#is placed with intention and hours of research

[tawghasa]

I endorse all of this.

I had to change careers in my early 30s (grant-gunded research scientist + four years of no grants in my speciality = redundancy with no hiring opportunities). Here are a few things I learned from that journey:

Consider doing the same job for a different employer. I spent 5 years working for a lab that, in retrospect, had a really terrible workplace culture. I got a position in another lab in the same institute, and the experience was a LOT better.

(It was still rough at times, due to the bullshit I had internalised clashing with similar bullshit my lab supervisor had internalised. But I cried in the bathrooms WAY less.)

There can be a LOT of jobs that are tangentially related to your current job, that no one in your current job is really aware of. Or if they are aware, they overestimate the barriers to getting there.

(E.g., I moved from medical research into intellectual property. I assumed that you would need some kind of legal background for that... But nope!)

On a related note, be sceptical of any career advice you get from people at your hell-job. If they haven't gotten out themselves, they are sharing conjecture, not facts.

Most people have bad resumes and weak cover letters/responses to selection criteria. I highly recommend checking out Askamanager.org, in particular this masterpost of advice for resumes and cover letters. Alison also has a guide for preparing for job interviews that I've used with success (it's free when you sign-up to her mailing list. I think I've gotten maybe two e-mails in the six years since I signed up to get the free pdf).

Being older can be a benefit in the workplace. Some recent hires at my job are in their 50s, and were REALLY surprised they made the cut... But they both have so much experience under their belts, they're very familiar with the norms of a 9-to-5 job, etc. (They're also less likely to look for another job before they retire than younger hires.)

Also, you just know more stuff. You have more experience in having a job, talking to people, doing things. You have more years under your belt of troubleshooting, finding easier workflows, cleaning up messes.

E.g., I hated my time in retail but I know a LOT about how to talk to people: how to give someone bad news without them yelling at me, how to tell them they stuffed up without them yelling at me, how to tell them I stuffed up without them yelling at me...

I have an excellent phone manner and a "customer-centric commitment to issue resolution" which has been a huge asset in both of my post-retail careers - but neither of those jobs had any kind of intentional training/mentoring in those areas! Those are skills I developed in THE shittiest supermarket in South Australia while developing bone damage in my feet because I was standing for 10 hours a day.

A few other bits of advice:

It's hard to be productive outside of work when you work a terrible job that is corroding your soul. It's hard to write a good resume/apply to further education/whatever when you hate your job and you're exhausted and everything is pointless. Don't beat yourself up if it takes longer than you'd like to get anything done.

Make things easier for yourself by asking for/accepting help. Use the Ask A Manager resources, ask friends and family (ideally ones who have jobs they like) to help you with your job search and your application materials.

(Are we mutuals? Do you want some help with a resume? Send me a DM. I can also hop on a Discord call and chat with you about interview prep and technique.)

Try to start prepping now, BEFORE the dream opportunity crosses your path. It's easier to have an up-to-date master resume that you can tailor to the role, than to scramble to pull one together the night applications close.

Reddit can actually be really helpful. There are subreddits for a lot of careers/industries, with posts every few months asking how to either break in or get out. They can also be a good place to ask what the day-to-day is like in a career you're thinking of switching to, which can help you identify any skills you already have that would be an asset/consider whether you'd enjoy the reality of the job. Keep in mind that it's all subjective, and no two people's experiences will be the same.

If you've read this far, try to find time to update your resume this weekend. Even if you like your current job. (That's usually the best time to look at other jobs - you're not desperate, so you're in a strong position to negotiate any offers.) Because if you've read this far through a thread about changing jobs/careers, you're probably interested on some level in doing the thing.

I’m thinking of doing a complete career switch- or at the very least, making an attempt to start it- and the idea is frightening for so many reasons- money, feeling like I’m behind, insecurity, family- but then i think of just sticking to the path I’m on and it sends me into a crying fit so. I think I’m going to have to be brave

Be brave! I changed industries at age 41 and it was so good for both my career and mental health.

It sounds silly to have to outright say, but if the thought of going to your current job makes you cry every day, it is time to LEAVE. You are not the first person I have had to give this advice to this week. The longer you stay in a dead-end job, the more your skills will rust and the inertia will drag you down.

It feels frightening, but you can get through the imposter syndrome by becoming a thorough note taker (assuming you are white collar, but a lot of this also applies to blue):

Capture every conversation you have

Immediately distill meetings and emails into to-do lists

Review your to-dos daily

Most importantly: write down your accomplishments, no matter how small, at the end of every week

Notes by hand helped me so much, and my little treat to keep going was to begin a fresh mini-notebook every 2 weeks, which I could decorate with ink stamps and washing tape. I used a different color gel pen every day, too. My notebooks were fun and super helpful with keeping me organized.

You will catch up soon enough. It sucks to be an older person in a junior role, but you will be more mature and hopefully adept at handling work drama. I hit senior at age 47 after doing my time, and now I'm pretty indistinguishable from the folks who beat me here.

People aren't meant to do the same thing for all their lives, if it means sacrificing other opportunities. It's ok to say goodbye to a career or hobby or whatever else, to make room for something new. Don't feel guilty sampling from life. Specialization is for insects.

[dulacdat]

iwtv is a show made for rewatching. not just in the "oh, it's so good, it has to be rewatched" way. because while it's true, the show is better with "hindsight" watching. it unravels every step of the way, so once all layers are peeled and you go back to see it again- all character motivations and deranged actions start to make sense. you are noticing every detail that was put in with intention both with characters and the background production.

it make sense as in you can see where they come from. not that some actions can be justified

[inseobts]

Heyy! Love your work! I have an idea for law and ace (my goattss dont playy lol), but it can be for anyone else in one piece too! I was thinking reader thats similar to Maomao(apothecary diaries) and her obsession with poisons, eating it etc. As for plot, really up to you but I have an idea, maybe they dock at a new island with lots of herbs and their caught trying to eat the most textbook poison looking plant, no doubt thats not poisonous type of plant. Idk it can be like their secret or something. A lil basic cause I have the creativity of a stick, so if u think of something better then plss do it no hesitation fr!! If you do write this thank youuuu!! 🫶🫶

Poison Queen

a/n: I don't know the anime/character but I hope I got the intention of it right after a small google research T.T

characters: law (wc 2.6k), ace (wc 3.6k)

tags: poison enthusiast reader, slow burn, humor, fluff (eventually)

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Trafalgar D. Law:

The island is lush. Dense, dripping green stretches as far as the eye can see, humid air thick with the scent of earth and herbs. From the deck of the Polar Tang, you practically bounce on your heels.

“Is that… purple nightshade?” you whisper, eyes gleaming unnaturally.

“Don’t eat it.” Law says without looking up from the chart he’s examining, standing nearby. His voice is as flat as the sea on a windless day.

“I wasn’t going to…” you lie.

He turns his head a fraction, golden eyes narrowing “Yes, you were.”

You hum innocently, stuffing your medical satchel with your vials and note scrolls “I’m just here to observe, Captain.”

Shachi leans over the railing besides you “This place gives me the creeps. Everything looks like it wants to kill you.”

“Or cure you” you murmur, a little too enthusiastically.

Penguin eyes you warily “Why do you sound excited about that?”

You flash them a polite smile “Because it’s fun.”

Law sighs, sharp and tired “No wandering alone. You stick close to the group. Got it?”

You nod obediently “Of course.”

He doesn’t buy it. No one does.

The island is a botanical goldmine. You’re taking notes faster than your ink can dry. Moss that numbs the tongue, vines that smell like overripe peaches but rot skin on contact, and…oh. You spot it.

A crimson-stemmed flower, petals a sickly sweet yellowish pink, growing under the shade of a tree.

You gasp.

Law, who had started sketching a tree trunk for identification, stiffens “Don’t.”

“But it’s not poisonous!” you defend, already crouching, eyes wild “It looks like it, but this is Miracle’s Folly. It only mimics toxic flora to keep herbivores away. You can eat it, and it has incredible stimulant properties.”

“You just said it looks poisonous.”

“Exactly!” You pluck one with clinical precision “I’ve never seen one in the wild before. This is amazi—”

Law snatches it from your hand, holding it between two fingers like it’s radioactive.

“You’re obsessed” he accuses.

You blink “I prefer the term enthusiastic professional.”

“You tried to eat a known neurotoxin last week.”

“I suspected it was a neurotoxin. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“You lost motor control for six hours.”

“It was valuable data.”

He stares. You stare back, unbothered.

There’s a beat of silence before Shachi and Penguin burst out laughing behind you.

“She’s gonna kill herself one day” Shachi cackles.

“Captain’s gonna lose his mind before then” Penguin adds.

Law exhales through his nose. He pockets the flower, out of your reach “You’re banned from going anywhere without supervision.”

Your eye twitches “Captain, please. This is a scientific expedition—”

He turns “Touch another cursed-looking plant and I’ll have Bepo chain you to the ship.”

You pout “Kinky.”

His ears turn red. You catch it.

Later that night, while the others are prepping camp, you quietly flip open your hidden pouch. Inside: one perfectly preserved Miracle’s Folly bloom.

You smirk “I am a professional.”

You glance at the campfire where Law is sipping his tea, glancing up only when your giggles reach him.

His eyes narrow again.

You chew the petal. Slowly. Carefully.

It’s bitter. Burns the tip of your tongue. But beneath that… Electricity.

The world tingles. Not in a hallucinatory way but in a sharpened, humming, this-might-kill-me-or-make-me-a-god sort of way.

You lean back on your heels, staring up at the canopy as the flower’s effects trickle through your veins “Oh, I have to isolate what’s responsible for this…”

“What are you muttering now?”

Law’s voice cuts through your thoughts like a scalpel.

You jolt and whip your head around. He’s standing there, arms crossed, dark brows drawn low.

You swallow quickly “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow “You’re sweating.”

“It’s humid.”

“Your pupils are dilated.”

“I’m excited to be alive.”

He steps closer. You instinctively step back, hiding your pouch under your coat. He notices.

“Show me what’s in your bag.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

You sigh, dramatic “You know, trust is the foundation of any good captain-crew relationship.”

“You ate that flower, didn’t you?”

“No! Just a piece of it.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, stepping forward “Tongue out.”

“What?”

“Tongue. Out.”

You blink at him.

He’s completely serious.

“…Always so kinky.”

He closes his eyes like he’s mentally ejecting himself from the conversation “Just do it.”

You stick out your tongue, smug “Ahhh~”

He leans in, inspecting “Slight discoloration… mild irritation… your body’s resisting the stimulant effects.”

You raise a brow “You’ve memorized what this flower does?”

“I know every entry in that ridiculous notebook you leave lying around. Including the one titled ‘Things I Definitely Shouldn’t Eat But Might Anyway’.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh” you say, quieter.

He straightens, expression unreadable “You think I haven’t noticed? The stash in the med bay. The coded labels. You catalog poisons more lovingly than most people talk about their pets.”

You look away “It’s just… interesting. The line between medicine and poison. It’s so thin. One drop too much and—”

“You die.”

“Or you cure something incurable.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Law studies you, tone dropping low “Is that what you want? To be the one who finds what no one else has the guts to touch?”

You meet his gaze “Wouldn’t you?”

His jaw ticks.

“…You should be more careful.”

You grin “But then you’d have no one to lecture.”

Law huffs, walking past you “Bepo’s watching you tomorrow. Don’t test him.”

“Bepo lets me eat weird berries if I tell him they’re for science!”

“Exactly.”

Later that night, as the rest of the crew sleeps, Law leans over the log where you were sitting earlier.

He finds a scrap of petal.

Miracle’s Folly.

He twirls it between his fingers, thoughtful.

“You’re not letting me touch anything…” you whine.

“Correct” Law replies, not even sparing you a glance as he adjusts his gloves.

You’re trudging behind him, Bepo flanking your other side like a very fluffy prison guard. The island is buzzing with life but all you’ve gotten to do so far is stare longingly at roots and flowers like a kid with her nose pressed to a candy store window.

“I’m an herbalist,” you mutter “This is discrimination.”

“It’s self-preservation” Law deadpans.

Bepo pats your shoulder gently “You did try to lick a hallucinogenic frog yesterday.”

“It looked juicy.”

“You said you saw the celestial dragons dancing salsa.”

“…I mean, I did.”

Law shoots you a look over his shoulder.

You grin at him.

By midday, you’re sulking on a log while the others finish whatever they were doing.

You pull out your notebook and begin scribbling, sketches of the strange bulbous blue fruits you passed earlier, notes on the slightly vibrating moss near the creek, and, of course, the effects of Miracle’s Folly.

You don’t notice Law watching you.

He clears his throat “Give me your hand.”

You blink up “Why, so you can handcuff me to Bepo?”

“No,” he says, kneeling in front of you with a small vial “I want to run a test.”

You hesitate, then slowly offer your hand.

He drops a single, translucent drop of something onto your skin. It tingles.

“New tincture?” you ask, curiously sniffing it.

“Neutralized extract of Miracle’s Folly. I isolated it this morning.”

Your eyes light up “You tested it?”

He mutters “Voluntarily. With supervision.”

You snort “So boring.”

“But now I need to observe secondary exposure. You’re uniquely qualified.”

Your heart does a little somersault “You mean I’m special.”

He rolls his eyes “You’re reckless. And resilient.”

“And a little cute?”

“Don’t push it.”

You grin.

Minutes pass. He keeps his fingers on your wrist, counting your pulse with the pad of his thumb.

You try not to think about that.

“It’s steady” he murmurs.

“Disappointed?”

He ignores the question “You’re reacting differently than I expected.”

“How so?”

“Your nervous system is adapting.”

“Like immunity?”

“Like something else” he says, voice quieter now “You’ve been exposing yourself in microdoses, haven’t you?”

You pause.

“…maybe.”

He looks up at you, eyes unreadable “Why?”

You drop your gaze, suddenly unsure.

“It’s not just for fun.” you say “I mean, partly, yes. But it’s more than that. I want to understand them. The poisons. The lines. Everything people fear. I want to know it. Control it. Be stronger than it.”

He’s silent.

You add, softer, “I was sick once. Really sick. No one could help. All the doctors, all the books… nothing. But the old apothecary in my town? She mixed me something that should’ve killed me.”

You glance at him, eyes bright “But it didn’t. It saved me.”

Law doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, his voice is gentler than before.

“You and I aren’t that different.”

You blink.

He rises to his feet, brushing off his coat “But if you ever eat another unknown fungus without telling me, I’m performing surgery with no anesthesia.”

You beam “That’s fair.”

That night, Law catches you adding a drop of something green and shimmering into your tea.

He stares.

You pause “It’s just moss extract.”

He raises a brow.

You sigh “…Okay, mildly hallucinogenic moss.”

He snatches the cup.

“Captain!”

“You can have it back after I test it.”

Your eyes widen.

“…Wait. Are you going to drink it?”

He gives you a rare smirk “For science.”

Your jaw drops. And suddenly, you think you might be falling a little bit in love.

Now you’re staring.

Not at the moss sample.

At him.

Trafalgar D. Water Law, Surgeon of Death, Warlord-turned-revolutionary, terrifyingly brilliant man of mystery… just drank the tea you spiked with a moss known to mildly bend reality.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s nothing.

You blink “That was an experimental dosage.”

“I adjusted for body weight.”

“Oh my god.”

Bepo’s ears twitch “Captain… are you sure that was smart?”

Law gives a slow blink “I’m fine.”

You and Bepo exchange a look.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s very much not fine.

“What… the hell is that?”

You follow Law’s dazed line of sight “That’s… the campfire, Captain.”

He squints.

“It’s breathing.”

You purse your lips “Okay, slightly more than mild hallucinations.”

“Why is it breathing, Y/N.”

“Symbolic warmth?”

He stares at you. His pupils are so dilated.

You pull out a notepad “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I see seven.”

“…I’m holding up two.”

He sways.

You sigh and grab his arm “Alright, that’s enough science for tonight.”

He lets you guide him with surprising ease, mumbling under his breath.

You make it back to the tent just as the hallucinations seem to peak.

“I need to sit” he mutters.

You lower him down gently, watching as he pinches the bridge of his nose “Throbbing temple. Flashing visuals. You’re not vomiting, though… interesting.”

He opens one eye “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” you admit, handing him water “You’re cute when your grip on reality is slipping.”

“Y/N.”

“Mm?”

“There are tiny doctors running in circles around me.”

You blink. Then look around the tent.

“…Well. You’re not wrong.”

You sit next to him. Close, but not touching. It’s oddly quiet for a jungle night.

“Headache?” you ask softly.

He nods once.

You reach up and, very carefully, press your fingers against his temples. Slow circles. He doesn’t flinch.

“Pressure can help the tension pass” you say.

He closes his eyes. Exhales.

You pause “Tell me what else you see.”

“…You.”

You snort “No kidding.”

“No, I mean…” he trails off, brows twitching “You look… soft.”

Your hands freeze “I—what?”

“You’re glowing.”

You’re absolutely not glowing, but...

“Oh” you whisper.

“You’re always buzzing,” he murmurs “Like something dangerous in a pretty bottle.”

You stop breathing for a second.

“Law…” you say, too quietly.

But he’s not done.

“I always thought I hated that. The unpredictability. But now it feels like… I don’t know.”

He leans his head forward, forehead bumping gently against yours.

“You scare the hell out of me,” he breathes “And I think I’m starting to even like it.”

You think your heart just stopped.

“Definitely a side effect…” you whisper, but your fingers are still on his skin, still gently pressing against his temples.

He exhales “I’ll regret saying all of that, won’t I.”

You smile, a little shaken “Only if you pretend it wasn’t true later.”

Silence. He doesn’t move.

Then he mutters “I’m keeping the tea recipe."

You laugh.

Outside the tent, Bepo lowers his paw from the tent flap and whispers to Shachi and Penguin “They’re in love. Told you it wasn’t poison.”

After that, Law pretends nothing happened.

You give him three days.

Three days of ignoring the fact he hallucinated tiny doctors and confessed to liking the chaos you bring to his life. Three days of sidelong glances, awkward silences, and you very purposefully reminding him of the tea incident every time he gets too comfortable.

“Captain,” you say sweetly as you walk by him, “you’re not seeing glowing versions of me today, are you?”

He glares “No.”

“Shame. I looked great in your hallucination.”

He drops his pen. Hard.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

Coward.

Later on - You don’t mean to get sick.

Not really.

It’s just that the vines didn’t look that threatening, and you were pretty sure it was just a paralytic contact toxin, and well… maybe you’d misjudged the concentration.

The world tilts sideways.

You feel your legs give out before your brain registers it.

And then darkness.

You wake to voices.

“…found her by the river. Unresponsive.”

“I told her to stop touching unknown plants. Why can’t she just—”

“She didn’t do it on purpose.”

A long silence.

Then Law’s voice again. Quiet. Cracked.

“She always makes it look like she’s in control. But she’s not.”

You open your eyes.

The ceiling of the Polar Tang greets you. So does a pounding ache in your chest. You shift and wince.

Law’s at your side in an instant.

“Stay down.” he says, low and sharp.

Your voice is hoarse “Didn’t think I’d go out like that. No drama. No romantic poisoning. Just a stupid plant.”

His eyes flicker “It was… dramatic. You stopped breathing.”

“Oh…” you say, blinking.

“I didn’t know what it was. For once, you knew more than me. And I couldn’t—” He swallows the words.

You offer a small smile “So… scared the hell out of you, huh?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just sits back down beside you. Shoulders tense. Jaw clenched.

You watch him, softly “Law.”

“Don’t say it.” he mutters.

“Say what?”

“That I was right. That you should’ve listened. That this was inevitable. That I knew you’d get hurt eventually.”

You tilt your head “Wasn’t gonna say any of that.”

He looks up, surprised.

“I was gonna say,” you murmur, “that I’m sorry I made you worry.”

You reach out weakly, stupidly, and your hand grazes his.

“I forget sometimes,” you whisper “That people care.”

Something breaks in his expression.

“Y/N,” he says tightly, “you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep flirting with death like it’s a hobby.”

“I wasn’t flirting with death.” you tease “That was basically a date. I only flirt with you, Captain.”

He glares.

You smile, and it fades slowly as your fingers curl around his.

“I didn’t want to die. Not really. Not before I figured out what this thing is.”

He blinks “What thing?”

“This,” you whisper “Whatever this is between us. The hallucinations. The confessions. The weird tension where you want to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

“You’re wrong.” he says.

Your chest tightens “Oh.”

“I don’t want to kill you, you already do that to yourself alone.”

Pause.

“I just want to kiss you.”

You stop breathing.

He leans forward. Slow. Intentional. One hand brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward him like you’re something fragile and fleeting.

“Captain” you whisper.

“Y/N” he breathes.

And then he kisses you.

It’s gentle, for all of three seconds, then desperate, frustrated, furious about the fact that he was almost losing you.

When he pulls back, you’re both breathless.

“You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever studied” he mutters, forehead against yours.

You grin.

“And you’re my favorite side effect.”

── .✦ Portgas D. Ace:

The sun is brutal on the upper deck, but you don’t notice. You’re too busy holding a tiny, glittering vial up to the light with the reverence of someone holding an engagement ring or, in your case, an exciting new potential toxin.

It’s pink. Slightly viscous. Smells faintly like fermented fruit and regret.

Perfect.

“Please tell me you’re not going to drink that.” Marco says behind you, half-exasperated, half-terrified.

“I’m going to sip it,” you say, rolling your eyes “For science.”

“For science?” he repeats.

“For science,” you nod solemnly, uncorking the bottle “And also morbid curiosity.”

He groans “Y/N…”

Too late. You down it in one go.

There’s a moment of silence as you smack your lips thoughtfully.

“…Taste?”

“Like someone dissolved candy in cheap rum and lies.”

“Oh good,” Marco mutters “You’ve poisoned yourself again.”

You wave him off “If I die, I’ll write it down first.”

He opens his mouth to argue but a loud whistle cuts him off.

“Oi!” Ace calls, walking over shirtless, sun-drenched, grinning that smug grin that says I’ve definitely started three fires before breakfast “You experimenting again?”

You nod, blinking a bit “Just something I found in a locked crate under Izo’s bunk.”

Ace raises a brow “You… drank random liquid you found in Izo’s stash?”

“Yes,” you say matter-of-factly “And also, your laugh makes my spine feel weird.”

He stares.

You stare back.

Marco sucks in a sharp breath “Oh no.”

You tilt your head thoughtfully “And your shoulders are distracting. I’ve catalogued seventy-eight poisons but can’t remember what you said this morning because you yawned mid-sentence and I lost focus.”

“…You what?” Ace coughs.

You continue, voice perfectly even “Also, I sometimes fake headaches to watch you carry me to the infirmary. You’re very warm.”

You slam your hands on your mouth to stop it from saying more, while the crew begins to gather like sharks to blood.

Thatch appears holding popcorn. Someone is calling for Izo. There’s actual cheering.

“You’re glowing,” Marco says quietly, inspecting your skin “Shimmering. That’s one of Izo’s truth serums. A prototype he was working on some time ago.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Ace echoes weakly.

You turn to him “Also, I ranked your freckles once. The ones on your jaw are my favorite.”

Ace turns so red you think he might combust without using his powers.

“You… I… how long is this stuff supposed to last?!” he splutters.

You shrug “Few hours, probably. Don’t worry. I’ll be asleep before I get to the part about your hands.”

“What about my hands?!”

“Nothing!” you say, far too quickly “They’re just… statistically… dangerous looking.”

He’s speechless. Marco is already reaching for his notebook.

You’ve become the Moby Dick’s favorite form of entertainment.

You’re still sitting cross-legged on the deck, glittering faintly in the sun like a cursed disco ball, while the Whitebeard Pirates form a loose circle around you.

“Truth serum,” Thatch hums, rubbing his hands together “This is the best day I’ve had in weeks.”

“It’s unethical...” Marco mutters beside him.

“It’s hilarious,” Izo corrects, snapping open a fan and leaning in “Y/N, darling, be honest... who took the last chocolate muffin last week? It was you, am I wrong?”

You open your mouth immediately “Not me. It was Ace.”

“Traitor!” Ace sputters from somewhere behind you.

You shrug “You left crumbs in the storage room. Also, your heartbeat spiked when someone mentioned it at breakfast.”

Everyone turns to Ace. He throws his hands up “It was one time!”

“You licked the wrapper, too.” you add calmly “Twice.”

Someone howls.

“Alright, my turn!” Thatch grins “Y/N, have you ever sabotaged anyone’s food?”

You nod serenely “I put mild laxatives in Namur’s tea once because he wouldn’t stop stealing my ginger cookies.”

Namur gasps “You monster!”

“You deserved it,” you reply without a trace of guilt “You called my medicinal brownies ‘dirt bars.’”

“Next question,” Izo purrs, leaning forward “Have you ever kissed someone on this ship?”

The crew leans in.

You blink “No.”

“Have you thought about it?” Marco asks, suddenly very interested.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Ace.”

The sound Ace makes is somewhere between a squeak and a small, internal detonation.

The crew loses it.

“YES!”

“I KNEW IT!”

“PAY UP, IZO!”

“I had money on Marco, damn it!”

You sigh as if this is all deeply inconvenient, like the truth is just leaking out of you against your will, which, of course, it is.

You say casually “He smells good. Like firewood and something sweet. Maybe toasted sugar. I haven’t narrowed it down yet.”

Ace is covering his face with his hands now, bright red from the neck up.

“Can I go lie down?” you mumble “Or roll into the sea?”

Marco snorts “Not until the glitter wears off.”

Thatch throws an arm around your shoulder “C’mon, Y/N, one more... if you had to kiss anyone else on this ship—”

“I’d rather drink from the mildew jar in my lab.”

“…Fair.”

You blink slowly, tone still deadly calm “Thatch, you once tried to trim your chest hair with surgical scissors. Drunk.”

Thatch chokes “That was off the record!”

“No such thing,” Marco laughs “She’s the serum’s hostage now.”

“I regret nothing,” you reply “Except licking the blue mushroom last month. That hallucination lasted eight hours. I tried to dissect the air.”

