#those complicated neighbours

[fierykitten2]

Funny thing I realised earlier: the UK elections this year happened on America’s fireworks day (independence day) and the US elections this year are happening on Britain’s fireworks day (Guy Fawkes day)

[songofwizardry]

more for your consideration:

the phrase "The Great Lakes" now refers to the African great lakes in the East African Rift Valley (which include Lake Victoria, Lake Tanganyika, Lake Malawi, Lake Albert, Lake Turkana...)

the "Plegde of Allegiance" now refers to the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag of the Philippines

the "dollar" with no additional clarification refers to the currency of Brunei

We've had enough of the English-speaking internet defaulting to USAmerican terms that we are all forced to learn against our will. Here are the new default settings:

"Southern" no longer means Texas. It now refers to the Philippine island of Mindanao.

"The Midwest" is now Harare, Zimbabwe.

The default legal system is now that of the devolved administration of Scotland.

"College" is an educational institution for 13 to 18 year olds, as in some parts of New Zealand.

The "president" is that of Guyana, currently Irfaan Ali.

If you use these terms to refer to something in the USA then you have to specify or else we won't know what you're talking about and you'll sound like an idiot. Thanks!

[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt I

Part II >>

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you…

Warnings: none yet… fluff and angst. Childhood friends, yearning, arranged marriage, kissing. Pt II will contain a warning/rating change.

Word Count: 5.1k (this part)

Authors Note: Part 1 of 2. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. I won't post your ask yet, as it contains spoilers for the second half. Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. I’m in the process of writing Pt II, so there will be a gap between instalments. Enjoy! 🫶

-i-

For as long as you can remember, you have loved one man secretly. To the point that you cannot imagine your life without a deep, burning affection simmering in your very core, as fundamental to your existence as drawing air into your lungs.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Your families have been neighbours in Mayfair and Kent for many generations—two aristocratic dynasties that, despite enduring friendships, have never seen intermarriage. There have been attempted matches down the years, according to family lore, but nothing came to fruition. 

So when you were brought to Aubrey Hall as a mere babe in arms, the eldest daughter, there were many good-natured jokes that Anthony’s future wife had been born. But the Viscount, wonderful as he is, was not the man who stole your heart just a few short years later. A bright sunny day in June that you suspect Benedict may not even be able to recall, but you can with perfect clarity, even now, some fifteen years later. 

He picked you as the first person to join his team for a round of garden games. Paying you heed and ensuring you were included, patiently showing you the ropes and applauding your achievements, ignoring the ridicule from the other twelve-year-old boys for letting a girl - and a little five-year-old at that - join in their games. 

Ever since that day, all you have ever seen is his enormous heart and steadfast empathy: always the one to reach out to those excluded, to be supportive, and to love harder and more expansively than his siblings. Thus, unsurprisingly, he became the focus of your singular devotion—a childish adoration transmuting into something more profound and complicated as you matured.

On your fourteenth birthday, your mother gifted you a thick notebook. And it became your refuge, the private canvas on which you outlet your innermost secrets and thoughts. The beautiful but now slightly battered, silk-covered tome is still your most treasured possession even now, more than six years later, so close to filled now, with only a couple of blank pages left. Never long from your hands, but when it must be, carefully stashed under the floorboards of your bedroom. Its pages the reflection of a naive, growing heart. There is one person who features frequently on its crammed, jumbled pages. Sketches of his handsome face, mostly from memory, interspersed with ardent notes and poems that, while they may not mention his name, are written for him. Adoration writ large in every pen and pencil stroke.

Little were you to know that the secrets you keep within its hallowed pages would one day alter the course of your life…

-ii-

It's the evening of the Bridgerton Ball, and usually, you would be brimming with anticipation for such an occasion, a chance to see the man who holds your most ardent admiration. Instead, you find yourself glum, mechanically stepping into the dress your ladies' maid Rachel assists you with, staring blankly into the vanity mirror as she adorns your hair with jewels. Still reeling from your father's shocking announcement the previous day.

The inheritance of a European title had seen him spend eighteen months abroad. In his absence last spring, you were able to persuade your more indulgent mother to delay your societal debut—a yearning to be free in the ways you know no woman really can be for long. A compounding factor was spending the summer in the Highlands with her sister, your Aunt Eliza, a spirited, independent woman who taught you many things and encouraged your artistic whims. And when you were back in London, your mother’s somewhat inattentive running of the house meant you were often able to slip away in the evenings, spending your time deepening your passion for art. Frequenting galleries and conversing with artists led to you being drawn into the bohemian, artsy underbelly of Bloomsbury, a beguiling, exotic contrast to Mayfair. Another secret you keep.

Upon his return to England, your father was not best pleased to learn that not only had you been allowed to skip the previous Season, but Eliza had also taught you to fish, fence and hunt—most unladylike pursuits in his opinion. He, therefore, made it his mission to ensure not only would you debut this year but also a swift match should be made, lest you “get other fanciful, dangerous ideas”.

Perhaps that is why, yesterday, nary two weeks into your first season, he abruptly announced over afternoon tea that he had secured a match for you and the man in question would be dining with you all that evening. A deal no doubt brokered in a private gentleman’s club as if you were merely chattel to be traded.

Revulsion filled your every fibre as you were introduced to Lord Farringdon a few hours later. A wiry man twenty years your senior with a hawk-like countenance and a disdainful disposition. Apparently, a brilliant intellectual mind but accompanied by a mercurial, malevolent reputation. You had read in Whistledown rumours about his mistreatment of his household staff and his previous wife. A forlorn figure who became a recluse long before she died of consumption tragically young. The idea of being betrothed to this cold, abusive man turned your stomach—a seemingly outsized punishment for your rebellion. Once the man left, you had begged and pleaded with your father to reconsider the arrangement, but sadly, your appeal fell on deaf ears. 

And so here you are. Going to a ball at which your father plans to announce your engagement. The stately beauty of Bridgerton House is not as heartening of a sight as it typically is. Tonight, it feels more akin to a gallows.

As soon as you arrive, you are scanning the crowds for the only friend you know will understand just how ghastly your predicament is—Eloise Bridgerton. A kindred spirit whose interest in marriage is as scant as your own. Bonding over your similar yearnings for freedom, you have been good friends since you were little, many a day spent together as children running through the Kentish fields, escaping expectation and flouting convention.

Acutely aware of time running out until your father speaks up, you fiddle distractedly with your fan, impatiently awaiting her entrance.

“For heaven's sake, y/n, please cease your fidgeting!” your mother chastises under her breath, snatching away the item. “I do not see why you are so agitated. Tonight is to be a wonderful occasion for you!”

A myriad of caustic comments are on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down. The last thing you want is to draw attention, and you certainly don't want to be gossip fodder; these ballrooms are a veritable hotbed of eavesdropping if Whistledown is anything to go by. 

When the collective Bridgerton family finally enter their ballroom as hosts, however, your eyes can't help but drift to Benedict instead. A reflex from years of longing, even though it is his sister,  arm looped into his, whose counsel you seek tonight. You excuse yourself to fetch a lemonade as soon as you spy a window of opportunity—Eloise standing alone, looking excessively bored. Abandoning your glass, you hurry over to her.

“I have news…”  You try to keep your voice neutral but grab her arm and practically drag her away from anyone within earshot.

“Well, it cannot be good if you are willing to rip my arm off to impart it,” she remarks dryly as you lead her down a hallway.

“It is not,” you pull a face that you know will convey to her the gravity of what you need to divulge.

With a nod of understanding and a look to a nearby footman, she leads you beyond him into an area of the house off-limits for guests. 

“Tell me…” her tone is sincere as she ushers you into the library and closes the door.

“My father has seen fit to arrange a marriage for me. He is planning to announce it tonight, right here at your family ball!”

She says nothing, only a sympathetic noise as she pulls you into a consoling hug. The emotions you have been tamping down for hours escape as a couple of bitter tears, her arms banding tight around you. You are not sure how long, but you stand in a hug, just grateful for her steadfast support.

“What am I to do?” you whisper.

“I do not know,” she confesses. “Have you tried to reason with your father?”

“A hopeless cause…”  

Her mouth twists in understanding, knowing you will have put up a spirited defence as much as she would have. She detangles from you and goes to a nearby brandy decanter.

“It's the very least you deserve, frankly,” she points out, handing you a glass and pulling you into a loveseat with her, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, clinking her glass against yours in a silent but bittersweet toast about your seemingly futile situation.

-iii-

Half an hour later, your parents are distracted across the far side of the room with friends when a large hand grabs yours out of the blue. You startle when you realise it is Benedict, your heart suddenly in your mouth. Before you know it, you are wordlessly being pulled out of the French doors behind you and into the night air.

“Where are we going!?” you demand when you recover from the initial surprise, his gloved hand tugging yours along through the darkened gardens. 

“Shh, make haste, we must not be seen,” he hushes you but keeps moving, furtive and fast, your feet having to take extra steps to keep up with his long stride over the lush, dewy grass.

“Benedict…” you try again once you round a thick hedge into the rose garden.  “What is going on?”

He slows a little but does not relinquish his tight hold. Gravel path now crunching under his boots as the honeyed scent of damask hangs heavy in the air. 

“Eloise told me,” is all he offers. “So we are escaping.”

“W-we are?” you stutter, frowning, a claggy tumult behind your ribs at his use of ‘we’. 

“Yes! Or at least we would be if you would keep quiet… please…” he amends, sounding a touch contrite about his initial brusqueness, but speeding up again, headed straight for a small wooden door in a high stone wall, almost hidden behind long, draping ropes of ivy, glowing silver in the moonlight.

When you reach it, he releases his grip on your hand and shoulders the door open with considerable force. The weathered wood creaks loudly, almost splintering under the duress. He signals to the inky blackness of the deserted mews behind Bridgerton House.

“It is now or never, y/n,” he warns as you look back at the house, lit up with the life of the ball inside. “So what is your choice?”

He may be presenting it as an option, but really, you know there would only ever be one answer. You would accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asked. And so wordlessly, you step through the doorway and into the narrow street beyond.

“Good choice,” he compliments as he follows suit and closes the door behind him. “You may stay at my friend Granville’s tonight,” he offers sagely, “I have not seen him in a while, but I will explain when we arrive; I am certain he can provide shelter.”

“Benedict, I already know Henry… Quite well, in fact.”

He looks taken aback as if it had not occurred to him that you may move in the same clandestine circles as he does. To be fair, you have always been discreet in your outings, and it’s not something you have divulged to anyone, including Eloise. Still, what confounds you more is why he is suddenly so seemingly invested in seeing you escape from your predicament. It doesn't entirely make sense.

“Well, then,” he cuts into your brief reverie, “you know Henry is a generous host and discreet about the affairs of others. Your father will not come looking for you there. It will buy some time to figure out what to do next. To ensure your freedom.”

“Freedom?” You scoff. “Benedict, as much as I may wish it, there is no other path open to me. Tonight is merely a delay tactic at best. The only way to stop my father’s pursuit of this union is if I marry another….”

The admittance of this truth out loud makes you restless, belatedly realising that it truly is your only way out. You stalk towards the main road, the faint glow of the street lamp guiding your way over the cobbles. You soon hear Benedict’s footsteps behind.

“That is ridiculous!” he exclaims as he attempts to catch up with you. “There are other options available to you…”

“Such as?” you whip around, raising your hands, countering his assertion. When he falters, you return to walking, throwing a tart addition over your shoulder: “Unlike you, a man, I do not have the freedom of choice.” 

“You should always have a choice…” he counters earnestly, still catching up to your furious pace.

“Should and do are different things, Benedict. You do not even know how lucky you are!” You add bitterly, rounding onto the main street.

A gust of wind causes you to pause and a shiver to run down your arms, your gauzy dress not enough to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air tonight. Ever the observant gentleman, Benedict shucks his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. Uncharitably, your ire makes you attempt to shake it off, even while knowing it is intended purely as a chivalrous gesture. You are surprised when he seems to grasp your shoulders tighter, holding the heavy velvet in place. It is cloaked in his woodsy, citrus scent, your vexed state turning into an entirely different type of flush as he crowds closer to you.

“My birth has allowed me certain privileges, I concede,” he replies, his stare seemingly far away as you are unable to look anywhere but the dampness of his bottom lip, shimmering slightly in the lamplight. Then he tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “But that does not mean I am able to have everything I wish for in life, y/n…”

Your tongue burns to ask what it is that he wants but cannot have, yet you do not allow yourself to pry. But seeing the wistfulness in his gaze deflates your irritation, your long-held adoration for this man taking over, making you sigh.

‘You deserve the world, Benedict….’

His face morphs into one of breathtaking intensity, and you realise, horrified, you spoke those thoughts aloud. 

“As do you, y/n,” he murmurs, eyes sincere, your heart beating wildly as his chest vibrates against your own. 

The upheaval of the last day, the man you secretly adore abetting a somewhat daring escape, your heated exchange of words, the lateness of the hour, and the feel of his tall, lithe body pressed against yours…. It's all a dangerous cocktail that culminates in you being utterly impetuous, pushing up onto your tiptoes and mashing your mouth against his with no thought.

His lips are plush and warm, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. It's like a cannon firing in your chest as his warm mouth opens yours. Suddenly, you are urgently taking from each other. A sweeping tidal wave through you obliterates any kissing experiences you have ever had before. It’s a desperate slide of tongues, a passionate continuation of your sparring. His hands are like a hot brand through your thin dress as they sweep around to your back, tugging you into him, his heat, scent and taste overwhelming.

But all too soon you are pulling apart, a need for air in your lungs overriding the spontaneous, reckless moment. For a few seconds, you stare at each other, breathing each other's panted air, hands still grasping onto each other, almost confused by what just occurred… until the whinny of a passing horse carriage has you springing apart as if burned. 

Realisation engulfs his entire being. “Oh god! Please, please forgive me!” he stutters, backing away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, almost tripping in his haste to put space between you, even though it was you who kissed him. “Please, just go to Granville,” he counsels rapidly before turning heel and disappearing into the night, leaving you standing alone, unmoored and breathless, utterly turned upside down.

-iv-

You drift home in a daze, your family’s London residence only a few hundred yards away. Your escape plans are forgotten in the haze of tumbling thoughts about that blistering kiss. How fervently and immediately Benedict had kissed you back, how wonderful it felt to be caged in his arms….  Climbing into bed and passing out, still bewildered. In fact, it’s only the rude awakening of your bedroom door slamming open the following morning that brings you crashing back to your senses.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” Your father roars, holding aloft what looks like the latest copy of Whistledown. “You have brought shame upon our family and likely ruination to your prospects!!”

Utterly alarmed, you sit bolt upright, blinking, taking a few moments before you can find your voice. “What are you referring to, father?”.

He glares at you, then throws the paper onto your bed and stalks out of the room without another word, puce with outrage. You know there will be crossed words at the breakfast table. The sight of your name on the crisp ivory page immediately draws your eye, and your stomach plunges as you read the paragraph:

The annual Bridgerton Ball last night was, once again, resplendent. A triumph that the dowager Countess can be rightfully proud of. Although less contentment could likely be gleaned from the behaviour of her offspring. The second eldest of whom was allegedly seen escaping into the unlit gardens hand in hand with none other than the most reluctant of this season's debutantes, the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. Perhaps the rebellious Miss will not have to endure many more of society’s events that she so patently abhors, should a proposal from the most wayward of Bridgerton sons be forthcoming? I, for one, however, Dear Reader, am not holding my breath…

Hiding in your room as long as you can, hunger drives you to join the frosty lunch table, apologising for inadvertently ruining your father’s plans to announce your betrothal and meekly explaining the incident with Benedict as a complete misunderstanding. It was merely an old friend helping you to gather some air before the big news was to be proclaimed. His taking your hand was out of benevolent concern, nothing more, and when you suddenly felt unwell, he chivalrously saw you the few hundred yards home. The lies feel odd on your tongue, your thoughts only of Benedict’s mouth and body moulded hotly to yours as your father lectures about appropriate behaviour for a young lady and your family’s long-standing friendship with the Bridgertons not being an excuse for a lackadaisical attitude to impropriety.

“There is nothing else to be done now—I must secure you a special licence to be wed tomorrow before Lord Farringdon hears about this,” he decrees with finality, his tone brokering no argument.

You slump silently into your chair, dread creeping through every cell, silently chastising yourself for not following Benedict’s advice and running away. If only you hadn't been impetuous and kissed him, you might have been in your right mind to do so. It feels cruel that the one moment you chose to throw caution to the wind is the one moment that sealed a worse fate.

-v-

That afternoon, your mother ushers you to the Modiste, paying handsomely for a very rushed wedding dress. Something simple that can be finished at such a late hour. It will only be your family in attendance anyway; so much else seems unnecessary. As you stand forlornly upon the raised dias, ivory silk tacked up around you with pins; your mother announces she needs to depart to secure other last-minute arrangements, leaving your trusty ladies' maid to accompany you home once alterations are complete.

“You do not look a happy bride…” Madam Delacroix mutters after the tinkle of the bell above the door signals her departure.

“Your observation skills are certainly not lacking,” you respond quietly, craning to double-check that Rachel, your maid, is out of earshot, sitting listlessly in the front of the store, staring out of the window.

“I do read Whistledown, my dear,” she remarks delicately, “and this does not appear to be a dress someone marrying a Bridgerton would wear.”

Your stomach vaults at the implication; the thought of marrying Benedict has your heart going haywire, even as you know it would never happen. The crestfallen look as your mind flits to the awful man you will be marrying instead is one you cannot hide as she meets your eyes in the reflection.

“It is not indeed,” you sigh, “but Whistledown has rather accelerated my unfortunate fate. Hence the rushed dress…” you gesture to your outfit.

“Mr Bridgerton is a friend?” she digs delicately.

“Lifelong,” you admit, “but Lady Whistledown could not have been more erroneous in her assertions…”

“That you and Mr Bridgerton are together? Or that he would marry you?” 

You look away from the mirror and down to where she is crouched by your hem on your left side, taken back not only at her astuteness but her drive for information. Almost as if she were Whistledown herself.

“I do not mean to pry,” she modifies, “merely to understand your predicament. Maybe I can be of assistance? I have privately counselled many a young lady on the eve of their wedding. Be it a happy occasion or not. And have kept many a secret of the Ton. ‘Tis the reason my business is so successful, Miss y/l/n. A good modiste can be a trusted confidante.”

“W-we are not together,” you stumble out without meaning to.

“But you wish to be? Or perhaps something has happened between you?”

Your eyes dart furtively, and your cheeks heat at the memory, but you say nothing. 

“You need say no more,” she chuckles and offers a knowing smile that appears as much reminiscent as sympathetic.

You rapidly attempt to deflect. “I do not wish to be married to anyone, really. I do find it so unfair a man is free to pursue his passions in life, but merely due to my sex, I am not.”

There is a nod of understanding, and she stands up with her hands on her hips. “I keep a certain array of refreshments for special clients such as yourself.” She nods to what looks like a liquor cabinet partially obscured behind a curtain at the back of her shop. “If you can dismiss your maid, I can assist you on your last night as an unmarried lady.”

The suggestion is too intriguing to refuse. And Rachel will greatly appreciate your pin money.

A few hours later, you are sat upon a circular conversation chair, Gen, as she insists you call her, pouring you another snifter of brandy.

“Tell me, what is your passion?” she inquires, her polished French accent slipping a little, sounding far more East End than Parisian. Something about that makes you like her more.

“Art,” you answer wistfully, “not that I have many opportunities to practice beyond a private notebook. But it is my most prized possession.” You gesture to your pelisse, hanging on a nearby hook. “I have it with me always. I have sewn a secret pocket into all of my coats myself.”

“Ingenious! ” She declares. “You shall have my job one day!”

You laugh, feeling light for the first time in what feels like days, as Gen leans in, raising an eyebrow. “I can also see well why you may have bonded with Mr Bridgerton…”

You giggle and lower your eyes, taking a fortifying sip.

“But it is not just that, is it?” Her tone is thoughtful, delicate even, as she continues: “A life outside the boundaries of so-called polite society can be so very beguiling, can it not? I have seen you, Miss y/l/n, at parties in Bloomsbury…”

A panicked bile rises as your head snaps up.

“As I said before, I am always discreet,” she reassures, “your secret is more than safe with me,” she winks before taking a generous sip from her glass.

Possibly, it's the alcohol, but her understanding of your predicament and the fact she has, unbeknownst to you, moved in similar circles brings an odd sense of relief. Having a confidante, someone to finally share your secrets with, albeit a somewhat stranger, lifts a burden from your shoulders. Wonderful as Eloise is, being the sister of the man who secretly holds your heart is not without complications in many ways.

“Another?” she chimes animatedly, holding aloft the bottle.

You cannot resist that offer.

-vi-

It’s close to midnight when Gen loops her arm in yours as she guides you, quite inebriated herself, away from the hackney cab to the familiar abode of one Henry Granville. Her declaration that a party is what you need on your last night of freedom is definitely not one you would dispute. A myriad of heightened emotions roil inside as you await the door being answered: contentment at your newly cemented friendship with Gen, bewildered every time you think of your kiss with Benedict and abhorrence for tomorrow. 

As you wander into the debauched tableau of a party in full swing: the air thick with smoke and merriment, the sounds of pleasure, people consorting together, a hedonistic swirl of self-expression unfurling all around you—it all consolidates into a yen to be reckless. Take part this time rather than just observe as you have before. Alcohol mutating the simmering rage about the injustice of your circumstance into a yearning to experience pleasure, especially physical. To get lost in sensation on your one last night of liberty.

So when you encounter Sir Simms - Matthew - friend to your older brother, renowned rake, but quite handsome, you throw caution to the wind. He seems delighted to see you, instantly flirtatious and familiar in a way you would rebuff any other night but this one. Whispering in your ear how very bold you are to be at such a bohemian event and pondering what other adventurous experiences you might be willing to indulge in. At one point Gen pulls you aside, her breath sweetened with fermented fruits, as she leans in and counsels you to be cautious. But you rebuff her concerns, swatting away her hold and returning to Matthew, allowing him to pull you into a kiss. 

It’s not the same as with Benedict; your mind screams at the altogether more jarring experience. A wet invasion of tongue that is less pleasant and certainly doesn’t fire anything inside you the way that he had. Merely kindling a defiant resolve to rage against the dying light of your freedom. And so when he slurs into your ear, you consent to his invitation upstairs, knowing fully the implications of what will transpire—feeling vaguely detached from yourself as he pulls you along by the hand towards the staircase. 

Suddenly, your field of vision is filled with dark blue velvet, a strong arm wrapping around you, caging you into a warm body mass, disconnecting your hand from Matthew’s—crossed words in two male voices. A momentarily confusing blur that only begins to make sense when you tilt your chin up… and the breath is quite stolen from your lungs.

Benedict.

At first, it feels like a cruel mirage, the man you most desire here to stymie your last gamble at impulsivity. His hold is strong as you sense Matthew shrink away, defeated by Benedict’s threat to expose some dalliance or other. But as he whisks you to an empty room within the house, all you feel bubbling up is anger.

“Stop trying to rescue me!” you rail, reeling out of his grip and stamping your foot to emphasise your point, uncaring that you may be behaving more akin to a petulant toddler.

“Stop making foolish decisions!” he lobbies back after a fleeting wounded look.

You glare at him momentarily before turning your back and staring out of the window into the inky blackness of Granville’s garden, frustration prickling a tear in the corner of your eye.

