#[burned thunder: tempest]

[itsgodepi]

First Loser | MV1

Summary: In the wake of a disastrous race, you're caught under the media's unforgiving glare. Your every move and word being dissected for days on end as you simply try to navigate your rookie year in Formula One. It is just your luck that your opponent in this fiasco is none other than the famously outspoken Max Verstappen, whose relentless jabs only add to your frustrations.  Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader Word Count: 8k Warnings: accident, anxiety, enemies to lovers Also on AO3

The air rushes into your lungs with ragged intensity, each inhale a searing burn that seems to set your chest aflame. The tight straps of the safety belt only exacerbate the struggle, constricting your breathing while your hands uselessly claw at the buckle. Muscles so unbelievably stiff that every movement make it feel like needles are digging into your skin.  

You force your eyes open, vision swimming in a blur of unrecognizable shapes and distorted shadows. Blood is surging through your veins like molten lava, pooling into a searing knot at the center of your chest. It pounds furiously against your ribs, each thunderous beat reverberating through the tempest of thoughts that swirl uncontrollably in your mind. 

You’re out. Done. Everything you worked for, everything you hoped for, slipping through your fingers like sand. 

Frustration boils over, erupting into raw, unchecked rage. You slam your foot down on the pedals with every ounce of strength you can muster, your fists pounding against the nearest surface with resounding thuds. The sounds are deafening in the confined space of the cockpit, a violent release that leaves your hands stinging and a wave of dizziness washing over you. 

A sigh slides through your lips. What are you even doing? You are too out of it. 

You slump back into the seat, your resolve crumbling as fatigue overwhelms you. The battle to keep your eyes open only intensifying the pounding in your head. What’s the point anyway? The scene before you is devastating —barriers looming over your side, a twisted wheel perched precariously on the hood of your car, and just ahead, a dark Formula One car buried in the gravel. 

That fucking Red Bull. 

Tears begin to pool in your eyes as the adrenaline that once chased the away slowly drains, leaving behind a trembling mess. It’s done. The pressure in your chest tightens with each passing second, the fabric over your cheeks dampening with disappointment. In yourself, in your choices, in everything that led you to this very moment. At least this stupid helmet shields you from the outside world, from the screams of the crowd and unattainable promises. The only thing protecting you as you break down. It was so close. 

The sound of a revving engine slices through your tears, yanking you back to the harsh reality of the moment. To your fate. Your hand instinctively grasps the wheel as the static in your ears begins to fade.  

“Are you okay?” the repeated message crackles over the radio, each time louder than the last, ringing in your ears. The race engineer’s voice is tinged with urgency, and you realize he must have been asking this since you first grazed the track limits. 

You struggle to articulate a response, your jaw muscles aching from being clenched so tightly during the crash. “Yes, I... Yeah, it’s okay” the faint voice that escapes your lips barely recognizable, even to you. Blame your laboured breath or the tears sliding non-stop down your cheeks for making you talk like you haven’t pronounced a word in months. 

The radio comes alive once again, interferences cutting into the race engineer’s words, though his relief is evident. More time than you expected must have gone by; silence is never a good sign in these situations.  

You can't quite decipher his exact message over the noise, but you push past the fog in your mind to respond “I’m alright, the car started—” 

However, your train of thought is abruptly interrupted by the sight of the other protagonist of the crash. Seeing him climbing out of the wreckage of his car, seemingly unscathed despite the severity of the collision, filling you with profound relief, momentarily silencing your racing thoughts. 

The sight of Max approaching your car pulls you further from the fog of your own distress. Your gaze locks onto him as he changes direction, his stride purposeful as he heads straight toward your car. A flutter of disbelief mingles with the tension in your chest —is he coming to check on you?

As he draws closer, the corners of your mouth curl into a small smile, a reaction you can’t suppress despite the circumstances. He must have noticed you still seated in the car, frozen, while the marshals were still nowhere to be seen. 

When he is close enough to the vehicle, you manage to stick a hand out of the halo, giving him a thumbs-up to signal that you’re okay. “I’m so sorry, guys. I tried, I promise I really tried to...” your voice trembled with raw emotion as you are back to speaking into the radio, each word laced with a mix of sadness and desperation. 

You take a moment to collect yourself, eyes closed as you breathe deeply, when suddenly, you feel your hand being slapped away. Startled, your eyes snap open, looking to where your hand was a moment ago as your crawl it close to your chest.  

You see Max looming over your seat, a hand gripping the bar of your halo while the other waves angrily through the air. You watch him, open mouthed, his angry yells muffled by both your helmet and his, making his words unrecognizable. But it is as if you knew exactly what he was saying. 

Max’s anger and the frustration of the moment collide within you, a storm of emotions that bursts out uncontrollably.

"What the fuck? It was your fault, you fucking asshole,” you yell at him with all the force you are lacking “And now you dare to come here to intimidate —!” 

The fury in your voice, the sheer anguish of what you had lost, reliving it sends a shiver down your spine. If you lift your eyes to the screen behind the journalist, you can also watch the exact moment the communications with the team were cut. That’s it, you spring from the seat, completely enraged by Max's audacity to come reprimand anything after the manoeuvre he had pulled on you, and the radio’s cable goes flying in the air by your side.  

A perfect shot. 

And finally, some privacy for one of the worst moments of your life. They had enough with the video being played on every single screen of the paddock. If only you had managed to hit that damn button again and shut off the microphone. 

You let out a sigh, gripping the steel barricade between the interviewer and you, trying to release some of the emotions still coursing through you. “It’s no one’s fault really, these things happen... I was just overwhelmed by the situation and said the intimidation thing, just completely drunk off adrenaline. Like Max probably” 

The statement might not align with your true feelings., but when hundreds of interviewers are knocking over each other to get your statement and the images are being endlessly replayed, it is what you have to say.  

This is how you justify your reaction, not only on the day of the accident in the media pen, with trembling hands and a still-thrashing heart, but also throughout the following week in Belgium. The same questions are repeated time and time again, your words are played in every medium of communication interested in Formula One and beyond, yet your response remains the same. 

A car crash like that would drive anyone to their wits’ end. 

It got easier to say after every new interview, your body finally pushing out of that shock state after the crash, the fear of jumping into the car gone after the first practice at the Spa-Francorchamps Circuit. Although you could not say the same about your state of mind, not with the constant taunting. 

Max had only given a few interviews the day of, looking the least bit apologetic but acknowledging his part in the incident and lamenting that both your races had come to a sudden end. When asked specifically about his outburst, he gave curt, regretful answers—no apology in sight, of course. Yet, later on, and probably advised by his media team, he aligned himself with your ‘drunk on adrenaline’ statement. It was a convenient alignment, indeed. 

Nonetheless, the effect of his media team’s nagging did not last long. 

“Max, the stewards have just issued the resolution for impeding Perez in Q2. The Haas will receive a three-place grid penalty. Any thoughts?” someone asks as Max is making his way out of the paddock, backpack slung over his shoulder. 

“To thirteenth?” Max wonders, sipping from his bottle with a curious look, slowing his pace so the interviewer and camera can catch up. 

“No, she’s dropped to fourteenth” the interviewer corrects, glancing at the press release on his phone and pointing the microphone back at the Dutch driver. 

Max tilts his head to the side, his lips pursed “That’s... okay, seems alright”. It’s almost inaudible, his head turning back to open the car’s door, as though it’s a simple reflection.  

You know full well it isn’t. This is not his first time being caught in a drama, and it’s clearly not his first fight. 

“That’ll make for a calm race, isn’t that right?” the journalist pokes, a smirk evident in his voice, and Max’s response is a laugh. 

He laughs. 

And, that’s it, what might seem like just another trivial reaction, in the wake of last week’s drama, turns the media storm. 

You can’t keep track of the times you are tagged in the video, the headlines it makes or the messages you privately receive about it. It’s everywhere, inescapable. All you can do is bite your lip and grimace every time the topic arises in the media pen. 

If you were being completely honest, the media frenzy had not come as much of a shock. Max Verstappen's reputation for his bluntness precedes him, and you know it firsthand since it has been directed at you quite a few times. Your history with the Dutch driver has always been a complex mix of distant acquaintances and unspoken rivalries. The latter includes his offhand remarks when you first joined the sport or the critics to your start in Bahrain, which had not been exactly pleasant but also not unexpected. 

Those digs had been easy enough to ignore; you did not care what he had to say, so the controversy died a few days later when you didn’t throw a jab back. It’s just your luck that, out of all the drivers, you had impeded his teammate's fast lap. 

Looks like it wasn’t enough having such a hard penalty thrown at you. A small error by your race engineer cost you the opportunity to climb up the grid and put you in Verstappen’s crosshairs. 

It’s all you can think about as you ride the truck during the driver’s parade, the crowd’s cheers and waves a distant blur. Their enthusiasm should have lifted your spirits, should have reminded you of the dream you were living. But instead, you find yourself retreating inward, pulling away from the others and slipping into the far corner of the truck, leaning heavily against the railing.  

A small bubble of isolation in the midst of a roaring celebration. 

A huge banner in the crowd catches your eye —a splash of color with your name and number framed with lots of glitter and hearts. You can't help but smile at the gesture, a genuine one that breaks through the storm inside you. The woman holding the sign notices your gaze and waves it enthusiastically. Her mouth moves, likely shouting words of encouragement, but the roar of the crowd drowns out her voice. 

You wave some more, grin stretching wider as you catch her excited reaction. In your moment of distraction, your shirt shifts, revealing a large bruise that snakes across your side —a nasty reminder of the crash back in Hungary. It has now become a deep mix of purple and yellow, sprawling across your ribs in a way that’s hard to ignore. 

And it doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Hey, what happened there?” Daniel’s voice cuts through, his concern evident as he leans in the railing, eyes wide with concern. 

You glance down, momentarily startled by the sight of the dark, ugly bruise. “Just from the crash last week,” you mutter, instinctively pulling the hem of your top down to hide it, but not before Daniel's concerned gaze catches it fully “It’s taking ages to heal”. 

His eyebrows furrow in alarm. “That’s not just a bruise! I didn’t know it had been that bad” His hand hovers near your side, filled with an instinct to help “‘You sure you should be racing?” 

Before you can respond, the exchange draws the attention of a couple drivers nearby. Alex and Lando wander over, their curiosity piqued by Daniel's reaction. 

Lando’s eyes narrow as he takes in the bruise. "Shit, that looks bad" his blunt remark gaining him a nudge from Alex. 

You let out a small, tired laugh “Thank you? I guess” 

Alex steps closer, peering over Lando’s shoulder with a look of genuine worry. "Did you talk to the doctors?" 

Daniel, glancing at where the bruise hides with a sympathetic frown, quietly adds “And the mechanics too...” 

“Yeah, I’m cleared, looks worse than it is. And trust me, I’m not missing this race” you state, the discomfort in your ribs and the sudden attention making you shift uncomfortably. “Got some extra padding in the seat now, though.” 

The group doesn’t push any further, only giving you tight-lipped smiles and exchanging a few glances between them, though you can tell they’re not entirely convinced. You’re relieved when the truck starts moving toward the pitlane, signalling the end of the driver’s parade and allowing you to escape the spotlight, if only for a moment. 

As you step down from the truck and head towards the garage, Verstappen suddenly falls into step beside you. You glance at him, eyebrows knitting together in confusion and irritation. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes flickering down to your side “You alright?” 

The question feels loaded, more than just concern for your physical well-being. It’s the first real acknowledgment of what happened between you two, and the tension crackles between you like static. 

You tense, your anger simmering beneath the surface. "I’m completely fine" you say, a little sharper than intended, still raw from the incident and everything that has transpired since.  

"Look, I’m sorry you got hurt.” the Red Bull driver sighs, hand coming up to scratch his cheek. “But, you know, there was nothing I could do. You left me no space and— " 

That makes you stop in your tracks, fists clenching at your sides as you spin to face him. A forced smile is plastered across your face, though your eyes are burning with frustration. You are fully aware of where you are, can feel the eyes trained on you, the people discreetly gathering by your sides but not daring to approach. You are right at the entrance of the pit lane, under the gaze of spectators in the grandstands and the guests hanging balconies over the garages. 

“Oh, so this is what it’s about?” you snap, voice laced with venomous sweetness. “You want me to say you did great, that ‘oh poor thing, I wasn’t letting you race’?” 

Verstappen’s expression hardens, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment, clearly not expecting the bite in your tone. "No, that’s not—" 

“Watch the fucking video, Max,” you interrupt his explanation, your smile still in place but your words sharp. “I was right there. You turned in like I wasn’t even racing you!” 

Max’s face reddens, his anger palpable as he tries to defend himself. “I’m not going to let you just blame me for everything,” he retorts, voice deep “You knew you couldn’t hold up and yet, you kept blocking me. You know better than that!” 

“I know better?!” you repeat incredulously “It’s you who drives like a maniac, pushing every fucking limit and expecting everyone to get out of your way!” 

“That’s not fair, and you know it." the Dutch’s eyes narrow, clearly stung by your accusation." I came to apologize, but it looks like you’re too busy playing the victim to actually have a normal conversation.” 

“Go fuck yourself, Max,” you say, the smile on your face a strained mask of anger for the cameras capturing every second of this standoff “I shouldn’t have saved your sorry ass. You came to intimidate me then, and now you’re just trying to do it again.” 

Everyone is waiting for a reaction, something they can replay and dissect for days on end. That is what they want, what Max wants, but you are decided not to give it to them. Not here, not ever. 

The word ‘intimidate’ hits Max like a punch. His eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something else—maybe hurt, maybe disbelief— but before he can respond, someone else interrupts the scene. 

Daniel saunters over with his signature grin, throwing an arm around Max’s shoulders and pulling him in like they’re just two friends hanging out before a race. The casualness of the move feels jarring against the heated tension between, but Daniel’s intentions are clear. 

“Alright, alright, let’s cool down, kids,” Daniel says, his tone playful but cutting the tension immediately. “We’ve got a race ahead, yeah?” 

There’s an undertone of urgency in Daniel’s eyes as they flick between you, practically begging you both to play along. Verstappen stiffens under Daniel’s arm, the anger still radiating off him in waves, but he doesn’t push him off. Instead, he also forces a tight-lipped smile, letting the older driver guide him towards the garage. 

Daniel looks back at you from a few meters away, his eyes full of unspoken questions. You meet his gaze and offer a slight nod, hoping he’ll understand you’ll be alright. You hope so. 

That day, Verstappen is crowned the winner of the Belgium Grand Prix, lifting his trophy amidst a blur of celebratory cheers and flashing cameras. The dominance of his Red Bull had been undeniable, easily overtaking Lewis Hamilton in just a few laps and maintaining a consistent five-second lead. It was a victory that felt almost inevitable. The superiority of the machine, and his skill, had made this race his from the start. 

“Well, sometimes you have to be smart and know when to pick up a fight” Verstappen states with a shrug during the post-race interviews, still sticky with champagne, adjusting his cap with nonchalance. His words were casual, but the undertone of superiority was clear. “Simple as that” 

Then came the voice, sharp and loud enough to turn heads in the press room: "Some people love wasting everyone’s time." 

The crowd of reporters fell into a hush. Everyone knew what that comment referred to—your battle with Max earlier in the race. Though it only took Max half a lap to pass you, the ferocity with which you defended your position had been the talk of the week. Some praised it as spirited, but most agreed it was just a roadblock for the Dutchman. 

Max could have ignored it. He could have chosen silence. But instead, he picked up the microphone again, leaned back in the chair, and added, “Yeah, clearly,” with the same detached tone, fueling the already smoldering flames of controversy. 

You weren't there to hear the smug remark firsthand, but it found you soon enough, as these things do. He doesn’t have to worry about that. 

“Oh, he said that? Really?” you muttered bitterly, your eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of frustration and disbelief. You couldn’t help the anger bubbling up. Not only had he made a snide comment, but he’d doubled down on it when a journalist baited him. He had to be joking. “Well, you know what? He should know how to fight without ending in the curb. He’s not a rookie anymore” 

And with that, the story exploded.  

The media ran with it, fuelling the narrative of a growing rivalry between you and Verstappen. Headlines, articles, social media—all of it revolved around your comment and Max’s subtle digs. The situation escalated when Red Bull’s team principal chimed in, defending Max and throwing more shade your way. His comment about "drivers needing to be aware of their surroundings" felt like another knife in the back. You couldn’t watch more than a few seconds before turning off the interview, letting the media team handle the backlash in your stead. 

At the peak of it all, as if on cue, a video is posted online, flooding every social media platform within hours. It was footage from a Grill the Grid challenge, recorded months ago, back when you were still settling into your Haas gear. You had guessed Max’s childhood photo in an instant, smiling softly as you held the picture up to the camera. 

“Max! That’s easy,” you had said, the smile lingering. “He’s always had such pretty eyes... I’ll give him that.” 

You never expected that line to make the final cut. They usually cut those videos down, especially with the newer drivers. But they ran with it —probably hoping for this exact reaction from their followers. 

Alongside it, Verstappen’s reaction to your photo also rises to the top of the searched videos. It is similar to yours, instantly guessing your name despite your hair being hidden underneath a woollen beanie, which would be the instant give away when compared to the rest of the men. Of course he recognized you, he’d been there when the photo was taken, back in the early karting days, probably messing around with his sister, Victoria, while waiting for his turn to race. 

It was one of the first few races you participated in, and although it was also one of the last ones Victoria raced in, you clicked pretty well. You might think it was a given for the only two girls in the sea of boys, but it was nice nonetheless. You often wished she had continued racing alongside you, sharing this difficult journey. Perhaps it would have been Victoria's printed photo in the stand. 

But Verstappen didn’t mention any of that. He just spends a moment longer than necessary looking at your picture, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

At the Dutch Grand Prix, the weight of the media storm becomes almost palpable. Every question during the weekend seemed to circle back to him. No matter how much you tried to redirect attention, the media kept poking, fishing for another soundbite. 

You manage to end the weekend unscathed. Verstappen had probably been advised, once again, to ignore the topic and avoid the snide comments. You are glad he is listening to them this time —not like the people in his team, but that’s another a whole different story. He has not even reacted to your remark last week, publicly that is, and kept his focus on the race all throughout the weekend. 

Well, it is easier to forget about the press when winning left and right. Even more so when he is bringing home such an important win, his home race’s trophy.  

Meanwhile, you trudged back to the Haas garage, yet another disappointing race under your belt. Your name getting comfortable hanging near the back of the grid, the sting of failure settling in. 

Emma, your PR minder, intercepted you on the way to the media pen. Her expression was strained as she handed you a tablet. “There’s a new video making the rounds” her voice cautious as she gave you the news. 

Your stomach clenches as the clip starts rolling. The shaky video captures some unseen footage from the day of the crash, probably filmed from the edge of the track. It shows you, huddled against a barrier, knees pulled tightly to your chest. Your helmet is off, and you're crying uncontrollably, shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. Marshals gather around, gently trying to lift you, but your body hangs limp, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, utterly broken. 

After several long seconds, the video cuts to your arrival at the garage, your face a mask of composure. The tears are gone, then. No trembling, no visible sign of the emotional breakout you just had. You simply walk in towards the screens of the pitwall, face blank. As if nothing had happened. 

Emma glances at you, trying to gauge your reaction.  

“So, what do we do?” your voice is slow, forced, as you blink away the tears. 

Emma’s voice drifts in and out of your mind as she tries to explain the plan for handling the press, but you can barely focus. All you want is to be done with this day—this race, this stress, this constant barrage of questions. Your mind is still reeling from the latest disastrous race, and now the video. 

“Just stick to the script, try to pivot the attention” she concludes, voice carefully neutral as she keeps a steady pace, moving you through the paddock with a hand in your back. 

“I just want to be done with this...” you whispered, your voice cracking. Your chest tightens as the video plays again in your mind, the rawness of it suffocating you. 

Emma gives you a sympathetic look, though there’s a hint of firmness in her tone. “I know. Let’s answer a couple question and we’ll be gone in no time, I promise” 

You nod absently, barely taking in her advice as you try to steady your breathing. 

The background hum of the paddock turns into a dull roar, your focus too scattered to notice it at first. It’s only when the noise grows louder—cheers and loud laughter—that you snap out of your thoughts, realizing the celebration has crept right up to you. 

You look up just in time to see a sea of dark blue pouring through the paddock. The Red Bull team, still riding the high of his victory, is coming down the main street. One of them tosses the trophy in the air with a triumphant whoop, cameras clicking wildly around them. You instinctively step aside, shrinking into yourself, hoping to stay out of sight. 

But then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, Verstappen’s locks onto yours. He takes a deep breath before he breaks away from the group, approaching you cautiously. 

“Hey,” he says, his voice tentative, unusually soft. “Can we talk for a second?” 

His approach catches you completely off guard. The last thing you need right now is this conversation —especially with him. The weight of the bad race, the stress, everything that’s gone wrong today. It’s too much. “Not now, Max,” you say, sharper than intended, trying to push past him. 

Max’s expression tightens, but he steps forward, his hand catching your arm gently but firmly, halting your escape. “Wait—just, hold on. I know things have been rough, but I wanted to check on—” 

You whip around, eyes immediately flicking from his hand on your arm to his face, complete and utter shock flashing through you before anger takes over. You see red, your pulse pounding in your ears, drowning out any attempt to understand what he’s trying to say. 

“What the hell, Max?” your voice is low but laced with fury, each word seething. “Do you really think now is the time? That this is what I need right now?” 

His grip loosens, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected your reaction, but you’re not even close to being done. 

“You’re keeping me out here again for what? So I can make a scene?” you gesture toward the photographers, already poised with their cameras trained on the two of you, eagerly awaiting the drama. Your words spill out, venomous but restrained. “To give them exactly what they’re hoping for—more shots of me losing it? Is that what you want, Max?”  

The look on his face is as if you’ve physically struck him. His mouth opens slightly, something akin to a “Sorry” slipping out of his lips. But the damage is already done.  

With a harsh breath, you yank your arm away and turn on your heel. You storm off, adrenaline surging through you, blurring the cameras, the people, the stares. Everything fades into a dull hum, swallowed by the chaos you’re desperately trying to escape. 

The media frenzy surrounding the crash had mostly died down by the time the United States Grand Prix rolled around. The headlines shifted, and the cameras no longer swarmed your every move. Maybe the world found a woman broken down and crying at the side of a track a less than interesting topic to critique. Ironically, the overexposure had granted you some much-needed breathing room. 

And in that quiet, you focused on what really mattered: the racing. 

It feels contradictory to reach the first milestone of your Formula One career on a circuit you have always despised. The Circuit of The Americas was a harsh, undulating track that challenged even the most seasoned drivers. Its aggressive turns and long straights had never been kind to you, a place where any minor mistake could leave you battling the car just to stay on track, let alone compete. The Texas heat didn’t help either, soaking into the tarmac and the air, making everything feel heavier, harder.  

Yet, despite your earlier misgivings, the track had offered you a chance to prove yourself. And this time, you seized it. 

Your car, against all odds, held up perfectly. The upgrades to the car, though minor, made it feel more responsive and alive beneath your hands. And the strategy calls had been spot-on. This time, everything clicked.  

When you crossed the finish line and scored your first points in Formula One, the emotion hit you like a wave. It was a small but monumental victory, a validation of your skill and perseverance in a place which often seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. 

The media circus, which had been a constant presence throughout the season, faded in the background. As if it had never been there. 

As you coasted back to the garage, your face locked in a smile that refused to fade, the team met you halfway, erupting into celebration. Cheers filled the air as they lifted you, waving the position board with "P10" scrawled beside your name as though you had taken a podium finish. Their joy wasn’t just about the result; it was about everything that led to that moment—your hard work, their dedication, and the culmination of a long, arduous season. 

The party continued in the garage, where the team gathered for photos and the popping of a small bottle of champagne that you were drenched in. The atmosphere was electric, filled with laughter, cheers, and a sense of collective pride. Hugs, handshakes, and nods of respect flowed not just from your own team but from drivers wandering in from their garages, their congratulations laced with a new-found respect. For you, it all was confirmation that you were here to stay. 

Amid the flurry of congratulations, you noticed Max approaching. His presence, initially unexpected, was met with mixed emotions. You had become accustomed to the tension between you, a simmering rivalry that played out both on and off the track. But today, was different. 

Max gave you a small, hesitant smile as he walked towards you. The usual competitive edge in his eyes softened. “Congratulations,” he said quietly, extending a hand. His tone sincere as a small chuckle slips off his lips “You really earned it.” 

In that moment, the weight of the day’s emotions, combined with the unexpected kindness from the rival, overwhelmed you. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as the events of the day hit you all at once. Without thinking, you step forward and wrap your arms around Max in a spontaneous hug. A gesture of relief and gratitude, expressing emotions that words couldn’t quite capture. 

Max seems taken aback by the embrace, but he returns it with a reassuring pat on your back. There’s a brief, shared moment—one filled with the weight of everything you’ve both endured this season. The conflicts, the tension... It all melts away in the hug, replaced by a silent acknowledgment of the challenges faced. It’s as if you both silently agree: whatever the future holds, you will handle it differently. You’ll treat each other better. 

With a final nod, Max turns and walks away, blending into the sea of people celebrating around you, leaving you to bask in the moment with your team. You wipe at your tears, laughter bubbling up as your team drags you back into the celebration. 

The Brazilian Grand Prix was always a spectacle of unpredictability, and this year was no different. The warm atmosphere at Interlagos crackled with anticipation and nerves, heightened by your surprising performance in qualifying. The car felt responsive, dialled in for the twists and turns of the circuit. 

This was the highest position you had achieved all season, and the weight of expectation mingled with excitement as you lined up on the grid. The lights overhead blinked to life, the engines roaring in unison and the adrenaline starting pumping though your body. 

Launching off the line, you navigated the opening corners with precision, maintaining position amidst the frenetic battles of the midfield. You kept focus, managing your tires well, everything clicking into place just enough to keep you in a high enough position. Things were finally working in your favour. 

The decision to pit early came as a calculated risk, a move to capitalize on the clear track and exploit the potential of fresh rubber. The pit crew executed flawlessly, the stop seamless in its precision. Emerging back onto the track, the new tires gripped the asphalt with renewed vigor, propelling you forward into the heart of the race. 

As expected, the field began to thin out with the inevitable cycle of pit stops not much later. With each passing lap, your focus sharpened, pushing harder to maximize the advantage. You found yourself gaining ground on the cars ahead, the gaps closing with every lap. 

A Red Bull appeared ahead, its familiar livery standing out against the asphalt. A crackle of static brought your race engineer's voice to life over the radio: "Verstappen ahead". His firm tone coupled with a tint of urgency, almost a warning. 

The Dutchman was struggling, clearly executing a different strategy while others succumbed to a change of tires. His car was losing grip with every corner, the acrid scent of burnt rubber lingering in the air as your opportunities of overtaking loomed closer and closer. 

Adrenaline surged through you as you moved forward. Max wasn’t your main rival today—he’d undoubtedly regain his pace after a pit stop, surging with a speed you couldn’t even hope to match. But you needed the few seconds you could grab on the nearly empty track. 

All you needed was patience, a clean pass, and you’d be on your way. But that’s the thing about this sport —it’s never that simple. 

