#Single Color LED Strips

[matcha3mochi]

GLASS BETWEEN US | II Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: tyy for all the love and support on the previous one! ive decided to write a second part to this! maybe a third part? who know :)))) anywho pls enjoy!!!

wc: 4,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Dr. Havers was already waiting when your shift ended.

He stood just beyond the junction outside Lab C, posture rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest. The dim security lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting bluish reflections across the glass walls of the corridor. You recognized the look on his face before he spoke—not disciplinary, not furious—but exact. Measured. Like the outcome was already decided and the only remaining task was to deliver the verdict.

“Walk with me,” he said.

You nodded, once. Your hand tightened slightly around the edge of your tablet, knuckles pale under the harsh fluorescents. Then you fell in beside him.

The two of you moved through the east hall without speaking. The air was too cold, dry from over-filtration. Every footstep echoed with sterile finality against the polished epoxy flooring. On your left, the wall-length display of Lab C showed only system diagnostics now—no live feed. The camera feed had been blacked out. You knew what that meant, and your stomach turned with quiet dread.

Havers led you through a security door you hadn’t passed since your orientation weeks ago. It closed behind you with a sound that echoed louder than it should’ve.

The briefing room was stripped bare—no windows, no active terminals, no live data displays. Just one heavy-duty table bolted to the floor and two brushed metal chairs. The walls were lined with sound-dampening panels disguised as blank white boards. Even the air inside felt different—stiller, heavier, like the pressure in a room seconds before a thunderstorm hits.

He gestured to the seat.

You didn’t take it.

He didn’t, either.

Instead, he pulled a slim black tablet from the inside pocket of his lab coat and tapped the screen. You heard a soft tone as the screen lit up. He turned it toward you.

It was paused on a still image: your hand against the tank wall, Rafayel’s claws mirrored against yours on the opposite side. His eyes locked to your face with unnatural focus. The background lighting bathed everything in a soft, immersive blue, as if you had both been submerged together in water.

Your breath caught—shallow, involuntary. You recognized the moment instantly. Not just the scene, but the feeling of it. The density of the air. The quiet vibration against the glass. The sense that the entire lab had narrowed into a single point of contact.

Havers didn’t speak. Not yet. He pressed play.

You watched yourself step forward on-screen, watched Rafayel respond—slowly, precisely, his body language unmistakably attuned to yours. The alignment wasn’t coincidental. It was intentional. He was echoing your movement with a kind of quiet precision that felt more human than instinctive. More conscious than reactive.

Then he spoke—his lips moved on the recording, though the volume was muted. You didn’t need audio to know what he said.

Free me.

The moment hung there, pixelated but real, hovering between you and Havers in silence.

When he finally stopped the video, he didn’t look up.

“This is not a reprimand,” he said.

But your muscles had already gone stiff. Your pulse was climbing, quick and uneven beneath your skin.

“Then what is it?” Your voice came out low, steady, but with a thread of static in it.

He swiped across the tablet again, this time bringing up a full behavioral overlay—sensor data logged over the last two weeks. Heart rate. Neural markers. Tail velocity. Cortisol-like stress proxies. All plotted in tight, color-coded patterns.

All tied to your schedule.

“He rises the moment you enter,” Havers said. “Activity levels stabilize within forty-five seconds. Sedation thresholds drop. Neuroresponse modulation increases. Mirror behaviors are precise, even anticipatory. Eye contact is sustained longer with you than any other observer by a factor of four.”

He paused.

Then, more quietly: “He doesn’t respond to anyone else now. Not even to direct provocation.”

You stared at the data, eyes scanning the peaks and troughs, remembering how those moments felt—not just as data points, but as experiences. As connections.

“I didn’t intend for any of this,” you said quietly.

“I believe you,” Havers replied. “But intention isn’t the problem.”

He finally looked up from the screen.

“The problem is attachment. One-directional. Immediate. And escalating.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the argument. Your body tensed instead—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, fingers digging slightly into the base of your tablet.

“He’s not mimicking anymore,” Havers said, as if reading your mind. “He’s focusing. Every behavioral marker suggests a fixation, not a response pattern. When you’re gone, he doesn’t shift to baseline—he withdraws. When we attempted to replace your observation window with controlled stimuli, he ignored it. The tank systems detected a full physiological shutdown cycle.”

You swallowed hard. Your breath fogged slightly in the cold air.

“What are you doing to him now?”

“We’ve begun sedation rotation. Carefully dosed. Enough to keep him compliant while we recalibrate protocol.”

Your voice cracked without warning. “You’re drugging him to make him forget me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said, “We’re preserving containment integrity.”

And then, with quiet finality:

“You’re being reassigned.”

The world tilted slightly in your vision.

“What?”

“You’ll report to Neural Indexing, Sublevel 2B. Starting tomorrow. Your clearance to Lab C has already been revoked.”

He picked up the tablet and powered it off.

You stared at him. You could feel your chest hollowing, breath going thin.

“This will break him,” you said.

He hesitated—just for a breath. Then he said, “If it does, it proves he was never stable to begin with.”

And that was it.

You were dismissed.

No further discussion.

The first night in your new quarters, you didn’t sleep.

The room was a concrete cube, one meter shorter on each side than your old assignment bunk. The cot creaked when you breathed. The walls sweated faint condensation. No simulated day-night cycle. Just harsh fluorescents that flicked off at 2200 and left you in complete grayscale. No one spoke when they handed you the keycard. The silence had the flavor of punishment, even if they never called it that.

You turned over the same sentence in your head:

“You’re being reassigned.”

And the second one, delivered even colder:

“Your clearance to Lab C has been revoked.”

Your tongue kept finding the shape of it in your mouth. Revoked. Like a limb amputated with a signature. The moment the door sealed behind you that night, the silence was more than absence—it was separation. You could still feel the residue of the tank glass against your fingertips, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up to what was gone.

They said the reassignment was for “containment stability.” That the connection between you and Rafayel had grown too strong. Too unpredictable. Too disruptive to the scientific objectives of the project.

But you knew what it really was.

Control.

They couldn’t control him anymore. Because he had started responding not to data, but to you. And that terrified them.

You had expected the transition to be clinical. Procedural. A clean severing.

It wasn’t.

The new lab in Sublevel 2B bore none of the atmosphere that defined Lab C. There was no subtle dimming of lights to mimic marine depth. No soft thrum of oxygen injectors syncing with the artificial current. No hum in your bones that came from proximity to something ancient, breathing, and alive.

This place—Neural Indexing—was quiet in the worst way.

The kind of silence that didn’t make room for thought but pressed against it. You sat in front of rows of stimulation modules and feed monitors, reviewing endless neural scans: meaningless loops of synthetic cognition, shallow patterns designed to imitate thought, emotion, response.

There was no presence in the data here.

No gaze tracking yours across a pane of reinforced glass.

No ripple of bioluminescence in response to your voice.

You were surrounded by function but starved of connection.

The others in your department didn’t speak much. They had the tired, hollow eyes of people who lived too long with screens instead of subjects. You were the new variable now, a name without a narrative—transferred in the middle of a cycle, given no debrief, carrying a silence everyone had been instructed not to ask about.

At first, you tried to adapt. You told yourself this was necessary. Sensible. Safer—for everyone involved.

But the rationalizations peeled away by day four.

That’s when the dreams returned.

They started faint, like echoes.

Just fragments: salt on your tongue, the pressure of water folding around your body, the low vibration of something massive swimming just out of reach.

Then the fragments sharpened.

In the dreams, you stood before the tank again. But this time, the glass wasn’t there. Rafayel floated just a breath away, watching you with stillness so complete it felt like gravity. His eyes were brighter than you remembered—wide, expectant, but solemn. No words passed between you.

He didn’t need them.

But some nights, the dream changed.

You weren’t in the tank room. You were on a beach, barefoot, the water dark and glimmering as it crawled across the sand. The sky above was violet and streaked with long golden clouds, as if lit by a sun that had never belonged to this world. The shore stretched endlessly in both directions, flanked by black cliffs heavy with overgrown moss and deep blue vines. Strange constellations flickered in the sky overhead, unfamiliar and ancient, like stars from a memory long buried.

The surf was gentle, but its song was heavy—carrying something old, something mournful.

You stepped into the water.

And the moment it touched your skin, the dream transformed.

You were no longer on the shore, you were beneath it.

Submerged in a vast, tranquil ocean bathed in blue light. Columns of sunlight filtered down from above like cathedral beams, illuminating silt and floating motes of golden plankton. The water was cool but welcoming, dense with reverberant silence. All around you were ruins: ancient stone arches overgrown with bioluminescent coral, broken statues of sea kings swallowed by algae and time.

And then—he was there.

Rafayel.

He emerged from the shadow of a collapsed temple gate, his form luminous against the gloom. His hair flowed behind him in an ethereal halo, purple-mauve, drifting like silk ribbons. His body moved with impossible grace, every motion effortless as he cut through the water. His tail gleamed with streaks of cobalt and opal, curling around him protectively.

When he saw you, he stilled. As if time had paused. And then he came to you. Not with urgency. Not with hesitation.

With knowing.

You drifted forward to meet him, arms parting the water like a slow tide. Your clothes floated weightless around you, strands of hair suspended in the soft current. You reached out. So did he.

When your hands met, everything else disappeared.

The moment your palms pressed to his, you both inhaled. The water shimmered. Light flared from his chest and from your fingertips. You drew closer, your bodies aligning instinctively. His tail curled gently around your legs, not to trap but to anchor. His claws traced your waist, reverent, uncertain if you were real.

He pulled you closer, as if sensing your doubt. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips brushing your brow, not a kiss—a promise.

He would not let you go.

You rose slowly the next morning, the weight of the dream still heavy on your shoulders like wet silk.

There was something about that beach—those ruins—that felt impossibly distant and unshakably close. You told yourself it was just the brain pulling symbols from subconscious grief. But that was a lie.

It felt real.

Not just real. Remembered.

You couldn’t explain the familiarity of his hands on your face. The exact shape of his breath, the warmth of his chest against yours, the way your fingers had threaded together like you had done it countless times before.

There were moments in the day—quiet, disarmed moments—where you would touch your own wrist or collarbone and expect to find him there. As if some trace of him should remain in your skin. As if he had once been stitched into the very rhythm of your body.

The more time passed, the more the dream solidified, not as fantasy—but as truth.

The day passed in pieces.

You reviewed three sequences of neural pattern recognition, sat through one impersonal systems check, and responded to zero messages. Your hands performed the motions, but your mind lagged behind, half-anchored to that sunken city beneath your thoughts.

And then you heard it.

Two lab techs stood just around the corner of the central corridor, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

“Still not responding.”

“Nothing since the last handler shift. He’s not eating. Not even moving.”

“He’s never been like this. Even when agitated, there was still... something.”

“Now? It’s like he’s just... stopped.”

You didn’t breathe.

Your hand hovered over the touchscreen you were pretending to use. The hall hummed with fluorescent lighting, the air too dry, the walls too close.

You stepped back, slowly, unnoticed.

You didn’t know how.

But you knew it was something you were not meant to forget. And it led you to a decision you never voiced aloud.

You stopped trying to make sense of the protocols. You stopped rationalizing the transfer. You stopped pretending he was better off without you.

Because the ache that filled your chest when you woke—the ache of almost losing him again—was worse than anything the facility could do to you.

The decision to access the archived feed wasn’t a conscious one. It wasn’t premeditated. It was something your body decided before your mind could catch up.

It happened on the ninth night.

You hadn’t planned on stopping at the terminal. You had intended to walk the long way around, avoid the side corridor near the equipment maintenance bay, bypass temptation entirely. But your feet slowed as you passed it. Your gaze flicked sideways. The hallway was empty, as always. The low hum of the wall consoles and the faint click of pressure valves were the only sounds.

And the screen was there. Dark, waiting.

You approached without realizing it, your hand already reaching. The screen lit up at your touch, a soft glow blooming in the dim corridor. The system prompted for access. You entered the override code. The one no one knew you still remembered.

A few seconds passed. Then:

ARCHIVED VISUAL LOG — LAB C TIMESTAMP: Day 9 – 01:46 HRS

The footage loaded.

And the ache in your chest returned full force.

There he was.

Rafayel.

At first, he was barely visible, curled in a shadow at the base of the tank. The lighting in the room was reduced to emergency-grade, flickering low blue and violet hues. Most of the central overheads were offline. The water itself was so still it looked like tinted glass.

He lay against the curved wall of the tank, his long body wrapped inward. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, tail looped twice around his torso. The sight was almost fetal in its stillness—too still. Not relaxed, not conserving. Withdrawing.

His head rested on one arm, turned slightly in the direction of the observation deck. His hair drifted gently in the motionless current, no longer radiant or alive with light. His gills fluttered faintly—shallow, slow. One flick every few seconds. Barely enough to sustain him.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t hibernating.

He was fading.

The vibrant shimmer that once pulsed across his body like underwater lightning had dulled to the color of bruises—indigo near his spine, violet near his chest, and something close to black along his lower limbs. The glow that had always signaled awareness—of you, of presence, of thought—was fragmented. It gathered dimly near his heart and left the rest of him in darkness.

There was no motion in his shoulders. No twitch of his claws. Not even a tail flick.

Stillness had taken him.

Then the camera angle shifted slightly.

And you saw his eyes.

They were open. Only half-lidded, but open. Just enough to confirm what you already suspected: he wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t sedated.

He was aware.

And he was waiting.

Even now—silent, unmoving, forgotten by the staff rotating around him—he was still facing the same section of glass.

The place you had always stood.

Your throat closed. Your fingers curled tightly against the edge of the console as you leaned closer. The impulse to reach for the screen was overwhelming, but there was nothing there. No heat. No pressure. No connection. Just pixelated light and silence.

The feed time-stamped forward.

A technician entered. She moved through the chamber with a clipboard and an ambient monitor, barely glancing at the tank. Routine. Impersonal. She stopped, approached the glass, and tapped once.

Rafayel didn’t move.

She activated a low-frequency stimulus from her control panel. The pulse made the water shift.

Still nothing.

She made a note. Paused. Looked up again, perhaps longer than protocol required. But even if she noticed the difference—how still he was, how wrong his glow had become—she said nothing. Just turned and left.

The lights dimmed further after she exited.

You were left staring at the footage. Alone again.

And so was he.

Something cracked inside you: you couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Your body understood what your mind had refused to fully face.

This wasn’t just a physiological decline. It was a psychological death spiral. They thought they had sedated him. Pacified him. Reduced risk.

But they hadn’t seen what you were seeing.

They hadn’t understood that his stillness wasn’t peace.

It was mourning.

And you knew exactly what it meant. Because you felt it too.

You pressed a hand to the screen, even though it couldn’t feel you. You sat there, shoulders rigid, stomach hollow, barely able to hold yourself upright.

He was suffering because they had taken you away. It was killing him.

You shut off the feed.

And for the first time in nine days, you stood up not as a staff member. Not as a researcher.

But as someone who was going back.

No matter the cost.

The tunnels were colder than you remembered.

Condensation clung to the curved ceilings, gathering in long droplets that slipped soundlessly to the metal grates beneath your feet. Pipes hissed softly with steam every ten meters, venting pressure from unseen machines. The walls were a patchwork of corrosion and riveted seams. Red emergency lights pulsed slowly along the floor, painting everything in alternating waves of rust and shadow.

The silence down here wasn’t the passive hush of the main halls. It was active. Watchful. Like something waiting to be disturbed. Every footfall sounded like an echo inside a steel drum. Every breath you took came back twice as loud in your ears.

The auxiliary entrance to Lab C was sealed, just as it had been for days. But the access panel hadn’t been wiped. Your code still worked.

The light on the console flickered, then shifted green.

The door groaned open, metal scraping metal, and cold, salted air rolled out to meet you.

You stepped into a room suspended in time.

The room was colder than you remembered.

Not by temperature, but by absence. The chill that came from a place left unattended too long. The tank’s filtration hum had slowed, its resonance no longer constant but stuttering every few seconds, like a faltering breath. A faint chemical tang hung in the air, sharper than before. The lighting had dimmed further—no longer the soft, ambient blue that mimicked ocean depths. Now the tank was lit from below, casting warped, ghostly shadows against the walls, like the inside of a body lit by its own flickering pulse.

And there he was.

Rafayel.

Floating in silence.

He was curled loosely, his arms hanging in front of him, palms relaxed and half open, the gesture somehow vulnerable. His tail hung like a long, unmoving ribbon in the water. His glow was barely there—a faint wash of violet through his chest, flickering intermittently like the last ember of a fire trying not to die.

The sight of him hit you like submersion.

It was too much, too fast, too familiar.

You stepped forward without thinking, boots echoing on the composite flooring. The air thickened with every stride, like pushing through static. Your heart drummed against your ribs, quick and uneven. You were afraid he wouldn't move. Afraid he wouldn't see you.

You reached the tank. Stopped.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, the word cracking in your throat like a fault line splitting open.

He didn’t respond.

But something shifted.

A flicker of movement along his spine. A ripple of light blooming faintly across his gills.

You held your breath.

Then—his eyes opened.

Slow. Bleary. At first unfocused, then… locked.

Right on you.

Recognition didn’t explode—it unfolded. Layer by layer, like thawing ice. His pupils narrowed. His chest lifted with a sharp inhale. The violet in his body surged brighter, edged with silver, crawling like veins across his arms and into the tips of his claws.

And then he moved.

Not swam. Not lunged.

He rose.

Weightless, effortless, he emerged in a slow, unfurling motion. The water parted around him in gentle folds. He drifted toward you, the sleek muscle of his torso shifting under the soft luminescence. He was broader than you remembered. Stronger. His body moved with the control of something ancient, practiced. But there was fragility under the surface—an ache in the way he carried himself, like a wounded predator willing itself toward the light.

When he reached the glass, he stopped just short, hands spreading flat against the transparent barrier. His palms trembled faintly. His claws clicked softly as they touched down.

You mirrored him.

Hand trembling, you placed your palm where his rested. A perfect match. Skin to glass. Heat to cold.

He blinked once, slowly, gills fluttering. Then his breath hitched, and a soft tremor ran through his shoulders. His face was unreadable—but in his eyes there was no question.

It was you.

He tilted his head slightly, hair drifting like a halo. You caught every micro-expression: the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched against the barrier. Not fear. Not confusion.

Emotion.

His voice, when it came, was a raw murmur.

“You came back.”

