#thread: another for the den

[janumun]

A Relentless Conquest (LaDS Sylus - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ Words: 10.7k Pairing: Sylus/Reader

Tags: dueling (Sylus fighting), semi-public sex, oral and vaginal sex, Sylus’s brand of manhandling, dry humping, praising, dirty talk, rough sex, wander in wonder AU/historical AU, based in ancient Mongolia, creampie, size difference, mild rich/poor class power dynamics

Summary: What happens when you end up catching the unwanted attentions of a sleazy magistrate on a day out in town? A duel for your honor — or lifelong imprisonment — is what awaits you. That is, until Sylus, leader of the exceedingly notorious Onychinus gang, and a man you dub reluctantly, an old acquaintance, intervenes and offers the immoral magistrate a deal he cannot refuse.

[A fic where Sylus engages in a precarious duel in order to free you from the clutches of a corrupt high official; wins the duel AND the prize at stake, you.]  

Author’s Notes: The things the Wander in Wonder trailer did to me were unspeakable, I had to get started on this fic right away. Another long monstrosity so it took me quite a while to hammer it out smoothly. Some terms used within, to note: *tögrögs is an old Mongolian currency and *Lungtang is the Mongolian city used loosely within this fic’s setting, as per Sylus’s alleged outfit inspiration drawn from the Mongol’s hunting fit in the current event, “Wander in Wonder” . An amazing twitter thread for the rest of the inspirations drawn for the boys’ outfits can be found here. 

Link to Ao3

Perhaps you should’ve considered your course of action through before you’d tossed yourself voluntarily into the metaphorical den of lions. Caleb did always tease you for your often impudent ways, declaring you’d get yourself into hot water someday.   

You didn’t quite think past saving the small, unfortunate child in front, when he’d careened straight into the Magistrate, staining the sickly bone white of his gaudy robes with the treat he’d been brandishing in hand. An action of careless innocence that could’ve saddled the boy with a severe punishment of thrashings at best. And at worst —   

You didn’t even wish to entertain the horrifying notion.   

You whisper a quick note of warning to the trembling child in your arms before he’s nodding his assent, making a clean dash away from the Magistrate and his burly procession of hired cronies. They do not move to stop him; the official’s beady eyes sweeping cursory across his fleeing figure before he focuses upon you once more.   

“Well then, speak up, girl. How do you plan on making up for the crimes of the filthy criminal you just let escape?” He leers at you, sending a frisson of disgust through your veins. “I do not mind much, provided you are able to compensate me in full.” He holds up two thick, swollen fingers. “two thousand tögrögs.” Your stomach revolts in near horror at the exorbitant price he names.   

“Speak, lass, do you possess the means to compensate me?”  

“...Apologies, Sire, I do not.”  

The Magistrate clicks his tongue at you, as if that son of a cur had not already anticipated your answer; your garb alone giving away your status as a mere commoner while he stood, a tall, foolish braggart of a Magistrate, who’d been a constant source of worry amongst the townsfolk as of late. “What a pity. I guess we shall have to make you pay off with what you do have on person, shan’t we?”   

His eyes rove down the length of your body in a manner greasy enough, it has your fingers itching to claw them out of his skull. Thoughts of the consequences of your actions extending to your family after — your grandmother and Caleb — are what stay your hands, firm by your side. You try and maintain that demure grace firm within your body instead.  

“What else are we to do if she cannot pay for what she has cost me, yes?” The Magistrate flourishes his arms wide and turns, towards the crowd that has gathered to watch, setting the stage for his perverse demands. “An eye for an eye, an honor exchanged for honor; that is the Law of our Lungtang, is it not?”  

None of the commonfolk dare to speak against the tyrant’s words, lest they make of themselves a new target to harass. And you do not blame them either, the burden of your reckless actions, yours to bear alone.   

The man trundles forwards on heavy steps; the large, ugly stain left across his robes growing wider in your lowered line of sight before the expanse of his bloated, sweating hand fills your field of vision. The rings around his fingers, nearly engorging the base of them as he curls his hand about your jaw to heave your gaze up towards him.   

The ugly, toad-like sweep of his tongue against the top row of black and gold teeth has a chill skittering down your spine. “You’re rather lovely, you know that?” He croaks in a low, creeping voice.   

You bite harsh into your bottom lip to revolt against the bile that threatens to reflux past your throat and onto the bastard’s face. “What say you become my whore then, dearest? I’d treat you very...” A slimy slip of the hand down the expanse of your body, to settle at your hip. “ well . And if you please me, you could even climb the ranks and become first Mistress, you know?” You judder at the stench of his breath, nearly in your face now. Unable to help the revulsion he inspires in you and you know; the cur in front takes it for a show of abashed innocence, with the way his leer stretches wider across his face.   

“I am far too plain and discourteous for a man of your stature, my lord. If there is anything else I could do for you in recompense, I would be more than delighted to offer my services.” The words uttered, sit sickly sweet on your tongue. “I have a good arm on me and can do any physical labor you may require of me.”   

The rat makes a show of deliberating your words. “It’s a pity the only ‘physical labor’ I require of you lies within my bed, dear girl.”   

You visibly recoil from his revolting touch at your arm; perhaps you aren’t able to quite keep your emotions from surfacing upon your face this time round as the man grabs at your forearm tighter, gaze darkening in simmering displeasure.   

“You know the law, woman. If you wish to run scot-free without offering anything in return, you must put your life on the line and agree to a duel with the offended party.” He chucks a thick, swollen thumb back at his minions, voice seething into a threatening octave. “And I wouldn’t suggest that unless you want them to crush that pretty face of yours.”  

You consider ending it all; cutting the bastard open for him to choke in a pool of his own gurgling blood. You think you could do it too, before his bodyguards could get to you.  

And with the loss of their Master, they wouldn’t be able to hold you prisoner within the dungeons for too long: you hoped. The stray, wild thought is all you can see within your vision.   

Your hand twitches for the dagger fastened right beneath your satchel, one Caleb had lent you for protection. Fingers barely grazing against the polished hilt of the blade, cobbling together courage to see your mad plan through.   

Before large, thick digits are slipping against yours to halt — a fleeting touch of caution — from behind, fracturing your hasty plan entirely.  

You’re barely able to comprehend the sudden, unnoticed proximity of your interloper, before a great arm is coiling fast about the expanse of your waist, snatching you swift from the Magistrate’s claws and firm against a warm, broad chest.  

“Now, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” The well-known burr, welcome, in that moment stirs joy within your belly as you reach to crane your neck to meet eyes with that familiar scarlet.  

“Sylus.” You croak in near disbelief.   

He exhales, low, against the shell of your ear, before he slowly lets go of you. “I’m away from Lungtang for a mere fortnight, only to find you scrounging for trouble, upon return.”   

Your irritation might’ve flared at his words if not for the phlegmy clearing of the Magistrate’s throat in front.   

“And who do you think you are to touch my property so carelessly, insolent fool?”  

Your ire directed from the man behind to the bastard in front. You feel Sylus’ hand soothe a flex about your shoulder.   

“My bad, honoured Magistrate.” He sweeps an insouciant palm at him, the grin upon his face edged to a dagger’s point. “We did not think you would be gracing Lungtang so soon with your noble presence. Or we might’ve arranged for a far better reception, for your Grace.”  

Each word that slips past Sylus’ lips is a sarcasm heavy barb that turns the official’s face in front purple with each syllable uttered. “That woman owes me, you dog. I shall make her my mistress, as is only fair I extract proper recompense from her for her grave offense.”  

One of the Magistrate’s men behind scamper forward in that moment to whisper urgently into his ear. The official’s eyes nearly burst out of his sockets at whatever he’s learned, wide toady gaze skittering towards Sylus as if he is indeed a rabid beast that would bite if disturbed.   

He thrusts an accusatory finger at him. “You are the Onychinus’ leader.” He spits. “That gang of lawless hounds.”  

Sylus’s mouth quirk into a vicious smile at the allegation. “That I am.”   

“You— you,” The Magistrate seems to sputter for the space of several moments before the man at his side mutters something else into his ear.   

The official straightens at whatever he’s heard, clearing his throat, once. Twice. “I am willing to pardon your crimes.” He begins once more. “Provided you can prove yourself worthy in a duel against one of my men.” The crowd around you breaks into quiet murmurs. “But,” he continues. “if you lose, Onychinus dog, then along with your little woman, you shall give up your life to my service, your autonomous tyranny within these lands shall cease to exist and you shall follow my sole command.” He pauses for a moment’s breath, as if to let the weight of what he believes to have been a devastating challenge, sink in.   

But all he earns from Sylus is a raised brow. “Sounds like a deal. Let us raise the stakes, though, shall we?” He cocks his head at the procession of guards right behind the Magistrate. “I’ll take on all your men, not just your best. Give you a real crutch to get started with.”   

The crowd of onlookers erupts into gasps of surprise and gibbering discussion amidst the concerning blue coloring the Magistrate’s face at the taunt. You desperately clutch at Sylus’s arm. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”  

He meets your wide-eyed panicked gaze with a cool, gentle one of his own. “Calm yourself down, kitten. I’ll be fine.” A large hand, he places gentle at your head in reassurance but all it does instead is send your alarm flaring higher.   

What had you roped the man into? Infuriating though he was. Sylus was a confounding acquaintance of years; you could not help be lured into irritation any time he were around — a man whose companionship you’d come to cherish in begrudging gratitude over your time together — but this is not what you’d wanted.   

Your reeling thoughts fractured by the screeching Magistrate in front. “You think you’re all that, you shameless scoundrel? Oh, you’re just a man and I’ll make sure they break your limbs, bone by excruciating bone, before we drag you bloodied and defeated, to my estate.” He spits the time of the duel to be held tomorrow in that same fury before he’s turning on you both and trudging back off to where he came from, his procession of cronies falling along right in line.   

And you’re left behind, with the metallic poison of your regret within your mouth and bone deep worry within your body as you stare up at Sylus’s form.   

The next day arrives much too soon, even as sleep evades you through the entirety of your night, spent tossing onto much too warm sheets.   

Now, having dragged yourself to dress and prepare yourself for the dreaded day, you trudge out of your home, chancing a brief, longing look upon the humble place over your shoulder, in case it were truly your last.   

You hadn’t divulged the details of your itinerary for the day — which possibly entailed getting sold into slavery to a sleazy official, by the time noon rolled in — to Grandmother or Caleb and you preferred it remain that way for as long as possible. Your Grandmother was coming along in her years, with weakened nerves now and Caleb tended to be a frightful worrywart in matters concerning you.   

“Someone’s starting the day rather early. That eager to see me fight, are you, kitten?” The familiar voice beckons. You toss a raised brow over your shoulder at your previously truant neighbour, now returned — his house having settled long vacant in his absence, over the course of his journey to Gods knew where. And the root cause of all your fretting; Sylus moves to join you by your side in two easy strides.  

“Don’t you even dare try joke about it, you absolute madman,” you mutter darkly under your breath, reaching to knock a fist against the side of his torso.   

The same old routine you tumble into, with him; you aren’t able to tamp yourself back from biting into the man as soon as he’s in your sights; the only person capable of wrenching out your honest, most reflexive reactions. And you hate the ease with which this incendiary of a man manages to drag them out of you.   

“What took over you to throw that offer out at that bastard, when you all but had a nice, even playing field to yourself? Now you’re just—” Your mouth snaps shut against the rest of your words, bitterly swallowed.   

How did you even begin to disentangle your bunched feelings on the matter? You knew how all of Lungtang chanted the tales of the fearsome Onychinus head. A conundrum of a man with a reputation as daunting as his influential mien, one that never failed to instil the fear of God in lesser men; criminals and bandits, who sought to rob their small town on the rare luckless occasion — dubbed this obscure town’s own Warrior God.   

But to you, he was also just Sylus; the man you’d grown in close proximity to since your late teenage years and a person you’d grown to care for in the natural course of your odd tug-and-push relationship.   

And though you remained constantly wary of the type of people Sylus associated with, in his particular line of work — a job you did not wish for, to bring even a modicum of harm onto your family by association with him, you could not help the restless agitation that needled at you each time Sylus left home, sometimes for weeks on end, on any number of his covert expeditions.  

And each time he did, the very nagging, unwelcome thought intruded, that perhaps this time he might not make it home.   

“Are you worried for me right now, kitten?” Sylus’s airy query breaks through your reverie, your gaze leaping to find his, fixated firm on you. Those scarlet eyes seem to lose part of their mirth at the face you’re sure you’re pulling.   

You tear your gaze away first, choosing to watch the path you two trek on, instead. “Of course, I’m worried. What a silly thing to ask.” A muted wisp of words.   

Ones that spark an immediate stroke of mild discomfiture at the admission; you prattle on before he can speak. “I know you’re strong, I know that. But just you against what — 13 or 14 grown men? More if that bastard intends on killing you. Anyone with half a wit and eye can see it’s a self-slaughtering mission from yards away. I don’t understand—” your indignant voice breaks, to throttle in much needed air into breath parched lungs. “I just don’t understand why you’d do that. I don’t understand you.”    

Help me figure out what you’re thinking; are the words you wish to speak but your voice refuses to assist.  

Sylus hums a low, throaty sound; in admission that he’s heard you.   

And then he opens his mouth to speak. Divulging a ‘reason’ that makes no sense to your muddled mind, simple though his words are. “That cad disrespected you.” Garnet tips your way to meet your surprised gaze. “That’s reason enough, is it not?”   

“I—”  

“Don’t fret anymore.” he continues. “I won't lose, you have my word.” Long, tapered digits brush gentle at your temple, in reassurance of your worries. “And once I’m done with that weasel, he won’t ever be capable of crawling within a mile of you, let alone dare a finger your way again.”   

The confession, sudden and honest, spurts warmth within your chest that readily clambers up your cheeks and floods down into your belly. A knot pulled tight within seeming to relax just that bit, in comfort of his words. Truly, he confounds you; this odd, beautiful man.   

You capture his fingers against yours in an insistent hold, halting him in his tracks. “You better keep your promise to me, Sylus,” you speak, meeting his gaze, firm on yours. “Do not forget the prize that’s at stake here. You'll come out of there, victorious. I won’t afford you any other options, you hear me?”   

A pleased grin edges across that beautiful mouth, skewing it wider. He angles forward, so that garnet gaze is level against yours. Flexing the catch of his digits in between yours before he’s sweeping your hand towards his parted mouth in a fleeting brush of lips against your knuckles. “If it is my victory the Lady commands, so it shall be done.” He elaborates, a mild tickled inflection to his thick baritone.   

You disregard his little jibing use of the title for this one instance; his solemn promise you know he’s sealed to you; in the gentle grip of your fingers against his, garnet that refuses to stray until you see the resolve of his vow settle within that gaze too.   

By the time your deliberately protracted journey finds its end at the arena, edging the outskirts of Lungtang, the Magistrate along with his chosen warriors are already there, positioned and waiting by the great stone pillars of the vast grounds.   

The coming fight having attracted the townspeople to turn up in droves to watch the weaselly Magistrate take on their best warrior — hordes of curious eyes you feel boring into the two of you as you make your way towards where the Magistrate awaits.   

“Here you are. Any later and I might’ve started considering you’d fled with your tail in between your legs.” The Magistrate crows out loud. “After all, my men shall soon prove how Lungtang’s criminal they so falsely worship as a hero, is more bark than bite.” The swarm of brutes — big and terrifyingly bulky — he’s brought along, laugh at their Master’s goading.   

Sylus, however, remains unperturbed. “Is that so? I can’t wait to find out,” he responds, scrubbing an insouciant hand through his hair.   

His apathetic response seems to key the Magistrate’s ire even higher, sputtering his rage at him. “Y-You absolute— you imbecile. I will crush you.” Creeping a hand forward for you now, “I’ll hold the girl with me. We might as well quicken ourselves, in preparation for when you inevitably fall and watch me claim my rightful prize.”   

You steel yourself against the touch, palm rising to curb his approach with a polite denial but your companion is swifter; large hand darting forth to curl a harsh fist against the official’s greasy wrist.   

“No.” Sylus speaks, voice a low, lethal burr you haven’t ever heard from him before. “I don’t think you will, Sire.” Whatever it is the foolish Magistrate discerns within your companion’s steady gaze, has him flinching in visible fright at the sight, sweat beading wide across his pale, swollen face.  

He wrenches his wrist from Sylus’s grip, as if scathed just as you angle a curious look up at the Onychinus head; his face an impassive mask — hardly unusual — before it breaks into the tiny quirk of a self-assured grin when he catches you watching.  

The Magistrate yelps in frustration, turning in on a ferocious heel. “D-Do not waste my time any longer than you have.” Barking the rest of his words; he heads toward the makeshift dais he’s had set up for himself at the edge of the ring. “Come onto the fields now so we can commence the match.”  

“Sylus,” you place a hand at his arm to stall. “Duck down for a moment.”   

He raises a careful brow at you and you think he’s going to refuse for a moment but then he surprises you in the wordless, compliant drop of his head close to yours. Allowing your eyes to trace his features; those familiar scarlet eyes steady against yours, the slope of his broad nose, sweeping into the bow of full, slightly scraped lips.   

You realize you trust this man and what he’s offered you, whole-heartedly. And so, you wish to extend the same sentiment, reaching for the precious beads adorning your neck — an heirloom from your late parents, your most prized possession.   

Plucking it up and over your head in between cautious digits before you reach to place it about his neck instead. Leaving part of your most priceless gift with him, just as you’ve decided to entrust him with both your Fates. “A charm,” you clarify, “for good luck. It has been my most invaluable escort and has kept me safe all these years.”   

Sylus mutely treks delicate fingers across the worn beads of the chain, grasping it in between a loose fist, in acceptance of your faith.  

“Return it to me once you’ve won.” You tell him, rapping a firm fist against the leather guard at his chest.   

Large, warm digits move to curve about yours, gripping your fist against himself. “As if I could turn down such a heartfelt request, sweetheart.” A spirited grin tugs at his features.  “I’ll bring your little treasure back to you in one piece.”   

“Good, I’ll wait for it.” You respond. “Now, go out there and show them the might of our Warrior God.”  

The Magistrate flourishes open an official scrolled document, no doubt detailing the terms of their duel as soon as Sylus shifts to take position within the field, on opposing side of the assembly of his hired goons.   

You move to occupy a place up front, to stand among the vast gathered crowd, observing the proceedings as the Magistrate clutches the scroll up into the air and begins to drone out the conditions of the fight and the prize at stake — your belly stirs in nausea — you . “The duel shall be declared closed when all members of a party have been knocked unconscious; or killed, under the rare, unfortunate circumstance.” His beady eyes rove Sylus’s way. “Any objections?”  

Sylus shrugs the question off entirely in the flex of an arm against his chest, in preparation of the duel. “Let us not waste our time debating inanity now, as you said earlier. Commence the fight.”   

The Magistrate’s face colours a foul purple — you hope he may truly burst — but all he does is spew a cold, curt, “Begin.”  

The arena hurtles into instantaneous chaos, along with the crowd’s rousing cheers and gasps of terrified delight as the Magistrate’s cronies hound Sylus all at once. Your body hunching forward on reflex to watch as the first set of blows streak straight for Sylus’s face but he ducks down with an agility, unusual to a man of his stature.   

He catches two of the oncoming blows against his palms. Jamming his fists tight about their wrists before he contorts them sideways in a dull crackle of bone. The men immediately buckle to their knees in an agony of groans, their peers stepping over their fallen companions after, to grab for their opponent who springs out of their way, as if dancing the men around, with a noose placed about their grappling bodies.  

A sharp jab comes right for Sylus’s side after, the crony tries and lands a hit against his ribs; the latter’s grasp flexing about his arm to break his momentum, wrenching him close into his body. Before Sylus jostles his elbow harsh into the man’s back.   

Two men lunge for Sylus, aiming for his blind spot; your scraped call of warning lost amidst the thunderous din of the crowds as Sylus rounds upon his assailants. Grabbing the man he has on hand, fingers fisting tight into his garb before he hurls him onto the approaching minions, with a force violent enough, the three go bowling straight into the dirt.   

The crowd’s cheer is raucous; wild as the grin that splits wide across Sylus’s face as he stretches his body tall to full length. “Come now, that’s surely not all of what you’ve got for me.” Sweat barely beginning to make itself known across the firm muscled expanse of his arms, his torso. He's hardly out of breath while his opponents gawk at him as if cornered against a rabid beast.   

Your heart thrills in unexpected, startled pleasure to witness the strange, sensuous virility to his almost savage visage as he paces forward on swift, easy steps, within the ring.   

You’d always known Sylus to hold a rich charisma compacted within that strong personality; an ability to entice all he came into contact with. A brilliant, perceptive mind along with that tacit, undeterred will; he’d brought flourishing business booming within Lungtang over his period of unofficial rule of the place. The uncrowned Onychinus King and a fearsome warrior; the first time you’d truly stood witness to what he was capable of, outside of devious negotiations, professional and unalike.   

And to know, it was for you that he stood in that place now, socking down enemies with the streak of a great, terrifying beast that had your heart skittering within your chest and your blood thrumming within your ears, alongside the adrenaline roiling through your veins. He truly was an infuriatingly perfect man.   

You joined your voice to the shouts of encouragement rolling off the townspeople, in waves for their Warrior God just as Sylus brings an opponent down to his knees with a violent sweep of his knee to his torso.   

“Enough!” You hear the squeaked, enraged bellow of the Magistrate as he watches the proceedings with an increasingly incensed face. Whipping his reddening face towards the crowd to shake a threatening fist at them. “Quiet down before I have you all thrown into the dungeons!”   

But the townsfolk refuse to relent; their cheers rising to a deafening roar as the Magistrate nearly tumbles out of his seat to thrust a trembling finger at the ring as Sylus tosses another of his men over his shoulder to taste the ground at his feet . The attendants at his side scamper towards the arena at once. A quick, urgent rush of communication seems to pass in between the attendants and Sylus’s remaining opponents. Before the servants are tossing weapons into the ring, ones the cronies lunge for as soon as they hit the field. Rising slow once more as they brandish their newly obtained unfair advantage at an unarmed Sylus.  

A great wave of shock and indignance passes over the crowd just as you push past the row of onlookers to jostle yourself to the very front. “Hey! This was not among the rules!” You shout at the Magistrate. A sentiment the rest of the crowd joins you in mirroring but all it earns you is an insouciant shrug from the bastard, shedding any remaining responsibility of hosting a fair fight against Sylus. “And the rules didn’t indicate the participants were not allowed the use of tools at their disposal either. The opposing party’s principal should’ve brought his own if he wished for one, as well.”  

“That’s not—” Your voice breaks in agonised distress just as the Magistrate turns away from you entirely to press his rotund body back into the comfort of his seat to watch his laid-out massacre once more. Son of a cur.   

“Sylus!” You try and yell for his attention amongst the horrified cries of the crowd. “ Sylus, you don’t have to fight anymore! Get out of there, now! Sylus . ”  

His gaze sweeps over the mass of spectators for that one split moment, as if foraging for yours. Until it seems to find and fixate upon you, his mouth forming slow shape over words you cannot hear but understand on instinct, “Stay right there.”  

Your heart leaps and slams violent against the back of your breastbone with the crowd’s rising screams, just as a hefty brute lunges for Sylus; a battle axe heaved high above his head to strike a killing blow.   

The first cleave of the blade, Sylus avoids, to the tumbling pummel of your frenzied nerves. The man’s fervent swings, he dodges left and right. Avoiding another enemy’s assault with a dagger aimed straight for his gut; Sylus streaks the side of his palm flat onto his wrist in a hit vicious enough, the knife goes flying out of his grasp to stick, hilt-up, useless onto the ground. Before Sylus pummels a heavy fist into the assailant’s face, plastering him down onto the ground.   

The metallic chains of a flail come streaking for him, just as he side-steps past another heavy swing of the axe, catching the iron fetters of it harsh against his wrist. He ducks close into the enemy, manoeuvring the momentum of his attack into his own advantage, to wrench the man harsh into the fist he rams straight into his gut. Tumbling him sideways into the ground, unconscious.  

The bulldozing axe wielding maniac, now in close proximity, careens straight for Sylus on a fervent bellow, sweeping a blow straight for his head. Sylus seizes his last standing opponent’s assault against the strength of a muscled forearm. Catching the brunt of the axe’s hilt at it before he shoves back on a ferocious, inhuman show of force.   

Sylus, your heart hammers, lips forming shape over the syllables of his name in urgent prayer.   

The momentum of the wide, stone blade pushed back in such violence, sends the wielder staggering back with the weight of it; Sylus turning that precious moment of weakness to his benefit as he lunges straight for his neck, seizing it within a thick fist. The core muscles of his arm, rippling with the force with which Sylus hauls him off his feet entirely to drive the man down onto the ground with a vicious snarl.   

The combatant stops moving immediately, knocked out cold on the dirt; Sylus rising slow onto his feet as he stares at the man, chest heaving with the efforts of his strenuous exertion.   

A grave’s quietude slumps across the gathered crowd for several, tense moments.   

And then shatters into raucous chaos as the Conqueror of the duel is cheered to the high heavens; Sylus’s grin, wide and daunting, as he shifts off his fallen opponent, scrubbing a large hand back through sweat soaked locks as he starts ambling over toward the edge of your side of the arena.   

And your heart — your silly little heart — soars from its place within your chest and out for him, the high of his victory, as if it were your own, throbbing brutal within your blood.   

Before you know or comprehend it, your legs are moving; pushing past the crowds of onlookers, the wooden slates of your sandals skidding at dirt, as you fly across the ring toward Sylus. Your gaze entirely filled with your brilliant warrior’s expression shifting into surprise as you hurtle into him. And Sylus — that big, beautiful man understands — catches your careening body within his embrace; your momentum, he breaks against a half-swivel about his heel. Large, warm arms come tight about your body, wordless, without a question uttered, to seclude you further into that private space; just for you both in that moment.   

Your arms stretching about the thick expanse of his neck as you hold on hard to him; Sylus’s low exhale you feel warm gently, into the crescent of your neck as he sinks into you. The people, his duel; none of it matter when you embrace him this close against you, the adrenaline of your unbound joy, his impressive triumph settling into your thundering heart, you feel pressed against him.   

His soft, heavy laughter curls pleasant into your ears. “To the victor go the spoils, I guess.” He breathes. “Although this treasure seems particularly eager on jumping into my arms herself.”   

“Of course I am.” You press yourself away from him enough to afford yourself a proper survey of his face. “Gods, you were brilliant. Thank you, Sylus.”   

His thumb brushes just beneath your eye; a slow, testing touch. His gaze simmers in unusual, unexpected gentleness that siphons the breath from your lungs. “You need never thank me for anything, sweetheart, let alone this. I do not want it.”   

Your own relief blooming into a smile, but before you can respond; an unpleasant, harsh voice fractures through the air — the Magistrate seething and raging as he makes his way over to you both, an army of guards right behind. Clearly, the man could not stomach a sore loss; rabid fire and venom within his gaze as he trudges toward you, screaming obscenities.   

“Step back for a bit, kitten.” And you obey without further prompting, granting Sylus a wide berth for whatever he plans on doing.   

He doesn’t spare a moment longer before he’s striding forward, snatching one of the Magistrate’s unconscious minions off the ground. Hoisting him high up by the scruff of his neck. The Magistrate’s steps stagger just then at Sylus’s mad display, perhaps sensing the disaster he’s called upon him.   

But it’s far too late. “Here, have a present from all of Lungtang, Sire.” Sylus tows his arm back, wide, and aims — to the scurrying cries of the Magistrate — before he violently hurls the man in hand, right at the waddling official, bowling him and half his guards over like a stack of gambling plaques.   

“Sylus.” You gasp at his insane spectacle.  

Before the corrupt, toppled lot can even think to get their bearings back, Sylus is strolling back toward you; a quick flourish of a large hand thrown over his shoulder, in signal. “Take care of them,” he instructs out loud.   

A swarm of dark clad men melt away, on his sole command, from the crowds, to pack around the Magistrate and his men, blotting their figures entirely out of your sight. “Come on.” Sylus’s voice fractures through your reverie, his frame crowding your field of vision.   

“Whe— aah!” A hefty arm swoops beneath the back of your legs, sending frantic fingers scrabbling for purchase against the strength of Sylus’s shoulders as he hoists you up against his body. “What’re you doing?” 

He flashes a devious grin up at you, completely at odds against the bewildered shock you know is wide across your face. “Time to get out of here, sweetheart,” is all he offers in response before he’s sweeping you away from the pandemonium he’s wrought and the boisterous crowd; discarding all of that well-earned glory behind.   

The throng of on-goers tapers out the farther you get on to the road winding away from the arena; curious and awed looks alike garnered your way: at your position, and at the man — the infamous Onychinus head — who strolls easy through the streets of Lungtang, in possession of the strange woman he carries snug on the crook of an arm.  

A flush creeping hot up your face the longer this spectacle goes on until Sylus’s pace — thank the Gods above — dwindles to a halt. “This should be far enough.”   

“Yes, thank you. Put me down now.” Tapping fraught fingers against his shoulders in emphasis. Sylus raises a sculpted brow at you but relents, nonetheless. He steps past the mouth of the nearest back-street, well clear of people, before he helps you down onto your feet.   

You lean a hand across his arm, taking a moment to scramble your bearings back.   

“The brief walk back has you this out of breath, huh?” You turn a half-hearted frown at his mild ribbing; the man barely having broken a sweat himself, for having carried you all the way down here.   

“I wasn’t the one who asked you to lug me the entire way, you know,” you return.   

“What can I say, sweetheart? I’m rather protective of my treasures being made to rot too long among the grime.” He gently pinches your cheek in between thick, tapered digits; voice descending to a softer baritone. “And I won, as promised.” Long, tapered fingers skim heat across the angle of your cheekbone. “So, you’ll give me a pass this once, won’t you?”  

Vivid scarlet flitters in inscrutable emotion to witness you cup careful palms about his own, as he touches you.   

“You also pulled that insane stunt with that sleaze of a magistrate at the end there. I don’t know how you plan on getting out of that one,” you point out, but there is no actual heat to your accusation.  

He exhales a half-laugh. “That’s probably long taken care of.” Stroking the fall of your hair back against your ear. “No one will come after you now.”  

You step closer to him. “You do know I’m capable of worrying about you too, right? I’m not heartless.” His mouth quirks at your peeved admission. “...You’re important to me Sylus.”  

A streak of something akin to surprise fulgurates for a moment’s notice within that garnet gaze, at your confession.   

Your fingers trek a steady path against the painted beads of your necklace dangling at his chest. “Although I do hope you’ll never pull something like this on my behalf, ever again.” He'd brought it back to you, safe and unscathed, just as he’d said — a vow made, he had honoured.   

Relief was still warm within your chest, along with the turbulence of long nursed vexing emotions, brought forth to the surface — for a man you’d known for almost half your life — by the day’s sequence of events. “I don’t think my heart could handle it.” You huff out a soft laugh.   

An inscrutable emotion streaks across Sylus’s face, too quick to pick apart until it retreats entirely once more.   

