed just so, shirt slightly loose and showing off more alabaster skin than usual. It was a very tempting sight, if only Tav were in the mood to be tempted.

She didn’t even look up.

"I'm a little busy right now."

Astarion fought back a scowl. He was finding that maintaining a charming façade was quite a challenge when Tav was so decidedly against playing along. Yet, he was not about to give up. Oh, he would not be ignored so easily! He didn’t spend an age getting ready, thinking of what he was going to say, and bringing the bottle of wine that Shadowheart squirreled away, just to be turned down. He would not spend the night alone in his own tent!

Astarion chuckled breathily. "Aren't you always? Which is why you should really let your hair down once in a while,” he dropped his voice an octave, inching towards her. “Live a little, whilst there is still living to be done."

There was a pause, and he would hold his breath if he still needed to draw it.

"Fine," Tav sighed, her shoulders sagging. "Wine, please."

"And whilst you are enjoying a goblet or two, I will fix that tear in your shirt I noticed earlier."

"You don't have to."

"But I want to. Allow yourself to be the one taken care of, for once. Or are you truly that upset with me that you would rather have to walk about with that tear?"

"I'm not upset with you. I'm angry with myself."

Now that was a development that he could not have foreseen. Angry with herself? Whatever had she done?

"Care to share why?"

"Not really."

It seemed that Tav definitely was not in the mood to make this easy for him. Luckily, he knew just how to engage her in conversation.

"And here I thought that we would play that question game you are so fond of! Go on, dearest. Question for question, as is our way."

Ah, finally a little smile for his efforts.

"I suppose.”

Tav took a sip from her goblet, eyes widening when she realised that the wine was actually pleasant. Honestly, did she really think that he wouldn’t bring something half-palatable?

"That's the enthusiastic answer I was hoping for! Now come on, off with your shirt."

Tav put her wine down and pulled the fabric of her shirt up, his eyes following the ascent as soft skin was revealed inch by tantalising inch. He ignored the unbidden, surprising urge to put his lips onto her neck, not to feed but to taste.

Tav handed him the shirt and as their fingers brushed, Astarion was glad that she wasn’t in any hurry to get away from him, allowing him to hold her hand in his.

“So um… same as last time? A question for a question?”

She moved her hand, leaving his digits to cool once her warmth was gone.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “that seems reasonable.”

Tav stood up to get the sewing kit and a spare shirt. This gave him ample opportunity to admire her now that her back was turned. One wouldn’t want to be accused of staring! She slid the shirt on quickly, scars disappearing under the simple cloth, making him once again wonder what the story behind those was.

Tav was usually so forthcoming, answering questions without much hesitation or worry. He could understand why someone would be hesitant to talk about scars, but by the gods was he curious to find out the story behind hers!

Seeing that he probably was still in the proverbial doghouse, Astarion decided to start small.

“What is your favourite thing to eat?”

Tav looked at him over her shoulder as she adjusted her clothes.

“I’m surprised you want to know something so boring.”

“My sweet, when it comes to you, nothing could be boring,” he purred, putting his goblet to his lips and looking at her over the rim in a way that had made hundreds swoon.

Tav smiled and sat down on her bedroll, but otherwise did not seem to be affected by his act of seduction. How annoying.

“Well, whilst Gale’s efforts to make something edible out of whatever we manage to come across is close to miraculous, I do miss Baldurian Mash.”

Seeing the look on his face, Tav giggled, “Too common for your tastes?”

“On the contrary!” Astarion laughed. “I am quite sure that I too enjoyed something like this back when… well. Back when I could enjoy the taste of food.”

Tav’s face softened as he muttered the last part. Astarion shifted uncomfortably and took a gulp of his wine. Damn her and that look! Who even looked at people like that! Only Tav did, in his experience.

“As we are on the subject of food, why did you choose me to snack on? Surely others looked just as appealing?” Tav teased.

The truth was at the time he had already known enough about Tav to put his faith in her, to trust her to at least listen to his explanations. He had been almost certain that the others would strike him down for even attempting to come near their necks. Lae’zel would have probably skinned him alive, given the chance. Even now she occasionally questioned whether he was useful enough to keep around.

Astarion poured her more wine, thinking about the best way to answer her question.

“Perhaps you simply looked delicious enough for a predator such as myself to want to take a bite,” Astarion flirted without looking away, attempting to ascertain her mood.

Tav’s lips quirked into a smile and she took a sip of her wine.

“Or perhaps you had already established your reputation as a do-gooder, unable to turn away anyone imploring you to help them. Pick whichever reason you like, dearest,” Astarion shrugged.

Tav gave him a look that made Astarion both nervous and excited. Not exactly a combination a seasoned professional such as he could afford to feel. Maintaining his cool was crucial, he reminded himself. He could not afford to lose focus. Eyes on the prize and all that. The prize being Cazador's head on a silver platter, of course. Not the love of the woman in front of him. Or something equally ridiculous.

“What are you thinking of doing once our adventure is over? Assuming we don’t all die in some horrible manner.”

“I'm not sure," Tav started, "I might stay in Baldur’s Gate for a while. Assuming my house is still intact.”

“You’re from Baldur’s Gate?”

“Yes. Is it so hard to believe?”

“Hah! And I here I was, thinking that you were a country girl through and through. Meeting each sunrise and sundown in some picturesque little village where all the neighbours call each other by their names.”

Tav huffed and moved to punch his biceps without putting much force behind it.

“Oh, don’t get angry.” Astarion caught her fist and put his lips to her knuckles, fangs moving across skin without breaking it. “It’s a compliment, if anything.”

“I will choose to take it as one.” Tav gave a little laugh and pulled back, making Astarion release her hand.

Perhaps he worded it in a way that did not necessarily sound like praise, but he just could not believe that someone as kind and warm as Tav could be a Baldurian. In spite of being thoroughly and repeatedly defiled by him, she still carried that air of sweetness about her. And whilst this irritated him initially, it was… nice. Pleasant to be around someone who did something for others without any ulterior motive. Just out of the goodness of her heart. It was quite frankly a miracle that she hadn’t been killed yet.

Thinking about her mortality had him taking a furtive glance at her side, where the worst of her scars were.

“About your scars, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, how did you get them?”

Tav’s fingers clutched her goblet a little tighter before she caught herself and made a show of wanting to put it down by the bedroll without tipping it over on the uneven surface.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not much of a story. Just a silly girl falling in love with the wrong person only to find out he was using me for his own gain. So, you are right, in a way. Perhaps I wasn’t quite made to live in the city.”

It wasn’t much, but the way her shoulders hunched, her pained expression, her looking at anything but him felt… wrong. To Astarion, Tav was annoyingly righteous, stupidly brave, incredibly stubborn, frustratingly selfless. She was all that and so much more. She deserved better from the world and seeing her look so small made him want to hurt something.

“About earlier…” Tav began tentatively.

“My words were uncalled for. I apologise. I didn’t-”

He wanted to say that he didn’t mean any of it. He wanted to tell her that he just found himself hating that she gave her precious attention to anyone else when he wanted it for himself. He wanted to tell her many things. Naturally, he didn’t say any of them.

“I know. Which is why I was angry at myself. We are all under so much pressure, it’s a wonder that we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats.”

“I was disappointed with myself for thinking that you were like him,” Tav picked her goblet up and took a sip. “Because at that moment, I looked at your face and I saw a spectre that haunted my waking days. And it was wrong of me to assume that you were like that. So, I’m sorry too.”

Astarion felt like someone sucker punched him. Hells, he’d rather she did punch him. Pain he could take. He was used to pain over the years. But this- this raw honesty, the way she looked at him when she said that, the faith she was placing in him-

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Astarion? Are you okay?”

He was not. Because this was wrong. His nice, simple plan had backfired so spectacularly and in a way he could never have imagined.

Shit.

She was waiting for an answer.

“Yes, of course, dearest! Why wouldn’t I be? We made up! I am well, you are well. All is well,” Astarion put both of their goblets of wine away and then moved towards Tav with an intense look in his ruby eyes.

“Just perfect.” Astarion whispered the last part and pressed his lips to hers to stop Tav from asking any more questions.

Astarion lowered Tav onto the bedroll, one hand behind her head, the other on her hip. Slowly, taking his time to savour the softness of her skin, he trailed his fingers up. The fabric of her shirt bunched as his hand traced the contours of her body and settled just below her breast.

“Are you sure?” He felt warm breath against his lips as they broke apart.

Instead of replying, Astarion put his mouth on Tav’s neck, fangs grazing sensitive flesh, her heartbeat strong in his ears. Her blood called to him, but he didn’t dare bite.

He would tell her everything. And he would tell her soon. Because the thought of him being in any way like that vile man who dared to use her and scar her, to put that dejected look on her face, was something that Astarion could not bear.

His movements grew more frantic as he removed the last of the barriers between their bodies, wanting, needing to do enough that she would stay.

Because whilst he didn’t want to examine his feelings for Tav too much, not daring to hope for anything, he was terrified of what the consequences of his deception would be.

When Tav opened her eyes the next morning, Astarion was still in her tent, his deft fingers moving with precision and making quick work of the tear in her shirt.

“Good morning,” she murmured, pushing her messy hair out of her face. Gods, she must truly look a sight.

“Good morning, my sweet,” Astarion replied without looking up, seemingly too focused on his task to pay her much attention.

Tav didn’t expect Astarion to still be here in the morning. Not that she wanted him gone. On the contrary, his staying the night was nice. The thought that he wanted to stay made her blush.

Except Tav had a small problem now. She had to get dressed and Astarion was still here. She could hobble about with her bedsheet wrapped around her body, but she would probably just end up falling forward like a graceless lump. And that was less than ideal when one was in the company of the most attractive, stunning elf.

Astarion seemed to be busy enough not to pay her any attention. And Tav hoped that she didn’t look as horrible with her hair sticking up oddly and pillow lines on her face. She quickly brushed it back and tried to tame it by running her fingers through it.

And then she saw a ghost of smirk on those mocking lips. Oh, he knew what she was doing. And he was laughing at her! That ass. That gorgeous, beautiful bastard! She would show him!

Thus, filled with a strong resolve – that is to show Astarion that he could not have her flustered and stuttering over just a smirk - Tav turned around and rose, stretching her muscles in a feline manner that had ruby eyes following her every move. Astarion’s pupils dilated and his nostrils flared, one fang worrying his lower lip.

“How are you feeling this morning?” He gave his work a quick glance before cutting the thread.

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and ready to infiltrate Moonrise Towers, actually.” Tav quickly (but not too quickly!) dressed and went at her hair with a comb.

“Hm, seeing as how little sleep you got last night, I’d thought you would be postponing that little outing of ours.” Astarion delighted in a little squeak she gave as she dropped her comb.

“Well, I’m fine. But if you are too tired to come with us today, perhaps I can ask someone else to accompany me.”

“Someone else? Perish the thought lest you wish to perish!” Astarion rose in one graceful movement, taking a step and then another towards her. “Who can possibly watch your back better than yours truly?”

“No one can,” Tav conceded easily. She felt cool fingers on her waist as Astarion handed her the mended shirt.

“Thank you.”

“Darling, the only thanks I need is you not leaving me behind today,” he gave a breezy, lilting laugh, wondering if acting nonchalant would be enough to convince himself that her answer did not matter to him.

Please, don’t ever leave me behind.

“I wouldn’t.”

Because I’d rather take a chance on you than wonder what could have been had I been braver.

“Wise. Having Gale try his hand at picking locks could only end in disaster.”

I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got hurt.

“Oh, can you imagine! No, we need your magic touch and sneaky ways to make sure we are undetected,” she teased him and his eyes were momentarily drawn to the dimples on her cheeks. He wanted to kiss them, then make his way down the column of her neck, and then lower still until she couldn’t tell him to stop.

They were still holding the shirt, fabric bunching as fingers moved closer. Astarion let go of cloth, hesitant fingertips brushing against warm knuckles as Tav looked at him in a way that he had thought he caught her look at others.

And yet…

Perhaps it was simply a trick of the light. Or his mind playing games with him. Just wishful thinking on his part. But Astarion could not help but think that there was something more between them. Something precious and beautiful that bloomed to life among all the carnage and horror that was his life.

“Tav?” He swallowed nervously.

“Yes?”

“I-”

“Breakfast is ready!”

Saved by Gale, out of all people.

And yet…

Astarion felt a wave of disappointment as he watched Tav quickly put on her shirt, the magic of the moment broken, and they were thrust harshly back into their reality.

And yet…

When Tav took his hand and led him out of the tent, her thumb tracing circles on his cool skin, Astarion wondered if this could be real. If they could be real. Tav put her faith in him, chose to trust a predator with her life. He had thought her a fool. Now, as he looked at how radiant she looked even in these listless, lifeless lands, he wondered if he could summon a fraction of her courage and put his faith in her.

💖 Tag list 💖:

@ninty900, @ayselluna, @dajeong, @ravenswritingroom,

@misscrissfemmefatale,

@clazberryk, @anukulee,

@preciouslittlebhaalbae,

@sh3rl0ck, @mellowenthusiast2299,

@fleetstreet78, @starlight-rogue,

@obsessedwhyyes, @arzen9, @hellethil,

@khywren, @maeryls-journal, @larvasmoon, @xxnashiraxx

(divider by @saradika)

#the kindred collective #bg3 spring cleaning #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #fanfic #astarion fanfiction #baldur's gate fanfiction #fanfiction #astarion ancunin #bg3 tav #bg3 spoilers #Astarion is bad at feelings #astarion romance #Roguish cat

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sleepynoons · 1 month ago

Text

And With You Came Summer Thunderstorms

You're dragged back into the very hell that you had escaped from years ago, and this time, there's no way out.

yandere!jing yuan x afab!f!reader, yakuza!au, 18+

word count: ~10,600

cw: explicit language, mentions and descriptions of death/blood/gore/violence/etc., symptoms of severe ptsd + anxiety, stalking, blackmail/manipulation/coercion, kidnapping, suggestive tension, implied age gap, ocs as side characters

notes: i'm surprised this made it out of the wip vault. it's my birthday, so here's my gift to everyone. infinite thank yous to my wonderful betas, @staraxiaa and @pranabefall, because they both read through 4-5 different drafts, and entertained my jy brain worms and gaping plot holes throughout the entire process. i always feel so loved by the two of you. thank you to @lorelune as well for your very informative yandere jy thoughts, which helped form the basis of jy's and reader's characters in this au. this story is likely going to come in 3-4 parts, and each part will be around this length, if not longer, so please be patient with me. thank you for your support, and i will take a shot after i post this.

part i - part ii

LIGHTNING IS electrical discharge that occurs between charges within a thunderstorm cloud or between the cloud and the ground. Thunder is the sound that lightning produces, and depending on the length of silence between seeing a spark and hearing its subsequent boom, you can estimate how far away a strike was from you.

While thunderstorms are not something to worry about, it is necessary to take precautions. As such, safety protocols for when you are outdoors are as follows: seek shelter as soon as possible, such as a car or a building, but if not available, find an open space away from bodies of water and stick as low to the ground without lying down.

You will know if where you are located is in grave danger of a lightning strike if you can see and feel the hairs on your body stick up. Get as far away as possible as soon as you recognize the signs.

–

"Child, haven't your folks ever taught you to not follow strangers?"

There are two people in front of you: a man dressed head to toe in black and a child with dirty blonde hair carrying his backpack on the front. You can't identify the man, thanks to his baseball cap, tinted sunglasses, and mask, and if you weren't trying to intervene in the situation as you are right now, you'd scoff at how stupid the kid is. Speaking of the latter, he looks like an elementary schooler, probably attending the academy two blocks south from here. From what you can recall, the academy is prestigious in the prefecture, so you also pity him because, out of all of the school children who are walking home at the moment, he was picked.

The kidnapper (there's no doubt about that) snarls, and you're grateful he's wearing his mask or else he probably would've spit in your face. "Hey, I'm not a stranger. You know me, right?"

He stretches an arm out to the boy, as if beckoning the two of them to hold hands. It might just be a passionate gesture instead, but you couldn't care less about the difference, so you lean your weight onto one leg and wait for the younger one's reaction.

To your dismay, the kid nods. However, at the same time, his grip on his backpack tightens, pale knuckles and joints pulling taut and red, and as children are, untrained in deception and falsehood, a grimace spreads across his round cheeks.

