#Deep Learning Market size

[yeyinde]

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you. 

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat. 

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks. 

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged. 

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop. 

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you. 

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue. 

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath. 

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh. 

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs. 

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just���

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

[arilevenatz]

Ruthless Desire | C.S

Pairing: King!San x princess!Reader

Genre: Forced marriage

Word count: 19.2k

Warnings: dark stuff, captivity, stockholm syndrome vibes, injury by glass shards, manipulation, san is kinda scary, and hot, the reader is a dancer, yeah I still dk how to do this

AN: If you are sensitive to things like this please don't read it. This has some dark stuff. @kymimi I kinda slipped and wrote san instead of the member we discussed BUT dw I'll write him another one :)

Masterlist

The kingdom of Eldoria was like a painting come to life. Pastel-colored houses lined the streets, their rooftops reflecting the golden hues of the sun. Flowers of every shade bloomed along the cobbled paths, filling the air with a sweet fragrance. Towering trees provided shade to the people who gathered in the plazas, laughing and conversing freely. The kingdom was peaceful, its people content, and at the heart of it all was their beloved princess—YN.

YN was the embodiment of grace and perfection. Her long, flowing hair shimmered in the sunlight, and her warm smile was enough to bring comfort to anyone who crossed her path. She was not only admired for her beauty but also for her sharp mind and kind heart. Unlike the sheltered royals of other lands, YN roamed freely among her people, visiting markets, studying at the grand library, and even lending a hand at the flower fields when she wished to.

Her days were spent in harmony with the kingdom, and her nights were filled with dreams of the future. But even in a perfect kingdom, change was inevitable.

But that was not it. You see, Princess YN had a great talent—one that set her apart even more. She was a dancer.

From the moment she took her first steps as a child, it was clear that movement came naturally to her. As she grew, so did her love for dance. She dedicated a good portion of her day to perfecting her skills, attending classes with the finest instructors in the kingdom. But it wasn’t just about learning techniques or rehearsing steps—dancing was her freedom, her escape, her way of expressing emotions words could not.

In the grand ballroom of the palace, with its gleaming marble floors and towering windows, she would practice tirelessly. The music would swell, and she would lose herself in it, her body moving with effortless grace. The palace staff often paused to watch in quiet admiration, for when their princess danced, it was as if the entire world held its breath.

But YN never danced for attention or praise. She danced because it made her feel alive. And if she had it her way, she would dance forever.

But beyond the peaceful lands of Eldoria, past the rolling green hills and glistening rivers, lay another kingdom—one far greater in size, power, and influence.

The Kingdom of Celestara.

Unlike Eldoria, which flourished with soft colors and open gardens, Celestara stood as a testament to strength. Its towering castles were made of dark stone, its capital bustling with soldiers and scholars alike. The people of Celestara were strong and disciplined, raised with a deep sense of duty to their homeland. Their kingdom thrived under an unshakable rule, one that had made Celestara the most feared and respected land across the continent.

And at the heart of it all sat King Choi San.

San was no ordinary ruler. He was a king who valued power above all else—not just for himself, but for his kingdom. He had inherited a land that had been built on blood and steel, and he ruled it with an iron will. His people loved him, for under his reign, Celestara never knew famine, never fell to invaders, and never saw weakness. But to outsiders, he was a name that sent shivers down their spines.

Because King San did not tolerate defiance.

It was not cruelty for the sake of cruelty. No, San saw his punishments as necessary—tools to maintain order. A merchant caught cheating his people was stripped of his wealth and cast into the dungeons. A noble who conspired against him found their house burned to the ground, their name erased from history. And if a kingdom dared to challenge Celestara, they were met with fire and steel. His warriors, trained from childhood, were unmatched, and his war strategies were so ruthless that no one dared to question his rule.

No one opposed King Choi San and lived to tell the tale.

He was ruthless, reckless even. A man who did not just command power—he relished in it. King Choi San was not content with ruling Celestara alone. No, he wanted more. He wanted everything.

War was not just a necessity to him; it was a thrill. The sight of his enemies kneeling before him, their once-proud banners torn and trampled beneath his boots, brought him a satisfaction that nothing else could. He did not believe in mercy. He did not believe in compromise. He believed in dominance, in bending the world to his will.

His father, the former king, had shared that same hunger. Before his death, he had left behind a list—a detailed record of the lands he had set his sights on, the territories he had dreamed of conquering but never had the chance to. It was a king’s unfinished legacy, a vision left incomplete.

San did not just inherit his father’s kingdom. He inherited his ambitions.

And he would see them through.

The list had dozens of names written in careful ink, each representing a kingdom, a nation, a people who had yet to bow to Celestara’s might. Some had already fallen, their lands absorbed into San’s ever-growing empire. But there were still many left to claim.

One of them was Eldoria.

A peaceful kingdom, untouched by war, ruled by a gentle king and adored by its people. A land that had never known the weight of a conqueror’s hand.

San had heard of Eldoria before. A place where flowers bloomed endlessly, where the streets were painted in soft pastels. It was the complete opposite of Celestara. A kingdom so delicate, so naïve, that it almost amused him.

Almost.

Because at the end of the day, Eldoria was just another name on his father’s list. Another land that would soon belong to him.

And King Choi San never left things unfinished.

So that was what happened to Eldoria.

One fateful evening, King Choi San arrived at the gates of the peaceful kingdom, not as a guest, but as a conqueror in waiting. He did not come alone—his army, clad in dark armor, stood behind him like an unshakable force, their banners casting long shadows over Eldoria’s pastel streets. The moment his presence was announced in the royal palace, a chill ran through the halls.

King Eldrin, YN’s father, knew why San had come. He had heard the stories, knew the fate of the kingdoms that had stood in Celestara’s path. But still, he held onto hope.

Inside the grand throne room, the two kings faced each other.

“I will give you one chance,” San said, his voice calm yet laced with authority. “Surrender Eldoria to Celestara. Swear your allegiance, and I will allow your people to live under my rule without bloodshed.”

King Eldrin did not hesitate. “I will not surrender my land,” he said firmly, but his voice held no arrogance—only reason. “However, I propose an alliance. We do not have to be enemies. Our kingdoms can stand together, share trade, strengthen each other.”

San chuckled, a slow, amused sound. “An alliance?” He leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting. “Tell me, King Eldrin, what does your peaceful kingdom have to offer me that I do not already have?”

“We have wisdom, knowledge, and beauty. We have—”

“I do not need beauty,” San interrupted, his amusement vanishing. “I need power. Strength. Land.” His fingers tapped against the hilt of his sword. “And I will not ask twice.”

Eldrin’s jaw tightened. “Then you have my answer.”

San exhaled, a mockery of disappointment. “A shame,” he murmured. Then, with a glance at his general, he spoke the words that sealed Eldoria’s fate.

“We march at dawn.”

The war did not last long.

Eldoria, despite its beauty, was not built for battle. Its people were artists, scholars, farmers—not warriors. They fought bravely, but Celestara’s army was relentless. Swords clashed, fires burned, and the soft-colored streets of Eldoria were soon painted in shades of ash and crimson.

Within days, the palace fell.

King Choi San did what he always did—he erased the royal family.

The moment the palace fell, there was no room for mercy. The king was the first to go, struck down in his own throne room, his crown rolling across the marble floor. The queen followed soon after, her desperate pleas for peace silenced forever. The crown prince, the last hope for Eldoria’s future, fought bravely, but bravery alone could not save him from Celestara’s steel.

San watched it all with a cold, unwavering gaze. Another kingdom conquered. Another royal bloodline wiped from existence. Just as it should be.

With the palace now under Celestara’s control, he prepared to leave. There was no need for him to stay any longer. His men would handle the rest—securing the city, ensuring the people understood that they now belonged to him. He had no interest in Eldoria’s ruins; his work here was done.

Or so he thought.

A soldier rushed into the war room, his armor still stained with battle. He bowed quickly, his breath uneven.

“My king,” he said. “There is word of another.”

San barely spared him a glance. “Another what?”

“A survivor. A princess.”

The words made him pause.

A princess?

San had not known Eldoria had a princess. He frowned, turning fully to the soldier. “And where is she?”

“We do not know.”

San’s expression darkened. “Explain.”

“She was not in the palace when we arrived,” the soldier admitted. “We searched every room, every hall. But she was nowhere to be found.”

The air in the room grew heavy. San’s grip on his sword tightened. He had never left a royal family unfinished. No loose ends. No survivors. And yet, here was a piece of Eldoria’s bloodline still unaccounted for.

His jaw clenched. “Find her.”

Thus began the search.

San’s men scoured every corner of the palace, tearing through lavish chambers, hidden passages, and forgotten halls. San was not a man who accepted failure. He ordered a deeper search—every stone overturned, every locked door broken open.

And finally, they found it.

A hidden room, tucked away behind the grand library. The entrance had been expertly concealed, nearly impossible to notice unless one was searching for it. But now, the secret was uncovered.

San arrived immediately.

The heavy bookcase that had once hidden the doorway was now pushed aside, revealing a narrow passage leading into a small chamber. It was nothing like the lavish royal rooms he had seen before. This space was simple—bare walls, a single candle flickering in the dim light, and a modest wooden desk placed in the center.

And sitting at that desk was a girl.

She had not heard them enter at first, her focus entirely on the parchment before her. Her delicate hand moved swiftly, ink staining her fingertips as she wrote something with quiet urgency. It was only when she sensed the shift in the air—when the heavy presence of someone else filled the room—that she finally looked up.

Her eyes widened.

San met her gaze, and in that instant, he knew.

This was her.

The missing princess. The last surviving member of Eldoria’s royal family.

She had been here all along, hidden away while her kingdom burned. Sheltered while her family perished.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The candlelight cast shadows across her face, highlighting the quiet shock in her expression. San took a step forward, his boots echoing in the small space. The girl did not move, her fingers still curled around the quill, as if caught between fight and flight.

He exhaled slowly.

“Found you.”

San was a terrifying man. His presence alone filled the small room with an unshakable weight, his dark eyes locked onto YN with an intensity that made her stomach twist. She had heard of him before—King Choi San, the ruthless conqueror. The man who had taken her home, erased her family, and claimed Eldoria as his own.

Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to move. Slowly, she stood from her chair, her gaze dropping to the ground as if in surrender.

But she was not surrendering.

Her fingers tightened around the ink glass on the desk. And before she could think twice, she threw it.

The small bottle spun through the air, aimed directly at his knees.

San’s reflexes were fast—too fast. He shifted at the last second, the ink missing its target. Instead, it crashed against the floor, shattering into tiny pieces. Black ink spilled in a messy puddle between them, staining the stone beneath their feet.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then San exhaled, his lips curling into something unreadable. Not quite amusement, not quite anger.

Slowly, he stepped forward, his boots avoiding the ink, his piercing gaze never leaving her face.

“Cute,” he murmured, voice low. “You thought that would stop me?”

YN looked up just as San took another step closer, his presence suffocating in the small room. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she didn’t let her fear show. Instead, she lifted her chin and met his gaze.

“No,” she said, voice steady. “But this will.”

Before he could react, she pulled a small knife from the folds of her dress and lunged forward.

She moved fast, aiming for his chest, but he was faster.

San’s hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-strike. With effortless strength, he twisted it, forcing her to drop the knife. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as pain shot through her arm, but she refused to cry out. The blade clattered against the floor, useless now.

San’s grip remained firm as he pushed her down, forcing her onto her knees before him. YN struggled, but it was no use. He was stronger, unmovable.

Then, to her shock, he reached out and brushed the strands of hair from her face. It was a gentle touch, almost delicate. If it were anyone else, it might have seemed comforting. But this was King Choi San.

And from him, it was terrifying.

His fingers trailed along her cheek before tucking her hair behind her ear. His dark eyes studied her, unreadable, as if he were trying to understand something.

“You’ve got fight in you,” he murmured, his voice quiet, almost amused. “I like that.”

His words sent a shiver down her spine. This man had slaughtered her family, burned her kingdom to the ground, and now, here he was, treating her as if she were something… interesting.

Her hands clenched into fists. She wanted to scream, to fight, to run. But she was trapped.

San tilted his head slightly, watching her reaction. Then, he leaned down, just enough to whisper,

“But fighting me is useless.”

San looked down at her, his expression unreadable. His grip on her wrist loosened just slightly, but the weight of his presence remained suffocating.

“You know,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather, “I came here to kill you.”

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

Of course, he did. That was what he always did. He had erased her family, wiped out her kingdom, and now, it was her turn.

She lowered her gaze, staring at the ink-stained floor. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap, but she did not beg. She would not give him that satisfaction. There was nothing left for her anymore. No family. No home. No future.

So she closed her eyes and accepted her fate.

But then—

“But,” San mused, tilting his head, “you’re too pretty to kill.”

Her eyes snapped open, looking up at him in shock.

He smirked, his fingers once again brushing her cheek, this time lingering just a bit longer. “It would be a shame to waste something so… delicate.”

She stiffened, her stomach twisting with disgust. Was he toying with her? Mocking her? What was worse—death, or whatever fate he had in mind?

“No,” she whispered, barely realizing she had spoken. Then, louder, her voice rising in panic, “No—just kill me.”

San chuckled. Low, dark, entertained.

“Oh?” He crouched in front of her, their faces now painfully close. “Is that what you want?”

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

San’s smirk widened. He was enjoying this—her fear, her resistance, her despair.

“Too bad,” he murmured, gripping her chin lightly and forcing her to hold his gaze. “I think I’ll take you instead.”

YN stood up slowly, her legs shaking beneath her, but her gaze remained locked onto his. She expected him to rise as well, to tower over her like the conqueror he was, but he didn’t.

San remained crouched, looking up at her from his lower position, his dark eyes steady and sharp. It was unsettling—how comfortable he was, how unbothered by her defiance. His face was close—too close. Close enough that if she moved even slightly, he would be able to feel the fabric of her dress brush against him.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

And then, she moved.

She dashed to the side, making a sharp turn around him. Her feet barely touched the ground as she made her escape, her breath caught in her throat. For a split second, she thought she had done it. She had gone around him. She had gotten past him.

But she had forgotten.

The shattered glass. The ink. The mess on the floor from when she had thrown the ink bottle at him earlier.

The moment her bare foot touched the shards, a sharp, searing pain shot up her leg.

She sucked in a breath, but she didn’t stop. She forced herself forward, reaching the doorway that led out of the hidden chamber. She had made it—just barely.

But then, her body betrayed her.

The pain was too much. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed just outside the room, her breath coming in short gasps. Her feet throbbed violently, fresh blood pooling beneath her.

The pain in her feet was unbearable. Tiny shards of glass had pierced into her skin, some embedding deep into the soles of her feet, while others cut shallow but still bled. Ink mixed with her blood, creating a dark, messy trail behind her.

She couldn’t run anymore.

Her feet throbbed, her breaths were uneven, and she could already feel the warm trickle of blood running down her heels. Every movement sent fresh pain through her body.

Behind her, the room remained silent.

She could feel him still there. Watching. Waiting.

And then—

A slow, deliberate sound.

The sound of boots shifting against the stone floor.

San was standing up.

He stood up, the slow, deliberate movement filling the space with an unspoken finality. His boots pressed against the shattered glass on the floor, the sharp shards crunching beneath the heavy soles. The sound echoed in the small chamber, a cruel reminder of the difference between them—her bare, bloodied feet and his untouched, armored ones.

He took a step forward.

Then another.

Slow. Steady. As if he had all the time in the world.

YN could feel the weight of his gaze on her, sharp and unyielding, like a predator toying with its prey. She knew—he knew—that she wouldn’t make it far. Even if she ran, even if she forced herself to her feet and pushed through the pain, it wouldn’t matter. He would catch her. He would always catch her.

But she wasn’t going to just sit there.

The moment his shadow loomed over her, she pushed herself back. Her hands scraped against the cold stone floor as she tried to crawl away, her injured feet dragging behind her, leaving smudges of inky blood in her wake. It hurt—oh, it hurt—but she didn’t care. She would rather die trying than just sit there and accept whatever fate he had planned for her.

Outside the room, the few guards stationed there shifted uncertainly. One of them stepped forward as if to intervene, as if to do something.

San didn’t even look at them. He simply flicked his fingers, a lazy motion, and they immediately hesitated. Then, without a word, they stepped back, leaving him to handle this alone.

YN’s breath was ragged as she dragged herself further, her palms burning against the rough stone. She felt helpless, weak, but she refused to stop. Even if it was useless, even if he reached her within seconds, she would not just sit there like a caged animal.

Her fingers curled against the cold floor as she lifted her head, looking up at him.

And there he was.

Towering over her now, his expression unreadable, his lips slightly curled as if in amusement.

San exhaled, tilting his head.

"Still fighting?" he mused, his voice low, smooth—dangerous.

His slow steps finally came to a stop.

She had barely gotten anywhere.

And now, he was standing right in front of her.

San sighed, his patience thinning. He crouched slightly, looking down at her with that same amused expression, but now there was something else in his gaze—impatience.

“Let’s not fight,” he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. “Come now. Let’s go home.”

Home.

The word sent a shiver down YN’s spine. Home didn’t exist anymore. Her home had been burned, her family slaughtered, her people forced under his rule. Wherever he wanted to take her, it wasn’t home.

Still lying on the cold stone floor, she shook her head weakly. “No.”

San’s jaw tightened. The amusement in his eyes dimmed slightly, replaced with something colder. He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if he were growing tired of this game.

"Fine," he muttered.

Before she could react, she saw a flash of silver—something in his hand.

Her body tensed. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew better than to wait and find out. Instinctively, she raised her arms to shield her face, bracing for impact.

Wrong move.

A sharp prick shot through the side of her neck.

Her eyes widened in shock as she felt something thin and metallic buried into her skin. It wasn’t a knife—it didn’t slice or tear. It just pricked, leaving a dull, numbing sensation in its wake.

A syringe.

San had stabbed a syringe into her neck.

Her breath hitched as a strange dizziness washed over her. The world around her blurred, her limbs suddenly feeling heavy, too heavy to move. She tried to lift her hand, tried to reach for the object lodged in her skin, but her fingers barely twitched before her body gave out.

Her head fell against the cold floor, her vision swimming.

Above her, the last thing she saw was San’s face, watching her with a knowing smirk as the darkness swallowed her whole.

San looked down at her unconscious form, his smirk lingering as he admired his work. She had fought, resisted until the very last second, but in the end, it hadn’t mattered. He was always going to win.

He exhaled, standing to his full height as he observed her limp body sprawled across the cold floor. The ink and blood smeared across the ground were the only remnants of her struggle.

Satisfied, he crouched down and slipped an arm beneath her, effortlessly lifting her into his arms. She was light—far too light for someone with so much fight in her. Her head lolled slightly against his shoulder, her breath slow and steady as the sedative coursed through her veins.

Holding her securely, San turned and walked towards the door.

The guards outside immediately straightened at the sight of their king emerging from the hidden room with the unconscious princess in his arms. They glanced at each other, uncertainty flickering in their eyes, but none dared to question him.

San stepped past them, his grip on YN firm but casual, as if carrying her was no different from carrying a mere possession.

Because that’s exactly what she was now.

San stepped out into the open, the cool night air washing over him as he carried YN in his arms. The moment his men saw him, they stiffened, their expressions betraying their shock.

They had all expected him to emerge alone, having finished the job like he always did. Instead, here he was—carrying the princess, unconscious but very much alive.

One of the lead guards, a seasoned warrior with a deep scar across his cheek, stepped forward hesitantly. His gaze flickered between San and the girl in his arms before he spoke.

"Your Majesty," he began carefully, "should we finish her?"

The other guards waited in tense silence, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. It was a reasonable assumption—San had slaughtered the rest of the royal family without hesitation. Why would the princess be any different?

But San had already made his decision.

Without looking at the guard, he spoke, his voice calm yet unwavering.

"No."

The single word sent a ripple of confusion through the men.

San shifted YN slightly in his arms, glancing down at her unconscious face before turning his sharp gaze back to the guard.

"I'm taking her back to Celestara," he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The guards exchanged uncertain glances, but no one dared to question him further.

San smirked, satisfied by their obedience. Then, without another word, he began walking towards his waiting carriage.

This war was over. The kingdom was his. And now, so was she.

With the princess in his grasp, he set off on the journey back to Celestara—his kingdom, his home.

And soon enough, hers as well.

YN blinked slowly, her mind hazy as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Her body felt heavy, her limbs sluggish, as if she had been asleep for far too long.

Where was she?

She forced herself to sit up, her fingers gripping the soft yet unfamiliar sheets beneath her. The bed was large—far larger than the one she had in Eldoria. And the room…

Her heart sank.

This wasn’t Eldoria.

Eldoria was warm and bright, filled with pastel colors, soft fabrics, and the gentle scent of flowers in the air. But this place—this place felt suffocating. The walls were dark, nearly black, with gold accents that gleamed under the dim lighting. Heavy drapes covered the windows, letting in only slivers of light. The furniture was grand, elegant, yet cold, as if meant to intimidate rather than comfort.

She hated it.

Perhaps it was because she had spent her entire life surrounded by brightness, but the darkness of this place made her uneasy. It felt foreign, unfamiliar—wrong.

Her breath quickened as she swung her legs over the bed, only to wince as a sharp pain shot through her feet.

The glass.

She had run through shattered glass.

Carefully, she lifted her feet and saw the bandages wrapped around them, fresh and neatly done. Someone had treated her injuries.

Someone had—

Her stomach twisted.

San.

Memories of what had happened before she blacked out came rushing back. The invasion. The loss. His voice, smooth and taunting. The sharp prick of the syringe in her neck.

Panic clawed at her chest as she looked around frantically, searching for a way out.

But the door was closed.

And she had no doubt—it was locked.

YN sat at the edge of the massive bed, her fingers digging into the sheets as she tried to steady herself. The weight of everything crashed down on her all at once.

Her family was gone.

Her home was gone.

And now, she was here—trapped in a place that wasn’t hers, surrounded by walls that felt like they were closing in on her.

Her vision blurred as her throat tightened. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. But what good would that do?

She lowered her gaze to her bandaged feet. She couldn’t even walk. She had been so desperate to escape, but in the end, she had only hurt herself. And now, she was left completely vulnerable, at the mercy of the very man who had taken everything from her.

San.

The thought of his name sent a shiver down her spine.

The ruthless king of Celestara. The man who had murdered her family without hesitation. The man who had stolen her home and claimed it as his own.

And now, she was his captive.

A bitter laugh almost escaped her lips, but it got caught in her throat. There was nothing amusing about this. There was no way out.

She was truly, utterly defeated.

YN sat there for what felt like hours, unmoving, lost in the crushing weight of her thoughts. The silence of the room only made it worse, suffocating her, making her feel even more trapped.

Then—

Click.

The door creaked open.

Her entire body tensed.

Her fingers curled into the sheets, her heart pounding as she stared at the entrance, dreading what—or who—might step inside.

And then she saw him.

San.

He walked in like he owned the place. Which, of course, he did.

But that didn’t make it any less infuriating.

His presence filled the room instantly, his posture relaxed, confident—completely at ease, as if nothing was out of place. As if he hadn’t just destroyed her entire life.

YN swallowed hard, her throat dry.

She hated him.

She hated the way he moved so carelessly, as if everything was just a game to him. She hated the way he looked at her, like he knew she was powerless against him. She hated that even though she wanted to scream, to throw something, to fight—she couldn’t.

Not like this.

Not when she could barely even stand.

Fear crept up her spine, mixing with the anger burning in her chest. She hated him. She feared him. But most of all—she resented the fact that he had complete control over her now.

San stood in the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on her. A smirk tugged at his lips, slow and deliberate, as if he was enjoying the sight of her—small, wounded, and utterly trapped.

He took a step inside, and even though his movements were unhurried, they carried an undeniable authority. Every step he took echoed in the large, darkened room, the soft click of his boots against the floor sending a shiver down YN’s spine.

She gripped the sheets tighter.

He was terrifying.

And that was exactly what made him so dangerous.

He wasn’t just some brute who barked orders and swung his sword mindlessly. No, San was something much worse. He was calculated. He was smart. And worst of all, he enjoyed having control over people.

“You’re awake,” he mused, his voice smooth yet dripping with something sinister.

YN didn’t respond.

He didn’t need her to. He was already closing the distance between them, his movements slow, predatory, as if he wanted her to feel the power he held over her.

Her breath hitched as he stopped right in front of her.

She refused to look up at him. She refused to give him the satisfaction.

But San wasn’t the type to be ignored.

With an amused chuckle, he crouched down so that he was eye-level with her.

“Not going to greet your king?” he murmured, tilting his head. His voice was deep, teasing, but there was an undeniable edge to it. A warning.

YN finally forced herself to meet his gaze—and immediately regretted it.

He was too close.

Far too close.

His dark eyes gleamed under the dim lighting, filled with something unreadable. His sharp jawline, the way his lips curled ever so slightly—it was unfair how someone so cruel could look so good.

She hated it.

She hated that her heart pounded for reasons beyond just fear.

When she still didn’t speak, San exhaled sharply and reached out.

She flinched as his fingers brushed against her jaw, tilting her face up. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but that only made it worse.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, his voice quiet, almost mocking. “Scared of me, little princess?”

YN clenched her jaw, trying to will away the fear in her expression.

San chuckled. “Good. You should be.”

His grip tightened, just enough for her to feel it, just enough to remind her that she was at his mercy.

And yet—

The way he looked at her, the slow drag of his eyes down her face, the way his lips parted slightly as if he was enjoying every second of this—

He was terrifying.

And that made him even more dangerous.

San watched her, his lips quirking up in amusement at her stubbornness. She was scared, angry, and exhausted, yet still refused to take anything from him. It was almost admirable. Almost.

With a sigh, he reached for the glass of water sitting on the bedside desk. His fingers wrapped around the crystal, and he swirled the liquid inside lazily before turning back to her.

“Why don’t you drink some?” His voice was smooth, deep, like velvet laced with something dangerous.

“I don’t want water,” YN muttered, looking away.

San chuckled, low and rich. “Come on, princess. I didn’t poison it.”

He lifted the glass to his own lips, tilting it back ever so slightly.

YN couldn’t look away.

The way he drank—slow, deliberate—was unfair. A bit of water slipped past the corner of his lips, trailing down his jaw. He swiped his thumb across his mouth, wiping away the stray droplet before licking it off his thumb without a second thought.

Her stomach twisted, and heat crept up her neck.

San caught the way her eyes flickered to his lips, and his smirk deepened.

“See?” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He leaned in, holding the glass out to her, his fingers brushing against hers. “It’s not poisoned.”

She hesitated.

San sighed dramatically. “Drink up, princess. I don’t want you to die.”

His words should have been comforting, but the way he said them—slow, teasing, like he enjoyed her discomfort—only made her more unsettled.

Still, she knew she had no choice.

With shaky fingers, she took the glass from him.

San didn’t move back.

He stayed close, watching her with dark, expectant eyes, waiting to see if she would obey.

And that was the worst part.

Because as much as she hated him, as much as she wanted to fight—he always got what he wanted.

San had no shame. Not even a shred of it.

As YN lifted the glass to her lips, tilting her head back slightly to drink, his eyes shamelessly trailed down to her neck.

He watched the way her throat moved with each swallow, the soft curve of her collarbone barely peeking from the loose neckline of her dress. His gaze lingered, unbothered, unapologetic.

San was no saint.

He never pretended to be one.

And right now, he wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he was enjoying the sight in front of him.

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening as he let his gaze drag over her slowly, taking in every little detail. The way her lips parted slightly after drinking, the way a stray droplet of water slipped down the side of her mouth.

Before she could wipe it away, he reached out.

His thumb brushed against her chin, slow, deliberate.

YN froze.

San’s eyes flickered to hers, his touch lingering just a second too long before he finally pulled away.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice smooth like honey, but laced with something undeniably sinful. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

YN clenched her jaw, gripping the empty glass tightly.

She hated him.

But the way he looked at her, like he could devour her whole, made her feel things she shouldn’t be feeling.

And San?

San knew exactly what he was doing.

“What do you want from me?” YN’s voice was sharp, filled with both exhaustion and defiance.

San simply stared at her, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. Then, with a slow, almost innocent tilt of his head, he said, “Nothing.”

Liar.

She knew he was toying with her. She felt it in the way he spoke, in the way he looked at her—as if she was some intriguing puzzle he wanted to take apart piece by piece.

She couldn’t let him do this.

Without thinking, she lifted her hand, aiming to strike him, to wipe that infuriating expression off his face.

But San was faster.

Much faster.

Before she could make contact, his hand shot up, fingers curling around her neck with practiced ease. He wasn’t squeezing—he didn’t need to. The sheer weight of his touch, the way his thumb pressed lightly against the delicate skin of her throat, was enough to steal the breath from her lungs.

With effortless strength, he pushed her back.

She fell against the pillows, her body sinking into the soft mattress as he hovered over her.

And then, for the briefest moment, San stilled.

His grip loosened slightly as he took her in.

Her doe eyes, wide and glaring up at him, holding a mix of fury and something he couldn’t quite place. Her lips, parted ever so slightly, her breath coming in uneven puffs. And her hair—God, her hair—spilled in every direction, a wild halo of silk against the dark sheets.

Beautiful.

He had always admired beautiful things.

But this—her, beneath him, looking like something he wanted to ruin—this was something else entirely.

His fingers twitched against her throat, and he let out a quiet hum, his gaze darkening as he leaned in just a fraction.

YN could barely breathe.

Not because of his hold—no, he wasn’t choking her. But because of the way he looked at her, like he was memorizing every detail, like he owned her already.

San smirked, his voice dangerously soft as he murmured, “You’re breathtaking, princess.”

San let go of her slowly, his fingers trailing from her throat to her collarbone before finally pulling away. He watched her for a second longer, his smirk never faltering, then—just like that—he backed up.

No words. No explanation.

He simply turned on his heel and walked away.

YN lay there, her heart hammering against her ribs as she stared at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened.

The door creaked open.

For a moment, she thought he might say something, might throw one last taunt her way. But he didn’t.

He left.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving her alone in the deafening silence of the room.

And yet, even with him gone, the ghost of his touch lingered on her skin.

A few days has passed. YN had barely slept, her mind too clouded with the events of that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. The way he had looked at her, the way he had touched her—the way he had enjoyed watching her squirm beneath him. She hated him.

She hated that she was here, hated that she was still alive when her family wasn’t.

A soft knock at the door startled her. A maid entered, bowing slightly before speaking. “His Majesty requests your presence for breakfast.”

YN frowned. A maid? She hadn’t expected anyone to treat her with respect—she thought she would be tossed into a dungeon, starved, forgotten. But no. She was being served. It unsettled her.

Still, she said nothing and complied, following the maid through the grand halls of the palace. The castle was just as dark and overbearing as she had thought it would be, its walls decorated with deep gold accents and tall, menacing windows. Nothing about it was warm. Just like him.

When they reached the dining hall, the large doors were pushed open, revealing an elegant table set with more food than she had seen in days. Her stomach twisted, but not from hunger. Because there, seated at the head of the table, was San. And he was already watching her. Her appetite vanished instantly.

San smirked, leaning forward slightly as he rested his chin on his hand. “Good morning, princess.”

YN swallowed, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

She refused to answer.

Instead, she slowly walked toward the table, forcing herself to keep her back straight as she sat down. The maid moved to pour her a drink, but she barely noticed.

All she could feel was his gaze.

San chuckled, clearly amused by her discomfort. “What’s wrong? Not hungry?”

YN clenched her jaw. Hungry? How could she eat in front of the very man who had stolen her kingdom, who had killed her family? She gripped the silverware in front of her, trying to steady herself, trying not to snap. But the longer she sat there, the more unbearable it became.

