#Just because they’re on the same page doesn’t mean NOTHING!

[ravetillyoucry]

PUPARIA

Chapter 15 - Simulation Swarm

prev - chapter 1

The detective wasn't the first Hosah Levi, and he definitely wouldn't be the last. The original, the blueprint, everything the shifter was supposed to be, that was his uncle.

Hosah's dad was heartbroken when he lost his twin brother. That was the Hosah Levi. There wasn't much to explain his disappearance. No body, no camera footage. Just gone without a trace. Safe to say, it was a closed casket funeral.

A sad, but common occurrence for shifters. You shrink in the wrong place at the wrong time, you're gonna end up trampled on, kidnapped, washed away by the rain, or all of the above all at the same time.  That was why Hosah's dad was so hesitant to let him take the job offer in New York. It was silly. His son was a grown man, he had his own place in Colorado with a steady job and a couple classes to go to in his off time, so why should he have to worry about being allowed to take opportunities?

The truth was, his father had always thought of him as incapable. Not in an insulting way, but in an infantilising, coddling way, which was arguably far worse.

Whenever they spoke on the phone, their conversations always ended sour with an argument, about how Hosah should quit and come home, about how he should call more because every day that passes by without absolute confirmation of his safety causes immense stress to his entire family, or just about anything they can think of on that particular day.

Today however, the argument was about coming home, as it usually was.

"It's just not safe out there. You know how long it's been since you last called? Three days. Hosah, you understand how worried I get, don't you? You know how much can happen in three days. It'd be so much easier for you to just come back to Colorado. Your room is the same as how you left it. Please." His father pleaded down the phone.

It was always the same two or three points with him. You're not like everyone else, you're a vulnerable person, you can't get around your own apartment on your own so how are you supposed to navigate the city, I'm scared for you, blah, blah, blah. Quite frankly, Hosah was bored of it. He'd admitted to himself that he wasn't going to be able to hack complete independence for much longer, but he'd never, ever, admit that fact to his dad.

With his phone balancing between the side of his head and his shoulder, the shifter tried his best to stay on the call as he painted away in the short time that Teddy would be out for,

"No- no I know there are risks," Hosah repeated words he'd said a thousand times before, "That's why I'm not.. living alone anymore."

He still hadn't told his dad about Teddy. In fact, he hadn't told his dad about anything that had been happening lately. He rarely did, actually, Joel Levi didn't need the added stress.

"You have a girlfriend?" That was another thing Hosah hadn't told his dad about. Or really, hadn't told anyone about. Asides from Jules, as she knew everything.

He debated his relationship status with Teddy before responding, "No, but I have a roommate. New co-worker. He's nice. I like him."

"A co-worker is who killed your uncle, you know." Father dearest reminded him. It was never actually proven whose blood the small red stain on the office floor belonged to, but Joel had his theories.

It was best to not bring up the uncertainty of the true events of his Uncle's death around his father. After all, they were twins. Connected at the soul, or something like that.

"Right," Hosah mumbled instead of arguing, a route he rarely went down now that he thought about it.

The other end of the line crackled before the voice was picked back up again, "-this guy that you've moved in with?"

The shifter could only assume the first word in that sentence was supposed to be 'who'. Putting Teddy into words was a difficult task, at least, if he didn't want to end up gushing like a school girl when talking about her latest hallway crush, that is.

"His name's Edward. Super tall, like, the top of his head brushes against door frames kind of tall. Italian. Red hair, met him like a month and a half ago." Hosah described, his lips instinctively curling into an embarrassingly wide smile as he spoke.

"And this guy," Joel began, static and all, "He's good? He helps you? He's nice, gentle, sweet, caring, all that?"

The shifters face flushed a slight red as his father listed off all of Teddy's best qualities, "Yeah, yeah of course." He clarified.

"I could probably do a better job." His father scoffed as he usually did. Nothing was ever good enough, whether it was washing the dishes or taking care of his son, he might as well just be doing it the whole time all by himself because nobody else could do it as good as him.

"Yeah," Almost on queue, the sound of keys rattling on the other side of the door cut Hosah and his father's conversation short, " I have to go, 'kay? Got stuff to do. Call me some time tomorrow or whenever you can and I'll pick up. Okay, loveyoubye"

The shifter rushed to end the phone call so he could firstly, cover up Teddy's birthday gift, and also greet him as he came through the door.

"Sorry, did I interrupt something?" Teddy asked from across the room, standing in the open door. Yeah. His head just about would've brush against the wooden framing.

How someone could look so effortlessly picturesque, Hosah would never know. The shifter stared for a moment, completely lost for words, just taking in the rather mundane sight in front of him. Teddy's pale face had been nipped by the cold breeze, it seemed, as his cheeks and nose were reddened, although a more pink colour than his scruffy, brownish red hair that had clearly been rattled by the same wind. He looked a little disheveled with his scarf lazily wrapped loosely around his neck and his coat missing a few buttons from being completely fastened. Still, even in clothes he'd thrown on in about half a minute, Teddy looked perfect.

Hosah had almost forgotten what his roommate had even said in the first place as he opened his mouth to respond, "Uh, no, no, I was just on the phone to my dad, actually."

"Cool." Teddy had gotten into the habit of stealing the shifter's favourite words and phrases, "Have you told him yet?"

Right. It was probably best to keep his family in the dark about his current situation, he didn't want to worry them, or, god forbid, endanger them.

"Wellll..." Hosah wasn't really sure how to word it in a way that his roommate would understand.

"I mean, you don't have to." The sudden shift in views left the shifter without knowing what to say, half expecting an argument to come out of the conversation. Teddy continued, "It's your business, and if you don't want to, or you're not ready, or.. Whatever reasons you have, you're not obligated to say anything."

"You're right." Hosah nodded.

"As per usual," The taller of the two muttered under his breath as he strolled up to his roommate, giving his blond hair a ruffle before pulling the head into his shoulder, or, more like his chest given their height difference.

It was the little and casual pieces of affection like this that drove Hosah crazy. He felt like a rabid dog with how desperate he'd become to experience the brief touches over and over again.

"Did he say anything?" Teddy asked, hand still cradling the shifter's head, their legs intertwining as they stood at an, in any other case, uncomfortably short distance from each other.

Although, since it was Hosah and Teddy, this kind of close proximity was just right.

Hosah thought for a minute, focused on fidgeting with the loose threads that hung out of his roommates thick, bobbly knitted sweater, "Mmm," He hummed, "Just the usual, come home, it's dangerous out there, you need someone to take care of you,"

"God," Teddy laughed, "If there's one person that doesn't need taking care of in this world, it's you."

Hosah looked up, the overhead light reflecting in the big black holes he had for eyes, "You think?" He asked, chin resting on the taller of the two's chest, as he couldn't quite reach his shoulder as his hips leant against Teddy's.

"Cmon. First time you were.. I don't know, shifted I guess, you made me a cup of coffee. I mean, I know I wouldn't even be able to make it from room to room if I were like that." Teddy hesitated as he got to certain parts of his sentence.

Hosah had never really known how to take compliments.

"Whatever," He scoffed, regrettably worming his way out of Teddy's cradle, turning his back to him as he tried to forget the much needed words of affirmation.

He was right, Hosah wasn't completely incapable, but that's not what he'd been told his entire life, that's not what he truly believed. All Hosah really thought he wanted was to find someone who would take care of him like the helpless creature he was, but even he knew that wasn't completely the true to his deeper feelings. His own heart and mind were things even he would never be able to fully understand. That was Hosah's problem. He'd spent weeks, months, years stuck on a goal, and as soon as he'd meet it, he'd realise he actually wanted the opposite all along. Despite how much it hurt to admit, his stalker was spot on. Hot and cold. If anyone ever saw Hosah sticking to his word without any contradictions, that was not him, and they were to eradicate this imposter as soon as possible.

"You know it's true," Teddy teased, following behind the shifter as he rushed into their now shared bedroom to find a shirt to put on.

A defensive snap he hadn't felt the urge to indulge in came rushing out of his mouth, "Then why do you.. I don't know. If I'm so capable, why do you insist on doing everything for me. You're not my crutch. Clearly I don't need my hand being held."

He regretted the words as soon as he said them, but the deep rooted anger and sadness Hosah held toward this topic got the best of him.

Teddy stood in an astonished silence as he leant in the door frame.

"Because I want to." The tall figure blocking out the hallway's light laughed slightly as he spoke, a laugh that said, 'Isn't it obvious?'.

"I want to take care of you. I want to make things easier if I can. Yeah, you're capable, but that doesn't mean it's not still nice for someone to go out of their way to help you. If I asked you to get me something from the fridge, you'd do it, right? You just... need to let me help you. I won't if you don't want me to, but you need to decide that for yourself." Teddy continued.

Right now, all Hosah wanted to do was to shrink down and sit in the giants hands. 'Yes, of course you can take care of me, you can clip my wings and tell me what to do, and I'd do it without question.' , he thought.

Hosah turned to face the towering figure, "I just.. I don't want you to see me differently, From now, to when I'm small." He explained, his voice much quieter, as if he had something in his throat as he spoke.

"I don't think of you differently." Teddy put it bluntly.

"That's easier said than done." The shifter shrugged as his eyes moved down to the floor as they usually did when he got apprehensive over something.

"Hosah." His tone had shifted, now much more stern, but not necessarily angry, "You're probably the one person in the world I have the most respect and admiration for. I'd be an idiot to think of you any less than I would.. I don't know, some highly intelligent Nobel prize winning scholar dude, doesn't matter if you're five foot or three inches."

"I'm five seven." Hosah corrected, stood with his arms folded and his head hanging low, clearly not having much to substance to carry his arguments anymore. That was the problem with logical people, they solved all your issues far too fast, not giving you the time of day to just be angry about it before finding a solution.

"Five seven, then. Like I said, doesn't matter. I.." Teddy lost his words, he sounded tired, maybe sad, enough to make the shifter feel guilty for the entire discussion.

"I love you, Hosah." Finally, after maybe three long seconds, Teddy spoke again.

What? Seriously? Hosah's brain moved at a hundred miles an hour, surely he couldn't have heard right, there was no way in the world. He tried to say something, but instead, all that came out were stuttering gasps. He could feel his face becoming hotter by the second as his eyes stayed locked onto the carpeted floor, unable to even consider lifting them to look at Teddy's, probably smug, face.

As expected, the figure by the door laughed at Hosah's pathetic attempt at responding,

"What, do your friends not tell you they love you usually?" Teddy smiled, moving in closer towards the shifter, placing a hand about the size of Hosah's entire head on his shoulder.

Of course, how could he be so stupid.

"No, it's just, I thought you meant it differently for a second. Ha-ha." The shifter tried his best to keep his cool, but his furrowed eyebrows and blushing cheeks gave him away.

The pale hand traced up Hosah's neck until it found its way to his face, cupping the burning cheek in its palm, the thumb caressing the smooth, tanned surface, which didn't fail to make it a much deeper red colour. The shifter stood silently, his mouth slightly agape, although still holding his breath with a sharp inhale of surprise at the touch.

"Well," Teddy spoke softly, smiling just enough for his crooked tooth to stick out from his top lip, "Maybe I do, in a way."

That was all he wanted to hear. The words Hosah had prayed would come out of his mouth from the moment he opened it. It all came together, after weeks of debating whether he even had a chance or not, he could finally answer all his questions. But, as a million cases in his head came to a close, around the same amount were opened right back up again, this time with more dead ends and false leads, leaving them to go cold with the lack of any kind of explanation.

"Don't mess with me like that." Hosah's head hung down, his hand barely able to wrap around the wrist of the man cupping his cheek.

Despite how hard his chest beat and how the butterflies fluttered in his stomach, he couldn't help but blink the tears out of his eyes as he feared it was all a big joke. An elaborate plan to make a fool out of himself, living the rest of his time with Teddy in utter shame and embarrassment as the awkwardness of their unreciprocated feelings hung heavily in the air, polluting the apartment until they'd both suffocate in the unresolved, unspoken and unmentioned tension.

"I'm not messing with you. I'm serious." And he really did sound serious.

There was no way, though. No way that someone like Teddy, someone so sweet and so gorgeous, could ever be attracted to Hosah. He wouldn't believe it no matter how many times he heard it. The shifter couldn't help but scoff, his grip tightening around the wrist.

"Hosah," Teddy's other hand grabbed hold of the other side of Hosah's face, lifting his chin with both of his thumbs until the brown eyes met his own, "It's true. Of course it's true. I thought I was being obvious with all the touchiness." He was laughing, but the shifter was still too discombobulated to see the humour in any of it.

"You're so confusing, I don't know what you think." Hosah gave his roommate a playful jab in the stomach, unable to say anything else about the news he'd just been told.

The feeling could only be described at euphoric. The shifter had felt like a monstrous pervert with what he'd been thinking of Teddy. His brain would start to sizzle and fry just at the thought of a time where his forearms were visible as he loomed over the shifter's shrunken form; to Teddy, it was probably nothing, but to him, it was absolutely everything and more. It was always these tiny details that had him the most worked up. Hosah didn't really care about if they were jacked or if they were insanely beautiful, although those were definitely bonuses, but he cared about nice hands, good, thick calves, broad shoulders, all the things that would come in handy.

"You don't get to talk about confusing, you've been giving me mixed signals since day one." Teddy pressed his forehead against the shifter's, the tips of their noses touching as they did, well, however long ago it was. The days had been blurring together lately.

It took much more energy than usual to stay regular sized. "That's just the way I am, I guess," Hosah smiled despite the rush of conflicting thoughts and feelings, as he grappled against his own body to keep the few inches he felt slowly draining from his body.

"You don't have to hold back, it's okay." It was getting quite obvious that the shifter was now standing on the tips of his toes, and Teddy always picked up on everything, even things Hosah would try his best to hide.

And in the blink of an eye, Hosah was back to his usual self. Although it wasn't exactly entirely normalised, the shifter felt the most comfortable when he was about this height. Three inches tall, a slight bit bigger than Teddy's thumb. It was perfect, he could slip and slink under the radar without anyone realising he was even there in the first place. Hosah had become used to being a shadow in the city, everyone is here because they dream big, being exceptional in your home town out in butt-fuck nowhere just didn't cut it here, and the shifter had come to accept that. He accepted it the moment he had to quit baseball because he just couldn't be a regular height for long enough, he accepted it when he'd finish a painting and still feel like he could do so much more, and most importantly, he'd accepted it when it had been told straight to his face.

There was no chance of him being a big shot out here, which is why it scared him so deeply when someone like Teddy saw him as he was, something special. Not just another face in the crowd, but an individual with good qualities and flaws, scars and all, he saw the shifter as someone worthy enough to fall in love with.

