#unless there's some form of familiarity

[thedarknesseater]

This is certainly v weird, but I'm realising that I don't really like random strangers on the internet (not my beloved moots) using she/her for me. It's they/them to you.

[yngai]

today's the anniversary of john's last letter to ada written knowing he is already infected & begging her to go public with everything they uncovered together at arklay, turn on the lab's self destruct & to put him down if she ever saw him turned. she never read his last words, they were many on a list of letters sent to her & burned after her transfer to NEST where she was light on her feet beginning to befriend annette birkin (a relationship that eventually led to an affair), she forgot about john as quickly as he fell in love with her, happy july 8th everyone

[slater-baby]

Money Shot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags - Squirting, voyeurism, toys, mentions of breeding

-

“Simon?” Price calls from the head of the boardroom, arms crossed in deep contemplation, “What do you think? Is it feasible?”

“Feasible? Sure,” He glances at the tactical plan with a minute shake of his head, “Advisable? Not so much. I mean, that structure is...what? Three, four meters? Unless the drop point is on the fuckin' roof, there’s no way the cunts won’t see us coming.”

“Hm,” Price grunts, running a hand through his beard. Around the boardroom, various members of the congregation shift in their seats.

“What about…” Gaz begins, and then, Simon hears it.

BZZ.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers beneath his breath, leaning forward in his chair to pull his phone out of his pocket. Just recently, he’d installed a set of cameras about the house and porch.

‘Just for extra security, love,’ he’d told you. Since you moved in with him—and what with your name now written into his will—his time away on deployment and in the office had become…a liability, to say the least. 

On a good day, Simon didn’t like to leave you by yourself. But for extended periods of time? When he couldn’t so much as pick up the phone to send you a text?

His fried nerves had all but demanded it. The cameras were his only failsafe. His only means of connecting with you, even when you were oblivious to it. In his mind, when he was deployed to some desolate war zone, slumming it in drafty safehouses, sustaining himself on MREs and cigarettes, then just seeing you quiet and content in your usual place on the sofa, flipping through a book or doing a face mask, would be enough to tide him over. 

Though, he’d failed to consider just how goddamn annoying the notifications would soon become.

Hurriedly, he glances at his phone under the table, halfheartedly listening to the meeting.

‘MASTER BEDROOM - MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ his phone so helpfully supplies him.

He scowls.

Movement detected. Yeah, right. Just like the other twenty times it’d told him that in the past hour alone. He digs his index finger into the ringer switch, but just at that moment, another notification comes.

And with it, another…And another…And another….

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ it says to him yet again, as if he were an idiot too dull to even read.

“MOVEMENT DETECTED!! INTRUDER ALERT!!!” It seems to screech, “GRAB YOUR GUN, SOLDIER, THE DAY ISN’T OVER YET!!’

Annoyance climbing by the minute, Simon hurriedly flicks through his apps, all too eager to return to the meeting at hand. Within seconds, he’s staring at the grey display of your sparsely lit living room.

If anything, it’s a bit messy, but hardly remarkable. The TV is on, some soapy romance show still rolling in the background. There’s a pillow on the floor. The cat is lounging in a flickering patch of dying sunlight. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

He switches to the kitchen. Nothing but the hum of the old fridge greets him. And in the dining room, it’s a similar story. So, attention wavering with every word that Kyle speaks, he angrily flicks through the porch cameras and straight to the master bedroom. 

And that’s when he hears it.

The smallest, weakest little voice…

“God, Simon…”

At the sound—barely audible over the noise of Price’s lecture—his heart rate spikes.

Physically, he can feel his blood rushing, nerves shredding themselves to pieces as he hurriedly presses the rotate button on screen. Slowly—almost as if to taunt him—the janky camera begins to turn. And with every second longer he has to wait, darker possibilities begin to flood his synapses.

You’d fainted.

You’d fallen.

You’d broken a bone.

Or, perhaps the very worst, he’d find someone else standing over you.The exact reason he’d installed the cameras in the first place.

He waits with bated breath, practically unblinking, until he finds the source of the movement. The blankets atop the bed jostle, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees your familiar form swathed in pillows and fluff. Safe, warm, and most importantly, alone.

“Simon…” you say again—voice strained. Almost as if you were…crying?

Again, he glances at Price. The man is distracted, going on about the MTC once more. Surreptitiously, Simon looks back down at his phone, confused.

Were you sick? Laid up in bed with a fever?

No, somehow that didn’t feel like the right description. Last month, when you’d caught the flu, you could hardly stand to sit still. Simon practically had to chain you to the bed just to force you to get some decent rest.

Then, what could it be?

Did you miss him, perhaps?

At the thought, his chest warms. In all his years of service, Simon never had someone to miss him. He had his friends, sure, but they were his home away from home, the family he’d never known he’d find. Off service, however, before he’d met you, home wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t dear to his heart. Hell, it was little more than a house, with a sofa and television. 

But when you came along….

You, with your shining eyes, witty jokes, and unending support…

He’d never known that the most precious gift a man could receive is someone to come home to at night and to miss him when he leaves in the morning.

Fondly, he looks at his phone screen, hardly listening to the meeting at hand.

Within your cradle of old blankets and sheets, you shift, a whimper escaping your mouth. It echoes in the grainy speakers of his phone, and he hardly even thinks to lower the volume…

That is, until you move again, and the blankets fall down.

One of your arms pushes the blankets down, and suddenly, Simon has an eyeful of your bare tits. Naked, shining with sweat, and nipples raw from being tweaked.

Instantly, his eyes go wide, and he jolts forward to hide his phone in the shadow of the conference table. 

Not crying. Definitely not crying, his brain rambles, watching as the curve of your breasts squish into the mattress as you twist beneath the sheets. The flimsy fabric, threadbare after so many long nights together, wraps around your legs like a vice. 

And that is exactly when he sees it.

Your back arches way from the mattress and your entire body thrums with electricity, hips moving fast and hard, every roll just as desperate and jagged as when you slide into his lap during movie nights, unbuckling his belt before he can even think to open his mouth.

“Fuck!” You nearly scream—and Simon literally flinches, hurriedly whipping his head around to look at the other men.

“Simon?” Price suddenly questions, “You alright? Was that your phone again?”

“Um,” he begins tactfully, clearing his throat, “Yeah—just m’girlfriend walkin’ in front o’ the camera again.”

“Oh,” Price nods, “She doing alright? Haven’t seen ‘er recently.”

“Yeah—she’s…” he huffs, blindly rapidly down at his phone where you writhe against the sheets, fingers thrusting between your thighs.

“She’s doing…great,” he manages, swallowing thickly when you reach a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits.

“Well, give ‘er my regards next time you talk to to ‘er.”

“‘Course, sir.”

“Now, back to what I was saying about the perimeter…”

With that, Simon holds his breath for a few torturous minutes. However, when the other men continue on as if nothing had ever happened, he surreptitiously leans back in his chair…and looks down at the phone again.

His hearing fades to nothing but a distant buzz, pulse racing in his chest, like his heart might explode at any moment. And even though he’s muted the volume, he swears he can hear your moans ringing in his ears, vibrating in his very bones.

In the black and white video, you throw your head back against the pillows, hips jumping so hard the flimsy sheet falls down to your ankles. And soon enough, he can see every part of you. The softness of your heaving stomach, the sweat against your cheeks, the delicate shine of slick between your sweet folds…

Your entire body tenses, and undoubtedly you cry out again. He already knows what you’re saying, even if it’s all but silent in his hands.

His name.

You’re there, needy and alone, a wet spot between your legs on the sheets, shouting his name like there was any hope of him actually hearing it—as if there was any hope of him finding you,  filling you up, and giving you what you truly need. 

At that thought, pride wells up in his veins, hot and bubbling. And before he knows it, his blood is rushing south at an alarming rate.

“Please,” he can imagine you begging him, “Please….Please, Simon, just a little. Just the tip…”

You’d say it with heat in your cheeks and a pout on your lips, wrapping a shaky hand around his hip so that he couldn’t pull back, so that he couldn’t tease you any longer. You’d whine and whimper, tears gathering in your eyes, as you weakly pulled him forward, just enough to wrap one of those precious hands around his leaking cock.

You’d guide him forward like that—in a way he couldn’t deny—and you’d sit there, batting your eyelashes, sliding your wet cunt over the tip of his condom-covered dick, like that might tempt him just enough to take it off…to fuck you full and hard, until he was leaking out of your fluttering pussy and into your ruined panties.

He bites his lip.

You’d begged him before. On your knees, kissing the head of his cock. On your stomach, pushing your ass up against his hips. With your face buried in the pillows, nearly sobbing for it.

“Just once, Simon. Please—I promise. Just a little bit. Just the tip,” you said every time—as if those words made the act any better.

And, god, Simon wanted it. He wanted it so, so badly. To feel the warmth of your body, the heat of your bare skin against his own…to feel your pulse thumping between your legs as he fucked his cum right into the seat of your very womb.

So far, you hadn’t manage to take him raw just yet. If not because he had the patience of a Saint, then for the fact that your doctor kept rescheduling your birth control appointment.

Yet, looking at you now…

He breathes in low and deep, watching as your legs shake, toes curling.

The sheets fall off the bed.

And with another cry, you pull the dripping dildo from between your legs, curling your thighs together in absolute ecstasy.

Jaded, he looks at the damned toy. A cheap replica of his own cock. You’d given him a mould on Valentine’s Day—mostly as a joke…until next deployment came around, and you all but begged him to do it.

He still remembers how ridiculous it felt, looking down at your satisfied smile while you licked him clean afterwards, merely as a ‘thank you’ for all his hard work.

Beneath the shadow of your dangling calves, he can see the promise of your dripping cunt tucked between your sweet thighs. Desperate, wet, and wanting…

He scowls.

Pills, doctors, and implants be damned. If Simon had it his way, you’d be filled and sated, womb swollen with his seed, evidence of all the love he had yet to give you. It’s a tempting thought—one that nearly drags him into his mind once and for all.

However, a sudden movement on the camera catches his attention.

The toy is still in your hand. Strings of slick drip off of it and onto the flat of your thigh. With your other hand, you spread your abused folds, barely able to pull them back with how wet you’ve become. Impatiently, slide two of your trembling fingers into yourself, head tossing against the pillows.

“Please,” he swears he can hear it, “Please, please, please—”

You thrust into yourself ruthlessly, flecks of slick flying just at the movement. God, the sound of it must be nothing short of obscene. He can only imagine.

Your offhand tightens around the shaft of the dildo, and this time, when you tense up, the movement is so utterly enrapturing he swears he can see drops of saliva spill over your lips. You yank your hand out of yourself. Your stomach flexes. You yell into the bare room.

And that—that is when he sees it.

Suddenly, a rush of slick squirts out of your cunt and onto the bed, hips flinching as you soak through the sheets beneath your ass. Fuck, even through the horrible quality of the film, he swears he can see the walls of your pussy clenching, opening up around every wash of rushing liquid.

It splatters over your thighs, makes your toes curl into the sheets. The fabric sticks to your skin as you continue to ride out the waves of your orgasm, and when you reach a hand down to rub over your swollen clit, little spurts of it squirt over your naked body in time with every press of your fingers.

Before he even knows it—before he can feel ashamed for it—he’s rock hard against the fly of his jeans, cock pulsing beneath the fabric as he watches you lay panting and flushed in a puddle of your own cum. 

“Yes,” he sees your mouth move, cunt still dribbling onto the bedsheets, “God, yes…”

Hands positively shaking, you lift the toy again, clumsily rubbing your ruined pussy over its shining length.

And, god, he’s helpless to imagine himself in its place. Helpless but to imagine himself between your legs, covered down to his knees in your shining spend. Fuck, it’s intoxicating, and it hits him harder than any drug he possibly could have taken.

Listlessly, he looks at your beautiful face through the film grain…

“Simon,” you whisper to yourself, lazily rubbing your cunt against head of that stupid toy, “Simon…”

Easily, he gets lost in it. 

Lost in the sound of your voice saying his name.

Lost in the heat of your expression.

Lost in the need he feels welling up inside of himself…

Lost in the feeling of his hand palming over himself, hidden by the shadows of the looming conference table.

“Simon?”

The sound of his name—and in the voice of a man no less—makes him jump in his seat. On reflex, he closes his phone.

“What?” He answers cluelessly, slapping his hands down on the surface of the table, like he hadn’t just been thrusting into his own hand mere seconds before.

“I asked you what you thought about it,” Price jammers on, oblivious.

“About what?” he says.

At that, Price raises an eyebrow.

“About the risk assessment results. Y’know…what we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.”

“Risk assessment,” he uselessly repeats, “Yeah. Well, I…”

Price scrunches his face, glancing between his asinine powerpoint and Simon’s covered face.

“Have you been listening?” He huffs, sounding bored.

“Of course,” he clears his throat, hurriedly absorbing the information on screen, “It’s just—I had a question about that. Must’ve left me for a second there…”

“Uh-uh,” Price glances at his wrist watch.

Simon swallows, cock pulsing rapidly in his pants. He scoots his chair in closer to the table.

“If we go in via the rear entrance, then—then I think would should recruit at least one more person for overwatch. Y’know…At the height of the lower wall, I think it might be possible to put a man on the roof. As—as contingency.”

“Sounds fine to me. You think they’d have a decent shot?”

“Well…” he blinks emptily, “At that angle, I think that...”

The clock continues to tick.

Soap yawns at the other side of the table.

Price looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

And Simon…

God, his mind is still stuttering, heart racing with adrenaline.

Distracted, he’s stuck on where his phone lies innocently atop the table…and what he knows is happening just beneath the cover of its black screen.

[kalims]

pop !

giving them a balloon with a confession in it and running away,

premise. out of confession ideas? sick of the pile of stupid papers crumpled up on the leg of your desk? or perhaps you're just in the 'you only live life once' mindset. since the school year is ending, why not get rid of the annoying feeling of him tingling your mind? (in the form of a balloon, you never said you were gonna stick around!)

characters. all sorted by dorm

content. mc runs away after giving it, based on a tiktok I stumbled across approximately a year ago... mentions of marriage (one sign and some were speeding through the future)

note. savanaclaws part hmmm yummy

heartslabyul

unsurprisingly, riddle gets a lot of bizarre things from students and professors alike. confessions are one thing but having one in this... circular, red, full of helium balloon is certainly a surprise. creative, he'll give them that. if anything he's just confused with it in his arms as you just sort of, shove it in his arms and run away. he recognizes you easily but once cater plucks it out of his grip and shows him the message he just turns red.

trey is the type of guy to accept whatever you give him, honestly. it doesn't matter if you give him the most random of items, he'll take it without a single word of query (unless it's really questionable.) you could hand him a bottle of mustard in class, trey'll just blink and hold onto it patiently. a pair of batteries? thanks he guesses. a red, inflated balloon? he spares you a questioning glance but you're already collecting dust with how fast you ran away so he turns it and resists a smile. clearly spotting the bold letters.

the opposite of clover, cater just doesn't take anything from you unless it piques his interest or is just a casual 'hold onto this for a few' like water or something. things bordering past unusual is what he'd hesitate to take, though less given he trusts you. sometimes he doesn't take it all together simply cause he doesn't feel like it. caters probably updated on everything so when you shove the balloon in his arms and beeline he's pulling out his phone ready to scream his ass off in his dump account. (also gotta magicam this, duh.)

will most likely just dump it on the ground without another thought. or hand it back to you. ace does not care about balloons, he might even pop it in your face. that is, if you stayed for more than a second. he feels more inclined to peer further cause you ran away so fast. you looked embarrassed, and he finds out quickly why you'd proceed to never show up to his face for the following week when he spots it. stares at it dumbly for like, a minute before taking off after you... be scared ig.

added to the top ten best moments of his life note on his phone. deuce silently highlights your name on it with the same angry, red bump on his forehead because he accidentally ran into a pole midst trying to find you around the campus. he had the same idea as ace (twins) which is finding you immediately except once he read the confession he promptly lost all his braincells in the process. so he's very excited, slash embarrassed, slash shy? and can't conjure any logic cause it's just your face.

savanaclaw

jokes on you. you think he's gonna make an effort to catch your stupid balloon? leona just watches it drop to the floor. the effort is only exerted when he's absolutely sure you've run away on your slow legs, he's not bashful—not at all. maybe that's just denial speaking though. he takes one look at the balloon, and pops it with a single dig of his nail. the stare is so brief that you'd doubt if he ever read it at all, when the evidence of your apparent love is now non-existent in the physical world, very much still lingering inside him. leona comes to the predicament that he can't seem to sleep days after.

ruggie is all too familiar with the lack of appreciation some folks hold towards cheaper material gifts. like a luxury jewel, a big, shiny lil' thing ultimately rotting in the closet of some soul cause its the 'price' that counts. he spots the words easily, discerning the black ink. not entirely formed with straight lines, the keen eyes of his spots the wriggles some hold. as though whoever wrote was nervous and he bores an impish grin. (and some back corner of his closet holds no big, pricey jewel, but the deflated balloon is worth all the more to him.)

more likely to leave it on accident. after falling victim to the annoying pranks his other first year 'friends' like to do, with him as the victim apparently. he's more suspicious of it than anything, jack does not want a face full of whipped cream once again. he stares at it like it's an alien and only goes for the initiative to take it into his hands when it rolls and showcases the very bold text, highlighted and straight to the point. jack inevitably ends up accidentally popping it due to the fear that some other person probably saw it, he did not mean to wreck it. atleast not with a messy chain of thoughts, but hey. atleast he got the message...

octavinelle

well versed in catching you in a gentle manner, if you ever slipped (he definitely did not practice.) so azul's reflexes respond quick enough to capture the red little thing with ease. he recognizes it as one of your antics, and he rarely doesn't humor them since it was harmless ones that don't really get under his skin, unlike that of the tweels... the curiosity of looking forward to whatever you had far outweighed any annoyance, and great sevens he might actually combust. ("JADE PREPARE THE LOUNGE—") <- absolutely ready to initiate the plans he had detailed through a script ages ago if this were to ever happen, with a red face. ha, ha.

either clueless, or already got an idea based entirely on the adorably stiff look on your face. jade easily puts two and two together, it's quite funny because he picks it up and doesn't spare a single look. stalking off to find you immediately, and only then does he take a peek as to whatever made the balloon special, right in front of you cause apparently he's gotta witness your raw embarrassment in the flesh?

floyd is likely not interested in the ball in the first place, he thinks you want to play catch so he runs after you with a laugh that... makes you a lot more concerned. he flings it uselessly to the face of some poor soul before he sprint after you, probably traumatizing them when they spot the 'I like you' on it, and when they realize they got it from the resident terrorist whose definition of 'I like you' is 'you're entertaining, I'm gonna keep on playing with you'. (only blinks when you tell him about it, seeing as he isn't close to releasing you anytime soon from his arms.) caught you!

scarabia

sparkles, around the sun... too bright... kalim's blinding everyone else with his obvious joy. almost immediately turns it and it's clear he saw something he really liked cause he has one of those grins, really wide, showing off his teeth and his face scrunches up to the point where you could barely spot the red irises of his eyes. his lips are wobbly too! and he thought the notion was simply too cute... (so much he just had to send it back, so you could feel what he felt too!) except it comes in a hundred times balloons inside your home.

really confused. is this supposed to be a new form of comfort in the era that he hasn't caught up with yet? jamil does nothing much to stop you from running away, yeah. that's your choice but it did strike an inkling of suspicion in him. with the way you aggressively shoved the balloon in his arms before you ran away makes him think it's contents are supposed to be for him only. seeing as you collected dust with that sprint, so he brings it home. and damn, thank god he did because seven forbid if anyone else actually saw the flicker of bashfullness in his expression, hopefully not his warming ears either.

pomefiore

you try to fool him by not rushing up to him, shoving it and then speeding away for once. but instead calmly placing it in his arms and then walking away like it might be the last time yall have a friendship haha (👀) vil sees right through you either way. dare I say he thinks the whole execution is strange, he means, you could literally just walk up to him and say the exact same thing written on the balloon and he would've loved it either way but eh, atleast you got it out!

don't walk into his room cause you will probably the very prominent place the balloon has in his room. rook surprisingly did not put it on a pedestal which is tame for his nature, but it does have a place in the corner of stuff he absolutely adores. you'd think you'd spared yourself from the embarrassment of seeing his reaction cause c'mon, that was a confession. it's nerve-wracking! but NO cause you spy him outside the window of your class and suffer a heart attack (3rd floor btw)

wherever he read that, epel's jaw drops. people would mistake him as someone who escaped from a mental asylum from the way he's gaping at a balloon like he just got told vil schoenheit got canceled on magicam for some controversy (he in fact, did not.) spends so much time staring at it, and the following where he's managed to snap out of it is spent also staring off into the distance *wedding bells ringing*

ignihyde

uuuuhhhhh... either send it to him digitally or shove it inside his room and dip?? if we're going with the latter, idia doesn't even notice until like, a day after cause he's been playing for. and it isn't even him who notices!! it's ortho!!! even if he did find it he would've ignored it, but behold, ortho, who reads the text in a hilariously flat tone. idia thought his brother was professing his love until the boy reveals it was from you. (nearly falls off the chair, then actually falls when he realizes it's been a day. imagine getting ghosted irl haha)

ortho could be the delivery boy if you're too embarrassed lmao. will help you in constructing a more poetic way with words but honestly the "YOU'RE CUTE LETS DATE" gets it done. boy probably doesn't understand why you don't wanna do it yourself, and records the entire thing, reaction of the person? forwarded to you until he leaves. but now you're suffering through wanting to watch, and not because you're too pussy to actually do it.

diasomnia

what... malleus is the equivalent of '???' like he's seen a few of these unique, forms but he never got the purpose of them. so he assumes it's like, some nice gift of human traditions question mark. so he appreciates it either way, he looks content honestly which is funny cause the terrifying wizard looks kinda silly holding that balloon like it's a child. actually you should've just gave him a blank balloon cause once he spots the confession, oh honey. are you fine with early marriage?

if you can't find lilia might as well yeet the balloon in the ceiling. chances are, he's there and he's gonna catch it. there's already a cheeky smile quirking up the ends of his lips, usually he'd have some sort of retaliation on the personal attack you inflicted on his heart but oh dear, it's strangely blank. he's humming, the round thing upside down as he rubs his chin in contemplation. everyone's just scared at the echoing giggles of the already dark hallway.

an attack? AN ATTACK! unlike lilia who knows how to use the figurative words youth joke about all the time, sebek is... hilariously serious about most things, if not so much that it strikes just a teeny tiny concern in your mind. honestly you didn't take much into account, not the fact that he might consider it as an assault or something because you're already speeding away. apparently not having gotten too far cause he catches up easily and holds you up by the back of your collar like a cat. (you'd most likely have to mention the words cause all he registered was the apparent attack, when he does check he goes redder in the face and accidentally drops you. nows your chance to run!!)

*angelic voice singing* silver, my boo boo, I mean what...? felt something soft being squeezed into his arms, he knew it was you but assumed it was a pillow so he just?? used it as a pillow?? under his head now?? most folks would be confused at the sight of the sleepy guy laying on a balloon cause, one, it might pop and startle everyone in vicinity, two, there's words scribbled on it. although cut off since his head is blocking the way, but the 'LIKE YOU' is really obvious. so he wakes up, glances at it and goes back to sleep, except he couldn't cause the balloon actually popped comically the same time he absorbed it in.

[rin-and-jade]

Types of Amnesia

Diagram created by me

General criteria for amnesia:

Memory loss

Confusion

Inability to recognize familiar figures/places

Difficulty recalling names or places

Not remembering where you went

Worser ability to remember things that had happened Post on how to handle these kinds of amnesia: click here!

Generalized Amnesia Where a person completely forgets everything about themself and have no recollection of what, where, and who they spoke to. This can describe a blackout switch and may still recognize who they are.

Localized Amnesia Where a person is unable to recall a specific/series of event from the whole, which creates an incomplete picture of the situation. For example, remembering childhood but not the abuse.

Selective Amnesia Where a person only lost some and retain the rest, forgetting parts yet not all of them. This can describe greyouts as it grasps some information/sensory yet not enough to tell what exactly happened. One example is playing the phone and unable to recall what occured, only to jump its memory right to being at bed.

Emotional Amnesia Where a person has an intact memory and it's details on what had happened, but do not remember what the event feels like (e.g. was scared, happy, etc.). One description is that you're watching something that didn't happen to you, because you don't feel like being in the scene itself.

Continuous Amnesia Where a person fails to retain full parts of the event/day, for a set period of time (can vary from minutes to days) and create an accumulative, small bits of selective amnesias, continuously, leaving many gaps in a chronological timeline. This usually happens in times or stress, or abuse.

Fragmented Amnesia Where a person has an unrelated, and/or disjointed memories that does not go with the timeline's order, creating confusion and difficult to grasp the cohesive picture of what truly happened. Emotional amnesia may be present in this type. Bonus for systems:

Amnesia barriers Where a person fronting is not able to recall other alter's memories, which is a form of retrograde amnesia and compartmentalization. Because the fronter will only retain any information before switching out with the next one, the rest experiences anterograde amnesia as it cannot form and remember those memories, unless being coconcious or cofronting (even though, this is not always guaranteed).

Take notes that amnesia can still happen outside system things due to comorbidities like anxiety disorders or depression, this does mean systems are bound to experience more amnesia compared to non-systems folks out there.

Do you have any discussions about this? Or would like to describe your own way of seeing these different types of amnesia? Or have more to add? Feel free to tell them here!

- j

[vampzwon]

양정원✸ — much ado about nothing !

ⓘ; lord yang jungwon is the most bothersome lord you’d yet to encounter. he is equal parts charm and arrogance, wit and infuriation—wrapped in finely tailored coats and a mouth far too quick with replies. and worst of all, he knows exactly how much he gets under your skin. so when rumours of impossible love spark between you both, it is with great annoyance—and even greater denial—that you attempt to extinguish them. but as pride begins to diminish under the weight of something foreign and tender, the truth becomes much harder to ignore: perhaps the rumours weren’t so impossible after all.

ii. ⊹”mlist.

﹏ ⌗ 𝓹airing: 𝓎!jungwon x 𝒻!reader ❨12820❩

⏖’ 𝑔enres, e2l. historical. romance. slow burn. fluff. angst !

𝓦arnings: formal english, mentions of infidelity and parent death, smut 18+ MDNI, consent, slight body worship (?) jungwon boobie enjoyer, unprotected sex (don’t do it), creampie (?) conversations of marriage and children.

𓏵-, 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒. omg my first fic and smut here!! be kind. keep in mind this isn’t proofread!! man i love shakespeare.. happy reading! feedback, likes n reblogs much appreciated! ^^

⌗𖹭.ᐟ “i will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes” — much ado about nothing, william shakespeare.

"𝓦e are expecting guests, my dearest." When you hear your uncle's soft, smooth voice ring out from the garden below, you sigh to yourself. Of course.

You were quite content as you were. Sat in a creaking wicker chair (though, built more like a swing) you sipped lightly on some fresh wine, basking in the beauty of the sunlight. It was quite the day already. What need it more?

Earlier that morning, your cousin- though, you called her sister- Jiyoung had all but begged to braid your hair. She’d claimed it was a crime to let it go wild on such a lovely day. You’d resisted, of course. Insisted that no one was coming, that there was no one to impress, that you liked it better unruly. But Jiyoung, with her puppy eyes and relentless fingers, had already begun weaving before you finished your protest.

Afterwards, she roped you into wearing one of her sun dresses—the pale ivory one with the low back and embroidered yellow flowers along the hem. The one she always claimed made you look “like you stepped out of a poem.” You scoffed at the time, but secretly, you didn’t mind it.

Then, you'd danced around in the kitchens with her—Jiyoung, with her hair tied back in ribbons, her laughter bright and sticky like honey, and you pretending not to enjoy yourself as much as you did. The two of you spun and stirred and reached past one another in a flurry of hands dusted with flour and sugar, a pie crust half-formed on the counter, spices scattered like confetti.

You should’ve anticipated it then.

You were cooking quite a lot for someone who only helps out “when needs be.” And when did you ever volunteer yourself to whisk cream or knead dough unless there was an ulterior motive—or, more dangerously, an atmosphere that required distraction?

With him being such a prominent, well-known, and relentlessly charming figure, it really wasn’t much of a surprise. People liked Jungwon. The uncles thought him respectable. The aunts adored his manners. The younger cousins followed him like ducklings. He was good with names, always knew who liked lemon in their tea, who preferred cream in their soup, who secretly couldn’t stand parsnips.