San leaned in slightly, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Eat, princess,” he murmured, voice dripping with mockery. “I don’t want you starving on me.”

YN clenched her jaw, her hands gripping the fabric of her dress beneath the table. She forced a smile, though her teeth were gritted in pure loathing.

"I wouldn't dare eat before His Majesty," she said, her voice laced with sarcasm.

San only smirked at her response, clearly entertained. He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table before tilting his head. "That’s sweet of you, princess," he mused. "But I insist. I want my little princess to eat first."

Before she could protest, he reached for a piece of meat, slicing it with ease. He speared the piece with a fork and, without hesitation, held it up to her lips.

"Open."

YN stared at him, unimpressed. "I don’t eat meat."

San’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

"Too bad," he said, his voice void of sympathy. "You need to follow orders, princess."

His tone was firm now, leaving no room for argument. He wasn’t asking. He was commanding.

YN swallowed, her breath steady despite the way her stomach churned. She didn’t want to obey him—she refused to. But she knew how dangerous he was. She had seen it with her own eyes.

San was ruthless. And he would enjoy making her suffer if she disobeyed.

Still, she didn’t move.

San sighed dramatically, lowering the fork slightly. "Do I need to feed you myself?" he teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

YN clenched her fists beneath the table.

She had lost her kingdom. She had lost her family.

And now, she was losing control.

But what choice did she have?

YN hesitated for a moment, her stomach twisting in revulsion. But the look in San’s eyes told her there was no room for negotiation.

Slowly, reluctantly, she parted her lips.

San smirked in satisfaction and pushed the piece of meat into her mouth. His fingers brushed against her lips ever so slightly, lingering for just a second too long before pulling away.

She wanted to spit it out. Gods, she wanted to spit it out. But she didn’t. She forced herself to chew, swallowing the bite with as much grace as she could muster.

San watched her the entire time, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.

"Good girl," he murmured.

Her fingers twitched. She wanted to slap that smirk right off his face.

Instead, she reached for the glass of water beside her, desperately trying to wash away the taste of the meat that burned her throat like poison.

San leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he studied her. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

YN didn’t answer. She refused to give him the satisfaction.

San chuckled. He could see the anger burning in her eyes, the way her entire body tensed with barely restrained rage. Oh, how he enjoyed this. Watching her fight against her own pride, watching her struggle between her hatred for him and her will to survive.

"You’ll get used to it," he said lazily, taking another bite of his own food.

YN swallowed down her fury. She had to be careful. She had to be smart.

She wasn’t just a prisoner in this palace—she was a captive in his hands. And San was playing a game.

She just didn’t know the rules yet.

YN sat stiffly in her seat, her stomach churning with disgust—not just from the food, but from him.

San, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. He ate slowly, savoring every bite, his sharp eyes flickering toward her every now and then, like a predator keeping an eye on his prey.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth with a cloth, then tossed it onto the table carelessly. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.

Then, without warning, he stood.

YN instinctively tensed as he walked around the table. His boots echoed against the marble floor, each step heavy, purposeful. She kept her gaze locked on the table, her fingers gripping the edge of her seat. But San didn’t stop until he was standing right behind her.

She felt his presence before she saw him. The heat radiating from him, the way the air around her seemed to shift. Then—

A hand.

Slow, deliberate fingers brushing over her shoulder.

YN flinched, but she refused to move. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her react.

San leaned down, his breath warm against the side of her neck.

"You surprise me, princess," he murmured, his voice smooth, deep. "I thought you’d be more difficult. But you listened. You obeyed." His fingers trailed up, brushing the strands of her hair away from her neck. YN’s breath hitched, but she kept her face blank, forcing herself to stare at the empty plate in front of her.

"Maybe you're smarter than I thought," San mused, his tone dripping with amusement.

Then, without warning, he grabbed her chin, tilting her head back so she was forced to look at him.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His eyes. Dark. Intense. Amused.

A smirk played at his lips, and for a terrifying moment, she swore he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Or maybe," he whispered, tilting his head slightly, "you’re just waiting for the right moment to fight back."

YN’s pulse pounded in her ears. San chuckled, his grip on her chin tightening just slightly before he let go. He straightened, taking a step back, but his presence still loomed over her.

"Either way," he said, voice smooth, "I’m looking forward to it."

As San spoke, his fingers lazily twirled a lock of her hair between them. The contrast was eerie—the way his voice was dark and commanding, yet his touch was almost gentle. Almost.

YN swallowed hard, keeping her expression blank, but inside, she was unraveling.

Why was he doing this? Why was he toying with her like this?

San hummed, his fingers drifting lower, brushing through the strands like he had all the time in the world. "Soft," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

She clenched her fists under the table. She wanted to jerk away, but his grip tightened just enough to keep her still. Not painfully—no, that wasn’t his style. He didn’t need to use force. His presence alone was enough to keep her frozen. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against the top of her head.

"You have no idea how much I enjoy this," he mused, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Seeing you like this. Trying so hard to keep your composure, when I know—" he tugged her hair lightly, making her tilt her head back just enough to meet his gaze "—that inside, you’re burning."

YN gritted her teeth.

San smirked, his fingers giving one last slow glide through her hair before finally—finally—he let go.

"Keep up the act, princess," he murmured, straightening. "Let’s see how long you last." And with that, he walked away, leaving YN sitting there, her breath uneven, her body tense.

Her hair still tingled from his touch.

She hated it. She hated him.

It had been days since YN had been trapped in this dark, unfamiliar place. The once-proud princess of Eldoria, now nothing more than a caged bird under the watchful eye of a ruthless king.

During those days, she had no purpose. No books to read, no people to talk to, nothing. Just the sound of the ticking clock and the occasional knock of a servant bringing her food.

And then there was him.

San.

He would come in whenever he pleased. Sometimes, he would simply stand there, watching her like she was some fascinating puzzle he was trying to solve. Other times, he would speak, his voice smooth and teasing, dripping with manipulation.

"Are you lonely, princess? You don’t have to be. You just have to behave."

"What a shame. You were once so free, and now you have nothing. But don’t worry—I can give you something. You only have to ask."

And then he would leave, always before she could snap back, before she could gather her words.

It was driving her insane.

Not the captivity, not even the fear—the boredom.

He wouldn't let her do anything. No dancing, no walking outside, no distractions.

She was starting to feel like a doll left on a shelf, waiting for the moment he decided to pick her up and play his twisted little games.

She hated him.

She hated how he controlled everything—her time, her space, even the very air she breathed in his presence.

And she hated that, despite everything, he still had the nerve to act like he was enjoying this more than she was suffering.

San sat in his grand chamber, the dim candlelight casting sharp shadows over his sharp features. He leaned back in his chair, one arm resting lazily on the armrest while the other traced the rim of his wine glass. His thoughts, however, were far from idle.

She was going to be here for a while. That much was certain. And since she was his now—his possession, his captive, his—it was only natural that he knew everything about her. So, he had sent his right-hand man to dig into her past.

It wasn’t an easy task. After all, he had razed Eldoria to the ground, left nothing but ashes and ruins in his wake. Most of her kingdom’s history had burned with it.

But his man was efficient, and somehow, he had managed to unearth something.

San read through the parchment, his sharp eyes scanning every word. YN—once a beloved princess, a figure of grace and kindness. People had adored her, and not just because she was royalty. She had been… good. She had spent her days tending to the kingdom’s gardens, running her fingers through delicate petals, ensuring that life flourished around her. She had a habit of visiting the commoners, speaking to them as if she were one of them.

She had been everything a ruler should be. San scoffed, amused. How naive. But what intrigued him the most was the last detail.

She had been a dancer. A dedicated one. Trained, disciplined, someone who had spent hours perfecting her craft.

San tapped his fingers against the table. A princess who danced. A girl who once moved freely, who now sat caged in his palace with nowhere to go.

He smirked. Oh, how he could use this.

San leaned back in his chair, his smirk deepening as he thought about it. A princess who danced, who tended to flowers, who was gentle—a true princess in every sense. She was nothing like the women he had encountered before, hardened by war or desperate for power.

She was delicate. Refined. Soft. And she was his now.

The idea of her being his personal entertainer amused him. The once-proud princess, forced to dance solely for his pleasure. The same girl who had glared at him with pure hatred, who had tried to fight him—kneeling before him, moving gracefully under his command. The thought alone sent a thrill down his spine. He wanted to see it. Wanted to watch her move, watch her surrender that grace to him.

His fingers drummed against the table as he made up his mind.

He would give her no choice. If she was going to be here, if she was going to belong to him, then she would have to earn her place.

And what better way than by using the very thing that once made her special?

The heavy doors to her room slammed open without warning, the force of it making the walls tremble. YN flinched, her fingers tightening around the book she had been reading. She barely had a moment to process before San strode in, his presence overwhelming, suffocating even. He moved with that effortless confidence, like a predator who knew nothing could touch him. His dark clothing contrasted sharply against the golden glow of the candles, his sharp jawline cast in perfect shadow. His eyes—cold, calculating—pinned her in place as he approached. He stopped right in front of her.

She had been sitting on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, the book resting in her lap. Now, she sat frozen under his piercing gaze.

San tilted his head slightly, studying her. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it moments ago. His lips curled, not in kindness, but in something far more sinister—amusement, control, ownership.

"You look so comfortable," he mused, voice dangerously smooth. "It almost makes me forget you're a captive." She swallowed, trying not to react.

He reached forward, slow and deliberate, and plucked the book from her hands. His fingers ghosted over hers for a second, a contrast of warmth and chill. He flipped through the pages lazily, before his smirk deepened.

"Interesting," he murmured, snapping the book shut with one hand. YN clenched her jaw. "You gave that to me." San let out a low chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down her spine.

"I did," he admitted, stepping even closer. His knee brushed against the edge of the mattress. He leaned down slightly, enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint scent of leather and spice. He reached out, his fingers skimming through her hair—something he seemed to love doing.

YN clenched her fists. She hated how he touched her so freely, how he invaded her space like he owned it. But most of all—she hated the way he made it impossible to breathe.

San watched her closely, his eyes dark with amusement. He had noticed it—the way she sat idly for days, locked in this golden cage he had given her. She had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to talk to. So of course, she was bored.

But YN didn’t trust him, and she had every reason not to.

Still, when he spoke, his voice was almost casual. "I was thinking," he said, tilting his head slightly, "you must be getting bored."

She stiffened. Of course, she was. But admitting anything to him felt like a loss. She remained still, watching him warily. San exhaled sharply, as if her silence annoyed him. He shifted slightly, bringing a gloved hand up to her chin. His fingers were deceptively gentle as they tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Are you?" he asked again.

For a moment, she debated whether or not to answer. But the way his grip tightened—just a fraction—told her it wasn’t a request. Reluctantly, she gave a small nod.

San clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "That won’t do." His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, lingering just long enough to make her tense. His smirk deepened at her reaction. "If I ask a question, little princess, I expect words," he murmured. "Try again."

YN swallowed hard, her voice quieter than she would have liked. "Yes."

San grinned. "See? That wasn’t so hard." He released her, taking a step back as if satisfied.

"Since you’re bored," he mused, turning slightly, "I think I’ll give you something to do."

She narrowed her eyes. "And what would that be?"

He glanced at her over his shoulder, that wicked smirk never fading. "You’re going to dance for me."

YN was furious. “You're making me do this act of shame for what?”

San merely raised a brow at her outburst, completely unfazed. If anything, he looked amused.

"Shaming you?" he repeated, stepping closer. His voice was as smooth as silk, but there was something sharp beneath it. "You think I’m asking you to shame yourself?"

YN clenched her fists. "You’re making me put on a show for you like a performer, like some—"

"Like a princess," he interrupted, tilting his head slightly. His smirk deepened as he took another slow step toward her. "And isn't that what you are?"

She was furious now. "This dance is part of my kingdom’s culture," she snapped. "You’ve already taken everything from me. I won’t let you exploit this too."

San chuckled, dark and quiet. "Exploit?" he mused. "You call it exploitation. I call it appreciation." Her glare only fueled his amusement.

She furiously stood up "By making me dance in front of you for your entertainment? You think that’s appreciation?"

He didn’t move. He just stood there, watching her, his expression unreadable. Then, in one swift motion, he reached out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her flush against him.

YN gasped, her hands instinctively landing on his chest. His grip was firm but not painful, his warmth radiating through his clothes. She struggled, but he didn’t let go. His eyes bore into hers.

"Do you really think I see you as just some performer?" he murmured, voice dropping lower. "I could have killed you, little princess. I should have."

His fingers trailed up her arm, slow and deliberate. "But I didn’t. I kept you. And now, I want to see you—your kingdom’s pride, your so-called untouchable grace." He leaned in slightly, his breath ghosting over her skin. "You can call it whatever you want," he whispered, "but in the end, you will dance for me."

YN felt the weight of defeat settle deep in her chest. It was suffocating. She had nothing left—no kingdom, no family, no power. Even her pride, the one thing she had tried so desperately to hold onto, was slipping through her fingers.

San had taken everything from her. And now, even in this moment, he stood before her, completely in control. Her shoulders slumped as she took a slow step back, gaze falling to the floor. She hated this. Hated him. Hated how powerless she was.

San watched her reaction closely, his smirk unwavering.

"See?" he murmured. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Then, to her surprise, he took a step closer—not with the same overwhelming dominance he usually carried, but with something else. Something almost teasing.

"Here," he said suddenly, reaching for her hair. "I'll even braid your hair to make it beautiful."

YN’s breath hitched. "What—"

But she couldn’t even finish before she felt his fingers threading through her locks.

He was gentle.

She wanted to recoil, to shove him away, but her body wouldn’t move. She stood frozen as he worked, weaving her long strands between his fingers, moving with ease as if he had done this a hundred times before. San was good at it. Too good.

"Surprised?" he mused, clearly amused by her silence. "You think a king can’t do something as simple as braiding hair?" His fingers moved slowly, carefully, as if savoring the feeling.

YN hated how calming it was.

He was quiet for a moment before he murmured, "My mother used to do this for me when I was young. Before she died." That caught her off guard.

She dared to glance at him, but his expression was unreadable.

Then, as if remembering himself, San smirked again. "But I suppose that doesn't matter now."

He tied off the end of the braid, admiring his work. "There," he said, stepping back. "Now you look even more like a princess."

YN clenched her fists at her sides. "You're cruel," she whispered.

San only chuckled, dark and low. "And yet, here you are—letting me braid your hair."

The music played softly in the grand hall, but to YN, it felt like a cruel command rather than a melody. Her bare feet hesitated against the cold marble floor. Her body still ached, her legs not fully recovered from the injuries. Every step sent a dull pain through her, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

San sat on his throne, legs spread lazily, elbow resting on the armrest, fingers curled under his chin. His dark eyes never left her. They followed every movement, every step, every sway of her body with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

He looked hungry. Not for food. Not for violence.

For her.

YN’s breath was uneven, but she forced herself to keep going. The dance that once brought her joy, the tradition of her people, now felt like shackles binding her to his will.

San exhaled slowly, his gaze dragging over her form. “Keep going,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, yet laced with authority.

Her knees almost buckled.

His gaze burned into her skin, drinking in every movement like a man who had been deprived for too long.

YN gritted her teeth, forcing herself to continue. She could feel his eyes tracing the curve of her waist, the arch of her neck, the way her braid swayed with her movements. He was enjoying this.

Not just the dance itself, but the fact that he was the reason she was dancing.

San leaned forward slightly, his smirk deepening. "It’s almost a shame," he mused. "That a princess like you should be wasted on a throne when you were clearly born to move like this.”

YN nearly stumbled. And the moment she stumbled, she knew something was wrong. Her vision blurred, the golden chandeliers above melting into streaks of light. The grand hall, once a suffocating prison, now felt like it was spinning around her, pulling her deeper into an abyss she couldn't escape.

Her legs trembled beneath her, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She tried to focus—on the cold marble beneath her feet, on the heavy silence that replaced the music, on anything that could ground her. But all she could see was him.

San.

He remained seated, watching her with an expression that sent chills down her spine. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, lips curling into that damned smirk. The world tilted again. Her body swayed uncontrollably, her limbs heavy, her strength slipping away.

Then—darkness.

The last thing she saw before her knees buckled was San’s sinister smile.

He didn’t move to catch her. He didn’t call for help. He simply watched as she crumpled to the floor.

San exhaled slowly as he crouched beside her, his sharp eyes drinking in every delicate feature. Her long lashes fluttered slightly, her lips parted as she breathed weakly, and her hair, now slightly disheveled from the fall, fanned out around her like ink spilled on the cold marble.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful to let go.

His gloved fingers traced a strand of her hair, twisting it between his fingers as he studied her face. She had danced until she collapsed—until her body could no longer obey her. And all for him. A slow smirk curled on his lips.

"You really are something, little princess," he murmured, his voice deep, filled with an almost lazy amusement.

His hand moved to her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that had slipped down. Even unconscious, she looked defiant—like she was fighting even in her sleep. San leaned closer, his lips hovering just near her ear.

"I will break you," he whispered, his voice laced with a dangerous promise. "But I will put you back together as mine."

He pulled away slightly, his gaze sweeping over her unconscious form. Then, with no sense of urgency, he slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.

She was light. Too light. San clicked his tongue.

"You're still weak," he mused, as if speaking to himself. "I’ll have to fix that."

With long, unhurried strides, he carried her toward the grand doors. His boots echoed against the empty hall, the only sound accompanying them. The princess belonged to him now. And San always got what he wanted.

When YN's eyes fluttered open, she was met with a sight she did not expect.

The room around her was nothing like the one she had been confined to before. It was magnificent—grander, richer, almost suffocating in its opulence. Deep crimson drapes cascaded from the towering windows, gold accents lining every carved detail of the walls. The bed she lay on was vast, the silk sheets beneath her softer than anything she had ever known.

But none of that mattered. Because he was there.

San.

He sat on the bed, resting against the bedpost with one arm draped over the carved wood, watching her with unreadable eyes. But the problem wasn’t just that he was there.

The problem was that he was shirtless.

The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows across his toned torso, emphasizing every defined muscle, every scar carved into his skin like war medals. He looked relaxed—too relaxed—as if he had all the time in the world to simply watch her. Panic surged through her veins like fire.

Her breath hitched, and before her mind could even catch up, her body reacted. She immediately sat up, the sheets pooling around her, and scrambled off the bed. Her bare feet hit the cool floor as she backed away, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the terrifyingly alluring man before her. San exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips as he lazily tilted his head.

"Running away again?" he mused, his voice deep, teasing. "How adorable." YN swallowed hard. She knew better now. Running wasn’t an option.

But being near him? That was just as dangerous.

YN's voice was hoarse when she finally found the courage to speak. "Why am I here?"

San didn’t answer right away. He simply stretched, his muscles flexing as he let out a lazy sigh, before tilting his head toward her. “Does it matter?” he said casually, as if her presence in his chambers was the most natural thing in the world. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, frustration simmering beneath her fear. “Of course, it matters—”

But before she could continue, San suddenly chuckled, his sharp gaze locking onto hers. “Why are you so scared?” he teased, lips curling into that familiar, maddening smirk. “I haven’t done anything. Yet.”

Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to stand her ground. She hesitated for a moment before finally answering, her voice quieter now. “In my kingdom… it is inappropriate for an unmarried woman to share a bed with a man.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then San let out a low hum, tapping his fingers against the bedpost as if deep in thought. His smirk grew wider.

"Ah… so that's what’s bothering you," he mused. His eyes darkened with amusement as he leaned forward just slightly. "Then I suppose… you should be grateful I let you sleep alone last night.”

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

San was playing with her. And he was enjoying it.

San chuckled, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down YN’s spine. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he watched her with that ever-present glint of amusement.

“You won’t be unmarried for long,” he said casually, as if he were discussing the weather.

YN blinked. “What?” Her voice came out quieter than she intended, confusion flickering in her eyes.

San didn’t hesitate. He met her gaze head-on, his smirk sharpening into something more dangerous. “I’m going to marry you.”

Silence.

The words hit her like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs. She stared at him, waiting for him to take it back, to tell her it was another one of his cruel jokes. But he didn’t. Instead, he tilted his head, his expression unreadable now. Deadly serious. “I’ve already decided,” he continued, as if that was the end of the discussion. “You’ll be my queen.”

YN took a step back, shaking her head in disbelief. “No,” she breathed. “You’re insane if you think—”

San suddenly stood, and she immediately froze. He wasn’t smirking anymore.

His gaze was intense, piercing through her like a blade. “I think you’re forgetting something, little princess.” His voice dropped lower, the weight of his authority pressing down on her. “Everything here… belongs to me.”

He took a slow step toward her.

“The palace.” Another step.

“The people.” Another.

“And you.”

YN’s back hit the wall, her breath caught in her throat as San loomed over her.

“There’s no escape, YN,” he murmured, reaching out to trace a strand of her hair between his fingers. “So don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

His lips curled into a smirk again, but his eyes?

They promised that he never said things he didn’t mean.

YN clenched her fists, gathering the courage to speak. “I won’t marry you,” she said firmly, though there was still a tremor in her voice. “You’re… you’re way older than me.”

San raised a brow, his lips twitching in amusement. “Older?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, little princess, that’s hardly an issue. A few years mean nothing in the grand scheme of things.”

He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Besides,” he continued, tilting his head slightly, “older men are wiser. Stronger. More capable of protecting what’s theirs.” His voice dropped, smooth like silk but laced with quiet dominance. “And you? You are mine now, aren’t you?”

YN swallowed, refusing to be rattled. “Marriage is supposed to be based on love,” she blurted out, gripping the fabric of her dress.

San stilled for a moment before exhaling a soft laugh. “Love?” He said the word like it was foreign to him, like it amused him. His fingers reached out, ghosting over the ends of her hair as he watched her intently. “You think love is what keeps a marriage strong?” His voice was deceptively soft, almost hypnotic. “No, little princess. Love is fragile. It crumbles. But power? Loyalty? Fear?” His gaze darkened. “Those are unshakable.”

He leaned in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. “And don’t worry,” he murmured, his smirk returning. “You’ll learn to love me eventually.” He pulled away then, as if the conversation was already settled.

YN’s heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to argue, to fight back, but deep down, she knew—

San never changed his mind.

San’s voice was smooth, almost reassuring. “You don’t need to worry,” he said, as if his words could magically erase her fears. “I’ll take care of you. Give you everything you could ever want. Shower you with fortune, with power.” His fingers traced the edge of a gold-embroidered pillow as he spoke, his gaze never leaving her.

But YN didn’t want that. She never had.

She clenched her fists at her sides, her heart twisting painfully. This was not what she had dreamed of. She had always wanted love—real love, the kind her parents had. She had spent her childhood watching the way her father would soften whenever he looked at her mother, the way they laughed together, the way they held each other with warmth and affection. She had wanted that for herself one day. Not this.

Not a forced marriage with a ruthless king who saw love as a weakness.

Her throat felt tight, but she managed to whisper, “This isn’t what I imagined.” San tilted his head, watching her with unreadable eyes. “What did you imagine, then?” His voice was calm, but there was something lurking beneath it.

YN hesitated. She didn’t want to tell him. Didn’t want to give him more power over her. But at the same time, she needed him to understand. “I imagined… a family,” she admitted softly. “A husband who loves me. Who looks at me the way my father looked at my mother. I don’t want riches or power. I just wanted…” She trailed off, unable to finish.

San’s smirk faded slightly, his expression darkening.

Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “Love,” he mused, almost to himself. “You really think love is enough to build a life on?”

His fingers suddenly caught her chin, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm, unyielding.

“You’ll learn, little princess,” he murmured. “You’ll see that love is nothing but a fragile illusion.” His thumb brushed against her lower lip before he released her. “But don’t worry. I’ll give you something much better.”

He stepped back. “You’ll have me. And in time, that will be all you need.”

YN’s stomach twisted in despair. Because deep down, she knew—San never said things he didn’t mean.

YN took a deep breath, steadying herself. She knew San wasn’t someone she could reason with. He was a man who took what he wanted, who bent the world to his will without a second thought. And clearly, he had decided that she would be his.

But that didn’t mean she would accept it.

She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with quiet defiance. “I know I can’t change your mind,” she admitted, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll be happily married to you.”

San's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable, something dark. He took a slow step toward her, closing the space between them with effortless ease.

“You say that now,” he murmured, his voice low and almost amused. “But things change, little princess. People change.” His fingers reached out, barely grazing a lock of her hair before he let it slip through his fingers. “You’ll come to understand soon enough.”

YN clenched her fists, resisting the shiver that threatened to crawl down her spine. “I will never love you,” she stated firmly.

San simply chuckled, stepping even closer until she had no choice but to tilt her head up to keep looking at him. “Who said anything about love?” he whispered. His breath was warm against her skin. “You’ll belong to me—whether you love me or not.”

YN’s heart pounded, but she forced herself not to look away. If he thought she would break that easily, he was wrong. San studied her for a moment, then let out a small hum of amusement. “I like that fire in your eyes,” he mused. “I wonder how long it’ll last.”

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing there—trapped in a fate she wanted no part of.

YN lay stiffly in the bed, her back turned to him. The mattress was soft, far more luxurious than anything she had ever slept on before, yet she couldn’t relax. Not when the very man who had destroyed her life was lying so close behind her.

She flinched when she felt a strong arm wrap around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest. San held her close, his grip firm yet strangely gentle, as if he was claiming her but didn’t want to break her—at least not yet. His warmth surrounded her, but it wasn’t comforting. It was suffocating.

“Tell me something,” his voice was softer now, almost coaxing, as he rested his chin lightly near her shoulder. “Before all of this… before I came and took what was mine… what did you think your married life would be like?”

YN hesitated. She didn’t want to answer him. She didn’t want to let him in, to give him even a glimpse of the dreams she once held so dearly. But his grip around her waist tightened just slightly, a silent warning that he expected her to answer.

Taking a shaky breath, she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I wanted a loving husband,” she admitted reluctantly. “Someone who would cherish me, not own me.”

San didn’t say anything, so she continued, her voice quieter now, as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. “I always imagined a peaceful life. A home filled with laughter. Two children… an older son and a younger daughter.” A small, sad smile ghosted her lips. “I thought I’d marry someone who truly loved me, and we would raise them together, surrounded by warmth and kindness.”

San hummed thoughtfully. His fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on her side, a stark contrast to the dangerous man she knew he was. “A husband who loves you, two perfect children… how sweet.” He chuckled softly, though there was something unreadable in his tone. “You dream too softly for this cruel world, little princess.”

YN swallowed hard, gripping the silk sheets beneath her. She didn’t want to hear that from him. She didn’t want him to mock what little hope she had left.

San sighed, his warm breath fanning against her neck. “Love is an illusion,” he murmured, his lips barely grazing her skin. “Power, control… those are real. And I am real. You are mine, whether you accept it or not.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

San felt it. His thumb brushed against her waist, but he said nothing more. Instead, he simply held her tighter, as if he could mold her into his world through sheer force alone. And YN, despite everything, lay there in silence, trapped in the arms of the man who had stolen her future.

Days passed, and to YN’s surprise, San was… different. Not entirely, of course. He was still terrifying, still the man who had destroyed everything she knew. But he wasn’t as cruel as before.

He no longer forced her into uncomfortable situations just to see her squirm. He didn’t toy with her pride as much, nor did he threaten her with the same intensity. He was still controlling, still possessive, but something had shifted.

San was still bad. Just… not as bad.

He still made her dance for him, but now, he ensured that she had the proper shoes for it. He still forced her to eat at his table, but he no longer demanded she eat meat. He even went as far as making sure her meals were tailored to her tastes.

And then there were the moments in between—when he wasn’t being the ruthless king, the tyrant she had come to loathe. Moments where he would sit with her, watching her read, commenting lazily on the books she chose. Sometimes, he would run his fingers through her hair absentmindedly, braiding and unbraiding it as if it was his personal pastime. Other times, he would simply exist in the same space as her, not demanding, not pushing—just watching.

It was unsettling.

Because YN didn’t know what he wanted. She didn’t know what his end goal was. He had taken her, claimed her as his future bride, yet he wasn’t forcing her into marriage immediately. It was as if he was waiting for something.

San had been lounging beside her, his usual confident smirk in place as his sharp eyes flickered to the book in her hands. “That book,” he mused, tilting his head, “seems dreadfully boring.”

YN instinctively wanted to argue, to tell him how wrong he was, but then she remembered where she stood. She wasn’t in her home, in her kingdom. She was here, in his palace, a prisoner no matter how much luxury surrounded her. So instead of fighting back, she simply lowered her gaze, her grip on the book tightening as sadness settled over her features. San noticed.

His smirk faltered for a brief second before he leaned forward, his voice shifting into something lighter, almost teasing. “Alright then, tell me—what is it about?”

She hesitated, her fingers playing with the edge of the pages. But after a moment, she softly answered, “It’s about a girl who lost everything and had to rebuild her life somewhere new.”

San hummed, watching her carefully. “Sounds familiar.” She stiffened, but before he could ruin the moment, he continued, “And? What does she do?”

YN glanced at him cautiously before her eyes flickered back to the book. “She learns. She makes friends. She finds purpose again.”

Something shifted in her tone—just the smallest change, but San caught it. Her voice grew steadier, her words flowing more freely as she continued. “She thought she would never find happiness again, but little by little, she discovers new things that make her smile. Even in a place she once feared, she finds something worth holding onto.”

Her eyes lit up as she spoke, the weight on her shoulders seeming to lift, if only for a moment. She wasn’t talking to the cruel king who had stolen her life. She was simply speaking about something she loved.

San didn’t miss it.

He leaned back, resting his chin on his hand as he smirked. “You really like this book, don’t you?”

She blinked, suddenly realizing how much she had said. The light in her eyes dimmed as she clutched the book close to her chest, lips pressing into a thin line.

San clicked his tongue. “Tsk. There it is again.”

She looked at him, confused. “What?”

He tilted his head. “You’re always holding yourself back around me. But just now? You weren’t.”

YN swallowed, unsure how to respond.

San let out a breath, reaching forward before she could react. His fingers brushed against the strands of her hair, twirling a lock between his fingers as he murmured, “I think I like you better when you talk freely.”

YN stiffened, heart pounding. But San just smirked, letting the hair slip from his fingers as he leaned back.

“Keep reading, little princess.”

San grabbed a towel and slung it over his shoulder, stretching slightly before making his way toward the bathroom. YN watched him go but didn’t say anything, just lowering her gaze back to her book. The sound of water running filled the room, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A while later, the door creaked open, and steam drifted out as San stepped back into the room.

He was fresh out of the bath, his damp hair slightly tousled, strands sticking to his forehead. Water still clung to his skin, glistening under the warm light as droplets trailed down his chest. His robe hung loosely on his shoulders, revealing glimpses of his toned frame, and his presence alone seemed to take up all the space in the room.

But his sharp eyes immediately found her.

YN was sitting in front of the mirror, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the ends of her hair. She looked deep in thought, her brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed together as if she was hesitating over something.

San smirked.

He walked up behind her, his reflection appearing in the mirror as he placed both hands on the table, leaning down slightly. His voice was smooth, teasing.

“You want to ask something.”

YN jolted a little, her fingers tightening around her hair as she met his gaze in the reflection. He tilted his head, eyes flickering over her expression. “Go on,” he murmured, voice dropping lower. “Ask away.”

YN hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. It was obvious she felt embarrassed, her posture stiff as if she was trying to disappear into herself. San watched her through the mirror, waiting with an amused yet patient look, though there was a glint of curiosity in his dark eyes. After a long silence, she finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

“Can I… talk to a maid?”

San straightened slightly, tilting his head. His smirk remained, but his eyes darkened just a little. “A maid?” he repeated, sounding unimpressed. She nodded quickly, still not meeting his gaze.

He scoffed, stepping around her so that he was now facing her directly. “Why?”