“Unfortunately for you,” long, tapered digits sweep about yours at his chest, capturing your hand steady within his grip. “that’s not a pledge I can offer you.” His whisper is low, throaty as it settles against you and you realize the sudden proximity of your positions.   

His striking face is all that floods your vision. His gaze flickers from yours, down toward the bow of your parted lips — a remiss on his part, you can tell from how it rolls back swift to catch your eyes once more. If you did not know any better, you might’ve almost thought he meant to lean further and—  

But was it really the mad conjuring of your mind and a reluctantly hopeful heart that wished to see what it thought it did? Or had you been this obtuse on purpose all along?   

Your brow knits in consternation; this far removed from the persistent babbling of voices — your anxieties, the people, his duel, your uncertain fates at the time — and sequestered within the quiet alley; your roiling thoughts are loud and insistent.   

“And why’s that, Sylus?” You ask quietly.  

The skewed pull of his mouth is devastatingly beautiful even in its lack of mirth, this up close. “I think you know the answer to that, sweetheart. Or are you going to pretend otherwise?” His thumb strokes its gentle path across your knuckles — lighting an incendiary course — your hand still placed firm at his chest. “Whatever your choice, however, know it has always been yours to make.”  

The muted, steady beats of his heart beneath your palm seem to thrum past the sensitive pads of your digits as they skim a line past his pectorals, and up your body, warming it from the inside out.   

You swallow against the surge of a nervous fever that takes you all at once; ploughing past that pluck of anxiety at your chest, to bet your entirety on the one gamble you’re about to make.   

“Come to think of it.” Pink tongue slinks past a mouth parched, to trek a slow path across your bottom lip, end to end; the intolerable burning intensity of Sylus’s scarlet gaze scouring each single motion, sending your light-headedness thrumming higher. “You haven’t truly won yet, have you, Sylus?”   

“What?” He exhales heavily. His breathing has quickened just a snick higher, you notice, underneath your feathering ministrations. You’re fascinated by how he sounds much short of breath in this one instant than he did throughout the entirety of that match. The fact sending a deluge of warm pride and desire threading through your heart.   

“A winner is only one when he has been crowned as such, and received his dues.” You clarify, shifting closer against him.   

Stretching up on the balls of your feet until you’re a mere hair’s breadth from his face. “You however, have yet to claim your prize.” Sweeping forward until your lips are skimming against his in a tentative, testing brush of kiss — your hammering thoughts of uncertainty, of whether he wants this too, swiped clean with the soft, guttural choke of sound that slips past Sylus’s lips at your brazen initiative. And before you can bask under the simmering warmth of what that sound does to you, Sylus is curving a large palm firm within the thread of your locks, wrenching your mouth back against his in a bruising, fervid kiss.  

Eager fingers skitter at the strength of his shoulders to ground yourself against the sudden, pleasurable onslaught just as he captures your waist within the ironed grip of an arm. Almost lifting you up entirely against him until you’re suspended barely at the tips of your toes.   

His grunts are warm against the inside of your mouth as his tongue skims past the easy access of your parted lips to taste you against himself. The wet muscle sliding against yours before he sucks it into his own mouth on an approving groan of desire.   

You're nearly nerveless by the time he parts from you on a wet stretch of sound, barely enough distance, his breath cascades hot against your damp lips with each guttural word, keying you higher. “This is getting a bit too dangerous, kitten. I suggest we stop here if you don’t wish to reach a point of no-return.”  

“No. No,” Your hands flit in fervent frenzy from the stretch of his shoulders to bunch into the thick silver weave of his hair. “We don’t ever need to stop. I want this, I want you, if you do too.” Your mouth descending back against his in the dizzy crush of lips and tongue, Sylus’s groans of pleasure you drink down against your own moan.  

“There hasn’t been a single moment where I haven’t desired you, sweetheart.” He whispers in harsh breaths into the pocket of space you allow him in between your kisses. “You’re the one who said it now. So, brace yourself.”   

A hand you skim down the thick length of his neck, grazing at the base of his hair to support yourself against the large arms that cage your waist to lift until he’s driving you both back against the wall of the narrow alleyway, shrouding you deeper into shadows.   

His kiss of gentle affection skids past the cut of your cheek, so at odds against the fierce brunt of his arousal you feel grinding into your belly. You buck against the touch just as Sylus eases you down, only enough you’re on your feet now; bodies still moulded tight against the shape of each other.   

His mouth continues its work of feathering kisses across the curve of your cheek, down the delicate line of your jaw. His hips stroking against yours in gentle motions, sending the roll of his hard length against your stomach each time he guides you against himself, having you squirm in roiling pleasure, helpless against the insistence of his mouth and pelvis. Meeting his body with yours in the reflexive buck of your hips against his.   

The elongated stretch of your skirt, sending a mild frisson of frustration through your nerves to feel the restriction of your movements against his. Groaning in soft defeat against Sylus’s mouth over yours, just as he cups a large hand about the angle of your pelvis. Caressing past the flare of your behind, rucking up the fabric within a tight fist to slide it, far too slow, up your legs.   

A final brush of temporary farewell he kisses against your drenched lips before he descends, unhurried, down the length of your body; scarlet gaze refusing to relent from yours for even a single measured moment of mercy. A thick palm he traces, appreciative, down the curves of you as he pitches on to his knees.   

Thumb warming its touch against the edge of a knee, your skirts bunched at the hand fastened about your leg as it caresses a slow, sensual path up higher. The glorious sight he is, down on his knees in between the willing split of your legs; undoing in its entirety — you shudder at the devastation he brings upon you when his fingers hone their target upon the cloth of your underwear at your hip. Skating a delicate path against the knot of it before his index slips underneath it to tug undone.   

Wresting your underwear away entirely on his next sharp tug before he sweeps the mortifyingly damp cloth away from your body and under his nose for a long, obscene inhale. “You smell sweet, kitten. So much of this pretty nectar, all for me... I admit I’m more than a little flattered.” The skew of his devious smirk pulls wider at your choked sound of pleasure to witness him swipe your underwear down against his back, and pocket into the satchel at his belt.   

“Sylus,” you reprimand half-heartedly, in distressed urgency.   

“The victor takes it all, does he not? These are my spoils to have now, kitten.” His large palms are back at the skin of your legs, skimming a dizzying, scorching path up the quiver of your thighs. “Just as you are, the treasure I snatched for myself.”  

“Let me indulge in my private feast, quietly now.” He baits in heated whispers, jaw falling open as he disappears in between the heavy folds of your skirt and — Heaven help you — the sound that scrapes raw past your throat to feel the tease of his broad tongue against your drenched slit, is unlike any you’ve ever heard before. The high-pitched squeal you cut off in the hasty wrench of your bottom lip into your mouth, heated desire clouding your swimming vision to tamp down your moans of arousal, lest any passers-by, just a few feet away from your shadowed alcove, spot the indecency of your display.   

Thoughts drifting into emptiness — musing absent at how self-conscious you’d been while Sylus had carried you within his arms all the way out here; fully clothed then. And yet, here you were now, with your skirts bunched high up against your pelvis with that very same man’s wonderful tongue shoved deep inside you.  

The hot pads of Sylus’s index and middle you feel skim against the tight bead of pleasure at your apex, just as the point of his tongue seeps in at your entrance, sending your hips stuttering into his steeled grip, fast at your pelvis.   

You clamp a palm shut tight against your tapering moans, unable to smother them within yourself any longer. The heated plumes of your own breath crowding back against you with each shivered moan Sylus forces out of you.  

His mouth brushes about the length of your folds, the bow of his upper lip bumping gentle at your tight bundle of nerves. Before he closes it within the searing heat of his mouth, sucking at your increasingly swollen flesh.   

Sylus draws at the drenched slick of you like a man intent on devouring you whole, the thought drives your pleasure higher along with the rising euphoria bubbling within your body. A curious thumb parts your inner folds wider to admit the broad of his tongue deep into your slit. Your walls spasming against the breach of it as your hips judder down against the strength of his jaw.  

“You’re close, aren’t you sweetheart? You can keep up a little longer.” His smothered encouragement, the vibrations of his thick voice right against your slit send you tumbling higher upon that precipice of sweet release.   

The added, ruinous excitement of not being able to see him past the abundant frill of your skirts blazes you higher; the sole nervous anticipation of not knowing where he’d touch you next has you gushing on his tongue.   

A low, soft curse you hear spill guttural against your folds, vibrating straight up into your womb, “You’re practically weeping on my tongue, sweetheart. I like that.” Your answering moan you bury into a bite of your sleeve as you fold your arm about your face; a full body quiver long having taken you. You no longer hold control over yourself. “Grind down on my face, relax yourself. Yes, there’s my good girl now.”  

The praise having your walls grip hard at the fingers he’s worked into you now. Propelling them at an indolent, maddening pace into your depths.  

“Sylus,” you pant harshly, mind numbing into a crescendo. “I don’t — hah — can’t — much longer.” Begging for a release so, so close at hand.  

“Then don’t . Let yourself go.” His groans muted against the wet heat of you. “I’ll catch you when you fall.”   

The crook of his middle and ring fingers up into you has you spasming against the intrusive stretch of them. Opening you up deeper; the deft pads of them scrounge up a spot against your frontal walls that has your mouth flying open on a silent scream, head falling back against the unyielding brick of the alley as your fluttering insides clamp down violent against his adroit handling of you. “Right here, is it?” You think you hear his muted whispers spill throaty against the sensitive expanse of your thigh.   

Right at the junction of your hip as Sylus sinks a bite into the pliant flesh just as his thick fingers rub up against that same weak spot inside to have you disintegrating into senselessness right above him.  

You can’t fathom how he’s brought you to such complete devastation in just a few, nimble strokes of his tongue and fingers into you, against you. Never having been dragged this fast or good to the precipice by your own hand, let alone another’s. He’s away each layer of defence, piece by excruciating piece, having worked you open so thoroughly as if he knew your body like his own.  

Truly a man that sought relentless victory even in between the fall of your legs.   

And it is only when that pleasure point is one keyed far too high, with the incessant press of his third finger up into your walls, stretching you open — so incredibly full of just his digits alone — does your body fall. No longer capable of protecting yourself against the battering deluge of a release so consuming, your knees buckle underneath the hefty intensity of his ministrations.   

Sylus’s large hand, you feel warm about your rump, to curve its easy support about it, as he presses his face further into you. Waves upon waves of pleasure, drowning your keening cries against your well-abused bottom lip. A faint frisson of overstimulation stringing you higher to gain enough conscious thought back to catch his low, guttural growl searing harsh at your drenched folds, at the sensation of you gushing all over his tongue.  

You quiver in nerveless arousal to feel the fleeting brush of his kiss farewell against your slit before he rises, slow, onto his feet once more. Your body clenches in on instinctual need to catch sight of his face once more. The slick that glimmers obscenely copious across his mouth and down the strength of his jaw, the untamed, almost bestial intensity to that barely tamped heat within scarlet, as Sylus sweeps a careful thumb against your wetness has you unfurling trembling digits forward to snag around his neck, dragging him down against yourself.  

Consuming the ferocity of his kiss just as eagerly in the tongue you lap at his lips, slipping along the angle of his jaw; moaning softly at the taste of you that clings still to him. Restless fingers steal in between your bodies to reach for the arousal that strains delectable and intimidating against his trousers.  

Flittering your digits about the catch of them as you work them open enough along with the thick fingers that aid you to release him free for your hungry gaze. Your audible gasp of pleasure Sylus captures against the pad of his thumb edging just past the part of your lips.  

He’s incredibly blessed, bigger, girthier than any you’ve ever had before. The prospect of taking that thing inside your body simultaneously terrifies and excites you.  

Your dazed musings Sylus fractures in the cup of your jaw in between firm, gentle digits. “Nervous?”   

“...A bit,” you admit. Adding for good measure, “Nothing I can’t handle, though.”  An expectant hand you move to curve about the breadth of him to make your point — fingers barely able to cup entirely about him.  

Sylus’s laughter is a low, heavy burst of sound. “Don’t worry, kitten.” He reaches down to join his fingers against yours in languidly stroking the length of him. Coasting in close to your ear as he lays a kiss of dark, hoarse promise against it, “I’ll teach you to do more than just handle it.”  

Your pleased moan you throttle against his quick, vehement kiss as Sylus gathers the folds of your skirt up to bunch about your hips. Fitting himself into the space he makes, his arousal glancing hot against your outer labia; feeling him so close to where your body clenches in on tense anticipation.   

He withdraws from you on a wet slip of tongue, seizing your gaze within his. The firm fist he strokes at his length guiding the flared, slick head of him against your folds to lubricate in your wetness, bumping pleasant at your sensitive bead of nerves on each indolent stroke.  

You buck your hips up against his in an impatient scratch of throaty sound. Slipping the head of him so close against your slit, it almost makes you dizzy with need.  

You are not, however, prepared truly for the actual breach of him as he splits you open in pleasure so blinding, it streaks right against your tender bead and up deep into your belly. Sylus’s guttural groans brand hot against the crescent of your neck in overwhelmed desire, a muted swear swallowed into the bite of teeth he presses into it. “Relax yourself a little, kitten, you’ve gone too tight on me.”  

You try, you truly do as you smother past your burning need to scream, for breaths to claw into your lungs; he feels too much, too good all at once, your body incapable of doing much else except accepting the slow propulsion of him deeper into your walls.

He feels almost too much for you to handle, spearing you open so far around him you didn’t even think yourself capable of such a feat. And yet, the copious arousal that slicks in between your bodies, with the voracious clench of your walls around the hard strength of him, sucking him inside, speaks volumes. Of how you’re thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being impaled upon his length.  

“More,” you pant; the slow thrusts of his hips up into yours sending your lashes flittering shut, in overwhelming euphoria and need. “I need more, Sylus.”  

He grunts in acknowledgment, large hands fixing hot fetters of flesh against either side of your pelvis as he thrusts into you, each swollen stroke of his arousal sending him impossibly deep, until you feel it may truly reach your womb.  

Sylus heaves himself closer into you, nearly pinning you against the wall with the sheer strength of his towering body, the heavy pumping of his hips into you, sending euphoria skating through your veins. Intoxicated on feeling the way he moves within you.  

A hand drifts up from your hip to grip at the flare of your waist beneath cloth as Sylus manoeuvres your body to thrust into you at an angle that drives him hard against your swollen spot of pleasure inside.   

Your hands fly in agonized frenzy to clutch at his arms, his shoulders as you grapple with the blinding pleasure he’s carving into your body. His head skews downward to catch the sensitive flesh of your neck in between the bite of restive teeth, a low moan wrenched free of your throat. His mouth strokes down the length of your skin until he teeths at the fastenings of your collar, wrenching violent at the buttons before he scatters them apart. Mouth engulfing the exposed slope of your clavicle in fervid groans.  

Your fingers skitter for purchase into the silver brush of hair at the base of his neck, tugging harsh with his increasingly heavy pace. A low whine clambering past your throat when his grip upon your body tightens once more in purpose, dragging his length to the near tip of him before he rams back into you on a guttural snarl so primal, it has you violently spasming about his thick shaft, your vision blanking in for a moment.  

Sylus’s face is a flood of savage bliss and heated concentration — the sight along with his pleasurably punishing thrusts into your walls — has your heart nearly trying to rip past the bruising beat of it at your breastbone. Hips meeting his in stuttering thrusts as your body bows up, sharp, toward him to chase a height of euphoria so in sight.  

“You’re moaning so loud, kitten.” His throaty chuckle stirs weighty into your belly. “Keep that up and you’ll draw us an audience.” Gnawing weakly at your bottom lip to instinctively tamp your sounds just as Sylus moves to drive into you on a particularly ruinous, deliberate thrust that has your legs buckling entirely underneath you.   

But he’s there to catch you, thick forearms cording about the feeble, trembling plush of your thighs before he hoists you up entirely onto him; his hushed chuckle drifting into guttural laughter. “Why try being quiet on your own when you can just make use what you have at your disposal?” His lips drive against yours in a vehement kiss of teeth and tongue, devouring you, just the way he is in between your legs. You let yourself go at last, moaning unabated into the searing warmth of his mouth, Sylus’s pace turning to near-frenzied rutting, with the sounds he wrenches from your bruised throat.  

He forces you deeper against the wall, spearing you helpless in between the cool stone at your back and the unforgiving intensity of his drilling thrusts pillaging your body. Golden deep pleasure roiling pleasant just beneath your skin, to push at the confines, until you feel like you could float out of it heavenward and never return to the ground.  

Your fevered gaze snags against the painted beads of your gifted charm about his neck, swinging vehement with the force of his propulsions. Drifting absent fingers against the worn orbs of the necklace, mushed mind admiring how truly lovely he looks like this for you; coupled along with that tight knit of concentrated pleasure, it makes you believe he truly is all yours to have. As if he belongs to you, with you.   

That sole, deranged thought sending arousal thrumming within, so blinding, your body quivers into the tight curve of a crescent, pressing hard against his chest, a peak so close, you can feel it stirring vicious into your belly. “You’re all mine to have, aren’t you? My great warrior,” you gasp against his mouth, trembling fingers sweeping for the broad strength of his shoulders as your nails drive in, harsh.

Sylus’s response; groaned heavy against your tongue, without hesitation. “You’ve always had me in my entirety, sweetheart.”  

Your body has wholly given up — a leaden weight — within his grasp, held together only by the strength of Sylus’s arms curving steeled grips about your thighs. Pounding into you with each fervid roll of his hips slapping against the back of your thighs — the profuse flow of your arousal sweltering in between your already burning bodies, the obscene squelch of it each time he withdraws from your walls only to drive back in with savage, terrifying accuracy, rutting himself so good against the spot inside that has you quivering uncontrollably around the length of him.  

Your combined sultry symphony so loud within your ears, drumming along with the thundering of your heart, you’re sure any passers-by crossing the mouth of the alley would be able to hear. Your cotton-fed mind so far gone, however, you’re no longer coherent enough to care about anyone hearing your claims upon each other’s bodies. So deeply entrenched in the sole existence of Sylus: his body, tongue, his bruising grip upon you, you love so much — scoring stinging crescents as your own signs of victory, across the broad strength of his shoulders, down the firm muscle of his arms, serving to drive him only harder into you until he’s knocking half-screams out of your throat. Swallowing them up against the hungry sweep of his tongue.  

Sylus’s thrusts into your body have turned erratic, his guttural moans heating your skin into a blazing furnace. You’re so close to release, you can feel the heavy crest of its deluge approaching — golden and ruinous.  

His grip upon the flare of your hip shifts, pressing you impossibly deeper against him, the new angle driving the length of him against your sensitive bundle of nerves on each hammering thrust. “A-Almost—” Gasping a breathless warning.  

Hurtling you so high; the frenzied pump of his hips into yours, the constant stimulation at your swollen bead sending your walls spasming so violent, you feel Sylus loose a long, guttural groan deep into your mouth. You tumble off the precipice of release just as you feel the first thick spurts of his seed searing fire against your sensitized walls; Sylus’s sultry growls keying your frenzied release so high your fingers scrape across the back of his neck to tug him harsh against your mouth. Sinking your quivering, heated desires into a vehement bite at his chest, Sylus’s digits weaving tight into your hair at the back of your head, to hold you there.  

His thundering pulse you moan against in appreciation, laving absent to soothe the reddening bite at his skin, as your body convulses with the still flowing spurts of his release, stroking at the intoxicating fever of your prolonged orgasm, filling you to the brim and over; the warmth of it you feel drip past your folds and onto his sturdy thighs.  

Taking several, long much needed moments to compose yourself as your sweat-slick face falls, nerveless, to press your cheek against the damp expanse of his chest, body still suspended firm upon the corded strength of his arms, his cock nestled snug and thick within you.  

You claw a much-needed gulp of air past a throat, long sore. “...I fear you may have to carry me here on out, as well, Sylus, because I certainly can’t move an inch right now.”  

His amused chuckle drifts warm against the top of your head. “While joined together just like this?” He teases softly. “You may truly pass out of sheer embarrassment this time if I do, kitten.”  

“Doesn’t matter,” you quip right back, half-hearted, canting a languid gaze up his way. “I think I’ll be long knocked out before any pesky shame kicks in, from how good this — you were.”  

You feel Sylus’s length twitch within your walls at your words, groaning quietly at the growing strain of his arousal, back to half-mast already. Truly, was there a limit to the man’s enduring stores of stamina?  

But perhaps, the real question was of your own insatiable appetite too, when it came to him, as you were only newly discovering — your wrecked body responding in the muted burn of arousal, kindling into slow fire within your belly, clenching weakly at him.  

“Tell you what, sweetheart.” Sylus’s skewed grin tucks against your ear as he nuzzles at your cheek.  “I’ll carry you out of here in my arms, as you wish, without the additional parade of our naked bodies. In return,” A kiss he feathers, against the angle of your cheekbone. “Come home with me.”  He asks of you, softly.

You bury your approval in the nudge of your nose against him, catching his lips against yours in a gentle, chaste kiss, “Sounds like a done deal to me, my handsome warrior.”  

End Notes: Thank you for reading! This was a very fun indulgence and I hope everyone who bagged Sylus’ card enjoyed his soft card story.

Tagging as requested: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @bitches4lifebro , @beebumbo , @hellinistical , @dangerousluv1 , @webmvie , @Cas-tiel13 , @aria-tempest , @raendarkfaerie , @lamentinee , @unhingedsillygod , @tiredas , @ladyparamount

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[sixeyesonathiel]

your tutor of marital propriety!satoru teaches you how to kiss.

a/n: perchance i ever expand this into a full oneshot… who do you all think should be the poor, oblivious betrothed of our princess? they will, of course, be embarrassingly, spectacularly cucked. please choose wisely 🫶🏻

you are stubborn. painfully, deliciously stubborn. that is the first thing satoru realizes the moment you stand before him in the empty antechamber, the silken weight of your skirts set stiff with pride, chin tilted in regal defiance. as though you might ward him off with your sharpened glower, as though you could command him to yield with the simple arch of your brow.

it thrills him. it always has. it coils in his chest, sweet and intoxicating, the memory of you haunting him since that spring banquet so long ago. the stubborn line of your jaw. the proud tilt of your head. the way you walked amongst nobles as if you were already their sovereign, despite the heavy chains of tradition looped around your wrists.

“why must i learn these things from you?”

your voice is taut, every syllable wrapped in distaste, your lips pressed together in a line he has longed to unravel since that day. you were but a young thing then, trailing dutifully behind your father, cloaked in silks and privilege, precious and untouchable—but impossible to ignore. you had not spared him more than a glance, and yet he had seared you into memory: the bold set of your shoulders, the fire in your gaze, the quiet defiance you wore like a crown among a den of wolves.

he had wanted you even then. had wondered how your lips might tremble beneath his teeth. had dreamed of the sounds you would make if cornered just right. had yearned to break past the polished veneer of your courtly manners and drag forth the unguarded version of you. the one who would tremble beneath his hands.

“because, princess,” he answers, letting the honorific drip like sweetened wine, “i am the only one who is qualified.”

he allows his words to linger, stepping closer with the measured gait of a man who knows he will not be refused. your shoulders tense beneath the weight of his stare, and he savors the knowledge that you cannot help but react to him. it curls warm and heady in his chest, a delicious pressure that presses against his ribs, urging him to take more.

“you have lived your life tucked safely within these gilded halls. your intended hails from a distant empire, where the expectations placed upon a wife are foreign to you. i was schooled there. i know their customs. i know the ways of their court.”

his tone is soft, the cadence easy, as if he does not mean to ensnare you. but he does. he has been weaving this web from the moment the king appointed him your instructor, the moment he realized he would have you within his reach, day after day, lesson upon lesson. he smiles, slow and deliberate, as a pale lock of hair slips to graze his cheek, his glacial eyes sinking into yours with practiced precision, carefully adjusted over years of quiet longing.

“unless, of course,” his voice drops, a velvet thread tightening around your ribs, “you would prefer to learn these things from another man?”

his question strikes you cleanly, his satisfaction blooming as he watches the slightest movement of your throat, the smallest quiver in your composure. you loathe him. but beneath that loathing, there is the shimmer of curiosity, the reluctant awareness that what he offers you is necessary. you are no fool. you know what awaits you. and satoru—the silver-haired heir to the northern dukedom, all silk and poison—holds the key.

“fine,” you snap, as though the concession scalds your tongue. “but you will not kiss me as though you mean it.”

his lips curl, slow and amused, as though your stipulation is a game he is eager to play, a rule he has no intention of following.

“of course, your highness. i would never presume.”

it is a lie.

he approaches with deliberate steps, each echoing click of his polished boots measured and slow, the faint trace of his cologne arriving before his touch. you flinch as he raises his hand, but he merely tucks a loose strand behind your ear, the brush of his gloved fingers grazing your temple, lingering far too long, savoring the softness of you beneath his leather.

“relax,” he murmurs, savoring the tremble that dances through you. “it would not do for you to be so tense when your husband-to-be touches you.”

“i would prefer he never touch me at all,” you bite, though your voice falters when his hand settles beneath your chin, his thumb pressing delicately against the stubborn line of your jaw. you try to sound strong, but the frantic pulse beneath your skin betrays you. your pride burns bright, but your body does not yet know how to resist him.

“ah, but he will.”

his gaze dips to your lips, his breath faltering—just once. it is the only fracture in his composure he permits himself. he has envisioned this too many times: the softness of your mouth, the fire in your eyes as you surrender piece by reluctant piece.

“part your lips,” he whispers, his thumb coaxing, circling lazily across the seam of your mouth. “good girl.”

your eyes flash, your pride bristling at the endearment, but you obey. you do not pull away. you tremble, uncertain, your hands fluttering at your sides, unsure of where to land. his chest swells with triumph at your hesitation, the subtle fracture in your resolve.

“this is merely a lesson,” he reminds you, his voice low and reverent, his thumb never leaving your lips. “nothing more.”

it is the sweetest, most exquisite lie he has ever told.

he lowers his head slowly, relishing the soft tremble of your lashes, the way your breath catches when his lips brush yours—a fleeting touch at first, no more than a whisper. his hand slides to the nape of your neck, drawing you firmly into him as he deepens the kiss—greedy, voracious, as though he might consume you whole.

his tongue prods at the seam of your lips, insistent, until you—hesitant, trembling—allow him entry, still clumsy, still learning, but so unbearably eager despite yourself. you taste of sweet spring wine, stubborn pride, and something wholly forbidden. satoru groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that spills from him unchecked, ragged and desperate.

he had meant to teach you restraint. to guide you carefully. but instead he devours you—his lips slanting over yours again and again, his tongue tangling with yours in wet, breathless strokes, his hunger plain and shameless. each sound, slick and obscene, echoes in the chamber, every beat of his heart a thunderous ache beneath his ribs.

his other hand drifts to your waist, his fingers curling into the rich fabric of your gown, anchoring you as though he might leave his mark upon your skin. his teeth catch at your lower lip, drawing a startled gasp that he drinks greedily, desperate for more, desperate to swallow every breath that escapes you.

his hands explore the curve of your waist, the subtle dip of your spine, the quickened pulse that flutters beneath his touch. he grips you harder, more desperately, as though terrified that you might slip through his fingers and vanish. his palms burn against the thin barrier of your gown, his thumb pressing firmer, as though imprinting his touch upon your flesh.

he is drowning in you. intoxicated by the soft, shaky moan that tumbles from your throat when his fingers trail the delicate column of your neck, tangling briefly in your hair before settling possessively at your nape. his breathing is ragged, his lips returning to yours with renewed frenzy, unwilling to part, unwilling to yield, until the burning in his lungs forces him to relent—and even then, he hovers, his mouth brushing yours, his breath mingling with yours as if the mere inches between you are too cruel to bear.

his kiss drags on—a feverish, hungry thing—until the heat beneath your skin leaves you swaying against him, your balance teetering, your hands fisted weakly in the fabric of his coat. he presses forward, guiding you with slow, suffocating steps until your back meets the cool stone wall of the chamber, caging you with his body as though you belong there, as though you were made to fit within the curve of his arms.

his lips leave yours only to trail down the curve of your jaw, pressing firm, open-mouthed kisses to the delicate skin there, his teeth grazing, biting, soothing with the sweep of his tongue as though tasting every inch of you he dares to touch. his breath is hot against your skin, his hands skimming the sides of your bodice, sliding up to your ribs with a bruising grip that makes you shudder and arch involuntarily against him.

he kisses the hollow beneath your ear, his tongue darting out to taste the faint sheen of sweat gathered there, his teeth scraping, dragging a whimper from you that shatters whatever pitiful defense you might have clung to.

“you are learning so quickly,” he breathes, his voice a ragged whisper, a dangerous spark alight in his gaze, the fragile leash on his composure long since abandoned. “perhaps we should practice more often. again. and again.”

“satoru—”

your protest is weak, your breath shattered, your lips swollen and glistening with the evidence of his touch. your hands cling feebly to the front of his coat, suspended between resistance and reluctant longing, the last embers of your defiance flickering beneath the haze he has woven around you. your legs are trembling, your heart stumbling in your chest, uncertain whether to fight him or to follow him.

“shh,” he soothes, pressing another kiss to your trembling mouth, softer now, but still steeped in possession, as though he might claim you with the gentle weight of it. “you need not thank me, princess. your education is my duty, after all.”

when he finally pulls away, a string of saliva clings between your lips and his, glimmering and obscene, refusing to part until he brushes his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the dampness he left behind with slow, reverent strokes, as if to etch the taste of you into his skin.

he drinks in the sight of you—disheveled, flushed, the rapid rise and fall of your chest betraying the storm beneath your proud facade. his hunger sharpens, solidifies, anchoring itself deep within him, feeding a yearning he has long since ceased trying to temper.

his thumb drags once more across your lip, slow, lingering, as if he cannot bear to let even this fleeting touch go. he leans in, pressing a final kiss to your chin, to the corner of your mouth, as though marking you in all the places he has yet to claim.

“we shall continue tomorrow,” he whispers, a promise, a decree, as though you already belong to him. he speaks it like a vow. like a threat.

for he will not let you go. not now. not ever.

[aleese1111]

oil and cashmere | geum seong je x fem!reader

summary: at daesung Bikes, a Union-run chop shop, geum seong-je hides a forbidden secret—his affair with the boss' niece. When she accidentally leaves behind her cardigan, Baek Jin arrives and notices.

warnings: implied sexual content, criminal activity, violence.

author's note: first fic lol. requests in dms!

late afternoon light filtered through the half-open shutters, slicing across the dust-filled air of the garage in harsh beams. the metallic clatter of tools echoed somewhere in the back as two underlings worked on stripping a stolen ducati. a playlist of half-dead punk played from a speaker on the shelf, loud enough to fill the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the unease that always lingered in this place.

the garage was many things—a chop shop, a graveyard for stolen engines, a union hideout masquerading as a legal front—but to seong je, it was also a den. a lair. a place where he could let his guard down, just a little. that is, when certain people weren’t around.

seong je sat sprawled across the cracked leather couch, legs stretched, arm draped lazily over the backrest. his cigarette burned low, the smoke curling around his face like lazy ghosts. he had that look on—detached, disinterested, predatory boredom.

but his eyes kept flicking—very subtly—to one thing.

a cardigan.

it lay on the far end of the couch, half-hanging over the edge. cream-colored, soft, expensive. a woman’s piece. a luxury item. and in this place of blood, rust, and oil, it might as well have been a glowing red flag.

she had left it.

not on purpose. she was careful, always. meticulous. clean exits. no footprints. but today, something had slipped. and now it sat there like a trap waiting to snap shut.

the door opened.

he didn’t move, but he knew that gait. the steady, unhurried pace. calculated.

baek jin.

he entered without a word, gaze cutting across the garage with cool detachment. still in uniform, blazer loose over his shoulders, posture relaxed but never vulnerable. he nodded to one of the boys in the back, then made his way toward the office.

he watched him go, exhaling smoke through his teeth.

a few minutes passed. then baek jin returned, steps lighter, hands in his pockets as he drifted toward the couch.

