#its the one of the only ways they can cling onto the hope that one day it will be over

[smolfangirl]

What should've been you (I got a lot to live without)

Kingdon Microfic Challenge | August 6th: Lemonade | 499 words | Teen and up | Part 1 of 4

Content warning: mentions of pregnancy, hickeys, throwing up

Written for @kingdonmicrofic. Title from "Bigger than the whole sky" by Taylor Swift (2022). Read on ao3 here

Gifted to @pansiesandposies bc I love talking to you and you keep enabling me in the best ways ✨

The lemonade Mel made only for him must be warm by now, and a little stale. She hates the stickiness of it, the sour shock, but she can’t look at Frank right now, so she stares at the jug and the hundred little rivers on its surface instead.

“I can’t leave Abby alone with this,” he repeats, his voice quieter than she's ever heard.

His leg presses closer against hers. His hand still clings to hers in her lap, and his thumb runs another round on her skin. He’s so close that her bed is only technically too small for both of them.

It’s inappropriate now. All of it. It makes her want to throw up. Mel won’t get up, though.

Another water droplet disappears into the wood. It’ll leave a stain, probably, right next to her endocrinology textbook and laminated class schedule.

“You can co-parent without becoming her boyfriend again,” she says.

He shakes his head. His leg twitches. “That’s not how I was raised, Mel. And neither was she.”

For the first time in the last hour or so, Mel bites her tongue.

Frank doesn’t. “It’s not that I don’t want to, Mel. After you, I never would’ve chosen… I really broke up with her for good. You know that, right?”

The last remnants of her heart twist in her chest. Words don’t fit past her throat anymore. The lemonade remains untouched on the desk her mom had bought when she was pregnant with Mel.

Pregnant.

Abby’s pregnant.

Why does that hurt so much? Mel should’ve known better than to love someone, to get her hopes up. Months of a seemingly pointless crush, and six weeks of something too close to happiness. Of course it didn’t last. She never got to keep anything good – not the few friends she made in high school, not her parents, not Frank. Especially not someone like Frank.

“Can we still be…” No. Don’t say it. “Will you stay in my life? Please?”

He squeezes her hand too hard. Her eyes flood.

“Sure,” she lies. He’ll be an intern soon, and a dad and too busy to think about her anyway.

“Thank you.”

His head sinks down on her shoulder and stays. She thinks he might've fallen asleep, until he shifts slightly and - oh.

“Frank, what are you doing?”

He presses another kiss onto her neck.

“One more time, sunshine. Please.”

Mel closes her eyes. Very soon, she'll have to learn to say no to him. She should already say no to him.

“Only one last time.”

Of course, he keeps begging, “One more. Just one”. So she lets him wring another orgasm out of her. Then another. In turn she plants hickeys on his chest, right above his heart. It'd be the best sex of her life, if they both weren't crying the entire time.

Later, surrounded by darkness and Frank’s soft and steady breaths, Mel stumbles to the bathroom and throws up. Must be the guilt and grief, she thinks.

[nalyra-dreaming]

This might be all over the place cause I have only had one cup of coffee but about the Armand edits and Dubai performance:

Perhaps nonny, think its being said that Armand did all of what he did maliciously, and I don’t think that’s the case. As he said he did it to preserve Louis happiness, but also to keep him cause Armand himself needed a “maître” …a coven of sorts, something to hold onto.

 And I will even concede this, if not for Armands “tinkering” Louis would not have survived.

As an aside, I think if Armand was not so adamant about not making another vampire, he would have turned Daniel and let Louis go but of course canonically he refused to ever make one until he had no choice…

Regardless of possible discussions of nuance, Louis was not himself in Dubai and the bulk of that was because of Armand whether Louis asked for some of it or not.

There is no way that Louis, who spent his human life under the control of his environment and circumstances, would spend his vampire life controlled even down to the books he had access to willingly.

I think there were two performances happening there. One by Louis and Armand for Daniel. And one for Armand by Louis as he started piecing together the truth.

I know some think it’s a cop-out or Armand-hate to say he was controlling so much, but its not...its just the facts of the story being told IMO.

I think that is the crux of the matter, that people think we are painting Armand as "just a villain, who does this out of malicious intent"... when that is very far from the truth.

I totally get why Armand does the things he does - likely better than show-only viewers right now. I know WHY.

I know it is done from a place of love, despair and desperation, mixed with regrets, obsession and a tenacious refusal to break, despite being broken.

This place, this state of being has gone on for centuries now, highs and lows, hope and absolute disappointment chasing the other, and THAT leads to Armand clinging to what he has... with everything he has and can do about it.

Armand tinkers, because he wants to help, in his very own way, both himself and Louis. He adjusts Louis' mind, to control his emotional equilibrium, in an effort to keep him from self-destruction, very true(!). (That's why he calls it 'chronicling a suicide' after all.) He deletes and implants whole memories so that the things that Louis remembers make (enough) sense without destroying Louis.

And he started to do that after San Francisco.

THAT is so very important to realize, to differentiate the time before... and the time after San Francisco, because before Louis knew. He spiraled. He "fucked off tri-annually". He ran, and killed. He knew he had done something "terrible". He tried to find Lestat and the guilt and pain drove him into the sun.

And Armand, in a moment which can be defined a weakness (but not onely, given his and Lestat's history), Armand withheld the absolution by Lestat, that "I love you, Louis"... and then found another way to take the pain from Louis.

As @cbrownjc noted so succinctly the other day, it is no coincidence that the first interview broke off where it did, that the memory after was erased.

This is the turning and angle point, those days in San Francisco.

Those days in which Armand's fascination with Daniel started.

And Louis kept remembering little things, and Armand adjusted little things, band aid over band aid, until Louis knew that something was very wrong - but not what.

Which led to the second interview, and Louis playing the "maitre" first, and Armand likely going along unwillingly, but in the end effect because it is Daniel... and then, when Armand unmasks himself....

... Louis dreads what is to come.

Because he knows things are not right. And he is afraid that his chance might pass.... and it almost does.

Armand doesn't do things because he is "evil" - these characters and the show are far too nuanced for a simplification like that. But he does things that are far beyond ... let's call it "acceptable", and ... we have only seen a fraction of what he canonically did.

We will see more of that next season, and likely see Louis getting certain things confirmed, too.

None of these characters are simple "villains", or "evil".

But Armand did fuck with Louis' mind.

For just about 50 years.

[pigeonmiku]

amphoreus has so much cosmic and psychological horror potential especially in regards to phainons whole deal. once I finish a fanfic again, then you'll all see

every character walking their paths with such conviction because they may as well accept the end with dignity, never knowing there was no real dignity for them in the eyes of their creator. they are but an elaborate play, not even given enough respect to be addressed by your own name. you are alone in the cold, vast universe, only watched by the most callous of beings.

for phainon, there's the degradation of his mind. no normal human would be able to retain that many memories, so its a good thing he isnt beheld to the limits of flesh. if he isnt even a real person, why shouldn't his body and mind be burned up again and again? the way his voice grows rougher and his sentences less coherent, as if the flames have begun to burn. the people in front of you seem less and less real. you can see the seams of every bit of your world and nothing feels real anymore, but you must cling onto meaning, to the fact that every life you take was a person with hopes and dreams, because otherwise you will become like them and that is the one thing you will not allow.

The fact the "original" khaslana is long dead, his body crumbled to ashes. the countless, million phainons who struggled to determine which memories were of their original life and the countless other times they've gone through this. was that a memory from "their" childhood or...? the fact that everyone of them had to eventually die and simply trust in the next phainon, dying for the slim chance of a true dawn, for extra time, for some small glimpse of hope.

its a thankless job, letting all else fall away as flames burn you from the inside, your skin turns stiff and stone like, it begins to crack and drift away into the breeze. would you even feel pain at this point? everything has been hollowed out, what is there to sense the pain?

and cyrene, who even in her very first cycle had been affected by fuli's gaze that spanned time and space, freezing her in place, never aging. its the cruelty of closed time shenanigans. you were always going to do this, there was never any other choice. but at least its not because of a coded script, but because you, as a person, would always make this choice.

she chooses to die again and again and finds herself in a cold dark space with no memories, talking to no one to keep herself sane, watching others pass her and never acknowledge her. and while she's alive she will relive the same blissful childhood over and over again, but she will also never leave it. she still hasn't left it. millions of tragically short lived girls, their existences forever intertwined with that place of ideal childhood amongst the fairies. its probably for the best she doesnt remember all those painfully short cycles.

all this terrifying uncertainty for the barest hope of a better future marks amphoreus, first in the demigods choosing to accept their prophecies, which were at least some level of comfort in being able to accept what was coming, vs the truly defiant actions which have no certain endpoint. the dehumanizing and derealization, the mental decay, the violence as an act of rage, love, and finally obligation when all else falls away but the goal.

[littlecakeclub]

The Matriarch Isn’t the Villain. She’s the Mirror

I often hear a discourse where Celine in K-pop Demon Hunters, Alma in Encanto and Ming in Turning Red are seen as vilains. They’re the ones who restricted the younger generation, hurt them, and are ultimately responsible for their pain, trauma and self-doubt. They’re framed as the real villains of the story. But I’d like to differ.

These are stories of intergenerational trauma. They are women who survived, repressed, and tried to protect their families the only way they knew how: through control, perfectionism, and emotional suppression.

And yet, when the next generation begins to reclaim joy, freedom, softness — they become the obstacle. Not because they’re bad people, but because they’re scarred. Their minds cling to survival strategies, unable to recognize that the environment has changed.

Alma is still stuck fleeing the colonizers.

Ming is still afraid of her true self.

Celine believes that fear and mistakes must be hidden.

It’s not about hating these characters. It’s about how unprocessed trauma twists love into control. How survival, unexamined, turns into rigidity. These women were never given space to process their own pain and they project it onto their daughters and granddaughters.

And here’s something we rarely say enough: intergenerational trauma can create toxic patterns but that doesn’t always mean there was abuse or conscious harm. Even when their love becomes suffocating or controlling, these women are not necessarily “abusive parents.” They are daughters of silence, fear, and sacrifice. And they were never taught another way. It’s important to make that distinction, especially in a world that often pushes a binary, punitive reading of family dynamics.

They’re the product of a generation that was told to endure. But endurance without healing becomes its own kind of violence.

What’s powerful in these stories is that they don’t end in vengeance. They end in confrontation and transformation. The confrontation is necessary: the younger generation refuses the silence. Refuses the shame. Refuses to carry a burden that wasn’t theirs to begin with.

The house is destroyed in Encanto.

Mei accepts her full self.

So does Rumi.

And in the best cases, this confrontation allows the elder to soften too. Alma opens up. Ming listens. And I’m hoping in the sequel, Celine will open too.

Maybe that’s also why these stories speak so deeply to POC audiences. These aren’t stories about cutting ties. They’re stories about how hard it is to transform them, to protect ancestral bonds while refusing to perpetuate inherited pain. In many racialized families, collectivity, loyalty, and intergenerational duty are sacred... even when they come at the cost of personal boundaries.

And sometimes, Western individualist frameworks read these tensions as dysfunction or villainy. But for us, they’re just the difficult truth of growing up and trying to do better.

These women aren’t villains. That would be too easy. They embody the fragile, necessary work of bringing change without breaking the thread. These stories are about refusing to inherit their pain without reflection. Because love, without accountability, is not enough.

These stories show us that each generation has something to learn from the next. And the new generation must also break free from the chains they inherited while preserving what is meaningfull.

But it’s not just their story.

One day, we’ll be the older generation.

And we’ll need to be humble enough to learn from the ones after us.

So don’t be a fool.

We may be Mei, Rumi, or Mirabel today.

But tomorrow, we could be Ming, Celine, or Alma.

And when that time comes, we’ll realize how hard it is to unlearn what once kept us safe.

So let’s have compassion for all these characters.

Because these stories show us not just how the cycle of generations works, but how it can make us better, stronger, and more connected... if we’re all willing to go through the change.

∘₊✧──────✧──────✧₊∘

If you’re curious, I’ve written more on K-pop Demon Hunters:

A post on the mental health themes woven through the songs — right here.

A breakdown of Celine-Rumi in comparaison to Gothel��Rapunzel dynamic — here.

An analysis about Rumi, Jinu, and the danger of sinking together — here.

Some book recs for each of the K-pop Demon Hunters characters — here.

[dollgxtz]

At Your Service

⟡ Word Count: 12k

⟡ Tags: boss!Sylus x housekeeper!reader, fem reader, corruption kink, dubcon, oral sex (cunnilingus), stalking, tw for attempted rape and murder, death, blood warning, sylus is lowkey a perv :3, coercion, possessiveness, manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics

⟡ Summary: You beg Sylus for a job as his housekeeper after he saves you from a violent run-in on the streets of the N109 Zone. What other choice did you have? It was supposed to be simple...clean up, stay quiet, don’t make a fuss. But nothing about Sylus is simple. And his reasons for hiring you go far beyond dust and dishes...

"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?" Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?" "A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brush—no hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming. You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe. "Do...you mean—" "Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."

Before you can even find your voice, Sylus reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelope—thick, clean, heavy—and tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud. Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.

⟡ AN: Hiii guys. This fic idea came to me in a dream haha. So happy to finally get to share with you guys! Lowkey I had an entire plot planned for this but then realized I was writing too much again oops. SO if this is liked enough I'll write a part 2!! I just love building tension its so fun (づ> v <)づ♡

Enjoy!!

@dummiebunny @hyphensei @your-macabre-bestie @seppys-return-to-madness @crazyrichdaughter @deepspace-fishie @altarofsalem @spencermasson @strawberrysweeti

Read part 2 here!

"Hey pretty gal, where ya goin'?" the snarly voice says, peering down at you with an eerie grin. You blink up, dazed, still catching your breath, but you can make out a fatter man looming over you. His smile is crooked, teeth yellowed, and his eyes flick with amusement at your fear. He takes a step closer, his heavy boots thudding against the pavement, and you can smell the stale liquor on his breath even from where you’re sitting. Your pulse quickens.

"Yeah, you stopped before, what's the rush now?" another voice chimes in from behind, smoother but no less unsettling.

You whip your head around, stomach turning, and see a skinnier man approaching. This one looks slightly more put together, like he just got back from the office—suit and tie still clinging to him despite the grime on his cuffs and collar. His slicked-back hair is damp with sweat, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets like this is routine. But the look in his eyes tells a different story. There’s that same predatory glint, the kind of look that makes your skin crawl.

The fat one chuckles low, a sound that vibrates in his chest and makes your stomach knot. "Didn't mean to scare ya, sweetheart. We just wanna talk, yeah?"

You scramble to push yourself backward, heels scraping against the concrete, but there’s nowhere to go. You're boxed in. Your breath is shallow, chest rising and falling too fast as your thoughts race, searching for an escape, a weapon, anything.

The skinny one crouches slightly, trying to meet your eyes. "You don’t have to run. We noticed you earlier...figured you might like some company. You looked lonely."

Your mouth is dry, panic sticking your tongue to the roof. You shake your head slightly, hoping they’ll take the hint and back off. They don’t.

Not even close.

Wasn't your first run-in with creeps from the N109 Zone. Hopefully this would be your last...and not in the demise kind of way. You’d seen enough horror stories unfold around here to know how fast things could go south. But tonight, it felt like your number had finally come up.

"I have an incurable disease. I wouldn't touch me," you say, voice strained and wavering despite your best effort to sound confident. It was a long shot, a gamble born from panic, but maybe, just maybe, it would give them pause.

The two men chuckle in unison. The fat one sneers wider, eyes flashing, and lunges toward you without warning. His arms wrap around you with crushing force, lifting you off the ground like a ragdoll. You scream, loud and raw, your bag tumbling from your shoulder and hitting the pavement with a thud.

He spins you around effortlessly and traps you in a brutal bear hug, pinning your arms to your sides, holding you fast in front of the skinny one, who now steps in with the air of someone approaching a prize.

"Wouldn't doubt it," the fat one murmurs into your ear, breath hot and reeking of beer and decay. "A girl as cute as you is no doubt a whore. Good thing I brought condoms."

Your stomach lurches. The word "whore" hits like a slap, but the real fear twists in your gut when you realize how calm and practiced they both are. This wasn't a spontaneous act. These two had been prowling for someone exactly like you.

You jerk your head back, teeth bared, aiming to sink them into any piece of flesh you can reach. But the fat one squeezes tighter, cutting off your air, forcing a sharp, agonized wheeze from your throat. Your ribs scream, your lungs burn, and your vision starts to spark at the edges.

"Hold fucking still," the skinny one says, voice low and trembling with excitement. He slips a knife from his coat—small, sharp, and chillingly clean. The blade glints under what little light leaks from the busted streetlamps. You writhe, but your body isn’t responding fast enough. He kneels, eyes locked on you, and presses the blade to your shirt.

He starts slicing.

The cold metal kisses your soaked uniform, dragging down the fabric slowly, deliberately. You can hear every fiber snap under the blade, feel the chill rush of night air against newly exposed skin. He’s savoring it, the sick bastard. Every second stretches long and heavy with dread.

The fat one chuckles again, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest and into your spine. "Look, she's already shaking" he snickers. "Can't wait to see that pretty red blood drip down your tits when we're done with you."

Panic claws at your throat. Your mind races.

You're not getting out of this alive.

Had your life truly been destined to be so terrible that it had to end the same way too? Shitty parents, born in a shitty city, working shitty jobs to make ends meet all your shitty life. No breaks, no safety nets...just a constant grind with nothing to show for it but bruises and exhaustion. Every step forward had been a crawl. Every chance you'd hoped for had slipped through your fingers like water.

You tried so damn hard. You kept your head down, followed the rules, did everything the world told you to do. And still, here you were—in some dark alley in the N109 Zone, freezing, humiliated, and helpless. Your chest ached, not just from fear, but from the deep, gnawing sense of betrayal. Like the universe had always had it out for you.

You shut your eyes as you feel the cold air hit your chest. Your bra is exposed now, fabric damp and clinging, offering no warmth or comfort. You bite your lip to keep it from trembling. Well. This was it then? The end? Not even a warning, no last moment of dignity. Just this.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You don't know what you're reaching for—hope, courage, a miracle—but anything would do. Anything to stop this. Anything to change the ending.

You suck in a shaky breath and prepare for whatever comes next. The pain, the cold, the end.

"Gentlemen, fancy seeing you two here. I was actually just looking for you both. Seems you didn't get the memo on our meeting earlier today," a voice says from behind you.

All three of you freeze.

The air shifts. Like a thunderstorm about to break loose right above your heads. You feel it roll over your skin, the tension clamping around your lungs.

The two men whip their heads around, eyes wide, searching for the source. Their confidence drains from their faces like blood down a sink.

"Shit, don't tell me that's—" the skinny man starts, voice cracking like glass.

But he doesn’t finish.

In a blink, his body is ripped backward like a ragdoll, hurled through the air by a force you can’t see. He slams into the side of a building with a loud, sickening crunch that echoes down the alleyway. Brick cracks from the impact, and he crumples to the ground in a heap, groaning once before going eerily still. The knife he was holding clatters to the ground next to him.

The fat man’s grip loosens instantly. Shock paralyzes him for a heartbeat. Then two. He releases you without a word, hands trembling as they fall to his sides. You drop to the ground like dead weight, landing hard on your ribs. Pain jolts through your body, but it's nothing compared to the relief crashing over you.

You groan and look up, blinking through tears and grime, just in time to see it—

Red mist.

Thick, pulsing, and alive. It weaves through the air like smoke with purpose, coiling around the fat man’s legs first, snaking its way up his body in slow, suffocating loops. He stares down in horror, hands clawing at the red haze like he could somehow peel it off.

You watch, frozen, as his feet lift from the ground. He rises—arms flailing, mouth wide open in a silent scream—as the mist tightens, dragging him up like a puppet.

Then he’s thrown.

He rockets backward with impossible force, crashing into the wall opposite his partner. The impact is brutal—louder, deeper, cracking the stone like thunder. Dust explodes around him, raining down in gritty sheets as the building seems to shudder in protest.

Silence follows. Long and oppressive.

The street goes still. Not even the buzz of broken streetlights.

You sit there, gasping, heart racing, and stare through the lingering red mist.

And then—

Shoes. Slow, deliberate footsteps echo against the concrete. Heavy. Calm. Unbothered.

You stop breathing as a man appears out of the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a slow, confident gait. His hair is white-greyish, short, and groomed neatly as if untouched by the chaos around him. He wears a dark collared shirt, sharp and clean despite the filth of the N109 Zone, and a heavy jacket draped casually across his shoulders like a cape. But the most piercing feature about him? His eyes.

Crimson red.

They glow faintly under the broken streetlights, inhuman and unreadable, like fire simmering behind glass. He glances at you—just for a moment. You can’t read the expression. Indifference? Curiosity? Whatever it is, it sends a chill through your bones.

Without a word to you, he turns and stalks toward the two men groaning on the ground.

"Seems you were too busy harassing women to remember to bring me what I’m rightfully owed," the man snarled, voice low and sharp like broken glass. "No matter. I warned you I'd get it back in blood."

The fat one scrambles, shielding his face with his arms, whimpering. "Sylus! Please! We can sti—"

His begging is cut off by a choked, wet gurgle. His throat clenches under invisible pressure, red mist coiling tighter and tighter around his neck. His eyes bulge. Feet kick. Hands claw at nothing.

The skinny one tries to run. He scrambles up, limping, almost making it two steps before something grabs his ankle. The mist again—faster this time. It twists, tightens, and then—

SNAP.

A sickening crack splits the air, sharp and final. His ankle bends the wrong way, bone giving way with a sound that makes bile rise in your throat. He collapses, screaming in agony.