“I just need to ask her something,” she murmured.

San didn’t like that answer. He was nosy about her. He wanted to know everything—her thoughts, her feelings, even the small things that made her nervous like this. And this? This was something she was clearly reluctant to share. That only made him more curious.

He leaned in slightly, one brow raising. “Ask her what?”

YN swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s not important.”

“Then why can’t you tell me?” he shot back smoothly.

She tensed, her grip tightening on her sleeve. She knew he wasn’t going to drop this. San was persistent, and if she continued dodging, he’d only make things worse for her.

With a deep breath, she finally looked down and muttered, “My period is going to start soon.”

Silence.

Her face burned. She didn’t want to say it—especially not to him—but she had no choice. She wished the ground would swallow her whole.

San, however, was anything but embarrassed. In fact, he looked entertained. His lips curved into a knowing smile arms crossing over his broad chest.

“That’s what you were so shy about?” he chuckled. “You act like I don’t know what a period is.”

YN glared at him, her cheeks still hot. “I just wanted to ask a maid for supplies, not tell you about it.”

San hummed, stepping even closer. “You need something? I can have it brought to you.”

She clenched her jaw. “I don’t need you to handle it.”

He grinned. “Too bad. You belong to me now, which means everything you need comes from me.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower. “Even this.”

YN shut her eyes, exhaling sharply. There was no winning against him.

San let out a low chuckle. “I’ll have the maids bring you what you need. Next time, just tell me. No need to be so shy.”

She turned away, wishing this conversation would end. But as she heard him chuckle again, she knew one thing—he was enjoying this way too much.

San’s chuckle lingered in the air as he turned away from her, still clearly entertained by the whole situation. YN, on the other hand, felt like sinking into the floor. Why did it have to be him she had to tell? Why couldn’t he just let her talk to a maid like a normal person? Still, at least he said he’d send someone with what she needed. That was enough for now.

She remained sitting in front of the mirror, her hands still gripping the fabric of her dress as San walked to his side of the room. He dried his damp hair lazily with a towel, the glow from the lanterns casting soft shadows across his bare torso. YN forced herself to look anywhere but at him, but it was hard when he was the only moving presence in the dimly lit room. San finally tossed the towel aside and stretched, rolling his shoulders. He caught her reflection in the mirror, smirking at the way she was avoiding his gaze.

“You look so tense,” he commented, stepping behind her again. “Still embarrassed?”

She didn’t answer.

San tsked and placed his hands on the vanity, caging her in. “We’re going to be married, little princess,” he murmured. “You don’t have to be shy with me.”

Her hands clenched into fists, and she swallowed down the frustration rising in her throat. She hated how he spoke so casually about it. As if her opinion didn’t matter. As if she had no choice but to accept it. She took a shaky breath. “You keep talking about this marriage, but I don’t remember agreeing to it.”

San let out a low hum, his fingers tracing the wooden surface beside her. “You’ll come around.”

YN finally met his gaze in the mirror, her expression sharp. “What if I don’t?”

San grinned, but it wasn’t the playful kind—it was dark, knowing, almost dangerous. He leaned in, so close that his breath brushed against her ear.

“Then I’ll make sure you do.”

A shiver ran down her spine. She wasn’t sure if it was fear, frustration, or something else entirely, but she hated how easily he got under her skin.

San finally pulled away, stepping toward the bed. “Enough talking. Get some rest,” he said as he slid under the covers.

YN remained frozen for a moment before finally standing up and making her way to the bed as well. She didn’t want to sleep beside him, but what choice did she have? He had made it clear before—she wasn’t allowed to sleep anywhere else.

As she lay down, she kept her back to him, her body stiff. But just as she was beginning to relax, she felt an arm snake around her waist, pulling her against his chest. San let out a satisfied sigh, nuzzling into her hair. “Good night, princess,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement.

YN clenched her eyes shut, willing herself to ignore the way her heart pounded in her chest.

The grand wedding was too much for her. It was lavish, flamboyant, and overwhelming in every possible way. The palace was adorned with the finest silks, golden drapes cascading from the ceilings, and chandeliers that glowed like captured stardust. The scent of exotic flowers filled the air, blending with the rich aroma of feast preparations. It was a celebration fit for a queen—his queen.

Everybody took part. Nobles from distant lands arrived in their most extravagant attire, offering their congratulations to the man who had conquered not only kingdoms but now a bride. The halls echoed with the sound of music, laughter, and endless chatter about the union of King San and the fallen princess of Eldoria.

YN felt suffocated. She stood stiffly in her wedding attire, the fabric embroidered with gold, heavy on her shoulders, as if it were trying to crush her under its weight. Her hands trembled in her lap, fingers tightening around the delicate bouquet she held.

This was it.

There was no escape now.

San was standing tall beside her, dressed in his royal robes, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He looked utterly at ease, smirking at the guests as if this was just another victory in his long list of triumphs. His hand found hers, his grip firm, possessive.

"Smile," he whispered in her ear, his voice dripping with amusement. "It’s your big day, after all."

YN forced her lips to curve slightly, but she knew it didn’t reach her eyes.

The ceremony proceeded like a dream—a slow, painful one. Vows were exchanged, oaths were sealed, and with a smirk playing on his lips, San lifted her veil.

Her breath hitched as he leaned in, his fingers tilting her chin up, his gaze burning into hers before he finally captured her lips in a deep, claiming kiss.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

She closed her eyes, feeling the world spin.

She was no longer Princess YN of Eldoria.

She was now Queen YN of his empire.

The wedding feast stretched late into the night, filled with music, laughter, and the glow of golden candlelight. YN sat beside San, her hands folded neatly in her lap, feeling the weight of the rings on her fingers—symbols of a union she had never wished for. The grand hall was alive with celebration, nobles raising their goblets in toasts to their new king and queen, but YN barely touched her food. She felt like an outsider at her own wedding, trapped in a gilded cage.

San, however, was completely at ease. He carried himself like a man who had won—not just a war, but her. He accepted congratulations with his usual smirk, his presence commanding the room. Yet, no matter how many people spoke to him, his gaze always found its way back to her. Watching her. Studying her. As if trying to figure out what was going on inside that stubborn little head of hers.

As the night drew to a close, he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Time to go, princess.” His voice was softer than usual, almost teasing, but it sent a shiver down her spine nonetheless.

She hesitated, but he took her hand, guiding her through the grand halls. His grip was firm but not forceful. People bowed as they passed, whispering about how stunning she looked, how perfect they seemed together. But only she knew the truth.

When they reached the royal bedchamber, the doors shut behind them with a quiet finality. The room was breathtaking—grand and luxurious, with deep crimson drapes and gold accents, the massive bed taking up the center like a throne of its own. The air was thick with the scent of burning candles and something else—something distinctly him.

She stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do.

San turned to her, watching her closely. “You look tense,” he murmured, taking a step forward.

She refused to respond.

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. Then, with an ease that made her heart stutter, he started undoing the layers of his royal attire. The heavy coat was the first to go, then the rings on his fingers, the golden chains around his neck. By the time he was left in just his loose white shirt and dark pants, he looked almost… different. Less like a conqueror. More like a man.

Still, she took a small step back.

She swallowed, forcing herself to glare at him. “Marriage doesn’t mean you own me.”

He exhaled a soft chuckle, his fingers brushing through his dark hair before he looked at her again—this time, without mockery. “I know.” His voice was quiet, honest. “But I will take care of you. No matter what you think of me.”

She blinked, taken aback.

San moved to the other side of the room, pulling off his rings and setting them on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked at her once more, this time without the sharpness he usually carried.

YN stood in the center of the grand chamber, the weight of her wedding dress suddenly unbearable. Layers of embroidered silk and heavy jewels clung to her like a second skin, suffocating her. She barely had the energy to stand, let alone deal with the exhaustion creeping into her bones.

San, lounging on the edge of the bed, watched her with an unreadable expression. She hesitated, gripping the delicate embroidery of her sleeves. She needed to take it off, but she wasn’t exactly comfortable stripping in front of him.

San, as if reading her mind, let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re struggling.” He pushed off the bed, walking towards her with slow, confident steps. “Want my help?”

“No,” she answered quickly, stepping back.

He smirked but said nothing. Instead, he strolled toward a corner of the room, where a silk robe had been neatly placed. He grabbed it and held it out to her. “Wear this after.”

She stared at it for a moment before snatching it from his hands. She expected him to watch, but instead, he turned his back to her.

Surprised by his rare display of restraint, she wasted no time undoing the dozens of tiny clasps running down the back of her dress. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She hurriedly pulled the robe over herself, the soft material a welcome relief against her skin.

“I’m done,” she muttered.

San turned back around, his gaze flickering over her once before he let out a satisfied hum. “Better.” Then, without another word, he strolled back to the bed, lying down like he owned the world.

She hesitated before following, keeping to the very edge of the mattress.

San turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes holding a glint of amusement. “You act like I bite.”

“You do bite,” she shot back.

He laughed, low and deep, before closing his eyes. “Only when necessary.”

She rolled her eyes and turned her back to him, ignoring the way his voice sent an annoying warmth through her.

As she tried to sleep, she could still feel the weight of his presence behind her—the king who had taken everything from her. And yet, for some reason, he hadn’t taken this.

Not yet.

As she lay on the vast bed, wrapped in the silk robe he had given her, YN couldn’t help but let her thoughts wander. She had read enough books to know how forced marriages usually played out. The stories always spoke of cruelty, of brides being nothing more than prizes to be taken. She had braced herself for that kind of fate.

But San… didn’t do it.

Instead, he was—dare she even think it?—soft. Not in the way a gentle prince would be, not in the way fairytales promised love and warmth. No, San was still dangerous, still sharp-edged, but there was something different about him tonight.

She had expected him to take what he wanted without question. To claim her the way men like him always did in stories. But instead, he had turned his back when she changed. He had given her space. He had simply laid down, his presence commanding yet oddly non-threatening.

Like a kitten, she thought absently, though the image almost made her want to laugh. A very large, very terrifying kitten with claws that could tear you apart.

She shifted slightly, stealing a glance at him. He was lying on his back, one arm lazily draped behind his head, his dark eyes half-lidded as he stared at the ceiling. He looked… relaxed.

Not once had he touched her inappropriately. Not once had he made any crude remarks. (He literally choked you but ok ig)

Why?

She turned her face away, staring at the soft glow of the lanterns instead. Maybe this was just another manipulation tactic. Maybe he was waiting for her to let her guard down. Or maybe… maybe some small part of him actually saw her as more than just a prize.

The thought unsettled her.

Because deep down, she knew that if San ever decided he wanted something, nothing in the world could stop him from taking it. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what would happen if he ever decided he truly wanted her.

YN blinked sleepily, her vision still hazy from sleep. She stretched her arms lazily, her long sleeves slipping past her hands as she let out a small, muffled yawn. Her hair was a complete mess, strands sticking out in every direction, framing her sleepy face in an unintentionally adorable way.

Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, searched the room, expecting to see San beside her—but his side of the bed was empty. Still wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, she turned her head, and there he was.

San sat at his desk, his posture relaxed but commanding, one hand holding a pen as he wrote something with effortless ease. The soft glow of the morning light caught his features just right��his sharp jawline, his dark tousled hair, the way his white shirt clung to his frame, the top few buttons left undone, revealing a glimpse of his collarbone.

For the first time, he didn’t look like a monster. He looked… almost like a king should. Regal, composed, focused. Normal.

YN rubbed her eyes, still trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. She tilted her head slightly, observing him, her lips unconsciously forming a small pout.

Why did he have to look that good in the morning? It was unfair.

As if sensing her gaze, San suddenly looked up. His piercing eyes met hers instantly, and for a second, neither of them spoke. His lips curled into a small, amused smirk as he leaned back in his chair.

“Did you sleep well, little princess?” His voice was deep, still carrying the remnants of sleep, and for some reason, it made her stomach do a weird little flip.

She blinked at him, still too groggy to properly respond, and just gave a slow, sleepy nod.

San chuckled, shaking his head. “You look like a little kitten.”

“I do not.”

But with her messy hair, half-lidded eyes, and small, sleepy pout, she absolutely did. And San looked far too entertained by it.

YN groggily got out of bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor as she stumbled slightly. She was still shaking off sleep, her body not fully awake yet. Without thinking, she made her way to the bathroom, craving the warmth of a shower to clear her mind.

By the time she emerged, she felt fresher, more alert. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders, the scent of soap and flowers lingering around her. But now, standing in the middle of the grand room, she realized—she had no idea what to do next.

Her life had always been structured, filled with responsibilities, duties, and expectations. But here? She had nothing. No routine, no obligations. No real freedom, either. Without really thinking, she turned towards the only person who did know what to do.

San.

He was still at his desk, leaning back in his chair, one hand propped under his chin as he watched her approach. His sharp eyes scanned her from head to toe, taking in her fresh appearance, his lips twitching into something close to a smirk. She stopped in front of him, hesitating. Now fully awake, she felt slightly embarrassed that she had come to him of all people. But she pushed past it and, in a soft voice, asked,

“…What should I do now?”

San’s smirk deepened, his gaze flickering with amusement. He rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, tilting his head as he looked up at her.

“You’re asking me?” he mused, his voice slow, teasing. “What a good little wife you are.”

YN’s cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not—!”

San chuckled, waving a hand. “Relax, princess. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

Her brows furrowed. Free? That word felt strange coming from his mouth.

San, sensing her doubt, leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something softer. “Go walk around. Read. Sit by the window and braid your hair, since you love doing that.” His eyes glinted with something unreadable. “Or… you can just sit here and keep me company.”

YN bit her lip. None of those things felt fulfilling. But at least now, she knew one thing—San wasn’t planning to throw her back into isolation. For now.

YN stood there, fidgeting slightly, as the realization settled in. She didn’t know what to do. It was a strange, unsettling feeling—one she had never truly experienced before.

Back in her kingdom, her days were always planned for her. From the moment she woke up to the moment she went to bed, every decision had already been made—what she wore, what she studied, where she went, how she behaved. And now, standing here with the freedom to choose, she felt... lost.

San, who had been watching her closely, let out a small chuckle. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest, looking effortlessly regal even in his relaxed posture. “What’s with that face, princess?” he mused. “You act like I just handed you the entire world.”

YN glanced at him, biting her lip. Maybe because, in a way, you did.

San tilted his head, studying her. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “You’re older now. You don’t need someone to tell you what to do every second of the day.” He tapped his fingers against the armrest. “So, tell me, what do you want to do?”

YN hesitated. She had never really been asked that before. What did she want? Then, almost instinctively, she looked up at him and answered, “I want to cook.” San blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. Then, slowly, a smirk stretched across his lips. “Cook?” he repeated, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

She nodded, a bit more firmly this time. “Yes.”

San exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Of all things…” He stood up, towering over her, before placing a hand under her chin, tilting her face up to look at him properly. “You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

YN swallowed, her breath hitching at how close he was. His fingers were warm against her skin, his touch gentle despite the sheer power he held.

Then, after a beat of silence, he let go and stepped back. “Fine,” he said lazily. “Let’s see what my little wife can do in the kitchen.”

YN had never felt this kind of nervousness before. She had fought battles of words, endured royal duties, and faced San’s unnerving presence more times than she could count. But this? Watching him take the first bite of the food she cooked with her own hands? It was a different kind of pressure.

She sat stiffly across from him at the long dining table, pretending to focus on her plate, but her eyes kept flickering toward him. He hadn’t said a word yet, just cutting into the dish and bringing a bite to his lips.

San chewed slowly, his face unreadable. YN gripped the fabric of her dress beneath the table. Is it bad?

Then, finally, he swallowed. He set his fork down, wiping the corner of his mouth with deliberate ease before turning his gaze to her.

“You were a princess,” he mused, voice slow and deep. “Raised in luxury, surrounded by servants to do everything for you.”

YN tensed, unsure where this was going.

“And yet,” he continued, dragging his thumb across the table absentmindedly, “you can cook like this?”

Her lips parted slightly. “I… I learned from the palace chefs,” she admitted. “They were kind enough to teach me when I was younger.” San hummed, leaning back in his chair. Then, to her shock, he smirked. “You’re full of surprises, wife.”

YN blinked, heat creeping up her neck. “So… does that mean you like it?”

San tilted his head, his smirk deepening as he picked up his fork again. “I don’t just like it,” he said, taking another bite. “I might just keep you in the kitchen forever.”

She frowned. “That’s not funny.”

San chuckled, the sound smooth and rich. “Oh, but it is.” He motioned toward her plate. “Now eat. You put in all that effort—don’t let it go to waste.”

YN exhaled, shaking her head but finally picking up her utensils.

And though she wouldn’t admit it, a small, almost unnoticeable smile played on her lips as she started eating.

San never thought he was capable of feeling guilt. He was a man who took what he wanted, ruled with an iron fist, and never once looked back at the wreckage he left behind. But YN… she had undone something in him. What started as twisted obsession had transformed into something deeper—something he couldn't even name. Love wasn't enough to describe it. He adored her, worshipped her in ways that made even him question his sanity. And yet, with every stolen glance, every soft sigh that escaped her lips when she thought he wasn’t listening, he felt the weight of his past actions press down on him. He had humiliated her. Broken her pride. Forced her into this marriage without a choice.

And yet, here she was. Cooking for him. Talking to him. Looking at him like he was a person, not a monster.

San watched her as she ate, completely unaware of the war raging in his mind. He could see the faint traces of her old self still lingering—the stubbornness, the quiet grace, the warmth she carried even when she tried to keep it from him. And for the first time, he found himself wanting something different. He wanted her to look at him without fear. He wanted her to choose him, not just accept him as an unchangeable fate.

San clenched his jaw, setting his fork down. He was not a man who apologized, not a man who begged for forgiveness. But for her? He would find a way to make things right, even if he didn’t deserve it.

San stood near the dresser, watching her through the mirror’s reflection. Her legs dangled off the edge of the bed, her bare feet swinging slightly. She looked small like this, lost in thought, her fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the hem of her nightgown.

He sighed softly, running a hand through his dark hair before walking over to her. He crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees so they were at eye level. “You look tired,” he murmured, voice softer than usual.

YN blinked at him, a little caught off guard. He was always intense—dangerous—but tonight, there was something different about him. His eyes weren’t as sharp, his usual arrogance replaced with something quieter.

She shrugged, looking away. “I suppose”.

San hummed, tilting his head slightly. Then, without warning, he reached for her foot, gently holding her ankle in his large hand. YN stiffened, watching him closely, but he only smirked. “Relax,” he said, sliding his thumb in slow circles over her skin.

“What are you doing?” she asked, wary.

He lifted her foot slightly, resting it on his knee. “Something a loving husband would do.”

Her breath caught.

San’s touch was uncharacteristically gentle as he began to massage her foot, his fingers pressing into the arch, kneading away the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. The warmth of his hands sent a shiver up her spine, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

She swallowed hard. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

YN’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. She only watched as he worked, her heart pounding against her ribs.

San’s gaze flickered up to hers, and for once, there was no wicked glint in his eyes, no teasing smirk. Just something raw and real. “I know I’ve been… cruel,” he admitted, his voice low. “But I want to be better for you.”

Her breath hitched. She wasn’t sure what to say—wasn’t sure if she believed him. But for now, she let him hold her foot in his hands, let herself enjoy the rare moment of peace between them.

Because, for the first time, San wasn’t just claiming her.

He was asking for her.

YN sat there, her legs dangling over the edge of the tall bed, watching San with cautious eyes. She didn’t know what to expect from him anymore. He had been cruel, manipulative—everything about him had terrified her. And yet, in these past days, she had seen glimpses of something else. Something she didn’t understand.

And now, he was kneeling in front of her, holding her leg in his strong yet gentle grasp, his forehead pressed against her knee.

Her breath caught in her throat. The mighty king, the man who had stolen her life away, was bowing his head as if he was asking for forgiveness. It felt unreal.

San’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile moment had settled between them. “I’ve hurt you so much, haven’t I?”

YN stiffened, her fingers clutching the fabric of her nightgown.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

San lifted his head slightly, just enough to look up at her. His dark eyes were no longer filled with their usual amusement, arrogance, or hunger. Instead, they held something else—something softer, more vulnerable. And the way he looked at her... how did he make his eyes look like that? Like a desperate plea. Like an apology.

She hated that it made her feel something.

His thumb brushed over her ankle, slow and deliberate, as if grounding himself in the touch. “I can’t take it back,” he murmured. “Everything I’ve done to you… I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He exhaled shakily, closing his eyes for a brief moment before looking up again. “But I want to change. For you.”

YN’s heart betrayed her by skipping a beat.

No. No, she couldn’t let herself believe this.

This was the same man who had humiliated her, who had forced her into a life she never wanted. She should push him away, tell him that no matter what he did, she would never forgive him. And yet…

Her fingers twitched in her lap. And for some reason, she didn’t move.

She felt lost. Confused. Torn between everything she knew and everything she was starting to feel. Her chest tightened, her throat burned, and before she could stop it, her eyes welled up with frustration. “Why?” Her voice was quiet, shaky. “Why do you do this to me?”

San looked at her, his grip on her leg tightening just slightly. His face remained unreadable, but his fingers betrayed him, twitching against her skin as if he feared she’d pull away.

YN swallowed hard, blinking back the tears threatening to spill. “Why do you make it so hard to hate you?”

She wanted to. She was supposed to. She should hate him for taking her from her home, for forcing her into this life, for every cruel smirk, every mocking word, every time he made her feel powerless. She should despise him for turning her world upside down. And yet—

He was the only one in her world now. No family. No kingdom. No one else. Just him. And somehow, that realization terrified her more than anything else.

She broke.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, one after another, until she couldn't stop them. Her shoulders shook, her breathing came out in ragged gasps, and all the pain, all the frustration, all the confusion poured out of her in waves.

San couldn’t watch it. He couldn’t bear it. He got up and pulled her into his arms without hesitation. His grip was tight—desperate, almost—as if he wanted to merge with her, to keep her so close that nothing, not even the pain he had caused, could separate them.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was low, rough, yet softer than she had ever heard it before. He pressed his face against her hair, holding her tighter, rocking her slightly. “I’m so sorry.”

She cried even harder.

Hearing that from him—this man who had only ever taken from her, who had controlled her life in ways she never imagined—made her sob until she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

And then his next words came, whispered against her temple, like a vow only she was meant to hear.

“I promise you, YN. I’ll be a good husband.”

His arms tightened around her. “I’ll make this right.”

She wanted to believe him.

She clung to him.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tightly as if he was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. She buried her face into his shoulder, her sobs muffled against his warmth.

San felt it. The way she held onto him—not out of love, not yet, but out of a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he could make the pain go away. That he could fix what he had broken.

His arms wrapped around her even tighter, his hand stroking her back in slow, steady motions. “I know,” he whispered, his voice laced with regret. “I know I hurt you.”

She didn’t respond. Just held on.

And San swore, in that moment, he would do anything—anything—to make it better. To deserve the way she was holding him now.

Divider from @/cafekitsune

[beenbaanbuun]

Neighbour w/ song mingi

words - 3.1k

genre - smutty

warnings - fem!reader, afab!reader, neighbour!mingi, mysterious!mingi, drop-out!reader, bitter!reader, wet dreams, masturbation, nicknames (kitty, good girl), i think that’s it

——————————————————————————

Coming home from a night shift is never fun, but its even less so in winter. As if the bone-deep tiredness wasn't already bad enough, now you have to compete with the inescapable chill of the air and the long, dark mornings that seem to drag on for eternity. It feels like months since you’ve actually seen an ounce of sunlight, sleeping through the few short hours that you’re granted around this time of year. Then you wake up again at 4pm, just in time to watch the sun go down beyond the horizon as you cook your breakfast of packet ramen and coffee.

Its a depressing existence, and you’d be the first to admit that, but you cant really afford much else. As a drop-out in a city full of students, you don't really have too many options. Full time jobs favour people with actual qualifications, and the part-time job market is wildly oversaturated by struggling teenagers looking for a way to fuel the various addictions that come hand in hand with being at university. You remember it well; the £16 bottles of Tesco’s own brand vodka that went down about as easy as a fist full of gravel, the weed from a random dealer who passed you his number at 3am while you were sitting drunk on a park bench. Its an expensive life to live, and you don’t blame them for snatching up every single decent part time job your city has to offer.

Not really, anyway. Theres certainly a little resentment there whenever a drunken customer cusses you out for refusing to serve them. Perhaps a little hatred when you’re sent in to handle yet another bar fight between two men twice your size. Definitely a lot of frustration whenever you feel the amused eyes of your neighbour as he watches you sleepily fumble with your keys whenever you return home in the morning. You’ve yet to learn his name since he moved in, and part of you doesn't want to. From the few run-ins youve had with him, you can already say that no amount of resentment or hatred or frustration you feel towards your working situation compares to what you feel for him.

That stupid bleached hair that he lets grow into something akin to a shitty mullet before cropping it short again, that brash voice that you can hear through the thin walls of your apartment as he yells at whatever sport is playing on his tv, those strangely soft eyes that watch you with so much amusement as you stumble around your shared corridor. He gets home about the same time as you after his morning run, and you hate it. You hate him. Cocky, irritating, handsome bastard.

“Someone pissed in your cereal, Kitty?” he pulls you from your thoughts with a quick quip. His shoulder is leaning against the wall on your side of the corridor, almost as if he was waiting for you to arrive home or something. It wouldn’t surprise you if it was; he seems the type to imagine camaraderie where there certainly isn't any. Perhaps he sees you as a friend, despite never having asked you for your name, or your age, or where you work, or anything else about you, for that matter. Maybe he’s lonely.

“I don’t eat cereal,” you scoff as you brush past him to get to your front door. He twists his body to watch you amble past him, your keys already poised in hand, “why would i want to eat cold mush every morning? Its gross.”

He chuckles brightly as if you’ve just told the joke of the century, and you weren’t just complaining about the concept of the nation’s favourite breakfast food. The judgemental glare you shoot in his direction happens just as easy as his laughter.

“It's a metaphor, Kitty,” God, you fucking hate that nickname, “surely work can’t have fried your brain that much.”

He wears a smirk that stretches from ear to ear, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as he stares you down. Part of you wishes you could sock him right in his pretty little face, but a smarter part of you knows that the muscles that decorate his body arent just for show. He's like a dog in that sense; no matter how cute and unassuming he makes himself out to be, there's always going to be a part of you that understands what hes capable of. Dogs were once wolves, after all.

Your gaze cant help but flicker to a scar on his cheekbone, and then up to the newer one that sits on his left hand eyebrow. They’re not the type that you get from playing a little too rough as a kid, nor the type thats left over from surgery. They’re purposeful and dangerous and it makes you wonder just what he did to deserve them.

“My brain is fine,” you make a point of looking away from the scar above his eye, no longer wanting to dwell on what might of caused it, “not that the state of it is any of your concern.”

He laughs again, his smile cracking his face in two as your annoyance only grows. How is it that he can make you feel so… undermined? With such ease too! Its like every toothy grin is an act of condescension, every comment crawling beneath your skin like beetles. You’ve met plenty of arseholes in your life, and yet theres been no one who angers you quite as much as him.

“I’m just being neighbourly, Kitty–”

“That’s not my name,” you growl out, a thick layer of impatience coating your words.

“Yes, but it suits you,” he says with a shrug, “far better than the one written on the front of your mail, don’t you think?” What business did this man have looking at your mail? You’ve never once paid attention to his, nevermind going as far as to read the name that sits just above the address. You regret it now as you watch the playing field become even more uneven than it already was. Its you against him; the older, stronger, cockier man that knows more about you than you do him. Logic says that this is a game; one that you've already lost.

He says your name, humming it lowly to himself as if its an equation he’s trying to figure out. It sounds good, coming from his mouth, his accented drawl pulling at the letters in a way you’ve never heard before. The vowels get extended and the consonants ring out clear like a bell. It feels like the first time hearing your name, and whilst that might not necessarily be true, it certainly is the first time you’ve liked it. Its the first time its ever felt correct.

You could kick yourself for even thinking something so… pathetic.

“It might not suit me, but it is my name,” you insist as you try to ignore the desperate pitter patter in your chest. Its not a sensation you’re familiar with, especially not when it comes to him. You can only blame it on the romantic dry spell you’ve been facing as of late. Turns out the night shift isn't exactly conducive to meeting new people.

“Sure it is, Kitty,” you grind your teeth against one another, “but what's a nickname between friends, hm?” his teeth glint in the flickering overhead light, flashes of luminance against his pearly white canines. If he truly were a dog, you’d already be running, the look in his eyes telling you exactly whats going to happen if you entertain him for much longer. Like a rodent stuck in the maw of its predator, you can already feel your fate closing in on you. If you don't leave now, you fear he wont ever let you go.

You slip your key into your lock and twist it.

“We’re not friends,” is all you say as you bump your shoulder into the wood to pry it open, quickly slipping inside before locking it behind you.

Theres a chuckle, and a single soft tap against the door.

“We’ll see about that, Kitty.”

——————————————————————————

You sleep strangely.

Despite your mind wandering and your heart rate shifting between erratic and arrhythmic, it doesnt take you long to slip into a dreamland once your head is actually resting on the soft fluff of your pillow. Darkness washes over you like waves lapping at the shore, pulling you further and further into the deep until you’re stuck within the murky abyss of your mind. Fish swim past in the form of dream fragments, very few of them making sense.

Your neighbour grins down at you with a softened gaze, hands flitting around your face as if he cant quite help himself but touch. You feel it so clearly; a finger tip gracing the end of your nose, a warm palm cupping your cheek, minty breaths tickling your skin so perfectly. It feels so natural, which is strange given your regular distaste for the man. And as he pulls his hand away, you can’t help but to chase it. You lean in close; so close that you can almost taste his musk on the tip of your tongue. It feels so real, and while every rational part of you thanks the heavens that it isn't, there's still a tiny voice in the back of your head praying that one day it will be.

And the worst part is, your sleep addled mind doesn’t even try and shut that voice it. It seems to nod along, letting your mind wander further and further until the dreams shifts to you lay on a bed. It’s not your bed, so you conclude that it’s his. You’ve never seen it before, but your mind seems to have conjured up something that works. Dark walls, dark bedsheets, dark furniture, all illuminated by the glow of his laptop which loops an animated screensaver of a kitten playing with a ball of yarn.

Heavy hands paw at your flesh, pushing and pulling at you like you’re a ragdoll. They’re careful, yet firm, putting you in position without pushing too far, or tugging too hard. Its like he’s done this a million times before, and you’d believe it if he had! Everything from his smirk, to the unfounded confidence lets you know that he’s good at this; good at catching women in his trap and fucking them until they belong to him, mind, body, and soul.

And you can deny it if you want, but something tells you that perhaps he has you on a tighter leash than you care admit. Perhaps he already owns your soul, and judging by the way his tongue presses upon your clit in your dream, it’s clear that he already owns your mind. All that’s left for him to take is your body, and would it really be so bad if you gave that to him as well.

If you were awake, you’d be hating yourself for having these thoughts, but you’re not, so you indulge. Your hands fly to his hair and tug on his silky strands like they’re the only things keeping you anchored to earth right now. It’s all too much; far more than you’ve ever felt in a dream before, and before you know it, you’re coming undone. Your heart is hammering, and your eyes are flying open and your own fingers are being drenched in your cum as they stimulate the motion of your neighbours tongue on your clit.

Fuck, you really must’ve been horny if you had to resort to sleep-wanking.

Disgust fills you from top to bottom as you sober up and let sanity rain down on you once more. Your fingers are sticky, but not quite as much as your thighs. Your underwear is seemingly nowhere to be seen, although you don’t doubt that it’s had the same treatment. You feel a mess, both physically and mentally. Seriously! Thirsting over a man you’ve dedicated your last few months to hating? It all feels too surreal to think about.

