#Besides it's impossible to define. What matters is that there is love. A lot of it :)

[kyouka-supremacy]

The last chapter is so ridiculously explicitly gay, seriously.

Like it's so different compared to the previous chapter, which was this epic exciting gesture that had everyone screaming and lose their minds. This chapter is so much softer and sweet and doesn't shout but simply kindly says “Hey btw sskk are in love :) They're in love when they die for each other they're in love when they reminisce their past and they're in love when they just exist. Sskk are in love :) ”

And it's not as dramatically striking but still causes an equally touching reaction from the reader? It's so frank in stating the love they feel for each other, looking at it results inevitably heartwarming :')

[cardansriddle]

Bound by the Ball- Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

Summary: Tom is determined to make you his date to the ball. The only problem? You have a boyfriend—and you absolutely cannot stand Tom Riddle.

warnings: banter. like a lot of banter. sexual tension. tom threatening reader to get his way? infidelity. 5.5k words i got carried away :)

A/N: I know i disappeared from the face of earth, but got inspired to write this one this week. Love u all, hopefully I won't go MIA for too long again (i probably will).

༻♛༺

Unattainable was not a word in Tom Riddle's dictionary.

He had never bothered to familiarise himself with the word. Why would he? If Tom Riddle was to be described with one word, it would be determined. Had he decided to set his sight or mind on something, he would go to any length to obtain it. He had sicarded the notion of "impossible" long ago.

So it came as a slap in the face when what he thought the easiest of attainable things, became not so easy. Truthfully, Tom had not even wanted a date for the stupid ball in the first place. However, when the Headmaster insisted that the Head Boy must have a date, it was not as if Tom had any choice in the matter. He had begrudgingly began his search. His requirements for his date were simple: Not dimwitted, an adequate dancer, and witty enough to keep up with him.

He was mentally going over the checklist when the sound of his name amongst excited chatter broke his reverie.

"Have you heard? Apparently Riddle is looking for a date for the dance."

The wizard halted and slowed his steps so he could listen to the conversation of the girls in front of him. The redhead squealed at the information.

"No!" She said in disbelief. "Imagine being asked by the Tom Riddle to the ball." The girl sighed as if imagining the scenario in her head. The wizard was suppressing his urge to smirk when suddenly the witch who had been silent all through the entire exchange scoffed out a laugh.

"Would not wish that misfortune on anyone."

The redhead gasped, affronted. "Misfortune? Have you hit your head? It is Riddle we are talking about. The charming, smartest boy in the school Riddle?"

"He might be the smartest wizard in Hogwarts but he has the emotional intelligence of a rock."

The two girls beside you gasped your name in unison but you brushed them off with a chuckle.

"I suppose you think your Montague is better?" The redhead giggled again and the other witch joined her in what Tom realised to be their teasing.

He watched your profile as you rolled your eyes at their antics. "At least Montague has human emotions and is not stone cold. The only thing Riddle has feelings for is his textbooks."

"Yeah, the only emotion Montague shows is drooling after you like a lovesick puppy."

The ginger was quick to correct her friend. "Hungry dog you mean."

"I am not saying he is perfect. He is handsome enough and has the approval of my family. That should suffice."

The redhead groaned audibly. "Ah, yes! The traits which define the very notion of romance!" She exclaimed sarcastically. Before you could retort, Tom's attention was pulled to the call of his name.

"Oi! Riddle!"

Tom abruptly halted in his steps, the echo of his name reverberating down the dimly lit hallway. A low curse escaped his breath as he realized the three girls in front of him had also come to a stop, their shoulders tensed with anticipation. He turned his head sharply to find Lestrange hurrying towards him with determined steps. When the younger boy finally stood before him, a mischievous grin played on his lips.

"We found the perfect candidate for your date." Lestrange's eyes shifted momentarily behind Riddle, prompting him to turn and inspect the source of their newfound audience. Three pairs of eyes were locked onto them, two wide with a mortified fascination, and you, who had recently questioned his emotional intelligence, regarded him with indifferent eyes. It was as if his very presence left you unaffected, perhaps even bored.

Tom arched an expectant brow, though his gaze remained fixed on you. Your brows furrowed briefly, and he could see the realization dawning on you—you knew he had overheard your conversation. Yet, even then, you managed to morph your features into an expression one of displeasure and tugged on your girlfriends' arms.

"Can I help you, ladies?" Tom's voice cut through the hallway, a subtle challenge lingering in his words. His gaze remained fixated on you, waiting for a glance or acknowledgment.

"No. Excuse us," you curtly replied and pulled your friends away. Tom watched your retreating back, waiting for the moment you might glance back at him, but you did not grace him with a second look.

He turned his attention back to Lestrange, his curiosity evident. "Well, who is it?"

"Er... well, she just left..." Lestrange's weak gesture indicated the direction in which the girls had disappeared. Tom's gaze lingered on the empty corridor.

༻♛༺

His gaze had begun to seek your figure amongst the crowded hallways. He was waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike so he could have a plausible excuse to talk to you. But it was as if you had vanished from the castle. He would see your two friends who you were inseparable with walking around without you. It confounded him. Where had you disappeared to?

"Lestrange."

The boy startled at Tom's voice, tripping over his own feet before righting himself. He turned to meet the Prefect's sharp gaze. "Yes?"

"The girl. What do you know about her?"

Lestrange's brows furrowed thoughtfully. "The candidate for the ball?"

Tom heavily resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, Lestrange. Who else?"

"Well, she's very reserved, and is very...picky with who she keeps in her circle, so I have not managed to talk to her. But from what I have gathered, she's from a good, respectable family, excellent grades, and the ball gown she has chosen is not ridiculous."

Tom rose an inquisitive brow. "How do you know about the ball gown?"

Lestrange shrugged. "Shagged her redhead friend the other day and saw her dress laying on her bed." He said as if it was the most obvious explanation. "You would approve." He winked.

Tom resisted the tempting urge to roll his eyes yet again. Depraved and idiotic as Lestrange was, Tom could not deny his questionable ways were effective. "Anything else?"

The boy scratched the back of his head, suddenly looking sheepish. "Er...she may or may not have a boyfriend." At Riddle's heated glare, Lestrange threw his arms up in defence. "In my defence, I knew it would not be a problem for you!"

Tom decided it was not wroth wasting his time to curse the younger boy, so he sighed tiredly. "Get me her schedule."

"Oh, no..."

༻♛༺

He had not anticipated that while on the quest of hunting the girl down, she would come looking for him herself.

"Riddle!" A feminine voice yelled out his name from across the empty corridor. He heard the hasty approaching footsteps behind him as he turned around, and was surprised to see you storming towards him with fury on your face.

He rose a brow in acknowledgement, which seemed to make you angrier. "What the fuck are you doing?" You seethed.

"Taking a peaceful stroll?" He deadpanned.

Your glare intensified at his mannerism, and you crossed your arms over your chest in indignation. "Care to explain why your little Lestrange has been following me around?"

Tom kept his expression neutral, although internally he was cursing Lestrange's lack of talents for being inconspicuous. "Do I look like his father? Why do you assume me responsible for his actions?"

"Do not play dumb with me Riddle." You huffed, pointing an accusatory finger in his face.

"Perhaps he has taken a fancy. How am I to know?" Tom simply shrugged. His nonchalant demeanour only fused your anger more, and you took a step closer to him as you seethed.

"First you eavesdrop on our private conversation—"

"Which was about me, so it's a little contreversial—"

"—and now you've got your goon following me around—"

"Again, why him following you is my problem?"

You threw your hands in the air, seemingly done with his behaviour. "You are insufferable! Merlin's beard, it's like talking to a—"

"Go to the ball with me."

Whatever you were about to say died in your throat, leaving you to blink up at him in stunned silence, trying to process his words. "What?" Was the only coherent thing that you were able to croak out.

This time it was Tom who stepped closer to you, hands stuffed in his pockets as he casually repeated his earlier statement. "Be my date to the ball."

You managed to gather enough of your wits to let out an incredulous laugh. "Have you gone mad? Do I need to help you into the Hospital Wing?"

"I'm perfectly fine." The corner of his lips curled into a smirk as he leaned in, his presence invading your space. "Now, say yes."

"You can't just demand that I be your date, Riddle." Your voice was sharp with exasperation, still grappling with whatever was going on in his head. "Besides, I already have a date. My boyfriend. Naturally." You added.

"Ah, of course. The dimwit that you can barely tolerate?" He asked smugly, a pointed jab at the conversation he'd overheard days before.

Your lips parted, indignation flaring as you struggled to formulate a rebuttal. "I tolerate him just fine," you finally managed, though even to your own ears, it sounded weak and far too defensive.

"Reputable enough to please your parents, but not skilled enough to please you I would wager." He countered.

"How dare you!" you hissed, your voice rising despite yourself.

Tom tilted his head, his smirk unfaltering. "Did I strike a nerve? My apologies. It’s just hard to watch someone of your... caliber settling for mediocrity."

Your jaw clenched, and despite fighting it, heat flared in your cheeks. You might have not liked Tom Riddle, but that did not mean you did not know just how rare it was to receive a compliment from him. And his words had been a compliment. So of course, it was only natural for you to get flustered. But you would not concede to him so easily. "You are delusional, Riddle. The only thing that matters is that he is far better company than an arrogant, self-important—"

"A self-important what?" Tom interrupted, his tone low and sharp enough to cut. His dark eyes bore into yours, leaving the retort stuck in your throat.

You stepped back, trying to put space between you, but Tom mirrored the movement, closing the gap effortlessly.

"You’re deflecting," he said smoothly, his voice laced with quiet amusement. "If you truly cared for him, you wouldn’t feel so unnerved, you would not struggle so needlessly to list his likeable traits, and you most definitely would not be so willing to have this conversation."

"Willing?" you echoed, the word tumbling out before you could stop it. You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. "Oh, Riddle, it is not my fault you mistook my utter disdain and aggravation for you as interest." You taunted. "As a matter of fact, before you are more mislead, I am done indulging whatever this is." You turned on your heel, intending to storm away, but you barely took a step before a hand shot out, catching your wrist.

"We are not done yet" Tom’s voice was low and composed, but there was a dangerous edge to it, one that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Let go, Riddle," you demanded, attempting to yank your hand free.

Instead, he moved faster than you anticipated, stepping in front of you and backing you up against the wall behind you. Your back hit the cool stone, and you instinctively braced yourself with your hands against his chest, trying to push him away.

He didn’t budge.

His arms caged you in, palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The smirk on his face was gone, replaced by something darker, more intent.

Your breath caught in your throat, and your eyes flickered around the empty corridor for any passerby. Were you to be caught in this compromising position with a boy, alone in an empty corridor, while courting someone else, you would be utterly ruined.

"Riddle, this is hardly appropriate. Let me go."

"Why should I?" he murmured, his voice velvety smooth as his face hovered far too close to yours. His head dipped slightly, and you froze as his nose brushed against your cheek, a slow and deliberate motion that sent a shiver racing down your spine. "I have got you right where I wan."

"Riddle," you said warningly, though the word came out more breathless than you intended.

His nose trailed downward, skimming along your jawline and then the curve of your throat. You inhaled sharply, your hands curling into fists against his chest, unsure if you were bracing yourself or preparing to push him away.

"Stop it," you tried again.

"Why?" he asked again, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below your ear as he spoke. The warmth of his breath against your neck made your heart race despite yourself. "Because you might start to enjoy it?"

Your breath stuttered when you felt his fingertips grazing along the hemline of your skirt. You knew this was outrageous behaviour, and you really should have screamed for someone, but his fingers left a fire trail and you felt as if you were being put under a spell. You had never felt this alive, this hot, this desperate for—

His lips hovered at your ear, his breath hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Say yes to the ball," he murmured, "and I will make you feel things you’ve never felt before... and never will again."

Your resolve almost faltered, your breath coming in shallow pulls as his words coiled around you like a spell. You could feel the walls you’d so carefully built beginning to crack under his relentless pressure.

Just as the word teetered on the edge of your tongue, a sound broke through the haze. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, drawing closer. The sharp reminder of reality snapped you back to your senses and your eyes snapped open.

Summoning every ounce of strength, you shoved him hard in the chest. He didn’t stumble, but he let you go, a sly, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he straightened to his full height.

"You’re impertinent and unbelievable," you hissed, your voice low but trembling with leftover emotion from what you had just experienced. Without waiting for his reply, you turned and bolted, your hurried steps echoing as you disappeared around the corner.

Behind you, Tom’s laughter followed, low and rich, like a predator enjoying the chase. After all, this was just a game for him. But he had not expected it to be so entertaining.

༻♛༺

Breakfast was a usual affair as you sat across from Adam Montague in the Great Hall, his voice a constant hum in the background as he rambled about Quidditch and the upcoming match schedule. Normally, you’d feign enthusiasm or at least muster the energy to listen politely. Today, however, your thoughts were consumed by a pair of dark, calculating eyes and the memory of hands that had left a trail of fire in their wake.

Tom Riddle. Of course. Somehow amidst your determination to avoid fawning after him like everyone else in the castle did, you had become just like them— with thoughts plagued by him.

Even thinking of his name itself felt like a forbidden secret, heavy and dangerous, lodged deep in your chest and an ache in your head. Yet no matter how much you tried to keep it at bay, the memory of him refused to fade.

You could still feel the ghost of his breath against your ear, the heat of his hand as it crept beneath your skirt, and the way he’d whispered those words—low, commanding, and laced with desires you shouldn’t want to hear.

You shifted in your seat, your skin prickling with awareness as the memory played over and over in your mind. It wasn’t just what he’d done— it was how he’d done it—with utter confidence, as though he already knew how you would respond, how your body would betray you before your mind could catch up.

And he had been right.

The thought made you burn with equal parts shame and longing. You shouldn’t crave the way his touch had made your pulse race, the way his voice had wrapped around you like silk.

"...and if the Harpies can pull off another win, they’ll have a real shot at the Cup this year," Adam said, his voice rising with excitement.

"That’s... great," you murmured automatically, like you always did, though your mind wasn’t even in the same room.

You remembered his face when he’d pinned you against the wall, his smirk infuriating and his proximity suffocating in the best possible way. You’d told him to stop, but deep down, you hadn’t wanted him to. Not really.

The truth clawed at you. The horrifying realisation that no one had ever made you feel the way Tom did in those fleeting minutes. Not Adam Montague. Not anyone.

You glanced at Adam, who was still talking, utterly oblivious to the war waging inside you. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement as he gestured animatedly, still drolling on about Quidditch. He was everything a good boyfriend should be—dependable, safe, respectable enough for your parents.

But safe wasn’t what you wanted.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t just crave Tom’s touch or his words; you craved the way he made you feel alive. The way he challenged you, unraveled you, almost pushed you to the edge of something you didn’t quite understand but desperately wanted to explore.

And what vexed you the most was the fact that he had done all of that in a matter of minutes. He had made you feel all that with one interaction. Perhaps everyone around you had been right about him and his irresistible charm.

Damn you, Tom Riddle. You thought bitterly.

You realised you needed to escape and clear your head when Adam launched yet into another analysis of Quidditch tactics Harpies could employ to secure the Cup and you felt the walls closing in around you. 

"I just remembered," you blurted, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I wanted to ask Professor Slughorn something about the essay due tomorrow. I will head to class early."

Adam blinked, surprised at being interrupted so abruptly. Then he shrugged, muttering a befuddled 'okay'. Grabbing your bag, you stood, planting a quick kiss on his cheek before turning on your heel and heading toward the exit. The moment you stepped into the corridor, a wave of relief washed over you, though it was quickly overshadowed by the devil himself.

You had not even made it far when his voice cut through the air. "Running from something, or someone?"

Your stomach dropped. Turning your head, you found Tom walking toward you, his stride calm and assured, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

"Go away," you said sharply, quickening your pace.

He didn’t miss a beat, easily falling into step beside you. "That’s hardly polite. Especially since we’re headed to the same place."

You frowned, glancing at him. "What are you talking about?"

He arched a brow, his smirk widening. "We have the same class. Surely you haven’t forgotten?"

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Of course he would find a way to make your morning even more unbearable. "Fine," you muttered, clutching your bag tighter. "Walk wherever you want, just don’t talk to me."

"Such hostility," he said, his tone light but laced with mockery. "I wonder if Montague would approve of your temper."

You shot him a glare. "Adam has nothing to do with this."

"Doesn’t he?" Tom asked. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding him just now. Tell me, how does it feel to lie to your boyfriend so early in the day?"

Your cheeks burned, but you refused to dignify him with a response. Instead, you quickened your pace, hoping he’d get bored and leave you alone.

He didn’t.

By the time you reached the classroom, your nerves were frayed, and you stormed inside, determined to put as much space between you and him as possible. Sliding into a seat near the middle, you silently willed the rest of the room to fill with other students.

But of course, Tom wasn’t finished. With a deliberate smirk, he crossed the space and sat down in the chair beside yours.

"You’ve got to be joking," you muttered under your breath, refusing to look at him.

"Now, now," he drawled, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Shouldn’t we at least try to get along? After all, we’ll be spending so much time together."

You turned to him sharply, your irritation bubbling over. "What are you talking about now?"

He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, though his eyes gleamed in amusement. "Oh, nothing." A pause. "Just that the ball is approaching, and I’m a man of my word."

Your stomach flipped, his implication clear. You opened your mouth to respond, but the professor’s arrival cut you off, forcing you to bite back whatever retort you had planned.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle!" Slughorn’s jovial voice boomed as he clapped his hands together. "I trust you’ve been giving the essay topic some thought. I’m particularly eager to hear your take on the use of powdered asphodel in calming draughts. Such a fascinating ingredient! Might you indulge me in what your take is?"

Tom inclined his head, his expression the perfect craft of false modesty. "I believe powdered asphodel is essential for crafting a truly effective calming draught. Without it, the potion’s efficacy in more severe cases is significantly diminished."

You couldn’t stop yourself from scoffing. "Essential? That's an overstatement. Asphodel might enhance the effects, but it risks leaving the drinker overly reliant. A calming draught should ease anxiety, not render someone unable to cope without it."

Tom turned to you, and you immediately regretted speaking up upon seeing the amused smirk plastered on his mouth "An interesting argument, but overly cautious. Without asphodel’s potency, the potion becomes too mild to address real crises. A weak solution is no solution at all."

You narrowed your eyes. "There’s nothing weak about proper balance. Valerian root and peppermint, for instance, can achieve the same calming effect without the risk of long-term harm."

Slughorn looked between you with visible delight, like a spectator at a match. "Ah, how I delight in a healthy debate! Keep at it, you two. This is precisely the sort of engagement I hoped the topic would bring. I look forward to reading both of your essays." He winked and sauntered off towards his desk just as the students began filing into the classroom.

Then, Adam Montague walked in, his steps faltering the moment he spotted Tom sitting beside you. His eyes widened, and his lips parted in confusion. "What the hell are you doing there, Riddle?"

Tom, utterly unbothered, leaned back slightly, a smug smile tugging at his lips. "I wasn’t aware this seat was reserved. Perhaps you should have labeled it, Montague." His tone dripped with mock innocence.

Adam glared, his jaw tightening. "It’s my seat. I sit there every class—next to my girlfriend."

"Ah," Tom replied coolly, glancing at you with deliberate slowness. "Shame you didn’t put a label on her either." He drawled.

Adam’s face flushed, his hands balling into fists. "Get up. Now."

"I do not think I will."

