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viperify · 3 months ago

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oneshots | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

☾₊⊹ The Moon to my Stars.

Short Summary: After your shared night on the Astronomy Tower, he seems to avoid you. When you do meet him again—things between you two change, and it turns out loving Tom Riddle is harder than expected.

Warnings: 18+. angst, fluff, smut. fingering, unprotected p in v, soft!Tom; so soft it probably counts as ooc, slight choking, creampie, panty-stealing, author is deeply in love with this man and is utterly delusional.

A/N: I have officially lost my sanity trying to hide my utter devotion to this man. Thank you for sticking around.

wordcount: 2,6k

part 1: ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ ᴀɴ�� ʙᴀᴄᴋ.

Days pass. Some long and exhausting, some filled with studying and revising. Your mind is occupied, clouded by the stressful nature of exam season—yet, Tom never leaves your mind. It even goes as far that you need physical distance from your textbooks—because that one night on the Astronomy Tower overshadows your every rational thought.

At this point you go outside, fur-lined winter boots leaving shallow footprints in the last remnants of the thick snow layer that once covered Hogwarts’ grounds. You tell yourself going for a walk will take your mind off your worries—whether it be the exams or him. In truth, it does the exact opposite.

Oddly enough, the scenery, seemingly frozen in time, reminds you more of him than it should. The unforgiving cold, hibernating nature, deer and other wildlife scavenging for anything edible under the freezing blanket of snow. Sun barely strong enough to make it through the clouds, occasional cool breezes sending shivers down your spine.

And yet, there is something beautiful about it.

Something you crave, something that makes your skin tingle, lets you stay just a little bit longer.

Something that makes you long to feel his touch again.

You haven’t spoken to him since he led you back to your dorm, coat still snugly wrapped around your shoulders. Back when he told you to have a good night. To dream well. To dream of him.

You hadn’t fallen asleep with a smile in a very long time before that night.

But now, doubts cloud your mind. You haven’t seen him in classes since—and he isn’t one to miss lessons. Was he deliberately avoiding you? He might have realised he made a mistake. Your spent night was a mistake. You were a mistake.

It shouldn’t mean this much to you—after all, you’ve hated him ever since you started Hogwarts. But what he told you felt special—felt real.

And when you arrive back in your dorm from your walk, passing by his coat that he hasn’t yet demanded back, you can’t stop yourself. Shutting your eyes when your hand brings the thick, woven fabric to your nose, inhaling his scent, his cologne. Sandalwood and amber—so unmistakably him, reminding you of what he told you when he wrapped it around your shoulders.

I want you to teach me. Teach me how to love you the way you deserve to be loved.

“And I want to try. But you need to let me.” You murmur to yourself, slowly letting go of the fabric and returning to your studies.

You don’t get anything more done that day.

And fuck, it frustrates you. So much, you once again lay in bed, sleepless.

You toss and turn, and as nothing seems to help, you get out of bed with a sigh.

Fetching your own coat, you leave your dorm, looking both ways down the hallway to make sure you’re alone, and then, with quick, yet quiet steps, you make your way towards the Astronomy Tower. You haven’t been back since that day.

It’s another freezing night, chilly breezes of wind brushing against your cheeks as you lean against the railing—the clear sky revealing what you came here for in the first place—the stars and the moon.

Minutes later, you’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t even notice the faint footsteps of someone approaching—not until that certain someone is standing right next to you, that is.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He remarks, voice controlled as he keeps a safe distance. “It’s cold out.”

You huff slightly at his words, recognizing the scent of his perfume even from a few metres away.

“Is that the only thing you care about, Riddle?” You reply coolly, not turning to face him. “What about me breaking curfew rules? You do usually take your job as prefect very seriously.”

Tom doesn’t answer, and for a few minutes, there’s silence between the both of you.

“You have been avoiding me.” You finally state, your breath visible in the cold night air.

He breathes out, a deep, long exhale as though he’s been preparing himself for this moment.

“I thought it’d be better this way. For both of us.”

You turn to him then, eyes scanning his face—the moonlight’s glow highlighting his sharp features, conflict visible in his eyes.

“Better?” You repeat in disbelief, taking a step backwards. “Right.”

His head sinks, eyes closed as he debates what to say next.

“I told you,” he rasps, fingers curling tighter around his wand, “I can’t. I don’t know how to—”

“You can’t what?” You cut him off. “Let someone in for once? Let someone behind that wall you build around yourself?”

“It’s not that easy,” he sneers, too turning towards you. “I wasn’t brought up like you. I don’t know how to show affection, how to manage— whatever this is.”

“Slowly, Tom. With patience. I am willing to help, you just need to let me.”

After a few seconds, he nods, slowly.

You don’t talk much after this, both of you sitting down, staring into the distance.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” He questions after a while, fidgeting with his wand.

A subtle smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “I should be,” you reply. “Shouldn’t you be on patrol?”

He huffs. “I should be.”

After that night, things change. Tom tries to be there, subtly at first. Leading you to classes, tutoring you. Though you don’t speak often, he is there. Random shared nights on the Astronomy Tower after you have memorized his prefect schedule—Mondays and Thursdays.

You’d sit next to each other, watching the sky. Each time a little closer. Occasionally talk. Each time a little more. You could feel him getting more comfortable, opening up, telling you more about himself— his childhood.

It changes the way you view him entirely.

That behind his hard shell, his cold exterior, there’s this little boy in the orphanage—who was never understood, never cared for, never loved.

“You didn’t deserve this, Tom.” You say. You don’t know what else there is you could possibly tell him to make it alright—because there is nothing.

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore now.” He replies.

It’s silent for a long time between you two after that.

“I am here for you, always.” You murmur after a few minutes, eyes flicking between your and his hand.

You contemplate for a moment.

Yet, almost involuntarily, your hand carefully inches closer until it finds his. The moment you touch him, you feel him tense, and you wait, giving him the time to draw back—but he doesn’t. Your hand—quite cold in contrast to his—tightens its grip then, and you again sit there in silence for a while.

“You are freezing,” he remarks quietly, thumb softly swiping over your index finger, “we should go back inside.”

So you do. He leads you back to your dorm, wishing you a good night—just like the first time. You want to ask whether he would like to have his coat back—but when you turn around, he is already gone.

You aren’t too sad about it—after all, it still smells like him.

—

Your nightly meetings have become a routine. He never lets you wait more than five minutes before he sits down beside you, joining you as you watch the stars. You talk about everyone and everything. And shit—the more he talks—his perfect voice—the more you crave his lips on yours again.

One night, when saying your goodbyes, you both stare at each other for a little too long. You get lost in the depths of his beautiful, dark brown eyes, and you don’t even really notice him getting closer until his hand brushes against yours.

“Shouldn’t— shouldn’t you be on patrol?” You murmur, eyes dropping to his lips for a split second, his face now mere inches away from yours—and he’s so tense you can quite literally feel the doubt radiating off of him.

He huffs softly, his voice coming out as a faint whisper.

“I should be.”

And then, he closes the gap, lips brushing against yours, first gently as to give you space and time to move away, but as you don’t, instead lean into his touch—with a firm, yet gentle hold on your neck, he pulls you closer. He takes his time with you, as though he wants to savour your taste, memorize how your lips feel against his, your soft breathing, your warmth—

Before you know it, his hand is wrapped around your wrist, dragging you after him. Not to your dorm, but to his. Just after the door closes, his lips are on yours again—not so gently this time, instead filled with hunger, lust.

“Tom,” you breathe, eyes meeting his as you part. “Are you sure?”

“I am if you are,” he replies, and it only takes a nod for his hand to tangle in your hair, pulling you in for another kiss, leading you to his bed.

As the back of your knees meets the edge of his bed, he gently guides you down with him until your body is caged between the mattress and himself. His eyes scan your face for any discomfort, any sign you want to stop.

But you don’t want him to stop.

Instead, your fingers clutch at his robes, pulling him down for another kiss.

He takes his time with you. Not quick, not rushed, not rough like last time—stripping each piece of clothing off your body with care, exploring, watching your every reaction.

And God, how you have missed his touch.

After he’s removed the last piece of fabric on your body—your lace panties—he looks up at you. The storm in his deep, brown eyes drawing you right in as he is nestled between your thighs. Then you see it—for the first time—a completely unfamiliar expression plastered on his face. Features softened to an extent you aren’t sure it even is the Tom Riddle everyone else feared you are dealing with. Eyes not having their usual harshness to them, lips curled into an almost-smile. And if you weren’t really, really delusional and completely mesmerized merely by the sight of him so eager for you, you would think—he looks as though he felt for you just as deeply as you did for him.

He lowers his head to press a single, gentle kiss to your inner thigh, one arm keeping you spread open for him. In the same moment, you feel two of his fingers gently swiping through your folds before they press against you, entering your already slick walls without much effort. A gasp from you is accompanied by a shaky breath against your thigh from his side as he hilts himself knuckle-deep, curling his fingers perfectly to brush against your most sensitive spot inside of you.

“Please— God, please, Tom.” You whimper, bucking your hips against his hand—anything to get him to move.

“Shh. You told me to take it slow. Want to take it slow with you this time.”

So, gently, he withdraws again, thumb drawing lazy circles on your clit as he sets a steady rhythm, fingers pumping into you slowly, his other hand making sure you stay spread open for him.

And although it’s slow, almost too slow, you feel the familiar knot in your lower stomach tightening, whimpering as he trails kisses down your inner thigh.

“You think you are ready for me?” He asks, eyes meeting yours.

“Yes, Tom. Please, I need you.”

He’s undressing so quickly it’s hard to follow, first the thud of his belt hitting the floor, then piece after piece of his clothes discarded somewhere near the bed. Apparently you aren’t the only one who’s been craving this.

He’s kissing you again when he’s done, leaning over you, your legs wrapped around his waist—feeling his tip swipe through your folds, collecting your arousal before he nudges against your entrance.

“Please, Tom.”

His restraint shatters.

He pushes inside of you, slowly, splitting you apart on his length. You gasp at the stretch, quickly muffling the sound with your lips on his once more.

You don’t want it to stop—you don’t want him to stop.

“God, you are tight,” he breathes shakily, wiping a strand of hair from your face. “Feel so good wrapped around me like that.”

He pauses briefly when he’s buried to the hilt, letting you adjust for a moment before he pulls out halfway, thrusting back inside.

Leaning down, he presses a kiss to your forehead. “This okay?”

More than okay.

“Tom— please—”

Concern is visible on his face. “I didn’t hurt you last time, did I? I thought I might have.”

It’s sweet. So sweet he cares. But God, not now. Not now when he’s so deep, ridding you of any sanity you have left. You just need him to move.

“Tom. Please.”

He nods, exhaling another shaky breath, finally, finally setting a steady rhythm. Your nails dig into his back, urging him closer, deeper, anything.

More, more, more. You need more of him.

You haven’t realised how starved of his touch you were until now.

He knows, he can sense it. Hips snapping against yours faster, reaching deeper, pushing into you just at the right angle—you want to ask him how he knows all of this. How he can be so perfect at everything he does, how he can be so infuriatingly handsome—

“I am going to— fuck, Tom—“

Lips on yours. Hand around your throat, pressing down just tight enough to make you feel light-headed. Other hand kneading at your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingertips.

“Come for me, sweetheart.”

You shatter. Break. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as your orgasm rips through you, walls fluttering wildly around his thick cock, milking him. Your thighs tremble, keeping him close, keeping him right where you need him—buried deep inside of you.

He fucks you through it, helping you through your aftershocks, and with a final, deep thrust, he spills inside of you, his release painting your walls white.

Both of you stay like this for a while. Silence as your fingers swipe through his dark curls, over his back, keeping him close. So close. You don’t want to let go when he finally gets up.

Tom comes back with a wet towel, cleaning between your thighs before he hands you your clothes.

And you would put them on—if there wasn’t something missing.

“Where are my panties?”

His lips contort into a smug grin.

“Don’t know what you are talking about.”

You sigh.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle.” Yes, full name. “That’s the second pair.”

He doesn’t do more than smile, getting into bed beside you, arm around your waist, pulling you into his side.

Well, in that case. One more pair lost wouldn’t mean the end of the world.

It’s just a few minutes later when you feel your eyelids getting heavy, ready to drift off to sleep, lying on his chest.

You feel him place a soft kiss on top of your head.

“I love you.” He whispers, and suddenly you think you may already be dreaming.

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“I love you too, Tommy.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

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hearts4hughes · 15 days ago

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DUE DILIGENCE ~ CHAPTER THREE

wallstreet!rafe x assistant!reader | warnings: emotional manipulation, unhealthy power dynamics, obsession-coded behavior, implied violence, brief mentions of death (no graphic detail)

monday starts late. not for the firm, but for you. your alarm goes off, and you ignore it twice. the gala lives on as a blur behind your eyelids—champagne and city light, the ghost of his hand at your hip. it shouldn’t matter—it didn’t matter because you didn’t kiss him and you didn’t touch him. he just danced with you like he’s done it before. like he’ll do it again without another doubt.

still, you’re in by ten. the office is fluorescent and airless, and you’re greeted by a stack of revisions that weren’t there when you left friday. your inbox has bled red. there’s already a message from rafe waiting at the top, sent just before six a.m.

“need numbers rerun. slides 4–7. triple check the EBITDA margin on all of them.”

no greeting, no thank you, but that’s the language he speaks. he’s fluent in clipped urgency and indirect need. you haven’t heard his voice since the gala. he hasn’t summoned you…not yet.

it’s only after noon that he emerges with a black shirt, charcoal slacks, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone like even his clothes are tired of being restrained. he walks past your desk without stopping, but his eyes catch yours like a snare. it lasts less than a second. and still, your pulse trips.

the pitch meeting is at two. a $40 million acquisition. boardroom full of suits and shark smiles. it’s your job to ensure the presentation runs seamlessly, to hand him the right packet before he even asks for it, to sit silent and poised in the seat beside his and make him look more terrifying just by looking pretty.

you do all of that. what you don’t expect is the spreadsheet error on slide five. you triple checked it—you know you did. but there it is, projected on the fifteen foot screen in all its cruel, traitorous glory. a miscalculated margin that makes the entire argument fall apart.

rafe sees it right away. he doesn’t say anything, not at first. he just goes still, all the heat pulled out of the room like a storm sucked the air dry. his jaw tenses, the vein in his temple pulses, and you brace yourself for whatever is about to be unleashed.

“stop,” he says to the room, voice low but lethal. “that’s incorrect.” someone blinks. another stirs. he turns his head slowly, deliberately, and looks at you. “we’ll pick this back up in ten,” he says to the room but his eyes never leave yours. “out.”

the boardroom clears like a bomb’s about to go off. the door shuts behind the last vice president and then it’s just the two of you.

his silence is violent. he turns toward you with that calm, murderous control you’ve seen in him before. although, it’s usually directed at competitors, not you. “you told me the numbers were clean,” he bites, swallowing harshly to compose himself.

“they were,” you reply, too fast, too defensive. “i triple checked that deck. that error wasn’t there this morning.”

he takes a step toward you. “so what happened?” he stands tall in front of you. like usual.

you don’t shrink. confidence courses through your veins like blood. “i don’t know,” you say evenly. “but it wasn’t my mistake.”

his nostrils flare. “then whose was it?”

you fold your arms, eyes still locked onto his. it’s a duel and you’re both waiting who will shoot first. “the analyst team compiled that model. maybe check with the person who actually-”

“don’t get cute with me,” he snaps. his hand comes down hard on the table. the loud slam bounces off the walls.

you flinch, but only slightly. “i’m not,” you say. “i’m telling the truth.”

he’s right in front of you now. heat vibrates off of him. you can hear your heartbeat, feel the blood rushing through your body. “you’re responsible for what gets in front of me,” he growls. “you want to sit at my table? earn your fucking seat.”

your spine straightens. “i do earn it.”

“not today.” his words are a slap. your face stays still, but inside something fractures. and you let it show—just enough.

“fuck you,” you breathe, stepping back.

his eyes narrow and he stills. he doesn’t say anything at first. almost like he’s hoping you didn’t just say that. “what did you just say?”

“you heard me.” your voice is low, sharp. you step toward the door. “i’ve worked my ass off for months fixing shit i wasn’t supposed to fix, staying hours past when i should’ve left. i have cleaned up every mess, anticipated every mood swing, and the second something goes wrong, you treat me like i’m disposable?”

his jaw tics. his hand balls into a fist at his side. “you think you’re special?” he asks quietly. “you think i don’t have a stack of resumes from girls who would kill to sit in your chair?”

you smile, but there’s no humor in it. no warmth, no softness. just the bitter curl of a challenge dressed in lipstick. “go hire one of them, then,” you say, and your voice is steady in the way a sword is before it slices.

for a second, he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. he expected you to crumble. he wanted to win, to watch you break, but you don’t. you merely turn and you leave.

your heels click against the polished floor, echoing louder than his silence. the conference room door swings open with a whisper and shuts with a soft click. not a slam, but god, you wanted to. you wanted to throw it off the hinges, to shake the glass in its frame. to make him feel just one ounce of the rage clawing at your chest.

instead, you keep your spine straight and your head high as you walk back to your desk like you didn’t just tell off the most powerful man in the building.

he doesn’t follow you nor does he call.

you stay at your desk, hands shaking as you type out a polite, professional email to the analyst team asking for a timestamped copy of the model. you find the version from sunday night. it’s clean of any error.

you send it to him without commentary. twenty minutes later, your phone rings. it’s not rafe. it’s security. “we need to notify you that mr. cameron’s requested restricted access to level nine for the next hour. do not enter.”

you frown. “what’s on nine?” you pick at the skin around your maroon fingernails. blood draws from the scratch eliciting a wince from you.