Yet think about it is all you can do. As you crawl out of bed, you can still feel his breath on your skin, and as you strip with wet sheets and shove them into the wash, you can still practically smell him. The steam that surrounds you in the shower makes your head spin, and its almost like you can’t stop yourself when for the second time that night—although the first time in whisky awake—your fingers find their way dancing over you clit to the thought of him consuming you.

You cum twice, maybe three times before the water turns cold and you’re left shivering and ashamed of yourself. This time it’s worse than when you first woke up, though. You’re conscious, and you willed those images to come into your head. No longer can you give your brain the benefit of the doubt because this time, this is exactly what you wanted, not just some crazy, nightmarish concept you’ve dreamt up.

“Fucking hell~” you growl to yourself as you switch off the water and lean your head against the cold tile. Your fingers are pruned, and you can’t tell whether it’s from the shower or the constant abuse of your poor clit. Either way, it’s a clear signal that you need to get a grip; get out of the bathroom and remove any thought of that man from your brain. These thoughts aren’t normal, you tell yourself as you wrap a fuzzy towel around your body; you don’t even know the man’s name for heaven's sake!

You make a mental note to check his mail the next time you leave the flat. By the end of the day, you want to know as much about this man as possible. If he’s going to take over your every thought, waking or otherwise, then you at least deserve to know the name of the man that’s ruining your life.

But speak of the devil, and he shall appear, right?

There’s a knock on your door; three short taps that almost go unnoticed by you. “Shit—coming!” You yell out as you hurriedly slide some pyjama bottoms over your thighs and a loose hoodie over your head. The towel on your hair remains in place, keeping your wet locks contained and out of your face. It makes you feel a little silly, as you make your way over to the door and crack it open to reveal your neighbour, but then you remember that you’ve painted him as a slut, and so a woman with a towel wrapped around her head probably isn’t too unusual of a sight.

“Kitty,” he says with a sly grin the moment the two of you come face to face. What would happen if you just slammed the door in his face, you wonder? Would it wipe that look off of his face? You doubt it; a man like that is only spurred on by rejection. They’re too full of themselves to understand that not everyone in the world wants to get in his pants.

Fragments of your dream flash through your mind.

Maybe you do want to get in his pants…

“What do you want?” You try and push the thoughts of his tongue on you away as you speak, but you can’t push away the warmth that pools in your stomach as he looks you up and down. His gaze is so brazen as it studies your form, taking extra time to travel over your curves. They’re well hidden by the oversized clothing you don, but with the way he studies you, you almost feel naked.

“Oh, nothing much,” he takes his time in returning his gaze to your face, letting his eyes linger on your chest for a moment or two. You’re almost tempted to cross your arms and cover yourself, but there’s some sick part of your brain that’s enjoying the way he looks at you. It’s the same part that conjured up those dreams, and make you play with yourself in the shower; the same part that’s trying to convince you that lusting this hard over a man you’re supposed to hate is entirely logical. You hate that part of yourself, and yet you don’t dare fight it as it takes control. “I made too much food; I wanted to know if you’d like to come over and have some?”

Immediately, your brain goes blank. Stepping into the apartment of a man you don't really know is a bad idea, right? Sure, he’s your neighbour, but that doesn’t mean he’s safe. Your eyes flicker across his scars again, and the burning question of where they came from returns. Your mind wanders to all sorts of dark places, and you try to ignore the way it makes the uncomfortable ache in your stomach deepen. You remember reading somewhere that fear is a powerful aphrodisiac and it’s the only explanation for the wetness that’s gathering between your thighs for the hundredth time today. It has nothing to do with his fluffy hair, or how hot he looks when he wears that condescending expression!

Even you can’t seem to make yourself believe that lie.

“I don’t really know you well enough to go to your apartment,” you try to reason, although you hardly sound stern about it. Your voice is weak, shaky, and there’s plenty of room for push back. With your brain teetering on the edge of too-horny-to-be-logical, you have no doubt that if he were to push too hard, you’d be sat at his dinner table by the end of the night. Perhaps you should just slam your door in his face; it would solve a plethora of issues, including giving you the privacy to fix the one between your legs (again).

“Well, my name is Mingi,” he smiles and you almost collapse to the floor right then and there. The name bounces around in your skull. Mingi, Mingi, Mingi. It suits him; you like it; you can imagine moaning it.

“Mingi,” you whisper back to him, and his eyes darken.

“It sounds pretty coming from you, Kitty,” suddenly the nickname doesn’t sound so bad. It shoots a tingle down your spine right to that aching spot between your thighs. You gasp, and he looks at you like you’ve just moaned his name for the entire building to hear. Something tells you that the night is heading in that direction anyway. “So what do you say? Come over?”

And against all your better judgement, you nod.

Like a lamb to the slaughter, you just fucking nod.

“Good girl.”

[satancopilotsmytardis]

Chasing A Rabbit

Pairing: Shigadabi

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only

Summary: Commissioned by @evilbrat2013. Tomura has made himself the kingpin of Kamino. It has taken years of dedicated work, blood, and sweat, but now that he is in charge he thinks that he has everything figured out. And then he meets Dabi and something inside of himself just falls out of place until he can figure out how to reform himself around the rabbit’s jagged pieces. 

Contents: Shifters AU, Wolf!Tomura, Bunny!Dabi, ABO, Dabi’s Suicidal Tendancies, Prostitution, Predator/Prey Society, Cannibalism, Implied Sexual Assault/Rape/Re-Traumatization, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Knotting, Fear Play, Multiple Orgasms, Wet and Messy, Praise Kink, Overstimulation, Sounding, Dabi has Genital Piercings, Belly Bulge, Size Kink, Scent Kink, Cum Inflation (mild), Orgasm Delay, Mating Cycles/Heat, Cheating, The Boys are NOT Okay– but They’re Working On It, BDSM, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Total Power Exchange, Sugar Baby

Word Count: 14,992

Taking over the Kamino territory was something that Tomura had been longing for years now. Ever since he turned eighteen and his father told him that he would be stepping back from some of his empire to focus on some of his other interests. But it had taken another four years of working in the organization with other people before Tomura had actually learned enough to manage an area of his own as well as figure out how to talk to people. His father did a lot for him, but socialization was not something that he'd cared much about given he didn't have the magic of being a shifter inside of him. Tomura knows that only one in a billion lack that, but when All For One had first found him on the street, he had been startled by the lack of a clear secondary species from him. And growing up with someone who saw the natural traits of a wolf as nothing but a nuisance, meant that Tomura was not at all suited to interacting with other species, let alone considered 'normal' for wolves. His strangeness was extremely off-putting to people at first, but after a while he managed to craft that into something that people still would choose to follow, just like his teacher had. He still doesn't act quite the way that he's supposed to when it comes to his species, but he thinks that just helps to make him more adaptable. 

But perhaps not quite as adventurous or reckless as the rabbit that he sees arguing with the lion and brown bear guards who are standing at the entrance of the black market tonight. The rabbit looks like he's already been through hell. Most of his skin is warped purple with swaths of old burns along his body, the damage so extensive that he's had his skin stapled back onto the rest of him. And there is quite a lot of skin on display as he is in a deep red pleather outfit that consists of shorts, with straps and buckles that loop around his hips, more straps wrapping around his biceps and waist, with fur arm sleeves in the same color as the leather on both arms and wrapping around his shoulders before it drops down into a hood. That strange section is attached to a mesh crop top that shows off his toned chest and stomach, the shorts low enough to show the sharper v of his hips. His boots are a mismatched height on his legs, one ending at his ankle, the other creeping halfway up his calf, but they match each other in all other aspects down to the cut out at the arch of the platforms so that he is given three extra inches on his height. It still doesn't help him reach eye-level with the bouncers whose fur is starting to bristle with their agitation. 

Tomura moves up to the three, noting that the rabbit must dye his hair because the spiky halo of it around his head is pitch black while his ears are long and white, flattened so that they stretch down his back and secured at the bottom with a strap that matches his outfit. He gets close enough to actually hear the conversation past the bustle of the rest of the city.

"--if I want!" His voice is rougher than he would have expected coming out of a rabbit's throat, the way he curls his lips back around his teeth screaming that he learned that from predators even though the teeth he exposes really can't be mistaken as threatening. 

"Look, unless you're looking to be devoured, you need to fucking hop off, rabbit." One of his enforcers says. 

"Fuck you, kitten!" The rabbit immediately barks back, his whole body bristling like he might... try to fight him if he isn't allowed entrance. 

"Can I ask why you're so keen to get inside?" He asks easily as he comes up about a meter behind the rabbit. His enforcers immediately straighten up and try to look like they had the situation handled, and the rabbit takes in their reactions to him, the brightest blue eyes that Tomura has ever seen flicking over them and then dragging down his body. Tomura tries not to straighten himself under that assessing stare. He knows what he looks like in his well-tailored suit, his long white hair mostly tied back into a ponytail, his ears tilted to give them his full attention, and he has taken great effort in cultivating an air of importance and power since he pushed his way to the top of his father's organization over the past four years to prove himself as a worthy successor. 

"Because I want work." The rabbit tells him. "All of the other markets in the area haven't ever stopped me from going in before." 

"There's not much work for prey in there." He says easily. "You might have more luck elsewhere." 

The rabbit bares his teeth at him again. "Fuck you too, puppy. I know what I can handle." 

It's been a long time since anyone has had the nerve to talk to him like that in two years and instead of that making his fur bristle like it might have in the past, it has Tomura holding his tail still so it doesn't wag. "Alright. Well then that's your prerogative." He turns his attention to his enforcers and they step aside, letting them move through the alleyway. The rabbit doesn't wait for him to fall into step with him, he tilts his nose up and starts to walk straight through the darkness towards the hustle and bustle on the other side. Tomura follows after him at a comfortable pace, curious beyond anything he has felt in a long time as he watches this strange prey walk right into a place that is a feeding frenzy. 

He's been able to smell the meat cooking for half a mile, as is common each night when the sun sets. No matter how the laws on the books tell the whole world that eating meat is illegal, there are black markets like this one in every city across every prefecture of this country. And having these places keeps devourings down as the police turn a blind eye to it all as long as the meat eating, buying, and selling are kept within areas like this. And of course, if people are already breaking one of the biggest taboos in the world here, it's no surprise that he has been able to make most illegal things available here and have more people willing to indulge. As he walks behind the rabbit, he can't help letting his eyes drift down to his ass, watching his cute fluffy white tail bounce and taking in just how short his shorts really are as he figures out pretty quickly what kind of work the prey is probably looking for. It's still a dangerous gamble to go into a market to get it. There are surely vendors who will try to snatch him up and strap him down to the counters behind their stalls and auction him off piece by piece. 

Tomura was just coming to the market to take a walk around and make sure there wasn't anything going on that he hadn't been made aware of, but as soon as they get into the market, he can't help himself from always trying to keep within a few meters of the rabbit as he moves around the stalls and streets that have formed in the area that the black market has taken over. He watches as someone tries to grab him, only for the rabbit to bring his arm back, forearm bashing into the alligator's cheek and tearing skin and scales from his face as Tomura finds out at the same time that the fluffy armbands seem to be hiding an array of spikes beneath the fibers. The rabbit follows up the hit by kicking the alligator as hard as he can in the crotch, bashing his nose in on his knee as he goes down with such a sickening crunch that anyone who hadn't already turned to look at the smell of fresh blood, has their attention locked on the exchange now. 

The rabbit leans down to the much bigger creature, to the predator that he just brought to his fucking knees with a few well-placed hits, and pulls his wallet out of his pocket and takes a 5,000 yen note out of it before he tosses it back onto the alligator's head. "Touching me will always cost you. Next time make sure it's only your cash if you want to walk away with just a bruised ego and broken nose." He straightens back up and looks at the many predators who are all staring at him now. "Legs open at ten, but if you don't have the balls to do anything other than stare, I'm at La Vénus tomorrow at eleven." 

And then he just. Turns his back on the rest of the alligator's buddies and walks away. Tomura is absolutely not the only one staring after him as he goes, but he is the first to manage to make his legs work through his shock and keep following him. The rabbit continues to go down the streets looking for... something. Turning more heads at the strangeness that comes from a rabbit being present and from the whispers that start to follow him as well. The rabbit seems to find what he's looking for after about five minutes and Tomura's ears pin as flat to his head as the stoat who the rabbit grins at as he orders from his stall. 

The stoat shakes his head at first, but then the rabbit presents him with the note he stole off of the alligator. Hesitantly, the stoat sets four skewers of rabbit meat into the paper boat and hands it over the counter to the stranger. He seems to delight in making eye contact with the stoat as he brings the first one to his mouth and takes a big bite. Tomura doesn't know if he's aroused, disgusted, or fascinated as the rabbit continues to walk around with his meal, eating every bite of meat off of the skewer as he gets a lay of the land. He makes his way to the section of the market where most of the prostitutes tend to gather so they can take people in and out of the love hotel that Tomura made sure was here and functional for their use. He lingers with all manner of other creatures waiting to take clients, but he is the only prey standing among them. 

When the rabbit finally stops moving, Tomura finds himself not just catching up to him, but stopping in front of him like he was drawn in by a magnetic pull. Blue eyes flick up to him disinterestedly. "It's not ten yet, puppy." 

Tomura doesn't know if he's ever wanted someone so badly that it's felt like his brain melted out of his ears when he's not even in his rut, but he moves aside and waits until the clock strikes ten on the dot so he can be the first to approach the rabbit again. 

He snorts when he does. "What do you want?" 

"What's your name?" 

It has derisive blue eyes looking at him balefully from beneath half-lidded eyes. "That'll cost you on top of whatever services you want. I charge extra for taking a knot and even more if you want to do it without protection." 

Tomura hasn't ever had a rabbit on his knot before, and the thought of having such a small creature stretched open around him has his blood heating before he's even made the conscious decision that he really does want to pay to fuck this rabbit. "I'm sure I can afford anything that you'll give me." 

The rabbit snorts but turns and starts to walk towards the entrance of the love hotel. He doesn't know if he's ever felt so out of control when he's not on his rut, but the time it takes for them to be given their room slips away entirely from his mind and when they're inside, he is easily able to ignore the smell of the industrial cleansers that have been layered over everything in favor of focusing on how immediately the rabbit reaches for the belts and straps on his shorts. He doesn't hesitate to pull them down, showing Tomura that his cock is tucked into a little thong before he turns around and crawls onto the bed, dropping his shoulders down and pushing his ass up. He presents for him and then reaches his fingers back to start to tease around his cute, little pink hole and Tomura's sanity snaps as he smells sweetness start to perfume the air. 

He is at the foot of the bed in an instant, catching the rabbit's wrist, careful of the sleeve because he doesn't know where more of the spikes are hidden, as he holds him in place. His bones feel so small and delicate beneath his grip and the rabbit gasps, trembling slightly. But that doesn't make him stop leaking as he shows Tomura that he's a hybrid omega. 

"You don't have to be gentle, but if I think you're going to kill me, I'll make sure you don't walk away from this without scars. I'll make you feel it every day for the rest of your life." The rabbit says, his voice a little breathless. 

"I'm not going to hurt you, bunny," his mouth feels like it's so full of his fangs as he climbs into bed with him, pulled along by desire so sharp that he couldn't fight it if he wanted to. He folds himself along the rabbit's back, pressing his nose to his neck to try and find his scent, but smoke seems to cling to his skin. Tomura is usually so in control of his sexual encounters, but on nothing but this rabbit's presence alone, he feels drunk on his desire. He brings two fingers to the rabbit's hole, rubbing against him, teasing inside, until he's gushing around his fingers, his hips moving back into the touches as he moans. 

When his slick is leaking down his legs, Tomura finds himself unable to resist any longer and he reaches for his belt. The rabbit's tail trembles so cutely as he takes out his cock, using the rabbit's slick to wet his length, rubbing himself between his ass and over his hole, breathless at just how small the other shifter looks beneath him. He hasn't had any small predators in his bed with him, he's never even had a prey in his bed instead. But this one that is already coming apart at the seams looks like he should be so fragile that just the idea of pressing inside should shatter him. But he's the one who turns to glare at him over his shoulder and barks, "Hurry up, puppy!" And encourages Tomura to try anyway. 

Watching him split open around his cock is almost as good as the feeling of his insides parting for him. He's so small, so tight, every part of his body clinging to Tomura's cock and spreading pleasure along his veins like nothing he's ever felt before. He can't help letting out an animalistic growl that only makes it better as the rabbit's fear spikes through his scent and makes his walls clench even tighter. That heady rush of power that goes through him as he realizes that this is a prey, that he could fuck him or kill him , that he could do whatever he wants and there's nothing this rabbit could do to overpower him as he locks his hand around the back of his neck and pushes him down into the bed, his other catching both of his wrists and keeping them against the small of his back so the can go swinging anywhere with those spikes, is heady. 

More of that fear spills through the air, as the rabbit's hole gushes around him, showing Tomura that he likes to be afraid. That he likes being held down. That he knew exactly the risk he was taking coming here and not staying behind the protective glass of V hosting peepshows. Tomura snarls again, dragging his hips back and pushing in hard and deep again. "Don't worry, little bun," he manages, suddenly feeling how full of teeth his mouth is. "I'm not going to break you." He isn't entirely sure about that. He can just imagine how ruby red and succulent his flesh would be if he tore it away from his staples and sunk his teeth inside. "Not when I want to know every inch of you." He does want that. He wants his name, wants to know what would lead a prey here, how he got so good at fighting. 

Tomura wants, wants, wants more than he has over anything but his own goals for the first time in four years and he isn't surprised at all when he does eventually cum, the rabbit's release already thick in the air, and he really does knot the stranger.

It's as they're forced to stay entwined, seconds after Tomura has stopped trembling from how good it felt that the rabbit is squirming under him. "Let go," and he pulls at his wrists. Tomura worries he might have squeezed too tightly and lets him go, but the rabbit just shifts as much as he can under him, reaching to pull at his shorts and bring them close, reaching into the pocket and pulling out a lighter and a sleek cigarette case that fits inside the little pocket. He doesn't offer him one as they roll onto their sides so he can smoke as they wait to unlock. 

"What's your name?" Tomura asks again, enamoured with the way the light of the cherry dances across his staples and eyes. 

"...Dabi." 

"Do you take escort work, Dabi?" He asks, already wanting to see him again, for longer, over dinner, for a conversation. He wants to know this bizarre rabbit who picks fights with predators, who eats meat, who doesn't flinch when he's alone with one where he could be so easily killed. He gets another flat look from those piercing eyes that don't seem cowed in the slightest. 

"Do you have deep enough pockets for that, puppy?" 

His tail starts to wag, "I certainly hope so."

///

Dabi is more than an enigma, as Tomura finds out on their first 'date'. He has been on the streets for years and years, his skin so bad that most people avoided trying to take a bite out of him because they thought they might catch something awful because of it.

"Oh yeah, running around smelling like rotten meat when I could keep the fever and body aches at bay long enough to actually move at all worked well." Dabi tells him as they eat at a high-end restaurant not too far from V that is owned by his and his father's businesses. That's the reason that he can be served the highest quality cut of beef as Dabi enjoys a veal milanese salad as they speak. "Until my skin fell off and I had to get it reattached, that was a lot less convenient and it was expensive to get fixed." He shrugs. "Lucky that so many people are just excited to have a prey omega or else my options would have been severely limited when it came to making my keep after that." 

"I'm sorry you went through that." He tries to offer sympathy, but it's shot down with a disgusted look as Dabi reaches for his wine glass and he tries to change course. "But I'm sure that the reason that people are booking you now is for more than your secondary sex." 

He snorts. "Sure you are, puppy." 

"I had no idea you were an omega when I approached you." He says honestly. With all of the smells in the market, with the damage and overlaying of scar tissue making his scent glands so weak, Tomura really hadn't known until they'd been in the love hotel and Dabi was already half naked. "I wanted to get to know you because you're lovely." Because he had to know more about this strange man. 

"Stop it," Dabi's voice chills, cooler than Tomura has ever heard it before, his look flat, no spark of that amusement in it that makes him think that he might be the one getting played with instead of the other way around. His lips are tugged into a scowl and he drains his wine and reaches to pour himself another glass from the bottle Tomura got for their table. "You're already paying me to be here, I don't want you trying to flatter me like this is anything else." 

Something in his chest aches. A twinge as a discordant note tugs at the edge of his awareness, but he doesn't want to spook the rabbit and lose his chance to hold onto him for as long as he can, so he ignores it and changes the subject. "How far back is your heritage?" He asks instead. 

"First generation. Three siblings, all of them are wolves. Mom got devoured when she tried to hurt the pack, I tried to set myself on fire along with the alpha when I realized that I was next up on the chopping block if I ended up being an alpha or a beta, or was going to be sold to the black market if I was an omega." Dabi snorts as he finishes filling his cup, "Probably sounds stupid given where I am now anyway."

"No," he says automatically, his chest aching weakly, "You chose to be here now. You made yourself dangerous and able to hold your own. That's.... different from the prey who are dragged there against their will." 

Dabi looks at him over his glass for a long moment and his eyes are still so flat and dead that Tomura has to force his ears not to droop. Maybe it's not. Not to him. Maybe Tomura is no better than all of the dozens, maybe hundreds of other predators who have taken a piece of Dabi from him even if they hadn't put their teeth in his skin. Maybe Dabi hates all of them just as much as the next. Maybe he shouldn't be here right now. Maybe this should be the end of this fascination that he can't help having about this strange rabbit. "What makes you different from all of the other predators in the Kamino market? People would barely come near once they saw you leaving my room." 

"I own it." He says, realizing that the flat look he'd gotten when he'd given Dabi his name had not just been because he had guessed who he was already, given that he is the only white wolf in the city. 

"Huh. Well I guess you can pay for more than one kind of dessert then." Is all Dabi says before they go back to their meal. 

Tomura isn't sure that he'll see him again, but once they have finished eating, when he's getting Dabi a cab to take him back home, the rabbit flags one down that has a big back seat and a completely opaque divider, yanking him into the car along with him and sinking to his knees in the back seat immediately as Tomura rushes to give the driver his address before closing the divider. Dabi has his cock stretching the staples in his cheeks and fully in his throat in the next ten seconds, and nearly makes him knot his mouth from how hot, how good, how perfect it feels as he makes his pleasure about how the date has gone well-known. Tomura ends up bringing Dabi upstairs to his penthouse and fucking him through the night, tasting every inch of his skin, getting to touch his cute cock that he's decorated along the underside with piercings, and finding himself knotting him again. He normally doesn't knot his subs outside of his rut, but there's just something about Dabi when he finally finds the right combination of touches and words to make him fall apart, that makes him want him deeper in his bones than he's ever wanted any other sub. 

He doesn't think it's much of a surprise that he books him again before the other has even finished dressing, and ends up paying even more extra when he can't stop himself from joining him in the shower one last time to hold him up against the wall, lavishing his neck with kisses and nips as he strokes his cock until the rabbit is trembling apart beneath his palm and there are bloody tears leaking down his cheeks from how oversensitive his length is from how many times Tomura has played with him tonight. 

Tomura knows that predators getting obsessed with a prey never ends well, usually not for the prey, but he can't stop himself from wanting to see Dabi again. 

///

It's lucky for him, then, that Dabi wants a steady pay day more than he wants anything else. Tomura has all of the money he needs to keep buying his services, but things evolve after the first month of Tomura seeing Dabi at least three times a week. He has the rabbit coming with him on dates, to business parties, whenever he wants a companion at V, and dabi always shows up in some new lovely outfit that Tomura knows was made to show off his profession as much as it was made to be a weapon, and he rebuffs anyone who tries to treat him like a helpless bunny. He's, in all honesty, a terrible escort, constantly insulting Tomura, his guests, the hosts of the parties, and anyone else who rubs him the wrong way over even the smallest perceived slight, and Dabi perceived slights often. Tomura wonders if it was his pack alpha's dismissal of him when he was young that has made him so sensitive to rejection, but after a month of seeing each other, he becomes acutely aware that Dabi has absolutely none of the self-esteem or self-importance that he pretends to present himself with. He is scared all of the time that the only reason people bother with him is because he has a nice wet hole and no gag reflex so his clients can use his body without bothering to look at his face. 

That makes that twinge in Tomura's chest turn into a proper ache, and at the end of the first month, he asks if Dabi would be willing to be a full-time sugar baby for him. 

"You just want me to be exclusive with you?" 

"I want you to be a live-in escort. I want you here, following the schedule, diet, and any other instructions I leave you so I know that I can have you exactly how I want you whenever I do. I'll give you a weekly allowance to get anything else you need that I don't already provide here along with a set monthly salary. We can give it a go for a month, and then we can negotiate again and decide if this is something we both want to continue." He hesitates, but goes on, "My rut is next month. I want to spend it with you, but I understand if that's not something you're interested in. But if you are then this could be a trial period and next month, if you want this to be a more long-term arrangement, I could mate you on my rut." That would lock Dabi into being his for another three months at minimum, unless Dabi bails on him when his rut comes around again and breaks the bond. 

Dabi watches him for a long moment, but that scrutinizing, hard look that he always expects when his little bunny is less than impressed by him doesn't last. Instead those pretty eyes drop away from him and Dabi crosses his arms. He leans against the armrest of the couch and doesn't look back at him as he mutters, "Why the fuck would you want that, puppy? You can have anyone else that you want. I know you're richer than god, but you could have a real pedigree prey whore if you're that desperate to feed your fetish." 

Tomura has learned his lesson about trying to tell Dabi that he thinks he's beautiful. He never believes it and will end a scene or date on the spot if Tomura doesn't stop trying to insist that he does. He doesn't want to be beautiful in his eyes, doesn't want to be praised, doesn't want to have any of the softness that Tomura has never felt so desperate to show another person in all of his life. So he doesn't tell Dabi that when they're together he forgets about all of the sharp places inside of him that have claws and teeth of their own that tear at his control whenever he strays too close. He doesn't tell Dabi that he wants him so badly because he thinks that the rabbit has his own kinds of vicious monsters in the back of his mind too. He doesn't say that he wants to give Dabi an out. He knows that Dabi is paying out the nose for the medicine that keeps him put together, that he is working every night they're not together, that he likes the dinner dates the most because he just doesn't get to eat very much while he's trying to scrape by on every yen. "I don't want to shop around for someone else when you're right here and I already like what you have to offer." He says blandly. "What's your rent each month? I'll be covering that as part of your allowance too." 

When he says that, when Dabi realizes that all of his bills will be paid before even touching the salary that Tomura is offering him, he doesn't protest again as he takes to the negotiations with the spark of viciousness in his eyes that Tomura is sure would have been bloodlust if he had been born a wolf. 

///

Having Dabi move in with him to sugar full-time shows Tomura even more about the other man. And the more he learns, the more his chest aches for him. Dabi has had a hard life, he never made that a secret and he has also made a point of showing that he knows how to survive those hard spots better than most would have. But when Dabi is suddenly safe, with enough food to eat, access to just about anything he could want, and with any other need taken care of at the slightest mention, Tomura sees him fracture in a way that he hasn't ever watched before. Tomura has met a lot of broken people running in the circles that he does. He is a broken person in his own way. But it's not the same way that Dabi is broken. 

When he has what he needs and anything he wants, Dabi doesn't sag with relief and start to soak up all of this luxury. No. He becomes more and more prickly. He is fastidious about following along with the schedule that Tomura has left for him, but he refuses to do anything outside of it. He doesn't relax either as things go on. He is still eager to be in his bed when he asks for him, is now hyper-attentive on dates, but he doesn't spread his things outside of the private bedroom that he's given Dabi in the apartment. He cleans up after himself like he's afraid that one speck of dust out of place will make Tomura snap and snarl at him, and over the course of the first two weeks, the apartment fills with such the sour smell of Dabi's fear that Tomura's own instincts are whining at him. Part of his mind screams that he needs to hunt the prey that is so terrified and in his space, but another part is whimpering because he doesn't want his potential mate to be so, so afraid, and he's scratching his own skin raw as he tries to figure out what the threat is. 

But there is no threat in the apartment, and the fear smell ebbs as soon as Tomura gives Dabi his attention. He thinks that means that the rabbit isn't afraid of him, and Dabi snaps at him when he asks if he wants to end the trial early. He's not scared of Tomura. He's not scared he insists, but he won't admit to the way he's smelled so stressed that Tomura thinks a lesser rabbit might have shifted and run headlong into a wall to break their neck rather than continue to endure this. But Dabi won't stop and Tomura... wants his mate... happy. He's not his yet, but he could be in a month, if he manages to make sure that Dabi doesn't fall apart. He could belong to him. That's what he wants and he starts to spend hours and hours of his own time trying to research and figure out what is wrong with the other man and what he can be doing better to help make sure that Dabi doesn't fall apart completely while in his care. 

He doesn't think he should be all that surprised when he discovers that the horrible circumstances that brought Dabi to this point in his life were deeply traumatizing. He assumed that they were already. But he didn't realize that trauma might not present in the ways he usually expects. Dabi isn't a weepy mess trying to take advantage of every comfort that he has right now. No, he is standoffish about it all, maybe because he doesn't want to accept that he can have things good now after they've been so bad for years before this. He doesn't indulge because he might be scared that doing so will make Tomura take it all away. 

The things he reads tell him to get the prey therapy. That they will need to be in their new, safe environment, knowing that their support system will be there no matter what for a long while before they're comfortable settling in and allowing themselves to move onto the hoarding resources response. And then... there might be a breakdown as all of the things that they've pushed aside for years as they had to focus on survival first comes crashing in and tears them apart. Tomura researches, Dabi smells stressed all the time, and he wonders if he should still even be bothering to keep him around. Everything that Tomura reads again and again says that he'll be lucky if Dabi stays the same, that he's more likely to just keel over or kill himself if his mind and body can't handle the change in his stress levels, that he could shatter apart mentally and just become a hollow shell of the creature who was so strange and intriguing that he drew him in in the first place. Or worse yet, smelling the stress constantly could put Tomura into survival mode without him noticing and could lead to his instincts overwhelming him and making him lash out at the rabbit against his better judgement. He could come out of the fog one day with Dabi's blood dripping off of his chin and the succulent taste of his flesh lingering behind his teeth. Tomura has never had any qualms about being a predator, but when it comes to Dabi, he feels queasy at just the thought of tearing him open. Why? That question sits in the back of his mind again and again. He has never even believed himself capable of truly falling in love, so the idea of it at first sight always felt utterly ludicrous. But he is... attached to Dabi beyond something he ever thought he could feel and he doesn't know what else to call the ache in his chest. He wants Dabi happy, he wants him to be okay. He doesn't know if he can get that, but he wants. 

And since he knows that Dabi will laugh in his face if not try to go for his throat if he begs him to get some help to try and take him through whatever emotions are ravaging the rabbit's mind now, he doesn't say anything. He just does his best to prepare himself to weather the storm that he is absolutely certain is coming fast for them both. 

///

By the end of the trial period month, Dabi doesn't smell as badly of stress anymore. He is eating more, following along with the schedule that Tomura has made for him so he is having three meals and three snacks a day which at least helps him put on some more weight, making him a little less sickly than he's always managed to hide under his attitude and clothes. And when the trial ends, Dabi wants to move forward and become his mate. He wants to be his, even if the words do come with that defiant light in his eyes. Tomura hopes that maybe attaching themselves, giving Dabi's omega instincts an alpha to latch onto who is absolutely bound and determined to give him whatever he needs to get well will help that to happen more easily. So he orders supplies for their shared cycle and makes sure that Dabi knows he can make a nest, that the apartment will be absolutely stuffed with good, rich foods that will make him feel good, and that he won't have to worry about anything because his alpha will be right there to take care of him throughout the entire time. 

