#yearning for a time well spent in the past

[argent-sz]

I love whatever starfox command and tomodachi life have done to fanfic authors <3 <3 <3

[shomatoriashi]

01/03/25; 10:00pm

{ drabbles / headcanons }

[ when they realize that you’re the true mc from behind the screen ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

notes: this is just my own take on the self aware au! i know other creators who’ve written their own self aware au’s (and have executed them amazingly well!), but i hope that you readers will give my story a chance, too ♡

you never understood the hype that surrounded the game known as love and deepspace-

however, the moment sylus was announced as the newest love interest for this game-

to say you were mildly interested would have been the greatest understatement of the century. when his trailer was revealed, you swore you felt your knees clash together while basking in his pure, masculine beauty.

and his voice- dear god did it sound like pure silk against your ears!

needless to say, you downloaded lads the moment sylus dropped as the latest love interest. when you made your mc, you did your best to model her after your own appearance to the best of your abilities-

however, it seemed impossible to do.

the mc was just too petite and perfect, something that you could never achieve in real life. yet despite it all, you tried your best to customize her to match your features before starting the game. as you struggled with the missions in the main story, you were essentially grinding until the moment you could unlock sylus's story branch-

and the moment when you accomplished it, you were truly on cloud 9, taking an ungodly amount of screenshots each time sylus was on your phone's screen. you kept interacting with him in game, raising his affinity with you to level 50 in a mere few weeks.

it was embarrassing how much you adored this gorgeous man made up entirely of pixels. you always spent quality time with him, bringing him with you when you worked or had to study for an upcoming exam. each time you would glance at your phone and see his devastatingly handsome features cleaning his gun, you would grin and press a kiss on your screen (directly over his cheek!)

were you shameless for feeling so deeply about a fictional man-

absolutely yes. but did you care?

no.

after kissing sylus for what had to be the thousandth time that day, you would go back to your responsibilities, unaware that sylus could hear you and feel the sensation of your kisses against his cheek.

at first, it was maddening for sylus to realize that everything he's been through was made up by some writers at a company. every tragedy was forced upon him for the sake of a good story-

and he hated it.

he hated how his every word was essentially a script made up by that same company and how he was forced to interact with an mc that was just the same as the rest-

yet the moment he realized he could see you settled behind that woman's avatar-

sylus was intrigued, to say the least.

despite how you looked drastically different from the mc, something about you drew him to you more than the mc ever could. for starters, you were a true, living person who had a personality.

and you just seemed so alive each time sylus saw you. the more time he had spent with you, the more his feelings of curiosity turned into something tangible and real-

making sylus yearn for the day you would recognize him noticing you. he stops cleaning his gun just then, simply keeping his crimson gaze on your form as you wrote in your notebook. the hours continue to pass, yet sylus allows the quality time feature to go on even past the 30 minute mark, not stopping until you were done.

as your eyes go back to your phone, you were ready to quit the session when sylus purposely stops you, "no kiss this time? you wound me, little dove."

he basks in your wide eyed expression and the way your mouth was wide open in a gape, chuckling as you waved your hand over the screen-

and sylus was following your every movement.

"you can see me?"

"i think we've made that abundantly clear just now, little dove." he shakes his head, feeling his world tilt slightly when you pick up your phone.

"y-you just spoke to me, and i- i'm your little dove?" a dreamy expression crosses your features as you kept your gaze on sylus. he gives you a rare, tiny smile while reaffirming his nickname for you with a nod, "of course you are. you have always been my little dove since the moment i laid eyes on you."

a cute sound escapes from your parted lips, and he felt himself being jostled around when you began to spin while holding your phone. with his eyebrows lifted in response, he calls out your name while telling you, "you don't seem to be as panicked as i imagined."

"are you kidding me? i-" you cough and give him a sheepish expression, "i actually love you so much, and despite the weirdness of this all, i'm strangely happy."

your words succeed in making sylus feel warm inside-

and he knew he had to find a way to be with you soon.

zayne has always been aware of your existence, since you were a longtime player of his game and have spent most of your time together with him.

strangely enough, he took pride in having the highest affinity with you-

yet when you obtained any of the other love interest's memories, or spent some time with them-

a wave of jealousy would course through zayne's veins. he knew that he was programmed to always feel happy with whatever man you chose-

but he couldn't bring himself to let you go. after all, zayne knew that he loved you the most out of all of them.

he was the one who held your health and wellbeing above all else (even ignoring his own desires to see you during his quality time sessions with you.)

while working on his laptop at the cafe, he was aware of how late it was and was hoping that you were already safe and sound in bed-

so imagine his surprise when he sees you logging into the game, greeting him with a tired smile on your face as you opened up the quality time menu with him.

"hey zaynie, i know it's late, but i need to get these assignments done just to stay ahead. i couldn't find the time to do them earlier, so that's why i'm here."

admittedly, zayne could feel a shiver of pleasure each time you spoke to him, allowing him to bask in the sound of your voice-

yet more so than that was how concerned he was that you wanted to do your assignments at such an ungodly hour. as you pressed on the quality time session, zayne would immediately cancel it. confusion was etched onto your features, making you try again-

only to have zayne cancel the session once more.

"what the hell is going on?"

unable to hide the fact that he could respond to you (and not wishing to ignore you any longer) zayne takes a chance and speaks to you.

"it's too late for you to be studying. you should be in bed, ready to sleep."

your eyebrows furrow in response to his words, uncertain if this was part of his script (it wasn't). unable to stop, zayne continues to lightly scold you, "humans need at least 8 hours of sleep, and i know that you've barely gotten 5 hours the past few days."

"oh my god, what?!" he watches as you pick up your phone, meeting his gaze as an incredulous expression was seen on your face. "zaynie, are you talking to me?"

zayne was conflicted now, pulling at the collar of his shirt before clearing his throat, wanting to be honest with you, "yes... i am talking to you, and if you cared for me and my feelings at all, you would go to bed and work on your assignments in the morning, once you're fully rested."

it takes you a moment to take this all in.

from zayne meeting your gaze and scolding you because he was concerned about your health-

it honestly felt like such a dream come true.

your features end up breaking out into a kind smile, and zayne could feel a blush creeping up against his cheek when you nuzzle your face closer to your phone, "okay zaynie, i'll go to sleep."

cradling the phone close to your chest, you let out a hum while slowly getting into bed. once you were settled in bed, you held up your phone to see zayne looking back at you. he smiles at you, "good girl, now close your eyes and sleep."

he watches as you purse your lips before asking him, "will you stay with me, zayne?"

smiling at your request, he gives you a nod, "of course. i'm not going anywhere." he watches you once more as you cuddle into your comforter, closing your eyes while setting your phone close to you.

and as your breathing evens out, (turning softer), zayne whispers your name, filled with longing and love for you alone.

you had to be experiencing the worst cold of your life as you were settled in bed with your phone in hand, playing love and deepspace as you did some missions with xavier, your true love interest for the game.

in the middle of your battle, you let out a particularly loud sneeze, wiping the snot away from your nose while blowing into a tissue when a tiny voice was heard saying "bless you."

after blowing your nose, you said 'thank you' in response-

only to do a double take.

who just said bless you?

you take a quick scan around your room, coughing here and there-

only to realize that there was no one in sight.

you hear the voice again, this time saying your name as you realized that it sounded familiar to you. looking back at your phone, you saw xavier had already taken out the enemy and was looking directly at you.

you swallow thickly, your voice shaky when you began to speak,

"xavier?"

"yes."

"you can hear me?"

"i was able to hear you since day 1, and you chose to stick with me." xavier was practically grinning now, appearing smug while folding his arms across his chest.

by now, you were feeling dizzy as you slowly sit up in bed, feeling almost feverish while looking into xavier's gorgeous, true blue eyes. xavier has been aware of your presence this whole time-

and that fact was enough to make a surge of warmth course through you.

"you... you have always been able to see me?" you ask xavier in a shy voice, earning an earnest nod from him, "yes, and..." he trails off while pressing a hand against your screen, "i'm sorry that i'm unable to take care of you when you're feeling so sick."

"n-no! don't worry about it... i'm just happy that you're here... with me."

a sweet smile paints xavier's expression, coupled along with a gentle chuckle. "i'm happy to be with you, too. and i'm happy that you chose me over them."

realizing what xavier meant, you gave him the best smile you could manage while wiping at your nose with a new tissue, "i will always choose you, xavi."

hearing your admission causes a surge of possessiveness to course through xavier's veins. and while you smiled back at him, the philos prince was thinking of ways to forever keep your smiles for himself.

feeling the need to clean your house and do some chores around it, you decide to spend some quality time with rafayel, the hot lemurian you fell in love with ever since you began playing love and deepspace. with his pretty, pouty face on your screen, you began cleaning, moving around your kitchen and living room while wiping down each surface you could see.

you spent a few hours cleaning, with rafayel seeming to sketch during his quality time session with you, which felt odd. usually, after 30 minutes, the game would notify you, asking if you'd like to continue the session as you confirmed it-

yet now, that didn't seem to happen.

you saw no notification-

and rafayel was still sketching on your screen.

with a shrug, you figured the game probably updated and added this new feature, where you didn't have to constantly renew the 30 minutes during your quality time with rafayel. feeling thirsty now, you pick up your phone and head into the kitchen, setting your phone on the counter as you went into the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

"hey princess! where did you go?! i can't see you!"

you nearly dropped your water bottle in response, hearing rafayel's voice coming from your phone. "come on princess, don't leave me hanging, where are you?"

was this a new script?

closing your fridge, you step closer to your phone, seeing rafayel's pout. picking it up, allowing rafayel to finally see you, he was smiling now while winking at you. "there you are, princess! are you done doing all that work?"

words were unable to form as you were left gaping at him, making the artist chuckle while shaking his head, "you look like a goldfish, which is pretty cute! oh, before i forget!"

rafayel pulls back, revealing his sketchbook to you. your heart was felt clenching slightly before racing upon realizing every sketch was about you-

not your mc in game.

the realization of it all had you reeling, with your hands gripping at your counter when you addressed rafayel. "rafe, you can see me?"

"of course i can, always have been able to, princess." he has the audacity to make your heart flutter the moment he gives you another wink. "and let me just say, i've been loving what i've been seeing so far, princess."

by now, you felt like you were on the verge of collapsing, unable to hide your grin as you cling to your phone all while basking in rafayel's flirty and playful words-

yet little did you know, somewhere along the way, rafayel had genuinely fallen head over heels for you, keeping each painting and sculpture he had made of you hidden so that you would never know-

at least, not yet.

end notes: i'm so happy to write a story like this, where all the lads men truly are so META and wish to be with YOU-

and not the mc (⺣◡⺣)♡

this is currently unedited, but i shall make any changes the moment this story is posted!

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[strwberri-milk]

Maybe this is a bit angsty but could I request the LADS men’s (or just Sylus’s) reaction when reader randomly, casually says in a conversation, ‘Well you’re probably not gonna stick around with me in the future anyway’ (so in short, they think they’re temporary).

Zayne's attention snaps to you so quickly you would have thought you told him you're experiencing a cardiac event. He takes a second to process the words, brows furrowing as he asks you why you'd say something like that. His reaction is so visceral you can't help but laugh awkwardly, asking him what he means by that. The confusion tinged with something unreadable and sad hurts his heart, wondering if he hasn't made it clear enough that he's madly in love with you and only you.

He falls silent, pondering your words and his own actions. Has he not been affectionate enough with you? Has he not been obvious enough about how in love he is with you? You start to squirm, usually used to his thoughtful pauses but the tension rising in the air has you suffocating.

Eventually he tells you that you're going to be stuck with him for quite a while because he doesn't intend on giving you up that easily. He cups your face in his hands, telling you that you're the most precious thing to him in the world and he's going to love you until his dying breath, then past that. The confession is quite intense especially since he just looks very intense for the most part so it steals your breath away before Zayne pushes air right back into your lungs with a desperate kiss.

Xavier immediately tells you off, raising a brow as he asks why you think he wouldn't be there in the future. He's spent so many years yearning for your warmth - it seems blasphemous to him not to stay with you until the universe tears you apart and then some. You see the hurt in his eyes immediately, trying to backtrack as he asks you if you really thought he'd leave.

He takes your hands in his gently, taking a palm to cup his cheek as he nuzzles into your warmth, looking up at you with those baby blues that seem to tempt you to fall into them as he repeats the question. Your words are dry in your throat as you look away, his hand coming up to tilt your face back to look at him.

He swears his life to you again, peppering your hand in kisses as he speaks. If you had any doubts about his feelings for you before there's no way you can now, not with the way his voice settles around you. He solidifies his feelings for you, devoting his entire being to you in the quiet space between the two of you.

Rafayel is totally unamused, brushing your comment off as a joke. He fully thinks you're just trying to get under his skin, teasing him because that's the sort of relationship that the two of you have. When you don't respond with your usual enthusiasm he looks at you with a scrutinizing gaze. His lips press together as he starts to realise that you were serious, rolling his eyes as he pulls you against his chest.

He's shaking, thinly veiled anger running through his veins. He isn't really mad at you, but it would be wrong to say that he isn't at the same time. He doesn't understand why you'd think something like that, under the belief that he's made it very clear that he's in love with you and only you. I mean, have you seen him in a room with other people when they aren't you?

His words are soft in your ear, the quietest hint of a threat in them as he asks if you're serious. Nothing about this was temporary, about his feelings for you were fading. They never did and they never could, not even if he fell to his knees and begged for someone to take them from him. He's built on the anger of a dead civilsation and the inability to do anything but love you, telling you that even if you try to leave him he'll just wait until you're ready for him again.

Sylus doesn't even stop what he's doing, chuckling softly at the notion. He thinks you're joking, unable to fathom that you're fully serious in thinking that he won't be sticking around. You feel a little upset at how easily he brushes you off, deciding that you're done for the day as you fall silent. He notices that right away, looking up at you and beckoning for you to crawl into his lap. If you refuse to he'll simply come over and pull you into his lap without question, telling you to repeat yourself.

You repeat the statement, now more unsure of yourself since he's staring at you intently. You can see the slight quirk of his lips, his smirk making your heart beat a little faster as you tell him that whatever the two of you have isn't serious. He laughs at the notion, shaking his head as he cups your face in his hands. He takes in every detail of your face, sighing softly as he buries his face into your neck, peppering kisses as he shakes his head.

He doesn't know what to say, the words all caught in his throat as he holds you. You don't need him to say anything though, the desperate way he clings to your body and his lips muttering the beginnings of words just to abandon them convincing you more with every passing second that he's going to love you until the end of time.

[shotmrmiller]

dacryphilia baby!

simon's never really liked tears. people cry ugly, in his opinion. they get puffy-eyed, sclera bloodshot. their features twist ungracefully in their anguish, cheeks damp and ruddy. snot drips down their nose; clear, viscous. their mouths gape mid-sob, their shoulders tremble violently as they snort and gasp between fragmented words.

(never mind that the only time he's ever around a crying someone is when he stands in an interrogation room with a broken man who has crumbled under the pain he's inflicted, begging for mercy, coughing up anything and everything he needs to know.)

until he met you, with your bright eyes, soft lips, and gentle spirit.

tears suddenly make his cock throb. the first time he'd seen them, you'd been straddling his lap, wet heat struggling to stretch and accommodate to his size. your eyes glistened with unshed tears as you sank onto him, keening at feeling so full and he's barely halfway in. brave, little pet. sinking your teeth into your bottom lip to keep from making too much noise. you'd looked a dream when your cunt finally swallowed him whole, thighs flush against his, looking up at him triumphantly with beads of moisture on your clumped lashes.

the second time, you'd been stressed from work, nerves raw and frayed, and patience nonexistent. nothing he couldn't fix with his head between your thighs. he plopped you on the kitchen counter, ignoring your snarling protests, and lapped up your slick with the thirst of a man lost in a desert. you came in minutes, hiccupping his name through sharp gasps of breath. you'd been spent after, body slumping with fatigue post torrent of cathartic release. he'd held your face in one hand, fingers dimpling your cheeks as he fucked your thighs, covering your cunt with his spend when a singular tear spilled from the corner of your eye.

and now. he clings to the idea of making you cry from overstimulation. he wants to see tears track down your dampened cheeks, yearns to taste salt on his tongue, aches to see your eyes glimmering under the warm glow of the bedroom lamp in the bedroom. the mere thought of your tears flowing down your face in rivulets leaves him momentarily unbalanced. he could burst in his pants untouched.

you're always so pliable beneath him, so giving when he wants to take. simon slides a finger through your wet folds, gently prodding your entrance, teasing. he knows exactly what to do to get you to the brink and keep you there— teetering that knife's sharpened edge of biting discomfort and searing ecstasy. "so close, m'so close," you garble as you try to buck your hips (he pins them down to the bed firmly, you will receive what he gives and nothing more) and he keeps at it until your throbbing pussy hurts from being held back from the edge. until you beg him with shimmering eyes to please, please, let you come. you'll be good, so good, just— please.

he gives it to you, satisfied with how delicious you look— all glossy-lipped and luminous eyes— swirling your swollen pearl under his thumb until you climax, pushing two fingers into your cunt so you can have something to clench around. your soul is barely coming back down from the heavens when he's pressing your thighs against your chest, knees almost to shoulders, feeling the air in your lungs being punched out of you when he bottoms out in one long stroke. the angle is on the verge of too much, feeling that deep pinch in your stomach you'd felt the very first time he rut his cock into you.

simon can see your eyes well with fresh tears, his throat drying at the sight. he starts to put his weight behind each thrust, hearing the squeaks that fall past your lips. you take what he gives you so well, pride prickling in the base of his skull. it tightens the coil that's spooling oh so ever tighter beneath his navel but it's not enough. he wants what he wants.

he weaves a hand down to your sensitive clit, rubbing tight circles on it until he feels your walls fluttering and squeeze him like a vicious vise. it rips the breath out of him, almost has him fucking his cum into you but he sharpens his focus— gritting his teeth to keep from ending the fun. his iron will has never been so useful. you're wriggling beneath him now as if trying to get away from him (as if you could) because he keeps touching your clit. your legs are shaking, your mewls are loud enough to cause a ringing in his ears but he quickly gets you to another orgasm. you're a sobbing mess now; hiccups, gasps, high-pitched squeals.

and tears. full-blown tears spill, roll down your pretty face, sticking strands of your hair to cheeks. he wants to see this forever. wants it etched behind his eyelids, wants it inked on his skin (what a thought. he just might, no one has to know.)

he relents, abandoning your over-sensitized clit to grab at your fleshy hips to piston into you until he comes with a groan (and salt on his lips)

[seraphdreams]

SMILE, YOU'RE ON CAMERA. | YUUTA OKKOTSU.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — synopsis. when taking care of your university finances proves troublesome, the universe grants you your very own savior. but it’s gonna cost you.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — cw. smut, college au!yuuta / bimbo reader (obvi), filming, lots of porn references… a lot, virginity loss, praise, oral n fingering, slight obsession, pussydrunk yuuta, unprotected love making, yuuta’s rich and unsettling. mdni <3

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — word count. 5.3k

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! omg, yuuta? i meant to have this out a few weeks ago but got caught in a little writing slump :( nevertheless, here’s to a new year and a new fic! yuuta’s been slowly creeping his way up my favs list , tehe !! as always, please reblog / comment if you enjoyed this , it’ll fill me with joy. thank u ♡

you’re a pornstar.

albeit, an amateur one with heaps to learn regarding the ruthless industry, but the weight still stands.

the details in which you came to the jarring conclusion were muddled with the convoluted steps that it took for you to get there, murky in your bubblegum-filled mind. all you knew was that yuuta okkotsu was a force, a gentle one, to be reckoned with.

it must’ve played out once you returned to your campus dorm beyond the dusk of midnight, under an unmitigating fatigue from the twelve hour waitressing shift just prior. through abhorrent patrons and the lack of a spendable paycheck, the excruciatingly long night barely made you enough money to even think about buying those dollish pumps you’ve been yearning for. how cruel.

in between working and haphazardly handing your earnings over to university fees and textbooks, you just couldn’t seem to make ends meet.

you would curse the day you took it upon yourself to branch away financially from your parents under the guise of growing up, since now it’d be a blessing to have even a cellphone bill paid off. whatever the issue seemed to be, lady luck was truly never bothered enough to be on your side.

fortunately for you, though, it was that same arduous night, you had been huddled against your stuffed animals in bed, mindlessly scrolling through the various social media apps on your phone; switching from sites like instagram and twitter to youtube then right back to instagram all over again, only to be met with an offer dusted in pink glitter that caught your eye as if it were made for you.

“stars needed — will pay upfront.”

it was a shoddy story post, one that could be clicked past and forgotten forever — yet, a brisk reminder of your situation in the form of borrowed, used textbooks with pages missing or vandalized, and today’s horoscope that said to take risks; you did exactly that, aiming a swipe up that would ultimately rid you of the worries of yesterday.

there were no reasons as to why you couldn’t be a star. certainly, you had the face for it, and you were told by multiple charmers that you were beyond beguiling to get anything you could ever ask for. what dismay could possibly unfold from contacting .. yuuta okkotsu .. about his offer?

hm, that’s funny. the name rang familiarity as it seeded in your mind.

must be one of yuuji’s friends.

itadori yuuji, your best friend of three years now. out of all the time you’d spent together, you came to realize that he could get along with anyone, despite their true intentions. he spoke highly of his friends as well, which earned him a sacred spot in your heart that couldn’t be replaced by anyone.

itadori had briefly mentioned in a ramen-fueled frenzy that one of his peers were “so insanely talented” and that you’d definitely get on with him. but when you asked for validity on that vague claim, all yuuji seemed to respond with was a mere “just meet him, you’ll see.”

from your recollection, the acquaintance he was boasting about, as if it was his own personal victory, was none other than your yuuta okkotsu. he was meek, stuck to a close-knit friend group consisting of maki and toge from your physics class, and the one time you ever spoke to him was to ask about yuuji’s whereabouts, to which he responded that he went back to his dorm after gojo-sensei’s lecture.

he seemed, normal. average, even. that surely had to be the case since your memory was hazy on his being otherwise.

it was true, though, yuuta was gifted. in a way that transcended words, skillful towards visual aesthetics, and careful with the craft. he would spend most of his freetime fumbling with a camera or recording the works of the mundane. overtly, he’d grown such a strong passion in the field of videography in hopes to capture the reality of humanity, the authenticity within intimacy — what could he possibly need a “star” for?

shadiness aside, you were in a tough spot, willing to do whatever to free yourself from the financial burden that was jujutsu technical university. with a swift swipe in tandem with the soft tapping of the pads of your thumbs on the keyboard, you were taking yuuta up on his offer.

within seconds, he responded back with his address and an appropriate meet-up date to start the project.

if only you were aware of how drastically your life would change from here on out.

a cluster of days had passed since you last got into contact with yuuta. he had told you to meet him at his place, claiming it would be more efficient than traveling to an unnamed destination with pounds of heavy photography equipment.

where you stood currently, was in front of the bare oak of his front door, hand wrapped in a loose fist as you knocked gently on the wood. a quick moment had passed by before you took initiative to raise your fist and knock once more. before your touch could meet the wood, a muffled “coming!” chimed beyond the door. from what you had heard on the other side; the scuttling behind the door and jingle of the lock, yuuta had opened the door soon after.

with his hand rubbing away the goosebumps that stood at the back of his neck, he beamed. cordially, warmly.

“you’re actually here. hi,”

upon first glance, yuuta had a distinct look. he stood tall, not tall enough to matter or incite intimidation, and although he wore a black button-up (a bit formal for an occasion as casual as today), his lean build shone through under the thin fabric, ripples of veins dancing up his forearms. what you couldn’t miss, however, were the grey eyebags under his emotionless navy orbs, as if he’d forgone weeks of sleep.

yuuta okkotsu was unsettling.

“hi,” your voice sounded as a sweet croon, dulcet enough that you could barely hear it yourself as it escaped in a breathy breeze. his smile grew softer in response, that monotonous gaze in his eyes fizzling away into something of serenity. “come in, please,” yuuta held the door open wider for you to tread past, caught up in observing the bunch of fabric that hugged tightly around your ass, then closed it gently behind you once you stepped completely inside. he silently cursed at himself for ogling — he truly didn’t mean to stare. you’re just a lot prettier up close. “i was just getting set up. you can have a seat if you’d like.”

as you’d expect from any guy your age, his place wasn’t much to gaze at, nor did it have much personality. in a corner to your right was a houseplant, that of the fern variety, and a few steps deeper into the abode was the living room, where yuuta resumed his fumbling with the transfiguration of his tripod.

you decided to sit on the couch across from him, taking in the bleak sight of his home. you would have almost believed it was unlived in had it not been for the scattered midterm review papers decorating his coffee table. it was obvious he had money from the endless rows of space that surrounded the two of you, although a candle or something would be nice.

he peered away from his tripod to look through the viewfinder of his camera, ensuring that the lens was functioning properly. he grew pleased to see the image of you distracted in fiddling with your thumbs reflected back at him. “are you nervous?” his gaze fell upon you through his own eyes, a concerned expression harboring his features.

you were pulled out of your muse of unfamiliarity to direct your attention to the sound of his mild voice, returning a smile to his that eased the worriment trapped behind dull, blue eyes. “n-not really, i don’t think.”

his lips curled up once more at that, in fact there wasn’t a time so far that you hadn’t noticed him without his signature smile. “here, let me help with that,” reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone, tapping away at the screen before ultimately turning it back off and settling it back into its place in his pocket.

your phone vibrated beside you, screen lighting up with a bold alert.

[YUUTA OKKOTSU SENT $1000]

before you had a chance to even process the significance of the notification, he started back up,

“i hope i got the right information, wouldn’t want your hard work to get in the wrong hands.” the tilt of his head in tandem with a chuckle resonated sheepishly, and he returned to watch you through his camera lens.

he was right. the money did soothe your nerves.

“i’ve barely done anything yet.” a ditzy giggle followed soon after your sentence, a sound that yuuta couldn’t possibly ignore. you were already starting to pull at his heartstrings.

“and you’ve done it so perfectly,” his praise left you flustered in that moment and you bit down softly on your lower lip to keep your smile at bay. “thank you, yuuta.”

you would’ve never guessed that your introverted classmate had enough experience in him to be such a flirt, or have your cheeks heating up with fervid affection, no less. but maybe yuuta was just like that; maybe this had been natural.

“no, thank you.” his thumb hovered over the record button just as his eyes met your gaze over the brim of the camera. “would you like to start now?”

he took the nod of your head as confirmation to press the record button, finally getting started with the project.

you blinked blankly at him as he tilted his head and flashed a warmhearted grin. “how old are you?” was his first question. he had asked while rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. as he did so, you took notice of the silver ring donned around his finger.

he couldn’t have been married, no?

keeping your answer as vague as possible for the sake of matching his comforting warmth, you responded, “twenty-something.” he let out a satisfied huff of air as he nodded and moved onto his next query.

“and what’s your major?”

with the question barely having enough time to linger in the suggestively tense air, he added, “you’re very beautiful, by the way. do you mind taking your dress off for me?”

as much as it should’ve alarmed you, you were swayed by his toothachingly inviting timbre, its gentleness pulling compliancy from you in a matter of a few mere words. you only shook your head, forgoing the short piece of fabric that clung to each curve and dip of your body while your nipples hardened under the glacial, artificial breeze of his home. once the silk pooled at your hips, that, along with your panties were dropped onto the floor, leaving you bare and vulnerable under the camera — and yuuta’s watchful eye.

he swallowed thickly at the sight, remaining as respectful as he could despite the monster growing in his pants; his eyes locked right back onto yours as if he’d get striked down for moving them even a millimeter south. “are you a virgin?” he queried, opting to move his hand from awkwardly at his side to fidgeting with the button at his shirt, ultimately undoing it and revealing another inch of skin at his heated chest.

from the nature of what you had signed yourself up for, you were hesitant to answer his question. of course you needed experience to be a star, and with you lacking the preconceived ability, you could kiss your $1000 goodbye..

yet he looked at you with an expectant gaze. no traces of malice in his eyes or frustration from your quick witted silence, but merely, with patience. and in that moment you couldn’t find it within yourself to lie.