He didn't get it. Who was he in comparison to the giant that sat on his hands and knees over him. He was nothing, a weed growing from the cracks in the sidewalk, an inconvenient breeze that ruffled the hair of the passers by, truly forgettable and insignificant when compared to the likes of Teddy. It made sense why the police didn't bother with the almost a hundred letters, and why they didn't bother looking into his uncle's sudden dropping off of the face of the earth. People like him didn't even take up space in this world, making them all the more worthless. He needed to take a break from work, stop analysing every word his stalker wrote to him, as it seemed to really be getting to his head and psyche.

"I.. I don't know what to do now." Hosah admitted, finally looking up to see the giant face above him. This is what he wanted, but now that he had it, what else was there to look forward to?

"I mean.. We don't have to necessarily do anything." Teddy's voice was much more hushed, something he'd taken into account ever since hurting the shifter's much smaller ears.

Hosah didn't say anything, he didn't have the mental energy to think of anything useful to add. The pale hand which dwarfed him in comparison inched closer to the shifter's shrunken form. They were good hands. Almost paper white, although his knuckles and fingertips were still red from being out in the cold. Nice, large, gentle hands. It was all Hosah could really ask for. Teddy's fingers weren't like his own, they were straight, and cut off almost like perfect rectangles at the end, although they were anything but sharp and rough. His recollection of the digits seemed to be correct, as a bent finger brushed the same cheek the same hand once held in its palm. This was nice. No confrontation of their feelings, just silent touch.

"I didn't expect it to be like this." The shifter finally commented, leaning into the touch like it was the last time he'd ever receive it.

Although he wasn't looking at his face, he could tell Teddy had that stupid, goofy smile on his face that he always wore whenever he had a one-up on Hosah.

"What do you mean?" Teddy said in a quietened laugh. The shifter wondered what the pair looked like from a different angle, and how ridiculous the giant would be from a birds-eye sort of view, as he sat on all fours with his back bent almost inhumanly in order to get closer to Hosah in his new form.

"In the movies they.. I don't know, they confess their love and they kiss passionately and suddenly they've got it all figured out and it's smooth sailing from there. But I still have no idea. It's all the same, except, I guess some things have been... cleared up." The shifter rambled on with no control over what specifically he said, not that this was a problem when in Teddy's company.

"Maybe it's the kissing passionately part we're missing. That's the key," The giant joked, but with how he looked towering above the shifter, his hair cascaded forward, the overhead lamp looking almost like a halo from this angle, honestly made Hosah want to try it out.

The shifter gave a sigh of amusement, "Don't get too ahead of yourself."

"Right," Teddy inhaled sharply, second guessing himself before continuing, "If you want to go.. Really super slow, we should do that. I don't want to bring all of this onto you when there's a lot going on. I don't know. It feels kind of sudden, I just.. Said it, I couldn't really hold it in for much longer."

"It's okay. I don't think I would've really lasted either. Things don't have to change, we don't really act like just friends anyway." Reminiscing on the month, or, however long it'd been as it felt like years, that they'd known each other, Hosah realised just how couple-y they'd acted all along. He didn't know any just friends that held hands on the street or that held each other in the night.

"Maybe not," Teddy sighed, his smile softy spread across his perfect pink cheeks, a satisfied and content expression that told Hosah all would be okay.

And for a moment, it really did feel like everything would be okay. There was no stalker in the window, there was no sudden phone call of a case reopening, there was nothing, in fact. The city was unusually quiet, as if everyone and everything had stopped in place just for the two of them to have this moment.

The giant really was beautiful, Hosah thought to himself as he sat, leant back with his neck craned up to face the figure that towered over his shrunken body. A kind of once-in-a-lifetime, unforgettable type of beauty that one would dream about for years after seeing a glimpse of out of the corner of their eye, or in the reflection of a window, or when the train passes through a crowded station. The sort of face that would make you do a double take in the street, which people most certainly did.

It was all his little features that stuck out the most, especially at such an angle. His hair curled at the ends, clearly wanting to go into coils but either it wasn't long enough or it wasn't being taken care of properly to be able to do so. His cheeks were covered in small, dark freckles, as were his arms and his legs, and even his hands and fingers. Even Teddy's nose was perfectly sculpted, completely straight and symmetrical, unlike his thick, bushy eyebrows that Hosah itched to pluck at and clean up as he obsessively did his own. He wondered how far his freckles went down, if the giant had one on his stomach and chest like his own abnormally large and almost quite garish mole on his abdomen which completely dwarfed his belly button.

"You look deep in thought." Teddy commented, shifting from his knees to laying on his stomach on the carpeted floor. They could've just moved to the bed, as the sun had already long set; the creepy cat clock that hung menacingly on the crowded wall was just about to strike eleven.

The shifter stood to his full, minimal height, the hand making him look as small as ever in comparison. Each crevice of the palm fit perfectly into his own, as if they were two pieces of a much bigger jigsaw puzzle that needed to be put together to reveal the full picture. Hosah wasn't really one to believe in fate or a magical red string, but as his fragile body went limp against the flesh wall, each groove of his back being effortlessly supported by the- slightly calloused but still, blissfully soft palm, he thought for a brief second that this was just right. He didn't need the cabin by the lake, or his job at the detectives agency, he didn't even need anyone else in the world to keep him company, just Teddy and this moment would be enough for him.

Hosah thought about what the doctor had told him the previous day; a concept called the butterfly effect, that one seemingly small and insignificant choice or event can cause a long trail of consequences, completely altering the course of someone’s life forever. That theory seemed to check out, as from the clouded window, he could see the stars shone bright through the light polluted city sky for the first time in years.

[bnnysweets]

APPLE CIDER

loser!ellie x ditzy!reader

author’s note: english is not my first language. they’re inspired by cat and robbie in victorious bc i saw this edit and i couldn’t just don’t do nothing. ellie is just so mf in love with you omg.

warnings: ellie is IN LOVE, truly. reader is clueless. mention of marriage. reader is going out with a girl (booo🍅🍅) and she’s a asshole, ellie comforts you. fluff!

ellie is DELIRIOUS ’bout you, you share the same friend group so everyone knows she’s in love with you, but everyone also knows they can’t tell you because they already tried, but you didn’t believed, always excused it.

once, julien tried to tell you: “i’m telling you, she fucking loves you!” you laughed, “i knows she loves me, i love her too.” you said smiling and julien rolled her eyes, “i mean she wants you! like a girlfriend!” “yeah! we’re totally girlfriends!” you answered genuinely, “lord help me…ellie is in love with you. she wants to kiss you, with tongue. she draw you naked on her sketchbook, she writes songs about you, she gave your name to her favorite star.” you looked at her for a moment, without saying anything, just analyzing. “you know i don’t understand irony.” you said and julien gave up, changing the subject.

little did you know it’s aaaalll true, ellie’s big motivation to go the college everyday is to one day she have a great job and earn a lot of money to spoil you with all the expensive makeup you like and a pretty ring that you deserve. one page on her sketchbook has you in a wedding dress and veil, with your name + williams wrote on it. nobody else has ever saw it, it’s too precious to her.

so imagine her state when you started seeing a new girl, rachel. she was miserable, thinking you would never look at her the same way, but in one radom thursday you sat at the cafeteria table with a pout and sad eyes, ellie was experiencing a bittersweet feeling: at the same time time you looked so cute and sweet with that face, she was mad someone or something had made you sad. “rachel told me she liked me more when she didn’t really know me.” you announced to your friends, almost crying but before anyone could say anything ellie let a loud scoff, “are you fucking serious? this girl is insane?” she said and everybody was shocked, no one had ever seen ellie so mad and speaking so loudly, you just looked at her, speechless, batting you eyelashes at her, she swore you were trying to hypnotize her. “anyone who says they don’t like your personality is fucking insane, anyone should be fucking proud to get to know you. to know the pretty person you’re, inside and out, to know your kind heart and your bright mind. i’m not gonna sit here and listen to you say how rachel it’s just a difficult person when in reality she’s just a asshole, she’s a damn prick. she doesn’t deserve you, and you don’t see this! you don’t see how she talks ‘bout you when you’re not around, you don’t see because you trust her and it is the saddest and yet the prettiest thing ‘bout you, you believe her besides everything. but you need to wake up, she doesn’t like you! she likes to have you by her side, to show you off, to kiss you and show everyone how she has a pretty girl by her side. but she doesn’t truly like you, she likes how you make her feel, because she fucking knows how much you like her.” when ellie finished your face was all wet with tears, and ellie was out of breath, looking at you, fearing your reaction.

you got up and went to hug ellie, who was on the other side of the table. she embraced your body, smoothing your back while you cried and tightly hugged her body. when you calmed down you took your head out of her shoulder and looked at her, “thanks for the cold shower els, i needed it.” you said and waved goodbye to the group. you head to the rachel’s dorm to end everything right after this. maybe ellie has a chance after all.

[pochaccoups]

the seven deadly sins — seventeen hyung line ver. (18+)

SEUNGCHEOL —; ENVY

Seungcheol can’t help how often the daggers of jealousy sink into his heart. You’re you, after all. The fucking hot love of his life. He think it’s a little justified that seeing other men make you smile brings out this possessive, protective urge in him, because it’s him that should be making you smile and laugh.

He’s not an asshole though. He’s not the type to punch a guy for checking you out, or even for hitting on you when he’s not by your side. He’s not even the type to intimidate, or humiliate. Your relationship is built upon a steady foundation of trust, and he knows before you even get to tell him that you’ve politely let whoever know that you’re taken.

That means it’s you who’s on the receiving end of his pent up envy.

Harsh, merciless snaps of his hips drive your face deeper into the pillow, make your muffled moans grow louder. Your poor pussy weeps around his cock as it drives in and out of you, as though Seungcheol won’t relent until he’s carved the shape of it into your guts. Until your mind can only think about him, him, him.

It’s his name you sob like you’re praying for forgiveness, his cock that finds a home in your greedy walls, his mouth that marks your skin and leaves a message upon you—you’re being taken care of.

JEONGHAN —; GREED

When Yoon Jeonghan wants something, he will stop at nothing to get it.

You were a smart girl, and he liked that. He wanted to play games with you, and you saw through him. Pretended to play along so you could play your own games and string him along, all in the name of fun. He wanted you—badly. Wanted to make you go dumb, put you in your place. How badly did you want the same thing.

What you quickly learn, however, is that it is not enough for Yoon Jeonghan to finally get what he wants. Even when he’s finally managed to slither his way between your legs, made you cry on his tongue and then his cock, in his eyes remains something akin to hunger.

He needs more.

Seeing you fall apart at his hands has altered something in his brain.

“One more, pretty?” he asks, soft and angelic, as though he hasn’t turned your bones into jelly and filled your head with cotton. He draws circles on your tummy; presses a kiss to your hair in a way that makes you melt for him.

“Can’t, Hannie, ‘s too much,” you mumble, your throat like sandpaper.

“It’ll feel good,” he says, sliding his hand between your legs to play with your poor puffy clit, grinning as you whimper at the contact. “Yeah?”

Your reply comes as a pitiful, broken moan. When he gets you to your high, it comes as a gentle, pulsing wave, but you’ve reached heaven now, and Jeonghan has guided you there. You’re floating, brainless, and as your eyes flutter shut and you drift away into slumber, he knows he has won.

JOSHUA —; PRIDE

Joshua Hong. The man who’s got it all. The face, the body, the voice, the girl.

Every conversation he has is about you, you, you. You’re his phone lockscreen. His social media pages are made up of pictures of you. It’s almost insufferable, the way he doesn’t shut up about how perfect of a partner you are.

He buys you a one-of-a-kind engagement ring. He doesn’t tell you how much it’s worth, but secretly he’ll leak it to the press—a quarter of a million dollars and a two year wait for it to be crafted.

It should come as no surprise that he likes to film you taking his cock. It’s not enough for him to slide his cock into your heat, to bury it snug between your velvety walls—he needs a way of remembering the tight, slippery grip of your pretty cunt pulsing around him, and the shameless, debauched noises you make when he fucks you good. Work means he can be far from you sometimes, and timezones mean you can’t just call, so tapes it is.

They’re strictly for your and his eyes only—of course. However, what crosses his mind too often is a devilish little voice in the back of his head telling him to post it. Just make a burner account. She’ll never know. But he can’t bring himself to do it when the ring on your finger is a promise of his trust.

Instead he’ll leave his phone unlocked, opened on his camera roll where the videos haven’t been tucked away into the hidden folder ‘yet’, or ‘accidentally’ clicking the wrong thing when sending his friends photos and ‘not realising’ until an hour later that he’d exposed to them a short dim clip of him covering your tits with his cum.

He knows they want you. It’s not like they hide their wolfish stares, their drooling mouths, their licked lips. They’ll never have you, though, and he sleeps well at night knowing that. With you in his arms, too.

JUN —; LUST

Junhui is quite a wildcard— a mix of a little bit of every sin. Above all, however, he is just so full of desire. He’s got an unquenchable libido that is heightened when he’s in love. And you are his lucky victim.

It’s the littlest things you do that make him hard. It’s even things you don’t do. It’s the way your tits sit in a low cut top on a blistering summer’s day. It’s the way you like to run your hands through his hair when you’re lounging on the couch together, or sitting at the dinner table. It’s the way you call his name from another room with the sweetest lilt to your voice: “Junieee?”

It’s the way you take him so good, whether you’re bent over the kitchen counter or pressed up against the wall or rolled onto your side first thing in the morning. He’s so greedy for you, for the warm embrace of your wet, fluttering pussy and for the sound of your soft, blissful moans.

It doesn’t help that you’re always so wet, so open and ready for him. Knowing that does terrible things to his sanity. You’re so pliable when he gets his hands on you, so welcoming, letting him play with you as he pleases. You try to play it off as he kisses along your neck and gropes at your nipples through your shirt, pretend like he’s bothering you, but you’re not fooling anyone.

He’ll try to make things quick sometimes, make you cum on his fingers while he kisses you hard, or let you take him down your throat, but then it’s you who’s whining, batting your eyelashes because you want more. He’s ruined you. You’re perfect for him.

HOSHI —; GLUTTONY

Oh, he can’t get enough of you. When he gets his hands (or, well, his mouth) on you, it’s over.

Kwon Soonyoung would spend weeks on end between your legs if he only could. He’d give up food and water and shelter and money if it meant he could survive on your pussy alone. It’s enough sustenance, he swears it.

“Taste so sweet, baby,” he tells you, smeared and glistening with you all down his chin and neck. He's the image of debauchery, indulgence, shamelessness all at once. You look even worse for wear. Sweaty, lips puffy from being bitten, skin burning, hair tousled. Both of you look like sin.

It always starts so innocent. Well, as innocent as your boyfriend using your stomach or tits as a pillow can be. “Just taking a nap,” he’ll insist. Then his fingers start wandering, and his hand is down your pants, and his head is between your thighs.