He's so lost in those instincts himself that when his rut swells along his veins, he seeks Dabi out and gathers him close immediately. He scents every part of him, hugging him tight to his body and chuffing at him nearly constantly. It's all he can do. He just wants to show Dabi that he's going to be okay, that Tomura will be the best mate he can possibly be for him. He just wants to be good to Dabi in a way that he's realized that no one else in the world has managed. He just wants to... be allowed to love this strange rabbit and he knows that he can't right now. That Dabi would shatter his heart if he offered it up, that he wouldn't believe him no matter how much he promised that the feelings are true. 

But he bites him anyway, lets the rabbit become his for a long while and he brings Dabi through the heat that swells in alongside his rut. He thinks that he remembered not to say anything that he wasn't supposed to, but he can't be entirely certain when his head was so far from how it normally is. Even so, when they both come out of it, he's careful with Dabi still as he makes certain that he has everything he could possibly want as he recovers from his heat. Food, cuddles, comfort items like blankets and pillows, and as much or as little of his company as Dabi needs to feel better. Tomura tries, and Dabi takes all of it with such a blase attitude. 

"Last heat I had I didn't manage to get to a clinic in time." Dabi tells him, smoking as he picks at the big meal that Tomura ordered for them so he would put something else in his body beside the few sips of water that Dabi had allowed. "Ended up crashing in a back alley on my way there and a pack of hyenas smelled me. Spotted hyenas," he adds as Tomura's entire body bristles with horror at what could have happened to an omega on their own. "Turns out, having a hard dick is already a sign of submission to them and when I was so unresponsive and they saw how much I was leaking, they figured it out. I think they only didn't devour me because my stress was too high for the meat to taste good, so they just hauled me up by my scruff and dropped me at V. Owner there threw me into one of the showrooms with some toys. Would've charged me out the nose for the room and supplies, but he made enough selling tickets for people to watch me lose my mind that I managed to negotiate to work as a regular there." 

Tomura's stomach is sick. So easy. It's so easy for Dabi to just... tell him these horrible things that he's experienced because he's a hybrid, because he's a prey. He says it and doesn't blink, as if this is some fun anecdote that he can tell over dinner and it's not something that would have genuinely and thoroughly broken most people to have experienced. "You're lucky that you're still alive." He manages to croak out and that actually makes Dabi look up from the spread of dishes for a second. 

He doesn't hold that eye contact though, in a move that tells Tomura far, far too painfully much about what Dabi thinks about that fact. "I guess." And he goes back to eating. He doesn't bring up another one of those incidents in his company again, but that renders the other man uncomfortably quiet in his apartment as Tomura realizes that he simply must not have anything else to talk about. 

///

After the silence comes the... Tomura isn't sure what to call this. Part of him feels like he's being attacked, constantly. Dabi will follow the schedule and rules, but any of his free time is spent doing things that seem tailor made to piss Tomura off. He starts to take other clients again, popping out to love hotels with Tomura's claim bitten into his neck, and he fucks whoever he wants. He takes a job one night as the hole for a Yakuza celebration and comes back to Tomura covered in the scent and cum of other people, his skin torn from his staples in places, and a chunk of flesh taken out of his side from someone's claws that carved in so deep Tomura had been able to see the ruby flash of muscle beneath the parted flesh. It's horrible. It's awful. Tomura wants to throw up, but he has to settle for calling a doctor to get there as fast as possible so he can be patched up and then having to clean up his mate himself because the pain, drinks, and whatever else they'd dosed him with have left Dabi entirely unconscious. 

He is glad about that, to some degree because he knows that if Dabi were awake he would be torn between screaming at him to try to understand what the hell is wrong with him, and demanding that he do something to get some help. His whole chest feels like it's caving in on itself as his instincts scream and howl through his veins. He is supposed to be the only one who touches his mate. He is the one who is supposed to be able to hunt this prey if he wants to. He is not supposed to be picking up the pieces of him because other predators have had their way with his rabbit. But he knows, he knows that's what Dabi is after. Whatever he has said before, he knows that the whole reason why Dabi behaves the way he does is because he... doesn't want to exist. No matter how much he says that he's staying alive because he wants to get far enough ahead that he can one day come back and bite his father in the ass for thinking that he could just throw him away, he just... doesn't really care. He'll let himself be killed, will throw himself again and again into more and more dangerous situations just to see if he can escape or if this will be the time that that actually gets him. Now that he's Tomura's, his life in the penthouse doesn't offer him the same opportunities that he's used to to destroy himself, so stealing time outside of the schedule to put himself into more of those situations that will trigger Tomura's most aggressive instincts must be the reason that he's continuing to do this. Push his instincts so hard that he shatters and tears Dabi apart or crosses a boundary harshly enough he can get out of this contract without actually having to quit when the rabbit knows logically that the money is far too good for him to just leave. All of it puts a sourness in his gut and Tomura feels like a pup as he makes a nest for them again in the living room and curls up around Dabi's body like he's a toy that he can't cling to tightly enough to keep it from unraveling at the seams. 

///

It goes against all of his instincts, but Tomura doesn't dare limit Dabi's free time after that. He doesn't tell him that he can't take other clients, he doesn't stop him from putting his life at risk anywhere else outside of his apartment. Instead, Tomura gets two therapists. One is for himself, someone who can help teach him how to monitor his worst instincts and learn how to cope with them so he doesn't claw off all of the skin on his neck as he tries to handle Dabi, and a second who helps teach him how he can try to help Dabi if he really doesn't think that the other man will get help on his own. The therapy helps, and it doesn't. It helps him keep his instincts in control. He has been a creature who felt out of control for most of his life but always gravitated towards finding things that he could. From video games to his own education to work and to his sex life, he has always wanted to be able to control the things in his life so he could be certain that if everything else fell apart, he wouldn't. Not again. Not after everything that happened with his birth family. 

Dabi isn't something he can control like that, but he can learn how to handle it when the rabbit lashes out, which he has started doing now. He still will behave as his perfect sub when they're in bed together, but otherwise? He is giving the greatest brats in the world a run for their money. He wants to force a confrontation and Tomura is not going to give him that. He lets Dabi trash the apartment, leaving food out on the counter, the refrigerator door open, flooding the bathroom when he 'forgets' he left the tub running to fill. He lets him bring clients back to his home and fuck them in their bed without so much as a growl when he comes back and finds the sheets stained. He lets Dabi yell at him about whatever small seemingly imperceptible slight he's managed to make. He takes it all and lets it happen as Dabi grows more and more desperate for something to hurt him because all he has known how to do is endure pain and suffering his whole life. 

Tomura refuses to give him that, and he sees how much more frantic Dabi becomes in the wake of every act of patience or kindness that he gives him. He watches and he waits, and they have been mates for two and a half months before it finally reaches its breaking point. 

///

Tomura has not had a good relationship with La Vénus since he took over the black market in Kamino. The owner, Ryoma Shima, never likes to see former subs grow into anything else. The fact that Tomura had gone from his sub when he was first on the scene and in training to being a more powerful figure in the city and well-liked dom among his own subs has made them have enough friction that Tomura rarely goes to the club on his own anymore. It's been five years since he's seen the rhino's name pop up on his screen, and just that has his fur standing on end. 

"Shima," he greets as he answers, setting aside his controller. It's a Thursday night. Dabi isn't in the apartment on Thursdays, the only day that he is able to fully leave the apartment to do whatever he wants so that he doesn't feel completely suffocated by Tomura. It's not much, but it's been enough for the time being and that's fine by him. 

"Tomura," His voice sounds smooth and smug when he greets him and Tomura can hear the muffled sounds of the club on the other end of the phone. The kind of muffled he recognizes from the back halls that go into the red rooms. "I was just finishing up having quite the enjoyable evening with your mate," 

Sickness surges through his stomach as he thinks of Dabi under Shima, but he forces himself to put his free hand against his knee instead of letting his claws bite into the skin of his neck. 

"But I think he's had something quite a bit stronger than what we offer here and he's starting to catch the attention of butchers. It only seemed in good conscience to let you know." 

Tomura bolts up from the couch, a snarl tearing out of his chest so animal and violent that he hears Shima suck in a startled breath on the other end. "If he isn't still there when I arrive, I'll tear out your throat and burn your club to the ground. Do not test me." He doesn't wait for a response, hanging up and leaving a scratch in the glass from his claw. He isn't in a full suit, only jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and he doesn't bother to grab anything but his wallet and shoes before he's storming downstairs to the garage. He always has a driver on call and as soon as he gets into the car it's pulled out onto the street. 

Without bad traffic, the drive is only five minutes and Tomura is opening the door to the car before it's even fully pulled to a stop. He blows past the line out the door, snarling at the security guard who tries to stop him, before the woman at the front desk of the building rushes over to give him permission to go inside. She brings him to the employee elevator and sends him up to the backstage of the Play Area where he finds a number of dancers getting ready or finishing up their shifts and putting themselves together, along with servers dipping into the many massive containers filled with foils and packets of lube. Word must have spread that he was coming because one of the stage managers spots him and points him in the right direction as his nose is so assaulted by the smell of the club that makes it impossible to use that sense to navigate. He only partially finds what he's looking for when he spots Shima looking out at the strip club room of the Play Area, and he moves up beside him, his eyes scanning the room. 

It's his staples sparkling in the multicolored lights that bring his eyes to his mate. Dabi, surrounded by four predators, a panther, hawk, bulldog, and stoat who are definitely butchers from the knife tattoo that he can see curling up the dog's forearm. And Dabi is just, in the panther's lap, lounging against his chest, his legs spread into the stoat's lap as the hawk's hands are moving up his thighs with a salacious smile. His hands curl around them, not to open them wider, but to measure how much meat they would get from him once they peeled away his skin. Tomura snarls again and pushes through the crowds. The dog sees him coming and tries to puff up, but Tomura lets out a roar, not caring about his reputation, about how this might look to anyone else, about anything but the fact he needs to get his mate away from these men now. He is bigger than a mutt and stronger too, able to shoulder him out of the way because he knows if he uses his claws, he'll tear out his throat. But even that was so rough that the dog goes tumbling into a couple nearby, making them scream as he sends their drinks flying and half crushes them. 

The hawk turns on him then and Tomura knows that bird bones are brittle, but he didn't necessarily intend to send bone shards splintering through the meat of his arm when he grabbed him by his bicep and yanked him out from between Dabi's legs. That does send the screaming louder though. He doesn't care. Dabi is blinking up at him dazedly. Tomura's hands are much more gentle when he reaches down for him. 

Even though he's been so keen to act up, seeing the hawk rolling on the ground, blood seeping from the way the bones splintered through his skin, is enough to make Dabi docile as he scoops him out of the panther's lap who looks like he would have thrown Dabi at him if he hadn't tried to take him. 

"We didn't--"

"If you're still in town by morning, I'll turn you into a coat." Tomura doesn't look at any of them as he speaks, taking his mate, his omega, his little bunny and cradling him closely and gently against his chest. It doesn't make the anger and pain living inside of him lessen any when Dabi tucks his chin to his own chest, his hand folding up against it too like he can turn into nothing in his arms instead of seeking comfort or safety in him the way Tomura's instincts are begging him to.

Neither of them say anything at all before Tomura carries Dabi right past Shima and back along the way he came in. He can't bring himself to fully put Dabi down even when they get back to the car outside, not even when he can smell so thoroughly how he was enjoyed by the other people in the club, and Dabi doesn't protest the treatment because they only make it about a minute into the short drive before he's twisting to puke all over his shoes as his motion sickness, the drinks, and whatever else he was taking catch up to him. Tomura doesn't even know if he's disgusted or not when everything inside of him feels so hollowed out as before they even get back to the apartment, Dabi goes completely limp as he passes out. 

Tomura takes him upstairs, he tosses his ruined shoes and brings Dabi into the bathroom. He strips him out of the clothes he was wearing and he uses warm wash clothes to wipe away the evidence of every way he's broken his heart in the past few hours alone. He makes sure Dabi's breaths don't seem labored, he makes sure there's nothing in his throat to choke him, and he brings him back to the nest that he's made for them, that he hasn't been able to take down no matter how much therapy he's getting now because... being with Dabi makes him feel helpless again. Because it pushes him back to that place in his head where Tenko Shimura cries and begs for his family to let him back inside to eat dinner with them even though they never do because the sheep and oxfolk don't want to watch the pup eat the meat substitute. 

Tomura can't remember when the last time he cried was, but it's deep, wracking sobs that come for him now as Dabi sleeps completely unmoved in the nest beside him. 

///

He didn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep well normally, but he couldn't have even if he wanted to. And when Dabi wakes up, squinting at the light coming through the apartment windows, he groans, pulls the blanket over his head, and mumbles, 

"Ugh. I wanted to sleep in my own apartment. I'm not required to be back here until noon." 

The angry part of him, the hurt part, wants to snap at him. He wants to tell him to get his shit and leave because he's never going to be sleeping here again. Their bond will break in another three weeks at most, unless all of this stress throws off Tomura's cycle. He can tell him to leave now and save himself any further heartbreak. It's everything that he's learned since meeting Dabi that tells him if he gives in, if he tells Dabi to go now, he will. He'll go right back to everything else he was doing before and he'll just. Be gone. Not just from Tomura's life, but gone. Because he can't keep playing with his life like this forever. He will lose eventually, and if Tomura sets him loose, he doesn't know how much longer he'll last. Dabi was just a prostitute that he took a shine to. If he had been as cold, as distant as his father was when it came to forming real emotional attachments to others, then none of that would matter to him. But Tomura has always been a creature with emotions so high that his rigid control was the only way to keep his sanity. If he lets Dabi go now, lets him disappear, he will never be able to rest right, uncertain of what happened to him. And he became too far gone with his attachment as soon as he offered for Dabi to become his mate. 

"You vomited on the way back here." Tomura tells him evenly. "I didn't know if you would again, and I didn't want to leave you unsupervised in your apartment. If you want to sleep there tonight instead, you can leave after we have dinner." He sounds like he always does when he speaks. He doesn't sound like he's shattering apart at every angle that being near Dabi has twisted him into. He leans over and presses a kiss to Dabi's temple and then stands up. "I'm going to get you some pain medicine and some water. If you can keep that down, then we can order whatever you want for breakfast too." He pushes himself up from the nest and reaches to close the blinds with the remote on the edge of the conversation pit that has become their nest. 

He isn't expecting to immediately hear the rustle of blankets again and turn to see Dabi pushing himself up too. The scent of his stress peaks higher than Tomura has ever smelled it before, so acrid and hot that he wouldn't be surprised if it somehow scorched the inside of his nose. He sucks in a startled breath, but Dabi doesn't care for that reaction alone and is still stumbling slightly over the pillows and cushions as he sneers at him. 

"What the fuck kind of wolf are you?!" He snarls, his ears pulled back and his hands balled into fists at his side. "I've let everyone in Kamino fuck me! I let them take chunks out of me! I let them hold me down so their friends can take a turn! I've disrespected you at every turn! I've dragged your name through the mud and your teacher's too! I made sure that they all know that you practically begged me to be your mate and now you're letting me run around and disgrace the whole system that you built!" Dabi pushes into his space, pushes his hands against his chest, and when he doesn't move, he slams his fists into him. He throws his weight behind the blows, but without the weapons he has built into his clothes, each attack doesn't move him the way he thinks Dabi wants it to. "Why aren't you angry? Why don't you hate me?!" He smells blood and his ears flatten, worried that Dabi's cut his hands on his staples as he tries to batter his fists against his body. Tomura catches his wrists as gently as he can so that he stops and only then sees that the blood is coming from his eyes instead as he sobs. "You should have fired me! Locked me to your bed and forced me to be a good mate! Devoured me! Why haven't you just killed me?!" The words seem to take away the last little bit of Dabi's energy and he goes limp, Tomura having to sag with him until they're both kneeling on the floor together to keep him from getting hurt on the way down. 

It takes so much concentration, through the smell of stress and blood that piques that instinctive hunger inside of him, for him to remember that this is a good thing. Dabi is finally breaking. That this is what he's been waiting for to try and reach the gnarled mess of thorns that is inside of his head and his chest that has been so quick to lash out instead of risking getting scarred again by being vulnerable with him. 

"I'm not going to fire you, or hurt you, or kill you, Dabi." He says as evenly as he can manage. "I've let you do all of those things because I know that they're what you needed. You can keep doing them," it makes him sick to his stomach to say that. "for as long as you need them. I'll still want you as my mate. I'll still come to take care of you when you're hurt, and I won't toss you aside." Dabi doesn't struggle against him, so Tomura gathers him close to his chest again, hand moving to stroke along the delicate, velvet soft fur of his ears. "I'll be here, I'll still want you as my mate, until you tell me that you don't want to be here anymore. If you tell me that, I'll let you go and you'll never have to see me again." The words hurt so badly. All of this has hurt so badly that Tomura isn't entirely sure that he'll survive seeing those words through. 

But it's not him that howls his anguish. No, that's Dabi as he finally, finally reaches back towards him. As his mate curls his hands into the fabric of his shirt as he howls and sobs, the sound a scream for the comfort of a pack that abandoned him, and the wolf inside that has been looking for connection ever since. Tomura will be that for him. That's all he's wanted since he saw the rabbit that made himself so dangerous he could walk a black market without fear of being caught, even if he knows now it was recklessness not fearlessness that brought him to that point in the first place. 

Tomura holds onto Dabi as the rabbit cries a decade worth of tears. 

///

Dabi breaking down tears away the ways that he was hurting Tomura before. He's despondent after he lets those emotions in for the first time in probably years. He can't keep to the schedule that he's supposed to anymore, forgetting to eat, to drink anything, shower, or change his clothes regularly because he spends nearly all day in their nest just sleeping or staring at whatever is on TV. If he doesn't see the remote around, he often ends up just staring at the blank screen or out the windows. He barely speaks, he loses weight rapidly, and Tomura isn't sure he notices when he's around and when he's not all of the time. But he's there. This is hard in a different way than what Dabi was doing before, but he endured that, and he thinks that Dabi will be worth enduring this. He has more hope because when he cleans the nest, when he coaxes Dabi to show and wrap himself in soft clothes, when he brings him food and scents his skin, Dabi often blinks, looks at him, and then crawls into his lap, clinging as tightly as he can to his body. Most of the time he starts to cry again shortly after, but sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he just wants to be held close, and Tomura is more than happy to give that to him. 

Tomura doesn't think that it's much of a surprise that he and his mate are so stressed that neither of their cycles come that month, or the next, or the one after that. He stops waiting for them to. They'll be ready for that in whatever time it takes them. For now, he just wants to make certain that he's doing as right as he can by his mate in whatever other ways he's able. Before he knows it, he's had Dabi living in his apartment, their apartment, for a year. They're still mates, and Dabi is more aware than he was after his breakdown. He remembers that he, technically, is still being employed by Tomura, and he picks up his phone one day and logs into the scheduling app while Tomura is at work. 

There was nothing on the schedule because Tomura hasn't even thought about maintaining it for so long while his mate was so out of his head, but as soon as he sees that he rushes to put in an entry for the day. He starts it very simple, have something to eat that won't upset his stomach, the stress having made him unable to eat meat as readily as he had been when they first met, and take either a bath or shower. If those are too strenuous for him he can take a sponge bath instead. 

It's only two things, two things that most people are able to do without issue, but he knows that managing this will already be a challenge for Dabi. But when he gets back to the apartment and sees that Dabi's hair is wet, the white roots taking up most of his head now as it's grown out, trying to poke at a cup of yogurt, Tomura doesn't hesitate to shower him with praise like he's done the hardest thing imaginable. Dabi blinks those beautiful blue eyes at him, confused, a spark of resentment in them, but when he realizes that Tomura's tail is wagging because he just can't help it, all of that softens into something guilty and small. 

"I'm sorry." 

"You don't have anything to apologize for, precious." He says, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. "You did such a good job following your schedule." He doesn't say anything else about the state his head has been in for the past... too long. Dabi has never been the kind of rabbit to get spooked and run away, but he hasn't ever been unraveled like this before either. Tomura doesn't want to learn that he might be now. "I'm so proud of you, baby boy." 

Dabi doesn't manage to do much else that day, but he does try to poke at some more food later that night, so Tomura will take that as a win. 

It takes another month for Dabi to be able to consistently get up, shower, and eat at least two meals a day. Tomura doesn't often ask him to do anything more than that, but at the end of the month he asks him to give one of the therapists a call. Just to introduce himself. He doesn't have to schedule anything with them. Dabi doesn't do it. Tomura tells him that's okay, they can try again some other time. He doesn't put it on the schedule for another two weeks and it goes ignored a second time. He considers that might just be too much for a long while, but then a few days later, he's informed that Dabi did call even though he didn't have it on the schedule for the day. Given that the doctor is on his payroll and legality is not something Tomura has ever been concerned with, he is told that Dabi was clearly nervous and didn't know what therapy was beyond talking about his childhood trauma. But his mate wanted him to try, so he was trying to try, for him. 

Dabi doesn't bring up the call when he gets home that night, but he accepts being pulled close and kissed as Tomura's tail wags constantly. 

///

It's not a matter of months for Dabi to heal. Tomura isn't even sure if Dabi would even consider that’s what he's been doing. It takes years. The first one they spent together was the worst. The cheating, the emotional neglect, the long period of depression that followed and left them both unmoored was agony. Tomura marvels at the fact that either of them survived that. The second Dabi makes it six months of trying before he hits a wall in his treatment, has his first heat since they bonded, and he breaks the mating bond by going back to his own apartment to ride it out alone. He formally quits being his sugarbaby and tells him not to contact him again. Tomura was heartbroken at the time, threw himself back into his work, but not a month later, Dabi had stumbled to his apartment drunk, whimpering and howling weakly through his sobs as he begged to come home. Tomura knows his father and most of his people think he has no backbone at all for taking Dabi back immediately after all of that, but he had. He brought him inside, made them a new nest, and took out all of the things of Dabi's that he'd had in the closet, just in case. By the next morning it was like he'd never left, his bunny going back to his therapy, resuming his schedule, and trying so hard to not let this fall apart again so he could go self-destruct elsewhere.

Tomura hadn't mated him again when his next rut came, but they still spent it together, Dabi so desperate to show him that he could be a good mate that he'd had another breakdown afterwards. Sex had been so bad for him, something he did because it was all an omega was good for, because it was the only way for him to make any money for a long time, and that he had numbed himself to, going somewhere else in his mind so that he wouldn't have to feel what was happening to him, but he didn't want that anymore. He wanted to be there with Tomura. He wanted to be his mate again properly. He wanted to enjoy it when he took his knot. But he couldn't. His mind still slipped into that place he had made for himself to stay safe. 

That was about when they started going to couple's therapy with a sex positive therapist. Dabi had more trauma that Tomura could have ever imagined around sex and it took another three cycles before Dabi had been able to stay present during their time together in bed. Two more after that before they decided they are ready to be mated again. When they had, Tomura had felt the bond snap into place this time. Had not felt so alone in his own mind with his heart beating hollowly around the place where the love he wanted from his mate to live inside of him too.

And it's been another two years since then. 

Two years and now he's able to come home and see his mate laying in their bed, taking a nap in the afternoon sun and lets heat creep across his veins as he toes off his shoes and tugs his tie loose as he approaches the bed. His moonbeam has let his hair go white, the crown of it glowing in the sunlight as he snoozes. Today he didn't have much on his schedule, not therapy today, no going to monitor the club that they've started to work on, hoping to run V into the ground with their own venue. Nothing that he needed to do but take care of himself today and clearly he wanted to get some rest. Tomura hopes he won't begrudge him moving up to the edge of the bed, feeling the twinge of his instincts that tell him he's stalking his prey the same way that he might have in a different time and place. 

Dabi's ear twitches as soon as he begins to lower himself down on the bed, chirping at him as he starts to open his eyes, rolling immediately onto his back and spreading his legs in invitation. Tomura's scent goes hot through the air, having fully intended to climb into the sheets with his little rabbit and enjoy the soft warmth of the summer sun together, but more than happy to give his mate whatever he wants. 

He pulls the sheet away, leaning down to lick along Dabi's ears as he does, making the omega purr. Dabi was absolutely expecting him to come home soon and knew what he wanted before he settled in to sleep, because he's not wearing anything at all beneath the sheet, the long lines of him exposed for Tomura to enjoy as his hands start to trace along his body. He's healthier now than the first time he ever touched him. Not made of bones and broken glass, softer under his palms from years of regular meals and access to medicine. His mate moans softly as he brings his hand down to toy with his cock. He's still small against his much larger palm, and Tomura always delights in the difference between the size of their bodies, almost as much as he enjoys feeling the texture of Dabi's piercings against his palms. Like his staples, like every scrap of armor that Dabi coiled around himself, the sharp contrast of the unyielding metal and the softness of his skin delights him. It's a privilege every time he realizes that he was given the chance to get close enough to find this place with the other man. If he had given up, if he hadn't risked everything to follow the ache in his chest that had screamed for Dabi, then they wouldn't be here. He wouldn't have his mate coiling his arms around his neck as he moans and arches into his touches, his cock hardening rapidly against his palm as his scent goes so sugary sweet with the pleasure that Tomura is stoking beneath his skin. 

Tomura  can't resist giving him as many kisses as he can, until Dabi's mouth is breathless and gasping against his and Tomura is still licking up the sweetness of their spit that is dripping across his chin. Dabi's leaking from his hole too, his slick spreading its caramel scent in the air. Tomura keeps two claws trimmed so that he never has to worry about hurting his moonbeam when he touches him like this as his other hand moves further back so that he can tease his fingers against his hole. He's so wet already that Tomura knows that Dabi actually is relaxed, actually is right here with him, actually does want his knot as much as Tomura always wants every part of his mate that he can get. He still takes his time stroking Dabi and pumping his fingers inside of his body until his baby boy is trembling beneath him and he's soaking his hands with his cum and his slick. 

Tomura presses more kisses over his face as Dabi keeps moving his hips up into the touches even as he whimpers softly, wanting more even though getting it is stinging his nerves. He's more than happy to give that to his little bun and he doesn't care about the stains he absolutely is getting on his pants. Nothing matters to him more than bringing their bodies together until they're both satisfied and a mess. He never thought that he would end up being the type to want their bed absolutely saturated in their scents like this, but he is addicted to surrounding himself with the scent of their contentedness after how long it took for them to get here at all. Dabi tries to angle his hips for him, showing him how wet he is, how cute he looks already stretched just from having his fingers inside, and Tomura wraps both of his hands around his mate's waist. His fingers nearly touch as he holds him in place as he moves his aching cock to his hole. Dabi trembles and drips as he does, but he doesn't ask to stop, looking down at the length of his body with breathless anticipation for the same thing that Tomura is so eager for. 

It puts a heat in his veins that Tomura can hardly describe to watch his cock sink deeply inside of his bunny. The feeling is always blinding. That incredible tightness, the gush of his arousal, the softness of his insides that rivals his fur, that alone would be able to put Tomura out of his mind, and yet he keeps finding more ways for this to bring him to absolute ruin as he is able to see himself as he fills Dabi's body. A little swell in his stomach from how much smaller he is, from how deeply Tomura can reach into his guts. 

He can't help chuffing, barely containing yipping like a pup as his tail trembles from how good it feels, from how cute Dabi looks as he bites his lip bloody as his fingers twist tightly in the sheets. His thighs are trembling from how wide they are spread around Tomura's hips and it takes them both a long moment to be ready for anything else. When Dabi is, those eyes that burn like the hottest flame are on him, pupils blown with his pleasure, and his lips try to form words, but without the breath to make sound. 

Tomura licks away the blood from him resplitting the seam through his lips and rolls his hips into his body slowly. He doesn't want to rush this. The sun is baking them in their bed, the heat between their bodies rising and rising, and he just wants to savor every part of it until neither of them remember anything beyond the pleasure they can find entangled in this soft place after all of the suffering and violence that it took to get them here. He keeps his movements slow and steady, working himself and Dabi up more and more, until his bunny has recovered from his first orgasm and is starting to harden again. Tomura moves his palm against the bulge of himself inside of his mate's stomach, feeling each rolling thrust from the inside and out as he continues to move, seeing how his sharp claws could tear him open so easily, but knowing that even after everything that they've been through, he has never once hurt Dabi. Not like that. Never drawn blood, never taken a bite of his flesh. He has only ever tried to do his best by his smaller mate and he thinks, despite everything, he's proven to himself, to the world, that a predator and a prey can work. That no matter how much they hurt at the start, it can be this soft thing that has bloomed between them now and soothed something inside of him that he thought was irreparably broken for all of his life. 

He's lost in those thoughts, in the sight, sound, and smell of Dabi beneath him as his body hitches with his pleasure as Tomura moves. His knot starts to swell, and he can't see that inside of Dabi, but when his mate feels it, he lets out an omega keen as he tries to move his hips to encourage him to chase it. Tomura doesn't know if he'll ever be capable of denying his lover anything that makes him happy ever again, so he follows that delicious pressure that's building at the base of his dick as his balls grow taut as his pleasure creeps over his nerves. It only takes a few more thrusts for that rubber band to snap, his hips moving more roughly than they have before as he uses that force to push the swell of his knot inside his baby boy's much smaller body with a 'pop'. Tomura manages to watch, though his eyes are half-lidded with the full body bliss that comes with his orgasm now, as he fills Dabi with his cum. As his stomach swells a little bit more, just enough to show that he is full as his cum pours into his body. 

It takes Tomura a minute, soaked in his cum, in Dabi's slick, held so tightly inside of his body, for him to stop shaking from tail to tip with how good it feels to be locked inside of his moonbeam like this. But when he manages to regain some of his composure, he reaches back down for his omega's cock.

Dabi whimpers, shaking his head weakly, even though he's so hard and leaking again as he presses up against the bulge in his stomach. 

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He asks, nuzzling his cheek as he tries to give him more attention in whatever way he needs to to help take him through his discomfort and hesitation. 

"Again?" He mumbles, turning his face so that he can press his nose into his scent glands. "Soft?" Tomura's whole chest aches with tenderness as Dabi manages the words to ask for what he wants. 

"Anything you want, moonbeam." He promises, leaning down to press kisses to Dabi's forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids, anywhere he can to show him that he will never stop giving him this tenderness if he has a choice. "Slowly?" He asks, and Dabi's face pinks so cutely as he manages a little nod. 

Tomura smiles at him as he reaches for their nightstand. He keeps the drawer organized fastidiously so that he never has to worry about not being able to give his moonbeam anything he wants at a moment's notice. So it's easy to reach inside without really looking and pull out the leather case that he wants. It will take a little while for his knot to stop being swollen and for him to be able to get hard again, and Dabi wants this softness a second time. He wants to be so full of his cum that he's as warm from it as he is from the warm sun, and stay entangled in his arms for as many hours as he can get until their bodies force them from the bed. But he doesn't want to cum again before he has his knot inside for a second time. 

So Tomura opens the case and takes one of the wet wipes from the pouch and runs it along his baby's prick. He makes sure that he's clean enough for him to take the bottle of lube and the long metal rod with the slightly curved tip out of the case next. He hisses softly as Dabi's insides tighten around his length with anticipation, his baby leaking again just from how excited he is to be plugged up until Tomura has given him his knot a second time. It brings fresh heat to his veins too when he gets the sound dripping wet before he curls his fingers around Dabi's root to hold him still. He always savors the soft, high keen that comes out of him when he starts to press it inside. They have time before he's ready to fuck Dabi a second time, so he savors the way that every millimeter of the unrelenting metal stretching the inner channel of Dabi's body has his insides twitching and trembling around his cock. He teases it in and out, making the little hole at his tip gape, more pre gushing out each time he draws the sound back to force his baby boy's pleasure higher. But when he sees his balls starting to tighten and his little one starts to make more distressed sounds as he feels the orgasm he wants to hold off creeping closer, Tomura starts to fill him with the sound properly, pressing it in and in, watching as Dabi's back bows on the bed as he's made so full in two places. Tomura chuffs at him comfortingly, scenting him so sweetly as the first tears start to burn at the edge of Dabi's eyes and slip across his temples. 