“just one of the closed meeting rooms. he also requested that i send you home.“

you hang up without responding. your hands shake as you throw everything into your bag. pens clatter, your charger tangles, papers crumple under the weight of your fury. your jaw is tight, eyes burning, throat locked like your pride’s trying to hold back something messier. you don’t care. let it look messy. let him see it on your desk tomorrow, how you left in a rush, how you didn’t bother to make it neat for him.

he held you like he meant it. there was something fragile and precious in the way his hand rested against your back, head dipped to your shoulder like he’d finally let himself need someone. and then, with that same mouth that didn’t dare kiss you, he tells you you’re replaceable. like none of it meant anything. like you’re a body in a chair, not the girl who’s been silently pulling the strings behind his entire goddamn empire. your heels hit the floor like punctuation and you don’t look back.

an hour later, the headlines break. it lights up your phone when you’re in your pajamas, tea in hand, glasses resting low on your nose. you blink twice when you see it.

individual found dead in financial district parking garage. cause of death under investigation.

you reread the article, finger near your mouth as you chew on the reddened skin. the name jumps out first. then the photo, blurred and cropped like even the press didn’t want to look too closely. your stomach turns cold. no cause of death listed. no suspects. just the usual jargon—tragic, sudden, still under investigation.

you throw your phone onto the cushion next to you, a little harder than you mean to. it bounces once, lands face down like it’s ashamed. your body slumps sideways, elbow buried in the couch, and you squeeze your eyes shut like that’ll stop the spinning. you can try to pretend you didn’t notice the date…or the neighborhood…or the last name. but you did and he was the analyst lead. the one who likely tampered with the numbers. the one you cc’d on the email.

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cryoculus · 6 days ago

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— the ephemeris of us ⟢

you try to divine a future where you’ll stay with him forever, yet the stars refuse to heed your call. but jing yuan doesn’t need forever. all he needs is you.

★ featuring; jing yuan x gn!reader

★ word count; 3.2k words

★ tags; reader works at the divination commission, the woes of mortality, short life species!reader, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

★ notes; as uze, crossposting here is late :p i've been told a lot by people that they like how i write jing yuan, and coincidentally i, too, like how i write jing yuan so here we are!!!! this is a bday fic for a dear friend over on x, but i thought to share with you as well :3c

READ ON AO3

The headache bloomed behind your eyes around midafternoon, but you ignored it like you always do.

You were supposed to log off two hours ago, yet you’re still transcribing the fourth permutation of Fu Xuan’s “minor” revisions to the celestial calibration doctrine. The ink is drying too fast on your sleeves and too slow on the sigils. Your stomach growls—loud enough to make your ears burn from embarrassment, even though no one’s around to hear it. Probably.

But just when glance over to check an astrological aberration in your notes, the light shifts in the doorway.

“You were meant to be home by the sixth chime,” comes a familiar voice, smooth and impossibly calm. “But instead, I find you composing a symphony of stress.”

You glance up to see Jing Yuan leaning against the doorframe, one brow slightly raised like he has all the time in the world. His hands are occupied with a dark-lacquered lunch box, and the scent of the food reaches you in delayed waves. Your stomach growls again, but you ignore it completely.

“I just needed to finish a few edits before the deadline.”

Jing Yuan hums. “You said that four deadlines ago.”

He’s not smiling. There’s an amused flicker behind his eyes, but the rest of his face is composed into something more serious. You press your fingers to your temples and try not to wince when he steps inside.

“Don’t tell me,” he says, now close enough for the warmth of his presence to register across your skin. “No lunch. Medication left at home. And judging by the clumsiness of your sigils—don’t pout at me—you haven’t had any water in hours either.”

You let your arms fall to the desk. “Why are you like this?”

He blinks innocently. “Like what?”

“Too perceptive. Too… annoyingly attentive.”

He sets the lunch box down beside your elbow, brushing aside a curled slip of annotated paper. His fingers glance against yours—light contact, but enough to startle you out of your irritation.

“I pay attention,” the Arbiter-General says simply. “Especially when the people I care for are trying to quietly ruin themselves under a mountain of work.”

Your breath catches. The words are too soft and direct, even for him. You’d been expecting teasing. Not this.

“I’m not trying to ruin myself,” you mumble. “I’m just… trying to keep up with work.”

“You’ve already proven yourself a hundred times over.” Jing Yuan crouches beside your chair, arms resting on his knees. “You don’t have to keep burning yourself down to ash just to stay visible.”

You look down. Away from the sincerity in his gaze.

“But I don’t want to fall behind,” you tell him stubbornly. “I’m not like you, Jing Yuan. I don’t have centuries to perfect everything. Every mistake feels heavier. Every year feels like it matters more. Like if I waste a single one, it’s already too late.”

He goes still.

You didn’t mean to say it. But once it’s out, it lingers between you like smoke.

A quiet hum vibrates in his throat. “You think I’ve perfected anything?” he says at last. “I’ve just lived long enough to regret more things.”

You glance at him sharply, but his golden eyes are somewhere far away.

“I’ve seen brilliance burn out young. And I’ve seen it slowly dim in silence. Time doesn’t make it easier. It just makes it… Bearable.”

There’s a pause. And then he exhales, like he’s pulling it somewhere deeper than his lungs.

“You always think you’ll have time,” Jing Yuan murmurs. “Until you love someone who doesn’t.”

That lands with more force than anything else. Because it’s not about deadlines or documentation anymore. It’s about the deep unfairness etched into the bones of your lives: that while his story stretches on indefinitely, yours will always have a final chapter.

“That’s your comfort speech?” you ask, a strained laugh escaping before you can stop it. “Outlive the pain, rack up regrets, and call it wisdom? You do realize that felt more like a lance to the chest than reassurance, right?”

“I am only as candid as I am with you because you’ve never needed sugarcoating,” he says softly. “You’ve always been strong enough to hold the truth, even when it hurts.”

Then, quieter: “Especially when it hurts.”

You laugh again, because what else is there to do?

As you rub at your aching forehead, you can’t help but marvel at the absurdity of it all—how a short-life species like you ended up falling for the man who’s occupied the Seat of Divine Foresight for nearly seven centuries. He walks through decades like they’re seasons. You count time in birthdays, deadlines, missed meals, and yet here you are. Tethered to him irrevocably.

But maybe the greater folly is his: loving someone fleeting, when he’s already weathered more losses than most hearts are built to bear. For all his calm and his poise, for all the wars he’s led and years he’s survived, Jing Yuan still chooses you—knowing exactly how little time you have to give.

“Alright, fine. I’ll eat. You win.”

“This is not about winning,” he says. “It’s about keeping you around long enough to make fun of me when my knees start failing.”

You blink. “…You know damn well that mine will go first.”

His grin fades, just a little, and it tugs at your heart more than it should.

“I know,” he says softly.

Jing Yuan straightens and offers his hand, and you take it without hesitation, fingers twining with his like they’ve always belonged between the spaces. As you stand, the room tilts slightly—your knees stiff, your skull light with fatigue and hunger. He notices, of course, and he slips an arm around your back without a word, steadying you as you find your balance.

There’s nothing overbearing about it—just quiet support, the kind that says he’s done this before and he’ll keep doing it for as long as you let him.

“You always show up when I look like death warmed over,” you grumble as you grab the lunch box he brought.

“On the contrary,” Jing Yuan murmurs, guiding you outside, toward the hustle and bustle of the Exalting Sanctum, “I happen to think you’re at your most captivating when you let yourself be mortal.”

You bury your face in his sleeve, hoping he won’t feel how sharply your heart skips. But you suspect he already knows. He always does.

No one expected it.

Fu Xuan certainly didn’t—though she muttered she should’ve seen it in the stars, if you hadn’t constantly “disrupted the Omniscia’s celestial patterns with your interpretive nonsense”.

You’re a short-life species with a long-life temper. A fast-burning match in a hall of timeless candles. Too sharp-tongued, too stubborn, too hungry.

The youngest diviner in the Commission to ever draft a triple-thread predictive matrix all on their own, and the only one to do it while arguing with a senior archivist mid-simulation. Not quite a formal title, but “the most talented diviner with the worst sense of self-preservation” is what the Cloud Knights have taken to calling you.

You wear it like a badge. The stars have favorites, and so do you.

The first time you were in Jing Yuan’s presence, you didn’t even see him. You were too busy arguing with one of your superiors.

It was supposed to be a routine oversight meeting. You’d been summoned to explain why your astral forecast readings directly contradicted the Omniscia’s predicted trajectory for the Luofu. Which pissed you off beyond belief. Their trajectory calculations were wrong. The math didn’t lie, but the higher-ups refused to acknowledge it. They clung to outdated, comfortable visions of the stars as if they hadn’t already begun to shift.

So you stood there, voice sharp and rising in tempo with every slide projection you slammed into the air. You were sweating through your outer robe and still speaking in clipped, defiant tones that silenced the room like a severed thread.

You didn’t even notice when the most important man in the Luofu entered the hall.

Not until later, when a summons arrived in your quarters: Arbiter-General Jing Yuan requests a private follow-up regarding your methodological deviation. Please prepare a brief report.

You showed up an hour late with a half-eaten peach in one hand, and a stack of annotated star maps in the other. You didn’t bother bowing.

“These are written with love and care and excessive overtime,” you said, dropping the papers on his desk. “So please read them thoroughly.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing across his handsome face.

The Arbiter-General asked thoughtful questions. You gave him answers laced with just a hint of defiance that would probably get you fired. But he didn’t reprimand you. He just listened. Somewhere in the middle of it, when you were ranting about the inconsistencies in the astral convergence model, he smiled. Faint and brief, like someone recognizing an old constellation in a new sky.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But when Jing Yuan asked for you back again—and again, and again—you started bringing two peaches instead of one.

Just in case.

Now, you're curled sideways on your couch back home—throat raw, sinuses aching, eyes gritty with exhaustion. Your star charts lie scattered across the floor, victims of an earlier outburst when the numbers stopped making sense and your patience finally snapped. Between the fever clouding your thoughts and everything else quietly unraveling, it’s fair to say the day has not been kind.

Nothing was lining up. Not the timeline on the prophecy Fu Xuan gave you yesterday, not the medication schedule you forgot to follow, and definitely not the part where you were supposed to eat hours ago.

The door to the living room creaks open.

You don’t look up. You just sigh.

“I brought soup,” Jing Yuan greets with a lopsided smile. “And medicine.”

“Fu Xuan’s been tattling again,” you mutter.

“No,” he replies, and you hear the soft clink of ceramic as he begins unpacking something from a bag, “your silence tattled all on its own. You haven’t contacted me in exactly twelve hours.”

You bury your face deeper into the pillow, equal parts mortified and moved. Your apartment smells faintly of incense and dried oranges, and now, of medicinal broth. It’s the scent of care wrapped in routine—something you’ve never been especially good at holding onto. The quiet comfort of being cared for without having to earn it, ask for it, or explain why you need it.

Jing Yuan sets the bowl on the coffee table and crouches beside you.

“You skipped the noon dose,” he says quietly.

“I was working.”

“You also skipped breakfast. And your charting shows signs of mental fatigue.”

You pull the blanket over your face. “Stop reading my patterns like they’re reports.”

“I’d rather read you than any report.”

You hate how fast your heart reacts to that. Because he always says things like this. Soft, steady declarations delivered like promises, like you’ll be around long enough to carry them with you.

But you won’t. And you both know it.

That’s the grief neither of you are brave enough to name. The quiet, inevitable sorrow that lives between your hours. He will still be here when your bones are dust. When your name is nothing more than a footnote in some archival file, tucked away on a shelf he’ll walk past for centuries to come.

You burn bright, and he endures. That’s the curse. The stars never lied. You just kept trying to make them.

Just last week, when the corridors had emptied and the Divination Commission was asleep, you broke protocol. Lit a soul-compass alone and trembling, laid out your personal threads with ink-stained fingers and a desperation that bordered on madness. You tried to divine a timeline—any timeline—where your life ran long enough to match his. Where you didn’t have to leave him so soon.

You whispered Jing Yuan’s name like a prayer. You begged the stars to show you something. A future where you grew old in the shadow of his smile.

But the threads refused to yield.

Or maybe they did. Maybe they answered you in a language you already knew—one written in silence, in absence, in the terrible stillness of a map with no road leading forward. You couldn’t finish the reading, couldn’t bear to see it printed in starlight. Because if you did, you’d have to admit what you already fear most:

That no matter how tightly he holds you now, he was never meant to keep you.

Jing Yuan brushes your hair back from your forehead, startling you out of your thoughts. You hadn’t noticed he’d moved closer.

“I wish you wouldn’t push so hard,” he says, fingers warm and careful. “You are not a dying star. You don’t have to burn out to be brilliant.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” you murmur hoarsely. “You have time.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—like a candle guttering in a sudden rush of wind.

“That’s exactly why I say it,” he replies. “Because I know what time does. How it stretches. How it hollows.”

Jing Yuan brushes his thumb over your temple, a soothing pass of warmth and worry. “You think I don’t see it? The way you measure your days like rationed light? You’ve convinced yourself that every second has to be earned. That if you rest, you’ll fall behind. That if you slow down, the world will forget you.”

Your breath catches.

“But I won’t,” he says simply. “Even when time pulls you away from everything else, I will still remember.”

You shut your eyes.

Because how do you live with that? How do you carry the knowledge that you’ll fade—and he’ll carry what’s left of you? That long after your name is lost to history, he’ll still be here, meandering through centuries, with your memory folded quietly between each one?

“What if I could find it?” you whisper. “A future where we stay like this. Forever.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets the silence stretch between you, gentle and solemn. Then:

“I don’t need forever,” Jing Yuan sighs. “I only need you.”

You go still.

He shifts a little closer, his voice steady in that way that breaks you more than if he were shaking. It’s the kind of calm that comes from someone who has made peace with the things he cannot keep.

“If all I have is one year with you, or ten, or fifty… I’ll take it. And if you leave this world before I do, then I’ll remember you longer than any stars ever could. You’ll live in every breath I take, in the pauses between them. In the quiet where your voice used to be. That will be enough.”

Your throat burns, and this time, the ache comes from deep inside your chest.

“Even if I forget myself,” you murmur, “you’ll still remember me?”

He smiles—tired and fond. “You think I could forget the person who always acted like my summons were a waste of time, yet continued to bring peaches for me anyway?”

You huff a soft laugh, the tears threatening to spill over. He presses the cup of soup into your hands, wrapping his fingers lightly around yours.

“Drink,” he encourages. “Live.”

And you do.

Because even if love like this can’t rewrite the stars, Jing Yuan makes it feel like every moment might still be worth defying them.

You sip the soup slowly. You still feel like hell, but the tightness in your chest has eased—less from the broth, and more from the quiet way he sits beside you, steady and present. Across from you, Jing Yuan watches with an expression that always lingers on his face: a flicker of amusement dancing at the edges of his eyes.

“I should do this more often,” he murmurs. “Show up uninvited, bring food, get you to actually rest. It worked last time, too.”

You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of the cup. “You act like I’m difficult.”

“You’re infamously difficult,” he says smoothly. “Even Lady Fu agrees. I believe her words were, ‘that reckless little star-stain will work themselves into a coma if you don’t bribe them with food or a raise.’”

You snort. “She did not say that.”

“She absolutely did.”

You slump back into your nest of blankets, grumbling. “Bribes, huh.”

Jing Yuan shifts forward slightly, resting his elbow on one knee. His tone turns casual—too casual.

“Well. If bribes work... maybe I’ll make you a deal.”

You eye him warily. “What kind of deal.”

He holds your gaze, voice dipping just a shade lower.

“If you eat your meals. Take your medicine. Sleep when I tell you to…” He pauses, just long enough to let the implication settle. “You get a kiss for each task completed.”

You blink. Then squint at him.

“Is this supposed to be a threat or a reward?”

“Depends,” he says mildly. “Are you planning on misbehaving?”

You toss a pillow at him. He catches it with one hand, laughing, and for a moment, your small living room feels a little bigger—lit not by lamps, but by something gentler.

Something like love. Something like hope.

You don’t get sick anymore. Not like that, anyway.

Since that week, you’ve started taking your breaks when you’re supposed to. Eating proper meals. Sleeping like a semi-responsible adult. Fu Xuan nearly choked on her tea the first time you turned down an overtime simulation with the words “I’ll finish it tomorrow.”

It wasn’t easy—learning to slow down, to stop treating your life like a countdown timer you had to outrun. But it helped. You recovered faster than you expected. Stronger, even. As if your body had simply been waiting for you to stop working against it.

And true to his word, Jing Yuan kissed you for every completed task. Every dose taken. Every empty bowl he found in your sink.

Even when you got better—when you stopped updating him like clockwork, when you went back to managing your schedule without spiraling—he didn’t stop.

He still shows up.

Still kisses you when you hand him a used meal container or let him see your pill sleeve half empty.

Still presses warm, lingering gratitude into your skin for doing something as simple as taking care of yourself.

Which is how you end up outside Fu Xuan’s office, in full view of a handful of baffled attendants, with Jing Yuan leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth like you’re not standing two steps from the Divination Commission’s most sacred archives.

You jerk back, blinking. “Jing Yuan!”

“What?” he says, entirely unrepentant.

You glance around, mortified. “People are going to see! What are you even doing here?”

The Arbiter-General just smiles, slow and absolutely shameless. “I saw you eating your lunch earlier. Very good.”

You smack his arm, half laughing, half scandalized. “You’re unbelievable.”