You can’t take it anymore.

You shut your eyes and cover your ears, curling into yourself as tightly as you can. The screams, the choking, the crunch of bone—it all keeps going, echoing in your skull even through your hands.

You just want it to stop.

A few moments of muffled chokes and screams...and then silence.

Not the kind of silence that feels peaceful, but the thick, eerie kind that makes your skin crawl. Your ears ring faintly, and your breath stutters in your chest as if your body refuses to believe it’s over.

You breathe heavily, chest heaving as you try to calm the shaking in your limbs. The cold from the ground seeps through your soaked clothes, but you barely register it. Your hands are still pressed over your ears, your fingers curled so tightly they’re starting to ache. It takes every ounce of courage to peel them away and crack your eyes open.

You're surprised—no, stunned—not to see the gruesome aftermath you expected. No blood. No bodies. No twisted limbs or broken faces. In fact, there's zero trace of the men who had once stood there, like the earth had swallowed them whole and wiped away the evidence.

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the empty space in front of you. Adrenaline is still racing through your veins, making your vision blur slightly around the edges. The only sound now is the soft crunch of gravel beneath a shoe—measured, unhurried.

Your eyes dart toward the movement. You watch as Sylus bends down slowly, like he has all the time in the world, and picks up something small and shiny. At first, it looks like a shard of glass, almost invisible in the dim light. But it catches a flicker from the nearest working lamp—almost clear, glinting faintly with an internal glow that pulses like a heartbeat.

"That's..." you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice. Your eyes widen as the pieces click into place.

A protocore?? You had never seen one so close up before.

They were supposed to be rare. Expensive. Illegal to possess without license, let alone harvest. The kind of stuff people killed over.

You barely get the thought out before he pockets it in one smooth motion. Then he turns toward you.

Those red eyes lock onto yours like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. They burn with a strange intensity, unreadable and terrifying and impossible to look away from. He takes a step closer, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

But he doesn't speak. He just studies you. Eyes roaming all over you.

And in that instant, you realize something unsettling: he’s not trying to intimidate you. He’s evaluating you. Like he’s sizing you up for something you don’t yet understand.

Your breath hitches, throat dry, mind racing. Who was this man? What had you just witnessed?

You squeeze your eyes shut as he suddenly walks toward you. Shit. You were probably next.

You just watched a man commit murder, two murders no less. Of course you were next as the witness. Your pulse hammers against your ribcage as panic floods you. Why didn’t you run when you had the chance? Why the hell did you freeze?

You brace yourself for the worst, chest tightening as your breath stalls in your throat. Every step he takes echoes louder than the last, like the final countdown to something irreversible. The air around you feels charged, heavy with power and blood.

But instead of pain or a final breath, you feel something else.

A soft, warm weight settles across your shoulders.

Fabric. A jacket.

You flinch at first, confused, until the warmth begins to seep into your frozen skin. The cold on your back evaporates slightly, replaced by the comforting weight of thick, dry fabric. Your eyes flutter open, hesitation making your lashes tremble as you lift your gaze.

He's standing just inches away, crouched down, eyes unreadable in the dim light. No expression.

"For your...situation," the man says evenly, voice low but firm, eyes briefly flicking to your torn shirt and the state of your exposed chest.

Your bra is wet, see-through, and clinging to your skin. You gasp in embarrassment, face flushing hot, and immediately rush to close the jacket over yourself, clutching the lapels with both hands. Your fingers shake, knuckles paling from gripping so tight.

"S-sorry..." you whisper, voice small and shaken. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for...your appearance, your weakness, your existence? But the word slips out anyway.

He simply sighs, standing up and running his fingers through his hair. The motion is slow, tired—like he’s dragging the weight of something heavier than tonight’s encounter. His fingers rake back through the white-grey strands, revealing the sharp edges of his face, shadowed under the streetlights. His posture eases, but not from comfort—more like indifference. The threat is gone, and so is his interest. But his eyes...they remain hard. Crimson still burns faintly beneath his lashes, like coals left smoldering.

"Do you always apologize for things that aren't your fault?"

The question lands like a blade, too casual to be comforting. Cold. Rhetorical. He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. Doesn’t seem like he wants one.

Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you.

"I assume you know how to keep your mouth shut. Have a good night."

Your pulse spikes.

His name...his name was Sylus. That was what that man had called him.

It hits you like a gunshot.

That name. You’ve heard it before—in whispers, in rumors passed through alleyway trades and late-night conversations that always ended in warning. There was talk of a syndicate that lived in the bones of the city. Powerful. Untraceable. It didn’t operate within the law. It was the law, in places like this. Onychinus. And at the top of it all, one name. Ruthless. A demon with red eyes they say.

Sylus.

But it was rumored no one had actually seen him. Or not lived long enough to give details.

Could this really be him?

Your breath quickens as your heartbeat stutters in your chest. Slowly, shakily, you get to your feet. The alley feels impossibly long, the lights dimmer than they were before. Your legs tremble beneath you, unstable, the weight of everything finally catching up to your body. The jacket around your shoulders slips slightly, reminding you it's still there. Heavy. Warm. His.

You reach out.

Not because you’ve planned it. But because some part of you needs to.

Instinct. Desperation. A pull you can’t name.

Your fingers brush against his arm and clutch tightly.

"Please wait! Sylus!" you cry, louder than you expect, voice cracking under the strain of exhaustion, fear, and something raw you hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

He stops mid-step.

The world halts with him.

The buzz of lights, the distant city hum—it all dies. The only thing you hear now is the frantic pounding of your heart.

This is crazy. Absolutely insane. You must have a death wish. What the hell were you thinking, grabbing him like that? Demanding the attention of someone who could crush people without a thought? Your stomach churns with fear, twisting itself into knots, but something inside you refuses to shrink away.

You’re still standing. That has to mean something, right?

If he wanted to kill you—he would’ve already.

And besides, even if he wasn’t Sylus—even if this was all some massive coincidence—he was clearly someone powerful enough to make people vanish into mist. Someone important enough to be feared in this city. And feared men didn’t worry about rent. Feared men had power. And power meant money. And money...

Money meant stability.

A steady job. A real paycheck. Enough to cover groceries without counting every coin. It meant the possibility of fixing your old laptop, maybe even affording a new pair of shoes without soles worn thin. A chance at reclaiming some control, some pride without begging or risking your life.

Sylus doesn’t turn fully. Just tilts his head slightly—enough to glance at you from over his shoulder. It’s a subtle motion, but the weight behind it still makes your breath catch.

The look in his eyes pins you in place. It’s not anger. It’s colder. Calculating. Like he’s measuring you for something. Or deciding if you’re worth the air you’re still breathing.

"Not many are so bold to call me by my name so fiercely on the first meeting," he says. His tone is unreadable, smooth and dry, like stone scraped across silk.

You can’t tell if he's amused. Annoyed. Or seconds away from deciding you’re a loose end that needs cutting.

Then, without a hint of emotion, he adds, "Speak. I have things to attend to."

Your heart skips. Panic swells again in your chest, but it’s different now—warmer, messier. Your fingers tremble as you release his arm. The courage you had seconds ago is unraveling fast under the weight of his presence.

"Sy—I mean, sir..." you stammer, bowing your head quickly, instinctively, as if submission might protect you. "Thank you. For saving me...I just wanted to ask—"

You pause, breath shaky, gathering whatever's left of your pride and resolve. This is insane. This could end so, so badly. But your options ran out a long time ago.

You suck in a breath, chest tightening.

"Please give me a job..."

The words hang there, small but thunderous in the stillness. You know how it sounds. Pathetic. Desperate.

He turns now, slowly, and for the first time you see his full expression. His face twists in slight confusion, one brow raised. "You want...a job? You want me to give you a job?" he repeats, frowning as if the concept itself is absurd. Like you're speaking a language he's never bothered to learn.

Shit. Say something. Make it convincing. Say anything.

You bow your head in shame, your voice wobbling. "I'm sorry, I know it’s sudden! I just...I just got fired and I don’t have many options. I’ll lose my apartment soon if I can’t pay..." Your voice cracks, and you start to sniffle, humiliation burning hot in your chest. You wrap his jacket tighter around yourself like it’s armor, like it can hide how much you're unraveling.

Sylus hums in acknowledgment. It’s not agreement, not exactly—just a sound to let you know he’s still listening. Still watching. Then his voice comes again, even colder this time.

"I'm not a charity. I don't take on the weak."

The words hit like a slap—sharp, final. Your stomach drops, but your mind races.

You scramble for something—anything that’ll keep him from walking away.

"I’m very useful, actually!" you blurt, lifting your head so fast it makes your vision swim. The words come out fast, breathless, desperate. "I can clean, cook, fix things, run errands, I learn fast—I don’t complain, and I don’t need much! Please, I’ll do whatever you need. Just give me a chance. I don’t have anyone else."

Your voice is trembling now, but you keep talking, like if you stop, you’ll shatter. "I’ve worked double shifts on no sleep, I’ve handled angry customers, cleaned up all kinds of fluids from bathroom stalls, learned how to stretch a bag of rice for a week—I’m not weak, I’ve just never been given a shot by someone who matters."

The alley is silent again, dense and waiting. A breeze slips past, carrying the scent of rust and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and fades.

You’re still staring at him, heart pounding so loud it drowns out your thoughts. Hands clenched into tight fists at your sides. You can feel your knees threatening to buckle, but you stay upright. You won’t beg. If he says no again you'll accept your fate.

At least you'll have tried.

Sylus doesn't seem moved by your emotional outburst, but something shifts behind his eyes. He’s not dismissive—he’s pondering. Cold logic at work, turning your words over in his mind with clinical precision.

"Cleaning, huh..." he scoffs softly, the sound low and rough, like gravel underfoot. There's a flicker of something—amusement? Skepticism?—as a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He slips his hands into his coat pockets, the gesture fluid and deliberate. Nothing about him is rushed. He’s the kind of man who never speaks or moves without intent.

"If I had a nickel for every time someone I saved begged to work for me right after...well, I’d have 3 nickels technically." He let out a low chuckle. "This was surely unexpected."

You blink, trying to read his expression. Your heart is hammering in your chest, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. What does that even mean? Three nickels?? What was he talking about?

"So...does that mean—?" you start to ask, your voice cracking under the weight of hesitant hope.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns his head, gaze drifting toward the skyline like he’s already moved on. His silhouette is framed by the hazy orange glow of a streetlamp, the red mist still curling faintly at his feet. When he speaks again, the words cut through the silence like a blade.

"I'll entertain this 'job' for you. But you have to live up to the standard you've set for yourself. Otherwise, you'll be gone faster than you can even breathe."

His tone is flat. Not cruel, but not kind either. It’s a warning—sharp, unflinching, final.

You don’t move. For a moment, you forget how. The alley seems to pause with you, the air thick with something unspoken. And then it hits—

Your heart swells. Joy floods your chest in a violent, overwhelming surge. It feels like your ribs might split from the pressure of it. You almost can’t believe you heard him right.

"Yes! Of course! I won’t let you down!" you blurt out, too fast, too eager, but there’s no stopping the emotion rushing out of you. You bow your head deeply, again, again—grateful, desperate, stunned.

Sylus sighs, long and drawn-out, the sound edged with the kind of exasperation that says you’re already a handful. He rolls his eyes with a quiet mutter—something you can’t make out—and turns on his heel.

He begins walking away without another word.

Panic flares in your chest.

"W-wait... where do I go? When do I start?" you call after him, stumbling a few steps forward. The weight of his jacket is still warm on your shoulders, grounding you in the surreal moment.

He doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t turn. But his voice drifts back to you, clear and crisp as ever.

"I’ll be back in three days. Tallest building in the city. You’ve seen it. Eleven PM. Don’t be late."

And just like that—he’s gone.

His body dissolves into a swirl of red mist that coils around him and bursts outward, vanishing into the night like smoke drawn into a vacuum. It’s silent again. No footsteps. No echoes. As if he’d never been there at all.

You stand frozen, jacket clutched tightly in your fists, staring at the empty space he left behind. The chill of the night wraps around you, but your skin burns from adrenaline.

Three days.

Tallest building in the city.

You whisper the words like a vow, repeating them to yourself again and again, willing them to anchor you to this reality. Your breath is shaky, your pulse pounding, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel alive.

You weren’t dreaming.

You actually got a job.

Why so late at night, though? Maybe he didn’t want you seen. Maybe it was a test—or maybe the day just wasn’t a place people like you belonged in his world. Then again, in the N109 Zone, there wasn’t much of a day to begin with. The sky was always dark, the sun just a rumor behind a layer of industrial haze. But still...even under dim lights and darker skies, this felt like something new.

A clean slate.

Sylus wasn’t sure what he was doing.

Hiring a random woman he saved to be his housekeeper? It was reckless. It was unnecessary. And it was completely unlike him. Even now, as he sat alone in his office, the question churned at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn’t remove.

Unbeknownst to you, Onychinus had already had housecleaning staff. A full team, trained and vetted, all handpicked to maintain control and order of the base. But the moment he returned—barely hours after dragging two bodies into the shadows and watching you fall apart in front of him—he’d given a simple, final order: dismiss the entire cleaning unit. No explanation.

He hadn’t cared about anything but the image still seared into his mind: a dirt-covered girl shivering in his coat. His coat.

It had been easier to lie to himself at first. You needed help. That’s all it was. A brief act of pity. A one-time gesture. Something to balance the scales after taking two lives without hesitation. Maybe even a little entertainment to break the monotony.

But something about you unsettled him.

The way you’d looked up at him from the ground—mud streaked across your cheek, clothes soaked and cut, lips trembling, chest exposed but your eyes…There was fear, yes, but beneath it, a defiant glimmer. Something that sparked against the cold stone he called his conscience.

He’d felt it. A pang in his chest. It had no business being there. Unfamiliar and unwanted.

So he did what he always did when something unimportant peeked his interest. Ignore it. He even tried to end the conversation before it even started.

But then you’d grabbed him.

That tiny, trembling hand curling around his arm like he was a lifeline. Not to manipulate. Not to seduce. Just to hold on. And asked him for a job of all things. You had no other options. You were recently fired. About to lose your apartment. The perfect excuse to have his new interest near him.

That had done something to him.

Something violent and strange. Something possessive. A pulse beneath the surface that refused to quiet.

And in that instant, Sylus had stopped making excuses.

Now, he stood in his office, watching you on the security feed. You moved through the suite like a ghost trying to prove you still belonged among the living—scrubbing at already clean surfaces, adjusting already perfect details. Your back was straight, shoulders tense, every movement painfully precise.

You were trying so hard. It had been weeks since then and you were still trying to fit in.

Trying not to be a burden. Trying not to mess up. Trying to earn a place no one had offered you.

It was adorable.

It was raw, honest—and it stirred something far more possessive than he liked to admit. You didn’t know how to rest. You only knew how to survive. Every over-polished surface, every obsessively straightened object reeked of someone begging—not for praise, but for permission to exist. It wasn't just endearing. It was maddeningly cute. You were trying so hard, and you didn't even realize who you were trying to impress. Him. All of it was for him.

And he couldn’t look away.

There was something feral in the way you moved, a quiet desperation dressed up in duty. Like a cat that hadn’t been given safety in so long, it wouldn’t know what to do with peace if it had it. That kind of survival wasn’t just familiar, it was intimate.

And you didn’t yet understand that the moment you reached for him in that alley, you stopped being a stray kitten.

You became his.

And you didn’t yet realize that he hadn’t brought you here to mop floors.

He told himself he was still in control. That this was still about curiosity, about amusement. That he was just studying you. Surely, he'd get bored. Fire you, and move on.

But even he didn’t believe that anymore. Not after seeing you a second time when you arrived on your first day. That same feeling had returned—sharper now, more insistent, like something gnawing at the base of his spine. You were under his roof, moving quietly through his space, wearing the weight of his attention like it might crush you. And still you kept going. Still you tried. Even brought him back his jacket. It was infuriating. It was addictive.

What was it about you that made him feel like he couldn’t stop watching? What exactly had ignited this itch under his skin, this tightening in his chest? You weren’t extraordinary—at least not by normal standards. But maybe that was the point. You were quiet. Unassuming. But beneath all of that, he could sense something uncut and wild. Something no one else had tried to reach.

And now it was his.

He needed to know more. He needed to peel back every layer until he understood what, exactly, had hooked him so deep he’d broken his own rules.

Because Sylus never did anything without purpose.

And he hadn’t fired an entire staff, hired only you, and rewired a dozen camera angles…just to be charitable.

He had done it to keep you where he could see you.

Your reaction when he walked out half naked, dripping from the shower a few days ago had been amusing, though he didn’t show it. He'd done it on purpose to see your reaction. The way your face flushed, the way your gaze darted anywhere but at him—it had been a moment he savored quietly, filed away for later. You really thought you could hide it. How flustered you were. How small you felt in his presence.

That habit of apologizing for everything, though—now that grated. Like nails on glass. He’d have to break that out of you eventually. No one in his world got away with empty words, and he didn’t tolerate the kind of weakness that came from guilt without conviction. He often wondered what kind of pain and trauma turned someone into that—into a person who apologized just for breathing.

However…he didn’t completely mind if you were a bit weak.

Weak people were easy to keep an eye on. Easy to understand. Easy to protect.

He watched the screen again, eyes narrowing slightly as you pulled a stool across the polished floor to reach a high shelf. He saw it immediately. You hadn’t pulled one of the legs out all the way.

It would collapse under you.

He exhaled, annoyed but composed, and in a blink—his form dissolved in a swirl of red mist—he was gone from the office. A breath later, he was standing in the kitchen.

You didn’t even notice him behind you, too busy reaching to rearrange items on the top shelf, lips pursed in focus. You were murmuring something under your breath—maybe a list, maybe just the words you used to fill silence, but it didn’t matter. Your voice was soft, distracted, and it did nothing to prepare you for the presence behind you.

Sylus stood silently in the doorway, arms folded, posture impossibly still. His eyes tracked every movement you made with the precision of a predator, narrowed with cold intensity as he studied your choice of outfit.

A skirt again. Of all things. To clean in.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It clashed so violently with the rest of you—your quiet demeanor, your constant apologies, your hesitant glances like you were afraid of taking up space. He’d pegged you as cautious. Careful. Maybe even prudish. But a skirt like that? That was either reckless...or intentional.

There was no middle ground.

His gaze moved downward, slow and deliberate, and he didn’t even try to stop it. Your legs were bare, shifting with each tentative movement, the muscles in your calves flexing delicately as you struggled for balance. They looked too smooth, too soft for someone who lived in the N109 Zone. You weren’t made for this place. Not really. And yet, here you were, stretching and tiptoeing as if you had something to prove.

The hem of your skirt lifted slightly as you reached higher, just enough to tease. Just enough to show the dip where your thigh met your hip, the subtle curve of your ass beneath the thin, clinging fabric. He stared, jaw flexing, something animal and possessive threading through his blood like poison.

Quite the choice indeed.

You didn’t know what you were inviting.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, his irritation mounting—not at you, not exactly. At the way he responded. At the way his body reacted, heat flooding low in his gut just from watching you stretch in that stupid skirt. You had no idea what you were doing to him, what kind of restraint it took not to close the distance, not to press his hand flat against the small of your back and bend you over the marble counter just to make a point.

Then his attention flicked to the stool.

He noticed it instantly: the leg, barely extended, shaky. A disaster waiting to happen. And you, too distracted to realize it. Too busy trying to impress. Too busy trying to earn your place.

He could’ve called out.

He didn’t.

He watched.

Three seconds passed.

Two.

One.

The stool gave out beneath you, the sharp crack of metal folding breaking the moment like glass.

You yelped, arms flailing, and your body dropped fast, too fast.

But the floor never came.

In one fluid movement, before your breath could even finish escaping your throat, he was there.

His arms snapped around you, catching you mid-fall with unflinching strength—one arm anchoring your waist, the other locked across your back like steel. The force of the motion sent your body into his, chest against chest, your breath stolen not by impact, but by proximity.

You collided not with cold tile—but with him.

With warmth.

You gasped, hands curling instinctively into the front of his shirt. His muscles shifted under your fingers—hard, tense, unwavering.

His face hovered inches from yours. Red eyes locked onto your expression, studying every flicker of panic, every rapid breath you took.

You started flailing in his arms, clearly panicking, eyes wide with embarrassment and confusion. The contact—too sudden, too close—had scrambled your senses. You didn’t know what to do with yourself, writhing slightly in his grip as if you could squirm away from the electricity between you. Your breath hitched, hands pressing feebly against his chest, but he held you like he had no intention of letting go until he was ready.

Inwardly, Sylus chuckled, dark amusement curling behind his otherwise unreadable eyes. You were flustered beyond reason, struggling in his hold like a bird that had flown into the jaws of a predator. It was almost sweet. Ridiculous, really, how easy it would be to keep you. A word, a gesture, a little pressure—and you'd fold like paper.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you were there!" you panted, cheeks burning as you tried harder to escape his grasp. Your voice cracked slightly, high and breathless, and your fingers gripped at his shirt like you weren’t sure whether to push him away or hold on.

Reluctantly, he let you go. His arms unwrapped from around you with a slowness that betrayed how much he didn’t want to. Every inch of lost contact felt like something stolen. He could still feel the impression of your body against his—your warmth, your weight, the exact curve of your waist where his fingers had fit so perfectly.

He’d much rather have you pinned underneath him on the cold marble floor, your wrists above your head, that flushed face staring up at him in breathless silence. The image wasn’t just tempting, it was consuming.

Instead, he straightened calmly. He smoothed his shirt with a deliberate hand, as if nothing had happened, as if his blood wasn’t simmering just beneath the surface. His expression slipped back into its usual cold neutrality, though his eyes lingered.

