#i will lie down in a corner for a moment...

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Warm Cuddles

boyfriend!johnny storm x fem civilian!reader content warnings: none! all fluff! summary: soft moment with your “celebrity” boyfriend wc: 1.3k

masterlist.

The paparazzi camera lights flash like fireworks, too fast, too hot. Johnny’s used to it—has been for over a year now—but that doesn’t make it less annoying. He smiles anyway. A practiced, toothy grin that looks good in pictures and means absolutely nothing.

Another question is shouted from the crow, “Johnny, is it true you're seeing someone?” and his smile twitches. Not enough for the cameras to catch, but enough that Sue, watching from a few feet away, lets out a quiet, exhausted sigh.

He shifts his weight, adjusting the fit of his suit jacket like the extra second will help him lie smoother.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” he says, voice breezy, like he’s talking about a movie plot or the weather. “People say a lot of things.”

That gets a few laughs, a few more questions tossed over each other like waves. “Is she famous?” “Is it serious?” “Is she an alien?” “Can she handle the heat?”

Johnny chuckles, just enough. Leans into the microphone with a glint in his eye that makes half the audience melt.

“She’s…” He pauses, then shrugs. “She’s amazing. Smart. Cool. Pretty. No powers. Not famous. Sorry to disappoint.”

He doesn’t say your name. He never does.

Someone calls out, “Is that why you’ve been disappearing at night?”

He pretends not to hear. That part—well, they’re not wrong. Most nights, when the after-parties are winding down and the cameras are shutting off, Johnny flies low across the city skyline. He lands quiet, gentle, on the rusted fire escape outside your apartment window. You always leave it cracked for him. A candle burning low on the table. A half-finished book on your couch.

No headlines. No flashbulbs. Just you.

He shifts again under the spotlight, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket. “Next question,” he says, still grinning. “Unless any of you want to talk about actual news.”

A few groans. One last desperate, “Is she the real reason you’ve been turning down interviews?”

Johnny Storm—handsome, heartthrob and hotshot—just smirks.

“She’s the reason I sleep better at night,” he says, and then walks off before they can follow up.

The moment the interview wraps, Johnny’s already shrugging off the jacket. It’s still early by New York standards, but the sky is darker now, slipping from indigo to black, and he can feel the tension of the night clawing at the collar of his shirt.

He hates the way the lights follow him. The way the noise clings to his skin.

He launches into the air the second he's out of sight, heat flaring at his back as flames lick down his arms, steady and familiar. The wind rushes past his face, cold and clean, like a reset button pressed against his ribs. Up, he tells himself, just up and out and away.

And toward you.

It’s not far—Brooklyn’s just a few minutes when he’s flying—but he takes the long way anyway, trailing above the river, letting his mind wander. His fingers flex, still twitchy from the questions. The whole scene.

Is it serious?

The press always wants a story. Some face to match their headlines. Some easy name they can chew up in the group chat and spit out in next week’s gossip thread. They want drama. Glamour. Someone like him.

Not someone like you.

You, with your plush lips and gorgeous eyes and tea-stained mugs in the sink. You, who tells him things like “don’t forget to eat” and “you left your socks here again.”

You, who never once asked for the spotlight, who hates the spotlight and everything and everyone to do with it, but leaves your window unlocked every night for Johnny, just in case.

He sees it now, glowing soft in the corner of the building. Your family's apartment. His heart stutters like it always does when he spots that flicker of warm yellow light from your kitchen lamp. The flame around him dims without thought. He lands barefoot on the metal grating of your fire escape, still warm to the touch from his descent.

You don’t flinch when he knocks, don’t look surprised when you turn and see him there. You just open the window like you always do and smile that stupid, sleepy smile like he’s something worth waiting up for.

“Rough night, hotshot?”

He steps in without answering, still a little breathless, still caught in the way your oversized sweatshirt slips off your shoulder. There’s an old movie playing on your TV. Popcorn on the bedside table. One of his t-shirts folded neatly on the end of your bed.

He thinks, not for the first time, God, I’m so in love with her it’s pathetic.

“They asked about you again,” he mutters.

“Did you tell them I said hi?” you tease.

“Told them you’re amazing. And smart. And cool. And very very pretty.”

You raise a brow and pause for a moment. “Really?”

He grins and steps closer, pressing his forehead to yours. The heat of him rolls through the room, subtle and golden, like sunshine at midnight.

“Told them they don’t get to know the best part of my life.”

You go quiet at that. But your fingers find his and you give a small, gentle squeeze.

And just like that, he breathes easy again.

The popcorn goes untouched. The movie plays on, forgotten in the background, muted now beneath the steady sound of his breathing and the hush of city traffic beyond your window.

He sinks into your bed like he’s melting into it—like he only holds his shape when you’re near. Limbs long and heavy, firebanked for the night. His hand finds yours without thinking, fingers curling easily between yours, rough skin against soft.

“Come here,” he murmurs, already tugging you closer.

You don’t need convincing.

Cuddling with Johnny is like curling up with the sun. He runs hot all the time, not burning, not scalding, but a kind of deep, bone-deep warmth that seeps into you like it was made for you alone. His skin is always warmer than yours, like he’s got a sun hidden behind his ribcage. Like the rest of the world might make him wear heat-resistant suits and flame-proof gloves, but here… here, he’s just a space heater in a hoodie.

You climb into his lap, and his arms fold around you like second nature—his palm spreading across your lower back, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

He exhales, and his whole body softens.

“You’re gonna make me fall asleep,” you whisper.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You’re a human furnace.”

“Actually, I'm a Human Torch.”

You smile against his neck and you both laugh.

He smells faintly like smoke and cologne, singed cotton and whatever soap he stole from your shower last week. One of his legs hooks lazily over yours. Your face fits perfectly against the curve of his neck, where his skin is warmest, like summer and safety all in one.

“You were tense earlier,” you murmur, voice barely audible over the quiet whir of your ceiling fan.

“Yeah,” he says. “I always am after stuff like that. Everyone asking questions. Looking for the version of me they like best.”

He doesn’t say it with bitterness. Just tired truth. But you feel the weight behind it anyway—the performance, the smiling, the careful answers. The way he never quite lets his shoulders drop until he’s here.

“You don’t have to be anything here,” you whisper, eyes drifting closed. “Just Johnny.”

His arms tighten slightly. You feel the press of his lips against your hair—gentle, quiet, real.

“Just Johnny,” he repeats.

The room fades into stillness. The light from the laptop flickers, blue and dim across the room. His heart beats steady beneath your ear, and his body radiates heat like it’s trying to lull you to sleep.

And maybe it works.

Because here, in the heart of a city that never stops moving, you’re wrapped in the arms of a boy that can catch on fire, and somehow, you’ve never felt more at peace.

[wonbyyou]

hiiiii :3333 dropping by to say I LOVE your writings. hitting all the good and deep spots (pun intended) as always omg.

could i please request toxic fwb with jay where it gets really angsty because reader catches feelings only for him to realised he has feelings for her as well?

thank you!!! take care and stay safe :3

hey anon, thank you so much for your sweet words. i'm so happy you enjoy my work, i hope you'll enjoy this as well. thank you so much for the request.

-

The third time he showed up unannounced past midnight, reeking of someone else’s perfume and cheap beer, you knew you should have slammed the door in his face.

But Jay leaned against your doorframe, that familiar, reckless glint in his dark eyes, a lazy smirk playing on lips you knew too well. "Missed you," he murmured, the words thick and meaningless, yet still they sent a jolt straight to your core.

You let him in. You always did. The lock clicked shut behind him, sealing you both in the dim, cluttered sanctuary of your apartment. His hand was already sliding possessively around your waist, pulling you flush against him before you could protest.

You felt the hard muscle beneath his thin t-shirt, smelled the lingering smoke and the sharp tang of whiskey on his breath. His lips found the sensitive spot beneath your ear, his stubble scraping your skin. "Thought about you all night," he breathed, his voice rough, hypnotic. "How good you feel."

It was a lie. A beautiful, seductive lie you craved more than truth. You knew he’d been at that downtown bar he loved, the one crawling with girls who looked at him like he was a god fallen to earth. You knew he’d probably flirted with half of them, maybe kissed one in a shadowed corner, maybe more.

But here he was, in your space, his hands already mapping the curve of your hip through your sleep shorts, his erection pressing insistently against your stomach. The possessiveness in his touch felt like a brand, a temporary claim that dissolved the second he walked out your door. Yet, against all reason, you melted into him, your own body betraying your bruised heart.

"You reek of strangers," you managed, turning your face slightly, though your hands were already fisting in the back of his shirt.

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated through you. "Jealous?" His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending sparks down your spine. He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth crashed down on yours, hot and demanding, swallowing any feeble protest. It was a claiming kiss, fierce and deep, tasting of stolen moments and other people’s lipstick.

His tongue invaded your mouth with practiced ease, a familiar dance that always made your knees weak. You kissed him back with a desperation that shamed you, pouring every ounce of your unspoken longing into the contact, hoping maybe this time he’d taste it, this time he’d understand the difference between this and whatever cheap thrill he’d chased earlier.

He walked you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the edge of your unmade bed. Without breaking the kiss, he pushed you down onto the tangled sheets. His hands were everywhere—yanking your shorts and underwear down your thighs in one rough motion, then tugging impatiently at his own jeans.

The sight of him, stripped bare above you, all lean muscle and dark intensity under the faint light filtering through the blinds, stole your breath. He knelt between your legs, spreading them wide with hands on your inner thighs.

His gaze raked over you, hot and predatory. "So fucking pretty," he rasped, but the words felt hollow, tossed out like spare change. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking at the warm, willing body offering him oblivion.

His fingers found your slick heat without preamble, testing, teasing for only a moment before sliding deep inside. You gasped, arching off the bed, your body instantly clenching around his intrusion. He knew exactly how to touch you—the rough pad of his thumb circling your clit with bruising pressure while his fingers curled inside you, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

Pleasure ripped through you, sharp and overwhelming, tangled with the bitter ache in your chest. You cried out, a broken sound muffled by the pillow you buried your face in.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick with lust. Reluctantly, you met his eyes. They were dark pools of desire, yes, but distant. Focused on the physical mechanics, not on you. He lined himself up at your entrance, the thick head pressing against your slick opening.

"Been thinking about this tight pussy," he groaned, pushing forward slowly, stretching you wide. The exquisite burn of him filling you chased away thought for a moment. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him deeper with a needy whimper.

He set a punishing rhythm from the start, each deep thrust driving the air from your lungs. The slap of skin on skin filled the small room, punctuated by his low grunts and your ragged breaths. He braced one hand beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.

Every plunge buried him to the hilt, the angle hitting your deepest places, forcing ragged cries from your throat with every stroke. Your climax built rapidly, coiling tight under his relentless assault on your senses. The friction was divine torture; his heavy weight pinning you down felt like both imprisonment and salvation.

"Jay… please…" you gasped, unsure if you were begging for mercy or for him to shatter you completely.

"That's it," he growled, hips pistoning faster. "Take it. Take all of me." His eyes were squeezed shut now, lost in his own pleasure. He leaned down, capturing your mouth again in a sloppy kiss that tasted of sweat and desperation—his desperation for release, not connection.

You came hard beneath him, body convulsing around his cock in pulsing waves that made you sob his name. Your orgasm felt like falling apart.

He followed moments later with a groan that sounded almost pained, burying himself impossibly deep as he pulsed inside you, filling you with his heat. He collapsed onto you afterward, chest heaving against yours, his sweat-slick skin sticking to you.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating. The frantic energy evaporated, leaving only the sticky aftermath and the familiar chasm between what your body had experienced and what your heart needed. He didn't kiss you gently. He didn't hold you. He rolled off you after a minute, sitting up on the edge of the bed with his back to you. You watched the strong line of his spine, the tousled dark hair at his nape.

He stood up without a word and walked naked to your bathroom. You heard the shower turn on. You lay there amidst the wrecked sheets, feeling the cool air prickle your damp skin where he’d been pressed against you moments before. Your inner thighs were sticky with sweat and him.

Your core still throbbed with the aftershocks of pleasure that now felt like phantom pains. The sharp pang of humiliation followed close behind—humiliation at your own weakness, at how easily you surrendered to him, at how much you craved scraps of affection he never intended to give.

He emerged ten minutes later, steam curling around him as he toweled his hair dry. He was already pulling his clothes back on—the same jeans, the same t-shirt smelling faintly of bar smoke. He avoided looking directly at you as he hunted for his discarded boots.

"I gotta bounce," he said, finally meeting your eyes as he stood by the door. His expression was shuttered again, the vulnerable intensity of moments before locked away tight. "Got shit to do early." It was a flimsy excuse. He always had somewhere else to be.

You nodded, pulling the sheet up over your bare breasts, a flimsy shield against his indifference. "Right."

He paused for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering over you curled up in the bed he’d just vacated. Something unreadable passed over his features—maybe regret, maybe annoyance. Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar, cool detachment. "See ya."

The door clicked shut behind him. The silence roared back in, louder than before, filled only with the phantom echo of his groans and the crushing weight of knowing that for him, it was just another fuck. For you? It was another piece of your heart ground into dust beneath his boots as he walked away without a backward glance.

You traced the fading red mark his fingers had left on your hip—the only evidence he’d ever been there at all—and let the hot tears finally fall.

He showed up again exactly a week later. Same time. Same predatory lean against your doorframe. Same faint scent of cheap beer and smoke clinging to his worn leather jacket. "Hey," Jay drawled, that familiar smirk already curling his lips, his dark eyes already scanning your body, assessing his welcome. He moved to step inside, expecting you to melt against him like always.

You didn’t move from the doorway. You kept your arms crossed tightly over your chest, a fragile barrier against the magnetic pull of him. The sight of him, looking so effortlessly desirable, still sent a treacherous warmth pooling low in your belly, but tonight, it was overshadowed by a heavy, cold dread. The memory of his silent departure last time, the taste of your own tears, was still raw.

"Not tonight, Jay," you said, your voice surprisingly steady despite the frantic drumming of your heart against your ribs.

He froze, mid-step. The smirk faltered, replaced by genuine confusion that knit his brows together. He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he couldn't quite decipher. "What?" He chuckled, low and disbelieving. "Come on. You're kidding." He tried to push past you gently, his hand reaching out to brush your arm.

You flinched back sharply. The contact, usually electric, felt like a brand now. "I said not tonight." Your voice hardened, fueled by the hurt simmering beneath the surface. "I'm not kidding."

His hand dropped. He stood fully in the hallway now, the dim light casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face. The playful confusion vanished, replaced by a wary irritation.

"Okay… what the hell's the problem?" he demanded, his voice losing its usual lazy drawl, turning sharper. "Did I do something?" He raked a hand through his dark hair, genuinely perplexed. In his world, the rules were simple: he showed up, you welcomed him, you both took what you needed. Any deviation was an affront.

The question hung in the air between you. Did he do something? The sheer obliviousness of it, the confirmation of how little he truly saw you, ignited something brittle and desperate inside you. The dam holding back weeks, months, of swallowed words finally cracked.

"The problem," you started, your voice trembling now, betraying the storm inside, "is that I like you, Jay." The words felt foreign and terrifying on your tongue. "I like you. More than… this." You gestured vaguely between you, encompassing the late-night visits, the hurried fucks, the crushing emptiness afterward.

His reaction was instantaneous. His eyes widened, genuine surprise flashing across his features. It wasn't a pleasant surprise. His jaw tightened visibly, the muscle ticking in his cheek. He stared at you, speechless for a long, suspended moment. The familiar, confident Jay was gone, replaced by someone momentarily stripped bare, caught completely off guard.

The raw shock on his face gave you a horrible, fleeting sense of vindication before the crushing weight of vulnerability slammed down. You pushed on, the words tumbling out now, fueled by adrenaline and heartache.

"And I know you don't… you can't… feel the same way. Not really. Not about me. I'm just convenient." You swallowed hard, forcing the next words past the lump in your throat. "So… I can't keep doing this. It hurts too much." You took a shaky breath, steeling yourself. "You need to go. Please, Jay. Just… leave."

Silence crashed down, heavier and more suffocating than any before. The hallway air felt thick and charged. He didn't argue. He didn't try to placate you with lies. He didn't even try to touch you again. He just… stared. His dark eyes held yours for an agonizing beat, filled with that stunned confusion, perhaps a flicker of something else—discomfort, maybe even a hint of regret?

But it was gone before you could decipher it, replaced by a familiar, cold shutters falling into place. The Jay who needed nothing and offered less.

Without a single word, he turned. Just like that. He didn't look back. He walked down the dimly lit hallway, his boots echoing on the worn linoleum—a sound that would forever be tied to this moment of utter devastation. The sound faded. You heard the distant groan of the building's main door opening and closing with finality.

You stood frozen in your own doorway, staring at the empty space where he’d been. The silence roared in your ears. The courage that had propelled you moments ago evaporated, leaving a cavernous void of raw, exposed pain. You slowly pushed your own door shut, the soft click of the latch sounding deafeningly loud in the stillness. As the lock slid home, the dam truly broke.