But you don’t move away when he kisses your cheek again.

And when he slips a peach into your hand before vanishing down the corridor like he hadn’t just committed affection-based misconduct on government property, you can’t help the stupid grin that follows you all the way back to your desk.

You were never meant to last forever, but Jing Yuan seems like he’ll love you that long anyway.

#jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x you #jing yuan #honkai star rail #cryoculus

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peachkkuma · 1 year ago

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ᰍִ ۫͟ ͟ ☁️ ִ✧ 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

hello, I’m Tiffany and this is my manifestation diary! If you haven’t read my previous diary entries yet, recently I’ve come to the realization that I’ve overcome all of my obstacles and there truly is nothing in my way except for me. So I made the decision yesterday to put my foot down and take the leap of faith, in other words, stop putting off manifesting my dream life because of fear. now this account will hold not just my diary entries but also the documentation of my journey to finally and seriously manifest my dream life.

╰┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄ ♡ ♡ ♡ 05.21.2024

let’s begin!

ㅤㅤㅤ𝐈. ⊰ ۫ 🐻‍❄️ ◌ ִ ੭ ˑ DEFINING THE OBJECTIVE

I want to make the end goal a bit more clear, the term dream life is both pretty straightforward and a bit vague. what would I like my dream life to include? how would my dream life make me feel? and ofc, I’m not just manifesting my dream life, I’m manifesting my dream self. what would my self concept be? how would I like to be?

tiffany’s dream life check list - what it means to live my dream life

attend my dream school

be 100% perfectly healthy (physically, mentally, emotionally, in every way basically)

have good eating habits and a good relationship with food

have perfect straight A pluses (revision to previous grades as well)

have the perfect friend group for me

healthy, super soft, hydrated, moisturized, smooth clear skin (and elimination of acne genes) (body + face)

perfect tangle free hair at all times, pretty, voluminous, bombshell hair

a healthy, perfect, loving relationship with everyone in my family

own a super cute and fluffy golden retriever puppy

high paying jobs for my parents <3

have a rolls royce with a pink exterior

grow taller

have every single clothing item I’ve saved on Pinterest

have my YouTube channel blow up

complete head to toe desired appearance

desired lifestyle

perfect eyesight

be super good at makeup and have all desired products

have a gorgeous bedroom

have a very active and lively social life

have the perfect, most ideal school, social, and home life

completely healed phone addiction

have a lot of desired hobbies that I’m very good at

have a fun and eventful life, always have fun plans and something going on

be on the right track career-wise

elimination of social anxiety and shyness

high self esteem and confidence

be more in touch with my culture

be a complete master at manifestation

huh, this is shorter and less serious than I thought it’d be, ig this was also a way of getting out of my own head. I thought manifesting my dream life would be a bit challenging for some reason, but ig a dream life rlly isn’t as complex as I thought it was. I mean now I feel silly, it’s just a dream life! nothing more than a lifestyle and a few personal fixes. I feel like I just got humbled.

𝐈𝐈. ʚ ⊹ ִ⏲️ 𑁯͟ ɞ THE OUTLINE

alright, I know what I want and I know how manifestation works. but just to make sure I don’t over complicate anything or things dont get confusing, I’ll create a sort of plan or outline. Little steps I can fall back on if I get a bit lost.

step number one we have covered, have a desire

step number two, put your foot down and make the firm decision that you have it. this decision is for good, nothing u do can take this decision away so don’t u dare worry about “ruining progress” or “messing up”— u’re better than that.

step number three, once you’ve decided it’s done, it’s done. the only and I mean it when I say only thing for you to do is to act like it. imagine you, the creator of your reality, making the decision that you have something only to then be like “is it coming?” “do I have it?” BE FR!! act like you have it, think like you have it, and see the world as if you have it— because you do. you decided you did, didn’t u? It’s ur reality, what u say, goes. and no, you’re not acting like u have it to get something out of the 3D, you’re doing it for your sanity. Because you deserve a break, you deserve relief, you deserve to be the you that has it all!! let yourself be in the sowf because why shouldn’t u be certain you have it? don’t entertain anything that says u don’t. getting in the sowf is easy, u deciding u have it is all the confirmation u need. there’s no reason for u to not be certain u have it.

sowf = knowing that u have it

step number four, optional not necessary but it’s really gonna help and is fun. immerse yourself in the new story. experience it!! have fun!! u finally got what u want, u finally r who u want to be, so choose to live that life!! try methods for the sake of fulfilling urself (never to make anything appear in the 3D, u know better, 3D desperation doesn’t get anybody anywhere.) try out methods to have fun and be more familiar with having what u want.

that’s it girl, that’s all u gotta do, that’s all u ever had to do. decide it, experience it, assume it. u don’t always have to feel “good” or “happy” u just have to know u have what u want, u just have to assume. the goal is to truly know that u have it, to be faced with the 3D and still know it in ur bones u have what u want. u deserve to trust urself like that, u deserve to be fulfilled like that, and u deserve those things from YOU not from the 3D. U deserve to feel secure in urself, don’t let ur security come from the 3D. loa bloggers mean it when they say the materialization is simply the cherry on top and I get that now. For me, it’s about being able to depend and trust urself, to rely on urself, and in that way everything else comes off the pedestal.

✉️ : ahhh I forgot to finish up this post yesterday but here it is!! I’m so excited!! part two to come soon ♡

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itslittlegiggle · 4 months ago

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Pretty Prefect

Percy/Oliver

——————————————

People often wondered how Percy Weasley and Oliver Wood worked.

The two boys could not be more different - Oliver was athletic, outgoing, always up for an adventure or a good laugh. Percy, on the other hand, was studious, introverted, and very serious.

“Do you even do anything together? He’s so uptight!” People would say to Oliver.

“I have way more fun with him than with anyone else!” Oliver would chastise. “You just don’t know him well, is all.”

“You don’t like any of the same things - you don’t even like Quidditch!” People would say to Percy.

“Yes I do,” Percy would sniff, “I’m just not obsessed with it. And people are allowed to have differing interests, you know - we have lots of fun.”

Against all odds, Oliver and Percy made a curious yet lovely couple who loved each other very much, despite what some may think.

And they did have lots of fun.

It was quite late; the usually bustling Gryffindor common room held only a handful of students, as most had gone to bed after a tedious night of homework and revision. As the remaining individuals slowly made their way to their dormitories, yawning and stretching, there were two Gryffindors who showed no signs of turning in any time soon.

“Are you almost done?” Oliver asked for the millionth time.

“No,” Percy snapped, “stop asking me that. I need to go over all my notes at least once more before I can go to bed. Feel free to go yourself, I’ll be up later.”

“And leave you down here all by your lonesome self?” Oliver teased, unfazed by Percy’s grumpiness, “no way!”

Percy just huffed, adjusted his glasses, and continued to read his notes. Oliver spoke again after a few more moments of silence.

“Can you at least take a quick break? You haven’t stopped since dinner, you’ve got to be exhausted.”

Percy shrugged his shoulders. “I just need to keep going.”

Oliver got up from his cozy armchair and stepped over to the table his boyfriend was working at, placing strong hands on Percy’s shoulders and giving a squeeze. “Five minutes? Come sit with me and reset your brain, Perce. You know it’s easier to absorb information when you take breaks every once in a while.”

Percy blushed at the contact and sighed. “I know, I know.”

A pause.

“Fine, five minutes.”

Percy stood and let himself be led to the armchair by his boyfriend. Oliver sat down and motioned for Percy to sit on his lap, which he did, facing Oliver with his knees bent on either side of Oliver’s hips and arms tucked between their chests. Percy leaned down and put his head on Oliver’s chest; Oliver wrapped his arms completely around Percy in a warm bear hug.

“Keep this up and you’ll be too smart,” Oliver teased, “and I won’t be in your caliber anymore.”

“Please,” Percy scoffed, tilting his head slightly to look at the other boy, “just because other people might think you’re all braun and no brains doesn’t mean you have me fooled - too smart for your own good sometimes, even.” His horn-rimmed glasses were a little crooked. His freckles stood stark against his pale skin. He looked cute. Oliver told him so.

“Whatever.” Percy rolled his eyes, but Oliver saw his ears turn pink and grinned as his boyfriend continued. “I’ll have you know that I am much more invested in my studies and our relationship than the opinions of others, and—“

“Pretty Percy,” Oliver interrupted, whispering in Percy’s ear, “my pretty, pompous, perfect prefect Percy…”

“Stop.”

Oliver only smiled more widely; he loved getting under Percy’s skin, especially when he was being too serious and needed to unwind a little. “You’re even more perfectly pretty when you smile…”

Oliver gently pressed his fingertips into the backs of Percy’s ribs and was rewarded with a yelp and jolt.

“Oliver, please—“

“Hmm?”

Percy flushed, looking around and pushing gently against Oliver’s chest. Oliver looked around too, noticing the common room had completely emptied out other than him and Percy.

“Nothing to worry about, Weasley. All clear.”

He goosed the redhead’s ribs again and couldn’t help but chuckle at the following yip.

“That’s not—oh, Oliver, don’t!”

Percy fell into helpless laughter, high-pitched and squeaky no matter how much he tried to stifle it. He tried to wriggle free from Oliver’s embrace, but the arms wrapped around him were unmoving. Although the two boys were similar in height - Oliver was only a couple inches taller - Oliver was much sturdier and more muscular compared to Percy’s lanky frame. Percy had no chance against Oliver’s strength.

Oliver’s hands moved down to scratch his nails along the sides of Percy’s back, making him arch further into Oliver’s chest as he squeaked and sputtered around his laughter. Even through Percy’s sweater the feeling of nails on the backs of his flanks had him flinching and gasping.

Face red. Freckles highlighted. Glasses askew. Giggles frantic. Perfect.

Oliver loved how cute Percy was when tickled, especially because he was ten times more ticklish than Oliver was, but was kind enough to only indulge when there was no one else around; although it would certainly show others that Percy wasn’t just some pompous, uptight, boring git, Oliver liked having this giggly and blushing Percy all to himself.

“You know,” Oliver began conversationally, smiling at the squirming boy on his lap, “I really would like to go to bed. Shame I can’t go knowing that you’re still down here overworking yourself again…”

“J-just a few more minutes, I promise - wahait, wait!”

A hand squeezing Percy’s thigh erased any remaining composure the redhead still had and he snorted - snorted, how mortifying - as he tried to pull his boyfriend’s strong hands away from his ticklish spots. “I take it back, I take it back!” Percy shrieked.

“You’ll come up? All done for tonight?”

“Yes, yes, I swehear!

Satisfied, Oliver halted his tickling and smoothed his hands up and down Percy’s back as the boy flopped against Oliver’s chest, boneless and breathless, still giggling lightly. Oliver reached down to straighten Percy’s glasses, chuckling himself when the boy initially flinched with a giggle at the approaching hand. “If I fail any of my assignments,” Percy managed between breaths, “it’s all your fault. Plus, I’ll make sure you get detention.”

Oliver laughed and kissed the crown of Percy’s head. “If you fail any of your assignments, I’ll resign as Quidditch captain.” This made Percy giggle again, much to Oliver’s joy. “We would have riots on our hands, Wood. So you had better make sure to help me study more tomorrow.”

“Anything you say, prefect.”

#idk #kind of ass but needed to exist #percy weasley #oliver wood #perciver #harry potter #harry potter tickling #ticklish!percy #ticklish!percyweasley #Harry Potter tickle fic #tickle fic #tickle fluff #lee!percy #lee!percyweasley #ler!oliver #ler!oliverwood #percy x oliver #oliver x percy

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webbluvrsugar · 11 months ago

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missing shy!dorky!ethan hours so, what about ethan x reader, where the reader is part of the woodsboro gang and what not, and they’ve kind of been hooking up in secrecy and going pit and what not, and ethan asks reader what they are?

and they’re both so shy and its cute 😭

a/n: oooo anon you know your stuff!!!

“what are we?” — Ethan Landry edition.

warning: not revised (sorry ya’ll i have like 0 time today :/)

You’re both sitting on top of your bed, Ethan lied to your friend group that he had Econ, and conveniently, you also had something with your parents this weekend and the group just took it as a mere coincidence, but now, when you’re both facing each other, eyes closed, lips together in a sweet kiss while his hands clench on his sweats and yours on the sheets, — you’re both too afraid of crossing a boundary you haven’t crossed yet, even if you already crossed all of those. — your lips moving against his with slight desperation, hands itching to touch him, and as soon as those hands raise slowly to meet his face, his own meet your shoulders to separate the two of you.

“Wait—wait, can I..” he swallows, his cheeks red and flushed as his eyes meet yours. “Can I ask you a question?”

His voice is full of uncertainty, but still, you nod and lean forward, pressing a short peck to his lips, he lightly groans into it. “Yeah, yeah, what is it?” You pull back.

“Look so, I know we’ve just been… uhh… hooking up ‘n stuff and I don’t wanna press you or anything and—and—“ you raise an eyebrow. “And that you probably down want anything but—“ he tries to finish, hesitating in the process, so you just cut him off.

“Ethan, just say it.” You reassure, letting out a sigh.

He stays silent for a while, swallowing dry as he looks away for a single moment before driving his gaze back to yours, you can almost hear his breathing quickening, and that’s when you realise, whatever he wants to say — it really is serious.

“What are we?” He asks and you raise your brows. Oh, that. Shit. “Are we casual? Are we — are we just.. uhm.. are we just friends?”

You breathe in and out, the silence in the room turns uncomfortable this time, especially because he looks so expectant and really, you don’t know how to explain the way you feel for him so this time, you’re shy too.

“I —“ your brows furrow, your tongue wets your lips before you finally respond to him. “I don’t know… what do you want us to be?”

Honestly, Ethan doesn’t know what he wants you guys to be, he just knows that he feels his heart quickening every time he’s near you, that his hands shivers and that his palms get sweatier, that his stomach feels funny, that his breathing’s uneven — that he can barely form a phrase.

“I’m not… sure.” He sighed in relief. “I just, I like you a lot.”

He leans forward again, you lean forward two, his body almost feels like a magnet by the way it’s pulling you in.

“That’s fine, we can just.. we can just be us,” you whisper, he can feel a shiver down his neck. “And we’ll decide afterwards.”

He nods, one of his hands cup your cheek before he’s kissing you again.

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nekoboydreams · 4 days ago

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Hi ! ૮ ´͈ ᗜ `͈ ა♡！I just played The Freak Circus for the first time yesterday and was completely enchanted! ٩(◦`꒳´◦)۶The character designs are absolutely amazing—especially Pierrot and Harlequin. Their concepts feel so fresh and full of charm. I’d love to ask a few little questions if that’s okay:

Are there any lesser-known details about these two characters? (Like their daily habits or quirky preferences?)

Would you consider releasing chibi/Q-version artwork of them in the future? I can’t help but imagine how adorable they’d look! (ᐥᐜᐥ)♡︎ᐝ

If possible, could you share an estimated timeline for the next update? I’m already so excited to explore more content!＞＜

Thank you so much for creating such a wonderful game—every little detail feels crafted with so much care. I can’t wait to see what’s next! ദ്ദി˶>𖥦<)✧

(P.S.: Non-native English speaker here—please forgive any awkward phrasing! ❤️)

Thank you so much! It’s really kind of you to say all that and it’s always a pleasure to know my game managed to captivate you!

Actually, not many details about them have been revealed yet! I do have plans to gradually show more as the story progresses.

Of course! I can definitely do that at some point! I haven’t drawn anything like that of them yet, and there’s still more to come!

As for the next update, I think I’ll be able to make a more complete post tomorrow. But basically, I’ll be doing smaller updates throughout the weeks on Tumblr, and I already have most of the script ready to start programming Day Two! I just need to revise it that’s when I add or remove scenes!

Thank you so much for the support! And that Pierrot looks incredibly adorable!!! I love it!!

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noightserum89 · 18 days ago

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44 years old managing partner Sylus x 34 years old associate lawyer fem!reader

CW: PWP, blowjobs

MDNI

For all the things that you have experienced in life — reckless trips, impulsive decisions, religious heartbreaks — blowjob was not something that piqued your interest. Sex, for you, has always been about chasing that temporary high, a means to an end, sometimes a slip of control. It was never about the act of intimacy or the other person. Until him.

He is way older, a delicious ten-year gap laid out before the two of you. He wears expensive suits, paired with perfectly polished shoes. He speaks in a way that makes you feel something, his words articulated clearly, with a slight vibrato that sounds like music to your ear. His touches send eye-rolling shivers through your body, his mannerisms show how perfectly secure he is with his emotions, even his hands are carved by the gods with veins that are way too tempting.

He is Sylus Qin. You met him while defending your client against his in a battle of inheritance between siblings. It all started very innocently, until you had your mouth gagging on his cock.

You were a little confused at first; you didn’t know how to deal with someone bigger than life itself. The men before him were simply incomparable. None of them did. Not when he looked at you from across that meeting room where his client is suing yours, when he was supposed to throw your client’s life upside down, his gaze slowly tore your defense apart, stripped you out of your usual grounded self, and made you a blushing mess when he shook your hand and gave you his business card at the end of the meeting.

You should have been wary, heck, you should have shown your usual defiance! You’re irked to the bone when you remember how easily he got under your skin. One look and you turned into jelly, no spine to straighten, scared shitless. No, you’re never scared of your opponent, you have faced all sorts of men in and out of the courtroom, big ego and sharp tongues never fazed you, yet his vermilion gaze and amused smile sent you down the drain of intangible ‘what ifs’

What if I said something? What if I were more defensive? What if I threw away all the paper and had my way with him? What if I rode his face till the room crumbled? What if I sucked him dry til I’m completely covered in his load?