"What did I say about apologizing for nothing?" he said sternly, his voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.

You froze. The sound of his voice triggered a visible change. Your expression fell into sorrow, your shoulders curling inward like a scolded child, your hands falling limp at your sides. You avoided his gaze, eyes cast downward as if you expected punishment.

"I—yeah. Right. I'll work on it," you murmured, voice small and brittle.

He watched the way your lips trembled. The way your posture folded in on itself. You thought apologizing would save you. That submission would earn mercy.

You were far too weak and innocent for your own good.

And he wanted to be the one to destroy it.

Touch by touch, until your shame melted into heat, until your gasps became moans, and the floor beneath you was scattered with torn, forgotten clothing. He’d peel away your innocence like silk, savoring each layer, each tremble, each moment of surrender.

Ignoring the growing hardness in his pants, Sylus turned his attention to his watch, feigning indifference as the tension coiled like a vice in his abdomen. Every nerve in his body felt wound tight, a hum beneath his skin he was trying very hard not to show.

"Aren’t you supposed to be heading home anyway?" he asked, voice cool and measured, each syllable sharp with veiled command. His gaze flicked to you and then lingered, unwilling to fully detach. You never noticed how much he watched you.

You bit your lip before dragging your tongue across it nervously, a subconscious gesture, but one he immediately clocked. That innocent, uncertain movement stirred something primal in him. It was the kind of unintentional tease that made his jaw tighten. That made him want to reach out and tilt your chin up just to see if you'd tremble under the weight of his full attention.

"Yeah...I was just doing some extra work," you replied, voice quiet, almost hesitant. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as if trying to distract yourself from his stare. "Hoping it would warm up a little if I waited. It’s freezing today. I'm not looking forward to walking honestly."

He followed your gaze to the wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. Frost clung to the edges of the glass like white scars. The world outside looked like it had been locked in ice. It was the kind of cold that stole the breath from your lungs, bit into skin, made the city feel even more hollow and harsh.

And yet, you'd chosen that outfit.

His eyes dropped again, deliberately this time. The skirt. Thin, flimsy. Just enough fabric to cover you, but not enough to shield you. No tights. No layers. No intention of warmth. Your legs were bare. The skin flushed from chill and movement.

Why?

You weren’t actually this stupid were you? You were cautious. Quiet. Observant. Which meant this wasn’t accidental. Not a miscalculation.

No, this had to be deliberate. Maybe you weren't as innocent as he had previously assumed?

"Ah...I knocked some stuff down when I fell," you muttered, crouching low to gather the scattered cans, trying to appear unfazed, as if your body hadn’t just been caught by his in a moment of pure vulnerability. Your voice was soft, flustered but casual, an obvious cover. You didn’t want him to see the way your hands trembled slightly, or how your breath still hadn’t quite steadied. But to Sylus, nothing about the moment was casual. He remained frozen where he stood, posture straight and calculated, his eyes locked onto you with a focus that felt less like curiosity and more like predation. He was studying. Dissecting. Memorizing.

He waited for the phrase he’d heard so many times from your lips. That anxious, habitual little “I’m sorry” that you wore like a second skin. Your default reaction. But it never came. Instead, you stayed silent, concentrating on your task. Your lips pressed into a thin line.

That flicker of growth—it struck him harder than it should have.

You were learning. Adapting. Sharpening under pressure like a blade honing itself on stone. And it didn’t ignite pride in him. No, pride was far too tame. What he felt clawing its way through his chest was something darker. Possession. The need to mark what was his before anyone else could lay claim. He was already changing you in subtle ways.

His eyes traveled down, following the subtle tension in your limbs as you reached forward. The way the fabric of your skirt tightened over the swell of your hips made his jaw clench. The hem hit just right. Creased around your thighs. Teasing. Just enough to suggest, not enough to reveal. Until you shifted just a bit further, and the lace revealed itself.

Not much. Just a whisper. A delicate edge of pale fabric tracing along your skin.

Lace underwear. Definitely not silk—he knew better. The thread count and finish marked it as something affordable, not luxury. But that didn’t matter. That wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was the fact that you had worn it at all.

Worn something pretty. Something intimate. Something entirely hidden from the world.

Why?

You didn’t strike him as someone who put thought into seduction. You didn’t wear your body with confidence—you shrank into it, hid behind it. And yet…that lace told a different story. Whether it was for comfort, confidence, or something more unspoken, it was a secret softness tucked under the armor of your survival.

Something no one else was meant to see.

And yet here he was, seeing it. Claiming it in his mind. Making it his.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until his chest ached. The image of you crouched low, vulnerable and unaware, your body wrapped in fabric he now felt a savage urge to tear off seared itself into the hollow of his mind.

The urge to touch you rose inside him like a tidal wave. He imagined gripping you by the waist, hauling you up effortlessly into him. Pin you against the counter just to hear the sound you’d make. The feel of your weight against him. He could already envision the way you’d look pinned against him, breath stuttering, lips parted, eyes wide and unsure—begging without knowing what for.

He ground his teeth. The thoughts were consuming. And entirely uninvited.

No. Not uninvited. Just…unacted upon.

He drew in a breath, a quiet exhale through his nose as he forced the heat back down into the pit of his spine, burying it beneath layers of discipline and ice.

Then, he spoke—voice low, the edges smoothed by control but still thick with gravity.

"How about I take you home today?"

The shift in your expression was immediate. You snapped upright, startled, your eyes wide and flickering with something he didn’t expect.

Hope.

It landed like a blow. Your face opened up, lips parting slightly, shoulders lifting in surprise. For a moment, it looked like you might even smile. But you caught yourself. Reeled it back in like a secret.

Still, the damage was done. He’d seen it.

You looked at him like he was safe. Like his offer meant salvation instead of danger. And the strangest part of it all? That look made something in his chest ache.

You were so damn cute. So reactive.

So completely unguarded.

It made him want to cradle you in his hands. And then use those same hands to crush you with desire.

He envisioned you again...only this time, you were in his bed. That same skirt hiked up around your waist, the lace shredded by his fingers, your thighs parted, eyes glazed and trembling as you whispered his name like a confession.

"I'd really appreciate that...I live a little far. Um... you might not like my neighborhood. It's...old," you said hesitantly, brushing your skirt down as you rose to your feet. Your voice wavered just slightly, betraying the anxiety buried beneath your words. There was something in the way you said it—apologetic, like you were ashamed of this part of your life but knew better than to hide it. You tried to make yourself look more put-together, smoothing the fabric over your thighs as if that alone could shift the image in his mind.

Sylus’s eyes followed your every movement, taking in more than just your body language. He was reading you—dissecting the tone of your voice, the pace of your words, the tight way you held your breath between sentences. The word "old" wasn’t about age. It was a coded confession. He knew exactly what it meant. He’d heard it before from people who came from nothing, who had learned how to make do with what little the world threw them.

It meant you had lived with less for too long.

His jaw ticked slightly as the image built in his mind. He imagined your space, trying to piece it together from the clues you hadn’t meant to give him. He could see the threadbare couch you probably slept on when your bed got too cold. The one lamp with the flickering bulb. The box fan in the window struggling against the summer heat. He imagined you curled up in the corner with a secondhand blanket, your knees drawn up, trying to stay warm while the outside world threatened to bleed in.

He pictured your kitchen. Cramped. One chair missing a leg. A fridge that rattled when it kicked on. Dishes stacked on the counter because the sink wouldn’t drain properly. He imagined you cooking something cheap but warm, something you stretched over a few days, all while wearing that same skirt that had ridden up earlier. That lace underwear hidden underneath. That softness, that sweetness, surrounded by decay.

And it did something to him.

You didn’t belong in a place like that. That life—the struggle, the worry, the scarcity...it didn’t fit someone like you. Not with the way your lips parted when you were flustered, not with the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were nervous. You weren’t hardened. Not yet. And the idea that the city would only further sink its teeth into you made something sharp twist in his chest.

It didn’t suit you. None of it did.

No, you were meant for softness. For warmth. For luxury. He could see it—clear as day—you draped across one of his penthouse chaise lounges, wearing something silk he bought you. Maybe you’d still be shy at first, still fidget with the hem of your skirt, but it would be different. You’d glow. Comfortable. Fed. Protected. His.

His mind fed on the thought, deeper and darker. He imagined you standing barefoot in his kitchen, reaching for a glass in one of his cabinets, his oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders, lace peeking through. You’d look over your shoulder when he walked in, eyes soft, lips parted just for him.

And he’d take care of you.

You’d never have to beg a landlord for hot water again. You’d never worry about bills or broken locks or freezing nights. You’d live where you belonged, someplace warm. Safe and lavish.

He watched you brush imaginary dust from your skirt, still trying to preserve a scrap of dignity, and the thought struck him again with more weight than before.

You didn’t even know what you deserved.

But he was trying not to get ahead of himself. Not when his thoughts had already begun to spiral too far into territory he’d sworn to avoid. He knew better. He always had. He was a man carved from violence and control, a life defined by taking, by silence, by blood. Someone like him wasn’t good for you.

Someone like him would ruin you. Corrupt you. Strip away that softness he’d started to crave.

And no matter how badly he wanted it—how deeply the image of you in his bed, in his life, had begun to root itself—he wasn’t sure how you’d handle him.

So he kept his expression unreadable, the desire clawing beneath his skin tucked away with practiced precision. Without another word, he simply turned and gestured for you to follow him. His movements were precise, clipped, careful not to betray the storm in his chest.

You hesitated for only a second, then fell into step behind him. Your footsteps were light but uncertain, the rhythm of your shoes against the polished floor betraying your nervousness. You trailed behind like a shadow—obedient, unsure—but still close enough that he could feel your presence pressing faintly at his back.

As you made your way toward the private elevator that led to his parking garage, Sylus kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, every muscle in his body straining not to look at you. Not to reach. Not to touch.

Because if he did...

He might not stop.

The car ride was quiet and long, the kind of stretch that gave Sylus too much time to think. Not that he let it show. His hands remained steady on the wheel, gaze fixed on the road as the city slipped by in shadows and glimmers of neon. You sat beside him in silence, arms tucked tightly against yourself, trying not to fidget, though your body language betrayed you. Five minutes in, he noticed the way you subtly curled inward, trying to conserve warmth. Your shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

Without a word, he reached down and adjusted the temperature. The heater clicked on with a low hum, warmth slowly spilling into the cabin. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at you. He simply did it. He’d never used it before—not once. He never needed to. He hadn’t even realized it worked. But for you? He made it work.

A few minutes later, you gave him your address, voice low and mumbled, already thick with exhaustion. He barely acknowledged it, just nodded slightly and continued driving. Not because he needed the directions.

He already knew exactly where you lived.

Of course he did.

He’d had Mephisto tail you every night since that first encounter. Every step you took home, every street you crossed, every time you looked over your shoulder or hugged your arms tighter when the wind picked up—he knew it all. He’d seen the route. Studied the pattern. Memorized the way your silhouette moved beneath the flickering street lamps.

He hadn’t told you.

You’d never asked.

While he hadn’t yet stepped foot inside your apartment, he’d seen enough to picture it. The building—old, cracked, unwelcoming—told him more than words ever could. The peeling paint around the doorframe. The stairwell that looked like it might collapse with one wrong step. The busted callbox out front.

And it made something settle heavy in his gut.

But beside him, you had fallen asleep. Head tilted toward the window, lashes soft against your cheek, lips parted just slightly. Completely unaware.

When he finally pulled into the shadowed lot outside your apartment building, Sylus didn’t move to wake you right away. He simply shifted the car into park and turned slightly in his seat, his eyes tracing the soft lines of your sleeping face in the dim glow of the dashboard. There was a rare stillness to you now—your body slack, your breathing deep and steady, lips parted slightly with each quiet exhale. It was a version of you he rarely got to see: unguarded, untouched by the weight of the day, vulnerable in a way that pulled something tight and possessive in his chest.

He studied your expression, searching it like a map for answers he didn’t know he wanted. You looked so docile like this. So soft. Your hair slightly mussed from the ride, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, arms curled loosely around your midsection. How could someone who had been through so much still sleep like this—still carry a hint of innocence when everything else around you had tried to beat it out?

His thoughts drifted to the checks. The ones he started giving you after your first week. They weren’t modest by any stretch. The amount was enough to make you freeze when he handed you the envelope the first time, your fingers trembling, eyes welling with tears you had tried to blink away. You had thanked him far too many times, voice barely steady.

But since then, he’d noticed something.

No new clothes. No styled hair. No flashy purchases or even a change in your worn-out shoes. You were still the same girl—practical, quiet, unassuming. And that only deepened the mystery. What were you spending it on? Rent, obviously. Maybe food. But beyond that…? Debt perhaps?

You hadn’t changed a thing about your appearance. Not even for vanity’s sake.

His fingers tapped slowly on the steering wheel, restless with curiosity.

You looked so peaceful. Like nothing in the world could touch you in that moment. The sight of it made his throat tighten.

He wondered when he would get to see you like this again.

You're awoken by a gentle shaking at your shoulder. Disoriented, your eyes blink open slowly, only to meet the cool interior of Sylus’s car and the low hum of the engine winding down. The warmth of the heater still lingers on your cheeks, and you sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes.

Sylus is watching you, his face unreadable, but there’s something oddly soft in the way he looks at you—like he’s memorizing the exact shape of your sleepy expression.

"Ah, thank you. Goodnight," you murmur, still dazed, rubbing your eyes and reaching for the door handle.

"Goodnight," he responds evenly, reaching forward to unlock the passenger side with a click. The sound startles you a little, only now realizing the lock had been engaged from his side the entire time. Your hand lingers on the handle for a second longer, your thoughts slow, muddled. You almost ask about the child safety lock—why it was on in the first place—but you’re too tired to form the question.

Instead, you step out into the cold. The temperature hits you instantly, sharp and biting, and you hug your coat tighter around your shoulders. The street is dark, quiet, the usual chill of the N109 Zone sinking into your bones. You fumble with your pocket, fingers searching for the familiar jingle of your keys.

Keys...keys...

Your heart skips.

Where are your keys?

You pat your coat, your skirt, even dig into your bag, your movements growing frantic.

Nothing.

Panic starts to bloom in your chest as you realize—they’re not on you.

Shit.

Your stomach sinks. There's no avoiding it…you’ll have to ask Sylus. You must have left your keys back at Onychinus’s base during your frantic cleaning and recovery from that near fall. You’d been too flustered. Too distracted.

Defeated, your shoulders slumping, you turn around and hurry back to the car, your footsteps crunching against the gravel with each rushed step. The wind bites at your face as you approach. Sylus, thankfully, hasn’t driven off. He’s still parked in the same spot, one hand on the wheel, the other idly scrolling through something on his phone, bathed in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

You tap nervously on the passenger window, hugging your arms to your chest. Almost immediately, his gaze flicks up and he rolls it down with a smooth whirr, red eyes pinning you in place.

"My keys...I think I left them back at Onychinus," you say quickly, cheeks already burning with embarrassment. "This might be a stupid question, but...do you know how to pick a lock?"

So...that’s how Sylus, without a single word of instruction, plucked a bobby pin from your hair with deft fingers and picked your lock like it was second nature. It took him less than a minute. You stood by stunned, arms crossed against the cold, watching the door click open like it was nothing.

You were amazed, partly by his skill, but mostly by the way he never hesitated. Like helping you break into your own home was just another item on his to-do list. You felt a strange, pressing urge to thank him. He didn’t have to do any of this. You were just an employee. A cleaner. One he had only met just a few weeks ago.

So it felt right to do something.

You nervously glanced at him, then gestured toward the open door. "Would you like to come in? Just for a minute. I—I'd like to give you something. A treat. For helping."

He nodded kindly, and followed you in.

The inside of your apartment was exactly what you'd feared he might judge: dingy, too small, and colder than it should’ve been. There were cracks in the paint and the floor creaked when you stepped inside. But Sylus didn’t comment. The only thing that gave away his discomfort was the way he had to crouch slightly to pass through the doorway, tall enough that the frame brushed his shoulders.

You hurried to the small kitchen, pulling out a container from the fridge and placing it carefully in the microwave.

"This is my mom’s recipe," you said over your shoulder, fumbling with the buttons. "She gave it to me before she...left."

The quiet stretch between you filled with something unspoken as the microwave hummed.

He didn’t press for details. But you could feel his attention lingering. Not just on your words, but on you—your hands, your nervous movements, the way your voice faltered at the mention of your mother.

Then, softly, he spoke. "You talk about her like she’s still alive. Like maybe there’s still a part of you waiting for her to come back."

You froze, startled—not by the words themselves, but by how gently he said them. Like he saw past what you said and into the truth underneath.

"She left without a word," you murmured. "But I guess...yeah. I still cook this like she's coming home."

You really did not want to talk about this anymore, and Sylus seemed to pick up on that instantly. His eyes flicked to the microwave, then back to you, his expression unreadable as always. Without missing a beat, he changed the subject, his voice shifting into something lighter.

"How does it feel to have your boss step foot inside your own home?"

The question caught you off guard, and you let out a nervous little laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. "I don’t normally have guests... much less my employer, but it’s been a lot less nerve-wracking than I thought it’d be."

You avoided his gaze, pretending to busy yourself with the food as the microwave dinged softly behind you. Your hands moved on autopilot, but your mind stayed tangled in the oddness of the moment. Sylus—here, in your crumbling kitchen, ducking under your doorframe, accepting a homemade dish with quiet interest. There was something surreal about it. Like the roles between you had been suspended, just for a night.

And stranger still, you didn’t hate it.

“Good. I’d hate to find out I’m the most intimidating thing in a room with a flickering lightbulb and a sink from the last century.”

This made you laugh. A real, unfiltered laugh—the kind that caught in your chest and spilled out before you could stop it. It was sharp and sudden, and a little louder than you meant it to be, but you didn’t care. It felt good. You hadn’t done that in a while.

You wiped your eyes, cheeks warm, the sound still lingering in the air as your gaze drifted to Sylus. He was staring. Not blankly. Not like he was studying you. But almost...softly. Like your laugh had surprised him.

Suddenly self-conscious, you tucked your hair behind your ear and looked away. "Ah...it wasn’t that funny, I guess. I’m—"

"Sorry?" he finished for you, his tone edged with irony but his eyes still locked on your face.

You sucked in a breath, caught red-handed, but it melted quickly into another quiet laugh. "Yeah, yeah…I know."

A beat of silence passes, and then he speaks again, but his voice is lower.

"Don't apologize for that. I like when I hear those kinds of sounds from you. They're pretty."

You aren't sure if you heard him right. Your face heats up instantly, the words echoing in your ears like they’ve carved their way in. "Huh?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be, gaze darting anywhere but his.

The air in the room feels heavier now—charged. The warmth from the microwave, the hum of the light overhead, even the distant sound of the city outside—all of it fades into background noise.

He chuckles under his breath, low and unhurried. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me, sweetie."

You stiffen slightly as he moves, rising from the chair he’d been leaning on with effortless grace. He crosses the small space between you, the closeness making your breath catch. You tilt your head up just enough to see his face in the dim, amber lighting—his eyes sharp, but glittering with something unreadable.

"In fact," he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to graze against your spine, "I'm wondering what other sounds come out of that pretty mouth of yours."

The distance between you vanishes with every word, and you feel it—not just in your chest, but everywhere.

A slow burn, threatening to catch fire.

"Sylus..." you breathe, your voice barely audible. His expression has shifted—serious, intense, like he’s bracing himself against something dangerous that’s already clawing its way to the surface. It makes your stomach twist with nerves, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin like a trapped bird.

He lowers himself suddenly, dropping to one knee in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. The motion is fluid, almost graceful, but the way his gaze locks with yours—sharp, possessive, hungry—makes your breath stutter. It’s like he’s trying to memorize you. Or maybe unravel you.

"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?"

Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?"

"A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brush—no hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming.

You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe.

"Do...you mean—"

"Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your breath catches in your throat, heart lurching. Was he serious? The look in his eyes was anything but playful. This wasn’t a joke, it couldn’t be. His expression was molten intensity, carved from restraint, as if he’d spent weeks biting it back until now.

You blink, stunned. You’ve never been looked at like this. Not with hunger, not with reverence, not with the trembling edge of control threatening to unravel.

Everything in your body screams to move, to react, but you're locked in place, caught in the gravity of something you can't name but feel all the way to your bones.

"Do you want your paycheck early?" he asks, voice softer now, almost coaxing, though there’s a rawness behind it. It sounds like he’s bargaining more with himself than with you.

You shake your head, words tumbling out. "N-no, it’s fine, I—"

"Fuck it," he cuts in sharply, the words punched out of him like he can’t hold them back anymore. He’s breathing harder now, chest rising and falling with restraint that looks like it’s about to shatter. "Do you want three times your paycheck? Just a taste. I promise."

The room feels like it’s spinning. Tension coils so tightly in your chest you feel like it might snap your ribs apart. The look in his eyes is unrelenting—dark, desperate, determined. And still, somehow, controlled. Just barely.

Before you can even find your voice, he reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelope, thick and heavy, and tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud.

You stare at it.

Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.

Three thousand dollars.

Enough to pay off everything.

Your rent, your utilities, the credit card bills you’ve been dodging, the mounting stack of final notices tucked inside your kitchen drawer. The broken heater you’ve been hoping would last just a little longer. Even groceries for the rest of the month—maybe two. Gone. All of it, gone. Just like that.

Three thousand dollars was more than relief—it was oxygen. It was the first exhale after being held underwater too long. It was a full night of sleep. It was a moment of silence after endless noise.

