#this was the only one i had a very clear idea for what i wanted

[woollypoison]

Spiral

male reader x Giselle a/n: spoilers, but this story contains topics such as death and grief. Word count: 19k

You owe your life to Giselle. This is not an exaggeration. This is also not a metaphor. This is not even some poetic way she saved you—though it will end up that way too. No, this is fact.

-

There’s a loud, wet plop that reverberates from your attic bedroom, to the stairs below it, into the kitchen and finally stops near the front door as Giselle releases the head of your cock from her plump and peach colored lips, her cheeks hollowed out to make the noise reach every corner of the house it previously was never allowed to.

“I��ve always wanted to try that,“ Giselle giggles, her bright pink hair falling over one eye as she tilts and looks up at you with a gaze that claims this was somehow the most important task at hand and she just had an obligation to find out. It wasn't and she didn't.

If the promise you made was anything to go by, that honor would be bestowed upon studying for your midterms. And if it makes any difference, you did study at first, you really did. It started with you on your bed, reviewing your notes in between peeks at your girlfriend. Giselle at her desk—your desk, actually, but when she was here, it was hers, like everything you owned—lazily swiping a highlighter across her paper, making it very clear she had no interest at all in the economy of post-war Europe.

In your defense, you were still just on your bed. It was Giselle who was now lying between your legs, her hand softly clamping the base of your cock, resting her cheek against the inside of your thigh, looking up at you like you are the most interesting thing in the world.

You’re not.

You’re just some guy who told his parents he couldn’t come along on the Disneyland trip because he had to study. “You’re staring.” She interrupts your self-indulgent train of thought.

“I was just thinking about how I gave up Disneyland for this.”

She raises her eyebrows, feigned shock playing at her face before she stifles a grin you can’t help but catch. “Wow,” she lilts through a chuckle. Giselle has this way of making her eyes bigger than what you could possibly take in, and her mouth small and pouty which conjured a magnetic attraction that kept pulling you towards her in a way none of your physics books could explain whenever she was acting mock-offended. Mock-wounded, even.

A small gap between her lips allows hot breath to escape and hit you where it burns, and she has the audacity to let the grip she’s maintained on you soften, those eyes professing innocence and claiming she’s not currently casting a spell on you from which there is no escape.

“You gave up Disneyland for this?” she repeats, and her voice is all incredulous scandal and disbelief, making her out to be some second-rate plastic junk prize at a carnival and not the single greatest thing to ever happen to you.

You sigh, succumbing to her spell with an arm over your eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly why I stayed. It was your idea in the first place.”

“Oh, I know why you stayed,” she purrs, the weight of her chin pressing into your thigh as she makes herself comfortable, her soft hand squeezing a little tighter and then not anymore, “but I still want to hear you say it.”

“Do you?”

Her grip tightens, your life in her hands.

Your breath catches.

She smiles.

“Please?”

Fucking hell.

Your head drops back against the aptly named headboard, your eyes open peering at the love of your life from a tiny gap beneath your arm. “Because you’re here, and we can be as loud as we want.”

She hums, pleased, pressing a kiss against the very tip of your dick. “Good answer.”

She’s keeping you upright, slow kisses trailing their way down your shaft before you break the spell and foolishly interrupt her. “I still don’t get why you’d even pretend to be shocked.”

“Because it’s Disneyland.” she says in between kisses, like that explains anything. It only raises more questions she’s already giving an answer too, slowing the pace of your pleasure, which you now realise was a stupid mistake. “It’s Mickey Mouse, overpriced churros, dry turkey legs, pirates and ghosts and superheroes and some dumb mountain that everyone pretends is a real landmark.”

With a raised brow, “Space Mountain?”

“Splash Mountain.”

You snort. Admittedly, you wanted to be moaning (as loud as you want, mind you) right now, but this was your own doing and you might as well make the most out of it. “They closed it.”

Giselle gasps, not a shred of feign in her shock, genuinely scandalized, and for a moment, you forget she still has a hand wrapped tightly around your cock.

…Almost.

Because now she’s sitting up, straddling your thighs, planting her hands on your chest like she’s rock climbing and you’re her anchor, staring down at you with nothing short of betrayal in her eyes.

“They fucking what?”

“Yeah, they closed it,” you repeat, trying very, very hard to not be distracted by the fact that she’s fully naked, fully on top of you, and somehow infinitely more interested in Disneyland’s performative politics than your dick.

“For what?” she demands out of you, her nails digging into your flesh as if you made the call.

You laugh, partly because you can’t believe that it was Splash Mountain that cockblocked you, and partly because you’re helpless to do anything else in front of her. “I’m not sure, I think it was something about racism—”

“Oh, so now they care—”

See, when she’s getting all huffy and puffy, there is something about her waist that suddenly becomes irresistibly grabbable. So you do, and you flip her back onto the bed, changing places and slotting your head between her thighs, effectively shutting her up.

Or at least, for a second.

But Giselle is nothing if not a menace, and she immediately recovers, her hands finding their rightful place in your hair, her thighs pressing into your shoulders as she whispers “Does this mean we’re making our own splash mountain?”

This deserves a groan. “That is literally the worst thing you’ve ever fucking said.”

But you’re still beneath her, staring at her face—a little upset you’re not fucking it but more than happy to let her fuck yours—and when her tongue slightly protrudes between her lips, licking the top first and then the bottom with her eyes fluttering as if they’re spelling the Morse code for “Fuck me,” you can’t help but indulge.

You plant exactly one soft kiss on the inside of her thigh, no more and no less. Her whole body twitches under the contact.

Giselle is beaming.

It’s not the previously worn grin, not the giggly, mischievous, I-just-did-something-chaotic smile. No, this one is worse. This one is far, far worse for you. It’s all teeth, all dimples, all radiant, glowing, pure lovesick joy. It's hard to find a word other than the given, irresistible.

You’ve barely done anything yet, but her eyes are already glassy, her breaths loud and rhythmic, and she’s looking at you with so much goddamn love that it feels like standing too close to the fucking sun. And you give her the same look back, because how could you not?

“I can’t believe you,” she sighs, dreamy, high off of nothing but you.

She’s all yours, bucking her hips into you, surrendering to your touch. You just tighten your grip on her waist, locking her down. “I haven’t even done anything yet?”

“Oh, you know what you’re doing,” she accuses, and she meant to sound annoyed, but her breath halts and hitches halfway through her emphasis on the ‘know’, betraying her, because the truth is that she doesn’t mind at all. The beautiful truth is that she’s hopeless about you, and she knows you know it.

You can’t help it— her grin is infectious, and suddenly you’re beaming too. It’s true what they say about becoming more like each other once you love someone. With that pure lovesick joy, you lean down, letting your tongue barely graze her slit as it finds its mark. You place it right under her clit, and give one brazen swipe upwards before you pull back, making her whine—actually, physically whine—and the sound goes straight to your head like the cheap liquor you are bound to steal from your parents cabinet.

“I’ve always wanted to try that,” you speak softly, throwing her own words back at her, hot breath crashing into Giselle’s sensitivity causing her thighs to tense up against you.

She groans, she tugs on your hair—a punishment you know you deserve—and this time around, succeeds in addressing you as the most annoying person on planet Earth. “Oh my god, I hate you,” she grunts, pushing her hips up against your mouth like punctuation. 

“No, you don’t,” you say, without a shred of doubt, tightening your grip on her hips, keeping her exactly where you want her.

Before giving her another chance at a comeback, you dive back in, a lot less reserved this time, planting a slow kiss against her folds.

“No,” she agrees, her nails scraping against your scalp as they curl in your hair, tugging your closer. “I really, really don’t.”

Your tongue responded instinctively to her admission, flattening against her slick folds, slow strokes highlighting every sensitive treasure spot like it's your first time discovering her.

Giselle is intoxicating. A drug that dissolves on your tongue, a spell too sweet to break, a firework that you can’t tear your eyes away from. Her sweaty scent fogs up your head, her taste coating your tongue and lingering there, her hands clutching at you tighter in response to every filthy thing you do to her. Every sound, every twitch, every one of your senses—overwhelmed. She’s got you, and fuck, you’re letting her have you too.

You should be used to her by now. Built up some kind of immunity. But when you sink two fingers inside her dripping cunt, feel her slick against your knuckles, curling up against that perfect spot, and she moans your name—loud, like never before, unmuffled and unrestrained—it's the only sound that makes sense to you anymore.

You freeze.

It’s not hesitation—it’s pure awe.

Her voice is still dancing in your ears, unfiltered and full of affection, louder than either of you had ever allowed before. So used to stifling it with your hands or less savory appendages, but now basking in its unadulterated echoes. And fuck, it’s beautiful.

“Why’d you stop?” Giselle demands, as though you just committed a cardinal sin. You might as well have. Her fingers tangling into your hair, unrelenting, not yanking or guiding—staking her claim on you.

You blink, and you take it all in. Her cheeks, rosy from the blush. Her lips, peach colored and smeared from kissing your cock. Her pupils, wide and hungry, reflect the only thing she wants—you. Everything about her is so fucking beautiful it makes you sick.

“I just wanted to take a moment and appreciate the sounds you’re making.” You murmur, and smirk at the edge of your lips, much to her annoyance.

Her breath halts. Her gaze drops, and then— a scoff. That signature scoff of hers, the one she throws out so nonchalantly when she’s trying to pretend she’s not affected. She clearly is.

“Then you better start working that tongue again before I go mute,” she quips, but the rolling of her hips betrays her. It’s rhythmic, it’s needy, and it’s honest.

With a raised, cocky eyebrow. “Right, that’s why you’re still moving your hips like you’re begging for me to fuck my fingers deeper into you.”

Giselle doesn’t hesitate. She barely ever does. “I don’t beg.”

She’s a wonderful girlfriend, but a terrible liar.

“You do when I make you.”

And right when she’s about to throw something back—something sharp, something clever, something quintessentially Giselle—

Your tongue is on her again. Slow, hooking under her swollen clit, flicking up, before your lips seal around her.

It was that easy. The oncoming verbal onslaught? Gone. The battle of wits? Over.

She gasps—the sound ripping out of her like she wasn’t prepared for it. Her back arches off of the bed, forming a bridge to some goddamn nirvana.

She always has something to say. Something that dares you to keep up. But throughout it all, you love her voice the most when she has nothing at all—when the only thing she can say is your fucking name.

And so you drag it out of her, because fuck, you need to hear that again.

Your fingers fuck into her harder, curling just right, twisting, spreading, relentless. But your tongue? Slow. Cruel. Featherlight flicks. Teasing. Deliberate. The contradiction drives her insane. She chokes on a sound—somewhere between a moan and what she’d never admit is begging—and the way it breaks halfway through makes your cock ache.

“Don’t—” she heaves, pitch rising as she confuses how to beg with how to demand.

She swallows. Tries again.

“Don’t you fucking stop.”

There’s no way you could. Not even when she starts babbling—half words, half nonsense, another half your name, and all desperate for release. Not even when her thighs are quaking, trembling into the side of your head. Not even when her hands have abandoned your hair in favor of gripping the bed sheets, pulling like she means to tear, when her whole body arches off the bed as if trying to ascend towards the pleasure as she chases it.

You feel it.

She’s so fucking close.

It’s in the way she trembles like her legs will give out and the way her thighs clamp tight around your head. Her whole body claiming you in a desperate display of want.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—” Her voice is all throaty, breathless desperation. "Don't stop. Don’t fucking stop—”

Your fingers drive into her harder, curling inside before pulling back out—”come on, baby, fall for me”—while your tongue twists around her clit, making her spiral out of control.

And she can’t help jerking her hips in response, riding against your face, mindless. She needs it, and she’ll have you give it to her.

“God, you—fuck, you love this, don’t you?” she gasps, desperate laughs, almost delirious, rolling her hips down faster and harder, grinding into your tongue. “Love me—love making me lose my fucking mind on your mouth—”

Yeah. Yeah, you fucking do.

“Look at you.” She’s throbbing at this point, panting rapidly, helpless, but somehow mustering a sharp-edged bite through her heavy-lidded stare. “So fucking desperate to make me cum. You like when I scream for you, huh?”

You groan into her flesh, your response vibrating against her clit, and her volume increases, if that was even possible.

“you—oh fuck—you’re so good—so fucking good— fuck, please—please—”

She’s begging now. Even she couldn’t deny it anymore.

“Say it,” you taunt, breaking away just long enough to look up at her and make her desperate, lips drenched in her. “Tell me how bad you need it, baby.”

“I—I can’t—”

You deliver a sharp, fast stroke with your tongue, lethal precision, just to make her sob.

“Say it.”

“Fuck, I need it—need you, need your tongue, your fucking fingers…I need to cum on your fucking face—”

You bring her over the edge. A heartbeat passes. And then she shatters.

A moan? No, a cry, pours out from deep inside her, high and sharp, louder than anyone has ever screamed on actual Splash Mountain. The walls shake with it. Her hands, aimless, uncontrollable, claw at anything they’re given. Your hair, her own skin, her bedsheets—your bedsheets actually, but we’ve been over this—while her body locks up tight, shakes, then crashes down in wave after wave after fucking wave of pleasure.

And through all of the filthy fucking obscenities she’s belting out—your name.

Fucking screamed.

It travels through you like new life, straight to your cock, straight to the part of your brain that wants to fuck it out of her again.

You don’t stop. You should, but you can’t. Keep attacking her, keep pushing her through it, keep drinking her in like she’s your life support.

She twitches, tries to close her legs—too sensitive, too overwhelmed—but you grip her thighs, keep them spread, keep going, keep her yours. Keep her here.

Until she lifts your head with trembling hands.

“Too much,” she exhales, exhausted, wrecked.

You look up at her, her face half hidden under the mounds of her tits, but clear as day. She’s ruined.

Flushed from chest to cheeks, skin sparkling with sweat against the sun dripping in from the window, lips parted, swollen from biting down. Panting. Her hair’s a beautiful mess, fanned on your pillow and tangled across it, pupils blown up with pleasure.

She looks like an angel.

Like she should have a halo, but you’re just too much of a sinner to see it.

But then—she opens her eyes, lazy, dark, and dangerous, and—

Yeah. No. No halo. She’s just as much a sinner as you.

She commands you with such a soft, saccharine sound, you’ve already agreed before hearing the demands. “You’re not allowed to ever do that to anyone else.”

“As long as I have you, that can be arranged,” you smile back.

She collapses. 

The bed creaks beneath her weight, and you can feel the way her whole body unwinds in your hands, still rooted firmly just above her hips. For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of her breathing, getting slower and deeper, full of delicious content.

Giselle pushes her elbows underneath her, pushing her upwards. She hums a slow, peachy sound, as she works through her failing legs. And then, just as lazily, just as hungry—

She pushes you onto your back.

It’s not forceful. It doesn’t have to be.

You let her.

You go willingly.

And the second you hit the bed, she’s hanging over you.

She tilts her head, watching you like she’s debating her next step. Her face inches closer to your cock, her lips purse and then—

She kisses your hip bone instead.

Your breath catches. Another kiss, this time lower, but not yet where you’d die for it.

You resist the urge to buck your hips into her face. Barely, but you manage.

“You know,” she muses so sultry, tracing circles against your thighs with her thumbs. “I think I love you the most when you let me take what I want.”

Crawling over you, straddling your hips, pressing her nude, still-trembling body flush against your own. And fuck, you feel it—your heat against her heat, wetness dripping against your stomach, every inch of her soaked and sensitive and ready to devour.

But she doesn’t sink down onto you. Not yet.

Because she’s got plans for you. You made her beg, and she always returns the favor.

She whispers in your ear. “You’re shaking baby,” and you were so confident you had it under control. “You want it that bad?”

Her lips collide against yours, tongue invading your mouth, like she was hungry for a taste. Hers is like peach, and yours is like her.

When she pulls back, her smirk is heavy-lidded, predatory, wicked. A mixture of spit and her cum connects you two, growing heavy, splitting and falling on your bodies.

“My turn.”

Her hand wraps around the base of your cock. Her grip is firm, teasing, all smug satisfaction.

“You can hold out until I get to taste you, right?” She purrs, her voice dripping with playfulness.

You exhale, your eyes meeting her in a determined gaze, dragging your fingers slowly over the curvature of her hips. “You tell me.”

She hums a questioning tune, unimpressed. She takes her time to get her hand moving, stroking deliberate, unbearably slow, luring you out.

Your breath catches for a frame, and—fuck—you know she caught it.

Her lips curl. Smugness oozing off of her. “Right, I thought so.”

She leans in closer, nibbling softly on your ear, moving down, pressing a slow kiss to your throat that lingers. Then another. Working her way down, her free hand following suit over your stomach, fingers splayed and nails grazing your skin like she’s got all the time in the world to make you squirm.

You know exactly where this is going.

And so does she.

“Giselle.” Your voice is low, buckling.

She smiles against your skin, her teeth grazing your flesh, contemplating a bite. “Yes?”

You narrow your eyes, but she just blinks up at you, a quick flutter of those enchanting eyes, all innocence, like she isn’t also stroking you with a lazy, practiced, perfectly tuned in to you rhythm. Like she isn’t sinking lower and lower into depravity—right where you want her—with every passing second.

She has this glint in her eye. You know it all too well by now, she wants to be teased back, to have you push her buttons. Wants you to get impatient enough to forget how much you love her just enough to handle her a little rougher.

And you do. You let your fingers slip into her vibrantly colored hair, slow, dragging through the strands before coming together with just the slightest bit of force at the roots.

She exhales. Or rather, she pretends it’s just her exhaling.

With a soft, tiny little shudder that you most definitely felt, coupled with a moan she couldn’t help but keep in, your lips curl. “Oh?”

Giselle stops. Her fingers, mind you, still against and around your cock, her face perfectly blank, like you didn’t just catch her falling for you.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widens. “I think you just—”

She glares, her grip tightening in retaliation.

And just to shut you up, she ducks her head, dragging her tongue slow and warm from base to shaft to head of your cock, marking her territory with a line from base to tip.

All of your breath and sound tumbles out of you.

Giselle hums, smugness regained, lips glazing against the tip of your cock as she murmurs, “That’s cute.”

She wanted a little rougher out of you anyways, and you’d indulge, fingers flexing in her hair. Then—slowly, deliberately—you strengthen your grip, not enough to really hurt, but enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet your hungry gaze.

She gasps, and then her breath catches. Big eyes, asking you what you’ll do next.

You lean in, voice dripping low and quiet. “You love being my good girl, don’t you?”

And the way she shivers? Fuck.

Her lips part, her thighs squeezing together tight, but she’s too stubborn to say it outright. She won’t let up yet. Instead, she presses closer, hanging her tongue out of her mouth as she presses it against the back of your cock, breath warm and teasing, spit drops dripping down to your balls, one by one.

Your jaw clenches, as does your fist, keeping her in place.

She’s dragging this out on purpose.

You give her a quick yank back, and then push her back against your cock, and you mutter, “You know what I want, baby. Give it to me.”

Her eyes flicker. Sparkle, even.

She swallows, licks her lips, wetting them, and finally speaks softly. Her tone insinuates she already knows what your answer will be.

“Make me.”

And fuck—who could resist pushing her forward? Her mouth enveloping the head of your cock, her tongue swirling around and lapping against you. Her hand pressing down firmly against the base of your cock, and vibrations of her soft moans jolting through your dick.

She seems extra hungry today, leaning into her gagging and groaning, reveling in your fierceness, and right as you were about to test her limits even further—

The sound of metal rapidly vibrating against wood. Your phone on your nightstand. You roll your eyes, but Giselle gives you this look that you’d learned to intuit meant “It could be important?” You don’t let up on Giselle’s throat breaking previously set records, but you take a peek anyways.

It’s your aunt. She’s probably just checking up on you, something not important—not as important as fucking Giselle’s face— so you resolve you’ll call her back.

You put your phone back on your nightstand, and you heard it ring, again. 

Weird.

-

You haven’t cried yet since the news.

Giselle has barely stopped.

It’s morning—you think, it might also be noon, it’s all a blur—but the light creeping into your room unwanted through the window feels wrong. It’s too bright. Too harsh. Like it should’ve dimmed out of respect.

Your phone still lies on your nightstand where you put it yesterday, face down. Turning it over would mean seeing the missed calls, seeing the texts piling up. You can’t touch it. Just keep staring at it like that might change what’s already happened. Like that might stop the jumbled mess of words your brain can still remember, in your aunt’s voice looping over and over in your head, buried in sorrow, barely making sense through the sobs. “A drunk driver—”

“I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“All—All passed away.”

And a thought you know you shouldn’t have creeps its way in with the others.

“Stay home from the trip, I’ll make it worth your while.”

You resent her for it, if only for a split second. You can’t think like that. But if she didn’t say that, you might have prevented this somehow. Or not have to feel this pain, being with them. Another split second. 

No. 

Stop.

Where is Giselle anyways? You turn around, and her warmth is missing. She’s not lying next to you. You close your eyes. Try to suppress the thoughts. It doesn’t help.

There’s footsteps outside your door. Slow, hesitant. Followed by a knock, barely more than a tap.

“Are you awake?”

Giselle. Thank God.

You want to answer, but the lump in your throat stops you. She pushes the door open anyway. She’s a fucking mess. Bloodshot eyes with bags to accompany them, and her hair done in a messy bun, loosely pulled together. She’s wearing one of your hoodies—too big for her, sleeves dark from moisture. She looks over at you, your eyes meet, they linger for a moment, and then drop solemnly.

“I made you something to eat,” she says. It sounds hoarse and strained.

You don’t respond. You wish you could.

She’s hesitating before stepping in. Like it would mean stepping into your grief too, and she isn’t sure if you’ll let her.

But she wants to.

She approaches and sits on the edge of the bed, turning towards you and shuffling the plate your direction. Toast and eggs. It smells like food. The smell of food doesn’t smell like something you can shove down your throat right now.

“You should eat,” she tries.

You bit down on the inside of your cheeks. Stare at the plate like it’s an endless tunnel.

Her eyes can’t seem to find yours, seeking the solace of the window instead. She sniffs once, catches herself, and rubs the tip of her nose with the sleeve of your hoodie before exhaling and speaking. “Just a little, okay? Just—just a bite.”

You take the plate, not out of hunger. It’s just the least you owed her after resenting her for a split second. You break off a piece of the toast and chew. It doesn’t even taste like food, and it’s not her fault. You force yourself to swallow anyways.

She’s trying. For you.

And you hate it.

The plate in your hands is too heavy. You put it away on the nightstand, pulling your knees up to your chest and locking them in place with crossed arms. Your lips tremble against your arm, speaking into your skin. The sound is wrecked and exhausted. Fragile, like—fuck, like what? Like life? “You don’t have to be here.”

Her eyes snap to yours, wide and wet.

“Don’t,” she ekes out, her voice breaking on the first vowel. Her lips press together tightly, trembling as they seal away her words. They part slightly as she shakes her head.“Please don’t do that to me.” She sounds raw. Small. Scared of whatever you might reply with it, if you even say anything. Like she thinks she might not survive this conversation.

Maybe you won’t either.

You drag in a breath, but it’s hard. Like the air itself can feel that you don’t really want it there. Like two metal plates pushing together inside your throat, forcing everything out when it needs to go in. Your body fighting against what you’re trying to make it do, like you suddenly got rewired and need to relearn how to breathe, and it’s so fucking frustrating how even breathing requires thinking right now.

Your arms uncross, elbows against knees and hands rubbing into your face. Press the heel of your palm against your eyes until all you see is static, bursts of color mixed with black, a flickering distraction behind your lids. But it doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t shake it loose, doesn’t take away the building pressure you can feel behind your eyes.

Your family is dead.

And you’re still here.

You should say something

That you didn’t mean it. That you’re just—tired, or lost, or whatever the fuck this feeling is that’s twisting your stomach, making everything taste like nothing and the air feel impossible to muscle down. But the words don’t come, and Giselle is still looking at you like you just asked her to push a knife you held to your chest deeper to finish the job.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of her hoodie—your hoodie, but who fucking cares at this point? You remember her saying she loved it, months ago, attributing it to how it smelled like you.

Now it probably just smells like salt.

“I wasn’t with them.”

Giselle stiffens.

The weight of what you just let out settles between you both. It’s thick, suffocating, harsh and pressing down on your ribs.

It’s impossible to look at her now.

There’s a breath. Not yours. It’s shaky, coming in three tiny bursts of being pulled into her lungs.

A small pause. Then: “No,” she whispers. “You weren’t.”

And it’s not comforting. You both know that. It's not meant to be.

Your family is dead.

You are alive.

Nothing can change that. Nothing can fix it. And maybe worst of all—you need someone to blame. Anybody to take it out on. It can’t even be that piece of shit drunk driver, he had the sense to take himself out with everyone else.

And you realise you owe your life to Giselle.

“If only you didn’t ask me to stay,” the words tumble out of your mouth before you figure out how to stop yourself, “I could have been with them.”

You’re not accusing her.

Not really.

But it still lands like one.

You don’t know how to take the words back, how to unmake the weight they carry, how to make it so you didn’t open your fucking mouth and let them spill out like venom.

But the feeling doesn’t fade. You should have been with them. If you’d just gone on the trip like you were supposed to, you wouldn’t have to feel this. You wouldn’t have to be here.

You wouldn’t have to be.

And once more, for a split second, for a horrible, fleeting split second, you resent her for it.

Because she asked you to stay.

Because she made you stay.

Because if it weren’t for Giselle, you wouldn’t be in this fucking bed, in this fucking house full of memories, swallowing down a piece of fucking toast that tastes like nothing, thinking about how to fucking breathe, while your whole fucking family—

You found someone to blame. And you hate yourself for it.

The thought is barely even there before you shove it down, bury it so deep inside yourself it might as well have never existed, as though if you push hard enough, you can convince yourself you never thought it at all.

But it’s too late.

Giselle sees it. And she’s looking at you like you just drove a jagged knife into her ribs. And maybe you fucking did. And she’d even let you.

She’s having trouble swallowing it all down, her lips parting, and for a second, you think she’s going to say something—but she doesn’t.

Because she doesn’t see you as wrong. She sees you as right. If only she didn’t ask you.

“It’s my fault.”

You can’t help but physically, viscerally recoil from the words.

No.

That’s not true. That’s not what you think, this isn’t that. That’s not what you meant. That’s not—

“If I just hadn’t—” But it’s interrupted by a sharp inhale, like there’s not enough air in the room to speak the words. Her eyes squeeze shut, maybe so she can’t cry, or so she doesn’t need to look at you, knuckles turning white from how hard she’s squeezing down. “If I just didn’t say anything, maybe they wouldn’t have left when they did. Maybe they wouldn’t have been on that road, at that time, in that moment—”

Her breath hitches again. Her hands unclench briefly, only to grasp at her face, fingers pressing down into her skin around her eyes, shaking.

You feel like throwing up. 

Because you’re not the only one with a brain that won’t shut up. With thoughts that won’t stop forming, poisoning, curling inside your skull like parasites burrowing into every action you take, every thought you think.

And for the first time since waking up, you turn to look at her.

Really look at her.

She’s a wreck.

Her face is swollen, but her eyes have it worse. They’re puffy, red-rimmed and drained. Her nose is pink, not from the way she likes to do her makeup, but from rubbing it too much with her sleeves, turning it raw, and her lips have bite marks from where she’s been biting down when she wants to say something, but doesn’t know what.

Giselle never looks like this.

She always carries herself with this effortless sort of self-possession, even when she’s being an absolute menace. But right now?

Right now, she looks like she’s barely staying afloat herself.

“Giselle—”

“I took you away from them.”

Her voice cracks.

You whip your head up so fast your vision starts to swim, like gravity itself is pulling you to the same place you’re trying to hide that wretched thought of yours, and fuck, she’s crying again. And she can’t look at you. Won’t meet your eyes. “You resent me.”

You knew she saw it. You knew she fucking felt it, even in that fucking split second before you buried it, before you even had the time to feel ashamed of yourself, that hate yourself, not her.

But hearing her say it out loud is worse.

“You should hate me,” you mutter.

Her eyes open slightly, and her gaze lands somewhere near you. Not ready yet for landing on you. “What?”

You inhale, sharp and shaky, then exhale just as fast, voice low and wrecked.

“You saved my life.”

You think you meant them, but they feel so, so wrong, because nothing about this feels like being saved. Nothing about this feels like anything but a burning car wreckage and shattered glass from every window it broke and the goddamn sound of your aunt’s voice on repeat, over and over, like a twisted song stuck in your head, one which your brain is desperately trying to make you forget the lyrics to.

And Giselle, she just—

She breaks.

Not like the way she’s been breaking since yesterday, tiny fractures, cracks forming, desperate moments but still holding on.

This time, it’s worse.

She makes this sound—this horrible sound—choked, gasping, sobbing like she wasn’t expecting her body to give in, like she’s hurting worse than what she’d thought was possible, like there was still more grief to pull from her that she was sure she locked away, and collapsing into herself, fingernails digging into her skin and you’re not sure if it’s to hurt herself or hold herself close, like she just needs to hold or be held right now before she breaks.

“I wanted you to stay.”

The admission rips out her, raw and violent and sobbing and so full of guilt it makes your heart feel like it turned to ash.

“I wanted you to stay and I’m sorry and you—” Another sob cuts through it all, her sleeve wiping across her face like she could take the feelings with it as well, the noise of her tears and shattering voice being muffled. But you still hear it, still feel it, and hate it, the way it destroys her.

And then, softer.

“I don’t know how I’d survive if you were in that car as well.”

The confession is small. It’s shaky. It’s honest.

“I think about it every second,” she rambles on, there’s no stopping the confession. “If I just had shut my fucking mouth, you could’ve done something, or been there, or at least not have felt like this.”

Her knuckles whiten from straining them too hard, disgust seeping in her voice as she speaks next. “But I’m glad I didn’t. Do you understand what that says about me? It means I can’t even tell if I’m allowed to be grateful that you’re here, because if I am, does that mean I’m glad your family is dead?”

She’s furious with herself, nails tearing at her own skin as if she wants to rid herself of it all, head shaking furiously. “That just makes me a fucking monster.”

And fuck, it’s suddenly so much worse than the weight of her earlier words, worse than it’s my fault, worse than you resent me, worse than the feeling of your own guilt pressing down on your ribs, because Giselle is—

She’s glad you’re here.

She’s glad you lived.

And she hates herself for it.

And you want to tell her—you really fucking do, if only the words would come out—you want to tell her it’s okay.

Or, that it’s not okay, but that she is. That she shouldn’t have to feel like that, that she doesn’t deserve it, that she has no reason or need to carry, she doesn’t have to bear this kind of weight, she didn’t do anything wrong, that she couldn’t have done anything, it’s not her fault, that she’s allowed to be relieved that she still has you because fuck, you’re relieved you still have her too, and it’s fucking selfish and ugly and it makes your stomach churn but you just can’t afford to lose her too, you can’t, you can’t, you fucking can’t—

But you don’t have the energy.

You wish you did. You don’t.

And it just adds another layer of self-loathing.

Because Giselle is falling apart, and you can’t do anything about it.

So you just sit there, motionless, watching her break, breaking with her.

Her sobs keep coming, louder and wrecked by the minute in this quiet room, and they won’t stop, like she can’t stop imagining what it would have been like if you did leave, like she’s trying to fill the space around you with something less suffocating, but it’s still there, under everything, pressing it’s full weight on you.

It makes your whole body feel heavy.

Like it would take too much effort to move. So you don’t.

You just let her cry.

And eventually, eventually, her breath evens out—just slightly, still ragged, still trembling, still fucking unbearable to listen to, but at least she’s not gasping for it anymore.

She sniffles, rubs the sleeve of your hoodie over her face again, sniffs again.

“I’m sorry.”

Like something just punched your heart.

“No,” you rasp, air you didn’t have being forced out. “Don’t be.”

Her hands disappear into her sleeves, clutching the fabric around her hands, her shoulders curl inward like she wants to sink as deep as possible as she can into your hoodie. Her hoodie? She considers it your hoodie. Makes it more special.

She moves. It’s sudden, but careful.

It’s slow and it’s hesitant. Shifting closer over the bed, closing the distance between you two. It’s careful, like she’s testing if it’s okay with you with every inch. As if she’s half-convinced you’ll push her away. It’s silly. You don’t.

It’s all filled with uncertainty. As if the routines and rituals you’ve built up have all vanished. Hesitating before making her way under the covers. Her arms making first contact and her whole body curling up behind them, trying to make herself small enough to fit against you without you noticing, like she’s trying to just be with you even if you can’t take it right now. Because she needs it, and she hopes you do too. Like she’s still afraid she’s not allowed to belong here.

And her face presses against your chest, somewhere you think your heart should be, her arms wrapping around your body, her breath hot and finally some capacity of steady brushing against your skin.

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t have to.

She just holds on.

And you let her. Your arms wrap around her.

Your eyes slip shut, and for a second, you just breathe her in.

But then you hear it.

A voice.

Not Giselle’s.

Not yours either.

His.

“You sure you won’t get too distracted if she stays over?”

Your whole body tenses.

Giselle stiffens slightly against you, feeling it.

Dad.

It’s a fucking disaster, and if you weren’t so desperate to hear his voice, you’d force this memory away in a heartbeat.

You were standing in the driveway as your parents were already packing everything for their trip. Your brother was already burning through his Switch battery on the backseat, letting the world move around him, and your mom was inside packing everything she was sure your dad was forgetting.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, champ,” he’d said, clapping his giant hand on your shoulder with that booming voice of his barely avoiding leaving a ringing sound in your ears. ”Just make sure to actually get some studying done. If you fail your tests, you’re not even getting an invitation for the next family trip.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Smirked at him, full of confidence. “When have you ever known me to fail?”

His laugh had been loud, warm.

“Don’t act all too confident, we all know Giselle takes care of you.”

And then he’d grinned.

“But for what it’s worth?”

A pause.

A squeeze of your shoulder.

“I feel better knowing you’ll have her.”

You inhale, but it’s the kind that preludes tears.

Giselle presses closer.

And for the first time in twenty-four hours—

Your eyes burn.

-

You can’t tell how long it’s been since Giselle crawled into your arms.

If you were asked, you might even say it’s been forever.

There’s only her, warm and small, slotted in your arms, curled up against you and unrelenting in her grip, like she’s afraid you might cease to be if she lets go. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you would. Maybe she’s the only thing keeping you here, really here, and not slipping into some void you fear you might never escape from.

So your arms tighten around her. It’s instinct more than anything. It’s just, her body is so familiar, should be so comfortably familiar—but this time is different.

