#whenever I have art block they get me out of it

[yoonmetogether]

chapter 2. take it

pairing: bodyguard!Yoongi x CEO!fem reader - brother/mob boss!Seokjin, brother/mob boss!Jeongguk genre: mafia, e2l, sloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow burn, age gap summary: jin is gone and it’s up to you and jeongguk to start running the city. d is right behind you. warnings: angst, arranged marriage, drug addiction/rehab, family drama, parental loss, alcohol, smoking, crime, drugs and weapons trading, guns, references to murder, reader’s future-FIL is a d*ck, reader's fiance gets a little touchy, namjoon is judgmental but supportive, boxing, 2seok if you squint, surprise cameo minors pls dni wc: 10.8k oof my bad i'm incapable of keeping shit short apparently @glossdebut my girl aqua ate this banner upppppppppp do yall see this??????? she had a vision and she brought it to lifeeeeeeeeeeee i only gave her a little idea and she just turned it into a work of art!!!! I look at it about 20 times a day 😅 her mind is so sexy for this MWAH and then on top of that she beta’d this chapter (twice!!) she’s really just a queen thank you aquaaaaaa ily!! <3333333333333333333333333 another huuuuuuuuuuuuuugeeeee shoutout to @moochii-daisies for also giving my rough draft a read ughksndn words cannot express how much her enthusiasm and interest in this story means to me thank you my lovely!! <333333333333333333

masterlist

Jin leaves in the middle of the night.

Your breath comes out in thick, white puffs as you tiptoe out of the house at 1am where there’s a black Santa Fe SUV idling in front of the stairs.

The shadow you despise waits for you at the bottom, and not a single word or look is exchanged as he opens the rear door, although faint remnants of his cologne and cigarettes follow as you slide onto the leather seat, opposite of your brother. While you buckle up, a morose ambiance fills the silence between you, Jeongguk’s hand finding yours and giving a gentle squeeze that grounds him.

“So he’s heading out on a fishing boat?” you ask to crack the sullenness after the SUV speeds out onto the road towards the highway.

“Mhmm,” he responds in a dull tone.

“He’ll enjoy that.”

“Yeah.” He turns his head to swallow a bittersweet expression. “A while ago, I caught him looking up his chances of getting into NASA. That was always his dream.” A smile breaks out onto your face, eclipsing the force of intense gravity weighing in your chest.

“He’d make a good astronaut.” A lump in your throat, you look out of the tinted window, frowning at the sky blocked by pollution and the fog of an oncoming snowstorm. “Maybe on the boat, he’ll get to see more stars. Can’t see shit in the city.”

“Remember when we tried to buy him that star for his birthday?”

“Oh, yeah!” You half-laugh, brightening at the memory. “He wouldn’t have been so pissed it was a scam if you hadn’t stolen his card to pay for it.”

“It was your idea!”

“Well, you were the one who spent all the money we both saved up to buy that jacket for-” You close your stupid mouth when Jeongguk’s expression drops and hardens.

“I’m sorry.” Remorse builds in your gut at the way his teeth gnaw at his lip ring, a dent between his brows, and that distant glaze in his eyes takes over. You grab his hand again before he can drift too far away.

“Don’t go there, okay?”

To try and keep him with you, you pull his arm to rest over the console, and start tapping your fingertips over his jacket to a tune you hear in your head, visualizing black and white keys.

“‘Merry go round of life’?” he inquires after you get through the first few phrases of the intro.

You smile, happy that he was able to pick up on it so quickly. “Your favorite.”

“When’s the last time you played?” The shakiness in his voice dissipates.

“It’s been a while. But Jay has a nice Steinway in the living room that I’m pretty sure is just for show, so I’ll play that whenever I have time.”

“Hm.” The car hums in silence for a few moments.

Now that you’re back home, things won’t ever be the same as before but at least you’re on the same side of the world as your brother. You won’t be in the same house, but you’ll be in the same city, doing the same things - in a way.

Most importantly, you’ll be there for each other. And that’s what gives you hope that everything will be okay. Even if Jin won’t be here, at least you have- Oh!

You sit up straight, turning to face Jeongguk fully, suddenly remembering what you’ve been itching to ask him about.

“Do you think something’s going on with Jin and Hope?”

“Huh?” his eyebrows raise as if you caught him off guard, but a small smile follows. “Oh. Yeah.”

You gasp excitedly. “Spill!”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“Then how do you know?”

He shrugs. “Hyung’s not as subtle as he thinks whenever Hope comes around.”

“You never tried asking him?”

“You know he doesn’t talk about anything like that.”

Yeah. Jin has always had a penchant for dismissing or deflecting any talk of his relationships outside of work, instead turning the conversation back on you and Jeongguk. Not once has he mentioned friends beyond the capos in his circle, and it’s always made you sad just how much he’s missed out on because of circumstances out of his control.

“Maybe now he’ll have some more freedom to make connections.”

“He’s on the run, Angel. He won’t get to stay in one place long enough.”

“Mm.” You almost retort that you know very well what that’s like, but decide against it. Jin is going away for a completely different reason. Still. Neither of you were left with a choice.

“I wish we could go with him,” you whisper with a tug in your heart. It’s been ages since you’ve all been together, but now Jin is being ripped away. It’s not fair. You just want your family.

Why is the universe hellbent on keeping that out of reach?

“Me too,” Jeongguk replies quietly. “But we have duties to fulfill.”

“You really think this is what we were born to do?”

Jeongguk’s eyes flit between you and the back of the seat.

“It’s what hyung and I were born to do.”

That’s a small punch to your gut. So just like everyone else, your brothers think you weren’t supposed to be here at all. Which is why your father never paid attention to you. Although that Lee Dongwook prick was right - your brothers were merely pawns in his empire and had no real connection to them otherwise - they were planned. 

They weren’t a mistake. They were wanted, if only for business. It stings, that your brothers have been used by your father, even now from the grave. It should be a good thing that you were almost always invisible to him.

So why doesn’t it feel that way?

A faceless woman flashes in your mind. Your mother left before you developed a memory. Like she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t remember how she didn’t want you, either.

Would she want you now?

“Hey,” your brother says, breaking the silence and the dissonance in your head. “It’s good that you’re here.”

“Well, yeah.” You muster a smile, turning back to him. “Can’t let you mess everything up all by yourself.”

He rolls his eyes at your teasing and shoves your shoulder. You snicker and lean back over, holding up your fist.

“Ride or die, remember?”

He tries to maintain his scorn but ultimately sighs and knocks his fist against yours, and you do the handshake you made up when you were kids. It ends with a mutual slap on the side of the neck and finger guns, and you wear matching smiles as you sit back against the leather seats, the air becoming a little lighter between you.

“Y’know, that shit you pulled with Dongwook last night, hyung’s been bragging about it.”

“Really? He’s not… mad?”

“Are you kidding? He’s proud of how you handled that.”

“Oh. I thought you both would be upset that I stirred up trouble.”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “Nah. You just proved to them that you’re one of us.”

You tense. There it is again.

One of us. Cut from the same cloth, capable of spilling blood without consequences. And without getting your hands dirty.

You glance to the front where D’s sitting in the passenger’s seat, back straight as he focuses on the dark road ahead.

He’ll probably be the one to keep your hands clean.

I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.

Well. What did you do to deserve it?”

You pick at your nails as you speak with false nonchalance.

“Y’know, I almost came back home a few years ago.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I missed you guys, and I thought Jin would let me come see you, but you weren’t doing well and-“ you stop yourself.

“Anyway, I was at this bar, and I may or may not have played some poker and won a whole bunch of money to get a flight home. It really pissed off a bunch of the men, and this one dude actually ended up following me to my hotel to steal back 500,000 won. Isn’t that pathetic?”

Jeongguk’s head snaps to you, a perturbed expression taking over.

“What? Why didn’t you say something?”

You shrug. “He was just a desperate, low-life, sore loser. He wasn’t worth it.”

Still isn’t, you wish you could say.

“Did you get his name?” He asks ominously enough to make you feel a tad nervous.

So who knows how the man you secretly speak of is feeling.

“Um,” you pretend to think. “It was something insignificant, so I don’t remember.”

“That was dangerous, Angel. If something happened to you…”

“I know. It was a reckless mistake and it won’t ever happen again.”

“Good.”

D has not moved or shifted once and you wonder if he even heard you.

The car finally turns down a road lined with a chain-link fence, enclosing the expansive marina filled with fishing boats. After weaving through a narrow maze of warehouses, Jin suddenly comes into view, standing in front of an empty dock with his arms crossed and upon seeing the SUV, he quickly strides over.

Before the driver has had a chance to brake, Jin grabs the handle, swinging it open with a huge smile on his face. You slide out and into his arms that wrap you up in a tight hug.

You breathe in the smell of him; of homemade makgugksu and bungeoppang after a long day at school; of leaves falling on your evening strolls along the river banks as the autumn sun set on the horizon; of food cooking over a crackling fire while frogs and crickets chirped among the pine trees.

The smell of home.

“Can I get out?” Jeongguk demands behind you, boot nudging the backs of your thighs and you stagger forward still in Jin’s arms, turning around to ram yourself against the door.

Jeongguk is strong, but your will is stronger as he pushes against it, and you snicker at his muffled, “you annoying piece of shit!”

“Yah, language!” Jin exclaims, tugging you away from the door.

“She’s the one trying to trap me in here!”

Your oldest brother rolls his eyes as he pulls you to the side so Jeongguk can step out.

“You two can’t go 5 seconds without fighting?”

“We’ve gotta make up for all these years!” You defend.

Jeongguk glares at you as he straightens and slams the door behind him and you just hide yourself in Jin’s embrace.

Seconds later, another door opens and shuts, and Jin’s muffled voice rumbles above your head.

“Hey, D. Thanks for bringing them to me safe.”

You don’t hear a response and assume he just silently acknowledged your brother, his swift footsteps against the gravel growing farther away. You peek away from Jin’s chest to watch him join the other guards across the yard.

Upon observing all of them surrounding the perimeter, you’re a little heart-stricken that you can’t spend these final moments with your brother alone.

“We’re good out here,” Jin assures you, taking your scanning of the docks as paranoia. “Cops are on the other side of town. Hope made sure of it.”

You can’t stop the teasing quirk of your lips as you tilt your head up at him. “Hope, huh?”

“What?” he asks, looking between you and Jeongguk as you sneak a glance at each other.

“Nothing.”

By the slight uptick in his brow, it’s obvious that he’s curious about what you know, but time is limited, and you figure he doesn’t want to waste time finding out when this is about just the three of you.

“Oh my god, is that a hoodie?” you ask in a teasing manner, changing the subject as you fully look at your brother’s casual, comfy outfit under his big coat. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in one since I was nine. And that was because bro threw up on you after going on that roller coaster twelve times in a row.” 

Jeongguk shoves you roughly to the side and you laugh, the sound echoing in the old harbor. “At least I was tall enough to even get on the roller coaster. Or any of the rides for that matter that weren’t for little kids.”

“You surpassed the height requirement by the time you were 5, you extra large kangaroo!”

His eyes narrow and he holds up his fists, bending his knees in a typical fight stance. “Come at me, bro.”

You mirror him and circle each other while pretending to spar, neither of you flinching when your fake punches get close to being real.

“Oh, lord,” Jin laughs, running a hand down his face as he stares between you again with a soft gaze when usually he would be telling you off for bickering and play-fighting. “You made it past a minute this time.”

You jut a thumb back at your brother, ignoring his air punch to your shoulder. “He’s gonna bully me way worse now that you’re leaving.”

“No, he won’t,” Jin says, fixing Jeongguk with a semi-stern stare until he holds his hands up in mock defense.

“Sure. As long as she’s not a pain in my ass,” he harmlessly spits, mocking the way you stick your tongue out at him.

“You two are the most dangerous people in the city now, you know that, right?” Jin muses.

A lull breezes past as that reality winds around this small bubble cradling you and your brothers, tightening until it pops with the truth that there is no time for fun and games anymore. Not outside, not where people can see.

Now you notice the bags that sit in a small pile just paces away from where you stand with your brothers. A couple of medium-sized suitcases, three duffels, and two totes. All of Jin’s worldly belongings, all that he can bring, are packed up in those bags.

Fuck. This is torture. To have to watch him carry his life on board but leave you behind.

Noticing that you’ve been staring, Jin turns back to grab the totes, and you and Jeongguk walk up to accept them.

“Here’s some food, it should last a few weeks,” he says, the heavy insulated bags containing various packed containers. “And I left all the recipes in there for whenever you get around to missing my cooking.”

“It won’t be the same,” Jeongguk pouts.

“It’s better than nothing,” you point out.

Jin smiles at you appreciatively, then reaches into the pockets of his big coat and pulls out two square white velvet boxes, passing one to each of you.  

“And this is something a little extra special.”

You both open them at the same time, eyes widening when stunning Hermès rose-gold and steel watches that match the one on Jin’s wrist twinkle under the yellow light from the scattered lampposts.

“I’ll keep mine set to your time, so no matter where I am, I’ll know when to call.”

You gawk at it as tears cloud your vision, so much so that you can’t blink or move lest the dam breaks. Jin’s feet step into view and you don’t look up as he takes out the watch, gently lifts your arm, and clasps it comfortably on your wrist.

“There,” he murmurs. “Pretty.”

He moves on to do the same with Jeongguk, and you can only watch the second hand tick around the expensive silver face and white-gold numbers.

Jin grasps your arm again, holding it next to Jeongguk’s, simply staring down at all of your matching watches. The bands are not too big for your wrist, but not too small for your brothers’. Just right. And it doesn’t hide the tattoo of Jeongguk’s initials sitting next to yours on the inside of Jin’s forearm. 

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t do better, that I couldn’t prevent this,” Jin whispers, broken crack in his voice. He squeezes your wrist and your heart crumples. “You know that if it was up to me, both of you would be out there doing whatever you want, without worrying about anything. I promise that when all of this blows over, I’ll come back so that you can go out and live your best lives.”

“It’s not your fault,” you croak.“I don’t blame you, I’m sorry if I made you think I do. The only person I’ve ever blamed for any of this is him. He’s a bitch for forcing this onto us.”

You pray Jeongguk knows you’re not talking about him.

As you gaze up at Jin, you see the features he shares with the man partially responsible for your existence. The similar face shape, nose, strong chin, height and broad shoulders.

But his eyes are what set him apart. Jin has so much warmth and kindness and love in his beautiful brown eyes, things he holds for you and Jeongguk, things you’ve never seen from your father.

The dam breaks and you cry for Jin. For the burdens he carries, not just for your father’s syndicate but for you and Jeongguk. For the responsibility he assumed to be your protector, your caretaker, when he should’ve just been your big brother, your best friend.

You’re soon engulfed by his tender hugs so you can bury puddles of tears into his sweater.

“Birdie, don’t cry. You’re gonna make it harder to leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave. I just got back.”

“I know,” he whispers, rubbing between your shoulders. “But it’s not forever. We’ll be a family again someday.”

“We didn’t even get to have a girls’ night,” you pout sadly.

When Jeongguk entered his teen years and suddenly became “too cool” to hang out with his little sister all the time, Jin started setting aside days on the weekend for just you, sending cool guy off with his friends.

He took you shopping, treated you to boba and takeout, and then back home, brought out his own expensive face masks and did your hair while you watched your favorite movies. As you got a little older, he sometimes let you have a sip of his bourbon, and coached you on different poker strategies after you told him it was your goal to win against Jeongguk. And thanks to Jin, you did.

“Maybe you two can start having girls’ nights.”

“Ew,” you and Jeongguk say at the same time, in the same inflection. Jin just rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, you can’t just pretend you like each other in front of me?”

“Why would we do that?” Jeongguk quips, earning him a death glare from you.

“Yah, you little-” Jin scolds and lunges to give him a harmless swat but Jeongguk just jumps out of reach, already expecting it.

“Come here!” Tears drying, you laugh as Jin breaks away to chase him around, and it becomes their turn to wrestle, much to your delight seeing Jeongguk get put in a headlock for a change.

Eventually, Jeongguk taps Jin’s elbow, calling for a truce, and they’re both slightly out of breath. You stare as they straighten and face each other, and something gentle floats down on them that has Jeongguk hugging him tightly. Jin starts rubbing his back and you duck your head when you hear him warble,

“I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you, hyung.”

“Hey, look at me,” Jin demands, pulling back to dip fingers under Jeongguk’s chin and lift his head up. 

“The only way you could disappoint me is if you run away or don’t let yourself get better. You’re here now, three months sober, and that’s all that matters.”

“But I-” Jin waves his free hand frantically in the air.

“I don’t want to hear it! You just need to focus on tomorrow and every day ahead of that. The past is the past and you’ll learn to let it go.”

Jeongguk hangs his head again but Jin brings it right back up.

“I have the utmost confidence in you,” your oldest brother declares, setting firm yet comforting hands on Jeongguk’s cheeks. “I know it’s been hard, but you’ve come so far. You are nothing like him, okay? Just stay off the stuff and everything will be fine.”

Jeongguk nods solemnly and Jin engulfs him, whispering more affirmations that he needs to hear as he holds him.

“I believe in you, bun. Don’t forget that.”

After a few minutes of watching your brothers’ moment in the dark freezing cold, Jin pulls back again, smoothing down Jeongguk’s mussed bangs.

“Look out for her, will you?” Jin asks him, nodding back to you.

“Do I have to?” he jokingly complains, finally accepting the noogie to the top of his head. Jin laughs when Jeongguk pushes him away to fix his mussed hair and then looks past him at you.

“And you,” he calls. As you step forward, Jeongguk steps back, giving you and your oldest, dearest brother space.

“My beautiful little sister,” Jin coos, brushing your cheek. “I am so incredibly proud of the woman you’ve become. I’ve always admired how you stuck it out all these years, and even though you were building a life for yourself, you came back for us.” He smiles through a shaky breath.

“You don’t know how much that means to me. This business won’t be easy, but I know how strong and capable and resilient you are that you’ll be able to handle it.”

“I got it from you.” A diamond drop plummets down his cheek.

“Oh, birdie,” he murmurs, wrapping you up in the warmest bear hug. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“No one could’ve raised us better than you, Jinnie,” you whisper into his neck, and he hugs you tighter.

“But I’m sorry I snapped at you the other night.”

“It’s okay,” he says, smiling down at you softly as he adjusts your scarf to fit more snugly around the collar of your coat. “It just showed me you’re not gonna take anyone’s shit without a fight.”

“Duh, I grew up with Megatron over there.”

He chuckles, shoots a brief glance over your head and then pulls you a little closer, speaking a lot quieter.

“He won’t be able to help you at the casino, so no one will be nice,” he reminds you seriously. “But don’t let any of them scare you. Give them hell, you hear me?” 

You nod your promise which eases his tense expression.

“Like I did with Dongwook? I heard you’ve been bragging about me.” His frown flips into a grin, and he reaches up to adjust your beanie further down your forehead.

“Of course! I’ve always bragged about you. Not just when you stand up for yourself and your brother by stabbing a crazy drunk dude with a lit cigar. Cute little badass,” he coos, pinching your cheek and you scowl, whacking him away.

“No, but really,” he continues, raising his voice a bit. “You’ve always been a tough cookie, and not just because of that domesticated T-rex I raised.”

“I’m standing right here, y’know!” Jeongguk hollers and you giggle when Jin acts like he didn’t hear.

“And I know the situation with D isn’t practical, little miss independent.” He boops your nose. Smile faltering, you do your best to keep disdain off of your face.

“But I don’t want anything to happen to you and I trust him the most to keep you safe. So if you have a problem with anyone, go to him and he’ll deal with it, okay?”

You can’t doubt or question your brother. And that means you have to trust D.

(But the last time you did that, you woke up alone with some of your money gone. You remind yourself that this is D. Not Yoongi.

Min Yoongi is dead to you.)

“I shouldn’t have dropped that on you like I did, though, and I’m sorry.”

You hum. “We’re all throwing a lot of apologies around tonight. I think that’s a record.”

“That won’t be beaten again.” Your laughs harmonize in the frigid breeze.

“What are you guys laughing about?” Jeongguk asks as he walks up to join you.

“How funny your face looks,” you crack, causing Jeongguk to plop his hand on the center of your face, tipping your head back in a muffled cackle.

Before you can start another squabble, Jin tugs you both into him in a family hug, one that you and Jeongguk have always pretended to complain about but give up your childish tendencies for the sake of the moment. Who knows when you’ll get to hug Jin like this again.

“You two are my entire world. Take care of each other for me, okay? I love you so much.”

A horn blows loudly over the water - a signal that time is up.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Jin isn’t one to curse. “I have to go.” Many tears slip between the three of you and he squeezes you before letting go.

“Help me with my bags?”

You and Jeongguk each pick up two and carry them to the dock where a man wordlessly takes them on deck of the large, old fishing boat.

Jin turns to you once again, lingers kisses on your foreheads, envelopes you in one last firm hug, and you cling onto each other like that’ll keep Jin rooted in place so he can never leave.

“If either of you get hurt, I’ll burn this entire fucking city down.”

And then he lets go.

Jeongguk throws an arm around your neck as you watch your brother board the boat that will take him too far away, both of you laughing when he turns around once he reaches the deck and dramatically blows a kiss in your direction.

Head plopped on Jeongguk’s shoulder, you stare and stare as Jin bustles around, helping the crew launch off the dock. Once the boat starts drifting away, Jim rushes to the stern, standing there with his arm held up in an endless wave that you and Jeongguk return with a variation of hearts.

Neither of you moves from the edge until the boat becomes nothing but a dot of light on the dark sea.

The ride home is quiet, except for sniffles and swiping of tears from cheeks. When the SUV pulls back up to your house and D gets out to open your door, Jeongguk hugs you, holding on for longer than you expect.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” he whispers with an undertone of sincerity. But you catch fear in there too.

“I know,” you whisper back, smiling at his small huff as he pulls back. “But you got this, bro. Like Jin said.”

A smile lifts the corner of his lips when you hold out your fist and you do the brief version of your handshake. Just a gentler tap on the side of the neck and finger guns.

“Night.”

“Night,” he murmurs as you grab the handle but the door opens for you.

You don’t give D the same farewell as you get out of the car. Neither does he as he shuts the door behind you.

The sky is grey with heavy flakes of snow as you step out onto the porch. D is standing by the car like he did the first night he picked you up. Hands clasped, glasses and long coat on. Except this time, he’s waiting by the back door.

“Good afternoon, Miss Jeon,” he greets as he opens the door before tipping forward in a subtle bow. Your only reply is a cursory glance his way.

D drives you into the city, and you’re relieved when Jeongguk texts you because it distills some of the anxiety unfurling in your pores.

Kick ass today

received from ‘megatron🤖’ 13:39

Gotta practice so i can kick yours on friday!

sent to ‘megatron🤖’ 13:39

🙄 yeah good luck with that

received from ‘megatron🤖’ 13:43

You grin at your brother’s sarcasm and find a gif of Rocky boxing, pleased with the fact that the theme song will be stuck in his head all day because of it. The middle finger emoji he shoots back confirms your theory.

Stay Gold casino isn’t massive like your brother said. It’s colossal. Foreboding. As you stare up at it in all its glory and lights and noise and glamorous patrons, you feel as if at any moment it could collapse and crush you to pieces.

“Ah, my future daughter-in-law, welcome!” A booming voice startles you out of your slow descent into unmanageable stress. “I was expecting you a bit sooner.”

You pause in the midst of taking a step into his handshake.

“Am I not on time?”

“You are, but since it’s your first day, I thought you might show some initiative and arrive earlier. You know, make a good impression.” He says this in a sincere tone, but his smile is anything but.

Fuck, you haven’t even set one foot inside the building, but already you’ve messed up? You just fucking got here, why is being so hard on you? You glance over at Namjoon who’s staring at Jay’s father with a small frown and slightly quirked brow.

“She had another appointment prior to this, so she wouldn’t have been able to come any earlier,” Namjoon announces evenly. You say nothing as he lies since you’d only been at home staring at the wall for a few hours.

The older man turns to Namjoon. “Oh, have you been brought on as the assistant?”

“No, sir,” your savior politely shakes his head. “I’m here to help until she finds one, so you can come to me about any issues with her schedule.”

“Ah,” is all Namjoon gets in response before you’re gestured to enter the place that will one day be under your name. Well, the name you’ll be claimed by.

Jay’s father takes you to your office first, all of you squeezing into the employee elevator with D situated himself in the corner behind you. The doors rumble open on the fourth floor, and it’s only one turn around a short corner b

“The main office is up a few floors, but that’s mine. You’ll use this one for now.”

It’s small, to say the least. And the wood panelling looks as if you time traveled back into the ‘80s. The entire room even smells as if the carpet hasn’t been cleaned since then, embedded with the stench of stale cigars.

The one redeeming quality is that behind the desk is a glass opening in the floor that allows you to peer over the blackjack and roulette tables, all the money that passes from the hands of tourists and locals with nothing to lose, that will end up in the casino’s safes and your brother’s pockets.

The tour continues all around the casino, Jay’s father showing you every room on every floor like this is your one and only chance to get familiar with the environment.

From here on out, you’ll be here pretty much every day of the week, so you don’t know why he’s rushing through this tour on your first night. It’s almost hard to keep up. And you feel bad for Namjoon who’s matching the pace alongside you, diligently taking notes as your FFIL rattles off all of your potential duties. All of which Namjoon has briefed you on already.

It’s a lot to absorb.

Monitoring games and slots and the revenue that follows. Overseeing the floor at the beginning of the night. Engaging with important guests and board members.

You’re introduced to managers, dealers, and various members of the staff, and despite the polite greetings you give them, followed by promises that you’ll work hard alongside them, they eye you with uncertainty.

Doubt creeps in.

As he guides you through more slot games on the other side of the casino, a presence suddenly steps up between you and Namjoon, forcing the latter to move aside, and your heart sinks when you turn to Jay beaming at you, his hand lightly brushing the small of your back.

“Oh, what are you doing here?” you ask, recovering a stutter. He leans in to kiss you on the cheek, and tamping down nausea, you feign a smile and remind yourself that this is just for show.

“Came to support you on your first day. How’s it going so far?”

“She still has a lot to learn,” his father answers for you. Jay just nods and smiles at you, clearly not detecting the condescension.

“She’ll get the hang of it.”

Jay never leaves your side as his father goes on with the tour, fingers lightly but noticeably touching over the small of your back, the center of your shoulders, your elbow, and it’s the most he’s touched you thus far. It’s just like the kiss. He’s showing people (and you) that he’s the reason for the heavy rock on your ring finger. He’s claiming you. And it makes your nerves bristle.

His father goes on to tell you about the private gambling rooms, but doesn't take you in.

“I’m not expecting you to know how to gamble or play poker, but it might be a good idea to at least get familiar with the games.”

Namjoon leans forward, opening his mouth to no doubt inform him of your acute abilities, but you shake your head, quietly stopping him.

“That’s a good idea, I’ll get right on that.” It’s hard to keep the sarcasm out of your voice, but Jay’s father doesn’t seem to notice as he’s too busy smugly leering at you.

“I can teach you,” Jay says close to your ear. Next to him, Namjoon is side-eyeing the interaction like he just ate something sour and it helps to put a smile on your face as you give your fiancé a confirming nod.

“Okay.”

As you continue on, you glance back to Namjoon cracking his neck and subtly shaking his head, and you have to press your lips together to contain a laugh.

“Ask about the counters,” Namjoon then reminds you in a whisper.

Crossing your arms, you face your patronizing supervisor. “I want to meet the counters.”

“Ah, that’s not something you have to worry about.”

“That’s exactly what I have to worry about,” you state firmly. “I want to know who’s counting my money.”

“Your money?” He scoffs. “I know my son put that pretty ring on your finger, but I’m afraid that until you tie the knot, nothing in here is yours.”

“I think my brothers would disagree.”

“The alliance isn’t secure yet, young lady. This is a trial run, remember?”

You take a deep breath, calming your building rage, and speak as evenly as you can.

“I’m here to take care of my brother’s side of the business, and the counters are part of that. Take me to them now.”

He shares a silent exchange with his son but you sense that they will have some words about you later and they won’t be upholding. In a reluctant spin, he takes you back the way you came and you ask Namjoon a random question about his notes so Jay can’t comment on how you just spoke to his father.

He leads you to a stairwell on the west side and you skid to a stop, stomach dropping.

The stairwell. You don’t know if it was this one, so you want to avoid any of them at all cost.

You jut a thumb over your shoulder. “I’m gonna take the elevator.”

Jay and his father look at you questioningly. Namjoon bows his head, hiding his minute frown.

“But it’s just one flight down.”

You shake your head, wearing a discomfited smile. “I’ll meet you there.”

Not giving either of them a chance to argue further, you turn for the elevator. And for one brief second, you’re relieved that the only person following you is D. Because he won’t say a word or ask a question, which is the last thing you need in this moment.

The three men are waiting in the hall once you exit the elevator, Jay and his father whipping themselves out of a whispered conversation once your heels click on the floor.

The room they bring you to is small and brightly lit, with 5 or so men in white button-downs sorting through lockboxes of money, counting it, exchanging it with bills from silver briefcases, and placing them in drawers that slide into a large safe on wheels for transport.

This is where the cash from the businesses protected by your brother will be laundered, that you’re in charge of collecting. The cash that will make you complicit in the Crow family crime syndicate.

Nausea lays down with the doubt.

Still, you press forward.

On your way to where the vaults are that Jay’s father seems reluctant to show you, you pass by a room where staff donning red blazer, black ties, and wires behind their ears are filtering in and out. Your fiance’s father doesn’t apologize to a staff member he bumps into as he pauses and turns around, looking past you, Jay, and Namjoon.

“D, is it?” Stilling, you glance back to D who’s focused on Jay’s father through those dark glasses as he nods. “You’ll be in charge of the security team?”

“I already am, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“They all know that they will report to me.”

The older man looks appalled and, frankly, so are you. D’s apparently twelve steps ahead of you, having already established himself and his role here as the chief of security.

“Alright,” Jay says, sitting his hand on your waist and you force your muscles not to tense too much. “I’m gonna get going, so I’ll see you at home.” He places another kiss on your cheek and Namjoon looks away, but behind you, there’s a pair of hidden eyes on your back that won’t leave.

After Jay’s father gives you room to breathe by escorting his son to the garage, Namjoon joins you and D in returning to your office, phone out texting who you assume to be his girlfriend as he walks.

“Did they talk shit about me?” you disrupt the somewhat comfortable silence.

“No,” he shakes his head without breaking attention from his phone. Man can multitask. “I’m sure they would’ve if I wasn’t there. The silence was loud.”

You hum, a bitter taste in your mouth, and Namjoon shuts his phone off and pockets it.

“But don’t pay him any mind, you’re doing fine. I would call him a name, but he’s about to be your father-in-law.”

“I want to call him a few names,” you mumble, and Namjoon lets out a comforting laugh. This is a reason why you think you could get through everything with Namjoon by your side. He’s so easygoing and real with the ability to make you feel better through his playful nature. But this is only temporary because his actual role is to take care of your brother’s affairs. You’ll just be stuck with D and whatever assistant he finds.

“Why didn’t you tell them you can play poker?” he asks after you step into the elevator and D presses the button for the 3rd floor.

You shrug. “They want to keep underestimating me, who am I to stop them?”

“So you’re gonna act like you don’t know how to play and then completely wipe the floor with their asses?”

Grinning, you flicker an impulsive glance at your bodyguard, who’s standing so still he could be a wax figurine.

“I’ve done it before, it’s really fun.” 

“Can I please be there? I’d love to see that.”

“Yeah, I’ll pencil it in on your schedule.”

“Sweet!”

Back in your office, Namjoon follows you inside while D stays in the hall, next to the door as you shut it. His phone is back out as you sit down at the desk, inspecting the worn corners and stained surface with repulsion.

“So, Meg’s on her way to pick me up, are you good?”

“Yeah, I think so,” you nod, lugging your bag onto the desk so you can start organizing your books and papers. “Hot date tonight?”

“Always.” He winks, and you laugh at his cheesy grin.

“Alright, well, seriously, you’re doing great so far and I think you’re going to continue to do great.”

“Moon, all I’ve done is walk around and shake hands.”

“And put up with his condescending attitude!” Namjoon exclaims, dramatically throwing up an arm. “You showed him you’re not here to play games and that you’re capable of everything he’s going to expect out of you. That’s a damn good start.”

“You’re welcome,” he says in a huff, like he thinks you should’ve already known that. You chuckle at his expression as you get out your laptop.

“Thank you, Moon.”

“And just by the way, D was watching that dude Jay like a hawk because he kept touching up on you.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard, and Namjoon misses the way you thickly swallow as he checks a message on his phone.

“So if he ever tries anything fresh, D will, y’know, deal with him.”

You clasp your cold hands. “I know. That’s his job.” 

“Yeah, no one will get in your way with him around. Your brothers made a good choice in him.”

So you’ve gathered.

If only they knew.

“You know what, speaking of D, I was looking through the files again and I didn’t see one for him.”

Namjoon glances up to the ceiling in thought.

“I don’t think there is one since he was vetted by your brothers.”

“Well, I’m his boss now and I’d like to see his background.”

He nods. “I think I can come up with something.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“No problem, I’ll have it ready later this week. By the way, any word on your assistant?”

“Not yet,” you sigh. “I guess D’s having a little trouble finding one who’s not a guy.”

Namjoon nods. “Well, in the meantime, I’m happy to help out.”

“I appreciate it. Actually, there was something else…” 

You dig through the mess in your bag until you find your black journal that has names of businesses and their owners within the city, monetary numbers and dates lined next to them. You flip to the page you marked because some of the information is unclear.

“I noticed this clinic up north is on the books, but there’s no payment expected?”

Namjoon looks it over and nods. “I think your family owes them a favor, so they don’t have to pay for protection.”

Huh. Interesting.

He pulls out his phone as you search through the rest of the book for any other notes you made to mention to Namjoon. But he announces that his girlfriend just pulled up.

“Thanks for your help tonight. Tell Meg I said hi!” He beams at you and waves as he heads for the door.

“Will do, boss. See you tomorrow!”

The rest of the week consists of your future father-in-law micromanaging you, hotly breathing down your neck as you get yourself familiar with the inner-workings of the casino.

When you finally get some of your own furniture moved into your “office” (you couldn’t stand that tired ass couch and scratched up, cigarette burned desk!) Jay's father laughed off your request to get a drawing desk in there so you can work on some renovation ideas.

“I think you should hold off on doing your little designs until I feel that you’re ready to oversee things without my supervision.”

Despite that, you make tons of mental notes of all the places you find need improvement.

The casino carpets will be the first to go. They’re purposely designed to be ugly - a psychological trick to keep eyes on the tables - but the one you’re walking over now is far too outdated and gaudy for your tastes.

The tacky red uniforms that staff and security wear will be next, and because the majority of clientele that the casino attracts are men, you think you’ll make the outfits the waitresses and female bartenders wear a little less revealing.

You’re not looking forward to finding out how much of a fight Jay’s father will put up against that. You have a feeling that he’s going to be very resistant to your ideas, stubborn brute that he is. Oh well. You can be just as stubborn, if not more, and you promised Jin you would give them hell.

You will make your mark around here, whether they like it or not.

Starting with those ugly ass carpets.

Towards the final stretch of your hours on Thursday night, Namjoon meets you in your office where you’re on your laptop reviewing the company’s budget and making calculations for the upcoming monthly report (per the request of Jay’s father), he places a manila folder on the edge of your desk.

“D’s record,” he tells you quietly, even though the man in question is on the other side of the door. You flip open the folder, bracing yourself.

There’s no picture, just one sheet of paper outlining his skills and qualifications for the job, and at the very bottom is a line that reads:

Spent 3 years in Seoul Detention Center.

Crime: Miscellaneous charges

“‘Miscellaneous’ is kind of vague.”

“I know. He’s pretty secretive-“ Namjoon continues. Yeah, no shit. “And Atlas is the one in charge of background checks, so that’s all there is. If you want more details, I think you’d have to ask D.”

Like hell.

All you know is his full name, birthday, and blood type. And that was only because you had the fleeting chance to look at his dog tags. Are your brothers privy to that? Namjoon clearly isn’t, and he knows Jin and Jeongguk almost better than they know themselves.

“Thanks for putting this together,” you say, hiding the folder in a drawer.

“No problem. If you want, I can talk to D for you.”

You wave at him dismissively. If anyone’s going to have that conversation, it’s going to be you.

Friday is when you wake up to a text from Namjoon saying Hope wants to meet up for a quick chat and it’s honestly a breath of relief, but you’re not really sure why. You’re not too hyped in meeting with another one of your brother’s men so he can check up on you, making you feel like he believes you can’t handle yourself. But maybe Hope will be like Namjoon. You could use more of that.

You relay the information to D, and he drives you to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant uptown. Since you’re working out with your brother, Namjoon scheduled you for a later shift, so you meet Hope just after lunch, the customers scarce and scattered. He's already there sitting in a booth, a half-eaten plate in front of him, and as you pass D holding open the door, the bell ringing overhead, he says lowly,

“Sit in the booth next to him so you’re back-to-back.”

“And you’ll be at the counter?” Because he’d better not sit across from you.

Hope lifts his phone to his ear once you casually slip into the booth, and as you pretend to look over the menu while D sits on a barstool across from you at the counter, he begins talking to you as if answering a call.

“How’s your first week been?”

Kind. His voice is kind and it eases you. You sit back against your chair, exhaling a bit of stress.

“It went as well as it could’ve, I guess,” you reply neutrally. You’re not about to turn this into a therapy session.