You glance around. There are a few guardians looking your way, and most of the unaccompanied children have scuttled away at this point. If you don't finish and leave soon, you might be mistaken as an accomplice.

Squatting down, you lower yourself so that you're face to face with the elementary schooler. Someone, a long time ago, said that was the best way to communicate with children without instilling fear or intimidation. With a jut of your chin, in the direction of the kidnapper, you ask, "How do you know this bastard?"

"B-bastard?! You –"

The boy doesn't bat an eye at your crude choice of insult. "He's been following me around after school for the past week."

Clearly, aside from being a kidnapper, this guy also sucks ass at his job.

You decide to not say that thought out loud and proceed asking the boy questions. "So it's your first time speaking to him?"

"Yeah." The child nods, body and backpack jostling in unison. You've always thought those randoserus were too massive.

"Verdict's out, then," you say, holding your forearms up as if in surrender. Then, with a deep sigh, you stand back up and shoot the kidnapper a confrontational glare.

Without a word, the man lurches for the young boy, but having foretold his rashness and stupidity, with a quick duck, a jab of your elbow against his solar plexus, and a swift uppercut to the underside of his jaw, you disable the man's balance enough for him to fall over. Then, with a tug of your phone to release it from your back pocket, you activate an SOS alert.

"Child," you say, not even a beat later, as if nothing had happened, "I've notified the police. Next time, tell someone, before it's too late."

However, instead of relief, which you expected, the child visibly jumps at the word "police," eyes bursting wide open, mouth parting for rapid, shallow inhales, hands tomato red. He's panicking, way more than at any moment throughout his interaction with his almost-kidnapper. You wonder if it's just a delayed response to a traumatic event, but before you can even attempt to calm the kid down, he grabs you by your pants, and with a force that only energetic, tireless children have, he drags you down the block and around the corner.

"What the actual fuck – Stop fucking dragging me – Are you –"

You almost fall over when the kid suddenly lets go, friction and momentum ploughing into one another at your center of balance, and by the time you collect yourself, you've realized he's brought you to a parked car. It reminds you of the man from earlier – dressed and designed to conceal what's inside. The boy has left you to wrap himself around the leg of a man in a pressed suit, who's also wearing sunglasses. You're starting to wonder if you've accidentally stumbled onto a movie set or, worse, isekai-ed into some shitty Western Men in Black alternate universe without having been run over by a truck.

Anywho, you'd like to go home, so you need to extricate yourself from this situation as soon as possible.

Arms out by your side, hands and fingers spread out to show that you're not holding anything, you clear your throat to speak. "Hi, I, uh, helped that child escape from a suspicious person. I also called the police, but, well, um…" You sense two more individuals come up behind you. "It seems like the authorities won't be necessary anymore."

The man that the kid's clinging onto bends down. "Young Master, is that true?"

The boy nods, fiercely rubbing his flushed face into the crisp fabric of who you intuit is his primary bodyguard.

"I see."

With a flick of the primary bodyguard's wrist, the two behind you walk over and open the doors to the back row of the car. It seems like you've done a sufficient job to not be suspected, so with an informal bow, you excuse yourself and begin to turn around to navigate your way back.

“Could you wait for a moment?”

For a minute, the primary bodyguard turns around to face away from you, and from his hand that hovers over his right ear, he's mumbling into his earpiece, likely inquiring for further instructions from his employer or whoever's in charge. After a few minutes, he turns back around, and without making eye contact, you can sense his line of sight trained on the back of your head. In the meantime, you hear the kid shuffle into his seat, a door shutting behind him.

That means the other door remains open. Even with the engine grumbling, the body of the car thrumming for velocity and acceleration, it's clear they're not going to leave without you.

But you have no intention to comply. You fold your arms over your chest, and the space between your eyebrows divots into a frown. You spin back around and, in a firm tone, though without sounding too demanding, you state, "I’m on shift right now. I need to get back to my workplace."

The primary bodyguard doesn’t budge. "The Young Master would like you to accompany him home."

Your face wrinkles even more. The situation's becoming unnecessarily complex, and if you let them sway you now, there's bound to be more problems that'll occur later down the line that will complicate your life in irreversible ways.

You weren't expecting to save a kid that had adults at his beck and call, and even so, there's no reason for them to invite you over. Their stubbornness is problematic, and you want nothing to do with it.

"I really need to head back now. I'm not sure if your Young Master would like a stranger to accompany him, after all that has happened as of late."

The primary bodyguard fishes for something in the inner pocket of his blazer. You watch as he pulls out a pin resting in the curve of his palm, no larger than the pad of your thumb, flashing onyx and gold whenever it catches the trickles of sunlight that manage to seep through the wall of white concertinaed fencing and trimmed leafy hedges lining the road.

You bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to pierce through the uppermost layer of skin. You didn't save a kid from an esteemed household; you saved the next head of a yakuza gang.

Just my fucking luck.

You curse yourself for your impolite behavior, even if it was deserved. At this point, you have no other choice than to comply because you wouldn’t survive a brawl with three trained bodyguards.

I’ll leave as quickly as I can and never bother with them again.

With uneasy steps, you approach the car and slide into the seat next to the young boy. The primary bodyguard also joins, sitting in the front passenger seat.

The kid's strapped into his seat, still hugging his backpack close to his chest. Now you understand why that is the case. From this close of a distance, you can see the thick lining of the backpack more clearly, and the color is more matte compared to the usual shine of a typical randoseru. This boy knows there are numerous targets on his head, and he's making full use of the bag's bulletproof casing, designed to defend him during violent encounters.

"You're coming with?" he asks, voice more placid than before. In fact, you'd even go as far as to say that he's demonstrating interest in a stranger like yourself, but if you were to utter that observation aloud, you'd probably be dead.

"Yeah," you breathe, holding back any snark, and stare out the window, elaborating no further.

Promptly, the car peels away and rolls onto the main road.

The drive doesn't take long. The neighborhood is large, a residential area that spans the cleared side of a sloping mountain, and you watch as the car weaves through local streets before curving onto a private path that leads upwards. You've always been aware that there are filthy rich families settled in this part of town, but you never knew one of these properties belonged to a gang.

Actually, it's more like you had hoped a gang wouldn’t have settled in this city at all. There's that statistic you heard way back in middle school – that, on average, one in seven people are sociopaths –, and from your experience, the sentiment's partially realistic. In any case, the yakuza are more present in normal society than you'd believe.

On that note, not all yakuza gangs are bad. Just like how not every person's born a genius and not every business can succeed, not every band of yakuzas can scale up to become massive syndicates. For that matter, some gangs don't even start off with that goal in mind, and prefer to play vigilante in protecting and guarding their territory. But you can't speak much to these "nicer" groups since you've never mingled with them before.

Regardless, it seems all yakuzas have the same taste in traditional Japanese architecture: aged hinoki and red pine, raked rock gardens of sandy white, ponds with speckled koi fish. The car pulls onto the property through automatic wooden gates and parks on the vast driveway.

You take a deep breath. For the most part, you remember your way back. You can’t help but feel grateful that you know this town so well – worst comes to worst, you can run home through various shortcuts and alleyways.

The driver speaks up, and it’s a little jarring, given that no one had spoken throughout the entire drive. "We have arrived, Young Master. Please let us help you out."

But the boy doesn't wait, already unbuckling his seatbelt and wiggling the handle of the door until his pops open. You, on the other hand, don't move, as you haven't been instructed to do anything yet. You watch as the kid pushes himself out of the car, stumbling over his feet when he initially lands on the concrete, and dashes into the estate as soon as he rights himself, the thumping of the heavy-duty backpack against his chest echoing even when you can't see him anymore. Without a moment to spare, the primary bodyguard paces after him.

"You," the driver grunts, as if you're a chore, "follow me."

As you step out of the car, you note a door to the side that leads out to the main road.

There are men everywhere. They stand uniform along the engawa, and all within your vicinity stare hawkishly at you. Most are in what seems to be the standard suit attire, but there are also those who are less prim and have opted for untucked white shirts and dirty sneakers. But the few deviants don't matter – it's clear this group works like an armed force, militaristic in aura, efficient in behavior, and no doubt merciless in combat. So far, you’ve walked past over a dozen, so it’s best that you don’t engage in any reckless fighting.

Almost instinctively, your nose scrunches in disdain. This atmosphere brings back a flood of unpleasant childhood memories, mainly of where you grew up and the people who raised you. It can't be helped, you suppose, with how eerily familiar everything is, and your expression subsequently smooths out back into one of caution and wariness.

You replace the flashbacks with inane observations, like the driver's habit of pulling his lighter out of his pocket before stowing it away again, almost like he's paranoid it'll be pickpocketed, an area of the mansion that's walled off for renovation, the distant honks of a train chugging by. Objectively, it's a neat and established place, and that makes this syndicate all the more terrifying. Yakuzas are only as rich as the number of lives they take.

You're brought to a grand washitsu, but you don't sit, as there's no one else in the room yet. There are four doors to this room, one at each corner, but they’re all guarded from the outside as well, so you can’t escape. At this rate, you’re going to have to wait for an opening, and that’s entirely out of your control.

Strangely, there's no interior decor, aside from a long floor table and some cushions for seating positioned in the center of the room. You're not sure who you're going to meet, so you brace yourself for the worst.

Someone approaches the guard who led you here. There's a quick exchange of nods in greeting, along with brief whispers, before the former takes his leave immediately. You don't have time to surmise their conversation because the driver tells you.

"Our oyabun will be late. Take a seat first."

You have to pinch the inside of your wrist to prevent yourself from openly rolling your eyes and releasing a strangled groan.

Their boss?! Just! My! Fucking! Luck!

You do as you're told. As you tuck your calves underneath your thighs, the driver-guard shuffles some of the tea ware on the table around and pours your porcelain cup three-quarters full with floral tea. On the outside, the cups are glazed an indigo blue, overlaid with splatters of white and streaks of gray, and the interior is a muted navy, making the tea that reflects transparent chartreuse in open light appear murky and inky inside the cup. The drink itself is hot, tendrils of steam wafting into the air and moistening your fingertips that hover around the rim of the teacup, but you're not a connoisseur by any means, so you can't tell what kind it is by fragrance only. Not that you would drink it to find out, you think, because who the hell would be stupid enough to consume something that's prepared by strangers?

However, your unwillingness to consume the tea must be concealed. Otherwise, these people would take it as a sign of hostility, and then they'd have one more reason to treat you with distrust and suspicion. In times like these, you've learned, you just have to take it in stride.

You roll back your shoulders, stretching out and temporarily easing the knots and strain that are ingrained in your deltoids and trapezius. Then, picking your cup up with one hand wrapped around the side and the other plating the base, you hold the tea up to your nose and breathe the aroma in. It's a soothing scent, one that complements breezy spring afternoons that carry hints of summertime.

Summer… You pause, another flicker of a memory rousing your mind. It will be that time of the year again. You shrug the thought off, though, and go back to enjoying the humid sensation of the steam collecting droplets on the tip of your nose and the familiar, pervading scent of white flowers (is it jasmine? rose? maybe camellia?).

Just as you're tipping back your head, ready to fake a sip of your drink, you hear the collective shuffling of men standing upright, tensing into stillness. At first, you think it's to appear proper and cohesive, but with one look at those nearest to you, you notice their nervous grimaces. You consider the possibility that you're projecting and overanalyzing – Maybe that's how they all look when they're serious –, but again, your trained observations beg to differ. All of them are nervous, arguably intimidated by their approaching boss, and it's like they want to disappear. Even if they're holding you captive, you feel a little sympathy for these subordinates, and you prepare yourself as well.

From around a bend, you hear distant conversation. You can't make anything out, aside from a pitched, affirmative "Yessir!", but there's no time for you to guess because, abruptly, all four doors to the washitsu slide open, the sound of wood zipping against thick rug reverberating through the air and floor. A strong gust from outside spins through the room, which, combined with everything else, startles you. As a result, some of your drink sloshes out and burns your hand. You bite your tongue and place the teacup down onto the table, before turning your head around back and forth to see where the boss could be.

You continue to look around, but after a few circles, you give up, opting to still yourself and look ahead. I have to stay composed, you think. You don't hear any incoming footsteps either, so the oyabun’s probably making a stop elsewhere in the estate first.

Unfortunately, despite your rationale, you can see your quivering hands as they rest on the table. But they feel numb, as if your blood has stopped circulating through the joints and muscle and flesh there, and you take in a shuddering breath, the fresh current of spring air cool and minty against your teeth. You begin to work your hands, hoping light movement will assuage your anxiety.

You also figure that you should finally drink your tea. You take a few more moments to yourself before you reach for your cup.

But you never manage to touch the cup. Because, in a blink of an eye, across from you, sitting with one knee propped up to support an arm, a relaxed posture that either suggests a lack of interest or confidence in his ability or both, is the oyabun of this yakuza gang.

It’s by no means a new sensation, but the last time you felt this way was several summers ago, and it overpowers you instantaneously.

There's a dryness in your throat that no water can satiate, a neverending drop in the pit of your stomach, and a heaviness in your legs that chains you to your seat. And for once, your thoughts are gathered. But they're unanimous and concentrated on a singular definite, horrifying truth, one that weak prey are intimately familiar with when faced with an overpowered predator: you're on the brink of death.

It feels as if your death is guaranteed, and even if it isn’t, it's futile to bet on a yakuza's fickle emotions. Anything you do or say, or the lack thereof, can set them off. This is another lesson you’ve learned, over and over and over.

The oyabun's playful chuckle shakes you out of your shell shock, but it magnifies the fear that controls your entire body.

"Be at ease. You are not in danger."

You're not surprised that he responds so aptly, as if he can read your mind. This man is accustomed to killing, and is well-acquainted with the ghastly, terrified faces of individuals who are aware that they're about to meet their end. And judging by the way he entered this room without even alerting you, if he wanted to, he would’ve finished you before your mind could’ve even begun to process your death.

Even if following his instructions could save your life, you're not exactly sure you can "be at ease." Barely a nod, you dip your chin and avert your eyes, instinctively submitting to his presence.

He laughs again as he pours some tea into his cup. "Well, I understand that that is difficult to do. I know how dangerous it is to lower your guard in unfamiliar territory."

You hear the chalky slide of glazed porcelain against porcelain, followed by his satisfied hum as he takes a sip.

"Do you enjoy tea?" he asks.

Every nerve in your body is screaming at you because surely you're going to lose your life over an untouched cup of tea.

Please – I need my hands to move!

You gulp, though there's no saliva for you to swallow and your throat stings with the contraction, as if you are sick with a cold, as if there are deep cracks and lacerations left behind by the dryness plaguing the length of your esophagus.

"Y-yes…" It's a half-assed response at best. Not that you're lying, but uttering even a single word is difficult for you at the moment. The placement of your tongue, the aperture of your lips, the opening and closing of your mouth have all become unfamiliar, your ability to speak stolen by the spring breeze and the personification of death it has brought along.

"Feel free to help yourself. I am quite a fan of it myself, and throughout all my years here, I have been delighted to enjoy a variety of high-grade teas."

He's foreign?

It's unspeakable for a foreigner, of all people, to be in command of a domestic criminal organization. In fact, due to national pride, foreign members struggle to receive even typical hierarchical promotions in order to give Japanese members priority. The only time you heard of a foreigner coming into power was when you were incredibly young, and everyone was stunned to hear of an ex-Chinese Triad member joining the kanbu of a Japanese syndicate.

You wonder where this person is from, but of course, there's no way you could pry information out of your soon-to-be-murderer. Regardless, your number one priority is to get the fuck out of this place.

"I-I see…" With shaking hands, you manage to pick up your teacup and drink, drink, drink until you've consumed everything, even the last dregs of petal and stem residue. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that he's observing you with an unperturbed smile.

When your cup is placed back onto its matching saucer, which takes an erroneous amount of focus and effort on your end, the oyabun continues talking. "I understand you may be quite confused as to why you are here."

He bows, and you lower yourself as well.

"My men and I want to extend our deepest gratitude to you for saving Yanqing."

"Please," you wheeze, voice wobbling, brain barely capable of a coherent thought, "there is no need. I-I am sure somebody else would ha-have helped."