“i am,” out of shame, you curled in on yourself, hoping that the sofa would engulf you, and your feelings, crossing your arms over your bare chest as if it’d create a wall of privacy behind your own humiliation. “is that okay?”

yuuta’s being only grew warmer at the response, you figured he’d be hot to the touch by now, from searing pleasure or unshakeable cordiality, you wouldn’t know. “yeah, that’s okay,” it came out breathier than he would’ve liked, a telltale sign of his aching desire. “that’s more than okay.”

truth be told, he had never met anyone as enchanting as you. you looked up at him with such trust in your eyes that it daunted him — fear that the assurance he wielded from you would shatter beneath him, and he’d be drowning. in a sea of his own wistfulness. now that he had you, he couldn’t let you go.

you were on to make a breathtaking star.

now feeling less coy than before, you relaxed your head into the palm of yuuta’s hand. you hadn’t noticed how long he’d been stroking at your cheek, or when he closed the vexing proximity between the two of you, all that mattered in that moment was the roll of his gentle vocables flowing through your ears and the thumb of his that graciously caressed your cheek.

you came to realize that he was much more handsome this way as your eyes toured his own, then down to the sliver of sweat-sheened skin peeking from underneath the black veil of his shirt, then down to his…

he’s so fucking hard.

confined against his slacks was his cock that leaked an ample amount even while it was untouched. you could make out its silhouette, something girthy, perhaps heavy, but nothing like you’d expect from yuuta. uncharacteristically huge.

“yuuta.” you whispered, mainly to yourself, as your mouth began to water at the sight, and his cheeks dusted pink once he realized what you were fixated upon.

“do you wanna,” he started up but faltered soon after when your lidded gaze flitted back up towards his. never had he felt so weak before, it was as if you’d casted a spell on him. “do you maybe want to—” he paused to avert his own gaze and embarrassment. “—put it in your mouth?”

he could’ve sworn he heard the increase of his heartbeat in his ears when you crinkled your brows, pretty face forming into an even prettier pout.

“but i’ve never—”

he stopped you before you could start, interjecting his own voice of reassurance.

“it’s okay. i’ll guide you,” taking his camera off its stand and moving the rest of the configuration elsewhere, he held it in one hand to better capture the scene unfolding before him. “just try your best for me, okay?”

“okay.” when he returned your concern with a small smile, you took it upon yourself to undo the arrangement of his pants, carefully hooking your finger into the elastic waistband of his briefs and pulling down just enough for his length to spring free.

for what felt like minutes, you marveled at his sheer size, wondering how anyone of his nature could possibly be hiding something like that. it curved upwards with a prominent vein or two running up the underside while it continued to leak, so much so, that you had to collect it all at the tip with your finger.

the tip? flushed the prettiest pink you’d ever witnessed and was as bulbous as it was mushroomed, you knew you’d have a bit of difficulty trying to fit into your mouth. it seemed to twitch under the fanning of your breath to which yuuta let out a whine of pure impatience.

“can i..?” your words trailed off when you involuntarily found yourself pressing chaste kisses along the length of his cock until they met with his sticky tip; a recreated scene from the various porn videos you’d seen. the sensation sent a jolt of palpable pleasure through his being, yuuta’s dark hair curtaining over his eyes while he made a damn good attempt at silencing his moans, with his teeth sunken into his bottom lip.

your eyes kept watch at his wavering expression while you wrapped your hand at the base of his length and began to pump slowly, yet another thing you had learned through the fascinating world of porn.

“suck it,” it was clear to you that yuuta had grown desirously impatient from your teasing, looking down at you with a hint of hunger in his beautiful orbs. “please?”

you took his words as an incentive to finally give him what he’s been leaking for, wrapping gloss-sheened lips around the thick inches of his tip, accommodating for the stretch with a dulcet whine that reverberated deeply within him. had you not been caught up in building the gradual bob of your head, he would’ve kissed you, left you with smeared lips and a tongue that ached for only him upon seeing the sinful sight of innocent eyes fixated on his own. you’re beautiful. truly, to die for.

caught all on tape to be watched over and over again.

at the bliss, yuuta’s lip parted open, alotting for a slur of groans turned whimpers to tumble past. “you- you’re already doing, so good.” he praises, the words floating on his breath. his free hand finds itself back at your face, thumbing the warmth of your hallowed cheek while he captured the moment behind his lens. once you came to a comfortable rhythm, you couldn’t stop yourself from dipping your fingers between your thighs to ease the evergrowing ache in your core. in fact, you’d been like this since the moment yuuta spoke a word to you, lightheaded and malleable — what he’s beginning to love most about you.

your digits collected slick at your entrance, the immeasurable amount of essence that you’d pool providing ample leeway for you to sink three fingers inside, pumping at the same rhythm in which you’re sucking yuuta. soft fingertips curling against your gummy walls weren’t enough, though, and when he had caught notice of your weakening resolve, his hips involuntarily bucked into your mouth.

“sorry, ‘m sorry,” he began, with a choked moan. “just- so close, so fucking close. c-can you take me in deeper?”

the hum of assurance that sounded from you sent vibrations coursing through his cock, from tip to base. had you not been preoccupied with chasing your own high, you would’ve missed the pitchy moan he let out just after. with your palm now pressed up against your clit while you worked in tandem to pleasure the nub and your greedy hole, you attempted to swallow another stubborn inch of him.

simultaneous with the bobbing of your head, he matched your pace, abdomen flexing when the white-hot pleasure became too much and he could feel it in his ears. he wanted so badly to throw his head back, completely lose himself in bliss, but he had a job to do. he wouldn’t dare let the sight of your glassy lidded eyes and glossy lips struggling to wrap themselves around the stretch of his dick go unfilmed, unseen.

as his tip continued to prod the back of your throat and your fingers aided you in relieving the discomfort from your cunt, you found yourself just dangling off the dangerous edge of your release, strokes away from making a mess — and yuuta did too.

it wasn’t long until his head started spinning, legs got weaker, and his core coiled tighter; all the signs of a mindblowing orgasm, and blew his mind, you did. “baby- y/n, if you keep doing that- i might cum.” what he was referring to was the way you fondled his balls in the warmth of your soft hands, yet another trick you had learned from porn. “i don’t wanna cum in your mouth but if you—,”

a jumbled slew of curses flowed from his lips as he did the inevitable, shot his load deep down your throat, gently thrusting his cock in shallow strokes to jettison every last remaining drop. the taste on your tongue was nothing like you’d be warned of before. yuuta wasn’t bitter, he went down easy.

hell, you’d use his cum as a condiment for desserts if you could.

in a matter of moments, your own high had washed over you like cold water over a heated body, much needed and refreshing. once he hesitantly pulled out from the heat of your mouth, cock still hard and twitching for more, he gently pushed back strands of loose hair behind your ear.

“can i see?”

you held out your cream-slickened fingers, sopping with your juices as yuuta proceeded to catch how they dripped on camera. he then took your palm, with the cadence of a knight kissing the back of a princess’s hand, and slipped the soiled digits into his mouth. his tongue lavved around your index and middle fingers while he hummed satisfactorily at your taste. “you’re just as sweet as i imagined.” he smiled, finding amusement in your post-orgasmic, dazed state.

“do you do this with a lot of other girls, yuuta?” you queried, taking the time to scan your eyes over his face. it was as if he seemed to get more attractive as your time with him went on. he tilted his head slightly, finding your question endearing. “you’re my first, actually.” yuuta responded softly, as if his normal speaking voice would be too heavy on your delicate ears.

you jumped at the chance to tease him as he did you, placing your thumb back over the slit of his hard-on and lightly rubbing; which resonated within yuuta as a tonal mewl. a little smile pulled at your lips when you got your perfect reaction. “can you be my first?”

“i’d love to be,” he took your request with unadulterated honor as if he’d been tasked by the deities above to serve you. “just- just lay back for me. i promise i’ll take good care of you.”

and that you did; conforming to his call of request with such compliance it made his heart swell. you had positioned your body to rest languidly against the seat of the sofa, shaky legs hesitant to spread fully while your hand roamed up your sternum to find solace in kneading your tits.

he couldn’t deny how beautiful you looked, laid out for him as such. how had he been so lucky to be the only one to have the opportunity to marvel at the scene? with a steady hand, he faintly trails his hand up the expanse of your inner thigh, a silent beckon for you to open your legs wider. involuntarily so, your body had accepted his presence and allowed for the spreading of your thighs.

what you’d come to notice with yuuta was that he was watchful, observant. he seemed to pick up on every detail, even the minuscule bits that were most likely to fly over anyone else’s head, had been taken into account. it’s probably why he’s immensely proficient at what he does. not once had he allowed himself to miss the labored heaving of your chest, or the sheen of sweat thinly coating your body — the twitching of your clit when he stroked featherlight touches at the nub. he couldn’t call himself a true cameraman then.

his fingers had collected remnants of your previous orgasm before they worked in tandem, both middle and ring, to prod at your sensitive hole, slowly sinking themselves in. it was almost embarrassing how quickly your greedy cunt swallowed him in, as if it’d been waiting for his touch for years now. “y-yuuta, ‘m still sensitive.” you crooned in response to his digits exploring your cavern, plush walls gripping him with such tautness that he’d found it difficult to even curl his fingers.

his own mind spun (and cock leaked) at the thought of that same warmth around his length, and when you called his name, all he could think about was how pretty you’d sound moaning it. he wouldn’t mind if you were sonorous, if the neighbors would hear, if inumaki who lived downstairs would come knocking with a mouthful of complaints, if the whole world knew his name; because in that moment, yuuta okkotsu was yours.

yuuta okkotsu was in love.

after some shallow pumping, enough to have your legs attempting to enclose around his arm, yuuta had pulled his digits out and replaced the lost sensation with the fat tip of his cock stroking your slit up and down.

“i’m gonna put it in, okay? if you want me to stop, tell me. if i'm going too fast or slow, let me know.”

he perused your face for a hint of an answer, seemingly nothing going on behind your vacant, large eyes. your initial response was curt, an ode to the simplistic nature of your mind. “mhm.”

how endearing you were to him, just a unadorned reaction weakening his being, causing his heart to figuratively crumble within its confines against his ribcage. he had searched for a heartier answer, something tangible to hold on to, because, lord knows how terrible he’d feel if he took your indication the wrong way. “can you be vocal for me, please?”

you nodded your head. “i’ll let you know, yuuta.”

with a carefulness that only came from the most benign of beings, he had sunken the first inch of himself into your awaiting heat.

he was paused when your hand dashed to his lower abdomen, futilely pressing against the skin.

“wait—” you huffed wantonly. “—‘s too big.”

his eyes wavered with concern, hidden under the veil of pure arousal. in yuuta’s case he had dreamed of a compliment as self fulfilling as yours, for his thoughts of being average were shattered upon first inch. “should i stop?”

you shook your head, reveling in the light of his attentivity towards you and your body. “no,” you moved your hand from his abdomen. “don’t stop.”

one of his arms rested beside your head, helping to prop him up over your body while he dropped his head down to watch the way your bodies connected. gradually, the sight of his length slowly sinking inside, stretching you out further and further until he was in to the hilt flooded his vision. yuuta had caught on to your labored gasps, merely growing harder from your honeyed voice like music to his ears.

he then lifted his head, strands of inky, out-of-place tresses falling over his face and partially covering the depth of lingering eyes, that lingered for a second too long, causing that shuddering sensation you had once felt when you first met him to reappear. he held his camcorder beside his face, an all too cheerful grin masked over his features. “i’m all in!”

creepy.

there was no doubt that you hadn’t felt full. he practically spilled over with how much girth he possessed and throbbed innately within your walls. the swell of your tummy from just how deep he was, was enough to tear away at his composure and drag his length back before driving his hips in at a force unrecognizable to him. the yelp you had let out from his eager thrust dwindled into a blissful moan. “sorry, so sorry.” he whispered, unable to take his eyes off the faultless assortment of breathtaking features that was your face, eyebrows creased together, parted lips and eyes squeezed closed as if you’d been focused solely on the pleasure he was giving you.

his next thrust stroked softer than its predecessor, having no remnants of eagerness but instead, the nuance of a man that’d been simply smitten.

the meticulousness of his ministrations coursed through your body wondrously, each push and pull lathered in lust, savored to be remembered for the rest of his time on earth. it was as if he’d known your body for years, knew every dip and fold, every swell and mast, aware of what exactly it took to leave your body hungry for his touches.

you’d grown comfortable in the pace at which he set, your mind hazing over each time the blunt tip grazed along your gspot. he peppered kisses along your jaw and down your sternum, the fanning of his warm breath against your chest doing the minimum in stiffening the peaks of your breasts. shootable footage forgotten, yuuta took your mound into his mouth, teeth gently rolling against your nipple which caused you to tighten around his cock in response, the sweetest mewl he’s ever heard from you tumbling from your throat.

“at least take me on a date first, yuuta..” the wittiness of your voice had earned a stifled smile from him, finding utmost admiration in the suggestion. he’ll be sure to take you up on your offer, just as you had done for him.

when you felt the familiar coil within you starting to build up once more, you dipped your hand down to rub at your clit in tandem with the increasing vigor of his strokes. the sensation was all too foreign to you, too pleasurable that you couldn’t keep your sounds at bay. “‘m so close, g-gonna cum!” you had warned, yuuta pulled away from your tit with a soft pop. he chose to rest his head at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, mindlessly chanting the words like a mantra.

“i love you, i love you,” his pace faltered, growing sloppier by the second. “love you, love you so much.”

intoxicated by your heat, your scent, just you being you, and being so perfect — yuuta was pussydrunk. incredibly so. never in his life had he ever felt as high as you made him. you were an angel, sent to him from heaven, to defile and mark.

quickly, your release surged through you in torrents of ecstasy, nothing that you’ve experienced before, coating yuuta’s cock in the glorious essence of you. “cumming!” you cry, to no avail particularly since yuuta wasn’t wholeheartedly aware of the situation at hand. his mind was clouded with you, just as you were full of him, wincing in the aftershocks of your fervent orgasm and convulsing around his length with need.

it wasn’t long before his own ununified thrusts came to a sudden close, signifying the warm spurts of cum painting your insides, filling you entirely to the brim and leaking down your ass from riding out his high.

“god, i love you.” he whined, pressing faint kisses to your neck, unable to peel himself away from your fervid body. coming to your senses, his words finally resonated for you. “we only just met.”

he pulled himself up, opting to look down at your flushed face with a vague hint of confusion on his face as he tilted his head. “have we?”

“we have.” you nodded.

to yuuta, he’s known you his whole life. you were the light of his existence, the fire in his heart. had he managed to confuse you with someone else? surely, that wasn’t the case.

once he pulled out of you, he made sure to capture the moment that you leaked his seed on film, but in that time, borrowed jealousy had filled his soul. he couldn’t share the tape as he had planned, no one else deserved to see you in the same way he did. no one.

he tucked himself back into his pants, leaving you bare and oozing for just one second to fetch a warm wet rag to clean you up with. when he came back, you noticed just how chipper he’d gotten, if that were even possible. “you were amazing,” he smiled, gently wiping your folds pristine. “i’m so grateful you came to me.” the smile you returned matched his own, “thank you, you were- really good too.”

he perked up, eyes moving from between your thighs to your face. “really?” and when you nodded to him, you could see the apparent relief flow within his being. “you know,” he started. “i’m very interested in you.”

you tilt your head, jutting your lips in a cute pout. “interested, how?”

the camcorder that now resided on his coffee table, unpresumebly documenting the scene on display was picked up by yuuta, and turned off. he grinned softly, eyes shutting from his ear to ear smile.

“may i take you on a date?”

[leeloooonfire]

based on this post about Steve's internalized bi-phobia:

Steve has known for years.

And how could he not when Tommy's freckles come back tenfold each spring like a flower peaking it's head through the last layer of snow? Or when Matthew Carver's hair have a reddish brown tone that turns blond after they spent the last days before summer break practising outside and remind Steve of liquid gold? Or when he watches Star Wars and Harrison Ford, rugged and witty, comes into view and twists his stomach in knots? How could he not know?!

Steve knows he finds guys as attractive as girls, known for many, many years. But.

But he can't. Not when Tommy sneers at that boy in their literature class who likes flamboyant clothes and wants to be an actor on Broadway. Not when the people they meet in Indi who are like Robin and Eddie 'fully queer' and talk about people like Steve as if they're traitors and scams. Not when he reads the newspaper and is assaulted by Reagan and his folk preaching about the 'fag pandemic' or how his father nods in approval and mutters 'another sinner gone for good' when the news play on TV and they occasionally mention the crisis that kills people like Robin and Eddie and him.

Like him....

It doesn't matter how much he loves sleeping with his nose pressed against Eddie's collarbone or that he thinks he'd like to kiss Eddie and hold his hands and wake up beside him until they're old and wrinkly and complain about bad knees.

He is, but he cannot be a queer, half a fairy '50% like me, 50% like Eddie' as Robin jokes.

He will not be a bisexual, he can keep it inside, keep it hidden, buried deep inside him no matter how much it pains him. He can be the straight friend who goes to pride and bakes rainbow cakes and marries a woman even though his heart screams in an ear ringing cacophony, 'Eddie, Eddie Eddie Eddie!'

This is how his 20s go: loud and hurting and yearning and hiding and more noticeably being disgusted and ashamed of himself for simply being able to love men the way he can love women.

He's 29 when his wife, Becky, leaves him. It's not just Eddie and this shameful secret that weights heavy on their relationship, but the scars and all the other secrets he is unable to explain to her that drive Becky finally away - back to Boston. She leaves him alone in that tiny house they bought three years ago with their Saint Bernard puppy they lovingly named Bernadette.

He's 30 when he goes to a coffee meeting of the bisexual group meeting in Chicago, nearly turning the car multiple times, hands and knees sweaty with fear that they won't want him there. They do want him there, welcome him with open arms, and talk about things Steve knows all too well: 'When I fell in love with the first girl, I ran. I like men just fine, so I hid my crush. It's just easier, when your parents hate gays, when the world is shaming our community, when we're dying.' He finds a second home there, and learns - learns about queerness and bisexuality, about trans and gender non conforming people and physical attraction versus emotional attraction. He learns about his past and present and about his future, about their history and where they want to go, how they want to mold their world to fit people like them into it without the pain and the hiding.

Steve is 33 when he finally comes out to everyone dear to him. To the kids who aren't kids anymore and to Joyce and Hopper, and then his parents. this does not go well, but Steve doesn't want, doesn't need their validation anymore. He has his family, his friends, his support system who love him not regardless of his sexuality but because of it, love him because it's part of him. He comes out to Becky, too and that goes much better. they want to be friends, in the future. She's also met Gary who works the the NY Times and wants her to follow him into the big city. So Steve is looking forward how that goes, their tentative friendship.

He is 34 when Eddie comes back from his latest world tour and wants to take a break to rekindle with his uncle, to write new songs, to take a breather. It's only natural that Eddie moves into Steve's guest room and takes over his space on the couch where he cuddles Bernadette while Steve is in the kitchen and makes them grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner.

Its even more natural when their feet meet while watching a movie and they lean into each other in the kitchen, dawn barely there, while they wait for the coffee maker to finish.

Steve's 35 when Eddie finally kisses him and he kisses back. No hurt, no shame, no guilt gnawing on him, Steve finally allows himself to be with the person he truly wants - regardless of their gender.

[incognit0slut]

All I Need

Spencer realizes how much he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. What better time is there to propose if not in the middle of making love? Based on:

Warnings: 18+ mature content but nothing too explicit, this is just sweet love making

words: 2077

A/n: I’m supposed to finish my last kinktober and update my series, but both are very heavy and I needed something sweet to defrost my writer's block. I hope you don’t mind me squeezing something else until I finish my other WIPs🥲

“…every time I look into your eyes I see it, you’re all I need…”

SPENCER KNEW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU. There wasn't a single thing he wasn't familiar with—from every mole, every scar, to every stretch mark. Any imperfection you considered of yourself he found to be perfect.

He was well aware of the small scar on your hip bone. Or the mole resting at the back of your thigh. Or the way you disliked caffeine, because every time you drank it, it increased your heart rate drastically. Which was why you always judged him every time he had a cup of coffee in his hand, especially with the amount of sugar he never seemed to stop adding.

"That is definitely not healthy," you would always say, to which he simply responded with a small peck on your lips. It was his way to shut you up without saying anything.

He also knew how soft you actually were underneath that hard exterior you always carried. You were an enigma the first time you joined the team, but Spencer always had a soft spot for mystery, and solving you became his mission even when he wasn't the best at maintaining conversations. He remembered making a fool of himself when he talked to you, stuttering about one of the random facts engraved in his brain.

But you still listened to him, and for once in his life, he finally found someone who didn't mind hearing him talk. It was nice to have somebody who found his knowledge interesting, and with that thought in mind, it didn't take long for him to take an interest in you.

Not that he wasn't interested at first, because honestly, you were a splendid sight when you first walked through the door. It was more so an interest that was considered surpassing a simple friendship. An interest that had him push his confidence into asking you out.

Spencer never pegged himself as someone who would be content having a significant other in his daily routine—his past relationships never seemed to work out, after all—but the more time he spent with you, the more he realized he was actually in pure bliss. It seemed as if you had cast a spell, drawing him deeper into your presence, a magnetic force of affection that went beyond the superficial. Every smile, every touch, seemed to emanate a radiant heat, and he couldn't help but be entranced by the sheer magnitude of your warmth.

Especially at this moment, staring into your eyes as they slowly fluttered open from a long night of slumber, he found himself leaning forward. You were so warm, so inviting. The soft light coming from the curtains cast a shadow over your curves and he couldn't help himself from trailing down your body.

You were fully awake now as he pressed his lips on every part of your skin. The slight movement of your arms wrapping around his neck had him grunting, and somehow he was suddenly positioned between your legs, pressing his hot length onto your wet folds, wanting nothing else but to push himself deep into your warmth.

As he watched you beneath him, eyes half closed, mouth open in anticipation, he couldn't help but mutter his next words because you looked breathtakingly beautiful. Heavenly gorgeous covered in a sheen of sweat, so damn pretty with eyes full of desire. You looked like a siren, an angel, and a lustful woman all rolled into one.

Everything about you was so divine, and the desire to consume every part of your existence became an insatiable hunger. It was a need, a yearning that made the idea of spending a lifetime without you seem unfathomable as if oxygen slowly drained from his world, leaving him breathless. 

The words bubbled up from the depths of his heart, and before he could second-guess himself, he blurted out, "Marry me." 

Your eyes snapped open as he finally sank his hips into you, and before you could even respond, before you could even register his words, his rough thrust stole the breath from your lungs. Rational thoughts shattered as he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that was slightly painful yet completely pleasurable.

He slowly pulled out, then pushed back in, your back arching, legs wrapping around his waist. "Spence," you moaned as he started a steady pace, trying to gain your focus but failing miserably. You couldn't think of anything else except the sensation between your legs. "Oh, God."

Languid and smooth, his hips continued to roll into you. "This feels good, doesn't it?"

The feel of his cock sinking in and out of you had your head falling back against the mattress. Your fingernails tightened upon his back, and he drove you gently into the bed with low grunts. His voice was rough, broken by focused breaths. "We could do this every morning."

A whine broke out of you.

"I'd wake up first," he told you. "I'd make you breakfast in bed..." He slipped out again before thrusting into you slowly, dragging his cock along your inner walls that had you mewling. "...right after I wake you with my tongue between your thighs."

You let out another moan. He drank in the sound with a smile before lowering his mouth to the base of your neck. Heated kisses trailed along your skin as his fingers trailed down the outline of your body before they stopped at the warmth between your legs.

Your mouth was wide open against his shoulder, eyes watering with the force of pleasure from having his cock smacking through your wetness, his body forcefully shoving your knees apart. You felt his fingers trailing your clit in slow circles and you arched your back, each tender brush tightened that coil of heat simmering in the pit of your stomach. The simulation drove you further into a haze of pleasure that a soft yes finally escaped your lips without you realizing it.

The barely whispered word didn't go unnoticed by him.

"Yes to this," he wondered as prompted his weight on his other hand. "Or to my proposal?"

You glanced up at him, your face a mixture of pleasure and alarm as you gave him a look. "You're crazy."

He watched you closely, mesmerized by the way your hips were bucking every time his cock hit that soft spot inside you while his fingers continued their tease. "Maybe." He leaned down and softly bit your shoulder. "But I am crazy in love with you."

When you didn't respond, he slowly pulled away and fixed his gaze on you. Your reaction, or lack thereof, spoke volumes, and as his eyes met yours, he found himself captivated by the reflective pools of emotion within. There was a hint of fear and concern, shadows that danced with the flicker of uncertainty. Yet, beneath those layers, he could see the distinct longing in your eyes. It was hard not to distinguish it as it matched the same look in his. Your stare was warm and domineering.

They were so full of love.

And that moment, Spencer realized, that was what you were to him—love. You were the greatest passion he had ever known.

You felt completely in the moment with him as you let your gaze scan over his features. His eyes appeared darker in this light of the room, but you could still see the soft lightness of them. Then, you leaned up, noses brushing gently against each other before you pressed your lips onto his. His body moved again in response, hips bucking into you and you felt him pulsing inside your core as his mouth worked harmoniously along yours.

"Marry." Thrust. "Me." Thrust.

You whimpered. Everything was too much. The intensity of the pleasure was almost intoxicating, a heady concoction that wrapped around you, rendering you momentarily breathless.

"Having you for the rest of my life is a privilege." He continued, grunting as you clenched around him. He lost himself with one final, jagged plea. "Marry me and make me the happiest man alive."

His words, touch, and the stroke of him inside you—it all blurred together. It pushed you so wildly that the coil in your stomach twisted sharply through along your body. He lunged down to kiss you again, tongue pushing deep as he stole your moan before it could break into the air. He tugged you into him at the same time that you submitted to his pull.

There were times when you would appreciate this. The contact, the intimacy, the warmth of your boyfriend connected with you. Right now though, you needed release. So you buried your hand in his curls, all messy and askew.

"Spencer," you breathed out against his lips. Each of his thrusts fed the growing flame in your body as your body turned pliant for him. “Oh god, yes,” you cried, head thrashing side to side as your eyes rolled back, overwhelmed by pleasure.

He peppered kisses over your neck, your jaw, your temple, desperate to be even closer to you, to melt into you. "Yes to what?"

Your senses were heightened, every touch and every breath seemed magnified in the intensity of the moment. Your body shuddered with every vicious thrust.

"Yes, yes, yes." A desperate, needy little whine slipped past your lips and you opened your eyes wide to give him a pleading look. "Spencer, please, please."

You were panting, your breath hot and your skin even hotter, and you could barely hear him when he spoke, "Yes to what, Angel?"

Angel. The syllables carried a warmth that resonated deep within your heart. Sometimes you were his Angel. Sometimes you were his Sweetheart. While you cherished the way he expressed his affection, a yearning for more had taken root.

Marry me.

You could be more than his angel. You could be his wife. But it wasn't just about the affectionate words anymore; it was about a promise, a shared future, and you realized as he hovered above you, all sweaty and desperate, that you wanted to feel this bliss every day. How could you not when he fits so perfectly inside you that you could swear he was made for you?

And then you felt it, his hand trailing down your arm before it stopped right along your fingers, intertwining them with his. Your hand clutched onto his as his thrust sped up a fraction—but it was still deep and lazy, enough to make you squirm. His cock was achingly hard inside you and when you clenched down on him, you adored the twitch and resounding moan it drew out of him.

You wanted this for your life. You wanted him every day. You wanted to wake up each morning in his arms, him whispering sweet nothings as he buried himself inside you.

You wanted him so much you would be a fool not to accept his proposal.

"Yes," you breathed out. "I'll marry you."

He grunted against your lips. "Say that again."

His thrusts were now fast and ruthless, his groans filling the room while the sound of skin slapping together echoed with it. Every time you could feel him deep inside you, it brought you closer to that familiar coil in your stomach. It was a heady sensation, an intoxicating blend of desire that quickened your pulse and set your senses ablaze.