You’ve pulled her close a thousand times before. Grabbed her by her waist when she got all huffy and puffy, pinned her against a well or closed door or anything she’d let you, tugged her onto your lap, mouth on her neck, her laugh energizing you and spurring you on. It’s always been a pull with her, a want, a need.

This time, it’s a quiet, desperate hold.

And just like her, you grip tighter, arms holding her as close as space allows, so that you can’t loosen your grip even a little, lest she slip through your arms just like everything else.

She begins to inhale, preparing for something, breaking the quiet trance you’ve been slumbering in. Her warm breath burns against your collarbone.

“I was scared,” she whispers.

Your eyes close. “I’m sorry.”

Her body twists, nudging into you, softer, her grip loosening but not letting any space form through it. “Don’t be. I thought—” The words start spilling out, her eyes pointed upwards searching solace in your face before she regathers herself and tries again. “I really thought you were going to push me away.”

Hearing her voice those concerns makes the pit of your stomach turn upside down. “I need you. I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t,” she exhales, hesitation making the air come out in stutters. There’s not a lot of her signature confidence present, as if she’s scared that saying it out loud would jinx it. “But you—you barely even looked at me. And I—I Didn’t know. I didn’t know if you wanted me—wanted me here or if you just—” she shakes her against you feverishly. “I didn’t know.”

You can’t blame her. You haven’t been sure what you want yourself.

You did pull away. Told her she shouldn’t be here. What the fuck was that even about?

It wasn’t because you didn’t want her here. Not because you don’t need her.

It’s the fucking weight of all of this—the sheer, unbearable fucking weight of existing in a world without them—felt like it would be easier to carry alone. Or easier to escape if you were alone.

Deep breaths. Slow breaths. You press your lips to the top of her head.

“I love you,” you murmur.

She doesn’t respond, pausing. She probably doesn’t know what you want from her, again.

“I know you know that. But I need you to hear it. So you know.” Your hand presses onto the small of her back, and she gives in. It’s not rough, not hard, not tight, but just enough that she knows you mean it. “I love you. You’re the only one I have left that I can say that too.I can’t bear the fucking thought of losing you too.”

Her shoulders tremble and she pushes her away from your chest, just enough to be able to look in your eyes. “You won’t.”

You want to believe her. God, you want to believe her.

But you thought your parents were permanent, too. Or at least more permanent than this? Thought your little brother would be stealing your shit until you left the house, and then some. Thought there would always be another Christmas, another birthday, another vacation, another tomorrow.

Your fingers rest on the back of her head, pulling her closer back against her chest, against your heartbeat.

“I didn’t tell them I loved them.”

She stills, like a toy that ran out of batteries.

“My dad said it before they left. I didn’t say it back. Felt too embarrassed or something. I just shrugged it off and said I’ll see them later.”

Giselle doesn’t just move—she reaches for you.

Her hands don’t hesitate anymore. One finds your wrist, fingers curling around it gently, as if chaining the two of you together. The other wraps around you, presses against your back, firm, solid, unrelenting.

Her words are hoarse, muffled, being spoken directly into your chest. “They knew.”

You fall back into not responding. You want to believe they knew.

But it doesn’t fucking matter.

Because later didn’t happen, and later was taking for granted, but it was a fucking lie.

Because some drunk asshole that couldn’t even have the decency to just hit a tree and only punish himself for what he did stole ‘later’ from you.

And now? Your last words to your family weren’t love, weren’t warmth, weren’t anything that mattered.

Just a brush-off. Just something to replace the words you felt too cool to say.

Giselle shudders against, feels the twitch in your muscles as your thoughts go dark and darker. The warmth of her breath is arrhythmic, and you realize she’s crying for you.

Like she’s crawling underneath your shoulders, cracking, holding the weight with you, carrying it when you can’t. And it’s too much, even for her.

Her hands clutch desperately at you, twisting your shirt. “You have to know they knew,” she says, voice cracking every few words. “You have to know that.”

It’s still hard to respond, but she squeezes you tighter anyway. Like she’s forcing it into you.

For a moment, the room is nothing but shallow breaths and the same hum you hear every day of the world moving on outside these walls. It’s sickening.

Then, her voice, breaking the sounds:

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It takes a second to process the question.

Absolutely not. Your arms flex just at the thought of it.

“Like—” She wipes her nose after another sniff, sucks in a trembling breath. “Right now. When you think of them. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

Your mind stutters. Because how the fuck are you even supposed to pick one thing when a thousand are racing through the tunnels of your brain? How are you supposed to take an entire lifetime of support, annoyance, respect, frustration, love and compress it into a single moment?

Can you even answer that question?

“He laughed,” you mumble, voice rough like new tires.

Giselle listens. It’s all she does.

“When I asked if you could stay over while they were gone,” you continue, the words seemingly coming out on their own, eyes pointed upwards, the ceiling being the only thing you can stand to look at. “Said he knew I wasn’t actually gonna study. But he’d still feel better knowing you were taking care of me.”

The next sound Giselle let out surely was something new to her—soft, wet. It starts as a laugh from something unexpected, but not because something was funny, because it quickly gets overtaken by a sob.

It’s comforting. It might begin to feel like she really is taking on some of that weight. “He always did that—acted like he was onto me, like he had me all figured out. Said he was much the same when he was my age. Used to say he could read me like a book, cus he wrote the damn thing.” You swallow, not sure if it was even okay to say the next part out loud. “I used to think it was fucking annoying.”

She chuckles this time, and it’s not interrupted with a sob. That sound is a lot more comforting. It’s quiet, it’s breathy, and it’s pulling you back.

You’re shaking, but you wouldn’t have caught it if it wasn’t for Giselle holding onto you as though to hold you in place.

“I think you’re right,” you blow out the air through your nose. “They knew.”

Her fingers run over your back. “Yeah,” she whispers. “They did.”

This wasn’t enough to hold back the pain—not yet. But maybe someday it might become enough.

Giselle fits so perfectly into you, and you shift to allow her more room, for your faces to lay closer. She melts into it.

For the first time since waking up, the air doesn’t struggle to leave or enter your body. Your limbs don’t feel heavy with sorrow. Your brain doesn’t feel like drowning.

Floating.

Stagnant, but being held, and holding on.

Giselle’s body shifts, or twitches? You’re not sure. It feels like she’s about to move, is all. You don’t let her. Not yet.

“Just a little longer,” you murmur.

She shakes her head, forehead rubbing against your chest.

It’s absurd, makes you pull back, struggling to process. 

“No,” she says, firmer now. “Not just a little longer.”

She nudges her forehead into your chest, the way she’s done a thousand times before when you’ve said something that got on her nerves. “I’m not leaving. You don’t get to lose me. Ever.”

She snuggles into you, and she stays.

-

You’ve been drifting in and out of sleep long enough for the sun to hide, Giselle still close. Like she promised.

“Are you up?”

Your eyes peel open slowly. “Mhm.”

“We should go eat.” She says sleepily as her muscles push awake.

You don’t answer this one.

Giselle exhales through her nose, and it’s not the first time she’s said it today. Knowing her, it won’t be the last if you don’t agree. She shifts her weight onto her elbow, tilts her head up at you with pleading brows, and looks at you properly. like she’s measuring whether or not you can handle whatever she’s about to say.

She doesn’t waver though.  “We should go downstairs.”

Downstairs. You haven’t left your room yet, since. It’s fucking terrifying, as if stepping outside would only solidify what you already know. Like if stepping outside will make everything collapse. Like you’ll have to face the fact that nothing is waiting for you outside of it except a house full of ghosts.

Giselle must see the way your expression changes. She always has this sharp read on you. Her voice softens. “I know.” She exhales a heavy breath. “But we still have to go.”

We.

Not you.

We.

She stands before you can think of a way to ask her not to. Walks to the door before you can tell her no. Turns the knob and pulls it open, just enough for the familiar orange light to creep its unwelcome way inside. She pauses, waiting.

You really don’t want to go.

But she’s waiting.

And this—this is Giselle. She doesn’t ask for much. It’s for you.

So you move.

The door groans on it hinges like it’s screaming at you that you’re making a mistake. Stupid fucking door.

The hallways are colder than you remember. Colder than it has any right to be. Or maybe you’ve just gotten used to the heat of Giselle pressed against you. Or maybe it’s both.

She’s right behind you. Of course she is. Close enough that you feel her presence like a torch protecting you from the biting winds of winter. You take a step forward, then another, down the stairs that feel too long, too steeped in memory.

The house doesn’t smell like home.

Your feet hit the ground floor, and for a second, you hesitate.

Giselle doesn’t.

She’s right behind you, her fingertips ghosting your back, barely touching, barely there, letting you know she’s there. She’s here, and she’s not trying to push. And that’s enough. So you can keep moving.

The kitchen is dark.

You hesitate before flicking the switch. If you just keep the lights off, you might evade some of the memories. You flick it nonetheless, and the light is too sharp. Too bright. You glance at the fridge, at the magnets holding up old notes and things you can’t bear to take a second look at.

So you don’t.

Giselle steps around you, reaching for a glass. The sound of the cabinet opening, the slight clink of the glass on the counter, the rapid rush of water from the tap—It’s too loud.

“You should drink something,” she says, gentle, full of care, but firm, like she won’t take no for an answer.

You nod once, just to show you’re listening. She watches as you take the glass, lift it to your lips and drink. She nods back, approving, a soft curl in her lips for making progress.

She searches the fridge, the light beaming from inside, before her voice rebounds out from it. “Is there anything you want to eat?”

The answer is nothing, so you tell her exactly that.

She obviously doesn’t accept that. “Come on, just—something easy.”

Your shoulders slump before you answer. “I’m sorry, but I don’t care.”

“I know.” She continues rummaging. “But we have to eat something, right? We can’t just…not.”

So do you, you want to say. Giselle wouldn’t let you turn this around on her though. She never does.

She pulls out something. A leftover container of soup from the fridge—something your mom must have made. Something that feels too good to eat right now. But it won’t stay fresh forever. So might as well still enjoy it while you can. Giselle throws you a half smile upon seeing your reaction to the soup, dumps it into a pot, turning on the stove and heating it up for the both of you.

The smell of it is more than food. It smells like home. Or it used to? It’s all too confusing.

Giselle turns around and leans against the counter, her arms supporting her against it. Waiting for the soup to be ready, before snapping you both back to reality. “The wake is in three days.”

You give her a puzzled look, like you can’t understand how she knows that. You knew it had to happen at some point, but—

“Your aunt came by earlier this morning, when you were still sleeping. She told me to tell you. It’ll take place here.” she explains further, not letting you stew in it.

You haven’t thought about it yet. Not about the wake itself, Not about what it implies. How you’re supposed to stand there all day while people pile on, saying things that won’t matter and offer condolences you don’t want, and then—what?

Bury them?

That’s too much.

Giselle is quiet. She lets the silence go unpunished, the only sound present being the faint bubbling of the soup. And then she moves, grabbing two bowls from the cabinet, keeping her hands busy, keeping herself busy.

And you eat. And you swallow. And you try not to think about how this is the last time you’ll ever taste this soup again.

-

The house is full.

Not full of ghosts, or stale air or a silence you just can’t seem to break through no matter how hard you try. No. 

This is different.

It’s wrong, worse.

There’s too many people, all clad in black, superseding silence with their low murmurs and occasional pitiful glances at you when they think you’re not looking. There’s too many of them. Faces you recognize, but can’t quite place, it’s all too hazy. People that knew your family, come to console themselves by letting you know they feel bad for you. None of them can imagine what you’re feeling anyways. If it were up to you, you wouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And thank fuck, so is Giselle.

She’s hovering around you. Always close. Not yet touching, not yet saying anything. Just—watching. Monitoring. Worried.

You can’t blame her, she should be.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Fuck. If the first time already makes you feel like you want to run, you might as well give up now.

It’s your father’s coworker. You recognize him now. You met him at a barbecue your dad hosted last year, the one where he burned some burgers but kept insisting they were fine, eating them himself. Your mom called him an overgrown child, and your brother almost vomited when he tried eating on himself.

That was only a year ago.

And now—

Now a remnant of that time is standing in front of you, alive and breathing and saying the same meaningless sentence you’re bound to hear a hundred times today.

His hand lands on your shoulder. Grasps it. Too firm. Too much.

He keeps talking, something about ever needing something, but you wouldn’t rely on your dad’s coworker for anything anyway.

And Giselle?

She moves.

Not a lot, mind you. Just a little. Shifting her weight towards you, the slightest brush of her sleeve against your arm, like she’s testing something. 

You nod at him. That’s all you can do.

You take a breather. Regain your composure.

Another.

“They were such wonderful people.”

One of your mom’s friends this time. She looks different. Maybe she just looks older. Maybe she’s been crying. Maybe you should care.

Her hands reach for yours, and you almost—almost—pull away.

You really don’t want them touching you like you’re some beacon of grief.

None of them should be touching you.

But you let her fingers wrap around yours, let her squeeze, let her eyes soften like she can even come close to understanding.

She doesn’t.

She can’t.

Your jaw locks. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, feel the skin break, the sharp sting of it preventing the cracks showing on the outside.

And Giselle moves again.

Another shift, another breath that sounds like it might be the start of a sentence, but—nothing. Just some warmth.

She’s hesitating.

She must be doubting if she should step in or not.

You haven’t been exactly clear on whether or not you want her to.

Because you don’t know.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

How fucked up is that? Way to rub it in.

You don’t even look up for this one.

Just nod. Another nod. That same fucking nod. Like you’re a puppet on string, but broken and only capable of doing one thing.

You don’t even know who just spoke to you and shook your hand. Some neighbor, maybe. Someone who used to wave at your mom in passing. Who smiled at you and your little brother at the grocery store. Someone who only knew your family in the way people know nice things in passing.

Not like you.

Giselle shifts again.

This time, you feel it more than you hear it, grazing the back of her hand against you, momentarily letting her index finger rub against the back of your hand. Like she just wants you to know that she’s there.

Another voice. Another fucking voice.

“They’re in a better place now.”

You exhale so hard it shakes.

You want to ask them where.

Where, exactly, is this better place you keep hearing about? Because they were supposed to be in Disneyland, and now they’re in a fucking coffin.

Your nails dig into your palms, but you just fucking nod again.

And Giselle notices.

You know she does.

Her head tilts slightly, like she’s asking what she needs to do, reading you like she always does, like she’s looking for something she can fix.

She won’t find it.

Another one.

“If you need anything, we’re here for you.”

You hesitate to answer.

Because what you want to say—what you wish you could say—is give them back.

But instead, you say what you don’t mean:

“Thank you.”

It tastes like poison in your mouth.

You wonder if you’d be able to choke and get away from this shit if you said it again.

Giselle’s finger’s twitch, but you pull away instinctively.

“Time heals all wounds.”

Does it? You can’t help but wonder.

Does it really?

Your mother is dead. Your father is dead. Your little brother is dead.

What part of that is supposed to heal? 

What part of that is supposed to be supplanted by scar tissue, become something these people don’t pry open? How long do you need to wait before this doesn’t feel like some twisted prank you keep hoping someone is going to reveal the joke to? You want to scream at them how you don’t even want it to heal. How it’ll feel like forgetting them.

“Stay strong.”

Oh, fuck off.

What the hell does that even mean? Stay strong? For what? So they don’t have to see what this is really doing to you? So you can keep nodding, keep shaking hands, keep standing in a room that is shrinking every second?

What if you don’t want to be strong?

What if—

Your breath comes in too fast.

Too shallow.

Like your lungs have forfeited the whole inhale-exhale thing and decided to just go, like a car with no brakes.

“They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

Oh.

Oh, really?

You bite down so hard on the inside of your cheek you taste copper.

This one almost gets you.

Almost.

Because there’s nothing more insulting than some asshole trying to dictate how you’re supposed to grieve.

Your hands are shaking.

And Giselle moves.

She doesn’t wait for another nail to hit your coffin.

She just—

Her fingers curl tight around your wrist.

And she pulls.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not a question.

It’s not Can we go?

It’s We’re going.

You barely register the floor beneath your feet, barely register the voices still talking, still offering words you want them to keep for themselves, barely register the nod your aunt gives you as if to say “go, I got this,” and who has been running this farce as Giselle drags you through the hall and up the stairs like she’s rescuing you from a burning building.

And maybe she is. It feels like you were burning already, anyways.

She flies up the stairs, you in tow, frantic steps barely avoiding tumbling down, like she’s racing against the clock and when the countdown hits zero, you’ll explode. Her hand is solid around you, gripping your wrist, offering no escape.

You don’t even bother fighting it, how could you? You can barely control the airflow from and to your lungs, it’s much easier to just go along, much easier than listening to yet another person you haven’t seen since who knows when hammering in the reality of it all.

You can still hear them though.

You can still fucking hear them.

Claw at your ears, but you can still hear them, even as Giselle throws open your bedroom door and pulls you inside, you can still feel their words pressing down on you and—she slams the door shut behind you. The sound explodes, it breaks all thought, it locks you up in the four walls of your room, it shuts everything up.

But it’s only for a second. Because there is now a silence that is threatening to become the norm looming over you.

She locks the door. No more intruders allowed. Nobody gets to invade your head anymore.

Your muscles aren’t responding anymore. Locked in place, cut off from your brain by some invisible scissor.

Held hostage inside your own crumbling body. Standing there, on the precipice of destruction, something brewing in the core of your body that you can’t even begin to know how to stop.

And Giselle—Giselle is watching you, looking for the same answer you’re searching for. Her own chest struggling to keep up with everything. With herself, with you, how to prevent what’s happening to you.

And she moves.

You can’t stop it. Her hands find you, clutching at your chest, palms connecting with your shoulders, pushing, struggling, forcing you back, down onto the bed, second guessing herself every inch but still going forward like she’s being driven by nothing but instinct.

She’s still struggling to breathe. Your muscles are barely listening to you again. You’re both unsure of what’s happening. You’ve been pushed down onto the bed, just barely supporting your upper body on your elbows to meet Giselle.

She straddles your lap like she used to do all the time. Hands no longer pushing but bundling up the fabric of your dress shirt at the shoulders, the fabric of her own black dress hitching up around her thighs.

And you peek at what’s underneath.

It’s reflexive. And you can’t believe yourself.

In this situation?

“Giselle—”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

It’s in the process of breaking. It’s desperate. It’s a plea to forgive her that she doesn’t have the perfect answer. It’s fucking honest, accentuated by the swelling of her tears in the corners of her eyes, but held back enough to refuse falling.

It feels like it took away a small part of the blockade in your throat preventing you from breathing. 

Carved a little tunnel in there that allowed you to do what you know your body should be able to, even at diminished efficiency.

She crashes into you.

Her full body leaning against you, being supported by you, your lips attaching to each other for the first time in what feels like years. There’s nothing soft about it, nothing careful. It’s desperate, she’s desperate, messy. It’s fucking shattering. Teeth clumsily tapping, your breath mixing, her hands nearly tearing the fabric near your shoulders, yours clutching at your bedsheets—or were they hers now? Doesn’t matter, clutching as though bracing for impact.

Your mouths disconnect, and Giselle drops her head, hiding. Her whole body shifts in your lap, hips pressing closer with each desperate roll—and fuck, it’s like you’re being resuscitated, air forcefully fed into your lungs you didn’t know you desperately needed.

Your hands leave the bed as you straighten your back, grounding yourself in the skin of her hips, tightening, letting her know you’re there.

And her head shoots up, your eyes interlocking as she gasps when you realize—

She’s shaking.

Not much. Just a little. So small, you’re surprised you picked it up. Just barely enough to feel it. But you felt it. Only you know her well enough to pick up on it.

And that’s the final breath of air you needed pushed into your lungs.

Because she’s not just doing this for you.

She needs this, too.

Giselle needs you.

This is the same Giselle who owns everything you own, who teases you, taunts you, makes you flip the script on her because she’s just so desperate for your attention.

This is the same Giselle who you’ve touched before, held hands with before, kissed before, fell asleep with while watching a movie before, fucked before.

Her heat is undeniable, burning against you and you can feel it—fucking flooding your mind with thoughts of every time you plunged your cock deep inside her. She’s grinding against you, her eyes searching for clues on your face to tell her if it feels good. But she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t restrain herself, she wants you, doesn’t ask if this is okay. She has no choice. Because it has to be.

Because if she can’t even do this, if her putting her whole body on the line doesn’t let her reach you—then what?

You wince, your body reacting to her. “Giselle, I—”

“This is all I could think to do.” It cuts you off. She responds too fast, like she’s afraid to hear what you would say, too fast, just to keep some kind of control over the situation. “You looked so in pain, like you were about to do something you’d regret, I just—” The words tumbled out, even faster, stumbling over themselves, her eyes darting from left to right, searching for something, anything. And then she looks at you. 

Right at you. 

Deep inhale. Shaky exhale. Her forehead pressing against yours as her eyes close. “I need you to be here.”

“I am—” You begin to claim, but before you even have the chance to convince yourself, let alone her, she interjects again.

“I love you.” Her hands loosen their grip on your shirt, only to grip even tighter onto the flesh of your shoulders. “I know you think you know. But I need you to hear it. Really hear it. I need to know that you know. That I love you.”

And you’re at the precipice. All you need to do to just feel a bit of comfort is respond to her. Just tell her that you know, or that you love her too, and maybe cry in her arms, and you’ll feel just a little bit better, it should be that easy. 

But you’re silent. Just, rotting.

As if taking this final step is too much. It’s easier to just rot. If you let her in any more, it will just hurt even more when she’s taken away from you.

Her grip falters. The strength in her fingers fades, barely lingering on your shoulders before her hands slip down entirely. She exhales sharply, her face dropping for a second, and you hear it—fabric shifting, the quiet rustle of her sleeve dragging against her cheek. Wiping away tears? You don’t look. You don’t want to know.

Her head snaps back up.

She’s glowering.

Not the desperate, pleading look you were expecting. Not soft, not sad. Her whole body is trembling.

“You fucking suck right now.”

Right, you suck right now. Wait. What?

It makes you blink. Your head jolts back, and two more blinks follow it.

Your eyebrows pull together, and she sees it—the first real fucking sign of life from you since this whole thing began.

“You know,” You begin, a scoff interrupting you. “Pointing out that I suck doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

Her response is quick, instinctive, decisive as to not let you cypher these emotions away again.

She leans in, foreheads mere atoms apart.

“It’s supposed to make you mad.”

Her head pulls back again, but in the blink of an eye smashes it back against your forehead, a clumsy headbutt, the surprise more shocking than the pain but it—

“I fucking love you!”

And you finally got mad. Like the pain had pierced through any fog your head had built up inside, and you could finally see color again. As if your brain was set to the wrong TV settings, showing every channel in monochrome, but a good smack to the side fixed it and you could finally drink in the vibrancy on display. So you could look at Giselle. Really, look at her. Her bright pink hair, the color slightly faded from washing it with her shitty shampoo—your shampoo actually, hers was specifically made to not let the color of her hair dye fade. Her kiss-swollen lips, peach-colored with little dents in them from where she bit down too hard. Her eyes colored like afternoon sunlight shining through a glass of whiskey you were sure to have stolen from your parents cabinet, looking at you with such frustration that you almost expected her to headbutt you again.

And how fucking dare she.

“That fucking hurt.”

Giselle’s palm presses against her forehead, rotating and rubbing against it with her eyes squeezed tight, a grunt escaping her as she replies. “Yeah? Well, it hurt me too, you idiot.” 

She removes her hand and checks for blood, staring you down and tilting her head, assessing you. “Should’ve hit you harder.”

“Excuse me?”

She leans in, her hot breath pushing into you. “If that’s what it took to get you out of your own fucking head, I should’ve put my whole back into it.”

Your hands fly up, grabbing onto her hips, holding her down against you, body reacting before your mind can catch up, as if she has to pay for what she did. As if she owes you some kind of apology for not letting you sit under your own self-imposed ceiling of sorrow. As if you just fucking need her.

And Giselle pushes back. 

Teeth catching your lower lip, stinging, sharp and sweet, filled with promise. She pulls as far as you’re willing to give, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it, enough to make you want her lips, enough to make your pulse beat in your neck when she finally lets go—

She doesn’t even give you a chance to recover.

Because the second she releases you, her lips claim yours.

Messy, hot, urgent, familiar, undoubtedly Giselle.

“There you are,” she breathes into your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” is all the verbal response you give her, your hands grasping at the fabric of her dress with an intense fervor you were sure to have lost, pushing, pulling, twisting, anything to make it be less on her. 

“Jesus,” she recoils, but she takes no steps to stop you. Instead, she pushes back, her own hands having a similar battle with the front of your shirt, desperately fumbling with the buttons.

And you don’t even realize the force you're putting out until you hear the sharp sound of fabric tearing.

Her dress.

You fucking ripped it.

Her eyes go wide, her hands stop fumbling with your buttons, and she sucks in a sharp breath.

“Oh,” she breathes out.

Your grip tightens. You feel bad about it, or at least you know you should, but right now, you’re barely holding back from ripping the full fucking thing off her.

“You will be buying me a new one.” She glares at you, hands curled into the torn fabric at her side. She watches you wince, but there’s no sympathy in her face. It’s more like she’s processing—realizing at the exact same time you are just how much this is turning her on. “So don’t stop now,” she tells you, “tear me apart.”

The sound it makes is thrilling. The fabric gives, but not without putting up a fight, resisting enough that when it finally gives way, it’s a violent thing. The rip reverberates in the room, splitting apart from her side. The dress ceases to be a dress—just a mess of torn fabric clinging uselessly to her skin before sliding down, slipping away.

And Giselle fucking melts into you, reduced to nothing but matching black underwear, forearms pressing up into your chest, her hips sliding, rolling down, coating your bulge with her wet through her panties like she’s desperate to let you ruin her. She is as much a mess as you are, failing at letting you control the pace, just as desperate to feel all of you. 

It’s exhilarating. You might have to start investing in cheap, flimsy dresses for Giselle, just so you have an excuse to rip them off of her again. Because the effect it’s having on you, let alone her, is something you’d let ruin you financially.

“All that whining about your dress,” you taunt, that hint of bite returning to your voice, “but you’re dripping onto my pants like you want me to rip those off too.”

“I can’t help it’s fucking hot,” she mumbles.

Her head tilts, looking up at you, fast and desperate, like she needs to get her mouth on you before you even know what she’s doing. Her hands, still shaking with adrenaline, grip onto your shirt and keep you close, using it as leverage as she pulls herself up and crashes her lips against the curve of your neck.

You flinch, your muscles tensing up against her assault, and she feels it, her arms refusing to give even an inch, doubling down. Lips parting, tongue taking first contact just to tease before retreating, sucking hard on your skin, like she’s educating you on what the punishment is and will be for torn dresses. The pressure is immediate, bruising, and you lean into it, her breath hot against your skin as she works at you. 

Pain melts into pleasure, sharp stings of heat spurring you, your hands finding refuge on her supple ass, kneading and grasping, in turn spurring her on even more.

She moans against you—soft, drawn out, almost involuntary, like she wasn’t expecting this to turn her on so much. It’s impossible to ignore, vibrating into your skin, traveling directly up your spinal cord and sucker punching all of your neurons simultaneously with the sheer fucking audacity of her.

She pulls back slightly, just to admire her work, panting breaths exhaling against the wet, oversensitive mark of her territory left behind. Her tongue grazes the spot again, teasing, curving upwards against the fresh bruise she just made, before a single hum delivers the haymaker—smug, pleased and starving for more.

“You are so fucking impatient,” you stammer out pushing her away from your neck, hands firmly on her shoulders to keep her where she’s forced to look at you.

And she looks like she’s going to break any minute, her eyes big and pleading, already a prelude to her next attack. “What, you’re not going to make me say please, are you?”

Fucking hell.

You allow yourself one incredulous chuckle before advancing, one hand curving around her back, pinching the hook and eye clasp of her bra together before releasing it, causing it to drop into her lap still tangled around her arms, where your other hand already reached cupping her where she’s wet, palm pressing against the skin above her cunt, fingers hovering over her sensitives.

She gasps, submitting to your touch, putting up no fight at all. And she stops. And so do you. Her pupils, wide and hungry, reflecting the only thing she needs—you, again. Her heat begging you to envelop your cock. And her fucking tits—bare, soft, perfect. Her nipples are stiff, whether from cool air or sheer anticipation—you’d bet on the latter— begging to be touched, sucked, bitten, made yours. She arches her back ever so slightly, like she’s offering them to you without the indignity of pleading. Because she knows she would if you asked. It’s better to just give in already. 

She is a fucking vision, the kind you could only experience at moments that blur the line between reality and fiction. The kind that demands you act before it vanishes. 

So fucking beautiful it still makes you sick.

“You’re looking at me like you just realized you’re about to fuck me,” she says, her voice shaking but a smirk letting her keep some semblance of control.

“Only if you say please.”

 She doesn’t hesitate. She pouts. Her eyes pull you in.

“Please fuck me?” she pleads, incriminating herself in your little trap willingly.

She’s brazen, enthusiastic and about to be rewarded for it. Breaking eye-contact from this point onwards would be considered taboo, as your fingers slide the last barrier between you and her velvety heat to the side for access, letting the rest of her panties unmoved, hugging and squeezing her hips. 

At the same time, she tugs the remaining straps of her bra down her arms, letting the fabric fall away entirely, leaving her completely exposed above you. Giselle was never embarrassed, never even a little bit shy. No, even now, even like this, she keeps that fucking fire burning on alcohol in her eyes, daring you to take what’s yours.

You slip into her soaked heat, and—fuck—she’s already so wet. So fucking ready for you. No teasing, no hesitation, just yours for the taking.

Giselle gasps, her whole body stretching and flexing as two fingers push inside her, stretching her open for you, pressing into the cunt she’s been grinding against you with no shame. Fuck giving her time to adjust. You curl your fingers, rolling them into her, against the spot that makes her shake, makes her lose her fucking mind.

“Oh—”

It’s the oboe playing the A note before the symphony she’s about to perform. But you don’t give her time for the tuning of all the other instruments.

She sways forward, her body being pulled into yours without her permission, a slave to her instincts. Her hands fly to the buttons of your shirt, but the poor girl is shaking too much to do anything useful. “Fucking—” She struggles, losing coordination, head swaying and eyes squinting to focus to no avail. “Get this—fucking thing—off—”

There’s a pop and a dink. A button flies off, bouncing against the floor. She doesn’t flinch, neither do you. Another one soon follows.

“Jesus, you’re ruining my shirt,” you taunt, but you don’t stop her. If anything, this color of desperation looks nice on her.

“You ruined my—fuck—my dress first,” she protests. “If you’ve got—”

She’s not wrong, but you’re not about to let her be right. You flick your thumb over her clit, slow and precise, just the way she loves it, just to feel her pulse against you.

She opens her mouth to retry what she was snapping back despite your little trick, but—

You had another up your sleeve.

Your other hand asserts itself on her tits, fingers spreading their domain over the soft flesh of her breast before closing in, pinching at her nipple, tugging just enough to get her to forget. Just enough to see her reaction.

Her back arches into your touch, lips parting wider with disbelief, breath coming in bursts that sting. Her face is a masterpiece of desperation, eyebrows pooling at the center, eyes wide and pleading, her whole body craving what you’re giving.

And still, she continues fighting it.

“Just you—oh my god—” she manages, but you’re sure it would have been more coherent if she wasn’t  bucking her hips into you trying to fuck herself faster on your fingers.

“You can either finish that sentence,” you interject, thumb circling her clit slowly, “or you can come. But you’ve gotta pick one.”

She’s gasping, faltering, having vocabulary erased from her lexicon with each thrust and curl, head falling back but she’s still got this defiant look in her eyes. Like she’s about to hit you with a comeback so good you’ll only find an appropriate response three days later when stepping out of the shower.

But you don’t let her.

“Come on,” you whisper, tone softer now, coaxing her, a stark contrast to the ruthless way your fingers are working her. “Be a good girl for me.”

It’s her favorite thing, and the ace up your sleeve. She snaps without resistance.

Her body locks up, a sharp rendition of your name sings from her lips to your ears, her walls pulsing around your two digits as her orgasm ramps up. She clings to you like someone cast out at sea clings to a lifebuoy, nails ripping what remains of your shirt, mouth open, gasping, unwilling to do anything but surrender, take everything you’re pushing into her.

You don’t stop until she’s a trembling mess, until you’re sure you’ve felt every little muscle spasm, until the aftershocks are making her twitch against you, until she’s nothing but a gasping, pink chaos in your arms.

It’s only then you slow your movements, retreating to her hips, letting her breathe, letting her catch herself where your hands failed.

But she’d be a fool if she thought this was anything but the warm-up.

“Think you’re ready to get your insides stirred now?”

She barely lifts her head, eyes heavy-and-half-lidded, still dazed. Giselle always needs recovery time, and you’ve usually been graceful enough to grant it, but she has that smirk, that little bit of fight, that spark in her eyes left in her.

“I couldn’t possibly say no to you.”

Your grip tightens on her hips. “That’s my good girl,” you hiss.

Her hands fumble at your belt, too clumsy and too shaky to get proper progress like she usually would. Her fingers aren’t the focused and precise instruments they usually are, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. She yanks at the buckle again, flexing her fingers as though that might help.

And you’re just watching. Leaning back. Enjoying the fucking spectacle of her trying and failing to get your cock out. Your fingers tangle into her messy hair, pulling just enough to make her tilt her face up.

Low. Taunting. “Do you need some help?”

Her eyebrows twitch in annoyance, her glare hazy but defiant. “Shut up. I know how to get my boyfriend’s dick out.”

You can’t help but grin. “Yeah? Cause you kind of suck right now.”

Her nostrils flare, and she rips the zipper down with enough force to nearly break the damn thing as well. Your slacks and boxers are shoved down, disposed of in one rough motion.

And then she freezes. Her hands glued to your thighs for support. Her breath hitches. Her eyes widen.

“...Okay, what the fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

She tilts her head, fingers wrapping around your cock, testing the weight, the firth, her thumb dragging over the tip before her grip tightens.

“No, like. Actually. Is it bigger than usual?”

A scoff, she can’t be fucking real. “Are you serious?”

“I’m dead fucking serious.” She strokes down your shaft, slow, like she’s gathering data, measuring it to what she remembers.

“Maybe it’s the angle.”

She clicks her tongue like that’s not quite it, tilting her head, still studying you like you’re some kind of science experiment. “Or maybe it’s a rage-induced growth spurt.”

“That is not a thing.”

“Seems like a thing,” she muses.

