#why does it sound like his accent is different too?

[xinganhao]

👾 wonwoo x streamer!reader.

the one where wonwoo is pretty down bad for you, a popular streamer. headcanons under the cut.

👾 new save file ?

game start. getting in to you had been an accident, really. wonwoo already had a relatively established list of streamers that he followed and subscribed to, but then he saw a clip of you dominating as gangplank and he just had to check you out. he didn't even start with one of your streams; instead, he sifted through a couple of youtube video compilations until he found one that wasn't too long. just about fifteen minutes. he watched that— only to find himself watching another one, then another, then another.

wonwoo is roughly three hours and eleven videos deep when he concedes: okay, maybe he should check out one of your actual streams. these video compilations are just a taste of the real thing, and he already likes what he's seeing. sure, you could probably use a bit of work when it comes to fps games, but you're a menace in multiplayer online battle arenas. and you have some pretty cute rpg/life simulation game content, too. he can get behind that, he decides.

when wonwoo finally finds time to tune in to one of your streams, he's absolutely floored. all those clips of you don't do justice to the real thing. you're engaging without being overbearing; you manage your chat and your stream like a pro. what really gets him, though, is your voice. he adores the accent, the cadence of it. he's convinced he can listen to it all day. without much thought, he's already signed up to subscribe.

level one. he starts with watching your streams when he catches them. maybe he'll tune in specifically when he hears you're playing a game he's particularly in to, like when you tried your hand at stray. wonwoo pays about as much attention to you as he does with the rest of the other streamers/content creators that he follows.

but that voice. you're easy on the eyes, sure, but it's that voice that always seems to just reel him in. it gets to a point where wonwoo will sometimes have reruns of your stream playing in the background, if only because he likes the sound of you. he might be playing a game of his own or doing something entirely different— whatever it is, you're a muted drone that offers a semblance of company.

wonwoo realizes he may be a bit screwed when he realizes he's started looking forward to your bi-monthly streams. twice a month, you're slotted in to his busy schedule. if he can't catch you live, he'll watch the replay. wonwoo tries to convince himself it's a hyperfixation; a passing thing, one that he just has to get out of his system.

check point. except it decidedly isn't a hyperfixation, because three years later, wonwoo is still subscribed, still racing to catch any and all of your streams. it's not something that the public is particularly privy to; it's one thing for wonwoo to be a fan of pro gamers and a completely other thing for him to be simping for a streamer. the boys all have varying levels of awareness as to why wonwoo is always glued to his phone on the first friday of each month, or where some of his hard-earned money goes— but, for the most part, this is just his.

this, as in you. mingyu is constantly exasperated about it, though it's something of a small and simple truth at this point: jeon wonwoo is a fanboy, and you are the object of his affections. you, with your comforting streams, your insightful commentary, your stellar gameplay. you give the idol a taste of his medicine. he understands, though you, what it means to be just a little delusional and parasocial.

mingyu is always saying that wonwoo ought to make a move, ought to make himself known. the truth? wonwoo is fine with this. he's not sure he even wants to meet you, if he's honest. he's okay with watching from afar, with the illusion of unattainability. there's already dozens of factors piled up against him to begin with. he's not about to complicate things, to hope for more.

wonwoo is happy to donate, to send you gifts, to participate as the nameless and faceless gam3bo1woo in your chat. he's happy to watch your streams, to see you grow in to yourself as a creator; to fail and get back up again, to succeed every so often. this is enough, he thinks to himself time and time again. you're already being selfish as is. this is all we can have, wonwoo, and it's enough. — ... right?

[papayafiles]

i'm watching the scuffed podcast episode that lando was on in 2020 instead of sleeping (i keep skipping forward/trying to get the lando bits only because it's so awkward/uncomfy 😭 this podcast is definitely not my vibe but i'm pushing through for him) and it's so funny how uncomfortable lando and the one girl on the podcast seem the whole time. like if this were in person they'd definitely be exchanging side eyes and laughing nervously. also the fact that lando clearly didn't know what he was getting himself into when he agreed to come on and the entire first section is just him Realizing and looking increasingly uncomfortable 😭 this poor boy

[skyburger]

best day of my life was when vimms lair let other regional versions of games be on the site u have no idea how happy i was. like yes finally i dont have to send people digging through a huge archive.org dump of DS games so they can play professor layton & not suffer thru lukes american dub voice 😭

[lovebugism]

✶ ┄ LOVE AND MERCY !

summary: you're more stubborn than the apocalypse. eric is the personification of a sad, wet dog. your world's collide when the world as you know it ends. (6.3k)

pairing: eric (a quiet place day one) / f!reader

contents: strangers to friends to lovers, a couple of losers in love, apocalyptic setting, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of grief and anxiety, brief mentions of injuries, and smut 18+

You wake up that morning in a bed that is not yours, in a room that does not belong to you, in an abandoned cabin you turned into a safe house three weeks ago.

Everything around you is foreign. Including the world outside these rotted walls, which turned entirely on its head in a blink. A blink that somehow turned into three months gone.

The only thing familiar to you now is the stranger lying in the bed beside you — on the right side that he has wordlessly claimed as his own. Before Eric was a guy you shared beds with, he was a guy you found in the rain. A boy with big, wet, puppy dog eyes who followed you like a stray after the world fell.

That was all he was to you for a month straight. A burden. Deadweight. An ever-anxious being that had nearly gotten you killed more times than you could count. You never saw him any differently until you almost died — a certain death involving you, an old beartrap, several aliens with uber-sensitive hearing, and a stupid boy who was too dumb to leave you behind. 

“I can’t leave you,” Eric blubbered through tears, whimpering in faint whispers so the blind monsters wouldn’t hear. “I won’t.”

“Then you won’t make it at all, you idiot,” you spat through gritted teeth, eyes wide and stern and glittering. You wouldn’t let yourself cry, not even with your leg all but torn to shreds, but Eric’s sudden stubbornness scared you. Why now? Of all times? you thought to yourself, Why does he have to be so stubborn now?

“I wouldn’t want to,” Eric promised, bloodied hands trembling where they gripped your arms. “I wouldn’t want to make it without you.”

That was a month or so ago, but you carry the horrors of that day still. 

In the vivid nightmares that rattle your bones. In the marred skin of your ankle, hidden beneath bandages, slowly healing with each passing day. And in the strange boy with puppy dog eyes who still hasn’t left your side.

Let me check your leg, Eric scribbles on a notepad. 

His handwriting is slanted and small and hardly legible — fitting for a man whose mind is always racing faster than he can keep up. 

The marker is fading slowly, too, dying from excessive use because the majority of your conversations are spoken through written words on a page. You’ve gone through a notebook or three already.

You snatch the notepad from his grip to write a response of your own. Eric peels the tattered blanket from your body to survey the gauze around your ankle. He peeks beneath the bandage, and his chest pinches at the sight — not because of his sensitive stomach, but because of the harsh reminder of the day he almost lost you.

The paper swishes faintly when you turn the notebook back to him. Okay, Dr. Eric :P, you’ve written in sloppy cursive. The boy grins at the mischievous look in your eyes.

“That’s Doctor Eric Esquire to you,” he corrects in a whisper that makes his accent sound more posh than usual. He smooths the gauze back into place with a gentle hand and says, “You’re healing fine, I think. I’ll have to go out and scavenge for more bandages soon, but these should last for another…”

The sounds of your rapid scribbling fill the quiet cabin. Eric trails off in wait, wide eyes darting from the marker in your hand to the pinched look of concentration on your face. 

He sees a strange sort of giddiness sparking in your otherwise serious features that makes him fearful. Intrigued, yes, but still distantly fearful. All your ideas tend to get him into trouble.

The notebook turns to him again. His stomach does a backflip.

Wanna go on an adventure?

“This is… Not what I was expecting,” Eric muses beneath the sounds of a rushing waterfall. 

His words echo slightly in the expanse of the dank cave. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice in full volume, deep and accented and smooth. His pretty whispering annoyed you to no end back when he was just a stranger with exactly zero survival instincts. Now, you never want him to stop talking.

“Well, that’s why it’s an adventure,” you lilt, wiping water from your brow with the neck of your t-shirt. 

Your clothes stick to you in places where the waterfall had splashed you on your way underneath it. The still air of the cave, strangely cool compared to the humid air outside of it, makes you fight back a shiver.

Eric eyes you from a distance, features swirled in a quiet concern. It’s impossible to relish in this little ounce of peace when you have the kind of mind he does — the kind of mind that’s always anxious and always filled with thoughts of you. 

He cares so much for you, far more than he planned to, that it’s made him chronically fearful. He’s grown to realize, since he met you, that the two words are rather synonymous. You can’t have love without fear — and what is there to be fearful for, if not for the ones you love?

“Your bandages really shouldn’t be getting wet, you know?”

You scoff and limp further into the damp hollow. The quiet sound of your steps reverberates within the stone walls, along with the subtle scuffing of your bad foot. “You said I was healing okay, remember?” you huff and drop the basket in your elbow onto the cobblestone.

“I said you were healing fine,” Eric chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s a difference.”

“Not really,” you shrug with a scrunched nose, flashing him a fleeting glance over your shoulder. You turn away again and wince at the distant ache in your ankle when you crouch. 

Sometimes the scars hurt like they’re still fresh, still weeping scarlet and throbbing like a new wound. Eric’s not a doctor, but he tells you that it’ll probably be that way forever. “Phantom pains, I think they call it,” he says in a posh accent that makes him sound more official than he really is. You’re inclined to believe him, anyway.

The boy watches as you sort through the wicker basket you stole — or borrowed, as you claim, “’cause it’s not like the owner’s coming back for it anytime soon.” It’s full of stuff you wouldn’t let him see, like it was some kind of big secret. 

He grimaces when you squat, putting unnecessary weight on a barely healing leg. He knows it hurts, even when you pretend it doesn’t — especially when you pretend it doesn’t. His chest pinches like the ache is his own. Like sympathy pains or something. He worries so much for you that you’ve given him fucking sympathy pains.

“We shouldn’t have left,” Eric agonizes, wiping a pair of anxious hands down his face. He swipes his fingers through his hair and finds the chestnut curls now partially damp. “I shouldn’t have let you leave. I mean, what if we have to run, huh? What if we have to—”

“We won’t,” you groan as you stand to full height again. You hold an old quilt in one arm and gesture wildly with the other. “That’s what the waterfall is for. They can’t hear us under here. Nothing’s coming.”

He knows you’re right, but it doesn’t worry him any less.

“How’d you even know this was out here?”

You falter for a moment. A mere blink of a second. But Eric catches it immediately because there isn’t anything about you he doesn’t instantly notice. He’s rarely ever seen you, his silver-tongued girl, so ambivalent. And something about it frightens him.

“I was… on a walk one day… while you were out scavenging—” you answer slowly, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal at all, though you immediately follow it with, “—Don’t get angry.”

Eric’s pink mouth falls softly agape, opening and closing like a fish’s might, while he tries to find the words to say. To shout. To scream. 

“Y-You... You— You left without me?” he stammers, voice booming. 

The words ring across the expanse of the shallow cave, bouncing off the damp stone walls. It’s the loudest he’s heard himself talk since the world ended, and the notion startles him. Like a dog just learning how to bark.

Eric’s breath hitches in his throat as his dark eyes widen in fear. He waits instinctively for the screeching of far-off monsters and their booming footsteps — prepares for an adrenaline rush that’ll give his weak arms the strength to carry both of you to safety.

It never comes. 

The sounds of the waterfall shield you from the war raging outside of it. 

When the panic passes, the anger resumes.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Eric agonizes, quieter now, though the corner of his lip twitches with withheld anger. 

You keep your back to the boy and lay out the contents of the wicker basket. A floral quilt to cushion the stone flooring, two bottles of wine to share between you, several bags of stale chips, and one MP3 player that’s somehow stronger than the end of the world. You pay Eric no mind as he continues to rant behind you.

“What if you’d gotten killed? What if— What if you got lost and I couldn’t find you—?!”

“Don’t shout!” you gripe despite your own booming voice. 

“Why not?” Eric questions with a cynical laugh. “I thought nothing could hear us under here?”

You spin back around to face him, grimacing slightly when your healing wounds start to burn. You tilt your chin in a look of defiance, though your eyes sparkle faintly in the dim natural light — something mischievous and strangely shy. 

“I don’t want you to shout because I put a lot of effort into this,” you answer in a steady voice, lips quirking in a distant smile. “And we can’t enjoy it if you’re gonna be grumpy the entire time.”

Eric blinks at you for several long moments, brown eyes wide like an owl. Only then does he notice what you’d set up for him in the brief minutes he’d been blinded by his anger. A picnic of sorts — fashioned with a moth-eaten quilt, dusty wine bottles, and snacks you’d scavenged and seemingly stashed like a squirrel. It’s about as fancy as you can get in an apocalypse.

His mouth opens and closes again, this time in a quiet sort of shock. “Wh… What?”

“Well, you kinda spent your entire birthday taking care of me, so… I figured we were past due for a celebration.”

Eric’s brows pinch together. A furrow of deep thought settles between them. 

He realizes he hadn’t thought twice about his birthday till now. Hadn’t thought twice about turning another year older, just like he hadn’t thought twice about needing to be repaid for taking care of you. He did both things without thinking. He can’t control his urge to dote on you like he can’t control the existential dread of getting older.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“‘Cause you told me once,” you shrug. “And I keep track of the days in my calendar, so—”

“So, you’re saying that… That you did all this...” the man laughs, gesturing to the cave and the waterfall and the wine. “For me?”

A similar-sounding laugh sputters from your own mouth ‘cause you do it all for him. From going on stupid picnics to fighting monsters from another planet. Everything you’ve done up until this point, you realize now, you’ve done for Eric. You keep on living despite the unfavorable odds for Eric.

“Of course I did. It’s not that big of a deal,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest to shield your bleeding heart. “I mean, you kinda saved my life. The least I can do is take you on a stupid fucking picnic.”

When you turn around again to ease yourself onto the blanket, Eric tries to make out the words to thank you. Not just for what you’ve done here, but for what you’ve done all the days since he found you. Because you’ve saved his life too, more times than he could count, actually — ‘cause that’s just what you do. You save each other and don’t think twice about it because that’s what you do when you care for someone.

He forgot all about birthdays and picnics and what it meant to be alive before he found you. And now that you’re here, you spend every single day reminding him of everything the end of the world begs him to forget.

“I’m— I’m sorry… I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Eric stammers in a sheepish murmur, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I know,” you nod, smiling as you pat the spare spot beside you. “Now stop being weird and come sit down.”

The wine is warm, the chips are stale, and the quilt just barely cushions the hard ground beneath you — but everything’s still somehow perfect. Your MP3 player is almost as old as you are and cracked down the middle, but the music plays just perfectly from its headphones, anyway. 

Maybe it’s perfect ‘cause it’s not perfect. 

Or maybe it’s perfect because you’re here.

You sit side-by-side on the handmade blanket, legs crossed and knees brushing, as you share an earbud between you. Conversation ebbs and flows between snacking. Music fills the silence.

I was sittin’ in a crummy movie with my hands on my chin,

All the violence that occurs, seems like we never win...

Eric tips his head back to down the rest of the cheesy crumbs in the package he holds in a pale fist. His scruffy cheeks jut like a chipmunk as he chews through the mouthful. “I missed this, you know?” he mumbles.

You set the wine bottle beside you after taking a lengthy sip, licking the bitter-sweet grape from your lips. “What?” you wonder aloud. “The wine? The Cheetos? The music?”

The boy goes quiet as he ponders the question. He figures he was talking about you, mostly — this sort of connection between humans, this sort of comfort, this sort of normalcy. The music answers your question in his silence.

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

He nods anyway. “All of the above, actually…”

“You know what I miss?” you wonder beneath the rustling of the Scooby Snacks you dig your hand into. You chuck a cartoon bone into your mouth and find the graham-cracker components have gone soft with time. “I miss driving down backroads… going way faster than what’s probably allowed… with the windows down and the radio all the way up…”

Eric watches the far-off look in your eyes as you stare, unblinking, at the waterfall ahead of you. Clear water rushes from the mountain and falls hard onto the cobbles and the still water below. Rogue drops splatter inside the shallow cave, occasionally splashing you with fat droplets.

The running waterfall cast fleeting shadows over your face, littered now with faint scars. Your features are much softer than he’s used to in the natural light.

“I miss college parties,” he confesses, wiping his palms on his knees.

You wash the dry graham cracker out with another sip of wine and try not to laugh as you swallow it down.

“Why’s that funny?” Eric wonders through his own chuckle, only partially offended.

“I don’t know… I guess I just didn’t take you for a partier.”

“I wasn’t really…” he concedes with a shy shrug, gaze averted and cheeks pink. “But I was a really big fan of karaoke.”

“Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eric humors with a scrunched nose.

You tilt your head back to laugh — a pretty, airy sound that echoes within the cobbled walls, only partially drowned out beneath the rushing waterfall. You shift closer toward him when you’re upright again, probably without realizing, but Eric notices. He can’t help but notice everything you do. And he can’t help but lean instinctively closer to you, too.

He can smell the natural scent of you beneath the various surrounding ones — of freshwater, pine, and whatever cologne was spritzed on your shirt before you found it. He can smell the sweet wine on your breath, too, and he quickly realizes that you’re close enough to kiss. If only he weren’t so chicken shit.

The proximity makes his cheeks flush, though you’re not nearly as fazed by it.

“I forgot what that felt like…” you muse in a quiet voice of disbelief.

Eric smiles so hard his eyes squint. “What?”

“I don’t know… just, like, happiness? I guess?” you laugh. “I used to think that was impossible before now.”

“Yeah… Me too.” 

The conversation lulls for a moment. The music playing in your ears takes over: 

—I was standing at a bar and watching all the people there…

All the loneliness in this world, well, it’s just not fair…

You cage your smile between your teeth in a feeble attempt to conceal how wide it’s grown. Your eyes are wide and sparkling, likely from the wine, as they flit between both of his darker ones. Eric exhales a breathy chuckle in response, all giddy and nervous for a reason he can’t name (probably from the wine, too, if he had to guess).

He feels himself leaning in to kiss you before he realizes it. He only catches himself when you pull unknowingly away, reaching again for the glass bottle at your side. His heart drops to his swirling stomach as his cheeks flare a deep pink.

“I’m glad you followed me like a creep for a week straight, you know that?” you confess with a teasing squint in your eyes as you bring the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

Eric scoffs at the memory, which feels like yesterday and ancient history all at once.

He was by himself when the world first fell — a stranger in a strange country, and the loneliest he’d ever been in his life. And, perhaps, the most scared, too. 

Then, all of a sudden, he sees this girl rush out of an alleyway and into a monster-infested street to save a dog from an otherwise unavoidable death. Eric watched from a distance as you returned the scared pup to its owners — a very young couple cowering behind a car, not that much older than you. 

You pointed them in the direction of a military base setting up camps for civilians then went the opposite way. Away from guaranteed protection. Like the safest hands were your own. 

Eric made the quick decision to follow you as you went. He figured if you were brave enough to save some dog that wasn’t yours, and stare death directly in the face while you did it, then you could do just about anything.

He didn’t know, then, that he was making the best decision he’d ever made in his life.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t pummel me in the face for following you like a creep.”

“I should’ve,” you quip. “But I liked your company too much, I guess…”

“Liked?” the boy parrots, laughing loudly at the turn of phrase. “Is this your way of saying you’re finally tired of me?”

You roll your eyes and hide your smirk behind the neck of the wine bottle. “Do you think I would’ve done all this shit if I wasn’t the least bit fond of you, Eric?”

The question is rhetorical, but you expect a lighthearted quip from the British boy anyway. Your words seem to settle something heavy on him, though. It’s the very first time you’ve admitted out loud, without a shred of sarcasm, how much you really care for him. 

Eric forgets to say anything at all. The cave fills with a loud silence. The steady drumming of the waterfall and the whisper of rustling trees. Strangely peaceful for the end of the world. 

“Wanna know something wild?” he asks you after a few long moments. His accent makes the words sound heavy on his tongue. Your brows raise to egg him on, and he continues, stumbling over himself in the process. “I’m… I’m not happy the world ended, but… I am— I am glad that it brought me you.”

Your breath catches. It’s the most profound thing anyone’s ever said to you, you think. Way deeper than any measly ‘I love you.’ And how are you meant to respond to that? To his confession that the end of the world was worth finding you? There’s no string of words in the English language that could possibly compare to that.

Eric waits for your response with bated breath. He hopes for an affirmation of your similar affection, of course, but a rejection would be better than nothing at all. He blinks at you with hopeful chocolate eyes, then flinches away when you laugh.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, giggling, as you reach suddenly for his face.

You cradle his scruffy jaw between warm and gently calloused hands, pulling him into you with an admirable effortlessness. You kiss him like it’s natural to you — like he was never just a stranger — like you’ve spent entire lifetimes kissing him.

You take the breath from his lungs with little effort. Eric tips his head back and sighs when you swipe your tongue along his chapped bottom lip. The exhaled breath fans across your cupid’s bow, and you smile against his mouth as you clamor gracelessly into his lap — straddling his lean hips and pressing your beating heart to his. 

The earbuds fall carelessly to the ground, and the fading song plays muffedly from beside you:

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

Your mouths click when they part, a subtle sound beneath the drumming waterfall behind you. Your eyes are heavy and lidding as they fall to Eric’s kissed mouth — now a rosier shade, gently swollen, and shining with your spit. A stamp of ownership, almost, that makes your chest swell with pride.

Eric looks up at you with big, wet eyes as his hands fidget on either side of your waist. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages,” he confesses in a low murmur.

A small smile quirks faintly at the edges of your mouth. “Could you maybe say something that’s not super cliché?” you tease.

“How about… I really, really want to kiss you again?” Eric offers in a honeyed tone that makes his accent heavier. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “And that I… I wanna make you feel good?”

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile. Your fingertips are calloused and cold as they toy with the curls at the nape of his neck — tiny chestnut strands coiled in perfect ringlets. Eric fights back a shiver.

“Then I’d say that…” you begin with a mischievous lilt to your voice, wild eyes flitting from his pink lips to his watery eyes. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages.”

You part from him then, taking the warmth of your body with you as you sit on your knees across from him. The rugged ground is hardly cushioned by the thin quilt. You can vaguely feel small rocks digging into your skin, but your need for him is much louder. 

You cross your arms in front of yourself to swipe your t-shirt over your head. You toss the discarded fabric carelessly beside you, then work at the buttons of your jeans — also borrowed, and just a half-size too big for you. 

Eric watches with his heart in his throat. It’s the most naked you’ve ever been in front of him before. The sight of your bare skin, covered now only in the sports bra you’ve had since the world ended, makes his head swim. It takes him a moment too long to realize he should be undressing, too, and he rushes to catch up.

The two of you undress yourselves in relative silence. The sight is hardly as sexy as you’d expect — full of fumbling limbs far too eager to be graceful. Eric’s shirt gets stuck on his chin. Your jeans get caught at your ankle. The tense lull between you ebbs into a symphony of entwining giggles.

With your clothes scattered in abandoned piles, you lay back against the blanket. Eric settles on top of you with a strange sort of effortlessness — like it’s muscle memory to him, even though neither of you has done this for a long, long while — much less with each other. 

The weight of his body is warm and heavy over yours. You slide your hands under his arms and curl them over his freckled shoulders, digging your nails softly into his pale skin to pull him further into you. 

You watch with heavily lidded eyes as Eric brings his hand to his mouth. He slides his pointer and middle finger between his lips, wetting the pads of them with his tongue. You exhale a deep breath when the limbs come out again, glittering in the low light. 