“But I don’t have anything to report. This feels like a waste of your time.”

“Not at all, Miss Jeon. I’m happy to hear any updates; good or bad. Well, hopefully less of the bad.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

A lapse in conversation occurs as the server comes over to take your order of a drip coffee to go, giving you time to mull over how you want to word the question you’ve been debating these past few days.

He gently interrupts you. “I work for you too, Miss Jeon.”

“I know you work for my brothers, but I was wondering-”

You need to get used to that.

“This might be a long shot but…” you nervously pick at your cuticles. “I wanted to look for my mother. Do you think you can help me?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

His soft tone indicates that he means it. He really lives up to his name.

“I appreciate it.”

As the server sets down your coffee and you exchange it for cash from your clutch, you spare a glance over your shoulder to see Hope dig out a notepad and pen from his briefcase.

“Is there anything you can tell me about her?”

“Um, all I know is her name and that she used to own a coffee shop downtown. I don’t know which one though.”

He nods as he scribbles some notes.

“And she left when I was two,” you say quietly. Pained. “That’s it.”

“I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll do my best.”

“Okay. I really appreciate that but, um, could you please not tell my brother about this?”

“Of course, Miss Jeon.”

You smile. “Angel is fine.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, but I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done to help us. Especially my brother, I know he cares a lot for you. I hope you two got to say goodbye.”

He stays silent as you slip out of the booth, grabbing your coffee along the way. But when you pass him, the tips of his ears are extremely red, and you have to suppress a smile as you exit, D not too far behind.

Omw to beat ur ass!!

sent to ‘megatron🤖’ 14:09

Don't bet on it

Ur toast

received from ‘megatron🤖’ 14:11

By the time you stride into the gym, D in tow, your brother is already there, warming up with a trainer in the ring. You call his name and he takes a few seconds to pull himself out of the zone, doe eyes lighting up upon seeing you.

He dismisses the trainer and walks over to the side where you’re standing, leaning on the ropes with a smile, panting heavily, bangs stringy with sweat.

“Bout time you showed up,” he says, catching the water bottle a gym attendant throws from below. “Why aren’t you changed?”

Rolling your eyes, you lift up your small duffle that carries your workout clothes.

“I just came from a meeting. Y’know, work?”

He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment, taking a long swig of water before dropping the bottle with a satisfied gasp, and turns his attention to the man you wish wasn’t standing behind you.

“Sup, D. You gonna box me in your suit?”

“I could, and look cool as fuck knocking your ass out.” Jeongguk laughs and your eyes twitch as you try not to join him.

“Alright, I’m gonna hit the treadmill. Am I allowed to work out by myself? Or does D have to supervise that too?” you ask your brother in a slightly sarcastic tone, ignoring D’s side eye.

“You’re fine. Just stay in the room next door.” It takes a lot not to childishly mock him as you hoist your bag on your shoulder.

You turn around to where D’s removing his coat, revealing a glimpse of his holster. Something puts an uneasy whirlpool in your gut, forcing you to look away. You know it’s a necessity for the guards to have guns on their person at all times, yet you can’t help feeling uncomfortable.

“Oh, it needs to be cleared before you go in there,” Jeongguk says before you can start to walk away.

You lock eyes with D for a second as you realize that D is, yet again, going to follow you.

The workout equipment room is occupied by 7 or so men who immediately drop what they’re doing and scurry to exit into another part of the building when D bellows in that dark, gruff voice, “Everyone out!”

The AC is what sends a shiver down your spine.

Once they’re all out and D locks the door behind them, he turns to tell you in a much quieter tone, “I’ll be right here.”

“Don’t care,” you mutter, promptly turning away to head for the empty women’s shower room, positive that you’re the first one to use it.

His eyes stay on your back until you disappear.

Every movement of yours echoes in the empty bathroom, including the plunk of your bag on a wooden bench that stands in front of a wall of lockers. 

The tote with his sweater and chain sits stuffed in the bottom of your duffle. Staring at it for a moment, pensively, you consider how you should return it to him. You refuse to hand it over directly because you can’t predict what his reaction will be and that scares you.

You have to be sneaky. But how can you do that with a man who can show up and disappear and not make a sound?

When you come back to the ring, you falter in your tracks upon catching the sight of your brother sparring with D who’s dressed down to a white tee, black joggers, and a grey baseball cap on backwards.

But the casual outfit isn’t what makes you stiffen.

It’s the light dancing over his face. The light that comes from a hint of a smile as he throws punches with Jeongguk, ducking and dodging and returning every one of his swings.

They haven’t stopped moving since you re-entered, so you take the opportunity to set your duffle next to D’s, and as long as Jeongguk’s back is to you, coolly transfer the tote from your bag into his, zipping it up as if nothing happened. You perch on the end of the bench and check your phone. Other than an email from Namjoon about tonight’s itinerary, your messages are dry as hell. You scroll on social media to distract you from the fact that you miss your friends but you can’t do anything about it.

“Hey, you want a turn?” Jeongguk pants after 10 minutes or so. You smile, leaving your phone on top of your bag, and stand.

“Yeah, I’ve been looking forward to beating you up all week.”

“Well, then you should’ve come earlier. I’m past my limit.”

He does look exhausted; meanwhile, D looks as if he’s barely broken a sweat.

“You just don’t want your boys to see you take hits from your little sister.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it.

“Just work with D, I need to sit down for a sec.”

A heavy feeling in your stomach sinks all the way down to your feet, rooting you to the floor as you fight not to show how very much not okay you are with that.

The universe must really be out to get you.

You glance involuntarily over to D standing in the middle of the ring, staring down at the floor with gloved hands on his hips.

“Go on,” Jeongguk goads, holding up the ropes for you to step under and into the ring.

“Sounds like you’re getting old, bro,” you casually comment as you pass him. He lands a punch on your shoulder and you grin devilishly.

“Don’t go easy on her just ‘cuz she’s a girl, D,” Jeongguk calls over his shoulder as he steps down on the floor, cackling when you flinch at him with your glove.

Your heart is running a damn marathon as you turn and face the man whose eyes are now locked on you, all that light he had in them with your brother completely fizzled out. Just blank. Soulless.

What will it take to bring anything palpable in his eyes when he looks at you? You’ll be damned if you don’t try and find out.

“Yeah, don’t go easy on me, D,” you say mockingly as you turn back to him, gloves held up shielding your mouth from everyone but the sinister man in front of you.

“I can take it.” Tilting your head, you bat your eyelashes, hoping to incite something out of his blank expression. “You should know that.”

But there’s nothing. Not even darkness appears. It doesn’t phase him.

So you lunge forward with a retaliating, vengeful punch but his gloves raise in a split second to block.

Every strike, every punch translates into the anger, betrayal, fucking heartbreak this man left you with 3 years ago. And now he’s doing it all over again by acting like he has goddamn amnesia. You hope he can tell you want to do so much more than throw hits at him with some boxing gloves. But he doesn’t let you back him into a corner. He moves like he did with your brother, just without the smile. Without the light. And it makes your hatred for him fester and spread like a poison.

And then tears prick the corners of your eyes. As soon as they do, you drop your gloves and pull yourself out of your self-inflicted torment, twisting around with a raise of your arm to feign dabbing sweat from your forehead so they can’t see the tears clouding your vision.

Fuck, you have to stop!

Tears are weakness. You can’t be weak. 

Don’t let him make you weak.

“Damn, sis,” your brother exclaims as he stands to approach the ring, grabbing your bottle of water from the bench. “Tough week, huh?”

Your labored breathing prevents you from answering, so you opt to lift your eyebrows and nod as you catch the bottle he tosses you. Tilting your head up to drink and will the tears away, Jeongguk leans against the ropes and starts rattling out pointers, mainly focusing on your footwork.

But you’re not in the mood to refine your technique. You just shake your head and move to climb out of the ring.

“Wait, didn’t you wanna-“

“Nah, I’m done,” you say as you grab your phone and bag again. “I should probably get going anyway.”

You can feel Jeongguk’s confused gaze follow as you head back out towards the bathroom. The shower camouflages the tears you can’t fight off, and if your brother asks, the steam is what made your eyes red.

The heat on your skin and under it turn your anguish into anger.

Your throat is tight as you pass by D in the doorway to return to the ring, now dressed for work, and you try to relax because your brother is watching and you don’t want him to be concerned about your abrupt departure.

When you glance back, D is nowhere in sight.

“I thought you wanted to beat my ass,” Jeongguk says in a playful tone as he walks up to you.

“I do, but I didn’t realize how old you’re getting and it wouldn’t be fair to beat up on the elderly- Jeongguk, stop! I just showered!” You shriek and hold up your hands as he lunges for you with sweaty biceps and a soaked tee.

Instead of ignoring your plea and head-locking you anyway, he angles you with narrowed eyes and you realize your mistake.

“I mean Sol. Sorry.”

He waves you off just like Jin did the other night, and sits down on the bench, elbows on his knees as he unwraps the white protective fabric around his knuckles.

“Before you go, I want to tell you about this diamond trader you’re gonna have to meet with in the next couple of weeks.”

“Why me?”

“Because he’s in your vicinity, and he and I don’t exactly get along.”

“You don’t get along with anybody.”

“Shut up.” You shrug because did you lie?

“Anyway, he’s at that club ‘Halazia’ downtown and he goes by Captain. D will set everything up.”

You cross your arms as the prospect of this new responsibility puts another weight on your shoulders. Jeongguk seems to notice this because his manner towards you softens.

“Hey, this’ll be a good way to assert yourself, y’know? Show him who’s boss.”

“Isn’t that you?” Your eyebrow raises as he shakes his head.

“You’re in charge in this case, sis. And if he has trouble accepting it, D’s there to back you up.”

As if on cue, D strides back in wearing the suit he had on before, glasses shielding his eyes.

“You think I need him to be taken seriously?” D slows to a stop but you don’t look his way.

“You need him to make sure people respect you because they won’t at first. You know that.”

Then why hasn’t he said a damn thing to Jay’s father this entire week? Will he only act if you prompt him to? How far will he let things go before stepping in? A bull-headed part of you wants to put that to the test.

You sigh. “Fine. Can I go now?”

“It was nice seeing you, sis,” he says sarcastically since you’re annoyed.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave at him, swinging on your coat. “Bye. You stink by the way.”

Jeongguk’s laugh rings in the gym as you make a beeline for the exit.

“See ya, D,” is the last thing you hear from your brother before you hastily open the door, not bothering to hold it for your guard.

Snow is falling again when you make it outside. D handed the car off to a valet earlier and now you have to wait on the curb with him standing next to you.

“Still smoke?” you blurt because you could really use some fucking nicotine.

He nods shortly and, without facing him, you hold out your hand.

“I know I owe you a cigarette, but I think my 500,000 won you took should’ve covered that, right?”

He briefly side-eyes you and hesitates before reaching into the inside of his breast pocket, pulling out a lighter and a carton. He flicks open the top, revealing only one cigarette.

“Last one again, huh?” You observe, pulling out the final stick. "Oh, but you owe me for some plan b, so maybe that cancels it all out.”

Staring out at the white dusting the sidewalk across the street, you prop your elbow on your wrist and let your fingers holding the cigarette tip in his direction. You’ve counted a total of 17 steadily falling snowflakes when the lighter clicks and a flame pricks your periphery to emblaze the end of your cigarette.

He drops the lighter and you take a drag, blowing smoke up into the darkening, snowy sky.

“What were you in prison for?” you finally ponder aloud the question that’s been buzzing in your mind since Namjoon handed you that folder.

“I looked at your file, and it said you were there for three years.” He doesn’t reply. You huff out air that mimics the white wisps of smoke.

“I mean, since you’re working for me, I deserve to know. And don’t lie to me, I’ve had enough of that.”

Still not a word. You turn to him again, tilting your head because you really want a fucking answer.

“Was it for stealing?”

Several beats pass before he finally, darkly, mutters, “Murder.”

Your breath freezes in your lungs. So. You didn’t just fuck a convicted felon. You fucked a murderer.

That doesn’t scare you like it should.

“How’d you do it?” you find yourself asking out of morbid curiosity.

If you thought there was a wall around him before…

“How, D?”

“I stabbed him.”

“What, with chopsticks? Is that your go-to method? Kinda sloppy, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer your questions as if they’re rhetorical. The Elantra approaches, and with a final drag, you drop the cigarette and dig it into the snowy curb with your heel. The valet steps out and passes D the keys, and you don’t wait for him to open the door but his hand on the side and the entrenchment of his cologne suspends you from getting in.

“Have you killed before, Miss Jeon?”

Your heart stops, completely flatlining when that question forces you to look at him. He’s looking right back from behind those glasses.

“No,” you say shortly, taken aback. Who does he think you are? “But if you didn’t mean something to my brother, you would’ve been my first.”

You keep your eyes locked on him for a beat so your words sink into his bones. And then you get in the car, slamming the door shut and pulling out your phone as if you didn’t just threaten his life.

For the entire night, you act as if he is nothing but a shadow.

You don’t get home until 2 in the morning, and as you unpack your gym duffle to do laundry (because if you don’t do it now, it won’t get done), you find a finely rolled wad of new, crisp bills tucked under your gym clothes.

500,000 won.

Bastard. It’s too late for that.

.

.

.

it's finally heeeeeere thank you for waiting!!! shoutout to the kdrama "bloodhounds" (on netflix starring my man woo dohwan) bc without it i would've never known that in korea, locals aren't allowed in any casinos except for one. so in this story we're going to pretend that Stay Gold casino is the exception lol. to get inspo, i've been watching a lot of movies about casinos and casino with robert de niro is where i got the idea for the scene with the counters. i just wanted to make the disclaimer that i did not come up with that on my own lol. there are other movies that i've pulled scene ideas from so i will make sure to point those out in the future.

thanks for being here!! please let me know what you think now that things are really getting started!!

chapter 3 is already in the works

xxx - claret

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[inpirso]

my comfort gurls

[honeyconez]

guys hear me out would painis cupcake pay taxes? Because he’s not like mega insane like ass pancakes I think he’d pay his taxes in my professional opinion.

[gojover]

get him back! | mydeimos.

summary ⇢ years after your messy breakup that broke up the band, you and mydei are forced back together for a reunion tour—and the public can’t get enough of your chemistry. on stage, you’re electric, but backstage it’s all snide comments, heated arguments, and mydei slipping in petty lyric changes just to piss you off. you’re not sure what’s worse: how much you still hate him or how much you don’t.

pairing ⇢ lead guitarist!mydei x lead singer!fem!reader contains ⇢ romance, angst, smut (oral sex, hate sex, angry sex, unprotected sex, wall sex, overstimulation, slight dirty talk), exes to lovers!au, modern!au, band!au, profanity, alcohol consumption, smoking—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! word count ⇢ 16.7k note ⇢ inspired by the honkai star rail official mydei art, olivia rodrigo’s get him back! & daisy jones and the six by taylor jenkins reid. reposted from @/dxnheng. read on ao3 here.

i). wait, is this the song with the drums?

Your first instinct, when Anaxa drops the news about the reunion tour, is to shake your head and vehemently say no.

“Absolutely not,” you say, holding up a hand like that might somehow physically block the idea from reaching you. Anaxa simply raises an eyebrow and adjusts his glasses.

“It’s not a request,” he replies, flipping through the stack of papers he brought with him. “It’s happening whether you’re on board or not. Your contract’s airtight.” 

“That’s impossible,” you scoff, folding your arms defensively. “I specifically remember agreeing to no future projects involving him.”

“Yeah, well, when you’re in a band that makes millions, the label doesn’t exactly care about your personal vendettas. Fans have been begging for this for years. You know how much money this is going to make?”

“I can’t do this, Anaxa. You know what he’s like. He’s gonna make this a living hell for me.”

Your manager’s eyes soften just enough to make you look away. “Look, I know it’s not ideal. But it’s just a tour. A few months, and then you never have to see his face again if you don’t want to.”

You hesitate, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Anxiety coils inside your stomach like a live wire. You’d thought you’d buried that part of your life—left it to rot somewhere in the wreckage of what used to be your band and your relationship. Mydei’s name still leaves a bitter aftertaste whenever it slips out of someone’s mouth.

But the label wants it. The fans want it. 

“So, what—you just expect me to pretend we didn’t break up in front of the entire world?” you snap, though there’s less fire behind it this time.

Anaxa shrugs and sets the contract on your coffee table. “Pretend, don’t pretend. Hell, make it part of the show for all I care. As long as you’re both on that stage together, the crowd’s going to eat it up.”

You hate how practical he sounds. How it almost makes sense. You glance at the contract, at the neat, tidy letters spelling out your own name and Mydei’s right next to each other, and feel something bitter curl up in your chest.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter.

Anaxa pats your shoulder as he heads for the door. “Try not to do it on stage. Though that might actually sell more tickets.”

You flip him off without looking, and Anaxa just laughs on his way out. The contract sits there on the coffee table, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to look away. Your eyes blur over the words, and all you can think about is him.

Mydei.

You’ve spent months forcing yourself not to say his name out loud, not to think about his legs tangled with yours in bed or the rasp of his voice in your ear when he couldn’t keep his hands to himself before a show. You don’t let yourself think about the songs you wrote together. You definitely don’t think about the way it all fell apart. It was easier when you could pretend that part of your life was over—when you didn’t have to picture his face or hear his voice in your head, mocking you with every love song you swore you’d never sing again.

With a resigned sigh, you grab the pen Anaxa had placed next to the contract papers and flip to the last page. Your signature comes out a little shaky, but it’s done. You let the pen drop onto the table and lean back against the cushions. 

The rehearsal studio feels too small. It’s ironic, really—after spending years crammed into dingy vans and shitty motel rooms together, you’d think it wouldn’t bother you. You’re the first person there (Anaxa had threatened to personally drag you out of your apartment if you didn’t show up on time), and because you don’t know what else to do, you set about adjusting your mic stand.

It’s stupid. You know it’s already set to your height, but it gives your hands something to do. The room is way too quiet, the walls lined with soundproofing and a few faded posters from when your band—the Chrysos Heirs—was at its peak. There’s a familiar, musty smell—stale air and old fabric—and it makes your chest ache just a little.

Without really thinking about it, you start humming one of the old songs—one that never made it to an album, just something you and Mydei had messed around with one night in the back of a bus. The melody flows out of you like muscle memory, soft and a little shaky at first, but gaining strength as you let the lyrics slip past your lips.

“Kiss me once and call me baby, Lie to me and say I’m crazy— Can’t believe I let you take me—”

The door swings open mid-verse, and you stop singing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

Mydei steps inside, and for a second, you can’t move. It’s like being punched in the gut—seeing him again after all this time. He looks almost the same, and that’s what pisses you off the most. The same messy hair, the same worn leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, that same stupid, self-assured expression. The only real difference is the hint of stubble lining his jaw, like he didn’t bother shaving before showing up. Typical.

He stops just inside the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his eyes lock onto yours. His expression doesn’t give away much—just a calm, uninterested look, like he couldn’t give a shit about being here. Your stomach twists, anger simmering just under your skin. You’d spent months convincing yourself that you’d moved on, that he didn’t matter anymore, but seeing him here, right in front of you, makes all that effort feel pointless. You hate that he still looks good. 

He doesn’t say anything, just drags his gaze over you like he’s sizing you up. You force yourself not to react, keeping your expression as neutral as possible, even though your hands are shaking where they grip the mic stand. You can’t let him know how much this is messing with you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Mydei glances at the mic stand, then back at you, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or just plain indifference. You don’t know which is worse. You half expect him to make some smartass comment about your singing earlier, but he doesn’t say a word. Just sets his guitar case down on one of the couches and starts unzipping it, still not acknowledging you.

The way he’s ignoring you grates on your nerves. You’re tempted to snap at him just to get some kind of reaction. But you know how that game goes—how he’s always been good at pushing your buttons and making you the one who loses their cool first. You’re not giving him the satisfaction today.

You busy yourself with the mic stand again, even though there’s nothing to fix. It’s something to do with your hands, at least. The air feels thick, and your chest feels tight, and you can’t stop your mind from wandering back to late-night songwriting sessions and whispered promises that ended up meaning nothing. You wonder if he thinks about those nights too—or if he’s just moved on completely while you’re still stuck in the aftermath.

The door swings open again, and Castorice and Hyacine walk in, chatting and laughing about something. They both pause when they see you and Mydei, exchanging a quick look before stepping inside.

“Hi,” Castorice greets, adjusting the hem of her faded purple band t-shirt. “Everything okay here?”

You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah. All good.”

Hyacine gives you a small smile, her pigtails swinging, and starts setting up her bass. Castorice nudges Mydei with her elbow as she passes by, but he just shrugs her off and keeps tuning his guitar. She rolls her eyes and grabs her drumsticks.

You can’t help but glare at him, half-hoping he’ll look up so you can throw something snarky his way. Maybe if he’d just stop pretending like you’re invisible, you wouldn’t feel like your chest is caving in. You’re caught between wanting to scream at him and wanting to leave before your hands start shaking too hard to hide.

Phainon slips in a few minutes later, his snowy hair wind-ruffled and his jeans ripped at the knees. “Already at each other’s throats, huh?” he mutters, mostly to himself, but you hear it.

“Nah,” you bite out. “No one’s dead yet.”

Phainon chuckles and unslings his guitar case. It’s forced, yes, and you know he’s just trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t help much. Mydei doesn’t even acknowledge the comment; he just keeps strumming a few notes like he’s deliberately tuning you out. You look away.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode One.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]Soft lighting. Castorice sits on a stool, tapping her drumsticks against her knee absentmindedly. She grins when she notices the camera.

CASTORICE: The first practice? Oh, man. That was a nightmare. I mean, I know it was gonna be awkward, but—wow. I half expected the room to just spontaneously combust. (Laughs) They didn’t even look at each other for the first half hour. I thought I’d have to throw a cymbal at someone just to break the ice.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her bass leaning against her shoulder.]

HYACINE: Honestly, I wasn’t sure if they’d even show up. _____ got there first, and Mydei came just before me and Cas showed up. When we walked in… (Sighs) It was like stepping into a freezer. I kept looking at Castorice like, Are we really doing this?

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning against the wall with his guitar propped up next to him.]

PHAINON: You could cut the tension with a knife. I was just waiting for one of them to snap, honestly. ____ was messing with the mic stand like it owed her money, and Mydei—(snorts) he just acted like he didn’t give a shit. Everyone knows he does, though. I could see his hands shaking a little while he was tuning his guitar.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, slouched on the couch, arms crossed.]

MYDEI: First practice? Whatever. I showed up, didn’t I? (Shrugs) _____ was already there, singing something I wrote. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel like arguing. Didn’t feel like… dealing with that. (Pauses) We got through it. That’s what matters.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere off camera.]

YOU: I didn’t think he’d actually come. And when he did… (shakes head) I was just angry. At him, at myself. At the fact that he didn’t even look at me. We used to be… I don’t know. Better than that. He didn’t say anything to me, and I wasn’t gonna be the one to break first. We both have too much pride.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, twirling a drumstick between her fingers.]

CASTORICE: Eventually, I just started playing something random to break the silence. That usually worked back then—get the rhythm going, and the rest will follow. I guess some things never change, because once I started up, Phainon joined in, and Hyacine just kinda jumped in too. ____ and Mydei just stared at each other like it was some kind of weird staring contest.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, laughing softly.]

HYACINE: I thought one of them was gonna strangle the other before we even got to the chorus. But after a few minutes of us just messing around with the intro, _____ gave in and started singing. Mydei followed—stubborn asshole—but it actually sounded good. Like, almost better than I remembered.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, smiling with his eyes crinkled at the corners.]

PHAINON: It was a mess. A beautiful mess. That’s just how it is with us. Always on the edge of imploding but somehow making it work. They didn’t say a word to each other the whole practice, but the music spoke for them. It’s weird how that works, huh?

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still looking annoyed, but his jaw clenches a little.]

MYDEI: We got through the set. It wasn’t… terrible. (Pauses) She still sings like she’s got something to prove. Never really lost that passion. I guess that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost hesitant.]

YOU: The music was the only thing that didn’t feel different. That’s the worst part. We still fit together on stage. I don’t know how to feel about that.

ii). he had an ego and a temper and a wandering eye.

The venue is packed, lights flashing in time with the beats of the opening song. Castorice is good. That hasn’t changed, not even a little. The heat of the stage lights is already making sweat prickle at the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark mass of people in front of you. You can barely make out individual faces past the glare, but it doesn’t matter—they’re all screaming, hands in the air, chanting your band’s name like a war cry.

To your left, Hyacine’s fingers fly over the bass strings, head bobbing in time with the rhythm. Her eyes are focused and sharp, lips curved into a smile. Next to her, Phainon strums his guitar, sweat dripping down his temples. He’s got that manic grin on his face, the one that always surfaces when he’s deep in the music.

You’re trying to focus—keep your voice steady, keep your hands from shaking—but it’s hard when you know he’s right behind you, adjusting his guitar strap and dragging his pick over the strings just loud enough to be a distraction. You swear he’s doing it on purpose, plucking random notes like he’s got nothing better to do, just to see if he can make you crack.

You refuse to look back at him. Instead, you take a slow breath and lean into the mic, eyes half-lidded and voice low as you speak to the crowd.

“Hey, everyone,” you drawl, and the noise swells, cheers and screams merging into a single deafening roar. You give them a crooked smile. “Feels good to be back. Did you guys miss us?”

The crowd roars. You can feel it—the way they’ve been waiting for this, for you. You ignore the way it makes your throat close up a little, focusing instead on the setlist displayed on the prompter. The opening song is one of your older hits, the kind of thing that used to play on the radio at least once a day back when it was first released. You’ve sung it a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. He’s right there, and you hate how you can feel his presence without even looking.

The drums kick in, pounding through your ribs, and you throw yourself into the first verse.

“Bite your tongue ‘til it bleeds, Hide the bruises on your knees, Say you never cared— I know you’re lying through your teeth.”

Your voice is steady, loud enough to carry over the instruments as the crowd sings with you. You almost lose yourself in it. The light pulses red and white, casting shadows across the stage, and you grip the mic stand tighter, putting every ounce of frustration into your performance.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mydei move closer to his mic, his guitar slung low and his fingers dancing over the strings. You force yourself not to look at him, focusing on the rhythm instead, on keeping your breathing even as the verse transitions into the chorus.

“Bittersweet vendetta, Carved your name into my skin, Kiss me like a secret. Make me wish I’d never let you in.”

You push your voice harder, practically shouting the last line, and the crowd’s response is instantaneous—voices rising to meet yours, some of them screaming loud enough to rival the speakers. You finally risk a glance to your right, just in time to see Mydei’s lips curve into a smirk, his head tilted like he’s daring you to acknowledge him.

He leans into the mic, and his voice slices through the air.

“She lies like she means it, Fake love on her lips—”

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, but you don’t miss your next cue, even though your mind is reeling. That’s not the original line. He’s never changed it before—not in all the years you performed this song together. You shove down the surge of anger, forcing yourself to keep going as if nothing happened.

The audience reacts immediately—some laughing, some whooping. You know they heard it. You know he did it just to get a rise out of you. You hate that it’s working, that your pulse is thrumming in your ears and your hands are shaking even as you keep your expression blank.

You don’t look at him. Instead, you pour every ounce of your irritation into the next verse, voice dropping low and venomous.

“Cut me down with your clever words, Always knew how to make it hurt, Fake your way to heaven, But I’d follow you through hell first.”

You swear you hear Mydei laugh under his breath, but he keeps playing like nothing’s wrong, his fingers moving over the strings like second nature. Your stomach twists, and you can’t tell if it’s fury or something uglier—something that feels like regret buried under years of resentment.

The bridge comes crashing in, and you give it everything you’ve got. Your voice is raw and unrestrained.

“Swore I’d never write about you, Guess I lied again somehow, Made my bed on broken promises, Tell me—are you happy now?”

The crowd’s roar almost drowns you out, but you don’t let up, spitting out the words like they’re poison on your tongue. You’re breathless by the time the final chorus hits, and the last line comes out almost like a snarl.

When the song ends, the audience erupts, and you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from your forehead with your palm. Your ears are ringing, but you catch a glimpse of Mydei as he steps back from his mic, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at you. Nor does he seem to particularly care that he just tore through one of your most iconic songs with a cheap, unnecessary jab.

You force a smile and wave to the crowd.

The moment the stage lights cut out and the cheers of the crowd fade behind the heavy backstage door, you’re off. You don’t bother thanking the crew or even stopping to catch your breath—you just march straight to the green room, hands still trembling from the adrenaline and the anger. Your heart’s pounding so loud in your ears that you barely hear the door swing open behind you.

You whirl around just as Mydei walks in, still wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. The sight of him—smirking like he didn’t just pull that shit on stage—makes your stomach twist with rage.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, but you don’t care.

Mydei just raises an eyebrow, like he’s confused about why you’re yelling. “What was what?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb,” you snap. “You changed the fucking lyrics. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He just shrugs and tosses his towel onto one of the chairs. “Oh, that. Yeah, I thought it sounded better. More honest.”

You take a step closer, jabbing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just rewrite shit on stage without telling anyone. We practiced that song a hundred times, Mydei. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re really gonna get this worked up over one line?” He scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Come on, it’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” You laugh, but it’s humourless and cold. “You made it sound like I’m some kind of manipulative bitch in front of thousands of people! How the hell am I supposed to not get worked up about that?”

“Maybe if it wasn’t true, it wouldn’t bother you so much,” he says, leaning back against the wall.

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

Mydei shrugs again, his voice low and taunting. “You always were good at faking it—feelings, sincerity, the whole tragic frontwoman act. Sorry if I just cut through the bullshit.”

Something snaps inside you, and before you even realise it, you shove him backwards with both hands. Mydei doesn’t stumble, but his smirk falls for just a second—just enough to make you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“Fuck you,” you spit out. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”

His face hardens, and he pushes off the wall to get right back into your space. “Don’t I? I know you lie like it’s second nature. You get off on being the victim, pretending like you’re the one who got hurt. But we both know you’re just as guilty as I am.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You’re breathing hard now, fists clenched at your sides to keep from swinging at him. “You’re the one who decided to leave the band first. I’m not the one who bailed.”

“Yeah, because sticking around and watching you sabotage everything we built together sounded like a blast. You’re impossible to deal with. Always have been.”

“You think I’m impossible? You’re the one who picks a fight every chance you get. It’s like you can’t stand if I’m not miserable,” you shoot back. “Newsflash, Mydei—not everything’s about you and your bruised ego.”

“Says the girl who can’t stand it when someone calls her out,” he says, lips curling into a mocking grin. “Maybe I hit a nerve because you know I’m right. You’re so used to being adored that the second someone questions you, you lose your shit.”

You shove him again, harder this time, and he doesn’t move—just stays rooted to the spot, glaring down at you. “God, I hate you,” you seethe, voice cracking despite yourself.

“Funny. Didn’t sound like hate the last time you were screaming my name.”

You freeze, heat rushing to your face, and the anger bubbles into something darker—something desperate and bitter. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you? Always gotta have the last word, always gotta prove something. You’re pathetic.”

“You’re one to talk,” he grits out. “Still hung up on shit that happened years ago. I’m pathetic? You’re the one still singing about heartbreak like it’s gonna make people feel sorry for you.”

You want to hit him. You want to scream at him until your voice breaks. Instead, you shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists, yanking you forward until your chest brushes his. His face is inches from yours, breath hot against your cheek.

“Admit it,” Mydei murmurs, low. “You’re pissed because I called you out, and now you can’t hide behind your lyrics like a coward.”

You wrench your hands free, but you don’t move back. You’re too close, breathing hard. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” you whisper, voice tight.

His eyes bore into yours. “And you’re a goddamn liar.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Hyacine pushes the door open with a scowl. She takes one look at the two of you and shakes her head. “Seriously? Already? I knew this tour would be a shitshow, but I didn’t think you’d try to kill each other on night one.”

You finally rip yourself away from him, swiping at your face like you’re trying to scrub the confrontation off your skin. Mydei doesn’t look at you. He just picks up his towel and wipes his hands.

Castorice slips in behind Hyacine, still buzzing from the performance. “Kephale, you two are like feral cats. Can’t we just chill for five seconds?”

“We’ve got interviews in ten minutes,” Phainon pipes up from behind her. “You guys need to get your shit together.”

Hyacine levels both of you with a glare. “I don’t care what personal shit you’ve got going on, but don’t pull that crap on stage again. Mydei, you don’t change the lyrics without telling us. _____, stop feeding into his bullshit. You’re both being idiots.”

Neither of you says anything, but you’re still seething, trying to force down the bitter ache in your chest. Mydei rolls his shoulders and turns away, his shaggy hair falling down the nape of his neck. When you finally turn and leave the room, you can still feel his eyes on your back, and it makes your skin crawl. You tell yourself you’re just glad to be away from him, but the knot in your stomach says otherwise.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Opening Night – Sold Out.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, her expression thoughtful.]

CASTORICE: Okay, look, I’m not gonna go around pinning the blame on anyone. That doesn’t do anyone any good. (Shifts slightly) I just think that we’re all adults here, and what Mydei and _____ were doing didn’t do us any favours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, scowling at the camera.]

HYACINE: They’re pretty f***ing immature, if you ask me. Sometimes I think Mydei and _____ forget that they’re not the only people in the band. They founded it, sure, but what about me, Cas, and Phainon? This isn’t just some petty high school-level battle of the bands shit. This is our f***ing careers we’re talking about.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back with a cigarette rolling between his fingers.]

PHAINON: Yeah, it’s real inspiring when your frontmen are trying to rip each other’s heads off backstage. Real rock and roll. (Scoffs) Look, they’re both stubborn as hell, and it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. You put two people with that much history on the same stage, and it’s like throwing a match into gasoline.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, arms spread out on the back of the couch.]

MYDEI: It’s not my fault she can’t handle the truth. We’re supposed to be putting on a show, aren’t we? Guess what—drama’s a part of it. If she wants to get pissed because I added a little honesty to the setlist, that’s on her. (Shrugs) I’m not gonna apologise for making it real.

[CUT TO: YOU, visibly tense, gripping the edge of your seat.]

YOU: He didn’t change the lyrics because it was real. He did it to hurt me. There’s a difference. It’s not about the fans, or the show, or whatever bullshit excuse he’s telling himself. It’s about control. He just couldn’t stand the fact that I was getting through it without him, that I was… fine. (Pauses) Or at least trying to be.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, rubbing the back of her neck.]

CASTORICE: (Sighs) You’d think that after all these years, they’d have learned how to work together without turning it into a battlefield. We’re not in high school anymore. We’re on tour. If one of them messes up, it’s not just their mess to clean up—it’s all of ours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, looking more annoyed than before.]

HYACINE: It’s exhausting. We’re just trying to make music, not mediate whatever unresolved shit they’ve got going on. Half the time, I feel like I’m babysitting. They either need to figure it out or shut the hell up and be professional for once.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, giving a resigned laugh.]

PHAINON: Honestly, if they’d just screw and get it over with, we might finally get some peace around here.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, AGAIN]

MYDEI: Phainon said that? Not a chance. I’d rather set my guitar on fire.

[CUT TO: YOU AGAIN, rolling your eyes.]

YOU: Yeah, well, might be the most impressive thing Mydei’s done in a while.

iii). do i love him? do i hate him? i guess it’s up and down.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting upright with your arms crossed.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you tell us about the band’s early days? How did the Chrysos Heirs come together?

YOU: God, that feels like forever ago. (Pauses) It was just me and Mydei at first. We were… just kids, really. We’d meet up after school in my dad’s garage—him on guitar, me scribbling down lyrics on whatever scraps of paper we could find. It wasn’t anything serious back then. We just wanted to make noise and piss off the neighbours.

INTERVIEWER: Did you always know it was going to be a band?

YOU: (Shakes head) Not at all. We didn’t plan for it to be anything more than a way to kill time. We’d play until our fingers ached or Dad came out yelling at us to cut it out. (Smiles a little) It was messy and loud and—fun. We didn’t think much past that.

INTERVIEWER: When did it start to feel like more than just noise?

YOU: When Castorice came into the picture. She was incredible. She had this way of making everything tighter, more precise. Like she just knew what needed to happen to make the sound click. Mydei knew her from some music workshop thing—said she was the only drummer he’d met who wasn’t full of shit. (Laughs softly) One day, she just showed up with this beat-up drum set and told us our timing was crap. And she was right.

INTERVIEWER: What was your reaction to her criticism?

YOU: Oh, I was pissed. I didn’t want some stranger telling us we were doing it wrong. But she wasn’t mean about it—just honest, I suppose. And once she started playing, we couldn’t really argue with her. She made us sound like an actual band.

INTERVIEWER: And Hyacine and Phainon? How did they join?

YOU: They came later. We’d been playing these tiny, shitty bar shows—barely getting paid, just trying to scrape together enough for gas and food. It was clear we needed a bassist. Castorice was the one who pushed for it. She said we sounded hollow without that low end. She knew Hyacine from some other band that had just imploded—some drama I never got the full story on. Hyacine came in and just took over. She was relentless, always pushing for perfection. It drove me and Mydei crazy at first, but she made us sound good. Really good.

INTERVIEWER: And Phainon?

YOU: (Smiles fondly) Phainon was a surprise. Mydei found him at some underground gig—he was up there shredding like it was the easiest thing in the world. Mydei practically dragged him to rehearsal the next day, and Phainon barely said a word. He just picked up his guitar and played like he’d been with us the whole time. We didn’t even have to teach him the songs—he just… knew. It was weird, but it worked.

INTERVIEWER: What was it like performing together back then?