“It’s not a thing,” you keep asserting.

She circles the head of your dick with her thumb, wiping precum all over it, watching you twitch under her hand. “You seem pretty sure.” “Because I—Jesus, Giselle,” she interrupts you, a quick slide down your shaft sending a jolt up your spine, “because I am sure.”

“Well, I’m gonna pretend it is possible,” she hums, shifting her hips forwards, bucking against you, preparing the base of your cock against her soaking wet cunt, drowning it in her slick with every slow, deliberate and precise roll of her hips.

You feel every bit of it. How ready she is. How warm, how soft, how desperate, how shaky.

You can’t help but tighten your grip on her hips, fingers digging in hard, no intent of ever letting go.

And she’s such a slut for it, the feeling of riding against your dick while your digits dig into her makes her moan, high and breathy, but still contained only to this room.

You can’t let that go unpunished. “You’re still shaking.”

She huffs, daring you to shift your hands to her waist, but she’s gripping your shoulders. “And you’re still talking.”

Her nails make their way down, scratching your chest as she rolls her hips again, slow but insistent, pressing herself against your every inch, teasing, tormenting you both—

“So I guess I need to do a better job,” she puffs, face tilting downwards a little so she can look up at you with a pout. “Let’s see if you can still do the same when these tits you love so much are bouncing in your face.”

She smirks, satisfied, shifting forward, lining herself up above you, her cunt dripping against the tip of your cock, ready—

And then she pushes down.

She sinks on to you, rough and deep, deeper, deeper, until she’s seated in your lap, flush up against you, stuffed fucking full with rage-induced growth.

For a second, neither of you move.

You pulse inside her, feel the way her walls tighten, adjusting, flexing, gripping you like she never wants to let go. The sensation mixes with the way her eyes flutter, unfocused, her hands scratching and digging into your chest, harder and harder like she’s overwhelmed, like she’s processing every inch of you.

She swallows. Tenses her thighs. And she starts moving.

First, it's slow. Rolling. Experimenting what she can handle. She lifts herself up, just a little, and you feel her tremble before she sinks back down. Her and your moans weave into each other.

She does it again. A slow, shaky rhythm, taking you as deep as she fucking can.

And you resist the urge to grip her hips and hold her up, pounding into her until she cries your name to the heavens. For now. Because she’s trembling. Still weak.

She knows it too, but as long as you don’t intervene, she won’t be stopped. She leans in, a soft half-moan half-breath escapes her, her eyes obsessed with you.

“You love this, don’t you? Watching me put on a show for you.”

“Mhm,” you respond, low, throaty, just the way it gets her going.

She smirks, her hands flying into her hair as she lets it cascade over her back, giving you a perfect view of her neckline. “You always get like this when I’m on top. Can’t even pretend to play it cool when my tits are bouncing, can you?”

She’s not wrong. Her tits have a hypnotic quality to them.

Her body moves, slow and deliberate, dragging you back and forth inside her like she’s trying to make clear what you’ve got to lose if you try to play it nonchalantly.

“Just admit it, you’re weak—fuck—weak for my pu—”

She chokes on the last word, her confidence faltering mid sentence as she tries to lift herself, her legs twitching, shaking, muscles threatening to give out. She barely gets halfway up before her thighs tremble violently, still wrecked from her previous orgasm, forcing her to slam back down onto you, her whole body tensing up. It’s quick, and high-pitched. A surprised whimper escapes her throat involuntarily.

You pull back, a face that could only mean to ask her if she wants to find an excuse for that.

She glares up at you, face flushed red instead of its usual shades of pink, panting. “I—” she starts, but her voice shakes.

You help her along, like the loving boyfriend you are. “Having some trouble?” You’re clearly enjoying this, watching her fight against her own body.

And that only pisses her off. Her glare sharpens. “Shut up—” But her legs twitch again, this time not even managing halfway, forcing another stuttered moan out of her.

She’s struggling with the limitations of her own body, huffing in frustration, but not giving up. Her hands grasp your shoulders, and she tries to lift herself up again. In vain. She barely makes it off of you, more of a grinding act, before collapsing onto you with a sharp gasp, staying impaled on your thick cock.

She whimpers another fuck, as her walls clench and flex, forcing her body to do what she wants.

It’s adorable, a sight to revel in. Struggling, mustering all the power she still has left after having most of it fingered out of her. Your hands reaching for her thighs, sweat-slicked, feeling the little movements of muscle on your palm as she forces herself to rise. They tremble violently under her weight before giving out entirely, making her sink back down with a mewl.

Giselle’s cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red, equal parts arousal and humiliation. She bites her lip, warring with herself, considering her possible actions, before finally breaking.

“Fine! Will you please fucking help me already?” she yelps, neediness exemplified.

“There we go,” you crow, immensely satisfied. “Was that so hard?”

Your grip tightens around her hips, your whole body surging forward as you take control, flipping her in one swift, fluid motion, her breath leaving her in a sharp gasp as her back hits the mattress and you cage her beneath you.

Her legs are still wrapped around your waist, but you push them up, folding them into her, making sure she feels everything, making sure she knows exactly what she just asked for.

“This is what you wanted?” you challenge, hovering over her quivering body. “Needed me to manhandle you? To hold you down and use you?”

Giselle squirms in your grip, her pupils blow wide with lust and anticipation. “Fuck yes, I need your cock to stretch me open,” she whines, straining to grind her hips against yours.

She’s being so fucking messy right, and if she gets any louder, you are both running the risk of turning this catharsis into the most humiliating moment of your life. In a desperate attempt to shut her up, you lean down, capturing her lips in a needy kiss, tongue twisting into hers, swallowing all her moans directly into your throat. When you finally pull back, you hold still for a moment, giving her an intense stare matched by her expectant gaze.

“I love you,” you tell her, raw honesty shattering the moment. Her eyes blink in shock, clearly expecting something a lot more depraved to have come out of your mouth. “I fucking love you so much, Giselle. But if you don’t control your volume, you’re going to ruin this.”

Her eyes go wide, her eyebrows shoot up, the kind of look that says “excuse me?” but her body betrays her, leaning in instead of pulling back. “Fine,” she whispers fiercely, “I love you too.”

“Now stop being a sap and fuck me like you want to break me,” she purrs, swirling and bucking her hips into your throbbing girth invitingly. “I want you to have to carry me tomorrow. I want to be limping when you’re done.”

Lust overtakes your brain, painting your vision in the color pink that you can’t help but indulge in. You line yourself up anything but carefully, slamming in, hard, brutal, like you want to break her, burying your entire length in her tight and sloppy heat. Giselle throws her head back with force, walls clamping down on you, and you can see your name spelled on her lips, ready to be cried out. She somehow bites it back, only letting a strained moan escape her.

“Yes” and “fuck” and “oh my god” are chanted deliriously at a volume you’ve both painstakingly mastered to never get caught in the past as you set a punishing pace, pumping in and out of her cunt.

You pound and pound, grunting with exertion, eyes transfixed by the irresistible sight of her voluptuous tits bouncing wildly just past her thighs with each thrust. And she notices, because Giselle knows you. And knows you love watching her tits bounce. So she does the only reasonable thing, which is to arch her back and offer herself to you as much as her strength still allows.

“I know you like watching my tits while you rail me,” she taunts, kneading them together for your viewing pleasure. Giselle loves putting on a show. “Love seeing them shake from how hard you’re pounding me? Hmm, I bet you wanna cover them in cum already, mark them as yours.”

“Fuck, keep talking,” you strain out, angling your hips to hit that perfect spot inside her that makes her see stars. 

Giselle’s eyes roll back in bliss as you pound into her g-spot, absolutely no mercy, no remorse, just brutal fucking with relentless precision. Filthy praise spills from her lips between muted cries of ecstasy. 

She looks at you for a second, hazy eyes starting to roll back as she obediently continues. “Next time, I want you to bend me over that desk and take me from behind while I struggle to stand. Spank my ass until it’s raw and pull my hair while you fuck me stupid. Leave me shaking so bad I forget my own.”

Your rhythm stutters, a guttural groan and risk of drool tearing from you at the deliciously dirty image she construed. Giselle, consistent as she is, notices immediately and grins impishly, emboldened.

“Or maybe you’d rather I ride you in front of the mirror, let you watch my ass bounce on your dick? Let you play with my tits and see how perfect we look together?”

She finds some strength again, meeting your rhythm on a one fourth beat, rolling her hips in sync with your thrusts. “I love how sexy you make me feel. Love when you look at me like you want to devour me, love being your perfect little fucktoy.”

“Keep going,” you growl through your teeth like a desperate animal, picking up the pace, getting lost in her fervor, fucking into her harder, deeper. “Tell me everything.”

“I didn’t forget that I owe you a blowjob, but how about you fuck my face and we call it even?” Giselle continues, shameless and needy not strong enough words to describe her. “Want to choke on your big cock, let you use my throat and paint my face with runny mascara and cum.”

You’re pounding into her with wild abandon, the obscene slap of flesh on flesh echoing through the room, thank fuck for your thick door. Her words inflame your lust to never before seen heights, dipping your head to latch onto one rosy nipple, sucking the sensitive bud atop her heights into your mouth.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” she drools out, punctuation getting forgotten as she grows incoherent with pleasure. “That feels so fucking good. They’re so fucking sensitive for you, please bite them, leave your marks all over me. Shit, I could cum just from you playing with my tits…”

And what are you, if not a loving boyfriend, obliging her filthy request, nipping and suckling at her flesh, determined to cover her mounds in hickeys and teeth marks. Cover her in you.  Never relenting your pace, drilling into her squelching pussy like a man possessed by a pink haired goddess. Some kind of Aphrodite.

Her cunt is practically gushing everytime you move your cock, soaking your thighs with her arousal.

“Close, I’m so fucking close,” she slurs, but not in the way that would get a themepark to close a faux landmark. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—please, I fucking need it—cum for me too, paint my fucking cervix white, breed me, fuck, knock me up, shit shit shit, I’m gonna—”

Her filthy pleas are your undoing, destructive, a siren’s call drowning you from head to hilt. The sound that escapes from you is feral as you slam into her one last time, burying yourself as deep as is physically possible and then some. Your core tightens, your hands push her thighs flat against her body in way that will leave her sore in more ways than one, as the worst idea you’ve had yet doesn’t take time to consider itself, just throbbing straight through your cock, pulsing and erupting inside her, thick spurts of cum painting her insides filling her up.

Something about being too caught up in the moment.

Giselle is soon to follow, orgasm crashing over her, this one harder than before, triggered by the new sensation of your scalding seed flooding her clenching cunt. Her eyes roll back once more, the start of your name up to the first vowel breaking through her throat, shockwaves of pleasure tearing through her quivering body.

You recognize the danger, quickly clamping a hand over her mouth, half falling into her before catching you back up with your other hand, muffling her debauched cries, Giselle being too far gone to stay quiet on her own. Her lips are wet against your palm, breath heating you up as she bucks and writhes beneath you, impaled on you making her overflow, being equally guilty with how she milks for you every last drop you have.

The world shrinks and vision narrows to just you and Giselle, overcome and lost to feeling. Feeling her, feeling yourself, feeling… alive. Your hips piston in short, sharp thrusts on instinct, working your release as deep into her trembling body as possible, driven by some naturalistic part of yourself you’ve newly reacquired, a need to claim her and fill her to the brim with your essence.

And she takes it all with desperate enthusiasm, greedily and eagerly accepting everything you give her like you’ve done this a hundred times before. You haven’t, not even once.

Her life-giving eyes are squeezed shut, cheeks flushed the same pink as her favorite brand of peach colored lipstick, features slack with untainted pleasure. She looks utterly defiled, fucked silly, like the very picture of a perfect girlfriend and her wanton debauchery.

Your cum is leaking out around your shaft, dripping down between you, staining her bedsheets—still yours, but if she’s dripping on them, it’s her problem. Knowing her, she will make an argument it’s your fault because it’s your cum. 

She’s never looked more beautiful, like an angel meant to absorb all your sins.

The aftershocks of her second crash ebb away, leaving you both panting, your hand sliding off of her mouth. Exhaustion hits all at once, causing a collapse on top of her and only bracing for a fraction of the impact on your forearms so as not to crush her. Pillowy tits caught most of the impact anyways, welcoming you gladly, trembling limbs following up and clinging to your sweat-slicked back.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, her voice hoarse but soothingly contented. “You’re carrying me tomorrow. No fucking choice. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

You chuckle, actually chuckle, or maybe it’s better described as a snicker turning into a chuckle, reintroducing Giselle to a sound she thought she lost. She immediately surges up to capture your lips, tasting the sweetness of the laughter on your mouth with sloppy abandon, all tongue and spit and residual passion. She’s grinning dopily up at you as you break apart, and it does something to you. 

She sighs, twitching beneath you. “Tch. After everything I let you do to me, all the places I said you could have made a mess of…” Her smug smirk makes an entrance as she tilts her chin down. “You just had to fill me up instead. Nice and dangerous.” Your pulse is still hammering, the implications of what you just did barely catching up to you before she derails it completely. She tilts her head, mock contemplation, but her smile is pure smug, a deadly taunt, hammering away at you. “And here I thought you wanted to see how pretty I’d look, tits covered in cum, dripping down my stomach.” Your jaw clenches, but she’s not done yet. “Or maybe,” she continues, “you wanted me on my knees, tongue out, looking up at you while I begged for it. Feel how messy I’d get swallowing everything that drips out.” She exhales, all faux-disappointment, licking her lips like she’s tasting the mere thought of you. “I get it though.” She grins, utterly fucking depraved. “It felt fucking amazing. I would have picked this too.”

“You’re insane.”

And so are you. For her. Staying like that for a moment, longer than a mere moment, just existing in the intimacy. Eventually, you pull out of her, a wet squelch announcing your physical separation.

The mixture of your combined fluids immediately starts to drip out of Giselle’s thoroughly fucked pussy as you pull out, a lewd concoction of her arousal and your thick cum. She whimpers, one eye closed, at the loss of your cock stretching her open, the sensation of your release seeping from her folds making her shiver.

There’s a sparkle of mischief in your eye, the glint indicative of the kind of challenges you and Giselle always throw at each other, and she characteristically notices, but just observes. You swipe two fingers through the mess between her thighs, coating them liberally in a layer of your shared passion.

She follows your digits through hooded lids, chest still heaving, a smirk turning into a surprised moan as you raise your slick fingers to her lips, painting them with you and her before pushing inside. Her eyes flutter shut in bliss as she eagerly accepts the offering, tongue swirling around the digits, lapping up every drop of your combined taste.

“Mmm, we taste so good together, you know?” she purrs sultrily once you withdraw your fingers with a signature Giselle pop. She opens her mouth, presenting the elixir on her tongue. “Want a taste?” You hadn’t considered it before, but half of what was in there was hers, and with a shrug of your shoulders, you dive in, kissing her haphazardly, tongue pressing against hers and swirling into a helix, tasting how good you two really come together. You pull back, and she swallows your cocktail down, proudly presenting an empty mouth.

“You do know a quick swipe isn’t enough to keep me from getting knocked up though, right stud?” She punctuates her words by clenching her walls, more of your release dripping out to pool on the sheets. “I can still feel so much of your cum inside me. We’re definitely getting plan B tomorrow, and you’re paying.”

Your cock twitches between your legs, as though being called to action. “If you keep spewing filth, I’m going to get hard again.”

“Promises, promises,” Giselle singsongs, grinning at you. She looks thoroughly well-fucked, hair a wild and pink tangle, skin covered in sweat you wouldn’t mind getting a taste of, your marks littering her breasts, throat and rearranged insides.

This is satisfaction. 

You collapse next to her on the bed, one arm slipping under her and the other over her, gathering her up into you. She comes willingly, a little joyous squeal escaping, tangling your legs together, uncaring of the sticky mess. Exertion turns into exhaustion as you listen to your racing heartbeats gradually slow and even out.

This was exactly what you needed to take your mind off of things for once, but as the high fades, reality sets back in. It feels different, something unspoken that settles over the both of you, settling into the spaces in the room where grief and love have spent the last few days battling for dominance.

Your forehead rests against hers at its most comfortable, close enough you can hear every breath as it keeps her here. Her fingers brush over your back softly, fingertips gliding idly, starkly in contrast with the frantic clawings she left earlier.

Silence falls between you, but it isn’t the kind you want to chase away. It’s the one that says it all. Not oppressive or suffocating anymore. Just… full.

You shift slightly, not because you want to leave her, something simple, the feeling of your arm starting to fall asleep, and Giselle groans. “You are not allowed to move yet.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she mutters. “Stay.”

It’s a simple request you never had any intention to ignore. But it’s the way she says it—soft, drowsy, fragile—that turns it into an impossible request to ignore.

Your face buries into the crook of her neck, planting soft kisses against her flesh, the scent of sex and sweat wrapping around you.

“I love you,” she whispers, and it's so damn near silent that you’re not sure if she said it for you to hear or for herself.

You close your eyes, settle into her and answer back anyways. “I know.”

She exhales, a snicker preluding her. “You’re supposed to say it back, asshole.”

Your lips curl into a smirk, tugging at your lips, but there’s not a trace of teasing in your voice when you respond to her a little too quickly. “I love you too.”

Her body relaxes, and yours follows suit. More silence follows, More warmth. More of just simply being.

Then, Giselle huffs and puffs, your hands automatically on her waist. “You know we’re stuck here until everybody has left, right?”

You grunt, but you don’t even bother to lift your head. “What?”

“My dress is currently in several pieces on the floor,” she remarks, no question about who the accusatory tone was meant for. “And while I am thrilled by the feral caveman display of strength, it does leave me exactly with zero options for leaving this room.”

You snort, shifting just enough to glance at the shredded fabric scattered across the floor like some ruined jigsaw puzzle. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Her gasp is clearly exaggerated, and the weak shove she gives your shoulder is a dead giveaway. “Excuse me? You did this!”

“Mm,” you hum, unconcerned with her accusation. Truth be told, you’d take any excuse to be stuck here with her forever. Still, a comeback felt deserved. “I clearly remember you telling me to ‘tear you apart’”

“That’s unfair, that was in the heat of the moment!”

“Almost everything we just did was in the heat of the moment.”

She opens her mouth faster than she can think of a clever comeback, and you can see the gears spinning in her head but not coming up with anything useful. Her mouth snaps shut, her eyes glare at you in betrayal. “I hate you.”

A familiar song and dance. “No, you don’t.”

“No,” she agrees, her shoulders dropping and releasing tension, as she nudges closer to you. “I really, really don’t.”

And you don’t feel like you’re spiraling anymore. Like the world is collapsing around you and you’d just let it. Like a husk of a man, just keeping the body alive while the mind is drifting further and further away into oblivion.

You feel… at home with her.

Her hand lifts, fingers brushing against the side of your face, undoubtedly noticing the weirdly optimistic crestfallen expression you carried. “What?” she murmurs.

Your throat tightens in its familiar constriction, but you manage to speak anyway. “My dad said something before they left.”

Giselle’s fingers still against your skin, as if bracing for impact. “Yeah?”

You swallow, inhaling like it might make this easier, but nothing can. “He said he felt better knowing I’ll have you.”

The words hang between you. Giselle stares, blinks once, and lips part slightly at their center, but nothing comes out. Not even air. Clueless on what to say to something like that, something that raw.

You sigh, resigned, but with a tinge of optimism that some might confuse for naivety in your tone. “Guess he knew what he was talking about.”

The muscles in her face loosen, and she responds with her body first. Not hesitant, not afraid, a sense of certainty and clarity guiding her.

Her fingers find familiar footing in your hair, another hand palming your jaw, warming it up and comforting you. She’s taking you in—and yesterday it would have been because she’s worried, but today it’s because she isn’t. Like she knows you, down to your very bones, exactly who you are and she’s waiting for you to realize it too.

“Right,” she breathes with ease. “You still have me.”

The words are like a magic spell, settling somewhere into the ache in your ribs, into the spaces grief left raw and you tried to dispose of, a stitch pulling on the raw flesh of an open wound, preparing it to heal.

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think there’s anything you can say to that.

You hang loose in her touch. She lets you. Lets you take your time. Because she knows.

You’re not okay.

Not yet.

But Giselle makes it feel like maybe that’s okay too.

That maybe it’s enough for now to know that you’re still here with her, that she’s saved your life twice now. And tomorrow you can take her up on all the filthy promises she’s made, but if you need to just be in her arms today, that’s fine too.

Because you still have her.

[bumblesimagines]

Common Interests

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Colonel Miles Quaritch never expected to be revived into the body of the very thing he went to war against but he adapted. Now, he can't fully understand if his new brain is making him imagine things.. like an attraction to one of the locals.