You line up your move. DRS wide open, your car gaining on his down the straight. It was a textbook overtaking maneuver: inside line into the braking zone, clean, fast, and decisive. But Max, being Max, wasn’t going to let anyone by without a fight. He moved just enough to defend, squeezing you towards the inside of the track. Not illegal, but aggressive, forcing you to rethink your approach.  

You held your ground, refusing to back off, the story repeating itself –if only with a bit more space to move. 

Then comes the corner. It’s tight, both of you pushing each other to the absolute limit. For a split second, you are wheel to wheel. And just when you think you’ve made it past, it happens. A small touch, barely enough to register, but at these speeds, it was all it took. Your rear end twitches, your car snaps sideways, and before you can react, you’re spinning off the track. 

“No, no, no!” you shouted into the radio as the car careened off track and into the gravel, the engine dying and warnings flashing on the steering wheel. Race over.  

Yet again, your gaze locks on the Red Bull in the distance, but this time as it rolls out of your field of view. 

“Are you okay?” came the concerned voice from the pit wall. 

“Yeah,” you muttered, already climbing unfastening the harness, trying your best to push down the surge of frustration. Another DNF. Another race ruined. 

The walk back to the garage is a haze of exhaustion and anger. It all hit you at once. It wasn’t just the race —it was everything. The months of pressure, the crash, the constant questions, and now, this. By the time you reached your driver’s room, you could only collapse into the sofa, still in your race suit, helmet discarded. You stared blankly at the wall, reliving every second of the race over and over. Trapped in it. 

A knock on the door breaks your thoughts. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there. 

“Hey…” 

The voice is soft, almost hesitant, but unmistakable.  

You glance up through blurry vision, blinking in surprise when you confirm your suspicions. Max is standing there, awkwardly leaning in the doorway. He isn’t in his race suit anymore, dressed down in a hoodie and jeans, looking more like some random guy than the potential next world champion. Clearly, he had come after things had settled, hoping not to attract attention. 

The race must have ended already, the post-race conference too. You are glad to have finished your interviews before heading back to the garage. 

You sigh, too tired to even muster anger. “Max, it’s okay,” you say, the exhaustion seeping into your voice. “I don’t want to talk about it. You can go.” 

Max stands there for a second, as if weighing his options. You half-expect him to launch into some explanation, to try and defend what happened on track, but he doesn’t. He’s learned as much. Instead, he steps forward, quietly placing something on the table beside you —a small bag of candy. 

For a moment, you are confused, your mind too fogged to register the gesture. But suddenly, it clicks. Your mind flashes back to years ago, when you were both still clawing your way up the ranks. Max, already on his meteoric rise, and you, still fighting your way up. 

Victoria’s smile shines brightly in your memory. Her full cheeks and radiant aura would light up your day as she brought little treats to ease the tension when things went awry. It was normal, you would go toe to toe against the boys, some twice your size, both on and off the track without a care in the world.  

The competition was fierce, but so were you. 

You and Victoria would often find solace away from the prying eyes and relentless pressure, chatting about everything and nothing as you stuffed your mouth with gummies. Back then, those sweet candies were more than just a sugary distraction, they were a reminder of the warmth and encouragement that surrounded you amid the intense battle for the victory 

In those early days, Max had been more of a shadow on the periphery of your racing life. Your interactions with him were fleeting—brief greetings exchanged in the pit lane or terse words during on-track incidents. He was a quiet kid, focused on his future and nothing else. 

But as you looked at the small bag of candy on the table, a new question surfaced in your mind. Had Max noticed those sweet moments with his sister? Seen your younger self as the laughter mingled with tears over those simple, yet comforting, treats? 

As the nostalgia washed over you, a sense of empathy began to emerge. Max’s gesture, though simple, carried a depth of understanding that you hadn’t anticipated. Now, here he is, all those years later, standing in your driver’s room after a crash and offering peace though candy. 

You take a deep breath, the tension of the harsh season and the DNF felt heavy, but his silent apology softened the edges of your frustration. If only a little. 

Without uttering a word, Max gave a faint smile and quietly turned to leave.  

And for now, that is all you need. 

Months later, everything feels different, yet somehow familiar. The paddock is alive, roaring with the sounds of celebration, laughter, and the rush of an unforgettable season. The final race has come to an end and the highs and lows of the season hang in the air like the last whispers of a storm 

You find yourself moving through the chaos—staff, photographers, and fans all clamoring for a piece of the moment. Your heart swelled with pride as you saw the joy on his face, the weight of months of pressure and competition lifting as he basks in the victory. The World Champion. 

“Congrats, Lewis!” you shout, your voice barely cutting through the cacophony of cheers and fireworks exploding in the distance. He grins, pulling you into a hug. The cameras are snapping away but, for once, you don’t care. 

You step back, giving him a playful shove towards his team, watching as he disappears into the throng of engineers and mechanics. The confetti starts to fall, the air shimmering with silver and gold as fireworks burst above. Lewis collapses into his team, arms raised in victory, and it’s a scene you know will be replayed everywhere for years to come. 

The ending ceremony and final interviews come and go in a blur—everyone’s thoughts about the season, the excitement, and exhaustion all blending into one. The adrenaline is fading, leaving a strange, peaceful silence in its wake. 

Slipping away from the noise, you head back to your driver’s room. The door closes behind you, and for the first time in hours, the world is still. You peel off your race suit, changing into something more comfortable, savoring the moment of peace. Outside, the paddock slowly quiets as the celebration winds down, leaving behind only the hum of the circuit at rest. 

You decide to step out onto the pit lane one last time, onto the long shadows casted by the lights and the soft breeze that stirs the warms air of Abu Dhabi. Only a couple marshals and mechanics are still working and talking outside. The night is settling in, and you take a deep breath, taking it all in. 

That’s when you see Max. 

He’s standing near the edge of the pit lane, still in his race suit, though the top half hangs loose around his waist, leaving only the fireproofs underneath. His face is cast in a soft light, the tension of the race gone, but a lingering weight still present. He doesn’t notice you at first, his gaze somewhere far away, lost in thought. 

You hesitate, unsure if you should approach. The rivalry, the tension between you two—it’s all been part of the narrative this season. But something in the way he stands there alone, in the quiet aftermath of the race, pulls you forward. 

“Hey,” you say softly, breaking the silence. 

Max glances up, surprised to see you. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe relief? He gives a small nod. “Hey.” 

You shift awkwardly, leaning against the wall next to him. The weight of the season and everything that came with it lingers in the air. "I, uh… just wanted to say congrats," you finally manage, your voice tentative. 

Max raises an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “For what?” 

“You know," you begin, the word hanging off the tip of your tongue “How was it called?”  

“The first loser?”  

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, shut up! I meant the runner-up,” you correct, giving him a light slap on the shoulder. 

“I guess.” He shrugs, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. But there’s no sharpness in his voice this time, just a weariness. He looks out at the grandstands, his voice quieter now, the weight of the season clearly pressing on him. “Feels like the first loser to me.” 

“How could that be the first loser? I’m the first loser,” you quip, half-joking although the events of the season hang heavy on your mind “Got a couple of points and went home.” 

Max opens his mouth to correct you, but you quickly shoot him a look —one that says, see?— daring him to argue. He catches your meaning and closes his mouth again, letting out a soft sigh instead, though his eyes shows that he disagrees. 

A beat of silence passes before you speak again, quieter this time. “I know one day you’re going to win so much, you’ll get bored of it.” 

Max looks down, his expression hard to read. There’s no smirk, no witty comeback. Just a silence that stretches between you. He kicks at a pebble on the ground, then after a while, glances back up. 

“Know anything about next year?” he asks, his voice low. Despite all the rumours swirling around the paddock, no one really knows what's going to happen with the Haas lineup. Contracts hang in limbo, as do the futures of several drivers.  

"Yeah, Mick’s out…” you sigh, looking down at your feet “and I’m probably next." 

Max shakes his head almost immediately, a frown forming on his face “I don’t think so, you did well this year.” 

“Yeah, well… at the back of the grid,” you reply, the words slipping out with a bitter edge. 

He looks at you seriously “You have to know what car you have. You did more than enough this year, got your first points, even. Nobody expected that.” 

You huff out a small laugh, but there's no real joy in it. "I'm a headache, Max. You’ve all seen that. I have to know what team I'm in, they can’t risk it" you repeat his words back at him, eyebrows knitted in discomfort. 

Max goes quiet, his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him. The weight of your uncertainty seems to settle between you, an invisible burden neither of you can shake off easily. After a beat, the Red Bull driver stands upright, and silently invite you to walk back to the garages with a tilt of his head. 

“So, are you going to Lewis' party?” 

You hesitate, unsure. “I don’t know yet,” you admit. While part of you wants to go and live what could be your last moments in this bubble, another part just wants to finally hide from the noise that’s been suffocating you all season.  

You clearly have not gotten used to this, and probably won’t ever. 

Reaching the door to his garage, Max studies you for a moment as he leans on the wall, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, if you feel like it, you should come to the first loser’s party.” 

He shrugs, the faint glint in his eyes reflecting the lights of the pit lane. “Well, not everyone can be the winner.” His voice is gentler now, expecting your exasperated sigh, and he smirks “At least I’ve got pretty eyes.” 

You blink, caught off guard, a grin creeping into your face despite yourself.

“Again with the first loser?" you shake your head, Max simply shrugs “You sure know how to sell a party, Max.” 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the callback to the viral video that had stirred up so much media buzz. “Oh, please,” you say, though a smile manages to break through as you give a light shove to his shoulder “You’re such an asshole.” 

Max doesn’t flinch, his smirk growing wider. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, and in that quiet moment, the circuit seemed to fall even more silent, as though the world around you both stilled.  

And, before you could think twice about it, you whisper the words “But yeah, you sure do”. 

Author's note: this has been in my drafts for ages, didn't even have a title, just stupid to lovers so I guess that explains a lot. This idea was also supposed to be part of If I lose my mind but I just had to many things in my head. Hope you liked it, its my first time writing for Max so that's that.

Thanks a lot for reading! And, as always, any kind of interaction is greatly apreciated.

[missnarcissistsworld]

In the depths of my being, a tempest roars, Rage, an inferno that consumes and soars. A storm of emotions, turbulent and wild, Unleashing fury, an untamed child.

With fiery eyes and a heart ablaze, Rage courses through me, in myriad ways. It's the thunderous crackle in my voice, The searing passion, my soul's own choice.

A symphony of anger, notes piercing the air, Rage, a primal force that I dare not spare. It fuels my spirit, ignites my will, A burning energy I cannot still.

In the chaos of rage, I seek clarity, To rise above the fury, with integrity. To temper the flames, find balance within, And let rage be a catalyst, not just a din.

[jksian]

Rivals in flight (m) |JJk

Navigating the challenges of adjusting and studying as a commoner amidst insults from the nobility was tough, but, the struggle only intensified when the fellow dragon rider, Jeon Jungkook, who took so much pride upon his status and abilities, became a formidable enemy and the ultimate pain in your ass. What did you do then? Simple. You started fucking him.

Pairing: dragon rider!Jungkook x dragon rider!oc

Genre: forbidden love, fantasy, e2l, ewb (enemies with benefits? lmao), smut, angst (18+)

W/c: 5k+

Warning: okay so... Jungkook is a jerk in it, noble Jungkook x commoner reader= chaos!, jk called her names (love, phoenix, SLUT), school bullies, arguments and fights, Enter Namjoon!!, oral sex in a semi-public place, hair pulling, grinding, fingering, ass spanking like for twice, he eats her out in a library🫣, edging, orgasm denial, cum eating, they are kinda toxic but it'll be okay later IF I EVER MAKE IT INTO A SERIES🥹

A/n: It's finally here!! This is my first ever fic so I hope y'all will like it! I know that e2l meant to be slow burn and it will be the same if I make into a series but I'm not so sure about that:⁠,⁠-⁠) Like, do you guys want me to turn this into a series?

“Aster, ascend! Use ‘astral radiance’ on them now!” You commanded. The dragon respond with graceful flight, scattering the shadows with pulsating waves of celestial energy with his power.

Jungkook’s dragon again surged a series of shadowy entity, a relentless onslaught aimed towards you. You didn’t even had enough time to recover from the previous attack before you see a cloak of darkness approaching you.

“Screw you, Jeon Jungkook.”

As both of you resumed in a blaze of magic and motion, each command from Jungkook and you echoing through the air.

Eythor and Asterlith soared high above the arena where the game is going on, their wings slicing through the enchanted currents with a thunderous flap.

You guided Asterlith through a series of evasive spins and turns, “Defend! Unleash bursts of celestial energy to dispel the shadows!” That burst of energy created a celestial barrier, disrupting the shadowy figure.

The sky became a canvas for elemental clash. Shadows and celestial radiance intertwined, creating a mesmerizing dance that captivated the onlookers in the grandstand.

You heard Jungkook’s voice, a command filled with determination as the word ‘attack’ reverberates through the arena. Soon, you see a shadowy tempest raising above the ground, big enough to engulf the whole arena in its darkness. The intensity of it makes you a bit wary.

You, however, remained steadfast, “Aster, illuminate the sky and repel the encroaching shadows.”

You can hear the heavy breath from your dragon, as he tries his best remain solid in the fight. He had already used so much of his power that its getting harder for him to continue using constellations energy.

You rubs his neck, tried to calm his nerves and encouraged him, “I know you’re tired, baby, but please just a little more. Could you do that for me?”

You ask softly as he nodded at you. He gathered as much as energy as he can, his celestial radiance intensified, pushing back against the looming darkness.

The crowd below watched with bated breath as the clash of flight and attack unfolded.

The Dragon Duel had reached a crescendo, the clash of shadows and celestial radiance weaving a mesmerizing tapestry in the skies above Syndril. However, as the intensity of the battle grew, an unseen force intervened.

The authorities of the Wings academy, recognizing the escalating magical energies and potential consequences, decided to halt the duel for the safety of all involved.

“Cease the duel, right away!”

A resounding voice echoed through the arena, as you and Jungkook momentarily caught in the ebb and flow of the magical currents, reluctantly reined in your dragons, their energies already subdued but still resonating with the remnants of the fierce battle.

“This clash of powers has reached a level of intensity that poses a threat to the safety of the participants and spectators, so we have to dismiss the game at this very moment.” As the principal of your academy announced.

As the authorities assessed the situation, a magical barrier shimmered into existence, enveloping the arena. It served not only to contain the remnants of the magical energies but also to signal the temporary halt of the sports day.

Jungkook and you, both atop your respective dragons, when you shared a glance with him, you clearly saw a mixture of frustration and anger in it. You shrug it off as you saw a representative of the authorities stepped forward, addressing the dragon riders and the assembled audience.

“The Dragon Duel shall be temporarily suspended. We will assess the situation, ensuring the safety of all involved. Further instructions will be provided once we are confident in resuming the event.”

In the ethereal expanse of Syndril, where dragons painted the skies with hues of mystique, the art of dragon riding was a privilege bestowed upon the chosen few, a regal tapestry woven for the noble and royal alike. The intertwining destinies of rider and dragon transcended mere power, forming a sacred covenant that echoed through the ages.

In the middle of Syndril’s heart, there stood a grand place called the ‘Dragon Keep’, a living testament to the ancient bond shared between the realm’s sovereigns and the winged custodians that adorned the heavens.

Throughout the annals of history, dragons have been formidable companions on the battlefield, their majestic forms serving as both a symbol of power and a devastating force. Since ancient times, these mythical creatures have been harnessed as instruments of war, their scales reflecting the glint of conquest and their breath embodying the fire of conflict.

But, as the time goes, dragons become companion and more of a friends to the humans as the bond between two becomes more strong.

In Syndril, the training of dragons was a vital necessity rooted in the intricate balance of power, protection, and tradition. But, only the nobles were allowed to have a companion such as mystical creature.

To provide such directions and train the dragon in a proper manner, the ancient of this land made a dragon rider academy named ‘wings academy’, where people from royal blood and noble families can train and study with their dragons.

There are few reputed dragon houses in the kingdom, famous for their Excelled skills and magnificent magic, from the ancient, these are the elite houses which has been serving this kingdom from ages.

Each of this houses carries unique abilities and distinct attributes that contributed to the kingdom’s intricate tapestry.

The first one is Eythor from the house Shadowthrone, famous for its mastery over shadows and illusions, possessed a unique and elusive power. Its ability to manipulate darkness and create intricate illusions made it a formidable force in both stealth and strategic deception. Ruled by the Jeons, highest member of the royal council. It is rumored that the only people who build this entire Kingdom and found out about it was, The Vilothorn’s and Jeon’s.

Next one is known as the house of stoneheart, famous for possessing the power of earthquake and stone manipulation, ruled by Kim’s.

The house of inferno is famous for harnessing the power of heat manipulation. There ability has become a relentless force of searing destruction on the battlefield, ruled by Park’s.

In contrast to the previous house, the house of Frostland is famous for its capability to freeze opponents with its breath and control ice in various forms, ruled by Min’s.

The house of Skydancers ruled by Jung’s, has the ability to dominate the skies with its mastery over air manipulation and flight agility.

And, once-extinct dragon, has been reborn again, now found by a commoner girl. Asterlith’s wings were said to carry the very essence of celestial realms, now under the care of you. A creature emerged with scales that radiated with the brilliance of a thousand constellations became a living testament to the resurgence of magic and the rekindling of ancient bonds between dragon kind and those destined to ride upon their majestic backs, and now, you become one of them.

A commoner in the academy where she will study alongside other aristocrats were something not acceptable. ‘only the noble are allowed to ride a dragon’ was like a tradition which now has been broken by you.

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, Wings academy has been a fortress of nobility for centuries. This departure from tradition may disrupt the delicate balance that has safeguarded our realm.” Lord Liam voiced his concern in front of the gathered noble in the chambers of Syndril’s royal court.

Lord Jeon, the most trusted component of king Leo and an expert diplomat interjected, “Yet, Your Majesty, the magic that binds ___ and Asterlith is undeniably potent, not to mention that she is the chosen one by Asterlith himself. Are we to dismiss the weaving of destiny itself?”

Conflicting ideologies echoed through the walls of the royal court as each person tried to justify their opinion. Some nobles, entrenched in their adherence to tradition, cast disapproving glances, while others, inspired by the possibility of a new era, nodded in silent approval.

A decision was reached—a groundbreaking one that defied the norms of Syndril. King Leo then announced that everyone must accept this new norm and welcome you into the, once only for the nobles, Wings academy. You, the common girl, would be permitted to study at the Royal Dragon Rider School alongside the nobility was the new rule passed through out the kingdom.

But, you weren’t warmly welcomed by the other students at the school neither.

You found yourself facing the cold glares and condescending whispers of those who clung tightly to the rigid norms of Syndril. The nobility, accustomed to a lineage that stretched across generations, viewed your presence as a disruption to their established order.

Despite that, you continue your training regardless. At least, those insults weren’t as unbearable as Jeon Jungkook.

The second son of Jeon house, Jungkook, a formidable presence in the mystic realm of Syndril’s, is an embodiment of unparalleled power and prowess.

Jungkook’s physical prowess is akin to a tempest, an unstoppable force that commands attention.

His martial skills, honed through rigorous training, transform him into a living weapon.

His strategic acumen, a calculated dance of intellect and intuition, adds a layer of sophistication to his formidable persona.

Not only talented but, Jungkook is a magnetic paradox himself, a living canvas painted with ink and adorned with piercings that echo the rhythm of rebellion.

His onyx locks, a rebellious dance against tradition, frame a countenance that carries the weight of both legacy and defiance.

With a set of piercing eyes, a deep brown that reflects both determination and a hint of arrogance, Jungkook’s gaze is both intense and captivating. His brow piercings increases the intensity of his gaze even more.

Upon his strong arms, a tapestry of tattoos unfolds, each design a narrative etched in ink- The motifs, stark against his fair skin, trace the contours of muscles that hint at a strength not easily contained.

Beneath the hardened exterior, however, lingers the paradox of a “baby-faced” warrior. Jungkook’s soft features, though sculpted by the passage of time and the rigors of dragon rider training, retain a youthful charm that defies the graveness of his responsibilities.

Here, Jungkook writes a story of contrasts, where tradition and rebellion dance together in a spellbinding harmony.

Yet, him being loved by almost the whole population of the kingdom, you found yourself loathing him.

The animosity that grew between you two, emerged from a combination of conflicting backgrounds, divergent ideologies, and a clash of personalities.

Jungkook carried the weight of familial expectations and traditions. His reserved demeanor and arrogant nature often set him apart, earning him both respect and an air of intimidation.

You, on the other hand, hailed from more humble origins, your ascent to the esteemed academy marked by determination and an unyielding spirit.

You both fought for recognition in the academy, often led to arguments marked by sharpe words, competitive duels, palpable tension and mutual hatred for each other.

The hatred grew over the years as well as the thick sexual tension between you two. The irresistible attraction you both feel towards each other is unexplainable but not-so-hidden either.

The aftermath of the halted Dragon Duel left the arena in an eerie silence, the tension was thick in the air.

As, all the students got dismissed by the school authorities, everyone stared entering the school and going back to their respective dorms.

You were walking alone as usual towards your dorm when you heard a very familiar and annoying voice of the male you hate so much, “This intervention was unnecessary. We could have settled it ourselves.”

Jungkook, his usually reserved demeanor now tinged with visible annoyance, broke the silence at last. His voice reverberates through out the hollowed hallway, making everyone pause in their movements.

You, equally agitated, responded sharply, “Your arrogance is truly astounding, Jungkook. The authorities stepped in to prevent a catastrophe, something you seem oblivious to.”

The venom In your voice evident and not much hidden from anyone present there. People gathered around you, saw the argument unfolding in front of them.

Jungkook’s patience worn thin, he retorted, “You act as if you know everything. This clash was an inevitable part of our training. We can’t shield ourselves from every challenge!”

He was being absurd with whatever statement he was stating. His pride was taking a toll on his thinking ability clearly.

You were beyond annoyed with his obliviousness when you shot back, “Training, yes. But, not at the risk of endangering everyone around us. Your recklessness is a danger, and it reflects poorly on House Shadowthrone.”

You heard a few gasps around you, people were surprising with your choice of words. You saw their eyes gone wide upon hearing you pulling house shadowthrone into this argument.

Jungkook was enraged, if he wasn’t a human but a dragon, he should have breathed fire and burned you to the ashes once and for all.

He snapped back, “You act as If your celestial ideals make you infallible. This interruption only proves your inability to handle the challenges and run away from them. I chose the perfect name for you, didn’t I? Phoenix? Rise from the ashes without any ability and prowess–,” he stepped a bit closer to you, burning holes into your face with his Sharpe eyes as he said, “You belong to the slums and should stay there.”

His insulting words pierced through your heart and ignites a intense rage which you were unable to handle, “I’m not afraid of challenges, Jeon Jungkook from the house of Shadowthrone.” You said mockingly, “I just refuse to let arrogance and recklessness guide my actions unlike you. We must be responsible for the consequences of our powers.”

Soon, the onlookers, divided by loyalties, began to interject with verbal insults and jeers. A supporter of Jungkook, emboldened by the mounting tension, shouted, “Jungkook’s strength lies in action, not in empty words and celestial theatrics. Your ideals won’t protect us when the real challenges come.”

People found amusement in them as they begun to laugh at you. You were standing alone there, with no one by your side but yourself, helpless but still defending yourself.

You countered with determination, "Strength without responsibility is a liability, not an asset. We need more than brute force to navigate the complexities of our calling."

You heard a ‘tsk’ from Jungkook as he kept on glaring at you. The voices in favor of Jungkook gained momentum, echoing sentiments of tradition and House Stonethrone storied legacy.

You saw Ivy Drakaron, one of the nobles who happened to be your fellow classmate, smirking at your direction and quite enjoying you being insulted in front of thousands of people, whispering provocative remarks to those around her and laughing along with it.

“Your supposed ‘responsibility’ is nothing but an excuse for your lack of prowess. Syndril needs dragon riders who can face challenges head-on, not ones who cower behind ideals.” Jungkook spits venom from his mouth at you, and this time, it was enough for him to break your hard exterior which you were maintaining carefully and brought tears to your eyes.

With glossy eyes, you glare at his direction and this time, he looked quite surprised and speechless.

Kim Namjoon, senior of yours, belongs to the house of Stoneheart attempted to mediate, stepped forward, “Calm down, both of you, Jungkook and ____. Our unity is paramount, and personal disputes must not undermine the cohesion of Syndril’s dragon riders.”

He had always been the mediator whenever you two started quarrelling in the middle of nowhere. Being the president of the student community, he had all the abilities to be the perfect leader, still, you both made him afraid with your intense fights, so much so that he became tired. He referred himself to an old man because, according to him, he will soon become bald, if he had to continue taking care of you two anymore.

You thought, he might stop with his hateful remarks after seeing your cracked demeanor, it was clear that you were hurt but he didn’t stopped. Jungkook, unwilling to yield, shot a disdainful look at you, "Unity does not mean blind conformity. Your idealistic notions jeopardize the very essence of our training."

“And your recklessness jeopardizes lives. I won’t compromise the safety of our dragon rider community for the sake of your misguided ideals.”

Before the tears descended from your gaze, you departed, no longer willing to endure the ceaseless barrage of disparagement.

You were alone in the library at night, when you sensed an elusive presence that stirred the tranquil air.

It wasn't that the library was open at night, you often snuck in there from a secret path, finding the atmosphere of the silently library amusing, it became one of your nightly endeavours.

The muted glow of lanterns cast intricate shadows on the ancient bookshelves, creating an ambiance that heightened your awareness.

As you delicately turned the pages of an age-worn tome, the subtle rustle of paper seemed to echo louder in the stillness… An inexplicable awareness tingled at the nape of your neck, compelling you to glance over your shoulder.

Despite the initial surprise after seeing the figure that stepped into the pool of dim light, you decided to mask any reaction, adopting an air of nonchalance.

Because, you knew who it was.

You continued your perusal of the ancient tome, deliberately chose to ignore his presence.

Jungkook, sensing the deliberate indifference, cleared his throat as he leaned on the table in front of him.

You just gave a quick glance at his direction before continue your reading. You saw Jungkook’s eyes aglow with the flickering candlelight, he looked…handsome. You might fall in love if it weren’t for his arrogant nature.

“Seems like you’re quite fond of conversing with seniors. Is that how commoners like to elevate their status?”

There he goes again. Why can’t he keep his mouth shut?

Wait…why he is asking that?

It’s nothing like you both share a loving relationship, far from that. You both hated each other but despite the hatred, the burning desire and the tentative lust for each other was unexplainable.

The magnetic pull that neither of you could deny, at last gave in.

The first time he fucked you was the time, when you came in the second position of your test.

The rule was simple. The winner must take the lead.

It was quite exquisite seeing Jeon Jungkook squirming under your touch when you tied him up and kept him on the edge until he was begging underneath you, because he lost to you in a game of chess.

It was only this ‘physical’ relationship between you two besides the rivalry. So, why he sounded… jealous?