Adam took a threatening step forward, but Slughorn suddenly clapped his hands again. "Settle down, everyone! Time to begin." His cheerful tone left no room for argument.

With a frustrated huff, Adam reluctantly moved to a desk across the room, his glare burning holes into the back of Tom’s head. Meanwhile, Tom leaned slightly toward you, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Bit possessive, isn’t he?" He hummed quietly. "Though perhaps not enough. Were it me who had you, I would not let you out of my sight."

You gaped at him, wondering if he had lost his wits. "Excuse me? I am not something to be owned, Riddle."

His hand dropped under the table and you barely suppressed a gasp when you felt it land on your thigh, grazing dangerously high under your skirt. "And yet...I would treat you as if you were my greatest possession."

Heat surged to your cheeks, and you quickly averted your gaze, utterly flustered by his words. The quiet intensity of his voice and the sheer audacity of his statement left your heart racing in a way you couldn’t explain. You quickly pushed his hand away without drawing any attention. Desperate to put some distance between you, you shifted your chair an inch or two away from him, the scrape of wood against stone louder than you intended. You kept your focus firmly on the front of the classroom, determined to concentrate on Slughorn’s voice as he began explaining the potion you would be brewing.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the faintest flicker of his smirk, as though he knew exactly how much he’d unsettled you—and relished it.

You gritted your teeth and stared resolutely at the blackboard, clutching your quill tightly. There was no way you’d let him see just how much he had gotten under your skin. You told yourself you only needed just enough willpower to get through this class and then you would be free.

And when finally the bell rang, signaling the end of class, you bolted from your seat. You didn’t want to give Tom any more time to—to do whatever it was he was doing to you. You headed straight for the door, but before you could make your escape, you heard Adam’s voice behind you.

"Hey! Wait up!"

You sighed and turned around reluctantly. Adam was quick to catch up, his brows furrowed in confusion. "What the hell was that back there?" His eyes flickered from you to the empty seat beside Tom. "Why didn’t you say anything? You just let him sit there."

You tried to offer a casual shrug, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your pulse was still racing. "It’s not a big deal."

"But he was all over you," Adam said, his voice low with irritation. "And you just—"

"Adam, you're a big boy. I'm sure you do not need me to stand up for yourself." You cut him off, a bit sharper than you intended. "Really. Let’s just drop it, okay?"

He stared at you for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but he finally nodded. "Alright, but this isn’t over. We will talk during dinner." He stated with a frown before turning to walk to his next class.

You had a free period, so you decided you would head to the library to get ahead in your studies. But as always, peace and quiet did not come easily to you. Not when Riddle was concerned.

When you saw him leaning against the wall, patiently watching you, you almost screamed from frustration. "No! Absolutely not. I am not having any more interactions with you. Whatever was going on, is done. Go ruin someone else's life with your presence, and fuck off from mine."

He pushed off the wall, crossing the distance between you slowly, as if a predator trying not to startle its prey. You took a step back with bated breath with each step he took forward, and in a blink, he grabbed a hold of your hand and began leading you away from the corridor. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but the action just encouraged him to tighten his hold.

"Riddle!" You tried, but he shot you a dark look shadowed by a loose strand of raven-black hair over his eyes. The dangerous glint in his stare sent a chill down your spine.

Before you knew what was happening, he pulled you into a dark alcove, hidden from the gaze of any potential prying eyes. Your pulse quickened at the way he cornered you, feeling his breath against your skin.

"I'm starting to think you have a thing for dark hidden corners." You muttered, trying vainly to distract yourself from his close proximity.

He ignored your comment. "One kiss," he murmured, his lips barely brushing your ear. "And I’ll leave you alone."

You narrowed your eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of control. "One kiss?" you scoffed, taking a step back, though he followed, keeping you trapped against the wall. "And what do you think is going to make me give in to this nonsense you're asking me?"

Tom chuckled softly as he slowly grazed a finger along your collarbone. "I don’t think you’ll give in. I think you’ll want to."

Your heart skipped a beat at his touch, but you refused to show it. "I don’t want anything from you." You shook your head, trying to remain defiant. "Stop playing games, Riddle. I’m not some toy for you to use and discard."

Tom smirked, one eyebrow raised. "If I wanted a toy, I’d choose something less... challenging." He stepped in even closer, his body fully touching yours now, and you could feel the heat radiating off of him. "But you, you’re more interesting. So, here’s the deal—one kiss, and I’ll leave you alone. After all, you don’t seem to be able to resist me, do you?"

For a weak moment, you hesitated. He was close, too close, and the air between you crackled with an intensity you couldn’t deny.

"I’m not some damsel who will fall for a cheap trick, Riddle," you retorted, though the words were hollow, even to you.

Tom’s eyes darkened, and he reached out, cupping your chin with his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye. "And yet here you are, trapped in my web, pretending you don’t want this just as much as I do." His voice was low, intimate, and it sent a shiver down your spine. "One kiss and I promise, then I will let you go."

You inhaled sharply, torn between the desire to push him away and the overwhelming temptation to give in. For the briefest moment, you wondered what it would be like—just one kiss, one taste of what he was offering. He would not back down until he got what he wanted, and you knew that, so you decided to end your own torture by giving in.

"Fine," you muttered, almost against your will, your voice low with frustration. "But just one."

Tom’s smirk deepened as he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a slow, almost teasing manner. It started gentle, a light pressure, before he deepened the kiss, and you felt your resolve start to slip away. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, canting your bodies together, and the action almost made you whimper.

You were not supposed to enjoy this.

Frightened by your own pleasure at the way he had kissed you, you placed your palms on his chest and pushed him. When he pulled away, his eyes gleamed with triumph. "I’ve changed my mind," he murmured, his voice silky. "Go to the ball with me. And I’ll leave you alone."

You blinked, momentarily stunned. "No. No, Riddle, you promised you would stop."

Tom’s smirk was sharp, almost cruel. He suddenly stepped away from you, his form no longer caging you against the wall. "I promised I would let you go. And I did just now. I did not promise anything about the ball."

Your breath caught, your chest tightening. "You can’t—"

"I can," he interrupted, his tone final. "And I will. So, say yes, and I’ll leave you in peace. But if you don’t..." He let the threat hang in the air for a moment. "Or I’ll tell Montague about this little... encounter."

You stared at him, your heart racing, in disbelief over what he was saying—no— what he was threatening you with. Your breath hitched as he leaned closer again, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "And I think Malfoy would be very interested in knowing that Adam’s place on the Quidditch team is up for discussion. One word from me and he’s off the team for good."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a soft, teasing kiss—brief, but enough to make your heart race even faster. When he pulled back, his gaze was firm. "Say yes. Or everything he values will slip right through his fingers."

The silence stretched between you as you hesitated, but deep down, you knew there was only one choice. "Fine," you muttered, your voice small, but the fire in his eyes made your chest tighten. "I’ll go. But only because you’re threatening him."

Tom’s smirk returned, but there was something else there now—satisfaction, and perhaps a touch of something else you couldn’t quite place. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, darling." He said as he pulled away completely. You watched him walk away, slumped against the wall, completely helpless as his chuckle echoed down the hall.

༻♛༺

[levanterhaze]

GAMEBOY — BANGCHAN

♡  ― 󠀬󠀬 fratboy!bangchan x f!reader a loooot of sexual tension, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, handjob, a lot of curse words, dirty talk.

♡ synopsis ― Bangchan is the campus playboy—charming, cocky, and infuriatingly irresistible. One reckless, drunken night leads to a secret you swore you'd never have. Now, hating him is harder than keeping him your dirty little secret.

[7.4k words ]♡― guys, i'm very grateful that you enjoyed gameboy. thanks to everyone who asked to be on the taglist, to everyone who is deeply involved in the story (just like me). here's another chapter. the third of this journey. don't forget to listen to the playlist and those who just got here PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS!!!! that said, have a good read.

♡― THE PLAYLIST.

♡ [part one] ♡ [part two]

We'll be dancin' with the shadows in the night The stars are jealous knowing that you’re by my side Feel the adrenaline, acceleration In the course, we’ll be drivin' so rough

The whole campus buzzed like it had just been cast as extras in Magic Mike: College Edition.

Nahee appeared with her basket of brownies, practically vibrating with excitement. You had floated the idea to your theater crew, and, much to your delight, they had all rallied behind it.

“This,” she said, scanning the chaotic crowd, “is the sluttiest thing I’ve ever seen.” She turned to you, her grin devilish. “And I love it.”

The scene was pandemonium. The entire basketball team had ditched their shirts, creating a spectacle that rivaled any reality dating show. Lines formed instantly—three people deep for each boy, regardless of who they were. Men, women, professors who “just happened to be walking by”—no one was immune. A few of the boys even posed for photos, flexing like they were auditioning for a particularly steamy firefighter calendar.

“This has a countdown clock before someone shuts it down,” you said, arms crossed, though you couldn’t stop your lips from twitching.

“Let them try,” Eunji sighed, fanning herself dramatically. “This is art. This is community service. This is visual serotonin.”

“Speaking of the devil…” Nahee tilted her head, gesturing with the slightest nod.

You followed her gaze and immediately wished you hadn’t. Bangchan was front and center, a walking thirst trap without even trying. His arms, all defined muscle and veins, moved in practiced ease as he handed out brownies with that easy smile of his. His shoulders looked like they could carry half the student body, and his wet, glistening torso was proof he either took this way too seriously or knew exactly what he was doing. Either way, the guy was impossible to ignore.

You tilted your head, feigning indifference despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “Guess some people can’t help themselves, huh?”

Nahee smirked, not buying it for a second. “Some people, indeed.”

You hated to admit it, but he was a natural. Flashing easy smiles, throwing in effortless charm, making every girl swoon just enough to dig into their wallets a little faster. All he had on were sweatpants slung low on his hips and his cap turned backward—just unfair, really.

Not that it mattered. You weren’t talking. There was nothing to talk about. And yet, after the kiss, everything had shifted. Bangchan had distanced himself like you were a plague, and for once, he wasn’t even trying to get under your skin.

You stole glances when you thought he wouldn’t notice, hating the way every passing hand seemed to have permission to touch him. He didn’t look at you once. And knowing him, that meant something.

The sun was relentless, making the whole shirtless thing almost justifiable. You, Eunji, Nahee, and Sohee made your rounds across campus, hustling for the theater fund. But let’s be real—nobody cared about the cause.

They wanted six-packs and pretty smiles.

You were so busy pretending not to notice Bangchan’s every move that you almost missed the presence looming beside you.

“Hey,” Mingyu greeted, arms crossed, his signature grin firmly in place. “Got one of those brownies for me?”

“Of course,” you said, grabbing a brownie and passing it to him. He handed you a bill, and the weight of it made you freeze. That wasn’t just a regular bill—it was way too much.

“Uh, I think you might’ve made a mistake…” you started, holding it up.

“No mistake,” he cut in smoothly. “I’m buying the whole basket.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “I’m sorry, what now?” you glanced at the basket, then back at him. “You want to buy all of them?”

“You heard me.” he shrugged, his tone so casual it bordered on infuriating.

Your brow arched instinctively, your internal lie detector pinging. Still, you weren’t about to complain about a sale this good. Slowly, you held the basket out to him, trying to mask your suspicion with a polite smile.

But Mingyu just shook his head, taking a bite of the brownie in his hand. “Keep it,” he said, licking the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t buy them for the brownies.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, your sass kicking in to override your confusion. “Oh, right. I forgot. They pair perfectly with a little showing off.”

He laughed, leaning in slightly. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted a reason to talk to the cutest seller here.”

“You know, flattery works better when you actually take the brownies.”

“I’ve got what I wanted,” he teased, taking another bite.

As much as you wanted to roll your eyes, you couldn’t hide your smirk. A sale was a sale, even if the customer was a little too smooth for his own good.

You stood there, momentarily stunned. Someone had just dropped a ridiculous amount of money on brownies—out of nowhere—and then decided you could keep both the cash and the sweets. Suspicious? Absolutely. But were you going to argue? Not a chance.

With a smug grin, you strolled across the lawn, basket in one hand and Mingyu’s absurdly generous payment in the other. The whole thing felt like an easy win—until a strange heat crawled up your spine, prickling your skin like the sun had suddenly gotten personal.

You turned your head, and there he was. Bangchan. Watching you.

And for the first time all day, he wasn’t smirking. No teasing, no cocky grin—just something sharp in his gaze, something dark curling at the edges.

Bangchan had never been the clingy type. He wasn’t the guy who caught feelings, overanalyzed texts, or lost sleep over someone who didn’t want him back.

Relationships? Fun while they lasted. Breakups? Mutual and drama-free. Ever since college started, he’d embraced the single and thriving lifestyle—no strings, no complications, no mess.

And sure, people talked. About his skills on the court, his grades, his leadership. But mostly, about his other talents. The ones that kept his phone buzzing at ungodly hours, filled with invitations that had nothing to do with basketball.

Bangchan never minded the attention. He never cared—until the only girl he actually wanted looked at him like he was just another name on a list.

Like he was forgettable.

What the hell was he doing wrong? He was a good guy. A loyal friend. A straight-A student. A goddamn basketball prodigy.

So why weren’t you interested? Why were you the only one immune?

He wanted to push, to test your limits, to make you see him the way he saw you. But that wasn’t his style.

He knew when to start and when to stop. And right now? He was dangerously close to crossing that line.

Bangchan wasn’t asking for much. Just a moment—one real, uninterrupted conversation with you. No sharp comebacks, no teasing deflections. Just you, stripped of the armor you wore so well.

But that wasn’t your style, was it? You never made things easy.

It all started when Hyunjin, the group’s reigning drama king, decided to join the theater. Naturally, he demanded a full entourage for moral support, which was how Bangchan ended up in that stuffy auditorium, sitting between Seungmin, Changbin, and Jeongin, watching Hyunjin pour his soul into a song like he was auditioning for Broadway itself.

He was good. Of course, he was good. Velvet-voiced, graceful, with a presence that demanded attention. The second he finished, Bangchan was ready to get up, clap him on the back, and drag him out for celebratory food—

Until you stepped onto the stage.

He didn’t know your name yet. Didn’t know anything about you. But there you were, in knee-high boots and a white dress, angelical, standing under the spotlight like you owned it.

Then, you started to sing. I’ll Be Over You. Soft, rich, and powerful all at once.

And just like that, Bangchan was gone.

He wasn’t used to losing—not in basketball, not in academics, and definitely not when it came to people. So when he finally got close enough to talk to you, he expected… well, something.

Maybe intrigue. Maybe mild annoyance. Fuck, he would’ve taken playful exasperation.

But you? You loathed him.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut. Any hope of friendship, of even standing on neutral ground, went up in flames. You always had a comeback locked and loaded, always deflected, always avoided his gaze like it might set you on fire.

And maybe it would.

Because that sharp tongue of yours? The way you kept him at arm’s length, like he wasn’t worth a second glance? It only made him want to push harder.

So fine. If you were going to make him fight for every inch, he’d play along.

He just needed to know—was this all just a game to you? Or were you just as afraid of losing as he was?

The bar was buzzing, laughter and conversation mixing with the clink of glasses and the steady thump of music. You were comfortably wedged between Sohee and Eunji, their arms draped around you like you were some rare artifact they had to protect at all costs.

You were tipsy, maybe a little emotional, but mostly just basking in the warmth of the people around you. Tonight wasn’t about stress or overthinking. It was about celebrating a well-earned victory.

"I can't even describe how happy I am, guys," you sighed, raising your glass with a lazy smile. "You are, without a doubt, the best friends a girl could have."

Eunji and Sohee groaned dramatically, tightening their hold on you. "You’re lucky we love you," Eunji grumbled. "And that we’re good at handling your emotional soju phases."

"I mean it," you insisted, half-dramatic, half-serious. "We did it! We have enough to keep the theater running until Mrs. Baek finds a permanent solution."

Your gaze flitted across the table, landing on Seungmin and Hyunjin. "None of this would’ve happened without you."

“We’re a fucking team!” Changbin declared, slamming his hand on the table with the confidence of a man three shots past his limit. "And you know what that means? Another round!"

The table erupted in cheers, and for a moment, everything felt right. Until you felt it. That pull. That heat at the back of your neck, like someone had just flipped a switch.

You knew before you even turned. Bangchan was here.

You refused to acknowledge him. Absolutely not. You were having a great time, and he—well, he was an occupational hazard. A walking, talking disruption to your peace.

"Channie!" Felix called, pulling him further into the group. "Finally decided to show up, huh?"

You still didn’t look. Instead, you took a long sip of your drink and focused on the condensation trailing down your glass, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

But Bangchan had never been one to be ignored.

"You didn’t think I'd come?" his voice slid into the conversation so smoothly it sent a shiver down your spine.

You took your time—because if he was going to show up and be smug about it, you could at least make him wait. Finally, you turned, meeting his eyes head-on. "Didn’t think you’d dare."

He smirked, leaning just a little closer, like he was waiting for you to react. You didn’t.

But your pulse? Yeah, that was another story.

Bangchan leaned back in his seat, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he watched his friends celebrate. He should’ve felt the same rush of excitement, the same weightless joy—but his mind was elsewhere. The relentless pressure of basketball training sat heavy on his chest, and the gnawing anxiety that came with it refused to let go.

And then there was you.

Standing there, effortlessly stunning, laughing like the world had never touched you. Just close enough to see, but never close enough to reach.

When Changbin made his way to the bar for another round, you followed, craving something non-alcoholic to cut through the buzz in your head. He glanced at you as you stepped up beside him.

“Happy?” he asked, arms crossed, an amused glint in his eye.

You grinned, light and unburdened in a way Bangchan hadn’t seen in a while. “Very. Thanks for all the help.”

Changbin shook his head with a smirk. “You should be thanking my boy over there.”

Your brows knitted together as you followed his gaze. Bangchan, mid-laugh, his head thrown back at something Jisung said. Carefree. Unbothered. Completely unaware that your entire world had just tilted on its axis.

“What?”

“He basically forced the team to join the sale,” Changbin said, voice thick with the weight of alcohol and honesty. “Said it was to help a friend.”

Your stomach did something weird—tightened, flipped, something you weren’t prepared for.

The memory hit like a slow-motion replay. Bangchan barged into your dorm, smug as ever, announcing he had dragged the entire basketball team into your little fundraising mess. You had assumed it was for Hyunjin and Seungmin. Maybe even for some ego boost, a reason to flash that damn smirk of his.

But no. A friend.

“Really?”

Changbin snorted. “What? You think he went out selling brownies half-naked just for fun?”

You forced a laugh, but your smile didn’t quite stick. Something about it—about him—felt different now.

Changbin walked off with his four bottles of soju, leaving you behind, still leaning against the counter, replaying his words in your head. It was almost offensive to think of Bangchan as anything other than his usual self—cocky, overconfident, annoyingly self-assured. Your brain outright rejected the idea that he could be good. That he could do something selfless without expecting anything in return.

And yet, here you were, stuck with the uncomfortable realization that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the villain you’d made him out to be.

Letting your guard down was one thing. Admitting you’d been wrong? That was the real battle.

You made your way back to the table, feeling just sober enough to regret this night’s life-altering discoveries. Sliding onto the edge of your seat, you watched as Jisung threw himself into a chair, already deep in the throes of drunken confidence.

“I’m feeling karaoke,” he announced, slurring just a little. “Who’s in?”

One by one, the group rose, fueled by alcohol and poor decision-making. Bangchan stood up last, and as he did, your hand found his arm, barely brushing over the smooth leather of his jacket.

“Hey,” you said quietly. “Can we talk?”