Behind you, there is a sigh; then his voice turns softer. “Why did you not follow my advice? I came here this morning only to be informed you never arrived…”

That he came to check on you weakens your bluster, although you still have no earthy idea why, once again, he is so invested in your actions. But you are not done saying your piece. 

“What does it matter now?” you bite bitterly before spinning around to face him. “Benedict, we are in Whistledown. My father would have arranged a special licence for tomorrow regardless of whether I had come here or not…”

“He did what?” he splutters, shock almost choking the words.

You square your shoulders and cross your arms defensively. “I am to be married in the morning. 11am at St George’s.” When all he offers is floored silence, you uncharitably dig the knife in. “No thanks to you...” 

Your words are like a body blow, a world of hurt in his quiet tone as he stares at the ground. “I was only trying to help.” 

Regret floods your every cell; why you would choose to lash out at him, even you don't know—so many conflicting feelings and strong liquor coursing through you.

“Please… let me return to the party,” you sigh wearily, after a beat, gesturing to his blocking your exit from the room.

“You would regret what you were about to do until your dying day,” he attests, lifting his head, a vein on his forehead pulsing as his jaw tenses.

“Perhaps,” you shrug. “But that is my burden to endure, not yours.”

“I am your friend,” he frowns, “I will always want to alleviate your burdens…”

“I do not want a friend, Benedict, not tonight. I want a beau.” If you aimed to shock him, you are successful; a cavalcade of expressions warring on his face as you plough on. “So please move so that I may continue with my most inadvisable plan….”

“No.” It's soft but unequivocal, resolute.

When you realise he is not going to budge, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Benedict?” 

There is a gruff noise in the back of his throat, and then, with two determined strides, he is pressed up against you, his breath hot on your face. Then he is kissing you, ferociously, wantonly, opening your mouth with his, his hands encircling your waist and pulling you roughly into him.

And you are lost.

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[betweenstorms]

Part Two of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Time has a funny way of slipping through your fingers, doesn’t it?

The years passed as they do, quietly, relentlessly and somehow, unintentionally you followed Simon Riley’s advice, no matter how much it stung during that particular summer night.

You grew older, wiser, or at least you hoped you did. 

At the end of that warm, suburban summer, you left Manchester behind, moved to London for university, found yourself caught up in the complexity of adulthood, chasing dreams, making mistakes, falling in love, losing it. You lived your life, embraced its peaks and valleys, and let it sweep you along. Some days were golden, like those late summer days in your twenties when laughter was easy, love felt endless, and the world seemed filled with promise. You travelled with your new friends from university, gelato dripping down your wrist as you laughed under the bright Sicilian sun, the loud conversation with your girls echoing across the cobblestone streets. You invited your parents to London several times, playing tourist with them, showing them your new apartment, savouring moments of connection between the gaps of your new life and their old one. And then there was the day your boyfriend knelt before you, a ring glinting in the rose gold streetlights of Paris, asking you to be his fiancée.

Oh, it was the kind of moment you had always dreamed of, the fairy tale that every little girl secretly hopes will come true.

But life isn’t all dreams, is it?

You wept like a child, your heart shattered when you found out about the affair. Your fiancé, with your college roommate of all people. It felt like betrayal layered upon betrayal, and the sadness you carried then weighed more than all the joy of your past put together, manifested in the hollow echoes of your aching sobs in the shared flat you once called home. You moved out shortly after that incident.

Unfortunately, there were other disappointments, too. Failed job interviews, missed opportunities, the loneliness that seeped into your bones in those years after university, when friends began to drift away and the beauty of childhood transforms into a fading memory. But you picked yourself up. You always did. Because that’s what you did. That’s what you knew best. You kept moving, because the alternative, sinking, was unthinkable.

But through it all, you lived.

And you wouldn’t change a thing even if you had the chance.

You threw yourself into your work, into the messy and beautiful chaos of life. There were still some moments where you felt like you had the world at your feet, laughing with your high school mates over beers in dingy pubs, watching the sun set over London’s skyline, those spontaneous trips to the coast where you tasted freedom in every salty breeze. And you moved forward, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because time forced you to. But that was fine by you.

And in the quiet corners of your mind, Simon Riley became a distant thought—like the chorus of a song you used to know like the back of your hand. You thought of him less and less as the years went by, as your life became more complicated, more full.

You took his words to heart, didn’t you?

You left him behind.

But still, he lingered.

There were those times, in the early years, when your parents would call, giving you updates on Manchester, on the neighbours, on the old street you grew up on. You’d ask about the Rileys, casually, as if it didn’t really matter. You weren’t prying, not really, just curious. What had become of Simon? Of Tommy? Your parents mentioned Simon had joined the military at some point, which didn’t surprise you. He always carried a soldier’s weight, even as a boy.

They told you about Tommy too, how his life had spiralled out of control with drugs and the wreckage of his past trauma. Your mother sighed when she mentioned Mrs. Riley and how she had hit rock bottom. But Simon, when he returned from deployment, finally helped them rid themselves of Mr. Riley for good, breaking the cycle of abuse that had poisoned their lives for years.

Your parents even got a bit more involved in the Riley’s lives after that—dropping in with food, attending Tommy’s wedding with a kind soul named Beth, helping with little Joseph, their gorgeous newborn, who your mum absolutely adored. She’d tell you about him during your weekend catch-ups.

However, as time went on, the Rileys faded from your thoughts, a chapter you had quietly closed.

Your own life was blooming in London, despite the mistakes you made along the way. You loved fiercely, lost greatly, and found your way back to yourself time and again. The more you lived, the less you thought about the boy who once lived next door.

Until that cold November afternoon.

The air was ice cold, but not just from the weather. It was the kind of chill that settled deep in your bones, the kind that gnawed at you long after the sun had set during winter.

The day had been unremarkable at first—work was its usual rhythm of meetings and emails, the sound of your co-workers chattering as a familiar background noise. But then your phone rang, your mother’s weak voice trembling on the other end like the fragile crackle of dry leaves in the wind during autumn.

You had heard your mother cry before.

The grief at a relative’s passing, the heartache of a goodbye too long drawn out—but this was different. Her sobs were frantic, her rushed words spilling over each other in terrified, broken fragments, so hurried you could hardly catch the meaning.

“The Rileys… oh God, love, the Rileys are gone…”

It took you a moment to grasp what she was saying.

Gone? How? You sat frozen, the world around you blurring as your mum’s words came in and out like waves crashing against the shore.

“Dear Lord, some maniac... a psychopath… some madman…” she choked. “He killed them. Killed them all. Tommy, Beth, even little Joseph, an innocent baby, Oh God…”

You could hear your mother’s quiet anguish, but it was as though you were outside yourself, hearing everything from a great distance.

The Rileys. Dead. It didn’t make sense. Mrs. Riley, Tommy, Beth, the child—how could they be gone? The thought was too large and too grotesque to fully comprehend. It was like a nightmare, one you couldn’t wake up from.

“And… Simon?”

A name you hadn’t uttered in years.

A name that had always lingered on the edges of your memory, like a shadow cast by fading light.

Your mother’s breath caught. “I don’t know. Oh, love. He wasn’t there… I think he’s still in the military, but… we don’t know, we were asleep, didn’t hear a thing.”

She was crying again, her sobs muffled by the phone. Her sobs broke through, and she confessed, through gasps of guilt, that she and your father had been sound asleep when it happened, oblivious to the horror just next door. The sanctuary of your childhood, the quiet safety of the neighbourhood, shattered in a mere second.

Your mind raced, your heart thundering in your chest.

Oh, all those years, all those moments where you hadn’t thought about Simon Riley, and now, now the past was clawing its way back, forcing you to confront something you had thought you’d left behind.

Your coworkers looked up, sensing something was wrong. One of them asked if you were okay, if you needed anything, but you barely heard them. You wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything, but all you could do was tremble. Your hands squeezed as you gripped your phone, trying to keep your voice steady as you told your mother you’d drive up to Manchester right away, that you’d be there soon. When the call ended, and you were out the door before you had time to gather your thoughts. The moments after that were a blur, your body on autopilot as you stumbled to your car. The urgency to get there, to understand what had happened, burned through you, like liquid fire in your veins.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Pain hit you suddenly, sharp and overwhelming, something you’ve never felt before. It started as a dull ache in your lower stomach, but it intensified rapidly until you were doubled over, gasping for breath. You couldn’t drive, you couldn’t think. By the time you finally made it to your flat, the pain had become unbearable. Something was wrong, you knew. Terribly wrong.

You had to call for an ambulance, your hands shaking as you dialled the number.

However, you weren’t thinking about yourself as they wheeled you into the hospital, weren’t listening to the doctor’s voice as he explained the situation—appendicitis, nothing lethal, a routine surgery, and you’d be fine but you had to stay still.

Throughout your surgery, all you could think about was Simon. The boy who had grown into a man who you barely knew anymore, the man who had lived through hell and had come back to face it once again. Was he back in Manchester? Was he grieving? Or had he been claimed by the same nightmare that had taken the rest of his family?

After the surgery, you lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down your face. It wasn’t the pain of your own body that made you cry—it was the helplessness, the not knowing, the fear that somewhere out there, Simon, your childhood friend, was lost, alone, and there was nothing you could do to help him.

You spent the first few hours after the surgery drifting between sleep and wakefulness, your mind clouded with both painkillers and the overwhelming ache of uncertainty. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw flashes of the past—memories of Manchester, the Rileys, Simon. The years blurred, and for a moment, you could almost feel the gentle summer sun on your skin again, hear the distant murmur of a time that seemed too far gone.

But the present was relentless.

Your parents arrived in London as quickly as they could, your mother staying by your side, fussing over you as she had when you were a child. Her hands were warm, but her eyes betrayed her fear. Fear for you, fear for what had happened back in Manchester. She stayed while your father left for the funeral—the collective service for the Rileys, held only a week after their brutal end.

You couldn’t go, of course. Fucking appendicitis.

The thought of missing that final goodbye gnawed at you. You couldn’t let it go. Therefore, you wrote. A letter. A really long letter. In the small hours of the night, with the hospital lights dimmed and the distant hum of machinery as your only company, you penned a letter.

The words didn’t come easily.

What could you possibly say to Simon Riley, after all these years? What could you write that would bring him any semblance of comfort, any understanding in the face of such senseless tragedy? How could you explain to him how sorry you were? Sorry for what had happened to his family, sorry that you weren’t there when he needed someone most, sorry for all the years you’d spent avoiding the memories of your childhood, of him. But you had to try.

You wrote with a trembling hand, pouring everything you couldn’t say aloud into that letter, every apology that had been lodged in your throat for years. You tied it to your father’s soul, knowing he would deliver it to Simon, wherever he might be. And your father, with his quiet strength, promised he would.

When the day of the funeral came, you lay in your bed, imagining the cold November air, the way the ground must have looked under the grey Manchester sky. You pictured the small crowd, neighbours, and friends from the community, all standing in sombre silence as the Rileys were laid to rest. But what haunted you most was the image of Simon—if he was even there at all. You wondered if he stood apart from the others, his broad shoulders hunched, his face unreadable as ever. Or maybe he hadn’t come at all, disappearing into the shadows once again, as he always had.

The week crawled by, each day dragging longer than the last. Your mother stayed by your side, but the quiet weight of what had happened in Manchester pressed down on both of you. Your father returned, but there was no news of Simon. Your dad told you that they didn’t talk much. No sight of him after the funeral. No trace of him in the days after. He had vanished, leaving behind an empty house and a tragedy too vast to comprehend. And when you finally recovered enough to leave the hospital, you made the trip back to Manchester with your mother.

The familiar streets felt like a ghost of themselves—places once filled with memories now overshadowed by the grim reality of what had happened. The Riley house stood empty, its windows dark, the air around it thick with loss. You stood at the gate for a long time, staring at the house that had once been so full of life, of pain, of everything in between. But now, it was nothing. Just a shell. Just another haunted corner of your past.

There were no answers. No signs of Simon.

And in the end, after a week of trying to help your parents, after a week of grieving and remembering, you left. You packed your things and drove back to London, promising yourself you’d never return. The city you had once called home felt cursed now, and the memories it held were too heavy to bear.

You couldn’t escape the past, though. Not really. 

The promise you made to yourself all those years ago, to never return to that godforsaken city, was one you kept for a long time. It wasn’t out of spite or bitterness, but rather out of a quiet resignation. You had moved on, created a life in London that was full of both the mundane and the extraordinary. And after your parents moved to Wimbledon, following your father’s cancer diagnosis, the ties to Manchester became even more frayed.

It wasn’t until your thirty-fourth birthday that you found yourself heading back to the place you swore you’d never return to.

Not for family, not for closure, but for something as trivial and absurd as a fucking high school reunion. It had started with a sudden phone call from one of your old mates, the same group you used to run around with in your youth.

You hadn’t heard from them in years. Well, apart from the occasional likes on Instagram posts or an awkwardly short birthday text.

“Fifteen bloody years,” your friend had said, her voice bright and insistent. “You’ve been stuck in London with your fancy life, and we’ve barely seen you. Time to get your arse back here and have a pint with the group, eh? It’s been too long, girl.”

You laughed it off at first, citing your tight work schedule and your responsibilities. But the more she talked, the more you realised how long it had been since you’d even thought about that part of your life. A simpler time, before the complexities of adulthood and all its responsibilities weighed on you.

So you agreed. You didn’t really know why, maybe out of a sense of pure nostalgia or maybe out of some lingering guilt.

The drive up to Manchester was long, and your nerves sat uneasily in your chest. What would it be like to see those familiar faces again, to walk the streets that had once been the backdrop of your childhood? Would it feel like home? Or would it feel like you didn’t belong anymore, a ghost walking through memories?

However, by the time you saw the familiar landmarks, something in you began to settle. The nervousness faded, replaced by a strange calmness, as if the city itself recognised you and offered some kind of unspoken truce. You arrived at the pub where your reunion was being held—the same one you used to frequent during your teenage years. It was a dive, the kind of place that hadn’t aged well, but that’s exactly what made it feel like time had stood still.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of beer and the hum of conversation. And then there they were, your dear friends, sitting in a corner, laughing just like they always did. The moment you walked in, it was as if no time had passed at all. They greeted you with familiar smiles, pulling you into tight hugs and offering you a pint almost immediately.

The conversation flowed easily, old jokes resurfacing, stories being retold with exaggerated details and you found yourself chuckling. No, truly laughing, in a way you hadn’t done in what felt like ages. The weight of the years melted away, and for those brief hours, you felt like you were a teenager again, full of life and possibility, untouched by the heaviness that had since followed you. Oh, you hadn’t even realised how much you missed it, missed them. The simplicity of it all. The foolishness of youth.

As the night wore on, you found yourself drinking more than you should have. The beers went down easy, their familiar taste blending with the warm laughter and nostalgia. You hadn’t had a drink in a while, not properly, and it didn’t take long for the alcohol to loosen your limbs and soften the edges of reality. You felt light-headed, slightly detached from your surroundings but in that comfortable way that comes with the perfect level of drunkenness. Your words were slurring a bit, your laughter louder, but you didn’t mind.

Not tonight.

Eventually, the haze became a bit too much, and you excused yourself from the table. You needed fresh air, a moment for yourself to step away from the heat of the pub and the noise of the reunion. You fumbled with your jacket as you headed for the back of the building, where the designated smoking area was. It was behind the pub, near the dimly lit, empty parking lot, and as you made your way there, you nearly tripped over a discarded bottle on the ground.

“Bloody hell,” you muttered under your breath, the curse falling easily from your lips. Even small inconveniences seemed dramatic when you were tipsy. Some habits never died.

When you reached the smoking area, you were grateful to see it wasn’t crowded. Just one man, standing off to the side, leaning against the wall of the building, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he took a long drag. The tip of the cig glowed bright orange in the darkness. His silhouette seemed larger than life, almost unreal in the way he stood. He was massive, the kind of bloke you’d notice even in a crowded room, let alone in the quiet of the night.

Tall as a statue but built like a brick wall—shoulders broad and thick with muscle, his frame nearly filling the space between the wall and the edge of the lot.

At first, you stopped, startled by his size.

He was the sort of man you’d expect to see guarding the door, maybe a bouncer or a security guard. That made sense, considering how much physical strength he had. You nodded at him out of politeness, the way you do when you make eye contact with a stranger and want to acknowledge their presence without committing to a conversation. His gaze lingered on you, sharp and calculating.

Why was he looking at you like that?

You quickly turned away, feeling oddly self-conscious, and pulled out your cig, attempting to light it. But of course, as your luck would have it, your lighter chose that moment to give up on you. No matter how many times you flicked the damn thing, it refused to spark.

“Seriously?” you muttered, cursing your luck again. The bravado of the alcohol in your system pushed you to turn towards your only companion, flashing him an awkward smile. “Hi. Hello. Any chance you’ve got a lighter, mate?”

The man didn’t speak at first.

He just watched you, observed you, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and reflective under the dim light of the parking lot. There was something oddly familiar about the way he held himself, something in the way he stared at you that sent a ripple of recognition through you, but you couldn’t quite place it.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a black, well-worn lighter, and flicked it open. The flame sparked to life, small but steady, and he leaned forward, offering it to you. You stepped closer, holding your cigarette to the flame.

As you did, you couldn’t help but take a better look at him.

His face was mostly obscured by the dim lighting, but his features were hard and chiselled. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken more than once, with a small scar running through his upper lip. His lips were thin, pressed into a line that gave nothing away, and the faint lines around his eyes hinted at a man who had lived through more than most. However, it was his gaze, those beautiful hazel eyes, that stopped you cold. They were sharp, almost piercing, and there was something else behind them—an intensity that made your stomach tighten.

For a moment, you thought it might just be the alcohol playing tricks on you, but the longer you looked, the more certain you became. There was no mistaking it.

Those eyes, guarded and haunted, belonged to Simon Riley.

“Thanks,” you muttered, taking a quick drag from your cig, stepping back, trying to act casual even though your heart was racing.

There was something about his presence, something that felt both familiar and distant at the same time. It had been years, after all. You’d moved on, or so you thought. But standing here now, the weight of the past pressed down on you, the memories flooding back like a tide you couldn’t hold back. This random bloke before you… yes, the resemblance was mad uncanny. You stole glances at the giant man, unsure, your mind buzzing with uncertainty and the effects of the alcohol. Was it really him? Could it be?

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly as you took another drag from your cigarette. You wanted to ask, but the words stuck in your throat, too afraid to sound foolish. Too afraid that if you asked, you’d break whatever fragile moment this was. But before you could find the courage to speak, the man sighed.

That sigh.

It was unmistakable—quiet, irritated, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders and he was tired of carrying it. It was the same sigh you’d heard all those years ago, on that warm summer night beneath the street lamps.

“Fuckin' hell,” he muttered under his breath, the deep, rough rumble of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “S’me. Stop gawkin'.”

[slytherinslut0]

quiet reckoning. chapter one

summary: mattheo comes to visit. it’s strange, being twenty five and still seeing your childhood in his eyes.

warnings: just a ton of fucking angst. complicated, self destructive mattheo who’s finally coming to terms with how he pushed you away when you were younger simply because he couldn’t stand being second to tom in your eyes. the acceptance doesn’t make it hurt any less. get the tissues. cry with me please.

masterlist & other chapters.

Life these days holds a strange, silent kind of peace, interrupted only by the faint sound of water rushing over stone—the creek that runs quick along the forest edge. In your early summer afternoons, the trees form a leafy wall of emerald and ochre, and they sway with the breeze that brushes the hair back from your cheeks.

You sit cross-legged in the dirt, hands buried in soil as you pull vegetables out of your garden in prep for the approaching cold months. You love how earth has its own signature scent: damp, fertile, alive. Somehow it makes you think of Tom—his manor, with its towering windows overlooking manicured grounds, its own gardens sprawling wide. His manor with its grand, sweeping staircases, polished black floors.

Everything was pristine, almost oppressively so. Even the walls seemed haughty, disdainful of the cobwebs that clung to the corners.

Tom had never let you stay long enough to tend to those.

But his gardens—those had their own softness, a quiet beauty that only fully revealed itself after dusk when the moonlight cast everything in silver. I loved you there, you reminisce, and the ache has a name in memory—longing. I wish I could have loved you there longer.

And now you're here, a few years after Tom told you never to come back to him—here where the ache feels smaller, further away. Here where there’s no temptation, where the air smells of earth and moss and freedom, and the silence holds its own kind of comfort. Mattheo visits sometimes, wandering into the quiet when your absence grows too thick, when too many of his owls have gone unanswered.

"He'll visit soon." He always tells you. You start to hate how much he lies to you.

"Don't pretend," you said once, and his mouth stretched into a thin, humourless smile.

"Alright," he replied. "I won't."

So now, when he comes to visit, he doesn't say it—he just sits next to you. He doesn't talk much. Neither do you. Life here is quiet—few neighbours, even fewer visitors. A woman brings you pastries from time to time and the town grocer knows your name, but most days you pass unbothered. You tend the garden when the days are warm, work on the cottage when it's cold.

When it's raining you read books and pretend they're not the same kind Tom used to keep.

On a day in early October, Mattheo sits next to you on the porch and you hate that you notice how he doesn't look at you the same way Tom did. It's something lighter, something less cloying. Sometimes you think of how unfair it is that he can taunt you silently like this—how he can remind you of the chocolate streaks in Tom's inky hair, the depth in his dark eyes. How he can remind you that he holds all the same features as his brother, just without the weight.

As the sun sinks slowly through the trees, casting pink and orange across the sky, you turn your face to the creek, watching the water ripple over stones and rocks, and you think of how young you loved them—the way your love grew different when you weren't looking.

Mattheo was chaos, always had been. I could have helped him find himself. But that thought feels hollow, and it's always followed by another. If he would have let me.

"It's strange to think that this is your life." Mattheo speaks after a while of not. He lights a cigarette, and you reach for it when he passes it to you. "You could have done anything."

You inhale the smoke and close your eyes—thinking of how cigarettes taste like fire and ash and the last time Tom had taken your hand.

"Maybe this is all I ever wanted to be." You reply, spinning the cigarette between your fingers. "At peace."

He glances at you in the fading light—the way the sunset casts shadows in the hollows of your cheeks, makes the gold of your earrings look darker against your hair.

He frowns. "You don't look at peace."

No, you think, taking another drag. I never really have.

You pass the cigarette back to him, watching the smoke drift in the breeze. He doesn't say anything else, so you don't either.

Instead, you watch the dark start to close in, the sky turn into an endless stretch of indigo, stars winking to life somewhere above the trees. The fireflies come out eventually, when the night is quiet and heavy and the world turns a little sleepy. They flutter around in the trees and grass like faeries—like stars that've made their home on the ground—and Mattheo watches them with a furrow in his brow.

You wonder what he's thinking, then think better of it at the bitter twist of his mouth. He always thought they'd burn.

"Why do you still come here?" You question. He turns to you, and when his eyes meet yours that's when you realize you'd verbalized the thought. "To sit with me."

Mattheo shakes his head. "I'll need another smoke to answer that."

So he pulls out another cigarette and lights it. The first inhale is long, and the exhale makes you blink. You look away and pretend like his response doesn't make your stomach twist.

The stream moves a little darker in the moonlight and the pine trees shiver with a gentle breeze that smells like soil. You feel the comfort in it—in knowing that all of this has been here longer than you ever have, and that it'll be here long after you're gone.

Perhaps that's precisely what you chased. A home in something steady.

"I come to remind myself you're okay." He says after a long silence, staring at his hands. "Sometimes it feels like you're dead."

You blink again. He's more perceptive than you remember.