“everything in order?” he asked without looking.

“mm,” baek jin said, eyes drifting again. “still missing that cb650. might’ve been stashed in the old textile lot.”

“could be,” he replied. “kids have been sloppy.”

baek jin stopped a few feet from the couch, then slowly lowered himself onto the bench opposite, just far enough to look like he wasn’t here to confront anything.

his eyes wandered.

and landed.

on the cardigan.

it wasn’t dramatic. just a subtle shift in his gaze, the way a wolf notices a broken branch in the woods.

he noticed. of course he did.

baek jin tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “someone leave something?”

he didn’t look. “guess so.”

“odd to see something like that here,” jin said. “doesn’t match the decor.”

“girls swing by sometimes,” he muttered, tapping ash onto the floor. “one of them probably forgot it.”

“mmh.” jin nodded slowly. “looks pricey.”

“yeah. didn’t check the tag.”

another pause.

baek jin leaned back just slightly. “you remember who was here last?”

his eyes finally met jin’s. slow. bored. “nah. wasn’t paying attention.”

there was a beat of silence—just long enough for tension to thread between them.

then jin smiled, faint. almost amused. “i’ve seen something like that before.”

[fayelero]

heyooo i love your writing so much dude like it’s mind boggling

anyways, i was wondering if you could write for husband au kuroo? any plotline would do

… maaayybbeeee a little smut ykyk🤭

THANK YOUUUUAAA💞

ⓘ 01. MY ALL !

⤷ FLUFF&SMUT ﹫ timeskip!kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader ﹫ mdni ﹫ thanks for the req! I took time to guess the plot sorry !! here’s for ya hope you like it :)

⚠︎ mdni, dom!kuroo, praise kink, possession kink, p in v, slow sex, but kinda rough (manhandling) .ᐟ.ᐟ

It was another miserable Thursday.

Rain tapped against the windows of the Japan Volleyball Association’s headquarters, a rhythmic, taunting reminder of the hours ticking by. Inside his office, Kuroo Tetsurō looked like he was one bad sentence away from setting the entire place on fire.

He was hunched over a stack of reports that kept multiplying like some sick joke. His tie hung loose, blazer thrown over the armrest of his chair, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His jaw was clenched so tightly, it looked like he might grind his teeth into dust by the end of the hour.

His assistants—usually a somewhat chaotic but efficient team—were moving like mice in a lion’s den. They handed him files and tiptoed around his desk like he was a ticking bomb, flinching at the sharp drag of his pen or the way he slammed a report shut after finding a mistake.

The truth was simple: Kuroo was pissed.

His irritation wasn’t new. It had been building up for weeks. It started with a few late nights, then turned into every night. The schedule had been packed—meetings, travel, international liaison calls, press coordination. Volleyball wasn’t just a sport for him; it was a battlefield, and right now, he was stuck in the trenches.

And worse—he hadn’t touched you in a month.

You.

His wife.

That fact alone gnawed at him more than anything else. He wasn’t the type to whine or complain about sex like some hormonal teenager, but the combination of stress and the lack of your warm, pliant body tangled under his had pushed him to the edge. You were his favorite fucking escape. The way you moaned, the way you clawed at his shoulders, the way you’d kiss him like he was the only man in the world—it grounded him. Recentered him.

But work had suffocated the little time he had left with you. Every time you reached for him at night, he was already half-asleep or neck-deep in emails. He hated it. Hated how you looked at him with quiet concern, kissed his cheek, and told him you understood.

He didn’t want you to understand.

He wanted you underneath him.

So today, he was miserable. Running on caffeine, ten hours of sleep stretched over four nights, and the very last thread of patience he had.

Papers smacked onto his desk. “Here’s the Korea match proposal, sir—”

“Wrong formatting,” Kuroo growled without even looking up. “Redo it.”

The poor guy nodded so fast his glasses slipped down his nose.

Then came the final straw.

It was a comment. Not meant for him. Said in a whisper that, unfortunately, carried across the very open space of his office.

“God, he just needs to fuck his wife and we’ll be good finally…”

Everything stopped.

A beat passed. Kuroo didn’t lift his head. The pen in his hand stilled mid-signature. The room collectively held its breath.

The assistant who said it realized far too late what had happened. The slow, horrifying realization hit him mid-sentence as he turned toward the desk, eyes wide in horror.

Kuroo looked up. Slowly. Calmly. Too calmly.

His gaze pinned the guy like a nail to the wall.

“…Repeat that.”

Silence.

No one dared to move.

The unfortunate man looked like he was debating whether to fake a heart attack or jump out the third-story window. “I—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—”

Kuroo leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and arched an eyebrow. “Go on. Finish the sentence. You’ve already committed.”

A nervous, dry laugh cracked out of someone in the back. It died instantly when Kuroo’s eyes flicked in their direction.

“I—what I meant was—it’s just—you’ve seemed tense lately, and—uh—maybe a break would help.”

“A break.” Kuroo’s voice was like cut glass. “You mean getting my dick wet so I stop terrorizing the office?”

A beat.

“…Yes?” the man said quietly.

Kuroo’s smirk was slow and cruel.

“Well,” he said, standing up, towering over the poor bastard, “you’re not wrong.”

He grabbed his phone off the desk and slipped on his blazer in one smooth movement. “Which is why I’m leaving early. If any of you send me another goddamn file tonight, I’ll personally rewrite your resumes. You won’t find work even in middle school tournaments. Clear?”

A chorus of terrified nods.

“Excellent.”

He strode to the door, yanked it open, and paused only once.

“You have thirty minutes to clean up my desk. If I see even one report out of place tomorrow, you’ll regret being born.”

Then he was gone.

And in the silence that followed, someone whispered:

“…Thank God. We might survive tomorrow.”

⸻

You were sitting cross-legged at the dining table, laptop open, papers scattered in the kind of organized chaos that only made sense to you. You were focused, brow slightly furrowed as your fingers tapped away at the keyboard. It was just past six, and Kuroo wasn’t due home for hours—not unless a miracle happened.

So when the front door slammed with enough force to rattle the hallway picture frames, you blinked.

Then you heard heavy, fast steps. Purposeful. Familiar.

You stood slowly, confused, still in your loungewear: a black silk cami and matching shorts that rode up every time you moved. The outfit wasn’t meant to seduce anyone—it was hot, the AC sucked, and you were working from home. But it had that unintended effect.

You turned the corner just as he entered the kitchen.

“Tetsu?” you said cautiously.

His eyes snapped to you.

And everything about him changed.

The tension in his jaw eased. His shoulders dropped slightly. His gaze dropped—slowly, methodically—to your bare thighs, then back up. Then again. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and just walked into his favorite meal.

Without a word, he crossed the space in four long strides and grabbed your face in both hands, dragging your mouth to his.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t rushed, either. It was needy, slow, claiming. He licked into your mouth with a low grunt and didn’t stop until you were breathless, hands fisting into his half-rolled-up sleeves.

You didn’t need to ask what this was. You’d felt the frustration piling up in him for weeks. You’d caught his lingering looks every time you brushed by him half-dressed. He was always tired, busy, polite—but you both knew what was missing.

His mouth barely pulled back from yours. “I missed you,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly. “So fuckin’ much.”

You swallowed, dazed. “I—You’re home early.”

“I left work before I started breaking things,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to show up on the evening news.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he grabbed your wrist and started walking, pulling you behind him.

“Where are we—?”

“Bedroom.”

The way he said it—like there was no room for discussion—made your knees weak.

The second you stepped inside, he spun you around and kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands gripped your waist, thumbs pressing into the curve above your hips, and he exhaled like the first contact with your skin finally let him breathe again.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging the silk cami up, his palm grazing your stomach, then up to cup your breast. “You wore this all day?”

“Yeah?”

He let out a humorless huff. “I haven’t seen you like this in a month and you’re just walking around the house with your ass out?”

“I didn’t know you were coming home.”

He grinned, teeth flashing. “You’re not gonna be walking tomorrow either way.”

Your breath hitched.

He kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, then dropped to his knees like he was settling in for worship. He pressed his mouth against the inside of your thigh, warm breath hitting silk.

“I missed these thighs,” he muttered. “Missed touching you. Missed this fuckin’ body. I missed my wife.”

Your knees almost buckled when he peeled your shorts down, slow and deliberate, and licked a path right up your inner thigh. But he didn’t stay there—not yet.

He stood, turned you around, and pushed you face-down onto the bed with a palm between your shoulder blades. The silk top rode up to your ribs.

He groaned. “Look at you. Fuck, baby.”

His hand smoothed down your spine, then gripped your ass hard enough to make you arch. “Been thinkin’ about this for weeks. Every night.”

You squirmed, but he just leaned over you, pressing his hips into your backside so you could feel just how hard he was. “Every time I tried to focus at work, I kept thinking about how you sound when I’ve got you like this. Face down. Ass up. Legs shaking.”

“Tetsu—”

“No. Don’t say anything except ‘thank you.’”

You couldn’t help it—you moaned.

“Yeah,” he growled, tugging his zipper down. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

He dragged the tip of his cock along your slit, just enough to tease, then pushed in with a deep, satisfying thrust that had your fingers clawing at the sheets. He held still, deep inside you, his body pressed fully to your back.

“Goddamn, baby. Tight as ever. Grippin’ me like you missed this too.”

He didn’t pound into you. Not yet. His rhythm was slow, grinding—intimate but filthy. He kissed your shoulders between thrusts, whispered praise against your skin.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl.”

“You always take me so well.”

“I could stay buried in you for hours.”

You moaned into the pillow as he adjusted the angle, driving deeper until he found the spot that made your legs shake.

“Yeah, right there,” he breathed. “You feel that? That’s where you’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

Your back arched instinctively and he grinned against your spine. “There she is.”

He didn’t stop praising you. Not once.

“Been craving you so bad it hurt.”

“You’re perfect.”

“No one makes me feel like this.”

Every word made your walls clench tighter around him, and he could feel it.

“Yeah. You like hearing that? Like being told how fuckin’ good you are for me?”

“Yes—”

“Say it.”

“I’m good for you—”

“You’re everything,” he growled. “Mine.”

You came with a gasp, legs trembling under him, and Kuroo groaned like he’d just hit nirvana. He fucked you through it, slow and deep, until his pace broke into something rougher, needier.

When he finally came, he buried himself to the hilt, breath hot against your shoulder, chest pressed to your back.

After a long pause, he kissed your temple.

Then your shoulder.

Then your lower back.

You were still face down, ass up, completely wrecked and limp.

“You’re not walking tomorrow,” he said again, satisfied.

You groaned.

And he just smirked, hands already massaging your hips like he was resetting you.

“Don’t worry. I’ll carry you to the shower. After round two.”

[silens-oro]

Well Enough Alone: Part VII

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue Cut the Loss (companion piece) Part I Part II Chicken Hawk (companion piece) Part III Part IV Trespassing (companion piece) Part V Part VI Slowly We Unfurl (companion piece) Hold on to the Thread (companion piece) But I'll Always Remember (pre-WEA companion piece)

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist

General Synopsis: Pope and Hawk's night out gets hijacked by Smurf. Word Count: 4.8k Content Warning: violence, blood, injuries, typical animal kingdom warnings AN: My most heartfelt gratitude to everyone who gave this fic a shot and is still rolling on with me in my delusions about this man. I've enjoyed all of the comments and messages I've gotten so far! This is the most engagement I've ever received on anything I've ever written, so thank you!!!! please comment & reblog :)

“I’m sorry,” Pope breathes out as he glances over to Hawk in the passenger seat of his truck. 

“It’s fine, Pope. I’m sure if she’s calling you, then she really needs you.” Hawk tried to not show how much this bothered her. The boys had been effectively boycotting Smurf up until this point, running their own jobs and doing things their way -that’s what Pope told Hawk anyway. Regardless of who was running the jobs, it still twisted Hawk’s stomach something fierce whenever Pope mentioned they were running a job in passing. 

They were on their way to the Oceanside Sunset Market to have a relaxed early night out after Hawk had the wedding from hell that she delivered for earlier in the day. Pope had just put the truck in park when his phone rang. Hawk watched him contemplate answering it for a moment before he swiped his finger over the screen, and she knew in that moment that their night was effectively ruined.

It wasn’t missing the sunset market that bugged her, it was the fact that she and Pope had a quiet night out with just the two of them for the first time in a really long time and it was almost like Smurf could sniff that out. It wasn’t Pope’s fault, she had to tell herself. That loyalty, as hard as he tried to sever it, was still hanging on by a thread. 

“You can just drop me off at Smurf’s since we’re already heading that way and I’ll hang out there until you get back.” Hawk knew Pope wouldn’t cancel their night out if it wasn’t important. She knew that, but it still irked her. 

“You sure? It might be a while before we get back.” She nodded, smiling reassuringly at him. He reached a hand over and she placed hers in it. He brought the back of her hand to his lips, holding it there for a few seconds before bringing it down to rest on his thigh. “I can drop you off at home. It’s not a long trip back, Hawk.” She shook her head, squeezing his hand. 

“It wouldn’t be my first time sleeping at Smurf’s. I think I’ll live,” She said with a playful roll of her eyes. “I can hang with J if he’s there.” 

The sun had set over the horizon when Pope dropped Hawk off at the gate to the driveway of Smurf’s. She leaned over the middle console, pulling him to her by his shirt and gave him a kiss to let him know that she was mad -not at him, anyway. 

“Stay safe, please?” Pope nodded, giving her another peck before she let him go and he pressed the button in his truck to open the gate. She sent him another wave as she opened the front door and Pope didn’t leave until the gate was completely closed. 

“Haven’t heard from you in a while, kid. Everything alright? School going okay?” There was still a palpable tension between Hawk and J as they sat across from each other on the sofas in the den. They hashed everything out after the blow out they had, but there was a new distance placed between them that Hawk absolutely hated. 

“Been busy,” Hawk frowned. “Schools…fine.” J’s eyes shifted away from hers and he started picking at one of his fingers. Hawk immediately caught his tell that told her he was lying. “And you?” He changed the subject. 

“Things are good. I miss you,” She extended the olive branch and J’s mouth lifted in the corner. His shoulders dropped, the tension leaving them. 

“I miss you so much, Hawk.” J admitted, sadness flooding his eyes. “This place is a freakshow.” Hawk cackled. 

“Don’t gotta tell me. They treating you alright?” J shrugged. 

“Yeah,” He breathed out, his brows furrowing. “Pope’s been weirder than usual. He’s uh…he’s nicer to me, I guess. It’s more awkward than anything.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Pope’s making an effort for her sake. 

“I don’t know what it is, Hawk. I want to say that I get it, but I genuinely don’t. He’s a felon, at the barest minimum. He’s dangerous, to a degree I don’t think you get.”

“I know who Pope is, J.”

“So why are you doing this?” It felt like an accusation coming from J, and if Hawk was being honest, it didn’t feel good to be questioned by a seventeen year old. 

“Because I deserve to be happy, J.” It was the simplest way Hawk could put it. Pope got her in ways no one else ever had, and she got him. As much as she would like to deny that she overlooks the things he’s done and will do, she does overlook it. It was normalized in her sphere, though she was separated from it to a degree, but that didn’t matter. They were a crime family and she was associated with them.  

What could J say to that? That Hawk didn’t deserve to be happy if that happiness came in the form of his deranged uncle? He saw the men that came in and out of his mom’s life, violent men that were users and abusers, and while he didn’t think Hawk would stay with an abuser, her decision to jump into a relationship with Pope of all people made his head spin. 

“Hawk! Hey!” Nicky’s face held surprise as she walked into the den where Hawk and J were in the middle of their conversation.

“Hey, Nicky. What are you doing here?” Hawk blinked up at the teen girl who seemed to appear out of thin air. 

“Smurf’s letting me stay here for a while.” She explained with a shrug, not realizing she stepped in the middle of a serious conversation. 

“Oh?” Hawk glanced at J, who looked more interested in what was happening anywhere else in the room than the conversation that was happening in front of him. 

“Yeah, my dad has a thing going on in Guam and I didn’t want to go because who the hell goes to Guam, so Smurf’s letting me crash here until I can figure out what I’m doing. She’s been really cool about it, ya know? She said you lived here for a while when you were my age.” Nicky stepped further into the den, sitting on one of the arm chairs. 

“Did she?” Hawk’s brows went up to her hairline. “I’m sure only good things were said about it.” Sarcasm flooded Hawk’s voice and Nicky knew she shouldn’t have said anything. 

“Sorry,” She mumbled, but Hawk waved her off. 

“Didn’t you say you had some chem homework you needed to finish?” J questioned, trying to ungracefully get Nicky out of the room. Nicky blinked at him, looking between J and Hawk, before nodding dejectedly. 

“Give me a few minutes with J and then we can order a pizza and throw a movie on or something, alright?” Hawk softened J’s blow, shooting a glare at him. He at least had the wherewithal to look away sheepishly. This perked Nicky up and she nodded before giving the duo some space. Once Nicky was out of the room, and out of earshot, she leaned towards J.

“Alright, spill it. What the hell is going on between you two?” 

“We broke up.” J said, shrugging as he sat back on the sofa across from Hawk. 

“And she’s living here?” Hawk asked, confused. 

“She’s screwing Craig.” Hawk’s jaw dropped at J’s point-blank delivery, her wide eyes blinking at him as she processed what he said.

“She’s what?”

“Yup.” 

“Who knows about this?” J looked at Hawk like she had six heads.

“Everyone? It’s really fucking weird.”

“Weird? J, it’s illegal!” Hawk was baffled, her mind racing a million miles a minute as she tried to put Craig’s age together in her head. “He’s at least thirty!” It felt like deja vu having this same conversation twice with the same kid regarding an inappropriate relationship. 

“It was initially in retaliation for breaking up with her and the whole Alexa thing, and then it just…didn’t end.” Hawk ran her hands down her face. 

“Oh my god!” She shouted into her palms, the sound muffled. “Does Pope know?” Hawk leveled her eyes on J and he nodded, an uncomfortable expression blanketing his face. Hawk lowered her voice to an exasperated whisper so the girl on the other side of the house didn’t hear their conversation. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m the only one who didn’t know? And they just, what? Accept that it’s happening? That a thirty year old coke addict isn’t grooming a seventeen year old?!”

“Well, when you put it that way…” 

“This isn’t funny, J. This is so not funny.” Hawk pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“If you saw the way they interacted with each other, you’d think it was. It’s so fucking weird, Hawk.” He repeated, “It used to get to me, but now I think Craig knows it’s weird too because he looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin every time she comes into the room when we’re around.” 

“He’s not going to have skin to crawl out of the next time I see him.” 

The trio ordered some pizza and instead of throwing on a movie, Hawk gave the teens privacy to work out whatever was happening between them. 

Hawk felt her phone vibrate in her back pocket.

“I’m gonna head outside for a bit, alright? Can you put the pizza in the fridge, J?” He nodded and Hawk swiped the phone, putting it up to her phone as she stepped outside, sliding the door closed behind her. 

“Hey,” Hawk greeted Pope. 

“We’re on our way back. Everything alright?” Pope asked as Hawk walked around the pool absentmindedly. She sat on one of the pool loungers, kicking off her sandals so she could stretch her legs out comfortably on the chair. 

“Were you ever going to tell me that Craig is fucking a teenager?” Pope sighed on the other line. “Other than that, yeah everything’s fine here.”

“Didn’t know how to approach that one.” Pope mumbled.

“Yeah, the next time I see Craig, I’m taking a nine iron to his kneecaps -just so you know. That shit is so gross, Andy, I swear to god.” She heard him sigh again, and she knew he didn’t want to have this conversation with Smurf in the truck with him so she let it go for the time being. “Everything okay with Smurf?”

“Yeah. We’re about an hour and a half out.” Hawk looked through the windows to the kitchen and saw J getting very close with Nicky. Interesting, she thought with furrowed brows. Whatever was happening in this house was, unsurprisingly, fucked up and Hawk didn’t know if she even wanted to step her foot into the mess so she stayed outside on the lounger.

“Drive safe.” He grunted affirmatively and the call disconnected. Hawk leaned her head back, looking up at the darkening sky above her. The sky was clear and stars twinkled above, setting a serene atmosphere to relax in. She closed her eyes, letting herself sink further into the chair to get some sleep before Pope got back. 

It felt like Hawk had only just closed her eyes when she was gently woken up to something pressing into her cheek. She cracked an eye open, ready to threaten whoever decided to rudely awaken her, but she was met with a man she didn’t know pushing the barrel of a gun into her face. 

“Don’t scream.” The man said instructed. Hawk’s eye twitched as she nodded, staring down at the barrel. “Who else is here?” Hawks mind raced to J and Nicky. 

“No one.” Hawk whispered, shaking. His gun pressed further into her cheek in a silent threat and she winced, her breathing increased as she internally panicked. He tilted his head to the three other guys Hawk had just noticed, and motioned for them to sweep the house. He brought his mouth to her ear. “For your sake, you better not be lying.” The butt of his pistol whipped Hawk across her face, cracking the bridge of her nose and splitting her top lip, splattering blood across Smurf’s cushions. 

Hawk screamed out of shock and pain, flailing off the lounge chair, but the man grabbed Hawk by her arm roughly and threw her to the hard cement at the pool’s edge. 

He rolled her into her stomach with his knee on her back, her hands restrained tightly behind her as she kicked and screamed. Blood pooled on the concrete below her face as it streamed steadily from her nose. The man wrapped a cord around Hawk’s wrists just as J was physically kicked through his bedroom door that led to the backyard and onto the ground outside. They kept kicking and kicking and the man holding Hawk down chuckled. 

“You lied.” The man sneered down to her. “Now you’re gonna see what happens to people who lie to me. Bring him over here.”

“No!” Hawk begged through tears. All she got was a well landed punch to the side of her head to silence her. More blood pooled out of her mouth when she dropped her head. “Dont fucking touch him!” She threatened weakly. 

“Hawk!” J shouted when he saw the state she was in, struggling to get to her. He was just as bloody as Hawk was and it took two guys to subdue him enough to get him fully on the ground next to her. The man turned back to Hawk.

“Hawk. Chickenhawk if I remember right.” Hawk could only stare blankly at the man who recognized her, but she couldn’t place. “I don’t expect you to remember me,” the man admonished, his forehead resting against her temple. “But I remember you.” Hawk looked to J, her eyes pleading with him not to do anything stupid for her sake. “I’ll give you one more chance, J. Who else is in that house?” He knew who was inside. He had his guys casing the place all day. J looked at Hawk and she gave the tiniest of a shake of her head to not out Nicky. 

“It’s just us, Javi.” J groaned out. The name was there, somewhere in Hawk’s mind, but she couldn’t place his face to it. Clearly he knew her or of her, but Hawk’s head felt like a bell was ringing inside of it, obstructing her from trying to recall much of anything. 

“I’m not going to ask you if he’s telling the truth because we’ve already found out that you,” He tapped the end of his gun on Hawk’s broken nose, “are a proven liar.” She recoiled in pain as Javi looked around the yard, then up at the door J was pulled out of. 

“Go check the bedroom.” Javi ordered one of his guys while the other tied J’s wrists like they tied Hawk’s. J and Hawk were facing each other and J felt completely helpless as he watched Hawk’s tears mix with the blood that was still flowing out of her broken nose and mouth. He could feel the fear radiating off of her and J never hated his family more than he did in that second for whatever bullshit brought this monster to their doorstep -to Hawk. 

“Smurf isn’t here?” Javi asked J. 

“She went to —she went to meet you.” J ground out, eyes following the man that got closer and closer to the door. 

“She didn’t show.” Javi weighed J’s response before nodding and ordering his guys to pick both of them up. Hawk’s head was pounding behind her eyes and she didn’t know which way was up as her limp body was dragged across the patio. The next thing she knew, she was thrown into the shallow end of the pool with J held beside her. Javi squatted at the edge, gun held as a sign that he would use it if they didn’t play their cards right, as he took Hawk and J in. 

“Where does Smurf keep her money, J?” He sounded almost bored.

“I don’t know, man!” 

“He’s full of shit.” The man holding Hawk said and before she knew what was happening, she was pushed under the surface. A hand held her down by the back of her neck as she thrashed her legs and exhaled in a panic. Hawk felt the skin around her wrist rip and tear as she tried to free herself from her bindings. Her lungs screamed and burned as she tried to fight the impenetrable grip he had on her and just as black dots were starting to take over her vision, she was pulled up. 

“One more time, where’s Smurf’s money? Huh?” Hawk gasped for breath, coughing out pool water mixed with blood and saliva. She barely wheezed a real breath in before she was pushed back under again when J didn’t answer quick enough. Hawk’s panic increased when she saw J fighting for his life underwater next to her. Both of them were pulled up again, Hawk sobbing as she gasped for air in her waterlogged lungs. 

“Where is it?!” Javi shouted. 

“I told you! I don’t know!” J coughed out, water and blood spraying from his mouth. Hawk went down again. She could feel the fight leaving her with each second that passed as that hand held her under. She did little more than sputter when the hand pulled her back up. 

“Please,” She wheezed, mouthfuls of water heaved out as her body rejected it. Hawk was only afloat because of the assailant holding her up. If he let her go, she’d sink straight to the bottom. 

“Where is it?!” Javi yelled again, still not getting an answer from J. 

“She doesn’t have enough here!” J yelled out. He was pushed under again and again as Hawk’s watched on disoriented, flitting in and out of consciousness as she continued to choke up water. They pulled J up once more, holding his head up to look directly at Javi.

“You have one more chance to tell me where the fucking money is or the next time she goes under, she’s not coming back up.” Javi threatened, voice as cold as ice. 

“Behind the dryer!” J relented, head hanging when the hand released it. “Smurf keeps shoe boxes in her closet. That’s all that’s here that I know about!” He pleaded, praying they’d take the cash and leave before Hawk was killed or Nicky was found out. Javi finally stood, gun ready in his hand. 

“Get 'em out.” He ordered his men and they dragged a semi-conscious Hawk and mostly coherent J out of the pool and were dragged next to each other flat on the ground. “Check the dryer.” Javi ordered one, “Check her bedroom.” then rounded back on J while the fourth man watched over Hawk, who just groaned and tried to roll onto her side so she didn’t choke to death. He kicked her in the ribs and she felt something snap. Hawk stayed still out of instinctual self preservation, legs curling in as she wheezed and gasped for breath.

“Don’t,” J begged weakly. “Hawk doesn't know anything.” The man smacked J roughly on the chest and he groaned out in pain. “She doesn’t know anything.” He repeated weakly. 

“Aquaman, you better not be lying to me. You lying to me? Huh?” He punched J square in the face and J took it because it's all he could do. 

Screaming suddenly echoed through the house along with glass shattering and Hawk started to squirm once more before getting kicked in the ribs again as Nicky was dragged out of the kitchen slider by her hair. Hawk tried to scream, to cry, but the pain was too intense to do anything other than exhale in a silent, wheezing, horrific wail. 

“No one else here, huh? No one else here?!” Javi punched J over and over again, relentlessly taking his frustration out on the seventeen year old. 

“Stop!” Hawk tried to speak, the right side of her face immediately swelling after the man holding her down punched her directly on the mouth to silence her. Hawk felt her teeth slice the inside of her cheek as her vision wavered in and out and her ears started ringing. “Please, please…” Her voice slurred as the back of her head hit the concrete as she fought to stay awake. 

Hawk could hear J screaming in agony and Nicky crying behind a gag, but she couldn’t physically move on her own, much less open her eyes. Her entire body felt like it was weighed down by a slab of cement and she focused on trying not to choke on the blood that filled her mouth. 

“Toss her in.” Javi ordered, then Hawk was lifted and tossed unceremoniously into the deep end. The feeling of the water jolted her and she gasped, inhaling a mouthful of water as she sank to the bottom. She kicked, trying to right herself, but with her hands tied behind her back, she could only spin around. Her bare toes scraped against the bottom, trying to find grip so she could push herself towards the stairs in the shallow end. 

The water around her head was tinged red, blinding her vision. She could vaguely see the steps a deceivingly long distance from where she was, and her vision was starting to black out at the edges and her lungs tried to simultaneously expel the water and inhale. 

The irony of dying in the house she desperately tried to escape in her youth was not lost in Hawk. Her legs started to lose their energy and the pushes she tried to do off the bottom of the pool were becoming less and less stable with every step. Her lungs burned and screamed for a gulp of air from a surface that was so close and so far from her grasp. 

Just as the last bits of consciousness were letting go, she felt a push from behind, then nothing. 

Over on the other side of the yard, Hawk’s phone buzzed on the chair she had fallen asleep on earlier in the night. Pope’s name scrolled across it as it buzzed incessantly until it fell off the cushion and onto the bloody pavement below. 

J got Hawk to the stairs and got her head above water, but he couldn’t hear or see her breathing and her lips were losing color. He knew time was of the essence, but his hands were tied behind him and he couldn't get her out of the pool, much less do CPR. 

“J?” He heard Smurf’s voice from inside the house “Pope get out here!” J felt relief flood his body when he saw Smurf and Pope rush through the broken slider. 

“She’s not breathing!” He gasped out, still trying to push Hawk up with his shoulder. “Get her out!” J slipped, his face submerged for a moment before he got his footing again. Without a second thought, Pope stepped down into the water and grabbed Hawk, dragging her to lay on her side while he cut through her bindings. 

“How long has she been out, J?” Pope asked methodically. He needed a time frame to know how long Hawk had been without air.

“Couple of minutes.” J’s voice shook. “Where were you?” He asked Smurf, anger pushing through. Smurf tried to help J up onto the steps so he could painfully wiggle his way onto his stomach, gasping for breaths as he watched Pope start compressions and mouth to mouth. “Javi was looking for you and found her first.” The rage in J’s voice was unmistakable as Smurf untied him. He scrambled over to Hawk once he was able to, ignoring the pain that radiated through his entire body. 

“Come on,” Pope grunted, starting another set of compressions. Water started bubbling out of Hawks mouth, then it shot out of her as her lungs hacked out the intrusion. Pope rolled Hawk onto her side as she coughed mouthful after mouthful of water out of her body, gasping for air when it was finally expelled. Pope rubbed between her shoulder blades. “Get it out, come on.” He begged. Pope was shaken when he pulled Hawk’s lifeless body out of the pool, but he went immediately into survival mode. Now, that adrenaline was winding down, all of that fear built mountains inside of him. 