He blinked, caught off guard. For a second, he just stared, as if trying to decipher whether this was some kind of elaborate prank. Then, he glanced at the others heading toward the karaoke booth and nodded.

“Later,” he murmured. “That okay?”

You swallowed, suddenly unsure why your heartbeat had decided to play double time.

“Yeah,” you said, too quickly. “That’s… yeah. Sure.”

The night had escalated quickly. One minute, everyone was just vibing at Kooler’s, and the next, you were crammed into a karaoke room, neon lights flashing, Sohee absolutely butchering a ballad while Eunji screamed in horror.

The mic passed around until it somehow ended up in your hands.

“Oh, no,” you said immediately. “I don’t sing in public.”

“Ma’am,” Eunji deadpanned. “You’re in the drama club.”

“Yeah, for acting,” you retorted. “Not for embarrassing myself in front of—”

But then the opening notes of Breaking Free started playing, and the room lost it.

“Oh, you have to sing now,” Changbin cackled.

“We’re literally living a High School Musical moment!” Sohee clapped.

Then, the real nightmare happened. Bangchan grabbed the second mic.

The room erupted.

“TROY AND GABRIELLA, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Eunji announced like a sports commentator.

“Nope.” you stood up, but Jisung pushed you back onto the couch.

“You must embrace destiny,” he said solemnly.

Bangchan, ever the performer, smirked at you before dramatically bringing the mic to his lips. “We’re soarin’, flyin’—”

You covered your face with both hands. “Kill me.”

“That’s not the lyrics,” Changbin howled.

The moment Bangchan began to sing, his voice smooth and steady, you felt it—the tiny spark igniting between you, the way his presence pulled you in no matter how hard you tried to resist. His voice wrapped around the lyrics effortlessly, making them sound less like a cheesy high school musical duet and more like something real, something raw.

Then it was your turn.

Bangchan stilled for a moment, eyes widening slightly as you sang your part. He had always known you had a great voice—it was impossible not to, given how much time you spent in the theater club—but hearing you like this, just the two of you, no stage, no rehearsals, just you—it was mesmerizing.

God, you sounded unreal.

His chest tightened at how effortlessly you carried each note, how your voice blended with his in a way that made his skin prickle. You weren’t just singing—you were feeling it, even if you tried to hide behind an indifferent mask. He could see it in the way your body moved slightly to the music, in the way your lips curled at certain lyrics.

And fuck, he felt it too.

As the song picked up, the energy between you both crackled. Your voices melted together in harmony, and the chemistry was undeniable. You tried not to look at him, tried to focus on the screen, but every time you did, Bangchan was already looking at you, that damned smirk still in place.

When the chorus hit, something inside you gave in just a little. The moment was too fun, too infectious, and before you knew it, you were actually enjoying yourself.

You didn’t notice the way Bangchan’s gaze softened.

He saw through you, saw the way you let your guard down, even for just a second. And maybe it was the adrenaline, or the alcohol, or the way your voice wrapped around his in the final harmonized note, but Bangchan couldn’t stop himself from grinning like an idiot as you finished the song.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

Everyone jumped up like it was the Super Bowl. Eunji was sobbing dramatically into Hyunjin’s shoulder. Changbin was standing on the couch, pointing like an old man watching his grandkids do something historic.

“Troy and Gabriella could never!”

When the song ended, the room was feral.

“That was the single most important moment of my life,” Eunji declared, visibly drunk and happy.

“I think I just saw God,” Felix wheezed.

Meanwhile, you just handed the mic to Eunji, turned to Bangchan, and muttered, “I hate you.”

He leaned in, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Sure you do.”

You’d excused yourself under the guise of needing a breather, but really, you just needed a damn second to exist without someone screaming lyrics in your ear or pulling you into another round of shots. The night was fun, but it was loud, and if you wanted to make it through, you needed a minute to reset.

The balcony was empty, save for the faint scent of nicotine lingering in the air. You took a deep breath, letting the cool breeze settle against your skin, grounding yourself. The city hummed below, distant and detached, and for a second, you just… let yourself be.

Then, before you even opened your eyes, you felt  him.

That ridiculously familiar cologne. The one that had been all over you. On his t-shirt. In your space. In your head.

“Is our rockstar already tapped out?”

You turned just in time to see Bangchan leaning back against the railing, watching you with that look.

“A little.” you waved a hand dismissively, but your small smile gave you away.

His was softer, quieter than usual, but still there. Still undeniably him. And the way his eyes swept over you in the dim light? Yeah. You could feel it. The way he noticed things, details, like he was cataloging every inch of you.

It should’ve annoyed you. But tonight? Tonight, it didn’t.

“Heard you wanted to talk to me.”

You raised a brow, suddenly remembering why you had pulled him aside in the first place. “Right. Think I owe you an apology.”

Bangchan’s expression flickered with surprise. “For what?”

“You know what.”

“Do I?” he leaned in slightly, nodding as if urging you to continue. “You should be clearer.”

You exhaled, hating how hard it was to say it. Vulnerability has never been your strong suit.

“Fine.” you glanced down at your boots, gathering your thoughts. “I know you convinced the basketball team to help with the sale. I assumed the worst about you, and that wasn’t fair. So… I’m sorry. You really helped me.”

Silence.

When you looked up, Bangchan was staring at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. Confused. A little offended. Like that was what you thought needed an apology.

“That’s what you’re apologizing for?”

You blinked, confused. “What else should I apologize for?”

Bangchan let out a dry, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair before whispering a low, exasperated “fuck you.”

Your eyes narrowed. His arms crossed over his chest, the leather of his jacket tightening around his sleeves as he shifted against the ledge.

“What was that?” you demanded.

“Look, I appreciate the apology, really. But that’s not the thing you should be apologizing for.”

Oh, he was so good at pissing you off. Always had been.

“Then be clearer,” you shot back, arms folding tightly over your chest.

“Alright.” Bangchan turned to you fully, gaze locked in, voice steady. Too steady. “Let’s talk about your habit of coming after me and then bolting the second it gets real.”

Your jaw clenched. “I never—”

“For fuck’s sake, be for real. At the party? In my dorm? I’m not saying I didn’t want it—fuck, I wanted it. But so did you. And then you acted like it was a mistake. You run from things.”

His words landed like a punch to the stomach—sharp, direct, impossible to ignore. You blinked hard, fighting the sting behind your eyes, but you had nothing. No witty comeback, no escape route. Just the weight of the truth between you.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you did want this—him. The way he looked at you like he could devour you whole, the way his hands knew exactly where to go, the way your body reacts before your mind could stop it. You wanted it. You wanted him. But wanting didn’t make it easy.

“Why are you mad?”

“Why?” he let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Because it’s fucking frustrating, that’s why. You can’t make up your damn mind.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself, but your heart was hammering.

“It’s not that simple,” you muttered, voice quieter now, the anger slipping into something else. “Not for me.”

“Why? Because you hate me?” his lips curled, amused despite himself. “Which, by the way, I’d love to hear all those bullshit reasons why.”

“Is that really what matters?” you lifted your chin, defiant.

“So what, you’ve just decided you’re gonna hate me forever?”

“Maybe I will,” you shot back, voice dripping with venom.

Bangchan smirked, stepping in closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator cornering its prey. He leaned against the railing, his body angled toward yours, closing in just enough to make you breathless. "Hate to break it to you, love," his voice was low, dripping with amusement, "but people don’t usually fuck their enemies."

That voice. That damned voice—soft as silk, smooth as sin, and dangerous enough to make your pulse stutter.

Heat coiled in your stomach, spreading like wildfire, your body betraying you instantly. No. You weren’t going to let him win this.

"You’re right," you said, tilting your chin up, feigning nonchalance. "Which is why it’s never happening again."

A bold-faced lie. One you both saw through immediately. Because no matter how much you tried to ignore it, your mind was already spinning with memories—his hands, his mouth, the way your bodies fit together like a perfect crime.

Bangchan chuckled, dark and knowing. He moved closer, close enough that you could feel his breath graze your lips, your senses drowning in him—the scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating off his skin, the sheer audacity in his gaze.

"That’s a shame," he murmured, eyes flicking to your lips, "because we’ve got insane bed chem."

You swallowed hard. You didn’t know what was doing you in—the teasing rasp of his voice, the heat rolling off his body, the way his muscles flexed under that stupidly fitted jacket, or just him. All of him.

And just like that, your heart slammed against your ribs, your resolve threatening to crumble.

Bangchan lingered, watching—waiting. He wanted to see it happen, the exact moment your carefully built walls cracked. His pulse pounded, anticipation thrumming beneath his skin. But you held firm, clinging desperately to whatever thread of self-control you had left.

His smirk deepened, infuriatingly cocky. "I’m heading out," he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. Then, with a knowing glance, he added, "If you ever change your mind… you know where to find me."

And just like that, he turned on his heel, walking away without so much as a second look, leaving you standing there—heart racing, head spinning, and a heat pooling low in your stomach that you really didn’t want to acknowledge.

The night stretched on, loud and chaotic, but undeniably fun. By the time the drinks had blurred everyone’s ability to string together a coherent sentence, you decided to call it.

Back at the dorm, Eunji and Sohee barely made it to their rooms before collapsing face-first onto their beds, too drunk to even bother kicking off their shoes.

You wished you could do the same. But no—your mind had other plans.

You tossed. You turned. You put on some soft music, hoping it would lull you into sleep. It didn’t. Instead, every time you closed your eyes, all you saw was him.

The way he leaned in earlier, the heat rolling off him like an invitation. The way his muscles flexed beneath his jacket. The way his voice dropped, teasing, tempting, knowing.

You exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the sheets. It was ridiculous. Annoying. Infuriating.

You rolled onto your side, desperate for a distraction—anything—when your gaze landed on something draped over your study chair.

A black T-shirt. His.

The idea bloomed in your mind just as quickly as the heat spread between your thighs.

Pathetic. That’s what this was. That’s what you were.

Still, you got up, grabbing the shirt in your hands. His scent clung to the fabric—clean, musky, him. Just the faintest trace of it had your stomach twisting, the warmth inside you flickering into something dangerously close to need.

Before you could think better of it, you were pulling a hoodie over your flimsy excuse of a pajama shirt and slipping out the door.

It was past midnight. The campus was practically a ghost town at this hour, which was both a blessing and a curse. No one witnessed this humiliating trek across the quad. No one to stop you, either.

Your steps quickened as you reached his building, as if slowing down would somehow bring back your sanity.

Not happening. Not when your knuckles were already rapping against the door. Not when your breath was unsteady, your chest rising and falling too fast. Not when anticipation was burning through your veins, leaving you lightheaded and restless.

Shuffling sounds came from the other side. The lock clicked.

And then—him.

Bangchan stood in the doorway, his torso bare, sweatpants hanging sinfully low on his hips. His skin gleamed under the dim hallway light, muscles shifting as he leaned against the doorframe.

One look at you—hoodie, messy hair, his damn shirt clenched in your fingers—and something shifted in his expression. His lips parted slightly. His gaze darkened.

He already knew.

Bangchan was deep in sleep when the knocks came. His brows furrowed, his face crumpled with exhaustion as he groggily sat up, running a hand through his messy dark hair.

He hadn't been expecting anyone. But when he swung open the door, there you were. Hoodie slightly oversized, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with something unspoken.

You lifted the black shirt in your hands, your breath still uneven. “You forgot this.”

Bangchan’s gaze dropped to the fabric, then back to you, slow and deliberate.

“That’s all?” his voice was rough with sleep, but there was something sharper beneath it.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No.”

That was all he needed.

The shirt was snatched from your grip and tossed somewhere behind him. His free hand was already at your waist, pulling you inside with a force that had your pulse skyrocketing. The door barely had time to click shut before you were on him. Hands in his hair, lips crashing into his, pouring all your frustration and desperation into the kiss.

Bangchan groaned into your mouth, gripping your hips so tight it sent a shiver down your spine. His skin was warm, solid beneath your touch—broad shoulders, the ridges of muscle beneath your fingertips.

And you wanted all of him.

His hands slid up, fingers teasing along the curve of your spine. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, earning a sharp, guttural sound from the back of his throat.

You barely recognized yourself at this point. There was barely any sanity left in your body, and whatever remained was slipping fast.

Somehow, between hectic kisses and hands wandering like they had a mind of their own, you ended up on the sofa. Bangchan sat with his legs spread, his breath heavy, and you straddled his lap, your hands splayed against his firm chest.

His eyes were dark, hooded, watching you like you were something he wanted to devour.

"Are you sure?" the words left his lips, but your body already knew the answer. Your stomach twisted—not with doubt, but with the unbearable anticipation of what was about to happen.

Bangchan opened his mouth, but you pressed two fingers against his plush lips, cutting him off.

"Shhh," you hissed, your voice edged with frustration. Your hips rolled against him, a slow, deliberate drag that had him sucking in a sharp breath. The way he twitched beneath you sent a wicked thrill through your veins.

"You're driving me insane," you confessed, your nails digging into his skin. "You're in my head. That ridiculous face of yours."

Through the haze of want, Bangchan let out a breathless laugh, slowly biting your finger. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

You smirked, dragging your fingers down his jaw. "Shut up. Kiss me."

And he did—like he had been waiting his whole damn life to.

With effortless ease, he shrugged off his sweatshirt, leaving you in nothing but that dangerously thin white tank top—one that did absolutely nothing to hide how your body reacted to him. Bangchan’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight. Fucking hell. He wanted to devour you. Every inch. Every sound. Every shiver.

His lips crashed onto yours, rough and demanding, his hand curling around the base of your neck as his tongue teased and tangled with yours. He tasted you like he was trying to memorize every second of it, like he never wanted to stop. The heat of him, the way his fingers dug into your waist, how his breath hitched every time you met his urgency—it was intoxicating.

Then his lips left yours, trailing down your jaw, down your neck, and suddenly, your body wasn’t yours anymore. Your knees went weak, your breath came in ragged little gasps, and before you could stop yourself, a low, broken moan escaped your lips—right against his ear.

Bangchan groaned. That sound. That fucking sound. He was about to lose his goddamn mind. His hands tightened around your hips, his patience thinning by the second as you shifted against him, rolling your hips just enough to make him ache.

That sound. That fucking sound. Bangchan was about to lose his goddamn mind.

“I want it off,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with need.

His hands twitched against your waist, desperate. He could’ve ripped those pants clean off your body if he wanted to. But you took your sweet, agonizing time peeling them away before settling back onto his lap, now wearing nothing but a flimsy pair of white panties.

He would have torn your pants to shreds right then and there, but you took your time—agonizingly slow as you peeled them away before settling back onto his lap, now clad in nothing but the flimsy white panties that left nothing to his imagination.

And fuck. Bangchan broke.

You looked like a dream, like something too good to be real. Kiss-swollen lips. Hair messy from his hands. Chest rising and falling as you gasped for breath.

You were going to ruin him.

The absence of your pants made you bolder, rolling your hips in slow, teasing waves against his lap. He was already impossibly hard, every grind making it worse—if you kept this up, he was going to lose it before he even got the chance to be inside you. And that was not what he wanted.

But fuck, it felt good. The thick bulge in his sweatpants rubbing against your soaked panties, just barely grazing your clit, sending white-hot sparks shooting through your body. Every movement set off a new wave of heat, of need, of something devastatingly addictive.

“I need to do something,” you whispered against his lips, your breath warm and uneven.

Bangchan still had his eyes closed, savoring every second of this moment, refusing to let it slip away.

“Please.”

Your hands drifted down, fingers ghosting over the outline of his cock through the soft fabric of his sweats, barely touching—but more than enough to make his whole body tense. He gritted his teeth, veins pulsing as your palm pressed just a little harder.

“Fuck…” he rasped, voice hoarse, almost a plea.

You shifted between his legs, fingers toying with the hem of his pants, your nails barely scraping against his skin. His gaze burned into yours, dark with anticipation, completely at your mercy. And when you finally wrapped your hand around him—hot, firm, thick—he let out a shaky, wrecked breath.

A low groan escaped his lips, his head falling back against the couch as you wrapped your hand around him, warmth meeting warmth. The muscles in his abdomen tightened, every nerve in his body set ablaze by your slow, deliberate movements. You weren’t in a hurry—you wanted him to feel this. To lose himself in the way you handled him, the way you made him wait.

"You said I could use my pretty mouth next time," you murmured, feigning innocence, biting your lip just enough to drive him mad.

And then you winked—sweet, angelic, like you weren’t about to completely wreck him.

His breathing stuttered. His hands twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to grab you, to make you do something instead of torturing him like this. “You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, his voice wrecked, eyes rolling shut as pleasure coiled in his stomach.

You only smiled, satisfied with how easily he was unraveling for you. Leaning in, you ghosted your lips over his, not quite kissing him—just close enough for him to chase after the contact. His body burned under yours, every breath he took shaky, labored.

"Like that, baby" he panted, his voice breaking as he let himself go, surrendering to the moment, to you.

To his torment, you picked up the pace, your touch firm, deliberate. His breath hitched, his body tensing beneath your hand as his head fell back against the couch. The heat between you was unbearable, a wildfire consuming every inch of restraint he had left.

His moans came unchecked, rough and unrestrained, completely at your mercy. He let you guide him, surrendering to every agonizing second—until suddenly, it all stopped. The loss of contact was like a snapped tether, leaving him breathless, on edge, undone.

His chest rose and fell rapidly as he blinked down at you, wide-eyed, dazed. The way you knelt between his legs, watching him with that look—he swore it could drive him insane.

And then, with agonizing slowness, your lips parted. The moment your mouth met his cock, his whole body tensed, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth. His fingers curled into the couch, muscles drawn tight as you worked him over, your tongue teasing, tormenting, ruining him.

"Look at you," he murmured, smirking like he had the upper hand when, in reality, he was barely holding himself together. "So pretty around my cock" his tongue flicked over his lower lip, his voice rough, almost reverent.

If his goal was to sound composed, he was failing miserably.

You hummed in response, deliberately slow, deliberate in every movement. He cursed under his breath, fingers threading through your hair, not pulling—yet—but holding, like he needed something to keep him grounded.

"If you keep going," his voice was strained now, his thighs tensing beneath your touch, "I—"

You raised an eyebrow. "What, baby?”

His jaw clenched. He was already too far gone to play games, but you weren’t about to make this easy for him.

And then, just as he warned, he shattered. Every muscle in his body locked up, his breath stuttering as he tipped his head back, a curse slipping past his lips like a prayer. You didn’t let up, dragging out every second of his cum until his grip on reality seemed just as unsteady as his grip on you.

His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his grip on your hair going slack. You pulled back, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, before giving him a slow, knowing smile.

By the end of it, he was completely wrecked—chest heaving, eyes hazy, limbs boneless. His vision blurred at the edges, like his body couldn’t decide whether to collapse or beg for more. He knew you were good. Knew the chemistry between you was dangerous. But the way you looked at him—innocent, yet utterly sinful—while taking him so effortlessly? That was his undoing. You weren’t just ruining him.

And yet, you didn’t stop there.

Without hesitation, you climbed onto his lap, capturing his lips in a kiss so wet, so consuming, it made his head spin all over again. The taste of himself lingered between you, but you never shied away from things like that. Bangchan was great in every way, and if he could make you feel good, you’d damn well return the favor.

"Holy shit, baby," he murmured between kisses, his voice still rough with aftershocks, "you're fucking amazing."

The wicked curve of his lips sent heat straight to your core. He was teasing you, even now, when he could barely string words together.