"I'm still here," you remind him, but he laughs without humour in it.

"Sure, you're there," he replies, before another pause. "But you're not really living."

He says the words casually, like they're a fact. You think they're meant to hurt. He's right—it's a thought that comes quietly, the way most unwanted thoughts do. You over look at the river, the fireflies, the dirt under your fingernails—you try to feel the chill in the October breeze, the soft moss under your feet. You try to be alive.

"Why do you think that?" You ask even when you know the answer.

He takes another drag of his cigarette, and then exhales—casting his hair grey when the smoke drifts over his face.

He looks older here, when the night stretches over him. It reminds you how much has changed.

"Sometimes I think you're here to punish yourself." He says, passing you the cigarette again. "You say you come here for peace, but this isn't peace like a person should have. It's just an absence. Silence, and isolation, and nothing else." You glance down at his hand resting on his knee beside you, shadows deepening in the lines of his palm. He watches you. "I wish you'd stop hating yourself for what he's become."

A lump forms in your throat—you remember Tom as a boy, the way he'd hold magic in his palms and make lights dance just to make you laugh. You remember the way he once looked at you, quietly and gently in a way that made you feel safe within crumbling walls offering cold stone decorum. You remember one of the last times at Hogwarts, once things took a turn, when he held more than just magic in his palms—when the lights danced only to burn you instead of make you laugh.

You wonder what it says about you, that you loved him in both.

"I don't hate myself, Matt." You mutter, more conviction than truth. "If I'm punishing myself at all, it's for giving him something to hurt."

He doesn't say anything for a while, so you think briefly that his silence is agreement. You and him both know that there is a lot to hurt about, when it comes to Tom.

"You didn't give him anything." He rebuttals with certainty. "He was who he was before you even knew his name."

It's easy to forget that sometimes, the way he had been all sharp edges even when you'd first met. The way he'd pulled you and his brother through crumbling, damp, narrow hallways with something far too assured for a six year old. Something that made you want to follow him forever—something that whispered; I'll never let anything hurt you.

You exhale a plume of smoke. The fireflies look like falling stars when you close your eyes.

"Sometimes, I think I made him human." You say, and immediately wish you didn't. It's a weird thought, but one that comes unbidden. "Others, I think I made him evil."

It tastes like acid the moment you say it aloud. I made him evil. You think back to all those nights in the quiet, the way you taught him how to confide in you, the way he looked at you as if you held some answer he couldn't find on his own. You remember the secrets he shared, the way he softened when no one else could see. You remember how long it took him to get there.

But you remember the darker moments, too—moments when you didn't pull away, even when you should have. Moments you whispered reassurances instead of warnings, when you offered comfort instead of caution. Maybe, in those silences, you fed a need that shouldn't have been nourished, let him believe his ambitions weren't dangerous, only misunderstood.

You wonder if, in being the one person who never condemned him, you gave him permission to be what he became.

"And me?" Mattheo turns to you. You glance at him, the hard line of his mouth and his eyes that look more black than brown in the night— "did you make me evil too?"

You're both quiet for a moment, the only sound is the stream, the only motion is the flutter of the fireflies.

"I don't believe I made you anything." You say finally, letting him take the cigarette back from you. "I suppose you only became who you wanted to be."

You think, quietly, that it's a kinder fate than the rest.

He huffs a laugh. "So you think I wanted to be an asshole."

He's joking, you think. Or he's bitter again, resentful. You're sure he wanted to be whatever Tom would accept him as—though you'd never say those words out loud.

"I think you wanted to be loved." Is what you settle on, and the words tear your throat apart as you speak them. "Just like I did."

He hums, noncommittally, and lights a third cigarette.

You wonder why you still know that he's bitter even when he's not saying the words—why you still know that he only hums that way when something hurts, or when it's a truth he can't bring himself to admit.

"You found it now, haven't you?" You fill his silence with another sentence you wish you didn't say. "You're engaged."

You watch the embers from the cigarette tip light up the hollows of his cheeks, the way it burns his eyes gold as he takes a drag on it.

"Yeah," he nods into the night. "I'm engaged."

Something selfish in you aches at that.

"Then why do you come here and look at me like you're lonely?" You try to ask it casually, but you don't think you manage it. You see him tense when he realizes how well you still read him. "What is it you're missing, Matt?"

"I don't know." He looks at you in the dark, his expression lost in the shadows of his hair. "Sometimes I think it's you."

It's an answer like a knife, because you've known all along that he feels the same way you do—that the loneliness stays and the regret never really dissipates—that the 'what-ifs' linger long after they shouldn't.

"I'm not your girl." You remind him.

It sounds empty when you say it, but he made it clear when you were younger that he wanted it this way.

"You never were."

He looks away after that, to the stream, and you wonder if it has ever felt hollow like this.

All the lights seem very small suddenly, the moon, the stars—you're not sure where his vulnerability is coming from, all these years in passing. You assume it’s the old saying—absence makes the heart grow fonder.

"But you wanted me to be." It's more of a question.

"For a time, when we were kids." He gives you honesty that surprises you. "Sometimes I think I still do."

Why?—you want to ask, suddenly, desperately—and wonder at the cruelty of the thought. Asking that would be the worst kind of question. Why do you want me?

You think you know all the answers already. They sit bitter at the back of your throat.

"So that's why you come here." You say instead, shivering with the wind that brushes over you. "To remind yourself of all the reasons you still feel empty."

There's a dark sort of humour to the sound he lets out, one that makes your chest ache. He turns to you again, and his hands shake when he lifts the cigarette.

"It's not you that makes me feel empty, princess." He whispers. "It's the absence of you."

You look at him, then—really look. There's something strange about being twenty five and still seeing your childhood in his eyes. Despite the nickname, he’s not joking. It’s the kind of confession that tastes like a fist, like a punch that breaks bones.

I know, you think. I wish it could have been different for us.

"You need to stop coming here." There's no spine in those words. They're putty between you. "Just like Tom told me to stop, I'm now telling you."

He's quiet, watching you as the embers of the cigarette flicker over his fingers.

"I'll stop," he pauses, and you see the pain in his throat as he swallows. "When he finally comes to you."

That, you think, will probably never happen.

"So you'll come here forever." You say, and his mouth twists in a silent, bitter smile.

"I guess I will."

You don't have a response to that. It's not a choice he makes so much as it is his reality, and you, of all people, could never fault him for that.

So instead of words, you lean to rest your head on his shoulder, same way you did when you were kids. You sit together, watching the moon and stars and the stream and the trees and everything else around you that reminds you you're alive, even if you don't feel it. You think of his fiancé, you know she'd never understand. This is childhood love in its most vulnerable form—and you thank him for it, silently, for reminding you that you're not alone. Even if you're sure you are.

He leans his head sideways, on top of yours—a gesture almost automatic.

"I still think of you in the summer." He mutters into your hair. You close your eyes and remember the sun, the way it once felt like it touched your bones. "The summer when we were nine. Swimming in the river at night. Those stupid bugs that I thought were made of fire." He pauses for a minute, looking around, and you think he's done talking, until he isn't. "I suppose I do understand why you chose this life."

You remember that summer, too. Small children swimming in a river that was all silver shadows under the moonlight, chasing fireflies like stars. No parents to call you home, no rules except the ones of your own.

Somehow, that's not your favourite memory of him.

"And I think of you in the fall." You say, listening to your own voice sounding distant. "The year just before Hogwarts. When the leaves turned red and orange and gold. When you raked them into a pile for us to jump in."

He hums. "I tried to kiss you that fall."

"And Tom fought you for it."

"And he won." Mattheo's voice sounds distant too, almost lost. "He always won."

It's strange, thinking of autumn when you think of Mattheo, but it fits—he's just as fleeting. Beautiful, easy to fall into, but always gone too soon, leaving a chill in his place.

"Sometimes I think it's because he knew he could." You build off his thoughts. "And sometimes I think it's because he just wanted to prove it."

He shrugs. "Either way, I still lost."

It's such a mournful way to reminisce, you think, for the children you used to be.

"And what now?" You ask.

He exhales slowly, and the smoke looks like a mist in front of you. "I suppose now we both lose."

And that, is the most honest thing he's said all night.

You turn your face into his shoulder, the way you had when you were younger. You close your eyes, and for a moment you imagine being a child again—back in the days when love was simple and nights were endless. Back to a time when you didn't know things you should and all you had were each other's shoulders to lean on in an orphanage dirtier than the forest before you.

"We lose together, then." You offer, a half-whisper.

"Yeah," he answers, just as quiet, just as lost. "We lose together."

There's a bitter kind of contentment in that, you think. You're sure that's a terrible thing.

You take a few moments to brace yourself for the shift in conversation, and then—

"How is he?"

"He's fine." Mattheo understands what you aren't asking. "The leader he always wanted to be."

You close your eyes again and hear the stream running steady, moving around rocks that have been shaped by years of its presence. You ignore the ache in your chest.

"He's happy?"

You don't have to open your eyes to know that Mattheo smiles bitterly. "He's as happy as someone like Tom could be."

There are several beats of silence, the kind that holds too many unsaid things. You feel it in Mattheos exhale that there's something he isn't saying. You don't press him on it. You sit together like this for a while under the sky—watching the way the dark clouds move, the stars shift.

You think about childhoods that never last. About fireflies and streams and boys you loved.

"Tell me something true." You murmur as the midnight grog sets in. "Tell me something that'll warm me through winter."

Mattheo pauses, silent, and for a moment you think he's not going to answer.

"I've loved you most of my life." He mutters finally, into the top of your head. The words feel like a breath of summer, in a quiet, dark night. "That's the kind of truth that could melt an iceberg."

It's the sort of declaration you could only share in the cover of the night, in the silence of a forest. Not the sort of admission that would ever survive daylight. I've loved you most of mine, too.

"And a lie?" You reply.

His fingertips run through his hair, almost idly. You suppose he's looking back into memories of fleeting autumn's and summer sun, the time he tried to kiss you and the day he pushed you away. He doesn't answer the question for a while. You wonder if he doesn't have an answer, or if he just doesn't want to say it.

And then, finally, quietly— "I'm happy for him."

You close your eyes again. That, you think, is the cold truth of winter.

You turn your face again into his shoulder for a second time tonight, but you keep your eyes open. You can feel the weight of your childhood on your shoulders, the trees and the creek behind you, and the silence that follows his lie.

Suddenly, you're furious—a fire tearing through regret. You wish Mattheo hadn't chosen booze, fights, and empty escapes. You wish he'd let you love him properly before pushing you away. You wish he hadn't always resented Tom—hadn't always felt second best in a way no amount of reassurance could fix. Yet somehow, you just can't fault him for any of it.

He's always known you loved Tom first; he's carried that like a wound.

"Ask me to lie to you." You say as you swallow your anger.

There's an exhale. You're sure Mattheo's watching the trees, the wind as it runs quietly past.

"Lie to me."

You tilt your head up to the sky. You try to remember that fall, you try to feel what it was like to be a child again, and to believe in a future that wasn't shaped by the past. You think of his fiancé.

"I'm happy for you." You whisper.

From the corner of your eye, you know he smiles bitterly again, but he responds with nothing more than his unsteady breathing. You're both silent like this for the rest of his stay, together under the moon that's watched you both change.

"I'll be back in a month," he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear as time stretches thin.

He has to go before the sun rises, before dawn coaxes him into staying. You consider, if only for the flicker of a second, letting him.

"I'll see you then." You lean back and look up into his eyes, searching into the gold buried deep. If you look too long, you think you may see his broken heart. You make yourself smile anyway. "Write to me."

"Even if you don't write back." He replies with a nod.

The cold air makes your eyes water. For a moment he's still, like he may pull you into him and drown you in all the things he feels. Instead, he puts a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it with one of his hands. The lighter casts an orange glow over his face that makes him look pale and tired again, like the boy you'd met in an orphanage that was so much dirtier than the forest before you.

"Good night." He murmurs, and you feel his thumb brush your cheek before he apparates back to the life you left behind.

And now, alone under the black sky, you take a deep breath. Then, you exhale, go back into your cabin and you try not to think about all the things you've lost.

You try not to think of the boy you've loved for far too large a part of your life and how it changed the boy who's loved you for far too large a part of his. You try instead to focus on what you have—walls and peace and solitude, something certain that won't disappear when it rains.

[muntitled]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐫

Summary: He wants to be your only one... the fact that you've barely said a word to each other is irrelevant.

Warnings: Language, Humor, Unedited, Fluff, Neighbours to fuck buddies to Lovers, Leehan as his own warning, Jealous!Leehan, Possessiveness, Smut +18 (Minors DNI), Cunnilingus, Needy sex, Grinding, Premature Orgasm, Masturbation, Degradation Kink, Rough Sex

He's wrecking so very badly, Send help

Donghyun was going about his day perfectly fine until he set his foot over the kitchen threshold, and the first trickle of a moan came in from the adjacent walls. He immediately recognized the very specific, very airy octave of your voice.

The panting, the gasps, the very scheduled short exhales that ran through the conduit of your throat. He tries to stare at the fish through the aquatic looking glass in peace, hoping to alleviate the sound of your moaning that continues to bleed from the insulation in the thin apartment walls.

He finds himself quite vexed which is incredibly rare for nonchalant, unbothered Donghyun. For the longest time he thought he was broken. Never being able to forge any special connection with anyone that didn't sport a fin or gills.

When he met you though…

“No-” Donghyun shakes his head, hoping the movement might wash away all the mental images threatening to implode his head in. The memory of your passionate, albeit short history as neighbourly fuckbuddies threatens to rear its ugly head… Donghyun tries to distract himself and these new and complicated feelings of jealousy (definitely jealousy) by focusing on the underwater scavengers swimming blissfully about their makeshift prison. Every time he tries, you moan a particularly loud ‘F-Fuck’, and now he's hard and damnit, he can't focus on the fish. Your moans ascend to a higher octave, an octave that gives him unfortunate flashbacks of the night he first met you.

Then, it had been him who drew those sounds from your throat.

Donghyun didn't always believe in fate but there was no other way to describe that evening. You would have both continued on as oblivious neighbours were it not for your roommate accidentally locking you out of your apartment for the 100th time. Donghyun reminisces on how he found you seated outside your door. A tipsy, blubbering mess.

Thinking that he wouldn't like to go to hell, Donghyun decided to pick you up from off the floor after inquiring whether you were comfortable with fish (he wouldn't like to invite any stranger into his apartment that was even a little bit hostile towards the fish) and thereafter, lumbered you over the threshold.

You had been mumbling about a variety of topics that Donghyun would kill to have you relay back to him right now, but one after the other, the topics dwindled into you enquiring about more alcohol. Claiming that you couldn't wait for your roommate on an empty stomach.

"Food," he had said in a deep and dreary monotonous voice, "If you're hungry, you should eat some food,"

"Food is boring," you whined.

"It really is," he found himself agreeing almost automatically.

"I have an even better idea," it was then, that you uncovered three bottles of soju from your purse with a conspiratorial drunken smirk on your face. The evening had inevitably ended with the both of you getting inebriated under the dim blue lights shining from his tank. And under those very same lights, while Donghyun droned on about the cardiovascular system of freshwater fish, your lips met his in a sloppy, unceremonious kiss.

He did not know this when you kissed him, but he would soon become obsessed with you. That could be the only thing he could describe this as.

"Ugh, how can you stand to listen to the sounds of our neighbors fucking," Donghyun is pulled from his reverie by Sungho who strolls into the kitchen. His roommate's messy head of hair is tipped back in distaste at the scandalous sounds emanating from the next door apartment.

"Neighbour." Donghyun says, "We only have one and she lives alone," Donghyun appears seemingly unperturbed by the sound of your moaning. If not for the subtle whitening of his knuckles against the tabletop upon which his fish tank sat, anyone could've sworn he didn't feel a thing.

"I don't even wanna know how you know that-" Sungho begins to rummage for his pots and pans, all while Donghyun drones on.

"I spoke to her. Once." Donghyun says "Only once. We had sex."

A clamouring of metallic utensils ring throughout the small apartment as Sungho whips his head around to stare at the monotonous boy with amazement.

"Is there anything you ever think of keeping to yourself?"

Donghyun ignores his statement, "But now she's doing that..." he says, in that same difficult-to-interpret, monotonous voice. Donghyun gestures to the blank wall that divided the apartments, "With whoever that is..." A tense silence prolongs before Donghyun; quite suddenly, stands up. "Should I go over there?"

Sungho's shakes his head as he says, "You should absolutely not go over there-"

"I think I should go over there," He's already backing out of his chair, bidding the fish goodbye.

"Donghyun, I will disown you as a member of this apartment if you go over there-"

"It'll be quick,"

"Donghyun."

He's not sure why he'd wanna torture himself, nor did he care to know. All Donghyun is concerned with is the sound of your pleasure being caused by someone else. Someone that isn't him. And so he thinks nothing of it as he drifts towards your door stationed right next to his and he knocks.

There is a bump of furniture and a swear until you're racking the door open, the very vision of pre-orgasm jitters. Donghyun observes you in this very familiar glow. Your eyes are wide and wayward. Your hands are fumbling with the belt of your robe and there's a slight tremor moving through your entire form. You may appear disheveled to any other passerby but to him, you were the very object of his desires.

When your eyes land on him, your shoulders deflate in an unimpressed stance. You are just in the middle of scolding him lightly as you say, “No, Donghyun, I don't wanna volunteer to clean the beach with yo-”

You're not able to finish your sentence because he's rushed towards you in an instant, capturing your lips against the soft plush pillows of his own, and your words die right then and there. He cradles your face with both hands and you yelp in shock as he nips at your bottom lip, all while pushing himself into your apartment.

“I didnt-” he whispers, unable to tear his lips fully away from yours, “I didn't come here for that-”

He mindlessly kicks off his shoes at the doorway which proves to be exceedingly difficult, given the fact that he's hellbent on keeping your lips attached.

“D-Donghyun-” you try to mumble but his lanky fingers curl into your cheeks, forcefully keeping you there. He kisses your roughly. So roughly it nearly knocks out every single sliver of sensibilities you had left. His tongue is long and eager as it drift over the outside of your lips and on the inside, seemingly wanting to eat you whole.

“Donghyun-”

“What-” he whines, stomping his socks-clad feet against the wooden floorboards. “Why are you ruining the moment?” He dips his head down to try and capture your lips once more, but now that you've escaped his forcefield, you've sobered up a bit.

“Why are you, in my apartment?!” It's the only thing you manage to say, with your hand pressed firmly against his sternum. You're both panting loudly. Both caught in a very dangerous state.

Donghyun swallows thickly.

For some reason, you drop your hand to grip your robe tighter, as if not trusting yourself to keep it on in his presence. It is a baby pink robe that Donghyun finds surprisingly erotic. With the scent of sex hanging in your living room, it was difficult not to find anything erotic. He sees you watching him with wide, baggy eyes. Those were erotic too.

“Donghyun.” You begin, with a voice lowered in warning. “Why are you here?”

He swallows once again before straightening his spine and running a hand through his mid length brown locks. He fights to regain some sense of control as he racks his brain for all every plausible excuse.

“So-” he clears his throat, “I'm a father of fish,”

“Famously,” you mock with the roll of the eye. He has to stop himself from kissing you again, choosing to lift his left hand to push down his right twisting in a fist at his side.

“And I’m thinking of adopting a few cichlids.”

“That doesn't explain why you kissed me?” Instead of answering your question, Donghyun ventures to stroll towards your couch as he says, “And the males, famously, cannot be put in the same tank as other aquatic fish. They're unnecessarily hostile and territorial,” he lowers himself fo your couch, “Kinda like you are right now,”

Before you shout at him, he continues

“And I was wondering if you have a spare fish tank around here by any chance.” he nods his head, throughly please with his awful lying skills, “Thats why I'm here.” Donghyun’s eyes are still coasting around your apartment, waiting to hear the voice of the male that was making you moan so loud just a second ago.

“You expect me to just have a fish tank?” You deadpan, “By chance?”

“I don't think my question was so difficult to understand.” Donghyun watches you with a cocky open mouth smirk as he pushes his back against your couch, “This conversation would've been wrapped up so easily if you just-”

“Well, thanks for the weird nature lecture,” you're charging towards him, robe billowing. He sits up, excited. “And the kiss-”

“We could do that again if you want-”

“But I have to study, Donghyun, and you're distracting me,”

You're latching onto his forearm, hellbent on pulling him off your couch but Donghyun digs his other hand into the seat, letting it act as an anchor, keeping him there.

It is then, that your hot pink vibrator rolls out from underneath a cushion and right against the side of his hand.

You stop your pulling.

He stops his mumbling protests.

You both stare down at your vibe sitting comfortably against his hand in the dip of the couch.

“I-”

“Studying, huh?” the smugness in his voice is borderline sadistic. Now it's your turn to scan your brain for every possible way you could detangle yourself from this web of embarrassment. “I like this kinda studying-”

“Donghyun-”

“Leehan-”

“Whatever.” You sigh wistfully, “Just, get out, please.”

“So you don't want my help then?” The question rocks you to your core, a core which you unfortunately realise is still soaked and begging for release. You were just on the precipice of diving headfirst into your orgasm when the knock on the door came and you were overflowing with anxiety. Honestly, being bombarded with a kiss from the weird guy next door shouldn't have been as pleasant as it had been, but your needs evidently took priority of your senses.

“H-Help?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, “How?”

“Lemme show you,” he whispers with all the allure of a Disney prince, and the sensuality of a crimson ribbon. He wraps his hand around your forearm; twirling you quite ceremoniously into his lap.

“You must be so needy right now,” He whispers into your ear while he moves at snails pace, to lower your back against the couch, “I promise to be so good. Better than last time-”

“We were drunk,” you say, utterly captivated by Donghyun now peppering kisses along your legs. He makes his slow descent down the hill of your thighs, while everything in him craves to just attach his lips to your clit until you're riding his face dismally.

Donghyun groans then into the open air. “Fuck, I wanna eat you out,” he admits gravely. He lifts his eyes, hoping to relay to you just how badly he wanted this.

“We were drunk then, so let me do a better job now, ‘kay?” Donghyun rubs dizzying circles against your stomach, still very much covered by your robe.

“O-Okay-” You whisper your consent and it completely throws him over the edge. You yelp when Donghyun grabs ahold of your calves, almost immediately fighting your leg over his shoulder as if your weight was nonexistent.

“Don't blame me if I like… cum in my pants or something, alright?” He says, lowering his face to your exposed as he spready your legs wider.

“P-Please just eat me out, Donghyun,” you were asking him to as if you needed him. That thought solidified itself in his stomach and wrenches your panties to the side, immediately attacking your pussy with his puffy lips.

“F-FUCK, LEEHAN- NOT SO FAST-” Your hands fly to his locks. Your mouth hangs open and you watch in disbelief as he hums against your vagina.

“You called me Leehan-”

“You're- so-” A gasp steals itself from your throat as Donghyun sticks his tongue out to lick a thick strip up the length of your pussy, “s-trange.” you say, unable to chase his lips with your hips.

"You're so hot- fuck,” Donghyun immediately shifts onto the floor so he’s kneeling before you. Your cunt weeps for him and he gladly obliges.

“What a leaky little girl,” he whispers, instantly feeling your hips stutter upwards, “You like that? You like it when I call you my leaky fucking girl-”

You're moaning again, and Donghyun can't help but smirk.

“Y-You're such a pretty little slut, you know that?” Donghyun Isn't sure where that came from, but he's rutting into the couch now, at the same pace you're fucking his face and he knows he needs to say it.