And yet, it sat there on the nightstand like a loaded weapon, wrapped in clean paper and cold temptation. A gleaming symbol of power—and surrender.

And all for a taste.

Your heart is racing now, thudding so loud in your chest you can barely think over it. Your mouth feels dry. Your limbs are frozen. You’re not sure what terrifies you more—the offer, or how much you want to take it.

He hasn’t moved.

He’s just watching you, waiting, like a wolf crouched at the edge of a line you didn't know you were drawing.

"It'll feel good. I won't hurt you," he says, his voice dropping to something low and coaxing—soothing like warm velvet, but beneath it, a thrumming urgency that vibrates in the stillness between you. There’s a tremor in his restraint, a sharp tension in the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, like he’s physically holding himself back from reaching for you.

You swallow hard, your breath stuttering in your throat as the atmosphere in the room thickens. The heat in his gaze scorches, pressing against your skin like a physical touch. Your pulse skitters against your ribs, every nerve raw and acutely aware of how close he is.

"I don't know..."

"I know I’m coming off strong," he says again, a note of frustration edging his voice—but it’s not aimed at you. It’s aimed at himself. His eyes don’t waver, locked on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the ground. "Every second. I see you and I can’t breathe. If I do it now, if I can just touch you, just once, maybe I can finally get it out of my head."

You don't say anything for a bit. Your lips part, but the words are stuck—thick and tangled in your throat. Your heart is hammering, each beat echoing against your ribs like it’s trying to shake loose the answer you can’t seem to give. It’s not that you don’t want to speak—it’s that you’re overwhelmed. The offer. The money. The tension so tight between your bodies it feels like it could snap. The way he looks at you, like he’s barely holding himself back. Like he’s one breath away from devouring you.

Finally, you manage to whisper, "I don’t believe you…three thousand for a...taste? Why not ask to go all the way...?"

Sylus exhales through his nose, slow and measured, but there’s a weight in that breath. "Because I know you can’t handle that," he says, his voice low but firm. There’s no smugness in it. And yet, beneath the calm surface, there’s a tremble—barely perceptible but unmistakable. He’s not unaffected by this. Not even close.

"It would hurt you," he continues, eyes narrowing slightly, his jaw tight. "I don’t want that. You think I haven’t thought about it? That I haven’t imagined it in every possible way? I have. Every day. But I’m trying to be better than that."

He pauses, and the room stretches out around his silence, dense and vibrating. His eyes stay locked on yours, unblinking. "This...this is my compromise with myself. To not be greedy and just take you."

You’re frozen, your skin hot, your pulse crashing through your veins. The intensity of his words, the weight of his restraint—it’s almost more intimate than if he’d touched you. There’s something terrifying in how controlled he’s being. How much he's holding back.

You swallow, throat tight, and glance back at the envelope on the nightstand.

The money is still there. Staring back at you like a second pair of eyes in the room. It’s more than just a bundle of cash, it’s a symbol. Of his temptation. Of your need. Of the space where control and desire blur.

It’s real. Heavy. Life-altering.

Your head is spinning. You know in your heart this is a terrible idea—you should say no, shouldn't be entertaining any of this. Every moral fiber in your body is screaming to get up, walk away, salvage whatever shred of dignity you have left. But your brain, more practical, more battered by life, is screaming even louder: you'd be stupid to say no.

You stare down at the floor, the stained edges of your cheap rug blurring in your vision. You can’t make sense of it. Why would someone like him want to do this? To you? Of all people? You weren’t glamorous, weren't the kind of girl who got attention from men like him. So why was he here, offering money, lowering himself to his knees, saying he wanted to...bury his head between your legs?

Your heart hammers as the silence thickens, every second a pressure cooker of conflicting thoughts and desperate what-ifs.

"Is the amount the issue? I can give more. It’s no issue," he suddenly interrupts, his voice firm but almost...breathless. The words slice through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, yanking you back to reality. Back to the weight of the moment—and the intensity in his gaze that hasn't faltered once.

"No...I just don't do things like this," you whine, covering your face in shame. Your voice trembles, not just from embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on you. Is this really what it had come to? Trading your body for cash? For survival? The idea claws at your insides, a slow burn of humiliation rising in your chest. And worse still, the fear gnaws louder—if you said no, would he fire you? Would he rescind the only lifeline you’ve been given in weeks? This strange, fragile opportunity he’d extended might vanish, and with it, the fragile thread holding your life together.

You weren't sure what to think, and that scared you most of all. Because a part of you, a small, shaky part you didn’t want to acknowledge, wasn’t completely horrified. Not at him.

"I can tell," he says quietly, his voice low and steady. He reaches out and gently moves your fingers away from your face, his touch feather-light, surprisingly careful. It’s not the grasp of someone impatient or predatory—it’s...something else. Something worse, maybe. His eyes meet yours, searching with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. You can’t read him.

"You don’t have to do anything. Just lay there," he murmurs.

His words are soft, almost comforting, but the promise woven into them is anything but. You feel that pressure behind every syllable he speaks, like the tension that’s been building between you has finally reached its breaking point.

He suddenly moves much closer to you, and instinctively, your body reacts—you back away, your breath hitching in your throat. The room feels smaller now, his presence taking up all the space like a storm cloud pressing in. You manage to slip past him, heart racing, but your escape is short-lived. The backs of your legs bump against the edge of your bed, halting your retreat with a jolt.

"Are you scared, kitten?" Sylus asks, his voice velvet-soft but unmistakably firm. He steps forward with unsettling calm, each stride deliberate, controlled, like a predator circling prey that it already knows won’t run far. You stumble backward and fall onto the mattress, your palms bracing behind you, eyes wide.

He's over you in an instant—towering, his body blocking out the low light in the room. His hands brace on either side of your waist, caging you in without touching you. You can feel his warmth, the restrained energy radiating from his skin. Your breath quickens as you look up at him, throat tight, heart hammering a wild rhythm against your ribs.

"Do you think I'm going to hurt you?" he asks, his gaze locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. His voice holds no menace, only quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact he already knows the answer to.

You shake your head, voice barely a whisper. "N-no, but...are you going to...force me?"

A low chuckle escapes his lips, dark, amused, and disturbingly composed. "If I wanted to force you," he murmurs, his tone like a blade wrapped in silk, "you wouldn't be asking that question. It would be obvious."

One of his hands slides down your side slowly, deliberately, before gliding up your leg. His fingers graze bare skin, teasingly light as they slip beneath your skirt. The contact sends a jolt through you, your muscles tensing—not entirely from fear, but from something hotter, more primal, curling in your stomach.

His touch lingers just long enough to test your reaction, to feel the tremble in your thighs. He’s watching you like he’s memorizing every micro-expression, every hitched breath, every second of hesitation.

"But you would be a fool to turn down my offer," he says, voice lower now, more dangerous. The calmness in him is unsettling, like he’s already decided how this ends and is simply waiting for you to catch up. "And we both know this."

The way he says it—so certain, so assured—doesn’t feel like a question. It feels like inevitability. Like a fuse already lit, burning closer and closer to whatever explosion he’s been holding back.

You can barely think past the rush of blood in your ears, past the heat that’s rising to your cheeks, to your chest. Your thoughts spiral, second-guessing every feeling that bubbles up inside you. It’s too much. Too fast. Too intense.

He's right...right? This is your best chance to pay off your debt. And he's not even asking for more than a taste. Just a taste. You should just...say yes...right? You try to convince yourself it’s nothing—but deep down, you know that’s a lie. Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about Sylus has ever been.

Your mind is a whirlwind of panic and pressure, too tangled to form a coherent answer. Thoughts crash into each other—fear, doubt, curiosity, need. Before you can gather your thoughts, your breath catches—"I-I...ah!"

Sylus lowers his head and begins kissing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The contact sends a jolt through your body like white-hot electricity, sparking every nerve as it travels down your spine. Your entire body tenses at the sensation, and then melts a second later. Your stomach tightens, breath stuttering as a sharp, unfamiliar heat coils low in your belly, twisting into a knot of want and confusion.

He doesn’t rush. No, he’s slow, achingly slow. He savors every inch of skin, every flinch and tremble, as though he’s memorizing the map of your reactions. Each kiss is soft, but deliberate, searing a path into you that lingers long after his lips have moved on. It’s excruciating in the most maddening way, the kind of teasing that blurs the line between pleasure and torture.

You let out a breathy, broken whine, your fingers clenching in the bedsheets like they’re the only thing grounding you. He continues, lips trailing with devotion, worship, obsession. His control is terrifying—and thrilling. It’s as if he owns you already, and he’s just now getting to unwrap his prize.

"You sound beautiful, sweetie" Sylus murmurs, voice low, rough, vibrating with restrained hunger. It sends another shock of heat through you. He sounds almost pained, like holding himself back is costing him something.

He pauses just long enough to lift his gaze to yours, locking eyes with you in the low light. His mouth still hovers against your skin, warm breath tickling. "Just let me make you feel good."

The words hit like a drug, warm and dizzying, wrapping around your spine and sinking into your thoughts, your bones. His voice pulls you deeper, makes it harder to hold onto doubt. Harder to breathe. You still don't know if you should say yes. You don’t even know what you want anymore.

Sylus's fingers slide up under your skirt further, his touch firm and insistent as they wrap over the hem of your panties. "Ah! Wait—" you start to protest, but his grip tightens, cutting you off. His eyes are filled with a primal hunger, a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I'll make it six times your paycheck," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "Lay back and keep still." You can feel the urgency in his tone, the barely restrained desire that threatens to consume him. The cold air hits your now exposed cunt as he roughly pulls off your panties, leaving you vulnerable and at his mercy.

He can't wait for a clear answer anymore. His darkened gaze drinks in the sight of your glistening arousal.

You gasped, a soft "A-ah! Sylus...okay..." escaping your lips as your body reacted instinctively—your thighs tensing, a flush spreading across your cheeks, and a warm ache building deep inside.

You cover your face in heated shame as Sylus pries your thighs apart, his strength leaving no room for resistance. You gasp as he leaves a sudden, hot wet streak of saliva trailing up your inner folds with his tongue, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with embarrassment through your body. Your lower half feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending alight with anticipation.

"S-stop...!"

You struggle in his grip, trying to back away from the wet sensation, but his hold on you is unyielding. He drags you back into position, lowering his head between your pussy once more. His warm breath teases your sensitive flesh as he begins intricate circles around your swollen bud, his tongue a masterful instrument of pleasure. "Mghn..." you moan, your hands gripping his hair subconsciously, torn between the urge to push him away and the desire to pull him closer, to deepen the exquisite torture of his touch.

"You taste even better than I imagined," Sylus coos, his voice a low, throaty murmur that vibrates against your most sensitive spots. He gives your throbbing clit a break, instead pushing his tongue deeper inside your cunt, exploring your depths with a skill that leaves you breathless. "Ahh!" You nearly arch off the bed, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming.

Only Sylus's steady and strong hands keep you in place, grounding you as waves of pleasure crash over you. You've never felt anything like this before, the vibrations of his voice adding to the aching pleasure that builds with each tortuous stroke of his tongue pushing in and out of your walls. "Don't...talk like that. Just hurry...mghn!" you manage to gasp out, your voice a mix of desperation and shame, urging him to bring you to the edge and over. Sylus truly had no shame with how blunt he often came across. You had often admired that about him.

In this situation though? It was mortifying.

A deep chuckle rumbles in Sylus's chest, a sound that vibrates through you, sending shivers down your spine. He pauses, looking up briefly to gaze into your eyes, studying your distraught and shameful expression with a mix of amusement and hunger. "As you wish, kitten," he murmurs, his voice laced with a promise of pleasure. He moves his tongue back to circle your clit, his touch both teasing and demanding.

As he begins to suck lightly, you let out a sound so primal and filthy that it surprises even you. Your whole body tenses, your core building with a tense pressure that threatens to explode. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and vulnerability that leaves you gasping and clutching the sheets, desperate for release.

"Hah...hah...hah..."

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as Sylus licks and devours your pussy with an insatiable hunger. He switches between sucking your clit and licking in between your folds, his tongue relentless in its movements. Each stroke, each suck, builds the tension inside you, pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel the pressure coiling tighter, your body trembling with anticipation. The room fills with the sounds of your desperate pants and his wet, hungry licks, a symphony of raw, unfiltered desire.

You manage to crack open your eyes, catching a glimpse of Sylus's flushed and heated face, his expression one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He's clearly enjoying himself, his eyes dark with desire and his breath coming in ragged gasps. When you try to quiet your moans by biting down on your lip, he only sucks on your clit harder, drawing out the pleasure until you're practically screaming.

Your legs lock around his head, but he doesn't seem to mind, his focus entirely on the task at hand. Suddenly, he looks up, his eyes narrowed and intense as he locks his gaze with yours. You're a moaning, writhing mess, your body trembling on the edge of release. The last thing you need is to cum with him looking at you like that, his gaze searing into your soul. But it's clear he has no intention of looking away, his stare unyielding and demanding, as if he's determined to watch you unravel completely.

"Fuck! Sylus!" The words tear from your throat, a desperate cry that echoes through the room. But it's too late, the pressure has built to a crescendo, and with one final, powerful suck, it explodes. Your whole body tenses and shivers as a crash of aching pleasure overfills your lower half, waves of ecstasy washing over you, leaving you breathless and trembling.

Your face tears up and you gasp for breath as you ride out the intense orgasm. Sylus watches, his eyes locked on yours, as you unravel on his tongue. He laps up your juices, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring every drop. You twitch and jerk on his mouth, your body convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure, each one sending new waves of sensation coursing through you. He doesn't let up, his tongue continuing to tease and explore, drawing out the feeling until you're a quivering, spent mess, completely at his mercy.

Eventually, the sensations of Sylus's tongue continuing to lick your oversensitive bud become too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. You plead with him to stop, your voice breaking as you burst into tears, overwhelmed by the intensity of the experience. Sylus pauses, his tongue stilling as he licks his mouth, his face softening with a mix of satisfaction and tenderness. He's breathless, his chest heaving as he leans closer to your face. Through your tears and sobs, you can barely see him, but you feel him lean in, his lips capturing yours in a firm, passionate kiss. It's strong and demanding, leaving you helpless to do anything except lean into it. He pries open your mouth with his tongue, exploring and claiming. He pauses between each breath to speak.

"Everything you do...is so damn cute. Even when you're crying... God...what am I supposed to do with you?"

He doesn’t ask; he takes, yet not without a strange reverence, like he’s claiming something that was always his to begin with. Your body responds before your mind can catch up. Instinct, surrender, exhaustion, maybe all three. You lean into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, powerless against the storm he’s become.

Everything becomes a blur after that. Your senses dull, body limp from exhaustion, nerves frayed to the point of collapse. Your eyes begin to feel unbearably heavy, each blink slower than the last. You vaguely register movement—his hands, still careful despite the storm that had just passed, adjusting your position on the bed, guiding your head to the pillow.

You think you hear him murmur something near your ear. It’s low, almost regretful. “I think I’ve just made things worse for myself.” Or maybe you imagined it. You can’t be sure.

There’s the faint rustle of fabric, the cool sensation of a cloth against your skin. You open your eyes just enough to catch the shape of him cleaning you with surprising gentleness. Another flutter of vision: a fresh pair of underwear, slipped back into place with care. Then, a sudden weight is placed on the bed beside you. A second envelope of cash.

And then…nothing. He’s gone. The room is quiet again.

Your eyes finally close, this time for good.

When you wake up the next morning, for a split second, you almost believe you dreamed the whole thing. A strange haze clings to your thoughts, like your mind is desperately trying to rewrite reality into something softer. But the two thick envelopes of cash sitting ominously on your nightstand and bed say otherwise.

You sit up slowly, the ache in your body making it clear last night wasn’t just a vivid fantasy. Shame floods your chest as the memories return in jagged pieces. You grip your hair, curling forward on the bed.

"Shit, shit, shit…" you whisper harshly to yourself, your stomach twisting into knots. How were you supposed to go back to work and face him after that? Could you even look him in the eye? Should you even bother showing up again? Or was it better to disappear, let this whole thing vanish behind you like a nightmare?

You try to steady your breathing, to ground yourself, but your thoughts are a chaotic mess. As you sit there, overwhelmed, something shifts in your periphery. You glance toward your front door.

Boxes.

Taped, sealed boxes. You blink, confused. You hadn’t ordered anything. You hadn’t expected anything. Yet there they were—stacked neatly by the door like they belonged.

A strange chill rolls down your spine.

What the hell is this?

The first was a box of winter clothes. Not just any clothes—thick, soft-lined wool leggings, a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood, warm gloves that fit your fingers perfectly, thermal socks, and a sturdy pair of boots that looked brand new. The fabric was clearly expensive, designed for someone who actually had to walk in freezing weather. All of it in muted, neutral tones—deep gray, soft beige, dark burgundy, as if selected not just for practicality, but to suit you.

The second box held a phone.

Your breath hitched. A brand new, high-end smartphone. Sleek, lightweight, and already powered on. The screen displayed nothing but a single message: a contact preloaded into the device. Just one name.

Sylus.

You swallowed hard. You had only mentioned in passing that you didn’t own a phone, something about saving up for one eventually, tossed out in conversation and barely remembered. But he had remembered. Not only that, he had acted on it. Gone out of his way to give you something you hadn’t even asked for. He'd even noticed you didn't have proper winter clothes.

Your heart pounded, warmth blooming in your chest so abruptly it startled you. Was this guilt? Remorse for how things had gone last night? Did he feel bad for pushing you past your limits? Or…was this something else?

You didn’t know. But whatever the reason, gratitude surged through your veins like a wave.

You had to thank him. But you were too nervous to text him.

The idea of crafting a message was too much. So instead, you threw yourself into getting ready, tugging on the new winter clothes he’d sent. The coat fit like it was tailored for you, hugging your body in a way that made you feel both secure and...oddly seen. The boots were warm and sturdy. Even the gloves made your hands feel less forgotten by the cold.

You rushed to work without checking the time. Your heart beat like a drum in your chest the entire way, thoughts looping back to last night. That moment—those moments—had unraveled something deep in you. Something that had never been touched before. Even now, thinking about it made your cheeks burn. The heat crawled up your neck as flashes of memory danced behind your eyes.

It had felt good. Too good. Even if it had been unexpected and confusing, the way he’d touched you, spoken to you, looked at you—it all stayed with you. And now...your debts were gone. Cleared. Just like that.

Because of him.

You owed him more than money could ever measure. Even if the circumstances had been a little strange. You had to say something. Anything. You felt awful for blacking out on him so suddenly, for never even thanking him properly.

As you stepped into the elevator, thoughts still tangled and storming inside you, the soft chime of the top floor arriving pulled you from your haze. The doors slid open.

You entered the suite, heart pounding, nerves buzzing, a mixture of anticipation and unease swirling in your chest like a storm barely held at bay. Your palms were clammy inside your gloves, your breath caught somewhere between hope and dread. But the moment you stepped inside and spotted Sylus, your face instinctively lit up, a flicker of relief sparking in your chest.

He had his back to you, seated with an almost lazy confidence on one of the sleek leather couches that made the massive living room feel even more expansive. You took a breath, readying yourself, rehearsing the words you'd been building up the courage to say.

"Sylus...I just wanted to say I—"

And then you stopped cold.

A voice—low, smooth, unmistakably feminine—slipped through the air like smoke.

Your eyes shifted. Next to him on the couch sat a woman. A vision. Slender and poised, legs elegantly crossed, a cigarette balanced with casual grace between long, painted fingers. Her dark hair fell in effortless waves, and her eyes, smoky, lined to perfection, scanned the room like she owned it. She looked like she stepped out of a magazine spread or a high-society gala. Everything about her screamed power, ease, control.

And Sylus…

He wasn’t the man you usually saw—sharp, unreadable, and cold. No, this version of him was relaxed. Too relaxed. His posture loose, one arm slung along the back of the couch, the other resting on her thigh like it belonged there. They laughed together, the sound low and intimate. It was a touch that spoke of familiarity, not formality. Not business. Personal.

The air thickened around you.

They both turned as the door clicked shut behind you.

And you froze in place.

All the breath you’d been holding escaped you in a shallow, silent gasp.

Your fingers gripped the sleeves of your coat tightly, a useless attempt to hold onto something solid as the ground beneath your feet shifted. For a single, endless heartbeat, all you could hear was the blood rushing past your ears.

"Oh? Who's this, Sylus?" the woman asked, her tone light and teasing, yet unmistakably edged with curiosity. She tilted her head, dark lashes framing her amused eyes as she took another slow drag of her cigarette. Smoke curled around her like perfume, adding a haze to the air as she studied you from across the room, her gaze settling on you like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Sylus didn’t even spare you a glance. His voice, when he spoke, was flat, indifferent, practically clinical. "Just the housekeeper. We got a new supply of rags for you, since the others were torn or bleached. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing today."

Just the housekeeper.

The phrase echoed in your head, each syllable heavier than the last. You stood there, frozen, trying to pretend those words hadn’t hit you like a slap to the face. Trying to pretend the tight knot in your chest was anything but what it was.

He turned back to the woman without pause, without a flicker of acknowledgment that you might have had something to say. His fingers remained lazily draped on her thigh, his posture relaxed, comfortable in a way you’d never seen before. He chuckled at something she whispered in his ear, his lips curling in a way that made your stomach twist with something sharp and bitter.

Your heart dropped, heavy and cold, like it had been cut loose and left to sink. Your arms felt numb. Your breath felt caught in your throat.

You didn’t even fully understand why it stung this much. Maybe it was the sudden switch from last night’s intensity to this cold dismissal. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when he’d touched you, compared to the easy comfort he now gave so freely to someone else.

You had just gotten the stark reminder that you were nothing but the help. A background character in his real life.