The yakuza boss, now almost wearing a pained expression, shakes his head. "We cannot always rely on others to save our people. We will pay closer attention to ensure that Yanqing is safe in the future. You will be rewarded handsomely for your kindness."

"N-no, I don't want anything in return."

How do I get out, how do I get out, how –

The boss hums again. This time, it sounds more neutral, lacking the pleasantness from the first time around. It's still rich, a gentle rumbling from deep within his chest, but it's neither reproachful nor approving, and you fear that this impersonal response is leading to a third undesirable outcome.

"Mm, are you sure?" he asks, pressing his cheek deeper into his upturned palm. You didn’t notice earlier, but now, you can't help noting the peculiar silver of his hair and the placement of a mole underneath the outer corner of his left eye. Speaking of which, his eyes aren't even open, but you're sure that he can already see far deep inside of you without even trying. This man has so many unusual characteristics, yet at the same time, either because you're losing it or defenseless or both, they blend together into something familiar.

Truly, it's as if all the fight in you, the resilience and attitude you had earlier when dealing with his subordinates, is rapidly escaping you. Or, it might be more fitting to say that the man in front of you is silencing those parts of you, slowly extinguishing all semblance of hope, leaving you bare and vulnerable and wholly at his mercy. Even your voice of reason has vanished, becoming mute because you don't know what to do in this kind of situation.

"Yes," but it sounds more like a question. You're not sure if you should agree or disagree, acquiesce or refrain, take or pass on his offering. You stand by what you said, but you'd change your answer in a flash if that'd mean saving your life, and after all that you've been through, you need to live.

For once, the oyabun doesn't say anything in turn. Instead, as he straightens out his back and sits upright, several of his men scramble away, leaving only two who stay rooted to their position, likely executives of this gang's kanbu. The doors to the watsushi are not blocked anymore, but as long as you’re in the boss’ vicinity, there is no actual opening that you can take advantage of.

You’ve been ignoring this thought, but with every passing second, it becomes more and more impossible to deny – you’re stuck. Not only did you go into enemy territory on your own with no backup plan, but you also walked straight into the lion’s den. And the lion is simply taunting you, playing with you until he gets bored, after which he’ll promptly dispose of you.

How can I stay alive?

He pours himself another cup as he says, "My apologies, I should have sent them away earlier. I hope you can speak more openly now."

Truthfully, you wish you could ask for permission to leave, but at this point, given how long this conversation has been going on for, you've lost your chance. Inwardly, you bemoan your foolishness and regret not having played the role of a terrorized normal citizen. That way, they probably would've released you to save the hassle of having to deal with a hysterical layperson. Then again, maybe they would’ve killed you on the spot. Regardless, the reality is that your leave will have to wait until the boss decides to let you go, if he wants to at all.

You manage to stammer, "Uh, no worries. Thanks…"

As you trail the end of your sentence, you realize you haven't been addressing him. There's no need for you to call him "boss" as you're not in his gang, and there's no way you can ask for his name either. You ponder, searching for a term that suggests formality and detachment.

In the meantime, it's silent in the watsushi. If he was any less intimidating, you'd think this scene – an objectively attractive man wearing a loose white kimono, his silver hair tied into a ponytail with a striking red cord, sitting motionless and quiet against a backdrop of uniform shoji screens – would seem serene.

Regardless, for better or for worse, it seems your bearings are returning, body and mind growing accustomed to the pressure in the room, so you're more capable of rational thought. Yet again, you urge yourself to keep it together.

It looks like the oyabun has no intention of re-initiating the conversation, so you figure he's gauging your next steps.

Sucking in a deep breath, you speak in your most polite tone. You still have no idea as to how you’re going to survive, but it wouldn’t hurt to buy as much time as you can and pay your respects. "Sir, I appreciate your generosity, and I've given it some thought. I'd be grateful to try any teas that are in season, if you happen to have any on hand."

For the first time, his eyes flutter open, and it feels like you've been struck by a bolt of lightning. Smelted gold, as thick and molten as the ichor of Greek immortals, far more dazzling than beams of sun. Your first thought is one of awe – how is it possible for a human to be capable of such unassailable power and beauty? Your second is one that’s far more bone chilling, an icy jet of adrenaline pumped straight into your veins.

For he is the foreigner in the rumors from your childhood, a cold-blooded man who single-handedly beheaded three dozen associates with ease to earn his role as an executive in his gang. Even if you had never witnessed the slaughtering firsthand, like a deafening clap of thunder that can travel as far as ten to twelve miles away, deep in your rattling skull, you realize that this man kills both with and without purpose. This is no longer about predictability, as there is nothing emotional or practical about this man. Brutality and carnage are intrinsic to his nature, and his carnal desires must be satisfied for his own needs.

You've gotten carried away once more. In fact, the moment your self-assurance came back, you unintentionally downplayed the gravity of your situation. Just because he hasn't done anything yet doesn't mean he won't do anything.

Yet, in spite of your insolence, it seems the oyabun is merciful. He dismisses you with an unreadable stare, along with an understanding hum from his still-smiling lips. One of the two men leaves before returning with a wrapped box that, from the cover reads, is from Hokkaido and contains sachets of plum and cherry green tea. You don’t even remember how you gathered the strength to stand, but you do, and through an alternating series of walkways and right-degree turns, you are brought to the entrance of the estate. Like a habit, like the manners that were beaten into your hands, feet, and back when you were young, you bow at the hips, hold it for three prolonged seconds, and, before you can bid the guards farewell, you sprint down the road that you came up from who knows how long ago.

You run, run, and run, pumping your lungs and legs until they feel as if they are about to rip off, and even then, you push them harder, all the way until you reach the door of your apartment. Relieved to find your keys lodged in your back pocket like they always are, you wrench them out and, after many failed attempts, open the lock to stagger into the entrance of your studio.

You collapse onto the floor. A shoe rack shakes as a corner of it bumps against your elbow as you face plant onto the hardwood floor.

It’s all unbelievable. Your encounter with the ex-Triad member of your childhood nightmares, the long sprint home, the fact that you actually made it out alive and are back home – the past few hours seem surreal. It still feels like you need to keep running away, like they’ll find and catch you if you stop moving.

But you can’t muster any more strength. Your whole body feels sore and on fire, like you've doused yourself with gasoline and self-immolated, like there's electricity coursing through your heart, leaving first-degree burns in its wake.

But you don't believe this pain's solely the result of your mad dash home. Yet there was no static, no crackling sounds, not even a single hair raised.

Lightning can still strike, even if there are no preceding signs.

–

Like all weather events, it takes time for a thunderstorm to develop, and it dispels as soon as it can no longer rage on. Thunderstorms specifically go through four phases: growth, development, electrification, and dissipation.

Growth and development, together known as the developing or building stage, begin when warm, moist air rises in an updraft, and at a certain altitude, combines to form a large cumulus cloud. If the warm air inside the cloud is at a higher temperature than that of the exterior, condensation takes place and droplets form, but rain does not fall.

At this stage, the cumulus is only four to seven kilometres in height and five to eight in length on average, so to any onlooker, it has yet to look like a storm cloud.

–

Your phone buzzes as soon as you drop down onto the couch. While the restaurant owner takes her usual lunch hour nap, you choose to decompress in the backroom that looks more like a senior citizen's living room, no thanks to its old 2000s TV with grainy display, bulkish frames, and broken speakers, an unplugged kotatsu, and a large shelf full of dust-covered books and miscellaneous figurines from grandchildren located a bullet train away in Tokyo. After rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you check to find a text message notification from your closest friend.

Hana: wanna call

You: aren't u at work

Hana: fck work

She picks up on the first ring of your video call.

"Don't tell me you're in the fucking bathroom again," you groan as you lean further into the deflated back of the couch.

Hana scowls and flips you off. "You know this is the only place at work I can call you from without getting caught."

"Well, you've been caught once before –"

"Only because that blind ass bat decided to use this toilet for, like, the first time ever. Never again since."

You shrug. Your friend's always been spitfire incarnate, tongue a cutting thing, glares yet sharper. You suppose it's her expertise, aggravating others with only her presence. She's also incredibly impatient, and when you don't give her a vocal response, she snaps.

"Say something! I'm getting in trouble because of you!"

You stifle a honk of a laugh by clearing your throat instead. "My most beloved goddess, Hana the Terminator, thank you for bestowing me your time and grace."

"I’m not that unforgiving – you've been watching too many movies again," she spits, along with a slap to her forehead.

Despite all her controversial traits, though, she's your most trusted confidant – the only remnant from your past that you keep in touch with.

Hana quirks her eyebrow, to urge you to speak your mind because she already knows something's plaguing you. After all these years, you're convinced she can read minds.

You sigh. "Hana."

Paying no mind, she presses onward. "What happened? Did a customer throw their plate at you again?"

"No, work's fine."

Her eyes narrow. "Alright. Is it something we can't talk about?"

When you ran away, you made Hana promise that the two of you would never talk about anything of the past or your childhood again. After all, you escaped with the intent to leave everything you knew behind, and one necessary step was to never think about it all anymore. And she's made good on that promise this whole time, so it’s hypocritical that you’re breaking it.

You look away from the screen and mumble, "I know I said I never wanted to talk about it again, but… I was wondering if I could ask you a question."

She snorts. "Sure."

Your eyes flicker back to the screen, and you see that Hana's switched off her camera, most likely so that she can hold the call to her ear and lower the volume to prevent any eavesdropping.

"I think this happened when we were nine? Ten? It definitely happened when we were in the middle of that turf war, and then we suddenly got news that all these guys in the other prefecture got fucking oblitered by an ex-Triad member. Do you remember?"

You hear her suck in a breath through gritted teeth. "Fucking course. Shit – why are you asking about this?"

Hana's harsh whisper sounds… thin, like a leaf shaking in autumn, its stem clinging onto a branch right before it's about to snap and float to the ground, only to be trodden over and torn apart into several pieces, never whole again. After having met the person yourself, you understand why even a mere mention of him can send anyone spiraling.

Ignoring her question, you press, "What was his name?"

It's almost comedic how audible her gulp is – guttural, like she's about to vomit into the toilet bowl that she's sitting on. "Jing Yuan."

"What group –"

Suddenly, there's background noise that interrupts you. There's the clicking of heels, knocks against a bathroom stall, some garbled words made worse by a bad signal.

"Shit," Hana hisses. "That bat's back again – whatever you do, stay away from that motherfucker, alright? I love you."

And the call ends. You didn't even get a chance to parrot "love you" back, but it can't be helped, you think. You’ll call again next month, and there’s no doubt she'll drill you on your questions and the intent behind them. Anyway, for now, your focus is to ensure that your peaceful life won't be disturbed again. Even without Hana's warning, you've already experienced enough to know that you never want to cross paths with Jing Yuan ever again.

Nighttime falls before you know it. After the lunch break, you and the restaurant owner spent the late afternoon prepping for the dinner rush, and ever since the only other apprentice quit three weeks ago, the two of you have been busier than before.

It's not uncommon for young people to go without a college degree, as the national law only requires at minimum a middle school diploma, so when you left home on an arbitrary Tuesday night in the middle of your first year in high school, the only way to support yourself was to get a job. You had enough of an allowance to hop on a random train to a more remote town, and once you arrived here, you rotated between jobs as a cashier at a convenience store, a dishwasher and waitress at multiple diners and izakayas, as well as a librarian. Now that you're in your 20s, you've settled down in this restaurant as an apprentice, and eventually, when the owner decides to step down, you'll take over.

This place has grown on you, and you'd really like to stay.

There are no angry customers or broken dishes throughout the evening, and aside from a few hiccups with the cash register, you get off work without a hitch. On a good day like today, you can leave by 10PM.

Your place is just a five-minute walk away, and upon you return, you're greeted by a dark room that contains nothing except for a kitchen, a mattress, a computer charging in the corner, and a tall stack of borrowed books you plan to finish over the upcoming weekend.

There's also that box of Hokkaido tea sachets that's resting on your kitchen countertop. For some reason, in the month since you received it, you haven't been able to throw it away. You've already discarded the wrapping paper, and the box doesn't look like it's been tampered with. In fact, it looks new, as if Jing Yuan himself received it as a respectable present of sorts, but you never know what it could contain, and you don't intend to find out.

You're just relieved that you haven't been bothered by Jing Yuan or his gang since your encounter. Initially, you were paranoid, so disturbed and worried that they'd come after you to the point that you called in sick and didn't leave your room for a whole week. Then, you had no choice but to do your best to resume work and other parts of your usual routine, but you refused to make any deliveries (and still do, too). After all, the whole reason why you were in the neighborhood where you met Yanqing was because you were on your way back from dropping off an order, and you never want to go back there ever again.

It's a shame, you think, still staring at the large printed words on the cover of the box. I might have to leave this place soon.

–

Weekends are more relaxed because the restaurant’s only open for lunch. The owner reserves her weekend evenings to spend time with her son and granddaughter, and you're not skilled enough to run the establishment on your own yet.

You're awoken by the sound of your doorbell buzzing. Disoriented, you sit up with a jolt, the room spinning a little as you strain to clear your head. It rings again. With a shout – "One moment, please!" –, you roll out of your covers and hobble towards the front door.

From your peephole, you see that a deliveryman is waiting outside your front door with a package in his arms. It's a dark cardboard box with logos dotting the exterior in diagonals, but you don't recognize the design nor are there other legible clues for you to discern.

"Ma'am, I need you to sign this slip," the deliveryman announces.

You furrow your bows and, through your half-conscious daze, struggle to recount if you've ordered anything as of late. Try as you might, nothing comes to mind. You see the worker glancing at his wristwatch, and you feel bad for keeping him waiting. Fueled by guilt, you end up opening the door and signing the slip.

It could be the owner, you think. Sometimes, she likes to send you things without notice, so you figure it might be another load of cherries or a few hand-me-down shirts from her daughter-in-law who she's convinced is around your height. Anyway, with an impatient nod and a snatch of the sheet in your hand, the deliveryman leaves you alone to haul the package back into your apartment.

You heave it over and drop it next to your mattress for a closer inspection. You're almost tempted to look over it later and resume your post-shift nap, but common sense wins, and you need to confirm the nature of this mystery delivery. The packaging label tells you the sender seems to be a store located in Kyoto. More specifically, as you search them up on your phone, it's a pottery shop. By now, it's clear this package isn't something you had bought for yourself, and you doubt it's from the restaurant owner either. For a second, you consider the possibility that the deliveryman made a mistake, misread your apartment number or something, but another glance at the packaging label and your name is legibly printed on it.

You click onto the shop website where you learn that customers can go in to make their own creations, as well as purchase already-made goods, which you check out next. The catalog is a few pages long, but the products are all of the same thing: tea sets.

Struck with a chilling sense of fear and despair, you jump in your skin and choke out a horrified gasp.

How is that possible?

With wide eyes, your neck snaps to the side, towards the kitchen, at the box sitting on the countertop. You're on your feet within a second, and stride over to it. Without a single ounce of care or consideration, you rip the box open, shredding the cover into two uneven halves, and your eyes bore so deeply into the four columns of tea sachets that your vision begins darkening. But still, nothing seems out of place. You then dump all of the tea sachets into the sink, wondering if there's anything hidden beneath them. Yet again, nothing appears, so there's either nothing or a device so small that you can't discern it simply by looking.

Leaving the mess in your kitchen, you stalk back to the delivery you just received, and with sheer brute force that you can only summon when enraged, your nails tear through the packing tape and rip open the flaps of the package. You toss out the top layer of bubble wrap to unveil a white box with a translucent top that has an envelope taped onto it.

At first glance, it seems like an obligatory thank you card that small businesses usually send with every purchase. However, the printed silver cursive reads: "A special gift to a special someone!"

It's tough choosing between laughing in disbelief and yelling disgusted expletives, so you opt to remain silent, a blankness that can mean nothing and everything all at once. You tear off the card and flip it over to find a longer message.

To a dear friend. I hope this present suits your taste, and may we find another time to converse over tea again.

The building stage of a thunderstorm can take as short as an hour. In other words, it's possible for a clear, sunny day to suddenly become overcast, an impending storm ready to unleash, no longer an impossibility beyond the horizon.

Just like how you were able to turn yourself around in one night, it is equally feasible for your current life to be disrupted, uprooted, and made into a hell, all within an afternoon.