He was beloved. And there lay the most unfortunate truth of all.

Because no matter how many times you rolled your eyes at his words, or outwitted his smug little remarks in front of the family, or claimed he was no more interesting than wet parchment—Yang Jungwon remained a constant guest.

Always invited. Always welcome. And somehow, always arriving just when you thought you could breathe. Brushing your flour-dusted hands over your apron, you froze at the familiar sound. Low, rumbling. Arrogant, careless and all the more carefree. A laugh.

Yang Jungwon.

Your mood instantaneously had soured. With a huff, you brushed your hands against your apron with such fevour it made Jiyoung blink in pure confusion, before you leaned over the wide windows of the kitchen. And there he stood.

Jungwon, with that familiar lazy posture, hands tucked into his pockets like he owned the very concept of leisure. His shirt was too crisp. His smile too rehearsed. And yet, laughter bubbled out of him, smooth and effortless, as he chatted with Sunghoon and the others.

You scowled.

The last time you spoke, he said your debating skills could be bested by a fruit fly with a head cold.

The time before that, you may or may not have implied that he’d never pleased a woman in his life.

And yet somehow, despite all odds, your uncle still insisted on inviting him to everything.

You'd hoped—perhaps foolishly, perhaps vainly—that war would have changed him. That the months away would have dulled that smug glint in his eye, grounded his floating confidence, taught him some humility.

But there he was. Untouched. Unbothered. Still too clean. Still too Jungwon.

You winced as your uncle clapped Heeseung on the back and pulled Jaeyun into a firm, fatherly hug. But when he moved to Jungwon, you had to glance away entirely.

You didn’t want to see it.

Didn’t want to see your uncle’s face soften with affection, didn’t want to see Jungwon’s return of it—warm, even sincere. That part always confused you. Because for all the wit and biting remarks, Jungwon was... well, good. At least where it counted. He remembered names. He held the door for elders. He kissed your aunt’s hand and helped the kitchen boy carry crates in the rain.

And that was what made it so unbearable.

Because it would’ve been easier to hate him if he were only arrogant.

An old habit by now, hands furiously roped through the unbraided ends of your hair, a silly effort to ground yourself. It was impossible grounding yourself around him. He was infuriating beyond measure. You had to remember that.

"You seem... perturbed." Jiyoung managed as her eyes peered over at Jaeyun with all the interest in the world.

"Even melign isn't too crude a word enough to detail him." You huffed, tone borderline petulant as you crossed your arms. Jiyoung, more then used to your antics by now merely laughed, her warm hand grabbing yours. "Come, come. We have guests to greet."

You didn’t bother hurrying.

Jiyoung, as always, moved like joy incarnate—bounding down the stairs with the kind of energy that made even sunlight seem slow. The white of her dress flared behind her like a wave caught mid-crash, her laughter trailing behind her like perfume.

You followed sulkingly, each step deliberate, measured, weighed down by the knowledge of who was waiting below.

She smiled—radiated, really—as your aunt pressed a kiss to her forehead, murmuring some soft motherly praise only daughters ever heard. You watched from the landing as Jiyoung slipped behind her father with all the grace of someone who’d never once known doubt.

Then your aunt turned to you.

She laughed the second she saw your face.

“Gracious,” she tutted, brushing her hand against your cheek with practiced affection. “That’s what happens when you spend too much time with the gardeners.”

You grunted. “And yet, the plants don’t talk back.”

Jungwon groaned when Heeseung told him where they were going.

“The L/N residence?” he muttered, voice thick with reluctance. “What sin did I commit to deserve this?”

Jaeyun raised an eyebrow and grinned. “You’re acting as if the place is some sort of dungeon. It’s a grand estate. With food, music, and a beautiful garden.”

Jungwon shot him a dry look. “And a niece who is as cruel with her words as the sharpest dagger. What joy.”

Heeseung snorted, adjusting his coat with a proud smirk. “You’ve not met many women, have you? That sharp tongue is why they all adore her. The L/Ns have a way with conversation. A little bite, a little wit.”

Jungwon groaned again, rubbing his temples. “More like a venomous bite. The last time I spoke with her, she had me rethinking every syllable I uttered as if I were a fool.”

“Of a lady!?” Heeseung exclaimed, his voice a mix of mock horror and genuine amusement. But he couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Jungwon, scared? My, that’s a new one.”

Jaeyun burst into laughter, shaking his head in that playful way that made Jungwon almost want to shove him into the nearest bush. “Oh, I wouldn’t say scared. But, tell me, Jungwon, can you imagine someone who talks more than you?”

Jungwon’s eyes narrowed, a wry smile curving his lips. “You’re right. I do think it would be a challenge. But you, Jaeyun, only speak when you’re certain there’s something ridiculous to say.”

Jaeyun pouted at the effortless insult, as Heeseung laughed, patting the two on the back. "Come on, you two. Behave yourself."

"I wonder that you will still be talking, Lord Yang. You see, no one marks you." You almost yawn, passing the comment as if it were general knowledge. He scoffs at the audacity.

He reels back slightly, mouth parted in disbelief. “No one—marks me?”

You don’t even turn your head, eyes set ahead as you reach for a plum from the polished wooden bowl on the veranda table. You cradle it in your palm like a precious jewel, admiring its skin before taking the smallest bite. You speak with your mouth full, deliberately uncaring.

“Not unless you’re trying to be tiresome,” you hum. “In which case, then yes—your talent is quite unmatched.”

“Ah,” he says, voice light, “but perhaps I speak only in the hopes that you’ll have, by some miracle, learned the art of silence.”

You blink. Then you laugh—short, sharp, delighted.

“Silence? From me? And here I was thinking you enjoyed the sound of my voice.”

He smirks, taking a step closer until you can smell the faint trace of lavender on his collar, no doubt from some overzealous maid. “Enjoy is a strong word. I’d say I endure it—like one endures a summer storm. Loud, inconvenient, and impossible to ignore.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning ever so slightly forward, the plum still cradled in your hand like a weapon. “And yet,” you murmur, “you always stand in the rain.”

That draws a pause. The smirk falters—just barely. His mouth opens, but he shuts it again with a faint click of his teeth, as if weighing his next move with care.

Then— “And you always think yourself clever when really, you’re just loud.”

You gasp in mock offense. “You wound me!”

“No,” he says smoothly, eyes glinting. “You wound yourself with all that talking.”

An enraged flicker of fire sparks in your eyes—hot, brief, and unmistakably real. The kind of flare that would’ve scorched him, had it not been so quickly extinguished by the sound of your name being called.

"Y/N!"

Jungwon’s gaze flicks over your shoulder, instinctively alert. There, at the edge of the garden path, stands a young man—tall, sun-kissed, with a jaw sculpted like he’d been carved straight from the marble steps of your family estate. The gardener. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, forearms dusted with dirt and sweat, and he waves at you with all the casual confidence of someone who knows he's admired.

Jungwon watches—expression unreadable—as your entire posture softens. Your lips curl into something gentle, radiant even. You wave back, that same warmth lighting your features.

And then—just as quickly—it fades. You turn back to him, the moment gone, but not forgotten.

“Well,” you sigh, feigning boredom as you tilt your chin upward, “I’m off.”

Jungwon’s jaw tenses ever so slightly, eyes narrowing as you step away.

You pause, turning just enough to throw over your shoulder with a syrup-sweet smile, “Try not to finish off my family’s harvest with that stomach of yours.”

He scoffs, lifting his chin with the smallest hint of a grin. “Worried I’ll eat you out of house and home?”

You flash him a wicked smile. “Only that you’ll forget what manners are, again, and start grazing straight from the vine. Akin to a pig.”

He laughs—sharp, short, but it’s real. “You think yourself clever,” he calls out as you walk away.

“I know I am!” you call back, not even bothering with a glance over your shoulder.

Men are boring.

You've been saying that your whole life. No one ever believed you.

Jiyoung, for starters, was an example. She danced with Jaeyun with such a bright smile it could've been blinding. Whatever it was that seemed to blossom between them within a couple of days, it was real. She was glowing, flushed from dancing and happiness alike, as Jaeyun stood close beside her, fingers brushing hers whenever they thought no one was looking.

You sighed—loud enough that your current partner took mild offense.

“My lady?” he asked, clearly hoping you’d flatter him into thinking he was fascinating.

“Oh, forgive me,” you said, smiling sweetly. “For a moment, I thought I was asleep.”

You left him mid-turn. Let him spin alone. He’d recover.

You were halfway to the terrace for a breath of fresh, unperfumed air when a figure in deep navy stepped into your path. A black mask covered half his face, but it did nothing to hide the sharpness of his jaw or the faint curve of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You didn’t need to see more to know it was him.

That perfect, infuriating hair, those eyes too clever for their own good, that smug set of his shoulders like he already knew you were going to say something insufferable.

Jungwon.

You took one long, slow look at him—and then blinked with all the innocence you could muster.

“Oh,” you breathed. “A stranger. How thrilling.”

You had to try your very best to bite back a laugh at the stupidity of the man before you. But then again, you'd known him long enough to expect it.

He tilted his head, lips twitching beneath the mask. “A stranger indeed,” he said, his voice barely disguised, rich with restrained laughter. “Might I ask for this dance?”

You pressed a hand to your chest, mock-gasping. “You sound familiar. But I suppose it’s only that I’ve recently suffered a headache.”

He offered his hand wordlessly.

You took it.

The music rose again. You joined the flow of dancers, letting him lead as your gown swept across the floor like water, effortless, elegant. And then you struck. Ruthlessly, a small grin dancing on your moonlit face. “I must say,” you began airily, “you remind me terribly of someone.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head to the side as he spun you by the waist.

You nodded. “Yes. A Lord Yang. Dreadful sort. Always under the illusion that people enjoy his company.”

Jungwon’s lips parted slightly beneath the mask—you couldn't see it, but you surely heard the pause of this heavy breath. You pressed on.

“He has this habit of always saying the last word,” you sighed. “Very irritating. Talks like he’s composing a letter to... well, himself.”

“I’ve heard,” he said dryly, “that some find his conversation rather… engaging.”

You scoffed. “Then ‘some’ clearly have more tolerance than I. Or less sense.”

His hand tightened at your waist, just briefly. “Strange. I’ve heard you mentioned in equal measure. Something about a woman who treats a man’s opinion as if it were a crumb to be swept underfoot.”

You beamed. “That’s generous. I usually just ignore it.”

You spun, your fingers brushing his shoulder as you came close—close enough to see his eyes flash with something that looked dangerously like fondness. But you weren’t done yet.

“I can’t imagine anyone loving such a man,” you murmured, mock-conspiratorial. “Too self-important. Likely never pleased a woman in his life.”

Jungwon let out a quiet, incredulous laugh—half scandalized, half impressed.

“And you?” he asked, voice low, teasing. “What would it take to please you, my lady?”

You looked up at him slowly, lips parted just enough for him to wonder whether you’d speak at all.

Then you smiled.

"None that a man can."

Jungwon was fuming.

He stormed through the corridors just beyond the ballroom, one hand tugging at the knot of his cravat like it had personally offended him. His mask dangled from two fingers, forgotten.

“She thinks herself so clever,” he muttered to the air, pacing the stone floor. “Mocking me in front of half the nobility—again. And for what? Because I had the misfortune of asking her to dance?”

He scoffed. Loudly. Bitterly. “Her words are knives with ribbons on them. Decorative, but still meant to wound.”

He turned back again, boots echoing against the stone.

“She treats my name like a stain she can’t scrub off her glove. And yet—yet!—she always has something to say to me, doesn’t she? Never a moment of peace when she’s near.”

His voice rose with each pass, frustration spilling out of him like wine from an overfull goblet. “She could just walk away, but no. No, she lingers. She provokes. She—”

"Loves him." He stills as he hears a voice in the distance.

And there they were: your uncle, Jaeyun, and Heeseung, gathered on the garden terrace as if they just so happened to be talking at full volume right where anyone might eavesdrop.

“Oh, it’s tragic, really,” your uncle said dramatically, clasping his hands behind his back like a man retelling an ancient war story. “She’s completely besotted with the boy.”

Jungwon’s brows furrowed. His lips parted ever so slightly.

Heeseung gave a very poorly concealed snort. “Y/N? In love with Jungwon? I thought she’d rather choke on a grape.”

Jaeyun gasped with theatrical flair. “Ah, but it’s always the ones who fight the most. Her wit is just her armor! Why, I heard she keeps a lock of his hair tucked into her prayer book!”

Jungwon’s mouth opened fully now. What?!

Your uncle didn’t even flinch. “She mocks him because it is all she knows. Her feelings run deeper than the Danube.”

“Isn’t that a river? Isn't the metaphor supposed to be linked with the ocean?” Jaeyun asked, clearly going off-script.

Heeseung elbowed him. “Shut up, she’s in love.”

“Oh, right, right. She'd said,” Jaeyun added with the tone of someone barely holding in laughter, though his voice also seemed to waver with extraordinary emotion “that she dreams of him. That she wakes with her pillow damp with tears because she cannot say what’s in her heart.”

“Because if she does,” Heeseung said solemnly, “she fears he’ll laugh.”

“She’s so vulnerable, poor thing,” your uncle sighed.

Jungwon, now blinking like a stunned animal, slowly sank down into a crouch.

His thoughts were spiraling.

She loved him? All this time? She—she thought of him? Dreamed of him?

A hand to his chest.

Had she really once written “Lady Yang” in the corners of her notebooks?

His heart was thudding.

“She’s proud,” Jaeyun added, tone syrupy. “But if he were to say even one kind word, I think she’d melt like snow.”

Your uncle nodded. “A single look from him would shatter her composure.”

Heeseung sighed wistfully. “I do hope he sees this. Poor lad has no idea.”

Oh, not only did he see it. He heard it. All of it.

The words echoed in his head like a drumbeat, but when they finally settled into his chest—when he truly heard them—Jungwon collapsed. His knees buckled, and he sank down into a crouch, hands gripping his hair like a man trying to keep himself from shattering entirely.

She loves me?

It felt too impossible to comprehend, like a riddle with no answer. The world spun around him, the heat of the ballroom, the low hum of laughter and chatter, all of it faded into a dull, ringing buzz as the revelation hit him harder than anything he had ever experienced before.

His breath came shallow, ragged.

“She… LOVES me?” he whispered aloud, staring blankly ahead, as though hoping some divine force might correct this absurdity.

His fingers tangled in his hair, pulling at the strands like he could pull the confusion straight from his skull. His chest felt tight, the weight of it all almost unbearable. There was no denying it now. They—they—had all heard her words, seen the signs he had so badly missed.

And now he was left reeling, struck by the idea that every word she had ever hurled at him—every barbed quip, every sharp retort—hadn't been out of spite. She hadn’t hated him. She had been dancing around it, pretending she didn’t care, fighting the feelings that had been bubbling beneath her teasing surface. For a moment, he just sat there, lost. Then, in a small, quiet voice that held the weight of a thousand unspoken things, he muttered:

“Why didn’t she just say it?”

A beat of silence passed.

“Wait—does she think I’m a fool?” he muttered again, raking his fingers through his hair, pacing in tight circles. “Why didn't she just—damn it!” He kicked at a stone, though foolishly tripped over it instead. He hissed in pain, before he swore at the stones and lords above.

Whatever could he do now?

You huffed as you bounded down the halls. Your ears ringed with the faint click-clack of your heeled sandals, arms holding onto your much-too flowy dress in efforts to ensure nothing would get in the way.

You had a mission. One you most certainly would have to partake, against your very will.

You’re not sure why your aunt told you and only you to fetch Jungwon for dinner. Perhaps she just likes to see you in your element. Hating.

Your steps heaved with exasperation, your pace sharp—until you caught sight of him.

Jungwon stood leisurely in the sun-dappled corridor, back resting against a stone pillar, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. And, curiously, for a man who used to bristle at the mere sight of you, he was smiling.

Worse—he was smiling at you.

Your steps slowed. “What,” you asked flatly, “is wrong with your face?”

His grin widened.

You narrowed your eyes. “You look like someone who’s just been gifted a country estate.”

He pushed off the pillar and stepped forward, all slow confidence and unbearable amusement. “My lady,” he said softly, with the kind of faux reverence that made your skin crawl. “You’ve come to fetch me?”

You raised your chin. “I’ve come under duress.”

“Oh, I’m certain,” he said, bowing just slightly, the gesture playful. “And yet, here you are. Glistening like a summers’ sunset.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Are you well?”

“Perfectly,” he said with a shrug, walking beside you now, far too casually. “It’s just… there’s a certain glow about you this evening.”

You stopped in your tracks and turned to him, deadpan. “Have you been drinking?”

He only smiled, eyes glinting with something far too pleased. “Not yet.”

You gave him a once-over, suspicious. His shirt was just slightly unbuttoned, the locks of his hair soft and perfectly unruly, his whole demeanor far too warm. Soft. Like he’d woken up in love with the world.

It was absolutely disgusting.

You stared at him, suspicious. “You’re smiling like someone who knows something I don’t.”

He tilted his head, feigning thought. “Perhaps I do.”

“Then it mustn’t be very important,” you said coolly, brushing past him.

But he followed, steps leisurely, shoulders rolled back as if he had all the time in the world. As if he belonged here, hands behind his back. “You wound me. Is it such a crime to be in good spirits?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The silence between you was thick, brittle, and full of suspicion—on your part, at least. After a few more paces, you glanced sideways at him. “I’m only here because your presence has been requested at the table.”

“Ah,” he said with faux solemnity. “Then I suppose I must oblige.”

You stopped at the stairway. “Then why aren’t you moving?”

He looked at you, then at the staircase. And with all the grace of a man enjoying a daydream, he said: “…No.”

You blinked. “No?”

He smiled again—that smile, insufferably charming and entirely unwarranted. “I don’t believe I will.”

You stared at him, mouth parted in disbelief. “You’ve gone quite mad.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, tilting his head, curls falling over his brow. “But I find I rather enjoy your company more when it’s just the two of us.”

Your eyes narrowed. “There won’t be two of us, because I’m leaving. And I will tell them you refused.”

“Tell them anything,” he said, now leaning against the banister with criminal ease. “Tell them I’ve taken ill. Tell them I’ve been struck by lightning. Tell them I was too enchanted by a certain sunset-lit lady to join the meal.”

You stared at him. Then made a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl. “You’re sure you were born without difficulty?.”

He winked. Winked. “And yet, you came looking for me.”

You spun on your heel before you could strangle him with your own shawl.

Down the stairs, you went, muttering furiously.

When your aunt asked where he was, you didn’t even pause.

“Dead in a ditch, hopefully.”

Love.

A conundrum in itself.

You didn’t think you knew what it felt to love. Perhaps as a baby you loved your late mother and father. Perhaps you didn’t. You didn’t have any memories of the two. You’d been an orphan your entire life.

And still, you were told, “You are loved.”

You were loved by your uncle. By your aunt.

But it wasn’t the same. Not that kind of love.

The kind that made people foolish. Made them write poetry and lose sleep and act like they’d misplaced their own hearts.

The kind that Jiyoung had found.

You smiled despite yourself, plucking a stray leaf from a bloom.

Jiyoung had practically floated through breakfast that morning. Ever since Jaeyun returned from the war and thus proposed for marriage, it was as though her life had been cast in gold. The way he looked at her—like she was a secret he was trying not to blurt out too soon—and the way she blushed around him, her usual grace replaced with nervous smiles and hopeful glances… it was all nauseating. And oddly moving.

You didn’t think you’d ever have that.

Or want it, if you were being honest.

Love, to you, felt like an overgrown grape vine—sweet, yes, but far too soft. It bruised too easily. It turned sour the moment you looked away. And so, you gardened.

Your hands, gloved and soil-streaked, moved carefully through the rose bed. You liked gardening. It was predictable. Gentle. The roses, at least, had the decency to bleed when they hurt you.

You pressed your fingers into the soil, easing a stubborn root free. The morning sun painted the garden in a soft warmth, the breeze tugged at the hem of your sleeves, and for a moment—just a moment—you had peace. You felt—

“Heartbroken.” Jiyoung’s soft voice rang out before you, slow and syrupy, just stood adjacent to the grape vine. “Poor Lord Yang. He must simply be heartbroken that my dear cousin does not love him back.”

You heard a muffled tut of agreement. That one was surely your aunt.

“I don’t understand, mother,” Jiyoung sighed, the sound largely heavy and contemplative. “Jaeyun and I have but found ourselves together. Why must Lord Yang and Y/n dance around their feelings rather then be wed?”

You choke on nothing. It is growing quite hot. Perhaps the weather is playing mind tricks with you.

“He is obsessed, Mother!” Jiyoung continues, and you just barely see the flourish she walks with. “He follows her with his eyes like a deer to light! Yesterday he walked into a door—a door!—just trying to watch her argue with the stable boy.”

You slowly, silently sat back on your heels, covered in dirt, utterly still. Your hat slipped sideways. You did argue with the stable boy yesterday. He was treating the horses with such brute force you felt it unethical not too. Whatever could be so attractive about that?

“Y/n has no idea,” your aunt replied mournfully. “Too clever and proud for her own good. But he’s mad for her.”

“Do you think she suspects?” Jiyoung asked with a mock gasp.

“Oh, heavens no,” your aunt declared. “She’s far too busy pretending not to notice the way he stares at her like she’s some goddess carved from starlight.”

You were going to throw a rose bush. Your hand gripped your trowel with white-knuckled fury. Perhaps it wasn’t just the sun messing with you. Maybe it was the whole universe, above and beyond.

“Did you hear about the poem?” Jiyoung whispered—loudly. “He tried to write her one! Burned it the moment he finished. Said it was unworthy of her.”

“Oh, how romantic,” your aunt sighed. “Our poor Jungwon, pining for a girl who’d sooner bury him under a tree than kiss him.”

That must’ve been the only thing they’d let slip from their mouths that was remotely true. You would sooner bury him under a tree. Happily. With flourish.

And yet, your heart still swirled. Uncomfortable. Foreign.

You thought about it. You thought about it a lot.

You stood slowly, the ache in your knees forgotten as you stared blankly into the thick, reaching thorns of the rosebush before you. The petals curled gently in the sunlight, soft against the brutal barbs. Much like him, in some twisted, infuriating way.

Because deep down—beneath the smug grins and verbal duels, beneath the way he looked at you like a challenge, like a chess match he was winning—Yang Jungwon was attractive.

He was infuriatingly attractive.

He was sharp. Witty. A strong man, yes, but never cruel. Even when he teased you past the point of reason, even when he said things that made your blood boil, he never once looked down on you for it. He matched you. Word for word. Flame for flame.

And worse still—when you caught glimpses of him alone, unguarded, smiling at someone with real warmth, or speaking softly to the servants, or offering his arm to your aunt without a second thought— He looked like someone who could be good. Not just to others. To you. And you hated the thought.

You hated it so much that your hands clenched again, fingernails biting through your gloves.

“Stupid,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was meant for him, or for yourself.

Probably both.

You needed a walk.

Or a cold bath.

Or perhaps a lobotomy.

“There is something quite odd about her,” Jungwon thought aloud, staring at your distant figure.

You stood tall, tray in hand, lips pursed as you arranged fruit and bread on the table, utterly unaware—or pretending not to be—that you were being observed. Your hair was down, long and wild, bellowing softly in the spring wind, catching the sun like threads of true gold.

It was unwise, truly. To look for too long. But Jungwon found himself unable to do anything else.

“Good God,” Heeseung laughed softly under his breath.

“What is so funny to you, brother?” Jungwon scowled, straightening his back whilst pulling at his suit buttons.

“Perhaps your ability to profess your unweilding love for Y/n only when she cannot hear.” Heeseung chimed with a soft, knowing grin on his wise features.

Jungwon scoffed. “I do not—”

“You do,” Jaeyun piped up from behind a bowl of grapes, far too delighted, lighting up with puppy like excitement. “Every time she’s in earshot, you become a walking storm cloud. But the moment she leaves—suddenly you’re quoting poetry with merely your eyeballs.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” Heeseung said simply, pointing with the pear. “Just now. I watched it happen. If your eyes had hands, I figure they’d have written her a ballad and braided her hair.”

Jungwon’s face darkened. Embarrassment or bewilderment, he did not know. “You two are insufferable.”

“Ah,” Jaeyun nodded solemnly. “A classic deflection. Must be love.”

“You will both be silent,” Jungwon gritted through his teeth, adjusting his cuffs like that could restore his dignity. “You know nothing.”

Heeseung leaned back, smirking. “Oh, we know everything.”

Jungwon huffed. The movement was stupidly petulant, and incredibly embarrassing in hindsight, but then, in the distance, as he watched you tend to the maids’ children with such an attention-grabbing, charming smile, he wondered how it would feel to have you look at him that way.

Perhaps, with love.

You were moving in such a rush, you were so sure your body and soul were seperate. You figured your soul was floating somewhere above, watching in judgment as you darted between baskets and dishes, dress snagging at your ankles, hair already frizzing from the kitchen heat.

“Move!” someone barked.

“I’m trying!” you called back, hands gripping a covered tray far too wide for the doorway. You stumbled backward in the chaos, muttering a curse—and collided squarely with a body. A very solid, very familiar one.

You froze, tray still in hand, feeling the slow intake of breath behind you. Warm breath. Ticklish. Familiar.

“Careful,” came the low murmur, laced with far too much amusement. “You’ll bruise. We don’t want that, do we?”

You turned—awkwardly, unwillingly—and looked up.

Jungwon. Of course. You could only sigh.

He stood impossibly close, hair unruly from the breeze, eyes unreadable as they flicked down to your hands and back up again.

His gaze landed on your palm, where a small cut had opened, a tiny bead of blood trailing down the line of your skin.

Without a word, the playfulness in his expression immediately fell away. His brow furrowed, lips parting as if he were about to speak, but hesitated. The shift in his demeanor was so stark that you almost couldn’t believe it was the same man.

“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly, his tone stripped of all the usual teasing. He reached for your hand, his fingers gentle as he examined the cut.

You pulled back instinctively, but not before noticing the seriousness in his eyes, the way his hand lingered, and the faint worry that twisted his usually confident features. It was almost… startling.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, wiping your hand on your apron as if to dismiss it. You didn’t want his concern. Not now, especially not with him so close.

“Don’t be daft,” Jungwon said, his voice low, now filled with something completely foreign—care. “You’re not fine.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” he asked, a small smirk playing on his lips again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His hand was still poised near your palm, as if unwilling to let it go. “The next thing you’ll tell me is you’ve broken your leg too, and that I shouldn’t worry.”

You shifted uncomfortably, looking at the floor. “It’s a small cut. Really, it’s nothing.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightened for a second before he let out a breath, clearly making an effort to calm himself. Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his coat, retrieving a small handkerchief. His fingers were deft, careful, as he pressed it against the cut with the precision of someone who had done this before.

You watched in stunned silence, your heart beating just a little too fast.

“Let me,” he said softly, as if apologizing for his insistence, but the warmth in his voice was undeniable. “It’s better this way.”

The kitchen felt suddenly too small, too warm. Your breath was shallow, a flurry of conflicting emotions washing over you. You wanted to pull away, but for some reason, you couldn’t. He was so close, his face just inches away as he finished tending to your hand.

When he finally pulled back, his expression had returned to its usual cocky calm, though there was still an edge of something softer. Something unfortunately unreadable.

“There. Better?”

You blinked, looking down at your hand, which now felt a little lighter. You couldn’t say why, but it did.

“Better,” you muttered, trying to hide the heat rising to your face.

“You shouldn’t just be in the kitchen. When are you all going to eat?” The furrow in his eyebrows only deepened, peering around at all the maids running around with bewilderment.

You shrugged, shifting your weight between each of your sore legs. You watched as his broad shoulders moved softly, up and down as he softly inhaled and exhaled the kitchen fumes, and for a soft, fleeting second, you found yourself weirdly entranced.

Perhaps he is a male-witch.

Perhaps you’ve been bewitched.

Perhaps, you don’t mind.

The wind was warm today. Which was a little weird if you thought about it, seeing as wind, scientifically, is supposed to be the latter. Maybe it was the way Jungwon was practically skipping that made it whip onto his face in a way that made his cheeks flush up.

Or maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t seem to get you out of his head.