You managed to speak without choking. "Oh...yeah. I’ll get right on that," you mumbled, your voice tight and fragile, like it might crack if pushed any further. You turned away before either of them could see your expression.

The hallway felt darker as you walked away, the soft echo of their laughter following you like a ghost. It clung to you, taunting, curling around your shoulders like smoke.

Just the housekeeper, huh?

All of that—every touch, every look, every whispered word—had just been for his own amusement. For him to get off. A way to toy with you, distract himself, maybe pass some time. Nothing more. The money, the clothes, the phone—it had all been out of pity. A rich man’s guilt dressed up as generosity.

Of course. He was the leader of Onychinus. A man of unshakable power and influence. What had you honestly expected? That someone like him would look at someone like you and see something worth wanting? That he had good intentions with you? Of course it had meant nothing. He got what he wanted and you got the money.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You were stupid to overthink it otherwise.

You were nothing but a desperate girl from the N109 Zone—barely scraping by, barely surviving. You weren’t beautiful like that woman on the couch. You weren’t polished, or confident, or powerful. You were a speck in his world. A faceless, voiceless shadow.

Stupid. So, so stupid. You felt utter shame now. Felt used.

The self-loathing came in waves, sharp and consuming as you scrubbed at the kitchen floor, harder than you needed to. Each movement was angry, bitter, punishing. Scrub, rinse, repeat. The pain in your knees didn’t matter. The sting in your fingers didn’t matter. The tears threatening to fall, those didn’t matter either.

Because this was your place.

Not in his lap. Not in his bed. Not in his thoughts.

Here. On your hands and knees. Scrubbing. Silent. Invisible.

You were a nobody. Lowlife scum. Best to remember that.

Best to know your place.

And keep being the quiet, disposable housekeeper he’d hired you to be.

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

warning: tail play, Lucian is a needy little incubus

Lucian’s tail curled around your leg as you read, his yellow eyes narrowing.

“You’ve had your nose in that book for hours now, aren’t you tired of reading it yet?”

You glanced his way, cheeks warm when his eyes met yours. Ever since the two of you had formed a contract, the incubus had made it clear you were to spend most of your free time with him.

He could be rather jealous and a bit needy at times, especially when you were paying attention to something other than him.

“I have to study for my exam, Luci,” you murmured, quieting down when you noticed his pout. “… but I guess I can take a short break.”

The incubus perked up, immediately crawling across the bed to wiggle his way into your arms. His intense golden eyes bore into yours as he cupped your cheek. “Good… I hope I have your full attention now.”

Suddenly, he leaned forward and began peppering kisses along your face, smooching your cheeks, forehead, and nose before pressing several kisses to your lips.

“H-hey-“ you whined, squirming as he climbed on top of you to keep you still.

“You’ve been ignoring me all day. We have a contract, you know? I don’t like when your attention isn’t directed at me for such a long period of time.”

The incubus began to purr as he settled on top of you, much like a cat loafing on its owner’s chest. His hands even started to knead and grope your breasts, making you whimper out little moans.

His pupils dilated, and he stared at you fondly. Lucian didn’t really understand why he felt this way, why he needed to be close and always touching you. With your hands gently running through his hair and your soft breath against his neck, he could almost fall asleep.

You made him feel… at peace. It had been a long time since he was able to relax in the presence of another being.

Thoughts of a domestic life with you, being able to leave behind all of the pain and suffering of his past and just… be happy made him squeeze you tightly.

“Luci, you’re holding me too tight… it kind of hurts.”

This brought him back to reality, one in which you didn’t love him. The two of you were in a mutual agreement, a contract. He sexually satisfied you and taught you about boys, while you let him cling to you and take comfort in your presence.

The realization hurt, even if he was the one to trap you in such an agreement. Sex with you was amazing, unlike any other sexual encounter he’d ever had… but he wanted so much more from you.

Lucian knew that the contract bound you to him, meaning he pretty much owned you, body and soul, but he wanted you to… want it. The incubus needed you to love and adore him full heartedly.

His hands shot up to pin your wrists above your head, his tail slipping into your panties to toy with your soaked cunt. Being around an incubus for an extended period of time would make anyone hot and bothered, he was used to this.

“L-Luci… didn’t you say you w…” you whimpered, feeling his tail sink into you, your walls fluttering around it as it twitched and wriggled inside. “You… just wanted my attention.”

“And I’ve got it now, don’t I?”

He wanted to see you look up at him, to see you come undone and beg for him to make you feel good. This was when you needed him, when you’d even slip up and babble out a rushed “I love you” during an intense orgasm.

“You’re so pretty…” he murmured, lifting up your shirt so he could latch onto your perky nipple. His tongue flicked against it, pulling away with a lewd pop. “So fucking pretty…”

Part of him wanted to know if you found him attractive too… at least he knew he was the only one to ever touch you, to take your virginity.

“Gonna-“

You came before you could finish, clamping down on his tail as he shushed you, his finger rubbing at your sensitive bundle of nerves to help you through your orgasm. “That’s it, feels good doesn’t it?”

Lucian looked down at your body, feeling a strange fondness well up in his chest. You were quite adorable, all flustered and flushed after your orgasm, he couldn’t help but give your pretty pussy a lingering kiss.

“… while you’re in this contract with me, you can’t sleep with anyone else,” he murmured, looking up at you again. Though the yellow in his eyes had reverted to a soft, almost golden hue, you could still feel the intensity behind his gaze.

He laid down and held you close, finally allowing you to study as he buried his face into your neck.

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx @sandramalikstyles-blog @breathingstarlight : @puppyboytranny @calfbun

[brittle-doughie]

Since we had that story of Y/N Cookie wanting to keep the Ancients from going out and getting themselves killed up against Dark Enchantress Cookie, how about something similar with the Beasts?

>The Beasts get corrupted

>Y/N Cookie, not corrupted, tries to fight them, and fails

>cue them starting to die

>Beasts start panicking, completely overestimating how much Y/N Cookie could take

>Y/N Cookie, in their last moments, wishes they could’ve done more to help the Beasts not get corrupted before finally going

>Witch(es) stumble upon this scene, seeing their greatest cookie having been crumbled, along with whatever other carnage is around

>cue literally everything else

Being sealed away with the guilt of spilling jam from the cookie you all loved the most fresh on your mind? They are NOT gonna be doing so hot in there.

The Tale of the Forced Hand (The Five Beasts)

Witch’s Castle witches are pretty neat.

“The story begins when this very Silver Tree was only a small sapling…When the World of Desserts was at its infancy.”

“The Witches baked six Cookies to help them in their creation of the world.”

“..harness the radiance bestowed upon you for the betterment of this world…”

“And the six Cookies imbued with absolute powers walked Earthbread as almighty envoys of the Great Creators.”

“Knowledge, Volition, Compassion, Happiness, Change, and Solidarity.”

“The Dessert World bound by these Five Virtues was nothing short of paradise.”

Gingerbrave and Wizard Cookie chimed in with their responses.

“So those six Cookies were the original owners of the Soul Jam?”

“Huh…Those “Six Virtues” are different from those of the Soul Jams. There’s six of them, yet only five today…”

“The Virtue of Compassion is what held the other Virtues so closely together, cherishing each of them equally as much.”

“Alas, for they and the perfect age were short-lived. Absolute power begets nothing but arrogance. It inevitably corrupts its wielder, bringing them to the most tragic of ends…A fate even the Witches were unable to foresee.”

“One by one, the Five, once regarded as saviors of the Cookie World, gradually turned to Darkness. And thus, the Five Virtues, too, became distorted, twisted…reduced to Deceit, Apathy, Sloth, Destruction, and Silence….”

Strawberry Cookie shuddered in worry at the mere mention of the fallen virtues.

“Deceit, Apathy, Sloth, Destruction, and Silence..that sounds really scary…

“Wait, what about the Virtue of Compassion? They weren’t evil too, were they?”

“The Virtue of Compassion was able to prevail against their descent into Darkness with their Soul Jam, whereas now the Five Beasts, the apostles of evil, began their dark crusade…”

“The Witches asked of Compassion to protect the Cookie World from the Beast Cookies, lending them what strength they could give.”

“Compassion fought bravely against the Beasts, blocking each of their blows and resisting their sickly whispers…But it was only a matter of time before Compassion slowly began to whittle…”

———————————————————————

“Come on, snap out of you all! This isn’t what you guys once were!”

“What’s the big deal, silly willy~ There isn’t anything wrong with dabbling yourself in a little bit of Darkness, you should try it with us!”

“No! This isn’t you! You were all my best friends! Come to your senses! Now!”

“It pains me to see you still cling onto false hope that you’re different than the rest of us, darling~ Can you just let go and become who you really are? For me~?”

“I can’t…I cannot forsake my oath to protect the Cookie World. You all know that! Cookies that want happy lives, don’t you want that?”

“They will all meet the same fate in the end, reduced to nothing…the futility of all this should be clear to you…”

“As if! It isn’t pointless to live life the way you want it to! It’s how you spend it and make the most of it!”

“They will all crumble in the end, so why not give them a little push! You’re starting to really aggravate me now, Y/N Cookie!”

“I won��t let you hurt them and I don’t want to hurt you all any more then I have to! Please, don’t do this…”

“……”

“Your silence says everything I need to hear from you. I tried…but I will put a stop you no matter if I’m reduced to bits!”

———————————————————————

“Woah….What happened to them?”

“The Virtue of Compassion fought for as long as they were able, their dough slowly whittling away with every blow that dealt to them. The Beasts have overestimated just how durable their former friend was…and they perished right in the middle of the circle….”

———————————————————————

“Ok, ya silly goose! You can stand right back up now! You put on a great show, let us give you a round of applause!”

“Darling, we know we haven’t hit you too hard. You can join us and we can all be together once more as Beasts…”

“Hmm…they don’t seem to be responding to us…”

“Hey, Y/N Cookie. Quit being soft and get up already, you’re..starting to worry me a bit here, you know.”

Silent Salt Cookie knelt down and placed their thumb on your wrist…jumping back when they feel nothing…

“Ahaha! Okay! This isn’t funny anymore, you softie! You win! Stand up on your two feet now! I’ll make you if you don’t!”

“D-Darling? P-Please get up. Look, I’m sorry for what I said earlier, I-WE just really wanted you to join us…”

“Burning Spice Cookie, just how hard were your strikes to their dough?

“D-Don’t put any type of blame on me! All of you were just as rough with them as I was!”

“….!”

The Beast Cookies rushed to their fallen friend in the center, clearly distraught on their faces…

“Y/N Cookie, if you don’t stop playing jokes with me right now, I’ll never forgive you!”

“Darling! Wake up! I-I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have hit you so hard! Please wake up! You have to! Don’t leave me alone!”

“It was pointless to try and stop us, Y/N Cookie. Yet…my heart cries and aches, why did you have to resist….please, wake up…”

“God DAMN IT. I-I went too far, I shouldn’t have been so brutal with my swings and now look at you, your dough..damaged and ruined….because of me….”

“….Hmph….”

Silent Salt just lowered their head to look at the ground, feeling nothing but shame and remorse for what they had done…for what they all had done….

“I wish…I could’ve done more for you all…I wished…that I had loved all of you more…to not…end up like this...”

“…..I’m sorry…..”

———————————————————————

“The Witches couldn’t bear to see what fate had befallen their creations, made even more distraught at the loss of their greatest creation among them all…they punished the Beasts by sealing them away deep within this land…”

“And planted the seed of the Silver Tree to ensure their evil power never sees the light of day again. Right where the Virtue of Compassion was laid to rest, so that at least a part of them can live on….From then on, this land where the Beasts were put to sleep, was called Beast Yeast.”

“The Witches then gathered the last vestiges of power bestowed upon the Beasts, untouched by their corruption. They further cleansed, purified it, and in the end…Soul Jam was created. The purest Soul Jam was meant to be earned by Cookies who had proven themselves worthy.”

“All, but Compassion. For their purity simply could not be remade again. The Witch who personally baked Compassion had locked herself away in grief after the loss of her cookie and took the knowledge of the recipe and baking of Compassion with her…”

“So, there can never be another cookie like Compassion?”

“It’s what they say, but all life powder returns to the earth. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility that the Virtue of Compassion may return in some form, someday…”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Y/N Cookie, who was casually eating some food offered to them by the Faeries.

“…..What?”

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown: Venus in The Houses

Love is never just one thing. It takes different shapes, wears different masks, whispers through different corners of our lives. Sometimes it’s loud and consuming, other times it lingers in the background, shaping us in ways we don’t always recognize. Venus in the houses reveals where love finds you, how it teaches you, and the unspoken lessons it leaves behind.

Venus in the 1st House

Love moves through you before it moves toward you. With Venus in the 1st House, you don’t just love, you embody love. It lingers in your presence, woven into your gestures, your voice, the way you draw people in without even trying. You may find that admiration follows you easily, that attraction is effortless, and yet, beneath the charm, a question lingers: Do they love you, or do they love the idea of you?

It’s easy to become a mirror for others, reflecting back what they desire, slipping into the roles they assign you. But love, if built on performance, will never feel real. The challenge here is to be seen, not just adored. To let someone love you in the moments when you are not dazzling, not perfect, but simply human. The lesson: Let love see you, in the light and in the dark. Do not fear being known.

Venus in the 2nd House

Love, for you, is about worth, how it’s given, how it’s received, how it affirms your place in the world. With Venus in the 2nd House, relationships are tied to security, to stability, to the deep-rooted need to know that you are valued, not just in words but in actions. You seek love that feels dependable, steady, something you can hold onto. And yet, when love is too closely linked to validation, the search for security can turn into an endless chase.

If your self-worth depends on how much love you receive, you may find yourself overextending, proving, giving more than you should in the hope of being enough. But real love is not earned, it is met. The challenge here is to find that worth within yourself first, so love does not become a transaction. The lesson: Let love affirm you, not define you. What you carry within is already enough.

Venus in the 3rd House

Love is a language, a conversation, a thread woven through words. With Venus in the 3rd House, relationships are built on communication, on the way thoughts intertwine, on shared ideas, on the electricity of a well-placed sentence. You love through dialogue, through letters, through the rhythm of voices blending in harmony. But sometimes, love is quieter than that.

Not all emotions can be translated. Not every feeling can be spoken. And when you tie love too closely to words, you risk missing the love that exists in silence, in the spaces between, in the presence that does not need explanation. The challenge is to let love breathe beyond the need to define it. The lesson: Let love exist in all its forms, both spoken and unspoken.

Venus in the 4th House

Love is home, love is shelter, love is the feeling of belonging. With Venus in the 4th House, relationships are deeply personal, rooted in emotion, memory, and the longing to create something safe. You love with a kind of depth that seeks not just passion but refuge. But when love is expected to be a sanctuary, the weight of that expectation can become too much for any one person to hold.

If you rely on love to be the safe haven you never had, you may find yourself clinging, expecting a partner to heal wounds that only you can tend to. The challenge here is to build home within yourself first. The lesson: Let love be a choice, not a lifeline. True intimacy comes not from dependency, but from two people meeting from a place of wholeness.

Venus in the 5th House

Love is a story, a dance, a spark that refuses to fade. With Venus in the 5th House, romance is an art form, something to be celebrated, something that brings color and joy. You fall in love with the excitement, with the chase, with the beauty of connection before it asks too much of you. But when love is only about the beginning, what happens when the thrill settles?

If you seek love only for the high it provides, you may find yourself running when the deeper work begins. Love is not just fire, it is also the warmth that lingers when the flames die down. The challenge is to embrace both passion and permanence. The lesson: Love is not just about what excites you, but what remains after excitement fades.

Venus in the 6th House

Love is in the details, in the effort, in the quiet devotion of everyday life. With Venus in the 6th House, relationships are built on care, on the small, unspoken acts of service that say “I see you” without needing grand gestures. But when love is too closely tied to duty, it can begin to feel like something you must earn rather than something you receive.

If you only feel valuable when you are giving, you may find yourself depleted, pouring into others without leaving space for yourself. The challenge here is to receive, to trust that love does not require you to prove your worth through effort. The lesson: Love is not just what you do for others, it is also what you allow yourself to receive.

Venus in the 7th House

Love is a mirror, a reflection, a dance between two souls seeking balance. With Venus in the 7th House, relationships are the heartbeat of your life. You thrive in connection, in the art of partnership, in the beauty of being understood. But when love becomes the foundation of your identity, the risk is losing yourself in it.

If your happiness depends on another, if your sense of self is too closely tied to being loved, then love becomes a condition, not a freedom. The challenge here is to stand whole, to bring your full self into love rather than bending to fit into another’s shape. The lesson: Love deeply, but do not disappear within it.

Venus in the 8th House

Love is transformation, love is surrender, love is the fire that strips away illusion. With Venus in the 8th House, relationships are not light, they are depth, they are intensity, they are the things that shake you to your core. You crave love that changes you, that demands vulnerability, that breaks and rebuilds. But when love is tied to power, it can become a battle rather than a sanctuary.

If you fear losing control, you may hold on too tightly, mistaking possession for security. But love cannot be owned, nor can it be forced to stay. The challenge is to trust love enough to let it breathe. The lesson: Let love change you, but do not let it consume you.

Venus in the 9th House

Love is an open road, a horizon that never stops expanding. With Venus in the 9th House, relationships are about discovery, of the world, of new perspectives, of yourself. You are drawn to partners who challenge your thinking, who bring something unfamiliar into your life, who make love feel like an adventure rather than a destination. Love, to you, is a journey, one that must always offer something new.

But in your search for expansion, do you ever allow yourself to land? If love is always about growth, movement, and new experiences, you may struggle with the stillness of commitment. The risk is chasing the next high, the next revelation, without ever letting love settle into something real. The challenge is to find depth in what remains, not just in what is new. The lesson: Love is not just about where it takes you, it’s also about who you become when you stop running.

Venus in the 10th House

Love is legacy, love is purpose, love is the reflection of your ambitions. With Venus in the 10th House, relationships are rarely just personal, they are tied to what you are building in the world. You may seek a partner who aligns with your vision, who elevates your path, who helps you create something lasting. Love, to you, must be meaningful, something that carries weight beyond the personal.

But when love is tied too closely to achievement, it can become something to prove rather than something to experience. You may be drawn to relationships that "make sense" on paper, ones that align with your goals or expectations, but do they fulfill you emotionally? The challenge is to let love exist outside of what is practical or admirable. The lesson: Love is not a trophy, it is a feeling, a presence, something that holds you when everything else fades.

Venus in the 11th House

Love is friendship, love is connection, love is a shared dream of something greater. With Venus in the 11th House, relationships are about more than just two people, you seek love that is part of a larger vision, something that aligns with your ideals. You may find yourself drawn to partners who inspire you intellectually, who share your values, who feel like kindred spirits. Love, to you, is not just personal, it is collective, something that extends beyond intimacy and into purpose.

But when love is placed in the realm of ideals, emotional depth can sometimes be overlooked. You may crave a relationship that feels effortless, that is built on shared interests and mutual respect, but true love also requires vulnerability, the willingness to be seen not just as an idea, but as a person with flaws and fears. The challenge is to let love be human, imperfect, raw. The lesson: Love is not just about who shares your vision, it’s about who sees your soul.

Venus in the 12th House

Love is mystery, love is longing, love is something that moves through the unseen. With Venus in the 12th House, relationships often carry an air of the fated, the spiritual, the unspoken. You may be drawn to connections that feel karmic, as if you have known them before, as if love is something you must unravel rather than something you simply receive. Love, to you, is something deep, something sacred, something that exists in the spaces between words.

But when love lives too much in the shadows, it can become something you never fully grasp. You may lose yourself in a relationship, merging so deeply with another that you forget where you end and they begin. Or you may find yourself drawn to unavailable love, to relationships that exist in secrecy, in dreams rather than reality. The challenge is to bring love into the light, to let it exist in the present rather than in the imagined. The lesson: Love must be real, not just felt. Allow yourself to be chosen, seen, and held, not just in spirit, but in truth.

[hon3y-y]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ your ex reminds you who you actually belong to</3

Jealous!Sukuna who comes banging on your door in the middle of the night. After you open the door, his sharp eyes immediately zero in on you, a deep scowl on his face.

Jealous!ex!Sukuna who doesn’t wait for you to let him in but brushes past you, already pacing around your apartments living room. He feels like he’s going insane, and its all your fault. You stare at him tiredly from just being woken up and when he finally notices your confusion, he’s quick to push you near the closest wall, “don’t act dumb, baby. You know what you did.” His voice is low and the predatory look in his eye makes you squirm.

Jealous!Sukuna who has your legs thrown over his shoulders as you lay on the couch, knotting your fingers into his soft hair, nearly sobbing as he works you into your third orgasm. “He can’t do this for you baby,” he cooes, “not the way I can…”pulling away while using his hand to spread your spent pussy apart for him. Your hole dripping and twitching as you whine, begging for him to stick it in. It so small and you clit is so swollen, he gives it a little kiss making you shutter, his sensitive pretty slutty baby:((

But he won’t, instead he slaps your aching cunt making your hips jump and a yelp escape your lips. He watches your eyes fill with tears and laughs, “you want me so bad and yet you fucked him…” still furious at the information a mutual friend passed to him. Doesn’t matter if you’re not together, you’re his and no one can change that. You pussy knows it, so why don’t you?

Jealous!ex!Sukuna who has you face down in the couch cushion, squealing every time his cock hits your cervix. Your eyes are nearly imprinted into the back of your head as you pussy gushes around his cock, drool leaking from your lips. The base of his dick glistens in your slick and his camera catches everything. He grabs your hair to pull you against him and forces your face in the camera, “smile for the camera, slut.”