Ace groans “Can someone drag her below deck before she tells everyone what I look like shirtless in creepy detail?”

You look straight at him “You’re built like a statue someone made while going through something personal.”

He explodes.

The next morning you’re back to your usual self.

The strange, glittering effects of the truth serum have worn off, leaving you feeling… normal again. You’re busy carefully grinding some herbs into powder, a mixture for your next experiment, when a familiar voice rings out behind you.

“Morning, poison queen.”

You freeze.

“Don’t call me that” you mutter without turning around, but there’s an unmistakable edge of dread in your tone.

Ace slides onto the bench next to you, uninvited, a grin spreading across his face as he leans toward you, looking like he’s about to launch into a full assault.

“Oh, I think I will...” he says, practically purring “You’re the one who told the entire crew how much you love my shoulders, remember?”

You tense “I did not—”

“And those freckles?” Ace raises an eyebrow, already loving the flush spreading across your face “Did you know that Marco bet I’d get at least five different comments on my jawline today? Maybe next time you should be more specific.”

Your eyes snap to his, and you open your mouth to argue but then he continues.

“You really should have warned me before you started cataloging all my features. Or how about when you admitted you fake headaches just so you can get me to carry you to the infirmary?”

The teasing tone in his voice is getting under your skin, and you try to focus on grinding your herbs, but his words are still ringing in your ears.

“You do know that it’s not even the ‘headaches’ you fake that’s the problem, right? It’s that you actually like it when I carry you. Which I can totally tell from the way you always sigh in my arms.”

You bite your lip, cheeks burning, desperate to look anywhere but at him.

“Or how about when you—” Ace’s voice drops low, “—admitted that I smell good? Like firewood and… What was that you said? Oh, right! Toasted sugar!”

You inhale sharply “I never said that.”

“Oh, yes you did, and you know.” he says, leaning in closer, the amusement in his eyes dangerously obvious “And you also said I’m built like a statue. Do you really think I wouldn’t remember that?”

“Shut up.” You finally look up, but your voice is strained as you meet his teasing gaze.

“I mean, I’m just curious,” Ace continues, a little too happily, “how much more stuff you’ve been hiding from me. How long have you been analyzing my muscles, exactly? Do you think they’re… aesthetically pleasing?” He pauses to let the words sink in “Hmm, maybe I should flex for you to get a clearer answer.”

The crew, who had been quietly watching from a distance (but clearly listening), suddenly bursts into laughter, but you just want to curl into a ball and disappear.

“Oh, this is good,” Thatch says, clearly enjoying the show “I never thought Ace would get revenge like this, but here we are.”

“You should see her when she’s trying to make that poison tea thing,” Marco says, shaking his head “She’s way too serious about it, but now we know she’s been obsessed with Ace’s shoulders the whole time.”

“You guys are awful.” you mutter, sinking into your chair, arms crossed tightly across your chest in an attempt to hold yourself together.

Ace, however, is not letting up. He knows the soft spots, and he’s making sure to press every single one of them.

“So, how’s it feel?” Ace grins, tapping your shoulder playfully “Being soooo open about how much you like me? You definitely don’t look uncomfortable at all.”

You shoot him a glare, but it’s hard to stay mad when he’s looking so damn smug about it.

“I don’t know, Ace. It must be so hard for you to carry the weight of being so perfect that I couldn’t stop talking about how handsome you are, huh?” you bite back.

Ace stares at you for a moment, clearly thrown off by your unexpected response. Then he laughs “Oh, that’s rich. You think you can out-tease me?”

“You’re the one who’s been doing it all day.” you shoot back, finally turning to face him fully “Seems like you loved me pointing out all the things I like about you.”

The crew laughs even harder, and Ace’s grin only grows.

“I won.” he says, smug as ever “It’s not my fault you’re so obsessed with me. Honestly, I’m kinda flattered.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are.” You roll your eyes, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

But Ace doesn’t relent “Admit it, Y/N. You’re in love with me.”

You pause.

“And if I am?” you ask coolly, holding his gaze.

The teasing gleam in his eyes flickers, then vanishes. Ace looks just a little taken aback by the way you’re holding your ground.

“Well…” He scratches the back of his head, clearly flustered now “You’ve already said it once. So I’m just making sure you’re still on the same page.”

And just like that, it’s his turn to feel the heat in his cheeks.

“Well, maybe you should stop teasing me, then.” you say with a sly smile.

Ace grins, shaking his head “Nah, this is fun. You’ll get used to it.”

Now it’s your turn to mess with Ace.

After days of relentless teasing, you’ve decided that it’s time to use his own game against him. He’s made it clear that he loves to toy with you and now, it’s time for him to spill the truth, whether he wants to or not.

The deck is quiet, the crew all doing their own thing, but you know Ace will find you soon. He always does. And, sure enough, as you’re mixing something into a flask in the corner of the kitchen, his voice floats over the rim of the doorway.

“Hey, poison queen,” he says with a grin, clearly thinking of another thing to tease you about “Are you planning to poison the whole crew with whatever concoction you’re making today? Or is it just my poor, unsuspecting self?”

You don’t answer right away, focusing on your work. You’re careful with every motion. Just one drop of this ingredient, and you’ll have him talking like a parrot for hours.

“Alright, alright, what’s in the flask today?” he presses, inching closer “Am I going to shit myself?”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling sweetly “Oh, nothing dangerous, I promise.”

“Then why do you look so… suspicious?” Ace narrows his eyes playfully, still not suspecting a thing.

You flash him a mischievous smile, taking the flask with one hand and adding a few drops of your carefully prepared herbal mix into his mug “Just a little something to make sure your day is… interesting.”

Ace raises an eyebrow, but at this point, he’s practically inviting the teasing. He’s completely unaware of the slight adjustment you made. After all, you’ve poisoned your own drinks with far worse. The concoction in his mug isn’t lethal, but it’ll get the job done.

You hand it over with a flourish “Here you go, fire boy. Drink up.”

Ace takes the mug, his smirk growing wider. He’s used to your antics, but he doesn’t know you’ve just pulled the wool over his eyes. He takes a swig, and just as the liquid slides down his throat, you watch him carefully.

But then, a few seconds later, Ace’s expression shifts, his eyes flickering with confusion as he sets the mug down.

“You okay?” you ask casually, keeping your voice neutral.

Ace blinks, a frown tugging at his features “Yeah, just… feel a little weird. Like, light-headed… You didn’t actually put something in here, did you?”

“Oh, it’s just a little herbal remedy,” you say with a shrug, your grin widening “You know, to make you feel better.”

“Well, I do feel better, but I also feel...” he admits with a nervous laugh “Weird.”

That’s your cue. You pull out a chair and sit down, raising an eyebrow “I think we can have some fun with that.”

His eyes flick to yours, unsure “What do you mean?”

“You see, I didn't drink all that bottle the other day. And, well… the thing is,” you continue, now holding his gaze, “you’ve been teasing me for days, Ace. And I’m really curious about how much of what you said was… well, the truth.”

Ace stares at you, confusion melting into realization as the drug starts to kick in, the subtle influence of your concoction making him more vulnerable to his own thoughts.

“Wait, what…?” He shakes his head, trying to focus “This is… a trick, right? Did you really—”

“So, Ace...” you say in a soothing tone, leaning in slightly “Admit it, you like me.”

Ace laughs awkwardly, his eyes unfocused as his lips move to speak without hesitation “Well, uh, yeah. I’ve liked you for a while now… I just thought it’d be funny to make you squirm about it.”

You narrow your eyes, pretending to act surprised “You like me? You’ve been teasing me because you like me?”

He stumbles over his words, but it’s too late to stop himself “Yeah, you’re like… fun. I don’t know how to act around you, okay? Every time I try to be normal, you just—ugh, you get under my skin. And I can’t stop teasing you.”

You smile wickedly, feeling the rush of victory surge in your veins.

“Is that so?” you ask sweetly, letting his confession sink in “And here I thought you were just being a brat.”

"That's just my love language ok? I don't know how to act normal around someone I like, so I just tease and tease and tease."

"Love language?" you ask actually a bit shocked "So you really do like me?? Couldn't you just confess back when I got exposed with that truth telling thing?"

"It's too complicated. I just... didn't know now." he says trying to avoind your eyes.

"You just did it."

"Well, not in a fair way, though."

"I've put nothing in that drink, you idiot..."

Ace freezes “Wait a sec… Are you messing with me right now?” he asks, his voice suddenly more wary “This isn’t real?”

“Oh, it’s very real,” you reply, letting a mischievous grin slip into your expression “The truth serum is working, wihtout even the need to actually use it. You’re just… a little more vulnerable than you think.”

His eyes widen “Wait… wait, what did you do to me?”

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair “Just a little something to get you to spill your guts. But what’s even better is that you’re admitting things you didn’t even realize you were feeling.”

Ace’s face twists as the realization hits him “I—I thought I was poisoned? You… you tricked me into confessing everything?!”

The crew, who has been silently observing the entire exchange, erupts into laughter from all corners of the room. Marco, Izo, and Thatch are barely holding it together, while the rest of the crew seems equally entertained by the spectacle.

“That’s right, fire boy,” you say, leaning closer “You weren’t poisoned at all. You were just brainwashed into thinking you were.”

Ace stares at you, his face redder than ever, looking like he’s ready to combust.

“Yeah, well, now I’m gonna make you regret it” he mutters, his earlier smugness replaced by genuine frustration and something else you can’t quite place.

But for now, you’ve won. And you’ll savor this small victory for as long as you can.

The crew is still chuckling from the aftermath of your little “truth serum” game. You can practically feel the heat radiating from Ace’s flushed face, the sheer embarrassment of his earlier confessions hanging in the air like a cloud.

“Well, Ace,” you say, leaning back in your chair with a smug grin, “I gotta say, you made it pretty easy for me to get all your secrets out.”

Ace grumbles, clearly trying to salvage what’s left of his dignity “I can’t believe I fell for that.” He crosses his arms, glaring at you but clearly not all that mad, more like… flustered.

You lean in a little closer, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips “You did admit a lot, though. Like how much you actually like me.”

That catches him off guard. He stumbles for a moment, as if he wants to deny it, but there’s no escaping the truth now “Well, what can I say, you did say a lot of embarrassing things, too, when you drank that ‘serum’.”

You raise an eyebrow, the teasing still simmering beneath your words “Like what, exactly?”

“Oh, you know, I still think about you counting my freckles…” He flashes you a grin, almost too proud of himself for turning the tables.

You smirk, taking a deep breath “Well, now that I know you like me back…” You pause for effect, leaning even closer, “I can finally say it all again without the need for any truth drink.”

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. Ace’s eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, he’s speechless “Wait, what?”

You grin, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort “Yep. So now, I’m free to repeat everything. Your teasing? It’s actually kind of cute. And maybe I even find you hot… especially with that devil fruit power of yours.” You’re clearly enjoying this far too much “Might even be into that.”

Ace is completely flustered now, cheeks burning red, and he stammers, “You… you really are messing with me, huh?”

Before you can answer, he suddenly leans forward, a spark of determination lighting up his eyes “Alright, then, I’ll just prove to you how much I like you.”

You blink, confused “What are you talking about?”

He leans in, his usual cocky grin back on his face “You wanna tell me what you like about me? Then I’ll tell you what I like about you... Like a competition since you like it.”

You tilt your head, intrigued “A competition, huh? Alright. But what’s the catch?”

Ace leans in even closer, voice dropping to a low, teasing tone “No backing out. You have to admit everything you like about me, truthfully, no holds barred.”

Your eyes glint with mischief “Alright, fine. But be warned. You might not like what you hear.”

Ace’s grin only grows wider “I’m all ears, Y/N. Let’s hear it.”

“First off,” you begin, your tone as playful as ever, “I might like how your hair looks like you just rolled out of bed. It’s… charming in a ‘I just woke up and I’m not trying’ kind of way.”

Ace scoffs, looking both proud and a little defensive “Well, you know, some people can’t pull it off, but I do.”

You roll your eyes “And I might find it kind of adorable that you get so riled up when I call you out. Your pride’s kind of cute… in a completely frustrating way.”

Ace stares at you for a second, then grins, almost cocky “I’ll take that as a compliment… for now.”

But before you can continue, someone shouts from the back of the room.

“Get a room, you two!”

The words echo across the deck, and everyone bursts into laughter. Ace’s face turns redder than ever, and for a moment, it looks like he’s about to explode.

“Shut up!” he snaps, but the crew’s laughter is uncontrollable.

But the comment gives Ace an idea. He stands up suddenly, grabbing your wrist and tugging you toward the stairs leading below deck.

“Alright, fine. We’ll take it to my room,” he says, his voice a little breathless but determined “Let’s see how much you really like me.”

You blink, surprised at his boldness, but you can’t hide the grin forming on your face “Ace… you think you can just drag me to your room and get away with it?”

“Maybe,” he says with a sly wink “But you’ll never know unless you come with me.”

You chuckle, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline you get when Ace is being this unpredictable “Alright then, hothead. Lead the way.”

The crew, of course, continues to shout playful remarks as you both head toward his room. Marco just shakes his head with a knowing smile.

Ace’s room door slams shut behind you both, and whatever happens next is anyone’s guess. But one thing is certain, this game of teasing is far from over. And in the end, neither of you is going to back down from it anytime soon.

[deadsetobsessions]

Bruce “Sad Wet Cat of a Man” Wayne meets Danny “Sad Wet Cat of a Teenager” and immediately adopts him. A prompt? A fic starter?

——

This was pathetic, Bruce groused, wringing his cape under the mostly effective shelter of an awning. Amity’s rain was somehow more potent than that of Gotham and it managed to soak the waterproof fabric of his cape. This was not scientifically possible.

Bruce refrained from giving into the urge of slamming his head backwards into the wall.

“You’re new in town, aren’t ya?”

Bruce subtly startled, head swiveling over to the presence he somehow hadn’t detected. His heart gave a little squeeze- and, uh oh, that’s the squeeze he got when he adopted his kids. Bruce was self aware enough to see where this was going, but as usual, he was helpless to stop it.

Batman slightly dipped his head. How did the child know?

Like he read his mind, the teenager nodded. “You look like it. We know everyone in Amity. And you’re new. Tourists.” He chuckled, brushing the weird rain out of his hair. “And, you’re soaked.”

“This is waterproof,” Batman growled.

“Yeah, in other places of the world, maybe,” At Bruce’s questioning look (not that anyone other than liminal could have figured out his friendly intentions via the scary glare he had on), the kid elaborated further. “but you didn’t get Amity-made textiles. They’re made to last in any weather.”

“This is rain.”

“Ecto-contaminated rain, yeah.” The kid sighed, one hand absently fluffing up his hair and getting rid of stray green-tinged water droplets. “I’m Danny. I guess I’m your Amity tour guide today.”

Well, Bruce wasn’t the type to turn down an advantage. If this was a trap one of his enemies made for him to stumble into, Bruce had to admit it was well made and well researched. He never could turn away kids, especially ones that had that edge of work weary exhaustion to them like Danny did.

Danny, as expected, tried to fill in the silence. Alfred's technique always worked. Even on Bruce himself.

"This is the mall, by the way. It's dead right now because you're here on a Wednesday during school hours." Danny smirked to himself.

"Why are you not in school then?"

"It's called skipping. Or, for you, I guess it'd be 'playing hooky,'" Danny sassed, making quotation marks with his hands. He was exactly like Dick.

Bruce felt his heart melt. Oh no. Alfred was going to be mad again. But... it was for a good cause! And besides, what are the chances that Danny'd be a crime fighting vigilante? Can't be that high, right? (Bruce conveniently avoided the fact that statistically, the chances of him adopting baby vigilantes were pretty much at a hundred percent success rate.)

"Hng." He grunted. Danny rolled his eyes. Like Jason and Damian and Stephanie. "Where are your parents?"

He had to get the important stuff squared away first.

Danny shrugged. "Come on. There's a fabric store that way. We'll make you a rain guard first so your stuff doesn't get wet."

Ah, classic avoidance. Danny sure reminded him of Tim. Bruce inclined his head. "Lead the way."

[kannady]

v i a g r a

pairing: sylus x reader

summary: you worked in a pharmaceutical company that had recently developed a libido-enhancing drug. however, it had only been tested on the average people. it needed to be tested on someone with an already high libido. who could be a better test subject than your boyfriend?

an: i dont knowwwww. this is my first time writing smut. lemme know if you feel the knot-in-your-stomach typa feeling. bet you cant tell this was inspired by innocent birdcage ;). and btw this is NOT related to my other sylus fic im working on, its a oneshot.

genre: sylus, love and deepspace, smut, p in v, cunnilingus, creampie, reader is a researcher, established relationship, slight degradation, 18+ content

The lab was quiet at this hour, the glow of screens illuminating the sterile surfaces. You tapped a finger over the data pad as you scrolled through the latest results. Perfect efficiency, zero side effects. Your company had managed to create a libido-enhancing formula that promised to provide pleasure and only pleasure—nothing else. However, there was one small issue. The formula had only been tested on ordinary people, and there was still one variable left untested: the effects of the revolutionary drug on someone already with a high libido.

And that was how Sylus ended up sprawled across your exam table, looking far too pleased with himself. “Remind me again why I’m the ideal subject?” He knew exactly why, but he needed to hear it from your lips. Again.

“We needed someone with a high baseline stamina, rigor, and elevated natural response,” you replied confidently, refusing to let your voice waver.

He smirked at your response and repeated the word elevated like it was an inside joke, stretching just enough to make the fabric of his shirt rise, revealing his toned abs. Not now. But you couldn’t help yourself and stole another glimpse. He was truly beautiful everywhere.

He noticed your gaze. “Like what you see, kitten? Or should I say doctor?” You ignored that—or at least tried. But he knew exactly what he did to you. You adjusted the sensors on his wrist and walked to the monitor to check his vitals. His pulse was steady, strong. Like he knew where this was going.

“Administering the dose now,” you said, handing him the pill with your gloved hand. Sylus took it slowly, his fingertips brushing yours with deliberate intent before popping it into his mouth. He swallowed, never breaking eye contact.

“How long until it kicks in?”

“Approximately twenty minutes.” You turned back to the monitors, determined to focus on the numbers and not the way he was watching you.

“So, we’ve got time to kill.” His voice was a low purr. You knew what he meant. Knew exactly where this was going. But professionalism was a flimsy shield against Sylus when he got like this.

The first alert chimed on the monitor. Elevated heart rate. Pupil dilation. You didn’t need the screens to tell you what you could already see—the way his breath deepened, the way his fingers flexed against the table like he was holding himself back.

“Interesting,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “This feels faster than usual.” His gaze dropped to your lips. You caught him wetting his own, you weren’t mistaken.

“You should take notes, doctor.”

Oh, right. You hastily reached for your journal and started scribbling. You needed to record the exact time the dose was administered and when the effects began. But your attention snapped back to the monitor when it buzzed. You frowned. The sensors were going wild. Panic set in as you turned to Sylus, and the sight alarmed you. His face was flushed, bangs stuck to his forehead from sweat. He was panting.

“Oh, shit! Shit!” You ran to him and placed your hands on his shoulders, but his body heat seared through the fabric. The drug had worked fine for everyone else, but this was the first time you’d seen this. You racked your brain. You’d studied for this. Now was not the time to panic. Apply the knowledge!

Okay, follow the protocol. You dashed to the cabinet for diazepam. He needed sedation and close monitoring. Just before you could inject him, he grabbed your wrist. Just enough to make your breath hitch and sat upright.

“You’ve been so thorough with your research.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “But don’t you think it’s time for a more hands-on approach, doctor?”

You opened your mouth to protest—this was supposed to be professional, controlled, but his lips grazed your neck, and the words dissolved into a gasp. His hands slid down your hips, gripping hard as he lifted you onto the exam table, knocking aside vials with a careless sweep.

“Won’t you help me, kitten?” His eyes flashed with feral hunger. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he closed the scant distance between you.

He kissed you like a man starved. His lips molded against yours in a hot, demanding kiss, tongue delving into your mouth to claim it. One hand fisted in your hair, holding you in place, while the other gripped your hip, yanking your body flush against his. He nipped your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue before diving back in.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned against your lips. His hands slid down to palm your ass, squeezing as he pulled you tighter. You could feel his thick, rigid length straining against his jeans. The sensation made you moan into the kiss.

He released your hair, grabbed your hand, and pressed it against his hardening bulge. “You feel that, kitten? You made me so fucking hard.” He lightly bit your lip. “Been thinking about how good I’d fuck you, make you come all over my cock.”

His words were filthy, incredibly arousing. You couldn’t help but imagine him taking you raw, making you feel so good. But he’d read your thoughts.

“You want it too, right? Say it, kitten. Beg me to fuck you like the little slut you are. Hmm?”

All he’d done was kiss you, but you felt like you were floating. You didn’t care about the experiment anymore—you just wanted him.

“P-Please, Sylus…”

“Please what? Use your words, kitten.” He rocked into you, letting you feel how much he wanted you, how hard he was already.

“I want-want you to f-fuck me, Sylus.”

“Good girl.”

His hand slid under your shirt, calloused fingers skimming your stomach. He paused at the underside of your breast, thumb teasing the edge of your bra. “You wanted data? Let me show you exactly what your little experiment does to me.”

He yanked your top off and latched onto your neck, pressing sloppy kisses and bites into the sensitive skin, marks that would linger. The drug’s effects were evident in his movements: impatient, relentless. The monitors were a mess of erratic beeps, but neither of you cared.

With an expert flick, he unhooked your bra and latched onto your breast, his free hand sliding down your stomach, fingers dipping beneath your skirt to tease the wet heat between your thighs.

“Fuck,” he growled against your chest, voice dripping with lust. “Already soaked for me, kitten?”

You gasped as his fingers pressed against your clit, circling just enough to make your hips jerk.

“S-Sylus—the experiment—”

“Oh, we’re still experimenting,” he purred before kissing up your throat and capturing your lips again. His tongue plunged deep, mimicking the filthy rhythm of his fingers as they slid inside you, curling just right to make you cry out. “Maybe not in the way you planned.”

Without warning, he plunged three fingers into your dripping cunt, making you gasp and arch off the table.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, pumping his fingers in and out. “So fucking ready for me.”

Sylus knelt, his tongue lapping at your clit as his fingers curled inside you, stroking that spot that made your toes curl. He suckled hard, fingers speeding up, fucking you with ruthless intensity.

“That’s it, baby. Soak my fingers. I want to feel you dripping all over my cock when I split you open.” His voice was a filthy growl against your skin.

You could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers, your body tensing as you neared the edge.

“Come for me, sweetie. Come all over my fingers like the desperate little slut you are.”

His thumb pressed hard against your clit, rubbing tight circles as he finger-fucked you wildly. The obscene sound of your arousal filled the room. His eyes met yours, wicked gleam in their depths as he waited for you to shatter.

The orgasm crashed over you, your back arching as Sylus wrung every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body. Your thighs clamped around his head, fingers tangled in his hair.

But Sylus wasn’t done. He licked you clean until you were a squirming, overstimulated mess.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your thigh, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin before pulling away. His lips glistened with your arousal, and he licked them slowly, savoring the taste. “So fucking delicious.”

You were still catching your breath when he stood, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. His eyes never left yours, dark with hunger.

“Now, where were we?”

The leather slid free, and your pulse jumped. He smirked, letting the belt drop before popping the buttons of his jeans. The denim slid down, revealing his thick, straining cock, already leaking at the tip. He palmed himself with a groan, stroking slowly as he watched you.

“I hope you’re taking notes, doctor.”

Your mouth went dry. The drug had amplified everything. His scent, the heat rolling off him, the way his muscles flexed. Professionalism was long forgotten.

Sylus stepped forward, yanking your hips to the edge of the table. His cock brushed your soaked folds, making you shudder.

“Tell me you want it,” he hissed. “Tell me you need me to fuck you.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I need it. Please, Sylus-”

He didn’t make you beg again.

With one brutal thrust, he sheathed himself inside you, filling you to the brim, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. He was huge, stretching you impossibly full.

“So fucking tight,” he hissed.

For a moment, neither of you moved, overwhelmed. Then Sylus pulled back and slammed into you again, setting a relentless pace. The exam table rattled, monitors beeping wildly, but the only sounds that mattered were the filthy slap of skin and your ragged gasps.

Sylus’s hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he drove into you, each thrust hitting that sweet spot.

“That’s it. Take it,” he growled, voice strained. “Take every fucking inch.”

You could feel another orgasm coiling fast. Sylus sensed it too, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles as he angled his hips just right.

“Come for me,” he ordered. “I want to feel you squeeze my cock like a good little slut.”

The command shattered you. Your walls clenched around him, pleasure erupting as you came with a broken cry. Sylus fucked you through it, his control fraying, thrusts turning erratic.

“Fuck, you’re milking me so good,” he snarled, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “Gonna fill you up, kitten. Pump you so full of cum you’ll feel me dripping out for days.”

The filthy promise sent another wave of heat through you. Sylus’s rhythm stuttered, his cock twitching as his release tore through him. With a guttural groan, he slammed into you one last time, hilting himself deep as hot ropes of cum painted your walls.

You whimpered at the sensation, oversensitive body pulsing weakly around him.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the wet slide of Sylus’s cock still lazily thrusting, spreading his release. His forehead dropped against yours, breath uneven.

“Fuck,” he panted, lips brushing yours. “That was-”

The monitor let out a shrill beep. Sylus didn’t flinch.

“Turn it off,” he growled, nipping your lip.

You slapped at the buttons until the noise stopped. Sylus chuckled darkly, hands sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing your stiff nipples.

“Good girl.”

His cock was still hard inside you. You gasped as he rolled his hips, dragging against your sensitive walls.

“S-Sylus--”

“Mmm, not done yet,” he murmured, lips trailing down your throat. “That little drug of yours? It’s got me fucking insatiable.”

His teeth grazed your collarbone. “And you’re not walking out of here until I’ve had my fill.”

Before you could process the threat, he flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up until your ass pressed flush against him. One hand tangled in your hair, forcing your head back as the other guided his cock back to your soaked entrance.

