#Building Waste Collection

[reedreadsbooks]

this is fully me being a bitch but i kinda hate the wine cellar tbr metaphor. or at least i hate the way people use it as a justification for buying copious amounts of books that they’re never gonna read. like the fact that you made a comparison doesn’t make it not consumerism. spending hundreds of dollars of things you don’t need or even particularly want that much is still bad.

[satyrn-zip]

eeoughh..,.,

writing my stupid oc backstory and the opening part is already a page long. THIS IS THE CONCISE AND SHORT VERSION OF HIS BACKSTORY JUHDJHKSHKFKJDB

[aethercoreheart]

caleb | 1:22 am

Your pillow is buzzing. Why is it buzzing? You groan and reach underneath your pillow, grasping at your phone. You pull it out, sit up in bed and blink at it. Caleb's name flashes across the screen. You swipe your finger across it.

"Caleb?"

There's a pause before the voice on the other end coughs awkwardly.

"Uh... is this... Pipsqueak?"

You're immediately alert. The voice doesn't belong to Caleb.

"Who is this?" you demand, your voice still thick with sleep.

"You were listed as this guy, Caleb's, emergency contact," the voice explains. "He's at the bar. We've had to cut him off. Can you come get him? We close in, like, half an hour."

You're immediately out of bed, pulling sweatpants and a hoodie on. "Oh my god, of course, I'm on my way."

You're stuffing your feet into shoes when you hear someone slurring his words in the background. "Hey, that's my phone, gi-gi-give it back!"

---

"You're too nice to him, my wife would have made me sleep and sober up outside."

You chuckle at the taxi driver's remark. You were lucky to flag down a cab at this time in the night. The driver had asked you were you were going so late, and you had explained everything to him. You and Caleb had been giving each other the silent treatment for two days now. It was over something stupid. He had left one of his unfinished models lying around on the floor in your apartment and you hadn't seen it - you had ended up stepping on it - on accident, of course - but you had never seen Caleb so upset. It ended with him storming out of your apartment and no calls or texts from him for the last couple of days. You had thought about apologizing first, but had decided he was being childish and that he would approach you when he was ready. But it turns out that he had decided to drown his sorrows in alcohol. You had known that he likes to drink socially once in a while, but he's never been totally wasted before - not like this. You wanted to seem calm and collected, but inside, your anxiety is tearing you up. Is Caleb okay?

The driver slows down and pulls up to the bar. He meets your eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Go get him, I'll wait here."

You thank him, and head inside the bar. The glass door is already locked, but you knock a couple of times, and a staff member appears from behind the bar and lets you in.

"Sorry," he apologizes, scratching the back of his head. "We would have sent him home in a cab but he wouldn't tell us his address. He kept saying he wanted 'Pipsqueak'. He's a regular here so we really didn't want to let him wander home by himself."

You nod at the bartender. "Thank you. Where is he?"

He points at one of the corner booths with his thumb. You make a beeline for it, and see Caleb, lying across the booth's cushion. His cheeks are flushed red and he's snoring lightly, his hand gripping his phone.

You shake him gently to wake him. "Caleb, let's go home."

He groans and lifts his head slowly. "Please, leave me alone. I have... I have a..." His eyes open and they widen when they meet yours. "Pipsqueak," he whispers.

You place a hand on his cheek. "Let's get you home, okay?"

---

It was a mission to get Caleb in the cab, even with the help of the bartender. It's an even bigger mission to get him into your apartment building and up the stairs. But you manage to do it, and get him inside the apartment without incident.

Almost there!

You practically haul him to your room, and push him onto the bed. He flops onto it like a ragdoll, one arm and both his legs hanging off the sides.

You stare at him, hands on your hips, panting quietly. "Well, that can't be too comfortable."

You take a few moments to catch your breath before you decide to tackle his jeans and shoes - they come off easily enough, and then you get to work on his shirt. His eyes are still closed and he's muttering something softly, but you can't take the time to figure out what he's saying. You start to put on some shorts for him, but it's awkward and you only manage to get one leg in.

"Caleb, Caleb." You squeeze one of his knees to wake him again. "I need your help, sit up for a little bit."

This seems to rouse him and Caleb lets out a low groan and rises slowly.

"Okay, let's just get these shorts on."

Caleb is still for a few moments, and you think he's fallen asleep again while sitting up. But he mumbles something almost imperceptible, and you almost miss it. He's saying your name.

You look up at him from where you're crouching next to the bed, and meet his bloodshot eyes. There are tears forming at their corners.

You're startled - you're not used to seeing him cry. "Caleb? What's wrong?"

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. You can smell the alcohol in his breath. "I was so stupid. I'm sorry."

A lump in your throat forms and you have to turn away before he can see the tears in your own eyes. You clear your throat before speaking again. "Let's talk about it in the morning, okay? Just get in the shorts and then we can go to bed."

Caleb nods, and pulls his shorts up so that they're on properly. You breathe a sigh of relief, and help him get under the covers of the bed.

You go about settling down for the night again, making sure the front door is locked, all lights are off, and placing a packet of headache medication and a glass of water on the nightstand next to Caleb's side of the bed.

You slide in under the covers next to him, and notice that he's still awake, his eyes struggling to focus on you.

"Pipsqueak," he mutters, his eyelids fluttering. "Please, don't be mad at me any more."

You smile at him, amused at the fact that he fought to stay awake to tell you that. You brush the hair away from his forehead with your hand and plant a small kiss on it. Caleb sighs, and he closes his eyes, surrendering to sleep.

"You're the one who didn't call or text for two days, dumbass," you mumble, knowing that you'll go unheard. You don't care. You continue raking your hands through his hair as he snores softly.

[grotesquevi]

18+ mdni, pure filth, firefighter!sevika, cam!girl reader, she masturbates to your underwear, panty sniffer sevy yikes, sexting and nudes yehaaaaw, phone sex, guided masturbation, perv!sevika forever.

side note  #  this was a three-part series i made for my previous blog vicorices when reaching 800 followers, (the blog's terminated by tumblr out of nowhere if you're confused) one minute of silence,,,, also there's an ellie and vi version too connected with the same site and the same cam!girl user, it's listed bellow but you take a look at the directory if you want to.

‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤㅤ now that you’re here? check out spacemoth's or cherryvi's file.

her control was currently hanging on by a thread.

sevika must have lost the plot somehow when her entire life paralyzes as the yellow envelope comes to meet her eyes and she stays there for a second, finally resting from a long night putting up with the fire in a residential building outside the city.

she happens to know what's in it. but she keeps staring at it until suddenly kneeling to pick it up from the floor, collecting her house keys and closing the door behind her back: privacy. she needs privacy.

she's quick to tear apart the top of the paper-like textured package, letting the waste fall to the floor before her breathing hitches on her throat and she stays there, planted in the entrance in dead silence.

her muscles are sore, she's tired after a 24-hour shift and she's grumpy, craving to sleep her whole time away from duty — a plan that fails miserably when her mind drifts back to something entirely different that catches her full attention: underwear.

this important package here is indeed, your underwear.

there's a pair of polaroid pictures inside she holds between her fingers for a moment, and the scent of your arousal reaches her nostrils in mere seconds filling the air of the living room as she tosses her gym bag to the floor, unbuckling her uniform jacket to reveal a fitted white shirt tucked inside her working pants that made her look three sizes bigger: this was unexpected.

the air is hot all sudden and she has to search for her reading glasses before she has a good look of the picture. the sight of you wearing the same panties that were on her left hand made sevika's head spin, mouth dry when she sees you're there bending on the waist giving her a nice view of your ass, a warmth sensation going down her spine when she catches up the second one, someone else's fingers shoved inside your mouth while your tits are shown for the camera, and the black underwear you're pulling to the side is more than evident as a trophy almost cause you did, in fact, had more than just a good time using the pair she received in her mail.

you're a luxury clearly. a 250$ dollar luxury she can afford even when it might be a little breach to her economy. does not matter when she can feel her own underwear dampening against the image of you, unbuckling her pants despite the pain on her limbs, lazily dragging herself to bed.

it takes a while to notice the numbers written in black marker on the back of one of the photos, but sevika's breath turns hollow when she's aware that's a phone and a code area, pretty calligraphy, polished when she reads: write me for the review, send pics if you want x

you fucking kissed it with red lipstick.

it's been a while since the last time she felt so good like this — perverted behavior to it's finest when she's smelling on your underwear, pressing the lacy fabric against her nose just to take a sniff at it so she's finally aware of how you really smell after so many times imagining it.

the scent clings to the cotton even when it must be a while since you last used them, she can recognize you sprayed them with your perfume so it's a mix between this intense, fruity scent with subtle notes of citrus in it, and a musky one that is unexpectedly good in her nose. and in that moment sevika knows she would text sooner or later, find out if that was a real number there that you gave her, yet she's too busy now, busy fixating in something else entirely when her flesh hand goes down and pushes past her pants just to tease herself from over the fabric of her own already-soaked underwear.

laying in the comfortable space of a king-sized mattress, sevika doesn't need much more than your photos. it's enough to have her panting, fingers moving on their own against the slick folds of her cunt unable to get off her uniform, her shoes or anything at all as she takes care of that ache that pools in her stomach, that need that trespass beyond her own being.

so her index and middle finger rub consistently against her clit now, fast, sometimes messy movements: she's tired, can someone blame her? after a 24-hour-shift you're the one thing driving her insane just by holding a simple g-string in her hand — and despite any torture, sev fucking loves it to the core. how the whole scene turns dirty all sudden, the dry traces of your arousal visible in the fabric as she gives a deep breathe and there it is again.

"fuck-" she curses silently in the middle of a lonely room, hips jerking against her own hand in seek of a more direct contact just because unlike any other time; she’s not able to edge herself, tease like she usually do when seeing one of your streams or your saved videos on your profile in hotdozed. sevika’s quick and she goes straight to the point when filling her own cunt using her thick, long fingers until she's moaning in the privacy of an small apartment in the suburbs, door wide open as she ground her hips against her hand and hell, she's so needy for it.

a coppery taste leaks into her mouth and she didn't know she was biting on her lower lip so hard it draw blood out of it, but it makes nothing more than spur her on to the point she can hear the wet sound her pussy makes each time she's thrusting herself. sweating, there in the edge, she can still feel her own smell after a whole day of being hard working, white shirt hanging dirty on her own frame showing the hairy lower-part of her stomach as she has a great view of her fingers stuffing herself until there's no space for more and you're there, there in her mind, under her fucking nose, in her memories — written all over like a damn poem.

your scent mixes so well with her's it's enough to make her cum, it drips between her legs and stains on her damn pants and she knows it's just chaotic, you only cause disorder as she lays on bed for a moment trying to catch on her breath for a second. your underwear now rests on the edge of her pants, slightly shoved inside her own soaked-through hip huggers, but not enough to be fully in contact with her fluttering cunt.

and if sevika was intelligent, she would be taking a shower and relishing every single hour of her much-needed days off now, but instead of moving from bed to do so, she's just reaching her phone cause she's been dumb as fuck lately, cleaning her fingers with the tissue papers she keeps on her nightstand before she's saving your phone in her contacts and taking a huge fucking risk she would never even take if being rational.

matter of fact, she shouldn't be allowed near a phone while being this horny. not even technology itself, but she's opening up the camera app and before even fucking checking if it's really you, she's taking this photo of her opened pants and her stomach, happy trail showing since she knows — fucking knows girls get off from it. your underwear is half shoved inside, visible in the shot and before she thinks it twice she's fucking sending it as she writes down:

nice panties. kinda thought your pussy would smell this good.

you don't answer until she's finishing her shower like an hour later or so, about to get some sleep now that she has satisfied herself enough to survive until the next morning, but it's clearly an interrupted plan again as her phone buzzes and sevika's forcing herself to open her eyes: too much curiosity to wait to the next morning, at least, that's the poor excuse she's been giving to her brain before she sees your name in the screen.

glad you like them, you think a lot about me normally?

next time you should finger yourself with them on your cunt so you can feel me closer- sevika right? nice view.

and to be fair, she caught you in a bad moment, a weak one. it's late at night, you're binge-watching this series you're so invested in until the phone you set up specifically for work buzzes and your mouth is watering at the sight of a good, satisfied client and you're debating with your very own self whether if you should answer or fucking not.

she got you hooked clearly, even if it's late — the firefighter pants, the hair on the lower part on the stomach, your panties lose inside her underwear: doomed cause when you zoom in, you swear to fucking heaven you can see her bush there peaking out ready to have some fun and it’s all it takes for you to respond, guilty of all charges.

you're breaking your own rules, the ones you put some good effort in following cause she keeps texting you and suddenly, you're turned on as ever while exchanging fucking texts for free just cause you're attracted to this client who happens to be a pervert who gets off from buying your used underwear.

got well fucked in this, peach? seems you enjoyed yourself on the photos you sent me.

thing is, sevika won't really show it much, but she knows how to flirt. the words roll out of her tongue easily as she's quick to pick up on a girl's attribute, so she's flirting with you until she's slipping another photo this time of the mirror in front of her bed — she had the need to turn up the lights of the room now and you thank her mentally for it as you stare at the picture, sharp angles of her face, she's not wearing anything else on top more than a silver chain that hangs in her neck and lands between her tits, holding the phone between her fingers to show her reflection.

you know that kind of people, the dangerous one — cause you expected a whole weirdo behind the screen, yet you're quickly ashamed of your poor judgment as you have to eat your words cause sevika's indeed fucking hot.

it's different from the other photo. while the first one was messy and dirty she didn't show her face; however now is nothing but the opposite. wet hair that sticks on the sides of her bone structure, wearing a clean, cropped tank top and briefs who's waistband hangs dangerously low on her belly, it's enough to give you space to peek a little for the intrinsic lines of her body without even fucking zooming in.

she's playing, you're playing. it's not like you really do that all the time anyway, but your fingers are tapping on the camera app too before wiggling comfortable in bed only to lift up your own shirt — it's simple and effective as you squeeze your tits together, biting on the fabric of your shirt only to pull it slightly upwards, you want to show some as well, tease like she does.

it's far from the complex shit you upload on hotdozed but god — turns sevika on more than ever.

maybe it's the normal factor to it, she can see the wrinkled sheets beneath you, a band shirt she does not recognize, plump lips; you're not wearing make-up and fuck's sake: each photo it's better than the last one. it's just flesh, simple skin but it makes sevikas mouth water, her body stiffens and her muscles ache, burning beneath fatigue and lust.

escalates quickly cause you're sending her an audio of your moans next and sevika cannot fucking believe it, not when she's been masturbating to your stuff months from now. she's pressing the play button before turning on the volume to hear it clearly and she's already familiar with low moans that fill out her solitary room, the wet sound of your drenched cunt on the background, barely audible but enough to make her chest explode: you're touching yourself.

you send videos not longer than ten seconds after, fucking riding your pillow and moaning out her name. playing dirty, fucking dirty because that's special content for her only, her favorite so far and she saw plenty already — fucks her up entirely as the message slips from her fingers without thinking about it: fuck weirdness. if so, sev's been always attracted to it, to the unconventional and the rather unexpected. hope you did too.

free to call ??

she didn't expect your reply either. it seems to take eternal seconds before sevika can read another one of your texts on her lockscreen again before she's about to forget about it.

yeah, go on.

simple and effective, she needs you to put a final stop on her misery. the phone rings one, two- three times before you're picking it up, voice rough and still panting for air before you talk on the other side of it — it seems sev interrupted something important when she's greeted instead with silence.

"already starting without me?" your client asks, and her own voice seems to travel throughout your entire apartment, strained, rough as she's already thinking now about her own release, how you should be getting off her uniform before it needs to be double cleaned.

"shit-your voice sounds so fucking nice" you admit on the other side, and she recognizes your tone already from your videos, the moans that don't differ much from the ones you're holding on as you speak "i don't really do this- so don't get any weird ideas, i won't answer your calls in the middle of the night. this is special."

"i wouldn't even dream on it, peach" sevika teases, resting her sore back against the head of the bed as she holds the phone close to her mouth: special, this is special — "now that you settled the basics, are you going to tell me what you're doing right now or do i have to beg you to start on spilling me the details, huh?"

"i uh- i'm riding my pillow" the tone you use to say it? fuck fuck fuuuuck her, it's not all so confident and cocky like she usually sees online, you're fucking shy as you're moving again and she can feel the sound of your bed creaking as your breathing becomes heavy again "got so turned on- s'all your fault."

"good, so you now you can feel just a bit of what you've been doing to me for months now" sevika spats on the other side, and you let out a moan against her words as you move again and the friction sends a shiver down your spine when your folds drag across the usual soft fabric now rough against your sensitive core — "does it feel good baby? does the friction feel nice?"

"yes," you breathe out as you're now moving faster, a wet trace now over the pillow marking up the constant back and forth movement you've been following "yes, need more-"

"so use your fingers then," she suggests, mushy brain at the idea "i know you have some nice toys doll, stuff yourself up so i can hear."

"pervert," you chuckle on the other side, laughs that are interrupted by the pleasure you were being a victim off, how quick your fingers seem to assault your own clit as you begin to move faster — "fucking pervert wanting to hear me cum- ah shit."

"the things i'd do to go down on you and taste that cum too," you're not putting an end to her misery but only aggravating it all, making sevika's hand sweat as she's sniffing on your fucking underwear again and she cannot get a grip from it, not when it's the closest thing she has to your smell, that same scent that must be coating your pillow now as she can hear the moans that each of your movements elicit "keep moving c'mon, don't stop rubbing on your clit and keep talking to me."

thing is, you cannot really talk after a few seconds. you're reaching your peak and dragging it slowly with each roll on your hips, your fingers rub perfectly against your puffy clit, swollen labia, the friction is fucking killing you to the point your legs are shaking on each side of the pillow, mumbling incoherent words now unable to hold on the phone.

"ride it out," sevika says on the other side, biting on her thumb as the pain seems to ground her own being — "please, don’t stop moving death. soak up your sheets and make a mess for me, you deserve it for being so good."

you comply without making her beg. stupid since you think a lot about her voice and how awfully nice it sounds when she says please, but the friction’s already overstimulating when your folds seem to open up to the form of the pillow now just sliding between your legs and in return, you have no voice to ask for anything at all, don't matter how much you'd like to.

your eyes roll to the back of your head and you know you're in deep trouble when sevika keeps talking you through it, convincing you to grab the dildo in your nightstand, to let the pink head of it kiss your entrance before she reminds how you need to be gentle, rub it slowly in your sore pussy cause that's how she'd do it with her strap before slowly pushing it inside your welcoming hole until you're full, full so you’re unable to think about anything else but her cock.

outstanding. you never let a former watcher call you. the phone number was set up for a way of making more money, but you want this from the bottom of your stomach, a desire that much rather feasts on your guts.

and sevika keeps her promise cause she don't call you the week after. surprisingly good when it comes to follow your rules cause she don't want to push your boundaries (not like this anyway) respecting every-single-one of your non-written rules when she's letting you call in again — in the dead of the night, when she's least expecting it:

you always call her first.

[piastriprincess]

if  you  keep  it  just  yours ⸻ charles  leclerc  x  reader  .

featuring  charles  leclerc  ,  writer!reader  ,  fluff  ,  smau . author’s  note  requested  by  anon  !  i’m  sorry  it  took  so  long  but  i  loved  your  request  and  your  kind  words  ,  i  hope  i  did  it  justice  !  tried  to  get  this  out  today  in  honor  of  the  #chodium  .  this  is  my  first  try  at  an  smau  so  PLEASE  be  nice  …  i’m  still  not  sure  i  love  the  way  this  turned  out  but  nevertheless  we  persist  !  i  also  had  to  drop  some  ancient  charles  lore  in  this  …  rip  bawsixteen  we still talk about you .  anyway  please  let  me  know  what  you  think  and  if  i  should  keep  trying  smaus  …  i  promise  i  won’t  be  upset  if  you  hated  it  <3  title  is  from  paris  by  taylor  swift  (in  honor  of  her  owning  the  masters  again  !!!)

liked by emmachamberlain, dollyalderton and 27,054 others yourusername it’s official — i’m in my monaco era! paris will always have mon coeur but it’s time for a change of scenery. here’s to good beaches and hopefully better stories 🐚💌

user1 THEEEE modern carrie bradshaw frfr ⤷ user2 No bc I can’t wait to hear her stories about the Monaco dating scene??? user3 romanticizing your life is BACK and yn is leading the charge !! user4 already screaming at how chic this is. give me the essay collection immediately yourbff OMG I need to visit asappppp ♥ liked by author ⤷ yourusername missing you already ! user5 bienvenue à monaco! you will love it here :) user6 main character of her own european romance novel iktr  camillecharriere oh i want to be you when i grow up ♥ liked by author user7 This post feels like the opening scene of an HBO show I’ll binge 16000 times…

───────── ☆ ─────────

to: Y/N L/N your.name@gmail.com  from: Jean-Claude Ravello jean-claude@bellevue.mc subject: Bienvenue au Bellevue!

Bonjour mademoiselle L/N, 

Welcome to your new home at the Residence Bellevue — we are so happy to have you here! I am sure you will quickly discover that Monaco is a small place, but this building is even smaller. Please, consider yourself part of the family already!