You nodded, a tear finally breaking loose and running down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

He leaned forward slowly, until his forehead pressed lightly against the glass. His eyes closed, and your breath caught.

You leaned in too, matching him, your own forehead meeting the cool barrier.

There was no sound but your twin breathing.

Then he opened his eyes again.

And they glowed.

Not violently, but with purpose. A steady, growing light. The silver along his ribcage rippled outward, trailing down his arms. The soft blue of his irises deepened to something oceanic, endless. His tail shifted behind him, wrapping once around itself like an anchor stabilizing him.

You stepped back.

His gaze tracked your movement, but he didn’t speak.

You turned toward the console. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands didn’t leave the glass.

The screen lit under your fingertips. The system had locked you out days ago, but you bypassed the prompt using the old maintenance override. The keys clicked too loudly. Your heart beat louder still.

MANUAL OVERRIDE: CONTAINMENT LOCK Confirm: YES / NO

You hovered over the button.

Thoughts pressed in all at once—about consequences, about duty, about what would come after. But none of it mattered more than this moment.

Not after what you’d seen.

Not after what he had become in your absence.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pressed YES.

A low mechanical chime rang out. Steam hissed at the tank’s base. The floor panels lit red and the water level began to fall.

And you turned—slowly—to meet his eyes as the locks disengaged.

He didn’t rush forward. Didn’t break the barrier. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

He simply watched you.

The moment stretched, suspended in steam and soft red light.

Then the tank opened.

taglist:

@orange-stars @flameo-hotman12 @paper--angel @vynn30 @lalaluch @wilddreamer98 @multisstuff

[itoshiierae]

STITCHED INTO YOU 🩹🩸

ᡣ𐭩 ft: bonten!kokonoi hajime x underground!nurse reader

ᡣ𐭩 notes: he’s your least favorite patient. you hate the way he talks. the way he smirks. the way he makes himself comfortable in your space like he owns it.… and you also hate the way your body betrays you every time he opens his mouth.

ᡣ𐭩 cw: mdni, nsfw, smut, f!reader, oral (f receiving), creampie, size kink, cursing, praise kink, unprotected sex, brief mention of akane, possessiveness, emotional denial, angst if you squint, overstimulation, soft aftercare, brief wrist grab, slight power play

This clinic wasn’t on any map. There was no sign outside. No receptionist. No insurance paperwork. Just an old, half-sunken building tucked two blocks off the main underground strip-cracked concrete, flickering lights, and a silence thick enough to choke on. Inside, it smelled like sterilized bleach and something older.

The walls weren’t painted gray, they’d just surrendered to it, almost faded until the color gave up. Filing cabinets leaned in the corners like dying soldiers. Metal trays cluttered with half-used supplies balanced on shaky stools. And in the center, under a cracked light fixture that buzzed like a broken heartbeat, stood a single battered examination table.

Your clinic was never holy, just sterile enough to swallow sins. A place where you sutured bullet wounds, stitched over knife gashes, and never once asked where the blood came from. Because some people, you save even when they don’t deserve it. You weren’t there to judge. You were there to stop the bleeding. And some nights, you couldn’t tell whose pain you were numbing more — theirs, or your own.

──★

You heard him before you saw him. The heavy drag of boots on tile. A low chuckle echoing down the hallway like a warning you’d already learned not to ignore. And then, there he was. Kokonoi Hajime. One of Bonten’s golden boys. Bonten was a criminal organization dressed in designer suits and bloodstained ledgers, and he was the one trusted to balance both. Their treasurer. The man who could make money bleed and wear pain like it was stitched in silk.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, snapping on your gloves.

He wore that grin again — lazy and lavish, like he was used to owning the room before he even walked in.

“Had some business to finish,” he said, dropping into the chair like it belonged to him.

You glanced at the wound; a deep, jagged gash running from rib to hip, torn open at a sharp angle like it had been carved, not cut. The bleeding had slowed, but the damage was clean enough to tell it came from a blade, not a brawl. It was probably unavoidable, given the kind of lifestyle he led.

This was the fifth time Kokonoi Hajime had stumbled through your doors in the past two months — always bleeding, always smirking, always carrying enough cash to make you look the other way. You sighed, already reaching for the tray of tools — antiseptic, gauze, suture kit. He wasn’t your favorite patient. But he kept your clinic open. Paid for your silence. And in your world, that was loyalty enough.

Treasure the treasurer. That was the unspoken rule.

──★

You stood between his legs, the sterile scent of antiseptic thick in the air as your fingers adjusted the overhead surgical light, its glow casting harsh white shadows over the angry gash carved along his side. The moment it illuminated his skin, you leaned in, eyes narrowing, inspecting the wound with clinical precision while pretending not to notice how close you were.

“You’re lucky,” you muttered, wiping away the blood oozing out. “Half an inch deeper and you’d be paying for your own funeral.”

He chuckled. “Would’ve made for a hell of a headline though, yeah?”

You didn’t laugh, just continued threading the needle with steady, cold, precision almost like this was just another routine stitch and not the fifth time you were sewing him back together.

“You talk too much,” you muttered.

The first stitch sank into his torn skin. He hissed through his teeth, muscles tensing beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in closer like he craved the pain, or maybe just the attention wrapped inside it.

“You’re good with your hands,” he murmured.

“Do you tell all your nurses that?”

He grinned wider. “Nah. Just the ones I wanna keep.”

You pulled the last stitch tight, snapped off your gloves, and turned away.

“You’re done. I’ve got other patients coming soon.”

You didn’t make it two steps before his hand wrapped around your wrist — not tight, but firm. Possessive in that quiet, undeniable way that didn’t need force to be felt. It’s his silent way of saying you’re not going anywhere.

“You fix me up,” he said softly, “You don’t get to walk away after that.”

You froze.

The warmth of his grip, the weight of everything unspoken between you, it all hit at once. And then, barely above a whisper, sharp with something fragile underneath: “I’m not your property.”

He smiled — slow, crooked, like he already knew how this would end.

“Maybe not yet,” he murmured, voice low and full of promise,“but you will be… after this.”

His fingers ghosted along your skin, sliding from your arm to your throat as if every inch of you was forbidden — a secret he’d waited too long to touch.

“You’re good at fixing broken things,” he murmured.

“Ever wonder what happens when one of them decides to keep you? You think you can stitch me up then walk away like you didn’t leave a piece of yourself in me?” he breathed against your throat, mouth dragging heat down your skin.

“You touched me. You bled into me. And now —there’s no getting you out. You’re officially mine.”

His mouth found your collarbone with slow intensity, branding the skin there like a signature — a claim, a quiet kind of madness wrapped in heat.

“I don’t give back what’s mine.”

Afterwards his rough fingers slipped beneath your shirt, calloused palms gliding across your skin like they were tracing something sacred, and the whole sensation made your stomach flutter with something unnameable.

“You should run,” he said. “But you probably won’t.”

Then he pressed you down against the examination table — hovering over you with a hunger that felt carved from restraint and his gaze devouring every inch of your body like it wasn’t enough just to touch. He knew he had to consume.

“You stitched yourself into me,” Kokonoi growled, voice low and final. “Every fuckin’ breath. Every pulse.”

“You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

──★

Your clothes hit the floor one piece at a time, each one peeled away with quiet reverence. Kokonoi stripped you slowly — not out of hesitation, but with intent, like he was learning you by touch. His gaze never wavered, drinking in every inch like your body was something sacred.

"You walked in here like it was just another job," he murmured.

"Poked my ribs. Threaded your hands through me. And you didn’t flinch — you didn’t look at me like I was just another paycheck. Another weapon," he said, voice breaking.

He stared at you with a kind of intensity that made your breath catch. Dark eyes locked onto yours like he was searching for something only you could give. There was no escape in that gaze, no room to look away — just the weight of it, heavy and unrelenting.

"You looked at me," he whispered, "…like I was someone worth saving."

His fingers glide along your curves, slow and possessive, memorizing the shape of you like he’s claiming it.

"I had someone once, long time ago. She was soft, kind and beautiful..." he said, voice rasping.

His eyes twitch, just slightly, like some long-buried memory clawed its way back to the surface — something unresolved, still lingering somewhere at the back of his mind.

"And when I lost her," he said, "I lost every fuckin' thing that ever made me worth saving."

"But you," he murmured, dragging his mouth higher, "you made me want to stay breathing."

He laughed — low and broken.

"Stupid, right? One touch from you — and I’m bleeding all over again."

"But this time," he said, voice dark and sweet,

"I’m dragging you into it too."

His zipper came down with a harsh, deliberate sound — sharp as a match strike against the thick tension coiled between you. His eyes never left yours like he’d been pacing the edge of this moment for far too long. “Tell me you want it too,” he said, voice rough, almost hoarse — the words breaking at the edges like they were tearing out of him. “Tell me I’m not the only one losing my mind over this.”

You meet his gaze with a heat that says: ‘Do it. Wreck me.’ And he doesn’t hesitate. Your breath catches the moment you get a proper look at his erection — long, thick, painfully hard — big enough to make you second-guess every reckless thing you’ve ever said to him. Especially now… knowing it’s about to be inside you.

He pushed his tip into you slowly — inch by devastating inch — dragging out breathless, broken sounds from your throat like he was coaxing them on purpose, savoring every twitch, every soft plea coming out from you. The stretch burned in the best possible way, a sweet ache that pulled desperation straight from your lungs. And he just smirked — eyes locked on yours watching you unravel around him like it was the only thing he came for.

“Yeah… that’s it. My good girl,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked as he kept grinding into you.

“Ah— it hurts… you’re too deep—” your voice cracked between gasps, a half-whimper escaping as you struggled to breathe through the fullness of his length.

“Too deep for you, baby?” he taunts, dragging his cock deeper just to hear you whimper. “Then take it. Take it like my good fuckin’ girl— yeah, just like that.”

His pace was slow at first, then faster, rougher, each thrust hitting deeper than the last. Your thoughts blurred, concentration slipping with every snap of his hips because all you could feel right now was the way he’s filling you up like he was trying to carve himself into your body.

“You like it,” he pants, voice ragged. “Fuck—say it. I want to hear you say how good I make you feel.”

“Y-yes… you make me feel so good, Koko,” you gasp, voice catching between moans, eyes fluttering as your fingers curl tighter around him.

The way he was driving into you bordered on punishment — every thrust so precise it left you breathless, the kind of ache that blurred into pleasure until you were seeing stars from how perfectly he kept hitting all the right spots that made you fall apart.

“Say it,” he growled, thrusting into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“Say you fuckin’ belong to me.”

You barely managed a gasp, mouth parted, eyes hazy — and that’s when he crashed his lips to yours. It wasn’t gentle. It was devouring. All teeth, tongue, and desperation — like he needed to taste the words from your mouth before you could even say them. His rhythm never faltered, still slamming into you as his kiss swallowed every moan, every whimper, every broken syllable of surrender. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath hot, eyes blazing — staring straight through you like he already knew you were his.

“Say it,” he whispered again.

There was no denying it now — not with the way he made you feel, not with the way he was filling you completely it left no room for reason. In this moment, you knew it with aching certainty: you were already his, and there was no coming back from it.

"I’m yours," you gasped.

"I’m fucking yours, Kokonoi."

He didn’t answer — not with words, at least. He dropped to his knees between your thighs like he was always meant to be there. His hands spread you open, and then he was tasting you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. Slow at first. Drawing soft circles with his tongue, lips wrapping around your clit like he was kissing you there. But when you moaned — sharp, needy — something in him shifted. He groaned into you, messier now. Hungrier. Tongue dragging up and down, flicking fast, unrelenting — like he needed to memorize you. To ruin you from the mouth up. Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your hips bucked. But he didn’t stop. He only held you down, pulled you wider, and looked up at you with eyes already gone dark like he was daring you to come undone just for him.

“Be good,” he breathed. “Come for me. Show me who you belong to.”

And when he slipped two fingers inside, curling them just right — you immediately shattered from the overwhelming sensation. You came on his tongue with a broken cry, trembling as he licked through every wave, refusing to let a single drop go to waste.

“Koko,” you whispered, voice still trembling, “I want you inside me again. Please…”

His gaze dropped to his length — still hard, even after eating you out and fuck, he smirked.

“Say no more, baby,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked as he dragged his lips from your shoulder to your neck. “I’m not done with you yet.” And then — with a slow shift of his hips, his body was already twitching back to life inside you. Every thrust was slow and deep, like he wanted to make sure you feel every inch of him clench around you. The way he was moving inside you was so deliciously good that you forgot everything else — who you were before this, what you said you wouldn’t feel, what you promised yourself not to need. Now??? All that you knew was him.

And not long after that, he came with a low, broken groan — the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and involuntary, like he’d been holding it in for too long. His body shuddered as he stayed buried inside you, hips pressed flush like he couldn’t bear to let go, not even for a second. And then quieter, almost trembling — he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

"You’re not her," he whispered. "But you’re the first thing, since her that made me want to live."

He curled around you — the aftermath of longing and quiet possession, clinging onto you like you were the only thing keeping him whole.

"And you’re not getting away," he muttered.

"Not now. Not ever.”

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[aestheebluey]

Little Babybird

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𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐊𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐊𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐲 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐈'𝐦 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡, 𝐈 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐢 𝐕𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐲. 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜.

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The news reached you like a cold spike to the gut. Fumikage, his voice uncharacteristically strained, had called. "It's… it's Hawks, (Name). There was a villain. An age quirk and He's… he's a child again."

Your mind reeled. Hawks. Keigo. A child? The confident, witty, slightly chaotic hero, reduced to his younger self? You knew snippets of his past, the cold, analytical way the HPSC had shaped him from a very young age. 'This couldn't be good.' You thought.

"Where is he, Fumikage?" you asked, your voice trembling and panicky.

"They've got him at a secure HPSC building facility. Other heroes are there, trying to… well, trying to help. But he's… very different." Tokoyami's voice trailed off. You didn't need him to elaborate. You knew. You knew the quiet, almost terrified boy Keigo used to be before his personality became a carefully constructed facade to appease the public eye.

Without another word, you grabbed your bag and practically sprinted out the door, Tokoyami right behind you.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈

The HPSC facility was sterile and hushed, a stark contrast to the usual boisterous energy that followed Hawks wherever he went. You were led to a large, brightly lit room that had clearly been set up to resemble a play area. All Might was attempting to build a precarious tower of blocks, while Endeavor- probably was forced to go here, surprisingly and uncharacteristically, was making clumsy attempts at drawing with crayons with a grumpy face. Mirko was bouncing a brightly colored ball, her usual fierce grin softened into something almost gentle. A few other heroes were scattered around, trying various methods to engage the tiny figure in the center of it all.

And there he was. The child form of Keigo Takami.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by toys he wasn't touching. His small wings were drawn in tight against his back, almost as if he was trying to disappear. His usually vibrant golden eyes were downcast, shadowed by long, dark lashes. He looked utterly lost, a fragile echo of the boy he'd once been, before the world demanded a hero. This was the quiet, almost haunted child, stripped bare of the swagger and the wit.

Your heart aches seeing him like that.

"Keigo?" you whispered, your voice soft but clear in the surprisingly quiet room.

His head snapped up. His eyes, so wide and vulnerable, found yours. For a split second, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face, a child's hesitation. Then, as if a dam had broken, he scrambled to his feet and ran to you at full speed.

"(Name)!" he cried, a tiny, reedy voice that tore at your soul. He launched himself at you, burying his face in your leg, his small arms wrapping around your thigh in a surprisingly strong grip. He clung to you as if you were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly gone wobbly.

The other heroes exchanged relieved glances. All Might offered a thumbs-up, a silent acknowledgment of your presence.

You nod your head at him before you knelt down, carefully pulling him into a hug. He was so small, so light. You could feel his heart thrumming against your chest. His little hands gripped the back of your shirt, holding on for dear life, as if you could disappear the moment he even lets a single hand go. He didn't say anything, just burrowed deeper into your embrace, in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent.

"Hey, little bird," you murmured, stroking his soft hair. "It's okay. I'm here."

From that moment on, he was glued to you. If you moved, he moved. If you sat down, he was in your lap or pressed against your side. He was very clingy. He didn't want to play with the toys, didn't respond to the heroes' attempts at engaging him. He only wanted you.

"Can you read to me, (Name)?" he'd ask, his voice barely above a whisper while clutching your hand.

You read him stories, your voice a soothing balm. He’d trace patterns on your arm with his tiny fingers, his head resting against your shoulder. When you suggested getting something to eat, he insisted on holding your hand the entire way to the cafeteria. He only ate when you fed him small bites, and even then, he kept looking up at you, as if to make sure you hadn't vanished.

Mirko, watching from a distance, commented, "Kid's got a serious attachment to you, carrot. Never seen him like this before."

You simply smiled sadly. "He remembers the warmth, I think. Something he didn't have much of when he was a kid."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈

You spent hours like this, just being present for him. You talked to him about mundane things, told him about your day, hummed quiet tunes. He didn't speak much, but he would occasionally let out a soft sigh of contentment, his small body relaxing against yours. You could feel the deep, ingrained fear in him, the need for a stable, comforting presence.

Then, as the afternoon wore on, a strange flicker happened. You were reading him a story about a brave knight, and he was nestled in your lap, almost asleep. Suddenly, he twitched. His small body seemed to ripple, to stretch. His wings, which had been so small and tucked in, seemed to unfurl, growing in size.

His eyes snapped open, no longer the wide, innocent eyes of a child, but the sharp, intelligent gaze of Hawks. He blinked, a flicker of confusion, then recognition. He was no longer a child. He was back to his usual age, his strong arms now fully encompassing you in a surprisingly tight hug.

"(Name)?" His voice was deep, familiar, but laced with a hint of bewilderment. He pulled back slightly, his golden eyes searching your face. "What… what happened?"

You smiled, a little tear pricking your eye. "You got hit with an age quirk, Keigo. You were… a kid again."

He blinked again, slowly. "A kid, huh?" He looked around the room, taking in the scattered toys, the lingering scent of crayons. His gaze landed on Endeavor, who was now just sitting awkwardly with a half-finished drawing.

"Do you… do you remember anything?" you asked, hesitantly.

His eyes fixed on yours, serious and intense. "Every detail," he said, his voice quiet. "I remember being scared. I remember the cold. And I remember you." He reached out, gently cupping your cheek. "I remember you coming in. I remember you holding me. Reading to me. Taking care of me like I'm your very own child. I remember how… safe I felt with you."

A faint blush dusted his cheeks, a rare sight. "I was… pretty clingy, wasn't I?"