–

In the development stage, the air within the stormcloud and between the earth has an insulatory property to combat the mess of swirling particles of both positive and negative charges. The magnetism between the opposite charges is not great enough to cause electrical discharge, so like river water flowing between pieces of driftwood that dream of the whole they've broken off from, the air keeps the particles separate enough to further delay the inevitable sparks and flashes of electricity, of the cloud's heated turmoil.

–

Jing Yuan can be an incredibly talkative person, you learn. From your last meeting, he seemed like someone who wouldn't mind awkward silence, but as you kneel across from him on the other side of the same low-rise table in the same watsushi, with your hands clasped together in your lap, you listen as he explains Yanqing's situation.

His eyes are closed again.

"We managed to apprehend the man. He was a mediocre hitman desperate to pay off a debt he owed to his landlord, so he was by no means difficult to track or dispose of. I apologize, again, for the trouble Yanqing had caused you. I have reminded him to tell us when he is in danger."

Because of how terrified you were before, you couldn't pay much attention to Jing Yuan, other than the grossly intimidating aura he encased the whole estate and everything within it. It's not like you're not scared of him this time, but it's clear that he has no intention of killing you. This, you know for sure, is not based on urges as flimsy as idealized delusion or optimistic preconception, but rather by the fact that Jing Yuan has, like the volume of a speaker, lowered his display of domineering might and is making space for actual conversation.

Listening, you nod once.

He continues, "Yanqing is still exceedingly young, so he may not know what is best for him. He has acute instincts that can alert him of danger, but I am afraid he lacks experience in properly responding and protecting himself."

His voice is smooth, thoughtful, like that of a quiet, concerned father. But there's also an edge of dissatisfaction – a warning, but to whom, you're not sure. Still, it comes off as generally easygoing and warm, a savoring of warm brandy on a full belly, and if you were daringly reckless, you would've suggested he switch careers to become an audiobook narrator instead. In the context of the yakuza world, though, you have no doubt that this soothing, borderline seductive tone of his has drawn out countless dangerous secrets and several pieces of classified information from lustful tongues and fatigued minds. You wonder, then, what he wants from you.

It looks like it's your turn to finally say something. After all, since your arrival 15 minutes ago, you haven't uttered a single word.

"I'm sure he's learning, Sir. He's in good hands."

Not that any of these people are good.

"We will see. He did mention that you advised him to speak up as well, so I figured there was no need for me to repeat myself too many times."

"Ah," your voice cracks as you lower your head, "I overstepped."

"No, it is quite alright. I am not his actual father, so I appreciate help from others. It is important for him to learn from as many adults as he can, from their successes, as well as their silly wiles."

You feel a lurch within your upper body, the familiar emetic sensation from a month ago hitting you again. While you're not an immediate threat, it seems he still has his reservations.

"Anyway," the oyabun transitions, "I wanted to ask. How do you like the gift I mailed to you? I hope the whole set came intact."

Frankly, you haven't spared the tea set another glance. All of your thoughts were ensnared by the laminated note card, and you still can't believe he went so far as to find your address.

The need to escape rests heavily on your mind, but the matter is no longer as simple as leaving the estate. Since he knows where you live, the only option that remains is for you to move away, and it’s not as spontaneously easy to run away as it once was when you were a teenager. You have to communicate and apologize to the restaurant owner, clean out your apartment, and find a new place to start anew – all of which require at least a few hours.

I’ll leave tomorrow night. I just need to play along and not get killed today. By tomorrow night, I’ll be safe.

The thought placates you sufficiently, and you redirect your full attention to Jing Yuan.

With a palm over your heart, you say, "They're beautiful, though I haven't had the chance to use them. Thank you so much for the generous gift."

He chuckles, though they sound more like a lion's heavy purrs. It's a rich sound, as obscene and dense as melted dark chocolate. "No rush, you received it just yesterday. I know they may appear simple, but mashikos are made with stark red clay from the town they are named after and are appreciated for their captivating minimalism. I hope you can find daily use in them."

You nod once more, fully knowing they'll never be touched – just like the torrent of questions swirling around and around in your head.

Jing Yuan speaks, as if aware of the conclusion you've come to. "Initially, I was hesitant in sending you the gift. But I am glad I chose to. While I do not mean to indebt you to us, I was wondering if I could discuss a matter… with you.”

With feigned stoicism, the kind that only years of practice can produce, you acquiesce, "Sure, but I do not know if I can be of much help."

You watch as he picks up a thin folder that’s laid on the ground to his right and sets it on top of the center of the table. He then opens it to reveal a neat pile of glossy photographs bound together by a paper clip.

"I am curious to know if you recognize anything in these photographs," he instructs as he lays four out in a row. "It can be any of the individuals or objects in the background. Anything that can tell you of the general setting."

Your ears begin to drum loudly as your head pounds and pounds with intensifying force and rhythm. It hurts so much that you can't resist the need to wince as beads of sweat form at your temples. It's as if you're the main character of a movie who's suffering from amnesia, and you're experiencing a brief moment of recollection, stabbing prickles of familiarity and bright flashes of images that slip away almost immediately. Except your flashbacks don't slip away. They linger and haunt, meandering and taunting you when you try to make them disappear. Even after all these years, all these kilometers of distance, the regret and guilt hit you with the same brutality, a bone-crushing punch in the stomach that wrecks your organs and renders you helpless and panicked.

Not now, you think, but your internal pleas are futile. You’re utterly helpless, and escape is no longer a priority, the possibility of succeeding having long been impossible.

The first photo, starting from the right, is a scenic snapshot of a hillside overpass. In late elementary school, you frequented this place every night with Hana and her older brother, Haru, demanding that you be brought here to see the sun set before you retreated home for the day.

How does he know?

The second is blurrier, the flash of the camera mostly blinding everything but the edges out. There are several flags with store signs waving out front, and if you're reading them correctly, some of the names are restaurants in the downtown area of your hometown. You never went downtown often as there were always way too many people, but you know all the store owners feared your family.

How does he know?!

You don't recognize the third, which shows a four-story office building.

The fourth, however, causes you to still. Anyone looking at the image would, too, with the amount of blood and specks of flesh smeared against the wall, the emptied shells of bullets lying on the floor, and, in the center of it all, a man's face that’s half-bruised, a disturbing palette of waste green, toxic purple, and old yellow.

But your blood runs cold primarily for another reason. The other half of the man's face is less damaged, features more intact and, therefore, recognizable. You don't know him, per se, in that he doesn't jog any sense of familiarity, doesn't trigger an "aha!" moments where a lightbulb goes off and a new memory plays in your mind's theatre. You can't put a name to his face or pick him out among the crowds in your memories.

What you do recognize is the pin hanging loosely from the lapel of his torn blazer. Despite the camera flash, its reflection is dim, no thanks to the dried blood smeared entirely over it. Though it doesn't matter. Even if that pin was caked in layers of mud or glazed over with pitch black paint to create an opacity so deep it absorbs all light, you're sure you'd still be able to see the pen strokes, the exact points at which they overlap and interstice to form the kanji character that you abandoned at age 20.

HOW DOES HE KNOW WHO I AM.

If you could, you'd snatch the photo to see this man – who is closer than a stranger but too distant to be family – and sob out at once. Your hands would be shaking, one might even come up to cover your gaping mouth, and you'd continue to struggle to see the image clearly enough through your flooding tears.

It takes you a few seconds to realize that your reactions are not figments of your imagination. This battered mess of a man, albeit only a photograph of his aftermath, is pinched between your shaking fingers, your fingerprint smeared against the edges, and painful whimpers escape from under your breath. You don't want to think about how much you're crying.

There are a few moments of heavy silence before Jing Yuan's voice pierces through your grief. "I see you are aware."

Your eyes flicker to him. There's no smile stretching his lips, but he doesn't look like he pities or sympathizes with you. He's just waiting until you are capable of conversation again. You're sure that, internally, he's pleased, at the very least, that you’re finally playing his game.

You should be angry. Furious, even. Of course, you can't rage or else you'll get killed, but still, flames of wrath should be searing the back of your throat and pulsing through your arms, licking at your stone-cold feet to just fucking wake up and Run! – to Jing Yuan, to your apartment, to somewhere far, far away.

But there are no fires. There is no hint of rage. Instead, you ring hollow, outplayed and defeated in a game you never asked to be born into.

With a tumor in your throat, you croak, "How did you find out?"

"I did not."

His answer surprises you, but it withers away into indifference nonetheless. Though, maybe you're misunderstanding him, the oyabun sounds oddly candid.

"In China," he continues, "the people largely believe in this concept called yuan fen. I believe it is called en in Japan, which is very similar to the symbol of yuan. I am not as spiritualistic as I used to be, but I believe, in certain matters, that fate can be a source of interference. And in this case, this relationship between you" – his voice drops and thins out, louder than a whisper, dimmer than his usual speech – "and me may be a result of fate's fickle tricks. It is a result of our yuan fen that we have connected as such."

Your head drops. The photo's crumpled from your unrelenting hold, so you set it on the table to prevent further damage. You've already caused so much harm, not just within this tatami room, so if you can spare anyone any more pain, you'd like to refrain from humiliating yourself further. All you can do is wait for this motherfucker to tell you what's to come next.

"Though, at present, I am sure my words are meaningless and serve barely any comfort," Jing Yuan says.

When you don't respond, he hums. It's a thoughtful rumble, as he ruminates on how he should proceed.

You save him the effort and, through drying, cracked tears, croak, "I grew up in this town. If it is information or connections you want, I can try to help, but just know that I have not been back there in years."

Even though you're no longer looking at him, you can hear the smile – unperturbed, sickeningly mild – on his face. "That sounds like the perfect arrangement."

With a brush of his ponytail behind his shoulder, a subordinate paces over and stands at attention. You wonder how wilted you must look to the guards surrounding your perimeter, how lifeless and placid and bleak you've become within minutes, even if none of them have known you for more than a day.

The oyabun instructs, "Prepare a room for our guest. We will be relying on her, so treat her well. Tell Yanqing, too, that he should be mindful not to disturb her."

Unfazed, you raise your hand, which causes Jing Yuan to turn his attention back to you.

"Yes?"

"How long will I be staying here for?" you ask.

"We would like to move on from this matter within a week. Will that be a problem for you?"

There are no promises of leaving you alone afterwards or compensating you or, at minimum, apologizing for the mental anguish he's inflicted on you from everything that's transpired. Those promises would be empty anyway, but that's not the point. Jing Yuan is demanding because he intends to be. He’s consciously taking full advantage of the fact that you can't refuse even the most outrageous of his requests, while going so far as to sugarcoat his exploitation with a charming voice and an irritating smirk when he doesn't need to. Every single action is premeditated to help you realize how powerless you are.

But you already know. You've always been too weak. You've never let yourself forget.

You shake your head. "Not at all."

One by one, his subordinates take off, until only the two of you remain. You find that a little odd, as to dismiss all of his men means he is exposing himself to being ambushed, but you shrug, figuring that Jing Yuan is more than capable of defending himself. It wouldn't surprise you if he's able to catch a flying bullet and tear apart limbs with his bare hands.

"One last question," Jing Yuan states.

You peer up at him, to find that he has stood up and is rounding around to your side of the table. Naturally, your body tenses up, muscles and joints locking up, and you follow his frame with rapt dread as he makes his way to you.

He sits down right beside you, and with a downward tilt of his chin, opens his eyes to gaze at you. He has only just decided that you are worth being seen, being perceived, and you wish you could spit in his face.

Instead, you bite down on your lower lip with gritted teeth and a jaw so tense it shakes with strain. And when you watch his hand come up to trace the hollows of your cheek, you have to pierce your nails into your palms to prevent the screams bubbling up your throat. Even worse, when he leans closer, enough for his slow, tempered exhales to tickle your forehead, you freeze, body paralyzed from the lightning of his eyes.

"In order for this arrangement to work," Jing Yuan mutters, though with the way he's speaking into your ears, it sounds like a ravenous purr, "we need to be transparent with each other, yes?"

Out of sheer instinct, your hands fly up, about to push the man away. But simultaneously, you have no urge to touch the man, or have him touch you, so they simply pause midair.

Another rumble of amusement resounds from his chest and reverberates through your ears. You can feel his fingers cascade down the side of your face before his hand wraps around to settle at the base of your neck, with his thumb propped underneath your jaw to lift your head up. You want to tear yourself from his hold, but the unwavering steadiness in his hand – not a single tremble, surgical in precision – and the unfamiliar warm touch warn you not to, beckoning you to savor the murky sensations instead.

You're cheek to cheek, so close that you can catch the scent of something green, and musky, then metallic. And, like the final gust of chilling wind right before a storm unleashes, he breathes, deafening and hushed all at once, "Can you promise me your utmost honesty and sincerity?"

There's no air in your lungs. He already knows your answer.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai sr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai sr x reader #jing yuan #honkai star rail jing yuan #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan honkai star rail #jing yuan hsr #jing yuan x reader #carrot cake!

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thecheshireprincess · 29 days ago

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Peek Inside My WIP Folder 👀

UPDATED 5/5/2025

i asked you guys to send me requests, and you absolutely delivered ✨️ i am so honored to write these stories for you - thank you for trusting me to do so 🥹

as always, if you don't see something here that you're looking for, please send an ask 🫶🏻 i'm still taking requests; it may take a little bit of time, but i would love to make some fanfic magic for you ✨️❤️

i have listed them in their categories by which is most likely to be finished/published first, but we all know i don't write in order so i do a lot of jumping around as inspiration strikes ✨️ ALSO i didn't tag the people who requested these in case they didn't want people to know 🤣 i think i have covered everyone though 🫶🏻

💕 - Fluff

💔 - Angst/Hurt

🔥 - Smut

✨️ - Part of a series or collection

Also, my regular titles will always be in white, smut fics will have titles in red

Completed, but Unpublished (Final Editing) ♤

The Game Itself Chapter VIII 💕✨️

The Beginning (Niragi x F!Reader) 💕✨️ - How you changed the trajectory of Niragi's life with just one look -> part of the One Look Collection

House of Mirrors (Chishiya x F!Reader) 🔥- You find yourself stuck in a funhouse with Chishiya during a game; why not make use of the mirrors?

Can You Keep A Secret? (Chishiya x F!Reader) 💕✨️- Three times Niragi asked Chishiya to hide something from you, and the one time Chishiya asks Niragi to keep a secret for him -> A The Game Itself one-shot

Princess of Diamonds Part II 💕✨️

The Year of Linen (Karube x F!Reader) 💕🔥 - Karube wants to stick with tradition for celebrating your four year anniversary ❤️

What Really Matters (Hatter x Reader x Aguni) 💔💕🔥 - Hatter has gone off the deep end with running The Beach; you and Aguni try to remind him of what really matters

I Warned You (Chishiya x Pregnant!Reader)🔥💕- Part two to I Changed My Mind

In Editing ♡

Seeing Double (Niragi x F!Reader) 💕💔✨️ - You are the twin sister of a certain manipulative blonde; you seem sweet, but will Niragi get more than he's bargained for when he hits on you? Requested; will probably be a multi-part series

Show Us (Chishiya x F!Reader x Niragi) 🔥- A continuation of Cat and Mouse

Tale As Old As Time (Chishiya x F!Reader x Niragi) 💕💔✨️- Disney x AiB AU Crossover premiere

Feel You (Chishiya x F!Reader) 💔🔥 - After a nightmarish game night, Chishiya just wants to feel that you're still with him

I Hate That I'll Always Love You (Niragi x F!Reader) 💔🔥 - Sometimes love (and lust) just isn't enough

The Game Itself Chapter IX

In Writing ◇

Not So Hidden (Chishiya x F!Reader x Niragi) 🔥- Part two to Hidden in Plain Sight

Fixation (Chishiya x F!Reader) 🔥💕- Doctor Chishiya is obsessed with trying to get you pregnant; Requested

Queen of Diamonds (F!Reader, undecided love interest) 💕💔✨️- As the Queen of Diamonds, you travel to The Beach with Mira and Kuzuryu; this is the story of disguising yourself as a regular player, potentially falling into the trap of love with one, and how that will play out when the second phase begins. Requested - likely will be a multi-part series

AiB x Disney AU Collection (Most of them will be x Reader) 💕🔥💔✨️- I turn AiB characters into Disney Princes/Princesses and pair them either with you or each other

Un-announced New Multichapter Series (Chishiya x F!Reader x Niragi) - Coming June 9th

Confession (Tatta x F!Reader) 💕- Tatta has a major crush on Reader; no way she will ever feel the same, right?