“Can you take it?” he demanded, voice dripping with lust.

You whimpered, already aching.

“Y-Yes--”

Sylus didn’t wait. He slammed into you in one brutal stroke, sheathing himself to the hilt. The force knocked the breath from your lungs, fingers scrambling for purchase as he set a punishing pace.

“That’s it,” he growled, grip tightening in your hair. “Take it like the fucking slut you are.”

The filthy praise sent sparks through you, your body responding eagerly even as pleasure bordered on pain. His free hand found your clit, rubbing rough, relentless circles.

“Gonna make you come again,” he promised, voice dark and sinful. “Gonna make you scream so loud they hear you in the next lab.”

You couldn’t hold back the broken moan as his fingers worked you in time with his thrusts, the dual stimulation pushing you toward another dizzying peak.

“Sylus-!”

“Say my name like that when you come,” he ordered, hips snapping forward hard enough to make the table creak. “Let me fucking hear you.”

You shattered with a cry, body clamping around him as pleasure ripped through you. Sylus swore, rhythm faltering as your tight heat milked him through his own release. He buried himself deep, grinding into you as he came, groan muffled against your shoulder.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your heavy breaths and the soft drip of sweat and cum onto the floor.

Sylus finally pulled out, hands smoothing over your trembling thighs.

“Well, doctor,” he purred, pressing a kiss to the small of your back. “I’d say your experiment was successful.”

You collapsed onto the table, boneless and utterly ruined.

You looked around. The lab was a disaster.

Sylus chuckled lowly, taking in the wreckage—overturned vials, scattered papers, blinking monitors. His gaze drifted to you, still sprawled and trembling. A smirk tugged at his lips, but his eyes held something softer.

“Looks like we made a mess, kitten,” he murmured, brushing a damp strand from your forehead.

You groaned, weakly swatting his hand. “You think?”

Sylus laughed, offering his hand. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You hesitated, but his fingers curled around yours, warm and steady. Your legs wobbled, and he didn’t miss your wince as your feet touched the floor. Without a word, he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You wanted to protest, but your knees threatened to give out. So you let him guide you to the sink, where he wet a cloth and gently wiped away the sweat and stickiness.

“You didn’t have to-”

“Don’t,” he cut in, thumb tracing your jaw. “Just let me take care of you.”

No teasing, no smugness. Just quiet sincerity.

Once you were steady, Sylus turned to the lab, righting equipment and gathering papers with surprising efficiency.

You watched, lips quirking. “Since when are you so domestic?”

He shot you a smirk. “I have hidden depths, sweetie.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt strangely warm.

By the time the worst was cleaned, exhaustion weighed on you. Sylus noticed immediately, his arm slipping around your waist again.

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured.

You leaned into him, too tired to argue. “You’re not carrying me.”

Sylus grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Wouldn’t dream of it, doctor."

[spatialwave]

Hi!! For the kiss prompts, I’d love to read something Reader x Viktor with the scenario ‘kisses meant to distract’ + the dialogue “i think i deserve a kiss” 🥹 thank you!!

tysm for sending this ask!!!! this was so cute to write and it healed me ahaha

why would you stay?

➸ pairing: viktor x gender neutral!reader ➸ word count: 680 ➸ tags: mdni! fluffy, hurt/comfort, soft kissing, guilt, sweet ending, reader is in a long-term relationship w/ viktor, no use of y/n. ➸ notes: asked from this prompt list!!

Hextech was a blessing and a curse. It’s components to better society had been coming to fruition, but at the expense of Viktor’s sanity. Hexgates weren’t enough, all they had done was progress the city of Piltover. Nothing had been done to help anyone else. The people in Zaun—himself.

The pain in his body had become unbearable most days, his body frail and weakening with every passing moment.

He wondered why you stuck around all these years, staying at his side as his health deteriorated. You weren’t married, children weren’t on the agenda, and all he did was spend countless hours in his lab with Jayce and Sky.

It wasn’t fair to you.

Yet, you stayed.

Stopping by with a home cooked meal that he picked at, or offering your presence for a few hours while you silently read at the table in his lab while he studied the glowing hexcore.

There was a particular week when Viktor lost all hope. Jayce, now head of the council, had spent less time with the research–in favour of protecting Piltover. A drastic turn of events from their previous shared hopes and aspirations, a way to help rather than hurt.

He sat at one of the aqueducts that sent water from Piltover into the fissures, looking out at the skyline and holding his weight onto his cane. His eyes were tired and cold, souless.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said calmly, causing Viktor to jolt and glance in your direction from the sudden intrusion, “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” he cleared his throat, attempting to sit up straighter with his hands still holding tightly to the handle of his cane, “needed some time to, eh… think.”

Sitting next to him on the ledge, you rested your cheek against his shoulder and a hand curved over his slender thigh.

“...about us?” Your voice was hushed, eyes watching the water stream below you.

Viktor’s eyes widened, shaky as he stared at you. You were nuzzled against him, the look of a sad pout covering your face. He could sense the insecurity radiating from you.

“About the hexcore,” he answered honestly, sighing as he pressed his lips against the top of your head, resting there as a fragile hand held the small of your back, “about hextech… I can’t seem to figure it out. It’s been weeks of nothing. It’s… it’s…”

You lifted your head up, lips twitching as you pressed a finger to Viktor’s lips, shushing him. Your eyes flickered between his.

“It’s eating you alive,” you finished his sentence, but not in the way he had intended.

Your heart was heavy for him. Any insecurities of yourself were long gone, and you understood the pain that Viktor was experiencing. It was defeat, feeling unworthy—terrified of death.

You felt terrible for even thinking it had anything to do with you.

“Kiss me,” you mumbled, the finger placed against his lips replaced by your thumb as you grazed it along his bottom lip. Your intent to distract him from the thoughts that weighed him down.

Viktor bore a quizzical look, brows knotting together as he blinked at you.

“Come on,” you murmured, “I think I deserve one. I haven’t seen you in days.”

The corners of his lips twitched, for once, his mind not clouded by thoughts of the hexcore. Instead, fixated on you and the way you looked at him so lovingly with your big doe eyes. How was he so lucky to have someone like you?

He dipped forward, your thumb dropping as his lips pressed to yours. A soft kiss, one that bridged the gap that had begun to split you apart. They moved together fluidly, one of his hands cupping your jaw, as yours pressed against the front of his shoulders.

“I love you,” Viktor murmured, breaking the kiss as your lips brushed together, “thank you… for staying.” His thanks were genuine, you could see the way the guilt flickered in his golden eyes.

“Kiss me again, and I’ll forgive you,” you smiled, closing your eyes as Viktor obliged, smiling against your lips.

[hiraethwrote]

THE HEART GROWS FONDER

pairing : kento nanami x f!reader summary : (requested) — kento nanami loved you before he even knew you, and his feelings were the one thing he never questioned. like pieces of a puzzle, you fit together. whatever happens, your feelings never waver. cw : childhood friends to lovers, reader is v emotional, canon events/jjk0 spoilers, mentions of character death, mutual and intense pining, miscommunication lack of communication, mild one-bed-trope?, platonic!satoru (bc apparently i am unable to write anything without mentioning him), light profanity, pet names, talk of wedding, sweet fluff, a good chunk of angst, slight jealousy, no use of y/n word count : 10.1 k

Kento was a knowledgeable man.

He knew how long it took to get from one place in Tokyo to another, no matter what time of day it was. Well aware of all the best routes for traveling the city most efficiently, even during rush hours.

He knew all the ways to make the most money. Not what he was proudest of, but working hard had garnered him a set of useful skills that made him a good employee, a real asset to the company.

He knew how to read a map, a skill long forgotten by most in this day and age. Should he ever find himself in a situation where there was no reception, he would be able to get his hands on a sheet displaying the nearby areas and figure out how to return to civilisation.

He knew how to best take care of his body. He had done extensive research to make sure he moved his body correctly during workouts to not harm himself. He wasn’t interested in aching joints when he was old and gray.

And he knew he loved you — since the very first moment his eyes landed on you all those years ago.

He remembered the exact moment in excruciating detail as well, like how he had turned a little scared at the unfamiliar sensation of a racing heartbeat. When pressing his hand to his chest, he felt the rapid thumping. He quickly realised it was caused by the sight of you when it happened every time he spotted you.

His dad would tease him whenever he caught Kento sitting in the windowsill, chubby cheeks resting on his forearms as he gazed lovingly towards the little girl playing in her front yard a few houses down. “I’m sure she would love to play with you.” His face would turn bright crimson, a colour that had become all too common in the Nanami household whenever you were brought up, before an embarrassed Kento would stomp up to his room.

He didn’t learn your name until the first day of school — your parents had arranged for the two of you to walk to school together. He had been over the moon when he heard the news, pure excitement filling his body to the point where he could not sit still. But the moment he was stood in front of you, your voice sweet as honey when introducing yourself, his throat dried out and he turned tongue tied. His mom placed a hand on his shoulder, bringing his feet back on the ground, “Kento,” he croaked weakly before disappearing into his jacket.

With small feet carrying you to and from school, you tried to force a conversation out of him but to no prevail. He remained shy and quiet, eventually resulting in a statement that had saddened him more than he could have anticipated; “you don’t talk much, do you?”

There had been no ill intent in your words, but it had Kento distance himself from you. What was supposed to blossom into a friendship (and maybe even more with time), only simmered down to him consistently trialing five steps behind you on the path to school that became all too bleak when it hadn’t turned out how he had imagined it.

His infatuation didn’t seem to disappear anytime soon either. If anything, now having the opportunity to observe you in closer proximity only deepened his feelings. He now got to witness the outgoing and bubbly personality that was wrapped in your cute exterior, exceeding all his expectations of what he had imagined you would be like — fascinated by how you seemed to excel in aspects where he lacked.

And the more time that passed, it seemed the day he would find the courage to catch up and walk along side you traveled further out of his reach.

He continued to admire from afar, watching as you earned yourselves new friendships as easily as putting your shoes on in the morning. Kento wasn’t the only one drawn to your outgoing personality and charming smile, his heart breaking a little when you formed a tight knit friend group and he didn’t get to be a part of it.

That’s how it went. Kento sort of just blended into the background, never making a number of himself. He was nearly certain no one really knew he even existed at all (except the teachers, who absolutely adored him). Day after day, he sat by himself with a book in his hands, only ever looking up to admire you for a few seconds as you would play with your friends.

However, he preferred the quiet life in school more than what it evolved into as second grade rolled around.

During recess, he would sit with his book, same as always, counting the minutes until school was over so he would walk those five familiar steps behind you — that’s when two third graders had approached him, their intention clear as day.

Their antics continued for two weeks — until what he thought was the voice of an angel interrupted.

“Hi there.”

Kento would recognise that voice anywhere, turning towards the source to see you, huge grin plastered on your face, both hands behind your back as you stared down the two third graders.

“What’s going on here?” You asked in such a sweet and innocent tone, but all three of the boys could see there was something borderline unfriendly in your eyes that was not present in your words.

“Doesn’t concern you,” one of the mean kids bit back.

“Hmm,” you hummed, pressing your lips together before shifting to a serious tone. “I think it does, because from over there-“ you pointed in the direction of where you had stood moments earlier, “it looked like you were picking on my friend.”

Friend? Had he heard you right?

Before they could retaliate, you had already opened your mouth again, “I’ll scream! The adults will come and you’ll be in biiiig trouble!” Your tone had been so cheerful, but that same threatening intent lingered in your gaze — a look one did not want to receive from a stubborn, little seven year old.

It seemed like your scare tactic worked, because after grumbling to themselves for a few seconds, they shuffled away with their tails between their legs. And once they were far enough away not to be a bother anymore, you squatted down on the gravel beside Kento, wrapping your arms around your legs.

“You okay, Kento?” Completely transformed, not a hint of your malice present any longer, just soft and genuine concern when speaking his name.

He blinked a few times, using the back of his hand to dry the few tears that had watered up in the corner of his eyes before he answered you. “‘M fine,” he sniffled, then daring to look you in the eyes to mutter a shy “thank you.”

“Anytime.”

You couldn’t explain why you had decided to interfere — because labelling Kento a friend wasn’t entirely true. The boy had barely said a word to you for the year you had known him, but you had just been filled with anger when you witnessed the older kids choose to pick on him. He did not have a mean bone in his body. And maybe somewhere along the line, you had gained a soft spot for the reserved kid, having not been able to stop glancing over your shoulder from time to time when you walked to and from school, just to make sure he was still there.

Never had Kento imagined that the taunting from his upperclassman would be his biggest blessing to date. He no longer sat alone during lunch, but instead accepted your invite to eat with you and your little clique.

And finally your friendship with Kento had the opportunity to grow.

Thanks to you, school had become a lot more enjoyable for him after that. The walks to and from school was no longer spent with an awkward distance, now matching your pace as you both indulged in small talk from the moment you left school until he left you at your door.

He knew he should have been satisfied, and in one way he was. He was finally allowed to call you his friend after all, but during school hours, you usually hung out the entire group. And on your spare time, you had a tendency to reserve your time just for the girls. So while he wished for more, he continued to shoot longing, and not so subtle, gazes across the table.

It abruptly changed when you were thirteen, walking home from school like any other day, when your blunt question had cut through the conversation.

“Hey, you want to go to the movies with me?”

“What?” Kento’s thirteen year old brain had not been able to comprehend the question, stopping dead in his tracks to stare at you with big eyes, swallowing the massive lump in his throat. Had you just asked him on a date?

You stopped when you noticed he did, staring right back at him like this wasn’t a big deal. “None of the girls were interested, and you’re the only boy in our group I can tolerate without any of the girls,” you rolled your eyes. You had turned a little feisty when entering your teens.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he said, drawing his lips into an awkward line, hoping he could play it off as a smile.

Your deadpanned expression immediately twisted into one of pure joy. “Great!”

Kento had stood in front of his mirror all afternoon, using both his hands to smoothen the crinkles of his shirt, treating it very much like a date. He didn’t even realise how long he had been stressing in his room until his mom came knocking, telling him you were waiting outside.

He had been a little disappointed when he saw you, because it became very evident you did not consider it a date. Wearing the same outfit you had worn to school that day, resting on the handlebars of your bike. “C’mon, we need to get popcorn before the movie starts,” you nagged, just the tiniest bit annoyed.

When stood in the kiosk, he had offered to pay for the popcorn, like the good, little gentleman he had been raised to be. “Oh, no need. Mom gave me money to pay for it,” you said cheerfully with a shrug and a smile. “Thanks, though.”

The movie couldn’t hold Kento’s attention, even if he wanted to, because for the whole ninety minutes you had your knee rested against his. The sensation of the shy touch of your leg had his heart beat so loud against his ribcage, he was scared you might turn to him and tell it to shush so you could hear the movie.

It wasn’t much, but the pressing feeling was definitely prominent enough that you had to be aware of it too. And in his mind, it seemed only logical you kept your leg still against his because you wanted it to touch him. But whenever he flickered his eyes over to you, you seemed utterly unbothered, attention fixated on the screen as your hand continued to grab popcorn from the bucket.

He tried to keep his breath even, letting his tension spill out by clenching and unclenching his fists. He was so determined to sit completely still, scared the tiniest flinch would cause you to shift your leg away from him.

Trips to the movies, just in each other’s company, became a regular occurrence after that. And about half of the time, you let him pay… only because you paid the other half, but he let himself wallow in the idea that he was treating you for the evening.

He was in high school when one of your friends had asked about it. “What’s really going on there, Kento?”

He had immediately decided to play dumb. Not because he was embarrassed, but if there was even the slightest chance it would feed them material they could use to make you uncomfortable, he wanted to avoid it. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, man,” he laughed mockingly. “You and her,” nodding towards where you stood with your girlfriends in the cafeteria line. “The two of you hang out with each other more than us these days.”

“I don’t know, we’re friends?” Kento shrugged, almost certain he was able to play it off as casual.

“Friends? Right, friends who constantly go on movie dates together.”

“They’re not dates,” was all he had been able to say to defend himself, feeling his cheeks grow hot like they had done when he was younger.

They had all chucked at him then. “Yeah, whatever man. Congratulations bagging the prettiest girl in school,” was the last thing that was said before you and the rest of the girls joined their table. You sat down beside Kento, like always.

Carefully, you had nudged his arm to get his attention. “You okay?” You asked quietly so only he could hear.

He gave you a weak but genuine smile. “Yes, just lost in thought is all.” You smiled back at him, making his heart skip a beat.

You don’t remember when it changed for you. If it had been a gradual thing, or if you had just woken up one day with this feeling — but something was definitely different.

The realisation had hit you mid sentence. Rambling on about some meaningless topic, like you always did, and suddenly you noticed the way he was looking at you.

He was listening so intently, not missing a single word coming from your mouth, a faint smile stamped at the corner of his lips and a tenderness in his eyes you hadn’t really noticed before. You only managed to snap out of it when he spoke your name.

“Am I losing you by not talking?” He teased before taking a sip out of his coffee.

“Shit,” you muttered, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “I just remembered this group assignment I have due tomorrow.” A lie — and an obvious one at that. But Kento didn’t get a moment to ask any follow-up questions before you had gathered your stuff and rushed to say goodbye, leaving him alone in the cafe.

For the entire walk home, you thought about Kento, now suddenly in a new light, reflecting over the entirety of your friendship.

You became aware of how he always seemed to prioritise you in the group without hesitation. You had just brushed it off, assuming he felt indebted to you for coming to his rescue when you were seven. But you realised now how ridiculous that sounded.

You thought of all the times he had come running when you had asked for him. Whether it was after a fight with one of your girlfriends, or a date that had gone horribly wrong, he dropped everything to be by your side.

You realised now why you always caught yourself answering with a frown when girls came to ask you about him. As you had gotten older, he had definitely grown into his looks, a subtle kind of handsome that snuck up on you.

When you got home, you had pulled out your phone to send a text to apologise for bailing so abruptly. But you typed and deleted the message twenty times over, anxiety you had never felt about him before overwhelming you. In the end, you ended up not sending anything at all, feeling like no words sufficed.

And the next time you met, you acted as if nothing had happened, and he just went along with it.

You tried desperately to act as if nothing had changed, beyond terrified you would scare him off or make him uncomfortable if he picked up on your new and revolutionary feelings for him. If there was one thing you were absolute certain about, it was that you would never do anything to jeopardise the friendship you had with him. There was no competition of what person in your life you cherished the most; Kento Nanami. You’d be the earth's biggest fool to gamble that away for anything.

When you were 16, you nearly caved.

In your desperate attempt of keeping things normal, you had continued your meaningless escapades — which meant going on terrible dates with even more terrible guys — turns out teenage boys are just assholes by default.

“It’s their loss,” Kento cooed in a warm tone, sitting beside you on your bed with a comforting arm around your shoulders.

In all honesty, you didn’t even care all that much about the date. You couldn’t even remember the guy’s name. No, your mind was way more interested in how his strong hand cupped your arm so perfectly.

You turned to look at him, faces closer than ever before. He happily held your gaze — you were just hoping he was able to read the messages it conveyed.

Tell me to stop seeing these guys, and I’ll stop.

Tell me you want me the way I want you.

Tell me it’s you I’m meant to be with.

“You’ll find someone worthy of you eventually.”

Your heart sunk, having built up your own expectations based on how his eyes had roamed your face as if he truly desired you. Maybe this was all in your head.

It wasn’t.

But Kento, much like you, didn’t want to lose you over anything. Confessing risked the relationship he already had with you. He would rather have you as a friend, than not have you in his life at all.

Not long after that, you both joined Jujutsu tech. Slowly but surely, you slipped away from your childhood group — him more than you. You tried your very best to stay in touch, though your new schedule made that hard.

With these new threats looming around you, neither of you could help how your friendship — or whatever you would call what was going on between you — continued to grow deeper. More serious. It went unsaid by the both of you, but there was just a mutual understanding that it was the logical development when there was the slightest possibility of it ending all too soon.

Still neither of you confessed.

You fell into routines, so accustomed to seeing him every minute of every day, your first instinct when returning from a mission was to find him.

As expected, Kento heard the three soft knocks he knew all too well at this point, before you squeezed through his door. With a deep exhale, you fell back on his bed, while he sat in his desk chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m exhausted.”

“Did you just get back?” His muscles were a little tense, like they always where whenever you had to go on a mission without him, his eyes searching every inch of you to see if there were any visible injuries he had to worry about.

“Little over an hour ago. Had to escape Gojo talking my ear off about his own mission.”

Kento observed how the corner of your lips tugged upwards in a tired smile, your chest vibrating with a soft chuckle.

He was always happy to see you come back unharmed, but he hated the exhaustion that rested in your joints — and it filled him with an unexplainable urge to help you somehow.

He imagined guiding you to lay on your stomach, placing his legs on each side of you and slowly soothing your muscles, rubbing caring motions along the curves of your body to fill it with the relaxation you deserved — but he couldn’t. It would definitely cross a line, too intimate for just friends.

“Glad you’re back,” he said almost in a whisper.

“Me too.” He could barely hear you, the mission slowly catching up with your energy as well, sensing on your breathing that you weren’t too far from falling asleep.

The silence that surrounded you was comfortable. You had grown so accustomed to each other’s presence, any awkwardness had ceased to exist. Nevertheless, Kento didn’t quite know what to do with himself, just looking at you sprawled out on his bed, a scene he would like to see every night.

“Kento?” Your voice was so soft.

“Yes?”

“Can I stay here tonight?”

He heard the slight hesitation in your voice before you expressed your request. Raising up his neck and face was a burning heat, his breathing coming out shallow as he didn’t quite know what to say.

Being a cautious man, he thought of every possible outcome.

It was prohibited, so he should decline. But he would hate himself forever if he simply sent you away because of the school’s outdated rules — he also knew he would regret it until his heart stopped beating.

So having you stay here was the only reasonable outcome — but then what? He supposed he would end up sleeping on the floor, like the gentleman he was. He would at least never assume he could sleep next to you, and he would not be as vulgar to ask.

He cleared his throat before speaking. “Of course. I’ll just-“

“Kento,” you said his name again, just as soft as always.

“Yeah?”

“There’s room for both of us on the bed.”

He had to swallow the massive lump that felt as if it was suffocating him. It at least stopped any further words to come out of his mouth. He slowly raised from the chair, floorboards creaking as he stepped over.

With his eyes locked on you, seemingly so calm with your eyes closed, he positioned himself beside you so he was facing you.

Goosebumps prickled up his arm when he felt your breath fan against his face, and he wondered how you managed to keep it in such an even rhythm. Didn’t this closeness send lightning through your body like it did for him, temptation threatening the act of finally crossing the line?

There was a crease between your eyebrows that seemed unintentional, like the events of the day had just planted themselves on your face and even your calm breathing couldn’t ease it. Against his better judgment, Kento’s urges steered his thumb towards your face, not reflecting over his action before he had ran his skin across the crinkle to smoothen the tension.

Shit, he thought to himself, certain you would open your mouth to tell him off — instead he saw how there had been a slight strain to your shoulders that was now released.

While he let his eyes roam your face, taking in every breathtaking aspect of your beauty, he felt a small spark of fear fill him at how right it all felt — lying next to you, so close he could feel the warmth radiate from your skin, his soft touch being able to bring rest to your body, the mere idea that he could envelop you in his arms if he wanted to.

“I’m happy you’re here with me,” your voice startled him a little, as he had assumed you had already fallen into the oblivion of sleep. “I’d never be able to navigate this world without you.”

“That’s not true.” Your eyes opened to meet his, catching his breath immediately, so stunningly deep he always felt himself fall into them. “You’ve always been the one looking out for me.”

You chuckled a little at that, endless memories of the two of you throughout childhood. “I guess in one way. But you’ve always kept me afloat.”

“You give yourself too little credit.” He had to stop himself from letting his fingers graze your cheek in the most tender caress. “You would have done just fine on your own.”

A small smile of flattery dared dance on your lips. “But I don’t want to.” It felt like a confession, unspoken feelings hidden within those words, begging for him to be able to deduce the true meaning. “Thinking of a life where you’re not at my side scares me.”

“Let’s never find out what that life is like.”

Kento would later eat those words.

Haibara’s death hit Kento the hardest. Numerous evenings were spent in the eerie silence of his cold dorm. When he cried, you held him. When he was trying to distract himself by reading, you sat and watched him, keeping him company. When he went the entire night without sparing you the slightest gaze, you knew you had overstayed your welcome, leaving him to be alone for a night.

“I don’t think I will continue to be a sorcerer.”

That was the first thing he said that hadn’t been a complete necessity, and it sent a spike of ice down your spine, not daring to understand his statement right away.

“Oh,” was the only thing you could think of to respond that did not entertain his idea.

His eyes met yours, the eye contact more intense than it had been for days, realising just how much you had missed having his kind eyes directed at you. Seemed like he felt it too, as the smallest gasp slipped out of him.

“I mean it.”

The tears instantly burned in your eyes, blinking them away before they had the chance to come running. “That's what scares me,” your voice betrayed you as the usual confidence came out cracked.

He didn’t push it any further, reading you as an open book — you knew he was telling the truth, but refused to acknowledge it. It was like if you ignored his statement, it would somehow end differently.

Luckily, after that night, Kento started to somewhat fall back to his old self. His smile started to return, it was easier to hold a conversation with him, which you obviously appreciated — however, he had planted a fear in you that had taken your body hostage.

You abandoned any sense of boundaries entirely, hanging onto his arm at all times. It was only when you were physically aware of his frame you were able to cling onto a string of peace. Feeling his body glued at your side only served as a confirmation that he was still here, and as long as you held on he couldn’t go anywhere. He couldn’t leave.

And whenever you had to pry yourself off of him to tend to your responsibilities where he wasn’t assigned, you were constantly living in a state of anxiety. Foot tapping against the floor, picking at your skin, petrified you would end up returning to see his room stripped of any signs of life — that he would have finally done the thing he said he would do, and part with the Jujutsu world.