You laughed, a genuine, heartfelt laugh. "Oh, you were the clingiest little baby bird I've ever met. You wouldn't let me out of your sight. Not even a single second." You said as you gently booped his nose.

He let out a soft chuckle, a warmth returning to his eyes that had been absent for hours. "Can't blame a guy. You were the only one who didn't try to make me play with building blocks." He squeezed your hand. "Seriously though, (Name)… thank you. For being there. For taking good care of me even though you were busy."

"Always, Keigo," you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder.

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[5starluvr]

NORTHSIDE

pairing: jeongin x reader (fem)

summary: The frat house was too loud. The music too bassy. The beer too warm. You weren’t supposed to stay long. But then Jeongin looked at you like he saw past all of it. And for one night, maybe he did.

genre: college au, smut, angst , one-shot

wc: ~4.8k

warnings: graphic sexual content (oral, protected p-in-v, rough sex, dom!jeongin),party setting, alcohol, one-night stand dynamic,emotionally intense,themes of loneliness, casual sex, fleeting intimacy

The bass is a pulse.

Jeongin leans against the splintered railing of the frat house porch, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, condensation dripping down like sweat. Someone inside is yelling about flip cup. Someone else is crying in the backyard. The night is breathing heat and smoke and perfume and sour breath.

It’s the kind of party you don’t really want to be at, but you show up anyway. Senior year. Expectations.

His eyes are sharp, half-lidded, tracking movement. People pass like smears of color and noise, none of it sticking — until her.

She’s standing alone at the edge of the kitchen, plastic cup to her lips, red as blood. Her eyes sweep the room like she’s trying to memorize it all in case she never comes back. Tight black dress, one strap off her shoulder, hair half up, lip gloss smeared slightly at the corner. She looks too young for this crowd — and too self-aware to admit it.

She’s not looking at anyone.

So naturally, Jeongin looks at her.

He drifts toward the doorway like he’s being pulled. Or maybe pushed.

“Freshman?” he asks, not bothering to shout. If she hears him, because he knows she will.

She doesn’t look at him right away. Just sips. Then: “You say that like it’s an insult.”

Her voice is low. Not soft. Like she only gives it to people she wants to hear her.

He smirks, teeth flashing. “I didn’t say it was.”

“Then why ask?”

Jeongin tilts his head. “Because you’re standing like you don’t know whether to stay or run. And that’s a freshman thing.”

She finally turns to face him. Her eyes are steady. Grey or green — hard to tell under the shitty LED light strip flickering above them.

“I stayed.”

“You did.” He steps a little closer. “What’s your name?”

She hesitates, then gives it. “Y/N.”

He repeats it, quieter. Like a password.

———————-

She doesn’t know why she’s still here. The party is too loud. The house stinks of beer and cologne and sweat. Some guy with a backwards cap just tried to explain NFTs to her.

But now there’s this guy. Tall, sharp-jawed, brown hair tousled like he just woke up — or like he always looks like this. He doesn’t lean in too close. Doesn’t scan her legs. Doesn’t use that voice guys use when they think they’re being charming.

He just watches her like he’s curious. A little detached.

Which is worse. Or better.

She steps into his space first. Subtle. Maybe imperceptible. But he notices — his hand brushes hers by accident, or maybe not.

“You live here?” she asks.

“God, no.” A smile. “I have taste.”

She laughs — short, real.

He tips his beer toward her. “Come upstairs.”

It’s not a question.

She should say no. She should ask his name. She should pretend like she hasn’t already decided.

But she doesn’t.

She just follows.

————-

The door clicks shut behind them.

Someone’s room — no idea whose. The walls are lined with peeling posters and dirty laundry piles. A candle has been burned too low on the windowsill. Smells like wax and vanilla and boy.

She’s already sitting on the bed. Legs crossed, one hand tugging at the strap slipping off her shoulder. Her eyes are locked on him like a dare.

“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor,” he says, voice rougher now.

“I’m not.”

Jeongin crosses the space and stops in front of her. She stays seated, looking up.

“Then what are you doing?” he asks.

She stands slowly. Her hand slides up his chest — not gentle, not sweet. She stops at his collar, grips it, tugs.

“Staying.”

That single word from her mouth presses something deep and primal inside him, and before either of them breathes again, her lips crash into his.

The kiss is fierce—teeth, tongue, heat. No soft prelude. No testing the waters. Her mouth tastes like spiced rum and want, and he groans into it, gripping her hips through the clingy fabric of her dress.

She’s already tugging his shirt up, her nails scraping his abs. He peels it off and tosses it. Her hands roam like she’s memorizing muscle—over his chest, shoulders, arms. He watches her while she works his belt loose, knuckles grazing his hard-on.

The zipper comes down and she smirks when she feels how hard he is already through his boxers.

“Jesus,” she mutters.

He’s already backing her toward the bed.

Her dress pools to the floor—no hesitation. No shame. She steps out in black lace and heels. The bra barely covers anything; the panties are already damp. She hooks her thumbs in them and starts to slide them down, slow, like she wants him to watch. He does. Every second.

Then she’s sitting on the bed, legs open just enough to tease.

He drops to his knees between them, gripping her thighs. She’s warm, already slick. He leans in, licks a stripe up her slit, and her head falls back with a gasp.

“Oh—fuck—”

He groans against her, tongue working slow at first, then faster. His hands pin her thighs wide, fingers digging in as he sucks her clit and flicks it with his tongue. She’s soaked, dripping onto his mouth, and when she grabs his hair and grinds forward, he lets her.

“Shit—don’t stop—right there—”

He doesn’t. His tongue circles, flattens, dips into her, and then he’s sucking her clit again while two fingers slide inside—wet and tight and so fucking hot.

She arches off the bed, moaning loud now. He curves his fingers just right, finds the spot, and—

She breaks.

Her thighs clamp around his head and her body jerks, cumming hard on his tongue with a strangled sound. He groans and keeps going, tongue softening now, kissing the insides of her thighs, slow licks to soothe her as she shivers.

She looks wrecked. Lip bitten, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling like she ran a mile.

“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she pants.

He’s out of his jeans in seconds, condom in hand, tearing the foil with his teeth. She takes it from him and rolls it on slowly, fingers curling around him, stroking once—then again, tighter.

“You’re fucking big,” she murmurs.

“Can you take it?” His voice is gravel.

She just pulls him down by the neck and kisses him again—hot, open-mouthed, filthy.

Then she rolls onto her back, legs open wide, and nods once.

“Come fuck me, Jeongin.”

He pushes into her in one long, slow thrust. She moans loud, hips rising to meet him. Tight, wet, hot—she feels insane. He stills halfway, jaw clenched.

“Holy shit,” he growls.

“Don’t stop,” she hisses. “Fill me. All the way.”

He thrusts the rest of the way in and her nails rake down his back, pulling him deeper, harder.

They find rhythm fast—his hips slamming into hers, the slap of skin on skin loud in the room. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulls him in, takes every inch like she’s starving for it.

“Harder,” she gasps. “Faster—fuck, right there—”

He drives into her, holding her down by the hips as he pounds her, the bed creaking with every thrust. Her tits bounce with the movement and he ducks down, sucking one into his mouth, biting lightly until she cries out again.

He flips her over—hands on her waist, pulling her ass up. She looks back at him over her shoulder, flushed and panting.

“Please,” she whimpers.

He sinks into her from behind, deeper this time, and she chokes on a moan, hands clutching the sheets.

Her body takes everything he gives—every thrust, every slap of his hips, the sting of his palm on her ass when she clenches too hard.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he groans. “You love this, don’t you?”

“Y-Yeah—god—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He holds her hair, thrusts harder, her pussy sucking him in like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s shaking again, and when he reaches around to rub her clit—

She breaks again.

Loud, filthy, clawing at the sheets as she cums hard, body convulsing. Her walls clamp around him and he barely holds on—one more thrust, and then he’s cumming too, deep, gasping her name as he pulses into the condom, body going rigid.

They stay like that for a long moment—bodies slick, breath ragged, tangled in the sheets.

Eventually, he pulls out, ties off the condom, drops it in the trash.

She’s already slipping her panties back on, pulling her dress over sticky skin, tucking her hair behind one ear. She doesn’t look at him right away.

Jeongin stays on the bed, sheets twisted around his waist. He watches her like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her spine.

“You don’t have to go,” he says, voice low.

She pauses at the mirror. Smooths her dress. Stares at her own reflection like she doesn’t recognize it.

“I wasn’t supposed to stay this long.”

He swallows. “Still. You could.”

She turns, finally facing him. Her lipstick’s long gone. Her eyes are clearer now — less drunk, more real.

“You’ll forget me tomorrow.”

“No, I won’t.”

She crosses the room slowly. Not toward the door — but toward him.

And then — she kisses him.

Soft, this time. Nothing like before. A slow press of lips, a breath shared, her fingers threading briefly through his hair.

When she pulls back, her eyes linger on his face like she wants to say something else. Something real.

But instead, she just whispers, “You were the only reason I didn’t leave sooner.”

Then she’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Jeongin lies back.

Worst thing?

The sheets still smell like her.

[drrobbysbabygirl]

Hehe, here we go.

Word count: 1,033

Warning: no beta, AFAB!reader, Robby is pussy whipped for you, subby Robby, vaginal sex

You were sitting on the couch, legs folded underneath you, with a warm cup of tea in your hands when Robby got home.

You looked up from the TV and immediately noticed the glassiness in your husband’s eyes.

“Long day?” You asked as he stripped out of his scrubs to throw them in the basket by the door.

“That’s one way of putting it,” he grunted as he leaned down to kiss you.

You leaned up towards him, deepening the kiss. “Go shower, I’ll meet you in the bedroom. I want to take care of you,” you murmured against his lips.

“I love you,” he sighed as he pulled back.

“I love you too, Michael. Go shower so I can get my hands on you,” you said, smiling softly.

He nodded and walked off to the en suite bathroom.

You turned the tv off, stretching as you rose. You put your cup in the sink, and started stripping your clothes off as you walked to the bedroom. You smiled when you heard Robby humming to himself in the shower, and got comfortable on the bed, now in just your panties.

A few minutes later, Robby walked out the bathroom, hair damp and towel slung low on his hips. You bit your lip at the sight of his happy trail.

“Like what you see?” He asked, a soft smirk on his face.

“You know I do,” you said, groaning as he let the towel fall to the floor.

Robby crawled onto the bed and draped himself over you, careful to not put his full weight on you.

You sighed happily as he settled, wrapping your arms around his bare shoulders.

“I’m sorry you had a rough shift,” you mumbled into Robby’s hair.

He shook his head. “I just need you,” he said, eyes flicking up to yours.

You kissed him, slow and deep. He groaned into your lips, and you could feel him growing hard against your hip. “Let me give you what you need, baby,” you said.

He kissed along your collarbone, sucking on your skin periodically. You moaned when he nipped at your neck, and gasped when he moved down to suck your nipple into his warm mouth.

“Is this what you need, Michael? Hmm? You want me in your mouth,” you asked, moaning as he switched his talented mouth to your other nipple.

“Yes, fuck, you taste so good,” your husband moaned as he kissed down your body. He nipped at your hips and sucked on your skin, leaving a colorful array of love bites behind. When he finally made it to your covered pussy, you were trembling. He placed a single kiss to your sex, before helping you peel your underwear off.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” the older man growled when he saw how wet you were.

“Yeah,” you gasped as he kissed along your thighs. “You drive me crazy,” you said.

Robby moaned at your words, mouthing along the inside of your thighs, happy to have your skin under his lips.

“Michael,” you whined, half in warning, half in frustration.

The older man hummed and sucked another hickey onto your skin, seemingly content with teasing you.

You moaned when he bit down on the sensitive flesh near your entrance. You reached down and wrapped your fingers in the coarse hairs of his beard and tugged.

Robby moaned loudly, and looked up at you with hazy eyes.

“You want to be good for me, right baby,” you asked, hand still in his beard.

“Yeah, fuck. I wanna be good for you,” he gasped.

You hummed and gently led him to your core by his beard. “I know you want to taste me, sweetheart. Go ahead,” you encouraged.

Robby’s tongue flicked out and ran through your folds.

The two of you groaned simultaneously.

“Oh my god you taste so good,” your husband whined.

You didn’t get a chance to respond, because the very next second Robby was eating you out like he was starved.

Your hand went up to his hair, tugging sharply when he thrust his tongue inside of you. “Michael, fuck! You’re so good for me, baby,” you cried.

Robby groaned at the praise and reached for your thighs, pulling you flush to his face.

“Fuck!” You exclaimed, hand flexing in your husband's hair. “I’m so close, fuck Michael, please,” you begged.

“Give it to me, need to taste you,” Robby whined into your skin. He eased in a single, thick finger and you shattered.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you cried, nails raking down Robby’s back. He moaned at the sting as he lapped at your release. He licked at you until your hand went back into his hair and hauled him up to your lips. “What do you need,” you asked, moaning at the taste of yourself.

Robby ground himself into you, and you both gasped when his tip caught at your entrance. “Need to fill you up, please baby, can I,” he asked, whining softly into your neck.

“Fuck, yeah baby, you’ve been so good for me, making me come with your mouth. Come on,” you babbled as the older man leaned back to line himself up. You were so slick from your orgasm, and he pushed in with one, slow push.

“Oh god,” Robby gasped. “I’m not gonna last sweetheart,” he told you as began snapping his hips.

“Fuck, that’s okay, take what you need,” you squeaked as he slapped his hips against yours.

It only took a few more jerky thrusts for Robby to spill inside of you.

“Fuck,” the older man shouted, collapsing on top of you.

You both were gasping, trying to catch your breath. You twitched around Robby, who groaned at the feeling. “I’m pulling out,” he gently warned you.

You gasped as the feeling, but then smiled as Robby pulled you closer.

“I love you, thank you for taking care of me” he said into your hair as he kissed your head.

“I love you too, baby. I know you need it sometimes,” you responded.

Robby hummed and placed another kiss on your head. “Sleep, we’ll clean up later,” he said, closing his eyes.

You snuggled closer, smiling as you drifted to sleep.

[dreaming-medium]

Stray Kids Kinktober Day 1

Stray Kids Kinktober Masterlist

Orgasm Denial - Han Jisung

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: After watching other men flirt with you at a party, Jisung’s patience has officially run out.

————————————————————

You were torturing Han Jisung without even realizing it.

Jisung had absolutely no reason to be mad right now. He has no right being as livid as he is. But the jealousy that he feels in the deepest pit of his stomach is bubbling like boiling lava and spreading throughout his chest and into each of his limbs. 

Currently, you were leaning against the countertop of the kitchen talking to Hyunjin, a red solo cup held up to your lips, throat bobbing as you sipped your drink.

Whatever story he decided to tell you must be intensely captivating for you to give him this much of your time. 

The loud music booming through the speakers made the walls vibrate. None of the main lights in the kitchen were on, instead, LED strips lined the walls of Chan’s apartment. Currently, they were set to a deep blue.

You can talk to whoever you want, wherever you want. Jisung cannot do anything about that.

That’s the problem, you’re not his. And he doesn’t spend a single day wishing that wasn’t true.

Jisung has had his eye on you for the better part of a year now. Both of you were in a majority of the same classes; he actually met you on the first day when the only open seat in the lecture hall was next to him.

When he moved his bag away from the chair for you to sit down, you flashed the brightest smile with a ‘thank you’ and instantly he was hooked.

It all started out so innocently. His heart would race when you would walk into the room in those adorably coordinated outfits; his hands would get clammy and he would get tongue tied whenever you tried to speak to him.

After you would leave he would be able to smell your perfume like a phantom haunting his life. 

Class after class, you would talk more and more. Eventually you asked for his phone number.

“Just in case I need help with the homework.” Your eyes sparkled at him. Jisung couldn’t get his phone out of his pocket fast enough.

“Yeah! Of course, totally.” He fumbled with his words. All you did was giggle at him and the sound went straight to his heart which thudded against his rib cage.

Homework related texts slowly turned into more friendly conversation.

Jisung can still remember the first time you touched him, he could still feel your hand on his arm days afterwards. You were only trying to get his attention to look at one of your other classmates who fell asleep in a ridiculous position, but he couldn’t even focus on that.

All he knew at that moment was that your hand was on his arm, all five of your fingers were curled around his forearm.

Jisung thanked every single god in existence that he had rolled up the sleeves of his flannel not even ten minutes prior to your grab. Because of this, he was able to feel just how soft your hands were, how warm your skin was.

Study sessions evolved into hangouts which then evolved to him introducing you to his friends.

You were now part of his close circle of friends. It’s so bittersweet to Jisung.

Now, he sees you almost every single day, but at the same time, so does everyone else.

Innocent thoughts about how beautiful your skin tone looks with the color yellow dissolved into much more impure fantasies.

If your hands felt that soft on his forearm, then he can’t imagine how they would feel everywhere else on his body. How the pads of your fingertips would feel sliding down his chest, over his abs and tracing down his v-line. 

The day you came to his apartment after getting your nails done the only thought on Jisung’s mind was how delicious it would feel to have those pretty little nails scratching down his back. Your head thrown back in pleasure, eyes rolling into the back of your head, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Fuck, when you say his name it’s like nothing else exists.

And now you’re talking to Hwang Hyunjin of all people. Whatever Hyunjin just said to you must’ve been especially funny to you since your head jerks forward and a choked laugh almost makes you spit out your drink.

Hyunjin laughs with you and his hand comes up to grab your upper arm.

Jisung clenches his jaw so tight the muscles in his face hurt.

What the hell was he supposed to do? He’s been standing on the other side of the semi-crowded kitchen for about ten minutes now, silently seething as you talk to another man who is so obviously flirting with you.

You are not his. You are not his. 

But, fuck, he wants you so fucking bad. He wants to know if your perfume will linger on his sheets after you’ve left his bed. Would his pillow hold onto the smell of your shampoo?

Jisung looks down at the empty cup in his hand, his imagination running wild. 

He was the one that walked with you to this party, like always. Which means he’ll also be the one to walk you home. That thought sates a tiny bit of jealousy.

But it’s really only like throwing a bucket of water into a raging wildfire.

There’s a loud yelp and Jisung’s head snaps up and looks over at you.

Someone had bumped into the back of Hyunjin, causing his cup to jolt and contents to spill all down the front of your shirt.