He studies your features with a dark and unwavering stare as he slips his fingers between the lips of your pussy — tracing the velvety lips for a moment before easing them slowly inside. Your eyes flutter shut at the foreign feeling. Eric smiles to himself, wrist flexing, as he explores your silky cunt with his fingers. 

“Please fuck me,” you sigh when his palm bumps your swollen clit. Your head tips back as your hips buck upward, all but melting under his touch. “Please.”

It takes Eric a moment or more to formulate a response. You’ve never been so subservient like this before, so needy for him. This must be the eighth wonder of the world, he thinks to himself, as he continues to work you open with unworthy hands.

“Have to get you ready for me first,” he tells you, voice and low gritty, as he exhales a breathy chuckle that fans across your jaw. “Don’t wanna break you, honey.”

You manage a scoff in response. “Well, that’s very presumptuous of you— oh…”

Eric crooks his fingers until the tips of them brush a spongy depth inside you. Your mouth falls agape at the feeling, so foreignly full beneath him. His spit-slick lips curl into a lazy smirk. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve spit a snide remark back at him if his thumb hadn’t pressed so mercilessly to your delicate clit then. The words dissolve like dust on your tongue and escape only as a breathy moan. 

Eric continues his relentless pursuit with nothing but two of his fingers. Relentless, you think,because he’s hardly trying to make you cum now. You’re not sure if he’s just oblivious to how good he’s making you feel, or if he’s pushing you to the edge and jerking you back on purpose. It’s agony either way.

He only stops when his pointer and middle finger start to prune, the pads of them softly wrinkled from your honey. He wipes them off on the quilt like a total barbarian. You would’ve said something about that, too, if you weren’t still trying to catch your breath.

Eric rises to his knees. His bare chest, dusted with sparse hair over the sternum, rises and falls with uneven pants. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs — half-hard, glowing red, and leaking faintly at the tip. His wide hands are softer than your own as they smooth up and down the length of your thighs. His thumbs rub soothingly over the supple insides of them — with a touch almost as gentle as the melted chocolate gaze he looks at you with. 

“Are you alright?” he wonders, all quiet and suddenly shy, like you aren’t all but dripping for him now.

“You’re so annoying,” you gripe with a scoffed-out laugh, rolling your eyes because you’re certain he’s teasing you. Your stomach sinks when the genuine glimmer in his eyes doesn’t waver. You squirm beneath him and his unyielding gaze. “I’m okay, Eric,” you murmur sheepishly, never easily serious.

He nods to himself and swallows hard, still visibly unsure. It makes you wonder if he’s second-guessing. “Stop staring and kiss me, you asshole,” you grouse with a forced laugh, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

Eric’s mouth quirks in an absentminded smile. “Just let me look at you for a second…” he whispers, squeezing the outsides of your thighs with warm hands.

“We don’t have to whisper anymore, dummy,” you tease in a hushed tone of your own.

His grin widens until his eyes wrinkle at the edges and his tongue pokes softly through his teeth. He laughs despite himself and grips his heavy cock in his fist. “You’re so mean, you know that?” he asks, folding your knee back with his free hand. You’re not sure if he’s expecting a real response, but he slips into you before you can give him one.

He fucks into you slow — bitterly, painfully, and agonizingly slow — forcing you to feel every inch of him. His cock is of average length, but girthy enough to stretch you open. You’re suddenly grateful he thought to use his fingers on you despite your impatience, but the two of them alone hardly equate to how thick he is.

Both of you inhale sharply when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, neither exactly used to the feeling. Eric allows you a moment or more to adjust before sliding out again. You exhale softly together in entwining moans that get lost beneath the sounds of a raging waterfall.

Eric thrusts into you again with gritted teeth, trying not to whimper too loudly when your pussy clenches around him. He bends at the waist to hide his face in your neck and exhales all his pathetic moans there. 

He keeps one hand clenched into a fist on the blanket to prop up his weight; his other slides beneath your head to cushion your skull from the hard ground. You grip the boy by his flexing biceps, digging your nails into the skin every time he thrusts into you. Jaw clenched, nose scrunched, eyes squinted — you take his cock without complaint despite the very loud feeling that it’s all too much for you.

Eric is everywhere, and the notion alone overwhelms you. He’s in you, on top of you, all over you. Like the air you breathe. You need him just the same. Not because he’s your friend but because you’re scared you might seriously die without him. 

It’s dramatic at best. At worst, it’s the exact opposite feeling you should have for anyone in the apocalypse, where death is essentially promised for both of you.

Tears prick your eyes at the thought, though you’d rather blame them on Eric’s merciless thrusts. They’re sloppy and unmeasured as he struggles to find a rhythm. He’s similarly overwhelmed by the pleasure. You can tell by the way his body trembles over yours, and the way he buries loud moans into your pulsepoint. You can feel the vibrations of each moan in your veins. 

The way you’re pinned beneath him cages your clit between your bodies. Every time Eric’s lean hips thrust upward and back again, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock brushes your sensitive button. You couldn’t free yourself from it if you tried. You’re not sure if you even want to.

“This is good for you, right?” Eric wonders through heavy pants, voice wavering under the weight of his pleasure. “Please tell me this is good for you.”

Any other time, you would’ve laughed at him, but now you only nod. Rapidly and with your jaw clenched tight. Just as pathetic as he is. 

“’S good,” you promise through gritted teeth as the coil in the pit of your stomach starts to tighten. “It’s so good, Eric. Feels so fuckin’ good.”

The affirmation makes him moan. Loudly. Enough for you to be momentarily grateful for the cover of the rumbling waterfall. Eric buckles down over you and strengthens his rapid, irregularly timed thrusts with a feeble cry. 

Your own whine rumbles in your throat, falling from your mouth like honey. Your warm skin, now slick with a layer of sweat, begins to buzz. The need for release builds like a dam within you — somewhere deep, right where the tip of Eric’s cock fucks into you. 

Your thighs start to tremble on either side of his waist. Your hips begin to buck despite yourself. You can’t be sure if you’re running from the pleasure now, or chasing it entirely.

“You gotta cum, baby,” Eric tells you through a pitiful whine, face still tucked into your neck. He licks his lips and starts to babble: “I can’t— I’m too close— I need you to cum before I do, baby— Need you to cum right now— Fuck.”

“Is your idea of dirty talk always this pathetic?” you would’ve joked if you weren’t already cumming for him. 

Your mouth falls agape in a silent moan as your head tips back into his palm. Your back arches as you reach the height of your pleasure, pussy fluttering through every wave of it. 

Eric fucks you the entire way through your orgasm — despite your nails biting crescent shapes into his shoulders, despite your velvety cunt tightening around him, despite the very overwhelming feeling that he might burst entirely.

Only when your body goes lax does he pull out of you. 

The empty feeling makes you whimper. Your weeping pussy clenches around nothing while Eric jerks himself off. You can’t see him, but you can feel his wrist moving in rapid motions between your legs. 

A groan rumbles deep in his throat as he tenses on top of you. His still body goes rigid. Something warm and wet spits on your inner thigh a second later — a heavy load of his pearly white cum, which he gives you three of before he’s milked himself dry.

Eric collapses on top of you when he’s officially spent. He forgets to hold up his weight, and you deliberately decide not to remind him. You let the man soak in the waves of his pleasure while you strain to reach the wicker basket at your side — struggling for a moment to find the handful of napkins at the very bottom, then using them to wipe up the mess on your thigh.

“Ah, shit,” Eric curses when he notices (his mess or his weight, you can’t quite tell). He sniffles and rolls off of you. “Sorry…”

Your head whips in his direction. You find his face all flushed, glowing red along the apples of his cheeks and the very tip of his nose. His eyes are big and wet, too, glassy like he might cry. 

Buzzing with concern, you rise to your knees, watching intently as Eric reaches for your discarded pile of clothes. You set them aside when he passes them to you and hold his face in your hands instead. His stubble scratches at your delicate palms. Your wide eyes sparkle with concern as they dart over his teary features.

“Hey… Hey, what happened?” you agonize. “Are you okay?”

Eric laughs at himself, then sniffles again as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah… So much for not being cliché, right?” he jokes.

“What happened?” you repeat, giggling this time at his crooked smile.

“Nothing,” he assures, shrugging his freckled shoulders. “I just… I’m just really happy, I guess…”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh of relief as you nod in response. “Yeah… I am, too.”

Eric’s grin widens at your confession. His cheeks speckle a rosy color, like he’s pleasantly surprised by the response — as if his softening cock isn’t still sparkling with a mixture of your cum. 

You meet his smile with a scowl, rolling your eyes as you shove playfully at his shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble and turn away from him, reaching for your clothes. 

Your body looms over him as you stand, putting very little weight on your scarred leg. You bend at the waist to tug your underwear up your thighs.

Eric shoves his boxers on with a cheeky grin. “I’m really glad I found you, you know that, right? Even though you’re mean to me all the time?”

You scoff and drag your sports bra over your torso, yanking it at the hem to pull it over your breasts. “I’m happy you found me, too, stalker,” you respond in a monotone that would otherwise suggest the opposite. But Eric catches you smiling when you reach beside him for your shirt and knows you really mean it. 

“You love me,” he insists playfully, right before stealing a kiss from you. 

His lips only manage to brush the corner of your mouth in his haste, but he grins wide about it anyway. Your face screws like you weren’t begging him to fuck you ten minutes ago, as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.

“You’re disgusting…” he hears you mumbling as you turn away, tugging your shirt over your head. 

But he knows what you really mean.

[sunderwight]

It's so good when Shen Qingqiu takes care of Luo Binghe. In canon and also in fics. I especially am in love with when he does his hair or helps him dress, it's just so pleasantly domestic. Also endearing whenever SQQ gets a bit fanboy-ish about it, because that's Luo Binghe and SQQ can dress him up in every cool or sexy outfit he has a face thick enough to pay someone to actually make!

I wonder if he ever shares this wisdom with Shang Qinghua. Like at some bitching session or other SQH is sighing a bit about how MBJ always wears like the same three outfits, and don't get him wrong they're all great outfits, but he noticed Luo Binghe flaunting yet another fresh look the other day and part of him really wants to see Mobei Jun in something different...

And then Shen Qingqiu is just like, you're the Lord of An Ding Peak, you handle the basic wardrobe necessities for an entire sect? Go pay someone to make cool/sexy outfits and literally put them on Mobei Jun yourself! You're married to the guy, aren't you?

Shang Qinghua is like "wait you can do that? I can do that? that's a thing that's allowed?" and Shen Qingqiu rolls his eyes and calls him a dumbass and points out that Airplane himself wrote about the intimacy of Luo Binghe's harem members dressing him and it being an even bigger deal for demons than humans, and Shang Qinghua cannot for the life of him remember this but it does sound sort of familiar. So off he goes to nervously sketch out some ideas for outfits, and then get told off by the seamstress he tries to commission for not having realistic ideas about how fabric works. But he does have Mobei Jun's measurements and after some discussion he gets a bunch of stuff that looks even better than his initial ideas, eventually, and then he just has to... give them to his king...

Shang Qinghua awkwardly presenting the topic to Mobei Jun like he's expecting to get a hard "no", but he blinks and his king is naked and standing expectantly in front of his fancy full-length mirror. Shang Qinghua has only ever helped Mobei Jun get dressed when he was injured in the past, and then usually only just putting his arms through some sleeves on an outer robe. They've undressed each other for sex, but putting the clothes on really is a different kind of intimacy. Especially an outfit that Shang Qinghua had specially made to suit Mobei Jun, to highlight the features he likes best about him. Striking blue and icy-white, with hints of An Ding's colors as accents, showing off his build to full effect, etc etc. Shang Qinghua layers each piece on and then does Mobei Jun's hair too, muttering quiet approval for how the look comes together while Mobei Jun preens under all the attention.

Of course, afterwards Mobei wants Shang Qinghua to dress him every day, which isn't always logistically feasible, and MBJ also intends to return the gesture.

Luo Binghe dresses Shen Qingqiu too of course, but Luo Binghe is aware both that other guys want his husband and also that Shen Qingqiu will refuse to go out in public if Binghe dresses him in anything revealing, even if he still lets him put it on, plus Luo Binghe was raised with human sensibilities about modesty. So all in all any "sexy" outfits are reserved for private time at home, and what he puts Shen Qingqiu in for daily wear is all stuff that is perfectly befitting a Qing Jing Peak Lord and scholar.

Mobei Jun doesn't have human modesty sensibilities and also doesn't see any reason why Qinghua shouldn't show off his own best assets while he's going about his day, so, Shang Qinghua is about to rue the hell out of a lot fashion-related world-building decisions he made a lifetime ago...

[charliemwrites]

Mafia au with Price perspective

Content: Implied Violence

John, for the life of him, can’t believe he ever ran SpecGru without you.

It’s a hit to his pride to admit it, certainly. That an outsider has discovered a small conspiracy within his own organization less than three months into employment. That, apart from even that, he’s never been less scattered, having someone right by his side remembering details, appointments, bits of information.

Morning smells like Earl Grey and your perfume now. Steam mixing with whatever you’ve spritzed for the day, his own little aroma therapy. Revitalizing after however late the previous night dragged him out.

In general, you’re like a breath of fresh air. A smiley little charm of color and delicacy in his world of saturated shadows, blood and brutality.

Clean-cut dresses with patterned tights, soft-knit scarves. Lace accents and modest stilettos. Thin, sparkly jewelry and smart makeup. The scent of you drowns out the lingering burn of gunpowder; or maybe just transforms it into something heady.

John lingers on your hair. Smooth ponytails, tight coifs, intricate braids. Likes when it’s loose enough to brush you shoulders and neck, a little bounce to it as you toddle in and out of his office.

You’re gorgeous, he knows it like a gun in his hand or the stench of fear in the air. Has encountered (and indulged) in more than his share of stunning women. Women with beautiful smiles, and bright laughter, and sweet voices. Cunning women, too. Women who could outfox all but his best on any given day.

You have all of that in spades, though you’re not the first.

The difference, he thinks, is your sincerity. You’re never anything but honest with him. Even when you maybe shouldn’t be. Not that you share your opinion every time you have one, but if he asks for it, you’ll answer without pulling punches.

Respectful, always. Polite. But scalpels are elegant tools as dangerous as any dagger. You’re not cold by any means, but you’re made of steel. Precise and implacable in some ways. Have never hesitated too look him in the eye and cheerfully explain why he’s wrong.

That, he knows, is a rare commodity.

“I understand this is time sensitive Mister Graves, but raising your voice is not going to open Mister Price’s schedule.”

Your voice goes silky when you get like this. A finely draped, overly pleasant “no” in each word. A wall is still a wall no matter how finely it’s painted.

You’ve just gotten your nails done again, glossy wine red tap-tap-tapping over your customized keyboard. Whatever Philip is saying on the other end does not seem to be impressing you. Soap and Gaz are trying not to snicker. You shoot them an amused look.

“Well, he’s booked every morning for the next two weeks,” you continue.

John is not, in fact, booked every morning for the next two weeks. There are two mornings with two hours open and you’re serenely looking at them on your computer screen. He doesn’t correct you, interested to see how this plays out. You know he hates Philip and are gleefully taking advantage of that fact.

“Well, Mister Graves, a lot of people have time sensitive issues to bring to Mister Price,” you explain, a touch condescending now. “I’m afraid I can’t reschedule them just because you have… a trip to Glasgow, is it?”

You don’t sound impressed. Neither is John. You clear your throat, arch your eyebrows at him. Put up three fingers. He nods.

“I can schedule you in on the 3rd in the evening. Your assistant said you’ll be back by then.”

You blink, an almost smug curve to your lips at whatever is said. A pleasant shiver runs down John’s spine. Philip will just have gotten in then - a full day of travel after whatever business he’s been up to will put him at a disadvantage.

“Well, I’m afraid Mister Price’s next availability won’t be until the… 8th. So shall we schedule something for the 3rd? I can always call if he has a cancellation.”

A pause. Your eyes narrow into a mean little smile at nothing in particular. Practically glowing with satisfaction. Without your attention on him, he shifts a bit.

“Of course, Mister Graves,” you hum. “I can forward your people the details. Have a lovely day now.”

Soap and Gaz start laughing the moment you hand up. You huff at them in amusement, shaking your head, then turn to John.

“Was there anything you needed, sir?” You ask, syrupy sweet.

John snorts and finally approaches your desk, leaning his hip against the edge as he crosses his arms. You tilt your head to give him your full attention, a stray curl falling against your jaw.

“Since you seem to be on rampage,” he says, “I need you to get a reservation for Friday at Muse.”

You blink at him. “Muse? Sir, that’s… don’t they book that place out months in advance?”

He smirks. “Just use my name, luv. I’m sure you’ll have the rest under control.”

You don’t look convinced, but you slide your sticky pad over - light purple clouds, now. With a pink glitter pen.

“How many and what time, sir?”

“Six for eight o’clock.”

You hum as you scrawl it down, pretty round letters that shimmer under the office lights.

“Before you go,” you say as you set the sticky pad aside. “I have those inventory logs from the docks - as well as the incident report from security that evening.”

You pluck up a neat stack of papers, held together by a star-shaped paperclip. Already he can see pink highlighter on the first page, a little memo-note summarizing information for quick review at the top. Somewhere within, you’ve attached a pink tab to something.

“I’ve highlighted anything in the original shipment that wasn’t found in the inventory log,” you explain, tapping at one of them.

He hums, skims the summary, then starts rifling through the papers. Will never admit how much he appreciates the thoroughness, even if he’s comb through every detail himself just to be sure nothing has been missed.

“Oh, also,” you add, spinning the glitter pen between clever fingers, “I think we should maybe set up a camera near that back entrance to the warehouse.”

He pauses. The back entrance where they do the more gruesome aspects of “business.” Odd that you would suggest that.

“Why’s that?”

You hum. “Well, I’m no narc, but I heard from someone who works over there that one of the shipping guys smokes weed with his cousin in that area. Maybe someone saw them and realized that’s a good way in.”

You shrug, leaning back in your seat again. The computer dings, calling your attention. John shoots Soap a glance, who nods and quietly steps out. You don’t seem to notice, clicking your tongue at whatever you see.

“Nicely done, luv,” he says, voice warm in his chest. You beam at him, pleased as always when he recognizes your hard work. “I’ll call if I need anything else.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply.

Twenty minutes later, you tap lightly at the open door to his office.

“Got the reservation!” You announce, a funny little smile on your face. “They were so nice about it too. What are you, some kind of mafia boss?”

He chuckles at your joke, shaking his head.

How did he ever manage all this without you?

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Masterlist

[catch1ngmoths]

ONE NIGHT STAND WITH JOOST🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

-ˋˏ ༻ only stay with you one more night༺ ˎˊ-

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋"so I cross my heart and I hope to die…that I’ll only stay with you one more night." - maroon 5𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

Summary: Joost sees you at a party and immediately becomes head over heels. While alone he approaches you, things escalate, but maybe you both wanted to stay…

Note: I POSTED MY LAST POST LIKE 10 MINUTES AGO AND I ALREADY HAVE TWO REQUESTS, yall always come in clutch istg??! Anyways love yall, part two maaaaybe..?

Warnings: Slight fluff, SMUT!! Maybe some angst near the end (?)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

You didn’t wanna go to this party, you knew you didn’t. You’d much rather stay home but after minutes of begging from your friends you groan and agree. Your friends clap excitedly and drag you to help with your makeup. You can’t lie, they did a pretty good job…you looked hot. You decided to put on your favorite dress becuase fuck it, why not. It didn’t look like you were trying too hard but it’s also not elegant and super fancy. It was perfect.

Soon after you all arrived your friends dragged you to get drinks, squealing and dancing as you stood back. You preferred people watching over dancing, you were the mom friend and looked over your friends. Especially since they didn’t seem to aware of their surroundings. As you were stood there you couldn’t shake the feeling of someone’s eyes on you.

You look up and see him, a blond guy with a rocker style and piercing blue eyes. As you lock eyes he turns away, acting as if he didn’t pay any mind to you in the first place. You keep your eyes on him for a little, looking over him. He was cute, very cute. More than cute…he had a certain energy about him. You could normally tell which guys were trouble and which weren’t but he was so different. He had an energy that pulled you in and intoxicated your senses.

Your racing thoughts were cut off by the sound of your friend calling your name, calling you to the dance floor. You rolled your eyes playfully with a smile on your lips as you join your friends. Body swaying with theirs.

It didn’t take long for your friends to be absolutely wasted while you didn’t have any more then one drink. You called Ubers for all of them to make sure they got home safe and once you knew they were all good you leaned against the wall outside the club and took a breath of fresh air.

You started thinking of anything you wanted, finally having a time of peace. Before you heard a shuffling behind you. You turn your head to see the guy from before, cigarette between his lips and leaning on the same wall you were. A surprising comfortable silence settled between the both of you before it was broken by a low voice.

“Never seen you here before..” he speaks, a clear accent spilling from his lips. “Eh…I don’t come here often, I just got dragged here by my friends.” You say with a slight chuckle, looking at his side profile in awe. He really was the definition of beauty. His head stays still but his eyes look to you before returning at their original position.

He chuckles and it sends a shiver through your body, “got a staring problem or somthing, hm?” He says blowing the smoke from his cigarette into the air before tossing it to the side and stomping on it. His body turning to face you, “couldn’t keep my eyes off you lieverd, your one pretty girl you know that eh?” He smiled

His smile was so infectious that you found yourself smiling as well, “I could say the same for you…uh…” you say, realizing you don’t know his name. He catches on and utters, “Joost. And you.?” He says as you look at him with doe eyes that almost bring him to his knees

“Y/n…” you say softly feeling affected by him being so close, “y/n huh? Pretty name for a pretty girl.” He says with a cocky smirk, shuffling closer to you. You both weren’t drunk but it was clear you’d both had some drinks, giving you both liquid courage. Your heads face each other, eyes locked and lips close. Before both of you can even think you both rush forward into a heated kiss.

It’s breathy, grabbing at each other desperately as he pushing his weight against you holding your chin with one hand. “Mine” kiss “m-mine or-“ kiss “mine or yours liefje..?” He mutters between heated kisses, “m-mine..” you whine, feeling better about it being at your house over his.

After a Uber ride filed with sexual tension and heavy air you both burst through the front door, unable to keep y’all’s hands off each other. You lead him to your room, practically pulling each others clothes off like wild animals.

He lays you back on your bed gently and kisses from your neck down to your now exposed chest, you were both only covered by y’all’s underwear. He clips off your bra, showing love to both breasts as you run your hands through his hair moaning out. He kisses down your soft stomach untill he reaches where you needed him the most.

“J-Joost..please..” you whine out, squirming under his hot breath and teasing touch. A harsh slap to your thigh makes you throw your head back and whimper tears brimming in your eyes. He peppers soft kisses to where a pink hand mark was starting to form with a snicker.

He pulls off his boxers and pulls your underwear down as well. He kisses back up your body, pressing soft and loving kisses to your swollen lips. “Ready honey?” He asks softly, eyes looking at you with nothing but affection. You can only nod frantically making him chuckle.

He slowly slides into you with a groan, both of you throwing y’all’s heads back. He thrusts harshly into you, making your brain short circuit. His kisses to your body are the polar opposite to how his dick abuses your cunt making you see stars as you moan out his name.

A few minutes of sweet pleasure makes you whine as you grasp his hand tight, half lidded eyes looking into his. “J-Joost I-I’m…” you whimper as his dick hits just the right spot, knocking the words out of you. “Go on baby…fuck..go on” he groans as he lowers his head to kiss your head.