And God, it only made you want him more.

Every movement between you was deliberate—synchronized, electric, and dripping with consent. Bangchan’s fingers trailed down your trembling thighs, finding the soaked fabric of your panties. He barely touched you, yet a deep shiver ran through him, his cock twitching at the sheer slickness of you.

"Fuck," he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice thick with hunger.

Then, without warning, he pushed the fabric aside and pressed two fingers against your clit, rubbing slow, relentless circles.

Your moan was swallowed into the kiss, tangled between tongues and shallow breaths. He was hard again, pressing against your stomach, his body burning with every second of restraint. Bangchan grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer, his free hand teasing and taunting with no predictable rhythm—just continuous, torturous pressure that sent you spiraling.

"I..." you tried to speak, but the words crumbled in your throat, lost in the haze.

Bangchan's dark eyes locked onto your face, studying every microexpression—the way your lips parted, the way your brows knit together, how every tiny twitch exposed just how undone you were.

Then, as if testing the limits of your sanity, he dragged his fingers lower, slipping two deep inside.

You gasped.

The stretch was sinful. Even his fingers were thick, filling you in a way that had you gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Bangchan groaned at the feeling, his patience thinning with every squeeze of your walls around him.

And the worst part? He was just getting started.

He sucked on your lip, bit it, then soothed it with a kiss. "How can you be so fucking tight?" his voice was wrecked, nearly a growl, as he felt your walls clench around his fingers, swallowing him with a desperation that made his cock twitch.

Bangchan didn’t slow down. If anything, his pace turned ruthless—deep, fast, relentless. Each thrust of his fingers sent another jolt of pleasure through you, leaving your brain nothing but static. Your body thawed under his touch, a mess of heat and sensation. He pushed your blouse up just enough to bare your breasts, immediately palming them, kneading them as if the sensation alone could ruin him.

"Don’t stop." the demand left your lips between ragged breaths. "Harder."

Bangchan groaned, watching you ride in his lap like a dream he didn’t deserve. "Jesus Christ." his voice was strained, his self-control hanging by a thread. "’Gonna cum all over me, hmm? Is that what you want?"

It was too much. The filthy words, the ruthless rhythm, his fingers buried deep inside you while his cock throbbed against your thigh, still wet from your mouth. Your body was on the edge of something catastrophic.

And then you shattered.

The orgasm slammed into you like a cursive wave, your moan breaking into something raw, something uncontrollable. Bangchan swore under his breath, completely mesmerized. He didn’t stop—kept his fingers buried inside, working you through every pulse, every aftershock.

When your breath finally started to steady, you opened your eyes. And he was watching you.

His gaze was alarming—dark, hungry, completely ruined. As if he had just witnessed the most beautiful thing in the world.

You were both breathless, skin damp with sweat, but it wasn’t just the intensity of what happened—it was everything that had led to it. The frustration, the tension, the unspoken words tangled between your bodies.

Bangchan reached for his black shirt, which had been abandoned on the arm of the couch. "Keep this."

You eyed him, still catching your breath. "Why?"

"To motivate you."

You snorted, rolling your eyes before giving his shoulder a light shove. "You're so full of yourself."

But you still slipped it on, letting the oversized fabric swallow you up, suddenly feeling less exposed—less vulnerable. His hands remained on your thighs, holding you in place on top of him, as if he wasn’t ready to let you go just yet.

Then, casually, he picked up his phone and handed it to you. "Put your number in."

You held the device, raising an eyebrow. "Why? So you can save it as ‘bootycall’?"

His lips curled into a slow, shameless smirk. "Maybe."

"You're terrible." you rolled your eyes but still tapped your number into his phone, handing it back with a smirk. "And a complete pervert."

Bangchan ran his hands up your thighs, his fingers lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. "For you?" his voice was low, teasing, but there was something deeper in his gaze. "Completely."

The weight of the moment settled between you, thick and lingering. And that was your cue. You stood, reaching for your clothes, shaking off whatever it was that passed between you. Bangchan did the same, though not without watching you with that unreadable look on his face.

"You could stay if you want," he offered, ever so casually.

You scoffed. "It's late, and the girls will notice if I'm missing in the morning."

He nodded, as if he understood—because he did. No one could know. 

Once you were dressed, you headed for the door, pausing just long enough to glance over your shoulder.

"So," Bangchan leaned against the couch, arms crossed, his smirk returning. "How about it?"

You blinked. "What?"

"It'll never happen again?" his tone was pure mischief, mocking you.

Your lips curled, mirroring his amusement. "You have my number." you shrugged, stepping into the hallway. "Make good use of it."

And with that, you disappeared down the corridor, leaving Bangchan standing there, an unfamiliar, overwhelming feeling tightening in his chest.

One thing was becoming painfully clear—whatever this was between you, it wasn’t going away. And maybe, just maybe, you were better together than apart.

♡ taglist ― @kenia4 @chrizrizz @meerabmalik @gnabnahcsworld @gncbnahc @jinniejjam @skzworldx @itsacatastrophe-xo @soonie1010 @4ng3l-ch1ld @justwonder113 @tsunderelino @eastjonowhere @lyracarvahall @akindaflora @victoriaaf

[leejenowrld]

Na Jaemin dad core …. what are this 10 defining characteristics as a dad?

i wrote more than ten 😭😭 i’m obsessed, a lot of these may contain some spoilers for ‘heart to heart.’

he learns the weight of her body before he learns how to breathe again. when she’s first born, he’s afraid to hold her. not because she’s fragile, but because he is. he stands beside the incubator with his hands curled into fists, watching the rise and fall of her chest like it’s the only rhythm that matters in the world. and when the nurse finally places her in his arms, he doesn't speak, he sobs. full-body. silent. collapsing inward while holding something impossibly small. that night, he sleeps in the hospital chair with her against his bare chest, skin to skin, afraid that if he puts her down, she’ll disappear. even now, years later, when she climbs into his lap and curls there without asking, he always presses his palm to her back, counts her breaths again, just in case. he never says it out loud but every time she exhales, he forgives himself a little more for the time he almost left.

he never touches her hair without asking first — not even when she’s crying. she has the most temperamental curls. soft but stubborn, like her. she hates detangling. hates baths. hates when water goes in her eyes. the first time she throws a tantrum over it, she screams so loud he drops the brush. every instinct in him wants to fix it, quickly, efficiently, without emotion, the way he was taught to handle his own pain. but he doesn’t. instead, he crouches to her level, lowers his voice, and says “baby girl, can i touch your hair?” and she pauses. sniffles. nods. he combs through it slower than he’s ever done anything, whispering stories about mermaids and moonlight, misting detangler into his own palms first so it’s not too cold for her scalp. by the time he’s finished, her face is relaxed again. she leans her head against his chest without speaking. that’s how he learns, love isn’t fast. it’s patient. it’s gentle. it’s always asking permission.

he spends a week living on the cot beside her hospital bed and never once takes his eyes off the monitor. when the doctors say she’ll need surgery, he goes still. then he goes quiet. then he goes somewhere else entirely. no one sees him cry. no one hears him panic. but he doesn’t leave that hospital wing for seven days. not to sleep. not even when they tell him he can. he reads the same picture book to her five times in a row, holds her hand while she’s unconscious, kisses the backs of her fingers every hour on the hour like superstition. he whispers “you’re safe. you’re strong. you’re mine.” over and over again, sometimes when she’s awake, sometimes just to the ceiling. when the nurses offer to bring in a fold-out chair, he refuses. he needs to stay close. he needs her to open her eyes and see him there, not across the room. he talks to the IV drip like it’s a lifeline. he promises her a fort made of pillows when they get home. and when she finally wakes up post-op, drowsy and pale and clutching his shirt like an anchor, he breaks down for the first time. doesn’t even realise he’s crying until she blinks at him and says “appa?” and he nods. “yes, baby. always.”

he lets her put her cold feet on his bare thighs without flinching and warms her hands inside his sleeves whenever they walk at night. she hates socks. hates mittens. hates when her fingers feel trapped. but she loves touching him. so when they’re walking home and the air is biting, she always slides her hands into his hoodie sleeves without asking, nestling her palms against his skin. jaemin doesn’t complain. he tucks his hands over hers, holds them there like little embers. when she jumps into his lap at home with frozen toes, he lets out a soft grunt but never moves away. just wraps her legs in his and says “cold feet mean you missed me.” she giggles every time. it never gets old. and it never stops feeling like prayer.

he keeps every single voice memo she’s ever sent — even the accidental ones. sometimes it’s just ten seconds of static. sometimes it’s her saying “hi appa” like it’s a secret she’s letting him hear. once it was her singing off-key into the phone before slamming it on the floor. he saves them all. he listens to them when he’s tired. when he’s angry. when he forgets how to talk to people who aren’t her. he doesn’t tell anyone about the folder. it’s his favourite thing on his phone. his camera roll is messy. his texts are unread. but the voice memos? backed up. dated. catalogued by length. he plays them on planes. on walks. on nights he can’t sleep. sometimes he cries. sometimes he smiles so hard his chest hurts. he doesn’t need therapy. he just needs to hear her say “i love you” in five-year-old grammar on loop forever.

he folds her laundry better than his own and knows which pajamas are her favourites based on what she reaches for when she’s sad. she has a system. the pink ones with stars when she’s excited. the grey ones with clouds when she’s sick. the oversized t-shirt she once stole from his closet when she needs to feel small. jaemin never questions it. he washes them on delicate. he never puts them in the dryer. he hangs them on a line in her room and lets her choose which ones smell the best. once, when she was sick, he wore the grey ones himself for a day so they’d smell like him. she put them on and slept for twelve hours straight.

the first time haeun says “i hate you” he drops to his knees it’s not a tantrum. it’s not screaming. it’s quiet and trembling, born from exhaustion and pain and the kind of frustration little bodies don’t know how to hold. she’s six. raw from chemo. sick of medicine. tired of hurting. he tries to stop her from pulling the IV out and she shoves his hand away, eyes burning, and says it — “i hate you.” the words make him freeze. not because he believes them, but because she does. in that moment, she does. and jaemin doesn’t tell her she’s wrong. he doesn’t flinch. he kneels down, eye-level, lets her fists hit his chest, lets her sob and pull and break and when she runs out of breath, he whispers, “you’re allowed to feel everything, baby. even that.” and then, softer, “but i love you anyway. always. even when it hurts.” later, she falls asleep in his lap mid-apology and he stays on the hospital floor for hours with her heart against his ribs.

he takes her to a secret rooftop garden when the hospital feels like it’s swallowing her whole it’s hidden. through an emergency stairwell, behind a supply door, the kind of place he only found because he refused to leave her side and wandered while she slept. it’s quiet. no beeping monitors. no linoleum. he brings her there when she starts crying during bloodwork and can’t stop. he carries her up the stairs, blankets and juice boxes and stickers tucked under one arm, and opens the door to air and green and silence. she gasps. “is this magic?” he kisses her temple. “kind of. i saved it for you.” they sit on the bench for hours. she picks petals off daisies and makes wishes. he reads to her until her heartbeat slows. the nurses never find them. he tells her this is their place. she starts calling it their secret sky. when she finishes treatment, he takes her there to celebrate.

the moment he thinks he’s failed her is the night she sees herself bald for the first time and won’t stop crying she won’t come out of the bathroom. the door’s locked. she’s curled in the corner with her head under a towel, saying “i look like a monster. i’m not pretty anymore.” jaemin tries to stay calm but he can feel himself fracturing. he slides down the wall outside, presses his back to it, and starts whispering stories. stories about galaxies, about warrior princesses who shaved their heads to become faster, stronger, untouchable. he tells her “you’re more than pretty, haeun. you’re brave. you’re real. you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.” she doesn’t answer. hours pass. when she finally opens the door, he’s still sitting there — hoodie on, legs cramped, eyes red. she walks straight into his arms and whispers “will you still braid my hair when it comes back?” and he swears on his whole soul that he will.

he takes her to get ice cream after every chemo session even when she says she doesn’t want it her appetite vanishes after treatment. her mouth hurts. she gets quiet. she says “i don’t want anything, appa.” but he still drives to the same little corner shop, orders her usual in a cup, and holds it out wordlessly. she frowns. takes it. licks once. always once. then twice. then again. by the end she’s halfway through and her smile is back and she’s leaning against him like her body remembers he’s the safest place to be. sometimes she doesn’t eat at all. he keeps the melted ice cream in the freezer like it matters. like she might want it again later. she never does. but he always saves it anyway.

he lets her ruin his mornings on purpose. she wakes up early. always has. climbs into his bed before the sun’s up, knees into his ribs, cold feet under his shirt, asking if they can make pancakes or look for worms outside or build a tent from the sofa cushions again. she’s full of noise. he’s not awake. but he never tells her no. he pulls the covers over her, lets her wriggle under his arm, and says “five more minutes,” knowing full well she won’t last thirty seconds before kissing his cheek and whispering “i’m bored.” he groans. pretends to grumble. then gets up and lets her steal his hoodie while he puts the kettle on. those mornings are messy. flour in her hair. cartoons still on. juice spilled on the floor. but he never trades them for quiet. he never asks for sleep instead. because one day she won’t climb into his bed at all. and he wants to remember what it felt like when she still thought of him first.

he never lets her walk home without holding something — his hand, his sleeve, the corner of his backpack. even when she insists she’s big enough. even when she runs ahead. even when she stops and pouts because he’s being too careful. he always waits. holds out his hand. doesn’t say anything until she takes it again. sometimes she grabs just his pinky. sometimes she loops her finger through the strap on his backpack. it’s not about the grip. it’s about the connection. he doesn’t care how she holds on, only that she does. once, when she asked him “why do i always have to hold something?” he told her “because when i was little, no one ever waited for me to catch up.” she didn’t answer, just curled her fingers around his and kept walking. that was enough.

he cries behind the school gate the first time she lets go of his hand too early. it’s not the drop-off that ruins him. it’s the moment before. when they’re standing in line and she’s holding his hand, but her eyes are already on the playground. already on the kids with sparkly backpacks and bouncy braids and painted nails. and then. she lets go. not dramatically. not with a wave or a kiss. she just steps forward. like it’s nothing. like it’s fine. jaemin watches her walk ahead with her head held high, her little shoulders squared like she’s been practicing, and he swears he feels something crack in his chest. he doesn't call after her. doesn’t ask her to turn around. just presses his hand flat to the gate and says her name under his breath, once. when she finally looks back and waves, late, distracted, he smiles. waves back. then turns around and weeps behind the corner of the building. quiet. hunched. terrified that this is just the beginning of a thousand more goodbyes she won’t realise she’s giving him.

he loses her in the grocery store once and goes full end-of-the-world panic within sixty seconds. it’s one aisle. one moment. she asks if she can get the cereal by herself. he says yes. watches her turn the corner. counts to thirty. walks after her. and she’s not there. not in the aisle. not at the endcap. not by the candy shelf. the cart’s abandoned. his heart slams into his throat. he starts calling her name low at first, then louder. he checks every corner. every display. spins in circles. people stare. he doesn’t care. his hands are shaking. he yells once — full volume — and the cashier radios someone. “four years old. green hoodie. hair in two buns.” he repeats it like a prayer. “she was just here. i was just—” and then she appears. holding a packet of marshmallows. calm as anything. “appa, look what i found.” he drops to his knees in front of her in the middle of the frozen aisle. clutches her to his chest. breathes like he hasn’t in minutes. and when she asks “did you miss me?” he says “more than anything in the world.”

he moment she learns what death means and asks if he’ll leave too she says it like she’s testing the shape of something she’s only just learned exists. there’s no fear in her voice yet, just curiosity. soft and serious, like she’s trying to understand a new rule of the world. it’s the kind of question that doesn’t come with warning. one moment she’s holding a stuffed bear and the next she’s tilting her head and asking if people come back after they die. when jaemin hears her, something inside him stills. not panic, not shock — just this deep, slow ache that spreads through his chest as he sets down what he’s doing and kneels beside her. he answers honestly, gently, without too much weight, but the second she asks about him, it turns into something heavier. what if you die? she says, and he feels the floor shift. he doesn’t promise her the impossible. he doesn’t lie. he just holds her close and tells her that he’ll do everything in his power to stay, because he wants to be with her for as long as she’ll have him. she curls into him, small and quiet, still trying to process what it means, but she doesn’t cry. she doesn’t ask again. that night he keeps her door cracked open and leaves the hallway light on until morning. it’s the first time he realises that her fear won’t always sound like crying sometimes it’ll come as a question with no answer.

the first nightmare she can’t shake, and the way she curls into his chest like it’s the only place left that’s real it’s one of those nights where the world feels too big for her. he knows the second she tiptoes into his room without saying a word and crawls under the covers with the kind of urgency that says whatever she saw in her sleep scared her all the way awake. she doesn’t talk about it. doesn’t give details. just presses her face into the space beneath his collarbone and tries to disappear. he doesn’t ask. doesn’t tell her it wasn’t real. he just holds her there, slow and steady, one hand smoothing over the curve of her back, the other resting in her hair. her whole body twitches every time she starts to fall asleep again, and each time he murmurs something , not to calm her down, but to remind her he’s still there. that she isn’t alone. she eventually settles with one hand tangled in the fabric of his shirt and her breath syncing to the rhythm of his chest. he doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night. not because he can’t but because he doesn’t want to risk missing the moment she finally feels safe again. in the morning, she doesn’t mention the dream. he doesn’t bring it up. but later, she grabs his hand while they’re brushing their teeth and says, “i like when you’re there when i wake up,” and it lands in his ribs like a second heartbeat.

the day she asks to meet her mom, and he realises there are some answers he may never get right it happens so simply, so suddenly, that he doesn’t even register the weight of it at first. she’s sitting at the kitchen table after school, spoon in one hand, backpack still on, kicking her feet and talking about everything and nothing — and then she asks. can i meet her? no build-up. no warning. just one question that freezes him in place with a glass of water halfway to the sink. for a moment, he forgets how to move. he doesn’t know if someone at school said something, or if it’s been living in her for longer than he realised. what he does know is that her voice isn’t bitter. it’s curious. honest. and he can’t afford to answer with anything less. so he takes a breath, crouches beside her chair, and tells her the truth, that her mom was someone he knew a long time ago. that she helped bring her into the world. that she loved her in her own way. and then she asks, do you love her? and this time it hurts in a deeper place, but he doesn’t flinch. he looks her straight in the eye and says, i love you. more than anyone. more than anything. and for now, that’s enough. she nods. stirs her yogurt. climbs into his lap without another word. and that night, when she’s asleep and the house is quiet, jaemin sits on the edge of her bed and wonders how many more questions will come. how many answers he’ll have to shape out of grief, protection, and guesswork. but for now, she’s warm. she’s close. she trusts him. and that’s something he still knows how to hold.

[kxsagi]

hey! i hope to req baji keisuke x fem reader where fem reader often eats junk food to feel better but cause of gaining weight she feels ugly. she also has a lot of acne which further adds to it. tyy!!

“𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫”

a/n: reminder to all my beautiful readers that you are truly beautiful just the way you are! 🫶 please do not let weight or skin problems define you, but also don’t neglect self-care!

(art credits go to ppopoob on X, baji fanart is always insanely good omg my eyes are blessed)

you’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, a bag of chips in your lap, and a half-eaten chocolate bar beside you. it’s been a long week, and junk food has become your go-to comfort lately. but today, you just feel... off. bloating has gotten bad and when you glance in the mirror, your face seems to have more pimples than it did yesterday. 

you sigh, sinking deeper into the couch, feeling the weight of it all. 