A ragged sob tore from your throat. Then another. You slid down the door, your back hitting the wood with a dull thud, collapsing onto the cold floor. Tremors wracked your body as the full force of it hit you—the confession, his silent departure, the finality of ending the only connection you had to him, however toxic.

Great, heaving sobs shook you, tears streaming hot and unchecked down your face. You buried your head in your knees, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trying to hold the shattered pieces together. The taste of salt filled your mouth. The ache in your chest was physical, a deep, grinding wound where hope had briefly flared and died.

You cried for the loss of him, for the humiliation of your unrequited feelings laid bare, for the terrifying emptiness of a future without the painful, addictive chaos he brought. Alone on the floor, the echo of his footsteps long gone, you broke down completely, drowning in the wreckage of your own brave, foolish heart.

Two weeks crawled by like tar. You functioned. You went to work, answered texts, even managed drinks with your friend one Thursday night. But your chest felt permanently hollowed, filled with cold, heavy stones that shifted painfully with every breath.

Jay’s absence was a constant, throbbing ache beneath the surface numbness. You’d see a leather jacket like his in a crowd, hear a low laugh that echoed his, and the ground would tilt. You’d deleted his number, but it was etched onto your heart in acid.

Your friend, bless her relentlessly optimistic heart, wouldn’t let you wallow. "Enough, sweetie," she declared over cold margaritas, slamming her hand on the sticky table. "You need a reset. A nice, normal guy. Someone who doesn't treat your apartment like a drive-thru window." You tried protesting, the words tasting like ash, but she steamrolled you. "Friday night. Hansol. He’s cute, he’s funny, he actually reads. Be ready at seven."

Friday arrived. You put on the dress your friend insisted on—soft blue, flattering, nothing like the deliberately provocative things you used to wear hoping Jay would notice. You fixed your hair, applied makeup that felt like a mask.

Hansol picked you up promptly. He was cute. Sandy hair, kind eyes, a gentle smile that didn’t hold a fraction of the dangerous magnetism Jay possessed. He took you to a cozy Italian place, made easy conversation about books and travel and his job restoring old furniture. He was attentive, respectful, genuinely interesting.

And you felt… nothing.

You smiled. You laughed in the right places. You asked questions. But it was like watching yourself from underwater. Every joke landed softly, muffled by the thick layer of grief wrapped around your heart. The food tasted bland. The candlelight felt clinical. Hansol’s hand brushing yours as he passed the bread basket sparked no warmth, only a vague sense of guilt.

You were performing a pantomime of moving on, trapped inside a glass box while your soul screamed silently for the jagged, broken piece it had lost.

He drove you home afterward, the easy chatter dwindling into a comfortable silence as he pulled up to your building. He turned off the engine, the sudden quiet amplifying the frantic beat of your own pulse against your ribs. He turned to you, his expression hopeful, earnest in the dim dashboard light. "I had a really great time tonight," he said softly.

"I did too," you lied, the words scraping your throat. "Thank you, Hansol."

He leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to turn away. The decent thing would have been to stop him. But part of you was desperate for proof—proof that you could feel something, anything, for someone else. Proof that Jay hadn’t completely ruined you. So you closed your eyes and let his lips touch yours.

It was… pleasant. Soft. Undemanding. Completely devoid of fire or desperation or the soul-shattering intensity you craved. You kissed him back mechanically, a hollow mimicry of affection. As you pulled away, offering a small, apologetic smile, your gaze drifted past Hansol’s shoulder.

And froze.

Leaning against the brick wall beside the entrance to your building, half-shrouded in shadow but unmistakable, stood Jay.

He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t wearing that lazy confidence. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, shoulders rigid. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury carved from stone. His dark eyes, fixed on you with laser intensity, burned with a cold fire that sucked the air from your lungs. He’d seen everything.

A wave of icy dread washed over you, followed immediately by a surge of hot shame. "Hansol," you choked out, your voice barely audible. "You should… you should go home now. Please."

Hansol followed your terrified gaze, spotting Jay. Confusion flickered across his face, then concern as he saw your expression. "Is everything okay? Who is that?"

"Please," you repeated, fumbling for the door handle. "Just go." Your hand trembled violently.

He hesitated, clearly uneasy, but nodded slowly. "Okay… call me? If you need anything?" He waited until you’d practically tumbled out of the car before driving off slowly, casting worried glances in the rearview mirror.

You didn’t look at Jay as you walked towards the building entrance on wooden legs. You could feel his gaze boring into your back like hot coals. Your fingers fumbled with the key, shaking so badly you dropped it.

As you bent to pick it up, he was suddenly there, looming over you, radiating menace and cheap whiskey. He didn’t speak. He just watched you retrieve the key with predatory stillness.

Somehow, you got the door open. You stepped into the dim lobby, desperate for the fragile barrier of your apartment door upstairs. You didn’t make it two steps inside before Jay shoved past you, following close on your heels as you headed for the stairs. His presence was a suffocating pressure at your back.

"You didn't waste any fucking time, did you?" His voice was low, venomous, dripping with a sarcasm so sharp it could draw blood.

You kept walking, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Ignore him. Just get inside. You reached your apartment door, key shaking in the lock.

"One little tantrum," he hissed, crowding you against the doorframe now, his breath hot and laced with alcohol against your ear. "One little 'I like you' pity party, and you're already spreading your legs for the first decent-looking idiot who takes you out?"

The crude insult landed like a physical blow. It wasn't just cruel; it was a deliberate desecration of the fragile hope you'd confessed to him, a deliberate attempt to drag you down into his own toxic misery. The raw hurt ignited something primal inside you—not fear, but pure, white-hot rage.

You finally got the door unlocked and shoved it open, stumbling inside. He followed, slamming it shut behind him with a force that rattled the pictures on the wall. The familiar space suddenly felt like a cage.

"Couldn't stand being alone?" he sneered, advancing on you in the darkness of your living room. "Needed someone to warm your bed? That why you threw yourself at him on the sidewalk like a cheap—"

You whirled around before he could finish the word.

The sound was sharp as a gunshot in the small room. Your palm connected with his cheek with all the force of your pent-up anguish—the heartbreak, the humiliation, the weeks of aching emptiness, his vicious words striking the match. The slap echoed.

His head snapped sideways from the impact. The sneer vanished instantly, replaced by utter shock. A stark red mark bloomed across his cheekbone in the dim light filtering through the window. He slowly brought a hand up to his face, fingertips grazing the heated skin, his dark eyes wide and disbelieving as they locked onto yours.

Silence descended again, heavier and more charged than ever before. The air crackled with violence and shattered tension. He stared at you, stunned into silence by the force of your blow—the first tangible resistance you'd ever offered him.

Your own hand throbbed fiercely, echoing the frantic rhythm of your pulse. You stood frozen inches apart in the wreckage of whatever fragile, poisonous thing had existed between you, both breathing hard, both bleeding in ways only the other could truly understand. The only sound was the ragged gasp tearing from your throat and the furious drumming of your own heart against your ribs.

You could feel the sting in your palm, a fierce echo of the rage and pain that had propelled it. Jay’s fingers lingered on the reddened mark blooming on his cheekbone, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something else—something raw and unfamiliar that stripped away his usual armor of indifference. He lowered his hand slowly.

"Shit," he breathed, the word rough, scraped raw. "I... I shouldn't have said that." His voice was lower, stripped of its venom, laced instead with a dawning horror at his own words. "What I said... about you... it was..." He swallowed hard, the muscle in his jaw working. "It was cruel. And wrong."

You took a step back, putting precious distance between you, your own breath coming in shallow gasps. The fury that had fueled the slap was already ebbing, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion and a fresh wave of betrayal so deep it made you sway. You raised your hand again, not to strike, but to ward him off, a trembling shield against any more words.

"Don't," you choked out, the sound ragged. "Just... don't apologize now. You used it, Jay. You took what I gave you... what I felt for you... and you twisted it. You made it into a weapon to hurt me with." Tears blurred your vision, hot and shameful. "You saw me trying... trying to just breathe after you..." Your voice broke. "And you spit on it. Get out. I don't want to see you."

He flinched as if struck again, but he didn’t retreat. Instead, he took a hesitant step forward, his hand lifting once more, reaching for yours this time. "Please..." The word was almost a whisper, filled with a desperation you’d never heard from him.

You slapped his hand away sharply. "No! Don't touch me!" The rejection was instinctive, a defense against the dangerous pull he still exerted.

But Jay didn't stop. He surged forward, ignoring your flinch, ignoring your raised hands. He wrapped his arms around you in a sudden, crushing embrace. It wasn't the possessive, demanding hold you knew; it was fierce, almost desperate, like a drowning man clinging. You stiffened, every muscle locked tight against him, your face pressed against the worn leather of his jacket smelling of night air and whiskey and him.

"I know," he rasped into your hair, his voice thick with emotion you couldn't decipher. "I know I did. I'm an idiot. A goddamn coward." His arms tightened impossibly. "Seeing you with him... seeing you kiss him... it burned a hole through me. I was angry... so fucking angry... but it wasn't at you." He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hands sliding up to cradle your face with a startling tenderness. His thumbs brushed away the tears spilling down your cheeks, the calloused pads surprisingly gentle.

"Angry at myself," he continued hoarsely, his gaze searching yours, dark and turbulent. He pushed a strand of hair back from your damp temple, his touch lingering. Then he leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a second as if gathering courage. The intimacy of the gesture—the warmth of his skin pressed to yours, the shared breath—was utterly disarming.

"It scared me," he whispered, the confession raw and vulnerable against your skin. "What you said... how you felt... it terrified the living shit out of me." He opened his eyes, holding your gaze captive. "Because I don't do feelings. I run from them. I fuck them away or drown them in whiskey." A harsh breath escaped him. "But with you... it wasn't just sex. It never was."

He paused, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones, his gaze intense, almost pleading. "Every time I walked out that door... it got harder. Every time I smelled someone else's perfume and knew I was coming here anyway... it made me sick. Because all I could think about was you." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "The way you see me... really see me... even the fucked-up parts." He swallowed hard. "And that scares me more than anything."

He leaned back slightly, just enough to look at you fully, his hands still framing your face, his eyes blazing with an intensity that stole your breath. "So yeah, I lashed out tonight. Like a cornered animal. Because seeing you move on? Seeing you let someone else touch you? It felt like getting gutted." His voice cracked. "Because I do feel it too. This... whatever this fucked-up mess is between us... it’s not just yours. It’s mine too. And I’ve been too much of a goddamn coward to say it."

He searched your eyes, his own filled with a terrifying mixture of fear and hope and raw, unvarnished need. "I like you. More than like you. More than I've ever liked anyone. And I know I've fucked it up. Royally. But please... please don't tell me it's too late."

Your reaction was immediate and visceral. A sob tore from your throat, a different kind this time—born of shock, disbelief, and the terrifying surge of fragile hope cracking through the ice around your heart. Your knees felt weak. You stared up at him, searching his face—the earnestness in his dark eyes, the vulnerability stripping away his usual cool facade, the faint red mark on his cheekbone where your hand had connected.

"You... what?" you whispered, the sound barely audible over the frantic pounding of your pulse in your ears. Your hands, trapped against his chest where he held you, instinctively curled into fists against the soft fabric of his t-shirt, not pushing away this time, but anchoring yourself against the dizzying revelation.

Tears streamed freely now, hot and unchecked, tracing paths down your cheeks onto the hands that still cradled your face with such desperate tenderness. The world tilted on its axis. The man who built walls for a living, who treated intimacy like a transaction, who walked away without a backward glance... was standing here shattered before you, confessing he felt the same terrifying storm of emotions you’d drowned in for months.

It wasn't neat. It wasn't simple. It was jagged and raw and stained with the toxic history between you. But it was real. And for the first time since he’d walked out of your apartment weeks ago, leaving your confession hanging in the air like smoke, something deep inside you—something bruised but not broken—began to tentatively unfurl.

The raw vulnerability in his confession hung thick in the air, a tangible force between you. Your trembling hands against his chest, the tears cooling on your skin—it all coalesced into a suspended moment charged with terrifying possibility. His dark eyes searched yours, desperate for understanding, for forgiveness, for something beyond the wreckage he’d created.

Then, slowly, his gaze shifted. Not away, but deeper. The desperation softened into something infinitely more potent: a profound tenderness that stole your breath. His thumbs traced the tear tracks on your cheeks once more, his touch impossibly gentle, reverent almost.

"Shhh," he murmured, his voice rough velvet, thick with emotion. "Don't cry, baby. Not anymore." He leaned in again, not claiming your lips immediately, but pressing soft, lingering kisses to your damp eyelids, the corner of your mouth, the sensitive curve of your jaw.

Each kiss was a whispered apology, a balm on the wounds his words had inflicted. His fingers tangled gently in your hair, pushing it back from your face with a care he’d never shown before. He rested his forehead against yours again, breathing deeply, his breath mingling with yours.

"I don't deserve this," he breathed against your skin. "Don't deserve you looking at me like that." His hands slid down, skimming your shoulders, your arms, until they settled lightly on your waist, pulling you fractionally closer. "But I'm gonna spend every damn day trying to earn it. Starting right now."

He simply looked at you, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was a silent plea, a promise, and an unmistakable invitation woven together.

The frantic energy of before had vanished, replaced by a deep, resonant calm, a focus entirely on you. He lifted one hand, tracing the line of your collarbone beneath the strap of your dress with just the tip of his finger, sending shivers cascading down your spine.

His touch was different. Gone was the predatory urgency, the calculated moves designed for quick ignition. Instead, his hands moved over you like he was rediscovering sacred ground, mapping the familiar curves and hollows with a newfound wonder.

He slipped the strap of your dress down your shoulder, his lips following the path his fingers traced, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His breath was hot, his movements deliberate, savoring.

"Jay..." you breathed, your voice trembling.

"Just feel," he murmured against the sensitive skin below your ear, his voice vibrating through you. "Just feel me loving you." His hands found the zipper of your dress, lowering it with painstaking slowness.

The fabric whispered as it pooled at your feet, leaving you bare before him in the dim light. His gaze travelled over your body, not with the hungry appraisal of before, but with a deep, aching appreciation that brought fresh heat to your cheeks. "Christ, you're beautiful," he rasped, the words filled with awe. "Always were. Just... never let myself really see it before. See you."

He guided you gently backwards towards the bed, his steps slow, his eyes never leaving yours. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he sank down with you, pulling you onto his lap so you straddled him. His large hands spanned your waist, steadying you. He looked up at you, his expression open, vulnerable, utterly captivated. He reached up, cradling your face again, his thumb brushing your lower lip.

"Let me," he whispered, the plea barely audible. "Let me show you."

You nodded, words failing you, lost in the storm of emotions swirling within—disbelief warring with blossoming hope, residual hurt yielding to the overwhelming tenderness radiating from him. You leaned down, meeting his lips this time.

The kiss was deep, slow, searching. It wasn't about possession, but connection. A profound joining that echoed the confession he’d poured out moments before. His tongue explored yours with deliberate, unhurried sweetness, a silent conversation replacing the toxic exchanges of the past.

His hands moved over your back, down to the swell of your hips, kneading gently. He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, across your collarbones, his breath hot and damp. When he reached your breasts, he worshipped them. Not with frantic hunger, but with deep, reverent attention.

His mouth closed over one peak, suckling softly, his tongue swirling with a maddeningly tender rhythm that drew a low moan from your throat. His hand cupped the other, his thumb circling the hardened peak with exquisite, focused pressure. Every touch, every kiss, felt like an act of devotion, a deliberate dismantling of the defenses you’d built against him.

He laid you back on the cool sheets, his body following yours, settling carefully between your thighs. His eyes, dark pools of liquid warmth, held yours captive as he leaned down, kissing you again, deeply, while his hand drifted lower. His fingers traced the inside of your thigh, feather-light, maddening, before finally finding your slick, aching core.

He groaned against your lips as he felt your readiness, your wetness coating his fingertips. "So soft," he murmured, the words vibrating against your mouth. "So ready for me."

He touched you with a reverence you’d never experienced. His fingers explored the swollen, sensitive folds, circling your entrance before sliding slowly, deeply inside you. He watched your face, gauging your reactions, his movements slow and purposeful, curling his fingers to stroke that hidden place that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

The pleasure wasn't sharp and frantic; it was a deep, spreading warmth that built steadily, relentlessly, centered low in your belly. He kissed you through it, swallowing your gasps and moans, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When he finally, achingly slowly, sheathed himself inside you, it wasn't a claiming thrust. It was a deep, deliberate joining. He filled you completely, stretching you with a fullness that transcended the physical. He stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut as if absorbing the sheer magnitude of the connection. "God..." he breathed, the word thick with feeling. "Feels like coming home."

He began to move. Not the hard, driving rhythm designed for quick release. This was slow, deep rolls of his hips, a grinding intensity that connected your bodies profoundly. Each measured withdrawal felt like a sweet torment, each slow, deep penetration a reaffirmation of his presence, his promise. He kissed you constantly—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—murmuring broken endearments against your skin. "My girl... sweetheart... never gonna let you go..."

The friction was exquisite, a slow-burning fire stoked with every deliberate thrust. His hands roamed your body, worshipping every inch—tracing the curve of your waist, palming your breast, tangling in your hair. He kept his gaze locked on yours, his dark eyes reflecting the depth of his feeling, the fear replaced by a profound, possessive tenderness. "Look at me," he rasped. "Look at me while I love you."