A few quick notes to help you settle in:

Waste and recycling are collected on Tuesdays and Fridays. There are trash chutes on every floor, but the recycling must be taken to the bins by the side entrance.

Wi-Fi information is included in the welcome folder. I know you mentioned you were a writer, so if you should need a stronger signal, the rooftop lounge is a favorite quiet working spot for our residents.

Your neighbors are both longtime Bellevue residents, so if you have any questions about the building that I cannot answer (or you just do not want to ask me!) please feel free to reach out to them. Charles actually grew up in Monaco and knows the city inside and out so if you need any recommendations I am sure he would be happy to help. Sharing both neighbors’ contact information (with permission):

Laura (16A): +377 08 35 19 72

Charles (16C): +377 99 42 67 01

Do not hesitate to contact me with any maintenance concerns or general questions! Wishing you a smooth unpacking. We are delighted to have you join our community.  

Welcome home, Jean-Claude Ravello Building Superintendent

───────── ☆ ─────────

───────── ☆ ─────────

liked by jiatortellini, kikagomes and 31,652 others yourusername from me to you, a new essay on the unique magic of starting over and the way a stranger can start to feel like a story. up now on substack! let me know what you think xx

user8 “balcony boy” WE CHEERED MOTHER IS BACK AND BETTER THAN EVER ⤷ user9 Her writing isn’t just about the men she’s dating… ⤷ user8 okay congrats you read. do you want a medal?? should we throw a party?? should we invite bella hadid?? marlowetatiana Obsessed ! ♥ liked by author user10 saw the notif at brunch and opened substack immediately like sorry guys my parasocial internet bestie needs to tell me about her new crush user11 @ oprah @ reesewitherspoon @ pitbull GET HER A BOOK DEAL STAT! ⤷ user12 girl what is mr. worldwide going to do… user13 “Maybe Balcony Boy and I will never really meet. Maybe we’re destined to almost-know each other indefinitely… But still, there’s something delicious about the romance of the near miss.” WOW!!!! ♥ liked by author yourbff What did I say… I give it a week ⤷ yourusername it’s been ten days actually. this is what growth looks like! take notes! user14 i get her bc balcony boy has me in a chokehold too and i’ve never even seen him

───────── ☆ ─────────

───────── ☆ ─────────

───────── ☆ ─────────

───────── ☆ ─────────

OUTGOING AUDIO MESSAGE ▶‖ to: bestie • 02:23  •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

“Okay, so… I know I was supposed to check in after fifteen minutes and I’m really late and now I’m hiding out in the bathroom like I’m in a rom com from the 2000s because… I don’t know, I just — I just need a minute to breathe. [pause] I thought this was just a stupid little crush and I’d go on this date and get over it but he’s… Babe, he’s really sweet. He opened doors for me. He pulled out my chair. He called me chérie. He even laughed at my stupid joke about the bread basket! And he’s so — ugh. He’s so pretty and he smells so good, it’s rude. It’s actually unfair how perfect he is. [long sigh] But that’s not even the thing. Like, it’s not even that he’s cute. Okay, maybe it’s a little bit that he’s cute but — he’s smart. And funny. And curious, and he listens when I talk, like really listens, even if it’s stupid or rambley, and he asked about my writing and actually wanted to hear about it. I don’t want to jinx it or anything, but… yeah. I might be in trouble here. It feels like it could be something, you know? [pause] Okay. I really need to go back before he thinks I climbed out the window. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Love you so much.”

───────── ☆ ─────────

───────── ☆ ─────────

@ yourusername • instagram notifications you have (1) new follow request from @ bawsixteen !

───────── ☆ ─────────

liked by hunterh, oliviarodrigo, and 28,253 others yourusername life is looking pretty good lately

user15 is that a m-m-man ?!?!?!?! ⤷ user16 better question IS THAT BALCONY BOY ⤷ user17 It literally has to be! She hasn’t written about anyone else user15 okay i’ve gotten over my shock. who the hell is he bc his hand is fine as fuck rachsyme and you look even better! ♥ liked by author yourbff oh so we’re soft launching now… 👀 ♥ liked by author ⤷ yourusername yeahhhhh so i owe you SEVERAL voice memos user18 LOVERGIRL ERA user19 mother is boo’d up… congrats to whoever’s bouncing on it 😭 ⤷ user20 you almost got it sweetie. don’t worry. we’ll wait. bawsixteen Pretty flowers :) ♥ liked by author ⤷ yourusername almost as pretty as the guy who gave them to me :)

───────── ☆ ─────────

───────── ☆ ─────────

to: All Subscribers everythingiknowaboutsubs@substack.com from: Y/N your.name@substack.com subject: everything i know about falling

Everything I Know About… Falling

So here’s the thing about me and Balcony Boy (and yes, even though we’re actually dating now, I’m still not graduating to using his actual name with you all!) Somewhere in between our first kiss overlooking the harbor and him learning to make me blueberry pancakes just the way I like them, I’ve realized I can’t lie to myself that it’s casual anymore. 

And that is completely terrifying. 

You know that feeling when you’re reading a really good book and you look up and realize that you’ve been on another planet for hours? Where you’ve forgotten to check your phone, forgotten to be anxious about deadlines, forgotten about every single thing except the story and the words on the page? That’s what being with Balcony Boy feels like. Like nothing matters except existing in that very moment with him. 

I’m not used to staying present like that. My mind is like a summer storm, always pulled in a million different directions. I used to think it was a strength of mine: a skill, even. It made me a better writer, a better thinker. But that constant motion was also my shield — from boredom, from failure, from getting too attached to anything. Self-preservation disguised as independence. Emotional distance disguised as something casual. 

When Balcony Boy came into my life, yes, I liked him immediately. Six feet of tan, hot, shirtless neighbor. Let’s be real. Who wouldn’t enjoy that view? But somewhere along the way, he stopped being a charming background character in my life and started being the type of steady presence that made me want to slow down. To sit still. To listen. To trust. And that is such a new feeling that I can’t help but be scared.

Here’s the truth: I’ve dated a lot of men who liked the idea of me. Men who wanted to be a muse and then flinched when I spilled my truth onto the page. Men who liked a complicated woman until the complications weren’t cute anymore. Men who wanted me to be emotionally available for them, and who never really listened in return. All of that was okay, because I wasn’t staying still long enough for the pain to be anything more than a glancing blow. 

But Balcony Boy doesn’t just like the idea of me. He doesn’t need to be the story — he just wants to make space for mine. He reads my drafts and underlines all his favorite lines. He twirls me around my kitchen when I laugh and he holds me when I cry. He listens. He shows up, quietly and without spectacle. He brings me coffee and croissants when I’ve been writing too long and forget to eat. It sounds crazy, but I'm scared of this because if I lose it, for the first time in a long time, it'll really, really hurt. But Balcony Boy tells me I’m brave when I’m terrified. And for the first time in a long time, he makes me want to believe him. 

I used to think love was about dramatic gestures, but maybe this is what love feels like when it’s real. Not the fireworks (although there are plenty of those, too), but the foundation. Not someone catching you when you fall, but someone taking your hand so you don’t have to be scared of the jump in the first place. 

So here I am. Jumping, without hesitation. And if the fall kills me, at least I’ll have had the pleasure of doing it with him. 

yours, y/n xx

next week: everything i know about long-distance - on dating someone whose job takes them away more than you’d like, and learning to miss someone properly.

───────── ☆ ─────────

───────── ☆ ─────────

liked by bawsixteen, rachelchinouriri, and 29,311 others yourusername so in love that i might stop breathing, drew a map on your bedroom ceiling

user21 mama… mama a man behind you ⤷ user22 the launch is getting harder and harder user23 starting the investigation into balcony boy’s identity. james bond has nothing on me yourbff Happy looks sooooo good on you babe ♥ liked by author  user24 the note OH LET ME KILL MYSELF !!!!!!!!!! hunterh beautiful girl! ♥ liked by author user25 this has gone on long enough WHO IS HE ⤷ user26 She’s allowed to keep it private for as long as she wants! ⤷ user25 "keep it private" blah blah blah consider i’m living vicariously through her and i want to know :) ⤷ user27 that's definitely a ferrari he's driving in slide 3... bawsixteen Belle chérie ♥ liked by author user28 oh i just KNOW balcony boy is sooooooo fine

───────── ☆ ─────────

REDDIT: TOP POSTS TODAY r/yourusername • crossposted to r/formula1 • 3h ago posted by u/luvleclerc

hear me out… i think i know who balcony boy is!

okay i know this sounds insane but LISTEN. i’ve been reading y/n’s substack for ages and am also a huge fan of formula one. i’m absolutely convinced that balcony boy is charles leclerc. 

EVIDENCE so yall don’t call me crazy:

so y/n moved to monaco a few months ago, and posted this photo from her balcony. she’s never said exactly where she lives but you can see the harbor in the background and we know charles lives near there. and this story he posted the other day? like not to be a stalker but tell me that’s not almost exactly the same view. almost like they're neighbors... also the timeline of her moving to monaco almost perfectly matches when charles started posting less on socials!!!

then we get into the balcony boy content, which if you haven’t read… oh my god. y/n’s writing is so beautiful that it doesn’t even make you feel bad about being painfully single. balcony boy literally feels like a romcom hero come to life. she doesn’t drop a ton of personal details about him but here’s what she HAS said:

“Some people flirt with their eyes and their smile. Others, apparently, do it by playing you a piano étude at golden hour, notes drifting on the sea breeze like a love song.” … guess who else FAMOUSLY plays piano????? charles marc hervé perceval leclerc.

balcony boy is genuinely curious about her writing and reads all her essays. this is exactly how charles is in interviews - always engaged and thoughtful with questions.

balcony boy is fine with being written about and isn’t bothered that y/n is somewhat well known. sounds like a person who already knows how it feels to be in the spotlight!!!!

“Dating a man who’s gone every other weekend means learning to say goodbye. But even when he’s on the other side of the world, he never makes me feel like he’s far away.” F1 CALENDAR HELLO…

mentioned that balcony boy grew up near where they live (“knows the streets of this place like the lyrics of his favorite song”). prince of monaco!!!! i rest my case!!!!

one last thing: her most recent posts are totally a soft launch and the guy’s hair in the 1st slide looks EXACTLY like charles's. plus there’s this comment from someone called @ bawsixteen about the flowers like he gave them to her? i checked the account and it’s private with no profile photo, but the display name says CL. cl… sixteen… it CAN’T be a coincidence!!

⬆ 16.1K ⬇  •  🗨 897  •  ➦ SHARE

TOP COMMENTS u/f1gossipgirl • 3h ago  this is the most unhinged thing i’ve ever read but you’ve convinced me ⬆ 3.4K ⬇

u/fromthedeskof • 48m ago NOOOOO PLEASEEE not my favorite microinfluencer i can’t have everyone finding out about her… she’s MY parasocial bestie ⬆ 2.5K ⬇ ⤷ u/albonnation • 11m ago it's too late she has wag allegations :( she’s about to blow up ⬆ 332 ⬇ ⤷ u/everythingyn • 9m ago rip to our cozy lil substack community, she will be missed 💔 ⬆ 597 ⬇

u/BeanbagGreg • 1h ago  This subreddit is focused on racing. Stick to discussion of driving please ⬆ 1.7K ⬇ ⤷ u/piastriwdc • 26m ago literally no one asked you to read this… how many times do we have to teach you this lesson old man? ⬆ 4.8K ⬇

u/romanticrealist • 35m ago  ok grandma let’s get you to bed ⬆ 992 ⬇ ⤷ u/sallyrooneyluvbot • 6m ago Literally like as if she would ever date an athlete?? Be so fr ⬆ 81 ⬇ ⤷ u/landoleclerc • 2m ago um have you SEEN charles leclerc? don’t you ever speak on my goat like that ⬆ 133 ⬇

u/charlesdefender • 2h ago  wait she’s sooooo pretty what’s her instagram ⬆ 689 ⬇

SEE MORE...

───────── ☆ ─────────

@ yourusername • instagram notifications you have (8,692) new follow requests from @ leclercwdc, @ charloslover, @ f1ella and others !

───────── ☆ ─────────

───────── ☆ ─────────

───────── ☆ ─────────

liked by charles_leclerc, bawsixteen, and 95,214 others yourusername privacy sign on the door… taking balcony boy offline for now xx

charles_leclerc Je t’aime ♥ liked by author

comments have been limited on this post

[squshymarsh]

DCxDP Prompt #5

For the bit(we’ll be cultists)

When Danny won the title of Ghost King, he wasn’t expecting some of his more ghostly attributes to seep over into his human form.

Or to be unable to control his powers like at all for a month or two after gaining his new title.

He’s still 14-15 though and has to be in Highschool to make sure his grades don’t fall any further. Even if he did just save the town with only his piers in his grade know about him.

It’s no surprise when he accidentally walks through a door after trying to open it only to find himself intangible or to start floating away with no way to control it and need one of his classmates to save him from floating into the stratosphere.

It’s all fine for a while, people help him. Those who used to bully him now lend a hand when he needs it. They aren’t kind about it but they aren’t shoving him into lockers anymore.

But that doesn’t last.

People start to notice the strange things that keep happening as his powers grow and become harder and harder to hide even with help. He had made an entire class take place on the ceiling one day. Another he made half the town float.

The Fenton parents and the GIW start working together to figure it out. It’s only a matter of time if no one does anything

So what is Danny, his friends and his class going to do to hide the real reason of what’s going on?

They pretend to be a cult. Full on cartoonishly cult like. The chanting, the robes, the sneaking out to an old building on the edge of town to have a ritual kind of cult. Playing off Danny’s fluctuating powers as the results of their work.

This gets the opposition to back off a bit. Not their circus not their monkeys. And the rituals release some of Danny’s pent up power.

Danny just had to lay in a circle, surrounded by the faces of friends and classmates while they chant and his powers gets released a little at a time.

It’s a great deal.

Until Danny is found out one day unable to use the cult as an excuse and has to bounce out of town. And the rest of his Casper High Class, ever committed to the bit, follow him since the GIW and the Fentons are laying waste to the town and it’s just not safe.

Where do they go?

To the Crime Capital of the world of course!

Gotham is the perfect place to continue the bit. Their ‘cult’ runs all the way to Gotham, looking out for one another and the such. Not because they care about each other, of course.

They all tell themselves that but there’s only so much chanting in ghost speak and Latin a frenemy relationship can take.

They are tight knit by time they settle in a collection of old buildings on the edge of Gotham. Danny’s powers are starting to settle, but he still has bad days. Those days the cult gathers and ‘performs a ritual’ but really they just have a little get together, sitting in a big room set up with a circle with Danny laying and meditating in the middle and chat in Latin or Ghost speak.

For the bit, they preform a fake ritual. Headed by Sam since she has all the knowledge on what cults do. For the bit, the give offerings to Danny in exchange for him protecting them both back in Amity and in Gotham. For the bit, they make it a monthly thing or as needed.

Sure Danny doesn’t realize he’s given each of his friends and classmates blessing from a literal King of Gods and Beings Beyond Human Comprehension.

It was for the bit.

What wasn’t for the bit was getting caught by the local furries.

Danny hadn’t had a ritual in a month, his powers were building up but he was stressed with work and school.

His cult of friends decided he needed a ritual and pseudo-kidnap him to sacrifice his own power to himself.

Don’t ask them, it just works.

Mid ‘ritual’ Danny is trapped in the circle while they keep his powers contained as it’s released. He could destroy the building if he so much as blinks. They are nearly through with it. Can return to the party after they’re done and he’s ‘normal’ again.

So when the Bat and Co. crash the ritual, right before the end. Danny can’t do anything while his classmates both defend him, each other, and those trying to finish the ritual.

It’s looking bad but the ritual finishes. Danny is freed from the circle and starts helping his friends defend themselves and escape. Of course, he knows what this looks like. And he knows that the Bats and Birds are just trying to keep their own city safe from a perceived threat.

So he apologizes to them while he takes down the Bats and Birds then absconds with his Cult&Co. hoping they would understand. No one was hurt and there was no loss on either side. Alls well ends well?

To the Bats and Birds.

They find a group of robed cultists that established themselves quickly and then they see the cult gather, having a party until another group come in dragging Adoption Bait behind them. They start the ritual. Bats and Co. think kid is getting sacrificed and step in. Only to be nearly fought off and the ritual to complete.

They then have to watch as some entity controls the kids body to fight them off. The kid looks terrified, apologizing while he is forced to fight for the cult.

Then they all get away.

(I have the flu, have this lil idea/drabble while I try not to die)

[bookishdiplodocus]

How to plant information elegantly

Say, for example, you’re writing a swimming pool scene and you need to plant the fact that Susan is blonde, because in a few chapters, the detective will find a blond hair at the crime scene.

You want the planted information to be memorable, but at the same time not stand out too much. The ideal is to push the information into the reader’s subconscious without a neon light arrow saying, “You might want to remember this, dear reader. This will be relevant!” The planted information needs to feel natural, organic, but memorable enough so when it turns out to be ✨a clue✨, your reader thinks, “I should have seen it!”

Let’s look at some options.

Susan, who is blonde, took a deep breath and dived into the pool.

This feels forced and awkward. The two pieces of information (pool + blonde) are not connected, the fact that she is blonde feels irrelevant and shoved in. If the reader remembers this, it’s because they noticed how the information is forced upon them.

Elegant ⭐

Memorable ⭐⭐

Organic ⭐

The blonde Susan swam across the pool. / The blonde, Susan, swam across the pool.

This feels more natural, but there’s a danger that only the swimming will stick into the reader’s mind because her being blonde is so unnoticeable. There is also a minor danger that the reader will expect an non-blonde Susan to show up in the first variation.

Elegant ⭐⭐

Memorable ⭐

Organic ⭐⭐

Susan was annoyed. She had just washed her hair with that ridiculously expensive Luscious Blonde shampoo and now her friends wanted to go swimming? What a waste of money.

This feels natural and organic, because both elements are conveyed from Susan’s point of view. They are both relevant and connected, and on top of that you get to build Susan’s character.

Elegant ⭐⭐⭐

Memorable ⭐⭐⭐

Organic ⭐⭐⭐

Her friends were already in the pool, but Susan held up her pocket mirror, making absolutely sure that the latex cap wouldn’t let any water in. She just had her hair bleached and after the debacle of 2019, she would never forget what chlorinated water did to bleached hair.

Susan’s POV makes her blond hair relevant to the swimming, as with the example above, but this time you’re presenting a completely different character. It feels organic and personal, and the fact that she is blonde will be lodged into the reader’s mind without screaming “It’s a clue!”.

Elegant ⭐⭐⭐

Memorable ⭐⭐⭐

Organic ⭐⭐⭐

I hope this is helpful! Follow me for more writing tips or browse my entire collection of writing advice now.

Happy writing!

[prettieinpink]

CREATING AN INTENTIONAL WARDROBE

I. SETTING GOALS

IDENTIFY YOUR STYLE. You don’t have to look through the list of different aesthetics, nor do you have to name it, but at least have a way in which you could explain it in a sentence. 

If you’re someone who is a bit on the fence with their fashion identity, I would start with a ‘base’ aesthetic that you like then start building your own on top of it over time. Think boho, streetwear, y2k, classy etc. 

CONSIDER YOUR LIFESTYLE. I don’t think its a great idea to go buy a fancy dress for a hypothetical event which may not ever happen. You have to think about what you’re doing on a daily basis, and which staples will be worn to their full extent. 

If you’re a very active person, I would invest into activewear or clothes that resemble it. If you’re someone who’s attending university, I would invest into casual cute basics but also smart staples for networking events. 

So in a way, don’t buy clothes for your fantasy self or events. I do understand that wearing clothes that our higher self would wear can close the gap between us and the, however material things don’t mean anything when it comes to that. 

SET A GOAL. Your goal can be anything when it comes to fashion. You could also have multiple goals. Here are some ideas for goals which may speak to you!

Investing into high quality pieces

Having less but wearing them more. 

Increased confidence

Developing personal style

Having a versatile collection

Comfortable yet stylish. 

There is a lot more goals that you may have came up with by yourself, but this is just to get you started. I recommend just having one goal and really honing down into it, is a lot better in this aspect. 

II. INSPIRATION + PLANNING

CREATE YOUR DREAM WARDROBE, whether digitally or physically. Pinterest is a great place to start, and you can create collages now. Or, you may choose to create a beauty binder which consists of outfits that you like. 

One thing I will add on to this, is to add in people who look like you or just don’t show their faces at all. Attractive and fit people can make most outfits look good, and you may be influenced by that, even if it's not going to be flattering on you (considering colours, shape, texture etc). 

LOOK AT THE CONSISTENCY, which colours were you drawn to the most, did you favour any patterns, are there any pieces which showed up repeatedly? Look for any consistency throughout the outfits. 

TAKE NOTES !

Colours: Did you lean towards lighter/darker colours, were there any colours that showed up repeatedly, patterns that you gravitated to?

Silhouettes: Were the clothes flowy and light, or fitted and shaped the body? 

Minimalism: Were the clothes simple and straight to the point, or were they maximalist and boasting personality? 