What the fuck?

You blink, No.. No.. No.., you shake your head, those filthy thoughts haven’t left you alone, it’s like they’re branded in your brain like his initials on his sleek briefcase. It’s been more than two weeks since you saw him for the first time, two weeks since you let him run around in your head for free, two weeks since you started touching yourself while remembering his gaze upon you in that meeting room. Fourteen days that got you a little messed up.

And right at this very moment, you are waiting for him to walk through that door, for your second meeting with him, this time without your client.

You sit in that room, in his law firm where he is a managing director, trying to keep all your cool, pretending to revise your client’s documents, pretending to look poised and unbothered while your entire body vibrates with anticipation.

You cross your legs, uncross them, you adjust your collar, and check your hair, then you smooth your skirt, anything to take your mind off the annoying tension that you already feel. The air conditioner is set too low, yet you can feel that you are burning inside.

You finally see him on the corner of your right eye, a striking presence, with a grey suit this time, he walks like he owns the place — he probably does, his name is on the door — all menacing, all composed, all precise. When you hear the glass door being opened, you can’t help but look down, exhaling your worry and then inhaling it back.

Be normal.

Don’t think about his hands.

Don’t look at his face.

Don’t think about choking on his cock just to see if you can crack his facade.

“Hello again, Name.” His voice sounds so smooth, you just want to close your eyes and give in. “I remember you.”

Oh fuck, this is a trap isn’t it?

You stand up, and when your gaze locks with his, the world tilts around you. You can feel your throat constricting your words, your legs turn jelly, and his perfume swirls under your nose. Bergamot and Amber, two of the scents that you can identify anytime.

This got to be a fucking trap.

“Mr Qin.”

“Sylus, please, Name.” He smiles, a million-dollar smile that he didn’t show during the first meeting, and you feel a little blinded.

“Let’s begin, still nervous around me?”

Words are lost, and you are certain that you are in a state of shock. He knows. He knows, and he’s trying to weaponize it against you.

“I’m peachy.” That’s all that you manage to say.

“I see.”

You’re trying to look away, opening your folder, putting your iPad on the table, doing just about anything that distracts you from him. When everything is ready to be discussed, you finally let yourself look at him.

“Let’s talk business.”

Sylus Qin, the managing partner of Q Law Firm, shrugs and gestures for you to start.

You’re about to say your opening statement when he slowly rolls up his sleeve, showing his well-muscled arms and finely carved veins on display. Your brain short-circuits to your pussy, the designer skirt you wear today didn’t help at all, the complicated structure still did not prevent you from getting wet at the sight of your opponent.

It’s just a fucking meeting, why does it already feel like a fucking foreplay?

You don’t remember what happened in the past thirty minutes, but right now you are already in his office, on your knees, trying to unbuckle his expensive belt, trying not to get a little too crazy.

Sylus Qin is looking down at you like he’s been waiting for this, like he knew all along that you and he would end up like this.

“Are you sure, Name?”

“Shut up.” You answer him, whispering near his clothed cock, you can already feel the buldge, your fingers knead him a little, teasing him. He feels so sensitive down there that every little touch seems to jolt him.

When you finally pull him out, your heart thundering in your chest — he’s so fucking thick, and huge, and all flushed, heavy in your hand. This sly fox already has precum on his tip, making you glad that it’s not only you who felt a little sex crazed when you see him.

You don’t even hesitate, you lick it off, slow and deliberate, your tongue moving lazily, swirling the liquid around the crown, and then stop to suck him a little.

“Fuck. Oh.” Sylus mutters under his breath.

You suck off every last drop of his precum, then you take him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, just a little over the tip, adjusting your small mouth to accommodate his thick cock. You want to get crazy, you want to suck him dry, you want him to fuck your throat, so you slide him down slowly, inch by inch, until you feel his tip poking the back of your reflex.

Shit. You gag a little, and that causes you to cough, but you refuse to get his cock out of your mouth, so it vibrates inside you and Sylus groan. Hearing him letting out the sexiest, most primal groan, make your pussy twitching and your eyes rolled to the back of your skull.

His hand reaches out to cup your cheek, tapping it, it’s like he’s letting you know that you did a great job, and then it moves to your head, softly massaging your sides, and starts to grasp a thread of your hair.

You start to bob your head even faster, one hand slipped under your expensive skirt and thong, the other is now gripping tightly to the back of his thigh. You don’t give a fuck about your surrounding now, you just want him to blow his load on you, so you can swallow and have a part of him in you.

“Kitten, you can slow down, I’m not going anywhere.” He says between your mouthfucking, but you don’t want to listen, instead you move even faster, with your eyes fully closed.

“You want it rough?”

You nod enthusiastically while still choking on his cock.

“Messy girl,” he murmurs, “I knew you would be like this.”

You moan around him, eyes watering, strings or saliva drops heavily from your chin and his cock to your chest. You bob your head again, faster and faster. It’s not elegant, filthy even, but you need it, you desperately need him to undo you in the most primal way possible.

You want him to ruin you for another man.

God, Sylus Qin is glorious.

You can feel him already twitching in your tongue, his pulse erratic, his breathing sharp, inhaling and exhaling like his life depends on it. You feel encouraged, you get and get more into it, the chase, the high, that doesn’t matter, what matters is to have Sylus Qin lose his tight control and be putty in your hands — and mouth.

“You’re going to make me come, Kitten.” He growls, “And I know you’re going to take every drop, aren't you?”

You lock eyes with his vermilion gaze, batting your eyelashes, giving him your best needy eyes, and nod. It’s like the nod was his undo button; he comes hard, his hands are messy holding your hair, making you stay still, his eyes are rolled to the back of his head, and you still hold him in your mouth, your lips stay tight guarding him, until he softens.

And when you finally swallow everything, and pull back, you look at him with a smile of a champion, while showing him your tongue, nothing left, all swallowed, like you intended. “Still think I’m nervous?” You ask him, and that question trips him, because the next thing you know, he drops down to the floor and gives you a slow, deliberate kiss.

When it ends, he laughs and carries you to the nearest sofa, calling his secretary to let her know that he’s busy for the rest of the day, and he put his attention back to you.

“God help me,” he says, “I want to keep you for myself.”

You laugh shyly, “I’m not anyone’s. I’m my own.”

“You came here just for this?” Sylus asks you, his fingers brushing your jaw.

You were out and about with your friends, but after dinner you felt a little empty, like you didn’t want to be there anymore, so you called him, your little enemies to lovers type of fling, although nothing about him is little, but you finally come to terms that, you like Sylus, and you like giving him blowjobs. The fact that the guy is a named partner at a competing law firm is not a big deal for you, after all, you’re just an associate that could get kicked anytime.

Sylus though, fuck, no words can describe what he is to you right now other than your very own sex god.

“Yeah. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal, it’s my cock you want to be sucking.”

“And it’s only yours.”

Sylus laughs, pulling you in for an embrace, “I hope it stays that way, Kitten.”

You’re straddling him and you’re now moving slowly on his bulge, the friction feels so good you almost want to give up, but you remember you have to suck him first so he can fuck you later.

The thing about Sylus, he’s such an old-fashioned guy, if you don’t get a little aggressive, he would never allow you to give him blowjob, he would always put you first, eat you out and fuck your brains out. But after being close with him for a while, you have come to appreciate the fact that Sylus Qin is the only man you want in your mouth. He’s the only man you want to leave an imprint all over your oral. He’s the only man you would ever want to swallow.

You ache for it, and it used to embarrass you, you would look at the mirror, and remember your smudged makeup and messy mascara whenever you'd just done having him in your mouth. It’s like the mark of a champion, all swollen lips and bruised knees.

“I might have corrupted you.”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you love my cock so much?”

“Because you corrupted me?”

The conversation would always mull around corrupting and being corrupted, just because Sylus feels quilty that you’re way younger than him.

“Baby.” He says, while you come down from his lap to your knees, unbuckling his suit pants.

“Mmmm.”

“You want it that bad?”

“So bad.”

He puts your hands away and unzips himself, when his cock spring free your heart trips and you carefully reach out to give it the praise it deserved. You start slow by leaving a trail of kisses on his shaft, then rubbing it on your lips, to your nose, to your cheeks, while looking at him with your neediest gaze.

“Look at you,” he mutters, “You managed to beat me with the sassiest attitude on court last month, and here you are — so obedient.”

You glare at him, but only for a small second, because the next thing you know, he reaches your head and starts to fist your hair and guides your mouth to open and accept all of him.

So filthy, yet precious.

You finally part your lips, swallowing him slowly, your throat has learned him, every vein, every girth, when he’s finally back in your mouth, he fits right in, it’s like he’s coming home to the warmth and slippery slope of your mouth.

“God. Fuck.” he mutters, carefully, controlled.

You want to destroy that control so bad, so you start to move, you hollow your cheeks, and take him deeper, your reflexes are slowed now that your throat memorized him, so you pull him in for more, you hold your breath till you have all of him in you.

Then you start to gag.

And all hell broke loose.

“Fu… Sweetheart — slower, baby — da.. Fuck.”

You’re savoring, yet you don’t slow down.

His knees are bucking up now, his ass tighten, you know he’s going to come, and for the first time you can achieve it all in under twenty minutes. You start massaging his balls, and that seems to be the final straw, as he finally breaks his fist in your hair, and holds the sides of your head, making sure that you don’t pull back, and completely receive his spent.

“Shit…. Name…. F — hhhh.”

He growls, undone, breathing heavily, just how you like it. You starts sucking him dry, to let him know that nothing will go to waste. When you pull back, your lips are so raw, they shine from all the saliva you produce, and you look up to him with shameless satisfaction.

He cups the sides of your head, letting his forehead touch yours, “You’ll be the death of me.”

You laugh, licking your lips seductively. “You haven’t fucked me, don’t die just yet, Mr Qin.”

#sylus #lnd sylus #lads sylus #qin che #love and deepspace #sylus x mc #lnds sylus #sylus fic #sylus x reader

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tenshx · 3 months ago

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☼ boundaries ☼

➪ read it on ao3

✰ pairing: captain grant curly x reader

✰ word count: 5.4k words

✰ summary: curly finds that distance and time has done nothing to rid of the fact that he’s hopelessly in love with you.

✰ authors note: guess what gang,, i finally found the strength to finish writing this. 😎 I LOVE CURLY SM!! this whole story was him just basically being in love with the reader,, it’s almost 11 pm at night so there are probably errors, pls just ignore it till i revise.

Strange.

You haven’t gotten an emergency phone call for as long as you could recall. The past few months have been rather mundane, having the same clients here and there enter your office with the occasional new face that would eventually become a passing memory.

But you suppose it comes with the job of being a therapist in this rather small town.

You stare at the caller ID with blurred vision, mind fogged and voice scratchy from being abruptly woken up by your rather harsh ringtone blaring in your ear. You cringe at the sound— all too jovial and bright in contrast to such a gloomy and rainy evening. There’s a silent reminder in the back of your mind to set it to something more neutral, less frightening to the ears to ease your heart as you rouse.

With another glance at your bedside digital clock, you sigh— there was no excuse for you not to answer, agreeing to be on-call for most days at certain times. If they had only reached out thirty minutes later, you wouldn’t have to force yourself out of your nap.

Reluctantly, you answer, running a frustrated hand through your hair in hopes to release some stress. You quietly clear your throat, attempting to sound as if you hadn’t just woken up, trying to mimic a responsible human being working diligently instead of wasting their day away rotting.

Yet nothing could truly prepare you for the panic in your coworker's voice, her tone startling you a bit as you begin to sit up straight against the headboard of your bed. You don't even get a chance to speak, let alone say a greeting, before she’s bombarding you with a plethora of information that your mind could barely process in the span of a minute.

You try to slow her down; once, twice, before you give up entirely and allow her to speak freely, doing your best to listen and soak in as much as you could in your exhausted state. She’s blabbering about some urgent request they received for a patient that needed to be seen immediately, how this particular man was rescued from a stranded Pony Express ship that had been crashed years ago.

You’re intrigued now.

It had been years since you’ve heard that name, way back when the company had gone bankrupt and ultimately shut down with time.

It had been years since you’ve heard anything regarding that company. Last time being..

Then suddenly, she says a name, one all too familiar with you and you suddenly feel cold, mouth feeling like cotton as shock and disbelief set in. Your surroundings seemingly freeze, the air feeling incredibly dense as you try to ground yourself.

This had to be some kind of joke— they said he had been presumed deceased, his file eventually collecting dust in your cabinet as they ended their search for the Tulpar ship a long while back.

Somehow through the paralyzation, you manage to speak, but it comes out as a whisper in a voice you don’t recognize.

“.. What did you just say?”

She stops for a moment, hearing your almost skeptical tone, but eventually answers with a deep breath.

“Your former patient, Grant Curly. He was rescued about a while back and had been undergoing medical procedures and physical therapy. They gave him the green light to begin therapy for his mental state and..”

You don’t hear the rest as reality attempts to pull you back down, hand gripping your phone a bit tightly, trying to make sense of the situation. While he was your patient, you both considered each other friends rather than a professional relationship.

He came in quite often to confide in you about his passing issues; his family, relationships with friends, his job and education and the pressure that came with it.

His very last appointment, one that you remembered clearly— your last memory of him — he spoke about that very same ship he was stranded in, how he had a sinking feeling he couldn’t describe, how he was trying something new by dragging one of his closest friends into the delivery as his co-pilot.

You forget his name — Joe? Jerald? Jimothy? You shake your head. That doesn’t sound right. You do, however, remember how he mentioned that his friend was trouble, a convicted felon at his young age, and that maybe this would help him get a fresh start. A reset at life.

He was always so kind at heart, wanting the best for everyone around him. It was always a trait you admired deeply about him, a simplistic thing that picked him out of the crowds of patients admitted into your office.

You want to think more, remember Curly from the deepest part of your memories, but your coworker cuts your mind short of it.

“.. He’s different now,” she says and you hold your breath, not sure how to respond at this point. “At least thats’ what I’ve heard. I.. I’m not sure how to describe his injuries, but he’s not the same.”

Of course he wouldn’t be. What good could come out of being stranded in a dark abyss, especially with any kind of injury? His emotional and mental state had to be fucked up in some way.

But you don’t want to think further than that. You don’t want to vision your friend’s suffering.

“Okay,” is all you manage to croak out, not wanting to continue this conversation at the moment. You’re not sure how to cope with the news, how to deal with the resurfacing emotions that you thought you’ve overcome the past few years. Your stomach feels queasy and you feel your throat closing in.

You find that sleep doesn’t come easy that night.

⁂

You don’t know what to expect when you enter the office. The usual calm music doesn’t sound as soothing, the aromatic oils you usually set up first thing in the morning smells a bit more churning than relaxing.

They tell you he’s ready, a few rooms over as he waits for his scheduled appointment time. Twenty minutes isn’t enough time to prepare yourself, hands frantically grabbing your clipboard along with his updated file. Fourth degree burns, amputated limbs, damaged vocal chords, and several other injuries you couldn’t stomach yourself to read. They said it was speculated he crashed the ship, but his refusal to talk left the rumor unconfirmed.

Somehow, you don't believe it. He was in a slightly jumbled mental state before his departure, but it wasn’t enough for him to commit something so devastating and cruel.

You convince yourself twenty minutes isn’t time but fail ultimately. The past week since the news dropped should’ve been more than enough for you to process.

But it isn’t. No amount of time will ever be.

So with another shaky sip of your coffee and a final look of your reflection through your computer screen, you let out a deep breath before pushing yourself out of your chair.

⁂

You’re not sure who you’re staring at.

Maybe you’re dreaming, you had to be.

He was different, both physically and mentally — you knew that his burns and amputations were an incredibly clear sign he’d be basically unidentifiable, but you weren’t sure what you were expecting.

His one eye, the same vibrant blue you’d remember from anywhere, staring at you with a mixture of unfamiliarity and familiarity all at once as he looks up from where he sits. There’s a surgical mask covering the bottom of his face, a beanie covering his head, and a patch covering his right eye in an attempt to cover the damage done, but it honestly doesn’t do much. His leathery and irritated skin gives it away along with his amputated limbs, now adorned with prosthetics he doesn’t seem to be used to.

Then you realize you’re gawking at him almost, jaw open a bit and eyes wide in a way that could come off as rude. But you don’t mean to be, you’d never be — not with him. You’re horrified, a bit sickened by his appearance, not because he looks appalling and unpleasant to the eye, but because it suddenly strikes you that he isn’t the same man you’ve known for years.

You clear your throat and he tenses a bit, sitting up straight with his gaze still fixed on you. He’s almost like a puppy yearning to be beckoned, as if waiting for you to recognize him.

“I..” Your throat feels dry but you try to push past, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable. “It’s nice to see you again, Grant.”

You haven’t said his name since he was pronounced dead, knowing that you encouraged him to depart, unaware that you were sending him off into his impending doom. An unfathomable guilt blooms in your chest, realizing that you were involved in the consequence of his current state.

He doesn’t stop staring, as if trying to observe you properly, his eye scanning you from head to toe before you offer him a strained smile, making your way to your chair. There’s a part of you that wonders if he recognizes you despite age finally catching up a bit to mature your features more than before, if he remembers the sound of your voice that danced with his during his sessions.

But regardless of your attempts to keep things professional, the words escape the proximity of your lips before you could push it down.

“Do you remember me?”

You can’t help but ask, voice quiet and hesitant, wanting to break the silence but unsure of how to.