Every time you returned, the sweetest sensation of relief washed over you, tears welling up immediately when he always stood ready to greet you. “Hey you,” he said softly, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight until he could physically feel your body let go of the stress that had tainted every muscle, every joint, for the entire time you had been separated.

But graduation day came and time was up.

You had held onto hope he would eventually change his mind, that it was only the initial grief that had weighed heavy on his conscience. But you were now standing in his bare room, everything packed into cardboard boxes. Of course it had only been a childish dream to think he would stay — there was no changing his mind.

“I really am sorry.” He was so earnest, like always, making it hard to be mad at him even though you so desperately wanted to. He genuinely had so much compassion, his hands stroking your arms in an attempt to calm the bouncing of your shoulders that followed the frantic rhythm of your sobs.

“I just don’t understand why?” You continued to sob, sentence coming out in sad intervals as you heaved for air.

“This isn’t right. It’s not right of them to expect us to be okay with watching our partners lay down their lives like this.”

You wanted so badly to scream at him, bang your fists against his chest before clasping onto his shirt so he wouldn’t even have the opportunity to leave. You knew it was unwarranted for you to feel that way, but the fact that he was following through with his stunt felt like a betrayal.

“You said we weren’t going to find out what this would be like.”

His heart shattered. Looking into your doe eyes, tainted red with sorrow as the sentence laced with innocence sent him back to every fragile evening throughout your journey together he had spent comforting you. How many tears he had dried, happily so? But this time it was his doing — him who brought you to a state of despair so grave you couldn’t breathe, and he knew this time he wouldn’t be able to comfort you.

Waiting for his next words were torture, time at a standstill watching his mouth open and close while he constructed the sentence in his mind. Though useless, the glimmer of hope refused to die out, begging for his surrender — you’re right, I’ll stay.

“I’m sorry.”

Another one of your earth shattering sobs came flying past your lips, stabbing him right in the heart that had only ever beaten for you.

Comforting you would always be second nature to him, which had his hands cup your face and pulling it closer to rest his forehead against yours. He wished, begged, for his touch to bring you comfort one last time before he left. But your body continued to shake. “It’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure you, spoken in a faint whisper. Repeating it over and over, waiting for his small affirmations to take affect — they never did.

Ask me to come with you.

Those six words played like a broken record in your mind, knowing you would pack your bags and abandon this god forsaken life at the drop of a hat if he just asked you to.

Come with me.

The request laid restless at the tip of his tongue, fighting every voice in him that was screaming at him to be selfish. But he couldn’t with you, never with you.

Unlike him, you had a purpose in this world — you were able to see the good in what you did, and he would never be able to forgive himself if he ripped you away from it no matter how much he wanted to.

There seemed like there was no limit to your tears. Shuddering against his touch, he sensed your body didn’t have much energy left to stand. He ended up leading the two of you to his bed, stripped bare to just the mattress, duvet folded at the end. Without any words spoken, you laid down in his arms, burying your face in his chest while the sobs continued to tumble out uncontrollably.

His strong arms locked around you, holding you as close to him as humanly possible, letting the illusion of him never disappearing from you live on for another night.

Eventually your sobs calmed down, only happening sporadically. The shaking stopped and he felt your breathing even out, telling him you had finally been able to let sleep consume you.

He couldn’t stop himself — placing a chaste kiss at the crown of your head, mumbling quiet and secret apologies before sleep caught him too.

According to Gojo, his departure had been quick. He hadn’t said much, just given them all a nod before grabbing his bags and disappearing.

You had decided against seeing him off. The two of you had said your goodbyes the night before in the solemn of his empty dorm. It had been wet, heartbreaking and nothing short of painful, but at least it had been private between the two of you. No one knew how your tears had soaked his shirt, or how your fists had created crinkles in the fabric while desperately holding onto him. No one knew how you had cried until the exhaustion knocked you out in his arms, so scared to wake up to face the new reality where Kento wasn’t at your immediate side like he had been since you were kids.

You couldn’t really remember what it was like to not have him there. Even before you had grown close, he had always lingered, the one thing in your life that had stayed consistent throughout it all was him.

The next weeks were absolutely torture, having to feed the people surrounding you endless lies of “I’m fine, really.” You were really just trying to prevent yourself from letting the reality set in properly. If that can of worms were to open again, you had no clue when or how you would be able to stop it. Last time you had still been able to seek some comfort against his warmth, only able to stop it because you practically passed out.

Not a single moment passed where he didn’t cross your mind, small things reminding you of him. All your little routines — for days you forgot to grab lunch because you were so used to him bringing it to you. For days you ended up with one towel too many, because you always brought an extra for him after training. Mundane things you had always taken for granted, gone in an instant.

Despite feeling a little betrayed, you couldn’t really blame him either. So you reached deep within yourself to try and stay positive. It wasn’t like he was gone gone, he had just retreated to a normal life.

You stayed in touch, sending regular updates about how you were getting by in the world of curses without him — lying of course. When he had left, he had taken some of the purpose you had in it all with him. But you didn’t want him to worry. You told him how you eventually started teaching at Jujutsu High alongside Gojo, and it felt nice to be responsible for the next generation of sorcerers.

And at first you received regular updates in return. He got himself a quaint little apartment that fitted his needs perfectly. You even got a few blurry photos of how he had tried to decorate it so it would feel more homely — you had cried when you received those.

You never called each other though. It seemed like there was a mutual understanding that it would be too unbearable to hear the voice of the other.

After a while, the updates slowly came to a halt. You kept on sending yours however, only for that little checkmark to appear and confirm he had read it. But no answer — you cried then too.

Had you said something or done something to make him cut the contact? You never managed to wrap your head around why he stopped showing you his new life.

Kento had never wanted to stop sending the messages — on the contrary. If anything, he had to stop himself from not telling you about every single minute of his day, even the most meaningless things, just as an excuse to talk to you.

But one day, thanks to a white haired little birdie, all consuming guilt had struck him. “She doesn’t say it, but she’s miserable.”

He held his breath, his fingers unintentionally clenching tighter around his phone. “She is?” His voice came out faint. He heard Gojo let out a deep sigh at the other end of the line.

“She tries. Very hard. I stopped asking a long time ago because she kept lying anyways.”

“Oh.” Kento had been a fool, believing your words when he had read them on his screen. When he hadn’t been able to hear the tone behind the statements, he had been able to convince himself they were genuine. But of course you were lying — he was, after all.

“But I think she really enjoys teaching,” Gojo said after a moment of sad silence, trying to fill the conversation with some optimism. “And the kids love her.”

“Yes, I can imagine as much,” a small smile appearing on his lips, picturing the scene of you with the young students.

“Look, I have to run, she’s waving me over. Should I-“

“No!” Kento rushed to cut him off. “No, don’t say anything. Please.”

He made up his mind then and there — he was not going to cause you any more pain. So he had to let you go entirely to allow you to move on. The way he was selfishly clinging onto the crumps you gave him seemed to do you no good, if the image Gojo painted was accurate.

So he stopped. Even though his fingers urged to reach out, he fought against it, for you.

You, however, could not hinder how your finger pressed the send button every now and then. The updates definitely became less frequent when he went radio silent, but you did not have the strength to stop. If you stopped… there was a fear he would never come back.

Kento was supposed to share his life with you.

He had believed so ever since he was a little kid, ogling you from afar before he even knew your name. The way you made his heart jump and pulse quicken had to be his body’s way of telling him you were meant to be with him, quickly growing addicted, dependent, on the reactions you created in him without trying.

But he had made the drastic choice of abandoning that feeling, convinced the alternative did you harm — and the mere concept of being the reason you even felt the faintest glimmer of discomfort was something he could not live with.

He welcomed the misery, a small price to pay for the belief that you were doing better now. He also thought he had good reason to believe that was the case.

The updates you sent him were few and far between these days, but it did paint a picture. You were rarely in the photos, but there was an energy present in the moments eternalised that seemed pleasant and positive. He imagined you had found your role, your place in life where you would get to fulfil your potential. And whether or not he was there was irrelevant.

He convinced himself his own insecurities were a reality to make it easier to bear.

Ever since childhood, you had been the headstrong one. The independent one. The brave one. It always lingered in the back of his mind whenever he just observed you in different scenarios — that it really didn’t matter if he was there or not, forever just an accessory to your life. He even feared he was holding you back somehow.

So it was only reasonable to think time away from him would have provided you with the playing field to develop into the best version of yourself… right?

Years went by and Kento’s pain didn’t ease. He missed you — every single day. And he kept living in that constant state of torture for you, until the fantasy shattered.

It was just another day, nothing out of the ordinary. Kento was going about his drowsy routines of stopping by the same bakery he did every morning before work. However today, he was nearly tackled by two kids, a boy and a girl about the age of six, once he entered the building.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” a grown woman rushed over to apologise as she brought the children back to their little table.

“It’s no problem,” he mumbled monotonously, eyes following them as they scattered back to their seats, where another woman sat.

A wave of nostalgia crashed over him, feeling like he had the privilege of looking back in time. The little boy resembled a young Kento Nanami, his blonde locks neatly styled, chubby, red cheeks and a baby-blue button up shirt — a rather mature attire for a six year old.

And the boy had his eyes glued on his friend, a girl the same age, very evidently the more outgoing out of the two. She was rambling enthusiastically, arms waving all over the place as he told her story down to the smallest detail, exhibiting the same spark you always had.

The boy kept a glare of pure awe as he followed her every word, seen so clearly in his eyes how much he admired her. And Kento knew how this story would continue — that night the boy would lay in his bed, the biggest smile on his face, unable to fall asleep as the day spent with his friend would play on repeat in his mind — much like Kento had spent countless nights when he was young.

It wasn’t until the girl behind the counter called for him he was able to pull his attention away from the all too familiar scene.

So polite, a sweet smile on her face as she served him the same thing he ordered every day. And then she asked how he was sleeping. It fascinated him, how this girl didn’t owe him anything, and had her own worries — like the little curse sat on her shoulder — and still showed concern for him.

He had noticed the curse before, but purposely never done anything about it. It wasn’t a proper threat, and it would be more of a hustle for him to deal with the reactions of ridding her of it than let it be. But now, having the innocent scene a few feet from him remind him of you, he quickly began to consider doing the girl a favour.

You would have exorcised it — without hesitation.

Not just that, you would probably give him crap for not exorcising it immediately. It wouldn't cost him anything to do it, so why wouldn’t he?

“Could you take a step forward, please?” Kento asked politely, the girl a little confused but doing as he said. He had your voice in the back of his mind while he easily exorcised the curse with one swift motion, the strain in her shoulder easing immediately.

“Huh? It’s lighter!” She exclaimed, rolling her arm around at the newfound relief.

“If anything still feels off, please go to the hospital,” he said with a small nod. He grabbed his food and headed for the exit, sparing one last glance at the table where the two kids sat, still deep in the conversation.

His lungs let out a deep, involuntary breath when the realisation dawned on him — he could no longer stay away, caving to his desires.

Maybe enough time had passed for it not to be considered selfish? If you had in fact found your place where you were content and comfortable, and meeting him again would be causal for you?

The questions kept circulating his mind as he pulled out his phone to dial the one person who would be able to set it all up at the blink of an eye.

His whole world stopped when he saw you, and he wondered how he had ever thought it a good idea to leave you — how could he possibly have survived all that time without you?

It was almost painful how his heart was clawing at the inside of his chest, desperate to be with you. It wasn’t until he felt the overwhelming pounding he realised his heart had not beat properly for the years he had spent away — meant to beat in unison with yours. His skin was turning cold as ice and the only way for it to regain its warmth was your touch, your soft embrace.

Kento hadn’t known what to expect when he saw you again, but he had certainly thought he would have more rational and coherent thoughts. Right now, it was all scrambling in his head and the only thing that appeared clearly in his mind was you, framed in the halo of your aura, taking his breath as way just as easily as when he was six.

With his body going numb, he observed you interact with Gojo and two kids he assumed were your students. You looked calm, a small smile decorating the plump line of your lips — it wasn’t as radiant as it used to be. In fact, your entire energy just seemed a little off. Maybe you had just gotten home from a mission, or it has been a hectic day in general.

Truth was not so mundane. You wished it was as simple as a long and tiring day. That would mean you could just jump in bed and sleep it off, ready to face a new day tomorrow.

But the day Kento left the jujutsu society behind, he unintentionally stole your spark with him.

You could never hate him for it though, he didn’t know. He only did what he felt like he needed to do, and you would be a terrible friend to stand in the way of that. But you had no control over how your mind decided to react.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder was something you had always heard growing up, and you had never really understood it — until faced with the situation yourself.

Not a day went by where you didn’t think of Kento. You thought of how his grin always grew slowly when watching you, eventually revealing the shy smile lines across his cheeks. The ghost of his touch, which was always dancing the line of appropriate or not, never leaving your mind. Sometimes you still felt the imprint of his arms around you.

“Don’t you guys listen to him for a second,” you chuckled, the tiniest hint of frustration in your voice. “Gojo doesn’t qualify as a responsible adult.”

His jaw fell to the ground in fake offence, eyebrows narrowing at the innocent laughs spilling from the students. “You were never this mean when we were younger,” he whined, folding his arms across his chest, looking like a stubborn child.

“That’s what you think,” you teased, nudging an elbow into his side. “You should have heard the things we said about you behind closed doors.”

His big hand came piercing through the air, pressing it against your face, gently shoving you away from the conversation. A lighthearted, but genuine, little laugh escaped you. “We don’t want to hear what you and your little boyfriend did in private,” Gojo rolled his eyes, pretending to gag at the made up memories.

Annoying as he was, Gojo had a way to actually make you forget the pain of it all for a few seconds. You would never tell him, obviously, that he managed to put the storm inside your head on hold for a second — he would rub it in your face every chance he got.

“Wait, senpai had a boyfriend when she attended here?” One of the students interjected and suddenly the mood of the conversation shifted. Gojo’s hand fell from your face before he shot you an apologetic smile.

For the most part, it was never a problem whenever Kento was brought up in the company of Gojo and Shoko. Everything was out in the open between the three of you, shared history taking away some of the pain. But whenever it slipped outside your little trio, it quickly became a sore topic.

Mouth opening and closing, trying to find the words to answer without having to give an explanation. Luckily, a painfully familiar voice called your name behind you, instantly sending a shiver down your spine.

All of you turned towards the voice, and you couldn’t help but let out an audible gasp at the beautiful image of your other half standing in front of you after all these years.

Your heart’s instinct steered your body, quickly stepping away from the group and latching your arms around Kento’s neck, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He didn’t hesitate to close his strong arms around your frame, fitting right into the slots they used to fill. His familiar scent filled your senses, memories flooding back in an instant.

“Huh, speak of the devil,” Gojo mumbled.

“Him? That was her boyfriend?”

Gojo quickly snapped out of it. “Let’s give them some privacy, shall we,” and started rushing away the nosy teens.

Kento’s grip loosened and you pulled away, but neither of you dared let your hands leave each other. Your own hands ended up cupping his face, forcing him to keep his eyes on you until it hit you he was actually with you again — he let his rest on your waist, feeling the restlessness in him by how strongly his palms were pressing against you.

He was here. He was actually here.

There was a deafening silence filling the space of your office. You could feel it in the tension that both of you wanted to say something, but there was an unspoken pressure of saying the right thing.

So you let your eyes roam him, taking in the differences in his appearance.

He was gorgeous, same subtle handsomeness as he had always possessed, but a new confidence displaying it. Everything about him was more defined, sharp features drawing attention to his face, his muscles filling his shirt in a way they never did before.

“So, you and Gojo seem to work well together,” he swallowed, causing embarrassment to flush your face when he pulled you from your blatant admiring.

“We’ve found a rhythm that works for us, I suppose,” you shrugged.

He shifted awkwardly in his seat, arms flexing as he crossed them in front of him. “That’s good. I’m glad.” His tone of his short statements seemed to imply otherwise.

“He’s surprisingly good at his job,” you laughed, “the kids like him.”

“Who would have thought,” there was a pull of his lips, like he tried to smile but it didn’t succeed entirely.

“Not me, that’s for sure. I don’t know, he just meets them were their at.” You really wanted to stop rambling about Gojo. It was so clearly just a desperate way for you to replace the quiet that plagued you without touching the elephant in the room. “Don’t get me wrong, they find him insufferable, but I think they secretly really like him. Much like the rest of us.”

“Sounds about right.”

You squinted at him, slowly growing somewhat antsy. “You’re not jealous of Gojo, are you?”

Of course you still saw right through him. He, who usually managed to hide his true feelings, would never be able to conceal them from you. And he was jealous, petrified that he had made the biggest mistake of his life and Gojo had ended up taking the place that was supposed to be for him only.

“Is there something to be jealous of?”

“You tell me.”

The tension was thick, nearly suffocating, years of yearning and pining fuelling the energy. The reunion only served as a dangerous spark that threatened to set the fuse ablaze at any second.

Why couldn’t he take the first step? He was the one who had showed up all of a sudden, and he still hadn’t given you any explanation. He owed you that much, right? But he kept letting his restlessness control him, one leg bouncing quietly against the floor, hearing how the cogs in his mind were turning.

“Why are you here?”

Your words were soft, but Kento knew you well enough to know the true feelings that lingered in the question.

“I’m coming back.”

“You’re coming back?” You weren’t able to withhold the bite that was slowly making its way into your tone.

“Only if you’re comfortable with it.”

“Don’t do that,” your voice threatened to crack. “I don’t want that responsibility.”

He sighed deeply, unfolding his arms to rest his elbows on his spread knees. “That wasn’t my intention. I’m sorry.”

Always so polite. Always acknowledging his faults before they had the opportunity to grow. Always so damn righteous.

“What I meant to say is it looks like you’ve really managed to establish yourself here, and I wouldn’t want to come in and cause any discomfort by intruding what is essentially your space.”

The sound that escaped you next was a mixture between a flat laugh and a scoff, not entirely appreciating the way he was behaving. “Have we been apart so long you can’t talk to me like I’m your best friend?”

That had him look up at you, meeting your eyes instantly. You were sad, visible on your entire demeanour — maybe not to the average person looking, but he saw, still able to read you like an open book.

“Hope not,” he tried to smile, lips formed into a tight line that exposed how nervous he really was. His attention shifted to look at his fists folded together, words resting on his tongue, he just wanted to be sure it came out right. “I’ve missed you.” Silence. “There hasn’t been a day where you haven’t crossed my mind.”

“Sounds familiar.” There was no hiding the flush crawling up his neck and colouring the tips of his ears red at the sound of your confession.

“It was the thought of you that finally convinced me.”

“Why now?”

“Because enough time should have passed for you to thrive without me.”

“If that’s the case, you’ll have to keep waiting.”

You had him gagged, no clue how to respond. For some reason, he had refused to believe you were still hung up on him the way he was. There weren’t any reason for you to hold onto the idea of him — yet you had, for dear life.

Abruptly you stood up from your chair, hands running through your hair in frustration, trying to make sense of his sudden visit.

You stopped in your pacing, back faced him and hands on your hips — then he saw your shoulders begin to shake, followed by stifled sobs. These were the situations he always used to know what to do, moving on autopilot to bring you the comfort you needed.

Did his hands remember how to soothe you? Did his voice still know how to form the right words to say? Did his presence still know how to envelope you until you felt happy again? There was only one way to find out.

Quickly stepping over to you, his hands hovered over your shoulders for a second in fear. He swallowed his selfishness and let them land to settle the bouncing, leaning his head forward to rest it against the back of yours, the smell of your shampoo surrounding him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and it only seemed like his apology opened the valve, no longer able to choke your sobs. Your hands left your hips to cover your face, muffling the sadness tumbling out in one stream.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he continued to mutter, head moving to press it to the side of your face. One hand traveled across your collarbone, the other around your waist to pull you as close to him as possible, determined to hold you there until he was absolutely certain you were okay.

He would stand there the whole night if he needed to.

Slowly but surely, your sobs came to a stop, your trembling eventually easing against his body. But he didn’t loosen his grip, not until he felt you shift in his arms to face him.

Cry painted cheeks, delicate red rim around your eyes, glossy irises that stared right into the deepest parts of him that only you had access to.

Everything started to fall back into place, his big hand cupping your cheek as he stroked your hair out of your face. He let his eyes dart delicately across your face, taking in every single detail.

Then he let his longing get the best of him, thumb graciously tracing your bottom lip turned swollen from when you tried to swallow your sobs.

There was slight hesitation while he leaned forward, never having experienced time moving as slow as you waited for his lips to connect with yours. First, he let his nose brush against yours, testing the waters.

Please.

You felt his breath.

Don’t make me wait any longer.

Sparks.

Soft lips pressed against yours, moving tenderly in unison that sent intense sparks through your body from head to toe. The moment easily surpassed any of the fantasies you’d had of kissing him.

Needy fingers traveled up his broad chest before hooking your arms around his neck, pulling him closer — it still didn’t feel close enough.

Kento poured everything he had always wanted to say into the kiss — and he knew you understood. If he had learned anything from everything you had been through together, it was he could always trust you were able to understand him completely, even without anything being said.

When you pulled away you found yourself breathless. Meeting his eyes again, unexpected shyness you weren’t used to experience with Kento had you hide your face in his chest.

The roles had reversed, his warm chuckle serving as a comforting blanket. Oh, how you had missed that melody.

“Took you long enough,” you mumbled, hoping the teasing would have your normal confidence return.

His finger found your chin to tilt your head up, capturing your gaze. “Yeah, I should have done it ages ago.”

The previous sadness still lingered, and it was evident you still had a lot to talk about. But right now it was nice to just wallow in his presence again. It was way overdue, feeling like it should have been like this since forever.

“I really am sorry.”

“I think I can find it in myself to forgive you.” Your innocent jab was received with a dashing smile, tingles spreading throughout your limbs at the sight.

“Hope so, sweetheart,” he breathed quietly before he leaned in again.

They sat staring at each other, Kento with a raised eyebrow while a grumpy Gojo was positioned on the couch opposite him, legs and arms crossed in annoyance.

“You used to be nice.”

Kento scoffed at his colleague’s childish behaviour. “I still am, you’re just upset you’re not getting it your way.”

“But why?” Gojo cried dramatically.

“Why? What do you mean why? Because it’s not your wedding.”

“Were you always this boring?”

“Most definitely.”

“Will you guys please shut up?” You interrupted, unable to ignore them anymore. You had desperately tried to block them out as you were doing some paperwork you should have done ages ago.

“He started it!” Gojo pointed at Kento, which only had him roll his eyes.

“You know what,” you sighed as you gathered your stuff and raised from behind the desk. “It’s with a heavy heart I leave you, but I need to get this done by the end of the day.” You stopped behind Kento, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry, honey,” he said genuinely as he gazed up at you lovingly.

“I am not asking for much-“ Gojo continued to argue before you interrupted him.

“Will you pay for it?”

“Is that all it’ll take?” He beamed, and you nodded. “Of course! Done! How much do you need?”

“You’re too lenient when it comes to him,” Kento sighed.

“It’s not the craziest thing he could request. He’ll get his endless supply of sweets, and you won’t have to listen to his obnoxious nagging anymore.”

“I’m sitting right here.” Both you and Kento ignored him.

“I really have to get this work done though,” you sighed, hand squeezing his shoulder.

“See you at home?” His loving smile had you lean down to press your lips tenderly against his.

“See you at home.”

“I’ll have dinner ready.”

“God, I love you.”

Then he flashed you that smile — the smile which was reserved solely as a response whenever you said those three words he used to dream of hearing from you.

It was funny really, how after everything things would turn out exactly how he as always wanted them to. Despite the hopelessness he had felt and all the pain you had endured — both together and apart — would eventually lead up to the happy ending he had dreamed of since the young age of five.

He knew he would do it all over again, in every universe, if it ensured this outcome.

“I love you too.”

tags @sad-darksoul @toadtoru

an anon, i am so sorry if this ended up longer than you wanted it. idk what happened, bc it just kept on snowballing <3 however, i am very touched you wanted me to do this request. warms my heart. hope it turned out okay mwah also, if you've read my satoru childhood friends to lovers fic and see any similarities, no you don't comments and reblogs is much appreciated

©hiraethwrote 2024 . all rights reserved. reposting, translating and otherwise plagarisim is prohibited

[thighsa]

Fuck yes more noncon writers, professor Jihyo getting harassed by her students would be good

Request :

LOOK AT ME

TWICE Jihyo X Students

Warning : Non Con Smut (please don't read if you don't like it, thanks!)

The faint scent of rain lingered in the air as Professor Park Jihyo stepped into the dimly lit classroom, her footsteps echoing off the polished wooden floor. She was a stark contrast to the dullness of the room, her chic black mini dress hugging her curves like a glove, the one-shoulder design revealing a hint of her toned shoulder. The soft rustle of her dress was the only sound in the otherwise silent room as she set down her briefcase and arranged her notes on the podium.

Her eyes scanned the room, noticing the way the male students' eyes lingered on her, their gazes hungry and unabashed. She felt a shiver of discomfort but brushed it off, focusing on the lesson ahead. She was used to the occasional stare, but today felt different—more intense, more predatory. Jihyo took a deep breath and began her lecture, her voice steady and professional, but the energy in the room remained charged.

After an hour of discussing complex theories and historical contexts, she glanced at the clock, relieved to find the class was almost over. The tension grew as the minutes ticked by, the atmosphere thickening like the humidity before a storm. When the bell finally rang, the female students gathered their belongings and filed out quickly, whispering among themselves. Jihyo packed up her notes, ignoring the stares that seemed to burn through her back.

"Professor Park, may I ask you a question about the assignment?" one of the male students called out, his voice a little too eager. She nodded, turning to face him as the last of the female students slipped out the door. His eyes traveled over her body, lingering on her legs, which the sheer tights did little to hide. "It's about the research paper," he said, trying to sound innocent, but his gaze gave away his true intentions.

Jihyo's heart raced as she approached him, her heels clicking with each step. "Certainly," she replied, her voice tight. "What seems to be the issue?" The other male students had gathered around now, their eyes feasting on her figure. She could feel the heat of their stares, and her discomfort grew as the last of the female students disappeared from view.