"I—shit," you cried out, legs shaking at the pleasure traveling along your body you were starting to wail desperately for your release. "Fuck, baby, I'll marry you."

A sound of satisfaction erupted from him as he kissed you with every ounce of power he had. He kissed you as he had never kissed anyone before. He kissed you deeply, possessively even, and it was messy and rough and probably looked horrific from different angles, but it felt perfect.

You felt perfect. Your lips. Your curves. Your scent. It was as if you were made especially for him. He was fully consumed with you, consumed by you, and yet he couldn't get enough. Though you were beneath him, he was at your mercy, and the fact that you could still have such control over him made his stomach twist even more.

He was so in love with you. He was so sure of it, so sure of this abundance of passion, for Spencer Reid could sometimes be dense when it came to sudden bursts of emotions, but he was not stupid. He wasn't oblivious, nor was he lacking in perception. It wasn't about intelligence or lack thereof, it was simply about the purity of his emotion. 

And he was deeply, unequivocally in love.

.

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[jinxsequin]

COSMIC ✧˖*°࿐

| au!powder x fem!reader

| wc: 6.4k

| summary: being in love with your best friend becomes complicated

| content/warnings: men dni, no mention of y/n, best friends to lovers, bestfriend!ekko, set in ep 7 au except vi and cait are alive and thriving (pretend they all survived that explosion), basically everyone is alive and well apart from powder&vi's parents LMAO, kind of wrote this as a cope, possibly ooc powder (and cait), r and powder are both oblivious, mentions of anxiety and poor mental health, alcohol mentioned briefly, slightly angsty, fluff, kissing/making out, slightly suggestive, lazy writing

After a long day at the academy, you wanted to do absolutely nothing but crawl into bed and avoid any social interaction until you’re inevitably forced to face reality again. That option however, was no longer available since you’d done that enough times the past few weeks for the label of social recluse to become a little too fitting. So here you found yourself, at The Last Drop, doing the second best thing, people-watching whilst Powder worked behind the bar. 

Vi and Cait were currently engrossed in what looked to be the most engaging, riveting conversation across the bar, Vi’s arm slung around Cait’s shoulder, carding the midnight blue strands through her fingers periodically, Cait’s hand settled on Vi’s thigh in return. But to the carefully trained eye of a self-proclaimed people-watcher (in the least creepy way possible), and in general how accustomed you’ve become to Cait and Vi, you know they were having the most casual exchange about the silliest thing ever, they’re just so wrapped up in their own bubble, seriously, if it was possible you’d actually believe you could physically see the hearts floating around them - they were completely and entirely enamoured with each other. But it was the look in their eyes that struck you unexpectedly with a sickening sense of yearning. It filled you with inexplicable joy to see someone you’d grown up alongside, with an unspeakably painful past and admittedly not-so-easy upbringing, get to be happy and doted on. If anyone deserved that it was Vi and her huge heart, after putting everyone before herself her entire adolescence. And Caitlyn, though she and Powder may not have got along like a house on fire in the beginning, had won over everyone’s hearts eventually. Her heart was always in the right place, and she was constantly surrounded by such a warm energy, it was impossible to not be open and comfortable around her. Involuntarily, every time you thought about it you found yourself aching for a connection like theirs. Sure, you were a tiny bit envious, but it gave you that glimmer of hope. With who? Well. 

A damp cloth thrown at your shoulder pulled you out of your whirlwind. 

“Hey toots, still here?” Powder said, settling at your side. 

Powder. When your parents’ lives were lost in the war, Benzo had kindly taken you under his wing when you had no family to turn to. Ekko had quickly befriended you, and the two of you remained close in the present. Of course, as Ekko often hung around Vi, Claggor, Mylo and Powder, they were all introduced to you and a bond had been inevitably struck. From an early age you and Powder had clicked, the pair of you naive and bright-eyed, brimming with excitement and potential. Your shared interests and passions had led you both to study at the academy, where you remained glued to each other's sides, if there was one of you around, anyone who knew the two of you, was well aware that the other would be lingering close by. 

So what was different? As of late, being in her proximity had begun to make an uncomfortable feeling twist around your spine and find its home in you. You had spent countless restless nights, racking your brain of the timeline of events that could have possibly led up to this. Maybe it was the air, the weather, the holiday spirit? It was to no avail, however, as you simply couldn't pinpoint when or where this feeling had crept in. It wasn’t uncomfortable in the way that you didn’t want to be around Powder, no, rather, it was the opposite. You couldn’t stay away. And your dynamic didn’t help, you spent nearly every waking moment together, and even then often slept in her presence too. But it terrified you. The two of you, in many of your plentiful late night oil burning sessions, had spoken in depth of the fear of change in many contexts. You’d never explicitly talked about it in regards to your friendship, but that went without saying. Change couldn’t happen. You didn’t want it to either, right? You repeated the mantra to lull yourself to sleep on such harrowing nights. It won’t happen. You were at a loss, but you knew you wouldn't give up what you had for the world, so it was buried as well as you could.

“Umm, space girl, I’m pretty sure I’m not talking to myself over here,” Powder snarked, pulling you once again from your spiralling, a teasing grin on her face.

“Huh?” You replied, still dazed, pulling the cloth off and playing with it absentmindedly in your hands before finally meeting her eyes. “I mean yeah, I was just waiting here till you got off.”

Your gaze impulsively drifted back to the couple again, their foreheads pressed together now as tipsy giggles were shared between the two. 

“Well good news, sugar, Vander let me off early,” she returned in a sing-song tone, shooting you a strange look at your disorientated behaviour before following your line of vision and landing on the pair. She scrunched her nose slightly in mock disgust before letting out a soft sigh. 

“Positively sickening, aren’t they.”

“Right. I don’t know how many me and who’s I have left in me anymore,” you shared, before shaking your head slightly as if to finally pull yourself away. 

Powder’s gaze turned back to you at that, a few seconds of silence as your words settled. An unfathomable expression crossed her face, before a small smile settled on her lips. 

“Wanna get out of here?” she said, your attention fully returned to her as she held out her arm. 

“Lead the way, captain,” you affirmed, linking your arm with her inviting one, leaning into her warmth as her smile widened, knowing another quiet night unwinding in her hideout is just what the both of you needed.  

Idle chatter over the hum of the night occupied your minds and tongues until you reached Powder’s beloved workshop, whereby you both threw down your belongings and settled on the couch to watch the lights wrapping the lanes in that soft, familiar golden glow. 

“I would so not!” Powder shrieked indignantly, watching as you double over in laughter. 

“You would! I see it now, you in a fancy white lab coat somewhere topside, tinkering away-”, you added, giggling at the ridiculous image in your head of future mad scientist Powder. 

“Not!” she interrupted, entirely opposed to your idea. 

“Would! I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if you discovered something like magic, somehow,” you said, though there’s a serious element to your teasing. She’s a genius, there’s no doubt in your mind that she could if she put her mind to it.

“Not gonna happen,” she replied, rolling her eyes though a faint blush at your incessant teasing formed across her cheeks. 

“Maybe in another universe, then.”

“Hm,” she tilted her head, and turned back to you, shoulder brushing yours. “Where are you in all this then?”

“Hmmmm,” you put your finger to your chin in mock wonder, “you probably cracked some code and figured out how to fuse us together so we actually never separate,” you joke. 

Powder looked at you for a moment before finally cracking, the sweet sound of her unfiltered laughter hitting your ears and filling your heart with its warmth. 

“Okay, that sounds more like me now,” she replied once the laughter subsided, head finding a place on your shoulder. That squeamish feeling resurfaced for a moment at the tenderness of her contact, but you brushed it off as quickly as it arrived, leaning in to her.

“Told ya.”

“Maybe, but…,” she unexpectedly spoke up again. Her blue eyes find yours as you silently encourage her to expand on her thought. “Sure, Zaun isn’t perfect,” she carried on quietly, slightly leaning up to rest her chin on your shoulder. You shivered slightly. “And yeah, maybe I do want to do things but I’d do them for the sake of this place, to improve the quality of life here. I’m happy here. With everyone. With you. I’d want to do it with you,” she finished, eyes searching yours, as if awaiting your reaction. Your heart skipped several beats, you swore, how would you live if she continued to throw out such heartfelt statements in a casual conversation?

“Hell yeah, you would,” you finally managed to get out, eyes still on her face, “and I’d be right there throughout, like your little cheerleader.”

The intensity of the moment dissipates with Powder’s snort at your reply . “Always the sap, toots,” she opts for, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to bring you closer as the drowsiness begins to fall over the two of you.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

It was a few weeks later when you, Powder and Ekko found yourselves poring over blueprints for a project in the early hours of the night. The Last Drop had closed early, courtesy of it being a weekday and the cold weather. The three of you were the only people sat at a table inside, Vander having trusted Powder to lock up responsibly.

Ekko let out a loud sigh as he leaned back in his chair. “I wonder when this’ll finally end.”

You hummed in agreement, the hours spent grinding away wearing away at your patience. “The Innovator’s Competition is less than a month away, we’ll have to have it done before then. I can’t wait though.” You mimicked Ekko, slouching back in your chair. 

“It can’t just be a throwaway project. It has to be perfect,” Powder ran her hands through her hair frustratedly, the half-up-and-down-do hanging on for life. You and Ekko groaned in sync at that, you’d been at it for hours and though you shared the same perfectionist ideas about the project, she’d been particularly antsy today. 

“Look, maybe we should wrap it up for today. Revisit it tomorrow with a fresher mind,” you offered, stretching out your legs. 

Powder nodded in relent. Ekko leaned up, instantly beginning to pack away his things. “Yeah, you can say that again,” he chuckled. “I’m gonna head home now. You coming with?” he looked to you for your response, though the teasing smile on his face told you he was already aware of your answer. 

“No,” you replied, observing Powder's worn-out figure, “I think I’m gonna hang around for a bit. I’ll catch you later though, Ekko.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder, turning to you both as he began to walk out. “Night then, don’t stay up firing your brain cells for too long!” 

You and Powder both snickered at that, waving him off. A comfortable silence blanketed the pair of you as you began packing away the day’s work, hands brushing ever so often. Powder stood up eventually, brushing herself off and walked up to the window overlooking the streets of Zaun.

“Oh my god!” She suddenly whispered excitedly, turning her head to you with a  delighted grin. Your heart twisted in your chest. “C’mere, look!”

You pushed yourself off the chair at her command, quickly approaching where she stood at the long window. Sure enough, a dusting of snow had crowned the lanes of the city, countless snowflakes continuing to make their home on the surroundings that were fortunate enough to be above ground and not sunken under. Powder’s eyes remained fixated on the side of your face as you watched, fascinated.

“Snow,” you breathed out, “it’s beautiful.” Snow was rare in Zaun, the last time you remembered seeing it vaguely was an impromptu visit to Piltoever when you were much younger, so it was an entirely exciting experience witnessing it now.

��Right,” she mumbled in reply, her stare returning to the landscape. 

“We absolutely have to go out!” You said, enlivened once again by the weather, running to grab something warm enough to step out in. Powder turned around, watching your rapid movement. 

“What, right now??” she replied sceptically, though her actions betrayed her as she copied you, picking up the coat she’d shed earlier.

“Umm, yes. You’re not arguing with me on this,” you shot back adamantly, already wrapping a scarf around your exposed neck and halfway out. Powder rolled her eyes in response, despite the fond smile adorning her lips. 

Regret. That’s what you were beginning to feel, crouching behind the fence of a small plot of land, hiding from Powder’s impromptu snowball attack. All thoughts of the troubles of your project entirely forgotten as she threw herself into a stubborn fight. You were out of breath by the time you had even managed to lob one back at her. There was no way this was fair game, you thought to yourself as you squeezed your eyes shut in anticipation. A rustle nearby broke you out of your thoughts, and a lump of snow hitting your arm had you fleeing from your place of refuge, jumping over the fence and onto the snow-covered land.

“There’s no running from me, sucker!” Powder’s cackle sounded through the night, footsteps close behind you as you narrowly dodged another hit. 

“Give me a chance at least!” You yelled back, refusing to glance behind. You had almost outrun her when the inevitable happened, and you landed on the blanketed ground with a thud. Unfortunately for you, Powder had been much closer behind you than you had anticipated, so when you were knocked down, she’d crash landed on top, her legs entrapping your body. 

“Ughhh…” she sounded out after as she leaned up a little on her elbows. She brushed the overgrown bangs out of her face, hair completely wild now. Her eyes scrutinised your face, assessing for any damage. “You good?” she asked tentatively, worry flickering over her face. 

All you could do was nod in response. Any words that you had ready at your disposal had all vanished at the unexpected proximity, and though at the initial impact your bones had been chilled, you now felt an overwhelming burning sensation everywhere. Her hand slowly reached out towards your cheek, brushing away the snowflakes that had settled there. Okay, now your heart was actually going to be catapulted out of your chest with its vicious thumping. Her gaze remained centred on your face, before she leaned in closer. 

“Gotcha,” she murmured, watching your reddening face as she broke into laughter, finally relenting and sitting up. Despite your quiet sigh of relief, your body instantly craved the contact lost. You shook your head before sitting up a little, watching as she occupied herself with making a snow angel besides you.

“Cheater,” you finally grumbled out, though your words had no bite. 

“Won fair and square toots, accept it or not!” Powder quickly retorted, offering you her hand as a grip as she towered above you now, a goofy grin on her face at her so-called victory. 

Up in her hideout, you busied yourself setting up a cover and a blanket on the floor of Powder’s makeshift bedroom whilst she finished up changing in her closet. You were half way through tucking yourself in when Powder re-entered, eyes searching for you in confusion before landing on your figure on the floor. 

She threw herself on the bed before throwing you a puzzled look. “Why are you on the floor?”

“Just…thought I’d be better off here tonight,” you replied, looking up at her and trying your best to keep a casual tone. 

“Okay,” her eyebrows furrowed in further doubt, “but why?”

At the beginning of your friendship, when you’d grown comfortable enough to be able to stay over, you’d began by setting out blankets and pillows on the floor whilst she slept on the bed, though she’d offered it to you and was turned down countlessly. This routine had carried on for only a short while though, because with how drawn to each other you were you’d quickly been able to feel safe enough to sleep in the same bed. As of recent though, that godforsaken feeling you were hoping would fade away on its own had only grown stronger, as if it was feeding off any interaction and proximity you had with Powder. Suffice to say, it had become the subject of many overthinking sessions spent in your own bed, tossing and turning tirelessly. It would of course be entirely amplified lying besides her, but you’d sucked it up and taken it for a spell. Tonight, however, after the earlier event you had barely recovered from - seriously, you think your heart needs to be professionally checked - you took it upon yourself to take to the floor, too afraid of the intensity of the alternative.

At your unintentional silence in response to her question, Powder frowned, turning away and lying down. “Okay, if you want your space, I get it. G’night,” she said softly, facing away from you.

You laid down, stomach twisting at the thought of her thinking you were upset at her, knowing that was often the conclusion she jumped to when you were slightly distant or off with her. You wanted to reach out, comfort her, assure her she had done nothing wrong, but a meek goodnight was all you could offer before you similarly turned away and closed your eyes. 

You couldn’t tell how many hours had passed, or if any had passed at all but your unease was relentless, you’d almost nodded off about ten times already before your body would pull you out of almost-slumber and leave you awake with your troubling thoughts again. A combination of guilt and the freezing cold seeping into every bone in your body was going to keep you up all night, you acknowledged as you resigned to your fate, turning to lay flat on your back. 

A shifting in the sheet from the bed above interrupted the silence, Powder’s similarly sleep deprived figure peered down at you, a disgruntled expression on her face.

“Okay,” she rasped, “this is ridiculous. Come here.” She held out the blanket, inviting you in. 

Fuck it, there wasn’t a second of hesitation in the way you got up and crawled in, instantly calmed by the warmth her body offered. Who were you to say no to that? All feelings of discomfort and fear and anything in between melted away under her touch. Drowsiness finally draped over the two of you, her arm coming to rest over your waist and her head nestled in the crook between your neck and shoulder, blue locks tickling your cheek.

“Silly,” she mumbled into your neck, the last words that were spoken before sleep fell over you both. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

“Well, you look rough,” are the first kind words that tumble out of Ekko the next morning when you reluctantly enter Benzo’s workshop for your shared shift. 

“Wow thank you, buster, how kind,” you grumbled, coming behind the counter to take a seat next to Ekko. Working at Benzo’s wasn’t terrible, and even though it was only the three of you usually running the ship, it was manageable. Besides, haggling with clueless customers alongside Ekko usually provided good entertainment. Just not this morning, not after the tumultuous storm brewing in your head. 

The gentle smell of lavender hit you, before Ekko handed over a warm cup of herbal tea. You accept it gratefully, raising it to your lips and facing the door, and whatever else the day may bring. 

“Are you seriously not going to tell me what’s up?” Ekko sighed out exasperatedly.

“Nothing, dude, seriously,” you turned back to him, nervous at how easily he can always read you. “Just got a lot on my mind right now.”

“A problem shared is a problem halved is a problem solved, as the Professor puts it,” he quipped back playfully, prodding your forearm. 

“There’s no way you’re quoting the Professor to me right now,” you deadpanned, shooting him a look. 

“What I mean to say is, it’ll probably help if you talk it out, ” Ekko carried on, “besides I always tell you shit! This is only fair.”

You rolled your eyes lightheartedly, before relenting. “Fine, it’s just Pow-” Your sentence is interrupted with Ekko’s stifled laugh.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Okay, what the fuck is that about?”

“Nothing!” he straightened his expression quickly, prompting you to carry on. 

You shot him a final warning look before hesitantly carrying on. Fuck it, you’re this far in now, might as well spill. “I don’t know. I can barely keep my composure around Powder anymore. I can’t figure out what’s shifted.”

Ekko smiled in understanding before patting your shoulder. “That, my friend, is what happens when you hold it in for too long.” 

“What?!!”

“What!” he held his free hand up in mock surrender, “I’m just saying, it’s so obvious to anyone in the vicinity of you both that there’s something there. Seriously, a charge that could rival the strongest of currents,” he shook his head, a playful grin on his face he didn't hold back.

“It’s not like that for her. Well at least, I don’t think so,” you groaned, head in your hands. “Anytime I think a move might be made, it’s snatched away. But at the same time every thing we do is the same as it’s always been, just…intensified.”

“Well, I can’t speak for her,” Ekko replied contemplatively, “but what I do know is you just need to have an honest conversation about how you feel, and where you stand.” 

“When did you become so wise?” you muttered, looking up at him full of genuine gratefulness.  

“When did you both become so blindly oblivious?” he shot back boldly, returning your grin. Your comeback was stifled by the entrance of your first customer of the day, the familiar bell of the door sounding through the shop as they made their way to the counter. 

“And for the record, can I just say I fucking knew it,” Ekko enthused under his breath as you got up to greet the customer. 

“Ekko!”

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

It was later that day when you decided to suck it up and take Ekko’s advice. How bad could it really go, the conversation was going to be inevitable at some point if you wanted to retain your sanity. Trekking through the light snow to The Last Drop, where you knew Powder would be working tonight didn’t take too long, but long enough for all the anxious thoughts to resurface. Your head was already boiling by the time you took a seat at the bustling bar.  

Vander looked up at the sound of you pushing the stool in. “Hi kid,” he chuckled fondly at your tired wave as a form of greeting. He turned away for a second, gesturing to Powder at the other end of the bar counter of your arrival.

“Oh hey, pretty lady, come here often?” Powder teased mock-seductively the moment her eyes landed on your tense figure, walking to stand across from you. You tried your best to act normal, but the way your heart was doing flips in your chest as she poured a fruity drink and pushed it towards you was becoming extremely hard to ignore.

“Hey Pow,” you replied softly, taking the drink gratefully. She shot Vander a look, wordlessly asking for a break so she could be closer. Vander obliged without a second of hesitation with a wave of his hand, as Powder made her way to the front of the bar, taking a seat next to you. 

“I’m going to need you to do that haircut soon, trinket,” she huffed, blowing away the long, overgrown bangs that refused to be pinned into the two space buns she currently had hair pulled into. Powder had swore she would never go to Zaun’s infamous barber again, after her disastrous last visit that ended with extremely choppy bangs. You still thought they were adorable, and with her face she could absolutely pull it off. But that was you, and you were perhaps a little biased. Since then, she’d only entrusted you with scissors near her hair, and had mentioned another haircut briefly earlier this morning when you’d awoken in her room. 

“Okay, I’ll come over and do it soon,” you returned, never one to turn down her requests. The piece of hair flew down again, and this time your hand automatically reached out to tuck it behind her ear. The boldness of your action didn’t register until you accidentally brushed her cheek, which was blazing under her fiery blush. Fuck. You couldn’t do it, you thought, as all plans of health communication flew out the window. You’d resign yourself to playing this game for the rest of your life if you had to, but you were convinced you’d never have the courage to even think about being more with her, hurt you as it might. You quickly dropped your hand as fast as it had reached towards her, oblivious to the way Powder chased your touch. 

“Oh! Almost forgot!” Powder perked up, the tension of the moment snapping with her exclamation. “Here,” she opened up your palm, pushing something miniscule ino it. 

You furrowed your eyebrows, glancing at her in confusion. She didn’t speak, just nodded at you as if to encourage you to look. You opened your palm, and there sat a snow globe. It was obviously handmade, her love and care clearly poured into it. You shook it, watching as the blizzard inside swirled around the landscape before settling, two miniscule figures of the two of you in the middle. A strong sense of emotion, intensified by the months of containing it, crashed over you as you stared at it in awe, and you were dismayed to find tears prickling at your eyes so quickly. 

“I love it,” you managed to choke out, meeting Powder’s adoring grin. 

“I’m glad,” she replied genuinely, before realising you were at the verge of tears. Her hands found your shoulders, attempting to ground you. “Whoa there, trinket. It’s just a snowglobe, what’s wrong?” her eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“Feels different,” you mumbled out, free hand coming up to wipe away your vulnerability. 

Powder was stumped at that, worried gaze still roaming over your flushed face. She pulled her arms away from where they’d just been placed on your shoulders, and tentatively took your hand in hers. “It’s not,” she opted for, “nothing’s different, nothing changed okay?” 

The blood drained from your face at that, your body throwing itself into another whirlwind of emotions at the implication of her words. You knew she was just saying what she thought would be the best response to your nonsensical statement, but it didn’t hurt any less. 

“I know,” you eventually replied quietly, gingerly squeezing her hand instead of acknowledging the anxious frown that had settled over her face. 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

Since that night, you hadn’t seen Powder for the majority of the next three days, and when you had hung out between that time, it was to work on the upcoming project as a trio. This had already slightly confused Powder, though it might have been a normal amount of time to have hung out, it was definitely out of the usual for you two, who had often been told by Vander, Silco and others alike, that you were actually joined at the hip. But what had actually thrown Powder into bewilderment was how you had rushed off home after insisting you had a lot of work to do, instead of staying past hours together as was so often your routine. She was struck between feeling distraught at the idea she had upset you somehow, and guilty at letting her mind run wild when it could be down to wanting your personal space. Come to think of it, you had been acting weird for a while now.

In an attempt to quieten the voices and to gain some peace of mind, Powder found herself in a place she would not often come alone. Piltover. She slipped the spare key she had been entrusted with into the keyhole of her sister and her sister’s girlfriend’s shared house, making her way over to the kitchen table. She laid her head on the surface, welcoming the cooling feeling. No one seemed to be home, which Powder was grateful for, as she didn’t think she’d have a good excuse as to why she’d dropped by so suddenly and unannounced. 

“Hello??” A voice sounded through the silence of the kitchen, it seemed her wish was not granted. 

Powder reluctantly raised her head and propped up her elbows, resting her face on her hands in an attempt to look as nonchalant as possible. 

“Powder?” Caitlyn asked incredulously, as if her eyes were deceiving her, though she quickly crossed the room to sit across from her, a twinkle in her eye. 

“The one and only,” Powder answered with a toothy grin despite herself.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Caitlyn quipped, reaching out for the orange juice carton and two cups. 

Powder’s eyes flicked around the room anxiously at that, biting at her lower lip. She hadn’t anticipated answering to anybody right now, but maybe it was a blessing in disguise with the heavy thoughts weighing down on her. Maybe she would regret opening up so easily, kick herself later, but as Caitlyn offered her a glass, there looked to be no better option than to share what had been preying on her mind. 

“...And she’s been off with me since! I don’t know what I can do to make things right if I don’t know what I did wrong…” Powder finished her run-through of troubling events, her hands thrown up in the air to punctuate her sentence. 

“Sweetheart, you need to know there’s nothing you’ve done wrong. And she doesn’t think that either,” Caitlyn replied thoughtfully, searching for her next words as Powder watched in anticipation, “all this just seems like…some miscommunication. To me that night at the bar was her probably trying to tell you she likes you, in all honesty.”

The drink Powder had taken a sip of constricted her lungs hearing Caitlyn’s response, saving herself at the last second with choked out coughs. Caitlyn flashed her a look of wild concern as Powder gathered herself together. 

“What?” she asked, her voice hoarse. 

Caitlyn broke into a giggle at her shock at something that she thought was entirely obvious, even before this from her own observation. She raised her palm, hand coming over to lay on top of Powder’s own carefully. 

“You know for someone that’s such a well-known genius, you sure do miss what’s right in front of your eyes, and everyone else’s,” she teased lightheartedly. 

Powder’s face scrunched up at her statement. “Fuck, I thought I was doing a good job hiding. Am I really that obvious?” 

“The both of you are, I’m afraid,” Caitlyn laughed. 

“And how do you just know all this shit?” Powder retorted.

“Let's just say I've played this game before,” Caitlyn replied, blue eyes glimmering.

“What? Don't tell me my sister put you through that-”

“Now why the hell was I not invited to this party?” The sound of Vi’s voice rang through the kitchen as she sauntered towards them. Placing a kiss on Caitlyn’s cheek, she turned to Powder and engulfed her in a hug, arms wrapping around her shorter frame tightly. Powder’s eyes widened as she returned the embrace, not expecting the sudden display of affection. 

“Uff, what was that for?” Powder exclaims as Vi finally released her, but not before ruffling through her choppy locks. 

“Can I not hug my baby sister?” Vi grumbled playfully, standing back at Caitlyn’s side as a warm smile spread across the latter's face at the sight of the siblings’ antics. Playful bickering was passed between the pair, before Powder straightened up as if remembering herself, ready to leave. 

“Leaving so soon? You only just got here,” Vi lamented as Powder began bidding her goodbyes. 

“I’ve got…something to do. I’ll be back soon, sis,” Powder promised, before turning to Caitlyn with a warm smile, “and thank you, Cait,” she said, hoping she conveyed the genuinity of her thankfulness.

“Any time, Powder,” Caitlyn shot her a knowing smile back as she took her final leave. 

The house fell back into a content silence as Vi snaked an arm around Cait’s waist, looking at her puzzled. “Did I miss something?”

“You, my dear," Cait pressed a victorious kiss to Vi's cheek, mimicking her early move, “have just lost a bet.” 

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

“Thank the gods!” You declared, Ekko nodding vigorously in agreement as the pair of you wrapped up to leave, after a particularly productive session finalising your project. Everything was finally coming together, all the hard work beginning to pay off. Powder had suggested the meeting be in her hideout today, but she’d been uncharacteristically quiet and on edge all evening. You shot her a look now, subtly trying to check up on her. Your heart stuck in your throat when she met your gaze suddenly, clearly needing to say something. You looked away abruptly, ever since that night your emotions had been going haywire around her even more. She’d talk when she was ready. Just as you were about to step out with Ekko, thinking you were in the clear, her hand wrapped around your forearm, holding you in place.

“Can… Can you stay? Just for a bit,” Powder swiftly asked, trying her utmost best to not sound like she was pleading. 

You looked at Ekko for a second, finding he was already looking at you, eyebrow raised in question. He’d been under the impression that you’d already talked, though it was clear to him now that was not the case. You turned back to Powder, who was awaiting your response in apprehension. 