“Shit,” you curse, looking down at the damage. His drink was dark and your shirt was white.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” Hyunjin apologizes profusely, putting his now empty cup on the counter and grabbing an absurd amount of paper towels.

“Don’t worry about it,” you smile at him. “Accidents happen.”

Hyunjin starts dabbing at your shirt with the paper towels.

Jisung’s hand clenches his cup so hard the plastic crunches and the cup crushes.

“... Dude.” Minho says in a deadpan tone next to him. Has he been next to him the entire time?

Jisung can’t take his eyes off of the two of you. Does Hyunjin even realize what he’s doing? His hands are all over your stomach and chest, wiping off the drink that drips down the open collar of your shirt, dipping into the valley of your breasts.

He wouldn’t even need the paper towels. Give Jisung three minutes and he could have you clean with nothing but his tongue. Fuck, maybe even just two minutes.

One. He only needs one. Just give him one minute with you.

“Ugh, this shirt is ruined,” you frown, holding the fabric away from your skin. “I’m gunna go borrow one from Chan, be right back.”

Once more, you smile at Hyunjin who only apologizes more.

You weave your way through the crowd of people and out of the kitchen.

Jisung doesn’t even think, he slams his crushed cup down on the counter next to a startled Minho and immediately follows you. His body is acting on its own at this point, blinded by the green hue of jealousy.

He’s only about three steps behind you when you walk into Chan’s bedroom. You step further into the room and towards the closet, Jisung enters the room and closes the door behind him.

A startled yelp leaves your lips and you turn around with your hand clutching your chest.

“Jisung!” You exclaim. God, your voice does sinful things to his mind. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You giggle and look down at your ruined shirt. “Someone bumped into Hyunjin and he spilled his entire drink on my shirt. You don’t think Chan will mind if I borrow one of his shirts, right?”

Jisung doesn’t answer, he only locks the door with a solid click.

Your expression drops. “Jisung?” you ask gently. “Are you alright?” You step closer to him with a concerned pull of your eyebrows.

His pupils are blown wide and his shoulders rise and fall with each breath. He’s zeroed in your face, his chin dipping down slightly, lips parted.

Something just… snaps within him. Maybe it’s the alcohol, who knows?

Jisung takes large steps towards you at an alarming rate.

Startled, you back up quickly until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.

“Jisung?” you ask again.

“Didn’t you want to get this off?” is all he says, grabbing two fist fulls of the bottom of your soaked shirt. The fabric is cold to the touch.

“Wh-” is all you have time to say before your shirt is yanked over your head. You gasp and your hands fly up to cover your chest.

Jisung throws the shirt onto the floor and reaches forward and grabs both of your wrists tightly. He tugs you towards his body and you stumble forward into him.

“All night you’ve been talking to him, Y/N.” he growls. Your eyes are wide in surprise. “All night. And you just stand there while he undresses you with his eyes.”

Jisung pulls your arms apart and holds them out at your sides. He takes another step forward until your chests are flush against one another.

His breathing is so deep that with each inhale you press even further into him.

Your cheeks heat up and you sputter out incoherent words, not knowing where any of this is coming from. 

“Jisung, I-”

“I can’t take it anymore, Y/N.” his voice dips down an octave, it’s raspy and thick. “I can’t stand by and watch other people try to take you from me.”

He leans down quickly and stops his lips mere millimeters from yours. He can practically taste your chapstick from this distance. That damn cherry chapstick that you would put on during the colder months.

“Say you’re mine, Y/N. Please, please be mine.”

You swallow audibly, your eyes are staring down at his lips. The party outside the room sounds so far away.

“I’ve always been yours, Jisung.”

It feels like he’s shocked by a live wire the way a wave of electricity travels down his entire body at your words. And that feeling is nothing compared to how his body reacts when he finally kisses you.

Every single nerve comes alive in his body at the press of your lips on his. He can’t help but let a small whimper escape the back of his throat. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is really happening. 

His hands move from grasping your lips to desperately grab at your face. He can’t control his hands, one moment he’s cupping your face, the next he’s grabbing at the sides of your ribcage.

When he feels the heat of your naked skin in his hands he nearly moans out loud.

You’re so much softer than he could’ve ever imagined.

Lips desperately slide over one another. Large gasps of air in between each one. It’s filthy the way he devours your mouth.

His tongue slides out from behind his lips at the same time as yours does and they meet in the middle for a sinful dance.

Your hands wrap around his neck and one threads into his hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling.

This time he does moan and it’s guttural and deep. 

His dick has been hard from the moment you said his name in this room, and with each second that passes his jeans only get tighter. 

“Mine,” he whispers in between kisses. “All mine.”

You sigh into the kiss and press your chest against his even further. 

Jisung’s hands move behind your back and begin to fumble with your bra, it comes off within seconds. You pull your arms away from him to let it fall off your body.

He tears his lips away from yours and peers down at your naked chest. He can feel precum leaking out of his cock at the sight of your tits.

“Fuck,” he grunts and his hands come up and cup both of them in greedy handfuls. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Jisung,” you whine at his touch.

“Get on the bed, baby.” he commands and you immediately fall backwards onto it.

From your seated position, you scoot backwards towards the middle and Jisung watches, palming over his painful clothed erection.

The way you’re looking up at him from the bed does nothing to help easy the aching in his pants. You bat your eyelashes at him and his knees almost give out.

Jisung yanks his shirt over his head and throws it onto the floor mindlessly. He crawls over you and captures your lips with his again.

Your moans of pleasure are music to his ears. 

One of his hands slides up your body to grab at your chest again, he palms your one tit for a moment before pulling the nipple between his fingers. 

Your back arches upwards into his touch and you moan into his mouth. The heat from your naked body is radiating onto him. 

“Jisung,” you mewl against his mouth, “Jisung please.”

“Please, what?” he presses into you.

You answer by rolling your hips up against his. The delicious pressure against his aching cock causes him to buck downwards.

Both of you moan together at the feeling. He doesn’t care if it’s pathetic, you’re making his body sing with even the smallest of touches; playing him like an instrument.

“Touch me, Jisung, please.”

He’s died, surely he’s died and gone to Heaven.

Those words rip right through him. You’re begging him to touch you?

“Shit,” he rasps against your lips. His hips roll against yours again. He’ll touch you every single moment of every day for the rest of your lives if you’ll let him.

His hand slides down and undoes the button of your jeans as fast as possible. His fingers wont work fast enough for how fucking bad he wants to fulfill your request. 

As soon as the button is undone, he’s yanking your jeans and panties down your legs and launching them across the room. 

Jisung props himself on his elbow next to your head and looks down at your face. Your cheeks are flushed red and eyes half-lidded. Your hair fans like a halo around your head.

Your lips are completely swollen and red, their soaking wet from the spit swapped between the two of you. Deep pants are coming out in large breaths.

“You want me to touch you, baby?” Jisung purrs down to you. You gulp and nod your head quickly.

“Please,” you utter.

He smirks at your begging. 

Slowly he drags his fingers down your stomach with a featherlight touch. His eyes follow his own hand. Your stomach muscles jump at his caress. 

You’re an absolute angel underneath him.

He can’t stop staring at your body. Months and months he’s pined to know what you look like underneath those clothes. The first time you wore a matching yoga set to class Jisung nearly came in his pants.

The way it hugged every single curve on your body. 

And now seeing you uncovered before his very eyes feels unreal. Like any moment he’ll wake up from a dream.

His mouth dips down and captures your kiss-swollen lips once more, his hand splayed out on your lower stomach.

Lower and lower he trails his wet, open mouth kisses down your skin. The lower he gets, he can taste the drink that Hyunjin spilled on you. 

Rum and coke. 

The rum is so sticky sweet on your skin and it makes his head whirl. His fingers curl and he scratches down your stomach causing you to throw your head back in a moan.

“Jisung…” your hips roll off the bed again but he pushes them back down with his hand.

“No, no,” he growls against your skin, leaning down and licking between the valley of your breasts. “I’ve waited too long for this. You’re going to be patient and take whatever I give you.”

A sharp inhale is the only response he hears before he takes one of your nipples in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the pebbled bud.

Your hand comes up and you grab a fistful of his hair again.

Quiet cries of pleasure spill from your lips with every lick and nip of his teeth. 

Eventually his hand moves further down and he runs his fingers softly through your folds.

“Fucking shit you’re so wet,” he purrs against your chest.

“Want you so bad, Ji…” you sound so fucked out already and he’s barely touched you. It makes him keen and moan against your skin.

His fingers glide up and down your slit. If it wasn’t for the loud music right outside the room, he’s sure the noises coming from his touch would be sinful.

Jisung easily glides a finger into your opening and your head kicks back and is thrown against the pillow. A long moan comes from deep within your throat.

He slides another finger in and his thumb rubs against your clit slowly. Pleasure rips through your veins and shoots shockwaves down your legs.

The alcohol in your blood only makes everything feel even better. 

Every single sound of pleasure that comes out of your mouth only encourages him further. Jisung feels like he’s drowning in ecstasy just by listening to you.

The hand in his hair tightens and you yank his head up to meet your lips in a searing kiss. It’s sloppy and messy. Tongues sliding over one another, heavy exhales leaving both of your mouths.

When Jisung curls his fingers inside you, you cry out against his lips and your eyebrows furrow in pleasure.

“That’s right, baby. Focus on how good I’m making you feel.”

“Ji… Ji…” you pant his nickname over and over in between exhales, pulling his hair tightly and making him feel insane.

The speed at which his fingers move increases and his thumb presses even harder against your clit.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m… I’m close…”

“You are?” he asks under his breath, faster and faster he moves.

The pressure in your abdomen builds and builds.

“Who’s making you feel like this, baby?”

You can’t answer him, you’re too busy squirming around the bed, your hips can’t keep still.

“Answer me, Y/N.”

He can feel your walls clamping on his fingers tighter and tighter as you hurl towards the edge. But still, you don’t answer.

So, he stops.

His finger still within you and an absolutely desperate wail leaves your lips.

“Fuck!” you cry, “Please!”

Jisung shifts his weight on his elbow and uses that hand to grab a hold of your hair in a steel like grip. 

“Girls who don’t listen don’t get to cum.” he growls in your ear. “Now, let’s try this again.”

Slowly, he begins to pump his fingers in and out of your soaking wet cunt. Your hips roll against his fingers, meeting each thrust.

Too slow, he’s moving too slow. You whine and squirm even more underneath him.

His thumb is rubbing figure eights on your clit, pleasure coursing through your veins like a drug. Closer and closer he brings you to the edge again.

With each passing second, he picks up his speed even more, curling his fingers to hit that spongy spot within you each time he thrusts in.

Your juices cover his entire hand, soaking the sheets underneath you both.

Every single wet dream he’s ever had is coming to life right before his very eyes.

“Who is making you feel this good?” Jisung’s voice is dark and low, it rumbles within his chest. Your eyes are clamped shut, mouth hanging open.

Tighter and tighter your walls clamp down.

“Y/N!” 

“You! Fuck!”

Jisung stops completely again. He yanks your hair as you cry out in frustration.

“Not good enough, Y/N!” he barks.

“Please please please!”

Your hips roll against his fingers to try and relieve that terrible ache in your cunt.

He leans down and bites down where your neck meets your shoulder– hard. An even louder whine leaves your lips. He can feel you clench around him from the feeling.

“We’re going to try this one last time, Y/N.” he hums against your rum coated skin. “And you’re going to be a good girl for me, okay?”

All you’re able to do is nod, your head is in the clouds.

He doesn’t start slow this time, his pace is immediately brutal. Your eyes fly open and he leans up to look down into your eyes.

Your pupils are completely blown out, eyes hazy in pleasure. A deep scarlet color covers your cheeks.

He hits your g-spot roughly with one particularly hard thrust at the same time his thumb presses your clit and your eyes roll back, chin tipping back.

“No,” he barks and yanks your head back, “Look at me.”

It takes so much strength to keep your gaze on him. Moan after moan tumbles from your swollen lips. 

“Close… close… please, please!” you cry.

“Who. Is. Making. You. Feel. Like. This?” he emphasizes each word with a thrust into your soaking wet walls.

He needs you to remember he’s touching you, him. Not Hyunjin, no one else. .

“You! Jisung! Han Jisung!”

“Louder!”

“Han Jisung! Fuck!”

Finally, he lets you fall over the edge and your walls squeeze his fingers so tight Jisung thinks he might cum in his own pants.

Your moans and cries of his name will be tattooed in his mind forever.

With hips bucking uncontrollably, he lets you ride out your absolutely mind-blowing orgasm. Deep hums emanate from your chest as you come down from that delicious peak.

“Fuck, baby,” he purrs into your ear, running his tongue up the side. “Can’t wait to hear you scream my name again, but this time you’ll be cumming on my cock.”

[evil-women-step-on-me]

Sayeon Lee: A Tragedy of Her Own Making

"Am I a bad person? Or just a weak one?"

It would have been easy for Sayeon Lee to be drowned out by her more colorful supporting cast.

The main three, for example, have their own main character-level backstories. Ryujin's adoptive family was massacred by the Aberrant Corps, the organization she is then forced to join; she seeks to avenge them by killing the Level 9 officer behind her family (and maybe crush's) death. Iseul's father was an apparent beacon of goodness within the shady Aberrant Corps and died before Iseul came of age; Iseul strives to succeed him, even though the Corps is a darker organization than he could ever imagine. Min was stripped of his essence at a young age, the trauma forming his stoic, mute personality. He joins a gang of criminals led by a woman he probably loves- even though she will never love him back- at least not in the way she loves her real sister, Sayeon Lee.

And who is Sayeon Lee? She's a hard worker. She… goes to school. She had maids? Her day-to-day existence is pretty cushy. It's explicitly stated that Sayeon has never worried about money, and probably food. Samin provides her with everything should ever need. As Officer Cha drives her to the Corps, Sayeon worries about her salary.

And despite how sheltered Sayeon is, and how "normal" her goals are compared to everyone else's ("Make the world a better place"…. ok, gurl) Sayeon still manages to be a devastatingly tragic character. To me, the reason is simple: Her tragedy is largely of her own making.

After Samin killed her best friend's dad, Sayeon could have reacted in so many ways. She could've tried leaving the home, or she could've not. She could've accepted Samin (and her family's) criminal history by acknowledging many of their actions as necessary, or she could've not. She could've lived her life and tried embracing the things that bring her happiness- or she could've not.

She doesn't, she doesn't, she doesn't. Sayeon chooses, inexplicably, to become a prosecutor. She studies until her nose bleeds so that she can get into a top school and put people like her sister in jail. She rejects having friends, hobbies, comfort, or any leisure throughout her teens just so that she can fulfill this purpose. She, essentially, rejects happiness itself.

And she didn't NEED to. From the start, no one has forced Sayeon to do anything. In fact, she has something that no other member of Cell 4 has: the backing of an ultra-powerful, ultra-rich family member who would do literally anything for her, no strings attached. Sayeon is the single most privileged member of Cell 4.

Ryujin didn't choose to be captured by the Corps. She didn't choose to sit in jail for years. Iseul is happy to be at the Corps, but he didn't have a choice in that either- unlike Sayeon, he isn't conveniently related to a family of supercriminals that would bail him out if he wanted something different. Min has had so little choice in his life that his character is basically defined by it. Even now, he is watching Sayeon on another person's orders. Does he even know he has a choice?

By contrast, Sayeon is FREE. She's still bound by society in some ways, so no, she won't become a prosecutor. But she had a choice between the Corps and a luxurious underground life as the untouchable sister of a superpowered heiress, who built an entire criminal empire just to protect her, and loves Sayeon with her whole heart and more.

And Sayeon still chose the Corps.

Sayeon is so mad with guilt and grief, so stuck on the idea of becoming society's Perfect Angel, the embodiment of her country and culture's ideals in some twisted form of repentance for something that she didn't even do- the actions of her family, which she did not choose and could not control- that she rejects happiness every time.

THIS is her fatal flaw. THIS is Sayeon's tragedy.

Not that she doesn't have a choice. But that she's always had one.

[lovedbysolaris]

Unsigned Feelings. (3)

Isabela Merced x Reader

Summary: You were hired to help her write an album not fall for her. Ghostwriting kept you safe. Until her. Isabela Merced sees through the walls you built with every lyric. What starts as late-night writing sessions turns into something you can’t name—until it hurts not to. But your past doesn’t stay buried. And when secrets surface and pressure builds, you're left with one choice: walk away like you always do... or stay and fight for the one thing you never let yourself want.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: honestly this aint a crazy story...

Recommended Soundtracks for Chapter.

“Godspeed” – Frank Ocean

“You Know How to Love Me” – Phyllis Hyman

“Don’t Delete the Kisses” – Wolf Alice

"Glory Box" - Portishead

“Over the Ocean Call” – Lizzy McAlpine

"Miles Around" - W.S (Unreleased, down below)

___________________________________-

You end up cleaning the Airbnb together, two weeks of notebooks, old takeout, water bottles, and tangled chords getting packed into boxes and gear bags. Isabela follows you room to room like a shadow.

At one point, she asks, “You got somewhere to drop your stuff before the flight?”

You nod. “Need to run it back to the apartment. Feed Hades.”

She pauses at the door. “Can I come?”

You look over your shoulder. “You want to meet my dog that’s built like a Greek statue and doesn’t trust strangers?”

She shrugs. “I’m very charming.”

You laugh. “Come on, then.”

Your apartment is smaller, more lived-in. Not flashy, not expensive—but home.

Navy walls with a matte finish. Exposed pipework. LED strips that aren’t too neon. And when you open the door, Alexa kicks in automatically:

“Now playing: ‘Glory Box’ by Portishead.”

You hear Isabela laugh behind you.

“Okay, I knew you were cool but this confirms it.”

You shrug. “She knows the vibe.”

She steps inside like it’s a museum—hands in her pockets, turning slowly as her eyes take everything in.

There’s a wall of sneakers by the door. Mostly Jordan Retros. Some classics. Some customs. One pair in a glass box.

There’s an incense burner shaped like a hand on the windowsill. A framed poster of a 90s Outkast tour. A black-and-white photo of Hades as a puppy, ears too big for his head.

Then she turns.

And sees the wall.

Dozens of plaques.

Framed gold and platinum certifications, no names on the front—just logos. You’d have to know what to look for.

She squints at one. “Wait. Is that… Khalid?”

You nod from the kitchen. “Yeah.”

She steps closer.

“Kehlani… Noah Kahan? Maren Morris?!”

You pour water into Hades’ bowl. “Country bag. Couldn’t pass that one up.”