The student cleared his throat, his eyes never leaving her body. "I just wanted to make sure I understood the criteria correctly," he said, his voice thick with something other than academic concern. "It's about the sources we need to use, and the depth of analysis required." His friends leaned in closer, their expressions predatory.

Jihyo's eyes narrowed slightly, but she maintained her professional demeanor. "The instructions are quite clear," she said, her tone firm. "Use at least five scholarly sources, and your analysis should be critical and insightful." She took another step towards the podium, hoping to put some distance between herself and the encroaching group of men. "Is there something specific you're having trouble with?"

The student took a step closer, his hand brushing against her desk. "Well, I was just wondering if we could go over it together, you know, one-on-one," he suggested, a smarmy smile playing on his lips. The others chuckled, and she felt the first twinge of fear. The room had emptied, leaving only the echo of their muffled laughter.

"I'm sorry, but my office hours are reserved for all students to ask questions," she said, her voice a tad shakier than she'd like. "Now, if you'll all excuse me, I have another class to prepare for." She turned to leave, but before she could take a step, the same student reached out and gently placed a hand on her arm.

"Professor Park," he began, his voice dripping with fake charm, "I really need to discuss this with you privately. It's quite urgent." His grip tightened slightly, and Jihyo felt the beginnings of a panic attack. She glanced around the room, searching for an escape, but the curtains had been drawn, and the door was now blocked by the towering forms of his friends.

"Let go of me," she demanded, her voice a mix of fear and anger. The student's smile never wavered as he leaned in closer. "We're just trying to get to know our professor better, that's all." His breath was hot on her neck, and she could feel the fabric of his sweater brushing against her bare shoulder.

The student chuckled, his eyes darkening. "Come on, Professor, don't be so cold. We're just showing some appreciation for how hard you work." His friends closed in, their smirks widening.

Jihyo's pulse raced, her mind racing even faster. She had to get out of here. She tried to keep her voice steady as she addressed the group, "I think you've misunderstood the situation. This is not appropriate behavior." Her voice was firm, but she couldn't hide the tremble in it.

The leader of the pack, the one holding her arm, leaned in closer, his breath hot on her ear. "You're so pretty when you're flustered, Professor," he whispered, his tone a toxic blend of mockery and lust. His grip tightened, and she felt a shiver of fear run down her spine.

Jihyo's eyes searched the room, desperately looking for a way out. Her heart was racing so fast she could feel it in her throat, but she forced herself to stay calm. "I'm not here for your entertainment," she said firmly, her voice carrying the authority she wished she felt. "Now, let go of me."

The student didn't budge. Instead, he leaned in even closer, his breath hot on her skin. "Oh, but Professor, you're so much more than entertainment." His free hand reached out, tracing the line of her hip before resting on her ass. "You're a role model. A goddess. And we just want to show you how much we appreciate that."

Jihyo felt bile rise in her throat as she jerked away, her eyes flashing with anger. "You're crossing a line," she spat, her voice shaking with restrained fury. "Let go of me right now!"

The student's smile turned into a sneer as he tightened his grip, his friends closing in around her. The room was suffocating, the air thick with their cologne and lust. Jihyo knew she had to act fast before they could overwhelm her. She swung her briefcase, aiming for the closest face, but it was caught by another student, who chuckled as he yanked it out of her grasp.

"Now, now, Professor," the ringleader said, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Don't be like that. We're just showing you how much we admire you." His hand slid up her side, cupping one of her breasts over her dress. She gasped, the material of the dress giving way slightly, and she could feel the coldness of his hand through her bra.

Jihyo's mind was a whirlwind of fear and anger. She had to do something, anything to get out of this situation. She took a step back, trying to put some space between them, but the circle of students only tightened. "You need to stop," she warned, her voice shaking. "This is harassment, and I won't tolerate it."

The students ignored her protests, their eyes gleaming with excitement. One of them stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch the sequins on her dress. "It's just a little fun," he said, his voice low and taunting. "You're so beautiful, Professor. We can't help ourselves."

Jihyo's eyes searched the room for an escape, but the path was blocked. She felt a hand slide up her thigh, and she gasped, her skin crawling. "Get your hands off me," she snapped, trying to push the students away. But they only laughed, their grip on her growing stronger.

"What's the matter, Professor?" the ringleader cooed, his thumb circling her nipple through the fabric of her dress. "We're just giving you some extra credit." His friends chuckled, their hands roaming her body with no regard for her boundaries. Jihyo felt a surge of adrenaline, and she knew she had to act.

With a swift move, she brought her knee up, catching the student in the groin. He yelped in pain, his grip on her arm loosening. She used the opportunity to break free, pushing her way through the crowd. But they were too strong, too eager. They grabbed at her dress, her hair, trying to pull her back.

The fabric of her dress began to give way, the seams straining under the pressure of their rough hands. The sound of tearing fabric filled the room, and Jihyo felt a rush of cold air as her dress ripped open, exposing her lacy black lingerie to their leering eyes. She stumbled backward, trying to cover herself with her arms, her cheeks flaming with humiliation.

"Look at her, guys," one of the students sneered, his eyes raking over her exposed body. "Professor Park isn't so high and mighty now, is she?" The others jeered, closing in like a pack of hyenas.

Jihyo's instincts took over as she backed away, her eyes wild with fear. The room seemed to spin, the walls closing in around her. Her hands searched for anything to use as a shield or a weapon, but the desks had been pushed aside, leaving her vulnerable. "I'm warning you," she managed, her voice strained, "I'll call campus security."

The threat had no effect on the students, who only laughed harder, their eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt. As she reached for her bag to grab her phone, the ringleader was faster. He lunged forward, catching her wrist and twisting it painfully. "No need for that, Professor," he said, his grin turning malicious. He yanked the bag away and tossed it aside. "We're going to have a little private tutoring session."

Her eyes widened in panic, and she opened her mouth to scream, but it was already too late. Another student grabbed the torn fabric of her dress and shoved it into her mouth, effectively silencing her protests. She felt the material knot against the back of her throat, making her gag and her eyes water.

With surprising strength, she thrashed and tried to fight back, but the students were too many, their hands too strong. They held her arms behind her back, forcing her against the cold, unforgiving blackboard. The chalk dust tickled her nose, and she struggled to breathe through the fabric that was now a makeshift gag.

Her eyes watered as she watched him approach, the belt in his hand. He smirked, enjoying her fear, and she felt the warmth of his breath on her skin as he leaned down to whisper, "This will keep you from causing any trouble." With a swift, practiced motion, he secured her wrists, binding them behind her back. She struggled, but the leather held firm, the buckle digging into her flesh.

With a collective grunt, the students hoisted her up, her legs kicking wildly. They swung her once, twice, the world becoming a blur of desks and books, before releasing her. She felt a moment of weightlessness, followed by the harsh impact of the floor. The wind was knocked out of her, and she lay there, gasping for breath, her cheek pressed against the cold tiles.

Her vision cleared in time to see the ringleader undoing his pant, the metal zip echoing through the now-silent room. His eyes never left hers, the malicious grin still etched onto his face as he pulled down his pants, revealing his erect cock. The other students followed suit, their own arousal evident as they stepped closer, their eyes never leaving the vulnerable form of Professor Jihyo.

The sight of them disrobing sent a wave of terror through her. She thrashed and kicked, trying to get away, but their grip was unrelenting. One of them grabbed her ankles, his hands rough on her smooth skin as he held her legs apart. Another pulled at her tights, the delicate fabric giving way with a sickening rip, exposing her to their hungry gazes.

The ringleader knelt down between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs as he pushed them wider apart. Jihyo's breath hitched in her throat as his thumb found her clit through the damp fabric of her panties. He began to rub it in slow, deliberate circles, his eyes never leaving hers. The sensation was unwelcome, the intimacy of the touch repulsive, but she couldn't help the way her body reacted, the way the fear and disgust melded with a begrudging arousal.

The other students had formed a tight circle around her, their erections bobbing in time with their racing hearts. They watched with greedy eyes as their leader touched her, their hands moving to their own crotches to start stroking themselves. The sight of their pleasure was like a knife to her soul, a reminder of how utterly powerless she was in this situation.

Jihyo's eyes filled with tears as the ringleader's thumb continued to work her clit, his touch a cruel parody of the gentle caresses she craved from a partner who truly cared for her. She could feel the fabric of her lingerie growing damp, the heat building between her legs despite the horror of what was happening. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sight of her tormentors, but their heavy breathing and the sound of their hands on their cocks only served to heighten the sensations.

Her body betrayed her, responding to the unwelcome touch despite her mind's protests. She could feel the tension in her abdomen, the familiar ache of arousal that she despised in this moment. The ringleader leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, "You're going to be our cumdump, enjoy it Professor Park." The words were like a slap, sending a wave of disgust through her.

The other students had formed a tight semi-circle around her, their erections jutting out like weapons of war. They began to stroke themselves in time with the ringleader's movements, their eyes glued to the show before them. Jihyo's body was their plaything, a toy to be used for their pleasure. She felt their gazes like a thousand tiny needles piercing her soul, each stroke of their hands a violation.

Her eyes searched the floor, looking for anything that could help her. But all she saw was the cold, unforgiving reality of her situation. Her body was responding, her breath coming in quick gasps. She bit down on the fabric of her dress, trying to muffle the noises she didn't want to make, the noises that would only spur them on.

The ringleader's thumb increased its pace, his eyes never leaving hers. She could see the excitement in his pupils, the thrill of having her, their professor, at his mercy. His other hand reached down to slip inside her panties, and she felt the coldness of his skin against her wetness. She whimpered, the sound muffled by the makeshift gag.

Jihyo's thoughts raced. She couldn't let this happen. She had to do something, anything, to escape. With a surge of strength fueled by desperation, she bucked her hips, trying to dislodge him. But he was too strong, too determined. He chuckled darkly, his thumb pressing harder against her clit, the pain and pleasure melding together into a toxic cocktail that made her stomach churn.

Forcefully, he shoved two of his thick fingers inside her cunt, the roughness of his skin scraping against her sensitive walls. She couldn't hold back the cry of pain and humiliation that tore from her throat, the sound muffled by the fabric. He didn't stop there. He began to pump his fingers in and out of her, the rhythm growing faster and more brutal with each thrust. His other hand curled around the plump flesh of her ass, and with a sadistic smirk, he raised it to deliver a hard smack.

The impact made her whole body jolt, the pain shooting through her like a bolt of lightning. Her ass cheek burned, and she could feel the imprint of his hand as if it was branded onto her skin. But he wasn't satisfied with just one. He continued to spank her, his hand landing with a series of sharp smacks that grew in intensity until her skin was swollen and red. She could feel the heat radiating from the spot, and she knew that if she could see herself, she'd be horrified at the sight of her own body.

Her eyes locked onto the ring of students surrounding her, their own arousal palpable. One of them had stepped closer, his eyes glued to her bouncing breasts. He reached out tentatively, as if afraid she might bite, and brushed the pad of his thumb over her nipple. It hardened beneath his touch, and she felt a bolt of unwanted pleasure shoot through her body.

The student's eyes grew wide as he watched her reaction, and then he grinned, emboldened by her body's betrayal. He leaned in, his breath hot against her chest, and Jihyo felt a surge of revulsion. He reached behind her and with one swift move, unclasped her bra, letting her heavy breasts spill out into his eager hands. He took one in his hand, squeezing it like it was a squishy ball, his eyes never leaving hers as he enjoyed her unwilling display of vulnerability.

Another student stepped forward, his hand shaking with excitement as he reached out to touch her. He traced the line of her neck with his index finger, his eyes glued to the soft mounds of her breasts. He leaned in, his nose mere inches from her cleavage, and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her arousal. She felt his hot breath against her skin and had to fight the urge to gag.

With a grin that sent chills down her spine, he stepped back, unzipping his own pants. He pulled out his cock, already thick and engorged. Jihyo's eyes widened in horror as he began to stroke himself, his eyes never leaving hers. The sound of his hand moving up and down the shaft filled the room, a sickening soundtrack to her nightmare.

"Look at me, Professor," he demanded, his voice low and commanding. Jihyo's eyes flicked up, unable to look away from the obscene display. His strokes grew quicker, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was close, she could tell, and she braced herself for what was to come.

The student leaned over her, his cock just an inch from her nose. His hand moved with a feverish intensity, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. The scent of his arousal filled her nostrils, and she wanted to gag. The room was spinning, the world narrowing down to this one, horrific moment.

And then it happened. With a grunt, the student came, spurting his hot seed onto her face. The salty warmth splattered across her cheek, her forehead, and into her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut, but not before catching a glimpse of his triumphant grin. The others cheered, their excitement only growing. The sticky fluid trickled down her face, a degrading reminder of her powerlessness.

As the ringleader's minion stepped back, another took his place, his phone out and ready to capture every humiliating second. His thumb hovered over the record button, his eyes gleaming with excitement. The coldness of the screen pressed against her skin as he positioned it to get the best angle. Jihyo's heart sank. This wasn't just a moment of horror to be endured and forgotten. This would be a permanent record, a digital trophy for these monsters to share and revel in.

The camera rolled, the red light a silent, mocking eye that bore into her soul. She could feel the lens zoom in on her face, capturing the fear, the pain, and the betrayal that swirled in her eyes. The sound of the recording filled the room, a cold digital click that seemed to amplify every ragged breath she took. The ringleader chuckled, his eyes never leaving hers as he watched the scene unfold from the screen.

One by one, the students approached, their cocks hard and eager. They took turns, their hands trembling with excitement as they painted her body with their sticky, white fluid. Each time, she felt a fresh wave of humiliation crash over her, the reality of her situation becoming more and more unbearable. The first spurted onto her chest, the second onto her face, the third onto her breasts. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sight, but she could feel the warmth spreading across her skin, a brand of their conquest.

The fourth and fifth students aimed for her thighs, the coolness of their cum a stark contrast to the heat of their lust. The sensation was like a thousand tiny pinpricks, each one a reminder of her helplessness. She could feel the stickiness of it seep into her high stockings, the fabric that are clinging to her skin. The sixth and seventh focused on her ass, the wetness of their cum sliding down her cheeks and pooling around the waistband of her torn panties.

Jihyo's eyes remained tightly shut, but she couldn't escape the sounds of their pleasure, the wet smacks of flesh meeting flesh, the grunts and gasps that filled the room. She could feel the warmth of their semen on her skin, the sticky mess that was slowly spreading across her body. The eighth student took his time, stroking himself as he stared at her sexy tight lingerie. He leaned in, whispering obscenities into her ear, his breath hot and wet. And when he finally came, it was with a roar that sent shivers down her spine, the first ropes of cum splattering onto her inner thighs.

The last student, the ringleader, stepped forward, his cock rock hard. He grabbed the fabric still stuffed in her mouth and yanked it out with a cruel smirk. She coughed and gagged, her mouth open in shock and horror. Without a moment's hesitation, he shoved his dick inside, choking her as he began to fuck her mouth. She tried to resist, to push him away, but his grip on her neck was like iron, cutting off her air supply. She could feel the veins in her throat bulging as she struggled to breathe.

Jihyo's eyes watered, her vision blurring as she fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. His cock was thick and unyielding, filling her mouth completely, the taste of him making her want to retch. She could feel the pulse of his arousal against her tongue, the way he enjoyed her pain, her fear. The pressure grew, the room spinning around her, and she realized with a sickening clarity that she might pass out if he didn't release her soon.

Her hands were bound behind her back, so she couldn't push him away. Her legs were spread, her body on full display for the other students, who watched with a mix of horror and fascination. She could hear the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of her mouth, the slap of his balls against her chin. Her jaw grew sore from the relentless pounding, and she could feel her mouth stretching to accommodate his size.

The ringleader's grip on her throat tightened, and she felt the first spark of true panic. She couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything but take the abuse. The room was spinning, and dark spots danced before her eyes. Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, he pulled out, a line of saliva connecting his cock to her mouth. She gasped for air, choking and coughing, the taste of him still strong on her tongue.

He grinned, his eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure. Then, without warning, he slapped her face hard, the sound echoing in the room like a gunshot. Jihyo's head snapped to the side, pain blooming on her cheek. Before she could react, he slapped her again, and again, the sharp sting of his palm against her skin sending shockwaves through her body.

Her eyes watered, and she felt a warm trickle of blood seep from the corner of her mouth. The ringleader leaned in, his cock still slick with her saliva. He slapped her face once more, but this time with the full length of his erection. The pain was exquisite, a mix of agony and degradation that made her want to weep. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

With a sadistic smirk, he slapped her again, his dick hitting her cheek with a wet smack that made her stomach heave. And again, his movements growing more and more forceful, as if he was trying to imprint his dominance onto her very soul. Jihyo's eyes remained locked with his, a silent scream trapped behind her gag, her body trembling with fear and anger.

The ringleader's friends watched with a mix of excitement and unease, their own orgasms forgotten as they awaited the grand finale of their twisted spectacle. The anticipation was palpable, a thick tension that seemed to coil around her throat, choking her. And then, with a final brutal thrust, he pushed his cock back into her mouth, so deep she felt the head hit the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering as she struggled to breathe, her tongue pinned against the roof of her mouth.

The pressure built, and she knew what was coming. With a triumphant grunt, he came, his warm cum flooding her mouth. She couldn't help but swallow, the salty taste filling her senses, making her stomach churn. He held her head in place, forcing her to take every last drop, his eyes never leaving hers, drinking in her humiliation. When he was finished, he pulled out with a wet pop, a strand of cum connecting his cock to her swollen lips.

With a smirk, he wiped his cock clean on her cheek before tucking it back into his pants. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his thumbs moving deftly across the screen. Jihyo felt a cold dread fill her as she watched him tap out a message, his grin growing wider by the second. And then, with a cruel flourish, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You're going to be famous, Professor."

The ringleader snapped a photo, capturing her in her most degrading and vulnerable state. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear, her makeup smeared by the cum and tears. Her dress was torn, her breasts spilling out of her ruined lingerie, and her legs were still splayed open, revealing her wet pussy. The picture was a testament to their power over her, a trophy of their depravity.

With a wicked grin, he opened the student group chat on his phone and added her to the conversation. He watched as her phone vibrated with the notification, the screen lighting up with the message. Jihyo's eyes followed his movements, understanding what he was doing. The realization of what was to come only served to heighten her panic.

He held up his phone, the picture of her displayed proudly for all to see. "Everyone," he announced, his voice dripping with satisfaction, "meet our newest member, Professor Jihyo." He posted the image, and she watched in horror as it uploaded, the spinning wheel of doom sealing her fate. The chat exploded with messages, a cacophony of emojis and lewd comments from the members that made her want to vomit.

"Remember, Professor," he continued, his hand stroking the length of her cheek with the same hand that had just moments ago been wrapped around his cock, "everytime we want you, you have to come, like a dog." His words were a vile promise, a declaration of ownership that sent a chill down her spine. "And if you don't," he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, "you'll be a famous star, not just in this college, but online."

The threat was clear, the implication terrifying. Jihyo's heart hammered in her chest as she took in the leering faces of her tormentors. The room was a haze of lust and malice, and she knew she was fighting a battle she could not win.

THE END

[hivemuthur]

If you’re comfortable, can I request Viktor dating hcs where reader has adhd? If not, that’s fine!

Hi Anon! Here's your HCs!

ViktorXADHD!Reader HeadCannons

viktorxgn!reader general, fluff and again we have Viktor setting impossible standards for real-life partners (for me, I'm the partner :v)

author’s note: I wish I was this kind of partner guys :')

word count: 0,8K

—

✧ Viktor notices almost immediately that your mind moves fast—sometimes faster than even his own. He finds it fascinating, the way your thoughts jump from one topic to another, connecting things he wouldn't have considered.

✧ When you start rambling about a new hyperfixation, he listens intently, chin propped in his hand, soft smile on his lips. If it's something he can research, he’ll surprise you with a fact about it later, just to see your face light up.

✧ “You know, I read something about that,” he says casually, and the way you snap to attention fills him with warmth.

✧ He isn’t bothered when you interrupt him mid-sentence; he knows it’s because you’re engaged, not because you aren’t listening. That being said, if he really needs to get a point across, he’ll gently cup your face and say, “Lásko, let me finish.”

✧ If you forget important things—appointments, meals, deadlines—he doesn’t scold you. Instead, he subtly helps. “Did you eat today?” he asks while placing an apple in your hand. “You have an appointment tomorrow morning, yes? I will set an alarm for you.”

✧ He understands how frustrating it is to want to do something but not be able to focus on it. If you’re struggling with executive dysfunction, he sits with you, offering quiet encouragement. Sometimes, just knowing he’s there makes it easier.

✧ You tend to leave things half-finished, starting a new task before completing the last. Viktor doesn't mind; he simply places a bookmark in your abandoned book, keeps your projects organised, and gently reminds you where you left off.

✧ “You were working on this earlier,” he says, nudging a notebook toward you. “Shall we finish it together?”

✧ If your hyperactivity manifests physically, he lets you fidget with his fingers, his cane, even the hem of his sleeve. He likes it—it means you feel safe enough to do so.

✧ On days when your thoughts feel like an untamed storm, Viktor grounds you. He speaks softly, rubs soothing circles into your palm, and reminds you to take deep breaths.

✧ Viktor notices when you’re upset before you even say a word. Your usual energy dims, your gaze lingers unfocused, and your hands fidget more than usual. He doesn’t press you to talk—he knows that sometimes, finding the words is the hardest part.

✧ “We have three options,” he says, brushing his fingers against yours. “We talk about it now, we do not talk about it at all, or I will check in with you again in an hour.”

✧ The relief you feel is instant. He doesn’t need you to spell out what you need; he gets it. And when you squeeze his hand in silent gratitude, he simply squeezes back.

✧ Viktor doesn’t complain about your habit of draping half your wardrobe over the back of the chair. To him, it looks chaotic—but to you, it’s a system.

✧ “Why do you not put them away?” he asks, genuinely curious.

✧ “Because they aren’t dirty, but they aren’t clean either,” you explain.

✧ He nods as if that is the most logical thing in the world. “Ah. A liminal space for clothing. Understood.” And he's never brought it up again.

✧ Keeping the house organised is a delicate balance between Viktor’s methodical nature and your tendency to misplace things.

✧ He has congratulated himself more than once for coming up with transparent food containers.

✧ It's a small gesture, but got you tearing up. “You brilliant, brilliant man,” you say, bewildered, stacking them up in the most visible spots on your kitchen shelves.

✧ At some point, Viktor realised that opened food items exist in a strange limbo in your mind—neither fresh nor expired, just schrödinger’s groceries.

✧ His solution? A red marker pen, always within reach.

✧ Every milk carton, juice bottle, or half-used sauce now has the date of opening scrawled on it in his precise handwriting.

✧ “You are absurdly efficient,” you admit, watching him carefully mark the oat milk.

✧ “Efficient?” He smirks. “No, I simply dislike the phrase ‘I don’t know if this is still good, smell it for me.’”

✧ You fall asleep best when there’s something playing in the background—a podcast, an audiobook, even a video you’ve watched a hundred times.

✧ At first, Viktor found it odd, but now? He’s grown used to it. If anything, he finds the murmur of voices comforting when you fall asleep curled into him.

✧ He even takes the time to pick something out for you if you’re too tired to choose. “I selected a lecture on quantum mechanics,” he says with a small smile. “I expect you will be asleep before the introduction is over.”

✧ He doesn’t see your ADHD as a flaw. He sees you—brilliant, creative, full of energy and passion. And he loves you for it.

[wesstars]

crush

cairo sweet x fem!reader (no pronouns used)

summary: when cairo goes home, what comes to mind are thoughts of you. wc: 2.3k tags: explicit, minors DNI!! all characters 18+. university au. masturbation, smoking, non-linear narrative. reader is cairo’s teaching assistant, reader described as masc presenting. a/n: let me know what y’all think :) for the vibes

masterlist

“Is Professor Miller not coming?” Winnie had just dropped into her unassigned assigned seat next to Cairo, two minutes before Greco-Roman Literary Theory started. The flipping of pages punctuated the chatter of other students waiting, a comfortable sound.

“He said he’d be gone today,” Cairo replied absently. “There’s a ‘guest lecturer,’ our teaching assistant.”

“Oh, right. Who’s that?”

Cairo shrugged. “Who knows.” 

As if on cue, the door swung open. Cairo didn’t even look up—Miller mentioned that he kept a handful of research assistants that would be there to help with the advanced reading. But honestly, Cairo wasn’t sure what they could tell her that she didn’t already know. A melodic hum fell through the air for just a moment, a chorus. 

“Good morning.” At your lilting voice, rough with the edge of 10am, Cairo started. She watched you set your messenger bag on the desk. Your white shirt pulled over your shoulders; there was a glint at your collar, a necklace peeking through. A thin watch adorned your wrist. Winnie, along with some of the class, echoed your greeting, and Cairo blinked.

Late spring afternoon draped across the furniture in Cairo’s room, the quickly waning light giving easy way to a blue hour. Dropping her bag at the door, she tore off her shirt and skirt with the confidence of one standing before a crowd. Running a hand up from her sternum to her neck, she stretched languidly, sinking down onto her bed. After so many uneventful days—when she applied to Yale, she didn’t think that there would be any uneventful days—she finally had a story to turn over in her mind. 

You. You were a mystery. Even as you had started the class with an introduction, telling Cairo you’d graduated from a middle-of-nowhere college in California and sought a writing career in Vermont before delving into research, she longed to lay out the details and pull them out from under the rug. Where did you learn to teach? Did you like to drive, or be driven? Mountains, or the sea? Where did you grow up? Was there coffee or tea in your cupboard? Cairo’s stomach burned to know. Her dark eyes burned the ceiling with smoke signals, searching for you even though you were god knows where in that seaside state.

Arching her back, Cairo let her hand travel down, palm flat against her stomach, to trace the seam of her upper thigh. As the class had progressed, your keenly observant nature did not elude Cairo. Maybe listening was something that your pedagogy instilled in you, but the way you held each student’s question in the cant of your head, an answer in your crinkling eyes, listening seemed to be in your nature. It was meticulous, the way you picked apart the class text, weaving in references and tying it all in. In that two hour lecture, Cairo learned that you watched the same way you listened. 