Pronouns: He/Him/His

CW/TW: Typical Avatar warnings, age gap (Quaritch's conscience is much older than (Y/N) but his body is much younger so), they match each other's freak to a degree that is dangerous to the public, Quaritch is probably a lil ooc, sexual content toward the end

~~~

A heavy sense of deja vu washed over Miles as he took in the module, now worn down from time and taken over by the forest's flora. He died, and while he had no memory of the day, the reminder settled over his shoulders like a weight.

It was hard to look away from the battle sight, too overgrown with lush plant life to hold any signs of a fight apart from the module and the AMP suit containing his bones. It chilled him when he first laid eyes on the remains of his human body, on the arrows piercing through where his chest had been. 

Looking at it now filled him with anger and the delicious heat of revenge. Killing Jake Sully would be an eye for an eye, in his opinion. It wasn't his problem Jake had disposed of his human body.

"This.. 'friend' of yours," Miles cleared his throat and tore his eyes away from the AMP suit to eye the feral child, his feral child by all means. Spider glanced at him. "Any idea when, or if, he'll show up?" There's a bite to his words. Patience wasn't one of his virtues.

Spider only swallowed and turned his back to him, the blue stripes painted along his arms humorous if not pitying. He was beginning to believe this 'friend' was a ruse, some lie conjured up in hopes that the Sullys would take notice and fly to his rescue. The tension in the air amongst his squad members told him they thought similarly, and the last thing Miles wanted was getting further on General Ardmore's bad side. His stunt with the scientists had left a notable bad taste in her mouth.

His head tilted curiously when Spider took a deep inhale, half-expecting a scream for help to leave his short body, but instead, Spider made a call of sorts. It sounded odd, likely due to his vocal cords being unlike a Na'vi's but it echoed through the forest nonetheless. Everyone held their breaths, ears twitching and flicking wildly as they examined the gigantic branches stretched out all around them. Miles waited, his muscles tense. A distant call echoed back and the clanking of soldiers grabbing their guns followed.

Spider's hands shot up, his eyes flying wide open in panic. It almost tugged on Miles's heartstrings. "Don't shoot him! I told you- he isn't with the Omatikaya!"

"You never told us why," Wainfleet mentioned stiffly, his hold on his assault rifle unrelenting. "He could be a cannibal for all we know."

"He's not- What?" Spider made a face, his blonde eyebrows knitting together in disbelief. Wainfleet shrugged. "He's not a cannibal. He was exiled for- for-" Spider swallowed again, nervous this time and even a little sheepish. "For making an attempt on Jake's life." 

Now that had Miles's attention, and his body reacted accordingly. His ears perked and twitched forward with interest and a throaty chuckle vibrated in his throat. "Is that so?" One of his canines dug lightly into his lip, half-eager and half-amused. Of course, his kid would befriend someone banished for attempted murder. 

A feeling of being watched suddenly bore into his back and he whipped around, one hand grabbing his rifle but the sharp inhale from Spider made him hesitant to raise it. His eyes studied the surrounding treeline, more adept and better than his human eyes but the Na'vi of the forest were raised to stalk their prey without being seen. An excited chill jittered up his spine. 

A little too late for his liking, Miles caught sight of the figure before a blur of blue jumped down into the small clearing, landing on the ground with a soft thump no human ears would've picked up. The soldiers whirled around and bristled at the sight of the unfamiliar Na'vi as he slowly rose from his hunches, those almost cat-like eyes studying them intently.

"(Y/N)!" Spider shouted, the relief in his voice immense.

(Y/N)'s ear twitched at the sound of his voice and before anyone could blink, Spider ducked past Miles and straight for him. There were shouts, ones that Miles silenced with a raised hand, and the soldiers reluctantly grew still. Spider essentially threw himself at the Na'vi, though his small human weight barely even swayed him. (Y/N)'s tail coiled. 

"Vrrtep 'eveng." He murmured, his hand comically large when he placed it over Spider's shoulder. Miles felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest watching Spider press his mask as close as possible into (Y/N)'s abdomen, seeking comfort and reminding him of just how young he still was. (Y/N)'s fingers pressed into his shoulder blades and then promptly tugged Spider away, his face neutral.

It only then registered what he'd called Spider. Demon child.

Miles found himself unable to tear his eyes away from his kid. "He speak English?"

Spider's mouth opened to respond but Miles caught the irritated tail swish and found his question answered. "He can." (Y/N)'s voice was accented, similar to the accent of Sully's wife, but it somehow sounded more pleasing coming from him. Perhaps the history between Miles and the Sullys ran too bitter for him to see any beauty in the family. (Y/N)'s eyes dropped back to Spider. "You are with dreamwalkers. Why?"

Before Spider could answer, or potentially plead to be saved and ruin everything, Miles took a step forward and lifted his hands away from his weapons. "I have an understandin' you and Jake Sully, the man your people call 'Toruk Makto', are at odds." (Y/N) stared at him. Right, right, human phrases and sayings weren't at the top of the school's list of things to teach the Na'vi. "You don't like him."

(Y/N)'s lip curled upward into a smirk, and the fact he looked unbothered by all the weapons pointed at him made Miles like him already.

"JakeSully is a vrrtep, a demon amongst the People. A false idol." (Y/N)'s features hardened then, ears pinned back and everything. Spider suddenly looked uncomfortable. "He stole everything from my brother. Tsu'tey should have been Olo'eyktan. Neytiri was meant to be his mate. JakeSully took it all from him, and then killed him. Him being Toruk Makto means little to me. He is.. vermin."

"You're preachin' to the goddamn choir, kid." That little furrowed brow look appeared on his face again but Miles continued. He could feel his canines pressing into his lip from how wide he grinned. "Jake Sully is a vermin, but he's a vermin I mean to kill." 

(Y/N)'s tail raised and coiled slightly so Miles interpreted it as a sign of interest. He took a moment to study the Na'vi standing before him, the Na'vi his son seemed to prefer over him. Miles couldn't blame him; he'd be apprehensive after all the shit the scientists put him through too.

Like all other Na'vi, (Y/N) was tall and lithe and sported as little clothing as possible which Miles tried not to focus on too hard. There was a scar along his forearm a paler blue than his skin but it appeared to be in the process of fading. A wound from the war, Miles assumed. His eyes captivated him the most though. 

His eyes were pretty, but his stare was intense—not intense in the angry or aggravated way of the Sullys or even Spiders, but in a predatory way. He watched them like a lion would a herd of gazelles when contemplating whether to leave them alone or go on the prowl. His stare was confident and calm while simultaneously intimidating, filling Miles with a thrill.

"We need to become more like the Na'vi, like you, in order to locate and terminate Jake Sully." 

Spider glanced up at (Y/N), his hands twitching as if he wanted to toss his arms around him again. "He means becoming an ikran rider." 

(Y/N) blinked at that and for the first time, he looked utterly bewildered. "You are not ready."

"Kid," Miles lightly scoffed and exchanged glances with the rest of his squad. "We're soldiers- warriors, if you will. We're more than ready for anythin'." 

"We were born ready." Wainfleet asserted cockily, a light pleased chuckle rumbling in his throat, but (Y/N) remained unconvinced. 

He stepped forward toward Miles in a long stride, and the air, which had been lightening up, tensed again. Z-Dog shuffled forward, nearly pushing her rifle close to his face, but he merely hissed at her, all canines and briefly flattened ears. It was a simple warning, based on how swiftly his features relaxed afterward.

"Leave him." Miles barked and she begrudgingly backed off.

Being in an avatar body gave him the advantage of equal footing with the Na'vi, and his self-assurance showed when he allowed (Y/N) to draw closer. (Y/N) eyed him from head to toe, his stare scrutinizing. To Miles's surprise, (Y/N) took his hand in his and studied it, lightly pinching the finger his own hand lacked. His touch was equally surprising: gentle, mindful, almost cautious. He hummed softly and trailed his attention upward until it stopped on the ink covering his bicep, tracing the outline of the bird with his eyes.

"It's an eagle-" 

(Y/N) dropped his hand, uninterested. "It is ugly."

Miles stared at him in surprise and felt some heat lick up his neck when his ears caught the stifled snickers behind him from his squad. He shot them a withering glare and they quickly silenced themselves, even straightening up and adjusting their hold on their weapons. Fuckin' Morons.

(Y/N) circled him, his eyes raking all over his body and lingering on his rifle when he appeared at Miles's other side. His curiosity was understandable; Miles often wondered what other differences there were between the natives and avatars besides the obvious. His hand reached behind Miles and carefully took his braid into his hand, the feeling alone sending a jolt up his spine.

He'd received an obligatory lesson on his avatar body, its limits and functions, all that jazz. He was beginning to think that maybe he should've paid closer attention to the parts he deemed useless for the mission. He'd probably know why his body was reacting so strongly to a mere touch. 

"You have kurus, you may perform tsaheylu." (Y/N) dragged his palm along the braid, the sensation making the air catch in Miles's throat though it seemingly went unnoticed. It was an odd sensation, one he couldn't describe. It sent shivers dancing along his spine and made his lungs struggle to breathe. (Y/N) stopped at the bottom and raised it so the others could see the wriggling tendrils. "You will need tsaheylu to bond with an ikran." 

"What's it like? This, uh, tsahehu shit."

(Y/N) glared at Wainfleet and Miles tugged his braid free, air finally flowing into his lungs with ease. "Tsaheylu is a bond. You will feel the ikran.. you will feel each beat from its heart, every breath it takes, every emotion it feels, any pain it endures.. and it will feel you, too. Once tsaheylu is established, the ikran will be bonded with you until death." 

The information settled over the squad and Miles gave a thoughtful hum, his fingertips lightly scratching his chin and eyes dragging down to (Y/N)'s 'kuru'. His hand raised to grasp it, curious to see how it'd affect the Na'vi, but (Y/N) snatched his wrist and held it hard in his hand before it could inch any closer to his braid. Miles's jaw clenched with a flare of irritation. 

"Tsaheylu is only performed in adulthood when you choose the person you wish to be mated for life with. It is serious. It is the strongest bond you will ever have with another." (Y/N) squeezed his wrist and narrowed his eyes. "Kurus are not toys."

"You mind lettin' me go, kid?" His teeth bared until his wrist was released from his tight grip and his nostrils flared with a sharp inhale. "Let me make myself very clear here, (Y/N). You and I, we fought on opposite sides of the same damn war. We may have a common enemy but you and I sure as shit ain't friends. We need a Na'vi, a real Na'vi, and you are as real as it gets. I respect your loyalty to your brother and what you tried doin' in his honor but I am Colonel Quaritch. You will treat me with some goddamn respect, understood?"

(Y/N) leaned in despite the already close distance between their faces, their noses just a hair away from brushing. The intensity in his eyes heightened, not a speck of fear in them or a tremble in his body. Most would have had wobbly knees from his tone alone. Miles's eyes unwillingly lowered to the constellation of lightly glowing white freckles scattered across his face and found himself startled when he considered the beauty of his features. 

That wasn't right.

Na'vi were strange, alien creatures who he typically found unattractive in every aspect but their admirable courage. He supposed becoming an avatar and living in a body that largely resembled them flipped a switch in his head, made him unconsciously reconsider how he saw them.

(Y/N)'s flat nose, round eyes, pierced ears, striped markings, and sharp canines no longer looked unnatural. It made him uncomfortable to realize but he was too stubborn to lean back or look away from him. He was a Colonel, goddamnit.

"You are vrrtep, too, like JakeSully. Your existence-" (Y/N) cocked his head to the side, his breath hot on Miles's face. "-disgusts me." 

(Y/N) leaned back, his chin slightly tucked and his unblinking stare challenging, silently encouraging Miles to test him. Miles felt tempted to; he wanted to strangle him or slam his knuckles into his nose, something, anything, just to put the fear of god in him and finally feel an ounce of respect from him.. another part wanted to squeeze his flesh and learn how he tasted. Miles hadn't expected the latter, and it made him worry for his sanity. Had it really been that long since he last gotten laid?

"You've got some balls on you, kid." He finally managed. 

(Y/N)'s hairless brows twitched downward, confused again. It was startling how easily he switched from murderous and eager to fight to then having innocent puzzlement over common human phrases. His mouth formed a frown and his eyes flickered to Spider questioningly, his tail flickering from side to side like a whip.

Spider sighed heavily, obviously discontent with the newfound alliance, however unstable it was. "It means he thinks you're brave."

(Y/N) hummed and looked the slightest bit satisfied, the corners of his mouth twitching up before it smoothed back out into a neutral expression. His shoulders straightened and he roamed his eyes over the rest of the squad, his eyes flickering around to study each of them and their bodies.

"Come then, we will see what Ewya thinks of your desire to ride her ikrans." 

When the opinionated and often grating Dr. Augustine was still around running her little avatar program, Miles paid little mind to her discoveries on Na'vi culture. His job was training each soldier that came to Pandora and ensuring they had a fighting chance when they ventured past the walls of Hell's Gate, not keeping up with sleep-deprived, yapping little scientists who more often got in the way. Now.. well, as much as he hated admitting it, maybe he should've done some more research on what going full Na'vi would entail. 

"You're fucking with us." Z-Dog breathed, uttering the words on everyone's minds as they stared up at the floating islands that made up part of the Hallelujah Mountains. The small clusters of rock and foliage floated above them, connected by roots and vines that extended up and through the clouds. "We're going up there.. on foot?"

(Y/N) grinned, his canines gleaming in the sunlight as Spider snickered under his breath. "You are climbing. Spider will lead the way."

Z-Dog scoffed. "And what the hell are you going to do?"

"Fly." 

Tilting his head toward the skies, (Y/N) made two distinctive calls, stronger and smoother than the call Spider had made but with a harder click of his tongue. The familiar shriek of an ikran responded and the squad took tentative steps back when the winged beast appeared through the clouds. It landed before them and gave its long body a hard shake, little chirps coming from her parted jaws.

"Do not look her in the eye. She will take it as a challenge." (Y/N) instructed with amusement, his palm gently running along her long neck. A soft noise rumbled in her chest and her four golden eyes fluttered shut. "Her name is Tìlor. We flew into battle together against the sawtute years ago."

Tìlor was a pretty girl. A mix of lavender and aqua-blue collided along her leathery body with navy blue markings covering her from snout to tail. The talons at the end of each dragonfly-like wing tapped gently against the ground, helping her move as she shifted around to peer up into the skies.

(Y/N)'s hand moved to carefully grasp one of the kurus protruding from her temples, moving it so he could connect his own with hers. Her body shivered and her pupils dilated briefly before her head affectionately bumped into his abdomen. 

"I will meet you on Mons Veritatis." He told them as he climbed onto the saddle fastened to her back. His grin sharpened into something cruel when he looked at them. "A fall from this height will kill you. Mind your step." 

 Tìlor swiftly took off into the sky with a shriek, her movements swift and graceful as they circled the main roots attached to the ground that led to the first floating rock before they disappeared beyond the clouds. Spider moved quickly, effortlessly climbing onto the roots and walking up without hesitance. 

"C'mon." Miles huffed, adjusting his rifle so it rested along his back and setting his boot over the root to test its sturdiness. It was long and thicker than his body but the bottom of his shoe slipped on the moss. He sighed and reached down to undo the laces of his boots. "We can't let some Na'vi outshine us, can we?"

The climb to Mons Veritatis was treacherous. Each time he looked up, more floating islands appeared above them, more spread out and dangerous than the last. Spider climbed as if he'd done the journey a million times before, even leaping from island to island and swinging from vines as if he were only a few feet from the ground and not climbing through clouds. His arms burned and ached like hell by the time they reached the mountain the ikrans called home, his blue skin shining with sweat and air leaving him in small huffs. 

Spider barely looked out of breath. 

He led them to the rookery, a cliff along the side of the mountain covered in thick vegetation with untamed ikrans scattered across the surface in an ocean of vibrant colors. Ikrans shrieked and growled at the sight of them, and those closest to where they walked shuffled away or flew off to settle somewhere else. Tìlor landed beside them and snapped at a nearby ikran, a youngling that darted into the sky in fright.

(Y/N) hopped off her back and reached out to grab the muzzle of the tranquilizer gun Wainfleet tried setting up. "You wish to be like Na'vi, you will do this like Na'vi. JakeSully's children have completed iknimaya with no weapons. You are adults." He effortlessly tugged the gun from Wainfleet's hands, his tail flicking with a hint of annoyance. His gaze turned toward Miles and the corner of his mouth raised mockingly. "Unless you are afraid, vrrtep." 

Miles's jaw twitched and he inhaled slowly through his nose. He was playing right into (Y/N)'s game and he knew it but his pride refused to let him be so openly mocked. "Alright," He rose from his hunches to be at eye level with him and he slipped his rifle free from his back to hand it over to Mansk. "How is this done, tough guy?"

"You do not choose an ikran, an ikran chooses you." His eyes suddenly brightened and his tail wiggled with a barely contained thrill, his sharp little canines digging into his bottom lip. He looked positively excited, in an almost deranged way. "It will try to kill you." 

Miles smirked, a laugh rumbling in the back of his throat. "Now, ain't that somethin'."

Bridgehead City's nothing compared to the forest encircling it that the machines slowly chip away at. All metal and concrete instead of soft dirt and towering trees, clanging and whirring of machines instead of soft calls and branches rustling, cold AC air blasting inside the buildings instead of the warm air outside. 

(Y/N) obtained a permanent nose crinkle the moment the chopper landed, and he hardly seemed impressed at the fact he had to breathe from a mask every few minutes when they finally escaped the machines working outside. His ears twitched in every direction and his eyes narrowed at every stare he received from stunned or petrified workers.

If he sported the outfit the Recoms wore instead of the beaded jewelry and little loincloth of the clans, he may have passed for one of them, but Miles figured he'd refuse to even put socks on; it took ages to convince him to visit Bridgehead, to begin with. His tail whipped irritability and Miles hoped Spider's quiet explanations of everything kept his temper in check. 

"Pull up the footage we've got on Jake Sully's attacks," Miles ordered, his hands coming to rest on his hips. He waited a moment for the footage to be projected but everyone in the room was frozen still. Nobody moved, nobody even breathed. What a bunch of pansies. "Am I talkin' to my-damn-self?" 

The nearest person to the control panel quickly reached over and tapped on the smooth panel that lit up briefly at her touch before she shrunk back into her chair as projections of the footage appeared. (Y/N) stepped forward, eyeing the technology curiously as he took a sip of air from his mask. 

"Jake Sully's attacks are well-coordinated," Miles admitted somewhat reluctantly, watching choppers explode from missiles shot by stolen weapons and the muted cries of soldiers struck by arrows longer than their bodies.

(Y/N) propped his leg up on an empty chair, the action so casual he could've been mistaken for a cocky Recom. Miles's eyes naturally drifted back to him and he felt his lip quirk. The Na'vi seemed to have an instinct to perch on things, something Spider picked up like a habit. The teen mimicked (Y/N) and crossed his arms over his chest, though he looked like he hardly cared for the footage.

"He was sawtute before he was uniltìrantokx. He claimed to be a warrior and he wielded your weapons effortlessly during the Battle of Ayram Alusìng." (Y/N) craned his head over his shoulder to look at him. "This does not surprise me." 

"The Na'vi fight-" 

"What the hell is this, Colonel?" 

General Ardmore's voice vibrated through the room, sharp and tense and dripping with controlled fury. Those in the room familiar with her stiffened immediately, more tense than they were when (Y/N) entered the room. Her bright blue eyes flickered wildly between the Na'vi and Miles, disbelief on her face first before the irritation returned in the form of a scowl.

"This is (Y/N)." Miles drawled casually, knowing it'd grate on her nerves. He still had to wrap his head around no longer being the top dog around the base. "He's an Omatikaya exile; he nearly killed Jake Sully." 

"So, you thought you'd just bring your new pet here to Bridgehead?" General Ardmore laughed humorlessly, her jaw visibly clenching. (Y/N) stared at her blankly, his tail twitching once with disinterest before he returned his attention to the projections. "Colonel-"

"We fought the Na'vi blindly once and lost because Jake Sully knew our ways. We need someone who knows how Sully and his wife work, how they think and act as Na'vi." Miles explained, his boots thumping against the floor until his body was between (Y/N) and the other humans with holstered weapons. "He's already proven useful, General."

"We aren't here to make friends, Colonel." General Ardmore spoke through near-gritted teeth, her eyes briefly fluttering shut in exasperation. "You know our new objective." 

"He's useful to our current objective, General. He's been trained to fight by the Na'vi since he was a kid and he despises Jake Sully. Trust me on this one, I know what I'm doin'." 

General Ardmore remained silent for a long while, her nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed into slits. Her chest rose with a deep inhale and she gave a firm nod, her eyes alone threatening him before she turned her back to him. "If he becomes a problem, you will neutralize him."

"Understood." 

(Y/N)'s curiosity of Bridgehead was limited. He seemed more disturbed than intrigued as they ventured down brightly lit halls and bustling rooms, disgusted grunts leaving him when the smell of perfume or cologne wafted through the air. His face alternated between scrunched up and blank but his tail moved by its own accord. More than once, Miles felt it tap along his leg or begin to curl around it before it jerked away. Eventually, it curled around Spider's arm and Miles realized he'd been seeking something to comfort him. 

It was sobering. All his memories of the Na'vi were violent: the consistent attacks on their machinery and soldiers throughout his years on the planet, Jake and Dr. Augustine's betrayal, the war against them where human numbers dropped considerably, his gruesome death at the hands of Neytiri. (Y/N) was feral, untamed and unpredictable, but the flickers of a caring side and the confusion over phrases reminded him he wasn't a mindless creature set on making his life more taxing.

Miles was beginning to loathe him. There was nothing more he despised than being conflicted over someone. He always knew what he wanted.

"You and I need to have a chat, kid," Miles said, his fist tapping against one of the panels by one of the wide doors leading into the sector specifically designed for the Recoms and their towering bodies. The doors slid open with a low hiss and he glanced over his shoulder at Spider. "Alone." 

"But-" 

"Fike and Z-Dog here will keep you company." 

With one last grin, he stepped through the doors and nodded for (Y/N) to follow. He did, albeit begrudgingly, and raised his ears when the doors slid shut and a soft whir turned on to replace the air with one they could breathe without help from the masks.

The second set of doors opened once done and Miles led him through the recreation room. From the chairs to the tables to the gym equipment on the far side of the room, everything had been specifically designed for them and easily dwarfed anything human-sized. 

(Y/N) still looked unimpressed. He was likely used to the vibrancy of the forest, the bright colors and open space that felt neverending. Bridgehead was dull in comparison, lifeless it if weren't for the residents adding splashing of color to it with their appearances. Miles wondered how long it'd take for him to adapt, if he could at all.

He stopped briefly in front of another set of automatic doors that slid open to reveal his room and entered, waiting for (Y/N) to step inside before tapping on the pad to lock the doors. His room was nothing to ogle at. Plain white walls, plain gray floors, a neatly made bed avatar-sized pressed against the wall, a metal nightstand with a forgotten cup of coffee, a desk with a tablet and lamp, a closet built into the wall. It wasn't much but it was home, and he had it all to himself unlike some of his soldiers who had to share bunks. 

"You.. live here?" (Y/N)'s lips curled when he nodded. "My cave is more welcoming than this. This is... sad."

Miles chuckled under his breath, lightly scratching his temple before he approached his desk to pick up the tablet. "We will begin our search for Jake Sully and his family in soon. He's gone beyond the forest, possibly to the islands across the eastern sea. What clans live out there?" His fingers tapped on the screen, searching the data of the closest whaling vessels that could help them narrow down their search. 

"The Tayrangi, Ta'unui, and Metkayina clans live throughout the eastern sea." There was the sound of springs softly creaking and he raised his head to find (Y/N) lying on his bed, chin propped over his arms and tail raised high in the air. He blinked at him, his eyes trailing over the stripes along his back until they stopped over the curve of his ass. "The Tayrangi live on the mainland but fish in the seas. They are too close. JakeSully would have gone further." 

"Right." His voice sounded strained. Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him?

"The Ta'unui and Metkayina clans live on the reefs." (Y/N)'s eyes gravitated toward him, his ears raising and twitching. Miles swore his lips twisted into a knowing smirk. "Far, far from here. You will have to learn how to ride better if you wish to fly across the sea. You risk much without experience."

"Well, ain't it good you're here, then?" Miles set the tablet aside, his original task forgotten in favor of approaching the bed with slow steps. (Y/N) watched him and lowered his tail until it thumped softly over the mattress. "I'm afraid we can't keep headin' out to the forest whenever we need 'cha, kid. You're hard to find, hard to track. Until we head out to find Jake Sully, you'll have to stay here in Bridgehead."

(Y/N) moved onto his knees, his eyes narrowing and ears pressing back tight against his skull. "No." 

"I wasn't askin'." 

(Y/N)'s tail moved like a whip, quick and hard. It slammed into the ceramic coffee cup and sent it flying into the wall where it shattered into pieces, the leftover coffee adding a brown stain to the wall as it dripped down onto the floor. His tail grew still afterward and his head cocked to the side challengingly again. Miles's mouth drew into a line. The silence was loud. He needed to get the buzzing out of his system.

His hand darted out and grabbed the back of (Y/N)'s head before he tugged him close enough to slam their mouths together. (Y/N) stiffened briefly before his tense muscles relaxed, the sharp whoosh of his tail swaying hard from side to side filling Miles's ears. His fingers dug into Miles's shoulders tightly, purposefully, and he allowed Miles to invade his mouth with a muffled hum. (Y/N) tasted tart and tangy, like one of the fruits he favored.

Miles dropped his free hand to his belt and fiddled with it until he could pop the button of his pants and feel them droop around his hips. He shoved them further down his thighs and left them to pool around his ankles, a grunt vibrating in his throat when (Y/N) bit his bottom lip and drew blood.

His hand reared back, a sting erupting along his palm when it made contact with (Y/N)'s behind. He swallowed the startled noise (Y/N) made and dragged him close enough for their chests to press firmly together. (Y/N)'s tail smacked against his thigh like a whip, hard and fast enough to have the effect of one. 

"You're a real piece of work, ain'tcha?" Miles chuckled huskily, the pain only adding to the heat flowing through his veins and making his briefs unbearably tight.

His tongue pressed against the small cut on his lip, the rusty metallic of blood dancing on his tongue before he dropped his hands down to the back of (Y/N)'s thighs and tugged on them to topple the Na'vi onto the mattress. A huff of surprise left (Y/N) but before he could prop himself up onto his elbows, Miles dragged him until his hips were almost off the bed. He tugged on the loincloth impatiently and tossed it aside blindly, his knees thumping loudly against the metal once he dropped to his knees. 

The way (Y/N) blinked down at him in bewilderment made him grin wolfishly. "Just wanna get a taste, is all." 

This body was new, young, and had the sensitivity of a virgin (which it technically was) but his mind had fifty-one years of experience sleeping with men and women on Earth and Pandora. He often preferred women, preferred the plushness of breasts over pecs, but he'd never been one to let an opportunity pass him by, especially not with his body reacting so strongly to the puzzled Na'vi. 

The last person he recalled being with had been Paz, Spider's mother. The surprise that came with her pregnancy left him taking a silent vow of celibacy while he wrapped his head around being a father, along with avoiding her as if she had the plague. He regretted it now but it was something of the past, unchangeable.

(Y/N) let out a noise of confusion when Miles spread him and then a startled, strangled gasp when his tongue prodded at him. One had to wonder how many times he'd been with someone else intimately. Miles laughed under his breath and began lapping like a starved animal, licking and prodding. He shoved his briefs down his thighs to free himself and felt himself twitch when he delicately pushed one finger past the rim. (Y/N)'s legs caged around his head immediately and he hummed, pressing his cheek into his thigh.

"Breathe, sweetheart." He called, grin lazy and voice teasing. "You ain't ever done this before, huh?" 

"Tanfwìngtu." (Y/N)'s tail smacked his thigh again, this time gentler. His face had flushed a deeper shade of blue and his chest moved with heavy pants. Reducing a would-be killer to a flustered mess made Miles's head spin and ego inflate. "You-"

Miles drew back and then pushed a second digit, mouth curling into a pleased grin when (Y/N)'s back arched off the bed. "Don't bite the hand that feeds now. I'm being nice, aren't I?" He moved his fingers at an even pace, ears absorbing each soft squelch and every noise flowing from (Y/N)'s mouth. "Is this how Jake tamed his wild woman?"

(Y/N) grunted and reached down, his fingers curling along the short hairs and firmly tugging. Miles nipped at his thigh in warning but (Y/N) simply tugged again, a breathy chuckle huffing into the air that made Miles's ears flick forward. He moved upward, flattening his tongue at the base of (Y/N)'s twitching length and dragging it along until he reached the spurting tip.

"Ain't this a pretty thing?" He laughed and (Y/N) scoffed. 

Miles had never paid much attention to his cock, other than when he was taking a piss or relieving himself of some stress with his hand, but if he had, he would've realized the difference in appearance. He'd expected something similar to human anatomy, and it mostly was, but (Y/N)'s twitching cock was in an ombre color: a light blue at the tip that slowly faded into the deep blue that covered the rest of his body. Little white freckles were scattered across it, glowing faintly with each shiver that went up his spine. 

Miles grinned wildly as he slipped his fingers out and listened to the strangled whine that followed, his tail flicking and coiling blissfully. "I gotcha, I gotcha, don't worry." He adjusted himself, pushing at his rim until the tip popped inside and he released a low hiss at the overwhelming warmth. He leaned over (Y/N) and pressed a biting kiss to his collarbone. "See what happens when you comply?"

"Skxawng," (Y/N) reached around and firmly wrapped his fingers around Miles's braid, grinning wickedly when Miles's body shivered. He tugged on it and Miles's hips jerked forward, a low groan and curse tumbling past his lips. A soft, near-purr-like noise rumbled in (Y/N)'s chest. "I will never follow orders from a vrrtep."

"Yeah?" Miles steadied himself, sinking his knees into the mattress and finding himself pleasantly surprised when (Y/N)'s legs curled around his waist. He could feel the coolness of the beaded jewelry rub against him through his shirt, pressing and leaving circular imprints. "We'll see about that."

If he'd come to learn anything since meeting the Na'vi beneath him, it was that he could handle just about anything. He pressed an uncharacteristically delicate kiss to his jawline and planted one hand by his head, fisting the sheets into his hand and offering one last crooked grin. His hips snapped forward, bottoming out and relishing both the warm squeeze and the feeling of (Y/N) biting roughly into his shoulder.

He groaned into his twitching ear and tried to focus all his attention on the knot in his lower belly. He'd done far too much teasing to end up squirting early like a teen boy during his first time. The concept of virginity and early release was likely nonexistent to the locals who barely batted an eye at nudity, but it'd be mortifying if any of the blabbermouths he worked with found out.

Miles evened out his breathing and grunted softly when (Y/N) released his shoulder, his unfocused vision turning to peer down at him. His hand had curled around Miles's wrist, tight as if he were holding on for dear life, but what Miles found most endearing (aside from the hint of blood smeared on the corner of his mouth) was the feeling of their tails curled together. "I gotcha." He repeated softly and, with slightly pursed lips, (Y/N) gave a small nod. 

When he took a second too long to act, (Y/N)'s ears flicked back. "Move." 

Miles huffed out a short laugh. "So bossy." 

But Miles did as asked and began snapping his hips, rough and hard just as he always liked it. His mind blanked and an almost guttural groan rushed out, mixing with the whines and moans of (Y/N) writhing beneath him.

His arm gave out so he braced himself on his forearm instead, his other hand dipping down to grip (Y/N)'s hip and keep him firmly in place. Miles buried his face into his neck, inhaling the scent of the forest still clinging to his skin and dragging his tongue over one of the stripes there. 

(Y/N)'s cheek pressed against his head, his hot panting making Miles's ear twitch annoyingly but when he nuzzled into him, obviously delirious, Miles felt his heart stutter in his chest. The knot in his lower belly tightened and only prompted him to drill into him faster, his fingers digging into his skin harder and canines grazing over his skin. (Y/N)'s noises were reduced to babbling Miles couldn't understand, though he assumed it was cursing, and breathless gasps forced out of him with each thrust. 

"C'mon, baby," Miles roughly kissed his throat, nipping it lightly after, and pulled back to eye the watery glaze over (Y/N)'s half-lidded eyes. He released his hip and wrapped his hand around his speckled length, giving it a few pumps until (Y/N) was squeezing the life right out of him. "Jesus."

With a cry, (Y/N) arched up into him and spurted all over his hand, staining Miles's olive green shirt in the process. Miles's rutting grew messy, his thighs quivering and threatening to give out on him. He pressed his mouth against (Y/N)'s again in a sloppy kiss and he let out a long, muffled groan when he finally felt the knot snap. His body slumped over (Y/N) and his arms wrapped around him firmly, keeping him from slipping out of reach.

"How's that for a vrrtep?"

"Could have been better." (Y/N) muttered tiredly, his fingers lightly dancing along Miles's braid. 

Miles snorted. "Fuckin' brat."

[satsugacafe]

𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐀𝐔: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞

➳❥ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: Jugram Haschwalth, Ishida Uryu, Aizen Sosuke

➳❥ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: Hello! If it isnt too much trouble could you do a soulmate au for jugram, uryu, and aizen(separately)? Thank you���️

➳❥ 𝐀/𝐍: I did not expect to write so much for this, but then again, I was deeply invested in this AU >.< I love these types of AUs. Round star dividers were from my dear friend @/edensrose

➳❥ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭: How each character meet or connect with you, their soulmate, through the unique bond you share.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾ Jugram Haschwalth — Colourblind

He didn’t believe in soulmates. The idea of being bound and destined to a stranger was fickle, not when he had more pressing matters at hand, like tending to His Majesty. Giving himself to someone else and dedicating his life to be devoted was unheard of—there was only one person he was devoted to, and it belonged to the man who saved his life and gave him purpose. Not you. Not some random person who would enter his life in a sweeping moment and flip everything upside down.

And you did. When he saw the world in black and white, how else was he to perform his duties to the fullest? He needed you as his other half to be that addition to his bleak life—no matter how hard he refused to accept, he needed you.

There you were, standing atop a hill, overseeing the city below like a sentinel with a look on concentration on your face. One moment he staring at the muted tones of you, and the next, he was staring at the shade your hair flickered under the sun and the colour of your shocked eyes when they landed on him. He felt disoriented at the sudden sharpness of the world around him, especially you.

He knew it meant. Part of him wanted to reject, the other part wanted to keep you to himself, like some sacred treasure that gave him his sight back.

“Quincy, huh?” Came your first words to him. They weren’t filled with disgust or animosity like he expected, instead, interest—pure, genuine interest. “Would have never guess it.”

You were his soulmate. The person meant to complete him. The one thing he was supposed to cherish above all else. And you were a Shinigami.

His enemy.

His duty was to Yhwach had always bee absolute. The Quincies had waged war against the Shinigami for centuries, and now fate had bound him to you—tied his very sigh, his very world, to your existence. It was cruel. And yet…

He did not want to let you go. That realisation sent a sharp pang through his chest. His hand twitched at his side, fingers aching to reach for you despite himself. He opened his mouth to speak, shut it, then opened it again, hand curling around the hilt of his sword as if waiting for the inevitable. “You do not appear displeased?”

You scoffed at his hesitation. “You could have been an Espada—didn’t matter. You’re my soulmate, clear as daylight, no pun intended.” Strolling down the hill to stand a few feet away from him, you folded your arms. “And I’ve been waiting a damn long time for you to give me my sight.”

He felt himself smiling, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. Your words clearly struck a cord of similarity within. Slackening his hand on his sword, he let it fall at his side, his fingers twitching at the lack of holding something. “Now that it has returned, what do you want?”

You blinked, brows lifting at his directness. A beat passed, then—

“Wow,” you exhaled, shaking your head. “You really aren’t the romantic type, huh?”

He stiffened slightly. “I don’t see how—”

“Not even a ‘where have you been all my life’ or a ‘you’re my missing half’?” you cut in with a teasing grin. “No sweeping me off my feet? No dramatic declaration of undying love? Nothing? Damn…”

“This is not a game,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“Never said it was,” You tilted your head, studying him with an intensity that sent a shiver through him. Then, after a pause, you exhaled in defeat. “But if you’re the brooding type—the whole ‘my duty comes first, I can’t have a soulmate’ thing—then just say so.”

His fingers curled into fist. Yous saw right through him.

Your gaze searched his, patient, waiting. But Jugram had no answer to give. He didn’t know what he wanted. You were an impossibility, something he should reject, something he should let go.

And yet—

You took his silence for your answer and slumped your shoulders with an almost saddened look in your eyes. “Got it,” you murmured and slowly turned on your heel to depart. “I’ll, uh—I’ll take my leave then. No hard feelings.”

But something twisted violently in him. His hand shot out before he could stop himself, fingers curling around your wrist. The warmth of your skin against his was nearly scorching. His heartbeat roared in his ears, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should let you go. But he couldn’t.

“…Don’t go,” he whispered with a mix of a command and plea. “I…”

You smiled at him, reassuring and understanding. You saw the internal conflict. Lifting your free hand to brush lightly over the back of his where he still held your wrist, he tightened his hold, not wanting to let go.

“Why don’t we start off simple if you’re unsure, then?” you suggested and turned to face him, chest to chest. “A name wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’m Y’N.”

His hold on your wrist tightened as he took an unconscious step forward, closing the gap. Before he could stop himself, his lips parted to respond to your simple call—a response that would spiral him into your world. “…Jugram.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jugram. I’ve been waiting for you for quite a while.”

He gulped, feeling his heart fluttering erratically, because deep down, so was he.

☾ Ishida Uryu — Shared Pain & Skin-writing

Uryu winched, his fingers tightening around the book he had been reading, the sudden sharp sting in his knee jolting him from his thoughts. It was a familiar pain, one he had felt countless times before, but this time, after months of silence, it struck him like an accusation.

You had done that on purpose.

For the past three months, he had managed to push down the instinct to reach for you. To pick up a pen and scrawl something against his skin just to see you answer. He had been trying—struggling—to keep his distance. Not because he wanted to, but because his world had become more dangerous than ever. He had been thrown into the midst of something you had no right to be involved in, something he didn’t want to lose you to. And yet, even after all this time, you still wanted to talk to him. Still reached for him, even when he had made no effort to reach back.