YOU: Incredible. We weren’t perfect by any means—we’d f**k up chord changes and stumble over lyrics, but people didn’t care. There was this energy that made up for it. The crowd felt it too. We’d get off stage, drenched in sweat, hearts pounding, and just laugh about how much we almost screwed up. Those shows were something else.

INTERVIEWER: And what about you and Mydei? You two were already together by then?

YOU: (Pauses, glancing away) Yeah. It just happened. It wasn’t really something we talked about—it just made sense at the time. We were always around each other anyway.

INTERVIEWER: What changed?

YOU: (Exhales slowly) Success changed things. Suddenly we were everywhere—touring, interviews, non-stop shows. We didn’t have time to breathe, let alone talk about anything that mattered. It was just… go, go, go. And when things got tough, we didn’t know how to handle it. We didn’t talk. We just fought. About stupid shit—lyrics, setlists, tempos. It wasn’t about the band anymore. It was about us, trying to hurt each other without admitting that’s what we were doing.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, leaning back in his chair with one arm thrown across the back of it.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you talk about why you left the band?

MYDEI: (Exhales, looks away for a moment) It wasn’t… one thing, you know? People always want it to be simple, like there’s one big reason I just up and left. But it wasn’t. There was just—too much shit piling up. Tension between all of us, pressure from the label, and I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret it?

MYDEI: Sometimes. Maybe. I didn’t really think about what it would do to the others at the time. I needed to figure out who I was without the band. It was selfish, I know, but I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay with how things were going.

INTERVIEWER: Were you unhappy with the band itself, or just the dynamics between the members?

MYDEI: Both, I guess. The band was everything to me at one point. It was the one thing I thought I could count on. But then it just got… complicated. We went from just being a bunch of idiots messing around to something huge, and I wasn’t ready for that kind of pressure. The music stopped feeling like ours—like mine. It was just what everyone else wanted from us.

INTERVIEWER: How did the others react when you told them you were leaving?

MYDEI: (Chuckles bitterly) Not well. Castorice tried to talk me out of it—said I was being impulsive and throwing away something we’d built from the ground up. Hyacine was pissed. She didn’t say much, but I could tell she was angry. Phainon didn’t say anything at all. Just kind of… stared at me like I’d betrayed him or something.

INTERVIEWER: And _____?

MYDEI: (Stiffens) She didn’t take it well. She said I was running away—like I always did. We fought about it for hours. Nothing we said made sense by the end of it. Just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think we both knew it wasn’t just about the band at that point.

INTERVIEWER: After you left, the Chrysos Heirs seemed to almost dissolve overnight. Can you talk about that?

MYDEI: (Breathes out slowly) Yeah, I heard about it a few months later. It wasn’t something I expected. I thought they’d keep going without me, honestly. I didn’t think I was that important. (Pauses) Turns out, though, that me leaving kind of pulled the rug out from under everything. 

INTERVIEWER: Did the others ever talk to you about it?

MYDEI: Castorice called me once. She didn’t say much, just that they’d decided to take a break, and that without me there, it wasn’t working. She didn’t blame me, exactly, but I could hear it in her voice. Like she was trying not to say that I’d screwed everything up. (Shakes his head) Phainon never reached out. I don’t know if he was angry or just—disappointed. Hyacine texted me some stuff, mostly updates, but nothing about how they felt about it.

INTERVIEWER: What about _____?

MYDEI: (Tenses visibly) We never spoke to each other after I left.

INTERVIEWER: Do you think that the band dissolving hurt her the most?

MYDEI: Yeah. I know it did. The band was everything to her—more than it was to any of us, I think. She was always the one pushing us to go further, to make better music, to keep going even when it was hard. So when it all fell apart… I know she took it personally. Like she failed or something. Especially when I saw her trying to do solo stuff after that. 

INTERVIEWER: Did you listen to her solo work?

MYDEI: (Nods) Every track. It was good—different, but good.

The studio lights beat down on you like a relentless sun, and you resist the urge to wipe at the thin sheen of sweat forming at your hairline. You force yourself to smile through it, shoulders squared and posture just right, even as your muscles ache from holding the same position for too long. Castorice mutters under her breath about how awkward it feels to act casual when there’s a giant lens pointed right at your face; you can’t help but agree. It’s been ages since the last group photoshoot, and the discomfort is hard to ignore.

Mydei stands at the far end, stiff and distant, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s staring at some fixed point behind the photographer’s head, looking like he’s seconds away from bolting. It drives you insane how obvious he’s being about not wanting to be here. You catch his eye once, and the look he gives you is so blank, it’s almost insulting.

Castorice throws an arm across Phainon’s shoulders, and the two lean into each other. Hyacine sits cross-legged in front of you, holding up two peace signs and grinning widely.

“All right, good! That’s enough for the group shots,” Aglaea, the director of photography, calls out, clapping her hands together. “Everyone but Mydei and _____, take five. I want a few duo shots.”

You stiffen. Castorice glances between the two of you with something close to worry, but when you shoot her a tight smile, she just shrugs and heads off with Hyacine and Phainon in tow.

Mydei hasn’t moved an inch, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, jaw tight. You take a slow breath and will yourself not to let him get under your skin. Not again.

Aglaea gestures you both forward, clearly sensing the awkwardness but too professional to comment on it. “All right, you two. Let’s lean into the chemistry a bit. I want intimate and raw—like the world’s finally looking at you both behind the professional masks.”

Your lips press into a thin line. Mydei doesn’t react at all.

“Face each other,” Aglaea instructs, waving a hand to adjust the lighting. It catches on the bright gold of her blouse, and you blink a little. “Mydei, hands on her waist. _____, put your hands on his shoulders. Closer. I need to feel the tension. Like you’re caught between fighting and kissing.”

You almost laugh at the irony. That’s practically all you’ve done since he showed up again—hovering somewhere between wanting to scream at him and wanting to grab his face and never let go. The thought burns. You squash it as you step forward.

Mydei’s hands settle on your waist, and it’s as if electricity crackles through you, setting every nerve alight. His touch is hesitant, like he’s not sure he has the right to be this close anymore. Your hands come up to his shoulders, fingers brushing over familiar leather and muscle, and you force yourself to look up at him.

His eyes catch yours. Neither of you moves. He looks at you like he’s seeing something he thought he’d lost, and it makes your heart twist painfully.

“Closer,” Aglaea calls out, voice clipped. “Mydei, lean in like you’re about to say something you’ve been holding back for years. _____, tilt your chin up—give him that look, like you’re angry but imploring.”

You do as she says, your breath hitching when his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and his hands shift on your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to memorise the feel of it. Those strands of hair that he always braids because he claimed it made him look “edgy” brushes against the curve of your cheek. You can feel his breath fan across your face, warm and familiar, and it hurts how natural it feels.

When you look to the side, Aglaea is frowning. “Closer,” she says again. “I need to see that longing.”

You don’t bother hiding your scoff, muttering under your breath, “Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look like he’d rather be doing literally anything else.”

His eyes snap to yours, defensive. “Sorry I’m not putting on enough of a show for you,” he mutters back, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Maybe if you actually gave a damn, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth,” you hiss.

He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip just a fraction, enough to make your pulse jump. “There you fucking go again. Acting like you’re the only one who cares about this.”

You force yourself to keep the smile plastered on your face for the camera, teeth clenched. “Oh, forgive me for thinking you don’t give a shit. It’s not like you haven’t disappeared for months without a word.”

“You think I wanted to leave?”

“You didn’t exactly try to stay,” you snap, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You left me to deal with the fallout while you got to play the tortured artist somewhere else. And now you’re back, and you’re acting like none of it mattered.”

“You didn’t want me to stay,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You didn’t even ask.”

The accusation slices through you, and your grip on his shoulders loosens. “How was I supposed to ask when you made up your mind without me?” you fire back. “You made it clear that I wasn’t worth staying for.”

His expression hardens, like he’s trying to cover the hurt bleeding through his anger. “That’s not fair. You never once asked how I felt about it. You just decided I didn’t care.”

You want to scream at him for being so oblivious—for acting like you didn’t spend weeks waiting for a call that never came. Instead, you force your lips into a tight, brittle smile. “Guess you made it pretty damn convincing when you left even though I asked you to stay.”

Something in his eyes cracks, just for a moment, but then Aglaea’s voice cuts through.

“Yes! That’s it!” she crows. “Keep it up. Mydei, cup her face.”

He doesn’t move at first, just stares down at you, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. Then his hand lifts, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek like it’s muscle memory. The way he looks at you, then, makes your throat close up.

You want to push him away, but your hands stay where they are, like they’re glued to him. Aglaea calls out more instructions, but her voice is distant—just noise behind the thunder in your chest.

When she finally calls for a wrap, you step back, your hands falling limply to your sides. Mydei’s arms drop away from you, his face shuttered and closed off again. You don’t look at him as you turn on your heel and walk off to the break room, every muscle in your body screaming with the urge to just get away from him before you say something even worse.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

The screen fades out into grainy footage from an old concert: Mydei and _____ on stage, harmonising, Mydei strumming his guitar while _____ sways with the mic. The audience sways as one, flashlights held up as they move in time with the song. The video fades out.

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting cross-legged on a couch, an easy smile on his face.]

PHAINON: Back then? Man, they were something else. You’d think they were fused at the hip with how much time they spent together. Writing songs at three in the morning, huddled over some crumpled notebook, arguing about chord progressions one second and laughing the next. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people make something so good while simultaneously wanting to strangle each other. It was weirdly sweet.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting in a green room with her legs swung over the arm of a chair.]

CASTORICE: _____ used to steal Mydei’s hoodies every time we hit a new city. Didn’t matter how hot it was—she’d be drowning in that thing, sleeves halfway covering her hands. Mydei’d just roll his eyes and mumble something about it smelling weird when he got it back, but he never complained. They’d go on these stupid little coffee dates whenever we had downtime—just the two of them, sneaking off like no one would notice. We noticed. Everyone noticed.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting on the floor of the green room.]

HYACINE: Honestly? Their songs were the best ones we ever wrote. Together, they just… clicked. It was effortless. I think the first time I heard “After Midnight”, I kinda wanted to throw up from how sweet it was. But you could tell—every word, every note—they put their whole hearts into it. It was like they were making something for just the two of them, and the rest of us were lucky to get a piece of it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, still sporting that easy smile.]

PHAINON: But, y’know, things got complicated. Like they always do. They’re both stubborn as hell, and neither of them knows how to sit down and talk without throwing metaphorical knives at each other. Still… (Laughs softly) I stand by what I said. If they screw each other and get it over with, everyone’s gonna be okay.

iv). wanna kiss his face with an uppercut.

You’re sprawled across the hotel bed, face buried in the pillow, when your phone rings. You groan, tempted to ignore it, but the screen flashes Anaxagoras’ name, and you know better than to let it go to voicemail.

You pick up and press the phone to your ear. “Yeah?”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Anaxa deadpans. His voice is brisk, no-nonsense as always. “I’m just checking in.”

“Fantastic,” you say dryly, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. “Photoshoot went great. Almost fought Mydei. Twice.”

“Great Kephale,” he mutters, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you two still at each other’s throats?”

“It’s kind of hard not to be when he acts like breathing the same air as me is a personal insult,” you snap. “Aglaea made us take those stupid couple shots, and he looked like he wanted to die the whole time. It’s—” You break off, clenching your jaw. “It’s annoying.”

Anaxa grunts, unimpressed. “You’re letting him get to you.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Then stop it,” he says, as if it’s that easy. “You don’t have to like him, but you do have to get through this. It’s one shoot and a few public appearances. You’ve handled worse.”

“That’s the problem. It’s not supposed to be worse. We’re supposed to be professionals, but he’s—he’s making it impossible.”

Anaxa doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his tone is firm. “Look, if he wants to act like a child, let him. You don’t have to stoop to his level. Smile for the camera, grit your teeth if you have to, and don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s pissing you off.”

You hate that he’s right. “Yeah. I know.”

“You want me to handle anything?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head even though he can’t see it. “I’ll deal with it.”

He doesn’t bother with goodbyes, just hangs up like always. You let your phone drop onto the bed and slump back down, staring up at the ceiling. You hate that it’s still gnawing at you—the frustration, the hurt, the way Mydei’s indifference feels like a punch to the gut every single time.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You can handle it. You’ve been through worse.

A knock at the door startles you out of your thoughts. You blink, wondering if you imagined it, but then it comes again—more impatient, this time. You groan and push yourself up, dragging your feet as you cross the room. Your muscles still ache from the photoshoot, and your mood hasn’t improved because of Anaxa’s call.

You pull the door open, expecting maybe Castorice or one of the others, but it’s Mydei. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his jaw set in that familiar way that makes you want to slam the door right in his face.

“What do you want?” you snap, not even attempting to sound polite.

He glances away, gaze fixed on some spot above your shoulder. “I— Just wanted to—”

“Oh, please,” you interrupt. “Like you fucking care.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m starting,” you snap back, “because you spent the whole fucking day making it perfectly clear that breathing the same air as me is unbearable, and now you’re playing concerned? Do you even look at yourself?”

“Maybe I do care,” he tells you, and you cut in again.

“You’re the one who looked like he’d rather die than put his hands on me. Trust me, I noticed.”

“It’s not that—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, and steps closer. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!” you shoot back, shoving his shoulder. “You can’t just act like a dick and expect me to read your mind. Or are you still too much of a coward to admit anything out loud?”

That hits a nerve. His eyes flash, and he steps into your space, so close you can feel the heat coming off him. “Maybe if you didn’t act so fucking righteous all the time, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing my mind around you,” he spits out.

“Yeah?” you challenge, shoving him again just to get him to react. “Maybe if you didn’t keep running away every time something actually matters, we wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid cycle!”

He grabs your wrist, yanking you even closer, and you can feel his breath on your face, warm and ragged. “I’m not running.”

“Yes, you are,” you hiss, your voice cracking despite yourself. “You always do. You think if you act like nothing happened, it’ll just go away. Well, fuck you, Mydei, because it doesn’t.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but his jaw works soundlessly, and you’re so sick of it—so tired of dancing around whatever’s been festering between you since the band split. Before you know it, your hands are gripping the front of his jacket, yanking him forward just as he crushes his mouth against yours.

It’s not soft or careful—nothing about it is gentle. It’s teeth and heat and frustration, like trying to punish each other for every stupid fight, every missed chance. He makes a low, frustrated noise, backing you into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.

Your hands are tangled in his hair now, and his grip on your waist is bruising, like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans against your mouth, pressing you back until your spine meets the wall.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, barely catching your breath.

He just smirks, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, his voice rough and breathless. “Yeah? You’re not much better.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he doesn’t even try to hide the shiver that rolls through him. You hate him—you hate him so much for making you feel like this, for pushing and pulling and never letting you breathe. But right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands on your body and heat pooling inside your stomach, the only thing you can think of is him taking you against the wall.

You barely register the way Mydei lifts you off the ground, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he pins you to the wall. His mouth is hot and unrelenting against yours, like he’s trying to erase every insult you’ve ever thrown at him. You’re just as ruthless, biting at his lips and tugging his hair hard enough to make him growl.

He eases you down when you moan—embarrassingly loudly, but you don’t give a fuck. His hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, and you don’t stop him. You let him tug them down, the denim sliding down your legs and pooling at your ankles. Mydei lifts you up, just so you stand on your tiptoes long enough for him to kick them aside. Every brush of his skin against yours feels like an assault—every touch a reminder of all the hurt, all the anger—but you don’t pull away. 

You hate him. You love him. You need him.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and then he pulls back, panting, his eyes dark and wild. You’re wet by now, enough that your underwear feels cool from where a damp spot has formed already.

“You always have to have the last fucking word, don’t you?” he grits out.

You scoff. “Someone’s gotta knock you off your high horse.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s rough. Without warning, he drops to his knees, his hands slipping under your thighs to keep you steady as he buries his face between your legs.

You gasp, one hand flying to the wall to brace yourself, the other still tangled in his hair. Mydei doesn’t waste any time—he’s ruthless, licking you through the fabric of your panties. It makes your head spin. You choke on a moan, trying to squirm, but he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly in place.

“Mydei—” you start, but his teeth graze your inner thigh, and your words dissolve into a shuddering gasp.

“Shut up,” he mutters, yanking your underwear to the side and pressing his mouth against your folds with a fierce sort of hunger. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your head falls back against the wall, a keening sound leaving your throat.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you manage to choke out, even as your thighs tremble around his head.

He laughs against you, the vibrations making you bite down on your lip to stifle a whimper. “You’re still running your mouth,” he taunts, giving your thigh a squeeze. “Wonder if I can make you shut up.”

He doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking his tongue in a manner that has you seeing stars. Your nails scrape against his scalp, and he just groans in response, the vibrations sending another shockwave through you. Your hips jerk forward. He grips you harder, dragging his mouth down to lick at your folds like he’s starved for it.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. You can’t help the way you tug him closer, grinding against his face despite yourself. Mydei merely hums approvingly, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you higher, pressing you harder against the wall.

When his tongue dips inside your clenching hole, your knees almost give out, but he holds you steady, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming, maddening pleasure. You’re barely breathing, trying to swallow down the sounds threatening to spill out, but when he curls his tongue just right, you can’t stop the loud, desperate moan that breaks free.

He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick and his eyes burning. “You done being a brat now?”

You glare down at him, panting and still shaking. “Fuck you.”

His smirk only widens, and before you can blink, he’s pressing his mouth against you again—rough, merciless, relentless. It doesn’t take long before your vision blurs and your head tips back, his name tearing from your lips as you come against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your grip on his hair has gone slack, and even then, he licks you through the aftershocks like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands, and says, “You’ll give me one more, won’t you?”

Your breath comes out in shallow pants. You can barely muster the energy to glare at him, but his smirk only grows as he straightens up, dragging his hands up your sides and pushing your shirt higher until it’s bunched under your arms. You’re still too dazed to protest when he lifts it over your head, tossing it to the floor before his hands find your waist again, pulling you flush against him.

He dips down to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his lips—sweet and dizzying all at once. You’re still recovering from your climax, but it doesn’t matter—he kisses you like he’s making up for every second he hasn’t touched you, rough and a little desperate, his hands squeezing your hips.

His hands slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra. You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he unhooks it and slides and straps down your arms, tossing it aside without a second thought. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, but his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes your back arch off the wall.

You don’t even think before your fingers find the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head, and he helps you get it off before crashing his mouth against yours again. Your hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the rapid beat of his heart under your fingertips. His skin is warm and slightly slick with sweat, and you can’t resist scraping your nails lightly down his abdomen just to feel him shiver.

He bites down on your lower lip in retaliation, and you gasp into his mouth. It earns you a low chuckle. You’re about to shoot back with something sarcastic when his hands slide up to cup your breasts again, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and your retort dies in your throat.

“Thought you were gonna give me attitude,” he murmurs against your mouth, lips curving into a cocky grin. “Guess you can be good when you want to.”

“Shut up,” you breathe out, but your voice comes out shaky. He laughs softly, bending down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Your hands fly back to his hair, fingers twisting in the strands, and he groans the tug.

Your hips buck against his, and he grinds back without hesitation, the hard line of his cock rubbing against your thigh through his jeans. You can feel just how badly he wants you; the thought sends another wave of heat flooding through your veins. You tug at his hair hard enough to make him look up at you, his lips red and swollen.

“Quit teasing,” you pant. Mydei’s eyes flash with something dark and hungry.

He doesn’t bother replying—just scoops you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. His mouth is back on yours, demanding, and you feel him fumbling with his belt between your bodies. You don’t have the patience to wait, so you reach down to help him, your hands brushing against his as you yank the buckle open and shove his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock.

He groans in relief when your hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly and spreading his pre-cum across the length. He bites back a curse. His hands tighten on your thighs, and you don’t miss the way his muscles tense under your touch. You give him a little smirk, but it falters when he presses his tip against your entrance, not quite pushing in yet.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes roaming over your face.

You roll your eyes, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a bruising kiss. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”

You don’t get to finish because he thrusts into you all at once, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your head tips back against the wall, and Mydei buries his face in the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin as he adjusts to the tight warmth of your cunt. His breath is hot and ragged, each exhale brushing against your collarbone. His fingers dig into your thighs.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice rough and strained. His hips pull back just enough to drag his length almost completely out before he slams back in, his pace brutal from the start. The force of it makes your back scrape against the wall, and you can feel every inch of him—thick and girthy, splitting you open in a way that has your body straining towards him.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, nails leaving crescents on his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm, each thrust hitting deep and perfect. You’re clinging to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he drives into you. The wet, obscene sounds of your skin against skin echo through the room, mingling with your breathless mons and his low groans.

“Fuck—so tight,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth dragging along your throat, teeth scraping and biting hard enough to leave a slight stinging in their wake. “You feel so fucking good. S’like you were made for me.”

You whimper, your hips rocking against his instinctively, desperate for more. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name shakily. It spurs him on. He grins against your neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to your pulse point before sucking a bruise into your skin.

“Yeah? That good, huh?” he taunts, his tone mocking but laced with genuine awe. One of his hands slides from your waist to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. His thumb grazes over your nipple, and the sensation has your back arching off the wall, pushing your chest further into his hand.

Your head is spinning, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly as he fucks into you hard. You can feel every ride and vein dragging against your walls, every thrust forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t even know you could make.

His mouth finds yours again; his teeth nip at your bottom lip before he slips his tongue inside. You’re so lost in him, so overwhelmed, that it takes you a second to realise his other hand has slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with almost punishing pressure.

“Fuck—” Your hands are back in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, but he doesn’t let up, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing insistently as his cock drives into you again and again. “I can’t—fuck, I’m—”

“Gonna come again?” he growls against your mouth, his pace never faltering. “You’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? That’s it. Good girl.”

His words make your thighs clench. Your climax comes over you without warning, tearing a strangled cry from your throat. Your walls clench around him, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure blazes through every nerve ending. You feel your thighs trembling where they’re locked around his waist.

Mydei doesn’t slow down; he just keeps fucking you through it, each thrust coaxing another wave of sensation that leaves you gasping and boneless in his grip. Your mind is a haze, barely able to process how good it feels to be taken like this. You’re dimly aware of his breathing getting rougher, his hips stuttering as your body milks him.

You drag his face back to yours, capturing his lips in a desperate, messy kiss, biting until you taste copper. He groans into you. You feel him shudder just before his rhythm falters. With one last, deep snap of his hips, he buries his cock inside you, spilling hot and thick as his body shakes with the force of his release.

His forehead presses against yours as he catches his breath, both of you panting and trembling. He stays inside you, like he’s not quite ready to let you go, his hands sliding up your sides to hold you close. You’re still reeling, your pulse racing, but you manage a small, satisfied smile, brushing your lips over his with a gentleness that almost feels out of place after what just happened.

For a long moment, neither of you move—you just breathe each other in, letting the remnants of pleasure tangle in the space between you. Finally, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.

“Still think I’m running my mouth?” you whisper, still trying to muster some semblance of defiance.

Mydei simply nudges his nose against yours. “Maybe,” he says, a little bit hoarse, “but at least I finally shut you up.”

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode Two.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting on a stool.]

CASTORICE: You want to know about the relationships? (Grins) Oh, man. It’s like a dysfunctional family reunion. Some of us slipped right back into old habits, and some of us… well, it’s complicated. Mydei and _____? (Snorts) Don’t even get me started. You can feel the tension from three rooms away.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor.]

HYACINE: There’s definitely still some… uh, unresolved stuff. We used to be so tight. All of us. I mean, we fought, sure, but we’d always make up eventually. Now? I don’t know. It’s like everyone’s got their guard up. Phainon’s doing his best to keep things light, Castorice just barrels through any tension like she doesn’t notice, but Mydei and _____… (Pauses) It’s like walking on eggshells around them.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back against the wall with his guitar across his lap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone kind of forgot how to be around each other. We spent years being everything to one another—friends, family, bandmates, rivals. When the band split, it wasn’t just the music that fell apart. It was us. Now it’s like… we’re all trying to figure out where we stand again. The way Castorice and Hyacine laugh like nothing’s changed, while Mydei and _____ act like they’re on opposite sides of a war zone. It’s exhausting.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still slouched on a couch with his arms crossed.]

MYDEI: I’m not gonna sit here and pretend everything’s fine. It’s not. The band breaking up after I left? I’m sure that wasn’t just some decision they made over drinks. Castorice acts like we’re one big happy family again, but she knows it’s not that simple. Phainon’s always the peacemaker, trying to smooth everything over, but that just makes it worse sometimes. I don’t know.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair.]

YOU: It’s frustrating. We used to be so close. All of us. And now it feels like every word has teeth. Castorice is trying so hard to keep us from falling apart again, and Hyacine’s just… tired. Phainon’s stuck playing mediator, and Mydei—(shakes head)—he still looks at me like it’s probably my fault. Maybe it is. But it wasn’t just me who made it boil down to this.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, balancing her drumsticks on her finger.]

CASTORICE: We’ve always been a mess. That’s kind of our thing. But it used to be that we were messy together. Now it feels like we’re just trying not to accidentally set each other off. I miss how easy it used to be. Back when Mydei and _____ could actually talk without biting each other’s heads off. Back when Hyacine would just crack a joke instead of staying quiet.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, resting her chin on her hand.]

HYACINE: Sometimes it feels like we’re playing pretend. Like we’re trying to convince ourselves that we’re still friends when we’re really just… people who used to know each other. Cas keeps pushing for us to hang out after shows, but it never feels right. Everyone’s just waiting for someone to break the silence. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll get better once we’ve been on the road for longer.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, eyes thoughtful as he fiddles with his guitar strap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone’s just afraid to be the one who cares the most. Back in the day, we knew each other better than anyone else did. Now, it’s like we’re scared of stepping on each other’s wounds. Mydei’s carrying too much pride to apologise, and _____ is too stubborn to forgive. Castorice and Hyacine just want everyone to get alone, but no one’s talking about the elephant in the room. We’re good at pretending on stage, though. Real good.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.]

MYDEI: You don’t just come back from something like that. You don’t go from being everything to each other to nothing without it leaving a scar. I’m not saying it’s all her fault. (Hesitates) I’m just saying that it’s easier to be mad than to admit I might’ve messed up, too. That’s why I keep my distance. It’s just… easier that way.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost weary.]

YOU: I never thought it would feel this hollow. I don’t know what I expected—a clean slate, maybe? But it doesn’t work like that. We’re still carrying the past with us, and it’s dragging us down. I guess… I just wish he’d talk to me. Even if it’s to say he hates me. At least that would be something.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, shrugging with a half-smile.]

CASTORICE: Whatever happens, I’m not giving up. We’re stuck with each other. That’s just how it is. Even if we have to scream it out or throw things at each other, we’re gonna make it work. Because the way they look at each other sometimes? There’s still something there. They just gotta get over themselves long enough to see it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, adjusting his guitar.]

PHAINON: They’ll figure it out. We’re not just a band—we’re more than that. And sometimes, being more means we break and put ourselves back together. We’ll get there.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, giving a faint smile.]

HYACINE: If we can just stop letting the past dictate everything, maybe we can start being friends again. Maybe more. I don’t know. But I do know this—on stage, we’re still the same. Maybe the music will help us remember how to be us again.

v). so i write him all these letters and i throw them in the trash.

When you stir in your sleep, the mattress beside you is cold. 

It’s late—past midnight, probably. Your stomach grumbles; you sit up and shuffle tiredly over to the mini-bar and grab a bag of salted cashew nuts, tearing it open. There’s no trace of Mydei. It’s as if he was never here, didn’t fuck you against the wall like it was all he could think of, didn’t lay down on the bed next to you and curl a strong arm around your waist.

You wish you could say you were just disappointed. The truth is, you had expected nothing else, but disappointment still curls around your ribs.

It’s stupid. You walk over to the glass table placed in front of the plush armchair towards the side of your bed. There’s a notepad and a slightly blunt pencil placed on top of it. You sink into the armchair, popping a handful of cashew nuts into your mouth and chewing. 

The words should be flowing by now—anger and frustration always make for good material—but tonight, they’re stuck somewhere between your ribs, buried under the feeling of his mouth on your skin.

It shouldn’t feel like this. You knew what you were getting into. You knew better than to expect anything else from him. But the way he kissed you, like he was trying to make you forget every fight—made your chest ache. You’re not surprised that he’s gone. You’re not even hurt, really. Just angry. Angry at him for leaving without a word, angry at yourself for caring that he did. You shove a few more cashews into your mouth and wipe your fingers on your sweatpants before picking up the pencil.

Your hand moves almost without thinking, words scrawling across the page faster than you can catch up with them.

You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong. We’re always dancing on the edge of a goodbye, But I’d risk the fall just to feel you by my side.

You pause, glaring at the lyrics. You should throw the notepad across the room, rip the page out, crush it in your fist. Instead, you just sit there, tapping the pencil against your knee. You can still feel the way his mouth moved against yours, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to keep writing. It’s better than sitting here drowning in the memory of him.

We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.

The pencil scrapes harshly against the paper as you press harder than you mean to. The words taste bitter in your mouth, but at least they’re honest. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to write them down—because admitting that you want more than just his hands on you feels like exposing a wound you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

You swallow down the knot in your throat and lean back, squeezing your eyes shut. It would almost be easier if you hated him. If you could just shove him out of your head and pretend he was nothing more than a bad decision. But it’s not that simple. You don’t just want him; you want the old him, the one who used to light up when you walked into the room, who teased you until you were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. You want the Mydei who didn’t always look at you like you’re a problem he can’t fix.

You know you’re being unfair. He’s not the only one who’s changed. You’re not the same either—too guarded, too tired. Sometimes you wonder if you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment because it’s easier than admitting you still love him.

Your chest aches, and the next words come almost like a confession.

You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.

You finish the verse and set the pencil down, pressing your fingertips to your lips like you can still taste him there.

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again. But he looked at you tonight like he was starving—like you were something he couldn’t resist. And you let him have you because a part of you needed it, too. Needed to feel wanted, even if it was just for a few hours. Even if he was gone before you woke up.

You shove the notepad away, letting it fall to the floor as you curl up in the armchair, knees pulled to your chest. The song lingers in your head, the lyrics clawing at your heart. You feel ridiculous for letting him get under your skin like this, like a bruise that won’t heal.

The truth is, you’d let him hurt you a thousand times if it meant he’d look at you like that again. Like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe that makes you a fool, but you don’t know how to be anything else when it comes to him.

Shaking your head as though to dissolve it of its thoughts, you tear out the sheet of paper with your lyrics on it, fold it into a square hastily, and shove it inside the pocket of your sweatpants. You stand up and grab your lighter from your bag. You need a smoke.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a simple black stool, hands loosely clasped in your lap.]

YOU: Writing with Mydei… God, it used to be so easy. We didn’t have to think about it. (Smiles softly) We’d just be sitting on the floor of his shitty apartment—barely any furniture, just the couch his neighbour was gonna throw out and that one rug we stole from Hyacine’s place. One of us would pick up the guitar, start playing something, and it was like everything else just faded out.

INTERVIEWER (off-screen): Was it always that natural?

YOU: (Nods) Yeah. It just worked. Sometimes we didn’t even talk before starting a song. I’d be on the floor, writing down whatever came to mind, and he’d be next to me, leaning against the wall with his guitar. Sometimes I’d hum something, and he’d just—pick it up. It was like we were reading each other’s minds.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, sitting with his back slightly hunched, elbows on his knees.]

MYDEI: We wrote some of our best songs at 3 A.M, dead tired, arguing about lyrics while eating instant ramen. She’d always overthink the words—had to make sure they said exactly what she wanted. I didn’t care as much. I guess I figured the feeling mattered more than getting every word right.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have an example for the same?

MYDEI: There was this one song (pauses, shakes his head). We wrote it after this stupid fight. I’d stormed out, pissed as hell, but when I came back, she was sitting on the floor, scribbling lyrics like her life depended on it. I didn’t say anything. Just sat down and played along with whatever she was humming. Neither of us apologised, but… I guess that was our way of making up.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: We never talked about it, you know? We’d write all these songs that were practically confessions—about each other, about how much it hurt when we fought, or how we couldn’t stand being apart—and then we’d just… move on. Never acknowledged it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret that?

YOU: (Hesitates) Sometimes. But the songs made it pretty obvious. We were practically begging each other to figure it out without actually saying it.

[CUT TO: MYDEI]

MYDEI: She always wrote like it was her way of… bleeding out whatever she couldn’t say. We made something good out of it, though. Even if we never said it out loud. And… yeah. Sometimes I miss that. The simplicity of it. Just us and a guitar and whatever shit we were working through. I didn’t need anything else back then.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: It’s funny. We used to write about heartbreak like it was this distant concept—something that happened to other people. Never thought we’d end up writing about each other.

vi). i want to get him back (and then?)

The rooftop is quiet at this hour—too early for most and too late for the rest. The sky is more navy than blue, more shadow than light. You push the heavy metal door open with your shoulder, and it clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. You tug your hoodie tighter around you, retreating into the warmth, and dig around in your pocket for your cigarettes.

The lighter sparks on the second try. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, and something in you loosens. You hate how easy it still is to find comfort in bad habits.

That’s when you notice him.

At first, it’s just the faint glow of a cigarette at the far corner of the rooftop. But you know it’s him—know it in the shape of his silhouette, the way he leans forward with one elbow braced on the ledge, hoodie pulled low over his face. Mydei. Of course.

You hesitate for a beat, frozen halfway between the door and where he stands. It would be easier to leave—pretend you didn’t see him, pretend you didn’t spend the night tangled up in him and then wake up to cold sheets and silence.

But you don’t.

Your steps are quiet as you cross the rooftop, stopping a few feet away from him. He doesn’t look at you, just exhales slowly, eyes on the horizon. You take a drag from your cigarette, watching the tip burn orange, watching the smoke curl upwards and vanish into the sky.

“Why’d you leave?” you ask. You mean the hotel room, but not only that.

He’s quiet for a long time. You wonder if he’s even going to answer.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says eventually, still not looking at you.

You huff a breath. It’s not quite a laugh. “You didn’t want to be there.”

He doesn’t argue. The silence stretches again, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just tired. He glances at you. The wind picks up a little, brushing your hair across your cheek. He notices—always notices—and shifts just slightly so he’s blocking the breeze. Neither of you says anything about it.

“You looked peaceful,” Mydei says. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You think not being there was better?”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You nod. You don’t push. You’ve learned not to with him. “It’s not just about tonight,” you say quietly.

He nods, eyes dark and shadowed. “I know.”

The sun starts to edge over the horizon, painting faint streaks of pink and orange across the navy sky. It’s beautiful in that fragile, fleeting way, like something you’re scared to touch because you know it’s too delicate to last. You both watch in silence for a while, letting the smoke and the light fill the air between you. There’s a comfort in it, strangely enough. The way the world keeps turning even when your heart feels like it’s stuck. The way mornings come anyway.

You look at Mydei again.

He’s tired. You can see it in the curve of his mouth, in the slump of his shoulders. But he’s here. Part of you wants to ask him why. Why he came up here. Why he didn’t leave the hotel entirely. Why he lets himself touch you but won’t let himself stay. Instead, you say nothing.

He offers you his lighter when yours gives out, and your fingers brush when you take it. It’s a brief touch, barely there, but it’s enough to make your chest ache in that too-familiar way.

You smoke the rest of your cigarettes side by side, not speaking, not needing to. It’s the kind of silence that used to exist between songs in the studio. When you stub the last bit out on the ledge, you take one last look at the sunrise. The light catches on his face now, gold and soft, and you want to say something. You don’t even know what.

So instead, you pull your hoodie tighter and nod. “I should go.”

He nods too, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you either.

You turn back towards the door, and as you do, a folded piece of paper slips from your pocket. You don’t notice it fall, fluttering once before landing gently near his feet. You don’t notice it, because you’re too busy disappearing back into the stairwell, too wrapped up in keeping your shoulders straight and your breathing steady.

He doesn’t move for a while after you’re gone.

Then, slowly, Mydei leans down and picks up the paper. The handwriting is unmistakable—your quick, slanted script, a few smudges where the pencil dragged.

He reads it once. Twice.

Then he folds it back up, holds it in his hand like it might crumble, and watches the sun break over the city, alone.

The lights shift from the vibrant spotlights of the previous set into something softer, slower—dimmed gold and dusky purple spreading like ink over the stage. Your mic is cold under your fingers. You roll the cord absently through your hand. You can’t see much beyond the footlights; only the sea of shadows, the faint outlines of swaying arms and cell phone lights blinking like stars.

But Mydei’s there, across from you. This next song is just you and him, after all.

He’s adjusting the strap of his guitar, head bowed, eyes hidden beneath the fall of his hair.

It’s the same stage. The same lights. The same song. Why does it feel so different?

The crowd doesn’t know what they’re about to hear. Most of them don’t even know the song, you’re pretty sure. It’s some B-side from one of your earlier albums. You remember when you wrote it. The quiet of three in the morning, the late-night arguments that bled into music, the unraveling of two people who couldn’t speak to each other unless it was in chords and half-rhymed lines.

Here you are again. Older. Worse at pretending.

The intro begins with gentle chords, the kind that hurt more than they soothe. Your mic is already at your lips. You inhale like it’s your first breath of the night.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care this time, Said your name like it didn’t still taste like goodbye. But you look at me like you never learned how to let go…”

Your voice holds, though it feels like walking a tightrope. Every word comes out measured, like if you let it slip, your heart will come out tumbling too. You don’t look at him, not yet. You can feel his presence—like gravity—but you don’t turn your head.