“See ya later, dudes,” Ekko said cheerfully, and you swore you saw the smirk flashing across his features before he circled around and left, leaving you no time to even attempt to argue. 

“Umm…sure, Pow,” you spoke softly, your arm released from her grip. Her eyes softened at the use of her nickname from you, shoulders relaxing slightly. “What’s up?”

Fuck, Powder hadn’t thought that far. She’d just seen you leaving, and the thought of you slipping out of her grasp and no longer near her had made her panic. 

“Will you cut my hair, please?” she managed to save herself, sighing in relief as you silently agreed and followed her back over to an area of her hideout.

Once you were both situated on the floor, you sat on your knees in front of her mirroring her own position, combing through her brightly coloured locks in preparation for the cut. Silence fell over you. Though this would be normal on any other occasion, cutting her hair was usually chaotic, with Powder squirming and moving around too much, you shrieking at her to stop said movement before you gave her a haircut that was so terrible it’d rival the dreaded barber’s. This silence wasn’t your usual comfortable silence, it was full of things left unsaid on both of your sides, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. 

You tried to ignore the wild thumping of your heart at the closeness of your current position, combing the bangs across her forehead. The way her eyes traced over every one of your features so thoroughly was certainly doing nothing to help. Every one of Powder’s intentions to talk to you properly tonight were rapidly vanishing from her head, the words stuck in her throat. And yet, she couldn’t take her eyes off you. 

The thought of all the feelings she’d had over the past few months, not too different from your own, came back to her now - the nights she had spent overthinking, the fear of losing you, the fear of change, the doubts she’d had, everything was suddenly too overwhelming as she took the comb you were using out of your hand and placed it down. Your eyes widened with astonishment as she brought her hands to either side of your face, leaning her forehead against yours. The fear of you not reciprocating how she felt was drowned out by the overwhelming desire to be close to you, to taste you. 

“What are you doing?” you dared to murmur, pulse rate quickening. 

Powder let out a shaky breath, her eyes quickly darting from your eyes to your lips and back again. You were pretty convinced you were about to explode. 

“Please, tell me you want this as much as I do,” she pleaded quietly, lips brushing yours. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” you whispered back. The sentence had barely left your mouth before Powder connected her lips to yours. You immediately reciprocated, her warm lips pressing deeper against you as she tugged you closer. Your hands went to tangle in her hair, haircut long forgotten. She hummed approvingly, fingers running over your cheekbone, every single doubt and fear between you melted away by the passion of her touch.

When you finally had to pull away to breathe, her forehead rested against yours, eyes bright as she scanned over your equally delighted face. “I’ve always loved you, and that won’t change,” she murmured, her voice so soft and tender despite the weight of her words, your heart skipping several beats and landing in your mouth. 

“I love you too, as if that wasn’t obvious enough already,” you breathed out. Powder giggled in response, the sounds only intensifying by your sudden attack of kisses all over her face. She writhed under your grip, protests not even half-serious as you continued to smother her.

“Stop squirming, I get to do this!” you declared, avoiding her chasing your lips as you pressed your lips against her flushed cheek. Powder finally managed to get a grip on you, strong hands on your hips as she pulled you onto her lap with ease. Just as you lean in to press another soft kiss to the edge of her mouth, she quickly moved her head so your lips landed on hers once again, moving quickly and passionately against them as she brought one hand up to your face again to bring you impossibly closer. Your mind was hazy as you kissed her back fervently, arms coming around her neck to ground yourself. You could barely take a breath in the tiny sliver of time there was that you two are apart, her eyes trained on yours lovingly before she pulls you back in, again and again. 

“I’m not gonna be done with you for a while, babe.”

| a/n: well here it is!! my first time writing this sort of thing and i feel like it kinda showed but posting regardless because i'm so sick of seeing this in my drafts. pls leave a comment or drop something in my inbox on ur thoughts, they're much appreciated !! <3

[hoseoksluna]

PROMISES | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x f. reader

genre: fwb au / angst, smut

word count: 9.3k

summary: when you needed your social battery recharged by your fuck buddy yoongi, you didn't expect to have your undiscovered feelings for him reciprocated. 

pin: promise / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: strong daddy issues, slight dd/lg, manipulation, tiny rough treatmeant, edging, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), teasing, mixed feelings, oc is confused abt her feelings and the whole situation, fight, yoongi counts down, unprotected sex, pussy spanks, nipple play.

note: this has to be my worst work in the whole hoseoksluna universe. i'm terribly upset, disgusted, unmotivated. i wrote this all week, hated every second, and i'm sorry to say this is my last smut for a while. i'm really struggling mentally, i'm struggling with writing, and i don't know what to do anymore. i'm posting this a day early because i can't stand this fic anymore. i can't stand smut. you're free to skip this one until i get better.

You were a folded swan, drifting upon the smooth, glittering surface of a river that led nowhere—a dead end, bearing the face of a man you’ve been casually seeing for the past few months. A man that clutched adrenaline and tenderness in his fist like a bouquet of the prettiest woodland wildflowers, on top of which perched a note signed in your name. Scratchy Latin letters, doused in ebony ink, they had more life than you did at this moment; poetry-woven experiences that had you feeling life like life should be felt—drastically, enthusiastically and delightfully. Every vowel depicted the closure of each night you spent with him: mouth parted agape, through which the sweetest moans would erupt and saturate him in a certain kind of fatherliness, pride and manliness. 

It’s what you need, laying as you are on the linen sheets of your bed, dressed down to your lacy underwear that you thought would make you feel better, somehow would recharge your dead battery that was stuck on zero percent for longer than you care to admit. Father issues, dissatisfaction at your workplace, at your home life, at life itself. You were tired, your concentration running thin as you were watching your well-loved K-drama that you have seen a hundred times before. Through your vision, your own non-romantic interest would fly by, smiling down at you in your dejected state and form. Your body knows him more thoroughly than your heart, stirring erratically at the memories that would begin to flood your system. Tongue, lips, hands. His cock that he would tease you with, giving it to you and not giving it to you purposefully because he enjoyed the sight of your desperation for someone like him—a person who has seen the worst of life, its characteristics engraved upon his skin, and yet you still yearned for him, yearned for those scars. You didn’t have to tell him, but he knew. 

He knew by the way you would so very often trace the scar upon his shoulder, either with your fingertips or your lips. You were friends, fuck-buddies to be more precise. You were aware that someone entangled in a special friendship such as this shouldn’t do something like that, but you couldn’t help it. Yoongi taught you many times to listen to your body and you were doing just that. 

Following your body’s inclination to sink into his soul that he wasn’t too scared to let you inside of. 

He allowed you to do it to such an extent that the threat of his quick orgasm would appear and he would slip out of you, distract himself between your legs, make you come twice in a row—perhaps as a playful punishment, or perhaps as a reward. 

He saw you—and right now you need to be seen, folded in your forest-scented exhaustion while the river flows on, the trees sway on and everyone else passes by while you remain fixed on the same spot, stooped in your ungratified, seemingly unnamed problem. 

You can text him, ask for a quick fuck, something he’s very well acquainted with, used to at this point—so much that everytime you leave his place stuffed full of his cum, he stuffs you with something else as well. 

A promise for the next time.

A package of something to make you look forward to your tight-knit time spent with him. The last time, he had promised to take you to a running sushi restaurant, where you didn’t linger for long because you got fed up with the way other people would steal the sweet plates you wanted to try. He had fucked you in his car to make you feel better about your innate misanthropy and while he was balls-deep in you and you struggled to catch your breath, he promised you ice cream. With each thrust that squeezed your soul, he described how you’d enjoy each lick, the details of the flavor and how he’d buy you any ice cream you wanted. You hadn’t realized it then, within the stupor of your mind-numbing pleasure, but now as you are recollecting it, you perceive how bothered he was by the way other people ruined your night with him. 

And that rips open the restraints around the butterflies in your stomach. 

You want some ice cream—and more than that, you want to see him. Close your mouth around the adrenaline he’s always so willing to fill your life with. 

You don’t know what he’s doing at seven PM on a Thursday night. You usually meet him on Fridays or during the weekend if he’s working the day before. You’ve never shown him your neediness—and there’s a certain dangerous feel to it, baring yourself naked in this way, despite the fact he’s seen, touched, and licked every inch of you. And it’s hard for your brain to comprehend that you yearn for him when your social, emotional and physical battery is dead. If anything, you should be resting as you are, get right in order to be at your best for the next time you see him. 

But alas… 

With a sigh, you turn to your other side and reach for your phone that you’ve been charging, gliding your hands down the cable, imagining it’s his arm. And with a frustrated furrow of your brows, you tap on the circle above your messages. A pinned picture of him that you took, his face caught in his gummy smile against the dark backdrop of his car interior, filtrated with the twinkling lights of Seoul’s city buildings. Another sigh leaves you, one that exasperates you because why are you so needy for him? Why can’t you be a normal girl, independent, okay with your own company shared with the fictional people that you love? You’ve spent your girlhood like this, and happily so. Why does growing up mean you need the male energy more than your own? 

Biting your lip, your anxiety spikes up, but your desire for Yoongi overwhelms it, wins. And that settles a layer of calmness over it, gives the command to your fingers to type what they need to type. 

hi

what are you doing 

The bubbles don’t emerge from the dark motive of your chat until a few minutes later, the green of his message brightening up your phone—and your life, too. 

About to have a concert. Having a shot right now for your health. 

Oh, shit. A strange concoction of disappointment and a deep, low, murmuring stimulus rises in you. The swan in you elongates her neck, interested, but still dispirited considering her options. She will have to fold back into her form, and continue on her long, somber voyage back from the dead end, dwelling on the thrill of the flirtation of the man that she likes a little bit too much. 

Staring at the thick canvas of trees and shrubbery that aren’t letting you in to see him, you think about what to type, your thumbs hovering in the air. Life dislikes you; life wants you to suffer—

A ringing tone of your phone tugs you away from your distressed thoughts. The Latin letters of Yoongi’s name expand across the screen behind that picturesque and private shot of him, enlarged, stirring your heart. Silence spreads through your mind and your thumb quivers as you slide it across the bar to accept his call, placing the device against your ear. 

It feels as though you’re pressing the side of your head against his, especially so once you hear the warmth of his raspy voice pronouncing your name in his accent, marked by the liquor he drank prior to your messages. 

Enlivened, your body is. Just from that. 

“What’s up with you?” Yoongi asks, and the swan sails a little bit more swiftly, her tucked-in wings fluttering against her feathery body. You play with your necklace, your trembling so, so terribly evident. You’re glad he didn’t video call you, but the phone call is much more intimate and pleasant. 

You huff out a noise of desperation without meaning to and cringe at yourself, crunching up your features. Yoongi calls you by your name with a tiny hint of alarm and you curse yourself, silently. Your misanthropy gets pointed at you. 

“Noth—”

“Should I cancel my concert right now?” he suggests, cutting in, and you can hear the drunken playfulness in his voice, the one you have enjoyed on many occasions. Even acted out on your pleasure from it by making him, physically, feel good about it. You wish you could suck his dick right now, right before his concert, so he gives out his best for his fans. 

The sighs are ceaseless and you don’t bother to stop them at this point, your enlivened body soaking up in a swelling, unmet desire. 

“You’re sighing,” he notes, and you discern a cube of ice clinking in his glass, then a swallow of his throat, as if the indication of your yearning got him going, got him needing that burning liquid. “Are you horny for me?” 

Enlivened, your butterflies are, starting a war just from that sole question: desire versus your mental health. 

And using the vanilla scent of their wings, they remind you of the fact that you’re an adult woman and that you’re allowed, and more than allowed, to do whatever your body asks for. And if it’s asking for Yoongi, you’re going to go the extra mile to get him. 

Brazenly and femininely—and a little bit slyly. 

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m really craving that ice cream you promised me,” you say, lowering down your tone, and you play with the lacy lining of your bra. Think you can tease him with it for a good effect. “I’m wearing a nice lacy set right now.” 

Yoongi sucks in a breath and lets it out in a sigh that is entirely redolent of you, making your mouth curve in a soft smile. “What color?” 

Your expression of a muted joy expands as you tell him. “Red.” 

He swears, raspily, and the shade of your lingerie becomes more vibrant in the dimmed yellow light of your bedroom. And there you feel it—a more intense tendril of lust slithering down your sternum, moving your body side to side against your sheets in need. And the whimper that comes out of you is more primal than it is forced. 

At the sound, Yoongi pauses. You imagine him biting his lip, the gears in his brain turning, and he doesn’t disappoint you. He never does. 

“Do you have a dress of the same color?” he asks, small pants escaping his mouth, and you smirk. 

“I do.” 

He chuckles in personal delight. “Wear it for me. The set, too. I want to see it. I will pick you up after the concert and get you that ice cream.”

Your butterflies spring to your lungs, making it hard for you to breathe. And you don’t know whether to be glad, to be happy, to jump on your bed or to get ready. All those emotions simultaneously gather in you, spreading sparks of excitement down your nerve endings. And most of all, you want to hug him. 

You want to hug your adrenaline-infused angel. 

“Okay,” you agree, prolonging the vowel, the muscles in your cheeks aching. “How long is the concert?”

His delight leaks out through a deep hum, one that causes you to tense your body in feverish eagerness. “Two hours. Can you wait that long for me without touching yourself?” 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. Think you can wait however long for him, just as long as you get to see him. “I can, but my panties will be ruined. Sticky and uncomfortable.” 

The hum is strangled by his strained intake of breath, turning you woozy, your fingers itching to slide beneath your said panties, knowing his noises alone would make you come in seconds. You weren’t wet before he called, but now you can feel the center of the fabric dampening the longer you talk to him. 

“I’ll take them off as soon as I can. I promise. Hold it out for me.” 

And you believe him. You compress that promise into your hand, warming it up with your body heat before you tuck it safely into the chambers of your heart—and you wait. 

You wait for him to fulfill the myriad of his promises. 

You did hold it out for him, and brilliantly so. You watched one episode of your drama with a little bit more vehemence, despite the fact Yoongi swam past your thoughts more times than you can count. You’ve never watched him perform in real life as his own private life was always kept in secrecy from his fans, but your curiosity led you to search him up online and watch a playback of one of his more upbeat songs. Dressed in a long black coat, white shirt and a tie, your mouth was wide open, as well as your eyes, as you took in his ferocious energy, enhanced by his passion, and you never looked at him the same as before. He became someone else, a figure of brutal yet tender power and it made you want him even more zealously. 

The memories of that performance resurfaced in your mind every now and then, and his Agust D persona would melt into the male interest of the show, deepening your desire for him as you dreamed. 

Dreamed of reaching different highs with him. More profound, more devastating. 

A dream that could never come true. A promise that would never flow past his mouth. 

You didn’t let that ruin your night, however. As the second hour wrapped around you and your body lacked the heat it needed, you shut your laptop and stood up to your feet, walking over to your closet. Your fingers found that red dress you had spoken about first before your eyes did, silky and sleek amidst the thick, woolen fabrics of your winter clothes. It was the only nice dress you had, one you haven’t worn before, and you were thrilled you got to wear it for him tonight. 

It fit you like a second skin, hugging your curves just right, fading into the lacy linings of your lingerie. One would have to sharpen their gaze in order to notice it—and you wondered if Yoongi was going to scout it with his eyes first or with his fingers. 

The unknown excited you, so much that your panties gained that stickiness you mentioned in the phone call. And when you sat down to slide your feet into your black strappy heels, the feeling was so intolerable that you cringed—and your brilliancy ended there. 

How were you going to sit against your cold arousal for another hour? 

The awaited text didn’t come through until you were dousing yourself in your vanilla perfume. Yoongi was downstairs, waiting for you in his car. Left my lights on for you, he had typed to reassure you because he knew how anxious it made you, looking for his parked car in the dark when you couldn’t see anything. 

Your heart blossomed two times bigger when you checked it from your window. Yoongi in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, the headlights filtering through the mist of the deep of the night. You smoothed a hand down your tummy, calming your butterflies, and, reapplying your lipstick, you grabbed your coat and went outside to meet him. 

He spotted you long before you lifted your head to smile at him and he reached over to the side and opened the door for you. The motor was running, keeping the warmth intact for you, and you sighed in relief when you entered it—only to realize that Yoongi had turned on the seat heater for you. 

You melt into the leather, closing your eyes, the ambience of the present moment nestling upon you like the most delicate layer of snow that dissolves when you feel a swift breath along your neck and it’s Yoongi, lengthening his arm and closing the door while keeping his twinkling gaze on you and giving you a pleased smile. 

The butterflies kick against your stomach. 

“I was going to do that,” you say because you truly were—it’s just that the snug, comforting heat he prepared for you made you want to stop and bask in it as the short walk from your apartment building to his car numbed your bones to such an extent that you needed the time to defrost. And he quickened the process by placing an even warmer hand upon the nylon of your inner thigh that the slit of your dress and your trench coat exposed. “It’s just so cold.” 

He fondles the fabric of your tights on the top of your thigh with his thumb. A gesture of comfort that diffuses life down your legs and colors your cheeks in a shade of pink that irradiates the subdued atmosphere of the car. It’s hard to breathe—and it’s hard to resist him, keep yourself cool and not swing your leg over. 

Fuck the ice cream. You want something way creamier. 

“It’s only right I close it for you after I opened it,” he reassures, the deep tenor of his voice puncturing right through you, looking for your core, and you shift your hips, the discomfort of your wetness not allowing you to relax as much as you need. Yoongi’s eyes flick down to your movement and he parts his mouth as that distinctive smirk of his divulges his enjoyment in seeing you so horny for him. “Are you still sticky for me?” 

It’s now that you take the time to fully look at him. There’s a certain glossiness to his long hair that tells you he went home and took a shower before he got inside his car and drove through the quiet night to meet you. You can smell the rosemary of his shampoo and the usual minty aroma of his body wash, blended with his natural musky pheromones and the wood, the tangerine of his perfume. He’s the synthesis of your internal woodland, the breath of the trees that your swan inhales and a punishment, all in one; and you’re not sure if you can hold out any longer. Both emotionally, both physically.

“Very sticky,” you say, wrapping your hands around his arm, descending your fingers down the bulky, wooly material of his winter jacket like you were touching your charging cord—a temporary dream come true. You enclose your palm around his knuckles, think that if he feels how wet you are, he’ll realize that you sentimentally require more than he normally gives you—that your flesh will somehow tell him and give him the bravery to do so. 

But Yoongi doesn’t move an inch. His fingers remain fixed on the inner of your thigh, digging dents into the skin as you feel the bulging of his bicep the more you push his hand towards your wetly clothed cunt. His smile falls, his eyes droop—and the energy is charged with such unnamed intensity that you let go of your pursuit, slipping your fingers beneath the edge of his sleeve as a sign of your submission. 

That quickly. 

“You promised to hold out for me, didn’t you?” he asks, waiting for your agreement, and you nod, feverish, dripping with perspiration, with this great need that towers over you. “Then, be like Daddy and keep your promise or you’re not getting anything.” 

A shiver cascades down your spine—not merely from his authoritative voice, but from the role he dipped into that immediately puts you into yours. You begin to giggle, palming your mouth as the blush in your cheeks bursts and tears of overwhelmingness add a certain glint to your eyes that sparkles beneath the yellow-tinted car interior lights. And using this fatherliness of his, he interweaves your arousal around his long, piano fingers, announcing he’s its King. 

Your essence trickles out of the confines of your panties. 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you whine, still giggling, you can’t help it. Yoongi takes after you, blessing you with that gummy grin of his that you adore so much. Your heart enlarges. 

“What exactly am I doing on purpose?” he challenges, kneading the flesh of your thigh, and he senses his answer right away. Your essence travels to his hand, stopping there, and once again Yoongi’s smile falls, eyes plummeting to it, hand lifting—and fingers gathering that warm slick. 

And it drips onto his own pants-clad thigh when he plunges his fingers into his mouth, shocking you to your core. 

“Yoongi—”

He hums in titillation, interrupting you, and smacks his mouth. For a brief amount of time, he seems to be in his own world as he tastes you on his tongue. And then, he takes those same fingers, turns the key in the ignition, moves forward the shift stick, and without sparing you a glance, he drives out of his usual parking spot and doesn’t hesitate to correct you. 

“Not Yoongi. Daddy.” 

You clamp your mouth shut. Think you need some kind of plug to stop your arousal from flowing down your thigh. Yoongi doesn’t mention what just happened throughout the whole drive, but you do notice his semi-hard manhood poking out of his groin area. You salivate, but don’t tempt him, squeezing your thighs together so tightly that your muscles cramp. 

You’ll save it for later. 

You listen to him talk about his concert experience of tonight while the drum in your clit matches the beat of the songs of his playlist. He speeds down the road, keeping his hands on the steering wheel and the shift stick, and he doesn’t look at you until he halts the car at the first red light. 

He smiles at you, knowingly. A dirty, dirty smile that turns your world upside down, vexes you deeply—enough for you to swivel your head in the other direction to ignore him because if you looked at him any longer like that, you’d be unbuckling his pants. But Yoongi does what he pleases. With his index finger, he whips your chin back to him, leans over and grins before he presses his lips against yours. 

A gentle, gentle kiss. One that does not mirror his demeanor. 

Your walls flutter, your whole body, too. Shock seizes you in its grasp at that gesture of affection and you can’t breathe—he’s stolen all of the oxygen in your lungs. The trees sway and bend, the swan in you dances quite buoyantly, despite the fact that a storm is coming. 

A storm of your emotions. 

He’s never kissed you like that—out of the blue, at the red light. He kisses you when he’s drunk, handsy and touchy-feely as he everlastingly is, but he doesn’t kiss you just like that when he’s sober. 

“You doing good?” he murmurs against your lips, ripping away the fingers of your shock, and it feels as though you’re waking up from a dream—only to glide, boundlessly, into another one. Yoongi waggles with your chin before he pulls away, the yellow light bathing him in its shade momentarily before the green blinks and he jumps back into his own world. 

Does he really think you won’t erupt in this storm? Disintegrate into smithereens and wipe everything clean that he is? 

“What was that for?” you ask, softly, your lips numb and aching for more of his tenderness, one that you would, in all honesty, die for. You trace the print of his own lips on yours, feel its heavy warmth, and you might as well be drunk just from that. 

You need a shot. And not just one. 

Yoongi bites his bottom lip. “You’re holding out so well. I thought you deserved it.” 

You roll your eyes back—not from raw annoyance, but from the pristine pleasure you receive from the dominant, fatherly energy of his words. Suddenly, you don’t know what to do with your hands, what to say, what to think. What you do know is that you surely will be crying into his pillow by the time this night is over and he’s fast asleep. 

But you can’t cry much. Can’t wake up with puffy eyes. Can’t reveal to him the gravity of your feelings. 

You don’t even remember the moment you realized you loved him. Think you loved him the first time you laid your eyes on him, but you buried it deeply in you—so deeply that you didn’t even recollect your feelings when Yoongi told you, straight away, that this was just a friends with benefits kind of arrangement. Truth be told, this business is the sole kind of relationship you can give him as you hate men. Always hated them. But you don’t hate him. 

He’s not them. He’s different. 

You may have wanted adrenaline and joy tonight, but as you dwell in this state of mind of yours, you slouch deeper into the leather and come to a heartbreaking understanding that you’ll never be happy in this life. 

The night-clothed streets pass by you in soft shapes in colors, disappearing instantly out of your view. And the woodland, the trees and the swan, they disappear, too. Shrouded by the fog of your abysmal sadness. 

***

Yoongi took you to such a small hotel that its luxuriousness pierced your eyes with its glorious light. You thought you were dining and ending the night at his place, but once Yoongi ordered your favorite shots of sweet rum with cocktail cherries, you perceived you were staying here. Perceived he was unknowingly giving you the opportunity to drown your feelings in alcohol as well. 

You almost didn’t wait for him to take his own shot before you downed yours, but hearing the click of his tongue, you stopped midway. And to make sure you did wait, he placed his palm upon your wrist, bringing your arm down onto the table as he ordered your dessert. 

Chocolate ice cream, just for her. Thank you. 

He made everything worse. 

You weren’t sure why you wanted to be so good for him, listening to every order of his that came to his mind. Why you wanted that validation, that praise. You could just do whatever you desired—it wouldn’t scratch your relationship with him. You could be bad and he wouldn’t mind. Hell, you think he would even enjoy it. But why is it your inert yearning to please him so much? It’s devastating—and it’s your personal ruination. Because the more you do things that caress his ego, the deeper the abyss of your feelings for him goes. 

You shouldn’t. Not in the construct of your friendly relations. For the sake of your well-being.

You pry his fingers away and take that shot, watching his eyes grow large in their surprise. You never slide the cherry along with the liquor into your mouth, so once you swallow it, you open it wider and begin to chew it. His brows twitch, his own mouth parting at the sight and he leans back into his chair, completely submitted and enthralled by your act of defiance. 

And it feels good, going against him like that. Living your life by your own decided rules, and not his. 

You don’t hesitate to gulp down the other shot, but it’s not the slight burning of the liquid that gives you the buzz. It’s the way he seems to be completely pleased by your self-will, smiling lazily at you with his head tilted to the side. It propels you to steal his shot, too, and the brief facade of his pleasure collapses. A dark tendril of concern lines his eyes and those brows that twitched furrow, casting a dusky shadow over those slits. 

Now he’s aware of it, the tornado that spins within you. But he doesn’t know the cause of it, the decadent poetry verses that cover it. 

And he’ll never know—he’ll never read them. Because you’d much rather keep it in secrecy than risk losing him for all eternity. Feelings can be hidden, feelings can wander off, lose their bearings until they no longer remember that your body used to be their home. But Yoongi… he’s a person that you meet once in a lifetime. And losing him would mean that you lost not just your life, but the blood pumping in your veins as well.

It’s wrong, being attached like that to someone, regard him this way. And you’re cognizant of the fact it’s temporary—and for that sole reason, you bask in it. Because your life would be prosaic, and not poetic, if you didn’t. 

That is the motto you carry in your pathetic, but strong heart. 

And the darkness of his concern, it intoxicates you more than the last shot you take. 

The backdrop of dining and chattering people sway, just like your past trees, behind him. Manifestations of foreign lives you’ll never witness twice in your life, that are a part of you today and will part from you tomorrow. Yoongi, in the middle, remains stable. A beacon of light, unmoving, a great pillar of fixedness and steadiness. He peers at you through the thickness of his eyelashes, his aura solemn, no longer playful. Your sighs emit out of you in a constant stream while your eyes roam at everything in motion but him and he seems to strongly, strongly dislike that. 

“What’s up with you?” he asks for the second time around this evening, but the question has a loftier ring of seriousness to it. It passes through you, puncturing you until it pokes out of your back and transforms into a pair of monumental wings. Ones, upon which your feelings are mockingly hung, for his eyes to see, but not to recognize.

And the swaying of your body brings forth wetness to your eyes, for it is an anamnesis of the inner world you lost due to the comprehension of your feelings. 

“Nothing,” you say for the second time around, too. A hefty blanket of silence is thrown across the table, scattered with empty shot glasses that were meant to be shared between the pair of you. Unable to look at him, your eyes drop to them, count them—one, two, three, four—and then your irises wind up at his clenched fist. At the white valleys of his knuckles that are composed only when his fingers are wrapped around a microphone. And the blanket of the silence is warmer than the warmth he has given you—a sweltering layer of heartsickness that you can’t bear. With your drunk brain, you think you should pierce it, as if with a needle, with a response to a question he didn’t ask you. “I haven’t eaten much today, that’s why I’ve gotten drunk so quickly.” 

Yoongi runs a tongue down the inner flesh of his cheek. Ponders the information you have given him before he scolds you. “You didn’t eat and you drank four shots in a row. You won’t tell me what it is, fair enough, but I know you’re hiding it behind the pretense of you being horny.” 

His head swivels to the side, sensing a presence. And he watches as the waitress puts down an ornamental plate of two scoops of chocolate ice cream in front of you. You don’t pay her a second of your time. You set your eyes on Yoongi, on the darkness of his energy that you are ever so slowly and magnetically pulled to. 