“Andy,” Hawk’s voice was so small, like she couldn’t believe she was seeing him. Pope’s hands instantly grasped her face, careful of the cuts and bruises that littered it. She coughed and sputtered, her body trying to regulate itself, but she couldn’t stop the onslaught of tears that kept pouring. Pope carefully pulled her face to his chest, her hands gripping his t-shirt

Smurf threw a towel to Pope as she passed by so she could wrap J up. 

Hawk’s arms shook as she tried to lift her weight on them, then they collapsed altogether, but Pope was there to catch her. 

“You’re alright,” His hand came up to her bruised and beaten face, cradling it as she sobbed in pain. “Stay down.” 

“Where’s J?” Her voice was strangled and rough, as she tried to find him. “Help him. Help him,” She choked out, hyperventilating. Pope kept a firm grasp on her to keep her still as she fought against him weakly. 

“I’m here,” J reassured her, his hand reaching for her to feel. This seemed to relax Hawk just the tiniest bit before her wide, wild eyes met Pope’s. 

“Where’s Nicky?” 

“You need a hospital.” Pope kept his voice low, trying not to upset Hawk any more than she already was. 

“And tell them what? I fell down the stairs?” Pope leveled her with a look that said he found zero humor in this, but Hawk wasn’t trying to be funny. What would she say happened to her when she got to the emergency room? She’d love to get a dose of dilaudid, but even she knew that the cops would be on her like flies on shit and she was a horrible liar at best. “The last thing I want right now is anyone else touching me other than you.”

Hawk was sitting naked on Craig’s bed, fresh out of the shower and wrapped in a clean towel, and it took everything in her to not think about what she could possibly be sitting on. Hawk had bigger things to worry about. 

The door to the bathroom that was shared with J’s room was closed and Hawk could hear the shower running. Pope kneeled down on the floor, checking every inch of her out, but J was just on the other side so they made sure to keep their voices down. 

Pope had seen the damage when he helped Hawk shower, but it still didn’t stop his sharp inhale when he saw the bruises growing even larger. Hawk’s abdomen and back were swollen and her skin was mottled with heavy bruising where there were very obviously fractured ribs. Pope was more than familiar with the injury and the longer he looked at it, the angrier he got -with himself and with Smurf. Mostly with Smurf.

“Looks like at least three are broken,” He said softly as he prodded around. Hawk hissed every time he touched one of the fractured ribs and his fingers immediately flinched away. Pope carefully picked Hawk’s hands up, twisting them in his palms as gently as he could so he could see the damage on her wrists. The cord bit through the skin when she struggled and the deep frown on Pope’s face only got deeper. 

It was the damage done to Hawk’s face that hit him the hardest. Whoever hit her didn’t hold back, not in the slightest. The right side of her face, at the highest part of her cheek, was swollen and bruised, and the bruise extended up to her eye socket. Pope took a butterfly bandage from the first aid kit he had laid out next to Hawk, and placed the strip over the area above her upper lip, bringing the split together. 

To her credit, Hawk tried to put a brave face on through Pope’s examination, but she felt herself fracturing like a sheet of glass every time she saw the way he looked at her -like she was damaged. She hadn’t seen what she looked like yet. The mirrors in the bathroom were covered in steam, and even then she was too incoherent to pay attention to her reflection. 

Pope moved on to her nose, the tips of his fingers touching the tender skin around the bridge of it ever so slightly. It was obviously fractured as well, but it wasn’t out of place, so that was one saving grace in Hawk’s corner. Hawk’s bottom lip started to wobble when their eyes met and Pope felt something inside of him shatter. 

“I want to go home.” Hawk’s broken voice sucked the air out of the room. She groaned in pain as she leaned forward to rest her forehead against his. “I want to go home, Pope.” 

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[vrtualchg]

IN THE LAP OF EXCESS

he was sin in a suit. sharp jaw, sharper tongue, and a mouth full of trouble. she was too young, too bold, too curious. and she liked the way he looked at her—like he had no right to want her, but wanted her anyway. tony stark knew better. but that didn’t stop him from pulling her into his penthouse, sliding between her thighs like she was the last bad decision he’d ever make. maybe it should’ve been a mistake. but god, did it feel like power.

pairing:older!Tony Stark x younger!reader

genre: age gap, billionaire x intern, smutty tension, seduction at a party, mentor kink

tw: MDNI 18+, explicit sexual content, age gap (legal I SWEAR), power imbalance, morally gray behavior, filthy dialogue, whiskey-soaked tension, implied infidelity, dominant older man, “you’re fucking someone young enough to be your daughter”, degradation & praise

The same glinting sea of crystal flutes catching light like shattered stars. Tailored suits whispered against one another, threads stitched with old money and silent ambition. Diamond-drenched smiles flashed across the room, sharp enough to draw blood, and the air was perfumed with the unmistakable scent of obscene wealth—aged whiskey, designer leather, foreign cologne that lingered like a dare.

It wasn’t a party. It was a pageant of power. A mating ritual for the elite, where net worth replaced pheromones and laughter was just another form of warfare. Everyone dressed to impress, but more importantly—to intimidate. Sharks in silk. Jackals in Tom Ford.

Tony Stark had seen it all. Hell, he'd built the goddamn ballroom they were dancing in—metaphorically and otherwise.

He wore black Armani like sin, every seam tailored with surgical precision, his presence cutting through the noise like a scalpel. A living contradiction—grit polished to a mirror sheen. Charm and danger woven into flesh and fabric.

He moved through the crowd with lazy magnetism, trailed by whispers and second glances. A nod to a senator’s wife, who giggled like she was half her age. A smirk at a tech CEO who would sell his soul—and maybe already had—for a Stark Industries deal. Tony didn’t do handouts. Especially not to men who begged with champagne breath and damp palms.

The endless drone of shallow conversation eventually scraped against his nerves.

He peeled away, slipping toward the bar where a veteran bartender—one who’d weathered every era of Stark’s destruction and resurrection—poured before he arrived. No questions. Just ritual.

“You know what I like,” Tony muttered, voice low and rough—like gravel soaked in honey. The whiskey was served neat. Deep amber. A drink that tasted like legacy, guilt, and too many ghosts.

He had barely raised it to his lips when something shifted in his periphery.

A girl.

No. A woman—but only barely.

She stood out instantly. Not because she was trying to. Because she wasn’t. No designer logos clinging to her curves, no vulgar display of borrowed wealth. Just soft shadows and quiet confidence. A silhouette framed by the chaos, sipping red wine like she belonged, like she hadn’t just walked into the lion’s den with bare hands and bold eyes.

Tony blinked. Someone bring their daughter? Or worse—an underaged plus-one with daddy issues and a forged invitation.

He leaned casually against the bar, giving her a look that was too slow to be subtle, head tilted with feline curiosity.

Then she turned.

And fuck.

Pretty wasn’t the word. Dangerous was closer. Lipstick the color of blood and bad ideas. Eyes wide enough to get a man in trouble. She looked young. Too young. FBI-knock-on-your-door young. His libido sat up and took notice while his common sense muttered don’t be an idiot, thats a lawsuit waiting to happen.

But then she smiled. Cool. Unshaken.

“Do I have something on my face, or...?” she asked, lips curving like she already knew she did.

Even her voice had edge. Smooth with the tiniest bite. Like silk pulled tight over a blade.

Tony took a long sip, buying himself a second to recalibrate. “No. Just trying to figure out which chapter of the sorority handbook covers sneaking into billion-dollar parties.”

She laughed—honest and unpolished. Then bit her lip, and Tony nearly groaned.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said. “No cult. No glitter. Just me.”

“Mm. You sure?” he drawled. “Because I’m getting heavy ‘freshman with a fake ID’ energy.”

“I’m twenty-one,” she replied, lifting her glass in mock indignation. “And I’m an intern. Not that I was invited.”

Tony blinked. Then laughed—a rich, unrestrained sound that turned heads.

“You’re seriously telling me—the guy who wrote the guest list—that you snuck in?”

She shrugged, unapologetic. “Figured if I was going to get thrown out, it might as well be by someone interesting.”

For a moment, he just stared. Admiration stirred, quiet and dangerous. She was clever. Sharp. Bold. The kind of girl who could accidentally undo a man—just by looking at him like that.

Jesus. His mind was already slipping. Lipstick smeared. Dress hiked. Those lips wrapped around his cock, sucking and milking him dry.

Focus, Stark. He sipped again, letting the burn snap him back to center.

Still, he leaned closer. Couldn't help it. His breath brushed her ear, his cologne thick in the air—wood, spice, and sin.

“You even old enough to be drinking?” he murmured, pretending it was a joke.

She met his gaze, calm and unblinking. “I told you. Twenty-one.”

“Right. And I’m just Tony,” he said, smoothly interrupting her before ‘Mr. Stark’ could leave her lips. “Call me that again and I’ll start looking around for my father.”

She laughed again, softer this time. It was dangerous. Because it wasn’t flirtation.

It was fun.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, shifting slightly closer, enough to catch the whisper of her perfume—sweet, delicate, but grounded. Not like the powdery clouds most girls drowned themselves in. It smelled like summer and secrets.

She held up her glass. “Not sure. Some old man gave it to me.”

Tony exhaled a sharp laugh, letting his head drop for a second.

“And you just took it?” he asked. “Christ. I don’t know if you’re brave or just stupid.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why not both?”

He chuckled darkly, his gaze dropping to the neckline of her dress. Low. Elegant. Deceptively innocent.

She caught the look and smiled, slow and knowing. “He seemed pretty set on me taking it. And I hate being rude.”

Flirting like it was just another man—not Tony Stark. And that? That got under his skin in the best possible way.

So he stayed. Talked. Asked her name. Got her to laugh again—light, real, nothing like the false noises echoing around the ballroom. Topped off her glass every time it dipped below full. And eventually, when the conversation got too warm, when the looks got too long, he leaned in close and murmured:

“Follow me upstairs.”

Then he walked away.

No looking back. He didn’t have to.

She came.

Tony sank into the leather of his penthouse armchair, legs sprawled, glass hanging loosely from his fingers. The elevator pinged. He didn’t need to look.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, voice husky with something heavier than alcohol. She stepped in, eyes wide as they took in the rich, restrained decadence—floor-to-ceiling windows, soft jazz humming from invisible speakers, the city sprawled out below like a conquered kingdom.

“Nice, huh?” he said, lifting his glass in a lazy toast.

She nodded, stepping between his knees.

His hand slid to her hip—warm, steady. He guided her down, slow, deliberate. “Sit,” he murmured.

She did. Settled over him. His hips shifted upward in welcome.

Her breath caught. Shaky. Barely audible. His smirk returned.

He set his glass aside, both hands now on her—roaming over hips, up her sides, beneath the fabric.

No bra.

Sweet. Fucking. Hell.

His palms found her chest, a perfect fit for his hands. He gave a slow, reverent squeeze.

“You’re pretty touchy,” she whispered, voice barely there.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, thumbs brushing across sensitive skin.

“No.”

She breathed it out, soft but certain, her breath ghosting over his lips just before they collided.

The kiss was not sweet. It was messy. Desperate. Teeth clashed, tongues tangled, and Tony groaned against her mouth as his hands roamed freely—palming her tits, thumbs brushing across hardened nipples under that dangerously low-cut dress.

“You playing a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he murmured against her lips, voice gravel and sin. “Coming up here. Sitting on my lap. Kissing me like that.”

“Who said I don’t like danger?” she whispered back, hips rolling subtly, just enough to make him hiss.

Tony’s grip tightened on her waist. “You don’t even know what danger is,” he growled.

She just smirked, lips slick, pupils blown. “Then show me.”

That snapped something loose in him. One big hand slid up to wrap around the back of her neck as he kissed her again, rougher this time, like he was trying to memorize her mouth with his own. His other hand stayed anchored to her hip, guiding her against the hard line of him beneath his trousers.

“You realize,” he muttered between kisses, voice low and dangerous, “you’re fucking someone old enough to be your father.”

She bit his lower lip, not gently. “You’re the one fucking someone young enough to be your daughter.”

That made him laugh—dark and amused. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, leaning back just enough to look at her. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“Isn’t that why you brought me up here?” she replied sweetly, rocking her hips again, slow and calculated.

Tony’s eyes darkened as he stared at her. “Careful,” he said, voice like velvet and broken rules. “You’re gonna make me do something reckless.”

“Maybe I want you to.”

That was all it took.

In one swift movement, he stood, hands gripping her thighs as he walked them both over to the massive bed like she weighed nothing. He tossed her down onto the silk sheets, watching her bounce once, hair a halo of temptation around her flushed face.

“Stay there,” he ordered, already undoing the buttons on his dress shirt with practiced efficiency. “Keep your hands to yourself. If you’re good, I’ll let you touch me.”

Her lip curled in challenge, but she didn’t move. Not yet.

Tony shrugged off the jacket and shirt, muscles cut and golden under the low light, his arc reactor casting a soft glow against his chest. He looked like sin wrapped in money and scars—older, yes. But powerful. Hungry. The kind of man who devoured girls like her for breakfast and never looked back. He crawled onto the bed like a fucking panther, slow and deliberate, settling between her legs. Her dress had hiked up high enough to reveal her thighs, smooth and soft and begging to be touched.

“I should feel bad about this,” he muttered, hands sliding under the hem of her dress, dragging it up her body inch by inch. “But I don’t.”

“You really don’t,” she breathed, arching into him as his fingers found the edge of her panties.

Tony grinned. “Nope. Not even a little. You came up here looking for trouble, sweetheart...”

He dipped down, mouth brushing the inside of her thigh, hot and wet.

“...And you fucking found it.”

Tony’s lips trailed fire down the inside of her thigh, teasing the bare skin exposed by that dangerously short dress, and she gasped—half from surprise, half from the sharp heat spreading low in her belly. His hands gripped her thighs like he was marking territory, thumbs stroking slow, deliberate patterns just above the fabric of her panties.

“God, you’re so fucking soft,” he murmured against her skin, voice husky and low. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, do you?”

She shivered under his touch, eyes dark and hungry, and Tony was already pulling those panties aside with a cocky smirk—because why waste time?

His tongue flicked out, teasing her folds, licking a wet stripe up her core, making her back arch off the sheets. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging him closer, breath hitching as he sucked a harsh kiss right where she wanted him most.

“Stark...” she gasped, voice raw.

“It’s Tony,” he murmured against her, sliding two fingers inside her with a slow, torturous rhythm. “You’re twenty-one, and you’re already making me this desperate. It’s criminal.”

“Maybe I want you to be desperate,” she whispered, voice thick with want.

Tony chuckled darkly, fingers curling inside her, thumb circling her clit with expert precision. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

The age between them? It was electric. Forbidden. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word was a delicious, wicked violation.

He pulled back just long enough to unzip his pants, his cock springing free—hard, thick, and absolutely made for her. He leaned back in, aligning himself with a slow, deliberate slide that stole her breath away.

“You’re fucking someone old enough to be your father,” he said low, teeth grazing her ear, voice thick with lust and amusement.

“And you’re fucking someone young enough to be your daughter,” she shot back, biting his neck.

He slammed into her then, slow at first, savoring every inch, every gasp, every curve that clung to him. She clenched around him, a mix of shock and ecstasy tightening her muscles.

Tony’s hands roamed, gripping her hips, pulling her flush, hips snapping with a cruel kind of rhythm. “You’re mine tonight.”

Her nails raked down his back, breath ragged and wild. “Make me forget everything but you.”

The room filled with the sound of skin slapping, heavy breaths, whispered curses, and the delicious tension of two bodies out of sync with the world — perfectly, dangerously in tune with each other.

This has BEEEEN sitting in my drafts, and I thought I’d let it out of its shackles while I work on the part two of the Draco story 😆 its exam season too so bare with me💔

[dragon-ascent]

Rex Lapis wants to devour you, so you prepare yourself accordingly.

You sigh, tugging at the stray threads on your hemp tunic. Never would you have thought such a day would arrive - but your god is a dragon, after all. You should consider it an honor he desires to have you for dinner tonight.

Tightening the rope around your waist, you pause. Actually, should you even be wearing any clothes at all? Wouldn't that make it inconvenient while he's eating you? Or perhaps the fabric adds a zing of extra flavour, who knows.

Or maybe he'd like to undress you himself while he dines.

Taking a look at yourself in the reflection of your water bowl, another thought crosses your mind - should you season yourself? Rub some spicy pastes all over? Rex Lapis didn't say anything about that, only that he wanted you for dinner. So before you can overthink it further, you make your way to the elaborate den the deity resides in.

The lofty dragon, coiled up at rest, perks up when he catches sight of you making your way to him. His eyes shimmer with excitement, and his long whiskers seem to have a mind of their own as they dance about. He eagerly leads you further inside, mentioning how he has been looking forward to tonight.

Now that you're here, you're starting to get cold feet - but it's too late to turn back or do anything about it. His dinner table - your chopping block, ostensibly - lies in wait.

Upon the stone table is a wide array of dishes - rice, pastes, breads, pickled and fermented vegetables, some broths... wow, this dragon certainly intends to make a feast out of you, huh?

Gulping, you pensively ask, "Will it hurt? Or will you kill me first and then eat? I don't want to die painfully..."

Rex Lapis, taken aback, nearly knocks over a decorative plant when he turns to you. "Whatever are you alluding to?" he asks, lowering his head so his gaze is level with yours.

You blink. "You...said you wanted me for dinner."

There's a long pause within which an entire generation could live and die. Then, Rex Lapis speaks.

"My dear, when I said I wished to have you for dinner, I meant as a guest."

[borkunlimited]

Take Your Time, Miss Deer (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 4

In a tailor shop tucked in the calmer side of the N109 zone is a little room where all clothes of many different designs come together under the delicate hands of an unassuming deer living in the den of all sorts of beasts and sitting on them is the dragon who wears your clothes.

Your many interactions with Skye, Mr. Sylus’ messenger or-

-Sylus is waiting for you to finally figure out he is playing his own messenger.

A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic

Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Predator/Prey, Self-Harm

Chapter Summary: Horns. Antlers. A long tail with smooth scales. A short tail. If those are gone, then both of you are almost the same, right?

Author's Note: Some lines have references to existing media. I have been playing Disco Elysium every now and then with a dash of Reverse 1999. Still going with the main themes tackled by Beastars and BNA though but you know, I really do love certain lines from these games that I just want to put it in here as well.

Enjoy!

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

4: My Dearest, Generous

A little downpour has visited the N109 zone today.

It was close to the afternoon when you heard the soft pitter patter against the windows of your studio that is steadily increasing intensity within each passing minute and you immediately rushed to close them one by one, not wanting water to get inside and ruin the patterns and the fabrics you have prepared to sew for tomorrow.

You were about to close the last window when a small, dark figure zoomed past you, spreading droplets on the wooden floor.

It looks like your odd little crow friend has decided to take shelter here at your studio.

Daisy settled on one of the armchairs, shaking the excess rainwater that clung on its feathers, letting out an indignant caw before preening itself.

“I know. It is quite sudden,” you chuckled softly, locking the last window with your ears flicking away little beads of rainwater that clung on your fur.

Daisy seemed to also agree and it let you remove the damp good luck ribbon you have made for it. It is a little worse for wear now so maybe it is time to make a new one. 

Perhaps something more stylish? The image of your crow friend wearing a scarf made you smile. Very fitting because it is becoming colder but for now, another good luck ribbon with the color it prefers should do.

“It’s alright. I won’t throw it away,” you assured it when it hopped along with you, worried where you would put its cherished item.

Will you repair it? Mephisto thinks you can. 

If its master can repair its circuits easily then it thinks you can do the same. You seemed very capable of fixing everything after seeing you stitch together large tears on the twins’ jacket before so it also means piecing back its worn ribbon should be easy to you.

For Mephisto, it doesn’t matter if its good luck charm is slightly damaged (What do you mean it's hanging by a thread?) All the affections you have poured into that ribbon will always be there no matter how it looks and it feels rather naked now that you have removed it.

Your finger grazed against the old wood of the cabinet while you hum absentmindedly, counting the number of the rows of shelves that store everything you need to sew any of your clients’ requests.

‘Oh, dear stranger journeying to a far off land, how many days must pass till I see you again?’

Third column from the left of the cabinet. Above where you keep the little boxes of buttons of various colors, all neatly organized, and then you finally pull out the drawer to retrieve a box inside of it.

Your crow flapped up to your sewing table, watching you set the item and it hopped in excitement.

Mephisto knows this particular box. This is a box where you store all of its trinkets it gave to you (Fine, and its master’s too.)

It was one of the few belongings you brought along before you left the place you once called home with your father. 

A little gift to you when you were young by an old hybrid couple after you knitted them scarves. You never quite remember their faces anymore but even then, the memory of their gratitude lingered, the playful pinch on your cheeks when you handed them their scarves wrapped in brown paper and twine.

“Do you want me to play it?”, you asked Daisy, opening the box to reveal the various precious ores and gemstones resting together with the dried flowers your crow has brought for you.

All of it, hidden in one place, little memories preserved and forever cherished.

Mephisto let out a beep, a yes, its optics adjusting to take a recording once again of this little moment that it may or may not hold over its master’s head (Again) upon its return to the base when the rain subsides.

You nodded in approval, tying around Daisy’s old ribbon around one of the horns of the little black dragon figurine sitting inside the box then turned the key.

A soft melody began playing and both you and Daisy watched the black dragon spin among the field of red blossoms painted in the background as if it was chasing the white ribbon on its horn, a lonesome game but still fun while the two of you looked back at your reflections on the small mirror.

Mephisto pushed the top of its head under your chin, nuzzling you and you laughed softly, petting its back while you listened to the gentle lullaby.

“Quite a downpour, don’t you think?”

Your heart skipped a bit, the lullaby cut short as you immediately closed the box, pushing it near the pile of fabrics beside you. 

These impromptu guests of yours always catch you off guard. Perhaps it comes with their innate trait of being able to make their presence hidden until they choose to reveal themselves.

Or so you thought.

The door shut with a soft click, your surprise visitor making his way towards you and your eyes widened. His footsteps were quiet, almost like Skye’s and twins’ but how is it possible? How is it possible when you and the person standing across your table are certainly alike, are of-

-the same species.

You nodded slowly, and Daisy hopped between you and your visitor, silently assessing this newcomer, one of the many who had made themselves comfortable in your studio.

“Louis,” the deer hybrid said, raising his hand for you to shake which you returned, telling him your name in return but not like you need to tell him, he already knows about you anyways. Everyone who has transactions with Sylus is fully aware of who you are.

The seamstress who dresses all the wolves of this den in sheep’s clothing.

The deer fiercely guarded by the dragon kept in this hidden corner of the N109 zone.

The object of Sylus’ affections.

Or, from people who harbors deep hatred to Sylus-

Sylus’ well-seasoned meal.

“What brings you here, Mister Louis?”, you asked politely, your hands on your lap. You haven’t seen this deer before. 

Is he a new resident here in the N109 zone? 

He is well-dressed, clearly wealthy, and the cut of his clothes fit him well. 

His eyes lingered on Mephisto and he knew that this was the  little heathen made by Sylus to carry out his commands. One of his three errand runners  as people said who goes about doing his dirty work on his behalf. 

That dragon really does keep a close eye over you, doesn’t he?

It was almost concerning. A predator hybrid and prey hybrid spending too much time with each other spells trouble. Is Sylus fattening you up? A meal reserved for a special occasion?

“I heard you are Sylus’ personal tailor,” he said, walking around your studio, studying the clothes on display.

“Yes, but more like his lead tailor,” you corrected him, your eyes watching him closely. It has been so long since you have met your own kind. Is it comforting? Maybe, “He still has other tailors as well.”

“Did he come here often?”

“Oh, never.”

“Never?”

“Yes, he has yet to pay us a visit.”

His eyes narrow slightly at you. The word in the streets is that you and Sylus are seen together more often and people have claimed that he is very forward on his affections to you, how his tail wrapped around your waist, and even how he gazed at you as if when you tell him to jump, he will ask how high you want.

“He only sends his people here,” you continued but you caught the subtle hint of confusion in his gaze and then you added, “Good people.”

Good people?

A brief look of surprise crossed your visitor’s face. Did he hear that right?

You think those wolf cubs, that crow between you, and Sylus of all people are good ? 

Maybe it is true that every hybrids like you and him indeed lost their instincts when they stepped here in the N109 zone which is why your lot has to look after each other just in case, just in case that the beasts who reside here decide to remove their masks and hurt you just like how the humans did outside. 

Because you prey hybrids are just so damn pitiful.

“It didn’t cross your mind that they would hurt you?”

“Everyone who entered this room didn’t.”

“There will always be the first.”

“I trust them more over the humans,” you replied. His concern is valid, of course, and Mister Louis here isn’t the first prey hybrid who expressed his worry over you being friendly with any of your visitors.

Your father is a different case, though, who is specifically worried about Skye.

Skye, of all people.

Skye who never crossed the line when he was here. Skye who doesn’t have to stay but chose to. Skye who helps you if he doesn’t have to.

But you know their concern stems from reality. 

Humans. 

Predator hybrids. 

Prey hybrids. 

That’s how the hierarchy goes. That’s how it has always been. Your kind stood in a delicate balance, docile enough in the eyes of the humans that you are taken advantage of often and weaker than the weakest predator hybrid as long as they have fangs to nip and claws to scratch.

“We’re deers by the end of the day.”

“I know but even then, it doesn’t make much difference.”

If anything, predator or prey, you are all just animals in the eyes of humans.

Tainted blood.

“I appreciate your concern, Mister Louis,” you added politely, giving him a small smile. “But it wouldn’t be fair for us to judge them easily when they haven’t harmed any of us here so far.”

Louis studied you closely. You genuinely do believe that all of you hybrids are equal.

How naive. How idealistic.

It will take centuries or more for prey and predator hybrids to get along and another more for hybrids and humans.

But then again, your father did mention to him you would rather run towards the nearest predator hybrid when in danger than seek help from a human.

“You’re an odd deer, Miss,” he chuckled softly.

He pushed a small package towards you wrapped in old newspaper.

“But just so you know, I heard dragons play with their prey before they eat them alive.”

────────────────────

Sylus adores the subtle signs of affection every time he is visiting you.

The faint blush on your cheeks when he stepped in to observe what you were doing. How you automatically shift closer when his tail is wrapped around your waist or when you listen to his words, your ears flicking while you pay attention.

His species in particular are naturally warm yet he only grew to understand the value of another person’s warmth every time he is with you and if he only can pull you closer, it is an irrevocable fact that you will be the warmest treasure he ever had held in his hands.

Not because of the blood pumping on your veins.

But because of the peaceful grace you have with you.

The deer doesn’t need to step out of her meadow if anything. He had already stepped foot on your paradise under the sunlight that passed the trees and if he can, he doesn’t want to leave the only place that treated him with sincere kindness.

Today, Sylus has been eagerly looking forward to his visit despite the sudden downpour. 

As if a little rain would stop him from seeing his favorite deer and as usual, he is not one to be in your shop without gifts for you.

He gave your father an easy smile and the older deer simply nodded in return, a polite greeting, when the dragon hybrid passed by him.

Thirty steps from the entrance of your shop to the hallway and another set of ten from the hallway to your studio. Oh, Sylus can’t wait to see his hardworking darling and he was halfway to your studio when he stopped, his ears picking up your sweet voice from behind the closed door and well, well, what’s this?

His eyes narrowed, picking up the scent of another guest. Another deer hybrid just like you and-

-A male one.

Your voices were muffled by the walls of your studio but he would always recognize the always gentle and polite tone you used when talking to anyone.

Then, the door opened and Sylus immediately piece together the identity of the newcomer you were just talking to earlier.

He isn’t one to forget the name to the face, afterall.

A young upstart in the N109 zone trying to make a name and recently, the little birds had told him that this one is creating a small association for all prey hybrids living here, not that Sylus minds.

He caught the familiar scent of fear from the male deer hybrid but this one was able to put all of his apprehension under a nonchalant expression laced with subtle defiance.

This gaze is all too familiar to him at this point.

This visitor of yours does not like him.

“I was told you had never set foot in this shop,” the deer hybrid started, not looking away from Sylus.

Brave, perhaps there is a reason why this one managed to reel the leashes of all the predators following his orders but he has a thought that this particular hybrid will be a little nuisance.

“And what exactly have you been told?”, Sylus asked casually, studying the newcomer. A good looking one but he is aware your father wouldn’t set you up with anyone, not when the older deer had gotten the message loud and clear that he is pursuing you.

“The miss said you only send good people in this shop,” the deer hybrid answered, as if piecing together your words and Sylus’ presence, “That Sylus himself never set foot here. Not even once.”

“Is this miss lying, Sylus?” the deer hybrid continued, letting go of the door handle, “Or are you deceiving the poor girl?”

“You’re quite a detective, aren’t you?”

“I took it as my responsibility to look after people here who get too cozy with predators like you.”

“Are you implying I am going to snap and attack her one day?”

“There are too many cases of your kind that did,” the deer hybrid countered. 

These answers, these excuses. 

The same lines recited by predators who thought they could reel in their natural instincts and not harm the prey hybrids they claimed they love and adore.

“Oh really? I suppose you have a solution for that? Locking my sweetheart away just to make sure she is safe from the big bad dragon,” Sylus replied, taking a few steps forward but the deer hybrid did not seem to falter.

Sweetheart.

So the words are true. Sylus is indeed courting you in his own twisted way.

“No, my solution is not drastic,” the male retorted, walking towards him until they were shoulder to shoulder. “You still seemed a reasonable man so just a word of advice-”

“-Pursue your own kind and leave her alone.”

The newcomer walked away but Sylus can’t shake the audacity of this upstart. 

Why? 

Why do people think that he can’t love you or be loved by you just because of your differences?

If you removed your antlers and he cut his horns, both of you would have been humans and no one would bat an eye.

Sylus took a deep breath, the faint scent of rain still clung to his hair and clothes, calming him down slightly and even when the smell of your previous visitor hung about, he could still shift through all the mixed scents and pick up the aroma of cotton and wildflowers.

The scent of you.

It was more than enough to soothe him and then, he opened the door to your studio, ready to see you.

The tension that lingered on his interaction with your previous visitor breaks, in this room, in the garden of fabrics and threads where there is only the two of you, the world is a distant away. 

The ocean of chaos in his heart slowly subsides.

In this little piece of paradise, a small voice emerges. Yours .

The dearest thing he wants to hear for his remaining days.

“Skye, quite a rain we are having, don’t you think?”

If all the precious metals and minerals he had ever owned merged together, its value will not be able to measure up on the fondest smile you wear when you see him. 

Warm like the first rays of the sun after a long winter.

“Well, it certainly did not stop me, didn’t it?” he remarked, all the words the deer hybrid said to him fading in the background and your voice is the only sound he can hear.

He watched you move around your desk, coming close to him to examine him and he chuckled softly when you had to stand by your tiptoes to do so.

“Are you wet? Do you want me to get a towel for you?”, you fretted about.

“You’re so considerate,” he replied, his hands reaching out and settling on your waist to steady you, “But I’m fine, little doe.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have really come over. You might get sick,” you pointed out, looking up to him.