“Just… Just a lil’ sip, yeah?” he’ll promise, and you never believe him as his tongue dives into your cunt. It’s never been ‘just a sip’. He makes you sob, makes you spill your nectar all over his tongue and drinks it like it’s the blood of the Lord until he’s intoxicated by it, hooked on it, his life depends on it. He’ll keep eating even though he’s full and you’re a quivering, writhing mess, and even then it still won’t be enough.

WONWOO —; WRATH

Wonwoo is not mean. He doesn’t have much of a temper. He’s calm. Patient. Soft-spoken. His best friends of ten years have only seen him yell once. Really, he’s the last person to be described as wrathful.

Somehow, though, you’ve figured out how to get on every last one of his nerves. He’s smitten with you, but fuck if you don’t raise his heart rate sometimes.

“Are you really wearing that out, baby?” he asks, eyes dropping to the where you tug at your miniskirt, only for it to ride back up to just beneath your ass the second you move again.

“Yeah, why?” you reply, tilting your head at yourself in the mirror. “You don’t think I look hot?”

“You do, but—”

“You think I look like a slut?”

“No, love. It’s two degrees out. I don’t want you to freeze.”

“You just don’t want other men looking at me, I get it. God, you’re so controlling.”

You don’t mean it. His jaw still clenches.

Then it’s a never-ending back and forth until you’ve managed to wear out every last thread of his patience, and he’s putting you on your knees and stuffing your mouth full of his cock in return for you putting words in his. He’ll fuck your throat until it’s raw and your mascara bleeds down your face, until his release spills on your tongue and he’s cooing at you to swallow it like a good girl.

Then he’ll ruin your pussy. Flip that stupid little miniskirt up over your ass and give you something to complain about.

WOOZI —; SLOTH

It’s a well-known fact that Jihoon is a laid-back man. Not quite lazy—when it comes to his work he’s very much the opposite. It's just that doesn’t put any more effort into things than he needs to.

His slothful sex habits don’t come from the fact that he thinks you should be doing all the work because he has an ego. It’s nothing like that. It’s that he likes to let you take what you want from him, what you need. Which is why, most of the time, he’ll sit back and let you do exactly that.

With his arms behind his head, he watches with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth as you ride his cock into tomorrow. He’s in no rush to cum. So long as you’re not done with him, he doesn’t feel the need.

You’re a vision, anyway; and him, a sort of voyeur. His head spins only from the sound of your soft, broken moans, your disheveled appearance, the spit and cum and the marks that run down your chest. Your tight pussy is heavenly too, fluttering so temptingly around him, so needy, and he's not even doing anything.

Eventually comes your soft whining. Like clockwork, your hips start to slow, your words edged with exhaustion. “Jihoonie, my thighs hurt…”

"Ah, poor thing," he coos, but even in your fucked-out state you can hear the faux-concern in his words. He reaches for your face, warm and damp with sweat, and cups your cheek, running his thumb over your spit-slicked lips. "You wanted my cock so bad, didn't you? Then take it yourself."

Your thighs burn, and walking will hurt in the morning, but the only way you will get an orgasm and a load from your boyfriend is if you do as he says, so you brace yourself against his chest, and you ride him hard.

[connorsui]

The flowers arrive like clockwork.

Every two weeks, without fail, a fresh bouquet is delivered to your doorstep. And the arrangement always changes—

soft peonies, vibrant sunflowers, the classic elegance of white roses.

But the note is always .... the same, scrawled in familiar, slanted handwriting.

"For you, love. Keep them close. -S"

You press the latest note between your fingers, running your thumb over the ink. The paper is stiff and crisp. A stark contrast to the delicate petals resting in the glass vase on your kitchen counter.

Simon ... never forgets.

No matter where he is—somewhere far, somewhere dangerous, somewhere he won’t talk about—he remembers. Remembers you. Remembers that the loneliness sinks in deeper when his own house is too quiet, when the bed is too cold, when the weight of his absence presses down on you like an iron hand.

And so, the flowers come. A silent reassurance.

A tether to him.

However, what you don’t know is that thousands of miles away, buried in the monotony of deployment, Simon keeps a single flower from each bouquet. A small, fragile thing, tucked into his chest pocket.

It doesn’t belong here—delicate against the hard edges of military life, a stark contrast to the scent of gunpowder and sweat. But he watches it, tracks the way its petals curl inward, the way the color fades at the edges.

Because if it’s dying here, then the ones back home must be too.

And Simon doesn’t allow things to wither in his absence.

So he orders another bouquet. Makes sure it arrives before the last one is nothing more than brittle stems. Makes sure you don’t spend a single day without something beautiful waiting for you.

Because he knows you.

Knows that you don’t just place them in the vase carelessly—you trim the stems, change the water, arrange them just right, fingers brushing over petals like they mean something. And they do. Because they’re from him.

Knows that when the blooms start to wilt, you don’t throw them away immediately. You linger. You press the petals between the pages of books, tuck them into old letters, keep them as if they hold some part of him.

And maybe they do.

When Simon comes home, it’s always quiet. No grand reunions, no declarations. Just the steady sound of his boots crossing the threshold, the slow exhale as he sheds his gear, as the weight of war is left at the door.

And the first thing he does—before he even pulls you into his arms—is check the flowers.

Sees them fresh and bright, standing tall in their vase, just as they should be.

And he exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders, because he kept his promise.

You turn from the counter, watching him as he takes it all in. His eyes flicker to you, to the bouquet, back to you.

Then, soft as a whisper, “Did you like them?”

You smile, stepping forward, pressing yourself into his chest as his arms encircle you, his scent wrapping around you like something safe. Something whole.

You bury your face into his shoulder, voice muffled but sure. “Always.”

And he believes you. Because Simon doesn’t deal in pretty words or hollow gestures. He deals in actions, in quiet devotion, in making sure that no matter how far he is, you never feel the absence of him.

Not when his love still lingers in every petal, every bloom.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Vuelve a Mí Pt. I

summary: you and joaquin confront the cause of the end of your relationship.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

wc: 1,002

contents: 18+/minors dni, canon typical violence, angst, break up vibes, pining, longing, intense guilt, illusions to depression

AN: taking a stab at writing joaquin bc i've quickly grown enamored with him. i'm still learning his characterization and how i'd perceive him so be kind with this first try. this is just the first part & there will be another tying things up! i hope yall enjoy and i'm so excited to be back here writing again.

vuelve a mí masterlist

It’s hard to see him like this. Truthfully,  it’s hard to see him at all. Not because of anything he’s done, not even because of how he’s changed while you were gone, but from how you changed. 

It doesn’t make much sense; you had been turned to dust. Crumbled away into literal nothingness. And yet, when you returned everything felt different. Nothing, not your passions, your job, your family— Joaquin— felt like it was yours anymore. 

When you’d come back, you felt so disconnected from everything. You questioned who you were and what your purpose was, especially since so many people in your life had carried on. 

Joaquin included. 

He wasn’t Falcon when you left. He had never touched the suit. Sure he had wanted to, he had his aspirations but you had always imagined that you’d be right there to support him. 

But here you sat. Sam called you immediately, not knowing the hospital had too. You were still Joaquin’s emergency contact— after all these years he hadn’t changed it. 

So here you sit, a book in your hands as you patiently waiting for him to wake up. The doctors assured that he would wake up, he was in critical condition but young and healthy. ‘A fighter’ they’d said.

“You came.”

His voice startles you, and you flinch slightly, losing your place in the pages.

He grins apologetically, “Sorry, querida, didn’t mean to scare you.”

It takes effort to not get lost in his smile, especially after thinking that you might have lost him for good. 

You fortify yourself, crossing your arms against your chest, “More than you already have?”

“You’re one to talk, honey.”

You know exactly what he means. All the abandonment of relationships, taking risks to better understand yourself. He and others have made it clear that they’re worried about you, that you aren’t the same. Confirmation of what you’re most afraid of. 

“I don’t want to argue, not when you’re like this.”

He raises a brow at you playfully, “But some other time maybe? Over dinner?”

“Joaquin…”

You watch him physically deflate and it breaks your heart. He shakes his head, giving you a weak smile, “It was worth a shot, wasn’t it?”

“I’m sorry. I, um, I shouldn’t have come.”

“I’d be offended if you hadn’t,” He murmurs lowly.

Something inside you flutters at the soft huskiness of his voice and you’re rendered speechless for a handful of moments. Forced to acknowledge just how much you’ve missed him. Finally, you’re able to say, “I don’t know what you want me to say, Quino.”

“I don’t know, maybe something that explains why we aren’t together anymore.”

“I’ve explained that.”

“And it still doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s not fair, you don’t understand. You weren’t gone. You got to live your life with no interruptions, with no hiccups. And I got— I got nothing. I was nothing.”

He sits up, flinching as he does. You try to calm things— you had really meant it when you said you didn’t want to fight. But when Joaquin is worked up, when he believes in something his passion can’t be quelled. Isn’t that what got him here in the first place? 

He barrels past your attempts to shush him, his gaze piercing into yours as he does. “You’re right, I don’t understand. But what you don’t understand is how heartbreaking it was having to go on without you. My life was interrupted, the love of my life was taken from me and more than ever I had to serve my country. The one person that has ever truly understood me was gone. That’s a fucking hiccup if I’ve ever seen one. So no, it's not the same. No, I don’t understand, but it wasn’t easy for me. It’s never been easy without you— not before and definitely not after.”

As you listen to Joaquin’s words, you must face not only what the two of you lost together, but what he lost on his own. His struggle, his pain, forces you to turn away from your own and see his in a new light. And for the first time since you opened your eyes after being blipped, you feel like you’ve made a huge mistake. You’ve done nothing but hurt yourself and the ones you love by being swallowed by how the unknown may have changed you. 

You gave up. On yourself, on your friends and family. On Joaquin.

Your chest goes tight and you freeze as your body is flooded with emotion. It took this— him injured and angry for you to come to your senses? 

What have you done? 

“Hey, vuelve a mí,” He murmurs so gently that the tears in your eyes start to fall. “Lo siento, querida, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

With sharp, quick movements you wipe away your tears and stand. “I shouldn’t have come,” You repeat, stepping closer to him, resting your hand over his gently. “I’m really glad you’re okay Joaquin but I— I have to go.”

“Wait, we can talk about this, figure it out like we did before? Don’t go,” He flips his hand over in yours, lacing your fingers together.

“I’m not ready. I’m sorry. For everything, I’m so sorry,” You whisper brokenly. He squeezes your hand, running his thumb over yours in an attempt to soothe you. It only makes the guilt inside you plant itself deeper.

You swallow, shaking your head. Your mind is made up.  “Me being here…it’s just going to fuck up everything further. I’m sorry.

“Baby, that’s not—“

“Be well, Quino. Please,” you implore, untangling your hands and darting for the door.

He calls after you. Calls and calls, exerting effort you know his healing body shouldn’t. And yet, you can hear him trying until the elevator doors close. Something inside you continues to feel him. As you walk to your car, as you eat dinner later that night, as you crawl into your bed made for two. That yearning, that ache…it doesn’t change your mind. 

> pt. II

let me know if you'd like to be on my joaquin taglist!

[rivetgoth]

The way 99% of people who’ve read House of Leaves talk about House of Leaves make me sad because they’re always like “oh it’s about a house that gets bigger on the inside etc etc” but like. Within the canon of House of Leaves itself the Navidson Record, the part of the book that the house comes from, is a work of fiction. The book teases at the possibility that maybe it does in fact exist in a sort of urban legend type way but it asserts over and over again that Zampanò appears to just be making shit up and there’s no evidence of the Navidson Record or the house ever existing. The book goes out of its way to “disrupt” the Navidson Record narrative to remind us of this.

The story is, textually, about Johnny Truant, and Johnny’s trauma and repression and eventual descent into madness. Now to be clear I don’t think it’s wrong to say that the house is your favorite or the most memorable part of the book to you. Obviously it’s a major key to the story and plays a huge huge huge role in it and it’s very cool and very fun. But like. It makes me sad that people basically treat Johnny’s role in the story as, like, a side note. “House of Leaves is about the house…… and also sometimes this guy talks about his weird sexcapades and says a bunch of stuff that doesn’t make sense.” No!! That is the story!! Johnny’s story serves just as much narrative purpose as the house!! If not more!! Danielewski didn’t put it there for no reason!! I’ve literally seen people on Reddit say to “skip” Johnny’s sections and that’s CRAZY. The story of House of Leaves is not “the Navidson Record with skippable cutscenes about some guy.” It’s a work of fiction written by an author who intentionally devoted like half the narrative to the protagonist lol.

People do the same with Poe’s Haunted, treating it as, like, an interesting side note or trivia fact that it exists rather than acknowledging it as a complete sister piece to House of Leaves that constantly gives new dimension (hah) to the content of House of Leaves itself. She and Danielewski ARE Chad and Daisy. Ba dah ba-ba. All the time I see people ask for more media similar to House of Leaves and they’ve never even heard of Haunted until it’s mentioned!! It clarifies that the book is best interpreted as a story about grief, literal and figurative hauntings (especially by deceased family members), generational trauma. The concept of a house that’s impossibly bigger on the inside, that exists beyond the confines of human imagination, haunted by something that may or may not exist, is such an apt artistic interpretation of the complex grief that comes with the death of a family member.

The fact that “Wild,” the longest song on the album that functions in some ways as a sort of thesis statement for it, ends with this sample of an audio recording of their deceased father, whose death spurred the creation of both the book and the album:

“Communication is not just words. Communication is architecture. Because of course it is quite obvious that a house which would be built without the sense, without that desire, for communication would not look the way your house looks today.”

Like! That IS the key to House of Leaves! That’s the answer to the puzzle!

And I mean that’s to say nothing of the fact that, like, at least half of House of Leaves is meant to be satire on literary criticism and academic texts. Danielewski received an English Literature degree from Yale. I truly believe House of Leaves is intended to be just as funny and absurd as it is scary. The whole bit about how some theorist supposedly wrote a 900 page book about how Will and Tom Navidson function as contemporary versions of the Biblical Esau and Jacob that’s become the “academic standard” and “is not one page too long” genuinely had me laughing out loud. It’s clearly meant to be a meta joke about the field. This kind of further separates the reader from the narrative of the house — we are constantly reminded that, really, Zampanò is not a particularly good writer; his writing sort of comes to represent a particular type of goofiness found in academia. On a more serious note, how this method of engaging with text and by extension the world around you can come to be dehumanizing and harmful also plays a significant role, emphasized strongly in the constant allusion to Kevin Carter’s The Vulture and the Little Girl.