He doesn’t respond at first and you believe you’re passing memory for him for a mere second, a drop forming in your stomach, but he spares you a nod and your eyes light up a bit. Your shoulders visibly relax and his does too at the soft smile forming on your face, his hands slowly loosening around the fabric of his pants. His eye then falls on the notepad provided for him as if he wants to tell you something, vocal chords still damaged and voice box still under maintenance.

So in response, you gently move the table closer to him, lightweight and cheap, providing him with one of your pens shortly after. You’re not sure if this is what he wants, but as he moves his prosthetic arm shakily to grab and scribble something nearly incomprehensible on the paper, an obvious sign that he was still working his way through his new limbs, you realize you’re still able to read him the same way you have before.

It takes him a bit to write but eventually, his hand retreats back to his side, him rolling his shoulder a bit in an attempt to stretch it. You pull the notepad closer to you, deciphering his writing to the best of your abilities.

‘You look the same. How could I forget?’

You blink a few times, rereading the same scribbled line before a small laugh leaves your mouth at the lightheartedness of his comment. Deep in your heart, you assumed he’d write something dreadful or heart wrenching, perhaps even something that you wouldn’t understand, but it’s something so simple and strange that it forces a smile out of you. It reminds you that there’s still a part of him buried deep despite everything.

“I’m not sure if that's an insult,” you banter a bit and he shakes his head as vehemently as he can, not wanting to give you the wrong idea.

With Curly— the most honest and selfless man you’ve met— you dont think he’d ever let you think otherwise.

He doesn’t say much after that, but he continues to stare, his bright blue eye almost piercing through you. You want to say more, you want to tell him how you’ve missed him terribly and the conversations you’ve both shared. How he’s made such a big impact in your life in such a short amount of time and that when he disappeared, leaving you behind, everything just—

Thirty minutes was all he had left of this session, all that his insurance was willing to cover. So with a deep breath and another smile, you sit straight and organize your papers.

You nudge the notepad towards him, “Whenever you’re ready, I’m all ears.”

⁂

Curly’s not sure how to feel about all this.

One minute, his life is turned upside down, him being the ultimate cause of his crews doom and the next, he’s being rescued from that same ship, a silent offering of a second chance at life.

One he doesn’t deserve, but was selflessly given anyway.

Recovery is difficult, having to navigate through the basics again, having all this unwanted attention at him. People wanting to interview him left and right, others looking at him with disgust while others look with sympathy and pity.

Curly’s not sure how to feel about anything, really. He’s not even sure if he’s even feeling or if he’s simply forcing himself to act human again despite being trapped in an endless void of despair — in a body he can barely recognize.

He’s lost most of his friends. Many of them refused to involve themselves with him for a few reasons; his sudden changed appearance being the first and him being the sole blame of the intentionally crashed freight ship being the next. As much as he wanted to keep them in his life, he knew he was far too exhausted to explain everything.

His family situation is a bit better, but with all their constant pushes to talk about what happened, to communicate with them, he feels a bit pressured. It doesn’t help that his mother cries in devastation almost every time she sees her once successful and perfect son in absolute shambles. He’s never made his mother cry in such a way, only with tears of pride and joy.

He’s not sure if he can take much more, every blow heavier than the last.

Then somewhere between the lines of recovery, his doctor brings up therapy, suggesting the same clinic you worked in, and he feels nauseous at the idea of seeing you. You’ve been on his mind since the moment he’s gained consciousness once everything truly settled, him valuing the connection you both shared more than most of his other relationships.

Curly instantly denies with a desperate shake of his head, realizing how afraid he truly was. He’s unable to handle another rejection, especially not from you, one of the people he’s held the utmost respect for.

His doctor tells him to sit on it, think it through, claiming how this would be a healthy outlet for him to ventilate his emotions to help him recover steadily.

He does for a few weeks, especially with the pressure from his parents, considering several options. He can either find a new therapist, resort to online therapy, maybe even confide in a support group, but he finds that he can’t stray away from the idea of seeing you again after all these years. The thought of him never knowing if you’d accept him or not lingers far more than the fear of rejection sitting in his heart.

For him, that alone was enough motivation for him to set an appointment, both relieved and terrified to see your name pop up in the system just like old times, his throat feeling tight at the thought of seeing you again.

Before he knows it, his appointment chases him faster than he could process the whole situation. He feels queasy as he sits idly in his assigned room, his hands shakily doing its best to pull on the fabric of his sweatpants.

He’s nervous, absolutely mortified, wondering if he’s made a mistake setting this appointment. A handful of unbearable scenarios begin to form in his already anxious mind; you staring at him in disgust, you leaving the room in horror, or him being completely wiped from your memory.

He flinches at that thought; he’s not sure if he finds comfort in knowing that he's basically nonexistent to you, realizing that he could walk away without any repercussions and allow you to live your life freely without having to explain his disappearance or if he’d be heartbroken, having to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t as valuable in your life like you were to him.

But as you walk through the door with a faint knock, your eyes wide and mouth agape, he feels himself shrink, yet there’s a blossom of yearning in his chest as he gazes at you with absolute desperation and awe.

In a flash of a second, every poor attempt of him convincing himself that things would be better otherwise suddenly diminishes into thin air.

He wants you to remember him, yearning for that once close connection you both shared before everything happened. A deep part of his soul hoped you were reminiscing the same way he was, recalling all the memories you’ve both built together as friends, despite Curly feeling something more.

Like a melody, his name escapes your lips, the soft, comforting sound of your voice almost intimate to him. He’d love it whenever you’d grace him with the sound of his name, feeling almost special coming from you.

When you take a seat close to him, the nostalgic scent of your perfume brushing against him, he almost forgets to answer your question.

“Do you remember me?”

Of course he does. He always has, even on the brink of death. Forgetting you would be a crime in his eyes— you were everything to him before he left and just maybe, his feelings aren’t as different as he sought it out to be.

The only thing that breaks him out of his trance is the defeated expression on your face and he realizes you might’ve hoped as much as he has. So with a quick and simple shake of his head, he sees your eyes light up and a smile form on your face and he realizes his feelings would never change for you, even if it was one-sided.

He also registers in a small span of ten minutes that he still needs a lot of practice with the new attachments to his body, his fingers awkwardly holding the pen, using all the strength he could to write something comprehensible at the very least.

Curly learns he’s a man of words, wanting to tell you everything but not being able to. He has this itch to express how much he’s missed you, how he's never stopped thinking about returning home and telling you everything like he always has, how you still hold your beauty despite the years coming, and how he'd finally confess and tell you he’s loved you for as long as he could remember.

But he settles—frustrated—with a simple message, telling you that yes, he remembers you and no, he would never forget.

He feels himself grow a bit breathless at your familiar laugh as you reread the paper several times, growing nervous at the sudden tension between you two leaving— as if he's never left in the first place. As if he was the same man you remember him as before all this.

The perfect Captain Grant Curly.

⁂

It’s almost as if a part of you is back home.

He sets an appointment almost twice every week whenever he isn’t bombarded with his physical therapy and checkups, just like he always has. Sessions are just as you recalled, the spark between you two still as bright as ever, but with his added trauma, bad days were definitely inevitable.

There were times he’d invest himself into the conversation, sharing jokes or simply just listening and replying in any way he can, and there were those moments where he wouldn’t spare you a word or glance, just wanting to bask in your company in his dampened state.

Even on his worst days, you don’t question him. Pressure was the last thing he needed and with time, you were sure he’d slowly open up.

He does, but scarcely, throwing fragments of his memories that you try to piece together whenever you could, wanting nothing more but to understand and help him. There’s an ocean of emotions in his gaze as he attempts to share his experience on the freight ship; fear, devastation, and panic filling his expression faster than he can pull it from the air.

So you tell him to take his time, that you’ll always be there, and that alone builds the comfort in him to return to your office without hesitation.

Recovery is easier with you.

It’s never been easier. For once, someone is on his side and he knew it’d be you at the end of the road waiting for him.

You always have, even before Pony Express, before anyone else.

So when he finally receives his voice box, finalized and complete to his liking, he finds himself rushing to your apartment, taking the next uber to your door. He’s aware it's late— you’re probably getting ready for bed, relaxing on your day off like you deserve to, but he can’t wait.

He wants you to be the first to hear his voice after so long into his recovery after offering yours for so long, his name so delicate in your mouth.

It’s nearly seven at night when he's at your doorstep, faint knocks echoing through the empty halls of the buildings as he anxiously waits outside, hoping that his appearance wouldn’t attract attention from any passers or your neighbors.

Yet none of that matters as he hears muffled footsteps coming from the other side, the silence allowing his anxiety to grow for a mere second before he hears you.

“Grant—?“ He hears you fumble with the door lock before the knob turns and you come into view, wide eyed and confused.

He doesn’t have the patience to properly observe you or spare you an explanation on why he's at your flat at such an odd time of the day. He knows he should’ve texted you like he usually does before ever meeting up, but it’s different.

This is different.

Your name leaves his lips in a whisper, riddled with emotion and a bit of static, cutting you off immediately. Advanced technology is fascinating, able to match his voice as much as he could allow it to be, the familiarity of it knocking the breath out of your lungs. You feel weak in the knees, paralyzed and overwhelmed at the sudden surprise on a random Saturday.

When you don’t reply, lips trembling a bit and expression full of emotion, he takes a step forward, wanting to reach out but also resists to respect your boundaries.

“I—,” he tries to break the silence, wanting nothing more but your approval. “I wanted you to be the first.”

You’re choked up, wanting to say something to him, but the sound of his voice that you haven’t heard in years drowns you in a sea of tears that begin to spill out. You try to wipe them away before they could leave wet trails down your cheek, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. It never does with Curly.

He decides that he’s already broken your boundaries by showing up unannounced, so he takes another chance, moving to envelope you in a gentle embrace, murmuring apologies, muffled through his surgical mask. You don’t shy away from his affection, leaning your head against his chest for a moment to collect yourself before inviting him inside.

⁂

Your apartment remains his safe space, unchanged and truly home from what he last remembered.

He slowly stops setting appointments and instead, shows up at your doorstep, a silent agreement between you both. It feels more private, more intimate, and he feels more welcomed here than the clinic you worked for.

He remembered the night before he left, flowers in hand and him laying next to you on your carpeted floor as you both stared at the ceiling, talking about the future and what he’d do after his final trip. He had mentioned resigning, wanting to do more with his life other than being a captain and you had listened in, wanting to ease his worries before he left.

If only you had known, you would’ve never let him step foot off of the ground. Maybe if you had, things would’ve been different.

But for him, you were always his safe space and continued to be. Despite his world crumbling, that would never change.

“It wasn’t me,” he says unexpectedly as he looks at the ceiling, both of you laying on the floor of the dimmed living room. You turn your head to face him, seeing his defeated expression as he sunk his head into the pillow. “I didn’t…”

He pauses for a moment and you remained unmoved, eyes piercing through him, “.. I wasn’t the one who crashed the ship.”

When you don’t say anything and instead scoot closer to him, he realizes you’re listening and before he knows it, everything spills out, the gate finally breaking open. Only then, you learn how distraught and regretful he is as he explains everything, knowing that you’re only able to hear him— not as a therapist, but as his friend.

You’re mortified hearing the story— of course Jimmy had been the cause of all this. You’ve met him once or twice whenever Curly swung by to drop you something in your office or apartment and he was definitely unfriendly, often glancing at you with judgement and annoyance. You’re not even sure if he properly introduced himself.

Everything his crew had been through because of his selfishness, along with Curly’s blindness to see through his friend’s mistakes. You knew him being a good-hearted person would cost him one day, but you didn’t think in the worst way possible. It was a mistake and while you can’t excuse some of his actions, the last thing he needed was unsolicited advice and chiding from your end.

So you move closer to him, shoulders nearly touching before you slide your hand between his prosthetic one, slowly interlocking your fingers between his. He feels you lean your head against his shoulder, him tiredly sighing before resting his head on yours.

“It should’ve been me,” he says in a moment of defeat, shoulders slumped. “Shouldn’t have given Jimmy a chance. Maybe my crew would’ve been alive.”

You’re not sure what to say to him right now, but you spare him your company to remind him that you’re here with open arms.

To remind him that you’re his safe space.

⁂

“You know,” Curly starts, eyes set on the television as he speaks. “I just wanted to thank you.”

You look up from your book, your sight falling on Curly who was cozied up on the couch with a throw blanket you bought him a few nights ago. The cup of herbal tea you made him about half an hour back had gone cold or room temperature at best, the steam wafting from it moments ago now vanished into thin air.

He seems to pause before speaking again, “For everything.”

With a tilt of your head, you hum in confusion, watching him fiddle with the fabric laid gently over his shoulders. He notices your curious gaze, coughing awkwardly to clear his throat.

“You’re the only person that’s made everything bearable,” he explains simply, his eyes still trained on the screen in front of him. “Even before the whole.. incident, I haven’t really depended on anyone more than I have with you. I’ve told you everything about me and even at my worst, you haven’t left.”

He knows it’s supposed to be a professional relationship; a therapist to their client, that’s all it was supposed to be. Curly was always so adamant about keeping his work and relationships separate out of the sake of professionalism, but this is different.

You’re different.

This isn’t casual— it hasn’t been since the moment he’s pushed his boundaries, developing a strange relationship with you outside of your office. It’s been anything but that since the day he’s asked for your personal number outside of work, shyly asked to meet up outside of his scheduled appointments, and even going as far as stepping inside of your personal home, the safest place he’s ever found himself in.

He finally looks up at you, wanting to know what you think of this. Wanting to know what you think of him outside of a client.

You offer him a lazy, but comforting smile, shrugging nonchalantly, “No need to thank me. Besides, isn’t that what friends are for?”

He seems to almost deflate at your response, but tries to reassure himself that this is what he wanted to hear. That, at the very least, you considered him something beyond another one of your clients. He should be happy, grateful that you’ve wanted anything to do with him.

Yet—

“Friends?” He lets out a quiet snicker under his breath, feeling his nerves get the best of him. His eyes start to travel, down to his hands clenching the delicate fabric of his pants, to the abandoned coffee mug, and anywhere but at you in fear of your reaction.

He’s decided he’d push his limits one last time, crossing a line that he knows he shouldn’t. You’re silent and he’s more so, swallowing nervously as the quietness begins to crawl up his spine in a manner that terrifies him. The words are itching, scratching its way out his throat as if bile threatened to make its exit.

“Is that all I am to you?” Curly laughs— not in a way that would ease the tension nor lighten the mood, but in a sense of coping, his mind jumbled and in an attempt to soothe the thundering of his heartbeat traveling to his ears. Realizing that it was far too late to go back now, his voice grows a bit quieter as he continues to speak. “By now, I thought that maybe—“

He refuses to glance, but despite his attempts to avoid your eyes, he still somehow feels the sharpness of your gaze piercing through him. You were always an open book to him— easy to read and almost predictable, but right now, he can’t make out the expression you might have on.

He tries to convince himself that maybe it’s shock or a sense of flattery and joy, but the thought of your features twisted in a disgusted manner, revolted that someone of his nature— a freak— would confess to someone as flawless as you washes away any ounce of hope rising in his chest.

It feels like forever and he’s about ready to take your silence as a rejection, already mustering up a reassuring answer to save you from the guilt and awkwardness as his mouth begins to open. He finds that he’s unable to finish his sentence, almost berating himself for taking such a risk.

Then you speak, his mind suddenly blanking, the sound of his pulse racing through his ears.

“You’d thought by now, that maybe what?” your voice is meek, yet gentle, encouraging him to continue.

He doesn’t respond, unsure of how to, suddenly losing the bravery he wore proudly moments ago. Yet, the sound of his name leaving your mouth cuts him out of his trance, resurfacing that little bit of hope drowning in his embarrassment and shame.

“Grant Curly.”

It takes all his courage, but he manages to build the strength to look up at you, eyes meeting yours. There’s an almost serious expression on your face, but the slight flush of your cheeks almost tears your stoic facade down immediately. There’s a glimmer in your eye, as if waiting for a confirmation, and he’s sworn you’ve never looked more beautiful.

The words leave his mouth faster than he can rip it from the air.

“That we’d be something more,” it's almost a whisper, almost breathless, but loud enough for you to hear. “After all we’ve been through, I was hoping you’d see me more than just a friend.”

A wave of emotions cross your features; shock, disbelief, and then joy as a grin forms on your face, cheeks painted a vibrant hue. He’s never seen such a lively glow on you, his chest burning terribly as if all the air was pushed out of his lungs, mesmerized.

He doesn’t get a response instantly, but you quickly close the distance between you both as you nearly leap off the couch, your answer clear as day.

Good thing Curly was never great at keeping boundaries whenever it came to you.

#mouthwashing #captain curly #mouthwashing x reader #captain curly x reader #curly x reader #grant curly x reader #grant curly #curly #daisuke mouthwashing #daisuke x reader #jimmy mouthwashing #mouthwashing fanfiction #mouthwashing fanfic #mouthwashing x you #mouthwashing x y/n

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fruitcoops · 6 months ago

Text

Do They Know It's Christmas?

Happy holidays, lovelies! And most importantly, happy noot fic exchange/ secret Santa to @itsaash --you're a legend, a sweetheart, and a friend I hold near and dear to my heart. I hope everyone is staying safe and sound! You've made it through the shortest day of the year; it's only up from here! Thanks to @veryspacecowboy for coordinating the exchange and @lumosinlove for the characters!

TW for implied smut and mild Vaincre spoilers

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus Lane…

“Fourth line, take it left!”

…and all the fun we had last year…

“Good work, boys, remember we’re working clockwise.”

Run, run, Rudolph, Santa’s gotta make it to town…

“I know, I know, but we need to get that down before we break today.”