Yes, he sees the problem, but doesn’t recognize it. He sees the shape of your wings, but he can’t recognize their color. 

The solidness of his call-out quivers. You’re not sure if you’re hiding it; you’re no longer sure about anything at this moment, but you don’t care. You have to stick to your secrecy, you have to keep your feelings safe and tucked away, no matter how far on the edge of the cliff they are. 

“I’m not hiding anything. I was horny,” you retort, not caring that the waitress is still present, picking up your shot glasses. Yoongi gives you a look while you tip your chin down and gaze at him through your long lashes—just like he did. A taste of his own sweet poison. And then you lift your foot and rest it between his outstretched legs, the sole of your stilettos pressing lightly against his soft groin. 

This is fun. This is the adrenaline you were seeking. Who would’ve thought you would be your own provider of that. 

Surprised by the abruptness of your act, he doesn’t let it show on his face, but his hands drift upwards from his thighs before he settles them around the bridge of your foot. He waits for the waitress to finish her job and, sensing the pressure, she scurries away without asking if you wanted to order another round. 

And in her absence, Yoongi begins to touch you. 

He sails his fingernails from your toes up to the thin strap of your shoe, wrapping them around your ankle. He squeezes your limb once, warning you about something you don’t know, his eyes tiny, tiny slits. Perhaps if you keep up with this, the night won’t end so prettily like it normally does. 

But you don’t believe it. You refuse to. And to be frank, you can’t. 

You shall have your fun. 

“Eat your ice cream before it melts,” he orders like the father he is, pointing at the dessert with his irises. 

You look at it, at the bits of the chocolate bars jutting out of it, then back up at him. “Feed it to me.” 

The slits break, his eyes enlarging. His reaction spreads all across his face—brows curling upwards, mouth parting, his thumb absentmindedly swiping across the skin of your shin, exposing how much he liked your request. Such an intimate place for that to happen. 

Then, he examines his surroundings. Then, he gets up from his chair and sits next to you on the booth, taking a hold of the spoon and your leg simultaneously, hooking it over his thigh. Scoops the ice cream and turns to you, his arm suspended in the air. 

“Open,” he rasps, and your eyes wet first before your mouth complies, opening wide for him. Yoongi slides the spoon into your mouth with expert gentleness, careful not to hurt you, and your first tear of the night cascades down your cheek when your mouth closes around the silver, your tastebuds cheering due to the chocolate flavor that overwhelms them. 

Yoongi, the man that could never disappoint you. Yoongi, the man who has given you more fatherly love than your own father ever did. 

How could you not love him? How could you not want more from the casualness of your relationship with him when he treats you like this? When he prepares a warm faith in men within your chest, a wet soil—out of which the tenderest sprout of joy shall grow? 

The second tear cascades down. The ice cream melts on your tongue. You swallow. 

Yoongi sighs, dropping his hands, the corners of his eyes rounding in an emotion you’ve never seen upon him. “You have to tell me what’s going on.” 

Your wings, swan-like, flutter behind you, ruffling the hair on the crown on his head. “The ice cream tastes good.” 

You brush away your tears, lamenting your foolish mistake, and fold your hands on your lap. Give him a teary smile that you can’t hide and open your mouth for him again. Yoongi doesn’t say anything as he continues to feed you and frown at you, not until another waitress comes and asks if you wish to order another round. His anger is evident in his voice as he turns her down, stating you won’t be drinking any more than you have. 

And again, he makes everything worse when he wipes your mouth clean after you finish the dessert. Pats your head to reward you. 

You hold your tears, watch him pay for you, give him your hand when he leads you towards the elevator up to the room where you’ll be staying tonight. 

Him, completely sober; you, drunk out of your mind. 

He doesn’t let go of your hand, even as you and him stand side by side, the silence as thick as death. You can’t stand it, can’t do anything else but to break it all over again. Though this time, you don’t do it with words. 

You do it with your actions. 

Stumbling on your feet like a freshly-born fawn, it’s only then that Yoongi looks at you. Holds you steady as you move in front of him to face him. He doesn’t swim along the current of all these brown shades of the elevator, but you can see a deep emotion waving through his ice-cold eyes that heat up, melt and droop when you envelop your arms around his neck and press your face against the side plane of his, kissing him there a hundred, a thousand times. You sink your fingers into the hair at the nape, tracing circles along his scalp and Yoongi shudders, breathes evenly against you, and it reminds you of the wind that swept past your woodland—the one that made your trees sway. 

All of that is gone because of your mistake. 

And something tells you that nothing will ever be the same. That something groundbreaking awaits you once these elevator doors open. 

And they open too quickly. 

Breaks your wordless actions that speak your gratitude for his fatherly behavior by gathering you into his arms, carrying you out of the elevator. Doesn’t let your aching feet touch the ground until the snugness of the tiny room welcomes you in. A queen-sized bed, a mirror across the wall that faces it, a round table by the balcony. It would be stifling if you were here alone, but Yoongi, somehow with his domineering energy, enlarges the room—makes it his. 

He empties out his pockets. Phone, wallet, keys. A white lighter and a pack of cigarettes. His jacket follows next, hooking it around one of the chairs, and once he notices your wavering feet, he sits down at the edge of the bed and sheds your trench coat, throwing it over his own jacket. Bends at the waist and takes off your heels, one by one. Only then, when you’re comfortable, does he set you down in the center of his lap. And you realize that the mirror is right in front of you. 

You watch him through it. Watch his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck; watch your own form disappear into the buffiness of his body as his hands begin to roam. His watch glints in the dim light of the room and his own being coalesces, becomes one with the murkiness. 

You want to do that, too. Forget who you are. Forget what you’re feeling. 

Tears prick at your waterline and you let out a pained sigh. Another foolish mistake of the night, one you’re about to pay for. 

“Talk to me,” he begs, a wisp of a tiny whiny weaving into his voice inconspicuously, but you catch it—and it vibrates through you, weakening you. It makes it so much harder for you, his unyielding need to know what’s troubling you, but how can you tell him? How can you risk never seeing him again? 

You remain silent, painfully so. 

Yoongi lifts his head from your neck and stares you dead in the eye through the mirror, chilling you down to the bone. 

“You truly think I’m just a guy you fuck?” he spits, his anger on full, unabashed blast that you should’ve seen coming with your restrained behavior, but it’s better to take his anger than to take his absence—and you shall devour that emotion of his. His question causes a hiccup to ensue in your chest, the secrecy of your feelings leaning over the edge of the cliff. Dangerously, dangerously close. “That you can’t confide in me? You think I’m just gonna fuck you and pretend I didn’t see you cry?” Your eyes dart away, a heavy load of agony settling over your heart, but Yoongi prevents you from looking away. Makes you look at him by grabbing your chin and keeping your head still, facing the mirror. “Is that what you want? You want me to be this kind of asshole?” 

You bite your lip, not knowing what to say, not knowing who you want him to be, not wanting to be in this situation at all. But Yoongi can’t stand your silence. Can’t stand the privacy of your trouble, as if he inertly knows that it has something to do with him. 

He softens his touch, but he doesn’t do the same with his voice. 

“Answer me.” 

You cry out in unnamed desperation, which propels Yoongi to lift your head up to him, so you can look at him—so you can see how much this matters to him. The emotion in his eyes vivaciously thumps, urging you to speak to him. He holds you to him like this, gripping your cheeks with the littlest amount of pressure, sucking in small breaths and you can’t. You’re going to explode if he keeps at it, and you’re going to die.

“Yoongi,” you whisper, tiny cries emitting out of your throat, and it’s almost a cry for help. You bunch up his T-shirt in your trembling fist, seizing the solidness of him like your fear seizes you, and you don’t know whether to run or stay put on his lap like this. You’re appalled about where this is going and you’re certain that the same dead end is impatiently seeking you—

Yoongi shushes you. Averts his hand and caresses your hair down. Kisses your forehead, where he lingers a few long seconds that subdue the expression of your storm. Waits until your breathing evens out, so he can unravel the words swelling in him. 

“Even if you asked me, I couldn’t be this kind of asshole to you,” he reveals against that plane of your face, punctuating his sentence by pressing his nose against yours. And you can’t believe his actions, you can’t believe the kind of affection he’s bathing you in; it lessens your fear, slashing it apart until there’s nothing left of it. “Something is hurting your heart and that bothers me. And what pisses me off most of all is that you think I can’t help you.” 

You sniffle and slide your hand upwards to his neck. Try to memorize every inch of this paintwork that your life is graced with as tomorrow won’t have the same paints, the same brushstrokes—

“I’m not gonna fuck you. If you want to be touched, I’ll touch you, but don’t think for a second you’re coming tonight, not if you won’t talk to me,” he murmurs and you gasp, lowly, your wings slumping limply.

The promise of him fucking you was your only salvation for tonight. You gaze up at him with wide eyes, your mouth falling agape, unbelief clutching you at the intensity of his stubbornness. 

And you want to know the meaning behind it. 

“Why?” 

He scoffs, kissing your cheek as if you were a baby he’s cradling, and you can’t take it anymore. You untangle yourself from his grasp and stand up to your feet, your back against the mirror. Yoongi peers at you disapprovingly and then he shakes his index finger at you. Your legs mimic the same movement, trembling, weakening at that. 

“You need to be taught a lesson,” he says and flattens his lips, pauses before he opens his mouth again, but you stop him, despite how much you like it. 

“No, Yoongi. Why are you treating me like this?” 

He props his knuckles against his thighs. A powerful, powerful stance. Curls his lips around his teeth. “Like what?” 

You reflect him. “Like I’m something more.” 

Yoongi chuckles, humorlessly, at that. You spewed it out so rapidly that you don’t realize what you said until he lets out that noise that returns the drum to your sensitive parts. And briefly, as if you uttered something stupid, you grow smaller and smaller—until his following words change your life once and for all. 

“Because you are and because you always have been,” he rasps, the corners of his mouth downturning for a split second, exposing his own secrecy that brings you to your knees. They scruff against the white carpet, stained by time, and Yoongi’s eyes flash with light to see you in this position. 

Your heart hammers with more life than it ever had, with a kind of adrenaline it never felt before, and wetness clouds your vision, misting this situation in a cloud of disbelief. Your lungs fail you, shuddering underneath his hard gaze, and they swell greatly when Yoongi clasps your face in his hand, the one that pointed at you so fatherly, so devastatingly. 

“You’re not just a girl I fuck and I know I’m not a guy you fuck. What we have is irreplaceable, what we do has always been something more, beyond the label we gave it and I regret it,” he lets out, a pained sigh—just like yours—wafting over your features, and Yoongi leans over, propping his elbows on his knees, his other hand joining your face, fingers gripping your hair on each side. “I should’ve treated you more properly, with respect. Take you out on dates. Get to know you. Wait before you let me touch you… because that is what you deserve. You’re not a girl to mess around with. You have a dignity that needs to be taken seriously, that needs to be respected and I wish I had done that. I wish…” he trails off, clicking his tongue in ultimate regret, and you break. You break, break, break. Sob in his hands that hold you so steadily, that give you life, adrenaline and a new meaning to your whole being. Suffocate under his watch, the earth-shattering notion that this has changed the course of your trajectory of your relationship with him forever constricting your throat. “I wish I had allowed myself to court you like you deserve. I wish I had been better mentally, but I’ll make everything right if you want me to. If you want me as much as I want you, I’ll make it right. I’ll try my hardest.”

Your own words, your heartstrings tangle up in a complex manner. Your tongue twists, your speech held back, and you have no control over what comes out of your throat. You’re crawling through a limbo that has no end and each movement you make, the way back gets erased. You need to keep going before it swallows you, but you need him to lead you. You need him inside your skin, inside your heat, inside your mouth. You need to be connected to him in a way you’ve never been connected to him before. You need his breath in your lungs—and your attachment to him bursts in flames. 

Sated, elated, magnificent. 

“Fuck me and make me yours, Yoongi.” 

He sucks in a breath as if he didn’t expect you to accept his favor. The light in his eyes soaks his irises in wetness and his mouth trembles in a tender emotion before he smashes it against yours. And within that lip lock, the swan in you is reborn. 

A baby swan, learning how to sail upon this new, new river—needing her father more than ever before. 

The kiss is hard and the kiss is catastrophic. Yoongi moves his mouth against yours, sucking every bit of your old life out of you to fill you up with newness. Lifts you up and sits you back on his lap. But the kiss is too brief and you soon perceive that his anger hasn’t been shunned out. 

Wet and blue flames lick over his black pools. 

“Not until you tell me what’s bothering you. What I said still applies.” 

The zipper slides down, the straps follow suit—and your silk is ripped away from your body that Yoongi turns over and moves to his preferable position, cradling you sideways like a child. And there—as he gives you a once over, studying the red lace of your lingerie, the swell of your breasts, the little valley of fat upon your tummy, the ruination of your panties and the stickiness of your thighs—there you realize that he’s as punishing you as much as he manipulating you into telling him. 

And it’s as arousing as it is bad. 

His free hand begins to roam while the other one holds you close, wrapped around your back, preventing you from running away. It ghosts over your breasts, causing your spine to arch into his palm and his throat to emit a delicious groan that drenches your panties. His fiery hand ventures down, his tongue gracing you with little praises of how beautiful you are, and when he reaches the V-line of your private parts, he discovers how much his deep voice and his touches affect you. 

He lifts his fingers and catches them glistening in the orange light. And this time, he doesn’t plunge them into his mouth. No, he sinks them inside your own. You swirl your tongue around them, coaxing that throaty noise of his that makes your hips buck up. Your tangy sweetness stupefies you and your so-loved woodland is remolded by that intimate act. By your connected gaze that could start a foreign war and bring the world down. 

“Suck on them,” he orders, and you comply. Hollow out your cheeks, make sucking noises as you find everything you ever searched for in his eyes. Stability, warmth, a father. Switch, cutely, between sucking them and dancing your tongue around them. His index and pinky fit just right between the elongated clefts of your cheeks and he coos, grows hard underneath you, kisses the tip of your nose, onto which he whispers: “Such a good little girl.” 

You moan and he reacts so trenchantly fast, withdrawing his fingers and using them to slide your panties to the side, placing them on your clit and not moving. 

“So swollen,” he comments, kissing you for a beat of time without closing his eyes, without missing this moment. “I like it when you’re like this. Swollen, dripping and so horny for me. Like I’ve never taken care of you before.” He glides his fingers down, past your lips to your hole before going back up, rooting on your throbbing clit before starting over. He etches desperation into your veins, stirs your butterflies to madness, and you breathe heavily. “No one will ever see you like this. No one, you hear me?” 

Your nod is automatic, thoughtless, and he’s pleased to the core. Enough that he begins to massage circles on your clit, your wings fluttering, no longer limp, but full of zest. And he can sense it—and it touches him so much that he deepens the pressure while the circles remain agonizingly slow. Your body writhes. Yoongi smirks down at you, grins fully when you clutch the nape of his neck and make little noises into his T-shirt. And just as soon your vision begins to blur and you reach the cusp of your orgasm, he stops.

“What’s hurting you?” 

He reciprocates your feelings, so you have no reason not to tell him. It’s more of a problem with your speech. You’re so fucked out that you can’t speak. 

Yoongi waits for a few seconds before he spanks your pussy. Maneuvers you so you can look at yourself in the mirror, your back against his chest, and he collects your arousal while he pins back your thigh, drifting all four of his fingers along your femininity, stimulating you and punishing you at the same time. Then, he lets you see your slick trickling out of his digits. 

“Look how wet you are, don’t you want to come?”

He’s a dark figure behind you while you are a small creature, spread wide, drooling, dressed in a sinful shade of red that doesn’t indicate her purity, whose smeared red mouth leaks loud, whiny whimpers when he sticks one of those fingers inside your heat, adding another one right away once you accommodate around him. He fucks you with a force that reverberates throughout your whole body and his name that pours out of your mouth like a prayer is a cry for help all over again. He pumps his fingers and pulls away, edging you in such a sinister way that drives out your tears. 

He worsens your condition—like he invariably does. But the rapidness of his pace, it unlocks your mouth, it untwists your tongue, and you begin to babble. 

Incoherent words, nonsense noises; sounds that blossom in volume when he withdraws ultimately, pushes the lace of your bra away from your breasts and kneads them with wet fingers. 

And you erupt, at last, when he flicks your nipples. You flood his pants-clothed thighs and knees, your slick streaming all the way to the carpet. And the river continues on with his words.

“I know you want this cock. I know you want it deep in you. But you’re not getting it if you don’t tell me right now what it is you’re using me to forget about,” he whispers into your ear, tweaking your nubs, his hands descending down your body and pinching your clit. You cry out, the aftershocks of pleasure dizzying you, his manipulation technique in full effect, and you’ll give it to him. Because of his cock, because of his affection. “You have three seconds. One, two, three—”

“I love you,” you confess, screaming it out of your lungs, and his eyes enlarging and his mouth parting in shock is all you see before you’re thrown on the bed.

Before your panties are ripped in half and flung behind him. 

Before your pussy is eaten and fingered in a way that makes you come in four heartbeats. 

Yoongi’s skilled tongue flicks your clit, his fingers curl in that special spot that bespeckles your vision with the stars of the night sky beyond the hotel room window. And you don’t latch onto the fact you’ve drenched him with your juices until he straddles your thigh, arches over you and kisses you with love-drunkenness, his fingers sliding back inside. 

And he doesn’t start fucking you until he confesses something, too. 

“I love you, too.” 

His digits drill you, his eyes pierce your soul and your orgasms are countless like this, not bound to time, not bound to anything at all. You squirt on him, bathe him in the newness of your relationship, cleansing off the old. And then he’s inside of you, murmuring reassuring words against your mouth about how that shouldn’t be troubling your heart. And you cry, you sob, you scream, overtaken by it all, your mouth numb by his constant hard kisses and if you ever belonged to him in the past—you didn’t. Because at this moment, as he stuffs you full of his cum, you’re interwoven into his DNA for all eternity. 

One that he nurtures as he holds you in his arms and asks you about how long you’ve loved him. And he in return tells you that he loved you the moment you first had a taste of what he could give you—laughter, guidance, and orgasms. All from the first date. 

And when you kiss him for the last time before sleep steals you away, you know that you’ll never lack adrenaline in your life ever again. As long as you’re with him, you’ll be on the receiving end. And his unchanging promises will make you look forward to each day, your batteries charged and green—like your blooming woodland.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: tkslovechild , @jjk7k , @parkinglot-nights , @bethvar , @Sexytholland , @yoongibaybee , @crystaleah ,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan , @euphoricmyth , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk .

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[allurilove]

Yan!Prodigy x Rival you

Rated 18 + — mature short content !

Includes: enemies to lovers?— not really he falls in love pretty quick, first time kissing, stalking, admitting his feelings, he gets excited by the tiniest sight of skin, he’s delusional, gender neutral reader.

*I played violin for a couple of years, but my knowledge is a bit dusty and it’s been awhile 😬 And sorry for not posting! I’ve been busy with studying for the SAT! He is referred to as “your enemy” and this is purely fictional writing!*

Synopsis: He’s been on the top of his game for years. He’s known as the most talented violinist, and his ability to play has brought people to tears. All until you came along and threatened his legacy.

He was upset and furious that a nobody like you could win the spot of the first chair. You were now the center of attention, and not him. He wanted to break you down.

But… why did he find himself yearning for you?

He’s been practicing for years. He spent his whole life dedicating to the art of music. His fingers have been numb before, his wrist hurt, and he’s been staring at music sheets for so long— that everything looked like notes to him.

He’s been the first chair. He climbed his way to the top, he earned his reputation, and everyone admires him.

So, a little and measly talent like you shouldn’t have been in his spot. He had to audition for that seat—just like everyone else— but he knew that the directors loved him the moment he stepped on the stage.

He created masterpiece after masterpiece, and he’s a well sought out man.

He heard murmurs and whispers as he sat down behind you. He could feel everyone look at you with fascination, and admiration. He scowled and his grip on the neck of the violin was tight. He imagined ripping you out of the chair, or shoving his bow down your throat.

He had a steely gaze as you turned around to look at the person who had been glaring daggers at you. You smile at him, feeling a bit bad that you’re a newbie who took his usual position.

Why was his heart beating?

“Dont look at me.” The man scowled at you. His face slowly turning pink, and he looked away as you turned to face him again.

For the first time ever, he was distracted. As the show began he could hear his mistakes. He felt his hand shake, and he accidentally pressed down too hard on the string- causing an eerie squeaking noise. He looked up to see what you were doing and you are confident, each note of yours is perfect, and you were clearly the better choice. His eyes slowly widened as he became hypnotized by the way you moved, and the way your hand was so nimble.

“…fuck.” He was falling in love. That has never happened to him before. His body is filled with warmth, his heart fluttered, and he felt like he could float on the wave of happiness. For the first time ever�� he felt alive.

The person next to him gently kicked at his chair, and he snapped out of it. He looked back at the sheet, and he realized he lost his place. His eyes and ears frantically tried to figure out where they were.

The show was a nightmare. He got chewed out for the very first time, and he hung his head low. He made multiple mistakes, made a mockery of the whole orchestra, and organization. He apologized to everyone, and he seethed at how people thought he was slipping.

You were the only one to approach him. Your enemy threw his jacket on, ready to leave, but he paused when he saw you.

“Hey… I’m sorry-“

He raised a hand to stop you. “It’s not your fault.” He said curtly, and he grabbed his instrument case. He brushed past you, and quickly made it out of the building. He had to stop and take a breather- leaning on the wall as he felt red cheeks. He always felt a rush of adrenaline and excitement when you came close to him.

That’s when the stalking began. I mean it was a total accident, and he didn’t mean to find your apartment… he just happened to know it was yours, because of the way the melodic sound came from the window. He was across the street, and he was able to see you sway, and play with such emotion. He stood there for what felt like years, and he started to film you.

He would rewatch them at night in his bed. A huge smile on his face as he was able to relive that moment. Before he knew it… he kissed the screen.

He came to practice early in the morning. Your enemy had to keep up a cool facade, and he ignored your little “hello” to him. He sat in his chair, feeling a bit bitter, but he knew it was well deserved. You’re a good violin player, and he was coming to terms with it. He sighed as he brought his instrument out of the case, he took out his tuner, and he started to tune his instrument. He fiddled with the fine tuners, and eventually adjusting the pegs when that didn’t work.

The whole entire time… he glanced at you. His heart swelled up as he saw you take off your jacket, and he gulped as he saw your shoulders.

Ohhh god.

He slightly groaned as his pants felt tighter.

He heard the peg creak, his fingers mindlessly kept turning and turning. He gasped as the string he was trying to tune snapped, he felt it hit his cheek, and out of surprise he dropped his violin.

He was so embarrassed as you helped him get an ice pack. You two were in the tiny hallway, an ice pack in your hand. Instead of handing it to him, you placed it on his cheek for him. You made him feel better, told a little joke about what happened and he let out a chuckle.

He saw you smile and step closer to him. Was this seriously happening? He immediately kissed you back as you pressed against him, one arm around your waist and the other on the back of your head. You tasted wonderful.

He started to moan out your name, your hand now down his pants, and he arched his back. His hands then gripped at the brick wall, his hips jerked with the movement, and he felt his orgasm coming pretty close.

He felt you pull down his pants and boxers, and you got down onto your knees, and your tongue stuck out to lick his length.

“God, I love you—“ He pants, his stomach tightening as his arousal grew.

“Hello?”

Hello?

His eyes came back to focus on your hand waving in his face. He gulped as he took a step back. You were confused as to what happened, you tried to speak to him, but it looked like he was lost in his thoughts. His face was flushed and he was murmuring incoherent things.

The man quickly snatched the ice pack and he panicked— his dick twitching— and he ran away from you.

Allure: It’s a pretty short fic, unedited, and i wrote this on my break 😭 yandere x zombie part three should be coming soon.

[pedroscurls]

just the tip (one-shot)

summary: you're ready to take the next step with logan, but you're still a bit nervous. pairing: old man!logan x fem!reader content warnings: explicit smut (18+, mdni), inexperienced reader, missionary, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, logan can't control himself, implied age gap (but no mention of age), no use of y/n. word count: 3k a/n: ok, this is yet another one-shot of complete old man logan filth. it never really is just the tip, is it? 🤭 i'm just so obsessed with logan and can't figure out which version of him i want to write on most days lol. honestly, idk where this idea originated from, but here we are... i just have a fantasy of old man logan showing me the ropes ya know... anyway, hope you enjoy! 🙂‍↕️

Logan doesn’t know what he did in this life to ever deserve you. Someone so sweet, so patient, so kind, so pure. He doesn’t even know why someone like you would ever be interested in someone like him. He knows he’s no longer in his prime – his hair now a gray shade, beard overgrown with more gray than brown, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, wrinkles around his face. 

And you… You’re obviously much younger than him – everyone is much younger than him – but your innocence and your purity makes you seem so much younger than you really are, despite being very mature for your age. You smile so sweetly at him, gaze at him with such kind eyes that he doesn’t ever feel deserving of you. 

But you had approached him first. All shy and unlike the rest of the girls in your group the night that you both met. You seemed so out of place, like maybe you had just been dragged along for the night because you were quiet, reserved, even when you had three drinks and one shot of tequila already. 

The rest of your group was loud, outfits way too revealing that everyone had eyes on them. They craved and yearned for the attention, but you were fine with being in the background. This wasn’t usually how you spent most Friday nights, but your friends had convinced you and you owed one of them a favor. 

You weren’t the prettiest in the group and you certainly never got the attention of anyone else when you were with them, but you didn’t mind. Your friends never made you feel less than you were, always the ones to reassure you and give you the confidence that you lacked. 

And that night was no different. They had given you the confidence to approach Logan who was keen on spending just a couple of hours drinking his problems and nightmares away. Alone. 

But when you sat next to him and flashed him that sweet smile paired with those kind eyes, Logan knew he wouldn’t have the strength to turn away from you. He tried to act like he wasn’t interested, tried to act like talking to you was an inconvenience, but it never deterred you. Instead, you remained seated next to him all throughout the night even well past the time the bar was closing. 

“Your friends left you,” Logan told you. 

“That usually is the plan,” you admitted. 

His head tilted. “The plan is to go home with a stranger? Sounds dangerous if you ask me, bub.”

“I don’t usually do this.” 

“Do what?” 

“Go home with a stranger.” 

“Ain’t going home with me,” Logan whispered. “I don’t do this either. Too old for this, actually.”

Logan didn’t miss the way your face fell at his words. All night, he kept asking himself why did you pick him? What was so special about him that you decided to spend the rest of your night talking to him? 

“If I did invite you back to my apartment, would you say yes?” You asked quietly, your kind eyes now filled with hope. 

“Don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. 

You didn’t push him, wanted to respect his decision and his boundaries. So instead, you grabbed a napkin off the bar counter and a sharpie before writing your name and phone number. “Call me?”

“Sure,” Logan lied, staring down at the napkin. 

Once outside the bar, you pulled out your phone. “Well, I better call a Lyft now. It was really great talking with you, Logan.” 

“Let me take you home at least,” he muttered. 

“Oh, you don’t have to.” 

“I’m a driver,” he chuckled lowly. “If you called a Lyft, there’s a high chance that it’d be me who takes you home anyway.” 

“Okay,” you smiled up at him and Logan felt his heart race even faster at the sight. 

And since then, you and Logan had developed a friendship that soon turned physical. Heavy make out sessions and lingering touches, but you hadn’t taken that extra step, hadn’t gone the full distance. 

–

“I think I’m ready,” you tell him, hands resting on his shoulders as you sit on his lap. 

“For?” Logan asks, head tilting as his strong hands rest on your upper thighs. 

“To have sex with you.” 

Logan clears his throat, can feel his manhood stir beneath his pants. He stares into your eyes, tries to search for any uncertainty but you look determined. You look like you’ve made up your mind. 

“Sweetheart,” he sighs. “You know I’m fine with what we’ve been doing. I don’t want to push you or make you feel like you need to do this for me. We’ll go at your pace.”