The pleasure built differently. It wasn't a frantic climb, but a deep, inexorable wave rising from your core, spreading outwards, warming every cell. It was tied intrinsically to the look in his eyes, the weight of his confession, the sheer rightness of his body moving inside yours with such deliberate care.

When your climax finally broke, it crashed over you with overwhelming intensity, a deep, shuddering release that tore a long, ragged cry from your throat. Your inner muscles clenched around him desperately, pulling him deeper still.

Feeling you convulse around him shattered his control. His rhythm faltered, then surged. A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest as he thrust deep one final time, his body locking against yours. You felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside you, a visceral proof of his surrender.

He collapsed onto you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your damp skin. His arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you impossibly close, anchoring you both in the aftermath.

For long moments, there was only the sound of your mingled breathing and the frantic drumming of your hearts slowly calming. He didn't pull away. He stayed buried deep inside you, his weight a comforting anchor, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses against your shoulder, your neck. His hand stroked your hair, your back, a continuous, soothing caress.

He finally lifted his head, propping himself up slightly on his elbows to look down at you. His dark eyes were soft, luminous in the dim light, filled with a tenderness that stole your breath anew. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. A small, genuine smile touched his lips—hesitant, hopeful, utterly unlike his usual smirk.

"Stay?" he murmured, the single word loaded with meaning far beyond the night. It was a plea, a promise, a fragile hope offered in the quiet sanctuary they’d just forged. His gaze held yours, vulnerable and raw, waiting. And nestled in the warmth of his arms, the lingering echoes of pleasure thrumming through your body, your own answer felt inevitable, whispered against his skin: "Always."

[naffeclipse]

Fox Face

Reader x Mob Bosses!Sun and Moon

Commission Info

I had so much fun writing for @knockoff-rizuki and the reader for this fic! You have a secret to hide, and lots of blood on your hands. When the Mob Boss brothers catch you in the act, there's little you can do or say to hide what's been done, and who you really are.

Content Warnings for violence, blood, death, and suggestive themes.

———

You huff, shoulders heaving in the darkness of the alleyway. Blood soaks your hand and shines under the glint of faint lamplight that barely reaches the narrow corner shoved between the restaurants and a lone, dark building.

It reeks of iron and sickly sweet perfume. The woman’s dress is torn, revealing the deep gouges your claws left upon her. The beads of a pearl necklace, fake with only the faintest iridescence, lie scattered among trash and puddles. 

You stand above her. What remains of your evening attire is splattered with her blood as well. A filth that you will scrub away and never consider again. Your mind is sharper, clearer after the act of violence. Your body hums with renewed energy, feasting upon the physical exertion you just unleashed.

She deserved it. Your blood simmers in your veins at the sight of her pretty face, her lips curled as she slurred her speech towards the ones you have taken for yourself. Sun and Moon. The notorious mob bosses of the Celestial Gang.

This was your night. They asked you here for dinner, at an expensive but low-lit and shadowy table that only the best and most notorious can afford. It wasn’t meant to be official. You and the mob bosses are growing closer, bridging that gap between strangers and lovers, but they don’t know everything about you. 

And they never will.

You devoured a steak dinner and licked your chops after. Sun and Moon cooed at your appetite, and invited you to the bar for what they promised was dessert. You would never tell them no, not when their hands slide seamlessly along your sides and shoulders, not when they sit you so prettily on a bar stool and trap you in between them. Sun had a glass of amber-colored bourbon and swirled it softly in his hand. Moon kept his cigarette close but he purposefully blew the smoke towards your lips when you leaned in close for a kiss. 

Then she staggered up beside the counter. Her walk was jagged, and her hair was mussed up from poor attempts to draw attention to her face. Your teeth gnash together, the sharp, canine tips snapping, remembering how she slid closer and closer. She reeked of cheap wine and that disgusting perfume that still fills your nostrils now.

It was obvious they were occupied. Their arms were full with you.

And she spoke to both of them. The boldness to flirt with mob bosses when she can barely keep herself on her own two feet. She called them handsome. She didn’t even look at you, as if you were a bug that happened to crawl in between her and her prizes. 

Sun was cheery as he dismissed her, and Moon hardly lifted his eyes to her, gesturing with his cigarette in hand to wave her off. Their eyes are upon you. Their attention is for you. Who does this human think she is to speak to your loves?

She was startled when she at last deigned to meet your eyes. Her drunkenness sobered in the moment you allowed the foxish glow of your supernatural nature to peer through. Her drink spilled to the floor. She stumbled back, terrified, like she saw a ghost, before Sun and Moon resumed right where you all left off.

But it didn’t leave you. It couldn’t. You were too hungry, too furious to let it slide. The woman lingered in the shadows, sliding into different booths and further down the bar to converse with others far more powerful than herself. She did not know what grounds she tread. It would have been better had she not come out tonight at all.

And then you saw your opportunity. You were floating upon the cloud of Sun’s and Moon’s whispered words, playing with the end of a tie and sliding your fingertips underneath a suspender strap, when you saw her meander across the room.

As pitiful as a baby rabbit. As easy as a wounded bird. 

You murmured an excuse. They almost didn’t let you go, wanting you to stay just a little longer, offering even to take you somewhere more private, but you ward them off. They won’t know what you planned to do. Then, you quietly followed into the hallway that contained the restrooms.

Humans are quite stupid. This one especially so. 

You waited, pressed into the darkness. She emerged, still less put together and her lipstick a little smudged. Her eyes flashed when she saw you, but that didn’t stop her from following your entices. No, she came willingly. The promise of a business venture and more time with the mob bosses she flirted with earlier. You could share, you lied.

She believed it, swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. 

The alleyway is shrouded from eyes. Dark and deep in shadows, you crouch over her claw-torn body. Her wide, glassy eyes stare up at the sky.

No one talks to your loves. No one looks at them like she did. 

Now she never will again. A fitting punishment. You smirk, drawing a dark tongue over your teeth. Perhaps this can be a message to other humans: do not touch what is not yours.

You survey the scene. There’s a dumpster, an easy place to dispose of a body. But there is a lot of blood. What are the chances of a worker tossing away trash making note of a grisly scene in a rotting city? A smart human would keep their mouth shut.

Slowly, you flick away a pearl with a claw and watch it roll across the cracked asphalt. It tinks off of a brick wall. 

Swishing your tail, you straighten. Your human disguise is slipping. This part of the world knows little of your kind and magic, and they do not know to be aware of foxes wearing human faces, but that is all the better. 

Sun and Moon can never know. They might bring themselves to love a human, an ordinary one at that, but they might not see who you really are except for the facade, the magic, the secret. They might hate you. You can’t allow that. 

You can’t lose them.

You clench your claws and stare at the blood dripping down your wrists. This is to keep your loves safe. This is to ensure you never lose the best two things that have ever happened to you.

The side doors are thrown open. Your fox ears prick, twisting towards the sound. You startle, leaning over your kill as if someone might come to steal your trophy, but silhouetted in the soft, yellow light from within the restaurant are two animatronics. 

Two pairs of optics gaze down upon you, half caught in your human disguised and half morphed into something else entirely. 

No. You gasp softly, and straighten upon your feet. The body lies underneath you, her face turned towards the door. A desperate shift of your magic tugs at your features crawling over your mask, but the tail and ears remain.

They see you now.

Sun calls your name, stunned. Your tail flicks behind you, the thick fur waving anxiously side to side. 

You don’t care about the murder. They have committed enough themselves. They understand bloodshed and sending a message, but this? Your true face almost slipping through, and the teeth that shine wetly, highlighting each fang tip? And the eyes that glow a yellow-hue? How can they love a monster? Not a killer, but a creature. Not a human, but a walking lie.

Moon’s eyes stare underneath the brim of his hand. His hands slowly rise, palms forward.

“What’s going on?” he rasps sharply. 

“She attacked me,” you utter, spewing the lie on instinct. You always lie, but not to them. Not until now.

He steps closer.

You straighten, taking a step back. Your ears press flat against your skull. 

Moon stops. Sun reaches one hand to you.

“Are you hurt? Did that woman hurt you?”

Your entire expression twitches. Half-frozen, poised to bolt like a deer startled by a hunter, you are unable to comprehend what fills their face-plates. Fury? Disgust? Fear? What do they see? What are they going to do? Does it change everything that they now know you are not the demure little dish you appeared to be but something capable of ripping a human’s heart out?

Will they hate you for what you’re not?

“Love?” Sun says and it almost breaks your heart. He steps forward with more confidence that you can stand. You wither and slink gracefully backwards, crowded into the corner as if a feral dog. You can’t stand how they look at you.

“It’s alright. There’s nothing to be scared of anymore,” Moon whispers in his terribly soft and low voice. 

They draw nearer, reaching for you. You almost snarl, emitting an inhuman growl but your voice is caught in your throat. Your tail brushes against the wall. There is nowhere else to go. The truth is right before them, and their optics are wide open.

Sun’s hand causes you to flinch slightly before he more firmly, but still with a gentleness, cups your head. His metallic digits gently support the back of your skull.

“Is this your blood or that woman’s? I need to know if you’re hurt,” Sun urges gently. “Please. It’s okay. You can tell us.”

Moon slips to your side like a shadow. His hand finds your arm, supporting it gently as he lifts it to examine your blood-covered hand. Dark, wicked claws gleam under the starlight. He doesn’t so much as balk at the sight of such deadly aspects. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth. You gaze at their faces. The half crescents that shadow their expressions are much lighter, as if filled with the celestial light from the heavens. Their eyes do not waver, they do not dart away nor widen in horror.

They only look at you.

“It’s her blood,” you give quietly.

“Ah,” Sun chuckles, “You don’t have a single mark on you, do you? She didn’t see it coming, I bet, and you know I’m a betting man.”

Your ears can hardly believe it. His gaze upon you is soft, admirable, and he continues to gently wipe away drops of blood upon your cheek with his thumb. He cradles you softly in his grasp, as if he finds you absolutely precious. As if nothing has changed.

“We didn’t even hear a scream,” Moon murmurs, as if marveling at the sheer amount of violence that took place. “How quickly did you silence her? Did she even know what was coming?”

Moon takes a handkerchief from his pocket, and begins to wipe at the blood dripping down your wrist and onto the sleeve of your expensive evening attire. He almost hums gently as he does so, an energy of pride radiating from underneath the brim of his fedora. 

Your mouth falls agape, at last allowing your fangs to show and your eyes to lift up to hold theirs. 

“If we had known you were so capable,” Sun continues, his voice filling with cheer, “we could have brought you into our fold far sooner. We wouldn’t have had to worry so much, would we, Moon?”

“Not so much,” Moon agrees in a husky dip of his voice. “You are far more than we could have realized.”

“Sun, Moon,” your voice cracks. What more lies can you tell? “I am not human.”

“Yes, I think the claw marks gave it away, my love,” Sun laughs, and the sound echoes softly within you. “You did quite a number on her. Imagine what you could do with us by your side.”

Sun tilts your chin upwards, and you let yourself soak in his hungry gaze. There is no fear. There is only the possibilities opening up before his very optics, and you can hardly believe it. It is a dream, and you are awake.

“Doll, you were always a cut above the rest.” Moon lifts your hand and he presses your knuckles to his silicon teeth. Blood smears on his grin. “Now we know that is a fact and not our own love-sickness talking.”

You sight softly, your heart aching with the relief of the truth now revealed. They see you now, and that is not a thing of fear or disgust, but of acceptance. You can be so much more. You can be so much more with them now.

“Are you two certain?” you whisper.

You must hear it. Your ears, not human, twist with apprehension. Your tail sinks low, twining around your legs as if it could be a shield to the threat of rejection.

Sun and Moon share a long glance that speaks a language you cannot decipher. Moon tilts his head, his eyes almost hidden underneath the shadow of his hat. His hand is gently as it wraps around your wrist and gives a light squeeze. Sun’s smile cracks open. His touch doesn’t leave you.

“As if we’d ever let you go,” Sun says, low with a danger that makes your heart heat and fills your veins with the richness of his promise.

“You look beautiful, but let’s get you cleaned up.” Moon gently wraps an arm around your waist. Your tail twitches slightly at the near brush of his sleeve, but he doesn’t miss a beat as he pulls you into his side. “We’ll have someone take care of this mess.”

Sun slots easily on your other side. You almost sink into the earth with the weight of their reassurance. They are not leaving you—just as you will not allow anyone to take them.

You float upon the wonder of it all. Down the alleyway, Sun and Moon take you as if holding the string of a kite, guiding you towards the road. You don’t even have a moment to fear that people will see you and your stunning tail before their long, sleek black car pulls up to the curb. With dinner concluded, you had hoped the evening wouldn’t end so early, but now you know that there is far more to do tonight with your loves.

They don’t release you, not for a moment. Stuffed into the backseat, Sun and Moon keep you locked between them. Sun’s hand falls down the length of your tail, admiring the silkiness of your thick fur as Moon’s fingertips brush against your hair then your large and pointed fox ears. You twitch under the sensitivity of hands upon you, touching you with an awe for your otherworldlyness without a trace of horror for the unknown.

You don’t even know what street you’re on when they pull up to a sizable home in an area that is well secure with money and influence. A hide-out. One of the many littering the city for the Celestial Gang.

Quickly, they take you by the elbows and guide you into the luxurious space. The floor is dark, shining wood and the living space is thick with leather couches and low-lit lamps, casting the room into the image of a speakeasy. Without hesitation, they guide you to the main bedroom, and there, an impressive bathroom leaves enough space for all three of you.

Sun sets you upon the edge of a grand bathtub. The porcelain is sleek and it smells faintly of white flowers.

Moon briefly disappears, and Sun stands before you. Gently, he finds the buttons of your blood-soaked clothes.

“Why did you kill her?” Sun’s voice is too pleased for such a question.

You look up at him. One of your ears twitched. 

“She touched your arm.” Your lips peel back over your teeth. “She looked at you like she could take a bite out of you.”

Sun’s optics flare brighter, resting on you. Your middle fills with heat at that look. Still, it doesn’t distract him from slipping the top of your ruined attire off of you, and you quickly shimmy out of the bottoms, which he takes in hand.

“I would have done the same,” he answers in kind, his smile deadly serious. “I would kill anyone who so much as thought of you.”

Your tail curls behind you before you touch his hand. He means it. You know when someone lies, and Sun and Moon do not lie to you.

“Give me just a moment, love,” Sun presses a kiss to the top of your head, between your ears, before he steps out of the bathroom. In his wake, Moon emerges. In his arms, he carries one of his shirts. A dark blue that he drapes over your shoulders. Before you can reach for the buttons, he takes them in his hands, and slowly begins working them together. He climbs up the shirt, pressed close to your beating heart. It hangs over your frame, oversized, but contrasting beautiful with the sleek orange of your tail.

“She looked horrible upon the ground,” Moon says quietly. “She looked like a wild animal caught her.”

You glower quietly, barely biting back your tongue when you mutter, “She deserved it.”

“I know.”

Your lips part at his soft voice. The red glow of his gaze slowly rises up your person as he finishes the last button, and there you are, in his shirt, smelling like midnight and musk. His hands don’t leave you, instead gliding to your shoulders to hold you before him.

“It would have ended much differently for her, if you weren’t there,” Moon continues, his expression fixated upon your eyes. “I could only think of you.”

A light clashes between you, one of red, and one of yellow. The magic of your eyes. 

“And now?” you whisper, full of yearning.

“I think of you, looking beautiful, while you take care of a threat.” His hand finishes the last button and lifts up to cup your chin. “I think of the blood, and how I wish I could have bore witness.”

You reach up and clutch his arm, holding tightly to him. 

“You are so dedicated to us,” Sun speaks as he enters. Your bloody clothing is gone. “Why don’t we show our love our own devotion, Moon?”

“With pleasure,” Moon growls in a low voice.

A certainty takes root within you. You open your arms to them. Sun immediately sweeps you up, carrying you in his embrace as if you were a doll instead of a dangerous creature with a tail and fangs and an appetite for claiming what is yours. 

In the bedroom, he sets you down. His kisses begin along your neck, peppering you with infectious energy that powers up the pulse in your throat. Moon is not far behind, for you feel his hands upon your legs, and the bed shifts as he leans forward to kiss your ankle. His mouth climbs higher and higher. His affections trail along your thigh before he rises upwards, looking down at you as he hooks your hips in his hand.

Sun and Moon orbit you. Your tail is restless as you itch to dive into their love.

And you think that you should have killed someone for them a lot sooner.

[aureatescars]

Sasha can see the way Leon bites his tongue against the —justified— reprimands going through his mind right now. They've been over this. And Sasha should know better; does know better. He half expects Leon to say something after all, but no. He lets him be, doesn't add another layer of misery on top of all his pain by scolding Sasha. He is grateful for it, like he is for so many other things. The fact that Leon sits with him for one, no sign of annoyance or frustration in his tone of voice or expression, and second, that Leon says he's going to help him with his exercises without Sasha even having to bring it up in the first place.