He walked in the middle of Heeseung and Jaeyun, the chatter between the three of them flowing easily as they wandered through the grounds. It was a peaceful day—sunlight dappling through the trees, the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers filling the air.

And as if he were cursed by the Lord and Heavens above, allocating you as some sort of personal annoyance, there you were.

It wasn’t enough that you had somehow infiltrated his thoughts, wrecked his composure. No, now you had to appear at the most inopportune moment, right when he was least prepared for it.

There you were, laughing lightly as one of the children tugged at your sleeve. You held a small flower in your hand, showing it to the others with an easy grace, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for you to be surrounded by the warmth of others.

It wasn’t just the fact that you took care of children so well— children that weren’t part of the estate. Poor. Lower class. And yet, you entertained them as if they were equals.

You took the littlest one into your lap with the warmth of a mother’s touch, and handed it the daisy with such softness Jungwon had to do a double take.

The little girls’ eyes were round with awe as her tiny hands took the flower appreciatively, before she peered up at you. Eyes wide, filled with awe— like you were the most fascinating thing to grace planet Earth.

You smiled kindly, brushing the girls’ hair behind her ears. Despite that image you put up, you surely were soft at heart. With a pensive expression, you spelled out the word, “Daisy,” ushering the little girl to repeat after yourself. It took the little one but a few tries— for her confidence still hadn’t bloomed, but after she did it, you pulled her in the air triumphantly, watching her wriggle with soft giggles, before cascading her with prompt kisses on chubby cheeks.

The sight made his heart physically hurt. Like it had swelled with adoration just at the very sight. It was such a domestic scene, it made a feeling swirl in his stomach, coupled by his own fleeting thoughts. What if that were you both? He imagined. A girl, maybe. With your full lips and his sharp eyes.

The image was too vivid, too real in his mind’s eye. His chest tightened, and for a moment, it felt like everything was closing in on him.

It wasn’t just the sight of you with the children that had him so rattled. It was the possibility. The idea that, maybe, one day—just maybe—it could be you and him. And that thought alone was enough to send his mind spiraling.

And just like that, it hit him.

You were impossible.

You had always been this thing that he couldn’t quite reconcile. You infuriated him to no end—always sharp, always a little too smart for your own good. Yet, in this moment, as he stood there, transfixed by the soft, unguarded way you interacted with the children, he felt something unfamiliar stir inside him. Something entirely uninvited.

God, he thought, feeling the sudden rush of heat in his cheeks, how did she manage to do this to me His body tensed, his hands twitching at his sides.

Heeseung and Jaeyun continued walking, oblivious, their conversation light and carefree, rather detailing the intricacies of Jaeyun’s wedding with Jiyoung.

“Jungwon?” Heeseung called out, noticing his friend’s strange stillness. He gave him a curious look, but Jungwon couldn’t muster the strength to respond. He was too caught up in the image of you, glowing in the sunlight, completely unaware of his sudden conflict. It was maddening.

He sighed. He knew words would fail him. It wasn’t like he could explain the mess of emotions swirling inside his chest. Instead, he just swallowed his frustration and forced himself to move forward, pulling his gaze away from you.

It wasn’t enough, though. No matter how hard he tried, you remained there in his thoughts, sitting among the children, radiant in a way he couldn’t understand.

As if the universe had decreed he would be forever cursed by your presence, just as surely as the day he met you.

God help me, he thought. I’m losing my mind over someone who thinks I’m a nuisance.

“He’s a nuisance,” You mutter aloud, giving no thought to your careless words. Your fingers worked through her hair as you sat behind her on the marble patio-balcony, focused on the task at hand.

The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows against the so colourfully vibrant garden and the distant murmur of maids working on wedding preparations seemed to fade into the background.

Your cousin. Your sister. Your best friend since diapers. Married. Gone.

The thought really did not settle right with you— you were happy for her, of course you were, but it all seemed to be happening too fast. Jaeyun, though irrevocably kind, also had a knack for being quite daft, and for the two to be wed in such a short time? The words left for you to articulate surely weren’t pleasant.

But she’s happier than ever before. Even now, sat at the mercy of your nimble fingers, she buzzes with quiet excitement.

“An afterthought. Akin to a dead fly.” You continue as a gruff grumble. She replies with a short laugh.

“Can a dead fly attract the ladies as does he?”

You promptly smack her lightly on the shoulder, eliciting a short laugh. “What? Do I lie, cousin?”

You merely scowl, nudging her shoulder with your own as you plop beside her comfortably.

“You’d have to be a woman gone insane to find him attractive.”

Jiyoung raises an incredulous eyebrow at your words, and just as you open your mouth, perhaps to tarnish the certain lord’s name a little more, you’re promptly cut off by a series of giggles from the garden below.

Jungwon.

He was walking across the sun-dappled grounds, carrying five boxes of apple crates with effortless ease, his posture straight, shoulders relaxed. It was almost annoying how easily he carried them—each box stacked neatly, no visible strain. His white shirt clung to his skin, slick with sweat, but he wore it with that casual, confident smile that somehow made him even more unbearable. The maids nearby noticed him, their gazes following him as he moved, their whispers filled with admiration and a touch of longing. You could hear the soft tittering, the giggles. “So strong, so handsome,” they murmured.

You felt your chest tighten—familiar irritation and something else you weren’t ready to acknowledge. Your eyes followed him across the garden, watching how effortlessly he moved, like he was the star of some play and everyone else was simply a supporting role. The worst part? You knew they were all right. He was the type of man who could walk into a room, and the world would stop for him.

The worst part was, you hated how much it bothered you.

You tried to ignore it, turning your attention back to Jiyoung, but your mind kept drifting.

You had always been able to dismiss him as an arrogant nuisance—until now. Every time you thought you had him figured out, he went and did something like this. He was impossible to pin down, impossible to ignore. And you hated the feeling that was beginning to bloom in the pit of your stomach, a mixture of frustration and something else.

You looked back out at the garden again, just in time to see Jungwon flash that smile, that self-assured grin that was way too charming for his own good. The maids sighed as he passed by, practically swooning.

It’s sickening how attractive he is.

Perhaps he is more to you than a dead fly.

Feeling both happy and sad at once is an emotion you’d yet to discover. And now, stood behind your dear cousin, graced in the most beautiful wedding dress money could offer, your heart swelled with it.

Emotion is one weird thing.

Jiyoung was radiant. Her smile could split the sky. And despite the ache in your chest that had lingered all morning—some mix of nerves, and melancholy, and maybe a bit of dread—you found yourself smiling.

And then your gaze found his.

Jungwon.

He stood on the groom’s side, tidy in his formal attire, hair brushed neatly, face calm. His eyes met yours across the crowd, and something shifted. The air between you changed. It softened.

You smiled.

And he smiled back.

His eyes, usually so sharp, now filled with quiet warmth, crinkled at the sides, and his thin pink lips curled up at the corners. He brushed a hand through his thick, dark hair.

It wasn’t mocking, nor smug. It was small. Private. Real.

Immediately, you mentally reprimanded yourself and straightened your back as strong footsteps echoed against the marble floors of the church hall.

You didn’t need to turn. You knew those steps.

Jaeyun. The groom. The man Jiyoung was supposed to marry in the next hour.

She smiled widely, and you squealed beside her, before adjusting her veil hurriedly, but just then— a hush fell.

His expression was unreadable—stone-set jaw, eyes dark with something more than just anger. Beside him, Heeseung moved with equal purpose, lips pressed into a tight, grim line. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the outside world like something would happen— something the world would dare watch.

Jaeyun’s gaze swept the room before falling squarely on her. No smile. No warmth.

Jiyoung’s smile slowly dropped as she took just a step closer to him, as if testing the waters. “Jaeyun?”

“I was told,” he said, voice clear and cutting through the silence, “that my bride-to-be has been less than loyal.”

You could feel the words stab into her. Into the room. You could hear your aunt’s hand fly to her mouth in a gasp. Jiyoung flinched, her fingers digging into yours as she looked up at him, wide-eyed and shaking her head. “No—I don’t know what you mean, I haven’t—Jaeyun, I swear—”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. His voice didn’t raise. If anything, it got quieter. “I’ve heard enough. I didn’t want to believe it. But when Heeseung heard it from multiple mouths…”

Heeseung remained silent behind him, eyes darting toward you for only the briefest second.

You opened your mouth to speak—to fight—but Jiyoung moved first.

She took a step forward, tears streaming now, and clutched at the lace of her sleeves as if trying to hold herself together. “Please, you must know me better than this—Jaeyun, I haven’t— I would never—”

“Then why,” he asked, voice tight, “would so many say the same thing?”

Your heart cracked.

And then, like glass shatter—Jiyoung broke.

Her knees buckled beneath her. You caught her before she hit the ground, lowering with her slowly as she collapsed into sobs once more. Her veil slipped off her head, pooling around you like silk water. You held her fiercely, lips pressed to her temple, trying not to let your own despair show.

Tears brimmed hot at your lashes, but you forced your voice steady. “She’s telling the truth,” you said, sharp and certain, voice raising with the injustice of it all.

But Jaeyun had already turned his back.

At the sight, Jiyoung scream sobbed into your chest. The sound tore through the hall, raw and unrestrained, a sound so heartbreakingly human it made your heart stutter in its place.

You held her tighter, arms wrapped around her shaking frame as if your touch alone could anchor her. But even as you whispered her name, again and again, she only trembled harder.

Your eyes brimmed with ushered tears. One slipped free, carving a hot, silent line down your cheek. And then—she fell limp in your arms.

“No, no—Jiyoung—!” you gasped, shifting to cradle her, brushing the damp strands of hair from her forehead. Her lips moved, mouthing something soundless, her body slack, utterly spent.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sorry sight, and your tears flew much more freely now, blurring the edges of the world around you. Jiyoung’s body remained still in your arms—so soft, so heartbreakingly still. Her sobs had quieted, but her breathing came in small, desperate gulps, like she was trying to hold herself together by will alone.

You looked up.

And through the blur of salty tears and sorrow, your gaze found him.

Jungwon.

Beside him, Heeseung had already turned his back too, and expectantly, the two men looked toward him to make some decision—some movement, some word that might break the tension. But Jungwon didn’t move. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his eyes still locked with yours, but they flickered now—torn between duty and something else, something much harder to define.

You looked up at him from the floor, Jiyoung in your arms. Your eyes pleaded. Please. Don’t follow them. Please.

You slowly nodded no, words failing to leave your trembling lips, a silent begging, pleading for him to stay. For him to believe. Your chest heaved with heavy emotion as your eyebrows furrowed pleading, yet alas—

Jungwon turned his back.

A choked little sob left your lips, and you swore you saw him hesitate in his step as his hands bunched into fists. You whimpered into Jiyoung’s hair as panic began to settle in, but your eyes couldn’t move from his figure, disappearing into the distance.

And the church fell silent but for the broken rasps of breath of a bride that would not be wed.

Men are, in fact, disappointing.

You know it. Everyone knows it.

And yet, as your eyes helplessly searched for Jungwon within the cathedral, he just about proved your point.

It only sucked so much because you truly believed he was different.

You truly believed he was kind. A man with integrity, with a heart full of warmth and made of steel. And yet, when you watched him turn just as the others did—without a word, without even meeting your gaze—your heart cracked in a way you hadn’t known it could.

You sat curled on the cold stone bench in the garden, surrounded by the rosebushes that you’d always loved. Nothing seemed to make you feel better.

Your face was buried in your hands, your shoulders trembling with every stifled sob. The air was warm, fragrant with crushed petals and damp earth, but your chest felt hollow. Stretched. Bruised.

You hadn’t even heard his footsteps.

Only felt the shift of weight beside you, the quiet creak of the bench as Jungwon lowered himself to sit next to you.

Silence.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He just sighed. Long and low and full of everything he couldn’t yet say.

You whimpered as you wiped your tears away with trembling fingers, trying desperately to smooth your features. To look strong. Even now. Especially now.

Then, wordlessly, you turned your back to him—just slightly. Just enough to make the distance between you feel bigger.

It worked.

Because when he spoke, his voice cracked like it hurt to use. Because when he spoke, it was no longer with pride or poise or wit.

It was just a boy. Breaking.

“Say something,” he begged, his voice cracking, thin with desperation as he turned to face you. “Curse me. Hate me. Just—say something.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. You only turned and pressed your face into his shoulder, finally, finally letting yourself fall into him as the sobs overtook you once more. They came from somewhere deep, and guttural, your whole body shaking with them.

Jungwon sat there, barely breathing, his hands flexing uselessly in his lap as he stared at your back. At the fine tremble in your frame. At the way your fingers gripped at his crisp suit as if him himself were the only thing keeping you anchored to the world.

Jungwon flinched like your pain, especially that in your voice had physically struck him. His arms moved slowly—like he wasn’t sure he had the right—but eventually wound tightly around you, holding you close. As if trying to protect you from a storm he helped create. “I’ll fix it,” he proposed weakly, pleadingly, his big hands rubbing against your back in a pathetic attempt to make you feel better.

“No,” You began, sitting up straight. Your fingers faltered against his suit, as you sniffled weakly, looking at the ground. “I’ll fix it myself.” You grunted, gruff and calculated. Your jaw clenched.

“I’ll kill him,” you spat suddenly, your voice trembling with rage as your eyes burned into the earth. “I swear to God, Jungwon—I’ll kill Jaeyun. I’ll use my own hands, I’ll—” You stopped, gasping through the ache in your chest. “I’ll bury him myself, right here in this garden.”

You spoke so passionately, hot with pure fury, and yet, you still didn’t have the courage to look him in the eye.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold you, or tell you to breathe, or insist on logic and honor and sensibility like you thought he might.

He just went still.

And then, softly—so softly—you heard his voice. “…Please. Look at me.” He began, voice weak with emotion and wavering with tears. “I can’t stand it. Please.”

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want to let yourself fall back into that softness you swore to abandon.

But you looked.

And when you did—he shattered all over again.

Your eyes were red and glassy, your cheeks stained, your lip bitten raw. You looked like someone who had given too much. Trusted too hard. And still carried love in your chest like a burden.

And so he did the only thing he could.

He kissed you.

Not out of victory or pride or triumph—but like a man begging for forgiveness with his whole body. His lips trembled against yours, one hand buried in your hair, the other pressed to the small of your back as if holding you was the only thing keeping him upright.

It was a kiss that hurt. A kiss that healed. A kiss that said everything his words could not.

And for all you could,

you kissed him back.

You sat at your vanity, brushing through your hair slowly, the bristles snagging on tangles you were too tired to care about. The lace at the back of your nightgown had come half-undone, trailing like wilted ribbon. Candlelight flickered in the mirror, softening your features, making the furrow in your brow look less like grief and more like longing.

But the ache was real. Deep. Gnawing.

You sighed.

The brush stilled in your hand.

You missed him, and it was disgusting.

When you’d last seen him, he’d left with his eyes dark; jaw set, and whispered lowly of fixing everything. How he could fix a broken heart, you didn’t know.

Even more disgustingly, you were worried. Undeniably worried, about a man you certainly cared for far too much for your liking.

You frowned at your reflection. The skin beneath your eyes was puffy, your lips swollen from too many bitten-back sobs. You looked every bit the tragic heroine you’d once sworn you’d never become.

How pathetic.

You set the brush down. Somewhere in the still of the night, an owl called. A branch scraped against the windowpanes. The wind rustled the curtains gently, And then— thud.

Your head snapped toward the window. Another thud. More insistent. You rushed to the latch, heart already leaping in your chest—because you knew. And when you pulled open the frame, your breath hitched.

There he was. Jungwon.

Bloodied, battered, sweat-matted locks of dark hair falling over his brow. His shirt was torn, and a shallow cut marred the line of his cheekbone, but his eyes—his eyes were still warm. Still full of you.

“A hand?” he said hoarsely, gripping the ledge with one arm and eventually lifting himself the rest of the way.

You stumbled back to give him space, and he collapsed with a grunt into your room, knees buckling slightly before he righted himself.

His eyes were clouded with haze. And yet, still, full of love they remained. He paced towards you slowly but surely, a slight wobble in his step— and instinctively you reached out, arms stabilising him by his broad shoulders. You frowned, hands dusting over his face with such care he could only melt into your touch.

And through it all, he looked only at you, his eyes piercing into your own. The top of his eyebrow marked with a sharp cut of a blade, the plain of his cheek dirtied ever so slightly with blood, you frowned at his state.

And then you smacked him.

Hard. On the arm.

“You idiot!” you hissed. “Are you out of your mind?!”

“I missed you too,” he muttered, eyes crinkling despite the gash above one of them.

“You’re bleeding!”

“You should see the other guy,” he winced.

You didn’t laugh. Instead, your fingers found his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the mess of his cheek. You wiped at a bit of dried blood with the edge of your sleeve. He let you. Silently. Still as statue, eyes never leaving yours.

You should’ve expected it. Him to duel Jaeyun.

Jungwon was many things—proud, infuriating, endlessly stubborn—but coward was not one of them. And if there was one thing he couldn’t let sit, it was injustice. Especially when it came for those you loved. Especially when it came for you.

You should’ve seen it in the way his jaw clenched when you sobbed into his shoulder. The way his arms tightened around you like he was already vowing retribution in your very name.

But there’s a difference between knowing someone would go to war for you and watching them actually do it. And worse, he didn’t tell you. Not a single word before vanishing into the night like some knight of old.

Now here he was—half-wrecked and full of some odd, boyish resolve—at your window, lips on your palm like you were something holy.

“You didn’t have too,” Your voice wavered with emotion as he kissed the palm of your hand which was cupping his cheek again. “But I did,” He whispered with such softness the contrast between his tone and his appearance was stark. “And I don’t regret it.”

“Is he..?” You begin contemplatively, your other hand brushing up his broad chest to his shoulder. He looks away. You push his face back towards yours.

Those lips.

You have kissed them now, once before. And yet, it still doesn’t feel enough. Your fingers trace over them as he sighs warmly, pressing his lips against the tips of your fingers. His eyes bore into yours with such attentive demeanour it makes you dizzy.

“It was a tie,” He grunts, as if the fact that he, Lord Sim Jaeyun’s best friend and fellow soldier, didn’t just duel him for your sake. For Jiyoung’s sake. “I worked things out with them both. Someone orchestrated quite the lie against your dear cousin, and Lord Sim seemed to take the bait.”

You roll your eyes. Typical. “I saw that one coming.” You weakly laugh, and he chuckles too, as if an unexplainable weight has been lifted off his shoulders as it has yours.

“Turn around,” Weakly, suddenly, he commands, and you? Willingly, you oblige.

You give him a little twirl, a soft flourish in your step. You smile as he sits on the edge of your bed and admires you as if he’d never seen a woman in his life before. “I must ask though, my lord, why must I twirl for you?”

He laughs. Deep. Husky. Warm. Dangerous. “You needn’t if you’d prefer not too,” He begins, rolling his shoulders as the cuffs on his sleeves are adjusted. “But you seemed perfectly willing to oblige, my lady.” He grins, one hand supporting himself on the bed, the other motioning you to come closer.

Closer you go, until you’re stood right before him. Your breathing grows heavier as you notice all the smaller things about him you really ought to notice before— like the way his Adam’s Apple bobs with every movement, or how his legs are spread widely enough to welcome you on his lap.

“Turn around,” He commands yet again, and this time, you laugh. “Perhaps I want not to. What’d you do then, my lord?” You poke at his shoulders with a teasing smile.

“I’d do this,” He begins, spinning you in one fluid movement. You yelp. “And then this.” He pulls you into his lap.

You stop breathing. Because suddenly, you can feel him in ways you’d never felt him before.

You fuss in his arms, wriggling around through laughter to conceal the fluttering in your stomach, as he laughs, pressing ticklish little kisses onto the crevices of the smooth skin on your neck. You squeal, shimmying his large hands off you. “You’re cold!”

“And you’re warm,” He hums lowly into your neck, coupled with a sultry chuckle. That makes you close your legs tightly, an unexplainable fluttering arousing.

His hands dance over the intricacies of your back before they crawl up towards your hair. Large, warm hands toy with it appreciatively, fingers wringing around the burgundy of the ribbon you wore.

“You wear the ribbon I gave you?” He looked at you from over your shoulder with such sincerity it made your heart stutter. Suddenly, the ceiling appeared very interesting.

A large hand. It cups your chin, and faces your head towards him. He opens his mouth to speak, and yet, the words die on his tongue; as if struck by your very beauty as the moonlight shines through your wide windows. Instead, he closes his eyes, and pushes his lips onto yours.

You let out a little hum of both content and surprise, as he lifts you off his lap and you raise your hips, he turns you to face him. His hands, mottled in bruises and scratches, roam around your body with such quiet reverence for a moment truly, you feel special. Irrevocably special. That you are his, and that he is yours.

He lets out a low sound in pleasure as one hand pulls your ribbon off your hair gracefully, before stroking through your hair softly, as if one wrong move could make you break.

And as you just about manage to break away, still his eyes only find yours.

He chuckles weakly, lips kissing your now held hand before moving upwards, resting at your shoulder. He closes his eyes for a pause, as if nothing is as comfortable as being in your arms is. In turn, now it is your hands that brush through his hair. “Fatigued?”

“No. Just content.”

“Well, I am glad you are as happy as I am, my lord.” You breathe, a soft smile blessing your face. He cups it in return.

“This nightgown,” Jungwon whispers, hands toying at your back where the lace lies. “It’s ever the flattering on you.”

“So you say,” You tease. “Or perhaps you say this seeing as it is easy to remove?”

He laughs, the corner of his eyes wrinkling with amusement. “I fear you know me far too well, my lady.” He hummed appreciatively as he dug his nose into your hair, closing his eyes. “You smell quite so pleasant.”

“You think so?” You asked, fidgeting with the coarse material of his suit.

“Very much so.” He replied simply, a hand fitting onto your waist. The way his hand had sat on your waist was as if it belonged. You sighed, resting your chin on his shoulder tiredly, as he kissed your head warmly. “I figure perhaps you’re the one fatigued, Y/n.” His voice raised lightly, as if reprimanding you— though his tone remained soft, showing he was really just jest.

“Maybe I am, Lord Yang.” You clap back teasingly, and to that, he laughs heartily, before flipping you onto the plush silk of your bed. You squeal, hands flying to his shoulders to stabilise yourself, and in return, he kisses your cheek.

You didn’t ever think you’d find yourself underneath him. You, yourself, personally always thought you were always above him. Now it was clearly proved wrong. Your breath caught in your chest, your teasing smile melting into something more sincere.

His hair hung before his dark eyes, hazy with a cryptic look that made you squirm. He grunted softly as he rested on one side, propping himself up on one arm— just to watch you.

“My, you are odd.” You giggle, looking up at him with a gummy smile.

“Oh, really?” He challenges softly, his free hand tracing from your waist to your neck. Slowly. Teasingly. Like you could feel every atom of his being dancing on your goosebump-ed skin. “You think im odd, do you, Y/n?”

You, unintentionally and unconsciously, swallow on nothing. He picks up on it, a soft kiss followed after he buries his face atop your throat. It’s ticklish, and you want to laugh, but the sincerity in his eyes and the soft certainty in his touch made you feel only want. Raw, aching want.

He went silent just as quickly, rather staring at you with a longing look of love, his hand ghosting near your breasts. His lips were slightly, ever so slightly parted, and the tiniest trickle of sweat traced his jawline.

“You can touch me, you know.” You chortle lightly to hide just how flustered you are. You grin lightly, but when you look into his eyes, when you feel the severity of whatever it is he is feeling, it fades.

“Can I?” His voice breaks, his hands still ghosting above your breasts, though now daring to move closer just the slightest. “Can I, Y/n? Because once you say yes, I’m telling you, you’re stuck with me.”

Your lips part.

Suddenly, it’s very hot in your chambers.

You look over at your window, and then back at him. You swallow again, though this time you know it— in efforts of mitigating your now-dry throat, but it’s all to no avail.

Hot, aching need. You nod before you let out a tiny sound, a mix of a whimper and a wanting whine, and he sighs in a way both impatient and very much patient all at once.

“Words, my beautiful,” He chimes, his hand tracing your jawline. In one, croaky, breathy movement, you grace him with the words he clearly were waiting for. “Yes, Jungwon. A million times yes.”

And with that, his lips found yours again. It was much less softer this time, but all the more passionate. He moaned into your mouth as his free hand grabbed at your jaw tighter, as if you’d disappear the moment he let go. Still, he rested up on his other arm, and as you broke the kiss to actually breathe, you rested your forehead against his. “Are you sure?” He whispered, his free hand brushing your unruly hair, matted with sweat, behind your ears.

You could only nod, so clouded with lust and fatigue that even words couldn’t portray what you felt. You fell rag doll-limp in his arms, your own arms slowly snaking around his neck, as both of his arms effortlessly propped your back off the bed.

One hand held you up, the other pulled the strings bonding your nightgown together at the back. You merely threw your head back, and at that invitation, his lips made its way to your neck. Then they danced down to your collarbones, teeth grazing ever so slightly as he looked up at you for any sign of discomfort.

Instead, your eyes were peacefully closed, lips parted to allow your soft, breathy moans to escape. He sighed, pulling the dress down your shoulders, kisses tracing around your breasts. You whined, back arching ever so slightly into his touch, and in response he merely chuckled, lying you down as he propped himself up above you.

“So gorgeous, aren’t you?” He cooed softly, his lips finding your left nipple, and his hand finding the right. At the sudden movement your chest jerked ever so slightly, a long whimper falling from your lips. “Jungwon,” You barely managed as he hummed, looking up at you from where he contentedly rested at your chest. “Yes, my love?” He hummed, letting go with the lightest little “pop!”

You closed your legs and squirmed. It was getting too much now. Stickily hot and insatiable— all you needed, truly, was.. well, him.

“I need you,” You sighed, melting into the pillows. He raised an eyebrow teasingly, unbuttoning his shirt as you fiddled with the stupidly-annoying metal buckle of his pants.

“Oh, you need me?” His voice raised with amusement as you scowled playfully, slapping at his now bare shoulder lightly. He took your hand and kissed it instead. “You do demand me so, my lady?”

“Yes. I do so.” You huff in mock-petulance, before you both laugh, his larger figure leaning before you yet again.

“And you can do so from beneath me, I figure?” He hums, as his hand grips the base of his length lightly. It’s dizzying. You pretend to not notice, not even as he softly spreads your legs or pushes them against your stomach, and instead, you smile lightly.

But as soon as you open your mouth to say something, probably just as smart back, the warmth of his leaking tip brushes against your clit, and you moan almost immediately, head throwing back onto the soft fabric of your pillows.

You hiss as he rubs himself against you softly, up and down, slower, slower. You whine, nails digging into his back.

And instead of giving it to you, he peers down at you with a triumphant grin. “Hmm? What was that, my lady?” He teases softly. You breath heavily, watching as a prompt kiss is pressed to your wrist as he slowly pushes himself in.

The words you had prepared suddenly died on your tongue, replaced with a loud, sudden moan of his name. “Jungwon!”

He groans in response, throwing his head back as he pushes himself in just as fair as he can manage. Tears prick at your eyes as his tip pushes the boundaries of your cervix, a pain you’d never felt— but one you were seemingly prepared too.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, beautiful, I promise,” He whispers, kisses dusting over your face, even over your tightly weilded-shut eyelids. “We have all the time in the world, my love,” he hummed through kisses. “There’s no rush, hmm? If it hurts too much, just tell me.”

You cry out a strangled moan as your eyes roll closed at the unfamilar, yet incredible feeling. He sighs comfortably, one strong hand lacing into yours against the duvet.

“My lady,” he sighs, nuzzling his nose against yours. “So perfect. So beautiful. So smart.” He begins as he pushes himself in just a little, little more. You sob out, hands flying all around his back, as he lovingly shushes you, kisses pressed to the tip of your nose or the plain of your forehead.

“Would you marry me, my lady? Hmm?” He whispered, kissing around your ear, as if to distract you from the pain. “Would you like that?”

You could only nod, though now, your eyes could slowly flutter open; and could take him in for all of his glory.

His dark hair was matted with sweat against his forehead, as his broad, bare chest heaved with the energy of keeping himself above. “You’d stay a L/n, or you’d take my name? Hmm?” He hummed, pressing kisses to your lips between his words.

“Can I have both?” You weakly whisper, though you laugh, and he laughs too, slowly moving himself out. Then, he rams himself back in, and you almost scream, rolling your eyes closed as you practically see stars. You moan into your hand as he throws his head back in pleasure. “God, you feel so good.” He manages, voice wavering as his thrusts grow in pace.