You both let go and ride out your high together, him letting out sweet words of praise as you let out soft moans and whimpers. He lifts his head to look at you with adoration, kissing your soft lips once more before going and getting a cloth to clean you both up.

The last you remember is snuggling up to his side and falling asleep listening to the sound of his heartbeat and the feeling of soft fingers stroking your back gently…..

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Your eyes open to the sound of the morning birds and the blinding light shining in through your window. You don’t feel warm anymore; no longer in his arms and alas alone in your bed. You lift your body out your bed, looking around for him.

Of course you knew this was a one night stand, both of you did. You knew it the moment his lips connected with yours. But some part of you wanted him to stay..the way he looked at you was not the way someone looked at another person they just wanted to fuck and be done with.

Little did you know, he felt the exact same. He woke up to the safe and comforting feeling of the weight of your head on his chest, but he knew he couldn’t stay. His mind felt plagued as he picked up his clothes that were scattered across your floor. He softly kissed your head before fighting all his instincts and closing your door, ordering an Uber home.

He hoped if he just left that he’d forget about you soon enough…

He didn’t.

♪ ༘⋆ “yeah baby give me one more night - so I cross my heart and I hope to die, that I’ll only stay with you one more night..” -maroon 5 ♪ ༘⋆

Part two: https://www.tumblr.com/catch1ngmoths/751209894218170368/%F0%93%87%BC-time-after-time-%F0%93%8D%A2-if-your-lost-you

[sweetteainthesummerx]

☄. *. ⋆ mine ⋆ . * . ☄

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

nhl masterlist !

pairing: nico hischier x eldest daughter!reader

warnings: angst and comfort, sex is mentioned, but not too graphic!! fluff and happy ending

song: mine by taylor swift

summary: you've had to fight for yourself and everyone your whole life, now you have nico to fight for you.

word count: 2.5 k

notes: UGH nico my love!! this is for all of the eldest daughters who deserve the world :) hope you enjoy!

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

i was a flight risk, with a fear of fallin', wondering why we bother with love, if it never lasts

it's during one of your first dates with nico when you realize this boy is special.

you don't do relationships. you're sensible enough to know that romance isn't like how it's portrayed in media because even if there is love between two people, there will always be hesitations and complications.

complications that you do not need, not when your job keeps you busy and you have your family to think of.

there's another reason though, one you don't like to think much of as a reason for your aversion to vulnerability.

you grew up with an absent father and a mother who cared too much. your perception of love had been thrown out the window, stomped on and ran over.

so when you meet nico at a bar and he asks for your number, you don't expect it to progress anywhere.

but he's so handsome, all dimples and foreign accent as he buys you a drink and tells you that you're pretty.

three dates in, he's got you wrapped up in his arms between his legs on his bed.

he's warm, broad chest under your back. you snuggle closer, pressing the tops of your cold feet into his calves. he dips his face into your shoulder and smiles.

the notebook is playing on the tv facing his bed as he fiddles with your fingers. you told him it was your favourite last week when he took you out to an art museum. you didn't expect him to remember.

you cannot believe this man. he's made you cum three times, once with his mouth, another with his fingers and the last with his cock.

and then he drew you a bath and dried your hair for you.

when you ask him why, he puffs out his chest awkwardly, scratching one of his big bicep and tells you he really likes you and he wants to take care of you.

who does that in this day and age?

he had texted you earlier to see if you were free for dinner. you expected mediocre food and then sex.

maybe a few minutes of cuddling before you left his apartment, but he's breathing in the smell of his shampoo on your hair, holding you like it's the only thing he wants to do on a saturday night, after he had you writhing in his sheets for nearly an hour.

you want to run, because he makes you speechless and your mouth dries up with how sweet he is. you're not used to being taken care of, as sad as it sounds.

normally you would be halfway back to your apartment if had been anyone else.

but this time, something tells you to stick around because you have a premonition that even if you do get hurt, nico hischier is going to be worth it.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

we're takin' on the world together, and there's a drawer of my things at your place

"hey, handsome." your boyfriend of a month comes up from behind you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss into your hair.

he asks you to be his girlfriend during a morning walk in the park, eyes earnest. you say yes eagerly, because you don't know if there's something so different about him, but he makes you so deliriously happy.

so after a week or two of dancing around each other and no labels, he makes you his with a sweet, long kiss next to the flowers that are starting to bloom in the damp spring air.

now you're in his kitchen, words coming easy to you again. you tell him he looks handsome with his wet hair and week-old beard.

he flushes like he always does when you compliment him.

cute, you think.

you turn from the overnight oats you're making for him to kiss him properly. he nips your lip and you laugh.

"I have something for you, schatz ." the pet name makes you weak in the knees, and you're glad he has you pinned against the counter.

he slips a key into your fingers.

your heart drops to your stomach, and it bounces back up.

"really?" you ask, and he shrugs, oddly shy and pink.

"you're here so much, and I want you around more. it doesn't make since to drive all the way to your apartment when it's dark."

you swoon; does he even know the effect he has on you?

soon, half of his closet is full of your clothes, your pink toothbrush has a spot next to his and your girly products he has no idea how to use are scattered on his counter.

he buys you a nightstand for your side of the bed, and it has a picture of the two of you on it.

you wonder if it's too early in the relationship for something like this, but nico tells you he doesn't care.

he just wants you. you want to cry, because no one has ever just wanted you, with all of your complications and busy schedule.

he cuddles you to sleep and tells you that the two of you can take on the world together, and the first time in a while, you feel content and steady.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

you learn my secrets and you figure out why I'm guarded, you say we'll never make my parents' mistakes

you don't think of your father often. he left when you were 13, when you were young enough to be ridden with emotion and the feelings of inadequacies because why didn't he want you?

but you were also old enough to take care of your four younger siblings as your mother took to bed, her own problems boiling up.

sure, he kept up with birthdays and holidays by sending money instead of well wishes, but you wanted him to be present.

the last you saw of him was at your high school graduation a few years ago. you've given up since then, because he's remarried and has step-kids he treats the way he should've treated you and your siblings.

your mother has moved on. she's dating again and you like seeing the flushed glow on her cheeks over facetime as she tells you about some math teacher that took her out to an Italian restaurant.

your youngest brother, the runt of your family, your sisters always joke, is finally 18 this year.

they can all fend for themselves and you are just you.

sure, they still call you up every few weeks with something trivial, but you are no longer just the oldest of four, or the reliable daughter your mother counted on for everything.

and nico reminds you of this all the time when you start to worry and get in over your head.

you're happy and carefree. you go out with nico and his team mates who gag when the two of you kiss, and laugh at your jokes.

nico takes you on dates, and lets you try and cook swiss dishes on his days off.

your mind is clear of your father, until he calls you on a wednesday night.

nico is fast asleep beside you, and you have to wiggle out of his embrace to reach for your phone.

"hello?" you ask groggily. you don't check the caller id, but you wish you had when your father says your name enthusiastically into the phone.

you want to throw up. what does he want?

"listen, kid. I know I don't call enough, but Johnny is a huge hockey fan. I was wondering if there is anyway that you could get tickets since your boyfriend plays for the devils?"

"how did you find out-" you asked, half-shocked he still has your number saved, and half-shocked at the sheer audacity he has to ask you for a favour for one of his step-sons.

"I saw on the news, kid. now, I would really appreciate if you could do this for your father-"

you want to berate him. if he has the time to read those useless gossip pages, why hasn't he come to see you or even called just because?

you don't even realize nico is awake, but he takes the phone from you.

"excuse me, sir, but your daughter has an early day tomorrow. she needs to go. she'll call you back, if she wants."

he hangs up and turns to you, eyes soft in the light of the lamp he turns on to see you better.

"oh, schatz," he sighs, pulling you into his lap and wiping you tear-wet face.

you're sobbing, but you need to stop. he doesn't need to see you like this, not when this was the behaviour that made your dad leave your mom.

he pulls at your fingers that are stifling your cries and kisses each one of them delicately, "let it out, liebling."

he hates that you think he's going to leave you. he hates what your father has done to the way you think, and he hates that your hurting.

seeing you cry makes something primal and angry stir in his chest, because you deserve all of the good things in the world and more.

it frustrates him that there is nothing for him to do, no one to punch - well, maybe your dad - and all he can do is be there for you.

between the conversations about why you're so guarded and the way you pull back whenever your relationship progresses with him, he knows.

he knows your scared, but he's so determined to make you see that he's so willing to do anything for you, and your future.

"I promise you," he whispers when you calm, only hiccuping slightly, "we will never make your parents' mistakes."

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

i ran out, crying, and you followed me out into the street...braced myself for the goodbye...then you took me by surprise, you said, "I'll never leave you alone"

"why didn't you talk to me about this before hand?" he huffs, setting down his mug.

you can feel something jittery and hot floating a milimeter above your skin, incasing you in the want to retract, to leave.

your stomach is empty and you want to vomit. you can't look at him, not with frustration on the tip of your tongue.

"I didn't think you needed a say in my career!" you exclaim, and the hurt on his face makes it hard to breathe.

"I would like to know what's going on with my girlfriend, especially if she has to travel every month for work!" he rubs his temples, "we hardly see each other as is-"

"I need to support myself! I would love to quit and be a trophy wife, but forgive me for needing financial independence in case you leave me!"

you scream that last part, and tears are starting to sprout in your eyes. this is so stupid, but there is no part of you that can shake off that needling feeling that he might go.

nico gapes at you, trying to unpack everything.

you shake your head, fingers trembling as you stand.

"I'll give you some space." you have no where to go, maybe your sister's house two hours away by train, but you can't stand the tortured look on his face.

you run out, ignoring his calls of your name until he catches you on the street.

his fingers loop around your wrist easily, and you want to shake them off because you can't bear having his gentle touch now and losing it later.

"I'll never leave you alone, schatz. you know that. so don't walk out on me, please."

you hang your head low; you love him so much, but it's so hard.

you're so afraid to lose him you're not letting yourself love him.

you tell him so, and his face crumples as he takes you in his arms.

you whisper promises to each other under the streetlights, to never leave each other and to communicate better.

from then on, you believe everything he says.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

you made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter

nico is watching you from the kitchen, because your youngest sister forced you to sit on the couch and gave him a dirty look that had him following her into the kitchen to help with the drying.

she notices the smile on his face: soft, completely unguarded and full of admiration.

she sighs. maybe you are in good hands after all.

when you called a month ago to tell her that nico brought you to switzerland on a whim and you didn't panic, make an itinerary and freak out, she almost choked on her water.

you who bared your teeth at the unknown, who always needed a plan?

he made you so carefree. it makes her relieved that you have him now, because she saw how bad things were when your mother was depressed and you were balancing school, a part time job and watching all of them.

she was too young to understand anything then, but she wishes now that she had behaved better, understood more, just to take a pound off of the heavy burden you carried.

"y'know, I think you're making her a rebel."

"what?" your boyfriend laughs at the younger girl, and she nods seriously.

"she came late today, and she only fixed the flowers once. that's crazy improvement."

"hmm." he's smiling at you again, while you laugh at something one of your brothers' had said. she relishes in the fact that he can hardly take his eyes off of you.

"she's had to fight for us her whole life," this gets nico's attention, "and she's had to fight for herself. we were always here, but we were too young to understand the weight she carried for us."

"but now," she feels oddly emotional, the unwarranted guilt she has from simply not understanding dissolving in her throat, "she has you to fight for her."

you, her sweet sister who wasn't grown and was forced to take on more than any kid did, finally had someone in her corner.

you could afford to be careless once in a while now.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

+ you are the best thing that's ever been mine

you are undeniably sick: runny nose, shivers, a cough.

calling into your job for a day off, you sleep in until your phone shines 2:37 PM.

nico hears your stirring, and comes in. he smoothes your hair and kisses your red nose.

quietly, because he's afraid your head hurts, he hands you a bowl of soup and reties your hair for you.

he fusses, the captain side of him coming in as he fluffs your pillows and rub your shoulders.

you can't remember the last time someone looked after you when you were sick.

so maybe it's the delirium and the fact you can't really breathe, but you give him a loopy smile (the Advil was kicking in).

"you are the best thing that's ever even mine, handsome."

he flushes and rolls his eyes affectionately, and cuddles you close.

your statement still stands when he inevitably gets sick half a week later and becomes a whiny baby.

you love him so, so much.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

© sweetteainthesummerx.tumblr. all rights reserved. unauthorized copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or any works as your own is strictly prohibited.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tangerine x fem!reader

Summary: Tangerine and Lemon learn more about the young woman they'd been hired to save and things become complicated. pt. 2 to Delicate

Genre: hurt and comfort

Warnings: protective!Tangerine, canon like violence, swearing, blood, guns, wounds, mentions of domestic violence/violence towards women, plot heavy

~ thank you @oh-starstarstar for giving me the inspiration to write this! It took a VERY different turn then what i originally intended but it's an interesting ride—hopefully! ~

TANGERINE MASTERLIST

Y/n. Tangerine mouths your name as he stares into the bathroom mirror, his toothbrush hanging from his lips. Y/n. The name suits you and warmth spreads inside his stomach as he spits into the sink and his mind is filled with memories of how sweetly you'd looked at him.

Fuck. 

"Oi," Lemon's hurried voice snaps him out of whatever was happening and Tangerine turns to him, leaning his hip against the counter. "Some weird fucker is on the phone," Lemon shows his brother his phone, an unknown number displayed clearly on the screen. "Says we have something of his."

Tangerine bristles and his jaw clenches involuntarily. He holds out his hand for Lemon to hand him the phone and when he does he puts it on speaker and holds it close to his ear, letting Lemon lean in and hear the conversation. 

"'Ello?"

"You have something of mine," a hoarse voice cuts the silence. The man behind the phone sounds older, like his voice has had time to become damaged from years of smoking, and he has a thick Irish accent.

"And what might that be?" Tangerine retorts, sending Lemon an unsure look but he keeps his tone steady.

"You have my wife."

Tangerine feels like all blood has been drained from his body and he's so close to losing it. His grip tightens on the phone as his eyes narrow.

"Fuckin' pardon me? Your wife?" he asks slowly, processing the words himself. Surely this man can't mean you.  

The man chuckles darkly. "Aye. You stole her. Took my girl. Wasted my fucking time. I want to know why?" 

Lemon looks at Tangerine, his eyes round with panic as he automatically crosses his arms. 

"I have no fuckin' clue what you're on about," Tangerine explains calmly, his voice strained. He grips the end of the counter with one hand, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He doesn't want to tell this rando he has you at home with him and Lemon. He doesn't trust this fucker.

The man laughs darkly. "Defiance isn't smart, boy," the man says vaguely, his tone the same as before; hard and rough. "I don't like smug fuckers who take my things. I want my wife returned to me."

Tangerine pauses as he waits for the word 'safely' or any indication that this man who claims to be your husband cares for you. None come and his frown deepens. "We don't have anyone with us," he lies easily. "Now, why don't ya fuckin' leave me–"

Another cruel laugh sounds from the phone. "You and your brother are really startin' to piss me off," the man pauses and then asks, "I shouldn't have to introduce myself, should I?"

Lemon and Tangerine's expression hardens when they hear a gunshot and then a muffled scream that's followed by a heavy, dramatic, sigh. "See, I really did like that bloke—good guy, loyal, had a family and shit—" Tangerine's jaw clenches as he realizes how truly fucked this man is. "Now, I don't like you—you don't really wanna find out what I'd do to you, do you?" he threatens. 

"Cut the bullshit," Tangerine snaps, "Who the fuck are ya?"

"Moore, Keiran Moore," the man introduces himself after a moment. Tangerine's skin pales slightly and he's almost too distracted by Lemon's curse-whispering and insistent punches into the air, to fully register what that means. You? Married to Keiran Moore? One of the more dangerous Irish crime lords in central London?

Tangerine has so many questions swarming around him but Kieran's voice interrupts his thoughts. "Tomorrow. 9am. I'll have my men send you the location. Cross me again and I'll make a fruit salad out of you both, you understand me?" he chuckles at his own shitty joke and then the line ends.

Lemon snatches the phone from Tangerine's hand.

"Irish mob?! Really?" he hisses. "I told ya we should'av brought her to the cops! She's fuckin' trouble and it's biting us back in the arse!" 

Tangerine narrows his eyes at his brother and drags a hand in his curls. "You believe him?"

"You don't?!" Lemon counters, sounding exasperated as he hits Tangerine on the back of the head. "Stop thinkin' with yer fuckin' dick and be smart. She's married. To some dangerous fucker!!" he scolds and Tangerine feels like this is karma for all the years he's been the one to scold Lemon for stupid shit. 

Still, he isn't convinced. 

"I didn't see a ring on her finger, Lemon."

"Ya, because the arseholes that kidnapped Kieran Moore's wife probably took her wedding ring, you wanker!!" Lemon throws his hand up in defeat and exhaustion, "I'm not havin' this conversation with you right now. Why don' ya ask her yourself, hm?" 

Tangerine looks down the hallway. "She's probably sleepin' by now," he starts, knowing damn well he needs to talk to you. He needs to understand more because he's so damn confused.

Lemon sends him an annoyed look that he understands immediately and he swallows. Lemon isn't in any clear state of mind to question you without freaking you out—plus Tangerine's specialty is nonchalance. He can handle this easily. 

His walk to the guest bedroom seems longer than usual as he plays every scenario in his head, his hand clenching and unclenching. He knocks on the door, hearing your small voice answer. It's late and he instantly feels like an arse when he opens the door and sees your figure sitting up in bed, reaching over and turning on the lamp on the nightstand as the curtains are drawn shut. You turn and stare at him.

"Hi, darlin'," he whispers calmly, approaching you. You send him a nod of permission before he sits next to you on your bed. You shift and Tangerine can clearly see that your eyes are red and tired from your lack of sleep and from crying. His heart breaks and he swallows down the irritating lump forming in his throat. 

"I have some questions, Y/n, and I'm gonna need ya to be honest with me, you think ya can do that?" he begins, his hand itching to touch your leg and reassure any nerves that may be arising but he holds himself back. He waits for a nod andthen he continues. "Do ya know some bloke named Keiran Moore?"

As soon as the question leaves his lips, he sees the change in your expression. You sink into yourself, hand clutching the sheets as your breathing becomes harsher again.

Tangerine's worry increases and he holds out his hands for you to show you he still doesn't mean you any harm. He understands this is a lot to take in. "Woah, hey, it's okay. Ya know him, don' ya?" 

You nod meekly and alarm bells ring in Tangerine's head.

Her husband my arse—he thinks. 

"I need ya to tell me everything now. I can't help ya if you aren't completely honest with me. I know it's scary but Lemon and I truly mean you no harm. Ya can trust us," Tangerine explains as relief washes over you when he sees you relax and focus on calming your breathing.

"O-okay," you say after a moment, your voice so soft and delicate that Tangerine feels all kinds of emotions stir inside him. He looks at you, his gaze reassuring so you can continue. He needs to know everything and he wants to know it from you. 

"My father, his name is—'' you tell Tangerine your father's name in a whisper and his eyes narrow. Everyone in his line of business knows that name, only he never knew someone so ruthless and supposedly cruel had a daughter. 

"He promised me to Mr. Moore—some business arrangement I'm not sure— and I'm supposed to marry him. It's all a blur. I just– I didn't tell you and your brother because I didn't want you to return me to Mr. Moore. He's a brute and he's mean a-and—I- I tried to run once and he beat me—and once we're married he'll want me to do things. Things I don't want to do with him," you finish your rambles, your voice low.

The words sink in and Tangerine's jaw clenches. He knows what you mean and the thought makes his stomach twist with disgust. He inhales, holding in his fury for your sake since he doesn't want to scare you any more than you already are. 

"What do ya mean ya ran? You were living with him when you were kidnapped?"

You frown now, staring at Tangerine with a sincerely confused expression. "Kidnapped? I wasn't kidnapped. I told you, Daddy sold me to him."

It's Tangerine's turn to frown. 

"What?" he pauses, "So, your fiancé isn't the one who paid us to save you from your kidnappers?"

"Paid you? Kidnappers?"

"That doesn't matter now, darlin', but you're telling me technically we are the ones who kidnapped you from your fiancé?!" 

You chew on your lip, thinking for a moment. "I suppose?" 

Tangerine pinches the bridge of his nose and then he looks up at you, his eyes raking over you. You look terrified and confused and he's also fucking confused. Still, he reaches forward and smoothes his hand down your cheek, hesitating but ultimately smiling as you, consciously or not, lean into the warmth of his hand. 

"Don't ya worry, luv, we'll keep ya away from him and your father. I promise you," he strokes his thumb across your skin in a gentle manner. Tangerine feels like he's been turned inside out. He's never been gentle with anyone—not even with Lemon and he loves Lemon. 

Once you've calmed down and he'd gotten all the information he needed, he shuts the door behind him and walks back into the living room. Lemon looks up at his brother, still looking freaked out by the entire situation. "She's not married," Tangerine huffs and sits next to his brother, rubbing his temples as his eyes shut. "It's fuckin' complicated–"

"So, what are we gonna do now? Ya still wanna keep 'er?"

Tangerine opens his eyes and rolls them as he drums his fingers on his knee for a moment.

"Yeah. I still wanna keep 'er," he looks at Lemon, scoffing at the way he'd said that, and then a dangerous glint in his eye appears, one that Lemon knows all too well, "and the plan is simple, Lem. We're gonna kill those bellends."

* * *

Tangerine's plan is anything but simple, especially because it involves you. Lemon told him this was fucked up and a mistake but he didn't care. His plan was the only way to kill that bastard. 

You were dressed in your clothes from that night with only Tangerine's suit jacket draped over your shoulders as you shiver. The air is still damp and cool from the morning fog.

Tangerine was on edge as he nervously tapped his shoe against the graveled ground, checking his phone occasionally. Kieran Moore had been thirty minutes late to his rendez-vous andTangerine had only hoped he wasn't smart enough to only send him men—because otherwise, his plan is really truly fucked—

"This is so fucked!" Lemon suddenly shouts, blood splatter covering his face as he shoots at the group of men that had finally arrived, sweat trailing down from his hairline. "You fuckin' owe me, you wanker!" he screams at his brother, annoyed by the situation as he turns his head to see Tangerine take on three of Moore's men. It isn't exactly easy, but he's taken on worse than them. 

"Shit! Lem! Where's the bastard?!" Tangerine counters angrily, slamming the bud of his gun into a man's throat. He spins around, seeing bodies and smelling smoke but Kieran is nowhere to be seen anymore. Tangerine's blood runs cold when he sees that you're also missing from behind his car.

Where he'd made you promise you would hide when shit went down!

How could he have lost you?!

Lemon senses his brother's distress and grunts, looking towards the beaten-down and abandoned apartment complex. "He must have taken 'er in there since we blew up his cars. Couldn't have gone far on foot with a screaming bird in his arms— oh you motherfuckers, did he fuckin' send a cavalry?!" Lemon shoots another one of Moore's men. 

Screaming? Had you screamed and he didn't hear you?

Tangerine manages to break into a run, his eyes round and wild as he steadies his breathing so he can focus on finding you. When he enters the apartment building, he rounds the stairs and leaps up them. From a distance and because of an echo, he hears a shrill scream and he picks up his pace, spitting out blood from his mouth from a few hits he'd taken. 

"Shut up, ya stupid bitch!" Keiran's voice booms as he all but drags you up the stairs. The older man has a cigarette hung between his lips, cockily smirking as his hands gripping your arm as you kick and scream.