“I trust you,” you admit quietly. “I’m not… experienced like other women my age should be, but–”

“Inexperienced or not, I don’t care about that.” Logan lifts you off his lap and sets you on the couch instead, his hands immediately moving to cover the center of his pants. “We don’t have to–”

“I want this, Logan. I want you. All of you.” You bite your lower lip and move to settle on your knees on the couch, staring up at him. “I’m not a virgin, but I haven’t been with many men before.” 

Logan’s eyes narrow at you. “Oh, that so?” He isn’t sure why he feels jealous at your words, imagining other men who've had you in their bed. He’s had a taste of you, knows exactly what to do to get you to come and you’ve done the same to him. And yet, he hasn’t had you in a way these other men have. 

You nod at him, so innocent and pure written on your features. He can sense your nervousness, but he can also smell your arousal. It hits his senses all at once and his gaze darkens. “I just don’t want to disappoint you.” 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Logan smirks. “I’ve seen the way you suck my cock,” he growls. “You ain’t gonna disappoint me.” 

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, feel the wetness begin to settle between your legs, dampening your panties at his words. You loved when he would talk dirty to you; it only excited you even more. “Y– You like that, huh?” 

Logan nods and stands up from the couch, lifting you into his arms without issue. “Of course,” he whispers, taking you to his bedroom as he walks into the room with you in his arms. “I love the fact that you like doing it too.” 

You nod in agreement. “I do love it.” 

Logan grins and sets you on his bed, watching as you prop yourself on your hands with your lower lip pulled between your teeth. And he wants so badly to respond and tell you that he loves you, but he doesn’t. Everyone that he’s ever loved was taken from him, so he doesn’t say anything. 

“I know, you’re like a crazed animal.” Logan chuckles. 

You pout up in his direction and gently reach out to tug on the waistband of his pants, pulling him to stand between your legs as your free hand moves to massage his crotch. 

“See what I mean?” He groans, hardening even further with every graze of your hand. Logan gently takes your hand from him and shakes his head, lifting you further up the bed as he climbs atop of you. “You sure about this?” 

You nod and move your hands to rest on his chest, feeling the muscle flex beneath your fingertips. “Yes,” you say almost breathlessly. “I’m just a bit nervous.” 

Logan’s gaze softens and he looks down at you. You had broken through his hard exterior, had nestled your way into his heart, and even Charles had taken notice. You make him feel young again, like not all of the world’s responsibilities are weighing heavy on his shoulders. With you, he feels free, at peace. You manage to quiet all of the voices in his head, but he’d never tell you that. 

“We’ll go at your pace,” he whispers, moving his hand down your side. 

“I’m just nervous I won’t be able to take all of you,” you admit. 

Logan chuckles and leans back on his knees to gently tug down your shorts and panties. He tosses it carelessly to the side and instantly, he smells your arousal hit his senses. He looks down at your lower half, sex glistening with your wetness. “It’ll fit,” he says lowly, hands moving up your legs. “We’ll make sure it does.” 

“Maybe just start with the tip?” you ask, grabbing the ends of your oversized t-shirt above your head. You lie back down, hair splaying on his pillows as your body is now fully exposed and on full display for him.

Logan nods, pulling off his white tank-top over his head. He stands up momentarily to push down his pants, his manhood now standing at attention and leaking at the tip. He reaches down and strokes himself once, twice, before he settles himself between your legs. 

“Gonna get you ready for me first,” Logan whispers, his large hand splaying over your abdomen as it slides down towards where you need him the most. He hovers above you, lips resting just near your ear as he slowly slides his middle finger past your folds. It slides in with ease, your slickness allowing for easy entry. Logan gently nips on your earlobe, grunting in your ear as you let out a quiet whimper at the intrusion. 

“Logan,” you moan quietly, moving a hand to rest on his large bicep, gripping it tightly. This isn’t the first time Logan’s fingered you, but the anticipation of what’s to come has you clenching around his digit unintentionally. 

“Already so wet f’me,” he whispers into your ear, slowly adding another digit into your depths. Logan ruts against the mattress, trying to find his own relief as he slowly begins to pump his fingers in and out of you. 

You turn your head and bury your face against the crook of his neck, teeth grazing against his skin. “Logan,” you whimper, gasping quietly as you feel another digit enter you. 

“That’s three already, sweetheart,” Logan growls as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you. When he feels your teeth gently bite down on his neck, he groans, thrusting his three digits inside of you as he begins to curl his fingers within your depths. “Come f’me, honey.”

“Logan, I–” you shut your eyes tightly and arch your back, your breasts pushing against his chest. Your walls tighten even further around his digits, your hips rolling upwards as you ride out your high. 

Logan smirks and pulls back slowly, looking down at you as your chest heaves up and down. He pulls his fingers from you and looks down at it, his digits glistening with your arousal. He brings it to his lips and sucks your arousal from his fingers, eyes staring into your own once your eyes open. “Ready?” 

You nod, biting your lower lip in anticipation. “Just the tip, okay?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” Logan says, leaning back on his knees as he reaches down to grasp onto the base of his manhood. He leans in closer, running his tip along the length of your sex, applying pressure to your bundle of nerves.

You look down between your legs and bite your lower lip. The sight of him holding onto the base of his length as he rubs his tip up and down the length of your sex, until his tip catches against your opening. “Logan…” you whimper, reaching out for him but he just uses his free hand to grab a hold of your wrists, pinning them above your head. 

Slowly, Logan pushes his tip into you, feeling your tight walls immediately surround him. He groans and then pulls back, running his tip once more along you. Logan’s grip around your wrists tighten, pressing them further into the mattress as he pushes his tip – and only his tip – inside of your depths. Logan looks down and slowly pushes further into you, hearing you quietly gasp as a few more inches past his tip enter you.

“Logan, wait, baby–” 

Logan growls and then suddenly slams all the way into you in one stroke. The warmth of your walls surround him, so tight and so wet as his lower half presses firmly against yours. “Fuck,” he groans, his now free hand coming up to rest on your cheek. 

You feel your toes curl at the intrusion – nothing Logan did would have ever prepared you for the size of him. You can feel every inch and vein of his length inside of you, throbbing and stretching you. It’s so much, all at once, that when he pulls back only to thrust back in all the way, it causes your eyes to flutter. 

“I said–” you moan. “Start with the tip…”

“Couldn’t help myself,” he groans, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “You feel so good around me, sweetheart.” Logan feels your legs wrap around his waist, your ankles locking together at his lower back. 

You nod in agreement, tears stinging your eyes. Logan’s so deep and it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. You keep your eyes open and trained on him. He hadn’t removed his glasses, now staring at you from the top of his glasses. You try to wiggle your hands free, but Logan’s grip just tightens even further. 

“Logan, oh god,” you moan, his slow thrusts now picking up speed. He pulls out to his tip and then slams back into you, his tip kissing your cervix with each thrust. His hand moves from your cheek to grip your hip, fingertips digging into the meat of your flesh. 

He knows that he probably won’t last any longer, the feeling of your tight walls gripping him, the way he’s easily sliding in and out of your depths due to how wet you are for him. It’s in moments like this where he doesn’t know why you still stick around, why you still continue to choose him. Logan releases your hands and grips your hips in both hands, pulling back to look down at you. Logan continues to thrust into you, the sound of his skin slapping against yours echo off the walls of his room. 

Your hands immediately move to grip his sheets and he can feel your walls begin to tremble once more, can feel you begin to tighten around his length. Logan groans, eyes moving along your frame, his gaze lingering at the sight of your breasts bouncing with each sharp thrust he delivers. He knows his grip around your hips will leave marks and the thought of you walking around, going about your day with marks of him suddenly makes him feel territorial, suddenly has this desire to make everyone know that you’re his. 

“Logan, I’m gonna–” 

“Yeah, baby,” he groans. “I know, come f’me.” 

And just on cue, your legs tighten even further around his waist as your walls tighten around his length. He can feel you shaking, can feel just a rush of wetness. “Logan!” 

He groans. He’d never get tired of hearing his name escape your lips at the height of pleasure. Logan’s hips stutter, feeling a tightness build in the pit of his stomach as he chases his own release. He releases your hips to rest his hands on the mattress near your head, slamming his hips into yours – once, twice, three times before he releases inside of you, his seed filling you. He should have asked first, should have thought about using a condom, but when he pulls out of you and watches his seed trickle out of you, the guilt disappears immediately. 

You stare up at him and then follow his gaze down between your legs, watching his spend come out of you and drop down onto his mattress, staining his sheets. “You’ll have to wash these now,” you tease, your voice almost breathless. 

“Worth it,” he whispers, leaning down and gently pecking your lips. 

“Was that– Was I okay?” you ask quietly, your hands slowly moving to his hair. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Logan says softly. “We’re gonna be doing more of that.”

 An excitement flickers in your eyes and you grin, leaning up on your elbows to gently capture his lips with your own. “And just so we’re clear… I don’t mind that you came inside.” 

Logan pulls back and looks down at you. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I like knowing that I can still feel you.” 

Logan smirks and he can feel himself slowly begin to get hard again. His regenerative powers aren’t all that quick anymore, so he’s surprised that his manhood is stirring awake, yearning for you yet again. 

“Next time we do this,” you begin quietly. “Can I ride you?” 

Logan groans as he moves his hips, his tip slowly brushing against you. He slowly lies on his back and reaches down to stroke himself, eyes running across your frame. “Come on, then.” 

“Wait,” you bite your lower lip. “You’re– How?” 

“You make it easy,” he winks, reaching out to gently tap your hip. “Take what you need, sweetheart.”

You move to straddle his hips and Logan looks down to see his release trickle out of you, dripping onto the hair at his base. He stares up at you, feeling you slide down his length and he watches you tilt your head back, a moan escaping your lips. Logan bites his lower lip, hands moving to your hips as he gazes up at you. Logan knows that you’re way out of his league, that you deserve to be with someone closer to your age, but fuck – he’s going to keep you for as long as you allow. 

Because Logan knows that he’s so deep in his feelings for you that he won’t ever choose to let you go. 

And now, as you’re slowly rocking your hips, he’s going to keep this image in his mind until the day he dies. 

His girl. His.

[pricesprincess]

from this ask | 1.4k wc | smut mdni | incest | dark content | breeding | daddy kink (you say dad as well) | milestone event

"mom!" your stomps could shake the entire house from anger as you came down the stairs, your face twisted in annoyance from the bathroom sink being covered in wiry dark brown beard hair, again.

it was the third time this week you've voiced your distaste loud enough that john, your stepdad could hear you but it didn't matter. it was obvious he loved getting under your skin and riling you up.

your mom leaned against the counter dressed in a blouse and slacks with heels that scream businesswoman. ever since the divorce she went through a phase of getting a whole new job and work harder.

her spending time away from home also came with the new job, her time was solely for trips and business dinners and since you were busy with renovating the pool house in the back for your own place you spent a lot of time decorating and getting everything in order.

john also came with the new job, her version was that they met at a coffee place that she frequents but to him, it's the grocery store but wherever they met was where they fell in love you suppose.

"i don't have time for this honey, i have to get to work. breakfast is in the oven, i'll see you later tonight you two." your mom told you with a kiss on the cheek and a hug for john who used only one arm.

clearly, they were having issues and you could tell. john opted to sleep on the couch when she stayed the night here and when she didn't he sometimes would crawl into your bed for some cuddles.

your plush body melded so perfectly to him he had to remind you time and time again how you were made for him, and that's all that ever happened even though you wanted your stepdad, badly.

was it gross? maybe.

but did you care? hell no.

not when he was sad and lonely, the way he held you and nuzzled his face into the softness of your neck as he groped your hips and just holding you close to him, back to chest that way he could enjoy your scent that wafted around him like a morning haze. soft and sweet.

you couldn't even remember the last time it was when you had someone to hold you and to banter back and forth with, which isn't an excuse but you were only a human who craved attention.

the moment the door clicked close you turned to john with a look that could kill, your upper lip curling. "must you do that? you need to shave outside since you're a bear, hairy all over the place." you huffed.

john's grin widened as he placed his coffee cup down bringing your attention to his attire, a loose t-shirt, and sweats where you could see the outline of what he had to offer. "want to shave for me then?"

"i'd rather shave a rat's ass before helping you." you hissed annoyed with the hair you'd have to clean up once more. he chuckled and brushed past you with a wink before heading up the stairs.

your bratty attitude was like red flares as you stomped back upstairs to the guest bedroom making a show of cleaning the hair. "i don't think your mum spanked you enough since you act like this at your grown age." john murmured when he appeared in the doorway.

warmth flushed through your entire body as you felt the flame of desire meltdown to sap that flowed through your veins like honey. "have a baby with her then if you want to discipline someone." you shot back with a fake smile hating the idea of that.

john took that as an invitation and stepped inside the bathroom shutting the door even though there was no need for it, his look was predatory as his eyes drank you in, your pussy almost ate your cotton sleeping shorts and nestled between warm plush thighs.

years of yearning and subtle touches boiled over igniting the room with the heat of desire and need. "i don't have any kids of my own so you're going to be a good girl and help me with that, aren't you?"

your eyes went wide and your jaw went slack as a second heartbeat came to life in your clit, you ached to be touched by him. you couldn't say anything but step forward to crush your lips to his quickly.

they were warm and a bit dry but flavored with coffee which you tasted more when your tongue glided against his as john drew you closer in an embrace that made you feel like jelly as he held you.

his hands went down to your ass, groping and massaging the globes as he rutted against you before he was pushing you against the counter. "gonna make you a mamma and you're gonna make me a daddy." john rasped as his mouth moved to your neck and chest.

while his lips suckled on your pulse point his fingers drifted along the bottom hem of your shirt before he slid his palms under the fabric to pinch and twist your nipples into stiff peaks, tweaking the pleasure that zipped up your spine. "don't tease me dad, i want you so bad."

"no daddy? you're a nasty girl who needs to keep her mouth occupied." without any words you dropped to your knees pawing at the band of his sweats to pull them down freeing his fat cock.

you parted your mouth and leaned forward eager to suckle the tip to hear him hiss and grip the counter as he leaned over you and bullied his dick to the back of your throat making you sputter wetly.

john held your head still and fucked your mouth as you kneeled so prettily for him, his cock throbbed on your tongue that you used to lave every warm and silky inch of skin while you cupped his sack.

there was no thinking about anything else or how this was wrong on many levels you just didn't care, not when john looked at you like you were his own personal pornstar ready to do whatever it is.

your eyes flicked up to him and you smiled with them as you gagged around his cock, your fist jerking off whatever was left that you couldn't suck on as you bobbed up and down giving him your all.

before he busted in your mouth and ruined his load john pulled you off him with a wet pop, and then he helped you up while you shucked your shorts off and hopped up on the counter spreading your legs.

john met your heated gaze as he stood between your thighs, your pussy slick and pretty as it glistened under the light. unable to help himself he thumbed your clit softly and sucked your essence off it.

"fuck me please, dad." you begged, your hands busy squeezing your breasts as you batted your eyelashes at john with a sweet pout.

"you're making it hard not to darlin'." he muttered and fisted the base of his dick to slap the tip of it against you with a chuckle hearing you moan then he afforded you the pleasure by thrusting just the head in.

it was enough to make your eyes go wide as you gripped his shoulders to wrap your legs around his waist pulling him forward giving him no chance to go anywhere as he bottomed out.

john growled in your ear feeling your wet heat so tight around his cock. "you're going to be such a pretty momma." he cooed in your ear as he found a slow pace making sure you felt how he throbbed in you.

you felt so full of him.

the bathroom filled with your pants that fogged the mirror as he folded you up more and fucked you deeper, your knees pressed back as he held your thighs obscenely wide open for his viewing pleasure.

he watched as you coated his cock with a creamy white sheen that made him groan deep in his chest, moving one hand he pressed down on your lower tummy savoring your soft squeals.

your orgasm ripped open causing you to cry out and knock over the bottles as you gasped and writhed under him when his thumb joined in to circle your clit making your cunt spasm around john.

it wasn't long before his hips were stuttering and his own climax rose high and crashed over him sending tingles down his spine as he coated your walls with a thick load that he kept you plugged up with.

john held you close to him as you both came down from your highs that cleared your head. "we should probably start crib shopping." he whispered in your ear before he pulled out and kept you plugged.

comments and relogs with tags are really appreciated <3

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ to have & to hold ]❜

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ you allow him to possess you entirely, body & soul┊1.2k words

kinktober 2024: oct 8. virginity loss

setting: logan (2017) old man! logan contains: fluffy smut!! dom logan & sub reader┊age gap, virginity loss, receiving oral & fingering, unprotected piv, abrupt ending

➤ author's note: i’m sorry for this being short and the abrupt ending, i’m just so tired from college because my substitute professor is a bitch and i have to work twice as hard just to get a 70% T-T the single mother reader is ending up to have three parts so look forward to that when kinktober is over teeheehee

your old man isn’t sure what kind of small deed of goodwill he must have done decades ago to deserve you, but it makes him perform more of them in his day-to-day life thanks to the existence of the biggest blessing of his miserable life. every time he comes back after a long day of work and dealing with customers of varying irritation levels, there you are patiently waiting for him no matter how late into the night it was. you help take off his suit jacket and tie in well-rehearsed moments, whistling a little old-timey tune on your lips and asking him how his day was.

he’s never really been a talkative guy, so most of the time he’ll just say it was fine and leave it at that, but occasionally, he’s willing to complain and vent about something that happened that got on his nerves. all the while, you’re finishing off a freshly cooked meal with garnish and serving it to him with a smile, listening to everything he has to say and massaging his weary muscles. 

usually, however, you’re the one doing all of the talking, telling him about what happened today at work with that annoying co-worker and how you got invited to the wedding of an old friend from high school. he settles himself in the worn leather recliner and feels himself relax with your voice almost acting like a form of meditative music, and even if he doesn’t look like it, he listens to every word— you can tell because he doesn’t turn the newspaper page once and asks little questions like “who?” “when did that happen?” “is that so?” instead of just humming deafly.

he doesn’t even remember how you ended up moving in with him and acting like his housewife, giving him a taste of domestic life he didn’t realize he was yearning for. you’re just a stubborn little lady, he guesses, remaining persistent about how much you liked him despite his claims that you should steer clear of a bad man like him. he’s glad it ended up that way though, he couldn’t imagine where he would be without you by his side if you listened to him and went off with a human your own age who didn’t have the shackles he did. 

there’s always a bit of lingering guilt regarding the last part, worried that he’s holding you back from fully experiencing life like a ball and chain bound to your ankle, but you were an adult who was mature enough to make your own decisions. if you didn’t want this, you wouldn’t have spent over a year trying to pursue it with someone as headstrong as him. 

sometimes logan dozes off in that armchair, allowing you to drape a blanket over him and place a kiss on his forehead with a whisper of sweet dreams for the cherry on top. sometimes you coax him to join you in bed where it’s more comfortable, tangling your legs with his and clinging onto his frame like he was a giant living teddy bear. maybe he’ll do the same if he’s feeling particularly soft tonight instead of sleeping on his back like a soldier on active duty would. both of you always get a night of better sleep in the presence of the other, holding onto the dead weight of the other’s still body, feeling the slow rise and fall of their chest, and listening to their steady heartbeat.

yet your relationship had never gone past heated makeout sessions, not until tonight when you pleaded with him so sweetly to help you relieve the ache between your legs that you couldn’t fix yourself.

he’s hesitant at first, surprised at the slight and unfamiliar feeling of fear tugging at his consciousness. is this really okay? is a lovely angel like you really asking a dirty old man like him with the blood of dozens on his hands to be your first experience of something so intimate? he’s profoundly aware that he’s never been a good man, but maybe he would start now and let you go in your own direction…

before he could say anything, you reach out to kiss him, so tender and full of adoration to ease his worries. the way you look at him while gasping his name and making pleas for him is almost overwhelming with how blown-out your pupils are from need, looking at him like he was the only other soul in the world— like he was the only other soul in the universe who was meant to complete you.

he asks you one more time if you’re sure, absolutely sure, before taking the opportunity to 

taste the sweetness of your arousal and quickly realize that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get enough anymore, scraping at the soft skin of your inner thighs with his beard although the pressure in your core overpowered the feeling of friction. your hands find their way into his graying hair and tug on them whenever he swirls his tongue around your engorged clit, making him groan and repeat the motion until you gush all over his mouth.

then he drags a calloused finger along your folds, collecting your slick and instinctively licking his lips at the sight of it despite just eating you out seconds before. his eyes aren’t really what they used to be, he briefly wishes he had his glasses on so that he could watch your virgin pussy take his index followed by his middle. even if he can’t quite see it clearly, he can certainly feel your walls pulsating at the intrusion as you let out a breathy whine.

you feel a bit dizzy already from your first proper orgasm, much less from the pleasurable stretch of his fingers starting to move in a scissoring motion as your cheeks burned in embarrassment from how intently he was staring like a man hypnotized. if you were in your right mind, you would have asked him to quit it, but all you were focused on was the unfamiliar feeling of tension in your torso while he praised how tight you were.

logan is exhibiting more gentleness with you than he’s ever been with anything in all his two hundred years, scared of hurting you and treating you like a fragile porcelain doll. you basically need to beg him to fuck you right because you worry you’ll be far too exhausted to continue if he continues like this, already reaching peak at least three times now and needing to pull at his belt to free his throbbing erection.

kiss him when he lines himself up with you and slowly pushes in, allowing you to feel every inch of him and taste yourself on his lips. claw long scratches into his back as you take him, allowing his regenerative powers slowly take effect yet still being able to leave lasting marks in his skin for him to admire the next day. tell him you love him when he finally bottoms out in you, watching him through teary eyes as he rests his forehead on yours, and listen to his beating heart open up to you as he tells you he does too.

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗟𝗢𝗣𝗛𝗢𝗕𝗜𝗔

　　　　　　　　𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x reader

SUMMARY: Where Y/N has suffered with an eating disorder for years, but lately, - because of the some "fans" and social media - her insecurities have been taking her to a more than dangerous path, which she couldn't get out without help.

WARNING: anorex!a, eating disorder, comparison, self sabotage, self hatred, panic attack, pure angst... PLEASE read with caution!

REQUESTED?: No.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Atelophobia; the fear of not being good enough.

This was one of the millions of fears and problems that haunted Y/N's mind. Her head convinced her a long time ago that she simply wasn't enough; for her school teachers, for her classmates, for her friends, for her parents, past boyfriends... not even for herself.

This led her to listen to what others said and thought about herself since she was very young, the desire to be perfect and within society's standards in all aspects of a human being consumed her; personality, thoughts, knowledge... body.

She was told all the time how she should behave, act, and be. She was just a child, but that didn't seem to matter to those who did it, clogging her up with responsibilities and comparisons.

One thing led to another. Her desperation to be the best at everything started to include her own body. "Fat" was the first word people used to describe her. She had no control over the situations around her, but she had control over her weight.

Y/N was always the biggest girl in her class, and her classmates seemed to love reminding her of that; often being excluded from work groups, forgotten in groups of friends, or not chosen in any team during Physical Education classes.

Until the year when everything changed. During the school vacation, she decided to change, intending to return to school as a new girl. The new cycle started well, Y/N saw a nutritionist, cutting out all fatty foods from her routine and consuming only healthy ones. She started going to the gym daily, doing the recommended training time. All of this led her to lose a significant amount of weight.

Soon, the vacation was over, and with that, the negative comments from her classmates were replaced by positive comments. Girls asking what she had done to lose weight like that, searching for advice and seeing her as a miracle. Boys saying how changed and prettier she looked.

How could she not fall in love with her own illness?

So, that made her feel good. Too good... her mind began to yearn to become thinner, more beautiful, just to hear more from others. And then the healthy diet and the one hour training at the gym were no longer enough for her. She needed more if she wanted to be better.

Y/N then intensified her training, staying at the gym for 2 hours per day, doing more reps with more weight. She crossed out several foods from the list of permitted that her nutritionist had made, choosing for herself the ones she thought were ideal, until it had almost nothing left.

Her brain self-sabotaged so that she wouldn't go out with her friends, because they would definitely want to eat somewhere and she wouldn't be able to.

She no longer participated in family dinners, creating excuses so as not to be forced to sit at the table and eat.

Her mind convinced her that she wasn't thin enough to satisfy her boyfriends' sexual and non-sexual desires, which made her pull away during or at the beginning of any relationship she had until the guy got tired, or she simply ended it.

She spent hours on the internet, searching for sensational diets that reduced daily calories to 500 or less, promising extraordinary weight loss. In addition to getting on the scale at least 4 times a day, hoping for a miracle every time she looked at the numbers.

Y/N replaced her eating schedules with random hobbies like drawing, learning a new instrument, or picking flowers from her garden to make flower crowns, occupying her time and mind.

Some things scared her, her period hadn't come in months, clumps of hair fell out every time she ran her hands through it. Her vision went dark at least 3 times a day. Her body shivered from the complete cold of her insides, and her stomach hurt more than usual.

But she had to suffer them alone since she had no one to talk to about, always alone.

Until Y/N met Matt.

Matt was the boy who made her want to get better. He encouraged her to look for a hospital that fit her preferences, where Y/N finally began to receive psychiatric and psychological care.

Her diet changed for the better, into foods that Y/N saw as safe. She did not abandon the gym but reduced the weight and time, maintaining her training just for the health of her muscles, as she had lost a lot of lean mass during her worst moment.

The calculator in her head finally stopped. Her eyes started seeing food as just food and not as the enemy. Her stomach craved for all the snacks she loved, and she finally ate them, without feeling guilty.

Matt was so thoughtful about her entire situation, having suffered himself with extreme anxiety from a young age. He could tell he understood in parts what it was like to live with a mental illness.

So he helped her maintain her healthy diet and eat all her daily meals within her limit - often opting to eat together in their room, since he knew the trepidation Y/N still felt about doing it in front of other people.

Matt praised her in every possible situation, trying not to be extreme but to show his intense love and support for the girl. All of that was helping her a lot.

Until it wasn't.

Y/N and Matt never hid their relationship from the public, the girl knew how famous her boyfriend was and how difficult it could be to keep their relationship hidden, they would be seen together at one time or another.

So it wasn't surprising that the girl appeared in some of the triplets' pictures sometimes, and that's what happened that Friday.

As usual, Nick posted a photo dump on the triplets Instagram to promote the publication of their new car video, and one of the photos was of Matt and Y/N, specifically one in which the two were sitting on the couch in their living room, the girl had her legs draped over Matt's thighs, while his tattooed arm wrapped tightly around her waist, huge smiles decorating their faces.

It was a cute photo, but apparently, that wasn't what fans thought.

While Matt and his brothers were in the kitchen, preparing healthy snacks - a habit they built through the girl, but which in the end helped everyone -, Y/N was lying on her bed in the room she shared with Matt, wrapped in too-warm covers, holding her phone with her right hand while her left hand wrapped around her stomach in an almost painful grip.

Her thumb scrolled through the comments screen beneath the post. Almost everyone there talking about her picture with Matt.

"Matt can do so much better than her"

"I really don't know what he saw in her"

"She's going to end up crushing him like that"

"I'll pay for the gym for her if that's the price for Matt to have a worthy girlfriend"

And so on, it was as if they knew all of Y/N's weaknesses.

Some fans of them could be cruel when they wanted to, and Y/N knew this by heart since seeing Nick crying several times because he was body shamed, or when she noticed Chris being quieter than usual after reading comments saying how loud he was and how that was unbearable.

Her heart was crushed every time she saw Matt suffer in silence until he couldn't hold it in any longer and finally cried in her lap for hours after reading people saying how insignificant and quiet he was in the videos.

Even though a huge mass of the fandom loved them with all their hearts and took care of them as much as the distance of a phone screen allowed, it still wasn't enough to swallow the hate comments.

But when it came to Y/N, more than half of the fandom turned against her. Maybe out of envy, but it was obvious that the girl didn't see it that way. She was convinced that they were right.

Her heart tightened as if someone was crushing it with their bare hands. The air seemed to escape her lungs, and the lunch she ate hours before seemed to want to go up her throat. Her fingers trembled as she held her stomach, feeling everything she had and didn't have there. Her eyes began to water, her lips quivering from the tears that wanted to escape.