"You're doing such a good job, little one," he murmurs, and that's enough. It's not like it was at the start with Dabi pulling away from him at every opportunity. He reaches back for him now. His arms curl around his neck, he pulls him closer, he makes Tomura dip his head so that he can lick at his ears in turn as Tomura presses his teeth to the scar that he's left on his precious bunny's neck. And his chest aches with his love. He wonders if any emotion he's ever tried to contain his body has ever felt stronger, but it doesn't matter. This is the one that he hopes, if his life had to be boiled down to nothing, is the one that would stand out. 

When his knot isn't swollen anymore, he starts to rock his hips into Dabi's body again. He builds their pleasure even more slowly, every thrust sending slick and cum gushing from his baby's hole. Tomura soaks in their pleasure, in the way that Dabi clings to him now as he tries to bring them both higher and higher. They could stay tangled in these sheets together forever and he wouldn't ever take for granted how wonderful it was when he spent so long thinking that he would never have this. That Dabi would find a way to tear himself apart before he could give him this warmth and love that is still a supernova behind his ribs. 

Tomura is lost in the sea of those feelings as Dabi arches up into him, his very breath sweet from his want as he manages to gasp, "Love you,", and sends that explosion even brighter through his chest. Love, love, love. He wasn't even sure that Dabi could fully understand what that was to him, why he clung to him so tightly when he should have given up on this after their first encounter. But oh, to have pruned away those thorns entangling his little bunny's heart and to find this feeling blooming at his core now? Worth every way he's drawn blood throughout the years. 

"I love you," he's never let himself say the words before, so scared that they would be too much, too big, too real, and they would send the prey scampering off like he was being hunted. But he says them now, means them so ardently. He holds onto Dabi a little tighter, kisses him a little harder, fucks him a little deeper, until both of their bodies are screaming for their release. And when his knot swells the second time, he watches as Dabi's balls go tight too and he lets out a weak howl as his orgasm tears through him without a proper release as the sound keeps him so full. Tomura revels in the way that his stomach swells again as his own orgasm ravages his body until there is nothing left inside of him. 

And Dabi whimpers and moans, his prick darkening as he is forced to say full and so achingly sensitive until Tomura's knot shrinks, taking less time to do so after already filling his moonbeam once today. When he's finally ready to pull out, he takes the sound from Dabi's cock at the same time, watching how his cum streams from his tip and pours from his hole as Tomura chuffs softly and presses on his stomach to make him flood their sheets. 

Dabi writhes, his cock twitching as it happens with another weak orgasm, and when he's finally drained and they're both soaked in their fluids, he doesn't do anything other than roll his body into Tomura's tucking himself into his chest like he can disappear inside the circle of his arms as he starts to purr, and purr and purr. Two years. It took two years for Tomura to ever hear Dabi purr, and now he thinks that he'd be content to stay here forever wrapped around his body and listening to it ring through his ears. 

But after about half an hour the cum is sticky and cold against their skin and his moonbeam's stomach growls, so he makes himself just as content with going to clean up with him and sit in their nest in the living room as they wait for their food to arrive. Dabi doesn't tell him that he loves him again, he doesn't thank him for staying by him throughout everything, but Tomura doesn't need any of that. Just having the rabbit turn to him when he needs something, just knowing that Dabi trusts him to be the one person in the world who has never let him down or turn his back on him, that's enough. 

He knows that Dabi understands now what it means for them to be mates despite everything before, and it's beyond worth it for him that Dabi would choose to still be his even though he's well enough now to pick someone else. 

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please consider leaving a comment/ask. If you'd like to get a commission, consider checking out my guidelines at the bottom of my pinned post! Commissions are half price until the end of March!

[aynavaano]

Sweet Treats

Kinktober '24 - size kink/praise kink

Wrecker× F!reader

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 7.5k whoops this was meant to be short

Summary: You're living on Pabu and can’t keep your eyes off Wrecker since he arrived. You’re a bit shy but you got the notice that you can move back into your rebuilt house in Lower Pabu so you ask him if he could help you moving.

Notes: Whoha, that was a long unintentional break. A few of my scripts for Kinktober were a lot longer than what I usually write and editing them kinda overwhelmed me. Then when I realized I was behind my self imposed schedule, I kind of beat myself up for it and abandoned all the fics. I didn’t allow myself to write something new cause I had a bad conscience, I felt like I had to finish the Kinktober fics and the asks before I deserved to write something new. I felt like I had failed and didn’t want to look back and it took all my joy of writing. But over the holidays I read through some of the scripts, realized that some of them were good and deserved to be finished. Also the world is a cruel place and we all deserve a bit of unhinged smut with our favorite clones to brighten the mood. So I guess we’re doing Kinkanuary now?! The first script that I finished was Wrecker and while it was obvious to pair him with a reader that has an undiscovered size kink it is important for me to add that he is so much more than just his size and I hope I managed to write it like that. Also I thought he deserved a girl that is good at baking, so reader is a baker on Pabu. As far as tags go we have: mutual attraction, idiots to lovers kind of, oral f! and m! receiving, vag.fingering, vag.penetration, wrecker has a big dick and we all know it, reader maybe enjoys choking on his cock a litte, mutual size kink, praise, lots of praise, Wrecker talks you through it, he’s the praise king, you can’t change my mind. Also no beta, otherwise these longer fics would never see the light of day.

You first noticed Wrecker the day after he and his family had arrived on Pabu. His sheer size made him impossible to miss, but it was his laugh that caught your attention—deep and warm, like the comforting roll of distant thunder. You were setting up your stall at the market that morning, arranging fresh loaves of bread and pastries on wooden trays, when his booming voice echoed across the square.

At first, it was hard not to admire him from afar. Wrecker had a way of filling a space—not just with his size, but with his energy. Whether he was hauling crates of supplies or chatting with the locals, there was an openness to him, a joy that made him stand out. Everything about him exuded warmth and strength—from the way he carried children on his shoulders to how he lit up the room with smiles and his easy humor. It was hard to believe someone that enormous could be so gentle, but Wrecker was all contradictions, and that only added to his charm.

You’d caught yourself staring more than once, your hands dusted with flour as you pretended to be busy with your goods.

The first time he approached your stall, he was grinning from ear to ear, his broad shoulders nearly blocking out the sunlight.

“Wow, that smells incredible,” he’d said, leaning in to inspect your display.

You’d smiled nervously, brushing off a bit of flour from your apron.

“Thanks. Anything catch your eye?”

“All of it,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth, y’know. What d’you recommend?”

That first exchange turned into many. Wrecker became a regular at your stall, always stopping by to buy something and chat. Sometimes, he’d stay longer than necessary, munching on a pastry while leaning casually against your counter.

“Y’know,” he said one day, his mouth half-full of a jogan bun, “you’ve got magic hands to make something this good. Ever thought of teaching someone?”

You’d laughed, shaking your head. “Not sure you’d want to learn—kneading dough isn’t as exciting as whatever you get up to with your brothers.”

He grinned.

“Hey, don’t knock it. Bet I’d be pretty good at it. Got the muscles for it, after all.”

You couldn’t deny the way his easy compliments and lingering glances made your heart race. There was something about the way he looked at you, his warm brown eyes soft and inviting, that made you feel special. But no matter how many times he came by, no matter how often he found reasons to linger, he never asked you out.

And you, a bit shy and unsure, didn’t dare make the first move either. So you stayed in this quiet, unspoken dance of stolen glances and friendly conversations, savoring the moments you got to spend with him and wondering if he felt the same pull.

But you often caught yourself daydreaming about him when you saw him around town or relaxing at the beach, how it would be to be held by him, how easily he could just scoop you up and carry you around, how it would feel to cuddle against his broad chest, how safe and loved you would feel in his arms.

****************

The late afternoon sun bathed Pabu in golden hues today, and the warm breeze carried the scent of the sea up into the town. Despite the sun slowly setting, it was still hot, and you started packing up your stall. As always, all your cakes and cookies were sold, but packing up took longer than usual because you were distracted.

You’d caught a glimpse of him on the on the other side of the town square—Wrecker, unmistakable, towering over the others at the bustling marketplace. His boisterous laugh echoed as he navigated the narrow stalls, his broad shoulders making him stand out no matter where he went.

It was Taungsday market, and he always came to your stall on Taungsday. But today you had almost given up hope. You glanced down at the small box you’d tucked carefully behind the counter. Inside was a meiloorun cookie, Wrecker’s favorite. You’d saved it for him, just in case.

As you started loading the last of your trays into the cart, you heard that familiar laugh. Your heart leapt, and you turned to see him striding toward you, his grin wide as ever.

“Hey!” Wrecker called out, his deep voice carrying easily over the market noise. “Almost thought I’d missed ya!”

You smiled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“I thought you had, too but I saved something for you.”

His eyes lit up as you reached for the box, handing it to him with a shy smile. “One meiloorun cookie, just for you.”

He took the box, opening it with the excitement of a child.

“Aw, you remembered! Thought I was too late, been busy helpin’ out with the building of the new communal space.You’re the best, y’know that?”

He popped the cookie into his mouth, groaning appreciatively.

“Perfect, as always.”

The compliment made your cheeks warm, and you busied yourself with stacking empty crates to hide your nerves.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Wrecker noticed your cart piled high with boxes and trays.

“Need a hand with all this? Looks like a lot for one person.”

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to take a leap of courage.

“Nothing I can’t handle here, all the boxes are empty, but actually, I was going to ask if you could help me with some heavy lifting later.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Oh yeah? What kinda heavy lifting?”

“Well…” You glanced down, suddenly unsure how to phrase it.

“My house in lower Pabu—it’s finally been rebuilt after the sea surge. I just got the notification that I can move back in a few days ago, I’ve already brought some stuff over but I’ve got some furniture and boxes I can’t manage on my own.”

Wrecker beamed, his broad smile making your nerves melt away.

“Course I’ll help! Wouldn’t leave ya to handle that alone. When d’you need me?”

“Tonight, if you’re free?” you asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“Tonight works,” he said with an enthusiastic nod.

“Tell ya what—I’ll help you load up here, then I’ll get the fish to Hunter real quick and I’ll head over to your place. Deal?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his generosity.

“Deal. Thank you, Wrecker.”

He picked up two of your heaviest boxes like they weighed nothing, his muscles flexing under the strain.

“No big deal,” he said, winking at you. “Anything for my favorite baker.”

*****************

The small apartment had grown unbearably hot as the afternoon wore on, boxes stacked high against the walls, and the thought of finally spending time alone with Wrecker filled you with a nervous excitement. You smoothed your hands over your tunic, glancing at the clock for what felt like the hundredth time. Any minute now, he’d be here.

You’d been thinking about him all afternoon, replaying your conversation from the market in your head. He’d made you promise to teach him baking once you had your bigger kitchen back, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been teasing or if he really meant it. The way his grin had softened as he spoke to you, the way his golden eyes held yours just a little too long—it was enough to leave your chest fluttering.

A heavy knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts, and you scrambled to answer it, heart racing.

When you opened the door, there he was. Wrecker’s broad frame filled the doorway, the last light of the day casting over his shoulders. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt again, and the sight of his muscular arms had you biting the inside of your cheek to keep from staring.

“Hey,” he said, his deep voice warm and cheerful. “You all ready for me to get you movin’?”

You nodded quickly, stepping aside to let him in.

“Yeah, almost everything’s packed. It’s just the big stuff now. Thanks for coming.”

He gave you a lopsided grin, shrugging easily.

“Course. Gotta make sure you’re all set up for bakin’. Besides,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck, “I like being around and helpin’ you out.”

That made your breath catch, and you busied yourself with stacking some smaller boxes to cover your flustered reaction.

“Well, I appreciate it. Especially since the couch is going to be a nightmare to move but it’s the only piece of furniture I could salvage after the surge so I don’t want to give up on it.”

Wrecker chuckled as he surveyed the space. “Couch, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

As he started lifting boxes onto the heavy-load cart, you found yourself sneaking glances at him. The way his muscles flexed with every movement, the easy way he handled the heaviest loads—it left you a little breathless. When the last box was stacked, all that remained was your old, oversized sofa, with it’s wild mix of colorful cushions, many of which you had made.

“Guess it’s just this beast left,” Wrecker said, turning to you with a playful grin.

“Yeah,” you said, fidgeting with your hands. “I’ve been dreading moving it. It’s so heavy.”

“Ah, not for me,” he said confidently, stepping over to it and giving the armrest an experimental tug. Then he paused, glancing back at you with a sly grin.

“You’ll still teach me bakin’, right? Once you’ve got that big ol’ kitchen?”

His question caught you off guard, and you blinked at him. “You really want me to teach you?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, his grin softening. “I think it’d be fun. You’re good at it, and I… y’know, I like watchin’ you do somethin’ you’re good at, spendin’ some time with you.”

Your heart skipped, and you felt your cheeks heat. “I—yeah. I’d like that.”

Wrecker’s grin widened, and he turned back to the couch with renewed enthusiasm.

“Alright, let’s get this thing outta here, then.”

He braced his massive hands under the couch, muscles rippling as he hoisted it up like it weighed nothing. Your jaw dropped slightly, watching the ease with which he maneuvered it toward the door.

“Maker,” you muttered under your breath, eyes trailing over his biceps and broad chest.

Wrecker paused, tilting his head toward you with a crooked grin.

“What’s that? Did you say somethin’?”

You shook your head quickly, heat rising to your cheeks.

“No! Just, uh… impressed, that’s all.”

He turned fully to face you, the couch still balanced effortlessly in his arms, and his grin widened.

“Impressed, huh? ”

Setting the couch down gently, he stepped closer, his golden brown eyes glinting with mischief. He towered over you, his presence filling the room as his grin softened.

“You’re blushin’,” he teased, his voice dropping an octave.

“I am not,” you shot back, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

“You’re cute when you try to deny it,” he murmured, his gaze locking with yours.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you forgot all about the move, your world narrowing to the warmth of his smile and the steady confidence in his voice. Wrecker had a way of making you feel seen, you couldn’t tear your gaze away from his soft lips and as he leaned down just slightly, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking the same thing you were.

His gaze didn’t waver as he studied your face, a mix of amusement and something softer in his golden eyes. The room felt impossibly warm, and your heartbeat was echoing loudly in your ears.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost shy, “I’ve been wantin’ to spend more time with you. Not just like this—helpin’ out and all. But, uh, I didn’t know if you’d want that.”

Your breath caught. “You… really?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, his grin softening into something more tentative.

“I mean, you’re always real nice to me, and Hunter said he thinks you like me but I figured maybe you’d think I’m… too much or somethin’. Big guy like me, not exactly subtle.”

You shook your head quickly, your words tumbling out before you could stop them.

“Wrecker, you’re amazing. You’re sweet and funny, and you’ve been so kind to me. Honestly, I’ve been hoping you’d…” You trailed off, suddenly unsure how to finish.

“Hoping I’d what?” he asked, his voice low and full of curiosity.

You bit your lip, gathering your courage.

“Hoping you’d ask me out.”

Wrecker’s eyes widened slightly before his face broke into a wide, toothy smile that made your knees weak.

“Well, why didn’t ya just say so?”

“I don’t know,” you laughed nervously, “I guess I didn’t want to make things awkward.”

He let out a soft chuckle, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Awkward? Nah. I like ya, and I’ve been thinkin’ about askin’ ya for a while. Guess I was just nervous too.”

The thought of Wrecker—this towering, confident, wonderful man—being nervous to talk to you was almost too much to believe. You smiled, feeling your chest warm at his words.

“Wrecker…” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” His voice was a low rumble now, and the intensity of his gaze made you feel like the only person in the galaxy.

“I guess I’ll have to take the first step, then.” you said softly, meeting his gaze.

Before he could respond, you leaned up on your toes and pressed a quick, tentative kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm, the scar slightly rough under your lips, and you pulled back just enough to gauge his reaction.

Wrecker looked at you startled for a split second, then he leaned down and captured your lips with his. His mouth was warm, firm but gentle, and he tilted his head just enough to deepen the kiss. The world around you disappeared as you melted against him, your hands instinctively reaching up to grasp his broad shoulders.

The kiss quickly turned more heated, his massive hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against his body. You could feel the solid wall of his chest against you, the strength in his arms as he held you close. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip, seeking entry, and you gasped, allowing him to taste you fully.

"Maker," he groaned against your mouth, his voice rough and husky, "feels so good."

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his hands roamed lower, resting on your hips and pulling you against him in a way that made your knees go weak. His sheer size, the way he enveloped you so completely, had your mind spinning.

"Wrecker," you breathed, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His golden eyes burned with heat, his lips slightly swollen from the kiss.

You could feel the sheer power in his grip, restrained but ever-present, and it made heat pool low in your belly.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice softer now, concern flickering through the intensity in his gaze.

"Better than alright," you murmured, running your hands over his shoulders, down his chest, marveling at the sheer size and warmth of him. Your fingers trailed lower, brushing over the hard planes of his abdomen, and you felt him shiver under your touch.

"Careful," he said, his tone half-teasing, half-warning.

"You keep doin' that, and I might not be able to stop."

"Maybe I don't want you to," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darkened, and his grip on your waist tightened slightly.

"You sure about that? Don’t want me to take you out for dinner or somethin’ first?."

You shook your head, your breath catching as his gaze flicked back to your lips.

"I'm sure."

With a growl that sent shivers down your spine, Wrecker kissed you again, harder this time, his hands sliding lower to lift you effortlessly into his arms.

The strength in his grip made your stomach flip as he carried you toward the couch he had just moved and abandoned next to the door, laying you down gently before hovering over you, his hands braced on either side of your head and his massive frame blocking out the rest of the room.

"Tell me if you want me to stop, ya ?" he asked, his voice softer now, his concern evident despite the heat in his gaze.

“Yes," you said without hesitation. The way he said it with so much affection made your pussy throb and you had to press your thighs together for some desperate needed friction.

His grin turned feral, and he leaned down to press another kiss to your lips, this one deeper, hungrier. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve with a reverence that made your heart ache.

"Gonna have to be real careful with you," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna break my pretty little thing."

The thought made your core clench, and you arched into him, your hands tangling in his shirt as you pulled him closer. You’d spend too many nights hot and bothered plagued by dreams of him touching you, making you feel good only to wake up feeling needy and empty. Getting yourself off hasn’t helped much, sometimes made things worse, it was him that you wanted. Now that you had him so close to where you wanted him, the last thing you needed was him to be overly careful.

"Don't be too careful," you teased, your voice a mix of need bordering on desperation.

Wrecker chuckled, the sound low and delicious.

"Careful, sweetheart. Keep talkin' like that, and I might forget my own strength."

His kisses trailed down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp. He pulled back briefly, his gaze raking over you with such intensity that you felt like you were being consumed.

"Take this off for me?," he said, tugging at your tunic.

You complied quickly, your fingers trembling as you pulled it over your head. Wrecker's breath hitched as his eyes roved over your bare skin.

"Perfect," he said, his voice reverent.

His hands followed his gaze, calloused fingers brushing over your breasts, your hips, and finally settling on your thighs. He knelt in front of you, his massive frame making you feel even smaller.

"You're gonna let me take my time with you, aren't you?" he asked, his hands sliding up your legs.

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

"Good girl," he said, and the words sent a shiver down your spine.

Wrecker's hands slipped under the waistband of your shorts, pulling them and your underwear down in one smooth motion. His touch lingered on your thighs, the heat of his palms searing into your skin. He let out a low, appreciative hum as he took in the sight of you.

"You're so pretty, even prettier than I’ve imagined" he said, his voice soft but filled with a hunger that made your cheeks flush.

"Gotta admit, I've been thinkin' about this for a while."

He leaned back, his hands working at the hem of his shirt. When he pulled it over his head, your breath caught in your throat. His broad chest and shoulders were a sight to behold —muscle stacked on muscle, his skin marked with faint scars that only added to his rugged appeal and a dusting of dark hair covered his chest, trailing down in a line that disappeared beneath his waistband.

Your gaze lingered on his powerful arms, his biceps flexing slightly as he tossed the shirt aside. You‘d seen him on the beach but to have him so close was different. You couldn't resist reaching out, your fingers brushing over the hard planes of his chest. His skin was warm, firm beneath your touch, and the contrast between his sheer size and your smaller hand was intoxicating.

"Maker," you murmured, your fingers tracing the line of his pecs and down to his stomach.

"You're incredible."

Wrecker grinned, his golden eyes alight with a mix of pride and amusement.

"You like what you see, huh?"

"Very much," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitantly let your hand trail through the dusting of soft curly hair and over the big scar that went across his whole chest, that seemed fairly new as it was still raised and had a pinkish glow.

„Had to fight a Dryax to get that, when we rescued ’mega“ he said with a sheepish grin.

His large hand wrapped around yours, guiding it lower, letting you feel the strength in his abdomen and then further to the huge bulge in his pants.

“Look what you’re doin’ to me” he said enjoying the look on your face “but first, I’m goin’ to take real good care of you if you let me”

Your fingers brushed over the thick, firm ridge straining against his pants, and you couldn't stop the shiver that ran through you. He was so wide, the sheer girth of him making your hand feel small as you tried to take in the size of him. The light linen fabric did little to hide the heaviness beneath, and your fingers traced along the outline, marveling at how impossibly thick he felt.

A surge of heat pooled low in your belly, the wetness between your thighs growing as you imagined what it would feel like to have him stretch you open. The weight of his cock, the thickness pressing against your palm, made your pulse race, every nerve in your body thrumming with anticipation. This was even better than your dreams.

Unable to form coherent words you nodded.

Wrecker leaned back over you, his hand cupping your face again while his other slid down your body, giving one of your nipples an experimental pinch and then lower between your thighs. His fingers, thick and calloused, parted your folds with surprising gentleness. He groaned as he found how wet you already were, his thumb brushing over your clit.

"Look at you," he murmured. "So soft, so ready. That's all for me, isn't it?"

"Yes," you gasped, your hips bucking slightly into his hand.

"Thought so," he said, his voice thick with pride.

After a few slow rubs over your clit he slipped one finger inside you, the thickness making you moan. He worked it slowly, his thumb circling your clit in tandem.

"Feel so tight around just one," he murmured, almost to himself. "Gonna have to relax you real good before you’re gonna be able to take all of me, sweetheart."

You whimpered, your hands gripping his shoulders as he added a second finger, stretching you even more. The delicious burn made your toes curl, and you couldn't stop the broken sounds spilling from your lips. You’d have to apologize to your neighbors tomorrow and hopefully not for the last time, but nothing a good cake couldn’t fix.

"Look at you, takin' my fingers so well," Wrecker praised, his thumb pressing down just enough on your clit to send sparks of pleasure through your body. He trailed kisses down your neck until he reached your breasts and let his tongue swirl around your nipples.

"Such a good girl."

"Wrecker," you moaned, your head falling back against the couch.

"That's it," he said, his fingers curling to hit that perfect spot inside you.

"Let me hear you, sweetheart. Don't hold back."

The pressure built quickly, your body arching into his hand as he worked you with a focus that made your head spin. When you finally came, it hit you hard, a wave of pleasure that left you gasping for breath.

Wrecker groaned as your walls pulsed around his fingers, his hand slowing but not stopping as he drew out every bit of your release.

"Beautiful," he said, his voice filled with awe. "You're so beautiful when you come."

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, bringing them to his lips. He sucked them clean, his golden eyes locked on yours as he did. The sight sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, leaving you aching for more.

"And you taste even better than I imagined," he said, his voice a low rumble.

"Wrecker," you said, reaching out for the bulge in his pants, your voice shaky but filled with need. "I want all of you."

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss you, his lips claiming yours with a possessiveness that made your heart race.

"Oh, sweetheart," he said against your lips, his voice low and rough. "You'll have all of me. Just hold on tight."

Wrecker leaned back, his massive frame towering over you. He pulled his pants down, his thick, hard length springing free. You couldn't help but gasp at the sheer size of him, your eyes widened in shock as they took him in.

"You okay, sweetheart? We…eh…we don’t have to…you know," Wrecker asked softly, his hand cupping your cheek.

The gentleness in his voice was such a stark contrast to his overwhelming size that it made your heart ache in the best way.

His cock, already fully hard, rested against his stomach, thick and heavy. You couldn't help but stare for a moment longer, your mouth going dry at the sight of him. He was enormous-more than you'd ever taken before-but the challenge sent a fresh pulse of heat through your core.

You slid off the sofa onto your knees right before him.

"What're you doin', sweetheart?" His voice was deep, a little rough, but the warmth in it softened the question.

You didn't answer right away, your hand trailing down to wrap around his shaft. Or at least, as much of it as you could manage-your fingers couldn't even close around him.

Wrecker sucked in a sharp breath at your touch, his head tipping back slightly.

"Maker, you don't have to _"

"I want to," you interrupted, your voice soft but firm.

"I want to make you feel good too, Wrecker."

The golden warmth in his eyes softened even more.

"Alright, sweetheart. But don't push yourself, yeah? Just... take your time."

You nodded and leaned forward, pressing an experimental kiss to his flushed, leaking tip. His cock twitched in your hand, and he groaned low in his throat. Emboldened, you parted your lips, licking gently along the sensitive head before wrapping your mouth around him.

The stretch was intense-almost too much. Your jaw ached immediately, and you could barely take his tip. Even then, it felt like your mouth was impossibly full.

Your tongue swirled tentatively against him as you tried to adjust to his size.

"That's it, just like that," Wrecker murmured, his voice thick with pleasure. He cradled your cheek in his big hand, his thumb brushing softly against your skin.

You bobbed your head slightly, taking him a little deeper. But it was no use. The moment he hit the back of your throat, you gagged, pulling back quickly with a gasping breath. Drool slipped from the corner of your lips, trailing down your chin as you stared up at him apologetically.

"Hey, hey," he said immediately, his thumb wiping away the spit on your face. "You alright?"

You nodded, though your chest still heaved as you caught your breath. But despite your struggles, almost choking on his cock was incredibly hot in a filthy way you hadn‘t know you had in you.

"I'm okay," you rasped, your voice rough. Then, with a small smile, you added,

"You're just so... big, but I like it. A lot."

Wrecker chuckled, the sound low and affectionate.

“You’re not just sayin’ that, right? I don’t wanna hurt you.” he teased gently, though his concern remained clear in his eyes.

“No, really, I like it” you assured him.

"Don't push yourself, sweetheart. Just do what feels good for you."

Determined, you tried again, focusing on his tip and swirling your tongue around the sensitive ridge. Your hand worked his shaft, stroking what you couldn't fit in your mouth, and you tried to relax your throat as you took him deeper.

But it was impossible. He was too thick, too long.

Every time you tried to take more, you felt like you were going to choke. Instead, you focused on his tip, sucking and licking at him while your hand squeezed him firmly at the base.

"That's it," Wrecker groaned, his voice growing rougher. "You're doin' so good, sweetheart. Feels... stars, feels incredible."

His words spurred you on, and you worked him with more determination, drool slipping freely from your lips as you hollowed your cheeks. The taste of him, salty and heady, made your thighs clench together.

"You're somethin' else," he murmured, his big hand smoothing over your hair. "So sweet, so pretty with my cock in your mouth. Maker, you're perfect."

Your cheeks burned at his praise, but the heat only drove you further. You wanted to make him come undone. But as you tried to take him deeper again, you gagged once more, your hands trembling as you pulled back, gasping for air, but the throbbing between your legs betrayed you.

Wrecker's hands were on you in an instant, pulling you up into his arms and cradling you like you weighed nothing.

"That's enough," he said softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Don't push yourself, sweetheart. You're already drivin' me crazy."

"But I didn't-" you started to protest, but Wrecker silenced you with another kiss, this one slow and deep.

"Don't need anything else, sweetheart," he murmured against your lips. "Just you. Always just you."

His hands roamed down to your hips, his strong fingers kneading your skin. You could feel him pressed against your stomach, hot and heavy, and a thrill shot through you at the thought of taking him inside you.

"Let me," you whispered, your fingers trailing down his chest to the line of dark hair that went down over his abs.

"I want you, Wrecker. Please."

His golden eyes darkened, his breath hitching as he studied your face.

"Are you sure?"

You nodded, your lips curving into a small smile.

"I've never been more sure. I want to feel you inside me."

With a low groan, he lifted you effortlessly and carefully placed you on the sofa, lining you up with his cock. The tip nudged against your entrance, and you shivered as the thick head stretched you open. The sensation was overwhelming, but the way he held you, the way he looked at you, made you feel safe.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, his voice soft and steady as he lowered you slowly onto him.

"Don't wanna hurt you, sweetheart."

"I will," you promised, gripping his shoulders for support.

Wrecker eased forward, the thick head of his cock slowly breaching you further. The stretch was intense, a mix of pain and pleasure that made you gasp. He froze immediately, his brows furrowing with concern.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

"Yes," you assured him, your voice breathy. "Just... give me a second."

He nodded, his hands resting on your hips, holding you steady.

"Take your time, sweetheart. No rush."

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to relax around him. After a moment, you nodded, and he pushed in a little more, barely an inch, before stopping again.

"Maker," he groaned, his head falling back as he tried to keep still. "You're so soft and warm. Feels incredible."

You whimpered, the sound making his grip on your hips tighten slightly. "Wrecker, feels so-"

"Tight?" he interrupted with a teasing grin, his voice laced with pride. "Yeah, I know. That's why I'm bein' real careful with ya."

The burning of the stretch was so intense, pleasure mixed with pain but the pleasure was slowly taking over and you couldn't help but whimper softly, your forehead resting against his shoulder.

"You're perfect, it’s okay if you can’t take all of it" he said, kissing you softly.

After a few more moments of slow, shallow movements that didn’t get him further, you looked up at him, determination flickering in your gaze.

"Let me get on top."

His eyes widened slightly.

"You sure? I don't wanna_"

"I'm sure," you said, cutting him off. "I know it’s gonna feel incredible, I can do it. Please."

Wrecker stared at you for a moment before nodding, shifting so he could help you switch positions. You straddled him, your knees pressing into the couch on either side of his massive thighs.

"Alright, sweetheart," he said, his hands settling on your hips.

"Take it slow. You're in control now."

You nodded, your hands braced against his chest as you began to sink down onto him. The angle was better, letting you take him a little more with each inch. His fingers flexed against your hips, his jaw clenching as he held himself back.

"Maker," he groaned, his head falling back against the couch.

"You're takin' me so well. Look at you, sweetheart."

You whimpered, the stretch almost too much, but the heat in his gaze spurred you on.

"So big, but feels so so good," you whined, your nails digging into his chest.

"You're doin' perfect," he murmured, his voice thick with awe. "Just look at how you're takin' me."

You tried to relax around him and let the weight of your body do the work. With a final push, you sank down completely, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as he filled you to the hilt. You could feel every inch of him, the sensation overwhelming but so good, unlike anything you had ever felt. You were sure if he hadn‘t made you come already you would have exploded into a thousand pieces then and there.

"Maker," Wrecker groaned, his hands gripping your waist tightly. "You did it. You're takin' all of me, sweetheart. Can't believe it."

You moaned breathlessly, your head falling forward as you tried to catch your breath.

"Told you I could."

He grinned up at you, his golden eyes shining with pride and affection.

"You're amazin'. Absolutely amazin!

You started to move, slow and careful, lifting yourself slightly before sinking back down. Each movement sent shivers of pleasure through both of you, and Wrecker's praise only made it better.

"That's it," he murmured. "You're so good to me, sweetheart. So damn good."