Something unwinds within him when Leon assures him he'll stay close by, going as far as saying he won't even stay out of his sight for long. Sasha smiles through his discomfort in response, even just this feeling like a chore at the moment. But despite it, the smile is genuine. "Thank you," he says. Not quite ready to tell Leon it's fine now. He doesn't have to stay around if he doesn't want to, because really, Sasha isn't entirely sure that it would be fine.

"I'm not sure about sleeping, but there won't be much else I'll be able to do but lie here and wait the pain out..." He sighs. "I won't be able to do any cooking today either, I don't think." He'll probably have to count himself lucky if he'll even be able to do as much as sit up later. Yet another thing Leon will have to take care of then... He fights the thought down. It's fine. Leon keeps telling him to rely in him. So, he should.

However, Leon's next admission makes Sasha's brow furrow. Although it's quickly followed by Leon explaining what he was up to and that he didn't just get more materials, but that he went as far as getting Sasha food he likes during his absence, too. "I'd like to try some... later." Sasha says, moved by Leon's care. He may still feel sick from the pain, but he hopes that, given a few hours, the nausea would pass. And from experience he knows that once it does, he'll be ravenous.

But with the matter of food set aside, the safe topics of conversation quickly fade away and Sasha is left to search his friend's face for clues. At the very least he finds the circles beneath his eyes less dark, but the line of worry between his brows persists and Sasha has a feeling that despite the rough start into the day he's had, and the current state he is in, he isn't the sole cause for Leon's mood. "Did it help?" He can't fathom what it is that haunts Leon in his dreams, but at the very least he knows of it now. And clearly Leon is rattled enough by what it was to not only disappear, but then bring it up in conversation again regardless. He's hurting, too. Not in the same way as Sasha, clearly, but enough that it warrants healing. Yet, he is still here for him in his pain, no questions asked. So, the least Sasha can do is offer the same in turn.

He shifts with a strained breath, and one of his hands reaches out from beneath the blanket. His fingers alight on the crook of Leon's arm. "Let's make a deal." He says, lips turning up at the corners ever so slightly when Leon's brows draw together in confusion, before his eyes beging to squint with slight suspicion. "If there is something you need. You'll tell me. And I will do the same." It's as straightforward as he can make it. Sasha still wants to make it abundantly clear that he doesn't think of Leon as his caretaker. He needs help, yes, and he's slowly learning to ask for it, too. But he has seen Leon struggle as well, and he wants to offer help, too. Wants to be there for him.

The moment he hears a car approaching form outside some tightness releases from within his shoulders. He did trust Leon to return, but even so he'd felt uneasy being alone in the cabin. He'd normally scrunch up his face at not being able to spend even an hour by himself. But helpless and in pain as he is, it only added to the discomfort.

Leon is with him within seconds of Sasha hearing the door of the car close. He sounds worried, his steps fast and heavy on the wooden flooring of the cabin and Sasha can hear his breathing is going a bit quicker by the time he finds him in his bed. There is a hint of relief on Leon's face, but it's overtaken by concern the moment their eyes meet. Sasha hasn't seen himself yet, but even just judging from the way his body is tight with pain and tension and he can feel cold sweat cling to his skin he reckons he doesn't make a pretty sight.

The fog that's been persistently weighing on his thoughts ever since he got off the phone with his doctor, head now buzzing with information, clears almost immediately when he feels Leon's hand run through his hair. His touch is warm and gentle and Sasha instinctively leans into it. Before he can think better of it, though, Leon is already pulling away again, only to return within the blink of an eye with water and a bottle of painkillers. The relief is palpable, even before Sasha makes an attempt at swallowing the pills. It's going to be okay now. He thinks, and the thought eases the tight anxious feeling in his gut. He moves slowly as he turns onto his back. Propping himself up is a chore which ultimately leaves his head spinning, but Leon is there to assist and soon enough Sasha is laying down again, sinking into the pillow, water set aside and both of them waiting for the painkillers to take effect.

He rakes his brain for the answer to Leon's question, the reasoning now muddled with about an hour of stewing in his own misery. He chews on his bottom lip, Leon's genuine concern and lack of anger far worse than if he had met Sasha with annoyance. "I wanted to give you some space." He says eventually, voice uncharacteristically small, gaze flitting to the side. "When I woke up and you were gone my first instinct was to assume—" His brows furrow, and he falls silent again. 'I doubted you again; before I found your note, so I... I didn't call, because it didn't feel right to."

He feels so foolish for his reaction now, and for doubting Leon in the first place. Again. "I — uh — panicked." He confesses, and clears his throat, swallowing around the shame that tightens it. "Which probably made all of this worse than it needed to be." He sighs wearily, but doesn't manage to meet Leon's eyes again just yet.

The index finger and thumb of one hand begin fidgeting against the fabric of the blanket, trying to keep his breathing even and his muscles relaxed in hopes of circumventing another flare of pain. "But I called my doctor." He says then. "I told him ...loosely, about what happened." The latter part he adds when he senses Leon tense beside him. Sasha's memory is a bit hazy about what transpired last night, and he didn't tell his doctor all of it, nor did he even mention the precise circumstances which led to Sasha's extended walking around.

"He didn't even sound the least bit excited about my progress, only worried about the repercussions..." Of course, there is the fact that Sasha can't even do so much as wiggle his toes today without immediately regretting it when all of his nerve endings fire alarm signals up his spine, but he'd hoped it to be a good sign, rather than the opposite. "He had quite a few suggestions about exercises I should do once I feel better, though." Sasha scrunches up his face, not in pain but rather in discontent. "And then he scolded me for not taking my meds...again." Even if it wasn't voluntary this time. The matter of his meds is a conversation that happened before. He'd heard the same thing from his doctor, his nurse and his physical therapist. But none of them understood what it felt like to feel absolutely nothing from the waist down. He'd take the pain over that numbness any day, even if it meant gritting his teeth through the worst of it, or feeling like throwing up. Plus, it had never really been as bad as it is right now, not since he made it through the first few days after the surgery at least.

Suddenly, there is a tightness to his throat that has nothing to do with pain and everything with the fact that he can actually feel it when Leon reaches out and tucks the blanket a little tighter around him, his touch firm and then lingering by his thigh when Sasha speaks up again. "Don't tell me he's right." Sasha says quietly, at last looking up at Leon again, fighting to keep his expression neutral as he takes in the comcern in bright blue eyes. His fingers curl tightly into the blanket. He blinks a few times to get rid of the moisture forming at the corners of his eyes as he tries and fails to keep his voice light when continuing on. "I don't think I can handle that right now."

It's all so frustrating, not being able to trust his own body, his strength and abilities, not even his feelings, as he looks up at Leon and wants nothing more than to—

All of it has become one big tangled mess. He clears his throat and rubs a hand over his face next. The lack of absolute agony as his muscles shift fills him with some hope that the worst has passed and he will feel like himself again within the hour. His next exhale still comes on a waver. "It should be better soon." He says, a bit strained, but now that Leon is back at the cabin where Sasha can at least hear him move around he already feels a lot better than when it was just him. "Sorry you had to see this."

[honeymelonpm]

A Light in The Dark

Fantastic Four x Reader (Platonic, Yandere)

Description: You sneak out to go dancing, but Johnny finds you.

A/N: Very open to feedback, also please let me know if I'm not using the term 'Yandere' correctly.

Warnings: Unhealthy platonic relationships, Yandere Behaviour

You had been careful and discreet, waiting late into the night before tiptoeing out of your room to search for H.E.R.B.I.E. . You had expected to find them in the kitchen, washing up dishes from Johnny's endless late night snacks.

Instead, the familiar echoes of whirring and beeps slipped through the crack in the lab doors.

Your fingers were tightly hooked around the straps of your polished blue heels, keeping them dangled behind your back as you peaked through the crack in the doors.

Reed's golden flecked tie was loosened around his neck as he leant back against his desk, staring in deep thought at the egg waiting patiently on the bridge. H.E.R.B.I.E. approaching him with a fire extinguisher before he attempts his experiment.

Barefoot on the tiles, you quicky but lightly stepped away from the doors and towards the stairs.

Finally, you were here. The music was electric, possessive, bewitching your feet as you tapped, shuffled and twisted across the dance floor.

The stinging layer of tobacco smoke that arose had long since blocked out all the ceiling lights, the rainbow reflections of the disco ball just barely peeking through.

You tap your cigarette over one of the many green ash trays at the bar, waiting patiently for the bar tender to pour you a glass of beer. You would have preferred a glass of white wine, but it was an extra two dollars too many.

Searching around the crowded club from your cushioned plaid seat at the bar, you can barely make out the figures that seem to swim through the darkness in an evermoving current. Bringing the half smoked cigarette back to your lips, an almost dying light catches your eye from the corner of the room. The haze wafts past, allowing you to see a little clearer the flame of a tea light candle, dancing along the fingers of a shadow, reflecting itself off the glass of a familiar looking wrist watch.

The shadow's fingers pinch the flame, snuffing it out, and the realization hits you.

You don't know where the figure went until the screen of the wrist watch flashes abruptly by their side, giving away their sudden position at the other end of the bar.

You drop your cigarette into the tray, not worrying to stub it out as you stagger off the stool and into the crowd. Brief flickers of light from the billboards in the street try to light your way, but there's too many people blocking your exit.

Shoving through a small group of people, you keep your head down until a door swings open close by as someone leaves, the blinking yellowed bathroom light seemingly luring you to safety.

The click of your heals bounce off the grimy tiled walls, you lock yourself in a cubicle, squatting on the closed porcelain lid of a toilet you're sure hasn't been cleaned in over a month.

You refuse to hold onto the walls for stability, deciding to just hug your legs and hope you don't lose your balance.

A few quiet moments pass, the deafening music unexpectedly being well muffled by the thick walls of the restroom.

The false sense of security, the thought that maybe you got away is squashed as soon as the door slowly squeaks open, followed by one, two, three steps, the figures shadow now painted against the other side of the cubicle door, leaking onto the tiles below.

"Sparky?"

The world blurs momentarily as fresh tears blanket across your eyes.

"Sparky, I know you're in there." His tone isn't sinister, it never is. He always spoke to you as if you were a frightened stray, trying to gain your trust.

In a desperate attempt to cool things down, you try to tell a lie, "Sue said-"

"No she didn't, and if she finds out you're putting words in her mouth she won't be very happy now will she?" His black leather boots are visible from the gap beneath the door, unmoving.

"Open the door, it's time to go home."

Eyes transfixed on the lock, you want so badly to just unlock the door and face him, knowing very well he will just find another way in, but your body doesn't move, It can't.

"I'm not going to ask you again Sweetheart."

A few moments pass, before the metal lock grows radiant. With an unearthly ease, the previously solid lock, drips thickly onto the floor. The reddening glow of intense heat won't die for hours to come.

With the door creaking open, your gaze stays on the pool of hot metal.

He doesn't step past the threshold of the door, not wanting to heighten your anxiety further. He's controlling, but rarely is he invasive.

"If we don't leave soon Reed might be woken up by another one of his brilliant ideas, and I don't think you want him to find out that you're not in bed, right?" He tries to catch your eyeline, his eyes riddled with pity.

Reluctantly, you let Johnny take you back home, your bare feet softly landing on the balcony tiles, your blue heels back in your grip.

His body extinguishes in an instant as he lands behind you, the warmth can still be felt in his hand as he places it on your back, escorting you inside.

Rushing quietly across the living room rug, you pray the stench of tobacco doesn't waft off you and linger in the air.

"Where were you?" Sue materialises out of thin air, her body resting against the plush orange sofa with a deceiving comfort.

Your body freezes, not with the cosmic energy that flows through her, but with the paralyzing fear that flows through you.

Her eyes stay trained on yours as she asks Johnny, "Where was she?"

He wishes you just stayed in your room.

"She was at Earle's Lounge, she wasn't their long and she wasn't in any danger," He speaks quickly, trying to soften the blow.

Her chest rises and falls three times before she gestures for you to come over, "Come here honey."

Approaching with obvious hesitance, you put your shoes down on the tile, then sit next to her.

With a sudden feeling of fatigue, your body naturally rests in her arms. She cradles your head, cheek resting on her breast as she tries her hardest to ignore the stink of cigarette.

"I'm sorry."

She smiles with sympathy, one hand holding the back of your head, the other rubbing your back, "I know, I'm going to run you a bath, there's just something we have to do first."

You pull my head away, but before you can ask anything, Reed comes into view, his lips pursed with irritation and upset, a newly built wrist watch in his hand.

"Reed feels it necessary that you have one of these." Sue said casually, as if you had a choice to wear it.

He kneels down before you, never making eye contact.

You hold your wrists to your chest, "Please, I'm sorry, I won't do it again, I promise."

A heavy silence fills the air, heavy on everyone's shoulders. No one wants this, Reed doesn't get satisfaction from doing things like this, but he doesn't know what else to do. "Give me your hand."

Biting your lower lip, you try to keep them from trembling, tears once again pooling in your eyes, but this time they spill.

Sue kisses your temple as she gently holds your hand out to Reed, and you don't fight it, maybe you can't fight it.

Reed fastens the watch around your wrist, and you're surprised to see it has a regular clasp.

He finally looks at you, not letting go of your hand, "I will know if you try to take this off, do you understand?"

The thought of disappointing anyone made you upset, but you hated disappointing Reed and Sue the most, "I'm so sorry."

He doesn't say anything as he stands up, leaving you in Sue's arms.

Johnny steps forward, taking his hands out of his pockets to cup your cheeks. "I'm sorry duck", he kisses your forehead, petting your head briefly before he heads to his room.

Sue draws you a bath and before long you find yourself tucked in their comically oversized bed, trapped between the two.

Reed sleeps close to you but faces the other way, Sue runs her fingers through your freshly washed hair, a buzz humming in your head, lulling you to sleep.

[the-enhanced-project]

‎‧₊˚✧ 1.1 ✧˚₊‧

next | navigation

Hello everyone and welcome to the first chapter of the first act of The Enhanced!

This is kind of a preview for what’s to come, released early as a thank you for 100 followers, and chapters will go back on hiatus after this until I finish writing act one. After that, chapters will come out on Friday’s at 4pm EST.

Thank you all for following along on the creation of this project, be sure to check out my pinned post for extra information, and drop a follow if you want to stay updated!

Word Count: 1254.

Warnings: swearing, alcohol mentions (majority of chapter takes place in a bar, but no alcohol is physically drunken).

-⚠︎-

Thursday, September 4th, 8:05 PM. Fort Essex, Oregon.

Why am I here?

The words floated around inside of Anya’s mind like the logo of a disc player as she stood in the parking lot of The Sine, a local downtown bar. The ‘E’ had burnt out, leaving it to be read as ‘The Sin’.

Fitting.

She knew the surface level answer to her question, of course. Her job, her bosses, ERGO—the organization dedicated to protecting and monitoring the people who were born....different.

Superpowers. People with superpowers. The Enhanced.

She let out a breath and shifted her gaze down to the file in her lap.

The text, written in pitch black pen, read Charlotte Barak - 22 - suspected Enhanced person. Then was basic, yet limited information. Only what they could gather from her college records—she was basically nonexistent on the internet. What person wasn't on the internet nowadays?

The file accompanied by a photo—probably an older one. A girl no older than nineteen, holding a medal from a won basketball game triumphantly in one hand, grinned at the camera, golden brown eyes shining.

Anya knew that, all things considered, her goal was relatively simple: get close to this girl, find out what information she could without raising suspicion, and relay it to her superiors.

That was where her issue arose, though. She was never great at undercover missions—curse her inability to lie to people without feeling like she wanted to rip her skin off. Alas, this was too important, and she loved her job.

They wouldn’t normally go to such lengths for one enhanced who want in active danger or a danger to others. But.. there were special circumstances at play here.

Finally, Anya stood. She carefully hid the file away in the side bag of her motercyle—she had no idea how she’d explain it if some innocent bystander walked past and saw it just sitting there. Oh yeah! I just enjoy stalking random bartenders! Don't mind me!

She trudged through the door, and suddenly felt like the opening to a bad joke. A college student who secretly works for the government walks into a bar.

What was her life?

-✦-

Anya had to bite her lip to avoid wincing at the scent of alcohol that rushed her as soon as she walked in. She lingered by the door for a few moments, gaze sweeping the area.

It was a smaller bar, not very crowded. One the far left was a set of windows looking out to the street, a few tables and chairs strewn around. In the middle there was the bar itself, and then on the right there was a small strange for what she could assume to be live music.

Behind the counter, a girl with warm brown skin stood mixing up a drink. She wore a white collared shirt, rolled up neatly to her elbows, under a black button up vest—typical fancy bartender uniform, even though the building sat on one of the older street corners. Not that it was a bad neighborhood, just not the typical fancy, white collar, brand new area that would warrant that kind out outfit.

Anya recognized her immediately, and tried to keep herself casual as she strode over and assumed a seat nearest to the window.

She was tall, well built, with short brown hair tied back in a tiny ponytail at the nape of her neckShe was…. normal., with a few strands hanging loosely over her forehead. She looked… shockingly normal.

This was the girl who—allegedly—had connections to the man who had killed a bunch of enhanced kids a few months back? She just looked like any other college student trying to make ends meet. Hell, she looked like someone Anya might have been friends with.