“hey, are you alright?” baji’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and you glance up to find him leaning in the doorway, his usual wild energy softened by a knowing look. he’s all smirks and confident swagger, but you can see the way his eyes narrow, catching that something’s off. 

“yeah, just... tired,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze as you grab another handful of chips. 

“tired?” he says, cocking his head, the playful tone slipping into something more perceptive. “you’re not fooling me. there’s something bothering you.” 

you shrug, not quite sure how to explain the way you're feeling. “i’ve just been eating a lot of junk lately, y’know? and now i feel... gross.” 

he steps closer, his posture still brimming with his usual chaotic energy, but there's a tenderness to the way he watches you. “what do you mean ‘gross’?” he asks, voice softer now. “you’ve been eating junk food to feel better, right? what’s wrong with that?” 

you glance up at him, biting your lip. “i’ve gained weight, baji. and my face... it’s full of acne. i just don’t feel pretty anymore.” 

baji stands still for a moment, his lips pressing together in thought. then without warning, he pulls you into his arms, his usual wild nature giving way to something deeper, more grounded. his hands gently cup your face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. 

“listen to me,” he murmurs, his voice steady and firm. “you’re beautiful, inside and out. no matter how you look, that doesn’t change for me. you’re still the same person who makes me laugh, who makes me feel like i can take on the world. don’t let this stuff get in your head, okay?” 

you blink up at him, surprised by how serious he’s being, but it’s not the usual wild, teasing baji you’re used to. there’s loyalty in his words, like he’d stand by you no matter what. 

“you’re my girl, and i’m here, always,” he continues, his grip tightening ever so slightly, grounding you. “acne, chips, extra weight, none of that matters. you’re the one who owns my heart, and that’s not gonna change.” 

his words make you smile, a small, soft thing at first, but it grows as you feel the sincerity behind them. his loyalty, his unwavering love, makes you feel a little lighter. 

“besides,” he adds, pulling back with a grin that’s all mischievous now, “i think you look cute with the snacks. i like a girl who knows how to enjoy her food.” 

you laugh, shaking your head, feeling your earlier frustration melt away. “you’re impossible.” 

“but you love me anyway, right?” he teases, nudging your nose with his. 

you can’t help but laugh again, shaking your head, your heart lighter than before. “maybe i’ll try to look at myself the way you do... but only if you promise not to eat all my snacks.” 

“deal,” he grins, pulling you in for another hug, and for the first time today, you feel like everything’s gonna be okay. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Request: Knoxx Wyatt (cowboy yandere) reacting to us (his darling) deciding to go back to the city (cause we got better job prospects or something, I don’t know). What would this man do to keep us from leaving? (And I guess this would still technically be early into the “relationship” where we aren’t long term commitment or haven’t truly “defined” the relationship yet). I just wanna see this man become unhinged. See his “yan” side 😉

P.S. Don’t ever feel guilty about your pregnancy/baby stories. I love them (and probably a lot of your fans since we all most likely got breeding/pregnancy kinks…cause this is Tumblr after all…😘)

Yandere! Cowboy x New in town! Teacher! gn! Reader

WHAT IF: Darling goes back to the city?

Thanks for the reassurance anon! I was seriously getting worried LMAO. Now, I think you know where this is going with what would Knoxx do...

TW: Tampered contraceptives, forced breeding.

"Darlin... What do you mean by that?"

Knoxx gripped the saddle in his hands, his eyes wide as saucers.

You shrugged and gave him your phone which he snatched up immediately.

It was an email in which you're assigned to be a teacher in a prestigious University.

Knoxx felt cold in the stomach. The veins on his arm starting to bulge, blood pumping hastily to his heart as his mind went haywire with the prospect of you--

No, he can't even imagine it.

"But Darlin, yer only been 'ere for months. Not even a year." Knoxx whispered, trying to grit back the wallowing despair in his chest.

"That's what I said! But it's such a good opportunity. With a salary that's definitely much better. No offense."

"N-none taken."

"Besides, I still got two months here!"

Knoxx bit the inside of his cheeks, feeling his molars squish down the flesh, piercing it and letting the blood flow down to his tongue, tasting the metallic flavor before it trickled down to his throat.

Yet, no matter how much he hurts himself, he's not waking from his nightmare.

He wanted to let out a bitter cry but all he could do is laugh deeply. His eyes shaking from the raging emotions that threatened to bubble out.

His mind, heart, and body screamed to hold you down and break your legs, locking you up.

But he didn't.

He let out a trembling sigh and gave a wry smirk.

"Is that so, darlin? Congratulations." He mustered up his best acting skills and bowed with his cowboy hat on his chest.

His smirk widened when he gazed at your body, eyes hungrily drinking in your form.

"How about this, darlin? Let's make the most of those two months. You and me, fucking like animals. Just like you wanted." Knoxx grinned, gulping the blood and giving you such predatory eyes that he knows you love.

You shivered, heat pooling your stomach and lighting up arousal in your body.

"okay. Later night?"

"Oh sure, darlin."

Knoxx pocketed his fist on his jeans, fidgeting with the condoms he had in tow, while his eyes bore into the pin you have on your chest. Specifically, the pointy end.