You rolled your hips slowly, letting Wrecker's thick cock stretch and fill you completely with every motion. The intensity of it all-his sheer size, the overwhelming fullness-had you gasping and moaning with each descent. His big hands never left your waist, steadying you as you moved, but he didn't push, letting you set the pace.

"You feel so good, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice low and thick with need. "So tight around me. Maker, it's almost too much."

"It's intense," you admitted, your voice shaky as you braced your hands against his chest for leverage.

"You're so big, Wrecker. It's-" You broke off with a gasp as you sank down again, taking him fully. "Kriff, it's so good."

His golden eyes were fixed on where your bodies joined, his pupils blown wide with lust.

"Look at you, takin' all of me," he murmured, almost in awe. "You're perfect, sweetheart. Absolutely perfect."

You whimpered at his praise, the heat in his gaze sending a rush of pleasure straight to your core. The stretch was so intense, so delicious, that every movement sent sparks of pleasure skittering through your body. But as you started to slow, your thighs burning from the effort, Wrecker chuckled softly, his hands tightening on your hips.

"Let me help you," he said, his voice gentle despite the hunger in his tone.

Before you could protest, he easily lifted you, his strength effortless as he guided your movements. He raised you off of him slightly, then lowered you back down, filling you again and again with his thick cock. The sensation was overwhelming, the way he controlled your movements perfectly timed to hit every sensitive spot inside you.

"Wrecker," you gasped, your fingers digging into his chest as pleasure built inside you.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a deep rumble.

"Let me take care of you. You're so good for me. Feels so good, havin' you like this."

The rhythm he set was steady but deep, each thrust making you cry out as the intensity grew. His cock stretched you in ways you'd never felt before, every inch of him filling you completely. You couldn't think, couldn't speak, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of him. All you could get out were pathetic whines.

"You're amazin"" he said, his golden eyes locked on yours. "Can't believe you're mine right now."

"Wrecker," you moaned, your voice breaking as the tension inside you reached its peak. "I'm so close-"

"I've got you," he promised, lifting you one more time before slamming you down fully, his cock pressing against your cervix, holding you there as you came undone around him.

Your climax hit hard, for a moment everything was dull before you slammed back into your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure rippled through you.

"Maker," he groaned, his grip on your waist tightening as your release triggered his own. He thrust up into you one last time, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside you.

You collapsed against his chest, your body trembling as you tried to catch your breath. His hands moved to your back, holding you close as his broad chest rose and fell beneath you.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his voice full of concern despite the hoarseness from his release. “Didn’t hurt you?”

You nodded, your cheek pressed to his chest.

"More than okay."

Wrecker shifted slightly, still buried inside you, his warmth filling you completely. He seemed hesitant, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your back as he searched for the right words.

"Listen, uh..." He cleared his throat, his deep voice unusually tentative.

"I, uh, I really like ya, don't want this to just be... y'know, a one-time thing."

You lifted your head to look at him, his golden eyes avoiding yours for a moment before he finally met your gaze.

"I've never really had somethin' like this," he admitted, his voice softer now. "Never had the chance durin' the war. But I want it, with you. I don't just wanna fool around. I want... more."

Your heart swelled at his words, the vulnerability in his usually confident demeanor making you fall for him even more. You cupped his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek.

"I want more too," you said softly, your voice filled with sincerity.

Relief washed over his face, and he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly.

"Good," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your lips.

''Cause I'm not lettin' you go now."

He shifted beneath you, his strong arms wrapping around you as he pulled you closer to his chest, his cock slipped out of you and with it a rush of your mixed juices. For a moment, you thought you could stay like this forever. Completely blissed out, safe in his arms, your head resting on his chest and his cum trickling out of you.

You basked in the afterglow of your lovemaking for a little longer, but then he softly tilted your chin up to make you look at him and chuckled softly.

"As much as I like havin' you on me, sweetheart," he said, his voice still deep and husky from earlier, "we're both a bit of a mess. How about we clean up?"

You hummed in agreement, still half-lost in the warmth of his embrace.

"You mean you don't want to sit here sticky all night?"

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest.

"As temptin' as that is, nah. C'mon, I'll help."

Before you could protest, he effortlessly scooped you up, cradling you against his broad chest as he stood. His strength still amazed you, the ease with which he handled you making your cheeks flush.

"You didn't have to carry me," you said, though you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

"Maybe I like carryin' you," he replied simply, his golden eyes meeting yours with a fondness that made your stomach flip.

He carried you into the bathroom, setting you down gently before starting the shower. As the water warmed, he turned back to you, his hands sliding up to carefully unclip the claw that held up your hair and set it aside.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his gaze roaming over you with unguarded affection.

You felt your cheeks heat at his words but didn't have time to dwell on it before he stepped under the spray with you, pulling you close again. The warm water cascaded over both of you, washing away the evidence of your earlier passion.

Wrecker's hands were surprisingly gentle as he lathered soap over your skin, taking his time as he worked. He made sure to check in with you, brushing his lips against your temple as he asked,

"This okay, sweetheart?"

"More than okay," you whispered, leaning into his touch.

When you returned the favor, your hands roamed over his muscular chest, tracing the lines of his scars and the soft trail of hair leading down his stomach. You allowed yourself to look at him openly, instead of just stealing glances. His tattoos caught the light, drawing your attention, and you couldn't resist brushing your fingers over one.

"Like what you see?" he teased, his grin widening when you bit your lip and nodded.

"You're gorgeous, Wrecker," you admitted, feeling your heart swell as he leaned down to kiss you, the water cascading over you both.

You both stepped out of the shower, the cool evening breeze brushing over your damp skin as you padded across the organized rows of neatly labeled boxes that Wrecker had stacked earlier. The faint scent of soap lingered between you, and the soft light in the room made everything feel warm and intimate. You opened a box marked linens and found a towel, wrapping it snugly around yourself before handing another to Wrecker. He grinned, his eyes lingering on you as he rubbed the towel over his broad chest and shoulders, water droplets glistening against his tanned skin.

Digging into another box labeled clothes, you pulled out an oversized shirt and shorts for yourself, slipping them on quickly as Wrecker stood there, still completely at ease in his nudity. His gaze softened as he reached for your hand, pulling you closer.

“You look happy,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along your knuckles.

Your heart fluttered as you tilted your head up, your damp hair sticking to your cheek. Wrecker leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a sweet, lingering kiss. It wasn’t rushed, just full of quiet affection that made your chest ache in the best way. You smiled against his lips, your hands resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

"So, uh, I’m kinda hungry, I was thinkin'.." he began, his tone a little hesitant, "how'd you feel about dinner? With my family, I mean. We can eat and you can stay with me and then we get you movin’ first thing in the morning?"

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. "Dinner with your family?"

"Yeah," he said, his golden eyes flicking to yours.

"Hunter's probably cookin' the fish me and Cross caught today, and Omega's always wantin' to meet new friends. I think they'd love you. I mean, who wouldn't?"

Your chest filled with warmth, the sincerity in his voice making you smile.

"I'd love to, Wrecker."

His face lit up with the biggest, most genuine smile you'd ever seen, his happiness contagious.

"Really? You mean it?"

You nodded, brushing a hand over his cheek. "Of course."

He let out a laugh, spinning you around once in his excitement before settling you back against his chest.

"You've just made me the happiest man on Pabu," he said, his voice full of joy.

[fandombead]

An Analysis in Value

This is a fic for @i-will-physically-fight-you ! ^^ Prompt: Humans as Space Orcs, gimme all that delicious hurt/comfort or angst with a pair of your choice!

Summary: Logan struggles to affirm his value as an individual and only wants to prove himself to the person who matters most to him. He inadvertently gets that chance, but it was something Virgil already knew all along. Logan just needed a way to see it.

WC: ~4.7k words || It's on AO3

@tss-camp-and-coffee

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Earthers, it turns out, will attempt to befriend and pack-bond with literally anything…”attempt” being the key word. But space, in all its vast diversity of life, houses dangers the likes neither Logan nor his Deathworlder Virgil have ever seen. Logan’s homeworld was no Deathworld by any stretch, but even he was wary of new creatures because he had to be for survival. Every new encounter was one of great reluctance.

Virgil, though cautiously wary of other advanced species in the markets and suspicious of strangers, occasionally let his guard down around wild creatures that were familiar to those of his home. He gained their trust, and knew the difference between one that was more likely to be a friend than dangerous…though Virgil had miraculously made friends with one beast twice Logan's size with bone-crushing tusks out of necessity, too, so it was hardly consistent. Logan was perplexed by how Virgil’s kind ever evolved such behavior, especially befriending what any sane surviving species would consider a threat. Despite this, he thought it was admirable how Virgil was brave despite his apprehensions about new situations and settings. It had saved them both twice now in tough situations…but only twice. 

A lucky coincidence was not something to base your view of the entire universe, or even a solar system, on.

Not everything fluffy with a cute face is safe, but it's easy to be disarmed by that. Many planets have evolved or been invaded by offworld predators that are unassuming and mimic the docile forms of prey species; they don't trigger the danger instincts in their prey until it is too late. It's a lesson learned the hard way.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Logan had only looked away for one turn. Just a moment. He and Virgil had docked their Star Sailer in a narrow plain at the edge of a field, sheltered from the planet's harsh, turbulent climate in the shadow of a mountain. Virgil said he'd gather something to start a fire with and perhaps anything they could check was edible for food along the side of this mountain cluster. Now Logan didn't see him anywhere.

They'd barely managed to steer the sailer through the narrow, maze-like valleys without crashing, even with Logan's 4 arms and Virgil's surprising amount of strength that had held down the mainsail's rigging when it had snapped clean off the stern of their ship.

While they'd survived that harrowing stretch of their journey, they'd never make it off planet to the second moon in this thing. Its old artificial atmosphere wouldn't survive the gravity of the planet, and just be sucked away until they were well-into space. Their entire ship wasn't designed to survive this planet, but they'd had no choice but to make the emergency landing here.

Logan knew nothing substantial about this planet's weather. He had memorized the datacard for this sector of the Sandari Solar System, but he was learning just how much encyclopedias often left out about each subject.

Ventuit; a temperate planet in sector Y, referred to as O-TS-19 in common nomenclature. A rocky planet with low vegetation, damp clay-rich soil. 30% surface water in scattered deep lakes. Tight mountainous regions with most land fauna living in caverns and burrows due to the wind.

It had never mentioned how much wind, nor how strong. That seemed like important information to disclose.

He and Virgil had thankfully landed near some mountains, although on the wind-facing side, hence the treacherous unplanned trip as they were pushed right through. Logan hoped those winds didn't change often. The last thing they needed was a headwind pushing them back again. Their campsite was at least partially sheltered by a hill, but he knew that wouldn't stop wind from bearing down on them or blowing them out of the cover in the night should the worst happen.

…The point being, they really could not stay here long.

Vast plains and dense, isolated forests of low grass-like structures that left zero cover surrounded them in all other directions. They were barely taller than Logan, who himself could see over them to the horizon if he extended his femurs.

But now his Deathworlder, the only companion he'd had for nearly a hundred rises, had vanished. In an unknown area with unknown dangers, and he was far shorter than Logan was.

Logan stared at the grass shifting in the wind. Or maybe it was from the movement of something inside it. He turned in a circle, antenna raised. No good being downwind now; even in the mountain's wind shadow, he couldn't sense Virgil nearby.

Surely when he'd said he was going to look for food and some (primitive carbon) fuel, he hadn't gone in there…? Logan might never find him again in that.

He had to find him. Virgil was too smart to risk getting lost in a place with low visibility. So Logan began walking quickly away from the valley's windy opening. The only direction Virgil could have initially gone.

They didn't know how far along the day cycle was, and so it was pertinent that Logan found Virgil before dark. Predators came out in the dark. Virgil was a capable, but squishy Deathworlder. He'd survived more than his fair share of deadly encounters, but Logan would take no chances.

The Ootago skirted the mountain in the direction he hoped Virgil had gone and just accidentally gotten out of view. He was on the right track: he could see where his Earther had cleanly cut stray stems of the plants away from the denser foliage. He soon spotted a pile of the ones V had already gathered up ahead, where it was surely Virgil who had left them…confirmed when he saw the familiar pleated tracks of Virgil's footwear. But then, where was Virgil?

Logan passed by some boulders that had likely rolled down from the mountain— another thing to be careful of tonight— and came across something odd. It was a large pile of bones. He wouldn't have seen it had he not been carefully scanning the mountain for where Virgil could have gone in search of their necessities…almost like it was deliberately hidden back behind them.

He stared at the ravaged carcass of some large grazing mammal, if he was just going off the teeth and build. It was entirely picked clean with hundreds of shallow, tiny holes in the bones. There was also greyish-white fur everywhere…perhaps all that was left of the creature. It didn't look like it had been there long, as the bones were not yet dry or bleached by the light of its main star. Maybe only a rise or two…

Logan was unnerved. He began to call out for Virgil, desperate to get his eyes on him again, just to ensure he was not in danger. The lower light level was more noticeable now…night was approaching within the next few turns. The star was slowly setting behind Logan. Logan did not know enough about the planet to know how long the days and nights were. He could at least estimate, if he knew the tilt of the planet, the size, or where on its latitudes they had landed…

Logan was physically unable to repeat a lot of sounds in Virgil’s limited Earth language and broken common, but he was able to make an elongated “V” sound. That was his way of calling him. When that didn't seem to be loud enough, he risked whistling, as that was a loud and clear sound both he and Virgil could make for signaling.

Logan continued around another outcropping of the mountainside and whistled again. He finally— thankfully— heard Virgil whistle back before he saw him, but Logan zeroed in on where the sound had originated from, his antenna guiding him directly to the source. He quickly found Virgil in a relatively small bowl-shaped cutout set into the mountain. But his shipmate wasn't alone.

Logan froze, horrified as his one true friend in this universe was crouching in the middle of a horde of furry, ravenous creatures. Logan had no idea what they were.

They were small, not even coming up to Virgil's knees as they sat up on their hind legs watching him with strikingly orange eyes…and grey-white fur.

Logan had to resist the urge to flee. He wasn't going to leave Virgil. Virgil had been the only friend he ever had, they were bonded in a way only those who had been through peril together could. Virgil understood him like no one else in the universe did. The kind, fierce little Earther meant more to him than he had the words or experience in life to put a name to. And he was utterly surrounded by 20, possibly 30 of the tripedal, lethal hunters. Virgil was being corralled for the kill, waving at Logan. He wasn't aware he was in danger. He didn't know.

Virgil’s easygoing smile was wiped away when he saw Logan’s frantic threatening gesture, trying to get them to leave or part, but none moved from their circle. One started to clack its teeth at Logan…it had dozens of razor-sharp little needles. That explained the dents in the bones.

Logan had no idea why they hadn't attacked yet, and thus didn't know what would provoke them. He and Virgil could not defend themselves with their dull knives. Deathworlder or not, V wasn't naturally endowed with armor plates and thick skin; Earthers were optimized in other ways, not many of which would help now.

Logan tried to step closer, but the nearest creatures began hissing, their short tails thumping the ground in sync. Startled, Logan took some steps back. He made a whirring noise of distress.

Virgil trusted him, though, and often Logan knew more about the worlds they ended up on, so he didn't try to ask or reassure him when Logan was giving him notable signals. They had proven to be correct just as often as Virgil saved them through befriending. Virgil just looked nervous as he slowly stood up and tried to inch his way towards Logan.

"Lo…?" Logan just looked from Virgil to the creatures, insisting that he not stop. More started the tail thumping, irritated by Virgil trying to get out. One leapt suddenly, snapping at his arm. It missed, but Virgil cried out in alarm, apparently seeing their teeth for the first time. Logan was alarmed too as they tried to cut Virgil off as a group.

He was still too far for Logan to get past the barrier they created. Virgil broke out into a run, trying to close the distance.

Another jumped directly at him and Virgil smacked it away on instinct; he kicked at a different one that tried to latch onto his foot. The ones that were behind him began to hop after him, their 3-legged forms creating an odd gait…but they were fast. Logan saw one lunge while Virgil's back was to it.

It bit down on Virgil’s paw and Virgil lurched, his scream cut off. He collapsed before his next step, crashing to the dirt as he lost control of his muscles. It wasn't just pain. No, when Virgil hit the ground, he didn't move like one would to protect themself from the fall or to fling the creature away from him. He didn't even curl up to try and protect himself…he was just still, unnaturally still, and all Logan knew was he had to get to him now.

Logan bulldozed several of the beasts between him and Virgil. Some tried to grab him too, but his legs were narrow targets and he was faster, taller than them.

Logan’s vision narrowed from his elevated stress. He tried to find any sign that Virgil was still alright. He hadn’t gotten up yet, he had to be alright.

They nipped at Virgil’s feet, trying to drag him into the shadows of a nearby burrow. 

Logan was quick to grab Virgil, though fearing the worst. Virgil shuddered as Logan scooped him up, though he hung awkwardly in Logan’s arms. Thankfully, Earthers weren’t very big (though they were certainly denser than they looked). Logan managed to tuck him in a way that was hopefully comfortable against his plated chest. The first thing he checked for was if Virgil’s breathing was okay as he scrambled for a way over the pack of furious beasts. Virgil’s breathing was fast, his pulse elevated, which would not help him slow the spread of any possible venom these creatures had. Virgil’s eyes were wide and shaking, staring up at Logan in his distress. He tensed and untensed, clearly trying to move, but even that soon stilled as whatever paralyzing toxin was now in his bloodstream took over completely. Logan kept a mandible pressed to Virgil’s chest gently, both to monitor and reassure himself that he was still alive and breathing so he could focus on fleeing.

The little mammals continued jumping at Logan as well as Virgil, who was dangling helplessly in his arms, and Logan held Virgil protectively over their heads, dodging the attacks. 

What was confusing was that they seemed reluctant to actually bite them; Virgil’s bitten paw had several shallow punctures and was bleeding, but not the mutilation that Logan expected from the teeth of creatures who had absolutely shredded through that larger alien. What was it about this area? Were they hiding their prey? Was that why that creature was behind the boulders? What did those places have in common? The burrow…was it the darkness? Getting out of the light? All their efforts just seemed to be trying to keep Logan and Virgil corralled in this isolating area, which meant Logan needed to get out before they decided to change tactics or got lucky in one of their lunges. Logan’s exoskeleton was mostly hard, but he was not willing to test that against jagged teeth that dented bone.

Then one of them got lucky, desperate to keep their prey contained. Logan let out a high whistling sound as it grabbed onto one of his lower arms and twisted with its teeth locked on. The lower part of the limb, in Logan’s distress and flight response, came off from the force of it. Logan flinched at the feeling of it disconnecting, but it was a much kinder fate than what awaited them if they did not get away. It was the second time Logan had lost a limb, so he knew he would recover it just the same. It would still be uncomfortable to function without it for a few rises. At least it was only part of the arm this time. 

Logan tucked Virgil’s arms gently over his stomach and tried to reassure him as he raced back into the light, squinting as it was now in his face. His theory was correct: those creatures didn’t follow, but the growing shadow behind them allowed them to start after the duo. Logan stayed as far from the shadows as he could. He snagged the stems and leaves Virgil had been working on as he passed by; they might be all they had for the night. Logan didn’t know how long he had to get more. He didn’t even know for sure if light was all they needed, or if the torch on their ship would be enough. But it was all that he could think to do to save them short of driving the ship solo into the tall grass and its unknown perils. He didn’t know what other creatures– or large rocks– lurked just under the blanket of green. They didn’t have the fuel to hover high for very long, and the wind was unpredictable. Logan might only be sending them to crash or into the jaws of something far worse. 

…If Virgil died, it would be because Logan failed to protect him. After everything they’d both escaped, would this really be where it ended?

Logan saw their sailer ahead and covered the distance. He was back in a quarter of the time it had taken to get to V. He rushed to get Virgil on board, abandoning the plans of camping on the ground or starting a campfire. He needed to fire up their torch before their natural daylight was gone. He laid Virgil down gently on the cabin floor near him, patting his arm gently and making sure he was okay there before focusing. If he thought the torium-alloy frame of the ship was enough to protect them, he might have just tried fortifying the boat, but he wasn’t going to make that their only defense. He fumbled with his nondominant claw and the latch and tiny button mechanisms more suited to dexterous tendrils, paws, and feelers. He wasn’t adequate for this job, he was going too slowly. He could hear them, with their terrifying clatter. They were hungry and zeroing in on this boat. What if he was wrong? They’d be caught in the dark–

No. Virgil was counting on him. Logan couldn’t get in his own head right now. Inadequacies or not, he had to get this done. Virgil would do the same for him. Virgil wouldn’t give in to his panic, he’d push through and do everything he could to save them because it was the only viable option. Logan had to give them that chance. They’d been running for too long and had survived far more danger together. That wouldn’t all be for nothing. Logan could prove he was just as worthy a crewmate. He could do this on his own, his ideas…they could work.

He glanced at Virgil, who was looking between Logan and what he was doing. Virgil trusted him, he knew that. They’d long ago placed their lives in each other's arms, given how easy it was to betray and reap the rewards. Most selfish aliens, or even those who deemed them guilty, would have jumped at the opportunity. But Virgil never had and no riches could replace someone so dear to Logan. Logan wouldn’t choke now, when that trust was tested. At least V would never regret giving it to him then.

Logan ignored the sounds of thumps and dings off the bottom of the boat and didn’t stop even as twilight crept into the cabin. The gangplank had been drawn up, but it was only a matter of time before those things managed the height and precision to land on the deck…Logan swore he heard scratching at the door.

The fuel converter finally fired up after two false starts and Logan started shoving leaves in, enough to keep it burning. It was like the boat itself lit up like a beacon in the dim night. The screeches and scattering of claws were genuinely unnerving, and Logan just sat still for a moment, listening tensely. Aside from the nearby drone of the wind, nothing else could be heard. He chanced looking out the port window.

Little streaks of white fled the immediate clearing, diving into the grass. Orange eyes reflected the light back…so not gone. But he’d been right. He just had to keep this light burning, now, Logan slumped, unwilling to go out. If he had been any slower finding Virgil, the shadows appearing in the dip they'd likely lured Virgil into would have gotten him killed…but they’d survived. They were not actively under attack anymore.

Logan waited until he’d calmed down to scoot over to Virgil. He couldn’t relax or celebrate yet. He had to check in. Virgil hadn’t moved from where Logan set him down. “Ooo-ck…Vv.”

Logan intended to wrap Virgil’s paw and made another distressed noise at how it looked swollen and red. He begged for it not to be an infection as he did the best with their improvised medicine and wrapped it in a clean, torn piece of cloth. V’s face twitched each time Logan touched it and he worried he was hurting him. He would watch it to make sure it didn’t get worse, but there was very little aid Logan could give. He’d risk going to a port city if it meant Virgil would be saved, but they were grounded on this planet for at least half a rise. Virgil was also the one with engineering expertise that could potentially fix their boat. Logan had little hope of figuring that out with no reference, no matter how much he had carefully watched Virgil tend to other things. Logan had only learned to pilot it out of necessity with no formal training. If Virgil didn’t get better, then…this was probably it for them.

Logan pulled Virgil into a supported sitting position and really tried to coax Virgil into drinking from the bubble of water. While amphibious, Logan’s kind could get enough moisture from the air to survive anywhere that wasn’t dry. Virgil’s brand of Deathworlder apparently was far less efficient at it, and so he got most of their liquid water supply. Terra Deathworlders needed a lot of water daily, and Logan feared constantly that V was lacking, though he rarely complained. Logan tried to get him to drink, as it could only help his body fight off the poison.

Virgil grimaced as the cool pod touched his lips and he refused to open them. Logan set it down. He'd try again later.

Logan again peeked out over the side of their boat haven and still saw the dozen pairs of unblinking orange eyes peering back in the foliage. Logan’s carapace shuddered and his gills flexed in unease. He knew they probably wouldn’t approach the boat, but it was still extremely unsettling to depend on it all night. Those creatures were strict darkness hunters from Logan’s observations (he begged the universe that he was right), so as long as their artificial light didn’t go out…

Yeaaaah, Logan knew he wasn’t sleeping tonight either way. He hoped the night passed quickly, before their meager pile of plant fiber fuel dwindled. They would burn quickly, but he had to make it last. His hearts couldn’t take this.

Virgil curled into his side, head resting on Logan’s thorax. Logan stroked Virgil’s back, which normally seemed to calm him. They would be okay, and he tried to reassure the Deathworlder. Logan had gotten them back in time, and they were tentatively safe from imminent danger, but he really hoped it wasn’t the neuropoison hurting V further. How lucky would they have to be for Earthers to actually be immune...? Virgil finally decided to reach out and cling to Logan’s closest forearm, and Logan stilled.

He eyed the paw Virgil was nursing. Logan did not like the vibrating his Deathworlder was doing. Virgil only did that when he was uncomfortable.

Logan started to prod Virgil, trying to see what was wrong. Virgil tucked his face more into Logan, pushing back at the foreleg, and Logan stopped.

Virgil reached out very slowly, as if it was a struggle, to the nub that had been one of Logan’s lower arms and brushed it gently.

Oh. Virgil must be unhappy. Unhappy that Logan got hurt saving him. Virgil hadn't seen him lose a limb before, he didn't know it would come back given some time.

A touching sentiment that Logan still wasn’t used to from the pack bonding types. He didn’t know being cared for felt so nice after the life he’d been thrust into before. Logan chittered softly, mandibles clacking. He’d try. “…grrrr-oh. Ooo-ck. Ooo-ck, Vvvv.”

Virgil glanced up at him silently, and Logan’s gills fluttered more erratically at seeing the wet on Virgil’s face. Logan immediately tapped at it, wishing his tibia were better suited: softer.

He switched to stroking Virgil’s outer coat awkwardly, pulling the loose purple-spotted fur over his head. That normally comforted him; he usually did it to sleep. But after several turns, Virgil was still very much awake and unsettled. 

Logan tried something else. He held up the nub that had been his lower right femur before, getting Virgil's attention. Virgil winced upon seeing it and the pale dried hemolymph around the wound, but Logan shook his head as Virgil often did. Virgil looked at him in confusion but focused on the nub again with some hesitance.

Logan put his upper right arm below the nub, then slowly raised it, trying to show Virgil the process of the regeneration that would happen over the coming rises. "…g-grrr-oh. Gan?"

He waited for the clarity on Virgil's face as it clicked, and Virgil slumped with relief. "G-Good…worried. Lo okay," he replied. "Saved. Amazing."

Logan made a pleased clacking noise, relieved too. They would be okay. Virgil at least appeared to be fighting off the venom well enough, and that was more than worth still having him, close call or not.

He settled down over Virgil, brushing his head with his mandibles. Logan’s exoskeleton wasn’t useful for warmth, but he knew the gesture often settled the Deathworlder and helped him rest. He pulled the weather tarp over Virgil, though, in the hopes that it would diminish the shaking. It had worked before, but not all creatures shook for the same reason each time.

Virgil slowly reached up and settled a paw on the side of Logan's face, and the look was one Logan wanted to think of as fondness. Logan pressed his head against it, a reassuring weight. He wasn't going anywhere. They would be okay.

Logan watched the light and gradually fed it strips of the plants so it would stay on, diligently keeping an eye on the glowing predators’ all night. Virgil fell asleep, fully trusting Logan would protect him and wake him if necessary. Logan was just glad Virgil was resting, though he made sure the poison wasn't affecting his sleep. Virgil hadn't been concerned about lasting effects, or at least hadn't seemed that way…was this also something familiar to him from Earth?

The thought made Logan's gills twitch. Aside from the temporary paralysis, Virgil just seemed…fine. He was sleeping like normal, still and quiet, but his breathing wasn't any shallower than usual. It was yet another concerning hint at just what Deathworlders could withstand— what they were designed and evolved to be up against in their own world. Especially as a pack.

Logan was certainly glad Virgil had chosen him for a companion. It was an honor to be so accepted and cared for as an individual with value…to be needed. It was more than Logan’s own people would ever give him. To them, he was nothing but a tool to be discarded. To Virgil, Logan was someone living for more. He wasn’t just an inferior copy of a person, but a crewmate…an ally. Logan considered himself an adequate asset to their team, and yet Virgil insisted he was intrinsically valued even without his knowledge and abilities. It was hard to wrap his mind around just being outright wanted. Logan did not want to go on without Virgil. He cared for him too much.

Virigl had given him a scare today, but they were still alive and together. It was one of the better ways to learn a harsh lesson and they'd be far more careful to avoid worse in the future. This planet's closest star began to show on the horizon as they lay there quietly, and Logan, exhausted, could finally just shut his eyes for a turn and appreciate that he hadn’t lost his world and one true home here today. He’d never known a home could be a person until now.

They would find a way off this planet. They would find the way to their haven no matter the setback. A ship and supplies could be replaced, they could survive without. He couldn’t live on without Virgil in his life. And the way Virgil held on in his sleep, unconsciously, Logan figured he truly was just as important to Virgil too. 

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

Fun Facts & Lore:

Logan is an Ootago ("Oo-tey-go"), which is an alien species that is like a praying mantis crossed 30% with an axolotl. Their "wings" are optimized for moving in the water, not flight. He can change color for camouflage, but is usually dark blue (what he was used to back home in a mostly Ocean world). Ootagi can regrow lost limbs and some organs (including their elongated hearts ONLY if at least 1 is still working), but not their heads. He has a photographic memory as a member of this pescatarian species.

The species is amphibious, not known for spacefaring, and can naturally clone themselves (via budding or treated fragmentation), usually for dangerous tasks the "original" does not want to do. Logan is a clone who had an existential crisis about it and mutated a little from that sudden clarity and awareness. Sometimes he gets flashes of memories in his dreams that he doesn’t think are his own. He gained a sense of selfhood, fleeing off-planet to save himself, which is a no-no and made him a fugitive as "property of the original". He essentially stole himself by their laws.

He met Virgil, a human asteroid miner who lost most of his crew during an iron mine heist. Virgil says he's given up hope that anyone else escaped the bloodbath, but Logan thinks he's still looking for signs of them and notices that Virgil often leaves innocuous things in strange places on the planets they have visited, perhaps to alert his team someday. Virgil has something those thieves want (a key or map to a greater collection of riches) however, so they are both on the run to find a way to a colony Logan believes can help protect them both. Virgil helped him pick his Deathworld name.

Drip = about 2 seconds. Timed by a steady drip of water from a mechanism the Ootago use for telling time.

Turn = 3 minutes. On Logan's homeworld, a turn is how long it takes their main moon to do a full spin.

Rise = a day in Logan's homeworld time, which is 48 Earth Hours long for simplicity. (He's known Virgil for going on 100 rises, so approaching 200 Earth Days, or a little over half an Earth Year.)

Ootago: singular. The type of alien Logan is, originating from NaDessr in Lophyros-6 Galaxy. Otagi ("Oo-tah-gee") is the plural form. They have 6 limbs usually like insects; they alternate the middle set for running/more stability on land and use for an extra set of arms. Their top arms are more optimized for manipulating things.

[hotluncheddie]

Day 3: 24/7 dynamic

"Angel"

Ao3

wc: 1.5k | rated: M | tags: Sub Eddie Munson, established relationship, kas!eddie, blood drinking, handjob

written for @subeddieweek <3

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Soon. 

6 1 5 

Soon. 

Always. 

Home. 

-

The house windows glow deep red like a womb. 

Steve used to hate it, coming home every night to his parents big empty house. He kept the lights on wherever he was there. Attempting to keep the darkness away, the monsters out. The nail bat by his side. 

Steve is never alone now though, and never had to fear again. 

The house is his. Property market gone along with the maws that opened across Hawkins. So his parents left everything in town to him, as they hurried to leave. A practical gift, more to help themselves, then to give Steve anything. 

But he was grateful, in ways, for their absence. 

Because now the house meant safety, and refuge. For him, and others. 

Home. 