You’d be surprised how far his constitution goes as a dragon but then again, he does love being doted by you.

“I’ll be fine, sweetie.”

“You could always turn down Mr. Sylus. His gifts can always wait.”

“But bringing his gifts to you is the only task I do enjoy.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else, Skye?”, you asked while he brushes the threads hanging on your antlers. 

There are so many things he wants to ask from you. Those kisses you give freely to the twins and Mephisto, to hold you close and take in your comforting scent, and for you to finally call him by his real name but his requests, his pleas overflow, the words lost in his tongue and only then what matters is you, you, you.

Just you.

“Just keep doing your own thing, hm?”, Sylus replied, tapping your nose playfully.

“How about you help me and Daisy then?”, you asked, and you were so quick on pulling a chair for him, setting it beside where you usually sit on your sewing table, “If you don’t mind being my second assistant for today?”

His eyes fleeted on Mephisto which is busy shifting through the pile of fabrics you have laid out on the table. His mechanical crow really does enjoy spending time with you from the looks of it and he caught the absence of that familiar white ribbon you tried around its neck. 

Had his companion managed to lose its valuable treasure already? That seemed unlikely. He had seen Mephisto snap at another crow once who tried to pull it off its neck.

“Just tell me what to do, darling deer.”

“Daisy and I are making another good luck ribbon,” you said, sitting on your chair and you patted on the chair beside you, an indication for him to do the same which he gladly did. 

Oh, is that how that little item is called? No wonder Mephisto is very attached to it.

“A good luck ribbon?”

“Yes, to keep Daisy safe.”

“Well, isn’t Daisy a lucky bird to have you, miss seamstress.”

“I’ll make one for you as well, Skye”, you smiled, and the idea of having Mr. Sylus’ bodyguard wearing a ribbon in one of his horns sounds quite appealing to you. He would very much resemble the dragon figurine inside the music box you have beside you and he will be more approachable, you are sure.

“Are you saying I need good luck, sweetheart?”, he replied but he was already shifting through the fabrics laid out in front of him together with Mephisto and he already had a color in mind.

Afterall, he had always loved the color of your eyes. Warm, welcoming, and eager. He certainly wouldn’t mind a ribbon of that hue tied around one of his horns.

Your ears drooped slightly on his response, “You don’t want one?”

Oh, he doesn’t need luck. 

Not when he already has you near him but how could he resist that cute pout on your face? This little tactic of yours, even if you are not aware of it, always works so well that he always finds himself abiding to whatever you would say.

“Don’t give me that look, Miss Deer,” he gently chided you and tapped your nose, “Of course I want one.”

Your tail wagged just slightly upon hearing his reply. It always gives you a sense of purpose when people say they like to receive gifts from you and since you are now making him one, maybe you should sew one for Mr. Sylus as well, a little token of gratitude for all the gifts.

“Do you think Mr. Sylus would want one as well?”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

“What color do you think he would want?”

“Red,” Sylus replied, an idea already forming in his head after you are done with this project while he fiddled at the edge of the fabric that shares the color of your eyes, “Definitely red, sweetie.”

Daisy hopped near you, dragging its chosen fabric by its beak and Sylus shifted closer to you, your shoulders touching and ready to take any instructions you would give him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the sewing part.”

“Just say the word, miss seamstress.”

Certainly not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon with you.

────────────────────

Sylus had always detested the horns sitting on top of his head.

Monster.

Among the thousand curses and more he has been called, the word had always carried a certain weight every time humans and hybrids alike had laid eyes upon him. 

His kind is a rarity these days, a dying breed after being hunted and culled like livestocks when the humans had deemed they are a threat.

How many times had he sawed them off? He only lost that habit when he realized that they always grow back, more pointed than ever and-

-If he can’t convince his hunters he meant no harm, then it is time to prove their fears right.

The blood drips from the blade, into his face, and then into the white tiles of the bathroom. In this world overflowing with laughter mocking him from being the last of his kind, he had decided to level the playing field and carve a utopia for himself that slowly grew, a twisted safe haven initially meant for fiends such as him.

Then, on this land of despair, a small patch of paradise had taken root. Clearly impossible but certainly, without a doubt, a miracle.

Sylus then realized having horns isn’t too bad. A grotesque reflection of your elegant antlers, a bad imitation, but one of the similarities you both share.

“I am glad you love it, Daisy,” you clapped your hands, watching your odd little bird hopped about and turn for you and Skye, showing off the little ribbon you have sewn together.

His mechanical crow is more than pleased and Sylus is already sure it is about to show it off to the twins for receiving a new gift from you. 

It has become a little competition between those three and they don’t need to know that their boss is more than aware their contest involves who gets the most kisses and pats from you.

And here he is, sitting at the bottom of the list with the lowest score even if he isn’t technically part of that game.

“Do you want me to put on yours as well, Skye?”, you asked him.

“Just try not to tie it too tight, darling deer,” he said and he bent his head slightly, enough for you to reach his horn.

There was a shiver that ran on his spine when your fingers grazed his horn while you carefully fastened the ribbon around it and he let out a small whimper. 

It was a gesture of trust but you wouldn’t know that, not when it was common for you deer hybrids to touch each other’s antlers.

But it was more than a gesture of trust.

Afterall, Sylus is more than aware that his kind only allows closed family to touch their horns and-

-Their mate.

He almost sounded pathetic in his own ears and for once, he is afraid to see the look of pity on your eyes. Here is your liar, Miss Deer, he wants to tell you but he wouldn’t deny there is a hint of fear that eventually you will realize ‘Skye’ and ‘Mr. Sylus’ are one and the same. 

Would your fond gaze turn to fear by then?

“Oh, did I put it on too tight?”, you asked when your ears picked up the sound he made.

It was not pity that he saw but a flicker of concern if you have hurt him and oh, his sweetheart, always so caring. What did he do to deserve your kindness?

Too tight? Hardly. Your touch was so gentle, so unfamiliar yet he yearned for more.

“No sweetheart, you haven’t,” he replied and then you let out a small laugh when he pinched your cheek.

“I am glad,” you nodded and you studied the bow closely placed at the base of his horn. You should put more ribbons on him because it certainly made him look less threatening. 

Maybe then, your clients wouldn’t have a heart attack if you and him had to go again to do a delivery run soon. 

“It really looks good on you, Skye. People would believe you are a nice and friendly dragon now.”

“Perhaps I should wear ribbons more often then,” he joked but your ears seemed to perk up at his comment, and he caught the anticipation in your eyes at the prospect of making him more bows.

You nodded, and he froze slightly when you rub your antlers against his horn where the ribbon is tied in approval, “That sounds great. I can’t wait to see you in them.”

How many years has it that Sylus had long for such affection? To be treated gently and not as a lesser animal? Now, all of those wishes, his yearning for love that he thought he will never have, were slowly fulfilled unknowingly by you and he closed his eyes, rubbing his horns back to you.

“And I can’t wait to try out more ribbons for you, sweetie.”

“I hope Mr. Sylus will like what I made as much as you do, Skye.”

He may have stayed longer than usual today, especially when you ask him to only leave when the rain stopped. The sound of the downpour, the soft conversation between the two of you, and the sewing machine humming filled the room and even when evening fell, he watched you still push through, making your patterns, until you accidentally dozed off mid-conversation.

Little deer always forgets she is in the company of a beast.

He gently tucked your hair behind your ear, his hand lightly grazing the fur from the base until the tip, fleeting, not enough for you to even stir and the red gemstone that adorn your hairpin twinkled for a moment, like a wink.

Sylus left Mephisto with you, who almost looked like a plushie with you curled up against his companion and he set the gift he had brought for you near your hand holding the pencil.

Perhaps this is the start of another small game. A back and forth. A gift from him in exchange for a little trinket from you this time but Sylus will have to see.

He tied the red ribbon you said to give to ‘Mr. Sylus’ upon his return around the leather strap of his watch before he left your studio.

A small smile formed in Sylus’ lips when he took one glimpse of you before leaving.

If you opened your eyes, you will see that your Mr. Sylus is already more than pleased.

────────────────────

It was such a relief to see the boss returned to the base all too pleased with himself.

Luke and Kieran never found out what actually ticked him off last time he had visited you and their little investigation never arrived on a conclusion because you just looked at them confused when they tried to ask you if you and the boss had a little misunderstanding.

“Do you think he got upset because I asked for a piece of his lemon tart?”

They decided not to press on further, not wanting to upset you (Also because you offered to share the box of macarons they stole given to them begrudgingly by that cute, feisty sheep hybrid.)

They welcomed him in the base as routine but mostly because they are excited to see their father boss once again and he is usually more forgiving with their little antics every time he sees you, their tails wagging in excitement.

(Not that they blew up something again. They have been good while he is away for once. This whole sewing hobby is really taking up their free time.)

Yet, when Sylus went past the double doors of the base, they caught a scent quite strong that clung on him.

The scent of cotton and wildflowers.

Luke and Kieran looked at each other, a flicker of understanding. Is that why the boss is happier today?

“Boss, why do you smell like Miss Deer-”, Luke was about to ask but let out a yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes yet even then, the question had already made its way into his ears.

“What are you two on about?”, he asked, a small smirk tugging on his lips. He knows these two wolf cubs had a superior sense of smell, an already inherent trait for wolf hybrids amplified by whatever the humans did to them before arriving here in the N109 zone.

That little gesture of yours where you rubbed your antlers against his horns is supposed to be an affectionate one, fairly common among deer hybrids who are known for being very friendly to those they like.

He is still wearing the little ribbons you made for him which he had not removed until now but he is more than aware you have unknowingly left your scent on him.

Not that he minds, anyways, especially when he had also left his on yours as well.

He had to give these two points for asking him bluntly unlike your father who had given him an odd look when he exited your shop but he is sure you will be able to clear everything up. 

You are not one for lying after all.

But these wolf cubs have no sense of subtlety. So nosy.

“Did you and Miss Deer had-”, Luke let out another yelp when Kieran stepped on his toes again, “Can you stop that, Kieran?”

“I am not giving you allowance for you both to sniff on my clothes,” Sylus said dryly.

The two looked at each other, their tails wagging harder. They wouldn’t dare do that knowing full enough the boss retaliates during their sparring sessions and it wasn’t their fault when their noses can smell up to miles.

“Come on, boss,” Kieran said, the two walking with him deeper into the base, “We aren’t animals.”

“Actually, it is pretty much stronger around your horns,” Luke piped and his eyes widened slightly, noticing the ribbon fastened on the base of his horn and another one in his watch.

The twins looked at each other, their eyes studying the neck scarves you have gifted them.

The boss had finally received a gift from you just like they did.

“You both are acting like animals.”

But the little scratch he gave them on the back of their pointed ears betrayed his words.

.

.

.

Little gremlins.

────────────────────

Author's Note: Yes, I borrowed Louis from Beastars. He is absolutely necessary in the world building of this story even if he will appear here just ONCE. What did Louis left at Miss Deer's table? What is Sylus' gift? These will all be revealed in due time.

Will there be a side story with the twins? Maybe, maybe. We will see how the stars will align in the coming months.

Anyways, this is so fun to write. I try to write in between my free time and sometimes I just woke up at 2am because the ideas JUST HAD TO COME AT THAT TIME.

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

[yukiscoffeebreak]

-smoke & sin-

----------------------------------------------heeseungxreader---------

warnings: age gap of 6 years, smoking, heeseung lets reader smoke from his cigarette, alcohol, cash games (casino) kissing (tongue), sex (a little rough yet soft i think), sex without protection (pls don`t do it) curse words, nicknames (baby, princess)

synopsis: You never ever had imagined your future like this. Livin in a 5 star luxury apartment with a boyfriend who could be straight out of a movie. Lee Heeseung. Even the age gap did not scared you as he asked you to be his girlfriend. You both exist beyond the world’s judgment of your ages. You never care. The love burns like a cigarette—slow, intoxicating, and forbidden.

note from author: I tryd AI this time to help me remove all the grammar errors. Hope its better this time and i hope y`all like ittt T-T

songs: Sweet - Cigarettes After Sex Billie Bossa Nova - Billie Eilish older - Isabel La-Rosa One Of The Girls - The Weeknd, JENNIE, Lily-Rose Depp Can`t Feel My Face - The Weeknd FEVER - ENHYPEN

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The cityscape of Seoul stretched endlessly before you, a symphony of neon lights and bustling streets, alive even in the deep hours of the night.

From the balcony of your shared luxury apartment, the world looked small, distant, a flickering illusion.

The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and the lingering notes of Heeseung’s cologne, a scent so intoxicating it wrapped around you like a second skin.

You lay with your head resting on his lap, the cool night breeze brushing against your bare legs. He sat with one hand tangled in your hair, his fingers threading through the strands with a slow, lazy rhythm. In his other hand, he held a cigarette between his slender fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dark.

He took a long, slow drag before offering it to you. Without hesitation, you brought it to your lips, the taste of his lips on it, inhaling deeply, feeling the burn settle in your lungs before exhaling into the night.

He watched you with that signature smirk, eyes dark, unreadable. "You always look good like this," he murmured, his voice low.

You hummed, tilting your head to look at him, your gaze tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips. "Like what?"

"Lost in the night. Lost in the smoke. Lost in me."

You let the cigarette dangle between your fingers as you exhaled another plume of smoke. "They say I should be lost in someone my own age."

You laughed, "Six fuckin` years between us".

Heeseung chuckled, taking the cigarette from you, crushing it into the ashtray beside him. "They don’t know what they’re talking about."

"Do you?"

His fingers brushed against your cheek, trailing down to your chin before tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "I know enough to say that I don’t care what they think. Do you?"

You leaned into his touch, your voice barely above a whisper. "Never did."

The city continued to pulse beneath you, but in that moment, all you could hear was the steady thrum of Heeseung’s heartbeat, the slow rhythm of your breaths intertwining. The night stretched on, wrapping you both in a darkness that felt like home.

Nothing more beautiful in the world existed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bar was a den of sin, bathed in warm, golden light, thick with the scent of whiskey and cigarettes.

Heeseung sat beside you in the VIP lounge, one arm draped over the back of the plush leather booth, his other hand wrapped around a crystal glass of whiskey.

His gaze was sharp, assessing, as he watched the men at the poker table a few feet away. You, meanwhile, swirled the remnants of your drink, ice clinking softly against the glass.

"Thinking of playing?" you mused, watching the flicker of interest in his expression.

He smirked, taking a slow sip of his whiskey before setting it down with a quiet clink. "Do you think I should?"

You tilted your head, studying him. "I think you like taking risks."

His hand found your thigh beneath the table, fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path along the inside. "Only when the stakes are high enough."

You arched a brow, unfazed. "And are they?"

His grip tightened slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Always."

The dealer called for another round, and Heeseung exhaled, shifting slightly as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Stay here. Watch me win."

You smirked, watching as he stood, effortlessly slipping into the empty chair at the poker table.

God, you loved this man.

It was so ironic how he wanted to play in a oversized band shirt and baggy jeans, while the other man were sitting there in suits.

They barely acknowledged his presence until the first cards were dealt.

Then, as Heeseung leaned back, fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table, the game began.

You watched him play with the same ease he carried on stage, the same quiet confidence that made the world fall at his feet.

The way his fingers danced over the cards, the slight tilt of his head as he considered his next move—it was all intoxicating, mesmerizing. And by the time he finished, chips stacked high in front of him, you knew he had never lost control. Not once.

As he made his way back to you, he slid a single chip across the table, letting it rest in front of you. "For luck."

You picked it up, rolling it between your fingers. "I thought you didn’t need luck."

Heeseung leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "I don’t. But...you’re my exception."

You chuckled, "Hell, I love you."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The apartment was dark when he returned from practice, the only light coming from the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Heeseung stepped inside, shutting the door quietly before dropping his bag by the entrance. His body ached from the long hours, but as soon as his eyes found you, standing in the dim glow of the living room, all exhaustion faded.

You were wearing one of his sweaters, the fabric hanging loosely off your shoulders, just long enough to barely cover the tops of your thighs. Your gaze met his, with the slight arrogance in his eyes, knowing.

You loved this expression on his face so much.

"Missed me?" he murmured, voice rough with fatigue and something else.

You smirked, crossing the space between you, your fingers reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "Maybe."

He caught your wrist, pulling you against him, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. "Liar."

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly as you tilted your head up to meet his lips.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, a silent confession of all the things left unspoken. His hands roamed down your back, gripping your waist as he deepened the kiss, as if he needed to remind himself that you were real, that this was real.

When he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, he whispered, "Tell me you need me."

You exhaled, fingers tracing the edge of his collar. "Always."

Heeseung’s hands tightened on your hips, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, "Then let me prove it."

"Nothing rather than this.."

His lips found yours again in a more intense kiss, pushing you against the wall.

You gasped slightly.

His tongue parting your lips and exploring your mouth with such a dominance that made you weak in the knees.

His hands slid from your hips under your- no, his sweater.

His fingers were cold. You shivered a bit, but enjoyed this feeling at the same time.

He pulled the piece of clothing over your head, without hesitation.

"Shit Y/N..."

He groaned at the sight of yours as he removed his own shirt, tossing it to the side and doing the same with his pants and your shorts.

"Bedroom..?", you asked baredy above a whisper, slightly moaning it because you really couln`t deny the wetness is your panties anymore.

"Mh yeah..", he managed to say and pushed you in your room of privacy.

Soon you landed naked on the bed.

"Heeseung please..."

"Please what baby.."

"Fuck me Hee pleasee..", you whined desparetely.

"Beggin` so pretty...good girls get what they want..", he said smirking down at you, removing the last piece of clothing that separated you two.

And god his member was big. You dripped even more as you glanced down at his thing.

He chuckled, "What, too much for my pretty princess?"

"N..no i can handle it Hee.."

"You sure?", he asked.

"Yeah, I`m sure", you confirmed.

"Condom?", he asked, kissing your collarbone down to your breasts.

"Mhgg..n...no w..we did it so m..many times before without ,Hee..", you managed to say between moans.

"As you wish baby.."

Then he pushed himself inside you, you swear you saw stars.

"F...fuuuck shit", he cursed at the tight feeling of your pussy around him.

He began to move and after a while he loosed his own control, grabbing you by your thights, his fingers digging into your skin and his thrusts even harder inside you.

The night stretched on with him moving and keeping you cummin` many times. Moaning his name. Lookin into his pretty eyes.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, catching your breath after the fourth round. Though the quiet moment now felt serene, the frantic rush of desire slowly giving way to the kind of intimacy that only those truly connected could share.

His hand, still damp from the heat, rested lightly on your stomach, fingers tracing soft, absent patterns over your skin.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear, his heartbeats slowing in the aftermath of it all.

His breathing was steady now, the calm that always followed his wild, passionate moments, the part of him that seemed to trust you so completely.

"You're beautiful," he murmured quietly.

He said it so simply, as though it was a truth so clear, it didn’t need to be spoken aloud. But hearing it still made your heart flutter, soft and sweet.

You turned your face to him, brushing the hair from his forehead. His tired eyes met yours, a depth of emotion swimming in the dark pools of brown.

You could see the hint of vulnerability there now, a stark contrast to him a fiew minutes before.

"You make me feel alive." you said, your voice softer than usual bute still a bit cold, tracing a line along his jaw with the tips of your fingers. "No one else does that. No one else could ever."

He closed his eyes for a moment.

"I’ll always make you feel alive, baby," he said, his voice a hushed promise. "Always."

His thumb gently stroked your shoulder, his lips trailing down the side of your neck, slow and languid.

You could feel his lips curve into a faint smile as he kissed you there, a place he always found to be your most sensitive spot.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking with yours.

"You’re not just mine," he whispered low, "You’re everything. Everything I never knew I needed. So fuck this 6 years between our ages."

"Yeah."

The world outside, the one full of judgment and gossip, no longer existed. In this bed, in this space, the two of you were enough.

Heeseung pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you with careful gentleness.

"Don’t leave me," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, though you knew it came from a place of deep sincerity. "Please."

You lifted your head to look at him again.

"I’m not going anywhere," you replied.

The silence that followed was comfortable, the kind that only comes after shared moments of intimacy.

Touches, Kisses, Sex- you took all what he gives you.

Not because he looked handsome, not because he do this things so good and not becsause he had money.

No.

It is because you truly loved him.

This feelings weren`t fake.

As Heeseung's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, you felt safe.

Safe in the arms of a guy older than you.

Better than all the younger guys that had broke your heart before.

For once, the city lights didn’t matter, the fame didn’t matter, and the world could fade away.

©all rights reserved

[christopherisfoive]

Tethered by Moonlight

AU: Faerie Realm Rivalry | Prompts: 4. Jealousy that turns into something more 7. “You can’t flirt your way out of this one.” 15. Sharing a bed for the first time

Faerie!minho x Faerie!reader

a/n: I am trying my best here

The path between the Light and Shadow realms shimmered beneath your boots, lined with silver blossoms that pulsed with moonlight. You hated every step. Mostly because he was walking beside you.

Minho, prince of the Shadow Court, moved like the shadows themselves—quiet, smug, and always a step ahead. He’d barely spoken a word since the Queen of Light sent you off on this cursed diplomatic mission together, but the silence wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Alive with the tension between your courts… and something else.

“You know,” he said finally, brushing a hand along a glowing branch, “I’m surprised you didn’t beg your court for a different partner.”

“I did,” you muttered. “They sent me anyway.”

He smirked. “So we’re both suffering.”

You shot him a glare. “Speak for yourself. I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Oh? Like who?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

But later, when a fae from your court appeared at the market you passed through—a healer you’d once trained with—and greeted you with an excited hug, you felt the shift. Minho was stiff. Eyes dark, jaw tight. He didn’t say a word as you laughed softly, reminiscing, but his energy buzzed cold behind you.

When you rejoined him, his voice was low. “Friend of yours?”

“An old one,” you said, frowning. “Why?”

“No reason.”

He didn’t look at you for the rest of the evening.

You were both invited—forced, really—to attend the Moonlight Gathering, a diplomatic celebration hosted by a neutral realm. Fae from all courts mingled beneath canopies of glowing flora, enchanted music floating in the air. The space shimmered with glamours and illusions, but none could hide how your blood simmered when Minho brushed past you, dressed in his ceremonial blacks, lined with stardust thread.

“Try not to start a war,” he said, voice low beside your ear. “Not tonight.”

You turned slowly, offering a smile laced with sugar and venom. “Only if you behave.”

His smirk flickered. “Define ‘behave.’”

The night dragged on in a haze of tense diplomacy. You watched him from across the gathering as he charmed a high-ranking dryad, laughing low, eyes sparkling. Your grip tightened on your goblet, the shimmering wine sloshing gently against the rim.

Felix, another emissary from the Light Court, leaned toward you. “You’re staring.”

“I’m observing,” you said, sharper than you intended.

“Mhm.” He gave you a knowing look. “You always observe him like that?”

You didn’t answer.

Later, Minho approached you again, this time cornering you beneath a canopy of hanging crystal vines. His tone was unreadable. “You disappeared.”

“You were busy,” you replied coolly.

He tilted his head. “Jealous?”

You stepped forward, breath catching as your shoulders nearly touched. “You wish. Not everyone is hypnotized by your charm.”

A pause.

Then: “You can’t flirt your way out of this one.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be,” he said, eyes scanning your face.

“And you’re not as smug as you act,” you shot back.

The vines glimmered around you, responding to the energy between your bodies—something faerie magic never let lie.

For a moment, you were sure he might kiss you.

He didn’t.

Instead, he turned and walked away—again.

And you hated the part of you that wished he hadn’t.

The mission had been simple in theory: retrieve the stolen relic from the rogue sprites before it crossed into the Shadowlands. But nothing in the Faerie Realm ever stayed simple. The sprite den was rigged with illusions, and the moment your boot hit the mossy floor, the traps began to spiral.

Now, with your back against a tree pulsing with hex energy and your magic depleted, you were surrounded by three snarling sprites—until Minho dropped in, blades flashing silver in the moonlight.

He moved fast—too fast—with lethal precision that never ceased to irritate you.

“Behind you!” you called, voice sharp.

“I see it,” he growled, barely ducking in time to avoid a jagged obsidian spear.

Together, you fought. Not in sync, but not apart either. That was the problem—always close, always clashing, never quite on the same side.

When the last sprite dropped and the air finally stilled, you whirled on him.

“You almost got us both killed.”

“I saved your life.”

“You took too long.”

Minho stepped closer, still breathing hard. “Maybe if you hadn’t gone in blind, I wouldn’t have had to clean up your mess.”

Your jaw clenched. “You always do this—act like you’re the only one who can fix things.”

“Because I usually am!” His voice cracked out, sharp as flint. “You’re reckless.”

“You’re arrogant.”

A beat passed.

The forest hummed with your fury, the energy between you taut and alive. His chest was rising fast. Yours, too.

“I had it handled,” you said finally, voice tight.

“You almost died.”

“So what?” you snapped. “Would that make your life easier?”

He stared at you then—really stared. Not with his usual smirk, not with ice. Just… something hollow. Something quiet.

“Don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Your mouth opened—but no words came. Because the silence after that felt heavier than the fight.

And then he turned away.

Again.

But this time, it hurt more than you were ready to admit.

The walk back through the forest was soaked in silence.

Even the wind held its breath.

Minho walked ahead, just enough distance to make a point, not enough to truly leave you behind. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand stayed close to the hilt of his blade, even though the danger had passed.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Twilight slipped in between the trees, painting everything in ghostly blue. By the time you reached the abandoned watchpost — a moss-covered outpost from some forgotten war — night was swallowing the realm whole.

You dropped your pack at the threshold of the crumbling stone hut. Minho followed, wordless, his expression unreadable.

Inside, the space was barely big enough for two. Dust clung to the air, broken only by the soft hiss of the fire he wordlessly lit. You sat on opposite sides, legs drawn in, not meeting each other’s gaze.

Still, the tension coiled in the quiet.

You stole a glance at him. A faint bruise darkened his jaw. A scratch traced along his collarbone, barely hidden beneath the loose fold of his tunic.

“You didn’t heal that,” you said quietly, breaking the silence without knowing why.

He didn’t look at you. “Didn’t have time.”

You reached into your satchel and pulled out the small vial of salve. Tossed it toward him. He caught it, barely.

“You could’ve died,” you said.

“So could you.”

The fire crackled between you like a living thing.

“You didn’t have to come back for me.”

He finally looked up.

“I did.”

Your breath caught. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have sounded like it did.

You stood and moved to the far corner, laying out your blanket without a word. He stayed by the fire, unmoving.

Minutes passed.

Then—

“…Don’t go. Not yet.”

His voice was low. Strained. Like it cost him something to say.

You paused, fingers stilling against the worn fabric beneath you.

“…Why?” you asked.

He didn’t answer at first. Then—

“I don’t want to fight like that again,” Minho said, gaze fixed on the fire. “I don’t want you thinking I don’t care if you live or die.”

You swallowed hard. “Then stop acting like you don’t.”

His eyes finally met yours — dark, shadowed, but honest.

“Y/N…” he began, voice soft and cracking.

You looked away. Not ready. Not yet.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty this time. It was waiting.

The fire was down to embers.

You laid stiff as stone on the scratchy blanket, curled against the farthest wall of the hut, listening to the wind scrape against the stones outside. The cold had sunk into your bones, but you would sooner bite your tongue than admit it out loud.

Especially with him sitting on the opposite side, arms crossed, jaw tight, still clearly stewing from the earlier argument.

You didn’t know what annoyed you more—how childish he was, or how your chest still twisted at the thought of him freezing alone by the door.

When he finally moved, it was with a quiet rustle, the creak of old floorboards underfoot. You didn’t look. You didn’t have to.

You could feel him.

“You're shivering,” he muttered.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You snapped your eyes open. “What are you doing?”

Minho stood near your side of the hut now, blanket in hand, expression unreadable. The golden light from the embers cast sharp angles on his face, turning his usual apathy into something harder.

“I’m not letting you freeze because you’re too stubborn to say you’re cold.”

You sat up, defensive. “And I’m not sharing a blanket with someone who can't stand me five hours out of the day.”

He raised a brow. “I don’t recall you being any warmer.”

You glared, but when another gust of wind slithered through the cracks in the wall, your resolve cracked just enough. You tugged the blanket around your shoulders tighter, biting your tongue.

He didn’t ask again.

He just lay down beside you—slowly, carefully—his back to yours at first. A wide enough gap for plausible deniability.

But your bodies were still heat-starved. And the cold didn’t care about pride.

Eventually, you shifted. He did too. The space between you shrank until your backs were brushing, your spines lined up too neatly, like the tension had found a way to press itself into your bones.

“You know,” you whispered bitterly, “you make me want to scream.”

“Likewise,” he said softly.

Silence. Then—

“But if I have to choose between being cold or being near you…” His voice dropped. “I’ll take this. Even if it kills me.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because your throat was tight, and your heart was thudding traitorously loud. You stared into the darkness, eyes wide, body wound tight and still aching for warmth.

Then, barely a whisper:

The faint gray of early morning crept in through the wooden slats of the hut, casting pale streaks across the dirt floor. You hadn’t slept much. Not really. Not with the uneven rhythm of Minho’s breathing brushing against your back and the quiet hum of unsaid things crackling louder than the fire ever had.

When he shifted beside you, you instinctively held your breath. The warmth between you thinned as he moved, his body pulling away from yours with practiced silence.

He was already sitting up, lacing his boots. You caught the way his shoulders tensed when you finally spoke.

“Don’t go. Not yet.”

His hands paused mid-knot.

You hated how small your voice had come out. But it was honest—too honest. And now it just hung there, delicate and vulnerable, like a secret you couldn’t stuff back into your chest.

Minho didn’t turn around immediately. The quiet stretched between you like a second blanket—heavy, suffocating, loaded with meaning.

“Y/N,” he said slowly, voice rough from sleep and something else. “If I stay… I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep pretending.”

That stung.

You sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “Pretending what?”

He finally turned, eyes meeting yours across the narrow gap. “That I don’t care.”

You sucked in a breath.

The tension from last night still clung to the room—but it had shifted. No longer sharp and biting. Now it pulsed—heavy, aching, laced with want and resentment all tangled together.

Minho’s gaze dropped to your blanket-wrapped knees. “You hate me, remember?”

“Do I?”

That made him look at you again—really look.

His voice was soft now. Careful. “You tell me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Maybe you didn’t know. Or maybe you did, and it scared the hell out of you.

But you said, “You’re still sitting here.”

He smiled. Barely.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess I am.”

And for just a moment—before either of you could think better of it—he leaned in. His forehead touched yours, barely there, breath warm between you.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

Just a choice.

A promise hanging in the quiet.

[spicybunni]

YANDERE DRIDER X FEM DARLING

WARNINGS⚠️ : YANDERE TENDENCIES / STALKING / BLOOD DRINKING / VENOM USED AS A DRUG / NSFW

Summary : Waking up in the den of a drider who wants to use you as their personal blood bag...among other things. Enjoy!