You cry out in pleasure, the pain now subdued. “You suit ivory,” He manages with heavy breath. “You’d look quite exquisite in your wedding dress, wouldn’t you?”

You let out a strangled cry, burying your head into the pillows. He groans, rolling his lips forward smoothly, and you moan into the pillows uncontrollably.

“Oh, Jungwon!” You sigh shakily, your voice stuttering with the fevor of his sharp thrusts.

He moans in response, pushing your legs against your stomach just a little, little more. You both moan together as he hits your cervix again, before you find him again in a messy kiss.

Lips, tongue, teeth, all of it. At this point, it doesn’t really count as a kiss in the first place. But that’s the last thing on your mind. All you can think about is an unfamiliar, pressing coil building at the pits of your stomach, biting your lips in efforts to conceal your noises just a little more.

“God, I love you,” He moans, his pace fastening enough to make that very coil snap. Your body jerks with the movement and you can’t help it— you whine, the sound long and low, and he throws his head back as he feels you release around his length.

“Just a little more, my love,” He spoke between moans, and you sobbed from the overloading stimulation all of this was giving you. “You’re doing so well. I love you, my beautiful.” You took his lips onto yours again, and with one final, harsh thrust— one that had you screaming into the kiss, his warm seed filled you up, a feeling so fulfilling you arched your back at the very sensation.

He crashed beside you on the bed with a groan, as if the weight of his day had finally caught up with him. But then he turned toward you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist, pulling you flush to his side. You sighed softly, burying your head against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Are you hurt?” you eventually asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper as your fingers grazed over his cheek. His eyelids fluttered under your touch.

“Nothing that won’t heal,” he murmured.

A beat of serene silence passed.

Then, with the kind of gentle, hopeful courage only he could muster, he asked, “What kind of ring would you want?”

You blinked. Pulled back just slightly to look him in the eye. And then you laughed. “Whatever it is you can afford.”

“My, do you mark me as poor?” He raises a weak hand to his chest jokingly and you laugh, voice laced with growing fatigue. You curled into his chest even more, though you weren’t sure that was quite possible, and sighed contently.

Silence.

The rise and fall of his broad chest, cricket-song, and silence.

You simply lay there in the hush of the night, bodies pressed close, breaths synchronising, hearts slowly catching up to the quiet. You stared at the curve of his collarbone, at the cuts and dried blood near his shoulder, remembering all the pain and rage that had passed through the two of you to get to this very moment.

And weirdly enough, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. Then he sighed, fingers drawing soft circles on your bare back. “And what would you want?” he asked, voice barely audible now. “As a child.”

You paused. Thought about it. The image came so vividly, it almost surprised you.

“A girl,” you answered without a pause.

He blinked slowly. “Hmm?”

“So I can raise her,” you murmured, pressing your forehead against his chin. “To be the strongest a woman can be.”

He let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-laugh, and fully overwhelmed. “She’d be impossible.”

“She’d be loved,” you replied, eyes fluttering shut. “She’d never think twice about her voice. She’d know how to wield it.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” He smiled, the words brushing against your temple like a kiss.

You felt it more than heard it—the pride in his voice, the adoration in his tone. The way he said it, like it was the highest compliment he could ever give. Like he meant it with the very bones of him.

You sighed softly, your body loosening completely in his hold, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, his voice low, soothing, meant only for you. “She’d have your fire. Your kindness. Your wit. God help me if she ever learns your temper.”

You laughed, soft and muffled against his skin.

“She’d be so loved,” you murmured, voice laced with quiet fatigue.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering as if trying to seal the moment in place forever.

“As are you, my beautiful.”

man i wish shakespeare was alive i xouldve rawdogged him from the back as a personal thank you for much ado about nothing

©VAMPZWON

[ventique18]

Dragon Malleus headcanons

You're used to how he looks in his two-legged fae form. Everyone is, honestly. But the thing is, that's not really how he truly, originally looks like. And though he knows his form of flesh is just as much of who he is as his origin, there are times when he undergoes some sort of withdrawal; a primal need to be back in the skin he was molded in. So he would occasionally spend a few days living his life as a gigantic dragon.

He doesn't particularly like being in his dragon form. He knows he's glorious and takes pride in that, of course, but it's just that it's so inconvenient. He can't fit in places. He can't grab things. He can't make gargoyles. He has to eat an entire town's worth of food just to not be hungry. But most of all, he can't really feel.

He's extremely durable. He's already impervious to damage in his humanoid form, but even more so as a dragon with walls and walls of the hardest material on Twisted Wonderland permanently attached to his body. Which is great, of course-- it's essential to his survival, but it comes with the caveat that no matter how much you touch him, no matter how much you try to show physical affection towards him, he simply cannot feel.

But there is one part of him that's soft. Something that isn't covered inch to inch in scales. His tongue.

So what best to take advantage of this little weakness than to cover you head to toe in slobber, of course?

Take note that him doing so doesn't imply anything malicious (unless you want to, of course). It's just that it's so easy to feel your presence by licking you. He can touch you without accidentally hurting you. And, as much as he refuses to admit it to avoid sounding like a pervert, being able to smell your familiar scent gives him a tender comfort. A sense of welcoming even in this world that refuses to welcome him in his rawest form.

But being covered in slobber isn't exactly the best feeling in the world. When you tell him that, the... fins on his jaw draw back, and he plants himself on the ground; snout partially buried behind his curled claws. Dragons aren't particularly expressive, but you can safely guess that he's feeling guilty of bothering you.

So you offer to help him find somewhere else to touch. He's a bit hesitant-- it seems dragons don't like the idea of exploring their weaknesses, but he agrees because it's you.

And would you look at that. He can feel you when you vigorously rub his belly. The feeling isn't really as detailed as his tongue's, but he can feel something. And it feels rather... Rather... Relaxing. He's huge though, so from your perspective it's like washing a car, but with exaggerated movements as a stroke from your height's head to toe is like scratching a spot for him.

It's tiring, but you persist with the power of love.

So this becomes a habit for you. When he transforms into a dragon, he would ask you to rub his belly, or ask for your permission to be licked if you don't look like you're in a bad mood that day. All of this is done somewhere private, of course.

So when someone would walk in by accident... And witness their prince rolled over like a dog, getting petted on his tummy... It goes to say that the dragon would be gone in a flash; replaced by a very angry, very threatening unit of a man very politely asking the intruder if he saw something. Of course the answer is always "not a single thing, sir!".

You laugh, and ask if he wants to continue with what you were doing. He sighs, refuses, and says he's not in the mood for childish amusement anymore.

"But... I can think of other, more enjoyable things we can do together."

And so the dragon, now in his villainous, irresistibly devilish form, whisks his prisoner away to a place no one knows.

[inkedinshadows]

Double-edged Desires

Pairing: Azriel x f!reader x Eris

Summary: Azriel and Eris find themselves having to share a mate, and being away during the mating frenzy is never easy. For any one of you.

Warnings: smut, threesome, oral (f&m receiving), fingering, language

Word count: 3.3k

A/N: based on this request! Okay so, this turned into so much more than planned... I've never written Azriel and Eris together before tho, so for every Azris shipper out there, pls have mercy on me, but I actually like how it turned out. Especially cus I wasn't planning on anything beyond bickering and arguing for them and I fear I might have focused too much on them and not enough on y/n... and I didn't reread that many times, so excuse possible typose. Anyway okay bye enjoy <3

Azriel hated sharing a mate with Eris Vanserra.

It had been a shock to everyone when you discovered you had two mating bonds—with two very different males who couldn’t stand each other. They had argued at first over who should get to be with you, but you had been very adamant: you wouldn’t choose between them, and you would accept both bonds instead. The only thing left for them to do was accept your decision and try to make it work, doing their best to get along for your sake.

They had come to one important agreement: you always came first. In every situation. Your well-being, your happiness, your pleasure—all of it was their priority.

Which was why they had decided one of them should always be with you, especially now, during the first few weeks since your double mating ceremony, when the frenzy still hadn’t entirely passed.

But war and threats and death gods couldn’t be postponed, not even for you, and neither of them could refuse when they had to leave you for a few days to try to track down Koschei. They hadn’t talked much unless it was to discuss theories or mention you, but Azriel knew that, just like him, Eris was struggling.

Being away from you was a weight he could barely carry, and the frenzy only made it worse. Searching for clues and information helped, but when he lay down at night with nothing to do but think of you, Azriel would just stare at the ceiling for hours. It was the same for Eris—his shadows confirmed it in a whisper.

They could have helped each other, he supposed. After all, in the throes of passion, despite their focus on you, they had shared touches, kisses, sometimes more. And Azriel had long since stopped trying to convince himself he hadn’t enjoyed it. But he’d be damned before admitting it out loud. He was willing to bet it was the same for Eris, if his reactions to Azriel’s touch were any indication.

So they had spent days craving the touch of their mate—both of them knowing they could find some relief in each other and yet too stubborn to ask for it.

All that pent-up need and tension came crashing to the surface the moment they finally returned home and silently opened the door to your shared bedroom.

You were lying in bed, arms wrapped around your pillow, the sheets crumpled around your feet. A gentle breeze drifting in through the open window rustled the curtains, and the moonlight gave you an ethereal look as it bathed your sleeping form.

Your naked, sleeping form.

The sight was enough to stir a familiar hunger deep in Azriel’s core. His hand flexed at his side as if itching to reach out and touch you, and his Illyrian leathers were suddenly far too tight around his groin.

“Someone’s needy,” Eris whispered beside him, a tantalizing smirk curving his lips as always.

Azriel glanced at him—at the obvious bulge in his pants. “You’re one to talk.”

Eris’s annoying smirk only widened as he turned to face him. “Should we wake her?”

“No.” Azriel shot him a glare. “She’s sleeping.”

“Oh, come on, Shadowsinger.” Eris rolled his eyes. “She’s naked. We both know she doesn’t like sleeping that way. You really think it doesn’t mean anything?”

He knew Eris was right. It wasn’t hot enough yet to justify the open window, the discarded sheets, the lack of clothes. You were probably dealing with the same problem that had plagued him on the continent—surges of heat caused by the frenzy, which you usually handled by spending a good couple of hours locked inside with your mates. But they’d been away too long.

Eris took a step toward the bed, but Azriel shot out a hand and grabbed his arm to stop him. The redhead twirled around, an almost feral look in his amber eyes visible even in the darkness of the room.

“She needs me,” he seethed, yanking his arm free. At Azriel’s pointed look, he seemed to calm down. With a sigh, he added grudgingly, “Fine. Us. She needs us.”

Despite his own raging desire, despite the truth in Eris’s words and the need to touch you, taste you, bury himself inside you and never let go, Azriel still hesitated. You looked so peaceful as you slept—lips slightly parted, hair fanned out across the pillow, moonlight caressing your back and the curve of your ass.

“Just get changed and climb into bed, Vanserra,” he finally said. “Don’t you dare wake her up. You can wait until morning.”

No matter that he didn’t know how he would wait until morning while sleeping next to you, naked, after days of missing you.

The shuffling of sheets caught his attention, and both he and Eris turned just in time to see you stir slightly and roll onto your back. Azriel went rigid as your new position granted him a clear view of your body—from your soft breasts to the flare of your hips and the dip between your legs. Eris gasped softly at his side.

“Guys?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. “Is that you?”

Both males immediately approached the bed, but Eris got there a second earlier. He flashed Azriel a gloating smile before reaching for you, running his slender fingers down your cheek.

“Hello, my darling,” he purred.

Azriel wanted to punch him in those perfect teeth.

Instead, he moved to your other side, wings tucked tight to his back so he could lean in close. “I'm sorry we woke you, angel,” he murmured. Unable to hold back any longer, he curled his hand around your waist, as if to pull you closer. Eris shot him a warning look, daring him to try.

“Don’t be,” you replied with a sleepy smile. “I’m not.”

You stretched with a soft hum, and Azriel's fingers squeezed you a bit tighter. Did you do it on purpose? Or were you just naively unaware of the effect you had on him? On both of them?

Lowering your arms again, your hands found their way to both their cheeks—one in each palm, your touch gentle as you welcomed them home.

“So,” you began, all traces of sleep gone from your voice, replaced by a teasing tilt, “who's getting the first kiss?”

They both moved, but Azriel was faster this time. His mouth found yours, lips finally meeting again, tongues moving in a familiar rhythm. But the tenderness of the kiss was short-lived as the frenzy overtook you both.

Your hand slipped from Eris's cheek to tangle in Azriel's hair, pulling him closer and drawing a low groan from his chest. His arm wrapped more securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he was only dimly aware of Eris kissing your neck as he got lost in the hungry need to claim your mouth and every other inch of you.

But you pulled back before he could go further.

A satisfied smile graced your lips, but you didn't give him time to act. Instead, you tugged on Eris’s hair.

The Heir of Autumn lifted his head, and Azriel could only watch as the two of you shared a kiss as passionate as the one you'd shared with him.

He didn't know how you did it, but you always managed to split your time and your affection equally between your two mates. He loved that about you. It meant he didn't have to worry about you favoring and focusing only on Eris—which he was grateful for—but it also meant that you wouldn't favor and focus only on him.

Azriel shifted to lie more comfortably on the bed, planting a trail of open-mouthed kisses from your collarbone to your soft breasts. He captured one nipple between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue while kneading your other breast with his hand.

The scent of your arousal soon filled the room and Azriel's senses. After days away from you, it made him need you the way he needed air to breathe. More, even.

His hand caressed down your stomach to where he knew he'd find you already wet. But instead, he found Eris’s hand already there, his fingers buried inside you, pumping slowly. A low growl rumbled in his throat, but as if sensing it, Eris moved his thumb aside, granting Azriel access to your clit.

It wasn't enough, but it was better than nothing.

You broke off your kiss with Eris when a moan spilled from your lips. Squirming between them, you spread your legs wider in a silent request for more.

“I’ve missed you,” Azriel murmured, releasing your nipple to look up at you, the pad of his thumb pressed firmly against your clit.

Of course, Eris had to chime in and steal your attention. “I’ve missed you more,” he added, pushing his fingers deeper inside you and drawing another moan.

“Guys,” you chuckled, though your voice was a little breathless, “I’ve missed you too. Both of you.” Your hands reached out to palm the bulges in their pants. “And I need you…”

They both sucked in a breath, but while Azriel pressed himself eagerly into your touch, ready to peel off his fighting leathers and bury himself inside you, Eris still didn’t withdraw his fingers from your cunt.

Azriel shot him a glare, but the redhead only smirked before positioning himself between your legs. “You should learn the art of patience, Shadowsinger,” he drawled, then he lowered his head and closed his lips around your clit.

A wave of annoyance surged through Azriel at the teasing reprimand, as if he hadn’t spent hours worshipping you and making sure you were fully satisfied before ever allowing himself to come. As sharing you with Eris wasn’t proof enough of just how patient he could be.

“Az…”

Your voice snapped him back to you. You were biting your lower lip, soft whimpers escaping you as Eris pleasured you, but your hands were now working to unbuckle Azriel's pants. When you finally got them undone, he stood to take them off, along with the rest of his clothes, discarding everything on the floor.

The moment he joined you again on the bed, your hands were on him. You wrapped your fingers around his hard cock, giving him a gentle squeeze that made him buck in your grasp. He barely had time to steady himself before you propped up on one forearm and guided him into your mouth.

Azriel gasped, his eyes nearly rolling back as you swirled your tongue around his leaking tip. “Fuck…” he breathed. His fingers curled into your hair, and then he was thrusting shallowly into your warm, welcoming mouth.

Your muffled moans mixed with Azriel’s and with Eris’s pleased hums against your flesh every time your hips bucked—his lips and fingers relentless in their assault on your senses.

As you took Azriel deeper and relaxed your throat around him, he groaned, chest heaving and head falling back. His hips jerked forward instinctively, and you gagged around him, but you didn’t pull back or signal for him to stop. You simply looked up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, now wide with lust and fluttering beneath Eris’s expert touch.

Azriel knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, not if you kept looking at him like that while sucking him off so eagerly. He managed to hold back for a few more moments, but as pressure built and release surged closer, he pulled out of your mouth with a grunt.

You gasped for air, lips still parted, as if expecting him to push back in.

Azriel’s hand moved from the back of your head to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lip. “Not yet, my love,” he murmured, his voice slightly breathless. “I don’t want to come just yet.”

Before you could reply, Eris lifted his head from between your thighs. “Should we let her come, though?” he mused as his fingers curled inside you, drawing a whimper from your lips. “She’s so close. I can tell.”

Azriel glanced at him, a silent understanding passing between them. You came first. Always. Even if it wasn't by his hand. Not yet, at least.

“What do you think, angel?” he asked, turning his gaze back to you. “Should we let you come already?”

You nodded, eyes darting between the two of them. “Yes… I need to come.”

Azriel looked back at Eris with a smirk. “Make her come, Vanserra.”

Eris didn’t waste a second. He lowered his mouth to your cunt again, and as much as Azriel wanted to be the one tasting you and making you squirm and moan, he couldn't deny how incredibly arousing it was to watch Eris Vanserra feast on you.

Your hand slipped into Azriel's, holding onto him as your breaths turned into pants. He leaned down to capture your lips in a heated kiss while his other hand cupped your breast, skilled fingers teasing your nipple with practiced ease.

It was only a matter of moments before your body arched off the bed, your muscles tensing and trembling as you came on Eris’s tongue and fingers. Azriel swallowed your soft cries, unwilling to break the kiss just yet.

Only when you relaxed again did he pull back, at the same time Eris lifted his head. You were panting, one final whimper escaping your lips as Eris slowly pulled his fingers out of you. But just as he brought them to his mouth to lick them clean, you reached out to stop him.

“Wait,” you urged. “Let Azriel do it.”

Both males froze. Azriel's eyes widened in surprise, Eris merely arched a brow.

“You want him to suck my fingers?”

“Yes.” You pushed yourself up slightly, a sly smile curving your lips. “Give him a chance to taste me.”

It was just an excuse, Azriel knew that. Why taste you from Eris's fingers when he could do it directly from the source? But he also knew that you loved watching them touch not just you, but each other as well.

It was how it had all started, after all. You had asked them if they could please kiss each other, at least once, to know what it felt like. It had taken a little convincing, but neither of them could ever say no to you. You'd asked again after that. Sometimes not only for a kiss. And sometimes, you didn't even have to ask.

“Fine,” Azriel grumbled.

You and Eris both stared at him, likely surprised he'd agreed so quickly. But after fucking Eris while he went down on you, licking his fingers didn't seem like such a big deal.

The Heir of Autumn turned toward him, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. “Eager, Shadowsinger?”

“Shut up, Vanserra,” he growled back. “Just give me your damn hand.”

Eris opened his mouth to reply, but you spoke first.

“Boys, boys, please,” you said with a soft laugh. “No need to get heated over this, don't you think?”

“Sorry, my love,” they answered in unison.

They exchanged an awkward glance, but then Eris lifted his hand, his lips curling in amusement.

Azriel didn't let himself second-guess it as he grabbed the male's wrist and tugged him closer. He glanced at you—still smiling at them—one last time before sealing his lips around the two fingers Eris had buried inside you.

Your slick release still coated them, the familiar taste flooding his mouth, laced now with something distinctly Eris. His skin.

Azriel swirled his tongue around the long digits, torn between savoring it or getting it over with quickly. He could already hear the comments Eris was certainly holding back, especially when that small smile curved into a full grin. Azriel shot him a glare, sharp enough to silence any smug remarks, but Eris just arched an amused brow in response.

Even after Azriel pulled away, the two males exchanged a long, heated glance—only for your voice to pull them both back to earth.

“Beautiful,” you murmured, your hungry gaze sweeping over them. Azriel felt desire stir in his gut again, but you turned to Eris, nodding toward his still clothed form. “Don’t you think it’s time you took those off?”

Eris nodded instantly. “Of course, my darling.”

As he stood to undress, Azriel moved to take the spot Eris had just vacated—right between your legs, where he wanted to be. But you shifted first, flashing him a playful wink as you got on your hands and knees.

Azriel grinned, his hands sliding over your hips. “Is this how you want me?”

Eris, now fully naked, settled in front of you. “Us, Shadowsinger,” he corrected smoothly. “It’s how she wants us.” He caressed your cheek. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

“C’mon, guys,” you mumbled, though there was a hint of amusement in your voice, “you know you don’t need to fight over me. Why don’t you kiss each other while fucking me to make up for it?”

Azriel didn’t particularly care about the first part of that suggestion. All he heard was your permission to fuck you, and he was more than ready bury his cock inside you.

Eris replied with something Azriel didn’t listen to, one hand already tightening around your waist while he lined himself up with your dripping folds. Just brushing his cock against your cunt made his breath hitch. But instead of pushing inside, he glanced up and met Eris’s eyes over your back.

Despite their differences and apparent dislike for each other, they’d developed a silent language since your mating ceremony—one that didn't need words. After Eris positioned himself in front of you, his cock brushing your parted lips, he gave a small nod. That was all he took.

They thrust forward in perfect unison.

Three moans echoed in the room—yours the loudest of all—as they filled you from both ends.

It was heaven.

It had only been a few days since Azriel last felt you clench around his cock, but fuck, he had missed it. Would always miss it. Frenzy or not, he loved you.

You took them so beautifully, every movement of your body pulling them deeper, every sound from your lips making Azriel want to come far too soon. Their rhythm was one they'd practiced and refined—measured thrusts, timed perfectly, all for your pleasure.

But even as Azriel focused on the feel of you wrapped around him he felt Eris's gaze lingering on him.

“You heard the lady,” Eris said, his voice strained as your mouth moved over his cock. “So what are we waiting for?”

Azriel lifted a brow, hips never slowing. “Eager to kiss me, Eris?”

The Autumn Heir faltered for just a beat before his thrusts resumed, amber eyes glinting. He leaned forward, sliding deeper into your mouth—not that you minded, judging by the muffled moan you gave—and leaned ever closer to Azriel.

“You suck my fingers and suddenly you use my first name?” he drawled.

Azriel blinked. He hadn’t even realized he'd said it. It had just come out naturally.

He wondered, briefly, how it would feel to hear Eris say his name in return.

“Shut up,” he muttered instead.

Still holding your waist with one hand, he reached up with the other and pulled Eris closer. Their mouths met in a heated, desperate kiss—both of them trying to take control, neither of them willing to give it.

The room filled with sound—skin on skin, soft gasps and muffled moans, the creak of the bed frame, and the wet, urgent heat of their kiss.

And as your body clenched around him and Eris's tongue slid against his, Azriel knew.

He was exactly where he was meant to be.

With his mate, and with whatever Eris Vanserra was starting to become.

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd

[queenofwands89]

Quiet Affections

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Pilot!reader

Summary: After her friends tease her about Jake having a crush on her, Y/N reflects on certain memories that make her question whether there might be some truth to their playful jabs.

Warnings: Teasing, pining, Jake being a sweetheart, Y/N being oblivious, insults aimed at Y/N, protective Jake, mention and description of injury, anxiety, doubts, fluff.

Notes: Happy Friday, everyone! We made it! 🎉 I just hit 2,500 likes on here and wanted to thank each and every one of you who liked, reblogged, or commented on my works. It means the world to me. I’m down bad for Jake, and need him badly so I wrote this. Enjoy byeeee

You find yourself deep in the heart of the Hard Deck, the familiar hum of chatter and clinking glasses forming a comforting backdrop. Rooster, Natasha, Javy, Bob, Reuben, and Mickey are clustered around the pool table, laughter spilling freely as they take turns making shots and throwing jabs. Jake had just excused himself to go to the restroom, but not before brushing a lingering hand against your shoulder and whispering something that made you smile. This action set off a chain reaction of teasing directed at you.

"Y/N, you know Hangman’s got a huge crush on you, right?" Rooster's mustache twitches with a sly smile as he lines up for his shot.

You laugh it off, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh please, Bradley. Jake? No way. He's just... nice."

Rooster and Natasha exchange glances before Natasha cocks an eyebrow at you. "Nice? Hangman is many things, but nice isn't the first word I'd use. Unless he’s talking to you," she remarks, tapping her cue stick against her palm.

Bob, always the quiet observer, chimes in. "He's got a point though, Y/N. I've seen how he looks at you."

You can't help but roll your eyes. "I'm just completely unaware of it," you say, sarcasm dripping from your voice. "You guys are ridiculous."

Mickey grins, his boyish charm lighting up his face. "Maybe, but can you really deny the way he's always got your back?" he asks, leaning casually against the pool table.

Your first instinct is to rebut, but as their words settle in, you start to think about some of the things Jake had done for you. Not just the grand gestures like saving your hide in aerial combat, but the small, everyday things. The way he'd always save you a seat, bring you coffee exactly how you like it, offer subtle words of encouragement when you doubted yourself.

Javy steps forward, his competitive spirit twinkling in his eyes. "You're telling me you haven't noticed how he always goes out of his way to make sure you're okay?"

Reuben, good-natured but always vigilant, nods in agreement. "Hangman's not exactly an altruistic guy, Y/N. But for you? He'd go to lengths he wouldn't for anyone else."

You crack a wry smile, determined to stay firm in your denial. "He's just protective. We're teammates."

Natasha had already joined in, her voice warm yet teasing. “Don’t sell yourself short, Y/N. It’s not just about being teammates. He genuinely cares.”

In the ensuing silence, you can't help but ponder on their words. Jake "Hangman" Seresin is charismatic and assertive, traits forged from his exceptional flying skills and competitive nature. But beneath that cocky exterior, there lies a heart incredibly loving and caring, willing to sacrifice anything for his loved ones. Slowly, you find yourself drifting into a vivid memory, reliving the countless cherished moments and experiences you've shared with Jake.

You recall that evening at the Hard Deck vividly. The bar was buzzing with the usual chatter and laughter, the hum of camaraderie filling the air. You were amidst your friends, enjoying the rare downtime when an unfamiliar voice cut through the noise—this stranger making an offhand but cruel remark about you. The comment was subtle, yet it stung deeply, rooting you in place with a mix of shock and mortification. Your cheeks burned under the weight of the ridicule, words lodged in your throat.

Before you could muster a response, you felt Jake's presence beside you, solid and reassuring. He stepped forward, placing himself between you and the offender. His usual easy going demeanor was replaced by a steely resolve, his eyes dark with anger. "Do us all a favor and think before you speak," he said, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge.

The bar fell into an uneasy silence as Jake’s glare pinned the offender in place. "If you've got a problem with Y/N," he continued, his voice low and unwavering, "you’ll be dealing with me."

The tension hung in the air, thick and palpable. The offender, unable to match Jake's intensity, muttered an apology and slunk away, deflated. The moment passed, but the impact lingered. Jake remained there a moment longer, ensuring the threat had fully dissipated before turning back to you.

As he met your gaze, the hardness in his features softened, replaced by a gentle concern. He reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You okay?" he asked, his voice filled with a tenderness reserved just for you.

You felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude, the initial embarrassment giving way to a profound sense of relief. Jake had stood up for you without a second thought, his protective instinct leaving no room for compromise. In that moment, you knew you were safe, not just physically but emotionally, knowing Jake had your back. His touch and the concern in his eyes reassured you even more, providing a solace that words alone could not.

.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

Then there was the night when you couldn’t sleep, tormented by insecurities that gnawed at the edges of your mind. It was long past midnight, and you found yourself seated on the deck of the aircraft carrier, trying to get some fresh air to clear your head before the mission. The vast expanse of the ocean and the cool night breeze did little to quiet the whirlwind of self-doubt swirling inside you.

The stars dotted the sky like tiny beacons, and the waves below gently lapped against the ship's hull, but none of it brought you peace. You wrapped your arms around yourself, tense and lost in thought, barely noticing the sound of footsteps approaching.

Jake emerged from the shadows, his silhouette becoming clearer in the soft glow of the ship's lights. He paused when he saw you, his brow furrowing with concern. He looked around, ensuring no one else was around, before walking over to you with determined but careful strides.

"Y/N, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice breaking the solitude with an edge of worry.

You hesitated, feeling foolish for bothering him. "I…I just can't stop thinking about everything that's been going wrong. I don't know if I'm cut out for this, Jake."