Balmy as it was, the humidity made her dark waves cling to her skin, and she shivered as she brushed them back, thinking of a different pair of slim hands. Your scrutiny of each student had an intention that she couldn’t quite place; a determination that thrilled her. Cairo imagined that you’d observe her the same way, that she would be the one you were most fond of. It was only natural that her own attention would draw yours onto her. Holding the weight of your envisioned gaze made Cairo’s core twist, a pleased little flush that she prayed you could see. Your affected impartiality didn’t bother Cairo—in fact, it pulled her into your shadow. In her bed, she rolled onto her stomach then her knees, shaking her hair out. 

Her hands were steady as she reached for her bedside table, thumb rolling on the wheel of her zippo as she held the cigarette to her lips. Cairo took a drag, blowing out neat smoke rings as she settled back on her heels. The skin of her own fingers was cool against her lips, and when she took the smoke away, she studied the pattern of her lipstick on the white paper as she had so many times before.

She’d watched, unabashedly and unafraid of being caught, as you drummed your fingers on the chalk tray. Would your fingertip be soft or work hardened if it pressed down her tongue? Would your skin carry the stain of her red lip as deeply, as obediently, as the malleable wrapping paper?

“Alright, class,” you cleared your throat, turning slowly around the room to make eye contact with each student. “As you know, Jonathan’s away on a conference today. I’ll start with a bit of roll, just so I can learn your names. Not many of you come to my office hours, I know.” You smiled easily. It was so guileless, Cairo mused, nearly childlike. You had the class go around the rooms with names and majors, a circuit that Cairo gave no attention to other than your lilting rhythm of hums, the tapping of your foot on the floor, the way you flicked the corner of the role sheet with your thumb. Your gaze was soon on hers, waiting expectantly. She looked right back with a blink.

“Cairo Sweet. English major.”

“Cairo.” Her name rolled off your innocent little grin, making her cock her head. “Wonderful.” Fascinating. Would you whisper midnight black desires in her ear, so deep and dark they might be murmured into the ink of your own empty room?

You continued, circling back to the front and easily transitioning to the lesson plan. You had an awfully effortless way of grasping the class’ attention, holding gently and never forcing. It wasn’t like Professor Miller, who always seemed to hasten through the lecture so he could return to his research. She could tell you liked the woods of the text, to fall down into the depths of each word, feeling its weight in you and letting it rock. Just like Cairo. 

She sighed into the warm air prickling up her skin, the curl of your voice around her name making her nipples harden in her bralette, even in retrospect. Exhaling around her cigarette, Cairo brought her hands up to palm her breasts, feeling the drag of her rubied nubs on her palms. Was it the high of the nicotine, the blur of smoke ridden air that made her float straight up into the lofty space you’d created in her mind? Though the feel of her own fingers scraping the lace against her skin was familiar, she found herself keen to think of your soft or callused hands. She was wet already, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten wet so fast.

The weight she imagined of your touch on her flushed skin was completely, deliciously foreign. Unbidden but intimately welcome, Cairo wished that your caress would find the map of her chest as familiar as a classic, something you had searched a million times over yet always managed to find something new. Shamelessly, Cairo trailed her fingers down her stomach, nails catching on every rib as she arched her back in the spilled moonlight. The mystery in the crossing of your long legs as you’d leaned back on the desk climbed up her belly, curling in the thump, thump, thump, of her heart. The uneven roll of your sleeves clung to the corners of her eyes, eidetic and oh, so, tempting. She had watched you so ardently—did you like to watch? Would you watch? 

The space between her thighs was achingly empty, craving the set of your narrow hips. She was comfortable there, and she remembered the taut stretch of wool as you dropped into your chair and set one ankle over your knee. There was something endearing about the way your trousers had pulled up to reveal slouchy black socks, and darker her mind went as the material pulling creases around your lap made her shudder and—she reached behind to pull one of her fluffy pillows under her, smoke billowing into the air. 

Cairo gave her hips an experimental roll, imagining it was the soft fabric of your slacks against her aching cunt, and grinned around her cigarette. Unlike the pillow, you would be ever so solid under her, grabbing for her thighs like a dog yearns to please. Were you more likely to bruise her skin, yanking her into you without care for blood—or would you guide her gently, make a home in her innocence and hold her more dearly than life ever could? Either way, your desire for Cairo would be so apparent that you couldn’t help yourself.

The dip of your tongue in her navel, the little smirk you’d undoubtedly wear as you went down further—would you go for her throbbing clit first, or would your lips press so warm—she didn’t know. She didn’t have to, content with all those different versions of you unfurling before her. In her bedroom, each time she moved her hips, it became easier to imagine you guiding her actions, the bump of your nose on her folds, damned if not addicting.

Cairo grinned as she fell onto her forearms, hips pushing into the soft pillow without abandon. The slide of her panties soaked with slick against her sensitive clit felt like the delicate press of your splayed hand on her desk as you’d passed, eyes occupied by the text you were holding. It had only been a split second, but it was enough for her to memorize every crease, every vein. Cairo let out a whine, a demanding little sound, as her movements grew erratic. Looking up into the heaven where you must be, she imagined that you’d murmur to her, “I’m here, I’m here, how could I be anywhere else but here?” as you traced the dip in her back. Her arousal took her down every sullied path she’d ever dreamed of, but her mind stuck on one gesture that made her mouth go dry. 

She remembered the way your shirt got just a bit untucked when you stretched during the class break. You’d instinctively tucked it back in, quick as you surveyed the class. Cairo thought that you’d dress yourself back up the same way after you bent her over the desk after class, pushing her skirt up and shoving your fingers into her, painting bruises onto her hip bones with how tight you held her.

The two of you would share a mutual understanding that she wanted this, wanted it bad enough for you to take it whenever you saw fit. Cairo decided that today, this time, you’d be as rough as you pleased, a cup of pens clattering to the ground as you pushed her down, forearm across her shoulder blades. Your necklace would be cold on her warm skin, would it be cold on her tongue? You’d put two, three fingers inside, humming in that absentminded way you did. She thought you’d nuzzle into her ear, all lips and sharp teeth, asking if she’d sprayed your favorite hair mist of hers because she hoped you’d notice—she did—and take her, break her, whatever you wanted. 

You’d send her plummeting down towards a deeper hell (or was it higher, up to your majestic heaven?), already knowing everything that her body needed. Cairo imagined herself coming so helplessly around the stretch of your fingers, so high strung from nights of trying to mimic the press of your touch on her clit, unable to reach the same heights you sent her to. As she held back tears, eyes on the ceiling in reverence, feeling herself drip to the floor, you’d sigh as your mind wandered to other things already, carelessly running a hand down her back. 

Cairo gasped, dropping her nearly finished cigarette in favor of gripping the bed sheets. The white fabric wrinkled around her fingers, reminiscent of your shirt creasing as you’d rolled your sleeves up. This was something new you could show her, just how fast she could come and just how wet it made her. It was a marvel, feeling the fabric cling to her cunt, almost as good as how you’d feel. Resting her forehead in the crook of her elbow, she murmured your name over and over again, a little susurrus of a litany, so similar to your preoccupied hum. Panting, Cairo giggled in her bliss, soft and bright as Californian oranges clinging to rich leaves. You were dark enough to be tucked into the wrinkles in the soft pillow, dark enough for Cairo to love, as a journal loves a secret.

Sated, Cairo grabbed her phone and typed your name in. The results spilled out, and she scrolled, looking for all of the details in the background of your social media posts, curiously drunk on the year’s gap in your CV. Cairo noticed the perfect little circle where the cigarette had burned when she dropped it, and she brushed away the remnants. The gesture smeared the ash on the sheets.

—

Walking into your office with barely a knock, Cairo took in the familiar room of an academic, but with your unfamiliar knick knacks around the place. A lighter, a leather wallet, glasses and wired headphones. You didn’t look surprised as you glanced up from your laptop. Instead, you smiled. 

“Cairo, isn’t it?” 

A flush of pleasure shot straight into her—you remembered. She nodded. Your shelves were covered in books and stacks of reviews, the morning’s leftover cup of coffee sitting on one of the ledges. Did you smoke before, or after your coffee? The terrible, terrible want to replace the taste of smoke on your tongue with the taste of her gave Cairo just the confidence she needed. 

“What can I do for you?”

Cairo leaned over your desk, watching the way your eyes dropped to her burgundy lipstick. “Would you be able to help me on the Aristophanes reading?” She pushed her copy of The Clouds towards you. “I can’t seem to grasp it.” Your eyes met hers. “Of course.”

--

a/n cont'd: can you read my mind, i’ve been watching you… there’s just something about you, baby… ♪ / hope you enjoyed @woewriting :)

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

masterlist

[cameronsbabydoll]

DRESS SHOPPING ♡ ARRANGED MARRIAGE AU

CW: none that i can think of — wc: 1,243

The next morning arrived with a soft knock on your bedroom door. You blinked awake, momentarily disoriented before remembering the plans made the previous evening—today was the day you, your mother, and Rose would go wedding dress shopping.

Your mother entered your bedroom, already dressed in a crisp blouse and tailored slacks, a warm smile on her face. "Good morning, sweetheart. I hope you're ready for a fun day of dress shopping with Rose and me. She should be here any minute to pick us up."

You nodded, throwing the covers off your legs and standing. "O-Oh, okay, I’ll get ready then."

An hour later, you descended the grand staircase in a lavender sundress and comfortable heels, a light sweater draped over your arm. As you reached the bottom step, you saw Rose waiting by the front door, looking radiant in a tailored two-piece ruby-colored set and heels.

"Good morning, dear," she greeted warmly, pulling you into a hug. "I'm so excited to spend the day finding the perfect wedding dress with you and your mother."

Your mother emerged from the kitchen, the sound of her heels clicking on the marble floor. "Alright, let's be off. I’ve heard the boutique in the city has an exquisite selection of gowns that would be perfect for a beautiful bride like you, my dear," she said, ushering you both out the door.

The drive into the city was filled with lively chatter and laughter. From the front seat, Rose and your mother discussed their favorite designers and styles while you listened intently, staring out the window, soaking in their knowledge and excitement. As you pulled up to the boutique, your heart began to race with anticipation.

Stepping inside, you were greeted by the sight of countless gowns in every shade imaginable, each more breathtaking than the last. Lace, tulle, satin, and silk fabrics cascaded from the racks, begging to be explored.

A stylish woman with a clipboard approached, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "Welcome, my dears. I understand we have a special occasion to shop for today—a wedding gown! I'm here to assist you lovely ladies in finding the perfect dress for the big day. Let's start by taking some measurements and discussing the overall aesthetic you're going for. The bride-to-be, I presume?" She asked, her full attention on you.

You nodded shyly, feeling a blush creep onto your cheeks at being the center of attention. "Y-Yes, that would be me... I'm not really sure what style I'm looking for, to be honest. I was hoping to get some ideas and inspiration here," you admitted, glancing around at the sea of gowns with wide, enticing eyes.

Your mother and Rose exchanged a look before your mother turned to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Don't you worry, sweetheart. Rose and I have been doing some research, and we think we have a good idea of what would suit you beautifully. The most important thing is that you feel confident and comfortable in whatever you choose."

Rose nodded in agreement, flipping through a binder filled with pictures of wedding gowns. "I tend to agree with your mother. Given your delicate features and graceful demeanor, I think we should focus on gowns that are elegant, romantic, and perhaps have a touch of vintage inspiration. Something that will make you look like a vision in a dream."

The stylist's eyes lit up with inspiration as she jotted down notes. "Wonderful. I have a clear vision now. Let’s start by trying on some gowns with the following key elements: vintage-inspired design, delicate lace or embroidery details, a romantic and elegant silhouette, and a touch of sparkle or shimmer. I’ll pull a selection of dresses that I think will be perfect for you to try on, and we can go from there!"

As the stylist disappeared into the back room, leaving you alone with your mother and Rose, they both looked at you with loving smiles, sensing your nervous excitement. Your mother took your hands in hers, giving them a gentle squeeze.

"Sweetheart, I know this is all happening rather suddenly, but I want you to know that no matter what, you will look breathtaking on your wedding day."

Rose chimed in, "Your mother is absolutely right. A beautiful dress will only enhance the incredible person you already are. And I have no doubt that Rafe will be swept off his feet the moment he sees you walking down the aisle."

Just then, before you could start thinking about how Rafe would react, the stylist returned with a rack of gowns, each one more stunning than the last.

You hesitated, running your hands over the bodice of one of the dresses before turning to them. "I—I know this whole wedding isn’t exactly... well, normal, but it’s sort of... foolish. Which do you think Rafe—or even my father—would like?" you asked nervously. "I know Rafe isn’t exactly over the moon, but... I—I don’t know..."

Your mother and Rose exchanged a glance, understanding your nervousness and the unorthodox nature of this arranged marriage.

Rose spoke first, her voice gentle and reassuring, "Sweetheart, I know this situation isn't ideal, and Rafe may not be thrilled about the arrangement at the moment. But sometimes, people need time to adjust to new realities. I have no doubt that when he sees you walking down the aisle in one of these stunning gowns, he will be utterly captivated and realize the incredible fortune he has in being your husband."

Your mother nodded in agreement. "Rose is right. As for your father, well... he’s never been very emotional, but I’m sure he’ll think you’re as gorgeous as we do."

Two hours later, you returned home, your arms laden with bags containing your wedding gown, reception dress, dinner attire, and accessories. A mix of excitement and nervousness fluttered in your stomach as you thought about the whirlwind of events leading up to this moment.

As you entered the grand foyer of your family’s estate, you heard the deep voices of your father and Rafe emanating from the study. They seemed to be in the midst of a serious discussion, likely going over the details of your marriage agreement.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself as you approached the study door. As you pushed it open, both your father and Rafe looked up, their conversation pausing momentarily.

Your father’s expression was serious but softened into a smile as he saw you. "Ah, sweetheart, welcome back. I trust you had a productive day selecting your wedding attire?" he asked, gesturing for you to come in.

"Yes, Father... we got everything—and more, probably," you giggled softly. "I’ll leave you two to talk business." You gave your father a gentle smile and sent a more nervous glance toward Rafe before retreating with your mother and Rose to put your things away safely.

Your father returned your smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he nodded approvingly. "I'm glad you found something suitable. We can discuss the details of the purchases later," he said, waving a dismissive hand before turning his attention back to Rafe, his expression growing serious once again.

Rafe watched as you left, his gaze lingering on your retreating form for a moment before he, too, turned back to face your father. The two men settled back into their seats, the weight of the arranged marriage and the business deal hanging heavily in the air between them.

TAGLIST: @vanessa-rafesgirl @lolasangelz @malibuhearts @popou61 @jaasworld @slut4you

[stargirlygirl]

no, you can't buy my ranch

rancher!sylus x spoiled!city girl!reader

⭑.ᐟ part two: how do you do it?

summary: in your frustration, you go and visit sylus and ask him how he runs his ranch

contains: swearing, hurt comfort, sylus fat ass appreciation, 3k works

A BIG THANK YOU to @tragicvictoriantears for all of her legal advice in the comment section of part one. literally incredible research and an excellent explanation, you should check out her comments for insight into how taxation changes with different types of properties. i'm thinking of running with a blend of adverse possession and wishful thinking for our successful businessman here.

“Argh! How fucking long is this going to take?” You shout into the humid air settling across the green shrubbery. Whipping out your phone, you check the time.

“Two hours?!” You shriek. Shoving the device back in your jeans, you pull at your roots.

For the past two hours, you’ve been lawn mowing. You might be thinking, how is it possible to mow the lawn for two hours? There can’t be that much lawn to mow, right?

Wrong.

Your father purchased a very roomy block of land, and he cancelled his subscription to a landscaping service after the last tenants evacuated the property. This means the acres were severely overgrown by the time you moved in.

It’s only been one week staying in this fuck ass charming small town and your archaic dreamy ranch house, and you’re about to have a mental break down. You’ve only mowed one of the fifty acres of your property with your good ol’ push mower. 1 out of 50!

You can’t do this anymore.

Leaving the mower running in the middle of the field, you stomp back to your house. Up the porch steps, you push the door open with both hands, sending it clanking into the wall as you beeline to the kitchen.

Pouring yourself a glass of cold water, you gulp it down while sweat rolls down your dirty forehead and neck. You sigh, slamming the cup on the bench and wiping your brow. Slumping against the countertop, you think about how you’re going to handle this.

You could call up your father to reinstate the landscaping service, but part of the rental payments had been paying for it. The last tenants lived here around two years ago, and the vegetation had been left untamed. Now that you’re living here, free of charge, you can’t expect him to foot the ridiculously expensive bill for gardening when you could just do it yourself, or whatever.

You could mow one acre of the lawn each day for the next 50 days. Not bad, but by the time you finish, you’ll have to mow the first acre again because the grass will have already gotten out of control again.

You could give it a rest for today and pick things back up tomorrow, in the hopes that you’ll somehow mow the other 49 acres during daylight hours.

In the midday light, a red glint catches your eye. Striding over to it, you pick up the business card you had left in your fruit bowl days ago.

“Sylus Qin,” you mumble, reading his name on one side. Flipping it over, you type his address into Maps on your phone. Enlarging the lay of the land, you realise that he lives in the next street over. Huffing, you darken your phone screen and make your way upstairs, intent on getting ready to pay a certain someone a visit.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Shutting off your ignition, you hop out of your rust bucket. Your low heels sink into the grass, and you groan internally about how ruined they’re gonna be when you get home. Shimmying down your pencil skirt and adjusting your blouse, you head to the huge ranch house at the front of the property.

If you thought your little place was big (you’re used to shoebox apartments), then this is fucking grand. It’s like the house has been dipped in dark mahogany; it’s moody yet refined. Your heels clack against the wide steps up to the porch. Every detail is exquisite, from the embossed door knob to the hanging lights to the quiet luxury chairs out front. Not to mention the huge windows you’re positive someone is staring at you through as your fist raps against one of the double doors.

Within moments, the doors swing open, revealing two of the same boyish ranch hands greeting you.

“Miss L/n, our boss has been expecting you,” the one on the left remarks.

The right one continues, “Please—”

“Follow us,” they say in unison while gesturing inside. With a fake smile, you nod politely and step past the threshold.

Somehow, the house’s interior is even more magnificent than its exterior. You quickly notice the dark colour scheme of the decor, burgundy, black, and deep browns, mixed with fur rugs and leather finishings.

The twins lead you to the back of the ranch house before guiding you outside and to the stables. Stepping in, the overwhelming scent of livestock curls up your nostrils. You cough into your palm, stifled by the various beef cattle glaring at you. Towards the back stands Sylus, intimidating as ever in his maroon button-up and dark-wash jeans, barking out orders to his subordinates.

They scurry off like beetles as you approach. Sensing you behind him, the ranch overlord pivots around and gazes down at you with those piercing eyes. Your breath catches, and you unconsciously clench and unclench your increasingly sweaty palms.

He smirks, “Already seeking me out, kitten.” You sigh, berating yourself for stooping low enough to come and see him in your desperation.

“I’m not selling my ranch to you just yet, Sylus,” you mutter. He hums, revelling in hearing his name from your lips. The fact that you even thought about visiting him has excitement tingling in every inch of his body. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Clearing his throat, Sylus orders Luke and Kieran (as you learn to be their names) to take care of the ranch while you two talk business. With a large hand on your mid-back, he leads you back to his exquisite home and into his office.

Indicating to the plush chair opposite his opulent desk, he instructs, “Take a seat.” You obey, sitting down and crossing your legs all demure.

As he assumes his place opposite you, elbows on his desk and slender fingers intertwined, he drawls, “Well?” You breathe in deeply, feeling the cool air swirling in the bottom of your lungs to prepare yourself for what you’re about to say. Guilt gnaws at your stomach lining and makes the bile churn. Is this wrong? You ask yourself.

You press on, “I’m not here to discuss pricing with you.”

He chuckles dollar signs, “What a shame, kitten.” Silence pervades the distance between you as you glance around, feigning interest in his trinkets when nothing could be more captivating than the man in front of you.

“I want to know,” you start, leaning forward slightly.

Lowering your voice, you continue, “How do you manage all of this?” Your finger points from side to side, and for a moment, Sylus thought you were referring to him.

Raising a brow, he clarifies, “Manage what, sweetie?”

“Your ranch,” you murmur. Ah, that sounds about right, he thinks.

Grinning all handsome, he corrects you, “Ranches.”

Shifting back, you scoff, “Yea, yea, whatever. Your ranches. How do you keep them in order?”

His smirk widens, “Having some trouble in paradise, kitten?”

You scowl at him, “Oh, just shut up! I get it, you’re a successful businessman with an inflated ego.” Rolling your eyes, you slump in the stupidly comfortable chair. The cushions are so soft and mould to your body perfectly. And the details on the trim are to die for.

For a few moments, you two stare at each other, your gaze heated while his remains cocky.

Finally, you sigh, “I’m not asking for your trade secrets, okay? But, I get it if you don’t want to help me.” Breaking eye contact, you glance down at your roughed-up hands resting in your lap. Petrol and grass cuttings are still lodged beneath your fingernails, and there are little tears on your palms from fighting with the mower.

After a moment of deliberation, Sylus offers, “I could teach you a thing or two, if you’d like?”

Gazing up, your eyes are the size of saucers. You stutter in disbelief, “R-really?” He nods haughtily.

“So tell me, what’s the issue? You asked about management,” he drawls.

You hum in agreement and ask, “How do you keep up with everything? Like maintenance-wise? Obviously, I don’t have any livestock. But like the mowing? And the house?”

He smirks, “You want to know about landscaping and house cleaning?”

“Well,” you pout. “When you put it like that…” You trail off, your voice quietening until no sound passes out your lips.

Clearing his throat, Sylus responds, “I outsource those tasks, sweetie.”

“Oh,” you mumble. Right, of course. That was so fucking obvious, you scold yourself.

“Another reason why you should sell your land to me,” he mocks.

Leaning forward, the rancher continues, “You’re not made for this lifestyle.”

“Hey,” you mutter indignantly, but it sounds like a kitten hissing rather than a fiery roar.

He says sardonically, “City folk, such as yourself, aren’t built for this. So why don’t you give up now? It would save you much trouble.” His words sting in a way they shouldn’t. He’s telling you what you’ve been telling yourself, all week and for the past month, preparing for your move.

All of this complaining about the inconveniences of life here masks that feeling buried within: you’re not capable enough to handle life here. It’s different; an unknown way of living. You hate it for how incompetent it makes you feel. And right now, you kinda hate him for bringing that to light.

Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, you retort, “Desperate much? You really want my property, don’t you?” But it comes out mellowed.

Sylus grins, “Yes, I do. You’re wasting its potential.” You stand up in a flurry of chest pangs and prickling tears.

“Forget it. Forget that I ever tried talking to you. How fucking stupid was that?” You murmur dismissively while striding to the door. Grabbing the brass knob, you try and turn it, but it won’t budge. Drawing back, you notice a keyhole in the centre. All of this stress and pent-up anger is bubbling to the surface, spilling over as you pull on the door knob like it’ll magically open.

Whipping around, you choke out with cloudy eyes, “You-you locked it?!” Sylus stares at you like you’ve grown a second head, perplexed by your sudden emotional outburst. You’ve always been a bit of a crybaby, which definitely doesn’t help at a time like this.

Rising from his desk, he saunters over to you. Placing one hand on the door frame, he leans over you.

“Desperate much?” He remarks, throwing your words back at you as the door rattles from your furious attempts to leave.

Turning around, you shove at his firm chest while sobbing, “J-just let me o-out! Please!”

He shakes his head while countering, “I can’t do that, kitten.” Crying harder, you hit his pec with your fist, hard. But he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he liked that.

“Want to take your frustration out on me?” Sylus teases while grabbing your fist.

He places it over his heart and urges you to, “Go on, then. I won’t stop you.” You shake your head, hair catching on your tears streaming down your cheeks. Your fist softens against his fitted button-up; his heartbeat is steady beneath your palm. It’s calming, feeling the rhythmic thump against your clammy hand. You know you shouldn’t, but right now, you don’t care about crossing his personal space boundaries. He crossed yours first, you reason.

Your head tilts forward, forehead hitting his muscles while his shirt bunches between your fingers as you grip it tightly. And now it’s Sylus’s turn to be surprised. He goes rigid while glancing down at you with a million thoughts running through his mind. He’s momentarily unable to comprehend whether this was real. Whether you’re really crying into him. Had he gone too far? Clearly. To him, you were still playing, even if you were becoming increasingly upset.

But this? He didn’t know how to handle this.

He embraces you tightly, one hand encasing the back of your head while the other rubs your back soothingly. This is what he should be doing, right? Holding you as you fall apart in his arms.

Sylus coos, “So emotional, kitten.”

You mumble into his chest, “S-shut up.”

Time elapses as you stand there, releasing all of your worries and pains into a man who only cares about purchasing your property. He doesn’t say anything further, your wails alongside his breathing the only sounds reverberating throughout the office. Even with the sunlight streaming in, it’s characteristically dark. But you like it. It’s fitting for wallowing in your sadness.

You ramble through your cries, “Y-you think I don’t-I don’t belong here. I-I know that! I k-know, b-but I don’t hav-have a choice.” Sylus doesn’t respond, but his grip tightens slightly as a fresh wave of sobs rips through you.

Eventually, you calm down into sniffling. Lifting your head, you’re met with his tender gaze. Far too tender for your current relationship. His thumb comes to stroke your cheek, wiping away the tears staining your under eyes. Instinctually, you lean into his delicate touch, not caring if you shouldn’t be doing this. He’s the one who upset you in the first place, so it’s his responsibility to make it better, right?

Sylus teases, “All out of tears, sweetie?” You nod, regardless of whether his question was rhetorical.

“Can-can you p-please let me o-out now?” You murmur. He smirks and draws back, raising his arms to the side in surrender. You stare at him with a creased brow as you rub your nose.