His hand twitched toward the pen on his desk. He hesitated for only a second before reaching for it, his movements hesitant, as if testing whether he had the right to do this after so long. Then, pressing the cool tip to his forearm, he finally let himself write:

What do you want?

Seconds passed, then, before the could second-guess himself, the ink began to fade, the letters disappearing as your skin absorbed the message. Then, just as quickly, a reply followed with familiar, messy strokes that made his chest ache with something he wasn’t ready to name.

Oh, so now you answer.

His lips twitched. He practically heard your irritated voice, your frustration that barely concealed the relied underneath. You weren’t really angry, just hurt that he had ignored you.

You stopped writing first, he countered. It wasn’t entirely true, but he couldn’t admit to his reasons yet.

There was a pregnant pause before letters appeared on his skin again. Three months Uryu. Three! I thought you died or something.

His fingers tightened around the pen. You weren’t far off. A part of him had died in these past months. The moment he had stepped into Yhwach’s world, everything had changed. But you didn’t know that. You didn’t know what he had become. What he had chosen.

He took a deep breath, forcing the thought away and allowed his pen to move. Responding with something safer, not yet a confession.

I’m fine.

A pause and then.

Bullshit.

You were perceptive—always had been, even without knowledge of his world.

I mean, he wrote. I’ve been…busy.

Then came another pause. An even longer one. Long enough that he almost wondered if you had decided to stop replying. Then, finally—

Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or keep lying to me?

His grip on his pen tightened before he tossed himself onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. What could he possibly tell you? He really wanted to pout everything out, explaining his silence, but he would hate himself for burdening you with his troubles. This was his choice, and he wasn’t going to drag you into this.

With his hesitation, you took his silence as an answer and scribbled on your hand once more as words appeared on his skin.

I miss talking to you.

You missed talking to him. His heart clenched and felt caught in his throat the longer he stared at the message. After everything, you still missed him, after the silence you still—

Me too, he replied. The first honest response for the night.

Good. Now explain why you’re ignoring your soulmate.

Soulmate. The words weren’t foreign to him, and it make his pulse hammer each time you used it. He still remembered when he fought the idea at first. Rejecting it outright, the concept itself had felt too irrational, too binding, too…dangerous. But over time, he had stopped fighting it because despite everything, there was something undeniably…comforting about the connection you shared.

…It wasn’t personal, he scribbled slowly.

But your response was immediate.

Then why?

He clenched his jaw. You weren’t going to let this go.

Because my life is complicated.

So is mine, smarty pants. But that didn’t stop me from talking to you.

You had a point, but it wasn’t the same. You didn’t understand what he was caught in, what he had been forced to do. If you knew—if you even had an inkling of what he had become—you wouldn’t be writing to him like this.

I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.

Boo hoo, that’s not you’re choice to make, buddy.

You were right, but it didn’t change anything.

He pressed the pen against his skin again, but before he could write, more words appeared.

Uryu, please…I don’t need to know everything. I just…don’t disappear again. Don’t leave me, please.

For a fraction of a second, his heart stopped. His fingers curled around the pen, gripping it like a lifeline.

I won’t.

Okay. He could tell that your reply was softer this time.

Silence stretched between you after that, neither of you writing anything for a long moment, but for once, it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t heavy with unspoke words or the weight of his choices.

It just was.

Can’t sleep? He wrote on impulse without thinking them through.

I could ask you the same thing.

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Then we’re even.

We could play a game. Like old times.

His fingers hovered over his skin, as he fought to enjoy this moment, not knowing what tomorrow would bring.

Alright, just like old times.

☾ Aizen Sosuke — Red String

The red string of fate had always been a concept that Aizen found…amusing. It was whispered about in the hushed concerns of Seireitei, a myth spoken of in quiet reverence by those who still believed in destiny. Even among Shinigami, the idea of an unbreakable connection binding two souls together was seen as little more than an old wives’ tale. And yet, here he was, following the near-invisible thread tied around his finger through the streets of Rukongai.

Curiosity had stirred within him, an unfamiliar sensation tugging at the edges of his m ind. It was not often that something escaped his notice, and yet, here was proof of something he had overlooked, was not according to his plan—his own soulmate. The notion should have been laughable. He was a Captain of the Gotei 13, a man who had long since abandoned the confines of simple belief in fate. And yet, the strong remained, unyielding, leading him to an unknown destination.

As he stepped past the worn dirt paths and into the bustling districts, the scent of sake and cooked food mingled with the crisp evening air. lanterns flickered in warm hues, casting long shadows against wooden buildings. The sound of laughter and conversation drifted through the streets as citizens lost themselves in the ordinary pleasures of their lives. Yet Aizen’s gaze remained fixated on the red string, watching as it wove through the crows with ease, guiding him forward to a tavern.

The moment he entered, the tavern was filled with workers and travellers, all too occupied with their own affairs to pay attention to the newcomer. His gaze flickered across the room, scanning faces with an unreadable expression, until—

There you were.

There was nothing remarkable about you in the way that nobles or warriors were deemed. You were not adorned in fine silks, nor did you carry the weight of power upon your shoulders. And yet, Aizen found himself unable to look away.

“Welcome,” you greeted as you approached, noticing that he was standing without a seat. “Would you like something to drink, eat or a seat?”

For a moment, he did not answer, merely observing, taking in the way your eyes flickered with warmth, the way you stood with a quiet confidence despite the bustling atmosphere. Then, he smiled. “Jasmine tea. Warm.” When you nodded and turned away to prepare his order, he found a sit at the counter.

He had expected something…different. A noble, perhaps a fellow Shinigami. Someone who already resided within his world, who shared the burdens and ambitions that came with it. Instead, he found you—simple soul, untouched by the ridge structures of Seireiei, existing within a life entirely separate from his own. And yet, the string did not waver.

When you returned, setting the small ceramic cup before him, he tilted his head slightly. “I haven’t seen you before,” he remarked.

You blinked, clearly caught off guard by the statement. “Oh? Are you a regular?”

“No quite,” he admitted, fingers grazing the rim of his cup. “I don’t frequent the Rukongai often. But even so, I feel as though I would have remembered someone like you.”

A small chuckle escaped you as you leaned against the counter, setting your tray aside. “You say that like I’m someone important.”

Aizen took a slow sip of his tea, savouring the warmth before placing his cup down. His eyes never left yours once. “Perhaps. Importance is a matter of perspective.”

You frowned at his words, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind them. There was something about him—unsettlingly enigmatic. His presence was commanding yet effortless, his gaze holding an intensity that made your skin prickle. He was unlike anyone you had met before, and yet, you had no reason to fear him.

“Are you a noble?” you asked, unable to suppress your curiosity, while taking in his simple garb. “Or maybe a merchant? You don’t seem like the kind to wander these parts without reason.”

His lips curled slightly at your statement. “No, nothing of the sort.”

“Then what do you do?”

“If I told you, it might change the way you see me.” He titled his head, watching you with a soft delight.

You huffed a small laugh, leaning away from the counter and placing a hand on your waist. “That sounds awfully suspicious.”

“Does it?”

“A little,” you admitted. “But I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re here now, and you seem…strange from most people who pass through.”

To Aizen’s astonishment, he found himself engaging—not manipulating, not strategising, but in something startlingly genuine. You did not know who he was. You had no need to fear him, no reason to treat him with the deference he had grown accustomed to in Seireitei. You spoke to him as an equal, unburdened by knowledge of his power or rank.

And perhaps that was why despite the sheer improbability of it all, he found himself drawn to you. 

At some point, you paused, turning toward him with a contemplative look. “You never told me you name.”

For a moment, he considered lying—giving you an alias, keeping a distance between the truth and the delicate illusion of this night. But then, he met your gaze and spoke.

“Aizen Sosuke.”

The name meant nothing to you. There was no flicker of recognition, no shift in demeanour. You simply smiled.

“Well, Aizen,” you warmly spoke, “it was nice talking to you. You should come by again sometime.”

He stared at you, his mind lingering on the invisible thread that connected you both. A thread that had led him here, to a moment that should not have existed in the grand scheme of his plans. And despite himself—despite everything—he found himself returning a smile.

“Perhaps I will.”

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @edensrose @stygianoir @spellboundsuguru @cactimorada @cookielovesbook-akie @kennys-partner

©satsugacafé 2025: no permission to repost, plagiarise, copy or translate my work onto any other platform or this one.

[matchalovertrait]

An intimate talk under the stars.

Start from the beginning (Gen 2)

Previous | Next

[Once they arrived at the park, Dulce and Antonio changed into a fresh pair of clothes. Running around in skintight costumes all night was NOT comfortable! They wouldn’t recommend it.]

[They also took this time to catch their breath. The crisp air felt rejuvenating while they embraced the comfortable silence, taking in the crazy night they had. What an insane idea. But they did it. Together.]

[After a few minutes, Dulce cleared her throat.]

DULCE: ..Antonio. I want to say I appreciate you for doing this with me. I know it was ridiculous. You’ve already helped me a lot, and I can’t thank you enough for it.

[Antonio shifted with discomfort.]

ANTONIO: Don’t thank me just yet. We haven’t won the case.

DULCE: Many things could’ve gone wrong, though.

ANTONIO: Technically they did... but we got through them, right? And we got the notebook.

DULCE: We did!!

[Dulce took out her notebook and flipped through the pages in awe.]

DULCE: I wish I could see the look on Caruso’s face once he realizes the notebook is gone.

[The “security”, Caruso, and Isabela should be able to put two and two together. Dulce and Antonio knew that. However, Caruso and Isabela had no proof. The Operation Fox team covered their tracks, and Matthew was able to erase any surveillance camera footage once the power came back on.]

[She looked up at Antonio with a soft smile.]

ANTONIO: I’ll guard that notebook with my life when I take it for the ink dating in the morning.

DULCE: I almost didn’t take it when I was in his room because I felt bad... We’re kind of the same.

ANTONIO: What do you mean?

DULCE: Maybe his video about me was some weird karmic stuff for the Alto exposé video I made. Maybe Caruso is just me as a man and I deserve what I got.

ANTONIO: You’re mistaken. You’re a lot smarter than Caruso. In your video, you didn’t give any names and you were very vague. Quite impressive if you ask me. How old were you? About 16? 17?

DULCE: Around there.

ANTONIO: Second of all, you have more love in your heart. It’s that simple.

ANTONIO: Alright. Picture this: Alfonso Alto watches your video. He laughs but is secretly freaking out. What if people start suspecting his shady business? He contacts his legal team to try to stop you.

ANTONIO: They rewatch your video repeatedly in an attempt to find something to sue you for—which, by the way, only adds onto your view count—but, they have nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’s furious to have been outsmarted by a teen girl. Things lead to another and he’s in prison all because of one video.

[Dulce nodded. Antonio would know from experience.]

DULCE: Hm, yeah.

ANTONIO: Think about all the lives you probably saved too. Caruso can’t live up to that. That’s probably why he’s so vengeful.

DULCE: ..Speaking of which, what about you and Isabela? Is she a vengeful ex-girlfriend of yours?

[Antonio waved his hand in dismissal.]

ANTONIO: Absolutely not.

ANTONIO: Actually, she hates me because I turned her down.

DULCE: What??

ANTONIO: We used work closely as interns at the same firm. We had to. Along the way, she somehow developed feelings for me. When she asked me out, I declined. I explained to her that I’m dedicated to my work. I don’t have time or energy for love.

[Dulce’s heart dropped.]

ANTONIO: I thought she took it well. Then, she started screwing me over in subtle ways. She would provide me with incorrect deadlines or “forget” to tell me about important calls.

ANTONIO: I couldn’t say anything. Isabela was untouchable because her uncle was a senior attorney at the firm. When my internship ended and I looked for jobs, many places rejected me because I received a bad reputation.

DULCE: I’m sorry that happened to you. Isabela’s a witch for doing that.

ANTONIO: It all worked out. I’m fortunate that the firm I work at now took a chance on me. I get to do what I love. And that place has allowed me to meet some incredible people.

DULCE: ..Sometimes I think about possible alternate timelines. “What if I didn’t do that?” or “What if I had done this instead?” ..Maybe I would be in a more fortunate situation.. but maybe I wouldn’t have experienced the good things in this timeline.

ANTONIO: Like what?

[The two looked up at the starry night.]

DULCE: Like adopting Cosi! Caruso was the one who insisted we get a dog on that day, actually. Maybe someone else would’ve taken her.

DULCE: Okay, your turn to name something.

ANTONIO: Hm..... One time I broke my leg. If I didn’t have all that spare time to watch movies, maybe I wouldn’t have found out I like Star Wars. Your turn.

DULCE: I got lost in the city once. If I didn’t make a wrong turn, I wouldn’t have run into the person selling the refurbished iMac G3. I love it! Your turn.

[Suddenly, the two of them turned to face each other at the same time. They hadn’t realize the closing distance between them.]

ANTONIO: I..

DULCE: I think we should leave. Isabela and Caruso could be out looking for us right now.

ANTONIO: Yeah, and it’s getting late.

DULCE: Mhm.

ANTONIO: C’mon. Let’s get you home.

[snoopychris]

capture the flag

in which... there's a game of capture the flag and life is all sunshine and rainbows

warnings: filler chapter but a necessary filler

as the start of the school year got closer, the camp began getting less and less occupied. even Hermes cabin, usually so full of life, was about to be down to five campers. during the school year, the Camp was down to no more than 25 campers total. the year-rounders, so they were called. as much as Camp Half-Blood felt like home, you had always wished you werent one of them. you had always wished that you could have a family to go home to. a place to feel loved and wanted outside of the protective barrier that Thalia Grace had provided. 

“you think they’ll let us leave one day? like leave forever?” you whisper, feet dipped into the water with chris by your side. your head rested on his shoulder, a place it was typically found. sunny with chris, is like a fork found in a kitchen, was the way percy jackson once described it. “think if they would’ve let us leave they would’ve done it when we turned 18.” chris replies, his voice full of sadness. you knew he had big dreams too, always having been interested in seeing los angeles and any state aside from new york, really. the moment is one you seem to share every year. it’s only interrupted when a throat is cleared behind you. 

your head whips to look behind you, your first thought being that something was wrong with one of the campers. instead, you find yourself locking eyes with matt. the action seems to linger for a little bit too long because chris is the first to speak. “something wrong?” matt shakes his head, twiddling his fingers. “i need to shower.” he states. your eyebrows raise, looking him up and down. “okay…?” chris continues, his voice filled with genuine confusion. matt groans when chris doesn’t understand anything, turning towards you instead. “i don’t have any clothes.” you slap chris’ chest gently, knowing you had told him to give matt a few closet staples after he had arrived the day before. you stood up from the rocky floor, walking over to matt. “aphrodite cabin’s got all the spares. you’ll be able to find something in there.” you smile, walking matt to the cabin. 

it doesn’t take long for you to arrive, opening the baby pink doors to reveal the luscious interior. it’s easily the most organized of the cabins. you point towards the big dresser with various drawers, sitting down on a nearby couch. “take whatever you need. those kids love shopping.” you giggle, looking up at the ceiling. you can’t remember the last time you were in here. “if nothings your style, i can take you to chris’ cabin too. he’s got a lot he doesn’t wear.” you smile, crossing your legs. you’d be lying if you said he wasn’t good looking. the way his tattoos adorned his arms gave him an edge that chris lacked. maybe one day you’d ask what they meant. maybe one day he’d tell you.

it doesn’t take long for him to pick out the clothes he wants. a few tshirts, a few pairs of jeans, a small sweater, and a leather jacket. he was son of Ares, alright. “you’re settling in okay? i know you haven’t left your cabin much. i hear things you know. got eyes all over this place.” you joke, beginning to walk back to his own cabin. he shrugs as he looks around, pursing his lips. “got nobody here.” “you could always try talking to nick. or chris.” an idea pops into your mind, remembering the recent arrival of a camper. “or you could even talk to-“

“sunny!” your voice is cut off by the very person you were thinking of, turning your head to see him. his blonde hair was being pushed around by the wind without any issues, and he seemed to have grown a few inches since the last time you saw him. the blonde makes his way over to you, setting his hand on your shoulder. “matt… meet will solace. will this is matt. ares’ son. he’s chris’ brother… half brother. but not in the way other people here have half brothers” will hums at the sight, moving his arm to instead shake matt’s hand. “nice to meet you. they treating you good here? if they’re not you can always complain to dionysus… he lectures chris good.” you roll your eyes at the comment, stepping away from the conversation that seems to be blooming. 

you’re no more than halfway to the Hermes cabin when you bump into nick. “sunny! oh my god i was just about to come looking for you. some of the kids in there are asking about capture the flag and… some will character being captain? is that like required… or like… and also who’s will? is will single… does he like guys?” nick asks, a bowl of strawberries in his hand. you nod at his question, looking around the camp. “unfortunately it is required. it’s training and a game all in one. if wills a captain then that means tha-” “SUNNY! you’re up! my office! now!” Dionysus. 

“i just feel like it’s chris’ turn.” Dionysus knows you’re referring to being captain of capture the flag teams. you were good at it sometimes, but never against Will. “no” “will always has the best teams. it’s not even fair!” you whine, your face turning into an annoyed expression. “it’s your turn” “is clarisse here?” “nope.” “what about annabeth?” “she’s at school already.” “percy?” “specifically requested to play.” “drew? nico? anybody?” “no. your turn.” Dionysus says smugly, sending you off with a flick of the wrist. “is chiron coming back soon?” you whisper. The God in front of you knew how much the centaur meant to you, always being the closest thing you had to a father. he nods as he sends you a solemn expression. “he’s making strides in Olympus. next week though. promise.” you nod as you grab two bright orange Camp t-shirts, headed out the door to begin planning your teams. it doesn’t take long for it to click in your head when you lock eyes with chris, who’s walking into his dad’s office. “captain?” he asks. you nod, shrugging nonchalantly. “captain!”

it’s only been a few hours by the time you’re standing in a group of 50 or so and people. all eyes are on you and will. “okay! two teams of 23. will and i are your captains! this is the last game of the summer. after this… free time for a lot of the time here but check with your counselors first!” you yell, gripping onto the helmet. you look at will, getting a nod for you to begin picking. “okay! i’m picking first.” an array of hands go up, wanting to be on your team. your eyes glance between the obvious answers, despite your mind being made up earlier. chris is standing right in front of you, his eyes batting like a lost puppy dog. on the side opposite him is percy. his blonde hair is messier than usual, all thanks to his lack of hair products and excess of salt water. theres two perfectly good candidates right there.

on the other hand, there’s two candidates near the back of the group of people who you would rather have. "i want matt and nick to start." 

nick, matt, and chris have never looked more identical. you can’t even see nick and matt properly due to their distance from you. their collective "what" speaks more words than the entirety of taylor swifts discography. "sunny you cant be serious... youre gonna lose." will whispers, his hair looking nearly identical to percy's in this light. "yeah well... luke took a chance on percy once didnt he?" will swallows as he nods, taking his options in. “chris and percy” chris sighs as he walks to Will’s side of the crowd, watching as you pick another random camper. the picking continues until nobody’s left. by the looks of it, your team is incredibly weaker than Will’s. you have hope for them regardless. 

your team quickly makes their way towards your “safe zone.” the helmets that you all have by your sides are goofy looking, but important regardless. you look around, licking your lips. “okay… okay. cat and gracie. you two keep an eye on the flag. nico’s gonna stay and help you with the fighting. right d’angelo?” you whisper, looking towards nico. he nods, gripping onto his sword. “can’t believe you didn’t pick chris this time.” nico adds on, licking his lips mischievously. “he’ll survive. the rest of you. split up. you’re our offense. matt and nick. you two are with me. we’re goin after that flag.” you hear the gulp that nick experiences, following after you with a sword in hand. his hands are shaky. you can tell that he’s scared. on the other hand, matt looks excited. he hadn’t left his cabin much, instead opting to let his anger out on the objects found in the Ares cabin. his grip on the sword was tight, as if he was ready to swing at any moment. 

there’s a small crack of twigs from the woods after you had been walking for a while that catches the attention of all three of you. matt instinctively points his sword out, lowering it when its only chris. “this is a new low sunny. i mean we’re always on the same team.” you shrug at his words, gripping onto his wrist and pulling his arm behind his back. “where’s the flag?” you whisper, earning a wince from chris. “i don’t know. why are you mad at me?” he replies. you shrug, pushing him down onto the floor. “let’s move.” 

matt and nick follow behind you, each watching out for others in their own way. nick is looking out so that he doesn’t get attacked. matt is looking for someone to attack. “are you mad at chris?” nick questions, his shaky hands beginning to calm down. “no. all games. he knows that.” you smile, biting your lip when you see the blue teams flag in the distance. victory is so sweet. of course, you hadn’t won yet, but you were so close.

it was within 200 feet. you swallow as you grip onto your own sword, knowing that if the flag was in eyesight distance, then there would be plenty of guards nearby. “on the count of three… matt’s gonna go left. nick and i are gonna go right… one… two.” matt couldn’t keep in any more excitement. “three!” he yells, running in the opposite direction as you and nick. you begin your sprint, knowing that the two separate direction vectors you were going in would be enough for the other team to be distracted. 

you feel like you’re forgetting something as you’re running through the woods that you’ve grown to love. you’re navigating each turn like it’s nothing. oh. “sunny i really don’t like this game!” nick yells, running close behind you. even though you know these turns like the back of your hand, you realize that nick doesn’t. he doesn’t know about the drop that he’s 15 feet away from.

it’s in the blink of an eye that he’s about to go head first off a cliff, dropped when the back of his shirt has a tight grip on it. someone saved him. for once, nicks grateful to be alive. he catches his breath for a few moments before turning back to see who saved him. “you must be nick.” nick nods, tumbling backwards a few feet. “im will.” you smile at the sight for a moment before running off, leaving the boys behind. 

nick had heard of the boy standing before him, but he hadn’t actually met him in person. sure, they were in the same vicinity of each other earlier during the team picking, but this was different. nick didn’t even know what he was feeling. his heart was racing and his face was getting hot. he wants to say it’s adrenaline. he knows it’s not. “i’m nick… sturniolo. but you knew that i think… sunny wasn’t kidding when she said you’re like sunshine personified.” will chuckles, shrugging. “i get that a lot.”

you were so damn close to victory that it felt incredible. you couldn’t have been more than 50 feet away from the flag when you’re pinned to the floor. you groan at the feeling, attempting to kick yourself away from your opponent. you know who it is— of course you do. it’s a position you’ve been in multiple times before, but never in this environment. “get off me you’re heavy!” “you didn’t pick me.” he whispers, grabbing his sword and holding it close to your neck as a form of intimidation.

“ok fine yes i’m sorry that i didn’t pick you! now can you please get the sword away from my throat you know what that does to me.” chris scoffs as he sets the sword down on the floor next to you. truthfully, you don’t know where matt and nick are right now. chris stands up, reaching out to help you. you grab onto his hand, feeling the sparks you usually feel when you touch him. you smile at him softly, beginning to sprint towards the flag again. someone beats you to it. 

matt’s hand grips the flag, winning the game for everybody on your team. against all odds, you finally won a game against Will Solace. your eyebrows furrow, looking around. “how did i just win against will? how did i just win so fast?” you whisper looking towards chris. he gestures toward nick, still fully immersed in conversation with Will. you smile widely as you lick your lips, walking to the flag. “you did good matt. you have a talent.” he shrugs, looking into the woods he just came out of. “scared some of the campers off i guess” he jokes, earning a cackle from chris. chris has definitely done that before, even accidentally.

you relish in the victory for a moment before a voice calls out to chris away from the crowd. Chris’ eyes meet yours for a moment, shrugging in confusion. he chases after the voice, leaving you in nothing but pure confusion yourself. you turn to look at matt, nodding once. “okay… anyway. you know how to swim?” matt’s terrible week gets a little bit better when you actually make an attempt to get to know him. like really get to know him. 

percy’s cabin—cabin 3–was like a second home to you. it felt so much more welcoming than others, despite how empty it was for most of the year. Matt’s eyes are on you the entire walk over, up until the point that you  open the doors. the breeze of the sea that is always lingering in the room feels nice, especially against the outside weather. you let out a small giggle as you slip off your t-shirt, making your way to the back porch to take a dip into the lake. somewhere along the way, you slip off your shorts before diving into the water. matt hesitates for a moment to do anything, just taking in the way you move. you were a breath of fresh air. somehow, you were a reminder of home.

“you getting in?” you yell, dipping your hair into the water as you look up at matt. “no swimsuit.” he replies, sitting down on the dock. “percy has a ton in there. c’mon. there’s no sea monsters in here. at least not anymore.” you smile, swimming over to him. “im swimming in my underwear. nobody else is gonna judge you. its just me.” matt doesnt usually give in so fast, but theres something about the way you talk that convinces him. he mustve taken too long to decide because you pull him into the water fully clothed before he can think. you giggle as he yelps, swimming away as fast as you possibly can. you hate to admit that you felt sparks when you grabbed his hand. it felt so wrong to feel that with anybody except chris. 

“you could get to the olympics with that speed.” matt yells out, staying near the dock. he slips off his shirt, showing off some of his tattoos in a better way. you shrug as you swim back over, slower this time. “its a gift. always came naturally to me.” matt smiles as he grabs onto your wrist, pulling you towards him. a breath gets stuck in your throat when he does so, swallowing nothing gently. “you remind me of a night in rome.” “im sorry?” “what? youve never listened to role model?” he asks. you shake your head, staring into his bright blue eyes. his eyes are just so so different from chris and nick’s that its hard for you to believe theyre even related.

“i dont listen to much… just um… taylor swift i know her. we dont have much technology here.” you knew that matt pulling you close to him had you within small distance of one another, but you didnt realize just how much room was between you. it was almost nonexistent. “you ever listen to delicate?” he whispers, lips inching closer to yours. you nod slowly, moving yours closer as well. the distance between the two of you is about to be completely closed when percy yells out from inside his cabin. “Matt?!” 

you flinch, swimming away from matt. it was an explanation you werent in the mood for right now. matt frowns, turning his attention to percy. Percy has an unreadable expression on his face. its a mix between fear, worry, and something else. you cant quite put your finger on it. “they need to see you in the big house. like now.” the worry inside you grows, swimming to the dock and climbing out. Matt follows suit and begins walking towards the big house, still soaked. when you go to follow, percy puts a hand on your shoulder and shakes his head. the worry only grows. there’s something that tells you that its the worst case scenario right now. that its a luke situation all over again. “not right now, sun.” 

when matt arrives to the big house, he’s the last triplet brother to arrive. Will is headed out the door when matt walks in, filling him with a sense of insecurity. he hasnt felt at home before. he definitely doesnt feel at home now. “is um… everything alright? Is something wrong?” he whispers, looking between chris and nick. Nick looks frightened. Chris looks annoyed. “I actually think id also like an answer now.” nick speaks, looking between dionysus and chris, the only two who seem to know whats going on right now. Dionysus gestures to chris as a way to tell his son to begin speaking. “I just dont know why I have to be the one to explain anything when youre the one who heard the damn thing.” chris spits, his tongue prodding at the inside of his lip.

Chris goes on to mumble something under his breath, looking towards matt and nick. they both send him looks of confusion. “I said that theres a prophecy about us.” chris’ tone is just slightly louder this time, but it’s loud enough to be understood. Nick furrows his brows, glancing towards matt. “A prophecy? what is that? is that like a bad thing?” nick asks, running a hand through his hair. Chris looks towards his father for a lifeline. Prophecies have never been his specialty. he’s never been a part of one until now. Dionysus sighs as he takes a sip from his soda can, slamming it down on a nearby table. “A prophecy is like a riddle. not a fun one either. its a prediction about a major event. most recent one we had was the rise or fall of olympus being caused by a forbidden child. Percy Jackson caused the rise of Olympus. unfortunately our resident oracle gave another one today while i was within earshot. the connection between foe will cause a God to reap what they sow. until fate’s hand strikes one final blow.” 

“Pardon me. Dionsyus.. is it?” matt asks, pursing his lips. “Just what does this have to do with us?” Dionysus swallows. It’s not a good sign to chris that even his dad is nervous. “it was spoken on August first. go and gather your things. all of you. youre going on a quest.”

a/n: :PPPPPP anyway. this may be just a filler but its one i need in order to do any of the things i want to do. that poll earlier also wasnt for nothing. :P kiss kiss ! - gen (also i think either dbf chris or ta matt coming tomorrow i dont KNOWWWWW)

tags(reply/message to be added!): @ifwdominicfike @frankoceanfanpage @mattssslutbby @sophand4n4 @matthewsturnsgf @izzylovesmatt @m11rx @chris-hallelujah @sturniolotoast @mattsbrat @wastelandzella @le4hsblog @mattsd0llfac3 @st7rnioioss @isabellewhatt @sturnslutz @bluessturniolo @courta13 @sturns-mermaid @ivysturnss @slutformatt17 @emely9274 @princessesgarden @marrykisskilled @cykss @strnilolover @13hoax @oopsiedaisydeer @starlace111 @24kmar @raesturns @allylovescody @sturniolosymphony@esioleren @colorthecosmos444 @jetaimevous @strnilolover @muwapsturniolo @bernardsbendystraws @whore4mattsturniolo @camzeecorner @spideylana @raesturns @starrysturns @pair-of-pantaloons @sturniowhore @strnilolover @pair-of-pantaloons @milo-the-dog @owensbabygirl @stvrnioloslvt i rlly hope im not missing anybody again

[vicolette]

Secret Lover !

– A/N : I honestly have no idea what I'm about to write, but enjoy!!

– Warnings : mentions of y/n & swear words

"Pau Cubarsi, this was a really exciting match, don’t you think so?"

The said person nervously smiled in agreement at the question, knowing that one of the captains were behind him. Real Madrid wasn’t a team that you could easily win against, so this victory was very special for the whole team.

"Yeah, the win was well deserved." His response was slightly more negative than he had thought it would come out as, his eyes looking away from the interviewer as Pau searched for something – or someone.

And then he saw you.

You stood beside his older sister, although still maintaining a respectful distance. Irene had told you that, even if the media doesn’t know about your secret relationship, you could still act like her bestest friend, since you were practically her 'sister in law' already. But you didn’t do it, and it made him stare for a second, until Raphinha snapped him out of it.

"Everything alright, Pau?" Cubarsi tensed up at the voice, coming back to reality as he turned his head to face Raphinha. He blinked once, twice, then nodded his head with a sheepish smile on his face.

"Yes! Sorry." Afterwards, he sent you one last glance, which you had caught when Irene shook your shoulders, and faced the interviewer.

The questions were interesting and very professional, but Pau only gave short replies and zoned out during most of it, his gaze always returning to you. He knew that he was playing a dangerous game, since nobody would believe him if he said it was due to his family, yet he enjoyed it and continued.

A mischievous grin threatened to escape his lips as soon as the woman interviewing him was done, thanking him for his time, yet he was quick to say goodbye and leave. His steps were loud and clear, cameras from each angle were filming the moment, but he didn’t seem to care.

"Pau, my boy!" As the teenage boy was pulled into a tight hug by his mother, he dapped his father up and sent him a smirk, his eyes having a glint of excitement in them.

At that moment, you took a step back to distance yourself and let them have their moment, but Pau had other plans. Ignoring his sister, because she apparently didn’t want to hug him when he stank, he made his way over.

"Pau?" Once he stood right in front of you, taking a step closer whenever you tried to make some space between each other, he suddenly wrapped his arms around your waist and hugged you tightly.

There were screams getting louder by each second passing and his teammates were standing close by, shocked to see that he indeed had a girlfriend, whereas his family acted like it was normal.

"You shouldn’t hug her so hard. She‘s getting the life squeezed out of her!" His father yelled out before he and the others made their way down to the field, not acknowledging the fact how you were frozen in place.

"Pau–"

"I missed you, so fucking much…"

Your voice was stuck in your throat as you stared at him, his head nuzzled into your shoulder as he inhaled your sweet scent. It smelled just like you, like home, like love.

"You just blew up our cover!" The realization dawned upon him at that exact moment, slowly loosening his grip around your waist and as he raised his head, looking around to see how many fans were still watching.

"Oh." His eyes darted around to see where his family was at, seeing how they were with the other family of his teammates, then looking at them. Most of them were still surprised to see this scene, yet some others were laughing about it.

Once they – namely Lamine, Hector and Alejandro – realized that he was staring, they started to joke around about it, pointing at him as their laughter grew.

However, Pau merely returned his focus towards you, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead, since it was so easy to get access to it with the height difference. Whether or not this was planned, he couldn’t care less now, especially since he could express his love for you in public.

"Whatever."

"Pau!"

– A/N : acc quite proud of this, thanks for reading<33

[mochinomnoms]

Hi, vacations are killing me rn (I am going on multiple walks to explore, and damn I am busy)

But I did have time to listen to vocaloid songs, and I got me a little idea~

It's very sweet too

Okay so there's this song that despite controversy (the controversy is actually silly dw about it) that's about mocking the trope of "tsunderes" so this girl has a crush on a classmate and calls them a "small fry"

I think yk where I am going

Hell yeaaaah the tweels get their own game turned on them because of all the teasing they do to their crush and have to risk that their crush is going to get tired one day and try to leave because excessive teasing is not that enjoyable

"Loser, loser.. despite all of my bullying, you still have a crush! ♡" (rough translation)

"Your reactions are just so cutee! I can't get enough ♡" - Something Floyd would say about his dear shrimpy

"Hm? Did you join my club to spend more time with me, Prefect? :)" - Maaybee something that Jade would say to his darling pearl

Their teasing can be really cruel sometimes, yet they still care? Maybe? It makes you feel overwhelmed and used because they keep stringing you along with all of their joking, pulling you close to only laugh at your flustered face but they are not clear with their emotions and it's frustrating!

One day, the two of them gang up on you cooing mockingly (perhaps) about how cute yet pathetic you are! You had enough you get up from your desk instead of curling yourself in embarrassment until the two leave you alone and get up to stay away from them

It's the first time you have done something that's out of the ordinary, and while normally they would enjoy this unexpected change, but it's different when you start crying while walking away from them, frustrated clearly!

"H-hey! Wait, don't leave me! I will apologize. I am sorry -" (rough translation again)

So they chase after you because they care deep down, but they are stupid

And I only thought about these two for the "small fry" thing, hehe

-Vaquita (I am alive)

hi vaquita! i missed you very nice to hear from you again!!!

i think i know what song you're talking about?? a miku one right? i'd have to look it up i remember hearing the discourse on it, but i don't really interact with discourse all that much so idk for sure

i think Floyd would get a kick our of a tsundere s/o most! just look at how popular FloRid is, i think part of that Riddle could potentially fit into the role of the tsundere (at least in the fics i've seen). But Floyd likes it so much because he thrives off the reactions and pushing your buttons. it's the fact that you try so hard to be composed and fail each time that he likes! Though, I can see him getting bored after a while if these are the same reactions you give, especially if he knows that you like him a lot. He gets frustrated that you won't just be upfront with your feelings, and if you can't do that why is he still playing around with you, putting in all the work when you won't do the same?

Jade I think finds it cute at first, but will get bored quickly since he sees through you so quickly. Why must you hold yourself back? Isn't it tiring, isn't it a chore? Wouldn't it be much better if you were honest with your feelings? With Jade, he's wanting to see just how deep your feelings go for him, and have you chase after him! Maybe if he changes up your interactions, you'll just have to force yourself to be more than a little tsundere, forced character development hehehe.

[doumadono]

Hello! I'd like to ask for an emergency request if that's alright—your inbox says there's still 2 slots available so I wanted to give it a try. I don't wish for anything overly complicated and to put it simply my request would go as follow: could you write something (whether headcanons or one-shot, it's up to you) with Shigaraki and Dabi with a very, VERY lonely fem!reader? As vaguely as it sound, I find it fitting to add some background: reader is an only-child who comes from a small family with basically no aunts, uncles, cousins—the other half of the family either dead or living far away abroad. Due to constantly moving since early childhood, there's no such a thing as childhood friends, neighbour friends or any sort of community to belong. Additionally, she's always been single since it was impossible to build any long-term relationship while constantly changing the place of living. She's independent, used to being all alone (in school, job, home...) and doing everything alone (shopping, cinema, coffee shop, watching movies...) but sometimes it can get really lonely being all by herself in the world... If it's not emergency enough it's okay but if you'd be willing to write something on the subject I'd be very grateful!

Synopsis: after you skip Toga’s party, Dabi and Shigaraki start following you, noticing how lonely you really are. Confronting you at your favorite café, they make it clear - you’re not alone

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST - PART 2

The café smelled like freshly ground coffee and warm vanilla, the kind of scent that usually wrapped around you like a comforting hug. But today, it did nothing to ease the weight pressing on your chest.

You curled your fingers around your cup, letting the warmth seep into your skin. Your favorite drink sat untouched in front of you, steam curling lazily into the air. The noise of the city outside hummed through the glass windows, the chatter of people blending into a steady backdrop, but none of it really reached you. It was just you, your thoughts, and the empty seat across from you.