Domination (Chishiya x F!Reader) 🔥- For a normally composed and controlled person, being in the bedroom with you makes Chishiya throw that out the window; possible addition of Niragi as well bc 🤤Requested

Un-named Chishiya x femboy!Reader smut fic 🔥- This story excites me GREATLY bc it is so far beyond what I usually write; I will be praying to whoever out there that I can do this justice 😭 Requested

Tag, You're It (Tatta x F!Reader) 💕- Best friends to lovers Tatta and Reader when they are dumped into Borderland and forced to play Tag

Ideas ♧

I'll Kill Him (Chishiya x F!Reader) 🔥 - You and Chishiya find something to do in the security room during Witch Hunt; the latter vows to kill Niragi after he catches you staring Requested

These are works that I will be writing, I just haven't put any words to paper yet. OR they were requests that just came into my inbox, and I haven't had a chance to brainstorm yet 🫶🏻

Un-announced Niragi x F!Reader AU Series 💕🔥💔✨️ idea shelved until further notice

No less than six un-named oneshots from The Game Itself Universe 💕🔥💔✨️

Un-announced Kyuma x F!Reader Series 💕🔥💔✨️

Three un-named stories that add a new storyline to the One Look Collection Universe 💕🔥✨️ series on hiatus until further notice

OKAY 🫶🏻✨️ what are you guys excited to see?

Un-named Roommate!Niragi x F!Reader Oneshot 🔥 idea shelved until further notice

Masterlist

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magniloquent-raven · 8 months ago

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I'm getting distracted from my current projects by someone else's post again someone tell me to stop going on tumblr while I have WIPs lmfao

@rosetterer this isn't EXACTLY what you posted about but it does get there in the end

Twenty-four hours has never seemed like such an insurmountably long time.

Buck's had long shifts before, the boring ones when he'd stare at the alarms on the wall, willing them to go off—he can picture Maddie's disappointed scowl if she ever found out about that, but he swears he was only hoping for something small and harmless to break up the monotony—and the busy ones. Ones that leave his ears ringing with phantom sirens by the end. Those days only ever seem long in retrospect, when he's bone-tired and trying to remember all the names he asked for.

But now every shift seems to find new and shittier ways to be gruelling. Eddie's miserable and trying to act like he isn't. There's this weird, uncomfortable tension brewing between Hen and Chim. Ravi got himself transferred to B shift—probably to get away from Gerrard, and Buck can't exactly blame him, but he sort of does anyway and their new probie is terrible, and... then there's Gerrard.

Like, Buck already knew he was a piece of work, but. Knowing and experiencing are two very different things. He could barely stand keeping his mouth shut at the medal ceremony when he met the man for five seconds, and now he has to put up with him making smug, belittling comments towards all his friends, all the time. Constantly needing to remind himself he doesn't want to get fired is actually killing him.

It doesn't help that every so often he'll remember Tommy's offhand Captain Gerrard was like having the dad I already had, with a pang as he wonders what exactly Tommy grew up with. What parts of Gerrard's condescending tyranny were familiar to him. Phillip Buckley may not have been father of the year, but maybe never being looked directly at was better than being raised neck deep in toxic waste.

Every time he remembers he gets the urge to pull out his phone and call Tommy up just to... he doesn't even know. Just to hear his voice, maybe. Know if he's doing okay.

Another reason work days seem so long now, if he's being honest. He's always counting down the hours until he can see Tommy again. Like a kid on the last day of school, watching the clock tick closer and closer to summer vacation.

So, of course, right near the end of a particularly busy shift, Gerrard gets them all lined up for a lecture about how sloppy that last save was. Everyone did something wrong, and everyone needs to hear about all the ways they could have gotten someone killed, like they don't all know how risky the job is already.

By the time he's finished telling Chim it's a miracle he managed to convince anyone to let him out on calls, Buck is clenching his jaw hard enough to make his teeth ache.

"I'm sure Captain Soft-Touch loved telling you all it was okay to be mediocre, and that you were trying your best," Gerrard sneers at them all, waving a dismissive hand at very idea of Bobby's captaincy. "But the coddling ended when he retired. Sparing your feelings is going to get people killed. Diaz!" He shouts, abrupt, turning on his heel towards Eddie. Eddie doesn't flinch, but Buck does.

"Yes, sir?" He's coolly polite, and his face is carefully blank, but his posture is tense.

"If I ever catch you checking your phone at a scene again, I'll make sure you're mopping floors for the rest of your life."

Eddie's expression hardens. It was a fender-bender and Eddie didn't even touch his phone until everyone was accounted for and packed into the ambulance. "It was a text from my son. Sir." His tone veers a little to the left of polite.

"I don't care if it was from the goddamn Pope, when you're in the field your focus stays on scene. Next time your brat needs something tell him to go cry to his mother about it."

This time when Buck flinches, everyone else in line does too. Hen bites down on a grimace. Chim hisses quietly through his teeth.

"I can't do that," Eddie says flatly. "What with her being dead and all."

The firehouse is silent for a long, horrible moment. That might've taken the wind out of any decent person's sails, Buck thinks. At the very least most people would've retreated into awkwardness and ended the lecture entirely.

Gerrard's brow pinches angrily. "Don't get smart with me, Diaz."

Buck's not sure it's possible to hate someone more than he hates their new captain right now.

"I don't care about your little sob story excuses, I care that you're sloppy and distracted. If you can't handle the job and the kid, drop one of them."

Oh, he was wrong.

He hates this man so much he's choking on it, it's clogging his throat like bile and he's running out of strength to care that he shouldn't spit it out, spew it everywhere and ruin everything just for the chance of hurting this man in the process. He feels like his skin is bursting at the seams.

Eddie's biting the inside of his cheek, rage and sorrow warring silently on his face.

And Buck breaks. Bursts. "Hey, Captain, that's—"

"Can it, Buckley," Gerrard cuts him off before he can even start. It's not angry, it's not anything, he brushes Buck off like he's an annoying fly buzzing in his ear, barely worth glancing at for the two seconds it takes to tell him he doesn't care. "You're all dismissed. Get out of my sight."

Some of them flee, scurrying to their lockers, the kitchen, anywhere but here. A couple of people throw backwards glances before they walk away. Hen and Chim exchange grim looks. Eddie disappears out the back door in an angry haze. And Buck...

Buck feels. Empty. Small. Like he cut himself open trying to relieve the pressure and now there's just nothing left. No one to patch up the wound, and no reason for any of it, he didn't make an impact, he didn't help anyone, he stood there listening to his friends get degraded, and now—now he's feeling sorry for himself?

It's stupid. He's stupid. He feels like shit because, what, because he didn't get yelled at? Because his piece of shit captain took a break from implying he's a disgusting pervert?

He thinks himself in circles about it his whole way home, the pit in his stomach getting a little deeper every time he tries to will it away.

He's wallowed himself halfway through a six-pack, staring sightlessly at his TV, by the time his front door opens.

"Evan?"

One of the knots in his chest loosens. "Yeah," he calls out, not bothering to sound less pathetic than he is. "In here."

"Hey." Tommy's stopped next to the stairs, eyeing him. His gaze is assessing, but his tone is soft. He's always so careful with Buck. "Bad day?"

Buck takes another sip of his beer. Shrugs.

"Ah, one of those."

The couch cushions dip as Tommy takes a seat next to him. He's close enough that Buck doesn't have to look at him to know he's there. There's warmth radiating off him. The woodsy scent of his aftershave. Buck presses their knees together, and exhales properly for the first time in hours.

He knows he could talk about whatever he wants and Tommy would let him. He's waiting for Buck to take the lead here. Buck could avoid the issue entirely and decide to talk about anything. The fact that he can't really tell the difference between the fancy beer Tommy insists is better than the crap Buck's drinking right now. The documentary about bees he's pretending to watch. The goddamn weather.

What comes out of his mouth is a quiet, "I feel like an idiot."

Tommy pulls the beer bottle out of Buck's loose grip, puts it down next to the couch, and then takes Buck's hand in both of his. "Why?"

Buck scrubs at his eyes. "I..." He catalogues the tiny scars on Tommy's knuckles. Two, three, little dots on his index finger. A lopsided vee on his thumb. "Something happened at work."

"Did Gerrard say something to you?" There's an edge to Tommy's question, something sharp and flinty. It makes Buck's heart do dumb little somersaults.

"No." He stops, shame burning his cheeks. "Not. Not to me. That's... He was lecturing everybody, and I..."

"Evan." Tommy grips his chin, firmly, gently, guiding Buck's face until he looks him in the eye. There's a sympathetic twist to his mouth. "Tell me."

He does. As best he can when it feels like what's didn't happen is more important, and he can barely put into words why that is. But trying helps, a little. Trying to whittle it down into an explanation forces him to look at the whole of it, and realize it's not looming over him anymore.

Maybe it's just Tommy's hands on him, soothing the hurt away.

"I dunno. Feels like I could have done something differently, maybe"

Tommy hums, tilting his head in acknowledgement. "You could've."

Buck winces.

"But it wouldn't have turned out any better."

Oh.

A flower blooms on the TV, purple and white petals reaching for the sun. Buck toys with Tommy's fingers, and shifts his leg closer, hooking their ankles together.

"It felt so shitty," he mutters.

"I know."

He would, wouldn't he. Buck gets that pang in his chest again, and he pushes the rest of the way into Tommy's space. Tommy wraps his arms around him, and drops a kiss into his curls, seemingly content to let Buck situate himself however he wants.

He kind of wishes Tommy wasn't still wearing jeans, but asking him to take his pants off might send the wrong message.

"You don't think I'm, like...a bad friend, right?" He cringes his way through the question.

"No." Tommy responds matter-of-factly and without hesitation. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. "I think you're a very good boy."

Buck's entire head feels like it's on fire. A grin starts to creep across his face. It might be the first time he's smiled all day. "Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm."

Maybe he should ask Tommy to take his jeans off after all.

#911 abc #911 show #bucktommy #bucktommy fic #dailykinley #evan buckley #a raven's writing desk #this got away from me a little bit

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razildor · 3 months ago

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WIP Wednesday (It's Thursday)

Was tagged by the lovely @aldisobey Thanks!

I won't tag anyone for this since I think almost everyone I would tag has already done it, but if not go for it!

I've not gotten overly far with this one since it was just a silly little idea ( it's smut what a surprise) on Taash's comment of almost calling Emmrich a skullfucker, so no idea if I'll ever finish this one.

Skull-liker

"And I'm sorry for calling you a Skullfu- liker.... Skull-liker." Taash quickly corrected themselves before leaving with a wave at Rook.

Rook couldn't help but laugh a little at the name, turning to Emmrich with a smirk. "Skull-liker? I didn't know the Watchers had that title."

"Darling, please. You know the Watchers have no such title." A deep sigh leaves Emmrich as he turns to lean against his desk, looking over at Rook who slowly comes a little closer, a smirk on her face that he knows all too well..

"Nooo?" A teasing tone that has Emmrich narrowing his eyes.

"Rook if you say-"

"You're saying there's a title called Skullfucker instead?"

"Rook!"

A warm laugh leaves Rook the smirk still there. "Alright, alright. So there's no high ranking title for such a thing... I really thought you would have such a title."

"I-You thought- Rook! What would give you such a vulgar thought! You know we-"

"You could do it to me."

"Rook! The mouth on you!" A tut leaves Emmrich as he pushes himself from the desk, making his way towards one of his many bookcases, letting his eyes scan the spines picking one out as he tries to bury the thoughts of doing such things to Rook.

Yet the idea did... Appeal, he couldn't deny it, to have the younger kneeling at his feet, cock buried deep into the throat until Rook's eyes are watering from the intrusion, right to the base watching them struggling for a moment until used to the weight of his cock- No! No... He couldn't do such a thing but yet...

Rook took the opportunity to slowly circle the mage once he stepped away from the bookcase, stopping to peek over his arm at the book, a moment of silence came over the pair, a silence Emmrich was thankfully for in the moment to let his mind and other parts of him calm down, as his shoulders slowly relax truly at peace that Rook has dropped the matter, yet they quickly stiffened at the words Rook spills out from her mouth..

"So you're saying you don't like the idea of your cock down my throat?" Emmrich felt the woman's breath near his ear. The grip on the book tightening to the point of his hands shaking, in some vague attempt to keep himself together.

"Or do you really want to put me in my place, Professor?"

Something snapped within Emmrich; his only warning to Rook was the book falling to the floor as he turned, a hand gripping the other's jaw tightly. A gasp leaves Rook

----

Rook moans as she tugs on the bindings of the sash, finding her was firmly bound in place by it, another moan couldn't help but escape her throat, tongue wetting dry lips, eyes peeking up at Emmrich.

"Hm, much better. That should keep your wandering hands to places they shouldn't."

"Emmrich, please-"

"Ah! Another word and I will leave you like this while I return to my work... A tempting idea comes to think of it." A devilish smile crosses the Necromancer's face in thought. Leaving the women tied, kneeling as he worked on some papers he couldn’t care about, hearing the small whimpers and hitched breaths as she begs Emmrich to touch her aching core, oh what a delightful thought indeed.

Perhaps he'll have Rook to warm his cock from under the desk, or have her sit on one of the many toys Emmrich has hidden within his room, watching Rook squirm and moan trying to find some relief.

The thought made his cock twitch within his trousers... Perhaps next time.

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #emmrich volkarin #emmrook #emmrich x rook #wip wednesday #emmrook smut #current wip #wip

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miodiodavinci · 3 months ago

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man , , , ,

i've tried putting it into words but i think it's just easier to say

i feel like i'm hiding from being online again but like. turbo hard this time in that sometimes i even get anxious before reblogging something Privately to my Private Side Account that has like. Three Whole Followers. it feels really fucking bad because ->

work is running me ragged i think , , , , part of the reason i Am constantly hiding when i am online is that i get home and do so much after-work-prep-work-for-more-work that i end up just. totally spent and just want to turn off my brain and recharge for a while (which sucks when social media feels like an ongoing game of "don't let anyone know you're there!!!!!! or else you'll get sucked into MORE expectations!!!!!!!!!!")

like at the very least, things are not Degree + Internship Bad™ (read: torment is endless, brain feels like overcooked steak, weeping at my desk every other night, feels like if i don't get a break soon, i might actually lose it)

they are still like. "i am getting little pockets of sustenance in my life but good GOD i need a chance to just. do all play. not be working. for fuck's sake."

regarding online feelings, somehow feel an ongoing mixture of "fuck i need to get back into making covers because otherwise i Literally do not put effort into making cool art" + "i do not want to be seen. i literally just want to hang out with my friends and not be online anymore." + "FUCK FUCK FUCK I'M MISSING OUT I'M FALLING BEHIND AAAAAA" + "I Am Squandering Every Ounce Of Good Will And Love I Have Received Over The Past 10 Years Through This Hiatus"

but also like. jesus christ i am still so burnt out. it is a miracle i can open ms paint and doodle every now and then. i think doing the yamaha collab on top of getting my degree and doing an internship hurt me in a tangible way.

i'm still really glad i did it but also like. oh god i don't think i could ever again.

i have. so many WIP voicebanks i Need to finish but i think before i can do any of that i need to let go of whatever i was aiming for with salvador and just. settle back into "you make it + you draw it + you pick your favorite song and release it <3333"

i have covers i've made now OTL but the art and mixing are 100% holding me back

i don't know when i'll be back. i'd like to eventually have UTAU things to share, but it's hard to know when i can get the engine to finally turn over and i can finally get a voicebank finished. i am simply the king of recording and never finishing the oto <3333

that being said like. none of this is a cry for help. i am writing this to get it out there, and that's that 👍 i will be fine regardless, as i have been fine for the past however many years of my life w

TL;DR: maaaaaaan i just want to have a solid month of elementary school summer. y'all remember elementary school summer?? i just want to play games with my friends all day and then work on cool stuff at night and go to sleep soooo comfortable and wake up refreshed and do it all over again <33333 i think that would fix me <3333

#this has been a mio update <333 #might delete later considering it's just #'man i'm tired from my job and i don't want to be seen on the internet' jsdfhgkshdjfkgl

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blossomwritesthings · 2 years ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞

pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader (afab)

genre: dark academia college au. nonidol!hyunjin. enemies to lovers // academic rivals. angst. reader pov. smut - MDNI, 18+ only.

content & warnings: explicit & strong language. mild thematic elements. kindaa toxic relationship between hyunjin and reader since they're enemies in uni. ANGST!! reader comes from a poor background and hyunjin is the uni dean's prodigy son. smut warnings below cut!!

word count: 10.6k (enjoy you filthy animals 😈)

summary: ever since you started studying at korean national university of arts in seoul, hwang hyunjin, the other top student of the school and the dean's son, has been an absolute thorn in your ass. although, it turns out that not all thorns are necessarily bad.