Not until he sings. Then, you do. He meets your gaze.

“I said we were fire meant to burn out fast, But I keep finding you in every song I’ve written last. You don’t ask me to stay, and I don’t ask you to try… But we’re still standing here, pretending we’re fine.”

His voice—God, his voice. It’s rougher than it used to be, edges carved by years and distance, but it still wraps around your lyrics like it was always meant to. He’s not just singing. He’s looking at you like he’s saying every word for the first time. It knocks the air from your lungs.

Your heart’s pounding now, and you hate that it still reacts to him like this. Like your body remembers the way he used to hold you when no one else was watching. 

The chorus crashes over both of you.

“So lie to me, baby, say it’s still love, Say the ending never mattered, that this beginning’s enough. We were smoke, we were stars, we were doomed from the start, But tonight, just tonight, sing like you still mean every part.”

Mydei steps closer. You do, too. It’s instinct, not plan. You don’t even realise it until you’re nearly toe-to-toe, voices tangling into harmony, eyes locked.

You wonder if the crowd can feel it. If they can hear the way your throat tightens, how the vowels tremble when he looks at you like that. Like he’s trying to remember the shape of you—not just your face, but your soul. The bridge comes. You always dreaded it.

“Maybe we’ll break like we always do, Maybe we’ll forget this in the morning too. But for now—God, for now— You still feel like a home I never knew.”

The line lands like a punch to the chest. Yours, and maybe his too.

You let it ring out, raw and full. For a second, it feels like the two of you are back in that tiny studio years ago—barefoot, angry, tired, in love. Writing a song you were both too scared to mean. But you meant it. You always did, and you do now.

The last chorus is quieter, a lullaby instead of a plea.

“And I’d sing this with you a thousand times… if you’d let me.”

You drop your hand from the mic, breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s silence. Just you and Mydei.

He doesn’t move. He’s staring at you with something unspoken lodged in his eyes, something that looks too close to regret.

You turn away first. Your heart’s already too full. One more second and it might burst.

The crowd roars behind you, applause crashing in waves.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, lounging back on the couch.]

CASTORICE: It was just a fact. Mydei and _____. You didn’t say one name without the other. (Shakes her head) And the way they used to look at each other on stage? Insane. Like, we’d be in the middle of a song, and I’d be watching them instead of playing because damn. The rest of us could’ve vanished into thin air, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

(Laughs lightly, rolling her eyes.)

CASTORICE (CONT’D): It was kinda funny, actually. Like, okay, we get it, you’re in love. Can we get through the set without you two making heart eyes at each other? (Pause) But, y’know… it was also kinda nice. Seeing people that in sync. That kind of connection isn’t something you fake.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, bass resting on her lap.]

HYACINE: They were disgusting. I mean that in the nicest way possible. (Grinning) Like, you’d be tuning your guitar, and they’d just be standing off to the side, whispering to each other like they weren’t literally about to perform in front of thousands of people. And yeah, sure, couples sing duets all the time, but with them? It was different. Like they were letting us in on something private, something meant just for them. Even if it was a song they’d performed a hundred times before, it always felt like they were saying something new.

(Chuckles, eyes soft with nostalgia.)

HYACINE (CONT’D): They made you believe in that kind of love, y’know? The all-consuming, this-song-is-about-you kind of love. You couldn’t want them and not feel it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting with his arms draped over the back of the chair, smirking lightly.]

PHAINON: Yeah, they were that couple. The ones who made you roll your eyes but also kind of wish you had what they had. Like, I remember this one show—Mydei had just finished this crazy guitar solo, and instead of, I don’t know, reveling in the applause like a normal person, he immediately turned to _____ like she was the only one whose reaction mattered. And she just grinned at him, and I swear to God, he looked like he won the lottery.

(Shakes his head and scoffs.)

PHAINON (CONT’D): They were reckless with it. Loud about it. No hesitation, no holding back. They didn’t just love each other, they showed it. And that’s rare. You don’t get that kind of honesty on stage very often.

(His smirk fades just slightly.)

PHAINON (CONT’D):  …That’s why it was so hard when it ended.

vii). ‘cause i miss the way he kisses and the way he made me laugh.

The crowd is louder tonight. Not louder in volume, necessarily, but just… like they’re expecting something. Like they know something you don’t.

You glance at the setlist as someone does your in-ear check. Your duet with Mydei is coming up next—the same one you’ve done every night for years. It’s not your most popular song, but it’s yours. It always has been. Something about it felt safe even now, when everything else between you and him was held together with duct tape and willpower.

You take a sip of water and step towards the side of the stage, waiting for the intro cues.

But when you hear the first notes, they’re not yours.

Your stomach drops. The chord progression is soft, a little unfamiliar. It’s not one of your tracks, or a part of the agreed setlist.

Your gaze snapes to the center of the stage where Mydei stands—guitar in hand, face calm. He’s adjusted his mic, and he’s… smiling? Not a grin. Nothing cocky. Just this small, quiet thing, like he’s doing something that matters to him more than he’s ready to admit.

“This one’s not on the list,” he says into the mic, casual, like this doesn’t upend everything. “I wanted to try something new tonight.”

Your brow furrows. You step a little closer, careful not to draw a scene. Castorice gives you a sharp look from behind her kit, like, Did you know about this? You shake your head once. 

Mydei starts to sing.

“You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong.”

It hits you like a punch to the ribs.

That lyric. That exact line. You know it because you wrote it, alone. In that hotel room weeks ago, scrawled in a burst of emotion you weren’t proud of, folded up and shoved into the pocket of your sweatpants. You’d thought it got tossed in the wash or lost somewhere in the shuffle between cities.

Apparently not. Apparently he found it. And instead of asking you—like a normal person would—he set it to music. He built a melody around your bleeding heart and decided to sing it to a crowd of thousands.

“We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.”

It’s a beautiful melody, and you feel something inside your chest twist, hard. He sings softly but unsteadily, like he wasn’t sure that you’d hear it—or worse, that you would.

He doesn’t look at you while he sings. He scans the crowd, eyes on the horizon. But the meaning is clear. You can feel it in the tightness in your chest, in the hush that’s fallen over the audience, like they know this isn’t just a love song.

You fold your arms over your chest, more for grounding than anything. Castorice doesn’t play a beat. Hyacine and Phainon watch silently, hands loose on their instruments like they’re ready to jump in if needed, but they don’t. Neither of you do.

This is his moment, and your words.

“You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.”

You exhale shakily. You feel exposed, as if you’re standing naked in front of an entire arena. The words weren’t just lyrics—they were confessions. Grudges. Regrets. Things you never had the guts to say out loud. And here Mydei is, saying them for you.

No. Singing them.

Your fingers curl into your palms. You don’t know whether to be furious or deeply, deeply moved. 

He finishes the song in a whisper, almost. The last chord rings out like an unanswered question. The audience is silent for a beat too long. Then they erupt—whistling, cheering, screaming. It’s a standing ovation for something they didn’t even know was a story.

And still, Mydei hasn’t looked at you—until now.

He turns, finally, just a little, and meets your eyes across the stage. You don’t smile. You don’t clap. You just stare at him, speechless and conflicted.

Then, Mydei steps back from the mic and gives the signal to move on with the set. You turn your face away before the next lights come up, blinking hard. Your heart’s racing. You don’t know what happens after this; what this means; what you’re supposed to say.

You only know one thing: That song was yours, and now, it’s his, too.

The hallway outside the dressing rooms is buzzing—crew rushing around, the muffled roar of the crowd still seeping through the walls, someone shouting about cords and lights and encores. But all you can hear is the blood in your ears and your name echoing in Mydei’s voice as he sang your lyrics.

His voice, but your words. Your heart on a scrap of paper you never meant for anyone else to see.

Your footsteps are harsh against the floor as you turn the corner and push the door open. The dressing room is too bright, too sterile compared to the intimacy of the stage. Mydei stands with his back to you, shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, hair pushed off his forehead like he ran his fingers through it too many times.

You close the door behind you with a click. Quiet, but final. He hears it.

“Hey,” he says, not turning around yet.

You stare at the back of his head. “Don’t do that to me.”

Mydei pauses. Slowly, he turns to face you. “I figured you’d be mad.”

“Mad?” You laugh, breath catching somewhere in your throat. “You think I’m mad?”

“You look mad.”

“I am mad,” you snap, taking a step closer, heart pounding. “You sang a song you weren’t supposed to have. You didn’t even ask me, Mydei. You just—just stood there and threw it at me in front of ten thousand people like it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t mean nothing,” he says. “That’s why I sang it.”

You’re both quiet. The silence stretches and tightens until it’s almost unbearable.

“You could’ve told me,” you say finally, voice hoarse. “You could’ve talked to me. About the song. About anything. But you don’t. You never do.”

Mydei exhales slowly, resting his hands on his hips like he’s bracing himself. “I didn’t know how.”

You tilt your head, lips parting in disbelief. “That’s such bullshit, Mydei. We wrote songs together. We told each other everything through music. And now you’re just—standing there, acting like it’s some impossible thing.”

He looks at you, then. Really looks. And for a moment, he’s not the cold, distant version of himself he’s been for months. He’s just him. The boy who used to fall asleep beside you in the tour van. The one who hummed half-finished melodies in your ear at midnight in whatever motel you were crashing in. The one who used to kiss you like the world might end before morning.

“I didn’t know how to say I missed you,” he admits. “So I used your words instead. Because mine never come out right.”

You don’t want to forgive him. You really don’t.

But the hurt in his voice is real. So is the way he’s looking at you—like you’ve always been the only person in the room, and he’s just been waiting to see you again for real.

You take one shaky step forward. Then another.

When your lips crash into his, it isn’t careful or slow. It’s everything you’ve been holding back: Rage, longing, grief, hope. His hands find your face, yours grip his shirt, and everything around you blurs until it’s just him, just the warmth of his mouth and the softness of his sighs and the undeniable truth that this still feels like home.

You part, breathless.

Neither of you speaks at first. You’re still close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, the heat of his skin under your fingertips. 

Your voice comes out quieter than you intend when you tell him, “I want to get you back.”

Mydei doesn’t hesitate. “You already have.”

It hits you harder than the kiss did. Something cracks inside you—something small and soft and long-buried. You almost don’t realise you’re crying until he wipes your cheek with the back of his hand.

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.” His thumb traces the edge of your jaw. “You’re allowed to be.”

You step back first, gently. He lets you go, but his eyes follow you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

As you adjust your jacket and run a hand through your hair, something slips from your pocket—folded paper, creased from being handled too many times. You don’t notice, but Mydei does.

He kneels to pick it up after you’re gone, quietly unfolding it to find another unfinished song. Lyrics in your handwriting. His name, half-crossed out and rewritten three times.

He reads the first line. Smiles.

He doesn’t hand it back to you. He tucks it into his jacket, like he already knows how it ends.

[CUT TO BLACK] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: Reunion Tour. THE END.”

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

FYI artists and writers: some info regarding tumblr's new "third-party sharing" (aka selling your content to OpenAI and Midjourney)

You may have already seen the post by @staff regarding third-party sharing and how to opt out. You may have also already seen various news articles discussing the matter.

But here's a little further clarity re some questions I had, and you may too. Caveat: Not all of this is on official tumblr pages, so it's possible things may change.

(1) "I heard they already have access to my data and it doesn't really matter if I opt out"

From the 404 article:

A new FAQ section we reviewed is titled “What happens when you opt out?” states “If you opt out from the start, we will block crawlers from accessing your content by adding your site on a disallowed list. If you change your mind later, we also plan to update any partners about people who newly opt-out and ask that their content be removed from past sources and future training.”

So please, go click that opt-out button.

(2) Some future user: "I've been away from tumblr for months, and I just heard about all this. I didn't opt out before, so does it make a difference anymore?"

Another internal document shows that, on February 23, an employee asked in a staff-only thread, “Do we have assurances that if a user opts out of their data being shared with third parties that our existing data partners will be notified of such a change and remove their data?” Andrew Spittle, Automattic’s head of AI replied: “We will notify existing partners on a regular basis about anyone who's opted out since the last time we provided a list. I want this to be an ongoing process where we regularly advocate for past content to be excluded based on current preferences. We will ask that content be deleted and removed from any future training runs. I believe partners will honor this based on our conversations with them to this point. I don't think they gain much overall by retaining it.”

It should make a difference! Go click that button.

(3) "I opted out, but my art posts have been reblogged by so many people, and I don't know if they all opted out. What does that mean for my stuff?"

This answer is actually on the support page for the toggle:

This option will prevent your blog's content, even when reblogged, from being shared with our licensed network of content and research partners, including those that train AI models.

And some further clarification by the COO and a product manager:

zingring: A couple people from work have reached out to let me know that yes, it applies to reblogs of "don't scrape" content. If you opt out, your content is opted out, even in reblog form. cyle: yep, for reblogs, we're taking it so far as "if anybody in the reblog trail has opted out, all of the content in that reblog will be opted out", when a reblog could be scraped/shared.

So not only your reblogged posts, but anyone who contributed in a reblog (such as posts where someone has been inspired to draw fanart of the OP) will presumably be protected by your opt-out. (A good reason to opt out even if you yourself are not a creator.)

Furthermore, if you the OP were offline and didn't know about the opt-out, if someone contributed to a reblog and they are opted out, then your original work is also protected. (Which makes it very tempting to contribute "scrapeable content" now whenever I reblog from an abandoned/disused blog...)

(4) "What about deleted blogs? They can't opt out!"

I was told by someone (not official) that he read "deleted blogs are all opted-out by default". However, he didn't recall the source, and I can't find it, so I can't guarantee that info. If I get more details - like if/when tumblr puts up that FAQ as reported in the 404 article - I will add it here as soon as I can.

Edit, tumblr has updated their help page for the option to opt-out of third-party sharing! It now states:

The content which will not be shared with our licensed network of content and research partners, including those that train AI models, includes: • Posts and reblogs of posts from blogs who have enabled the "Prevent third-party sharing" option. • Posts and reblogs of posts from deleted blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from password-protected blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from explicit blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from suspended/deactivated blogs. • Private posts. • Drafts. • Messages. • Asks and submissions which have not been publicly posted. • Post+ subscriber-only posts. • Explicit posts.

So no need to worry about your old deleted blogs that still have reblogs floating around. *\o/*

But for your existing blogs, please use the opt out option. And a reminder of how to opt out, under the cut:

The opt-out toggle is in Blog Settings, and please note you need to do it for each one of your blogs / sideblogs.

On dashboard, the toggle is at https://www.tumblr.com/settings/blog/blogname [replace "blogname" as applicable] down by Visibility:

For mobile, you need the most recent update of the app. (Android version 33.4.1.100, iOs version 33.4.) Then go to your blog tab (the little person icon), and then the gear icon for Settings, then click Visibility.

Again, if you have a sideblog, go back to the blog tab, switch to it, and go to settings again. Repeat as necessary.

If you do not have access to the newest version of the app for whatever reason, you can also log into tumblr in your mobile browser. Same URL as per desktop above, same location.

Note you do not need to change settings in both desktop and the app, just one is fine.

I hope this helps!

[copperbadge]

Recently I ran across an article about an art center that was doing creative expression classes for people with disabilities. Not that unusual, I've encountered that and trauma-oriented art therapy before, but it was the first time I'd come across the idea since getting diagnosed with ADHD. While the class was aimed more at high-needs disabilities, it occurred to me that I could -- if I wanted -- make non-prose art about being disabled.

Outside of my work in scene design I've never been much of a visual artist because I've never felt I had the combination of "something to say" and "a meaningful way to say it", but I started to question how meaningful and complex I really had to be to just make some statements about having ADHD. I can do it in prose, after all.

So I started thinking about how you would talk, in visual language, about things like time blindness, shame stemming from undiagnosed disability, the shift in behavior that medication can induce. Ways to express my condition to people who don't experience it. I still didn't really know how to build the pieces but whenever I went to an art museum I'd think about how I might do a gallery installation. The centerpiece of my mental gallery was a pair of barcodes, one marked "Neurotypical" and one marked "Neurodivergent".

[ID: An interior view of a small booklet, with pages marked 1 and 2, showing barcodes -- on the left, labeled Neurotypical, and on the right, in slightly weirder configuration, labeled Neurodivergent.]

And then I thought, why not make a zine? Nothing you're thinking of couldn't be put in zine form instead of on a gallery wall.

[ID: The booklet continues to pages 3 and 4; on page 3 is a postage-style label reading AUTISM with up arrows on either side, and on page 4 is a QR code labeled ADHD. The QR code technically should work but it just dumps a block of text I wrote about having ADHD into a browser.]

I grew up with zine culture in the 90s and I always wanted to make one but much like with visual art, I never felt like I had the right kind of thing to say; either I had too much to say or too little, and anyway I wasn't confident that what I wanted to do wouldn't just come off as trite and obvious. But you can make a six-page zine out of a single sheet of paper, so I did: I made Helpful Labels For Strange Brains by idab zines, a division of Extribulum Press. (i--dab is a term for a cuneiform tablet that contains a royal communication.)

[ID: The last two pages feature the same image -- a cereal bowl with a spoon in it, the spoon containing a single Adderall pill. One image, however, is captioned "Wake up. Pour yourself a cup of iced coffee. Fix a bowl of cereal. It's going to be a good day." while the other is covered in a detailed ADHD-style step-by-step process for the same actions, culminating in "It's going to be a day like that."]

I'm pretty pleased with how it came out -- the art all looks intentional and it still has that "taped this together after school" aesthetic I remember fondly from the 90s. And the confines of six pages, each only a few inches square, offers a good structure to keep things clear, simple, and meaningful.

[ID: The cover of the zine, labeled "Helpful Labels For Strange Brains" in a kind of esoteric stampy font.]

Especially nice is that if you wanted to you could just hand out the flat sheet, and let folks fold it into a booklet or not -- there's instructions for folding it on the back of the zine. Additionally I have some sticker backed printer paper so I could print it such that you could literally turn the labels into real labels.

Anyway if you want it, here ya go. You can print it on a single sheet of paper and follow the instructions on the back to fold it. I thought about selling it but I do not have the spoons to do a bunch of printing and folding and shipping.

[d3stinyist1red]

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ɢʏᴀʀᴜ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ 𝟸

yan gyaru who is your clingy bestfriend

Every morning, he made sure to time his arrival perfectly so that he’d “accidentally” run into you near the lockers. "N/n!~" He grinned at you as you opened you locker, twirling his hair.

“Kajiro,” you greeted, adjusting your bag. “What’s up?”

“Just waiting for my favorite person, obviously.” He grinned, stepping closer. “You know, we should totally hang out after school today. I’ve been thinking about you all morning.” He pouted, trying to convince you. "wait no, we should have a sleepover!" His face lit up like a Christmas tree, eyes sparkling with excitement as you stared at him confused

"Im bus-"

"Okay, ill be at your house at 3pm, baby!" He said as he waved at you and left, blowing you a kiss.

meanwhile ur friend next to you looks at u weirdly "how tf did you bag that" You js shrugged

yan gyaru who while during class, spams u

ᴋ𝟺ᴊɪғᴏʀʟɪғᴇᴇᴇᴇ ׂ

hiii n/n :3

lets meet uppp!!!!

i wanna see ur faceee ;3

babyyyyy cmonnnn

im SOOOOO bored in this class without uuuu

i need to see u before i go crazyyyy :(

ʜᴏᴇsʟᴜᴠʏ/ɴ

bruh no

last time we met up in the middle of class, u wanted me to js skip n go on a date

n stop texting im abt to get my phone taken by the teacher

ᴋ𝟺ᴊɪғᴏʀʟɪғᴇᴇᴇᴇ ׂ

:( n/n ur so mean!

n change ur username nowwww!!!!

im supposed to be the only hoe that loves u!!!

GASPPP

do u have other hoes?!?!?!??! Are u cheating??!?!?! Youve been playing hello kitty adventure with some other bitches?!??!!?N/n, i will rip their scalp off their head, and throw a table at them.

Y/n L/n, who are the bitches u call hoes?

y/n, if u dont block them now, ur gonnna see me on the news for murder.

yan gyaru who during english class, just writes poets about his love to you. In art, he draws you and him getting married. In math, he daydreams about the day you guys live in a cute cottage home with your 2 bunnies, and a cat.

yan gyaru who once the final bell rings, hes OUT that class, practically running out to go to your class so you wont leave him.

yan gyaru who finally found you, and was huffing and puffing from all that running before grinning at you. "Lets go, babe?" He said, grabbing your backpack from your shoulders and carrying it himself.

It’s Friday night, and you’ve somehow got dragged into having a sleepover with the guy who’s been obsessively crushing on you for ages—your bubbly gyaru friend, who just can’t get enough of you.

The whole walk to your house, he was gushing and nonstop talking about how fun it was gonna be. “Babe! This is gonna be so fun, I can’t wait!” he chirps, holding onto your arm tightly as if he has doubts that you were gonna run away.

yan gyaru who from the second he steps in your home, he’s a non-stop chatterbox. He’s talking about everything—school, the latest drama, his favorite new clothes, and of course, you. His eyes are constantly on you, lighting up every time you laugh or even just nod along, internally cheering that he made you laugh.

“Oh my god, Y/N, have you seen the latest episode of that show we talked about? We have to watch it together tonight! It’s gonna blow your mind!” He said as he played with your hair.

You can tell he’s beyond excited just to be around you, and his energy is contagious. He’s always smiling, laughing, and playfully bumping your shoulder whenever he makes a joke.

yan gyaru whose endlessly complimenting you. He just can’t stop complimenting you. Whether you’re dressed up or in casual sleepover clothes, he’s still in awe of you. “You look cute even in pajamas, Y/N. Like, how is that fair?” He pouted, scrunching his eyebrows together as he rubbed your arm up and down

He loves finding excuses to be near you—adjusting your hair, teasing you about how comfy you look, or even just admiring your smile. “You’re seriously too cute, I’m not even joking. I could stare at you forever, hehe~.”

"bro"

yan gyaru who inists on staying up late even if your half asleep by 10 pm. He’s full of bubbly energy, even when you’re eyes are starting to close. “We can’t go to bed yet! We have to at least talk about… everything!”

He starts asking more personal questions as the night goes on, his obsession peeking through. “What’s your favorite part of the day? Did you think about me at all today?” His voice is playful, but you can tell he genuinely cares about your answers by the way he intently listens

When you start to get drowsy and start giving mumbled answers, he gives a soft laugh. “You’re so pretty when you’re sleepy. Here, let’s get comfy,” he says, tugging the blanket closer around you both.

yan gyaru who the next morning,

yan gyaru who teasing you about how you slept, offering to make breakfast, and texting you immediately after he leaves

ᴋ𝟺ᴊɪғᴏʀʟɪғᴇᴇᴇᴇ ׂ

last night was soooo funnn! lets do it again this week yeah? :3

yan gyaru who is ur fashionista bestie who is a little too obsessed with you <3

[annabelle--cane]

so um. I think I accidentally figured out who my hater anon is. saw a post by happenstance that pinged my "hang on this sounds familiar" alarm, searched a keyword on their blog, and found a couple of posts with almost exactly the same wording and overall syntax as the anons I've gotten, made on the same days I received them. not sure what to do about this one, I don't think that would be enough evidence for a proper harassment report even if staff weren't running on a skeleton crew, and I am not too keen on the ethics of publicizing their url, but. uhhh. I might? if they don't back off?

so, as a final peace offering, an open letter to my weird hater anon:

from what I can tell, your problem is not actually with me, it is with how tma is written, and I just happen to like and frequently talk about the parts you hate the most. we have a fundamental disagreement about a work of art that we're both invested in, but That's Fine, we can and should just block each other. heck, I think I've had your main blocked for like two years maybe, and hey presto you stopped passively annoying me with your posts until you started regularly directly harassing me in my inbox and serially block evading.

you seem to be motivated, at least in part, by a desire for people to treat addicts with more sympathy. that's great! love that for you. I also wish people would treat addicts with more sympathy, this is a matter on which we can both agree. the problem is, you are directing all of that desire for sympathy towards a fictional character who does not exist and cannot ever feel pain or suffering while continually insulting and belittling me, a real life human addict who can feel pain and suffering, whenever I talk about the themes of addiction I enjoy and relate to as they are presented in that fictional character. you clearly receive my analysis of this piece of fiction as demonizing of addiction and condoning violence against addicts, and I as the person who is me shrimply know that is not what I have ever said nor thought, because, and I really cannot stress this enough, I am an addict, and have been since I was fourteen of god's own years old. I do not believe that I, or anyone like me, should be "put down like a dog" for having disordered patterns of substance use, and I find it frankly offensive that you would repeatedly accuse me of advocating for that both in my inbox and in a series of vagues on your main.

I am usually much more didactic and direct in anything I say about real life human non-allegorical substance addiction, but, to be as fair as is possible, you might have missed most of what I've posted on that topic in the recent past, as I talk about it considerably less than I did 2-3 years ago. this is because when I talk directly about it without the oven mitts of metaphor, people are usually very quick to inform me that they think I'm not human and should be put down like a dog. believe it or not, I don't really enjoy this. even when it's coming from easily blockable faceless anons, there was really only so much of that I was willing to voluntarily subject myself to before deciding to be a bit more judicious about when and where I talk about addiction in public online spaces.

I tell you the above for two reasons.

1. to let you know that I'm intimately familiar with the kind of dehumanization you keep accusing me of and appear to believe that only you can truly understand. for realsies, I am sorry that anyone has ever made you feel like that, that feeling is the kind of awful and insidious that's hard to ever fully shake, and I'm doubly sorry that you feel like no one else gets it and the world is uncompassionate to your experience. I profoundly get it, if I went into any of my offline history with addiction in my mid teens then this would become unpostably upsetting, and I know that kind of thing makes one liable to be prickly and lash out.

2. to explain as clearly as I can that your harassment does not come in isolation, and why I take such an issue with it. I can't make bland-ass PSAs about treating substance users like human beings without people coming into my inbox with stories of abuse and explanations of why this makes it okay for them to hope all addicts die alone and in pain, I can't make casual personal posts about addiction without people coming into my inbox with graphic accounts of loved ones' overdoses and demands to know why I'm encouraging substance abuse, and now, because of you, I can't even talk about. fucking. jon podcastman's metaphorical addiction-like character arc about peeping the horrors and feeling like the torture sphere had a sort of "je ne sais quoi" without risk. it is very hard to exist as an addict on tumblr dot edu, and you are singlehandedly making my one relatively low-stakes outlet for talking about it like 5x more inhospitable. you are one arm of the great machine making this site hostile to me and people like me.

so, like, maybe you still hate my fiction podcast analysis posts and the ideology you read them as conveying, that's your right, so block me, add my url to your content filtering, and move on. you cannot be honest with me and tell me again that you think I believe addicts should be summarily executed because of, and I say once more, my fiction podcast analysis posts, but the great news is that there is no malevolent entity out there forcing you to tell me that over and over again. you can just hit da bricks and Stop.

after many attempts at blocking you that you have repeatedly bypassed, I am explicitly laying down the final boundary that I do not want you ever interacting with me again.

you are thirty-two of god's own years old. give it a rest.

[navydoves]

Smile for the camera, love!

✎ᝰ summary: too caught up in his paintings and suffering from major art block, you suggest a different type of artistic expression for rafayel, photography! yet, the new hobby backfires on him as you start to dictate what goes on his camera roll.

✎ᝰ cw: subby rafayel, you’re a pervert lmao, you’re also the dominate one, explicit but no sex, masturbation, dirty talk (just very slightly mean), eroticism, artistic expression of pleasure, sticky messes

✎ᝰ a/n: i don’t know anything about cameras so bare with me on the terminology. not proof read, excuse mistakes 😢 enjoy!

“so… what is it?”

you furrow your brows at rafayel a give him a strange look.

“it’s a camera, what do you mean what is it?”

“i mean… what am i supposed to do with it?”

you take the heavy powershot out of rafayels hands and point it at him with your eye in the viewing lens. you deftly click on the side button and take a quick picture of rafayel’s dumbfounded face before turning the camera around to show him.

“you take pictures with it.”

“i know how cameras work! i’m asking why you spent so much money buying me one, did you forget i paint and not take silly little photos?”

you gave rafayel the camera back and smile teasingly at him. it wasn’t unusual for rafayel to have art block, in fact, his art blocks spanned so debilitatingly long that you practically had a protocol for comforting him and helping him gain back inspiration.

the list went:

1. bring rafayel to the beach and play in the waves with him. the feeling of water against his skin and sand underneath his feet sometimes brought him new ideas.

2. give rafayel a makeover. seeing cosmetic shades brought about new waves of thought for what colors he should use next in his paintings.

3. dance with rafayel. your bodies moving together in symphony cleared his head of aggravating thoughts and made him want to paint in reverence of you.

4. sleep with rafayel. sometimes, he was just grumpy. he needed a nap.

but when plans one through four didn’t work this time, you found yourself at an equally frustrating spot with rafayel. you really did hate seeing him so stressed or unmotivated. he needed his spark, and like the good girlfriend you were, you were gonna help him find it.

“you’ve handled a camera before, rafa. it’s nothing new. just take a few pics here and there and maybe it’ll help you out. don’t you want to get my moneys worth for it?”

“i didn’t even ask you to spend that much…” he mutters underneath his breath. “i’ll pay you back, how much was it?”

“i don’t need—“

“how much was it?!”

⭐︎

it had been a couple days since you last had seen rafayel. whenever you couldn’t see him, you messaged or called him enough times to keep him company, but the last few days weren’t like that. there was an influx of wanderers within the last few weeks and with a few rookie hunters injured on the field, the more experienced ones were put on the job as replacement. despite your exhaustion, you knew you needed to make time for rafayel. you missed him and from the sad emojis he would send you throughout the day, you knew he missed you too.

you unlocked the door to his home with your spare key and looked around the entrance of his large estate. probably still in his studio, you assumed. you brought a small bag of baked cookies from the hunter association as an apology for being so absent. with the bag in hand you strolled through his house to the closed studio in the back.

“rafa?” you call out softly after opening the door. you look around the room and find him standing in front of an oversized canvas with buckets of untouched paint around him. those weren’t there before. he turns to you and frowns somberly before motioning eagerly for you to come in. you walk in and set down the bag of cookies on a table before moving to embrace rafayel.

“rafayel, what’re you doing? how long have you been in here?” you ask with a worried expression growing on your face.

“i’ve been trying to paint.” he simply responds. he turns to you and embraces you back while pressing a kiss to your forehead. “where have you been? i’ve missed you.”

“i told you, i had emergency hunter missions to do. have you been in here since i last saw you?”

rafayel ignores your question and purses his lips in consideration. “did your missions have to take that long? i’ve been so lonely. this canvas is mocking me, yknow? it’s plain whiteness is blinding me and i don’t know what to do.”

you sigh and pull back from the hug to look around the messy studio. “where’s the camera i gave you?”

rafayel motions to some corner in the room and grumbles, his complete focus was on the canvas before him. “somewhere over there, i think.”

you felt a pang of disappointment that the item had been discarded so easily. did he not like it that much? you head to the corner and find the camera underneath a few random silk fabrics. turning it on, you swipe through the settings and head to the gallery to look at the photos—if there were any anyway.

to your surprise, there were hundreds upon hundreds of photos saved onto the camera roll, all of rather random things. there were pictures of his furniture, little bugs on the sidewalk outside his house, nail polish organized in color order, broken glass, a street sign, it went on. the disappointment in your chest faded as you realized that rafayel really did try with this, but apparently to no avail.

oh well, you thought. he’ll get out of this slump at some point, he always did.

you sigh and point the camera up at rafayel who was still studying the empty canvas in front of him. he was deep in thought, it looked, and the camera captured every beautiful detail of his face. he was a natural.

“rafa, over here. give me a little pose.” you chuckle in hopes of lightening him up. he stilled awkwardly before letting his body relax and posing for you. you clicked a picture and pulled back the camera to see how you did. your pupils dilate at the photo, rafayel looked so effortlessly handsome before you.

you shift your perspective and kneel a little bit to take another picture of him, this one being an off-guard one. even with his attention on something else, he held a gentle beauty that made you almost revere him a little bit.

“hey, love, how about you take a break from the painting stuff and play with this camera with me?” you ask hopefully. he turns to you and frowns before shaking his head.

“i already tried taking photos and everything was pathetic to me. i don’t think it’s gonna help.” he responds.

“no, you don’t have to take any pictures. i wanna take them. this camera is actually really nice, i wanna put it to good use if you’re not using it.”

rafayel raises an eyebrow at you but resigns to your suggestion. he knew he needed a break from… doing nothing. that’s what exhausted rafayel the most, doing nothing. he preferred it when he was busy because it meant he had inspiration and passion, feelings that he basked in. but devoid of that right now, he would rather be doing anything else other than wallowing.

“what’re you gonna take pictures of?” he asks while putting his paint brush down and moving toward you. he seemed to be genuinely curious in your newfound interest.

“can i take pictures of you?” you ask.

rafayel sputters a bit and scratches the back of his head. “why… why me?! there’s plenty of fish in the sea to take pictures of.”

“well because you’re my boyfriend and i love you. don’t you want to be my muse?”

and that’s all it took for rafayel to give in. being the focus of your attention was like a blessing for him, but being your muse was a compliment worth reveling in, he would do anything to just keep your eyes on him.

you situated rafayel to the middle of the studio room where the most space was and moved back several feet to get a wider, landscape view of him. you crouch down just slightly and smile at the uneasy expression on his face.

“just relax, let loose, im not holding a gun.” you tease while adjusting the camera lens in hopes of getting a more high quality look. rafayel pouts at your words but surrenders to you and the camera in your hand. he shakes his limbs in attempts to let off some built up stress within his body and strikes a casual pose where his hand laid on his hip gently.

you snap a picture without much worry, knowing the quality and angle of the camera would do nothing to sabotage rafayel’s looks.

“you look beautiful, just keep doing that.”

rafayel blushes but your praise encourages him to continue. he nods and strikes another pose where he turned away from the camera and tilted his head back for an almost flirty look. you giggle and snap a few more pictures of his movements before looking up at him.

“am i…. doing good?” he asks rather shyly while shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“you’re doing perfect, rafa. just keep moving around and maybe i can get some candid shots.”

you look back into the camera lens and snap several more pictures in the course of a few minutes. you could tell rafayel was gradually easing up and getting more comfortable with this, even going so far as getting on the floor and blowing cheeky kisses.

a deep sense of satisfaction resonated within you from how loose and relaxed rafayel looked. this past month had been difficult for him so seeing him all playful and eager to do something so silly with you was refreshing. he felt the same.

“oh, oh. how about this?” he smiles and lays on his stomach, head propped up on his palm and legs crossed over each other in the back. you laugh and nod your head.

“giving the camera a show little i see,” you tease.

“mmm, no. i’m giving you a little show, cutie.” he responds with a giggle.

“really? a little show just for me? i have some requests then.”

“yes? what is it?”

“unbutton your shirt.”

rafayel’s eyes widen at your sudden request. embarrassment burns his ears and cheeks at the thought of you photographing him while he was showing more skin. he looked down at his simple white button up and considered what to do. did he really want to be on camera like this? he would never do this by himself, but for you? he’s too devoted to say no.

“was this all a plan against me?” he mumbles with a pout while unbuttoning his white top down to the bottom. “i can’t believe you’ve gained more silly tactics, you’re dangerous!”

you took a few shots of rafayel unbuttoning his shirt and then a few more of his bare chest once he was finished. you glanced up at him and shrugged with an amused expression growing on your face.

“i wasn’t planning anything, it just so happens to be that i really like the camera, and the camera really likes you. now, strike a pose.”

rafayel hesitantly moves around and juts out his chest toward the angle of the camera. your happy little noises urged him to continue despite the welling shyness in him. it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him in states of undress before, he was your boyfriend after all. plus, all you did was bathe was with him in your free time, anyway. but it was just something about the camera that made it different.

“yes, yes just like that. your skin looks so smooth, you’re glowing,” you purr.

“is it really that good?”

“mm, yeah. you’re quite the centerpiece.”

you snap a few more pictures of rafayel’s pliant form, a few of them focusing on the chest and above. you look up from the camera again and bite your lip. this was so erotic for you and you didn’t want to stop anytime soon.

“now… unbuckle your pants, tease the camera a little bit.”

“m...my pants?!”

“yes, your pants. art is all about identity and candidness, right? what’s more that than your body?”

rafayel’s lips widen at your frankness. you were using his beliefs on art to get him to get him to be all cheeky and provocative with you. and he… he was… he was going to listen!

he looked down at the thin belt looped around his pants and slowly undid the buckle. he could hear the soft camera shutter sounds at every movement he made, like he was some sort of celebrity on the red carpet. he slides it through his pant hoops and shoves it aside. then, he undoes the zipper of his crotch and bites his lip; he was getting dangerously close to being extremely exposed.

“continue, baby,” you whisper.

“everything?”

“everything.”

he continues by sliding his pants off of his legs slowly and then hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. he glances up at your smiling, aroused form as if to ask: this too?

you give him a signal to wait and take several camera shutters of him in his boxers. every part of his pale skin was milky and smooth on the camera lens except for this face, which was a nice shade of pink. after you were satisfied with your photo lot you motion for him to continue and he quietly listens. you were almost surprised that there was no more refusal on his end, maybe he was finding this enticing too.

he slips off his boxers and then the shirt that draped from his arms and tosses them aside. he was completely naked now, body tense and shifting on the floor in nervousness.

“you’re quite the model, you look so beautiful.”

“flattery will get you nowhere! no one can see these photos.”