Y/N quickly moved her finger to the back button, hoping to break out of the horrible cycle she was about to enter. A loud sob escaped her lips when, upon finally leaving the post, her feed reloaded, and a picture of a model that Y/N followed and admired appeared.

Comparison was her biggest enemy.

Negative thoughts about herself began to pollute her mind, everything around her becoming a fog. The sounds coming from the kitchen became muffled to her ears. Y/N's right hand - which was holding her phone - was gripping the device in such a way that her fingers turned white. Painful sobs escaped her mouth as her eyes remained fixed on the woman's perfect figure.

Why can't I be like her?

The longing for the sensations she felt when she starved hit her chest hard. The desire to want to be as thin as before - or more - filled her.

It didn't take long, and soon, the bedroom door was slowly opened, Matt's silhouette appearing behind it. His face was lit up with a smile - probably because of some joke his brothers made - while his right hand held a plate with two sandwiches.

His cheerful expression was replaced by a frown of concern. Matt quickly closed the door with his feet, walking towards the bed, haphazardly placing the plate on the nearest bedside table before sitting down on the mattress.

His hands flew to Y/N's waist, stopping over her own hand that was squeezing her skin with a force that was sure to leave it bruised.

The girl seemed to wake up from her trance, lifting her head and meeting Matt's calming - but worried - gaze. She cried harder as she imagined what her boyfriend would be thinking of her now.

Automatically, her mind started to play her current state, messy hair, swollen and red face, skin wet with tears, eyes half closed and mouth open, allowing sobs to escape from there.

"M-Matt-" Her sentence was cut off by a sob, her eyes closing tightly.

Matt took a deep breath, trying to process what to do next. His left hand - the one that didn't cover hers - slowly took the phone, taking it out of his girl's death grip. He glanced briefly at the screen, automatically understanding what was happening before locking it and putting the device aside.

He moved his body so that it was closer to hers, resting his hand on her spine and guiding her until she laid her head on his chest, caressing the area below his fingers.

Matt felt his heart break with every tremble that rocked the body beneath his caused by the sobs. If he could take that pain away from his girlfriend, he would.

"It's okay, baby, let it out. I'm right here." He cooed, his fingers caressed the tangled strands of her hair lightly, stroking the area while moving his upper body back and forth, slowly calming his girlfriend.

"Ma-Matty-" Y/N's voice was weak, wobbly from the pain in her heart.

Matt removed his hand from hers for a few seconds, stretching it to the bedside table - where the plate was -, taking the bottle of water that Y/N always filled before going to sleep. He opened the lid in one quick movement, bringing it close to his girl's face.

"Come on, my love. Sit down for a moment and take a sip of water. Please." The boy asked in a soft voice, helping Y/N straighten her posture before bringing the bottle closer to her lips, helping her take a few small sips of the contents.

He closed the bottle after making sure she was satisfied, placing it on the mattress before turning his attention to Y/N again. He brushed away the strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ear.

"What if they're right?" She asked in a whisper, catching her bottom lip between her teeth in an attempt to keep from crying.

"No, they aren't." Matt's tone was convincing, as if he was absolutely sure of what he was saying. "You are not worse than others because of your weight. You look great as you are. Your body is perfect, do you know why? Because he's healthy enough to carry you around and take care of you." The boy held her hands lightly, stroking the back of her fingers gently as he looked into her eyes. "The recovery journey is not easy, I remember the words your psychologist said to me when we had that session together. I imagine your head when you see clothes getting tighter, and these comments certainly make you want to give up, I know you, baby."

He paused momentarily, watching her reactions carefully.

Y/N knew that, recovery was hard work. Not wanting to die was hard work.

"Recovery is not a race. You don't have to feel guilty about taking less or more time than you originally thought or having relapses from time to time. This is part of the process, and I want you to understand this. You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my entire life. When I look at the most beautiful things, I remember you. In the pink tulips of the flower shop across the street, in the Cassiopeia constellation, in the bees that fly in our garden and in the greenest tree I have ever seen." Y/N let out a tearful laugh when she heard him mention the tree, knowing his immense love for nature. "Because you're pretty like them."

"I-I'm sorry." The girl whispered, sniffling then lowering her gaze in shame. "I... I saw the photos that Nick posted, and there were comments..." She shook her head, closing her eyes tightly.

"Oh baby." He leaned slightly over Y/N, sealing his lips over her warm forehead. "If you want to apologize, let me do it. If you went through this now, it was because of me."

"No, Matt. It was never and will never be your fault." Y/N shook her head, wiping her eyes momentarily with the sleeve of her - his - hoodie, sniffling slightly before taking one of Matt's hands, intertwining their fingers. "You don't control people, much less through the internet. They will always talk a lot because they are behind a screen that protects them, but that will never be your fault. I would rather go through this a thousand times and have you with me than never have you again."

"I understand." He paused momentarily. "Please, don't let it get to that point again while you're alone. If you see something that upsets you or makes you feel bad, turn it off instantly and call me. I want to be there to help you. I want to be there for you." The brunette asked, staring at her eyes.

Y/N sighed, nodding her head and leaning slightly closer to him, resting her forehead on Matt's shoulder, exhaling the softening scent and perfume that exuded from the fabric of the hoddie on his body.

Her eyes burned from the tears she shed, closing them tightly to prevent more from falling, her heart still feeling sore from everything.

"If you want, we can contact that psychologist again, the one who helped you throughout the process at the hospital." Matt lowered his head, bringing his face closer to the back of Y/N's head, pressing his lips against his girl's hair, closing his eyes as he felt the warmth of her body close to his. "I want to attend some sessions just like we did last time, so I understand how I can help you this time."

Y/N felt her heart warm instantly, her free hand snaking to Matt's thigh closest to her, stroking the covered skin lightly.

"Okay."

Matt loved Y/N more than he loved himself, and he would make sure that she understood that she wasn't alone anymore.

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[parfaitblogs]

illicit affairs ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you want more than spencer reid can give you. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst (18+ for suggestive content) tags: relation(situation)ship. s7 spencer. mentions of past intimacy. unrequited feelings. spencer's not the best person ever. kinda fade to black & unhappy ending (welcome back june parfaitblogs). reader has kinda bad self-worth. word count: 2.5k a/n: soooo fucking cliche man chases the girl after she leaves. im sorry. except im not. so sorry for whatever ooc thing spencer reid does in this. except it isnt ooc. tell me he didnt have a whore phase in s7. u cant. im sorry this is soooo dialogue heavy LOL.

Fractured shards of your soul scatter this apartment. 

This Godforsaken green-walled, quaint apartment, that you had spent so much of your time in. Nights, not days, because his days were spent yearning for an engaged woman. His nights, however, were reserved for you. Most of them, at least. Some of them. A few of them. Not many of them at all, actually.

It was a little embarrassing; how much of yourself you were willing to disrespect for some attention from a man who probably didn't think much about you outside of your presence inside his walls. But then he would touch you, and he would kiss you, and all self-deprecation will go out the window. For he is so gentle, and he knows every single crevice and button to press on your body like he speaks its language. 

Embarrassing.

It started innocently. A night spent with him after you had been broken up with, resulting in one awful decision that led to the other. Crying in his arms, to kissing him, to having sex, which he was rebutting all up until it actually happened. Rambling about transference while still leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck, shaking his head because you two should not be doing this. 

A week later you went back to him. You were sad, in your defence, and Spencer Reid was your friend first. He was good at distracting you, you learned. You would cry, and thus, he would make you come to forget about it. Like clockwork. 

At some point it changed from a coping mechanism, to an emotional necessity. You stopped thinking about your broken heart, and instead about how good Spencer was to you. Which might've been your biggest mistake.

You were not to him what he was to you anymore. 

And maybe he knew that. A laughable idea, because Spencer Reid, who could be slapped in the face with a poster that said I am in love with you in big bold letters, would still be oblivious to it all. But maybe he knew.

You had to ask this time to come over. Maybe pathetic, how much of your self-worth you relied on whether or not a man you weren't even dating wanted to see you. How much of your world had crumbled around you because it had been two weeks and he hadn't spoken to you outside of discussing a case. 

It was definitely pathetic how small you felt as you sat in the corner of his couch, a glass of water you didn't really want to drink encased in your palms, condensation seeping into your skin. In your defence, it didn't usually go like this. Usually, it took you all of three seconds to get insidehis apartment before he started kissing you. Why wasn't he kissing you?

You could hear the faint sound of shuffling behind you, glasses clinking together and ceramics settling on the marble countertop. The only other indicator Spencer was even there was his irregular breathing. Irregular from what, you didn't know. 

Another beat of silence passed, and with it, your patience. You set the glass down on the coffee table — something he would’ve scolded you over if not for the thick layer of tension between you two.

"Did you not want me to come over?" You regret the words the second they're out of your mouth, and they uncomfortably pierce the air, only to be followed by another thick blanket of fucking silence. You had already said it — you might as well commit. "Spencer?" 

You lifted your gaze from its fixated position on your lap to find him standing still in the kitchen, a bowl in his hands, still damp from its time in the dishwasher. 

"You know you're always welcome here," he replied when you had locked gazes. 

"That's not what I asked," you said, readjusting your body, chest pressed up against the back of the couch, chin resting atop its ledge. You watched as he dried the bowl and put it away, his shoulders deflating, before he turned back to face you. 

"I do want you here," he said, but even with the finality in his voice, you were sceptical. 

"Are you sure?" you despised the insecurity that seeped into your tone.

He stilled again, and even with the distance between you two, you could see gears turning behind his eyes, coming up with a response that wouldn't break your heart, probably. Because he knew.

He could lie. Say that yes, he is sure, and he does want you in his apartment right now, and he wasn't simply entertaining your own desires. Desires that he seemingly had grown tired of. But you would figure him out immediately, and maybe he knew that as well. Stupidly smart Spencer Reid thinking ahead, frustratingly so. 

Instead, he said your name, in an awfully cautious tone. Maybe lying would've hurt less. He took a step around the kitchen counter, ever so slowly closing the distance between you two. 

"It's okay if you don't want me here," you tell him, forcing a reassuring smile and stopping him in his tracks. "You're not forced to amuse me."

"Do you think that's what I'm doing?"

"Yes. You've hardly said a word to me, and I've been here twenty minutes," you rebutted. 

"I told you on the phone that I had some maintenance chores to do." Okay, true. "Once they're done, I'm all yours."

You shouldn't say anything. You knew that. The words on the tip of your tongue would cause an argument, and he had just technically promised to do what you both knew you had come to do, and after two weeks of hearing nothing, any attention from him was good attention. You shouldn't.

But you did. "Are you really?"

His eyes closed and a harsher breath of air expelled through his nose, his hands flexing by his side as he took a moment to respond. "What does that mean?"

"Are you really all mine?" you cringed even as you asked the question. And, you already knew the answer. 

"What do you want my answer to be?"

You could scream. "That isn't fair, Spencer."

"Do you want it to be yes?"

You didn't want to answer that honestly, too afraid of the rejection that was sure to follow. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, this is a relationship, and relationships need communication—"

"—A relationship?" you repeated back to him, incredulously. "You think this is a relationship?" 

Fingers dug into his eyes, and his shoulders sagged further. "What is it, then?"

"Convenient." The word stung even you, despite being the one to have said it. 

Or maybe it didn't hurt him. For he responded, in an achingly calm tone, "Explain that to me."

"Don't use profiling techniques on me," you countered, and he watched as your walls shot up around you. 

"Asking you to explain something to me isn't a profiling technique," he said, taking another step towards your residence on the couch.

"No, but the tone of voice you're using is."

"Would you rather I yell at you?"

"No—Spencer," you stammered so frustratingly in an attempt to come up with a response, emotions taking authority of your brain functions. "I come here when I'm sad, we fuck, I go home. That's all this is. That isn't a relationship."

"I could argue what a relationship legitimately is."

"Please don't."

"Okay," he agreed with a short nod. "Do you want more out of this arrangement, then?"

"Can you give me more if I do?"

His silence was answer enough, and so slowly but surely, you were untangling your limbs from themselves on the couch, and planting your feet on the floor.

"Where are you going?" he asked as you stood up.

"Home," you replied, curtly, and he watched in a still silence as you left. 

The slam of his apartment door was loud, and it echoed throughout the hall. Feet pattered against the stairs as you descended them, quickly, because your tears were forming fast and you were attempting to beat exposure to the outside world before they started to fall down your face. 

But the universe had other plans for you, and your named reverberated throughout the final staircase you had to descend. Your lips pulled into a line in an attempt to neutralise your expression, and you turned at the base of the stairs.

"You want more with me," he said, admittedly a little breathless from chasing you the way he did. 

"Glad you could deduce that one, Doctor."

A frustrated huff left his lips. "Stop shutting me out."

"I'm not doing this here," you replied, taking another step back — that he matched, stepping down a step. "Spencer."

"No, we are. If you are going to walk out of my apartment, then we're having this conversation here."

"I don't even want to have this conversation," you argued. 

"Yes you do."

"You don't know me."

"Yes I do." When you opened your mouth to argue again, he was quick to cut you off. "You want more with me, but you're too scared of me rejecting you, so you're brushing it off as something unimportant, in hopes that I'll forget about it so things can go back to what they were before."

"God forbid."

His lips pursed. "Can you be an adult about this?" 

Your heart stuttered uncomfortably in your chest, and he stared expectingly at you for minutes. Minutes that you let pass, your breaths shallow as you stared up at him, boring holes into his own eyes. Then, "Are you going to reject me?" 

"Yes, but—"

Oh.

Somewhere your name was said once, then twice, but it all sounded far too distant, submerged underwater, maybe. Your brain muddling with every single thought it had ever conjured up in all your years of living, to the point where you couldn't even figure out if the tears burning your eyes were actually there, communications in your brain on lockdown. 

You were detached from your own body as a hand was placed on your shoulder, your eyes flickering over to Spencer's face, which was an alarming amount closer than before. It was his hand, you figured, which meant he was watching you have this breakdown, and suddenly the thought of being like this in front of him was far worse than anything he could've said to you. 

"Okay," you said, almost breathlessly, stumbling back a few steps, nodding your head, and blinking away the tears all at once. "Which is fine, by the way. Because this isn't a relationship. And we agreed on casual sex, so really, you're not doing anything surprising, and I should've expected this. Yeah."

"Can you please look at me?" You hadn't even realised your gaze was flitting around the place until he said it, and you forced your eyes to rest on his face again. "Yeah, there you go. Hi. Deep breath."

You took in the gulp of air, despite it still being shallow from your onslaught of emotions, matching your rhythm with his own. He repeated the act a few more times, until you had settled into less violent gasps, and he was sure you were grounded with him again. 

"You back with me?" he asked just in case, his voice horrifically gentle, and you wordlessly nodded your head. "Can we talk about this, now?"

"In your stairwell?"

"I don't think you want to walk all the way up to my apartment again," he said, and he was correct; you didn't. "I would reject you. That's true."

"Which you're allowed to do," you answered, quietly. 

"I am," he agreed with a nod. "If that isn't okay with you, then tell me. We can call this off right now."

"And what?" you asked, ugly emotions clawing their way up your throat again. "Go back to how things were before?"

"Well, yes—"

"—No, Spencer!" you snapped, and he seemingly hadn't expected it. At all. "I can't go back to normal with you, not after this. Sex is fucking intimate, and it is scary, and you have seen me at my absolute worst and still slept with me these last few months. You have seen parts of me I refuse to share with anyone, because I trusted you."

"I didn't force you to do that," he countered. "You showed me every single side of you on your own accord. So do not paint me to be a villain."

"I'm not trying to," your voice was desperate, and if you weren't so busy using your hands to talk animatedly, you might be tearing out your hair by now. "I just—I don't get it. How was it so casual for you? How can you go back to what we had before all of this like it's nothing?" 

"All of this was never anything serious. We agreed on that."

"No. No, don't explain what this was to me. I know what it was. Answer the question."

How was he so calm? His eyes searching your own now tear-filled ones, but the crease in his brows was the only indicator of any emotion, for his body was alarmingly relaxed. 

He exhaled, "I don't know what to tell you. What do you want to hear?"

"The truth."

"I don't have feelings for you," he said, voice so curt you wondered if it was the way he said it, or what he said, that shattered your barely mended heart. Again. 

"Which is fine," you repeated the phrase, because maybe if you said it enough, you'll start to believe it. 

"So, do you want to call this off?" 

"We should."

He only nodded in agreement; a violent reminder that you weren't imagining the things he was saying to you. This wasn't a bad dream, and he was actually telling you the relationship you had built up in your head wasn't real. 

"I don't want to," you murmured, voice pathetically small, shrinking in your shoes beneath him. "I really like you, Spencer."

"Which is why we should call this off," he reasoned, and you wanted to scream.

"Are you going to be even a little sad if we do?" He parted his lips, and a beat of silence passed. And then you were stepping back, puffing out a strained breath of air, nodding your head in understanding. "I should go."

"You won't talk to me if we call it off," he said before you could get too far from him. When you turned to look at him again, he added, "Will you?"

"No."

"Then yes. I'll be sad."

"Because I won't talk to you?"

"Yes."

You stared at him for a beat longer. "Not because you won't have a fuck buddy anymore?"

"You were never just a fuck buddy," he said, exasperated, the phrase sounding foreign on his tongue. Sorry for exasperating you.

"No. But I'm not enough to like, right?" 

He said your name, and stepped off the staircase he had been residing on, lowering the height difference between you two. "You are enough to like."

"Not to you!" "I am not the only man in the world."

The bottomless pit in your stomach grew larger, only because to you he was. To you, he was everything. And you felt things far too big, and the realisation that he had never and will never see you that way was a world-shattering discovery. 

You sighed, lowering your gaze to the floor. "We never should have started this."

"I agree." 

"I'm gonna go."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, seemingly deciding against arguing with you any more. He merely nodded his head, and forced a smile. "Yeah."

"Bye, Spencer."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[thatbloodymuggle]

MASTERMIND (viii)

EIGHT - THE GREAT WAR

SUMMARY: A child of light and dark, you are the Night Court’s best kept secret. After decades spent in hiding, you yearn to stretch your wings. But you quickly learn that freedom comes with a price, as you find yourself trying to outfox the fox in his own den.

PAIRING: eris vanserra x reader

WORD COUNT: 8k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: language, graphic violence

If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the past few months, it’s that healing is not a linear process. Rather, it’s a winding, uncharted path, full of twisting overgrowths and thorny setbacks. And just when you caught glimpse of bright, shining light filtering through the trees ahead, the tattered bond buried deep in your chest plucked you from your path of progress and dropped you right back where you started: in the thicket of heartbreak.

But this time, it feels different. It’s not physical pain that consumes you, that crawls underneath your skin and burns you from the inside out. Rather, it’s an overwhelming sense of numbness. For this time, there’s a shattering finality to it all.

It’s that numbness that grants you the ability to get dressed this morning. Each movement is mechanical as you reach for clothes that feel foreign against your skin and slip into your role once more. It’s a façade you know all too well: the resilient, erudite female who hides the trembling little girl within. You clutch the silk fabric of your dress in your fists as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. For a moment, you almost believe the image staring back at you. But inside…Well, inside. That’s the question, isn’t it?

 As you walk through the River House, you let the numbness guide you: steady, unrelenting. You’re not naïve—you know this is the eye of the storm. You know that the pelting rain and howling winds are coming. But at least for now, you’ll take shelter within the boarded-up windows of your feeble heart. So, with a steady hand and a fog in your mind, you push open the dining room door to your awaiting court.

The quiet chatter comes to an abrupt halt as a cohort of curious eyes turn towards you. The rapid thumping of your heart is distant in your ears as you move into the room. Rhys opens his mouth to speak but pauses as he drinks in your detached nature. 

“It’s done.”

The words pass through your lips, but don’t quite reach your ears.

A palpable tension fills the room. The burning gazes of your friends prickles your skin, but you shrink further into the haze of your mind. 

“I delivered what you asked. It’s done,” you repeat in that same cool, unrecognizable tone.

The High Lord’s mouth opens and shuts again. You feel like a pariah in this room, but by the grace of the eye of the storm, you are shielded from their unintentional ostracism. Finally, Rhys nods sharply.

“Thank you,” he says simply.

The silence that follows is deafening, filled only by the shuffling of Cassian and Azriel’s chairs. Feyre’s concern radiates like a beacon, but you can’t bring yourself to look in her direction for fear of crumbling. Amren’s silver eyes narrow, but she holds her sharp tongue in check, for once.

Rhys reluctantly tears his gaze away from you and sweeps over the room. “Well, we should get moving, then. Time is of the essence.”

The two Illyrians scramble from their seats, and if the circumstances were different, you would laugh at their thinly veiled discomfort. Amren rolls her eyes and swiftly exits the room. You follow closely behind, effectively avoiding any further probing from your High Lord or Lady. The lush marble walls and expansive windows seem duller than usual as your body moves on autopilot down the hallway. Amren pushes the doors of the grand meeting hall open, and your heart skips a beat. Chin up. Eyes forward. Shoulders down. Just like you’d practiced through your sleepless night. Like clockwork.

The scuffing of boots against marble sounds muffled as you follow Amren and take a seat at her left. Rhys and Feyre take their spots at Amren’s right, with Azriel and Cassian on their opposite side. The Inner Circle of the Night Court forms an unbreakable wall of power and unity at the head of the table—an unspoken display of the strength of your court.

You take one last steadying breath—chin up, eyes forward, shoulders down—before the High Lords filter through the doors one by one, each cloaked in their own unique brand of arrogance and power.

Tarquin is the first to arrive. He greets your court with a sharp nod, his turquoise eyes piercing as always. Helion follows closely behind, a lazy smirk dancing upon his plush lips. With each High Lord that arrives, breathing becomes a little bit easier, and the muscles straining to maintain your posture relax. This is fine. Kallias and Thesan are next to enter, each male followed by their own small entourages. You’re okay. 

That is, until Beron Vanserra’s glowering presence fills the doorway. The all too familiar sinking feeling returns as he strides in with his usual, ugly sneer. His cold eyes sweep the room before landing on you, a malicious grin curling at the corners of his mouth. Beside him, Bastion leers openly, his russet eyes glinting with that same viciousness he had cornered you with at the ball the night before. Two other Vanserra brothers with flaming red hair follow, and the door shuts swiftly behind them. The Night Court straightens in their seats as they all come to the same conclusion. Eris isn’t here. You clench your jaw so tightly you think your teeth may splinter. Why isn’t he here? Was last night truly the end of—

Chin up. Eyes forward. Shoulders down.

The metaphorical storm above you looms closer, but you hold steadfast to your mantra to keep it at bay.

“Such a fine day for politics, don’t you think?” Beron’s voice slithers through the room. He glances at Rhys, then at you, the sneer deepening. “Unfortunately, Eris couldn’t make it. He sends his regards.”

Something cold breezes over you, enveloping every inch of your exposed skin like a gust of wind. Your eyes flicker towards the stained-glass windows, but they are sealed tight. Your heart stutters painfully against your ribs, but you don’t so much as flinch. Instead, you sink into the numbness and meet Beron’s menacing gaze with your own.

“And what of Spring?” Helion asks.

You don’t need to look over to your right to see Feyre stiffen in her seat.

“Probably wallowing in his own self-pity like the beast he is,” Amren snaps in her typical, callous fashion.

Tamlin’s absence is damning—a testament to how far he has truly fallen since the war and Feyre’s…abruptdeparture. For a moment, no one dares to speak. But never one for pleasantries, Beron has no trouble interjecting.

“Why bother with a treaty if one of us is too busy licking his wounds to show up?”

“Tamlin’s absence is unfortunate,” Rhys replies in his ever-diplomatic manner, “But we are more than capable of negotiating terms that will benefit all of Prythian.”

Helion tilts his head, his golden eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Are we to assume Spring is no longer a player in these discussions, then? And if so, what will become of the court?”

“Tamlin received word of this summit, just as you all did. His decision not to attend certainly warrants discussion,” Rhys says, “but what we need right now is unity—and that’s what this treaty is about.”

Helion’s finger-tapping halts, and he leans forward in his seat. “Unity, Rhysand, sounds nice in theory. But let us not forget that Tamlin isn’t the only one who may find this arrangement…unpalatable.”

You involuntarily bristle as Beron’s grating voice cuts in once again. “Curious, isn’t it, how you sidestep the topic, Rhysand—especially when it is your High Lady who brought Spring to ruin.”

“We’ve gathered here to discuss the terms of a peace treaty between our courts, not to taunt one another,” Feyre snaps. Despite the scowl on Beron’s face, her firm tone holds an unwavering authority. “The unrest in human and Fae land alike grows with each passing day. We cannot afford for instability to spread.”

Tarquin nods thoughtfully. “A treaty won’t fix everything, but it’s a step in the right direction. Without it, the mortal realm may turn their sights on us.”

“Stability is key,” Thesan muses in agreement.

“A leash, more like it,” Beron snorts, “Let’s not waste time pretending this is some noble pursuit for the good of all. We all know this treaty is about self-preservation. And I, for one, don’t plan on sacrificing my court’s interests for some grand, childlike ideal.”

A low growl escapes Azriel, but a pointed look from Rhys silences him. “Perhaps you’re confusing peace with submission, Beron,” Feyre quips. “No one here is suggesting we sacrifice our ideals. This is about securing Prythian’s future, and preventing future war should conflict arise again.”

Kallias clears his throat, and you all but shiver as you glance into the icy blue of his piercing eyes. “I agree, but we must ensure that this treaty is more than mere words on paper. It must be enforceable, with clear consequences for any court that violates its terms.”

“Consequences?” Beron’s eyes glint with malice, “And are we prepared to go to war with each other if someone steps out of line?”

The almost gleeful lilt in the Autumn Court High Lord’s tone, combined with Bastion’s nasty smirk, is your last straw. Chin up. Eyes forward—Fuck it, composure be damned.

“That’s the point of the treaty,” you snap. All eyes turn towards you. But despite the scrutiny, you keep your voice steady. “It’s meant to prevent war, not incite it. If we establish boundaries and enforce them through collective action, it only strengthens all of our courts.”

Beron scans you from head to toe with an unsettling intrigue. “And what would you know of war, Scholar? Books and treaties may look neat and tidy on parchment, but the real world is far messier.”

The predatory glint in his eyes is all too familiar. But you’ve faced the fox. And while it may have been a losing battle, you survived. “Books teach us history, Beron. And if history has taught us anything, it’s that unchecked power leads to destruction. This treaty isn’t merely about peace—it’s about survival.”

The room falls silent for a moment. 

“Spoken like a true bookworm,” Cassian murmurs with a small grin.

A ghost of a smile threatens to tug at your lips, but the pride exuding from your friends barely breaches the barrier of indifference you wear like armor. 

Beron chuckles, the sound dark and mocking, and you can feel Bastion’s eyes on you—watching, waiting. The way they look at you feels…wrong. Like they know something you don’t. Like they’ve discovered a secret that should shatter your world. 

“If there are no further objections,” Rhys begins speaking again, steering the conversation towards negotiations. 

But your mind drifts as Beron’s cold gaze lingers on you. You know that Eris’s plans against his father are dangerous. But now…now you realize who deep that danger really goes. And with the way Beron studies you like a book he’s read a hundred times before, you realize that the threat may not just be to Eris. Reluctantly, you tear your eyes away from the eldest High Lord and resign yourself to studying the mahogany wood before you. 

As negotiations continue, you trace each crack, each imperfection, over and over. As if doing so will keep the storm at bay. You sit still as a statue, even as the High Lords take a brief recess. You find yourself so enamored by the wood before you that you barely register Bastion approach in the now empty room.

A shiver crawls up your spine as he dips down. “You’re quite the mystery, aren’t you?” he whispers, close enough that his breath fans over the bare skin of your neck. “I wonder how long it will be before you’re fully unraveled.”

You swallow hard, clenching the fabric of your dress between your fists. For the first time in hours, you tear your eyes away from the table. You meet Bastion’s gaze with a steely calm.

“I’ve never been privy to riddles. If you have a point to make, don’t dance around it.”