Nonetheless, you were quite enjoying it when you donned a smirk in response to Jungkook’s probing gaze. “Oh, didn’t realize my choice of conversation partners was under such intense scrutiny –,”

You moved towards the bookshelf beside Jungkook to grab an another ancient tome as you continued, “Namjoon? Just discussing the intricacies of life, you know, the stuff that doesn’t make it into noble conversations.” your words, laced with sarcasm, floated through the library.

You did had a conversation with Namjoon earlier, about the incident that happened before. He was worried about you. So, it was a normal decent conversation.

“ –also he was worried about my wellbeing.” You said as your fingers idly tracing the spines of the books. The calmness in your tone unwittingly added fuel to the simmering fire.

Jungkook’s jaw tenses, he retorted, “Seems like you’re building quite the support system among the nobles, ____.”

His constant insults only proves your theory further more, “It’s called having friends, Jeon Jungkook. Maybe you should try it sometime.” You subtly threw a smirk at his way before minding your own business.

This time, when you tried to move away from the spot you were standing, you felt a strong arm pulling you backwards.

“What friendship, ____? Where you fuck them?” His face was closer to yours, his warm breath hitting your face. You looked up at him and saw a intensity in his eyes you’ve never seen before.

“Why do you care? Huh?” You stood firm on your toes, “That’s .None. Of. Your. Business!”

“It is. Because, I’m the only one who fucks you.”

He clenched his jaw, a subtle tension lingered in the air. You didn’t knew why he was acting the way he was acting, so you tried to push your body away from him.

It wasn't like it’s any of his business. You can have any kind of relationship with anyone, he was no one who could tell you otherwise. His oddly possessive behavior made you irritated further more.

“J- Jungkook –,” You tried to pull your hand out of his grip and pushed him back. Your hand was on his chest, you felt his muscles tenses under your touch, “–let go of my hand.”

Instead of doing that, he pushed your back onto the table beside you, caging your hands behind your back as your butt hit the edge of the table.

He didn’t said anything, just looked at your eyes with the same intensity and something your couldn’t decipher.

“Let me go!” You whisper-shouted at him.

“Kiss me and I will.”

You eyes widened at his words as you saw a devilish smirk on his face. He was clearly messing up with you. You pushed against him again, but he settled his one leg in between your thighs, further confining you in that position.

“Fuck off!” You retorted, annoyance etching your words.

In response, he countered with a smoldering gaze, “I shall if you ask nicely.”

His face more closer to yours, lips brushing against each other and the leg between your thighs slightly grind against your throbbing cunt, making you whimper in the process.

You didn’t held back yourself anymore as you smacked your lips on his.

As your lips collided, an intricate ballet of conflicting emotions played out. You sucked on his lips harder, so much so that it might leave brushes behind but he didn’t restricted you.

You heard him growl under his breath when you latched on his lower lip and pulled it down with your teeth.

You knew it was wrong, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was like you were hypnotized.

“I hate you.” You said in-between the kiss and he instantly responded, “The feelings are mutual.”

The intensity of the kiss grew even more when he grabbed your one leg, wrapping it around his waist. You could feel his boner right against you.

You grind on it, eliciting a hiss from him, moaning when you feel him growing harder underneath those clothes.

He deepened the kiss further, pushing further into your body. His hands comes down to your butt as he squeezes it.

Both of your tongue moved in a symphony, making you weak on your knees.

Then you did something. You grabbed his long locks in attempt to push in your tongue inside of his mouth but, in return, you received a harsh slap on your ass, along with a bite on your lower lip.

“Don’t even try, love.”

The moan that escaped from your mouth should be illegal, because the way Jungkook’s cock twitched and jumped in respond to that made him moan into your mouth.

You feel a gush of arousal approaching just from the name he called you. You knew he called you that mockingly but the things it does to you…it would rather be better if no one knows about that.

Pulling your head backwards by your hair, he started kissing your neck , leaving trails of colorful masterpieces on his way.

A reminder for you about your secret, which no one knows but you, the walls of these library and the man sucking your tits.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking wet.” The sounds you were making, was obscene. He twirls his tongue around your hardened bud, harshly sucking on it. Two of his fingers makes its way towards your throbbing pussy.

“You aren’t wearing any panties?” You didn’t understand why he was in disbelief. It’s night time, so, wasn't it obvious?

“Yes, because I was going to bed, you stupi–,” you gasped when he suddenly pushed his one finger inside, making you clench around it.

“Watch your mouth, love, or I might shut you up with something else.”

That jerk!

Before you could threw some insulting remarks towards him, he turned you around abruptly and made you spread your leg wide. You found support on the table in front of you, as you gripped on the edges of it for some support.

He pulled your nightgown all the way up to your waist. You couldn’t saw him in the dim light, but you felt the heat of his burning desire.

The library's dim light cast shadows that played upon the canvas of your unspoken desires.

You felt his fingers on your thighs as they tentatively draw patterns on your smooth skin, as he kissed your inner thighs, making you shut your eyes from the overwhelming sensations.

When you did looked back, you saw Jungkook on his knees as he fondle your ass feverously, his intense gaze focused on your soaking pussy.

“Wandering around like this? You are a little slut, aren’t you?” You mewl when he placed a kiss on your clit, so soft that you just felt the ghost of his lips but it was enough for you to threw your head back.

Without a warning, he started sucking you clit, twirling his tongue all over your cunt as if he just found his favorite desert.

“My little slut, only mine. Right, love?”

He was settled in between you thighs, both your legs on his shoulder.

When you look down on him, he was smirking at you while devouring your pussy like a starve man.

The subtle eye contact ignited something in you, he made you feel things you shouldn’t felt. The forbidden sense of this makes it more appealing as you couldn’t help but drawn to the this unspoken game of lust and desire.

You screw your eyes shut, gripping the table as you prepare yourself for the upcoming orgasm.

He brought his fingers to your clit and started rubbing it in a crisscross way while his tongue goes inside of you, fucking you on his tongue.

As soon as that hot muscle entered, you moaned out his name, unable to control yourself, your essence dripping all over his mouth as he kept on rubbing and tugging your clit with his fingers while his tongue explores your warm walls as he found that spot which made your brain numb.

And, he knew it.

He smirked when you gripped on his men bun, shoved his face further into pussy as you grind on his face, desperately chased you release.

He kept on hitting that spot until you were a whimpering mess, but as soon as he felt your orgasm approaching, he pulled back altogether.

The whine that escaped your mouth was desperate. Embarrassing. But, you didn’t care.

“What the fuck?”

“I asked you a question, didn’t I?”

Asshole.

He wanted you to admit, to submit to him. Admitting that you’re his, had always been a struggle for you. Why would you though, when you weren’t his? You never understood his obsession with making you admitting that.

It must be some sick power play for him, you thought.

“I’m not saying it, because I’m not yours.” You firmly stated, glaring down at him.

His eyes further hardened from the previous half lidded one, “Let’s see for how long you can stick to that.”

Again he goes back to his work, this time more rougher than before.

Every time, you came closer to your release, he pulled back and made you squirm in his hold.

At the last thrust of his tongue, you cried out, your cries resonated through out the empty hall of the library. You instantly slapped your hand over your mouth.

“Come on, love. Say it if you want to cum.”

He was determined about leaving you then and there, hot and messy with your dripping cunt if you weren’t tell him the words he wanted to heard. His stubbornness and competitive nature wasn’t anything new to you.

He again brought his hand to your abused pussy, but this time, he put his fingers in it while sucking on your pulsating bud, occasionally tugging and biting the bundle of nerves, making you go insane.

“Fuck. Please, please Jungkook, let me c-cum,”

You voice was whiney, your broken cries made his cock twitch in his pants once again, making him growl into your heat.

“Then say it –,” He smacked your ass, his teeth dragging all over your throbbing clit before tugging and sucking on it harshly, “Say that you’re mine.”

You gripped onto his hair, tugged on it as your thighs stared trembling along with your whole body, you were close.

This time, you gave up.

You pleaded to him, chasing your release once again.

“No no, O-okay, please I’m yours, I’m yours, jus–Just lemme cum.”

“Then, cum for me but look at me when you do. I wanna see your face”

You obliged without any obligations. You looked down at him, staring into his eyes as you saw his brows pinched together as his lips attached to your clit, while thrusting his fingers inside you as you cum around them, made them soaking wet with your essence, rolling your eyes to the back of your head as he watched your blessed out face with a smile on his face.

He didn’t stop though, until he drunk all of that you gave to him, slurping your essence, leaving you dry.

He was back on his toes as he turned you around. Your legs still trembling from the intense orgasm and overstimulation, he held you, encircled his hand around your waist and made you sit on top of the table.

You could see his face glistering with your essence, shining under the dim light, his piercing eyes staring at your soul as you saw he licked his lips with his half-lidded eyes and tousled hair from you gripping and tugging on it.

He was so hot that you didn’t knew if you wanted to kill him or kiss him.

He made it easier as he put his fingers in his mouth, sucking your essence of off it, then pulling you into a kiss.

An electric charge rushes through you as it seemed to dance across every inch of your body. You gasped, when you tasted your own cum on your tongue.

You were out of breath when he detached his lips from yours, both of you tried to breath in some air while you thought what the fuck you just did?

When he tried to caress your cheeks, you pushed him back, made him bewildered in the process.

“I-I have to leave.” You stumbled a bit on your steps but caught yourself before he could reach out.

“____...” It was surprisingly…tender, almost affectionate. It made you wonder if he genuinely felt remorse, maybe guilt?

“What went down earlier shouldn’t have, and I get that I said some hurtful things. But…honestly, if you weren’t mentioned my house, I wouldn’t have gone there and– I hope you know that…”

Oh, the irony! Expecting an apology from him?

His pride soared too high to grasp your emotions. He didn’t even considered the things he said to you, the things you had to heard because of him, how much you had to suffer.

Yes, you truly despise him and he is the reason behind that.

As you kept on walking out of the library, not sparing a glance back at him, unwilling to linger in the aftermath of his intensity.

“You are a fucking jerk, Jeon Jungkook and I hope you know that.”

The damage was done, and the scars of his callousness lingered.

Note: Let me know your thoughts on this and also, help me out with making the decision about if I should make this into a series or not. Like, is it worth it? Please let me know!!

copyright ©2024, jksian on tumblr. no revisions, translations, or reposting allowed.

[sonamytrash]

What Makes Us Human

Choso x F!reader

Tags/Warnings: Smut and fluff, P in V, oral sex, virgin Choso, penetrative sex, Fem receiving oral sex, squirting, lots of squirting, unprotected sex, creampie, Choso has a massive cock in this, Size kink, big dick, belly bulge, pregnancy kink, breeding, breeding kink, rough sex, Dom!Choso, virgin Choso goes feral and fucks reader something nasty. Not proof read.

Took me weeks to get this done, enjoy!

Banner by @cafekitsune

The evening was cloaked in shades of grey as the heavens wept their melancholic tears upon the earth. The rain outside beating a rhythmic pattern against the windows that seemed to serenade the city's chaos into a gentle lull. Thunder rumbled in the distance, hinting at the tempest that was to come.

Choso padded softly into the living room to find you there, a vision of serenity in the dimming light. Your hair fell in soft waves around your shoulders, wearing only a white shirt that clung to your dampened skin. You had the door ajar, allowing the cool breeze to mingle with the scent of damp earth filling the room. A cigarette smouldered in between your fingers while your gaze remained lost in the rain-soaked world outside.

Choso pauses, his eyes drawn to your serene figure illuminated by the dim light, his eyes drawn to the gentle rise and fall of your chest with each inhale and exhale as you brought the cigarette to your lips again, the ember burning a fiery red.

Your home was small but cozy, nestled comfortably on the outskirts of the city. It was a sanctuary for him and from the turmoil that had so far engulfed his life. He was greatful to you for allowing him to stay here, greatful for the warmth you had brought to his life in these past few months.

He watched you for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. The human customs of affection were still new to him, and he felt a strange mix of excitement and nervousness whenever he was around you. "You're going to catch a cold like that," he says, his voice echoing through the cozy living room. That sounded right, he'd heard that saying, that's what humans say to another human they don't want to get sick, humans they care for.

You chuckled, recognising his efforts with phrases as such that he was picking up, a slight smile playing on your lips as you turned your gaze from the rain to meet his over your shoulder. "Choso," you greeted, not bothered by his sudden appearance. "Care to join me?" You gestured to the space beside you with the hand holding the cigarette, the flick of your wrist sending a plume of smoke into the air.

He clears his throat softly, "Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude." His deep voice is tinged with a rare note of uncertainty. "I was simply curious about the storm." Choso moves to stand beside you, his gaze flickering between you and the rain-soaked world beyond the decking. "It's...quite enchanting."

You smiled affectionately at him, "It is." You reply, stood side by side, watching the rain together in a comfortable silence. The rain grew heavier, the rhythm increasing to a crescendo that matched the thunder's booming overture. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the room behind you, casting stark shadows on the walls. You didn't flinch, eyes never leaving the horizon as the storm played out its symphony before you.

You took another drag, "You know," you began, your voice a gentle whisper, "Humans find comfort in the rain. It's like nature's way of cleansing the world."

Choso nodded, his gaze still on your profile. He knew little of human comforts, but the peace he felt in your presence was unlike anything he had ever experienced. "It's beautiful," he said, breaking the silence. "I never knew rain could be... comforting."

You glanced at him, your eyes thoughtful. "You've lived a hard life, Choso. It's easy to miss the simple things." You took a final puff of your cigarette before extinguishing it in an ashtray on a small table beside you. "But now that you're here, you can allow yourself to enjoy them." You say, smiling softly at him.

Choso's eyes soften as he listens to your words, a small, sincere smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You speak words of wisdom." he murmurs, his deep voice tinged with a rare vulnerability. "As a half-human, half-cursed spirit, I've always struggled to reconcile those two halves of myself." He shifts slightly closer to you, his gaze filled with a quiet admiration. "But in your company, I find myself embracing my humanity more than I ever have before. It is frightening."

"Choso," you say, placing a gentle hand on his arm, "You don't have to hide from your feelings. They make you who you are, and I'm here to help you navigate them." Your hand feels warm against his skin, and he looks down from the sensation, then back up to meet your gaze.

The thunder rumbles closer, shaking the windows slightly, but you both remain unfazed. Choso swallows, his throat dry, his voice barely above a whisper, "You've shown me kindness that I never knew existed in this world." He pauses, the words sticking in his throat like a sudden lump. "I... I find myself feeling things for you that I don't fully understand."

You would be lying if you claimed not to reciprocate his feelings, you had grown to value his company in recent months. You weren't as naive to these newfound emotions as he was, but you didn't want your feelings to cloud his judgement as he navigated these emotions up until now, he needed to discover these things one step at a time.

You smile reassuringly "You're feeling human emotions," you said, your voice gentle. "It's natural, and it's also a gift. To know love, desire, to crave companionship—it's what makes us human."

The rain grew heavier, the room was bathed in a monochrome palette, the only color the occasional flash of lightning that pierced the gloom.

You leaned into him slightly, your hand gently coming up and brushing against his cheek. "We're all just trying to find our place in this world," you whispered, the sound almost lost in the cacophony of the storm. "And if you feel something for me, know that it's okay. I feel it too."

Choso's heart hammered in his chest, his eyes searching yours for any sign of rejection. The warmth from your hand seemed to spread through his entire body, igniting a fire he had never felt before. He reached out tentatively, mirroring you, his fingertips brushing against your cheek. "Can...can I?" he asked, his voice a barely audible.

You nodded, your eyes closing as his hand cradled your face, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "Yes," you murmured, your voice a soft invitation as you leaned closer to him.

The world outside seemed to hold its breath as Choso's lips met yours, the first tender touch of his unexplored feelings. His kiss was tentative, almost questioning, as if he feared he might shatter the moment with too much pressure. But your response was reassuring, your arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer, your mouth moving with a gentle urgency that spoke of your own desire.

His mouth began moving against yours with a hunger that had been building since he first laid eyes on you.

You pull away slightly, breathless, your eyes searching his for any sign of doubt. But all you see is a burning passion that mirrors your own. "Choso," you whisper, "are you sure about this?"

He nods, his gaze never leaving yours. "More than anything," his voice low and sincere. "I need you."

You smile, a warm glow lighting up your face, and kissing him again, your hands sliding down to his shoulders.

Choso's hands moved with a surprising gentleness as he unbuttoned your shirt, revealing the soft skin beneath. You felt his breath hitch as he took in the sight of you, and it was clear that this was new territory for him. "I want to know every inch of you."

Inbetween kisses and sweet nothings you both maneuvered to your bedroom, his eyes never leaving yours as you both shed the last of your clothing.

The air was thick with anticipation. His eyes studied you with a reverence reserved for the most sacred of rituals, taking in the beauty of your form as you lay before him. You felt a blend of excitement and vulnerability, but the way he looked at you, with such raw adoration, eased any apprehension.

Choso took a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. "I...I must confess, I have little direct experience with intimacies, and... the female form," he murmurs, his voice strained with a mixture of arousal and wonder. Tentatively, he raises a trembling hand, his fingertips ghosting over the soft swell of your breast beneath, "But I am...eager to learn," he breathes, his eyes smoldering with barely contained desire. "It's okay, Cho, we can take it slow." You coo.

He leans in, his mouth hovering over your skin, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if trying to commit the moment to memory. His lips touched you gently, a soft kiss that sent a thrill through your body. His movements grew more deliberate as he kissed a trail down your neck, across your collarbone, and further still, until he reached the swell of your breasts as you both back up towards the bed.

"These serve a nurturing purpose, and yet..." His thumb brushes over your hardened peak, eliciting a soft moan from you. "The sensation for the both of us is quite..." He hesitates, searching for the right word. "Intoxicating." His tongue flicked against your nipple, eliciting another gasp from your lips, and you felt his hands grip the bed sheets tightly as he continued to explore you. His inexperience was palpable, but it only added to the sweetness of the act. Each touch, each kiss, was imbued with a tentative curiosity that was as endearing as it was arousing.

"Choso...." you moan, "It feels good."

His tongue danced around the sensitive peak, teasing and nipping, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch your back in response. He explored you with a focus that was both intense and innocent, as if he was discovering a new facet of existence.

His mouth found its way lower, and you felt his breath hot against your skin as he hovered over your most intimate place. He paused, looking up at you for permission, and the sight of his earnest gaze was almost too much to bear. You nodded, your eyes half-lidded with desire, and he took it as the invitation it was. Your suggestion of taking things slow seemed to have been forgotten.

Choso's breath hitches at the heady scent of your arousal reaching his nose, a primal growl rumbling in his chest.

"Your body calls to me in ways I cannot ignore." His hand slides lower, a groan rumbling in his chest as he feels your arousal. "You feel...exquisite." 

His tongue traces the line of your folds, and you couldn't help but gasp as he tasted you. Carefully, he slips a finger inside you, his eyes drinking in your every expression.

"And you taste even better." He groans.

He returns to kiss and lick your cunt with determination, finding the spot that made your hips buck. You moaned, the sound almost lost in the symphony of the storm outside. His tongue worked magic, tracing circles around your clit before delving deeper, exploring your folds with a hunger that was as intense as it was inexperienced. You guided him with your hands, your nails digging into his scalp as you urged him on, your body responding to his every touch.

He was a quick learner, his movements growing more confident with each passing moment. His tongue danced over your clit, flicking and circling, as he pushed his fingers inside you, feeling you tighten around him.

You moaned his name, your hips rocking against his face. His fingers curled, finding that special spot deep inside that had you crying out and your legs trembling. His tongue continued to flick over your clit with a precision that made your hips buck and your toes curl.

You bit your lip to stifle a scream as he hit the perfect spot, his mouth working in time with the rhythm of your hips. His free hand held you in place, steady and sure, as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

With a final, intense flick of his tongue, you shattered, your body convulsing with pleasure. Your body tightened around his fingers, and with a gush, you squirted, the sweet release spilling out of you like a dam breaking. Choso's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't pull away, instead, he watched with fascination as your body responded to his touch, your juices spilling out onto his face and the bed beneath you. His tongue lapping and sucking the liquid warmth of your orgasm as you writhed beneath him.

The sensation was overwhelming, your legs shaking uncontrollably as he brought you down from the peak. The pleasure washed over you in waves, each one more intense than the last, leaving you trembling and gasping for air.

Choso pulled back, a smug smile playing on his lips as he studied your face, the taste of you still on his tongue. His eyes shone with a newfound knowledge, a hunger that was insatiable. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs.

You look down at him, your chest heaving, your eyes glazed with pleasure. "Choso..." you whisper, reaching down to stroke his hair. "You're... extraordinary."

Threading your fingers through his hair, you gently guide him back to your level to kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips.

You reached up to trace the contours of his chest, sliding down his torso to grip his erection. He was hot and hard in your hand, the pulse of his desire beating against your palm. His eyes closed for a moment, a look of pure pleasure crossing his face as you began to stroke him, your hand moving in a slow, steady rhythm.

"How is it, Choso?" You ask him, your voice sultry and smooth as you kiss along his jaw, down his neck. "Does it feel good?"

Choso's cock was huge, a testament to his unorthodox heritage, Yet, there was something achingly human about the way he looked at you, the way his hands revered your body. It was a sight that could make even the most experienced of humans pause, but in that moment, all you felt was a thrill of excitement. The delicious moans that escaped his lips only further fuled your desire. "Fuck, s-so good, I need you." He rasps, pressing you down and positioning your legs. You watched as he took himself in hand, his eyes dark with desire as he guided himself to your entrance, As he positioned himself, you could feel the weight of him, the heat of his desire pressing against your folds as he rubbed his cock up and down, up and down, coating himself in your arousal.

Despite his earlier confession of being inexperienced in this area of intimacy, he seemed to know exactly what to do, while his actions were careful, they were also instinctive and primal. You spread your legs wider, giving him the access he needed.

As he slid into you, the sheer size of him made you gasp. Choso had always been a creature of formidable presence, but the reality of his human form was something you had not fully anticipated. He was massive, filling you completely and stretching you in ways that were both painful and exquisite. His eyes searched yours, watching for any sign of discomfort, but all you could do was moan wantonly, urging him deeper.

"You're so fucking tight," Choso groaned, his voice a guttural growl that seemed to resonate through the very air. "So wet for me." His words were crude, but the raw honesty in them only served to make you wetter, your pussy clenching around his cock. "You like it, don't you?"

You couldn't deny it. The feel of him inside you was unlike anything you'd ever experienced. It was as if he was tearing you apart and rebuilding you with every stroke, redefining what it meant to be filled. You nodded, biting your bottom lip to keep from screaming out, to no avail, the exquisite moans he was tearing from you were unlike any sound you had ever made before

"Yes," you managed to gasp out, your voice breathy and desperate. "More."

Choso grinned, "You want more?" he taunted, his hips driving into you without mercy. "Don't worry angel, I'll give you everything."

His words were a dark symphony that danced in your ears, fueling the fire that burned in your core. "Yes," you breathed, your voice a hoarse whisper. "Choso, Don't stop."

As he pushed deeper, more moans escaped your lips. You watched in amazement as your stomach began to bulge with his girth, the sight both surreal and erotic. Growing more pronounced with each thrust, a visual testament to his size.

"Look at that," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "Look how much of me you can take."

His muscles flexed with every movement. Reaching his hand down to splay over the bulge of your abdomen where he was joined with you, his eyes filled with lust.

Choso's movements grew more confident as he felt your body accept him, your wetness easing his passage. The sensation of being inside you was overwhelming, the warmth and tightness unlike anything he had ever felt before. He groaned, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm that made your toes curl and your body ache with pleasure. Each time he pulled out, you felt a brief emptiness that was immediately filled as he pushed back in, the pressure building with every stroke.

"Is this...where babies grow?" he asks, his voice filled with awe as he fucks into you.

You felt the shift in his energy, the way his body tensed and his movements grew more powerful. You blush and nod, aroused further by his words as moans spilled from your lips.

Choso's eyes light up with a primal hunger, his cock twitching at the thought, the way your pussy spasms around his cock at his words doesn't go unnoticed. He asks you in a deep, gruff voice, "Do you want me to put a baby inside you?"

You gaze up at him, your eyes glazed with lust and your breath hitching at the raw, unfiltered desire in his question. Despite your suprise, you nod, your voice a shaky whisper. "Yes," you say, your heart racing. "I want that. I want to feel you fill me up." You whined, not entirely sure what you were saying, but in your aroused state of euphoria you would have let him do anything, and right now being filled to the brim with his cum sounded like heaven.

"Harder," you breathed, your voice thick with desire. "I want all of you."

His hips piston into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin. He feels your wetness coating him, the warm embrace of your body around his cock as he imagines how good you would look with heavy, milk laden tits and his baby growing inside you.

Choso's strokes become more powerful, as he contemplates the primal instinct that is taking hold of him. Choso's gaze darkens with a feral intensity, just a streak of his inhuman nature rising to the surface. He leans down to kiss you again, his teeth grazing your lower lip, his tongue delving into your mouth. His hips surge forward, his cock sliding deeper, and you moan into his mouth, the pleasure almost too much to handle.

He's a different man entirely, but you're also not complaining. You thought he might be a shy, awkward virgin that you would have to walk through the experience, but his lust has completely taken over his ability to think rationally and he has been instinctively guided through the whole process, and you don't mind one bit. It's fucking hot.

He starts to fuck you harder still, his strokes punctuated by the deep groan that rumbles in his chest. You wrap your legs around his waist and your breasts bounce with the force of his movements, he can't resist leaning down to capture one in his mouth, sucking and biting at the sensitive peak. The sharp sting sends bolts of pleasure through your body, making you cry out. He groans against your skin, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he drives into you.

You feel his muscles tighten, his strokes growing erratic as he approaches his climax. His eyes are wild, his teeth bared in a grimace of pleasure. You know he's close, and the knowledge sends a thrill through you. You want to feel him come inside you, to know that you've brought him to that peak.

Your body responds with a sudden, intense spurt of arousal, your pussy clenching around his cock in a display that leaves no doubt about your readiness to be filled. The warm, sticky fluid sprays around his shaft, coating him in your need.

"Oh, fuck, Choso!" you gasp, your body convulsing as you squirt uncontrollably, the sensation of his cock sliding through your wetness driving you wild. "Do it," you pant, your nails digging into his back, "Fill me up! Cum inside me!"

Choso's eyes go wide with surprise and lust at the sudden wetness that floods around his cock. His hips slam into you with a newfound ferocity, each stroke punctuated by a grunt of effort.

His strokes become more powerful, each one hitting deeper as he feels your warmth coating him. You're so wet that his cock slips in and out of you with ease, leaving a trail of your desire on his shaft.

"You're drenched for me," he murmurs, his voice a mix of amazement and lust. "You're begging for it."

You nod in agreement, unable to form coherent words as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your pussy spasms around his cock, sending another spray of fluid across his stomach and chest. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt, you've never consecutively orgasmed like this before, the feeling is somewhere inbetween euphoric and too much all at the same time.

His hands are everywhere, kneading your breasts, gripping your hips, guiding you to meet his every thrust. Your body responds to his touch, your pussy clenching around him, in your bodies desperate, overstimulated state and the room is alive with the sound of wet flesh slapping together.