Her eyes widen. “You ghostwrote half the charts.”

You lean against the counter. “Not half. Maybe a generous sliver.”

“Why doesn’t anyone know?”

You shrug. “Because ghostwriting’s the best invisibility cloak.”

She walks through the hallway to your room. You follow.

Your room is modern, clean, but personal. Sage bundle tucked under your mirror. Candle burned halfway through. You keep your hats hung up in order of color—some fitted, some faded. Your class ring glints from the edge of your desk.

Isabela leans against the doorway.

Watches you move.

You toss shoes into a bag, fold shirts with single flicks of your wrist, toss in the old guitar strap she’s seen you use every day for two weeks.

You don’t notice the way she’s watching you.

But she’s watching.

She sees your rhythm. Your peace. Your presence. Something about it makes her chest ache. And she doesn't know why.

Maybe because you’re not trying. And yet—you're still unforgettable.

“You always move like that?” she says softly.

You glance up. “Like what?”

“Like you don’t notice people watching you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you want me to?”

She grins. “Maybe.”

You shake your head and chuckle.

She looks down. Then, quietly, she says:

“…Secreta.”

You look up. “What’s that?”

She shrugs, teasing. “First language.”

You pause. “Secret.”

She freezes.

You zip the bag shut.

Then meet her eyes.

“Don’t be surprised I understood you,” you say. “We’re writing in every language now.”

At the airport, you’re all nerves.

Isabela’s got her hoodie up and sunglasses on. But you? You’re practically vibrating.

Tapping your foot.

Bouncing your knee.

Wringing your hands.

You’re quiet.

Too quiet.

She notices.

“So… how’s Hades?”

You nod. “Fine.”

“Your sister—”

“Good.”

She bites her lip, choosing silence.

You board first-class, and it’s a private seating area. Just you and her, two rows across from each other.

You sit stiffly. Gripping the armrest like it’s going to try and escape.

You stare at the window, then away, then back again.

Then you close your eyes.

Isabela notices.

She pulls her AirPods Max from her bag. Gently leans over, places them on your head.

You open one eye.

She smiles softly.

“Just listen.”

You hear it.

It’s “Lovin Kind.”

Mixed. Mastered. Your chords. Her voice. Your words. Her story.

You close your eyes again. Grip the armrest.

And then… you feel it.

Her hand slides into yours.

Warm.

Steady.

Sure.

You don’t open your eyes.

Neither does she.

But somehow, up there in the sky, you both exhale at the same time.

The plane landed smoother than you expected. The wheels kissed the runway, the cabin filled with a light clatter of seatbelts and softened applause, and somehow—somehow—you were still breathing.

You pulled the AirPods off and handed them back to Isabela like nothing had happened.

“I told you I’d be fine,” you said, stretching your legs dramatically.

She stared at you for a full second.

Then: “You were shaking so hard I thought the seat might file for a restraining order.”

You scoffed. “That’s bold. I was calm.”

“You whispered ‘we’re not built for the sky’ like three separate times.”

“Philosophical,” you muttered. “Not panicked.”

She grinned. “Mmm-hmm.”

Outside, a black SUV pulled up curbside.

Vanessa hopped out in a pinstriped jumpsuit, tossing her phone into her purse mid-call. “Welcome to L.A., kids. Let’s make some hits.”

She handed you a key fob. “That’s for your Airbnb. Only a five minute walk from Bela. No excuses for being late to sessions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You set this up?”

Vanessa smirked. “You think I trust you two not to vanish in a city full of distractions?”

Isabela leaned in. “We are the distractions.”

“Exactly.”

The Airbnb was nice—too nice for you, if you were being honest. A sleek little Spanish-style cottage tucked behind bougainvillea and warm brick walls, with glass doors that slid into a small patio garden. Minimalist decor, record player in the corner, a vinyl of Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life already on display.

You didn’t even finish unpacking before Isabela texted:

“Let me show you around. You need city feet.”

You’d barely tied your Jordan 5s before you were in her car again.

It started with a casual drive. Palm trees zipped past your window, the sun stretching warm fingers across your face. Isabela rattled off neighborhood names like song titles—Los Feliz, Echo Park, Silver Lake.

You weren’t really paying attention.

Because you saw it.

A storefront. A faded mural of MJ in a dunk pose. A neon Jumpman in the window.

Your breath hitched. “Pull over.”

“What?”

“Sneaker spot.”

Isabela blinked. “You’re joking.”

You were already out the door.

Inside, it smelled like heaven. Leather. Floor wax. Anticipation.

You moved like a kid in a candy store—eyes wide, hands hovering near displays like they were sacred relics. You struck up a conversation with one of the workers about a rare pair of Cement 3s, bonding instantly. (Need them 3's. Swear I'll sell a kidney)

Isabela stood back, arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold with a quiet, amused expression. The worker laughed at something you said and clapped your shoulder.

And then…

She saw it.

The smile.

Your real one.

The one that crinkled your eyes and pushed your dimples into the spotlight. The kind of smile you hadn’t once given her in all your two weeks of sessions, of late-night chords and heart-thin lyrics. And something inside her… shifted.

Not in jealousy.

Just in longing.

She wanted that smile. From you. For her.

Hours later, after a detour at a taco stand and a long sunset drive, you finally followed her to her home.

You were still riding the high from the sneaker shop. Until you stepped inside.

Laughter. A deep voice.

You tensed.

You called her name.

No answer.

The laughter led you down the hallway.

You rounded the corner.

And froze.

He was tall. Confident. Smiling like the room was built for him. A bouquet of deep red ranunculus flowers in hand. He wore effortless charisma like a second skin.

Isabela was laughing. Genuinely. Her eyes bright in a way you hadn’t seen before.

And that smile?

That was the one you wanted for you.

It burned.

You straightened your back. Folded your arms.

Isabela noticed the shift in you instantly.

The man turned. “Oh—didn’t know we had company.”

You said nothing.

Isabela gestured between you two. “oh!, this is—”

“I gotta head out. Studio’s tomorrow, right?”

She blinked. “Yeah, but…”

“I’ll meet you there.”

She tilted her head. “You sure? We could ride together.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

You turned.

And walked out.

She followed halfway, her voice at your back.

“You don’t even know where the studio is!”

You stopped at the door. Looked back just once.

“I’ll figure it out.”

And you closed the door before she could say anything else.

Inside, Isabela stood frozen, one hand hovering where the door had just been.

Young Mazino walked back in. “Everything okay?”

She blinked.

“Yeah,” she lied.

But it wasn’t.

Because that you? That version she just got?

Cold. Distant. Quiet.

It was the opposite of the person she had come to know in that echo room. The opposite of the girl who wrote in broken metaphors and whispered lines that felt like confessions.

It was a stranger.

And somehow…

That hurt more than she expected.

A slow, echoing hurt.

Like a song stuck on repeat inside her ribs.

The studio smelled like synth and sunlight.

You’d arrived early. Always did.

The room was clean—too clean. Booth untouched. Monitors still sleeping. You liked it that way. You got to move in silence, tune in without the world watching.

You stood in the center of the sound booth, fingers adjusting the mic stand, lowering it just an inch. Then another. Just to the right height. Not yours.

Hers.

You paused a second, just looking at the mic—tilted toward where her lips would be. A strange warmth crept up your neck.

Behind you, the door clicked open.

You didn’t turn.

You knew it was her.

Isabela stood by the glass, watching. Watching the way your hands moved with purpose. The way you tilted the mic like you’d done it a thousand times just for her. Even though you hadn’t.

She didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, she forgot she was mad. She forgot about slamming doors, and that stiff exit you gave her.

She just remembered your hands. And the way you always remembered her height.

She slipped in quietly as you started queuing up the mix.

You didn’t look over.

You felt her presence like a shifting temperature. Just behind you. Warm.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Morning,” you replied, casual. Too casual.

She crossed her arms. Waited. “You’re early.”

You nodded. “Gotta get the levels right.”

She watched you move, wrist flicking faders and scrolling through stems on the board. She’d watched engineers before. Producers. Ghostwriters.

But never like this.

Never like you.

And the silence was killing her.

So she cut it.

“You’re really not gonna talk about it?”

You blinked, slow. “Talk about what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Last night.”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t much to talk about.”

“Oh come on.”

You finally turned your chair around. Met her eyes.

Calm. Steady. Detached.

“I had a long day. Didn’t want to crowd your moment.”

She scoffed. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

You stood, walking toward the booth to adjust the levels on the guitar mic. “Let’s just make music.”

She stared at your back.

“No,” she said. “Because that’s what you do when you’re feeling something. You bury it in chords and rhyme schemes. You don’t say anything. You just sing it and hope nobody reads between the lines.”

You froze.

She stepped closer.

“You stormed out because you saw something you didn’t like. You were jealous. Or hurt. Or something. But instead of talking, you came here early to avoid me.”

You turned.

Met her eyes.

And said nothing.

She crossed her arms. “So am I wrong?”

You licked your lips, considered lying.

Instead: “I’m not jealous.”

She tilted her head. “Then what?”

You sighed. “I’m…not built for people like him.”

Isabela softened. “I didn’t ask you to be.”

“I know. Still doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.”

The silence returned.

And this time, you broke it.

You slid your phone across the table.

A waveform pulsed on screen. A song titled “Now We’re Strangers (Remix)” — draft version. You hit play.

The room filled with the low hum of your voice. Deeper, more vulnerable than she’d ever heard it.

I left pieces of me at your place / now I drive past, can’t look the same.

You held my hand when my mother was fading / now I can't even text you on birthdays.

She listened. Still. Completely still.

The lyrics spilled out like something you hadn’t meant for anyone to hear.

The truth was, you hadn’t.

“Throwaway,” you muttered.

“For who?”

“Central Cee. Never sent it. Felt too raw.”

Isabela stared at you.

“You wrote that for yourself.”

You didn’t reply.

“I didn’t know you lost her.”

You nodded, eyes still on the console. “Wasn’t trying to lead with grief.”

“But you do,” she said. “Every lyric of that song is grief disguised as detachment.”

You shrugged. “Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

She looked at you differently then.

Like she was seeing the fault lines.

Like she wanted to press her hand into them and see if you’d crack.

She walked over.

Opened her mouth to say something—

And the door opened behind her.

“Yo! This the genius zone or what?”

You both turned.

Young Mazino.

Black leather jacket. Flowers again. Always the damn flowers.

He grinned. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

You straightened your back. Your jaw set before you even realized.

Isabela blinked. “Young, I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Wanted to see you work,” he said, eyes bouncing from her to you. “Is this the famous SW?”(SongWriter)

You nodded once. Cool. Distant. “What’s up.”

He extended a hand.

You shook it once. Brief. Your fingers didn’t curl.

He noticed.

So did she.

Isabela stepped forward, gesturing toward the vocal booth. “We were just going over scratch vocals.”

Young smiled. “Perfect. I’ll sit back and learn from the best.”

He flopped into the couch like he owned the room.

Isabela turned back to you. Her eyes searching your face.

But whatever softness had been there before— had already gone cold.

You were avoiding her.

Again.

Sinking behind your soundboard like it had a steering wheel and a destination somewhere far, far from her eyes.

And yet…

She wouldn’t leave you alone.

She sat on the edge of the console, just barely not blocking your view, dangling her feet like she didn’t have a single care in the world—but every glance was a plea.

You clicked through samples. Opened closed folders. Re-routed cables that didn’t need re-routing.

She didn’t move.

“You’re mad.”

“Nope.”

“Y/n.”

“I’m working.”

She slid a little closer. “Then let’s work.”

“I am.”

“Together.”

Your fingers froze on the board. Just for a second.

That was all she needed.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said carefully. “The contract said I needed features. Right? You’re in the contract.”

You looked up, slow. “Isabela.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You’re using the contract?”

“I’m honoring it.”

You let out a small laugh, not the funny kind.

Then you sipped your water, turned back toward the board—

“I mean, if you don’t want to finally put your voice back out there—”

You choked.

Water hit your throat sideways. You coughed once, turned back to her with a look.

“I’m fine staying behind the scenes,” you said, clearing your throat.

“But you shouldn’t be.” Her voice was quiet now. Firm.

And then…

Young.

“You know,” he said from the corner, lounging like a well-dressed shadow. “I could always jump on a verse. Just say the word.”

She didn’t even glance his way.

Her eyes were locked on you.

You sighed. “Bela…”

“You get to do it your way,” she said. “Your sound. Your structure. But I want you on this record.”

You looked at her. At the way she was leaning forward just slightly. Not pushing. But not backing down.

Your throat tightened.

You looked away.

“…Fine.”

She grinned.

“But we do it my way.”

You pulled up the session file: Miles Around. An open-space melody. Light guitar laced with a faded drum pattern. Vocals left blank. Instrumental bleeding with potential.

You’d written the hook weeks ago. Never sang it.

Now…

You did.

And she followed.

She stayed in the booth as you fed her line after line, your words folded inside her voice like a letter sealed and never sent.

You didn’t even notice how long it took.

You didn’t notice how Young had stopped smiling.

Then it happened.

She sang a line you wrote—but changed it.

You looked up.

“You said I was safe, then you left the locks unlatched.”

It was yours, originally.

But now it came out as:

“So used to being rejected and brokenhearted”

She was looking at you.

The entire time.

You said nothing.

You couldn’t.

You just watched her sing your words—remixed into her perspective. Her truth.

And something about it left your chest a little hollow.

But you kept going.

And when it was your turn, you sang. Rapped. Poured the smoke in your throat out into something melodic. You weren’t showy. You weren’t polished.

But God, you were honest.

And she watched you like you were rewriting the sky.

By the end of the track, the booth felt like a heartbeat.

You finished your final note. Let it echo into silence.

And before you could open your eyes…

She crashed into you.

Laughing. Breathless. Throwing her arms around your shoulders and squealing against your chest.

You froze.

For a second.

Then—your arms found her waist.

Held her there.

It felt… wrong how right it felt.

You hadn’t liked touch. Not in years.

But your body didn’t flinch this time.

You just… held her.

And Isabela melted.

Somewhere behind you, Young was still in the room.

You’d forgotten that.

Until you stepped out of the booth.

And there he was.

Engulfing her in his arms.

His hands on her waist—just like yours had been. Holding her too long. Too close.

She laughed, oblivious.

You noticed everything.

Especially the way Young looked at you when he hugged her.

He was staking claim.

And he was daring you to say otherwise.

You didn’t.

She turned to praise you.

“That was insane. Like—why are you not headlining Coachella already?”

You waved her off with a crooked grin. “Maybe I just like being your secret weapon.”

She blushed a little. You didn’t point it out.

Then—Young struck again.

“Bela, you free tonight?”

She blinked. “Um… I think—”

“I want to take you out,” he said. “Like a real date.”

You froze.

She looked surprised. “Oh. I mean—yeah, sure. I guess.”

And there it was again.

That ache.

Like being punched in the gut by a ghost.

She turned toward you, halfway between guilt and goodbye.

“You gonna be okay here?”

You nodded. “I don’t want to mess up your love life.”

That hit her.

She caught the jab. Let it slide.

And stepped closer.

She grabbed your hand. Held it gently.

Thanked you with her fingers.

And walked away.

Young waved at you.

You didn’t wave back.

But then—

The door burst open again.

Her boots hit the floor in fast steps.

You turned just in time to see her jog in, breathless.

She grabbed your jaw.

Kissed your cheek.

Hard.

“You’re coming over later,” she whispered. “Dinner. We’re celebrating.”

You blinked.

She smirked.

“Don’t be late.”

And then she was gone.

But the blush on her cheeks?

That stayed burned into your mind.

So did the smile.

The one she hadn’t given to Young.

The one she’d saved for you.

_______________________________________

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 1

Chapter Links: Chapter 1 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change

---

In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour! ---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–-- A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Arriving in Hell had been a difficult adjustment, but you figured that was likely by design and not some personal failing on your part.  You'd stumbled out of the gates of Hell right into the aftermath of what you now know was an extermination; alone and terrified amidst the burning rubble and mutilated corpses that littered the ground.  

You were lucky in a sense, even though it didn't feel like it at the time.  Everyone is usually pretty busy in the days immediately following an invasion from Heaven, too occupied looting bodies for valuables and deleting the newly deceased from their phone's contact list to give much attention to a new arrival.  The Gates of Hell were usually swarmed by traffickers looking for new merchandise and mid-level thugs looking to make an easy deal for a soul or two, so you were able to slip through the cracks and wander the outskirts of Pentagram city largely unnoticed while most of the sinners were either still in hiding or sleeping off their celebratory hangovers.  

Initially, you stuck out like a sore thumb, clad in the baggy dress that you'd been buried in; a garment that had likely been looted from your Grandmother's closet based on the large shoulder pads and unflattering mauve color.  You figured that your family had deemed all the dresses you actually owned and liked as too inappropriate for funeral garb, which aligned with how they usually regarded your fashion choices.  The fabric was uncomfortable, starched stiff and itchy against your skin, so you didn't feel any guilt about using your newly discovered claws to shred a slit into the back of the skirt to make room for your long and incredibly poofy tail.

Upon further examination in the cracked glass of an abandoned store front, you discovered that you also now possessed a set of rounded black ears atop your head and large, dark smudges around your eyes that made it look like you'd slept with mascara on for a week straight.  

The powers that be had, apparently, found it suitable for you to spend the rest of eternity living as a raccoon.  

And while you greatly preferred your animal form to many of the other, more intimidating body shapes prowling the streets of Pentagram City, looking what most people would consider adorable wasn't necessarily a desired trait in Hell.  Wide-eyed prey animals were quick to disappear, materializing weeks later on posters outside of strip clubs and porn theaters.  

You'd darted from the predatory glances of other sinners, spending your first nights in Hell sleeping curled up behind back alley dumpsters; tearing through the freshest smelling trash bags for scraps of food with a voracity that surely made your Raccoon forefathers shed tears of pride.  

Repeatedly choosing to wander down the least sinister looking streets had inevitably led you to the heart of Cannibal Town, an antiquated borough that looked like it had been lifted straight out of the background of a classic movie.  Naively, you had assumed that the more polished appearance of buildings and fixtures meant that the area was safer than the dilapidated city center you had wandered in from.  That notion had been quickly dispelled when you stumbled across a group of middle aged women sitting on a park bench, merrily chatting as they took turns ripping hunks of flesh from an obviously human leg with their sharpened teeth.  