Once again a spike of guilt rose up inside of her. They could’ve been actual friends, but instead she was here pretending to be friendly for information. She felt so.. fake. It was horrible.

“What can I get for you?” She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed the girl in question walk over.

“Um—” Get it together. “Just a Pepsi, please.”

“Hm. Not often we get costumers asking for non-alcohol.”

“I’d assume so,” Anya said, “it is a bar.”

This earned a laugh—or really, a small exhale. A success was a success.

“Nah,” She continued “I don’t drink much.”

The girl gave her a quizzical look. “Then why come here?”

It suddenly occurred to her that she did not in fact have an excuse to for being here. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit.

“My little brother’s band plays here sometimes.” She blurted out, and instantly regretted it. It wasn’t a complete lie, Kai was in a band, they did play at local restaurants and bars often. Have they ever played at this one? Fuck no.

Charlie cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re here out of obligation?”

Anya snorted, taking a long sip to give herself time to figure out a reply. “No, no. Just getting a lay of the land, I guess, before class.”

The taller girl opened her mouth to reply, but someone was already waving her down. “Well, duty calls. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.” She gave Anya a nod, and moved away.

Anya frowned. Well that was a frustratingly short and meaningless conversation.

Though, she supposed any contact was good contact. Gaining people’s trust took time—especially when that person was a complete and total stranger.

Gray—ERGO’s working director—had made it clear how important this was, and told her to do anything within reason to get information, even if it meant being a little bit of a stalker.

That felt… weird, though. Like she as stooping to a level she didn’t think she was okay with.

She finished her drink and headed for the door. Sorry Gray, she was going to take this slow and hold onto her morals.

“I’ll see you around, then.”

As she stepped out of the door, her phone vibrated.

1 NEW MESSAGE.

>Mission report?

Anya sighed and typed up a message back that would hopefully buy her enough time to get her thoughts in order.

>I’ll call you in 15.

-✦-

As soon as she made it back to her apartment, she collapsed onto her bed with a groan.

Day one, not great. She had one successful conversation with Charlie, and got zero useful information. Yay! Great job, Anya!

Before she could start fully wallowing, her phone rang.

“Soooo how’s your first day going?” Adam, her best friend and co-worker said.

“Shit.” She groaned.

“Thought so.”

“I freaked and told her Kai and his band play there soon and I was ‘getting a lay of the land’.”

"And what happens when he never does?”

“…”

“Didn’t think that far, did you?”

“Fuck.”

“Okay, it's okay! We can fix this! Just like.. Tell him you got him a gig or whatever, and make him find a day to play there! Then they’ll be none the wiser.”

“..and if he can’t?”

“Then she’s gonna start getting suspicious of you and your mission will go to shit and you’ll lose your job.”

“Very helpful.” Anya deadpanned “Remind me why I'm reporting to you and not Gray again, asshole?”

“They’re busy. Anti-Enhanced riot broke out downtown.”

“Oh, shit.” She sat up. “Do I need to come help out?”

“They’ve got it under control, focus on your mission!”

Anya groaned. “Focus on yours, mister ‘city’s star hero’!” she argued.

“I am. Unlike someone.”

“Asshole.”

It was going to be a long few weeks, wasn’t it?

-⚠︎-

Annndddd that’s it! This one was really exposition heavy but I promise that the plot starts to kick in gear by chapter two !!!!!

Please let me know what you think, constructive criticism is always appreciated!! My inbox is always open if you wanna yell about the story to me :3

Tag List

(Ask to be added)

@corinneglass @eon-tries-writing @soulsartuniverse @ark-inkweaving @nykenima

@mymomsaysbobcipher @houndsofcorduff @leahnardo-da-veggie @inspirationallybored @traderotales

@rebelcracker-s @elronthemage @icantthinkofablognameatm @blargh-500 @chaos-ducks

@seastarblue @overwhelmedfernfrond @purple-dinosaur17 @tayrn-everwood

[prettycalla]

|| auxilium ||

Pairing: Geta/Reader, background Geta/Reader/Caracalla

Summary: How can Geta possibly resist reading your mind when your thoughts are so enticing?

Word count: 2.5k

Tags and warnings: Vampire AU, smut (kind of 'blink and you'll miss it', but still fairly obvious!), mentions of blood and injury, Geta has psychic abilities, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(I've been itching to get back to my little vampire AU! This time, I wanted to give Geta and Caracalla their own separate stories. You don't have to read the first two fics, but it might help for a little more context! You can find them here and here.)

Geta Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

If Geta were to make an argument in his own defence, the manner in which things unfolded was not entirely his fault.

No, if he were to lay blame upon anyone, it would be you.

After all, how can he possibly be blamed for his actions, when you are the one having such vulgar thoughts?

The first time it happens, it is early in the morning. Geta has a meeting with the Senate, and so he has already risen and is in the process of dressing for the day. He is no longer as fond of the morning light as he once was - if he is not careful, too much exposure to Apollo in all his glory will leave him stricken with unbearable sickness.

Which is why he has left Caracalla as he is, fast asleep and sprawled across the bed with his limbs splayed in every direction. Geta has quite enough to contend with as it is, without his brother complaining of illness the entirety of the morning.

You were roused from your own slumber as Geta had quietly slipped from the bed, and now you lie next to Caracalla, your head lazily propped up by your hand as you watch Geta go about his routine.

He is still in his sleeping robe, and thinking that he is the only one awake, has not bothered to tie it properly, leaving much of his chest exposed.

He feels it first. A warm, roiling sensation in the pit of his stomach. It is not unpleasant, but it comes to him unbidden, and he is quick to realise that this feeling is not his.

Then he sees it. An image in his mind’s eye, of you, pulling his robe from him. Your soft hands trailing along his shoulders, down the length of his broad arms, across the expanse of his chest.

He turns to you then, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. You are feigning sleep, your hand partially obscuring your face.

He clicks his tongue, and sees you jolt at the sudden sound. His smile only widens.

“As beautiful as you would be on the stage, mea lux, you are a terrible actress,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear without disturbing Caracalla.

It is another moment before you move, slowly peeking between your fingers to reluctantly meet his gaze.

“Forgive me,” you call softly, “You are very distracting as you are.”

Geta feels his face flush. How strange it is, that such kind words are what leave him so flustered. He shakes his head fondly.

“You would blame me for your obscene thoughts?” he asks.

He teases; he cannot help it, when you react as beautifully as you do. As expected, your eyes widen, and you hide your face once more.

Geta crosses the room to you, gently prying your hands away from your face. He places a kiss to the back of one, then the other, before allowing himself to give into the temptation of kissing you on the lips.

It is a brief stay, and he forces himself to pull away from you before he is tempted further. He lingers for just a moment; at last turning back to his forgotten task.

“Do try to behave yourself,” he says softly, gathering his belongings as he turns to the door. “I will return before long.”

He decides it best to finish dressing in another room - for both your sakes.

It is then that Caracalla rouses, grumbling as he sleepily wraps his arms around your waist and drags you closer to him.

Geta rolls his eyes, taking that as his cue to leave.

Jealousy is not something that he often experiences with his brother. He is very aware that he has been granted a great many more privileges, although he does find himself longing for a little of Caracalla’s free spirit at times.

You, however…

He would be lying if he said that he does not wish to have you for himself. But who is he to question the Fates?

As of late, he has been doing his utmost to block your thoughts from his mind as best he can. Before, it did not bother him in the slightest. His strange ability is a gift granted to him by the Gods, whatever right would he have to deny himself the use of it?

He is unable to read his brother’s thoughts; for this, he is grateful. It would be a wasted effort, in any case, as Caracalla has never been able to keep even the smallest of his thoughts to himself. Geta sometimes feels as though he knows Caracalla's mind better than he knows his own.

With you, however, it is a struggle. How is he to stop himself, when he wishes to know every part of you?

But he is learning to allow you privacy. It is a rare thing for an Emperor to place trust in anyone, and yet he finds himself learning to trust you. You have shown him no reason to be wary, and more often than not, what you say and what you think are in alignment. And he cannot deny the effect you have had on Caracalla. His moods have become far more predictable of late, and Geta is thankful for this.

You are the only one who has ever gotten so close to either of them, and lived to tell the tale. Not that you ever would; you had vehemently sworn yourself to secrecy. Not that a soul would believe you, in any case.

Geta and Caracalla have vowed that they will not make you their sole source of sustenance, as it will only lead to ruin. This, at least, they have been able to agree on.

The matter of turning you, however, has caused a great many arguments between them, and left Geta with as many headaches. At the very least, they have agreed not to speak a word of it to you for now, leaving you none the wiser.

Geta derives little pleasure from seeking out other sources to sustain himself nowadays, but needs must.

He will become a danger otherwise, and he cannot allow that.

He and his brother feed together. Geta finds that it is easier that way. He knows where he is, and that he is not with you. Even in life, Caracalla struggled with keeping his urges under control, and he has only grown more difficult in this between-worlds state they now find themselves in.

As he proves all too readily that evening. Caracalla wipes his mouth haphazardly against his robe, as another body is drained to the very brink of death. Geta, by contrast, has yet to feed, his nose wrinkled in annoyance at his brother's behaviour.

Caracalla laughs at him, bloodstained teeth glinting in the candlelight.

"Save your judgment, brother," he says, lithe fingers plucking at yet another proffered wrist and bringing it to his mouth. "You are as much of a beast as I."

Geta scoffs in irritation. A beast? Hardly. He has decorum. There is no hope in winning this particular battle, however, as Caracalla simply does not care.

He never has. How Geta envies him.

He drops his gaze to the woman sitting at his feet, who has been doing her utmost to draw his attention to her since he arrived. He almost pities her. Perhaps, under different circumstances, he may have wanted to give her the attention she so desperately desires. As it stands, she is a means to an end, and no more.

He leans back where he sits, opening himself up for her to climb into his lap. She is so eager to please, poor little thing.

It is then that he feels it again. That warmth in the pit of his stomach. At first, he assumes it is emanating from the woman in front of him.

But it feels...familiar.

It is one he has experienced before.

He tries to keep himself focused on the task at hand, but he cannot. The feeling only grows in intensity, until it threatens to overwhelm him entirely.

It is all too easy for him to seek out its source.

This is not a breach of your privacy, he is quick to reason with himself, as you are driving him to distraction.

This, he will insist, you have brought upon yourself.

You lay in bed, alone in your shared chambers. He would have expected you to be asleep at such a late hour, but on occasion, you surprise him.

As you have now. You are not asleep at all; quite the opposite. The bedcovers have been pushed to the side, the fabric of your sleep robes haphazardly dragged up to your hips. One hand lies by your head, lax and unmoving, while the other…

This is entirely unlike you, mea lux.

The sharp gasp that greets him in response is as clear as if it were breathed against his ear.

He smiles to himself.

Is this how you pass the time when you are alone? Perhaps I was wrong to allow you so much privacy. I have obviously been depriving myself of such…interesting entertainment.

He is met with embarrassed silence, but those feelings still very much persist.

By all means, do not stop on my account. I could certainly use the pleasant distraction.

Once again, he is met with silence. He thinks that perhaps he has pushed you too far, and then-

He bites his lower lip, hard, to stifle the sound that threatens to escape him. Slowly, tentatively, your hand has continued, as though you were not interrupted.

I wonder, do you indulge yourself in this manner every time you are left alone? Do we not take good enough care of you?

At last, you speak. Your thoughts are fragmented, broken. Geta is thoroughly enjoying every one of them.

“N-No, that is not it at all…”

Another rush of warmth travels the length of Geta, and he cannot help but shudder at its intensity.

Then what is it?

“I cannot sleep…I had hoped that perhaps…”

There is such an innocence in how you speak to him, in spite of what you have been caught doing.

Perhaps you might tire yourself out? You do not seem to be trying very hard. Although, I suppose I may have distracted you. Allow me to offer you my assistance.

His hunger is forgotten, for the time being. He does so enjoy toying with you. It would drive him to ruin, if he were a weaker man.

Particularly as you are now. So unguarded, so compromised. It thrills him in a way that little else does.

His eyes close, letting distraction fall away, as he focuses entirely on you. How you sound, how you feel, emanating in waves through him. How you might taste...

He swallows thickly.

If only you could feel what I do in this very moment, mea lux. I am at a loss for words to describe it. How I wish to be the one pulling those sweet sounds from your throat, but as I am, I fear that I would lose myself entirely to more...baser urges.

A tiny sound, akin to a whimper, is all he receives in reply, but it speaks volumes. How it fills him with such pride, to reduce you to this.

I do not know if I would be able to control myself in your presence. Does that frighten you? Or perhaps...

Geta pauses. You have not once stopped, and with smug satisfaction, he realises that those feelings are only growing stronger, more fervid in your need.

Perhaps you find it enticing. You think, because I have held my tongue, that I do not see how you have attempted to goad me into losing my temper on occasion. You should be grateful that it has not worked.

He falters. It is difficult to think, so affected by your desire as he is. His hunger cannot be ignored any longer. He must feed.

He must draw this little game to a close.

He opens his eyes, allowing his attention to be drawn to the woman in his lap. It is now that he notices how she trembles, and he brings a hand to her face, as if to soothe her. If his eyes were not as sharp as they are, he might pretend that it is you.

He draws her closer, brushing her hair from her bare shoulder. She tilts her head back, allowing him access to her neck. He releases a deep, shuddering breath, and the tension within his body feels as though it might consume him.

His fangs slowly lengthen, his mouth salivating as he feels you draw ever closer to the relief you so fervidly chase.

He hears a stammer of his name, a mere whisper of a sound, and another rush of warmth washes over him.

Wait.

The command is snarled, as at last, the calm façade is abandoned. He cannot deny himself any longer. This bloodlust will surely drive him to lunacy.

And yet...

You will not move again until I say so. Is that clear?

You do not reply, but he knows, at least, that you have obeyed. Your hand lies still.

Do not make me repeat myself. Or I will not touch you again, not until I decide that you are worthy of it. And do not think of crying to Caracalla, for he will not listen to you either. I will make sure of it.

He is met with the most pitiful sound.

"I-I have not moved, I promise," you insist shakily.

And you will not, not until I have given you permission.

You manage a hum in agreement, and he cannot help but smile. The power that he wields over you is intoxicating. It takes everything in him at times not to misuse it.

Good girl. Now then...

He leans forward, fingers digging into taut skin as his mouth opens.

You were close, were you not?

You do not have to answer him, he can tell. It is overwhelming, this feeling; as though he can feel every sensation, every nerve ending. It is like nothing he has ever experienced.

Do not keep me waiting, mea lux. Fall apart for me.

You are right on the brink when he strikes, sinking his teeth into the neck held tight by his trembling hands. She is not you, not even close, but having that connection to you in this very moment, it is…

He is without words.

He feels you slip into the warm afterglow that follows, as he greedily takes his fill. Truly, the only thing that would make it all the sweeter would be if it were you in his arms.

It takes everything in his power to draw himself away, to stop before it is too late. His chest heaves as he collapses against the cushions at his back, his tongue running languidly across the length of his upper lip.

It is some time before he is able to move again. His movements are sluggish, almost drunken in their unsteadiness.

Even so, he finds himself eager to return to you. While his hunger may have been sated, he has still been left wanting.

You have left him wanting.

And the night is still young, after all. 

Taglist: @lover-rep-fanfic @x-vadon @dubiousmetamorphosis @hikohyuuga @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @bib200 @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto @magikdarkholme @spider-starry @jeangeniex @hazydespair @alexxavicry @mystic-alpaca

(You can join the taglist here! You can also request to be removed through the same form!)

[amaris-whisperer]

His Smile was a Lie l Superman x Kryptonian!Reader

Pairing: Superman x Kryptonian!Reader Genre:Angst, dark AU, romance, slow burn Warnings: Injury, death, emotional hurt, grief, slow-burning trust issues Summary: He’s Superman to the world. But to you, he’s the man who saved your brother from the rubble, only for your brother to die of injuries hours later. You blame him. When Clark meets you years later as a reporter, he doesn’t recognize you. But you do. And when he starts falling for you, you have to choose: forgiveness or revenge.

-- I will never forget the day my brother died.

The city was heavy with smoke and the wail of sirens filled every corner. It was one of those days when the world felt fragile, as if even the sky was trembling and ready to break apart. Near the financial district, a building suddenly collapsed without any warning. The sound was like a thunderclap, deep and violent, swallowing the streets and leaving nothing but dust and chaos.

I was just a few blocks away when it happened.

That morning, my brother had been running late for work. I remember the last message he sent me: “Almost there. See you soon.” Those words now haunt me because they were the last I ever received from him.

As the building gave way, panic swept through the streets. People screamed, scattered, and ran for safety. Without thinking, my feet carried me toward the rubble. My heart pounded so hard it felt like a warning drum beating in my chest. Then I saw him...the man the world called Superman.

He came down through the thick smoke like a shadow wrapped in light. His cape snapped sharply behind him. He moved with a quiet strength, calm and sure. His hands, capable of crushing steel, delicately reached into the wreckage and pulled out survivors. Among those he rescued was my brother.