“oh that’s the least of your worries, no one gets to see you like this except for me.”

you adjust the camera center to captures the enticing indent of rafayel’s V-line and then move the frame lower to his soft cock. you giggle softly to yourself as you took several pictures of his little flounder that flopped around as rafayel shifted.

finally, you decided to shift your position in the room to get different lighting and angles of your model. rafayel watched you inch around the room while continuing to take bounds of photos.

“you’re really getting into this…” he mumbled while averting his gaze from the camera.

“you should be too, you’re a natural model. just relax.”

rafayel sighs and scratches his nape. he was having a lot more fun than his face gave away, even if he was a little embarrassed at this new kind of play between you two. relenting to you for what seemed like the hundredth time today, he listened to your words and to let loose.

every movement of his showcased the curves of his lean body, the indentations of his muscles, the stretches of his smooth skin. even his hair was a natural at falling perfectly into place to frame his pouty, soft face.

“yes, perfect. so sensual.”

your low purr made a jolt of electricity run through rafayel’s body. he swallows and feels himself wanting to please you in every way, wanting to satisfy your every command. his cock starts to bounce a bit from excitement, slowly growing half hard and pink by his thigh.

“is my precious boy getting excited from all these pictures?” you jest upon seeing how his cock bobbed through the lens of the camera. you zoomed in on it and took a secret recording of how his erection grew.

“y…yes, ‘m getting a little horny…” he admits with slightly shaky voice. you grin eagerly and zoom out to capture his full body.

“show the camera just how horny you are then.”

rafayel groans softly and wraps his hand around his growing cock. he moves from ballsack to tip with every stroke, stimulating himself for his audience of one. creamy pre-cum dribbles down from his blush pink tip and coats his cock, creating an echo-y wet sound within the studio.

rafayel tilts his head back and whimpers. your camera caught every movement with either a video or snapshot, no part of your beautiful boy went un-captured.

“feel good, yeah? you like showing off?”

“mngh, yeah ~ feels so good. c...come closer if you really wanna see.”

you perk up at his invitation and move within rafayel’s circle quite swiftly. your camera angles from beneath him, catching the underside of his flushed erection. you zoom in with precision until the entire screen of the camera was just rafayel’s cock being masturbated by his hand. you groan softly at the sight but try not to get too caught up in your own aching body.

rafayel looks down and smiles weakly at you. he found it a little amusing how you had gotten so into this, but also very erotic how much you enjoyed seeing him in pleasure.

“mmm, your cock looks so delicious on screen, love. you can really see every vein on ‘ya.”

“really?” he murmurs with a lazy smile. “let me feed you then.”

you quirk an eyebrow and inch closer to rafayel. he moved his cock to the side so the camera could get a clear view of his face from a downward angle. he grinned down at the camera, at you, and then taps his cock on the lens, completely covering every photo and clip you took with his tip. you gasp softly and moan. you reminded yourself to reprimand him for dirtying your new camera later, but for now you enjoyed the sticky look on the screen.

“you’re filthy,” you grin.

“fuck yes, i am.”

rafayel steps back and gets down on his knees again. he leans forward and presses his cheek against the floor and then lifts his hips up in the air like a kitty in heat.

“get me in this angle too ~” he sings in-between his musical moans. you immediately stand and go around him to continue your paparazzi on his body. you noticed how his back arched so beautifully into the floor and how nice and plump his ass was while swaying in the air.

“you’re quite the slut, aren’t you? showing off your ass and cock to the camera like this.” you give his cheek a nice good slap causing rafayel to yelp out in pain. he reaches his free hand back and rubs his ass with care.

“h…hey no fair! i’m sensitive yknow!”

“oh i know,” you purr, “but i’ll spare you.”

you click the record button on the camera and zoom out to catch rafayel’s body amidst the messy room. he was still fondling his cock and squeezing the life out of it for the camera. the self stimulation partnered with your recordings and praise made him ache and coat the floor in even more arousal.

“you’re making a mess baby,” you remark with a grin. you zoom in on the on the clear puddle growing underneath rafayel and snicker. he was too far gone now to pay mind about how dirty was being.

“don’t care…” rafayel whimpers softly, “feels too good.”

you watch him lift his hips and curve his hand into circle as a way of creating a makeshift hole. he thrusts sloppily into his hand and groans, secretly imagining it was you who he was sinking deep into. his balls slapped against his hand with each thrust, creating loud clapping sounds that reverberated throughout the studio and was perfectly caught on video.

you kneel again so that you got the perfect angle of his bouncing cock and balls from behind. he stuffed the small opening of his fist again and again until an orgasm welled up within his navel. sensing the climax, you zoom the camera in to the tip of rafayel’s cock and watch as creamy spurts of cum squirt out of him.

“fuck fuck fuck, i’m cumming! i’m cumming, agh, fuck.” rafayel paints the floor underneath him in more of his liquids. white streaks run down the tiles and seep into a few cracks of the studio floorboards. his eyes wire shut but yours blow open at the erotic scene before you. your breathing hitches and small, gruff moans leave your lips as you hold back from pouncing on the vulnerable rafayel.

“oh, rafayel…” you whisper breathlessly. you stand and put the camera down to get a real look at him. he was on his back like a flopped fish, sweat and cum glistening on his rapidly rising and falling abdomen. he was a beauty even so overwhelmed and dazed. “…who told you to stop?”

rafayel’s eyes flutter open to meet your deceiving gentle ones. the small smile on your face, the warm look in your eye, the blush on your cheeks. he was getting that post-orgasm affection where all he wanted to do was hold you a—

“wait, huh?” rafayel’s thoughts were interrupted when he finally registered your words. you chuckle and lean over lower to stroke his flaccid cock. his body twitches harshly and his hands come down to yours to stop you.

“i asked, who told you to stop? i’m gonna need more from you, love.”

“r…right now?! i’m so tired c…can’t i have a break?!

“nope. i have meetings early in the morning with the association, meaning i’ll have to leave sooner or later. until then you’ll have to please me. you discarded this camera so you can’t blame me for using it when you won’t.”

rafayel whines loudly. he brings his forearm up to his eyes and covers them as he begins to stroke himself again. the sudden stimulation to his cock right after an orgasm makes his lithe form jolt and writhe around on the floor, but he presses on. you pull back in satisfaction and bring up the camera to your eyes to catch every moment of his second round.

“that’s a good boy, rafa. make yourself drip for me.”

“‘m trying!”

“trying what?”

rafayel whimpers. you see could how his lips quiver just like how his body did.

“t..trying to be a good boy for you…”

you smile triumphantly. your teasing words obviously had an effect on rafayel from the way his cock from hardened just your voice. more beads of pre-cum formed at his tip and made for nice lubrication for the rough fist fucking rafayel about to do. that was, until you stopped him.

“hold on now, i want to get get a good shot of the prize here,” you kneel in between rafayel’s legs right where his aching cock was and turn the camera to yourself.

“let’s take a good look of how beautiful our rafa is,” you say with a wide grin as if talking to an audience. you flip the camera back to rafayel’s cock and zoom in to better see all of the details of him.

“h…hey! this isn’t fair, you’re having too much fun!” rafayel exclaims after finally peeling his arm from his eyes and looking down at you.

“and you’re not? i know you’re enjoying this, love. the camera tells me everything.” before rafayel could continue to protest you begin your inspection with a trace of a finger down a subtle vein on his cock. your ghostly touch shuts him up immediately because he’d rather have you actually touching him and not have to beg. “the skin of rafayel’s cock is very soft,” you narrate to the camera, “and it’s also very warm, almost burning. is that right rafa? you feel hot down here?”

you tilt your head to the side to catch a glimpse of him but his forearm was back on his eyes to shield him from the overwhelming scene.

“don’t worry he’s just shy,” you continue. you bring your finger up the base of his cock and to his tip where you gently rub the pad of your finger on his small hole. “and here we have rafayel’s pretty pink cock head. it’s rather thick and has a nice, slippery texture to it. let’s give it a taste.”

you lean forward and wrap your lips around his tip and suck like a lollipop causing rafayel you cry out and rock his hips up. you still his forceful hips with your hand and quickly pop off his cock.

“i see someone is eager,” you giggle. “that was such a sweet taste, let’s see what else you have to offer.”

you move your attention and the camera down to his ballsack and cup them gently with your palm. “and these are rafa’s shiny pearls. they’re so heavy with semen, are all lumerians this potent?”

you rhetorical question is met with a small whine from rafayel. he really, really wants to move and feel more of your hands on him but he knows if he does, you’ll stop completely. his mind his foggy with feelings of lust and exhaustion. usually he has more stamina, but the energy used toward “fixing” his art block has sapped him completely before you ever could.

“b…baby, stop teasing me so m..much. i can’t take it anymore, n..need to cum…” rafayel mumbles out with a weak voice. “please, baby, please.”

“oh you’re begging to continue now? you were just protesting that you were too tired. which is it love?” he whines again and shakes his head violently.

“no! no! i…i want to! please?”

you chuckle underneath your breath and throw your hands up innocently. “you hear that guys?” you ask the camera. “our precious boy wants to make himself cum, how fun. let’s all make sure to pay attention to the show he has to offer.” you turn the camera back to rafayel and get up from where you were knelt between his legs. slowly, you back away until rafayel’s pliant body was fully in view. “cmon, show us what you got. you can’t shy away now.”

rafayel sits up with wide eyes that would almost look innocent if it wasn’t for his raging hard on and sticky body. he crawls to where you were in the room and sits on his calves right in front of the camera, acknowledging it fully for the first time. he no longer looks for you or at you for pleasure, but through the lens of the camera knowing you were behind it watching.

he wraps his fingers around his cock and gives a strong squeeze making him whimper softly. he doesn’t waste his time with teasing strokes and goes straight into rapids pumps that make an obscene noise throughout the room.

“wanna cum for you, wanna be so good for you,” rafayel drawls out between broken cries.

“yeah? wanna make a mess for me?” you mock.

“y..yeah, wanna give you my orgasm… ‘m so sensitive…”

overstimulation comes back to overwhelm rafayel’s body, causing a few stray tears and growing cries to escape rafayel. as much as he wanted to tilt his head back and screw his eyes shut, he forced himself to make direct eye contact with the camera for the sake of a show.

“tease your tip. i know how sensitive you are there.”

“o..okay..”

rafayel’s thumb flits over his cock head which sends out violent bouts of pleasure throughout his body. he cries your name out loudly through choked sobs and sniffles. not only was rafayel a natural model, but he was a natural pornstar too apparently.

“that’s it baby, you’re doing so well. gonna cum soon? you’re so overwhelmed ~”

“y..yes! gonna cum soon! j..just for you!” he wails while moving his other hand to pinch one of his nipples. if his senses weren’t overloaded before, they definitely were now. his breathing heavies loudly and before you could praise him again for being so gorgeous in this pornographic state, the first few ropes of cum spurt upwards from his cock.

“i’m cumming, i’m cumming, i’m cumming!”

the thick and potent semen from his cock comes out more violently than before. rafayel’s voice was lost to pleasure as his orgasm completely takes his ability to moan or cry. he instead sits there with his back arched and eyebrows knitted upwards in complete and utter pleasure. before the load was completely finished, he manages to find some strength within his body and arches back to point his cock at the camera.

from your end, you see sticky lines of thick cum drip down the lens and coat the outside of the camera, making for a grand finale to the video. needlessly to say you were incredibly horny and (more than) decently surprised at rafayel. you couldn’t even utter words so instead you decide to hit stop on the recording and put the camera down. couldn’t use it anyway with all that creamy nonsense on it.

rafayel’s eyes flit back into his head as his body gives out and falls back onto the floor. he whines and cries under his breath as the remnants of his high still tormented him within his shrinking cock. you take pity on your sweet boyfriend and his willingness to please you. now it was time for you to take care of him.

“you okay, my love?” you ask after kneeling down to the floor and cupping his face. he looked so dazed but managed to nod at you.

“‘m fine… been through worse… like waiting those eight hundred years for you…”

“what?”

“what?”

you laugh softly and quirk an eyebrow at his antics.

“i think all that pleasure has gotten to your head. are you sure you’re okay though? i can run you a bath and take care of those muscles before i leave for the night.”

rafayel frowns a bit, he forgot you had to leave. too tired to complain about it, he accepts it for once and turns his frown into a gentle smile. his eyes open to full attention and focus on you from the floor. there was that affectionate again. it was seeping into his heart and making him want to pull you into a day’s long cuddle.

you notice how endearing rafayel looked like this— dazed in pleasure and vulnerable in front of you—and you have just one more urge to fulfill. you reach over to the the yet again, discarded camera and try to wipe some of the still dripping cum from its lens. you stand directly over rafayel’s body with it and giggle softly as you put it up to your eye. the lens was foggy from remanent stickiness, but you thought it added more story to the gallery of photos behind it.

“smile for the camera, love!”

⭐︎

yet another few days pass since you last saw rafayel. you replayed many moments of your erotic night together from memory because you left the camera with rafayel. it was still his gift, after all. but today was the day you agreed to see him again because you has another bag of apology cookies up your sleeve and a promise to not be busy anytime soon.

you unlock the house door, stroll through his common rooms, and head to the back where his studio was. still in here, you presume.

you open the door and look around to see rafayel standing in front of an oversized canvas. deja vu.

except, at a closer look, you see that the canvas had actual color on it as opposed to the blank white that had been there last time. you place the bag down on a table and walk up to rafayel. he doesn’t seem notice you until you were right up next to him, and when he does, he jumps into your arms.

“cutie! you’re finally here! i’ve missed you so much! you can’t keep disappearing and trying to buy me off with food, yknow? anyway, i need to thank you. look at this!” he gestures to the large canvas covered in blue, pink, and purple, delicately painted so that the darkest values outlines a male form drowning within the mixture of colors. a large smile grows on your lips that matches the same gleeful one on rafayel’s face.

“i can paint! i can paint again! thank you!” he cheers before going back in for another strong embrace. you squeal in surprise but giggle right alongside him.

“yes! you can paint! why are you thanking me, though?”

“for the camera!”

“the camera? it actually helped?” you ask in disbelief while pulling back from the hug.

“yes! i looked through all of the photos and videos you took the few days ago and it inspired me to paint what i was feeling. the documentation of everything really helped me relive that moment and put it into paints.”

your mouth goes a little bit agape but internally you couldn’t feel any happier for rafayel. the excitement on his face was worth every penny you paid for the camera (even if he did pay you back). you look back at the canvas and smile fondly at the distant form resembling rafayel.

5. make homemade porn with rafayel. it helps him channel his pleasure and depict it beautifully onto a canvas.

a/n: the entire time i was writing this it went:

“we’re so back guys 📈…. it’s so over man 📉”

[writingjourney]

For Reasons Wretched & Divine

In a desperate attempt to seek out the third Papa’s counsel on an intimate matter a Sister of Sin slips into the confessional one night – only to be met by the voice of Papa Emeritus II instead. Or: Secondo teaches his favourite Sister how to pleasure the man she is infatuated with – unaware that he is exactly who she wants.

content: 19.6k words, pov third person, sexual inexperience, finger sucking, dry humping, gloves & hands, oral sex (both receiving), mild spit kink, choking/sensitive gag reflex, emotional hurt/comfort, praise, sex toys, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamic, soft dom!secondo, p in v, confessions

➽ This is by far the most self-indulgent story I have ever written, also the first one that I ever drew my own banner for. For easier reading I recommend using Ao3 where I split it into three parts of equal length! enjoy ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+ only

Prelude

He leafs through the list she left on his desk, wets his thumb as he makes his way over to where he hears her getting ready, a small office space he had arranged specifically for her in his basement area. A click as she closes her black leather briefcase and he leans against the doorframe, watching as she slings it over her shoulder, caving in under the heavy weight before she adjusts the painful strap.

“Are you carrying around stones, hm?” he asks.

She turns, mouth parting, her features tensing for a fraction of a second as they always do when he comes close. A static feeling, the room charged with unspoken tension. But then her eyes flicker to his bare forearms, to the open collar of his shirt, the evidence that it is not discomfort that has her body reacting like that. Amused, he focuses back on the list at hand.

“I checked out some books from the library earlier,” she says by way of explanation.

“Are you done for the day, then, sorella?”

“I’m done unless you need me, Papa. I have finished my work.”

“I always have need of you, cara, you are the only one I trust with this task.” He glances up again over the rim of his reading glasses, a mild smile tugging at his lips. “But you have earned your free evening.”

“Perhaps Sister can give me a few more hours down here,” she suggests and the thought alone seems to bring more colour to her face, her fingers shaking as they fiddle with her bag. “I would love to, anyway.”

“Would you, hm?” He cocks his head. “I admit that is not something I am used to hearing.”

No, many Siblings don’t get along with his temperament, the fact that he is rather particular about how he expects things to be done, giving up fast instead of rising to the challenge. Not her, though, no, determined as she is, eager to learn from him, eager to please. For months she’s been down here now, two days a week, cataloguing his vast collection of art, books, and relics, many long afternoons spent in idle conversation as they take notes, more at his probing than hers, though she has a habit of getting him to talk more freely than he is used to.

They are entirely too familiar with each other. He knows the names of her parents, where she grew up, how she takes her coffee and the brand of her perfume, what take out food she likes to order, the books she’s been reading. It would be easy enough to carry their conversations outside of this place, to deepen that bond over a nicely cooked meal. And yet something is holding her back, a flicker of hesitation he can see whenever he tries to go further, when his touches aren’t quite as accidental, when his flirting becomes a little more daring. Or perhaps it is fear, the heat of shame that she is attracted to him of all people. It fascinates him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Papa,” she says, the heavy bag propped against her hip.

Before she can walk by his arm reaches to block her path, a teasing smile on his lips, one he can’t resist. “Sorella, you are forgetting.”

Heat springs to her face, he thinks he can feel it when she leans in to press her soft cheek to his, a practiced ritual. He gives a quick peck but it comes with that Italian intensity, a kiss that lingers long after, the scratching of his cheek, the wet mark of eager lips, and he hopes she can feel it as he does. Her gaze darkens and for a second he expects her to drop to her knees in front of him, confess every single dirty thought she ever had. He would indulge her, naturally. Give her even more ideas.

“Good night,” she whispers, voice nothing more than an exhale.

He nods, satisfied enough with her reaction, his arm falling back down to let her pass. It takes her a moment to notice, before she can break away from his gaze, and his amused chuckle follows her out of the basement. A puzzle he will solve – in due time, and sooner than he expects.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

I – Confession Pt. 1

The only sound in the chapel is the slow rustle of his book as he turns the page.

A slow, solitary night. His official duties have been scarce since entering retirement – though, this is a word he would not use for himself. Retiring, the implication that he can now rest, that his life’s work is over and he gets to be idle. It is not something he wants and though he enjoys the added freedoms he hasn’t been making much use of them. Reduced to confession duty, taking over shifts for his busy younger brother, filling the vacant spots for weekday masses where only few Siblings attend, the view from the pulpit barely reminding him of who he once was. Papa, entertainer, showman, womaniser. Now, it suits him best when he is holed up in his basement all day, restoring flaky artworks, rebinding old tomes he’s been collecting over the years, old school heavy metal blasting from his speakers to drown out any thoughts that could slip into his head. Old school, yes, that is what he is as well now. Rocked down, used, waiting to be discarded.

Confession duty makes him feel useful, at least. It is an irregular night, Terzo nursing an ailment of his vocal chords, urged not to speak unless absolutely necessary. Secondo does not mind taking over. His nights have been quieter, the company he used to keep reduced to the fulfilment of basic needs, the odd overnight stay, a dinner in town here and there. Being stripped of the Papal title came with the added sting of losing the appeal to many. No more grandiose performances.

Purpose, company. It is what he is missing.

He tries not to be offended by how many Siblings show up expecting Terzo and being not quite as enthusiastic once they realise he’s not there. Secondo has his own regulars during the nights he’s on duty, it is the way of things. Discussing such private matters, it requires trust. As the night progresses, however, his breaks stretch out longer. He gets his reading done, a worn copy of The Divine Comedy, read many times over.

When he hears footsteps he pauses, listens whether they carry over or if someone came for a late night prayer. Secondo softly closes his book, pockets it in his black cassock. They approach, sit down behind the lattice on that slippery, worn-down wooden plank, and he readies himself for the well-practiced speech of encouragement he is so used to delivering at any such occasion that a Sibling seeks him out. It is late, his duties almost over, and it is not a rare thing for someone to purposely arrive at this hour, usually when the matter they seek to discuss is of an especially delicate nature. Before he can speak, however, the Sister on the other of the lattice already falls into her confession.

“Forgive me Papa, I know the hour is late and you have lent your ear to many Siblings already but I must–” A deep breath and he sits up straighter as he realises who is talking on the other side. “I must confess that your kind words a few days ago have encouraged me to ask for your counsel in a matter that has been giving me many sleepless nights as of late.”

With no small amount of confusion he realises that she too must mean his brother. He is unaware of such an incident as the one she is describing and last he saw her – this very evening when she left her office with that heavy bag slung over her shoulder – she did not give a hint at being weighed down by something else.

Before he can make himself known, she is already continuing, the words flowing out of her so fast that he can sense the nervousness in her speech. “Perhaps I should start by telling you that I know, as you said, that there is no shame in inexperience and I am aware I am far from the only one who might be insecure about these things. However, the fact of the matter is… there is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise.” Another deep breath. “He doesn’t know about any of this and he might not even feel the same way about me but still I fear that he might be sorely disappointed if he… if he ever did decide to be intimate with me and found out how very… lacking I am. And I am not talking about sex, per se, the issue is rather… The issue is rather that I have never performed a specific act during my past encounters and I know that I will struggle with it.”

“And what act would that be?” he asks, without thinking.

She audibly startles, though she is trying to hide her gasp. For a second she says nothing, then she stammers out, “Oh, this is– Papa– I don’t–”

“Mi dispiace, sorella, you may have expected my brother to be here tonight. I can assure you, however, that you can confide in me just the same.”

Hurried breathing, he fights off an amused smile at her reaction. “But– because we work together–”

“I assure you of my discretion,” he replies. “I have done this for many decades, sorella. None of what we speak about in here will leave the confines of the confessional.”

She takes a moment to consider, perhaps feeling trapped now which is not his intent. He gives her time, the quiet settling once again. After spending so much time together he can’t shake the hint of disappointment that she’d go to his brother of all people, that she still seems too wary to confide in him.

“It’s just–” She takes a deep breath and he fights the urge to take a look at her through the lattice. “Will you be disappointed in me that I feel ashamed of my own inexperience?”

Ah. Is that what kept her from confiding in him? The fear that his good opinion of her might change? “I will never be disappointed by something like this, sorella,” he assures her. “I am only disappointed that you still distrust me so.”

“I trust you,” she stresses. “I do trust you. I think you’re the person who knows me best in this ministry but I do not want things to change between us. You’re… you’re the closest I have to a real friend.”

He cocks his head, surprised by this admission. “I promise you this will not change. I am here, cara. Take your time.”

For a second, she does not speak, shifts around on the bench. He hears her take a few shaky breaths and while this is not out of the ordinary it is unusual for her. Secondo did not take her reluctance for insecurity before tonight, confident as she is in her work, in dealing so well with him of all people. It is endearing to him, makes his heart ache inside his hollow chest in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

“I have been with people,” she says, then, “but it wasn’t… it wasn’t ever anything special. Some… some fumbling, kisses that escalated and ultimately just a sort of disappointingly quick conclusion. I’ve not been very adventurous, it is hard for me to trust people so intimately with my body.”

“And there is nothing wrong with that,” he assures her, glued to her every word.

“Thank you for saying that.” Another pause. “It is just, now that… there is this man, I realised that I am lacking the skills that… that he might be used to. He is experienced and he knows what he wants which is something I find very attractive. And yes, this should not change his feelings for me, if he has any feelings for me, but if he does not want to take things beyond a physical nature then this might put a quick end to whatever is between us. Before I have a chance to convince him.”

“I see.” Secondo tries not to be vexed by this, the idea of helping her to please another man. “Sorella, dolce ragazza, will you tell me what it is that you are so intimidated by? Is it an usual thing this man wants from you?”

“No, that’s the thing, Papa. It is not unusual at all, it is… Satan, this is pitiful.” She groans into her hands, a pained, muffled sound. “It’s the fact that I have never pleased a man with… with my mouth.”

“Ah.”

“I know this is… it is such a basic thing,” she rambles on. “I am embarrassed, I should not be so worried about it but it’s that I… I am sort of sensitive if you understand what I mean and I’m afraid if I tried… it’d just end in a pathetic performance and he’d decide that he can do better.”

He can feel the blood draining from his face, pooling lower into his body. Only briefly is he irritated by this, being aroused by the mere fraction of the idea of feeling her gagging on his cock. But he can’t indulge this now, not when she is this upset about it. “Sorella, I do not have to tell you that he is not worth your time if this is his reaction.”

“I know and he might not– this might not happen. But with this fear, I’m sure my nerves will make it even worse. I just don’t want to get hurt.”

Secondo takes a deep breath and shifts to sit more upright, leaning towards the lattice now. “As I see it, there are two ways to soothe your worries, sorella. You must confess to him when the time arrives and you wish to please him – and you must tell him truthfully. If he is a man deserving of you he will neither laugh nor judge but guide you with patience. But you must want it, sorella. Remember that every act of sin in Lucifer’s name is one of great enthusiasm, not one of pressure or a sense of duty. If you never wish to perform this act for discomfort or any other reason then he must be understanding of this as well and respect your wishes.”

“But what if he isn’t, Papa? What if he doesn’t want to be with me when he finds out?”

“Then he is not a man that should ever be allowed to touch another person, let alone you. If this should happen, sorella, or if he forces you to do things you do not want, then you will come to me, yes? Promise me.”

She seems taken aback by his vehemence, quiet for a while, but then he sees the shadow of her nodding her head. “I promise.” He hears a sniffle, one that tears right through him. He hasn’t noticed her crying. “But… but what is the other way, Papa?”

Closing his eyes, he fights off the urge to step out of this booth and comfort her. He has ulterior motives, of course, biting at him like tiny parasites, not necessarily a bad conscience, he does mean to help her, but the urges underneath are anything but good.

“If you truly wish to learn, then they key is practice – with your hands, with a safe tool or perhaps… an experienced guide.”

He waits for her reaction now, hoping he did not overstep, that he has been reading her right and despite her feelings for another man she still harbours this attraction to him that he’s sensed when they work. He should not be toying with her in such a vulnerable moment, no, but if it would help guide her into the arms of someone he knows will keep her safe?

“A guide?” she asks.

He fights off a satisfied smile, curious as ever. “Someone you trust, sorella. Someone with experience and patience to show you how it is done.”

“I could not ask anyone of such a thing, Papa. They’d think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Would they?” he replies, then, unable to hold it back, “Who would you ask, sorella? My brother?”

“No!” Her voice rises. “It’s not like that, Papa. I did not– I just wanted reassurance from him, not to– I don’t think about him like that. And I don’t imagine anyone would voluntarily offer to be subjected to shitty blowjobs for a few weeks, least of all Papa.”

“Sorella, you trust me?”

This time, she does not hesitate. “I do, Papa.”

“Then will you come over?”

“Come ov– right now?”

“Yes.”

He hears the wood creaking when she gets up, the soft opening and closing of the door to her booth. In front of his door she hesitates and he almost thinks this is the moment she’ll run away but then, with a visibly shaking hand, she opens. Moonlight streams in, illuminating her face that is still streaked with silent tears. He holds out a hand, and although it is a tight space she fits perfectly into his lap when he drags her there. If she notices that he’s already half-hard she does not comment, secured with a hand around his shoulder.

“Sorella,” he whispers, wiping at her cheeks. “It pains me to see you like this. You should have come to me a long time ago.”

“I know, Papa.”

“Will you let me help you now?”

She glances away, tensing. “I– Would you truly want to?”

“Yes.”

“And not out of pity?”

“No pity, cara.”

She eases in his grasp, allows him to cradle her face in his warm leather gloves. He knows they feel good on the skin, smell of the woodsy oil he uses to keep them soft. It tugs at him, that she is so distressed because of a man who is most likely not even worthy of her. No one is, though, that he knows. And he’d keep her alone if he could, their days spent down in the basement, sorting through his collection between bouts of frantic sex and good food. He’d show her everything, patiently, make her feel so good she’d never think about another man’s cock ever again.

“I’m scared to disappoint,” she admits, then, unusually small.

“I know,” he says. “You want to be good at everything you do, hm? I have noticed this with your work. But we cannot be good at everything right away. I was not, I assure you.”

“You’ve done it before?”

He nods, thumbs stroking over her soft cheeks. “I have done many things, some of which I was good at some of which were just not as good as in my head, hm? It does not matter if you are the best at it, ragazza mia, it matters that you enjoy it just as much as the man who receives it. Or at the very least that you do not mind doing it for someone you like.”

She smiles and he can see her finding back to herself, her gaze stronger, her hands on him firmer, assuring him that she does want to be here, do this with him. Shifting his weight a little he leans back so that she can rest more comfortably in his lap, leaning against the wooden side of the booth. His fingers stroke along her  jaw now, one hand moving to her hip while the other traces the curve below her ear, then forward to her chin, over to the other side. He does it until she’s relaxed, used to his touch.

Then he toys with her mouth. She tenses only shortly, allows him to part her lips, completely enraptured by his ministrations. It’s how he’s seen her look at him during mass, one of the few Siblings who never misses any of those he leads. A smile spreads on his lips, pride that she does indeed trust him, perhaps even longs for him, the intimacy he offers, his company. Slow movements, a finger tracing her bottom lip, feeling her teeth against the tip of it.

More daring, he pushes his thumb inside, makes her spread her mouth open wider. She shivers but allows it, her eyes never leaving his. The muscles in her jaw are tense. After a moment he removes his hand, tugs at his glove until it comes off. Perhaps tasting skin will make it more familiar and he has to admit that the thought of feeling her warm mouth on his finger makes his own heart speed up, that heat in his lower belly now simmering on a steady flame.

“Is this good?” he asks.

She nods.

“Words, my dove, I need to hear it.”

“It’s okay, Papa.”

“Brava.”

He begins by tracing her lips again. This time, he inserts his index finger, longer, pushing further inside. When he sees that she tolerates it he adds his middle finger, a little deeper once again. He does not let it deter him when she gags right away, just retreats a little before going back to where she was comfortable. His fingers are big, he is aware of it, and she has never taken anyone into her mouth, something that thrills him more than he wants to admit to her face. If it takes him a long time to get her to take all of him then it only means that whatever man she was talking about will slip further and further from her mind.

“Not everyone is comfortable taking things in their mouth,” he explains. “It is only natural for the body to fight off the intrusion when unused to it, hm? It is for survival, sorella, it wants to protect you and you cannot blame it for that. But if you wish it so then we can practice and it will be easier with time. Do you want that?”

She nods, mumbling an affirmative around his digits. He smiles, lifts his other hand to pet her jaw encouragingly. Once again he presses down a little harder, goes a little deeper, and this time she is prepared.

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “Relax your muscles, it makes it easier.”

She tries, he sees it, feels her breath against his knuckles. But it only lasts for a short time before she gags again, sensitive just like she’d said, perhaps even more so than he’s expected. But it is good, he thinks, this is perfect. He can show her, the ideal excuse to be close to her like this.

“Shhh,” he coos when she struggles to breathe, removing his fingers to the tips of her lips. “We will get you there, my dove. Do not worry any longer, your Papa will help you. You only have to trust me and you do, do you not?”

Another nod. At his raised brow she speaks, “I trust you, Papa. More than anyone.”

“Good. We will not go any further now. I want you to think about it, sorella, make sure this is what you want, yes? The next time I see you we will try again and perhaps we will try more if you are ready. We can go as slow as you need, but now you need some rest. I do not want to hear about sleepless nights again, at least not if I am not the cause of it.”

She nods, smiles at his jest and shifts in his lap, the arousal sitting uncomfortable between her legs. He knows he mirrors this discomfort, unable to keep his hips completely still. It is not for tonight, however, too much for her to work through already. But she looks grateful, he thinks, her eyes stay dry and the relief is palpable as her body finally relaxes.

This time, she does not forget. “Goodnight, Papa,” she whispers and leans in, pressing her face to his to exchange those wet cheek kisses. He holds still, waits for her to kiss his first, loudly, before he reciprocates. When she breaks away a hint of mischief is laced into her smile. “And thank you.”

His hands tighten on her hips for a second, keeping her there in his lap and holding her gaze with all that he wants to promise. Satisfied that she returns it without as much as a flinch he releases her and she slides off his lap, leaving the booth without another sound.

“Goodnight, indeed,” he whispers, adjusting the bulge in his pants underneath his cassock. When he picks up his book the words swim on the page. He still has another hour.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

II – Lesson Plans

It won’t let go of him.

When he tries to sleep, when he prepares his breakfast, when he sits through a three hour clergy meeting, when he writes Friday’s sermon. His fingers in her mouth, his cock already hard at the mere feeling of her tongue on his skin, that shaky admission of fear and the trust that followed, a festering shame in her eyes that he desperately wants to free her from. Perhaps it is presumptuous, that he thinks it should be him who helps her.

Not that he lacks conviction.

Secondo knows he can show her how to embrace the exploration of her needs better than anyone, the novelty of giving pleasure, a new world he can open up for her. Yes, he can do right by her, encouragement and patience and his guiding hand, protect her from the pain of a lesser man. That she would have him baptise her, it is a gift, or he considers it as such. A thing of beauty, that Lucifer brought her into his care.

His thoughts have been straying to her before that night, that nagging curiosity of why she’s holding back from him, the tingle of lust that has become rarer with age but that she stokes so easily with her presence. Secondo is not in the habit of overthinking, no. Instead he’s pushing uncomfortable thoughts as far away as possible, stuffed into that dark ugly corner in his mind that he has decided to black out, lest they get a chance to hurt him. This is an entirely different matter, an added layer he did not consider before, one that is harder to push away.

There is someone she likes. Someone whose cock she’s been thinking about having in her mouth.

That someone might or might not be him.

Ink drops splatter out of his fountain pen as he realises he subconsciously increased the pressure. He’s beyond cursing, sits back in his office chair instead, identifying his jealousy for what it is. It does not bode well for him, a risk he’d avert if it were anyone else, entanglement, serious feelings. Would she have gone to Terzo of all people to talk about her attraction to him? Terzo would not have known, of course, unless she’d told him, but he is too perceptive for his own good, probably knows she’s been spending hours down here. He can see his brother laughing, telling her to stay as far away from his stronzo brother as possible, semi-serious, perhaps, but Terzo has a way of caring too deeply about his flock and he knows Secondo is not in the habit of reciprocating crushes, rare as they are these days.

Almost a week passes before he sees her again. He makes a note in his calendar to ask Sister to send her here more often, already dreading that conversation. It’s quickly forgotten when he hears her coming down the stairs. She greets him the same way they say goodbye, a kiss to the cheek, a routine he established in one of his slow attempts to take things further. He notes that she is inching a little closer to his mouth, the imprint of her lips lingering in the lines of his jaw.

At first, he does not say anything. They get to work, she catalogues, he wastes some time sorting through a few boxes of books he had recently delivered from Florence where he was a resident Cardinal a few years before his Papacy. Even so, he can’t help but observe her, the diligence, the care with which she treats his belongings, no matter how sturdy or delicate. More importantly, she does not once look at her phone all day. Whoever this other man is can’t be that important.

You’re the closest I have to a real friend, she said in the confessional and he wonders if it is what drives her down here and, in the same breath, whether it is what he feels underneath as well, why he keeps her here, that need for company. Perhaps age has softened him, so much so that he suddenly thinks about a permanent companion for the decade or two that the world has left for him. He doesn’t want to be her friend, no. But is it not how many people start out? Trust, company, friendship, then more. If he can eliminate whoever else is in the equation–

“Papa, I–” She stops when he jumps, cutting his thumb on the cardboard box. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, please go on, sorella.”

Her face is tense, as if he’d startled her instead. She stops wringing her hands, steels her gaze, and he ignores that throbbing in his finger. “I was wondering when we would start our… training.”

It’s late into the afternoon, not that the artificial light in the basement would give any indication. He was waiting for her to be done, call her into his office, see how she’d feel about getting on her knees for him today, but he is too pleased with this progression, her seeking him out. “I take it you have thought about my offer and decided to accept?”

“I have,” she says, not quite so insecure anymore. “And I want to. I am eager to learn and I trust you to teach me.”

“Good,” he says, the books in the boxes long forgotten. At times, she is an enigma to him. It is hard to console the crying sister in the confessional with the woman stood before him, the woman who tolerates his moods, his outward aloofness, tugs at those strings deep inside of him that he doesn’t let anyone else touch. He feels like she is playing him as much as he’s trying to play her and it’s that thrill that makes him reckless with his feelings.

In the end, he leads her to that battered old leather sofa he’s more or less discarded in the back corner, once stood in his own quarters, now exchanged for a firmer model to help with his back pains. It does the job, envelops him when he sits down, comfortable, as relaxed as he’ll ever be at the prospect of a beautiful Sister using her mouth on him. He doesn’t bother with the paint outside of mass anymore and he’s omitted the cassock as well, like most days down here. Just in his slacks and a black button-down he knows he makes quite a compelling sight, even at his age, and she does eye him a little longer than appropriate.

“Right here?” she asks, though it does not really matter. Hardly anyone strays down here, into his domain, and he’s never been one to hide away. She knows this, and when he nods she doesn’t fight him.

“Come here,” he orders, much to her confusion. “Into my lap,” he clarifies.