"Your fuckin' new boyfriends didn't think this through huh? Too busy with my men to realize I gotcha now?! You cheating whore— I'll have to beat some manners into ya again, huh? Huh?!" he snarls and smacks you across the cheek, causing another cry to tear from your throat.

Tangerine can see that your lip is bleeding. You look hurt and betrayed. He feels sick. Without thinking, he raises his gun and with a shaky exhale but a steady hand he pulls the trigger, hitting Kieran Moore through the head and killing him instantly. The man falls down the stairs, causing you to gasp. Your eyes follow him as he falls to Tangerine's feet at the bottom of the stairs. 

Tangerine wastes no time scrambling to where you are, guilt eating at him as he drops to his knees and without thinking, pulls you into his arms. His hold on you is hard and he's afraid he'll crush you so he loosens his hold.

However, you lean up, resting on your knees, as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him closer. You're shaking in his arms and his heart breaks when he hears you sniffle into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, stroking a hand in your hair. "I shouldn't 'ave brought you here. I shouldn't 'ave taken my eyes off him or ya for even a moment! I should'ave known this was too dangerous for ya. I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot."

You hold him tighter, your mind racing and his words reach your ears but you don't comprehend them. "Is he dead? Tell me he's dead, Tangerine. Promise me he's gone," you say, pulling him close as if you want to mold your body against his.

"He's dead. He can't hurt ya anymore," he whispers, kissing your forehead as he holds you. He presses another quick kiss to your hairline and then stands, pulling you up with him. "Now, I want ya to stay right here. I need to help Lem finish off those fuckers and then I'll come for ya. Promise. Stay here and be quiet. This shouldn't take long."

And he's right, it didn't take long because soon you're back at their car, sitting on the hood as Tangerine looks at the handprint on your cheek.

Lemon is hunched over against the car, muttering curses as he bandages his hand. You clench your hand between your knees nervously, your eyes focusing on Tangerine's eyes as his thumb brushes away some of your hair and not the countless dead bodies all around the outside of the apartment complex. 

Lemon grunts, standing up straighter. His gaze suddenly lands on you and when it does, his eyes soften. As pissed as he was with the entire situation, he is happy you're safe. He sends you a weak smile. He walks over and pats your knee reassuringly. "'M glad you're okay, Percy," he teases, the nickname making you smile.

"We should go," Lemon tells his brother, rolling up his sleeves as he looks around. "Don't want some good for nothin' pricks callin' the coppers on us." Tangerine nods and helps you down the hood, still holding a hand on your waist. The hand on your waist tightens when three cars suddenly pull up next to theirs, the tires screeching on the pavement. 

Without hesitation, Tangerine pushes you behind him and keeps an arm around you. "It's okay," he whispers gruffly, "I won't let them hurt you."

You frown, pushing on his arm and you take a step forward as men exit the cars, including one you know very well andyour heart sinks. "Daddy?" you whisper, your eyes widened and you pause, shrinking back behind Tangerine when you remember how much pain your father was responsible for.

Your dad walks out, raising his arms in surrender to show Tangerine and Lemon that he's not a threat to them. A bunch of his men, men you know, start to clean up the bloody mess. Lemon and Tangerine look confused and on guard when another man comes out with a silver case. 

"Steady, gentlemen," your dad says calmly as he looks you over and then tilts his head as an indicator for the man with the case to come forward and open it, revealing a bunch of money. "Your reward, hm? I promised you some money, didn't I?"

Lemon's mouth hangs open and Tangerine stares at the case, his arm still around you as he keeps you shielded behind him. "Pardon me?!" he spits and looks at the money, "what's that for?"

You stare at your father, catching on quicker to his games than the Twins. "You paid them to rescue me," you say, raising your arm and clutching Tangerine's sleeve. It doesn't make sense to you. Your father was the one who'd given you up to Kieran Moore so he could save his business. Why did he hire Lemon and Tangerine to save you then?

"I did," your dad says and he sighs, explaining himself. "You think I wanted you in the hands of that bastard? Kieran Moore has been a thorn in my side for decades. I didn't have a choice in the matter, he was blackmailing me and the entire organization. Our organization. The family organization! So, I did let him take you for a while and I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you. But, Y/n/n, I couldn't let him keep you and I knew if anyone could keep you safe without raising suspicions, it was them." He gestures to Tangerine and Lemon. "And they did. Now, they have their money and you can come home now, pumpkin."  

You stare at your father's extended arms and your hand tightens around Tangerine's sleeve. You shake your head, eyes narrowed. "No. I want to stay with them," you say. After all, you're an adult who can make her own decisions. 

Tangerine's heart leaps when he hears you say that and he has to force down a smug smile. You want to stay with him and Lemon. Lemon looks less smug as he crosses his arms and looks around at your father's men cleaning up the mess they'd made of Kieran Moore's men. 

"Sweetness, these gentlemen want their money and if you don't come home with me, I can't pay them. Wouldn't be fair now would it?" Your father sounds stern and also confused by the turn of events. 

"We don' need your money," Tangerine admits quickly, keeping you close to him. "You didn't even show up to claim 'er!"

Your father pinches his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. "It was complicated. I couldn't pick her up then but I wasn't worried. I knew you wouldn't harm her. Listen, I can't just allow you to take my daughter—" 

Lemon interrupts him, "We just dealt with your lil' rivalry problem, huh, mate. Call it even?" he turns to look at you and how hard you're gripping Tangerine's sleeve. Lemon wasn't initially on board with this whole keeping-you-with-them-plan but when his gaze travels to his brother's expression, he chuckles and turns back to your father.

"Ya really think he'd hurt your daughter? Ya had no problem with someone who ya knew was gonna harm her taking 'er but this is too much?" 

"I want to stay," you repeat, your tone much firmer this time. "I'm not leaving with you."

Your father seems stumped for a moment but his shoulder sags and he glances around at his men. Lemon has a point, his problem has been mostly solved now or at least solved enough that he can easily take over from here.

He looks at you and inevitably the way you're still clinging to Tangerine and how he's standing next to you, his stance protective. Your father sighs. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he tried to force you to come home with him now.

So he doesn't and you find yourself back at the Twin's house, sitting on the sink in their bathroom, letting Tangerine press a cotton ball full of some homemade disinfectant to your split lip.

You look up at him. It feels wrong being the one he's caring for when he's very clearly more injured than you are.

"You should take a shower, darlin'," he whispers, bending down and throwing away the blood-stained cotton ball into the trash. He straightens up and rests his hand against your cheek as he runs his thumb around the bruise on your cheek, his thumb barely applying any pressure.

"Can I help clean you up?" you ask. You're starting to become more comfortable around him and it makes his heart flutter.  

Tangerine smiles and chuckles. "Nah. I'm okay. Promise. You should relax in a warm shower. You've been through a lot."

"So have you," you say and press your thumb next to a particularly gruesome-looking wound on his forehead. 

He flinches but gently lowers your wrist and holds your hand in his. "I'm used to this. Ya don't need to worry for me, luv." Tangerine looks at you with such care, that you can't help but mirror his expression. You lean up, bringing your hands up to his cheeks, and without a chance to question your actions, you lightly kiss his lips.

You pull away almost instantly, cringing at the sharp pain in your newly wounded lip from the pressure. Tangerine can taste the saltiness from your lips onto his but that's the least of his worries as his eyes widen and he holds your hips steady on the sink, looking you over as he's speechless from your kiss. "Ow," you mutter and touch your lip, "too soon," you joke with a small smile.

"What was that for?" Tangerine asks breathlessly, his focus still on the fact that you'd kissed him. Actually kissed him. 

You smile. "Just a small thank you. For saving me and for letting me stay with you and your brother—keeping me safe and all." You press your palm on his chest, looking up at him. "There's more where those came from after you let me clean you up," you tease in a tone Tangerine hadn't heard from you previously. You sound lighter, not at all afraid or nervous. He really likes this side of you. his lips curl into a smirk as he reaches over the sink and hands you a fresh cotton ball, his hand curling on top of yours as you clutch it. 

"Careful with me, darlin'," he returns the tease and presses a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

You laugh—that sound he loves so so much and he hopes with everything he has that he can hear that sound until the day he dies. 

He's never ever leaving your side again. 

[missmeinyourbones]

CLEAN ME UP 

c/w: established relationship, hurt/comfort, light mentions of blood and injury, atsumu lowkey gets his ass beat </3 but he is so sweet

Atsumu sits crisscrossed on the floor of your bathroom with a tender black eye and a busted lip—and though this should be a rare thing, you need all five fingers to count the number of times you’ve seen this film before.

The first two were ages ago, high school days when he and Osamu couldn’t stop themselves from throwing a punch or two over nothing at all. Their egos too big and brains too small, twice you'd gotten roped into their post-brawl aftercare. Another time it was a fight off the court, when a rival captain made a snide remark about his foul accent. The fourth, a drunken, immature mistake.

Tonight’s wounds are different. Because when Atsumu nonchalantly shows up black and blue at your door, he doesn’t tell you what happened. There’s no story attached to the bruises he bares, no lengthy explanations or excuses. And Atsumu is a lot of things, but speechless is never one of them. 

He looks childish, you think, the way his broad body folds itself into a tiny pretzel and hardly takes up a corner of your tiled floor. He’s oddly quiet, too. Sure, you heard his witty comments down the hallway about how you should see the other guy, but something’s still off. His eyes aren't lit with their usual flame of youth, pride. 

Only a few words are exchanged through the process of cleaning him up. Between wet washcloths and tiny sniffles, Atsumu fumes, You haven't asked enough questions yet, and it’s beginning to freak him out. He doesn't know whether or not he should be grateful or unsettled with your silence.

A frozen bag of vegetables presses against his left eyelid when you finally ask, "What the hell did you do this time?"

Atsumu smiles at the mere sound of your voice, an instant warmth against the burning ice on his body. "Why's it always my fault?"

You remove the bag from his brow to shoot him a look, that look. He knows better than to argue with that look. Arguing with that look gets him nothing but trouble and an achy back from a night on the couch. So, he diverts. 

"Nothing,” he sulks. “He started it, and—"

"—And you finished it, right?" 

Your words are meant to be sarcastic, at his dispense of how stupid he behaved, but Atsumu doesn't take them as such. Instead, at your interruption, he shoots you an earnest smile filled with satisfaction and dried blood stretched across his chapped lips.  

"See? So smart, baby." 

His hand rises to pet your chin but you lean back quick enough to dodge his caress. His eyes fall to the bag of vegetables that now sits by your lap. 

“Atsumu,” you try again, foreboding. 

He rolls his head back in a huff against the bench of the bathtub, and the ceramic feels warm against his neck compared to the still stinging chill on his eye. 

“What was I supposed to do? They were bein’ assholes.”

His whole team had gone out drinking tonight for a celebratory round or five, followed by a few days off. And as charming as Atsumu is, he does have his foes. People in the volleyball world he’s not the biggest fan of, for reasons he doesn’t seem to discuss with you. He likes to leave it at his good intuition, something you know he lacks.  

With the context clues provided, you can think of two or three people he’s implying. 

His reasoning is flawed, to say the least, but the way he says it has your heart breaking in the slightest. He avoids eye contact, as if he's embarrassed, dancing around the subject and wishing the ground to swallow him whole. 

His shyness has you trying a softer approach. 

“Everyone is an asshole,” you whisper, lightly returning pressure to his eye with the makeshift ice, “if punching assholes was reasonable, I’d do it all the time.”

Atsumu smiles a bit at that, but you catch how he winces slightly at the movement. 

“Yer so funny, baby,” he tries to trail off. “Funniest person I—”

“Miya,” comes his second warning, and by the look in your eye, he’s not brave enough to try for a third.

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but when yer a Miya, I’m playing that card on you, too. Y’know that, right?” 

You nod, and whether it's to his proposal or to encourage his words, you don't know. But it works, because Atsumu takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling again. 

“This time was different, okay?”

His tone is eerily soft. One only you get the privilege of hearing, and not because it's out of love, but because it's out of hate. Something’s shaken him so bad, he’s almost been rendered speechless. 

“How was it different?”

“They were talking about you,” he shakily exhales. “Sayin’ stupid shit that isn’t true.”

Your heart softens as you do your best to keep a strong facade, but maybe Atsumu does have good intuition, as his hand squeezes yours through the quick moment of silence. 

“If it’s not true, then it shouldn't have mattered, right?” you try.

“No,” he’s quick to work himself up again, eyes finding yours. “Like hell was I gonna let ‘em keep talking about you like that, ‘specially when I’m right fuckin’ there.” 

Your fingers lightly skim his jaw, nowhere sensitive but he jumps all the same. You apply pressure to tilt his head, forcing him to find your gaze. He does.

“Do you want to tell me what they said?”

Atsumu gaze softens, and after a moment of thinking, he shakes his head. 

“No,” he decides, “I don’t.” 

His eyes fall to your lips and back up to your eyes. “Do you want to know?”

You smile at his sincerity. Atsumu, who you know to be just as sweet as he is boisterous, would tell you if you asked. He’d do anything you ask. But, you decide against it. 

“No. No, I don’t.” 

Atsumu exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding as he lets his head nuzzle against your palm. Contrary to the ice, it's warm and soft on his skin. He thinks it could heal wounds faster than any bag of broccoli ever could. 

“I trust you,” he hears you coo into his hairline, kisses now dancing along his forehead and jaw, “even if you do have the emotional intelligence of a middle school boy, sometimes.”

Astumu hmphs at your words, simultaneously agreeing and brushing you off. He doesn't care enough to bicker, right now. He doesn’t need to tell you about how the man from the bar was talking about you. About how easy you’d be to persuade into bed. About how you're just with Atsumu for his flashy perks and award winning smile. 

He doesn't need to because he knows they're wrong. Because they don't see these moments, when Atsumu sits on the ledge of your empty bathtub. With popped blood vessels and tender welts, those men don't melt beneath your careful fingertips or soothing pecks. 

He doesn't have to say anything, because you trust him. You trust Atsumu, and it's the one thing in this world he knows to be true. 

He lifts his head up from your hold to find your lips. 

“I jus’ love you,” he insists, lightly pressing himself to you with such caution, “so much.” 

And if there’s one thing in this world you know to be true, it's that Miya Atsumu loves you.   

[riizegasm]

Serpent || H. DM (Taesan)

❀ pairing: mafia boss!taesan x rival mafia boss!reader, implied fem!reader

❀ genre: enemies to allies to lovers, suggestive, fluff

❀ word count: ~6.2k

❀ warnings: explicit language, mentions of guns, blood, and everything else related to organized crime, suggestive themes, taesan is slightly ooc

❀ summary: Your alliance with the Giant Mountain crashes into your life like a brick through a glass window. As you work together to defeat a common enemy, you realize the old saying is right. The enemy of your enemy is your lover…or whatever…

❀ a/n: Okay so I’m a deep introspection writer, not an action writer, BUT!! I absolutely adore this fic! It’s so different from my usual portrayal of loser!taesan, but it works so well. I really hope you all enjoy this as much as I do. As always, likes, replies, and reblogs are encouraged. Happy reading!

Your heels click rhythmically against the spotless marble hallway, their sound interrupting the tense silence in the building. A pair of grandiose mahogany doors are opened for you, two men stepping aside to let you in. The office that it leads to is lavish, all of the furniture black with little chrome accents. Even the large desk in the center is an inky shade, clearly recently polished. 

A pair of equally spotless black shoes are propped up on its surface, mile long legs stretched out as their owner reclines in his chair. The smirk that the man wears is sickening, all too familiar. 

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” the man purrs. “What brings The Beauty of the North into my office?”

“Taesan,” you sigh, pointedly ignoring the nickname. “I need your help.”

You don’t know if it’s the desperation that colors your tone or the obvious frustration painted across your delicate features, but the smirk drops from Taesan’s face. His expression shifts into something more serious, something that could even be mistaken for concern, if you didn’t know the man so well. But this is Han Taesan, for Christ’s sake, the Giant Mountain, known for his harsh and stoic nature. There’s no way he is capable of feeling anything, let alone feeling anything for you. 

In an unlawful world full of enemies and allies, it would be fair to say that Taesan is neither. Your territories are separated from each others’ by the Dragons, an established mafia group known for their arms dealings. Although neither you nor Taesan specialize in arms deals, it makes sense that the groups closest in proximity to you would be your biggest threat. After all, territory disputes are common in your world. 

And well, the enemy of your enemy is your kinda not really friend, or however the saying goes. 

Within a few moments, you are making yourself comfortable in a seat across from Taesan, a steaming mug of tea warming your hands. The man’s expression of concern has completely dropped now, exchanged for the blank stare that he’s known for. Despite the look, you can tell he is still prepared to hear you out, having ordered his men to leave you two in privacy. 

“What’s going on?” Taesan asks after a moment of silence. “It must be pretty bad if you’re coming to me for help.”

“Intel says that the Dragons are preparing a territory breach. Apparently they’ve already started preparing to move their sales into my territory.”

Taesan scoffs. “And what does that have to do with me?”

You roll your eyes, unsurprised by Taesan’s standoff-ish attitude. “Because you’re next. My source says that they’ve already planted a mole so that they can take you down from the inside once I’m gone. They’re banking on the fact that both of us deal with their attacks alone. But if we deal with them together…”

“We can save both of our asses in one go.”

Despite the way Taesan nods in clear understanding, a scowl begins to cloud his features. Just as fast as it appears, though, it vanishes, replaced with the signature blank stare. 

“How do I know this isn’t a set up?” He questions. “The Dragons and I have been on decent terms for over a year. Why should I believe that they are making their move now?”

You sigh, reaching into your purse to fetch the item that brought you here. You force yourself to ignore the reflexive way Taesan’s hand twitches at the sudden movement, no doubt ready to grab one of the weapons he undoubtedly has stored in his desk. What you’re looking for is hard to miss, and you drop it on the unblemished desk with a loud thud. 

The red brick isn’t particularly large, just sturdy enough to do some minor damage. A piece of white paper remains taped to its rough surface. Across it, bolded words are scribbled. 

THOSE WHO DO NOT FALL IN LINE WILL PERISH!

The only indicator of the sender of the message is a small stamp of a dragon’s face at the bottom of the paper. 

“This shattered the window of one of my shops at around 4am today.”

Taesan hums softly, picking the brick up to inspect it. He lets his eyes linger on its inked surface before nodding to himself. When done, he tosses it back onto the table, not once flinching at the sound it makes. 

“So, will you help me?” You hope your words don’t sound as desperate as you feel. 

Taesan blinks at you once, twice, before sighing. “Fuck it, I’m in. Where do we start?”

You can’t help the small smile that blooms on your face, pleasantly surprised by Taesan’s willingness. 

“First, we find the mole.”

.          .         .

Han Taesan’s main office, or the Mountain Top as it’s better known, is just as flashy as Taesan himself is. Sleek black furniture and equally ebony walls are decorated with hints of chrome, their reflections shining in the perfectly polished marble floors. It’s tasteful, almost. Well, it’s as tasteful as any space run by a man in his twenties could be. But you imagine that it’s much easier when your empire is passed down to you by a filthy rich grandfather and not fought for tooth and nail like the one you yourself have built. 

There’s a difference in respect, you’d assume, between a leader who fought for their empire and a leader who was given it. But Taesan’s men don’t seem to show any lack in their appreciation for him. They bow a full ninety degrees as the man treks through the hallways, mile long legs moving gracefully in perfectly tailored dress pants. He commands a degree of authority without ever having to open his mouth. That silent reverence is probably what is saving you from a slew of unsavory comments from his underlings. 

Men in the business are never shy about treating pretty people like they are nothing more than just that. You’re used to people outside of your organization seeing you as nothing but a literal and metaphorical breeding ground for promiscuity. It took years of decapitating people for them to realize that your power extends to much more beyond your looks. 

The thought makes you sway your hips a little bit more than usual as you follow Taesan down an immaculate hallway. He leads you to a small set of doors, not bothering to knock before he simply barges in. The room hosts a slew of monitors and keyboards, all seemingly monitored by one person who sits at a central desk. 

The kid is clearly young, boyish features and a dark brown bed head giving him away. A pair of headphones fit snug over his ears, making it so that the boy hasn’t acknowledged either of his guests. Taesan just chuckles fondly before reaching over and snatching them off. His laughter only grows as the boy scrambles to his feet, falling over himself to bow deeply. 

“Sir, please excuse the disrespect,” he blubbers. “I was just watching back the tapes of yesterday’s deal and I got too into the details and—,”

Taesan claps a hand over the boy’s shoulder, smiling softly. You try not to stare at the handsome way his features contort in obvious fondness. It’s amazing to see Han Taesan be anything other than his stoic self. You would be lying if you said that he didn’t look undeniably attractive. 

“It’s okay, Woonhak. Seriously, straighten up.”

The boy does as told, embarrassment still coloring his cheeks. You struggle not to coo at the plush redness of his cheeks, further emphasizing his youth. 

“I came because I need your help with something. We need help with something. This is Y/N…,”

“The Beauty of the North,” Woonhak breathes, clearly in awe. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

This time, you don’t bother to hide your smile. “You as well, Woonhak.”

“What can I help you with?”

Taesan clears his throat, back to his stoic nature. “I need you to pull all phone records and text conversations for all of our men and scan them for any mention of the Dragons.”

“All of them?” Woonhak scoffs in disbelief. “But that’s over fifty men.”

“I know. But it’s really important, and time sensitive, too.”

You nod in agreement. “We’d like to have them by tonight, if we can.”

Taesan folds his arms over his chest, making his suit jacket shift across the broadness of his shoulders. You struggle to look away from the tightening fabric, hating the warmth that rises to your cheeks at the sight. Now is not the time. 

Woonhak seems to mull over the timeframe before responding. “I mean it would take all day and I would have to get to work right now, but I think I can do it!”

“Perfect,” Taesan sighs. “I’ll get Sungho to cover the rest of your workload for today. And Woonhak?”

The boy in question cocks his head, not unlike an intrigued puppy. 

“This stays between us, okay?”

The boy nods eagerly, miming zipping his lips closed before smiling. You can’t help the tiny laugh that bubbles in your throat at the over exaggerated action. Taesan seems amused too, if his hint of a smile is anything to go by. It’s only when the two of you exit the room once again that his smile drops. 

“Are you sure we can trust him?” You ask, nerves beginning to tickle at the base of your stomach. 

Taesan sighs. “Honestly, he’s the only one that I can say for sure that I trust. If he were the mole, my whole organization would be going down in flames.”

“Let’s hope that it’s not him, then.”

“Yeah,” Taesan mumbles, shaking his head. “Let’s.”

The tense aura that had once overcome the space begins to dissipate as Taesan straightens up, casually fixing his tie before beginning to head back down the long hallway from which you came. He clearly makes no move to check if you’re following behind, but something tells you that he’s listening to the measured clack of your heels against the marble floors. The tilt of his head is subtle, but it’s a dead giveaway that he’s listening; Han Taesan actually gives a shit about whether or not you’re following him. 

You only make it a few paces before Taesan stops short. He freezes so abruptly that you run straight into him, yet the force doesn’t sway him one bit. He’s silent for a moment, two, until a short yell echoes in the otherwise silent hallway. Silence quickly returns, then fades once again when it is pierced by a sound you know all too well—a gunshot. 

Taesan is quick to spring into action when a bullet whizzes past the both of you, luckily missing and lodging itself into an adjacent wall. He turns quickly, wrapping an arm around your waist before pulling you tight against him. He ushers the two of you behind a large pillar that divides the massive hallway in two. You remain tucked against the man’s chest, his crisp suit jacket wrinkled where you’re holding on for dear life. 