Alignment: Does the outfits match the lifestyle that you have and the one that you want? 

Staples: What articles of clothing showed up repeatedly? 

You don’t have to write it down, however I would make a mental note of all these details in your dream wardrobe.

III. DEALING WITH YOUR CURRENT WARDROBE 

LIMIT AS MUCH WASTE AS YOU CAN. More of a disclaimer, than a tip, but you don’t have to throw away everything just to replace everything. A lot of clothes that are in good condition can either be upcycled or have another purpose. 

SORT CLOTHES INTO THREE PILES. Keep, potential or donate. Keep are clothes that align with all of your goals, potential are clothes that are almost there and may need some tweaking and donating is for clothes that you feel misaligned with. 

That being said, don’t keep clothes that you know will collect dust in your closet if you have no intention of repurposing them. You could give them away to your friends, a facebook buy nothing group, if it's really good quality and in good condition then consider reselling it on depop or vinted. It's still wasteful when you’re not using it. 

Before deciding anything, actually wear them instead of evaluating them on a hanger. Hangers can make clothes look worse or better depending, but the only way to find out if you like it, is to try it on. 

IDENTIFY WHAT'S MISSING. From the clothes that you have left, see if there’s anything in your dream wardrobe that you don’t have in your closet. I’m not a big fan of ‘filling gaps’ in closets, so I would avoid purchasing statement pieces to fill that gap, just focus on staples that, considering your lifestyle, will wear. 

Make a list of all of these items, and try to eliminate any pieces of clothing which wouldn’t be staples in your life. 

IV. BEING INTENTIONALLY FASHIONABLE

CREATE YOUR OWN COLOUR PALETTE, I dislike the colour theory for people or colour seasons, just because you may not feel confident in the colours that are ‘best suited’ for you. However, I do love the idea of having your own personal palette that you gravitate towards. 

I would recommend having 1 dark colour, 1 neutral colour and 2-3 accent or statement colours (depending on your style). My current palette is navy, grey, pastel pink, pastel blue and pastel yellow. 

This does not mean you only buy clothes in that colour, it just means that its easier to curate your wardrobe with pieces that you love and do wear. I do wear colours outside of my palette, but I do favour those colours when looking for new clothes. 

AVOID ULTRA FAST FASHION. I’m talking about SHEIN, temu, alibaba or aliexpress. I know the cheap prices seem enticing, but their clothes will fall apart after some time and it's just not sustainable in the long term. Save your money and buy from places which you know will last. 

Other fashion stores are fast fashion (just not to the extent of the ones listed above), so I would still be very intentional about what I’m buying from them. Reminder, expensive does not equate to being sustainable. 

AVOID MICROTRENDS. If you do feel that a trend speaks to you, then go for it, but otherwise I would not give in. You’re buying clothes that are misaligned to you, so you waste money, and then when that trend inevitably dies out, you have a reason to throw it out. It's an endless cycle, don’t give in. 

One trend which I will never give into, has to be baggy jeans. Baggy jeans are really unflattering on my curves, no matter the waist. While they’ve definitely had a decline recently, when I was in year 7, it seemed that was all that everyone was wearing but I just couldn’t get into it. 

LEARN HOW TO TAILOR CLOTHES. It is not a given that all clothes regardless of your size, will fit right. Just because something doesn’t fit you properly, doesn’t mean you have to throw it away or put it back on the rack. 

Personally, I’ve lost a bit of weight over my high school years, so a lot of clothes that used to fit me, become a bit loose on my body. I found it unflattering, so I learnt how to do the basics of hand sewing to make clothes fit me the best. 

Learning how to tailor could also help in upcycling clothes that have potential. There’s a lot of basic clothes out there, which just need subtle changes to elevate the whole article. Plus, you’re saving money!

HAVE A SIGNATURE ELEMENT. Something personal to you that expresses yourself without having to say anything. It could be a certain type of jewellery, a bag, a colour, pattern etc. Its just something nice, but not essential for those who are constantly experimenting.

V. SHOPPING MINDFULLY

KEEP IN MIND YOUR PALETTE. For me, being experimental with so many colours ends up with too many fashion failures. I do buy outside of that palette, but only if I know for a fact that I will wear it (not just once) and I do feel like it aligns with me regardless of the colour. 

Even with that, I’m still very likely to put back anything which is not my palette. As much as I do like experimenting, I find security knowing that I do like my clothes and I will wear them.

PURCHASE INTENTIONALLY. Even if something fits your palette, it may not be something that you will wear or style. Always ask yourself questions when shopping, and if you’re not all in, I would put it back. 

Does it tick all of your boxes according to your dream wardrobe? Do you see yourself wearing it next year? (trends, body changes, lifestyle changes), can you style it with the wardrobe you have now? 

CREATE A WISHLIST. Create a list of all the clothes that you want, regardless of any questions or palette. However, these clothes will have to sit on that list for at least a month. If you still find yourself wanting it, then you can permit yourself to purchase it. If not, you’ve just avoided a regretful purchase. 

If you would like to shop in person, I would still create a list when I go out then only purchase items that resemble what’s on my list.

VI. MAINTENANCE 

REGULARLY CLEAN. If you have a shelving system, at least bi-monthly I would take out all of my clothes and wipe down all surfaces in my closet. If you have a hanging rack instead, I would still wipe it down because of dust accumulation. 

ORGANISE. Whatever system works best for you, keeps your clothes easily identifiable at a glance and it's neat, I would use it. Utilise hangers and baskets to help your wardrobe if needed.

Learn how to fold your clothes nicely yet easy to pick out what you want. Its such a small thing, but I do believe it will improve the quality of daily life as you don’t have to scavenge for what you want.

DECLUTTER BIANNUALLY. Whatever time of the year works best for you, then do it. Turn your wardrobe upside down to see if there’s anything that misaligns with you. Overtime as you declutter, you should be donating less stuff if you’re practicing intentional shopping habits.  WASH YOUR CLOTHES AS INSTRUCTED. Washing your clothes properly will extend their lifespan, unfortunately, just throwing them all in the wash isn’t actually beneficial. Read the care labels on each of your clothes and use them.

[hireskipbinadelaide-blog]

Types of Skip Bin to Hire For Safe Garbage Disposal

One confusion that business owners always have in mind when they hire skip bins is related to the size. The reason is the presence of a wide variety of sizes to confuse anyone looking to hire skip bins in Adelaide. Businesses need to choose right sized skip bins because a too-big bin will be an unnecessary waste of money, and a too-small bin will increase the risk of getting fined for bin overfilling. Here is a blog post that discusses different bin types and their sizes.

Note: All measurements are taken in cubic metres, i.e., length x width x height.

What Types Of Skip Bins Are Available For You?

Marrell Skip Bins

This is the most commonly used skip bin type for domestic and commercial waste collection. When you hire a skip bin in Adelaide, you will find sizes starting from 2 cubic metres to 17 cubic metres. An exciting feature of the marrel skip bin hired by you is that it will have higher sides and will be shorter in length than hook lift skip bins. A marrell is lifted up by chains attached to hydraulic arms & then lowered off the back of the truck.

Hook Lift Skip Bins

Hook lift skip bins get the name from the method used to load the waste bin in and out of the truck. For loading and unloading, the truck uses a sizable hydraulic hook to grab the skip bin and roll it off towards the back of the truck. They are rectangular and feature a large rear opening door, and the size ranges from 4 cubic metres to 30 cubic metres.

Mobile Skip Bins

They are a perfect solution when you want to hire skip bins in Adelaide, but the place to park them is tough to choose. They will feature lockable lids to prevent people from dumping garbage into them. They are a convenient option for safe garbage disposal, but a downside is that only specific types of garbage can be dumped. This includes general waste, light, green waste, building waste, and dry timber. Items that should not be dumped in the skip bin hired by you are soil, bricks, concrete, rubble, etc. These bins are available in small sizes – 3 and 4 cubic metres for safe transportation.

Above all these options, skip bags are considered a convenient and cheaper alternative to skip bins hired by you. Here are the incredible features of using skip bags.

You can put anything

A more cost-effective alternative 

Come in 3 convenient sizes

Lightweight & easy to use

No time restraints

Utilised in small areas

Multiple usage options

[nomoredying]

watch your six

bodyguard!sevika x popstar!reader

tags: age gap (9 years), unresolved feelings, cunnilingus, ex-military sevika, conversations, angst a/n: english is not my first language — please feel free to correct me, thank you

you’re late. one of many nice things about being a star is that no one says why are you late or where have you been to you except your agent. not to your face, at least. you’re moving fast, balancing a black coffee in one hand and phone with dozens of scratches on its screen in the other, muttering half-sentences to yourself as you cross the hallway of the studio building. 

and of course the moment you look down at your phone just for a second you slam straight into something. someone.

a coffee splash. a grunt. a low, deep “watch it.”

you think of yourself as a quite tall person. still, you have to look up. a woman. broad, scar down her cheek, shoulders squared like a soldier. you blinks once. nod politely, apologise and forget her face the next second.

the interview goes well. mostly. they ask about the tour. the new album. the rumors. you dodge all the personal questions like you always do — with wit, with charm, with a sharp little smirk that fans love. press eats it up. pr training did not go to waste. 

“i’ll see you around, ally,” you wink at the host, as she gives you her thanks.

put your sunglasses back on and start walking, as your assistant says something about invitation to dinner. and there’s this woman again. just behind you. like it’s nothing. like you’re walking together. you’re body tenses as you slows down.

“can i help you?” a polite question, but your hostile tone makes it clear that it’s more of a fuck off.

“no,” the woman says, tone flat.

and you thought you didn’t need anger management classes.

you stare, “you’re following me.”

“technically,” the woman shrugs, “you’re walking. i’m just doing my job.”

“your—“ you see your driver arriving, “i don’t care,” sometimes that’s all you gotta say to weirdos around you, open the car door and get in.

…unless the weirdo climbs in after you to the front seat. 

you look at the woman, collecting all insulting words you know before your phone buzzes and you pick it up. it’s your agent, “don’t drive yet,” you say to gillian, the calmest woman in her fifties you’ve ever met, who also happens to be your driver.

“did you meet her?“ she asks, curious, “apparently, she was in the military. one of the best.” 

you’re genuinely confused, “what? who are you talking about?”

you hear her intentionally loud exhale. you can almost see her rubbing the bridge of her nose, “i told you this several times. security. bodyguard. personal. 24/7. label’s orders. everything for your safety.”

you look at the woman sitting on the front seat, “right. yes. good. bye.” 

“you know that vesper is thinking about buying an island and leaving everything behind,” gillian murmurs. 

sometimes you suspect that she and vesper — your agent — are in a secret marriage. by secret you mean they’re hiding it from you specifically. it’s not hard to picture them sitting in kitchen drinking tea on some sunday evening as they talk about giving you up.

“drive.” you roll your eyes. 

surprisingly, your schedule is clear as a day so you’re being drove right home.

you penthouse is on the 28th floor, big windows, soft light, old movie posters framed and hung on the walls — metropolis, amadeus, les diaboliques. there are records tucked between stacks of vinyl, a guitar signed by someone long dead, a candle that’s been burning for five hours. your home is your safe space. artsy and clean.

and now you have a shadow. a very intimidating one, if you’re honest. the woman — sevika, apparently — stands near the door.

you watch her, “you can stop that. no one’s gonna leap out of the wall.”

“standard procedure,” sevika says. then nods to the hallway. “where am i sleeping?”

you scoff, “you’re sleeping here?”

“contract says on-site.”

“oh god,” you drags your hand down your face, then point, “spare bedroom’s at the end of the hall. don’t touch my shit.”

sevika just lifts an eyebrow, says nothing, and walks down the hall.

you slumps onto the couch and stare at the ceiling. well, you knew what you were signing up to ten years ago, didn’t you? it all comes with a package. constant attention, money, anxiety. 

out-of-their-mind stalkers and personal bodyguards.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you’re walking home back from a little stroll you take to gather your thoughts. headphones on, instrumental playing. 

too loud, because you don’t hear a man calling you. he has to tap your shoulder so you finally look at him and take the heads off.

you recognise the face immediately. slightly rounded face, large eyes, full cheeks. fluffy blue hair. it’s peter. man in his twenties who says he’s been your fan ‘since forever’. you know him because past few years you’ve seen him almost on every public event you went. always in the front, with his big smile and a notebook he wants you to sign. you’re pretty sure he’s already got a collection of your autographs and selfies.

“hi! i’m sorry, i didn’t want to bother you. it’s crazy i’m meeting you here!” peter chuckles.

you raise your eyebrows, surprised, “it is crazy. do you live here?”

“no, but it doesn’t matter,” he brushes it off, “tell me, how are you? you look astonishing, really. really!”

“thank you. i’ve been okay. how about you?” 

peter starts rumbling, going on and on about him loving your new posts in instagram, going to gym every other day just like you, recommending you a movie he watched recently that he’s sure you’ll like, how he can’t wait for your new album, asking when will it be and if some crazy theory about it is true, and how he’s been wanting to approach you but got the courage to do so only now. 

wait, what?

you frown, “what do you mean? i don’t think we’ve personally met anywhere else.”

“well, no, you don’t see me, but i do. you know. on streets, shops, theatres.”

“no, i don’t know,” your heartbeat goes faster, “have you been following me, peter? what are you doing here?” you press. “you know where i live? what, you’ve got a stakeout somewhere near in case i get out of the house?” 

he looks at you, his puppy eyes widened in surprise, “no. i mean yes, i know where you live. but i would never rob you or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about! really, I’m more of an opposite,” peter’s voice absolutely innocent, as if you’re the crazy one.

it makes you frustrated. like the one thing missing in your life was a stalker.

“are you fucking crazy?” you rise your voice. people start looking, “get away from me.”

he doesn’t. no, he steps forward, raising his palm upward in a gesture people use to approach wild animals, “hey, hey. it’s okay.”

“didn’t you hear me? i said get from me!”

peter stops. he frowns, resentful, “don’t talk to me like that. why are you so unfriendly?”

god, sometimes you forget how people can be so…

“because you’re insane and i don’t want to see you anywhere near me.”

and that’s when he gets mad. and not in a i’m-not-your-fan-anymore way mad. no. he reaches in his bag and takes out a fucking gun. yes, you should’ve moved to finland.

“shut up! shut up! you don’t mean that!” he point the gun at you.

you can’t move, your body paralysed. you’ve imagined so many accidents that end up with your death but it’s the first time you might actually be close to that.

“why do you carry a gun?” the only thing you can squeeze out of yourself, your voice lacking any emotions.

“for you! don’t you understand? i want you to be safe.”

you can’t breathe.

“no. no. you’re insane. you need help. i’ll call the police.”

he laughs like a parent would laugh at something silly their toddler said.

“i always loved your humour,” peter takes another step forward. despite his smile, he doesn’t hesitate to hold the gun at your head.

“it’s not— i’m not joking.”

“really?” his smile turns upside down, “that’s too bad.”

and then the bullet goes right through you.

but you don’t feel it.

you wake up choking. 

skin clammy, shirt sticking to your back, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs. it takes you a second to breathe, another to focus. the room is dark. you’ve had this very dream since the day it happened. which isn’t a long time ago, but you would’ve thought you’d get used to it. 

in reality, he didn’t shot you. a stranger knocked him down when he pointed the gun at you. and now peter with cobalt-dyed hair has a restraining order and you have a bodyguard.

you hear footsteps. precise, not stumbling. you’re quick to stand up and grab the first thing within reach — a solid, aluminum bat on your bedside table. a gift from someone who thought it was funny. now you have a use for it. your grip tightens on the bat. you inch out of the bedroom, bare feet cold on the hardwood. go downstairs.

the kitchen light’s on. then you turn the corner, bat raised—

“you planning on bashing my head in?”

sevika’s voice is calm and a little dry. she’s standing at the sink, drinking from a tall glass of water, completely unfazed.

you lower the bat. breathe out. her pulse is a drum in her ears.

“…sorry.”

the older woman shrugs. leans back against the counter. “you looked ready to swing.”

“yeah, well. it’s been a week,” you set the bat on the counter gently and rub your eyes.

“couldn’t sleep?” sevika asks, not looking at you.

you shrug, “nightmare.”

sevika nods. she doesn’t need any further explanations. you watch the way her throat moves when she swallows another sip of water.

“you smoke?”

she glances over, like the question surprised her, “yes,”

“not in my house.”

you’re not sure why you’re saying this like there won’t be no time for setting the rules other than the middle of a night.

“noted.”

you press your lips together, “everybody’s scared of something, right?”

sevika raises her eyebrows at your words, but she doesn’t hesitate when she says, “yes.”

“well, how do you deal with being scared?” 

a beat, “you don’t. you just become better at hiding it,” she’s honest and you appreciate that.

“goodnight,” you murmur finally, already turning back toward the hall, “turn off the kitchen light when you’re done being mysterious.”

“yes, ma’am,” sevika replies, deadpan.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

your alarm goes off at 7:00 sharp.

you jolt awake, already halfway out of bed before your brain catches up. eyes unfocused, limbs moving like wet cement. slow. heavy. zombie mode. 

the mirror doesn’t lie. hair sticking out in every direction, bags under your eyes. you make a face at yourself and head to the shower. hot water helps. not enough, but a little.

a clean towel, robe, moisturiser you hate the smell of but love the results from. then clothes. you in something simple. all black. not really a fashion statement.

you're sipping lukewarm coffee straight from the pot when you hear it — dull, repetitive, thump.  you walk into the living room, still barefoot, to find sevika doing push-ups. muscles on her arms flexing with each rise and fall. they probably could snap you in half.

"is this your version of good morning?" you mumble, voice hoarse.

“want a turn?" she says without looking up. 

“pass.”

no time for breakfast. your assistant texts you twice before you even reach the elevator. something about a rescheduled interview, snacks on the way, new edits on the press release. you type k with your thumb and call the elevator.

sevika walks behind you. just a four calculated steps behind. 

the day begins at 8:15.

first — a studio lot, morning show. the one with the overly enthusiastic host and bright colors that make your brain hurt.

you sit in the chair. smile on. makeup hiding the fatigue. they ask you what inspired the album. you say something about duality and fame. they ask about the tour. you say you’re excited. they ask about the rumors. you say “which one?” and they laugh. it’s all performance. always has been.

in the corner, sevika stands near the exit. arms crossed. eyes sweeping.

you get a coffee afterwards. someone from the show hands it to you like they’re offering a gold medal. you drink half of it. hand the rest to your assistant.

“you could eat something,” sevika says, typing mid-step.

“and ruin my diet of caffeine and paranoia? she doesn’t laugh. not her style, you think. or maybe it’s like with teachers. if they all use same lines their teachers told them, bodyguards look at the nearest statue to train their poker face.

next stop: recording studio. final tweaks, final mixes.

your producer, lena, has been with you since day one. she’s brilliant, chain-smokes like a noir detective, and only speaks in half-sentences when she’s focused. 

“vocals on track four still feel..” she waves her hand vaguely.

“thin?” you offer.

“plastic,” she decides, “you’re not angry enough. go again.”

you do.

sevika waits outside the booth. eyes on the soundboard, unreadable. someone offers her a water bottle. she doesn’t take it.

you take a break at 1:00. something vaguely healthy in a plastic box. you eat three bites while reading over the promo schedule. your assistant hovers, “vesper says wear the green dress tonight. it photographs well.”

“i don’t own a green dress.”

“it’s already tailored for you.”

“fantastic.”

at some point during the day, you start to forget she’s there. sevika. not gone. just part of the pattern now. background. it’s surprising, really, considering that you’ve only known her for two days and already got used to her presence. there is something calming about it. 

but when you’re leaving the building and someone calls your name — someone too close, someone you don’t see right away — she’s already between you and them. you smell gunmetal and smoke.

it’s just a fan. overexcited. loud. sevika lets go the moment she sees that.

you end the day in a dressing room with too-bright lighting and a stylist who talks like he’s auditioning for a soap opera. you wear the green dress. it does photograph well. 

and when it’s all over, when the cameras are off and the lights go dim and the city starts folding into night, you get in the car and let your head rest back.

“home?” gillian asks from the front.

“please,” you say, half-asleep.

and as always, you fall asleep in the car.

it’s not graceful. your neck at a bad angle, jaw slack, mouth probably open. whatever. you’ve slept in worse places. gillian keeps the ride quiet.

your head knocks softly against the window as the car turns. outside, the city glows in its neon hush. inside, your breathing slows. limbs heavy. mind a blur. the green dress itches a little under your coat, but you’re too far gone to care.

gillian parks.

“we’re home,” she says softly, like she always does. you don’t move, “hey,” she tries again, just a bit louder. “you’re home, kid.”

nothing.

she waits, sighs. then leans back over the seat and gives your shoulder the gentlest tap-tap-tap. “kitten. wake up.”

gillian always tries waking you up softly. she knows how much you work and she knows you don’t sleep well enough, no matter what she tells you. her principle won’t let her go full tornado just yet. though you’re pretty sure that’s because she loves you, not because of her ‘principles’. 