"See you later."

~~~Two months later~~~

By the time you were supposed to leave the town, you threw up in the toilet bowl, emptying the hearty meal you prepared yourself. The smell of the paprika and pepper singing your sinuses and making you nauseous once more.

Your heart raced.

You loved pepper and paprika chicken.

You loved spicy foods.

Why would it make you sick?

Food poisoning? No. Impossible.

Your legs shook as you stood up, looking at the bedroom and seeing Knoxx's naked back hugging your pillow.

With a frantic search in the bedroom, you spot the used condoms on the floor beside your bed, and your breath hitched, seeing it leak on the tip. It's tampered with. Every. Single. Condom.

Did he also poked holes on the other condoms he used with your previous encounters?

You felt nauseous once more, but this time, due to your disgust and betrayal, mixed with fear.

You wanted to cry, to scream.

But you don't want to risk waking him up.

You need to get out of there.

With a hasty yet careful movement, you dressed up and ran outside, but stopped when you heard growls. Dog growls.

Knoxx herding dogs were circling you, backing you up back to the porch of your house. Eyes hostile yet calm, they herded you back to the frame of the door until you bumped into a hard surface.

You tensed, feeling two strong arms circle around your waist and felt the hands palm your stomach.

"Hmm... Bun in the oven. How delightful."

Knoxx's husky and deep voice sent shivers down your spine as he kissed your neck and slowly swayed you left to right.

"darlin, let's go back to bed. Pregnancy this early is especially dangerous for you."

You wanted to scream and shout, yet Knoxx's ranch was too big for other people to hear.

Was Knoxx's house this far from the town?

Was Knoxx's ranch always this deserted?

You felt something cover your head, making you flinch.

It's his cowboy hat.

Remember, he already staked his claim on you.

You're his.

[spoonfulofmilo]

Could you do fic for Peter 'Bono' Bonnington with wife reader? For the past few years, the Merc's performance has dropped immensely that the engineer's was affected, especially Bono. He felt that he was disappointing Lewis and thinking that was why he wanted to go to Ferrari. So, she comforts him and tries to lift his spirit up. With, It was never about winning; Don't be afraid. It will be over soon ; I am just so tired. Sorry if it's too much. But I think it was important. You decide how it goes. Thanks!! :)))

my masterlist can be accessed here

Please keep requesting - y'all have awesome ideas we agree on a lot of stuff :) - my guidelines are here, and if you want some prompts, they are here.

also feel free to come in and start chatting to me in my asks, would love to get to know y'all better

and if you want to be added to my taglist lmk :)

peter 'bono' bonnington x wife!reader

Bono sat at his desk in the quiet Mercedes garage, the hum of activity just beyond the walls of his office. The day had come to a close, but he wasn’t sure if he could ever truly leave. The weight of the past few seasons, the missed opportunities, and the constant pressure to deliver perfection was overwhelming. He had worked so hard to get the team back to the top, to ensure that Lewis Hamilton had the best possible car to chase another world championship. But lately, it had felt like no matter how much effort he put in, the results just weren’t there.

The talk around the paddock had only added to his anxiety, the rumors of Lewis potentially leaving Mercedes for Ferrari, the whispers of dissatisfaction, of a lost edge. The thought of losing Lewis hit Bono harder than he expected. It wasn’t just the team; it was the bond they had formed over the years, the countless hours spent strategizing, analyzing data, and facing both triumph and failure together.

But now, with Mercedes’ performance slipping, Bono couldn’t shake the thought that he had somehow failed his driver, failed his team, and most painfully of all, failed the one person who had always trusted him implicitly, Lewis.

“Love, what’s going on?” Y/N asked gently, walking over and sitting beside him, placing a comforting hand on his.

Bono shook his head slowly, his fingers absentmindedly running over a pen on his desk, his eyes distant. “I just… I don’t know, Y/N. The results… the car’s not where it needs to be. Lewis is frustrated, and I can’t help but feel like I’m letting him down. I’m letting the team down.”

“Pete, you’ve never let anyone down,” she said softly, her voice a soothing balm against the turmoil inside him. “You’ve given everything you’ve got to this team. You’ve been through thick and thin with them, and especially with Lewis. You’ve never once let him down.”

Bono’s eyes were still locked on the desk, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t convinced, not yet. “But what if I can’t fix this? What if I’m the reason things aren’t working? I don’t think Lewis is happy with me anymore, Y/N. I can’t help but feel like… like I’m not enough.”

She took his hand in hers, giving it a firm squeeze. “Pete,” she said, her voice more insistent now, but still full of love. “You’re more than enough. I don’t care what anyone else says or what’s going on in the paddock. You are an incredible engineer, and you’ve been the steady force behind everything that this team has achieved.”

He finally looked at her, his tired eyes searching hers. “But the results… they aren’t there, Y/N. We’re slipping further behind.”

“I know it feels that way right now, but one race, one season, it doesn’t define everything,” she said softly. “You’ve been through ups and downs before. We both have. And you always come out stronger. This is just another hurdle. A tough one, yes, but not impossible. And you’re not alone in this. You have a whole team, and you have me. I’m not going anywhere, Pete. We’ll get through this together.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but it was a lie. His voice betrayed him, thick with exhaustion and frustration.

She raised an eyebrow, stepping closer, her gaze soft but knowing. “Are you, though?”

Bono let out a slow breath, shaking his head as he stared down at the papers scattered across his desk. “I don’t know, Y/N. I just feel like I’m failing. The car’s not where it needs to be, the team’s not where we want to be, and Lewis… I can’t help but think I’m letting him down.”

Y/N walked over to him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder as she knelt beside him. “Pete, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers, his eyes tired but searching for some semblance of clarity.

“You’re not failing,” she said softly, her voice a calming balm to his racing mind. “You’ve been here for years. You’ve poured your heart and soul into this team. You’ve helped bring Mercedes to the top, and nothing that’s happening right now changes that. It’s just… a bump. A tough one, yes. But not the end.”

“Pete, listen to me. It was never about winning. Yeah, the wins were great, and we all love celebrating those moments. But it’s never just about the wins. It’s about what you’ve built here. It’s about the dedication, the work, the countless hours you’ve put in. It’s about the heart that you’ve put into every race, every decision. You’ve given your best, and that’s never going to change, no matter the results.”

"It will all be over soon if you want it to be. If you want to retire this year, no one is going to stop you, Pete."

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was complete silence. It was not a threat, not an ultimatum, but a simple acknowledgment of the fact that he could walk away whenever he chose.

"Retire?" Bono looked up at her, a little startled by the suggestion. "I… I don’t want to retire, Y/N. I just… I feel like I’ve lost my way."

Y/N's eyes softened as she leaned closer, her voice calm and full of understanding. "You don’t have to retire, Pete. But you also don’t have to carry all of this by yourself. It’s okay to let go, to take a step back when you need it. It’s okay to not have all the answers right now."

“I’m just so tired,” Bono whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice was strained, carrying the exhaustion that had been building for far too long. “I’ve been at this for so long, and it feels like no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough. I just don’t know how much longer I can keep pushing.”

Y/N’s heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. She knew he had been struggling, but hearing him admit how tired he truly was hit harder than she had anticipated. She had always seen him as the rock, the one who held it all together, but now, she saw how deeply the weight of everything was affecting him.

Sitting down beside him, Y/N took his hand gently, the warmth of her touch grounding him. “Pete,” she said softly, her voice steady and full of empathy. “You don’t have to carry this alone. I know things have been tough, but you don’t have to keep shouldering all this pressure.”

taglist: @leosxrealm, @tallrock35, @wolf-knights, @janeholt3, @pear-1206

[leighsartworks216]

I Come With Knives Pt10

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Not proofread. I was supposed to be editing text for a class, but I suddenly had to write this chapter or I wouldn't be able to sleep. It is almost midnight.

Also, I'd like to remind everyone that I have not played the games, so I know none of this is accurate to the events, and I'm sure a lot of the things I write about are happening out of order, but don't worry about it. Think of it as an AU, or as, ya know, a story that was written just for fun because I love these silly little guys too much

I'm almost out of space on my masterlist for links so I might move some fics from the First BG3 Masterlist to the Second just to keep this story all in one place. But we'll worry about that when we get there in a couple chapters

Warnings: references to kidnapping, references to emotional abuse/manipulation, alcohol consumption, references to slavery

Word Count: 1,639

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Young tieflings ran around, playing games with each other and causing mischief. You couldn’t stop watching the way they teased and laughed and got along so well. When one tripped and fell, the rest were there to help them up, holding hands as they continued running around. After so much darkness and death and fear, to see so much energy and unbridled joy overwhelmed your heart.

A frown slid onto your face as you tried to think back to your childhood. Had you run around with the same reckless abandon? Had you tripped and been helped to your feet again? Had you teased and laughed and had not a care in the world, once? All you had were tiny fragments. A familiar wall here, the impression of a fence there. Silhouettes without faces; with no defining features at all. Years of your life, missing.

You could remember the night you were stolen away. The feeling of being lost, and a beady pair of red eyes staring hungrily at you with a smile that stretched too wide. The gravely promise of helping you find your home.

You shivered and hugged yourself close, shaking your head to jostle the memories from your mind. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. You won this battle - that’s what mattered.

Astarion sat down beside you on the log, a bottle of wine in hand. The light of the campfire danced across his features in a way quite familiar to you by now, and yet you couldn’t help tracing the shadows that defined his cheekbones and eyes. He smirked at you. “Something on your mind, darling?”

You sigh. “Too much, I think.” You turn back to the kids. Halsin had somehow calmed them down enough to demonstrate whittling a duck. They were completely enraptured, with wide eyes and pleas to teach them how to do it, too. “We’ve been on the road for weeks trying to do the seemingly impossible, I just forgot what was at stake. Not just our own lives, but theirs, too. Everyone’s.”

“Hm, and you’re going to carry it all on your shoulders.” He holds a goblet in front of you, urging you to take it. Red liquid settles inside, a deep, dark crimson. “You need to relax, love.”

You chuckle. “I don’t really know how,” you admit. You carefully take a small sip. Your face scrunches up immediately.

He laughs, taking the goblet back from you and finding absolutely no resistance. He swirls it around. “Well, in my experience, it’s very difficult without a good vintage and not just vinegar in a fancy bottle. Fortunately for us, my dear, I happen to have saved a bottle from one of our many expeditions. And,” he leans in conspiratorially, “I may even be convinced to share.”

“Oh really?” You tilt your head, squinting your eyes like you didn’t trust him, but the grin dancing on your lips gave the ruse away. “What’s the catch?”

You think he likes when you joke with him like this. It’s so difficult to get a chance with so much on your mind, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes almost one-to-one with the spark in the tiefling children’s eyes. “No catch,” he promises, “just your company. Away from all this.” He sighs, scowling as he leans back. “I can’t say I enjoy being looked at like some hero.”

You scoff. “You are a hero.”

“You’re the hero,” he insists. “Don’t go lumping me in with every goody-two-shoes that’s gotten stabbed in the back for being too nice.”

“Hm. And would you be the one doing the backstabbing?”

His scowl softens. His eyes do, too. There’s something warm there. You can’t name what it is - it’s completely foreign to anything you remember - but you feel… safe in his gaze. Protected. “You can consider your back perfectly safe, as long as I’m around. Cross my, erm.” He clears his throat. “Now, will I be enjoying the night alone?”

You look around. Some of the kids are cutting away at wooden lumps, with gentle guidance and supervision from Halsin. Wyll and Karlach are talking with cheeks as flushed as their skin tones allowed. Shadowheart is enjoying some wine and Lae’zel is nearby, but though they glare there’s no threats. At least, not any that will be taken out tonight. Gale has contented himself with cooking a large meal to feed all the hungry mouths that abound, reading a book with every spare second he has. Everyone is happy, everything is peaceful. Why shouldn’t you slip away?

“Where did you have in mind?”

He smirks and stands up, dumping the nasty wine from the goblet into a bush before he offers you a hand. His touch lingers longer than you think it will. You even wonder if he was going to gently tug you along with him, but he lets go. He slips into his tent briefly and emerges with another bottle and another glass. The vinegar-wine has disappeared, perhaps for him to drink later despite his complaints. With a smile and a nod to the treeline, he leads you into the woods. The sounds of the party fade away behind you.

-

The moon is huge in the sky, full and bright. There is no need for candles when her light chases away the darkness in a cool, blue glow. In a clearing in the forest, you’ve settled down on the ground, cushioned only by soft grass. The bottle was almost empty by now. You don’t know how many glasses you drank, but you felt full and warm. Content. At peace. You didn’t feel the need to jump at every shadow, nor did you have any fear in your mind for what could linger in them.

You laid back on the ground and stared up at the brilliant sky overhead. Astarion lay beside you, wondering if he would have ended up here if he’d ignored your past, ignored your kindness, and tried manipulating you as well.

“Thank you,” you say out of nowhere. You flush at how loud it was, but he just smiled. “For this, I mean.”

He hummed, turning his head to look at you fully. “I never even considered… Was this your first time drinking?”

You giggled and turned to look at him, too. “Was it obvious?”

“Not at all,” he huffed. He had that soft look in his eyes again. It seems to have spread to his smile, as well. “You do make for a very lovely drunk.”

You roll your eyes, looking back up at the stars. “I’m not drunk. Just a bit…”

“Tispy?”

“Mhm.”

He traces your profile, studies the way the moon highlights your features so masterfully. It’s almost as if your years of servitude had disappeared. All inklings of battle and torture were gone. All that remained was you, him, the moon and the stars, and the grass beneath you both.

You roll onto your side, cushioning your head with an arm as you look at him. “What’re you looking at?”

He chuckles softly. “I thought that much was obvious, dear.” He rolls over as well, mirroring you. Like this, the moon catches your face differently. It’s no less beautiful.

You huff. “What are you thinking about then?”

Oh, so much. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d simply laid with someone without sex being involved, but part of his mind was quite occupied trying to be sure. Other worries for the future, about Cazador and Kir Parthene, came and went, as they always did, leaving a residue of their passing like a thick sludge trailed behind them. More of these thoughts worried about you. About your freedom. About what would happen to you after all this. The thoughts that dominated his mind tonight, though, were far simpler, and far sweeter.

He reaches out to trace a finger along your cheek. Your skin is warm, as it usually is, but the flush in your cheeks from the wine makes you feel even warmer. He can see your mind fighting instinct as it tries to decipher what to do. But then you’re leaning into his touch, welcoming him to continue. He cradles your cheek in his palm.

“I think you look beautiful in the moonlight,” he admits. His voice is merely a whisper. “And I think, if you weren’t drunk right now, I’d liked to have kissed you.”

You laugh softly, out of shock more than anything. A compliment that wasn’t followed by something cruel, that wasn’t intended to act as a bandage, combined with the genuine care in his words. The only kisses you’d received in these years had been along your body, across your shoulders and on your neck, but they were never real. They were all for your master, a reminder that you belonged to her. This was not that. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes.

“I think I would have let you.”

He smiles and strokes a thumb below your eye, brushing away a tear before it ever has the chance to fall. “Well, we have plenty of time ahead of us.” He trails his hand from your cheek down your arm until he’s holding your hand. He brings it to his lips, and presses light kisses to your knuckles. “One day soon, perhaps.”

You wipe at your other eye. “I’d like that.”

Once he’s kissed each knuckle, you pull your hand from his and wrap it around his waist, pulling yourself to cuddle against him. He easily welcomes you, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you even closer. You press your face into his chest. He pets your hair in long, even motions. As you revel in the safety of his arms and the moonlight, and as he indulges in your body heat, you both eagerly await what the future will bring.

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @phantoms-fandom-blog @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars @tototini @ashrio20 @bambamwolf87 @astarion-imagine-archive @thistrashisreadytobash @rosxtinted

[sweeethinny]

PLEASE I want, or rather I NEED the Sirius x Hestia fics to come back I miss them so much. I want a sweet moment of them shared, quality time as a couple in hogwarts.

I also want to say that I reread the fics you did for them all the time🩷✨️

hi darling,

It's been a long time since I did something about them, this week I started something but didn't finish it, but I read your request and had an idea without any plot other than them being teenagers. I love them, and I love that you do too ahahahaha

Hestia was lying on his bed, sprawled on top of the sheets watching him try on his new outfits that had arrived from the seamstress. He didn't like it, he complained about everything, the length of the sleeves, the tie, how it was about to tighten in the back, the length of the legs, but Hestia knew that he was only picking on because he wanted to complain about something that came from his family, even if it was perfectly perfect, he would find some line out of place to point at and say "aha, here it is!" She continued to eat the frozen grapes that she had managed to smuggle into the bedroom, it didn't matter that it was snowing outside and she was wearing wool socks, it was still one of her favorite things to eat.

"See? They pay a lot for this? God, I could do much better myself,'' He sounded presumptuous, almost petty, he was always like that when it came to his family, again she let it go, she sounded like that sometimes too, so she just had to ignore it and let the clothing test end and he could go back to bed with her, warming up her body that was starting to get lukewarm because of the frozen snacks. ''What do you think?''

''That looks beautiful.'' It was a fact that Sirius had been growing up overnight, she was dating a guy who was her height and the next day, she already had to look up to talk to him, his arms were also getting longer and his back seemed to fill out even more the clothes he was wearing, which made her hormones effervescent inside her. ‘’And you have to come and lie down with me...’’

‘’By the way, Effie sent me new clothes to wear for training… Well, under the training ones, you know how she is.’’ He started to undress, the grapes then became uninteresting in the pot, and all her attention was on him. His long hair was messy because of all the changing of clothes, falling over his shoulders in an almost artistic way that made her want to paint pictures and write poems about it, who knows, write a torrential and slightly erotic novel about it, his black strands that hypnotized like a mermaid, wrapped around you and trapped you like a trap. Sirius turned his back to her, he was only wearing his pants, without a belt, it were a little loose at his waist and fell gently over his hips, nothing special, showed less than two fingers of the gray underwear he was wearing, marked his defined butt that Hestia said was getting bigger than hers — he said it was impossible. ‘’I think I’ll wear it more in the summer, but you never know.’’ Then he put on a white tank top, and if Hestia thought he was handsome before, now everything had improved.

‘’Wow, kitty.’’ She whistled. ‘’Come here,’’ She beckoned him with her finger, like a conqueror from a Muggle movie, and he came. He stood beside her on the bed, Hestia ran her hand over his body, the softness of the 100% cotton tank top was something to praise Effie, a good choice of gift, it would really come in handy during training and probably even outside during the summer, but for now, Hestia was happy to have been the first to be graced with the sight of him wearing the piece.

Sirius twirled around, grinning at her when she patted his butt. ‘’Go to the side, I’m going to lie down.’’

‘’Are you going to keep the tank top on?’’

‘’Since you liked it so much, I don’t mind.’’ He shrugged and threw himself next to her, taking up almost the entire bed, but for now there was still enough space for Hestia, lying on top of his arm, hugging his warm body and allowing him to throw the sheet under both of their bodies, tangling his legs and trapping her in an embrace that she would hardly get out of. ‘’Are we going to Lance’s birthday?’’

‘’Oh,’’ Hestia didn’t want to seem discouraged, but she clearly didn’t know how to lie. ‘’If you want.’’

‘’And that’s a no, phew.’’ Sirius kissed her forehead, then her nose, then both cheeks and finally her lips. ''You looked beautiful today with that hairstyle,'' She had already released the two buns she had made, but smiled at him, showering him with kisses, spreading the rest of the pink lipstick she was wearing.

''Thank you.'' After that, there was not much more to talk about, the making out continued and little by little their euphoria grew, the blanket kept them protected because the little cold they could feel had already disappeared, the shared human warmth kept them comfortably warm. Hestia at some point ended up on top of him, Sirius adjusted himself on the bed so that she would be more comfortable, and despite what everyone said behind her back, they had never had sex, the furthest they had gone was something like that, the only thing that changed was the intensity of the moments, and Hestia still didn't feel that would change soon.

Not that she didn't want to, it was always exciting to be with Sirius in those moments, and yes, it crossed her mind to get naked with him and simply do what she had to do, but there were still barriers she couldn't cross, one of them being shame, and she felt that even Sirius was a little bit like her in that regard, not because of shame, but because he was somehow insecure.

They were fine with where they were.

His hand went down from her lower back to her ass, something that had become normal and that she enjoyed a lot, her fingers tangled in the hair on the back of his neck, her long nails scratching his skin, enjoying his shivers and the body's responses. Hestia let out a surprised moan when he turned them over in bed, it wasn't quick and in a clean movement like in the movies, but it still took her by surprise. The training really had made all the difference. His heavy body pressed hers into the mattress, it was impossible to move, Hestia liked that. She liked those moments, and thinking that they still had good hours ahead made her very, very happy.

''Black!'' Or not. “Black, unfortunately we’ve come to disturb you.” James shouted in the room, Hestia and Sirius were startled, the sheet that had slipped off the bed was quickly thrown under them both again, even though they were still wearing clothes, as usual, Hestia appreciated the concern. No curtains were opened however. “We have a monthly problem to deal with, we counted the weeks wrong and we need you… uh… fifteen minutes is okay to meet?”

“Yes, Potter.” Was all he said, his head lying on her breasts, eyes closed and looking disappointed. She felt the same way. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay, see you later! Hugs, Jones.”

“Hugs, Potter.” Hestia sighed grumpily, upset, and thinking that it would be a very lonely night.

[dorthes]

Chiara: Gen-Z lesbian icon we were waiting for

(This is a translation of Chiara: el referente lésbico Gen Z que estábamos esperando and some comments of mine)

Chiara Oliver Williams is one of the 16 contestants from the reality-talent show more successful of Spain: Operación Triunfo. She's 19 years old, she likes Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo, Alanis Morissette, Stevie Wonder, Mariah Carey, Fleetwood Mac and Rosalía. She speaks four languages fluently, she plays the piano, the bass and the guitar, she's a composer, she's half English, half Spanish, and, without doubt, one of the most promising artists on the Spanish music industry. But we're going to focus on yet another aspect of her personality, last but no least: she's an out and proud lesbian.

"I'm Chiara, I like Christmas, girls, I'm a bit crazy and that's it." That's how she defined herself at the beginning of December (when the contest had barely started) when Ruslana, one of her housemates (bisexual wink) asked her to talk about her. And boy, was she right, because during the following weeks she has shown us that, if there's something crucial about her life and personality is, besides music and her talent, her lesbianism.

Let's start from the beginning. Chiara was one of the candidates that caught the most attention during the casting stage (in which 13 thousand contestants tried their luck) for her special voice, her artistic personality and her technical skills.

As early as the first week of the contest we know she's a raging homosexual when another one of her housemates, Violeta (also bisexual wink) asked her why several of her compositions are dedicated to boys (even though she would later explain they're not romantic songs) when she's "the most lesbian from all lesbians of Spain." However, her "official" coming out came later thanks to the LGBT talk scheduled in the show.

"Straight-passing", invisibility and lesbian pride

During that talk, Chiara spoke to talk about one of the problems femme lesbians often face: being pretty and femenine, and so, nobody expects they're lesbians.

And that's just what Chiara explained. It took her a while to understand not just to understand her lesbianism, but assume it, because how are you going to be a lesbian if you're not masculine and have grown up in a society which denies you like girls if you're pretty and femenine? Like, if boys like you and you check every box they look for, how could you not like them?

Basically, she talked abour her experience. "I've always been very feminine Society tells you lesbians are masculine, gays and affeminate, so I didn't realise until later because I told myself "I'm not masculine, so it's phisically impossible." But that's not the truth."