With a final, deep thrust, Choso releases his seed, the hot spurts of his cum filling your pussy as your muscles contracting around his shaft, milking him for every drop. His hips bucking against you as he emptied himself inside you, his fingers digging into your skin.

Choso's chest heaved with the effort of his climax, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. For a moment, you simply lay there, his weight a comforting presence, his cock still buried deep within you.

Choso's grip on your hip loosened, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head as he kissed you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth with the same fierce need that had driven him into you.

"I think..." He pants, "I think I like being human."

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Storm - A Tommy Shelby/Reader Smut Short.

Had Tommy on my brain. Now you can, too ;)

Words - 800

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

Storms; they always made you feel a little uneasy, the foreboding rumble of thunder preceded by a flash of light cracking the inky purple of the night sky. You weren’t too sure why any longer either, no longer being the scared little girl living in the Small Heath back-to-back abode, with its flimsy windows that you felt the fork of the lightning could smash to smithereens.

Now, you were lady of the manor, living in the fortified luxury of Arrow House, but yet you still needed something to take your mind off the raging weather on the other side of the much stronger windows.  

That person is your lover, and yes, he does a very good job of making sure the only lightning in your world is the type that streaks up your spine in hot flashes of pleasure, just like he is right now. Holding your legs spread, his hands tour in loving stroke over your thighs, his tongue circling licks all over your opening, that radius increasing.  

When it laps wet heat over your clit, you mewl for him, hands rooting in his soft hair. Your body keens against each lick, his breath warm as his tongue licks a tempest over your little bud, full lips closing to suck gently. A grunt wells in his throat, and the sound of it settles over your bones, pleasure lighting you up like a firework the harder his lips pull at you.  

He has you soaking, your little hole flexing around nothing in its emptiness, needing him inside you. Equally, you’d be more than happy for his mouth to remain exactly where it is, every lick gilding your nerves, the honey of your cunt bathing his tongue as he eats you greedily. His fingers sink into the soft of your thighs, eyes like blue shards of topaz glinting through the low light of the room, smiling around the mouthful of you he so happily feasts upon.  

“I’m starting to think you actually quite like it when there’s a storm, you know,” he muses, pausing for a moment, gently blowing over your swollen clit before skimming it with a teasing lick. “You always know this is what you get when one comes along.” 

“I get this enough as it is anyway, Tom,” you quip, laughing softly, “but I still appreciate the distraction.”  

Another flick, Tommy rumbling a little moan as he watches your bud twitch for him. “Minx.” 

He pulls a gasp from you, the flat of his tongue dragging hard over you. “Yeah, that’s me.” All talk is abandoned, your body the rhythm set by the song of his mouth, pleasure bursting like little stars as he adds speed to every lick. He builds you steadily, each ministration set up only to topple, the constructor of your utter ruin giving you one last, long suck before moving to kneel before you.  

“Mmm, oh,” you sigh, hissing with desire as his cock fills you deep. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”  

“Never let it be said that I’m not a giver, eh, love?” 

No, you truly wouldn’t, hands stroking over his pale chest, nails dragging the chiselled muscles as he pulls back and then bottoms out once more, eyes falling to watch how you splay so prettily for him. Your cunt glazes him, hot and slick, your walls pulsing around every last thick, vein-ridged inch of his cock, the thunder outside booming as he leans to kiss you with soft heat.  

He ruts a little deeper, and it sends a wave of ecstasy washing through you, the deep punch of his cock drawing moans that spill from your mouth to his. The sumptuous, velvet hug of your cunt pulls at him, hugging him in slick divinity as he quickens, drawing your legs up against his chest, panting hard as he scatters kisses against your ankle.  

“Ahhh, god you feel so good in me,” you pant, nails trawling over his abs, spurring him on with the allure of your gaze. “Yes, that’s it. Fuck me harder.”  

He does, and it burns neon over your veins, your cries shrill as he daggers you with utter finesse. You feel both boneless and mindless as he fucks you hard into the bed, grasping his forearms as he lowers to you, sucking violet welts at your neck. 

Outside, the lightning splits the sky, just as his does within your body, ecstasy streaking hot beneath your skin as you fall apart around the white-hot surge. His crest tingles his cock as he spills into your fluttering core, panting against your neck, his hands stroking your face as he nuzzles and kisses you. 

The storm outside continues to rumble overhead, but you and Tommy sleep upon a cloud of bliss until morning, when the skies glow blue once more. 

[vernons-girl]

what about like your in the car with mingyu at midnight, your just friends but a storm hits and the roads are closed so you go at the nearest motel to stay the night but they only have ONE BEDDDD(suggestive but no smut?)

a blessing in disguise | kim mingyu

fluff, suggestive? (making out and heavy petting),w.c:1k6

a/n: i'm living for the only one bed trope omggg!! i hope you like it <3 (also tumblr literally wouldn't let me post this so please give it lots of love hehe)

You and Mingyu were on one of your usual midnight drives, as the both of you often had clashing schedules, random night drives were the only way for you guys to meet up in the middle of your hectic schedules.

You guys were chatting, laughing, singing along to the music coming from the speakers, all in all, everything was doing great.

Until it started raining. Hard.

The rain pelted against the windshield as Mingyu navigated the car through the deserted roads. Midnight had long passed, and the world outside seemed to have fallen into a deep slumber. Inside the car, however, a tense silence hung thick between you two.

"We should probably turn back," you suggested, glancing nervously at the storm brewing outside.

Mingyu shook his head, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "No way, we've only been out for what? Like 30 minutes? Besides, the storm will pass soon." Mingyu tried to convince you.

You nodded, though you felt a little uneasy. You had agreed to this late-night drive under the guise of friendship, but lately, something had shifted between you two, at least that’s what you felt. Mingyu's laughter seemed to linger a little longer, and you found yourself stealing glances at his figure more often than before.

As if on cue, lightning streaked across the sky, followed by a deafening clap of thunder that seemed to shake the very ground they drove on. The car swerved slightly, and Mingyu cursed under his breath, his knuckles turning white from gripping the wheel so tightly.

"We should at least find somewhere to wait until the storm calms down" you suggested, voice barely audible over the storm.

Mingyu nodded, his expression grim. "There's a motel up ahead. We can wait out the storm there."

The motel appeared out of the darkness, its neon sign flickering ominously in the rain. Mingyu pulled into the parking lot, the tires skidding slightly on the wet pavement. As rushed inside while he held a jacket over you guys’ head to protect you from getting too drench before seeking refuge from the tempest.

The receptionist eyed the two of you warily as you approached, water dripping from their soaked clothes onto the linoleum floor, the jacket had not been that useful, you thought.

"Um, good evening. We.. We need a room," Mingyu said, his voice urgent, handing out his card without a second thought.

The receptionist nodded, handing him a key without a word after handing him back his card. "Room 12," she said, gesturing towards the stairs.

You followed Mingyu up the creaky staircase. The air between you two crackled with tension as you reached the door to your room. Mingyu hesitated for a moment and looked back at you before unlocking it, the sound echoing in the silence of the hallway.

The room was small and dimly lit, with a single bed dominating the space. Mingyu cursed under his breath, running a hand through his damp hair. "Looks like we'll have to share," he said, avoiding your gaze.

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of spending the night in such close proximity to Mingyu. You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach.

“You should go take a shower. Warm yourself up. We’ll have to put our clothes to dry too.” he said.

“Mh, yeah. Right.” you replied, heading to the small ensuite bathroom before jumping into the shower, the hot water almost burning your freezing skin.

Mingyu had taken off his clothes and hung them on a chair to dry, sitting on the bed, waiting for his turn in the bathroom.

After a few minutes, you finally stepped out of the shower and slipped your underwear back on as it was the only thing dry enough to be considered wearable.

You came out of the bathroom holding the towel tightly against your body, only to be welcomed by a half-naked Mingyu. You gulped.

“Your turn,” you simply said, “there’s another towel on the sink.” you added, feeling your face heat up at the unusual scene happening.

“There’s another chair for your clothes.” Mingyu said before standing up, his shoulder brushing against your arm as he stepped into the bathroom to shower.

After putting your clothes to dry, you slipped under the covers since it was so cold in the room.

You could still hear the rain hitting the window and the wind whistling as you waited for Mingyu to come back.

You closed your eyes, trying not to overthink the situation too much, the click of the bathroom door startled you out of your attempt as you caught a glimpse of Mingyu’s body in the doorway, the light behind him darkening his silhouette that was ever so perfect.

He wasted no time in lying down on the bed, over the covers.

“What are you doing ?” you asked “Aren’t you cold?” you questioned upon seeing him slightly shake.

“Yeah but, you know,” he started “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by being under the covers with you.” he finally admitted.

Gosh why did he have to be such a gentleman? Your heart swelled at his word before you urged him to get under there before he could die of hypothermia.

You two laid on your backs, trying to keep as much as a distance between your bodies.

Nothing could be heard aside from the storm that was still raging outside.

As the minutes ticked by in the dimly lit room, the tension between you and Mingyu seemed to thicken with each passing second. The storm outside showed no signs of abating, and you couldn't help but feel the weight of the situation pressing down on you both. Despite the awkwardness, there was a strange sense of intimacy in the air, as if the storm had brought forth an unspoken understanding between you.

Mingyu shifted slightly beside you, his warmth seeping through the covers and mingling with yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, tempting you to inch closer, to seek solace in his embrace. But you hesitated, unsure of where these newfound feelings would lead.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Mingyu spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen."

You turned to look at him, confusion etched into your features. "What do you mean?"

Mingyu sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I mean... I didn't plan for us to end up in this situation. Alone. In a motel room. With only one bed."

You felt your cheeks heat up at his words, the implications of his confession sinking in. "I know," you murmured, unable to meet his gaze. "But what are we supposed to do now?" you asked rhetorically.

The back of his warm hand lightly brushed against yours as Mingyu hesitated for a moment before reaching out to gently take a hold of it, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "I don't know about you, but... I can't ignore how I feel anymore."

Your heart skipped a beat at his declaration, the words you had been too afraid to say out loud hanging heavy in the air between you.

You turned on your side, facing him with your hand remaining in his before he did the same, your gaze now locked despite the darkness of the room.

His other hand reached out from under the covers to cup your face in his palm.

"I've been trying to fight it, but I can't deny how much I care about you," Mingyu confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Being stuck here like this, it's made me realize that I don't want to hide my feelings anymore."

Your heart pounded in your chest as you listened to his words, feeling a rush of emotions flood through you. "Mingyu, I... I feel the same way," you admitted, your voice trembling with vulnerability.

He leaned in closer, his breath mingling with yours as he spoke. "I've been wanting to tell you for so long, but I was afraid of ruining our friendship."

You reached out, tangling your fingers in his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips meeting in a soft, tentative kiss. The electricity between you was palpable as you melted into each other, the warmth of his body pressing against yours as you shared a moment of deep intimacy.

He leaned into the kiss, pulling you closer to him by your waist, his touch hot against the expanse of your skin.

As the kiss deepened, all the pent-up emotions and desires came rushing to the surface. Mingyu's lips moved with a hunger that mirrored your own, his hands roaming over your body with a gentle urgency. The world outside seemed to fade away as you lost yourself in the intoxicating sensation of being with him.

With each touch, each caress, the barrier between friendship and something more dissolved until there was nothing left but the raw, unbridled passion that simmered between you two. Mingyu's fingers traced patterns along your skin, igniting a fire within you that burned hotter with each passing moment.

You found yourself tangled in the sheets, your bodies pressed together in a fervent embrace. Mingyu's breath mingled with yours, his heartbeat echoing the rhythm of your own as you surrendered yourself to the overwhelming tide of emotion that swept over you both.

The intensity of the moment seemed to drown out the sound of the wind and rain, leaving only the sound of your beating hearts.

After a moment, you finally pulled away from one another, pants coming from the both of you.

Mingyu brushed a few strands of hair before speaking up :

"Maybe this storm was a blessing in disguise," he said softly.

You nodded, your heart racing as Mingyu leaned in closer, closing the distance between you once again. And as the storm raged on outside, you found solace in each other's arms and closure in your relationship, your growing feelings finally laid bare in the darkness of the night.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stricken 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, ostricization,and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you were scarred by a storm years ago and its bringer has come to upheave your life once more.

Characters: God of War!Thor

Note: I did this finally.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You always know when a storm's coming. The hairs on your arms stand and your skin burns hot. The smell of rain is tinted by another scent. That of burning flesh and ash. Your scars raze as if struck again and for a moment, you cannot hear or see. 

Slowly, the scent of rain returns to you and the noise of the patter, sometimes more a hammering, as if to remind you of its bearer. The thunder is his war cry. The lightning his wrath. You do wonder why then it should’ve come down on you. 

You keep your hood up, your chin low. Though you hide, the villagers know who you are, they know of your misfortune. The calamity wrought into your flesh in veined scars. Your face is marked with the storm, zigzagged with lines as your left eye is struck blind and white. 

Yet it isn’t your name they whisper as you stop at a stall to buy grain. It is his. The Prince of Asgard. The might God of Thunder. The monster who made you like this. 

The air is thick, roiling with unspent moisture, and the clouds threatening in a grey ripple. You should have come yesterday. You should not have waited so long.  

You trade your coin and move on, gathering the small rations you can afford. You’ll return to your hovel, gather what you can from the garden, and check the traps for rabbits. It should get you through, though the frost does eat away at your harvest.  

As you have it, between the chirping of your disfigurement, there is worse creeping from the north. The snows have fallen heavy and whole lakes have frozen to the silt. You do not believe all you hear but you know better than to disregard the nip in the air. 

Your basket remains like but you’ve spent your limit. Your cloak shifts with your movement and you shrink lower as you near the group of adolescents feigning at battle with sticks. Their audience glimpses your passing and you hear their voices mingle with laughter. 

“It’s that crone. The burnt one,” comes a bit louder than is meant. 

You don’t stop. You don’t show that you’ve heard it. There is nothing to be said.  

“Cursed, by Thor’s hammer,” another chortles, “it is said he was forging and struck the blade too hard. In his wrath, he sent a storm. A mongrel like her drew it upon herself, broken like the sword.” 

Certainly, that too is a story to be met with skepticism. One cannot guess at what the gods do in Asgard nor why they bring only misery and chaos to Midgard. You cannot disagree that the storm was no favour to you. A curse, certainly, though the meaning can never be known. 

You move along, leaving behind their whispers and their sneers. Off to your solace, to your safe. Out of the path of any wandering soul or any blowing storm.  

⛈

A storm rages without. Water swirls and batters your small abode, built against the wall of a cave on a carpet of peat. You cover your ears as the winds whistle and wail. You quake beneath your cloak, eyes locked shut as you cower away from the tempest so much as your own memories. 

The blinding white flash and the scalding hot pain. Your fingers creep up to your chin and feel the rigged scars. You can never forget, no matter how you try. You can never be as you were. You are marked, you are damaged, and as the villagers have it on their tongues, broken. 

Even your family would not have you. You remember your mother’s wail as your father drove you off like some beast. ‘The gods have smited you themselves. You cannot remain or you will wreck ruin upon us all.’ 

Days of walking and tears, like the very storm that scarred you, a haze through which you trod until you could go no more. Until your head would split and the burnt flesh began to weep. A woman found you on the forest floor, rotting away from the corruption spreading through you. 

You don’t remember much of her. Only her touch and how she healed you. She bid you off with the cloak you wear and some food for your travels. Then you were alone and thus you remain. Not even the thieves will steal from you, nor the criminals darken your door. A curse is worth no piece of gold, no drop of blood. 

The pounding of rain relents. A chill creeps beneath the slats of your door and seep into the walls. You fill the earth with what kindling you have, the clay chimney puffing smoke up through the center of the roof. You hold your hands out to warm but find little comfort. 

You settle on your side beneath your cloak and stare into the flames. You shiver. It’s cold. Very cold. Typically, the rain chases away the chill but this is different. You can feel it in the ground. You curl up tight, clinging to your warmth, let your eyes close. Sleep comes but for lack of and not peacefully. 

Your dreams are a maelstrom. There a flames and ice, one after the other, sometimes together. Sharp pointed shards frozen and hanging, then licking tendrils of heat from below. You are lost in the land of sleep, tortured by a world built of your own fears and follies. 

You wake stiff and frigid. The fire has gone out. Not even smoke remains in the pile of ash. You move carefully, bones aching, scars tingling. You touch the hard ridging along your cheek and your fingers pulse from the cold. You can see your breath. 

How can it be? It was sunny before the rain. You get your feet under you and stand with a groan. Near the door, a strange dusting of white powders around the door, flecking in from beneath and around the edges. Snow? 

Were the tales true after all? You wince as suddenly your scars singe and sting. Ow. You recoil and cover your face with your hands, hissing and wheezing through the pain. It hurts terribly. Worse than even the first strike.  

You pull your hands away as your eyes water and you blink through your tears. You can see, at least in your good eye. There is no lightning, it is only in your mind. You shakily turn and search around. You cry out again as the agony surges once more in your head. 

Why? 

Your legs quake. Something is amiss. The frost has come and this meagre hut cannot withstand it. You take your rucksack and put what you can carry into it. Your water skin is strung across your chest and your pack upon your back. You wrap your boots with rags and your hands too. You haven’t the clothing for the cold but you will need to find something. Perhaps skin a hare or two. 

The door blows inward almost as soon as you touch it, another gust nearly bowling you over. You sway with the wind and cling to the crooked doorframe. You shove yourself out, just as quickly flattened to the wall by a flurry of snow. It dusts your face coldly and you pull up your neck scarf over your nose and pull your hood into place. 

You set off, hunched, reaching with your arms as you lift your knees over the treacherous heaps. You keep close to the rock wall. The thought of turning back stops you but it seems as foolish an idea. The hovel cannot hold for much longer. You need to get to the mouth of the cave and chance a sleeping bear within. 

You sidle along, slowed by the snow and the wind, the former soaking through your clothing as the latter whips around your hood. Suddenly, a roll of thunder, like war drums, churns in the air. The word dims and the furor sounds again; louder, closer. 

You cry out and lift an arm to shield yourself instinctively. You curl your hand into the rockface and holler even louder, closing your eyes as your memory summons another storm. No, it cannot be. Not again.  

A deafening boom shakes the ground and knocks you to your knees. You crawl along, keeping low near the ragged stone, those hidden beneath the snow jabbing against your palms. You whimper and whine, blinded by the thickening curtain all around you. 

Yet you never heard of the god raining down snow upon the lands. Only the slaking rains and the hot violence of his bolts. Never this. What sword has he broken this time? Perhaps it was his very own hammer.

The thunder overhead continues its horrid thrum as more pulses in the earth. Boom, boom, boom. You feel it beneath your hands. Your knees come down clumsily as you scramble through the piling powder. You open your eyes and still cannot see. The world is smudge in gray white and black, the sky flashing and darkening from one moment to the next. 

You cry out again as your scars burn. You push yourself back on your heels and grasp your face as you shriek. It hurts! So bad! Your eyes well and flow over. Your body trembles and collapses. You writhe in the snow, contorting with the agony as your flesh feels as if it is splitting. 

Beneath the incessant pounding comes a rocky noise. Like laughter it curdles in the air and chases after you like the steady boom, boom, boom. Closer and closer, louder and louder, the earth quakes in tandem with the cacophony. 

“I’ve found another,” the deep voice scoffs and snickers, “ah, Heimdall, you must see this--” 

The craterous voice halts and the air still. The snow drifts but the wind stops and the thunder relents, the world seeming to hum. You scratch at your face as the flames grow unbearable. You must be alight. It can be the only reason for such pain. 

The large figure, a blurry silhouette in your skewed vision, looms like a mountain. He steps over you, sliding a foot between you and the cave wall and flips you onto your back. You stare up at the sky, rolling in sheets of grey and black, the dark figure standing above, blotting out the clouds. You sob and plead. 

“Make it stop!” You beg as your hood falls back, “kill me! Kill me! It hurts.” 

He bends as your eyes roll back and he grabs your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. He pulls you half off the ground, not a single grunt for the effort. You feel whoever, whatever it is, looking down at you; upon you. A rattle rises in his gritty throat. 

“And what are you?” He breathes. 

You feel another surge and babble, reining in your wild eyes as you quiver uncontrollably. You make yourself look at him. You shudder and shake your head. Shaggy red hair, a braided beard, and eyes so blue they jolt you. Ink marks one side of his broad face as he wears fur upon his soldiers beneath emblems of the godly lands. 

“It hurts...” you rasp, “I am dying.” 

“You...” he grabs your chin, holding you by your shoulder. His thumb extends up your face to touch the scars and you let out a shrill howl as the agony piques. You latch onto his thick arm and thrash. 

“It buuuuuuuurrnssssssssss,” you scream as your spine arches. 

“Hmm,” he hums and throws you into the snow. You continue your desperate wriggling, the fire softening but not leaving you completely, “Heimdall!” He calls out like a war horn, “get your skinny ass over here!” 

There’s a tinkle of coy laughter and lighter footsteps that land on the boulder above. Your eyes drift over and you see another shadow, this one hazier but smaller. A dusting of snow flies up beside you as the other man lands beside you. No, not a man. 

Heimdall? Son of Odin. 

“Oh, Thor, what trouble have you found--” 

“Another one,” the other growls. Not the other, Thor. The God of Thunder. The beast who marked you. “Father says they all must come.” 

“This one?” Heimdall muses as his voice spikes with humour, “why look at her. Pathetic—wait a moment... brother, is this your handiwork?” He squats to see you closer and snickers again, “why how very peculiar.” 

“Bring her,” Thor barks and spins on his heel, swinging his hammer, “we haven’t time--” 

“You bring her, brother. As you say, you are so much stronger--” 

“Just do it!” Thor snarls and a peel of thunder breaks through the clouds. “I need ale.” 

[mambalae-s]

fallen glory — ushijima wakatoshi x reader

wc: 3.2k words

cw: god! wakatoshi x nymph! reader; unprotected sex; breeding kink; size kink; wakatoshi is a big boi; reader is described as a black woman; degradation; manhandling; ; creampie; not proof read; if i’m forgetting anything please let me know!

notes from author: please, if you’re under 18, do NOT interact with or read this post. i will block you.

there are legends among mortal towns, the tellings of stories passed on by flesh and bone. a god, mankind will utter through shrouds of smoke, beneath fire-lit nights of centuries old, where the stars would even hold their breath to hear the words of divine destruction. a god so mighty and fearsome that wields power in his breath alone, that the earth would tear herself apart and offer her burning heart, that she would so desperately beseech her master that this mere sacrifice would be enough to please him. mankind would sing those sorrow-filled ballads of flaming rivers that sputtered brilliant embers, so brilliant in their dying glory that venus herself would weep and beg for mercy.

and this god, oh, this righteous and almighty god, his heart would mirror the depths of darkness. how cruel, this god, that he would beckon the tempests and the floods to destroy and ruin the earth, that he would paint wars and famine across endless seas and planes until there would be nothing left of man. when he bestows his wrath on bellowing thunders and rips the heavens asunder with magnificent lightning, he holds no mercy for the weak and unfaithful. his eyes behold, and his left hand cast their judgement, and the earth can do nothing but wait with bated breath as the universe stands still around her, powerless, and without charge of the pestilence that would next consume her and wipe her filthy soul clean once more.

oh, but who could imagine the divine’s demise at the hands of a damsel?

let these words not travel far, lest they spread across continents and reveal him for what he is. let the world not know of his mortality, of a heart that quivers before summer-touched evenings and sings wretched hymns of manly lust and desire. of his visits to the holy garden, they must not learn, even less should they know of the soul that resides there — the very same that would tame the tempest, and incite a hunger so ravenous and feral only to quench it all the same.

he’s here; you know without even looking, and your intuition tells you that he knows that you know. you don’t need to look behind you to know that wakatoshi’s watching you, eyes of gold and olive that stalk you like a hunter. he takes in every part of your image as a devotee does with visions. the droplets of water that glisten across dark brown skin, the sheer white fabric that clings to your full mounds and ass, barely doing anything to conceal your perked nipples, or the dip between your plush thighs. by the heavens, you truly are a vision of sin and desire — one that held the key to destruction between two-toned lips and written like scriptures among dark coils of hair akin to sacred vines.

“well?” you sigh, sinking further into the pond. the cool water kisses your skin with a tenderness that washes away the day’s searing heat. goosebumps rise across your body and you lull your head to the side, and that’s when you see him, your god come here to visit the garden of eden. “will you just stand there or are you gonna join me?”

how brazen, you must’ve sounded, irreverent as if you knew not the god who’d walked into your sanctuary. yet you knew all too well who he was, and you knew what he’d come for. you knew that, just with the sight of your body drenched in water, you could unravel this benevolent god and reduce him to nothing but a man lost in desire. since the first day he found you here on a lonely spring’s afternoon so many years ago, you’d somehow wrapped his tongue between your teeth and poisoned him with pleasure untold so that he would return time and time again. he reminds you of a lunatic, seeking the taste of your nectar like a man who knows nothing else, and you’d become his drug and his achilles heel, the very thing that could unwind this god and render him to nothingness.

the waters part to make way, welcoming wakatoshi into the pool as he comes close to you. his body presses against yours and he leaves no room between, so greedy in the way his fingers dip into your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck to take in your scent. you reach up one hand to wrap into his long, jade green locks, and you pull him closer to you, eager to feel his lips leaving soft kisses across your skin.

“i can’t stop thinking about you…” he grumbles into your jawline, hungry and impatient. his fingers wrap into the thin fabric of your gown, nails digging into your flesh as he pulls you closer, pressing his hard cock into your ass as if he wants it to disappear between it. “fuck, what are you doing to me?”

you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips, though you know there’d be no sense trying to. coyly, you reach for one of his hands and bring it down to your pussy, pressing his palm flat against it and pushing yourself further against his length. “nothing, darling.” the words that leave you are teasing, almost to test him — accentuated by your sugary laugh when his fingers begin to peel your dress against your skin without you needing to tell him. “it’s you who keeps coming back here on your own accord.”

his fingers dip between your thighs and your knees buckle a bit when they brush against your pussy. you’re wet, wakatoshi discovers your slick already pooling into his hands despite him hardly even touching you. tauntingly, he caresses you, pools your slick along his fingers as he so barely slides them between your swollen cunt to hear the hiss that slips out of your mouth.

“look at you,” he chuckles, condescending. “so needy already, hm? do you want a god’s cock to defile you that badly?”

he’s baiting you, drawing on your words like a puppeteer, you know it. only touching you ever so slightly, giving you the smallest taste of what he knows you want, yet he wants you to beg for it. he wants you to throw yourself unto desperate abandon and give yourself up to him. and it’s working too damn well. greedily, you try to sink yourself down on his fingers, but he quickly stops you with a hand around your throat. frustrated, you whimper. “wakatoshi…” you keen. “for god’s sake, stop toying with me already!”

his teeth sink into your neck suddenly, the sensation of his lips sucking on your flesh causing your pussy to flutter. “nngh…” overcome with weakness, your head falls back against his chest, and your eyes are forced to behold the behemoth of a man behind you; the glistening droplets that slide down olive skin and the furrowed lines atop his expression. his lips part on breaths heavy and weighted as he squeezes his fingers tighter around your throat, and your own breath catches beneath his grip. you’re left wanting, needing the very air he robs you of, needing him inside your core, needing him and everything he’d give to you.

ah, you think bitterly, i’ll lose this war again today.