Jake's eyes softened, and he lowered himself to sit beside you on the cold metal deck. "Tell me more," he said gently, coaxing you to open up. His voice was so steady, so soothing, that you found yourself pouring out all your fears and anxieties—the relentless pressure, the fear of failure, the nagging feeling that you weren't good enough. With each word, you felt a weight lifting from your chest.

Jake listened without interrupting, his usual cocky demeanor replaced by an unwavering focus on you. His eyes never left your face, and his expression remained kind and attentive. "You know what I see when I look at you?" he said quietly once you had finished. "I see someone who's brave, who fights every day to be better, who cares deeply about others. You're stronger than you think, Y/N. Don't let those doubts control you."

His words felt like a balm to your soul, soothing the raw edges of your insecurities. When he reached out to brush a stray tear from your cheek, the warmth of his touch and the sincerity in his eyes melted away your remaining doubts, leaving you wrapped in a cocoon of reassurance. Sitting there on the deck, under the endless sky, you felt profoundly grateful for Jake's unwavering support and the strength he helped you find within yourself.

.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

You also remember the time when you injured your ankle during a training exercise. You had insisted on limping back to your quarters, trying to maintain your independence. But Jake wouldn't hear of it. He had scooped you up without a second thought, cradling you in his arms as if you weighed nothing. "I've got you," he murmured, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic gentleness. The entire trek back, he kept you engaged in light-hearted banter, ensuring your mind stayed off the pain.

.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

And how could you forget the morning he had brought you coffee? Not just any coffee, but a complex, personalized concoction—an oat milk latte with a shot of caramel, a pinch of cinnamon, and a dash of nutmeg, and no foam. You hadn’t even mentioned it to him before. "Thought you could use a pick-me-up," he had said nonchalantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But you knew the effort he had put into remembering such a detailed order, and it made your heart swell with an unfamiliar warmth.

These memories play in your mind like a cherished montage, each moment a testament to the man beneath the bravado. Jake "Hangman" Seresin wasn’t just the cocky pilot everyone else saw. He was a protector, a confidant, a friend who cared deeply for you, even if you had been too blind to see it before.

Returning back to the present moment amidst the lively ambiance of the Hard Deck, surrounded by the warmth of friends and laughter, you notice Jake returning from the restroom. As your eyes meet, his familiar smirk emerges, but this time there’s a tender softness in his gaze that you hadn’t noticed before—or perhaps, hadn't allowed yourself to see.

“Miss me?” he jokes, sliding back into the chaos of pool cues and friendly banter.

You chuckle, shaking off the speculative thoughts. “Like a bad habit, Seresin.”

But later, as the night winds down and the camaraderie ebbs into a quieter hum, you catch yourself glancing his way more often. The teasing remarks of your friends aren’t so easily dismissed anymore. And as Jake catches your gaze across the room, you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, they might be onto something.

Because sometimes, the most significant realizations are the ones that had been right in front of you all along, masked by the comfort of friendship and the chaos of duty.

You smile to yourself, feeling an inexplicable warmth. Maybe it was time to see what was beyond the camaraderie, to delve into the possibilities of what if. The thought lingers, like an unopened letter, waiting for the right moment.

For now, you return to the laughter and games, but with a new awareness, a curiosity that couldn’t be easily shaken. One thing was for sure—things were going to get interesting.

-

Text divider credits: @bunnysrph

[pretentious-blonde]

love

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: the confession

warnings: 18+ so many feelings, crying, crying during sex, smut, graphic descriptions of sex, p in v, steve in love, but also angst, panic??

a/n: this is long and took me so long to get it the way i wanted, so i really hope this was worth the wait. this is so sappy, but i feel like i say that about everything, but its TRUE

series masterlist

Steve had been fidgeting ever since they’d slid into the booth. It was a local lunch spot the two of them frequented—sticky vinyl seats, the comforting smell of fried food in the air, and a waitress who recognised them enough to offer a kindly smile. 

Janine? Jamie, was it?

The familiarity did nothing to soothe him. It was a Saturday, you were at work, and Robin was here because he’d breathlessly told her on the phone that it was an “emergency.” 

She nearly sprinted out the door, all too accustomed to handling his disasters. Some were worse than others, but she knew Steve would never use the word emergency unless the situation was actually dire.

His leg bounces, it rattles the underside of the table, causing the silverware to clink against the napkin dispenser. He’s so lost in his own head that, when the waitress returns to drop off two tall glasses of iced tea, he just stares past her, far too caught up to register her presence. 

Robin, exasperated, shoots her an apologetic grin, silently promising that next time the service won’t be abysmal. She’s already planning to leave a generous tip by way of apology.

“Okay, drinks are here,” she says, the slightest edge of tough love in her voice. 

She gestures at the sweating glasses in front of them, hoping that tangible proof of an official breakfast might pull him back down to Earth. She eyes him carefully, remembering the last time he used the word emergency.

It hadn’t been good. 

She’d had to pick him up from school—the fifth graders were doing a presentation on black holes, and he could barely get the words out between the panic. The memories had blindsided him, crashing in from nowhere. Even he was startled by how easily he came undone. 

But that was a year ago, and he seemed to be doing much better now. Which was exactly why he only used the term emergency when he meant it—and she was eager to find out what was going on.

Steve’s eyes hover on the condensation sliding down the glass as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, as his leg continues its relentless bouncing. “They are.”

Robin levels him with a stare. 

“So can you please tell me what the hell this ‘big emergency’ is about before I go into cardiac arrest?”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking suddenly sheepish. 

“Feels stupid now.”

Maybe he should have worded it better. 

“Jesus Christ, Steve.” She throws up her hands. “Is it an emergency or not?”

“Yes—well, sort of…” he blurts, then slumps. “Ugh—it sounded bigger in my head.”

She gives him a once-over, her gaze drifting to the beads of sweat forming at his temple. His tension is off the charts. 

Normally, she’d tease him about it, but she senses something deeper roiling behind his eyes. 

“Okay,” she says, more gently now. “Okay, alright—whatever it is, I’m sure we can handle it. Is it a code red?” 

The code for the Upside Down—something that should never come back but always remains a possibility.

“No,” he meets her eyes quickly, shaking his head. “Not a code red.”

Definitely not a code red.

Relief softens her shoulders, and she sips her tea. 

“Then what is it? Is it your class?” She knows he adores his second-graders but also tends to fret over them like a mother.

“No.”

She narrows her eyes. 

“Your girl?”

Silence.

Bingo.

“What did you do now?”

He looks at her, and for a moment, his expression faulters. He’s thinking about you—she knows it, because that dazed, hopeful, half-panicked look has you written all over it. 

She’s watched him obsess for months, flushing anytime your name comes up, lighting up whenever you call. The love is so obvious it nearly radiates from him like a neon sign, and it’s been the quiet delight of her recent life to see her best friend discover something good after everything he’s lost.

But Steve is stuck in his own mind, once again. 

He’s tried, on three separate occasions, to tell you he loves you. 

The first time was in the early morning when you stayed over, tucked beneath his arm, more comforting than any night light or dreamless sleep. Looking after him and his supposed "migraine." He’d walked you to the door, cheeks still warm from the coffee and giggles in between. He’d felt the words tiptoe to the back of his throat—only to choke them down the moment your eyes met his in the golden dawn light.

The second time was on that warm evening you both decided to hike the highest trail in town to catch the perfect sunset. You teased him about being out of shape—he teased you about complaining the whole climb up. Then, at the top, you collapsed onto a worn log, looking out over the quarry and that spot the locals nicknamed Lovers Lake. He’d almost said it then, the sun painting your face with brilliant pinks and purples, but he chickened out at the last second, turned it into a corny joke, and convinced himself he needed “a perfect moment.”

The third time was just a few nights ago. You called him late—long after both of you should’ve been asleep. But you talked until your voices were languid with exhaustion, and as he drifted off, the words were right there again, creeping up through the haze of half-sleep. He’d bitten his tongue.

He wanted to see your face when he finally said it, wanted to watch your eyes well up. He knows you—of course, you’d cry; you cry at every heartfelt book ending and those sad animal adverts you catch on TV. Even when he manages to turn them off when they pop up, you’re still halfway gone, too sweet for your own good.

Too sweet for him, probably.

He wanted to be there to wipe your tears and hold you close, to make sure you understood just how serious his confession was—that he would always be there to shoulder your sadness, to offer back even a fraction of the care you’d given him.

But time was dragging on, and the pressure in his chest only intensified. He’s realised he doesn’t know how to go about it. 

A fancy restaurant feels too public. He doesn’t want you sobbing at a linen-draped table in front of a hundred strangers, but something offhand or casual doesn’t do justice to how deeply he feels. In desperation, he’d rung Robin at 9 a.m., muttering cryptic nonsense that he needed to see her—emergency. 

And here they are, his heart pounding so loudly he wonders if the entire diner can hear it.

“Steve,” she sighs to break his trance, drumming her fingers on the table, “what is going on? I can’t help unless you tell me.”

“It…” He tries to speak, breath catching in his throat. “it happened.”

Seriously?

“No, be more vague—please. I love playing twenty questions on my day off.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated exhale. If he can’t even tell his best friend he is in love with you, how the hell is he going to say it to your face?

“I… I love her, alright? I love her, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to go about it.”

There. He said it. 

The first step was done—admitting it out loud

“Oh,” she blinks, as if that’s not a shock to her in the slightest.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No, I mean…” Robin sets her glass down. “I kinda thought you were already, like, there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That night at the bar?” She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

He pictures you in the dim light, how your laughter danced against the clinking bottles and pounding music, how you’d held his hand a little tighter tighter under the table, how later—teeth and tongue, filthy words turned soft and sweet come the morning hangover—he’d known something had shifted, maybe even before that. A flush still creeps up his neck at the memory.

“Was it that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so, loverboy.” She offers him a sympathetic grin. 

“But that’s not the problem.” He groans and buries his face in his hands. 

She tilts her head. “Then what is?”

He looks up, eyes flicking around to ensure no one is eavesdropping. 

“Avery.”

Fucking Avery. 

“Your therapist?”

“Yeah.”

“Wasn’t he the one who was supportive of your whole ‘journey to recovery’?” She tries to contain her confusion. “I mean, you finally talking to her was a huge deal.”

It had been a huge deal—which meant this was, by extension, just as monumental.

“He is supportive. But…” He rubs a hand over his chin, dropping his voice. “He made it extremely clear that the 'journey' would not consist of telling her… you know.”

At that, Robin’s face tightens with understanding. Dr Avery was no regular therapist—he was government-provided, more or less, to help him process the lethal secrets he’d been forced to swallow. 

“Is that… is that a problem for you?” 

Not talking about it?

“Yes and no,” he feels his chest tighten. “I’ve told her the bare bones,” he admits, “but she wants more. Worse is, I want to tell her, but—fuck—I don’t know what to do.”

He wants to tell you—and he knows you want to know. 

He was getting close, ready to let you in completely. But this had blindsided him, a curveball he never saw coming. He’d never realised how unclear the boundaries were—he knew better than to spill his trauma to the local cashier, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the same silence might apply to the people closest to him.

Robin’s eyes flit around, making sure no one’s close enough to overhear.

“Would it be, y’know, bad if you told her?”

He read between the lines, nodding once. 

“Definitely,” he says, remembering the warning, the seecretive nature of everything that happened beneath Hawkins. The last thing he wants is for you to be thrown into the crosshairs of that madness.

She frowns, tapping the table with restless fingers, trying to find a solution. 

“So stick to basics?”

“I’ve done that.” He wrinkles his brow. “She knows about the fire at the old mall.”

“Stick to what’s public.” She sighs, exasperated but determined. “The Mall fire, the ‘earthquake,’ Will going missing—hell, all that stuff’s in the papers. The town believed it. If she goes digging, that’s all she’s gonna find.”

He tries to picture it. You’re smart—he’s always known that. When you latch onto something, you chase it down until you have every answer. It’s one of the things he admires about you. 

You couldn’t possibly guess the truth, right? 

Not even your imagination could stretch that far. 

“She might suspect something,” he worries out loud. “She’s too sharp to not notice the gaps.”

“How can she suspect the actual ‘truth’?” She lifts both hands in air quotes to punctuate the word. “Look—It’s not ideal, I know. But what choice do you have? Unless you plan on taking the risk and telling her everything.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” he says firmly. 

He doesn’t even have to think about it. 

The idea of you being in danger twists his stomach with dread.

“Then this is the only option.” She nods, as if she knew that would be his response. “It’s safer for everyone involved. Once you get that conversation out of the way, she probably won’t ask again, unless it’s necessary. She cares about you enough to respect that boundary, especially if it’s so obviously painful.”

She’s got a point—though it’s not one he’s particularly fond of.

“I don’t like it.”

Again with the lying. 

“Neither do I,” she agrees softly, “but it’s the best we’ve got for now. And who knows? Maybe in a few years, once you’ve both proven you’re in it for the long haul, you can push to let her know more. But for now… it’s safer to keep it quiet.”

He considers this, letting the logic sink in. 

He pictures your face, the soft ways your expression shifts whenever you sense he’s holding something back. You’d do anything to protect him—he knows that, and in turn, he’d do anything to protect you. If this is the path to keep you safe and build a future, then so be it. 

“Okay…”  He exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay. Yeah, I can do that.”

He can do that.

Robin’s lips curve into a relieved smile. 

“Perfect, now we’ve got that out of the way…”

She takes another sip, then shoves her drink aside like it personally offended her. Leaning in, elbows on the table, she rests her chin in her palms and flashes him a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

“Got any plans for your big, sweeping declaration of love? Or let me guess, you’re just gonna wing it—blurt it out in a moment of chaos, spiral into a full-blown meltdown, then call me freaking out because it’s an ‘emergency’ again?”

“I would so not do that.”

“Mhm. Sure. History really backs you up there, champ.”

Steve had spent nearly an hour that afternoon pacing between rows of delicate floral displays, Robin’s voice buzzing in his head. 

Keep it simple, but, like, not too simple. Just make it romantic. 

He took her at her word. Red roses? Too cliched. Tulips? Sold out. Lilies? He scrunched his nose because something about them felt too solemn—like he’d be bringing home a funeral arrangement, and God knew he’d had enough of death in his life. 

Eventually, the florist guided him to the pink carnations, speaking softly about how they symbolised gratitude. He latched onto that word. 

Gratitude. 

He watched, vaguely mesmerised, as the florist carefully wrapped the gentle stems in translucent paper. He only half-listened to her explanation of meaning and symbolism. In truth, he was more focused on how neatly she tied the bow, imagining the look on your face when he handed them over. He might have stammered something about how you deserved more than carnations, but the florist just smiled and assured him you’d love them.

He hoped she was right.

Next stop was the grocery store, where he raided the snack aisle like a man on a mission. M&Ms, Reese’s, a bag of your favorite crisps—he wanted you to have options. Tonight had to be soft and sweet, the perfect reflection of you. If everything went according to plan, it would be the start of something even more meaningful.

The final kicker had actually been Robin’s idea—she was good for some things, he supposed. 

She’d suggested he book a weekend away, just the two of you, to finally have the big conversation about his past—or at least the basics. 

Somewhere you could choose together, a little hideaway where you’d drag him into every antique shop and he wouldn’t dare complain. Where you’d come home in the evening, and he’d fight you when it came down to who’s cooking. He’d sit you on the counter so you could watch, tasting as he goes. Somewhere with a fireplace. Somewhere warm. Somewhere he could lose himself in you, if only for a few days.

He’d tell you as much as he could, and you could leave it there—stronger for it.

It was foolproof. 

He just had to tell you he loved you first. 

No big deal. 

Except it was the biggest thing he’d done in years.

By the time he parked outside your shop, the day was winding down. The lights were faint through the windows, and he could see you behind the counter with your nose in a book, the edges of your world looking downright peaceful. 

He steeled himself, took a breath, and shouldered the bag of goodies and flowers.

He was going to do this.

He was going to walk in there, see your smile, and at least try not to fuck it up.

The little bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. You glanced up, frowning at the idea of a customer so late to closing. Realisation soon dawned and your face lit with a smile as you recognised who it was. He managed a wave, and when you spotted the carnations and the rustling grocery bag, your expression softened as you shoved your book aside.

You were around the counter in two heartbeats, practically throwing yourself into his arms. He caught you with a small oof, but the sound turned into a warm laugh. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“What’s all this?” you asked, taking a small step back but keeping your hands curled in the fabric of his jacket.

He glanced down at the bag in one hand and the bouquet in the other, pretending to look them over like he’d just noticed them himself. 

“What? I can’t surprise you after work?”

You pressed your lips together in a playful smile. 

“If you’re gonna show up like this,” you teased, gesturing to the flowers, “then you can always surprise me after work.”

“Noted,” he said. He gently passed the carnations to you, watched you inhale their sweet fragrance.

The kiss you offered him in thanks was brief but lingering enough to stir the butterflies in his stomach. He savoured the feeling of your mouth against his, of the way you exhaled softly when his hand rested on your waist. When you pulled back, you lifted the grocery bag curiously. 

“If there are M&Ms in here, I’m guessing a movie night?”

Hmm, close enough. 

“Yeah,” he let out a breathy chuckle. “Something like that.”

You beamed up at him and he felt a little more centered. 

He wasn’t going to screw this up—he could already feel it.

“I’m gonna go put these in some water,” you said, cradling the flowers against your chest. “Would you mind locking the door, please?”

“On it,” he replied quickly.

He made sure to flip the sign from Open to Closed, then turned the lock with a satisfying click. He tested the door twice—overly cautious, but it soothed him. 

He didn’t want anything interrupting what he was about to do—not a stray customer, not a single distraction. This was the night he’d been imagining for a week straight. Every version he’d fantasised about, he didn’t want to end. 

Sometimes, in those daydreams, you cried. 

Sometimes, you kissed him before he was even finished. 

But his absolute favourite—the one he cherished the most—was the version where you gently shushed him, eyes soft, and repeated his words. 

Told him you loved him back.

He follows you upstairs. It smells of the flowers you’ve just placed in a vase, their fragrance mingling with the old-book scent that seems to cling to every corner of your life.

You rifle through the shopping bag too, unearthing treasure, pulling out chocolate bars and snack packs with a sound of genuine delight that sends warmth flooding through him. In the last few weeks alone, he’s realised how simple moments like these—the mundane, the domestic—can feel like revelations when shared. 

He was a giver—he was starting to understand that now. 

It had been hard, for a long time, to recall what that felt like. He used to give so easily, so instinctively, to anyone who needed him. Maybe that part of him had never really disappeared. He still gave himself to his work, poured everything he had into it—but this was different. This wasn’t obligation or survival. He wanted to give to you, simply because it made you happy. 

“You really went all out here,” you tease, glancing at the near-overflowing pile of sweets.

“Not really,” he replies with a shrug, trying to play it cool. “Just the stuff I know you like.”

“Okay, but you got pretty much everything… twice.”

Yeah, maybe it was overboard. 

“Didn’t want you to run out,” he mumbles, but it’s not just about the snacks.

“You trying to sweeten me up or something?” You cock a brow at him, a playful grin tugging at your lips. 

He chuckles, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders melt away. 

“No, not quite,” his hands find your waist, drawing you closer. “C’mon, tell me about your day.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, but there’s affection there still. Before he knows it, you’ve grabbed his hand and tugged him across the room. He stumbles after you, nearly tripping over a stray book, and you steer him toward the couch, dropping down opposite him. The cushions dip under his weight, and he shifts to face you, his full attention locked on your every movement.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you begin with a dramatic sigh, leaning your head back against the couch.

“What do you mean?”

“Deal with kids all day.” You throw your hands up as you explain. “You take your eyes off them for just one second, and they basically destroy the place.”

Steve snorts in empathy, recollecting all the mishaps he’s encountered in his classroom—spilled paint jars, glue-eating incidents, that one kid who insisted on running around with scissors directly pointed upward. 

He still claims his job ‘helps’ him cope with stress.

“Yeah, they do tend to do that,” he says trying to hold in a grin. 

He recalls his first week on the job, wide-eyed and clueless. He’d had to stop one of the braver second graders from chowing down on some crayons; that memory still makes him chuckle, even as he had to remind himself it was ‘non-toxic.’ 

“So, what happened?”

You exhale again in frustration, throwing an arm over your eyes in an exaggerated show of exasperation. 

“A kid came in—not one of yours, obviously—”

“Obviously.”

“—and the dad was completely oblivious to what he was doing. I swear, like, no control at all. The kid thought it’d be real funny to pull all the books from the lower shelves onto the floor. The ones I’d just reorganised that morning.”

“Maybe he was looking to buy.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. 

“He wasn’t.” You shoot him a narrow glare. “Funnily enough, I don’t think he was in the market for Tennyson.”

“You never know,” he quips, fighting a smirk, “could be really advanced for his age.”

“By the way he tore some of the pages loose, I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

He winces at the thought of ruined books—he’s never been the biggest reader, but he knows how it’d break your heart to see the torn pages. 

“Need me to help sort them?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I managed to get it done after they left. The dad didn’t even say sorry though.”

“Sounds like I came at the right time, huh?” He leans forward and nudges your foot with his own, a playful attempt to lighten your mood.

“You have no idea.” You return the nudge with a small kick, your eyes relax as you look at him, letting out a breath. Finally able to uncoil after the trauma of the afternoon. 

You refocus your attention back on him, folding your arm under your cheek so you can look. 

“Tell me about your day, make me feel better.” 

“It wasn’t as eventful as yours.” He rubs the back of his neck and offers a modest laugh.

It's been monumental if you knew the details. 

“Don’t care,” you say, shrugging. “Bore me then.”

He shifts on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position for what he knows is about to happen. 

“Well,” he says, “I saw Rob.”

“Oh?”

“She says hi.”

“Hi back,” you reply, and even though you’re not looking at him with suspicion, he feels the nerves swell in his ribs. 

“We had a… talk.” He swallows. 

Ok, that sounded ominous.

Concern flashes across your features, and you straighten. 

“Is everything alright?”

When he sees that hint of worry in your eyes—the immediate readiness to drop everything for his sake—he feels a little guilty. 

“She’s fine,” he reassures quickly. “Everything is fine.”

“Oh… So, what was it?”

He takes a steadying breath, feeling the moment begin to unravel before him. 

“I… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, I mean… no, I don’t think so.”

“Because if it is, you can tell me.”

“I know.”

“And I promise I can help,” you insist, already leaning in, your hands inching toward him as if you’ll physically hold his problems for him if you have to.

“No, you don’t have to—”

“Because if you needed I could shut the shop for a while—”

"That's not—"

"And I've got the whole day off tomorrow."

"No, I—"

"And the day after as well—"

“Fuck, sweetheart, please.” 

Let him do this. 

He surprises even himself with the urgency in his tone. In one smooth motion, he leans forward, resting his palms on your shoulders. The earnestness on your face practically knocks the air out of his lungs. 

“I know you would,” he assures, voice going softer. “I know, but it’s not anything like that.”

He can see your tension unravel a fraction, posture turning sheepish. 

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth curving into a near-smile. “Don’t ever be sorry for trying, alright? Don’t.”

You never need to apologise for that. 

You nod, eyes focused on him now, waiting.

He steels himself, heart thudding, the next words feeling far too big for his body.

Robin had been right—he’s probably going to butcher this. He always does when it comes to words. They get tangled, come out wrong, never quite land the way he means. 

She’d also told him something else: that the words don’t have to be perfect, just honest—as honest as they can be. And that part, he knows he can do. Because you’ll let him say them—however clumsy or messy or cracked they come out—you’ll give him the space to try.

“I… I’ve been trying to figure out the right moment to tell you everything, and it’s just… never felt like the right time.” 

He drags in a breath, noticing the way your expression shifts to something gentler, more open. The subject matter is a rocky one—one you know he has to take his time articulating. 

“And I know it hasn’t been fair to you. I know that. I hate how much I hold back. It fucking kills me that I can’t give you everything. You’re the one person who’s shown up, over and over, and all I’ve done is make you wait—you don’t deserve that, angel.”

“Steve…” You start softly, but he holds up his hand, not unkindly, just asking for silence.

He needs to do this. 

“Can—can you just let me finish?”

Please?

You nod, giving him the space he needs. He forces down the lump in his throat. 

Here goes nothing. 

“I didn’t know if I was gonna get any better,” he says, voice unsteady. “If I could get any better. But I feel like… I feel like I’ve come further with you than I ever would’ve on my own.”

Your lips part, like you want to protest or tell him he’s stronger than he thinks—to give himself some more credit at the progress he has made already. He senses your thought process immediately. 

“I’m serious, angel. I—I never would’ve even thought about asking someone out a couple years ago. I couldn’t. I didn’t think I had it in me. Hell—even a year ago—I was still barely holding myself together. But you…”

He swallows hard, the words catching in his throat.

“You made it feel like maybe I could. Like I could be someone again—like I’m allowed to want things. And you—God, you made it look so easy. Just by showing up.”

He stumbles over his words, then closes his eyes for a brief second, gathering the courage to keep going. 

“But I think I’m ready now… for all of it.”

As much as he could be. 

His eyes find yours again—soft, but sure. 

“I wanna tell you everything. All the stuff I’ve been carrying ‘round, the things I’ve never said out loud. And I wanted to do it right, you know? Spent weeks going in circles, trying to come up with some perfect way to say it—some big moment…”

He swallows, shoulders tense with the effort of holding this together.

“So I thought… if you wanted, we could go away. Just us. Somewhere quiet. Doesn’t have to be far—just somewhere not here.”

Somewhere safe. 

“Anywhere you want. I’ll go wherever you say—I just want it to be with you.”

He sees your breath catch at the suggestion, a flash of surprise. His voice is trembling, but he keeps going, heart pounding. 

“But only if you want to.”

 His voice dips lower, almost a whisper now.

“I just… I wanted to show you how much I mean it.”

How much you mean to him.

“Because… I’ve fallen for you.”

He laughs—barely. A nervous breath of sound.

“And I didn’t mean to—not like this. Not before I had the chance to tell you everything—to explain the stuff I’m still figuring out. But I did. I fell anyway. It just… happened. Somewhere between you showing up that day at my class and the way you came running when you thought I might have needed you.”

He shakes his head, eyes glassy now, gaze flicking to your lips, your hands, back to your eyes.

“And I needed you to know that—because even if I screw the rest of this up, even if I say the wrong thing or shut down when I shouldn’t.”

He draws in one more breath, steadying himself, giving you the only thing he’s got left.

“Because… I love you.”

The words are soft, cracked around the edges. But they’re whole. 

Real. 

Full.

“I love you,” he says again. “And—and I don’t want to keep holding it in. Not when this is the one thing you need to know the most.”

You look at him, stunned.

He loves you.

Not in passing. Not in hesitation. Not in a way that’s half-formed or waiting for a safer time. He loves you—and he’s sitting here, offering you all of it.

It’s everything you’ve wanted to hear. Everything you’ve been aching for these past few weeks—shreds of a story and guarded hints that never led anywhere, never made it past the walls he’d built around himself. And now he’s cracked them wide open, just for you.

Your breath catches, trembling in your chest as you try to process the enormity of what he’s just said.

This isn’t just about love. It’s about trust. It’s about finally being let in.

And God, he’s come so fucking far.

From the anxious, soft-spoken teacher who sat across from you on your first date, nervously stirring his coffee and dodging eye contact, to this—a man who’s still afraid, yes, but speaking through the fear anyway. 

You’ve seen all of him. The good, the bad, the broken. Every scar, every silence. You’ve touched the places he thought he had to bury just to be loved, and not once did you see anything but someone worth staying for.

He was Steve Harrington. 

Steve.

The one who tucks notes into your books when you’re not looking. Who always remembers how you take your tea. Who calls you at 2 a.m. just to hear your voice when the dark gets too heavy.

And yes, he blames you for the changes. Says it like a joke, like a sweet little sin you’re both in on. But you know the truth.

He’s always had this in him. 

You just had the honour of watching him remember. And now, he’s starting to believe it too.

Before you even realise it, you’re crying. Not the loud kind, not sobbing—just the aching kind of where the feeling swells too fast to react.

He sees it instantly. His eyes dart to yours, wide with concern, watching the tears gather along your lashes like they’re something fragile he wishes he could catch before they fall.

He wants to reach for you. Wants to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, press his hand to your face, promise you you’re okay now, that he’s here. That he means every word.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays completely still, watching you, his chest rising and falling as he braces himself.

He almost curses himself for making you cry. Even though he knows it’s not from pain. But it doesn’t matter. His first instinct is to protect you—even from yourself. From your own softness. From the overwhelm he understands too well.