Anyway. When I’ve had people ask me what House of Leaves is about I always start by talking about Johnny. I usually say something about how it’s about this lonely messed up guy who’s given access to his friend’s dead neighbor’s apartment and finds a bunch of fragments of a story about a house that’s bigger on the inside and he starts losing his mind trying to put it back together. The role of the house itself is a side note to Johnny’s story. I do this, of course, because I’m a pretentious piece of shit.

[httpvomitello]

False Alarms .｡*･ﾟﾟ (part 2)

Summary: Following the aftermath of the argument, where the silence is louder, Joel has to claw his way back to you.

joel miller x f!reader

(part 1)

WARNINGS: Angst, age gap, references to past trauma, hurt/no comfort(in the beginning), language, happy ending (sort of).

The silence lasts some days.

Not tense, not heated—just cold.

The kind of quiet that settles into the bones of the house. Every floorboard creak, every clink of a spoon against ceramic sounds like it's happening in an abandoned place. Like you live next to each other, not with each other.

Joel sleeps on the couch.

You didn’t ask him to.

But you didn’t stop him, either.

On the second day, he leaves a cup of hot chocolate by your bedside. Still warm. You don’t drink it.

On the third, you come home to the broken hinge on the kitchen door fixed. You hadn’t asked. You hadn’t mentioned it. You’d been dealing with it squeaking for weeks. But there it is—quiet.

And so are you.

By day four, it’s raining, hard.

You’re curled on the far end of the couch, blanket around your shoulders, trying to read the same page for the fourth time. Joel steps inside, drenched, holding something behind his back.

You don’t look up.

He approaches cautiously, like he’s stepping through glass. Then—

He sets a small object on the table in front of you and backs away.

It’s a flower.

Not fresh. Dried. A small yellow bloom you’d pointed out months ago on patrol and told him reminded you of honey. Of warmth.

You swallow. Hard.

But say nothing.

Joel lingers by the fireplace, arms crossed like they’re holding him together.

He tries again later. Dinner.

He cooks your favorite—if anything made of canned beans and rabbit stew can be called a favorite. He sets the table. Lights a candle. Doesn’t say a word when you walk right past it and grab a granola bar from the cupboard.

But he doesn’t put the food away. He leaves it there, like he’s hoping you’ll change your mind.

You don’t.

Not yet.

That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, while Joel stays curled up on the couch downstairs, blanket thrown haphazardly over his shoulder.

You remember the way he looked at you when you told him you weren’t pregnant. Like the floor had fallen out from under him.

Not because he was relieved. Not because he was upset.

Because he didn’t know how to feel, and hated himself for it.

On the fifth morning, you find a note on the kitchen counter. Joel’s handwriting. Uneven. A little rushed.

"Didn’t know how to talk.

Didn’t know how to fix it.

Still don’t.

But I’d give anything if you’d let me try."

You sit down at the table and read it twice.

Then three times.

Then fold it neatly and place it in your pocket.

The sixth morning is quiet again. But the silence feels different.

Less like punishment. More like waiting.

You find him outside by the fence, hammering in reinforcement boards. The rain’s stopped, but his shoulders are soaked in sweat.

You watch him for a long time. The way he works—focused, jaw tight.

Finally, you speak.

“I got your note.”

Joel stopped.

Then slowly turns.

You meet his eyes.

“I’m ready to talk now.”

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t speak.

Just breathes—sharp and almost broken.

Then he nods.

And he drops the hammer.

Inside, the tension thickens again—different this time.

Joel sits down across from you, eyes down, wringing his hands like he’s bracing for the end of something sacred.

You take a breath.

He does too.

“I was scared,” you start. “Not of being pregnant. Not really. I was scared you’d shut down again. And you did.”

Joel flinches. But he nods.

“I thought we were past that. Thought we were better than the version of us that runs away when shit gets real.”

“I didn’t run,” Joel says quietly. “I froze.”

You look at him. “Same thing.”

He winces. “I know.”

A pause.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says. “I didn’t know how to be okay with it. Thought I’d say the wrong thing. So I said nothin’. Like a goddamn coward.”

You close your eyes. “It made me feel alone.”

Joel’s voice cracks. “You weren’t.”

Silence.

Then—

“I kept thinking,” he says, voice low, “if you were pregnant, I’d find a way. I’d try. Even if it scared me to death. Because I already lost too much. And I ain’t ever gonna be ready to lose you.”

Your chest tightens.

“But I also knew,” he continues, “that I’m not what you’d call a good bet. I get scared, I shut down. I don’t talk right. I’m... Jesus Christ, I’m older than you and still don’t know how to make you feel safe when you need it most. And that... that kills me.”

You don’t speak.

So he keeps going.

“But if there’s a way to learn, to be better at this—at us—I’ll do it. I’ll fuckin’ beg, if I have to.”

Your fingers tighten around your sleeve. Your throat is hot.

“I don’t want you to beg,” you whisper.

Joel meets your eyes.

“I just want you by my side.”

His voice is almost a whisper now. “Then say I still got a chance.”

You look at him for a long time.

Then nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “You still got a chance.”

Joel exhales so slowly, like he’s deflating.

Like his soul’s been waiting to come back home.

taglist: @umadirectioner, @keseqna, @jasminedragoon, @joelsslutt, @valoxwayward, @writingwizardsblog, @peachtickler69

[togeppy]

bloodline ;

garrick tavis x reader

after a particularly rough day of being looked down upon for being a marked one and endless bullying from alic tauri’s cronies, garrick comes to you looking for words of encouragement.  ✧ : lots of angst oops! shamelessly includes lyrics from the song bloodline by alex warren. this has been in the drafts for a long while, glad to finally have a reason to push myself to get this done. if i got my days right this is for day 5 of @empyreanevents tyrrendor week: marked!

With a major physics test tomorrow, your nose is stuck in your books as you sit at your desk, poring over your notes. When a soft knock sounds at your door distracting you from your focus, your face scrunches in annoyance. You choose to ignore it and resume studying, figuring it’s your boyfriend Garrick coming to distract you, the grin you love so much tempting you away from your work. However, you’ve always struggled with physics and you need to ace this test to save your grade, so you hope he’ll assume you’re not in and go bother Xaden instead. You flip the page of your book, continuing to read. 

Contrary to your expectations, another knock sounds and you sigh, knowing that the boy will not leave you alone until you at least briefly talk to him. 

“Garrick, I’m busy studying right now-” you start as you open the door, but your words are cut short as you see your boyfriend standing before you, no grin plastered across his face. Instead, his shoulders are slumped forward as if he wishes he could shrink in on himself, and his eyes are looking at you full of sorrow as tears begin to brim at their edges. 

“Gare? What’s going on?” your voice immediately softens as you usher the boy inside. He sits on your bed, and you quickly join him, gently tucking his head into your shoulder as he begins to softly cry. His body is trembling, and you stroke his hair to comfort him. “You’re okay, talk to me love. What happened?” 

Despite him being significantly larger than you, you can tell that he feels impossibly small right now. He sniffles into your shoulder before mumbling a response you can just barely make out. 

“Am I so bad of a person that there’s nothing they can find to like about me?” 

Your heart instantly shatters hearing the words that exit your boyfriend’s mouth. He doesn’t have to say it explicitly, but you know exactly what’s happened. There has always been a prejudice against the marked ones, but the antagonizing has only escalated since Xaden killed Alic Tauri weeks ago at Threshing. The boys that once followed Alic around like lost puppies now take their anger out on Xaden and Garrick daily, making everyone know that the two boys are the reason the prince of Navarre is dead. Usually, they take it with their heads held high, but you’re not sure how bad it got today to send Garrick into this state. 

“There is absolutely nothing bad about you,” you whisper, placing a gentle kiss to the top of his head in an attempt to reassure him, “Those guys are simple minded pricks. They’re too focused on the ink on your skin to take a moment and see that you’ve got a heart of pure gold under it all.” 

Garrick pulls away from your shoulder, his eyes red as he continues to sniffle, an uncertain look now present on his face. “But what if they’re not wrong?” 

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, unsure why he would even bother asking that question. “Gare, if I didn’t truly believe you were a kind man with strong morals, you would not be my boyfriend right now.” 

The boy shakes his head slightly, his eyes now trained on the relic that travels up his arm, as he seems to become more lost in his own thoughts. “I mean, what if they’re not wrong to judge us because of these marks? My father was second in command to a rebellion that took many lives. They were conspiring under the nose of our own continent. What if they’re right to be worried that we’ll do the same?” 

You stare at him for a second, not sure how to unpack all of what he’s just said. You have to admit that you thought poorly of the boys when you first met for the same reason, but luckily gave them a chance to see how wonderful they were despite what everyone believes. The only way you can think to respond is by rebutting in the way that convinced you to give them a chance.

“Garrick, you are not your father,” you start, speaking slowly so that you can properly think through your words, knowing how sensitive this topic is. However, before you can continue, the boy cuts you off. 

“I know that, but he’s the one who raised me, I am who I am because of him. I’m a Tavis, and because of this damn mark on my arm, everyone knows it.” His voice cracks as he speaks, and your heart lurches once again. 

“You may be a Tavis, but you don’t have to follow in your bloodline,” you respond, your voice soft as you murmur your next words into the top of his head, “‘From where you came’ isn’t who you are.” 

He pauses for a second as if digesting your words, and then finally speaks, his voice no louder than a whisper. “But they don’t think that.” 

“It doesn’t matter what they think, does it?” you counter, “Isn’t what your friends think of you more important than those random cadets?” 

His eyes now raise from his arm to look at you, his eyebrows furrowed as if conflicted. “Well yes obviously, but every single damn day people look at me like I’m going to stab them in the back. I just want…” he trails off for a moment, a vulnerable look in his eyes as his face slackens, “I don’t want to be demonized because of this mark anymore. I want people to fear me because I’ve trained to become a deadly force in combat, not because I’m a child of the rebellion.” 

All you can do for a moment is stare back at him. He’s never been this vulnerable with you before - he’s always been stoic, braving the criticism that comes his way without wavering. But, in this moment you wish that you could hold him and comfort him for eternity to ease away all of the doubts in his mind. Another part of you wishes you could hurt anyone who has ever made him feel like this. 

“We’re just first years,” you finally get out, trying to figure out what he needs to hear, “I know every day isn’t guaranteed, but if you have tomorrow, then you’ve still got time to break the chain.” 

You angle yourself so that you can bring his arm to your lips, pressing soft kisses along the inked skin. “Even with these scars, you were able to make me fall in love with you pretty quick. You’re among the first set of marked children to enlist. You’ve got two and a half more years here and plenty more time once we graduate to change the narrative. You’ve got time to make them see that the marked ones are a force of good.” 

Garrick sits in stunned silence, gaze cautiously examining your own to make sure that you really believe what you’re saying. You hold firm, eyes never breaking away for a second. When he’s finally sure that you’re confident in what you’re saying, he breaks, switching roles by pulling you into his own lap. 

He places a kiss to the side of your head, his arms tightening around you. “I don’t deserve you, you know that?” 

You shake your head in protest, your own eyebrows now furrowing. “You deserve so much more.” 

He lets out a small half laugh, the first since he walked in your room, and you finally ease up knowing that some of his self doubt has gone. “I don’t think there is much more than you.” Between sentences Garrick continues to press small kisses against your hair. “You really believe everything you said?” 

“Every single word,” you say instantly, leaning into his embrace, “Besides, being a Tavis isn’t just a bad thing is it? From what I hear, you all had very loving parents when they weren’t busy scheming. Your parents fought for those marks to keep you safe, and I’d say anyone who never made their children doubt that they were loved did something good.” 

The kisses stop against your head as the boy realizes what you’ve said, likely never having considered that perspective. “I… I guess you’re right. I did have a good dad.” 

You let out a hum of agreement. “See? There’s more to your name than just being a rebel.” 

“Yeah, I guess so.” Your boyfriend is silent for a moment, and you can’t see it but his eyes trail back down to you, full of love. “By the time I’ve graduated, no one will bat an eye at the incoming marked ones. I’ll show them what we’re capable of.” 

A smile lights up your face, hearing the confidence return to his voice. “That’s what I like to hear!” 

Your physics book long forgotten, you make yourself comfortable in Garrick’s arms, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a sleep not long after as the two of you continue to lay on your bed. 

When you’ve fallen asleep in his embrace, the boy places one more kiss to the top of your head, his own body beginning to shut down after being drained from his prior cries. 

“I’m going to change the trajectory of the Tavis name for you,” he whispers into the top of your head, knowing that you’re fast asleep and won’t hear a single word he says, “So that when we get married and you take my name, no one will ever treat you with the same disdain.” 

He runs one hand gently through your hair, listening to the sound of your shallow breaths. “You’ll never have to defend yourself for being with me again. I’m going to change their minds so that one day you can be proud of being with a marked one.” 

Garrick’s eyes begin to flutter shut, his own exhaustion creeping in. “I’m going to do it all for you. I promise you that.” 

[cameronsbabydoll]

MY SMART GIRL

tutor!kook!pope x bambi!reader

WARNINGS: light academic dumbification, teasing, tension, praise, pope being smug, slightly possessive vibes, makeout at the end

AUTHORS NOTE: credits to kook!pope: @princessbrunette and @starfxkrinc !! also divider is made by me! also i know the math in this fic is for middle school but yeah!

he’s explained the formula three times.

you’re trying. god, you are. but your pencil is starting to slip between your fingers, your eyes blurry, your knees tucked under the desk like they’re holding you upright.

pope’s voice is calm. steady. kind of too calm for someone watching you struggle over the same algebraic expression for twenty minutes.

“baby.”

your head snaps up. “i’m listening,” you say quickly. too quickly. like you’re expecting him to scold you.

he doesn’t.

instead, he smiles. soft, amused. the kind of smile that makes your stomach flip.

“i know,” he says, voice warm. “but you’re listening with your cute little puppy face. not your brain.”

you blink at him. scandalized. “what does that mean?”

“it means,” he hums, tapping your notebook, “you’re staring at the page like it’s gonna sprout legs and walk you through the equation.”

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

he leans in, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. “not a bad thing,” he murmurs. “makes me feel important.”

your voice is quieter now. almost shy. “so… if the exponent is negative—”

“it goes in the denominator,” he says, already circling the number. “it’s like… when something’s not ready to be on top, it goes underneath. it submits.”

you stare.

“that’s your academic example?” you ask, heat rising in your cheeks.

he shrugs, not even bothering to look sorry. “it’s memorable, isn’t it?”

you squint at him. “you’re insane.”