“sleepytime’s over.”

still nothing. she shakes her head, clicks her tongue like an exasperated aunt. 

and then—

“wake up,” two words. said low, steady. a command.

your eyes snap open. first thing you see is sevika, standing by the car door, door already open, looking down at you with that same unreadable expression she always wears.

you blink. once. then twice.

“what—“

“she talked,” gillian says from the front seat, cutting in, “she just talked, and you woke up. what the hell.”

you rub your eyes, sit up slowly. brain still fogged, “what time is it?”

“late,” gillian says. but she’s staring at sevika, eyes narrowed with admiration and dramatic betrayal, “you have no idea how long i’ve been trying to figure out how to wake her like that. i sang. i tapped. i played mariah. i once played screamo. nothing.”

sevika shrugs. “military.”

“girl,” gillian puts a hand to her chest. “respectfully, that was sexy.”

you snort. you’re not really awake yet, not really functioning, but watching gillian glare at sevika like she’s just seen a magic trick is funny.

you get out of the car, coat draped over your shoulders like a cape. sevika steps back, gives you space. gillian still watching her like she might steal her techniques while she’s not looking, “next time she nods off,” she tells sevika as they close the door, “you wake her. i’m retired from that nonsense.”

“wasn’t that your job?” you mumble.

gillian doesn’t even look back, “you pay me for the driving, baby. the rest is emotional labor.”

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

on saturday you wake up at 9.

no alarms. no screaming phones. no makeup callsheets or flashing lights. just sunlight and the luxury of silence. a miracle, really.

you stretch like a cat. everything aches in that delicious way because you actually slept.

your assistant texted the night before, informing you that tomorrow’s schedule is clear and asking if you have any plans she has to write down. your reply was short. hell no.

by 10:30 you’re in a black swimsuit, swim cap and goggles. the pool’s on the last floor of a building vesper once called “disgustingly bourgeois,” which is why you love it. the water is clear, cold and no one else is here.

except, of course, her.

sevika. she sits on the chair near the pool, dressed in black track pants and a plain tee. sunglasses. arms crossed. looking exactly like a soldier guarding a president on vacation.

you dive in.

the first stroke is cold. then rhythmic. you let your brain go quiet. water always helps. shuts out the static. just stroke, breath, stroke.

twenty laps later, you finally stop. hands gripping the edge, chest rising and falling. you glance up. sevika hasn’t moved. still watching. her eyebrows are weirdly judgmental.

you pull off your goggles and push the cap back slightly, “hey,” you call.

nothing. she looks down at you like she’s waiting for you to say something worth walking over for. so you motion her closer. serious expression. urgent.

she stands. approaches slowly. eyebrow raised. the shadow of her body stretches across the tile. stops at the edge.

“what?” flat voice. arms still crossed.

you blink. tilt your head, “come closer.”

“why?”

you don’t answer. you just lean one hand on the edge, the other slipping slightly beneath the surface. when she’s close enough — when she’s right there, looking at you with a mild suspicion — 

you grab her ankle and pull.

her foot slips on the wet tile. and for a second, she almost catches herself. almost. but the floor’s slick and her weight’s shifting and then: splash. like a cartoon. she goes under with all the grace of a brick.

you swim back half a meter, gasping. not from effort, but from laughter. the kind that starts in your throat and ends in your belly. uncontrollable.

her face when she fell— oh god.

you try to keep swimming away, but it’s hard to move when you’re laughing so hard you’re practically crying.

“you should’ve seen your—”

you choke, “your face—“

and then a hand grabs your feet. you shriek, but it’s too late. her grip is so tight. you kick weakly but she’s stronger, faster, annoyed.

“oh shit,” you yelp.

“you think that was funny?”

“yes— yes!” you wheeze, trying to wriggle free, “so funny..”

she pulls you under. not quite rough, just a quick dunk. the water swallows you in one gulp and you surface again sputtering, hair in your face, laugh absolutely unkillable.

“you’re insane,” you cough, wiping your face.

“you started it.”

“i will do it again.”

she gives you a look. unreadable. dangerous. you tread water beside her. chest heaving from laughter.

“you know,” you say between breaths, “for someone paid to keep me alive, you really look like you’re about to drown me,”

sevika shakes water from her face, already swimming toward the edge again, “you’re lucky i didn’t.”

“kinky,” you call after her.

she doesn’t respond. just climbs out of the pool in one fluid motion, water dripping from her shirt, pants sticking to her legs.

you float on your back, grinning up at the sky. for once, the world feels distant. quiet. safe.

maybe this whole bodyguard thing won’t be so bad. that, if she doesn’t quit, of course. you doubt anyone else would be this funny.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

paris smells like money and perfume.

not a metaphor — literally. everything from the airport lounge to the water in your overpriced hotel suite smells expensive.

the fashion show you’ve been invited to is held in an old theatre turned palace turned runway. vaulted ceilings. chandeliers. strange, wonderful things walking past you. you watch from front row. dressed in something sheer, structured, and definitely impossible to wear twice.

afterwards, you end up in polite conversation with camille bellamy. oscar winner. cinema icon. and now she’s complimenting your voice. and touching your arm. and saying she’d “love to work together one day.” you don’t know on what exactly since she acts and you sing, but you happily agree anyway.  nod and say thank you and stay cool, but your insides are confetti

you’re buzzing all the way back to the hotel.

you and sevika walk side by side. her in a black coat, eyes always moving. you in heels that you hate but you still refuse to limp. you’re just about to come in the elevator when a girl approaches.

young. maybe nineteen, maybe twenty-two.

hood up. pale eyes. too focused.

“hi,” she says.

you smile automatically. “hey.”

“i just..” she pauses, “i used to really like your music.”

used to? that doesn’t sound very good. your smile falters. you hear sevika’s steps slow behind you.

“thanks,” you say, cautious. “glad you—”

“but then you changed,” she interrupts. voice higher now. thinner, “you started pretending you were something you’re not. sold out. made everything about image.”

you blink, “i’m not sure what this is, but,”

“you don’t care,” she cuts in again, louder, “none of you ever do. i looked up to you.”

a second passes. then she steps closer. just a step, but fast. that’s all it takes.

sevika’s between you in a blink, “back off,” her hand’s on the girl’s wrist before she even lifts it.

the girl flinches. stumbles back. mutters something like ‘whatever, bitch, you’re not worth it’ and disappears into the night like smoke.

you don’t move for a second, “thanks.”

“that’s the job.” you get in the elevator.

your rooms are next to each other. of course. you throw your shoes off the second you’re inside. grab the champagne from the minibar. stare at the bubbles. then open the door again and knock twice on hers.

she opens it. doesn’t look surprised.

you lift the bottle like a trophy. “come drink.”

“no.”

“come on.”

“i’m good.”

“pretty please,” you drag the word out like a child, “i almost got yelled for being unauthentic. come mourn with me.”

she squints.

you press your hands together in exaggerated begging, “one drink. i’ll be so annoying if you say no.”

“fine.”

you smile. 

inside the room, you sit on the couch in your suite. she takes the armchair. you pour two glasses.

“so,” you say, “how old are you, really?” she gives you a flat look. you smile, “that’s not a weird question.”

still nothing.

“okay, miss mystery,” you roll your eyes. “come on,”

“forty-two.”

you gasp dramatically, “no way. i had you at thirty-nine.”

“thanks,” she says, bone dry.

you drink.

“you were in the army?” you ask, head tilted.

she nods.

“how long?”

“nineteen years.”

“damn, “you sip again, “kids?”

“no.”

“married?”

“no.”

“not even a passionate affair with a war photographer named margot?”

“definitely not.”

you lean your head back. “you’re boring.”

“i’m safe.”

you laugh at that.

“safe,” you repeat, swirling the glass. “yeah. i guess you are.”

you fill the silence with more talking. more drinking. something about modern fashion. something about the way parisians look like they were born smoking and judging. you wouldn’t call yourself particularly talkative, but it feels easy with her.

she listens. she’s good at that. at sitting still and letting you spill. somewhere between your second glass and third overly dramatic retelling of camille bellamy saying ‘darling,’ the idea happens.

cards.

you just mentioned something about playing gin rummy with your vocal coach once, and sevika tilted her head and said, “you play?”

you scoffed. “obviously.”

five minutes later, there’s a battered deck from your travel bag spread across the coffee table, sleeves rolled up, heels abandoned. sevika sitting across from you, sleeves also pushed back, legs apart, focused.

the first game lasts three minutes. she wins. you blink at the score, “wait,”

“next?”

you agree. and lose. again.

the third game’s closer. you’re convinced you’ve got it — nearly slam your hand down in triumph — but she cuts you off mid-motion with a play that wipes your whole setup clean.

“how are you doing this?” you gape.

“math,” she replies.

“no,” you shake your head, pouring another splash of champagne. “you’re cheating. that’s cheating.”

“that’s winning.”

fourth round. fifth. you even try distracting her. waving your arms, humming a random melody, even complimenting her forearms mid-deal.

she doesn’t break. you lose. again.

“this is criminal behavior,” you mutter, stretching out dramatically across the couch, arm flopped over your face like a dead heroine. “this is psychological warfare. you’re humiliating me.”

“you offered,” she says.

“you challenged me!” 

you groan and sit back up. you’re not even mad anymore. you’re— okay. maybe a little mad.

as she’s dealing the next round, your eyes flick up — and there it is. the corner of her mouth. a smirk.an actual smirk. not a twitch. not a shadow. a genuine curve of amusement.

you freeze mid-reach, “wait a second,” her eyes stay on the cards. you narrow yours. lean forward, “you’re enjoying this too much.”

“it’s satisfying.”

“you’re smiling.”

“i’m not.”

“you are! oh my god,” you put a hand to your chest, “is that a dimple?”

her gaze flicks up, sharp, “no.”

“oh my god,” you gasp again, full drama, grabbing a throw pillow like it’s a witness, “you smiled. i didn’t even know your face could do that.”

she looks back at her cards, “play your hand.”

“if i lose again, i’m calling the embassy.”

“you’ll lose.”

you do. 

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

117 unread messages

30 missed calls

a lot more mentions and tags 

your album is finally out in the open.

you don’t even open them yet. just watch the notifications roll in. promise yourself that you’ll answer them all later and lock the screen.

when you walk barefoot into the kitchen, sevika’s already there, wearing her hoodie. hair tied. eating something straight from the container with massive noise-canceling headphones on. doesn’t see you. doesn’t hear you.

but you see the screen on her phone. the song playing.

your song.

track four. the sad one with the violins and the breathy chorus. she’s listening to you. well, would you look at that. 

for some reason, you really care about what she thinks about it.

“if you’re not gonna buy the album, at least stream the deluxe version,” you tease and she looks up, slowly. you raise a brow, tilt your head, “so?”

she blinks once. removes one earcup. opens her mouth and your phone rings.

vesper. of course, “hello?”

“it’s out. you’re out. you’re a star! no, you’re supernova. do you hear me? you’re a fucking supernova!”

“hi, vesper.”

“shut up. you’re #5 globally in under three hours. you knocked out two men with guitars. spotify is having a meltdown. i’m having a meltdown!” 

you grin, covering your mouth, “really?”

“you’re going to cannes and i’m buying a horse.”

call ends. you look up again. sevika’s still sitting there, one brow slightly lifted. you try to act chill, “anyway. thoughts on the vocals?”

“they’re good,” she says.

“good?”

“you don’t need me to tell you you’re incredible.”

you roll your eyes and shove your phone into your pocket, “ugh. boring answer. get ready. we have to go.”

when you’re in the car, you hear your music playing.

“this one’s my favorite,” gillian says, tapping the wheel in rhythm. “you sound expensive.”

“i am expensive.”

“oh, i know,”

when you arrive on set of the music video for one of the tracks, it’s all black marble, velvet, shadows, opulence. you’re dressed in deep colours, silks, delicate chains draped across your collarbones. the song is the filthiest one you ever wrote.

gorgeous women with smoky eyes lying across divans and fur rugs. you strut between them. get fed a grape. press a kiss to a girl’s temple. let fingers run over your waist. cameras follow like they’re hungry.

the last scene’s the real killer.

you walk across the room. music loud. lights low. your eyes locked on her. the actress. sitting on the couch. legs spread slightly. smoldering. you’re supposed to straddle her, whisper the lyrics against her mouth, hold her face like she’s the only thing that exists. everything’s perfect.

almost everything.

“i need a second,” the actress mutters. and then she turns green. makeup artists rush. she clutches her stomach, apologizing, eyes glassy, “shit, sorry. something I ate,”

everyone freezes.

the director — a sharp-eyed woman in an oversized blazer and boots — looks around. assesses. calculates. then her gaze lands on the bodyguard.

“you,” she says, pointing at sevika, who’s minding her business near the monitors.

“no,” sevika says it instinctively, immediately.

but it’s too late.

“hair’s perfect. outfit matches. height’s right. you’ll sit. she’ll straddle. no lines. just hands on her thighs. we keep rolling. done.”

“i’m not—” sevika starts, already backing up.

“oh,��you’re perfect,” the director says. “don’t move.”

makeup artists start working on her face. she looks very unhappy. you just sit on the edge of a couch, watching this unfold with a little chuckle.

“you good?” you ask when she’s finally dragged into place.

“not the word i’d use.”

you grin, “just hands on my thighs, soldier. you’ll live.”

the camera rolls. the track plays. you walk over, slow and deliberate. she’s sitting on the couch, jaw tight.

you step between her knees. tilt her chin up with two fingers. her eyes meet yours, unreadable. you lower yourself onto her lap, smooth. your knees on either side of her. your hands on her shoulders. her hands, resting on your thighs.

you lean in, lipsinking to the lyrics.

honey, i’d lie if i said i didn’t like it slow

her grip tightens just a little. the camera zooms in. your lips hover over her cheek. her hands are huge and warm and just barely trembling.

you don’t talk after the scene.

the set applauds. someone yells ‘that’s a wrap!’ the director gives you a proud little nod, and sevika disappears somewhere behind the camera with a face that says never speak of this again.

you smile politely. change into your robe. get your makeup retouched. you laugh with the stylist. hug the assistant director. get back to your dressing room. dim lights. lips freshly reapplied.

the door opens and sevika walks in. your bodyguard. your shadow. you look at her through the mirror. she shuts the door behind her like she always does — calm, mechanical. professional.

“are you going to say something?” 

because it looks like she does.

“i didn’t think i needed to,” sevika says. voice low. a little rougher than usual. god, that rasp.

you stand. walk to her slowly and stop right in front of her. your hand lifts, gentle. touches her collarbone. your fingers shake, but not from fear.

you grab her face, crushing your mouth to hers. smearing red across both your lips. oh, she doesn’t hesitate.

her hands land on your waist like they’ve always belonged there. like the scene was nothing compared to this. like she’s been dying to do this. you hope so.

her voice when she pulls back is hoarse, low, wrecked, “that what you wanted?”

you nod. breathe heavy. eyes locked on her mouth.

“yeah.”

you kiss again. slower now. deeper. her fingers flex against your back. she breathes through her nose, jaw tight.

“sit.”

you don’t question it. lean back against the vanity, legs parted just enough for her to step between.

sevika kneels, like it’s instinct. like that’s where she was always meant to be. on the floor, between your thighs, broad shoulders nudging them apart, eyes dark and focused.

“you sure?”

you nod. breathless. aching, really. you need this. need her, “yes.”

she drags your robe open slowly. reverently. eyes on you, never flickering. sevika gazed at the glistening pink folds before her, inhaling the heady scent of your arousal. 

then her mouth is on you. she starts slow and teasing, dragging her tongue along your slit, savouring the taste. her tongue is certainly skilfull. she knows how to treat your pussy just right. eat it all up.

sevika pulls a moan out of you that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve made on stage. pure filth. she smirked against your sex. 

“fuck—” you whisper, head falling back. “don’t stop,” your hands grip the edge of the counter even tighter.

sevika flicked and circled the sensitive nub with the tip of her tongue before sucking even harder on your clit. she gripped your ass, kneading the firm globes.

you come fast and hard — shaking, crying out, one hand pressed to your mouth, the other gripping her shoulder. 

but she doesn’t stop. not until you’re sinking back, boneless, eyes wet, mouth open. but she pulls back eventually, after sucking and slurping as your juices flooded her mouth.

“still want a review of the album?”

you laugh. a soft, broken thing. reach for her.

“get up here.”

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

once it starts, it doesn't stop.

the tour begins three days later.

city to city. lights. cameras. chaos. and in the middle of all that? her.

she's behind you backstage, arms crossed. she's beside you in hotel elevators, expression unreadable. she's outside your green room, earpiece in. professional. composed.

but behind closed doors? she’s everything but. 

you learn her habits. the way she always locks the door. the way her jaw clenches when you press up against her in a hallway. the way she growls when you whisper something filthy in her ear during a meet & greet. 

the first time she fucks you backstage, it's between outfit changes in a dark corridor.

you're still wearing glitter and nothing underneath.

"we don't have time," she mutters.

you pull her hand between your legs, “then you better hurry."

you come against the wall. thighs shaking. lipstick smudged. and she wipes your mouth with her thumb after, then kisses you like it's the last thing she'll ever do.

on a bathroom on the plane, your head hits the mirror. she’s got you pressed up tight, breathing in your ear.

“quiet,” she warns.

you fail.

you both exit fifteen minutes later. the steward looks away with so much awareness.

in paris, she fucks you against the window.

your handprints are on the glass, legs shaking, lips red and bitten. her voice in your ear, all low and commanding, “louder, baby. let the city hear you.”

in rome, she pushes your dress up the second the door shuts. no greeting. no pretense. just you, up on the desk, her mouth on your chest, your heel digging into her back.

“you can’t wait five minutes?”

“i’ve been waiting all day.”

in berlin, you ride her in a five-star hotel bed with floor-to-ceiling windows.

in prague, she bends you over a marble counter with one hand in your hair and the other over your mouth.

in florence, you beg. she loves it.

in vienna, it’s top floor. balcony. 2:13 a.m.

you’re in her lap. you’re in your robe. she’s in nothing but sweats, one hand gripping your thigh, the other lost in your hair.

she groans into your mouth. you bite her lip. her hand slides down.

neither of you noticed the camera flash.

⚢ ⚢ ⚢

you find out in the morning.

barefoot, oversized t-shirt (hers), coffee in hand. you scroll through your phone.

until—

“Pop Star Seen Kissing Mystery Woman on Vienna Balcony – Internet Melts Down.”

you freeze. the article is short. the photos.. not so much.

zoomed-in shots from across the street.

your legs on either side of her lap. her hands holding your hips. your mouth on hers. and the headline is everywhere.

gillian walks in — you take her everywhere — sees your face. takes one look at your screen.

“oh fuck,” you don’t respond. just… blink, “does vesper know yet?”

your phone rings. you don’t need to check the ID.

“yes.”

vesper is screaming. very loud.

“you said no windows.”

“i didn’t think anyone would be aiming a telescope at 2 a.m. in fucking vienna!”

“they’re always aiming a telescope at you!” she breathes like she’s pacing, “okay. okay. we have two choices,” she says, “we ignore. ride it out. let the press come up with conspiracies. or we own it. post a statement.“

you rub your eyes.

“this thing… is it serious?” vesper asks. softly, “do i need to prepare for a whole narrative shift?”

you’re quiet. you want to say yes. god, you want to mean it. but you don’t know what she feels. you’ve never asked. you’ve just… touched. kissed. taken. been taken.

“i don’t know,” you admit.

vesper sighs, “okay. well. figure it out. i’m already writing four drafts.”

she hangs up.

so you find sevika outside.

on the hotel balcony. same one. irony’s cute like that. she’s smoking, hair damp. you lean on the doorframe. arms crossed.

“you saw it?” she nods. exhales smoke. doesn’t look at you, “vesper’s spinning.”

“figured.”

you walk closer, “you mad at me?”

“no,” she says, “my boss called. said we crossed a line.”

you sit on the edge of the lounge chair.

voice low, “i didn’t mean for it to get public.”

“i know.”

birds in the distance. wind through the railing.

“i didn’t want you to get in trouble,” you say. “i— i wouldn’t have kissed you like that if i thought—”

“don’t,” she cuts in. gently, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you stare at your hands, “vesper asked if this is serious,” you say softly, “and i guess… i wanted to ask you the same thing.”

her eyes flick toward you, then away. then she says it. flat. simple.

“it’s a mistake.”

you blink, “excuse me?”

she exhales through her nose. cold. detached. like she’s already made her decision and is just waiting for you to get it.

“you’re a global pop star,” she says. “i’m someone who got assigned to protect you. this—” she gestures vaguely between you “—was a slip. it shouldn’t have happened.”

your chest stings. you try to laugh. it comes out broken.

“you didn’t seem to mind it happening when you were between my fucking legs,” her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t rise to it, “that’s the reason? because i’m me and you’re you?” you snap, mocking. “what the hell does that even mean?”

she looks at you then. expression unreadable. like she’s been expecting this tantrum.

“it means you’re young. famous. emotional. and i’m a former soldier who was hired to keep you breathing,” she says, voice patient in a way that makes your blood boil, “i’m not someone who belongs in your life.”

“don’t talk to me like i’m a child,” you snap.

she raises an eyebrow, “i’m not. but if you don’t understand the problem here, then maybe you are too young.”

your voice rises — sharp now, hurt twisted into rage.