It’s not like any of this is new to you. In your business, shootouts and confrontations are just about an everyday affair. But it’s different when it’s on enemy turf. It’s different when you are miles away from your own headquarters and your own men. For all you know, Taesan could use you as a human shield while he escapes! But something about the way his large hand spans your waist, keeping you tucked to his chest, proves otherwise. 

“Are you okay?” He whispers, breath warm as it fans your face in the close proximity. 

“Yeah, you?”

The man just hums in response, the simple vibration making a home in your own chest where it’s pressed to his. It brings you an odd sense of calm despite the calamity around you, another set of shots going off. They whiz past the pillar the two of you are tucked behind. 

Taesan reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a pistol, clicking the safety off and cocking it immediately. His other hand still remains firmly on your waist, not once faltering where he keeps you tucked close. He’s quick to lean over you, arm outstretched, only taking a quick peek around the pillar before firing off three shots. You can feel the recoil in your veins, the simple pop pop pop nestling deep into your flesh. No matter how long you’ve been in this world, the sound of guns firing at close range will never not startle you. 

There’s a loud thud that fills the office space, followed by a prolonged period of silence. Taesan’s breath is shaky but controlled, clearly preparing to fire off more shots if needed. But as some more time passes, it’s clear that the shooter is down. Taesan, however, doesn’t move, still peering down his nose at you. You hate the way that his gaze ignites something deep in your core. Silently, you pray that he can’t feel the heavy thump of your heart against your ribs, or that he at least just passes it off as adrenaline. 

“I think I got him,” Taesan whispers. “Stay here, I’ll go ch—,”

“MR. HAN?? Sir, where are you?!” A voice exclaims from down the hallway. 

Taesan visibly exhales at the sound of the voice, finally taking a step away from you and ducks around the pillar. You loathe the way his absence leaves you cold. 

“What the fuck was that?” Taesan exclaims. “Sanghyuk, please tell me that wasn’t one of our own.”

You take that as your cue that it’s safe to come out, steps shaky as you leave your hiding spot. The war zone that you step into almost makes you collapse. There’s a series of bullet holes lodged into various walls and some desks. A few bodies lay unmoving further down the hallway, all dressed in black suits similar to Taesan’s. But the man in charge is stationed on the other end of the hallway, bent over a limp body with a few of his other men. A sea of crimson slowly expands below their feet, matching the color splattered along the wall. If you looked close enough, you’re sure you would be able to see some brain matter stuck to the sleek white walls. 

Taesan is merciless as he lifts the body’s head by pulling on a fistful of hair. He takes one look at the face and scoffs before letting the face fall back to the floor. It makes a wet smack when it hits the floor, sending another splatter of blood up to Taesan’s ankles. The man doesn’t even flinch, brows pinching in anger as he rights himself. He crosses his arms against his chest, letting out a bitter chuckle. 

“Fucking Minjoong!” He exclaims. “I should’ve known to not let in that slimy fuck.”

You swallow thickly. “Who was he?”

The man next to Taesan responds, running a hand through his dyed red hair. “A fairly new recruit. He cornered us coming back from a deal and begged to be let in. But it’s clear now that he was a mole.”

The final word has you looking to Taesan, searching his features for any sign of relief. But it doesn’t come. Instead he just motions at the bodies strewn across the office, sighing loudly. 

“Clean this up,” he orders. “I’m taking Y/N home. Everyone is dismissed for the day.”

The man next to him splutters. “But sir, it’s only—,”

“I don’t give a shit. We’re done here.”

.         .         .

A few days pass before you hear from Taesan again. It’s filled with much of the same mundane work that you always do. Your underlings make runs for you, support your fronts, and send you reports, just to wake up and do it all again the next day. The monotony gives you a dangerous amount of time to think. And every time you’re supposed to be thinking about the Dragons and their next move, your mind wanders to broad shoulders in black suits and large hands steadying your waist. 

You’re caught up in your familiar daydream when the text from Taesan comes in. You try your best to ignore the flutter in your core as his name pops up on your phone screen. 

Minjoong isn’t the only one. I’ll meet you at your HQ in 15.

It’s exactly fourteen minutes later when one of your men is knocking on the door of your office. He has Taesan in tow as he steps into the large space, greeting you with a small bow. 

“The Giant Mountain is here to see you.”

You smile, trying your best not to let your gaze flicker over Taesan’s figure where he stands. “Thanks, Donghyun. I’ll call you if I need you.”

The man sends another small bow before he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click. It leaves you and Taesan in an uncomfortable silence, tension inexplicably high. For a moment, you swear Taesan eyes the curve of your chest before meeting your gaze. But you’re sure it must just be a figment of your imagination. 

“So,” you begin, folding your manicured hands underneath your chin. “What did you find out?”

Taesan smirks before sitting down across the desk. He’s surprisingly relaxed for being on supposed enemy turf, legs stretched out as he sinks into his seat. 

“There’s four.”

You cock your head, confused by the simple statement. “Four of what?”

“Four filthy fuckin’ moles in my org. All of them were stupid enough to text evidence back and forth to each other.”

“So you know their plan?”

Taesan sighs. “Not quite. Only bits and pieces were explained in the texts, but it’s enough to prove that Minjoong’s little attack from the other day was intended to cause chaos.”

“Not to kill you?”

The cocky smile you’ve gotten used to Taesan wearing crosses his countenance. “Not yet.”

There’s something in the gleam in Taesan’s eye that fills you with both terror and excitement. In a world like your own, organization leaders have to be predators, ready to pounce on anything that crosses their path. Even though you aren’t his intended target, it’s impossible not to feel like prey as his dark gaze bores into yours. Even as his expression drops into his calculated stoicism, you can feel your heart pounding against the cage of your ribs, just waiting to be exposed and devoured. 

“I’ll have some of my men do some…gathering of information out of the three remaining moles and see if we can get anything about the Dragons’ plan for you,” Taesan says with a slow nod. 

“Thank you,” the words lift a weight off your chest as they are spoken aloud. “Seriously.”

Taesan just shrugs. “We’re allies now. It’s the least I can do.”

The “least he can do” turns out to be exactly what you expected. The picture comes to your phone late at night, and you gasp when you see the carnage it contains. Blood is splattered across a large black tarp, speckled in some spots while it creates crimson lagoons in others. If you look closely, you can spot some teeth strewn across the carpet, shining like stars in the night sky. In the foreground, there’s a table laid out with various instruments, pliers, bone saws, and hammers, along with two detached fingers, dripping a sea of red onto the table. The text it accompanies is simple:

Got what we needed. My HQ, tomorrow at 10.

Despite the nausea that lingers in your stomach from the picture, you find yourself in Taesan’s office at approximately 10:01 am the next morning. The man has forgone his suit jacket this time, his crisp white shirt rolled up to expose the tattooed skin of his forearms. There’s something about him that seems a little disheveled, erratic, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. It isn’t until you see three crushed energy drink cans by the trash can that the pieces come together. 

“Great, you’re here!” Taesan greets. “So those fuckers put up a fight, but eventually we got somewhere. It turns out that the four of them joined my org to—,”

“Taesan,” you interrupt, trying not to coo at the confused look you are given in response. “When’s the last time you slept?”

Taesan sputters for a moment, ruffling his already disheveled hair. “Like two days ago. But that’s not important! We have so much to do. We’re finally getting somewhere.”

“Taesan, you need to sleep. Do you have a place you can sleep here?”

“The penthouse,” Taesan responds, voice small like a scolded child. 

“Then let’s go. You need to get some rest.”

It takes a bit more back and forth and jerky movements of the body to convince Taesan to take a well deserved break. The elevator ride up to the penthouse is short enough that Taesan doesn’t have the chance to change his mind. When you step into the apartment, you notice how different the space is from any of Taesan’s offices, yet threads of the man’s style are still there. 

Floor to ceiling windows allow for plenty of light to fill the space, despite the overcast skies. Most of his furniture is in various shades of gray and black, matching the sky. The floors are sleek as you step in, clearly recently mopped and polished to the point where your reflection stares back at you when you glance down. The pristine floors are just one of the many things about this apartment that shows that it is untouched, uninhabited, and that Taesan really hasn’t slept. 

“I’m going to go,” you say softly, watching as Taesan loosens his tie with a sigh. “Get some sleep.”

Before you can cross back through the threshold, a chilled hand grips your wrist, pulling you back softly. Taesan’s eyes are bright when they meet yours, his gaze pleading. 

“Do you mind staying? Just for a bit. I want to tell you what I found out before you go.”

The slight waver of his eyebrows makes you wonder when you went from the stoicism of the Giant Mountain to the open expressions of Han Taesan. The man known for his ruthlessness and icy exterior has seemingly melted into a pool of warmth. He isn’t demanding anything from you, like the way he does with his underlings. Instead he is asking, feline eyes widening so that he looks as if he’s begging. 

“Fine,” you sigh, your resolve crumbling as warmth pools in your core. “Just for a bit though.”

You should have known that Taesan’s information would take longer than “just a bit.” He’s overly animated as he goes through what he found out from each of the moles, not sparing any of the gory details as he spells out their torture. In the end, all of Taesan’s ramblings lead to one central point. The Dragons are after what everyone else in the world is after—money. 

“His attacks on your side are much simpler. He wants to do business with th—,” Taesan cuts himself off with a yawn, nose scrunching not unlike a disgruntled cat. 

“I really think you should get some sleep, Taesan.”

As you move to gather your belongings, a soft voice calls out to you, thick with the beginnings of sleep. “Is that your secret?”

“My secret to what?”

“You know,” Taesan yawns again. “Your nickname. You looking like that. You get plenty of beauty rest, don’t you, sweetheart?”

A snort escapes you before you can catch it, caught off guard by Taesan’s candid questions. “Yes, Taesan. I get plenty of beauty rest. You should too.”

You watch as the man shoots you a small smile before his eyes drift shut, fully succumbing to sleep. The sight of Taesan curled up on the couch, chest rising and falling evenly, has the tendrils of anger slowly traversing your veins. It’s not anger at the mellow expression of the sleeping man before you, but rather at the reason you are in this situation in the first place. 

The Dragons are seeking to destroy lives just for their own selfish gain. All they want is more territory, more arms sales, more men, more, more, more. Their greed knows no end. The thought of all they have destroyed and what they could destroy has you steaming, anger boiling in your gut threatening to boil over. 

The Dragons have plans to take Taesan’s life, and you simply can’t let that happen. 

It’s there, watching Taesan’s unconscious form that you realize that you have to be ruthless in your fight against the Dragons. You have to be swift and venomous, striking like a serpent. With the unwavering stability of Taesan’s men behind you, there’s no doubt that you can be successful. You just have to be willing to die for it. 

.        .        .

Sub Zero is always packed on a Saturday night. It’s one of Taesan’s well known clubs, a perfect front for pushing the more illicit activities that his empire is known for. It’s the only place in the city where someone could buy drugs and do them right then and there, making it a popular destination. With its flashing lights and swanky cocktails, anyone could mistake it as a normal club. But the way the bass rumbles in your chest reminds you that this is anything but. 

Only two of your men flank your sides as you squeeze your way through club goers and partiers. It’s clear that some of them are out of it, too deep into their high to notice the world around them. They move as an amorphous crowd, a blob of bodies that bob and weave to the beat. It makes it harder to reach your destination, but finally you arrive at a roped off section in the back right corner of the club. 

A burly man dressed in a sleek black suit guards the section, eyes concealed as he gazes out at the crowd. Even though you can’t see his eyes, you can tell he’s looking right at you. All it takes is a slight cock of your head before the man is stepping aside, unlatching the black velvet rope to allow you in. You just shoot the man a smile as you climb the few steps to the elevated section, eyes immediately locked on the man who invited you in. 

Taesan looks delectable tonight. He’s not in his normal suit, the way most of his men are. Instead, he dons a leather jacket over what appears to be a black tank top. His black jeans are loose where they fit across his spread legs, the man leaning back lazily. He takes a slow sip of his drink, some type of dark liquor, only greeting you with a quirk of an eyebrow. 

“You came,” he smirks as you get closer. “Didn’t think this would be the crowd for the Beauty of the North.”

You roll your eyes as you sit next to him, your little black dress straining across the width of your hips. The outfit is clearly to Taesan’s satisfaction, if the way his eyes sweep over your figure is anything to go by. His eyes linger on the fullness of your chest, the dip in your waist, and the curve of your hips. 

“See something you like?” You tease. 

“Oh,” Taesan smirks. “You have no idea, sweetheart.”

A molten feeling blooms in your gut at Taesan’s words, forcing you to struggle to hide heated cheeks. But the man doesn’t break eye contact. For as stoic as he is when he’s sober, he’s a pretty loose drunk. His confidence is palpable as he drinks; You hate that you find it as undeniably sexy as you do. 

“Did you invite me to talk business or to flirt?”

Taesan takes a slow sip of his liquor, leaning closer to you. “And what if I wanted to do both?”

At this point, he’s close enough that you can smell the liquor on his breath—whiskey. If it were anyone else, you would hate the smell. But it’s Taesan, and you find your mouth watering, desiring to drink its essence straight from his mouth. You wonder if his lips would be as soft as they look, if his perfect teeth would nibble on your lips just so.

You clear your throat in an attempt to break the haze of your daydream. 

“What did you need to tell me?” You press, voice vibrating your chest along with the bass of the song blasting through the club speakers. 

Taesan leans even closer, letting his lips brush the soft shell of your ear. 

“I know how to take them out,” he whispers. “I just need you to trust me. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitches in your throat, mouth suddenly dry at the deep drawl of Taesan’s voice in your ear. It’s intoxicating, his confidence, the way he speaks, the soft brush of his lips against your skin. It’s enough to have you clenching your thighs together, ashamed at how easily the man gets you going. 

“What am I going to need to do?”

Taesan pulls away only slightly, clearly disappointed by your response. A large hand comes underneath your chin, nudging your face so that you’re forced to lock eyes with him. It only lasts for a moment, Taesan’s gaze flickering down to your lips before meeting your eyes once again. A pink tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and you find yourself tracking the motion with your gaze. 

“Can you do that?” Taesan repeats firmly. “Do you trust me, baby?”

You don’t know if it’s the deep rasp of his voice or the fire in his gaze, but something about his demeanor tells you that this is real for him and not just the alcohol talking. Taesan knows that this is life or death for both of you. If you’re in this, you have to be in it for real. 

So you take a shaky breath, nodding slowly. 

“I trust you, Taesan.”

The man smirks, leaning in to place a chaste kiss on your cheek. 

“Good,” he whispers, dropping your face. “Just know that I got you. We’re taking the Dragons down…together.”

.         .         .

The serpent strikes on a Sunday. 

Taesan came up with the code phrase, his signal to let you know that the plan was in motion. It was the signal for you to come into the scene and do what you do best: be the Beauty of the North. 

Your men come in silently, slowly infiltrating the Dragon’s Den by taking his underlings out one by one. You’ve always been a big fan of silence, favoring knives to guns. It allows each of your men the element of surprise, a simple flick of the wrist opening up each member’s throat and exposing their blood to the world. They fall within seconds. 

It almost seems too easy to make your way through the building, only flanked by two of your men, the only two with firearms. Donghyun’s pistol is decorated with a silencer, the accessory allowing you to keep your element of surprise as he takes out three Dragons stationed near their leader’s office. The opening is clear as the rest of your men continue to take out the lower level Dragons, leaving only one man left to deal with. 

Jaehyun counts you and Donghyun down before kicking the door open, both of their guns ready to fire. However, you’re not expecting to be met with at least five men, one of which wearing a calm expression that you know all too well. At least half of the men are somewhat familiar to you, their black suits all to similar to their leader’s, who greets you with a blank stare. It stuns you into place, the two men next to you equally as shocked. 

“Taesan?”

“And here I was thinking that the fucker was lying,” Kim Jaeyoon, head of the Dragons, snarls. “The Beauty of the North really came to fucking kill me.”

You can’t even bother to address the man, too busy searching the familiar feline gaze that remains trained on you down the barrel of a gun. Your heart has fallen to your feet, a constricting feeling squeezing your throat into knots. You don’t even dare to breathe, too stunned by the thought of one wrong move ending in your death at the hands of your ally. 

Jaeyoon lets out a wicked chuckle, seemingly amused by your stunned state. “It’s over. If you surrender now, I’ll let your men join me instead of killing them. I just might let you be my pretty armpiece, too.”

The man rounds his desk, stooping a few paces from you. Taesan moves with him, consistently protecting the man’s flank. You still can’t manage to look away from him, hurt and betrayal leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“You made me a lucky man, Taesan,” Jaeyoon chuckles. “Who would have thought that you would really deliver me such a pretty thing on a silver platter?”

You flinch away before Jaeyoon can stroke his knuckles against the fullness of your cheekbone. From somewhere behind you, you can hear Jaehyun and Donghyun struggling, no doubt having been restrained the minute you all entered the office. You admire their desire to protect you, even now, when everything is so clearly coming to an end. 

“Don’t play hard to get now. I offered you a generous deal, Y/N,” Jaeyoon cooes, breath rancid where it fans your face. 

Despite your disgust at the man before you, your attention never leaves the figure to his left. Taesan looks stoic as always, almost bored at the interaction in front of him. His nonchalance has anger bubbling in your core, heating your face. 

“Taesan, why?”

The man just blinks back, face unmoving. “Well, the serpent strikes on a Sunday.”

An almost simultaneous cacophony of shots ring out, threatening to burst your eardrums and forcing you to recoil. Something warm and wet splatters across the room, dirtying the otherwise untainted surface of your dress. You’re sure that this is it, that you have finally met your end. But when you don’t feel any sources of searing pain, you dare to open your eyes. 

Taesan’s chest is heaving where he stands over Kim Jaeyoon’s limp body, gun still smoking in his hands. A few of the other unrecognizable men have met a similar fate as their boss, bodies strewn across the luxurious office space. Slowly, Taesan lowers his gun, eyes finally meeting yours. 

“God, I always fucking hated him.”

An arm snakes its way around your waist, pulling your stunned figure into a firm chest. You wonder if Taesan can feel the roaring of your heart where it’s pressed against his, not sure if it’s pounding out of anger or pure fear. 

“Are you okay?” Taesan whispers.

You let out a shaky breath, reveling in the man’s warmth for a moment. But when you regain your composure, you pull away abruptly, landing a harsh blow to Taesan’s arm. 

“Fuck you,” you exclaim. “You scared me, you fuck!”

Taesan hisses as he rubs the sore spot. “What was that for? I just saved your life!”

“I thought you ratted me out!”

Taesan just rolls his eyes, wasting no time in pulling you back into him. This time, he engulfs you in a proper hug, arms tightening around you and tucking you under his chin. You’re powerless to do anything but hug back. 

“I told you that you had to trust me, sweetheart.”

“I did…I still do! It’s just…” you sigh. “Don’t do that again!”

Taesan’s chuckle is little more than just a rumble of his chest underneath your head. “Let’s hope I don’t have to.”

.         .         .

The second time you end up in Taesan’s apartment is unlike the first one. Instead of a sleepy Taesan rambling about his latest torturing, he’s very much awake, mouth too occupied with meeting yours to do any talking. 

Taesan’s mouth is insistent against yours, kissing you deeper, harder, with each press of his lips. It’s far from his usual stoic demeanor, the way his kisses turn demanding and sloppy within seconds. His wandering hands prove to be equally as demanding as they sweep the expanse of your body, squeezing your ass underneath the tight fabric of your dress. 

You aren’t fairing much better, your own fingers tangling in the man’s inky locks. The nibble of teeth against your bottom lip has you arching even further into Taesan’s hold, a soft whimper leaving your lips. It’s too much and not nearly enough all at the same time. You crave to feel the shift of Taesan’s muscles underneath his skin, his hands as they explore you, his mouth as he follows his fingers’ path. 

You’re so consumed that you barely realize that Taesan has pulled away, blindly chasing his lips before you blink your eyes open. Instead of a greasy smirk, Taesan’s mouth is slightly parted, chest heaving where it remains pressed to yours. He slides a hand up to cup your jaw, thumb beginning to trace across your bottom lip. 

“Do you trust me, baby?” He whispers. 

His irises are dark, pupils almost completely eclipsing the small rings of color. Gone is the stoic Taesan that you’re used to. This Taesan feels. And so do you. 

“I trust you, Taesan.”

.FIN.

[dailydegurechaff]

Tanya²

Today's Daily Degurechaff is… I’ll do you one better: Tanya³

(+ a small fic I never finished.)

Erich… isn’t sure what he’s seeing. He knows he’s wearing his glasses and he definitely has not been drinking… So what in the world is going on here? Why is he suddenly seeing things in triplicate?

Three of them. There are three little Degurechaff Devils in an office where there should only be one. 

When he’d knocked on her door, she’d called out that she needed a second. He hadn’t listened to her and opened it anyway. He’s regretting that now. Staring at them, both his head and his stomach are starting to hurt. 

All three of them are staring back at him. One is looking at him in abject horror, the next one’s eyes flash in recognition and she actually smiles (even more shocking, she does it in a way that isn’t uniquely terrifying, but perhaps actually cute), and the final squints at him a bit, as though she doesn’t know him. 

One of the three, the one who looks absolutely horrified, opts to greet him after a moment, “Ahaha—… Colonel Lergen… did you need something?” She sounds like she might be freaking out a bit. Erich feels similarly to her.

The second Degurechaff, the one who had smiled at him, turns her head to look at the first. She looks confused now. “Did you just say ‘Lergen?’ Not Rerugen?”

The first responds again. While she sounded nervous a second ago, it’s forgotten as she turns to her counterpart, “Seriously? You’ve been speaking this language for over a decade and your accent is that bad? Yes, I definitely said Lergen. Why would you pronounce it Rerugen?”

Now it’s the third one’s turn to speak, “No, I agree, it’s definitely pronounced Rerugen, but… this isn’t him. Rerugen has dark hair and brown eyes… and if I’m going to be honest, a fairly unfortunate haircut too. This guy looks too normal to be Rerugen.”

Degurechaff One immediately disagrees, “What are you even talking about? Lergen’s always had blonde hair and blue eyes.”

The second one backs her up, “Yeah, I agree this is definitely the right sort of coloration, but… now that I’m looking at him, Rerugen is supposed to be more handsome than this.”

“Handsome?! Has Being X poisoned your brain that badly?” Number Three yells at Number Two.

Two snaps back at her immediately, “That’s not what I meant at all, and you should know that! I meant by conventional standards! You know, stronger jawline, sharper features!”

Did— did she just say he was ugly?

Before the other two start arguing, the first one cuts them off, “Hold on. Are we sure we’re all talking about the same person here? Maybe you both are thinking of someone else, this is Colonel Erich von Lergen, my superior, formerly a part of Personnel, but now he works in Operations in the General Staff. He’s been looking out for me for a while now. For example, he made an effort to keep me off the frontlines, and when I was stationed in the southeast, he gave me a preliminary warning that Dacia would invade. Things like that. He’s a very good superior. Does any of that seem familiar?”

“Ah… that does seem to match up with who I was thinking of. I wonder why he’s so different from what I know…”

Now that Erich’s kind of over the shock now, he’s a bit tired of being talked about like he isn’t here. Interrupting the conversation between them, he finally speaks, “Degurechaff… what is going on here?”

All three seem to remember that Erich is actually here and a part of the conversation suddenly. They turn back to look at him, but none of them seem to really know what to say, faces varying shades of hesitation, confusion, or irritation.