“but you’ll remember it now,” he says, smug. “you don’t have to get it my way. you just have to let me teach you.”

you let out a breath. one that sounds a little too much like i want to kiss you.

then, softly: “it’s hard when you’re so smart.”

he smiles again. different this time. quieter. a little dangerous. “not smart,” he says. “just really obsessed with your confused face.”

you stop breathing for a second.

he tilts his head, watching you like he’s memorizing your reaction. “look,” he adds. “let’s try from the bed. maybe the desk is too stiff.”

and maybe you’re too dazed to argue. or maybe you like the way his hand lingers at the small of your back as you sit down.

but you nod. and then it gets worse.

because now he’s behind you, thighs bracketing yours, his textbook on your lap like it’s innocent, like his breath on your neck isn’t making your thoughts evaporate.

you’re trying. again.

you get halfway through the question.

“pope…”

his hand rests low on your stomach, thumb brushing under the hem of your shirt. “yeah?”

“i can’t.”

he hums against your shoulder. kisses it, just barely. “you can. you’re my smart girl, right?”

you nod. slow. dizzy.

“say it.”

“i’m your smart girl,” you whisper.

and he grins. so proud. so smug.

he kisses your cheek. your neck. your jaw.

but you shake your head, still fixated on the textbook.

“i’m gonna get one,” you mumble. “watch.”

he leans back, hands raised like he’s letting you drive. “go ahead.”

you reread the question. your lips move, murmuring something under your breath, and then—finally—you circle the right answer.

you turn to look at him, triumphant.

he’s already looking at you like he wants to ruin your life.

“look at you,” he breathes. “that brain does work after all.”

“shut up,” you whisper, grinning.

“make me.”

you don’t get the chance—because his hand finds your chin and tilts your mouth up to his before you can think twice.

he kisses you like he’s been waiting all night. like you’re the answer to something he didn’t know how to ask. like he needs you soft and sweet and pressed up against him in his stupid boat shoes and pressed polo and smirking mouth.

and when you finally break away for air, a little breathless and dazed, he tucks your hair behind your ear and murmurs, “still think you’re bad at math?”

you shove the textbook off the bed.

“i think i’m bad at focusing when your with me.”

[darlingsblackbook]

Alhaitham x Academic Rival!Reader | Part Two

Why is apologizing so hard!

Genshin Masterlist

I | Alhaitham doesn’t apologize right away - not because he doesn’t regret it, but because he has no idea how to approach you without making it worse.

II | Alhaitham tries to be logical about it at first: If I gave offense, I should simply clarify. Done.

III | When Alhaitham sees you again - sitting a little farther away in the lecture hall, eyes a little dimmer - his carefully constructed plan crumbles.

IV | Alhaitham approaches you with a book in hand, pretending it’s business. “I thought this might support your argument from last week. You were close, but your conclusion lacked support.”

You stare at him blankly. “Thanks.”

No sarcastic smile. No flustered stammer.

He walks away feeling worse.

V | Kaveh catches Alhaitham pacing at home.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re rereading the same page for 20 minutes. She finally ignore you back, huh?”

VI | The next time you see Alhaitham, he’s weirdly lingering. Hovering near your desk like a ghost with a PhD.

“You didn’t submit your paper this week.”

“Wasn’t feeling up to it.”

“It’s not like you to fall behind.”

“…Maybe I’m not on your level.”

That hits. Alhaitham stands frozen, unsure what to say.

You pack up and leave without waiting.

VII | The guilt builds until it spills over into Alhaitham's writing. Your name shows up in the margins of his notes.

She would’ve argued this… Her stance would be this…

He realizes he misses you. Not just your intellect — you.

VIII | So… Alhaitham buys sweets. They’re not even your favorite. He doesn’t know what your favorite is. He just remembers you once picked a pastry over lunch and mumbled something about it being “comforting.”

IX | Alhaitham leaves it on your desk with a sticky note:

“For research recovery.”

You stare at it for a long time.

X | The next day, you leave your corrected paper on Alhaitham's desk.

He reads it three times.

He circles a line of your argument and writes in the margins,“Impressive.”

XI | That afternoon, Alhaitham finds you in the library.

“I was unfair to you.”

You blink.

He's standing there like he's about to defend a thesis, but his voice does not have that edge to it at all. No, it's soft - gentle.

“You were right to walk away. I… didn’t mean to hurt you.”

XII | Your heart stirs — not because of the apology, but because it’s Alhaitham. Stiff posture, untrained words, but sincere eyes.

XIII | "Why do you even argue with me if you think I’m beneath you?”

“I don’t.”

“…Then why say it?”

“Because when I talk to you, it doesn’t feel like I’m wasting my breath. You’re the only one who pushes back. And—”

He hesitates. “—I value your mind. Even if I don’t always… speak kindly.”

XIV | You soften a little. “You don’t have to be cruel to show respect, you know.”

“I’m learning that.” Alhaitham looks away. “But… I’d like to keep hearing your voice. Debating with you. Even if you win.”

XV | “You’d let me win?”

“No,” Alhaitham says, deadpan. “But I’d tolerate it.”

You laugh. It’s the first time he’s heard it in a while. He hides his relief badly.

XVI | From then on, Alhaitham starts catching himself before speaking. He still throws jabs, but they’re lighter, more teasing. You start teasing back.

XVII | One day, Alhaitham catches you staring at him.

“What?”

“Just wondering when you turned into someone kind of… sweet.”

He blushes and immediately hides behind a book. “Must be projection.”

XVIII | When you pass Alhaitham your next paper, there’s a note at the end,“Try to be nicer, or I’ll start winning on purpose.”

He smiles. Actually smiles.

XIX | The rivalry never ends — but now it’s charged with something electric. And when Alhaitham finally kisses you (a long time later), he still prefaces it with,

“This doesn’t mean you were right about your theory.”

You grin. “Sure, Haitham. Whatever helps you sleep.”

All Rights Reserved © 2025 Darlingsblackbook

[roseandxanderfics]

“Pretty Girls Don’t Get Away With Murder” - Joe Goldberg x ShyMorally Grey!Reader

Summary: Joe finds out you’ve killed someone—and were careless. Now that he’s helped you cover it up, he decides it’s time to teach you obedience.

A/N: This one is Dark, smutty, and obsessive.

—————————

It starts with your sleeve.

A white knit sweater, oversized and worn thin at the wrists, pulled over trembling fingers as you linger by the poetry section at Anavrin. You’re always here late—past the lunch rush, before the after-work crowd. You drift between aisles like you’re afraid to disturb the air. Like you’re made of glass and the world might shatter you just by looking too hard.

But Joe looks anyway.

He notices the stain before he notices you. A rust-colored smear, barely dried, half-hidden beneath the cuff of your sleeve. Too dark for coffee. Too heavy for paint. And you keep glancing at it. Touching it. Like you don’t remember how it got there.

Like you do.

And then—then he notices you.

The pretty girl with the faraway eyes. The nervous hands. The way you speak in near-whispers at the register, never quite meeting his gaze, always fumbling your change.

You don’t flirt. You don’t linger. You thank him like you’re afraid your voice might break.

He watches you leave with a book tucked to your chest like armor. Your footsteps are soft. Timid. Too careful.

But that stain stays in his mind long after you’re gone.

⸻

You come back three times that week.

Same time, same sweater.

He starts to notice other things. Your hair is never quite brushed. You chew your lip when you read, like you’re tasting the words. You fold pages even though you try not to. You flinch when the doorbell rings too loudly.

And you always, always smell like bleach.

The kind of clean that means something dirty came before it.

Joe begins to check the news.

Local updates. Crime forums. Reddit threads. Nothing at first. Then—something. A man missing. Early 30s. Last seen at a dive bar two blocks from where you’re staying. No security footage. No follow-up. No family contact.

No leads.

He knows it’s a stretch. But it’s the kind of stretch he’s always been willing to make.

⸻

He follows you home the next night.

Your apartment is above a dry cleaner, and the hallway light flickers every few seconds. You struggle with the keys before slipping inside—double lock, deadbolt, chain.

Cautious. Good.

There’s a single plant on your windowsill, half-dead and sun-starved. Curtains drawn tight. No pictures on the wall. One mug in the sink. A chipped teacup on your nightstand. Books everywhere. Piled like protection spells.

He sees the way your fingers tremble when you tuck the deadbolt in place.

He sees how you leave the window open just a little.

A whisper of invitation.

⸻

He doesn’t expect what he finds the second time he follows you.

You’re in the basement beneath the dry cleaner. No security, no cameras, just rusted stairs and a padlocked door you unlock with a key hidden inside your boot. You move like a ghost, slow and deliberate, carrying a duffel bag too heavy for your frame.

Joe watches from a slit in the door as you drag the bag across concrete.

There’s plastic on the floor. A shovel. Bleach. Something that looks like bone.

You move like it’s not your first time.

⸻

You don’t come into Anavrin for five days.

Joe tells himself not to be worried, but worry is a pretty word for longing when it festers. By the sixth day, he’s near unraveling—replaying the curve of your wrist, the softness of your voice, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear before disappearing down the street.

And then—just like that—you’re back.

Still shy. Still gentle. Still pulling your sleeves down like they’re a second skin.

But this time, you meet his eyes.

And smile.

⸻

You wait until closing.

“Can you help me carry something?” you ask, quiet as a breath, like you’re asking for forgiveness. Joe’s heart stutters.

He says yes, because he always would.

You lead him to your car—a battered thing with no hubcaps and a glove box that won’t shut. In the trunk is a tarp. Wet. Folded wrong. The kind of heavy that sinks.

You look down. You speak without looking at him.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Joe exhales, slow and measured. He crouches. Lifts the tarp.

Underneath: a boot. A wristwatch. Nothing else.

He stands.

“You should’ve worn gloves,” he murmurs.

Your head tilts like a scolded child. “I know.”

He should run. He should say nothing. He should walk away.

But instead, he looks at you and thinks: Finally.

⸻

You kiss him like you’ve never kissed anyone before.

Back at your apartment, just inside the door, barely breathing. You reach for him like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. Like touching him might burn. Your lips are tentative, uncertain, but willing.

He touches your jaw gently, then firmer, tilting your face up. “You don’t have to be scared.”

You whisper, “I’m not scared of you.”

The rest unfolds slowly.

You let him press you into your mattress. Let him slide your sweater up over your hips. Let him memorize the way your breath catches when he trails kisses along your stomach.

He whispers things he’s never meant before.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re perfect.”

“No one’s ever going to touch you again.”

And you—trembling, flushed, open—you nod.

You cling to his shoulders like you’ll float away without him.

⸻

Later, when the room is quiet and your body is curled against his, you murmur something that makes him smile into your hair.

“If you’re going to watch me, you should at least help next time.”

Joe exhales. Presses a kiss to your temple. Feels your fingers twist into his shirt.

This time, he won’t have to pretend.

————————

The silence after is too still.

You’re curled against his chest, body warm, legs tangled with his under the cheap cotton sheets, and your breathing is beginning to level—but Joe’s heart hasn’t slowed.

It won’t.

Not when he keeps picturing it: you, sweet and gentle, standing there with blood on your sleeve like it was just another errand. You, looking at him with glassy eyes and trembling hands, not knowing what it means to be seen until now.

You didn’t even try to hide it. You just—wore the guilt. Or maybe it wasn’t guilt at all. Maybe you just didn’t know better.

And that’s the part that haunts him. That makes his fingers twitch against your hip.

You don’t know better. You haven’t been taught.

You could’ve ruined everything. Gotten caught. Left him alone again. Taken from him before you even belonged to him properly.

He smooths a hand over your back, palm warm and slow. You sigh into it, like you’re melting into him.

He hates how soft you are.

He loves it.

“Wake up,” he murmurs against your temple.

You shift, sleepily, murmuring something that might be Joe or might be please.

He rolls you onto your back and climbs on top of you, knees braced on either side of your hips, his palm settling firmly against your throat—not pressing, not yet, just enough for you to know the shape of his hand.

“Do you understand what could’ve happened?” he asks, voice low and flat.

Your eyes flutter open. “I didn’t mean to mess up.”

That earns you a quiet, bitter laugh.

“You didn’t mean to,” he echoes. “That’s the problem. You never mean to, do you?”

He leans down, lips brushing yours like a threat.

“You just kill people. And leave little trails behind. And trust that no one will notice your sleeves are soaked in blood.”

You open your mouth to speak, to explain—but he shakes his head.

“No. You don’t get to talk yet.”

He slides back down your body, pushing the blanket aside. His hands are not gentle now—they’re practiced. Certain. One holds your hip down while the other parts your thighs, spreading you wide as his eyes darken with quiet authority.

You’re wet again. Already.

Of course you are.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You know you deserve this, don’t you?”

You nod, breath catching.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “I deserve it.”

His hand trails between your legs but doesn’t linger. Not yet. He’s building something. You can feel it in the way his voice stays even, in the way he watches every twitch of your thigh.

“You don’t get to kill people and walk around like you’re innocent. Like you’re good.”

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear.

“But you are good, aren’t you? For me.”

“Yes.”

His hand returns. Two fingers press between your folds, slick and slow, stroking through your wetness but never dipping inside. You tremble beneath him, arching slightly—asking. He gives you nothing.

“Do you think I’m going to let you keep doing this?” he asks softly. “Wandering around like prey. Like you’re not mine to control. Mine to teach.”

“I’m trying,” you whisper.

His fingers stop. The silence that follows is heavy.

He slaps your thigh, not harsh, but sharp enough that it echoes.

You gasp.

“Try harder.”

Then he pushes two fingers into you at once—deep and unforgiving. Your back arches, your moan swallowed by his mouth as he presses his lips to yours again, this time kissing you, slow and devouring.

His pace doesn’t change. He moves inside you like he’s memorizing every inch—mapping it for himself. Claiming it.

“You’re going to get better,” he murmurs into your neck. “I’m going to make you better.”

His thumb circles your clit with relentless pressure, and you’re unraveling, your body twitching, clenching around his fingers as heat spreads low in your belly.

But right when you’re about to tip—

He pulls away.

Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, your hips chasing the friction, but he pins you with a glare.

“Not yet.”

You whimper. He smiles. It’s not kind.

“You’ll come when I say. Not before. Understand?”

You nod desperately. “Yes. Please. I’ll listen—”

“You will,” he says, pulling your wrists above your head and holding them there with one hand. “Because if you don’t—if you ever put yourself in danger like that again—I won’t be gentle next time.”

He slips inside you then. Slowly. Deliberately. Every inch a lesson. You’re so tight, so wet, so full of him, and he watches your eyes flutter shut like the feeling is too much to hold.

“That’s it,” he groans, sinking fully into you. “This is where you belong. Spread out. Quiet. Obedient.”

He fucks you like it’s a promise—like every thrust is a sentence carved into your skin.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You cry out when he hits that spot again, and he drinks it in—every gasp, every moan, every broken apology as your body strains for release. He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re shaking under him, begging him through your tears.

Only then does he press his lips to your ear.

“Now.”

And when you come, it’s like something sacred unspools in your chest.