You weren’t surprised by the feeling anymore - the familiar weight in your chest, the hollow ache of knowing that, at the end of the day, it was just you. No family to call. No childhood friends to reconnect with. No one to notice if you skipped a meal or spent the entire weekend inside without speaking a word to another person.

Which is why it wasn’t exactly surprising that no one questioned it when you’d declined Toga’s birthday gathering a few days ago.

You’d made some excuse about feeling sick, about needing to rest. It wasn’t entirely a lie, not when loneliness had a way of making you physically exhausted. The truth was, you hadn’t been in the mood for anything. 

Still, you hadn’t expected anyone to care beyond a passing “feel better” from Twice or maybe Toga pouting about missing your presence. And what you hadn’t expected surely was being followed. And you definitely hadn’t expected them to show up here.

The screech of a chair dragged against the floor cut through your thoughts.

"Alright, this is fucking depressing," Dabi stated, moving a chair. "So this is what you do when you’re too busy for Toga’s party?" The black-haired man drawled, slouching down into the seat like he owned the place. "Sitting in a café, looking like the poster child for depression?"

Your fingers twitched around your cup, your mind catching up to the fact that he was here. You barely had time to register that before another chair moved, this time with more hesitation.

Shigaraki.

Unlike Dabi, he didn’t sit right away. He hovered, almost like he wasn’t sure if this was a good idea but had already committed. His red eyes flickered to you before landing on your untouched drink. "That’s getting cold."

You blinked. "What—"

"You've been staring at it for fifteen minutes," Shigaraki muttered, finally sitting down beside Dabi, slouching like he was trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible by pulling his hood lower on his face. "Took us a while to figure out your routine," he muttered, sounding vaguely irritated. "You go to the same places. In the same order. It’s kind of pathetic."

Your mouth opened and closed. "Excuse me? You've been watching me?" you asked, suspicion lacing your voice.

Dabi smirked, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Yup."

"For how long?"

Shigaraki gave a noncommittal grunt. Dabi, on the other hand, leaned forward on his elbows, improving the face mask he wore. "Oh, you know. Just a couple of days."

Your stomach twisted. "Are you serious?"

"You didn’t even notice we were following you," Shigaraki continued, fingers twitching slightly against his sleeves. "That’s careless. If it were anyone else, you’d be dead."

You stared at them, brain short-circuiting. "Why?"

Shigaraki shifted, eyes darting toward the window before landing on you again. "You looked miserable."

"You didn't leave us much of a choice," Dabi added quickly, stretching his arms behind his head. "You think we wouldn’t notice you acting weird? Turning down a party? Avoiding everyone?"

Shigaraki tilted his head. "Toga was worried."

You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "So that was why you followed me around?"

Dabi snorted. "We observed."

"Like creeps."

"Hey, if you didn’t want creeps watching you, maybe don’t look like you’re about to start narrating a sad movie monologue every time you sit alone in this café," Dabi shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously, do you even talk to anyone outside the League?"

You hesitated.

And that was answer enough.

Shigaraki exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back in his chair. "That’s what I thought."

Your fingers tightened around your cup, the familiar ache in your chest pressing down again. It was one thing to know you were lonely - it was another to have someone point it out like a glaring neon sign.

"Why do you care?" you muttered, voice quieter now.

Shigaraki didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at you, fingers twitching slightly like he wanted to fidget with his sleeves but resisted the urge. Finally, he muttered, "Because it’s fucking annoying."

You frowned. "What?"

Dabi chuckled, shaking his head. "What he means is, it pisses us off that you think you have to do everything alone." His voice was lighter than Shigaraki’s, teasing even, but there was something underneath it - something genuine. "Like, come on, you’re part of us, ain’t ya?"

You swallowed hard. Part of us.

The thing was, you had never really considered the League of Villains your family. Sure, you worked with them once in a while, trusted them in the way soldiers trusted the people fighting beside them, but outside of missions? Outside of sitting in the hideout and tolerating their antics?

"I don’t really have anyone," you said finally, voice quieter than you intended. "No family, no old friends. It’s just me. And most of the time, I don’t mind, but sometimes, it gets lonely." You stared down at your cup, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic. "That’s all."

"That’s fucking stupid," Shigaraki uttered bluntly.

You blinked up at him. "Excuse me?"

The leader of the League of Villains scowled, shifting in his seat. "You do have people. What the hell are we, then?"

You opened your mouth, but Dabi cut in, his voice oddly serious. "You think we’re just watching you for fun? That we care if you go missing for days because we’re bored?" He leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto yours. "Newsflash, sweetheart. You’re ours. You’ve been ours for a long time now."

Something in your chest tightened. "But—"

Shigaraki huffed. "You put up with us when no one else does. That counts for something." He glanced at his hands, fingers twitching again. "So stop acting like no one gives a shit about you. Because we do."

Dabi drummed his fingers against the table, tilting his head. "We’re not exactly model citizens, but we take care of our own. You’re one of us, whether you like it or not."

Your throat tightened, and for a second, you couldn’t speak. You swallowed, trying to force down the sudden wave of emotion creeping up. "You guys are really bad at this whole cheering someone up thing, you know."

Dabi snorted. "Yeah, well. If you wanted sunshine and rainbows, you picked the wrong friends."

Shigaraki crossed his arms. "Are you coming back or not?"

You hesitated, but before you could answer, Dabi suddenly reached over and stole your cup right out of your hands.

"Hey!"

He pushed his face mask down enough to take a sip, but then he immediately made a face. "What the hell is this?"

"My coffee, you asshole!" You tried to snatch it back, but he held it out of reach.

"This is gross," he complained, handing it to Shigaraki, who - surprisingly - did not drink it, just set it back in front of you like a normal person would.

Dabi grinned. "Guess I’m buying you a new one. Something that doesn’t taste like liquid disappointment."

You rolled your eyes. "I like it."

"And that’s the problem," he shot back, already waving down a barista.

Shigaraki stood up, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. "You’re coming back to base after this," he said, not even asking, just deciding. "No more sitting in cafés alone like some kind of tragic novel protagonist."

You looked between them, exasperated. "So that’s it? You’re just forcing me to rejoin society?"

Dabi smirked, tossing an arm lazily over your shoulders. "Damn right we are. Whether you like it or not."

You shook your head, unable to stop the tiny, tired laugh that escaped your lips. It wasn’t much - not some grand, emotional declaration or a life-changing moment - but it was something.

And maybe that was enough.

Because when you looked up at them - Dabi, slouched with a cocky grin, and Shigaraki, pacing back and forth as he already wanted to leave the place - the ache in your chest didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

@pixelcafe-network

[girl-lostconnection]

Ask and you shall receive, I cooked this one up in my notes a few days ago but forgot to send it to you

Helldiver!Reader growing attached to a younger recruit, they see themselves in them, and they want nothing more than to force them off their ship and make sure they don’t make the fall from grace they did.

They want to turn them away, to stop them from diving into the hellscape with them, but they can’t, the moment the recruit signed up they became the governments loyal dog, only stopping when their heart does

Helldiver!Reader finds themselves going softer on them, much to their dismay, they grow close with this recruit, which is very against their person policy (there’s a 99% this kid won’t make it until the end of the week, they can’t get too close..)

But they do, they get far too close, to the point the kid is telling Helldiver!reader why they signed up, that they have no one on the outside and they decided screw it, they’ve got nothing else to lose may aswell become a chew toy for the creatures of hell… right?

Helldiver!Reader gets so close that the recruit is now treating them as a parental figure, and one drunken night confesses that Helldiver!Reader is the only family they have, and that’s when Helldiver!reader realises they’re in too deep, they’re too close, too attached.

The regret of being to close to this recruit comes to an head when they lose them, on the battlefield, torn to shreds by some creature and calling out for Helldiver!Reader to do something, to save them, but they can’t, all they can do is watch as this kid dies slowly, and painfully, and at the end, retrieve their dog tags.

There’s no funeral, no mass, no mourning, the kid didn’t have a family or home for their remains to be shipped off to, so their body stays in the hellscape, slowly rotting away; soon to be forgotten…

(Something something something I’ve never played helldivers so I have no idea how accurate this is, I just had this funky idea for a character and then it spiralled into this)

Legs have swung

The young thing is skittish and too tense, fear clouding his judgement and making him slip more often than not, his finger on a trigger shooting without any account for recoil or the fact that loud noise attracts the enemy.

He is fresh out of training, his ship a useless can of a transport — no stratagems, no enhancements, just him and the basic weapon he got in training.

You move to cover him if the enemy comes out blasting — getting ahead, trying to keep one eye on the mark scanning the grounds and another one on bloody cadet that somehow slipped through the cracks of Vog-Sojoth.

You sigh, hoisting the precious bot head with data up higher and nod to the lad to keep going.

You know he is getting agitated — you had to “reinforce” him 8 times already and now fear gives place to embarrassment and stupid reckless urge to prove himself.

No one likes looking like a damn fool, but it’s not kid’s fault system lags and lets him get down to level 10 “The Helldive” when he was barely cleared for level 5.

It’s not his fault this it went like that.

Sometimes it just happens and there was no way he could have been ready for the madness that comes with war that rages down here.

You don’t blame him for being scared or for shame that clouds his head or for nerve damage induced shaking after pumping 13 stims through him just to keep the lad going.

But what you do blame him for is for trying to show off to you.

Because it’s not worth it down here, it’s never fucking worth it.

Helldives this filled up are the only place where you need to survive first and foremost and where rules and dignity and pride don’t matter.

It’s the only place where each of you is supposed to hold onto each other and never let go just so you stand a chance of getting out in one piece and coming out on the other side.

The only place where even trained and tried Helldivers like you two need to brace for impact before they even hit the ground.

Extraction is gruesome and bloody — longest three minutes of wait of your fucking life, enemies pouring from every bloody hill, kid behind you shooting without looking where he does.

Few of his bullets graze you a little too close to home.

One of his grenades almost leaves you without a leg.

But it’s not the time to smack the dumb little thing, not the time to knock some sense into him — there is a minute and a half before Pelikan-1 descends and you are almost empty.

So you have to push the cadet down, forcing him to stay low as to not let anyone shoot him and call in supplies.

You try not to think about how much adrenaline is running through you and that you made a mistake twice trying to call in additional ammunition.

You have one more orbital laser that will descend from the sky like God’s fury destroying enemy in its wake and better you have a shit ton of stims when it runs out.

Timer clicks forward, seconds seeping out and some of your anxious rage subsided when mechanical voice chimes “additional reinforcements approved”.

Thank fuck for that.

One more chance — a safety net, one for both of you to stretch out.

You better make it count.

A minute and a half on Vog-Sojoth stretches out and chokes you out, because no matter how much you will do — the work is never done.

Enemies are pouring from every side, you sentries are working non stop as you duck and cover and shoot and duck and cover and shoot and duck and cover—

You are never actually out, you just get to take a break before coming back down to this hellhole and laying ruin in your wake.

It’s a cruel glory to be one of you.

It’s not pretty, it’s not even well-paid but sometimes…sometimes when you meet runts like this one you understand why you are still there.

What are you even doing in a hell like this one.

The cadet whimpers from pain — laceration from shrapnel bleed him out quick to leave him dry and cold.

But you are mad and stubborn and you refuse to let the kid die. It won’t happen today. Not with you.

Stim after stim are getting plunged in him, forcing his heart to keep going, forcing his blood count replenish at the speed that is not possible or normal, but why would it matter if he gets to live another day?

You will kill his stupid reckless ass yourself as soon as he gets better.

But by the time extraction shuttle reaches your ship the lad is stabilised and shaking like a bloody leaf — uniform torn and fists clenched.

Adrenaline finally crashing down and crashing him in the process.

You have to practically drag the kid out, his legs not listening to him, not moving properly so you pull him up, grunting and annoyed.

God knows you are tired.

God knows you are hungry and in a whole lot of pain and mad at him for acting like a right proper twat. But he latches onto you, like you are the lifeline, his grip on you so hard you can feel it through layers of kevlar and plates of armour.

Takes you a moment to notice that he is shaking. Takes you another one to drag his helmet off and oh, he’s fresh faced and smooth — barely 18, barely out of training, barely capable of holding his own on lower levels.

Thought hits you like a brick to the back of your head, pain spreading down to shoulders, sharp realisation digging through your nervous system.

He probably has never died before. He probably has never been reinforced this much before

He probably doesn’t understand why his body is brand new when he aches all over.

He probably doesn’t know why he can’t black out.

You have to take your own helmet off, his lip trembling when he can finally see your face. You know.

After a while down there Helldiver’s uniform starts to look a little too much like Automaton.

After a while you can’t remember how humans are supposed to look, everything in you diminishing to few very basic tasks and commands. Tactical optimisation, that’s how command would call it.

You call it the “mutt mode”. No use for long thoughts when they can kill you. No use for working through trauma if the actual awareness of how fucked up the things are almost drove you insane once.

“Come on, cadet, it’s okay, you are okay.”, you murmur, pulling off gauntlets and gloves, letting him feel the warmth of your skin, the lines of your scars.

Warm tangible and human.

He shakes when you scoop him up and whimpers, phantom pain wrecking his body, phantom pain tearing out his ligaments and cutting off his limbs.

“I’m right here, yeah? I’m not leaving you, I know it hurts.”, you wave off your staff and massage the scalp of his with your fingers, trying to ground him on something. “It will pass, the first fifteen minutes are the worst, it will pass, cadet, come on, breathe with me”.

Your whisper is awkward frantic rumble, it’s been a while since you comforted anyone but the lad soaks it right up, forces himself to breath, presses his head against your neck.

Listens to your heartbeat.

You hum quietly as he does and he melts into you. He is as young as they get here, he is aching and tired, his face wet with tears and blood. But he is alive.

You stay on the cold steel floors until he stops shaking. You stay on the cold steel floors, massaging his head and not saying a thing when he nuzzles into your neck and stays there with no intention to (ha-ha) dive out.

The lad in your hands is young and aching and you won’t force him to go. Maybe if you teach him some things he will leave on his own.

Maybe he will get to keep himself safe without you and leave for good. One more decent Helldiver in your branch. One more chance for others like him to survive.

That would be nice.

You think this throughout the next few months and at some point forget he was supposed to leave. Because he doesn’t.

He is chatty and energetic, makes paper cranes out of old reports and shares whatever gossip other runts share with him. Always comes back to you hauling something, like a hound that is bringing game from the hunt.

Eager for praise and melting from your approval.

He’s touchy but in a way that makes you feel softer, he knows when to give space but more often than not your personal space turns into “our personal space, yeah?”.

And despite huffing with exasperation you let him. Why not? He’s warm and he smells nice under all the blood and gore you both are covered in.

He starts feeling like part of your life. Part of you.

Second pair of hands, another heart in the rib cage of yours, breathing in your neck when he decompresses after dives by wrapping himself around you.

He doesn’t talk much about his life before, doesn’t mention any family and for some reason you start talking first.

Sharing that no one waits for you back home. That you aren’t sure if you have one anymore.

He hums, unusually silent before wrapping himself around you again, tucking his head under your chin like he’s a koala.

You don’t come back to this conversation until months later, you two standing over what was terminid nursery before you launched a bloody nuke in the depth of it.

“L.T.?”, his voice snaps you out of staring down the abyss, making you take a step back and remember about your objective. Still two more nurseries to go.

“Yeah?”, you muse back, voice cracking through your comms, click of you changing magazines in your primary. “What’s wrong?”

“Is it…really necessary?”, he asks and for a moment your mind blanks out. Perhaps he senses it because he hastily adds. “I mean, I understand the need to destroy terminids. But the nurseries…we are killing their eggs, L.T. It’s their children. No wonder they are so determined to kill us”

You make a noncommittal sound in return, busying yourself with checking your gear, lad’s eyes boring in the back of your head.

“You ever thought we might be the bad guys?”, you half expected the question but it still catches you off guard, eyes flickering to your runt, not even cadet anymore, with heavy intensity.

You don’t say anything but you don’t really need to — he snaps his jaws shut once you softly tap the side of your helmet. All comms are being monitored.

All interactions being observed from the moment you step out of the ship.

You don’t say anything to your chatty charge but he can see the grim expression on your face as you holster your secondary weapon.

“Maybe we are.”, you say after a while, not explaining what are you referring to, but understanding dawns on him after a beat. “Though I’m doing it few years longer than you are. What kind of person it makes me, m?”.

Lad stops and for a moment there is sharpness in his eyes you didn’t expect. Heavy sort of protectiveness.

He opens his mouth, stepping closer to you but then remembers that you are still being monitored and falls silent.

Years later you will wonder what he wanted to say. Years later you will regret you never asked.

But in the moment you turn away and push forward. It’s not the place nor the time.

You both know who you are. 

What kind of person it makes you if you mindlessly killed thousands of terminid species and never asked why was it okay to commit atrocities?

The answer is simple: a really wicked one.

Each and every one of you is a war criminal. It’s just that some have more conscience than others. Doesn’t make you less guilty.

“Can you promise me something?”, the question is sudden, but you just pause before focusing back on the terminal and its adjustment, trying to turn off the bloody broadcast tower.

The lad, now finally a sergeant, sits on the abandoned chair, hands wrapped around his primary like it’s a baby he’s nursing and not a semi-automatic rifle.

“Don’t let them replicate me again, aye? I know they destroy ships if mission fails and mine is…well, you saw. Nothing like a bird you are piloting. They can destroy mine. Together with the “reinforcements” of me”, he says softly and it’s so nonchalant you almost miss it. Registering his words a moment too late, your fingers twitching to curl into a fist.

“Why?”, is a sharp and curt and you didn’t mean it to come out that way, but god knows you have never been good at this kind of conversations.

He deserves certainly more than your sneering. He deserves to know that ships are made to be better with time, he deserves to know that he doesn’t need to die. He deserves to know that you like him and you want to work with him again.

He deserves to know that he’s a good Helldiver.

He deserves to know he is needed here.

(He deserves to know you like his hugs and spontaneous cuddling, he deserves to know that he is part of you, that you can’t imagine yourself without him. He deserves to know that it doesn’t matter if down on Earth no one waits for him — up here you always will. He deserves to know he is your favourite runt. Your only runt)

Years later you will try to remember his response to your question.

Years later you will toss and turn at night, rummage through your journals and try to find answers.

You will never get them.

But the memory of his smile — soft curl of his lips beautiful enough to make a soldier like you weep and kneel — will keep you going for the next eternity and a half of endless service.

Why have you never said it to him? Why did you never said how much he meant to you?

Why-why-why-why-why?

You think about it as you drag him into Pelikan-1 that you forced to come down even though it would be third time they re-attempt pick up.

You think about it as you pump him full of stims and do chest compressions at some point forgetting to count and forgetting to breathe.

He is lying on the floor, eyes sharp with understanding, impossibly blue — prettiest summer sky you ever saw.

He looks at you like it’s a goodbye.

It’s not a goodbye.

It can’t be goodbye, you just got used to him, you have finally accepted that he’s staying, you can’t say goodbye.

You won’t say goodbye.

He’s not dying on you.

You will kill his stupid reckless ass yourself as soon as he gets better.

And he will get better, medics will patch him up — he will be like new in no time.

He is not leaving you, he isn’t going, you can save him. You will save him.

You practically slam both of you on the hard floors of your ship, gear and legs too heavy to move, your body aching with exhaustion — your vision is filled with dark spots, pain lacing through your nervous system with every beat of your heart.

Someone is speaking to you but you don’t know them and you don’t hear them, blood roaring in your ears, your fingers clenched in a death grip on the vest of your runt. Your cadet. Your lad.

“Lieutenant, you have to let go”, the voice is muffled, all sounds are, like you are underwater. The blood pumping in your ears is so loud you aren’t sure if you can still hear properly.

There’s pain in your wrists and aching in your fingers, your body too cold and sticky which doesn’t matter right now, none of it matters.

You need your med bay now, you need the medic, you need to save him.

You need to get up and move-move-move.

Another Helldiver crouches in front of you, their eyes unusually soft — glimmering through the visor of their helmet. Their rank shines like a bloody supernova and what are they doing on your fucking ship.

(You know what they do here, don’t you? The SOS beacon, the mission, the frenzy and panic.)

They are soft and you hate them because they pry your fingers open, they force you up, they hold you tight as you crumble.

You have no right to mourn someone who barely reached the rank of sergeant, who you dragged to hell and back, who almost dragged you down.

But you do. God, you do.

Your eyes skim over the sealed off and soldered down doors of what previously was your med bay.

You really can’t save him. You can never save him, can’t you?

You can never keep anyone, not even this once, not even this lad.

Sob builds up in your throat, pushes through bile of realisation and draws out your rage because not fair, not fucking fair, never fair.

Weren’t you good? Haven’t you done your due? Didn’t you earn to have something in your hellbane of an existence?

Despair is coursing through you — thick enough to choke you out, building up in your throat, hurting you and hollowing out. Strong enough to force you back on your knees.

You can never get up. You won’t ever get up again.

You don’t want to.

But commander forces you up, strong hands holding you on your legs, their voice thick with something you can’t place in a shell shocked state of yours.

You can’t save him-you can’t save him-you can’t save him.

You can’t even try.

“You did good. We’ll be able to bury them. You did good, lieutenant, you didn’t leave them behind”, the murmur in your ear is quiet and hands around you just get tighter.

It takes you a full night before you come back and declare your lad a traitor. He will not get reinforced, his ship will be blasted to pieces and his name wiped out and forgotten.

Against every recommendation and veiled threats to report it as undemocratic you stuff his body in the same capsule you are using and jump down on Vog-Sojoth.

Your hands wrapped around him and he’s cold-cold-cold, god he has never been this cold, you should have covered him with something, you should have took care of it, he might have died cold.

But your lad is motionless doll when you drag him out and find a nice enough place to bury him.

You haul the gravestone from one of the mass burials for other divers and you knife out the name.

They have no right to remember him. They have no right to his name. No right to him.

Doesn’t matter what happens later.

What matters is that you did what you promised. Never again will he be reinforced, never again will he return to your ship, never again will he laugh with you late at night.

You could never save him — his grave unnamed place on a lovely hill and your hands are sticky with blood from torn callouses. You have been digging for a good hour before you were finally sure no one would marauder his body.

Time and continuous reinforcements will wipe his name out of your memory. But you will always remember the way sun shined on the tiny grave on Vog-Sojoth.

Unnamed and forgotten, he will lie resting.

You hope he gets a good sleep. You hope next time — maybe he will stay with you.

Maybe next time you won’t need to learn how to live without him.

Maybe next time you are a good person. And he still wants to be your friend.

Taglist: @synthe4u

[graceisinthelibrary]

So, I have honestly no idea who asked for the following drabble, but it was on my list, lol. The prompt was "I'm very much determined to keep you alive."

When Siegfried woke up, his head was throbbing, and his mind blurry. His eyes couldn’t focus, but there was some light reaching his eyes that blinded him. The brief flicker of awakening was cut short by his wish to escape once again. 

He wanted to be with Evelyn. He had seen her, before the harsh light had torn him out of his dreams. As always her beloved counterfeit, as beautiful as he remembered it, was comforting him; knowing she was there, waiting for him, numbed the pain that was now overwhelming him with force. Why couldn’t he go back? 

He heard a muffled cry and realised it was him, asking for his wife. 

“Shhh…” He heard a soothing voice. The hand on his forehead was cooling and tender.

“Eve?” He asked once again. She had been so gentle, so loving, ever so aware of what he needed. But she wasn’t there. The realisation there was no Eve and this wasn’t her hand, mortified him. He missed her, without her he was nothing. Nothing but pain. 

“Don’t move…” He heard the advice, could even understand it was meant well, but he stirred, wondering why his leg was hurting. When he dared to open his eyes again, the light was less bright and his eyes didn’t hurt. He was in his room, in his own bed. A firm pair of hands lay on his shoulders, pressing him back into the mattress as he tried to straighten up. Female hands, neat and clean, almost delicate. 

He spotted the ring around her finger and couldn’t understand how this was not Evelyn. Her voice was different, darker, with a timbre that he couldn’t place. 

“Mr Farnon!” Irritated, he sank back in his pillow and then she wiped a cold cloth over his brow. He realised how hot he felt, how his leg throbbed to an extent that made him sick. 

“Who are you?” He asked, giving up on trying to understand. His brain didn’t allow him to think straight. Everything was a blur, thoughts whirled in his head without allowing him to make sense of anything. 

“I’m Mrs Hall. Audrey Hall, I’m keeping house for you.” 

“I don’t have a housekeeper. The last one ran off weeks ago.” He remembered the volley of oaths the woman had wished upon him before she had straight walked out of the door. What had she been? The fourth? The fifth? He lost count on the housekeepers he had tried to get used to. And now this one… her accent was thick and her hands… he liked the way she touched him. 

“Well, you did hire me…yesterday, before you ran off to treat that cow.” 

“Cow…?” 

What was she talking about? He couldn’t remember a cow. 

“Why are you here?” He asked, panting heavily. 

“Oh dear…” She sounded exasperated. “The doctor mentioned this might happen. He gave you a sedative…said it could knock you out completely, even cause amnesia.”

“I don’t need a doctor. I’m perfectly able to look after myself.” 

“You were perfectly able to get yourself shot by a poacher,” she told him and there was something in her voice that sounded like it was his fault. Preposterou - but it would explain the pain in his leg. 

“Who shot me?”

“He’s in prison. Thought you were a boar or something equally nasty.” Now she was chuckling and he thought that she had a point. “The doctor said you were a tough beggar though.” 

Once again he felt the cooling effect of a cold cloth over his forehead and he carefully turned his head to have a look at her. Who was this woman? His vision began to steady and her features formed in front of his eyes. He noticed a pair of clever eyes, clear and honest. And there were those cheekbones that gave her face a sassy shape. With her dark hair, the marble like colour of her skin, and her pointed nose, he found she had a fleeting similarity with snow white. 

Did the cretin shoot him in the head? It was the only explanation why he was thinking about fairy tales and princesses right now. He closed his eyes, found the darkness rewarding and peaceful. “I hired you?” If he had done so he may have done something right for a change. 

“Luckily yes…” She chuckled again. “You collapsed in the kitchen when you came home. No idea how you even made it here, but the doctor said you would have been dead without me calling for him. The kitchen looks like a slaughterhouse thanks to you.” 

“I’m so sorry…” 

“Never mind. It needed a good cleaning anyway. With all due respect, Mr Farnon, your house is a mess.” 

“I like it the way it is.” 

“You blooming well have to, if you live here.” 

She lapsed into silence, and for a moment he wondered if she had gone. If she had been a vision just like Evelyn and he found he didn’t like the idea of Mrs Hall leaving him to his own devices. 

“Are you still here?” He asked, expecting no answer. 

“Aye…can I get you something? A brew? A sandwich?” 

Only now he realised how thirsty he was. He liked his dry lips. “A cup of tea…Could you add some whisky?” 

She hesitated before she answered, “I’ll see if I find something…”

Right before he drifted off to sleep again, he heard her steps, and opened his eyes. He stared at her and slowly pushed himself up. However he wasn’t nearly as strong as wanted to be, so she eventually put down the tray and helped him to sit up. With force she fluffed up a pillow and pushed it behind his back. 

Whatever she carried on the tray smelled divine and so did she when she bent over him to place the tray over his lap. He figured it was lavender and something with lemon, perhaps her soap. Her clothes were simply; grey and blue and so were her shoes. She was by all means a modest person and when he saw the soup plate with the stew and dived his spoon into it, he figured she was marvellous cook. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in ages and the stew was magically restoring him. There was no whisky in his tea though, but he didn’t dare to complain. 

She placed a bottle with painkillers on his bedside table and added a glass of water. “One before you get back to sleep,” she said. “Doctor’s orders.” 

Curiously, he put down his spoon. “You’re very…efficient, Mrs Hall.” 

“I like to be useful, Mr Farnon,” she replied, her hands folded over her front. 

“I won’t deny the house will be a challenge…well, not just the house,” he admitted. “I’ve been on my own for a couple of months now and I’m not…doing so well. I have a brother who’s still in boarding school, but will come home to pester me every now and then.” He gave her a long look. “It seems you saved my life last night.” 

“I did,” she confirmed. “And it were my pleasure. In fact, Mr Farnon, I’m very much determined to keep you alive. I need this job.” 

He nodded. “And I need someone to look after the house and…” He became pale. “Jess!” Where was she?

“She’s fine,” she cut him off. Jess was his golden retriever. She was only six months old and needed a lot of attention. “She’s in her basket, chewing on one of your slippers. I couldn’t save it, I’m afraid.” 

“Never mind…” He groaned and closed his eyes. His dog couldn’t be in better hands, he was sure of it. Suddenly, he felt very tired, but he also needed the bathroom. “Would you mind…” He handed her the tray and tried to get up on his own, but failed. 

After she had put the tray on his chest of drawers, she helped him up and placed his arm around her shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t you worry. I were a Wren in the Great War,” she explained as if she read his mind. “I know what I’m doing.”

“So, you can cook, you can clean, and you’re a lifesaver. Is there anything you can’t do?” He wondered as he hopped along into the cold hallway. 

“I’m no good at doing nothing,” she replied. 

“That’s something we have in common.” 

Ten minutes later when he was back in his bed and swallowed the pill she had pressed into his hand. He felt how the weariness was claiming him and he watched her while she was picking up some of his belongings that were cluttered around the room. She was a tidy one, he thought. The opposite of him, but maybe she was what he needed. Evelyn had been organised and practical and she had saved him from drowning in his own mess. Evelyn would approve of Mrs Hall, he was sure of it.  

“I’m glad you’re here,” he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep, the vision of his late wife’s face in front of his inner eye. 

With a mixture of relief and gratefulness, Audrey looked down on the sleeping figure in the bed and switched off the bedside lamp. THe poor man needed help, and so did she. He was a mess, but a charming one, and she liked the house. Underneath the dirt and the clutter was a gem, she was sure of it, and she wanted to do her best to recover its beauty.

“Me too,” she whispered as she carried her tray outside and closed the door to allow him an undisturbed sleep. “Me too, Mr Farnon.” 

[arbitrarykiwi]

Etched in Ink

Nam-gyu x TattooArtist!Pierced!Fem! Reader Smut Fic

Summary: when Nam-gyu decides it’s time for a tattoo, he asks his best friend, Thanos, where he goes. Thanos raves about his tattoo artist and urges Nam-gyu to schedule an appointment with you. Nam-gyu could not prepare himself for the fact this highly praised tattoo artist is so fucking hot.

Warnings: smut (18+) , reader is described as being tattooed , reader has piercings (tongue, nipple, clit) , oral (f receiving) , p in v sex , creampie , name calling (i think whore like once) , dirty talk , read at your own risk

When Thanos told him that he knows a “fucking crazy good” tattoo artist, he was intrigued.

Nam-gyu had his fair share of ink, multiple pieces littering his skin in intricate vibrant lines. But, he got all the ones he had from some shady underground parlor or even someone’s basement. With the new desire to have the tattoo needle against his skin again, this time with an idea for something much larger than what he gotten before- he decided it was time to find someone a bit more reputable.

So he asked Thanos- the purple hair rapper having a large tattoo of his name down his back, the lines are crisp, the black ink rich and even- simple as the design was, Nam-gyu couldn’t lie, the attention to detail and the skill of the artist was apparent.

Thanos was quick to boast about his tattoo and the artist he got it from, telling Nam-gyu he just had to take him to the place he goes to, to see the specific artist he went to. And hell, with how serious Thanos seemed about his holy grail of a tattoo artist- he agreed.

So he made an appointment on your website. It was easy enough, you had quick availability. So he set a date, paid the deposit and waited (not so) patiently for the tattoo day to arrive. It was late appointment, 8pm. Which was something Nam-gyu appreciated, as an insomniac he preferred to do stuff during the night- and a late night tattoo session sounded like just what he needed.

Thanos had brought him, claiming he just wanted to see you anyway, despite not getting a tattoo himself. Sure, Nam-gyu thought that was odd, he didn’t see why Thanos would want to go out of his way to see a tattoo artist for no reason, but he thought it had to be you were just a chill dude.

But when he walked into the shop with Thanos, and you came up to greet them. He was floored.

You were obviously a female…very obviously. You wore a black tank top, hemmed with lace. It’s tight fitting and low cut, he can’t help but stare at your cleavage and the chest tattoos that litter your skin. He thinks they accentuate one another in the most perfect way.

Your hair was pulled back and you were drying off your hands. He could see tattoos along your arms and hands, spaced out and each eye catching in their own right. He assumed your legs must be the same even though he couldn’t see them due to your pants.

“Hey! You must be Nam-gyu.” You say with a smile. Thanos looks over to Nam-gyu, eyes saying everything. ‘See this is what I was talking about’

Not only were you a good tattoo artist, you were so fucking hot. Nam-gyu gathers himself, nodding his head slowly, “Y-yeah.” He says clearing his throat, a pathetic attempt to hide his surprise and dry mouth.

“Perfect! I’m actually so excited, I really like the ideas you sent me.” You say waving the both of them over to your station. He finds it endearing the way you talk so excitedly about his tattoo. He sent you various pictures of what he wanted, a sharp, detailed, abstract line style tattoo that was planned to start on his arm, go up his shoulder and to his chest.

Your voice and kind tone is such a drastic contrast from your physical appearance- a vixen. You were dangerous. Such a kind sweet face and voice with a body that was straight sin.

He starts to think that Thanos set him up. He knew you were this hot, and knew Nam-gyu wanted a chest piece, now he has to deal with you touching on his chest. Fucking great. He’s bringing his hand up to his mouth, silently laughing in a sardonic manner to himself. He was so fucked.

You’re so short compared to him, looking up at him as you talk, gesturing to the tattoo chair for him to sit down. He follows your orders. You sit down across from him on a circular stool, grabbing your iPad to show him the design you came up with.

“You need me to get you a seat, Thanos?” You call over your shoulder, not even looking up from your tablet. Nam-gyu looks over to Thanos who is not so subtly checking you out. It was like Thanos was undressing you with his eyes. Nam-gyu couldn’t blame him.

“Nah I’m good cutie, just came to drop him off.” Thanos says, you laugh and stick your tongue out playfully. Nam-gyu thinks all the blood he was fighting not to rush to his cock was a fight he was not going to win. On your pink tongue was a silver ball- you had a tongue ring. Jesus Christ, you were going to kill him before you even got the stencil on.

“Alright then get going, don’t need you just standing there. He’s a big boy, got some tattoos before. He’ll be fine. I’m not gonna bite.” You say turning back to Nam-gyu and winking. He sucks in a deep breath and nervously chuckles, shifting in the seat to hopefully conceal the growing erection in his pants.

“Mhm…” Thanos says, finally pulling his eyes away from the view of your back and the red lace thing that was peeking out from your jeans. “Don’t fuck him up too bad, he’s still gotta pay his rent tomorrow.” Thanos says with a teasing grin, looking to Nam-Gyu with a devious grin. He definitely knew what he was doing bringing Nam-Gyu here.

“I won’t mess him up…too bad…” You tease as you begin to put on your gloves. Nam-gyu inwardly groans, even your gloves are pink. You’re like a cute princess in the body of a succubus…he was not going to make it through this session. He’s looking up to the ceiling, saying a silent prayer to himself to try and calm down the erection that’s threatening to become obvious. “I’ll take real good care of him.”

Nam-gyu kisses his teeth, sucking in a shuddering breath he’s thankful you don’t hear. His mind is spinning, he swears he heard a purr in your words, like you’re insinuating the same idea that he’s trying to wipe from his mind. He can stop thinking about how you’d look with his cock shoved in your mouth or how you’d look as he fills you to the brim- sinking his cock deep into your pussy. He bets you have the prettiest moans.

He hates his mind- he really does. He never claimed to be a good person but he normally wasn’t this debauched. You’re just a tattoo artist trying to make a living, having friendly banter with clients and here he was thinking about fucking you stupid….yeah great person he was. He thinks that he completely imagined the purr in your voice, he’s just too horny and imagined it.

But when he looks back to Thanos, and sees his expression. Nam-Gyu realizes he didn’t make it up. You did have a distinct tone to your words that even Thanos caught on to. Thanos has an eyebrow raised, like he’s picked up on your words insinuation. His grin widens and he’s winking at Nam-Gyu. “Well then, I’ll take your word for it..” Thanos says in a teasing sing-song voice as he’s crossing the floor and leaving the tattoo shop. “Have fun you two!” The purple haired rapper calls out, like a father seeing off his son and date to prom.

Nam-gyu hears the bell on the shop door ring as it’s opened and closed. Now you two are truly alone. His body feels oh so hot, his pants are uncomfortable and his eyes have not left the ceiling since Thanos walked out. He fears that if he looks at you he might just cum in his pants. He is praising and cursing Thanos simultaneously. Why did Thanos wait so long to show him the work of art personified that was you?! Why did Thanos set him up deliberately?! He couldn’t decide which pissed him off more, the fact Thanos was harboring you like a secret for years or the fact that Thanos deliberately kept you a secret to get Nam-Gyu flustered when all he wanted was a tattoo.

“You want this on your chest and upper arm right?” You say, it brings him out of his trance but he doesn’t look at you. “Mhm.” He says simply, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His eyes nearly roll back into his skull when you giggle and scoot your chair closer to the seat he was laid back on. “You’re gonna need to take this off.” Your fingers pinch his shirt and pull it up teasingly.