🕷️This trip started off so well, how did it end up like this? This was your first time solo hiking in the woods. You thought it would be an easy adventure, sticking to the correct trails and keeping track of where you were. You have hiked for multiple days and made it back to your car with no issues before, but for some reason you felt like someone or something was watching as you made your way back. In your rush to get home and rid yourself of solo hiking paranoia, your stupid foot got caught in a tree root making you fall off the trail. With all your hiking gear weighing you down it made the impact even harder than it should have. You bumped your head on a boulder and scrapped your hand and knee. Groaning at the pain you feel all over your body. You hear quick footsteps coming towards you, which made you panic and try to get up. Although you try to move, your body is going limp at a possible concussion you might have. What you see before fading out is a mass of black and light pink coming towards you with outstretched arms.

🕷️Your eyes slowly open to the darkness of a cave. There’s some light that pears through in holes above, but what you’re able to make out does little to comfort you.

🕷️Waking up you find yourself bound by your hands in front of you. Head still feeling woozy from your fall, all your gear is gone along with your shoes too.

🕷️All around there are intricate webs covering every rock and corner of this cave. There are small cocoons of paralyzed animals in some parts, their faces etched in frozen horror.

🕷️You thought giant spiders were just something you saw in horror movies, but now you’re realizing it might be your reality.

🕷️Your heartbeat and breath quickens as you realize there’s no accessible route for you to make your escape. The only outcome would be to climb up to the light. But your feet are bound along with your hands. You get up to sit on the heels of your feet, looking to see if whatever brought you here is still around.

🕷️She descends behind you on a single thread. Putting a gentle hand on your shoulder. Of course you jump and shriek at the feeling of her nails and hand touching you. You turn to see her and let out another scream. Her face grimaces at your unattractive sounds. Hand reaching out to cover your mouth, shoving you into her webbing below. Falling back from your kneeling form, her body and legs trap you beneath her.

🕷️She was confusing to look at, both attractive and terrifying at the same time. Aside from the huge spider body from the waist down, she was well endowed with an amazing human figure. Her skin has a pink hue with black hair tied into a bun using animal bones. Her black nails are long and sharp, just barley puncturing your cheek skin. And all six of her eyes are solid black and looking down at you. She smiles bringing her free hand to her dark lips in a shhhh motion.

🕷️After immediately being silenced by her hand, you start to shake and whimper with tears forming in your eyes.

🕷️She’s immediately alerted at your crying. Removing her hand from your mouth to stoke your head and wipe your tears.

“Oh my sweet prey, enough of the tears….” Her voice comes out like syrup, surprising you with her sudden speaking of english.

🕷️Which makes you let out another whimper at your new nickname.

“P-Please don’t hurt me, I-I don’t wanna die!”

She chuckles at your fearful statement.

"Silly thing. If I wanted you dead, you already would be." She grins at the last part, making you let out a sob at the possible torture she might put you through.

🕷️She quips her brow at you. Humans are so strange, can't they usually tell when someone loves them? She's been stalking you for your entire trip, making sure no harm would come your way. At first it was to hunt and eat you. She had been fantasying about how she would drain your blood, hang you in her cave, if she wanted you wrapped or bound by your legs? What changed her mind was that when she scared off other predators while stalking you, she realized she needed to protect you. You were too vulnerable to be left alone. You needed her without realizing it. You were so sweet to your surroundings, caring for the nature around you and being mindful of yourself. The outside world is too dangerous for someone so sweet as yourself. And obviously she thought you were just so adorable. She would wonder why you would have no partner attached to your side for such a journey you went on.

🕷️As a price for being so carefully protected on your hike, she figured she could bargain to drink your blood in return. Just one little drink wouldn't be too much right? But you looked so distressed at just the sight of her. Maybe some of her venom can calm you down.

🕷️Holding you still with her hands on your shoulders, she leans in to your neck. You yelp at the sudden closeness, squirming to shake her off. Her fangs quickly puncture your sensitive skin, giving you a small sting. She pulls away just as fast, watching the effects melt through you.

🕷️You closed your eyes shut when she leaned in, thinking you were going to die by her taking a chomp out of you. But the sting was the only thing that came and she backed away from you to give space.

"What did you...d-" You couldn’t finish your sentence as you let out a sigh, all of her venom was hitting you at once.

🕷️Your body suddenly had a giddy feeling run through it, starting from her bite on your neck. You felt clouds flood your mind and being lightheaded in the best way possible. Body turning flush in your cheeks and arms. Breasts now feeling hard and sensitive inside your shirt. Everything felt so uncomfortable yet fuzzy and warm. Through heavy eyelids you looked up at her, watching as she licked her lips at her sample of you. She wanted more, and you were now in a headspace wanting- no, needing to give it to her.

🕷️Revisiting your spot on the web flooring once more, she observes your movements and the way you're gazing at her now. You look as if you're stoned, completely different attitude from thirty seconds ago. Her venom was just that potent for you.

"There, there prey, I’ve got you." Her clawed hand tilts your head up to her. She grins at you, seeing a pool of drool gather in your mouth as you look back at her. In your simple mind right now, you just thought she was so pretty. Her eyes made you nervous still , but she hasn't hurt you yet right? She's been so nice to you!

"A spider lady huh?.." You slur out. All fear has left you, now being able to talk normally. No stutters or hiccups. She chuckles at your state. twirling a piece of your hair in her hand. "Indeed my darling dearest. Do you mind if I have another drink from you?" Her eyes furrow in faux innocence. As if asking for a slice of cake. If giving her more of your blood meant you felt this feeling longer, than so be it right? You nod your head dumbly and turn your head to side, giving her full access. “Yes…

🕷️What she does next results in you gasping as she pushes your bound hands above your head. She sticks your bounds to her main web beneath you both, keeping you in place. The swift movement took your breath away as you look at her wide eyed again. You feel her breasts pressed against yours and you moan out at the feeling. The sounds are wonderful to her ears and she continues her movement against you. The next sensation you feel was at the crotch of your pants and her groping your breasts. The first making you yelp at the sudden stroking of your slit beneath the layers of clothing. She used her clawed hand to grope and tease your chest, while her other hand was teasing you below. You're panting at this point, and she takes that opportunity to slip herself in there before you could react.

🕷️Your mind was still on that fuzzy feeling from earlier, but now it was full lust that enraptured your being. Nobody has ever played with your body like this, and now a spider monster was able to play you like a fiddle.

🕷️The arm focused on touching your crotch was moving up to slip through your pant and underwear line, making its way to your entrance. Heart beat already pounding like crazy, the anticipation of her about to finger you or tease you makes you almost faint. But she won't have that right now. She plunges her tongue into your mouth harshly, waking you up as her fingers trace the circle of your pussy's entrance. You moan into her mouth at the feeling. You just wish your legs weren't bound so you could spread them more freely.

"That's it, give in to me prey. Let me in..."

🕷️You feel as though your head will explode. The den becomes humid and stuffy as your panting and moans fill the air. She lets out satisfied chuckles and hums come from her as she plays and dotes on you. The Drider finally decided she will eat you at some point. I mean, why else would she go to such lengths to protect you? You’re a meal worth savoring. But there’s no rush. For now, she can just sip on your blood.

🕷️In the back of your mind you already knew that you would never leave this web, but with how much you’re gushing on her, you can’t find it in yourself to care.

[tf-kinky]

The faint hum of Ninja’s streaming setup filled the air, a symphony of RGB lights and cooling fans casting an eerie glow across his room. It was late—too late for his usual audience—but this wasn’t a typical night. His chat buzzed with the usual fervor, though tonight, their hero wasn’t clutching a Victory Royale. He was clutching something far darker: a secret he’d kept buried behind his trademark grin.

Ninja leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the desk as he stared at his phone. The app glowed on the screen, its icon a swirling vortex of black and purple. He’d stumbled across it weeks ago on some sketchy deep-web forum—a transformation tool, they called it. No one believed it was real, just another troll thread. But Ninja had tested it. A stray sock had become a mouse. A water bottle had morphed into a flickering candle. Small stuff. Harmless. Until tonight.

“Clix has been talking smack again,” Ninja muttered to himself, his voice low, almost drowned by the whir of his PC. The kid had been relentless—dissing Ninja’s skills, his age, his relevance. It wasn’t just banter anymore. It was personal. And Ninja had a plan to shut him up for good.

He tapped the app, its interface cold and minimalistic. A single input field appeared: Target. Ninja grinned, typing “Clix” with a deliberate slowness, savoring the moment. A second field popped up: Form. His fingers hesitated, then danced across the screen: Adidas Samba OG White Sneakers. Clean. Classic. Permanent.

The app pulsed once, twice, then a prompt appeared: Enhancements? Ninja’s grin widened. He wanted Clix to feel this. He typed: Heightened senses—extreme sensitivity. Full awareness. A final tap, and the screen flashed red. Somewhere, miles away, Clix’s world was about to unravel.

Clix had been mid-stream, trash-talking his chat with that cocky smirk plastered across his face, when it hit. A jolt—like electricity surging through his spine. His vision blurred, his limbs locked up, and a scream caught in his throat as the room warped around him. His body folded inward, shrinking, twisting, reshaping. Skin hardened into leather. Bones melted into rubber soles. His senses didn’t fade—they sharpened, excruciatingly so. The faint hum of his monitor became a deafening roar. The stale air of his gaming den stung like acid. And then—nothing. Darkness. Stillness. But he was awake. Aware.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, but he could feel. Every fiber of his being screamed in silent horror as he realized what he’d become: a pair of pristine white Adidas Sambas, laces neatly tied, sitting in a sleek black box. The smell hit him next—packaging foam, faint rubber, and something distant, musky. Feet. Oh God, no. Clix’s mind recoiled. He’d always hated feet—sweaty, grimy, repulsive things. The thought alone made him gag, back when he could gag. Now, it was worse. He could sense everything.

A delivery drone dropped the box at Ninja’s doorstep within hours. No questions asked. The app had its ways.

Ninja peeled open the package, his eyes glinting as he lifted the sneakers out. “Well, well, Clix. Look at you now.” His voice was a mocking purr. He turned them over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. They were perfect—crisp white leather, black stripes, a faint sheen under the studio lights. He could almost feel the rage radiating off them. Good.

“Chat, check these out,” he said, holding them up to the camera. “Fresh kicks for the stream. Limited edition.” The comments exploded—Dope shoes, Ninja! Where’d you get those? He chuckled, slipping them onto his feet. The moment his socks brushed against the insole, Clix’s silent scream echoed in his own mind. Ninja’s feet—warm, slightly damp from hours in his gaming chair—pressed down, and Clix’s heightened senses erupted. Every crease of skin, every bead of sweat, every shift of weight was unbearable. He wanted to shrivel up, to die, but he couldn’t. He was trapped, forced to endure the stench, the pressure, the feet.

Ninja flexed his toes, smirking as he stood. “Comfy as hell. Might keep these on permanently.” He paced the room, each step a fresh torment for Clix. The kid’s disgust fueled Ninja’s glee—he could almost imagine Clix’s voice, whining about how gross it was. “Should’ve kept your mouth shut, man,” Ninja whispered under his breath, too quiet for the mic to catch.

Days turned into weeks. Ninja wore the Sambas everywhere—streams, workouts, even casual strolls outside. Clix’s awareness never dulled. The dirt from the pavement, the sweat from long gaming sessions, the occasional spill of energy drink soaking into the fabric—it was a nightmare without end. His hatred for feet, once just a quirky gripe, became his eternal prison. And Ninja? He never took them off. Why would he? They were his trophy, his silent victory.

One night, mid-stream, Ninja leaned down, brushing a speck of dust off the toe. “Still holding up,” he said to no one in particular. “Guess you’re built to last, huh, Clix?” The chat laughed, oblivious. But deep within the sneakers, a consciousness raged, helpless, drowning in the repulsive reality of its new existence. And Ninja kept winning.

Months dragged on, and the once-pristine Adidas Sambas began to fray. The white leather yellowed, the soles thinned, and a faint stench clung to them despite Ninja’s relentless wear. Clix’s heightened senses had cataloged every degrading moment—the scuffs, the sweat, the slow unraveling of his prison. Ninja barely noticed at first, too caught up in his streams, but one night, mid-rant, he glanced down and grimaced.

“These kicks are trashed,” he muttered, peeling them off with a flick of disgust. The chat spammed RIP shoes, oblivious to the weight of his words. He stood, holding the worn-out Sambas by the laces, their tattered form dangling like a defeated foe. “Time to retire you,” he said with a smirk, striding to the kitchen.

Clix’s mind raced—relief, dread, fury—as Ninja swung open the trash bin. The sneakers hit the pile with a dull thud, sinking into a mess of soda cans and takeout wrappers. The lid slammed shut, plunging Clix into darkness. The rancid stench of garbage replaced the torment of feet, but the reprieve was fleeting. His senses, still razor-sharp, drowned in the rot. Ninja walked away, already scrolling for a new pair, while Clix lay buried, abandoned, his silent screams lost to the heap—forever aware, forever trapped.

[pankowcrumbs]

The three of us X Will Poulter (Requested)

Plot: Your twin brother is getting married and your ex-friend and kind of ex-flame Will is the best man and he brings his new girlfriend to the wedding.

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

8.8K words

AN: This was soo cute to write I spent all weekend doing this one cause I loved the idea I had to make it a super long one! Thanks for requesting this!

They say you don't remember much from when you're five. But I do.

I remember the day I met Will Poulter like it was etched in soft, golden light on the inside of my mind. I’d been holding my twin brother Josh's hand a little too tightly, as we were led into our reception classroom at Little Elm Primary. Mum had tied my hair back with a blue ribbon to match my dress, and my brother had grass stains on his knees before the bell had even rung.

And there he was Will with a lopsided grin, teeth too big for his face, and hair that couldn’t decide whether to stick up or lie flat. He looked like mischief wrapped in a school jumper.

"Hi," he’d said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Do you wanna build a fort out of books?"

That was it. That was the beginning.

From that moment, the three of us were inseparable. Will, my brother, and I were a trio of chaos and scraped knees, best friends in the most innocent, uncomplicated sense. We shared packed lunches, dared each other to jump from the tallest climbing frames, and spent entire weekends building dens in our garden or his, depending on who had the better biscuits.

Will always brought bourbons. I loved bourbons.

Growing up, our triangle of friendship was the kind that made other kids jealous. Teachers would separate us in class, but somehow we always managed to pass notes across the room. When my brother got in trouble for drawing superheroes in his maths book, Will took the blame without hesitation. And when Will was teased for his eyebrows or his dramatic impressions of teachers, I was the first to march over and tell the others to back off.

We were fiercely protective of one another. It wasn't until secondary school that things started to shift.

It wasn’t dramatic there was no single moment that pulled the thread loose but I started noticing things. Like how Will would glance at me a second longer than necessary when I laughed. Or how I found myself seeking him out in a crowd, even when my brother was right next to me. We pretended not to notice. We were good at pretending, Will and I.

By Sixth Form, the edges between friendship and something more had blurred so much we could barely see the line anymore.

We lost our virginity to each other on a rainy Saturday afternoon in his bedroom, just weeks before our A-Levels. It wasn’t planned, and yet somehow, it felt inevitable. There was no awkwardness, no overthinking. Just two people who knew each other better than anyone else, trusting one another completely. We didn’t talk about feelings not properly. We framed it as practical.

"Bit of practice before uni, yeah?" he said with a smirk, though his eyes searched mine like he was hoping I’d say something else.

"Exactly," I replied, forcing a smile, pretending my heart wasn’t thrashing wildly.

We hooked up a few more times after that. Always in secret. Always with that unspoken ache hovering between us. We told ourselves it didn’t mean anything that it was just experience. But I knew I was lying to myself. And deep down, I think Will knew he was too.

Then came results day. He got into drama school. I got into Oxford. We promised to stay in touch.

But we didn’t. Will and Josh did however.

I watched him from afar on telly, in films, his name growing louder, his face on magazine covers. He watched me too, I’d later learn, when I made headlines for winning a high-profile case at twenty-seven. We were both doing well. Successful. Busy.

But we hadn’t spoken in twelve years.

Until now.

Because tomorrow, Josh is getting married, and Will Poulter is the best man. And lucky me I am the maid of honour.

I hadn’t seen him yet. He was due to arrive tonight for the rehearsal dinner. I’d already made peace with the fact that he’d probably moved on, grown up, maybe even forgotten about us. About me.

But the truth was… I hadn’t forgotten a thing.

Not his laugh. Not the way his hands had felt tangled in mine. Not the weight of everything we never said.

And tonight, all of that was about to come rushing back.

The Cotswolds estate looked like something plucked out of a fairytale or a period drama at the very least. All weathered honey-stone, climbing ivy, and enormous sash windows that let in the kind of soft light that made everything feel slightly unreal.

It had ten bedrooms, three sitting rooms, a sweeping staircase I’d nearly tripped on twice already, and grounds that went on for what felt like forever. Josh and Jenna had outdone themselves. It was tasteful, elegant, and just posh enough to make you forget you were still in England.

It was also, inconveniently, the location where I was about to see Will Poulter again.

Everyone had arrived that afternoon. I'd been in my room which was a lovely little thing with a window seat and way too many cushions. Id been unpacking when Josh knocked on the door.

“You good?” he asked, peeking his head in.

“As good as I can be when you’ve put me in a rom-com and forgotten to tell me.”

He grinned. “Oh come on, it’s not that dramatic.”

“Josh,” I said, standing with a raised brow. “Your best man is someone who I haven’t seen in over a decade, and we’ve got a head table to share all weekend. That is exactly how every rom-com starts before someone gets pushed into a fountain.”

He laughed, full-bodied and easy, like always. “Look, Will’s not even here yet. And anyway, he’s bringing his girlfriend. She’s nice. Quiet. You’ll hardly notice her.”

That made something twist unpleasantly in my stomach.

“Great,” I said. “Quiet girlfriends. Love that.”

He gave me a look. “Just be cool, alright? For me.”

I nodded, exhaling slowly. “I’m always cool.”

Josh snorted. “You once tried to throw a scone at Will because he said Keira Knightley couldn’t act.”

“That was Year Nine and it was justified.”

By the time the rehearsal dinner rolled around, the house had transformed into a warm, golden-lit dream. Fairy lights zigzagged across the main dining room’s exposed beams, candles flickered in mismatched holders, and a long wooden table had been set for thirty, covered in eucalyptus, white roses, and name cards written in Jenna’s dainty handwriting.

I was already seated when I felt it.

That presence.

The kind of shift in the room where the air pulls tight and you just know someone has arrived.

I turned my head.

There he was.

Will.

Older. Taller. Somehow even broader. His hair was longer, more controlled than it had been when we were teenagers, but his face those eyes hadn’t changed. Still so expressive. Still the kind that made you forget what you were meant to be thinking.

And then there was her. Clinging to his arm, poised, sleek, and achingly beautiful in that I-model-in-Paris-and-do-yoga-in-Bali kind of way. She looked like she smelt expensive. Probably did.

His eyes scanned the room, laughing with someone as he shrugged off his coat. And then, he saw me.

It was like time folded in on itself.

Twelve years gone in the space of a heartbeat.

His smile faltered for just a second barely noticeable unless you were watching as closely as I was. Then it was back, all charming and polite as he leaned down to greet someone else. But I’d seen it. That flicker.

That “bloody hell, it’s her” flicker.

“Don’t stare,” Josh muttered from beside me, nudging my arm with his wine glass. “You’re being obvious.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

“You are. And oh God he’s coming over. Be nice.”

I looked down at my plate and tried not to think about how many times I’d seen him without a shirt on.

When I looked up, he was right there.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low and familiar in a way that made my heart lurch. “Hi.”

“Will,” I managed, standing to give him that awkward-but-necessary hug. He smelt like cedarwood and memory.

“You look...” he started, then glanced at his girlfriend and cleared his throat. “You look great.”

“So do you,” I said, voice entirely too formal.

She smiled politely. “Hi, I’m Cinthia.”

I shook her hand. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Y/N. Josh’s twin.”

“Ohhh,” she said, tilting her head like she was piecing something together. “Will’s told me so much about you.”

Has he now?

Will shifted beside her, clearly regretting ever speaking my name.

“Good things, I hope,” I replied sweetly.

“All good,” she said, oblivious to the tension thick enough to butter toast with. “He said you were the smart one.”

That startled a laugh out of me. “Well, that checks out.”

Eventually, they moved on, greeting the rest of the table, but my mind stayed stuck watching his hand on the small of her back, the way his laugh still tilted slightly to the left.

When dinner began, I found myself placed of course directly next to him at the head table.

Josh is so dead.

“Fate or sabotage?” I muttered as I sat down.

Will smirked. “Josh?”

“Obviously.”

“Right,” he said, unfolding his napkin. “So... twelve years.”

“Twelve years,” I echoed. “You’ve done alright for yourself.”

He huffed a laugh. “I try. You’re a barrister now, yeah?”

“Top one in London, apparently.”

“Of course you are.” His eyes flicked to mine. “Always knew you’d run the world.”

Something in my chest tugged. That old softness I thought I’d outgrown.

“You always did know me too well.”

He looked down at his plate, then back at me, more serious now. “You look amazing, Y/N.”

I smiled tightly. “So does Cinthia.”

And just like that, the wall went back up.

“So,” I said, pouring myself a very full glass of wine, “actor of the year and still turns up late?”

He grinned. “Some things never change.”

Neither do you, I thought, watching the way his eyes creased at the edges when he smiled.

The dinner was as lovely as it could be, all things considered. There were toasts Josh’s friend Callum cried over dessert and laughter, and Jenna’s dad told a story about mistaking Josh for a hotel employee when they first met. I laughed at all the right moments. I clinked glasses. I didn’t look at Will unless I was absolutely sure he wasn’t looking at me.

After the meal, people spilled into the sitting rooms, lounging on velvet sofas with brandy or retreating out to the patio for air. I made my way into the library, a quiet little room tucked off the hallway. It was empty, save for a dying fire and a leather armchair too inviting to resist.

I sank into it and closed my eyes for just a moment.

“You always did escape to the quiet rooms,” came a voice from the doorway.

I opened my eyes. Will stood there, hands in his pockets, watching me.

“Old habits,” I said.

He stepped inside, slowly, shutting the door behind him.

“Didn’t think I’d get a proper chance to talk to you all night,” he said.

“I figured we’d keep it polite. Casual. Avoid the part where we awkwardly acknowledge our past in front of your girlfriend.”

He winced slightly. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence passed between us.

“You look good,” he said finally, voice soft.

“You already said that.”

“I meant it.”

I looked at him properly then, really looked at him. The same boy who once nervously asked if it was really okay that we tried again. The same boy who’d whispered “this doesn’t mean anything, right?” when we both knew it did.

“So do you,” I said, and it was the truth.

“I’ve thought about you,” he said quietly, eyes meeting mine. “More than I should’ve.”

I swallowed hard.

“Does Cinthia know that?”

His jaw clenched. “Not really.”

I stood, suddenly too aware of how close the air had gotten. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be saying it.”

He reached for me, gently, fingertips brushing mine. “Y/N”

“Don’t,” I whispered. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

I turned, walked past him, and left the room without looking back.

The quiet ache followed me down the hallway like a ghost.

And I knew then despite the years, the distance, and all the things we pretended weren’t real Will Poulter still had the power to ruin me with a single look.

And tomorrow… I’d have to watch him stand by my brother’s side. Smile for pictures. Toast the bride and groom.

While pretending my heart wasn’t splintering all over again.

There’s something cruel about how perfect the morning of your twin brother’s wedding can look while your insides feel like they’ve been spun in a washing machine overnight.

The Cotswold sky was pale blue and cloudless, the grounds misty and golden in the early sun. Birds chirped with smug optimism. Somewhere downstairs, a coffee machine hissed into life and someone probably Jenna’s cousin from Leeds laughed at something far too early for human humour.

I rolled over in bed and let out a groan into my pillow.

“Just get through the bloody day,” I muttered to myself.

But of course, it wasn’t just any day. It was Josh’s wedding. And I was Maid of Honour. And Will Poulter my childhood best mate turned teenage mistake turned heartache I’d buried in the darkest corner of my memory was Best Man.

And last night… last night he had the audacity to look at me like I was still his.

Nope. Not today, Satan.

I dressed with purpose, picking the least flattering blouse I owned (to discourage flirtation, obviously), and scraped my hair into a low, tight bun. I added barely-there makeup, then decided I still looked too approachable, so threw on my big tortoiseshell sunglasses despite the fact we were eating indoors.

By the time I made it down to breakfast, most people were already gathered in the glass conservatory that jutted out from the house like a suntrap. A long table was covered in croissants, pastries, fruit platters, bacon, scrambled eggs, little jars of jam, and a jug of what looked suspiciously like mimosas even though it was barely 9 a.m.

I could see Will the moment I entered.

Unfortunately, he saw me too.

I darted behind Josh, who was mid-mouthful and completely unaware of my crisis.

“Morning,” I said brightly, practically shoving a bread basket in front of me as a makeshift shield.

Josh raised an eyebrow. “You alright?”

“Peachy,” I said through a tight smile, then immediately busied myself with cutting a slice of sourdough that I had absolutely no intention of eating.

I could feel Will’s gaze from three seats down, burning a hole through my left cheek.

“Y/N,” came that stupidly familiar voice. “You sleep alright?”

I didn’t look up. “Like a log, thanks.”

“You left pretty quickly last night.”

“Long day. Needed a shower.”

Josh snorted. “You always were a dramatic sleeper. She once fell asleep on the kitchen floor after a law school exam.”

“Because I deserved to,” I said, eyes still locked on my toast. “And it was cool. The tile helped.”

Will chuckled, that low, warm sound that used to make my spine melt. I gritted my teeth.

“Cinthia said she was going to head into town,” he said, trying for casual. “Get her hair done. She left early this morning.”

“Mmm.” I took a large sip of coffee.

“I thought maybe you and I could...”

“Nope.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“I’ve got things to do,” I said crisply. “Jenna’s dress needs steaming. I’ve got to write a toast. And I’m supposed to help herd the flower girls later, which is about as fun as wrangling caffeinated squirrels.”

Josh laughed. “She’s not kidding. The smallest one bit someone at the engagement party.”

“Only lightly,” I added.

Will looked at me like he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or lose his mind. “Y/N…”

But I stood, grabbing a peach from the fruit bowl like it was a grenade and I needed an escape route.

“Lovely chat, boys,” I said sweetly. “See you at the ceremony.”

I was halfway out of the conservatory when I heard his chair scrape against the stone floor.

“Y/N, wait”

I stopped dead in the hallway, his footsteps quick behind me.

I spun. “What, Will? What could you possibly need to say to me now, the morning of my brother’s wedding?”

He stared at me, exasperated. “Can we just talk? Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Why?” I said, eyes flashing. “So you can tell me again that you’ve thought about me? That you’ve wondered what might have been? That you had feelings but, oops! You’re taken?”

He flinched. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “Cinthia and I aren’t. We’re not.”

“Oh, please, don’t do that thing where you pretend your relationship is suddenly ‘complicated’ now that I’m here in a blouse you probably associate with GCSE revision nights.”

He tried not to smile. Failed.

“Y/N”

“No. I can’t do this with you. Not today. You had twelve years. Twelve years to pick up a phone. To send a bloody postcard. And now you want to hash out our non-existent unfinished business before Josh says I do?”

His face softened, quiet for a moment.

“I just miss you,” he said.

And for a second, my heart stopped.

But I steeled myself.

“No, Will. You miss who I was. And that version of me doesn’t exist anymore.”

He stared at me like I’d just punched him in the chest.

I turned again, my heels clicking like gavel strikes down the hallway floor.

The ceremony was being held under a grand oak tree that had stood for over two hundred years, its limbs arched like nature’s cathedral. Rows of white chairs lined the manicured lawn in gentle symmetry, guests already seated and chatting in hushed voices, the sunlight filtered through a canopy of late spring leaves.

I stood just behind the flower girls, heart thudding as they tossed petals down the makeshift aisle, trailing giggles and chaos. I couldn’t hear them over the pounding in my ears.

From somewhere in the distance, the quartet began to play a soft, swooning instrumental version of Can’t Help Falling in Love. I stared straight ahead, willing my face into calm neutrality.

Jenna stood behind me with her father, radiant in lace, beaming with joy.

I felt like a fraud.

“All ready?” came the soft voice of the wedding coordinator.

I nodded, barely.

“One step behind the girls. Walk slow. Smile if you can.”

I stepped forward.

The guests turned. I kept my chin up, back straight, fingers curled delicately around the bouquet Jenna had picked. Pale blush roses and eucalyptus. It smelled sweet. Unfairly gentle for what I was feeling.

But the second I rounded the hedge and saw him standing beside Josh under the tree in a fitted navy suit with a pale tie I almost faltered.

Will.

God help me, Will.

He didn’t look at Jenna. Didn’t glance at the guests. Didn’t even register the petals beneath my shoes or the wind shifting the hem of my dress.

He only looked at me.

And the expression on his face was… devastating.

His eyes were wide, brows pulled ever so slightly, mouth parted like he’d been caught off guard by something holy. Like I was a memory returned to life.

Or maybe a regret.

He looked at me like he’d just realised I was the one.

That all along after school trips and shared childhood birthdays, after kisses stolen behind the sports hall, and every moment we claimed didn’t matter I’d been it.

And now it was too bloody late.

I wanted to look away. I didn’t.

Our eyes locked for what felt like a lifetime.

And I saw everything there, plain as day.

The heartbreak. The confusion. The what ifs. The silent ache of twelve years spent apart and never quite unhooking from one another.

He blinked hard, jaw tense.

I passed him slowly, heart in my throat.

And for a split second, our shoulders almost brushed.

The music swelled behind me.

I reached the front and turned to face the aisle, standing just beside the altar. I could feel him feel him, inches to my left, stiff with the weight of unsaid things.

Jenna began her walk then, the true bride of the moment, and the crowd stood to watch her come.

But not Will.

Will didn’t turn. Not right away.

His eyes lingered on me.

Just one more moment.

As if memorising the outline of me.

As if trying to figure out how he’d ever let me slip through his fingers.

Jenna’s voice rang clear and sweet through the garden, full of warmth and sincerity, speaking promises she’d carefully written and no doubt practised in front of her mirror. Her hand trembled slightly in Josh’s as she told him how he made her feel safe, how he made her laugh, how he made her believe in love.

I stood just beside her, the soft breeze tugging at my dress, my bouquet now slightly wilting in the heat, and I didn’t hear a single word.

Because Will was looking at me again.

And I couldn't stop myself from looking back.

It wasn’t subtle, either. It wasn’t a stolen glance or a shy flicker of recognition.

It was a stare.

A plea.

His blue eyes locked on mine like they had something urgent to say. Something he couldn’t hold in for another second. Not with me standing there in a fitted pale sage dress, not with the sunlight glinting off my earrings, not with the soft outline of twelve years of distance evaporating like it had never existed.

Josh was laughing now probably at some shared memory Jenna had slipped into her vows but Will didn’t smile. He didn’t blink.

He just looked at me like I was everything.

Please, his eyes said.

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening as I shook my head ever so slightly.

Not now.

He tilted his head, just a fraction. His brows furrowed. There was so much urgency in his expression it made my heart physically ache. That was the look of a man coming undone in silence. A man who’d let time and fame and fear rip the seams of something rare and real and was only just now realising what he’d lost.