“you know what i want to hear from you, little one.” wakatoshi’s words ghost against the shell of your ear, causing you to shiver, heat coursing through each pulse despite the chill of the water. he takes his hand from your soiled thighs and brings his fingers to his mouth, and you watch with eyes glazed by lust as he sucks your juices from them and groans. “hurry…” he huffs. his cock twitches against your ass impatiently, his balls almost ready to burst and bury themselves inside your tight little cunt. “you know i don’t like waiting…”

those words so heavy and fogged over by hunger, you know he’s teetering on the very edge of snapping, letting you know that you’re not the only one who wants the other. he makes slow, intentional work of licking his fingers clean and he sees the way your inhibitions snap behind your eyes, revels in the whimper that leaves your lips as your hands fly to remove your dress all on your own. your breasts fall freely for him to see them glistening under filtered sunlight and of sight of your pursed nipples causes his length to twitch hungrily against your ass.

“please…!” inhibitions abandon you, your pride lost on the incessant pulsing between your legs. you need him to fill you, to ravish and demolish you — you’re aching now, impatient, craving him, “please, toshi, i need you inside me… now!”

you see the very moment wakatoshi reaches his limits and he snaps.

a yelp escapes you as he hoists you up, spinning you around to lock your legs around his hip. his lips crash into yours, mercilessly pushing his tongue into your wet cavern like a beast as he drinks you in. he feels your moans rumbling through his chest and he responds in kind, the space between you non-existent and your body flushed against him.

“that’s a good girl.” whimpering, you claw your fingers into his back as if holding on for dear life. “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” you want to curse him for toying with you, want to shut that filthy, irreverent mouth of his but your mind is too cloudy to give anything but sweet pleas of his name. drool pools from between your lips as he draws his tongue along your neck, suckling and biting every inch of skin. you’ll bruise blue and purple, you know it, but you can’t bring yourself to care. you want him to mark you, want him to possess your body and soul.

your fingers tangle into his tresses of green hair and you pull, causing him to hiss against your neck. “enough already, wakatoshi..!” despite your harsh words, you know they sound like nothing but muddled pleas to him. he’s so much bigger than you, it’s hard to forget he still has control over you — the way his large palms squeeze your ass, the way your body has to sit just above his hip, it’s hard to forget that fact.

“just fuck me already! you act like you don’t know the things you do to me, haah, like you don’t know how much you make me want you even— nngh, even when… you’re not here…”

ah, but how unfair of you, isn’t it? how can you accuse him of such things when really, you’re the one who does this to him? how could you not know that your visage haunts him day and night? that he dreams of taking you over and over, of pumping your hole full of his seed until your tummy would swell? that even then, he’d keep filling you up, keening to hear those sweet, filthy cries of his name over and over? you must know what you do to him; he growls against your skin, sinking his teeth into your collar and causing you to cry out and pull against his hair. “then tell me what you want, darling…”

frustration bubbles within you like an erotic poison as you glare down into emerald orbs. have you not been clear enough for him? what prayers would it take to satisfy this insatiable god? for him to finally give himself to you and abandon all else? you’re already powerless here in his hands, your dress reduced to a soaking bundle that wraps around your waist where his hands palm your bare skin. the tip of his cock only barely touching your core, and you can do nothing but wait until he sinks you down unto it. struggle as you might, your need couldn’t be fulfilled until he wills it, until he finally lets in and use you like you want to be used.

“i want you to take responsibility…” pettily, you huff, eyes narrowing further at the coy grin that sits on his mouth. even with his flushed cheeks and your spit coating his skin, he looks up at you, waiting for you to finish. “i want you to destroy me and fuck me senseless. i want you to force me to take every drop of seed and use me until your fat cock empties out everything inside me.”

wakatoshi hums, pleased, it seems, by your words, though he knows he wouldn’t have been able to hold off any longer even if he hadn’t wrung them out of you. oh, the things you do to him without even knowing that turn him into a wild beast. he all but eagerly lines up the head of his throbbing dick to your entrance, and the warmth of it is already so welcoming as he parts your pussy lips, teasingly rubbing your clit.

“take responsibility, hm?” he purrs against your skin as you whimper, soon forcing out the loveliest scream of his name as he brings you down in one swift motion. he watched your eyes roll into the back of your head, drinks in the way your lips fly open as his length spreads you apart. his own eyes narrow and he clenches his teeth — your tight walls squeeze around him so deliciously, so small and delicate as they clamp around the intrusion. “such a pretty, fragile little doll, aren’t you? fuck…!”

god, he hadn’t even fully sunken into you yet, and already he felt himself hitting the tip of your cervix, pressing deeper and deeper and causing your entire body to convulse as drool pours from your lips, fat tears pooling on your waterline. your orgasm wrecks your body in waves and you tremble, already fucked too weak to even support yourself. helplessly, you fall limp into wakatoshi’s arms, neck lulling back so that you’re forced to look up at the god above you, forced to watch his face contort in mortal pleasure as your hole continues to needily suck him in.

“aww…” he coos at your pathetic form. he brings one hand to cup your messy cheek while the other continues to support your weight, pushing a thumb into your open lips. almost mindlessly, you latch unto it and begin sucking. “already? kitten, i’ve hardly done anything to you yet.” even then, wakatoshi wants more from you. he wants to fuck you senseless, break you to nothingness until you couldn’t think of anything but him inside you. so he pushes, deep past your walls until he fully buries himself inside you, his tip so deliciously hitting your womb. you squeal and tighten your legs at the sensation of him bottoming out of you, dig your nails deep into his arms as if to ground yourself from slipping further.

“w-wait…! please, toshi—!” you cry, though your words are lost on him, drowned by his heavy breaths as he presses his lips against yours, pleas swallowed up while your body shakes. “i only just came, i’m— nngaah! ‘m too sensitive, slow down— fuck! ahh!”

despite your begging, wakatoshi doesn’t give you a moment to recover. he sets a relentless pace of pounding into you, pushing deeper and deeper, the sound of his balls clapping so filthily against your slick not yet enough to hide each honey-coated wail he forces out of you. “you said to… hnngn— take responsibility, didn’t you?” roughly, he wraps his hand around your throat and forces you to look up at him, all so he can take in that beautifully fucked expression you wear, teardrops lining your lashes and your mouth wantonly gasping for air. “that’s exactly what i’m doing, darling. isn’t this what you wanted?”

“yes..!” you can’t deny it. lying to him would be no use, it’s too late to try. your body’s already betrayed you for the pleasure he gives you, your battered hole pulsing around him with each thrust as he stretched you impossibly wide. “yes, wakatoshi..! fuck! i wanted you to fuck me n use me just like this!”

he chuckles, sinful and ungodly, as he releases his hold on your throat to place it around your waist and pulls you down, over and over, repeatedly until your body can do naught but fall to his mercy. “haah..! nngh….! fuck, fuck, fuuuck!”

“that’s it, kitten, just like that.” oh, heavens help him, he already feels himself beginning to waver, his hips staggering as he drives into you. he’s so close, his cock twitching viciously inside your beaten pussy, so close to exploding and filling you up. “take everything, you hear me? i’m gonna cum deep inside your filthy little cunt, and you better take all of it. gonna breed you again and again.”

“mhn! mhn! mhhn!” you’re far too gone to even understand the words he growls at you, far too gone to care for much else other than the sensation of him breaking you apart, or for the prayer you let escape your corrupted heart. “do it..! do it, waka…! let everything out and cum inside me, please, please, please!”

oh, how good did it feel to be at his mercy, to let him ruin you time and time again, at his beck and call. beneath his hold, you release all senseless moral and surrender to the wicked hunger of a being far greater than you. without warning, your body convulses beneath your pleasure as your second orgasm crashes over you. it rips through every vein in your body and releases itself from your core and you scream, your mind gone blank as you cream and squirt all over him. the very coil wound so tightly within your gut breaks like a tidal wave and pushes you off the edge, and after a few more harsh thrusts, you’re granted your reward.

wakatoshi grunts and gasps as his cock bursts his cum inside you, near panting as he pulls you flush against his hip and forces every drop into your delicate womb. his fingers dig deep into your doughy flesh, moans falling from him like a man needing air. he’d spent every last drop inside of you, his chest heaves on the aftershocks of pleasure, but gods be damned, he isn’t through with you yet. you, crumbled against his chest and fucked positively dumb, he hadn’t yet had his fill of you.

“h-hey, wakatoshi, what’re you—!” your startled shout goes unheard by the god as he forces you off his cock, only to bend you over rear up against the edge of the pool. shivers involuntary wreck your body, your whole clenching and your form already weakened by him. “please, i can’t take anymore, lemme rest a little— gaah!”

he silences you quickly by pushing his fingers into your stretched hole, pushing his cum back inside you as your walls object, already far too sensitive. “didn’t you hear me?” he grins, though you can’t see his expression from behind you. so, he pulls you up by your neck, grinning as he towers over your small frame. oh, how feeble and defenseless you stood before him, your legs couldn’t even support your frame, and it was all because of him.

“i said i’d make sure to fill up this tight little cunt. i’m not just done with you yet.”

© mambalae-s — rb’s+feedback are greatly appreciated!!

[ataraxiaspainting]

Razzmatazz.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader x Yan(?) Hisoka.

[Ultraviolet Catalouge.]

Synopsis: You are a dancer with no stage and no audience. Hisoka’s carrot and stick may just fix that.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, dub-con, cigarette usage, manipulation, mentions of body transformation, religious imagery, mentions of minor character death, humiliation, voyerism, oral (male receiving), masturbation, orgasm denial, the start of Stockholm Syndrome(?), and mentions of past stalking.

Word Count: 5.6k.

Can be considered to be within the Hier Encore universe.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Rich Girl by Gwen Stefani (feat. Eve)

Always Forever by Cults

So Beautiful by DPR IAN

Décolleté by Kenshi Yonezu

Introitus by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Villainous Thing by Shayfer James

La petite fille de la mer - Remastered by Vangelis

Tonight You Belong To Me by Patience & Prudence

Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge 

A Little Death by The Neighbourhood 

*~*~*~*

i. “Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (Matthew 26:41)

A dead leaf is pressed against the balcony window. 

“Dearest? Why are you awake so early?” 

The storm outside must be getting worse. The lightning is so bright, despite the sky itself being so dark. The thunder is getting louder too, and more frequent. Your senses choose to blissfully ignore the devil behind you to enjoy the scene ahead. This apartment is so high up that the tempest feels closer than it would if you were on the ground. A cup of tea is in your right hand. Your left is limp and stuck to your side. 

“Dearest? Dearest?”

The drink is a pleasant shade of light brown, with an even more pleasant vanilla and bergamot aroma tickling your nostrils. After much consideration from Chrollo, you were given fresh tea leaves that came from some expensive store that has locations all over Yorknew. The cost for a measly ten tea bags was ten thousand Jenny. 

Chrollo said it could not be helped to get only the best for you.

It couldn’t be helped, like everything else he had ever done. It couldn’t be helped, like how you escaped nearly two and a half years ago.

It couldn’t be helped, like how Hisoka betrayed you and left you to rot.

Or to burn.

You wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted both to happen to you.

Chrollo’s hands are slow to touch your neck, but his front was already pressed against you a while ago. They feel cold–dead, almost.

His right hand lingers just above your collarbone, while the left pinches your chin gently. His lips kiss your nape, and you resist shivering. While it would not show you are cold, it would show your cowardice. The only way to tolerate Chrollo is to ignore him as best as you can without him getting unbearable. It’s your new strategy, as the old one from back then is now dead.

There are no new sounds. Only the rainfall and Chrollo’s sighs. Then from the distance, you could have sworn you heard a knock. But you choose to ignore that too.

“Come back to bed.” 

“I wanted to see the first spring shower.”

His hands lower. You let him do that. You make him do that. 

“You made tea this early?”

“Yes.”

Chrollo’s chin rests on your shoulder as he looks down at his kneading hands.

“May I try some please?”

Before you can answer, he tips his head further down, expecting a reward for attempting to be a gentleman. You lift your right hand and he takes a few sips. His hands don’t hold the cup. He lets you–no, makes you–do that for him.

“It’s delicious.”

The clock above the living room television reads 01:01. 

The sky lights up as it is forcibly torn apart. The clouds have yet to show the dawn’s colors, and you suspect Chrollo would like it to be that way forever.

“It’s good… very good,” The praises fall from his forked tongue like morning dew dripping from a single blade of grass. “As soon as the cup is emptied, please lay to rest up for what is to come. I would hate to see my darling exhausted. Please…”

You feel three separate sensations behind you. They do not all come at once.

“Let me grant your request fully on my end, and you shall fulfill it on yours as well.”

The first is the feeling of the pain of pleasure. It came with the start of more pecks on the back of your neck. They trace the dark spots Chrollo had left, the ones that have yet to fade. 

The second is the pain of nothingness. It takes the form of a wall to remind you what he is and what you are.

The third is the pain of having company.

It exists as a reaction to the erection pressing against your lower back.

ii. “When the devil had finished all this tempting, he left him until an opportune time.” (Luke 4:13)

You started wanting to smoke again. 

A few days after you were brought back here, the craving for pitch-black smoke arrived due to no Sebaste being here to keep it at bay. He was not your only source of light, but he was the brightest one. Bedside lamps, the lit windows of buildings up high, the moon… nothing compares to someone long since withered away. You can still see, but not as good. Even the cigarette lighter from the night you met, the last memento you have of him, pales in comparison. 

The path ahead you still know, but just barely. You have no plan, no map, no route for what is to come. You are not acting like a rabbit running from a wolf, fearful and skittish, but you are alone nonetheless. You have more desires than just to live, though. You don’t let yourself be caught, but you still sneak into the hunter’s lodge to eat whatever scraps you can find. 

You refuse to let yourself fall into ruin but tempt the thought that your captor will. 

You tempt him like forbidden fruit so you can reap whatever rewards come next.

*~*~*~*

Shadows cover the better half of Hisoka’s body, but even then you know it is him. “Hello, princess. Fancy seeing you here.”

The edges of your mouth move downward, but you hold in what you want to say.

The grip on your shoulder does not cease entirely, but enough for you to slip away for a moment. The smell of grass and pollen is fresh as petals dance in the air.

Your skirt flows with the wind as you walk slowly, carefully, towards the familiar stranger. This country is known for having what is known as “The Eternal Solstice”, and so your white dress is the perfect last addition to this perfect painting. You’ll send the artist your regards soon enough, he is right in front of you after all. 

“Number Four.” Your voice is not cracked so much that Hisoka would not be able to hear you, but still enough for you to attempt to clear your throat after those two words are spoken. “What are you doing here?”

“The same reason you and the boss are here.” Between the index and middle finger on his left hand, two cards are stuck. The Queen of Hearts and the Ace of Diamonds.

“You’re lying.” The response is more immediate than you would have liked, but your anger overtakes your want to be cordial unconsciously. 

“Am I?” Hisoka asks, putting the two cards on his palm and pressing his hands together. In an instant, they are gone. “Why else would I be here then?”

“You want to mock me.” You hiss, gripping onto your skirt so tightly that the delicate fabric may break. “After everything I told you, after everything I did… you stabbed me in the back.”

A sigh. “And here I thought you would hear me out. Sad, really.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Oh? Is it?” You choke on your words in an instant when you see a familiar silver cube no bigger than the length of your pinky in Hisoka’s right hand. “Remember this?”

Your eyes don’t possess as much rage now, and their gaze lingers elsewhere. The clown chuckles.

“That’s my girl.” He uses his thumb to open the lighter and then uses the same finger to amit a weak flame from it. “Come closer.”

You do what he says like a puppet on a string.

“Put out your hand, lovely.” You obey. When Hisoka’s own approaches with your treasure, your eyes light up. 

…

It is only one word that stops you from moving entirely.

“Cigarettes.”

iii. “And give no opportunity to the devil.” (Ephesians 4:27)

Like church bells, Hisoka’s offer rings in your ear longer than you would have liked. The words said are worse than a parasite, clinging onto a body long after both are dead.

They refuse to exit. They simply sit and stay. No matter how much you attempt to kick them out, they always come back.

“What do you think of the deal, my love?”

Ah. Should you make your real feelings known? Or simply play pretend?

In Chrollo’s world, though, all his mirrors are shattered, while yours remain whole.

Everyone lies, but only you are figured out one way or another, sooner or later.

“I think we should accept.”

iv. “When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.” (James 4:3)

“Ladies first.”

You follow the scent of candles and the temptation of a past where you were not content, but happy.

The start of the path is the bedroom’s doorway.

Something else drags you to the bed. Something foreign, but just something as well known to you as unbuttoning the front of your dress. It waits. It is patient. It is alive and here and oh so very excited.

Lust. It gathers from Hisoka and Chrollo… and you. It is the weapon you used to use against everyone to further your own goals, but now the sword’s blade is pointed at you.

You feel the sensation of Hisoka’s hand on your ass, and it stays there.

“Get moving, princess.”

Something looms over the bed. A shadow darker than the night’s sky itself. It stares at you with a singular eye–the orb brighter than the full moon outside. You blink, and then it disappears.

You then sit at the very corner of the bed in wait, crossing one leg over the other. Your movements aren’t as robotic anymore–they feel… raw, animalistic almost–and you hate that, but love it. 

The shadow lingers over you once more.

Love it? Have you truly fallen this far?

You, who has lost it all. You, whose soul is now stained with the blood of those you despised and adored. You… loving this feeling?

This isn’t you.

This is wrong, you tell yourself. Your entire life has been all about self-preservation. After being kidnapped, that want only grew and grew.

Has being on the run for two years made you this soft? This pliable?

Disgusting. This is disgusting. You are disgusting.

“Just do what you two normally do,” Hisoka says, crossing his arms as he sits beside you. “I’m all for it.”

Chrollo’s hands lower as his back bends forward, and you raise your hands.

He’s gentle as usual, kissing the air around your left earlobe to ease you further into this.

Button after button, the black dress gets a bit looser. The dress is put above your face like that of a bride’s wedding veil. Wait, you think, it is more like the attire of someone attending a funeral. You like this idea more after pondering on it. It ensures for at least some time you still have hate in your body. So, you love the touches no further. Your posture goes back to that of a statue.

Chrollo is the first to say something about it as soon as the dress is fully off, allowing him to see your facial expression and body language. You aren’t looking into his eyes anymore. Your legs are no longer crossed. Sebaste really made you vulnerable, didn’t he? He posed no threat to you then, but he does now. He does now. His palms no longer caress your cold heart, but his ghost curses it with warmth only found within hell’s flames.

“Are you thinking about him again?” Your eyebrows cast downward as you look at his feet. The heels of them connect and then spread out. It reminds you of a flower, in a way. “Well?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chrollo knows this line well. Every time he mentions that man, you recite it like a preacher or an actor.

You want to believe the lie that you speak of all the same. You want to delude yourself so you regress into the calculating being you once were.

You don’t want to get hurt again. He can understand that. So he keeps himself from mentioning Sebaste any further for the night. As a bonus, Hisoka’s fun won’t be ruined.

You really have bloomed, he thinks. All it takes is a bit more time to see you at your most beautiful.

Not that you never were beautiful, of course.

“Ah, my apologies.”

He steps to your left side and grasps at the clasps of your bra. He treats each one delicately like they are gifts from the divine. Would he betray them, if they existed and he believed? You would ask, but you’re unsure as to if you would like the answer he responds with.

“You’re forgiven.” You nearly huffed.

Hisoka thinks that reaction is adorable. Unlike what the rest of the Troupe may think of you, you are just a small child in an adult’s body. Your wants are simple, and so are your tantrums when you don’t get what you want.

“Careful,” He says, his smirk wide.

“I know,” Chrollo responds, his eyes only on you. “You wouldn’t let me go anymore if I didn’t apologize here and now.”

So he’s being ignored now?

“Get it over with,” You almost hiss, looking back at both of them. “Usually you’re much rougher than this.”

Hmm? A facade?

Hisoka considered this when he asked for Chrollo’s consent. Chrollo has no real identity, he knows that well. So because of that, he isn’t surprised.

“You know why I’m taking this nice and slow, don’t you?”

You don’t say anything for a while after that.

Your arms are no longer raised when Chrollo pulls your bra off of you. Your midriff’s rolls coil into one another as your spine proceeds to move further down until you are at eye level with Chrollo’s pant’s zipper. Hisoka stifles the urge to laugh when he hears something akin to a pig’s snort coming out of you. You’re cute.

Quite cute.

Revulsion is something most things have experienced, and you are no exception. It’s bitter, like the blackest coffee, but also sweet and sour like a whole lime was cubed and boiled in a pot with it for hours until it turned into a blob of horrid distaste. After all, unveiling your captor’s erect cock was not for the faint of heart. Hisoka really cannot blame you for everything you have ever done to get away from Chrollo.

Perhaps he should join in on the action, just to feel some of the poison’s effects.

Chrollo takes off his shirt and throws it to you. That’s the signal Hisoka needed before undressing too. Even though he will not be touching you, he will have to be careful to not be too pushy with you two.

“Have you heard Magcub got a new girlfriend?” Hisoka crushes a speck of dust between his sharp nails. “Apparently she’s a veteran. Must have taken a bit of force to get her under control.”

“Why exactly did you agree to this?” You ask, grasping onto Chrollo’s forearms and having your nails dig into his pale skin. He doesn’t seem to mind, as he is more focused on already kissing your neck. 

Hisoka doesn’t know if this is a form of rebellion or pettiness, but either way, he cares as much as Chrollo does–which is not at all.

There is a dark red lipstick on the vanity, still open and no longer having any edge. In fact, it looks like there are only a few more days worth of use left in the tube. You must use it quite often. When neither of you looks, Hisoka points with his Nen in effect. It flies into his hand like a domesticated bird. 

He stores it in one of the pockets of the pants he so eagerly discarded from his person. For a moment he expected Chrollo to turn and demand for him to give it back, but instead, there was still no reaction whatsoever. 

“You don’t let me smoke at all, so why?”

Chrollo sits down next to you, sliding his hand up and down your thigh. “To be completely honest, I see this as a mutually beneficial situation. All parties involved get rewarded for their sacrifices, no matter how small.” He brushes some of your hair with his fingers. “You get your cigarettes, Hisoka gets his… delight, and I… I get to feel heaven once more.”

Heaven? Well, if your voice can be seen as an angelic choir, who can stop him from praying at your altar? Hisoka certainly cannot. Chrollo is the only one who can choose to no longer claim to have sanctuary there. 

You don’t have the power to strike either of them down.

“Tch. If I were a seraph, I would have never let darkness like you thrive in this world. Never.” Chrollo looks up at you and touches the bridge of your nose with his finger. “That I promise.”

“Hmm,” He murmurs. Then, a shake of the head. “You don’t mean that, my love.”

“I do.”

Your hands are trembling. Your mouth feels dry. Your head hurts.

“Why do you enjoy hurting me?”

“Can you hurry?”

His head turns to the side. The gesture can be seen as a heartfelt one by many. “Are you feeling less prudent this evening, darling?”

“You’re being quite ungrateful, you know.”

“No.”

Chrollo’s expression doesn’t change. For what feels like forever, his lips are so close to yours that you can smell the mint in his breath. But for a moment, you could have sworn it was smoke instead.

Your brain must be playing another trick on you.

“Am I the only thief to have ever indulged with and in you?”

You don’t answer then, either.

Hisoka starts to stroke his cock–it’s covered in green veins with the end getting pinker and pinker by the second. His hands then rest on the part of the bed neither of you chose to take, the left side. He bends backward as he looks down at himself, proud. He groans.

“You’re pushing the bed.” You glare at Hisoka as you spur out angered words without a second thought.

You’re avoiding talking about your feelings again. Hisoka knew that you refused to even when you were with Sebaste. He considers bringing you to an aquarium when Chrollo is busy, but then he buries the idea. Perhaps that would be too cruel. As much as you hate Hisoka, Hisoka enjoys your company too much–and he doesn’t want Chrollo to take you away.

Not yet. Not now. Not ever. While he could have not ratted you out much, much later, after you and Sebaste married, perhaps, Hisoka wanted to see you more strung up.

As a bonus, Chrollo was very pleased with him, further cementing his reputation among the other Spiders.

Hisoka decided not to kill you to enrage Chrollo, so it was the safest option in all aspects.

“Fix it.” You demand. With your lips busy, Chrollo decides to kiss your neck instead.

Hisoka puts his arms up with a mockingly innocent expression on his face. “Very well, princess.”

Your nose wrinkles again.

“Eyes on me,” Chrollo whispers as he pecks softly.

Hisoka isn’t sure if you heard the man, because as he moves the bedframe back to its original position, you continue to seethe.

Your wrists are grabbed and dragged above your head. That quickly gets your attention. You look at Chrollo wide-eyed, but not surprised.

The vow isn’t sealed with the sudden kiss, but it is a start. With your mind hazy from everything, you kiss back.

I don’t want him, your brain almost screams before it goes unconscious. [First] [Last], the woman who has led many people to their demise by being selfish, wanting to be ravished by the very man she abhors? Pull yourself together, and call off the deal.

Your near-dead heart beats once more when Chrollo touches you, though.

I feel alive.

His tongue is an intruder in only name. It swipes across your teeth and picks up tiny pieces of fruit with every crevice it overtakes. Before it dies, your skull demands you to bite. Spit. Run. But you want to be here, so you don’t do any of those things. 

Not like you could have, anyway.

“How beautiful,” Chrollo murmurs as his tongue collides with yours. “How soft.”

You aren’t pleased with his teasing. “Just make it happen.”

“Oh, how you have thawed,” His mouth retreats upward to your ear, hissing and rattling away. “You’re so eager now, dearest.”

His fingers let go of your wrists, wandering down to your stomach, your hips, and then your ass. He squeezes the flesh as he takes your greedy tongue yet again. His hands move up slightly as he pushes you onto his lap. Your knees sink into the bed with a slight creek of the mattress. Must be the coils. Or the bottom of the frame.

Or… was it you, somehow?

“Careful you don’t fall, princess.”

Hisoka is now facing away from you two, his chin in between the only two pillows you use. Perhaps he knows that, either from the smell they give off or how they are both one of your favorite colors.

But somehow, someway, he knew what you two were doing, in typical Hisoka fashion.

Well…

It’s not like either of your actions are vague.

“Chrollo…”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Can… you hold my back?”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow as he nods his head. “Of course.”

His left hand caresses your spine as you bend backward. Has all that ballet training stuck with you, even after these few years? Chrollo has the answer already in his smiling brain.

Two fingers on the free hand coil up, while the middle, the pointer, and the thumb remain as straight as a line. Two tips enter and curl while the third strokes up and down and side to side. Your clit follows your heart, accepting the guests with open arms. The lips clench, not wanting to let go.

“You always took them well,” He chuckles. 

Shut up. 

Shut it.

But your mouth is nothing without its brain, so it continues to moan while your heart continues to live for the chase.