“Oh my fucking God- Donghyun!” You're utterly amazed. Amazed because you didn't remember your last time with Donghyun being so visceral. You nearly see stars when he wiggles his tongue against your entrance, begging for entry.

“F-Fuck my face, baby,”

“D-D-” His name is lost in your mouth and you're lost at the sight of him kneeling for you, fucking helplessly against the couch as he kisses your cunt oh so sloppily. You slip into your orgasm with a shallow gasp and Donghyun's eyes flutter closed, smooching your pussy in pure fucking bliss. He's mumbling incoherently info your cunt, telling her soft nothings until his own hips stutter-

“G-God your pussy is so precious,” he whispers, “So fucking precious-”

You're breathing heavily, but Donghyun decides he's not done as he rises from between your legs. Through your half-lidded gaze, you can spy the wet spot against his sweatpants, and yet he still seems driven by lust. That was one thing you did remember from your last encounter. Once you had Leehan revved up, it was nearly impossible to turn him off.

“I wanna fuck you,” he says monotonously while already pulling at the drawstring of his sweatpants, “I wanna fucking merge into you, L-Like a fucking anglerfish-” he lowers himself on top of you, “D'you know that once the males find a suitable female they merge into-”

“Give me five seconds.” You beg, still in the process of catching your breath, "Or fifteen,"

© to @mphountitled on tumblr; do not repost

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

Feliz aniversário (hope thats correct) 😁🎂

If you don't mind maybe you could do "What if I kissed you right now? Would you stop me" with ⚔️ and a fem!reader please? Doesn't have to be nsfw.

Anon, that was perfect portuguese! Thank you so much for the birthday wishes! ❤️❤️ I know you said that it doesn't have to be NSFW, but it kind of turned out VERY NSFW... 😶 I hope that's still okay and I hope you enjoy it! I know I say this about all the stories, but damn did I have a lot of fun with this one!

I found the Zoro pic on Pinterest and couldn't find the artist. If you know it, please tell me so I can give credit! 🙏

Menace

Word Count: 5586

Tags: Fem!Reader; Rough Sex; Hate Sex; Enemies to Friends with Benefits; Edging; Power Dynamics; Spanking; NSFW; MDNI; Cursing; Alternate Universe - Modern Day College;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: Your fraternity house, The Straw Hats, is hosting an auction to raise money for charity. The pleasure of your company has just been bought by the most insufferable man on campus, Roronoa Zoro. You've known him since you were kids, hated him for just as long, and now you're his for the night.

Notes: Yeah I can't take it... I was going to post this tomorrow but I'm terrible. I cannot hold on to a finished fic for more than half an hour. Should I post everyday? Maybe not, but, hey, let's break all the rules 🤯 I post and you all read whenever you got the time! How about that? 😅 I hope you enjoy this! ❤️

|Masterlist|

“Why do you hate Zoro so much?” Nami casually downs her –second? Third?– serving of vodka and doesn't even wince at the burn. 

“It's complicated.” You take a small sip of your second refill and stop trying to keep up with Nami, or you'll be drunk before the auction even begins. 

“Try me!” She challenges you with a grin and pours another drink on her red cup. 

With a heavy sigh, you roll your eyes almost to the back of your head. “We go way back. Mihawk was my neighbour, and Perona used to be my babysitter, so I played with Zoro all the time, and he was always an insufferable prick. I just can't stand him.” Clenching your teeth, you forget about your self-imposed rule of slowing down and drink the contents of your cup in one long gulp. 

You regret it immediately. 

“Damn, that burns.”

“That's it?” Nami scoffs. “How anticlimactic.”

“What did you expect?” Setting the cup aside, you raise your brow while scanning the crowd. The party is finally picking up speed. 

“I don't know. Anything is more interesting than that. That doesn't even make sense! A lover's quarrel, a con gone wrong, you broke his favourite toy as a kid… anything!”

With a pout, you take offence at Nami's words and mumble between your teeth. “I still have a right to hate his guts. We're just not compatible.”

Nami empties her cup again and shrugs. “Weirdo! Well, looks like the party is filling up, let's take our place on the stage!”

The groan that leaves your lips sounds like it came from the depths of hell. Damn it, you really didn't want to do this tonight. But you still follow Nami through the raging crowd and up the rickety steps of the impromptu stage –the kitchen and the living-room table lined up into an unstable surface – your irritation mounting up more and more. “Remind me why we're doing this again?” You ask through gritted teeth. 

“It's a charity auction! For those kids with congenital diseases in Punk Hazard. It's an awesome cause, come on. You can bear this.”

Usopp takes ‘the stage’ and starts tapping the mic, a frown on his lips. “Oi, Franky, this is not working.”

“Yes, yes.” You continue. “I'm sure I can bear subjecting myself to be sold at an auction because ‘it's for charity’!” You say with varying degrees of eye-rolling. “Hey, Robin.” You greet the arriving girl. “Nami set you up for this too?”

Robin smiles at you with her sweet, beautiful smile. “She didn't have to. It's for charity! And you're not selling yourself, it's the pleasure of your company.”

Nami laughs and you groan. “You two are too good for this world.”

“Ah, yes, perfect! Thank you, Franky!” Usopp finally manages to get the mic to work, and the crowd starts to gather in front of the stage. The Straw Hats frat house, which you are a member of, is not big, but it's not that small either. You guys started small, didn't even make it to ten original members, but Luffy made such a name for himself that now, people rush all over campus just to join. “Welcome, welcome to the charity auction for… for…”

“The kids, dumbass!” Nami growls and hits him in the head. 

“The kids! So, it has come to our attention that we were being–...” Usopp takes out a cue card from his pocket. “Misogynistic pigs.” He quotes with his fingers and sets the card aside. “Because we only had a line up of ladies up for auction.”

A chorus of boos fills the space, and you chuckle as Usopp starts to sweat. “Buuuuut, we fixed that! So, today, we will host an all-gender auction with the original members of the Straw Hats.” A loud cheer erupted, and you could've sworn the foundations of the very house shook. “And some extras.” Usopp adds with a grin and gives the crowd more time to get excited. 

“Get your berries ready for: Nami–” The crowd cheers and wolf-whistles and you can hear Sanji threatening every man that dares look at Nami the wrong way. “Franky!” The woos are so loud that you almost have to cover your ears. “Robin, Luffy and his brothers, and yes, ladies and germs, they do come as a package, so bid high, Sanji, me–” He stops to hear the cheers but only Kaya, Usopp’s girlfriend, gives him a loud wolf-whistle. “Our rookie/mascot Chopper and our own lovely girl.” He says your name and you're surprised to hear some catcalls as well. 

Wait, no Zoro? He managed to bail out of charity? How? 

“Nami, did the asshole get lost on the way here? Or you didn't sign him up for this?” You ask, curious. 

“Damn Zoro! He owes me so much money that I thought I could convince him to do this, but he had one favour to call, one measly favour! And he used it.” She seems genuinely pissed, and now you share the sentiment. Why didn't you have a favour to call? 

But then the auction starts, and the bidding for Nami goes crazy. Sanji wants to deck every guy that even dares to bid, so he ends up being the winner. No surprise there, he's been in love with Nami since they met. Robin’s bidding is pretty tame because she looks a bit intimidating, but Trafalgar Law, the med student, wins, and you smirk. You've been trying to set those two up for ages. Luffy's bidding goes crazy because Boa Hancock only wants to bid for Luffy, she says she doesn't want to babysit the two morons, but she manages to convince another two girls to bid with her, and they take home “the prize”

When your turn finally arrives, you sigh, wishing against all hope that whoever bids for you is not an asshole and that you manage to share some good conversation. 

The bids start small, like all night. The highest they went was 3,000 berries for Luffy –and the two morons– so if you make it to 1,000, you'll be happy to have contributed! You notice that rival frat boy Rob Lucci keeps bidding and eyeing you weirdly. Your stomach churns a little bit at the prospect of having to spend time with him, since you just rejected his date invitation last week. Seems like he didn't give up. 

“2,000 berries.” A gruff, familiar voice shakes your thoughts, making your heart pound. In anger. Obviously. 

It's freaking Zoro. Why the hell is he bidding for your company? Other than the fact that you hate each other, you live in the same house –hell, you live across from each other. 

Rob Lucci grunts and raises his arm. “3,000 berries.” What? That's how much Luffy and his brothers got. What's going on? 

“The fuck? 5,000 berries.” Zoro growls at Usopp as he approaches the stage. “And you better bang that damn hammer down, Usopp.”

You stare at Zoro, eyes wide and mouth open. Did he really just bid 5k for a night with you?

“It's a gavel…” Usopp starts and Zoro narrows his eyes at him. “Sold!”

-*-

What the fuck did he just do? Zoro wants to blame his lack of judgement on the booze, but he barely just made it to the party, he only had one beer. He hates you. He can't stand your insufferable ass. So why did he bid that much money on your company? 

Just to make her night miserable. 

He's trying to convince himself, but in reality, he couldn't stand the way the fuckers in the crowd were talking about you. About what they would do if they got your company, about what they would try to accomplish for a chance with you. 

That shit had made his blood boil and, suddenly, he couldn't stand the thought of any man being in your company. 

And then that fucker Lucci made his bid. And there was no fucking way he would get his hands on you, not if Zoro could help it. He’s a fucking creep. 

But damn. The look of incredulity on your face is driving him crazy. The way your brows raise, making your eyes shine brighter. The way your perfect lips curve downward in disappointment? Zoro snickers. Well, at least his stupidity managed to make you mad! 

“5,000 berries, Zoro?” The way your dress hugs your curves perfectly is doing things to him that he wishes to ignore. He hates your guts. You’re insufferable and annoying. And when you were little, you were such a menace to all of his toys and play swords, always breaking things and taking them out of place. He couldn't stand you! But that doesn't mean he doesn't have eyes on his face. You are stunning as hell. And your body always managed to burn desire into his veins. 

“And I would've paid more just to see that annoyed look on your face, Menace.” The way you purse your lips in rage is satisfying in more ways than one. “Now I can ruin your night. Look at how much fun that's going to be.”

“Fuck this. I'm out.” You turn your back on him, and he grunts, taking a step forward and grabbing your wrist. You stop suddenly, shaken by the same thing as him, for sure. The way a jolt of electricity burns through his veins, making his heart skip a damn beat. Shit. 

“You can't just say you're out. I paid for you.” Just ignore it. 

“Correction, asshole, you paid for my company, but, for you, my company is worth ten times more than that!” You jerk your arm away from him, and he seethes when you leave with stamping feet. But he doesn't follow you yet, especially because, by the way your hips are swaying, he much rather stay in this spot and take it all in. 

Damn it. He fucking loathes you. 

-*-

The fucking nerve! How could he? Damn Zoro! Came out of nowhere just to ruin your night. As if you'd spend your night hanging with him! Doesn't matter if he looks damn hot in his fitted dress shirt and jeans. Who cares? He's an asshole. 

Crap, you need a drink. 

You take a turn in the hallway to get back to the party instead of running away, as you were going to do, and run face-first into Rob fucking Lucci. 

“Hello, Doll.” He drawls out, and you grimace. The fuck? “All alone? Where's your buyer?”

A frown paints your lips at his lazy insult. Buyer? As if someone could own you. 

“Hi Lucci, I don't know, frankly, don't even care. Bye.” You shrug and move to pass by him and return to the party, but he blocks your way with his towering frame, a predatory smile haunting his lips as an unwilling shiver courses through your veins. 

“Leaving so soon?” Lucci takes a step towards you and you back off. “Stay a while, Doll, we can have fun.” Alarm bells sound in your head as you frantically look around and take another step back, hitting the wall. 

“I don't think so, Lucci. I'm going.” With a deep breath, you try to move past him, but he places one hand on your chest, above your breasts, and pushes you against the wall with a thud. 

“Is it money you want? Roronoa dropped 5k, but I wasn't willing to give more for charity.” His hand climbs until it's pressuring your neck, and you start to panic. The other hand slips beneath the strap of your dress and pulls on it until it breaks, almost revealing your breast. You open your mouth to scream, but he covers it. “I can give 5k just for you, if that's what you want. To be treated like a little whore.”

He barely finishes the word before a fist comes flying out of nowhere and decks him right on the nose. He grunts and falls down, freeing you in the process, and you gasp as you stare at Zoro's angry scowl. He's baring his teeth, body still angled from the force of the blow, heavy breaths making his shoulders heave. 

“The fuck did you just call her, you fucking asshole?” Zoro takes another step towards Lucci –who's bleeding from his nose and curling down on the floor– and kicks him in the stomach. “Better get the fuck out of my sight before I break more than your fucking nose.”

And to your surprise, he does. He gets up with a string of curses and just leaves. You're still leaning against the wall, a hand on your neck, soothing the pain from Lucci’s grip, and staring at Zoro. He defended you. He hates you. 

“You cool?” Zoro turns to you, an indecipherable expression on his face. 

“I'm fine.” You utter. Maybe you should thank him. 

“Next time don't indulge him.” He says with so much disdain that your shock wears off completely. 

“Excuse me? Indulge him? He fucking cornered me! And I didn't need your fucking help!” You take a step in Zoro's direction but quickly take another step back when he does the same to you, anger flaring in his eyes. 

“Didn't you, really?” He laughs right in your face, and his breath is warm and smells of alcohol and forbidden things. “The fuck is this, then?” He grabs the loose strap of your dress, and the smallest touch of his fingertips against your bare skin is enough to set it on fire. 

“I… It’s…”

“Just say thank you, Menace. It's not that hard! It's two fucking words.” He slams his hand against the wall beside your face. This close, you can almost feel the body heat coming from his chest, which he now has out for everyone to see since he unbuttoned half of his shirt. 

He's right. You should thank him. But it's a weakness you don't want to show him. 

“You want me to say two words?” He hums low and you can almost feel the vibration coming from his chest. You lean forward, your face mere inches from his, hatred burning so hot and fierce in your body that you can't even differentiate it from the desire you know you also feel, even if it kills you to admit it. Licking your lips, and rejoicing in the way his eye darts to them, you say with contempt, “Make. Me.”

You can almost sense the heat rising with the words you spoke. The tension crackles and burns, coiling around your bodies like a lithe snake. 

“You're fucking testing me right now.” His words burn straight into your core. How can you hate and, at the same time, want him so much? 

“All talk, no action, right? I'm familiar with your type.”

His smirk seems deranged, and damn if that doesn't make your panties soak. 

“What if I kissed you right now, Menace, would you stop me?” The velvet in his words almost makes your head spin. Would you? Stop him? Your eyes drop to his mouth, and you bite your lower lip in anticipation. 

Probably not. 

But he doesn't even let you answer, his smirk disappears as his eyes linger on your lips again. For a moment, you think he's going to do it, but then he leans back and lets out a dry laugh, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Got ya.”

Shit. You feel really dumb right now. You really thought he was going to kiss you. 

This is a very dangerous game you're playing right now. And you're done. “Thank you, for helping me.” You let out, slowly, before you push him and return to the party. 

-*-

“You're hiding from me, Menace. I paid for your company. Humour me.”

You did spend the last hour trying to avoid Zoro, because something stirred within you since he decked fucking Rob Lucci for your honour. As if you were a freaking damsel in distress. Fuck hormones, fuck primal desire for strong men, fuck fairytale movies, and fuck romance books. 

But in reality, all you really want is to fuck Roronoa Zoro. 

And that right there is why you need to stay the hell away from him. Because he's an asshole and you hate him. “Why do you hate Zoro?” Nami's words have been resounding in your head for the last hour and, frankly, you don't even know. It's just one of those certain things in life, like the sun rising and setting every day. The sun rises, you hate Zoro, the sun sets, you still hate Zoro. 

But why? 

“Well, I understand your need for my company, I'm great. But I realised that I get the short end of the stick in this deal. Your company sucks.”

He grins smugly and leans against the same wall you're leaning on. “You can bet that nothing about me is short, Menace.”

The blush that flushes your cheeks is completely involuntary, and you blame it on the solo beer you had one hour ago. You don't want to think about the thing that's not short on Zoro right now, thank you very much. 

“You're forgetting your temper. Your temper’s short.”

“Yet no disbelief about what I'm implying… Interesting.”

You scoff. “I'm actually a ‘I'll believe it when I see it’ kind of gal, but in this case, Roronoa, I'll take your word for it.”

This has got to be the most civil conversation you've had in years, even if it's full of innuendo and little jabs. What's changing? 

“You don't have to.” The red cup freezes on the way to your lips for a moment before you catch your breath. “I mean, I've got you all to myself. I can show you what else is big.”

Is he joking? You turn your face slightly to the side so you can glare at him and that infuriating smirk that usually makes your blood boil with anger is now looking devastatingly striking. 

“Jeez, Menace, wipe that hungry look from your face. I'm talking about my collector’s edition swords.”

Shit.

“Fuck you, Zoro.” 

-*-

The next half-hour is spent in your bathroom, slapping cold water on your face and giving your reflection a freaking pep talk. What the hell is wrong with you today? It's fucking Zoro! Insufferable Zoro! Hateful Zoro! 

Protective Zoro… Hot Zoro… 

The hell! Enough! 

You splash more water on your face, open the door, and abruptly leave your bedroom, only to bump into your second chest of the night. Maybe you should watch where you're going. 

“What are you doing here?” You both say, at the exact same time. “I was in my bathroom.” 

Shit! Zoro's room is across from yours, so it's pretty plausible that he was there. Your eyes search his face, and he looks a bit frazzled. There are still droplets of water around the edges of his hair which makes you wonder if he was doing the same thing as you were. 

But that has to mean that he's been feeling this weird too. 

“What if I kissed you right now? Would you stop me?”

Fuck. 

“God, I can't stand the sight of you, just go away, Zoro!” You say, anger boiling in your veins again, except this time, the anger is directed at yourself. 

“I thought we might have one night of normalcy around here, since I saved your ass from Rob Lucci’s stinking paws twice today! But nooo!” Zoro bares his teeth your way, and this right here, this feeling of hatred you're used to. It feels right. It's normal. You crave it. 

“Leave my ass out of your mouth, Zoro! My ass is just fine as it is!”

Zoro takes a stride forward, trapping you between his body and your bedroom door. 

“Your ass needs some spanking, that's what it needs!” You blush and part your lips in surprise, but you can't hide the hunger in your eyes at his words. His hands slam against the door beside your face and you bite your lip to suppress a very embarrassing moan of need. “You think you can behave like a little brat with me?” Zoro lans forward, his lips brushing your earlobe, and you struggle to breathe. “I just want to fuck that atitude right out of you, Menace.”

You swear your knees turn to jelly. Either that, or the heat pooling in your abdomen has completely leaked through your panties and drained you weak. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You want him. You need him. But you're not going to be easy. 

“I'd like to see you try, asshole.” You sounded convincing in your head, but to your ears, your voice came out so sultry that you might as well have said: oh, please take me mighty Zoro. 

Whatever got you laid right now. 

A dark flash of hunger passes through Zoro's eyes just before he laces his fingers through your hair and tugs hard. You keep your mouth firmly closed because there's no way you're going to easily let him indulge in your wanton moans. But fuck it, that felt good. 

Another second is all it takes before he leans down and takes your lips in his. The kiss is everything but gentle. It's hard, bruising, demanding. Full of hunger and burning flames, consuming everything in its path. He tugs your hair, you dig your nails into his shoulders; he bites your lip, you bite his tongue. It's a battle of wits and wills, and there's no way in hell you're losing this. 

Zoro's hand feels the door until it finds the doorknob and he turns it. Your weight was supported by the door, so you find yourself falling backwards, until Zoro's big hands clasp your ass, lifting you effortlessly from the ground and avoiding your fall. 

Wrapping your legs around his waist, you turn your moan into a rough grunt before it embarrasses you, because Zoro was right. He's not short on anything and his not-short-anything is pressed against your core, throbbing. 

“Fuck.” You mutter, involuntarily as you bite Zoro's lower lip hard, and he enters your bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him. 

“I told you it was big.”

“Fucking showoff.”

He slaps your ass hard, making you gasp. And damn, you want him to do it again. “Language, Menace. Behave.” With a primal grunt that travels straight into your cunt, he slams you against the door, making you wince. Then he sets you down as his hands begin to fumble with the zipper on your dress. But he's impatient and horny, so he just rips it apart. 

“Shit! Asshole, that was one of my favourite dresses.” You admonish him between pants. That was freaking hot. His lips glue themselves to your neck, and he takes a hard bite. 

“Shut up, I'll buy you another one.” Then he starts to remove the shreds of the dress from you. 

“I'd like to know where all this money came from, you broke bastard.” You huff and rip the buttons off his shirt as payback for the dress. 

“Watch it!” He grumbles. But then clothes start flying. His jeans come off, and so does your bra. He doesn't give a shit about the way he rips your panties, and you just yank his briefs out of the way as well. Fuck it. You really got the long and thick end of the stick. 

“That's not going to fit.” You mumble, eyes wide and chest heaving. 

“Afraid, Menace?” He gloats with a hint of pride, and you scoff at him. 

“As if.” And then you're all over each other again. Teeth clacking against each other, lips bruising, and nails scratching. It's primal and raw, and everything you could want or need at this moment. 

With a swift movement, Zoro lifts you up mid-kiss and sends you flying into the middle of the bed. Your body may be bouncing on the bed, but your heart is hammering away in your chest. 

“Get on all fours.” He commands as he opens drawers, looking for a condom. 

“There.” You point at the dresser, and he follows your directions. “And fuck you. I don't take your orders.” You growl. 

Zoro grabs a condom from the drawer and paces to you in all his naked glory. The unhinged smirk on his lips both sends a cold shiver down your spine and feeds the burning flame in your core. 

He kneels on the bed next to you and flips you over as if you weighed nothing, manhandling you into the position he wants. You let out a yelp as your face gets buried against the pillows. Then his hands grab your hips and pull your ass into the air, leaving you bare and exposed for him. 

“Ass up, Menace. I want to take a good look at you.”

A rush of heat courses through your body and flushes your cheeks as you use your elbows to try to rise into a less undignified position, but Zoro grabs your arms and pins them behind your back. Then he lays out a good slap on your buttcheek, and you cry out in surprise. 

“I'm going to spank the little brat out of you in no time. I've had it with your attitude.” He growls, leaning over your back, and you can already feel slick coating your thighs. But you'll be damned if you're going to lose this unspoken battle of wits. 

“Do your worst, asshole.”

Zoro chuckles low and lands another slap on the other side. He doesn't ease the sting, he just lets it burn on the skin, but this time you don't make another sound other than your heavy breathing. 

“Look at you, all wet for me already. Aren't you a needy little thing? Pretending you don't want me, and now, look at you.” Zoro places two fingers inside your slit, and they slide right in. It feels so good you just want to explode. 

You force your eyes closed as you bite down on the pillow, trying to stifle your moans. You're not going to give him the satisfaction. 

“I know you want me. I know you're loving this, Menace. Look at how well you take my fingers.” He inserts a third finger, and you shudder. A rippling cry threatens to escape you, but you clamp it down tight. 

“You like this, don't you? You're just being too fucking stubborn to admit. But I've got all night, Menace. I can play with you. And once I'm finished, you'll be as docile as a little bunny.”

Zoro strokes your clit and circles it languorously. You're so wet that the squelches your pussy makes are embarrassingly unholy. Can you come without moaning loudly? Can you contain yourself? 

“Oh, God, fuck!” Zoro's tongue feels like nothing else. It's hot and long, and it curves just right as it enters you at the same time as he pinches your swollen nub. You almost unravel just from that. 