“stop acting like you know me. like you know what i need.”

“i know what this would look like,” she says. “it would look like me using you. sleeping with a client. taking advantage of a girl who can’t see the difference between obsession and affection.”

you stare. you actually laugh. but there’s no humor in it, “you think that’s what this is? obsession?”

she shrugs. stoic. bitter.

“i think it’s not going to last. you’re gonna meet someone your age, someone who doesn’t carry a gun and a file of your emergency escape routes.”

“i’m not sixteen. we’re nine years apart, not nine decades,” you bite.

“nine years is enough.”

“for what? for you to feel like the fucking martyr here? like you’re saving me from some grand tragedy?”

her voice stays calm. 

“i’m protecting both of us.”

“no. you’re running.”

that finally gets her. a muscle jumps in her jaw. she looks away.

you feel your throat burn. you nod. slow. then step back.

“okay.”

you turn on your heel. through the room and out the door.

you don’t look back. you don’t know if you want to cry, scream, or throw something off the damn roof and you don’t know where you’re going — down the stairs, through the hallway, out of the hotel into the cool air of vienna at sunrise. and she follows.

you can hear her boots behind you. always the four steps. you spin around so fast it startles a couple passing by, “are you seriously following me?”

her hands are in her jacket pockets. face unreadable. voice flat.

“making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“what am I gonna do? throw myself into the danube over a bad fucking breakup that never even counted?”

she doesn’t answer.

“jesus christ,” you say. “this is humiliating.”

you turn again. walk faster. cross a street. she still follows. you duck into a small park with an old stone fountain in the middle. a few benches. some pigeons. early morning silence.

you sit down hard. she stands a few feet away. watching. silent, “you can go now,” you say, not looking at her.

“no.”

you sigh. this is pathetic. you’re pathetic.

you sit there on that bench in the middle of some quiet vienna park while the sky slowly shifts from dark blue to pale gold. and she finally comes closer. sits next to you.

you can’t look at her. you just can’t. instead, you stare straight ahead. and when you speak, your voice is tight. cracked. real.

“you know what’s funny?” you laugh once, bitter, “you’re the first person in years i’ve wanted to actually talk to,” she doesn’t move, “not just fuck or flirt and forget about it. like.. talk. for hours. about everything. anything. nothing,” you swallow, “the first person i imagined waking up next to, not after something wild in hotel. real mornings. that domestic shit.”

she turns her head toward you. you keep going. eyes still forward. throat aching, like you’re about to cry.

“i’ve had more people tell me they love me than i can count. most of them don’t even know me. and i never cared,” you pause, “but if you ever said it, i think it would ruin me.”

that’s when you finally glance at her. she’s staring at you, her eyes wide. you don’t see it written on her face, but she’s shaking. you reach up. touch her arm.

“maybe you do think it’s a mistake. well, no matter how i’d like it, you don’t have to want me back, of course. i just needed to say it.”

then her mouth opens, like she’s about to speak. but nothing comes out.

you whisper, “sev,”

and suddenly sevika moves. she pulls you into her arms instead of trying to say whatever she wanted to say. you end up curled against her chest, her hand behind your head, holding you there.

you can hear her heartbeat. it’s fast. her hand strokes through your hair. over and over. you feel her arms tighten just a little more.

like maybe that was her answer.

tags: @riotstemple29

[astroxrion]

Unlock the Star Within ⭐️ Astro Thread :

Sun in 1st House:

You unlock your star power when you stop analyzing how you're perceived and start standing still in your presence. You don't need approval to lead. People follow certainty. Walk like you belong everywhere and your confidence will speak before you do.

Sun in 2nd House:

You unlock your star power when you ground yourself in what you've built and stop doubting your worth. You don't need constant results to be valuable. Wealth responds to self-trust. Speak less, produce more, and let your value make the noise.

Sun in 3rd House:

You unlock your star power when you communicate with focus and purpose instead of overexplaining. Your words have weight. Don't waste them proving yourself. Say it once with clarity and conviction and let people lean in because they feel your mind working.

Sun in 4th House:

You unlock your star power when you stop carrying what your family never healed and start protecting your peace like it is your currency. Your roots matter but your future is louder. Show people what real emotional strength looks like. Make home your launchpad.

Sun in 5th House:

You unlock your star power when you stop asking if it's too much and just make it louder. Your creativity is the light. You don't need an audience to be radiant. Create, share, repeat. Play turns into power when you let your gifts run free.

Sun in 6th House:

You unlock your star power when you treat your routines like rituals and stop abandoning yourself to serve everyone else. Systems make you shine. Track progress. Make it measurable. Show people how excellence looks when it's handled with quiet force.

Sun in 7th House:

You unlock your star power when you stop outsourcing your identity to your relationships. You're not half of anything. You are the standard. Bring balance, not compromise. Collaborate with people who expand you, not just those who validate you.

Sun in 8th House:

You unlock your star power when you face what scares you and stop keeping secrets about who you are. Your power is behind the curtain. Transformation becomes your fuel when you burn what no longer serves and speak from what you've survived.

Sun in 9th House:

You unlock your star power when you stop overthinking your next step and take the leap. You don't need the whole map. You grow by doing. Share your truth. Teach what you live. Expansion shows up when you walk like belief lives in your bones.

Sun in 10th House:

You unlock your star power when you stop waiting to be qualified and start acting like you already are. You're built to lead. Reputation comes from consistency. Show up sharp. Make every move count. Long-term impact is made one bold decision at a time.

Sun in 11th House:

You unlock your star power when you stop trying to fit in and start building the space that matches your vision. Your future isn't local. You're meant to influence the collective. Get strategic. Use platforms. Let innovation work for your voice.

Sun in 12th House:

You unlock your star power when you stop hiding behind privacy and start trusting your inner world to guide you. Your gift is subtle but powerful. Work in stillness. Heal in silence. Then show up with a clarity that makes everyone else slow down and listen.

[megabag]

MegaBag provides reliable and quick skip bin services in Australia. We are having the right skip bags for your building, commercial and industrial site. Get in touch with us by requesting a quote or call us to hire a skip bin.

For more details contact us: https://megabag.com.au/

[zwartexxroos]

[📼] Headcanons of Marvel Men when you dragged them to watch horror movies together.

(including Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Loki Laufeyson, Stephen Strange, Logan Howlett, Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, Steven Grant, Joaquin Torres, and Johnny Storm)

Tony Stark

"Horror? You mean, like, fake horror or 'this is gonna traumatize me' horror?"

Jokes the entire time.

Throws popcorn when jumpscares hit—at the screen.

Lowkey startled multiple times but pretends he’s not.

“I wasn’t scared, I was just reacting for your entertainment."

Ends up clinging to you when he thinks you won’t notice.

Steve Rogers

"Sure, I can handle a horror movie."

Lies.

Eyes go wide during creepy music build-ups.

Gasps quietly when something jumps out, then looks embarrassed.

Subtly scoots closer.

Probably ends the night saying, "Let’s balance that out with a comedy next time…"

Bucky Barnes

"No. Absolutely not. I’ve been through enough horror already."

Yet… ends up watching it.

Stone-faced the whole time, like nothing phases him—until a ghost crawls on the ceiling.

“I'm done. That’s some unnatural shit.”

Secretly enjoys how you clutch his arm.

May or may not use the excuse to keep his arm around you all night.

Peter Parker

"Uhh—like horror-horror? Like, paranormal or slasher? Wait—is it gory?"

Nervous bouncing leg.

Grips the popcorn bucket like it's a lifeline.

Hides behind a pillow but still peeks through.

Ends up holding onto your hand like it’s his lifeline.

“Next time can we watch Pixar instead?”

Loki Laufeyson

"Pathetic mortals and their idea of horror. I could do far worse with a flick of my hand."

Unbothered… until the atmosphere gets too real.

Quietly mumbles, “That spirit’s possessing the wrong vessel…”

Smirks, but you catch the tension in his shoulders.

“I am not afraid. But if you are… you may cling to me.”

Ends up clinging to you later when a exorcism scene goes wrong.

Stephen Strange

"I’ve literally fought creatures from beyond time and dimensions, this is nothing."

Fully confident. (at first)

Then something moves in the corner of the screen and he pauses like: “…Okay, that was well done.”

Watches with arms crossed and half-judging the plot.

Casually throws his cape over your shoulders when you get scared.

Will not admit it if he flinched even once.

Logan Howlett

"Tch. Waste of time. Horror ain’t scary when you’ve lived through it."

Sits grumpily.

Grumbles at characters making dumb decisions.

Until the chainsaw scene starts. Then he tenses.

Might slip an arm behind you like it’s no big deal.

“If anything touches you, I’ll gut it. Even if it’s fictional.”

Charles Xavier

"As long as I don’t accidentally pick up on your panic, this should be enjoyable."

Calm and collected.

Then you jump, and it makes him jolt too.

Chuckles softly, brushes your hair aside, whispers: "You’re more entertaining than the film, my dear."

If you already watch it once, would definitely reading your mind halfway through just to know when the scares are coming (he cheats!).

Erik Lehnsherr

"I don’t see the appeal of fear-based entertainment.

Sits through it quietly… at first.

Then absolutely tenses when something crawls across the ceiling backward.

Narrows his eyes like he’s about to metalbend the ghost.

"Why would you enjoy this?"

Kinda loves the way you press yourself against him.

Steven Grant

Super enthusiastic—loves horror lore.

“This one’s got great reviews! You’re gonna love it!”

Halfway through: whispers history of the haunted object on screen “Y’know, in ancient Egypt, they used to believe—”

Will totally grip your hand during scary bits though.

After? “Brilliant film! Fancy another one? Or should I… walk you home?”

Joaquin Torres

“Horror night? I’m in!”

Brings snacks, cozy blankets, a positive vibe.

Ends up screaming once and then laughing at himself.

Constant commentary like: “Nooope. Couldn’t be me. I’d be OUTTA there.”

Sneaks an arm around your shoulders “for comfort.”

Afterwards? “You should totally sleep over—uh—so you’re not scared, of course.”

Johnny Storm

Grinning when you tell him. “Pfft. Horror? Babe, I’m flame-proof.”

Smug at first, loudly mocking the movie.

Then a REALLY good scare hits and he yells and popcorn goes flying.

“I’m still not scared! Just startled!”

Whispers in your ear, “We should do scarier things after this, yeah?”

[applepiiex]

OFFICE SIREN ! ! ! ⋆. 𐙚 ⎚-⎚

Nanami Kento x Male!Reader

It was simple, really. The minute you stepped into the building, walked into his office, you knew how this would end. You both did. This was your dance. Secretary and CEO. I mean, could I make it any more obvious?

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻

The second you stepped into Nanami & Co. headquarters, it was like dropping a match in a boardroom full of oil. Quiet, composed, and dressed like sin in slacks, you weren’t flustered or fumbling, you were intentional. Efficient. Too good at your job to just be “eye candy,” but too stunning for that not to be the conversation behind closed doors.

You were the new Executive Secretary to CEO Nanami Kento. And the office knew it the moment he first looked at you.

That first day, he didn’t blink when he met you. He barely spoke, except to offer a flat-toned, “You’re early. Good.” But there was a flicker, a tension, in the slight clench of his jaw, the way his hand paused before handing you a folder.

It wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. You weren’t the type to pretend not to notice. And he wasn’t the type to admit it.

It made the air between you thick with unspoken things.

The second week in, the HR representative was still pretending to “casually” check in on you. People from accounting suddenly had a lot of print jobs that needed to be picked up from the copier by your desk. One intern from Legal walked straight into a glass wall watching you adjust your sleeves.

You, as always, didn’t acknowledge any of it.

You just took notes in meetings —  immaculate notes, mind you — had coffee waiting before Nanami arrived, scheduled his meetings down to the minute, and somehow, still made time to sit with legs crossed in the lobby and read a novel on your ten-minute break. Like this whole building didn’t revolve around you now.

Nanami hated how much he noticed.

The shape of your hands on a pen. The way you leaned over his desk to pass him a memo. The sound of your voice when you called him sir in a tone that was 90% professional, 10% devastating.

He didn’t speak more than he needed to. But he always said thank you. Always met your gaze longer than necessary. Always waited for you to leave the room before exhaling like you’d taken the air with you.

You were in his office now, sorting through schedules while Nanami typed behind his desk. The clock ticked. The tension simmered.

“Mr. Nanami,” you said calmly, eyes on your tablet. “You have a meeting with the board at three. Followed by your review call with the Kyoto division.”

“I’m aware,” he said, not looking up “Thank you.”

A moment of silence follows between the two. Then, he added, more quietly, “You’re remarkably efficient.”

You looked up at him, slowly. Cool. Collected. “It’s in the job description,” you said smoothly. Then, after a beat, “But I appreciate you noticing.”

There was a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. It passed just as quickly as it came.

“I assume the presentation materials are already prepared?” he asked.

“They’re in your inbox. I took the liberty of refining the talking points for maximum board approval.”

Nanami closed his laptop. “You’re wasted as a secretary.”

You tilted your head, smirking just enough to keep him thinking about it later. 

“Maybe,” you said. “But I like working under you.”

The silence that followed was not appropriate for the workplace.

Nanami did not reply right away.

His fingers tapped twice, precisely, rhythmically, against the desk. Then, he leaned back slightly in his chair, expression unreadable, posture perfect, suit impeccable. But the vein in his neck twitched.

Outside the glass wall of his office, someone dropped a stack of papers.

“Is that meant to be a joke?” he asked finally, measured and dry, like you were discussing quarterly losses and not the way you just set his spine on fire.

You only smiled, softly. “Not unless you want it to be.”

And with that, you turned and walked out casually, like you hadn’t just declared subtle war. Your cologne lingered in the air. Nanami stared at the door long after you’d left, his jaw set, one knuckle curling against his temple in thought.

The next ten minutes of silence were absolute hell for him.

The office chatter dialed up after that.

“I swear he smiled at him,” whispered someone from PR.

“I heard he let Y/N skip the morning report,” another gossiped near the espresso machine.

"There's no way nothing's going on," muttered HR. "Have you seen the way they talk? It's like watching a legal liability form itself in real time."

You ignored all of it. You always did.

Until Friday afternoon after a board meeting you helped him absolutely dominate when Nanami called you into his office again.

And locked the door.

Click.

You turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Something wrong, sir?”

Nanami’s expression was as cold and unreadable as ever… but he had taken off his jacket. His sleeves were rolled up. And his tie was loosened just slightly, in that way that somehow made him even more intimidating.

“I’ve been patient,” he said, slowly, like each word was weighed against his better judgment. “Professional.”

You blinked, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at your lips. “You have.”

“I’ve given you space to work. Room to show your skill.”

“You have.”

He stepped closer. Just a little. Just enough that your breath caught without you meaning it to.

“But if you continue making comments like that without consequence,” he murmured, voice low and firm, “you’ll make it very difficult for me to keep being professional.”

For once, the office siren faltered, just a flicker. You recovered fast.

“Well then,” you said, stepping closer with an infuriating calm. “Maybe I want to make it difficult.”

The clock ticked.

Nanami’s hand twitched at his side.

Someone knocked on the glass. “Mr. Nanami? Sorry — your three o’clock—”

“Reschedule,” he said, without looking away from you.

You smiled slowly. “I’ll handle it.”

“Of course you will,” he muttered.

There was something about the way he said it, quiet reverence with a simmering edge, that made your whole chest tighten.

The following days, the office entered the Cold War of the century. 

You place a stack of files on Nanami’s desk. He glances up from a document, and for once, doesn’t look away right away.

“You got a haircut,” he says.

You pause. “I did.”

He stares for a moment too long. Then goes back to reading. “It suits you.”

You walk out of his office smiling, which does not go unnoticed by half the floor.

In the break room, someone mutters, “If I have to watch that man fall in love in real-time one more time, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

- You’re typing something into his calendar when Nanami walks in behind you.

He says nothing, just leans over to read what you're writing.

His tie brushes your shoulder.

You don’t flinch but your breath catches.

“Don’t forget the quarterly lunch,” he murmurs near your ear, and you swear he knows what he’s doing now.

You look over your shoulder, expression unreadable. “Don’t forget I’m in charge of your entire life, sir.”

He blinks.

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t move for a beat too long.

- There’s a company-wide meeting. Big conference table. Full of execs. You’re seated just behind Nanami, taking notes.

At some point, he subtly pushes his coffee toward you.

You sip it without asking.

Across the table, the COO blinks. Slowly. “Am I hallucinating or are they—?” “They’re sharing drinks now,” someone whispers. “This is better than succession.”

-

You’re working late,again. He’s working late, again. It’s just you two and the silence of the 27th floor.

Nanami sets his pen down. “You didn’t need to stay.”

“I wanted to,” you say, eyes still on your screen. “Besides, who else is going to remind you to eat?”

Nanami watches you for a long time. “You're very good at taking care of me.”

You finally look up. Your gaze is even.

“You let me.”That shuts him up for a while.

- Someone from Legal corners you in the elevator. “So. How long until the two of you combust?”

You blink, deadpan. “I assume you mean from overwork. No comment.”

They grin. “Sure. We’ll call it that.”

When the elevator opens, Nanami is already waiting by the front doors. You walk to him without hesitation.

You hand him his forgotten phone. He gives you a rare, real smile.

The Legal rep watches the interaction with the expression of someone watching a slow burn romance anime in 4K.

- Rain’s coming down hard. You’re leaving the building, umbrella in hand, when Nanami appears beside you.

You glance up. “Didn’t think you were done.”

“I’m not,” he says. “But I didn’t want you walking alone.”

You stare at him. “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”He doesn’t reply.

Just takes your umbrella and holds it over you both. He walks you all the way to the train station. Quiet. Close. He doesn’t brush your hand, but he wants to. You can feel it.

When you say goodnight, he only says: “Text me when you get home.” Because of course you have his number. 

-

Finally, the staff prepared for the company gala, a massive fundraising and charity event. It’s annual. Lavish. Hosted in a glass ballroom overlooking the city. Everyone who’s anyone is there—CEOs, board members, investors, and a lot of people who’d kill for a merger and a martini.

Nanami, of course, hates it. 

You, however? You thrive.

You're not just his secretary tonight, you’re the company’s most devastating asset. Crisp tailored suit. Collar unbuttoned just enough. That magnetic calm confidence you wear like cologne. You don’t cling to Nanami like the other assistants do to their execs. You orbit him.

Close. Measured. Professional. But every time you adjust his tie or whisper something into his ear, more than one person at the table has to look away. It doesn’t help that Nanami, for all his stoicism, is visibly tense.

A partner from a competing firm slinks over. "Mr. Nanami. L/N," she says, eyes flitting over you with the sharpness of someone trying to provoke. "Quite the asset you've brought with you."

You smile politely. Nanami’s voice cuts low. “He's far more than that.”

The woman raises a brow. “Oh?” Nanami blinks once, like he’s realizing what he just said.

“I meant professionally,” he adds flatly.

You chuckle quietly behind your glass. “Mmhm.”

Later that night the two of you are alone in the company car. You’re tucked beside him, fingers scrolling through emails. He’s staring ahead, jaw set.

You glance over. “You good?”Silence.

“Nanami.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time in hours. The tension in his shoulders has built up to his neck, his posture rigid, and his hands curl on his knees like he's holding something back.

“Why do you let them look at you like that?” he asks suddenly.

You blink. “Who?”

“The others,” he mutters, voice tight. “Everyone at that gala. At the office. The people who think you’re just...an accessory.”

There’s a pause. Then you say, quiet, “Because I know I’m not.”

He turns to you.

"And the only person whose opinion actually matters? He’s sitting right beside me."

His breath hitches. You smile slowly, eyes warm but not soft. “Unless, of course, you see me as just your secretary.”

Nanami exhales like he’s been holding that breath all year. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t.”

-

After the Gala, there’s a shift. Not dramatic. But tangible. You bring him his morning coffee. His fingers brush yours. He doesn’t move his hand.

At the team check-in, he glances up at you twice. HR gossips so loudly over Slack that IT temporarily disables the chat.

Then your phone dings. 

An announcement: the entire executive team is heading to a retreat. Out of town. Four days. Two nights.

Guess who’s organizing it? Guess who Nanami insists personally accompany him?

It’s a two-hour drive upstate. Forests. Fog. Secluded high-end resort with sleek wood cabins and private hot springs. “Team-building,” they said.

Nanami didn’t even blink when he insisted you ride with him instead of the company shuttle.

You’re in the passenger seat, legs crossed, sunglasses on. He’s gripping the wheel a little too tightly.

“So,” you say casually, “shared rooms?”

“No,” he replies.

You raise a brow. “You didn’t want to share?”

“No,” he says again, quieter. “I... booked us a suite.”

Silence, heavy and lingering. 

“With two beds,” he adds stiffly “Obviously.”

You smirk, leaning your head against the window. “Obviously.”

-

Everyone gathers around a giant firepit with wine and half-burnt s’mores. You're seated beside Nanami, your knees nearly touching. He’s unusually quiet. Staring at the flames like they’ve insulted his mother.

“You hate this,” you whisper.

“I loathe this,” he murmurs back.