“Don’t… Don’t stop,”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Hisoka hasn’t said anything else for some time, and you all know you hope it continues to be that way. He continues to sniff the pillows as he rubs himself against the mattress. You make a mental note to ask for cleaning service tomorrow, or maybe if Chrollo is in a good mood he will do it.

“I… I’m close, I’m so close, I…”

“Not now.”

You fool. You should have never made that deal.

“Don’t be upset. I’ll let you eventually.”

“Please…”

You squirm as you close your eyes, in a desperate attempt to hide what you have become. A prideless harlot bouncing on her captor’s lap. Can you really fall further into hell now? You are already so below that the morning’s star is nearly invisible to your eyes.

“Patience is a virtue, darling.” He says as if that would change anything about this situation.

When Chrollo lets go of your back, you almost crash onto the floor below. 

“Careful now,” Hisoka teases, still not looking back. “I told you so.”

The words aren’t noticed, because now you are busy rubbing your inner thighs together for some sort of pleasure.

Chrollo shakes your hands off his shoulders, and then you collapse.

For the first time in a while, you feel physical pain. You don’t feel your heart dropping or your mind going hazy or both being tempted by unimaginable things. No.

For that reason, though, it only hurts for a moment.

Then…

Then, it is gone.

Now only pursuit remains. You’re on your knees in an instant and attempt to stand. A hand plays with your hair and keeps you where it wants you to be. On the ground. Desperate for a single note of sweetness in a flavorless black sea.

Bitterness as well.

Then, the need to pursue leaves your body as it knows what is going to happen next.

Bliss.

Warmth.

Harmony.

…Self-destruction.

How unfortunate for you, that that the last thing is all your heart wants.

You open your mouth not for the first time or the last time this evening. Your imagination envisions all the desserts and drinks you have downed using the same tongue, and the same lips. Half of you is disgusted at the thought. The other half does not care in the slightest.

The member slides in like it belongs there–like it is part of you; somehow, someway. It’s as salty as the sea, not having the taste you wanted in the slightest, but you allow it to continue pressing against your hard palate. 

He thrusts up and down. Precum pools below your tongue and stays until you can’t breathe. You swallow it down in mere moments.

It’s thicker than syrup would be, but it is just as sugary. The smell is pungent like chlorine, but not as irritating. 

“Simply lovely,” Chrollo looks up at the ceiling, a light pink blush on his pale cheeks. “You always took me so well.”

A few minutes pass.

But… to you, it feels like just a second or maybe three.

Chrollo groans one more time as he orgasms, warm liquid running down your throat as his cock plunges in and out of the dark at least ten more times.

Then it exits, signaling the end of the fourth act.

Chrollo pats his thigh and finally allows you to stand up. The mattress sinks again as you climb on top of him. Once more Hisoka hears the creak sound. The source of the sound is still unknown to him.

“You’re so wet already, darling.”

Chrollo moves his hands to your legs as he pulls them apart and sees the sweet pleasure point in between. 

His thumb goes up and down, playing with the tiny tip as you spread yourself further on his lap. 

But… But…

But Chrollo doesn’t lift his hips to connect you two? But Hisoka is still fucking your pillows to his heart’s content? But you still haven’t seen any proof of either of them bringing the cigarettes? But Chrollo hasn’t made reservations to that restaurant you wanted to go to? Or…

You don’t know where you were going with that thought, that “but”.

It fades like morning’s dew falling from the grass into wet soil. It is so miniscule. So insignificant. Its destiny was made from the start. It has no use in this world; it is just a sign of something that has already happened.

You grip onto Chrollo’s shoulders for dear life, like you will fall into the depths of hell should you lose the embrace. Should… you lose yourself here, on this bed, it will mean the death of you.

“Your hands are cold.” The only thing that moves is Chrollo’s eyelids moving up and down.

“Why did you stop?”

“Hm?”

“Why… did you stop, Chrollo?”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Isn’t it normal to take breaks before resuming sexual activities?”

He’s lying; you can tell by the way he smiles and looks up at the ceiling again.

But… you don’t tell him you know.

You. Don’t Say. Anything.

“Calm yourself, dearest.”

His voice is as sweet as ever, you think.

Sometimes, when you are good, it takes all the bad feelings away…

Oh. Oh. You didn’t realize you were crying. You didn’t realize panting, hyperventilating.

“What… How long will it be?”

“Don’t worry,” Chrollo whispers, leaning close to your ear. “Only a moment longer.”

When he finally enters after what feels like an eternity, your eyes roll to the top of your head.

v. “Do not let your heart turn to her ways or stray into her paths. Many are the victims she has brought down; her slain are a mighty throng.” (Proverbs 7:25-26)

The clock above the bed frame reads 23:03.

You hug your pillow as you turn your body to the right.

Hisoka is no longer here, but the pressurized point on the mattress is still warm when your fingertips graze the middle of it.

A pair of arms caress your torso in a sort of hug, gently dragging you backward. A recognizable tongue slithers up and down the back of your neck. The bruises there don’t hurt anymore, but you are certain they will be harder to cover up than the others. You can see from the corner of your eye that the bathroom light is on and that the bathroom’s door is wide open. 

“What is he doing?” You mumble, putting your face further into your pillow.

You already know the answer, however–as much as you attempt to forget the obvious fact and the burden of your imagination. Then, you hear them both moan at the same time. At least you think so. You could have just thought up Hisoka’s since he is farther away, but Chrollo is right behind you.

“You did good…” Chrollo whispers, pecking your left shoulder.

“Of course I did.” You huff. “I never let down people who keep their word.”

You then hear the shower’s water running.

“He’s going to waste all the good water,” You grumble, rolling your eyes. “I wanted to take a bath.”

“You could always join me,” Hisoka says, his voice nearing exclamation.

You sigh. Of course he can hear you.

“I’ll pass.”

“A shame.”

The door then closes.

You sit up from the bed and pull up the blanket just enough to cover your privates. “He isn’t staying for the night, is he?”

The man beside you balances his head with his right arm, looking up at you.

“...Is he? No?” You ask. Chrollo’s only response is to pull the blanket back down. “Yes?”

“No.” He finally responds, laying on his back. “Knowing him, it’s safe to assume that he’ll be gone by midnight. Unless you ask him to stay, though I highly doubt you would. But he does have a soft spot for you, you know.”

“Mmhmm,” You groan. “If you say so.”

The front of your head suddenly aches. You rub your temple, scowling.

“What’s wrong?” Chrollo’s head tilts, and for a moment you can see something akin to concern on his face. It’s close to the real thing–too close for your liking. When looked at at just the right angle, all its flawlessness fades and only the uncanny characteristics remain. 

Your response is nothing less and nothing more than the slight creak of the bed frame as you turn to your bedside table.

Cigarettes. At least twenty of them. There couldn’t be more than thirty, though. But they are real cigarettes. Not the fake ones Chrollo attempts to place between your teeth whenever you ask to smoke. Not the bubblegum he gives you after a particularly heavy meal whenever you ask to go outside and sit somewhere near a person using a cigar or cretek. 

No, they’re real and here and they’re yours.

“Nothing,” You answer, sighing again.

You feel the part of the mattress that is behind you dig deeper. Chrollo inches closer and closer until the little bit of distance between you is a mere dip. Then it turns into a line so small not even the tip of your pinky finger can fit. The hug is more unbearable than it was before.

But then the discomfort goes away. Something in the back of your mind realizes that this, everything that this is, is horrifying. Nothing hurts you anymore, but everything can be much worse now.

Everything can be so, so much worse now. Dead anchovies piled up high in fishing markets will remind you of Sebastian's last moments, his unblinking eye still staring into you.

Smoke made of nicotine will remind you of Hisoka now, and not the beach where you met the love of your life. 

Train tracks, yams, calamari, roses, wine, lipstick, bookmarks, purses, wallets. Lighters, phones, card games, video games, computers, scarves, sunglasses. Being grasped from behind and being pushed and slapped around.

“It’s been forty-five minutes.” You say nonchalantly, almost bored, after a while, after looking up and behind you to the clock. 

Chrollo doesn’t respond–he doesn’t have to. You already have enough pieces to put the puzzle together on your own.

“He wants to stay,” You close your eyes. You don’t take deep breaths or quick breaths, just hardly notable ones. “Doesn’t he?”

Silence.

You know if Chrollo did respond, it wouldn’t be anything as nice as a “no” or a “yes”.

“Fine,” Your heart rate slows, but you attempt to not show it. “Don’t tell me.”

The silence isn’t as eerie as Hisoka’s laughter, but it still grasps around your neck just enough for you not to breathe normally. 

You don’t say “good night” to people anymore–that right is only reserved for those long since taken by death.

You hope it will be at your beck and call too, one day.

Something already is.

It is only a matter of time before you know what it is.

One day, when you either eat or be eaten.

One day, when all of your patience finally comes to fruition.

One day, when this play’s final act plays out in front of an unwilling audience.

One day.

[kikunai]

Limbus Company Canto VI's insane foreshadowing, callbacks and details

(AKA really fucking good and consistent writing)

these are details that only make sense when you play canto 6 for the second time. spoilers alert.

.

.

.

Mirror world shenanigans:

you can hear Heathcliff?'s pitch dropping slowly before the reveal (6-33/EP35)

T Corp residents carry timepieces as personal identification (6-03/EP4) but they do not have them, not even their chains. (6-18/EP19)

Dead Rabbit boss and Heathcliff have around the same height, which is very unusual as PM has diverse heights for different characters

DR boss calls his gang "Mad Coney" at first (6-10/EP12) [though this may be a nickname]

in the conversation between DR boss and Heathcliff (6-10/EP12), the former has an uncanny deep understanding of his past.

Faust:

<… Sometimes, Faust looks like she's pausing to look at something before speaking.> -- Dante (6-25/EP28)

Faust makes an indifferent noise when 1. Ishmael and Yi Sang observed that broken mirrors were heard when dead rabbit henchmen die (6-18/EP19); and 2. Heathcliff? mentioned he watches Hindley dies every time (6-33/EP35)

Lightning strikes:

"… A momentary musing reveals that a strike of levin brings about a sensation that is not unlike the joy of fireworks. It fills the dark and cold void of the night sky with its incandescent brilliance, even for a brief moment, before fading away into oblivion." "… Right. And in exchange, it loses everything it has, burning and leaving nothing but ash behind. What joy is there to be found?" -- Yi Sang and Heathcliff (6-07/EP8)

Each strike of lightning is a blessing… For it signifies that you have a place in her heart. -- Linton (6-36/EP40) The thunder of every lightning that struck the manor… was the sound of her breaking heart. With every heartbreak, the lightning strikes. The pain, the bereavement, the shock… are all manifest as lightning, then darkness. Thus, the lightning only indicates that the person in question was so important to her… -- Linton (6-37/EP41)

(before the funeral) "I was never once 'rich' in this manor. I wasn't even allowed to be content. Not even for a moment. And this manor. This manor never accepted me, not even for a—" (6-07/EP8)

"No… this isn't at all what I… I…" "Come back, Cathy. Please…" "Hear my voice just this once, Cathy!!!" -- Heathcliff (6-12/EP14)

"You were the first to leave her, yes… but I assure you, it was certainly for the better. Because she would have… left you first if you hadn't. Because she would have grown tired of you!" "Tired… of me…?" --Linton and Heathcliff (6-21/EP24)

Hindley dying (6-32/EP34)

Heathcliff distorting (6-34/EP37)

Linton dying (6-37/EP42)

Nelly defeated (6-46/EP50)

Heathcliff stabbing himself with the golden bough (6-47/EP51)

Heathcliff dismissed Catherine's feelings when conversing with Yi Sang. It was supposed to brighten Heathcliff's heart, to bring him joy, yet he believes it is nothing and leaves nothingness.

Colours:

Heathcliff mentioned he likes the colour black as "the colour you get when you dump an entire set of paint into a bucket [...] And that's exactly why I tolerate it. Keep throwing paint over paint over paint… and you get black" (6-05/EP6)

"Thus, I have journeyed to this world. To devour every one of those hours. So that you may be stained with the same despair that painted me…" -- Heathcliff? (6-34/EP36)

"Endless vortex of colours, mixing into a sludge. A splash of grey paint over the heart that once gleamed violet. A splash of bloody red paint. Splashes of faded colours. Again and again… until there was nothing but blackness. Unseen by all. Unnecessary to anyone. The colour of the pitch-black night -- The colour of the Backstreets." -- Heathcliff (6-46/EP50)

[ Not a single color remained in the silent Wuthering Heights once the tempest passed. All monochromatic, save for patches of color. ] (6-48/EP53)

[ Come back, Heath. To the manor where the last vestiges of its beauty remain in its violet flowers. ] (6-01/EP1)

Colours are a synecdoche of Wuthering Heights, their impact and their affluence. After Hindley, Linton and Catherine's death, all it remains was Heathcliff.

Nelly's lies, partial truths and betrayal:

Nelly wrote the invitation letter, with Catherine's remark. "Besides… all she said is that she'd be waiting. She never said she missed me or 'wanted' to see me." (6-04/EP5)

"Oh, pish posh! Ridiculous! I was a Butler in direct service of Miss Catherine. Young Master Linton could plead and beg all he wants, but I won't always be taking his side." -- Nelly (6-11/EP13). This however doesnt mean she wont be against the sinners ("This manor has never been on your side. Not even once." (6-45/EP45)).

Nelly offhandedly mentioned she removed all the mirrors in the estate (6-18/EP19) [before Linton moved in (6-36/EP40)], presumably to make Catherine curious about the capital M Mirror

she doesnt recall Catherine opening the letters (6-18/EP19) nor blaming Linton for burning them (6-23/EP26) [even he claimed to have burnt them, possibly to spite Heathcliff (6-21/EP23)] since she burnt them before Catherine can even see them

Heathers, or Heaths for short:

Catherine spent a fortune to give heath colours (6-08/EP9), though Heathcliff did not get the meaning at first("You're wrong. There was no particular love for these flowers. There was no room, no warmth in that heart to spare for mere flowers.")

Linton brought Catherine a golden flower. she remarked that it was for his own sake, only as if he truly loves her he would have brought a violet flower instead (6-18/EP19)

"Those flowers bloom in places like desolate moors or steep cliffsides, so they may appear more lonely than anything else in the world. [...] All other flowers lose their colours and fade as they wither away. But this flower… even as it withers and wilts... remains the same colour. So when you're gone, I will dry these flowers and decorate my room with them." "Uh… what, like make rings of them flowers? Don't say something so foolish. Why would I ever leave you?" -- Catherine and Heathcliff (6-46/EP50)

"Those Flowers... are called Heath. The loneliest flowers that take root and bloom in the wild moorlands, but they're also flowers that survive no matter what devastating tempest comes their way. They endure it all and wait" -- Heathcliff (6-48/EP53)

Catherine's self sacrifice:

"Because birds are meant to fly. Not to be killed like that. Yes. Birds do not belong in their cages; they are beings born to soar the skies. So I am going to empty this pillow of their feathers." (6-19/EP21)

"… will every Heathcliff in every world find happiness?" "Yes, he will. So… it's not too late. For the sake of every remaining Heathcliff in every world, please, invite us to your world beyond. So that we may kill you first and move on to the next, to kill the Catherine of a different world. Again, and again…" "Then, only then, can every Heathcliff reach his own heaven." -- Catherine and Every Catherine (6-47/EP51)

"I don't love every Heathcliff in every world." "I love you. As you are now." -- Catherine (6-48/in game cutscene)

[ But Heathcliff was no longer trapped in a living dream. Perhaps that is precisely why he could open the door to see a new, wider world. ] (6-48/EP53)

The rose from Le Petit Prince referenced by Demian (6-48/EP53 post credit)

Vergilius:

"I am no longer concerned that, in my desire to fulfill the conditions for every clause in my contract, the manager might be irreversibly… hurt. I would be left with nothing if such a thing were to happen." -- Vergilius (6-06/EP7)

read Leviathan please.

=================

"

"… Where do you suppose he is? Heathcliff." "Miss..." "He doesn't have anything left. I am everything he has…" -- Catherine and Nelly (6-12/EP14) "In a way, we’re all ‘deprived’… and that can change a lot of things. Maybe there are things that we can understand only when we’re left with nothing." -- Hong Lu (6-01/EP1)

[mysweetpoisons]

Deep below the surface

Pairing: Namor/ K’uk’ulkan x reader

Warnings: smut without plot, +18, spit, dominant namor, oral, p in v

Word count: +2700

The massive crafted stone doors are pushed shut behind you, confining you from the stern looks of the Talokanil guards.

The underwater cave is massive, spacious enough to be carved into a formidable palace, the place continues to amaze you each passing day as you explore it through your assigned chores. 

This room, however, you have never been privy to. The majestic throne room that has witnessed uncountable meetings and hearings over the centuries. And, in the center of the blue-illuminated salon is him. K’uk’ulkan. The name his people chant in reverent prayers, dancing salons and upcoming battles. 

The feathered serpent god is sitting proudly on his throne, the halo of sharp teeth at his back adding a literal extra edge to his posture.  

He's wearing that attire. The ceremonial helmet that has excitement running through your veins. You had only caught glimpses of it before, the mesmerizing movement of the colored feathers, the vivid red, green and blue contrasting against the dark gold and the soft glinting of the encrusted jewels. 

Vibrant colors, brown golden skin and rich brown eyes as exhilarating as fresh coffee beans.

No soul is immune to such beauty, especially not yours. But this? Looking at him feels like looking at the sun without glasses. His burning rays weaken your steps so much so that you almost end up toppling over when your knees meet the cold floor.

" My king " you greet with a soft voice and your head lowering in respect. 

" Come closer, surface dweller " 

Feeling a little bold, you decide to crawl to him until your hands reach the step where his feet rest. Your body is perfectly aligned with his middle.

Namor reaches down to cradle your face in his large hand. The gesture is almost sweet until the rough skin of his thumb taps your chin, directing your eyes up to his and sending a shiver to travel down your spine. 

" You have kept me waiting. Tell me, have you forgotten your place?" 

"I'm so-" your apology is cut out short by his tsk of disapproval.

Without speaking, Namor spreads his legs even wider for you to accommodate between them. A silent message that you get straight away: actions speak louder than words.

Instantly, your hands move up his legs, adoring the feeling of his hard muscles beneath your fingers, his skin wet yet still so warm.. exactly like that day.

That day, when the storm clouds had crushed the sky, the thunder struck in a deafening blast and freed the rain to flood. He had appeared among the waves, cloaked as another part of the wreck.  Then surfaced again, on the other side of the tattered board you had been sustaining yourself on. The tempest in his eyes, a mirror of the one surrounding you.

The offer was simple: die to become seafood or live to never come back. While the ship drowned behind your back, you were holding your arms out, surrendering to the cold angry waves to be caught and carried away by warm arms.  

Warm spreads all over your body just like that day as you slide your hands up his thighs slowly. Your fingers toy with the fraying edges of the loincloth he's wearing and then flick it to the side revealing his barely concealed bulge. A sight that never fails to have you licking your lips, those tight and short shorts are as much of a menace as he is. 

You palm his cock through the green fabric, feeling it stir at your touch. You can almost feel his fingers twitching with impatience, the need to fist your hair and urge you on. You continue to tease him, this time with your tongue darting out to lick the straining fabric around his half-hard-on, then nuzzling your nose along the way, following its shape. 

It isn't wise to provoke a god but the truth is that he needn't be demanding because a moment after your own desire to please him has you freeing his thick cock and fisting it almost urgently.  

As precum escapes its head, the tip of your tongue rushes out to taste it, swirling it in your mouth and spitting it right out, the mixed fluids dripping down his shaft as he hisses. You keep your tongue pressing slightly on the leaking slit, opening your lips to bring his head inside your mouth, sucking on it lightly. His large girth already sets an uncomfortable sting in your lower jaw. Your eyes climb up to his, finding two black pools of burning lust that make you squeeze your legs together looking for some kind of release from the kick of arousal in your stomach.

"Is that all you can take?" he mocks " You disappoint me, surface dweller" 

Oh, he knew you could take much much more, he was just being cruel.

Working him down your throat was always a challenge, a challenge you were gladly accepting each time.

So you renew your efforts to fit more of him, setting a pace that has saliva rolling down your chin, willing your throat to reach as far as you can while your tongue continues to trace each vein and ridge of his hard cock, leaving no trace of skin unexplored. Even when you gag and sputter around him you keep going, jerking off what you can't fit in your mouth.

You can see he's close, his chest is heaving, betraying his agitated state, his knuckles clutching the rudimental armrests while his legs part widely, twitching with the need to thrust up and choke you even more. 

To imagine that he wants this almost as much as you do, to think that he needs this, he needs you.. is … intoxicating. 

Having one goal in mind, you start to suck harder, bobbing up and down until tears fall from your eyes and your throat burns. His hand shoots out to fist your hair, catching you mid bob and pushing you even further down when he cums, filling your mouth and throat with his spend and groaning his release while you moan messily around his length, the vibration adding an extra stimulation that prolongs his orgasm, spilling even more cum into your awaiting throat.

Your pussy throbs needily while you clean him off, swallowing audibly any drop that could have escaped your mouth. 

After you have finished, his hand drops down to cradle the side of your face as you catch your breath against his thigh.

His thumb is drawing the line of your jaw when he commands huskily "Open", your mouth obeys him immediately showing that you have dutifully swallowed everything he gave you "Good. You did so good. Now, you think you deserve a reward ?" the rough pad of his thumb pulls down your lower lip admiring the soft pillowy skin as he continues to taunt you seductively "Think your pretty little body can take it?" 

You nod, waiting at his feet for doing it all over again. At least it was what you expected from that very first time. That time (not so far from your arrival to Talokan) when you had hunted Namor, fell to your knees before him and begged to release him from those hideously tempting shorts to please him with your mouth. Since then, he has never been satisfied with cumming once nor seeing you once a day and the sentiment was mutual. You have become insatiable, your desire to touch more of him, to elicit groans or any kind of unrestrictedly lustful reaction from him growing each passing day.

That's why a surprised yet pleased gasp escapes you when he joists you up into his lap.

Namor chuckles and bares you unceremoniously, untying the knot at your neck that holds your dress up. His eyes devour you as his large hands trace your body starting by your neck, following your pulse point down to your collarbone and lower to the sides of your breasts, touching every erogenous zone delicately. He stops at the top of your thighs to spread his fingers, thumbs moving up and down the line of your venus, digging into the flesh where your legs and pelvis meet and sending electric thrills to your core. 

"So soft and warm" his murmur is barely audible, almost as if his words aren't destined for your ears

You feel his hand cupping your heat next, the heel pressing against your bundle of nerves as his fingers easily slide down your slit and press at your sopping entrance.

Your hole clenches and sucks them in greedily, your entire body curling into the abyss of early ecstasy. He must realize this at the same time as you do because his smirk turns devilish.

"Haven't even touched you yet and you've already made a mess of yourself" his fingers sink into your heat, steadily coaxing you open "What's caught you so excited huh?" 

Swift as the snake he's been compared to over the centuries, he catches your eyes rising to his headdress and hears the erratic flutter of your beating heart. 

"Oh, you like this mmm.."- the torture of his fingers dragging languidly over your walls never stopping "Go on, tell me what you think"

"It's so..." you extend your hand tracing the curves of the golden beast up to the feathers and green aquatic leaves, not daring to touch any of it, afraid you will tarnish them somehow just by being so close " magnificent.." your eyes turning back to the god facing you, watching closely and unexpectedly quiet. Sometimes, he can even read your thoughts, but right now you're sure he can read your eyes. He sees through the praise, the amazement and reverence that lie beyond are not purely directed to what sits above his head.

He kisses you then. Pulling from your hair, he connects his lips with yours to capture you in a voracious kiss. His kisses used to be angry, long but measured. Now, they have morphed into life-consuming spells. One kiss was enough to have you drowning in desire, your body invaded by a thirst that could only be quenched by him: his lips, his hands, his cock.

His tongue breaches the seam of your lips, tasting them as he does so, then invades your mouth to fight and defeat yours. Each breath you take against his open mouth burns, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip adding another log to the pyre. It's enough to make you lose your mind, shamelessly mewling while your hips move up and down, fucking yourself on his thick fingers. He parts his mouth from yours and your moans fill the room unobstructedly.

"Hold it" the warning is whispered into your ear, his dark voice electric like the thunder before a storm.

The single tear that falls from your eye at the effort is snatched by his finger, the pearly bubble dissolving in his skin.

"Poor, desperate surface dweller." the chocolate in his eyes is now completely melted "You're so lucky you taste so sweet."

The world seems to fold upside down when you're lifted and turned around, your butt landing on the throne with your legs parted wide open by strong hands.

Next thing you know Namor kneels and plunges his tongue inside you, then drags it out, licking up your slit once, twice and finally, his entire mouth takes as much flesh as he can and sucks, pulling deliciously on your clit and slurping your essence as if he was eating his favorite fruit. You completely forget how to breathe, as your legs start to shake uncontrollably around him and your head hits his throne. 

The mere image of him sucking on your pussy like a maniac at the feet of his own throne is enough to send you over the edge. Your hands wildly reach out to hold onto something as the pleasure turns unbearable. Denied of his lush hair they land instead on the gold shoulder plates, scraping needily on the metal as you cum, crying silently in shock at the suddenness of the white burning bliss that crushes you. He sucks your abused folds one more time and raises.

His hand brings you back to consciousness, squeezing your cheeks and prying your lips open only to spit in your mouth. He doesn't have to say a word, you swallow it all instinctively. 

"You're so dirty " he chuckles satisfied "and you're about to get dirtier, surface dweller"

He engulfs your lips yet again, sharing the remnants of your taste on his tongue as he manhandles you into a position he likes, yanking you down and pushing your knees up your chest with firm arms.

Moaning into the kiss, you feel the blunt tip of his already hard cock rubbing on your sensitive folds, parting them to push against your entrance. Slowly, he eases his head inside allowing you some reprieve before his mercy runs thin and he continues on, burying himself in one powerful thrust, reaching your limit and knocking all of the air from your lungs. The stretch overwhelms you with stinging pleasure, like thorns pricking on your nerves with shocks of bliss.

"Always so warm" he groans, his words fueling the heat in your belly as his lips part from yours moving down to mark your throat.

He drives his hips into yours, setting an unforgiving pace while searching and finding that spongy spot behind your front wall. Guided by your lewd moans he rams his cock into it fascinated by your body fitting more and more of his large cock and squeezing so hard around him. 

He makes you cum for the second and third time of the day, driving into you with such fervor and precision that scrambles your brain and rattles your bones. Slick drips down your cunt and soaks his lower abdomen as wet sloshing sounds fill the room. 

You feel utterly delirious, your gaze dropping to where your bodies are joined, the wide base of his cock splitting you open eliciting another wave of arousal, pushing another horizon of unbridled gratification. 

"Look at me " the pressure of his hand wrapped around your throat snaps your attention back up. His jawline is tense almost as if it was carved on stone, his lips look swollen and biteable and his eyes are so dark you feel like you're falling, your stomach trembling once more as he thrusts hard.

The golden face of the roaring beast seems to goad your febrile state.

"It is said that if you look too much, its eyes can trap your soul for eternity." the playful warning falls from his lips like honey when he notices you're staring "Tell me, is yours mine already?" his final chuckle earning another pained moan from you.