18+ warnings: dom!hyunjin x sub!reader. unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, friends). fingering. dirty thoughts/fantasies are mentioned. degradation (whore, slut, bitch, etc). pet names (baby girl, sweetheart, doll face, etc). LOTS of hair pulling. BIG ownership/possession kink. breeding kink!!!. overstimulation. orgasm control. nipple/breast play. lots of dirty talk. subspace. loud sex. manhandling. humiliation kink. exhibitionism (fucking in a public library).

a/n: first of all, i'd just like to give a BIG shoutout to my dear friend @ahactress, for giving me the initial prompt to this about a month ago haha- without your help, I wouldn't be here right now honey!! 🤭💙 also, i'm sending all my love to my beautiful bestie @h0p3l3ssromantic, for encouraging me with her pretty words and her endless love... girl, you RULE and ilysm!!! 😫❤️ I don't know if it's public knowledge around these parts, but my dms on all my sns platforms are ALWAYS open for ya'll to spew your ramblings about my work haha - hmu on twt babes, I'm always down to chat~ ✨

💙 - ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛ other cool stuff ❜┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌! ࿐ྂ

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋread my rules & guidelines here! ࿐ྂ

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋcheck out my skz masterlist! ࿐ྂ

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ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜ��s ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). do not copy, spin-off, or write inspired work based off of this fanfic without full permission to do so. ©ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs �� ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

The moment you saw the dark, heavy clouds swirling low in the sky as you walked to your Survey of Humanities class, you knew that the day was going to be a shitty one. Already, you had woken up with a raging headache from the all-nighter you had pulled the day before to finish all of your homework for the following week.

Besides, it was a Monday too, and you fucking hated Mondays.

For one thing, the start of the new week always meant being bombarded with loads of assignments from the four classes you were taking. Being a junior with a Liberal Arts major was not as easy as everyone thought it was — and you constantly felt like you could never catch up on all of the homework.

With two formal art classes, one on charcoal drawings and the other on watercolor techniques, and then two upperclassman Humanities classes, your schedule was packed with studying time. Sometimes, it was hard to even eat during the day, since you were so busy with your schoolwork.

But there was no way around it, no excuses that could be made.

You either continued to stay at the top of your classes, as one of the best students in your grade for your graduation year, or you didn’t.

Your mother didn’t sacrifice everything she had for you to fail so horribly at university.

So you were okay with the stress and deadlines. Because you wanted to make both her and yourself proud.

And yeah, maybe you also wanted to prove to your classmates that you could do it.

You especially wanted to brag about your success to a certain man…

Hwang Hyunjin.

He was slated to graduate in your same year and was studying Technical Art. And holy shit— was he an insufferable ass. Unfortunately, since the two of you shared such close majors, you had found yourself in one too many classes with him during your time at the Korean National University of Arts in Seoul. It also didn’t help that he was coined as one of the #1 students in the entire school, and did everything in his power to make everyone aware of this fact.

Especially you.

If he earned just two points more than you on an exam in the same class that you were taking together, he’d nonchalantly wave the white paper in front of you after the exam period, taunting you with his sly tongue and that cruel grin of his.

Most of the time, you managed to ignore his wicked teasing, sticking to yourself and your small group of study buddies. But on the rare occasion that he did get under your skin, you’d snap irrevocably and usually land yourself in the Dean’s office.

But of course, Hyunjin was also there because — news flash — he was the son of the fucking Dean of the university.

Usually, the meetings after your blowups were casual and spoken in soft voices, with Dean Hwang recounting the school’s long integrity policy to you, which you had already memorized in the back of your head after your third visit to his office. The entire time the Dean reminded you of how your ‘behavior was uncalled for in the situation,’ Hyunjin would be standing in the corner of his father’s office, arms folded across his chest and canting his head to the side as he studied you with a pleased little devilish sneer on his face.

After every single one of the meetings, he’d always try to catch up to you outside of his father’s office. This usually landed in you cursing him out under your breath and telling him to fuck off before you retreated into the shadows of one of the many hallways.

And as it just so happened, your Survey of Humanities class also had a certain raven-haired man constantly sitting in the farthest seat from the front of the lecture hall.

It was almost comical how good-looking he was, coupled with his genius brain. Because as much as you wanted to deny it, you couldn’t ignore the fact that he was incredibly smart… in both the arts and all other forms of academics. He aced every single quiz and exam he was given, got 100s on every technical art research essay he wrote, and was involved in practically every club there was on campus.

The girls of your grade fawned all over him, and even the freshmen were weak to his looks whenever he’d pass them in the hallway. He looked right out of an early 2000s fashion magazine, with his model-like physic, long, shaggy black hair that perfectly framed his face and curled at the nape of his neck, not to mention the expensive designer clothes he was always seen in.

You had never seen him dress like the other guys of his same age — had never seen him clad in a pair of baggy grey sweatpants and a worn oversized graphic tee. Instead, he rolled up to the curb of the university in his cherry red 2023 Rolls Royce, dressed to the nines in fitted coats, light-washed designer jeans, and crisp white button-downs.

Hwang Hyunjin had been the school’s ultimate heartthrob for as long as you could remember, and you had heard rumors of the kind of things he did with his lovers — taking his girlfriends out to expensive restaurants in the heart of the city, before bringing them back to his luxurious apartment and fucking them late into the night. Usually, you tended to ignore the dating and sex part of your arch nemeses' life, and instead just focused on beating him at his own game of academics.

And during that early Friday morning in the middle of October, as you strolled through the doors of the lecture hall and your eyes scanned over the students already seated, you caught sight of him.

Dressed in a casual, brown turtleneck and dark-washed jeans, he looked like he had just walked straight out of an autumn edition of GQ Men. He was seated in his usual place, legs crossed and hands busy scribbling away notes on his iPad. As you floated beside him and towards your seat at the very back of the hall, you caught the scent of him — a mix of earthy musk and dark roasted coffee beans.

He didn’t pay you the time of day as you flitted past him and took out your notebooks once you were seated down. Thankfully, he seemed to be choosing the route of ignoring you for the day, much to your relief.

Soon, the professor strode into the lecture hall and began the class. For a while, he droned on about the midterm that all of the students had taken the week before, and how he was impressed with the class’ results. “Although, two students in particular outshined everyone else,” he began, his eyes scanning the lecture hall until they landed on Hyunjin seated just two rows before you. “Hyunjin, excellent work — it’s quite rare that I see a student score a 100 on the midterm,” then his focus was floating upward and landing on you. “Y/N, you’re short essay for the midterm was superb, and your choice of art analysis was a very unique one for sure.”

Just as the professor was focusing back on the rest of the course material, you could sense someone’s gaze trained on you. Staring forward, you caught a glimpse of him shooting you a snarky grin. You glared daggers into his skull, just wishing that he’d get shot in the foot and keel over in pain at that moment.

He always liked to gloat when he got a higher score than you on the tests, and you both knew that he had done better on the test overall — since the professor only mentioned his 100 and not yours. But apparently, your midterm essay was a hell of a lot better than his.

Sticking out your tongue at him playfully, you rolled your eyes before folding your arms across your chest and turning your attention back on the slides that the professor was ticking through. Hyunjin got under your skin so much he sometimes felt like a fucking disease — burrowed so deeply inside your veins, it was almost impossible to cut out the hatred.

“For this week’s assignment, you guys will be paired up into groups of two to create a joint presentation on the topic of ‘The Descent into Madness,’” As soon as you heard the professor mention splitting the class into groups, you felt your heart leap inside your chest. You only hoped that you wouldn’t be paired up with him. “Using your textbooks as a guideline, I want all of you to choose one specific piece of art from any period you want and conduct deep research into the mad aspects of it — dive into as much detail about the formal elements as you’d like, but make sure to follow the grading rubric and cite all academic sources. I’ve posted the list of paired groups on the bulletin board up here near the projector, so make sure to check it before you leave class today.”

You tuned out all other information the professor gave about the week’s assignment, too focused on seeing who you were paired with. As soon as he dismissed class, you were shooting up from your seat and hoisting your heavy tote bag across your shoulder.

Flitting down the stairway, you made it to the bulletin board before all of the other students did. They were idling around because no one gave two shits about who they were paired with. No one except for you.

“Please, please, please—” You prayed in a whispered tone under your breath as your eyes scanned the matched columns of students. When you came upon your name and saw who was next to it, it felt like the ground at your feet had opened right up and sucked you in entirely. “Fuck my life.” Heart dropping into the pit of your stomach, your palm squeezed a little tighter around the strap of your bag.

“Oh shit— looks like the professor decided to give you a fighting chance by pairing you up with the best student in the entire school.” You heard Hyunjin’s silky voice say from somewhere behind you.

Swinging around on your heels, you caught a glimpse of his sardonic, wide smirk, as his eyes scanned the look of sheer anger on your face. Giving a dry, humorless chuckle, he shoved his hands into his pockets and canted his head to the side in a quizzical kind of way.

“We’re only going to ace this project because of me— and let’s be clear here, I’m the better writer out of the two of us.” You said in a low voice, pointing an accusing finger at him in utter disgust. You could feel your brows pulling together from the rage that was building up inside of you. And all from the thought of being forced to work with him.

“Yeah, but I’m the better test taker.”

“Fuck you.”

Hyunjin chuckled wickedly, the tip of his blush pink tongue coming out and wetting a corner of his plush bottom lip. “Oh honey, I’m sure you wish you could.”

Already, you could tell that he was egging you on. Trying to get your goad so that you’d explode and be dragged to the Dean’s office. So that he could stare down at you with that same smug look on his face as his precious little daddy rattled off the university’s code of conduct.

Well fuck that bullshit.

Seeing too much red, you decided to excuse yourself from the equation before you said something horrible that got you sent into the Dean’s office again or even worse — kicked from the class.

“I’ll see you on Monday night at ten in the library,” you said in finality, squinting your eyes up at him and just wishing you could wring your hands around his perfect little neck. “Don’t be late.”

“I don’t take orders from you, sweetheart.”

“For now you sure fucking do.”

Then you were turning around and pushing out of the lecture hall, practically running down the corridor as fast as you could, heart pounding in your chest because… what the hell were you going to do?

That entire weekend leading up to the Monday night that you planned to spend with Hyunjin, you just about lost your mind over the worry of it all. Would he continue to be an asshole to you the entire time? Would he work well with you and compromise on things? How would everything go?

You were so stressed about the entire thing that you practically drove your roommate Felix insane with annoyance. Late Sunday morning, when you were making circles around your living room couch as you stressed about everything, he finally burst out in a loud outcry.

“Y/N! You seriously need to take a chill pill, you’re going to run holes right into the fucking carpet!” He said in an exasperated tone, muting the show that he was watching on the large flatscreen TV.

Peering up at him with wide, guilty eyes, you offered him a meek smile. “I’m sorry, Lix— it’s just… you know how much I hate Hyunjin and I—”

Felix rolled his eyes at you, completely fed up with your bullshit at that moment. “Yes, yes, I know. You’ve told me about a million times at this point. But like… don’t let it get to you, yeah? Just go out there and do your very best,” his eyes flitted back to the TV as he un-muted his show. “I mean… how bad could working with Hwang Hyunjin really be? Besides you, he’s one of the top students in the entire school.”

But he didn’t know Hyunjin like you did.

No one did.

They didn’t see the cruel side to him, the mean side.

They didn’t hear the words he’d mumble to you with venom after a big test or the taunting he’d throw your way if you one-upped him in some way.

Others didn’t see the dark looks he’d give you after classes or the way he’d practically talk behind your back each time you passed him in the hallway — whispering to his groupies and making all the guys chuckle heartily.

So yeah, working with him was a pretty fucking big deal.

Nonetheless, you took Felix’s advice and tried to relax as much as you could before the start of the new week. You studied the material that you wanted to research for the project, deciding to focus on Hamlet’s Ophelia for your analysis.

And if Hyunjin didn’t want to go with that character, well… too bad.

By the time Monday night rolled around, you felt more prepared than ever before and stepped into the Library’s main doors with settled ease. The university’s library was your favorite place on campus and had been the location for many of your long night study sessions over your time in school. With its dark gothic architecture outside and its sweeping gables, it was a true sight to behold. Not to mention the cozy atmosphere of the interior — all of the cozy nooks and crannies of the place, filled with warm candlelight and large chandeliers and settees made everything feel so mysterious and relaxing.

You strode through the isles filled with books, noticing how it was almost empty of any other student. That’s why you liked coming to the place late at night because it was relatively devoid of life and incredibly quiet. And you liked the quiet — it made it easy for you to focus on your studies. Finally, you stumbled upon a spacious table tucked into the very corner of one part of the place on the upper floor, with a large bay window just in front of the wooden table.

With a glance outside the pane, you noticed how the darkening sky had opened up to reveal a sheet of heavy rain — it pelted down on the few students that were passing by the outside of the library on the sidewalk there, as they ran for cover. Methodically, you brought out your supplies — booting up your laptop and positioning your notebook and pens just so.

Checking your phone, the screen flashed that it was fifteen minutes past ten o’clock already. Was he not even planning on showing up? Was he going to completely bail on you and instead take you down by sabotaging the entire thing?

As you sat down in one of the cushiony, velvet-lined chairs, your mind began to race with all of the possibilities of what Hyunjin might be stewing up to take you down.

Then, almost like your thoughts had summoned him, you heard footsteps at your back and turned to see Hyunjin rounding the corner of the tall bookshelves that were lined on either side of your chosen table. With one glance at him, you noticed the soaked-through fabric of his tan coat and the way his dark hair curled around the nape of his neck with moisture. He must’ve gotten caught in the rain and that’s why he was late.

“I thought you were going to bail on me entirely.”

Giving you a swarthy look, he plopped down into the seat just across from you and threw his heavy book bag atop the table. “Good evening to you as well.” He grumbled, slipping off his coat and showcasing the wetness hidden just underneath there. His light, cream-colored button-down was almost sheer from the rainwater… highlighting his muscular shoulder blades and the tips of his pecks.

“Didn’t you know it was supposed to rain heavily tonight?”

Not even paying you another glance, he focused on pulling out his supplies. “I’m not the fucking weatherman, I don’t regularly check up on shit like that.”

“Well, you should— maybe you wouldn’t ruin so many of your precious, rich boy clothes if you did.”

At that, his hands stopped moving and he stared up at you with slitted eyes. Giving your own choice of outfit a long once over, the corner of his mouth ticked up. “Well damn— are you jealous or something?” You weren’t particularly dressed up, opting for a comfortable pair of black sweatpants and a warm violet turtleneck top.

“Let’s just focus on getting to work.” You shot back, hands typing away at your computer keyboard. “Did you figure out a piece you want to analyze?”

“Yeah, Hamlet’s Ophelia.”

His words were silky and smooth against your ears, but his answer is what got you shooting your gaze up to his again. Mouth dropping open a little bit in surprise, you cleared your throat from the sudden quietness between you. “Oh— uhm, I was thinking the same,” you began, opening up the Word document that you had already started working on that past weekend. “It would probably be a good idea to study Hamlet’s character too since he's the catalyst of her problems.”

“No, he isn’t. She already had them to begin with — he just heightened their outcome.”

You were so taken aback by his comment, that it took a few seconds for your brain to process everything. But when it finally clicked, you were gaping up at him in astonishment. “I’m sorry, what? You’re going to blame her for the fact that Hamlet was the sole cause of it all?” Your voice was steadily rising, as you began to get irritated by his suggestion.