Thankfully, the abundance of readily available, post Extermination sinner flesh kept the cannibals well satiated and dissuaded them from making you the victim du jour.  That, and the fact that more than one cannibal had gleefully admitted to you that they found raccoon meat too gamey for their liking. 

You'd managed to secure a job fairly easily, with numerous businesses looking to fill vacancies from recent employee murders.  In the end, you'd settled on working at a small butcher shop a couple blocks away from the main promenade.  You'd been unwillingly charmed by the store's on the nose name, ‘Time to Kill’, and the fact that it supplemented your meager paycheck by providing you with a small room above the storefront to live in.  

Hal, the owner of the store, was a heavy-set man with a bushy mustache that wouldn't look out of place attached to a broom handle.  He'd been admittedly skeptical about your potential as a butcher when they had to tuck a bucket into the back room for you to throw up in after the first half-dozen times you'd hurled when breaking down your first carcass.  

But you'd slowly grow accustomed to the grizzly task, focusing on the fact that you were cutting up meat and ignoring that it was likely human in origin.  Hal was pleased by your hard-working nature, but mostly he was thrilled by the fact that you didn't help yourself to a five-finger discount like the rest of his employees did.  

“Seriously,” Hal had said, his mustache twitching in displeasure .  “They're eatin’ all the fingers!”

Day after day passed without much distinction, working from sunup ‘til sundown hacking up bodies for pennies on the dollar.  It wasn't much of a living, but since technically you weren't even living at all, you did your best to be content with your lot in death.  

After all, it was your discontent in life that had landed you here in the first place.  

And if waking up in literal Hell wasn't a wake up call to turn over a new leaf you didn't know what was.  

You were coming up on the first anniversary of your arrival in Hell and the citizens of the Pride Ring were all in a tizzy trying to stock up on supplies to last through the impending Extermination.  Drug dealers were working double shifts to keep up with demand and the liquor stores had long since sold out of their top brands and had switched to selling bathtub gin to supply their customers with.

The line outside of Time to Kill was already wrapped around the block by the time you had flipped the deadbolts, barely managing to escape being crushed by the door as it crashed open; a densely packed group of cannibals rushing inside.  You'd fled from the crowd into the back workroom, taking up your post at a carving station with a cleaver in hand, ready to do your part to supply the hungry masses.

The hours bled together as you skinned and chopped, filleted and ground; so focused on the tasks before you that you didn't realize your coworker had been calling your name until they slapped their hand firmly down onto your shoulder.

“You okay?” They asked, glancing at your dewy face with concern.

“Oh- yeah, I'm alright,” you assured them, placing your cleaver down across the cutting board and wiping your bloody hands on a nearby towel.  “What's up?”

“It's your turn up front,” he said, gesturing towards the front of a store with his stubby thumb.  “Ms. Rosie is here.”

“Ms. Rosie?”

“Yeah, she's the Overlord here in Cannibal Town,” your coworker explained, elbowing you out of the way to take your place at the cutting station.  “Fresh Meat deals with the Overlords- shop rule.”

“Oh,” you murmured nervously, wandering over to the sink to wash your hands.

“Might want to hurry up, there!” one of the other workers called over her shoulder as she dropped a bunch of bone fragments into an awaiting bin.  “Your chance of survival decreases every minute you keep an Overlord waiting!”

You slammed the handle of the faucet to the off position and quickly took off to the front counter, your coworkers laughing raucously at your expense while you frantically wiped your hands dry on your blood-spattered apron.

The politics of Hell were still largely unfamiliar to you.  But even though you did your best to keep your head down and nose in your own business, you'd gleaned a little knowledge from snippets of overheard conversation in the butcher shop.  You weren't entirely sure what Overlords did exactly, but you knew that in order to become one you had to be powerful.

So it was with great trepidation that you stepped into the front of the store, doing your best to hide how absolutely terrified you were, but knowing your stiff legged gait and tight smile likely gave you away.  

The tall, elegant form of Ms. Rosie wasn't what you'd been expecting.  While dressing up was the norm in Cannibal Town, Rosie took it to a new level; looking as though she never let a fabric less expensive than silk grace her form.  But despite the absolutely enchanting picture her elegance painted, the aura of raw power she exuded prickled your skin and caused your tail to poof up in an instinctual, and utterly useless, bid for intimidation.  

“Well, look at you!” Rosie drawled, her dark eyes widening in delighted surprise as you approached the counter.  “It's been a while since we've gotten someone new in town.  Where've you been hiding, sweetheart?”

“Uh- my room, mostly,” you manage to stammer out, nervously smoothing down your ruffled tail fur.  

“That's a real shame, keeping a cute face like yours all cooped up!” Rosie cooed.  “How long ya’ been living in my part of the city?”

“Nearly a year now, Ma'am.”

“A whole year?” Rosie gasped.  “You weren't kidding ‘bout keeping to yourself, huh?”

Not really knowing what else to say, you opt to helplessly shrug before reaching for an order pad and pen.  

“So, uh- what can I get for you today, Ms. Rosie?”

“What's still available?”

“I won't lie, it's pretty slim pickings right now.  But I was just working on a pretty nice looking rack of ribs if you're interested.”

“Ribs it is then,” Rosie smiled, patiently waiting as you disappeared to the backroom and returned with multiple wrapped bundles of meat, all cinched together in a stack with fraying twine.  

“Thank you, darling,” she said, passing the stack of meat to one of the well-dressed attendants waiting beside her.  “Add it to my tab, will ya’?”

“Of course, Ma'am,” you agreed readily, sliding the sale record underneath the cash register tray for Hal to deal with later.  

“Oh, and sweetheart?” Rosie called out, catching your attention, as you moved to assist the next customer in line.  “If you make it through Extermination Day, make sure to swing by and visit me for tea sometime, will ya’?  I'd really like the chance to get to know ya’ better.”

And despite every neuron of common sense and self-preservation screaming at you to decline the invitation, you gritted your teeth and quickly nodded your assent; swallowing thickly when Rosie bared her teeth in a delighted, feral smile.  

You knew better to say ‘no’ to an Overlord.

[joelsgoodgirl]

Tell Me Where It Hurts

Pairing: Jack Daniels (Agent Whiskey) x f!reader

Rating: M

WC: 2,655

Summary: You and Whiskey are hurt on a mission. Holed up in a small motel, you help patch each other's wounds.

Tags: Minor descriptions of violence. Blood. Agent!Reader. Kissing. Mentions of a past.

A/n: This was written for @penvisions give a little love writing challenge! I rarely do romance so this was certainly out of my comfort zone! My trope was minor accident!

My first time writing Agent Whiskey despite him being my first Pedro crush! Hope y'all enjoy!

“Would you sit still?” You clench your jaw, tugging on the man’s chin again as you jerk his face forward again. “Quit starin’ at my tits.” 

Whiskey lets out a low huff of air, training his doe eyes on you as you dab at the cuts and bruises across his face. The fluorescent lights made his skin glow a sickly color, the cool countertop of the bathroom sink digging at your hip.  “Sorry, Moonshine.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all, of course. “You’re just so beautiful.”

You pull back slightly, raising an eyebrow as you give him an incredulous look. “You hit your head during the fight?” 

There had been a minor explosion while you were raiding a high-stakes combination drug den and exotic animal tradepost. An odd combination sure, but certainly ones that raked in big money. 

You’d both gotten injured in the fight, but Whiskey had taken a lot of shrapnel. Nothing was near lethal, just some deep cuts and bruises. 

He gives you a lopsided grin, your eyes rolling out of habit. “Nope, just a huge flirt as usual.” You mutter, tossing the bloodied gauze into a trashcan. “Take off your shirt.” You command him, stepping back from him, his eyes following your every move. 

His grin is widening, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

“You have cuts on your shoulders, dipshit.” You mutter, averting your eyes as he strips off his bloody shirt. There’s small gashes all over his back, one on his side that looks a little deeper than you’d like. 

You sigh to yourself as you think of your supplies back at base. A full three hour drive away. 

Your mission had gone awry, so you were holed up in a run down motel in the middle of nowhere. It was undignified for a Statesman, but Vodka had barked his orders and you’d agreed begrudgingly. 

You take a calming breath as you study his back, finally taking a step forward and dabbing at his wounds with a new gauze pad. He stands stoic, unmoving as you tend to the deep cut on his side. You patch it up, being as gentle as you possibly can.

You cringe as you think of how very far from sterile this place is, applying antibiotic cream to some of the lighter cuts. With your focus on his back now, you watch as his muscles ripple, tensing as you lightly dab at the cuts. 

You were playing a dangerous game, you both knew it. 

Your bare skin against his bringing back that night.

Three months ago, you’d lost Champ. He hadn’t gone out in glory for the safety of everyone. No, he’d been taken out by a fucking heart attack. By God’s own hand. That night, you’d shown up at your partner’s door, already drunk and angry rambling at him. One thing led to another and you’d somehow ended up between the sheets with him. 

You’d slipped out the next morning, regret and grief thick in your veins. No regrets held over the sex, regret over allowing yourself to indulge in something you knew you could never have. 

You’d never acknowledged it again, both of you skirting around it like it had never happened. 

You were thankful for it until now. 

You’d nearly watched him die, throw himself in front of you as glass and wood splintered around you. Catching you in his arms as he shielded you as best he could. 

All you wanted to do now was hug him, thank him profusely. Because it may not have been necessary, but he’d still protected you. Taken the brunt of the force and had not uttered a single phrase of complaint. 

Your name as a soft question pulls you from your thoughts, realizing your hand had stilled on his back. “Sorry.” You mutter before you keep tending to him. You feel the tension in the air change, going from the playful banter to something more serious. “Thank you.” You say softly, going back to work. 

“For what, sugar?” He asks, straightening up a little more so you don’t have to bend too far to get the wounds on his lower back. 

You pause for half a moment, unsure how to proceed. “Protecting me.” You decide the words aren’t too heavy, being as true as they are.

He turns his head enough to see you out of the corner of his eye. “And I’d do it all over again.” He says it so nonchalantly it almost startles you. 

You train your eyes back on his back, fixing up the last few of his cuts. “You’re all good.” You take a step back, allowing him to turn around. “I wanna keep an eye on the cut on your side for now. Get it checked out when we get back.” 

His hand is reaching to tilt up your chin before you realize what he’s doing, his gaze studying your face. “Let me fix you up, ‘Shine.” 

Your brow furrows the slightest, your eyes locking on his. “I’m fine.” 

His thumb brushes across your cheek as his expression matches yours. He pulls away his hand, a small smear of blood decorating his thumb now. “You’re hurt.” 

You wince as he rubs his thumb along the cut; you hadn’t felt it until now. “Shit, is it bad?” You sound genuinely worried, but the way his lips quirk, you know it isn’t. 

He reaches for some gauze, dabbing a little bit of the cream on it. his hand under your chin, his gaze intense. “I’m afraid it is. Looks like you’re gonna bleed out.” 

You huff a short laugh, loving the way his eyes crinkle with his own smile. He finishes up, his hand tilting your chin again as he checks over you again. 

You let him maneuver your head, watching as his eyes flick over your face. “I think I’m good, Jack.”

This breaks his revere, but his hand remains on your face. He startles himself out of his staring, stepping away from you, already turning to leave the bathroom when your hand shoots out to wrap around his wrist. 

You don’t think, you just do. Pull his body to yours, wrapping your arms around his waist as you hug him. He barely stiffens before he’s hugging you back, cradling the back of your head as you gently dig your fingertips into the bare skin you find. “Thank you.” You whisper again, your breath fanning over his bare chest, warmth filling you both physically and emotionally. 

You feel his arms wrap tighter around you, almost squishing your face into his chest. “Thought I was gonna lose you, b-sweetheart.” 

You hear the trip up, the way his voice wavers just the slightest. You burrow closer to his chest, your hands sliding up his back to his shoulders. You hook them around his back, pulling yourself up just enough to bury your face in his neck. Breathing his name there as his hand slides to your lower back. 

You stay like that for a few moments before you pull away, taking a step away from him. “We should get some rest. Contact Vodka in the morning.” The words come out mumbled, almost restrained. 

You’re stepping past him to leave the bathroom when his hand wraps around your wrist, halting you. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Shine.” His voice wavers a little bit, your eyes snapping up to meet a look of silent desperation. “Having you parading around me every day-” He cuts himself off, snapping his mouth shut. “We need to talk about what happened because I don’t know where the hell we stand.” 

You study his face for a moment, just trying to figure out what to say to him. “Where do you want us to stand?” 

He shakes his head, his brows just barely creasing. “You’re the one who snuck out the next morning. You’re the one who went back to actin’ like nothin’ happened. You need to tell me if that’s really what you want.” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” You ask him, freeing your wrist from his grip gently. “I know I was just another notch in the bedpost. I don’t-”

He cuts you off, his face twisting into something close to pain. “You weren’t. I never would have-” He stops abruptly, leaving his words hanging. After a heavy sigh, he continues. “You mean more to me than that.” 

His admission shocks you to your core, your face falling in shock. “I-” You let your mouth hang slightly open, your breath frozen in your chest. 

His face falls a little, and you watch him swallow before you snap back to yourself. 

“Jack, that’s not-” You inhale a shuddering breath, closing your eyes for a moment as you try to calm your thoughts. “I could only follow your reputation. I wanted to save myself the humiliation of being kicked out in the morning.” 

“You’re the only one I’ve let stay.” He says it so quietly, so low, you almost think you’ve hallucinated it. “I’ve never wanted anyone to stay.” 

You realize it’s a quiet admission. He’s bearing his soul to you, his eyes boring into yours as the truth spills from his lips. That he cares for you. The womanizer, the man who always seems like nothing can knock down his cocky attitude, your partner of three years, the man you’ve been in love with since you were a lowly intern five years ago…

“Please say somethin’.” 

You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring at him, your lips still parted and your eyes glazed over in thought. “What do you want from me?” You ask, your heart stuttering at the very notion that he might tell you what you’ve been wanting to hear. 

His eyes dance over your face for a moment, settling on your lips before looking back up to your eyes. “Whatever you’ll give me.” He breathes out a huff, frowning slightly. You practically watch as courage inflates him, his eyes becoming more determined. “I want you. And not just your body, as much as I can’t stop thinkin’ about it.” His lip twitches, your cheeks heating in response. “I want to wine and dine you. Take you out on romantic dates and picnics and cuddle with you on the couch while we watch romantic movies and make you breakfast and-” 

You cut him off with a little laugh, cupping his face in your hands as you finally allow yourself to smile. “Hey, breathe.” You trace your thumbs along his cheekbones, grinning fully now. “Where the hell did this come from?” 

He’s matching your smile now, his body relaxing into your touch. “To be honest, I don’t know. Something clicked that night. Like I’d been lyin’ to myself this whole time. Shovin’ down every flicker of wantin’ more because I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t. I haven’t-” He sighs, closing his eyes and leaning into your touch as his face falls. “I lost my wife and unborn son. I haven’t wanted to love anyone since.” 

You let out a sympathetic breath, your brows furrowing as you gently swipe at his cheek again. “You’re not going to lose me.” You say, watching as he opens his eyes, the hopeful looking in them nearly sending your knees buckling. “I want to give as much as I take, too. I want to stay.” You’re both leaning in, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you in as his lips connect with yours. 

It’s slow, barely a brush at first. Testing the waters you’ve already swam in. It surprises the both of you when you’re the first to fully press in, molding your lips to his as your hands slide to the back of his neck. 

You stay there, pressed against him, allowing yourselves to feel. When you finally pull away to take a full breath, the look in his eyes nearly sweeps you off your feet. 

The heavy look of adoration, the soft smile on his lips. You’re finally seeing the real Jack Daniels. 

He reaches up, tucking your hair behind your ear and cradling your face. “You’re beautiful.” He leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead as he tilts your face up, lingering there. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like you weren’t worth something to me.” 

You let out a slow breath, your eyes closing as your arms wrap around his waist. “We went about this the wrong way, didn’t we?” 

A deep rumble vibrates through his chest as he pulls you to him, hugging your body close to his. 

You can hear his heart in his chest, thumping against his ribcage, the sound lulling you into peace. 

Your body melts into his, the feeling of his fingers threading through your hair as his other arm wraps around your lower back.

He hums thoughtfully, his voice soft when he finally speaks. “I want to do this right.” He pulls his face back enough to study your eyes. 

When he fully pulls away, it almost stops your heart. But he extends his hand and leads you toward the beds, sitting down as he pats the spot next to him. You sit quietly, your eyes studying him as he stares down at his boots, deep in thought. 

When his gaze meets yours again, there is determination in his eyes. Determination, and something deeper. Something akin to the feeling blooming in your chest.

Love.

And that scares you. But not in a way that makes you run.

No, this is the type of fear that settles over you, the type of fear that gives way to the hope in your chest. It blooms and tangles in your limbs, wrapping around every part of you that had held room for him all these years. Like the look he’s given you had finally made everything make sense. “You want to be my boyfriend?” You tease, your eyes locked on his. 

His answering grin leaves your stomach full of butterflies, the crinkle at the corner of them igniting your body again. “Yeah, I think I’d really like that.” 

You nod, meeting in the middle as you both go in for another kiss. You pull away and laugh, falling back on the bed. “I’m sorry, this is insane.” 

He follows you a moment later, turning his head toward you. “What is?”

With a small sigh, you turn on your side, propping your elbow on your arm, pulling your legs up on the bed. “This. Us. Everything that’s happened tonight.” 

He mirrors you, his expression thoughtful as his eyes wander over you. “It really is, isn’t it? Never thought I’d be the type of man for love confessions ever again. You make-” He cuts himself off with a short laugh and a grin. “You know why I call you Shine?” 

You cock your head to the side, your eyes meeting his once they reach your face again. “My agent name is Moonshine, Jack. It isn’t that big of a secret.” 

He shakes his head a little, reaching out almost hesitantly to take your hand in his, weaving your fingers together. “You remember the first time we met? That day in the office?” 

You try to think back, but it’s all a blur. Being in New York City for the first time, just passed training, still young and naive. “Not really?” 

He hums in response, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. “Well, you were hummin’ a song that’s been stuck in my head ever since.” 

Your face scrunches a little more in concentration, trying to remember what song it would have been. “I don’t remember…” 

He hums it back to you, and your heart expands. Feels too big for your chest as you launch yourself forward and kiss him. 

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.

[neogandw]

Introducing: Silk Woman.

A Robot Master from India, developed for the intent of crafting and mass producing clothes of the finest quality and prettiest design to the higest bidder.