I watched helplessly as he lifted my brother from the ruins, cradling him like a frightened child. In that moment, there was a flicker of hope in my chest, or so I believed.

But hours later, my brother was gone.

The doctors said his injuries were too severe. They told me there was nothing more anyone could do.

Still, I could not erase the image of the man in the cape from my mind.

He had taken my brother from the rubble but he had not saved him.

And for that, I hated him. -- Years passed, and the city kept moving forward. Newspapers filled their pages with stories of Superman’s heroics. People celebrated him as a god, a symbol of hope who could do the impossible. They worshipped the man in the cape, lifted him up as the savior of their world. But I could not forget the hollow moment in that rescue. The promise that had been broken, the hope that had slipped away with my brother’s last breath.

I chose to keep my distance from the world, to bury my pain beneath layers of work. I threw myself into journalism, chasing stories that mattered, searching for truth in a city often clouded by lies. It was the only refuge I had, a place where I could hold onto some control, even if my heart was still shattered.

Then one day, Clark Kent arrived at the Daily Planet.

He was new. Fresh-faced and unsure. A mild-mannered reporter with a nervous smile that seemed so different from the image of Superman I had come to resent. Yet, something about him stirred memories I had locked away, memories I thought time had erased.

I knew exactly who he was.

But he did not know me.

From across the busy newsroom, I watched him. The way he listened to others with quiet kindness. The way he made people feel seen and heard. It was difficult to reconcile this gentle man with the symbol of power I had once cursed in my grief.

Our first real conversation happened by accident.

“Hey,” he said one morning, pushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “I’m Clark. I think you’re new here.”

I nodded, swallowing a lump that formed in my throat. “I’m Y/N.”

His smile was simple. It did not quite reach his eyes, but it was sincere.

“I’ve heard good things about your work,” he said.

“Thanks.”

We spoke briefly after that, carefully and slowly. He asked about the stories I was working on. When he tried to learn more about me, I deflected, unwilling to let him see past the walls I had built. The distance between us was invisible, but it felt thick and heavy.

Still, Clark did not give up.

He spoke about his love for the city and his desire to make a difference in whatever small way he could. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to let myself hope. But the weight of my past held me firmly in place, a chain I could not break. -- One evening, after a long day filled with deadlines and the steady hum of the newsroom, Clark asked if I wanted to grab coffee. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, and I found myself saying yes. Part of me was curious about the man who had quietly entered my world. Part of me, buried beneath years of anger and loss, wanted to see the person behind the cape. Maybe, just maybe, I needed to understand him better.

We found a small café tucked away on a quiet street, its windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. The noise of the city felt distant, softened by the thick glass. It was a refuge from the chaos, a space where words could come easier.

Clark spoke first, his voice low and sincere. He told me about his childhood in Kansas—the endless fields, the simple life he had known before everything changed. He talked about his dreams, his hope to make the world better, even when it felt impossible. I listened quietly, my heart caught between hope and pain, unsure of what to believe.

After a pause, he looked at me with an uncertainty that softened his features. “I want to ask you something,” he said carefully. “Do you… do you believe in forgiveness?”

I let out a bitter laugh that surprised even me. “Forgiveness?” I repeated. “That depends on the person. And the wound.”

He lowered his gaze to his hands resting on the table, his fingers tapping nervously against the rim of his coffee cup. “I made mistakes,” he admitted. “I couldn’t save everyone.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered, “I know.”

His eyes lifted to meet mine again, searching, vulnerable. “Do you hate me?”

I couldn’t meet his gaze. I looked away, the weight of everything I had buried threatening to surface. “No,” I lied.

But deep down, the truth was there. It was hidden beneath the layers of grief, anger, and hope, waiting to be faced. --

Over the course of several weeks, we grew closer in ways I never expected. Clark began to share pieces of himself that I had never imagined existed beneath the surface of the symbol he had become. He spoke quietly about his fears, the loneliness that came with carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. The legend was only part of him. Beneath it all was a man struggling with the burden of being more than human. I found myself sharing fragments of my own guarded heart, the pain and grief I had held inside for so long. I wanted to hate him with every fiber of my being, but every time he smiled, every time he showed me kindness or tenderness, the grip of my anger started to loosen.

One night, after we had spent hours talking, I finally found the courage to confront him. My voice was fragile and broken, barely more than a whisper. “Why didn’t you save him?”

He looked stunned by my question. His eyes searched mine with a mixture of pain and helplessness. “Y/N, I tried,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I swear I tried. But some things… some things I can’t fix.”

A part of me wanted to scream at him, to curse him for the unbearable pain that had never left me. But instead, the words came out quietly, raw and aching. “He was my brother.”

Without hesitation, he reached out and gently brushed a tear from my cheek. The touch was soft and careful, as if afraid to break what little remained of my heart.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

That moment marked the first time I heard real regret in his voice, regret that was not part of a carefully maintained image or a public facade. It was honest and real, and it shook something deep inside me. -- That night, as the city outside settled into quiet darkness, I found myself standing at a crossroads I had tried to avoid for years. The weight of everything pressed down on me. The pain, the loss, the anger that had become a constant companion suffocated me. I realized I had a choice to make, a decision that would shape not only my future but the way I carried the past.

Could I forgive the man who had been both a hero and a failure in my eyes? The man who had lifted my brother from the rubble but could not save him from death? Could I find it within myself to release the bitterness that had settled deep in my bones?

Or would I continue to let my grief chain me to hatred, allowing it to consume me and harden my heart forever?

I closed my eyes and let memories flood in. I saw my brother as he had been before tragedy struck. I saw the boy with laughter that filled the room, with dreams that reached beyond the limits of our small world, with promises whispered in the quiet moments we shared. Those dreams and laughter now felt like ghosts, shadows of a life that could have been.

Then my thoughts shifted to Clark. To the man who carried kindness beneath the weight of endless guilt. The man who bore a burden too heavy for any one person to carry. I remembered the softness in his eyes, the quiet way he carried his struggles, the moments when he seemed almost human despite the legend surrounding him.

Maybe forgiveness was not about erasing the past or pretending that wounds never existed. Maybe it was something quieter and more difficult, or something like letting go. Letting go of the bitterness, the pain, the need for revenge. Letting go so that I could finally breathe again and find peace within myself.

That night, I chose to try. --

We never spoke of that night again. The words hung unspoken between us, like a delicate thread that neither of us dared to pull. Yet, something subtle and undeniable shifted in the space between us. It was not a sudden transformation, but a quiet change that grew with each passing day.

A fragile trust began to take root where suspicion and pain had once lived. It was tentative, like the first green shoots of spring pushing through cold earth after a long winter. Neither of us rushed it. We simply allowed it to exist, small and uncertain but real.

Along with that trust came a tentative hope. A feeling that maybe the future could hold more than the weight of loss and regret. Maybe it was possible to heal, even if just a little.

His smile, which had once felt like a lie to me. A mask hiding the man I could never forgive slowly transformed. It became genuine, warm, something that reached into the quiet corners of my heart. It was no longer a symbol of what I had lost, but a sign of something new, something hopeful.

Though the shadows of grief still lingered around us, like the fading echoes of a storm, I allowed myself to believe in the possibility of light. Together, maybe we could find it. Maybe we could build something stronger from the broken pieces.

-- Years later, when the city faced its darkest hour and needed a beacon of hope more than ever, he stood beside me. He was no longer just the figure in the cape, the symbol seen by millions from towering rooftops. He was Clark who was the man beneath the legend.

He was not a god, flawless and untouchable. He was not a savior, arriving with all the answers and the power to fix everything in an instant. Instead, he was simply a man. A man who carried his burdens quietly, who made mistakes and faced his fears. A man who, despite everything, kept trying to do better.

And in that moment, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as the city held its breath, I found myself believing in him. Not because he was invincible, but because he was willing to keep going. Because he was willing to fight, not just for the world, but for the people he cared about.

For the first time, I truly believed he could make a difference.

[l0st-marblezz]

An Unnecessarily Long Analysis of Importance of The Pokeball Improv Scene

(Past Life Session 2 Spoilers Under the Cut)

Part I: The Pokeball

Let’s start with the actual setting of the improv itself: the Pokeball. In the Pokémon universe, Pokeballs are used for Pokémon to rest and protect them before a battle. Pokemon cannot be hurt when inside the ball. No one sees the inside of the ball ever. Now take into account who built the Pokeball: Martyn, the Listener, who formed the Corner Coalition (a secret alliance against the villies consisting of himself, Cleo, impulse, and Bigb) within this very Pokeball. It should be of note that the founder of the villies is Grian, a Watcher. If they can take down Grian, leader of the Villies, they could probably take down the Watchers as well. Taking into account the use of a Pokeball, who it was built against and who built it, it should be easy to conclude that Martyn is using his role as a Listener and built the Pokeball as a safe space for non villies as protection and prepare for a battle and keep secrets against not only the villies, but the Watchers themselves.

Part II: The Hospital Waiting Room Scene

Moving on to the 1st setting of the improv scene: a hospital waiting room. These rooms are places of wait, anticipation, anxiety. When in a hospital waiting room, one can be waiting for many situations, both good and bad. They’re a purgatory. Remember that Martyn was the one to suggest this setting. This reinforces my theory that Martyn built the ball as place for players to lie in wait for the perfect moment to strike against the Watchers. The first person to name their sickness is Bdubs, who has leprosy. Leprosy is a disease in which your skin starts to fall apart and your body experiences extreme weakness, and is highly contagious. It symbolizes the fear of the corruption of the self. The inclusion of leprosy in the scene isn't a coincidence-- it represents the fear of the boogeyman within the session and the fear of the Watchers feasting because of this pain, leaving the players weak. It could also be a callback to Last Life, where Bdubs was one of the first boogeymen.

Now to the part that recontextualizes the entire scene: the reveal that this is a hospital waiting room inside a prison. It's revealed by Cleo and Martyn, the founders of the Corner Coalition and two former winners with knowledge of the Watchers. This symbolizes how they're subtly using this "improv" as a means to signal to other players that not only are they waiting for the opportunity to fight back against the Watchers, but that they are also being imprisoned by them.

After the reveal, Mango reveals that he is in prison for viciously and intentionally spreading leprosy. This could indicate that Mumbo, using Tango's body, is intentionally spreading fear that the Watchers could feed off of, as he has been quite a menace this session. Doesn't help that he went mining with Grian either.

Part III: The Coffee Shop Scene

The scene transitions to a coffee shop, which is initiated by Martyn once again. Maybe he wants to calm the other players down from revealing that they're in a prison with some coffee. At first, BigB doesn't know how to continue on (with the scene). He doesn't buy Martyn & Cleo's words. But after a few minutes, he orders a cappuccino. Don't be fooled; the ordering of this simple drink has some serious implications. The word "cappuccino" is derived from the Italian word "capuchin", meaning a hood that covers the head. Wearing a hood that covers you implies that you can't see very well, right? You can't watch what's going on. This reveals that BigB has caught on to Martyn & Cleo's signals. He's saying, "I get it. I understand. We're safe. They can't watch us here."

However, Joel (acting as the barista) undercuts this and states that they don't serve cappuccinos here. Of course. Joel, the guy allergic to lore of all kinds, refuses to believe Martyn, the lore master. Ironic how even after winning, Joel still doesn't believe in the Watchers, or refuses to believe them, at least.

Part IV: The Starbucks Scene

BigB, being the guy that he is, goes next door to Starbucks instead. The gang including Martyn follows along and goes outside the Pokeball, where they're in danger of being watched. Martyn knows it's a risk, but maybe by sheer faith, they'll all be fine. He imitates the Hannah Montana "woOOAHHH yEAAAaa~~" scene change sound effect. Another clue drop. Hannah Montana is a TV show about a teenage girl who lives a double life as a famous pop star and ordinary civilian. Martyn is hinting that the world around the players is artificial, made by the Watchers. It also clues them in on the fact that he's a Listener and lives a double life as a Listener and ordinary player. Jimmy also does the sound effect. Maybe he's caught on as well? Or maybe it's just Jimmy being Jimmy.

This time, Martyn is the barista. BigB tries ordering a cappuccino again. He's interrupted by Joel, who says he doesn't drink coffee. Joel is actively going against what the scene wants, he's doubling down on his skepticism. The rest of the group interject this. They believe Martyn. Joel promptly leaves the scene.

Mango tries ordering a flat white, but flatlines instead. This could mean that Tango is trying to purge Mumbo out of his body, killing himself in the process. Joel yells out that he's got leprosy. This symbolizes that his reign of terror on the server finally caught up to him, and is being punished for it. Martyn is proven right. The Watchers will lose. They will get what they've paid for.

The scene then ends.

Part V: Conclusion & Final Thoughts

(I left out some things in this analysis, such as how Joel was the doctor in the hospital scene and how he successfully diagnosed leprosy in Bdubs and Mango in both scenes, the importance of Mango ordering a flat white, and the significance of the specific people involved in the improv scenes. I'd like to know any other thoughts on this, feel free to share!)

In conclusion, the Pokeball Improv Scene has a lot more plot significance than most people realize. It reveals how Martyn & Cleo are using their status as previous winners to warn people about the Watchers and their fight against them. If they successfully defeat the Villies, then they have a chance at beating the Watchers.

[dayichor]

TOLERATE IT, anthony bridgerton

twenty two; in the remnants of the summer sun

masterlist

wp; blueichor / ao3; daybluems

                   The dewy grass crunched under their horses' feet as Emma and Thomas padded along the field, the last bits of the summer sun glinting against it.

"I must say, My Lady," Thomas grinned, "I'm happy to see you have not lost your touch!"

"It has only been a month or so!" Emma feigned offence, "I am not so stupid as to forget your lessons in that short a time."

"Perhaps. But I thought, with all that had happened in London..."

Emma’s smile faltered. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the horizon before she gave Daisy a small nudge, riding ahead.

"Madam! Wait! Madam!"

She pulled up at the edge of the field, with wisps of hair that escaped from her hat, tousling her cheeks that were flushed not just from the ride.

Thomas caught up quickly, slowing to a stop beside her. "You really thought you could outrun me? Your teacher?"

She puffed her cheeks, turning her nose up in the air. "I was not trying to!"

Thomas grew quiet, staring at her solemnly. "Apologies, My Lady. I did not mean to upset you..."

"No! No—It's—It's alright, Thomas! It's only that..." She bit her lip, brows furrowing, "Everyone in Mayfair had something or the other to say. But it was easier not to think about it there, with all the distractions. But now..."

He smiled wanly, looking at her forlornly, "When I read that scandal sheet, I was afraid that you would never return to here again. That you would leave for Cranbrook."

"And yet, here I am."

"Here you are."

The bright glare of the sun only hurt his eyes, but it only seemed to crown around Emma, paling in comparison to her golden tresses.

"The Lord Bridgerton," he mumbled, "I cannot believe that he—if it was m—"

"That scandal sheet was a complete lie!" Emma cried, gloved hands tightening around the reins. "Anthony explained everything—it now makes me feel foolish, believing what Whistledown had printed before. Surely all of it must be falsehoods."

Thomas felt the corners of his eyes crinkle in what must be a half smile. If it had been the Lady Bridgerton of just a few months back, she would have never even deigned to hear the Lord, much less believe him. What had changed so drastically that she even defended him? The throes of an ugly sentiment clawed at his throat, but he kept quiet so as to not blemish her with it.

"Shall we go back, My Lady?" He says after a moment. "I think our dear Daisy here needs some water."

✑ ─────

                  The sun was starting to cloud with impending rain when Emma returned to the estate grounds, soles of her riding boots crunching the gravel under her feet.

She was stepping towards the back gates, already unbuckling her cloak, when she spotted him.

Anthony.

He sat perched on the stone bench outside the entrance, back leaning against the brick wall, leg nervously bouncing.

And a wicker basket clutched in his lap.

Emma was nearly about to turn away before he spotted her, but the crunching of gravel made him look up.

"Emma!"

Darn.

She has no choice but to approach him, strands of hair sticking to her sweaty neck, heightening her discomfort.

"What are you doing here?"

"Your maid mentioned you did not have breakfast before riding."

"I was not hungry."

"Still, I thought—" He gestured to the basket. "You might be now."

He pulls the gingham cloth off it, revealing an assortment of freshly baked breads and ripened fruits.

The warm smell of butter was too good for her rumbling stomach to ignore.

The corners of Anthony's lips involuntarily twitch up when she sits down beside him. She tugs off her gloves, and her slender fingers take a scone in them, red knuckles brushing against her mouth as she takes a large bite. A heat blooms in his chest, and it pools low in him when she sighs satisfactorily at the taste.

Emma pauses mid-bite and narrows her eyes at him. "Are you not going to eat?"

"Oh, no—I—"

"I prefer not eating alone."

Anthony nods hesitantly, then grabs an apple from the basket.

The air is filled with the light sounds of chewing and the faint chiming of the wind.

He swallows his bite before speaking

"You ride so well, now. How are your lessons?"

"Do you not already know? You've read it all in your reports of me."

He flinches, looking away.

Emma wavers, then sighs before replying. "I can even gallop now. My mare—Daisy—she trusts me enough."