Too fucked out to care, you only whimper and beg, “k-kiss m-e. P-please, kuna’~” you stutter the words, wanting nothing more than a confirmation he still loved you. He smiled, glad to catch the intimate moment on camera before throwing his phone onto the cushion and wrapping his hand around your neck to kiss you with passion. The kiss is messy, saliva and tongue but it only makes you two hornier

Jealous!Sukuna who fucked you until you passed out, tucked comfortably into his side and clinging onto him for dear life. He watches you sleep peacefully knowing that you would forget about all the fucked up shit he’s done and want him back. And just to be sure, he sends the guy you were seeing your most recent sex tape as a “goodbye gift” <3

A/n; inspired by literally all of the other writers I’ve seen do these. Hope you guys enjoy:)

[no-144444]

miami blues- o.piastri

꩜summary: for some reason he took lando's advice, it doesn't go horribly... kinda

꩜pairing: oscar piastri x ex! single mom! fem! reader

[08.43, 3rd of May, Miami] 

“Hey umm,” he sighed, feeling every bit as awkward as he was being. “I was wondering if you’re in Miami yet?”

“Yeah. We just got here. Settling into the hotel. How are you?” you asked, your voice calm but he could tell something was off.

“All good. Okay umm,” he swiped a hand down his face as he tried to muster up the courage to ask yet another impossible question. “Is there any way I could see you guys tonight? If you’re free? And how are you?” he hit himself in the head, embarrassment running through his veins.

The other side of the line was quiet for a moment. “Yeah sure. I’ll drop Mia by your room if you’d like?” you offered.

He paused for a moment. Where would you be? “Yeah of course, that’d be perfect, thank you,” he nodded. “You’re welcome to come too, obviously,” he added, hoping he wasn’t being so blatant about his want for you to be there. 

Again, you paused. “That’s alright. I think you two know each other well enough and I trust you with her, it could be your first time on your own,” the smile you plastered on your face was fake, and so was that cheery tone of your voice. “It’d be nice to have a night off as well, if you don’t mind.” 

“Of course!” he rushed out, wanting to let you have a good night. “No, that’s perfect, thank you.” 

“Great,” you huffed out. “I’ll drop her over at like… 7ish and pick her up at 10?”

He smiled despite the weirdness between the two of you. He had Mia for the night, something to look forward to. “That’s perfect, thanks Y/n.”

You hung up without another word. 

Oscar was nervous to have Mia on his own. She was a brilliant kid and he loved her more than anything in the world, but it was strange, usually he could look at you if he didn’t know what to do. Those parenting books he’d been devouring weren’t doing much either, but they had some good tips and games, so he wasn’t livid. The knock on the door sent the butterflies in his stomach flying all over the place and he literally had to take a deep breath before opening the door. It reminded him of the first time you two went out. You were going to the cinema. You had agreed to go out with him by some grace of God, and he knew he wasn’t messing it up. He had been so nervous, but you just seemed calm, like this was normal. Like it wasn’t the single greatest moment of his life. 

“Hey,” he smiled, immediately taking Mia out of your arms. “Hey baby,” he smiled at her as she hugged him tight, clinging onto his shirt. “How are you?” 

“Good,” she nodded, hiding in his neck. “Excited.”

“Me too,” he chuckled, taking her bag off of you as you watched the two of them with fond eyes. 

“Hey,” you smiled, watching as your daughter clung to him. It pulled on your heartstrings sometimes. You’d always known Oscar wanted to be a dad, and you felt almost… guilty for keeping Mia from him for so many years. Obviously, it wasn’t exactly your choice, considering he was the one who ended it and blocked you, but still, it didn't feel right that he didn’t get to see her when she was so small. “Can I come in?” 

“Of course,” he nodded, making room for you to walk in. His hotel room was the size of an apartment, and you stared. You almost forgot he was an F1 driver sometimes, especially when he was holding Mia like that and looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world. “How are you?” he asked as he placed Mia down on the couch, starting to unpack the dinner he’d ordered. Of course he already knew her favourite foods, of course. 

“I’m good,” you nodded, arms crossed as you looked around. “Tired, but good,” 

“How was the flight?” he asked. “Sorry I couldn’t fly with you two.” 

“Not a problem,” you smiled. “And thank you for the upgrades, you really didn’t have to do that.” 

“It’s the least I can do,” he shrugged.

A flat smile made its way onto your face. “We both know that’s not true.” 

He looked up, trying to decode whatever that meant, but you were already preoccupied with looking at the view. The Miami seafront. You could see the track from up there. It was beautiful. The low lights of the hotel room gave the entire space a nice glow, you liked it. “So what are you going to do with your night off?” he asked, serving Mia up her dinner. 

You debated on telling him, then decided against it. “Just relaxing. Maybe watch a movie.” 

“Nice,” he nodded. “Well, I’m good here if you’re good to go. Don’t want you to miss your movie,’ he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You could see that he wanted you to stay. It tore a hole in your heart. 

“Yeah, see you later,” you smiled flatly before heading over to Mia and giving her a kiss, then out the door. He felt that hole in his own chest ache. God, why was this so fucking confusing?

“Dad,” Mia was grinning, he could hear it. It pulled at his heart in the best way when she called him dad, and maybe all this heartache was worth it for her.

Mark was usually right about things. Going to McLaren. Putting a number two driver clause in. Doing physics for his A levels. 

“They’re no good for you.” 

That was complete and utter bollocks. Oscar’s jaw tensed. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Maybe he’d been bragging about Mia and how he got to have her for the night, and yes, he knew it was getting repetitive for his dad and Mark, but holy shit. Who says that? That’s fucked. His dad stared between the two of them, watching it play out as the air filled with tension.

Mark scoffed. “I mean, you broke up with her for a fucking reason Osc, get your head out of family life and back into the car mate” 

“I happen to enjoy putting my head into my family life, mate,” he spat. “And it’s not like it’s having any effect on the track, and if it has, it’s been good.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “You’re 24 and have a 4 year old. Your ex-girlfriend didn’t tell you about her. Maybe you’re not meant to be in her life,” he shrugged. 

“Well, I am in her life, and that’s what’s happening. If you don’t like that, you can keep it to yourself mate,” he scoffed. “And I broke up with her because you told me to. You said I needed to put my head down and work. Well I have worked. I’ve worked so fucking hard and maybe Mia and Y/n are the nice part of my life that really aren’t worth sacrificing right now, considering everyone here has gone insane,” he gestured to the table, his blood boiling. 

“Osc, I think what Mark is trying to say is that you have a real chance this year. We just don’t want you to throw it away for her. And we are also aware of the timing and how… opportune it is,” Chris added, and Oscar saw red. 

“Dad, you out of everyone should be able to see the fact that Y/n isn’t anything but completely honest. She told me everything, she told me I didn’t have to help with Mia in any way, this was my choice. This was what I wanted. Have you guys gone insane?” he questioned, really feeling like he was the only sane human in the room. “She hasn’t asked for child support, she didn’t ask me to move to London, she didn’t ask me to take Mia. I love Mia, and yeah, I still love Y/n. Is that complicated? Sure. Is it ideal? Not really. But it’s the truth. I care about them, and they’re part of my life whether you like that or not.” 

Mark and Chris watched as he walked away, more fired up than they’d even seen him. 

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[isoobie]

⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ SECRET ★ psh

⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ “no one will find out about us”

MAGAZINE 𓈒 brother’s bsf!sunghoon x fem!rea 1253 fluff ◜ ᴗ⁠ ◝⁠ kissing est relationship

⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⠀ REBLOG ୨୧ 4 A HUG

groaning at your chemistry homework, you hear your brother’s excited cheers from downstairs. you had already stayed up all night trying to finish this treacherous task your teacher, who almost certainly hated you, had given you to do in the span of only two days— and now your brother was annoying the hell out of you with all the commotion downstairs.

“what do you want heeseung?” you ask him while standing in front of him, unfazed.

“my friends are coming over, so don’t embarrass me.” he tells you, recklessly without a care.

“yeah whatever, its not like i’m going to talk with them anyway.” you respond while walking away, frustrated by the fact that he hates you interacting with any male but him.

annoyed, you go to the kitchen and grab a glass of water, hoping the cool liquid seeping down your throat would cool down your pent up stress, but just as you were about to go upstairs you hear the door open as voices emerge.

“hey yn,” jake, one of your brother’s friends, says coming over to greet you.

“hi jake,” you mumble back, embarrassed that he has to see you in your pyjamas.

after that awkward interaction, you make your way upstairs and you swear you could have felt someone’s hand graze your waist. flustered, you look back only to see your brother and his friends talking nonsense.

you settle down in your chair, ready to work before you hear a voice outside your room, “is yn in here by any chance?” the voice is low and deep, laced with tease and you immediately recognise who it belongs to.

“get out of my room,”

“why not, sweetheart.”

the nickname rolls of his tongue so easily it makes you freeze in place, “i have important work to finish, now don’t distu— ”

he interrupts you, frustration laced in his voice, “yeah right, like i’m not important than that work.” he makes his way onto your bed, plopping himself down comfortably on the corner, eyeing you from head to toe.

“what are you looking at, sunghoon?”

“what, can i not appreciate how pretty my girlfriend looks right now?” the rhetorical question spills from his mouth and the smirk plastered on his face never leaves.

“the second my brother enters this room, me and you,” you point your index finger towards him, “are both dead meat.”

“i can just tell heeseung we are together, i don’t think he’d care.” your boyfriend replies, unfazed while pointing to the spot next to him, gesturing for you to sit next to him.

you blatantly ignore him, turning your attention back to your books, hoping he would let it go— but how wrong you were about that. he swiftly grabs you by the waist positioning you on his lap as he laces his hands around your hips.

embarrassed, you turn to him and retaliate over his grip, “hoon, let me go!”

“you have no way out, you’re stuck with me” he teasingly shoots back and you can hear the snigger in his voice.

as the two of you endlessly bicker, you both hear footsteps gradually get louder by the second, that sounded exactly like your older brother’s. without any hesitation, you grab sunghoon’s tall, large frame and shove him into your wardrobe, hoping you could hide him.

“have you seen sunghoon, he went up ages ago and he still isn’t back,” your brother asks you, cluelessly.

“check the bathroom, he might be there.” you reply with a hint of worry in your voice.

when brother eventually leaves, you finally call for your boyfriend to get out, “park sunghoon, come out of there,” however, to your dismay, sunghoon grabs your hands so now both of you are in the cramped closet.

maybe it’s the heat in the small space or the fact that your bodies are practically touching but your boyfriend looks so hot. his top is clinging onto his abs for dear life, his bangs are stuck to his forehead and you can see the beads of sweat glisten on his temple.

the thought of everything paints your cheeks with a red hue and you yell at him, hoping he wouldn’t realise, “what the hell, sunghoon? we need to get ou— ”

but before you can finish your sentence, he interrupts you, smirk tugging at his face and hand still on your wrist, “you thought by pretending to be mad at me would help cover up your red cheeks? yeah, not a chance,”

you slowly look up to him, batting your eyelashes, only to be met with his heavy, longing gaze. his eyes shamelessly set your lips, as if this was his first time.

but of course, you can’t always let him have his way, “what? is there something you want?” you tease bringing your hands around his neck— his weakest spot.

sunghoon swears his heart skips a beat, the sudden affection making his ears warm, but that smug grin tells you otherwise.

“oh, you know what i want.” his voice demanding and thick, it makes you unconsciously blush.

“and what would that b—”

before you can finish your sentence, you feel two hands cup your jaw and the sensation of his warm, sweet lips on yours. sunghoon loves how you taste. he can’t get enough of your saccharine lips, your addicting scent and the effect you have on him.

your hands tug at his dark locks as you feel his tongue slide into your mouth, exploring you for the nth time. your mind goes hazy, drunk on him, savouring his rich taste. he softly kisses your cheeks, temple and finally your lips one last time before you both break apart looking at each other, breathles.

“fuck, i missed you all week,” sunghoon confesses, his hands never leave your face as he kisses your jaw, “i can’t be without you for more than a day.”

“more than a day, huh?” your heads turn in unison only to find your brother standing at your door.

“heeseung?” you both erupt at the same time, gobsmacked and embarrassed.

“wait, hold up i’ll explain everythi—”

“you thought i didn’t know?”, your brother cuts sunghoon off, shocking the both of you with the confession, “it was so painfully obvious.”

“so you aren’t, mad?” you question him, confused.

“i put my trust in him ages ago, but if he ever makes you cry i’ll beat him up so bad he won’t be able to see you again,”

the threat shakes sunghoon up a little, but makes you let out chuckle— you realise how stupid you both have probably been for heeseung to have known this whole time.

“but please, don’t ever make out in front of my eyes, ever again, that traumatised me.” your face flushes red with embarrassed as you tuck your head into sunghoon’s chest while shooing heeseung out of your room.

sunghoon’s hand snake around your waist and you look up to make eye contact with him before saying, “we should’ve hidden it better, you blew our cover.”

“hey!”, he exclaims, “don’t blame me, we all know that you were awake until one just to be on call with m—” you lay a chaste kiss on his lips, hoping to shut him up.

your boyfriend stares at you in disbelief, before teasing you again with his cocky smirk tainted on his face, “you can’t start something you can’t finish, babe.” and before you knew it his lips were already back on yours, drowning in your taste.

리 𓈒 for jennbuns @tzyunaes mwah

© isoobie + taglist open

[samaraxmorgan]

Your Roommate Sukuna

“That Time The Heater Broke On Christmas”

Modern no curse AU, Sukuna X Reader

Synopsis: This housing crisis sure is no joke huh? Rent is just too expensive to live alone, so you put out a listing for a roommate and ended up living with none other than the tattooed bad boy Ryomen Sukuna! This is part of a series of drabbles and oneshots showing glimpses into you and Sukuna’s living situation!!

Contains: frenemies to lovers, tooth rotting fluff, mutual pinning

Word Count: 2.44k

Series Masterlist - My Full Masterlist

Christmas is always a hectic time of year, and after spending the last week in an utter state of chaos trying to get all of your friend’s and family’s gifts ordered and in the mail on time, cookies baked and hidden away from your ravenous roommate Sukuna who swears up and down that he doesn’t even like sweets but the ones you make just taste so much better, and staying up until midnight haphazardly taping in messily folded wrapping paper and scribbled “to and from” tags on countless presents, you were more than ready to flop onto your living room couch and pass out.

But you’re just not allowed to have nice things, it seems.

The apartment is freezing cold when you walk in the front door, cool air pinching your skin and the groan of annoyance escaping your throat leaving a puff of white air in its wake. Sukuna left shortly after you did this morning to spend the day with his brothers, and as you rush your way over to the thermostat to turn the heat back on you can’t even begin to fathom why he would bother turning the air off when you were both only gone for the day. Sure, the bills can get expensive, but he’s not seriously that broke… you hope.

But as you push the buttons on the thermostat and the little screen informs you that the air in fact is on, dread rushes through you. A quick call to the landlord ends exactly how you expected it to, sent to voicemail with a cheery little message mentioning that no one will be available until after the holidays.

You may as well just die in here, you think as you sit down on the couch. The cool leather is almost painfully cold, making you flinch when it hits your skin. Silently you contemplate going back to where you spent the whole day; even if there were tons of people and you ended up leaving early because you were dying for some peace, at least it was nice and warm there.

But you push that idea aside, getting back on the train would be a pain, you’d have to trek through the snow again on your way back to the station, you could come up with a million excuses but in the back of your mind there’s this little nagging feeling that you don’t want to admit is the real reason you would rather stay home. You haven’t seen Sukuna all day.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid, but you’ve been so busy and even though the two of you live together it feels like you haven’t been able to see him for almost the entire week. And even though you spent the whole day around people you love, you couldn’t wait to come back home to your dickhead roommate.

Obviously you’d rather die than admit that to him, already picturing that trademarked smirk plastered on his tattooed face, but you can’t deny that something about him is charming. He’s smug and sarcastic and cocky and annoying and- you could really go all day to be honest; but then he has those moments where he can take the air right out of your lungs. Sweet, kind little gestures where this big scary bad guy acts like a total gentleman and it makes your heart race.

You doubt you’ll ever understand how he has that hold over you.

The sound of the door creaking open is your only warning before Sukuna steps into the freezing apartment, pink bangs damp and disheveled falling over his forehead and snow clinging to his black leather boots. He shrugs off his coat with a fluid motion, tossing it onto the stair rail as he fixes you with a sharp grin, flashing his canines mischievously.

“Didn’t think you’d actually beat me back here,” he drawls, a sarcastic lilt in his tone, “Guess you couldn’t go a day without missing my charming personality.”

You roll your eyes, breath puffing out in a faint cloud as you speak, “Missed that loud mouth, you mean.”

“Cute.” Although the word is borderline dripping in sarcasm, you still manage to catch the way a smile subtly tugs at the corner of his lips.

“I don’t suppose you’re any good with fixing heaters?” You ask hopefully, Trying to suppress a shiver as you motion toward the uncooperative thermostat.

He raises a brow, kicking off his boots and stepping into the living room, “The fuck do I look like, an HVAC guy? Just call the landlord.”

“I did,” You flop back against the couch with a defeated thump, tossing an arm over your face, “No one can come out ’til tomorrow, holidays or whatever.”

Sukuna could literally hear the frustration in your voice as he plops down next to you on the cold leather couch, “Tragic.” His tone is teasing, but his crimson eyes linger on your shivering form; with an over dramatized huff puffing an icy cloud in the air he muses, “Guess you’ll freeze.”

You briskly rub your hands up and down your arms, a futile attempt to warm yourself up, “And you won't?”

He peers down at you, posture completely relaxed despite the icy air and an unimpressed frown on his face, “I don’t get cold.”

You can’t help but let out a snort at his audacity, “Yeah?” You prop yourself up on your elbows to grin up at him, “Same way you don’t get sick?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, letting his back sink into the cool leather cushions of the couch, “That was a fluke.”

“Such a big fat liar,” You tease, elbowing his arm. But the playful jab shifts into curiosity when you notice that his skin is actually warm against your frozen fingers. Without hesitation, you wrap your hand around his tattooed wrist, making him flinch and hiss dramatically

“Fucking christ-”

“You were actually serious?” You interrupt, scrambling upright to press your freezing hands into his arms.

“Yes, I was- fuck, stop touching me holy shit.” He swats your hands away, goosebumps forming on his skin, “How the hell have you not died of frostbite? You a fuckin’ reptile or some shit?”

“Are you a living space heater?” You scoot closer to him, grabbing at his forearms in a desperate attempt to warm yourself up.

“Quit grabbin’ me you fucking weirdo,” He stands abruptly, nearly having to yank his arm out of your desperate grip, rolling his eyes at the pitiful groan of disappointment that escapes your throat, “Just- give me a second, hold on.”

You watch pitifully as he jogs up the stairs, the already freezing cold room feeling so much colder without him sitting next to you, even in the mere seconds that he’s gone. It’s almost embarrassing how you came home early to see him, have missed him and his attitude so much, and then god forbid he walks away this cramped little apartment just feels empty. But within less than a minute you can hear his footsteps thumping down the wooden stairs, a large dark red comforter slung over his arm.

He can’t help but chuckle when he sees your eyes light up, gently shaking his head as he tosses the comforter over your head and watches you scramble to wrap yourself up in it, “How long were you home without considering a fuckin’ blanket?”

“Fuck off.” You mumble as you clutch the blanket in your shaking hands; it isn’t exactly warm, still cool to the touch from sitting on his cold bed, but it’s better than nothing. Shivers still run over your skin as you wrap your arms around yourself.

You can feel the cushions shift under Sukuna’s weight when he sits down on the couch. His eyes peer down to your shivering form laying up against his thigh, silently watching you for a moment as if he’s contemplating something. Without saying a word he squeezes up behind you, wedging himself behind you and pressing his chest against your back. His arm snakes over your torso, pulling you flush against him.

Your body grows stiff in surprise, a pink blush rushing to your cheeks, “What… are you doing?”

“What?” he mumbles, resting his chin on top of your head as if this was the most natural thing in the world, “Not allowed to do something nice? Quit complaining.”

You can hear that signature smirk in his voice even without seeing his face, but the warmth radiating from him is undeniable. His arm tightens around your waist to anchor you to him and you could swear that he had heat radiating off of his chest, flooding into your cold skin and seeping through the blanket to chase away the chill that so stubbornly clings to your skin.

Hopefully he can’t hear the way your heart is pounding.

And although you’re grateful for the comforter wrapped around you, you’re silently cursing it for putting a barrier between you and Sukuna. You need more, need him impossibly closer to you, to wrap yourself up in his embrace and tighten your arms around him. You squirm in his grasp to try and free your arms, and an empty cold immediately strikes you when he releases you within a millisecond, parting himself from you and shoving his back into the cushions of the couch.

“Shit, I’m-”

You unintentionally cut him off when you turn around to face him, slinging the deep red comforter over his tensed up body. From this angle you can see his face and he looks… surprised? For the briefest moment you could catch a look of panic in his eyes before he settled, eyes widened and his mouth dropped open into a small oh. As if he wasn’t the one who started this, but he’s silent as his apology is caught in his throat.

You tilt your head down and grip your fingers onto his waist, attempting to pull him back to you, “Why are you all the way over there? Come back.”

It takes him a moment, like he's trying to process what you'd said, before he shifts closer to press his body firmly against yours. You bury your head into the warmth of his chest where you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and your thigh finds a comfortable space to slot between his legs. His arms wrap around you again, but this time he holds you closer like he's trying to keep you locked against him, caging you against his strong torso in a way that feels almost possessive.