“There's no God here, little Menace. It's all me.” He speaks to your cunt, and you can't help another shudder and groan. Fuck it, you're about to come, and you don't care if you're going to moan your heart out. 

“I'm… almost…”

A ragged breath parts your lips before you drown it with a heavy groan and a curse. Zoro stops. 

“What the hell, Zoro?”

He turns you onto your back with a rough shove and stares at you with the biggest fucking shit-eating grin you've ever seen. 

“I want to hear you beg for release.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“I am.” Zoro bends your legs and places the tip of his cock at your entrance, teasing you, taunting you. God, you want him inside you so badly. “Is this what you want?”

“Shit, yes, Zoro, just put it in.” Banging your fists in frustration against the bed only makes him smirk harder. 

“Make. Me.” He mimics your words from before, and you grit your teeth. The fucking asshole. Then you free your legs from his hold, grab his shoulders, and pull him down so you can take his lips in a bruising kiss, yanking his hair in the process and hooking your legs around his waist. 

With a movement of your hand, you align his tip with your hole, but as you're about to push your body against his, he places his hands on your hips and stills you, still taking your tongue against his mouth until you back away, gasping for air. 

“Fuck, Zoro!” You say, frustrated, and just as you're about to let out another string of curses, he thrusts all the way in, bottoming out and stealing all the air from your lungs. 

Your head falls back in abandon, and the first wanton moan escapes you unwillingly as your cunt fights to stretch and accommodate his size. 

“Menace! What the fuck. That fucking pretty noise. I want to hear it again.” His voice rings low and clipped. He's breathing hard, and his digits bruise the flesh of your hips. He thrusts again, but you keep your lips sealed, even though it's the best feeling in the whole world and you've never felt this full. “Moan for me. Break apart, little Menace. I'm going to fucking ruin you.”

He thrusts again and again and again. His hands grope and squeeze, and then they abuse your nipples, pinching and flicking and bringing you near insanity. You're there. Right there. You just need another–... 

“No! Zoro! Shit!” Tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes as he stops once again, right when you're on the verge of climax. 

“Beg.”

“Fuck off.”

Zoro leans you to the side and slaps your ass again, making you curl your toes. “Beg.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

A whimper, the smallest of noises, leaves your mouth as you squirm under his hold. He's all the way inside you, but he's not moving. And it's torture. 

“Please…” You let out without looking him in the eyes. 

“Please what, Menace? I can't hear you.” He pulls out and fills you again, slowly, so, so slowly. “Have you lost all the fight in you?” 

“Fuck me, Zoro! Fuck me hard. Make me come, I need to come, please!” A litany of prayers and pleas leave your lips, and Zoro's smirk is smug, but there's a hint of something in his eyes very similar to warmth that you don't quite want to acknowledge. 

“That's my good girl.” He pulls you higher, hooking his hands under your ass and lifting it so he can fuck you with the perfect angle to hit your G-spot. And fuck it if he doesn't get it right as he resumes his thrusts. Two hard thrusts are all it takes before you lose yourself. 

Your thighs clench around him as you grip the sheets hard. A mountain of pleasure releases its avalanche upon you, and you moan and mewl without care or bother. Fuck it, you can beg Zoro all night if he makes you feel this good. 

“That's it, pretty girl. Let it all out for me.” Zoro rambles and picks up his brutal pace, flipping you over and raising your ass in the air again. Your brain is too addled and hazed to comprehend what's going on, and the ease with which he manhandles you makes you dizzy. “I want to hear it again.” 

He grunts as he pounds relentlessly into you, bruising your cervix and slapping your aching ass again. 

“Zoro! Yes, harder!” You can feel sweat in the palms of Zoro's hand as he slides one up your back, threading his fingers through your hair and pulling you toward him. His other hand finds your oversensitive clit, and he pinches, making you come again and again. It's a relentless torrent of pleasure that makes you cry out his name between pants and moans. 

You barely notice as Zoro clamps down his teeth against your shoulder and shudders into his own release, squeezing you against him. Your bodies slick with sweat and limp with exhaustion. 

As you fall forward, struggling to regain your breath, Zoro gets up to rid himself of the used condom and opens your mini fridge, bringing a water bottle with him. He hands it to you before lying down with a sigh. 

What the fuck just happened?

“That was a good fuck, Menace.” He admits with another shit-eating grin. Hell yes, it was. He hit spots you didn't even know were possible to hit. You felt pleasure like never before, and damn it all, you might  be addicted with just the first hit of the drug that's Roronoa Zoro. 

“Shit, Zoro. If I knew you were this damn good, we could've been doing this for a while.”

He chuckles, and you laugh. This might be the first time you both shared a real laugh since you were kids. 

“Are you up for round two?” He asks, and you glance down. Sure enough, his monstrous cock is already saluting you in all its glory. 

“Hell yeah. You did pay for my company, Roronoa.”

What changed? Maybe you, maybe him? You can't be quite sure. But maybe it's not quite hate you feel about him at this moment. Because hate burns, but what you two have melts. It's deeper than that. 

And this time around, Zoro takes time to soothe the bruised skin of your hips with a little caress. He kisses the red welts he left on your ass cheeks, and his thrusts are less bruising and demanding.

What changed? 

Your feelings. That's what it was. 

Fuck.

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @walmartmihawk

[jammiee097]

Don't call her back

Warnings: Bestfr!end Changb!n x reader, jerking, couch sex, mak!ng out, teasing, random confession, cutting off, kissing, tit play, rubbing clit. let me know if I forgot something 🙈 Enjoy!!

'What happened?' Changbin asked as he looked me up and down, crying in the doorframe of his appartment. My clothes drown in the tears of the coulds. My white shirt getting clear, letting him see my Bra and hard nipples. Making his dick twitch a little. A thunder was seen and he went back to reality, 'Y/n.. Are you okay?' He asks again, trying to find my eyes.

I look at him, my mascara drowing under my eyes looking at changbin's soft face. 'I- I need to tell you something.' I say, catching my breath from running to his house while crying. 'Come in..' He says. I walk into his house to find a girl sitting on his couch. I knew he had a date, that was why I came. But he didn't have to know.

'Oh.. I'm I'm sorry. I will uhh talk to you later.' I say and walk to the door again. 'No, tell me. Did something happen? I need to know if your okay?' He asks again. 'Wait here, I will bring you some clothes.' He says and walks to his bedroom. I awkwardly wave at the girl. She smiles and frown his eyebrows. Clearly not happy with my visit.

30 minutes earlier my friend, Mirae, called me up. We had meet up earlier that day, she called me because of a thought she couldn't hide from me. She told me how blind I was for not seeing how in love Changbin was with me, and how he talked to her about me constantly. But that was not the only reason, she was in hands of us getting together, Because only she knew that we both liked each other but didn't tell because of the risk losing our friendship. It was complicated, Yes. But I needed to take my chance with him, as she said it.

I knew he had a date, I knew, but I also knew that If I didn't confess to him know.. He would date this girl and maybe fall in love with her, hurting myself knewing we could be together..

He came back with a hoodie and some pants. 'Thank you.' I say and smile. 'You know what.. I will come back tomorrow, your "Friend" needs you.' The girl says. giving changbin a kiss on his cheek. 'Call me.' She says before walking out of the appartment to her uber. Changbin sighs. 'I'm sorry for ruining your date..' I say hoping he doesn't get mad. 'No it's okay... So are you finally gonna tell me what's wrong?' He says and sits down on the couch, signaling for me to come sit next to him.

It was very quite in his appartment. Too quite. 'So, the lousy neighbour is on vacation.' I joke he laughs. 'Yeah, it's quite nice tho, It was starting to get-'

'I'm in love with you.' I say, breaking his sentence. 'What?' He says, confused his eyes big. 'I'm in love with you.. I have been for some time, well actually for almost half a year now.. I thought you didn't like me back because you were constantly on these dates. And at first I just thought I was scared of losing and that was the reason why it hurted.. but Mirae helped me think that it was because I liked you and didn't want you to date any else than me.' I say and wipe away the mascara under my eyes. He looks at me.

'Please.. Say something.' I say, feeling horrible. I knew this was going to happen, I ruined it. 'You really like me..' He says and looks at me. 'Yeah..' I begin. 'And I understand if you don't because-' my words get cut off by his soft lips. kissing me oh so gentle, like he didn't want me to break more. When the kiss stopped our heads went against each other. 'But the girl.' I whisper. 'Y/n... I only dated those because I couldn't get you out of my mind..' he says making my heart fluster.

'Can I kiss you again?' He asks, I nod and smile. My arms folding around his neck, his hands on my waist. squeezing them slightly. The kiss get rougher, he slips his tongue inside, playing with mine. We both moan softly at the touch of each other.

Finally.

The kiss quickly turns into a makeout. He stops the kiss by putting his shirt of laying me down on the couch. I giggle at the sight of his beautiful well build body. It always made me fluster when he showed it innocently. I putt off my wet shirt too, not a surprise to him what color bra I was wearing. 'Your so fucking beautiful..' He softly says under his breath and starts sucking at my neck. Sloppy, as if he always wanted to have this moment with me. I softly whimper while he moves his kisses to my collarbone.

Just then it came into my mind, what was about to happen. I was about to fuck my best friend. 'Wait..' I say and he looks up at me, his eyes big. 'Did I go to fast I'm sorry..' He says. 'No No... It's just.. Are we sure. I don't want this to be a one time thing.' I say and cup his soft cheeks. He melts into them, a soft smile appearing on his face. 'Baby.. You know how hard it was for me these last couple of months to not rip off these silly little clothes and fuck you numb? mhm?' He whispers into my ear. I gasp. 'You don't know how hard you make me everytime you open the door in your underwear because im your "Bestfriend".. Mhm?' He whispers again. 'Alright alright..' I moan softly. He chuckles into my ear and goes to my tits. 'So.. should I continue..' He says, a dark gaze in his eyes. 'Yes please.' I say and he squeezes one of my boobs, the other he sucks, licks and kisses on.

It drives me crazy, so crazy that my pussy is starting to hurt. He's teasing, knowing I want his dick inside of me. 'Changbin.. Please..' I say and he looks up at me, slowly opening my jeans. 'What do you want princess' He says and puts his hand into my pants, folding his hand around my wet pussy. 'You want me to work on that fucking wet pussy of yours.. Mhm?' He whispers into my ear. 'Please.' I say and he kisses my cheek.

He pulls down his pants, not all the way, but enough for his hard dick to pop out. I gasp at seeing him for the first time, I waited so long for this moment. He pulls down my pants and my panties. Leaving me naked. 'You loon so pretty like this baby.' He says and positions himself onto me.

He fills me up and we both moan at the final touch of each other. 'So tight baby..' Changbin moans and put my legs onto his shoulders, allowing him to go deeper, touching my oh so sensitive G-spot. I moan out loud at the touch of him. 'Fuck baby.' I say and arch my back a little. He smirks, the hottest smirk I had ever seen.

He kisses my ankles and puts his hands on my hips. He goes faster in and out of me. putting himself at a fast pace, a little too fast if you ask me. We both lost each other in the moment, my pussy getting sore of the pleasure he was giving. 'Binnie.. I'm, Fuck, I'm gonna cum.' I moan out and grap his biceps. 'Such a nasty girl.' He moans and lets go of my hands moving close to my face. slowing down a little bit, his thumb started making little circles on my clit and before I knew it, I couldn't handle the pleasure.

I come around his fat dick, my cum all over him. 'Fuck baby, so tight.' He moans and pulls out of me, jerking off. He comes loudly all over my stomach. While he starts to catch his breath I make eye contact with him. Putting my finger through the his fresh cum, licking it off my finger. He smirks.

'You know just how to turn me crazy.' He says and kisses me. I could never get enough of those kisses. 'Come, let's get you cleaned up.' He says and carries me to the bathroom. we step into the shower and make out again..

The night was not about to end...

[wonwoosthetic]

Can you recommend joel miller series?

Hii, of course!😊

I’m sure some of them have been recommended many many times before but that’s just bc they’re actually THAT good, so here are the ones that I’ve read multiple times by now ˙ᵕ˙

You want feels? You want emotions? You want drama and love? Overprotective hot Joel Miller?Read this:

i know who you are by @punkshort

What about a good slow-burn playing in Jackson where you just can’t help but want more from Joel than just a one night stand but it will take time? Here you go:

a stranger’s heart without a home by @morning-star-joy

As if these weren’t already enough emotional, get ready for this two-parter that will absolutely WRECK you in the best way possible😭 I never knew hurt/no comfort could ever be so beautiful:

“You’re the loss of my life” by @stylesispunk (warning: I cried ever time I’ve read this and it’s been about like five times 😭😭) also: another INCREDIBLE writer, you can honestly just read through her entire masterlist, you will NOT regret it!!!!!👏🏼🫶🏼

THIS is THE hurt/comfort series! I absolutely love the structure of this story so much, I’ve read it like four times already haha😬 Joel is just so irresistible that even after 20 years, this man has the audacity to captivate you again. Get ready for a wild ride of emotions with this:

Woman by @dancingtotuyo

But these aren’t enough? You want even more angst? You want to see Joel truly REGRET things? This one’s for you:

invisible string by @toomanystoriessolittletime

Okay, we’ve cried and screamed enough, time for something a little bit more gentle. Something that will pull you in and just not let you go? With just a bit of angst but the wonderful rom-com vibes that we all love? With the perfect neighbour!Joel storyline? This is the one:

Nicest Things by @schnarfer

Now what about a perfectly outlined AU with a fresh start and leaving the past behind only to find a hot Joel Miller as a sheriff?? If you’re interested:

somewhere to run by @punkshort (a second mention, so honestly, you can read absolutely everything she wrote, she’s an absolute genius and I’m in AWE of her talent)

Okay, now this one has become a Joel Miller classic but how dare I not mention it. It’s complicated, it’s unsure, but literally both are in love with each other and it’s perfect earning and UGH just incredible:

texas sun by @from-the-clouds

What about sneaking around with hot Jackson!Joel who cares all too much about Ellie but is also just so enthralled by you? Too jealous to let anyone else touch you but too much of an idiot to put a label on it? Here we go:

But I Would Die For You In Secret by @wheresarizona (I have to put a quick extra note right here: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read everything by her!!!! Learning to Live (Javier Peña x Reader) is literally one of my all time favourite series across all of the fandoms I’m in and September is also just INSANE, the writing talent this woman has is out of this world!!!!)

What do we want? THE SWEETEST JOEL? Where can we find him? RIGHT HERE! Get ready for just the most comfortable fic you’ll probably ever find and just UGH the cutest fucking Joel Miller:

Elks by @whocaresstillthelouvre

Loner Joel that makes you feel less lonely after you find your place in Jackson? Ooooh, that sounds good, right? Well, this story was perfectly written and you can read all about it here:

Yearling by @justagalwhowrites (edit: I realised way too late that this incredible writer also writes Lavender, which I read through on AO3 and I seriously couldn’t put my phone down and talked to my bestie who doesn’t even know about tlou and got her to read it!)

OKAY NOW LISTEN. This writer right here is one of my all time faves and I’ve read this series too many times to count and I just can’t get enough of it. SO, a perfectly written relationship with Joel Miller that gets you through the day of the Outbreak, all through those 20 years and even during your adventure with Ellie. This right here. You NEED to read this:

A Future Together by @kteague (note: if you want the best Frankie Morales fic ever, read Because Of You, istg the amount of times I’ve read it is insane and I still go back to it and re-read bc I just- it’s just- I can’t even put it into words)

I think we need some humour. We’ve had hurt, we’ve had comfort, romance, but what about a good collection of one shots that you can laugh to? Who would’ve thought going through a pregnancy can look this fun? Well, with someone like Joel Miller by your side, of course:

Joel Dealing with his Preggo Wife by @pedge-page

Most of the stories above have some smut in them (some more, some less), BUT, I know you guys. And I know myself. And I know that sometimes all you need is a good hoey story (Yes, I may have just made that word up). What do you do when you have a shitty boyfriend who lives with his hot fucking hunk of a single dad? Exactly, you fuck the dad:

boyfriend’s dad!joel by @joelscruff

Buuuuuuuut, what if you want to be live in a bit more delulu world where you can be a hot singer with a hot bodyguard that has to try to keep his hands off of you as hard as possibly can but just snaps? Warning: Hot hot HOT! Hehe, well, then I think you might enjoy this:

Her Bodyguard, His Shining Star by @mermaidgirl30

I also have to add: there’s one series where you match with Joel on Bumble (I think… maybe it was Tinder…) where Ellie and Sarah created a profile for him and I remember reading and absolutely LOVING it, but I can’t find it😭😭 so, if anyone else knows what I’m talking about, pls let me know! In the meantime, I’m keeping a placeholder for it here:

single dad!Joel Miller with daughters that just want what’s best for him by a fucking genius writer

I hope there’s something on here for everyone to enjoy! ˙ᵕ˙

If anyone has more recs that they think deserve a mention, please let me know or just mention them in the comments!!☺️ There’s so many amazing authors, I just went down my likes and saw what I had saved and what I remembered really enjoying, but I know there’s a lot more!!🫶🏼🤍

[astroloverblog]

—Neptune in the Houses part.1—

Neptune in the first house:

It makes you a kind, generous and definitely empathetic person but also your sensitivity is often reached to a higher level than it normally should be. You might have identity crisis at times or are confused about your personality. Its sure to say that there is a dreamy, ethereal, photogenic, stylistic, feminine & soft beauty about you. You’re imaginative, kind, sensitive, sympathetic, reliable, charismatic & psychological. Because of ur great imagination, you might have musical or artistic abilities. You should be able to express yourself creatively in front of others. You’re an idealist who makes people feel like you truly understand them and you always follow your intuition. Most of the time you observe emotions and energies from other people around you. You might sometimes even mimic those emotions or personality traits just to “fit in”. Although this ability can make you seem attractive, appealing or magnetic. You don’t care what others think of you. Its likely that in social situations this placement will simply just go with the flow. Try to avoid “friends” or friend groups that will have a bad influence on you. Neptune in the 1st house individuals like helping others, they are highly intuitive but they also often choose to run away from problems bc of how afraid they’re to face the truth/reality. You may be forgetful or have a hard time remembering things. Planets in the 12th house may indicate feelings of loneliness. You may be very spiritual or have spiritual interests of any kind, for example meditating, yoga, photography or illusional art. Some people might think you have a unreasonable behaviour or that you have a complicated & chaotic personality. You could come off as detached or unavailable for some people but you know how to life in the present moment. You need a lot of time on your own.

Neptune in the second house:

You may experience wild dreams. You appreciate luxury and beautiful objects & make money by helping others. You can also boost your money manifestation powers and may find yourself attracting money easily. You have unrealistic needs and the relationships with you & money is quite complicated. The biggest problem for people with Neptune in the second house is that despite your deep intuition, you’re blind to financial problems in many areas. Money is not your first focus, and u could easily participate in financially stressful activities such as gambling. You can be selfless, but you can also be overly obsessed with material possessions and money. The purpose of life for people with Neptune in the second house is to grow as a person and help others do the same. You strive for personal perfection and want to take others on this journey. You may like eating Marine/sea animals bc of Poseidon’s influence in the 2nd. You like dreaming of pretty clothes, great food or anything associated with your material needs. Its hard for you to find motivation but once you found it, there is no one who can hold you back from doing what you want.

Neptune in the third house:

You might easily be inspired. You might have the ability to see in the future or you feel like you can read people’s mind. You may want to live near a sea or the ocean. Having natal Neptune in third house can either mean you concentrate very deeply or cannot concentrate at all. These people have a spiritual, confusing or detached relationship with their siblings or their relatives. Its likely that you don‘t have a relationship with your neighbours, or you rarely see your siblings. In puberty you might daydream about your teacher(s) in class, believe me its not worth a try. Although you may dream of becoming a teacher or writer someday. But bc most of these individuals aren’t interested in school at all, they might even drop out of school if they want. You normally tend to see the best in others & love spending time with ur loved one’s. You’re a great communicator that likes to think deeply about things.

Neptune in the fourth house:

This placement could indicate that maybe you have a unstable household every day life. You might felt like your inner child isn’t complete or there was something missing in your childhood. If there are harsh aspects w Neptune then you could feel like you lack emotional safety or support from your parents. Its likely that you have a spiritual connection with one or both of ur parents. Maybe you can’t really remember of what ur childhood was like. Some individuals with this placement were adopted, lost their family as a kid or have one missing parent, thats why they often struggle with the past. You may feel like you don’t belong anywhere or feel lost of where your place is. You are likely to self-sacrifice for others, making it easy to manipulate you into doing so. Think about yourself first, then of others. One of your parents could be emotionally detached, somewhat frustrating, an alcoholic or a mystic for the whole family. At some point you might have caught yourself thinking; Why not run away from home? You always felt invisible or forgotten by your family & your family is very chaotic. As a kid you might have had imaginary friends, you always feared the dark and might had have insomnia at some point in ur life.

Neptune in the fifth house:

When it comes to love, you’re kinda like the hopeless romantic. This placement can indicate secret love affairs. You might have unique children in the future. You’re very charismatic and love anything related to drama and entertainment. Having other persona planets in this house means you enjoy being in the spotlight or drama. You’re a great storyteller and might have good acting abilities. You love children and do anything to make them happy, maybe you want to become the perfect parent you always dreamed of having. You love your partner unconditionally, search for a deep full connection but you can be naive in relationships and wear rose-tinted glasses (similar to Neptune in the 7th). Neptune is mostly about idealisation & in this case you might also idealise your partner. If Neptune is bad aspected with several planets then you might suffer from illusion or you can’t see things very clearly. You like watching movies a lot or playing video games related to science/fantasy fiction as a form of escaping your everyday life. You dream of a partner with artistic or musical abilities, someone who is creative or inspires you in general (especially if Juno falls into that house).

Neptune in the sixth house:

This is a more difficult placement because Neptune rules over Pisces and Virgo over the 6th house so its opposition. Meaning that Neptune doesn’t feel good in the 6th which is why you could have difficulty focusing on daily activities or your routine. It could as well be difficult for them to find a job. You might find it hard to find motivation to complete even your daily tasks. You’re an animal lover and at least have a cat or a dog. You’ve came to this earth to heal others and try to protect the world wherever you can. Neptune in the 6th house aren’t such fans of routine, they might rather be spontaneous instead of creating a to do list. Its common for them to be lazy and not clean their room (can’t be angry with u at this one). Maybe you don’t have such a strong immune system & that’s why you often get ill, you might have the rarest allergies. This placement can in worst cases lead to depression since their favourite thing to do is lay in bed all day & do nothing. You’re too busy being stuck in daydreams thats mostly the reason you can’t get your work done. You‘re prone to last minute canceling or “I’ll do it tomorrow”. You might also struggle from insomnia or panic attacks, so meditate daily or get some sleep. If you ever dreamed about getting the perfect body, don’t panic, I know you’re gonna make this. You just need the will to achieve your daily goals. The lesson you have to learn is that you should make sure to take enough care of yourself. It could also be difficult for you to show up at work on time and not too late.

[soon-palestine]

CC coverage of the attack on a football pitch in the Golan Heights has been intentionally misleading.

The BBC's evening news entirely ignored the fact that those killed by the blast are 12 Syrians, not Israeli citizens, and that for decades the Syrian population in the Golan has been forced to live unwillingly under an Israeli military occupation.

I suppose mention of this context might complicate the story Israel and the BBC wish to tell – and risk reminding viewers that Israel is a belligerent state occupying not just Palestinian territory but Syrian territory too (not to mention nearby Lebanese territory).