You can't even fathom how to answer that. You hope he doesn't expect a coherent response because the truth is, you haven't been able to think rationally since you had set foot in this room.  

Your walls cling to him and your back arches as you drink every sinful word he keeps bombarding you with. Every taunt, every smile, every chuckle, every hitched breath and moan between you both is vitally consumed as water in the desert. 

The grip on your throat tenses, your pulse point deliciously stroked by his fingers, causing your hand to shoot up grasping his wrist as the pressure in your lower belly starts to rise. Your chest touches his muscular one, your knees getting squished between your chests as he drives his cock even deeper inside you. 

He keeps pounding into you relentlessly until you feel him throbbing, the muscles in his lower abdomen tensing and you're choking on feverish words, the desire for him to fill you up once again maddening.

"That's it" he praises, his voice pierced by want "Keep begging for my cum. How much do you need it?"

You can't control yourself, the pleas that fall from your lips are intelligible, your voice breaking between moans. It only takes two more thrusts for him to reach his peak, his cock swelling and stretching you impossibly, pumping you full of his cum. As he groans his euphoria, his other hand reaches down to draw circles around your sensitive nub. The crease of the wave starts to fall on you too as he's still spilling generously inside you. The orgasm rips you apart. You come so hard you think your soul leaves your body, the only thing it remains is his name on your lips. 

He examines the image before him with voracious yet pleased eyes. Eyes closed, shallow breaths, skin shining with sweat and still stretched around him. You're a fucked senseless mess, just how he liked it.

Thoroughly ruined, a fleeting thought of quiet complaint stuck in your mind: how is it fair that he looks like he hasn't broken a sweat in his entire life when you feel so completely undone, the post-orgasmic haze gripping your mind and body with exhaustion.

He plays with what has leaked out of you, smearing it, making more of a mess and earning a raspy whine from you. 

"You look so good beneath me" Namor whispers while leaning forward, nuzzling your nose with his " This might be your new place. Would you like that? To have me holding you down, filling this greedy pussy forever?"

Your wrecked moan is answering enough.

🌊🌊🌊

Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed it, it would make my day! ❤️

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #03 - Tempest

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #3 - Tempest

Note: This is my little take on Bardam's Mettle and Briar (as the Warrior of Light) taming his yol.

With a shriek of fury, the giant cloudkin lashed out with a massive wing. Briar threw himself backwards, rolling to cushion the fall and twisting to his feet. A gathering of aether formed a shield, protecting the slim half-Elezen from the massive blast of wind the yol threw in his direction. Panting, Briar twisted his hands, gathering the aether and sending it back at the bird.

The yol gave a pained, frustrated cry as the spell slammed into its broad chest, wings flailing to keep from tumbling to the ground. With another shriek, the giant eagle-like bird spread its wings and flapped hard. In a few moments, it had retreated, lost in the stormy clouds above.

Briar held his ground, green eyes darting, looking for a sign of attack. The bird had risen above to swoop down, claws extended several times in the drawn-out battle. After several long heartbeats though, the yol did not reappear.

The half-Elezen stood slowly, moving to pick up the bow that had been knocked sailing when one of his dodges was not quite quick enough. He slung it across his back, still watching the sky warily. He stared when he saw a brief flash of wings as the bird circled the peak slowly. Biting his lip, Briar withdrew the carved bone whistle he'd been given. After a moment, he blew it, sounding a sharp clear note that echoed off the granite. An answering call came from the yol and the bird folded its wings, heading down again but slower than before.

In mere moments, the yol flared its wings and sank its talons into the ground. Settled, the bird flared its crest up, tilting its head to study Briar with keen, grey eyes. Taking a shaky breath, Briar walked forward, reaching a hand and slowly resting it on the yol's shoulder. When the bird just studied him more closely, he smoothed his scarred palm over the sleek feathers. Breathing out slowly, he met the bird's gaze, sucking in a breath as he felt the shift of aether and the sense of a presence solidify.

"Not it," he murmured aloud to the bird. "She."

She was beautiful. The yol was a mixture of greys with touches of purple and silver, like one of the massive Steppe-born storms given form and feather. Even her beak and talons were pale grey turning to black at the tips. Briar could sense a fierce, strong spirit within. She was not cowed nor even 'tamed' by their duel, but she was willing to listen for now. Briar had no doubt she was too proud a creature to serve, but she would aid if she was treated well.

"No less than you deserve," the Shroudborn whispered, lifting his other hand to scratch her jaw gently as the yol lowered her head to watch him more intently. "You are no one's pet and you need a name that shows it."

Cirina had explained the importance of name, the power of names to those of the Steppes. To truly claim their yol, a warrior must name them and the yol must accept.

A flash of lightning and a crack of thunder had both Briar and the yol looking. The half-Elezen huffed a soft laugh as the first cooling drops of rain fell, easing the exhaustion that made his muscles burn. A storm could be a blessing or a danger, depending on the circumstances. The thought made Briar smile as it seemed perhaps a sign of the gods here.

"Tempest," Briar said quietly, looking at the yol. "You are Tempest."

And his smile widened as Tempest flared her wings and her cry rang off the granite mountains, declaring her name to all that could hear.

[perpetuelledaydreaming]

Ivy | chapter twelve

listen to: Jessie’s girl - Rick Springfield | Un Coco - Bad Bunny(playlist here)

warning: violence, blood.

word count: 1.5k

series masterlist + read the next chapter early on my ko-fii!!

Carole Bradshaw would have never said that her son had anger issues. She wouldn't admit it. Bradley was sweet as honey and caring as Goose; he was nothing but kind. 

But two things can be true at the same time. 

When Goose was still alive, there wasn't a school report that said otherwise. Bradley always played nice with other kids, Bradley always made friends wherever he went, and Bradley wasn't shy or rude to other people. After Goose passed, though, things started to look less shiny. 

Bradley got into certain fights. Sure, it might be because someone was picking at a smaller kid, and Bradley acted out to defend him. Carole was never mad over that; she fiercely fought teachers and principals that said she should be upset and that Bradley should be sent to therapy. She knew her son. She knew how he truly acted. He was soft with her; he took care of her. He was more mature than any other kid. He wasn't a bully, he didn't have problems, he was fine. 

Then, one day, Bradley broke a kid's nose. He was only ten. 

He didn't mean to. He just got so angry when the kid said that Bradley wasn't allowed to celebrate Father's Day since he didn't have a father. He got to therapy afterward, and even later in life, when his mom passed away, he still went for a little while. He had recently returned after your break-up when he had made a hole in the wall almost as big as your head. 

It was strange, the things he could recall now that he drove over the speed limit to the base. Dozen memories flying by. 

He remembers his mother crying until she falls asleep. He remembers how his father played the piano as he sang. He remembers how your lips tasted the first time you kissed. He remembers his mother stroking his hair as she sobbed silently. He remembers that night in the bar when you walked away after Jake left. He could remember the feeling of his knuckles beating after he broke that kid's nose when he was ten. He remembers your broken moans. He remembers how you cried the night you left him. He remembers the way you laughed with Hangman that day after a dogfight. He remembers how when you disappeared, so did Jake. He recalls the way you were crying in the shower. He remembers how his knuckles beat when he punched the wall next to his face. 

He now could only listen to his heartbeat, the way it was thundering. It was all he heard. He walked passed the hallways of the base without really feeling he was there. It was as if time had gone still around him. Only his breathing and his heartbeat. His memories. He entered the hangar as if he was a ghost. 

And suddenly, he felt like he had taken his first breath as his amber eyes fell on Jake.

It breaks. It suddenly all breaks. Everything with you it's cursed; it is poisoned. There's no way things can be like before because Jake took it away. He took you away from him. Bradley's heart raced, each beat thudding in his chest like a war drum as his feet began to move toward Jake. A torrent of pain overwhelmed him, his veins twisting like a tempest as he walked toward Jake. He knew what he was going to do, not because of a conscious decision -no- but as he felt the tendons of his knuckles straining against the force he exerted on them. 

The weight of his fists, as if the weight of the world, had transferred into his hands. With furrowed brows and eyes burning with intensity, Bradley approached Jake. 

Jake barely had time to register Bradley; neither Coyote nor Payback honestly knew what Bradley was doing; he seemed okay. They didn't quite understand it. How Bradley pulled Jake by his right shoulder, Jake didn't even get it. His brows furrowed quickly before the first blow landed. A jarring crack filled the space between them, reverberating through their bones. The same pain Rooster had felt before shot through his hand, vibrating up his arm. 

Jake fell on the floor, the metallic tang of blood flooding his senses. He held his nose and then gazed back down at it, blood. He barely had time to wipe it off before Rooster was leaning down to continue, but before he could, Payback and Coyote were suddenly trying to hold him. Jake watched Bradley for a moment, the way Bradley's eyes had turned darker, the way his cheeks and neck were red, the sheer hatred in the way he was looking at him.

"HOW FUCKING DARED YOU!?" he screamed at Jake as he struggled with Coyote and Payback. 

He knew. 

Jake could be better and walk out of there, especially now with Phoenix, Bob, and Fanboy entering the room with concerned expressions. But Jake had had enough. He'd longed for you so much time, and he knew that you longed for him too. If you weren't together, it was because of Rooster, because you were still grieving his relationship with him, and he still loved you. If Rooster had stopped thinking that you owed him something, you would've stopped believing that. Jake wouldn't have had to live from moments when he had to steal. 

You could've been together if it weren't for him. 

"You are so blind, aren't you?" Jake chuckled, blood running down his face. Coyote and Payback turned to him wide-eyed, and Rooster stopped moving for a second as he glared at Jake. 

Everything stopped for a moment, the desperate dance of Rooster on Coyote's and Payback's arms. Phoenix, Bob, and Fanboy stared at them, confused. 

"She wasn't happy with you, Bradshaw," Jake breathed out as he sniffled the blood on his nose. "She was happy with me,"

The silence was deafening as it dawned on everyone present in the room what they were both talking about. Jake's sea-foam eyes held Rooster's amber eyes.

And then Rooster slipped away from Coyote's and Payback's hands.  

"You son of a bitch!"

Jake fought back, his fist cracking against Rooster's jaw, carrying all the anger he had held for months, Rooster tried to strike back, but Jake held his wrist as he gave another swing, his knuckles red after he finished. Grunts and groans accompanied the thuds of flesh connecting with flesh, the sound of the people that surrounded them trying to stop them, and the echo of their thuds ricocheting through the hangar. 

In the midst of it, time seemed to slow down. Jake could see the beads of sweat trickling down Rooster's forehead, mingling with the blood of his busted lip. Rooster could feel the blood of Jake in his knuckles, how it tainted them. Jake could remember the first time that he kissed you. Another punch. Rooster could still see those dog tags in his hands. Another swing. Both of them knew better, and yet they continued. The room became a blur of faces, colors, screams, and tugs of people trying to get them away. Pain merged into the chaotic symphony of the hangar. 

And then, Jake almost crashed into the floor. 

It was a split second. Rooster didn't mean it, one final, desperate lunge. He almost managed to collide his intertwined fist against Jake's already bloody nose. Instead, his elbow collided with something else. 

"Fuck!" you cried as you landed on the floor, holding your nose. 

Both men snapped their heads toward you. The adrenaline suddenly began to ebb, leaving behind aching muscles and battered bodies and concern as they watched you on the floor, blood dripping from your jaw as you watched them. Silence enveloped the room as the two men watched you lay there, panting and bruised, the remnants of their anger scattered around them. Blood dripped from their split lips and busted noses, mingling on the concrete floor of the hanger. 

Jake was the first to lean down while Natasha and Fanboy were already helping you stand up. He didn't say anything, though; he just held your face, examining your nose until he was sure it wasn't broken. His eyes met with yours, and you could feel it, the weight of the heartache and shattered dreams. 

Rooster stepped up after Jake gave a step back; Coyote quickly held his friend and walked him towards a chair, leaving the two of you behind. With tears in his eyes, Rooster glanced at your nose. Guilt tighten his throat, anger seething from his eyes. You could feel it. Quickly you shook your head and took his hand. 

"It's not your fault," you whispered to him. "I'm so sorry,"

He didn't manage to say anything. Instead, he looked back at Jake for a moment. They locked eyes, their shared pain etching lines of understanding on their faces. 

And then, Admiral Simpson came in. 

"WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING HERE?

an: sorry for making you wait so long!! I was super sick in June which left me with little energy to do anything if I was honest and all throughout July, I have been working on moving to DC! Thank you so much for waiting! I hope you enjoy this short chapter! Next one is bigger, I promise.

Taglist: @laracrofted @double-j @inky-sun @alanadetigy @teenwolf01 @beebslebobs @materialgirl01 @daisyhollyxox@piceous21@elicheel @supernaturaldawning @midnightdevotion @hangrymama @ashann7 @maverick-wingman @snap-crackle-and-pop-blog @ebonyhogan24 @teddyluvs2sing @happypopcornprincess @untoldshortsofthefandoms @xxshea-barnesxx @sweetheart-im-the-boss @je-suis-prest-rachel @bregarc @imagineteller1 @abaker74 @lilylilyyyyyy @nemtodd-barnes1923 @loveless-simp @fucktthisworld @deliciouslydisturbed365 @laluneveillesesureux @emma8895eb @tandefeaffe @potato-girl99981 @jstarr86 @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @mirrorball-6 @grxcisxhy-wp @that-one-random-writer @dempy @zbeez-outlet @djs8891

[yan-san-yan]

Wanderer post-Irminsul pre-memories

The Avidya Forest had fallen into an eerie silence. The wildlife, wisdom born of instinct, had retreated to their shelters as the sky wept furiously upon the land. Yet, amidst this tempest, a solitary figure cut through the curtain of rain, his steps as steady as a metronome.

The lone wanderer who had traversed Teyvat, fresh from his stay in Port Ormos, set his way towards wherever his legs would take him.

The snippets of conversation he'd overheard at the port flickered through his mind. Merchants discussing trade routes, scholars debating ancient texts, travelers sharing tales of distant lands— all potential seeds for his next journey.

A sudden squelch and a muttered curse interrupted. Around the bend trundled a merchant's caravan, its wheels struggling against the sodden earth.

"Blasted weather!" the gruff voice boomed. The merchant wrestled with the reins of the sumpter beast. His eyes, squinting against the downpour, suddenly widened as they fell upon the Wanderer.

"By the Archons!” The merchant stared, slack-jawed, as if witnessing an apparition materialize from the very rain itself. “Where did you come from?"

The Wanderer tilted his head, sending a cascade of rainwater from the brim of his hat. His response, when it came, was as calm as a still pond amidst the storm's fury.

"The road behind."

A sound of part disbelief, part amusement left the merchant. “I can see that! But out in this weather? You're drenched to the bone!"

In that brief moment, the merchant caught a glimpse of eyes that seemed to hold the weight of centuries, at odds with the youthful face they resided in. Something about it sent an eerie chill though the bones.

Probably the storm.

"This is nothing. I’m used to traveling alone.”

The merchant shook his head. "Well, you won’t be traveling alone much longer. Hop on. I'm bound for Sumeru City. At least there you can seek shelter, kid. "

The Wanderer stood motionless like a statue. Then, with a slight nod that might have been mistaken for a trick of the light, he moved towards the cart.

"I'm Hakim," the merchant offered, flicking the reins to urge the beast onward.

"A pleasure,"

The cart moved, its wheels cutting fresh tracks in the muddy road. The relentlessly percussive pitter-patter on the canvas cover was punctuated by the occasional boom of thunder—nature's own applause to this impromptu duet of man and storm.

“So, what brought you out this far? An emergency of some sort, or unlucky timing?”

"Just passing through."

The merchant's brow furrowed. "Passing through? To where, if I may ask?"

"Sumeru City,"

A shake of the head sent droplets flying from Hakim's hair. "Well, you’re lucky you caught me heading that direction myself."

The Wanderer inclined his head slightly. "Your kindness is appreciated."

"Think nothing of it." Hakim waved dismissively, though a spark of curiosity still burned. "You’re from Inazuma, aren’t you? Though I must say, you don’t sound like it. Your accent is...difficult to place."

For a moment, the Wanderer was silent. When the answer was spoken, his words seemed to come from a great distance. "I've traveled far."

Hakim waited, expectantly for the rest. But that answer never came.

His gaze darted to his enigmatic passenger, who sat unnaturally still despite the jostling of the uneven road

What a weird kid.

Hakim muttered, words half-lost in the rain "You're a quiet one, aren't you."

The Wanderer's eyes flickered towards him for the first time since he’d hopped onboard. "What would you have me say?"

A huff of disbelief left him. "Oh, I don't know. Where you're from? What you do? Why in the world you're out here in this storm?" He squinted through the mist obscuring the path ahead. "Most folks have the sense to seek shelter in weather like this."

“Oh.”

The single syllable hung in the air, insubstantial yet somehow suffocating. Stunned into silence, Hakim was baffled by the ignorant and seemingly unfinished response. He cast a sidelong glance for the rest of the sentence, but the Wanderer’s eyes were still glued forward, unbothered by the look he received.

Yet again, Hakim found himself with more questions than answers.

Kids these days…

They rode on like this for a while. Noting how the Wanderer's gaze seemed to take in everything and nothing at once.

"Have you been to the city before?" Hakim tried again, breaking the silence once more.

"First time." As expected the response was swift, clipped, like the snapping shut of a book one had barely opened.

"Is that so? You're in for a treat then! The markets, the architecture, the Akademiya... Can’t find anything like it anywhere else in Teyvat."

More silence.

Unease crept up Hakim’s spine like ivy on a brick wall. It was a feeling he couldn't quite name – not quite fear, not quite worry, but a gnawing mix of both that set his nerves on edge.

Who was this kid, really? Why take a shortcut to the city if he seemed content to take his time in this downpour?

Frustration grew at the piling questions. It was like trying to converse with a statue – no, even statues sometimes seemed more forthcoming than this inscrutable traveler. It was impossible to hold a conversation with him!

The cart groaned its protest as it conquered another muddy puddle, sending a spray of earthy water over its wooden sides. Hakim grunted, and his grip on the reins tightened, knuckles white with the effort.

For just a moment, Hakim's eyes were drawn to the rippling surface. In that fleeting instant, he could have sworn he saw a figure reflected there – one that mirrored his passenger's form, but clad in vibrant reds and deep blacks instead of the muted blues.

A chill ran through him, one that had nothing to do with the rain. Why did looking at this stranger inspire a sense of dread deep in his bones? It was illogical, Hakim knew, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had invited something dangerous into his cart.

Enough! he mentally chastised himself. You're letting your imagination run wild, old man. It's just a shy kid.

Hakim shook his head, and the image was gone.

What was he even thinking? Was age really catching up with him? He must be losing his mind…

Clearing his throat to banish the last wisps of unease, he tried once more to start some small talk. "So, kid, what brings you to these parts? You don't seem like a merchant, and you're a bit far from the usual pilgrim routes."

The Wanderer's eyes flickered to him. "It depends. I go where the wind takes me."

"The wind, eh?” Spoken like a traveler. “Must be a mighty strong breeze to blow you all the way out here." He paused, then added with a wink, "Or are you running from something? A jilted lover, perhaps?"

For a moment, a flicker of confusion passed over the Wanderer's face, quickly replaced by that same impassive expression. "No. I seek...knowledge."

"Knowledge?" Hakim's bushy eyebrows rose. He hadn't expected that. "What kind?"

If it's knowledge he sought, he was in the right place.

The Wanderer's brow furrowed slightly, as if he was grappling with a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. "Of myself," he murmured, almost too quietly for the merchant to hear.

Hakim opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. There was something in the Wanderer's tone – a vulnerability at odds with his composed demeanor – that gave the merchant pause.

Rain continued to pour, but the silence that settled between the two travelers was somehow louder than the storm.

He really is just a lost boy…

"Ah, now that's a journey that never truly ends, kiddo. You won’t be the first person nor the last to seek it.”

Sensing the boy’s discomfort, he shifted the conversation elsewhere. ”What's your trade, kid?”

The confusion on his face served as a question in and of itself.

Hakim scoffed. “Surely a growing man like you must eat, even while seeking enlightenment."

The Wanderer's fingers moved to trace the outline of a strange ornament hanging at his chest. It clinked softly, a metallic sound out of place in the organic forest.

"I...make things," he answered slowly, as if tasting the words. "Mechanical things."

"A tinker, eh?" Hakim's eyes lit up with interest. He leaned closer, cart creaking beneath him. "Now that's a useful trade. Say, my wife's got this old—"

A sudden flash of lightning interrupted, casting stark shadows across the Wanderer's face. For a moment, Hakim glimpsed something in those dark eyes – a flicker of confusion, of loss so profound it made his breath catch.

The Wanderer blinked, and the moment passed.

"You were saying?" he offered, his tone neutral but his fingers still worrying at the golden feather attached to the crafted ornament.

Trying to shake off the unease that had settled over him again, Hakim nodded. "Right, yes… You know, my wife's always complaining about this old music box of hers. Maybe you could take a look when we reach the city?"

A small smile touched the Wanderer's lips. "I could look at it."

Hakim grinned, pleased to have elicited even this small reaction.

"Well, kid, it’s a deal.”

***

The bazaar swirled around him - a treasure of sounds, scents, and colors just waiting to be discovered. Yet the Wanderer diligently arranged wares behind a stall. Each fruit found its place in a growing pyramid that seemed to defy gravity, a testament to his dedication to the task he had sought out.

"Higher, boy! Stack them higher!" The merchant's voice cut through. "We need to draw eyes!”

A slight nod was his response. Dark strands of hair fell across eyes that held no spark of self, only the determination to fulfill the purpose he had chosen. Another apple. Another careful placement. Rinse and repeat.

This was why he was here. This was what he had asked for.

A name was called out. The Wanderer's ears strained at the familiar sound.

She was here again.

The call went up from several stalls, vendors and merchants alike waving enthusiastically to catch her attention. It wasn't the eager call of shopkeepers to a potential customer, but the warm greeting extended to a dear friend.

As she approached each stall, Wanderer watched the same scene unfold time and time again. Merchants would press fruits, sweets, or trinkets into her hands, insisting they were gifts. The girl would protest, her hands raised in polite refusal. The vendor would insist more strongly, and she would decline once more, her smile never wavering.

This transaction of generosity and refusal, taarof as they called it, would continue, a custom unique to the locals here that the Wanderer found fascinating. He had learned much these past few days about the place and what kind of people lived here, all by observing this girl.

Kindness was currency, more valuable than Mora, and debts of gratitude were meant to be repaid many times over. Help freely given was expected to ripple outward, creating a web of mutual support and care. Everyone, it seemed, was part of one big family.

It was unlike anywhere else his feet had taken him. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to settle down after centuries of wandering. If it was here he might have a chance at finding his purpose… It didn’t seem as impossible anymore. To learn, and to understand.

But some lessons, it seemed, were harder to grasp than others. The easy camaraderie, the unspoken bonds of community— these were as foreign to him as the strange customs and vibrant colors of Sumeru itself.

Could he really belong among them when they had no idea what he truly was?

The apple in his hand felt suddenly heavy. His eyes drifted back to the Star of Sumeru as she navigated the bazaar with grace and genuine affection for those around her.

A realization settled over him like a cold mist – he was not part of this. He stood apart, an observer, a stranger to the warmth that seemed to flow so naturally between these people.

"Hey–! Have you been standing there this whole time?"

Apples rolled in every direction, disappearing under the feet of startled shoppers. The Wanderer blinked, momentarily stunned as his meticulous work scattered across the cobblestones. He looked down at the round red fruits still clutched in his hands, then at the now empty display.

A heavy, hopeless sigh left Hakim.

"Lad, I appreciate your help, but we can't afford mistakes like this. Those bruised apples will have to be sold at a discount now."

"I apologize, boss." The Wanderer quickly crouched down to pick up the fallen fruits. "My mind was elsewhere."

"Clearly," Hakim grunted. "Look, why don't you focus on restocking from the back? I'll handle the displays for now."

He felt Hakim’s eyes on him for a moment longer, then turned away with a small shrug. He could tell Hakim thought that he was odd, no doubt about it, but he was a hard worker. In the end, that's what mattered in a place like this.

“And no more daydreaming! Got it?” He heard Hakim shouting out in reminder.

By closing time, the day's mishaps had been mostly mitigated. As they packed away the remaining produce, Wanderer felt Hakim studying him with interest.

"You did better this afternoon," he offered. “Keep at it.”

The simple praise sent an unexpected thrill through him. He hadn't even had the chance to demonstrate his true skills, the things he truly excelled at, and yet... he was accepted. Valued, even.

“Thank you, boss.”

Link for the full story

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

New Rules

Part 1 of You Play Stupid Games, You Win Stupid Prizes

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader, Past! Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Description: You feel adrift and lost when your relationship with Bradley Bradshaw crashes and burns around your ears. As quickly as your relationship ended, you're not expecting to find something new as fast as you have. And especially not with Jake Seresin.

Disclaimer: Female!Reader

Warnings: Cheating, Cursing, Sex, Sexual Themes

The content presented in this story is for audiences age 18 and over only. MINORS DNI. I will not be accepting taglist requests from Blank or Ageless Blogs for this story. I do my best to portray adult relationships in this fic. Please do not interact with this story if you feel you are not ready to read about these themes.

Word Count: 5191 

A/N: Without further ado, here is the first installment of the You Play Stupid Games, You Win Stupid Prizes Universe. I hope you all like it! This is going to be a relatively short three-part story which I've been calling the Before, During and After verse.

AO3: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist | Next Part

Rain collects in pools on the metal deck in front of you, droplets skittering into the night. It's quiet, only you, the clouds of your breath, and the drumming of fat droplets as they spatter on the metal deck. The deck roils under you, rising and falling without rhyme or reason in the undulating waves. It’s storming where you are in the Pacific Ocean, not that you can place precisely what longitude and latitude the colossal naval carrier you’re perched on is at.

But you’re miles away from everything that hurt you and even further from everything you love. You’re officially alone. You might as well be a paper boat in a tempest, at the mercy of the sea. But, as lonely as you are, those feelings are the last on your mind. Your mind is hundreds of miles away, wrapped in the sun, the sand, and a calmer, sunnier sea, trapped in a dream that turned into a nightmare. You get jolted back into yourself when an arm nudges you, and a body sinks down next to you on the cold decking.

"Heya, Bitsie." He's amused. He's always so amused, southern drawl stretching every word, including the pet name he persists on calling you by. "Whatcha doin' out here? I don't know if you noticed, but it's cold and rainin'."

"I noticed." Your voice is dull. Two weeks since you've been on dry land. You feel like a stranger trapped in a body you don't know, with a face you barely recognize in the mirror. The first morning on the carrier, you'd nearly screamed at the sight, seeing your eyes in a face you couldn't, wouldn't recognize. It shows in your actions, too, you know. It feels like your authentic self has retreated like someone is playing at controlling your body like a video game character.

"Oh! I know what it is. You miss your Chicken, dontcha? I bet you wish you were huddled up under his wing right now. Well, if that's all, you should head inside and call ole' Roostie. I'm sure he'd jump for joy at hearing your voice and seeing your face."