…come on, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with…

“Keep those crossovers clean in the corners, Sunny!”

…the very next day, you gave it away…

Arthur frowned at his clipboard. An ache had started up along the inner corner of his eye, and not even the steady working of his thumb brought relief. The song changed to something bright and tinny with silver bells; the things he would give for a nice, quiet O, Holy Night right about now. Something soft, with minimal jangling. A saxophone would be lovely.

They had a schedule. They always had a schedule. The boys were used to rotation exercises—he had even taken pity and not added anything new or complicated to the roundup. The whole damn thing was laminated and taped to the damn glass around the damn bench on both damn sides of the goddamn rink.

Arthur’s eyes ticked typewriter-smooth down the list, but his ears alone would have told him it was a lost cause. Messy crossovers. From Sunny. Crunchy, scratchy steps from skates of perfect sharpness. Low muttering, barks of laughter, rollercoaster-arcs of chatting when they were supposed to be focusing. Cap did his best, but Harzy looked about two laps from chewing his way out through the boards.

Well. It was almost Christmas. He could be kind.

The whistle broke through Brenda Lee’s second chorus; 20 heads popped up.

“Revision!” Arthur called across the ice, drawing a steady line through the end of his list. “Bring it in.”

Their rush to the bench was the cleanest they had sounded all day.

“We’re going to finish a little early today—”

A wave of cheers cut him off, then petered out at his unimpressed glance.

“We’re finishing a little early,” he repeated when the Christmas spirit had released their souls at last, leaving only a faint ringing in the upper levels of the bleachers. “Because I’m taking off the last rotation.”

Arthur slipped his pen back into the clipboard clamp. Olli raised a tentative hand. “So…we can go…?”

Arthur frowned. “What? No, we’re going ‘til noon, if you just—guys, the schedule is right there—”

“Nooo—”

“But Coach—”

“—Christmas!—”

“I haven’t even—”

“—been here so long—”

“—like you don’t even love us—”

“—mom’s gonna kill me if I don’t—”

Unbelievable. Simply beyond words. Arthur looked over Nado’s pleading hands, hoping for an ounce of solidarity from the one person besides himself who was literally appointed for this duty, and was met with only a beleaguered, whale-eyed stare in return.

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

Sirius gazed back.

For such a large person, he could really pull off ‘sickly Victorian child begging for gruel’ when he wanted to.

“Alright,” Arthur muttered. It was lost in the sea of writhing and wailing. “Alright!”

The team (finally) fell somewhat silent.

“I am very sorry,” he began, pausing to slide his clipboard onto the bench hook. Their anticipation was delicious. “That I assumed a group of grown men playing their favorite game for millions of dollars would be able to handle one morning practice for their last competition before a holiday break.”

Pots’ eyebrows pitched as if he had been stabbed. “But Coach, it’s Christmas.”

“It is December 22nd.”

“I haven’t even found something for my dad yet!” Walker piped in.

“Sounds like a personal problem with time management.”

Pascal—the traitor—shuffled on his skates. “I was going to make holiday cookies with my children,” he said sadly. “They grow up so fast. We might not have many years of it left.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’m letting you go at noon, not locking you in here overnight. And I know you make cookies on Christmas Eve, because you put them on my doorstep every year.”

Pascal tsked, but didn’t deny it.

“You get cookies?” O’Hara perked up, craning his neck to look at Pacal. “How come we don’t get cookies?”

“Because I don’t need you to like me,” Pascal said with a smile.

“What if we need to catch flights?” Knut interrupted.

Arthur squinted at him. “Knut, we have a game tomorrow. You better not be going anywhere.”

“Well, no, but the sentiment stands.”

“No, it does n—you know what, fine, if you make it through…” Arthur leaned around the glass to squint at his beautiful, crisp schedule. “Your next two—TWO, I don’t wanna hear it—rotations before 11:30, I will let you out then.”

“And no lift tonight?” Kuny asked hopefully.

“Don’t push it.”

“Veto.”

Budding protests froze over in one collective puff of breath.

…the stars are brightly shining…

“What?” Arthur asked at last.

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices…

Sirius licked his lips, shifting from one foot to the other. “Veto.”

Arthur opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Every eye in the room was fixed on their captain. He rested his chin on top of his hands, folded on his stick. Lupin’s gaze flickered back and forth.

“But I…” Arthur faltered, gesturing at the schedule.

“I get three.”

“It’s not even 9:30.”

“No questions asked.”

“We have a game.”

“It’s snowing outside.”

“How do you know that?” Arthur asked despairingly.

A grin skipped across his face. “I’m Canadian. I can smell it a mile off.”

“Also, Tremzy texted everyone right before practice,” O’Hara added.

“It’s snowing, have fun at practice, you fucking losers, ha-ha,” Knut recited with a grave nod.

“No, no,” Sirius corrected. “My bones are made of snow and I was born with hockey skates in one hand and a thermometer in the other.”

“That, I believe.”

Arthur waved his hands between them before the already-unbearable situation could get any worse. “Let me just…” His headache was coming back. Going home early was starting to sound less terrible by the minute. “You, as captain, get three vetoes across the span of your contract.”

“Ouais.”

“Which you can use to veto any practice you want, for any reason, with no questions asked by me or other staff.”

“That’s what I signed, yes.”

“And you’re using it on a snow day? With barely two hours left of practice? Before a game and a week off?”

Sirius smiled. “Veto.”

“Lupin.” A last-ditch effort. Perhaps a dirty play, but it was warranted. “Lupin, don’t you have anniversary plans? Birthdays? Anything else he can use this on?”

The captain’s barely-contained mischief was bad enough. Lupin’s mild bemusement was worse. “I’m sorry, Coach, but I can’t question a veto from my captain.”

Arthur scanned the crowd of hopeful faces. Sometime in the last minute and a half, Knut had slipped his phone off the bench and was doing his best to text under Winter’s elbow. Kelly Clarkson sang along to his imminent defeat. He sighed, shook his head, and opened the gate. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nobody moved.

Arthur blinked. “Merry Christmas?”

Not a twitch.

“Ho-ho-ho, get out.”

The dispersal was the most active they had been all day, surging forward in one mass of whooping red and gold. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Moody turn the music up a notch before hustling back into his office.

The herd had vanished down the tunnel in a matter of seconds. Arthur shook his head, turned his smile toward the empty rink, and pulled out his phone.

The locker room was a disaster.

“Don’t pull so hard!” Leo grunted as he fought to wriggle out of his jersey, hopping on one socked foot while Finn tried to help him out of his remaining skate. “I’m gonna fall, I’m gonna fall, Kasey—”

An elbow to the ribs righted him. “Yeah, no, I’m on my way out,” Kasey called over the ruckus, sandwiching his phone between his ear and shoulder. “Yeah, lemme get my shoes on. Al’s driving? Jesus, maybe I’ll just walk.”

“A tie is bad, right? That’s a bad gift?”

“T, I’m sure your dad will love anything you get him.”

“But I got him one for his birthday.”

Remus grimaced for just a moment, but it was enough. Thomas dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

“No, hey, it’s a good gift!” Remus tried, patting his shoulder. “Does he have a lot of ties?”

“He’s more of a sweater guy.”

“T.”

“I know, I know, I know.” Thomas sighed. His head fell back against his stall, then rolled toward Remus as his lip slid out in a pout. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Did Remus have to give him a minute with this one? He was a little afraid he did. “T,” he started. “Your dad likes sweaters.”

“Yeah.”

“So get him sweaters.”

“But what if he doesn’t like them?”

Remus took him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. “He likes you.”

Thomas made a desperate sound and rolled his head the other way, then heaved himself upright. “I need to go outside. The cold clears my mind.”

“Way ahead of you!” Finn shouted over his shoulder, one hand clasped in Leo’s and the other on the doorknob with his skates teetering dangerously over his shoulder.

Leo hoisted their duffel bags, shuffling through the narrow doorframe with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. He gave them one last clumsy wave with a glove half-on. “Lo sends his love, even if he’ll never say it!”

“Yes, I’m coming,” Kasey laughed, presumably still to Natalie. He caught the door with his foot just as it was beginning to close; Remus grabbed the edge of it from him and waved off both his grateful look and mouthed thank you. “Yes, baby,” Kasey repeated. “Usual spot. On my way.”

It was a disaster, and then as fast as they had all tumbled in, everyone flooded out. A few of the newer guys remained, muffled by the hum of the showers. Dumo ruffled up Sirius’ hair as he passed, preoccupied by Celeste’s rapid-fire French on the phone and the hustle of his light jog. Remus was pretty sure he caught some mention of the park; there was one near their house with a pond that froze around this time of year. He was a little surprised Logan wasn’t already staking his claim on it.

Sirius’ arm was around him before he even started to sit. It made for the perfect guide and counterbalance, settling him firmly on a denim-clad thigh with a kiss to seal it in seconds. “Hey,” Sirius mumbled against his shoulder blade.

“Hi, trouble,” Remus laughed.

Sirius hummed, obviously pleased, and gave him a squeeze around the waist. “That felt good.”

“Using your powers for evil?”

“Mhm.” Another pulse, this time with a cheeky pinch to his hip. “And you.”

Remus scoffed, swatting at him, but couldn’t help leaning back into his warmth all the same. He was lucky Sirius couldn’t see the heat of his face, too preoccupied with nuzzling his way across the span of Remus’ back to leave a kiss at the top notch of his spine before burying his nose in the divot below. Odd creature, that one. Remus liked him far too much. “What are you doing?”

“You smell good.”

“I haven’t showered.”

“I noticed.”

Remus bit the inside of his cheek for a moment. He gave the room a cursory glance—the stragglers were just finishing up, too engrossed in whatever wisdom James was bestowing on them to notice the graze of Sirius’ teeth over the arch of his shoulder. “I was thinking,” Remus started, then lowered his voice. “Was thinking we could do it at home instead.”

Sirius’ smile pressed bright and devious to his skin. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Am I invited?”

“Unless I’ve started using the royal ‘we’,” Remus teased, digging his elbow lightly back into the curve of Sirius’ rib.

His laugh was soft, but the pat to Remus’ outer thigh was perfectly heavy with promise. “Get your bag.”

News of their early departure had obviously reached the ears of the rest of the training staff, because the halls were stark in their emptiness on the way out, after many goodbyes to James and promises of dinner tonight. Remus had been dying for some actual holiday time—he had planned gifts months in advance, dedicated an entire Monday to wrapping, agonized over delivery times and game schedules and delays.

But he was craving the substance of it, the literal meat and potatoes of people coming over to ooh and aah at the ornaments over dinner by the fire. Most of all, he wanted some time that was theirs. A brief moment to enjoy the lights and the smell of fir with just himself, Sirius, and the dog. It had been…three weeks? More? Since they put the wreaths and boughs up around the house. He was pretty sure that was the last time they had been able to do holiday things that didn’t involve obviously sneaking off to get gifts for each other.

Sirius seemed to feel the same. They had hardly made it past the PT room before he was pulled into an empty hallway for a kiss that melted in his mouth like butterscotch. He hummed, pushing into it, but Sirius just took him by the hips and pressed him back against the wall. Okayokayokayokayokay came the giddy whirl of the end of his thoughts.

“This.” Sirius’ mouth moved against his jaw, threatening a mark above his pulse point. “This is what I was after.”

“Cancelling practice just to kiss me,” Remus said, breathless already. His throat caught at a flash of teeth under his ear. “So irresponsible.”

Sirius’ eyes were bright and playful. “And I’d do it again.”

They got away with another minute—or five—before footsteps sounded down the other hall. Remus took him by the hand and pulled him toward the parking lot at a brisk, tumbling clip, sneakers pattering on the floors Filch was waiting to wax until they were all gone for the break. Hooligans, he called them. It echoed in Remus’ head as he kissed Sirius stupid in the hall beside the display cases. If only he could see them now.

The air bit his face as soon as they stepped outside, hot and kiss-fresh. Remus could hear voices around the corner but Sirius’ hand was sliding ever-lower and he just—“There’s people!” he hissed, fighting his grin with a blind bat backwards.

Sirius was too fast. A firm grab made him hoot, startling a laugh from both of them. “The entire world has seen us making out in a car, loup,” he snorted. “I think that’s worse.”

It was only the Cubs, after all, and half a snowman wearing a disjointed collection of gear. Leo’s oh-so-subtle text must have done the trick to summon Logan out of his holiday relaxation. He had only flown in that morning after the Rangers’ last game, but he seemed plenty awake despite the journey.

“You’re making me cold just looking at you,” he argued, adjusting his beanie over Leo’s ears while Finn finished rolling the head beside them. “You’ve lived here for years, and still you forget a hat?”

“Merci, baby.” Leo tried to sound begrudging while he obediently bent to let Logan work, but it only came off as fond. Remus could relate.

“And Fish just lets you walk out of the house like this. Unbelievable. It’s snowing.”

“It wasn’t snowing when we left,” Leo pointed out. “I seem to remember a ha-ha, losers text informing us of the change.”

Logan’s tsk was sharp as black ice while he tenderly tucked Leo’s curls under the hat’s knitted edge and kissed each of his cheeks. “Completely frozen over,” he informed Leo. “You’re welcome.”

“Now you’re going to get cold.”

Whatever disbelieving expression Logan made was lost to Remus as Sirius ushered him around the back of the car, but his scoff was plenty audible. “I’m Canadian. I don’t get cold.”

Sirius’ forehead hit the steering wheel the moment their doors closed. “I want to be home,” he complained.

“You’re in the right place to get there.”

“I don’t want to drive.”

“I can do it.”

A pathetic sigh heaved his back and shoulders. “I don’t want to wait fifteen minutes.”

Remus tugged on the back of his hat. “Not that I’ll ever say no to a little New Year’s action, but I feel like we just covered why that’s not a great idea in broad daylight.”

Sirius groaned, grumbled, and turned the car on.

Between salt and the morning commute, the roads were mostly clear. The familiar crunch of snow under tires pulled half of Remus’ brain from the rink; the other half followed at a sluggish pace, coaxed away by radio carols and the mindless chatter the two of them somehow managed in spite of spending eighty percent of their time together. The window was cold on the side of his head. Remus never liked freezing, but there was something about a snow day that always felt like home.

The house lights cast red and green glimmers over Sirius when they pulled in. They were working on getting decorations he liked; things he actually wanted, not just what Instagram said he should use. It wasn’t a lot yet, but it was a start. The icicle lights above the door had been a particularly good find.

They were greeted by a loud bark and the scrabble of paws. Hattie careened around the corner from the living room (she had taken to dozing under the tree) and spun herself at their feet in a few tight circles for maximum petting efficiency.

“We’re home so early!” Sirius cooed, gathering her wiggly body up in his lap like she was still tiny. “Oh, you’re so excited. Did we surprise you?”

“We were so mean to poor Coach,” Remus agreed as he dodged her lolling tongue. “Yes, baby, so mean, but now we’ll be home all day.”

Hattie keened and whined and nibbled on everything in reach for a tolerable thirty seconds, then launched herself out of Sirius’ lap and made a beeline for her toy box. She had hardly made it halfway to them when a cardinal flitted past outside—her ears spiked up, body puffing on a low bwoof. Remus barely got the screen door open before she was off like a bird-seeking missile, cutting through the snow in leaps and bounds.

They dumped their gear in the mudroom, made a snack, planned lunch, played with the dog, dried the dog, cleaned her paws, and finally—finally—they were standing in the same room, with nothing to do for another hour at least.

“Hi,” Remus said, heart kicking.

Sirius smiled. “Hello.”

Hattie’s teeth squealed on her peanut-butter-filled toy.

They wasted no time for foolishness on the stairs. A sweater on the ribbon-wrapped banister; socks in the hall. Sirius’ pants didn’t even make it across the bathroom threshold, belt clattering on the floor. Remus turned the shower on with his eyes closed because he quite simply could not be bothered to spare more than one hand.

“C’mere,” he murmured into Sirius’ mouth, even as he stepped backward under the spray. “C’mere, don’t move.”

Sirius’ response was wordless and perfect.

Steam built around them, chasing off the chill. The house was decorated. The presents were wrapped. Meals were planned, the dog was busy, and Remus was tired but he was so, so awake now, with ink-black hair wound around his fingers and a boy that held him so the hot water never left him.

Sirius rested his head on Remus’ shoulder and went lax at the drag of a soapy hand over his back. “So good.” His mouth rested at the curve of Remus’ jaw. Every word cooled his skin. “So good to me.”

“Doing my best,” Remus joked with a scritch to his nape.

Sirius raised his head, blinking sleepily around the water that spilled down his face. “I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t scrambling for gifts this time of year.”

“I do.”

“Mm?”

“Last year.” Remus smudged a few soap bubbles down the bridge of his nose. “Shopping for you.”

Sirius’ forehead wrinkled. “Me?”

“I was being cranky,” Remus assured him, running his thumbs over Sirius’ collarbones. He didn’t have a lot of soap left, but he would be shameless and greedy about touching like this. “Lily knocked some sense into me.”

“She’s good at that.”

“The best.”

“And she’s lucky to have you.” A kiss pushed the side of his hair into a cowlick; Sirius grinned as he smoothed it down with one hand. “Trop mignon.”

Hot hot hot hot hot. Remus wrapped both arms around his waist and sank his teeth into the knot of soft muscle above Sirius’ heart. Sirius’ laugh jostled him, but that was fine. He was used to it. “I love the holidays with you.” One last little kiss to his neck, to the spot he had bitten the other night and made Sirius’ leg tremble. “I love you.”

“I’m going to veto every single practice forever.”