You fall apart around him, and he follows right after—grinding deep into you with a guttural groan, emptying himself inside you like it means something. Like it binds you.

It does.

You don’t even flinch when he pulls you into his arms afterward, when his mouth brushes your temple, when his voice lowers to something tender again.

“I’ll keep you safe now,” he whispers. “Even from yourself.”

And you—sleepy, sore, utterly undone—nod against his chest.

You believe him.

Even if it means you’ll never be allowed to run.

[onlyangel4]

closer. damian priest. smau.

damian priest x fwb!reader

synopsis: you told yourself it was just sex. damian priest was everything you weren’t supposed to want, too tall, too intense, too dangerous with the way he looked at you like he owned you. the deal was simple: no strings, no sleepovers, no catching feelings. but rules like that were made to be broken, and somewhere between the 3am texts and the bruises he left on your thighs, it stopped being casual. he said you weren’t his. but he acted like you were. but finally you are forced to express how you really feel.

faceclaim: teyana taylor

warnings: mature content.

angel's playlist

y/ninsta posted a story

written: candid baby

archerofinfamy replied to this story: is that my shirt?

y/ninsta: looks better on me

archerofinfamy: i ain't arguing with that

archerofinfamy posted a story

written: still from last night

y/ninsta replied to this story: fuck me

archerofinfamy: i'll be over tonight

y/ninsta posted a story tagging y/friend

written: missed this

wwenews posted a story

written: damian priest spotted in a club last night

y/ninsta posted a story

written: unbothered

archerofinfamy replied to this story: you really gonna ignore me all day and then post a pic like this

y/ninsta: exactly

archerofinfamy: let me come over

y/ninsta: ask the girl from last night

archerofinfamy posted a story

written: you can't ignore me forever

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you hadn’t heard from damian in days. not a text. not a half-assed "you up?", or one of his possessive, cryptic messages. not until tonight. now he was knocking, no, pounding, on your apartment door like he had the right to.

you ignored him at first. he deserved that much.

"open the door", his voice called through the wood, rough and low. "please."

you didn’t move.

"i’m not leaving", he warned, voice rising just enough to let you know he was serious. "so unless you want your neighbours hearing everything i’m about to say"

that made you exhale, frustrated and curious in equal measure. you opened the door, just enough to see him. black hoodie, tired eyes, and that same heavy tension in his jaw that always meant he was trying not to feel something. he looked like hell. good. you hoped he did.

"you’ve got some nerve showing up here", you said flatly.

"i know." his voice cracked slightly. "i fucked up."

you didn’t say anything, just crossed your arms and leaned against the doorframe.

"it wasn’t what it looked like", he said quickly. "i didn’t touch her. She leaned in. the cameras made it look worse"

"i don’t care", you cut in. "do what you want, right? that’s the whole thing, isn’t it? no strings. no feelings. no reason for me to care where your hands are when they’re not on me."

that landed like a punch. his brows drew together. His mouth opened, but no words came out at first. then he stepped forward, into your space.

"you stopped answering me", he said, quieter this time. "i haven’t slept. i haven’t thought straight. you think this is just sex for me? i haven’t touched anyone else since the night i met you. i can’t. i don’t want to."

you stared at him, heart pounding.

"then what is it, damian?" you asked. "because i’ve been trying to convince myself this doesn’t mean anything, and it’s starting to feel like a lie."

he exhaled, eyes dropping to the floor like it hurt to admit what came next.

"it’s you", he said. "it’s always you. you drive me insane. i want you all the time. i hate that i don’t know where you are or who you’re with. when i saw that guy on your page, i lost it. but i don’t get to be jealous when i'm not man enough to admit i’m already all in."

you said nothing. just stared at him like he’d grown another head. and maybe he had, because this wasn’t the damian priest who said he didn’t do feelings. this wasn’t the version who left after sex without a goodbye. this was someone breaking open in front of you.

"i want more", he said, stepping closer. "i want all of it. you. no one else. i’m done pretending it’s a game."

you didn’t realise you were shaking until you reached for him.

"shut up", you muttered, grabbing the front of his hoodie and yanking him inside. the door slammed behind him, and before either of you could say another word, his mouth was on yours.

it wasn’t soft. it wasn’t gentle. it was desperation and apology, possession and pain. his hands were in your hair, your back, your hips, like he was trying to memorize you, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. you clawed at his hoodie until it came off, dragging your nails down his back, punishing him for every day you spent angry, confused, wanting him.

"you’re mine", he growled against your mouth. "you hear me? say it."

"you’re not allowed to say that", you gasped, lips swollen, breath ragged. "you don’t get to be jealous and disappear"

he picked you up like you weighed nothing, carried you through the apartment without missing a beat.

"too late" he said.

he laid you out like you were something holy and then ruined you like you weren’t. over and over. with his hands. his mouth. his voice in your ear, whispering everything he wasn’t supposed to feel.

and when you were wrecked, breathless, trembling in the dark, you felt him kiss the inside of your wrist.

"mine", he said again. quieter this time.

and this time, you didn’t argue.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the morning after felt like something neither of you wanted to break.

sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting lazy lines across the sheets tangled around your legs. damian's arm was slung across your waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep, his chest rising and falling against your back in a steady rhythm. you weren’t sure how long you’d been awake, but you didn’t move, not yet. not when his fingertips were brushing soft circles just under the hem of your shirt like he was still touching you in his dreams.

you shifted slightly, and he pulled you closer, burying his face in the curve of your neck with a sleepy groan. his voice, rough and low, vibrated against your skin.

"where you goin’?" he mumbled.

"nowhere", you whispered. "just breathing."

he kissed your shoulder lazily, his lips warm and soft. "good. stay here. i’m not done with you yet."

you smiled into the pillow. "we’ve already gone three rounds, big man."

he chuckled, slow and satisfied. "still not done."

you rolled over to face him, and for a second, neither of you said anything. You just looked. His hair was a mess. he had pillow creases on his cheek. his eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, no bravado, no heat, just this quiet awe like he couldn’t believe you were real.

"you’re staring", you teased.

"can’t help it.", his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "you’re pretty when you’re not yelling at me."

you laughed and smacked his chest lightly. "don’t get used to it."

he caught your wrist before you could pull away and kissed the inside of it, the same spot he’d whispered mine the night before. "i won’t. but I’m not messing this up again."

you felt your chest tighten. you hadn’t talked about what this was now, hadn’t put a label on anything, but you could feel it. the shift. the way his touch felt like a promise now instead of a placeholder.

"i missed you", you admitted quietly, eyes falling to the space between you.

he lifted your chin. "i was a dick. i know that. but i missed you more. and i’m here now. not going anywhere unless you tell me to."

you didn’t.

instead, you leaned in and kissed him, soft, slow, like you were learning him all over again. his hand slipped under your shirt, palm splaying across your stomach.

"you keep kissing me like that", he murmured, voice husky, "and i’m gonna be late to training."

you smiled against his mouth. "call in sick."

his grin was crooked, lazy, and a little dangerous. "you’re gonna ruin me, you know that?"

"already did", you whispered.

and you stayed in bed a little longer.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

archerofinfamy posted a story

written: i always get what's mine

[writtenbyan-aries]

Summary: full one shot based off of this snippet - I added more details to this one.

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, swearing, onlyfans!reader, consensual recording/picture taking, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, dirty talk, praising, oral (f rec), hair pulling, choking, filthy filth

Word Count: 3.2k | not edited

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

You were at home, racking your brain on new ways to spice up your website. A new outfit? No. A new lingerie set? No.

You chewed on your lip, letting out a frustrated sigh as nothing peaked your interest.

The feeling of your phone vibrating on your thighs, distracts you from your thoughts when you see Colby’s name on the screen, “Hey.”

“Hey. Do you have plans tonight?” Colby asks, not really sounding like he even wants to be talking to you right now.

“Um, no. I don’t think so, why?” You sit up and wait for him to speak, but he’s still quiet, “Colby?”

“I gotta go.”

You hear the three beeps and slowly pull your phone away from your ear, confused as hell, “What the fuck?” You shake your head, trying to figure out why Colby sounded different on the phone.

He didn’t tell you if anything was bothering him, he seemed fine before he left, which is what makes it weird because he couldn’t even be on the phone with you.

But it also made you kind of worried. You liked Colby.

A lot.

The one thing that’s been holding you back from telling him about said feelings, is mainly your onlyfans page.

You weren’t sure whether or not Colby would be okay with that. You wanted Colby and you honestly felt like he wanted you, too. But, at the same time, you weren’t sure if he would want to be with someone that has shown and continues to show their tits for money.

You toss your phone down with a sigh before walking over to retrieve your new lingerie sets from your bottom dresser drawer. You lay them out, deciding on which one to pick before changing into it.

You grab your camera, setting it on your tripod before moving to get on the bed, posing in various positions before repeating if with the next set.

You were honestly shocked that you haven’t been walked in on before. Sometimes you get so into taking pictures or recording stuff that you heard something at the last second that’s saved you from even Sam walking in.

You wrapped up getting dressed right at the perfect time. As soon as you pulled your shirt down over your body, you hear the front door open and close with a powerful shove.

You wait a few seconds, trying to listen to if you can tell where they’re going, but panic at the last second when you hear them growing closer.

You shove your tripod in your closet before moving to shove the lingerie back into the bottom dresser drawer.

Just as you turn around, there’s a knock on your door and you know it Colby, “Come in.”

The door opens and he walks in, “Hey.”

You give him a smile, “What’s up, Colbs?” Your smile slowly fades away when he doesn’t look at you for a few seconds, “Colby?”

He doesn’t look at you when he asks, but his words shockyou, “Do you do porn?”

You blink a few times, processing what he just asked you, “um. I-I, mean yes and no.”

“What do you mean yes and no?” He turns towards you, “Do you just, go through guys? Like what? how does that work?”

You hold up your hand, “Whoa, back it the hell up, Colby. I don’t just go through guys.” You scoff, “What is your deal?”

Colby sighs, “My deal, is that you do porn and you never told me?” He shrugs, “You sleep in the room next to mine.. I don’t, this is big, y/n.”

You laugh slightly, mainly trying to cover up your nervousness, “Colby. Listen to me. It’s not straight up porn. Okay? I do OnlyFans. I don’t do anything nude. Well..”

He looks at you, “What do you do?”

You sit down on your bed, reaching over to grab your laptop, “If you want to know, just..” You get in, clicking around until you pull up your page, “Here. Look. The only really bad thing is that I show my boobs, and every now and then I will post a video. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it.”

He walks over, sitting down beside you as he takes your laptop. You can tell there’s a positive change to his demeanor and you bite your lip.

You watch as his eyebrows raise with each picture that’s more scandalous than the last. You hear his breath hitch when he stumbles across your first video - purple vibrator sliding in and out of your pussy.

“So..” you cause him to jump slightly but you don’t pay any attention to it, “..who told on me?”

Colby laughs, “well.. actually.” He looks over at you, “One of Sam’s buddies sent him a screen shot and asked if it was you.”

“Why would Sam know? I haven’t told anyone I do this.” You tilt your head and Colby shrugs, looking back to your computer as he scrolls down, “I don’t know, but yeah.” He turns his phone towards you and points to this picture on your computer, “Its this one.”

You purse your lips, “That was a pay to see picture.”

“Wait, what’s that mean?” Colby looks at you and you can’t help but giggle, “It means.. whoever screenshotted that and sent it to Sam, paid to unlock it so they could see it.”

“So, they’re subscribed to you?” Colby asks and you nod, “or someone else he knows is?” You shrug, “I’m not sure, Colby.”

You could see the jealousy plastered on his face as he just stares at you, “Uh huh.” He jocks his jaw and nods, “Okay.”

He sets your computer down on the bed and stands up, hands on his hips as he tries to process everything you just shared with him, photos and all.

“So what? Are you like mad at me? Not friends anymore?” You purse your lips, “Like does this make you look at me differently?”

Colby shakes his head, “Not really. Well..” he laughs slightly, motioning towards you computer, “..I mean, okay. I see you differently now, but like..” He trails off, trying to find his wording as he scratches his brow, “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t want to tell you because I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it and I didn’t want to risk ruining our friendship.”

Colby chuckles, “Ruined?” He shake his head, “No. not at all. As I said. Different.. a hundred percent.”

“Different?” You ask as you tilt your head and he nods, “Oh yeah. You’re so much hotter than I originally thought.”

You can feel your cheeks growing warm and Colby’s next question didn’t help any matters, “So, how do you feel about potentially doing full blown.. porn?”

Fuck, you think, “Um. I mean..” you laugh slightly and look down before looking back up at him, “Maybe if it was someone I was comfortable with?”

You nod, Colby heavy on your mind, “Yeah. I think I could do it.”

A smirk grows on his lips as he slowly leans in, giving a nod to the right with his head, “Go get those pretty little outfits, because we’re about to be making you bank, baby.”

You tilt your head, “Why don’t we just get right to it.” You grip the collar of his shirt and pull him down as you lay back. He goes with you, his lips attacking your neck.

“Don’t we need the camera?” Colby leans back and you nod, “Yeah.” You breathe out, “It’s in my closet on the tripod.”

You look up at him with a smirk, “I took some pictures while you and Sam were out.”

“Mm, I’ll need to see those, too then.” He pushes himself up and goes to get the camera. He turns it on after taking it off, clicking a few times, “And we’re rolling.”?

He walks over to you, “Go ahead and take those clothes off for me, baby.” He bites down on his lip as he alternates watching you in the little screen and behind it, “Fuck, look at you.”

You toss your shirt to the side, leaving you topless as you move to sit on your calves, thumb hooking into the waistband of your shorts, “You like what you see?”

“Baby you have no idea.” Colby bites down on his lip, watching as you slowly push your shorts down your thighs. You fall back, lifting your legs to kick them off and Colby pulls them off of your ankles, tossing them behind him.

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart.” Colby bends down, pointing the camera directly at your pussy, “You look fucking so good.”

You gasp as Colby’s thumb drags up and down your folds, “P-please.” You whimper as you buck your hips, “I need you.”

Colby pushes his thumb into your cunt, angling the camera up at your face as your eyes roll back and you moan, “Fuck, yes.”

He angles the camera back down just as he starts to slowly work his thumb in and out of you, making sure to film how fast your wetness costs his skin, “Fuck, you’re so wet already.”

“Been wanting you.” You roll your hips at the loss of his thumb inside of you, “P-please.”

He chuckles as he sets the camera down on the bed, “Play with yourself while I undress, sweetheart.” You watch as he steps back, waiting until your fingers start working circles on your clit to undress.

“There ya go, baby.” He whispers, lip pulled between his teeth as his fingers move to unbutton his shirt, “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

Your eyes track his shirt as it falls to the floor and you slide two fingers in, gasping at the feeling. Colby nods, “Keep going. Fuck, listen to that.”