He chuckles, and you clench your jaw tightly to combat your unease. 

“In due time, Avicula.”

No.

 The blood drains from your face as your heart simply stops beating. You instinctively reach for the dinner knife on the table before you, but his cold, bony hand wraps around your wrist in a vice-like grip. You jerk back in your chair, but he pulls you flush against him, wood scraping against marbled floor.

“Simmer down, Scholar,” Bastion coos.

“What do you want?” Malice drips from your tone, but you can’t hide the tremor.

He chuckles and leans down even further, close enough that his lips brush against the shell of your ear. “Fame, glory, all the works. But for starters, your full cooperation will do.”

His lips press against your skin in a taunting kiss, and you all but retch at the feeling. “And if I don’t?” you grit out.

“Then Eris will be dead before the next High Lord steps foot in this room.”

Your heart thunders so violently, you can feel it in your bones. 

“You’re bluffing,” you whisper.

“Care to test that theory?” 

His ironclad grip tightens, and you release the knife with a wince. The clanging of the metal permeates the room. You watch with bated breath as he picks up the utensil with a hum, admiring the way the silver reflects the sunlight seeping through the windows. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he flips the knife around in his hand, so it points towards you. “You’re going to smile, sit still, and pretend this conversation never happened.” He traces the serrated edge along your lips. “After this meeting, you’ll go home and read your little books. Perhaps brush up on your writing—it’s a bit superfluous for my taste.” The metal presses against your mouth, just gentle enough not to break skin. “You’re going to keep that clever mouth of yours shut. If you so much as look at your friends with those pitiful eyes, I’ll cut that sharp tongue right out of your mouth. And if you even think about using the pesky little bond of yours to communicate with your High Lord, I’ll have Eris’s bloodied body delivered to your doorstep—after I have my fun with him, of course. Are we clear?” 

Your vision blurs—whether from unshed tears or paralyzing fear, you’re not sure. Your fingers tremble as you dangle tediously from your poorly constructed composure. Still, you suck in a deep, steadying breath. As you exhale a barren smile stretches across the plain of your face. “Enjoy the game while you can,” you say, “Because when it’s my turn to play, you’ll be begging me to put an end to your miserable existence.”

He releases the knife with a chuckle and shifts it back into place, erasing any evidence of your encounter. “You’ll do well to remember that some cages aren’t meant to be broken. Especially not for little birds who fly too close to the flame.” He shoves your chair back towards the table, jolting your trembling body. “Enjoy your evening, Scholar. I have a feeling it will be your last in this court.”

The chatter of the High Lords re-entering the room is nothing more than a distant buzz in your ears. You squint your eyes shut and dig your nails into the arms of the wooden chair, shutting everything out, until all that remains is the tattered bond in your chest. You reach for it, wrap your shaking hands around the frayed edges, and yank hard. It reverberates in the chasm of your chest. You wait, pleading for something sort of sign, some indication that he’s still there. But all that remains is the debris of your shattered heart. 

You inhale deeply, breathing in the weight of it all. And as you exhale, your eyes flick open. You stare straight into Beron’s knowing gaze with a vitriol which rivals his own. Your lips curl into a hateful grin. Not a flicker of fear, not a glimmer of defeat. Only the white-knuckled grip around the arms of your chair betrays the turmoil within.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The moment the doors of the meeting room close behind you, the storm comes crashing down. The blistering wind chills your bones, the free-falling water fills your lungs—but you can’t afford to drown. Not when your life is undoubtably on the line. Not when his life is on the line. And you need to find him before it’s too late.

Aimlessly searching for him will be useless. If Eris doesn’t want to be found, or if Beron has him locked away, no amount of wandering the streets of Velaris will bring him to you. The Vanserras are a clever breed—but so are you.

You slip into the shadows to avoid detection as you winnow to the flat-topped mountain on the northern side of Velaris. You waste no time making a beeline for the library. For the first time in your life, the familiar smell of almond and parchment brings no comfort, because all you can think, feel, smell, is the rage coursing through your veins. Clotho isn’t in her usual spot near the entrance. You know you should wait, but you make the hasty decision to slip through anyways. Ask for forgiveness, not permission.

You all but run down the winding stairs, descending one, two, three floors. A negative energy swirls around you—it’s clear the priestesses are none too pleased by your intrusion. Still, you beat on. You run your fingers along the spines of the old tomes lining the shelves, brushing away dust and time until your hand stills on a thin, leather-bound book. The cover is blemished, the metallic lettering faded to near obscurity, but it hums beneath your fingertips, pulsing with latent power. You yank it free and rifle through the pages, until you land on a section you remember from stories your mother used to whisper late into the night. 

Location Spells.

As your eyes dart across the page, your throat tightens. You remember these spells from your mother. Much to your dismay, her retellings were right. They all require one thing: a personal token belonging to the person you seek. And you have nothing of Eris’s. No lock of hair, no trinket. But…you have him. Or, at least, the unyielding tether buried deep in your chest, even if stretched thin by time and heartbreak. Your mind spins as you skim the text again.

“A drop of the caster’s blood may work if they share a strong enough connection. For example, prior work has highlighted the success of blood of kin.”

Or, the blood of a mating bond.

 It might not be perfect, but with no other option, it has to work.

You grab a map of Prythian from a nearby shelf of atlases and spread it across a table. Your hands shake uncontrollably as you retrieve a dagger from the folds of your dress and prick the tip of your finger. A single drop of blood wells up, glowing faintly in the dim light of lanterns. You glance down at the open book, and scan over the spell. It’s written in an ancient language—one you’re not well-acquainted with. Your furrow your brows in concentration as you sound out each syllable, your voice a plea more than an incantation. Finally, you whisper, “Find him.”

You press your bleeding finger to the map, smearing scarlet across the parchment. Magic surges through you: a swirl of golden tendrils extending across the land, searching very crack, corner, and crevice. For a moment, hope blossoms. You can feel the bond in your chest stir, faint but real, as if whispering to someone far away.

Just as suddenly as hope came, it fades.

The tendrils of light dull before disappearing entirely, leaving behind nothing more than a smear of red in the shape of a thumbprint. He must be warded too heavily for the spell to penetrate—as if he doesn’t exist at all.

The winds of anguish sweep you into their clutches as an earth-shattering cry claws at your throat. The weight of everything hits you all at once, and you sink to your knees. The air around you seems to thin. You gasp through the sobs wracking your body—but each mouthful burns. You tangle your shaky hands in your hair, pulling harshly at the roots in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. But to no avail.

A low ringing fills your ears, building in intensity to a deafening hum. The walls feel like they’re closing in, pressing against your lungs, suffocating you from the inside out. Your hands slip from your hair and wrap around your throat, desperate to pull in just one clean breath—but the air is clinging like smoke. 

Your mouth moves, but you’re not sure if the words come out. “Get it together. You’re supposed to save him.”

You try to count your breaths—in, out—but each attempt only narrows your vision to pinpricks. The panic swells and the world spins, tilting on its axis. And then…it stops.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Hours later, you’re shaken awake by the very same panic that pulled you under. But this time, it isn’t your own. Your head pounds from your earlier sobbing, your lashes sagging from the weight of your dried tears. Yet, you’re more alert than you’ve ever been before.

The bond thrums in your chest, pain radiating through the connection. You scramble from the dusty floor with a dizzying urgency. There’s no time to think, no time to question. You don’t so much as glance at the map on the table as you run towards the winding staircase. You’re not sure where you’re going. Only that Eris is there. You follow your instinct blindly, throwing open the door to the library. You beat on into the cold, but before you winnow, the small, rationale part of your mind calls out to your High Lord.

Rhys. His name is a scream in your mind. Eris is in trouble. I have to go now.

Rhys’s response is immediate, albeit groggy: What—

No time.

 The world is already twisting and folding around you. When you land, the air is thick with shadows. 

The scent of stone and mold hits you first—the unmistakable marker of the Court of Nightmares. You stagger, breath catching in your throat. No. No, this can’t be right. But the bond pulls with conviction in your chest, dragging you deeper into the dark halls. 

You know this is a terrible idea. Actually, terrible is generous. This might rival Tamlin and Lucien’s selling out of the Archeron sisters to the King of Hybern in the competition of bad ideas. But as witless as it may be, it’s right.

You move without a second thought. Every passing shadow seems to follow you, but you don’t care. The only thing you can focus on is the bond. As the weight of each step grows, you can feel his pain more acutely. He’s close.

Your pulse roars in your eyes as you come to a halt in front of a rusted, iron door. Your hands find the handles, and you pull with the full weight of your body. It opens with a low groan, and you step inside. 

The chamber is dark, lit only by the faint glow of sconces lining the walls. The smell of stone and mold is even more penetrating here. But something else mingles with it. The sour scent of rust is abrasive, curling at your nostrils. 

You squint your eyes into the darkness, and you stumble back in shock.

Eris is there, slumped to his knees in the center of the room. The ropes biting into his wrists almost sparkle underneath the light of the flames. Faebane. Crimson hair clings to his sweat-slicked forehead, his bare chest a littered mess of blood and bruises. Agony twists his features—until his gaze flicks to you.

“No—,” he gasps.

You lunge forward, but you yelp as something holds you back—rather, someone. An ironclad grip wraps around your wrists, holding you against a broad chest. Something sharp presses against your throat—a knife, you surmise, from the glint of silver in your peripheral. 

“You’re arrived just in time for the reunion.”

The voice is venomous, unfamiliar. Yet, it holds a striking intimacy, almost as if—

Your eyes widen in realization.

No.

“I have waited a very long time to meet my daughter,” Keir continues with a sadistic smile, “It’s a shame Marjorie kept you hidden from me all these years. Even more of a pity that she’s not here to stop me now.”

Your blood runs cold as your mother’s name rolls off his tongue. You thrash violently in his hold, but to no avail. You try to steel your features into indifference, but the panicked look in Eris’s eyes makes it an impossible feat. The dull edge of the knife presses hard underneath your chin, forcing your head back. 

Hell freezes over as you peer through the looking glass.

His eyes are yours. The divot of his chin, the bridge of his nose, it’s all yours—or, you suppose, yours are his. But even more potent than your resemblance is the incongruence. For while your dark eyes are marked by curiosity, his are flooded with malice.

Your lip curls back in a snarl, and with all the loving memory of your mother you can harness, you spit. The fat glob of saliva lands right between his eyes.

“Keep her name out of your filthy mouth,” you snarl.

The initial shock on his features warps into something far more sinister as he twists your bound hands behind you. You grit your teeth against the pain, showing nothing more than a wince as you feel the joint in your right shoulder shift. 

“You’ve got my bite, little girl, I’ll give you that. But you’re a bitch just like her.”

You snap your teeth at him, but he twists your arms even further. This time, you can’t contain the cry that bubbles in your throat.

“Did she ever tell you about how we met?” he forces your head forward. Fear still fills Eris’s eyes, but this time it’s met with ire. Keir dips down, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath as he speaks, “Did she ever tell you about how I took her? How I delighted in ruining her? How I—”

Anger blinds you, and for just a moment, all you see is red. 

A barbaric scream rips through you and you crouch down to loosen Keir’s grip—a trick Cassian had once taught you. Before he can regain leverage, you swing your leg behind you with as much force as you can muster, hitting him right between his legs. Keir stumbles back with a groan. But before he can find his footing, you spin around and punch him hard—so hard, you can feel the sickening crunch of bone underneath your knuckles. Still, one hit isn’t enough to erase the lifetime of agony he had imposed upon your mother. So, you hit him again. And again. Until he’s sprawled across the floor. And when he’s down, you sink your foot into his beaten body. Over and over. Until—

“Y/N!”

You gasp for air as Eris’s strained cry pulls you from the brink of oblivion. It’s his voice that grounds you, that sharpens your vision to take in the scene before you. Keir is far past consciousness, his face a bloodied mess and his body a tangle of useless limbs. The steady rise and fall of his chest indicate that he is still, unfortunately, alive—although, with the damage you’ve inflicted, he’ll surely wish he was dead when he wakes. With trembling hands, you wipe the hands stained with your father’s blood over your dress.

“Y/N.”

The strain in Eris’s voice pulls you from Keir’s mangled body. Your eyes are wild as they meet his. You stumble forward, heart beating in time with the heavy thrumming of the bond pulling you towards him. He shakes his head frantically, panic festering on his features.

“You need to get out of here.” You ignore his desperate plea and continue surging forward. “Please, Little Bird,” his voice cracks, “Run.”

Tears spring to your eyes, and the pull of the bond only intensifies. But just as you reach him, just as your bloodied fingers graze the iron chains around his wrists, a gust of wildfire sends you flying backwards.

Pain splinters in the back of your head as you’re thrown against the dungeon wall. Nausea coils inside of you and your vision blurs. Still, you bite back the cry that threatens to escape. 

“Run!” Eris’s shout rings through your ears, muffled by the pounding in your head.

But the responding voice pierces through the veil.

“That’s quite enough from you, son.”

You haul yourself up as quickly as your spinning head will allow. The High Lord of Autumn scans you from head to toe, taking in the blood splatters soaking your dress, the swelling of your knuckles. His lip curls back in disappointment and he clicks his tongue.

“My, what a mess you’ve made, Scholar,” Beron stalks forward, the hem of his dark robes skimming over Keir’s unconscious form. His sneer deepens as he steps into a puddle of blood. He crouches down and swipes his index finger through the blood of your father, admiring how it glistens underneath the sconce light. “Though I suppose family brings out the worst in all of us.”

You avert your gaze to Eris, who stares back in a wide-eyed panic. Go, he mouths. But you’re paralyzed, your feet rooted into the cold, hard ground. You can only muster a small shake of your head. No.

“Let him go, you bastard,” you demand, eyes trained on your mate.  

Beron’s chuckle rumbles through the sodden space. “Such filth from such a pretty little mouth,” he muses. “Though I suppose you never had a father figure to teach you manners. So, allow me.”

Before you can so much as blink, Beron is behind you. You stifle a yelp as he kicks the back of your legs, forcing you onto your knees. “Much better,” he circles you. You fight the urge to spit in his face too when he hooks a finger underneath your chin, forcing your eyes to his. “Now, why don’t you apologize for your brutishness?”

The cold press of his fingers makes your skin crawl, but you lift your head defiantly. “You want an apology?” you say, voice low but steady. “The only thing I’m sorry for is not drawing more blood from your pathetic lackey.”

The words have barely rolled off your tongue when Beron raises his arm, landing a punishing hit. Your head swings to the side, amplifying the ringing in your ears and the throbbing in the back of your head.

“Don’t fucking touch her!” Eris roars, chains clanking wildly behind him.

“Fine,” Beron says.

The High Lord turns towards his son and brandishes a whip of fire. White-hot flames crackle through the air, a blaze of light slashing through the dark, and land squarely across Eris’s bleeding chest. A strangled cry tears from his throat, his body convulsing against the restraints. The sound is horrible—one that will haunt you for eternity, should you survive this night.  The noise that escapes you mirrors his as you lunge forward. But a wall of flames circles around you, its heat pressing against your skin and binding you in place. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” you cry. But your plea falls on deaf ears. You can only watch, helpless, as Eris’s body shudders with each lash, the light in those beautiful, amber eyes dimming with each strike. Worse, you can feel it—the bond between you unraveling thread by thread. 

Through the river of tears clouding your vision, something mingles with the flames in your peripheral: Keir’s twitching body. He groans something unintelligible, his eyes twitching beneath their blood-soaked lids. Suddenly, something in the air shifts—and realization strikes you as the whip in Beron’s hand cracks again.

  This isn’t just punishment; it’s retribution. For Eris’s betrayal, yes, but it’s more than that. This is about the Night Court, the treaty currently being drafted in Velaris. This is an act of violence in the face of blossoming peace. And once Beron has finished, once the fight has drained from Eris’s eyes, he’ll leave you here with Keir. He’ll kill two birds with one cruel stone—ensure your misery serves as a constant leash on his son and the Night Court, and prevent any threat to his throne.   

“Hubris is deathly, Beron. And you’re a fool if you think beating us into submission or death will keep you on your throne,” you shout despite the sobs wracking your body. “We are more use to you alive than dead.” 

“You think your lives mean anything to me?” Beron roars. 

He cracks the whip again, and another flash of fire streaks across Eris’s already ravaged body. Eris sways, his knees crumpling underneath him. His eyes are squeezed tight, his lips parted in a silent cry. Your magic surges through you at the sight, and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep it contained. You have only one shot here. Once chance to make your move—a move that will determine yours and Eris’s fate for your immortal eternity. 

“Take mine instead,” you blurt, heart pounding. “My life for his freedom.”

The words hang in the air, and finally, Beron’s whip falters mid-strike. Panic flares in your chest, but it’s not your own. Beron turns slowly, a glint of interest sparking in his cruel gaze. “Your life,” he repeats, savoring the words, “In exchange for his.”

Chains clatter behind him with a newfound vigor. Eris’s eyes are wide open, a window to his soul: panic, indignation, but above all, betrayal. Worse, you can feel him clinging desperately to his end of the bond, pulling with all of his might. Just as you were in the library. Just as you have been every day since you left Autumn. And it’s in that moment, you realize, that whatever pain you felt clinging desperately to the ghost of him is unsurmountable compared to the bone-shattering agony of his despair seeping through your skin.  

“Yes,” you whisper. “Let him go, and my life is yours.”

“Don’t do this,” Eris pleads, “Please, Little Bird.”

Fresh tears cloud your vision, the utterance of that name worse than a physical blow. The flames surrounding you vanish and Beron steps closer. An eerie grin tugs at his lips. “Very well.”

A ripple shudders through the chamber, and Beron casts a glance to where Keir lies motionless on the cold stone. With a bored wave of his hand a shadowy mist rises, curling around your father’s limp body, sending him away like a discarded pawn. 

Eris’s protests are drowned out by the sting of the bargain mark. It snakes up the length of your arm, twisting like a vine. You bite back a gasp as the magic sinks into your skin, binding you to your word. Beron takes another step forward, forgoing the whip for the raw magic at his fingertips. 

It’s now or never.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t fight,” you snarl.

Your magic explodes outwards, shadowy tendrils unfurling like a tempest. Darkness spreads, curling around Beron with the grace of an ancient asp. He stumbles, the smirk gone from his face. You use his surprise to your advantage, swiftly flinging a dagger in his direction. It sails through the air with the precision of a hundred-year-old warrior. But before the weapon can land its mark, a wall of flames is erected, snuffing out your shadows and sending the dagger hurdling back in your direction. You duck swiftly, narrowly missing the fatal hit. 

“Impressive,” Beron condescends, “Let’s see if your feet are as quick as your wit.” 

Faster than you can blink, the flames surrounding Beron coalesce, swirling into the shape of a fiery claw. It surges forward, hurtling towards you at the speed of lightning. You barely have a moment to raise your defenses. Light exudes from your fingertips as you throw your arms out, forming a shield of blinding radiance. The claw collides with your light, sending shockwaves rippling through the ground beneath you. Beron presses relentlessly against your shield, heat searing through the protective barrier. You grit your teeth and root your feet into the ground to counteract the strain in your muscles and the tremor in your bones. But your strength is no match for Beron’s, as the claw keeps inching closer and closer, pushing relentlessly against your flickering shield. 

“Submit!” Beron roars with an authority fit for a thousand-year-old tyrant.

The ball of light surrounding you is rapidly caving in. It’s bound to give any second now. With a piercing cry, you thrust your magic forward, and then let go entirely. 

You dive to the side, narrowly escaping the talons of Beron’s inferno. As the momentum of his power sends it barreling into the wall behind you, you lunge for your discarded dagger. Your fingers wrap around the hilt, and you slink into the shadows just in time to escape his new weapon of choice: blazing balls of fire.

With your shadows you leap from corner to corner, trying to get close enough to Beron to wield your own weapon while simultaneously avoiding the flames he hurls at you. Eris shouts something, but it’s muffled by the roar of the fire, the pounding in your head. You will yourself to focus only on Beron, building an impenetrable wall in your chest to block out the desperation radiating down the mating bond in your chest.

As you dodge another flame, the world to twists and folds around you. You winnow across the room, right behind Beron. You don’t waste a second thrusting the dagger forward—but before the lethal blade can sink into his flesh, he spins around. The High Lord wraps his hands around your wrists. And as the dagger clatters to the floor, so does your heart plummet.

“Is this what you wanted?” Beron’s voice slithers into your ear. He swivels you around, forcing you to face Eris while he holds you flush to his chest. Crimson rivulets trickle down his arms from where the chains bite into his skin. “To be brought low, broken in front of him?”

You force your chin high with defiance. But Beron’s grip is unyielding and his molten heat is oppressive, creeping through your veins like poison. As you stare into Eris’s eyes—those amber eyes you love so much—you can’t hide the fear in your own. 

“Better broken than a slave to your tyranny,” you hiss.

 Sweat beads on your brow, but not from exhaustion. You suck in a breath, begging the cool air to soothe the burning sensation in your throat. But Beron’s heat sinks deeper, licking at the edges of your very soul. 

He chuckles darkly, “If only your defiance could save you.”

“Let her go!” Eris bellows. 

You desperately try to twist out of Beron’s grip, but with each movement the fever only builds. Sweat trickles down your temples, the salty sting mixing with the agony that wracks your body.

“You know, I had planned on keeping you alive. Sending you off with your pathetic excuse for a father,” Beron says, “But I’ve never been one to turn down a good bargain.”

 A white-hot pain blooms in your chest, spreading like wildfire. You can feel your skin searing from the inside out, clawing its way through your organs, boiling your blood.

“I’ll kill you,” Eris’s voice breaks, raw with the desperation of a man on the brink of losing everything. “I’ll kill you! I’ll rip the life from you, Beron. Even if it takes my last breath, I’ll see you burn for this.”

Beron laughs, drowning out Eris’s broken words. Every nerve in your body screams as he slowly burns you alive, boiling you from the inside out. Your vision blurs as the fever creeps into your head, your legs crumpling beneath you. 

You know there is no way out. You know this is the end. But before you go, you drop the protective barrier around your heart. Tears stream down your face, hot against your skin, as you lay yourself bare before the male who has sent your life into upheaval. The male who has shown you the greatest beauties and worst pains of life. Your salvation, your damnation, your soulmate. You cling tight to the withering bond and show him it all. With one final breath, you force your lips to move and form the words you need him to hear.

“I love you, Eris Vanserra. Darkness and all its shining stars.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Time splinters as Eris watches you fade. As those words escape you cracked lips, something shatters inside of him—the last defense of a soul that, even after years of brutality, refuses to be broken. It’s something that transcends pain, something primal and ancient woven into the very marrow of his bones. 

Darkness and all its shining stars.

It’s those words that echo in his mind as the realization burns: this bond, this love, is Beron’s undoing. 

A tyrant once said that the secret of supremacy lies in knowing when to be a fox, and when to be a lion. Beron Vanserra is both. It’s his cunningness and ferocity that have allowed him to rule so predominately for centuries—longer than any High Lord in Prythian. However, Beron Vanserra has been wearing the fox and lion’s skins for a long time—too long. For Beron Vanserra’s greatest pitfall is not a lack of strength or guile, but an utter void where empathy should lie—a deficiency born of his detachment from true, selfless love. 

It's precisely that absence of compassion that blind him to the unbreakable forces that bond others. And now, as he stands over you and Eris with a hand stained by centuries of bloody conquest, it’s precisely that bond, carved from unadulterated love, that will be his undoing.

A roar befitting of a lion rips from Eris’s chest. Muscles taut with rage and agony and love, he pulls against the chains binding him. Blood flows freely from his wrists; but fueled by the bond—by you—he pulls harder, harder, until iron cracks.

The chains give way, crashing to the floor in a thousand pieces. And Eris unleashes hell on his father.

One thrust of his bloodied arm sends Beron flying backwards, releasing you from his deathly hold. You crumple to the ground, barely conscious. Although the boiling of your insides has halted, you’re still burning. You splay your hands out across the cold ground, willing it to soothe the dangerous fever.

Eris flicks his wrist, sending stone raining down upon Beron. The air is thick with dust and fury as Eris charges forward, each strike landing with sharp precision. This isn’t a mere battle of power—it’s a reckoning.

But Beron, unyielding, retaliates with a blinding wave of flame that consumes the chamber. The fire surges, forcing Eris to halt and shield both you and himself.

“You think you can defeat me, boy?” Beron bellows.

Eris snarls, his own fire igniting. You blink your eyes open, fading in and out of consciousness as your magic fights to hold you steady. You watch as Eris matches Beron with every movement: strike for strike, flame for flame. 

But it’s clear he’s faltering. Each thrust of his arm sends ripples of pain across his battered body, the hours of torture taking their toll. Eris sways, his flame flickering at the sheer force of Beron’s power, honed by centuries of conquest.

Your limbs ache with the remnants of the ash inside you, but you focus on the steady ground beneath you. Fire blazes around you as you slowly push yourself up. You can see the light dimming in Eris’s eyes as his breath comes out in ragged gasps. 

“Eris!” you cry, but the words sound like nothing more than a whisper against the raging inferno. He doesn’t look at you, locked in the hopeless battle. Your heart races as you struggle to rise.

Eris lunges forward, but Beron anticipates him and counters with a blast that sends him crashing back against the wall. A sickening thud shatters through your bones as the bond pulses with pain. 

As Beron’s fire grows larger and brighter, you kick your leg out, sliding the discarded dagger on the floor towards Eris. You shut your eyes tight, summoning the last remnants of your strength. The blistering fever returns as you call on every ounce of your magic. This time, however, you embrace it.

Light and dark exude from your fingertips at the same time. With one hand, you send shadows swirling around Beron, engulfing him in darkness. With the other, you send a beacon of luminescence, lighting Eris's path. You focus on Eris, willing him to rise, to fight back. Determination fills his gaze—and the rest is history. 

With one swift motion, Eris retrieves the blade and thrusts it into his father’s chest. 

The swirling shadows still, and Eris twists the dagger into the chasm of his chest with a sickening crunch. Beron falls to his knees, and your shadows retreat—but your light remains.

As the former High Lord collapses, the echoes of the battle fade into a haunting stillness. Eris stands over his father’s fallen form, chest heaving and flames flickering at his fingertips, mingling with the light surrounding him—a testament to the battle fought and the price paid.

Your eyes meet, and in that moment, the world falls away. The pain, the fear, the uncertainty—it all dissipates, leaving only you and him.

“Little Bird,” Eris breathes. 

Fresh tears line your eyes and your bottom lip trembles. Ignoring the all-consuming heat that’s still threatening to pull you under, you haul yourself up from the ground completely. You stumble forward and your legs give out underneath you. But before you can crumple, Eris is there. 

His embrace feels like coming home.

A sob of relief escapes you as you sink to the ground together. Despite the agony pumping through your veins, the blood and sweat covering you both, your heart sings. You bury your face into his chest. The scent of him—sandalwood and cardamon—fills your lungs, giving life to breath. You can feel the pulse of his heart against your cheek, steady and strong.

“Eris,” you gasp. But the name feels inadequate. There’s so much you want to say—but the words are swallowed by the lump in your throat. His hands find your hair, threading through it and anchoring you to this moment.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. The feeling of his breath against your neck sends another wave of emotions crashing over you. “I’m right here, Little Bird. I’m not going anywhere.”

Around you, the air shifts, and you sense the arrival of the High Lords. But their presence, Rhys’s panicked voice, is a distant echo in the back of your mind. Nothing else matters—not in his arms.

As you sink into the warmth of your lover’s embrace, the toll of the battle settles in. The world blurs at its edges. Eris holds you tightly, murmuring sweet nothings you can’t quite grasp, and darkness begins to close in. You cling to the sound of his voice, feeling it reverberate through you.

“Come on, Little Bird. Stay with me,” his voice breaks as he feels your strength slipping away. But as you look into his eyes—those fierce, beautiful eyes—you know you can’t fight anymore.

With a shuddering breath, you succumb to the pull of unconsciousness, your body surrendering to his embrace. And as darkness takes over, you hang on to the whispered promise of safety in a world that has been anything but. 

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