“No,” Remus laughed, swaying them back and forth. He covered Sirius’ wicked smile with his hand and kissed the back of it. “No, non, not allowed.”

“But I get kisses and showers and I love you’s and dinner—” His hands skimmed up and down Remus’ sides, running over wet skin with the expertise of someone who knew all his soft spots. “—and you bite me and our dog loves us and we get to see James and Lily tonight—”

Remus cut him off with his lips this time. “Your perfect day,” he whispered, though it was just them in the house. “Sounds pretty close to mine.”

“Copycat.”

“Maybe we should just stick together,” Remus offered. Sirius’ fingertips found his own, lacing together all too easily. “For maximum perfect-day concentration, you know.”

“Nothing else, of course,” Sirius agreed.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I put mistletoe above our bedroom door when we were decorating.”

“Amateur. I put it on the ceiling above our bed.”

#remus lupin #sirius black #arthur weasley #james potter #leo knut #finn o'hara #logan tremblay #sweater weather #vaincre #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #winterfic #secret santa #fluff #team shenanigans #lions

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0cta9on · 7 months ago

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One Year of 0cta9on

Hello everyone! :]

Today marks exactly a year since I debuted as a writer! In an ideal world, I would’ve had some crazy story planned for today, but my current circumstances didn’t allow for that, so enjoy this semi-sappy yap session instead :>

I started writing during a particularly low point in my life where my mental health was in the gutters and I had an insane amount of free time. I’ve always liked imagining stories in my head, so the next obvious step was to start writing those stories down. Hence, 0cta9on was born :]

Channeling my energy into something creative provided me with a distraction from all the things that weighed on my mind and become a source of joy for me. While I know I’m not the best or most well-known writer in this community, seeing even a single comment on my work fills me with such an unexplainable amount of joy. To know that there’s people out there that enjoy the silly little stories I put out is genuinely insane in the best way possible <3

Since I’m mainly a fluff writer, I wasn’t sure what other writers in this community would think of me. But my worries were almost immediately quelled when I first joined the writer discord and became friends with a bunch of amazingly talented writers. Shout out to @msafterhours, @writerpeach, @octoberautumnbox, @gangplanksorenji, @prael, @kooyabooya, @okaylikeschaewon, @mintwithchoco, @defmaybe, @sinswithpleasure, @midnightdancingsol, @capslocked, @svndaysaweek, @usedpidemo, and of course many, many more for being so kind and welcoming <3

Recap of my past year of writing:

Wrote 8 chapters of Unlikely Duet, my cute little slice-of-life romance series starring best girl, Minji <3 Chapter 8 is the longest piece I’ve written so far at +18k words!

First Snow was the first fluff one shot I made. Rough around the edges, but we all start somewhere.

Beach Day and Good Idea were my first attempts at writing smut and they are… alright, I guess :> Part of me wants to go back and revise them, but I barely have the time and motivation to work on new drafts ;[

Masterpiece is still probably my favorite fluff one shot I’ve written so far, and while it’s not the best written by any means, I still really like how it turned out :]

FFF2+4 and Train Ride to Heaven for me marked the start of when I started becoming more comfortable writing smut. I’m still not that great, but it’s fun and I think that’s all that counts for me :]

Stuck with You was the first commission I ever did! Writing someone else’s idea is always difficult, but I’m glad the buyer liked the final product :]

Stroke of Luck was the first time I ever wrote a threesome. I think it went okay :>

Wrote And We Danced and Sunscreen for a fun prompt challenge hosted in the writer’s discord (You can thank @mintwithchoco and @msafterhours for these <3). The latter ended up turning into a quaint little mini series :]

Lessons was my second ever commission and my first attempt at femdom. While femdom isn’t really my thing, it was a fun challenge writing about something new and I really like the little gimmick I threw in there :]

I wrote Today, like, two days ago at 1am without much revising or editing (Shoutout @defmaybe for reading through it before I released <3). Go read it if you haven’t yet pls n thenk yew :>

Wrote 15 shorts from ideas submitted by you guys! Some of my favorite stories I’ve written have been shorts and they’re always nice when I’m low on ideas :]

While I likely won’t have anything out for a while, I think it’d be fun to pull back the curtain a little bit and hint at what I’ve been working on :]

🐰🦋// She’s just your coworker. Just that. Nothing else.

🐻👖// It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this?!

🍁✨// Upcoming New Variety Show: Fan Date! Episode 1, starring [REDACTED]

🍔🧀// Time changes, but summer stays the same

I’ve run out of things to talk about, so this concludes my one year anniversary post :> Despite my unplanned and prolonged hiatus, I want y’all to know that I do NOT plan on retiring anytime soon. I have so many stories I still want to tell, whether you like it or not >:]

Have a good day/night and I love yall <3 Have a Minji :]

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ihavethedreamiesx · 1 year ago

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Birthday Surprise | Baekhyun [NSFW]

Byun Baekhyun - EXO

Rating: M (18+) MDNI

Word Count: ~3.5k

Pairing: Baekhyun x AFAB!Reader

Genre: Reader-Insert, Fluff, Smut, Cute, Sweet

!!This is smut…if that much isn't clear you should probably leave now!! MDNI!

Warnings: She/Her Pronouns used, Kissing, Bit of Swearing, Oral (F! Receiving), Fingering, Wall Sex, Unprotected Sex (Don't!)

Author's Note: This a story requested by/written for my friend @sadfragilegirl! I hadn't written something to post for EXO yet. It’s a little early for her actual birthday, but she didn't mind, so here is this as well~

Revised (1/31/25) - I forgot to change the name to (Y/N), so I fixed it!

I am cross-posting this on Archive. Please reblog! Share, even if its to the other sites! Let me know if you want to be on the taglist!

Sighing again, you find your eyes drifting to your phone again. Tapping the screen, there’s still no new notifications. You understand with the time difference and his busy schedule that your boyfriend doesn’t always have a second to spare to reply. You don’t take it personally; it’s just hard when you miss him as much as you do. The first week of a touch is always the hardest, but then it gets easier. After time passes through, the harder and harder it gets again. At least with Baekhyun’s solo career he’s gone for a shorter time than with the whole group. You also never keep close track of his tours, only what he tells you. It’s too difficult to watch fancams others post because they get to be there and not you. You have to work yourself though, and can’t go with him.

Another sigh leaves your lips, and you reluctantly go back to watching the show on TV. You don’t even remember what you had put on initially, but it’s changed. Your phone dings and you nearly give yourself whiplash looking at it, but your shoulders slump. The food you ordered has arrived. Grumbling, you get up from the couch, shuffling in your slippers to the door. When you open the door, there’s the food you ordered and you grab the bag, but there’s something else too. A box is set next to your food, and it looks like it might have been there before. It’s white with a red ribbon and a red envelope stuck to it. Picking it up with your other hand, it’s not very heavy, you head back inside. You hadn’t ordered anything…

Setting the bag of food down on the dining table, you pluck the envelope off the box, a bit of the paper tearing from where it’s taped on. Your name is on it, but that’s it, no address; yours or otherwise. Pondering on what the heck it could be, you gently tear the envelope open, pulling the card out. Your eyes widen, then sting a bit as tears spring to your eyes. You recognize the handwriting immediately.

Hello, Sweetheart, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to talk with you the way we both want, or as often. It’s harder for me to leave you at home each time I do, even more than it is for you, believe it or not. Everything I see wherever I go that reminds me of you, I buy. I know your birthday is tomorrow, but you’ll have to wait for the presents when you see me. I did prepare a surprise though. There’s a dress in the box, please wear it and a driver will come to pick you up tomorrow night at 7 pm. I miss you, and happy early birthday. ~Love Baekhyun

You sniff, trying to hold the tears back, feeling foolish. Why do you want to cry so hard? You wonder though what the heck he has planned. Did he set up a party or something for you so you won’t notice his absence as much? Finally going to the box that came with the card, you open it and remove the tissue paper inside to see the dress. A huff of surprise leaves your mouth, it is clearly not cheap. Flipping the tag over to see the brand, you’re then for sure. It’s a beautiful, light blue, bouffant-style dress, the fabric has a dull sparkle throughout and is made from a smooth silk. Of course it’s just perfectly your size.

“Oh, Baek…” You sniff again, holding the dress up to yourself, wondering what shoes you’re going to wear.

~θωθ~

“Are you (Y/N)?” The sharply dressed man stands by a very nice car asks you. You nod, and he opens the door for you. You smooth your dress down when you get in, adjusting it as you sit to keep it looking nice. It hits you right at the knees and you paired it with a simple set of gold kitten heels. You’d curled and put up your hair and added some gold jewelry to finish off the look. The driver get back in the car and begins to head in the direction of the fancy part of town. You fiddle with strap of your bag, watching the buildings and lights pass. Maybe ten minutes later, the car pulls into the entrance of an extremely fancy hotel. You guessed it was a party, but maybe it’s actually a meal in the restaurant?

“Have a Happy Birthday, Miss (Y/N).” The driver smiles, opening the door for you and you shyly thank him, once again adjusting your dress as you enter the lobby.

“Are you Miss (Y/N)?” one of the hoteliers asks as the automatic doors slide closed behind you.

“Yes.”

“Please, follow me.” She smiles, motioning for you to do so, leading you toward the elevators. You get in and she pulls a card out of the pocket of her vest, sliding it into he reader of the elevator, then presses the button for the roof.

“Have a Happy Birthday, Miss (Y/N).” She smiles once again and the elevator doors close, heading straight up. You’re feeling a bit overwhelmed with the glitz and glam of the night already. You know that your boyfriend’s an international celebrity and has been for years, granting him plenty of clout and capital, but this…

The elevator doors open, a polished hallway leading to a set of glass doors, and presumably, the rooftop venue. You can’t see anything past the doors, not even lights, just those in the distance of nearby buildings. Tilting your head a bit in confusion, you walk forward, heels clicking on the floor. When you get to the door, you for some reason feel your heart surge. Resting your hand on the handle, you take a deep breath and open the door, stepping out into the night breeze.

“Surprise~!” You startle, only somewhat unprepared. The lights have come on, the pop of confetti poppers and loud cheering welcomed you. It’s hard to hide your smile, seeing all of your and Baekhyun’s friends.

“(Y/N)!” An extremely loud voice heralds the action before you register it, then find yourself engulfed by a Chanyeol. You let out an ‘oof’ as he hugs you, and you rock back on your feet from the force of his hug.

“Let her go!” Kyungsoo huffs, hitting the other man on the back, who recoils in an overdramatic fashion. You shoot the shorter man a grateful look, but then they both look behind them. You can’t see over them, but when they move-

“Baek!” You beam, tears once again hitting your eyes and he catches you when you dash forward.

“Hi, sweetheart~” He hugs you close, and you hear various voices coo at the reunion, “Happy Birthday.” He kisses your forehead when you finally pull away, then scoffs.

“Hey, you’ll ruin your mascara…” He swipes his thumb over your cheek, and you sniff.

“I-I knew you’d probably planned a party or something, but I didn’t know you were going to be here, too!” Your smile brings out his own and you hug him again as he chuckles.

“Ah, what?!” He shouts suddenly and if you hadn’t known him for as long as you did, the volume would have startled you. He turns to look behind aggressively only to have Minseok whisper something in his ear after hitting him to get his attention.

“Oh, right…” He calms down and Baekhyun pulls away from you some.

“I did not time everything right, so we’re going to eat now, then do the rest.” Your boyfriend smiles, leading you over to the table set up in front of all the others.

“The rest?” you ask, sitting down in the seat he pulls out for you. He joins you and everyone else sits at their own respective tables. He points to the side table piled with gifts and you gape.

“You guys!” You speak loud enough, lacing fake annoyance in your tone and your guests laugh.

“Kyungsoo picked out the menu.” Baekhyun tells you, servers coming out with the food. It’s all your favorites and taste amazing. When everyone is done with the meal and the plates are cleared, another group of servers come out with a beautiful two-tier cake. They rest it gently on the table in front of you and light the candles before excusing themselves with a bow.

“Make a wish, sweetheart.” Baekhyun wraps his arm around your shoulder, kissing the crown of your head and you press your hands together, eyes closer. Let is be that I can stay happy with him, forever. You blow out the candles and everyone claps and cheers and then the real part of the party begins. Another set of chairs are at the gift table, so you move over.

“Half of these are from you!” You send a look to your boyfriend who chuckles a bit.

“So? Just start!” He brushes it off and you start. You get a lot of things like skincare, makeup, and other such toiletries. There’s some stuffed animals, a few sets of earrings, a few nice perfumes and a tennis bracelet. Like you had said, half of it is literally from him, several different countries were the origin of many. One of the boxes you open, you slam closed immediately, face heating. You send him a side-glare and he seems to realize which one you opened.

“Oh, uh, you can do that one later.” He grabs it from you, setting it on the pile and hoping no one noticed that it was purposefully hidden.

“It works with a phone app, from anywhere…” He whispers in your ear, and you want to interrogate him further, but decide to do it later. After the presents are opened, and the cake is cut, you finally get to eat it. Trying not to make a mess with the frosting, you enjoy the champagne that’s brought out as well. People are already dancing in the large open area in the middle of the rooftop venue, and when another nice, slow song starts, Baekhyun grabs your hand.

“I thought it would be weird if we danced to one of my songs.” He whispers to you as he brings you to the dance floor. It’s the second slow song, but you understand why he did that. While he literally dances for a living, you’re not nearly as graceful nor practiced as him. You set your hand in his, the other on his shoulder, his other hand resting on your waist.

“Just follow the rhythm.” He coaches as you dance, several of your friends dancing with their significant others. You smile as you pass Jongdae and his wife, somewhat envying what they have. That’s something to think about later though.

“I think you got something on your-“ Baekhyun brings your attention back to him and he smirks before quickly kissing the corner of your mouth and you scoff.

“Geez~” You can’t help but smiles, resting your head on his shoulder as you sway. When the song fades to a close, you reluctantly pull away from him, but his hand stays linked with yours.

“Yeol!” He shouts, catching his friend’s attention. He flashes an ‘ok’ gesture and Chanyeol sends a thumbs up back and you frown a bit.

What are they planning?

“Come with me.” He looks like a kid in a candy store, a wide grin spread over his pretty face, and you follow after him as he leads you inside. Chanyeol has started something on the little stage set up for the band, everyone’s attention focusing there.

“I was going to wait till after, but I can’t.” Baekhyun tells you, pulling you with him through the only door of the rooftop shelter other than the one outside or the elevator. It’s a small staging room it seems, there’s mostly just extra tables and chairs. When you turn toward him to ask what he’s talking about, his lips capture yours, and your words slip into a whine. Your back hits the wall by the door, hands flying up to his shoulders and up the nape of his neck into his hair. One of his arms wraps around you, hand on the small of your back, the other on the wall to steady you both. You’re glad you chose a lip stain rather than lipstick since none of it transfers over to him. You sigh and his tongue slips into your mouth, his leg coming between yours, pressing his thigh about your covered mound. You moan, letting him pull back from the kiss reluctantly. His lips kiss the corner of your mouth again, then down to your jaw, and further to your shoulder. The off-shoulder sleeves leave plenty of skin open, so he takes the chance and sinks his teeth in slightly. You try to hold back your moan, not sure how soundproof the room is, grinding down on his thigh between yours. It’s been way too long, and the little points of contact through the night are not nearly enough.

“How am I going to get out of here?” You scold lightly as he moves across your collarbone, having most likely already left three or four marks.

“You can use my coat.” He offers quickly, barely pulling his lips off your skin to speak, also removing said item. Baekhyun rolls his sleeves up, lips finding yours again. When his task is done, you giggle as he lightly smooths his hand up your thigh. His finger hooks over the hem of your panties, snapping the elastic. You squeak slightly when he presses into you, pinning you to the wall further, teeth nibbling your ear lobe, licking over the golden hoop earrings you have in.

“You’re already wet~?” He gives a huff of smugness and you just hum, exhaling in bliss when his fingers run through your soaked folds.

“Baek-!” You’re going to try and rationalize your state, but it’s a moot point because your breath leaves you when he sinks his finger inside you. You’re tighter than usual, not having been able to get off yourself, you need Baekhyun. The remote vibrator he bought you made more sense right now. By the time he adds a second finger, spreading them tot get you ready, there are probably three more marks on your upper chest. Your little mewls are obviously getting to him, but the night is for you, not him. He stops his fingers, and you want to protests, but he sinks to knees.

“Oh.” You whisper, letting him gently pull your panties down and over your feet, tucking them in his back pocket. You might have scolded him, but all words leave as he buries his tongue inside your wanting pussy.

“Baek~!” You shudder, slumping further into the wall, hands on his shoulders to stabilize yourself. He tries not to laugh at your squeal as he hikes one of your thighs up and onto his shoulder to get you open even more for him. His tongue leaves your core, flicking at your clit, two fingers finding home inside you again. Your walls flutter around the digits and he can tell you’re close. With one more expert crook of his fingers, and a kiss to your clit, you cum and he helps you ride through it, eagerly lapping at your essence flowing down his hand. By the time the waves of your orgasm fade, you’re shaking, and he smirks, standing while licking off his fingers. You notice his hardened cock straining against his dress pants, fingers finding the zipper.

“Wait-“

“Can’t. Do it better later.” You insist, and he’s not going to argue. Just as soon as you free him, the head of his cock is at your entrance, and he pushes in. Your gummy walls pulse around him; the stretch stung from you going so long without him. The same leg he had over his shoulder he hold up over his elbow and you’re so glad you’re flexible. His thrusts are shallow and hard, trying to get to the crest for both of you fast so he can get you back to the hotel room and fuck you properly.