Nam-gyu thinks he’s being tested. All the shitty things he’s done in life have led up to this and now he’s put on trial. Forced to act normal when he can’t get over how incredibly sexy you were. It was a real tragedy. He sits up at bit, pulling his shit over his head and balling it up in his lap.

You couldn’t help yourself as your eyes wander over his bare torso. He was fit, not too muscular, not too thin. He was sculpted like some Greek god. You swallow thickly, trying to remain professional as you grab the tattoo stencil.

You scoot your chair close to the bench he’s laid back on. “Just gotta prep the area.” You smile sweetly, leaning over him. He nods, not able to form words as your gloved hands touch his bare chest. You do the prep work, shaving the area and wiping it down. You don’t miss the way his chest shutters with each breath he takes. Anytime your hands come into contact with his chest you can feel how his heartbeat is practically jumping out of his chest.

When you put the stencil down and run your hand along the expanse of his shoulder and chest he is praying you didn’t realize how his eyes rolled into the back of his head. You definitely did, but you didn’t say anything about it.

“Let me know how that looks.” You chirp, bringing him out of the trance you had put him in. He clears his throat and nods, sitting up and hopping off the bench to the walk over to the mirror in your studio. He admires the stencil, it’s an intricate abstract design that spans across his shoulder to his chest. It’s kickass, not only were you built like straight sin, you were a great artist. He sent you many images for inspiration but somehow the design you came up with is even better than any image online he could find.

“Looks good.” He manages to get out, catching your eyes in the mirror. You roll your eyes and raise an eyebrow playfully. “C’mon if there’s anything you wanna change I can fix it. Is the design what you wanted? The placement alright?” You say, he thinks it’s cute how serious you get about your work- wanting to make sure he really likes the ink you’re about to place into his skin. He laughs, as hard and as flustered as you make him; you were so easy to talk to. You had an air of confidence around you that just drew him to you. You were funny, your voice was so sweet, and you were dedicated as a tattooer. Would it be too forward to say fuck the tattoo and just take you on a date now??

He looks at the tattoo again, really looks at it, and he still doesn’t see anything that needs to be changed. “It looks so fucking good. You really did great with the design.” He says genuinely, admiring the blue ink of the stencil that litters his chest. His eyes look back to catch your face in the mirror again, your smile is wide, proud and you’re dancing excitedly in your chair. “Perfect! Sit back down n’ we can get started!” You say oh so happily, it’s such an endearing tone Nam-Gyu thinks he’s going insane. He’s never wanted someone as much as he wanted you.

He follows your orders and settles back down into the seat, it’s slightly leaned back allowing him to sit comfortably and you to have all the room you need to tattoo. He can’t help but to stare shamelessly as you work with the materials in your small corner of the studio, grabbing the ink and needles. You work so effortlessly, he knows you’ve probably done this hundreds of times but you’re so in the zone he feels like he’s watching a movie about a hot tattoo artist. And it’s all a private viewing just for him to see.

You scoot the chair back up next to where he’s sat, tattoo gun in your hand. “Ready?” You ask and he nods, “mhm.” He can’t bring himself to say much else, he’s trying to think about how he’s going to make it through the next couple hours as you’re oh so close to him and touching on his chest. “Yay! Let me know if you need a break or anything.” You say excitedly, he can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face at your cute display of excitement.

When he feels the first sing of the needle in his skin he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It’s a pain that he’s come to love, a way of feeling something when he’s not on drugs. The drawn out bite of the needle for hours on end almost lulls him to sleep most the times he’s gotten tattooed. Each tattoo he gets he thinks adds something to him that he can’t quite place. He would love nothing more than to be sung to sleep by the hum of the tattoo gun and the sting of the needle, but he can’t even focus on that when he feels your hands gliding across his skin so slowly and meticulously.

He adjusts his arms slightly, letting his palms fall into his lap and cup over the bulge that he knows is beginning to form in his pants. Part of him feels guilty, you’re just trying to do your job and here he is acting like a dog in heat. He can’t help it, you are so fucking sexy. It’s not even the ‘sexy’ that he would attribute to pornstars, no not at all. You’re a salacious deity, effortlessly attractive in every minuscule thing you do, a lustrous vixen that’s built out of straight sin. To top it all off, he thinks you don’t even realize it. You exude an innocence that contradicts your seductive appearance. Fuck, you were perfect.

Throughout the tattoo Nam-Gyu thinks he falls harder. You ask him about himself, maybe you were just being cordial and trying to pass the time but with each answer he gives you follow it up with an happy answer and a follow up question. You inquire about his job and when you find out he’s a club promoter you ask where. When you find out he works at Club Pentagon you gasp, “No way! That’s dope as hell! Thanos actually was telling me all about that club, raving about it. So me and my friends went the other week.” You stop tattooing a second to turn back to the tray you had and pick up more ink, “I can’t believe I didn’t see you!” You finish, turning back to him with the cutest pout he’s ever seen.

“When did you go?” He inquires, a smile on his face as he sees your pout turn into a grin. “It was a Thursday, I know, not the best day to go to the club.” You say, already defending yourself playfully. “Well ya’ gotta come on the weekends, hell even Monday’s. ‘S when I work.” Nam-gyu says, it takes so much to work himself up to say it- would it be too forward? Would you think he was weird?

“Well now I’ll only ever go on weekends and Mondays if it means I get to see you.” You muse, immediately going back to tattooing, he can hardly register your words. You were flirting, right?? “Yeah? I can put you on the list, get you VIP.” He hums, eyes trained in the ceiling, trying to slow his heartbeat down because he knows you can feel it. “Oh really?? Would it get us a private room, too?”

You were definitely flirting.

He draws in a sharp breath, one of many since he’s met you, hoping it comes off as just him breathing through a tough spot in the tattoo. “Y-yeah I can arrange that.” He looks down for once, looking at you as you tattoo. You were so focused, your nose scrunching every so often, your tongue poking out in concentration giving him a nice view of the silver tongue ring you had on your pretty pink tongue. God, his cock was so hard.

He tries to think of anything else to get his mind off the lewd things he was thinking. He wasn’t a saint by any means, he would even call himself sleazy. But you weren’t like the other women he’s gotten with, you are so professional and dedicated to your work- probably just flirting to get an extra tip, being friendly- and here he was thinking about bending you over and fucking you dumb.

He has no idea you’re thinking the same thoughts. How could you not?! He was oh so attractive and your hands are moving along his toned pecks. You can see the other tattoos that stain his skin, only adding to his appeal. You also weren’t oblivious- you could see the way his hands are clasped over his crotch, trying to hide the erection that’s definitely in his pants.

As you work you’re squeezing your thighs together, trying to get all the sinful images you have playing in your mind to stop so you can do what you need to- tattoo him. But there’s something about the way that, now, your art is on him. The design that you made is permanently etched into his skin like a brand. The thought makes you dizzy.

It’s a large tattoo, so it takes a long while, the whole time the tension keeps thickening between you two. The more you work, the further into his chest it is, the further you have to lean over him. You’re practically on top of him, thumb damn near brushing over his nipple as you work on a particular line. He can feel your breath fanning his skin as you lean even closer to make sure your work is perfect. He can smell your perfume and shampoo, every sense he has is overwhelmed by you.

The hours pass and you two talk and talk, learning little things about each other, laughing at jokes that fly between sentences. It’s like you have known each other forever. He learns that you’ve been tattooing for years, starting in the underground tattooing world- even apprenticing under one of the guys who did his old tattoos. Small world!

Finally, he hears your voice chirp excitedly, “And you’re all done!” You’re pulling away and setting your tattoo gun down. You come back with a cool wet paper towel, wiping the excess ink off his chest. He doesn’t miss the way your hand moves extra slow, like it’s lingering against him. “Stand up n check it out!” You say, he is obsessed with the way your hands nearly shake with how ecstatic you seem to be, wanting him to see the work you did. “Alright, alright!” He chuckles, slowly sitting up, “Gotta give me a second, I’ve been sitting in the same position for hours.” He says, getting up and making a show of groaning as he gets up.

“Awh! So now you’re complainin’?” You tease, “you sat so well the whole time, were being sooo good f’me and now you’re complaining.”

He doesn’t miss the way you have a slight purr to your voice or the way your eyes linger on his bare back from the mirror. Did you just want him to bend you over and fuck you stupid in the studio?! (The answer was absolutely).

He laughs off the way that simple sentence makes him flustered and he shakes his head, “Not complain’, sweetheart. Just being honest.” He says, throwing his own little bit of flirting in the ring. The pet name makes your throat go dry, it rolls off his tongue so smoothly that it seems like he thinks nothing of it. You wave him off and turn around to take your gloves off, hiding your bashful expression. When you gather yourself you stand up and meet him at the mirror.

“Sooo what do ya think?!” You say in a sing song voice as you rock on your heels. He admires your work in the mirror- your work was fucking incredible. The lines were crisp, the black was opaque, and the subtle shading you added around the expanse of the tattoo made it so much better. “Holy fuck this is so awesome…” he laughs out in disbelief, all attempt at sounding suave and flirty out the window as he sees it finished for the first time. He’s eve leaning closer to the mirror to look at it in awe.

Your smile widens exponentially when you see how happy he was with your work, you’re even clapping softly. “Yay! I’m so glad you like it, it was genuinely so fun to do.” You say, catching his eyes in the mirror from where you stand behind him. “It looks really good with your other tattoos too!” You point out. He nods in agreement and turns back to you. “I guess I gotta just keep coming here…I don’t think anyone could compare to your work.”

You can’t help the blush that rises to your face, the praise from him boosting your confidence. You make a show of doing courtesy, giggling as you do it. “What can I say, I’m good at what I do.”

He laughs turning back around to face you fully, you’re a couple feet apart. He’s so much taller than you, you nearly have to crane your neck upwards to look at him. You two stand there with goofy smiles on your faces, each standing idle in the thick cloud of sexual tension that hangs around the two of you.

“Do you want to go on a date?”

“Can I have your number?”

You both speak at the same time, words fumbling from lips in a hasty nervous attempt at trying to meet up again- to do anything to ease the ache that is in both of your lower stomachs. Your laughter echos Nam-gyu’s as the overlapping sentences break the silence. You’re both nodding in response to the others question.

“Yeah, we can go on a date.” He says as he smiles down at you, your eyes cant stop drifting down to stare at his bare chest. “Then…yes you can have my number.” You answer, still giggling. You catch his eyes falling to your chest, eyes tracing over your tattoos and then settling on your cleavage.

You take a slow step towards him, he follows, his hand reaching out to hook a finger around one loops of your jeans and pulls you all the way into him. Your hands find purchase on his chest, careful not to touch the raw skin where you just tattooed. With how he pulled you into him, you can feel his erection press into your lower stomach. “You were hard the entire tattoo, huh?” You ask bluntly, smirking up at him.

Nam-gyu falters a bit, covering it up with a laugh, “A pretty girl like you touching on my chest for hours…c-can’t really help it.” He says a bit bashfully. You bite your lip, finger tracing shapes on his stomach, watching as he tenses up under your touch. “We could do something to help that…” you mutter, your voice low as you bat your eyelashes up at him.

He can’t take it anymore, he brings his hands up to hold either side of your neck and jaw, leaning down to connect his lips with yours. It’s raw and primal. Hours of built up sexual tension pouring out as your lips move together. You giggle a bit when you hear him let out a soft whine into the kiss when he feels your pierced tongue run along his bottom lip. He regains his composure and greedily sucks your tongue into his mouth. It’s hypnotizing truly, your kind going blank as your mouth is filled with the taste of him.

Nam-gyu pulls away, connected to you my a string of spit. You’re panting, trying to catch your breath. It’s not easy when he’s tilting your head up and running his nose down your neck, inhaling the scent of the perfume that has been overwhelming him this whole time. Your hands reach to his hair, pulling the long black locks as you sigh out blissfully. He leaves open mouthed kisses along your skin, teeth biting into your skin every so often. “Had me so fucking hard the entire time…” he mumbles against your skin, pulling back to lock eyes with you once more.

You bite your lip, fingers tightening their grip in his hair and tugging. A low rumble, resembling a growl escapes his lips as he grinds his painfully hard cock against your lower stomach, like he’s trying to further prove his words. “Bet you were thinkin’ of all the dirty things you wanted to do to me, huh?” You tease, tilting your head mockingly. He huffs, obviously not too enthralled by your mocking, he can’t deny the way it makes his dick jump in his boxers, though.

He pulls you back into him, lips crashing on yours. This time it’s much more frantic, it’s fast paced and full of spit and teeth. It’s messy, filthy even. As his lips wor against yours, his hands are dripping from your jaw to your hips. He’s wasting no time, his hands moving to hastily unbutton your jeans and pull down the zipper. You’re helplessly whining into his mouth, greedily sucking his tongue into your mouth as he’s guiding you backwards.

Your back hits the leather fabric of the seat you were just tattooing him in. His fingers grip at the loops of your pants pulling them down your thighs. He’s groaning into your mouth when he feels his fingers brush against the soft expanse of your thighs. He has to be dreaming.

His large hands work your jeans down to your knees. He’s pulling back from the kiss, spit still connecting your lips together. He grabs at your hips, mumbling a breathless “jump” before he’s helping you up to sit on the chair.

When you’re sat all pretty up on your bench he’s slotting himself between your legs and reconnecting his lips with yours with a desperation that makes your mind spin. He kisses you like you’re a hit of the strongest, rarest drug he’s tried. One taste and he’s addicted to you.

He clumsily pulls your jeans off your legs entirely. Fumbling even more to pull them over your shoes. You’re giggling into the kiss at his eagerness, his hands throwing your jeans to the floor of the studio and reattaching themselves to your bare thighs, grasping at the doughy flesh and moaning into your mouth as he does.

“G-god fuck-“ Nam-Gyu begins to mumble against your lips, “so. Fuckin’. pretty.” He hisses out between kisses. He thinks he’s the luckiest man in the world, there’s no fucking way he’s got you writhing against him, biting on his lips like some fucking she-devil. Your hips roll against his torso, ass grinding against the leather seat under you.

In a breathless motion, he’s pulling away and dipping his head to your neck, placing open mouthed kisses along your pulse point. There’s no true technique to it, it’s like he’s trying to just taste you. And he is. Maybe you’re wearing some pheromone perfume or something, he doesn’t know, but every time he runs his tongue along your skin, your taste flooding his taste buds, his cock is twitching in his pants- wet spot most certainly forming in his underwear.

He pulls away for a moment to simply admire you, trying to imprint the image of you into his mind just in case this is the only time he gets a chance like this. Your thighs are splayed out so nicely, the plush skin widening with how you’re sat. The slit of your sweet cunt practically hidden by your thighs, giving him the most delicious preview of what’s to come. And what is that…no fucking way….oh he’s already planning his next tattoo appointment just to make sure he sees you.

Nipple rings.

He could see the hardened outline of your nipples and the bars that went through them. Jesus Christ, you were going to actually send him to an early grave. He’s back on you, mouth back on your neck and hands coming to cup your tits over your shirt, thumbs brushing against the fabric of your shirt, massaging your nipples with feather light touches that have you jumping in his hold. Your arms find purchase on his shoulders, wrapping around his neck and gripping at the hair at the back of his neck, pulling his head further into you.

“N-nam-gyu…” his name falls from your lips in a nearly silent whine when his teeth dig a little too hard into your skin, the sharp bite of his teeth sending a wave of pleasure throughout your body. He pulls away from your neck, trailing his tongue down to the sweep of your breasts, “say it again.” He mumbles tersely against your skin, lips tickling you. “Say my name like that again.” His thumb and pointer finger pinching the hard peaks and pulling the slightest bit, the black fabric of your tank top stretching with the pull.

“F-fuck! Nam-gyu, p-please.” You’re ashamed you’re already pleading with him, but the throbbing in your cunt has become almost unbearable at this point. You can feel the grin that twists against his lips as he releases your skin from his mouth. He pulls back to admire his work, his thumb moving up from your nipple to brush over the red and purple marks that begin to blossom across the top of your breasts.

“Mhm…that’s it…” he hums, nodding his head slowly, his eyes never leaving your chest, the image of your skin littered with marks made by him had his cock throbbing. So fucking pretty, he thinks. His eyes flicker up to your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your kiss swollen lips, the way your skin is stained with the imprints of his teeth and red splotches that span over the tattoos that are inked into your flesh. It’s like some macabre renaissance painting.

He can’t wait any longer. He’s dropping to his knees and pulling you by the hips towards the edge of the chair. Your skin squeaks against the leather and you squeak out, almost afraid you’ll fall. Your hands grip the edge of the seat, your eyes are wide as you look down at him. “‘M not gonna let you fall, I got’cha princess.” He breathes out as he throws your legs over his shoulders, spreading you open finally.

You watch as he stares at your cunt, his pupils as big as saucers as he takes in your pussy. “O-oh my fucking god…” he laughs out in disbelief, not only do you have the prettiest cunt he thinks he’s ever seen, the hood of your clit is pierced. He’s spreading your lips apart to get a better look, thumbs massaging the sides of your pussy as he takes in the perfect sight before him. He looks back up to you, his face nearly as red as yours, “where the fuck have you been all this time.” He’s chuckling and looking back down to your dripping pussy.

He rests his head on your thigh, his thumb starting to trace feather light circles on your clit, thumb running over the little piercing. You jump into his touch, breath catching in your throat. “B-been here the whole time..” you whine out, hips trying to shift to meet his mouth but he’s too far away, “…t-tattooing T-thanos- ahh!” Your words are abruptly cut off by Nam-gyu delving into your pussy.

He doesn’t start slow or work you up, no, he did it to shut you up. His lips wrap around your clit and he sucks, hard, tongue rolling over your throbbing clit in figure eights. You cry out, hand flying to his hair and fisting it into your hands. It’s so much at once, but it’s so good.

“Don’t fuckin’ say his name when I got my face near your cunt..” he growls, lips dancing along your puffy folds as he speaks. He licks a flat stripe up the entirety of your pussy, drenching his tastebuds in your saccharine taste. “Only wanna hear my name.” His words are once again punctuated by his tongue flicking deviously against the silver jewelry adorning your clit. Your hips are pathetically rutting down onto his mouth, urging him to give you more.

But he’s fired up now. Years of being Thanos’ shadow, having to watch as the purple haired rapper got all the girls and left him for nothing. This was his time. His chance. He was the one getting to fuck you, not Thanos. “I’m the one who got you spread out like a whore in your lil’ tattoo studio, right?” Nam-Gyu hisses out, eyes catching yours as he waits for you to answer. You’re sucking in a shaky breath, hand tightening its grip in his hair, nodding.

His change in tone makes your cunt flutter around nothing. “Mhm…y-yeah, jus’ you.” You slur out, hips rolling to try and meet his mouth, every time he backs away so he’d be just out of reach. The corners of his lips curl up when he hears how your voice is higher, words wavering and breath heaving. He’s the one doing this to you. It feels surreal to him. He accepts your answer it seems because he’s diving back in.

His tongue is working messily along your folds. Mapping out every crevice and corner, his dark eyes never leaving your face. Nam-Gyu is watching intently, taking in every reaction you give him. Every twitch of your brow, every time you bite your lip, the way your chest heaves and stomach clenches, he’s spinning. He’s on his knees devouring your cunt, worshipping you like a goddess. He’s not shy about his noises, he’s slurping and lapping up every drop of arousal that pours out your clenching pussy.

“Taste shoo fuckin’ good.” Nam-gyu’s words are slurred by your puffy folds, tongue mapping out every inch of your throbbing pussy. He makes a whole show of dropping his jaw wide open so you can see the slick that drops down his pink tongue and coats his face. He’s so messy, paying no mind to how wet his face has become, how your thighs are painted in your own arousal. Your chest is heaving, your nails are hitting into the leather on the edge of the tattoo seat.

“So fuckin’ pretty too, y’know that?” He hums, his dark eyes trained on your cunt as he pulls back just slightly to take in the beautiful sight before him, “such a pretty fuckin’ cunt.” When he finishes his sentence you have no time to utter a response because he’s diving nose deep into your cunt, tongue circling your sopping entrance as the bridge of his nose rubs so deliciously against your clit.

“N-nam-gyu!” His name falling from your lips is a sound that makes his ears ring and his head fill with static. It’s such a high pitched creaky, pleading whine that’s so different from your voice it shocks him in the best way. One of his hands removes itself from your hip to fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans. His cock is so painfully hard he had to free it from his boxers. When his hefty cock springs free as he pulls his jeans and underwear down just enough, he’s growling into your pussy.

His tongue flattens and he licks a fat drag up the entirety of your cunt, slurping down your thick arousal greedily. “‘M I making you feel good?” He murmurs, eyes watching your every reaction even though your head is tipped back in ecstasy. You nod frantically, eyes screwed shut as he licks up and down, up and down in slow, deliberate drags. “Tell me. Wanna hear it.”

When you open your mouth to speak moans cascade from your lips, it takes a moment for you to even think straight enough to form a coherent thought. One of your hands flies to his hair, pulling the strands back out of his face and fisting the soft strands into your fists. Your head falls back forward, a weak gasp catching in your throat when you immediately catch his eyes, “Mhm, s-so fucking g-good. T-tongue feels so good!”

You can feel the way his lips widen into a smile, satisfied with your words. He nods a bit, his head shaking in your pussy, he’s practically glued. The taste of your cunt is something that not even the best high could compare to. His hands run up your hips and torso, grabbing at the top of your tank top and pulling it down. Your breasts spill out of the fabric giving him the angelic view of your bare tits. Tattoos line your chest, almost like arrows that guide his eyes directly to your pert nipples accessorized so prettily with barbells that have little hearts on either side- framing your nipples so perfectly.

His eyes are fluttering and rolling back at the sight, moaning into the depths of your cunt as he slurps up every possible ounce of your arousal. He can’t help it, he has to remove one of his hands off of your body to reach down to jerk his cock. You writhe and choke out a moan at the sight, his wrist twists around his thick length, smearing the pre-cum that bubbles out of his red tip, smearing it along his throbbing cock. Your hips grind down even harder into his face, his nose grinding so perfectly against your clit as his tongue licks greedily at your insides.

Babbles of his name are lost between wanton moans and pleas for him to continue. Every time he pulls his mouth back the slightest bit you get the most perfect view of his face, absolutely drenched in a milky-white sheen of you. It drips down his adam’s apple tantalizingly, wetting his neck- and he doesn’t care, if he does it only makes him more excited because he’s diving right back in, nose deep to fuck his tongue back into your twitching cunt.

“Ohmygod!” The babbled cry is ripped from your lungs, your hand gripping at his hair harder- nails biting into his scalp. His tongue pulls out of your entrance to lick a fat stripe back up to the hood of your clit, dancing around that pretty little piercing you have, “I’m- fuck! ‘M gonna cum!” You sob out, eyebrows upturning.

As much as Nam-Gyu wants to taste your cum pour down his throat- that would have to wait. He’s so painfully hard, he wants, no, needs to feel you cum on his cock. He’s pulling away, nearly cumming when he hears your whine, so desperate and needy, begging to cum. He stands back up, leaning forward and gripping your face, capturing you in a kiss.

It’s so messy. You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue. The wetness that was left along his face is smeared across your skin. You’re moaning into his mouth at your own taste, your hands reaching to wrap around each of his wrists as you lean further into him. His taste, although mixed with yours, was something you know you’d forever be addicted to now.

Nam-gyu pulls away breathless, “‘m sorry pretty, I really need to feel you cum on my cock.” He apologizes against your lips, “I’ll make you cum, I promise…” as he speaks, one of his hands snakes down to tap at your clit. He laughs against your pillowy lips when your whole body jolts with each wet tap of his finger pad against your clit.

You nod, hips rolling against his hand, “P-please… Nam-Gyu I-I need to cum. ” You pant out. And how could Nam-Gyu say no to you. He grabs at your hips and pulls you off the bench. Your knees are weak nearly giving out but his grip on you keeps you up right. He’s spinning you around and pushing at your lower back- bending you over the tattoo bench you were just sat on. You whine when you feel your own wetness as you’re laid over the leather, now dirtying your stomach.

Nam-gyu’s hands run up and down your back, pushing up your tank top so he can see the tattoos that are inked on your back. His thick cock is slotted between the valley of your ass, rocking back and forth. You’re shivering, hips shaking left and right to try and urge him to put it in. “Be patient…” he hums, “lemme admire you.”

His hands dance along your skin, taking in all of you, feeling you under his palms. When his hands land on your waist he lets out a low growl. His hands are so large, engulfing your waist. It’s such a sinful sight, if he had an image of it he’d put it as the lockscreen of his phone. He wants to tease you more, draw this out longer, but the throbbing in his cock is painful at this point. He has to be inside you.

Nam-gyu shifts backwards, gripping the base of his dick and swiping it up and down your sopping cunt. Moans echo through the studio as you feel his fat cock head drag through your folds, catching your clit with each slow drag. When he feels the softness of your pussy along his tip he is also moaning, the hand still on you grabbing tighter at the fat of your hips.

When he’s coated his cock in your arousal he lines up with your entrance. When he makes the first push into your tight heat, both of you are letting out blissful sighs. He’s hardly in and you just know he’s going to fill you so well. Ever so slowly, he pushes in deeper. When his fat cock head is fully inside you, your cunt lets out a sickening wet ‘pop’. The high pitched, creaky moan of his name that you let out makes something particularly superior bloom deep inside him.

“Oh fuuckk…” it’s a long drawn out growl, his hands gripping the globes of your ass, the grip only tightening the further he sinks into your tight cunt. It’s so slow it’s nearly killing you, inch after agonizing inch his cock is stretching your pussy impossibly wide over his thick girth. You can feel the engorged, throbbing veins run along your walls, only serving to make the whole thing feel so much better. “P-please put it in! A-all the way.” You cry out, looking back over your shoulder at him. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth and his eyebrows are knitted together as he traces every tattoo that litters your back to memorize them. Especially that little tramp stamp you had…that was real cute.

“E-easy…” he hisses out, “You’re so t-tight, sweets. Ya gotta relax if ya want me to go faster.”

His hand reaches around to splay itself across your pubic bone, his deft fingers running along the edges of your cunt where you’re split on his dick to collect your arousal. Traveling back upwards, his fingers meet your clit to rub slow circles into the throbbing bud. You must have loosened up because he’s groaning and sinking in deeper, “Fuucckk yeah, there we go, stretching so pretty around me.”

His words have you moaning, your head falling forward, forehead resting on the leather of the chair. With one final push he’s sinking balls deep inside you. A whine is ripped from your lips, your back arches pushing your hips even further back against him. He’s keeling over you, hunching over and letting out a shuddering breath when he feels the whole length of his cock wrapped in the gooey warmth that was your cunt.

You’re already gushing around him, the force of his cock stretching you out forced a cascade of your arousal down his balls. “Fucking h-hell, so tight. Can feel you clenchin’ around me.” Nam-gyu huffs, his fingers still working on your clit, making your hips roll against him, trying to get him to move. He can’t move right now though, he just knows the second he moves he is going to blow his load deep in your cunt. He tilts his head up and a smirk spreads on his face, a perfect distraction was in front of him.

He leans over you, once of his hands running up your spine, tracing a line of your tattoo, crawling up your neck and grabbing a fistful of your hair. He pulls your head off the bench and you’re met face to face with your own reflection. The same mirror that he used to check his tattoo was now continently placed right in front of you. Your face was flushed, kiss swollen lips hanging agape as you pant. “Look at youuu…” Nam-gyu coos, using his grip on your hair to wiggle your head around to further mock your state.

You look so fucked out, it’s embarrassing, your eyes screw shut trying to hide away from the sight. “Not gonna move until you open your eyes.” The sentence is uttered through clenched teeth, coming out in a hiss. You don’t obey, your eyes are still shut. Your hips try to circle back against him but a desperate cry is ripped from your lungs as he draws his cock back, pulling nearly all the way out until just his heavy tip rests in the tight ring of your cunt.

“I know you can hear me, c’mon.” Nam-Gyu growls, jerking your head back and forth once more by your hair to really get your attention. Weakly, your eyes pry themselves open to look at your reflection in the mirror. You look up and you see his smile widening his black hair falling forward in front of his face like some scandalous curtain. When he knows you’re going to keep your eyes open, his hips are surging forward. When he sinks his cock into you again, a loud ‘squelch’ comes from your pussy, echoing throughout the tattoo studio.

“Good girl, y-you’re so pretty, ya gotta look…can’t waste a view like this.” He praises, his words shuttering every so often when he feels your cunt pulsate around him. It’s an addicting feeling, so tight, so warm. A soft, drawn out whine comes from your throat as you feel his thick length sink so deep into you, you swear you can feel him in your stomach. His fingers are still dancing along your clit, sending wave after wave of exhilarating pleasure throughout your body.

“God you feel so good, so fucking wet…” Nam-gyu huffs out, beginning to piston his hips into your ass, drawing in and out of your sopping heat in dizzying strokes. “Making such a- fucking hell- a fucking mess on my dick.” You watch the way his eyes are focused downwards, where you two are connected. Watching as the frothy white ring that forms around the base of his cock grows with each devious plap, plap, plap of his hips.

“S-so fucking big, sooo deeep.” You whine, your words slurred and drawn out, bouncing in time with each forward drive of his hips. His ego swells even bigger, your fucked out tone and babbled speech just makes him speed his thrusts up, a rumble reverberating in his chest when he sees the plush fat of your ass recoil and jiggle against his pelvis.

He releases his grip on your hair, your head falling forward, cheek resting on the leather of the chair, moth lolling open in silent gasps. His hands grip at the soft flesh of your ass, nails biting into the flesh as he rocks your ass back harder against him, slamming you back onto his cock so anytime he drives balls deep into your gushing cunt, the fat tip of his dick is pressing against your cervix in a way that’s making you delirious. “Yeah? Feels good? Tell me how good it feels.”

You’re drooling at this point, hands gripping helpless at the fabric of the bench. “Mhmm!!! So fucking good!” You cry out, “o-oh my god, so, so good!” One of your hands reaches backwards, gripping at the wrist of one of his arms desperately. “Thaaattss it…” he murmurs, his chest heaving, hips never letting up.

“Fuck yourself back against me, lemme see it.” You waste no time in following his orders, rocking your hips back to meet his thrusts. He expects you to go slow and work up to a faster speed…but no- you’re slamming your hips back against him with a violence that rivals his thrusts. You need to cum.

Nam-gyu thinks he’s in heaven, every time your ass meets his thighs he’s diving impossibly deep into you, stuffing you oh-so-full and stretching you incredibly wide. Anytime you pull away, you can feel the wetness that dirties his thighs and your ass string you two together in some macabre, pornographic connection.

It’s raw and carnal, Nam-gyu’s head tips back in pure bliss as your cunt greedily sucks him in. With each wet slap of your ass against his pelvis you’re driven further and further to your climax. Every time your hips piston backwards his fat cock is bulling itself against your g-spot. “R-right there!!” You cry out desperately, you need to cum.

“Yeah? Right there? That’s the spot?” Nam-Gyu huffs out, his hands digging even harder into the flesh of your ass, hips pile driving into you meeting every one of your backwards thrusts. He angles himself upwards the slightest bit, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you like a target. Your head shakes up and down in a frantic ‘yes’, babbled praises falling from your lips trying to spur him on.

He drives his hips meticulously into that spot over and over. It’s raw and carnal, each thrust is harder than the last and has you moaning out for him like the prettiest song. The tattoos etched into your lower back and hips ripple and stretch each time your ass recoils against him. “Fuck, look at you…” He coos, one of his hands releasing your hip to run back down to your cunt. His fingers run along your puffy folds, feeling the way you’re stretched so wide around him. “Taking it so well, just like I knew you would.”

Nam-gyu’s words go straight to your cunt, you knew he was hard while you were tattooing him but the verbal confirmation that he was thinking about fucking you that whole time just confirms it in the best way. “O-oh fuck, i-i think I’m g-gonna-“ your words are creaky and so broken up by moans, you can’t even finish what you wanted to say because it just feels too fucking good.

“Fuck, yes.” Nam-Gyu growls, his fingers moving up to your swollen clit and dancing along the pulsating bud in mind blowing circles. His tone is one that resonates deep within your mind, igniting every one of your nerves on fire. It was like those words were the ones he’s been dying to hear this whole night. “C’mon pretty girl, I need to f-feel…fuck! I need to feel you make a mess on my dick.”

Your eyes screw shut and you’re helplessly fucking yourself back on his cock, meeting each one of his mean thrusts to drive his cock so deep inside you. His fingers work deft circles on your clit, making even more of a mess of your pussy. You can feel of sloppy you’ve become, your arousal has dropped down your thighs and started to coat the tile below the two of you.

His thrusts are mean and deliberate, speeding up and driving into that sweet spot over and over her needs to feel you cum around him. Moan after moan falls from your lips, each one becoming more higher pitched than the last. You’re clenching around him tighter, spasming in a rhythm that nearly traps him inside your cunt. “F-fuck!! ‘m cumming! Ohmygodohmygod Nam-gyu!” It’s a babbled mess of his name and gasps of pleasure, your back arching even more, your hips shuddering in sloppy thrusts backwards until they stop completely.

Your orgasm makes your vision blurry, your ears ring, and your mind fill with static. When you cum, you cum so hard. Harder than you think you ever have. You’re gushing around him, sobbing out as your body shakes against him. Nam-gyu’s head is tipped back, eyes rolled so far back into his head that he swears he could see his skull. The vice like grip you had on his cock is hurling him towards his own end.

“F-fuck!” Nam-gyu nearly yells out, hips and fingers working you through your orgasm in sloppy movements. “W-where do you want it? F-fuck ya gotta tell me, ‘m so close.”

You can hardly make the words out to respond, but you need it badly, so after inhaling a large, heaving breath and answering him. “I-inside, w-want to feel it..hah!..p-please!” The words are slurred and damn near incoherent- but he hears them perfectly.

With a few more rough thrusts, he’s driving his hips flush with your ass, pushing his cock balls deep into you and cumming deep in your tight heat. You can feel every thick rope filling you up, prolonging your orgasm to the point where you can hardly breathe. His hips rock shallowly into you, making sure every last drop of his cum is pulled from his cock and painting your walls.

You both still, sweaty and breathless, bodies feeling like jelly. “Y-you came so much…” you whine, hips rolling against his mindlessly. Nam-gyu hisses, over sensitive, hand pulling away from your clit so he can hold both of your hips, stilling you. “Mhm…” he hums out, catching his breath, “couldn’t help it, pussy felt too fucking good.”

You smile dumbly, letting out a weak giggle and slumping against the leather bench. With every giggle you let out, your pussy clenches around him like a vice. Nam-Gyu slowly pulls out, his whole body shivering as he slides out of your cunt. He keeps his hands on your ass, spreading you open so he can watch as his cum seeps out of you in thigh globs that drop to the floor and mix with the mess you’ve already made.

His thumb glides over your pussy, smearing the mess as he admires it. “Now that’s a fuckin’ sight..” he hums out, chuckling slightly as you shake anytime his thumb runs over your overstimulated clit. Nam-gyu slides his hands back up your body as he leans down, placing a line of kisses across the back of your shoulder.

You smile when you feel the comforting weight of him over you, trapping you against the chair. You turn your face to try and look back at him, a blissed out smile on your lips. He meets you halfway, booking his face over your shoulder to capture your lips in a slow kiss. It’s languid and full of tongue. You can still taste yourself on his tongue.

“Aren’t we supposed to fuck after the first date?” You mutter against his lips, giggling softly. “Mmm…yeah I guess…but seems like we do things differently.” Nam-gyu says as he pulls away from the kiss, one of his hands is brushing hair out of your face. The next moment he’s holding his phone in your face open to a new contact screen. “Gotta give me your number so we can plan that date.” He says laughing, placing a kiss on your temple.

You can help but laugh, taking his phone and beginning to type in your contact information. Even adding a cute selfie of your fucked out face with makeup smeared and all to the contact as the photo- after your date and the many dates to come he could change it when he had more photos of you (or not).

You didn’t plan to get fucked stupid on your tattoo chair but you weren’t complaining at all, you were so glad he had made an appointment.

I hope you guys liked this one, it was on the back burner for a long while and I really wanted to finish it! I promise I’m still working hard at requests 🙏🙏 thank you all for your support!! Let me know what ya think of this one!! love yew guys!! - <3 kiwi

[l-egionaire]

Okay, this is something that's bugged me so much about the new Invicible episode.

So many people I've seen who watched it say Mark should've had a "trial" to clear things up....but i think the word they're looking for is "hearing". Because a "trial" implies Mark was the one who did something illegal in that situation. NOLAN absolutely deserves a trial to face his victims and potentially punishment, but Mark very much does not. The only he's guilty of is trying to STOP his father from killing people and his father intentionally causing collateral damage to break him. It's not even a Man of Steel situation where Mark could've taken the fight elswhere. Nolan was in total control of the fight and WANTED lots of death and fatalities. The idea of wanting a public HEARING to explain to the public everything and give explanation to what happened? I can get saying that should've happened. But Mark ABSOLUTELY does not deserve a "trial" over what happened in Chicago.

[quanruionechancepls]

Happiness is a Butterfly - Chapter 2: Blood is Rare (and Sweet as Cherry Wine)

Salesman x Reader

Content Warning: Substance Abuse, Child Abuse, Bullying, Dubious Consent, NSFW (This chapter is very graphic overall)

For more information, check Masterlist

---------------

Gongyoo was a strange man.

He expected you to cook for him, yet everything you made, he made better. Did he place that responsibility on you solely because you were a woman? In fact, it seemed he didn’t need you at all, as you would sometimes wake up to him ironing and folding his clothes, and other times, mopping the floors. He was fully self-sufficient.