But this is your moment now. And he owes it to you not to rush it.

Just—please.

Say something.

Your voice breaks through the silent space between you, almost trembling, like it might crack in your throat.

“Do—do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

His answer is immediate. 

“Yes, I do.”

He really does.

You exhale shakily, and before he even has time to process it, you’re already reaching for him. Latching onto him like it’s instinct, like your body decided before your mind could catch up. You wrap yourself around him, trembling, and his arms respond immediately.

He gathers you into his lap, tethering you there against him. Your face buries into the curve of his neck, your breath hot and unsteady against his skin, and all he can do is hold you.

One hand cradles the back of your head, weaving gently through your hair like it’ll help soothe the storm. The other curls tight around your back, palm spread across your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him, keeping you close.

He can feel you shaking. 

“Hey, hey… c’mere,” he whispers, voice low, breaking at the edges.

This he hadn’t braced himself for. 

A few tears, maybe. Something overly sentimental. 

But not this.

Not a full collapse. Not the way you’re clinging to him like he’s a lifeline and your heart’s been holding this weight too long.

He hadn’t realised—hadn’t let himself realise—just how much this would mean to you.

Just how long you’ve been waiting.

Your face is pressed into his shoulder now, and he can feel the soft dampness of your tears soaking into his shirt.

You’re not making a sound, but your body is saying everything. And it tears something open in him.

He never wanted to make you cry like this.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple as he leans in. “I gotchu.”

He's got you.

His arms tighten around you just a little more. He lets you stay folded into him, rocking you gently like the smallest motion might ground you both.

“Talk to me.”

He needs to hear your voice. Needs to know you’re okay.

Needs to know his words didn’t just crack something open—they made room for something new to begin.

Slowly, you pull back. Your hands are still curled in his shirt, but you ease enough to look at his face. He almost breaks at the sight of you—eyes red-rimmed, tears sparkling.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, your voice small. 

His instincts push to console you, to promise that there’s nothing to be sorry for. You see the protest forming on his lips, and you rush on, 

“I’m sorry, I just know how—how hard this was for you, and—and—I’m sorry.”

His chest immediately tightens with guilt. 

This is his fault. 

He cups your cheeks carefully, thumbs stroking the tears away. He shushes you softly, like he would with one of his kids.

“Stop saying sorry, alright?” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for making you wait so long.”

You start to argue, but emotion closes your throat. You just swallow, trembling a little. 

“I told you it was alright to wait,” you manage, voice rough.

He offers the softest huff of laughter, letting his fingers continue to brush your cheeks. 

“Yeah, but you were lying.”

Your mouth wobbles again, and more tears threaten to spill. 

“I just wanted to help,” you whisper, like a confession you’re half-ashamed of.

Of course you would. 

“Some things you can’t fix like that,” he says, gentle but firm, still wiping away the tears as they fall.

You sniff, nodding slightly, blinking away a few more.

“We can go anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

If you asked him to leave tonight, he would.

Another shaky nod as you inhale, finally steadying yourself. 

“And we’ll talk about everything?”

“We’ll talk about everything,” he echoes.

As best as he can.

His hand comes to rest gently at your jaw, thumb grazing the curve of your bottom lip.

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Thank you, Steve—fuck, I love you. Thank you for trusting me, and for—” your breath hitches, the words tripping over the same as his, “—I—fuck, I love you too.”

I love you, too.

Time doesn’t feel real. The room disappears. There’s only you—and the sound of your voice, those words tumbling from your lips, a truth that sets his heart alight.

It’s everything he’s been waiting for. Everything he was afraid he’d never hear.

You’re still crying, but there’s a smile on your lips now, radiant, and it’s the quite possibly most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He's got you.

You're here.

He’s yours.

He shifts his chin against the side of the tub, staring at you blissfully in the steam-filled bathroom. 

The warm water laps gently against your skin, and though you keep telling him he doesn’t have to stay, he shakes his head each time, unwilling to be anywhere else. The night’s confessions still buzz in his chest. 

No matter how close he’d already been to you, pressed tight against your side after the tears had finally slowed (yours and maybe his too, but that's beside the point), it still wasn’t enough.

After everything spilt out—and he grabbed the tissues and sweets from the counter—he’d practically dragged you on top of him to watch a movie. Your choice, obviously. Not that he was paying attention.

You could’ve put on a blank screen and he still would’ve stared at you like it was the greatest film ever made.

And when the pizza delivery came?

He groaned, like answering the door was some great injustice, because it meant peeling himself away from you for thirty tragic seconds.

But as soon as dinner was over, he was right back on you.

Every touch, every wandering kiss, every soft sigh against your skin—it was all just another way to be closer. 

He was a man in love.

Hopelessly, stupidly, clingily in love.

The bath water glistens around you, the bubbles dissolving into feathery streaks against your arms. Steve props himself up a bit, folding his arms on the edge of the tub, and rests his chin there like a curious puppy. He watches the delicate slope of your shoulders, the slight flush on your cheeks, the way you tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

Yep, he’s in love, alright. 

“Maybe we could go south,” you say, your voice echoing softly in the tiled room. “Weather’s getting nice.”

“Yeah,” he answers, the corners of his mouth lifting. “We absolutely could.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I already told you,” he lets out a small chuckle. “That’s up to you.”

You narrow your eyes. 

“Yeah, but I want it to be somewhere you’d like too.”

“As long as you’re there, I really don’t have an opinion.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but the truth is written all over his face.

He’d go anywhere with you.

A laugh escapes you, and you flick water toward him, droplets hitting his cheek. 

“I’m serious! We could do that thing where we throw a dart at a map.”

“Do you own a dartboard?”

“Uh, no?”

“Or a map?”

“I work in a school. I could always find one.”

Could always steal an atlas from the older years. They didn't need to know.

“What if it lands on, like, France or somewhere?”

“Then we go to France,” he declares. “They say Paris is pretty romantic.”

“Hmm,” you tilt your head, considering him with a fondness in your eyes. “Bet it has nothing on you.”

He just shrugs at the compliment, trying and failing to hide how flustered it makes him.

“We can talk about it in the morning, alright?” you say, your tone softer now. “You staying?”

He answers with a look—one that clearly asks if you’re serious. It’s a ridiculous idea and you both knew it.

“Right, sorry.” You roll your eyes at yourself. “Stupid question.”

You gesture to the towel draped on a nearby rack. He stands, water droplets sliding off his forearm, and offers you his hand. You let him help you up, and he wraps the towel around you, completely unhurried. 

He follows you into the bedroom, leaning back across the bed and propping himself up on his elbows.

He doesn’t speak. 

Just watches.

You begin your post-shower routine, patting your face with moisturiser, smoothing your hair back from your forehead with gentle fingers to keep it from frizzing where the steam might have kissed it. It’s all so ordinary. 

He wants to watch you do it every night.

Wants this same scene months from now, when your things are tangled in with his—your toothbrush beside his, your makeup on his drawers, your robe slung over the chair you both pretend isn’t a laundry drop zone.

“I can feel you staring at me,” you say, not looking up, voice teasing as you rummage through the drawer.

He doesn’t even try to deny it. 

“Am I not allowed?”

Turning halfway, you give him a playful glance over your shoulder. He meets your gaze head-on, and the corner of his mouth quirks in a smile so warm, it practically melts you from across the room.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, gesturing you closer with a subtle lift of his chin.

“Why?”

“Just wanna be close,” he says, voice dipping. “You're too far.”

You roll your eyes as you cross the room, still wrapped in your towel, and sit down beside him. The mattress shifts under your weight, and he leans in, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face. His fingertips trail across your temple and cheekbone, leaving a tingling sensation.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask softly, eyes searching and looking painfully similar to the way his had been this evening.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Take a wild guess. 

“Yeah,” You raise a brow at him. “I would.”

Still grinning, he lets his hand slip around to cradle the side of your neck. He can feel your pulse under his palm. 

“I’m thinking,” he says, pausing when his voice turns low and steady, “just how lucky I am.”

Your cheeks flush instantly, and you duck your head with a half-hearted groan.

“Stop it,” you whine through a grin, trying to deflect the embarrassment.

“What?” He laughs softly. “I’m serious, sweetheart.”

His hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I got you. Don’t you get it?”

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy, and he just keeps going. 

“I don’t know how I did it—you chose me. Out of everyone—don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about that.”

He still doesn’t quite believe it, maybe that’s why he’s been so close this evening. 

“You’re gonna make me cry again,” you admit, voice barely there.

He shakes his head gently, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice like sweet sugar, “hey now, no more tears, alright?”

 His gaze softens further as he leans in.

“Too pretty to be crying over me.”

You scoff, but the sound is brittle. 

He doesn’t realise how impossible that ask really is.

“You make it hard when you talk like that,” you murmur, trying to keep the emotion at bay.

You think this is bad?

“Sweetheart…” he leans in until the tip of his nose nudges yours. ”I haven’t even begun to say all the things I want to yet.”

Goosebumps prickled along your arms at the husky undercurrent in his tone. Before you can respond, he lowers his head to press a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. 

“Gonna say a lot more tonight,” he speaks against your skin, breath tickling slightly. “You gonna let me?”

Please, let him.

He shifts on the bed beside you, the heat of his chest radiating against your shoulder and arm. You can feel his breath, sweeping across your cheek. His eyes trace your face—then move lower, lingering on the spot where the towel clings to your damp skin. 

His gaze is hungry yet careful, silently asking if this is still what you want. You can’t help but nod, your heart thumping, your thighs squeezing together.

He presses closer, leaning in until his mouth hovers over yours. You can taste the quiet groan in his throat even before your lips connect. His kiss is warm, unhurried—an ache made tangible as his hand settles on your thigh, fingers splayed against the soft flesh. He shifts his weight, and the towel slips a fraction, baring more of your skin to the cool air.

“Let me see you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your breath stutters, but you nod, letting him lift the towel away. The cotton slides from your chest and falls to the side, leaving you completely exposed. A quiet curse slips from his mouth as his eyes rake over every curve, every inch of bare skin. 

He sets one hand at your waist, the other trailing across your stomach until his fingertips brush the top of your core. Your abdomen quivers under his touch. He leans in to kiss you again, his lips parting against yours in a slow, possessive drag of tongue and teeth, while his knuckles glide lower.

“So fucking pretty,” he whispers between kisses. “I mean—Jesus, baby—gotta tell you more often.”

You can’t help it—you blush, glance away, shakily trying to laugh it off.

“You’re—you’re just saying that ’cause the towel’s off.”

His head snaps up at that.

“Are you kidding?”  

He can’t hide his disbelief.

“You’re always this pretty—all the time.”

Drives him wild. 

His hand moves lower before you can come up with a retort, sliding between your thighs. Your breath stutters as his palm presses firmly against you, heat blooming instantly in your belly.

His fingers part you with ease, gliding through the slick gathered there—and the sound he lets out is wrecked.

“Fuck,” he mutters, letting his fingertips glide over your swollen clit. “You’re soaked, angel.”

A quiver racks your body as he circles that sensitive bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb, sending electricity dancing up your spine. You can’t help the moan that spills from your lips—breathy, desperate. He savours it, his eyes flicking up to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“Sound sweeter every time,” he murmurs, sliding two fingers lower. He traces your entrance, feeling the flutter of your cunt welcoming him, before pressing carefully inside. Your slick muscles clamp down around him, and his forehead falls to your shoulder. “Wish you could see yourself, like a fucking angel.”

His angel, just for him. 

Your nails dig into the strong curve of his bicep, clinging to him as he begins to thrust. There’s a slight stretch that borders on pain, but it melts into pure pleasure with each careful push. You gasp and arch your back, letting your thighs spread wider, inviting him deeper.

“Steve...” you whimper, voice shaking with need.

His response is a low, broken sigh. He withdraws his fingers almost all the way, then sinks them back in, hooking them just enough to stroke against that spot that makes your hips jerk.

He lifts his head and looks transfixed—watching your face, your parted lips, the way your breasts rise and fall with every ragged breath. He pulls you closer to him, leaning on him, so he can feel every response of yours.

“That’s it,” he rasps, pressing his thumb over your clit again. He rubs in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you. “Can feel you squeezing me—you close already?”

You nod as your body tightens around him, pleasure coiling at the base of your spine. You bite back a cry, tears pricking at your eyes from the overwhelming emotion surging through you.

“I’m—I’m close—”

He groans in encouragement, pivoting his wrist just enough to press into you deeper. 

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles. “Cum for me. Let me feel you.”

A final rush of heat washes over you, your orgasm tearing through your limbs in dizzying waves. You pulse around his fingers, cunt gripping him again and again. He holds your gaze, his hand never slowing until you whimper at the oversensitivity. Your toes curl, your breath hitching on a strangled moan. You quake in his arms, heart hammering against your ribs.

When it subsides, he eases his fingers out, palm sliding up to rest on your thigh, caressing the damp skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, you can sense his own arousal thrumming through him, begging for release.

“You okay?” He asks gently, as you nod, still catching your breath. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “More than okay.”

He smiles at that, soft and maybe a little bashful as he leans in to press a warm kiss to the side of your mouth. His other hand comes up to brush your hair gently from your face as he shifts. His eyes search yours, almost shy.

“Good,” he says quietly, voice dipping lower.

 A pause.

“Because I’m not done.”

You blink up at him, heart stuttering.

He holds your gaze as he continues, barely more than a whisper.

“Because…”

Fuck it's corny, but he doesn't care.

“Because I still need to make love to you.”

Your eyes begin to water again, but he is quick to shush you. 

“Let me love you, angel.”

He watches your eyes glisten, tears threatening to spill, and his chest squeezes with so much emotion he can barely breathe. He reaches up, thumb swiping gently under one of your eyes to catch a stray tear.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice trembling with sincerity. “I got you, alright?”

So much for the “no more tears.”

He steps back, every cell in his body alive. With one quick tug, his shirt is off and discarded, exposing the lean planes of his torso. The scars he once worried about don’t even cross his mind—he’s too focused on the way your lips part as you take in the sight of him. In seconds, his jeans and boxers are gone too, and you feel a rush of heat at the need written across his face.

You reach for him, practically pawing at his shoulders, but he slows you with a gentle hand. He presses his mouth to yours, but there’s a fire underneath it—he can’t hide the low whine that escapes him when his naked body meets yours. His cock, hard and straining, slips against your inner thigh, catching the slick arousal that’s already pooled there.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, grinding carefully, almost sliding where you need him. It sends a shudder of pleasure through both of you as you urge him closer.

“Baby—slow down,” he pleads, hand finding your wrist as you try to pull him to you. “Don’t wanna rush it.”

His eyes are half-lidded, raw with passion, but determined to savour every second. You let out a needy whimper, not bothering to hide the tremble in your voice.

“I—I want you,” you whisper, desperate. “Please.”

He dips his head, pressing a reassuring kiss to your cheek. You see devotion, love, adoration in his eyes.

“We have all night, okay?” he murmurs. 

And all of tomorrow.

You can only nod, tears threatening again—this time from the overwhelming flood of love swelling in your chest. He brushes his lips over your cheek, trailing down until he reaches the hollow of your throat, where your pulse thrums under his mouth. 

He pulls back just far enough to guide his cock through your folds, gliding over your clit and gathering the wetness that’s waiting for him. You arch your back, breath hitching at the contact.

He thinks you’re beautiful, but he’s always thought that. Like the universe had dropped you into his unsteady life on purpose. Just for him.

“Do—do you remember when we first met?” he blurts suddenly, words tumbling out in a rush of emotion. His voice is rough. He drags his cock across your slick again, and you whine at the friction.

You blink up at him, mind hazy but catching the glaze in his eyes. 

“Steve…?” you manage, unsure why he’s bringing this up now. 

But he’s too far gone, mouth running wild with the confession.

“Couldn’t get you out of my head,” he rasps, referencing your bookshop and that first day all those months ago. “Been on my mind from the beginning.” He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing at your opening. His eyes find yours—vulnerable.

“Fucking dreaming of you since day one.”

The first time you smiled at him, he knew he was a goner.

In a slow, deliberate motion, he pushes into you, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated to the hilt. You gasp at the stretch, tears pricking at your eyes again, but for a whole new reason.

“Oh—oh, shit—” You cling to his shoulders, your body arching, a keening moan slipping free when he stops, buried inside you.

He drops his forehead to your shoulder, trying to steady his breathing. You feel him tremble, his whole frame taut with the effort to keep from thrusting too soon. The wet slide of him inside your cunt is incredible, and you can sense the way his heart hammers against your chest.

He kisses the curve of your neck, open-mouthed, panting against your skin.

“Fuck, baby—I—Jesus—”

His voice is ragged, barely forming the words

“Don’t even know what you do to me—feel so fucking good—think I’m gonna—”

He thrusts forward, deep and slow, hitting your cervix with a guttural moan.

Your breath catches, a high, broken sound escaping your lips as your fingers claw at his scarred back.

“Every time you touched me before this—” he groans, picking up a rhythm now, hips rolling, “Thought I was gonna fucking break.”

Another thrust—deep, grinding. You sob his name, but it’s barely a sound, just air. The way he’s filling you, stretching you, loving you—it’s too much. All you can do is take it, tears building at the corners of your eyes, jaw slack, mind spiraling as his words crash over you.

He presses his forehead to yours, voice cracking open like it hurts.

“I love you,” he chokes, broken and soaked in feeling.

“I love you—been wanting to say it every time we, God—every time I had you—nearly killed me.”

He sounds wrecked, like the confession is tearing him open in the best way. You cry harder, overwhelmed, cupping his face with trembling hands.

“Fuck, Steve—” your voice shatters against his lips. “I love you—I love you too, please, please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he promises in a strained whisper.

Never gonna stop loving you.

His thrusts pick up pace, each one sending sparks through your veins. He leans in to capture your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss, swallowing the moans you can’t contain. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, urging him closer, deeper. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from your face—like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to see.

“You’re mine,” he gasps, voice turning hoarse as the pleasure coils tight in his gut. “Shit—say you’re mine—”

His.

Your reply is a broken cry of his name, your inner walls fluttering around him. He feels it the second your orgasm hits—a wild surge of wetness and pulsing heat that nearly rips him right over the edge.

“That’s it,” he groans, grinding through your climax. “Can feel you, baby—so good, so perfect—”

Your entire body seizes, your back arching, a wail echoing in your throat as you ride the waves of euphoria. The rhythmic squeeze of your cunt is too much for him. He chokes out your name, and his thrusts become erratic.

“I’m gonna—” His eyes squeeze shut, teeth bared in a grimace of pleasure. “Shit—”

He lets go, hips driving forward one last time as he buries himself deep inside you. A moan tears from his chest, raw and unfiltered, as he comes—hot pulses spilling into you, his entire body jolting with each spasm of release. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him shaking from the force of it.

You cling to him through it, breath ragged, tears still slipping down your cheeks. When the final shudder leaves him, he collapses against you, chest heaving, breath hot on your neck. 

The air around you is thick with the scent of sex and the sound of shared your breathing. Neither of you moves at first—your bodies are too heavy with satisfaction, your hearts still pounding in tandem.

When he brushes his lips over your cheek and tastes the salt of your tears, something in his chest clenches, and he forces himself to move.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice rough around the edges. “Hey, you okay?”

You nod, though your eyes are wet and shining. You reach up to cup his jaw, and there’s so much wonder in your gaze that he nearly feels undone all over again. A laugh bubbles out of him—breathless, on the verge of tears himself.

He breaks off, throat tightening. You’re trembling slightly beneath him, your body still reacting to the waves of pleasure, and he’s struck by the overwhelming need to take care of you. With shaky hands, he eases himself off the bed, pressing one more kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, voice cracking from the weight of the moment.

You watch him disappear into the bathroom, your heart drumming. He returns a moment later with a small hand towel dampened with warm water. His hair is messy, eyes dark with emotion, and there’s a vulnerable smile tugging at his lips—like he’s on the edge of crying, too.

“Let me…” He trails off, gently parting your thighs. 

He’s so careful, mindful of any soreness. When he presses the warm cloth against your skin, you let out a shaky exhale. It’s intimate in a way that almost feels more profound than sex itself—this slow and tender, the way he murmurs apologies whenever he brushes a sensitive spot.

“I’m sorry—sorry,” he whispers every time you flinch or gasp, even if it’s just a reflex.

You rest a hand on his forearm, tears sliding silently down your cheeks. 

“You’re not hurting me,” you manage with a small smile. 

He presses the cloth to your inner thigh one last time, then sets it aside. Without hesitation, he climbs back onto the bed, tugging the sheets around you both. The second he’s close enough, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he cocoons you against his chest, sighing with relief when your body lines up with his.

“Are you crying?” you ask softly, noticing the wet sheen in his eyes.

“No…” He huffs a breathy laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. 

“I just… I don’t know. I didn’t expect to feel this much. I mean—” He swallows hard. “It’s… y’know?”

There he goes again, words once again failing him. 

You nod, pressing your face to the crook of his neck, understanding him completely. 

“I know.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. He holds you, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine, your breathing syncing up in rhythm. He kisses the crown of your head, letting out a hum of contentment. You shift just enough to look into his face, eyes rimmed with lingering tears.

“I love you,” you whisper, palm cupping his cheek. 

God, he’s never gonna get sick of hearing that. 

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. 

“I love you too, angel,”, He exhales, a soft tremor in his shoulders. 

And he’s never gonna stop. 

You let out a wet, breathy laugh. 

He smiles back, full of adoration. 

You have to hide your face in his chest, because you’re crying again, and so is he—but it’s the sweetest kind of crying.

It’s the sound of two hearts finding their place in each other, tangled up in the sheets, refusing to let go.

Steve’s eyes flutter open at a tickling sensation, your fingertips tracing idle shapes on his chest in a methodical pattern. He keeps perfectly still for a few seconds, lulled by the softness of your touch. He almost doesn’t want to move, afraid to break the moment.

Eventually, he can’t help letting out a lazy sigh, shifting just enough to capture your hand in his own. He laces his fingers through yours and opens his eyes fully, turning his head on the pillow to look at you.

“Morning,” you say quietly, a soft smile curving your lips.

“Mmm.” His voice is gravelly with sleep. “Morning.”

He blinks, absorbing the sight of you—hair mussed from sleep, face still glowing with the aftermath of last night’s intimacy.

“How long have you been awake?” he murmurs, rolling onto his side so he can see you better.

“Not long,” you admit, shifting closer until you can prop your head on your free hand. “I was thinking about where we could go.”

“What?” His brow wrinkles in sleepy confusion.

“Our trip,” you clarify, eyes brightening with excitement. 

The trip. 

The promise he made to you about getting away, somewhere just the two of you, so he could finally open up and lay out the parts of his past he’s been hiding.

“Oh, right,” he says, waking up more fully now. A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “Any ideas?”

“Hmm, that depends,” You tilt your head, a thoughtful expression settling in your features. “How long can you put up with me in the car?”

He lets out a small huff of laughter. 

“That will not be a problem, trust me.”

“Big words.” you roll your eyes playfully. “Bet we fight over directions.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but we’ll figure it out.”

You lean in to press a quick kiss to his lips, and he draws in a contented breath, letting the sweetness of it curl through him.

He’s so in love, he can hardly believe it. And the best part is—he knows you love him too, has heard you say the words, felt the truth of them in every kiss and tear shed last night. 

“How about I make some coffee,” he offers, pulling back a fraction, “and we can brainstorm some ideas?”

“Okay.” You grin. 

He slides out from under the blankets, padding barefoot across the floor to your chest of drawers. He glances at you in question, and you nod, granting permission to open the top drawer—the one where you’ve started keeping a few spare clothes for him. 

He grabs a fresh pair of boxers and a faded gray jumper before hunting down his jeans from the crumpled pile on the floor. As he slips the boxers on, he feels your gaze lingering on him, and he can’t suppress the smile that spreads over his face. 

His cheeks heat up a little, but there’s no self-consciousness—just the buzz of being desired by the person he’s head over heels for.

“If you get dressed,” he says, tugging on his jeans, “we can always go to the cafe. Should still be open.”

You light up at the mention of it, immediately swinging your legs over the side of the bed. 

“Perfect,” you say, rising to rummage in your closet. He shakes his head in amusement at how quickly you can switch from sleepy to energised, and you both share a grin as he slips through the door into the living area.

“Come find me when you’re ready,” he calls back.

He leaves the bedroom door ajar, wandering into the open-plan space. He crouches to where his shoes lie haphazardly near the sofa and slips one foot in, then the other. But as he does, his elbow nudges your bag, which has been leaning against the couch. It topples over, the contents spilling out across the floor with a soft thud-thud-thud of small items rolling away.

“Shit,” he mutters, instantly dropping to his knees to gather everything. 

He picks up a stray lipbalm, a set of keys, and a small pursee, placing them back in the bag. A pen has rolled under the couch, which he has to stretch to reach. As he reorganises, his eyes catch sight of something else—a small notebook lying face-down, pages slightly crumpled at the edges. 

He assumes it’s just for work notes or to-do lists, so he flips it over, intending to slip it back inside.

But then he sees the words on the open page. Words that send a chill racing up his spine.

Dates?

No, they have words attached to them, and the numbers don’t line up.

They’re all over the place, connected with arrows placing them forward and backwards, none of which are in the present. 

They’re... events?

A timeline. 

Little scribbles next to each, question marks, underlines. A timeline that doesn't take him long to figure out.

His heart kicks in his chest, hard.

Starcourt.

Earthquake.

A name he tried to bury: 

Eddie Munson.

It’s written there, plain as day, circled in your familiar handwriting. The same scrawl he’s seen on shopping lists pinned to his fridge, on the little notes you leave him in the margins of books. And right next to Eddie’s name, the word “murders” underlined several times. 

There are newspaper clippings taped onto another page—yellowed and carefully annotated in pen.

He almost drops the notebook as a rush of adrenaline floods him. 

Eddie Munson. 

A name from years ago, a friend he never quite got the chance to know but ended up entangled with all the same. The memory sends his stomach roiling. The official story, the one the papers had plastered everywhere, is a tangle of semi-truths and government cover-ups. 

But you—why would you be digging into it?

He flips another page, his hand trembling. There’s more scribbled details: possible days, references to kids going missing, some mention of “suspicious flora—lab?”

His eyes skim lines that make little sense out of context but still contain enough hints to make his blood run cold. 

The question marks after each clue are too close to the truth for comfort.

He realises that you’re so much closer to understanding everything than he ever imagined. The promise he made to himself—and to his doctor—was to keep the details of Hawkins’ horrors locked away, only sharing the bare minimum if it meant keeping you out of danger. 

That was the plan. 

The safe path.

The one you’d both talked about just last night while he told you he’d explain “everything.”

Except… you’d clearly been investigating on your own. 

Possibly for weeks. 

Months.

His breath comes too fast. He’s on his knees in your living room, hair falling into his eyes, heart banging against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He thought you were patiently waiting for him to open up.

How wrong he had been.

Instead, you’ve been digging behind his back, collecting articles, tracking down names. 

Eddie’s name. 

You’re close to things you can’t possibly understand—the Upside Down, the creatures, the secret ops that nearly destroyed them all.

Tremors work their way through his fingers as he grips the edges of the notebook. The words blur momentarily as panic stings at his eyes. 

Did you suspect something about him? 

Did you not trust him to tell you the truth, or were you just too curious to stop?

It strikes him like a blow.

You haven’t been waiting at all.

You’ve been forging your own path, collecting clues in an unthinkably risky puzzle. The fear courses through him, tangling with a sense of betrayal that leaves his chest tight. 

This changes everything—everything.

He hears you in the other room, humming lightly as you search for clothes. The sweet morning optimism he’d felt—the jokes about the road trip, the images of you both singing along to the radio and stopping for greasy diner food—wavers like a mirage. His mind is spinning too fast to cling to it. He sets the notebook on the coffee table, his hand hovering over it like it might burn him.

Why were you doing this?

And more importantly. 

Just how long have you been keeping this from him?

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles 

[sh1-n0bu]

I just saw elf bf post and id like to suggest for your consideration: elf bf learning what kink is and learning that he has some very unorthodox (for an elf) interests. Maybe he is intrigued by crossdressing, cuckolding, or exhibitionism/voyuerism because the idea is so taboo to an elf. Maybe he wants to try bondage or total power exchange because he’s always been told that partnerships are always equal (or that elves are better than humans) and submitting to a mortal partner makes him feel rebellious (but at the same time he feels safe because the person dominating him is his partner who he trusts). Maybe he has a praise kink because he doesn’t often get told “you’re a good boy and I’m proud of you.”