He chuckles, “If you want to leave, then you’ll have to acquire the key.” Gesturing to his body, you blink dumbly. He doesn’t mean—

“You wan-want me t-to search you?!”

Sylus nods, “That’s right, kitten.”

You sigh while stepping closer to him, your hands flying back to his chest, “N-no more game-games, okay?” The silver-haired man grabs your wrist and traces your fingers along the buttons of his now ruined shirt. You can make out little mascara stains and your blush against the deep red.

“S-sorry,” you mumble, your hand now guided up to his neck.

Sylus asks confused, “For what, sweetie?” Your fingertips ghost his Adam’s apple. Gazing at your hands, you realise how much bigger his are. And veiny, too. It’s criminal.

“I, uh, stained your sh-shirt,” you sputter.

He shrugs, “Do you think I don’t own others?”

“N-no!” You blurt out as he makes you caress his collarbones.

“Then you have nothing to apologise for,” he says resolutely.

“Now,” the rancher continues. “You’re not very good at this little scavenger hunt. Do you need a hint?” You hum softly in agreement.

“Alright,” he grins. Moving your hand back down his body, he stops around his navel and lets go of you.

Sylus says confidently, “You’ll have to go lower.” At his words, heat flares in your cheeks, and suddenly, you realise that you’re not sniffling anymore. Locking eyes, you search for a sign of approval in his. They slightly narrow, and he tilts his head, prompting you to explore.

Inhaling, you trail your fingers down to his belt, never looking away.

You ask, “Is it here?”

He grins, “You’re getting warmer.” To which you’re puzzled if he meant your tomato-red face or if you’re nearing the key’s location. Praying it’s the latter, you slide your hand to the side and down. Wriggling into his front jean pockets, you dig around, searching for the key. Nothing on this side. Trying the other, you come up empty-handed.

You pout, “You said I was getting warmer.”

Sylus agrees cockily, “I did.”

“So where is it?” You ask, perturbed.

He chuckles shortly, “Did you search all of my pockets?” Oh.

You glare at him, “You just want me to feel you up, don’t you?” The rancher tips his head to the side, grinning even more arrogantly.

“I want you to learn the importance of working for what you want.”

You scoff, “Trust me, I already know that.” Wrapping your arms around his breedable hips, you slip your hands into his back pockets. Damn, that booty. You feel a twang of pain in your chest from how sumptuous it is. Bet he just did a few squats and this was his reward.

“Being a rancher isn’t easy, kitten. It’s a demanding job and can be difficult to make a living from. That’s why you have to be strategic with how you spend your time,” Sylus continues. The key is in his left pocket. Curling your fingers around the hot metal, you retrieve it.

Leaning down, he rasps into your ear, “You’re a clever girl, sweetie. Don’t mock me by wasting what I could capitalise on.” Pulling back, you stare at him with your heart pounding so loudly in your chest, you’re certain he’s counting the beats.

“Thanks,” you mumble. Giving him a curt nod, you turn around and slide the key into the lock. The door opens easily. You don’t wait for him to see you out. No, you sprint from his office immediately, not turning around as he calls your name. Bolting out of his ranch house, you’re panting as you haphazardly start your engine and pull out onto the dirt road.

Your thoughts are a blur. Whatever the fuck just happened replays over and over in your mind like a broken tape. You can still feel the warmth his body against yours, that 50-pound ass in your hands☹️. You’re unsure of how you made it back to your house in one piece. But it doesn’t matter.

You just sit there, in your car with the exhaust pipe wheezing, stunned. No words, no course of action spring forth. It’s like Sylus’s touch and teasing have rewired your brain. And for some silly reason, you’re smiling all goofy when you think of his arms around you and his lips near your ear. Those kissable, pink lips.

Sighing, you step out and gaze at your property. You grumble upon seeing your one acre of mowed grass while making it up the steps and into your house.

That night, Sylus’s pep talk interrupts your every thought. You’re a clever girl, sweetie. Don’t mock me by wasting what I could capitalise on. Maybe— just maybe— you’ll take his advice.

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[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Nine: rooftops

For once, the basement is quiet. 

Kyle had shut off the music the moment he saw Simon wander into the makeshift gym—or, more accurately, he shut it off when he saw the look on his face. Severe. Lips pressed tight together and fingers curling with the insatiable thirst for popping cartilage. 

The two men sit across from one another with spines curled forward and gazes cast towards the floor. Simon’s boots are beginning to stick to the old cement. The whole place could use a good scrub. Yet as his fingers interlace and his elbows rest on his knees, the only thing he can get himself to care about is you and the conversation taking place several stories above his head. 

In his heart, he knows John would never do anything to harm you, but this mess is unprecedented. Mixed up with Makarov, secrets coming to life, a broken nose and a bruised stomach. Simon has always been John’s first choice when it comes to dealing with situations such as these, but now he’s thrown aside. A naughty dog, locked in his kennel. 

“Shit,” Kyle murmurs. He wipes at the sweat leftover on his brow as he adjusts himself on the seat to the lifting equipment. Simon’s just finished telling the story that took place at the restaurant—your broken nose, Aelin’s injury and pregnancy—and each word he speaks only seems to make the man across from him grow more rigid. “How’d Chip even get mixed up in that anyway?” 

There it is. The big question. 

“Her father. And a brutal set of circumstances,” Simon replies bitterly. “He used to work for Makarov.” 

Kyle’s brows rise. “No shit?”

“He got killed in some sort of drug deal gone wrong. Lost Makarov a lot of money. They killed her mum when she refused to pay off the debt, then passed it off onto Chip.” Acrimony sears the inside of Simon’s throat with each word he speaks. He’s always having to think about this story. The retelling of your past and all the brutal things that accompany it. “They’ve been houndin’ her ever since.” 

People always say that airing out dirty laundry lessens the stench, but for Simon it’s still noisome in the air around his nostrils. He thinks of all the things he’s holding back for your sake. How young you were when everything happened. The way Marco assaulted you in Tsar Trading. How those very pictures still taint his car. 

“This other guy. Marco. What’s his deal?” Kyle questions, attempting to keep the conversation rolling. 

It takes all the strength in the world for Simon to hold back his scoff. “He’s Makarov’s shark. Enforces debt payments. He was in charge of my brother’s debt ‘n the cunt nearly killed ‘im. Now he’s doin’ the same for Chip.” 

Kyle mulls the information over for a moment before nodding. “What’s his last name?” 

“Fuck if I know,” Simon says with a shrug. “Why?” 

“Intel’s half the battle.” 

From there, the conversation devolves into acrid stories and vented frustrations. Each moment Simon spends stuck down in that basement, he feels more of himself slip away into the unrelenting desire for revenge. It’s so close he can almost taste it. This zenith of vengeance. The blood that will soon be spilt, because he knows something like this won’t be swept beneath the rug—not now that John Price knows about it. 

Within two hours of being banished to the basement, Simon is stunned to see John walking down the steps to fetch him. His face is irritatingly plain and utterly devoid of any emotion. It makes his skin crawl. He’s a predator backed into a corner, unable to sniff out the intentions of the man before him as he crosses his arms in the doorway and nods. 

“Riley,” John beckons. 

Kyle wordlessly watches Simon push himself to his feet, attention now snatched away by his boss. Palpable tension arises in the space between his shoulder blades as he walks to John, jaw growing tight with the impending verbal lashing he knows is overdue. 

“I’ll do some research on that little shark of Makarov,” Kyle calls out in a promise, prompting Simon to look over his shoulder. “Mummy dearest owes me a couple of favors.” 

Chagrin seeps out of every pore in John’s body, and the stench of it washes over Simon in a suffocating veil as the two men trot up the stairs. He expects to be taken to John’s office, but is surprised when the man continues to climb until they’ve reached the access to the roof. Shaded sunlight peeks through a thin layer of wispy clouds, washing out the stone roof. Things look different up here during the daytime—Simon’s only ever come here after a long shift or when he needs to think. The pile of ash from his cigarettes still marrs the ledge. 

John walks out before him, toeing the edge of the building, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as he stares at the city. Traffic has already clogged up the streets, thickening the already imperviable layer of grime that hangs in the air, yet he takes a deep breath all the same. 

“Brought me ‘ere to toss me off the ledge?” Simon asks in bleak humor. 

John’s chuckle is tight and sour in his throat. “Don’t give me any ideas, Simon.” 

“Yeah. Reckon I shouldn’t.” Simon lazily retrieves his pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his trousers before slapping the cartridge against the palm of his hand. He braves a few steps forward once he’s got the filter between his lips. “Smoke?” 

Looking over his shoulder, John catches sight of the pack, pupils dilating and fingers twitching in his pockets. He only huffs and shakes his head. “I quit when Aelin got pregnant.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response. Only grabs his lighter and begins to puff away before he stands next to John. The tension between the two of them grows so tight he might just jump down to the streets himself. 

“Chip’s at the hospital with Aelin,” John begins, voice maintaining an impressive amicability. “I’ll pick her up for you after we’re done here. They say Aelin should be good to come home tonight.” 

Simon gnaws at his cigarette filter. “Chip’s scared to death Aelin’s gonna hate ‘er for this.” 

“No, no, she could never hate her. Not for that.” Head falling, eyes trained on the desolate pavement below, John huffs. “She told me everything. As much as she could choke out, anyway.” 

“You shouldn’t ask her ‘bout the rest,” Simon warns. 

“I fucking know that, Simon,” John snaps. He pauses, chest expanding with a deep breath as he shakes his head. “I’m very well aware of what bad men do to girls who are too young to protect themselves.” Turning, he’s looking at Simon now with a tight jaw. “Three hundred thousand. Why the fuck didn’t you come to me?” 

That’s the question, isn’t it? How could someone like you ever convince a man like Simon Riley to go against his code? To keep his lips sealed for a simple promise over the obligations of his work? He thinks about the look in your eyes that day when you made him promise not to tell anyone—John and Aelin especially. He recalls how he would’ve torn the earth apart if you so much as asked him to. 

“I promised her I wouldn’t,” Simon responds; simple, and honest. 

“Piss poor fucking reason,” John snaps. “You think I couldn’t have kept that a secret myself? At least I would’ve fucking known. At least we could’ve worked together to solve this. Now what? Aelin’s in the hospital and Chip’s got a broken nose and that’s not even the half of it!” 

“She trusted me. Not you, not Aelin, but me. I promised her, and I was gonna keep that promise.” He’s heated. Blood screams through his veins as he tries to cool off, but it’s hard when you’re the focus of the conversation. “She had all the time in the world to tell you, but she didn’t. Even if I had told you ‘n she never found out, I never could have forgiven myself if I ever betrayed her trust like that. I love her too much for that.” 

The noise of the city swallows the conversation as the two men stare each other down—each angry in their own right, struggling in a seemingly fruitless endeavor to protect the women they adore. John crosses his arms, suddenly on guard, but he’s the first to break eye contact. Staring at his feet, he nods as he allows the ghost of a smile to flicker across his lips. 

“She was scared, John,” Simon continues, softer now. “You dunno how long it took to get her comfortable enough to share any of that with me. Your bludgeoning would’ve made it worse.” 

John’s head cocks to the side as he twists his torso so that it’s faced out toward the city again. Arms still crossed, he rocks back on his heels. “I guess love does make people stupid.” 

Well, it’s no praise, but it’s better than getting his head chewed off. Simon flicks a drizzle of ash onto the brick at his feet before he stares at the sputtering embers burning at the tip of his cigarette. 

“You know what this means, don’t you?” John asks. 

The question makes Simon’s knuckles ache. “Yeah.”

“Does she?” 

Simon shakes his head. “No.” 

Humming, John turns on his heels, fingers reaching out to snatch Simon’s cigarette out from between his fingers. He takes a long, slow drag before he flicks it to the side, drawing out his exhale for as long as he can. 

“I’m headed back to the hospital. I’ll pick Chip up and drop her off at your place. Don’t worry about the money. I’ll get it all sorted.”

“John-” Simon attempts to speak. 

“You’re gonna have to tell her. Tonight, Simon,” he says sternly. “If I had more time, I could’ve found someone else, but after everything that happened? Makarov’s only patient for as long as it serves him.” 

Simon shakes his head, arms awkwardly hanging by his side as his gaze follows John as he begins to walk back inside. “I wouldn’t let anyone else do this for her.” 

“Yeah, and she’s worse off for it,” John calls over his shoulder. “Go home. I’ll call you with details later.” 

The door squeals as it shuts behind John, leaving Simon alone atop the roof. His eyes wander to his smoldering cigarette before the breeze catches up to him. Spring looms in budding trees and dreary skies, but the slight chill cuts him straight to his bone. 

A beckoning song screams from the ledge. Simon bites back the urge to toss himself overboard. 

Once safely on solid ground, Simon shoves himself into his car and races back to the house. It’s a difficult battle keeping his eyes open and on the road as fatigue gnaws behind his eyelids. He spent the entire night watching over you, unable to sleep. He kept your head cradled in his lap, and would gently wipe at the small streams of blood that would come and go in the night from your fractured nose. Fussing over you. Making sure you wouldn’t fracture in your sleep. 

The weight of fatigue is nearly unbearable by the time he pulls into the garage. Engine killed, knuckles still wrapped around the steering wheel—he finds his eyes drifting to the glove compartment to his left. There is something lurking in there more foul than anything else he has ever laid his eyes on. It is the child of evil. A product of sadism and leaky maw, wet with a wanton desire for trembling flesh. 

Simon flips the compartment open where Marco’s sick love letter and odious gifts spill into the palm of his hand. Though he crumples them as he marches into the house, the images can’t escape his view—your wet face, Marco’s hand on your cheek, the way your mouth opens at his beckoning. They stare up at him as he tosses them onto the counter and digs through his pocket for his lighter. The flint crackles and sparks as he thumbs over the wheel, then sets fire to each photo one by one. 

He lets them burn until they singe the tips of his fingers, then tosses the charred remains into the bin once they’ve cooled enough. Then, he gathers the bag until it’s tossed outside; far away and long forgotten. A blight finally purged from your life, even if only for a little while. 

Your entrance back home sounds just as Simon begins to nod off on the couch. His body jerks, twitching back into consciousness just in time for the door to shut behind you and you to timidly wander into the living room. The swelling in your cheeks has only gotten worse, and your eyes seem to be stuck in a squinting position, but you smile when you see him nonetheless. 

Standing, Simon embraces you. For a long while, neither of you say anything. There is only the sound of his heart thudding through his chest and the sniffling of your too-swollen nostrils. It’s as if the stars have aligned again. You, here in his arms, in his home, right where you belong. All the wear and tear of the last day seems to dissipate now that he’s got you like this—his girl right at home. 

“I told Aelin everything,” you offer up once your feet begin to tingle. 

“Yeah?” This is good. You’re talking, not shutting down. “How’d that go?” 

“Better than I ever thought it would,” you admit. “I always thought she would be angry but… she wasn’t. Not at me, anyway. Her dad, Marco, Makarov, everything she just- she just understood. Honestly, it felt really nice to get it out, even when I thought she was going to yell at me. John knows now, too. I don’t know, it feels like now I might be able to… to fix this instead of continuing to run from it.” 

Simon nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy tracing your spine, feeling where your skin dips and curves, memorizing how your body morphs into his. You shift, and it yanks him out of his head and into the present. 

“Did… John wasn’t too mad at you, was he?” you ask. 

“He was upset, but s’all right, sweetheart,” he assures. He leans back, torso tearing away from yours, in order to look at you. His fingers prompt your chin to tilt up away from the floor and it takes everything within him not to fall into you. To not crash his lips into yours and pretend as if the future isn’t fast approaching. “Let’s sit down, baby.” 

Blindly, you follow him until you’ve both reached the couch, enervated bodies sinking into the cushions as if you’ll drown in them and never resurface. He can’t take his eyes off you. Not the curve of your lips or the way your eyes glisten in the adust lighting. Exhausted hands rest on your knees as you begin to worry, brows pinching together as you attempt to read the storm brewing behind his eyes. 

“Price is gonna gather the money to pay off the rest of your debt,” Simon finally shares once he straightens out the jittering neurons in his brain. 

Your eyes widen as you place your hands over his. “Really?”

He nods. “He’ll get everythin’ set up with Makarov. Sooner rather than later, probably.” 

Everything shifts beneath your body, causing you to temporarily become light headed. This notion of freedom has grown so close and yet you’ve only just now noticed how it lies at your feet waiting to be retrieved. Yet, just as you go to reach for it, you notice the line. Thin, pearlescent string. Fishing wire. A hidden hook ready to sink into flesh and drag you along with it. 

“But that’s not everything, is it?” you carefully push. “You said before that there would be more, right?” A gauche laugh escapes you. “Eating a cockroach…” 

“I’m gonna have to kill someone.” 

The bluntness in which Simon speaks with hits your gut, sending your diaphragm sputtering as your smile begins to wane. He sees how several sentences begin and end on the tip of your tongue, smothered behind your hesitation. 

“It’s how all of Makarov’s debts are paid. Money is never enough. He demands blood with it, too,” Simon continues. 

You wet your lips before shaking your head. “I don’t understand—who are you going to have to kill? Simon, I don’t-” 

Shushing you, he pulls your hands into his own where he begins to trace your knuckles with the pad of your thumb. “Makarov sets everythin’ up so that two people who are in debt fight against each other. Sometimes he’ll let people volunteer for someone else, which is what I did with Tommy. It’s what I’m doin’ for you. He doesn’t care either way, the cunt just wants a good show. Besides, it grants you immunity. Marco would never do anythin’ to you ever again at risk of death.” 

All moisture leaves your mouth, rendering your tongue sticky and dry. You nearly choke when you speak. “But Simon, I mean… killing someone? What if—like—maybe they’re like me. You’d still have to kill them?”

“Not necessarily," he says with a flippant shrug. “They could always kill me. Either way, your debt is paid, and then theirs would be, too.” 

“Don’t joke like that,” you sternly reprimand. 

“Sorry, baby.” 

“I just- I don’t understand. So many people have already died or gotten hurt because of me, and now you’re… you’re telling me that there’s going to be one more?” 

His lips go taut. Small, straight line. His mandible flexes, muscle dancing beneath his skin, widening his jaw for a short moment before he eventually nods. “I’m sorry, baby.” 

Your knees jerk. He notes the way your body curls forward, weight displacing, ready to stand, but he pulls you back towards him, refusing to let you run away. The expansion of your chest comes quick—fluttering rabbit feet thumping against the ground, attempting to flee. 

“No, I can’t let that happen. I’d- I’d rather be in debt for the rest of my life,” you stutter. 

“Chip-” 

“I can’t let you kill an innocent person, Simon!” 

Silence envelops the two of you like rotten flesh over a festering wound. It’s thick. Suffocating. Noisome and sickening. Simon scrambles for anything he can to keep himself afloat—to keep you from crumbling in his arms. Eventually, his head falls. 

“Maybe… Sometimes, we can pick our opponent,” Simon murmurs. “I could try to scope out someone who deserves it.” 

“Deserves it?” you choke. 

“I’d gladly put a nonce or child beater into the ground, sweetheart, and I wouldn’t feel bad ‘bout it either,” Simon says, sure of himself. Then, he pauses, onyx eyes finally wandering back up to you. “It’s gonna be hard no matter what, but I’ll try to make this as easy as I can for you.” 

“I don't- I don’t know. I don’t know what to think of this.” 

You’re spiraling. Twisting and falling through the floor as the pressure finally forces you to cave. Simon can see it in your eyes. That panic. Tenderly, he reaches for you, hand cupping the back of your head before gently pulling you into his chest, making sure to watch the sore bump on your nose. 

“I know baby, I’m sorry,” he coos. “We don’t have to talk ‘bout it now. You’ve had a rough day.” 

“I can’t let you do this,” you murmur, voice drowning against the side of his neck. 

“I know, baby.” 

Neither of you speak. You’re not even sure what you should say at the prospect of one more person dying in order for you to gain your freedom. It’s a kick in the teeth. It’s the knife that would unravel all the hard work you’ve put into ensuring no one else ever got hurt because of you again. 

Simon can’t imagine the emotional turmoil. The sickening truth of your reality finally splaying out before you. Still, he holds you tight and soothes you with gentle caresses because, deep down, he knows you don’t have a choice in the matter. 

His mind was made up a long time ago.

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[drdemonprince]

hi maybe this is a little silly but i would like to go to bars and meet people but i don’t have a lot of money and i don’t really like alcohol. my parents also don’t drink and so i don’t know how to act in such an environment (my autism loves scripts). my question is how do bars work essentially?

Every bar is a little bit different, that can be part of what makes them so challenging. I recommend following the r/bartenders subreddit for research -- there have been threads on there from Autistic people who want to know how to script a bar interaction, so dig around! I still use that subreddit to learn more about which drinks I can order in which places and what kinds of behaviors get on bartenders nerves. It is a fast-paced, stressful line of work with thin margins of success and it helps for you as a customer to understand that so that you don't take any impatience or shortness from your bartender personally.

I would recommend you start by visiting a bar on your own in the late afternoon on a weekday, as it's unlikely to be crowded and so everyone will be a lot more patient and chatty with you than they would be during a rush. A bar in a quiet neighborhood is probably better than one in a high-traffic area -- something not too fancy, but also not a hole in the wall that hasn't changed a single feature in 80 years (as those tend to operate by their own highly specific logic and have a ton of highly particular regulars and an owner who might be an eccentric crank). In the US, we have a lot of fakey-looking irish brewpubs with simple food and uncomplicated drinks, and those are often a really unpretentious place to visit for a newbie. The menu is simple and the bartenders aren't mixing fancy cocktails there, so there's generally a pretty relaxed vibe and no expectation that you spend a huge amount of money. You can research the menu online or walk past the place to scope it out before going.

Show up to the bar at your weekday afternoon with something to do, like a book to read, a game to idly play on your phone, or perhaps with the intention of watching sports or whatever on the bar's TVs. That will help you feel less anxious. Many bars also have trivia or karaoke on weekdays, which you *may* find enjoyable to participate in or watch or you might find it too loud and disruptive. Up to you what you want to try first.

Sit yourself at the bar and face toward the bartender with a slightly expectant but patient expression. Looking up and forward toward the bar and bartender is how you signal that you want a drink. Usually if it's not busy they will approach you first, so this part should be pretty easy. You can order something simple and non-alcoholic for yourself like a Sprite, a Coke, an iced tea, or maybe a non-alcoholic beer or seltzer. (If you were at a fancier cocktail bar, you could ask for a mocktail of some kind, which can be fun! but I would wait to do that and stick to a really simple drink at a simple bar to start).

Unlike with ordering a restaurant meal, a bartender will *typically* expect payment at the time that you receive your first drink. There are some exceptions to this, especially if a bar is not busy at all, but generally you can expect the bartender to tell you the price of the drink when they deliver it to you. You can then pay either in cash, or by giving the bartender a card -- if you give the bartender a card, they will ask you if you wish to keep your tab "open or closed." An open tab means they will not charge you yet, but rather keep your card on file and add up your total as you continue to order drinks, and only charge you when you ask to "cash out". If you "close" your tab, then the bartender will run the card, give it back to you, and likely ask you to sign a receipt. Then if you want another drink you'll have to do the whole thing again. Keeping a tab open is preferable if you wish to stay for multiple hours, in which case you should have multiple drinks.

Regardless of how you pay your tab, you should tip when you receive your drink if at all possible. (again I am operating from US rules). The rule of thumb is 1-2 dollars in tip per drink. If you are ordering something cheap like an iced tea, I recommend tipping generously. Bartenders will be happy with you if you tip well. Try to remember to bring cash for this, because then they don't have to wonder about what you put down on a signed receipt. I recommend ordering at least one drink per hour, or ordering a new beverage every time your last one is drained, whatever comes first. This "pays" for your seat and keeps the bartender happy and not worried that he's going to be yelled at by his boss for not making enough sales.

Generally speaking bartenders LOVE sober customers. You might not be buying a ton in drinks but you are likely gonna be respectful, not get in their way, not be demanding, and not make a mess of yourself. Just make sure you are not taking up a ton of space that paying customers getting higher-ticket items might want -- don't take up multiple seats, or claim a whole table for just you if the place is full, and don't sit around not ordering anything if there is a wait to get into the place. Again, you're starting with a weekday evening so unlikely to be an issue.

Enjoy your drink and the atmosphere, as well as your book/whatever is on the tv/perhaps light conversation with the people around you! The bartender will make it clear if they are open to conversation. Some will ask you directly about yourself or your day, or make little comments between you and other customers -- some will keep to themselves. Just return the energy. If they are chatty, be polite and talk back to whatever extent you feel comfortable. If they keep to themselves, read your book/watch the tvs and just chill. Other people sitting at the bar may try to talk to you -- this is pretty normal. Feel free to engage if that is what you want to do. Most people who are drinking alone and chatty at the bar are not gonna be judgemental. They love a weird autistic person who will listen to them. This can either be super fun or annoying depending on your own social battery and curiosity about the human condition. I recommend trying to engage though! You'll learn some things!

once your time is up, you ask the bartender to "can I cash out?", pay your bill, leave a final tip if you haven't settled yet (again at least a dollar per drink! ideally more!) and then head on your way.

After you have had this basic bar experience you can challenge yourself by going out on weekend day or evening, attending a bar during an event (like an open mic or a trivia night or drag show). It will be louder and more stressful but people are also more outgoing and fun to watch. Try to quiet your own social anxiety enough to sit back and observe and interact with people who respectfully try to crack a joke or acknowledge you. It's all very surface level stuff usually, it's great low-stakes socializing practice.

After you get more comfy with visiting these types of casual bars on busy nights, you can probably handle visiting a fancy cocktail bar or a raucous dive. A cocktail bar will have a far more elaborate menu and will make more complicated drinks -- you can order something off the menu or, if it's not too busy, ask the bartender to make you something non-alcoholic (tell them you want something with juice, or that you like sweet things, or soda & bitters, or just ask for a Shirley Temple). Dive bars have a VERY limited menu and sling drinks fast so you'll be back to your usual coke or club soda there. People will be a lot more chatty and drunk at the dive bar, and it can be a little intimidating if you are quiet and shy...but the people at those spaces are great at breaking the ice. some will be weirdos. this is not a bad thing necessarily.

okay i wrote a whole lot more about this than i intended to but this is a topic i have a lot of interest in. i have had to carefully study how these spaces work over the years and have googled "what kind of drink can i order that wont make a bartender mad at me*" so many times so i might as well pass on the knowledge.