The only area you had him beat was baking, but you weren’t going to pour your heart out into pastries for a man like him. Everytime you baked, you purposely switched out the sugar with salt, as it would be indistinguishable until someone took a bite out of it. You always prepped the night before, placing a fresh dollop of buttercream frosting on the salty cupcake the next morning, packing it neatly into his lunchbox.

For the first month, you assumed nothing was wrong. He always came home with the cupcake gone, either thrown away or eaten. You didn’t bother asking. He never thanked you for your labour, but he never complained about the food either.

Until one night, he stood guard in the kitchen, his eyes glued to you as your baking ingredients were spread across the kitchen island. “What are you doing?” You asked as you measured the flour.

“Do you not know how to read labels?” The rude question aside, his tone was dripping with accusation.

“What?” You shot him a glare.

“Do you know how much salt I had to buy this month?” When you stayed silent, he scoffed. “You think I don’t know what you’re plotting? Bake properly, or don’t do it at all. No one wants to eat those disgusting salty cupcakes.”

You expected him to walk away, but he kept his mouth shut as he watched you measure and mix the ingredients together. The entire time, the quiet rage emanating from his body enveloped the entire apartment, and while you wanted to open a window to clear out the stuffiness, you also didn’t want to walk past him. He blocked you from leaving, so the only thing you could do was silently admit defeat and pour in the correct amount of sugar.

Gongyoo finally left when you popped the cupcakes into the oven after carefully inspecting your every move for nearly an hour, and you breathed a sigh of relief when he shut the door to his room. Perhaps it was a bad idea to rebel against him— just because he treated you kindly now doesn’t mean he’ll maintain this persona when you do something that he deems to be too far. The last thing you want is to be beaten black and blue because you caused him to snap.

And just like that, your feeble attempt to exert some power over him was destroyed with a mere warning— one you ought to take seriously.

With all your fight quelled, you quickly fell in line with the kind of wife he wanted. You woke up at 10am, and you spent your time around the house either cleaning, doing laundry, or cooking. At first, he was quite territorial about his room, but he eventually allowed you to enter on the condition that you don’t touch anything. It was a vague request, and you weren’t sure if you were allowed to clean it.

You also noticed how methodical of a man he was. When you looked in his closet, you were surprised to find dozens of the same suit, all perfectly ironed and ready to wear. His idea of a casual outfit was ditching the blazer and tie. In addition, you found more folded papers intended for ddakji, and when you took a closer look, they were folded so neatly you could’ve mistaken it as the work of a robot. There were no wrinkles or crinkles that showed a need for correction, only four sharp edges and the paper neatly tucked inside itself to give it an appearance similar to an envelope.

How did such a perfectionist put up with your salty cupcakes for so long? You were really lucky he didn’t grab you by your hair and throw you against the wall, rolling up his sleeves in preparation to beat you until you were bruised and swollen.

Despite Gongyoo being gone for most of the day, you didn’t allow yourself to relax until both of you had eaten dinner because you knew that only then, he wouldn’t demand anything of you. Your favourite part of the arrangement was your separate bedrooms and bathrooms. This was wishful thinking for sure, but when you snuggled under your covers, it almost seemed as if no one in the world could touch you, not even him.

As you made yourself more comfortable in the penthouse, which came a lot easier after you decorated everything to your taste, you noticed even more singularities about Gongyoo. At least twice a week, he wouldn’t come home at all. At first, he made sure to be back by 7pm sharp, but eventually, he pushed the time back further and further until it resulted in a text message informing you to not make dinner for him. It always occurred on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

The cheating didn’t bother you, as you didn’t desire him in the first place. His money and his handsome face wasn’t enough to make up for the way your skin crawled every time he entered the room, especially if he stared at you for too long. No amount of acting could conceal how empty of a man he truly was, his life relying on routines and strict structures without room for indulgence. Even if he cooked and cleaned better than you, there was no emotion behind his actions, only duty.

In fact, you preferred the nights he was away, because the nights he stayed home were more frightening. The first time you heard it, you stayed up later than usual after binging a Kdrama in the darkness of your room underneath your covers. You were in the middle of a heartwarming scene between the two main characters when a blood curdling scream reverberated through the walls of the entire apartment. The usual huskiness of his voice was drowned out by an unsettling shrill, akin to nails on a chalkboard.

It nearly sent your heart flying out of your chest with how fast and hard it pounded, calming yourself with deep breaths as his screams continued for a few more minutes— you couldn’t be sure of the exact time. By the time he fell silent, you felt like you were more of a mess than he was, your entire body breaking out in a cold sweat, trembling in your bed as your throat dried up.

What troubled you the most was how ordinary he acted the next morning, as if he hadn’t destroyed his vocal cords with all his screaming as well as your eardrums. His hair would be slicked back and his suit was buttoned up as he silently munched on whatever you decided you wanted to eat for breakfast. Curiously, he never requested a certain type of meal either, he just let you choose what you wanted to make and went along with it.

At first, you heard it once a week. Then twice. Then it was every night he spent at home.

You weren’t always awake when it happened, and sometimes you’d wake up with a start, your body entering fight or flight as if you were in a horror movie, only to realize you were in the safety of your room. You debated staying up later so you could fall asleep after he got all the screaming out of his system, but you quickly realized it was futile because it happened randomly. Sometimes, it was 1am, and other times, it could be 6am.

While Gongyoo’s screams sucked the life out of you, your skin dull and dry with prominent bags under your eyes, he remained as radiant as ever. It was frustrating to find his natural skin glowing in the sun, the light hitting him from all the right angles, as you struggled to keep yourself afloat with your lack of sleep.

One night, when his screams weren’t letting up, you gritted your teeth and gathered all your remaining courage, uncovering your ears and lifting your blanket off you as you walked towards his room. The door to his room creaked, and he momentarily quieted down to a hum, but the calm didn’t last as his eyebrows scrunched, his hands gripping the sheets as he opened his mouth to shriek again.

You stood by the doorframe, trembling, wondering how you could possibly awaken him without getting hurt. Not only was he much larger than you, he also frequently went to the gym, always patching up his calloused hands when a new blister formed. A random swing in your direction could cause significant damage, intentional or not.

Still, you couldn’t leave him like this. It was mainly for your own sake, as you were losing your mind without sleep, but you didn’t need to be a psychologist to know that he was deeply tormented by something. It was mentally damaging enough to be haunting him every night in his dreams, an open secret you tried to wish away, but could no longer run away from.

You tiptoed towards the bed, your touch as light as a feather as you brushed your fingertip against the back of his hand, which was white from how hard he gripped the sheets. Gulping, you slowly peeled his fingers off, only to instantly regret it as he grabbed ahold of your hand and squeezed hard. Biting your inner cheek to stop yourself from screaming and startling him awake, you directed your focus to his upper body, sighing as his grip loosened slightly.

Brushing his bangs aside, you placed your hand on his forehead, surprised at how moist it was to the touch. “Gongyoo, hurry up and wake up,” you begged, your voice barely above a whisper. You pressed your finger in between his scrunched eyebrows, smoothing them out. “I don’t know what you’re dreaming about, but you’re safe. You’re at home, in your bed. There’s no one who can hurt you, in fact, you’re probably the one who can hurt me.”

You continued speaking to him softly, alternating between affirmations and shushes when he clenched his jaw in his sleep, grinding his teeth. After what felt like ages he finally opened his eyes, gasping for air as his vision struggled to adapt to the darkness. “You’re finally awake,” was the first thing that came out of your mouth.

“Fuck, I feel like shit,” he groaned, forcing himself to sit upright, pushing his damp hair back with his hand. It was the first time you heard such foul language leave his mouth, especially since he tried so hard to appear prim and proper.

“I think you should talk to someone about this. Your nightmares are keeping me awake too,” you suggested, and he glared at you.

“Mind your business.”

You huffed. “Well, I’ll continue waking you up then. I think I’ve endured them for long enough,” you replied, slipping your hand out of his grasp and walking out the door, shutting it behind you. ‘Suit yourself.’

-

Gongyoo didn’t expect you to stay true to that promise, but you did. Every night, when he inevitably drifted off when he couldn’t resist the sweet allure of sleep any longer, he’d be haunted by the same nightmare. He got them more often as he grew older. It was like clockwork— he’d wake up at 8am sharp in the morning on weekdays, waiting for you to cook his breakfast before he packed his lunch and spent the day monitoring previous winners. At night, he’d shower, brush his teeth, and stare at the ceiling for as long as humanly possible until he physically couldn’t open his eyes anymore.

He wished he could keep himself on autopilot with ecstasy, but he was forced to quit when the Host found out about his addiction. He recalled how horrible the first two weeks of his withdrawal symptoms were. At home, he could barely keep any food down, essentially living in his washroom as he kneeled in front of his toilet, his stomach churning as he gagged and choked on the bile creeping up his throat. He had to take an entire week off work because he physically couldn’t function— he didn’t eat, sleep, or even have the energy to walk around his apartment, yet he suddenly gained an abnormally strong craving for sweets, binging enough candy to cause 3 cavities if he wasn’t hygienic enough.

Everything was for the sake of avoiding those nightmares.

Truthfully, he didn’t want you to help him. You were the stunning bird he locked up in his cage, free for him to show off, use, and get rid of as he pleased. The Host told him to be your husband, she never explicitly said he couldn’t kill you. You were no better than the vermin he spent all day and night playing games with every year when the Squid Games rolled around, you just happened to be the one chosen to be a pet.

His little birdie.

And pets shouldn’t stick their nose in the business of their masters.

But nothing kept you away. No amount of glaring, passive aggressive insults, or even throwing his ddakji in your face deterred you from entering his room every night, holding his hand and slowly stirring him awake with your soft spoken voice. He always woke up feeling like he ran a marathon and just came out of a coma at the same time, his limbs weak and heavy, his body sticky with sweat. You never stayed once he was fully awake, undoing your interlocked fingers and yawning as you walked out of his room, shutting the door behind you.

Eventually, he just accepted it. He allowed you to wake him before he naturally jolted awake, gasping for air, covered in sweat from head to toe, his eyes moving erratically as if he was still on drugs. You were too stubborn for any sort of antics to change your mind, and he was too tired to continue resisting your kind gesture.

Sometimes he’d doze off again, other times he pushed himself out of bed and into the shower, washing off all the grime on his body left by the nightmare. He avoided his own reflection as much as he could, his eyes remaining on the marble wall or the tiles on the floor. He’d grown up with women fawning over his handsome face, but he couldn’t see what they saw. He didn’t see himself when he looked in the mirror, he saw his dad. If he grew out his stubble and stopped styling his hair, the resemblance would be so uncanny it’d send a shiver down his spine.

The most difficult part of his day was when nightfall came, the ghosts of his past trailing him as if he didn’t work his ass off to leave it all behind. Gongyoo felt the most at ease when the sun peeked through the clouds at dawn, signaling a start of a new day, giving him another chance to reinvent himself— to be anyone but himself.

Ever since you entered his life, mornings gave him a chance for normalcy. He’d open his eyes to the ceiling staring back at him, the scent of your cooking wafting through the entire apartment. None of your meals were anything special, but he imagined they were what a true homecooked meal tasted like, not his methodical step-by-step cooking that followed recipes to absolute perfection. Baking aside, he never saw you pick up a measuring tool, choosing to eyeball everything you made.

You, as a person, intrigued him. Why did you never ask him what his nightmares were about? Why haven’t you already started begging for him to love you? Other than the Host herself, who already had every detail of his life on file, you were the only woman who never pried. The women he previously had relations with were all so quick to throw away their dignity and beg him for the world. You were in a different position than those women, but you were still a woman nonetheless, and he assumed you would behave like his previous partners.

And just like that, a year flew by. He never asked you any questions about yourself— not that he needed to— and you never spoke to him more than necessary.

Other than his nightly terrors, his life was peaceful. Your methods of waking him up continued to improve, and his nightmares became shorter and shorter as you adjusted, although the nightmares themselves never got easier.

Every night, his life flashed before his eyes, from the very beginning to the present day. It was akin to an out-of-body experience, the film replaying over and over again but he could never step in and change the prophecy. It forced him to watch the most terrifying moments of his life while knowing all he wanted was to close his eyes and forget.

-

Gongyoo’s earliest memory was his younger self, barely the age of 4, reaching for the fridge on uncoordinated limbs. His dad drowned his sorrows in the form of fermented barley, the type of melancholy that seeped into every corner of their home, one that Gongyoo’s childhood innocence had no idea of. There were times his dad sobered up enough to cook up a meal for him, or even buy something at the convenience store if he was lucky, but most days, Gongyoo was left to his own devices. So, he learned to push a stool in front of the fridge, using his hands to grab anything deemed as edible. Even raw onion and garlic didn’t taste bad if he was hungry enough.

His mom? Well, he didn’t have a clue. He learned the hard way to never mention her in front of his dad after he was rushed to the hospital after a beating that resulted in a broken arm. His dad sobbed and begged him for forgiveness, but he never changed, and his curiosity stayed even as he sewed his lips shut. Was she dead? Or did she leave him and his dad behind for another man?

School was fun up until middle school. It was the only place he’d be guaranteed a meal, so he always made an effort to attend, even if he had to walk there on his own. There were days he couldn’t show up no matter how much he wanted to. The beatings that left his entire face swollen and purple happened three times a year, although he didn’t know the significance of those days except one: Mother’s Day.

Middle school changed everything. Grades started to matter, and he was the target of bullying because his dad barely made ends meet, so he was always behind in clothing trends and had no access to the shiniest new toy. He studied as hard as he could, but everyday on his way to school, a few kids would pull him into the alleyway and steal his homework. It was always at least a group of three, two holding him back while one dumped everything out of his backpack. They’d throw a few punches at him until he was too winded to fight back and run away with his papers.

When his grades slipped because his assignments were stolen, his dad expressed his disappointment in the only way he knew how: whipping him with his belt until his skin blistered. At first, he tried reporting the bullying to his teachers, but when it worsened and he realized no one would help, something snapped within him.

Gongyoo stopped attending school. His way of learning was borrowing books from the library, but it became less and less frequent as he fell down the wrong path.

He first realized his fighting potential when he single-handedly knocked out his bullies when they tried harassing him even as he stopped attending school— like father, like son. It escalated into him picking fights with anyone who irritated him until finally, a group of delinquents confronted him and demanded for him to join.

Pain and cigarettes became his life. After being beaten around his whole life, he didn’t let people think they could swing at him and get away with it anymore, quickly countering with his bandaged fist, the skin on his knuckles always raw and sore. The stench of blood and smoke was stained on his skin and clothes, the metallic iron pooling on his fists and inside his mouth. He’d swallow his own blood with a twisted smile, imagining it was sweet liquor running down his throat.

His blood tasted sweet.

At his speed of crashing and burning through life, Gongyoo genuinely believed he wouldn’t make it past age 28, but everything changed the day he turned 18. As he smoked in an alleyway, a man in a fancy suit approached him. Inhaling a puff of his cigarette, he held it in his mouth and blew it in his face, expecting the usual reaction of coughing or flinching, but the man remained still, giving him a polite smile. He was handed the same beige business card he gave out to people in the present day, a circle, triangle, and square on the front and a phone number on the back.

“This is a chance for you to turn your life around,” the man said to him.

If he wasn’t desperately trying to save enough money to move out of his dad’s apartment, he would’ve regarded it as trash, but something possessed him to run to the nearest telephone booth and call the number. The next day, a truck parked outside of his door, and a person in a pink jumpsuit approached him, telling him to go inside.

So he did.

He allowed them to take him to the middle of nowhere, huddled in a cramped space with dozens of other people. Some were equally as confused as him, and others sat calmly as they waited for the truck to slow to a halt.

They were escorted out of the truck and brought into a mysterious dormitory, each given a pink jumpsuit, a ski mask, and a black mask with a large circle where the face was supposed to be. He was trained to do menial tasks his dad never bothered teaching him, such as cooking, cleaning, and laundry. ‘This is strange,’ is what he thought at the time, not understanding why he needed his identity to remain anonymous for such everyday tasks.

When he first saw players being slaughtered without remorse, it was a bit of a shock to the system, but when a more experienced guard informed him of their paycheck, he quickly bit his tongue and turned his head the other way. After growing up with the scent of iron always lingering nearby, it didn’t repulse him anymore, rather, he found it comforting. The cleaning was relatively easy, with the tractors rolling away the bodies as he carried the coffin with another worker. At the time, there were only 200 participants in the games, so there wasn’t much to clean up as well.

He bawled when the money hit his bank account, having never seen such a huge sum in his life. He didn’t earn the money by beating up unsuspecting teenagers and stealing whatever they had in their wallets— no, he earned it without having to get hurt. It allowed him to immediately move out, and although he had to be frugal and rent a shabbier apartment, it was the first time he tasted freedom.

Other than a brief pause due to his military enlistment, Gongyoo returned to the games every year, becoming a soldier at the age of 22. His military training was fresh in his mind as he handled the rifle with expertise, pulling the trigger and enduring the recoil on his shoulder, shooting his victims directly on the forehead as his triangle mask concealed his sadistic grin. It was the first time he had a taste of power, and the way his brain lit up with dopamine everytime he exerted it was addicting. Even better, being a soldier paid better than a worker.

Two years later, he was on the same island, a rifle in his hand when a manager ordered him to eliminate Player 056 from his earpiece. He approached the player, his arms heavy and sore from carrying the gun all day, when Player 056 turned around, and he was faced with a familiar face.

It was his dad.

He recalled hesitating, watching as his dad collapsed to his knees, tears springing in his eyes as he begged to be spared. “Please, I need this money for my son! I need to clear my debts for him!”

At the time, it sounded like bullshit. When did his dad ever give him money? He had to beat his way into scraping enough together for a few packets of ramen at the convenience store, otherwise he’d starve.

So, he stepped closer, his body stiff as his dad crumpled further, the fear evident in his eyes. Gongyoo tapped the muzzle of his rifle against his dad’s forehead, his finger pressing down on the trigger, watching as blood and brain sprayed out of his dad’s head as his body collapsed. Taking a deep breath, he peeled his eyes away from the crimson flowing out of his dad’s head and walked back to his station.

In the privacy of his room, barely larger than a capsule hotel, hot tears poured down his cheeks as he gasped for breath in between sniffles. It was uncontrollable— everytime he tried to convince himself to stop, it seemed his body rebelled harder against him.

Gongyoo stared at his younger self who was wracked with guilt, knowing exactly why he couldn’t stop crying. If he dug deep enough, he found happy memories with his dad as well. The annual birthday cakes, swinging at the park together, taking him to the amusement park and laughing when he threw up after a roller coaster ride. In darkness, there were always cracks of light.

After that day, he couldn’t stand to fall asleep, the moment of his dad’s death replaying again and again. At times, he wondered if his dad cursed him in the afterlife once he found out the person who killed him was his own son.

Around the same time, one of his delinquent friends, who was now in a gang, introduced him to ecstasy. Ecstasy, molly, MDMA— whatever you want to call it, it didn’t matter to him. What mattered was that it kept him awake, and bringing him to a new level of euphoria was only a side effect. With the help of the drug, the only way he fell asleep was by passing out after days of pumping the substance into his veins through his consumption of pills. It didn’t take long for him to develop an unhealthy obsession with it, frequenting clubs and buying them in bulk. He didn’t need the measly effects of cigarettes when ecstasy offered something much stronger.

His life alternated between drugs and the Squid Games, partying, fucking, and killing his way through life. Was this what that man meant when he told him he could turn his life around? Ironically, he only felt more like a bum, despite having the money to live in a comfortable apartment and plenty of disposable income to spend on drugs and women as he pleased.

At 27, shortly after being promoted to the position of manager, Gongyoo began begging the Host— Oh Ilnam, at the time— for more work. He was willing to do anything he wanted, nothing was off the table.

His first job was being a waiter for the VIPs for an afterparty to celebrate the games, the mask tight on his face, making it difficult for him to breathe. He ran around the room for hours, constantly refilling empty cups, making sure the music was played to perfection, and generally being as accommodating as he could. Towards the end of the party, the waiters were given a 30 minute break with a drink on the house, an offer that Gongyoo took up gratefully as he gulped it down all at once.

His drink had been spiked.

There was no way for him to find out who did it, but the effect was instantaneous, his body burning with heat as his legs wobbled and shook. It was an aphrodisiac. Even behind the masks, Gongyoo could feel the predatory gaze of the VIPs. He could practically feel their eyes wandering his body as the drug overwhelmed his senses, and he forced himself to stand his feet and stumbled out of the room, accidentally knocking over a few glasses and flinching as they shattered on the floor.

Bursting into the nearest men’s washroom, he nearly collapsed as he fumbled to close the door to his stall, his hands shaking uncontrollably. His entire body was covered with a sheen of sweat, and he winced every time the fabric of his clothing rubbed against his skin, his sensitivity dialed up to 100. Unable to take it anymore, he clumsily unzipped the fly of his pants and pushed down his underwear, gasping as the cold air hit his cock and thrusting into nothing.

He was so wet, his cock dripping with precum before he’d even touched himself. Gulping, he struggled to comprehend how mindboggling it would feel if he began stroking himself, almost scared of the electrifying pleasure. At the same time, he couldn’t leave himself like this— he needed to return to work, and the amount of blood rushing to his cock made it so hard it was painful.

Biting his lip, he ran his finger on his cock, his body stiffening as it twitched violently. After a few more seconds, he decided he couldn’t procrastinate anymore, enveloping his entire cock in the heat of his hand, almost doubling over as he groaned. His entire body was convulsing, and he hadn’t even finished yet.

The door creaked, and Gongyoo froze as the sound of footsteps entered the room, someone turning the tap on as he heard the water running in the sink. Blushing at the idea of being caught, he began pumping his hand on his cock, biting the thick fabric of his sleeve in an attempt to muffle his noises. He sped up when the person left the bathroom, falling to his knees as his cum spurted directly onto the door of his stall.

Gasping, shaking, and shuddering, when his vision finally cleared, he was horrified to find that he was still erect, the heat pooling where he desperately needed relief. Gongyoo recalled the enormous knot of shame and humiliation that formed in his stomach, fighting back tears as his hand reached for his cock once again.

Ilnam was understandably pissed, as Gongyoo’s actions offended many VIPs and ruined the mood of the party, with some of them even pulling their investments. Gongyoo had to beg him to check the security cameras, averting his eyes as the footage of him desperately jerking off in the washroom appeared on screen, his face burning red.

“I see, it wasn’t your fault. Okay, I’ll let you go by simply firing you.”

“Please, sir, don’t fire me! I’ll do anything to make it up to you!”

He couldn’t allow Ilnam to let him go like this. Gongyoo didn’t know how to be an adult, he never even had a job outside of the Squid Games. After being swept up at 18, being part of the games was a key part of his identity.

Ilnam, a playful man and a lenient master, brought out two folded papers intended for ddakji, and told him to flip it a hundred times in a row. It took him hours to complete the task, his arm feeling like putty attached to the rest of the body once he was finally done. Frustratingly, he kept reaching the mid-90s, only to fail and having to restart again.

When he finally reached 100, Ilnam allowed him to become a recruiter— to work in the outside world.

Gongyoo had to completely reinvent himself to become a recruiter. It wasn’t a requirement from Ilnam, it was simply his own self-loathing that drove him to change. He had to become like the refined man that recruited him all those years ago, otherwise, he couldn’t represent the games.

It started with him doing a deep clean of his apartment, scrubbing every inch down to the corners of the walls, ridding it of all stains. He cut off all his friends who he deemed to be bad for his image, like gang members, although he kept the contact of his supplier. Then, it escalated to him getting rid of all his old clothes, replacing them with a dozen of the same suit, some in different colours. The sales associate looked at him as if he was crazy, but neatly wrapped them all for him as he walked home with the bags. Most importantly, he needed to perfect ddakji, practicing day and night until he could barely lift his arms, but it made him unbeatable.

He kept his drug addiction under wraps, having his supplier secretly ship it to his apartment instead of going to the club and picking it up himself.

Then, Ilnam became incapable of managing the games by himself, and he introduced Gongyoo to the woman who would succeed him— an illegitimate daughter who recently turned 21. Gongyoo was the first to be made aware of her existence and have the opportunity to see her face, a privilege few had because she guarded her identity fiercely. He personally introduced her to all the ins-and-outs of the games after all his years of experience.

Only a year later, a new position was made: the Frontman, filled by Player 132 from the 2015 Squid Games. After years of labour, Player 132 overtook his position overnight due to favouritism from Ilnam’s daughter. To make matters worse, the Frontman was unrefined, constantly causing messes that needed to be cleaned up, and often used the favouritism he received to his advantage. Gongyoo had completely cleaned up his image for a scum of a human to shatter his world in an instant.

The relationship between the Frontman and the new Host was an open secret, a necessary one to protect him against the hungry VIPs. With the Frontman glued to her hip 24/7, Gongyoo could only pray for the brief moments when the Frontman was away, allowing him to have a taste of her, running his hands through her hair and her soft skin.

Unlike the Frontman, Gongyoo never overstepped his boundaries. He never ordered the Host around, waiting for her to come to him of her own volition. She was the closest thing he knew to a goddess, being the daughter of the very man who changed his life for the better. It was ridiculous for mortals to order around gods and goddesses.

Then, in 2019, he overdosed. All the molly he’d secretly been taking caught up with him all at once, the euphoric high he desperately chased was long gone, and the drug only functioned to make him a working member of society. His tolerance was so high that he fell asleep even after taking the drug, and it drove him to take more and more and more until it bubbled over and left him unconscious in his room, barely breathing, when a manager discovered him.

When he opened his eyes again, he laid in a hospital bed, staring up at a grey ceiling as the Host sat by his bed, the Frontman standing beside her.

“Gongyoo, you need to quit. You seriously almost died. You can’t take them anymore.”

And that was that.

He quit, enduring all the pains of withdrawal.

And he succeeded, like he always did.

-

Gongyoo awoke. There were none of his usual dramatics, like gasping for air, his intense sweating, or trembling. He simply opened his eyes to find himself unable to comprehend visual information, as if a veil covered him.

“Are you awake?” It was a woman’s voice, but she sounded far away, as if she was speaking to him from across the apartment. It couldn’t be the case though, because he could clearly feel her soft touch in the palm of his hand. His eyes drifted in what he assumed to be her direction, but they remained unfocused, and he could only make out her figure, not her face. “You seem conscious to me.”

Before she fully pulled away, Gongyoo tightened his grip on her hand and tugged her closer to him, and after a brief moment of the sound of slippers shuffling, her body weight weighed down his chest. Using his sense of touch to guide him, he moved his hand up, stopping when he reached her scalp, running his hands through her hair as he buried his head somewhere on her body, possibly her neck, and inhaled deeply. She smelled of L’eau Papier by Diptyque.

Was she the Host? The Host always smelled like L’eau Papier right before bed, a clean, slightly sweet rice scent in a starchy way.

Flipping her over, Gongyoo pinned her down in his bed, his hand holding both her arms above her head. Though his vision wasn’t fully working, he could still vaguely make out the important parts of her body, from the valley of her breasts to her hips. “What are you doing?!” She yelled, squirming beneath him, but Gongyoo had her exactly where he wanted, and he tightened his grip a little more.

“Just comfort me…” he trailed off, his hand slipping underneath her shirt, pinching her nipple as he felt his way to her neck, kissing, licking, and nipping at the skin. Her body stiffened, tiny squeaks occasionally escaping her lips as she attempted to hold back her voice.

Gongyoo removed his hand from her nipple and moved downwards, his fingertips grazing against her soft skin as he fumbled with her pants, trying to slip his hand into her panties. He didn’t recall the Host ever dressing this conservatively in front of him, but he didn’t think much of it as he traced his finger around her clit, eliciting soft whines from her until he pressed down and heard her gasp, feeling her arching into him.

Pressing his lips against her jaw, he worked his way up until his lips found hers, continuing to rub circles on her clit to force her mouth open for him to explore. Gongyoo didn’t know what time it was, but she tasted oddly sweet for what he presumed to be the middle of the night. Did she eat a piece of candy right before he kissed her? He found himself subconsciously smiling into the kiss, picking up the pace as she ground her hips into his hand and came with a loud squeak.

Gongyoo waited for her to stop trembling to feel his way back to her pants, sliding everything off until her bottom half was completely bare. Releasing her arms, he held her thigh open as he traced the entrance of her pussy, soaking his hand in her slick as she quietly whined. Smirking, he inserted two fingers at once, causing her to jolt and let out a long moan as he pumped in and out of her, occasionally bending his fingers to brush against her g-spot, only to straighten them again when she tightened around him.

Once he felt he’d sufficiently loosened her up, he pushed down his boxers and lined his tip to her entrance, groaning as he pressed into her. Without giving her time to adjust, he slammed his hips against hers, moving at a steady pace, aiming at the spot he deliberately avoided earlier to tease her. She gasped and trembled beneath him, her hands firmly gripping the sheets, tightening every time he hit her g-spot. With one of his hands palming her breasts through her shirt and the other pressing on her clit, she came with a loud gasp— the kind that only happens when all the air leaves your lungs.

Turning her over on her knees, her ass facing him, he continued on his pursuit for his own climax, throwing his head back in pleasure when she clamped down on him every time he thrusted back into her. Was she always this tight? Perhaps she finally stopped letting the Frontman climb all over her at night.

He wanted to be rougher— to have her begging him for release as he spanked her, but he knew she’d kick him out of the room the moment he acted on those thoughts, so he simply grabbed her arm and held her steady as he thrusted into her, gritting his teeth and swallowing his desire. As her walls clenched onto his cock again, he rode out his orgasm with a last few hard thrusts, groaning her name until he went soft, slipping out of her as she whined from overstimulation.

Collapsing beside her, breathing heavily, he reached for her face, brushing her cheek and pressing a firm kiss to her forehead.

[celestiallystella]

i LOVE the mer hcs so much omg

if possible, can we have mer hcs for wild?

LOLOL yes this is very possible. ty for your request!

Mer!Wild × GN!Reader (sfw & nsfw)

Starting this at 2am bc night shift. Yall this and playing echoes of wisdom are whats keeping me alive

Reader is gn, and there will also be a clear indication of when the nsfw ones start, so you can definitely avoid them! there is also a LOT of general headcanons about him with mer stuff, bc again.. 2am shenanigans

Hope you enjoy!!

You might he thinking his tail is the same blue as his tunic

wrong! Its actually a really pale green that tends to shift with his surroundings, but only slightly

in colder regions and areas, it's lighter and you both swear there's tints of white when he shifts just so

in warmer regions? a little bit of a deeper green that shifts to orangey yellows

otherwise it's just a grass green type of color

he quite likes it! of course, youd be hard pressed to find something nature related he DOESNT like when it doesnt hurt him

he also likes that this new development lets him play with the zora kiddos better, and it also helps encourage the zora to let him babysit more

this is definitely pre teacher era, so he's discovering how much he enjoys being able to help out with kids

he does NOT keep his mer form a secret. he doesn't go out of his way to tell many people outside of you (the first person he told, in fact, and he was SO excited when he did), flora, sidon, and purah

otherwise?? well he wont lie if asked but he isnt going out of his way to tell anyone else

he may deny it, but flora has 100% rubbed off on him in some aspects. besties frfr

in other words, he definitely takes some of his scales and lets them oxidize to see what happens with them

they get super hard, edges sharp

see, he isn't Four, so he doesn't know how he'd ever go about making them into parts of a weapon for you. theyre small, hard to work with

he ends up in rito village messing around with tulin and teba, and tulin's the one who comes up with the idea of making his scales into arrow heads

still, theyre small, so he it takes a while to get enough collected for him to give to teba for him to combine and thus make an actually substantial amount of arrows

wild is giddy when he recieves the full bundle, this has probably been mooonths in the making and he's probably had to do mer stuff FAR more than even he'd like in order to shed this many naturally but! it's worked

he surprises himself when he goes home to you and feels so nervous to give you these

will you think its weird?? what if you never use them?? what if-

he has to force himself inside and to your side in order to pass them over to you

once he explains what they are, he's very taken with the way you get a sweet little smile on your face

(every time he sees you use one, every time he sees an enemy dead with one of his arrows poking out of it? he feels SO happy to know he's able to help you even like that)

outside of THAT large, time consuming portion of his life, he actually finds himself fond of spending time in his mer form

he can sleep in trees, or in plains, or in the middle of.. anywhere, really, whenever he wants, but the water? until this form he wasn't able to do that and he is so abusing it now

he love love loves goading you into cuddling in the water.

he's cuddled with you like.. EVERYWHERE else already, and now he has the perfect excuse to wrap his arms around you and just enjoy your presence in the water

the more skin to skin contact the better, in his opinion

the warmth of your skin innocently against his own, cool water washing over you two

he loves gentle intimacy with you, innocent sweet things.

he likes being able to dig along water beds and sea beds to find little things for you

shells, pebbles, sea glass, anything glittery or that he finds pretty will be brought home to you

he likes seeing you smile about it, and he likes when you do something with his little gifts

as aforementioned, he likes resting in the water, but it becomes even better when you're carding your fingers through his hair, nails scratching his scalp gently

he likes being able to drag you along with him on his little swims, pressing kisses to your lips before splashing you with his tail and laughing

which leads into the aspect of play

he loves being able to, essentially, play in the water with you

he just likes fucking around, and it's even better when he's able to do so with you!

the zora kiddos have taught him a million and one games and he wants to try ALL of them with you, no matter how childish

(as much as he can anyway, theres a lot he can do that you cant courtesy of breathing underwater, but yk)

for a while, he totally starts giving you aquatic flowers of all sorts

once he learns to preserve them?? oh your home is filled with misc. aquatic finds courtesy of wild

NSFW

hahah oh man he hunts down every underwater cave that isnt too deep and has larger caverns of air and drags you to them

the darker atmosphere, the cold water, your skin to his

in mer form, i think there'd be a slight increase in night vision, so he also just really likes how you look under the soft glow of brightcaps pairing with his better vision

he likes licking. i am a strong believer that wild LOVES to taste test his food, and you?? well, you're one of his favorite things to devour, so of COURSE his lips, tongue, and teeth are all over you

as for positions, i think he'd like anything that allows him to go to town devouring you

again, i cannot stress this enough, he really likes however you taste

when it comes to penetrative sex, though, i think he'd be very content to lay there, tail submerged, and just letting you do as you please

he finds great pleasure in taking a break and just chilling while you get the both of you off LMAO

if you're tired, or if you'd prefer not to do all the work, wild will 100% rotate through every possible position he can think of that you consent to

you guys have definitely tried a looott in hylian forms, but now that he's a mer? he really likes seeing how different things affect him when it comes to you

he likes how much more sensitive he is to you and your touch

it really does not take much to drive him up a wall with desire when he's in his mer form

if he isn't prepared, then everytime you touch him he absolutely shivers

his skin is cooler in mer form, and you're so warm, which really helps push along the desire to be buried inside you one way or another

he'll totally beg for you too, especially using that whole "im cold and itd warm me up, pleaseeee?"

he has NO shame

comments on every little thing you do when he's in the mood and somehow makes it sexual or tells you it turns him on

for example... like.. oh, you slipped trying to stand on the shore? suddenly he's thinking that you should slip onto his dick or into his mouth.

he prefers making sure you cum first

if he does so first, he gets really embarrassed and pulls out every stop in the book to try and get you to orgasm without overstimulating you

anyway. as i said before, if hes put in charge, he loves trying out new positions with you, so he'd be VERY down to try a lot of things you want to

you guys ive realized ive devolved from the original method i had of mer hcs where it was essentially a plot outline, my bad </3

sorry if this one has a lot that seems out of nowhere or confusing. again, i unfortunately wrote this very late at night when im lacking a lot of higher thought processes. having said that, lemme know if theres any glaring errors in any of this lolol

[a-s-levynn]

"A sacred guardian" A Series of Small Offerings - IV/1 - day33

[wardensantoineandevka]

I see there's posts floating around directly and blatantly arguing against mine (same wording) by completely misunderstanding what I said. I'm fucking BACK, babey. Should've bought some hay-scented fragrance while I was at Sephora today, because I am once again your strawman!