A tipsy intern walks past and says way too loudly: “If those two don’t hook up before the end of the trip, I swear to God—”

Nanami visibly twitches. You sip your wine and don’t stop smiling.

-

The suite is warm. Modern. Dimly lit.

You’re taking your tie off when Nanami steps out of the bathroom, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled.

He pauses.

You pause.

You both definitely pause.

You clear your throat and move to unpack your things. “...You’ve been quiet today,” you say.

He exhales. “I’ve been trying to remain professional.”

“And how’s that going?”

Silence.

Then, “Badly.”

You look up. Your breath catches. He’s standing closer now. Close enough to touch.

“I don’t just respect you,” he says quietly. “I don’t just trust you. I want you.”

You stare at him.

“And not just here. Not just at work. I want... all of it.”

Your voice comes out lower than expected. “So take it.”

-

When you wake up the next morning, There are two cups of coffee on the table. Yours has a note, 

“Meeting at 9. Your tie is under the bed. — Kento”

You walk into the dining hall 15 minutes late, hair still wet, and no fewer than four coworkers do a full double take.

Someone drops a croissant.

Someone else mutters, “So it finally happened.”

Nanami doesn’t say a word when you sit beside him, he just passes you a scone and doesn’t stop smiling.

Coming back from the retreat, things are different. You walk in precisely at 8:59 a.m. Button-down open just enough. Coffee in one hand. The tiniest, smuggest little smirk on your face.

And the office?Ferally quiet.

HR intern spills their yogurt. Three analysts whisper so fast it might as well be Morse code.

There’s already a Slack thread titled:

#kentoandsecretary???? with 84 unread messages and one blurry photo of Nanami brushing something off your collar during breakfast.

You pass by the breakroom.

“...he came in glowing. I swear, they didn’t even touch their second bed.”

“Did you see the way Nanami looked at him during the meeting? Like he was five seconds from committing arson!”

“I asked if he needed help filing something and he said he already has someone for that.’”

You smile sweetly as you walk by “Morning, boys.”They nearly implode.

Meanwhile, Nanami is back to being composed. Cold. Precise. Except… When someone else tries to get your attention? His jaw ticks. When a junior executive leans just a bit too far over your desk? His knuckles whiten on the espresso cup. When someone from accounting touches your shoulder while laughing? Nanami appears out of nowhere.

“You have something to say?”Flat. Deadpan. Terrifying.

“...N-no, sir. I was just—uh—asking about quarterly reports.”

Nanami doesn’t blink. “Then ask with your hands to yourself.”

The guy scurries off like he’s been personally marked by death. You watch the whole thing, sipping your tea like you’re watching your favorite drama.

He turns to you. “Is there a problem?”

You tilt your head innocently. “Not at all, sir.”

He narrows his eyes. You wink.

-

He calls you in for a “filing task.” You both know it’s fake.

The second the door clicks shut, “You’re doing it on purpose,” he says.

“Doing what?”

“...Smirking.”

You lean across the desk. “Maybe I like seeing you a little jealous.”

He exhales sharply, looking away. “It’s... unbecoming.”

You grin. “You didn’t seem to mind Saturday night.”

His ears turn pink.

Later that day, they finally call you in, HR. Just you. You think it’s for a report.

Instead, “We’re not... formally asking,” your HR rep says delicately, “but could you maybe... tone it down?”

You blink. “Tone what down?”

“The... aura. The vibe. Whatever happened on the retreat has caused a 62% spike in distracted employees and a 94% spike in caffeine intake. Half the floor is in emotional distress.”

You blink again. Then smile. “No promises.”

-

It happens over lukewarm coffee and passive-aggressive bagels in the breakroom. You’re at the counter, calmly stirring honey into your tea, when it happens. Bryce, two floors down, fake-deep voice, always wears too much cologne, walks up beside you. “So... what’s the deal with you and the CEO?”

You pause, blink, and smile. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, pretending like the whole floor isn’t holding its collective breath. “Just saying. You two came back from the retreat... different. And Nanami nearly bit my head off when I asked if you needed help yesterday.”

You sip your tea. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He frowns. “Come on, you expect us to believe nothing’s going on?”

You set your cup down gently. Turn to face him. “I’m Nanami’s secretary,” you say smoothly. “It would be incredibly unprofessional to imply anything else, don’t you think?”

He opens his mouth to argue—

Nanami walks in.

Silence. Absolute deathly silence.

You don’t even flinch. You smile, nod politely, and leave the room with your tea.

Nanami doesn’t say a word to Bryce. He just stares at him for a solid five seconds. Bryce almost drops his bagel.

-

It’s 4:43 p.m. You’re both the last to leave. You step into the executive elevator. Alone. Or so you think.

A hand stops the doors just before they close. Nanami steps in. Silent. Stone-faced. You glance up at him, all innocence. “Evening, sir.”

He doesn’t answer. He hits the button for the lobby. The doors close. The second they do— BAM.

He presses you against the mirrored wall of the elevator. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs.

“I’m just doing my job,” you whisper back, breath hitching. “Smiling. Being helpful. Professional.” His jaw clenches.

“You’re not just my secretary.”

You tilt your head. “Then what am I?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just closes the distance between your lips and his with a slow, searing kiss.

You walk out first. Perfectly composed.

Your tie’s slightly askew. Your smirk? Deadly. There’s an intern waiting in the lobby.

He watches you walk past. Then watches Nanami walk out behind you, adjusting his cufflinks, not saying a single word.

The intern faints.

-

The day starts off normal. Too normal.

Emails. Meetings. Budget revisions. Nanami is in a sharp charcoal three-piece suit that he hasn’t worn since Q4 board reports. You’re wearing your best shirt, crisp, tailored, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the forearm tattoos everyone pretends they’re not staring at.

You’re good at your job. Unbothered. Unshakable.

But not unnoticed.

So when your inbox dings with another "quick check-in" from someone in analytics, followed by someone from HR offering to grab lunch "just to decompress", you already know where this is going.

The final straw comes just before 3 p.m. You're walking back from the copy room when Sara, the lead designer, corners you by the espresso machine with a conspiratorial smile.

“I just want to say,” she begins, twirling a pen between her fingers, “if you and Nanami aren’t exclusive or anything... I’d be happy to take you out. You know. No suits. Just fun.”

The room goes quiet. You take a sip of your drink, unfazed. “Sara,” you say with a smile, “I appreciate the offer. Really. But... I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

She blinks. “Why not?”You shrug. “It’s just not professional, is it? Us coworkers crossing boundaries?”

That earns a few nervous chuckles from those listening in. You start to walk away and that’s when you see him.

Nanami. Standing at the end of the hallway. Holding a folder from Finance. He hadn’t announced himself. He hadn’t needed to. His gaze is unreadable.

You don’t flinch. Just walk right past him. Calm. Collected.

But you don’t miss the subtle shift in his jaw. Or the way his fingers curl tighter around the folder.

-

You knock once before stepping inside.

“Sir, you asked for the personnel reports—”

“Close the door.” You pause. You do. Nanami doesn't look up right away. He’s sitting behind his desk, back ramrod straight, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the tight grip he has on his pen.

“You don’t have to entertain them,” he says quietly. “The others.”

“I’m not.” You fold your hands behind your back. “I told her it wasn’t professional.”

He looks up. And that’s when the mask drops. The careful CEO facade he’s worn for weeks cracks in half. Something darker flickers in his eyes, want, frustration, protectiveness all mixing under the surface.

“Good,” he says, standing slowly. “Because I’m getting very tired of watching them circle you like you’re available.”

Your breath catches, just for a second. “I never said I was.”

He steps around the desk. “You never said you weren’t.”

The air between you practically vibrates. You could hear a pin drop on the marble floors.

Then, “You don’t get to be jealous,” you say softly. “We never defined anything.”

“You’re right.”

Another step. Another inch closer.

“I’ve been acting like your boss because that’s what I am. But I’m also a man who’s very aware of what he wants. And what I want is you. Not as my secretary. As mine.”

You smile, slow and dangerous.

“You’re the CEO,” you say, stepping into his space. “I’m your secretary.”

His hands are on your waist before you finish the sentence. You’re pressed against the glass wall of his office before you take your next breath.

You kiss him like you’ve been waiting weeks for it. Because you have.

-

Rumors fly.

No one knows what happened in that office, but Nanami comes out with his tie loosened and a look of pure peace for the first time in weeks.

You come out ten minutes later. Slightly flushed. Smug.

Sara avoids eye contact. Bryce calls in sick the next day.

And from that moment on, not a single soul dares hit on the CEO’s secretary ever again.

Because everyone knows.

That desk? That office? That man?

All claimed. 

[fresidoll]

★ DON'T FORGET TO KISS ME OR ELSE YOU'LL HAVE TO MISS ME. tsukishima kei

.ᐟ Content summary: Boyfriend Tsukishima headcanons part 2

.ᐟ Includes: Tsukishima x fem!reader

.ᐟ Word count: 1.75 k

.ᐟ Content warnings: none, just fluff, sfw, kinda realistic?)

.ᐟ A/N: Since the first Tsukishima bf hc were so well received, i wrote a second part as a thank you for all the support on the first work <333. The title of this it's lyrics of this song by beabadoobee.

.ᐟ ☆ Part 1 ☆

☆ He gets very offended if you don’t want to share a spoon or straw with him. He actually finds it disgusting to share any cuttery, straw or glass with somebody else because well, ew, only god knows where their mouths have been and he’s not taking any chances. But with you, it’s a whole different story. If you even dare to wipe the rim of his glass before drinking from it, he looks at you so offended and literally gives you a narrowed eyed look like daring you to keep wiping. He takes this as you non verbally saying you find him disgusting, just a little dramatic, right? But of course it’s nothing serious and he knows you both are joking. After the aforementioned occurrence, he would act very much offended until you give him some kisses to show him you are not disgusted by him and of course, he always gives in.

☆ Asking for affection isn’t something he does, but when he wants you to hug him or kiss him he starts to play with your hair or gets really close to you. If you are oblivious to his attempts to convey his affectious needs, he just sulks for like 5 minutes before asking something dramatic like “why are you being so cold with me today?”,while looking at you like this. He does initiate affection with you often but he just likes to be dramatic because he knows you play along in his little game and after his dramatic complaint, you give him all the affection he craves.

☆ His phone has a different notification sound for you. You are the only person on his phone who has a distinctive ringtone and notification sound, it sounds like something normal but considering how Tsukishima doesn’t look like he cares for those little details, it took his family and friends out of guard when they figured it all out. The call ringtone he chose for you it’s the Nana theme song or some sound similar to that one because for him you sound exactly like that, and for the notification sound it’s something that sounds like the sparkles in the movies, something cute and whimsical like that. It’s a little cheesy but this is peak Tsukishima being a discrete loverboy for you.

☆ Gaming together it's a must. So any game works for him and most of the time lets you choose what you want to play but i feel he 100% loves to play cozy multiplayer games with you, like Minecraft or Stardew Valley, these two are his favorite. In Minecraft you are mostly building stuff and having a competition about it, and you always win because he has 0 creativity sense and what he builts always looks plain and a little wrong placed. Now, Stardew Valley was a game he found silly and a waste of time because it looked boring, but he actually got hooked on it pretty quick after he tried it for the first time. As I mentioned before, he sucks at decorating so you take care of your little farm so everything looks pretty while he goes in search for all the items you need, you forage, make artisan goods and fish while he collects wood, rocks and goes into the mines to fight the monsters there because it’s fun for him and he always gifts you your favorite crystal at the end of the day <3

☆ It may be a little silly but you have a shared tamagotchi that it’s like your child. The idea of this was surprisingly his. It happened because he got the tamagotchi as a plus gift after his mom bought something in a random store so his mom let him keep it even though he didn’t want the damn thing, he thought of throwing it away but thought that you might like it so he gifted it to you. After that, you were constantly taking care of the little virtual mascot to a point that got Tsukishima wondering about all the effort you put in taking care of a bunch of pixels and how you got stressed sometimes you got when you were busy and couldn’t attend the necessities of the virtual thing, so being the sweet boyfriend he is, he offered to take the tamagotchi and take care of it even if he didn’t saw the appeal in taking care of it. Soon he came to find that even if the whole thing of taking care of some virtual pet was a little dumb, it was funny (in a good way) to think of you basically co-parenting that dumb virtual pet that he grew to like. Then one day he said you should share the tamagotchi because it was already like your child, when you agreed, he took his role as a father very seriously and actually took good care of your virtual child.

☆ You know how in some couples it happens that there’s a person that it’s really picky with food and the other person eats basically everything that’s edible, yeah well, in your relationship Tsukishima it’s the picky eater. It may be that you are also a very picky eater but he takes that to a whole new level. Yes, he doesn’t like green peppers, he can’t stand any onion except spring onion and yes, he doesn't eat chicken if it’s not nuggets or chicken breast because he’s disgusted of the cartilages and chewy things, that’s all very reasonable and all but he sometimes he has very specific and a little odd pickiness habits. There was this time when you had started dating in which you were having a little date in a cafe and of course you both ordered some cake, he ordered a strawberry shortcake and started to take the strawberries off the piece cake… When you asked the reason for this, you expected that maybe he was saving them for the end but no, his answer was calm and nonchalant: “I don’t like strawberries.” You were dumbfounded, he just shrugged and continued his task before explaining he liked the taste the strawberries left lingering in the cream of the cake but he hated strawberries and only liked that almost unnoticeable flavor they gave to the strawberry shortcake…  Dating him after that meant to deal with his very unusual picky eater preferences, but well, you learned to love his suspiciously neurodivergent habits. For the record, if you are the kind of person that eats pretty much everything, he’s gonna be placing on your plate everything he picks off out of his food <3 (as i was editing, this tiktok popped up in my feed and this is basically Tsukishima i'm afraid lol)

☆ His family loves you a lot. His mom loved you even before personally meeting you because of how much Tsukishima talked about you to her, a mother knows, and she knew you were good for him because she could see how Tsukishima seemed more cheerful and full of life after he started dating you and that gained you her approval. Now, his mom always invites you constantly to lunch or dinner at their place, invites you to family outings they have and you regularly receive some food or baked goods from her. Now Akiteru, Tsukishima’s brother, he absolutely likes you and it’s happy about your relationship, but since he and Tsukishima are still working in building their brotherly relationship up, he keeps his distance a little bit but he’s always nice to you and stubbly let’s you know how glad he is you are taking care of his little brother.

☆ His love language is acts of service and physical touch. So, he isn’t good with words and love it’s a very complex kind of feeling, expressing it it’s hard or easy depending on the person and Tsukishima in this case, couldn’t bring himself to say all he feels for you out loud, he just can’t, so instead of just keep quiet and no do anything about it, he found another way of letting you know how much he loves you; acts of service and physical touch. He always carries your bag for you, even your handbag if you use one, he always pays for everything and doesn’t accept your money when you want to pay him back, walks in the side of the sidewalk, always gets you your favorite snacks and food, fixes your hair when the wind ruins it, tells you when your makeup it’s smudged and sometimes he even tries to fix it, pays attention to everything you say, opens the doors for you, places his hand on your head or covers the table corners when you bend down so you won’t hurt yourself and so on. Now physical touch it’s a tiny bit more important to him because he is very vulnerable when he’s affectionate towards you, he’s shy about it but tries his best to be nonchalant and casual when he holds your hand, wraps his arm around your shoulders as you walk, when he hugs you by the waist, when he nudges your noses together, when he kisses your cheek or your forehead, when he kisses your lips as his hands cradle your face… In all of those acts of service and touches, he completely pours out his heart and hopes you know how much you mean to him.

☆ Like it’s stated in the previous point, kisses are a very meaningful thing to him, whether the kisses are pecks, small kisses, long kisses, makeout sessions and any of that, kisses are not something Tsukishima takes lightly. The first time you kissed he almost passed out from the rush of emotions, the memory of how it felt and how you tasted it’s engraved deep in his brain and the more you kissed with the pass of time, his fondness for kissing you grew and grew more everytime your lips met. His kisses depend on the place you are, it can be a peck if there’s too much people around or it can be a long lasting kiss if you’re alone, whatever it is but he always has to kiss you goodbye, that became almost a non-spoken rule, he has to kiss you whether it be on the lips or your cheek or your forehead but he has to or he’ll be feeling so uncomfortable about it, like an itch that he has to scratch to kiss you as soon as you see each other again. If he forgets to kiss you, he’ll be missing you until his lips met with yours once again <3

[jinx-xxed]

Possessions

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; Was missing this big guy so I decided to finish this WIP I’ve had for way too long 😭 also needed a pick me up so naturally I went back to my omegaverse roots 🫡 and tysm for all the love on my first omegaverse, it was very unexpected <3

Summary; Kylo Ren, the feared Supreme Leader, never expected to find his mate on some backwater planet during a random mission. He never expected you to be so feisty either.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, omegaverse, soulmates, omega reader, virgin reader, alpha Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, scrappy feral reader, heats, ruts, loss of virginity, Kylo POV & reader POV, Knights of Ren, original characters, kidnapping, you try to fight Kylo (it doesn’t work), alpha voice, extremely possessive and obsessive Kylo, Force bonds, mind reading, suppressants, omegaverse terms (kids referred to as pups), nesting, scenting, fingering, piv sex, breeding kink, overstimulation, getting pinned, knotting, fluff, soft Kylo, Kylo’s a good alpha, heavy aftercare, you get pampered

Wc; 10.5k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

The smog of the city is thick. It makes Kylo appreciative of his helmet, of the filter it holds inside so that less of the disgusting air gets into his lungs. The smells assaulting his senses are almost overwhelming; burning metal, smoke, sweat, the spices of food, and to top it off, the scent of any aberrant passing through the market square. There’s more betas than anything—as is the standard of today—but occasionally he catches hints of aggressive, potent scents from alphas and even sweet, enticing scents from the very rare omegas.

The city of Yvelo II is especially crowded this time of day it seems. Kylo can feel the occasional pair of eyes on him, people curious about the owner of the fancy ship that just landed in the bay. He pays them no mind, all of them inconsequential to his mission on this worthless planet. He didn’t even want to waste his time here, but multiple generals on his council were insistent. There were strong leads that pointed here, suggesting a spy the Order is after is finding refuge on Yvelo II. He’d been told it would be worth checking out at least, so off he’d went.

He hadn’t brought Stormtroopers with him, instead choosing two of his Knights. They’re significantly better at keeping a low profile compared to the bright, shiny white spotlight Troopers make in a crowd. Not to mention their Force abilities will be crucial in trying to find an individual in the masses. Ap’lek and Kuruk stand next to Kylo now, covered head to toe in their typical array of weapons and black armor.

“Fan out. Find what you can.” Kylo orders. “Alert me when you get something.”

Both of the Knights nod, going forward and immediately disappearing into the ebb and flow of the city. Kylo decides to go in a different direction, trying to cover as much ground as possible. If this mission ends up being entirely worthless, he thinks he’s going to gut whoever came up with it in the first place.

The heat of all the collected bodies and heavy atmosphere presses in on him, sweat collecting beneath his mask and black padded armor, making it feel like it’s stuck to his skin. He knows it’s also making his scent all the more pungent, especially when a few heads turn as he passes by, their own noses assaulted by his alpha pheromones.

He does his best to weave amongst the streams of people, his hood drawn up in an attempt to make himself more inconspicuous, hiding the majority of his newly reconstructed helmet. Merchant carts line the streets, sellers yelling out their wares and deals to try and attract anyone with enough credits. He passes by more than a few squabbles, some started over something as petty as being bumped into while others are about trying to swindle a better deal. There’s restaurants made out of run down buildings mixed into the mess, all of them seeming to be full with lines out the door.

It’s all very loud, creating a jumble of thoughts and noises inside Kylo’s mind that he can barely make sense of. He knew this mission was stupid, he truly didn’t know why he let himself be persuaded to do it. Even with his Knights, he has very few hopes of finding a spy that might be on the planet. Some of the notes about the mission suggested the western sector of the main city, so that’s where he tries to head now. There’s a ring of informants that lives in the area, selling themselves to whoever has more to offer.

Kylo has to shoulder his way through the denser parts of the crowd, his height and width always coming in handy. He even gets the rare person jumping out his way when they smell him coming—he likes when that happens. It satisfies that primal part of himself.

The throngs of people begin to thin the farther he gets from the market square, allowing him to finally hear his own thoughts and make sense of the ones of those around him. None of them are worth anything; one is thinking about what she’ll make her family for dinner, another is cursing about having to spend so much on a ship part, and all the rest follow the same meaningless pattern.

Until there’s something that makes him stop in his tracks.

It feels as though someone just dragged their fingers up his spine, a shiver running through his body. There’s a singular, female voice that’s louder than the others, as if it’s being projected to him specifically. Although based on what she’s saying, it doesn’t seem like it’s on purpose, making Kylo all the more curious. She’s the one thing he can hear clearly, the only thing he can understand as everything else fades. There’s a rasp to her voice from misuse, from having to yell across a workers line. It’s… oddly soothing, calming something deep within him on default. It creates a very strong, very irresistible urge to keep that voice close.