Anthony glanced at her then, but fervently enough to catch the faint smile gracing her lips. And for some reason, it caught him in his chest. But it was not the pang he felt had before, filled with anger and envy that she never smiled for him, but one twinged with a gentle longing.

"Do you remember, Emma, when you once tried to impress my riding instructor?" He couldn't help but recall. "And you fell off the horse—"

She groaned, burying her face in her palms. "Goodness, do not remind me! I was mortified, especially when he had to carry me inside because I twisted my ankle."

Anthony snorted, failing to stifle it behind his hand. "You've come a long way since then."

Emma pulled a face. "Barely. I think Daisy is forever traumatised by my frilly skirts."

He laughed openly then, frank and boyish and full of teeth.

And Emma could not help but stare.

His hair was still damp from his morning shave, and missing its usual slick pomade. His shirt was loose, untucked and missing a waistcoat. He did not look like Anthony Bridgerton, the Viscount, the head of the household with a family to lead and an estate to manage.

He was simply Anthony. Dishevelled, dimpled and eyes full of mirth so bright that the sun hid in envy.

She had never seen him like this, even during their childhood, when he had to grow up too fast.

Emma shakes her head, dismissing her thoughts. "You were a snotty little boy back then. How you used to gloat and run in front of me, when I was miserable and stuck with the bandage!"

"Well, you can hardly blame me for being the fastest boy in all of the Viscounty."

Emma throws a plum at his head.

i started making a manip of thomas and emma but realised way too late i dont have a faceclaim for him lmao. but at that point i was way too committed to give up so i js covered it up with the sun. anyway we have thomas back in this chapter!! emma and anthony are very slowly making progress, but progress nonetheless haha. please leave your thoughts and feedback in the comments, i love reading through them all!

taglist ; @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @lxylaluvr @vvmei @marlenamallowan @escapefromrealitylol @kneelforloki @nerawrites (taglists are open! just comment on the latest chapter if you'd like to be added)

[saebyeoksleftfoot]

Everything's Temporary.

Pairings. Se-mi x F! Reader

Genre. Drama, Romance (doomed..), Angst

Warnings. Depression, emotional neglect, isolation, ghosting, self worth struggles

Triggers. Emotional trauma & unrequited affection

Summary. You were trapped in quiet loneliness finds unexpected comfort in a new acquaintance, Se-mi, who slowly becomes a source of warmth and hope. Through small moments shared in a cozy café, you begin to feel seen and less alone for the first time in a long while. But as hope grows, so does the fear of loss, and eventually, the fragile connection fades, leaving silence behind once again.

A/N. So... It slowly turned spring in this fic becuz I like spring! I hope it's understandable 😭idk how to explain it but just read the fic 💔

━━━━━━━

There is a kind of silence that isn’t quiet.

It pulses. It screams between the walls, echoing in the corners of your dark room where even light refuses to stay. It’s the kind that makes you stare at the same crack on the ceiling for hours, waiting for it to grow just so you’ll know something is changing.

But it never does.

The days bled into each other like ink on water—soft, slow, but quite impossible to separate. You couldn’t tell when exactly it started, this numbness. Maybe it was after your mom stopped stopped caring about you and focused on your younger brother. Maybe it was when your dad looked at you like a stranger passing through a house that didn’t belong to you anymore.

Maybe it was before all of that. Maybe it was just you. Wrong from the start.

You didn’t fight it. The isolation. You leaned into it, let it bury you. There was a quiet kind of peace in being forgotten.

You still spoke to people, of course. Online. Screens were easier than skin. You knew how to be funny behind a keyboard. You curated emojis like they were armor. You kept your voice soft in calls, always asking about others, always listening. You were the support friend. The late night therapist. The good one. The nicest one.

But none of them really knew you.

Not the way you needed.

They didn’t see the way you flinched when someone said, “You’re always so positive,” as if it were a compliment instead of a lie you’d carved into your personality like a scar.

They didn’t hear the silence between your sentences. The way your hands slightwy tremble after a long call because you’d smiled too hard. Faked too well.

You never asked to be seen.

You just wanted someone to look anyway.

You tried to fill your days with distractions — like playlists, sleep schedules that didn’t really exist. Sometimes you read, sometimes the kind of stories where someone finds pure happiness after suffering for a long time.

You cried during those, once.

But only once. Then you taught yourself not to feel too deeply. It made things worse, wanting.

Wanting was dangerous.

It led to disappointment only.

And disappointment always left a bruise.

Your family didn’t notice the way your voice changed. The way your hoodie sleeves were always tugged down past your knuckles. They didn’t ask about the tear-stained pillowcases or the food left cold on your desk.

You didn’t blame them.

You didn’t really exist here.

You were a ghost of your own making. Haunting yourself.

Sometimes your brother tried to pull you out, inviting you to join him in a video game or for a walk, but you always said no. You preferred the quiet ache of your own company to the effort of pretending. Still, his gentle insistence sometimes lingered in your mind, a faint thread tugging toward something you weren’t sure you wanted.

You thought about going out once or twice, sitting in a café, pretending to be part of the world. But the thought of speaking to strangers, even kind ones, felt like standing bare in a storm. The online world was easier—controlled, safe, quiet.

So you stayed where you were.

One night, you logged into the server that had become your fragile lifeline. A jumble of voices and text, laughter and memes, the kind of noise that kept the silence at bay.

The chat was alive as usual, but you hovered at the edges, watching.

Someone joked about a new episode release. Another shared a meme that made a few people laugh. You sent a well-timed emoji, just to be part of it.

But none of it reached you.

You stared at the screen, the glowing letters blurring. You typed a message, then deleted it. You wanted to say something real, but the words felt useless, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe.

The world outside your window was dark, but even inside, you felt cold.

Because everything was temporary.

People came and went.

Connections faded.

Happiness was a ghost.

And you were left alone with your quiet, unchanging ache.

━━━━━━━

You didn’t want to be there.

The café was too loud, the lights too warm. It smelled like vanilla syrup and roasted beans and cinnamon that hurts your head , and everything about it pressed too hard against the fragile bubble you’d built around yourself. Your hoodie sleeves clung to your hands like armor, and you sat hunched in the corner like a shadow that someone forgot to sweep up.

“Just for an hour,”

your brother had said that morning, nudging a flyer across the counter.

“You need to get out. They’ve got books. Coffee. Soft chairs.”

You hadn’t answered. Just stared at your cereal untill the milk turned gray.

But somehow, here you were.

You picked the quietest table, far from the windows. People milled around in soft voices and slower footsteps. Students typing away. Couples murmuring over croissants. The world spun outside the glass like it didn’t notice you at all.

Good.

You didn’t want to be noticed.

You tucked your legs up into the chair, knees to chest, and scrolled through your phone just to stay tethered. Notifications blinked from muted group chats. Someone had posted a meme in the server. You almost smiled. Almost. But it faded too quickly.

There was still a weight behind your ribs.

It hadn’t gone anywhere.

You looked up, mostly just to avoid thinking, and that’s when you saw her.

She stood in line at the counter, tucked into an oversized jacket, fingers quietly tapping as she counted out money to pay for her drink. Her hair was short — cleanly cut, intentional. And her face —

You didn’t mean to stare.

She wasn’t striking, not in the dramatic, cinematic way.

But something about her drew your eyes like damn gravity.

She fumbled her wallet. Apologized. Laughed a little too hard when the barista cracked a joke. The sound carried through the hum of conversation like a bell in the fog.

It was bright. Unfiltered.

Alive.

You dropped your gaze fast. Too fast.

You weren’t supposed to care.

You weren’t supposed to feel anything.

Maybe she felt your gaze because a few minutes later, her tray in hand, she scanned the café for an open seat—and you watched, frozen, as her eyes landed on yours.

And then, unbelievably, she smiled. Pure.

“Do you mind?”

she asked, tilting her head toward the extra chair at your table.

You blinked. Swallowed. Tried to speak.

She sat down before you could answer.

And just like that, spring cracked through your winter.

She didn’t speak right away. Just stirred her drink slowly, glancing out the window as if the silence wasn’t awkward. As if she already knew how to sit beside someone without trying to fill the quiet.

That should’ve made you uneasy. But it didn’t.

You felt… settled. In a way you hadn’t in months.

Her voice broke the stillness eventually, soft as a rain tap.

“I like this place. It smells like comfort.”

You said nothing. Words didn’t come easy when someone looked directly at you like that.

But she didn’t push.

Instead, she asked for your name.

You told her.

And when she repeated it back to you, you almost cried. Because it was the first time in weeks someone had said it like it meant something.

“I’m Se-mi,”

she said.

Se-mi.

It fit her.

Light syllables. Gentle curve. A name that sounded like a melody no one had finished writing yet.

You didn’t say much else that day. But something in you shifted.

Because for the first time in so long, you didn’t feel like a background character in your own scene.

You were there.

And someone had noticed.

━━━━━━━

The next time you saw her, it wasn’t by accident.

She smiled again when she spotted you already at your corner table. This time, she brought you a hot chocolate without asking.

“Just a guess,”

she said.

“You look like you need warmth more than caffeine.”

You hadn’t realized your fingers were that cold until you touched the mug.

She asked what you liked to read and what music you listened to. She told you about her cat, Dubu-puff, saying she chose that name because it was easy to say under her breath. She laughed at her own stories, and you found yourself listening so closely that your tea went cold

You started coming more often after that.

Your brother noticed. Asked if you were feeling better.

You said no. But you were trying.

Because Se-mi was there.

And somehow, that made trying feel less like drowning.

━━━━━━━

One evening, after most of the chairs had emptied and the baristas had stopped wiping the counters, she stayed with you long past closing hours.

The two of you just… sat.

No music. No people. Just the faint hum of the fridge in the back and the soft tapping of her nails against her cup.

“Do you believe in soul weather?”

she asked out of nowhere.

You looked at her.

She smiled, eyes soft.

“Like… some people feel like winter. Some feel like sun. You know?”

You didn’t answer.

But you thought she felt like spring.

Like the world might be able to bloom again.

And that night, for the first time in too long, you slept without crying into your pillow.

━━━━━━━

You didn’t know what she was doing to you.

You didn’t know what you were becoming.

All you knew was—

When she said your name, the void didn’t echo back.

It whispered her voice instead

━━━━━━━

You weren’t used to someone remembering you like this.

Not just your name, not just your favorite drink. But the small things. The way your shoulders curled when you were trying not to be seen. The habit you had of tapping your thumb twice on your cup before taking a sip. The way you listened more than you spoke—not because you didn’t have anything to say, but because you never thought your words would land anywhere safe.

But Se-mi listened.

She noticed things like that.

One afternoon, she brought you a tiny paper crane folded from the corner of a coffee receipt.

“You looked like you needed something to hold,”

she’d said with a smile, nudging it across the table.

You still had it. Crumpled a little now, edges softening. But you kept it tucked in your phone case like a secret.

You started saving the songs she hummed under her breath. You started writing down the books she mentioned. You started wanting to be seen. Just by her.

The thought scared you more than you could admit.

You never told her about the servers. Or the versions of you that only existed through Wi-Fi and usernames. You let those people fade. Let their messages go unanswered. They were too loud now, too far away from this world you’d found with her.

Here, you were quieter. Realer.

And she made it easy to stay.

Some days you barely spoke, but she never made you feel like silence was a burden. Sometimes she drew in her notebook while you read beside her, both of you cocooned in that little corner like the world had agreed to leave you alone.

Once, she handed you a page torn from that notebook. A simple pencil sketch—your hand wrapped around a mug, sleeves hiding your fingers, steam rising in soft lines.

You stared at it longer than you should’ve.

“You always look safest like that,”

she’d said, almost apologetically.

You didn’t tell her that no one had ever made you feel safe before.

And still, you weren’t brave enough to ask what she saw when she looked at you. You were afraid the answer might not be hers to give forever.

But for now—she was here.

And that was enough.

━━━━━━━

⠀

Spring stretched on in quiet ways.

The café became routine. A place your footsteps memorized. The baristas stopped asking for your name. The booth in the corner was quietly understood to be yours—yours and Se-mi’s.

You didn’t talk about feelings. Or labels. Or futures.

She never said she liked you.

But sometimes her knees would bump yours and she wouldn’t move away.

Sometimes she’d rest her head on your shoulder after a long day, breathing so close you could feel the shape of her thoughts.

You let those moments sit between you like bookmarks. Tiny pauses in the story you didn’t dare read aloud.

Once, you brought her a drink first.

She blinked at it, surprised.

“You remembered?”

You nodded, heart thrumming like wings.

She smiled then, small and full.

You thought maybe that was what spring really was—not flowers or sunlight or color returning to the trees. Maybe it was that smile. Maybe it was the way your name sounded in her mouth. Maybe it was the way you started waiting for tomorrow again.

━━━━━━━

And then—one afternoon, as the sun poured pale gold across your table and Se-mi recited a story about how her cat had somehow locked itself in the pantry for three hours—something slipped.

You smiled.

A true smile. Not some fake one.

Just a small one.

Barely there. Lips only curving a little. The kind of smile you weren’t even sure belonged to you anymore.

But Se-mi noticed.

Mid-sentence, her voice faltered. Her eyes locked onto yours, wide, like she’d just witnessed something holy.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Her expression said it all.

Like you’d bloomed.

Like you were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

You looked away, quickly. Heart pounding. Fingers clutched your mug a little tighter.

But Se-mi kept looking.

As if she didn’t want to forget the way you looked when you finally let the light in.

You didn’t smile again for a while.

But she never forgot.

And neither did you.

━━━━━━━

It started with a smile.

A small one. The kind that barely curled your lips. The kind that slipped past your defenses before you even realized it was there. It happened in the middle of one of her stories—something stupid about her cat dragging a whole bag of flour across the kitchen floor.

You hadn’t meant to laugh. But when she mimicked Dubu-puff's horrified face, hands flailing in the air like bad theater, something in your chest cracked.

And you smiled.

Just a little.

Barely there.

But she saw it.

You caught the way her voice faltered. Just for a second. The way her eyes widened, like she’d stumbled across something fragile and breathtaking. Like she couldn’t believe what she’d just seen.

Her gaze softened—not with pity. Not with surprise. But with awe.

And in that moment, she looked at you as if you were the prettiest thing in the world.

As if you were something worth staying for.

You dropped your eyes immediately, heart pounding. Your fingers curled around your mug like a lifeline. The heat didn’t help. Your skin felt too raw.

“Sorry,"

you muttered, even though you didn’t know what you were apologizing for.

She didn’t laugh.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t say,

“You should smile more,”

the way others had in the past.

Instead, she said—

“Don’t be.”

Just that. Soft. Like a secret meant only for you.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because now she’d seen it. That vulnerable flicker. The part of you that wanted.

And want was dangerous.

Want opened the door to loss.

But she didn’t leave.

Not that day. Not the next.

You kept showing up. So did she.

And maybe—maybe—you started hoping.

━━━━━━━

Somewhere between the third and fourth week of your fragile ritual, she asked if you wanted to visit the art museum.

You hesitated. You always hesitated.

“I don’t really… go places,”

you said.

She didn’t flinch.

“That’s okay. I’ll go slow.”

And she did.

She never walked ahead. Never pulled or pushed. Just stayed beside you. Quiet. Present.

You didn’t remember much of the paintings. Your head buzzed too loud. But you remembered her, standing in the light of a stained-glass window, colors washing over her face. She looked like something out of a story you were too scared to finish reading.

“Do you think art misses its artist?”

she asked suddenly, tracing the edge of a sculpture with her eyes.

You blinked.

“What?”

“When people leave,”

she said,

"do you think the things they made feel abandoned?”

You looked at her. At the way she said it without expecting an answer.

“I think,”

you said slowly,

“some things are made just to be left behind.”

She looked at you then. Really looked. Like she wanted to argue, but didn’t.

“Maybe,”

she whispered.

“But I still think they deserve to be seen.”

━━━━━━━

You didn’t know how to tell her you were one of those things.

Made. Forgotten. Left behind.

And she was looking too closely.

━━━━━━━

You started waiting for her texts. The little check-ins. The café suggestions. The random photos of Dubu-puff perched on top of a laundry basket with the caption:

“He claims this land in the name of fluff.”

It became routine. A soft thread pulling you through the week.

You’d always told yourself people were temporary.

But you started wondering if she might be the exception.

That was your first mistake.

━━━━━━━

Your brother noticed.

“You’ve been… lighter lately,”

he said one night, handing you a bowl of soup.

You didn’t respond. Just stared at the steam curling from the bowl.

“She makes you happy?”

Your grip tightened on the spoon.

“I don’t know.”

But you did.

You just couldn’t say it.

━��━━━━━

The night it all started to shift, you were sitting across from her in the café, watching the rain smudge the windows like watercolor tears.

She was telling you about her grandmother’s garden. How they used to grow peonies that bloomed like secrets.

“Maybe next spring, I’ll plant some,”

she said.

“You can come see them, if you want.”

Next spring.

That meant a future.

That meant more.

You swallowed hard, unsure what to do with the hope she kept handing you like it wouldn’t rot in your hands.

But still, you nodded.

“Okay.”

And she smiled.

You didn’t know it then.

Didn’t know that this—this moment—would be the high point.

The crest before the fall.

The last time her gaze felt fully yours.