But it's so nice, the protective hold in his arms feels so warm and comfortable; and not just because of the temperature difference. You'd be lying if you said you'd never imagined yourself wrapped up with him, but never in any of your guilty daydreams did it ever feel so intimate. You and Sukuna have never been quite this close to each other, usually sharing nothing more than passive aggressive elbow jabs while trying to share the bathroom sink in the mornings, or maybe the occasional moment where he'll grab your hand in his when he sees you're about to trip and his touch lingers just a little too long.

But now you’re wrapped up in him, the smell of cologne on his neck embracing your senses with a warm woody scent, the heat of his body dripping onto your skin until your shivers finally come to a stop. Your racing heart slows to a steady pace and you let your eyes fall shut for a while, enjoying the peaceful quiet sounds of his breathing and his steady heartbeat.

The two of you stay like that for what feels like an eternity, the silence broken only by the occasional creak of the old apartment and the distant hum of wind outside. Sukuna’s warmth envelops you completely, seeping into your chilled bones in a way that no blanket ever could.

“Better now?” His voice is low, almost a rumble in his chest, and you feel the vibrations against your cheek where it rests against him.

“Much.” You admit quietly, your breath tickling his neck.

“Good. Maybe now you won’t freeze to death.” He mutters, but there’s no bite to his words. His tone is softer, almost fond, and his hand begins to draw lazy circles over your back.

You glance up at him, his face just inches from yours. His crimson eyes are half-lidded, his usual smirk softened into something gentler. You rarely see him like this, but lately you’ve been witnessing it more and more; he’s relaxed, unguarded. It’s a side of him that’s both unfamiliar and heart-achingly endearing.

“You’re awfully cozy for someone who didn’t want to be touched.” You tease, tilting your head slightly to study his reaction.

He scoffs, his cheeks darkening just enough to make you wonder if he’s blushing, “Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d be this pathetic about it. Consider it a favor.”

“A favor?” You raise a brow, unable to hide your amused grin.

“Yeah. Don’t get used to it,” he grumbles, though his arm tightens around you ever so slightly.

Despite his words, you can feel the contradiction in the way he holds you, his grip firm and unyielding as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. And you can’t help but wrap your arms around him tighter, hoping this so called favor doesn’t have to end.

“You’re warm.” You mumble, almost to yourself.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me,” His voice is a low warning, but it lacks any real edge.

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you says a word. The air feels heavy, charged with something unspoken yet undeniable. His eyes flicker down to your lips for the briefest second, and your breath catches in your throat.

“You’re staring.” He mumbles, but he doesn’t look away.

“So are you.” You whisper softly.

The tension between you grows, fragile yet electric, until finally, he huffs and shifts his gaze away, breaking the spell, “Go to sleep, idiot. You’ll need it for when the landlord shows up tomorrow.”

Despite the abrupt shift, his tone carries no real harshness, and the arm around your waist stays securely in place. You press your cheek against his chest once more, unable to resist a small smile.

“Fine.” You whisper, closing your eyes and letting yourself relax fully into his warmth.

He doesn’t say anything, but the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear is answer enough. Whatever this moment between the two of you is, you’ll take it for now, tucked in his arms as the cold world outside fades away.

A/N: Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!! And thank you to everyone who has been so kind and supportive and patient with me during my writers block <3 I don’t think I’m fully back quite yet but I’ve made massive progress and I’m hopeful that I’ll be writing regularly again soon :) Dividers by @adornedwithlight

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!!

[marisolls]

121224 ♥︎ drunk tsukishima kei and his insistence of asking you why you love him.

it's already close to midnight when your husband of two years ask you all of a sudden. he's warm, and hazy with alcohol. you're absentmindedly treading your fingers through his soft hair, the floral scent from his shampoo is irresistible. you inhale slowly and plant a small kiss on his scalp.

"why do you love me?" his head buried on the slope between your neck and shoulder, breath a little warm that tingles your skin as he sigh through his nose. you feel his hold on your hip tighten, palm smoothing the crease on your shorts as he travels down to your thighs, giving it a loving squeeze.

you resist the urge to laugh in amusement. you hear your clock from the nightstand tick faintly, the low hum of the ac ebbing and flowing in the silence. you think about the myriad of ways you could respond, yet in all of them, no amount of words will ever reach its essence. no matter how you say it, it will never be enough.

instead, you ask him back, voice low as if you’re whispering, "what's not to love about you?"

he grumbles, and you can almost imagine the little pout surfacing his pretty lips, “do you want me to barf at your sappiness?”

“i’m serious.” you say as you fight a smile.

“prove it.”

“sorry?”

he finally looks at you, a long pause with slow blinking, his hand leaves your thigh, reaches up to brush his knuckles against your cheeks. the ring on his ring finger feels cold against your warm face, light catches gold—are you talking about the ring, or his eyes? maybe both?

you’re a little tipsy yourself. you might as well just kiss him right now because your mouth always fails you to shape your love in the form of words. you’re not eloquent enough to mold a perfect sculpture of sentences, you’re not capable of holding onto a voice but it’s ironic how you’re able to carry a weight of a ton of actions—and you think, maybe he doesn’t need you to be perfect with words.

maybe he just needs you to say it, you love him for all that he is.

you capture his hand, locking your fingers through the gaps and kissing it while holding your stare. such beautiful golden brown who only ever looks at you like this. you don’t want to look away, you want to keep him forever, like he’s a promise you love to keep.

you feign a scoff, “fine. if you want specifics. i love you because you give me challenges, the ones that pisses me off in a good way, the ones that make me a better person, the ones that make me think differently.”

“i love how you argue with me about the smallest things, like which way the toilet paper roll should go, just because you know it gets a rise out of me. i love the way you silently leave the last piece of your favorite snack for me, even though you act like you don’t care.”

“i love that you fold the laundry so badly on purpose just to get out of doing it, and how you mutter ‘you’re welcome’ when i fix it.” you see the slightest of twitch of his brows. guilty.

you rest both your intertwined hand on your chest, hoping he can feel your beating organ.

“i love how you complain about the dishes but still wash the ones i ‘accidentally’ leave in the sink. i love how you steal the blankets at night but always drape them back over me when you think i’m asleep. i love how you sigh every time i forget my keys but still wait by the door to hand them to me, no matter how late i’m running.”

“i love how you can be so stubborn and sharp with your words, but you never let the day end without sitting next to me, even if it’s in silence, just to make sure we’re okay. i love how, after a fight, you pretend to not-so-subtly leave fresh fruit cuts on the counter or let me pick the movie, even though you hate my choices.”

“you choose horror all the time.” he comments without thinking, and you chuckle.

“i love that you can’t handle it. because you can’t help but cling to me after.”

at this point, your voice wavers slightly, the memories tugging at your chest. “i love that, even when we hurt each other, you always find a way to show me you care. you never say it outright, but it’s in the way you stay. you always stay, kei.”

your voice soften as you look at him, his golden eyes searching yours with a quiet vulnerability. “is that good enough of a reason, kei?”

he was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable, before scoffing softly. “you’re so dramatic.”

right as he bury himself in your scent, lips on your neck that inevitably makes you shiver, you can see his ears turn red—and you think it’s the alcohol, but maybe it’s also because of your sappy shitty monologue. maybe its both.

your head feels lighter, a pleasant buzz on your veins and a thudding heart that can’t quiet itself, maybe you want the world to know just how much you love this man— and to make it even more sappier, he’s your world. it should be obvious by now.

you are dramatic. “hehe, that’s why we’re here. that’s why you love me.”

ever since you became his highschool sweetheart, you didn’t change as much. at least, to his eyes, you remain the love he’s always wanted.

and the things you do to him, for him. leaves him drunk with want. your name on his lips sits like a prayer, a letter of promises forever to keep—committed to keep.

the ends of his lips curl into the faintest smirk, his blush deepening as he muttered, “maybe.”

after a few quiet shifts in position, you both comfortably settle in each other’s arms for the night. he closes his eyes and yet, he can still see you in perfect resolution, as if there’s a screen behind his eyelids. replaying the memories with your words ringing his ears.

he remembers his first kiss with you before he falls to sleep. saw your eyes glossy and glowing, he never told you this but, he wanted to marry you by then. wants you to give him that look everyday, wants your beginnings and your tomorrows.

and—oh, he already has it. huh. wow, he still can’t believe you love him after all these years.

© SOLVISUN 2024. thank you for reading!

[bballesbolol]

Power Play | Chapter 1

PWHL Paige x WNBA Azzi AU

Synopsis can be found here

Warnings: Language, Alcohol

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: first of all I know the graphic is shit, I’ll make a new one when it’s not 1 in the morning (and did 😋). Second of all, I know its an hour nd a half later than I said it would be, I get extra time on tests for a reason 😝 ANYWAY here’s the hockey fic that like 100 of you guys followed me for!! I hope it’s up to your standards so far! Lmk what you think so far (Like I want a ridiculous amount of anons, I love y’all in my inbox + you’re a lot of my motivation to write in general)

_____________________________________

| WNBA Draft | 3:21 p.m. | Azzi’s POV |

She wasn’t nervous.

Not leading up to the draft at least. She put on her best face in the media. Told anyone who asked that nobody really knew who was going number one. Said she was going to be happy with any outcome, anywhere she went.

She lied, of course.

Because everybody knew the number one pick might as well have “reserved for Azzi Fudd” written all over it.

Maybe she wouldn’t have been so sure a year ago—before her senior year. But the second she hit the court, she could feel it. It was her biggest season yet. Career high nights turned into a career high year. UConn went undefeated in the regular season. Swept the big east. A national championship had always been a question before—now, it was a statement.

She’d been projected to go number one in every mock draft since she set foot on the court for her first game.

And the runners up weren’t even close.

She led the NCAA in regular season points. March madness points too. Big east MVP, Final Four MOP, National Champion—

She was confident to say the least.

She’d be going to Minnesota. McBride left in free agency at the end of their last season, so, in a desperate move that you’d probably only see late night on the Vegas strip, they went all in on getting a lottery pick for the 2025 draft. And somehow, it paid off.

All they needed was a shooting guard—ergo, Azzi Fudd to Minnesota.

But now it was actually happening. She was here, in New York, sitting in a stylists chair halfway through a silk press that she wasn’t even sure would last if she kept sweating so much.

This was real. She was going to be drafted. She had three more hours until she was employed. Until the media was on her like white on rice. Until she wasn’t just a college kid anymore.

She’d have to find an apartment—sign a lease—live, in general—all by herself.

At least she had Aubrey. She was drafted to Minnesota late in the third round last year—couldn’t play because of her knee—but she was there. She had a husky waiting for her. She was clinging onto that fact to distract her from whatever adulting spiral she’d sent herself on.

She shouldn’t worry—had no reason to, actually. This was the best night of her life. She was gonna go up on stage, get drafted number one, do the whole media thing, then get hammered and laugh at all her thirsty DM’s with Caroline. Perfect.

She just needed to focus on now. Make sure she actually made it to the after party. Let herself be taken care of while she still could.

She was confident. She was strong. She was capable of being an adult.

And she was going to look good. That was something she could be sure of.

She’d sent her stylist, Brittany, about a thousand inspo pictures, and one very carefully curated pinterest board that she’d stayed up far too late pulling together.

Azzi’s hair was nearly finished when Brittany turned the corner with a way-too-big iced coffee and a rack of dresses that looked like, collectively, they could’ve covered her whole tuition at UConn if her scholarship fell through.

She couldn’t help but gawk, “Brit. I am gonna owe you my life for this one.”

Brittany waved her off and started flipping through the dresses, brows furrowed,

“Babe, it would be a crime if you got up there and didn't look like a goddess. I’m just doing my service to the universe”

She turned back to her and handed her the coffee in her hand, which Azzi accepted with a grateful gulp.

“I don’t deserve you”

Brittany scoffed, “Girl, tonight you deserve everything. That includes looking hot as hell up on that stage tonight—I know you wanted black, so I brought plenty of options.”

Everything she tried on was nice—but one was absolutely breathtaking.

Gauzey and black, with a halter neck that seemed innocent enough from the front. Almost too conservitive—until she turned around. Her back was almost entirely bare, with swaths of fabric collecting at the small of her waist in a way that looked statuesque—and hung low enough to feel dangerous.

The skirt draped across her with intention. Each fold looked like it had been pinned to her frame, clinging in all the right places. A slit cut through it, hitting just high enough on her thigh to be slightly morally questionable.

Her necklace pulled it all together, a simple, dainty gold choker, with a chain that hung down her bare back, dotted with pearls like morning dew on a spiderweb.

Expensive. Chic. Meant to be seen.

It was jaw dropping. Literally. Her jaw was on the floor just looking at herself.

“You better not make that face on the carpet.” Brittany mused from her post beside the full length mirror Azzi was lost in.

She couldn't even attempt to fix her face, “I’m just—you really did your big one with this”

She really did. It was perfect. She looked mature, like a true professional. The type of woman you’d catch slipping out of their penthouse suite on their way to some charity gala.

Now she just needed to pull herself together.

Thank god her team was already on it. She just had to stay still long enough for them to work their magic.

There were too many hands to count. Moisturizer, foundation, concealer, eyelashes, eyeliner, lipstick—they were going all out.

The cherry on top was her hair. Pressed straight and pinned back into an elegant updo so her back was the star of the show, loose curls left out in the front to frame her face.

This was who she was. Clean. Classy. Impossible to miss.

She was the kind of girl who didn’t worry about anything. The kind whose confidence was bolder than her style. Someone who attracted eyes effortlessly.

She took a deep breath. This was her dream—what she had fought through four years of borderline boot-camp level training at UConn for. What young Azzi had stayed up countless late dreaming about.

She took a moment to stare at herself, one last time. Not in a vain way, more in an I-can’t-belive-this-is-real way. She didn't even notice when Brittany took the photo.

“Azzi. You have to post this.”

She turned around to find Brittany holding her phone with a picture of Azzi looking in the mirror, back on display, hair, face, and makeup clear in the mirror. It was candid, a little blurry and intimate—but she still looked stunning.

She cocked her head, “It’s good, but I feel like it's too early to thirst trap on main” she mumbled with uncertainty.

Brittany looked absolutely gagged, “babe—It’s draft night. Thirst trapping is supposed to be your religion for the next 24 hours.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and took the phone from her. Captioned the photo Draft Night BTS 🤭and posted it on her story—then immediately put her phone on do not disturb.

Brittany looked her up and down and smiled, “you can thank me later”

***

The nerves she’d felt were quick lived and long forgotten—replaced by a steady buzz of excitement sometime between seeing herself in that dress and finally making her way to the van with the other rookies.

“Damn girl! You look good” Saniya was waiting for her in the lobby with the rest of the rookies.

Azzi smiled, warm and sure, “You look incredible”

Georgia was next to speak, looking her up and down, “you look dangerous”

Azzi rolled her eyes and shook her head, a shy smile on her face, “everyone here looks sexy as hell, can we move on?”

That won her a laugh that trickled through the crowd of rookies.

They settled down before they filed into the van. It felt like the calm before the storm. Nervous chatter. Shaky breaths. Running over the draft order one last time—trying not to think about it too hard.

Then the storm hit. The orange carpet was a blur—all flashing lights, cameras everywhere, microphones shoved in her face before she could even process the faces behind them.

She’d been to the draft before—last year, to support Nika, Aubrey, and Aaliyah—but being on this end of it was different. Overwhelming in the best way. Her dreams coming true in front of her face, even if it came with an hour of repeating the same generic “so blessed and forever grateful" speech her publicist had drafted for her the night before.

She felt like Beyoncé. Or Princess Diana. She could barely see through camera flashes when she finally stopped on the orange carpet for pictures.

But she didn’t let that get to her. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even squint. She just tilted her chin and smiled like her future wasn’t a half an hour ahead of her.

| Paige’s POV |

Worlds were a sweep. The final was close—went all the way to overtime. But USA clutching up was inevitable. Next thing she knew, she knew the team was in the locker room popping bottles. Everything else after that was a blur.

She made it back to her hotel room the night before with her medal on, still sticky from champagne, and an american flag—origin unknown—wrapped around her like she was some kind of national superhero who had just crushed Canada Superman-style. Woke up at noon with a headache that felt vindictive and the strength of the indomitable American spirit to carry her through the hangover.

Now they were out for night two. A little calmer. A little less tequila. More respect for the version of herself who had to be back on a flight tomorrow afternoon. Still, the place was rowdy. Some hole in the wall place they’d stumbled upon about 10 minutes from their hotel with craft beer on tap and plenty of seats at the bar.

It was late. 12:30 the last time she checked. She wasn’t gone—not even close—but the night felt fuzzy around the edges. Could be a buzz, could just be a lack of sleep. She was too caught up in the noise to care.

Somewhere above the bar replays of worlds were flashing across screens—an attempt to pander to the crowd, she assumed. Nobody had watched that closely—maybe piped up occasionally at a particularly good goal, but it was far from a film-session. More of an excuse to cheer and buy another round at every highlight-level play.

The college kids were gathered around tables at the outskirts of the bar, some nursing vodka-cranberry’s, some giving up and just taking a glass of the cheapest beer on tap.

Paige was surrounded by her Frost teammates at the bar. Taylor and Grace were leaned into each other laughing, probably off in whatever world the two lived in whenever they were together. She’d jokingly told Coyne she was too old to handle the hangover, she laughed a little too hard at that—placed bets on who out of the college kids would leave in the worst shape with Lee—and quickly got tired of the conversation.

She was withdrawn. Sore. Probably ready to go home in about five minutes if the night was just gonna be more of this. She took a sip from her beer and let it go warm on her tongue before she swallowed.

She must’ve looked bored when she picked up her head to scan the room, because KK and Laila were quick to make their way over to her when she met their gaze from across the room.

They pushed through the crowd with a bounce that looked too energetic to be incidental.

“You think you could get one of the guys at the bar to change the channel?” Laila asked as she reached the bar.

Paige cocked her head. There was nothing else worth watching on—nothing that they would care about, at least.

“what’s on? NHL?”

KK and Laila exchanged glances and smirked, “No, better”

Paige sighed and leaned her elbows onto the bar.

“What.”

”WNBA Draft. Orange carpet’s starting soon—“

Paige cut them off, “Why would I care about basket—actually, why would you care about basketball?”

“We know some of the girls—remember that one live Laila and I did?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, with UConn? You talked to them, like, once. And?”

“And Minnesota has the first pick.” Laila cocked her head at Paige.

Caroline nodded and added, “You need to watch, it really is your duty as such an incredible pillar of Minnesota—“

Paige interrupted, ”I don’t care. When have I ever willingly watched basketball? I think I'd rather watch a peewee’s scrimmage at the YMCA.”

KK was quiet for a moment. Thinking, apparently.

“You get to look at a bunch of gorgeous athletes dressed to the nines—honestly they barely even talk about basketball—”

”you guys talking about basketball?” Taylor, who last time she checked was lost in conversation, was now craning her neck to look at the three of them around Grace.

Wrong person, wrong time. Taylor was probably the only other person in this bar who would care in the slightest about basketball. Grew up playing, family kept her watching it even after she chose hockey. She’d even tried to drag the team to a Lynx game—like, a non-obligatory appearence—they wouldn’t even be shown off at center court.

She sighed and turned to look at her, already accepting the inevitable, “Yeah, these two want me to ask if they’ll turn on the draft.”

“I forgot that was tonight—you should ask” Taylor made her way over, and Grace turned to face them.

KK and Laila turned back to her, smug grins across both of their faces. Paige groaned.

“Zum, you gotta have my back here,”

Grace looked at Taylor, and then back to her, “I’m with Taylor on this one”

Paige rolled her eyes, and mumbled something like are you ever not under her breath.

“It’s four-to-one, sorry P” KK patted her shoulder with mock-sympathy.

Paige took another sip of her drink, swallowing like it pained her. She blinked, slow, like she was searching for strength behind her eyelids.

She let out one last defeated sigh and asked, “What channel.”

KK and Laila squealed and Taylor grinned down at her. Her face remained flat.

The draft was on ESPN, apparently. Beat out any of the hockey games she’d much rather watch over, as far as she was concerned, the “watching paint dry” show.

She leaned over the bar and managed to ask—via a scribbled-on cocktail napkin—for him to change the channel.

She returned to her beer as soon as the TV channel flipped. Turned all of her focus on getting through enough of them for the draft to feel less like a chore and more like entertainment.

She turned and leaned back in her seat. If she was going to be forced to turn it on, she might as well watch. Out of spite, obviously. She’d look as pissed as possible the entire time.

The coverage cut from some Pat McAfee-esque pre-draft prediction to an obnoxiously bright orange carpet. Empty, apart from two interviewers giving a run down on prospects.

She checked out of whatever they were saying. Drummed her fingers against the sticky hardwood of the bar and made sure she looked thoroughly unamused.

She was about to turn and get up when someone walked into the view of the camera.

She was tall—obviously—everyone in that league tended to be. Tan skin. Dark Hair. Toned muscle peeked out underneath glowing skin.

And her dress should’ve been a crime. It looked like it was sewn straight onto her, clinging in every place that counted. Backless, high slit, enough to make the mind wander.

But her face—the confidence in her barely-there smile—told her she wasn’t Paige’s kind of girl. She didn't look easy. She looked like a challenge.

“You look intrigued"

She tore her eyes away from the screen and found Grace staring back at her, a knowing smirk on her face.

KK and Laila moved to face her too. They clocked it the second they turned around.

KK mumbled, “I told you we should’ve led with the baddies line” and Laila elbowed her hard in the ribs.

God, she should not have said yes to this.

Paige rolled her eyes, “One: heard that. Two: I didn’t even say anything”

Laila snorted, “So you thought it”

Paige placed down her beer with a little too much force to look natural.