Hyunjin shrugged nonchalantly, as he scribbled down a few things in his notebook. “I mean, yeah. She already had a history of mental disorders, her death was bound to happen anyway.” He matched your tone, words growing louder and ringing out across the small expanse of the library that the two of you were in.

“I seriously cannot believe you right now.” You began, shaking your head in anger as you tried to focus on your bright computer screen again. But his argument just rubbed you the wrong way entirely, and you found yourself speaking up again. “I didn’t realize how much of a fucking misogynist you were. But oh, wait— it’s perfectly clear now if the way you treat me is anything to go off of.”

“I’m not a misogynist, Y/N.” The way his tone curled around the sound of your name did something funny to the depths of your soul. He had never called your name outright like that, never addressed you head-on. And it was both weird and oddly satisfying. “All I’m saying is that her descent into madness was pretty warranted since she was in an already heightened state of emotions.”

You gave him a deep glare, tilting your head to the side in annoyance. “Just say you hate women, it’s okay, Hyunjin. I won’t bug you about it.”

“Like hell, you won’t.” He mumbled under his breath, long fingers typing out something on his computer.

And that was enough to completely set you off.

There were no other students around, no professors to tell you off, and no Deans to harp on you about correct student conduct.

“Seriously, what the hell is your problem?! You’re so fucking annoying and a total piece of shit. I honestly have no idea how you’re at the top of the school when all you do is belittle others!” This time, you were shouting outright. Throwing him an ominous glare and shutting your computer with a resounding thud.

Hyunjin leaned back in his seat, lengthy arms folded across his chest as the rain pelted against the misty window just at his back. “Oh, and like you’re any better? You always love to shove your accomplishments in everyone else’s faces— you ever stop to think how that makes others feel?” He was yelling now too, stroking a hand through his long locks that were steadily dripping with tiny droplets of rainwater.

Shaking your head in disappointment, you took in a resounding deep breath. “I knew this was a bad idea. I knew you’d be an asshole the entire time and I knew we wouldn’t get any work done,” as you said the words, you were already gathering up your things, shoving them into your bag, and leveling him with a cold stare. “So let’s just forget it - this - okay? Just… work on it by yourself and then we can compile our info together the day of and—”

“Sit down, Y/N.”

The way his command slipped out from between his lips in a low, gravelly voice shook something loose deep within your very being. For a moment, you almost felt compelled to listen to him. Like under a mystical enchantment, your limbs wanted to move on their own accord and seat yourself down again. But the rational part of your brain overtook all other thoughts as you stood your ground and hovered just next to the table.

“You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not your daddy— you don’t have the authority of the Dean.”

For the last few moments, he hadn’t been looking at you, eyes instead trained on his computer still. Almost like, the entire ordeal didn’t bother him that much. Like you were a minor inconvenience to him in the grand scheme of his rich, privileged life.

But all at once, he was tipping his head towards the high rafters of the library’s ceiling, stare catching with yours. The stormy look you saw there, dancing around in his brown irises, forced your heart to leap in the pit of your throat.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“I’m never going to listen to you, so tough luck, fucker.”

Taking in a deep breath, his entire body shuddering with the motion, he held your gaze and motioned with a tilt of his head to the seat in front of him that you had just gotten up from. “Sit. Down.”

And like a single crack suddenly appearing in a delicate vase, your mind was losing all conscious thought and you were moving without any other thought. His seething, low tone overtook your entire system, his focus on you sending a shock of shivers up the length of your spine again and again, unrelenting.

“What?” You asked, noticing the surprised expression on his face from the way that you had fucking listened to him once, seated in your chair again. “I was tired of hearing your stupid demands.”

Hyunjin flipped through a few pieces of paper in his notebook before he pushed it your way. “Give that a look over, it’s the notes I took on Ophelia over the weekend.” The idea of him studying for the project just like you had done forced your mind to run rampant with all kinds of thoughts. Like, was he also stressing out about the meeting like you had been doing?

“I already told you— we’re not working together.”

“For Christ’s sake, just give it up!” Hyunjin exclaimed in a loud voice, throwing his hands up into the air in mock defeat. “You act like this is the deciding project of our grade— it’s a fucking weekly assignment. All we have to do is our best, which will be pretty damn good if we’re both working on it.”

“So then you admit that I’m a good student.” You raised an eyebrow his way, fingers slowly taking ahold of his notebook and playing with the edges of the paper.

Taking in a deep sigh, he pointed at the notebook in front of you. “Just focus— okay? I want to get as much work done as possible tonight.”

“Fine, but don’t blame me if we get a bad grade because we rush it.” You said, finally raising the white flag of surrender and taking in the contents of his notebook. The notes were detailed and insanely good, highlighting certain formal aspects of Ophelia’s character and the overarching themes of her madness. “Wow— this is… really good.” You said in a quiet voice, almost hoping that he wouldn’t hear it.

Rummaging through your nearby bag, you pulled out a pink highlighter to take some notes, and your chosen lollipop for the night, mango flavored. You liked to reward yourself with a fun treat of candy whenever you did late-night studying sessions since the sugar kept your energy levels high and helped to keep you focused. Ever since you were a little girl, you seemed to concentrate better when your mind wasn’t entirely on the content you were studying.

“I mean, I’m not coined as one of the school’s top students for nothing,” Hyunjin remarked in a sarcastic tone. You chose to ignore his comment and instead focus on his neat handwriting and the way his words fit in perfectly to the columns of the notebook paper.

Everything about him was perfect — from his looks to his academic success to his damn handwriting. Hell, what wasn’t he good at?

For one thing, being a nice fucking person.

And he seemingly couldn’t grasp the idea of how not to be an asshole to people he didn’t like.

Unfortunately, you were categorized in his list of people that he hated.

As you flipped to the next page in his notebook, your tongue swirled around the lollipop in your mouth. The sugary sweetness of the artificial mango flavor coated your tongue deliciously, and it awakened all of your senses in the best way possible. The minutes seemed to tick by, as you began to make notes based on Hyunjin’s research from his notebook, turning away from the paper and typing into the Word document that you had started for the project.

Faintly, in the back of your mind, you could hear Hyunjin’s soft inhales and exhales, as he focused on his research. All else was quiet in the library, what with it being completely void of life on a Monday at eleven at night. You could distinctly pick out the sounds of rainfall pitter-pattering just outside the large window behind Hyunjin’s seat, as the night drew on in a heavy mist of dew and moisture.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

Hyunjin’s words were faint and broke you out of your daze of thought. You had been frantically writing down some of your critiques about Ophelia as a character, and your head shot up from your computer to catch a glimpse of him staring back at you.

You didn’t know how long he had been like that, sitting back in his chair, long, raven hair a wavy mess around his face and eyes a little bleary from a mixture of sheer exhaustion and that… darkness that you could never quite pinpoint. You had only ever seen him direct such swarthy looks at you, and that fact disheartened you a lot.

“I think the real question you should be asking is what’s not to hate about you.” You deadpanned, giving him a deep frown as you poked your lollipop into the corner of one of your cheeks, tucking it away for the moment.

Folding his arms across his chest in that abrasive way that he always did around you, he tilted his head to the side with a raised eyebrow. “Okay, spill the tea.”

Taking in a deep breath to stave off your rising nerves and irritation with the man before you, you carded a few fingers through your hair. “To start with, you’re a complete and total asshole.”

“I think we’ve already touched on this point by now.”

His retort left you to stare daggers into his eyes, wishing someone would just come up behind him and slit his throat because you sure did want to at that moment. But you also supposed that the Dean of the university wouldn’t take a liking to you murdering his son.

“Secondly, you’re always stuck up and hard-headed and annoying and… and immature.”

Hyunjin blew out a deep, long whisper. “Damn, spare my ego some, will ya?”

But you weren’t planning on stopping anytime soon. He had started the engine of the train, and now you were rolling down the tracks of sheer rising anger and all of the pent-up rage that you had felt towards him for the past three years. “And you’re right okay? I am fucking jealous. I’m so jealous of you that I can’t breathe sometimes— you haven’t had to work a day in your life for your position, yet I’ve had to scrape by on my hands and knees, clawing— begging at life to grant me just one fucking break.” You weren't even yelling. Instead, the words just come out hushed and all too grave.

Like, if anyone else but him heard them, you’d crumble into a pile of ash and disintegrate into thin air, never to be seen again. Because it was fucking embarrassing, to be so affected by him still, even after all of these years.

He stayed silent, watching as you flayed your hands around in the air in your exasperation. You were fed up with your life and the hold that he had over it. You were finally at your breaking point and you had had enough.

And you think that at that moment, he had also seen and acknowledged that, staying silent to let all of the words spew out of you like an erupting volcano that had been bound to blow from the very start.

“But you? You get everything handed to you on a pretty, silver platter because your daddy is wealthy and you're drop-dead gorgeous and practically have the brain of a neuroscientist. Meanwhile, I was raised by a poor single mother in the slums of Seoul and the only way I got into this university in the first place is because I busted my ass throughout middle and high school to earn the top student’s place,” you pointed a finger between the two of you. Almost like, the tip of it was sharp enough, you could cut right through him. Blade tearing through sinew and flesh and bones. “And then you dare to come around these parts, acting like you own everything, trying to put me in my place. When in reality, you’re the one that needs to be put in your place. Someone needs to knock you down a few pegs, and I’ve always thought… why not me?”

For a moment, nothing else happens after that.

And irrationally, you’re suddenly afraid of him.

Of what he might do — what he might say and to whom — with this newfound information about you.

Hardly anyone at school knew about your personal life and struggles. You tended to stay to yourself and instead focus on your studies instead of going out to late-night parties or hitting up the local clubs. And you were an extremely private person, to begin with. You saw no point in pouring out your life's sob story to people you would never see again after four years.

But all at once, you wondered if Hwang Hyunjin was a dangerous man.

If he was someone who would use your personal information against you.

And if the last three years were anything to go off of, you wouldn’t put it past him.

“Fuck— I shouldn’t have said all of that,” you grumbled, jamming your fingers into your eye sockets and scrubbing at your lids. “Just… forget all of this, yeah? Forget I said anything.” Then you were standing up from your seat for the second time that night, heart leaping in the pit of your chest as you once again gathered your things into your bag. “It’s late anyways. I should head home and keep studying for my other classes. We can meet up some other time for this, it’s not due til, what… Sunday? That gives us plenty of—”

“Y/N.” Just like before, the sound of your name on his tongue caused you to pause entirely, limbs halting their movement of shoving your computer into your bag. “Just— shut up, yeah?” His voice came out softer than you expected it would, forcing a shiver down the length of your spine.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what?”

“Y/N.”

“Why, because it makes you feel things?” He asked in a gravelly voice. You were avoiding even looking at him at that moment, hands a little shaky as you anxiously started to suck on your lollipop again, rolling it around in the corner of your cheek. “What are you so afraid of?”

“You, okay?! It’s always been you!” Your outburst was a lot louder than you expected it to be, ringing across the space between you and echoing in the far distance of the library’s upper-level floor.

A beat of silence lapsed between the two of you, and you trained your gaze on a corner of the room, studying the small dust bunny that stood there, completely still and lifeless. In that moment, you could relate to it quite a bit. Lost and confused. Wanting to move away, but not being able to for some weird reason.

Hyunjin’s old wooden settee creaked in the silence, as he shifted in his position. “To be honest, I’m scared of you too.” And just like that, your head was snapping his way and your eyes were widening in surprise. “For one, I’m scared of that stupid thing.” With his dark eyes, he motioned towards your mouth. To the lollipop that you were dutifully sucking on, in and out, in and out. You stopped altogether when you realized why he had been so quiet during your studying session. He hadn’t been studying — he had been focusing on you, on the candy in your mouth. Feeling self-conscious about it, you took it out of your mouth and laid it down on the table. “And I’m scared of how you make me feel— crazed out of my mind, all of the time. Like a sick fucking plague, you inhabit my everything… from the moment I wake to the moment I ease, you’re all I can think about, all I can dream about. And I hate it so fucking much that it kills me a little bit more every single day.”

“Hyunjin, I—”

His eyes nearly rolled into the back of his skull, head tipping back in delight as his lips parted just slightly. “Yes— fuck, say it again.”

“Say… what?”

“You know.”

Heart leaping wildly in your throat, and broken butterflies waning in the depths of your stomach, your mouth was moving on its own accord. “Hyunjin.”

Like a trigger being pulled back from a gun and flitting the weapon into action, the bullet was shot across the distance between the two of you. And the bullet was your words — you calling out his name.

In an instant, he was a flurry of motion before you. All designer clothes soaked from rainwater and long, wavy hair that still had droplets of water at the tips. He was a flash of milky skin hidden underneath a sheer, wet button-down. The faint, waning moonlight shining through the window pane cast an ominous, angelic-like halo around his tall, built frame.

And by the time you could breathe again, he had you exactly where he wanted you. Pinned up against the nearest tall bookshelf that reached up into the height of the library's ceiling. One strong hand pinning your two hands against the wood above your head, while the other was positioned just unearth your chin, holding your jaw bone and stroking the flesh there with a gentle thumb.

“Now tell me you feel nothing at all, tell me you fucking hate me with your entire being, that you’ll always hate me, and that you think I’m a deprived cunt who needs to be murdered ruthlessly in front of everyone I love.” His words were hushed, their meaning brutal. His face was so close to yours, that you could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke. Leaning into you, he drove his middle a little closer to the part of your legs.

Breath catching painfully between your windpipes and the lump in your throat, you stared up at him with blurry vision. Your attention was growing fuzzy at the edges, as you could do nothing more but hone in on… him. Subconsciously, you could feel the mango sweetness of your lollipop coating your tongue again and again as you swallowed.

“I—I hate you so fucking much, Hwang Hyunjin.”

He pressed into you a little further, breathing in your scent and closing his eyes as his head tipped close to one part of your neck. Mouth hovering over the shell of your ear, he whispered, “Say it again, sweetheart, with a little more passion this time.”

“I… I hate you so much, I can’t function with the thought of you existing in the same lifetime as me.”

You felt him moving against you then, hand moving away from your jaw and coming around one of your hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your black sweatpants. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, sweetheart…” He started, mouth hovering over that space just behind your ear, warm breath fanning against your exposed gooseflesh there. “I won’t hurt you— it was never my intention in the first place. It was… just a fun game to me, to toy around with you. But I never wanted to actually fucking hurt you.”

You could feel your mind and heart racing in tandem, going a mile a minute, as you took in all of his words. Because what, the actual fuck? What was he saying? And why was he saying it? And why did you feel yourself crumbling from it all, your resolve breaking down into dust and getting whisked away to the future of Neverland?

“I never meant to make you cry,” He said slowly, pulling away from your face just a tiny bit to gauge your reaction to his confession. You gaped up at him, completely speechless in your unadulterated wonder. “Sure, I wanted to make you cry— but not in the cruel kind of way… not in the way that most people would like to do.”

His insinuation, his innuendo there, jumbled something around deep inside of your spirit. And you could practically feel your knees buckling underneath you from the reality of it all. From the fact that he was never truly set out to cause you permanent damage. And so far, he hadn’t. All he had done was make an ass out of himself and be a continual thorn in your side. But he wasn’t necessarily entirely cruel, and you never truly suspected that he’d do something catastrophically damaging.

“But all you have to do is tell me— tell me you never thought about me or dreamed about me or wondered about me, and I’ll be gone forever. You’ll never hear, or see me again. It’ll be like I never existed in the first place and I—”

“I can’t fathom a life without you in it,” you suddenly blurted out, already feeling the hint of crimson blooming beneath your cheeks and at the tip of your nose. You peered up at him, staring into those depthless, chocolate-brown eyes, reading the dancing emotions there. “Sure, I might despise your guts at times, but… I also think you’re a pretty amazing guy. And… I have to admit that sometimes, I do think about you when I’m alone, at night, and laying in my bed.”

His hand clutched a little tighter at your hip then, his fingers intertwining with yours and continuing to hoist your arms up and above your head. “Oh yeah? What do you imagine when you think about me so late into the night?” He rasped out, the sound of his voice grating against your ears and sending flames to burst across the entirety of your veins.