Loosely based off Lakshmi, this gal was built to embody beauty, feminity and fortune, the last of which would come as a result of her work being made of the best genuine silk her patron corporation could acquire.

However, given her personality being that of a saint and her enormous compassion, once she learned of the process that went into adquiring real silk as fast as possible, she rebelled against the corporation that built her, and a robot that wasn't gonna comply would no longer be useful, so she was quickly discarded soon after.

Abandoned at the scrapyard, she was at a loss of what to do since she was stripped of the silk that had given her name and had no real method of getting out in the world on her own.

Fortune would soon smile upon her, however, as she soon discovered a tiny insect scuttering about on the scrapyard and saved it from nearly getting crushed by the rubble of the place, as it would have it, this little insect was a tiny mechanical golden spider.

As it happens, these golden spiders were companions to hobbyist in the textile arts, made to produce synthetic thread in various colors as long as they were provided the materials for it. However, these models were easily disposable if the hobbyist ran out of materials or merely didn't want to continue their lost passion.

This little spider was thankful for the kindness Silk had shown, and as if it could talk, it led her to more of its kind, who had various amounts of left-over silk within them.

With the help of the spiders, she was led out of the scrapyard and safely escaped a grim demise at the hands of crushers or trash melters. Though she had little to her name, she did had the skills to sew, and the thankful spiders would gladly provide what they had.

The group would soon find a place where they could prepare and sell their wares, though given the mass produced tools she had the people did not trust her as she was seen as a machine and not as a crafter, soon would she decide to switch her methods and learn the trade once more on her own, with no tricks to speed up the process.

It was a hard time, and the thread of the spiders was running out (and not a dime to feed them as they needed to be), it seemed to be over for the seamstress… until fortune shone on her once more.

A young couple this time, poor but deeply in love, they came in looking for wares they could use for their wedding and the other stablishements had rejected them for they couldn't pay the higher price. Feeling pity on them, Silk lended them her finest wares for almost free (the couple insisted on paying back what they could, and the spiders hungered for the flowers they needed to produce once more).

It took some days and Silk didn't had much time to keep her business afloat, but soon did she hear that the wedding was filled with love and amazement, with the wife presuming and praising the clothes she had acquired. Soon did word of mouth spread and little by little Silk acquired more and more clientelle who were happy with her wares.

Over time, Silk acquired a fortune and fame for the clothes she and the spiders produced, using her money not in frivolous jewels but in creating a lush garden, where she could grow flowers and trees that would help feed the spiders. This garden attracted lost animals -both of the robotic and living kinds- and were invited to stay as long as they pleased, some even providing help to tend to the flowers of the garden.

Today, Silk's business has grown to be recognized across various countries. Although slow to produce as she's a single woman doing the work, her textile works now fetch a good amount of money, though even today she freely donates her most elegant wares to couples soon to be married if their love rings true in their hearts.

-----

Silk here is a creation to go along with the rest of the robots that I have created thus far, by sheer accident I have been doing a worldwide theme with the end result being almost an echo of MegaMan 6 as each one of my robots would match a country seen in that game (or, well, almost. I have to represent my homeland of México, you know, close enough to Brazil).

Out of the ones I needed to make, the middle east was the one I needed to represent at this point, so I landed on making one based off the idea of the textile works of India as well as loosely basing her off Lakshmi and other various middle eastern themes. Hope I got her right and sincere apologies if I got something wrong.

Thus, I now have 9 robots, one for each country in MegaMan 6!

…Though one of them may not be exactly happy about it.

...Don't worry, Cave isn't getting demoted or replaced, its all just for show! He's just as valued as the others.

[secret-third-thing]

For Day 7 - AU of @officialfeysandweek

Rated T | Feysand | Read on AO3 (or under the cut) Warnings: Major character death, starvation, angst

Even at the end of this world, Rhysand is there.

Special thanks to @popjunkie42, @tunaababee, @chunkypossum, and @acourtofladydeath for beta-ing waaaaay back in Feb/March.

Feyre would die soon. The thought had finally crossed her mind a month ago as she caught sight of herself in the chilly bathwater. The water rippled with her movement, but she could still make out the sharp angles of her face, the dark circles under her eyes. 

Tucked away in a remote, run-down cabin in the woods, Feyre was hungry and alone. Her family had been here not so long ago. They all had left their manor in the nearby town before the soldiers marched through to meet the oncoming fae warriors. Her sisters had gathered as much food as possible while Feyre led her limping father to the abandoned shack. For many days after, whenever Feyre searched the woods for rabbits to eat, she could see plumes of smoke rising over the village like grim, swirling ghosts unable to rest.

Today, she had woken up tangled in her warm nest of blankets and pelts. Her hands had been tucked beneath her chin, shoulders to her ears. The fireplace had long since gone cold, a blanket of ash where the last of the wood had been. She’d need some kindling to start the fire again for breakfast. 

She stretched and rubbed the sore muscles of her shoulders. These days, Feyre was always sore, always having some nagging ache that reminded her that she was slowly fading away. Her stomach growled. 

Feyre was lucky only to have herself to feed. Six weeks ago, she sent her sisters and father on the last caravan to the continent. With only three spots left in the wagon, her father had insisted she go in his stead. But Feyre was stubborn and had stayed, choosing to wait until the bitter cold or the invading fae had claimed her. 

Feyre rummaged through the kitchen area, finding procuring jars and wrappings crammed into the cabinets. She discovered the last of her jerky, far less than she remembered having, and some bones for a broth. This wasn’t enough. She searched the cabinets one more time, sorting through each jar carefully in case she missed something. She rubbed her temple, remembering some dried rabbit, but maybe she had eaten it. These days, her memory seemed to be fading along with her. 

Sunlight peeked in from under the window curtains, and Feyre pulled it back, munching on the remaining jerky. It was clear out, a rare sunny day. It wasn’t warm enough to melt the snow, but it would keep her warmer when she ventured out today. If the woods were still too dense, she could try her luck in the village. Perhaps the looters hadn’t managed to strip it bare yet.

After starting the fire once more and heating snow in the iron pot her family had left behind, Feyre took a bite of her jerky and ran her fingers along the edge of the table where she had painted foxgloves many weeks ago. The oil colors had been a gift from her sisters. Elain had brought it with them when they had escaped to the woods and had hidden it in her dresser drawer to give it to Feyre for her birthday. But when she learned that Feyre was not coming with them, Elain brought it out for her then. 

Feyre had cried that final night together as she painted the dresser they had shared when they first moved in. Nesta, her oldest sister, had complained that the single bedroom now stunk of paint, but Feyre had caught her tracing the swirling flames on her drawer more than once before she left.

But now, Feyre was alone, and to stave off hunger, she had painted every inch of the cabin. She had started with the rickety oak dining table and then moved to the stones of the fireplace, then the cabinets, the wall. She would paint until her eyes were heavy and then start over again the next day. Time began to blur, and Feyre would wake up covered in warm blankets that she didn’t remember crawling into with paintings she only barely remembered painting- a field in spring, a vast blue ocean, a rainbow city, the night sky, and the twinkling stars. Feyre attributed the gaps in her memory to the lack of food. She rationed what little she had every day. It was never enough, and her stomach would protest by nightfall. But she painted. The eyes of her family. A fox in a flower bed. Giant sweeping wings stretching from one wall to the next.

Now, only the black and white paints remained. As she waited for the water to boil, Feyre continued her final piece: a portrait of herself in grayscale—what she remembered of herself, at least. Even without a mirror, she could tell how frail she had become, the bones of her wrists and hands now prominent. She imagined she looked wild, like she had crawled out of the woods a feral creature and holed herself away for the winter.

Feyre picked up the brush and swept it across the wall before her. Her knees ached as she knelt. Hair was easy; she could see it in her mind’s eye. But her freckles? The speckles in her eyes? She couldn’t remember those details. When she closed her eyes, she could envision her reflection in her late mother’s floor-length mirror. But whatever she painted would be an approximation. Maybe one day, when someone found her body, rotting and withered away, they would realize that she was the girl in the portrait. Her memory would live on in someone’s mind even if she never had known them. The thought brought her comfort. 

Breakfast came and went, and Feyre’s stomach still complained, so once the sun had finally climbed the sky, she donned her too-big boots and woolen cloak. At least she would be warm. Grabbing her bow and the few arrows she had crafted a week ago, Feyre set out to see what she could find. If she could survive the winter, she’d be fine. But it was still early in the season, and she was already out of food.

Warm to the bone, Feyre stepped into the cold. Her breath clouded in the frigid air, and the winter nipped at her face. She rubbed her skin with her mittens, pulled the scarf her sister Elain had made over her nose, and headed to the village.

Even under the crisp snow, the evidence of the war was still present. As she approached, the trees turned dark, burnt by fire. The air still held a heavy tang of magic that tasted bitter against her tongue. Homes had crumbled in the attack, and the closer she got to the center of town, the more damage she saw. Broken arrows and weapons, damaged armor, bones. Would the homes of the wealthier families still be standing?

Feyre crossed through the center of town on high alert. The smell of fresh corpses tickled her nose as her eyes swept over the blood-streaked ground. There had been a recent skirmish here. She stuck to the walls, running between ruined buildings and hiding in the dark alleyways. Her heart was loud in her ears, and she feared that one of the immortal soldiers would hear her. There were fae fighting on both sides, some wanting to continue the enslavement of humans and others fighting for their rights. She hadn’t learned to tell the difference and didn’t want to take her chances.

When Feyre arrived back at the cabin, the sour feeling of defeat settled heavy in her stomach. She kicked off her soaked boots and hung her coat on a nail she had hammered into the wall. There was no way around the matter. She could try again tomorrow and the day after, but eventually, she’d become too weak to go out, and then all she’d do was tend the fire until her body gave out. This would be the first of her final days. Shame burned in her. A part of her had hoped that something would have changed. 

She wiped the tears in her eyes away and changed into dry clothes. Her portrait watched her. That woman was her and yet not her. Portrait-Feyre smiled brightly, joyous and content. She was well-fed and spent her days painting and laughing with her family. She had found a place to belong. Real-Feyre longed to trade places with her other self, but magic wouldn’t save her now. She started the fire once more and tucked herself under the blankets for a nap. With no more paint, there was nothing to do but wait.

Time passed, and Feyre found nothing when she went to hunt. She grew weaker and more tired until the most she could do was burn what she had left to stay warm. And then she’d fall back into the abyss of sleep. 

Upon waking, Feyre didn’t immediately notice the man standing in the cabin's living area. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stilled when she saw him. He was tall, with warm brown skin and hair as dark as night. He stood before the portrait, clad in unfamiliar black leathers. Feyre pushed herself up, looking for her knife, and the man turned around and met her gaze with sparkling violet eyes.

He was beautiful. More handsome than any man she had seen before. Her breath hitched as they took each other in. She wondered when he had come inside, how she hadn’t heard the door unlatch, or the hinges squeak as it swung open. And then she realized he wasn’t human. Not with that silence or those eyes.

“You’re fae,” she said, blood running cold. He smiled.

“I am.” His voice was silk against her senses.

He was taller and stronger. He could overpower her easily, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight. She sought out her hunting knife. It was still on the table. She was determined to get at least one good slice in before he ripped her head from her body.

“Are you here to kill me?” Feyre asked. The man - the fae, didn’t answer and turned back to the portrait she had painted. The joyous thing she had created from the remaining paints.

“This is new,” he said, stroking her portrait’s cheek. Feyre swore she could feel the ghost of a touch on her face. She placed a hand on her cheek, and nothing was there.

“Yes,” she said. Feyre let out a sigh. Maybe he wasn’t here to kill her after all. Or perhaps he liked to toy with his victims. He turned back to her.

“My name is Rhysand,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you.”

Feyre almost believed him. But his posture was too casual, and he was covered in warring leathers. He had no weapons that she could see on him, though she wasn’t so naive to think he wasn’t armed. Fae were armed by nature of being immortal, cruel beings. And there was one in her home.

Rhysand pulled out one of the two chairs at the table and sat on it, laying his hands on the surface near her knife. Feyre watched him with curiosity. His movements were too graceful, too eerie, but she took the opportunity to climb out from under the blankets and approach him.

“Why are you here?” she asked. She took the chair opposite him and tried not to flush under his intense stare. His name sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it. Had her sisters mentioned him before?

“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “For some time now. Your family is gone.”

“They left for the continent months ago.” she offered. “It was my choice to stay.”  She swallowed hard as Rhysand considered her. She should have been more concerned, but it felt like someone had put a blanket over her brain, muffling her urge to grab the dagger lying in front of her. His silence was uncomfortable. 

“I’m going to die soon,” she said, not sure why she felt the need to tell him. She stared at her hands. Her fingers were thinner than she remembered. “There’s nothing left to eat. Nothing in the forest or…” She wasn’t sure what possessed her to say that. Maybe he would spare her? Or he would end her now, so the hunger didn’t wear her down until she perished, emaciated in the cold. That would be a kinder fate.

“Do you want to die?” he asked as though he could read her thoughts. Feyre looked back at the man, but he was now standing beside her, looking down into her eyes. She flinched, but he smelled of citrus and the sea, and it made her feel like she was somewhere else - somewhere less cold and less terrifying.

“No,” she breathed. She stood up to touch his cheek, and his eyes closed for a moment. Something in her chest stirred, not uncomfortable, just different. “I want to live,” she said. He took her hand in his own and held it there. His skin was warm against hers. 

“The fae army will be here any moment now. They will slaughter everything in their way. Including you, Feyre,” he whispered. She trembled at his words, but he kept her hand there. “I can save you,” he said even more softly.

“How,” Feyre dared ask, fearing the answer would be her end. He said nothing. Feyre propped herself, ignoring the ache of her joints. It was far too late for her, and they both knew it. 

“I wish I could take you to where I live. You’d be safer.”

“And where is that?” Feyre asked. 

And then in her mind she saw a town, colorful and bright, with so many fae everywhere laughing, smiling. No one looked starved or sad or on the verge of death. She saw a giant river of vibrant blue, tall townhouses, art, then a view from above as though she was soaring above the rainbow city.

“Wait,” Feyre said, and she turned to the rainbow town she had painted on the wall weeks ago. It was the same as what she had just seen now. The same painted townhouses with pointed brown roofs and matching windows. “Have I seen this before?”

“Yes.” Rhysand’s voice was pained, shoulders sagging at the admission. 

“I…” Feyre paused, her head aching. “Do I know you?”

“Yes. I’ve been here, day after day, keeping the worst of the fighting from you.”

“But why?” Feyre wrapped her arms around herself and turned away, bile rising in her throat. The gaps in her memories, the vibrant dreams she had turned into paints. Was this all from him?

“You found me when you were hunting one day. You brought me back and healed me,” he said, grasping her shoulder. Feyre pulled away from him. 

“But you couldn’t be bothered to take me away from here?” she said, voice smaller than she had ever known. 

“You wouldn’t let me, darling,” he said. His voice was so gentle it was painful for her. “Kicked me out of the cabin for it. You said I was too weak, and you were right.” 

“Why can’t I remember it?” she spit out. “Did you erase my memories? Why did you take them?” Rhysand’s face had gone pale, and he reached out but hesitated to come closer.

“If the fae found you and knew you had aided me, they would have tortured you.”

“Wouldn’t they torture me anyway? Aren’t they on their way here right now?”

“Yes,” Rhysand said. “And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I came to warn you. To offer another option.” Rhysand didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t need to. Feyre looked him over, the man - the fae - before her. It didn’t matter if she trusted him or not. He was her only option.

“Fine, but I want you to tell me everything,” she said. And somehow, she knew Rhysand could not deny her.

Feyre brought him before the fire, and he sat there, telling her the story of his home, of his friends and family. He dove into her mind and showed her the Courts, the endless seasons, the brilliance of the dawn and the day, and finally, how the stars twinkled and fell across the sky once a year, souls traveling to the next life.

“Will I become a star too?” she asked him after he had finished. She had laid down in his lap. It felt like the right thing to do.

“Yes, Feyre,” he whispered.

“Good,” she said. “I’ll see this world one last time before I’m gone.” 

“I suppose so.” Rhysand ran a hand through her hair. It was gentle, like a lover’s caress. She wondered, as sleep drew near if this had happened before. If Rhysand had held her just like this. And finally, the gaps in her memory filled themselves in: Her dragging him into the cabin and nursing him back to health. The paintings on the walls. The shared meals. Fingers laced together. Rhysand’s smile. The laughter. The joy. That Feyre had existed.

“I’m glad,” Feyre said once she remembered. “That I wasn’t alone. That I’m not alone now.”

“Me too,” Rhysand whispered. The fire crackled, warming them to the bone.

Feyre closed her eyes and let herself drift to sleep in his arms, darkness overtaking her senses. She dreamed of him once more - the two of them in that beautiful town, surrounded by friends and laughing. They danced under the falling stars. 

She felt something touch her mind, as soft and tender as a kiss. She welcomed the feeling, and then the world ended.

--

🔖 Tag List: @climbthemountain2020, @chunkypossum, @acourtofladydeath, @pippsmcgee, @queercontrarian, @cauldronblssd , @andrigyn , @afandomangel , @berryzxx , @rosesncarnations @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @books-books-books4ever , @tsunami-of-tears , @whisperingmidnights

This is not my usual fare, haha! Feel free to suggest what to tackle in my next sad fic < 3k.

[nodus--tollens]

Press F to Harvest Apples

English is not my first language so please forgive my grammar or any mistakes I made. Enjoy!

Life is chaotic—like a massive RPG filled with too many NPCs begging for screentime, events that make no sense and somehow play out of order. Sadly (or not), I’ve decided to ignore the main storyline and stick to the side quests. What’s better than picking flowers while the whole world burns?

This has always been my way. From the moment I became aware of myself as a person, I’ve avoided the main quest of life as one might avoid a plague. Instead, I focused on the things that didn’t matter for my “curriculum”—those odd, seemingly irrelevant pursuits that, though never destined for practical use, were simply too fascinating to ignore. These side quests, as I call them, are the ones that fuel me. And at the moment, my favorite is gaming.

Gaming is how I came to know the people I talk to now—this vast group of over ten idiots, barely sharing a single braincell between them. I’ve never been one for face-to-face interactions. Working in a field that demands constant public engagement already drains enough of my energy for that. So, meeting people online, from the comfort of my own bedroom, where the only thing I need to worry about is whether my mic is working, feels like a welcome escape.