Colby finishes undressing, picking up the camera and giving it a closer look at your needy cunt, your fingers weren’t cutting it.

“Here baby.” Colby hands you the camera and you smirk as you take it, flipping it around to capture him moving between your legs.

His hands snake under your thighs to lay across your hips and your legs hook over his shoulders. Your back arches with the first swipe of his tongue, moaning out as you dig your heels into his upper back.

Colby’s face is buried in your cunt, his tongue thrusting in and out as his fingers dig into your skin, “Fuck.” He groans against you, “You taste so fucking good.”

You moan loudly as his nose pushes against your clit, your orgasm being drug out with the curling of his tongue, “Fuck, fuck.” You gasp, “C-colby.”

He holds onto you, not letting go as your walls clench around his tongue, moans and incoherent mumbles leave your lips as he guides you through your high.

Your hand tangles tightly into his hair, earning a groan from him as he pulls away, “The best pussy I have ever tasted.” He crawls up, lips crashing onto yours and you moan when the taste of yourself creeps into your tongue.

He sits up, taking the camera from you so he can record his cock rubbing up and down your folds before pushing between them.

He groans, angling the camera up to your face to capture what you look like feeling his cock for the first time, “Fuck, fuck.” You arch your back, rolling your hips forward and you gasp when he thrusts his hips into you.

“Fuck, baby girl. You’re taking me so well.”

His hand grips your hips as the other grips the camera tighter, “Fuck, you have such a beautiful pussy.” He groans lowly as he slowly pulls out, “Fuckin’ hugs my cock perfectly.”

You moan loudly as his cock is thrusted into you. Colby looks at you from behind the camera, watching your face twist with pleasure as he slowly pulls out and thrust back in.

He breathes out, “You’re already making me want to cum.” His hand slides over to press his thumb to your clit. He smirks as he hears whimpers and moans of approval slip from your lips, growing louder the harder his thrusts grow.

Your back is arches off the bed as your hands grip the blankets hard, moaning out loudly as Colby’s cock is repeatedly slammed into your cunt, “S-so close, fuck.”

“Come on baby.” Colby sets the camera down, angled to capture your body and your legs around his waist, “Cum for me.”

He groans lowly as he bends down to kiss you. Your arms wrap around his neck and his hand slides down your body, giving your hip a squeeze, “You feel so good.”

You moan, nails dragging up and down his back as you cum, holding onto his for leverage, “Fuck, fuck, yesyesyes.”

You throw your head back, a nonstop string of moans leaving your lips as Colby not only, fuck you through your high, but marks up your neck in the process.

He rolls over, grabbing the camera to film your body on his, groaning as he watches his cock disappear inside of you, “Fuck, that’s it baby.” He reaches out, sliding his fingers along your open thigh, “Just like that.”

You tilt your head back, hands squeezing his thighs as you bounce up and down, whining out as you feel yourself growing close, yet again.

“One more time.” Colby whispers, his hips bucking upward, “M’so close, too baby.”

“Need you.” You whimper, grinding your hips down.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Colby asks as his hand grips your hips, the other still keeping the camera as steady as he can.

You lean down, kissing up his neck, “Want you to cum in me.” You kiss his lips, “Need all of you.”

He nods his head and you roll off of him, biting down on your lip when he grips your throat and pushes you backward.

His hand remains on your neck as his cock slips into you, “You’re gonna be so full.” His thrusts pick up rather quickly, your moans muffled by his hand squeezing harder as he rails into you.

His films you body jolting with each thrusts, groaning at the sight of you tits bouncing, face turning red from the lack of air.

“Fuck.” He lets go of your neck, cupping your cheek but you keep it up by taking his thumb between your lips.

“oh, baby.” He groans, burying his cock deeper into you, “Fuck, you’re such a slut aren’t you.” He grips your chin, earning a whimper from you as you give him a nod.

“Say it, baby.”

“Your slut.” You moan out, clenching your walls around his cock, “I’m your slut.” You moan loudly, back arching as you gasp out.

You come undone underneath him one again, moaning out as you feel his cock twitch inside of you. Your legs loses from around his waist and he sits up, filming your pussy as he pulls out.

You lift your legs, wrapping an arm around them to hold them up. Colby’s thumb pulls your pussy lip to the side, groaning as you push more of his cum out.

“Look at that.” Colby whispers as his thumb swipes upward. He reaches up, leaning forward to film you sucking the cum off his thumb, “Atta girl, baby.”

You smile up at him and he stops filming, moving to lay beside you, “How was that?”

“Exciting.” You breathee out as you roll over to face him, “But I have a question for you.” He nods and you sigh, “Do you want to be known? Like do you want me to cut out anything that has you in it?”

He laughs, “Baby. Like I said before, we’re going to make you bank, so you do..” he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “What you need to do, to do that.”

“Maybe we should tell Sam first.” You bite your lip and he gets smirks, getting up to go to the door, “Hey Sam.”

“I already know.”

Colby closes the door and walks back over to you laughing, “Now that that’s out of the way.” He grabs your laptop, “Go clean up, I’ll get this uploaded to your computer.”

You smile, nodding your head as you get dressed to go to the bathroom.

When you get back, your clothes are back off and you’re in bed with Colby, “After we edit this.. I think you should film me going down on you.”

He nods his head, “Oh absolutely.”

——

It’s been two months since you uploaded that first video, you made it a pay to see vide, which gave you and Colby, and even Sam, a little bit of time before news leaked into the fandom.

After that. Wildfire.

All of your social media comment sections have been flooded with questions, comments, and of course, concerns.

Is that really Colby on y/n’s onlyfans?

Colby and y/n???!?!!!!?

COLBY FUCKIN BROCK WTF

I mean, idk who I’m more jealous of really.

I’m actually kind of shocked ngl

WAIT HOLD ON.. Y/N AND COLBY!?

No because get it girl. For real, and get it Colby damn

You and Colby would spend nights just laughing at the comments and of course discussing the rude ones with each other, but it mainly ends up in having sex.

Colby finding out was probably the best thing that could have happened in the situation, if you knew he would have been down to help you, you would have asked him a while ago.

You made so much money in the first two months, you guys basically spoiled Sam by taking him away to different cities around the world as an apology for him having to sit through filming sometimes, he was like your little sugar baby.

Right now, you were in Italy. You and Colby went back to the hotel to get ready for dinner when Colby’s laugh catches your attention.

You lift your head, arms still rested on the banister of the balcony, “What’s up, babe?” Colby leans against the doorway and looks up at you, “Have you read the comments on the post you posted today?”

You shake your head, reaching out as he hands you his phone. Your lips turn into a smirk as your eyes scan over the screen.

You can’t tell me Sam ain’t hitting it too

Ngl, they’d make a hot thruple

I want to be y/n when I grow up

You hand Colby back his phone and you ride your brows, “What? You want to give them what they’re asking for?”

“It’s whatever you want, baby. You’re calling the shots.”

You purse your lips, bringing your glass of wine up to take a sip as you think, “You think he’d go for it?”

Colby scoffs, “Please. You should have seen the look on his face when you seen your tits through that lace top. You’re not living with us both for no reason.” He smirks, “I’ll tell him to come up here.”

You walk over, biting down on your lip as you grip his bicep, “Wait, until dinner. I want to ask him myself.”

——

Thank you so much for reading, I hope it was good! Let me know and as always, I love you so much! 🖤

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated!

[gloomwitchwrites]

Flower Crown

Aragorn x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): fluff, light angst, kissing, non-descriptive intimacy

Word Count: 2k

During a spring festival, the man you love returns unexpectedly.

ao3 // main masterlist // spring 2024 masterlist

The sky is a cloudless, endless ocean above your head.

You breathe deep, savoring the scents in the air. Newly bloomed flowers, freshly baked bread, and roasting chicken all infiltrate your nostrils, reminding of you the celebration that’s about to begin. Anticipation buzzes under your skin like a swarm of startled bees. You’ve been waiting for this all winter. Spring is finally here, knocking, ready to be greeted. The flowers are in full bloom, and the trees have awakened from their solemn slumber.

Every year the small village in which you’ve lived your whole life celebrates the changing of the seasons. A community-wide festival is held. Each person is involved in their own way, and the duties are often assigned at the beginning of winter to allow everyone to prepare. Sometimes, these responsibilities shift, but a few remain the same.

Last year, you attended the baker in their duties to provide baked goods. This year, you were tasked with sewing new dresses for all the unmarried young women. The base fabric, an off-white cotton, remains the same. It’s like a blank page awaiting colorful paint or black ink, each dress ready to be designed with every young woman in mind. You, and several of the married women, take great care in personalizing each dress to the young ladies’ personalities.

It is not by chance that this happens. It is more than tradition. Rebirth and renewal are the themes of the festival, and with that comes an influx of weddings. The dresses are for that very reason, as a form of matchmaking, along with the presented flower crowns and the festival itself. You’ve always thought it silly but never truly commented on the matter. Fortunately, with you on sewing duties, you were able to work on your own dress.

With the dresses come flower crowns. They are given to the young women by unmarried men of the village. It is always the married women and village elders who quietly determine which man will gift what crown to who. They’re intuition is almost always correct. It is rare for a pair to not eventually marry. Sometimes it is quick, and sometimes it is years later before either realizes they belong together.

And the flower crowns are the true beauty. Another group handmakes each one. But because you know how intricate they are, you did nothing for your dress. It is simple. Plain. Just because you’re forced to be part of this tradition doesn’t mean you want to try and find a husband. You’re perfectly fine alone, because the man you do want is far away.

He isn’t avoiding you. Not on purpose. Aragorn is a ranger. He thrives in the wilds, seeking out the darkness to rid it from the world. But you do miss your wanderer. He tries to travel through your area as often as he can just to see you.

Over the years, the friendliness has grown, becoming heat and tension.

None of the other men in the village make you feel the way he does, and they likely never will.

In the shade of a tree, you smooth out the front of your dress. The tips of your fingers itch and you need to move them just to calm yourself. That alone is silly. What do you have to be nervous for? The process is always the same, always consistent, so why do you feel like this?

The young, unmarried women begin to congregate near the arch of flowers. Breathing deep, you march forward, finding your spot where it always is. You can taste the eagerness in the air. The women around you are just as nervous, nearly bouncing on their toes. They whisper to each other, giggling, but none of them glance your way or address you.

All day, and not even one has thanked you for your work.

But you won’t let it eat away at your resolve. Today is a good day. You’ll drink berry wine and gorge yourself on delicious food while listening to the married women gossip about their husbands.

As the village elders arrive, all talking ceases. That is the cue, and just like the women in line, you curtesy. You’re not allowed to look up, to glance into the face of the man who will place a crown upon your head. You keep your head bent and gaze on the ground.

There is shuffling, the rustling of hands lifting crowns. You focus on the green grass beneath your feet. You’re the only one up here not wearing shoes. You breathe in, and out, watching as so many pairs of polished boots pass by.

When someone does stop before you, the boots are not clean. They are muddy and have seen travel. You almost want to laugh but really, you’re curious. Who is this? Who would be so bold to come to the crowning with filthy boots?

In the next moment, the crown is placed upon your head. You don’t move. Don’t breathe. The stranger’s fingers brush the underside of your chin, pressing gently. You respond. You can’t resist. It is natural to do so.

Your gaze takes in this stranger as your head lifts. And when you see his face, you realize that this is no stranger at all.

��Aragorn,” you whisper, and his response is a smile.

There is applause, and good-natured cheering all around, and yet you respond to none of it. It is only him, this man you’ve been missing, standing before you.

“What are you doing here?” you ask just as the music starts up. It’s too early. Aragorn often arrives in the fall when the leaves start to change.

Others are already wandering off together or going their separate ways. You’re left staring, happy to see him but not understanding why.

“To see you,” he replies.

To see you. To see you. Whatever nervousness you felt before is gone, replaced with a giddiness that sends heat right to your cheeks.

When you don’t reply immediately, Aragorn frowns. “Have I upset you?”

“No!” You reach for him, grabbing his upper arm, taking a step forward. “Not at all. I’m just…surprised.”

His gaze softens, and you could fall into his depths. “Didn’t think I’d come?”

“You always visit when the weather begins to cool.”

“I do,” he agrees. “Couldn’t stay away.” Aragorn says this almost absently as his fingers toy with a white ribbon on your dress.

A young woman shrieks with delight, and you and Aragorn both turn as she’s hoisted in the air.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks.

The answer is immediate. “Yes.”

He presents his hand, and you take it. His palm is warm. Strong. Aragorn leads, and then you’re moving, matching the correct steps. It’s not an intense dance but it isn’t slow either.

“Did you just arrive?”

He smiles. “As they were distributing the flowers.”

“Is that why you’re so dirty?” Aragorn laughs as you lean in and sniff, making an exaggerated expression. “And smelly?”

“I thought you liked the way I smelled after a ride.” Aragorn wraps his arm around your waist, turning as he does so.

“A ride,” you correct. “Not a journey.”

The music swells, dips, and then increases in pace. You’re left focusing on your feet, going through the motions. But Aragorn knows what he’s doing, and he leads you through it effortlessly. It’s difficult to speak, but his hands do enough talking. Aragorn’s touch lingers. He might squeeze slightly or allow his hand to wander. It stirs something hot in your belly that travels lower until you’re blazing everywhere.

When the music comes to an end, and the two of you are out of breath, Aragorn places his hand on your lower waist and guides you away.

“Something to drink?”

“Please.”

Berry wine is had before Aragorn takes your hand again, the two of you strolling off into the nearby orchard. Between the trees, there is privacy, the two of you walking in gentle silence. It’s just your hand in his and the warm breeze that stirs up your dress.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, stopping next to an apple tree. There are leaves on its branches but no blooms.

Aragorn comes to a stop beside you, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder. “Glad? That is all you feel?” With a soft touch, Aragorn turns your head in his direction. His head is angled downward, and there is no escaping what you see in his eyes.

There are times when the two of you have found a bit of quiet, some peace only with the need to explore the other. As you gaze upon his face, you are entirely aware of what he wants, but Aragorn is an honorable man. He will not push or insist on more unless you’re the one who seeks it out.

The berry wine is warm in your blood. Aragorn’s nearness is just as intoxicating. His fingers play with that same ribbon, and you lean into his touch until your noses brush lightly against each other.

“There is plenty I feel,” you reply, your voice a whisper amongst the birdsong and breeze.

“Is your heart willing to share?” Aragorn tugs lightly on the ribbon, loosening a portion of the bodice.

“Is yours willing to hear the truth?” you counter, knowing that you’d give him anything in this moment.