“Your face, mostly— how your lips would feel and how you’d taste and what you’d sound like if—”

After that, you didn’t even get the chance to finish your sentence.

He was honing in on you like a vulture to its prey, moving with such swiftness — like a phantom in the night, like a monster hidden underneath the bed, like a selkie in the depths of the ocean.

As it turns you, your dreams about him were accurate.

Because his plush lips did feel like pure heaven.

They pushed against yours, his mouth fitting atop yours like something that was carved into the universe — something that was almost meant to be. He was devouring you whole — heart and mind and soul and body.

And with each press of his silky lips, you fell down the hole of darkness and heat just a little bit more. Then the tip of his tongue was poking out and tracing the line of your mouth and you fell into him, fingers clawing at his that still had your arms held up high above your head, desperately searching for purchase as your legs threatened to give out underneath you.

When his tongue plowed into the small part between your lips, you let out a breathless moan. The kind that had been hidden deep, buried, and un-satiated for so fucking long. By the time he was tasting you, his hands had released your arms and you were scrambling for something to hold. Desperately, in your haste of arousal and temptation, you were clutching at the cool, wet fabric of his cream-colored button-down, holding on for dear life as his hands tightened around your waist and hoisted you up against the bookshelf further.

Your spine crammed into the wooden shelves there, as you wrapped your legs around his torso, yanking him closer with each passioned kiss that he gave you. Again and again, he drew those same, sinful sounds out of you. Just like all of the times before, he was playing a sick kind of game with you. But this time, it wasn’t all that bad. This time, you were quite enjoying yourself.

As your parted legs held his hips close to your frame, you could feel the hardness there, in the center of him. Just aching to be released. And suddenly, you came to terms with the fact that the wetness between your legs was rapidly growing with each kiss that he gave you.

He sucked on your lips like they were his lifeline — and you wondered, in that moment, how he’d treat the rest of you — how much attention he’d offer the rest of your body.

“J-Jin, I—” The shortened nickname slipped out between your lips when the two of you parted to catch your breaths. And when you noticed his swollen mouth, you were almost positive that yours looked just as bad, if not worse.

“What, baby doll?” He hummed, mouth moving away from yours entirely and coming close to the line of your jaw. You blushed wildly at the pet name, liking the way it sounded in his silky voice. He moved aside the thick fabric of your violet-colored knit turtleneck with his nose, lips attaching to the skin of your neck and suckling like a vampire drunken on the crimson of his lover. “What is it that you need right now?”

Your hands were scrambling for him, finding purchase in his dark roots and pulling just a tad bit there. The abuse to his scalp made him hiss out, warm breath painting across the heated flesh of the column of your neck brilliantly. “N—Need you t—to—” But your words were cut short by the way one of his hands was moving away from your waist, traveling under the hemline of your sweater, a long, nimble finger dancing across your belly button and rising to the center of your stomach.

“You need me, hmm?” He mused lowly, mouth having journeyed down to the skin closest to your clavicle, leaving violet-hued marks that would surely survive into the next few days. “Need me to fuck you, right? Need me to take you so irrevocably well right here and right now… can’t wait any longer, yeah?” As he spoke the words into existence, his naughty hand was already finding its way toward the lace of your bralette, skirting across its edges. Then, a single finger dipped underneath the elastic there, skirting up the length of your breast until it was resting against your pebbled nub. “Such a naughty little thing… who knew that the university’s prodigy just needed a good fucking, huh? That all she wanted was to get fucked open against the library bookshelves.”

You were gasping out in pure bliss, fingers digging in a little harder into his long wisps of hair as his hands began to explore your chest. Brushing, twisting, pulling. Then doing it all over again with the other mound. “Y—Yeah,” you managed to spit out, trembling underneath him, legs wounding tighter around his waist, bringing him ever closer. “Can you do that… fuck me? I need it so bad right now, I can’t handle it if you just leave me like this…” You were practically begging out the words, so desperate in your pleas that you were almost certain your groveling was boosting his already inflated ego.

“I only fuck good girls. Girls who don’t call me an asshole and don’t say they hate me.”

At that, your eyes were tearing open in a mix of surprise and despair. But the way that his hand didn’t stop touching your breasts, still playing with them, told you everything you needed to know at that moment.

You wiggled your hips slowly, grinding into the hardness between his dark-washed jeans. “Stop touching me then— stop kissing me and stop looking at me,” you began, taunting him with your movements and the way that you spoke in a velvety tone, all soft and delicate and innocent. When what the two of you were doing was anything but innocent. “But you can’t, right? Can’t get the thought of me out of your head— of what this pussy would feel like clenched around your cock, squeezing you for dear life as you fuck into me for the hundredth time in a single day—”

He was cutting off your words with his quick hands, shedding off your sweater and bralette in one go. Then he was bending down slowly, hands coming up to cup your chest. He stared up at you from his crouched position, watching the feelings rove across your face as he blew hot hair against one of your nipples.

“Just fucking shut up already bitch,” he said in a low grumble, as his hand came over your tit, mouth melding onto the warm skin there effortlessly. His other hand was busy playing with your neglected breast, squeezing there a little bit harder when his teeth grazed one of your nipples, tongue lapping at the bud. “You’re only to speak when spoken to, you understand me?” He asked, pulling away from your breast and making a crude, wet sucking noise as he did so.

Glaring down at him through lust-filled eyes, you sneered his way. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, asshole.” Hands gripping onto his hair a little bit, you pushed his face closer to your chest as he began to work on your other breast, leaving a ring of wetness as he went. “And don’t call me bitch.”

You could feel him smirk against your skin, his low chuckle vibrating against your gooseflesh and sending ripples of energy to course through your veins. “Mhm— why not? Your pussy sure seems to love the name.” He mused sadistically, completely unlatching from your breast, hands finding their way back at your hips.

“What are you even talk—”

But he didn’t leave any more room for questions, one hand ripping away from your waist and covering your covered centre. “This, right here,” he said in a low whisper, fingers cupping your warmth there, and you could practically feel the essence dripping out of you, just behind your thin panties and sweatpants. “Bet you’ll get even more soaked when I call you it again.”

“You know nothing about me.” The words came out garbled and wobbly, as he maneuvered your sweatpants down and off of your legs entirely. “Y—You don’t know my body.”

He threw you a sardonic kind of smile, leaning into the side of you, lips caressing the shell of your ear as he spoke in soft tones. “Yeah, but I’ve done a hell of a lot of observing over the years…” At his words, you could feel his hand nearing your middle again, and you involuntarily parted your legs in want.

When his fingers came in contact with the lace of your panties, you had to pull out your biggest bout of self-control to hold in the moan that wanted to escape from you. His movements were expert level, as he pushed the fabric off to the side, running a single finger up your lips, feeling for that small spot at the very top. Circling his thumb around there, his other fingers worked at your entrance, and before you knew it, he was pressing two long digits into you.

“F—Fuck—“ You groaned at the feeling of it all, falling into him and clawing at his shoulders that were still covered in that damp button-up shirt. “Hyunjin.” You were moaning out his name before you even realized it, hips jutting up slowly against his hand, your head getting thrown back as his fingers searched and found that warm, gooey spot deep inside of you.

“See? I know exactly what the fuck I’m doing,” he muttered, lips coming around the side of your neck and suckling violet marks into the skin there. “So be a good bitch and shut up for me, yeah? Take it like a good girl— like the good whore that I know you are.”

You couldn’t even protest against him using the name again, because, in all honesty, you did like it. It felt dirty and wrong but so very fucking right at the same time. It caused your walls to spasm against the three fingers he had stuck inside of you, as he pumped in and out with a rabid kind of pace. The sound of his movements forced shivers down the length of your spine, as his thumb pressed into your clit a little more.

“Y—You gotta fuck me now, Jin—” You mumbled, already reaching the edge of orgasm from the way that he was steadily working you up with his hand alone. Half of his fingers were buried deep inside of you and the others were desperately clutching at your hip bone to bring you closer to him. The sounds he was pulling from you, both wetness and moans of pleasure, were other-worldly. “N—Need to feel your cock inside of me, right fucking now.”

In your daze of lust, you found yourself clasping at the buttons of his shirt, quickly undoing them and sliding his damp shirt off of his frame. What lay underneath was a chiseled chest — a muscular abdomen, biceps that rippled with each breath he took, and a dark trail that led towards his dick. You ran your fingers down the milky expanse of his chest, marveling at how soft and chiseled everything felt.

Sighing out quietly, you stared up at him with pleading eyes. “You’re so fucking hot… always knew you would be.” That made Hyunjin smirk with satisfaction, as he tipped into you for a breathless kiss.

While his lips captured your own, you could feel his hands working at your panties, sliding them off your legs and leaving you completely bare. Then you heard the clanking noise of a belt coming undone, as he unmistakably rid himself of his pants and boxers.

Then he was parting from your mouth, focus turned down to where the centers of your bodies met together. Your mouth fell open at the sight of… him. All seven-and-a-half inches, long shaft curving upward in arousal and precum leaking out of the pretty red tip. A single vein ran down the side, bulging from his unchecked want.

“Need you to be nice and loud for me, yeah?” He growled in that low tone of his, as he guided himself near your entrance. “Let the entire school know who you belong to— scream my name, bitch, and tell everyone who fucking owns you.”

His words jumbled around inside of your mind, making you feel lightheaded as he slowly began to slide into you. You widened your legs a little bit for him, wrapping them around his waist as he quickly bottomed out. The stretch was only slight and left you hissing with relief when he was fit into you at the hilt.

Without any warning, he was sliding out almost completely, before thrusting back in, hitting into you so roughly, that your spine jammed into the wooden bookshelf at your back. And just like that, he was setting a hellish pace. One that was sure to make you crumble before him — fall apart at the seams.

“Mhm— fuck!” You screamed out in a guttural voice, throwing your head back against the bookshelf desperately as his hips snapped against yours feverishly. You were gripping onto his shoulders so hard, running your nails down his back, that you were sure you’d leave red marks later. “Holy shit- feels so good!”

One of Hyunjin’s hands traveled away from your waist, long, nimble fingers digging into your scalp, yanking at the hair there. “Louder, bitch— take it all like the filthy slut that you are.” He shouted, voice coming out raspy as he pounded into you roughly.

In the very back of your mind, you distinctly heard the pitter-patter of rainfall against the nearby windowpane mixing in with the sounds of the two of you — skin slapping against skin and wetness squelching. It was straight out of a porno and made your head swim with so many dirty thoughts. Breath catching in the center of your throat, you found your lips opening up and releasing a blood-curdling cry of pleasure.

Your noises of ecstasy seemed to compel Hyunjin forward with drive, as he rutted into you in a manic kind of way, thumb tracing figure-eight symbols into your inflamed clit. Almost like, if he didn’t get it out of his system, he’d never be able to live afterward — wouldn’t be able to breathe or think or speak. The tip of him hit up into that warm spot inside of you, and you clenched a little harder around this throbbing cock every time he teased you right there.

“Fuck— I can’t… I’m gonna…” You groaned out loudly. Your eyes flittered into the back of your skull from the way that he pulled at your hair at the same time that he fucked up into you.

Hyunjin grunted out lowly, hips snapping against yours with each thrust. “J—Just a little farther, doll face…” From the way that his domineering tone was slipping away, you could tell that he was also creeping near the edge of release.

You could feel the slip and slide between your legs, your essence coating every surface of your inner thighs and making everything feel silky and smooth. The intensity of his movements slowed down somewhat, the frenzy of his rocking leveling out as he chased your guys’ highs.

“Yes… right there!” You mewled out breathlessly just as the tip of him hit so far into you, that entire galaxies were cast against the expanse of your closed eyes. Your cheeks felt like they were on fire — the flush creeping down the column of your purple-marked neck and into the depths of your soul as he continued to circle your bundle of nerves.

Walls clenching around his cock that was buried deep inside of your warmth, you could feel the moment Hyunjin found that blissful space of his release. “I’m gonna come— fuck—” He rasped out, his voice on the quiet side as he lost all semblance of control.

Hips stuttering against yours, he made to pull out of you completely. But you found yourself shaking your head, eyes shooting open, and giving him a serious frown. “N—No… want you to… come inside…” Your head was empty of all thoughts, as you could do nothing more but focus on the way that he felt so close to you - so far deep inside.

At that, Hyunjin was offering you a tiny, satisfied grin. Then he was seizing up inside of you, cock stretching against your walls as he met his high. It overtook his entire system, overruling all other obstacles and forcing his head backward in pure, orgasmic bliss. The prettiest sounds fell from his plump, crimson, kiss-swollen lips, as he let himself slip down the cliff with ease.

The feeling of his release painting your walls in warm whiteness caused your entire body to convulse with pleasure, as you finally found your high. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced before… perfect and whole and so fucking hot. Bursts of rose and topaz and turquoise splashed across the inner workings of your mind, as your insides fluttered around Hyunjin’s cock that fit perfectly between your legs.

“Holy shit, that was…” You said breathlessly after you had begun to come down from your high. Cracking your eyes open you noticed the darkness still there in Hyunjin’s gaze, and the way that his eyes slit shut with want. The sound of the rain outside lulled your mind into a perfect state of peaceful limbo. “What?” You asked, raising an eyebrow his way in question. “What is it?”

He shrugged slowly, eyes coming away from your connected middles and locking with yours. “Nothing, just… I can’t fucking believe you just let me cum inside of you— with no protection.”

You could feel his cock softening inside of you, and finally, your legs stopped shaking around his waist. “Why? You don’t like the idea of that?” Beginning to pull away from him, you tried to yank as far away from his cock as you could. “If you didn’t like it, you should’ve—”

Hyunjin’s mouth was coming onto you in the next beat, capturing your lips up into a heated kiss, stealing the labored breath right from your lungs and sucking on your puffy bottom lip. “Just shut the fuck up, alright. I fucking loved it… it was so hot— you’re so hot. Makes me wanna come in you every single day.” You could feel him move between your legs then, as he began to fuck his seed back into your aching walls. In the back of your mind, you could feel his hand lazily working at you, pushing a single digit back into your entrance between his cock, thrusting in the cum that was splattered across your thighs.

Groaning out softly at his words, you placed your hands on his bare chest and pushed a little bit so that you could get a look at his face again. It was filled with so much lust and want and adoration, the sight of it all almost overwhelmed you entirely. “Well, I suppose I could allow that…” Your voice trailed off, as you dragged a single finger up the center of his chest and towards the sharp line of his jaw. “If it’s with you— then yeah, you can fuck me raw every day.”

Hyunjin let out a low noise, which sounded like a mix between a moan and a cry for help. “But we can’t, baby doll— it wouldn’t be smart and I’d never want to put you in any kind of uncomfortable position.”

You found yourself shrugging off his concerns nonchalantly, as you drove your hips a little forward, meeting his shallow strokes. You loved the feeling there, of wetness and silky essence. “Yeah, but… the good thing is, at least we’d know who the father is.”

At that, he was flashing you a wicked smirk, pearly white glinting against puffy, red lips. His tiny smile was the last thing you saw before he was tipping into you and fitting his mouth around yours again. “Oh, you devilish little minx… I think I’ll keep you for a very long time.”

In the back of your mind, you could feel him moving against you, cock already stiffening again just from your words and insinuations alone. But at that moment, you weren’t too worried about what he planned to do with you for the rest of the night. Because right then, all you wanted to focus on was his face, and the way he let you ring your arms around his neck, pulling at the hair at his nape as he pressed kiss after impassioned kiss to your mouth.

It turns out that your roommate Felix had been right after all. In the end, working with Hwang Hyunjin hadn’t been that horrible.

It had been quite… nice.

Despite all of the bickering and shouting.

After a while, the rough bumps and edges of your rocky relationship seemed to mellow out between the tall bookshelves of the library. And before you knew it- he had you completely bending at his will — practically groveling at his feet for his love, attention, and care.

In the end, you supposed that that’s what you had always wanted from each other, and that’s why you had been so horrible to one another. If you couldn’t garner each other’s attention with regular conversations and friendship, the next best thing was to be rivals in your academics and throw insults at every opportunity you were offered.

But the thing about trying to hate Hwang Hyunjin — trying to hate such a smart, caring, passionate man — is that eventually, one’s willpower always breaks down, and they’re left in a pile of mess and limbs as they search out his affection.

Fin.

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