Inside the bedroom, the outside world felt distant, muffled—like the quiet hum of a forgotten dream. The silence was occasionally pierced by the soft click of keys on the keyboard, each press and release forming a rhythmic pattern, almost hypnotic in its repetition. It was a strange kind of therapy, one that eased the tension clinging to their mind. The room was bathed in a warm, rich yellow light, the kind that flickered like the glow of embers in a dying fire. This light came from hidden LED strips in the ceiling and the delicate Lotus Flower Lamp nestled in the corner near the bed. Its petals caught the light, reflecting a soft, pinkish hue that contrasted with the yellow warmth—an object from a thrift store, one they still took immense pride in.

Sitting in front of the computer, their face bathed in the cold glow of the monitor, they barely registered the flickering screen before them. The game played on—colorful, fast-paced, chaotic—but their attention drifted elsewhere, slipping through the cracks of the moment like water through cupped hands. Voices crackled through the headset, laughter and groans erupting with every blunder, every near miss. Someone screamed something incoherent, another cursed between fits of laughter, but the noise felt distant, muffled, as though buried beneath layers of cotton.

They had always been an afterthought in these games—the last pick when teams were formed, the one left waiting while others paired off. Despite always being there, always online, always ready, it was something they had learned to accept. Or at least, they told themselves they had. But acceptance did not ease the quiet sting of being overlooked, nor did it dull the weight pressing against their ribs—heavy and persistent, like an overcast sky.

It had always been this way, and perhaps it always would be. A cycle repeating itself endlessly, like a broken record spinning on the same scratch-worn groove. Like a garden that refused to change, where the same flowers bloomed in the same tired arrangement each spring—predictable, unyielding, as if no other seed had ever been given the chance to grow.

Yet, amidst the familiar monotony of this garden, something new had begun to take root—a single bulb, breaking through the soil, its petals just starting to unfurl.

Caleb was a recent addition to the group—a newcomer in the ever-chaotic mess of voices and inside jokes. Unlike the others, he didn’t share the single, battered braincell they all passed around; he had one of his own. Introduced by a friend they had met in-game, Caleb had slipped effortlessly into the rhythm of it all—the banter, the shouting, the frantic coordination that rarely amounted to anything useful. He wasn’t around often, but when he was, everyone welcomed him with an ease that made it seem like he had always been there.

They had never truly spoken beyond the occasional “hey” or “what’s up,” the kind of surface-level pleasantries exchanged between two people who simply existed in the same space. He was good at the game—really good—his skill in FPS matches far beyond the rest of them. At first, they had all wondered if he was some kind of pro player, his precision and speed almost too perfect to be true. Yet, every time they asked, he just laughed.

As the voices slowly faded and people began to log off, the room grew quieter, the usual banter and shrill screams dissipating like smoke. Only the ambient hum of their own room remained, the soft clicks of the keyboard punctuating the stillness, while the music bot droned on with a playlist they had tossed together five hours ago. Conversation dwindled to a bare minimum. Only four people remained now—a far cry from the usual ten or more, if you didn’t count the bot itself. What had once been a whirlwind of chaos had reduced to pure, almost unsettling calm.

The screen, which had once showcased the game their friends were playing, was now filled with an RPG they had stumbled upon and occasionally played. The main quest, of course, was ignored in favor of talking to an NPC about collecting plants—an oddly fitting activity, not just in-game, but in real life too. It was as if they had found a strange connection between this side quest and their own existence.

Taking a deep breath, they closed the game. Their eyes scanned the screen, searching for something—anything—to do.

— Do you guys want to play something? I’m kinda bored.

Their voice, soft and quiet, echoed through the call, the icon lighting up green as they spoke, then fading back into the silence. A "no" was what they expected—and that’s exactly what they got from two of the others. But not from Caleb. Not from him, the one person they hadn’t really spoken to much. Maybe that was the reason. Maybe it was because he didn’t know the rumors, didn’t hear the whispers about their so-called reputation as the "bad player."

— Are you sure? I’m not exactly the best player there is, probably the worst out of everyone here, so it’s fine if you want to pass.

— Why would I? I can carry if needed. Don’t stress. Just send me your nickname so I can add you.

Caleb’s voice came through casual, with a light laugh at the end—something they didn’t expect. It was so sincere, so effortlessly reassuring, that they were left speechless for a moment. Two minutes passed in silence before they finally gathered their thoughts and sent their nickname.

The music bot was cranked up to a louder volume as soon as they joined the lobby. The usual chaos filled the background, but this time it felt a bit different. They’d never played with Caleb before, so they didn’t know what to expect. They had only seen him in passing—good at the game, maybe a little too good, but that was about it.

The queue popped fast—way too fast for this godforsaken hour. Who was even awake at this time of night? Oh, right.

It was just another FPS game, something they’d played a hundred times before, but tonight, they decided they weren’t going to play the usual role. Everyone expected them to be the support, the one who hung back, kept the team alive. But for once, they weren’t going to do that. For once, they weren’t going to hide behind the safety of a healing ability or a shield. They locked in a duelist champion, ready to take the lead.

— Duelist? Feisty, I like it. — Caleb said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement, the playfulness almost tangible. — I could’ve sworn you were a support main.

— Eh, kinda? — they replied with a casual shrug, though he couldn’t see it. — I don’t mind playing other roles, it’s just that the chance never comes up, and, well... nor the courage. — They let out a small chuckle, half self-deprecating, half lighthearted.

— People are a pain in the ass?

— People are a pain in the ass. — they agreed without hesitation, the words coming out almost like a mantra.

The first few rounds went smoothly enough. Sure, they weren’t playing at their best, but no one complained. Caleb didn’t mind when they apologized again, even though it was the ninth time in the same round that they missed something. In fact, he just laughed it off and said it was fine. He didn’t mind. The teammates didn’t complain either. It felt... strange, almost unnatural, to have someone be so calm after they missed so many opportunities. Their friends would have gone insane by now, throwing out insults or at least sighing dramatically. But Caleb? He just stayed calm, like it was too easy for him, like mistakes didn’t carry any weight.

It was almost like playing with someone from a different world, where things didn’t matter as much.

This round was already decided—victory was a mere formality. Caleb had promised to carry, and carry he did. His precision and composure anchored the team, even in the midst of chaos.

The music bot switched songs right before the round started, playing a track that felt like an old friend. The first notes hit, and their heart quickened. The bass began to thrum beneath their skin, like a storm trapped in a bottle, its tension thick and undeniable. The volume cranked, and the music seemed to take on a physical presence. Every beat reverberated in their bones, like they were part of the sound itself. Without realizing it, their lips began to move, singing along instinctively, absorbed completely in the chaos of the moment.

— “Fuck it, I'll get famous out of spite” — they sang softly, the words slipping out like a breath. The screen flashed as an enemy fell, but they barely registered it. The music pushed them forward. The bass wasn’t just a sound—it was an electric hum that ran through their veins, an invigorating pulse. It urged them on, deepening their energy, syncing them with every action. Every kill came so naturally, so effortlessly, it felt like the game was just a rhythm to follow, the kills nothing more than punctuation in the flow of the music.

— “I’ll make it overnight, be starring in the movies, just to make you cry” — they sang as another two enemies fell, almost simultaneously. A double kill, a triple kill—everything was fluid, seamless. There was no pressure, no rush. They moved with the beat, like the game had already decided their role.

— “Baby, I'll be in your dreams, and every magazine” — they sang the next verse, their voice quiet, almost a whisper. There was no aggression in the words, just the calm steadiness of someone who had found their rhythm, their place in the chaos. The game no longer felt like a battle. It felt like a dance, one they’d done countless times before.

— “Go tell everyone you knew me, They'll say O-M-G, Damn, you fumbled the bag, I'm never gonna let you forget” — they let out the final line with a light smile, the words flowing easily, like it was all part of the moment. The game ended. Their victory was quiet, simple.

Ace.

The song lingered, filling the room like a final exhale.

— I thought you said were the worst player among everyone here — Caleb’s voice came through with a laugh, genuine and surprised, yet it held some playful teasing in its tone, as he stared at his monitor, the victory screen flashing in front of him.

— In my defense, I am. And I have no idea how that happened. — they replied with a half-grin, still feeling the hum of the song in their chest, the final moments of the round still swirling in their head. — Also, what in the ever-living fuck is your aim? Can we talk about that please?

Caleb’s laugh broke through the tension, rich and unrestrained, flowing like thick syrup into a cup of warm apple tea. It was a sound that made something stir in their chest, a fluttering they couldn’t quite place, like the soft tickle of nerves when something feels just a little too right.

— Yeah, yeah. — he teased, his voice playful yet teasing, — Says the one who somehow managed to obliterate the whole enemy team while singing. Please, share the tactic, I could use it.

— Oh, shut it. — they muttered, rolling their eyes with a scoff, a small smile tugging at the corners of their lips as they clicked through the last of the game’s menus. — It’s a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

A soft silence settled between them. It wasn’t awkward—just the kind of quiet that fills the spaces when two people are comfortable enough to let the world around them slow for a moment. The only sound left was the mellow music bot, a calm melody playing in stark contrast to the chaotic beats of earlier. Their eyes, heavy now, stared blankly at the monitor, no longer seeing the screen but rather the fading glow of the game.

— I think I’ll go to sleep. — they said softly, breaking the silence at last. — It’s already pretty late. Thank you for the game, it was really fun.

— Yeah, I think I’ll go too. — Caleb’s voice came through, lower than usual, deeper, like a murmur that slid through the distance between them. There was something about it—something quiet, something unexpectedly intimate—that sent a flutter in their stomach. Why did this guy, someone they barely knew, have that effect on them? It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense.

— No need to thank me. — Caleb continued, his tone warmer, almost vulnerable. — I enjoyed it more than you imagine.

Another silence stretched between them, comfortable but carrying weight. Then, with a softness that seemed to echo in the quiet, Caleb’s voice broke through once more, the question casual, but somehow charged.

— See you tomorrow?

They hesitated, just a beat too long, as if the words themselves were weighing more than they should. Then, without thinking too much about it, they responded—quiet, but certain.

— See you tomorrow, Caleb.

[flavia8]

You know. Something I really hate about a lot of popular fantasy books, and it's especially prevalent in Romantasy, is what passes for Feminism in them. It's a toothless fake, used as an aesthetic/seasoning. A sprinkle of *strong female character* and a dash of deceptively misogynistic everything else, and for the finishing touch a pinch of man who's slightly better than being openly sexist and Boom. Fantasy series led by a FMC.

Generally, the Female Main character either starts out or becomes incredibly powerful, but always, always, always her power is linked to the men around her. She supposedly has agency and makes her own choices but the choices she makes are between choices provided to her by men. Her male love interest is more powerful in SOME way, and ends up besting her in some way. Experience, training, power, there's always some way the man is better than her. Female characters are never allowed to just BE powerful. Or even just BE single. Often they give up their powers, or are forcibly stripped of them. They look down on other female characters for doing "feminine" work. And, they're stupid as hell to supposedly make them relatable or endearing. Often, the male mc is concerningly abusive but it's portrayed as dreamy, romantic and Ideal. (I genuinely get the love for villains, and enemies to not, and the love for morally grey characters, I genuinely do, but this isn't that, what happens in these books is just genuinely bad (if they actually were people) being portrayed through rose colored glasses) [And in some stories that could be genuinely interesting!] If there's a second Love Interest, he will just do the same awful shit to the MC but it's better now bc it's him.

If the female character isn't white, all of this + a staggering amount of racism. They're rarely MCs. They're fridged for the MCs, they serve the MCs, they're never as beautiful or powerful as the MC, they're stereotyped and portrayed as savage, vapid, comically evil, or just as a good guy with no character at all.

These books are presented as feminist and it pisses me off. Feminism is equality for all, and the fight for Women to be equal and have their own agency. To make their own decisions. Genuinely I believe writers should be able to write whatever they want. I have no issues with having "problematic" stuff in books. My issue is when people start to believe that this shit is feminist, and the author is so skilled and amazing, and it's a masterpiece! Fuck that.

[queenofmoons67]

stitching up the loose threads of his soul: 1/15

Master Post

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, some cursing

Link is wrist deep in blood and viscera when the message arrives: Seven strangers have arrived at the castle gates with their eighth companion hanging onto life by the last threads of a life spell. They need a doctor urgently, and Zelda has asked for Link.

Link looks at the messenger, then down at his bloody hands—still in a soldier’s guts, two fingers pinching an artery closed while five more hold a needle—then back at the messenger.

“Go,” Nurse Kaori says. She closes her own fingers over the artery delicately, then elbows him away. “We’ve seen you do this a dozen times; we’ve got it.”

The other nurses and doctors nod, each stepping up around the operating table, and Link wastes no further time in stripping his hands of their bloody leather gloves, grabbing a field bag from the counter, and gesturing for the messenger to show the way.

The man is a sergeant, high enough in rank to have served in the war, and it shows in the speed at which he turns corners—this is a man who has run the castle halls while Ganon knocked on their doorstep, let alone while a single man threatens to die there.

Link matches his speed with ease. He may not have run messages through the castle, but he has fought here and ordered troops into different positions. By now, he knows the castle better than he knows the village he grew up in.

They rush around a final corner to find that the main doors are already braced open by two guards, letting Link and the messenger hurtle out. For a moment, the afternoon light is blinding; while the operating room was well-lit, the rest of the castle relies largely on window lighting during the hot summer months, preferring to let their eyes adjust than to bake in both the heat of the day and the wall sconces.

Link’s eyes adjust now, clearing to reveal enough heavily armored strangers that his hand automatically flexes for his sword hilt before he tracks the eighth stranger bleeding out on the two hundred year old stones of the castle entrance.

Four of the strangers turn to look at him. One, in a wolf pelt, has been pacing, while another in a white cape trailed him. A boy with a war hammer slung over his shoulder stands beside a person with pink hair, both of them talking with Zelda.

A man in a four-colored tunic holding gauze and a teenager continuously pulling items from a slate kneel across from another teenager, whose glowing hands are pressed to the head of their injured party member.

The injured man wears armor from neck to toe. Link would be impressed at the show of strength, except someone has clearly taken advantage of his lack of helmet and led him to where he is now: Lying on the ground, unconscious, surrounded by worried friends.

Link advances into the huddle and kneels so that his knees bracket the injured head, giving him the best access to the wound possible. He drops his field bag next to himself and takes only a moment to pull on clean leather gloves before snagging gauze from Four-colors and reaching for the injury.

“Let me see,” he orders brusquely.

The healer looks up and blinks away tears. “It won’t stop—”

“Head wounds bleed,” Link reassures. “I know what I’m doing; trust me.”

Link doesn’t expect anyone with the life of a friend in their hands to trust him right away, but he does expect them to recognize when they have no other choice, and the healer does. His hands retreat, and Link inserts his own swiftly, pressing gauze to the wound. From there, he eases back in increments, revealing only parts of the wound at a time until he has a complete picture.

Link’s not surprised the healer is in such a state. Even for someone experienced with healing, head trauma is scary, and this wound… he can see where healing has begun, where blood vessels have knitted back together and cracks in the skull have fused. A red potion, he guesses, plus the magic of the healer, covering what must have once been a gaping head wound.

“You’ve done well,” Link praises, and flashes the trio a smile. “I think he would have survived even if you hadn’t gotten him here, but I’m going to make sure of it, ok?”

He doesn’t wait for a response before focusing back on his patient. The various tissues covering the skull haven’t healed yet, but that will happen with time. Even the blood seems to be remnants from before the blood vessels healed, now leaking out with no where else to go.

Link’s main worry is contamination. He knows well from the war how even a small cut can become infected if left open to the environment, and if the man’s brain becomes infected, his chances of survival are minimal.

Link tosses the used gauze to the side, takes fresh ones from Four-colors, and presses it around the most blood-soaked areas, cleaning up as much as he can. Then he nods at the slate-wielding teenager.

“My bag has a small jar inside it. I need one of the needles, and also the suturing thread next to it.”

Slate-wielder jolts into action, and even goes the extra kilometer and threads the needle.

“Good,” Link says, taking the supplies. A small spell slips from his fingers and over the needle and thread, cleansing them, and a secondary spell does the same for the injured area—and then he bends to the task of stitching a man’s head back together again.

Master Post / Beginning / Next

[mod-kyoko]

I can't believe I never noticed considering I love both these characters so much but Akane owari and Chiaki nanami dating headcanons~. I think SDR2 might be the series where I like most of the cast.

dating akane owari and chiaki nanami (separate)

info: g/n!reader, fluff, hc format

a/n: i think thh is the game in which i like most of the cast. there's always one mf in the game that ruins it but for thh i actually like every single character.

♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

akane owari

dating akane is always fun and spontaneous

she's always dragging you outside to parks or restaurants

she's outdoorsy and she loves food so if you combine those two (a picnic or cookout) she'll love you forever

she's always challenging you to silly little contests like who can eat the most breakfast food

she's also very competitive with video games

on days with bad weather or sickness the two of you spend time playing video games together and watching movies

but pretty much every other day you're out and about

akane's favorite way to show affection is hugs and kisses

but specifically the kind of hug where you're smothered, and she squeezes you with all her might while teasing you for whining about it

and she gives kisses all over your face super fast

her love language though is quality time, of course, which is why she's always dragging you to places

even if the two of you aren't actually doing something together, just being in the same space is enough

chiaki nanami

chiaki is probably the opposite of akane in that she's so indoorsy

if she ever participates in an outside activity she'll find her own way to laze it up

her love language is acts of service

surprising each other with a homemade dinner, doing each other's chores, surprising with gifts

chiaki's face is really cute when she realizes you've done something nice for her (like this :o )

as you can guess, spending time with chiaki is playing games. a lot.

video games, board games, whatever

she doesn't have a problem with doing other activities though, she'll never make you do something that you're bored of

anyway, on game nights you turn all the lights off and put the leds on (you know the colorful led strip lights) and create a nest out of your bed

the comfiest fucking thing you'll ever lay on

tangent: chiaki definitely collects plushies and it adds to the comfort of your bed

she'll also always stock up on snacks in preparation for game nights

she always has pocky

you know the pocky game? you've played it with her a couple times and she always lets you win so you kiss her

speaking of kissing, chiaki is a very soft and sweet type of kisser rather than rough and passionate

she's very gentle, always holding your face in her hands or locking your fingers together

other ways she shows physical affection includes laying her head in your lap or on your shoulder and falling asleep on you

♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

-mod kyoko