Because days later, she stopped replying so quickly.

Stopped lingering as long.

Stopped saying your name with the same warmth.

You told yourself she was busy. Tired.

You told yourself not to overthink.

But the silence grew teeth.

And every time your phone buzzed, your heart jumped—only to fall harder when it wasn’t her.

━━━━━━━

You told yourself you’d been wrong to hope.

You always were.

Because hope, for you, had always tasted like betrayal.

Like sunlight that scorched instead of warmed.

Like spring that never stayed long enough.

⠀━━━━━━━

You still went to the café. Still sat in your corner.

Just in case.

But she didn’t show.

And one day—weeks after the last time she touched your hand and smiled like it meant something—

She walked in.

And she wasn’t alone.

A new girl.

Prettier. Brighter. Laughing in that way that belonged to the start of something.

The kind of laugh she once saved for you.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t say a word.

But inside, the smile you’d once given her—

the one she’d called beautiful—

died quietly in your chest.

━━━━━━━

The air in the café was different that day.

Heavier.

Like the walls had absorbed too many quiet goodbyes and were finally letting them settle.

You sat in your usual corner, hood pulled low, pretending you hadn’t noticed the weight in your chest growing with every slow step she took toward the door.

She smiled at the new girl—bright, easy, the kind of smile that didn’t hesitate or falter.

Your throat tightened.

The baristas barely glanced your way anymore. The once-familiar warmth in their eyes had cooled into polite indifference.

You watched them carry her tray over to the window seat, where sunlight spilled like a promise.

You weren’t part of that light.

Not anymore.

You scrolled through your phone, the glow sharp against your skin, a weak shield against the cold inside.

You wanted to text her.

To ask why. To scream at the silence she’d left behind.

To beg for the warmth that had turned icy.

But your fingers wouldn’t move.

You knew the answer before you even typed the first letter.

She was fading.

Just like you always feared.

The messages slowed, then stopped.

Calls went unanswered.

Your name felt like a word from a language she no longer spoke.

You became the ghost you always were, only now the haunting felt like abandonment.

Days blurred. Nights bled into one another.

You kept revisiting the café, hoping for a glimpse.

Hoping for a trace.

But the chair across from you stayed empty.

You held onto memories like a drowning person clutches driftwood—

Her laugh echoing in your mind.

The brush of her fingers against yours.

The way she said your name, like it was a prayer.

And yet, none of it was enough.

Because in the space she left behind, silence grew louder.

It filled the cracks in your soul.

It swallowed your voice.

You whispered into that void, but it never whispered back.

You weren’t sure if you were breaking or already broken.

But you knew you were fading.

And this time, no one was there to notice.

━━━━━━━

You held on until you couldn’t anymore.

The thread stretched taut, fraying with every silent message, every missed call, every absence that grew longer and colder.

Se-mi faded like the last light before midnight — slow at first, almost imperceptible, and then sudden, cruel, as if she was never really there to begin with.

You checked the server. The server was loud, but there was no happiness.

She stopped showing up in voice chats.

Her texts came less, then not at all.

When you reached out, the void responded.

No words.

No answers.

Just silence — vast, suffocating, absolute.

You replayed every memory like a broken record, searching for a sign, any sign, a crack in the facade that might explain the disappearance.

The smile she gave you that one afternoon in the cafe — the one that made your heart tremble like it had found a home — was suddenly unbearable.

Had it ever been real?

Or just a flicker? A temporary light meant to blind you, only to leave you stumbling in the dark?

You remembered how she had looked at you — like you were the most precious thing in the world. How her eyes had crinkled in laughter, how her voice had felt like sunlight breaking through the frost.

And now?

The space where she had been was empty.

Your messages piled up unread, unanswered.

You told yourself it was just life.

People move on. Things change.

But the ache in your chest said otherwise.

You weren’t just a chapter in her story.

You were the whole book — at least, you had been.

You cried in the dark, the sting of abandonment sharper than anything before.

You traced the ghost of her name on your phone screen, wishing you could reach through the distance and pull her back.

But the silence was louder than your hope.

She was gone.

Maybe she never meant to stay.

Maybe everything was just temporary.

And so were you.

You learned the hard way that love could feel infinite — bright and warm and whole — and still vanish, leaving nothing but the cold echo of a name whispered into the void.

You were left holding the pieces, wondering if you had ever been real to her at all.

━━━━━━━

✧- Taglist : @kuinshiyas @lostlikesaebyeok @saebyeokswhitebra @gigisdog @saebyeokbliss @itzzzzzzyyyyydaaaaa @sunshinethatlooksalive

[queer-fictions]

his lips caress your skin

gale dekarios x male tav smut

summary: after taking the deal with haarlep, tav is woken one night as the incubus uses his body for the first time. desperate to take back some sense of his control, tav seeks out gale - SMUT MDNI

words: 1200~

notes: i've had this idea since seeing the scene where tav first experiences haarlep using their form after making the deal. i'm not the proudest of this, but oh well, you can't love them all. this isn't proofread. as always, kind words, comments and reblogs are appreciated ♥️

warnings: non-con elements (not with gale, but you know, haarlep), unprepped anal, somnophilia, angst, crying, i think this is it? please lmk if i missed anything, especially with a fic like this 🙏

written while listening to el tango de roxanne from moulin rouge

An unanticipated shudder runs through the man’s body, the phantom feeling of a hand caressing his inner thigh. Tav bolts upright from his bedroll at the sudden sensation, eyes darting around his tent for any sign of whose touch he’d felt a moment ago, wide awake from his deep sleep. A sense of panic boils in the pit of his stomach as he realizes he’s alone, and suddenly the incubus’ words from the day before flash into his mind once more: “Every time I make love in your shape, you will know. A shiver out of the blue, a tingle from beyond. You will know.”

Tav’s brows furrow as he truly contemplates the meaning of those words for the first time since his encounter with the incubus. At the time, he had simply been doing what needed to be done, consequences be damned. But now? Now that he’d felt the caress of an unknown hand, he wasn’t too sure of his decision. Not that there was anything to be done about it now, Haarlep owned his body. 

With a sigh, the man lay back down, drawing the blankets around his body as he shut his eyes and attempted to shut the thoughts from his head. Those attempts, however, were in vain as the hand returned, forcing a low whine to escape Tav’s lips. He could barely feel fingers brushing against his cock, but he could feel them nonetheless. His eyes shot wide once more, his hand reaching down to instinctively push the hand away despite there not being a thing he could do. 

“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath, one hand fisting at the blanket as the presence of a large fist soon replaced the fingers and gave an experimental pump, sending shocks through Tav’s body. “No, no, no, please-“ A high-pitched sob rang through his tent as a hard, large length was suddenly prodded at his unprepared entrance, practically ripping through his body as it was shoved to the hilt. Tears prickled at the corners of Tav’s eyes as the incubus used his body, all while the ghost sensations wracked every part of his body. 

Hatred burned in the depths of Tav’s body, hatred for the incubus doing this to him, hatred for whatever large-cocked creature Haarlep was having his fun with, hatred for Raphael for ever forcing him into a position where he needed to make a deal in the first place- but above all, Tav felt utterly powerless to the enslaught his body was currently undergoing. He hated feeling powerless.

A frustrated whine escaping his lips, the man worked his way to his feet-albeit slowly- and took wobly steps to the mouth of his tent. Fuck this. Fuck Raphael, fuck Haarlep and his damned deal. He desperately needed to take his control back, whatever that looked like. As much as he’d love nothing more than to take a trip to the hells and kill that incubus himself, that simply wasn’t possible in the dead of night. Instead, he opted to take back his control in a way he knew how to do.

With shaky steps, Tav approached Gale’s tent before he could think better of himself. Despite the phantom sensations running across his body and, much to his dismay, within his body, the man slowly lowered himself to lie next to the wizard, arms carefully reaching out before encircling the other man’s waist and pulling him to his chest. The human stirred at the sudden warmth, eyes slowly fluttering open as he stared up at Tav with a sleepy, confused expression when he noticed the tears staining his beloved’s cheeks.

“My love? Not that I don’t appreciate your affections, you know I can never resist when you visit me late at night, but is something the matter?” Gale’s voice was rough with sleep, though his touch was ever so sweet as he reached out to wipe Tav’s tears away with the pad of his thumb. His genuine concern broke the man in his arms all over again, another sob shaking Tav as he moved to bury his face into his wizard’s neck.

“It’s-“ A low whine cut off his words as he absentmindedly rolled his hips at the phantom sensations, a jolt of electricity running through him as his hardening cock pressed to Gale’s thigh, gaining real sensation after all this teasing. “It’s Haarlep… The fucking deal- I can feel him, he’s using me.”

Gale’s body tensed, heart suddenly thudding in his chest, fingers twitching before eventually landing to brace on either of Tav’s forearms. “What do you-“

The wizard’s words were silenced as Tav’s lips were suddenly on his, kissing him with a certain hunger that Gale could never get used to. Tav’s teeth nipped at his lower lip, and it took all of Gale’s reserve to pull away when the other’s tongue playfully darted out to lick his lip, confession from moments before echoing in his mind.

“Darling, I don’t want you to do this just because-“ “Gale, I can feel it. Someone’s- something’s, because it surely doesn’t feel human- cock is inside me and I fucking hate it,” the words came out as a whimper, one of Tav’s hands unwinding from the other’s waist so his fingers could tangle in his hair. “I didn’t get a say in this; it feels gross, and I feel helpless. I just want to feel like I’m in control again, please. If this is happening, at least let it happen while I’m safe in your arms.”

The words shattered Gale’s heart into pieces, and he felt the magic pulse in his chest at the agony he felt on Tav’s behalf. One of his hands reached out to cup Tav’s cheek, drawing his face close until their foreheads touched and breath melded together. “I’ll do whatever I can, just tell me what to do, dearest.”

A sigh of relief moved through Tav’s chest, his fingers curling tightly in Gale’s hair at a particularly rough thrust from the unknown party. “Just let me feel you,” he whispered before leaning in to claim Gale’s lips as his own, a pleased moan tumbling from the other as he clutched his lover. 

The hand that previously rested on the wizard’s waist trailed down, cupping his cock gently as he began to palm him through his sleep clothes. The actions pulled another moan from Gale’s lips, which was muffled through their kiss as his hips rolled into Tav’s touch. 

Fingers circling Tav’s wrist halted his movements, and he broke the kiss as he offered his lover a look of confusion. “Gale?”

The man in question offered a coy smile in response, shimmying his body down and gently pushing Tav’s legs apart until his head rested between his thighs, fingers curling underneath his waistband. “Patience, my love. Just as you want to feel me, I want a chance to taste you.”

A shiver ran down Tav’s spine, for once not caused by the phantom touch that had plagued him all night. 

[yellowwwcrayon]

Hmm.... maybe I should give a little more 👀 I did force you to even consider writing this seagull inhun au by threatening to withhold terms and conditions

I keep avoiding the smut part of it... so here is a little moment in the elevator. In-ho is just removing his tie and I am already like WHAT IS HAPPENING 💀

In-ho stood at the front of the elevator, eyes forward, posture easy. Relaxed but not loose. A practiced kind of calm. He loosened his tie with one hand and tugged it down, the knot slipping slow over his throat. The collar parted with it, sharp lines going slack, revealing a triangle of skin beneath the button-down – pale, clean, lined faintly with the edge of his clavicle.

He didn’t think anything of it.

But the man noticed.

In-ho caught the glance from the corner of his eye: a flick of movement, subtle, then sharp, like something had hooked the man’s gaze and reeled it in. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes lingered a beat too long on that stretch of skin before darting away.

In-ho didn’t comment.

But he chuckled. Quiet. Dry. More breath than voice.

The sound filled the elevator like smoke.

He didn’t need to look to see the result.

The man flushed instantly – red blooming again across the tops of his cheeks, climbing over his ears. His hands stilled. His knees bent slightly, like he’d tried to adjust his stance and forgot how to be casual halfway through. His whole body went still with a kind of startled alertness.

In-ho smiled to himself, a breathless, private thing.

This was going to be interesting.

Ugh they need to exchange names...

Do I make In-ho lie and say that his name is Young-il or should In-ho be completely unbothered and just give out his real name? Maybe Gi-hun just blurts out his name and then starts rambling again and In-ho shuts him up by telling him own name and then In-ho notices that fuck he gave him his real name but there is no going back now and it's after midnight and I'm tired so this whole paragraph is a mess I'm so sorry 😭💀

Ohhh I vote telling him his real name, hehe. That little man needs to hear his real name coming out of that mouth in bed. He would get jealous of a secret identity. Oh Gihun, that poor mess, he's so into him I'm gonna scream. my precious bbg... *on the edge of my tiny stool*

[stellargh0ul]

HIIII !!!! Just got back from a goth club and the vibes were amazing, but I can’t lie, I was only thinking of Mary Goore 💔💔💔 do you think you could write a little something with like a goth reader or maybe meeting Mary at a goth club, literally anything you write brings me life so like, you do what you want, I ain’t picky 💋!! I LOVE YOU, YOU DA GOAT AGAIN !!

watch out- he bites!

-

you have a sort of sixth sense about people you meet in the club. there’s the drunk girls who just want to have a good time, the guys who’re looking for something warm to stick their dicks into, and the introverts dragged out by their friends who are trying to blend in with the walls and hope they won’t be noticed. you’ve spent a lot of time here, and can pretty reliably tell what someone will be like just from vibes alone—

until you see this skinny fuck standing across the room, staring you down like you personally ran over his dog with your car. his eyes are dark, his hair matted, and it looks like he hasn’t taken a shower this century. he smiles when he sees you looking back at him and there’s something dotted in his teeth that, for a moment, you think is blood.

but then he takes a swig of the beer he’s holding and in the next moment, his mouth is clear. you’re seeing things, obviously.

things like him. everywhere. he’s idling by the bar when you head up for another drink, or he’s lurking at the edge of the dance floor like a vampire without an invitation while you’re dancing with your friends. even they start to notice that he’s got his eyes on you, asking if you want to go tell him off for staring.

you don’t— you kind of think he’s hot. but you aren’t going to be the one who makes the first move, not when he’s been so obviously eye-fucking you all night.

you’re so busy keeping track of him out of the corner of your eye, though, that you forget to watch out for the guys trying to get their cocks wet. one of them comes up behind you on the dance floor, grinding up where you’re shaking your hips. you’re about to tell him off and knee him in the dick for the hands that have settled at your waist when he’s gone in the next moment.

a blood-curdling scream rips through the club. you see that skinny fucker standing nearby with a grin on his face and more than a little blood streaming down the corner of his lips. the Asshole is still there, only now he’s sporting a new bite-mark and a missing chunk of flesh from his bicep.

security hustles over and you think they’re coming for your savior, but they converge on Asshole instead and bundle him out into the night air. the skinny fuck winks at you as you stand there, mouth agape, before he turns to head back through the crowd.

you figure out why he’s still there in a moment— he’s in the goddamn band that’s playing tonight, onstage with the microphone in hand and a sadistic smile on his face. there’s still blood on his face that he hadn’t bothered to wipe off as he begins to sing.

god, you think you might be in love. you’ve always had a thing for crazy.

[purple--queen]

fantastic four (2005) walked so that fantastic four (2025) could run

[hibiscus02]

I could make a serious Wicked review and talk about the vocals and the choreography and the costumes and the sets, which are all great, but this is tumblr, and I know that all of these aspects will not matter nearly as much as me reviewing the movie by how much gay subtext they put into it, so that's exactly what I'm gonna do.

Elphaba and Glinda are either holding hands or have their arms linked for about 70% of this movie. Literally, after they officially become friends these girls are attached at the hip.

'What Is This Feeling?' remains about as gay as it usually is, but I will highlight that they lie awake at night thinking about each other which. I know what you are etc etc

The scene where they dance together is. I have no words. That was beautiful. Both actresses put so much emotion into the sequence. And there's a moment where Glinda puts her hand on Elphaba's face, almost like she's brushing away the tears there, and that shit made me cry as well.

'Popular' is insanely homosexual. There's a scene where they're laying down on the bed looking into each other's eyes, and Glinda shifts to basically be on top of Elphaba. My jaw was on the floor. Just lots of touching and Looks all throughout.

When they go to see the Wizard all that casual touching I mentioned previously is multiplied by tenfold, and there are several moments where Elphaba looks at Glinda for reassurance, which was very sweet.

'Defying Gravity' made me just as emotional as I knew it would. I do wish they had hugged but honestly with all the handholding and the staring into each other's eyes, and Glinda wrapping the cloak around Elphaba, they gave us plenty. Once again the acting caught me by surprise (specially from Ariana), both of them communicate so much with just looks.

Anyway my overall thoughts are, these bitches gay, good for them. They did not tone down the subtext at all (like I know some people were worried would happen), and while they didn't make anything explicit either (which I never expected them to*), I'm confident that both Cynthia and Ariana understood the assignment in regards to the kind of relationship Glinda and Elphaba have in canon, and that was enough for me.

*I will admit that a secret corner of my little lesbian heart hoped beyond hope that they would include the scene from the book where Elphaba canonically kisses Glinda (iirc it's supposed to be during Defying Gravity), but like, I always knew they wouldn't.