“No—“

“Oh she was thinking alright” Grace giggled, wobbling slightly against the bar.

Paige shrugged, bracing herself against the bar, ”She’s hot—what else was I supposed to think?”

Taylor was next in on the dog pile, “I heard she’s pretty good, didn't she just get a chip?”

“Yeah, Azzi Fudd. She like, owned march—“

Azzi Fudd. She’d heard the name before—unwilling, of course—but she’d never put a face to it. But now that she had? Well she had looks that might’ve made her consider hitting the transfer portal if she was still in college.

Her teammates were still deep in conversation around her. Slowly, she slipped her phone out from her pocket. Made sure the coast was clear.

She opened instagram and typed Azzi Fudd into the search bar. Her account popped up before she could make it to the i.

She tried to click on her page, fumbled, and ended up on her story instead. A fuzzy photo of Azzi, looking at herself in the mirror, pretty obviously showing off the backless aspect of her dress. She had to have known what she was doing posting that. She liked the story, because, well, she liked it. The girl might as well know—

“Oh my god. KK. She’s on her Instagram—”

Paige whipped her head up and clicked off her phone.

“Paige, don’t try to hide it“

She pulled her phone out of her lap and dropped it face up on the bar.

“I’m not hiding it. The girl looks good—“

KK cut her off, bracing herself against the bar as she leaned in for emphasis, “The girl is projected to go number one—like, Minnesota number one.”

Paige paused for a moment.

“Deadass?”

KK nodded, “deadass”

Paige leaned back in her chair and stared up at the TV again. She wasn’t up there anymore, replaced by a red-haired girl in a suit that looked like it’d been run through a paper shredder.

She grabbed her beer and took a slow slip, “Shit.” She paused again, waiting for anyone else to speak up. No one did. She smirked, slow and deliberate.

“So, like, you think I got a chance?”

| Azzi’s POV |

She took her first breath in what felt like forever when she finally sat down at her draft table. It felt different, being at a table and not in the crowd. But it didn't feel wrong—quite the opposite, actually.

She knew she belonged here. Front page. Headline. Spotlight. She’d put in too much work in her career for it to feel unreal. No, this was concrete, and it was a culmination of all of her effort thus far in her career.

The buzz in the room died down as Cathy made her way to the podium, a small, white envelope in hand.

It was quiet enough for the flip of her opening it to be audible.

She took one last deep breath. Held it.

“With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA draft, the Minnesota Lynx select…Azzi Fudd”

She closed her eyes. Smiled, big and unbridled. Gave the feeling a moment to sink in. Then she stood, calm, collected, like her entire career hadn’t just led to this moment, and hugged the people around her table.

She made her way to the stage. Climbed the steps. Shook Cathy’s hand. Held up the jersey for pictures. Let the crowd cheer. The eyes linger.

She was swept off stage just as fast as she made her way up to it. Before she knew it, she was leaning in to hear whatever nonsense questions Holly Rowe decided the world needed to know.

“So Azzi, how does it feel to go number one?”

“Incredibly surreal, I’m so grateful that Minnesota was willing to take a chance on me.”

”What are you most looking forward to once you touch down?”

“I’m just ready to get to work as soon as I can. I can’t wait to see where I fit into the Lynx system”

“I’m sure you’ll fit in just fine, especially with their star player Napheesa Collier—how excited are you to play with another former husky?”

“I’m definitely looking forward to it. Phee is an incredible leader and player, I've been in contact with her since my freshman year, so I’m definitely lucky to have her as a role model on this team”

“One more question, women’s hockey has become especially big in the sports culture of Minnesota since the establishment of the PWHL. Plenty of other young superstars fresh out of college like yourself, Zummwinkle, Heise, Bueckers—Are you planning on popping out to any Frost games?

Azzi paused for a moment.

Hockey. Frost. Bueckers.

What did she know?

Why was that even a question?

She cleared her throat. Put her game face back on.

“I uh—Hockey has never really been my thing, obviously, but I’m sure a game would be fun”

Holly turned to face the camera, “Well, looks like the Frost have to get on that. Thank you so much Azzi and congratulations!"

She didn't have any more time to think. All she managed to do mumble one more thank you into the microphone before she was ushered away from the interview and back towards the queue of post-draft media that awaited her

| Paige’s POV |

“You’re disgusting”

Laila stood, arms crossed, shaking her head. The statement came out in a breathy laugh—one that usually accompanied a “you have to be kidding me”

“You know me, this shouldn’t be a shock—“

Laila spoke again. Dry. Sarcastic.

“Oh no I’m not surprised, just very, very disappointed.”

KK chimed in next, “I think she could at least try”

Laila whipped around to look at her, “Try what? To hook up with her once and then move on to the next—”

“Hey!” She protested, brows furrowed.

“What? I love you P, but unfortunately that means I know you too”

“Who said anything about getting with her? I just want to say hi, give her a taste of some Minnesota nice.”

KK shrugged, ”It wouldn’t hurt to say hello”

“Thank you KK. I might as well shoot my shot—“

“Just don't be shocked if it ends up in the stands” Laila scoffed, eyebrows raised.

KK stuck an elbow into Laila's ribs, sharp, “I think you should at least welcome her to the city. Maybe repost something and see if she responds. It’s a good PR look too.”

Taylor perked up from her spot down the bar, “Oh yeah, we could try and get the rookies to come to one of our games. It’d do numbers for both leagues”

Laila sighed, “Okay, guess we’re encouraging her. Just—try not to be horny on main”

“You think very highly of me don’t you” She mumbled, picking up her phone.

“I think very accurately of you. I couldn't even tell you if your dorm room’s door handle was gold or silver considering a sock found permanent residence on it.”

Paige smirked, “And I’m not ashamed of it”

She reloaded her instagram feed. Nothing.

Expected, she wasn't even sure if she followed the Lynx, let alone anyone else who would be posting about the Draft.

She looked up the Lynx’s page and clicked on their newest post—an image of Azzi holding up a Minnesota jersey on stage at the draft, with a caption welcoming her to the city.

She clicked ‘add to story’. Typed out Welcome to Minnie. Considered adding more, then considered the fact that this was public.

Can’t go wrong with Welcome to Minnie.

She tagged Azzi, looked over it one more time, then hit post.

| Azzi POV |

Media was never ending. She was pulled from anchor to anchor, and asked the same five questions about a million times. The price of greatness or whatever Geno said.

When she finally made it to the after party she was about an hour late, and unfortunately, dead sober.

At least she looked cute doing it. Brittany had changed her into something more informal. A short black dress, with just enough fabric for her to feel safe moving around without worrying about flashing about a thousand people.

The room smelled like a mix of designer perfume and frat basement. Bass was bumping through speakers she couldn't find, but definitely felt. Hot. Sticky. Flashing lights. Bodies bumping everywhere.

Everything she needed after a night like tonight.

She surveyed the room for her teammates. Spotted them near the back of the room, hovering near the open bar.

She didn’t make it more than two steps before some mystery shooter found its way into her hand and down her throat. She winced at the burn as it trickled down her spine.

Only bumped into about a hundred floppy drunk people on the way over to the team.

“AZZI FUDDDD”

KK ran up to her and threw her arms around her shoulders. Her breath was warm against her face, laced with tequila and something vaugley fruity.

KK pulled back, arms still resting on her shoulders, “NUMBER ONE IN THE NATION BABY”

Ice grabbed her shoulders from behind and shook her, yelling, “I KNOW THATS RIGHT” pretty much directly in her ear.

She winced and tried to fight her way out of her grasp, laughing.

Caroline was next, shot glass in one hand, lime wedge in the other. She was the one person she needed to see right now.

”you need to catch up girl” She handed Azzi the glass, which she tipped back as soon as it touched her fingertips.

She waved off Caroline’s attempt to shove the lime wedge into her mouth, grabbing her wrist and pulling her in.

“Did you see my interview?” She asked, voice low.

“Yes girl, you did amazing”

Azzi shook her head, face screwing up as the alcohol burn hit, “yeah, but why did they need to ask me about hockey?”

“Because it's Minnesota, they just won the cup-thingy—you should know—”

”Okay but she said the name. Like, ‘oh, young stars like Paige Bueckers’ like I’m gonna to get to know her the second I touch tarmac in Minnesota.”

“Yeah, she’s the young star on that team, you’re the new young star on the Lynx—“

”Yeah, I know—it makes sense why she asked. The question just caught me way off guard.”

“I think she was trying to set you two up. She knew it’d be tea. I thought you’d like it—“

”I like looking at her. Thinking about the idea of her. But like, she’s supposed to stay contained in a sexy edit somewhere deep deep in my favorites—not be a very real person in the state that I’m moving to in less than 24 hours.”

”You’ll be fine, she probably doesn’t even know who you are”

She nodded. Paused for a moment to breathe.

She’d been a little infatuated with Paige since she discovered her during her sophomore year at UConn. It was just one edit. Something stupid, like her yelling at a ref or looking stupid pissed pulling off her helmet on the bench, breathless and sweaty and unbelievably hot. It was all downhill from there

She knew nothing about hockey, but she had eyes. And she couldn't help if they were drawn to a certain 6-foot blonde with serious on-ice anger issues.

And off-ice Paige wasn't any better. She’d be hard pressed to find more than one picture of Paige with the same girl on any given night. She played the field. Sampled everywhere she went.

Apparently she thought red flags were a major turn on.

Caroline had seen the worst of the obsession. Restrained herself from blocking Azzi after receiving about a hundred thirsty edits in under a week. Helped feed her delusion that she could ever pull her. Had to hear her late night rants about what she would do for ‘just one chance’.

She thought she was over it. Or at least old enough to be cool about it.

Apparently not.

But Caroline was probably right. She didn’t know who she was. Probably hadn’t even heard the name Azzi Fudd. Definitely wouldn’t care if she heard it tonight—if she heard it tonight.

She was at the world championship anyway. At least that's what paigebueckersupdates had said this morning. Across the world, celebrating, probably asleep by now. Unaware of the draft. Unaware of her.

“Yeah, you’re right” she let out a deep sigh, “She doesn’t know me, or how unbelievably horny 20 year old me was for her, or how I probably still wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye—-“

Caroline smiled and nodded, eyes wide and definitely a little concerned. She waved over someone carrying a tray of mystery drinks, pulled one off and handed it to her.

“You’re too sober for this. Think about her once you’re drunk enough not to spiral”

Azzi took a sip. The taste hit her sharp on the tip of her tongue. Lime, tequila, regret—

Something she’d probably taste in about 5 hours leaning over a hotel toilet.

Perfect.

She just needed to be tipsy enough to focus on celebrating. She just got drafted. She was the number one pick. She had the green light to do whatever she wanted in the name of success.

She let herself melt into the noise of the night. Didn’t care what she was drinking as long as it burned going down. Danced like no one was watching. Was probably more than a little tipsy when the team finally decided it was time to leave.

Let herself sway as Caroline led her to an uber.

***

They ended up in the same bed once they got to the hotel. Not like that—just sitting together—the way drunk girls tended to huddle when the night got too loud.

Azzi slumped back into the pillows, hands above her head, still smiling like an idiot—Caroline draped across the foot of the bed, head resting on her elbow, eyes on her phone.

Comfortable silence. Quiet Bliss.

And then Caroline's head shot up. She stared at her phone like she’d just gotten a notification informing her it was blowing up in 5 seconds. She blinked. Blinked again. And then—

“Azzi. Tell me you’re calm.”

Her heart dropped straight to her stomach.

“What happened”

Caroline sat up, turning to face her.

“Um, have you checked your phone recently?”

Her mind swirled with everything she could remember doing that night. She couldn't think of a single thing she’d done that would get her in trouble—that was the problem. Her mouth went dry.

“Um…no”

Caroline took a breath and turned to her.

“Okay, don’t freak out, but I think we might have summoned Paige Bueckers, like, beetlejuice style—“

“WHAT”

Azzi lunged at the phone in her hands like a rabid animal, prying it loose and fumbling with it. The phone fell face up on the bed right in front of her.

There it was. Clear as day.

An instagram story. The picture that the Lynx had posted on their page—her holding up the jersey on stage at the draft—except, it wasn't on their page. It was on Paige Buecker’s story. Posted right after her photo with team USA after winning the goddamn ice hockey world championship. Captioned ‘Welcome to Minnie’, casually, like they’d known eachother for fucking years.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart felt like it was trying to fight its way out of her chest.

Caroline piped up again, “She knows who you are”

“Shut up—”

”Azzi you're the only thing she posted tonight. This was intentional—“

“SHUT UP” she squealed, legs kicking out like a todler having a mean temper tantrum.

“You need to find your phone. Like, right now.”

She took a shallow breath.

”I can’t. God caro I’m gonna be stupid and horny and completely embarrass myself—”

“Maybe she DM’ed you and you won't know until the morning.”

Azzi’s hands flew to her face, dragging down it like she could make herself dissapear if she tried hard enough.

”Maybe we’re both drunk and I shouldn’t be trusted near any technology until I’m sober enough to have any self respect”

Caroline grabbed her wrists, peeling her hands free from her face.

“Fuck self respect, this can’t wait”

Azzi groaned. Patted her pockets. No phone. She grabbed her purse off of the nightstand. Dug through it like a raccoon would a trashcan. Finally found her phone at the bottom under a crumpled cocktail napkin and a few soggy dollar bills.

She took a shaky breath as she typed in her password wrong once.

Blinked. Tried again.

It finally unlocked. She had hundreds of instagram notifications. Mostly likes on her story, maybe some thirsty DM’s—but three stood out to her.

paigebueckers liked your story 5h

paigebueckers followed you 4h

paigebueckers mentioned you in their story 4h

”Holy shit. Caro I’m actually gonna throw up—”

Caroline turned to her, a horrified look on her face.

“I hope your joke—“

She cut her off, “She liked my story”

Caroline went quiet. Her jaw dropped.

“THE THIRSTY ONE?” She yelped, leaning in to peek at her phone.

”THE THIRSTY ONE!” Azzi screeched. She turned her phone around and shook it in Caroline's face, who grabbed her wrist to steady it, squinting at the screen. Slowly, she looked back up to Azzi.

“Azzi. Jazlyn. Fudd. You’re a fucking menace.”

Her face was red hot with embarrassment.

“HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW SHE’D SEE IT?” She yelped

“YOU KNEW YOU WERE GOING TO MINNESOTA??” Caroline screeched back.

“I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW SHE PLAYED IN MINNESOTA—I JUST KNEW SHE WAS ON THE PURPLE TEAM”

Caroline shushed her. Pinched the air and dragged her hands down to her lap like a fucking yoga instructor.

”Okay, calm down. You’re Azzi Fudd. We don't chase, we attract. You aren’t posting anything tonight.”

Azzi stared at her, jaw slack, eyes wide.

”I thought you said fuck self respect?”

Caroline took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Placed a soft hand on her kneecap. Spoke to her like she was trying to gentle-parent.

“That was when I thought we were actually being delusional. The girl liked your thirst trap—before you were drafted—we are far past where I thought we were.”

She groaned and let herself flop back with a dull thud. Her head spun as it hit the pillows beneath her.

Paige Fucking Bueckers.

Sophomore Azzi would’ve dropped dead on the spot.

Professional Azzi was considering it.

Caroline rolled over and looked back at her phone, “I don't even want to know what twitter has to say about this.”

Azzi groaned, hands flying back to her face, rubbing her eyes.

”I’m not checking until I can think in a straight line”

Caroline shifted at the foot of the bed, ”probably for the best. I feel like I need to sleep to comprehend this and I don’t even like the girl—”

She felt her weight leave, heard her stand and walk to the lamp at the bedside, turning it off with a soft click.

She only had one thought in her mind before she drifted off to sleep:

Thank god for Brittany.

[gyaruwrites]

can you write abt the Fish mafia dorm with a reader who loves to smooch their faces like seeing a dog and peppering kisses all over!!

-🧃 anon

OFC!! I love these kind of prompts 💕

Pairings: Azul x Reader, Floyd x Reader, Jade x Reader(separate)

have a good read 🌺

Azul

Azul is so touched starved, and due to the bullying he probably doesn’t expect affection in the first place. But that changes as soon as he gets a partner who can’t not kiss him at least 5 times a day. You sure as hell distracted him from the Monstro lounge because you missed him.

“[reader]- I’m working!” He would whine as you cupped his cheeks, your soft lips meeting his cheeks, then his forehead, landing on top of his own lips. A flushed Azul left standing in-front of your smug face. A grin making its way to your rather giggly face. Azul’s pout try’s to make it seem as if he was actually upset, but deep down, you know he wasn’t.

ˋˏ [] ˎˊ

Jade

He is quite used to being bothered by his brother, so when you give him genuine affection without expecting something, he would be a little surprised. But then again, he can’t expect everyone to be like his brother. He would love random kisses between classes, because when the two of you are alone, he can reciprocate tenfold.

“my, my~, you couldn’t wait for the end of my shift?” Jade would tease lightly, his hands resting on your hips as you got on your tiptoes to kiss him. You pulled him aside while he was working his shift. Though, you only occupied him for 5 minutes, the thought of Azul chewing you two out wasn’t a pleasant one.

ˋˏ [] ˎˊ

Floyd

Floyd would be ecstatic!! He loves squeezing people till they pop, but this time he gets rewarded for it. And let’s just say he’ll be hugging you a whole bunch more for those kisses. He just can’t get enough of that warm tingling feeling! It makes him feel all funny.. but the good kind of funny.

“Shrimpy~! You missed a spot!” He drawled as you chuckled, going back to kiss the ‘empty’ spot. He hugged your waist as he let you kiss his pale skin. He won’t admit it(he would), but he loves this little thing you do. But the way he clings onto you, tells you just enough.

ˋˏ [] ˎˊ

hope ya enjoyed 🌺

[the-s1lly-corner]

Cuddling TADC cast

Been a minute since I've written an entire cast shot for TADC-- dont expect this to be a common thing again

Notes: gn reader, short and sweet, written on computer, Canon character focused, im sure ive already written this a loooooooong time ago but blah blah blah feeling like its been long enough to warrant a rewrite esp as new episodes have likely come out between then and now

CWs: mentions of body dysmorphia in zoobles part, mentions of loss in kingers part as well as struggles with memory

CAINE

LOVE love loves cuddling with you- hes never actually cuddled another person... bubble doesnt count and thats more of like... comical clinging hug than actual cuddling!

odds are youre physically larger than him but thats not going to stop him being big spoon- definitely has the traditional "men need to be the one in that position" not because he feels he NEEDS to as a man... he just likes feeling like youre personal protector- your man, your guy, your... uhuhuh... yeah!

he sometimes like to cuddle you mid air... hope youre not afraid of heights and the odd feeling of defying physics!

POMNI

again, odds are youre larger than her. she seems more of a little spoon person... though she strikes me as the type to be an awkward cuddler. she doesnt really know where to put her hands- even if its far from the first time youve cuddled into one another

i love her, and she loves you- but pomni looks like the type of person to run uncomfortably hot and doesnt like being touched because of it... clammy and gross feeling, doesnt like it. dont touch her she will get irritated from the feel... its not that she doesnt like you she just doesnt like feeling sweaty

compromises by holding your hand in bed... looping your fingers together as you sleep feels... more tender honestly...

RAGATHA

shes soft and plush- of course she is, shes a doll! definitely has some weight to her... sleeping with her arm wrapped around you is so comforting, genuinely the best sleep youve gotten in a while

she also vaguely smells like berries! so thats a bonus! she totally gets it if you nestle your face into her hair and drift off smelling her! sure its a little quirky but shes not going to judge you for it... honestly if you smelled nice like that she might do the same

no big spoon/little spoon thing... you two mostly just cling onto one another in the bed by any means necessary

JAX

only ever cuddles you when he knows for a fact other people arent going to come in and see him like this. i still stand firm that he hates being seen as soft and vulnerable. even letting himself indulge in stuff like this in an unapologetically tender and sincere way for YOU takes some time

and even then hes most likely to shift into you and cuddle if youre asleep, unable to perceive his rare moment of just... being soft.

he doesnt like being little spoon though, even without the vulnerability stuff

hes kind of sticky.. hes not fluffy in my mind. hes like those rubber squishy toys

KINGER

its... nice holding someone again... but when was the last time hes held someone? why does it feels so familiar but so different- it wasnt you in his arms before was it? it was... someone else, wasnt it? ...hes hardly in the moment long enough most of the time to really dwell on it

he likes being the big spoon- keeping you in his arms... er... hands... makes him feel anchored, calmer. he knows hes missed this even if he cant quite pin point why

but... he kind of melts right into you when you turn it back on him and make him the little spoon. its like seeing a stunned animal relax into comfort

GANGLE

cuddling with her can be a little... hard.. shes made of ribbon so there isnt much to hold and she doesnt have much weight to her... it.. definitely is a sore topic for her. it makes her feel like shes falling short somewhere. like she cant properly cuddle you

even holding her bundled up in your arms doesnt feel right, and shes going to pull away the entire time- doesnt want to waste your efforts even if you try to reassure her... times like this call for creativity--

wrapping her ribbons around you might be a little unconventional... and might lead to tangling- but its something, and its something only you two can do.. no one else! its special and unique to your relationship specifically.. word it like that to her and she'll cheer up a bit!

ZOOBLE

they dont... much care for cuddling. for multiple reasons. partly because its just not for them, and partly because it forces them to actively become aware of what their body is like... the shape, the textures... its all a bit much...

but zooble doesnt want to make you feel rejected- its a hard situation all around. they are going to at least talk to you about it so youre not left in the dark... though it might take a while for them to bring it up

they much prefer non physical intimacy anyways- even prior to the circus. acts of service, talking, spending time. things like that mean more to them