It might suggest to audiences that these various permanent Israeli occupations have been contributing not only to large-scale human rights abuses but to regional tensions as well. That Israel's acts of aggression against its neighbours might be the cause of "conflict", rather than, as Israel and the BBC would have us believe, some kind of normal, pre-emptive form of self-defence.

The BBC, of course, chose to uncritically air comments from a military spokesman for Israel, who blamed Hizbullah for the blast in the Golan.

Daniel Hagari tried to milk the incident for maximum propaganda value, arguing: "This attack shows the true face of Hizbullah, a terrorist organisation that targets and murders children playing soccer."

Except, as the BBC forgot to note, in 2014 Israel infamously targeted and murdered four young children from the Bakr family playing football on a beach in Gaza.

And much more recently, video footage showed Israel striking yet more children playing football at a school in Gaza that was serving as a shelter for families whose homes were destroyed by earlier Israeli bombs.

Doubtless other strikes in Gaza over the past 10 months, so many of them targeting school-shelters, have killed Palestinian children playing football – especially as it's one of the very few ways they can take their mind off the horror all around.

So, should we – and the BBC – not conclude that all these attacks on children playing football make the Israeli military even more of a terrorist organisation than Hizbullah?

The BBC next went to Jerusalem to hear from diplomatic editor Paul Adams. He intoned gravely:

"This is precisely what we have been worrying about for the past 10 months – that something of this magnitude would occur on the northern border, that would turn what has been a simmering conflict for all of these months into an all-out war."

So there you have it. Paul Adams and the BBC concede they haven't been worrying for the past 10 months about the genocide unfolding under their noses in Gaza, or its consequences. A genocide of Palestinians, apparently, is not something of significant "magnitude".

Only now, when Israel can exploit the deaths of Syrians forced to live under its military rule as a pretext to expand its "war", are we supposed to sit up and take notice. Or so the BBC tells us.

[djuvlipen]

Every hour, a woman in Afghanistan loses her life during childbirth

It was midnight when another wave of pain struck. Begum, 35, thought it was finally time for her child to be born, but there were no signs of the baby coming.

“I woke my husband and told him to get a car to go to a hospital. He rented one from our neighbours,” Begum said.

The mother of four travelled while in labour from Ridkhord area in Badakhshan’s Zibak district to the Shahid Ustad Burhanuddin Rabbani Hospital in the provincial capital Faizabad.

Her fifth child, struggling to be born, did not survive the journey.

Begum lived, but many mothers in similar circumstances do not.

Abdullah is currently waiting to hear if his wife will survive their child’s birth.

He and his wife, residents of the province’s Yafta-e-Bala area, came on foot to the central hospital in Faizabad when their baby was due to be born.

“In Yaftal-e-Bala, there are four health centres. However, because of inadequate medical facilities and no doctor available, we had to walk for four or five hours to Faizabad for delivery,” Abdullah said.

“We encountered many challenges along the way, but I couldn’t do much until we reached the hospital.”

Doctors said that because his wife had walked a long distance, it led to severe bleeding and possibly harmed the baby in the womb.

“The mother’s condition is not good and there is little hope for the baby to survive,” Abdullah said doctors told him.

Afghanistan’s deadly statistics for mothers

According to the latest World Health Organization (WHO) report, each day 24 mothers and 167 newborns in Afghanistan lose their lives due to complications in pregnancy and childbirth.

It’s the highest rate in the world.

“The condition of mothers is highly alarming, particularly for those who travel from remote areas and cover long distances,” a specialist at the Shahid Ustad Burhanuddin Rabbani Hospital, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said.

Having worked in Badakhshan for 22 years, the doctor said that the shortage of healthcare services, especially in remote areas, leads to significant health risks for women.

He recalled a patient who arrived at the hospital from Darwaz district about a month ago after travelling for three days.

“Due to the long journey, the patient’s womb had ruptured along the way, leading to the loss of the baby. The doctors only managed to save the mother’s life with great difficulty,” he said.

Discrimination leading to more deaths

There are concerns the situation is only getting worse as the Taliban place more restrictions on women’s mobility and access to support, and the weakened economy sees healthcare facilities struggle to deliver services.

The WHO reported that in 2023, about 428 health centres were closed because of budget constraints.

Dr Suraya Dalil, WHO’s Director of the Special Programe for Primary Health Care and former Minister of Health in Afghanistan from 2010 to 2014, said that Afghanistan has become one of the most perilous countries for mothers due to insufficient healthcare resources.

Dr Dalil told Rukhshana Media that the Taliban’s discriminatory policies make women more vulnerable in accessing healthcare.

“There is a regime in Afghanistan that systematically discriminates against women. For instance, a few months ago, a directive was sent to the central hospital in Ghazni province stating that women without a male companion would not receive treatment,” she said.

“Similarly, in Herat, a directive was issued prohibiting ultrasound services for women at the central hospital.”

She said that ultrasound examinations are crucial for diagnosis and timely treatment decisions, services that have unfortunately been restricted for women.

Recently, the Taliban supreme leader issued an order for all female employees to receive a reduced monthly salary.

“Recently, we’ve witnessed female employees being allocated a monthly salary of only 5,000 afghanis (US$70), disregarding their rank, experience, and job responsibilities solely because they are women. This is systemic discrimination,” she said.

“The impact of the Taliban’s actions on women extends beyond just health issues. It has multidimensional implications.”

Health professionals strike over reduced salaries

This month several doctors, nurses, and midwives in Kabul hospitals staged a strike in protest of this decision by the Taliban leadership.

At least four female doctors and staff from hospitals such as Wazir Mohammad Akbar Khan, Shaikh Zahid, and Sehat-e-Tefl, speaking to Rukhshana Media,  said they cannot meet their basic living needs with the salary recently set by the Taliban for all female employees.

Homa*, a physician at Wazir Mohammad Akbar Khan hospital, said their protest lasted only three hours after the hospital’s Taliban-appointed director dispersed them with threats.

Orphaned children left to raise each other

Hanifa, 21, a resident of Sarjai area of Panjab district of Bamyan province now takes care of her two younger sisters and two younger brothers after the death of their mother.

She said that there are no clinics in their village or nearby areas, which is why her mother had to give birth at home.

“My poor mother cried in pain, clutching her back, yet she continued to bake bread. With my father and two brothers away working on farmlands, there was no man at home. My mother, assisted by our neighbor, who was a local woman, gave birth at home,” she said.

“She always delivered her children at home and was used to it, but this time, one of the twins didn’t come out, and her bleeding was so severe that the entire house was stained with blood.

“After giving birth, my mother survived only two hours. Despite our efforts, we couldn’t deliver the second twin because there was no accessible vehicle, and my father wasn’t home to help us.

“When my mother realized her bleeding wouldn’t stop, she urged us to take good care of her daughter, who was a baby girl. She remained conscious for two hours, growing weaker with each passing moment until she eventually lost consciousness.”

Karima Sadiq* a gynecologist specializing in obstetrics in remote areas, said stories like these are increasingly common.

“Sadly, since the Taliban seized power in Afghanistan, I have witnessed a rise in maternal deaths during childbirth, particularly in villages and districts. Every 24 hours, 24 to 26 mothers are losing their lives during childbirth, highlighting a disturbingly high maternal mortality rate.”

The United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF) recently reported that one-third of women in Afghanistan give birth without access to essential healthcare facilities, and only around 67 percent of deliveries in Afghanistan are supervised by healthcare professionals.

According to UNICEF’s report, it is recommended that pregnant women visit a doctor at least four times before delivery, but only a third of women in Afghanistan adhere to this recommendation.

UNICEF stated that that if a mother gives birth outside of a healthcare facility and without access to a skilled health professional, her life is significantly endangered.

Note*: Names are changed due to security reasons.

[heliads]

Hello! If you don’t mind, I would like to request a Rebekah Mikaelson x reader?

Something like, reader is human but is the key to one of Klaus’s plans, so he takes her to the Mikaelson mansion and keeps her there. She’s kind of a prisoner, but Rebekah has seen this film before, so she’s just expecting one of her brothers - or both of her brothers - to fall in love with yet another stupid human and make everything complicated again

However, reader starts to get affectionate with her. She starts looking for her when she needs something, when she has to make a decision, she looks at her for reassurance, she goes to Bekah’s room late at night to talk and very often just falls asleep there, it’s a whole thing, but Rebekah is always expecting the moment she’ll leave her for her brothers, not really opening her heart, she’s scared because she has been fooled so many times

So, one day she sees reader talking with Elijah and she’s even giving him those pleading eyes she usually reserves for her and they both shut up immediately when she gets close, and she knows the moment came, Y/N will be Elijah’s, Klaus will freak out and hell will break loose. She’s hurt but pretends no to be and just starts keeping reader away

But reader was only talking to Elijah because in one of these late night talks, Rebekah told her that no one has ever baked for her even though she has been doing it forever, so she was just trying to convince him to get everything she needed to bake for her, she’s completely in love with Rebekah

So, that’s it! I hope you like the request, thanks anyway!

'didn't like the ending' - rebekah mikaelson

masterlist

God, Rebekah Mikaelson has seen the same scene play out so many times, she’s starting to feel like she’s spent half her immortal life in deja vu. For a family of Original vampires that prides itself on being leagues beyond the rest of their bloodsucking proteges, the Mikaelson brothers can be a little, well, predictable. Especially at times like this.

If there’s one perfect example of the Mikaelson men repeating themselves, it would have to be the hostage problem. Rebekah can’t even begin to count the amount of times she’s witnessed the same damn thing over the centuries. At this point, it’s starting to border on ridiculous, yet the only one who seems attuned to this problem is Rebekah. And it’s not as if her brothers are really that keen to listen to her, anyway. Certainly not about something like this.

Every time, it starts and ends the same:  one of her brothers, maybe even Rebekah herself, will drag in some human or vampire or witch to serve as a hostage during one of their many disputes with the neighbouring supernatural beings. They’ll chain up this poor sap in a cell, or lock them in one of the many rooms of the Mikaelson mansion. At first, all will be perfectly ordinary. The hostage will beg and plead to be rescued, Rebekah’s family will laugh scornfully from atop their ivory towers, and everything will go as planned.

But then the negotiations don’t happen as quickly as they would like, and the Mikaelsons end up spending a lot more time with their hostage than initially envisioned. They have to tolerate the company of this foreign presence more and more, especially since the hostage often ends up being a key part in someone’s plans, and information is required from them. Then, Elijah or Klaus, or heavens, even Kol sometimes, will end up spending far more time with this hostage than ever before, and they’ll do the unthinkable and fall in love.

Rebekah is no stranger to the plight of the lovestruck Mikaelson. Although it seems impossible, one of her brothers will fall in love, and then face the unsightly issue of having to wrestle with their guilt over letting the hostage go, or the more likely option, they’ll keep the hostage forever as a little trophy or token of their affections until they fall out of love again and the hostage is set free.

This has happened many times over the centuries. No matter how much her brothers love to talk about how they’re so above mortal things like feelings, Rebekah has watched them fall victim to their hearts until an affection becomes an affliction. Normally, she wouldn’t have a problem with any of this, it is rather amusing to watch her brothers fall over themselves in an attempt to woo a human of all things, but more often than not she ends up being the reluctant ear to their monologues, so the whole affair has grown rather wearisome over the years.

And so, when Klaus drags yet another human hostage into the Mikaelson mansion as a cog in one of his many elaborate plans, Rebekah just sighs and mentally starts planning when she’ll take an extended vacation out of New Orleans yet again so she won’t have to deal with all of this. It’s a shame, too. She was just starting to put herself back out there again, and now all of her hard work is for nothing.

Rebekah watches from the balcony as Klaus dramatically announces to the hostage that they’ll have nowhere to go unless they help him. This time, he’s allowing the hostage free reign of the place, since he’s had a witch charm the hostage into being unable to leave the mansion unless Klaus directly allows it. That way, he won’t have to deal with pesky things like vervain getting in the way of his commands.

Rebekah sighs, rolling her eyes at the scene. The hostage seems like a perfectly nice young woman, albeit one that has absolutely no idea what’s coming for her. Inwardly, she wonders if she should start issuing ominous warnings about staying away from the Mikaelson brothers, although if this hostage is in any way involved with the vampiric communities of New Orleans, she supposes they would already know more than enough about that.

A sudden whoosh of air by her side; Rebekah looks up to see Elijah suddenly emerging from the shadows of the hall to stand next to her. “Something seems to be troubling you,” he notes. “Should I be afraid to ask?”

Rebekah just groans. “Klaus has gone and conjured himself up yet another hostage. This is not going to end well.”

Elijah arches a brow. “You don’t mean to tell me you think Klaus will harm her already? He should hold off at least a week or two, he needs her alive.”

Rebekah shakes her head. “Worse. I think he’s going to grow to care for her. Either you or him.”

Elijah chuckles. “Well, I hardly think that being under the protection of a Mikaelson is cause for concern. If anything, it should extend her lifetime a few decades or so.”

Rebekah scoffs. “I couldn’t care less about how long she lives. I just don’t want you two to bother me when you fall in love again.”

Elijah gazes down at the hostage. “You don’t even know if she’s our type. We might not like her in the slightest. Rebekah, have you even bothered to learn the poor girl’s name? That’s meager hospitality on your part.”

Rebekah almost laughs. “Dearest brother, I do not give a damn who this girl is or what she’s done wrong to get herself on Klaus’ radar. The more she stays out of my way, the better.”

With that, she spins on her heel and heads back towards her quarters. This plan is one of Klaus’ mad schemes, not hers, so Rebekah is determined to avoid the whole matter as much as she can. Maybe then she could finally manage a moment or two of peace and quiet around here.

Peace and quiet, as it turns out, are not the sorts of things to hang around the Mikaelson estate, certainly not when Klaus has a few tricks up his sleeve. Try as she might to stay out of the way, Rebekah finds herself brought back into the mix not by Klaus, or even Elijah on one of his many attempts to bring the family together, but by the hostage herself:  Y/N L/N.

Rebekah had been honest with Elijah when she said she couldn’t care less about the hostage. Really, she couldn’t. For some reason, however, Y/N seems to have decided that Rebekah is her best bet when attempting to navigate the complex relationships of the Mikaelson extended sphere. She’s not wrong, really, Rebekah can be level-headed when she decides it’s interesting enough for her, but she can’t fathom why Y/N would seek her out intentionally.

Yet this is precisely what happens. Y/N takes it upon herself to introduce herself to Rebekah out of the blue one day, then keeps tracking Rebekah down to ask her questions or seek advice on how to deal with Klaus. Honestly, it’s ridiculous. Rebekah does not need new friends, nor would she try to find them in a human.

That being said, she doesn’t entirely mind Y/N, not really. As far as humans go, Rebekah would be kind enough to say that she’s one of the better ones. She doesn’t annoy Rebekah like some of the Mystic Falls crew did, and she listens intently whenever Rebekah speaks, as if she truly cared about what Rebekah had to say. After many lifetimes over her brothers overruling her every thought, Rebekah can’t deny that it’s nice to have her opinion valued every now and then.

Just as expected, Y/N’s tenure in the Mikaelson mansion drags on for longer than planned, and what was meant to be a stay of just a couple of weeks turns into one month, then two. Y/N remains, and she remains by Rebekah’s side. They actually exchange jokes, and secrets, and before Rebekah knows it, she actually looks forward to when she crosses paths with Y/N. They get along brilliantly, and when Y/N isn’t with Rebekah–

Well, when she’s not with Rebekah, she’s with Elijah. Practically glued to the hip. At first, Rebekah would jealously tell herself that Y/N would never get along with Elijah, but inside, she knows it isn’t true. If Y/N can win over Rebekah when Rebekah was firmly opposed to the whole idea, then good-tempered Elijah would be a walk in the park to Rebekah’s bloody battlefield.

It makes Rebekah sick. She knows how this play turns out, doesn’t she? Rebekah has attended many showings, and no matter the venue, no matter the star actress, it always turns out the same. The hostage falls for a Mikaelson brother, not sister. In the end, there is love to be shared, but not with Rebekah. Never with Rebekah.

She wants to tighten her hold, but afraid of pushing Y/N away for good, she pretends as if nothing is the matter. Y/N doesn’t seem to notice the war brewing between Rebekah’s ribs. She spends more and more time in Rebekah’s room, talking over some issue or other. Sometimes, when the nights get low and Y/N forgets to leave, she’ll even fall asleep on Rebekah’s bed, or when leaning against her shoulder. It feels personal. It feels like maybe, it might even be Rebekah’s turn to fall in love.

She knows better, though. Of course Rebekah knows better. Rebekah has been through enough lifetimes to know that hope is a very rocky fissure upon which to build one’s aspirations. Even if a lot of her life has been spent daggered in a box, she still knows enough to not be naive. This story isn’t going to go her way. It never does.

She’d like it to, though. She really would. Y/N gets along with the whole family, and Rebekah can’t stop herself from imagining how nice it would be to have a significant other that wasn’t in danger of getting murdered by Klaus or Elijah for once. Klaus, with admittedly great reluctance, has come to value Y/N’s input. And Elijah’s conversations with Y/N seem to increase in number, but mainly whenever Rebekah isn’t around.

That happens a lot, actually. They’ll be getting along, thick as thieves, and then the moment Rebekah turns the corner and comes into their direct line of sight, the two of them mysteriously clam up. Keeping secrets, it seems. From her. And Rebekah reckons she can guess the subject matter quite well.

That’s it, then. That’s the mystery sorted, the grand question of which Mikaelson their latest hostage would fall for. It’s not as if this hasn’t happened before, but Rebekah finds herself far more disappointed than she had for any of the others. Vampires are protective and jealous and selfish, and Rebekah is the worst of them, but still, she swears she had never wanted anything quite like this before. Now this thing, this love, this woman, is out of her reach, and Rebekah’s entire existence has suddenly turned tragic.

Although she should take the high road and pretend that nothing is the matter, Rebekah has never been good at brushing off trivialities. Once, when she was younger, Klaus had told her that she had a ��gift for theatrics.’ At first, she’d been delighted, assuming her brother believed her to be a master actress, and then she’d realized that Klaus’ words, as they always seemed to be, were nothing but a barb meant to wound her. Then she’d stomped around as usual, doing nothing to raise her spirits and only proving him right.

Stomping around can be rather satisfying, though. When Rebekah runs into Y/N and Elijah deep in a heated conversation one day, she just can’t take it anymore. This time, instead of running away and pretending as if she hadn’t seen a thing, Rebekah purposely walks towards them. Just as before, Y/N’s eyes go wide, and she hurriedly shuts up. 

Rebekah isn’t willing to let it slide, though. She stops in front of them and folds her arms across her chest. “What’s all this about? You look as if you’ve been caught red-handed. Which, I suppose, you have.”

Y/N grins weakly. “Nothing. We, uh, aren’t doing anything.”

Rebekah arches a brow. “That’s hardly believable, now, isn’t it? How about you try telling me the truth for once. I’d certainly like to hear it.”

Elijah claps his hands together. “Actually, I think this is a matter just for you and Y/N, my dear sister. I don’t believe this concerns me at all.”

Before either of them can stop him, Elijah disappears down the hall, gone in an instant. Y/N glares after him. “For an immortal vampire, he’s absolutely terrible when you want someone to stand by you.”

“That’s Elijah for you,” Rebekah murmurs. “He never likes it when we fight.”

“Yeah, well, I can hardly blame him,” Y/N muses. “Fighting with your family seems rather painful.”

“It is,” Rebekah instantly agrees, then remembers that she’s supposed to be upset. “Now, you can’t distract me anymore. Tell me what’s going on, I mean it. I know we’re friends, but you don’t have to hide things from me.”

Y/N’s eyes go wide. “You mean– you know? And you’re okay with it?”

Rebekah feels as if she’s been daggered. She almost wants to turn around and see if her murderous brother is standing behind her, ready to put her in a coffin again for another century or two. Y/N does like Elijah, then. How utterly heartbreaking. “Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?” She asks listlessly. “I know my brothers, and as far as Mikaelson men go, you chose the one who tends to be the most stable. Nothing wrong with that.”

Y/N’s brow furrows. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

Rebekah looks away. Thinking it is one thing, but admitting the painful truth aloud suddenly seems far worse. “You know. You’ve fallen in love with my brother.”

She isn’t sure how she expects Y/N to react. With relief, maybe, that she won’t have to hide anymore. What Rebekah certainly isn’t expecting is for Y/N to start laughing. “What? No, Rebekah, I’m not in love with Elijah. I’m in love with you.”

The floor seems to have fallen about beneath Rebekah’s feet. “With– with me?”

Y/N laughs again. It’s a lovely sound. “Yes, Bekah, I love you. It’s very easy to do, you know.”

Rebekah shakes her head, still not entirely sure that she isn’t dreaming or something. This certainly feels like a dream. “But– you’re always with Elijah– and you keep sharing secrets with him that you won’t tell me–”

Y/N grins. “That’s because I’m trying to make sure he won’t tell a soul. Elijah figured me out a few weeks ago. Mainly, though, I’ve been trying to persuade him to get me a few things. I want to bake something for you, and Klaus only ever keeps this house stocked with blood and alcohol. It’s sort of horrific, actually. You don’t even have baking soda.”

Rebekah’s brow furrows. “You wanted to bake me something? Why?”

Y/N’s smile turns quiet. “You mentioned it once. You were sad that no one had ever baked for you even though you were always making things for your brothers. I didn’t want you to feel that way anymore.”

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” Rebekah says softly. “I only mentioned it once.”

“I like listening to you, Rebekah.” Y/N tells her.

And at last, at long last, Rebekah knows why. She’s seen this play before. For once, she gets her happy ending.

vampire diaries tag list: @mayfieldss, @alex-1967s-blog

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

let's be more positive about books for a while! here are some queer historical romance novels that i've been rereading recently that i think do something interesting with making characters feel historical in their mindset and worldview, but are also fairly progressive, diverse queer books that are, frankly, a delight to read

this is by no means exhaustive and to be honest i could put almost anything by cat sebastian or kj charles on a list like this so this is purely the highlights of what i've reread in the past week to take my mind off work, and why i think they're interesting from this specific angle

cat sebastian, the ruin of a rake (turners #3)

this is technically the third in a trilogy but they're only very loosely connected, so you don't need to have read the others if you don't care about knowing who all the background characters are. the others are also good though

why it's interesting: features a character who has had to painstakingly study and learn the rules of polite society in order to claw his way up to respectability, and is now deploying those skills to help another man repair his reputation. shows the complexity of those rules, the social purposes they serve, and the work that goes into living by them, as well as the consequences of breaking them. also explores some of the financial side of aristocracy, and features a character with chronic illness (recurring malaria following repeated infections as a child in india) whose feelings about his illness are very relatable without feeling overly modern.

kj charles, society of gentlemen series.

this trilogy is closely related plot-wise and best read in order. all three explore cross-class romances and characters struggling to reconcile their political views and personal ethics with their desires, in the aftermath of the peterloo massacre, with a strong focus on the political role of the written word. first book is long-lost gentleman raised by seditionists / fashion-minded dandy teaching him to behave in society; second book is tory nobleman submissive / seditious pamphleteer dominant who've been fucking for a year without knowing the other's identity; third book is lord / valet and all the complicated dynamics of consent there with a generous side-helping of crime.

why they're interesting: close attention to the history of political printing and the impact of government censorship and repressive taxes on the freedom of the press; complex ideological disagreements that aren't handwaved as unimportant; examination of trust, consent, and social responsibility across class differences and in situations with problematic power dynamics; most of the characters are progressive for their time without feeling like they have modern attitudes. the second book, a seditious affair, deals most strongly with the revolutionary politics side of things, but all tackle it to some extent.

kj charles, band sinister.

look i'm probably biased because this might be my favourite KJC. it's a standalone about a pair of siblings: the sister wrote a gothic novel heavily inspired by their mysterious and scandalous neighbour whose older brother had an affair with their mum (causing scandal); the brother is a classics nerd. the sister breaks her leg on a ride through their neighbour's estate and can't be moved until she heals so they both have to stay at the house and find out if the neighbour is really as scandalous as he seems.

why it's interesting: discussion of atheism and new ideas about science and creation (very shocking to the brother, who is the viewpoint character); details of agriculture and estate management via main LI's attempt to grow sugar beet, as well as the economics of sugar (including references to slavery); "unexpurgated" latin and greek classics as queer reference points for a character who nevertheless hasn't quite figured out he's queer; material consequences of society scandal

bonus: wonderful sibling dynamic and a diverse cast including a portugese jewish character, which i don't think i've seen in a book before

i will add to this list as i continue to reread both of their backlists! (bc i have read them all enough times and in close enough succession that they blur together in my head unless i've read them very recently)

[tsumuhours]

AMERICAN JESUS PAIRING: suna rintarō x fem!reader TAGS: alternate universe – gang world, smut, oral, flirty suna WORD COUNT: 10k

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Whether it be in the form of finding an injured member of a notorious gang near your apartment, or trading silence for safety, or how he pulls you into a complicated relationship which goes against integrity and... possibly laws.

mature content !