The way they act and carry themselves is… actually slightly different. Looking closer at them, maybe it’s only that there’s one Degurechaff and two extremely close doppelgängers? If he studies them, yes they’re close enough to be siblings, but there’s differences between each.

The first one is the one he recognizes, the one who looks as he expects her to and also is getting his name and appearance correct. She’s just the slightest bit taller than the other two, but it’s a marginal thing. She’s paler than the other two in all aspects, a corpse-like pallor to her skin, hair colored platinum blonde, and eyes the color of ice. When he meets her gaze, it’s easy to tell her apart. It’d be impossible to mistake those disconcerting eyes that look a bit dead, or perhaps look like she’d want everyone around her dead if it’d bring her a bit of peace. So this one he mentally categorizes as ‘Original Degurechaff,’ or perhaps more accurately ‘The Degurechaff That I Know.’

The second one that he heard speak— the one who had called him ugly?— is the smallest of the three. Of course, Degurechaff has always been small, but this one beats the other two. Actually, she even looks younger than the others, if that was even possible, and honestly she kind of acts like it as well. She has shorter, curlier hair than the others, and it’s much brighter in color— much closer to gold than platinum blonde. Compared to the one he knows, she seems more… emotive, perhaps the best word for it is. So this one has to be ‘Little Degurechaff’ or something to that effect.

The third one is about a midpoint between the two in hair color and stature, though her hair is a right mess. A prominent flyaway sticks out of the top of her head, refusing to lay flat. Framed by pale lashes, her eyes are a more vibrant blue than either of the others, but they’re just as cold-looking and tense. He wouldn’t call any Degurechaff patient, but this one gives him the impression she’s much more irritable than the others. Her uniform is also starkly different from the other two, who are almost matching, but all three carry a recognizable Silver Wings Badge. This one… perhaps he should denote her as the ‘Irritable Degurechaff’? She’s always been irritable, though, hasn’t she?

The designations are a start, but still he has to wonder... Why? Why is this happening?

Ah, hold on. Is that it? Is this a punishment from God, specifically designed to torment me?

[eevees-hobbies]

This One's for the Dads!

Authors Note: This was originally going to be a spicy one-shot with Satoru Gojo, but then it turned into something else.

Synopsis: Father’s Day is among us and it impacts Gojo, Geto, Toji and Sukuna (yes, even him) differently. 

Content Warning: There is some smut below. None in Toji’s and it’s kind of angsty. Female ReaderXCharacter, Mentioning of fathers day, breeding kink, implied child abandonment, reference to spitting in someones mouth, playing with nipples, almost getting caught, making out fingering, sex, etc. Minors DO NOT Interact.

Likes, comments and reblogs always appreciated!

The Dads Who Stepped Up

Satoru Gojo

“Happy Father's Day, Satoru!” You shout while simultaneously setting off a loud party popper. The red party string erupts from the boisterous instrument and floats to the floor onto the accented rug. The love of your life and least funniest person in the world, Satoru Gojo—who had just walked into the door of your shared home—looks at you in surprise. 

Truth be told, it was the end of a particularly long and stressful workday, and he was looking forward to coming home and collapsing into his king-sized bed without further thought of carrying the world's weight on his shoulders. But here he was, being accosted at his own front door—by you. 

“Happy Fathers D-?” His voice trails off as his eyes wander down your frame and settle on your midsection. Your face grows hot as you follow his eyes; instinctively, your hand shoots down to cover your stomach. You scold yourself quietly for not thinking of the implications behind your gesture.

“Yeah, I should have thought this through. Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant.”

“Oh”

You make a mental note of his change of tone. He sounded disappointed, but you can’t imagine why since pregnancy scares have always stressed you both out in the past. 

“Then, why are you wishing me a Happy Father's Day? I’m not exactly a dad.” Gojo closes the door behind him and opens his arms, allowing you to approach him and melt into his embrace. His familiarity calms you, as does the scent of his cologne and the way he rests his chin on your head. For all the things that Gojo is for you—and he is a lot of positive things—he also is a sense of security, comfort, and unconditional love. 

“But you are, Satoru. I know I joke about you having an army of secret kids out there-“ 

“I meaaaaaaan-”

You pinch his bicep playfully, earning a pained chuckle from him. 

“You’re a father figure to Megumi, Yuta, and Yuji, to only name a few. Think about how much you’ve stepped up and mentored them in their darkest moments. I want you to consider where those kids would be without you, Satoru.”

While you’re talking, Gojo lifts his blindfold from his eyes and rests it on his forehead. His usual playful gaze is gone, replaced with something more reflective as he considers your words. It’s almost enough to unnerve you, but you continue in an attempt to convince your partner that today is a day for him, too.

“I know you’re always bragging about being the strongest, to the point where you’re downright annoying, but please accept that you serve in this capacity, too. Look,” you break free from his embrace, walk over to your dining room table, and pick up several envelopes. 

Gojo follows behind you, peering over your shoulder. “What are those?” 

“Signed Father's Day cards from the boys.” You hand them over to Gojo, who then opens the one on the top of the pile, which just so happens to be Megumi’s

Gojo can’t help but smile as he reads it aloud: “Thanks for everything. If I had to choose between being sold off to the Zenin clan and you, I would choose you every time.” 

He looks up at you, his voice soft and devoid of his usual arrogant tone. "That’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.”

You smile as he reads through the other cards. Yuta’s is the sweetest and tugs at your heartstrings as he describes a point in which meeting Gojo meant not having to live in fear anymore. 

Yuji’s card makes Satoru chuckle with the use of an inside joke that doesn’t sound too appropriate for a student-teacher relationship, but you don’t press it. 

You watch Gojo, enjoying this moment in which he feels valued, something his thankless job often fails to offer him. 

After Gojo places the cards on the refrigerator via the picture magnets of you two, he turns to you. “Baaaaaabe!” 

There he is, you think as he throws his arms around you and nuzzles his face into your hair, “I’m not gonna’ lie. I kind of wish you were pregnant, though.”

Suddenly, the arrogance is back, his voice absolutely inundated with it, “I like the idea of a little Gojo running around, and you make me sound like a perfect dad.”

You recall your conversation from minutes ago in which he sounded disappointed when you said you weren’t pregnant, “Gojo, we’ve talked about this. When you get horny, you start talking about making a family.”

He whines, “Come ON! It’s Father’s Day! MY day! Humor me.”

You laugh and nod, not entirely sure what you’re consenting to, but he’s right. It is Father's Day, and it was your intention to make him feel like this was a day for him, so what was the harm in playing along? 

Gojo picks you up and places you on the counter, his fingers gripping the edge of your skirt and hiking it up. He’s on you in an instant, attaching himself to you as if you’re his lifeline.

You loop a finger around the hem of his blindfold, removing and flinging it across the room. His white hair falls into his face, adding a breathtaking contrast to his sky-blue eyes. 

“Would it be so bad, Y/N?” 

“W-would what be so bad?” Gojo’s warm mouth is on your neck, leaving a trail of kisses but still somehow managing to speak against your skin.

“Making me a dad,” he pauses. “Letting me make you a mama.” Gojo leans closer to you, allowing you to wrap your arms around his shoulders. You’re situated on the counter, but his proposition makes you feel like you’re falling. And what he says next shakes you to your very being.

“Let me put a baby in you, Y/N.”

You open your mouth, ready to list why you both shouldn’t even be entertaining this conversation—but, to your surprise, you can’t find the words to say no. And perhaps it’s because it’s something you actually want, or maybe it’s because Gojo is now positioning his cock at your entrance, and when that man pulls his dick out, you get a little dumb. Honestly, your only flaw.

You have follow-up questions. You’re unsure if he’s being serious; he often talks like this during sex, a consequence of a man with a breeding kink, but this sounds different. Feels different. So, is he serious? Your second question is, how did he pull his dick out so quickly?

You don’t get much time to ask as he smacks the fat tip of his dick against your sensitive clit; the sound of his meat hitting your already moist cunt echoes through the kitchen. The action sends shockwaves through your body, and you arch your back, pressing yourself further against his body, which almost doesn’t feel humanly possible. 

Gojo smirks, “Mmm, so receptive for me, baby. What if I juuuuust put the tip in, like this?”

He’s a man of his word as he presses the head against the entrance of your tight cunt, watching as it does what it does best and welcomes Gojo’s dick. But he doesn’t push in any further, only allowing you to feel moderately stretched and not as full as you’d like.

“Don’t tease me, Gojo.” You attempt to make your demand sound menacing through gritted teeth, but it comes out more like a whine. Pathetic. 

He wraps a hand around your chin and pulls your face within mere inches of his. “I will if you ask nicely.”

You huff. God, for all the reasons you love this man, he can be fucking exhausting. But your body deceives you; your cunt grasps at the head of his cock, part of you enjoying his little games.

“Please, Saturo, make me a mommy.”

As the last syllable leaves your lips, he pushes forward until his dick is flush against your pussy. The momentum of the push bounces you back, and some of the appliances on the counter tip over. Gojo’s hand shoots over your head to get leverage, resting on the cabinet while the other wraps around your waist. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he slides in and out of you. “I swear to GOD I’m getting you pregnant tonight. You want that? To carry my babies?”

Fantasy or not, you’re into it. You tighten your grip around his neck and moan into his ear, your honeyed voice only making him thrust more aggressively. 

“You’re going to be a great Daddy, baby!”

The arm that was around your waste is now in between you both, his long fingers rubbing your clit, the friction making your inner thighs clench—a telltale sign that you’re getting close.

“You’re going to look so fuckin’ beautiful pregnant. How many are you going to give me? Cuz once we start, I won’t be able to stay off ya.”

You moan in approval; Satoru is a pervert, a menace, but never a liar. You know that if he promises to keep you barefoot and pregnant, he fucking means it. 

“Stick out your tongue for me, baby.”

You happily oblige as his mouth absorbs your tongue, sucking harshly on it. Kissing while fucking is something you both often do, but you and Satoru are just so comically bad at it—taking intermittent pauses, too caught up in the pleasure you’re both feeling to move your lips. But he never allows your tongue to retreat back into your mouth, sucking on it while he continues to pound your core.

You dig your nails into his shoulders, realizing that he never removed his shirt—he was so horny that he only had time to drop his pants down to his ankles and fuck you right there on your kitchen counter. And the thought alone has you grabbing his hair and gushing on his dick.

Gojo lets out a whimper as your cunt spasms, sending him over the edge, and shooting ropes upon ropes into your sex.

You’re both left panting, forehead to forehead.

“Happy Father's Day, Satoru.”

Suguru Geto

“That’s the last of it,” you say as you dump an endless supply of glitter into a trash bag. The living room was a mess.

For this Father's Day, Mimiko and Nanako begged to be in charge of the activities. You were touched. The girls were obviously happy to hold this responsibility, so you willingly passed the baton to them.  

And you had to admit, you were impressed by the itinerary. They planned a trip to some of Seguro’s favorite places, including a Soba restaurant that typically had an extensive waitlist. Tonight was no exception, but the girls had made reservations months in advance. 

You all concluded the day at home with home movies, cake, and a poster board with bright red glitter proclaiming that Geto was the “World's Best Dad.” 

Hence, the mess.

The girls were now tucked away and asleep in their respective bedrooms. You and Suguru were taking the time to clean up the living room, but a quiet lull had settled between you both. You looked back at him as you tied the trash bag closed. 

Geto is sitting on the couch, a smile on his face that you can’t help but return. He looks perfect like this, you think to yourself. He is wearing black jeans and a loose grey sweatshirt, and his signature hair, which is often tied up, flows freely past his shoulders. 

“Y//N, this is the happiest I’ve ever been, and I owe a lot of this to you. This wouldn’t be a home without you.” He gestures to the room around you both, and you take it all in—it’s not the most luxurious of homes, but it belongs to your family of 4, and it’s brimming with character. 

You can clearly see what he’s referencing—the pencil marks on the walls indicating the measured inventory of the girls over the years, the pile of shoes near the door (the girls have far TOO many, you often say to no one in particular) and the framed family photos of you all on every wall.

Suguru interrupts your thoughts as he pats the vacant seat on the sofa beside him. You accept his invitation, sitting down and draping your legs into his lap. He gently pushes you back so you’re lying underneath him, his dark eyes penetrating your soul.

His voice is soft, and his touch is even softer as he slides a hand up your shirt, your bra removed hours ago, “I couldn’t do this without you. I wouldn’t want to do this without you.”

His deft fingers circle your nipples, making them unbelievably hard and earning a moan from your lips, “Suguru, the girls could hear us!”

“Sounds like you better be quiet then” His head disappears under your shirt, and while you can’t see what he’s doing, you can feel his hot mouth on your nipples, rolling them around his tongue, sucking and teasing the flesh, making the heat between your legs grow exponentially stronger.

You begin to grind against him, trying to rub against any part of him to feel some semblance of relief. He chuckles, slipping a hand into your waistband and past your underwear. He lets out a murmur of approval as his hands dip into your needy sex, immediately stroking the soft-spongy spot deep in your core that drives you crazy.

Geto’s fingers are a godsend as they curve, stroke, and scissor you, adjusting to different motions depending on the sounds you make. His mouth still hasn't left your nipple, his suckles getting more aggressive as you feel his teeth nibbling. 

Suddenly, you both hear a door open from within the hallway and freeze. You hear someone—one of the girls, but you aren’t sure which—pad their way to the bathroom.

You both stay as still as humanly possible, knowing that if you duck down enough, whoever crosses in the hallway won’t be able to see you on the couch. 

Suguru pulls his hands out of your pants, which you assume means that your sexual escapade has concluded until those same fingers, which are covered in your essence, are now pressing against your lips.

He doesn’t give you much of an option as he pushes them into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself on your tongue, swirling his fingers around to mix with your saliva.

The bathroom door opens, and you hear the footsteps back into their room.

“Good job,” Suguru coos, pressing his lips against your stomach and pulling his fingers from your mouth.

“And thank you for an excellent Father's Day, my love.”

The Dad Who Stepped Out

Toji Fushiguro

“Here’s what you asked for.” Toji enters the kitchen and drops a grocery bag on the table. You glance over your shoulder at your stay-at-home boyfriend, who seems grumpier than usual today.

“Thanks. Hoping to try this Carbonara recipe out.” You rifle through the bag and pull out the ingredients.

Toji lingers in the kitchen—-unusual for him as he never offers to help cook, but you don’t press it, not wanting to catch the strays from whatever has him pissed off.

“I forgot…I forgot what day it is,” he mumbles softly.

Oh, you look over at the calendar on the refrigerator and nod. The date is circled in bright red marker. There’s a note to yourself that reads, “Father's Day!” 

“There were so many brats at the store today with their moms pickin’ out dinners. Barely could find anywhere to park.” 

He’s rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes look anywhere but at yours. You can tell that this is bothering him as Toji wears his stress on his shoulders, which are now hunched in a way that looks far from comfortable.

You learned early in your relationship not to bring up Father’s Day; it’s a sore spot for him. Much of what you know about Toji and his relationship with his son was shared reluctantly as a result of an ultimatum by you: open up or get the fuck out.

You choose your following words carefully. “Do you want to talk about it, or is this you venting?”

Toji sighs and shrugs, “Let’s hear it.”

“I think you should call your kid, Toji. He’s probably thinking about you, too.”

He holds his hand up, signaling that he doesn’t want to hear anything else about the topic, and exits to the bedroom. You glance sadly at your ingredients and conclude that dinner is going to have to wait as you follow Toji.

He’s lying on your bed almost as if asleep, but the scowl on his face and the way he’s biting his bottom lip gives him away.

You sit on the edge of the bed, “what do you need right now?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah, but within reason, Toji. Because it seems like you don’t want to do what makes the most sense which is to pick up the fucking phone and call your son, so yeah, what do you need that I can give you right now?”

Toji’s face goes slack, and he opens one of his eyes. “Just sit here with me, yeah?”

You nod and crawl beside him, laying your head on his bicep as he wraps his arm around you.

Dishonorable Mention

Ryomen Sukuna

“Woman! Isn’t there something that you’re forgetting?”

Sukuna taps his foot as he sits at your dining room table. You would think that a modest two-bedroom apartment would humble the king of curses, but it doesn’t.

“What is it now, Sukuna?”

“I was watching the news, and every segment specified that it’s Father's Day?”

You nod, not entirely sure where he’s going with this.

“Well? Where’s my gift? My words of adoration? Your mouth on one of my cocks?”

You blink slowly, “Sukuna, Father's Day is for those with children. Are you telling me that you have-?”

‘He waves his dismissively at you, “Don’t be absurd, woman. You know how I feel about those disgusting creatures.”

“Then?”

Suluna’s patience with you is running thin. You sometimes like to play games with him to get a rise out of him. He’ll remember to spit in your mouth when he beds you tonight.

He speaks through gritted teeth, “you call me daddy every chance I have you split open on my dicks. Now wish me a happy fathers day.”

You consider your options here; on the one hand, pissing off Sukuna could be fun; on the other hand, he is right, you do call him daddy in the bedroom, so you relent, “happy fathers day, Sukuna.”

His chest swells in triumph. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

[klttn]

hii i hope i don’t make too many rq’s (i asked for secretary reader pt. 2 and the recent adam one) but yes alastor x reader!! maybe smthn with painplay and primal stuff if ur comfy writing that?

-🩰

⁺˳✧༚ ˚ 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑜𝑒 ｡⋆୨୧˚

— 𝜗𝜚 alastor x f!reader

ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 summary : alastor discovers just how raw and animalistic you really like it. nsfw. smut. pain play. primal kink. pred/prey. alastor fucks you in his demon form. deer!reader. size difference.

“you look adorable like this, darling.” alastors voice sounded throughout your hotel room, ears timid and facing down, backed up against a wall, legs weak and trembling, lips parted as you panted heavily, eyes doe like and wide. “so scared and pathetic, so cute.”

“a-al, are you gonna h-hurt me?” your voice barely above a whisper, stuttering from all the nerves. and arousal.

alastor sighed, dragging his claws up your sides and watching intently as your body tried to press into it, a glint of amusement in his eyes. so frightened but her cunt was begging for it. “now now, i believe the question should be, do you want me to hurt you, little fawn?”

your cheeks flushed instinctively, teeth now having a vice grip on your bottom lip, alastor could tell by the look in your eyes that that is exactly what you wanted. the claws running up your sides found theirselves to your hips, pinning them and forcing them further into the wall, a soft yelp leaving your lips as he rose his eyebrows, his actions forcing an answer out of you. “please.”

alastor cooed, he got off on seeing you like this, he was glad only he got to see you like this. the only man that could ever hurt you, fuck you, touch you. the thought of anyone else doing that made him down right murderous.

his claws idly dug harder into the flesh of your hips at the thought of anothers hands on you, drawing a small whimper from you, your hips rolling forward. “so eager,” he mused. “you really do like it when i hurt you, don’t you? when i scare you and have you feeling like my prey?” your head nodded frantically, fear and excitement evident in your eyes. “you are my prey.”

your eyes widened at his words, you needed him so badly, needed him everywhere. loving how much he towered over you, leaving you cowering beneath him. that gave alastor an idea.

alastor hummed to himself, moving one hand and placing his index finger under your chin, hooking and bringing your face closer to his. inches away. “how would my darling girl feel getting taken by her big scary boyfriend in his demon form?” his pupils turning into dials and head tilting as he spoke to reiterate his words. “imagine how pathetic you would turn.”

you felt your pussy flutter and heart throb, mind racing with thoughts of him abusing your body like that. so raw and unfiltered.

alastors voice pulled you from your fantasy. “i’m going to need you to use your words, my doe, or my touch is gone.”

“yes,” you breathed, “please, alastor, i want you, i need you, just take me, please.” an arrogant glint took over his eyes.

“good girl,” alastor grinned.

alastors form grew wide, green accents in the form of crosses spawning on his face, long black whips protruding from his back, his tongue now darting out his mouth, thick, long and dripping with spit, eager to be on you. he looked hungry. like you were a full course meal and he hadn’t eaten in in weeks.

a small squeak left your lips as you felt the blackness wrap around you tightly, lifting you and placing you roughly on the large bed in the centre of the room. him wasting no time in spreading you out for him, loving the way you writhed at his touch. “it’s so adorable when you fight back.” alastor mocked in his static like voice.

the more you struggled, the harsher the grip he had on you became, “i don’t know why you persist on going against this,. just look at you little doe, so weak and dainty, i’ll break you if im not too careful,” he keened, “but you don’t want that do you? you want me to wreck this pretty little body of yours, ruin it so no other will have you like i do.”

a soft mewl escaped you, skin flushing pink, pussy dripping, eagerly awaiting more. “can’t help it!”

“no?” alastor chuckled. “such a dirty girl. can’t fight the pathetic urge to submit your cute cunt to me, need to be hurt and towered over, just to get off.” alastors hands moved to free your tits from their confines. “only i get to treat you like this.” he breathed in deeply. “you are my prey, little doe.”

your eyes rolled back. in the midst of alastors possessive ramble, his fingers traced their way to your core, ripping all the fabric in their wake, leaving you on show for him. the harshness of his form above you making you feel so small. you felt two clawed digits press their way inside your aching pussy. a moan of relief and pleasure coursing through your body.

it was primal. everything alastor was feeling. he just wanted to hurt you, be mean to you and treasure you like the adorable fawn you are.

just as fast as his fingers were in, they came out, slick coating them, glistening and dripping down his hand. alastoes tongue flicked out to lap up the mess you made, bliss covering his face as he did so. it was sinful. the sight of him causing you to whine and buck your hips in protest. the pleasure taken away just as easily as it was given.

“patience, darling girl.” alastors voice stern, not liking your disobedience, leaving a bruising hand print on your thigh as a warning. that only got you off more. “promise me you won’t scream too loud when i split you open.”

your head tilted as his hands found your hips again, this time taking over your entire torso with their size. the dynamic comparable to a cat with a mouse. your cunt fluttered at him, begging for him to just use you. so he did.

he used the whips of his powers to lift and spread your legs above your head and with a rough slam of his hips, he was in and bottomed out with one singular thrust, pelvis flush against the backs of your thighs, balls resting on your ass.

the adorable yelp that left your lips was like music to his ears, seeing your eyes squeeze tightly and your thighs instinctively close over your chest, knees bent and tip toes resting on alastors chest. “h-hurts,” you stutter, unable to do much else.

“i know, darling, i know.” alastor feigned sympathy, “but you can take it can’t you?” you shook your head, mumbling about it being too much. “this is what you need, this is what you want, it’s not too much unless i say it’s too much.”

alastor pulled out until just the tip was in, holding for merely a second before slamming back down again, tightness of your pussy, squeezing such lewd groans out of him. “i think you can do better than that, need to stretch you out a little more don’t we?” your mind was elsewhere unable to focus with being so full. “don’t we?” he asked again, quick thrust pulling a response from you.

“yes!” you whimpered.

alastor tutted and thrust his hips once more, “not good enough, darling.” another bruising grip being left to your hips.

the action had you keening, “more, please, more, stretch me out n use me please, just please i can’t take it anymore!”

bingo. that’s exactly what alastor wanted to hear. he loved it when you begged. almost as much as he loved it when you squealed such pretty noises when he fucked you. just like you were about to be doing.

his hips started thrusting but this time there was no stopping, loud smacking noises resonating with the sounds of your slick dripping down your thighs.

alastor became animalistic now he was fucking you. all cares for anything but feeling your cunt had gone. he didn’t care about anything but feasting on his prey and that’s what he was going to do. “fuck,” alastor cursed. the hold he had on you was deadly, you couldn’t move or squirm and the long whips wrapped around you dug into your skin like rope, soft flesh pudging over them, red marks already starting to be seen in their wake as they shifted.