Don’t do this, I warned him silently, gripping my bouquet tighter.

It’s the middle of your best mate’s wedding.

His jaw flexed. His eyes dropped briefly to the grass, as if ashamed. As if sorry. But when they lifted again, he was still there, still asking with every ounce of unspoken emotion on his face.

Was it ever really over for you?

I blinked rapidly and looked away, focusing on the lacy edge of Jenna’s veil fluttering in the breeze, my stomach twisting violently. I could feel him watching, waiting.

But I didn’t look back.

I couldn’t.

Because the moment I did, I would answer him.

And the answer was yes.

Of course it had never been over.

Not when I’d watched every film he’d ever done, even the ones I had to stream at 2 a.m. because I was working 70-hour weeks in court. Not when I heard his voice unexpectedly in an interview clip and it made my hands tremble. Not when I opened old drawers and found crumpled notes he used to pass me in Year 10, teasing me about my obsession with strawberry laces.

Not when I saw him again after twelve years and all it took was one look to turn my world upside down.

But this wasn’t the time.

And it certainly wasn’t the place.

Josh was saying his vows now steady, grounded, in love.

And still, Will watched me.

I didn’t cry when my twin married the love of his life.

But I nearly cried because Will Poulter looked at me like I was the only girl in the world… while sitting in the front row watching him was the woman he’d brought with him.

The garden had been transformed.

Fairy lights twisted through the trees and along the beams of the marquee now strung up beside the house. Long white tables dressed in eucalyptus garlands and flickering candles stretched under the soft golden canopy. Champagne flutes chimed. Laughter floated between courses. Jenna’s cousins were already a few drinks in, and Josh was mid-speech with a napkin tucked into his shirt collar like some kind of Victorian lord.

The head table ran straight down the centre like a wedding runway. I sat in my assigned seat to the right of Jenna, with Josh at the end and tried not to notice who was directly beside me.

Will.

Of course it was Will.

Cinthia, his picture-perfect girlfriend with her razor-sharp cheekbones and glossy red lipstick, sat beside him on the other side. She was chatting animatedly to someone from Jenna’s uni days, not noticing a thing. Not noticing the way Will’s body was angled toward me, or how stiff I’d gone in my chair, like one wrong move would split me down the middle.

The waiter set a plate in front of me something mushroomy and posh that I couldn’t begin to eat.

Will cleared his throat softly beside me.

I didn’t look at him.

“Y/N,” he said low, nearly a whisper, the deep timbre of his voice sending a horrible, familiar chill across my skin.

I turned slowly, met his eyes. Only his eyes.

“Don’t.”

His brows twitched, surprised.

“Not now,” I said quietly, my voice sharp but steady. “Not here. This is their day.”

He looked like I’d slapped him, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he pulled back slightly in his seat.

“I just want to”

“Will.” I turned to face him properly, just for a moment. “This is not the time. Or the place.”

He looked at me really looked at me and for once, said nothing.

Not sorry. Not ‘I know.’ Just… nothing.

I turned back toward Jenna, who was glowing as she chatted to her mum, blissfully unaware of the chaos simmering beside her.

I forced my fork through whatever was on my plate and tried to remember how to chew. Across the table, Cinthia was laughing at something. She touched Will’s arm. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t turn toward her either.

He was still facing me.

Still watching.

Still silent.

I drank half a glass of wine in three gulps and refused to meet his eyes again.

The lights dimmed.

The air inside the marquee shifted, soft and golden, as fairy lights blinked to full brightness overhead. A hush swept through the guests like they all knew this was the moment.

Jenna and Josh took to the dancefloor hand in hand, and I could see the tension in my brother's shoulders melt away the moment her arms wrapped around him. The music started a gentle, lilting classic they both loved, something about growing old together and gardens and home. People swooned. Phones lifted. Cinthia clapped softly beside Will, already filming on her phone.

I watched my brother’s grin stretch ear to ear, his head tilted against Jenna’s like he still couldn’t believe he’d got this lucky. My heart twisted with happiness for him.

Then the DJ’s voice broke in, smooth and warm:

“And now, we’d love to invite the happy couple’s parents, and the maid of honour and best man to join them on the dancefloor.”

My heart sank.

I froze for half a beat, praying someone might intervene. That the floor might open. That anything else might happen.

But Jenna turned her head with a beaming smile and beckoned me forward with a bright, excited wave.

I forced my feet to move.

Across the floor, Will was already making his way to Josh, slipping his suit jacket off and setting it on a nearby chair, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the strong curve of his forearms. His tie was slightly loose now. He looked casual, unfairly handsome, and completely unbothered on the surface but I knew better.

I stepped into the lights. Into the centre. Into the open.

Josh pulled me into a hug as I reached him, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. “You alright?”

“Of course,” I said, smiling tightly. “Perfect.”

But the moment he turned back to Jenna, Will was there.

I don’t even remember how our hands found each other but suddenly, his right hand was at my waist, and my left was resting gently on his shoulder. His touch burned through the silk of my dress like a brand.

I didn’t look at him.

I couldn’t.

“Y/N,” he said under his breath.

“Don’t.”

His fingers flexed at my waist. “Please, just look at me.”

My jaw clenched. I focused on Josh and Jenna, on the spin of her skirt, on the dim sway of the lights.

“Everyone’s watching,” I whispered.

“Let them.”

That broke me.

I looked up.

And there it was again that look.

Like he’d finally figured it out. Like twelve years of missed chances had all funnelled down into this one moment under golden lights, and he was begging for a way to undo the clock.

His blue eyes searched mine like they might still hold the answer.

I felt it. All of it. The pull. The ache. The ghost of every kiss we swore didn’t matter. Every lie we told ourselves when we said we weren’t in love.

“I’m still with her,” he said quietly, guilt curling in the edges of his voice.

“I know,” I said, softer than I meant to then I said “We can’t do this now,”

He stepped just a fraction closer. “Then when?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know.

Because I wanted him to be mine again desperately and it terrified me.

So I kept dancing.

And he kept holding on.

The song ended with a soft decrescendo and a wave of polite applause.

I stepped back the moment it was acceptable to do so, breaking away from Will’s hold like it burned. Because it did. Every inch of him, every look, every breath near me tonight had lit a match inside my chest.

Josh clapped his hand on Will’s back, thanking him for “putting up with my sister’s terrible two-step,” which earned a round of laughter.

I smiled politely.

People began trickling onto the dancefloor. The bridesmaids grabbed Prosecco and squealed as someone shouted for ABBA. Jenna’s mum was already pulling one of her younger cousins into a ridiculous waltz to Dancing Queen. Everyone relaxed. The lights shifted again party mode now.

But I couldn’t stay.

I stepped back from the group, heels crunching softly against the gravel just outside the marquee.

I didn’t make it far.

“Y/N.”

I stopped, eyes shutting tight at the sound of his voice.

“You can’t just walk away after that,” Will said quietly.

I turned to face him. He was standing just at the edge of the light, hands in his pockets, the top button of his shirt undone.

“Actually,” I said, crossing my arms, “I can. Because you’ve got a girlfriend. And I am not...I will not be the reason you mess her about.”

“I’m not messing her about,” he said, stepping closer. “I didn’t plan any of this”

“Oh, what, you accidentally fell in love with me on a wedding dancefloor?” I snapped.

He blinked. “Don’t say it like it’s not real.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “You have no right, Will.”

“I know.”

“You brought her here.”

“I know,” he repeated, more forcefully now. “I thought I’d moved on. I thought you had too. We haven’t seen each other in twelve years and I thought...” He stopped, voice cracking.

I swallowed hard. “I tried.”

Silence stretched between us.

I could hear the music shifting again, a slow track bleeding into something faster, the sound of laughter and glasses clinking in the background like static.

“You looked at me today like you’d only just seen me for the first time,” I whispered. “Like you’d forgotten what we were.”

“I never forgot,” he said. “I just buried it. Because it hurt too much to remember.”

I felt my eyes sting, but I wouldn’t let myself cry. Not now. Not in heels and mascara and the dress I’d picked to match Jenna’s colour scheme.

“I can’t do this,” I said, voice shaking. “Not while she’s in there thinking you’re hers.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t stop me when I turned.

Didn’t follow when I walked away.

But I felt it the weight of his eyes, the crackle in the air, the truth hanging between us like an unfinished sentence.

And I knew something had changed.

Not tonight. But soon.

The clinking of glasses quieted the room.

Josh stood, slightly flushed from champagne and dancing, and tapped his knife gently against his glass again just to be sure all eyes were forward.

“Alright,” he said with a grin, “you lot have already heard me waffle through my vows and butcher Ed Sheeran on the dancefloor, so it’s time we let the real speaker of the family have a go. My twin, my other half, the maid of honour Y/N.”

A cheer went up and I rose slowly, smoothing down my dress, heart hammering inside my ribs.

I glanced at Jenna, who beamed at me from across the table, her hand tucked in Josh’s.

Will was beside me. I didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

I cleared my throat and held up my cue cards slightly wrinkled from being clutched too tightly most of the day.

“Hi everyone,” I started, forcing a small smile. “If I haven’t had the chance to meet you properly yet I’m Y/N, the very lucky sister of the groom, and lifelong partner-in-crime to the man who, somehow, managed to convince a goddess like Jenna to marry him.”

The crowd laughed a warm, relaxed sound. Josh gave a little bow, which earned him a nudge from his new wife.

I took a breath and continued. “Josh and I… we’ve shared every milestone. First bike rides, first broken arms from said first bike ride” That got a cheer from our cousins. “first exams, first heartbreaks. He’s always been the first person I’ve wanted to tell good news to. And the first one I’ve turned to when everything’s gone wrong.”

I paused, blinking back the heat in my eyes.

“Seeing him today… standing there in front of all of us, looking at Jenna like she’s the answer to every question he’s ever asked; I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud in my life.”

Josh's eyes were glassy. I looked at him deliberately now, grounding myself.

“And Jenna,” I said, smiling warmly at her, “I knew you were the one for him the moment I met you. The way you look at him… the way you see all the messy, complicated, brilliant parts of him, and still love him so fiercely. Thank you. Thank you for loving my brother the way he deserves.”

She sniffled. Josh kissed her knuckles, and a few guests quietly dabbed at their eyes.

I cleared my throat. “I know it’s cliché to say, but when you grow up with someone like Josh, you set the bar high. And I used to wonder if I’d ever find someone who saw me the way he’s seen me my whole life. Who’d know all the bits of me, even the ones I try to hide, and stay.”

There was a beat.

Will stiffened beside me.

I kept my voice light, even as my heart trembled. “I still haven’t quite found it. But after watching you two today… I have hope. Real hope. That maybe one day, I will find what you two have.”

Silence.

For just a moment, it felt like the air shifted taut and fragile.

And then, movement.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him. Will.

Pushing back his chair quietly.

Standing.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a scene. He just walked.

Past the tables. Past the twinkle lights. Out into the dusk.

A few people glanced around, some whispering, but I didn’t let it stop me.

I turned back to Josh and Jenna, smile firmly in place. “To my favourite person since the day we were born. And to the person who made him even better. May you never stop being each other’s first call, last dance, and soft place to land.”

I raised my glass.

“To Josh and Jenna.”

The room echoed it back.

“To Josh and Jenna.”

And I sat down.

Even if half of me had just followed Will out that door.

Later that night the clatter of dessert forks had faded into the soft hum of music drifting from the string quartet in the far corner. Fairy lights glimmered from the wooden beams above, casting a warm, golden glow across the reception hall.

I needed a breather.

I’d stayed at the head table long enough to be polite long enough to hear the toasts and answer the sweet congratulations from extended family and friends I hadn’t seen in years. But now the soft ache in my cheeks from too many forced smiles and the tension in my shoulders from pretending I hadn’t noticed Will leaving the table begged for release.

I stood, slipped away, and found myself near the drinks table, nursing a fresh glass of champagne when a familiar voice caught me off guard.

“Y/N.”

I turned. Callum.

Callum Hart had been one of Josh’s mates since Year Seven a towering, kind-hearted type with an easy grin and the uncanny ability to charm every aunt in the room within minutes of arriving. He looked sharp tonight navy suit, pale gold tie, glass of whisky in one hand.

“Dance with me?” he asked, nodding toward the floor where couples had begun to gather beneath the low, romantic lights.

I hesitated.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Come on. We both know this is safer than you loitering by the bar pretending you’re not avoiding Will like the plague.”

My laugh cracked out before I could stop it, too tired to fake indifference.

“Alright,” I said, setting down my glass. “One dance.”

He offered his arm with a little flourish, and I took it, letting him lead me into the soft swirl of bodies on the floor.

It was easy with Callum natural. We didn’t speak much, but we didn’t have to. He spun me playfully at one point, catching me as I stumbled back laughing, the fabric of my dress rustling between us.

I let myself enjoy the moment the music, the calm. I could pretend, for just a second, that nothing else mattered.

But then I glanced over his shoulder.

And saw him.

Will.

Leaning against a pillar just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, arms crossed tight over his chest. That jaw clenched. Eyes locked not on me. On Callum.

It wasn’t subtle.

It was the kind of look that could've cracked glass.

My breath hitched for a moment, and I faltered in the rhythm. Callum noticed and looked over his shoulder.

“Ah,” he said mildly. “I see. That explains the daggers in my back.”

I rolled my eyes. “He has no right.”

“Didn’t say he did,” Callum replied, gentle. “But he’s burning holes in me all the same.”

I turned my gaze away.

But the second time I looked back not even a full minute later it wasn’t me Will was watching.

It was her.

Cinthia.

She was standing before him, eyes wide, lips moving fast as she gestured towards the dancefloor pleading, almost. She reached for his hand.

He shook his head.

Twice.

Firm.

She tried again.

He said something short and clipped. She dropped her hand, face falling.

I looked away, heart a little louder in my chest than it should’ve been.

“You alright?” Callum asked softly, giving my fingers a light squeeze.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“Liar.”

I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes.

“Come on,” I said, nodding toward the edge of the floor. “I need air.”

He didn’t press, just led me gently away.

And as we walked off the floor, I didn’t look back.

But I could still feel his eyes on me.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it had been since the wedding.

Since the speeches and the looks and the tension so thick I could’ve carved it into slices and served it for dessert.

Three weeks of silence. No messages. No missed calls. No doorstep declarations or surprise pop-ups in the office lobby. Just the still hum of my life continuing and me doing everything I could to pretend I wasn’t constantly aware of the absence of someone who’d once known every corner of me.

So when Josh texted about a “little games night” at the new house he and Jenna had just moved into, I almost said no.

But he was my twin.

And I missed him. And I missed her, too. Jenna had been lovely sending me photos of the honeymoon, tagging me in silly Instagram reels, checking in like the sister I never had.

So I agreed. Told myself I’d go, make an appearance, hug them both, maybe sneak out after two rounds of charades.

I didn’t ask who else was coming.

Which is why, when I stepped through their brand new Noth London apartment arms full with a bottle of red and a packet of posh crisps I froze.

Because I saw him.

Will.

Sat on the sofa.

Already looking straight at me like he’d been waiting for the door to open all night.

My stomach dropped.

But before I could even register how to breathe again, I heard a familiar voice at my shoulder.

“Oi,” Callum whispered, appearing from thin air and swooping to my side like a proper knight in shining armour. “I’ve got you tonight, alright?”

I turned to him, grateful beyond words. “You’re a saint.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said with a wink, taking the crisps out of my hands and nodding toward the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s get you a drink before the staring gets unbearable.”

I followed, weaving past the others already gathered in the lounge. A few new faces, a few old ones friends of Josh’s from school and some of Jenna’s uni lot. But Will was the only one who made the room feel smaller by simply being in it.

Callum poured me a glass of wine without asking, sliding it across the counter like he’d been rehearsing. “You doing alright?”

“Fine,” I said.

He just looked at me.

I sighed. “Trying to be fine.”

He nodded once, then leaned in a little. “You should know… he came here hoping you’d come too.”

I blinked. “He told you that?”

“Didn’t have to. Bloke’s been twitching every five minutes since he got here. Kept asking Josh if you RSVP’d.”

I exhaled slowly, steadying the glass in my hand.

“He’s not with her anymore, you know,” Callum added, gentler this time.

My eyes snapped to his. “Cinthia?”

He nodded.

“When?”

“Week after the wedding.”

I swallowed. The wine suddenly tasted stronger.

But before I could say anything, Jenna swooped into the kitchen, radiant as ever, arms open. “There she is! Come here!”

I let her hug me, grateful for the temporary distraction the warmth of her, the normality of it. We talked briefly about their honeymoon, the chaos of moving, the games night schedule (yes, there was one), and who’d already sneakily voted themselves Game Master (Josh, obviously).

Eventually, we were all summoned into the lounge. People grabbed seats on the sofas or the floor, some perched on the edge of the coffee table. I sat cross-legged between Callum and a girl I vaguely remembered from uni drinks.

Will sat opposite me.

Close enough that when our eyes did meet and they did, despite my best efforts; I could see every flicker of conflict on his face.

But Callum stayed close.

He nudged me with his knee every time I looked tense. Cracked jokes when Will was too quiet. Kept the attention on me in a way that felt safe but light. And I was so, so grateful for it.

Because no matter how hard I tried to ignore it… every time I looked up, Will was still watching me.

And even from across the room, I could feel the question hanging in the air between us.

Are you still mine?

We were playing a game called “Most likely to…” When it reached me, I pulled one and unfolded it with a grin.

“‘Most likely to accidentally start a cult.’” I read aloud, laughing. “Right. Be honest. Who’s got that in them?”

The room erupted with overlapping voices.

“Josh!”

“Definitely Callum.”

“CALLUM!”

“No way,” Callum said, faux-offended. “I haven’t even got a proper Twitter following.”

“You don’t need one,” I said, nudging him. “You’ve got charisma, questionable philosophies, and that weird devotion to oat milk.”

He feigned betrayal, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wow. Alright. So we’re throwing each other under the bus now?”

Josh got up quickly to get something he forgot in the kitchen.

Laughter surrounded us, but I caught the way Callum’s eyes flicked quickly, deliberately over my shoulder. Then he leaned in again, voice just for me.

“He’s on the move.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“Will.”

I didn’t even need to turn.

Because a second later, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. Will, standing slowly from the other sofa, drink in hand, eyes fixed on me like I was the only person in the room.

But before he could cross the space between us, Callum sat up straighter, blocking Will’s path without even trying. “So,” he said to me, launching into an exaggerated story, “Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally ended up in a Swiss yodelling competition?”

I choked on my wine. “You what?”

And just like that, I was laughing again even as my heart thudded like a warning drum in my chest.

Will halted, still a few steps away. I could feel him lingering, a magnetic pull I tried to ignore, but Callum didn’t give him an inch. He kept talking, gesturing, leaning in at just the right moments to make it look natural. Friendly. Effortless.

By the time Josh re-entered the room shouting about the next game and dragging people into new teams Will was still standing alone jaw clenched so tight I swore I heard it creak.

And Callum? He just shot him a polite, infuriating little nod.

I pretended not to see the exchange.

I definitely didn’t notice the way Will’s eyes narrowed.

But I knew it was coming.

And it did in the very next game.

Articulate. High energy, competitive, and basically an excuse for everyone to shout over each other.

“Right,” Josh said, dividing us into two teams. “Let’s go with girls vs boys, since it’s mostly even and yes, before anyone gets clever, we’ll rotate um Callum and Jenna to keep it fair.”

Will and Callum ended up on opposite sides.

And that’s when it happened.

Every time it was Callum’s turn to describe a word Will challenged it.

“That's not specific enough,” he muttered when Callum said “animal” for the word giraffe.

“Actually, that’s not how you pronounce that,” he corrected on another round, interrupting Callum mid-guess.

At one point, Callum looked directly at him and said, deadpan, “You alright, mate?”

Will just smiled. Tight. Icy. “Peachy.”

I stayed quiet, cheeks burning, doing everything I could not to look at either of them too long.

But the tension was radiating now. Practically humming through the floorboards. I wasn’t the only one who noticed it.

Even Jenna leaned over at one point and whispered, “Are they having a testosterone-off or is that just me?”

I laughed awkwardly and shook my head, but something had shifted.

Will wasn’t just frustrated anymore.

He was glaring. Like every time Callum made me laugh, it scraped against something raw inside him.

And I… didn’t know what to do with that.

Because suddenly, the room felt too small again. Like every second was building toward something inevitable.

And I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.

The living room slowly emptied into the kitchen and garden, the chaos of Articulate leaving everyone buzzing and in need of a break. Bottles clinked, someone put on music something low and vibey and the heavy night air drifted in through open doors.

I stood by the fireplace, sipping a fresh glass of red and trying to will my heart rate back to normal. It was like I could still feel Will’s gaze burning between my shoulder blades, even with the room half-full and no longer playing games.

Sure enough, I heard him before I saw him.

A low voice, deliberate footsteps. My stomach twisted.

“Y/N.”

I didn’t turn around yet. But Callum appeared beside me like he’d apparated, all calm and casual, drink in hand but eyes watchful. He saw Will before I did, his whole body subtly shifting in front of mine like a wall.

“You alright, mate?” Callum asked, not unkind, but with a definite undertone. “Think you lost your team the last round.”

“I need to speak to her,” Will said plainly. No bravado, no politeness. Just a statement, quiet but steady.

I stepped slightly to the side, touching Callum’s arm. “It’s okay.”

He didn’t move. Just looked at me with that soft, questioning furrow between his brows. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Promise.”

For a second, he hesitated eyes flicking between us before he sighed and gave Will one last glance that said I’m watching you, then disappeared toward the patio muttering, “I’m having a vape with Josh. Good luck.”

And then it was just us.

Will stood two paces away from me, hands in his pockets, jaw tense.

I took a breath. “You’ve been glaring at Callum like you’re planning to bury him in Jenna’s new herb garden.”

Will didn’t smile. “Can you blame me?”

“Actually, yes.”

He moved closer. “You think I wanted to bring her?”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Ex.” He said it quickly, firmly. “We broke up two days after the wedding.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “I still can’t.”

“Will…”

“No,” he said, cutting across gently. “Let me. Just this once, don’t shut me down.”

I looked up at him at that face I’d known since we were five, and yet, tonight, he looked entirely unfamiliar. Like the boy I used to sneak kisses with under the bleachers had grown into someone haunted. Someone who had been waiting twelve years to finish a conversation we never got the courage to start.

He took a step closer. I didn’t move.

“I shouldn’t have let us drift,” he said. “When we left for uni… I told myself it didn’t mean anything, what we had. I told myself it was just timing, just hormones, just… preparation.”

“It was supposed to be simple,” I said softly.

“But it never was.”

I exhaled. “You had a girlfriend. You brought her to Josh’s wedding, Will.”

“I thought I was over it. Over you.” He gave a dry laugh. “You walked down that aisle and I felt like I was eighteen again, trying to figure out how not to fall in love with my best friend’s sister.”

My heart lurched.

“You’re not saying this because of nostalgia or wine or...”

“I’m saying this because it’s true,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “I’ve messed up every relationship I’ve had because none of them were you, and it took watching you give a speech about hoping to find a love like Josh and Jenna’s to realise that I already had it once. And I let it go.”

My fingers tightened around my wine glass.

The air around us felt heavier than the storm clouds forming in the distance outside. Like the sky was holding its breath too.

He stepped even closer, voice dropping.

“I came tonight because I needed to know if you felt it too. If you still...”

“Will.”

He stopped.

My voice was barely above a whisper. “I can’t do this here. Not in Jenna and Josh’s house. Not with everyone five feet away.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“But… I’m not sending you away, either.”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“I need time,” I said. “To think. To decide if this is real or just… leftover feelings from another life.”

He gave me the softest smile I’d ever seen on him. “Take all the time you need.”

We stood there for a beat longer, the hum of conversation spilling from the kitchen, laughter floating through the cracked back door.

He didn’t try to touch me.

Didn’t try to kiss me.

But the look he gave me before turning to go said it all.

This isn’t over.

I didn’t sleep much.

Even with the wine haze and the late-night chatter, my mind wouldn’t quiet. Will’s words kept echoing through me, bouncing around my chest until they settled somewhere beneath my ribs, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

By the time morning came, grey and drizzly over London, I was sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in my hand, thumb hovering over his name.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then, I pressed call.

He answered on the second ring.

“Y/N?”

His voice was soft. Rough with sleep. He sounded surprised but not shocked. Like he’d been hoping I’d call, but didn’t quite believe I would.

“Hey,” I said, trying to swallow the nerves in my throat. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he said too quickly. “Well… yeah, but I don’t care. I’m glad it’s you.”

I smiled despite myself. “I wanted to talk. Properly.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath all night too. “Yeah. Me too.”

I curled my legs underneath me and stared out the window, the rain painting streaks on the glass. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Wherever you need to,” he said.

There was a long pause. Not awkward. Just… full.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen,” I said finally. “And I think I spent the last twelve years pretending I wasn’t. Because you were off becoming Will Poulter, and I was terrified that if I said it out loud, I’d be holding you back or embarrassing myself.”

He was silent on the other end, but I could feel him listening. Could feel the weight of every word land.

I took a breath. “And then we slept together, and it was supposed to be simple, and it never was. It was never just sex for me, Will. Even when we both pretended it was.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “It wasn’t for me either.”

“I watched you walk around that wedding weekend with someone else and it felt like being gutted,” I admitted. “And I kept telling myself I didn’t have a right to feel that way.”

“I ended things with Cinthia because I realised I’d been lying to both of us. I kept chasing versions of you in other people,” he said. “But they weren’t you.”

Another pause.

“I’m scared, Will.”

His voice softened. “Of what?”

“Of this,” I whispered. “Of getting it wrong. Of falling so hard that I forget how to land. Of you waking up one day and realising I’m not enough.”

“You’ve always been too much for me,” he said. “Too brilliant, too fierce, too you. That’s why I didn’t try before. I didn’t think I deserved you.”

My throat tightened.

He continued, “But I’m not that boy anymore. I’m not going to fumble this or run from it. If you let me in… I’ll do everything in my power to show you that you’re safe with me.”

“I don’t need perfect,” I said, quietly. “I just need honest.”

“You have it. All of it.”

I closed my eyes. Rain tapped gently against the glass like a soft metronome. My heart felt louder.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this. Let’s try.”

There was a stunned beat of silence on his end. Then, “Are you serious?”

“I’m saying yes, Will.”

He let out a quiet laugh, disbelieving and a little teary. “You’ve just made me the happiest I’ve ever been before ten in the morning.”

I laughed too, wiping my cheek.

“We’re going to mess up, you know,” I warned gently.

“I know,” he said. “But this time, I’ll be there when we do.”

And somehow, I believed him.

[breannasfluff]

i want a prompt fill (if you're still doing them). #16 with tim and jason blease

For sure still doing them, I only reblogged it like, two hours ago haha.

Tim does not cry. He definitely doesn’t cry in front of Jason. Unlike Dick or even Bruce, Jason will tease him. Yet here he is, frustrated beyond belief, and traitorous hot tears are welling at the edges of his eyes. He blinks furiously, trying to push them back. 

Jason is pacing the den while Tim taps on his laptop. He’s supposed to be decoding a message that will help down a child trafficking ring. Red Hood is planning a bust later that night. It’s important.

Tim’s place in the family is to be helpful and that includes to his favorite Robin. Sure, they got off to a rocky start, but they’ve both worked hard to get where they are today. Jason trusts Tim to help him on important cases.

Only–another error flashes on the screen. It’s not working! He grits his teeth, tapping harder like force will make a difference. He’s running out of programs to try. 

Another error.

A hot tear slides down his cheek before he can swipe it away. Maybe Jason won’t–

“Hey, Timbo, what’s going on?” Jason leaves off his pacing and sits on the sofa next to him. 

“Nothing, I’m fine. Working.” More keys clack. Error. “I’m fine!”

“Woah, hey, I didn’t say anything else.”

He needs to be useful. He needs to get this and prove Jason is right to trust him. Otherwise, next time he’ll go to Barbara and Tim’s thin thread of connection will snap. Jason really has no reason to come to the replacement Robin for anything. The rest of the family can cover what he needs. 

Another tear, and then another. He sniffs, rubbing a palm across his cheek. Tim stabs the enter key, sending another program running. Please, please, please–

Error.

With a shout he slams the laptop shut, bending over and shoving his hands against his eyes. He will not cry about this, he’s just frustrated–

“Tim.” Jason’s voice is soft. A hand, feather light, lands on his shoulder. “It’s okay to be upset. It’s okay to cry. You don’t have to do this on your own. We’re a family, yeah? Let me help.”

“I can do this!” His voice cracks on the words, coming across pathetic rather than strong.

“I know you can. But you don’t have to.” The hand on his shoulder is a little heavier, squeezing. “You aren’t alone, baby bird.”

Tim sniffles, before turning and curling against Jason’s chest. His brother says nothing about the dampness spreading on his shirt, just holds him firmly. Where Dick is an octopus, Jason is a wall. Strong, unyielding. Protective. 

“I got you,” Jason says again. 

And Tim lets a little of the weight slip away.

Prompt List

[rosanna-writer]

shaking, pacing (i just need you)

Summary: The one where Rhys gets sex-pollen'd and hulks out into his beast form. Word Count: ~2.5k Warnings: Dubious consent

@officialfeysandweek is the gift that keeps on giving <3

You can read the fic Here on AO3 or under the cut.

Halfway through Keir's latest report, talons scraped against Feyre's mind. She ignored them. It took all of her concentration to maintain a mask of bored indifference while still keeping a mental tally as her Steward listed out the expenses and costs of running the court. She needed to focus.

"With the cost of steel rising, the Darkbringer legions' annual budget—"

More scraping. Desperate this time, claws scrabbling for a chink somewhere, anywhere in the adamant shields protecting her mind.

Feyre opened the tiniest sliver in her mental walls possible, glancing down at her nails and picking at them to cover her distraction. Is everything alright, Rhys?

The moment his shields dropped, a wave of pure need slammed into her. Biting the inside of her lip before she made any embarrassing noises, Feyre crossed her legs, hating the feel of the cold stone against her bare thighs.

Trips to the Court of Nightmares had been so much more comfortable when she could spend the whole visit in Rhys's lap.

Just the mere thought of the first time they'd come here drew out a desperate moan from Rhys, the sound of it reverberating in her mind. Insatiable, even for him.

What the hell is going on?

I'm aching for you so badly.

Feyre slammed down her shields—her horny mate could wait. Especially when he knew perfectly well that she was holding court in the Hewn City.

"The price of steel has risen, but surely not by that much?" she said.

Keir's eyes widened, though Feyre couldn't say whether in panic or merely just surprise that she'd noticed. "Milady, demand increased during the war with Hybern," he said, as if she didn't already know that.

"And then dropped back down. Are the ministers working under you using outdated estimates to set the court budget?"

"If they are, I'll see to it that their incompetence is punished swiftly."

He hadn't actually answered her question. Feyre allowed herself a cold smile. "I'm more than happy to mete out any punishments myself."