Kylo tries to take a singular step forward and fails when he feels such a strong tug in his chest that it jerks him backwards. It startles him, setting him on edge with his hand against his lightsaber that rests on his hip. One word rings clearly and unexpectedly in his mind: mate. His blood seems to sing, pounding in his ears as everything in his biology screams at him to follow that tug. He has to help her, protect her, protect his omega-

He shakes his head roughly, his breathing becoming labored. His thoughts are jumbled, turned into a cacophony of desperate thoughts surrounding this mysterious voice. He doesn’t know what’s come over him and he finds he’s unable to use the Force to center himself, the otherworldly power instead exacerbating his problem. It projects this woman even more, to the point he can almost taste her on the roof of his mouth with just the smallest inkling of her scent, something so heavenly and right that he needs to get his hands on it before he jumps out of his skin. He feels an ache in his own scent glands, like his body knows how close it is to something he’s been looking for without realizing.

He has no choice. He has to follow that voice, that pull, that feral need.

He has to find her.

» ☆ «

You wipe sweat from your brow for the hundredth time. Lupar’s never wanted to invest in some fucking air conditioners in the workshop, despite complaints from every person that’s stepped inside. It’s suffocating, but you’ve gotten so used to it that it’s like a second home. It’s strenuous work for little pay, but it still manages to put food on the table and even allows you to get a drink every now and then.

You’ve worked for Lupar for around ten years now, finding your way into his shop when you were twelve and sticking around since. You’d been interested in the heavy-set male with gills on the side of his neck, webbed fingers, and pale green skin. It made you wonder why an aquatic like him chose to live on a hot, dry planet like this one.

You stayed because of Lupar’s generosity, something different from the flat out cruelty other workshop owners partook in. Besides, there’s worse things you could be wasting your life on than making ship parts in the back of his store. Lupar sells them for cheaper than most other vendors so people are always buying from him, luckily keeping you employed.

You’ve been promoted multiple times throughout the course of your time, steadily moving up the line all the way to where you are now: quality control. You stand at the end of the line, inspecting each piece as it comes your way for any loose or missing bits, then dipping it into its final sealant once it’s deemed satisfactory. The chemicals always burn your hands through the shitty gloves you wear but your skin has become so rough and calloused that you barely notice anymore.

Lupar trusts you more than any of the others, giving you the job of keeping everyone straight and making sure there’s no slackers. The whip that sits on your belt is telling enough of your status, though you’ve never used it and never plan on it. Simply yelling at anyone not pulling their weight is usually enough to solve the problem. Most of the workers are kids, just like you were when you started. You still have the scars on your back from the times you messed up around the wrong person.

“Zara, straighten up!” You shout. The teen immediately snaps back to attention, her shoulders hunching as she twists her pieces of metal tighter together like she should be. You’d noticed a few of them coming loose in the line, thus tracing it back to a specific part in the process. You huff, taking a rather heavy piece and dipping it into the coating and handing it off to Qiar who puts it on a massive drying rack.

Your life has fallen into an easy pattern. You wake up in your nearby apartment, you work for Lupar from dusk til dawn, and then you go home and do it all again the next day. You gave up your dreams of leaving a long time ago, never having the funds and always being fearful of the what the rest of the galaxy might have in store for an omega like yourself. You owe a lot to Lupar; he was the one that helped you when you presented at thirteen, giving you some of the basic supplies you needed just to survive your first heat.

It was the most unbearable thing you’d ever experienced, but he’d told you that you had to go through at least one to make sure your body didn’t go all out of wack. After that, he’s kept you strictly on suppressants. You aren’t sure where he gets them from and they’re definitely sketchy but they work so you couldn’t give less of a shit. Lupar provides them for all aberrant workers, just so he won’t have to lose them for a week to a heat or rut. It’s less than stellar, but if it allows you to ignore your biology then you’ll take it.

You’re about to take another hunk of metal before you feel it.

A prickle on the back of your neck, the hairs along your arms raising like there’s been a sudden chill despite the workshop being boiling. There’s a ringing that starts in your ears, your head feeling as though it’s been shoved underwater as all the noise around you becomes muffled. You stumble back a step, your eyes shutting in a wince. You don’t know what it is, you don’t know what’s happening, and your heart seems like it’ll beat out of your chest. You can feel a presence just at the corners of your consciousness, massive and dark and intimidating and also so, so… alluring. Something deep, deep inside of you that you haven’t felt for years is desperate for that unfamiliar entity, yearns for it so deeply it makes you ill.

Your lungs constrict in your chest, overcome with nerves and an innate instinct of fear and submission. The scent glands along your neck throb to a near painful degree, as if they’re trying to call out to something but are too blocked by your suppressants to do so. You tentatively reach up a shaking hand, pressing one finger to a gland and immediately regretting it from the ache that meets you. They’re probably flaring red if you had to guess, still unable to emit any scent. Your skin feels like it’s crawling with some kind of primal need you can’t recognize, that dark presence still thrumming along the edges of your mind.

You want it to go away, trying to say so again and again inside your head but it persists as if it can’t hear you, like you have no control. You’re confused, you’re scared, and your body is demanding something you don’t know of. You dig your teeth so sharply into your tongue you can taste blood coating your mouth, the iron tang so sharp it finally snaps you out of it. That, and someone shouting your name right next to your ear.

Your vision clears, your ears cease their ringing. Your breath comes back to you in a gasp, lungs finally free of the fist that was holding them. Qiar is next to you, looking at you with vague concern. “Hey, come on! Get back to work!” He says roughly, motioning to the back up of parts on the table.

“Right-” you begin to speak before blood dribbles down your bottom lip. It seems you bit yourself harder than you thought. “Fuck- sorry-“

Qiar lays a hand on your shoulder and you immediately twist away from him, the touch seeming to burn and feeling wrong. His brows crease. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just- just keep working.” You spit, trying to swallow the blood in your mouth and not choke as you dip a ship part. You can breathe again but your muscles are still tense and it feels like there’s something you’re forgetting. It’s going to drive you mad, you think.

There’s a sudden lull in the line and you’re so busy trying to catch up that you don’t notice for a good few minutes. You’re about to yell at somebody before you hear what they’ve all paused to listen to. There’s shouting and also plenty of things being tossed around and crashing to the ground. It’s not unusual, sometimes Lupar does get the occasional unruly customer, but said customers have never busted down the fucking door.

A lot of the younger kids scream and cower when the door to the workshop goes flying off its hinges. A cloaked stranger in a mask stands in the doorway, his massive build filling the frame and blocking anyone from escape. You notice the weapon ignited at his side before anything else. A lightsaber, spitting red plasma with an unstable crackle to it that you’ve never heard of before. You read about lightsabers and Jedi and all that bullshit when you were younger and had a fascination with them, but you never thought you’d be met with one. Everything about this man sets you on edge; his black robes, his helmet full of red cracks, his chest heaving… and the fact he looks directly at you.

You flinch under his gaze even despite not being able to see his eyes. That muffled sensation from earlier returns, your head swimming as you gasp in pain. Your body doesn’t feel like it’s your own, instead feeling like an animal pacing in a cage, desperate to get out to whatever waits on the other side. Your blood is on fire beneath your skin, and so are your stagnant scent glands.

You can’t do anything as he walks up to you, methodical and predatory. Your limbs refuse to move, gripped tightly by some invisible force. You realize you’re completely at the mercy of this strange man.

Then his scent washes over you.

It reminds you instantly of rain in a forest, giving you the taste of something you’ve never been able to experience. It’s cooling and relaxing, like a fresh breeze blowing across your face. There’s depths to his scent that you haven’t smelled in other aberrants before; cold rain mixed with a gentle tinge of pine and then under it all is something smoky like a campfire, something that promises a strong personality, a strong alpha. It’s the most incredible thing you’ve ever scented, it’s an immediate balm to your burning skin. It soothes that deep, primal thing within you but does nothing to help against your regular, human panic.

“It’s you.” He says lowly, his deep, modulated voice sending shivers down your sweaty back. There’s a curiosity that edges his tone, like he doesn’t quite understand you standing before him—or why he’s been pulled to you. He reaches a gloved palm forward, easily gripping your chin in his fingers and moving your head from side to side. Just that touch is enough to send lightning sparking through your veins. 

You can feel his eyes on your scent glands and it makes you squirm. “Why can’t I smell you?” He speaks as if talking to himself, though you hear the distaste in his tone and his complete disappointment at your blocked scent glands. It irrationally makes you want to apologize, apologize for upsetting this alpha and ever taking suppressants in the first place. What the hell?

“Who are you?” You finally manage to say, trying to steel your voice so you can sound like the opposite of how you feel. He’s much bigger than you, both in height and build, your head having to tilt up slightly just to look into his visor. You’re obviously outclassed, especially with him still holding that lightsaber.

You’re so caught up in each other that you didn’t notice the commotion happening beside you, where Qiar is shoved to the floor by a man dressed very similarly to the one in front of you. “Get off of me!” Qiar shouts, angrily thrashing against his captor, though he has no hope of breaking free. You’re stomach churns when you hear a sickly snap followed by your coworker’s pained screams. He’s hoisted to his feet, tears falling down his sallow face, his body threatening to go limp.

“Master, this is the one we’ve been looking for.” The man says, his voice even deeper and rougher. He reeks of pure alpha—leather and metal and salt, the scent sharp and unpleasant against the roof of your mouth.

“Take him back to the ship.” The one in front of you orders, finally letting go of your jaw. “You’re coming with me, omega.”

You startle at the use of your designation; you haven’t been referred to that way in a long time. You feel the fight rise within you, trying to ignore that other part of you that howls with desperation to go with this threatening man. You bare your teeth, trying your best to growl. It’s a pathetic imitation of something an alpha could do, the sound coming out like a sad garble in your throat. It’s still enough to set off some of the alphas around you, their bodies tensing when they hear your distress call. No one’s coming to save you though.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” You snap. You manage a single step backwards before he’s reaching for you, gripping your arm with a leather clad hand and pulling you back towards him. Your instincts flare, a hiss ripping from you as you flail in his hold, kicking and trying to elbow your way out. It doesn’t work of course, that padded armor he wears doing a good job of protecting him from your weak assault.

“Omega, enough.” The man snarls and… oh. Your body has no choice but to comply. You have to choke back the whine that almost comes out as you struggle to lift your arm for another hit. You become weak in his hold, that alpha voice enough to make even the angriest of omegas turn docile. You’ve never before cursed your biology as much as you do in this moment. You want to continue fighting, to break free and run away but that pathetic thing inside of you has taken over, telling you to listen to the alpha.

He scoops your legs out from under you with a strong arm, holding you to him in a bridal carry as if you weigh nothing. With your face pressed against his tunic, you have no choice but to breathe in an abundance of his heavenly scent. It seems to finally be doing its job and forcing its way into your system and under your skin, bypassing your dosage of suppressants to get your muscles to release their tension and give in.

It all dissipates when you see Lupar’s body on the floor at the front of the shop.

Your flailing movements are so sudden that the man drops you, your knees banging painfully against hard concrete as an agonized scream explodes from you. “No! No, no, no!” You beg, your hands finding his already cooling body and turning him over. There’s a cauterized hole in his chest, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Sobs are wracking you before you even realize. Lupar had saved you, he helped you feed yourself and protected you from more pain than you could imagine and this… this is the death he gets?

You’re torn from his body by strong hands around your middle pulling you back. “Get the fuck off me!” You screech, fighting with everything in you, alpha bullshit be damned. You wish you had a blaster, you wish you knew how to use the whip Lupar gave you, you wish you had anything to help you.

“Quiet, omega-” The man says, though the command doesn’t have that edge this time, like he’s trying to give you a choice.

“Fuck you!!” You yell in response, feeling satisfied in yourself when you wheel back your elbow hard enough into his ribs to make him grunt.

It doesn’t last long though. That invisible pressure from before returns, pinning your arms to your sides while your muscles strain in an attempt to escape. You show your small fangs, the growls coming easier this time, fueled by your rage. The alpha hesitates for only a second, clearly off-put by the blatant disobedience and rejection. He quickly collects himself, bringing a gloved hand forward and hovering it in front of your face. You don’t understand what he’s doing until you feel a very sharp pull on your consciousness. You try to resist, to fight back and stay awake, but you find it impossible as your vision starts to go black at the edges. That strong will slips further and further out of your grasp like sand falling from between your fingers.

You have no choice but to give in to the darkness.

» ☆ «

“Find something extra, master?” Kuruk jests when he sees Kylo emerge from the crowds with you securely in his arms.

However, Kylo is in no mood for jokes and so he snarls at the other alpha instead. The Force hangs heavy and dark around him, his scent thick with something tangy that’s downright unpleasant to any competitors nearby. It’s a very loud and clear warning to stay away from the omega he carries. Kuruk bows his head as Kylo passes him on the ramp into the Night Buzzard, fully admitting his submission simply to avoid a conflict on the journey back to base. Kuruk hasn’t seen his master like this before, but he knows good and well what a territorial alpha who just found his mate is capable of. Force only knows what the mighty Kylo Ren would do if any of them misstepped. He’s like a ticking time bomb.

Kylo takes the furthest possible seat from Kuruk and Ap’lek, who sits at one of the weapon control panels fixing calibrations. Kylo can smell Qiar on the ship somewhere, his misery sour on Kylo’s tongue, locked away in one of the prison cells to suffer with his broken arm and collarbone. Kylo curls his body around yours, hiding you within the darkness of his cape and shielding you from any wandering eyes. He’s never felt this on edge, like at any moment someone might try and take you from him and so he needs to be ready. His mind is a useless ramble of mine, mine, omega safe, protect, mine over and over and he finds he’s unable to shake off those thoughts. Not when you look so peaceful as you sleep, so wonderfully his.

The ship rumbles to life beneath his boots, Kuruk taking his place in the pilot’s seat. It’ll be at least two hours before they make it back to the Steadfast which gives Kylo more than enough time to look you over. He doesn’t understand the urges he has, the deep desire to know every single thing about you and see each inch inside and out. He’s never been this confused, he’s never had so little control of the Force, and he’s never felt such a connection to anyone before. But at the same time, nothing has ever felt so right either. Having you in his arms soothes something in him he didn’t know needed to be soothed and he never wants to let go of that feeling.

You shift suddenly in his arms, a small whimper escaping you as you shift through a dreamless sleep. It makes Kylo encase you a little more, bringing his head down so he can hear every sound you make. His eyes catch on your scent glands, on the red, swollen skin that he wants nothing more than to run his tongue over. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s bumping the muzzle of his helmet against your neck, trying so desperately to coax your scent out. His breathing is unsteady through the filter in his mask, his chest rising and falling erratically in hopes that he could catch just a whiff.

It angers him that he can’t smell you at all, that he can’t properly scent his omega because of the damn suppressants running through your system. Knowing Yvelo II, the medication is probably shady and unsafe and he just hopes it hasn’t permanently damaged your health after all this time. Getting you examined will be the first order of business when they make it back to the Steadfast.

Finally abandoning the fruitless endeavor of trying to get your scent, Kylo takes note of all the other things that you need to be treated for. He picks up one of your arms gingerly in his gloved hand, studying the chemical burns that crawl halfway up your forearms. Your skin is red and splotchy and irritated, scars layered over one another in some attempt at strengthening your arms and hands against whatever acid that sweatshop was using. There’s a few fresh burns, cracked and caked with dried blood. He also saw the scars laced across your back, the ends of them poking out from your tank top. They seem to be from a whip of some kind, probably the same one you still have attached to your hip.

It maddens him, seeing how much pain his omega has gone through. Some insane part of him hisses that he should’ve done better, should’ve protected you as if he didn’t just find out you existed today. He has to shake his head to clear that voice, to try and get a grip on himself before he loses it entirely. He has you now, that’s all that matters.

Kylo huffs to himself, then noticing the already dark purple bruises on your knees. From when he’d dropped you. He does allow himself to feel some guilt about that—it was partially his fault after all. He wasn’t expecting you to fight him so much, and how was he supposed to know you’d be so distraught over that worthless fish-man? The one who had attempted to keep you from him? The way you’d sobbed and screamed over the shop owner had set something inside Kylo on edge and he’d tried to help you, but you refused to listen. He put you to sleep with the Force instead, just so he could take you back and not have to see your blatant distress anymore.

He uses the Force now to make sure you’re still deeply asleep, to make sure you won’t suddenly wake up and start throwing a fit with other, dangerous alphas around. The door to your mind is wide open to him, your defenses nonexistent in your unconscious state. He can sense the undercurrents of your emotions, the unease and fear and panic that consumed you moments before you were taken out. He centers himself to be able to walk through your mind, to rifle through your memories as though they’re stored away in a filing cabinet. He has to feed that insatiable desire to know everything about you and doing it while you can’t fight him seems like the easiest way.

Kylo sees how monotonous your days had been leading up to him finding you. You’d wake up in a dingy, run down, one room apartment, go to work in that hazardous sweatshop, and then go back home once the sun got low. Your memories go back for years like this, an endless cycle of just getting through this day and the next with barely any difference in between, save for an occasional visit to a cheap bar. He passes by all of that, lets it run through his fingers like smoke, searching for something deeper.

He discovers you have no family to speak of, your mother dying in childbirth and your father abandoning you once you were old enough to scrounge for scraps yourself. You were a feisty young thing, getting into tussles with other kids on the streets over food or odd jobs so you could get a few credits for the week. He sees when that man, Lupar, found you behind his shop, when he offered you a job and some sense of safety in the harsh environment of Yvelo II. Kylo almost can’t believe you stayed around for that long, all the way from twelve to you now being twenty-two.

Kylo digs into the memories of Lupar, of the suppressants he gave you every day. It kept you from having to deal with your biology, from ever having to seek out someone to put out the burning fire of need. Something in Kylo perks at that, knowing you’re untouched, like you were waiting for him all this time. He already knew that he had to help you, keep you safe, set you straight so you don’t have to suffer anymore—this just confirms it.

He’s pulled from your mind with the familiar quake of the Night Buzzard signaling it’s being docked. He looks up from you to the viewport, seeing the walls of one of the Steadfast’s many hangars. Kuruk stands from the pilot’s seat after switching off the controls, him and Ap’lek heading towards the back to drag the prisoner off the ship to be interrogated by Kylo later.

Kylo follows after, still holding you impossibly tight, finally bringing you into your new home.

» ☆ «

You barely recall anything, what you manage to catch being a blur as you slip in and out of consciousness seemingly against your will. You only catch a few things like bright lights and white walls, a new and sterile smell assaulting your nostrils, people poking and prodding at you—some with needles—and through all of it, that man swathed in black. He’s always there, right at the edge of your vision, watching over you with eyes you can’t see.

Kylo never once looks away from you while the medics examine you, as they run their endless tests. It takes everything in him to not grab you from them, the irritation of them touching you biting beneath his skin. He knows that the nurses can feel the pressure of him in the room, especially after he already grabbed the wrist of one when she went to give you the first of many vaccines. He couldn’t help it, the beast inside him snarling to not let them anywhere near you.

“Where did you find this omega, Supreme Leader?” The head doctor asks, the older woman studying him over the rim of her glasses. She clearly holds some suspicion towards him, towards the fact that he’s never before brought an omega on board but now he’s suddenly appeared with one he’d be willing to kill her whole staff for.

“Yvelo II. She was an inhabitant there.” Kylo responds, his voice crackling through his mask. “I was… drawn to her.”

The doctor hums. “I figured as much. Based on your reaction to her, this looks like a case of a fated pairing. An alpha and omega being so inexplicably perfect for one another, through a mixture of pheromones and preset genetic coding. To put it simply, there’s no one else more compatible for either party than each other. I assume it’s even stronger for you because of the Force.” She says. “It’s fascinating since this has become an increasingly rare phenomenon in recent years.”

Kylo doesn’t respond, but he mulls the information over in his head. It explains why the Force showed you to him in the first place, why he couldn’t do anything other than search for you on that backwater planet. He’s surprised that someone like himself would even have a fated pairing; he thought that those were just a myth. He nods towards you. “What of her? What’s her condition? The status of her cycles?”

The doctor sighs while scrolling through her data pad full of information on you. “She’s not in the best shape, though it’s expected for a resident of a planet like Yvelo II. She’s malnourished and dehydrated, but we’re giving her fluids now, and her chemical burns have been treated with some simple bacta. The suppressants she’s been on aren’t dangerous per se, and the dosage is surprisingly low, but her being on them since she presented certainly isn’t good. There’s a solution in her IV to help flush the rest of them out and as soon as they are, her body will immediately self-regulate and send her into heat.” She explains, her voice almost taking on a grave tone. “You’ll need to make sure she eats enough if you’re going to make her go through a cycle after so many years. It won’t be easy on the poor thing.”

“I know that.” Kylo snaps, visibly bristling under her scrutiny. “Don’t treat me like a fool, doctor.”

She doesn’t cower, merely meeting his steely gaze behind his helmet. “I’m not, I’m merely looking out for my patient, Supreme Leader.”

» ☆ «

You don’t know how long it’s been when you finally wake up, when you at last have control over your own mind and body.

You sit up slow, cautious of both your surroundings and the faint pounding in your head. You quickly realize you’re in a bedroom, though it’s not like any you’ve ever seen before. This one is bigger than your entire apartment back home.