Aragorn tugs on the ribbon again, loosening the bodice further. Air rushes into your lungs as your chest receives a bit of freedom. “Tell me now. Under the trees. Let the sky listen.”

“You’re far too sweet to be a warrior,” you laugh, and Aragorn grins, closing the distance. The kiss is chaste and lovely, sending heat down to your toes and up to the crown of your head.

Your fingers find the front of his tunic. They curl inward, pulling of their own accord, seeking his closeness. Aragorn indulges, deepening the kiss until your bodies are pressed together. His hand rises, clutching the back of your neck. There is only you and him and your repeated meetings.

When you finally break apart, your lips are raw, and you hunger for more. You ache for deeper things, and long to tell him so.

“Is this all right?” he asks, fingers brushing against your exposed collarbone.

“Yes,” you murmur in reply, shivering under his touch.

Aragorn returns to your mouth, and you open for him. Your own fingers explore as much as his, but it is Aragorn’s fingers that venture beneath fabric.

You inhale sharply, and his hand retreats. “Apologies.”

“Don’t stop,” you say, grasping his wrist to guide his hand back to your skin.

Under the shade of the apple tree, Aragorn follows your lead, the two of you finding a dance. Although time has not been kind, keeping the two of you parted, there is no need to rush. You are happy simply existing with him, taking time to explore and savor what you’ve missed over the last few months.

Every caress is a song, and each kiss not only satiates but fuels the hunger that sits low in your belly. Fingers press and dig into skin. Clothing opens or falls away. There is no one else around, and Aragorn’s warmth is all you seek.

“Will you stay?” you ask between kisses.

Aragorn pauses, drawing back slightly. “For a few days.”

A few days. A few days with him and then separation. With Aragorn arriving now, will he return in the fall? Or will this be your new normal?

Even as these doubts swirl in your mind, you know the truth.

You don’t care.

As long as he comes, as long as he returns to you when he can, that is enough.

[bettelaboure]

⊹The exception⊹ | Felix Yongbok Lee

⊹Pairing: Felix Yongbok Lee x The Reader

⊹Summary: forbidden romance between Stray Kids' Felix and his PR specialist unravels in stolen moments, quiet confessions, and breathtaking intimacy—only to be destroyed by scandal, silence, and the harsh reality of an industry that punishes love

⊹Warnings: suggestive content, emotional heartbreak, workplace romance, power imbalance, public scandal, angst

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

You’re hiding in the conference room again. Not hiding from the job—God knows that never ends—but from him.

The book in your hands is supposed to help. Kill Switch is your emotional support blanket, your escape hatch, your "if he’s brooding and emotionally constipated, I can fix him" anthem. But the words blur when the door swings open.

You don’t need to look up. The scent of cologne and smugness announces Felix first.

“You have got to stop claiming rooms like they’re fictional boyfriends,” he says, plopping into the chair across from you with that slow, lazy sprawl like he has nothing but time to kill.

You don’t flinch. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“I booked it,” you say, highlighting a line you’ve already memorized. “Properly. Through the calendar. Like a normal, functioning adult.”

“Sounds exhausting.” He leans in on his elbows. “Want me to teach you how to break the rules instead?”

You finally look up. “Tell me. What’s it like being the human version of a migraine?”

He grins, delighted. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d sue you for emotional damage.”

You bite your lip, hard. Because he’s joking. Of course he’s joking. That’s all Felix ever does—banter and tease and throw gasoline on your carefully lit candles of control.

“Felix, I swear—”

He reaches over and plucks the book from your hands. You gasp, too slow to stop him.

“‘She doesn’t need a hero. She needs a monster. Me,’” he reads dramatically, narrowing his eyes at the page. “Damn. You highlight like it’s a sacred ritual.”

“It is,” you snatch it back. “Romance books are the only place where people actually mean what they say.”

His smirk falters.

You didn’t mean to say that out loud.

The air tightens between you. He leans back slowly, head tilted like he’s trying to see past your PR-perfect exterior.

“You really believe that?” he asks, softly this time.

You hesitate. Then nod.

“In real life, people dodge. They backtrack. They make you feel crazy for needing clarity,” you say. “In romance novels, they fight for it.”

Felix doesn’t say anything for a second. Just studies you like you’re something more complicated than he expected.

Finally, he shifts. “So what are the rules, then?” he says, lighter again. “Romance law, according to you.”

You cross your arms, trying not to smile. “Rule One: Never fall for someone who gets under your skin on purpose.”

His eyebrows lift. “Yikes. That’s rough for me.”

“Rule Two: If he flirts by insulting your favorite things, he’s not the one.”

Felix makes a wounded sound. “Hey! I insult you, not your books. Equal opportunity chaos.”

You shake your head, lips twitching.

“Rule Three,” you say, and here’s where you pause. Because your heart skips—traitorously—when he leans closer. You could count the constellations in his eyes at this distance.

“Don’t fall for someone whose job overlaps with yours. Exception: if he's your rival and the sexual tension is unbearable.”

Felix watches you, the teasing faded, replaced with something quiet and unreadable.

“You always follow the rules?” he asks.

“No,” you admit. “But I try.”

Felix reaches out—hesitates—then tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your breath catches.

“Well,” he murmurs, “if we’re in a romance novel, you know what happens around Rule Three, right?”

You swallow. “What?”

He leans in, lips almost brushing your ear. “The exception happens.”

It takes months.

Months of accidental brushes—his hand grazing yours as you both reach for the same folder, his fingers brushing your waist as he slips past in the narrow hallway. Each contact lingers too long to be just friendly, but never long enough to cross the line.

One night, it’s raining after an award show. You sit together in the backseat of the van, both staring out opposite windows, but your knees touch—and neither of you moves away. When you shiver, he doesn’t ask, just slides off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. You whisper a thank you into the quiet, and he just nods, like it means more than it should.

A late shoot runs over, and everyone else leaves. You’re starving. He returns an hour later with your favorite takeout and a sheepish grin. You eat on the studio couch, cross-legged, teasing each other between bites. When you laugh—really laugh, the kind that scrunches your eyes—he stares for a beat too long.

Then he kisses you.

It’s awkward at first—your lips crash, your teeth knock. But then his hand finds your jaw, cradling it tenderly as your bodies sync. You grab the front of his hoodie, anchoring yourself to him, and the kiss deepens. The air turns molten. When you finally break apart, breathless, neither of you speaks. You don’t need to.

That night, you go home with him.

The air between you is heavy with anticipation, the kind that simmers just below the skin. His hand brushes yours as he unlocks the door, and the touch lingers, hesitant. Once inside, neither of you rushes. You hover near the kitchen counter, nerves jittering in your chest, while he sets down his keys, then turns to face you—his gaze soft, unreadable.

He steps closer, inch by inch, until you feel the warmth radiating off him. His fingers find yours again, intertwining slowly. He raises your joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours.

"Still sure about the exception?" he murmurs, voice husky with something more than want.

You nod, breath shallow. "I’ve never been more sure of anything."

He closes the space between you and kisses you—not with heat, but reverence. Like he's memorizing you. His lips move gently against yours, and you melt into it, your hands finding the hem of his shirt. He breaks the kiss only to whisper your name, then kisses you again, deeper this time.

Clothes slip away between soft laughter and quiet gasps. His hands roam carefully, reverently, like every inch of your skin is a secret he’s determined to uncover. He presses his mouth to the hollow of your throat, your shoulder, the curve of your hip. Every touch is slow, deliberate. Worshipful.

When he lays you back on his bed, the dim light casts a golden halo around you. You reach for him, and he comes willingly, settling over you with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your collarbone. Whispers your name like it’s a prayer.

"Are you okay?" he asks, forehead pressed to yours.

"Yes," you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair. "I want this. I want you."

His hand finds yours again and pins it softly beside your head as he moves inside you, slow and sure. The world narrows to just the two of you—the rhythm of your breaths, the way he watches your face like he’s watching something sacred. It’s not just physical. It’s a letting go. A giving in. A promise made without words.

You kiss him through the crescendo, and when you both fall apart, it’s with his arms wrapped tightly around you, like he's afraid of what might come next. You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady beneath your cheek, like the first rhythm you’ve ever trusted.

After that, the moments come easier. Soft mornings tangled in his sheets, your voice reading him chapters from your dog-eared romances. He teases the prose, but his thumb draws lazy circles on your hip under the blanket, and he never misses a word. At night, he tells you his truths—how the idol life feels like a glass box sometimes, how hard it is to always smile. You tell him how exhausting it is to curate perfection.

You fit. You fall. Slowly. Completely.

Then the headlines hit.

Blurry photos. A hotel hallway. Your hand on his chest, his gaze locked to your face like it’s the only thing in the world.

You thought you were careful. You weren’t.

The company reacts instantly. PR crises erupt like wildfires—flashes of headlines, grainy images splashed across gossip columns: STRAY KIDS' FELIX IN LATE-NIGHT ROMANTIC SCANDAL? and MYSTERY WOMAN IDENTIFIED AS COMPANY PR SPECIALIST.

Your inbox becomes a graveyard of panicked messages. Conference calls blur together, each one colder than the last. You're told it’s better for everyone if you leave quietly. That your presence compromises not just him—but the group, the brand.

Felix storms into the last meeting like a force of nature. The door slams behind him, startling the executives mid-sentence. His jaw is clenched so tight you think it might crack, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"This is bullshit," he growls, his voice rough and barely restrained. "She did nothing wrong. None of this is her fault."

The room falls deathly quiet.

"You knew," he continues, pacing now, wild energy radiating off him. "You knew we were close. You knew we were careful. But the moment a camera catches us in a hallway—just talking, not even touching—you act like we’ve committed a damn crime."

One of the senior execs clears their throat. "Felix, this isn't personal. This is about optics. The group’s image—"

"To hell with the image!" he explodes, slamming a hand on the table. Everyone flinches. His eyes flash dangerously. "We didn’t hide. We weren’t sneaking around. We just… wanted something real. For once."

He turns, gaze scanning the room, daring someone to challenge him. "But I forgot. Real isn’t allowed here, is it? Not if it doesn’t come with a PR plan and a pre-approved script."

No one speaks. Not even you.

Finally, Felix exhales a shaky breath, voice breaking as he says, "She mattered. And you’re treating her like a liability. Like she’s disposable."

His fury quiets then—not gone, but channeled inward, where it hurts more. He looks at you, eyes rimmed red, voice lower now, wrecked. "You mattered. You still do."

Then he walks out. No more words. Just the echo of everything he couldn’t fix.

But even he can't rewrite the rules that have already been carved into stone.

That night—your last—you sit in his apartment in silence. The only light comes from the city outside, casting fractured reflections on the floor. You sip cold tea you don’t taste. He sits beside you, a hand on your thigh, his thumb brushing in slow, useless comfort.

"I’ll say something," he murmurs. "I'll go public. I’ll—"

You turn to him, press a finger to his lips. "And what happens after that? You lose everything you’ve worked for? They spin it worse? Make me the villain?"

He looks at you like he’s already mourning you. "So what? I’ll lose it. I'd still have you."

You kiss him then—hard, aching, like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him before you forget. Your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer until breath and heartbeats blur. He responds in kind, kissing you like a promise and a goodbye all at once.

You undress each other slowly—his hands brushing under your shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons on his. It's not rushed. It's reverent. Like peeling back the final layer of defense, like unwrapping something precious that neither of you wants to let go of. Each item of clothing falls to the floor with quiet finality, soft thuds in a world that’s suddenly far too silent.

His hands find your skin, warm and trembling, tracing the lines of your shoulders, the dip of your waist, the curve of your spine. You gasp when his mouth follows, pressing kisses in the hollow of your throat, the inside of your wrist, the spot just behind your knee that makes you shiver. You arch toward him, and his breath hitches like he’s trying to memorize the sound you make.

When you finally fall into bed, limbs tangled and hearts racing, he holds you like a question he doesn’t want answered. He moves with care, like your body is a memory he’s carving into his bones. There’s heat, yes—skin slick, breath shallow, the friction of need drawing gasps from both your lips—but it’s the way his forehead rests against yours, the way your fingers clutch at his back, that burns the most.

He whispers your name like a plea and a prayer. And when you come undone beneath him, it’s with his mouth against your shoulder, your hand clutching his, and the aching, quiet knowledge that this is goodbye disguised as closeness.

After, he doesn’t let go. His arms stay wrapped around you, one hand tracing invisible circles on your back. You bury your face in his neck and breathe him in, memorizing the scent of cologne and sorrow.

Neither of you speaks. You don’t have to.

Not for this.

After, you lie with your head on his chest, fingers drawing lazy spirals on his skin. He doesn’t speak. Just holds you. Just breathes.

Before you go, you place Kill Switch on his nightstand—your copy, the one with the cracked spine and coffee stains and bent pages from nights reading aloud to each other. Inside, tucked between pages 239 and 240, is your note:

She didn’t need a monster. She needed someone to stay.

He finds it the next morning. Sits on the edge of the bed with the book in his hands like it might break. He doesn’t cry—not then.

But when he walks into practice later and sees your old coffee mug still on the table, untouched, he almost does.

He reads the note again that night. And the next. And the one after that.

Like a rule he forgot to follow.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[muletia]

i love the idea that the only thing you and the rest of the decepticons are on the same page about is how "wtf" you are about how megatron is acting.

like, you don't want to be here. they don't want you to be here. after the tenth time it's started to get exhausting for all of you but like what can you do about it? pretty much nothing.

it's not enough for a friendship, but at least there's something reassuring, on both of your ends, about the fact that you're as put off by it as each other.

this is the only moment you can truly relate to the decepticons. sure, you’ve got megatron wrapped around your finger, but that doesn’t mean you can fully control him. he lets you get away with a lot, and your defiance goes unpunished, but at the end of the day, you’re still just a human—you can’t defend yourself. you can’t stop the next kidnapping, which, yes, becomes incredibly annoying and exhausting over time.

maybe one day a certain vehicon got brave—or was just a plain fool—and pointed out to his master how absurd the whole situation is, saying that kidnapping a human contributes absolutely nothing to their cause and doesn’t help them achieve the goals they’re fighting so fiercely for. it’s no surprise that vehicon was killed on the spot, and since then, no one speaks publicly about you, not even in a fake positive light. but i can totally see vehicons and higher-ranked bots like knockout and breakdown gossiping about you and megatron in the medbay.

i can absolutely picture moments where some decepticon soldier is assigned to abduct you, and on the way to the nemesis, you temporarily bury the hatchet and roast megatron with the most outrageous insults you can come up with. it kind of humanizes the vehicons in your eyes and broadens your perspective on them. not that you plan to get too friendly with them, but those quiet moments before megatron starts his usual nonsense, ranting about you becoming his queen, are really important to you because they help settle the disrupted harmony of your life. they are the quiet before the storm...