*do not order a complicated drink at a bar that is not fancy. that's the short version of the rule. typically, any drink that has more than two ingredients is "fancy" and not all bars will be able to make it. A whiskey and coke? Anybody can do that. Screwdriver (vodka orange juice?) no problem. A Negroni? you WILL get an eye roll for asking for that at a packed gay club where everybody else is sucking down vodka seltzers. If you ask for a mojito anywhere the bartenders will all hate you. i dont know why i just know it's a thing. certain drinks have certain associations with them that are good to keep in mind, like Long Islands being for young drunk messes. You do not drink alcohol so you do not need to worry about most of this. you can expect your average bar of any tier to have orange juice, cranberry juice, maybe pineapple juice, coke, diet coke, sprite, iced tea, seltzer, and ginger ale, so you can always order any one of those.

[torawro]

royal knight!caleb & princess!reader.

cw ━━ ! minors, ageless, and blank blogs DO NOT INTERACT. reader is written / portrayed as a curvy, thick black woman but you do not have to imagine it that way ! anyone and everyone is welcome to read <3. historical / medieval au so there will be use of language & rhetoric relative to that era ( i.e., aye = yes or indeed . . . . i did my best doing research ). caleb is a high ranking knight in the kingdom they live in and is referred to as 'sir' because of his status. reader is a princess of royal status. mentions / descriptions of blood and injuries, and contains violence sprinkled with a little bit of gore (???). depictions of murder / character death. a liiittleeee bit of religious imagery & references, not sure but adding it just in case. hints at caleb having psychological issues and / or mental instability. kind of yandere(ish) behavior if you squint; caleb is obsessed with & in love with the reader. he is also a wee bit condescending ( not to reader ). instances of caressing ( groping? ) and slow, sweet kisses. veryyy subtle manipulation (?) via intentional omission of the truth. sorry if im exaggerating with these tags lol. directly based off this post i saw a few weeks ago. i tried my best to proofread at 1am pls excuse any errors. let me know if i missed anything!

word count ━━ ! 3.9k

notes ━━ ! man…..🚬🚬🚬 i can’t believe i wrote this lmaaaoooooooooo like what. where did this come from even.....anyway hi everyone i’m back with another (short-ish) fic <3 my apologies it's been another two months since my last published work, you know what it is: it takes longer for me to put things out and i wanna make sure i put my best foot forward every time >< but whoop whoop here's to my second fic of the year! as u can see i have gotten into lads during this past month and some change....... and i swear, i really had no intention of writing for any of the guys any time soon, let alone the newest one..... i took a pause from working on my longer projects to write this LMFAOOOO. i honestly thought that if i really did have a burning desire to write about them, my first lads fic would have been about sylus cause he.....anyway i won't go on a tangent about him, but i sincerely hope u guys enjoy this one!!!!!! obviously this is my first time writing for any lads character so pls be kind to me. i also want to apologize if this characterization of caleb is weird or ooc, i haven't unlocked him yet but i have seen a lot of content of his story in relation to the mc, his lore, his voicelines, etc so i hope i did him justice!! reblogs + commentary are HEAVILY appreciated ♡♡♡.

THE SKY REMAINED DARK, BUT a deep navy hue began to seep into the heavens, soon giving way to the dawn; the early hours of the morning was nigh. The castle was silent— obviously, but still eerily so despite the hour. There was a draft that seeped through the miscellaneous cracks of the stone, the shutters, and the windows of the castle that had not been properly shut, and the brisk breeze that flowed inside caressed the walls with a whisper— quiet but forceful enough to sway the small flames of the candles. The unsteady flickering of the flames grazed and dimly illuminated the walls behind them. Upon its surface were fresh stains, which would permanently seep into the stone if not cleaned in time. The stains were red.

It was blood.

In the many corridors of the castle was a figure, trudging through the halls like a corpse that had risen from its resting place, exhaustion weighing down his every step down to the marrow of his bones. He was injured— not gravely enough to make him lose consciousness but enough to reopen the wounds he so haphazardly patched himself before returning to the kingdom.

His chambers in the keep, along with all the other higher-ranked Knights, was on the other side of the castle grounds. He should have made a left the moment the portcullis closed behind his heels so he could at least get patched up again, get some water, and something else for the pain. Instead, the soldier walked straight ahead, onward to the main structure of the castle, down the stretches of its veins, up the stairs– a path he had memorized after spending many a moon traversing it, sometimes without your knowledge.

But he needed to see you, and he was unsure if he would be able to wait until the sun’s ascension in just a few hours time to do so.

The knight was tired, and that slowed him down, but eventually he made it to your private quarters. He made sure to quiet his labored breathing and footsteps as much as he could; the king would have his head before he even made it to your chambers if he were to be discovered.

You laid underneath a thick blanket, the warmth of the fur against your clothed skin protecting you against the brisk cold. As comfortable as you were, however, tonight you had trouble staying asleep. It would greet you kindly, only to slip away from your embrace if you held it too tightly. Your eyelids were half-open, finally on the verge of drifting close again, when an abrupt but muffled thumping noise resounded on the wood of your door.

The sound caused your eyes to snap open with alertness, any waves of sleep that were about to wash over you retreated at the sound. You laid still, absently wondering if you were hearing things, but the noise reverberated in the air again, then three times— it was soft, as if the source of the sound was being careful not to be too loud.

As the sleepiness of the late hours continued to melt away, you began to remember what day it was, and your pulse quickened as a result.

He should have returned today, you thought. But could it be? It cannot possibly…

And yet, that possibility is what tugged your body forward to sit up and straight, and slide your legs out from underneath the layers of blankets. That possibility is what led you to slide your bare feet into your slippers, and move to swing the long, woolen robe on top of your nightgown. That possibility is what pulled you to the thick door of your chambers, and opened it by an inch to peek through the cracks.

The relief and subdued elation you felt when you saw the familiar features of Sir Caleb’s visage on the other side washed over you.

But that feeling faded as quickly as it came when you noticed the state Sir Caleb was in. While it wasn’t abnormal for him to have a deep scratch or a bruise somewhere, he looked . . . worse, somehow. And whatever it was seemed to reach deeper than just his physical injuries.

Without exchanging any words or outwardly questioning him, you carefully— for he winced at nearly every graze of your fingers on certain areas— led him into your room, allowing him to use your body as a crutch. Caleb let out strained puffs of air, both in relief that he didn’t have to carry the weight of his own body alone anymore, and with increasingly dwindling self-restraint. 

He had hardly stepped foot in your bedchambers before; only about four steps past the threshold of the doorway at most, out of fear that his mere presence when he visited in your absence would become a noticeable, tangible thing. Like you’d be able to sense if he ventured too far in for too long, too many times.

Everything smelled like you. Your unique flowery scent was almost palpable with how it clung to every surface of your living space, even the air itself. The contrast between the fleshy softness of your body pressed against the cold, angular ridges of his armor was enough to make his breath catch in his throat and his pulse to miss a beat. 

“M…milady.” Caleb croaked, his throat significantly lacking moisture to the point it almost ached to speak. At this point, the remaining strength in the knight’s body had become completely nonexistent; the sword he didn’t even have the strength to place back in its scabbard tumbled from his loosening grip onto the ground, the sound sharp and uncomfortably punctating. 

“Sir Caleb”, you gasped, your grip tightening on whatever area of his stocky, towering figure you could reach. Both the suddenness of the sound of metal colliding with stone and your delayed realization of how serious his injuries were pulled your nerves all the more taut, the worried furrow in your brow growing more prominent.

Caleb’s legs gave out next, all while his heavier form still partially hung from your sleep laden frame. His arm slipped from around your shoulder as he descended to his knees, the movement clumsy enough to slightly throw you off your balance. The room was still dark enough that you did not readily see nor notice the blood that now permeated the folds of your nightdress. 

The honorable knight— who did not quite look so on his knees like this— absentmindedly grasped at your calves, pulling another surprised noise from the back of your throat. It was as if making physical contact with you would steady his mind that swirled endlessly with fragmented thoughts, stained with the dark horrors that crawled from the depths of his subconscious, and keep him tethered to the plane of consciousness. The blood loss would soon catch up to him.

Silence descended upon your room, save for Caleb’s ragged breathing and your quiet, frayed inhales. He still held onto your lower legs like it was his lifeline, the mesh underside of his metal gauntlets sending a subtle shiver with each miniscule movement he made, but you did your best to silence any hitch in your breath or twitch in your muscles. Worry still festered underneath your skin, so much so that you were afraid if you moved, or even spoke, that Caleb might fall apart at your feet, considering his current state. 

“Milady…” Caleb tried again, his voice still rough but a muted veneration was present underneath his words, as if your title was the beginning of a prayer. It was a thought that spurred another shudder to crawl across your flesh. “Milady, I have returned. The war with the kingdom to the east—Havencroft—  is over now.”

The knight turned his head slightly so that his cheek was resting on the fat of your thigh, your nightdress being the only barrier between his skin and yours. Another stain of crimson leapt from the side of his face that rested on your leg to your clothes, but you could not see it from this angle. Caleb almost resembled a wounded animal, marking the territory that was once his after enduring an attack– not much for your sake, but purely for his own, as a reminder of sorts.

Even through the linen, you could feel the uneven puffs of warm air from his mouth fan across that small area on your thigh. Like a magnet attracted to a metal of the opposite affinity— a force yet to be explained or explored— your palm gravitated towards the knight’s armored shoulder. Whether it was an action of acknowledgement and commendation, to silently urge him off his knees, or as a means to steel yourself was unclear even to you.

“The enemies… have been defeated.” Each syllable felt delayed, each word tumbled from Caleb’s lips like a wispy trail of smoke from burning incense, and the casual hold you had on his steel shoulder imperceptibly tightened when you felt his gloved hands trail up the back of your legs. His movements were slow—almost reluctant and experimental— but deeply rooted in reverence, as if this was the first and last time he would be able to touch you so boldly.

The knight below knew better. He was well aware that his actions more than just bordered on bold, they fully reveled in it– embraced it, even. But he was having a significant amount of  trouble caring enough to stop himself. It was always a difficult task reasoning with the thing that resided in the folds of his unconscious— especially and specifically when it came to you. 

Caleb awaited you to halt the soft caress of his palms, either verbally or by action, but neither came. You were rendered silent, breath slightly restrained as you stared down at him from on high, your palm still resting upon his armor. A part of you was swayed by the currents of curiosity to see what he’d do next, just to see what might happen you allowed this moment to persist a bit longer. 

And the other part…might have enjoyed this. It might have enjoyed the sight, the sound, the sensation of his iron skin, the subtle yet unknown metallic aroma that washed over your senses, mixed with his signature musk.

So he resumed, both his movements and his speech, which were languid and slowed. “Those that wished… to do harm to the kingdom, to you…They have been slain.”

The way his head shifted against your leg was like a cat nuzzling itself against its human companion. The weight of his body pressed upon you like this was even a bit endearing, and it began to melt your heart. Caleb’s hands glided from the backs of your knees down to the base of your ankles, only to carefully ascend back up the valleys and shores of your legs. In his ascent the hem of your dress got caught in between the gaps of his fingers, causing it to steadily rise like a curtain and expose the bare, supple brown skin hiding beneath it. 

His touch was so gentle, like dragging the sharpened edge of a knife against one’s skin in fear of accidentally cutting it. As someone who has done so much damage and has scarcely been shown this kind of gentleness, it was a bit jarring to see himself embody it so naturally.  “...The lot of them. I made sure of it.”, he continued, the knight’s noble heart raced so frantically about his chest, he thought it might reverberate and echo against his chest plate if it were to beat any more intensely.

Even with the sizable gauntlets weighing down his hands, Caleb was still able to tell just how delicate and cushiony your flesh was, and he released a barely-there, shaky exhale of his own when his fingers lightly clenched around it. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought he was on the brink of death and was kneeling before the gates of heaven.

It was nearly impossible for you to distinguish the sensation of the carmine substance being smeared against your bare skin with each inch Caleb caressed, because your nerves had put all its effort into focusing on his breath fanning across your legs and the cold surface of his armor. At some point, the hand laying on his shoulder levitated to rest atop his head instead, the area unadorned without his helmet; a shiver rolled down the knight’s spine at the gesture. Sweat dampened the rich, umber strands of his hair, and the heat radiating from the crown of his head rivaled the one building underneath your face and chest.

“The army of the east kingdom, boasting numbers of over eight-thousand men, have all…. fallen. All of their strongest knights…”

Caleb’s words sounded a bit muffled as his mouth was slightly pressed against your leg, his pillowy lips continued to trail across the expanse of increasingly exposed limbs, “...their battalions, their village militia units…”

By this point, Caleb’s strong sense of rationale, his logical consciousness that usually never steered him wrong had finally caved in on itself. The void that it left in its absence would now be filled and controlled by the iniquitous thoughts that plagued him day in and day out. Such immoral, perhaps unhealthy, thoughts that always had you at the front and center of it all.

“...Even the gentry. Witnessing them …attempting to wield a polearm was almost pathetic. I would have pitied them, but one way or another, they would have attempted to harm you and our kingdom in some way, at some point…” 

There was a brief pause, the surface of his parted lips and that of his artificial armor took turns savoring the feel and smell of you, even being so brash as to place tender almost-kisses across your thigh. You gasped silently at that, and the reflexive clench of your fingers in the tufts of his hair brought forth something of a purr that vibrated in the back of his throat. Embedded within that imperceptible purr in his deep voice lurked something more dangerous you did not notice— sharp, like having a dagger pressed against one’s jugular.

“And I cannot allow that.” 

Caleb continued to murmur about his achievements of war into your chestnut-tinted skin as if he were talking directly into it and not you— as if it were actively listening. And with the way your nerves sparked and crackled with each syllable he pronounced, you could easily become convinced that it was.

Aye, he could not even pretend to spare an ounce of compassion for Havencroft’s  gentrymen, or their local militia, their skilled battalions and armies, nor their most honorable knights. Not after their plans and intentions were discussed amongst the king’s council just months prior, which served as the reason why he and the rest of the kingdom’s army were dispatched there in the first place.

Swine, the lot of them.

The same could be said for his own king’s council members— your father’s most trusted political companions and advisors— that had the gall to speak ill of and scheme against the king and his realm.

The balls to speak ill of you when they believed there were no listening ears around; about how your future ascent to the throne would be this kingdom’s downfall, about how His and Her Majesty should have tried for more children in hopes of a young lad.

He could only thank the gods that he returned from his knightly travels when he did, for the dark-haired soldier knew within seconds of overhearing such idiotic arrogance what his next course of action should be.

Like some kind of cunning animal whose only purpose was to hunt and kill, Sir Caleb watched and waited for the opportune moment to present itself before closing in to strike. And that moment arrived when he realized the two men were making their way to the western-most side of the main castle, where the kitchen and laundry rooms were located. He sneered at how clever they thought they were being, choosing that specific place because they were aware most of the help and servants had retired for the evening.

Without a moment’s hesitation, when he had heard enough drivel, he attacked, administering two swift but fatal slashes to their vital points— one for each man. The pain from moving like that when his injuries had been previously reopened nearly caused his legs to buckle, but he remained steady and quick. This had to be quick, for it would be troublesome if they made noise or if he was too sloppy with his timing and execution. Blood splattered on the nearby walls from the sheer force of his swing, the blade cutting through the councilmen like a cleaver cutting through a slab of tender meat. He made a note to himself to come back and clean any remnants that remained later.

The councilmen fell to their knees, staring and cowering from Sir Caleb in confusion, shock, and unadulterated fear at the realization that their lives might end that very night, and that someone might have heard them.

Surely they blathered on in hushed voices, demanding to know the meaning behind his actions, begging for the knight to spare their lives, frantically questioning him if he had heard them say anything particularly controversial. But Caleb paid no mind and did not bother responding. All he did was stare at them, his eyes as empty as a weathered piece of parchment with no ink on it, his salmon-colored lips resting in a straight line that spoke nothing of his true thoughts. 

Caleb’s gaze alone deeply unsettled them, for they had never seen him look like that before.

On his honor as a knight, Caleb would die before he let any harm— relative or distant, real or perceived, indirect or direct— fall upon you if it was in his power to prevent it. Because not only did he pledge his allegiance to the ruler of this land, but to you as well. And in performing his obligatory duties as a knight— guarding you from near and far, being graced with your kindness, your wit, your smile—it was inevitable that he would fall in love with you at some point along the way. 

And wasn’t it a good thing, a true virtuous thing, a normal thing to do what you can for the one they loved? To keep them safe?

And so, with that resolve embedded in his heart, the knight Sir Caleb would do what he could, and did what he must when the steel of his blade at last collided with the mens’ uvula. The last thing those so-called loyal councilmen saw was his void eyes, and the slightest upturn in the corner of his lip.

But you need not worry or be privy to the gritty details. All you needed to know was that he fulfilled his duty in protecting you, in protecting this kingdom you loved dearly and would govern someday. He would see through this role until the day he could no longer.

Aye, you did not need to know that the blood that had now seeped into the fabric of your pretty lilac nightgown and smudged on his face was fresh; you did not need to know that in some other part of this very castle, two people that had been around since your youth had drawn their last breath, never to be seen again; you did not need to know that the faintest hint of guilt and regret for his actions was snuffed out the moment his eyes met your visage. You did not even need to know of the tender affection that he harbored for you– at least, not yet. A separate time for that should arrive soon, he would pray on it.

And now, all Caleb needed was to hear it from you. That you were proud of him.

“I hope my efforts in battle were satisfactory to you, milady. That my efforts …in keeping your safety and interests of the monarchy at heart pleases you.” 

The knight's lips continued to drag across your skin in a lackadaisical manner, its touch at some point turning into undeniable kisses— pecks so light and fleeting you could have imagined it.

But you weren’t. You knew it to be so because the phantom sensation that was left behind after each one was as real as the ground you stood upon.

You were indeed proud of the knight before you, on his knees revering you with his mouth like you were some kind of holy thing that might disappear into thin air. For all of his years here, you have seen the scrapes, the faded scars on his ungloved hands, a limp in his gait or a straggle in his step, and you felt sympathy for him. You sympathized with him for having to sustain a number of different injuries in the name of your kingdom and its values. But seeing him hurt also inspired a great deal of gratitude within you, and you always made sure to take time at night before you fell asleep to thank the Lord above for uniting your paths– even though the two of you were on slightly different social standings. You secretly hoped that one day, that fact might change.

This is why you had no problem in saying that, “From what you have told me, Sir Caleb, your endeavors in battle are indeed quite….satisfactory to me,” Your words were momentarily interrupted with a sound that sounded suspiciously close to a pleasurable sigh, your fingers absently combing through his hair as you continued to speak, “So I must thank you, for doing your duty so well, and apologize that you were so badly wounded in the name of this kingdom. I truly appreciate all that you do.”

The words of sincere gratitude that spilled from your plush lips only excited the muscle beating wildly in Caleb’s chest, and they were enough to spur his heavy hands to glide higher underneath your gown, moving to the backs of your thighs once again. As his lips persevered in its affectionate assault of your legs, his palms mindlessly cupped the full roundness of your buttocks and gave it a slight squeeze, effectively losing himself in the suppleness of your curved body.

His name, without the proper prefix, was about to fall from your tongue, but you swallowed it down in exchange for something else. “This kingdom is— I am quite fortunate to have someone so capable…so strong and valiant at our disposal. Thank you, Sir Caleb, you have done well.” 

And that was all it took for a quiet groan to be pulled from Caleb’s throat. A part of him hoped you didn’t hear it, he was already behaving so shamelessly.

But another part hoped that you did, so maybe then you’d realize without him having to potentially embarrass himself how much he cared for you, craved you, and impacted him so deeply.

“Thank you, milady. You are too gracious to me. I am unworthy of your praises, but will humbly accept them.” One palm resumed its directionless roaming to map out your lower body while the other remained on buttocks, interrupting his own reply by offering your skin doting, airy kisses in between. His reddish violet eyes were somewhat hooded when his gaze flickered up to look at you once more.

“I will continue to do my utmost…to serve you and your kingdom.... to the best of my ability.”

( # ) @smiley-babe @ramonathinks @dollwrites @valentineluvu @rinsko . my apologies if u did not want to be tagged. let me know if you want to be tagged in my future works!

[heaven4lostgirls]

remus lupin x reader PLEEEEAAASSSSEEEEE PLEEEEEAAAAASSEEEEEEE im such a slur for him

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: domestic fluff, no real plot

content warnings: mention of remus’ chronic pain surrounding the full moon.

word count: 1k

author’s note: i know you meant slut but your other message also made me laugh, you’re funny😭 i hope you like this xx

“Hey,” you say softly, placing a hand on Remus’ back. The boy is slumped over his seat in the library, blinking blearily up at you as he wakes up sleepily from his slumber.

“Hey yourself,” He returns softly as he smiles tiredly, you hum in acknowledgement, rubbing his back soothingly as he rubs the tiredness from his eyes and sits up to stretch.

“What time is it?” he asks hoarsely, and you laugh softly at the yawn he lets out immediately after.

“Half seven, you’ve missed dinner, Sirius and James said you came to the  library to study hours ago.” You mention concernedly and he waves you off.

“Just got a bit tired lovie, nothing to worry about.” He says with a smile; you scoff as you glare at him noncommittedly.

“No worries he says” you mock, “The full moon is in less than a week and instead of taking a nap in your bed, you’ve fallen asleep hunched over when you know how bad it is for your back” you whisper heatedly and watch as Remus winces.

“Okay,” he concedes with a slightly guilty expression, “I’m sorry lovie, I just forgot okay?” he says with a pleading expression.

You exhale a breath, “I’m not mad, you know that.” you say, “I just worry.” You mumble and Remus thinks you may be the loveliest thing he’s ever had the pleasure of encountering.

“I know lovie, I’m sorry I worried you yeah?” he offers as he collects his textbook before pushing his chair back to stand, extending his hand for you to hold.

You make a noncommittal sound, grasping his hand in yours before you attach yourself to his side, sliding your arm around his waist as his own wrap around your shoulders.

You welcome the warmth of Remus’ body heat as you snuggle into his side as the both of you walk the path back to the Gryffindor common room, you two rarely if ever sleep apart, especially the closer the full moon grows.

“Get any studying done?” you ask curiously, your voice echoing slightly through the empty halls of the Hogwarts corridors. Remus huffs a laugh, “I was trying to research the Goblin wars for History of Magic, but I don’t even think I made it past the first page” he says amusedly.

You snort, “Nice, Peter said he’d go the kitchens to get some food for you by the way.” You remember and Remus hums in affirmation.

You two walk the rest of the way in silence before you walk through the entrance of the common room, you’re met with Sirius and Peter playing chess in front of the fire as Regulus and James snuggle up on the couch as Regulus reads softly.

James looks about 5 seconds away from falling asleep as he gazes adoringly at Regulus as he lets his boyfriend’s voice lull him to sleep. He however smiles as Sirius and Peter both wave in greeting to the two of you.

“Your foods on the table, I kept it under a heating charm.” Peter mutters, focusing as he claims one of Sirius’ knights. Sirius curses, staring intently at the board as you take a seat on the couch opposite James and Regulus.

You and Regulus share a small smile and nod before Remus joins the group, plate in hand as he eats slowly. “What book are you reading?” Remus prompts Regulus who straightens up in excitement.

James groans softly as one of Regulus’ elbows catches him in his side, waking him up from his sleepy state as Regulus and Remus dissolve into conversation about the novel in Regulus grasp.

You let yourself disassociate for a second as Remus drops his fork onto his plate mindlessly to grab your thigh, dropping your leg on top of his mindlessly before continuing to eat.

You turn to watch Peter and Sirius’ game as it nears its end, Sirius having significantly less pieces on the board in comparison to Peter’s near perfect lineup.

“My bets on Sirius” Remus murmurs into your hair, you laugh unwillingly, sharing a humorous glance with your boyfriend.

“That’s not nice, he’s trying his best!” you chide teasingly as you watch Sirius tug at his hair in annoyance as Peter obtains another one of his pieces.

You and Remus giggle softly as Peter defeats Sirius only for the long haired boy to immediately claim an unfair defeat and for a rematch. Peter amuses him, setting the chessboard up again as you and Remus turn back to Regulus and James.

“How was quidditch practice?” you ask the two, grabbing Remus’ empty plate from his hands to place it on the side table next to you before disappearing it back to the kitchens.

Remus places a kiss to your temple in thanks before James starts to speak, “It was alright, we have a new seeker, she’s a third year but it’s her first time trying out so she’s a bit shy” James says in pity.

“Marlene mentioned that she sleeps a couple dorms down from her, so she’d try give her some advice.” You mention and James smiles appreciatively.

You turn your attention to Regulus who says, “Slytherin’s doing well but I don’t think we’re going as hard in practice as we could be, everyone’s kind of relying on the fact that we won the house cup last season.” He mutters distastefully.

You nod sympathetically but you can’t help the smile that graces your features as James sours at the mention of Gryffindor losing out on the house cup, “C’mon Jamie, you can’t still be bitter about that can you?” you say teasingly and watch as Regulus’ scowl disappears in favour of a smirk.

James grumbles intelligibly as Regulus places a consoling kiss to his cheek as Remus squeezes your thigh in warning. You look at him with a raised brow as Remus groans softly, “Don’t get him started lovie, he won’t let the rest of us sleep tonight.” Remus murmurs pleadingly and you laugh.

“Alright, alright.” You concede softly, turning back to the Chaser, “Sorry James, I know it’s a soft spot” you snicker, watching as James indignantly sputters before Remus rests his head on your shoulder, groaning in misery as you and Regulus laugh loudly.