Chiara has what is known as straight-passing, that is, nobody thinks she's a lesbian at first glance, and nobody is going to think so if she doesn't say it. And that's a "privilege" and more so in a TV contest. But she decided not to "use" that "privilege" and she says every single day she's a lesbian. And, of course, she has "paid" the price, but we will talk about that later. All that matters is that Chiara's not only openly a lesbian, she has said it whenever possible, has coined "Go lesbians" as a personal brand alongside Bea, another housemate and a lesbian too and she says the word "lesbian" without any kind of taboo.

Lesbian is a word so charged with prejudice that a lot of lesbians refuse to use it and prefer some "euphemisms" like gay. So it is to be welcomed that a 19-year old Menorcan says it in one of the most successful TV shows in Spain (and with some repercussion in Latin America). With all its letters, with pride.

Chiara is a lesbian. And she also has all lesbian culture in her mind. She's a fan of Glee (particularly of Santana and Brittany), her favourite character from Grey's Anatomy is Arizona Robbins and she didn't like Bridgerton for being too straight. She loves Cate Blanchett, Sarah Paulson and Paula Usero. I Kissed a girl is a hymn in her life (and she sang it in the contest and finished it with a kiss with Violeta) and has covered Mujer contra mujer thousands of times.

She, self proclaimed "Spanish lesbian Olivia Rodrigo", also has various romantic songs aimed to girls and many of them composed during the contest (rumours say some of them are dedicated to one of her girl friends in the contest).

Ships

Of course people is going to ship her with her housemates. In fact, a bisexual boy, Paul, confessed his feelings for her knowing it was impossible, which he told her, and people suspect possible relationships with her mentioned before housemates Violeta and Ruslana. It's true they're all very good friends, but Violeta has a girlfriend already and Ruslana is dating another housemate. I (the translator) personally think this is not relevant but, to whoever may care, you can search Wartanera on YouTube.

Misogyny, lesbophobia and ableism

Well, obviously not everything could be rosy. This is the 21st century and Spain can be one of the most advanced countries on LGBTQ+ and women's rights, but lesbophobia still exists. Chiara started the contest as one of the favourite contestant to win, but for the lat month she has received a hate wave from a good chunk of the audience because, well, she's an easy target.

Reality shows audience look for people to hate, and nothing is easier than a lesbian girl with ADHD. Chiara faces double discrimination for her sexual orientation and for being neurodivergent. And the consequence is that she could leave the show this week.

How to save Chiara

If you have read all of this, if you like how she sings, what she means to us, please help us save her and stay in the contest, not only for Chiara, but all Chiara represents.

You can watch all of her performances on the official Operación Triunfo Channel (and clips of Chiara in general)

You can see what she has done in the Academy through Twitter and Tiktok searching for Chiara OT or the words "Kivi" and "Ruski" (her ships).

You can listen to the songs she has covered in the contest and follow her on Spotify where she will publish her own songs outside the contest

But the most important thing is to vote for free in the official Operación Triunfo App once a day until Monday 5th February. It's fast and easy. If you are from Latin America or Spain you can download the app for free. If not, you can download it from here. Follow the instructions below to vote. It's very easy. Save the lesbians, go lesbians

[stabbyfoxandrew]

Tell me more about ur vampires Aerieee <3

like for example, do they have any defining traits (besides them teeth hah)? I noticed the two picrews have them with pointy ears, but I wasn't sure if that was a vampire thing or just them lol. or for example in a lot of media, vampires end up pale or losing their warmth/color to their skin and end up looking greyish--product of being dead I suppose.

Do they have to drink (human) blood or can they, like many others survive on animals? What happens if they don't? do they die or do they just like, dessicate and/or take a long nap lmao Do they have to eat human food too? or does it taste gross to them now?

also any other fun facts that I haven't asked lmao <3 --QD

Once again, was saving these for my birthday. :') So here I go!

Common traits: My vampires have fangs, claws, pale skin, slightly-pointed ears (the picrew exaggerates a bit). All the 'usual' vampire traits. Their fangs and claws can retract. And after they feed, they have a more lively 'glow' to their complexion. (This isn't true for Old vampires. They look pale and dead no matter what. And their fangs stop retracting eventually. This doesn't happen until they're truly ancient though and most vampires don't live that long.)

What they drink: They can drink from humans or animals! Either will sustain them but they might have to feed more often if living on animals alone. Human blood tastes better, but is (understandably) hard for some to obtain. Animal blood isn't the tastiest but it gets the job done without ending a human life. Rayne feeds on animals, drinking rats when he's in the city and drinking deer or foxes if he's near a forest. (He usually tries to leave the woodland creatures alive, but the goddamn rats... Well, he thinks he's doing the city a favor.)

If they stop feeding: A vampire can decide to essentially just go take a really long nap until someone (who they've instructed) wakes them up. Otherwise, if a vampire just stops drinking blood they'll slowly lose their mind and eventually die. Like, if you're 'resting' you don't need to eat. But a vampire who is moving must. (I hope that makes sense?)

Eating human food: Some do, some don't. It depends on the individual (and also age). Rayne loves food, so he eats. Laurent would sometimes, but it usually didn't taste that good anymore. Perhaps because he's accustomed to his liquid diet or because he's older and doesn't feel that sort of hunger anymore.

Fun facts: ♦ Vampires are strongest under a new moon, the opposite of werewolves. ♦ If they're an adult when changed, they stop aging. (Though their hair and nails still grow.) If they're bitten as a child, they grow into their fangs later on. ♦ A vampire's bond with their maker is hard to break, but not impossible. ♦ Vampires drinking each other's blood strengthens the bond between them and allows them to speak telepathically to one another. (This power fades if they stop drinking from each other.) ♦ Vampires can stand in the sun. It is unpleasant, but doesn't burn them to ash instantly. (Older vampires might be an exception...) ♦ Vampires have laws, set by the vamp monarchy. They're more like guidelines. Most people do not follow them. ♦ If a vampire betrays their maker or their coven, one of their fangs is snapped out as a warning. They do not grow back. And there's (basically a) slur for one-fanged vamps. It's very hard for them to make new friends. ♦ Vampires typically get the powers of the one who sired them. (And of any vampires they kill.) ♦ There aren't that many vampires, until the king fucks off and shit starts going crazy. Then their numbers triple within a decade.

I'll stop here before I lose my mind. But I love you Allie, thank you for indulging me! <3333

[lulurhythm]

I've been thinking a lot lately about what makes Batman magnetic as a character. I'm not talking about any one comic design or any one writer or even any one actor. I'm talking about the pull that draws me back to his character concept again and again and again. Why is it that, in my darkest moments, I find myself thinking of Batman? What is it about the Dark Knight that I find so much comfort in looking up to? After a lot of thought, I've come to three conclusions. First, that Batman is the very gritty definition of self-improvement. I can't think of a single character that embodies the self-improvement concept quite as well. He trains and he studies and he drills himself on every part of his craft, and here's the thing--- It's not fun. It's not fun to get up before the sun every day; it's not fun to read one more chapter, to drill one more set, to make yourself rest when all you want to do is work yourself into your grave. Here's the thing, though. There's hope to be found in the possibility of being one percent better every day; in the fact that no matter how far you've fallen or how wretched you've become, you can ALWAYS do something to be better. There's confidence to be found in discipline. Second is this character's relatability. Batman is by necessity extremely human; his relatability in his darkness is sometimes so painfully reflective of the human condition that you find yourself realizing that he's always one step away from becoming the villain of his own story. What stops him? His love for people; his compassion. Batman as an ideal is the compassion for the worst of humanity, the belief that anyone, no matter how far gone, can be saved. That belief extends to himself; it has to, otherwise, what's the point? The burden of life is sometimes too heavy to carry. You need something just as heavy to bear to make existence bearable, especially in your darkest moments, when there seems to be nowhere to go but down. Batman's chosen burden is an impossible weight, but it pushes back against the agony of human existence, of his own fallible mortality. It's a powerful reminder of how much control we have over ourselves, our own minds and bodies. Third, quite simply, is the symbolism. Batman could be anyone, anywhere; nothing makes Batman who he is besides a phenomenal dedication to consistency. Constant self-improvement, day after day; anyone can do that, be that, even only for themselves. What defines Batman is the oldest champion's phrase in the book; fall down, get back up, fall down, get back up. Failed? Fail again next time, fail harder, fail forward. Get back up, face your fear, turn it inside-out and make it work for you instead of against you.

Batman is only a man who took his fear in two hands, wrestled it into submission, and turned it into his drive instead of his nightmare. His darkness is a grim message of hope, of getting your hands dirty in your own filth and making something of yourself. And that, my friends, is why so many people find Batman appealing as a concept.

[awrldalone]

24th September 2023, 8.21pm

The library at Centre Pompidou is open until late at night. I look out the window and my reflection stares back, wearing a yellow v-neck sweater. I bought it recently, it's soft and it was cheap. I bought it used, hesitantly, because the weather turned unexpectedly cold after two weeks of extreme heat and I had not yet received the rest of my winter clothes from Italy. They came two days ago, in big heavy boxes, and while I was putting them away, neatly folding them on my bed to then store them in the drawers under the mattress, I realized how much I hated them. 

On the metro I was wondering if, perhaps, my love for clothes, my fascination with fashion, is not just another attempt at controlling what I look like. There's only so much you can do to tailor your looks - cutting your hair, losing or gaining weight, taking care of your skin - but it all does not matter in front of your genes, your bones. I will not settle for what my genetics have given me. It's such a childish thought, but sometimes childish delusions are what you need to keep going forward (shoot for the stars and maybe you'll land on Mars, at least). I see a lot of eccentrically-dressed people here, and I wonder if they'd agree. Clothes do in fact go beyond the restrictions of your ribs and clavicles, of your hips and femora, but the same exact reasoning could be applied to coats and corsets, sweaters and shirts: underneath all the fabric is the naked skin. 

I still struggle with comparisons. I wish I could move on to different rhetorical devices, but before I know it I catch myself red handed staring at a boy's jaw without him noticing, at his curls, at the way his nose cuts the air, at the whiteness and regularity of his teeth. I never look away, I just close my eyes for a few seconds. It's such a persistent thought, regardless of who I am with or of what I am doing. It catches me off guard. My heart drops. Yesterday night, after ditching a boring party, we went at An.'s, and while lying in her bed I realize I was obsessively measuring my looks with Th.'s. Does that make me shallow? I can drown on the shore. I always think I'm getting better and then I see someone's profile picture on twitter, or a boy's post on instagram, or just a stranger's face on the street. So irrational. It's irrational to think looks do not matter, but it's even more irrational to think they matter this much. I am more than my face, than my body.

While waiting for class to start I was talking with Ca. and she confessed she was scared about our exams, in January, because she's used to getting good grades. I told her the obvious, that grades are not all that makes up who she is. But now I have to admit that this kind of rhetoric is leaky, full of holes. My grades, my looks, they are not all that there is to me, I am much more; but I am more in the sense that besides those things I am other things, in the sense that I am those things, I am my grades, my academic performance, my looks, because if I started liquidating as not important every aspect of my life that begins to fail I would end up devoid of everything. My looks don't define me. My grades don't define me. My clothes don't define me. My inability to write something worth reading doesn't define me. My struggle with French doesn't define me. My well-hidden anxieties, my fears, they don't define me. But then what does? The things I like? The books I read? The music I listen to? Is there really nothing to me besides the media I consume, art created by other people? Quite the opposite, I think everything is defining. Everything is a different color, and we are polychromatic. Attractiveness, our tests and essays, numbers, the art we create, the art we enjoy, it all makes up our ego. We just need to accept when our ego fails, that it's inevitable, but acceptance is impossible because we believe to know ourselves so well that, when presented with a faulty version of ourself, one that lacks a specific identifying attribute, we refuse to believe it. We simply cannot. 

Today is the last day of my first week of university here. It was hectic. I like that word, the way the tongue bends in the mouth. I still have to get used to living so far from the faculty, going back and forth, running to catch the correct metro. 

So far I enjoyed almost every class. A few were disappointing, especially History of Ancient Art, for which I was extremely excited and then extremely let down. It disappointed me twice, once at the tutorial, where the professor – a sweet-looking lady that reminded me of my elementary school math teacher – seemed underprepared, anxious, agitated. She barely looked at us, she kept glancing at her powerpoint, reading the lines as if it was a script. The second time was at the plenary session, where the professor – with whom I'd gladly drink a coffee, but from whom I doubt I will learn anything – confessed he essentially wants to do what they used to do last year in the Netherlands. It angered me, so I drank water in silence. 

Other courses were a surprise. My professor for Introduction to Private Law is amazing, which balances out the fact I hate the subject. The professor for History of Art of the Renaissance is also good. The one for Methods of Archeology is a bald, buff Italian man who speaks French with the mannerism, cadence and accent of an Italian. He's charismatic. A great talker. My friend said his accent is charming.

I finally figured out how to move around in that concrete maze. 

While I was going to class every day, Ma., the one who came to middle school with me, was staying at my apartment. I casually offered it to her, and then she actually decided to come. I was serious when I told her she could come, I just was not expecting she would. She's the reason why my last entry cuts off so abruptly, as I needed to stop writing to go pick her up at the bus station. 

She striked me as unprepared. She is starting her thesis very soon, and she should be finishing her bachelor's this coming year, but throughout her holiday I realized how behind she is. It's not her fault, and it's not a race, and frankly I am grateful to have had the chance to do all that I've done and learn all that I've learnt. We went all the way to the top of the Tour Eiffel, even though we were one hour and a half late when reading the time written on our entry ticket. Years ago my parents told me it was not worth it, that from that high up you can barely distinguish every building, that you might as well go up until only the second floor. They lied. Perhaps they had just not been able to book the ticket to get to the top, but I remember taking the stairs so vividly, walking between the brown iron webbings of the tower all the way to the second floor. This time, Ma. insisted on taking the elevator and on going on the top. She freaked out when we were late, and I just told her we should try to see how far we would get by acting as if nothing was wrong. The answer to the question is anywhere, you just need to put up a charismatic smile, at times make up a lie, and go ahead with a confident walk. We recognized every building from above the clouds. We even tried finding my building, but it was indistinguishable among the others, past the Arc de Triomphe. 

I started reading The Year Of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. Every page breaks my heart. I read it standing still, one hand gripping the metal bar of the metro and the other holding the book. 

-c.

[the-west-meadow]

episode 3 spoilers!! but maybe kendall roy x reader with “How do you make the pain go away?” comforting Ken after the events of that episode??

Kendall Roy x Reader

prompt: How do you make the pain go away?

(Succession spoilers below!)

At the graveside service, Kendall sweated through his undershirt and itched for a cigarette. Strangely numb. Strangely clear. Adrenaline, he thought, or the clarity that comes with a sudden death. The realization that everything is not as it seems.

It was like he had stepped outside of reality. Like it hadn’t really happened, like this was all just a play to prepare him for the real thing.

But it was the real thing. Logan Roy was no longer in this world. Kendall was without a father. The presence that had defined his entire life was suddenly gone. His father could no longer hurt him, and at the same time there was no longer any possibility of winning his love.

He didn’t remember a single face, a single word spoken throughout the service. He shook hands, hugged people he didn’t know, allowed them to put the awkward burden of their flimsy grief onto him. Not knowing to say to someone who is in more pain than they can imagine. 

He became aware of Roman standing beside him as he stared at the casket. Behind his brother’s sunglasses, Kendall could see the furrowed brow, trying to comprehend their abrupt new reality.

“You okay?” Kendall said. 

Roman nodded, scratched his ear. Perplexed.

“I gotta say, I don’t like this,” said Roman. “Not one fucking bit.”

Kendall felt that old surge of affection, wanting to protect his younger brother from the pain of the world. But the truth was that the pain had been with them from the start. And the man who was the cause of it all was being lowered into the ground before their eyes.

Kendall’s head started spinning. He felt Roman on one side, Siobhan on the other. Stiff and stoic and trying not to lose her shit. Roman compulsively running his hand through his hair, bottom lip quivering dangerously. Kendall took his hand suddenly and squeezed it. Roman did not pull away. He squeezed back, hard. Kendall couldn’t lose it now. His siblings needed him.

When it was all over, Kendall wiped the sweat from his brow and started back towards the cars. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, hammering in his ears. Suddenly everything felt light and impossible to the touch. 

“Kendall.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. Something came alive inside him when he saw you standing there. A smile flickered to his lips.

“Hey.”

He put his hand on top of yours. Warm and damp with nervous sweat.

“You okay?”

He shook his head fervently. “I think I’m about to completely lose it.”

“Come here.”

You hurried him away from the crowds, towards a shaded corner of the cemetery where your car was parked.

“Can you get me out of here?” he asked, almost pleading. 

“Back to your apartment?”

“I can’t be there right now. Just take me to the beach. Anywhere.”

He sat in the passenger seat with a thousand-mile stare, watching the traffic, the buildings fade away as you left the city. The drive was long enough to calm him, to numb the pain temporarily. 

It was near evening when you finally reached the beach, a scrap of coast populated by small cottages, a few soaring hotels along the shore. Kendall staggered out of the car, still in his black suit, black tie, eyes obscured by his dark sunglasses. You crossed the sandy parking lot and started down the boardwalk to the beach. Far down the shore, the sea mist turned hazy in the setting sun. A few people walked slowly along, distant figures lost in the haze.

Kendall collapsed in the dunes, wrapping his arms around his knees, staring out at the ocean. You huddled next to him, close by in case he needed you.

“He’s dead,” Kendall said, matter-of-fact. 

“I’m sorry, Kendall…”

“You know what I really want right now?”

“What?”

“I want to go on the biggest bender of all time. I want to get drunk out of my mind. I want to snort so much coke that my heart will never settle. I want to shoot up until I can’t feel anything anymore.”

A smile appeared on his face at the thought. 

“That would be really fucking nice right now.”

But the smile slowly faded.

“But that’s exactly how my dad would expect me to react. I don’t think he ever saw me as much more than an emotionally unstable addict. So I can’t give him the satisfaction of getting fucked up.”

His face began to crumple, eyes filling with tears as he gazed out at the ocean.

“But now I’m stuck with this monumental fucking pain. I don’t know how to handle it without the drugs.”

He turned to look at you, face full of desperation.

“How do you make the pain go away?”

You could do nothing but take his head in your hands and pull him into you. That was when he broke down completely. He wept with his head against your chest, his hands grasping at your back. Long, painful sobs. His tears soaked through your shirt as you buried your face in his black hair. 

“Shh…” you said, trying to soothe him. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Kendall.”

Finally he emerged, face streaming. The light from the setting sun glowed on his skin. All of his feelings surging with the tide. 

“You know the worst part?”

He broke into a smile, choking with tears. 

“I’m fucking relieved. I would never say that to anyone else. But I am. I’m relieved. And you know how fucking guilty that makes me feel? To be relieved that my dad is dead?”

He laughed, wiping his eyes, shaking. 

“That motherfucker.”

“It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel that way.”

“Yeah?”

“He hurt you. You were used to being hurt by him. You didn’t know what his love felt like. His love felt like pain.”

Kendall shrugged off his blazer, kicked off his shoes, stripped his socks off. He rolled up his sleeves, buried his feet in the sand, and stared out at the sea, taking deep breaths. You ran your hand up and down his back. 

“I think I at least deserve a cigarette.”

He looked at you, finally calm. 

“What do you think?”

You nodded with a smile. He dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out his American Spirits and a lighter, handed you one. He leaned in and lit it for you, cupping your hand in his. 

“I don’t know who I am without him.”

He looked at you, hesitant and guilty. But a flicker of resolve in his eyes. 

“Maybe I can finally find out.”

[messers-moony]

Runaways | R.B

Paring: Regulus Black X Twin!Fem!Reader

Summary: Regulus refuses to lose yet another sibling after Sirius leaves.

Being a Hufflepuff Prefect with a mischievous older Gryffindor brother is a lot of work. Sirius is frequently getting into trouble, and Remus is no help. But honestly? Y/n isn’t either. If anything, she laughs at her brother and her friend's antics. Y/n is the only Black family member still in good shape with all her family. 

Sirius was overjoyed when Y/n was into Hufflepuff. His little sister following in his footsteps of no longer being a Slytherin. However, Y/n’s twin brother - Regulus - was sorted into Slytherin. She didn’t let that define their relationship. Y/n was close with her twin and the Marauders. Remus often bumped her shoulder in the halls making her smile. The werewolf often had that effect on her. So did James, and so did Peter. 

But no one made a giant smile appear on her face than Sirius and Regulus. 

“Oi! Little sis!” His voice, it was calm and bright, something she hadn’t heard in a long time. 

Y/n turned, “Hey Siri.”

Sirius’ arm went around her shoulders, “How’s your day been?”

“Good, yours?”

“Oh,” Sirius sighed, dreaming, making her chuckle, “It’s been perfect, dear sister.”

“What did you do now?” Y/n fake scolded, “Everything.” Sirius replied. 

A familiar raven-haired boy was making their way towards them, hoping and praying that they wouldn’t notice. His green tie and green robes. The prefect badge on the left side of his chest. The wavy black hair and the beautiful grey eyes. The 5’11 Slytherin walking towards his twin sister and older brother. The people he adored the most in the world but barely talked to within the castle walls. His plan ultimately failed. 

Regulus turned to walk by his two siblings only for Y/n to wrap an around his shoulder, “Reggie!”

“Y/n, Sirius.” Regulus greeted with the corners of his lips barely turning up, “How’s your day been?” Sirius asked, turning to look at his younger brother. 

“Good until two idiots came along.” He joked with a smile adorning his features. 

Y/n put her hand on her heart dramatically, “You wound me!”

Both brothers chuckled, and a Professor came to greet them in the middle of the hallway, seeing their beautiful smiling faces, “All three Black’s in one spot. How brilliant!” Slughorn commented as Sirius faked tipping his hat. 

The three Black siblings. The Black trio. One Gryffindor, one Slytherin, and one Hufflepuff. Oh, how Walburga adored them despite the way she treated them. It was never in her heart to treat them the way she does. Orion had such a soft spot for his twins. But alas, both parents knew that if they didn’t raise them correctly - or without abuse - they would only get hurt worse. Walburga knew that if she treated them the way she truly wanted to, they’d be split. 

But that never compared to the aching in her heart when she had to cast a spell on her children. The kids she was sworn to protect. Walburga never wanted this life, never wanted to marry Orion, hell, she never even wanted kids, but Merlin, her kids were great. Slughorn and McGonagall would send her letters of how wonderfully they’ve been doing in their studies, how Sirius made another cauldron explode, how Regulus caught the snitch and won the Quidditch Cup, how Y/n made prefect and was top of her class. 

It was beautiful, and for once, Walburga was happy. She hid all the letters from Orion. If Orion knew he’d made Walburga send a howler, and she didn’t want that. Godric how she hated the awful red colors the howlers came in. The awful shade of brilliant rose. It brought a grimace to her face just thinking about it. But like everything, the truth comes out, and Sirius eventually got a howler. 

Sirius let go of Y/n to begin Transfiguration while the two twins made their way to Herbology. Not before Sirius kissing the tops of their heads like he did when they were kids, “I love you guys!”

“Black, get in here!” McGonagall yelled, and both twins laughed, “We love you too!” They replied in unison. 

Regulus and Y/n laughed, their arms around each other's shoulders, “I never want him to leave.” Regulus admitted. 

“Me either.”

The day was uneventful. More learning, more foolishness, and more laughter. Professor Sprout couldn’t help but smile at the Black twins in her classroom. Regulus was always ice cold when not around his siblings. They made him shine even if he couldn’t find a reason to. It didn’t matter where they were. The Black trio always brought smiles with them. Whether it was Y/n and Sirius, the twins, or all three, their smiles, their laughs, their happiness was so contagious. Three children from an abusive home, coming together to make each other smile. How is it possible?

Y/n would be the answer. The glue to the Black family. The bond to keep her brothers from drifting apart. But that all changed in the summer of 1976.