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Not to say you haven't deserved half of the mandated karma – you haven't always been the best person, given the borderline psychopathic attempt of climbing to the top – but a break, or a nice surprise would be a great change in routines.

Whoever said success is a lonely road was, painfully, correct. To think that you spent your high school years working hard to get into an ivy league, spent those four years working at internships to make those desired connections people dream of!

Only to get out at the age of twenty-two and spend the next year as some glorified, under-paid, under appreciated, assistant. And no, that's not what the job description is supposed to entail, you're meant to be an associate – associates are not supposed to run around getting coffee – with the main purpose of developing your career and hopefully making partner in seven to ten years time.

Not to mention, since the city has unbelievable prices of living, you had to move to a neighbouring borough just for the possibility of having a studio apartment that isn't the size of a closet for the same price. Is it the most convenient?

No, not really, considering the fact the commute is over thirty-minutes and you have to go back and forth from work at unreasonable hours because your boss insists on bringing you to every little, insignificant meeting, or post-work drinks at nine at night – which is an excuse for the woman to spiral further into alcoholism – where you will inevitably end up carrying your boss back to her penthouse on the upper east side.

And no, it doesn't get better, because afterwards, after spending two hours at an expensive bar with the drunken, divorced, mess of a boss you have by the time she gets home safe, you're expected to deal with the city's delayed – and inconsistent – subway times at this ungodly hour and spend the next thirty-minutes in a train with rando's and sketchies.

Oh! No, that's not where it ends, because by the time you get off the subway, it's almost midnight, and you have to take a lovely – scary – ten-minute walk alone to your apartment, but walking anywhere at night is terrifying... Except for the rumour, or fact, that violence has been making its way around the borough, and according to new statistics – regarding the quarterly crime rate review – it's been looking a bit too stabby for your liking.

Now, this walk home is nothing different to how it is every day. You stride down the street with purpose, clutching your taser, and eerily aware of your surroundings. Although, remember how life always has a new way of fucking you over through some odd, irrelevant, way of testing your resilience?

This is one of those occasions.

Let's say it's not common for a man to be curled up in the small alley where residents keep their trash, but then again, crime rates have increased by a percentage that can make anyone uncomfortable – still, committing those types of crimes in a residential neighbourhood where people are simply trying to live their lives is ridiculous. Have some class.

Sure, as a law abiding citizen or natural samaritan would help, but no, not you. Living in a densely populated city means one thing, and one thing only, keep your head down. It's a game of see nothing, know nothing. Everyone minds their own business, that's how you stay safe and avoid danger – including scammers, or the random cult recruiters.

So, you intend on reaching for your keys to the front entrance of your small building, until you hear a small groan come from the neighbours dumpster alley. Sighing, you swallow your pride – and maybe your safety – holding your phone in one hand, and taser in another, and go over to look. The flashlight turned on, as you flash it on the curled up body.

You cannot see his face, but you instantly recognize the leather jacket and matching bandana. Of fucking course, out of everyone in the world, you happen to come across a member of a gang – as if this is some cruel joke from the universe. What do they call themselves? The Foxes? That awful group that parades around in black and maroon, with their emblem of a fox printed on leather jackets that they display for the world to see.

You're reluctant to step forward, maybe it's the threatening affiliation this guy has wound himself with, or the blood on his hands – literally and figuratively – as he grips onto the side of his stomach. The thing is, you've got a massive report to read over and playing doctor with someone is not on your list of side-quests – as it doesn't benefit your position, or reputability on the job any better. However, people are always watching, so if word were to magically get out that you saw a member of this notorious, tight-knit gang and ignored him, that could put a dangerous target on your back.

But, if you help him, you can probably lawyer your way into securing safety for your silence. You could exchange saving his life, for him, inevitably, saving yours in turn – ensuring that you're home, your spaces, where you are at all times is a no-go zone. Sure, that means turning your back on the entire legal system you've spent studying is thrown on the backburner, but you need to look out for yourself.

What is success if it means you've got strangers pinning a vendetta against you, and watching your every move before they strike? How could you ever reach partner if you get killed? How could you ever live with the benefits of making partner, if you get killed before you can exercise those benefits?

The short-term pride is not worth it if you don't get to brag about it... and silence for safety seems like the best option on the table. No one ever said that law always has to be good, it's unjust – at times – unfair and just as corrupt. Only ten percent of people who go into this job do it out of the good of their heart, the rest, the majority do it for the money and respect.

And it isn't part of your job description to be a good person, you're not a doctor. You didn't pledge to an oath about refraining from causing harm or hurt, or to act honestly and responsibility. No, you are conducting yourself with dignity and conscience – and as far as you care, freedom of speech and association still exists, and what you're doing isn't necessarily illegal unless you get recruited or actively participate in a crime.

And since when helping someone not die a crime? He's part of the Foxes, for christ sake. They can invoke power anywhere, he can potentially make you untouchable. You can live your life somewhat more peacefully if it means that safety is a guarantee. If you save one of them, they have no choice but to repay you. That's how the system works.

Sighing, you step closer, bending down to get a better look at him. Flashlight illuminating the severe wound on the side of his stomach, the blood surrounding his black top and his hands. "Fuck my life," you mutter. He's practically losing consciousness with every second, you doubt he's capable of standing up by himself, and there's no way you're going to attempt to fix him by a pile of trash.

So, you do what you can, gently lifting up his upper body, draping his arm around your shoulders as you begin to stand. God is he big, and getting him up the stairs will undoubtedly be a struggle. Still, as if on impulse, his feet start moving as you carry more than half of his weight towards the front door of your building, up the stairs to the second floor – where your apartment remains.

Forcefully, pushing open the door, you find all the strength in your body to lead him to the couch – internally crying at the stain that will taint the grey cushions – where he falls over and lays on his back. Absolutely winded, you walk into your bathroom, searching for that old – raggedy – first aid kit in the cupboards along with cotton balls and comically large band aids that you have no reason for owning.

God, it's as if this was planned, fucking written in the stars. Yes, you were meant to end up in this situation because you are one of the only people in the world who thought it'd be fun and convenient to own large band aids that can temporarily cover a stab wound. Good going!

Gathering all the materials in your hand, you walk over to the couch where he remains in limbo. Again, you're no medical professional, no, the most training you have consists of a short one hour life skills lesson and a topic on human physiology that was part of your biology course in high school. So, yes, you're a bit rusty – but that doesn't mean you're incompetent.

Kneeling down on the floor, scattering the items next to you on the floor, reaching for the cotton balls and bottle of disinfectant. But as your fingers graze over the skin on his torso to lift up his shirt, he flinches, and for the first time since running into him, you look at his face with an offended look on yours – as if he's able to see you through his shut eyelids.

He catches you off guard, the delicate and mesmerising features. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed eyebrows that mix in well with the discomfort he must be feeling. Yes, he's beautiful, but he's also bleeding out on your couch and part of an infamous gang that got himself stabbed. Letting out a frustrated, hmph, you lift up his shirt to examine the wound – as if you have any idea what you're doing.

First, you need to unarm him. You run your hands through the pockets of his cargos, pulling out a phone, wallet, and pocket knife, then dig through the pockets of his leather jacket finding nothing alarming.

Next, you cover your hands with latex gloves, then get to work. Letting the cotton balls absorb the disinfectant before running it along his skin, in which he finches in response. "Stop flinching, I'm helping you." You mutter, sure, maybe using water would be a better alternative than bathing him in on the shelf disinfectant, but water is not going to effectively clean him up.

You don't even know what you're doing, and your body, mind, even fucking adrenaline knows that by the way your hands shake. Do you need to stitch him up? You don't know how to suture a wound, you don't even know how to stitch! You don't even own string, yarn yes, but you doubt that sealing someone up with lilac yarn is the most sanitary or safe.

So, of course, you do the most reasonable thing and search it up, and given the short research it confirms that you don't have to do anything – then again, how many people get stabbed and don't receive certified medical attention?

Hands still shaking, you dive into the medical box, looking for antibiotic ointment. "I hate you, you know?" You begin speaking to yourself as you uncap the cream, "You're bleeding out on my couch. Is it a good couch? No, it is uncomfortable, and by the way your legs hand off the arm rests, it's not the biggest. But it's my couch, I found it on the street."

You apply the cream around the puncture, hearing his quiet groans and incoherent murmurs. After that, you reach for the band aid – or non-adherent pad as they call it – peeling off the back and gently placing it over the puncture. It's not a good replacement for proper medical care, but it will suffice until he manages to crawl his way back to wherever he lives and gets professionally treated.

"You better pay for a new couch, or a deep cleaning." You continue, beginning to pack up all your things before standing as you remove your gloves, and move to the kitchen to toss them out. "I have things to do, you know?" You say from the kitchen, washing your hands thoroughly.

That's partially a lie, the things you claim to have insist on reading a fucking brief or case while sitting on your couch watching something on Netflix – because cable is a waste of money – with one of many microwave meals stocking up your small white fridge. Still, this momentary distraction has moved those plans to tomorrow night. A Saturday night.

"I don't know who you are, or what your rank is in this stupid gang of yours, but I don't care." You continue your rant, grabbing a glass of water and pain-killers – placing them on the small cushioned ottoman, because who has the space to own a coffee table? – pacing back and forth in your apartment, where you can finally kick off your shoes by the front door and grab the purse you discarded by the small circular dining table next to the fridge. "I have work to do."

You storm towards your bedroom, dumping your purse on your bed and digging through it for your laptop and thick file, then you grab a highlighter sitting on the bedside table. And hopefully by the time he wakes up, you would have done something worthwhile and beneficial to your career.

So, yes, in conclusion, life always has a weird way of fucking you over. 

An hour has passed since you fixed up the stranger who lays, practically comatose, on your couch. Since then, you've changed out your clothes, showered, and gone through at least fifteen pages of this case you're supposed to assist with and eventually write a report for. Sitting in bed, music softly plays through your laptop as you bite on the end of a highlighter, re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

It's safe to say that your mind is a bit distracted, maybe it's the fact you're harbouring a criminal in your apartment, waiting for him to wake up and possibly kill you. The Foxes are notorious for many things, heists, robbery, petty murder, but particularly famous for the sale of illegal goods – whether it be drugs, or unlicensed arms – and you happen to have one sitting in your living room.

All for what? The fear of getting murdered? Having a target on your back? Trading integrity for safety? To be fair, those are all valid reasons why you've decided to take him in. You can call the police, turn him in, do greater good for the grand community. He's docile and helpless right now, you've searched him for weapons and you keep his belongings hostage on your bed. But, what are the cops going to do?

You hear a groan coming from the living room, and immediately shoot up from the bed, swinging your feet over the mattress and feeling them hit the cold wooden floors as you turn around to grab the baseball bat leaning against the mattress.

The first, and big thing he feels is pain. An unbearable type of pain on the side of his stomach. He places a hand over the plaster, expecting to feel blood or an infection, but jolts awake when he's proven wrong. He sits up, painfully, and scans the apartment for any sign that will tell him where he is. The messy decor of the room, the glass encased bookshelf that's filled to the brim with trinkets, novels, DVD's, CD's, and records. Behind him, on the wall are framed movie posters and paintings. Lamps, candles, and a full wall tapestry behind the tv. A plethora of coats and bags hanging on the door. So much clutter in this little living room.

He turns his gaze to the small kitchen, a shelf lined with snacks, spices, a bowl of onions and garlic, and a concerning amount of liquor. On the counter, are dishes, coloured pots and pans, empty jars. Whoever lives here loves their fair share of pink, grey, and light blue cups, bowls, and plates. They apparently also love their fair share of tea and instant chai latte mixes, and colourful string lights.

He has no idea where he is, or who happened to pick him up from the streets. All he knows is that he was ambushed by the Crows and left for dead, talk about sending a fucking message. Understandably, he turns his head to look behind him, where you stand holding a baseball bat to your side. He reaches for his pocket, where his knife always remains, only to feel nothing. You've disarmed him.

While he should be focusing on that thought. The logical sense that you must know who he is; hence why you've hidden all his belongings and why you're holding a baseball bat for defence, or the fact that you must've called the police by now. But no, his mind is focused on who you are, why you've brought him into your apartment to avoid death, and how those little shorts look on you. Those little black shorts, that tank top, and that big knitted cardigan.

So what if he's about to get arrested, he loves this sight.

"You brought me here?" He asks, watching the way you nod your head.

"You were bleeding out near a pile of trash, and while I considered leaving you for dead, I figured that I could get something out of saving your life." You explain nonchalantly, well as nonchalant as you can given that you've invited a known criminal into your house.

"Who do you work for?" He questions. There are always upcoming rivals or new recruits circling the scene, they love dirty work and favours – an eye for an eye – and will extort, abuse, and come up with the worst reparations. While you don't look threatening at all, especially in that little outfit, he can't underestimate you.

"Specter and Hastings, the law firm." You reply, causing him to laugh out of pure irony. Out of everyone he could have gotten entwined with, it had to be a lawyer. The universe really loves to play games on him, doesn't it?

"What do you want?" He sighs, "Names? Operations? You want me to snitch?" He'd rather die than rat out his friends, his family, just cuff him and take him down to the station because he's not speaking.

"No." You say, "I want safety." A flash of curiosity flashes across his face, allowing you to elaborate. "I want to make sure that wherever I go will be unharmed, untouched, or fall victim to whatever wars you guys get into. I want to be left out of danger, and never have to worry about getting followed home, mugged, or stabbed. I want the guarantee of safety... for my silence."

"What?"

"Is it so hard to understand?" You huff, "I save your life, you look out for mine. And in doing so, I will pretend that I didn't potentially break a law by not turning you in, I will turn a blind eye and ignore that tonight ever happened."

She's looking out for herself. He can't blame her. If anyone were to find out that she left him for dead, she would be a target. However, as someone whose job literally regards the law, you can't blame him for thinking you're hypocritical and maybe the slightest bit untrustworthy. If you can't even stick by your career, how can he expect you not to snitch on him?

"So?" You say, "Is that a good arrangement?"

"I can't guarantee anything sweetheart," he claims.

"Fine, then can you at least keep the stabbings out of this neighbourhood?" You question, "When I get home at night, I'd rather not come across another bloody body and risk getting more blood on my couch out of fear of being targeted."

That he can do. He can tell the guys to avoid this particular area, in exchange for a stranger – who happens to be a lawyer – that saved his life. Not to mention, you didn't call the cops, didn't turn him in, and you're supposedly open to turning a blind eye. In regards to the blood he got on your couch, he can easily fix that. He nods, "That I can do." There's no reason why he should deny anything, you already know he's part of the Foxes – that's the only reason you bothered saving him – and you are well aware about the culture and how no good deed goes without payment.

"Okay, great." You nod, resting the baseball bat against the frame, you've negotiated poorly, and your terms and conditions are promised to be met. Now, you can move along with your life. "Excuse me for a moment," you say, disappearing back into your bedroom to gather up all the things you took from his pockets.

In your short-lived absence, the man glances over at the painkillers and glass of water on the ottoman. He grabs the packet, reading the warning on the bottom half of the box that informs the users of the small percentage of codeine and its addictive properties, only to ignore it and swallows down the pill. It's drugstore painkillers, so of course, it's not going to be the strongest but when it kicks in, it'll help.

You return holding his things, hanging them to him before sitting on the curved back armchair next to the couch. You are unsure of what to do, or say to the brunette. You've never been put in a situation where a gang member is sitting in your apartment, wounded, and you've offered up your silence in turn of safety. Is it time for you to kick him out, or should you try to make conversation?

He, on the other hand, glances down at his phone, texting away to his friends about what happened and how he'll be back soon. There's no doubt that they're all mad about the situation, how he got ambushed by their rivals, and left by a pair of trash bags to bleed out. Though, it's not all that bad, he got saved by a pretty girl who graces him with skimpy shorts and a tank top that loves to plague his imagination. Better yet, this girl happens to be a lawyer, and if he plays his cards right, he can get a run down of loopholes and secure defence.

"So, do I get a name?" You ask, wrapping your cardigan closer around your body. "Or is that confidential? I'm not going to rat you out, I'm barely a lawyer, let alone a narc. And I need a solid ally in case anyone part of your... um, group ambushes me."

"We're allies now?"

"Are you going to give me a name or what?"

You've already seen his face, and he doubts you'll ever be able to say anything to the authorities without ratting yourself out in the process. Also, he's sure he's never going to see you again, or the maximalist, messy design of your apartment... including the row of CD's and records that you keep in that bookshelf despite being in the age of digital streaming.

"You can call me Rin," half a name, but one nonetheless. "Yeah, Rin is good, or Suna, whatever floats your boat." If he could, he'd try and leave, but he doubts he's in a good enough physical state to do so. Also, being stuck in an apartment with a pretty girl makes him want to stay even more. "Do I get a name from you?"

"No."

"Whatever you say sweetheart," Suna shrugs. "So... a lawyer, what made you go down that route?" He questions, wanting to get his mind off the unbearable ache in his body and sharp pain on his side, as he lays back down on the couch. Might as well get some information on you while he's here.

"I'm doing it for the money." You reply, crossing one leg over the other – unaware of how his eyes follow your movements – as you lean back against the seat, finding some sort of strange comfort in talking to a criminal. "I'm an associate, and in ten years I hope to make partner and move out of this place to somewhere closer to my job. I'm aiming for an apartment on the upper east side, maybe west."

"Is that all?" He hums, watching as you glare at him, "Just for the money?"

"Isn't that why we do anything?" You remark, "For the money, so we can sustain ourselves and live. And it's not like I'm doing court law, or criminal justice, I'm mainly interested in business law – contract and tort law – which is what my firm focuses on, including divorce law, because that's where all the money is."

"So, you're just a lawyer who conveniently knows how to bandage up a wound and goes around saving gang members?" Suna comments, "Oh, and how can I forget the whole trading a life thing for safety."

"Well, it's better than running around on the streets causing havoc." You retort, "Besides, becoming a lawyer is in my blood, meaning both my parents are lawyers and I was told as a young girl that I'd be a good one. Whether or not that was a compliment, can be debated. It's a stable career, a respectable one, and once I move up the ranks, I'll be able to order myself town cars."

"And law is something you really want to do?"

You're quiet for a moment before getting up to walk to your kitchen to brew yourself a cup of tea, "Yes. It is. I don't see what else I could do; the arts are a dying career where only one in a million makes a name for themselves, I don't plan on being the next big entrepreneur, and I hated biology and anything medical." You flip on the kettle, hearing it begin to boil as you dig through your tea bags. "Besides, law seemed easy enough, and there's nothing wrong with sitting through prenuptial meetings."

Suna feels a lot better about getting trapped with a lawyer now. He was initially scared of getting trapped with a potential narc with a six-foot pole up their ass, but you, you're just like every other sleazebag lawyer who's in it for the money. It's refreshing.

"Yeah, and I guess there's that whole thing of justice, but I don't even work in that field." You continue, "The justice system is fucked up anyway, and why would I want to contribute to that? I mean, I could get an innocent life out of prison but then again, I could fuck up and let a guilty person run free or risk them getting a reduced sentence. But, I don't work in that type of field, I just praise the people who do."

You wait for the kettle to finish boiling, and once it does, you pour the water into your mug, adding in honey or sugar into the mix before walking back to the living room. Not before grabbing a bag of chips from your shelf, tossing it at him. He is a guest, can't be that rude.

Reluctantly, Suna accepts it. He hasn't been around you long, but the way you've abandoned your baseball bat and returned all his belongings must mean you don't see him as that big of a threat. Well, how could you? You saw him at his weakest, and he hasn't given you a reason to be afraid... or he hopes he hasn't. Additionally, you're not that much of a threat either, you're smart enough to get through law school, attend an ivy, and work as an associate at a well-known firm in the city. And while he doesn't see much of what you do in your private life, he can see the few small framed photographs on the lamp tables next to him.

He can see you partying with friends, clearly drunk at the time when the photograph was taken, which must mean that you do know how to have fun in whatever spare time you have. Also, your refusal to give him a name eliminates the idea of him ever searching you up online. Meaning, whatever worries he's supposed to have can easily be debunked.

"So, what exactly is your role?" You ask.

"I work in the background, I help plan out whatever, I stay on guard, I'm there to protect them." He explains as vaguely as he can, not wanting to give the gorey details of his role or job description. By the way you nod, it's clear you accept that fact since you don't bat an eye or demand an explanation. Both of you know that the less you know the better. "Are you not scared of me?"

You can't blame him for wondering. Usually, you'd be terrified or the slightest bit frightened, but enough has happened tonight to make talking to a criminal the most normal thing. However, he's not exactly the worst presence. Sure, you can see the way he's looking at you, feel his gaze burn into your skin, how they trail up and down your body – and while it gets a piece of your heart racing, at least you know that he isn't planning on harming you.

"No." You shake your head, "I mean, you probably would scare me if I were to be walking alone on the street at this time of night, and I would definitely be terrified if you happened to be with all your friends. But you're alone, in my apartment, I can see your face, and you're wounded. You can't hurt me, at this point in time, I'm a lot stronger than you."

Unfortunately, you make a good point. He doubts he can walk comfortably, let alone act as a proper threat. "Right, of course," he hums, noticing the obvious blood stain on your couch. "Sorry about that, sweetheart." He comments, "I'll get you a new couch."

"Good," you say, biting back a smile. "I'd prefer one in cream, or even this light grey. In terms of style, I'd like one with a wider back and comfy cushions – like a cloud couch – if you can find one that will fit this apartment, that'd be great."

Suna's lips twitch up in a smile as he listens to you give him a detailed description, you avoid his eyes, staring down at the steam coming out of your mug. He tries to sit up to get your attention before it fades away – and for the act of dramatics, he lets out an exaggerated groan, which causes you to rush towards him – you place your mug on the lamp table behind you and crawl onto the floor in front of him.