“But–”

“Sorella, you are beautiful and I am eager to see you on your knees but not even I am ready on command.”

He didn’t mean it as a joke but she laughs, genuinely, and he is way too pleased with himself. Still, her body is rigid when she places her thighs on either side of him, hesitant to fully rest her weight. Secondo is not. His hands settle on her hips and he drags her over his crotch, bunching her habit up enough to feel bare skin and her panties barely hiding the outline of her cunt.

No, this was not part of the deal, not really. He doesn’t care.

“Sorella, tell me again that this is what you want.”

“I do– I,” her voice gives way to a moan, his cock twitching unasked against her core. “Papa–”

“It is not just your mouth that is sensitive, hm?”

His teasing brings heat to her cheeks, suddenly bashful again, and he feels it when he runs his thumb over her skin, making sure to lift her jaw, have her look at him when she feels his size for the first time. She’s pretty like that, aching, overwhelmed by the barest of touches.

“Tell me,” he repeats.

“I want this,” she says.

It’s good enough for him and he has her grinding a few more times, just for his own enjoyment, to see her fight against the need to have him inside of her. Which is not why they are here, no, but he wouldn’t mind getting her to think about it, to yearn for it every time they see each other.

“Now get on your knees for me,” he whispers, eyes still on her, and there is not a hint of defiance in those pupils. She does exactly as he says, slides off his lap and gets between his now spread thighs. He hands her a pillow and she pushes it under her knees, hands carefully grasping at his pants, hesitant but not uncomfortable. The sight overwhelms him. If he hadn’t been hard from her grinding alone he surely would be now.

“I don’t know–” she starts but trails off when he guides her hands to his belt. The front of his pants is already damp but not from him, no. She looks ashamed when she notices and, displeased, he presses her hand to the wet patch.

“I do not want to see this expression, sorella,” he says. “In here, there is no shame, do you understand?” She nods and he reaches for her jaw, lifting her gaze. “Words, my dove.”

“No shame,” she echos. “I understand.”

“Brava ragazza. Now open.”

Her fingers shake but she’s deft enough to be done within seconds, flinching when her hands meet the velvety skin of his dick. With a slight wriggle of his hips he’s slid his pants down far enough for more comfort and she looks up at him, wide-eyed.

He has to fight the urge to laugh. “You will not be taking it all,” he says. “Only as much as you can.”

His words do not seem to calm her, though her eyes linger and he wonders how long it’s been since those disappointing encounters she’s been speaking of. He’s prepared to form more words of reassurance, however many it takes, but then she gets over her fear and cradles him in her hand, curling her fingers around him with some fascination. For some reason, it is not what he expected, that softness, the affection in her touch. His arousal pearls from his slit and she thumbs at him, still gentle, and he tries not to bite his fist. It’s not enough, though.

“Use your spit,” he says, mesmerised by the sight of her.

She looks up, a line of worry deep in her forehead. Secondo takes her hand and, meeting her eyes, lifts it up to his mouth. His tongue works against his cheek until he’s ready to spit into her palm, just enough to help her out. A whimper and her hips shift uncomfortably, another thing he saves for later. But he can’t think about how wet she must be by now if he wants to last for more than a minute.

When her hand next wraps around his length it perfectly slides over his skin. She is not bad at this, he notes, a good soft pressure that firms when she twists towards his tip. Her eyes shift between his cock and his face, taking in every little change in his expression, attentive, already working her mind to learn and improve, not from books or his words this time, and he feels oddly exposed, the mirror suddenly held back at him.

“You are doing well,” he says. “Can you take the tip, cara? Keep your hands on the rest.”

She does, closing both of her hands around him. Then her lips wrap around his tip for the first time and he thinks perhaps he’s the one who will embarrass himself today. His hips buck and he tries to hide it by reaching for her head, fiddling with her hair to keep it out of her face. She looks up at him, mildly confused, but she keeps going without question, rotating her hands and licking at his slit, pillowy lips covering her teeth which tells him she knows the basics. It is a kiss, nothing more, and yet the pleasure in his core is undeniable.

“Very good,” he praises, revelling in the way every little compliment has her eyes sparkling, her confidence growing. “It is good, my dove, you are doing well. A little more, hm?”

She takes him so deep that he can feel his cock resting in the centre of her tongue, right where it flexes on the underside of him, his tip at the hollow of her hard palate. It will be enough for today, he thinks, for him and for her. Her gaze alone could be enough, those insecure, hopeful eyes, wide as they gaze up at him. He pets her head, strokes through the silk of her hair, allowing her to go as slow as she wants. It occurs to him, then, that he does not want this to end, that he’s perfectly content just taking her in for a while.

“Your mouth is perfect,” he whispers. “Have you been thinking about this, hm? Having a cock on your tongue?”

She nods, moving her mouth over his tip, deliciously slow, and when she pulls his foreskin back a little he’s starting to see stars.

“My cock?” he can’t help but ask and once again she nods. He fights back a growl, feels that tightness in his abdomen, all the way down to his balls. He can’t be close already, not from this, and yet– “Come up here.”

She jumps, lets go with a pop. He doesn’t care, pulls her back up into his lap and forward, her panties soaked, dripping onto his cock when he places her just so. With a startled whimper she holds onto his shoulders but he’s already dragging her across his lap, back and forth, until finally she begins grinding on her own again, only that flimsy damp layer between them. Within moments he empties himself into the mess between them and at first she doesn’t notice, not until she’s clenching and shaking and he carefully stops her, begins to ache from the friction.

They breathe for a while, that ebb and flow of pleasure slowly fading, electric pulses between their bodies. Secondo lifts her head from his shoulder to see her and she’s practically glowing, a sight that calms him, satisfied that he managed to pull her there with him.

“When will we do this again?” she asks, breathless, frowning when he laughs at her eagerness.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “and every night when we are here, if you want it.”

She nods, that excited clench of her jaw. He reaches out, wipes a sheen of sweat from her brow. This is the sight, he thinks, the sight he could get used to for years to come. But he is getting ahead of himself, not thinking with the right organ.

“Your homework is to practice by yourself whenever we do not see each other,” he says. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.”

He bends them both forward, working his pants closed with a full view of her ruined panties. She leans in, damp cheek to damp cheek, pressing a kiss to his skin that is so soft he has to stop himself from keeping her down here until she can’t walk anymore. He can hardly reciprocate, trying to reign himself in, waits until she’s slipped from his lap before he allows himself to move again.  He doesn’t remember the last time his body has betrayed him like that. Nor does he understand why he is not mad about it.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

III – Dried Tears

He adjusts his schedule. Over the next week Secondo’s days revolve around finding ways to see her. Twice a week is insufficient, though he still only lets her touch him in the basement, makes sure not to go much further than that first time. Security, a safe routine. He won’t let her make him come with her mouth, not quite yet. Everything else is for him, observing her during mass, finding her in the gardens where she helps out two days a week, not exactly following her around but letting his curiosity get the better of him.

There is no other man.

He is sure of it now, or as sure as he can be. She never visits anyone else, sees a handful of friends, all of which decidedly aren’t men, not to his knowledge, and that’s the word she used. There is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise. If there is a man like that who is not Secondo then he is not here in the abbey.

After two weeks of this sluggish routine he’s had enough. He’s toyed with the idea, surprising her in her quarters on a night she’s not with him, to see what she would do, but it takes him a week to finally follow through. He knows where they are, naturally, though he never usually steps foot inside the dorms. It is an exception, he tells himself, freshly showered, neatly shaved, an extra spritz of cologne, he even used that damned moisturiser Terzo keeps pushing into his hands, made sure his cheeks aren’t dry when she kisses them.

She opens and he thinks she’ll slam the door back into his face. He’s assertive, doesn’t let her surprise affect him, though for a moment he wonders if he did overstep, the other man suddenly not so fake anymore, that short flash of fear that he’s with her right now. But no, she recovers and lets him in, and he surveys her small bedroom with a quick glance when he leans in to press that much desired kiss to her cheek. Empty, no signs of a male presence, and she still smells like shower gel and shampoo, wearing sweats under a plain white shirt, no bra.

“I didn’t expect you, Papa,” she says, picking up items from the countertops of her kitchenette, “or I would have prepared something. A drink or–”

“No need,” he interrupts, noting that she is nervous for nothing. Her small accommodation is tidy enough, that same order she so easily brings into his collection, a logic that somehow works for them both, and he thinks it suits her, a comfortable bed with a plethora of differently textured pillows, a bookshelf that despite some overflow is neatly sorted. “It is best if we are sober. For now, at least. I am not intruding?”

“No, not at all. I was about to settle in for the evening, nothing special.” She eyes him and he knows he must look out of place in his usual black slacks and button-down, the black leather gloves, an overdressed man in her safe, comfortable space like an alien presence. “Would you like anything else? A glass of water?”

He nods, though all he wants is to stall, take a better look at her environments. A small television with a handful of old DVDs, a table she seems to use both as a desk and to eat at. The closed door to her small bathroom, a wardrobe. Then, a stack of library books on her nightstand. He remembers her shouldering that heavy briefcase a few weeks ago. The secrets to pleasure. Sexual practices and their history. The art of oral. Yes, she is eager to learn, no half-hearted efforts.

“Have you been practicing, my dove?” he asks with a smug grin, tracing the image of a man and woman nakedly intertwined on the cover of one of the books.

When she joins him she’s back to her bashful self, as though she hasn’t had his cock in her mouth multiple times by now. “I have tried.”

“That is all I ask,” he reassures. “How have you been doing it? With your fingers?”

She hands him the glass and he takes a performative sip, then sets it down, thinks that she might need it later. Her crouching down in front of her nightstand is more interesting, the drawer she opens revealing a handful of toys. Nothing he hasn’t seen before – two different size dildos, a suction vibrator, a bottle of lube, a disinfectant – but he is pleased to see that she is taking her pleasure seriously.

When she takes out a simple black silicone dildo, ergonomically shaped, he notes that it is not quite as big as his cock. “I used this.”

“Show me.”

Her eyes widen. “Papa–”

Secondo ignores it, sits down on her bed, perhaps a little impolitely leaning back, making himself comfortable amongst her pillows, shoes still on the floor. She stands there, stares at him, and her expression alone is enough to have him raise his brows, begging her to disobey. She won’t, he knows she won’t, she is so eager to please. And she doesn’t, kneels down, placing the dildo upright on the mattress, both hands around the silicone. He has to fight off an amused smile, the way she sits there, like a little girl praying to her Lord before bedtime.

When her lips finally wrap around the toy she averts her gaze, as if to get it over with. But his goal is not to humiliate her, though she might feel differently about it. He wants to reassure her once again that she does not need to be ashamed in front of him, that her trust is not misplaced.

“Look at me, cara,” he orders. “I want to see your eyes.”

She blinks, slowly bobbing her head, leaving a glistening trail on the black silicone. He doesn’t bother to observe her technique, it’s not about that. When their eyes meet he reaches for her hair, angles her head to make sure she sees him palming at his cock through his pants. He pretends not to see her hard swallow at the visible bulge already there, the way her hips move in aroused discomfort.

“You are doing well,“ he says. “I am very pleased with you. But you can take more, hm?”

She always soaks up his praise, his soft reassurances, like a flower raising her head towards the sun, unfolding in its light. It is rare, for someone to react this strongly to so little, almost innocently, though he knows she is not truly a clueless little lamb, that she is aware of their game and participates with purpose. It is enjoyable, for once doesn’t feel like he is taking on a role, no, she willingly submits to him the moment their interaction becomes sexually charged, as though it’s the nature of things. Otherwise, their relationship hasn’t changed, not when they work, not when he sees her around the abbey. He is glad of it, that she treats him like she did before.

She takes the dildo deeper into her mouth, then, cautiously, and he opens his belt, the button of his slacks, unzips them. Her eyes never leave his hand where it’s fisting his cock, getting himself ready for her, that phantom feeling of her lips around him ever present.

“Eyes on me,” he says and she blinks up at his face. “Have you been thinking about my cock when you took this into your mouth, hm? Did you want it to be me?”

She nods, a moan low in her throat. There is no room for anyone else in the way she looks at him, the way she reacts. He’s not sure why, even now, he still feels that simmering jealousy, that urge to erase anyone else from her mind, even when that someone might not even exist.

“I think it is my turn now,” he decides, aching to feel her mouth.

It is amusing how fast she discards the dildo, crawls over between his legs, resting her cheek against his thigh. He’d feel flattered but he’s too distracted by the way her breasts move underneath her flimsy shirt, the outline of her hard nipples pressing against the fabric. It is getting harder and harder to stick to their routine, to limit their lessons to this one simple thing. But he’s not sure if he can allow himself to go further yet, not when he just crossed another bridge of her safety, encroaching on her space. Her comfort sits above all else, especially above his own whims.

“Will you take off my shoes before we start?” he asks, stroking over her cheek with a gloved finger. She is all bare-faced, her hair still a little damp, beautiful and so trusting, letting him see her like this. He can allow himself to feel tender for her but only when he pretends that he is the man she spoke of in the confessional. How else would he be here, with her eyes staring at him all adoringly? Him, of all people?

And she does move down to his feet, no question. When her fingers fiddle with the laces he notices how shaky she is. So far, he blamed it on the novelty of their setting, the way she seems to crave reassurance even more than usual, but now he is not certain anymore.

Even so she is gentle when she removes his black leather shoes, sets them neatly aside. Her hands come to rest on his ankles, stroking up his socks until she meets bare skin, looking up to await further instruction. He can’t hide the shiver that runs through him at her touch, subconscious as it might be, goosebumps creeping up his whole body, and for a moment they just stare at each other while he tries to find his bearings.

“Papa?”

“You can start, cara,” he says, swallowing over a lump in his throat.

Her hands travel up his legs, over his slacks this time, and when they reach his crotch she pulls them down a little more, making space. She begins by massaging around his base, fingers running through the dark hair there, kissing him wherever she can reach before she makes her way up his length and to his tip. Perhaps she has learned that in one of her books, he thinks with some humour.

This time, she keeps anxiously glancing up at him, mouthing at him with a tight jaw. He reaches out to help her relax, stroking along that soft skin underneath her chin. Her hands still tremble, even as she uses them to stroke him, lubed with her own spit tonight.

“You feel good, my dove,” he praises. “You take me so well, no need to be nervous.”

An agitated breath. She unwraps one of her hands, takes him deeper, tongue flat against his underside, wet and hot and firm. Pulling back his hood she licks along his slit, gently sucking at the tip. He moans, unable to hide the sound, and she sucks harder in response, sinking down further. It’s good, he is about to tell her as much, but then it goes too deep and she gags, pulls back, breathing through her nose just like he showed her.

“Slow,” he says. “We are in no hurry, my dove. You were doing so well. Molto, molto bene.”

She nods, takes him back in, not quite as far this time. Her second hand returns, slow stimulation, not that he minds. She is gentle with him and it has a whole different appeal, not like the messy throaty blowjobs he is used to, no, and he does not want it to be over fast, doesn’t need it to be perfect. Not when she touches him like this, like she wants to, like he’s worthy of such softness.

“Good, brava ragazza,” he whispers. “Keep going, just like that. You can take a bit more.”

She tries again, swallows him deeper until he can feel the soft roof of her mouth, but she has to gag again, her eyes watering, sucking in air through her nose. Secondo gathers her hair, tips her head up, looking at her as he mimics how he wants her to breathe. Doing her best to follow the rhythm, she steadily calms down.

When she seems alright, he allows her to continue but she is too ambitious tonight. Her teeth grace his skin when she swallows him too fast and he winces, more in surprise than in pain. When she looks up at him with some shock she gags again, harder this time, fully pulls away to breathe, sitting back on her heels. He watches, ready to move her in case she does have to throw up, but instead she begins to tremble, thick tears rolling down her nose. A sob and she curls in on herself, crying harder.

“Come here,” he says, which she ignores, at first.

He grabs her arms, pulls her up and she doesn’t fight it. When he tucks her against his chest she wraps herself around him and then she’s buried her face against him as if to hide away.

“I told you, I’m useless,” she whispers.

“Shhh, I will hear no such thing.”

She’s quiet then, still shaking, still crying, but silently now. He has an idea of what’s going through her head, only now she won’t share it, not after he cut her off like that. With some regret, he begins to caress her, soothing, trying to convey that he is not angry with her.

“Talk to me,” he says.

She hiccups. “I won’t be able to do it.”

“You were doing it, my dove,” he assures her. “You are impatient.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He coos, presses soft kisses to her hair. She tried to prove herself to him, he realises, still worried that she’s not good enough, impatient, wanting to be perfect for him already. And he knows she is a fast learner, usually, used to improving quickly, to showing her worth, but she hasn’t understood yet that this is not about perfection, not about skill but trust, intimacy, affection and care.

He doesn’t mind, no, he will show her, teach her what he truly wants. It registers to him in that moment, how rewarding it feels to hold her, to comfort her, and not just to prove to her that he can, no, though it is important that she understands. Secondo has always been a man who enjoys providing care for others, often to the neglect of his own well-being, though not always all that selflessly. For his brothers, spiritual guidance in the ranks of the church, then to care for his lovers, emotional release through physical outlets in the way he was shown as a young man. The truth is he enjoys being needed, being admired, just like she does, and perhaps it is the one thing he misses about the Papacy, as hollow as these connections were. It is not often that someone like her seeks him out, someone who offers such tenderness in return, who seems to care for him in equal amounts, who wants him to want her, no transaction.

Someone who might choose to stay.

That is what he truly wants.

“We will stop for today,” he decides. “No more until you have recovered.”

“No,” she says, sitting up to look at him with wide eyes. “No, I can keep going.”

He wipes at her tear-streaked cheeks, cradles her head. “No more tonight. We have time.”

More tears gather at her waterline and she averts her gaze, stares at her shaking hands. “Please… I promise I can do better. Just… don’t give up on me.”

“Shhh,” he whispers, a flash of pain at her broken voice, draws her back against his chest, tightly wrapped up in his arms. He’s not sure why exactly she is so tense tonight but he can tell when the head is not in it. He should have realised it sooner but it has been a while since he had to steer against uncertain winds. “You are not in the right state of mind for this tonight, cara. I should not have overwhelmed you. It is my fault and I promise will do better.”

“It’s not your fault,” she disagrees.

He sits up a little straighter. “Ragazza mia, listen to your Papa. In this room, when we meet like this, it is my task to make sure that you are comfortable, that you feel safe and taken care of and if you are scared or unhappy, then I have failed you. So let me take this blame, hm? It will not happen again.”

Her sniffles tug at his heart and he makes sure to look at her, to convey how very serious he is. Her slow nod is as much of a concession as he’ll ever get from her stubborn little head but it is good enough for him for now. For a long time after he just holds her like that, ignoring his discomfort, how hard he still is, the buckle of his belt digging into his thigh under her weight.

“I really wanted to make you come today,” she whispers, fiddling with the button below his collar. “I’ve never managed before, I thought– if I showed you–”

He draws a deep breath both in arousal and at the realisation that this is the source of her insecurities, of her impatience. “Do you not realise that this was by design?” He lifts her chin, makes sure to meet her eyes. “I did not allow you to.”

”But– why?”

Secondo sighs, unsure what to tell her. That he did not want to give away what her mouth does to him, no matter how clumsy? That he is so fatally drawn to her that he does not want this arrangement to end? That he wants to stay in control of it, can’t hand himself over just like that? The painful vulnerability he feels when she touches him with her soft hands, soft lips, soft tongue?

“It was not about that,” he says instead. “This is not for me, my dove, it is for you. I do not have to as long as you have learned a thing or two, no? It is not always the result that matters. Tell me, why do you want to learn this? Who is he to you that you care more about his enjoyment than yourself?”

“I don’t,” she says, some defensiveness in her tone. “I just– is that not what you want?”

“What I want?”

“To come.”

He chuckles. “Yes, but it is not all of it. I could do that to myself, no? With another person, it is about trust and care, my dove. Why are you intimate with someone?”

She sighs, pondering his words, sinks back down and presses herself to his chest. His hands roam her body, making use of the unexpected closeness, and he realises how he has been aching for her. He continues on when she doesn’t show any signs of discomfort and he can’t help but toy with the hem of her shirt, goes so far as to take off his gloves just to feel her skin against his fingertips. A pleased shiver runs through her body, a tiny whimper from her lips. He goes on, traces her spine up and down.

Perhaps teaching is not so much about instruction, he thinks, perhaps he has to make her understand.

When she doesn’t protest he presses his hand flat to her ribs, following the soft curve down to her waist, to her hip, back up until he can feel the swell of her breast against his finger. She gasps when he presses against it, the softest brush of his thumb over her flesh.

“Papa,” she whispers, drawing a deep breath and shivering all over. “Please–”

“Please what?”

“Touch me.”

He smiles, palms at her breast, generously, kneading, stroking, flicking his thumb over her nipple. She is a mess within seconds, writhing, whimpering, pressing herself against him. He throbs painfully against her leg that is slung over him, fighting the urge to just fuck her into the mattress until they’re both spent for the night. Secondo is a patient man, yes, but he can feel himself reaching his limit.

“Do you want more?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You mean yes, Papa.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.” He grabs her hips, adjusts her backwards until she is fully on the mattress and he can tower over her. Her face is flushed, hair a mess, her nipples straining against her shirt with every ragged breath. “You trust me, my dove?”

“I trust you, Papa.”

“Then will you let me return the favour?”

She furrows her brow. “But I didn’t even–”

“No arguing,” he decides. “Yes or no?”

“Yes, Papa.”

A smug grin. “Brava ragazza. Hold up your shirt, I want to see you.”

As he climbs off the bed she obeys, gathering the hem and bunching it up until her belly and chest are exposed to him. Pleased, he takes in the state of her, her cheeks still stained with tears but glowing all the same. He adjusts his erection, removes his belt but closes the button again, feeling her eyes on him in what he assumes is anticipation, no more fear, no pressure. He puts his gloves back on, slowly, making her watch. Then, with one swift motion, he grabs the waistband of her sweats and underwear and drags them both down, ignores her mild protest. Not that he’s surprised that she’s pressing her legs together while he folds her clothes, but he makes it a point to draw out the moment nonetheless.

“Let me see you,” he says, placing the bundle of soft fabric on a nearby chair. He can’t help but pick the still damp panties up, bring them to his face, inhale deeply through his nose. The scent of her arousal is so strong that he finds himself unable to set them back down, bunches them up and stuffs them into his pocket instead.

When he turns back around, she doesn’t say anything. Her knees are drawn up, still hiding, even though her whole chest is exposed. Secondo approaches, a pointed look. She is not much of a brat, none of this is to rile him up, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let it slide in the future. Tonight, though, it is reassurance that she needs and he wants to build up her confidence again, a confidence he knows she has, if not for this particular thing.

He changes strategy, gently sitting down on the edge of the bed with a hand on her knee. “You do not have to be shy, cara. Not now.”

“What if you don’t like it?”

A laugh he can’t hold back. “I can assure you I will.”

She allows it, his hand pushing between her thighs, spreading her open for him. For now he keeps his eyes on her face, looking for any signs of discomfort, for even the tiniest indication that she is faking her consent to please him. But he finds none, intrigue and a hint of arousal already, and when he lets his gloved fingers glide down her inner thigh he can watch the goosebumps spreading all over her body.

“You are beautiful, my dove,” he says, taking her in from head to toe.

Under his gaze she fidgets but he can see her confidence growing. He makes a show to lick his lips, to stroke her skin appreciatively, sighing with pleasure at even the subtlest of touches, show her how wanted and desired she is. For months he has been waiting to see all of her but no picture of his imagination would ever live up to her now. Soft. Pliant. Perfect. His.

“Won’t you undress?” she asks after a moment.

“No.”

She furrows her brow. He won’t explain. It is a power play, of course, and she will understand on her own once she feels it. Her discomfort is fleeting, those first encounters, getting to know what he is all about, how he enjoys playing, providing what he does so well, his method, the ins and outs of where they can go. It is about trust, it is about forgetting inhibitions or restrictions or the shame that weighs her down.

“Do you enjoy this?” he asks. “When I take charge?”

He speaks those words as he moves to lean over her, settling between her legs, his face right above hers. She holds his gaze like the perfect girl she is, as though she has already understood what it is he values, what matters to him.

“I do,” she says, allowing him to bend down, mouth at her neck to which she gasps. “It is… it is a bit new to me.”

“I know, my dove, but I can tell that you are leaning into it, that you like it,” he says. “And I am proud of you for how well you are doing. That you are allowing me to show you what I can do for you, that you trust me with your mind and body.”

He kisses her cheek, then down to her jaw, tongue out to lick a stripe up below her chin. She whimpers, her hands at his shoulders now, holding on for dear life. She is sensitive and it thrills him, so much so that he can’t stop kissing her neck and jaw, nibbling, licking, for once careful not to leave any marks on her yet. At some point one of her hands comes to cradle his head and he closes his eyes, leans into the gentle massage she presses into his scalp. When he looks at her, she leans up as if to try and kiss him, but she doesn’t dare to go high enough.

For a long moment he is tempted, feels that draw, the need to devour her so fully that his lips leave a lasting imprint on hers. But he can’t, not if he wants to keep going slow, not when he doesn’t know what his heart would do if he truly felt the tender emotions that stare up at him in her wide eyes.

He makes do with another kiss to her cheek, lingering, wet, hummed into her skin, then he finally makes his way down to her breasts. At first he only blows on them, watches her nipples contract even more, gooseflesh spread over her areola, tempting him to circle one with his thumb. Her breasts feel soft agains this lips when he finally takes one into his mouth, leisurely flicking his tongue over her nipple, sucking ever so gently. Again, her body reacts strongly to his touch, her hips bucking wildly against his belly, her hand pushing his head harder against her. But it is her sounds that affect him the most, those whimpers, breathy and higher than usual, her chest moving underneath him with urgency.

“Do you want it?” he asks. “My mouth on you?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Have you been thinking about this too?”

He looks up at her flustered face and she is so embarrassed that he has to laugh. “Yes, Papa.”

“My mouth?”

“Yes, Papa. Yours, your–” Another whimper. “Your mouth, your hands, the gloves.”

“The gloves? Do you want me to keep them on?”

“Yes, please. Please–”

Her hips buck again and he shows mercy, moving over the curve of her stomach with a few peppered kisses and then down to her mound. He blows on her pubic hair, admires how she is glistening for him, so wet so fast, as though her whole body is just waiting for a morsel of his attention.

Secondo uses his hands to spread her open further, making sure she sees the imprints of his gloved fingers in her flesh, the leather too soft to creak but moving elegantly nonetheless. He is eager to taste her, has been for weeks, perhaps even months, but now that she is laid bare before him he does not want to hurry through it. If he wants to teach her patience and care then he must demonstrate it himself.

Which is unusually hard, especially when he sees her cunt twitching for him.

“Papa–” she whines, throbbing, hands shaking as they reach for the sheets. “Please, I need it.”

“I know,” he says. “I know, my dove, but you will let me admire you.”

She bites her lips and he would not mind having her beg for him but he does not want to tease her too much tonight, those are all games for another time. Instead he kisses along her inner thigh, making his way down to her core. He blows on it again, making sure she can feel her own wetness, lose her embarrassment for her very natural reactions. A look up at her face tells him she is doing better, that she is waiting with bated breath for his tongue.

He gives in, licking a flat stripe along the wetness and parting her folds to make room for him in the process. Her taste floods his senses like the first piece of a sweet summer fruit, so uniquely her that he has to close his eyes, savour it, hum out his appreciation. Once he starts he can’t get enough, it is not something he ever bothered to hide before, but for her he tries to be slow, to ease her into every new sensation, licking and sucking and moving from side to side, sounds and vibrations.

As he goes he keeps his eyes on her, drinking in every reaction, every gasp and mewl, the way her jaw falls open, stomach caving in as her muscles contract upwards into his face. He allows her a few moments in which to close her eyes, though he would usually correct her. But it is her first time, so many impressions that she needs to process, and he thinks she would not handle criticism well tonight, even if playful. No, he wants her to feel good, wants her to get addicted to the feeling of his tongue inside of her, drunk on the pleasure he provides. The rest can come later.

She moans, her fingers cramping in the sheets, and he can tell she is getting close already. He hums once more, sucks at her clit as hard as he can. A high sob breaks from her throat and her hand shoots to her mouth, covering up any further sounds.

Now that he won’t allow.

He stops, bites into her thigh to which she gasps, and when she meets his eyes he grabs her elbow and withdraws her arm from her face, linking their hands together and pressing down on her abdomen.

“But–”

“Let them hear,” he says, thinking let everyone hear, let them know you’re mine.

She follows, the other hand still buried in the sheets. He did not plan to edge her like that but he will not deprive himself of the memory of her sounds, the way they go straight to his cock and will sustain him for a few days at least. No, he wants to see her unfiltered reaction, that raw deep and awkward honesty that will help her ease up when it is her turn again.

“Papa,” she whispers when he starts again, slowly building her back up, too slowly if the urgency in her voice is any indication.

Secondo wants to draw out these moments, every quiver of her legs, every desperate grasp and throb and jitter and whimper and gasp. He feeds on it like a starving man and if she can understand this, if she can see it in his eyes how every movement of his tongue, every press of his lips, is a way to learn about her, care for her, be close to her, then he may not have failed her after all.

When she inches close again, her fingers tightening between his, he shamelessly moans against her, moving from side to side with her clit between his lips, eating, devouring her to the very best of his abilities, and she unfurls so beautifully, her voice thinning out into a scream while her legs shake on either side of his face, her hips helplessly bucking up into his mouth. He can taste her, too, her essence on his chin, his lips, his tongue, and he greedily licks it all up, keeping his face buried deep in her cunt.

He does not plan on stopping just yet. He hasn’t even been inside of her.

When he continues she makes a confused sound that he ignores. A hand on his head, pushing without any real effort. ”Papa– I can’t–“

“You can,” he mumbles into her wetness.

She doesn’t fight him, not when she knows he’s right. This time, he pushes his tongue inside of her and the way she clenches immediately tells him that she enjoys it. In a similar fashion, he tests out different movements, different intensities, sucking, licking, fucking her as best he can with his mouth. He makes her come like that thrice more, though her sounds have become hoarse and her body is a mess of jitters and quakes. It is a sight he enjoys, when the muscles turn into jelly, when the brain forgets how to work. Once he decides that he is done with her every word out of her mouth is but a babbled mess and even though he had planned to use his hands on her as well he decides to be content for tonight. No use for the gloves when she is beyond noticing.

Even as he crawls back up to her it hardly registers, her eyes already closed and her body limp, tingling, flinching at every overstimulation. He cleans off his mouth with his tongue, watches her wrecked form relax properly for the first time since he’s known her.

“Have you eaten dinner, my dove?” he asks, a kiss to her damp forehead.

She shakes her head, turns sideways to where he came to rest by her side. He leaves her there, dozing, recovering, pulls a blanket over her exposed body and uses her bathroom to clean up. He debates, making himself come just to ease the pressure, but it doesn’t feel right. Instead he takes a whiff of her perfume, her shower gel, inspects her toiletries.

When he is all done, more in tune with himself again, he lets his gaze roam over her room once more. It is not much, small like most single apartments here. It would be easy to pack it all up, though he might need another bookshelf to house her collection. His bed is devoid of any more pillows than necessary but he can see that changing as he adjusts to her. Then the image of her body amongst his soft sheets with the high-thread count, not as rough as hers, much nicer on her sensitive skin, and his dove dozing in the warm light of his black candles as he gives thanks to his Lord.

The inhumane size of the kitchenette would frustrate him if it weren’t for her nice selection of products. Good tomatoes, a high quality olive oil, a decent pan. Though her fridge is half-empty he finds a slice of supermarket parmesan, not quite living up to what he’d choose but he can work with it. If she likes Italian food he is confident that he can feed her well. It goes hand in hand for him, sex and good food, nourishing the mind and the body, and tonight she needs both.

He cuts up half of an onion she still has in her fridge, adds a clove of garlic, roasting both in a pan with a generous amount of olive oil, then cuts the tomatoes, throws them in as well and lets it all simmer. After some rummaging he finds frozen herbs in the tiny ice compartment that seem edible enough, though it pains him to add them to the sauce. Pasta boils in a pot behind the pan, barely all fitting onto that tiny stove.

While he waits he watches her sleep, pleased with himself to have worn her out so thoroughly with just his mouth. Perhaps he can repeat this evening, an extra night a week to see her, or two, if she lets him, use the privacy to take his time with her as well, slowly stretch out their arrangement until she forgets the specifics.

She stirs right when the pasta is al dente. Secondo is happy with the tomato sugo and he adds the pasta, then some pasta water, some more salt and pepper, stirs until it is creamy, the juice of the tomatoes giving the dish a subtle red colour. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her getting dressed again, making no mention of the missing panties.

“I didn’t think you’d make dinner,” she says.

“I enjoy it,” he replies. “You like Italian food?”

“I love it, yes.”

He smiles, lets her pick the plates and then shoos her off so he can serve. The table stays abandoned and it is not how he’d prefer it, not as sensual, not as perfect, but he joins her in her bed, watches her eat more so than indulging himself. Would he let her eat in his bed? Perhaps, on occasion, if he was as pleased with her as he is now. Something about her disheveled state, cross-legged, the pleasure still visible on her face. A sliver of domesticity, the vague dream of a future.

“It’s so good,” she says, mouth wrapping around another forkful.

Yes, he thinks. He would let her. He would let her do anything.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

He did not plan on staying as long as he does.

They finish their meal, he has her emptying the glass of water from earlier and then he has to fight her off when she tries to wash the dishes, insists that he do it, a little selfishly prolonging their time. She starts an old black and white movie that he hasn’t heard of before and he wonders if this is her way of inviting him to stay longer. He plans on leaving either way, to give her space, but when he sits down on the bed for her goodbye kiss she slips into his laps and then he doesn’t have the heart to push her away.

They settle in her bed, though he’s sure she’s not actually watching the movie, and it’s not like he is overly comfortable in his tight clothes. But he holds her regardless, chuckling when she inhales the smell of his cologne at his neck, when her hand toys at the hem of his shirt until she’s succeeded in removing it from his pants, two fingers stroking along the newly-revealed sliver of skin. He knows she wants him, she’d let him fuck her right now if he asked, have him stay the night, and he would if she were anyone else, file this night away alongside all the other short-lived encounters he’s had in the past.

But it feels wrong to fuck her now, not just because it is decidedly not a short-lived encounter but because he enjoys her too much and if he moved ahead now it would change, would feel different, and he does not want it to end like all the other times he’s done this. She doesn’t push for anything, successfully bribed him into staying because she wanted him to, not for sex but for his company, and when has that ever happened? Secondo has touched gold, fingertips coated in her richness, and it would be foolish to stick his greedy hand in too fast and burn himself.

No, he will have her but it will be in his own bed, on his own terms, when this charade is over and he knows she’s there to stay.

“Can I ask you a question?” she says after a while.

He’s surprised to hear her voice, so quiet she’s been for the past hour. “What is it, my dove?”

“What should I do if– What should I do if I can never use my mouth like that?”

A displeased hum. “Are you still thinking about this? Did I not distract you enough?”

“I just– I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go all the way.”

“Then you won’t.”

She sits up, looking down at his face. “What do you mean?”

“There are things you can do without taking him into your throat.”

“But what if he only enjoys the real thing?”

“There is no real thing,” he says. “This is not porn, hm? It is all real.”

She rolls her eyes and he grabs her chin, eyes narrowing. Her mouth opens but she doesn’t protest.

“Some men like when you speak to them,” he explains, not letting go of her. “Tell them what you want to do, that you are enjoying it, that you want to feel them come in your mouth. You can use whatever you can reach, massage his skin, his thighs, his balls, lick them, kiss them, bite even, if he is not a coward. You stimulate him with your hand during that time, just like you do with me. You can try touching more of him as well, his back, his taint, use your nails on his ass, anywhere he reacts and when you do it right you won’t need to swallow more than his tip, hm? Everyone enjoys different things, there is not a law you have to follow.”

She stares at him during his speech, his mouth, her hand moving to cup his jaw and stroking so tenderly that he almost feels the urge to pull away. “So, what **do you enjoy?”

His brain short-circuits at her emphasis and she is faster than he recovers, crawling down his body and fiddling with his pants.

“I want to try again,” she decides and he didn’t realise how hard he is. “Will you tell me what you like, Papa?”

“You don’t have to, my dove, I told you I am perfectly content.”

“But I want to. I feel better.”

She unzips him, pulling his pants down further for better access and he is still stuck on her words, what do you enjoy? But then she palms him and he snaps back into himself, grabs her wrist, holding her in place.

“No.” She looks up, taken aback. He swallows. “Before you try we will need a signal. When it is too much you will pinch my leg three times, yes?”

“Okay.” She shows him the gesture, looks at him, still a little startled, and he tries to relax, tries to allow himself to feel what he feels. It is too much at once, this evening, and yet he is unwilling to stop.

“Go slow in the beginning,” he says. “I like to take my time. You can explore and I will let you know what is good. You do not have to speak, I prefer different sounds.”

She does as he said, stroking him wherever she can reach, his hips, his abdomen, carding through his dark hair with gentle fingertips, then grabbing harder at his sides, scratching at the curve of his ass where it meets her mattress. Her mouth follows her trail with kisses, soft, a little too soft after a while.

“More,” he says. “Suck and bite, scratch.”

Her lips press firmer, nibbling on the curve of his lower belly, biting with some hesitation until he encourages her with a hand on the back of her head and she actually bites. It is good, this is what he knows, and he finds back to his outward self, his mind less clouded by emotion. Her lips reach the base of his cock and she looks up at him when her hand closes around his balls, cradling them, slow and careful movements, licking at his length as she does. He has to hold back a moan. This is what he was talking about, the way she is not even aware of what each little touch does to him.