So many options! I wonder what you’ll do with them? 👀

ouuhhhhh anon this is such a big brain thing, lemme crawl inside ur skull

elves, by the standard of the world so far since nearly the beginning of time, has always been deemed as the ‘best’ race to ever walk the lands. tall, regal, elegant, fairest and wisest eternal beings who don’t even get sick. wounds heal quick unless they’re mortal, or of the broken heart. they don’t tire easily nor are they quick to fall. the perfect race

so what happens when said perfect race falls in love with the imperfect one? when an elf falls in love with a human? and said relationship is taken seriously between said lovers, bound for eternity together, blessed by the stars and the moon? well, you get something like you and your elf husband, a human and an elf, happily married

and extremely happy in the bedroom too

as the most perfect race, elves always had a certain amount of ego to themselves. it’s not so high and mighty to the point they could die if they fall from said ego’s height, but it’s always there. it’s like an instinctive feeling, akin to how humans are instinctively stubborn and passionate. too emotional. and due to their ‘perfection’, elves barely get any words of hostility aimed towards them unless it’s by a few passing dwarves or their kin who had been angered. praise has always been a normal thing to fall upon their pointy ears, so much so they count it as the norm

so for an elf to being into degraded, it is rare and frowned upon. why would the most perfect creatures require any words other than the highest form of acknowledgment? but your husband was into it. and you too, to certain extent. whispering filth into those cute, pointy twitching ears of how disgusting and vile he is to enjoy having human hands on him gets his cock hard in his pants within milliseconds. calling him a slut for moaning out loud when you simply grasp his hair has him rubbing his thighs together, feeling the familiar aching heat in his groin. and stars, have mercy on him when you lean in, strong arms caging him from behind between your warm body and the table as you spit out, “pointy eared whore” into the skin of his neck, hot breath sending shivers down his body. by that point, your elf husband’s all but clawing at your clothes, hopping onto the table all too eagerly as he spreads his legs for you

crossdressing is a mixed feeling for the elven race entirely for one, they are just such an eternally graceful beings to the point it becomes hard to tell the difference between some of their genders and two, their clothes share a lot of similar things. long, flowing clothes made of the finest materials any hands could ever touch

but your hubby loves it! the soft and frilly skirts, the smoothness of the dresses or even the breezy laces and provocative bras and thin underwear with straps to keep them up on the flesh of his hips. and don’t even get him started on his love for the ‘dancer’ outfit. the long loincloth like skirt, the golden chains at the sides to keep them perched on his waist and the tiniest bras possible paired with the mouth covering cloth. your elf husband is your private entertainer for the whole night, swaying his hips, twisting his hands and running them over the curves of his body as he gives you the most shit eating grin underneath the mouth cloth, makeup covered eyes narrowing hypnotically at you

it wouldn’t last too long on his lips when he’s being fucked in the very same outfit, being forced to keep the skirt to the side by his hands so you wouldn’t get it dirty for his next dance. not like it ever happens, your elf hubby’s a little crybaby, whining about how mean and rough you’re handling your dancer, sobbing fat tears about how your rough human hands were leaving bruises on his soft, creamy skin

owh lawddd the amount of times he pulled you to the side, into an empty room or behind some particularly huge tree when out on a walk so you could fuck him behind it has lost count. exhibitionism seems to be one of his favorites since he loves it so much, giggling about a quickie or “i promise, i’ll be silent this time” when you both know it’s not true at all

keep his one leg up with a hand hooked under his knee, pushing his chest flush against the cold marble walls or the bark of the tree for him to cling for stability while the filthy wet smacks of your cock constantly squeezing into his tight hole fills the area. just as loud as the whimpers of your pointy eared husband, whose ears twitch and droop so cutely. who bites down onto his hands and knuckles to shut himself up to no avail, always stuttering out “r-rough..! sho rough♡︎! can’t—can’t haaagh h-hold it i-eek hiigc! c-can’t hold it in ’nymoowr♡︎” as if he wasn’t the one who asked you to pound his pathetic hole until he was seeing stars. it’s as if he doesn’t care that someone could hear or even stars forbid, see them right now! doing such a dirty and private deed out in public place, where any elf with their sharp senses could hear, see or even smell the musky scent of sex

your elf husband’s boobs always jiggle so cutely whenever you fuck him, bouncing as you thrust the strap into his soppy hole. who even has a bit of a thing for feminization, whining out how you were fucking his womb, “y-nyur human d-dick is kissingg ma-agh my cerviiixx♥︎!!”, who rubs a hand over his slightly bloated belly with a dazed look in his eyes, slurring of “… got knocked up… by a human heheeh..♡︎” as if he could get pregnant. who has the cutest shrill squeals whenever you suckle on his nipples, biting around his areola to leave a mark as he weakly slaps at your back, speaking of how fucking animalistic and bestial you are

“s-so cruel… such a vile mortal—!”

elf husband who loves loves lovessssss bondage and sensory deprivation! an absolute rope bunny, he is! choosing the most finest and softest silk in the color he likes for special days, picking up the harsh and rough material ropes for the days when he wants to feel the sting, the pain, the adventure. who is into being tortured and overstimulated, forced to cum beyond what he is used to by your rough hands or hot mouth while his words turn to incoherent babbles as he tugs uselessly against his bindings. he’s just a weak, helpless little bunny in your lair, hungry wolf! please be gentle with your sharp fangs on his tender skin and smooth planes of muscle. such a sweet, innocent bunny like him could never handle the rough mating of days and nights a hungry wolf like you have planned for him♡︎

a bit of a masochistic elf husband who loves to have his senses deprived off of him. hands tied behind him, legs tied in a spread out manner and blindfolded with a dark cloth over his eyes. leave his ears free and make him try and guess what you would do to him. snap a belt or a riding crop onto your hand and watch as he flinches, jolting in place at the sound, wondering when and where it would land on his perfect body. his thighs? arms? chest? stomach? or perhaps even his cock and you would be mean enough to make him count how many hits it takes until he is cumming untouched, soiling his stomach as his blush spread all the way to his shoulders due to the whole shame. make him ponder, make him squeal at the unexpectedness, make him cry out in surprise, make him shake in the excitement of it all. he can take whatever pain and pleasure your human hands could dish out

and when he gets too loud, just shove something into his mouth. maybe a peace of cloth or even your own undergarments, whichever fits, whichever you want. he’ll be chewing on them and wetting it with his tears and saliva by the end of it

aiya yall are corrupting me. animals animals

[mtchee]

An Honour to be Had - [Genshin Impact SAGAU] GN

blurb:

Imagine, being isaeki'd into miHoYo's most popular open-world rpg gatcha game and discovering yourself to be interpreted as Teyvat's most beloved All-Maker--a God above Gods, with even Celestia in the palm of your hands. You'd read fanfictions--FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY--so when you first arrived you promptly freaked the fuck out and stayed away from any form of civilisation. You'd hung out with the hilichurls and regisvines and other non-human mobs whom happily cuddled up to you and kept you fed, but you didn't stay in one place for long. However, you got lazy in Sumeru, loving the shade and the Aranaras and their music--that was your downfall. But not really, because it turns out you weren't being hunted. Eventually, after accustomising to your odd new life as Teyvat's Beloved (a title which you felt you very strongly did not need nor deserve), someway, somehow, the topic of your love life comes up. Of course, ensues much embarassment on your end, and much excitement from everyone else on the other.

cw: not edited, second-person-pov, teyvat simps over you, you are the most beloved as should be <3, [name] freaking out from being surrounded by such gorgeous people all the time, fluff, Mild Fontaine Quest Spoilers!

| masterlist | genshin impact collection |

next.> [GN 18+ MDNI] afab! ver. | amab! ver.

[3.1k]

Being the Beloved of Teyvat--you could not very well agree with being 'the Creator' seeing as you very well did not code and encrypt and design genshin, though you didn't deem yourself its 'beloved' either but whatever, you win some you lose some--was incredibly overwhelming.

Particularly at first, after having been fearful for your very life and sanity and then being thrust into the limelight of literally the entire world, but you've learned to make do.

Though at times still, it was intimidating. Constantly dining on only the finest, wearing the rarest (and sometimes impractical) jewels and cloth (of which now you've put on hold until festivals), and living in an ethereal estate situated in the middle of the waters bordering the lands of Liyue, Sumeru, and Fontaine.

You're duties--which, admittedly, was a slow learning process for you--consisted of overseeing the people of Teyvat. At first, you'd often times be thrown into the deep end with various meeting from Liyue Officials, Sumeru Sages, Inazuman Leaders, and all the like, wherein you kept to yourself unless directly spoken to (which was... all the time).

Eventually you'd eased into the life, speaking up for yourself and declaring the authoritive entities for each nation capable of their acts, henceforth relieving you of such meetings unless absolutely necessary.

Really, you just got bored and all the important politics and finesses they talked about stressed you out.

You were still given many reports to oversee, along with an almost never ending number of letters from both important figures and common folk whom hoped to either wish you well or seek audience with you.

Unlike in historic transcripts, this time (apparently) you'd decided to take a more hands on approach in your duties. This being adventuring the lands and meeting with the people in person.

Honestly though, your social anxiety killed you but you were too meek to say anything much about that. Besides, it got you out of just slinking around the esate (castle? Palace??) so, whatever.

You don't think you'd ever be able to wrap your head around the whole 'our holy creator' thing though.

If this is what being famous was like, you didn't want it.

You had no idea what these people liked about you, enough to keep worshipping you even after meeting normal old you in the flesh.

But... that wasn't for you to decide, you suppose. Odd as it is.

"Your Grace~"

You jerk up at the sudden voice, almost loosing your page in your surprise.

You look up to see Venti smiling at you with closed eyes and his familiar carefree smile, and you close your romance book with a light hum in acknowledgement.

"Lunch is served~ Come, come! The picnic's been all set out now!"

Your shy suggestion of a day out in the forests of Inazuma had been clearly heard and happily granted, wherein the Yashiro Commision itself volunteered to make themselves available to cater to you.

You dusted yourself off from the grass and make your way over with the unnecessary help of Venti clinging to your arm. But he looked so happy, so you didn't compain.

Having made your way past the tree line from the cliffs and into a natural clearing, you were surprised at the number of faces whom you saw.

You spot Zhongli, Ningguang, the Traveller (Aether), Paimon and Tartaglia, and Nahida and Kaveh alongside Tighnari, Cyno, and Nilou. Lisa and Kaeya were chatting over a glass of champagne, with Diluc and Jean politely keeping to themselves. The sight of Furina and Neuvilette gave you whiplash--you figured the latter would have been much too busy with Fontainian matters.

You think you spy Xiao keeping an eye on things somewhere in the trees.

What shocked you moreso was also the appearance of the Yashiro Commision representatives themselves, Ayaka and Ayato, accompanied by their ever helpful housekeeper, Thoma, and Yae Miko and Ei.

The small crowd gave you the jitters before Venti dragged you into the centre of it all, guiding you to a purposefully situated pile of pillows to sit on.

You follow graciously, bowing your head politely at everyone with a quiet greeting.

Everyone else regards you with much more flourish before taking seats themselves. Many other pillows were scattered around, though you saw Itto (who somehow managed to crash in) happily laying on his side on a grass edge.

You place your book on a pillow beside you, thanking Zhongli when he passes you a plate of fruits he's noticed you'd come to favour.

"Thank you," You start slowly after moments of deliberating how much courage you had left for the day, "for organising this. Uh, especially on such short notice. I really wouldn't have minded just setting things up myself."

"Think nothing of it, your Grace," Ayato inclines his head towards you with a warm smile, "it is our utmost pleasure, I assure you."

You nod slowly, "Mm. And... thank you, all, for uh, coming out, as well. You certainly didn't have to."

You sweatdrop slightly, glancing towards Zhongli who sips his tea contently without a single worry. You don't doubt he was the one spread the word, given his proclaimed title as your most devoted.

"Nonsense!" Kaveh bows towards you, "I'd accept any invitation to spend time with you, your Holiness."

Itto lets out a belch after downing one too many tri-flavoured skewers.

"Yeah! Besides, we love having you here!" He grins unabashedly.

You bite back a smile behind a glass of fonta. Itto is funny.

You spot Tighnari narrowing his eyes at him from his lack of manners. You snicker through a bite of sushi.

Yae Miko spies the book beside you and hums, "Oh? Is that a book from my publishment?"

You side eye the item, not so subtly pushing it behind you with a small nod. She doesn't let up.

"Ah, one of our better known romances! How delightful~"

You can't help but feel embarassed at the proclamation, shrinking at the number of eyes that snap to you with interest.

"You like to read, your Grace?" Neuvilette tilts his head curiously despite it being more of an observatory statement than a question.

"Yeah, it's a nice--pastime, of mine."

"Oh? What types of genres do you prefer?" Lisa inquires from her place on a decorative, plush euro cushion.

"You know," Yae leans forwards with a mischevious glint in her eyes, "it's implied that the types of books people read are what they desire, particularly in romance."

"Is that so?" Nilou blinks innocently, and Yae Miko hums affirmatively in response.

"Oh, how lovely!" Nahida claps her hands, "your Grace, what types of romances have you read? Which ones appeal to you the most?"

The eagerness of her expression makes you feel bad if you don't answer, but the expectant looks of the others makes you reluctant. You take an obnoxiously large mouthful of yakisoba and motion at your inability to speak.

"Or is it the love interests that intrigue you the most?"

You want to deadpan at Kaeya's implicit undertone.

You roughly swallow your mouthful of food, just managing to avoid borderline choking on it to dismiss everyone's prying, "It doesn't really matter."

"On the contrary!" Venti grins cheerily, "I'm sure it's safe to say that most of us are very curious about our Grace's most intimate interests~"

You eye him wearily before slowly shrugging--there isn't much to tell. Prior to your iseaki'd life you didn't really care to mingle, instead prioritising your studies and friendships over romantic relations. You'd heard that some people had the occasional crush on you, but you never really explored your own preferences.

And fictional characters do not count.

So, like hell you'd say anything about them to them.

"Uh, well, don't get excited. I don't really have anything to tell."

"What do you mean, your Grace?" Ei's gentle prying has you shrugging once more, "have you not previously aquired a suitable consort?"

"But your Holiness," Venti gasps dramatically, "you must have had plenty of suitors!"

You wince at his loudness, stressing over his words. Would they think you pathetic? Would they believe you to be a prude? Or that you had some sort of twisted whore like behaviour?

"N-No," You sweatdrop, "I don't think anyone had been interested in me long term, and I was more focused on my pursuits than anything."

"Truly?" Yae Miko hums, "then surely now you must be at a stage of yearning, yes?"

"I mean, I-I guess..? Wait. No--" You feel a sense of dread wash over you as soon as the words leave your lips. You didn't really even mean them in the first place, you just wanted her to drop the topic--

"Oh! Your Grace is looking for a spouse?" Nilou brightens, clasping her hands together estatically.

"Hang on--"

Diluc raises a brow, "Is that really any of our business?"

"--this isn't--"

"As their most trusted acolytes, yes, indeed it is," Zhongli sits up straighter, amber eyes glowing with a sharp (if not determined) glint, "it is my, moreso yet, our duty to ensure our Dearest Beloved has only the best whilst simultaneously adhearing to their needs and preferences."

"Then wouldn't it make sense for our Creator's beloved to be one of their most reliable acolytes?" Tartaglia's words strike a chord within the group, each individual going still while you sit there stressing on top your pile of pillows.

It wasn't long after that picnic when the news of Teyvat's Beloved seeking a partnership broke out. The incident spread like wildfire, alongside information about your less than experiences.

While some were awed at your purity, more made speculations about your witholding until your chosen, and others praised you for your prioritising your duties over oneself.

It really wasn't that deep, but whatever.

Soon enough scholars and akademics from everywhere began debating on the choice of your potential spouse, namely between yours closest and most faithful acolytes.

One of the archons would be the most obvious choice. Each with their own nation and wider prospects, the only subjugation between them and you was celestia--of course you'd pick one of the Seven!

The strongest contender was Liyue's Rex Lapis--one of the remaining from the original. Known by many revered names, whether it be the God of Contracts or the God of War, Morax is and always had been without a doubt one of the Creator's most devoted.

He is known to be one of (if not the) most attentive to you, at your beck and call however you please. And though your wishes are so too his without question, he is also most discernable with his wisdom and experience. Should you need a guiding hand or a pliant ear, both your caretaker and your spear, Morax is your first choice.

The Electro Archon's dedication to you is undoubtable, as proved with her ideals towards eternity. While some argue it is only her recent disposition that sits her in legence as a suitor, others agree that having the Raiden Shogun by your side is a clear sign of strength and resolve.

In this, many agree that having her as your chosen would very well place her people at ease. Your connection to Beelzebub implicates a more personal approach to her duties, solidifying the nation's current state of peace and leaving the Sukoku Decree as history.

Aside from Mondstadt, many were skeptical about the Anemo Archon's potential to being your chosen. He's an inactive Archon, and whimsical in nature. To Mondstadt however, it does make some sort of sense for him to be a suitor.

After all, what is freedom if demanded by a God? In this comes the freedom of choice. Barbatos, in his presence, while inactive, has never abandoned his people. With him as your lover, you are guaranteed both flourishing love and solidarity. He won't be your pillar, but he will be the gentle wind caressing your cheeks, and the refreshing breeze leading you forth and easing your worries.

The Hydro Archon, while technically no longer their Archon, is still up for debate as a suitor. While some disapprove of her being a choice, like the others, her devotion to you is absolute. Unlike the others, Furina is moreso a celebrity to her people than a figure of worship.

Choosing Furina signifies a life of luxury and limelight. Entertainment is her forte, so keeping you light-hearted and well loved would never be a problem with her as your chosen! With that, your relationship would establish a stronger presence of a God amongst people, exceeding beyond your duties as the Creator.

If not an Archon, mayhaps one of the nations Officials?

How about Mondstadt's Acting Grand Master?

Jean is very meticulous in her work, and incredibly diligent. Living up to her name as the Dandelion Knight, Jean is steadfast and strong willed without lacking empathy. Aside from her tendency to overwork, with you she would without a doubt find a way to better manage her time.

Not only would you teach her to treat herself kindly, but she too would reveal to you the love and care any mortal could only dream to have the privilege of showing their Beloved.

Liyue's Ningguang is another strong competitor. She has all the funds and luxuries she could offer teyvat's Divinity, with her you would no doubt be bathed and lavished in everything the land could possibly offer.

Though some of her time might be torn towards her work, her attention would be yours so long as you so much as breathe for it.

Many believe that none other than Inazuma's Yashiro Commissioner would be the most suitable choice. In a matter of both wealth and diligence, Ayato Kamisato has it all. Without a doubt would he cater to your needs and preferences, worshipping you as you deserve.

While his work is of utmost importance, his heart belongs to none else. Plus, the people of Teyvat can rest assured of your person's protection thanks to the Shuumatsuban.

But don't disregard Sumeru's Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham.

Although aloof and forthright, Alhaitham offers much more than meets the eye.

Though he lives humbly, he holds much wealth to look after and spoil his Beloved. In addition, his work ethic and nature deems him quick to return to your side from whatever he was called away for. Effecient and effective, Alhaitham holds a much deeper admiration than he lets on.

This is evident through his attentiveness and intimidatingly accurate deductions and observations--though, that just makes him all the better choice for a suitor.

Now last, but certainly not least, Fontaine's Hydro Soveriegn, Iudex Monsieur Neuvillette.

Despite his reserved lifestyle, many have noted his gentle nature, particularly when in the company of the Melusines. With this, alongside his reverence in court, he is labelled as another much suited choice for their Grace.

Bound to live a fulfilling life in Neuvillette's care, his worship of you is evident, ensuring you a reliable shoulder and adoring partner should he be chosen.

If not any of them, well, you still have plenty of faithful acolytes to choose from!

Mondstadt contains many delegates and powerful influences. After all, Master Diluc is known as the city of freedom's most eligible bachelor. Strong and independent, aloof but not apathetic, Diluc would be sure to take care of you, whatever you may want or need.

Cavalry Captain Kaeya is another suitable candidate, alongside the Favonius Knights' Librarian, Lisa.

Both are romantic in their own rights, with Kaeya you're bound to be wine and dined with a side of suave sweet nothings, whereas Lisa offers a peaceful night in with open windows and flustering praises.

Outrider Amber is a well known face in Mondstadt! With her, your days would never be gloomy, the girl would do her utmost to keep you well taken care of and happy with your spontaneous adventures!

Looking at Liyue, there are many of whom desire your holy praise.

Within the bustling city is Keqing, Ganyu, Baizhu, and Yelan--all of whom would rightfully drop their work and serve their most Beloved to their utmost.

Outbound towards the plains and cliffs are the adepti pladged to Liyue, particularly, Xiao and Xianyun. Although they are in oath under Rex Lapis, even his orders may be overruled in favour of a simple contented sigh from their Grace.

Similarly in Inazuma, you have many at your beck and call.

Yae Miko is one of the strongest candidates in this area, closely followed by the Yashiro Commission's Shirasagi Himegimi, Kamisato Ayaka. Both are respectable figures, though with vastly differing attributes to cater to their Beloved's preferences.

Perhaps the Tenryou Commission's Kujou Sara, or the Divine Priestess Sangnomiya Kokomi? Moreover, there's General Gorou, and Inazuma's renouned detective Shikanoin Heizou. Even the young, wandering samurai Kazuha from the former Kaedehara Clan.

If you so truly wished, there is also the infamous oni, Arataki Itto, alongside the ever skillful Kuki Shinobu and Thoma--all of whom would stop at nothing to ensure their Grace's happiness and comfort for all their days.

Sumeru is certainly not short of devotees.

Take the ever illustrious Kaveh, who would spoil you with the sweetest words one could utter with his dedication to you, or the ever shining Nilou, who dedicates her elegant arts to you.

So too would many others be of suit to stand by your side: Cadance, Deyha, Tighnari, and Cyno, even the every so prickly Wanderer would be awed as your lover.

As it is in Fontaine, the people readily introduce Navia as a suitor, even the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide has proved to be a potential partner! Despite his intimidating stature, his ideals and desposition deem him worthy.

Ignoring public scrutiny, those within the Fortress positively root for their warden; Wriothesley would no doubt be one of the best suitors for their Creator.

Outwardly, no one really addresses Snezhnaya on the matter, but even then they have to admit that while no one other than that nation wants them to be chosen, they are indeed rather suitable candidates.

The Tsaritsa, for one. Formidable, strong, steadfast and ambitious, however, her people know her to be elegant and, while icy, her cold touch is known to sooth those of whom she cares for. Aside from Rex Lapis, and if not for her underground state of affairs, she would surely be one of the most preferred suitors.

Each to their own, even the Harbingers harbour the potential to be their Beloved's chosen. With the Eleven playing to their utmost strengths, the main few with the strongest potential are Pantalone, Il Capitano, Arlecchino, and Tartaglia.

But overall, that's all only to name some of the strongest contenders to be their Grace's chosen!

Oh boy...

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

A Primal Need

AMAB!Natsha Romanoff x fem!reader

Word count: 987

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, breeding kink, possessiveness, physical dominace, markings, age gap (N=39, R=25)

Authors notes: Breeding is like top 5 best kinks and I won't be taking any feedback unless you agree

It felt hard to breathe with how tick the air was with tension as you sat on the couch of the Avengers compound, pretending to focus on the book in your lap. But your eyes kept flicking to Natasha, who stood across the room, a silent force of nature. Her strong presence filled the space, making it hard for you to concentrate on anything else.

Natasha, with her auburn hair tied back neatly in a braid, moved through the room with a natural grace, her suit jacket discarded over the back of a chair, leaving her in just her black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. She was busy looking over some papers, occasionally glancing your way, her lips twitching in that familiar smirk whenever she caught you staring.

“You’re distracted,” Natasha said without looking up, her deep voice sending shivers down your spine. You swallowed hard, feeling a warmth pool in your belly.

“I’m just—” you trailed off, knowing she saw right through you. There was no hiding the tension simmering between the two of you. It had been building for days, maybe even weeks. Little touches here and there, the way her eyes lingered on you, her possessiveness when you hung out with Wanda. You knew what she wanted, and the realization made your heart race.

Natasha finally looked up from her papers, her Spring green eyes locking onto yours. Slowly, she crossed the room, her boots tapping softly against the hardwood floor until she was standing in front of you. She tilted your chin up with a finger, her gaze intense.

“Tell me what you need, detka,” she murmured, her voice low and commanding. The way she said it made heat flood your body, and you clenched your thighs together in a vain attempt to stave off the ache that had been growing all day.

“I want you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. Natasha’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

“Oh, I know you do,” she purred, running her fingers through your hair. “But what do you really want?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. Natasha’s eyes darkened as she leaned down, her breath hot against your ear. “You can tell me, malyshka,” she coaxed, her voice dripping with promise. “Tell me, and I’ll give you everything.”

You shivered under her touch, your body responding to her in ways you couldn’t control. “I want you to—” you paused, your face heating up as you felt the weight of the words. But Natasha’s grip on your chin tightened just a fraction, urging you on.

“I um I want to be bred…by…by you,” you finally confessed, your voice trembling. Natasha inhaled sharply, her eyes flashing with something dark and primal.

“Good girl,” she growled, leaning down to claim your lips in a bruising kiss. You moaned into her mouth, your hands gripping her shirt as she pushed you back onto the couch, her body pressing against yours in a way that made your pulse race.

Natasha wasted no time, her hands roaming your body, tugging at your clothes until you were bare beneath her. Neither of you cared that you were in the common area, everyone was away on missions. Even if they came home neither of you cared right now.

She kissed down your neck, her teeth grazing your skin, leaving marks that you knew would linger for days. It wasn’t just desire; it was ownership, a need to claim you in the most primal way possible.

Her fingers slid between your legs, and you gasped at the contact, your hips bucking up involuntarily. But Natasha was in control, her touch teasing, drawing out your need until you were writhing beneath her.

“Look at you,” she murmured, her voice thick with lust. “So desperate for me. I bet you’ve been thinking about this for days, haven’t you?”

You nodded, unable to form words as she pushed two fingers inside you, her thumb circling your clit in a way that had you seeing stars. Natasha’s lips were at your ear again, her voice a low growl. “I’m going to fill you up, detka, over and over until you’re carrying my child.”

Her words sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and you cried out, your body arching into hers as she drove you closer to the edge. But she didn’t let you fall over just yet. No, Natasha always took her time, savoring every moment of control she had over you.

When she finally shed her clothes, your eyes widened at the sight of her, strong and commanding, her cock standing at attention making your breath hitch. She smirked, catching your reaction as she positioned herself between your legs. “Ready for me, baby?” she asked, and you could only nod, your body trembling with anticipation.

The first thrust was slow, deliberate, and you gasped, your hands clutching at her shoulders. Natasha growled in approval, setting a steady pace, her hips rolling against yours in a way that had your breath catching in your throat.

Every movement, every thrust, was filled with purpose. This wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about claiming, about marking you as hers in the most intimate way possible. The feeling of her inside you, filling you so completely, had your mind going blank, all your senses focused on her and the way she made you feel.

“I’m going to fill you up so good, detka,” she rasped, her voice rough with need. “You’re going to look so beautiful carrying my child.”

Her words sent you spiraling, and you came undone with a cry, your body trembling as pleasure washed over you in waves. But Natasha didn’t stop. She kept going, her pace relentless as she chased her own release, her eyes locked on yours.

“Natasha—” you gasped, your hands gripping her arms as she thrust into you harder, deeper. The sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room, the tension that had been building for so long finally exploding into something all-consuming.

When she finally came, it was with a deep groan, her body shuddering against yours as she filled you, her promise becoming reality. You could feel it, the warmth of her, the weight of her words settling over you like a brand.

And as you lay there, breathless and spent, Natasha leaned down to kiss you softly, her possessive gaze meeting yours. 

“You’re mine, detka,” she whispered, her voice full of satisfaction. “And soon, everyone will know it.”

[radiance1]

Damian has beef with a homeless kid. Both as a Wayne, and as Robin.

As a Wayne, Damian being alone outside was a rare thing. Most of the time a sibling would be accompanying him or wouldn't be too far off, but he was well and truly alone for the first in a while.