You push him back down onto the couch, the force being more painful than when he tried to get up, you lift his shirt up to examine the damage you poorly tried to cover up, it looks fine physically, but you can't imagine what he's feeling. "I can't do much, as I said, I'm not a licensed medical professional." You say, moving down his stained shirt. Your touch ignites a trail of flames along his abdomen that takes all his willpower to fight.

"At least, I'm alive and not curled up by a pile of trash." He remarks.

"Yeah, but who's to say that's going to happen again?" You question, "Next time you get into a situation like this, I can't guarantee that someone will be there to patch you up in time."

"If it's not you patching me up, I don't want to live."

"Oh," you say, surprised, backing up from him. "Well, that doesn't give you an excuse to show up to my doorstep all bloody if it does end up happening again."

It has been a week since you've seen Suna.

Last friday you were nursing a gang member back to life with the promise of safety for silence, and a new couch – both of which you aren't sure you're going to get anytime soon. Instead, you still clutch your taser while you walk home, and you've done your best to wash the stain on the couch cushion. However, nothing is getting rid of that disgusting, faded stain, so you've opted to flip it over and hope time will make you forget.

The individual lamps and overhead lights illuminate the apartment, the candles flames are burning– casting a mixed scent of florals, vanilla, and lavender – creating the perfect ambiance for a Friday night in.

You sigh, collecting a mountain of rice – from your ready-made curry – on your spoon, curled up on your couch, gaze fixed on the television that plays an old show you were obsessed with in your teens. Beside you, is a glass of wine filled with ice cubes, and the bottle is placed on the floor awaiting refill. What else is there for you to do than stay home on a Friday night?

"Previously on Pretty Little Liars," you hear play through the speakers, shoving a mountain of food into your mouth, "It's Mona– Hanna won so Mona loses..."

You sink down into the couch, suddenly engrossed in the recap. It's been a while since you've had time to catch up on television, so the recaps serve a well-needed purpose to remind you of the over-the-top drama and plethora of plotholes. There is nothing better than unwinding after a long, long, week at work. Grabbing the wine glass, ice cubes clinking as you bring the drink up to your lips.

It's an odd combination, putting ice cubes in wine– that's unheard of – but you don't mind the diluted taste, also, you aren't the biggest fan of wine, it just seemed classier than making yourself a sad looking cocktail. Though, given the fact you're watching one of the more questionable teen mystery dramas, wine with ice does not seem like the worst situation.

You could have easily gone out, but all your friends are all too tired to go out, and drinks at bars are far too expensive. And let's be honest, going out by yourself is possibly one of the most depressing things a person could do, also that would mean walking home by yourself intoxicated. Obviously, that's not the smartest or safest decision, given the current rise in crime.

Engrossed in the show, absentmindedly feeding yourself until you're scraping the plastic container with your spoon picking up scraps. Sighing, you slide off the sofa, dragging your feet towards the kitchen where you toss out the empty container and dump your spoon into the sink. Half of your attention is still focused on the television, not wanting to miss anything going on.

Drifting back towards the couch, leaning against the armrest as you refill your wine glass, bringing the bitter alcohol to your lips and tasting it on your tongue. This will be your second glass of the night, the first glass came and went as quickly as the previous episode did.

A loud knock on the door sounds throughout the apartment, causing you to choke on your drink. Frightened, you place the glass down on the lamp table, pushing yourself away from the couch as cautiously and quietly as you can. Walking on your tiptoes back to the kitchen, reaching into a drawer for a knife.

Of course you're not going to open the door, you're not stupid. You're simply going to sit against it, clutching the knife until whoever is on the other side goes away... like a responsible, intelligent, adult. It could be someone with the wrong address, despite how persistent they are on knocking. And no criminal would think of knocking either!

Maybe you should turn off the television, give the illusion that no is home, or alternatively, you could turn the volume all the way up and drown out the sound of their fist pounding against wood. Nevertheless, hiding out in front of this door with a knife seems like the safest option. If things go wrong, and the intruder does break in, you can stab them and leave their body on the street.

Crime isn't news around this area, unfortunate things occur all the time! And the police, being police, won't bother stepping in. It's an accidental murder in a bad part of town, or another victim to gang violence, they won't bother finding out it was a kitchen knife that caused the death. Morally, will it crush you? Yes. It will.

You lean back against the door, the continuous knocks do not falter... Until they do, you hear them rest their head against the wood. Maybe they've finally given up. Slowly, you get up from the floor, the faint noise of police sirens flying by. You backpedal until your back hits the counter, reluctantly, you place the knife on the surface behind you.

Heart racing in your chest, then you hear it. You hear him. "Sweetheart, open the door." His voice is muffled, but a simple piece of wood is not going to hide the exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please," he adds.

You hope that your home isn't the new hideout for gang members running from the police, but you can't stop yourself from quickly striding towards the front door and swinging it open. "Oh my god," you gasp, catching him in your arms before he plummets onto the floor. Stumbling back, you quickly catch your balance and drop him on the couch – the same way you did last week – where he falls back, arms resting on the back cushions.

Apparently, Suna has taken an involuntary liking towards you and insists on showing up outside your apartment, and door every time he gets hurt. At least, this time around, he's not shot, stabbed, or badly wounded, he just looks a little... beat up. Busted lip, and black eye that's beginning to form. You know this is not the time, but god does he look so good.

Lord knows what he's gotten himself into, why he's bruised or why out of all the places he could run, he ran here... to you. What happened? Why is he suddenly out of breath, unable to stand, and exhausted on your couch? You climb over him, straddling his lap, and grab his face between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" You huff, slapping the side of his face to jolt him awake, "This is no time for a nap Rin, you need to tell me what happened."

Even in this dazed state of mind, even after running five blocks, being chased by both the police and the Crows as a distraction while his team can get away. Getting cornered, beat up (not as bad as the others), picking the lock to get into your building, then running up the stairs, and waiting for you to let him in. He can still appreciate the sight in front of him, including those shorts, his hands running up your thighs, leaning his head back while his lips turn up into a smirk.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I had to run, and believe it or not, this is the safest place for me." He mutters, sitting up to lean in close to you. "And I know you won't refuse me," he hums. Suna's breath is hot against yours, his touch running up and down your thighs setting a fire to burn and a shiver to involuntarily run down your spine. He kicks off his shoes, opting to make himself comfortable on your couch.

"This is not your safe haven," you scoff, pressing a hand flat on his chest to push him back from you as you climb off his lap. You storm over to the kitchen, opening the small freezer hatch on your fridge to pull out a frozen bag of peas for his eye. Sure, it's not your job to care for him, but you can't help doing it – as if it has been engraved in your memory after one experience. You toss the frozen peas at him, which he luckily knows what they're for. "I did you a favour, which you have yet to return, by the way."

He holds the frozen bag of peas up to his eye, this is not the warm welcome he's been expecting, and for your information he has kept up one side of his deal. He has kept your street a no-go zone, and he has been making sure that you are safe. Sure, his methods are a bit stalkerish, he's been trailing you to and from work – lurking from the shadows and wiping out any potential threats that come your way. In terms of the new couch... he's working on it.

"Don't tell me that you're running from the police," you say, beginning to pace back and forth in your living room. "What do you think you're doing?" You exclaim, "You can't keep coming here to hide from the police! Do they know what you look like? Do they know that you came here? Do you know that my entire career can be ruined?"

"Calm down sweetheart," Suna hums. "No one knows I'm here, you're fine. And speaking of the police... yeah, I'm running from them, but I managed to get away through a couple short cuts. Trust me, you're safe." He stands from the couch, one long stride taken to reach you, his hands running down your arms in a somewhat reassuring manner. With one hand tilting up your chin, "And I wanted to see you."

His eyes are mesmerising, a perfect combination of green, yellow, and grey. It's hard to not melt under their gaze. Your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his touch away from your face before turning on your heel to walk towards your bedroom. He hates to see you leave, but he loves to watch you walk away. Maybe this is the universe repaying him for almost dying, it sent an angel in the form of you.

"Wanted to see me," you mutter to yourself, packing up the mess on your bed. The files, loose papers, highlighters, notes, and your laptop. You move them to sit on your cluttered vanity. "As flattering as that is," you continue, "I'd rather you come see me when you're not running from law enforcement. You owe me."

"Sorry to add insult to injury, but I was wondering if I could camp out here for the night?" Suna asks, leaning against the doorframe of your room. He knows you're not going to deny him refuge, whether you want to admit it or not. You don't have it in your heart to leave him out in the rain. Even if you want him gone, he's not going to leave. He's never been that good at taking hints – hence the black eye and busted lip. "Just for the night."

"One night." You sigh, "Only if –" there's always a catch "– you avoid robbing my bank, and stay clear of where I work, and make sure that everyone knows that. And no more attracting police to this side of town," you list. "And if you're going to stay here frequently, I'm going to need some sort of compensation."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." You nod, "now," you begin pushing the brunette back into the living room and onto the couch. Since he's here, may as well check up on how that old stab wound is going. You force him down onto the sofa, his back hitting the cushions – the wind escaping his lungs – as you lift up his shirt. There's still a nasty cut that's bound to turn into an even worse scar, but at least it's healing correctly.

"You sure are quite aggressive," he comments, propping his head up with his hands as he looks up at you. "I don't mind, kinda like it." He purrs, softly laughing at the way you pull his shirt back down and storm up off the ground, grabbing your wine glass and downing the rest of the contents. "I was just teasing babe, no need to overreact."

"Are you aware that you're an idiot?" You comment, placing your glass and the wine bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Do you like that I'm an idiot?" He retorts. He's got a bit of a little infatuation with you. A hot shot associate with a morally grey high ground, and a weakness for criminals like him. It is not everyday a pretty normal girl like you fixes him up and lets him into the apartment while he's running from the cops.

"The same way I like how I continuously find myself harbouring a fugitive." You reply, "It could be better. And can you please either use the frozen peas or put them back in the freezer."

You have better things to do! Sure, the situation could be worse. At least Suna is decent to look at, and he's alright company who doesn't want to kill you, and you have felt the slightest bit safer on your walks to and from work. Though, it's not like you're thrilled to have him in your apartment.

He gets up from the couch, places the peas back where they belong, then slides in next to you. He grabs the wine bottle, taking a swig from the bottle. You watch him intently, the way his Adam's apple moves, the beginning traces of a bruise forming around his eye, and the cut on his lip. He still wears that stupid leather jacket, but at least there's no blood on his hands, legs, or torso. Suna glances at you from the corner of his eye, holding the bottle firmly in his hand, "Take a picture. It lasts longer."

"I would," you say, "but that would mean proving a direct affiliation with you. And lord knows if you ever get caught, I'd rather die than testify in court and risk losing all respect I have in this industry."

"I get it," he shrugs, "I'm bad news, but that doesn't mean I'm necessarily a bad person. I mean, you make money off people's brokens marriages, shouldn't that equate to something? I think that we both do bad things, but we're not bad people."

"Comparing me to you is a low blow," you snort. "That's like comparing apples and oranges."

"They're both fruit aren't they? They both grow on trees, they both make juice." Suna argues, "One is sure, significantly better than the other, but that all depends on personal preference."

You meet his eyes, seeing nothing other than the greyish-green hues. He's got that tough exterior that can draw any girl toward him – including you – the danger that people write about, the allure and flirty personality that makes him less of an asshole and more human. He is the fallen angel that the universe sent to you as a form of twisted karma and dilemma of morals that cross a line. He's beautiful, prideful, a criminal, but has got a strong sense of loyalty and protection. Why else will he make himself the scapegoat to every situation?

"Yeah, well, anyone with a brain can tell who's the better one of the both of us."

"If this is about breaking the law," he says, placing the bottle down on the counter. He steps in front of you, trapping you between his arms, pushing you back against the counter as his body presses against yours. "You're breaking a lot by being here with me, hiding me from the law, trading silence for safety, I'm sure there's something in the constitution that you've broken by not turning me in." He lowers his voice, dipping his head down to yours, "I'm sure if I string enough together, you can be charged with aiding and abetting."

"That's one thing out of the many covering your roster."

He bends down, lips brushing against your own. Heart pounding against your chest. He's so close. Remnants of his cologne fill your senses; oak, wood, musk, sweet amber, cardamom, raspberry. He's addictive in all the ways he shouldn't be. A real fallen angel. Beautiful, perfect, but dangerous, treacherous, and duplicitous. But what does that make you? You're addicting, the light in his dark tunnel, his bittersweet obsession that he cannot indulge in.

"You don't care." He rasps, "If you did, you would have kicked me out. You like me, you like having a dirty little secret, you fucking revel in it."

You don't respond, verbally that is. You break the small gap between the two of you. He reciprocates the action, deepens the kiss, presses you further back against the counter. A hand gripping your hip, while the other travels up your neck, holding under your jaw tight between his fingers. His body against yours, fingers wrapping around the belt loops of his jeans trying desperately to pull him closer. It's messy, driven, and lustful.

Your hands travel under his shirt, feeling the burning skin and the shiver that runs down his spine. The hand he has on your hips, his fingers dig harder into your side while the one around your neck shifts to the nape, reaching up to tug at the roots of your hair. The throaty moan that he elicits from you sends him into overdrive, fuck you're addictive. He wants you, so bad. He needs you.

Palms placed flat on his stomach you step forward, pushing him back onto the couch. He takes in the sight of you, standing over him in those little shorts and tank top that hugs your body so well. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, and his hands instinctively run up the back of your thighs, sliding under your shorts. Rough hands making themselves comfortable, holding the flesh in his hands, squeezing hard as he helps you grind down onto him. He's hard as a fucking rock, and your moving against him so needy. The friction against your clit, slow and tortuous, small whimpers and staggered breaths that Suna swallows.

Your hands move to move the leather jacket off his body, which he tosses across the living room, leaving him in a black muscle tee that shows off all the hidden, scattered tattoos on his arms you've never had the pleasure of seeing. His fingers grab the front of your tank top, tugging down the fabric to expose you to him. His cold hand cupping your tit, the pad of his thumb running over a hardened nipple as goosebumps scatter down your body and you press down further into the bulge in his jeans.

"Fuck," he groans at your reaction, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw, neck, collarbones, before his lips wrap around your chest. His tongue pressing against you, teeth grazing your skin, while his hand continues to work and massage against the other.

Your back arches, hands tangling themselves in his brown hair, continuously grinding against him as his leaves scatter hickey across your chest. "Sweetheart, you're killing me." He murmurs, reconnecting your lips together. You hum against him, lifting your arms in the air as he pulls off your top, throwing it across your apartment before he does the same with his shirt.

You begin to kiss down his chest, his torso, his stomach, falling down to the floor in front of him – between his legs – as you undo his belt. Suna's eyes fixed on you, the sweetly dangerous glimmer in your eyes as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He lips his hips, allowing you to pull them down – jeans and briefs – letting his clothes drop to the floor. He shudders the second your hand wraps around his dick, head dropping back and hands gripping onto your hair.

Wrapping your lips around the sensitive tip, you tease the spot hearing desperate whimpers escape his throat. Tongue flat against him, head beginning to bob back and forth, cheeks hollowing out as you literally suck the soul out of him. The salty taste of pre-cum on your tongue, his hands firmly entwined in your hair as he lets out a strain of whimpers, bucking his hips up, controlling your movements making you take him deeper in your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly.

Tears begin to prickle in your eyes. Head moving back and forth at a faster pace, his hands knotted in your hair as he takes control, fucking your mouth. Looking up through teary eyes, laying eyes on a sinful sight. His abdomen flexing, head thrown back, eyes shut, and Adam's apple moving at every repressed whimper and moan. You grip onto his thighs as he increases his pace.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Breathless moans coming out in repeated pleas that chase a high. He's so close, impatient, and seeking a heavy and desperate release. "Just like that baby, keep going."

You don't stop, you continue as a mess of fallen tears, pre-cum and saliva. You can't breathe, throat filled with his cock. He fucks your throat, using you for pleasure. He fucks your mouth, swollen head hitting the back of your throat, shuddering as you to swallow or gasp for air. You feel his dick twitch, and in seconds a hot load is shot down your throat and his grip on you loosens. You swallow down his cum, tongue and lips cleaning him up. Once, your lips remove themselves from his cock, he wastes no time to pull you up and reconnect your lips, tasting him on your tongue. You stand from your knees, and he pulls down your shorts along with the simple black panties, then pulls you down onto the couch, laying you on your back.

He hovers over you, hand wrapping itself around your throat as he kisses you. The other, spreads your leg, calloused rough fingers pressing against your cunt. Using the arousal to rub against your clit, a harsh play of light and rough. Fingers pressing hard against your clit, causing a strained moan to sound through the living room, he rubs against the bud. Playing between teasing movements, to forceful mechanisms. He's fast and slow, teasing you, edging you.

"Rin," you muster out, biting down on his lip which pushes him to give you what you need. Working his fingers swiftly, skillfully, roughly against your clit. You squirm beneath him, he's vicious against you, his free hand kneading your tit in a hard grasp. "Fuck, Rin." You moan, chest rising and falling, as he quickens his pace. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you grip onto the armrest of the couch, mouth agape.

Legs twitching, as he brings you to an insatiable climax. His fingers are covered in your slick. He brings them up to his mouth, getting a taste of what he's missing out of. He doesn't waste time, wrapping your legs around his shoulders before he buries himself in your cunt. Lips wrapping themselves around your clit, sucking on it, his tongue moving at a rapid pace. He feels how sensitive you are. Fingers digging into your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You're a mess, a writhing, mess. And the way he looks up at you through half lidded eyes, buried between your thighs. You sink your hands into his hair, looking for something to hold onto. A groan rumbles in his throat, sending you farther over the edge. He increases his pace, devouring you like a starved man who hasn't eaten in years. He's pushing you over the edge, your heels digging into his back, pulling at his hair, forcing him deeper into you.

To add fuel to the fire, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curling into your sweet spot that has you bucking your hips into his mouth. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, perfectly matching the pace of his tongue. He continues until he feels you come undone, pleasure and heat clouding your vision as he pulls away from you. He examines the sight, leaning in close to you.

"I need to feel you." He pleads, the blood already rushing back to his dick, "I need you sweetheart."

You nod, "Please." Whispering, "It's fine, I'm on the pill." You reassure.

He almost collapses right there and then, letting out a whimper as he slides into you. Feeling you raw and whole, he's going crazy, losing his mind at the way you suck him in. Your walls around his dick, warm and so good that he could come right there and then. His find is spinning, he's going absolutely feral over being in you. He slowly moves out, before bottoming out, stealing your breath in the process. That's all he needed, the feeling of having you grip around him.

Suna thrusts into you, picking up a faster speed and your ragged breaths urging him on. He revels in the way your tits bounce, his movements causing the sinful shake of your body. Your nails digging into his back, scratching the skin. If he could save this as a permanent memory in his mind, he would, and he'd replay it over and over again in his dreams. He bottoms out, rolling his hips each time he does so, thrusting in and out at a faster speed and pace.

He then pulls out, the lack of touch jolting you back from your daze, only for him to flip you over onto your stomach, harsh grip on your hips as he lifts your ass in the air. He grips onto the flesh, holding it in his palms while he tugs them towards him in a big thrust. You let out a moan, face buried into the couch cushions, as he pounds into you.

Dick reaches deep into your cunt, watches you shake under him, the couch shakes, and the lamps shake. He holds both your wrists in his hands, pinning them behind your back, as he pushes himself faster, rougher, crazier than he did before. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the apartment, mixed in with your strained whimpers and his throaty groans. "You like this?" He mutters.

This is so much better than he imagined. All the nights he spent with his hand wrapped around his dick in the shower and in bed. The thought of you crumbling beneath him, moaning out his name, becoming nothing but putty underneath him. The thought of him pounding into you relentlessly, feeling you bare and raw, the way your walls wrap around his cock. Imagination never could have prepared him for this, it's so much better than he imagined.

You're so wet around him. He fucks into you, in and out so quickly that you can't even grasp onto the feeling despite your cunt quivering and tightening around him every time he fills you. He lands a hard slap on your ass, only to rub over the red spot, roughly massaging and kneading the flesh. Suna continues to go harder, faster, more feral, moving both your hips to meet. Back is arched and he pushes you further down into the cushions, if that's even possible.

"You're no saint sweetheart," his hips stuttering, "you fucking love getting fucked dirty by a criminal." He rasps, tugging you up by your arms, whispers close to your ear sending a shiver down your spine. "Tell me how much you love it," he instructs. "Go on."

"I love it." You breathe out. Suna forcefully pushes you back down onto the couch, harshly pounding into you, "Fuck, so good."

"No one's ever gonna fuck you as good as I will. I'm going to make you mine, I'm going to corrupt you, I'll protect you." His voice falters at the feeling of you tightening around him, his cock twitching in response. "Fuck, you're mine. Mine only, and I'll fucking kill anyone who comes near you."

You listen to him, losing all sense of strength in your body. You're so close, he knows you are. "Rin, please keep going, I'm so close." You whimper, and he endures, picking up his pace and pushing into you faster, deeper, and harder until you become a limp mess, tightening around him, giving him the greenlight to release.

He cums inside you, white liquid filling you and dripping out as he pulls out. Your hips fall to the couch, as you flip over in time for him to collapse on top of you. If you didn't need a new couch before, you definitely need one now. His arms wrap under your body, he lays between your legs, head resting on your rising and falling chest, hearing your heartbeat in his ears. You brush your fingers through his hair.

He meant what he said. You're his, and he will fucking kill anyone who comes near you. 

[hs-transfusion]

> JADE STRIDER

CHUMHANDLE: gaianGenerator [GG] STRIFE: brssknklkind MODUS: Periodic Table LUNAR SWAY: Derse MYTH. ROLE: Thief of Blood LAND: Land of Rhythm and Rivers

GG: now thats what i call a scientific fuckin BREAKTHROUGH B)

Jade is tough to read, wholly by design. Her IMPENETRABLE STOICISM and DRY WIT lend her an aloof air that convinces damn near everyone that she's HOT SHIT, which isn't an entirely untrue sentiment. There's nary an experience that can GROSS or WEIRD HER OUT. That's what happens when you've already SEEN IT ALL ONLINE, or so she claims.

Though she insists her love for FURRIES and STUFFED ANIMALS is entirely ironic, it couldn't be further from the truth. She LOVES those little guys, but under the Strider name is forced to CONSTANTLY BAG ON THEM. At least she can bond with the CROWS SHE TAXIDERMIES after they meet unfortunate demises in the neighbouring areas. She also has a passing interest in NUCLEAR SCIENCE, but it's, like, whatever.

Jade's PERIODIC TABLE Fetch Modus allows her to store an item only if its name or initials CORRESPONDS WITH AN OFFICIALLY CLASSIFIED ELEMENT. Peanut butter can be logged as Pb, or a Ca-n of Sprite can be logged as Ca.

Jade's relationship with her BRO is pretty complicated to say the least. He strives to HONE HER MARTIAL CRAFT through combat training, and though she puts her all into it, the constant PSYCHOLOGICAL MIND GAMES stresses her out beyond belief. The second any such thought comes up however, she's quick to SHUT IT OUT all together. He's just her BRO. Doesn't have to be more complicated than that. At least he has good taste in PUPPETS.

The Land of RHYTHM AND RIVERS is the WORLD'S LARGEST METRONOME, with a faint, pulsing sound echoing throughout the skies with PERFECT TIMING (most of the time). The rivers run red, though that's likely just because of the RED SKIES. Hopefully. Whenever the planet's heart seems to SKIP A BEAT, terrible calamities strike all across the land, something that the denizen HERA seems to wish fixed.