“hurts so good,” you cried, beginning to pant, chest heaving and and back arching as best it could in your restraints. “more more more.”

one of alastors hands came up to cover your mouth, more like your entire face with how big he was compared to you. the other now roughly massaging the flesh of your tits. “my prey doesn’t talk back to me.” he muttered, “no matter how pretty the words coming out of her are.” of course he loved the cute whines of desperation you made but right now all he wanted was to feel you, feel himself abusing your insides.

it wasn’t long before you felt your climax building, rushing through you and taking over. it was hard not to when you were getting everything you wanted. the size difference and animalistic nature of it all driving you, spurring you closer and closer. you tried to warn alastor but to no avail. you couldn’t move or verbally warn him, the only sign he got was your cum rushing over his cock and spilling out of you.

“ah, ah, ah. did i say you could cum?” you shook your head underneath his hands. “silly deer.” his pace never stopping. “guess i’m going to have to keep this up for twice as long to teach you a lesson.” it was almost a chuckle with how it came out. “i’m not hearing any complaints, but then again, you’re that helpless right now that you can’t do anything but listen to me can you little doe?.” he was so condescending with his words. you loved it.

alastors grip over your mouth shifted, releasing the cute noises from your lips that drove him insane. he moved them to stroke your hair, then running over to your soft fluffy ears, a scared flinch making you shiver underneath him. that scared look he loved so much. “so adorable, if it was up to me, this is how you’d be permanently.”

a choked sob fell from your lips in the midst of your whines. you looked so pretty right now. his doe, filled to the brim, tied up in his whips, crying for him, mewling and moaning for him, fully submitting to every word he said. oh how he loved this. how he loved you.

he came down and placed a gentle kiss to your forehead, the softest thing he’d done tonight, before whispering into your ear, “remember, you asked for this.”

A/N : this is the most unhinged thing i have ever written… i hope you like it!!

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Hello,

I have a writing prompt for Michael Kaiser (Blue Lock): Kaiser gets into a pr relationship with an actress and they eventually bond and fall in love.

I think he would have a hard time because of his feelings of worthlessness, but this guy has so much potential, I swear, I love him so much.

If you want to go for a "dark side of Hollywood" type of concept, imagine: a young girl who was raised under the pressure of becoming "the perfect star" and surrounded by the chaos of the industry (Idk, the movie Black Swan comes to mind, or the typical representation of Marilyn's life, something along the lines). I think he could bond with someone who is in a similar mind space as him, but who externalizes it differently, remaining kind and such. He definitely needs someone who is empathetic and can see through his insecurities, and I really like the concept of two characters who are hurt helping each other heal.

If you don't want that much drama, scratch the idea of a hurt oc. Think about someone with an "entrepreneur" mindset: someone ambitious, confident, and level headed, who (again) is empathetic and would call him out and help him grow (I'm thinking about sae, but emotionally competent lol).

You don't really have to go for any of this though, it's just meant to get you inspired to write something for my boy Kaiser. I hope it's not too much. Also, there's no rush at all!!

Thank you in advance. I hope you have a good day 🩷

── THE INSTRUMENT

Synopsis: Michael Kaiser is like a rose, and you are the songbird he cannot bear to lose.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 6.8k

Content Warnings: fake dating trope, implied/referenced abuse, call me tabito karasu the way i assassinate kaiser’s character in this, open ending, relationship dynamics many would consider…interesting…

A/N: hiiii anon ty for requesting!! i hope that i wrote kaiser in a somewhat satisfactory way 😫 this is my first time writing for him so idk if i got him right 😓 also i have NO idea why but for some reason i decided to write this in the present tense which i literally have never done?? so if it sounds off that’s why 💔 i’m so sorry i really don’t know what possessed me SKDJFSHKL

Additional: part of my 500 follower event! see the event description and rules to make a request of your own.

It’s hot and like a bruise, your first phone call with Michael Kaiser. He’s that brand of aggravating and just shy of painful to speak with; morbidly, you wish for the conversation to manifest as some kind of actual injury, perhaps on your upper arm, so you can poke at it until it is tender and blooming. But of course, that sort of thing isn’t possible, so you amuse yourself by tapping your fingers against the counter and considering what you might eat for dinner.

“Did you hear me?” he snaps when you do not respond to his proposition immediately. He speaks with an accent, clipped and short, lending severity to his words even when he’s saying nothing of note. “Miss L/N. It’s in both of our best interests to cooperate.”

He’s not wrong about this. It’s the only reason you’ve stayed on the call for as long as you have — it’s in your best interest. It’s the same for him, too, and the thought almost makes you laugh, because who would’ve expected your interests and his to ever align?

“Of course I heard you,” you say, twisting open your bottle of water, taking a sip and idly wondering if he can hear an accent when you speak, too. It’s difficult for you to notice your own, but maybe to him, you sound as odd as he does to you. “You should learn patience, Mr. Kaiser. Such a heavy request you’re making of me, and yet you demand my answer immediately?”

He huffs. “It’s not something you need to dwell on.”

“It might be,” you say, though it’s not at all. Your mind was made up the moment he asked; everything after that has been nothing more than a ploy to irritate him. You’re good at that, at irritating people. Michael Kaiser is not an exception.

“Miss L/N,” he says again, something like a darker version of pleading creeping into his tone. “Your answer. Now.”

“Well, you already knew before you asked, didn’t you? Naturally, I’ll do it,” you say. “It’s a mutually beneficial partnership. Though I expect you to really try your best, Mr. Kaiser, or else it’ll all be for naught.”

“I could say the same to you,” he says.

“Between the two of us, who is the actress?” you say, chuckling when he is silent. “I am sure that I will be convincing. It’s you who I worry for. Hiding your true feelings has never been one of your strengths, has it? Or you wouldn’t be speaking to me at all.”

“Shut up,” he says after a moment has passed. “I doubt your acting skills are anything to brag about.”

“I know you’ve watched my movies,” you say, and when he doesn’t refute this, you beam. “Have you really?”

“Only because someone I know suggested I should,” he says. “If I want to love you, then I have to understand you. That’s what he told me.”

“And what did you think?” you say.

“I thought that I don’t plan to love you at all, and then I told him as much,” he says, the force of his eye roll transmitting even over the phone. You’re not sure if he’s acting deliberately obtuse or if he really thinks you care about this inane conversation he’s describing, but either way you sigh, because his answer is so telling of his personality.

“I was talking about my movies,” you say.

“I don’t prefer the genre,” he says, and then he’s hanging up with a promise to call you later, if he is so inclined. He doesn’t tell you not to call him, but you feel like he implies it, so you vow to set your phone aside and pay him no mind for the rest of your evening.

I’m dating Michael Kaiser, you type in the body of your email to your manager, who you are certain will be so delighted by this news that he will combust spontaneously upon hearing it. You want to type it again, this unbelievable turn of events, so you do. I’m dating Michael Kaiser. Then you delete the repetition, reverting it once again into a formal email, instead of a giddy celebration over an event which should not prompt giddiness or anything resembling it.

It’s a relationship meant to salvage his ruined reputation and boost your career in one fell swoop, and so it’s a relationship that can only work if it’s formed between you two in particular. He, who is a foul-mouthed soccer prodigy, known better for his crass treatment of others than any actual skills he may possess, and you, a rising star who will do anything to be famous and are already of a serviceable status to be seen with him.

Despite your burst of excitement, the prospect of dating Michael Kaiser isn’t actually a thrilling one. The rumors of his horrid demeanor aren’t rumors, and you know this well, albeit through secondhand accounts. Cruelty is the way that he operates, his so-to-speak basal mode, and because it is so intrinsic to his being, you do not fancy that he will deviate from that malicious rule, even for you.

But you are accustomed to a false existence. Donning a facade and masquerading as a person who you are not is the only thing you are good at, are good for, and this time is no different than every other. You will put on the mask of a woman who is loved by Michael Kaiser, who has tamed that mad emperor and turned him into her sweet pet, and you will once again fool the world into believing you.  

He’s doing an interview today. You’re only aware because he texts you right before and tells you to turn on the TV to a channel you’d never choose if you had a say in the matter. But you’re intrigued and he refuses to explain further, so you do as he commands and find yourself watching as he reclines back in a leather armchair and smirks at the host, who’s clearly nervous.

She’s pretty, her hands shaking but her expression serious. You’ve never seen her before, which means she’s new. Of course, that’s not a surprise; only someone very inexperienced or very stupid would invite Michael Kaiser to their show, and she does not seem to be particularly stupid, so her affliction is the first. 

“Um, Mr. Kaiser, it’s a pleasure to have you with us,” she says, like she cannot quite believe that he is actually there, or like she is afraid of what he might take offense at, or some combination of the two.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” he says, all roguish and self-assured, which is such a contrast to his typically surly demeanor that you have to commend the girl for keeping her composure.

They speak at length about his soccer career, throwing around words you do not understand and do not care to. It’s so boring you almost power down the television and tell him you think as much, but then the girl clears her throat, her face turning a comical shade of red as her fists clench the paper she’s been reading off of.

“This last question is from our viewers, but it’s personal, so if you don’t want to answer, then it’s not a problem,” she says, squirming in her chair, probably hoping he does not humiliate her. It will be bad for her career if he does, even if by now everyone knows what kind of person he is.

“Go on, then. I feel like we’ve built a rapport here, so I don’t mind it as much if it’s from you,” he says. It’s a perfectly packaged sentiment. His PR team must have tortured him into this new persona. You try to imagine it — it’s definitely a humorous thought, picturing the Bastard München representative slamming Michael Kaiser’s face into a bowl of water for every snarky comment he makes. Unrealistic, though. They would never risk compromising his performance like that.

“There’s rumors that you’re seeing Y/N L/N, the actress. A source who claims to be close to you both mentioned it online, and people can’t stop talking about the possibility. Neither you nor Miss L/N have addressed it, though, and our viewers were hoping you might…?” She cringes back, already preparing for one of his tirades, but he only smiles genially and winks at the camera. You remind yourself to tell him later that he’s laying it on too thick, even if you are enjoying this new character that he’s playing up for the sake of it.

“Y/N L/N? I’m shocked that you think I’m handsome enough to date someone like her,” he says. Your phone buzzes — it’s your manager, crowing about how impressed he is with your ‘boyfriend’ and his presence of mind. 

“So it’s a no?” the interviewer says, almost hopefully. He’s mysterious when he shrugs, mysterious and more than a little coy, as if she’s flattering him and he’s too shy to accept the praise.

“If Miss L/N ever deems me to be worthy of her, then it’s a yes in a heartbeat,” he says. It’s an excellent setup for his redemption, and the girl plays into it so beautifully that you tell your manager to send her flowers or some chocolate at the earliest possible opportunity.

“I think that you’ve shown yourself to be an excellent candidate today,” she says.

“Have I? I’ve really been trying to prove myself,” he says. Dreamy sighs ripple through the live studio audience. Someone whistles. It’s all very romantic and fairy-tale-esque, although he is far from being any kind of prince.

“You’re doing great,” the girl assures him. “I’m sure that, if Miss L/N is watching, she’ll have no choice but to be smitten.”

“If she’s watching? Oh, the thought didn’t even cross my mind,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. You shouldn’t have doubted him and his audacity; he’s fallen into the role as if he were born to play it. “How embarrassing. I’ve just confessed to her on live television without even knowing if she’s interested…”

He’s actually blushing. You are doubly awed — he’s a natural-born talent. It’s a shame that he’s devoted to soccer; he could make it out like a bandit in the acting industry.

“No, no, don’t be embarrassed. How could she ever reject someone like you?” she assures him. How, indeed! At the moment, you are so pleased that you could kiss him. He’s better than any co-star you’ve ever had to work with, in that he is making your job exponentially easier instead of exponentially more difficult.

“If she really is watching, then I can only pray she heard you say that part,” he says, waving in greeting, presumably at you. “Hello, Miss L/N. I really admire you, so if you find me at all agreeable, then I would quite like it if you would say yes to the date I’m going to ask you on.”

He’s made the world swoon and your social media mentions triple. People are begging you to say yes, to give him a chance, to see how he has changed. They want to live through you, and you will let them.

When he calls you, you tell him you were thrilled by his performance. This causes him to shoot back that he finds you insufferable and condescending, to which you say that it’s what makes you and him such a perfect pair. Then you recite an address, and he asks you what you’re going on about. You answer that it is the place where you will have your first date, and then you hang up before he can respond, just so that you can deny him the chance to do it to you first. 

Cameras flash in your faces as you enter the restaurant your manager has booked a reservation at. Michael Kaiser’s arm is wrapped around your waist, and it’s nauseatingly domestic, the kind of scene that would be the cover for one of those coming-of-age movies your agent loves booking for you. You wait for the frantic sound of camera shutters to slow, and then you tug on his sleeve.

“What is it?” he says. It’s quiet enough that no one else can hear, which is why it’s devoid of any warmth, but you are unruffled.

“Your tie,” you say. “It’s not crooked, but we will pretend that it is, and I’ll fix it so that there is something sweet to accompany the tabloid articles that will come out tomorrow.”

Your hands reach for his neck, and he does something you do not comprehend — flinching back, he shakes his head. When he realizes he’s done this, he grits his teeth, like the anger can make up for the temporary weakness. You do not press the issue, merely furrowing your brow and gazing up at him, doing your best to ensure that your eyes remain soft, so that the exchange is not misinterpreted by the parasites around you.

“No,” he says. “Do something else, but leave my tie alone.”

“Alright,” you say. It’s not sensible for you to argue, and anyways it doesn’t matter much what you are doing, as long as you are doing something. Humming to yourself, you adjust the lapels of his jacket. The cameras go off again. You pretend like you do not notice, like the world consists of only you two, and then you interlace your fingers with his, allowing him to drag you into the restaurant behind him.

It’s your turn to be interviewed. You’re wearing a dress, your legs crossed at the ankles — it’s demure and practical and prevents anyone from leering at you, so it’s been a habit of yours for quite a while. The interviewer is female, though, which calms you a bit. She’s older, around your mother’s age, and the wrinkles on her forehead remind you that you should call your parents and arrange for them to meet your doting boyfriend.

“Miss L/N, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am to finally meet you!” the woman says. You think her name may be Anne, but she hasn’t introduced herself to you yet, so you’re not certain.

“You are too kind. If anything, it’s an honor for me to be here,” you say. The audience really likes that, when you are humble and shy and so darling. It’s palatable and easy for them to digest, or that’s what your manager tells you. 

“Tell us about your upcoming projects,” she says after giving you the appropriate amount of praise for your charming personality.

“I’m currently shooting a new romantic comedy, but I’m afraid it’s all very hush-hush, so I can’t say too much about it. I think you all will really enjoy it, though, and I’m looking forward to the day that we can discuss it at length,” you say. 

The conversation goes on like that for a bit, but you know she’s going through the motions because she has to, not because she wants to. There’s only one question she cares to ask, but if she just talks to you about your boyfriend and not your own accomplishments, then she’ll be blasted online as an anti-feminist. You hear quite frequently that this is akin to suicide in the world of marketing, so you can’t blame her.

That doesn’t stop you from having some fun. When she’s exhausted every possible avenue of questioning you about your future plans and past successes, you make as if you’re going to stand up and leave. Panic leaps across her face, and you snicker.

“We’ve spoken at such length about my acting career. You can’t possibly have any more questions about it, hm? You probably know more than my manager does!” Your attitude is balanced out by the joke. The audience laughs. It’s a fine line that you walk, but if you do not have the chance to act sharper every now and again, you believe you will die — internally if not externally — so you take such risks when you can justify them to yourself.

“You’re dating Michael Kaiser now, aren’t you?” she says. It’s a rancid curiosity she hides with a motherly type of concern. You brush off your legs, recross them, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I am,” you say. You don’t have to play the games that he did; you both are established now. Official. A bona-fide couple. Anyways, it’s more appealing if you are outright with it.

“How has that been? You’ve really made a difference in that young man’s life, it seems,” she says.

The best way to lie is to tell the truth. “Yes, I suppose I have, but he has made an equal difference in mine. He is as good for me as I am for him; truly, I never understood what it meant when my parents called each other their ‘better halves’ until we met.”

In an hour, there will be thousands of posts online about this. If Y/N and Michael break up, then I don’t believe in love anymore! Maybe soulmates are real! Couple goals! These are the kinds of captions you are anticipating. The two of you will send screenshots to one another and laugh about how gullible the world is, and then you will strategically plan which comments to like and posts to favorite so that your message goes through. That’s the extent of your relationship with him, really, at least when the two of you are alone. The detachedness makes things much easier than they otherwise would be.

“There’s a popular theory going around that the two of you have had a secret wedding already. Is it true? Am I speaking to Mrs. Kaiser at the moment?” she says, eyes glittering like a vulture’s. She’s ready to pounce on any hesitation, any brief indecision that you might show, but you have spent more time in the spotlight than in your own parents’ home, so you don’t even waver.

“Marriage! I think we’re a bit too early in our relationship to be considering such things, and a bit too early in our lives to be rushing into major decisions like that,” you say. “If and when the time comes, you’ll be the first to know, but it won’t be for a while.”

It won’t be at all, actually. This relationship is not going to last for more than another month. Once the buzz surrounding you two dies, you and he will quietly split. It’ll be as if you never met in the first place.

Your phone rings as you’re leaving the studio. The caller ID says that it is Michael Kaiser, and the thought that he was watching your interview in the same way you watched his makes you feel odd.

“Hello?” you say.

“I’m not gonna marry you. Never-fucking-ever. If you’re expecting a ring, then put it out of your mind.”

“I wasn’t,” you say. “How else would you have liked me to answer that question?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Neither of you hang up on the other — you don’t think you can summon the wherewithal to, which is out of character for him but typical for you — though you both also don’t speak any further. He stays on the line while you drive home, breathing softly like he is sleeping, but you are sure that he is not. The point of it is lost on you, but then you drive into a tunnel and the call ends on its own, so it’s moot anyways. 

Your parents are excited to meet Michael Kaiser. They’ve read up on him extensively, watched all his interviews and even his game highlights. Your mother calls you the night before just so she can gush to you about how handsome he is, how you’ve really done well for yourself this time around. Her approval is nice to have, though superfluous, like a luxury soap or perfume. 

Your father is the one who suggests you all go golfing. You don’t know how to play, and neither does your mother, but you recognize it’s his attempt at connecting with who he thinks is your boyfriend, so you accept. You’re not sure if Michael Kaiser knows how to play golf, or really anything besides soccer, but he is game enough to come that you suppose he must.

It’s warm out, the sun beating down on your father’s brow as he lines up the ball with his club. Michael Kaiser stands on his left, and you think he’s somehow beautiful in this lighting. Not beautiful how your many attractive coworkers are, but in a manner which is distinctly him and therefore utterly irreproducible. His body is lean and graceful, his hair shaggy and gold, though he’s dyed the tips blue in what you’re sure is a statement. The shade matches his eyes, and also the inked roses on his neck. You have long ago come to the conclusion that the flowers are also a part of that same statement, but you have yet to discover what that statement might be. 

“He’s an improvement from that last boyfriend of yours,” your mother says, leaning back so that she can pour the last few drops of soda from her empty can into her throat. You and her are sitting together in the golf cart, seeking refuge in the shade of its plastic roof, sharing the drinks that your father had bought for himself and forgotten about the instant he stepped onto the golf course.

“He is,” you say. That’s not an exaggeration, nor is it something incredible. Your last boyfriend was an old classmate of yours who loved your celebrity more than he loved you. Michael Kaiser doesn’t love you, either, but he is honest about it, and you do not love him back, so there is no resentment between you and him.

“I like the way he looks at you,” your mother says. There’s a hiss as she opens a new can of soda. It’s a vice, but whenever you remind her of it, she dismisses you. She wants to have fun while she’s on this earth, apparently. Maybe drinking five cans of soda in one sitting means her life will be shorter, but life without soda isn’t worth living anyways, or something like that. The reasoning is stupid, but you know she is loyal to it, so you have to accept it. “It’s refreshing. So gentle. You’ll be talking to someone else, and he’ll just be staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re his.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you say. 

Your mother is about to say something else, but she is interrupted by a loud whoop. Michael Kaiser has hit a hole-in-one, and before you can tell him to stop embarrassing himself, your father is cheering, throwing his arms around him and calling him son.

“Your father likes him, too,” your mother said. 

“Oh, he needs to stop that! I can’t believe he’s making things so awkward,” you say, getting up to reprimand him before realizing that there is an entirely foreign sheen to Michael Kaiser’s eyes as he rests his chin on your father’s shoulder. He is not quite smiling, but it is a close approximation of the expression, and when your father ruffles his hair and says that it may have been beginner’s luck but he’s proud regardless, the curve of his lips becomes deeper.

You don’t understand, but you don’t need to. You may have facilitated it, but the moment belongs to him, and your presence is as unwanted as it is unnecessary.

You sit back down and take a sip of your mother’s soda. She grins knowingly and says that you look like you are in love, too. You don’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so you hum noncommittally and say that you might be.

You are growing fond of Michael Kaiser. It isn’t a slow realization — actually, it hits you very suddenly one day. He hands you a bouquet of flowers before opening the passenger door of his car for you. You ask him why he’s brought you peonies instead of roses, and he says it’s because he despises roses. It’s such an absurd answer and he says it with such a straight face that you have to cough in order to disguise your choked laughter. 

“Those must be some other kind of flower, then,” you say, pointing at but not touching his tattoos, at the delicate petals which fold over his pulse, azure and bright and silky. 

“No, those are roses,” he says, his knuckles growing white on the steering wheel. Normally, you wouldn’t ask further, but today you want to prod at his bruise of an existence, so you turn the music down and hug the peonies to your chest.

“But you despise roses,” you say.

“It’s a good reminder,” he says. “No flower lies quite as well as a rose does.”

That is when you are certain that you are partial to him. It is an unavoidable fact and also a treacherous one, but true notwithstanding. 

You put the peonies in a vase of water when you get home that night and hope they never die, although you know that they will be gone within the week. It’s how time works. The peonies will die and you two will break up and you’ll have nothing but a bare kitchen counter and thoughts of his intricacies to remember him by. 

There are no paparazzi around on the night when he wraps your hands around his throat. You are alone with him, sequestered away in the living room of his mansion, a bowl of popcorn shoved between the two of you while a movie plays in the background. This seclusion defeats the original purpose of the relationship entirely, but you sense that that original purpose is no longer fully applicable, so you do not refuse when he calls you and demands you come.

There’s a blanket tossed over your legs, the brilliant colors of his soccer club’s emblem faded from repeated washes. It’s warm, and if you were not busily eating most of the popcorn, you’d pull it up around your shoulders. As for Michael Kaiser, he’s facing the screen, his hair tied back in a knot, a pair of glasses resting on the bridge of his nose and reflecting the visage of the lead actress as she laughs. You observe him as you snack. You’ve seen this movie before and didn’t really like it, so you’re not missing much. He’s more interesting by far.

“I know that woman,” you say, so that he has to acknowledge you.

“Hm,” he says.

“She’s a jerk,” you say. 

“Sounds like your kind of company,” he says. You scoff, because he’s not wrong. He keeps watching the movie, and you keep watching him, until a thought occurs to you.

“Can I call you Michael? Even when it’s just us two,” you ask. He purses his lips. The actress screams. Her character has just died, but the scene is poorly shot and even more poorly acted, so it’s not as heart-wrenching as it should be. You would’ve done better, but your agent doesn’t want you taking any gory roles, and your manager agrees. In his professional opinion, it’ll ruin the doll-like persona you’ve spent so long cultivating. He’s probably right. It’s hard to adore a doll once you’ve watched it die so gruesomely.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing another mouthful of popcorn, the salt lingering on your tongue long after the popcorn itself is gone. “Michael.”