Then he stepped into an alleyway and nearly got hit in the face. It wasn't unexpected, considering this is Gotham, but it's unusual for a thief to be bare-handed.

They then devolved into a fistfight and, while the other boy's form has at least some foundation it was pitiful in comparison to the Demon's Heir and the son of Batman. But the boy had quite a lot of power that he threw around with his punches and kicks, power that Damian used against him while simultaneously dodging his attacks.

There was an invisible line that the boy refused to let him cross that led deeper into the alleyway, and he somehow managed to do exactly that. Looping Damian right back to their starting positions at the start of this fight, Damian at the mouth and the unknown at the middle point.

Damian then caught sight of familiar green scales, a groan, and a very familiar voice calling out "Kid...?" The boy in front of him seemed, genuinely, panicked at the voice's interruption, but not with fear.

But with worry.

So then Damian left, pushing away each and every notion that he should detain Killer Croc right then and there with the logic that he didn't even have his uniform and the proper equipment to effectively deal with someone of Killer Croc's powerset.

Somehow, whenever he was alone from his siblings, he's always met the boy, whom he learned was called Danny via overhearing Killer Croc speaking to him. Their meetings always started in a fight, and ended with no victor as Damian sneaked away as soon as Killer Croc made his presence known.

No wonder he's been so quiet, it seemed he either had a child or found one.

===

As Robin, Damian would admit that he was caught off guard by the same boy who acted as Killer Crocs 'bodyguard' (either for the mutant himself, or everyone else. He doesn't care enough to find out) and would say it was a good move.

But that was as much praise as he was willing to give.

Robin recognized Danny at first glance, if not in looks than surely the fighting style he was familiarized with over the past few months. A mixture between refined and wild.

As always, he threw far more power than his body should allow for someone of his build and age, so perhaps he was a mutant as well. It didn't matter, what did, however, was how each of the punches thrown could punch straight through a wall.

Robin never let himself get hit fully to test if it could as easily pierce the human body as well.

As usual, Robin was either redirecting, outright dodging or blocking (when he wasn't able to dodge just right enough for the attack to not hit him) the attacks that came his way. And, as always, wherever it seemed Killer Croc went, Danny went as well.

Wherever Killer Croc found this boy, Robin would give him credit for being able to choose his protegees correctly.

Robin let no one else deal with Danny whenever he's on scene along with Killer Croc. His father wouldn't even fight him unless it was necessary, most of the time busy with Killer Croc himself, Nightwing was occupied in his own territory, as well as Red Hood.

Robin would not so humbly refuse to even entertain the idea of Red Robin as a candidate.

When Killer Croc escaped, Robin let his opponent chase after his guardian to nurse the wounds that came, more often than not, from counters to his own attacks.

He always had an excuse ready as for the why.

===

Damian Wayne saw something surprising, when he met Danny again.

Robin's own attack being thrown at him.

Of course, it was sloppy and almost painful to look at. But it still surprised Damian, nonetheless.

He spent some time effectively guiding Danny to perform the attack to an at least practical level. Not that Danny asked, or he offered, but it was easy to guide the flow of the fight to what he wanted.

===

Robin was surprised. Not to any great level, but it caught him off guard.

Danny had almost perfectly countered his attack.

It was still sloppy in some places, needed a bit more refining and a great less of the power that was unconsciously behind it. Other than that, it was performed that Damian could say he was almost impressed.

Danny landed a hit on him, and he was quite sure he may have broken a rib, bruised his chest, or both.

So of course, he ruthlessly beat the boy into the ground while pointing out each and every flaw in his technique. Then let him run off after his... master? Father?

He does not know the significance of the role Killer Croc plays to the boy, but he let him run away after him back to the sewer systems.

Of course, an excuse already on lips for his father to hear, and even better, physical evidence to back up his claim.

[sturnmeovr]

♡‧₊˚ Neighbor!Matt x Brat!Reader - No Sex in the Elevator

MDNI - 18+, long ass word count, strong language, p in v, unprotected sex, public sex, elevator sex, oral m receiving, face fucking, squirting, daddy kink, praise kink? walk run of shame

The day was cold and dreary, gloomy clouds took over the sky, making your afternoon drag on. Recently you had been getting out of the house more; avoiding your upstairs neighbor at all costs was a newfound mission for you. You feared that your one-night stand – resulting in Matt placing an order on Instacart for a plan B and half a gallon of orange juice the next morning before he nonchalantly slipped out your front door – would cause an awkward encounter the next time you spoke to him. It was something you didn’t want to go through, so you ran from it, and you were pretty damn good at running from any problem that was bound to confront you — unless you had alcohol in your system, it was a different story then.

“Stairs are out of order, Sweetie,” the building maintenance man pulls you from your daydreams as you walk through the entrance of your apartment building. The potent smell of wet paint wafts over you, your nose crinkles as the smell makes its way to pierce your brain, leaving you lightheaded and gripping the banister to keep you from falling out.

The building you lived in was old and ancient, taking the elevator was something you dreaded doing. In fact, you hadn’t stepped one foot on it the whole time you had lived in your building. The old, creaky staircases were enough to convince the place was haunted, riding in a barely functioning elevator was the last thing you wanted to add to your shitty day. A huff leaves your lungs, and you pull your sweet seductive charm from the bottom of your gut, as much as you didn’t want to, “I can’t just slide past you?” a few bats of your lashes were sure to get the old geezer to compromise to your wishes, “promise I’ll be real quick.” 

You knew any man was quick to crack under pressure when it came to your convincing demeanor, “just be —,” his words come to a halt, a familiar voice that always leaves a pit in your stomach speaks up, “since you’re letting her up that means I can sneak past too, right?” There was no need to spin on your heels to look the person in the eyes, you knew exactly who the deep, husky voice belonged to — your upstairs neighbor, Matt. 

Squeezing your eyes shut as the maintenance man stutters over his words, “no can do, you and little lady r’gonna have to take the elevator.” The best way you could describe it; he sounded like a man who got caught red handed flirting with a young check out cashier by his wife. It was pathetic. You push out another breath, rolling your eyes as you cross your arms over your chest and make your way to the prehistoric elevator. Seriously, it looked like it was one of the first ones invented.

A low chuckle echoes off the hallway walls, making you increasingly more irritated as you jam the button repeatedly, wanting to summon the elevator to your floor so you could end this nightmare as soon as possible. No matter how much he got under your skin, his presence made a gooey arousal form in your panties each time he was near you; almost like your pussy sensed when he was close. She couldn’t resist him if your lives depended on it. It was hard to believe a guy you knew nothing about – other than his habit of late-night video gaming and how big his dick was – had this type of effect on you after only sleeping with him one time.

Hooking up with him wasn’t something you wanted to continue, it was dangerous. Any guy you hooked up with never failed to get too comfortable and you’d be damned if you had your obnoxiously sexy upstairs neighbor pounding on your door because you weren’t replying to his texts or calls. You weren’t ready for a relationship, and it seemed like every guy you thought about giving the pussy up to always forced some type of commitment on you. It was better not to get involved with anyone at all, which is one of the reasons why you had been practicing celibacy for the last few months – up until he came along.

The chime of the elevator breaks your gaze that was glued to the door as it slides open, taking a deep breath before stepping on. Anxiety rose in your chest, making your heart thump vigorously, the saliva drying out of your mouth. You gulp down what seems like air as you press the button to the fourth floor. As Matt leans in to press the fifth floor button, his woodsy cologne takes over the air, sending flashbacks of that rainy Saturday night running through your head. You didn’t budge from your spot, instead a smile unknowingly pulls at your lips, “what r’you smiling for, kid?” he asks in a hushed tone. The rawness of his raspy voice makes your eyes gravitate towards him, his icy blue arctics piercing deep into you like they did every time he came across your path. Something about his gaze was so intense, so captivating; it was hypnotizing.

“Nothing,” you mumble, taking a step back and tightening your grip on the railing that outlined the inside of the small, enclosed room. Your breath hitching once the elevator jolts upward, a quiet squeal slips from your lips, making Matt look at you, confusion sunk deep into his expression, “scared?” he asks, a chuckle following quickly behind his question. Your face crunching in irritation once more, “no!” you spit out defensively, “m’not scared – I just don’t like elevators.” You watch as a mischievous smirk makes itself known on his lips, “ahh, I see,” he takes a step back to the middle of the elevator, looking up at the sign that illuminates the number ‘2’, and back at you. “Since you aren’t scared – you wouldn’t care if I do this,” he teases, making one big jump that sends the small, enclosed room rocking.

A gasp escapes from your lungs, “Matt, stop!” you snap, clinging onto the railing for dear life. His laughter bounces off the walls, your jaw clenched tight as you scowl at him, “it’s not funny, Matt! This elevator is old, it can —,” your angelic voice gets interrupted by the elevator jolting to a stop, the lights cutting out abruptly. You push out a panicked squeal before flinging yourself towards Matt's dark silhouette, colliding face first with his chest as you do so. His arms wrap around you in a matter of milliseconds, and he pulls you into his strong build, “shhh – it's okay. Jus’ a lil’ malfunction, yeah?” His voice is soothing if anything, but it doesn’t help much because the thought of never getting out of the cramped space hits you like a freight train, the paranoia placing itself deep in your gut. Your chest heaves up and down as you manage to get out staggered breaths, not attempting to form any sentences because you knew it was pointless when you were in a mental state like this. 

Matt’s grip tightens around you, rubbing a hand down your back, trying his best to calm you as hot tears stain his t-shirt, “s’gonna be okay – you have to calm down,” his words are as comforting as your favorite goose feather, satin covered pillow you slept with every night. You could tell he was trying his hardest to pull you out of your panic. You had to give him credit for trying, most men would be trying to pry the elevator doors open by now. You struggle over your own sobs, managing to get a few words out, “I ca – can’t. I can’t.” In a way, you were relieved it was pitch dark, he wouldn’t be able to see the fugly facial expression your face unwillingly made when you cried, and that saved you a lot of embarrassment.

“Yes, you can, Y/n. Deep breaths, okay?” he soothes, Matt pulls you from his grip, keeping his hands firm on each side of your shoulders for a few seconds before he does something you expected the very least; he smashes his lips into yours. 

Your lips move in sync against his so passionately; like two lovers who had been parted for a lifetime, like they had been missing each other their whole lives. Matt hands cup the sides of your face, his thumbs collecting your left-over tears as he holds you in place, your hands balling fists into his shirt the whole time. Unbeknownst to you, you hadn't left his mind since that lonely Saturday night when he came knocking on your door in hopes of calling a truce, instead he ended up biting off more than he could chew, having you pinned to your mattress with his cum leaking out of your pussy by the time he was done with you.

Every encounter since, whether it be a small wave when passing in the stairwell or an eye roll when he'd 'coincidentally' get the mail at the same time as you every day. Every interaction always left him struck for words, his heart pounding harder than it ever had over any pinch of attention you'd give him. Lately, he went out of his way just get a reaction from you – hence why he broke the fucking elevator. 

Matt glides his tongue across your bottom lip, pleading for access as his thumbs strokes the sides of your face. You hold out on him for a second, trying to be as teasing as you possibly could, but something about the feeling of his hands on you made you fold too quickly for comfort. You part lips slightly, allowing his tongue to dance with yours. You muffle out a moan as Matt walks you backward, the wall brings your bodies to a standstill, the cold railing prodding into your back.

Static sounds over the elevators intercom, making Matt disentangle himself from you, “Hello, this is New York City Fire Department, is the elevator you’re currently in malfunctioning?” You can feel the warmth of his body radiate off yours as he pulls away, making sure he doesn’t stray too far, “y-yea, we’re stuck,” his voice shaky, but not from what anyone would assume.

He wasn’t shaken up from being stuck in a tight space that felt like it was running out of oxygen, he was overwhelmed from having you this close to him again, his lips on yours like he had been manifesting since the first – and only – passionate sex session the two of you shared. He knew he couldn’t miss the opportunity of having you come undone on his cock one more time. He digs his fingertips into your hips, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses from your ear to your neck, and finally to the exposed cleavage spilling out of your shirt. 

“Excuse me sir,” the lady on the other side of the intercom chimes in, “is the elevator experiencing a power outage?” A groan flees his mouth before he gives your breast a light nip. The sting of his teeth sinking into your skins earns a whimper from you, “Matt — Matt,” you stutter, trying to pull his attention away from your breasts. 

“Y-yeah the lights — the lights are out,” his hands roam your body, spending the most time in the right places until they’re on your shoulders, guiding you down to your knees. Given your prior sexual experience, you loved taking control; seeing a man whimper under your own dominance always did something for you. Matt made you want to throw your celibacy and your dominant habits out the window, you couldn’t deny his touch if a million dollars was on the line. The way he fucked you was like nothing you had ever experienced before, and the best way you could describe coming on his dick was like an outer body experience; like a night out of partying and unknowingly stumbling across your soulmate on the street of New York City. Any time you were with him it felt like a movie, you and him being the main characters of the steamy rom-com. It was ecstasy to you. And him.

You fumble with his belt, tugging on it impatiently until you feel it come loose. The loose end coming back to pop you in the face, earning a hiss from you. The darkness makes you move primarily off touch as you yank his boxers down. You can feel the heat emanating off of his cock as it springs free, “fuckkk,” Matt drags out his words. You wrap a hand around his shaft, making him jump at your touch, too sensitive to the feeling of your ice-cold hands on him.

You give him a few pumps before taking his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his most delicate part as you stroke the rest that didn't fit in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down slowly, and coating his cock in your sweet, sticky salvia. A string of soft grunts spill from his mouth each time you take him further down your throat, only giving you motivation to please him more. The operator rudely interrupting over the intercom once more, “Sir, how many occupants are in the elevator with you?” 

“Ju — wait, wait,” he laces his fingers through your hair, gently caressing your temple to let you know he’s talking to you. “Nuht uh,” you mutter, coming back up for air with a popping noise at his tip, and running your plump, kiss swollen lips down his length in a teasing manner. Matt was folding under pressure sooner than you expected. Much like you, he was used to being the dominant partner when it came to sex. He knew what he was doing and what he liked. He recently noticed when it came to you, he found himself being a bit too possessive – if it was up to him, he'd be fucking you until you were sprawled out on the carpeted floor of the elevator, temporarily paralyzed in a puddle of your own juices.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t pissed that you had been avoiding him after how good he fucked you two weeks ago; he put his all into it, so he was quite shocked, and disappointed, when you didn’t send a simple text the following days. He wanted to put you in your place for all the times you bitched him out at random hours of the day and night for being too loud, for coming in every other weekend too drunk to walk up the stairs or unlock your door, for rejecting him after he fucked into oblivion. Matt knew you needed a man to put you in your place and he intended to do just that. His grip tightening on your hair as he bucks his hips forwards, pushing his cock deep into your mouth.

His actions pull a gag from the back of your throat, his hips slowing their pace as he throws his head back. When you show no reluctance, it only gives him more reason the pick his pace back up, “s'fucking good,” his voice lewd from the mind-spinning pleasure you were gifting him with. Wet squelches slip from the back of your throat, drool dripping from your chin, forming sticky ropes to your breasts that were spilling out of your shirt. Matt continues to fuck himself into your mouth at a steady pace, making sure to keep his grip tight on your hair so you don’t pull away. Your hands place firmly on his thighs as you try your hardest to take his full length.

“Sir?” the lady over the intercom chimes in for the fourth time, at the same time you break free from his grasp, gasping for air. “Fuckk what?!” he spits out at the operator, irritation and dominance weaved around his hoarse voice. 

“How many occupants are in the elevator with you?” she repeats the same question from before. You sit on the floor, attempting to collect yourself as he replies, “jus' me 'n my neighbor,” his tone was shaky and scattered. You’re surprised at how easily he finds you in the dark, snaking a hand around your arm before pulling you to your feet, spinning you around, and pressing you against the railing of the elevator. It was impressive how he didn’t care to ask; no questions – just do it. It was exactly what you looked for needed.

A fervid moan rolls off the tip of your tongue as he pushes your jean mini skirt up, letting it sit loose around your waist. His long fingers smooth over your clothed heat, making a throbbing sensation increase in your cunt, your slick arousal coating his index and middle finger as it seeps through your panties. His voice fiery as he groans out in awe, “already s’wet f’me, babygirl.” You didn’t know if it was his touch or his words, but one of them causes a carnal cry to erupt from your chest, rocking your hips towards him impatiently, “mph — all f’you, daddy.” 

You push the words out in such a pornographic manner, making it impossible for Matt to hold back any longer. The operator's voice comes out muffled thru the intercom, “sorry for the inconvenience, we have the fire department en route to get you out. Please remain calm and don’t panic.” 

Matt digs his fingertips into the lacy fabric that make up your panties, a faint ripping sound fills the room as he yanks them to the side roughly, causing a heaven-like moan to fall from your lips. He runs the tip of his cock along your folds, collecting as much of your juices as he can before lining himself up with your entrance, “ready, baby?” he asks lowly, not giving you time to reply before he thrusts into you with one long stroke. A gasp filled with a mixture of pain and pleasure creeps from the back of your throat, Matt leans forward to press a kiss to your shoulder, burying himself deeper into your pussy. “Fu — fuck, Matt,” you whine, flinging a hand back to push against his stomach. To your dismay, he’s intertwining your fingers in a matter of seconds, using your weight as leverage to catch a certain rhythm, not giving you much time to adjust to his thick size as he continuously plows into your sopping wet cunt. 

You let out a string of soft, submissive moans, he keeps his pace steady, your still fingers laced together while his other hand fists your jean skirt that pooled at your waist, “M — att, Matt, Matt,” you chant out in a lascivious mantra. The feeling of his long, girthy cock teasing your cervix each time he thrusts in and out of your wetness has you ready to come undone at any given moment. It amazed you how well he could manipulate your body when he was barely acquainted with your mind. He fucked you like he knew your body, like he had studied for years. 

You fall forwards once Matt unlocks his death grip on your hand, using the elevators railing for more support as he bucks his hips against you. His strong grip making its way around your neck, he gives it a light squeeze as his own way of signaling you to lean back against him. You do just that, letting your small figure melt into his tall build. His opposite hand slowly inches down your stomach until it's placed between your thighs, teasing circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves, earning soft whimpers from you, “what’s my name, baby?” his voice is dark and raspy like before, salacious if you could describe it. It only made you want to hear more. Arching your back against his frontside and bringing a hand up to lace through his hair, you tell him exactly what he wants to hear, “da — daddy,” you stamper over the moans refusing to let you form full sentences or even get a complete word out. 

The magic title triggers him, each snap of his hips makes him bury his cock deeper inside your cunt, earning loud repetitive mewls from you and low, raspy grunts from him, “Matt — daddy I — fuck!”

Matt keeps you pressed into his strong build, his grasp tightening around your neck as your thrash in his arms. He leaves a trail of wet, sloppy kisses down the nape of your neck as he places your orgasm in front of you; quite literally handing it to you like a present wrapped in a pretty pink bow. “I know, baby — mph! — me too.” His thumb still works tight circles onto your clit, applying just enough pressure to make those blissful moans roll off the tip of your tongue. He loved every minute of it – his cock ramming into you at a rapid pace, your sweet, sacred moans echoing off the ancient walls, the rocking of the box-like cubicle as he fucks you out. He thrived off every moment he shared with you, sexual or not.

The little ball of bliss piling up in your gut finally dares to break loose, making it unbearable to ignore or to keep quiet. Your knees go weak, and your body convulses uncontrollably as you collapse against him fully, “oh my god! – I'm cum –,” your chest vibrating as another lewd mewl erupts from it, cutting your words off as a small stream of fluid squirts out of your fucked out cunt, coating the carpeted floors of the elevator. Your body goes limp, your chest heaving while Matt gives you a few more thrusts.

Your mind spun at the feeling of your annoyingly handsome upstairs neighbor making you climax, in a matter of minutes, under his control again. He releases you from his grip, only to push you forward, his grip firm on your waist to hold you in place, he pulls his cock out of your stretched pussy as quickly as he can before painting your ass cheek with his own cum. Heavy pants from the both of you fill the room, “fuck — d’you jus' squirt?” You can feel the redness creep up to your face almost immediately. You weren’t sure if you did or not, but you knew it was something you had never done before. With that being said, you’d rather not talk about it, “mphh — I don’t know,” one last moan flees your lips as he gives your ass one final squeeze, the ghosting of his hands leaving a burning sensation on your skin. 

After collecting yourself, using one of Matt’s extra t-shirts he had stashed in his bag to blindly clean off the leftover residue of his cum; you just prayed you got it all. You and Matt sit in the darkness, your phone light reflecting off your face as the two of you sit in awkward silence. He clears his throat, his voice softer than before, “y’mad at me?” 

You let out a sarcastic chuckle, “am I mad at you for ruining my night and getting me stuck in a scary death trap of an elevator?” 

“Huh,” he spits out, matching your sarcastic tone, “I think the way I fucked you was a pretty good apology,” even though you couldn’t see his face that well, you knew a sly smirk was engraved deep in his expression. You look up at him, trying to make out the figure of his face in the dark before remembering you have a phone light to blind him with. You turn you flash on with one swift tap of your finger, shining it directly in his eyes, making him squint as you glare up at him, “savor it while you can because I will never fuck you again.” 

Matt rolls his eyes, not taking you seriously at all. You furrow your eyebrows at him, colliding your phone into the side of his thick skull, “and if you even think about telling anyone you fucked me, I will —,” your sweet, honey-like voice gets cut off by Matt pressing his lips to your once again. What was this kids problem?

He pulls away with a goofy smile plastered across his face, “I love it when you get aggressive,” he coos lightly, earning a forced groan from you as you fight back a smile that tries so badly to make itself known. 

A few moments later, the doors to the elevator gap open, allowing the bright hallway lights to peer through. You can see the fireman’s face as he peeks through the gap, “everybody alright? Nobody’s hurt?” 

Matt keeps his eyes stuck on you like glue, “yeah we’re both okay,” a goofy smile pulls at his lips, making the one you had been biting back the whole time finally let loose. You smack at his arm, “it’s not funny, Matt. You got us stuck,” snapping at him as you desperately try to wipe the ear-to-ear grin off your face, your cheeks tinted a light shade of pink as you look away from him.

The firemen work on freeing you from the dark prison you had been trapped in for the past two hours, queuing the both of you to crawl through the gap one at a time. Of course, your upstairs neighbor — being the true gentleman he is — made sure to give you a boost. He also made sure his hands stayed on your ass as he lifted you up through the gaped doors, “get your hands off my ass, you perv!” you snap at him as the two firemen in front of you help you to your feet. Your comment earns a muffled, “jus’ trying to help, geez,” from Matt who was still trapped in the dark space below.

Once you're finally on your feet, you can see the group of firefighters, along with Matt’s two brothers and the maintenance man, standing close by with knowing smirks etched on their faces. You can hear one of his brothers mumble something like, " there should be a 'no sex in the elevator' rule from now on," which leaves you running for your apartment like a deer caught in headlights. Your head hangs low, you don't dare to make eye contact with any of them as you do your walk run of shame up the stairs. Matt’s deep voice bouncing off the hallway walls once you’re on your designated floor, “m’never leaving you alone, y/n!” You fumble with your keys as his footsteps patter up the stairs, weighing in on you quickly, muffled laughs falling close behind as you unlock your door.

‘At least he didn’t cum in me this time,’ was the only thought running rampant through your mind as you entered your apartment. You let the heavy door slam shut behind you, pressing your back against it, dropping your bag as you slide to the floor. “What the fuck jus’ happened?” you murmur to yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose of out stress. You had mixed emotions about the whole ordeal, being imprisoned in an ancient death trap the last two hours. Wendy doesn’t allow you to stay distraught for long since you were late feeding her dinner, she prances up to you, her repeated meows bringing serotonin to your soul. A smile makes its way to your lips as you give Wendy a few pets, pulling yourself to your feet to prep her dinner and place your doordash order in the process

♡‧₊˚ Cheys Note - I'm making it a new goal to give you guys a longer fics every once in a while!! I feel like this add a lot of character development to Brat and Neighbor!Matt's dynamic. Let me know what you guys think?! And as always, thank you to my girl @sweetshuga for her expert opinions ❤️‍🔥

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[star-suh]

Party Sucker

Song Mingi x Male Reader

cw: multiple rounds implied.

—

yn was already feeling the alcohol kicking in into his system, he just took a cocktail with lots of alcohol, the warming sensation caused by the liquid going down between his legs. he went to the bathroom trying to hide his notorious bulge, arriving at the place and closing the door but forgetting to lock it. he takes off his pants and starts stroking his erect member, using his spit as some sort of lube.

the stimulation took over his drunk mind, tears started to form and rolled down his eyes. the music was so loud and he was so focused on masturbating that he didn't hear the door opening. “jesus fucking christ” the unknown person gasped watching the other dude, “holy shit” yn jumps in surprise trying to hide his dick, when he was about to leave a hand stops him to do it, he turns to look and there he realizes that it was the song mingi, the jock of the school just saw him rubbing one out.

“the fuck you’re doing here, pervert?” he questioned, million of embarrassing scenarios crossed yn’s mind, he saw his image being shattered by pieces and being labeled as the pervert of the school. he hasn’t realized yet but he didn’t wipe his tears when he faced mingi, unbeknownst to him it turned the jock on. “oh shush don’t cry” mingi comforted him but yn was caught off-guard he wasn’t crying for that. mingi wipe his tears with his thumb and licked them “these tears got me so hard boy, you don’t know how much i enjoy seeing my fucktoys cry” he pushed yn down to make him sit on his knees “open up” he used his thumb to push his jaw down. he unzipped his pants and let out his cock, slapping it against yn’s face “do a good job”. yn licked the tip and then the shaft “that’s right all the way to the base, take it all”. mingi was thick and long, causing yn's gag reflexes made more tears to pool on his eyes, “so pretty” mingi murmured. “this is making my cock rock hard” he pulls out and wipe the tears with his precum soaked tip.

“you were made for this. i wonder how many cocks have you sucked” mingi grabbed yn by the back of his neck and fastened his pace, “is this why you were here, pervert? waiting for a cock that needed to be sucked to do it?” mingi keeps degrading yn while focusing to go deeper inside his tight throat, “fucking cockwhore”.

mingi’s heavy balls slapped againts yn’s chin, “look at you touching yourself while sucking a stranger’s cock, disgusting”he adds. when yn tried to talk back mingi forced his dick deeper inside him “fleshlights don’t talk” he says while slapping yn’s left cheek.

at this point yn was cock drunk. mingi pulled out his cock and rubbed it against yn’s lips and face, “tell me how much you want this cock”, “i want it so much please” he replied. “that’s not convincing” mingi said, “please just fuck my face, bury your cock in my throat and flood it with cum”. mingi cockily smiled, his ego swollen now, “don’t cum unless i told you” he put his dick back on his mouth and thrusted on it while yn kept stroking his dick but stopping when he feels he’s gonna cum.

“oh god” mingi growled, “faster, fuck go faster” he demanded. “oh fuck. oh fuck. oh fuck” he kept repeating those words until familiar ones echoed in yn’s ears “i’m cumming, cum with me”.

yn spilled his sperm on the bathroom’s floor while mingi emptied his load down his throat “that’s it pervert, swallow it all” he spoke accompanied by moans while riding his high. “good job, now let go of my dick” he pulls out while resting against the counter feeling a bit weak after the blowjob session. “look at the mess you made slut.. but you were such a good toy” mingi praised him one last time before going out of the bathroom.

“you must know where my dorm is, met me there before the end of the night if you wanna get used like a real fuck toy” and just like that mingi left…

yn’s head was buried in between some pillows while mingi drilled him, his cock going in and out of yn. “fuck this hole is so tight” he said “probably the tightest bitch i ever fucked”. mingi made sure to rearrange yn's insides, paint them in white and then churn it again with his thick meat, “you're like my fleshlight now. taking load after load without complaining. you were made for this”.

the sunlight made its way through the dorm curtains, the warm rays caressing yn's face and mingi's dick that was being taken care of with the other's mouth. yn swallowed every inch, hollowing his cheeks so the suction was stronger. “fuck keep doing that and i'll cum right now”. “that's it bro, yeah~” he praises shooting his last load on yn's face, his sperm landing on the other's hair, eyes, cheeks and mouth, “did i do a good job?” yn asked with doe eyes while rubbing the tip on his lips as if it was some kind of lipstick, “yes, you took it like a champ” mingi praised slapping his shaft on the other's cheek.