It was dark and another day of yelling. Sirius couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to leave. He wanted to go. It was bound to happen. He kept telling himself. But did that excuse leaving his siblings behind? Would he risk their safety for his own pleasure? Sirius didn’t have time to think about it. He packed his trunk and opened the window. One leg out and just about to get the other over until his door opened. 

His little sister, “Sirius?”

“Hey, sis…” Sirius hated how his voice shook and almost broke.

“What- Where are you going?”

He couldn’t help it; she needed to know the truth, “Away. Far away from here.”

Y/n crossed her arms slowly, “Without saying goodbye?”

“Goodbye?” Sirius replied with a nervous smile. 

She shook her head with a smile, walking toward his window. Sirius expected a smack, a lecture. But she didn’t do that. Y/n cupped both his cheeks and kissed his forehead like he did when she was hurt. Tears filled his grey eyes without permission as he stared at his younger sister's glossed eyes. Gently she ran her hand through his hair, moving it back. 

“I suppose you were never good at goodbyes.”

“Not really, no.” Sirius chuckled. 

Y/n smiled, “I know you aren’t happy here. You were never happy here.” Sirius interrupted before she could continue, “You could give Remus a run for his money.”

“Listen, Sirius, please.” She pleaded, and Sirius looked at her eyes; he’d miss them, “All I ask, is that you take care of yourself. Regulus and I, we’ll manage. But you should say goodbye to him too….”

“Go get him.”

It took minutes, but Regulus was eventually standing in front of his older brother, one leg out of the window and the other inside his bedroom. Y/n stood behind them, arms crossed with tears streaming down her cheeks silently. Regulus looked like he wanted to cry, but he didn’t. Sirius didn’t care anymore. Silver trails ran down his cheeks, especially when Regulus hugged his older brother with all his strength. 

“I'm going to miss you.”

Sirius sniffled, “I’ll miss you a hundred times more.”

“Impossible.” Y/n interjected, smiling. 

Regulus and Sirius pulled apart, Regulus now standing beside his twin, “I need you to know,” Sirius began, looking at Regulus, “James isn’t your replacement. He is nothing compared to you. You’re my brother, always.”

“And you,” He turned to Y/n after Regulus nodded, “You’re my baby sister, through and through. Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean you can give me detention.” 

They chuckled, and possibly for the last time, “Always.”

“Forever.”

“Together.”

Sirius gave a watery smile and finished the jump out his window. Wordlessly Y/n shut it behind him. Regulus stood in front of the glass pane until Sirius was out of sight and gave a heavy sigh. Y/n was standing right beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“I knew it was going to happen. I just wish it wasn’t so soon.” Regulus whispered, “I know.” Y/n agreed. 

Regulus took her hand, “Forever.”

“Together.” Y/n replied, squeezing his hand. 

So many they lost their always, but they still had each other. The next night at dinner was dreadful. Possibly the worst one yet, “Where is he!”

“I- I don’t know.” Y/n answered, cowering away, her hand rubbing her forearm.

Walburga looked at Regulus, and he shook his head, “Where is Sirius?”

“Gone.” Walburga replied to her husband, who gave a mere shrug at the answer, “Our heir is gone, Orion! What are we going to do now.”

“The reasonable thing, Y/n is next in line.”

Walburga scoffed, “Absolutely not.”

Regulus reached for his sister's hand after noticing the tears collecting in her eyes, “She is a disgrace! Just like Sirius!”

Orion put down the daily prophet, looking at his wife across the table, “What would you like me to do about it?”

“Regulus!” The boy stiffened, “You are our next heir.”

“No!” Y/n exclaimed, her rage taking over, “That isn’t how it works! I’m the next in line, disgrace or not. I'm older than Regulus.”

Walburga pulled out her wand, but Y/n didn’t flinch, “With that courage, you should be in Gryffindor.” The older woman seethed.

“You feel no remorse, do you?” Y/n asked, but she did; Godric, Walburga hated herself, “Putting your wand to my neck like I’m some training dummy.”

“How do you think we feel! Our older brother is gone! The one who took care of us because our parents can’t.”

Y/n had tears flowing down her cheeks, “How do you think we feel?”

The girl stood up from the table without being dismissed after letting go of Regulus’ hand, “I saw the tapestry.”

“You burned him from it! What kind of monster are you?! He’s your son regardless of his house. I’ll be your heir, but I will never be your puppet.”

Y/n ran up to her bedroom. Walburga and Orion stared at their son, who sat as stiff as a board. More minutes passed, and Regulus left the table too but not before speaking to his parents, “I’ll- I’ll be your heir. I’ll be your son.”

“Brilliant. Thank you, Regulus.” Walburga smiled.

Regulus lost his brother. He wasn’t losing his sister. But over time, it felt like he was. There was no more laughter in the halls. Only one Black sibling was laughing and smiling - Sirius. There was no more hugging in the halls, no more playing around. Regulus and Y/n were ice. They were cold and in pain. That was the first thing Sirius noticed. His siblings hadn’t stopped by his carriage like usual. It dampened his mood. 

“Hey, I’m sure they’re just busy.” James had reassured, but Sirius wasn’t so sure.

It was the first ride to Hogwarts that Sirius was utterly silent. He played with the ribbon in his hand. It was a green ribbon that he carried with him everywhere. The boys never knew what it was or where it came from. They had just discovered that Sirius would fidget with it when he was upset. Remus noticed it first - of course - but James did too, and shortly Peter followed. It was her ribbon, Y/n’s ribbon. A ribbon she wore in her hair when she was seven. 

After a bad punishment, Sirius had been given Y/n took care of him. Washed his cuts and plastered them. It was then she learned how much Sirius loved when people did his hair. So she braided it for him and tied it off with her green ribbon. He remembered the way it felt on his fingertips. So perfectly combed and webbed together. It was the reason his hair was long enough to braid. Every Quidditch match, he’d weave it. James asked why once, and Sirius ignored him, but Y/n knew. It was okay to keep secrets sometimes. 

Fifth-year for the twins went by smoothly. Sirius’ sixth year was hell. He missed his siblings so much somedays it was hard to get up in the morning. Regardless it was hard to get Sirius out of bed in the morning, but this year was particularly rough. It was like he was in a constant state of Remus after the full moon - tired, fatigued and sad. 

He missed Regulus’ smile and Y/n’s laughter. Godric, he missed everything! Sirius cried - sobbed about it at night. His silencing charms weren’t good. It left James and Remus in a tricky spot. It was apparent he didn’t want to talk about it because if he did, he would’ve by now. Remus stopped seeing the twins during prefect rounds and stopped seeing Y/n altogether. It was like she was avoiding them. 

The twins did their prefect rounds together, studied together, and only talked to each other. It broke Sirius’ heart. He ruined everything just for his own pleasure. But hadn’t Y/n meant what she said? That she wanted him to be happy? Sirius wasn’t happy. He was far from it. 

Regulus had nightmares every night about his parents. About his brother leaving, about everything. So he didn’t sleep most nights, and instead, he threw himself into his studies. Occasionally he’d realized that he had done two essays and then understood that he no longer had to do his brother's homework. Regulus had copies of reports everywhere because it was a habit. A habit he had to lose. 

Y/n stopped baking extra cookies. Every Saturday, she’d go to the kitchens to bake a new delicacy the muggle way. Y/n couldn’t help but accidentally bake extra for her Gryffindor brother, only to realize that she wouldn’t give them to him. Instead, she gave them to the house elves to serve after dinner in the Great Hall. They’d appear on the Gryffindor table, and Sirius knew they were a product of her. 

During the summer holiday of 1977, Regulus began to notice that Y/n gone often. Walburga would send her away, or Orion would make her run an errand. Regardless Y/n wasn’t around as much. Was she going to run like Sirius? Walburga and Orion sent her to Auror training. Y/n was young, too young for this training. It was Auror training, but they weren’t training her to work for the Ministry. They were preparing for her to become a death eater. 

Weeks passed, and Regulus felt saddened by her absence. So one day at dinner, he spoke up, “Why haven’t you been present at home?”

Y/n chuckled, “Are you serious? You haven’t told him?”

“What- What do you mean?” Regulus questions suspiciously.

Walburga coughed, “She’s been put into training.”

“Training?”

“Auror training.”

“But not to be an Auror, to be a death eater.” 

Y/n scoffed, “Bullshit, tell him the real reason.” 

She looked at both her parents, “They don’t want me anymore. They send me away because it’s easier than disowning me, like Sirius.”

“N- No.” Regulus denied, “Mum, tell me that she’s lying.”

Silence, “Answer me, please.” Regulus pleaded as a water film glossed his grey eyes.

“She’s not lying.” Orion stated, and Regulus let his tears fall down his cheeks, “No! I won’t let you take her from me!”

Regulus stood up, and his chair flipped behind him, “If you disown her, you disown me!”

“Reggie…”

“No! Please no!” Regulus was clawing at his hair, sobbing, “Don’t take her too….” He whimpered. 

Y/n began to stand up until Walburga sent a spell her way, throwing her back. It just made Regulus cry more. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. They were sixteen! This wasn’t fair. So Regulus stood up and held back his tears. Walburga held her wand to his throat, making Y/n nervous. But Regulus was cold, ice cold. Hastily he grabbed his mother's wand and snapped it. Y/n didn’t have time to gape. Regulus ran to her, and they ran. 

Through the front door to anywhere else in the dark of the night. Orion was too busy with his wife to realize his children were gone. Y/n was sure they were miles away before they stopped. No magic could be done. They weren’t seventeen yet. They’d have to survive without magic. But then she heard it. A howl. It was a risk, a big one, but they had to take it. 

She took her brother's hand and began running towards it, “Y/n, where are we going?”

“To whatever is howling.”

“Are you mental?”

“Maybe.” Y/n shrugged. 

Suddenly he saw it. That look Sirius always had. She looked free, happy, and mischievous. Suddenly she wasn’t Y/n Black. She was just Y/n. His twin sister. The girl that would beg her brothers to adventure with her, to trust her blindly. That’s what he was doing now - trusting her blindly. They must’ve been miles away. Regulus didn’t even know how they got that far, but in the forest, the howling got louder. 

But at the edge of the forest was a black dog, guarding the entrance to the woods, making sure that no one entered. The stag was taking care of the werewolf. They took turns. One full moon, the dog, was to stand guard, next the stag. Y/n cried upon seeing the animal. She dropped to her knees, and Regulus knelt beside her. The dog looked familiar and gave them both great kisses. They fell asleep together. Y/n, Regulus and the dog. 

The following morning, James went back out to the forest after realizing Padfoot was missing. At the entrance of the forest, he saw them. The Black trio. So he left them. Sirius knew the way back; it wasn’t worth ruining their moment. Regulus stirred awake first and woke the dog. The dog left a multitude of kisses on the twins. Y/n woke up shortly after. 

Regulus was appalled to see the dog turn into his older brother but happy nonetheless, “Sirius!”

“Reggie.” Sirius replied, holding him close. 

They parted, and Sirius kissed his forehead, “How?”

“The howling.”

“How did you leave?”

“I snapped mum’s wand.”

Sirius looked flabbergasted, “Really?”

“She- She was going to separate us. I didn’t- I couldn’t lose another sibling.” Regulus admitted, and Sirius took him into his arms again, “Never again. I promise.”

Y/n chuckled, “Looks like we’re all runaways.”

Sirius grabbed her into the hug, “But we’re doing it together.”

[blackresin75]

The Heart of My Sea

TW: Choking, virgin reader, rough sex, loving sex, bondage, nipple play, oral (fem receiving), and overstimulation.

A/N: Hey so this is my first fic like this so please tell me what you think. My roommate did help me out a LOT @violinwizard thank you so much. This is for the Mythology and Folklore collab so please check out the others here. I have the masterlist reposted.

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Dad always tried to control where you went. He wanted you to stay in his sight when you weren’t with the others luring sailors to their deaths. You’ve never wanted to kill but it was your only saving grace from your fathers grasp, but maybe that was what makes the Captain of the Midnight Rose so alluring.

The main crew looked to be about the same age as you and your friends, they also looked more content in their place on deck. Your feelings of jealousy grew more and more as each ship passed by and sank. Maybe that’s how you ended up in this position, stuck in a net blinded by jealousy and rage.

You feel the coarse net grind against your skin as you struggle to get free. The thrashing around causes the net to scrape up your arms and your tail. No matter how much you squirm, The coarse fibers don’t budge. You feel the water sink below you as you rise up. Panic starts to set in your chest as the light from the surface grows brighter.

“Shit, shit! No no no no fuck!” The ropes cut deep into your skin as your thrashing grows desperate, you feel the salt water flow around your body. You break the surface gasping frantically, thinking of all the stories of sirens before, kidnapped and left for dead. You've seen the aftermath, but you never dreamed it would happen to you.

Your breathing soothes but the panicky feeling in your chest doesn’t leave. You can hear gruff voices, but you can’t hear anything outside of the beating of your heart and the surge of the waves. The panic becomes so immense that by the time you’re set down on the mahogany deck you are already too far gone

When you wake up, all you can see is the shadow of a man on the far side of the deck. At first, his eyes are all you notice, deep and black as the ocean on a new moon night. There’s a scar running under the left one, giving him a dangerous and rugged appearance. He is dressed as many of the sailors you’ve taken to the deep, loose shirt with a deep cut, betraying a strip of an almost well defined chest. His tight pants leave nothing to the imagination, while his long coat makes you wish there was more to see. A scarf hangs around his neck, the end just dipping into the V of his shirt. “I wonder what he would look like in the ocean, all wet and mine for the taking.” The thought comes unbidden and you quickly scold yourself, a blush forming on your cheeks . Someone clears their throat, taking you out of your daydream and you look around at the rest of the crew. Their glares make you look away, and you quickly turn your eyes to the man in front of you. He walks towards you, taking off his trenchcoat and drapes it over your naked figure.

“I’m bringing her into my quarters, if you need anything.” .He stares daggers at the crew, while his hair flies up and eyes turn red, “Don’t.”

With that the roguishly handsome man picks you up and takes you to a cabin below deck. He lays you back on the mattress in the corner of the exquisite cabin, then he leans up against the desk in front of the neat bed. “So, you got a name?”

“Y/n,” you hesitate, “are you going to hurt me, sir?” His eyes go wide, his body stiffens a little, and he bites his lip. Bringing a strong callous hand up, he gently takes a piece of hair and tucks it behind your ear.

“You think I’m going to hurt you?” His whisper carries straight to your heart, the amount of care in his words sends a shiver through your spine. “Well, y/n, I’m Shota Aizawa, I own the Midnight Rose. I know you’re not human, so what the fuck are you exactly? We caught you in the sea, maybe a Kraken, or mermaid, or perhaps a siren.”

His voice gets lower and his face gets closer, you’ve sung songs to sailors that promise their dreams. A lot of sex, but there were a few of just pasta; those songs are your favorite. You can now see the allure of sex and love just by looking into this man’s tired eyes. Instead of answering him, you opt to stay quiet. “Not talking? That’s okay, kitten. I have ways to make you talk.”

Your face darkens even more at his words, why is calling you kitten? What are his ways to make you talk? The panic returns in full force, he sees the fear and panic on your face and he walks over to the bed and puts a loving arm around you. You freeze, and he decides to rub your back, “shhh, kitty, it's okay. I’ll protect you now. I want to know what you’ve been through.”

His gentle reassurance surprises you, it's not everyday that you see someone so handsome and gentle. Someone who doesn’t want to treat you like a toy, but maybe that’s what made you want him to treat you like a toy. Just to see if he still would want you after or throw you back to the sea violated.

“You didn't answer my question, are you going to hurt me, sir?” You lean in closer to Shota. The tension starts to thicken, with just five words.

“Do you want me too?” Shota looks at you differently, he wasn’t malicious or terrifying. He pulls you closer, looking into your eyes, his breath taking up your air. The different songs flew through your head but only one thing felt right.

“I want you.” You lean forward and kiss him with your entire soul. You’ve never felt this way before, and from what Aizawa was reciprocating, he feels it too. The kiss deepens and a heat starts to form in your pussy and gut. He groans into your mouth and he pulls you on top of him. Feeling his hard cock against your pussy sends a shock that jolts through your bones. He grabbed your arms and started kissing where the net cut into your skin.

“I’m sorry y/n, I did this to you. I’m so sorry.” He kisses you everywhere he can touch, soft, loving kisses. When he reaches your neck, it sends shivers down your back, and a moan bubbles up in return. The shivers soon travel to your stomach, where his hands are caressing in full circles, slowly heading upwards. You can feel the rough texture of the coat on your nipples driving the sensitivity to new heights. Suddenly he slips the coat from your shoulders, and you hear it hit the ground at the same time his hand finally hits the swell of your breast.

His lips leave your neck, a whimper escaping your throat at the loss, which is immediately followed by his moan as his mouth closes on the peak of your breast. You feel his tongue circle your nipple, caressing it slowly, and you are awash with heat, striking to a forbidden place in your core. His tongue is soft, and wet, giving you a pleasure never felt before. He grabs your backside possessively, pulling you impossibly closer, you moan, grasping his shoulders in an attempt to keep yourself afloat in the rushing tide that is him.

In your state, you barely manage to gasp out a “Don’t stop”, and you clutch harder as he slowly starts to suck on the breast he is tethered to, his tongue still making tortuous movement. One hand lightly caressing your other breast, his other starts to slowly head downwards, mapping your skin, which has started to gather sweat. He gently nudges your thighs apart and begins to descend further into uncharted territory. Before he can reach his destination, he pulls back and meets your eyes.

“Is this ok?” He asks. Frustration hits you at the loss of his ministrations, and you grab him by the scarf, pulling him back to you, “Please, keep going”. You feel his smirk before he begins, this time on the other breast. His hand continues in your depths, to circle around a single point that opens a floodgate. You grasp him tighter, your hand going into his hair in pure joy, as his fingers continue at the same pace, tracing a whole new alphabet on your center.

You want more pressure, you begin to move with him, trying to encourage him to go faster. “Kitten” he admonishes, his voice low, “Do you need more?” You can only moan in response. His hand is suddenly grasping the back of your neck, pulling you away from him, the breath leaves your throat, and you feel as if you're floating, pleasure filling the space of total awareness.

He laughs, “Cat got your tongue?” You want him, want more, you reach out blindly, catching his shirt in the process. You want it gone, you tug, and it floats down beside you. You see his smirk turn sinister.

“You shouldn’t have done that. Do you know what happens when the Kitten gets the cream before she’s meant to?” He slowly takes the scarf off his neck, and before you can comprehend that you can see the sweat coating his neck, he has lowered you to the bed, the scarf wrapping around your wrists, tying you to the bedpost. Panic rises inside you, before it bubbles over, he slowly kisses you, passionately bringing the softer feelings from earlier back into the game. It calms you, enough to notice both his hands have pressed your thighs back to their open stance, and he is moving down your body, his chest heaving. You feel his breath on your lower stomach, his tongue taking just enough time to dip into your belly button before working further down.

The heat is back, flooding your senses as you feel his breath on your thighs where his hand is, you feel his tongue, followed by his teeth, lightly nipping, moving towards the place you want him most. You want to tug him close, but you are restrained from above, you consider thrusting closer, before he is there. You feel his breath on the most intimate part of your body, sending shivers to your very soul, and ripping the part of you wanting to escape away. He sits there making you wait, before you finally feel his tongue on that same spot from earlier.

It is somehow both cold and hot at the same time, and impossibly wet, adding to the sensual feelings bubbling up from inside. The soft tongue is a stark contrast to the nails on both your thighs. With each swipe of his tongue you are brought to new heights. Just left to moan and writhe on the bed, with no hard body to soothe the shivers. Finally his lips close over the nerves, and your soul is drawn from you and into him, you can’t stop moaning, arching off the bed, your feet finding solace along his muscular back. Your thighs crushing the head between them. He groans out, possessively grasping your thighs to pull you closer to the torture that is his mouth. You feel something else on your folds, one of his fingers, gently prying the opening to your depths, which you have just realized is dripping liquid.

His finger sinks deep just as his tongue passes over the top of the nub, and you almost scream, your breath rising, your vision gaining spots. His finger is joined by another as they twist and scoop, scraping against a part of you that sends pure heat to your heart, and your heart to the heavens above. He keeps striking the place inside as his lips pull your very being into him. Once you take a breath, twice, you rise from the bed. Thrice, you are screaming. And then you are falling grasping at the headboard above. You have spots dancing in your eyes and a fire in your belly. As a tsunami of pleasure ripples through you, starting and ending with the man who is still milking you into him.

“Shota, p-p-please” You moan, as you ride out your intense first orgasm. The pleasure comes in waves as Shota cleans you the mess you made with his insatiable tongue. As you come down from your high, he comes up by you and he kisses you with hunger. He slowly pulls away from you, bringing both hands up to cup your beautiful face. One hand gently caresses your cheek and soothes your heated face. He let his thumb wander to your plump lips and let it drag down slowly to see your bottom teeth. With your mouth wide open, he brings his hand, still wet with your juices, to your open mouth.

“Clean, Kitten.” You stick your tongue out a little and lick a small amount of your essence off of him. Shota groans as you lick his fingers coated in your slick. You love the feeling of falling off the edge for him, the world melts as he takes his fingers away and kisses you with full force. He puts the fingers back into your sweet, sticky spot, pumping in and out, until you could feel the heat return. You let out a small whine, “‘s too much, sir.”

He takes his fingers out and you whine again, not wanting his fingers to leave your heat. He lets out a small chuckle, “Do you want me or not? I thought you wanted me, we’re not even close to being finished.”

You let out another whine as he places his fingers back in your pussy. This time he starts with two fingers and quickly slips in a third, stretching you out. He kept pumping you full, hitting the spongy part in you multiple times. He takes out his fingers, hitting your swollen clit on the way out. You feel so close to the edge again. Not wanting the pleasure to stop, you try to bring your hand down to give some much needed friction to your neglected area. The headboard clicks against the wall of the cabin, reminding you of the scarf that ties you up. You glance down and see Aizawa pumping his full, slightly curved, cock, dripping with precum. The engorged tip is a flushed pink, you watch as he mixes your essence with his pre. Satisfied with the prep work, he comes up and grabs your hips, coaxing your legs to wrap around him. He lines up his length with your pussy, and looks at your panicked face.

“Kitten? Are you okay with this? Have you done this before?” His questioning is endearing, you’ve haven’t had sex before, but you know a lot about it. With all of his ministrations on your body, you don’t want it to stop.

“No, but I don’t want you to stop.” You share a breath with Shota, both of you not wanting to break the silence. He looks at you lovingly and whispers a kiss over your mouth.

“Okay, I’ll try to be gentle, Kitten.” His kissing gives you reassurance. He lines his swollen cock to your folds and slowly lets himself into you. The pressure is painful at first and the pain slowly changes to pleasure. You look down to where you are joined and see that only his tip is in. How is that possible? Is he even going to fit? You feel so full already but there is still more? “Shhh, it’s okay Kitten,” he wipes away a stray tear from the pain, “You’re so beautiful.”

He slowly puts more of his large cock in you, pain makes you cry out and squeeze your eyes shut. He caresses your hair, petting you and giving you praise as you take his entire length. As he bottoms out in you, you let out a wail that would put the banshees to shame. You both wait for your tight cunt to adjust to his size. Your chest heaving as you tap on Shota’s shoulder signaling him to start moving.

“I need actual words, Kitten.” You gather your breath and whisper a small yes in his ear. With that small yes, Aizawa kisses you temple and starts to move in your heat. You feel his cock move at an antagonizing pace, and you need more.

“More, sir-” Aizawa growls in your ear, it is already so difficult for him not to lose control and he doesn’t want to hurt you. When you keep calling him sir, the difficulty increases. He picks up speed slowly, moans coming freely from your throat and tears from your eyes. Every now and then he kisses the tears from your eyes and sings your praises.

“My good kitten, doing exactly what I need.” He starts to go faster and harder. Words and moans mixing in your mouth bubbling up to the surface, coming out as much of a mess as your cunt. You feel a coil of heat rise in your stomach as the tip of his cock pounds relentlessly into your cervix. Something was different about this edge, no longer was it the tsunami of pleasure like you knew it. It’s like being sucked into a whirlpool that doesn’t end, the feeling growing larger and larger until you let go.

You hear Shota shouting, “Fuck, I’m cumming, Kitten,” He kisses your lips, as you fall back into the whirlpool of pleasure. You feel thick ropes of cum coat your fluttering walls, you let the whirlpool take you completely. A clear liquid coats both you and Shota as you let out another wail. He looks down at the mess and back to your face. You both let out a little laugh, and he pulls down the covers of his bed. He grabs a blanket from one of the wardrobes and drapes it over you. He clambers into the bed and pulls you close.

“You’re so beautiful. I think I’m falling for you.” He kisses you. You’ve never been the one to believe in love at first sight, but with him, how else could you explain it? You have totally fallen for him since you landed on his deck.

“Shota, I think I love you.” You whisper.

“I think I love you, too.” He kisses your nose lovingly.

“Even if I’m a siren?” He looks at you and brings you into a hug.

“You’re the Heart of my Sea, I will always love you, y/n.”