“Shit, Baekhyun.” Your breaths come out in pants, trying to stay quiet, but it’s hard. Your peak is getting close again, your tight core around his cock feels like heaven, so he’s close too.

“Come on, sweetheart. Cum for me.” His sweet voice in your ear is all it takes, and he has to still as you cum. He lets go as well, the squeeze too good. Catching your breath, you startle when someone knocks on the door hard. Baekhyun must take it as a signal for something, because he gets himself fixed up and lets you have his suit jacket to cover your shoulders. In the low light he can see the rising deep red and purple welts, a few with light teeth marks.

“Okay, let’s go.”

“What-?”

“Yeol got everyone distracted, so now you don’t feel good, so we’re leaving!” He grins like a goof, and you scoff, shuffling after him to the elevator. Chanyeol seems to be guarding the door, back to you, and you giggle as the lift doors close. Your boyfriend looks at you, his hair a bit messy and you both laugh. He still has your panties in his pocket… When the elevator gets to the floor for the room he booked, you slip out, slinking past a group of what looks like college guys walking down the hall. You hold his jacket over you tighter, following Baekhyun as he leads you. When he’s got you into the hotel suite, your giggles turn into a full laugh, and he can’t help but join.

“Come on, sweetheart. The bed is all ready…”

After unwrapping you like you’re a present, he sits behind you on the bed, leading you to rest your back to his chest.

“What are we doing?” you ask, letting his hands on your hips guide you. He sits on his knees, having you straddle his lap, and he sinks lower as you settling on him, cock filling you back up. Sighing at the feeling of him inside you again, he kisses over your shoulder again, sucking another mark at the base of your ear. Resting your head on his shoulder, his hands guide you to grind down onto him, the angle has the head of his cock right in the best spot, rubbing and pressing you into a tizzy. You wonder why it feels so much more intense than normal, more intimate.

“You looked so beautiful tonight. I knew that dress would be perfect.” His voice, low and soft in your eyes, seems to vibrate over you and your hips stutter through the rhythm you both set. Baekhyun leans back a bit more, you follow since you’re resting on him, and the shift lets him slide in even deeper and you gasp at the rapidly rising pleasure.

“I love hearing your laugh in person, being able to hold you…” One of his hands slide up over your stomach, cupping your breast.

“Feeling your soft skin, kissing you, tasting you…” You whimper, his hips shifting to meet yours, thrusting up to meet your rolling hips.

“Wanna see you…” You whine and he hums, smirking.

“Okay, sweetheart.” While you’re not pleased that he pulls out, you’re quickly filled back up when your back hits the bed. His hands wrap around yours when they go to cup his jaw, mouth meeting yours again. Linking your fingers, he pins your hands up by your head with his, pulling back just enough so your lips still brush slightly. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, and he snaps his hips hard, picking the pace up immediately. You can’t hold back your moans, writing in pleasure under him, the bed frame groaning from the force. You want to touch him too, but his hands on yours prevent it. He smirks against your lips, switching to using his one hand to hold both your wrists in place. The free hand grips your thigh, shifting your leg up higher so he can get even deeper inside of you. It’s hard for you to get out anything intelligible other than his name, and your orgasm is rising faster that you anticipated.

“God, you’re so beautiful. I love you so much, Mina.” His pace is stuttering, the vice of your core sending him closer to the edge as well.

“Love you too~” You manage to get out and your voice crests into a high moan as you fall over the edge. He groans himself, spilling inside, filling you with warmth and swallowing your noises with a sealing kiss.

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart.” Baekhyun smiles warmly and you giggle tiredly.

“You really didn’t have to do so much…” You pout playfully and he hums, shaking his head.

“I did. I love you, and whenever I’m gone for so long, so far away, you’re all I think about. I honestly wish I would have done more.”

Master-List

#ihavethedreamies #kpop #kpop fluff #kpop smut #kpop x reader #kpop fanfic #x reader #exo x reader #exo fanfic #exo #exo fluff #exo smut #exo baekhyun #baekhyun x reader #baekhyun smut #baekhyun fluff #byun baekhyun

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illbearound · 16 days ago

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MOST WANTED MAN

Hiiii! First of all, I want to thank you for all the love I’ve been receiving. I wasn’t expecting that at all. Everyone is so sweet!! So thank you, thank you, thank you! 🥺💜

Second, I’m still trying to figure out tumblr posting (I’m new at this , so I’m still learning how to navigating here). I've noticed that there's a character limit, so I might have to split some chapters and make the story a bit longer than I expected. So please, bear with me.

I have the story almost written (working on the last chapters, atm). And I still got a few things I want to revise first – grammar and punctuation stuff. Still, I have not figure it out yet when I will update it. I was thinking about do it every other three days but maybe that’s a bit much. Maybe I’ll do an upload on a specific day of the week. Or just post whenever. Idk I haven’t set that up.

At last, here it is the first chapter! I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know your feedback!!! (only if you want to, a heart is also very good!! ) 💕🫶🏻 Happy weekend!

Chapter One — Oranges and Familiar Faces

Madrid , February 2025

The city looks like a painting when she arrives. Terracotta rooftops glowing beneath low clouds, windows shuttered against a late winter drizzle. Rain taps softly on the car roof. The driver doesn’t speak, only nods when she thanks him. The hotel is made of pale stone and glass. Modern, but trying not to look it.

In the elevator, she watches the numbers change and feels the quiet stretch of panic that’s been building all week. She presses her hand against her stomach without thinking. She doesn’t want to admit she feels sick.

The room is fine. Clean, anonymous. The bed is made with perfect corners. A tiny desk under a high window. She doesn’t unpack, just lifts the most decent clothes from her suitcase and lays them over the chair. The rest stays in the case like a secret. Her phone buzzes but she doesn’t check it.

She opens the window instead. The air is damp, tinged with exhaust and oranges and something floral she can’t name. Somewhere down the street, music plays — fast, percussive, joyfully unaware of her.

She takes a deep breath. Her throat tightens.

It’s only a work trip.

She reminds herself of that like a mantra, like it’s supposed to mean something.

She had received the email last Saturday morning. She was on the couch in her sweatshirt, curled around a cup of tea that had gone cold. Outside her apartment, Paris went on living. Footsteps on pavement, a motorbike, the clink of glass from the bakery downstairs. Inside, everything had gone still.

Subject: Madrid Expansion — Selected Staff for Team Integration & Travel Itinerary

At first she thought it was a mistake. Or a bulk email. She read it twice. Her name was there, in the list. One week in Madrid. A full week.

She didn’t move. Not at first. The room felt like it had narrowed in around her.

The kettle began to scream in the kitchen. She stood too quickly, banged her hip against the table. Her hands trembled slightly as she turned off the stove. The tea didn’t matter anymore.

Julie appeared in the doorway, yawning, her hair in a sideways ponytail like a comic strip character.

“You’re up early.” she said, scratching her elbow.

Anna blinked at her, still holding the dry teabag.

“I have to go to Madrid,” she said “for work.”

Julie tilted her head. “Like… Madrid Madrid?”

Anna nodded.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

Julie crossed the kitchen, leaned against the fridge. “And how do you feel about that?”

Anna shrugged. “It’s just work.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Anna sighed, looked down at the counter like it might give her the answer. “I don’t know.” she said finally. “There’s the chance I see him. Or the chance I don’t. And I honestly don’t know which is worse.”

Julie didn’t try to fix it. She just stood there, steady.

“You’ll handle it,” she said. “You always do.”

Anna didn’t believe that, but she didn’t argue either.

They’d met in university, at a party Anna had tried to sneak out of before she was even halfway through her drink. Julie had caught her on the stairs and pulled her back in with a laugh and a brash, charming “no way are you bailing on me, I just got here.”

Julie was the kind of person who filled rooms without trying. People leaned into her, wanted to be close to her. She was funny and bright and fast. And not in a showy way, but with a sort of effortless gravity. She was studying art history and was always covered in paint or glitter or bits of tape, like her life was made in collage. She told stories with her hands. She loved hard and forgave quickly. Anna had never met anyone like her.

They moved in together that spring and never really stopped. Even now, years later, they shared a flat in the 11th, though Julie would be leaving soon. She was engaged now, to Guillaume, her long time boyfriend. Steady, gentle, impossibly French but a really nice guy. Anna didn’t say it out loud, but the idea of Julie leaving scared her more than she expected.

So she listened to her.

At the airport, Julie texted her:

Julie: You should text him. Just let him know you’ll be in town.

Anna: Isn’t that weird?

Julie: He’d want to see you. But it’s your call. Just don’t overthink it. You’ve got this.

Anna didn’t text him. She opened the window in the hotel and watched the city instead.

Madrid is warmer than Paris, but not by much. The days start gray and end with a wash of gold on balconies. On the first afternoon, Camille, her coworkers, takes her to lunch in a narrow restaurant where the waiters speak happily. They sit at a corner table with red napkins folded like fans.

Camille orders wine. Anna asks for something lighter, an orange juice.

Camille raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

They talk about work. Or Camille does, mostly. She’s effortlessly polished, with that subtle Parisian way of seeming completely disinterested while knowing exactly what’s happening. She’s in her forties, with a calm kind of authority. Red lipstick. Clean suits. Long earrings. No apologies. She isn’t quite a friend, but she is the kind of woman Anna quietly admired. Camille had the composed confidence of someone who'd long stopped worrying about being liked. They'd fallen into a quiet sort of companionship since Anna had started working in the office; a lunch here and there, an occasional walk to the metro when they finished late. Camille talked more than Anna, but it never felt like noise. She was curious, clever, a little cynical. The kind of person who asked how your weekend was, then actually listened.

“I almost married a chef once,” she says between bites of roasted fish. “He wrote poems on receipts and smoked in the shower.”

Anna laughs. Not because it’s funny, exactly, but because Camille says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Anna smiles faintly "I thought Spain would be sunnier." she admits

"Spain is sunnier. February just doesn't care."

The week moves in blinks. Meetings. Introductions. Office tours.

The Madrid office space was slick and modern, all clean lines and filtered light. But the people were the opposite — tactile, warm, constantly offering coffee, food, compliments, stories. Anna spends most of her time trying to match their energy, knowing she never quite does. Camille thrives, even with her broken Spanish and ironic tone. She knows when to push and when to vanish. She doesn’t push Anna, but always found ways to include her gently, effortlessly. Anna smiled when she needed to, contributed when she could, and disappeared into herself whenever possible.

She walks through the city at dusk, letting herself get a little lost. The buildings look sun-worn and sturdy. There are oranges on the trees. The light feels closer than it does in Paris.

She doesn’t text him. But she thinks about it every night.

It’s Friday night. The restaurant is loud, full of weekend buzz and cheap wine and too much cologne. Her small group from work had planned dinner. A chance to relax, to laugh and to celebrate the successful week they had. They've got the weekend off before returning to Paris, and this feels like the perfect start, a night out in the last stretch of their time in Madrid.

Outside, the rain has quieted to a mist, fine and invisible until it catches the light. The street is narrow and damp, cobblestones slick with reflection. A row of motorbikes leans against a wall across the way, their seats glistening. A neon sign from a corner bar buzzes quietly in the distance, humming its way into the silence between them.

Anna tucks her arms across her chest, bottle of water cold in her hand, she’s too tired to drink tonight . Camille lights a cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind, the tip flaring orange before settling into a steady glow. Smoke curls up around her, mingling with the city air — exhaust, wet pavement, something faintly floral.

They don’t speak for a few moments. There's a comfort in the quiet, in the shared act of being slightly apart from the noise, of pausing without obligation. Camille offers her a cigarette.

Anna shakes her head. “I’d just embarrass myself.”

Camille smiles faintly. “We’ve all done worse.”

Then Camille exhales and glances sideways. She smokes with a casual grace of someone who's been doing it since the '90s. “You’ve been a little strange this week,” she says. “Quieter than usual.”

Anna shrugs, watching a raindrop slide off the edge of a streetlamp. “I’m always quiet.”

Camille gives her a dry look. “You’re not always like this.”

There’s no malice in it. Just observation, casually dropped into the night like a coin into a fountain.

Anna’s eyes flick toward the building across the street. There's nothing remarkable about it, shuttered windows, a closed florist, some dark shapes that might be tables inside a café. But one door glows faintly, a soft amber rectangle in the dim. Seems like one of those expensive restaurants with ridiculous menus.

“I’m fine.” she says eventually, because it’s easier than untangling anything real.

Camille takes another drag. “You've been here before?"

It is an innocent question; light, casual, nothing loaded. But it catches her off guard. Because even though Camille doesn't know the history, the question lands heavy. Like it grazes something buried.

Anna doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks up again at the sky, pale and blank. Then down the street, where taillights smear across the wet stone. The city feels suspended, like it’s holding its breath with her.

“No.” she says finally. “But it's... familiar. In a way.".

Camille studies her. "Love thing?"

Anna's smile holds no humor. "Isn't it always?"

Camille doesn't press. Just nods, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “We should get drunk.” she says lightly, as if to break the tension.

Anna huffs a small laugh. “Probably.”

And then, just as she begins to turn back toward the door, her foot lifting slightly from the ground, the door across the street opens.

It’s subtle at first, just a creak of movement. Her eyes catch it out of habit, not expectation. She’s not looking for anything. Not anymore.

But then, like a slow, deliberate reveal, he steps into the light.

Her body stills before her mind does. Her breath cuts short, like she’s suddenly underwater.

Kylian.

He’s there. Real. Present. Not memory or fantasy. Not the version she’s rewritten in her head a hundred times. He walks into the faint orange glow of the doorway with that same easy posture, the way he adjusts his sleeve with one hand like he's done it a thousand times. The rhythm of his movements unchanged. Unthinking.

For a split second, she doesn’t feel anything. No rush of emotion. Just a hollow quietness, like the air has been sucked out of her.

Then it floods in — the weight of the months, the questions left hanging, the sudden, cruel sharpness of the present.

Beside him, Étienne appears. The bodyguard, the driver, the trusted shadow; tall, composed, still somehow blending into the background. Just as he used to. He speaks to Kylian in a low voice, then scans the street, that same soft vigilance in his eyes, as though checking for exits no one else sees. She remembers the way he used to play French rap music from the stereo, tapping his finger lightly on the wheel. She hadn't thought of Étienne in months, and yet, there he was too. Like a ghost from the past.

And then, as if pulled by something unseen, Kylian lifts his head.

His eyes land on her.

Not around her. Not through her. On her.

The recognition is immediate. No delay. No question. Like he was expecting her all along, or maybe hoping not to.

For a second, neither of them moves. The city carries on around them. A horn in the distance, the rush of tires over wet stone, but here, in this stretch of air between them, time narrows to a point.

Kylian’s face doesn’t change much, but something in it softens. He says something to Étienne, too quiet to hear, and then takes a step forward.

Then another.

He begins to cross the street.

Anna doesn’t move. Her fingers tighten slightly around the bottle in her hand, but she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t breathe. She watches him approach, each step sounding louder in her ears than it should.

He isn’t rushing. There’s a carefulness to the way he moves, like he’s not sure if this is allowed. Like one wrong word could send the whole thing toppling.

Beside her, Camille straightens a little, glancing between them. “Is that–?” she begins, her voice low “Do you know him?”

Anna doesn’t look at her. “Kind of.” she murmurs.

Camille nods, sensing something in the stillness, in Anna’s posture. “I’ll give you a minute.” she says, already stepping toward the door, flicking her cigarette to the gutter without looking back.

And then he’s there.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough to speak. His presence feels too large all of a sudden. Too familiar. He smells like the same cologne. Wears the same kind of coat. And his expression, that small, half-smile, eyes flicking quickly to hers, it all crashes into her like a memory she's still grieving.

“Hi.” he says, quiet.

“Hey.” she answers, almost as softly.

The word feels simple, but her throat tightens around it. He looks at her like he’s still trying to understand the fact of her.

He blinks, then glances around, like trying to place this version of her in this particular streetlight. “What are you...?” he starts, then trails off. “I didn’t know–”

“I’m here for work,” she says quickly, the words sharper than she intends, too rehearsed. “They’re expanding. I came for the launch. Just a few days.”

She hears herself. The precision of it, how careful she sounds. Not casual, not surprised. Just... neutral. She doesn’t know why she phrases it like that. Maybe part of her doesn’t want to give him the wrong impression; doesn’t want him to think she came here because of him, for him. That would feel too exposed. Too much like something she used to do.

But underneath it, there's a flicker of something raw, a quieter truth pressing up against her ribs. That maybe she’d hoped for this. That maybe part of her had scanned every room for this moment, just like this, without letting herself admit it.

She watches his face, waiting for some reaction, a shift in his expression, some small sign of what he’s thinking. But he just nods, slow, like he’s absorbing it. And she can feel it all beginning to catch up to her now, the sudden nearness of him, the old ache unfolding in her chest like a bruise returning.

Kylian nods, then shifts slightly, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. That same half-smile plays at his mouth — crooked, a little unsure, like he's trying to land somewhere between familiarity and caution.

“Still drinking water at social things, huh?”

It’s such a simple thing. Barely even a real comment. The kind of line people toss out when they don’t know what else to say.

But it hits her like an echo from another life.

He remembered. The first time they met.

She glances down at the bottle like it’s just appeared there, like it’s someone else’s. And then the smallest smile pulls at her mouth, not quite amused. More like caught.

“I guess some things don’t change.” she says.

But they both know a lot of things did.

———

next chapter

tags: @nowrosesaredead

#kylian mbappe #Kylianmbappe story #kylian mbappe x reader #mbappe #kylian fanfic #kylian lottin mbappé #kylian mbappe imagine #MWM

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