“Yes?” he says.

“Nothing,” you say. “I just wanted to say your name.”

“Okay,” he says. “Y/N?”

He’s never called you that in private. Of course, when you’re out and about, he must refer to you with such familiarity, but in private you’ve never been anything but Miss L/N. It’s a change but a good one. You don’t want to ever be Miss L/N again. Not to him.

“Yes?” you say.

“I’m trying to watch this movie,” he says. “It has high ratings, so be quiet and allow me to finish.”

“It’s shitty,” you say, yawning and leaning back against the mountain of pillows you’ve created for yourself. “Overly gratuitous with its use of fake blood.”

“Right, because that’s a cardinal sin,” he says dryly.

“Sorry, but it’s hard to enjoy films when you know how they’re made,” you say. He picks up the remote and pauses the movie. You blink, because that’s about the last thing you expected from him. Then he turns the TV off entirely and you realize you’ll probably never be able to predict what he does next, so you should stop trying already.

“I know how movies are made,” he says.

“Did you have a secret acting career you never told me about?” you say. It’s a joke, but you also wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true. He’s taken to performing like a fish takes to water, and every day you tell him he should quit soccer and devote his life to cinema because of this uncanny skill.

“Not me, but my mother was an actress, and my father was a director,” he says. 

“Was?” you say.

“Maybe they still are,” he says. “I don’t know. We’re not on speaking terms.”

“Why not?” you say. He takes your hands in between his, and you can make out immediately that his instinct is to hurt you, to press his fingertips into your wrists so hard that they leave marks. It’s to his credit that he fights back the urge, fights it back and arranges your palms against his carotid arteries. His jaw clenches and his pupils dilate as he waits for you to realize; when you do, you rip your hands away for fear of wounding him further.

“Don’t pity me,” he instructs you, unpausing the movie like nothing happened. “And don’t ever bring it up again.” 

Now that you have his permission to refer to him only by his name, you develop a strange fascination with saying it. He’s amused by your new fixation, answering you in a lilting tone every time you call for him.

According to him, you are like a small nightingale, always warbling, always happy, fluttering around beside him and changing his mood for the better. Well, if you are like a nightingale, then he is like a dog, and you tell him as much when you are sitting across from him at a coffee shop.

“A dog?” he repeats, his face pinching. He’s just taken a swig of the black coffee he always orders, but you know his disgusted expression isn’t a symptom of the beverage’s bitterness. “Take that back.”

“Not in a bad way,” you say. Your own drink is sweet, so you sip on it slowly to prevent a stomach ache. “I’m not calling you pathetic. I just mean that you are amiable and lively. It’s a compliment.”

“It’s not who I really am,” he says. “Have I deceived even you? Amiable? Lively? Remember why this entire scam began in the first place — because I am neither of those things.”

“Right,” you say. “A peacock, then. Terribly vain and entirely alluring.”

He relaxes and raises his cup to his mouth again. He’ll be up late tonight, he always is when he has coffee, but it never stops him from drinking it. “That’s better.”

The reminder that whatever you have with him is not real stings more than it should. You throw away your drink almost untouched, which does cause him to raise an eyebrow, but thankfully he refrains from commenting. It’s a relief, because you don’t even know how to explain it to yourself, let alone him.

He walks you to your front porch and waits with crossed arms as you fish for the key in your purse, shoving it in the lock once you have it in your grasp. His farewell when you open the door is stilted and abnormal, so you stop him with a hand on his arm before he can go.

“Michael,” you say. You’ve never said his name like this before. It comes from a place raw and deep within you, a place that you are certain is purple and black like a wound. You say it like you love him, and you think it must be because you do.

“Yes?” he says. It’s the way he always responds to you, his voice like a song, a small smile on his ordinarily strict face — though today, he is not smiling. Instead, he is frowning, like he has come to an understanding that he would have rather not reached.

“Never mind,” you say. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” he says. He drives away, his car disappearing around the corner, leaving you standing alone in the still-open doorway and wondering how you will survive the day when he disappears permanently. 

You’re not sure what it is about him that makes pretending difficult, but suddenly, it’s a struggle for you to maintain your aloof front. You find it disconcerting, that he has taken this aspect of your identity and rendered it entirely null and void; it’s even more disconcerting that he has done it unwittingly and unsympathetically. If you loved him any less, you would hate him, because he has stolen who you are and left you blind and fumbling, but you fell for him, and the way you landed broke something fundamental, so that it is impossible for you to get back up. 

“I think that I love you,” you say. You are on his couch again, and there is a movie playing again, which is all too similar to a past scenario that you think about when you are lonely. Tonight, it’s some soccer documentary that you find so tedious you are driven to irrationality. 

He drops the glass of water in his hands; you reach out and catch it before it can spill, setting it on the table in front of you. 

“What?” he says. You shrug.

“I love you,” you say again, and you’re flippant about it because you’re not telling him in the hopes he loves you, too. In fact, you know that he does not, so you are using him as a confessional; after all, the minimum he owes you is sharing the burden of this sin.

“There’s no one around,” he says. “You don’t have to lie. It won’t gain us anything.”

“It hasn’t gained us anything in a long while,” you say. It’s true — your relationship isn’t trending anymore, and most of your dates are in locations where you will not be recognized. 

He stands up. The documentary continues as he paces, and a referee blows a whistle while he tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls. You stay on the couch, your eyes following his erratic movements, your hands folded in your lap.

“No, you don’t,” he says.

“I don’t what?” you say.

“You don’t love me,” he says. He wants to sound callous, you are sure of it, but the effect is lost on you. He sounds more lost than anything.

“But I do,” you respond. “Who are you to tell me I don’t?”

“Don’t,” he says. “Stop it. This instant.”

You laugh incredulously. “Do you think it’s that easy? I wouldn’t feel like this in the first place if it was.”

“Why?” he says. He’s still pacing. It’s like watching a tiger in a zoo. You want to study him, but he demands your attention in a different way. “Y/N. Why me? Why at all?”

“The reasons don’t matter, do they? I can tell you, but they won’t change anything,” you say, shrugging. “If you find yourself in the kitchen, bring water back for me. I’m thirsty.”

“Drink mine,” he says, pointing at the cup you had narrowly saved from disaster. “And quit your avoidance. Tell it to me plainly. Why?”

“Because you are you,” you say once you have drained half of his glass and your tongue is not quite as papery. “It’s a series of things; there’s not just one concrete reason. You hate roses and only drink black coffee. My mother thinks you’re handsome and my father is convinced you’re a golfing genius. You are a dog but also a peacock and then again an emperor. Don’t ask ridiculous questions and expect me to answer them when I cannot.”

“I’ll hurt you,” he says. “I’ll hurt you, Y/N, and I don’t — I don’t want to. You’re the only one who I don’t want to hurt, so just give up. It’s for the better if you do.”

“You won’t,” you say. “I don’t think you can.”

“Of course I can,” he says. “It’s the one thing I’m capable of. The only way I know how to love someone is by hurting them. I’ll do the same to you if you let me, and if you’re telling the truth, then you will let me.”

“Because I love you?” you say. “You think I’ll let you hurt me because I love you? For shame, Michael. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Please,” he says. It’s a word he’s never said, not to you and not in his life. Its weight hangs before you, pulsating in the air like it’s tangible. “If I love you, I’ll destroy you. And then you’ll leave, and it’ll destroy me.”

It’s a selfless desire that he’s disguising as a selfish one. You’re good at pretending, but you’re not good at telling when others are. That much is obvious, because if you had any talent at the latter then you would’ve seen that he’s loved you for as long as you have loved him, maybe longer. He loves you and so he’s urging you to flee, to destroy him before he can do it to you first.

“Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, huh?” you say, exhaling and finishing off the rest of his water. “Listen to me.”

“No,” he says. His obstinance is endearing, but you throw a pillow at him instead of cooing like you want to. He catches it and tosses it back. It lands beside you with a thump. You pat it for emphasis.

“Yes,” you say. “I love you.”

He plugs his ears with his fingers. “Nope.”

“I love you, I love you — hey, I know you can hear me!” you say.

“La la la,” he shouts over your voice, sticking his tongue out petulantly. “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you!”

“You’re cruel,” you say. “I won’t deny it. I know who you really are, Michael Kaiser. You possess cruelty in spades, but it’s in the way that a rose does. You have grown malice like thorns so that no one may come near your heart, and you think these thorns will tear me apart when I extend my hand past them. What you aren’t accounting for is that I have done so already. I have reached your heart and still I am intact. Now, what is there to cause me harm — a mere flower? But a flower can’t cause anyone harm, least of all a person such as myself. You can’t, or more importantly you won’t. I believe that you won’t.”

He stares at you. The soccer team in the documentary still playing behind him scores, and the crowd roars in approval. You stare back at him and wait.

“I hate roses,” he finally says. “I hate them a lot. They’re the worst kind of flower.”

“I don’t know about that,” you say. “I quite fancy them.”

“They prick your fingers,” he says.

“Not if you are gentle,” you say. “Not if you understand them.”

He buries his face in his hands. “Go home, Y/N.”

You do as you are told, flagging a taxi and shivering while you wait for it. You wish for things to be different, but the amount of unfulfilled wishes you’ve made outnumber the stars in the sky, so you add this one to the list and vow to move on.

You have no desire to leave your bed the next morning, but you are also hungry, and your hunger wins out over your despair. You muster up the energy to roll out of your sheets and trudge downstairs, but you are miserable as you do so. You are utterly miserable, and the fact that you are only worsens the feeling, trapping you in an endless kind of loop.

When you enter your kitchen, you are surprised to see a pot of flowers sitting innocently on your counter. You didn’t put them there, so you should feel afraid, but they’re roses, and they’re the same arresting shade as the sky, so you don’t. You only grin, slowly and then all at once as you begin to giggle helplessly.

There isn’t a card or an explanation provided, but you don’t need either. You already know who they are from.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

If it’s alright, I have a question about Vil and Epel’s relationship. I understand that the accent changing plot line is just a cultural politeness thing that didn’t carry over outside of Japan, but the other parts of changing Epel’s behavior don’t quite make sense.

Why exactly is Epel being forced to call macarons his favorite food? And act very soft-spoken? I can’t see how these fit in with the politeness aspect of the table manners, no abrasive language, etc. It just doesn’t give a very good impression, especially in combination with the unfortunate implication of giving Epel a Southern accent for the “change your accent” plot point.

Before I get to responding to the questions posed by this ask, allow me to explain for those who may not be familiar with this controversy! This is so we can all go into reading this post from the same starting point.

I've made titles to denote the explanation of background knowledge and to denote responding to the questions actually asked to me! If you're already familiar with the Vil-Epel-accent debacle then feel free to skip the first section!

Disclaimer: I’m speaking on these concepts as I personally understand them. However, I am not a native Japanese speaker so I’d advise that you consult additional resources with a better understanding of the language and culture. Two resources I enjoy are Yuurei and MysteryShopTLs, who have both also addressed Epel’s accent and how it was localized.

The Accent, EN vs JP

It’s well-known that Epel is a character with a heavy accent who has been explicitly told by Vil, his dorm leader, to alter the way he speaks. In EN, Epel speaks with what appears to be a southern (as in, “from the southern United States”) accent. Therefore, when Vil tells him to stop speaking in the accent, it feels as though Vil is shaming him for his southern roots and culture. This has also led to fans (especially of the EN-only sphere) thinking that Vil believes Epel’s accent is “unrefined” and “makes him sound uncouth/uneducated”, which is why Vil tells Epel to cover it up. I have even received asks conveying as much in the past (here is one example).

In the original JP, Epel speaks in a way that does not closely resemble any real-world Japanese dialect but rather a blend of them. If you ask a native Japanese speaker, they would likely tell you that it is difficult to understand what Epel is saying and that it sounds as though he is speaking rudely or too casually. People could genuinely take offense to the accent because it can be mistaken as something else entirely. This is obviously very different than the real-world accent (which many people can still understand and wouldn’t perceive as rude) that Epel was localized to have. The decision to give him a southern accent, then, does not completely carry over its original JP connotations into EN.

What remains the same in both EN and JP is the reason Vil provides for telling Epel to adjust the way he communicates. As he says in EN, “Speak properly" to which Epel immediately assumes the command comes from a place of elitism/classism and Vil thinking Epel's manner of speaking is beneath him. Vil responds with, "Stop misinterpreting my instructions. I have nothing against your home or its dialect. What I object to is your attitude. Being proud of your home is all well and good, but there is a time and a place for that. The way you address your superiors is entirely unacceptable." (Keep in mind that before this, Epel was the one instigating a fight with Vil and subsequently got his ass whooped for disrespecting an upperclassman. As the victor, he declares that Epel must do as he says--that's the "culture" of NRC. The weak obey the strong, so if Epel wants to do whatever he wants, then Vil challenges him to beat Epel in a fight. Until then, the loser must obey the winner. Epel agrees to these conditions.) This may be a little hard for western English speakers to wrap their heads around, but MANY Asian countries, Japan included, run on a hierarchical system which is embedded even into their languages. Japanese, for example, has honorifics to denote the relationship between the speaker and the listener, as well as variations on the same word depending on the context ("boku", "ore", "watashi", "atashi", etc. are all valid ways to refer to oneself, "onii-san", "onii-sama", "aniki", "kyodai", etc. are all ways to refer to a brother, whether blood-related or not). In some cases, it's considered rude to call others by their first name unless you know them well, and even then it's not common to see a first name without an honorific. This is not as strictly adhered to in English, which is perhaps where a cultural disconnect occurs. What Vil is referring to in his instructions to Epel is what is known in the world of linguistics as "code switching", or changing how one communicates to suit the situation. Part of code switching is changing one's "register", or the level of formality you use. So for example, I could use a colloquial/casual register when I speak with my friends, but I may shift to a more polite and formal register when I speak with my professors, a boss, or an older relative. Vil, then, is critiquing Epel for not speaking politely to his seniors (something which is expected in Japanese culture, but not expected among those in similar grade levels in western cultures).

In the Harveston Sledathon event, we get to venture to Epel's hometown and hear how the locals speak. Indeed, we get more instances of people who speak in the same way Epel does. It's the Harveston dialect, which is so distinctive that it basically sounds like a whole different language. (There are also languages like this in real life; consider Mandarin and Cantonese; technically they are both "Chinese" but Mandarin and Cantonese speakers would not be able to comprehend one another even if they use the same written language). However, it's notable that Marja (Epel's grandmother) and the mayor of Harveston are able to code switch flawlessly into a more standardized tongue. They explain that this is a skill they have developed because it helps in communicating with tourists/visitors to the village and for whenever they travel to the nearby city to sell their wares. This reinforces Vil's point that there is a "time and place" for certain ways of speaking, which Epel needs to consider.

Macarons and Soft-Spokeness

Accent thing aside, some English-speaking fans take issue with Vil's stern treatment of Epel, particularly in instances in which Vil seems to be exerting significant control over his underclassman's behaviors. (Japanese-speaking fans largely do not hold the same sentiment.) Examples of this include Vil forcing Epel to state that his favorite food is macarons, as well as making Epel present as soft-spoken even when he's just among his peers. I will now be addressing both of these points. TO BE CLEAR, I am NOT trying to defend Vil but rather I'm just going to speculate about why the circumstances are the way that they are and/or why perceptions of his attitude may differ.

Starting with macarons! It is stated in Epel's official profile and by Epel himself in his Birthday Boy vignettes that his favorite food is yakiniku (Japanese grilled meat). However, macarons are also listed as his favorite food, and this is notable because he's the only character with two foods listed instead of just one. In the aforementioned Birthday Boy vignettes, Epel is quick to qualify his love of meats with, "Well, I do have one thing I like even more. It's, ah, macarons." When asked what he likes about them, he says, "They're... cute. And sweet! And they come in lots of different flavors." His voice here sounds hesitant, so it's not clear whether he's being entirely honest or not. He even admits in a whisper that, "[Macarons] are not very filling, but still." Epel again complains about macarons being good but not very filling when he has some in the City of Flowers/Fleur City. To this, Azul asks, "Why do you look so unimpressed, Epel? I thought macarons were your favorite food. [...] But was my intel mistaken? Would you prefer something with a stronger flavor profile?" Epel insists he is fine, and Azul responds with, "Excellent, then my intel bears out." This creates some confusion over whether Epel actually likes macarons or not. I doubt that the information Azul has on others is inaccurate. Plus, Epel states of his own free will to the player (who is interviewing him) that he also likes macarons. This leads me to believe that while Epel doesn't outright hate macarons, he does like them alright (but still prefers grilled meat more). The only thing he seems to have an issue with is how unsubstantial macarons are as a food item.

Now... why does Vil make him state that macarons are his favorite food instead of grilled meat? It's sort of touched on in Epel's Ceremonial Robes vignettes. In them, Vil chides Epel for his poor table manners and asks him to state his favorite food. Epel responds with grilled meat/barbeque, which earns him a smack from his dorm leader. (Vil actually smacks Epel multiple times in these vignettes as punishment, which ended up being another source of ire in the English-speaking part of the fandom; such a thing is more common in Asia and its media, so it's not seen as too outrageous in Japan.) "Do my ears deceive me?" Vil says. "I could've sworn I heard a word unfit to be spoken in this noble dorm. I will ask you again. As a student of Pomefiore–a dorm founded upon the tenacity of the Fairest Queen–what is your favorite food?" From this dialogue, it can be surmised that Vil's reasoning for drilling the macarons in as Epel's favorite food is because it is something that is more befitting of the regal "image" of the Fairest Queen and the dorm made in her honor. Vil seems to regard grilled meat as an inelegant food which does not suit the Fairest Queen nor Pomefiore.

The second thing the asker brought up is Epel's soft-spokeness. I guess I'm a little confused by this??? Soft-spokeness is a part of being polite; it ties back to volume control (ie "indoor voice" being softer than "outdoor voice"). I also don't recall a specific instance of Vil chastising Epel for NOT being soft-spoken at all times. He allows Epel to be loud sometimes and raises his voice himself. I feel like volume is not something that Vil harps on as much as other things like cursing or speaking politely to the correct authority figures (unless, of course, volume is important to the level of politeness required for the current conversation). I could be wrong on this though, so please let me know if you know of any specific instances of Vil being mad about Epel speaking loudly that I may have missed! What I do find odd is how... consistently (?) Epel tries to keep polite even when Vil is not around to monitor him. When Vil and Epel first met, Vil makes it clear that there is a "time and place" for Epel's accent, and it's not when addressing seniors. So... by the logic, shouldn't Vil be okay with Epel acting more relaxed or rowdy around first years or more casual settings in general? Why does Epel need to maintain the facade of being polite even when not in the presence of his superiors? Why does Epel seem to even act fearful about word of his misbehavior/rudeness getting back to his dorm leader and even make others swear they won't divulge the incidents to Vil?

One theory I'll propose is the entirety of book 5. Vil was insistent then on having Epel in the NRC Tribe. He wanted to weaponize Epel's cuteness, which he believed could compete with his long-time rival, Neige. This probably fed into Vil's demands for Epel to appear and act dainty and innocent, traits which Neige effortlessly possesses. Vil literally even refers to Epel as his "Poison Apple" that will help him defeat Neige. After book 5, Vil seems to have eased up on his rigidity. However, I will caution that this explanation may or may not align well with vignettes and/or event stories, which do not always work in a cohesive timeline with the main story.

Perhaps a more all-encompassing explanation is... this is probably because Vil is just very strict about how his dorm members present themselves at all times, since they are expansions of Pomefiore and of himself as the leader. Both the macarons and Epel's attitude are reflections of the dorm he (a celebrity who is very aware of the public eyes on him + his reputation) is affiliated with, and Vil won't have them poorly represented. He is the dorm leader, so he has the "right" to rule and impose his ideals as he sees fit. It's a similar situation to Riddle forcing the Heartslabyul students to follow silly, nonsensical rules (because they're tradition) or risk a scolding or a beheading. And again, Epel is following along because (as established in book 5), he has agreed to submit to Vil’s orders until he beats Vil in combat.

At the end of the day, I don't think Epel being forced to call macarons his favorite food is a huge deal. Is anything that big lost in claiming you like something that isn't your actual favorite food? It's not like Vil is forcing Epel to claim he likes eating something that would actually harm him (like, if Epel had an almond allergy or something).

What's more dubious is how VIl governs Epel's attitude and temperament at seemingly all times (to the point of eliciting some apprehension from Epel). Given the most generous reading, maybe it's Vil's way of teaching Epel maturity and how to keep his voice down since Epel had zero of it and acted loudly brazen when he first enrolled. It doesn't help Epel if he's quiet and well-mannered in very limited social situations; it has to be "generalized" or expand to other scenarios for Vil's lessons to truly be instilled in him. (Like... what would happen if Vil DIDN'T hold Epel in check? His classmates would not be able to understand Epel's speech, and he might get into trouble by picking fights with others.) This is a life skill that Epel lacks, unlike his grandma and the Harveston mayor, and Vil's teaching it to him via "tough love" (though whether you approve of his methods or not is up to interpretation). Recall that Vil also teaches Epel to embrace femininity as its own strength and to disregard outdated gender norms--this could be considered another "lesson". I doubt that anything Vil imposes is done maliciously, but rather comes from a place of wanting others to be better and to shine their brightest, even if that path is difficult or painful. Epel, as the rebel in this circumstance, of course does not enjoy being told what to do and misbehaves in small ways. There’s a limit on how much he can misbehave though, as it would hurt his pride to be reminded of his failure to one-up Vil. He's like a kid that doesn't want to be caught cussing or acting out by his parent. It can be seen as immaturity and an unwillingness to change or to grow up, but it can also be seen as someone who wants to freely be able to express themselves or to be their "truest" self. Epel is rowdy and headstrong, and it's difficult for him to repress these parts of himself. Given the least generous reading, Vil is oppressing and stifling Epel in many ways that extend beyond what his dorm leader position should reasonably allow him to do. In fact, a popular fan translation for book 5 is "The Beautiful Oppressor", as Vil is frequently shown limiting the liberties of his NRC Tribe members during their training arc, not just Epel's.

Which is the truth here? Why do those in the English side of the fandom decry Vil's actions and side with Epel whereas the Japanese side see little issue with this?

I wager that this predominantly comes down to, again, cultural differences. Many English-speaking fans are based in the west (particularly the USA and Canada, where the EN servers first launched), places which emphasize individuality and self-expression. Of course they would be more likely to take Epel's side, as he's the one trying to be himself and stand out in his own way. Meanwhile collectivism--an ideology which stresses conformity with a group--dominates in the east. They are more likely to see no problems with Vil's actions because, to them, he is acting in the ways he is to "guide" Epel and show him how to best "fit in" with Pomefiore and at NRC. I believe the whole "being soft-spoken" thing also ties back to cultural differences; speaking loudly is something else that can be considered rude in Japan, so it's entirely possible that Vil encouraging Epel to be soft-spoken is another element of politeness that did not translate well to English (as the western world tends to be much louder and more animated in their conversations).

What it boils down to is that the way Vil and Epel's relationship was written did not work well for a western audience, whose values and perspective is VERY different from the original audience TWST had. It appeals far more to a Japanese fanbase than a western one, and has resulted in many misunderstandings or anger about Vil's character because of this.

I'm not sure if I managed to adequately explain everything, but I hope that this at least helps you to see from a different perspective!!