“Good,” he says. “Brava ragazza, just like that. Do you see? It is not about deep and intense, hm?”

Her nod makes him smile, the way she closes her eyes when she properly tastes him, mouthing at his shaft, licking and sucking from the side, one hand fisting his tip, spreading his precome all over him. Yes, he could come like that, if she kept it up. It is her growing confidence that really gets him, her moans, the way she seems to finally allow herself to enjoy the process. Despite her overwhelm she did pay attention to what he did to her earlier, using it to her advantage now.

“You learn fast, cara. Very good.” Secondo pets her head to which she opens her eyes. “Your mouth is divine, my dove. Just like that, yes.”

The flustered tensing of her jaw and she is moving her hips, subconsciously searching for him, some relief for her own needs. He lets his hand roam her back, almost wishing she’d be closer so he could feel how wet she is. But this position is more comfortable for her so he lets her continue, increasing the pressure more and more, one hand dipping lower to his taint, massaging, pressing down exactly where he enjoys, and he clenches hard, not holding back any reactions now. She notices, looks at him with some awe which seems to encourage her to finally take his tip between her lips.

“Brava ragazza, you like how my cock tastes, hm?” he asks, watching her nod, comfortably taking him deeper now that her whole jaw and mouth are more relaxed. She doesn’t gag this time, breathes well through her nose, one hand wrapped around him and the other one still fondling with further down. “You can take more but you do not have to, my dove. You look beautiful like this, an unholy sight. Just keep going like this.”

She does take more, just a little, testing her own limits. He is proud, cannot help it, the way she responds to his guidance, learns, explores, understands. Her mouth is hot, her tongue active around him, sucking, licking, bobbing her head lightly, just enough to give the impression of friction, and her hands work on him with precision.

He feels it, then, that building pleasure, the tension in his lower body, heat and want and– no, higher up in his chest, his affection for her, burning through his shirt, into the mattress, up to his face. Everything feels hot, his hands sweating, and she looks up at him so fondly that he loses all control over himself.

“My dove,” he breathes, a desperate moan breaking from his lips when she sucks on his exposed tip, her tongue pressed to his frenulum. “I’m close. If you do not– do not want me to come in your mouth you need to– to let go.”

She beams, there is no other word, and he doesn’t bother to compose himself. Her face lights up, her confidence more pronounced than ever, ambition behind those pretty eyes. But she does not let go, keeps working him up, hand twisting around his base, covered in spit and his own arousal, slick and deft. His hand, still in her hair, grabs it tighter now, holding on for dear life, trying not to shove himself in deeper. She moans so beautifully around him while she sucks him off that he can’t hold back any longer. When he comes it is with a strangled, helpless groan, his balls tightening in her gentle grasp until he empties himself in her mouth. She obediently looks up at him throughout, taking him a little deeper as if to feel him quivering inside of her. After everything he held back tonight it is more intense than expected and he fills her until his come is dripping from the corners of her mouth.

She swallows. A proud smile on her swollen lips, still stained with his come.

He lets his head fall back, spent, staring at the ceiling for a moment while stars dance in front of his eyes and the pleasure slowly fades. He’s barely noticing how she licks him clean, tucks him back into his pants, closes the button, wiping at her mouth.

“I did it,” she says and he laughs, a full body laugh, a little incredulous that he just let this all happen. “Papa?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, it was good, my dove. You were perfect, my perfect girl.”

She straddles him with a smile and he indulges her when her hands slip underneath his shirt, press into his soft belly. Gathering his wits he sits up until they are face to face. He’d kiss her, he wants to kiss her, but if he did he would not leave this room tonight.

“Bella, bella ragazza,” he whispers. “Do you see? It is not about taking it as deep as it goes.”

“So you liked it?”

He wipes at her lips, smoothes down her hair and huffs a laugh. “I think I did, hm? Look at you, all wrecked for me. What a sight.”

Even now she flusters and he can’t shake the smile that seems to stick to his lips. He moves his other hand to her head as well, cradling her jaw, and begins to massage her tense muscles. She moans in relief, leaning into his touch with closed eyes. Thumbs pressing below her jaw, his other fingers sweep over her cheeks and jawbone, then down her neck.

“You are not used to it yet,” he observes. “It will get better.”

“It’s okay,” she says.

“Hm, you say this now but wait until you are sore tomorrow.”

“Then you just have to come back and do this again.”

He scoffs, thinking that he would, that he will, if she asks him. She seems happy now, relieved, back to her usual self, and he enjoys it. This is how he wants her, not crying at his feet.

“Will you stay over?” she asks and he winces, lets his hands rest on her shoulders.

“No, my dove,” he says. “But I can stay until you are asleep.”

She doesn’t seem as disappointed as he’d feared and the smile she gifts him seems genuine. Once he is satisfied with the state of her jaw muscles he lets her recline, sink back into the pillows. The film has ended and he turns off the television, rests on his side with her for a while. She is tired, worn out, and though he feels a similar exhaustion his departure doesn’t feel very urgent, not even when her eyes close and she drifts off.

He waits a little longer, watching her so calm and relaxed. His belt is somewhere on the floor, as are his shoes, and he slowly gets dressed, gathers himself back together and stands on heavy legs.

“Wait,” she grumbles, not quite asleep after all, and crawls up to him on her knees. “Papa, you’re forgetting.”

He gives a rumbled laugh and sits back down, leans towards her. Her lips press to his face, not on his cheek where he expects them, no, but hitting the corners of his mouth with purpose. She lingers, kissing him slowly, his face in her hand, and when she retreats he is filled with regret that he did not turn his face after all.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

IV – Stay

Over the next few weeks they make a lot of progress. A lot of progress – and a lot of exceptions.

Secondo is blurring the lines between guiding and indulging and something more, allowing the tenderness between them to bloom. He is aware that he’s lying to himself, not that he really cares. Telling himself that it is all part of his promise to help her is easier, that she needs it and he is merely providing it for her. Assessing risks is something he is good at, knowing where the fun of the gamble ends, but now he is powering with his heart – and he’s gone all in.

But she is improving, getting more and more comfortable with her mouth, taking him deeper, working more confidently through her gag reflex with focused breathing and short breaks, enjoying their time together, initiating it all on her own. This is the agreement, yes, but he has been selfish, getting his mouth on her almost every time, using his fingers, seeing her response to whatever new idea he has to make her come without actually taking her. Perhaps worst, he has been staying over longer and longer, aching when he has to let her go, when she bemoans the loss of him, when he watches her fall asleep alone as he closes the door to her rooms.

Then he is gone for almost a week.

It is a trip he planned months ago to retrieve two Renaissance paintings from Urbino, a private collector who offered him first access should he want them. Secondo traverses the arcaded courtyard of the Palazzo Ducale, marvelling at the architecture, his business concluded, the paintings ready to be shipped, his last day spent taking in the city’s sights before he leaves. She will enjoy them, if her taste regarding his existing collection is any indication, and he is looking forward to showing her his newest acquisitions once they arrive. In his absence he allowed her to proceed without him, finally cataloguing the latest arrival of books, and all week he kept imagining her alone in the basement.

Secondo does not miss. He has missed people in the past, of course, he misses his late mother, his nonna, he even misses his brothers when they’re away, but the last time he missed a woman it did not end well for him. His youth was spent in such daydreams, with the experiments of love, travelling around for the clergy, emotional as well as physical distances his relationships never survived, a broken heart he stitched together so many times that the scars have left it numb.

The late evening sun shines down on him as he walks back to his hotel over cobbled streets, ready to take a light dinner and pack his belongings. His heart, not so numb anymore, cries out for one person in particular and suddenly he does miss again. He’s been thinking of calling her but discarded the idea just as often as it arrived. Secondo knows he is not an innocent man, that he made mistakes, alienated people who might have loved him had he lowered his walls. A loneliness decades in the making, now fractured by this woman who is too lovely for him, who cried at his feet, who asked him not to give up on her.

He knows he is being stubborn, doesn’t care about that either. He can get what he wants, he has done all he was willing to do, but now he doesn’t want to sway anymore, doesn’t want to impose, doesn't want to beg. She has to say it, ask him, tell him, or he will not go any further. He has shown his intentions but he won’t expose his heart. If there ever was another man he’s certain that he’s forgotten by now but she has not corrected him about that night, hasn’t told him, hasn’t made any implications, and he will not be the fool to ask for more than anyone thinks he’s worth. Not again.

Yes, he wants her in his bed, wants her in his life, but not for the arrangement.

The arrangement be damned.

After seeing her kitchen it is easy to think of a gift, a bottle of expensive olive oil, a generous wedge of real parmigiano reggiano, and he can’t help it, old romantic sap that he is, and stops for a bouquet of red roses before he arrives at home. The thought of visiting her is quickly forgotten when he enters his own apartments, feels the raging emptiness. He wants her here, for the rest of his life.

She’s knocking an hour later, one short message sent to her door, conjuring her at his will. He tries not to let it go to his head, unsuccessfully, tells himself that she must have been waiting for him. And maybe she did because then he sees her, a little dressed up, lipstick, her hair done nicely, and she hugs him like she always hugs him, only somehow tighter, a full body effort, pressing herself to him until she can go no further, her face buried in his neck and her nose inhaling his scent. Secondo cannot deny that he loves these moments. He holds her equally tight, breathing into her hair that smells like flowers. Today, she greets him with multiple kisses to his cheek, covering every inch of it, then she stills, sighs, clings to him with clenched fingers.

“I missed you,” she whispers, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to say it.

“I have missed you as well, my dove,” he admits, his heart jumping. “And I brought you a gift.”

“A gift?”

He leads her over to his open kitchen, the flowers throning over the other items and her expression is everything he had hoped for, everything he ever hoped for. Smiles, a happy laugh, her nose in the roses. More kisses to his cheek, more of her, thanking him, touching him, reassuring him. Then he shows her his apartment, watching with rapt attention how she likes it, letting her explore on her own to prepare a light meal in his kitchen. As always he brought more food from Italy than he had planned to, but at least now he has someone to share.

“I own a lot of books but there is always room,” he says when he sees her eyes on his shelves.

“Room?” She scans the titles, a big chunk of his collection, as yet uncatalogued. Many volumes she has never seen before, some particularly impressive ones, and he enjoys watching her browsing with such interest.

“Room for more,” he explains. “Not necessarily mine.”

Her eyes move to him, curious but not averse. “I never thought there was much room in your life. You seem… comfortable, on your own.”

Secondo scoffs, cutting up some fresh bread. Is this how he comes across? Well, he should not be surprised, and yet it stings to hear it from her. Did he not allow her closer than anyone else?

“There is room,” he just says, if you want it.

She joins him, popping an olive into her mouth, a hand snaking around his waist. “Did your work all go to plan?”

“It did, I acquired two rare paintings for a reasonable price. You will see them as soon as they arrive.”

”Secondo–“

It is the first time she uses this name for him and he stops cutting up his tomatoes, looks at her. “Yes?”

“I really did miss you. I feel like– perhaps I should–” She stops, looking away. “I suppose I just want you to know.”

“Did something happen?” he asks, alarmed by the change in her voice. “Did that man hurt you?”

“No! No, nothing like that.”

A pause and he wills her to say it, to admit that he doesn’t exist or that he exists but does not matter anymore. The thought passes and the longer he looks at her the less he cares about anything else. She is beautiful tonight, every night, but something about her wanting to impress this upon him makes it harder to resist.

He stops his preparations, mentally postponing the meal, and pulls her out of the kitchen. His record player is over by the bookshelf she just inspected and he picks a slow tune, some soft rock compilation from the 70s. At first he simply reaches for her hands, pulls them to his chest, swaying with her. She smiles, leans into him. The music is slow enough for them to continue like this, though he needs her closer soon, reaches for her hips, and she obediently wraps her arms around his neck.

This could be their life, he thinks as he looks down at her mellow expression. This could be their future.

“I really like your apartment,” she says after a moment. “It’s not huge but– you use the space well.”

“You would not mind spending more time here?”

“I would not mind at all.”

A kiss to her forehead. “Good.”

She rests her head against his shoulder and they stop moving, listening to the rest of the song. A lot goes through his head then, how he’d take her to Italy with him the next time he goes, how her books would fit into his shelves, her pillows onto the sofa, how he’d like to hear her slow footsteps every morning before she joins him in the kitchen, how he’ll ruin the life of anyone who dares to lay a hand on her.

“You have lipstick on your cheek,” she says, reaching up to wipe at his skin.

She never finishes. He cradles her face in both hands, angling her so that he can look right into her confused eyes. Her arm limply falls away, dangling at her side. Secondo leans down, pressing his lips to her cheek, to the corner of her mouth, to her nose, to her chin, then repeats it on the other side.

“It’s not time for our goodbye kiss yet,” she whispers.

“This is not a goodbye kiss.”

When he captures her lips she falls against him, her hands grasping at his shirt. Even though he plans to go slow her eagerness is catching and he presses in firmer, his thumbs at her jaw, controlling how she moves, swallowing every little whimper. She gives up control within seconds, allowing him to kiss her as he pleases, slow, deep, opening her up for him until he can get his first taste.

A part of him gets lost, a heaviness that dissipates, an invisible hand around his neck that loosens its grasp until he can breathe again, sees his own reflection in the mirror of his mind. It is not the same bitter old man staring back at him, no hard lines, no scowl, no narrowed eyes, but a young man with hopes and dreams and a smile. Who finally has what he’s been longing for.

Secondo breaks way, not far, just enough to clear his head.

“I missed you,” she says against his lips. “I missed eating with you, I missed you in my bed. I missed your company in the basement and I missed you during mass. I missed touching you, feeling you, tasting you. I missed having you in my mouth. I missed it so much.”

He swallows, his throat suddenly tight, and he decides to steer them back into familiar territory. “Do you wish to remedy that, my dove?”

“Please.”

He leads her into his bedroom, not to the bed, not yet, no, but he lowers himself into the brown leather armchair in the corner. It feels grotesque, almost, to have her here, a place that is filled with memories of so many carnal nights that she might cry, could she see them, knowing her fear of inferiority. But looking up at her now, he realises that her confidence isn’t wavering, and perhaps this is the sign he needed that their lessons are over.

“Papa?” She motions to his shirt. “I would like to undress you, this time.”

“You may open the buttons,” he says. “Take off my shoes and slacks. Nothing else.”

She doesn’t fight him, starts with his slacks, then unbuttons the shirt, and he realises what her plan is, the journey given as much attention as the destination itself. Secondo smiles when her hands don’t seem to leave his chest, carding through thick hair like an insistent brush, back and forth, scratching just enough to leave a few red marks. She goes as slow as she has learned he enjoys, a similar path but never the same, a few surprises, like her tongue pressed to his balls or her teeth on the inside of his thigh. He relaxes, the leather soft on his skin, the world returning to normal.

“I thought you missed my cock,” he says after a while, teasing, and she laughs with her lips on his balls until his cock jumps in her hand.

“I did,” she whispers. “But I missed the rest of you, too, Papa.”

He smiles, pleased with her, gently petting her hair. “I do not have to tell you anymore, hm? You know just what I like to hear.”

He feels another laugh, at the base of his cock this time, and she sinks down on him with a long sigh, licking as if to greet his taste, taking him as deep as he knows she can comfortably do now. It is enough to make him feel how wet and tight her mouth is and there is nothing he would miss, no matter how she took him. And yet this time she swallows him deeper, ever deeper, and he wonders if she has been practicing without him.

“My dove,” he says, breathless, his whole body attuned to the heat of her.

“Hm?”

“Cazzo,” he exhales and then his hips buck and he hits the back of her throat, the sensation more than he expected, the word followed by a deep moan and the sound of her gagging. She’s not pulling away, breathing perfectly, waiting it out. His body must have missed her, betraying him once more with the intensity of each little shock that goes through him.

She has to let to go to breathe, then, tears rolling down her face from the sudden movement and mixing in with the drool around her mouth and chin. Secondo pats her cheek for a moment but once he sees she has recovered he pushes her head down again, forcing his cock back into her mouth. She immediately gags as he hits her throat once more but he won’t let her get off completely again.

“You look so pretty when you choke on your Papa’s cock,” he says. “Breathe, my dove. Very good.”

She inhales deeply through her nose, following along with his rhythm and soon she swivels her tongue around him again, doing so well tonight. His fingers are still on her head and he lets them glide over her cheek as tenderly as he can muster, aroused as he is, wiping some of the drool away. She looks up at him, batting her eyelashes, and slowly drags her mouth over him, using the few precious seconds he spends taking her in to recuperate.

“Hmm, mia brava ragazza, taking me so well, molto bene,” he mumbles and she beams at the praise, speeding up slightly as if to prove to him just how good she is. “I do not think you have anything more to learn. Una ragazza perfetta con una bocca perfetta.”

She whimpers at those words, sucking him deep until she can swallow around him, every little gag in her throat gripping him tight. Secondo doesn’t have much left, he knows it, not tonight, not with how she’s moving. And she is a mess, spit and his arousal coating her mouth, running down her hand where it works at his base.

“Stop,” he says, feeling his lower body tighten. “Stop, my dove. Come here.”

A displeased look washes over her face that he doesn’t let her finish but she obeys, as she always does, letting go of him and crawling into his lap. She is breathing heavily, wiping at her mouth, and he pulls off his gloves.

“Come here, let your Papa help you.”

He uses his thumb to clean the mess on her chin only to push it into her mouth. She obediently licks off the fluids, sucking a little longer than necessary. Secondo hums in appreciation, watching with an affectionate, blissful expression he can’t be bothered to hide. His cock is throbbing, waiting to be inside of her, but he can’t just yet.

“We are done,” he says. “I will not teach you how to use your mouth anymore.”

”But–“ Her face falls, her lips quivering. “Papa– I’m sure there’s more–”

“You know what do now,” he continues. “You do not have to worry any longer.”

“But Papa– Secondo–” Her eyes begin to water, not from overstimulation this time. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Then tell me,” he says, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. “Tell me you do not want anyone else. Tell me you only want me.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.”

“Swear it, my dove. Swear it, right now, before Lucifer.”

“I swear it. I swear it.”

It is enough. It has to be enough. He inhales a shaky breath, his own eyes stinging as he looks up at her wet cheeks. Without hesitation his hands reach for her, holding her face between his palms, and she doesn’t once glance away. “Stay.”

“What?”

“Stay, tonight. Every night.”

Her eyes widen but she nods a moment later, leans in, and he kisses her with a bruising force that neither of them see coming. Her gasps go straight to his cock and he can feel how wet she is when she grinds down on him, her thighs shaking and tensing. With a tight grasp he holds her hips still, his tongue pushing into her mouth, feeling her, tasting himself on her. It is enough, he thinks again. This is enough.

Even though his knees are weak he manages to grab her hips and get up, dragging her over to the bed and dropping her onto the mattress. It is everything and nothing like he imagined, the image of a divine creature spread out amidst his soft sheets. He hates that he is impatient now, after months and months of waiting, praying, hoping for this, and yet his hunger is that of a starving vulture, waiting to devour.

He undresses her just enough to feel some of her skin, to be able to touch her breasts, her legs.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it again.”

“I want you,” she chokes out. “I only want you, Papa.”

It draws a moan from him, the absolute conviction in her voice, her gaze never straying from his, her hands on him, roaming his body, desperate, his fingers fully sheathed inside of her, his tongue on her throat, his teeth in her skin. She’s whimpering, clawing, waiting, and he’s had enough.

“I will fuck you now,” he says, a hoarse whisper against her ear. “But there is one condition.”

“Wh-what condition?”

He lines himself up, his tip pressed to her heat but going no further. She cries out in despair like he’s physically hurt her, more cries and sobs. When he looks at her she’s clenching every muscle, her face streaked with tears and ruined make-up.

“You have something to confess to me, ragazza mia,” he says, taking some pity. “Tomorrow night, you will be in the chapel and I expect you to be honest.”

She nods, feverishly grasping at him, a whimpered yes falling from her lips as he finally sinks into her. Deep, slow, perfect. Another tear rolls down her cheek and he kisses it away, holding her face in his hand.

“Promise me,” he breathes, his voice soft now, barely audible.

“I promise,” she whispers and he slowly begins to fuck her. “I promise, Papa. I would do anything.”

He nods, groans, and then the world blurs around him.

V – Confession, Pt. 2

The calming rustle of paper. Secondo turns the page of his book, a paperback copy of –– which he only recently started on her recommendation. The chapel is quiet, the last Sibling left half an hour prior and he has been waiting ever since. He can’t say that he’s nervous, not after last night, and yet a heaviness sits in his stomach like a stone sunk deep into the ocean, the weight of this commitment, equal parts a comfort and intimidating.

When he notices the steps he can tell right away that it’s her, familiar as he has become with her rhythm. The door to the booth opens to a shaky breath and she sits, as she sat all these months ago, shifting around on the worn-down wooden plank that is separated from him by nothing more than a thin latticed wall.

“Sorella,” he says in greeting.

“Good evening, Papa. There is… there is something I wish to confess to you.” The wood creaks, her face closer to the lattice when she continues. “It has been weighing on me ever since I came to you for the first time but I have been a coward. I wasn’t truthful with you and I want to remedy that tonight.”

“I see.” He closes his book, sets it aside. “And have you been repenting for your transgression?”

”To be honest, I thought perhaps you might assist me with that.”

He smiles at the hint of teasing in her voice. “Join me over here, sorella.”

He listens as she steps out of her booth, opening the door to his without hesitation this time. Secondo can’t help the pride he feels at the way she carries herself now, confident in her submission to him, not hesitating to demand what she wants and needs. He’ll take her home with him after this, worship the very essence of her.

“Come here,” he says, patting his cassocked knee.

She sits down, already losing her concentration, her eyes on his mouth, her hands fiddling with his collar. It is just as well, he wasn’t planning on having a fair conversation anyway. His hands work themselves up her legs, dragging the hem of her habit with them, the gloves she so loves toying at her stockings. As expected she whimpers at the slightest of touches, her cunt clenching.

“I know what you want to confess to me,” he says. “You are not a good liar, sorella.”

She smiles at that, biting her lower lip to hide it. “I never said I was, Papa.”

Secondo drags his hands up her body now, groping at her flesh, sighing when he feels her breasts underneath the fabric. She leans into his touch, grinding not quite so subtle on his thigh. His eyes move up to her face and he lets one of his hands follow, tracing the line of her jaw before he grabs it between two fingers, forces their gazes to meet.

“When you came to me, sorella, you told me there was someone,” he elaborates. “A man, to be precise. Now tell me, and do not lie again, did you think of me when you went to confess to my brother? Was it my cock you imagined in your mouth, when you wished to learn how to please a man? Were you shocked when you heard my voice instead? The very man you were speaking of?”

“Yes. Yes. It’s all true.”

His grasp tightens, his eyes narrowed. “Why did you not tell me that night?”

“I was so embarrassed, Papa, I– I didn’t know how.”

“And later, why did you never admit it?”

“I wanted to keep seeing you,” she says, her voice shaking a little, as though she’s not sure if he’s truly upset with her. “I was worried you’d stop if you knew– if you knew how I felt about you. I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”

He lets go of her chin, cradles her cheek instead with his thumb toying at her lips. She relaxes and he strokes her for a moment, unclenching his features, softening his gaze. “That night you called me your friend, sorella. Am I a friend to you still?”

“No,” she says, visible swallowing. “You are still a friend, in– in some ways. But also more. A lot more. I can’t imagine a life without you, Papa.”

He pushes his thumb into her mouth, then, and she greedily sucks it in deeper, her cheek safe in the curve of his palm. “There is no life without me, my dove. You swore it before Lucifer. There is no one else.”

She nods, closing her eyes when he begins to stroke her hair with his other hand, moving down her  jaw, her neck, holding her there, though not squeezing, his thumb against her windpipe to feel every swallow at his fingertip.

“You are mine,” he says. “And I am yours.”

At that she lets go, bringing one hand from his neck to his face, mirroring the way he’s holding her. Her gaze is serious, her eyes staring down at him with an intensity that chills him.

“Will you swear it?” she asks. “Before Lucifer?”

“I swear it.”

She smiles, big, bright and honest, and he breaks the game, returns it, pulling her face down to his until he can feel her breath on his skin.

“This is not a goodbye kiss,” she mimics from the night before.

He scoffs, stopping just before their lips touch. “There will be no more goodbye kisses, my dove. This is forever.”

thank you for reading <3 i know this was long, if you made it hear then kudos to you! as always, likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!

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[eatfishies]

your touch sets me ablaze | 🔞

summary: Rafayel is determined to make all your worries go away.

or

Rafayel giving his "Miss Bodyguard" the time of her life.

word count: 3.5k words tags: NSFW, rafayel x reader (afab), porn without plot, oral sex (cunnilingus), clit play, swearing, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, squirting and vaginal ejaculation, exhibitionism, overstimulation, public sex (or semi..? idk), pet names, breeding kink, creampie, established relationship fish notes: rafa fingers owo .. that’s it . i jus have an obsession w his pretty fingers ok . hehe hope all of u enjoy <3 ── ao3 link ★ ˙ ̟ | my twt !

The long-awaited day of Rafayel’s exhibition is finally here. She smoothed out her dress, ensuring that there is no speck of dust or any creases. The dress hugged her curves like second skin, a dark blue shade that matches the ocean — she heard it faintly as she fixed herself on the mirror. The tidal waves swished around with fluidity as the birds chirped merrily, giving her a sense of peace despite the gnawing anxiety bubbling up inside her. She sighed, biting her lip as she mulled over her thoughts when the door opened, revealing Rafayel. 

Dressed in a white buttoned shirt, paired with a dark blue suit jacket and black tailored slacks. He looked mesmerizing as he always does whenever she sees him. Many people claim that Rafayel’s paintings are beautiful, each brushstroke has its own story and together, mixed with the soft colors is enough to draw someone in. It was easy to get lost in his artworks hence why his buyers are eager to get their hands on the latest pieces of his art. Every art dealer was entranced by the beauty of it. One could say, if you gaze at his painting, the sight of it could linger in your mind even as you slumber, dancing around and luring you into the depths of the ocean.

He smiled at her, his eyes roaming over her figure appreciatively, “Hey cutie, looking good there.” He walked towards her, placing his hands on her hips, “Why the long face…? It’s my exhibition, not yours.” She knows he was just teasing, trying to quell her dwelling thoughts but she can only give him a faint smile.

“I know that… I just…” She sighed, unsure of how to properly form her sentence. Her mind is constantly racing, overlapping each fleeting thought. “I’ve just been… overthinking about all sorts of things, I suppose. Maybe it’s just the stress of everything…” She trailed off, her gaze drifting to the side.

The Lemurian hummed, studying his lover’s face with deep concentration, “Well, we still have some time left to kill. Do you wanna do something to take your mind off things?” His hands cupped her face gently, making her stare at his handsome face. 

“Uh… I’m not sure.” She responded, still preoccupied with her troubles. 

Rafayel’s hands fall to the side before grabbing her wrist and leading her out of the bedroom and into the center of the studio. He gently pushed her down to the couch, “Stay here.” He said before stalking off to grab something from the desk. She could only watch with curiosity, wondering what Rafayel had planned to distract her. 

When he came back, he was holding a box of Pile It Up. She couldn’t help but smile, already feeling a surge of competitive spirit bubbling inside her. “Oh, you’re so on!” She grinned at him.

And yet, after a few minutes of playing, she felt the same thoughts resurfacing. Rafayel didn’t need to be told twice to know that his partner is deep in her worries, he could see the frown etched on her features or the way she subtly tapped her fingers repeatedly against the block. 

He sighed, standing up and taking a seat next to her, “I hate seeing you like this.” He paused, searching her face before caressing her cheek tenderly, “We don’t need to talk about it but I wished I could take all your troubles away. It makes me sad to see you look so blue.” 

A small hint of guilt crept up, she forced herself to hold Rafayel’s gaze. “I’ll be fine, really. Just… stress, the usual.” She spoke tiredly, relishing the feeling of his hand on her cheek. 

Suddenly, an idea popped up inside the painter’s head. “Then… let me put your mind at ease, yeah?” But before she could inquire, the Lemurian pulled her into a soft kiss, effectively drowning out any single thought she had previously. Their lips moved languidly in a passionate yet loving kiss. His hands slid down to feel her curves, swallowing her needy whimpers as his fingers hiked the hem of the dress up, exposing more of her skin. 

He gently laid her down and pulled away, hovering above her, admiring the way her lips are now swollen and glistened with his saliva. No doubt that the lipstick has smeared onto his mouth as well but he couldn’t care less, slowly inching closer to her most intimate place. She bit her lip, growing impatient at his deliberate and sensual movements but the words of protest died in her throat when Rafayel finally touched her clit, feeling the wet patch growing as he kept stroking her.

“You’re already so wet for me… you sure are eager, aren’t you?” He smirked as she gripped his arms and bucked her hips. “Come on, let me hear your pretty sounds, cutie.” He purred, effortlessly pulling her panties to the side and rubbing her slick folds. A string of moans and whimpers fell from her lips as Rafayel continued to touch her, staring intently as her expressions contorted to one of pleasure. The worry lines on her face, the frown and the anxiousness emitting off of her earlier are all gone, replaced by fervent lust and desire. 

With a swift motion, Rafayel plunged two fingers deep inside her wet pussy. Her velvet walls clamping down tightly as he curled his digits, “Ha…! F- fuck! Raf…” She moaned out, it was the sound that he could never get tired of hearing. Her body writhed beneath her lover’s skilful ministrations. 

“That’s it… keep feeling good around my fingers. You’re doing so well for me, baby.” He uttered sultry and low, pressing kisses on her neck before biting onto the flesh. He knew that once she was clear-headed, she would scold him for leaving a mark, especially when they were both due to attend his exhibition later. But Rafayel couldn’t care less, he was addicted to her scent, her taste, her sounds and everything about her makes him want to lose himself completely, surrendering himself to the woman he holds dear to. 

The heat in her stomach coiled, the tell-tale signs of her climax approaching her as Rafayel fingers her faster and deeper, noticing the pitch of her moans getting louder. Her wet cunt squelched obscenely around his long digits as he worked to bring her close to her release. He licked her earlobe and nipped at it, “Be a good girl and come all over my fingers. Come on, you can do it, can’t you?” 

Spurred by Rafayel’s encouragement, she squeezed her eyes shut as her pussy clenched tightly around his plunging fingers. “I’m… I’m close! I’m gonna come!” She cried out, her cunt clamping down on his digits as she came hard, pussy juice gushing out and all over his hand and wrist. 

“Good girl. You did so great, my little conch.” He pulled his soaked fingers out and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. Rafayel felt a swell of pride at seeing the state of his lover like this, she’s no longer concerned with troubling thoughts or anxieties. Only a look of pure bliss. 

He brought his fingers up to his mouth and licked them clean, savoring the taste of her. “You taste divine, my love.” A blush spread through her cheeks as she stared at the sight of Rafayel delightfully tasting her essence. 

“But… I’m not done yet. Not even close.” His voice drops an octave lower as he spread her legs wide and tugged her damp panties off, tossing them on the floor. Her cunt fluttered around nothing, dripping with slick from her orgasm earlier. “I can’t wait to devour you.” And with that, he leaned in and lapped her pussy tentatively, keeping his gaze fixed on her face as her fingers tangled in his purple hair, gripping it. 

Debauched cries and moans bounced off the walls along with the erotic sounds of Rafayel eating her cunt out with vigor, like a man starved. “F- feels so good!” She whimpered as the Lemurian held her thighs, spreading them wider, giving him more access to her sopping core. 

Unable to resist, Rafayel delved in deeper, sealing his lips around her clit and suckling the sensitive nub. He flicked his tongue faster, determined to bring his dear bodyguard to her peak once more. The needy sounds spilling from her lips were like music to his ears, urging him on, to give her the pleasure that she so desperately sought. 

“D- don’t stop, Raf! Please!” Her hips bucked wantonly as she ground her slick cunt against his mouth. Rafayel smirked in response, letting her tug on his hair fiercely as he thrust his tongue deep inside her clutching heat, fucking her with his mouth, feeling incredibly turned on and eager to watch her fall apart beneath him. 

He could feel her juices flooding his mouth, could taste her arousal coating his tongue. Rafayel could go on for days burying his head in between her legs, couldn’t ever get enough of her sweet essence. “Come for me. Come on my tongue like the good girl that you are.” He spurred, the words vibrating against her sensitive flesh. 

The all-too familiar sensation coursed through her body as she moaned out, “I’m gonna come! Raf, I’m gonna come!” At that, Rafayel vigorously sucked hard on her clit, feeling her walls starting to flutter and clench around his plunging tongue. He could feel the heat of her core climbing, threatening to spill once more. The Lemurian easily slipped in two fingers, knuckle-deep into her dripping cunt. He pumped them in and out, curling them just so to hit that spot that made his lover writhe in utter bliss. 

It was too much, the stimulation was overbearing as her body tensed, her thighs clamped around his head as she teetered on the brink. Rafayel gripped her hips tighter, holding her in place as he ate them out with wild, desperate abandon. 

“Rafayel!” She cried out, arching off of the couch as her orgasm crashed over her for the second time. The painter moaned as he felt the flood of arousal coating his tongue and chin, lapping it up greedily as she shuddered and quaked beneath him. He could feel the way her walls gripped his fingers, sucking in and reluctant to let go, milking his hand for all it was worth. 

“P- please… too much…” She whined, riding out the intense wave of her climax. Rafayel gave her dripping wet pussy one last lick before pulling back slightly to catch his breath. “I could just drown in your taste for the rest of my life.” He spoke breathlessly, slowly withdrawing his fingers and bringing them up to his mouth to lick them clean, just like he did earlier.  

Just as Rafayel was about to lean down and kiss her, the unmistakable sound of his ringtone snapped both of their attention. Rafayel stared down at her, a look of surprise on his face, “Let me get it.” He stood up and walked over to the desk, grabbing his phone. Frowning, he reads the message and pockets it away, looking back at her with a sigh. “It’s Thomas. Says we need to be at the exhibition in 20 minutes.” 

A small part of her felt disappointed at the fact that they would need to go out soon but she wasn’t just the only one whos’ feeling it. Rafayel gazed at her with a slight pout, he had hoped to fuck her silly before they were called to the gallery. But alas, duties calls and if they stalled any longer, Thomas would suspect something was up, even though Rafayel is known for arriving late to his exhibitions or not even appearing at all. 

“Should we just ditch this and not go?” He said exasperatedly, crossing his arms in annoyance. She smiled softly at him, sitting up straight and pulling her dress down, still panty-less underneath. She could feel her own slick running down her inner thighs, a faint blush spread through her cheeks as she briefly recalled the way Rafayel had brought her to climax twice. 

However, her gaze lowered to the sight of Rafayel’s painfully hard and obvious bulge, straining against his pants. Biting her lips, she quickly squashed down any lewd thoughts, refraining from losing her focus by daydreaming about sinking her tight wet cavern onto Rafayel’s thick cock. No, she needs to get it together and actually drag her Lemurian lover to the gallery, lest they face the wrath of Thomas. 

With a reluctant smile, she stood up and bent down to pick up her panties, slipping them on. “I guess it’s time to go. Come on, you pouty baby.” She pinched his cheek, earning a glare from her lover but it lacked no malice, instead filled with tenderness and love. Rafayel sighed dramatically, intertwining their fingers together, “Fine, fiiiiinee.” 

As they began to walk towards the front door, she paused, “Ah wait, I need to grab something.” But Rafayel wouldn’t budge, clasping her hand tightly as he stared ahead. He leaned in and whispered hotly in her ears, “Just keep your panties on. Don’t think this is over just because we’re going somewhere.” Heat rises up to her cheeks at the suggestive implication, was Rafayel planning something? It was a risky move, she knew she should go and grab the short pants to wear beneath her dress but Rafayel only gripped his hold on her, sensing the slight confusion. “Trust me, cutie. I know a way to make the exhibition waaaay more entertaining.” 

Alas, she gave in and nodded, “No funny stuff, alright!” She warned but Rafayel only smiled cheekily at her in response. “I’ll be a good boy and behave, dontcha’ worry, my darling.” He gave her a wink, a silent promise to be on his best behavior, yet there’s a hint of mischief in his eyes.

‧───────────────‧

The gallery was filled and buzzing with prestigious art dealers and other VIP guests, mingling around and admiring the exquisite artworks that were displayed on the walls. She stood to the side, a glass of champagne in her hand as she glanced at Rafayel who is, no doubt, forced to converse with the guests by Thomas. She hummed, taking in the scene before her, it was clear that Rafayel has always been popular but to witness it entirely was a different feeling. It warms her heart knowing that Rafayel is loved and cherished by many people here – a respected artist in his own field, earning awe-struck stares and quiet excited cheers. 

She took a sip of her drink, enjoying her solitude when Rafayel sauntered over to her. “How is my princess doing?” He smirked, standing next to her, his gaze briefly flickering down to the hem of her dress. She could tell a thing or two about what he’s thinking, all of the thoughts are most likely inappropriate. “I’m doing okay.” She replied casually, “Shouldn’t you be talking to your esteemed guests? Wouldn’t want Thomas to come hurling complaints again, hm?” 