Keir stammered something in response, but before Feyre could press him any further, those damned ebony talons found the crack she kept unsealed in case of emergencies. They nearly ripped their way into her mind.

This time, she let Rhysand feel the full force of her anger down the bond; if he needed release, he could take care of himself or wait an hour. She didn't need a distraction during her first solo visit to the Court of Nightmares.

Especially when the bloated budget estimates practically screamed that some bastard was embezzling from the court treasury.

Not now, Rhysand.

Please. It hurts…

He'd practically whimpered the words, and Feyre's blood ran cold. Rhys yielded to her in ways he wouldn't for anyone else in the world, but he didn't beg. Not unless something was wrong.

In her panic, she'd lost track of what Keir was saying. "Is that so?" she said, hoping he'd repeat himself enough for her to pick up the thread of conversation.

Rhys, what happened?

An image crossed the bond—Rhys's cock, painfully hard, and his fingers wrapped around the shaft. Despite the vice-like grip, he felt no relief at all as he stroked himself.

Feyre didn't see how that answered her question. And Keir was looking at her strangely. Cauldron boil and fry her.

She sat up a bit straighter, unwilling to look rattled. On another day, she would have merely apologized for rescheduling and said something vague about a urgent matter at home. But Feyre couldn't afford to appear weak. Not here in this den of vipers, where she'd once been introduced as a plaything.

There were far more eyes on her than just Keir's. Everyone in the Hewn City wanted to know if their young, newly-crowned High Lady could command a room without her mate or her Inner Circle nearby.

And, if she was honest, Feyre needed to prove it to herself, too.

A glass of wine sat next to her, and she swirled it lazily as she leaned back in the throne. "I'm not convinced by those justifications. If we're paying too much for swords, then plenty of other merchants will be eager to bleed us dry."

"Perhaps it hasn't been explained to you, milady, but if the updated budget isn't completed by—"

"Fire your clerks, complete a more thorough review, and get back to me."

Keir gaped at her like a fish, and Feyre hardly had time to enjoy it before Rhys was tugging urgently on the bond again. Her hand tightened around the stem of her wineglass.

Feyre, please. I need you.

She fought off a shudder as Rhys shared the image of his hand spreading a bead of wetness all the way down his length. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt sharp teeth biting down in frustration. The wine in her goblet began to bubble.

I'll be home soon, I promise.

Sheets tangling around tattooed knees, a sweat-slicked chest, the scent of arousal filling the air.

It feels like I'll explode if I don't bury myself inside you right this minute.

Feyre pushed a wave of soothing, star-flecked power down the bond towards him. It wasn't enough—not even close—but she couldn't storm off in a huff without creating more problems down the line.

She pretended to take a sip of wine, using magic to make a cheekful of liquid vanish instead of actually drinking any. With Rhys acting so strangely, she didn't want to run the risk of getting poisoned.

"High Lady, please reconsider. There's hardly enough time for another draft of the proposal before the deadline."

Feyre loosened her grip on her power, letting darkness fill the room. She'd barely skimmed the surface of the well she could draw from, but just that much was enough to send some of the courtiers falling to their knees.

A glimmer of wicked delight cut through the haze of lust on Rhys's end of the bond.

"You should be thanking me for the opportunity to do better," Feyre said. "I still have half a mind to flay the skin from your bones for presenting me with slapdash work."

Keir bowed his head. "A thousand pardons, milady."

Feyre stood, the heels of her shoes clicking as her feet hit the floor. By some miracle, a damp spot hadn't appeared where the panels of her dress hung around her legs. The scent of her arousal would drift out to the crowd if she stayed in the throne room much longer.

"You'd do well not to waste my time again. I'll be back when you've corrected your mistakes," she said, punctuating it with a thunderclap as she winnowed home.

She materialized directly in their bedroom in the river house. Rhys's scent and the sound of his ragged breathing filled the air, and a light sheen of sweat coated his naked body. He writhed on the bed, dark wings spread painfully wide across the duvet. One hand fisted around his cock.

Feyre's throat tightened—the sight of her mate's beautiful face twisted in pain called to mind the memory of poisoned arrows, a cave, a past brush with death. "I can call a healer, if you need," she breathed.

"I need you," he snarled. His voice had gone rough. Bestial.

As Feyre took a step towards Rhys, a tendril of inky night leaked from him, the flecks of starlight glittering as it snaked towards her. It wrapped around her wrist and yanked her roughly onto the bed. She cried out in surprise as the crown tumbled from her head and clattered to the floor.

Rhys moved with inhuman speed as he rolled her onto her back, pinning her down. Something scraped up her leg—gods, when had his fingers turned to talons?—and Feyre used a flicker of magic to make her clothes vanish before he ripped them.

His mother had made that gown. Rhys wasn't in his right mind.

Scales brushed the soft skin inside her thighs as he nudged her legs apart. Feyre let him. If she fought him in this state, they'd level half of Velaris.

She arched her back, tipping her head to the side to bare her neck. Yielding to him. "You have me," she said.

A forked tongue licked a stripe up the skin she'd just exposed. He'd once told her he could smell with his tongue as a beast—perhaps her scent soothed him.

"Rhysand," she said, reaching down the bond for him even as she spoke aloud. "You don't have to stop, but tell me what's going on. Please."

His cock slid along her clit, sending a lightning bolt of pleasure racing down her spine. Feyre gasped. Rhys growled.

He was aligning himself to thrust into her, she realized. There would be no stopping it. But at the very least, she could attempt to mitigate the damage, so she hooked a leg around his hip and winnowed them both straight to the bed in the cabin in Illyria.

Rhys didn't notice the change of scenery. He'd stopped bothering with shields—stopped bothering with thinking in words, even. Animalistic satisfaction at the feel of her wetness flooded his side of the bond.

The half-second was all she needed to summon a pillow under her hips, placing her at a better angle for taking the beast's cock. He'd gone slowly last time he'd fucked her like this, and even then, she'd had trouble walking the next day.

He wasn't going to be gentle today.

The tip of his cock pressed against her entrance, and at the first stretch, Feyre gave up reasoning with him. She pushed her way into Rhys's mind and rifled through it, looking for answers.

Flowers with ominous black petals. Elain's greenhouse. A sickly-sweet smell.

He slid into her, snapping his hips and breaking Feyre's concentration. Her hands scrabbled for purchase, for something—anything—to hold onto. Spines had erupted from his back, a line of them between his wings, and her fingers closed around one, gripping as if it were the last thing tethering her to the world.

The pace he set was nothing short of punishing, each thrust all the way to the hilt. Feyre burned all over, so full she thought he might rip her in two. She tried pressing her hips up to chase the feeling of pleasure, but he was moving too damn fast for her to keep up.

With a whimper, she buried her face in the crook of his neck. There was nothing to be done but spread her legs until her thighs ached and let her mate take what he needed from her.

Feyre let the feeling of utter fullness drift down the bond to him. It blended with the pure relief that shattered through him each time his cock sank into her. Mind-to-mind, the borders between them blurred—their thoughts, their power, their souls becoming one, mixing like paint.

Somehow, even with Rhys's cock driving mercilessly into her, Feyre decided she'd put that on a canvas.

Someone roared—Rhys perhaps, but Feyre's own throat went raw. She'd lost track of she ended and he began, and she clung to him tightly as they shattered together, all starlight then nothing but sweet darkness.

Feyre's breath was still coming in soft pants when she opened her eyes. She'd hoped that would be enough to bring Rhys back to himself, but the spines at the tip of his tail were already caressing their way up her leg.

The forked tongue licked her cheek. Softer, this time. Affectionate. It drew a surprised giggle out of her, and he purred in response.

She wasn't quite sure how long this lull would last, so Feyre wasted no time reaching into his mind again. Either too tired to talk or still unable to reinforce his shields, Rhys let her. She flipped through the memories as efficiently as she could to avoid violating is privacy any further. When she found the right one, Feyre stepped into it.

"Would you mind horribly if I took a few cuttings?" Rhys had been saying. "I'd like to gift a bouquet to Feyre when she returns from her first visit to the Court of Nightmares alone."

Elain smiled up at him from under a large, floppy sunhat. "You're welcome to anything if it's for Feyre. Just give the planters in the back of the greenhouse a wide berth. It's a new variety, and we're still looking into the effects of the pollen."

Rhys had licked his thumb and wiped a smudge of dirt off Elain's cheek as he thanked her. Elain had rolled her eyes and batted his hand away with some good-natured grumbling about never wanting a brother before turning back to the rosebush she'd been pruning.

The jet-black petals had caught Rhys's eye the second he'd stepped into the greenhouse. The perfect gift for a dark queen. And something smelled alluring, drawing him in.

He hadn't noticed the other set of bright red blooms on the shelf below until they'd already released spores into the air. And then, there was nothing to be done.

"You absolute idiot," Feyre said, pulling out of Rhys's mind. His snout nuzzled her cheek, breath warm against her skin, and Feyre flicked his nose, just as she would if he'd returned to his usual form. He purred again. "I cannot believe you—" she started to add, but another delicious stretch made her gasp.

He'd shifted his hips. Rhys's cock was still inside her, growing large again.

She'd save the lecture for after the second round, then. Or the third. If he wanted to go all night, Feyre certainly didn't mind. She reached a hand up, skimming the underside of his wing with her fingertips. His cock twitched against her walls, sending sparks dancing along her skin. Rhys's answering growl went straight to her core.

"Fuck your seed back into me," she whispered, pressing harder against the silky membrane of his wing as she caressed it again.

His growl became a roar. Feyre held on tight and opened her legs wider.

It was nearly morning by the time the last of the scales faded, the talons disappeared, and Rhys's pupils were no longer vertical slits. Too exhausted to bother fixing the mess of shredded bedding around them, Feyre and Rhys lay in the middle of it, curled around each other.

"I'm sorry for interrupting earlier," Rhys whispered. Feyre had buried her face in his shoulder, and he peppered kisses all over the parts of her cheek and nose he could reach. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"S'alright," she murmured, already drifting off. "You're not that scary."

"I am eternally grateful that you think so, my love."

Feyre hummed contentedly. She'd banded an arm across his broad chest, and she used it to pull him closer. For a moment, Rhys thought she'd finally fallen asleep; his eyes had also closed when she whispered, "Next time, I get to be the one who sniffs the pollen."

The Lord and Lady of Nightmares had never had sweeter dreams.

[familiarscars]

lost in control. ⋆ bad omens ⋆ 01

adult content ⋆ minors do NOT interact.

Briar.

Loud music, cigarette smoke, screams and applause.

That was my routine every night.

My throat vibrated with the stupid gargling I had to do as a vocal warm-up before going on stage. I always hated that crap, but after my last slip-up, I was hanging by a thread. Back in the lion’s den. And now I had to do everything right — or at least pretend. All of that while warming up my arms in front of the cracked dressing room mirror.

The mood in the band was far from friendly, but I had to swallow it because of the voices screaming my name out there. I was already used to this kind of environment, wasn’t I? Suffocating tension, silent treatments, the polar cold between members. Nothing new. My return didn’t change a damn thing around here.

But my (few) fans… the few who were still on my side.

They deserved better from me. Always.

It was for them that I was still here.

I spat the liquid into the cup and took a deep breath, touching up my lipstick like putting on armor. Adjusted the outfit on my body, my hair was decent enough. I grabbed the mic from the case on the table, fitted the in-ears.

Showtime.

“You’re on in five minutes. For the love of God, pretend on stage that you don’t want to kill each other backstage. This show is fucking important to the band!”

“No need to remind me of the obvious, Matt,” I rolled my eyes, leaving the dressing room while he followed behind me like a talking rat.

“Everyone knows, sweetheart, but you two keep forgetting that the damn contract that keeps our rent paid and our asses clean depends on your performance. And let’s be honest — it’s been garbage.” Matt Dierkes and his habit of complaining so much it made my ears throb. “Look… I know I shouldn’t be pushing you. Not today. Not like this…”

“What?” I turned to him with a cynical smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Afraid if I feel pressured, I might run off again and go dark for a few more days?”

“That’s not it…”

“I’m fine, Matt. I’m back. I’m really fine, I swear.” I pressed two fingers to my lips like sealing a promise. “I just want to do my job in peace.”

“You seem calm…”

“And I am,” I said with conviction, adjusting the in-ear and turning to move forward.

“Wait, Bri,” he called. My steps stopped abruptly, but I only turned my head, glancing over my shoulder. There he was, wearing a cap and a Lord of the Rings t-shirt, staring at me a few steps below.

“Hm?”

“Since you got here… have you seen any other band member?”

A shiver ran through me. For no apparent reason.

Why was he asking me that? What happened while I was gone?

I didn’t have time to answer. The lights went out, and the intro to the show started pulsing through the walls. I just nodded, swallowed the question stuck in my throat, and moved on, ignoring my friend’s words.

Matt planted an unwanted memory in my head at that moment. Reminded me that, before my break, the band was already a minefield about to blow — like a volcano building pressure. Everything was going terribly wrong. Our personal issues spilled out from backstage and onto the stage.

The band had never been so fragile, so porous.

I got used to not speaking to my friends. Didn’t even notice that they hadn’t welcomed me back — and honestly, I preferred it that way. I didn’t want to face anyone… not with shame eating me alive inside, even knowing they’d never point fingers.

But this isn’t about them.

Since then, the band has closed itself off more and more from the world. A few online fights, just before I left, made everyone start avoiding the public like it was some kind of monster. We became isolated islands from one another, even isolated from ourselves. And let’s be honest, being stuck with the same faces day after day would drive anyone mad.

And in the middle of all that — as if it wasn’t exhausting enough — there was him. Noah.

The fallen star on top of the Christmas tree. The epicenter of my collapse.

Disaster in human form.

If God exists, He’s the one who kept our paths from crossing today.

Idiot.

I reached the edge of the stage just as the intro began. Wrapped my arms around my own torso. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the crowd boil over — it was the comeback after four months gone, the number one topic on the internet. What would have changed? Which songs were coming back to the setlist? What was the new look? And, of course, the most important question in the universe: what’s Noah’s new hair like?

My blood was already boiling from the heat of the packed arena, everyone waiting for the night’s headliners. I hadn’t rehearsed much, but I trusted myself. I’d been doing this for almost nine years — I still knew how to hold a stage. I had to know.

Out of the corner of my vision, I saw Noah approaching. Silent. He was warming up, spinning his glove between those long fingers while fitting the mic like someone sharpening a blade. Next to him, a redhead with a backstage pass necklace. She smelled like bubblegum — and judging by the way she glued her eyes to him, she was definitely the random bitch he’d fucked last night.

Was that what Matt was trying to warn me about?

Nothing had changed.

Including, of course, his pathetic need to parade his one-night stands around like a sweaty trophy — proof of how easily he could swap bed partners like he swapped underwear. Wow, I’m so concerned.

“Looks like someone had a great night, huh?” I murmured with a sarcastic tone, muffled by a yawn. I thought he’d ignore it. “I thought Matt had already told you it’s not cool handing out backstage passes to anyone you happen to sleep with.”

“Is she talking about me?”

No, sweetheart, I’m talking about your mother.

“Shut up.” Noah snapped at the girl without even looking at her. “Didn’t know you were coming back today.”

Well, well... if it isn’t the little fox looking visibly bothered.

“Last I checked, the band isn’t called ‘Noah and the Miserables.’ I can come and go as I please.”

“Or when you’re able to stand on your own two feet… right?” he spat, venomously, then let his gaze drop until he met mine just a few inches below. “Are you at least clean today, or should I brace myself to deal with you high and annoying on my stage?”

“Missed this?” My eyebrow lifted with a grin, and he rolled his eyes. His skin flushed from pale to pink in seconds.

“Go fuck yourself.”

The bitter taste of my own words stuck in my mouth. The rage I felt for him was so raw I could’ve just thrown the mic to the ground and walked back to the dressing room. But I promised Matt. Couldn’t lose it so easily — not without making this asshole crack first.

He did it on purpose. Wanted to throw me off balance. Wanted me to feel ashamed of myself just for coming back.

“I hope, at the very least, you remember how to stay in key…” he whispered close to my ear, making my whole body go tense before walking onto the stage. “From where you’ve been, it doesn’t seem like you had much time to rehearse.”

“Even without rehearsal, I still hold pitch better than you.”

“Keep dreaming,” he growled.

I stepped onstage with a wide smile. Everyone seemed happy to see us. And even though I was dying inside, I left it all out there. Buried the fear and tried to sing like I could erase everything that had built up in my chest. Every guitar note, every chorus from my throat was an attempt to tell the truth.

I never really wanted to leave you.

To the dismay of the man beside me — who hates me with passion — my voice had never sounded so steady. But between one verse and the next, our eyes locked with such hatred it was almost tangible. Sparks flew from our irises. If the mic could beg for mercy, it would’ve.

My fingers clutched it so hard during my part it felt like it would snap.

The show was over and we were cheered by the fans before leaving the stage.

On the way to the dressing room, something touched my shoulder and spun me around immediately.

“How are you?” Folio was gentle and kept pace with me in slow steps. “I tried to find you before the show to let you know that…”

“I’m just tired, Nick…” I confirmed with a smile, and he nodded as I walked into the dressing room. “Glad you tried to tell me the big news. Congrats to your friend and his fire-haired girlfriend.”

I gave a forced smile and Folio laughed.

“If you need anything, you know you can count on me, right?”

“You talk like you haven’t wiped me from your memory these past few months…” my voice came out low, that familiar sting burning in my eyes. Ridiculous.

Folio looked around and leaned on the doorframe, with that look of someone who carries more than they let on.

“I know you. I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“Since when do you, Jolly, and Ruffilo respect that? You never cared when I asked for space… why would it be different now?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“He sent you, didn’t he?” I let out with a bitter laugh.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“Everyone was a mess, okay? You disappeared to clear your head, Noah was a zombie, and we had to hold the fort. Make up excuses, smile for interviews, pretend this time off stage was artistic, that it was for writing. Shit, that gets exhausting too, Bri.”

I stayed quiet. Was there any answer that wouldn’t make me even more of the villain in this story? Something like: oh, sorry for letting you all carry the band while me and the current bastard tore each other apart in silence. Seriously, sorry for dating him. Next time I’ll listen to my mom when she tells me not to talk to strangers — look how that turned out.

“I’m sorry.” It was all I could say.

“It’s not your fault, Bri.” He gave a half-smile and placed a hand on my shoulder, a simple gesture, but it said everything. “We missed you. I mean… I missed you.”

He laughed, and I let out a laugh too.

“I know things between you and Noah are a mess, but that doesn’t change what we have. Nothing breaks that, got it? Not the band, not the manager, not crazy fans, not your insane ex, not even your stubborn ass.”

And that was it.

It was good to be back.

And when I said “back,” I didn’t mean a physical place. It wasn’t about walls and furniture — it was about people. About my friends. That was home. They were home. And all that panic in my head, all the paranoia that they had left me behind… all of that was just noise. They loved me. As much as I loved them.

We were a pillar that, even cracked, still held together.

Folio pulled me into a tight hug and I stayed there for a few seconds, breathing in that relief.

“We’re here, Bri. We’re back.”

Yeah… we’re back.

“See you later.”

“What’s the rush, huh?” I crossed my arms, eyeing Folio from head to toe with a raised eyebrow. He was as restless as a golden retriever — just needed to wag his tail.

“Gonna… see someone…” he mumbled, glancing up at the ceiling before laughing when I patted his shoulder.

It was almost tradition for him to leave a little souvenir in every city we passed through. What could I do.

“Thought you were still with… Janine? Patriny? Patrice?” I guessed, squinting as I tried to hold back the laugh he was already letting out.

Wasn’t really a guess. I remembered. They’d all been part of his life at some point.

“Annie,” he corrected, shoving my shoulder back with a fake serious look. “You missed a lot these past months, Bri…”

I didn’t doubt it. Just one weekend away and I was already out of the loop on Nick Folio’s Latest Love Adventures™, a real-time soap opera starring himself.

“Beer tomorrow,” I pointed a finger at him. “And I want every detail — even the color of the underwear you’ve worn these months.”

“Didn’t wear many,” he replied, thoughtful, and I wrinkled my nose.

“Disgusting."

He winked, blew me a kiss in the air, and disappeared down the hallway.

The dressing room door closed behind me, and as soon as I turned around, a jolt made me lean against it, breath a little shaky. Noah was on the other side, sitting on the couch with crossed legs. His expression was far from pleasant, and before I could take a step forward, I had to calm myself down.

“Oh no… not you.” I groaned, dragging my feet to the side, still clinging to the wall. “Four months and you already forgot the rules? I don’t want you stepping a paw inside my dressing room. That’s exactly why we stay in separate places. Get out.”

He ignored me. Of course he did. He simply made himself comfortable on the couch like he owned the place.

“It’s not like I’m dying to be in this pigsty you call a dressing room.” He wrinkled his nose, scanning the mess of clothes, cosmetics, and bags. “Would your hand fall off if you were even a little bit organized?”

I rolled my eyes, exhausted by his very presence.

“What do you want?” I asked, lifting my chin with disdain.

“Your vacation’s over, and now we have things to deal with.” He hesitated. “We… we…”

Noah cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable, and leaned forward over his knees.

“We’ve been away from home for a year. I found a buyer willing to pay what I asked for… but I need your authorization.”

“You’re selling our house?”

When the sleepy body jolts awake after the heart nearly stops beating mid-sleep. We wake up sweaty and lost in a place that doesn’t feel like home, or a body that doesn’t feel like ours. Lost. Scanning the walls, counting the white ones. Can the floor even be trusted, or would it give out as soon as we stepped on it?

That’s how I felt now.

“Our house doesn’t exist anymore, Briar.” His voice cut like a razor, and I felt something tear inside. “I need the money to get another place to live.”

My shoulders collapsed. It sounded so simple coming out of his mouth.

Simple. Easy. Without hesitation.

There wasn’t a single emotion in his voice — Noah was as apathetic and stiff as a robot.

I blindly reached for a chair and sat down. That house… the house we worked so hard for. The one I always dreamed of: huge windows, two floors, a bathtub big enough to forget the world for a few minutes. I imagined that during our time apart, he was using it as a motel for his disposable flings. But he didn’t even live there anymore.

Then it hit me.

He was staying at the gum-scented bitch’s house.

“I need to think.”

“Think?” His calm evaporated in a second. “What the hell do you need to think about?”

“As you said, my vacation’s over. Now I’m back to deal with my problems. I want to make sure selling the house is the right choice… If the property belongs to both of us, you don’t get to decide alone, darling.”

His fist clenched tightly on his thigh, the tattoo on the back of his hand standing out.

“That house is still the only thing tying me to you besides the band. Just sign this shit already and stop playing games, Briar!”

The only thing?

“If you waited a year to bury the corpse, I’m sure you can wait a few more days,” I said sarcastically, provoking him. “I need to get my head straight.”

“Four months getting your head straight wasn’t enough?” He snapped sarcastically. “Normal people manage to pull themselves together while keeping the ship afloat, but of course with you it’s different. You never grow up!”

“That’s not it…” Suddenly I shrank a few inches, and my voice barely came out.

He didn’t understand.

His shadow fell over me — dense, suffocating. All the air was ripped from my lungs. He was so close there wasn’t even room to retreat. I felt my skin burn, and I hated myself for still being affected by him, by the same man who’s been ruining all my days.

“Fuck this. Today you’ve hit the limit of my patience with your games, Briar.”

I hated when he said my name like that. It sounded cold. Distant. Like I was just another one.

“I hope you’re planning to pay the bills for that house while it stays locked up because you’re still thinking.” He pulled away violently and threw a pile of envelopes onto the table.

Some with my name. Others with his.

And then he turned his back on me.

“Noah…”

He stopped, already at the door. Stood still for a second.

“How long have you been with her?”

His breath grew heavy. The answer came in silence — with the door slamming behind him and making me flinch all over.

“Delilah Hailey,” I repeated in a high-pitched tone, twirling the lollipop in my mouth like I couldn’t care less. “Model, rich family, arts degree… wow, what a thrilling résumé.”

I tossed the magazine onto the coffee table with disdain and rolled my eyes, resting my head on the arm of the couch. Naomi, my best friend, hurried to grab it again so she could keep reading out loud like she was narrating a damn fairy tale.

“She’s such a sweetheart, even visited the white swan!” Oh, give me a break. “And her family isn’t just rich, Bri… they own a castle. In Italy.”

Naomi scoffed, clearly offended, flipping the magazine around to show me the picture more clearly.

“No offense, but… just look at her.”

“She reeks of bubblegum,” I informed her.

“She’s a catch…” Naomi muttered a little too loud, only realizing her mistake when I lifted my head and gave her that classic ‘say it again, I dare you’ look. She swallowed hard. “I mean… why would someone like her even be interested in Noah?”

“I saw her backstage once,” I replied with a shrug, even though every cell inside me was boiling. “Still not sure how close they are.”

But I was going to find out.

“It’s not like this still affects you, right?” she tried, tossing the magazine onto the couch. “Come on, Briar. He’s made your life a living purgatory since the breakup. If you hadn’t disappeared these last four months, you would’ve lost your mind with all the crap they threw at you. You should be celebrating that now someone else has to deal with his hell.”

She was right.

Ever since we ended things, my life turned into a minefield of consequences. Like I was the monster who broke poor little Noah’s heart. Online, it was a daily massacre: gold digger, bitch, slut. People said I needed a real man—the kind who hits, you know? Then maybe I’d learn to appreciate Noah. Worthless, toxic, clearly daddy issues.

And that was just the mild stuff.

All of it fueled by his convenient silence. A silence that screamed. As if the absence of any defense from him was the most elegant way to stab me in the back. He let them worship him like a martyr while they threw me to the lions—and didn’t lift a finger to stop it. Like he enjoyed watching me bleed.

“He’s selling our house.” I said it with a petrified stare.

“Good.”

“Naomi.” I scolded.

“What now, Bri?” she shot back, using that tone that always tried to snap me out of it. “If that house is the only thing still tying you two together, let him sell it. Take your share and move on.”

But it wasn’t just that. The house was never the only link. We were tied through the band we built together, through the sweat we shed on every damn stage, through the friends who became family and were our whole world.

Why did it feel like nine years weighed like a lifetime on me, but to him, they were just nine disposable days?

The truth was I still felt him in every stitch sealing my scars—the same scars he, ironically, helped create.

I sniffed, trying to swallow the pain hollowing me from the inside, and downed the drink like the strong taste could numb me. The rim of the glass was slightly chipped, and the edge scratched my finger in this addictive discomfort that, with enough insistence, broke the skin.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe he was just trying to move on.

Which, once upon a time, I asked him to do.

And that’s okay… there’s nothing wrong with that. Noah didn’t love me anymore.

Our conversation was interrupted by the creak of the door opening. No knock, no warning—and only one person would be that rude.

He walked in with that same firm, untouchable posture, the one he wore hours earlier in the dressing room, like nothing ever got to him.

Noah and my best friend never got along, and it only took one cold, passing glance from him for her to stand up from the couch, clearing her throat quietly.

“Good luck,” she whispered near my ear, planting a quick kiss on my cheek before slipping out of the studio without even looking at him.

“What does the metalcore Wednesday Addams want now?” I muttered, eyes still on the liquor bottle on the coffee table.

From the sound of his breathing, he didn’t like the joke. Between the two of us, I was always the one with a sense of humor—twisted, bitter, but there. Noah, on the other hand, was stiff. If a single hair dared fall out of place, it was enough to ruin his day.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect little goth Ken.

I did it again.

“I want to know if you’ve signed the papers I gave you this morning,” he said, not missing a beat. He walked over to the couch, picked up the open magazine, and raised an eyebrow. “If you had time for gossip, I’m sure your head’s back on straight by now, right?”

“Can you believe it? Still not quite there,” I said with a tight smile. “Try again later.”

Noah took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before looking back at me. He clenched his fist, which twitched slightly, clashing with the anxious look on his face. Was he… afraid to be here?

“You can’t disappear for four months and act like everything’s the same as when you left, Briar.”

The look he gave me radiated fury, but it was cracking slowly, like a fragile glass about to shatter.

“You haven’t even asked where I was.”

My nails dug into the center of my palm. A wave of nausea crept up my gut—the kind that always came with confrontations. His eyes, once my favorite thing because they used to shine with such honest innocence, now only mirrored indifference. And rage.

Noah hated me so much he stayed six steps away like I was contagious.

That’s how I felt most of the time.

Didn’t even seem that strange anymore.

Our first encounter after I came back had been just minutes before stepping on stage. Four months gone, and he didn’t make a single call. Didn’t ask about me once.

He really wanted me to feel the sting of being abandoned and discarded. The sensation of not being special to anyone. Soluble, like cemetery dirt.

He scattered his feelings so far and wide that the hollow inside him could be felt from a distance. Every attempt to breathe felt useless—like… trying to insist on living, most of the time.

“Because I don’t give a damn where you were.”

He said it with emphasis, eyes drifting to the table, where his index finger picked at a tiny trace of white dust.

I swallowed hard, slowly rubbing one arm over the other.

“Okay,” I replied. “I can… I can explain.”

“Funny, isn’t it? Because every time I wanted an explanation for something, you didn’t want to give me one. So why should it matter now?”

“Don’t compare me not giving you the answer you wanted to me giving you no answer at all—those are different things!” I shot back, heart hammering in my throat. “Did that kind of thinking make it easier to snap your fingers and find someone else?”

Noah laughed in disbelief.

“Oh, right. Does that help you sleep at night—blaming me for everything falling apart? Do you come up with this crap during one of your little powder parties with your buddy Naomi?”

“What does Naomi have to do with anything?”

“What doesn’t she have to do with it?” he said, like it was obvious. “I don’t care where you’ve been because I can guess just by looking at the state you’re in.”

My eyes flicked down, scanning myself for a few seconds.

I had lost a bit of weight—nothing extreme—and the dark circles were mostly from not sleeping. He didn’t have much to say about how I looked…

What the hell?

Amazing how he could make me feel ridiculous with just a few words.

“Well… besides coming here to push for the house papers you owe me, I also came with a proposal.”

Pacing back and forth, gnawing on the side of my thumbnail, I stopped midway and turned to him, confused.

Noah was expressionless. He sat down on one of the navy-blue couches in the center of the studio, clasping his hands together until his knuckles turned white.

“Stop biting your nails.”

I slowly pulled my finger from my mouth, unsettled.

I used to bite my nails until the skin around them peeled from anxiety. When Noah noticed, he helped me stop—gradually. He helped me learn how to channel that nervous energy into other things.

Writing. Singing. Breathing. Thinking about things I loved.

Now, thinking about snapping his neck was a decent motivator.

“That’s what you came here to say?” I joked.

“Don’t be stupid.”

He rolled his eyes and I killed the laugh in my throat, falling quiet as a weird unease crawled down my spine and settled there, thick.

Unexplainable was the feeling that burned just beneath my skin, as intense as the way his eyes locked onto mine.

Noah kept pressing his fingers together, as if trying to draw strength from it. That blank expression—that cold face—flickered, and for a split second, he reminded me of someone I used to know…

The old Noah.

“Briar… I want to know how much you want to leave the band.”

@chey-h ; @nyriastark ; @xxkatsatwatwafflexx ;