Hearing someone say your boyfriend's callsign, even a teasing nickname for it, shouldn't fill you with dread, seeping as cold as ice through your veins. If only he was still your boyfriend.

"He's not my anything, Bagman." Your voice is barely audible over the thunder of rain across the deck. You're not even sure he can hear you over the din.

"What happened?" His voice is more subdued than you've ever heard it. 

A flash of lightning rips through the sky, glinting off two pairs of shiny boots as they're stretched side by side next to each other. But you're spiraling, pulled into the undertow of everything that happened. The joy and pain of your latest failed relationship crash over you in unyielding waves as if you're adrift in the middle of the storm.

The dead-eye laser Lieutenant Miguel 'Fanboy' Garcia had encountered had nearly jeopardized the entirety of the Uranium mission. The Uranium mission would have failed without a stroke of near-divine luck. Everyone, from Admirals to the Secretary of the Navy, had decided unilaterally that something like that could not happen again. So you and your team, composed of mechanical engineers and computer scientists alike, had been shipped to Naval Air Station North Island to work with the squadron who’d run the Uranium Mission and improve the lasers, their targeting systems, and their software. 

That was when you’d met Bradley Bradshaw, callsign Rooster for the first time. It was like you were in a fairy tale. A perfect ray of light had shone over his head, illuminating strands of his hair golden. You felt a breeze brush over your hot cheeks and heard bird songs. The two of you had just clicked. It was easy, talking to him, hanging out, flirting. You nearly hadn't believed it when he’d asked you out for the first time. Bradley Bradshaw? Wanting to go out on a date with you? Obviously, you had said yes.

It had been a whirlwind romance. Bradley was precisely what you had thought you wanted in a man. He was sweet and charming. He never ignored what you were saying and was your partner in every sense of the word. The sex? That was dynamite, too. You’d be the first to openly admit you weren’t sexually experienced. But Bradley had never once made you feel less in your relationship. He’d swept you off your feet, starting with your first date and then every day since. You’d gushed to your family on the East Coast about how much you loved him and thought he was the one.

Sure, maybe two months into a new relationship, your only adult one was too soon to be making those overtures, but you fell and fell hard. It sometimes felt like you had been skydiving; he was the only parachute in sight. You'd consoled yourself that at least he'd fallen for you, too. And at least with Bradley, you'd never have to explain why you were leaving on a mission or a deployment. He'd understand it, just as you would when it was his turn.

While your relationship with Bradley changed and evolved and deepened, you'd also come to enjoy working with the other pilots and WSOs on the squadron. Bob, Fanboy, Halo, and Harvard were all brilliant and helpful in pinpointing exactly where the lasers seemed to fail. Their pilots were great, too. Other than Rooster, you weren't quite as close with the other single-seater F-18 pilots.

Hangman, in particular, had been intent on rubbing you the wrong way. His laugh, his demeanor, everything about him had set you off. From the very first day, he'd been calling you Itsie Bitsie or Bits or something like it. And he'd never told you why either, no matter how much you pestered him. You'd given up after a while. He didn't mean it maliciously, and it pissed him off more if you ignored him.

It helped, too, that Rooster had pulled you aside one afternoon when Hangman was being particularly dickish, kissed you until your knees were weak, and whispered in your ear, "Don't worry about him, lovely. He's just trying to get your attention or get you in trouble. I've got your back. Whatever you need to do to get him to stop, I'll help. But, if you're a good girl and can withstand him when we get home tonight, I'll let you sit on my face until you scream and then fuck you until you're all filled up with my cum." That was the end of that conversation, and as your panties flooded, you'd quickly forgotten about Hangman.

As your team and the Daggers blended and became cohesive, all those personality clashes also eased. Hangman was great to work with when he wasn't acting like a dick, and you always laughed when talking to him. And well, you're only human. You liked the look in Bradley's eyes when Hangman made you laugh. He made you feel wanted when he looked at you like that. You could've sworn that he knew you would only ever go home with him.

The sex was incredibly intense when you'd been polite with Hangman, just enough to send Bradley's jealousy skyrocketing. One incident involving a screwdriver and you in mechanics overalls resulted in fogged windows on a scenic overpass just off base. That afternoon had been especially memorable since base police had rapped on the back window of the Bronco and gotten an eyeful. You had escaped with just a warning, thankfully.

Things changed going into the sixth month of your relationship, your eighth overall in Miramar. Bradley would act the same at work but habitually ignored you when you were at the Hard Deck. He was usually clingy and sweet, always keeping an arm around your waist or kissing your skin. The sudden distance, physical and emotional, had been jarring. By then, your team and his squadron were close friends, decompressing at the bar over copious amounts of alcohol, laughter, and inside jokes. Then there were the nights you’d made plans, and he’d stood you up, calling hours later with plausible excuses. In hindsight, you never should’ve given him the benefit of the doubt. 

In your defense, things had been crazy with the announcement from Admirals Simpson, Mitchell, and Bates of a six-month mission testing out the new software for one pilot, one weapons system officer, and two members of your team, one with mechanical engineering expertise and the other software. The competition had ticked up, and tensions were high, at least for the aviators. The Pentagon selected who would go on the mission from your team and gave the names to the admirals. The Admirals kept the names close to the vest until they selected their pilot candidates. You'd chalked Bradley's exhaustion, frustration, and general downturn in mood to the pressures of being selected as the pilot for the mission. 

If only you'd known the actual reason. 

The Admirals announced the team on Friday afternoon, dismissing everyone afterward. You'd been selected as the software engineer, and one of your closest friends, Mara, was the mechanical engineer selected. Your team had cheered you both excitedly before the admirals called everyone back to order and announced the pilot going on the mission. You'd smiled reassuringly at Bradley, keeping your fingers crossed against your side in a silent plea for him to be selected.

"The pilot on this mission is Hangman. The WSO, Fanboy." 

The words had rung out with a sickening finality. Your head had swiveled so fast to look at Bradley that you'd nearly given yourself whiplash. But no matter how you'd craned your neck, you couldn't find him. You’d battled through the celebrations and raced out to the parking lot, only to see exhaust plumes pouring from the Bronco as he drove away. You texted him, offering to come by his house off-base for combination victory sex for you and conciliatory sex for him and to talk about how your relationship would last while you were in the middle of the ocean for half a year. But he left you on read, and you'd assumed he wanted to lick his wounds in solitude. So you'd left it alone that night. 

You'd messaged him on Saturday, wanting to make the most of any time you had left before you were trapped on an aircraft carrier with only Hangman, Fanboy, and Mara for company. He hadn't responded to those messages either. That had been when you'd started worrying. You'd talked yourself off the ledge of calling the police half a dozen times, imagining scenarios where he'd gotten injured or was drunk and then been injured. Or… or… or. You were half afraid he would think you were overly clingy if you'd called him. You'd slept uneasily that night, worrying about your boyfriend's health. Incommunicado wasn't his thing.

When you woke up the following day, you decided to go to his house. You had second-guessed your decision until 11 o'clock, not wanting to wake him after he'd been so tense for so many weeks. Bradley never slept well when he was stressed about something.

Everything looked alright as you pulled into the driveway behind the blue Bronco that was his pride and joy. He'd given you a spare key a couple of months into your relationship with an open invitation to join him in the house he'd inherited after his mom had passed away. He’d told you with a sheepish, sad, soft smile that it was too big a house for one person. It was an offer you'd taken advantage of before in your relationship, albeit after calling first. As you unlocked the door and stepped in, you'd rationalized that Bradley would be safe and sound if nastily hungover in his bed at the very moment.

The foyer was the same as it always had been, except for the stupidly sparkly and tall high heels sprawled across the floor. Bradley had always been a friendly guy. One of his friends probably crashed at his place. You'd felt for the poor girl looking at the shoes she'd been wearing the night before.

But if he had company, the house would be full of the smells of breakfast and coffee, with his favorite eighties playlist blaring from the kitchen. The house was absolutely silent as you trod up the stairs. You didn’t want to disturb him. You resolved to leave a note if he were sleeping. That resolve had fallen flat when you'd heard the breathy moans that spilled through the open bedroom door. 

Your heart had cracked a little, then the denial set in. Maybe he'd been watching porn? It had been a weak excuse, even in your own head. You had crept forward breathlessly, and that's when your heart shattered into a thousand tiny shards. Shards that had cut into the softness of you. Shards that were still lodged in your chest. He was home, but you doubted the girl bouncing on his cock was a friend. She was gorgeous, with her head thrown back and perky tits jolting with each movement. She was thin and blonde, waspish, her hair long and dangling down her back as he grasped at the silken strands. 

"Yeah, baby, come on, just like that." His voice was a hissed whisper, sweat dripping down his face as he mouthed at her skin, at her flushed pink nipples.

"Oh! BRADLEY!" She'd simpered and screamed, "Bet I give it better to you than your girlfriend ever can. Come on, baby! Oh! Oh! Oh! You give it to me so good. You’re so big!"

"God, yes! She's such a goody two shoes, Britney!" 

The sound of flesh smacking wetly echoed through the room.

“She’d never even been fucked. Did you know that?” His curls were sweat-matted and falling into his eyes. It had been her hand that brushed them away. She’d laughed then, as something sick had pooled in your stomach.

“I had to teach her everything. I can’t believe I took a bet so far!”

Bradley had growled about how much he hated you, that a couple hundred bucks weren't worth six months playing pretend, and you couldn't stand there to hear anymore. If you were a bolder woman, you'd have burst in there and broken up with him on the spot. But instead, you'd driven away as fast as you could.

You'd broken up with Bradley Bradshaw in the parking lot of an In-n-Out hours later over a text message, passed along your affections to Britney, and called her a whore and him an asshole. In a genuinely vindictive turn, you’d told Bradley that Carole would’ve hated the man he grew up to be and then blocked his number.

"Bitsie! Hey, Bits!" Bagman sounds worried. "Are you back with me?"

You loll your head exhaustively to look into Hangman's sage-green eyes. He looks just as worried as he sounds.

"You're crying."

You lift your hand, touch your cheeks, and stare without comprehending at your tear-stained fingertips.

"What happened, Bitsie? You're usually as sunny as can be!"

"Sometimes," You choke out, "the sun gets hidden by a storm, and paper boats get ripped to shreds by the pounding waves."

He tugs you against his chest until your head is pressed over his heart. His hands rub your back, and that's when you let your pain and frustration out. You know it's probably not right, crying in his arms, but you can't help it. He's one of the only friends, or as close as you have to friends, on this miniature floating Naval city, and he somehow feels like home. What feels like hours later, you finally sit back, letting your hand thwap solidly against the metal you’d been resting against. But you don’t hear the sound or feel the harsh sting. A hand gently cradles your head instead.

“I’m okay, Seresin.” Your voice is all stuffy, your head fogged with the pressure in your sinuses after a good cry. It doesn’t feel right to call him by his callsign or the bastardization of it, not when you’ve just sobbed unflinchingly in his arms. 

“If this is okay, darlin’, I don’t want to know what fantastic looks like.” He’s speaking so gently with you right now, proffering one of those typical mom pocket packs of tissues at you. Your smile is tremulous when you accept the tissue, turning your head away from him to honk into the feeble gauzy square like an elephant with rhinitis. You’re sure you look a sight when you turn back, eyes swollen and puffy, with the tip of your nose irritated like always when you’ve been crying and had to blow your nose. He’s still looking at you exactly how he was earlier, though, like a baby bird with a broken wing. Like you're some tiny precious thing that's injured and needs protection.

“You’ve cried now and done your best impression of a circus elephant.” You can’t help your watery giggle when he tweaks the tip of your nose.

“Do you want to tell me what’s happening with you and Bradshaw now?” 

“I don’t know if I can.” Your voice is whisper-thin, and your vocal cords feel like you've gargled glass. "It hurts too much."

"I know, darlin'. I can see it in your face. Wouldn't it be nice to tell someone if it hurts badly? To share that burden?" He's trying to wheedle the information out of you. And you can feel your resolve wavering. But, in the months after the Uranium Mission, Jake and Bradley had become something akin to friends. They had set aside all of the rivalries they'd had before, and while they ragged on each other, it was friendly. Could you destroy that relationship so quickly?

"Jake. You and Bradley just got to a good place. I don't want to change your relationship with him."

"Darlin’, tell me. Remember, we're on a carrier far away from him for the next six months, give or take a couple of weeks." He's smiling softly at you. "I promise I won't punch him in the face when I see him next for whatever he did."

"How can you assume it was something he did?" You ask, tired of seeing all of your faults in technicolor. You don’t argue with him, though, childishly curling your fingers into your palm, leaving only your pinky out. "Pinky-swear on it."

He blinks his eyes at you a few times before twining your pinky with his own. After pumping it twice, like kids on a playground, he just holds your hand captive. 

"There's your pinky promise, darlin’. You asked me why I could assume it was something he did?" He inhales deeply, chewing on his words before he continues. "I know because I've seen how you are when you're in love with someone. They're your whole focus when you're with them. While you were on Chicken's arm, he was all you focused on. I won’t say he consumed you because you paid attention to all of us. But there was something special about how you acted with him. When we were at the Hard Deck for drinks after work, it was like he was your True North. You always knew exactly where he was. You gave all of yourself to that relationship. He's the guy who leered happily at any piece of ass that walked by."

What does it say about you that someone with a reputation for being self-absorbed saw what you couldn't? You chuckle dryly before letting the whole tale spill, every salacious detail, including what Britney and Bradley had been saying about you in the bedroom. Your words finally run out as you stare at the clouds, tracing the lightning bolts as they zip through the ether. When you turn to look at him sometime after the last words have left your lips, he's glaring at the roiling sea off the deck. His jaw is clenched as the lightning makes his eyes shine golden. 

"He dated you because of a bet? And then he cheated?" He sounds angry, angry, and shocked. "He's supposed to be the most decent guy in the squadron. I promise you, I didn't know about the bet. If he made it, it wasn't with me."

"Did he ever bring her around to you guys?" Did you know? You're not sure if you want to know. But you have to. How many of your friends, your colleagues, had seen Bradley Bradshaw make a mockery of you? Condoned his cheating and lying? Had they covered for him? Had Jake? Who made money on you and him?

"Darlin, I would've told you the minute I had known if he had brought her around. We all would have." His eyes seem so sincere and soft as he looks at you. You can see pity on his face. You know it is. But it feels so good. To have a shoulder to cry on, to have someone tell you you're valid for feeling the way you do. 

"Her name seems familiar, though. I think she's one of the badge bunnies that always goes crazy when he plays the piano."

You have to laugh at that. The resulting sound is something insane choked out between sobs. Six months of a relationship and your complete devotion, love, care, and affection, not to mention your virginity, and he picked a badge bunny over you? 

"I'm sorry, darlin'. He's a fool. C'mon." He's standing before you now, blocking the brunt of the pouring rain from drenching you. "It's wet," he wheedles, wiggling his fingers until you place your hand in his, "let's get you inside. A hot shower, something to eat and drink, and a good night's sleep. That's what you need right now. I'll help you think of what to do about Bradshaw tomorrow, ok?"

You let him drag you up and usher you through the deserted carrier hallways, stopping to shield you from prying eyes with his broad back at every intersection. You can only assume what the rumor mill onboard will say if anyone sees the two of you like this. His uniform is colored caramel, rain soaking every inch, and his boots squelch unpleasantly as he walks you to your quarters. He waits, eagle-eyed, at the door to your quarters until you let yourself in.

"Go shower, sweetheart. I'll do the same and bring you some food from the commissary."

"I thought it would have closed by now?" You ask, your voice pitched low since you know from experience that everything echoes in the belly of the ship.

"The Officer's Lounge never is. I have granola bars in my quarters. I'll bring you a few and a cup of coffee. Cream, no sugar, yeah?"

He smiles at you before turning on his heel and striding away. You go about your shower by rote but spend much longer than usual under the hot water. It's all quiet when you step out and dress in the warmest sweats and sweatshirt you've packed in your luggage.

When you open it, you're not expecting anything in front of your door, but there they are. A single hot paper cup of coffee, prepared just as you like it, and two granola bars, the good kind, with chocolate! You eat and drink quickly, feeling hungry and thirsty after your cathartic release. Sleep tugs at you, and the last thing on your mind is that while Jake Seresin may not look like it, he is a sweetheart on the inside.

You wake up the following morning feeling like the night before is a glorified dream. Did you really cry all over Jake Seresin the night before? On deck in the middle of a typhoon, no less? You feel good, really good. Bradley’s betrayal still hurts, but not as much as the night before. You’ve learned so much about yourself; as much as you miss him, you can admit that he is not forever material.

You’re finally starting to see the sun through the clouds mentally, and from what you can see out the portholes, it’s a beautiful day outside. You dress quickly in your uniform and meet Mara for breakfast in the commissary. Your morning is spent far away from the pilots, making final adjustments to the laser targeting system. It's lunchtime before you see Jake again. He's got a ridiculously cocky smile on his face and a pep in his step. 

"Hey, ladies." He's oozing charm as he sits beside you, setting his tray next to yours. This afternoon's flight tests are going to be interesting. He looks like he’s in the mood to fly more recklessly than usual.

"How has your morning been?" 

“Great! Mara and I finally have the laser targeting system ready for the first flight tests this afternoon.” 

You can see the excitement in his eyes at the thought of flying and flying fast too. Mickey, who'd been following along behind his pilot for the mission, takes the seat next to Mara, and for a few minutes, it is just light-hearted chatter amongst the four of you as you talk about the test flight route and air conditions for the first test of the new systems. It's Jake, of course, who shatters the veneer of professionalism by slipping you a piece of paper. Scrawled on it in surprisingly neat cursive are four numbered points.

Don't pick up the phone. You know he's only calling when he's drunk and alone.

Don't let him in. You'll have to kick him out again.

Don't be his friend. You're only going to wake up in his bed in the morning.

If you're under him, you ain't getting over him.

You can't believe your own eyes. Do you laugh? Or do you cry? Jake Seresin just handed you a piece of paper quoting Dua Lipa's New Rules. Laughter ultimately wins out.

"Oh, my god." You've got your hand over your mouth, choking back laughter. Mickey grabs the paper from you, and it's only a few minutes before all three of you are laughing as Jake's cheeks redden with a blush. You take the note back and get yourself under control, using a napkin to blot the tears from under your eyes.

"What's this, Seresin?" You smile at him gently, knowing he meant well, and wasn't trying to make fun of you. He sheepishly runs his fingers through his hair.

"I called my sister and asked what she would do if she was in your shoes. She cursed me out for waking her up at 4 in the morning, laughed her ass off until her husband kicked her out of their bed, and then gave me that list. She said you'd probably know the song, but it was good advice." 

You goggle at him, surprised at the vehement emotion in his voice. You don't notice you've been staring into his eyes until Mickey clears his throat from across the table. Mara and Mickey are smirking at you, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks at the knowing looks they’re giving you.

"Why're you giving her the rules from New Rules, Hangman?" You can hear the confusion in Mickey’s voice.

Jake glances at you, looking for your permission. Instead of letting him tell them what happened, you speak.

"Payback will probably email you about it sooner than later, so here it is. I broke up with Bradley the day we shipped out." You take a deep breath before you spill the rest of the story, albeit without the graphic details you'd told Jake in the middle of the night. Mickey looks disgusted, as does Mara.

Mickey broaches the topic first. "You haven't been yourself since we came on board. Hangman noticed and pulled the whole story out of you, didn't he?" You nod carefully, taken aback at the anger growing on both their faces. 

"I didn't know." Mickey's vehement in his denial. 

"I know, Micks. Jake told me that any of the Daggers would've told me if Britney had been sniffing around and they knew he was cheating."

"Yeah, we would have." He inhales forcefully. "Wait. Britney?!"

You nod, sure you'll never forget the sound of that girl's name pouring out of your boyfriend's mouth as he pleasured her like he was only supposed to pleasure you.

"Shit. I did meet her. He told me she was his cousin from San Francisco. She was supposedly in San Diego for a couple of weeks on vacation. Phoenix backed him up about the lie. She told me she'd met Britney when she and Rooster were in Pensacola for flight training together."

You're aching to sock Bradley in the jaw now. Jake is, too. You can see it in how he’s clenching his hands tight, knuckles growing pale with force. You’ve come to terms with Bradley's betrayal, at least a little. Natasha's betrayal, though? That cuts deep. She was your friend, you'd thought.

As expected of the military, there aren't many women on Naval Air Bases. You, Callie, Callie's wife Meg, Mara, and Natasha had connected fast, taking turns hosting girl's nights and spa weekends. You'd thought the five of you had each other's backs in the man's world you all worked in. Natasha obviously thought differently. 

"Let us help you plan your revenge, yeah? We have six months on a ship to brainstorm ways to make him pay. And that list, it just might be the perfect starting point." Mara's got a devious look in her eyes that promises pain for Bradley Bradshaw.

"I'll brief Callie and Meg on the situation, too, with your permission. Meg will think of the perfect way for Trace to get her just desserts, too." At your nod and a weak smile,  the four of you go on your way. The flight tests will involve all of your concentration, so you put the issue of Bradley Bradshaw in the back of your mind.

When the boys are up in the plane, and the two of you are analyzing all of the data from the instruments connected to the targeting system a couple of hours later, Mara asks you a question in sotto voce.

"Hey. I know it's probably too soon for this, but Seresin's always looked at you differently from other girls flocking to those flyboys when they're in uniform. When the time comes, and you're ready to move on, promise me you'll give him a chance? I don't think the Southern Gentleman thing is an act. He also pulled you out of your funk sooner than anyone else could have."

She's right. Jake had made you feel miles better; he'd let you cry and helped you smile afterward. He'd be so easy to love if your heart weren’t as tender as it is now. You vow then and there to keep yourself from falling for Jake fast and hard. That way means disaster, you know as much after recent experiences. You'd take this burgeoning something brewing between you slowly, if only for the sake of your heart.

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[darklydeliciousdesires]

Softer Pleasures - An EZ Reyes/OC One Shot Story.

Just a little smutty offering I had revolving around in my head. Enjoy!

Words - 1,104

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

“What is it,” she began, sighing as his tongue rolled in a slow circle, “about going down on me that you love so much?”  

He didn’t reply at first, but the raised eyebrow said enough, looking up at her as he sucked gently on her clit. “I’ve never been asked that before.” He continued to suck upon her, laughing a little, entertained that she should ask him such a thing, right when he was in the middle of doing it. “You’re expecting a reply, aren’t you?”

“Mmhmm.”  

“Hmmm.” His tongue flattened against her, dragging over her bud slowly. “Alright, well it feels amazing, tastes amazing, fucking turns me on like you wouldn’t believe, and then there’s the way you react to it. How wet you get, and those little moans. Fuck. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to put my mouth back to making said moans happen rather than talking about them.”

The heat of his mouth had her gleaming as he laved at her once again, the nectar of her cunt saturating his tongue. In truth, words alone couldn’t describe how it made him feel, to pleasure her like that, his heartbeat quickened, skin tingling as little wells of contentment poured through him. And then she moaned again, a seraphim’s symphony to his ears, a summer sonnet of lust, thumbing her clit to gently drag the hood back, the tip of his tongue tracing tight circles, the song of her arousal filling his ears again.  

Pleasure draped over her like the swathe of silk, each flicker of his tongue making her arousal bloom, like summer flowers kissed by the first sun, awakened and reaching towards the light. Each lick was an ember ignited, heat winding and coiling low in her, his breath a hot tempest as his hands stroked over the soft round of her tummy, fingertips flexing as he drove the simmer through her.  

Her panting escalated, her lips parting on a soft cry. “EZ, please, I need...” Her words were cut short by the pull of his lips sucking upon her, the tip of his tongue pushing against her clit, increasing the pressure as she keened against him, her nails flexing against his shoulders. “Yes, like that, just like that!”

He peered up at her, cheeks hollowed, moaning low in his throat, the vibrations from such only adding to the bonfire of ecstasy that crackled up her spine, the burn of pleasure then settling low within her, her soft thighs writhing against his face as his eyes shone gold, his cock throbbing with the need to fill her.  

She drew a breath through gritted teeth, her walls in spasm as her fuse flickered and crackled, primed to explode, his mouth working her hungrily before the desire grew too strongly within him, sitting up and pushing her legs back, her knees pressed to her chest as he skimmed her folds with the head of his cock. He teased her a little before sinking in slowly, spreading her around him, his hands stroking the soft of her thighs.  

He was slow to begin with, enjoying the soaking heat that gripped him, almost every inch of him dragging through her in gentle trawl, his heart thundering as he watched the way she loved it, loved him within her, parting her legs to lean down to her, his lips finding hers. “Fuck, that pretty little pussy is heaven, I swear. God... ahhh.” He was always so overcome to be inside her, and the novelty never wore off.  

It was all languid, like a sensual drip of honey, thick and sweet, their mouths locked as tongues swirled, breath hitched, and moans poured like wine from one mouth to another, her hands stroking the thick planes of muscle that ridged his shoulders. She gripped onto them when he sank into her deeper, gasping against his neck, her teeth laying a soft bite as lightning struck through the marrow of her, EZ sitting up again as speed replaced the slow trawl. 

His gaze fell to watch his cock emptying and filling her, glinting in the low light, creamed with the silken satin of what sheathed him so well, moving his thumb to press her clit, rubbing sweet tingles, his mouth tilting into a grin as she cried out shrilly.  

She tightened around him, a velvet, vice-like grip that began to pull the waves building within him to greater strength, his mouth falling open as he panted hard, rutting into her with more urgency. She began to quake ardently, feeling sparks skittering along her spine and down her legs, moaning contently as he folded to kiss her sternum, moving upwards slowly until his mouth was returned to hers, offering kisses of voracious want.  

Their bodies pushed against each other in heated sync, her legs moving to hook around his waist and grip tightly as she panted against his mouth. Everything became fervidly uncontained, her hands gliding down his well-defined back, the plush velvet of her cunt pulsing around him.  

An upward tilt of his hips as he shifted slightly had her gasping, the hardness within her slick walls nudging different spots and prompting ebullience as she started to glow. His mouth dipped to suck her nipples in turn, a rumbling groan permeating the air, the heat of his cock delicious as she rolled her hips up against him, loving him pinning her there beneath his weight.  

“Ahhh, fuck!” he gritted, driving into her centre in frenzy, teeth grazing the column of her throat, his hips shuddering with effort as lightning struck through him, her own release gathering momentum.

Being unselfish, he kept going until he knew her wails were the siren song of her cresting, her body shuddering against his as she glimmered strongly, wailing into his shoulder. The illumination of golden sunshine gilded her, rays surging through her veins, lighting her up like the darkened horizon at dawn as he quivered against her, cock twitching, pulsing endless, hot waves of cum into her, his groans all grit and gravel before his body slackened, lying breathless in her arms.  

“You know how I detailed why I love going down on you so much?” he asked a few minutes later, still on top of her, stroking the side of her neck as he rested his head against her chest.  

“Uh-huh,” she breathed, still a little spaced out.

“I think I love this more, just lying here with you like this.”  

Truth was, he loved everything about her, every moment, every touch. She knew it, too, lifting his head and cradling his face, offering soft kisses as she hummed with happiness.