At the mention of Thomas’s complaints, Rafayel grimaced and looked away, “Puh-lease, I’m his boss here, not him. He can’t control me, no matter how much he wants to.” His hand found their way on her hips, pulling her close. “Besides, I’m bored. Let’s go somewhere private, yeah?” Before she could voice out her objections, Rafayel immediately dragged her to the quieter, lonely 

 side of the gallery. There were no artworks framed on the walls nor are there any people here to disturb the couple. “Raf honey… are you sure we're allowed here? Isn’t this section of the gallery closed off?” Her voice tinged with uncertainty and maybe a little bit of unease at the blank and empty part of the gallery. 

“It’s fine, no one ever comes home.” He reassured her, letting go of his hand and cupping her face, “Now, it’s just the two of us here.” Rafayel captured her lips in a searing kiss, pouring all of his pent-up desire from before into it. She could taste the remnants of her pussy juice, rendering her completely into a puddle of mess as Rafayel’s fingers trailed down and slipped underneath her dress with ease. She whimpered against his lips as Rafayel rubbed her clit through her damp panties, soaked from the pleasure she received back in the comfort of his home. 

“R- raf… ah! Mhmm… we- we can’t” She murmured helplessly as Rafayel began to nip at her neck, licking the hickey he left there. It had bloomed beautifully, his mark on hers – a sign to everyone that she was his. Only his. 

Of course, she hadn’t been a fool, she did try to cover up the hickey before they stepped into the exhibition but Rafayel wouldn’t stop pestering her and telling her to just leave it be. In the end, she caved in and proudly showed off the mark, albeit with much reluctance and embarrassment. Rafayel rasped, “Need you… need you here, right now.” 

Swiftly, Rafayel tugged her panties aside and unzipped his pants, freeing his throbbing cock from the confines of his pants. He pressed her against the wall, her back facing him, “N- now?!” She sputtered but Rafayel was already stroking his aching shaft on her sopping wet mound. 

He lined himself up, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at her entrance. Rafayel wanted nothing more than to slam inside, to consume her entirely, his body blazing with need but he knew she was still sensitive from the overstimulation. “Keep quiet, okay?” He whispered hotly before thrusting deep inside her slick walls, burying himself to the hilt, feeling it tighten. 

“You feel so fucking good.” He gripped her hips, staring intently at his lover, biting her lips to stifle the moans and cries of pleasure. Without wasting any time, Rafayel set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward as he fucked into her dripping cunt with deep, powerful strokes. Anyone could walk in on them, going at it like rabbits in heat but all caution and care was thrown out of the window. Rafayel could only feel her wet, clasping heat, determined to bring her to the edge and make her feel good. There was no denying the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, if a guard were to catch them, they would no doubt be in trouble.

Then again, the risk is what makes it exciting. Rafayel groaned softly, nuzzling into her neck as she held back her cries of ecstasy, the familiar coppery tang of her blood sinking into her tongue from biting her lips too hard. Rafayel’s hands slid up to cup and knead her breasts through her dress as he pounded into her. The sensation was too much, her brain was all mushy as her pussy fluttered around him, sucking him in deeper, wanting more. 

Her hands pathetically scrambled to hold onto the wall, squeezing her eyes shut as she desperately tries to not let a single sound fall off of her lips. Rafayel’s voice was low, “You're clenching me so tightly baby. Ha… what a dirty girl, taking my cock like this out in the open. You love this, don’t you?” 

A whimper escaped from her throat as Rafayel slammed his hips forward fast and deep into her dripping, clinging heat. He noticed the way her breath quickened, her face etched in a fucked-out expression, losing herself to the overwhelming pleasure. Her pussy clenching around him, velvet walls fluttering wildly as he drove her closer to the edge. 

Rafayel withdrew from fondling her breasts and gripped her face, turning her towards him as his lips met hers in a messy, desperate kiss, all tongue and teeth as he fucked her towards her release. “Come for me, you can do it. Come one more time for me on my cock.” He murmured against her lips, feeling his orgasm nearing.

He felt her body stiffened, coming undone as he drowned out all her cries with a wet, sensual kiss. Rafayel grunted, his hips stuttering and with one final thrust, he buried himself deep inside her soaked cunt. His cock jerked and pulsed as he pumped her full with his seed. Rafayel pulled away and panted, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, a sheen of sweat trickling down from their coupling. He gazed at her with adoring eyes, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before he reluctantly pulled out of her cum-filled cunt. Rafayel tugged the panties to the center of her clit, covering her as she caught her breath. 

Wordlessly, Rafayel scooped her into his arms around her, letting her rest her head against his chest. Her eyes shut closed, her mind dancing around cloud nine from the intensity of it all.  

“Let’s go home, my love.” He said softly as he made his way towards the exit, ignoring the curious stares and ogles from the people in the exhibition. When Thomas tried to question him, Rafayel dismissed him and continued to walk to his car, gently putting her down onto the passenger seat.

Once they were home, Rafayel put on a bath and scrubbed her clean with much affection. Afterwards, he prepared dinner and cuddled her, staring down at her peaceful expression as she slumber. 

“I love you, my treasure.” He spoke quietly, kissing her forehead before falling asleep with his lover in his arms. 

[babyaiker]

And quietly in the distance you can hear the Braithwaite Manor explode

But ye! Finally getting out of art block and I decided to draw these two! I’ve seen a small handful of posts talking about these two and how they could’ve been friends, but I know for a fact this is akin to an ask @honeyzephyr sent me ^^ At the time I wasn’t able to come up with an idea based on the prompt they gave, so instead I have something that while is a tad different, still fulfills the niche!

Yes I want these two to be friends it would be so fun. I can absolutely see Kieran offering to hear her out whenever she needs. (like a mix of genuine empathy and a lack of social awareness to understand why the others in camp seem to want nothing to do with her) So in the drawing we have the reverse, Molly stopping by to make sure Kieran isn’t too shaken up about his “involvement” in Jack’s kidnapping. Because yes the empathy goes both ways, even if Molly possibly has some reservations about talking to him. (I mainly got this idea from the fact that at the beginning of the Braithwaite Manor raid mission, both can be seen near Dutch in the cutscene)

*insert that one gif of Kieran helping Molly step down from the stagecoach in the background of a cutscene beginning of chapter 4 :3*

[thegalleonsnest]

OK since I haven't seen too many people talk about this since twitter news usually strikes pretty fast over here whenever e'usk does anything ever, let me give ya'll the run down on two things that will go live on NOVEMBER 15TH and why people are mass migrating to Blue Sky once more; and provide resources to help protect your art and make the transition to Blue Sky easier if you so choose:

The Block function no longer blocks people as intended. It now basically acts as a glorified Mute button. Even when you block someone, they can still see your posts, but they can't engage in them. If your account is a Public one and not a Private one, people you blocked will see your posts.

They say because people can easily "share and hide harmful or private information about those they've blocked," they changed it this way for "greater transparency." When in reality, this is an extremely dangerous change, as the whole point of blocking is to cease interaction with people entirely for a plethora of reasons, i.e. stalking, harassment, spam, endangerment, or just plainly annoying and not wanting to see said tweets/accounts. or you know, for 18+ accounts who do not want minors interacting with them or their material at all (There is speculation saying these changes are specifically for Elon himself so he can do his own kind of stalking, and honestly, with the private likes change, it lowkey checks out in my opinion)

Also, this straight up goes against and may violate Apple and Google's app store policies and also is straight up illegal in Canada and probably other countries as well.

If this ACTUALLY goes through, twitter will only be available in select countries, probably exclusively in the US, which would collapse the site with the lost of users and stock, and probably be the last push it needs to kill the site. And if not, will be a very sad and exclusive platform made for specific kinds of people who line up with musk's line of thinking.

2. New policies regarding Grok AI and basically removing the option to opt out of Grok's information gathering to improve their software.

And anything you upload/post on the site is considered "fair game" with "royalty-free licenses" and they can do whatever they please with it. Primarily using any and all posts on twitter to train their Grok AI. A few months ago, there was a setting you can opt out of so they couldn't take anything you post to "improve" Grok, but I guess because so many people were opting out, they decided to make it mandatory as part of the policy change (This is mainly speculation from what I hear).

So this is considered the final straw for a LOT of people, especially artists who have been gripping on to twitter for as long as they can, but the AI nonsense is too much for people now, including myself. Lot's of people are moving to Blue Sky for good reason, and from personal experience, it is literally 10x better than twitter ever was, even before elon took over. There is no algorithm on there, and you can save "feeds" to your timeline to have a catered timelines to hop between if your looking for something specific like furry art or game dev stuff. It's taken them a bit to get off the ground and add much needed features, but it's genuinely so much better now

RESOURCES

Project Glaze & Cara

If you're an artist who's still on twitter or trying to ride it out for as long as you can for whatever reason you have, do yourself a favor and Glaze and/or Nightshade your work. Project Glaze is a free program designed to protect your art work from getting scrapped by AI machines. Glazing basically makes it harder to adapt and copy artwork that AI programs try to scan, while Nightshade basically "poisons" works to make AI libraries much more unstable and generate images completely off the mark. (These are layman's terms I'm using here, but follow the link to get more information)

The only problem with these programs is that they can be resource intensive for computers, and not every pc can run glaze. It's basically like rendering a frame/animation, you gotta let your pc sit there to get it glazed/nightshade, and depending on the intensity and power of your pc, this may take minutes to hours depending on how much you wanna protect your work.

HOWEVER, there are two alternatives, WebGlaze and Cara

WebGlaze is an in browser version of the program, so your pc doesn't have to do the heavy lifting. You do need to have an account with Glaze and be invited to use the program (I have not done so personally so I don't know much about the process.)

Cara is an artist focused site that doubles as both a portfolio site and a general social media platform. They've partnered with Glaze and have their own browser glazing called "Cara Glaze," and highly encourage users to post their work Glazed and are extremely anti-ai. You do get limited uses per day to glaze your work, so if you plan on doing a huge backlog uploading of your art, it may take awhile if your using just Cara Glaze.

Some twitter users have suggested glazing your art, cropping it, and overlaying it with a frame telling people to follow them elsewhere like on Bluesky. Here's a template someone provided if you wanna use this one or make your own.

Blue Sky Resources and Tips

So if your a twitter user and your about to realize the hellish task of refollowing a massive chunk of people you follow, have no fear, there's an extension called Sky Follower Bridge (Firefox & Chrome links). This is a very basic extension that makes it really easy to find people on Bluesky

It sorts them out by trying to find matching usernames, usernames in descriptions, or by screen name. It's not 100% perfect, there's a couple people I already follow on Blue Sky but the extension could not find them on twitter correctly, but I still found a huge chunk of people. Also if your worried that this extension is "iffy," they do have a github open with the source publicly available and the Blue Sky Team themselves have promoted the extension in their recent posts while welcoming new users to the platform.

FEEDS and LABELS

OK SO THE COOLEST PART ABOUT BLUESKY IS THE FEEDS SYSTEM. Basically if you've made a twitter list before, it's like that, but way more customizable and caters to specific types of posts/topics. Consolidating them into a timeline/feed that exclusively filled about those particular topics, or just people in general. There's thousands to pick and choose from!

Here's a couple of mine that I have saved and ready (down below). Some feeds I have saved so I can jump to seeing what my friends and mutuals are up to, and see their posts specifically so it doesn't get lost in reposts or other accounts, and also specialized feeds for browsing artists within the furry community.

The Furry Community feeds I have here were created by people who've built an algorithm to place any #furry or #furryart or other special tags like #Furrystreamer or #furrydev. They even have one for commissions, and yes you can say commissions on a post and not have it destroyed or shadow banned. You are safe.

If you want, and I highly recommend it to get visibility and check out a neat community, follow furryli.st to get added to their list and feeds. Once your on the list, even without a hashtag, you'll still pop up in their specialized feeds as just a member of the community there. There are plenty of other feeds out there besides this one, but I feel like a lot of people could use one like this. They even got ones for OC specific too I remember seeing somewhere.

And in terms of labels, they can be either ways to help label yourself with specific things or have user created accessibility settings to help better control your experience on Blue Sky.

And my personal favorite: Ai Imagery Labeler. Removes any AI stuff or hides it to the best of it's abilities, and it does a pretty good job, I have not seen anything AI related since subscribing to it.

Finally, HASHTAGS WORK & No need to censor yourself!

This is NOT like twitter or any other big named social media site AT ALL, so you don't have to work around words to get your stuff out there and be seen. There are literally feeds built around having commissions getting and art seen! Some people worry about bots and that has been a recent issue since a lot of people are migrating to Blue Sky, but it comes with any social media territory.

ALSO COOL PART,

you can search a hashtag on someone's profile and search exclusively on that profile as well! You can even put the hashtag in bio for easy access if you have a specialize tag like here on tumblr. OR EVEN BUILD YOUR OWN ART FEED FOR YOUR STUFF SPECIFICALLY!

So yeah, there's your quick run down about twitter's current burning building, how to protect your art, and what to do when you move to Blue Sky! Have fun!

[songmingisthighs]

Pitiful, You’re Pitiful

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ch. vii

group : ateez

pairing : aged up!wooyoung × aged up!reader

genre : angst, mature

word count : 3.4 k

warning : mentions of miscarraige, negative depiction of wooyoung, cheating

a/n : i finally got over my writer's block for this series.

a/a/n : happy new year

buy me coffee ?

For the first time in weeks, you woke up feeling better, lighter even.

It wasn't just because for the first time in a while, you had slept on a real bed instead of your couch.

It was Dayoung's idea which surprised you. She had come to you a couple of nights prior, avoiding your eyes and blushing which made you almost equally nervous because she seemed like she was going to confess to a crime. It was Woohyun who told you that Dayoung had suggested for you three to sleep together in Woohyun's room (because you wouldn't want to sleep in a teenage girl's room filled with posters of whichever band she was fawning over staring at you at the dead of night and her dirty laundry strewn everywhere like a modern art installation) where she had taken her and Woohyun's mattresses, put them together in a way you three could be comfortable.

To say that you were beyond touched was an understatement but knowing that it was your daughter, you knew you needed to play it cool or else she wouldn't want to take credit. So while you wanted to sob while hugging your daughter, you simply nudged her shoulder and made a lame joke to which she rolled her eyes and called you a nerd but didn't bother to hide her amused smile.

For the first time ever, you slept through the night between your children; Woohyun was firmly attached to your side with his limbs wrapped around your body and Dayoung facing the other side but she kept her body close to you. Even though you were having such a rough time with your husband, you felt somewhat happy that your children were getting close to you.

On top of that, you were somewhat amused that Wooyoung had been showing considerable shame through the whole ordeal. He had the decency to skulk around whenever he saw you and took care of himself and his own needs without bothering you. Sure, you still include his portion when you cook and you still urge your children to spend time with their father (no matter how reluctant Dayoung was), but it was as if you both were separated.

It was hard living as such because you still loved Wooyoung no matter his mistake. You knew you could never tell any one of your friends about your feelings because they would remind you how he cheated on you with his own employee, how he used your miscarriage against you, and how he was just an overall asshole, completely skipping over the fact that you had spent almost two decades together, completely skipping over how you two shared so much love for each other, completely skipping over your history, and completely skipping over the fact that the two of you were bound together forever through your children. To say that you should lose all the love you have had and still have for your husband is to say that you should turn your back on the pieces of your husband in your children. It was to say that you should not find joy in the way Woohyun cackles like his dad or you should not be touched by the way Dayoung show her love and care by doing something for someone. Your friends, especially your girlfriends would not understand your predicament and they never will.

That's why you went to the one person you know might.

"Thanks for sparing your time for me," you smiled sheepishly at Yunho who chuckled as he sat himself down with his cup of coffee. "Hey, you're saving me from having to deal with the academy's internal business so I should thank you," he pointed out.

You had a feeling that one of the things he meant was the situation you created, the possible internal People investigation and possibly Harin trying to fight the academy back because as promised, her reputation was absolutely tarnished. Not to mention Wooyoung being put on leave for his injured back and then being put on administrative leave for his inappropriate action must have ruined their internal scheduling. Along with the entire mood of the academy, considerably.

"How are things? How are the guys there?" You asked after taking a sip of your peach tea. Yunho pursed his lips, mulling over how to share the discourse between the friend group. How was he supposed to tell you that everyone was split by their own convictions; Hongjoong who only focused on the operations of the business, Seonghwa who was worried about what was right after facing you himself, Yunho who was obviously on your side, Yeosang who felt conflicted and in disbelief over his friend's action, San who felt completely betrayed as a man of big moral and feelings, Mingi who kept making comparisons of what he would and wouldn't do if he was Wooyoung like a show of moral superiority, and Jongho who was just tired of the drama and wanted the workplace to return to its normalcy without all the cheating.

"The guys are focused on their own things, we can't seem to meet up a lot outside of work these days," Yunho smiled, hoping that it would satisfy your curiosity. Seeing as to how you simply nodded and didn't ask any follow-up questions, Yunho felt a bit glad. Or, he did felt glad until you suddenly cleared your throat and the aura shifted to a more serious one. "I actually called you because I have something to talk about and I couldn't think of anyone other than you to talk to." Yunho was quite surprised because you two had never gotten to a level of friendship where you would talk about secrets or break big news to each other. To be quite frank, the two of you had never really shared anything personal, ever. You two were connected through Wooyoung and neither one of you had initiated a more platonically intimate relationship. Heck, you both don't even have each other's numbers saved and you had to look for it from the group chat Seonghwa made for Hongjoong's surprise birthday party two years ago. Yunho loved you as his friend's wife and he had grown considerable admiration for you for supporting Wooyoung all these years which was why Wooyoung's betrayal of you hit him so hard.

With an eyebrow raised, Yunho stared at you, trying to see whether he should brace himself for bad news or good news. The two of you sat slightly tense, facing each other while the rest of the cafe went on, oblivious to your situation.

"I'm pregnant."

Silence.

The sound of the coffee machine whirring and steam hissing along with other customers that was so prominent suddenly died down in Yunho's ears and he couldn't help but stare at you with wide eyes and jaw hanging open. His brain was trying so hard to process your words, repeating what you said over and over again as if it was something hard to comprehend but it isn't, it absolutely isn't.

"Hello?" You waved a hand in front of Yunho, trying to break his trance, "Yunho, did you hear me?"

Yunho seem to broke out of his trance once you called his name with a shake of his head. When your words finally sunk in, Yunho gasped and rushed out of his chair to hug you, taking you completely by surprise. "Oh my God, congratulations, (y/n)! Your third child, finally!" he shakily exhaled out of excitement. His energy rubbed off on you because at his congratulatory sentiment, you chuckled and patted him on the back, "Thank you so much, Yunho, I truly appreciate it."

Once Yunho got back to his seat, another realization dawned on him. "Wait, when did this happen? With what's going on with you and Wooyoung, how is this gonna work?" he asked, genuinely concerned. His questions didn't catch you by surprise as it was also something you had been thinking about a lot recently. "If you're asking me when I last slept with Wooyoung, I will actually buy a bagel and smack you with it," Yunho couldn't help but chuckle at your feistiness, "But... About how this is going to work with me and Wooyoung... I actually don't know. Hell, even if we don't put the baby in question, I don't know how things are going to be like with Wooyoung," you sighed. Yunho pursed his lips, thinking, "Well, have you thought about it before? Are you still going to stay with him?" Had someone else asked that question, you would have taken somewhat of an offence because the question would have most definitely come from a place of judgment, like as if you don't know that divorce is an option and that they would bring up some spiel about women empowerment, girl power, and equality as if those had anything to do with your situation as if there was only you and he in the equation and not your two children. But you know Yunho meant well and his question came out of curiosity and worry. "Honestly, I don't think I want to leave Wooyoung over this," you said, voice low and eyes glued to your intertwined fingers as if ashamed or scared that Yunho would react badly to your answer.

Thankfully, Yunho nodded at your answer knowingly and in full understanding, "Because you two had been together for so long and had been in love for so long that you can't imagine a life without him." Your head snapped up and almost immediately, a huge wave of relief washed over you, "Exactly. I... I can't just leave him, he's my husband for goodness sake, to me, that means something because when I said my wedding vows, I really meant it!" "So, you still uphold the part where you said 'through snotty nose and cheesy prose, I'll love you and your stubby toes'?" Yunho teased, making you roll your eyes, "Of course, you'd remember the part that mentioned toes. You're not beating your feetish allegations here, Yunho," you pointed back teasingly, causing Yunho to laugh.

When his laughter died down, he went back to being serious but still maintaining casualness as to not stress you out. "But really, have you... Tried imagining a life without him?"

At that, you closed your eyes and released a long exhale. "I see... Myself doing my normal routine; waking up, preparing breakfast, getting the kids up. This, this is not my current house, this is a small, cozy apartment somewhere in a neighbourhood that's not too packed and is very kid-friendly. It's cute, I can tell I decorate it but the kids have their things everywhere; Woohyun has his drawings on the fridge, and Dayoung has her things strewn on the couch. I see the kids, Dayoung and Woohyun running out of their rooms, heading straight for the food and,,, and... and there he is, our new baby in his playpen. He looked around one, with the brightest smile and gosh, he has Wooyoung's mole under his eye, a real copy of him and I love him so much. I see all this... Togetherness but I feel incomplete, like something is missing. There is so much happiness but my smile never seems to reach my eyes. I feel... Empty inside. Then... The bell rang. I open the door and I see Wooyoung, standing alone. He looked... Tired. He usually wear sharp, clean outfits but this time he's just wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants and he look... Sad. Like me. He came in and the kids greeted him, saying that they missed him and two five days was too long. Wooyoung went to play with the baby and I felt... Weird. I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to ask how he was doing and why he looked so... Fragile. But instead, I hid in the kitchen, pretending to be so occupied by the dishes. The kids then came out with their bags, asking me to not forget the things that needed tending over the weekend. The more they spoke about what they had planned with Wooyoung for the weekend, the harder it was for me to breathe. There's this... Nagging thought in my head that while the baby can't go with them now, he's going to be able to go with them soon to stay at Wooyoung's and it hurts to think that I would be spending days without my children, I would be missing days I could spend with them until they grow up and have their own lives. I imagine... It would be even harder for Wooyoung because he'd have even fewer days with them than I do and it's sad. It's so, so sad. I could see Wooyoung looking at me and vice versa. There is so much emotion, so many things unsaid. But with the things that happened, the decisions we took..." You slowly opened your eyes and felt your eyes sting, "And I don't want there to be such pain in my family."

Seeing you cry made Yunho's heart clench but he knew that his capabilities to help you were limited so he rushed to the cashier with a stack of tissue and offered it to you, making you chuckle at the amount he brought. "Sorry, I... I didn't mean to cry," you shakily said, cheeks burning out of embarrassment. Yunho immediately shook his head, "No, this is nothing compared to Mingi bawling because his favourite anime was ending," he scoffed. Knowing how passionate Mingi was with his anime, you knew how bad his crying must have been and you couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of a 6 ft man needing to be comforted like a baby in public.

Once you wiped all the tears and snot away, Yunho opened his mouth again, "I don't mean to make this seem so negative nor am I steering you into a certain direction or opinion, I just want to cover all the bases," you nodded in understanding, "Have you considered that it might not be that bad? I've seen other people who were better off being divorced and their kids seem all the better for it." To that, you couldn't help but smile softly, "Wooyoung and I are not like other people, our family was never like other people's."

Hearing you still felt so strongly about Wooyoung despite everything, brought a feeling of newfound respect in Yunho for you. A lot of people had been talking in the academy, people who were not in their inner circle that the reason why Wooyoung was not back to work yet was because you had left him and with what people know, they found entertainment it, deeming that he deserved to be left. While they tried their best to shut the conversation down, they couldn't help but have their opinion slightly swayed, skewed in your favour but leaning more towards condemning their own friend due to his action. They started putting themselves in your shoes, thinking what they would do had they been in your situation, had they been betrayed the way you had been. All of them imagined, and thought, and analyzed, and guessed, but here you were, the actual person who was experiencing the actual event, showing more humanity than anyone else ever could.

"I don't really talk about this, but my family has a past with cheating and while everyone acted like it was no big thing, I reacted rather poorly. I was one of those people who claimed that anyone who had been cheated should just leave their partner who cheated, I was rather adamant and I voiced my opinion rather obnoxiously. Because of that, I received a harsh talking to because my opinion, my belief was hurting the person who actually had to endure the pain. I was told that divorce should be plan zzz because marriage is a TON of work and people have the right to not want to do a lot of work but they should not get married. I was told that no one can come into marriage thinking "I could just get a divorce" because then your subconscious is already tainted and you will end up working your marriage towards a divorce. I was told that hard work happens every day in a marriage, not just when you go through hard things. When I got married, I learned what that actually meant because one day I was all lovey-dovey and so in love and I couldn't get enough of Wooyoung and the next, I wanted to strangle him just because he was breathing wrong when he was sleeping. Not to mention the kids, you know, people think that Woohyun is an angel, but he has his demons and Dayoung, as much as she's a handful, has her sweet moments too. I worked so hard for my marriage, my family. So in conclusion, I am... Painfully aware of what Wooyoung did and how it affected me and I don't think I can forgive him now but maybe it will happen... When or if I start working hard towards it. But I will never forget."

"So... You're really staying with him?" Yunho asked. You weren't sure what to answer because honestly, you're aware that any sane person with any self-respect who knew they could never forget what their partner did would have run far far away and started anew, those with or without children. So why couldn't you? Instead, you shrugged at Yunho, "I don't know, I'll have to see how we're going to work through this," you stated. "And... The baby?" "I'm planning on going to the hospital today to get the baby checked out. With what has been going on, I haven't had the time for a check-up since the last time." Yunho furrowed his eyebrows at your statement, "Last time? When was 'last time'?" "Remember the first time we found out Wooyoung was cheating on me? When he first hurt his back and Harin pretended to be his wife?"

For the second time that day, Yunho felt his jaw hang open in surprise. "You've known you were pregnant for so long and you didn't tell anyone!?" he screeched. "Well, I didn't know what to say or who to tell! It wasn't like the moment was right, I was stressed, under a lot of pressure, and I had now-things to worry about and deal with!" you defended.

Yunho slumped on his chair and huffed. "Well... When are you planning on telling Wooyoung about the baby? Do you need help or company?" he offered. You smiled and shrugged, "I'm planning on telling him with the ultrasound of the baby but I have to deal with getting Dayoung and Woohyun from the academy so it's-" "Hey, I can help get them!" Yunho said. You raised an eyebrow at him, "What?" "Yeah, yeah! I totally can help you get Dayoung and Woohyun from the academy! I'm going back there after this anyways, so it's perfect!" The way he got excited at the prospect of helping you was endearing and it helped made you feel... Seen.

"No, no, Yunho, I can't let you do that because Woohyun can be a handful and Dayoung finishes her classes an hour after Woohyun so you're gonna have to entertain Woohyun for a bit so-" "Which will be fine since I promised to teach him some new games!"

It was clear that Yunho was trying so hard to be useful. Not that usually he isn't, but you really didn't want to bother him.

"I don't know..." You sighed.

Yunho leaned on the table, looking into your eyes, "I can assure you that I can do this and I want to help. Please? So you'll have one thing less to worry about."

How could you say no when he was being so nice?

With a final sigh, you nodded. "Fine, but once any of them give you trouble-" "I'll send them to you in a bag," Yunho assured, saluting you. You rolled your eyes at him, "Bags might not be enough to contain them," you teased, causing Yunho to chuckle.

You said your goodbyes to each other, hugging in front of the cafe while thanking each other. You, because Yunho spared his time to talk, and Yunho, because you shared some very personal information and trusted him.

When you got into your car, you leaned back and closed your eyes as you waited for the engine to properly turn on. Whilst waiting, you felt your phone vibrate and you noticed it was a message from Wooyoung.

'Hey, I know you're out right now but I think we need to talk when you come back.'

"That makes two of us, bud," you scoffed before you tossed your phone to the passenger seat. Huffing one last time, you looked down at your stomach and smiled a little.

"Let's go give your daddy the heart attack he's due."

network :

@sandsofire @kflixnet @pirateeznet

taglist :

@atinyreads @strawberry-yeo @soobiverse @vixensss @smally97 @maidens-world @yunhoswrldddd @imcoenffl @nescaffei @miaatiny @showmehoseok @tmingi @wlv-asteria @sunwoosbaby @hyukssunflower @remi-young @roguesthetic

@staytiny816 @dearinsaniiity @scentednerdenemy

permalist :

@kodzukein @phenomenalgirl9 @skzatzloveismonsterous @memorymonster @surveilenceysystem @dreamlesswonder86 @maddiebabyxoxo @imababywolf @do-you-actually-care @marievllr-abg @ilsedingsx @wasteitonserendipity @bbymatz @noonaishere @honeyhwaaa @ateezourstars @yoonjunshi @yoongiigolden @camillelafaye @charreddonuts @kpopnightingale @starryunho @atinct @mirror-juliet @hyuckilstan @jayb17

[starcharmed]

୨ৎ .ᐟ.ᐟ - unnecessary feedback

sukuna might be an asshole but at least he's nice (sometimes) ; 0.5k+ wc

modern au, some playfully mean comments, cursing, 1 (one) suggestive comment (it's sukuna c'mon), abuse of commas

⟡ - word rot no.3

“The fuck are you doing?” Your boyfriend’s sweet and kind and caring tone reached your ears as you squared your shoulders up and tilted back the notebook to block out a view he could still see at his height. 

“Nothin’.” Sliding from his gaze, you rubbed your fingertips across the abnormally unmessy sketch across the page, “You wouldn’t even be interested in this anyways.” Okay, you deserved that eyebrow raise but it wasn’t completely false. Sukuna hardly looked at your art whenever you were working, maybe it’s because he figured you didn’t like to be perceived while working. 

“If you sat there for ten fucking minutes staring at me like I grew four arms or something, then it’s not nothin’”, pitching his voice to mock your tone, Sukuna tried swiping at your notebook, “Let me see.”

“No, you freak.” Raising your notebook up in the air was a pointless move. Overestimating your physical prowess against Sukuna all of people, you let go once his hand grasped the notebook. You’d rather have him see than tear the entire thing in half trying to squabble with him. 

“Sukuna, please, they look horrible and I didn’t even draw your nose right and it’s bad-”

He was going to kill you (ignore you for about ten minutes until he wanted attention), then hide your body in the basement (you don’t even have a basement), and tell the police that it was your weird neighbour Satoru (he looks like a guy that would hide bodies, to be honest). 

“They’re not bad.” Oh my god you were living with a döppelganger. 

You winced at the uneasy tapping of the notebook upon the top of your head, “I mean it, dumbass. They look fine. You’d know if I was lying, anyways.” You would. Sukuna sugarcoating anything was as possible as diamond rain on Earth. 

Sukuna let you grab your notebook again, making a face when your lead-smudged fingers left an ant sized stian on his hand. You muttered a half-hearted thanks for the returnal of your lifeline, watching him rub his hands against his charcoal black hoodie. Did he even know that he was just smearing the lead against his hand further? He probably didn’t care.

“You were right about my nose, though.” Here we go.

“It’s the angle”, poor defense but not a lie. It was not that easy to capture the full structure of his nose at a sideways downwards tilted type of angle. 

Sukuna snorted, the displeasing noise earning a scrunched up nose from yourself, “You’ve seen my nose from plenty of angles. Especially at a downwards view.”

“That’s why it’s a sketch!” Practically screeching out the words fastly you hoped to save yourself some face, “Get out of my room you hoe.” Discarding your notebook someone amongst the mountains of throw blankets upon your bed, pushing Sukuna out of your shared bedroom was harder than moving, well, a mountain.

“You’re so weird”, grabbing your hands, Sukuna stopped your movements flawlessly, “Very weird. Why am I dating you again?”

“Because you love me?” You wished you could verbally add more question marks without seemingly speaking oddly. 

“No, I hate you.”

“What the fuck? Die.” Cringing away from the kiss on top of your head, you felt the urge to draw him as ugly as possible.

Wait…maybe you should draw him with four arms next.

[romana-after-dark]

Dead Dove December 2024

Hello everyone! This December I’m hosting a multi-fandom event that I’m calling, Dead Dove December! From 12/01/2024 - 12/31/2024 I’m encouraging others to create something that expresses their deepest and (most importantly) darkest desires. I will be reblogging all pieces of art or fanfiction, and will post a masterlist in January. or whenever i get around to it. i have not even done the pride masterlist bc I'm a disaster! But most importantly this will be for funsies.

I hosted this last year with just oscar/pedro Characters but Logan is my special guy so he's here now too <3

Details below the cut…

What is Dead Dove Do Not Eat?

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, or DDDNE has its origins in one of my comfort shows!

The phrase comes from a meme referencing the 2003 Arrested Development episode "Top Banana", in which Michael Bluth opens a paper bag labeled "DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT" and, upon discovering that there is a dead dove inside the bag, says, deadpan, "I don't know what I expected." - fanlore.org

In short, what you see in the tags is what you should expect to see in the fic. This can apply for any type of fic, including the fluffy ones, but it’s usually associated with darker themes. That being said, this is your warning that this is a DARK THEMED EVENT. If you aren’t comfortable with darker topics like non-con, excessive violence, blood/gore, death, toxic relationships, 18+ age gaps, and more, then I encourage you not to participate in this event.

How to Participate

For the month of December, post your Dead Dove fanfiction or fan art on your blog. Use the tag #deaddovedecemeber2024 and tag me. You can also send a link via ask or DM if you like! I will not be posting anything for you, just reblogging and linking. At the end of December I will post a masterlist with links to everyone’s works! Side Note - Since Tumblr doesn’t really allow for NSFW art, you can post your work on Twitter or any other site that allows it and just send me that link so I can add it to the masterlist.

Rules

You MUST be 18+ to participate. I will be checking your blog/social media to be sure. Please make sure your age is easy to find. If I find that you’re a minor or if your age isn’t readily present I will be blocking you and you will be unable to participate. You can just add that you are over 18 if you don’t want your age out on the internet. As the creator and promotor of this event, I need to know I’m not interacting with minors given the nature of this event.

The work MUST be dark in some way. There’s no limit to how dark your work needs to be or can be, but it needs to contain some sort of dark theme in order to qualify. If non con isn’t your thing, dub con via stockholm syndrome or brainwash can let you write a more comfortable scene while still remaining dark. Fics and art do not necessarily need to be NSFW. last year a friend even did cnc, where it was seemingly dark but then ended with it was Marc and reader ding a scene. Dark reader or oc is an absolute yes.

Your work MUST have an Oscar Isaac, Hugh Jackman, or Pedro Pascal Character. It can be x reader, x oc,xcanon character, crosoversec. If you want Joel Miller fucking the ghoul from Fallout (or both of them fucking a reader)you can even though Eddie doesn't exist in any Oscar Pedro Hugh content. If you want Marc and Logan to fuck, go nuts. Got a series you're already writing, and wanna submit a dark chapter or a dark Au to it? That's fine too! We're pretty open here. No rpf.

Do NOT post anything before 12/01/2024. I will not count submissions prior to that date or after 12/31/2024. Masterlsit will be posted in January.

Your work MUST contain the proper tags. I won’t police how detailed your tags should be, but, for instance, if your work contains non-con, and you didn’t tag non-con then your work will not qualify. Please be inclusive in your writing where you can, but aware of POC queer and disabled people.

You may submit no more than two (2) pieces. This can include a fanfic and fanart, two fanfics or two fanarts. This is to allow someone to write a piece and make a work of art to accompany it. You can also work with another creator together.

I’m not going to yuck someone’s yum, but there are some things I’m just personally not comfortable with and since I’ll be reading/viewing/promoting all of these, I have a few things not allowed in the event. The list of what’s NOT allowed is shorter than the list of what IS allowed so here’s a list of the things that will NOT be tolerated in this event:

No underage/aged up minor content - To clarify, this includes things popular ships like - TLOU 1 or "Show Ellie" x Joel or Miguel O’Hara X Gwen Stacy. No "ageing up" minors for the purpose of a fic.

No Bestiality - To clarify, monsterfucking does NOT count as bestiality (at least to me). For example, werewolves, venom, Khonshu, e.t.c. are all allowed.

No Real person fanfiction. Can’t include Oscar, Pedro, or Hugh. This is not a moral judgement or me looking down just not in my comfort zone

No incest - To clarify, step-sibling/step-parent relationships are permitted as long as everyone is 18+. Different age of consent in your state or country does not apply here, and frankly I'd prefer 21+ but I know there are younger people than me who write so I'm not gonna say you gotta write like that. Selfcest relationships are also allowed (like Moon Knight or Miguel with his alternate self, e.t.c.).

No necro/snuff. Plain and simple.

I have final say in what I want to promote. Is TLOU 2 Ellie an adult and not technically Joel's ctual kid? Yes. technically it fits all the rules but it gives me the ick so I'm not gonna accept it. I cannot possibly prepare for all scenarios, and i want to just be able to have fun here with yall.

If you’re unsure if something is allowed or not, you can send me a DM or an ask for clarification prior to posting.

You can use any prompts you want or none, you aren’t tied to any one idea but here are some to get the ideas flowing if you need them!

Also, you can absolutely use a fic to inspire your art, or art to inspire a fic! Your inspiration piece, whether yours or someone else’s does not have to be from December, but you MUST obtain permission from the original creator before I promote your work. Most creators are happy when their work inspires others, and all my fics are open to being used for inspiration, but please reach out to the creator first.

I’m very excited! This is my second year hosting this an I've hosted other events by myself or with friends so I'm happy to keep going, this time with Hugh Jackman bc i can't get Logan out of my head.

Dividers and header made by the amazing @melodygatesauthor

Please consider reblogging to spread the word!

I don't reall know many people in the logan/hugh jackman fandom so I'd love if this was an oppritunity to get to know yall too!

Dark prompt list to come, also check out #deaddovedecember2023 to see what last year had!