Panic jolts through you at the thought, your memories rushing back to you in a suffocating wave. You remember the strange man, getting kidnapped, Lupar’s death—all of it making you spring up from the very comfortable bed you’d been laid in. You need to get out of here, before that man comes back.

There isn’t much in the bedroom besides a small bookcase, a desk, and two bedside tables, all of it in a matching dark color scheme. There’s large windows near the bed, revealing the glittering stars outside that stretch on for farther than you could ever imagine. It doesn’t bode well for your hope of escape if you’re in the middle of space. You try to ignore the scent that’s so thick in the room it coats the roof of your mouth—the scent of him. It threatens to cloud your thoughts, the weaker part of you telling you that you should just stay here in this heavenly smell, get cozy and wrap yourself in it. You refuse, heading for the door instead and finding it unlocked.

You open it into an even bigger room, this one looking to be some kind of general living space. Theres a couch and coffee table to your left, another bookcase and more doors to the right, and ahead of you is a small kitchen area. There’s a dining table next to it and on it is a wide assortment of food, more food than you think you’ve ever seen in your life. All different kinds from meats to fruits to cheeses and breads—it’s quite possibly anything you could think of. Your mouth immediately waters at the sight, your stomach howling in response, the tantalizing smells making you dizzy with hunger. Your meals on Yvelo II mostly consisted of stale foods that vendors didn’t want anymore or freeze dried packets from the cheapest place in town, never something like this.

You have to use every ounce of willpower to refrain from eating everything in sight, reminding yourself you’re in an unfamiliar place with a dangerous man undoubtedly nearby. It’s odd that you haven’t seen him yet though, that you can’t even sense him. It probably means you should use this opportunity to try and escape before he returns.

You try the most obvious route first—the main door. You aren’t surprised that it won’t open, but you figured you’d try anyway. You notice a silver plate next to the hexagonal doors, inscribed with a name and identification number. Kylo Ren. Considering the singular scent covering the whole space, you figure that’s the name of its owner, of the man who brought you here. The name is vaguely familiar from the pamphlets of propaganda that would occasionally reach Yvelo II, telling the galaxy of his accomplishments and plans. All you know about him is how deadly he is, how people would talk of his brutality, of the lightsaber he wields. You really need to get out of here.

You try the other doors in the room, seeing if maybe you could find a vent or something to crawl into, but each door you try is locked save for the bathroom. You curse under your breath, wiping your clammy palms on the new set of black pants you wear, the ones that are oddly well-fit to your figure, same with the dark gray tank top on your torso. It’s sad to admit they’re the best clothes you’ve ever worn.

You’re shocked when the final door you try opens, but your hopes are quickly dashed upon discovering it’s just a spacious closet. There’s nothing in it except for… a spread out comforter, pillows, and blankets? You pause in the doorway, your body swaying with how thick Kylo’s scent is inside, like every item was rubbed right against his glands. It’s intoxicating and pure alpha, easily fogging your mind, making heat prickle on the back of your neck. You stumble forward without thinking, your knees sinking into the plush comfort, his smell wrapping around you like a second skin.

You visibly shudder at the perfection, of all the nice soft materials soaked in an alpha’s scent… so good for nesting. The thought is foreign to you, never before needing to build a nest, never having the materials for one, never having a whole room for it before. You barely recall the singular time you did make one during your first heat, where you desperately tried to fit together your only two blankets and pillow into something satisfactory and it never being enough. But this is like heaven for the primal thing inside you, so comfortable and safe and warm. You know you should be irritated at the fact Kylo assumed you’d want something like this from him, that he used it to lure you in, but the smoldering, uncomfortable heat you feel building in your veins is enough to make you ignore that.

There’s a low whine that comes from you without you even realizing, the sound echoing through the space. Sweat has begun to bead at your brow, your limbs becoming shaky, and worst of all is the pressure you feel between your legs. It has your nails digging in to the comforter below you, your mouth dropping open in an attempt to breathe but just getting more of Kylo’s scent instead and making it worse. You know your underwear is already damp, sticking to your cunt with your slick. You gasp as a cramp clenches your lower abdomen, your body curling in on itself in pain. Past the haze in your mind you’re confused; you should still be on suppressants, they should still be working- unless they- unless Kylo-

“Good, you found it.”

You jump at the deep voice, forcing yourself to sit up, even if you have no hope of fighting anyone off in your state. Standing there, right on the threshold of your nest, is Kylo… but without the mask. You hate to admit that he’s beautiful with his rounded jaw and sharp nose, his strong features dotted with freckles, his shoulder length black hair that curls delicately. Theres a long, deadly scar bisecting the left side of his face, disappearing beneath his collar and making you wonder how far it goes. His chocolate brown eyes almost seem too soft for someone like him, someone so full of wrath and anger.

Those eyes look over you now, studying, calculating. His nostrils flare when your scent finally hits him, those damn suppressants gone at last. It’s the best thing he’s ever smelled, so sweet and honeyed from the onset of your heat, calling directly to those alpha instincts inside of him. He can see how badly you need him in your flushed skin, the quivering in your arms and legs, and the thick, cloying scent of your slick is undeniable. He’d step in and claim you right now if he could, but there’s that annoying part of him telling him he can’t enter your nest without permission, can’t invade your safe space.

You’ve scooted away from him as much as you can, your back pressed against the wall, though it does nothing to lessen his scent, fresher now with him standing right in front of you. You try to ignore the slick staining your pants, the ache that wracks your entire body. “You… you killed Lupar.” You manage to spit out, attempting to sound tough but ultimately failing with how much your words shake.

“He was harboring a spy.” Kylo says simply. And hurting you, he almost adds.

Your head shakes, trying to clear the fog. “There were kids that depended on him.”

“They’ll find someone else. There’s always scum to replace scum.”

“You’re a monster.” You say with as much venom as you can muster.

Kylo’s gaze narrows, the air shifting, his scent turning sharp for just a second. “I may be, but I still saved you, omega. Kept you from rotting away in that worthless place.”

“Don’t call me that.” You snap.

His head tilts, mocking. “Why? It’s what you are, isn’t it? My omega, my mate, it’s all the same.”

That manages to break you out of it for a few moments, your brow furrowing. “Mate? The hell are you talking about? I’m not anybody’s damn mate.”

The corner of his lip lifts in amusement. “Theres that bite from before.” He says. He then sighs. “I know you feel it too, that pull to me. We’re meant to be, you and I. It’s why you’re going into heat right now, omega.”

You whimper, folding over yourself again as the cramps return tenfold as if on cue. Sweat soaks your clothes, a raging fire of need and desire burning beneath your skin. “No.. no I-“ You try, refusing to succumb to your biology, to this stupid cycle that renders you helpless, to the horror of it.

“You didn’t think you could be on those suppressants the rest of your life, did you?” Kylo asks, watching as you writhe, hunger blazing in his eyes. “You won’t be touching them again. You won’t need them.”

“F-fuck off.” You bite out, trying so hard to ignore the voice in your head begging for him, for an alpha, to be mated good and proper like you’ve always needed, to get stuck on a knot and filled- “shit-“

“I know it hurts, sweetheart. Just let me help you.” Kylo says, gently this time, coaxing you. Everything in him is telling him to take you, the beginnings of a rut already starting to claw at his mind. He can’t help palming at the erection tenting his pants, the stimulation making him groan.

“I- I can’t.. f-fuck-“ you gasp, words broken by your heat, by the need too strong to ignore despite your struggle. The pain ruins you, and the omega inside you that’s always been neglected wants him more than anything, wants to—for once—be cared for. You’re looking up at him without another thought, desperate hands reaching towards him. “Kylo, please-“

Before you can even blink, before you can regret what you’ve said, he’s on you. His plush lips meet your own in a bruising kiss, his warm body presses firm against yours, your space no longer being your own and instead becoming a shared thing between you. You openly whine into his mouth, his scent fully enveloping you, his strong hands gripping your waist. It feels so right to have him there, to have him kissing you with a hot and sloppy possession, appreciative noises rumbling low in his chest. He shrugs off his cape, tossing it somewhere to the side, his tunic, gloves, and undershirt following after to be added to your nest. The smell of them is potent, making you more than pleased with the prime nesting material.

You moan when his lips trail down to your jaw, then the column of your throat, stopping at the scent glands at the base of your neck. He presses his nose to one and growls, his hold on you tightening as a shiver runs through his body. “Can finally scent you. I’ll fucking cover you in me.” He mutters, mouthing at the sensitive gland, running his tongue along the inflamed skin, your whines growing louder.

You paw at his now exposed back, nails digging in to the wide expanse of scarred muscle. You can’t help doing the same thing he is, sucking at his own scent glands, his taste flooding your mouth. It helps to quench some of the fire raging within you, soothes the ache between your legs for a split second with that pure alpha smell. It’s everything an omega could want, full of promises of protection and warmth and pups.

“Barely even touched you and you already want my pups?” Kylo says, voice dangerously low and amused, his breath fanning across your neck. You can hear the subtle pride in his voice, his teeth flashing right next to where your mating bite would go. “Good girl.”

You’d forgotten how easily he can read your thoughts, feeling your desire like it’s his own. You gasp as another wave hits you, heat flashing through your body, a gush of slick pooling in your underwear. It has you scrabbling for him, your mind fully clouded over. “Please, please Kylo- I need- it hurts- I need you-“ You beg, words beginning to slur together.

“I know, sweetheart, I’ll make it better.” He tells you, his hands working your pants and underwear down your legs. You shiver when the cold air hits your exposed skin, your pussy drenched and glistening in your own arousal. The scent of it is like a drug, flooding Kylo’s senses, making his head spin. He curses, eyes locked on to your cunt, saliva pooling in his mouth as he spreads your knees apart. He wants badly to lick you clean, collect every drop of slick you’d give him, but he knows you wouldn’t be able to handle that now. Your face is a flushed mess, limbs shaking and subtly trying to shut your legs.

“Easy.” He warns, voice thick with the lust sparking in his blood. You whimper at his tone, your biology forcing you to comply and go still. His chest heaves with his breath, each inhale embedding your scent further into his lungs. “I’ll take my time with you later.”

You jolt at the feeling of two fingers dragging through your folds, coating them in slick. Your moans turn breathless and you hide your face in his shoulder as he circles your entrance before sinking a finger in to the knuckle. Your entire body reacts to the sudden intrusion, your teeth digging into your lip, toes curling into the comforter below you. “You’ve never been with anyone before, right? Let alone an alpha.” Kylo grunts, watching the way slick coats his palm, his finger repeatedly disappearing into your hot pussy with rhythmic movements. You manage to shake your head, eyes shut tight, mouth dropped open in pleasure. “Saving yourself just for me, hm?”

“Y-yes- Kylo- please, more-“ You choke out, your hips rolling with his thrusts, chasing the friction. You easily adjusted to just the one, your heat making you pliant and eager. He hums at that, complying with your request, a second finger filling your pussy. You cry out at the pleasant burn, at the way he scissors your plush walls, stretching you nicely for his cock that’s straining against his pants.

His free hand shoves your tank top up and over your head, pinching a nipple between the pads of his fingers at the same time his thumb finds your clit. The sound you make may be the best thing Kylo’s ever heard, all whiny and high pitched as your muscles tense with pleasure. You can feel a pressure building in your gut, one that threatens to release as he palms your breasts and rubs vicious circles on that bundle of nerves. He loves seeing you so lost in your need, so dependent on him to snuff out the fire of your heat. Your scent shifts with your oncoming orgasm, becoming almost sickly sweet, and beneath it Kylo can smell the way his own scent has already intertwined with yours.

Your head falls back with a sob as your whole body bunches up, your release falling over you like a wave. He relishes in the way your cum covers his hand, your cunt squeezing his fingers. He tugs you even closer to claim your mouth, to lick the taste of you from behind your teeth, drinking you like the finest wine.

Your orgasm gives you just a moment to breathe, a second of clarity in the storm that is your heat. You’ve never felt such intense relief before, your body tingling from the aftermath. However, you can still feel the warmth licking at the bottom of your spine, a beast ready to rear its head at a moments notice. You know it won’t be fully satiated until you’re plugged with a knot, claimed in one of the most primal ways possible. Kylo knows it too, probably better than you do, his cock aching to be inside you, to fill you with his cum and keep it there.

Both of his hands grip your waist, moving you over, repositioning you so you’re lying on your stomach, knees beneath you and ass in the air. You don’t even resist, letting him do whatever he wants with you in your post-orgasmic haze. “My pretty girl,” Kylo murmurs, running a palm along the cheek of your ass, his thumb separating the folds of your pussy to see the mess you’ve made. Slick coats your thighs, runs down your cunt in small dribbles, soaking the blankets below you.

Your nails dig into the comforter in anticipation when you hear the rustling of fabric behind you, the sound of a zipper pulled down. Kylo groans when his cock is finally freed, painfully hard with precum beading on the tip. He pumps himself a few times with the hand he’d fingered you with, coating his length with your release, the sight making his breath catch. You whimper when you feel his shaft press against your pussy, tensing as his tip breaches your entrance, sinking in so, so very slow.

The stretch of his cock is almost too much, filling you more than you thought possible, forcing your legs further apart to accommodate. His warm, calloused palm runs up and down your back. “Breathe, omega. You can take me, I know you can. You were made for it.” Kylo says, the ends of his words cracking when he feels the way your pussy is pulling him in, hot and wet and greedy. His body bends over yours, his strong arms caging you in on either side just as he bottoms out. His intoxicating scent wraps around you like a noose, your mouth dropped open but no sound able to come out, his cock having punched all the air from your lungs.

“Fuck- so good for me-“ Kylo moans, sweaty forehead pressed to your shoulder, relishing in the feel of you, of his omega. The alpha in him swells with pride at getting to claim you, at being the first and the last to ever do so. He’ll fill you again and again, get you pregnant, make you smell like him inside and out so every other alpha in the damn galaxy knows who you belong to. The thought makes him groan in satisfaction, his lips finding your gland and sucking it into his mouth as his hips shift experimentally.

Your back arches to meet his chest, mewling for more, desperate for the heavy drag of his thick cock against your walls. He starts easy, slow thrusts where he draws all the way out before sinking in to the hilt. He’s never felt something this divine, his mind swimming as if drunk on your heat. Nothing has ever been this right before, like his connection to you is written into his blood, the Force and something deeper binding you together. He knows you feel it too, your emotions and thoughts shared, tied together with an invisible string.

He fucks you in earnest now, his thrusts snappier, the degenerate sounds of your slick being sloshed around by his cock filling the small space of the closet. There’s nowhere that isn’t full of Kylo, all of your senses knowing just him; his scent, his breathy moans and gasps, his body pressed against yours so all you feel is him. Tears stain your cheeks, another orgasm quickly building inside of you, growing each time he hits that spongy spot at the top of your walls.

“Gonna give you my pups- fuck- keep you here with me, sweetheart, keep you full. I’m all you fucking need.” Kylo snarls close to your ear, once again kissing at your gland, never able to leave it alone for long.

You barely manage to nod. “Y-yes- please, alpha-“

He groans at his designation, at the feral tone of it. He snakes an arm under you to rub his fingers against your clit, encouraging you to reach your peak a second time like a reward. It isn’t hard with how sensitive you are and you bury your face in the blankets, trying to muffle your cry as you cum around his length. Kylo nearly doubles over from the way you grip him, your pussy fluttering against his cock, slick and cum gushing out and smearing along his pants. “That’s it- so fucking good, sweetheart-“ He manages to get out.

You whine at the way he still brutally thrusts into your abused pussy, pleasure sparking within you like a frayed wire, your arms and legs twitching with aftershocks. Your mind is nothing but a chant of good alpha, my alpha, bite me, claim me, strong alpha, any other rational thoughts fucked out of you. The feeling of it is borderline overwhelming, so much so that you instinctually try to claw yourself away from him, your nails scrabbling desperately at the comforter underneath you. Kylo notices immediately, his hands coming to tightly grip your waist, tugging you back into him with a displeased rumble sounding in his throat. He further curls himself over you, using the full pressure of his body to completely pin you down so you have no choice but to take his cock as deep as you can, his tip kissing your cervix again and again.

Your vision waters, your moans become obscenely louder and Kylo revels in it, his nose buried in the crook of your neck so he can breathe you in. “My sweet omega, perfect omega…” He pants against your skin, the deep timbre of his voice sending shivers down your back. He rumbles again, his scent spiking with something heady and spicy—something so possessive it threatens to choke you. Your pussy throbs and oozes more slick around him in response. “Trying to run from me… you’re mine now, omega, mine.”

He gets his point across with harsher thrusts, steadily growing more erratic as he nears his release. Your own isn’t too far off—for the third time. You can feel his knot beginning to swell at the base of his cock, something like fear spiking in your chest over how big it’ll be, but Kylo’s given you no chance of escape. You’ve surrendered yourself to him completely, to your need for each other, to your mate that you didn’t know existed until a day prior. The noises you manage are a garbled mess of lust, of overstimulated pleasure bordering on begging for mercy as you cum once more.

Kylo merely kisses away your tears, silently praising how good you are, this last orgasm taking everything out of you and drawing his own out of him too. He thrusts once, twice, three times before he groans loud, his fat knot at last locking in to your pussy. You do a full body shudder when you feel the heat of his cum coating your walls, rope after rope filling you so completely you barely feel like you have room to breathe. You try to swallow down the air that you need, Kylo doing the same above you. Both of you are utterly spent, and your heat has finally calmed with his claim inside of you. It leaves you feeling exhausted but also satisfied, something you haven’t felt in a long time.

Kylo’s kisses are gentle along your neck and shoulders, but you nearly get sent into a panic when you feel him begin to move you. “Relax. You’ll like this better.” He tells you. You try to be good and let him shift you around, even as every limb aches in protest and it tugs on his knot firmly stuck in your cunt. He rests against the left wall, situating you in his lap so you’re basically sitting on his cock, keeping him impossibly deep inside you. You let out a small moan when a fresh spurt of his cum releases from the stimulation of his knot while his fingers dig into your waist.

He brushes your hair back from where it’d stuck to your face with sweat, holding his hand against your cheek so he can look at you. You lean into his touch, eyes closing, too tired to hold up your own weight, feeling like you need to sleep for the next ten years. “Beautiful.” Kylo mutters, his lips reverent when he kisses from between your breasts, across your gland, and up your neck to your lips. It’s nothing like the kisses from before which were hungry and desperate, instead this one is soft, loving, claiming you in a different way.

He nuzzles against your jaw when he separates from you, basking in your scent. “You need to eat before you fall asleep.” He says, forcing you to stay awake despite your struggle against it. “I know you didn’t before. You need to keep your strength.” You grumble a response, cracking your eyes open to find a plate sat to your left. You’re confused about how it got there before you remember Kylo’s weird Force abilities or whatever they’re called, letting him manipulate things in the space around him. He must’ve brought it in here when you weren’t looking.

It’s a simple plate with a mixture of fruits, cheeses, and pieces of bread, something easy to start so you don’t get sick. He’ll make sure you have a proper meal later, when you can think more clearly and you aren’t stuck together. He watches as you pick at the food, choosing whatever looks best, soothing the sharpest edges of your appetite. It makes him happy to see you eat, to know his mate is taken care of and getting the proper nutrition you desperately need. Healthy mate for strong pups, the alpha in him whispers, his teeth gritting together when he cums again as a result.

He brings you a bottle of water too, making you drink the whole thing because of how dangerous dehydration can be for omegas during a heat. It’s shocking to you how easy it is to get basic necessities like food and water in this place after having to struggle for them your entire life on Yvelo II. You’ve never felt this pampered before, this safe and comfortable and cared for. You know it’s because of the alpha before you, your alpha.

You can’t help but reach your hands out, running them through his sweat slicked hair. He seems to preen at your attention, his eyes closing in contentment. Even in this moment of peace, you can’t ignore the thing that’s been gnawing at you ever since he knotted you. You bite the inside of your cheek, rolling the question around in your head. Kylo makes a grunting noise at you, like telling you to just spit it out already. You’ve clearly forgotten again that he can see inside your mind. He wants you to say it though, which makes your cheeks flush a little. “Why didn’t you mark me?”

His eyes open at that as he hums, studying your face. He stops your hand midway through his hair, instead bringing it to his mouth so he can kiss your rough and calloused palm. He nuzzles against it, his sigh tickling your skin. “It seemed like a lot for your first time.” He explains. His gaze shifts to where your mating bite will be, as if imagining the indent of his teeth there. “But I will next heat.” He says it with such finality and determination that it makes you shiver, a familiar warmth bubbling in your blood. If you weren’t so tired and still locked onto his knot, you’d probably go back into heat right then. He smirks at that, knowing exactly how his words affect you.

His arms come up to encircle you, bringing you forward until you’re laying on his chest. You immediately sink into his hold, your head resting nicely beneath his chin. You can hear his heartbeat thrumming steady and strong in your ear, a soothing melody that has your eyes falling shut. Kylo brings his cape over with a simple motion of his finger, wrapping it around you so you’re encased in his warmth, his scent. He says your name softly, like it’s something fragile he doesn’t want to break.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be right here.”