He slips through the front door, bathed in a hazy light that fills the room and draws patterns across the walls. Lamps of varying sizes are scattered across the whole house, all covered in scarves and bandanas to dull and tinge, make the walls a deep red, or sweet pink. 

He drops his keys in the bowl and puts his coat on the hook. Sighing the day away. Focusing on where he is now. 

Home. Where he is met, like always, by his sweet thing. 

His fallen angel. 

Eddie sits kneeled by the door, monstrous leathery wings now extensions of his shoulder blades, clawed hands and feet curled against the carpet. He’s impossibly strong, now, broad and muscled beneath his moon pale skin. Tattoos stretched and warped, ears pointed and tinged grey like his fingers and feet. 

But he’s crouched, curled, kneeling so prettily. Defenceless in his submission, his adoration. Face open with shy excitement for Steve’s return. 

Steve smiles at him. He’s perfect. 

Eddie’s mouth parts and his tongue laves over his lips, sharp fangs glinting with spit. 

Stepping closer makes Eddie sit a little straighter, hands pressing down on his thighs, loose shorts ridden up into his hip crease, sharp nails digging into skin. Presenting himself. 

Steve’s heart clenches, he’s learned so well, so quick to be good. 

For Steve, Eddie is always good. 

He lets two fingers slip past pink lips, into the impossible heat of Eddies changed mouth. Spit thicker, medicinal, and his teeth bite down playfully. His throat purring and pupils blooming so big his eyes look black. 

Steve hums, pleased. Pets over Eddie’s jaw and presses his thumb into the sharp point of his tooth, teasing - pulse point against fang - before walking off to the kitchen to make dinner. 

Eddie follows, staying low on his haunches and clawed hands. Long hair swaying and wings flapping lightly. 

When Eddie emerged, again, bloody and weakened by the fight against Vecna, against the monster of the upside down. Eddie, mutilated and broken, back from the dead. He was still blindingly beautiful, to Steve.

But being alone in hell, being hurt, had made Eddie skittish and quick to lash out. Skulking amongst the shadows of Steve’s house, hidng, not wanting to be near anyone. 

For a while he wouldn’t leave the furthest dark corner of the kitchen, wound tight and scared - he’d stay in his nest of blankets, eyes searching and alert to any small sound. 

Until Steves steady presence coaxed him out, or Eddie grew braver. Either way they were both hole up in the house, alone for months, hiding and recovering. The party staying connected through walkie-talkies, not wanting to draw attention to Eddie by coming over. All having wounds to heal and family to see. Rebuilding themselves before attempting to deal with the rest of Hawkins. 

So Steve and Eddie were thrust together. In this big empty house. Left to rest and lick their wounds, and eventually, each others. 

Now Eddie doesn’t like to leave Steves side, if he can help it. Kneels by the island while Steve cooks. Always watching, waiting, placated by Steve being there, back in their home. 

Steve bristled at first, once Eddie began to explore. Didn't like eyes always being on him. But Eddie relaxed so much more quickly, with Steve staying where Eddie could protect him. 

So then Eddie had to earn it, his constant presence around Steve. Had to be good. Listen to Steve and obey, to help keep them both safe - from what could come back out of the ground, and from the outside, the people. 

And now, after time and care and love, Eddie’s always good. Always waiting to be told what to do, so he can feel safe. And Steve is always ready to guide, so he can feel used, needed. 

Steve finishes the dinner and sits on the couch, putting something he doesn’t greatly care about on the tv, sound so low he can’t really hear it. 

Eddie by his feet. 

He prefers to stay low to the ground, only perched up high if there are a lot of people over. Climbing the bookcase or choosing the couch armrest over the seat. Wants to be where he can see, and observe. He just always wants to see, to move, to be where he chooses. After what Vecna did, Steve thinks. 

But mostly he chooses to be by Steves side, in Steves space, Steves presence. And for that they both prefer him low. Feet on the ground, knees near the floor, face easy for Steve to reach, to pet. 

They tried to get him to sit and stand and dress more like he used to. But it made Eddie furrow his brow and bite his lip. Until his patients stretched thin and he slunk away to hide once more. Uncomfortable and uncoordinated.

He needed to be adapted to, not reversed. 

They’ve grown from that, found boundaries and safe spaces and now they have a routine that works for both of them. 

Steve goes out and helps, rebuilds the town, sees the people he loves, who he needs to see to sleep soundly at night. 

And Eddie waits. Waits for Steve to come home, at 6:15. When eddie is allowed to be close, and watch. All night. 

‘What did you do today angel?’ Steve asks, letting his tired muscles relax into the couch. 

‘Book’ Eddie rasps, syllables lilting and still a little uncanny. Steve nods. ‘Letter.’ comes next - written words coming back to Eddie much quicker, the feel of a pen, the shape of a sentence. He had lost speech but not his words, not letters just their sounds. 

And Steve himself has quieted, lost elements of his speech. He needs it less, doesn’t feel inclined to share. Not when Eddie seems to read him so clearly, not when so much pain and hurt has happened around him. In his safety, it seems, silence is a much enjoyed gift. For them both. 

Eddie dips his head, pulling his eyes from Steve’s gaze. ‘Nest.’ He speaks softly, pointed ears flushing with blood. 

Steve hums and finishes his food, drinks his water. He turns to Eddie, placing one finger under his chin, reconnecting their sight. ‘Show me.’ Steve whispers, commands, tugging once on the little metal ring at the front of Eddie’s black collar. 

‘Oh.’ Steve breaths, removing his shirt and settling down amongst the blankets and pillows and clothes. Eddie must’ve spent days slowly collecting, gathering and building this soft little tomb of a space. Out in a far most corner of the house, a room now mostly unused, but claimed now none the less. 

Steve brings Eddie close to him, pulling him from where he crouches at the side, waiting, unsure. Settling Eddies bigger frame between the v of his legs, pulling Eddies face close, down amongst the tangle of soft things. 

He kissed Eddie’s cheek, hand strong and firm on the back of Eddie’s collard neck. ‘Drink now.’ Steve murmurs, pulling Eddie’s lips to the soft skin of his pulse point. Eddie opens his mouth, letting his sharp teeth free. ‘That’s it, for being so good, so good for me.’ Steve praises, softly, tucking Eddie closer. 

Steve can’t help the sharp inhale of breath as Eddie’s teeth cut and bite. His hot tongue laving up and drinking. Warm, and wet. 

Eddie makes a high noise in his throat, he would get so nervous at the beginning, once Steve realised this was something Eddie needed, something they both wanted. A vulnerable and sacred privilege for Eddie, the act of consumption. Allowed to survive from Steves being, devout. 

‘Stop.’ Steve instructs, feeling the loss of blood prickle the tips of his fingers, more than enough for tonight. 

Then his hands wander, as they are wont to do. Exploring each others bodies still very much a gift of their entwining love. Steve slips past Eddie’s loose shorts. palm firm and slick on Eddie’s now familiar, but still changed cock. It’s thicker, wilder, ringed grey like his clawed fingers and toes. 

Eddie snuffles in closer, a whining chittering cry leaving his throat. Steve soothes him through it, feeling as Eddie spills all over his hand. ‘That’s it, my fallen angel. Mine’ Steve says into Eddie’s hair. Feels him come to rest boneless in their embrace. 

Eddie noses behind Steves ear, smelling him and licking over the skin. One of his clawed hands sliding over Steves hip and up his side, coming to rest over his heart. 

Lightly, he presses the pointed nail of his finger into Steve’s hairy pec. Eddie spelling out y-o-u-r-s in neat little scratches. Drawing it into Steve’s skin, not leaving marks, just spelling it out in the white ink pressure of his flowing blood. Into the beating of his heart, into his very marrow. 

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Tag List: @pearynice @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @scoops-aboy86 @chickensinrainboots @cheesedoctor @marvel-ous-m

[whatiwishfanfiction]

Chapter 8 of The Great Wish Movie Rewrite up on AO3!

Read here! Link

When Asha is appointed the people's new fairy godmother, she and Star Boy start a civil war. Magnifico confronts them, and dark magic corrupts him further.

Excerpt: Chapter Eight: Civil War

"What's your opinion of our fairy godmother?"

"Your what?"

"Our fairy godmother. She promised she’s going to give us literally whatever we want."

"And who--"

Just then, Asha flashed across his vision, robed in a flowing lavender cape with a hood, a big pink bow under her chin, the slim, white wand between her fingers, then she disappeared behind a tannery, and Magnifico swore he could hear the star's laugh not far behind her.

"Enough!" he yelled. "Enough. There are too many of you." And he pushed through the flock, then stormed back into his castle.

For the next week, Magnifico busied himself staring into his book, which hypnotised him more and more, and there were less moments when the green subsided from his vision. He barely noticed anything else, until one day when a commotion outside grew especially loud. Through a window, he glimpsed the silhouettes of Asha and Star Boy causing more chaos in the village. Deep furrows carved into his brow, and his eyes narrowed as his mouth turned down into a scowl. He had to do something about them, but his fascination with learning forbidden magic was a distraction. 

Finally the noise became too loud to ignore, and Magnifico snapped his book shut, then crept down from his tower, and, keeping to the shadows, made his way to the town square where his enemies were fooling around. He pressed his back against a pillar, peering around its edge.

Asha twirled through the village with her wand, the sparkles coming out its end trailing in the breeze behind her. She looked determined to use it at every turn. Meanwhile Star Boy, perched nearby on an awning, revelled in the spectacle, egging Asha on with laughter as he clapped. “Go on Asha! Don’t be shy! Make it bigger, reach the sky!”

Asha basked in the attention, giggling as she made a baker’s oven grow to the size of a dragon. The oven roared and shot balls of magma from its chamber with startling rumbles. 

“I only asked for a small upgrade.” Mr. Burphy watched with hands to his forehead as his bakery was caught up in flames.

“Oops! Sorry!” Asha tried fanning away the smoke with her wand, when someone tapped her on the shoulder so she turned.

“Can I have two hundred cupcakes for free?” the spoiled little boy who was now a man asked her.

“You totally can,” she said with her back to the catastrophe, and granted his wish as the bakery’s roof fell in behind her. From the tip of her wand, a poof of cupcakes materialised, each swirled with frosting in every shade of the rainbow, topped with glittering sprinkles. They multiplied rapidly, spilling out into the street, causing an old lady to slip. The young man clapped and cheered as the bakery’s fire was forgotten in the whirlwind of frosting and sprinkles.

Star Boy twirled around a lamppost he’d moved to. “Haha, Asha, what a scene! They’ll never be able to get this clean!”

Magnifico’s frown deepened. In the grip of dark magic, he could care less about the smoke billowing from Mr. Burphy’s bakery or flames licking the edges of market stalls. His focus was entirely on his rivals. Their antics were an affront to his carefully curated image of control. Each burst of confection seemed to mock his authority. Magnifico’s fingers tapped against the pillar as he plotted how he could kill Asha and Star Boy spectacularly in front of everyone. 

Asha scampered towards the other side of town, where a young lass wished for a pet rhinoceros. Her wand waved, and out popped a massive, thick-skinned mammal with a sharp horn protruding from its snout. It promptly started chasing Star Boy, knocking over everything and sending townsfolk running in all directions. The star led it in circles, his chronic snickering encouraging it.

“Okay, not what I intended,” laughed Asha as a young man was almost paralyzed when he was kicked backwards into a wall. She produced a lasso made of sparkles she tried to corral the creature with, but it only entangled a couple peasants who became enchanted, then joined the creature in its dizzying dance.

Finally Star Boy shook the creature off, and floated up beside Asha to cheer, “Well well, look at them go! They are putting on quite a show!” He flew high above the fleeing peasants and ruined buildings, just in time to watch as the statue of King Magnifico got its head knocked off. It fell to the ground where it smashed into a thousand pieces. The once orderly kingdom was a wreck.

By now the entire village gathered to confront Asha, encircling her, all covered in many things from ashes to glitter to pie filling. Some were covered in blood.

“Okay, okay,” Asha shouted over the angry mob, her wand waving frantically to try and undo the mess she’d created. “I’ll fix everything. It’s not that big of a deal. Just give me a second.”

Magnifico, looking around the wall of a smouldering shoe shop, let his lips curl into a smirk. “The entire village gathered into one spot,” he thought. “How convenient.” His grasp tightened around his staff, and he imagined Asha and Star Boy, surrounded by the throng of disgruntled subjects, meeting their end in a climatic show before them all. 

But before he stepped out to reveal himself, he watched curiously as the peasants slipped on frosting and the rhinoceros barreled past, then an even darker grin spread across his face. Why end this when he could plunge the town into even greater disarray, just for the joy of it? Perhaps Asha and Star Boy were on to something. His ungrateful subjects deserved a lesson, and granting wishes could indeed be great fun. With sudden, wicked inspiration, Magnifico decided to join them.

He walked out into plain view. "Ho, ho, ho!” he announced, his voice a booming parody of cheerfulness. “Who’s ready for a wish?”

The townsfolk, momentarily stunned by the sight of their feared king, hesitated, before their eyes lit up with hope, and typically, they immediately forgot he’d recently committed a murder. His subjects ran up to him with gleaming eyes. “I want a dragon!” one squealed. “I wish for a castle!” another called out.

Magnifico’s staff glowed with dark magic as he waved it theatrically. For each wish, he conjured grand manifestations in flashes of green. A dragon with ebony scales and evil eyes appeared, hissing as it coiled around the square, thrashing buildings to splinters with a barbed tail. A castle of shadowy spires rose from the ground, its piercing turrets sending subjects scattering out of their way.

Asha and Star Boy, hanging back, watching the king from the sidelines with open mouths, soon crept forward, their shocked, suspicious expressions melting into ones of excitement. 

“Look at that!” Asha clapped her hands. “Magnifico’s really getting into the spirit!”

Star Boy hovered beside her, a smile splitting his face. “He’s making this a grand display! I’ve never seen wishes done this way!” He flew around the dragon, darting in and out of its coils as it crushed Farmer Finnegan’s garden.

Magnifico’s shoulders shook with laughter as he watched the unrest. Each time a wish was fulfilled, the kingdom was wrecked further. Galloping unicorns with stabbing horns, mountains of gold coins that squashed his subjects, and stupider suggestions still, all executed with poorest judgement.

“This is the best!” Asha turned to Magnifico. “See how sharing is caring? It’s so much fun to make dreams come true.”

Magnifico’s laughter rang louder. The more carnage he created, the more his sense of control returned. But as the evening wore on, his generosity revealed its true cost: a wish for endless sweets resulted in clogged streets, and when a drizzle started, it melted into sticky sugar that ruined everything it touched, so people’s demands turned into abstract contradictions. One woman, caught in the deluge of stickiness, wished loudly, “Only I should be able to make wishes!” at the same time as another man. These pleas warped materiality, so that every time either of them made a wish, their personal reality became disconnected from the rest of the kingdom, fulfilling their desires in isolated loops of their own making.

Matters were convoluted further when Mr. Burphy, desperate to reclaim his bakery, cried out, “All wishes should have good results!” The effect was that everyone began to disbelieve in magic, because things remained the same when no one could define good, let alone understand what was good for them. Subjective wishes couldn’t become objective realities, filling the people with doubt so they began fighting amongst themselves. 

Another woman, driven by desperation, wished to transport herself to a future where she could escape the troubles, but didn't anticipate the consequences when the total matter of the universe, which needs to remain constant, was disturbed by her appearance, causing an anomaly that resulted in a catastrophic explosion when she arrived. Time travel, unlike producing things from thin air, does not simply relocate mass. The more Magnifico’s subjects tried to mend things, the more tangled everything became.

“I wish you’d go somewhere far away!” a disgruntled scrivener, shaking a fist, yelled at Magnifico, so the staff in his hand winked, and with a sputtering pop, the king vanished. Moments later, he reappeared, robes singed. Crystals clung to his hair and clothes and he collapsed to his knees. His vision had narrowed to a pinprick, and he had a feeling in his chest of being crushed that left him gasping for breath. He was scarred from briefly visiting a silicon dimension inhospitable to carbon atoms. “No more wishes!” he barked, slamming his staff into the ground to heal himself from the consequences of travelling there under High-G acceleration.

Finish reading: Link

[jisokai]

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 5: but yours is my guide.

sero hanta x reader ch 5/6 | 22.3k words | masterlist | ao3

cw: more smut but it's very mild and also emotional, depictions of racism & microaggressions notes: meteor shower by owl city, walking in the wind by one direction

sero fell first; sero fell harder.

(my long overdue character study)

✰.

“Perhaps we know each other in the future and you’re only remembering backward.”

- Heartless, by Marissa Meyer

Sero is occasionally struck by a feeling he can’t describe. 

At first it occurs because he is a child, not yet able to translate his experiences into words: discomfort, elation, anger, sadness, amusement—they all strike him in various ways, pulling at his chest or his stomach or his skin. He reacts as anyone without a proper vocabulary would, with cries and frowns or grins and laughs. As he grows he learns their labels, remembers how they feel, accepts them and moves on. He learns how to share them with others. He knows that some will never be named, existing only as a cluster of sensations in his body—but that’s okay; he doesn’t always need to know.

However, there’s one in particular that he can never move on from.

It’s a recurring feeling—a special intensity that festers in his chest and radiates through his entire body, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes—and yet with each visit he finds himself still baffled, still incapable of explaining it to anyone else. He thinks perhaps it’s too special to share, meant for him only, to chase and understand on his own terms.

The first time it strikes him is after he’s gifted a book from his oldest tío for his fifth birthday. Mamá suggests they read it together, since it’s targeted for a couple grades above. For the next few weeks they sit in the evenings and take turns sounding out the paragraphs, mamá helping him through the big words he learns on the spot. Those nights are warm, tender in her lap as they sway in a hammock through the late summer air—cradled by the buzzing of insects and distant howling of monkeys.

There in mamá’s arms is where Hanta meets Santi, Marco, and something burrowing deep deep inside his heart. It’s too much, like something standing over him that he can’t comprehend the size of, making him feel impossibly small, nearly nothing. Nearly dissolved from existence, and therefore everything.

It scares him, sends panic through his chest that he’s never felt before. All he can do is burst into tears. His mother stops reading, closing the book to ask Hanta what’s wrong.

He cries harder.

The second time he meets this terrifying emotion, is when his eyes first land on you.

“Hanta!” 

Early December in Ecuador is warm. The sky is clear in Quito, bright blue looming above with a light breeze rolling in, pushing fluffy clouds out of view. They disappear behind the buildings lining the streets, tall and towering over hot pavement, heat that seeps through the soles of Hanta’s thin sandals. He runs towards the street from the sidewalk, into the crowd of bodies, a smattering of colors from umbrellas raised to block the glare of the sun.

He’s suddenly yanked back, shirt bunched in the tight fist of his father. When he’s turned around, back towards the sidewalk, mamá’s hand slips into his.

“Don’t run off like that,” his father says gruffly, every syllable of Japanese roughly punctuated. Hanta nods beneath his gaze, grin not discouraged in the slightest.

The three of them shuffle along, trailing one of his tíos—mamá’s brother—who encouraged them to come spend the weekend at his place to catch parades and markets. It’s Hanta’s first time walking through the capital on his own legs, only knowing the jungle and ocean in the east for the first years of his life. He’s exhilarated to be surrounded by so many people, to see characters strutting through the streets beating drums or twirling in skirts. He gravitates towards it, wants to be part of it too.

But Hanta is five, and after two hours and four llapingachos, he’s on the verge of tears, head fuzzy from the noise and body slumped with exhaustion. He watches the performers with a pout and furrowed brow, admiration turned to jealousy the longer he’s forced to watch—only to watch. Mamá’s grip is stern over his hand, and his legs couldn’t carry him through the parade even if he managed to get there. Wetness pools under his irises, dancers smearing into blobs of white and red against the canvas of grey pavement.

He presses his face into the folds of mamá’s skirt, a soft yellow fabric that blots the water from his lashes. He grasps the cotton, almost ready to tug and whine for home. Then her leg shifts, hand landing against his back to press him close as she takes another step towards the street, and he calms for a second, her touch a balm to his irritation.

He leans with her as she cranes to get a better view, his small frame able to peek through the openings between people and see further down the road. The sight dams his emotions, walled by a newfound curiosity when he sees a group of feathered performers. His hands tighten, gripping the skirt as he waits for the figures to come closer. It’s a small group, only eight or so people in a practiced choreography. He’s able to make out some of the costumes—a parrot and a blue macaw, and what he assumes is a toucan.

The toucan grabs his attention: a small figure wrapped in black, the darkest of the birds. Another child, like him. You’re not the only kid—there’s an even smaller figure dressed in brown and red—but you’re the only dancer moving with nervous motions, or maybe half-hearted ones. You’re watching your abuela’s movements, as if copying them on the spot while you shuffle and wave your arms.

You’re nervous, but you’re out on the street, at the center of everyone’s—his—attention.

His stomach clenches in secondary nerves, rooting for you, hoping you can finish the performance cleanly. Suddenly you spin, arms circling above you and in sync with everyone else, and your gaze tears away from your grandmother. Instead you tilt your head back, face to the sun and fully exposed now that the beak is pulled away. You look excited, at ease.

When you complete the twirl, you’re a different person. A grin splits your face and you move with confident steps in tune with the pounding drums walking behind you. Hanta blinks, stomach unclenching while a new constriction grabs in his chest—one that reminds him of the feeling he has when he tells someone I miss you. His feet itch at the soles, begging to run forwards.

Your head turns, eyes meeting his. His breath catches, taken aback by your intensity. You’re both small in this crowd, less than half the height of everyone else, but under your gaze you’re the only two on this street—the only two in the entire world. 

Your hand drifts up to offer a small wave. Hanta inhales, pressing into mamá for just a second before he uncurls one fist and waves back. You smile, wide, and he—

He feels that intense, overwhelming feeling that still has no name. It floods his system without warning, seeping through his heart and stomach and limbs. It’s terrifying, shocking enough to freeze his body as he tries to figure out if he’s dissolving or expanding. It’s neither; it’s both.

And then you’re out of his view, passing further down the pavement to be obscured by the leg of a stranger. Hanta panics, jerking from his mother as he yearns to steal another look, and maybe your attention for one more second. He hears his mother’s voice, a confused call of his name as she reaches to stop him—for the second time that day. The restriction blooms a lump in his throat, heart galloping as he strains against her hold, face stinging with tears as that earlier overstimulation unpauses.

He cries, this time wailing with a face twisted in anger and pain and fear.

Hanta doesn’t see another Fiestas de Quito. The following December he’s in Japan, wrapping up the second term of first grade in Musutafu. Mamá agrees with otōsan that he should receive a Japanese education, where the schools are more competitive.

Hanta’s been to Japan before, on holiday to see his father’s side of the family. He knows festivals and shrines and how to wrap his own kimono just as well as any elementary schooler. Ojiisan and obāchan, his fathers parents, are always kind, their wrinkled hands spoiling him with sliced fruit and new linens. Sometimes his cousins visit, but they’re older than him—old enough that he has to crane his neck to make eye contact. Still, they’ll read with him sometimes, sounding the kanji he doesn’t know. One likes to do crafts, so they fold paper squares and string lanterns together when his parents leave for a nice dinner.

But school here is different. He’s no longer Hanta. In school he becomes Sero-san, an extension of his family—his father.

He’s different from most of the kids in his class, but only slightly. A girl compliments his eyes, the crease in the inner corner that makes them open wide, and the long lashes that frame them. A boy asks him why his parents let him go in the sun so much, pressing his arm against his to compare their skin tones, Hanta’s warmer and darker and speckled from days outside. The boy warns him about wrinkles and dark spots. At lunch the students ogle at his bento, asking about the beans next to his rice, and why his fish smells like that.

Hanta doesn’t mind the changes and the questions too much. He takes the comments in stride, not always able to read between the lines. He answers the best he can, and he moves on.

But sometimes the comments strike him. They hit a softness in his heart, bruises that he wants to curl inwards to shield.

“Sero-san, you shouldn’t ask things like that,” the class representative scolds.

Hanta frowns in confusion. “What? It’s just a question.” He probed about a classmate's mother—if she works at the conbini by his place. Mamá told him about it yesterday.

The girl—and alleged victim of his rudeness—watches him with a grimace. Is she embarrassed?

Another girl chimes in, with nicely curled hair. “Hey! He’s not from here, remember? Maybe he doesn’t know that it’s wrong yet.”

He frowns. What?

“Yeah, he’s just a foreigner.”

The comment is a punch to his stomach, leaving him breathless and nauseous. A foreigner? A gaijin: a word said with a particular tone, a connotation of annoyance. People who shouldn’t be here, inconveniences that clog the orderly busy cities.

“I’m Japanese,” he retorts. “My otōsan is from here. I—I’m speaking Japanese!”

Curly hair rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but you’re not really Japanese. You’re from Ecuador.”

Hanta has never had his identity pitted against itself like this before. In Sudamerica, the most he gets is a curious question, usually easily explained when he says his dad’s from Japan. Here it’s always side eyes, a whisper to a friend, never a confrontation, always something lingering around him unspoken. The questions and comments dancing around the topic of where he’s from, his eyes and his skin and his advantage in English class.

Hanta doesn’t know what to do.

So he does what he’s learned is failsafe for any situation. He turns to the first girl involved—his victim—and he bows at the hip, a flat apology on his tongue. It does the trick, like he knew it would, and he leaves to sit at his desk. 

That night in his room, under a brightly striped duvet, he frowns while staring at the ceiling. He longs for misty evenings and howling monkeys, and then he scowls at himself for his yearning—another reason his peers see him as different, not even as a hāfu—half japanese—but a gaijin. A foreigner entirely. An alien. He shifts, turning on his shoulder with sigh. Now he’s facing his bookshelf, the spine of his favorite book staring back at him. His face crumples, and he turns to lay on his opposite side.

He decides to bite his tongue moving forwards.

It only lasts a week.

The next time he gets scolded, it’s for speaking his mind unprompted, annoyed by another passing comment about his lunch. He can admit it was harsh, but the edge to his voice was compensation for the lack of reaction he gave comments earlier in the week. The boy across from him makes a face of surprise and then annoyance, and Hanta’s chest bubbles with an irritation he doesn’t feel often. In this moment he decides it’s even an Ecuadorian thing, this need to respond to people’s behavior when he doesn’t want to hear it. It’s a Sero-san thing. A Hanta thing.

Aside from the cultural tensions, he adjusts fairly easily, life pushed forwards by assignments and expectations. Sometimes he misses the ocean and the rainforest, but he sees them on holiday, and for most of summer break. In the meantime he searches for peace between his two worlds, split across the vastness of the Pacific. He finds it through that little black book tío gave him last year.

He doesn’t make it to another Fiestas de Quito, but you never leave his mind. On especially melancholy nights, when the cicadas buzz in sync through his window, he opens the spine under warm lamplight and whispers the story to himself. It takes him back, momentarily, to the warmth of Sudamerica and the starry sky of the remote coast. A faint brush of that overwhelming feeling sweeps over him in microdoses.

When he reads he thinks of you, wrapped in night-dark fabric that frames piercing eyes—only piercing for a moment between uncertainty and glee. He finds that when he reads, he reads from Santi’s view, Marco’s figure in the pond taking your eyes and smile. When Santi stretches the stars and weaves them together to pull himself through, Hanta feels that Marco’s touch is cool, like the water he lives in. He imagines Marco’s world is full of birds and bright colors, an adventure of flight and magic and memories.

He wonders if he’ll ever get to see you again.

That feeling carries him forwards, a compass through life. It leads him to the dancing club, where he starts to learn the boundaries of his own body. At the start of middle school he sees an advertisement for a circus show, flashing on the wall of the large department store his grandparents take him on weekends. His eyes turn to saucers, heart racing at the three figures on the screen—in sparkling bird costumes. He tugs at obāchan’s hand, begging to go, saying with his wide eyes that he doesn’t want any clothes or shoes or toys. He just wants to see that.

Grandparents cave in easily, discipline leaving them when the child isn’t their own. So they agree, buying the clothes and shoes and toys too. When a few weekends pass, he sits starry-eyed in his seat at the story before him, the closest thing to magic he’s ever seen. For a few minutes, long silks fall from the ceiling, a white fabric that turns purple under the darklight, and that gut wrenching, full force, overwhelming feeling slams straight into his chest.

Grandparents cave in easily, so when Hanta asks to start lessons and his dad coldly disagrees, they’re the ones to respond to his teary eyes and sniffles. Obāchan coos and turns to her son sternly, asking why he has to be so harsh to a child. They argue, above Hanta, as he sits sadly and quietly. Mamá takes him to the kitchen and peels a mandarin to help calm him down, placing the little slices in his palm. They’re tangy, flavor slightly different from the green-peeled oranges in Ecuador. He likes them a little more.

When ojiisan and obāchan say goodbye, warm hands cup Hanta’s cheeks. Obāchan leans to say goodbye with a cheeky smile that Hanta doesn’t feel like returning. 

The next weekend he’s still subdued, quiet when the grandparents drop by. They tell him to get in the car, but Hanta doesn’t want to go out today. He says he doesn’t want anything, that he’d rather stay at home and read or fold those little paper cranes. Ojiisan smiles, and says they’re going somewhere new—a surprise.

It’s a half hour drive, to a building that looks like a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Hanta frowns in confusion, from the car to the bare, grey front. Ojiisan pulls him along by the hand, gently pushing the door so Hanta can enter first. There’s a person standing behind a counter, adjacent to a wall of square lockers and a wide doorway to the next room. Through the opening he can see unfinished walls, scaffolding stretching tall, a concrete floor.

Hanta runs forward when his eye catches a tall armature, long metal poles extended at an angle, a small bar at the top where a long length of silk is rigged. Ojiisan laughs at his reaction, a sweet and light sound, hand holding him back from making his way into the other room. Hanta turns to his grandfather, his sweet and wrinkled face, and grins happily. He turns around, small arms wrapping around one of the old man’s legs, face pressing into the outside of his thigh. Hanta feels warm, and small.

The Saturday visits with the grandparents become weekly aerial lessons, easily what Hanta looks forward to the most every week. His teacher—Saeko-sensei—says he’s tall for his age, normally a disadvantage in acrobatics, but he has a head start with his flexibility from the dancing club. She says he’s strong too, likely from his time in the ocean. 

Every Saturday at these lessons, that special feeling returns. He feels at home in the warehouse, surrounded by other acts and students—ranging from his age to mamá’s—but he rarely has the chance to talk to them. The most he gets is a passing hello, or an encouraging compliment from the older crowd. Regardless they liven the space, populate the other props: a spinning lyra, a set of springboards, the bars and blocks of a handstand table, trapeze bars with a net that spans the back of the room. Hanta has the chance to play around on the other acts, but his attention doesn’t hold, returning shortly to the wide strings hanging above the mat. The brush of silk against his fingers and wrists ignites a tingle across his skin. Every movement fans the flames in his chest, both in fear and awe, from suspending himself at heights he’s never known before.

He improves quickly according to Saeko-sensei. He learns how to hold himself securely while stalking up the fabric, and then to wrap himself and unravel. It’s a slow process, only once a week. But Hanta does what he can at home, taking his stretches seriously and practicing wraps with one of mamá’s forgotten scarves.

After a couple months, he exchanges his first words with the other kid his age: a quiet, very Japanese boy. His hair is two different colors, reminding Sero of a candy cane, and a scar marks his face, the deep red of only recent healing. He normally practices with a boy sporting similar features—just no scar and two blue eyes, and hair mixed red and white in a different way—on the springboards, timing their soaring jumps and falls so the other can twist and spin in the air from the momentum. Hanta watches them and wishes he had a partner sometimes, too. He looks up the length of silk and wonders who might be on the other end. If it’s Marco, or the Marco he imagines—who looks like you.It’s only a passing exchange, a sorry when Hanta accidentally bumps into him by the lockers. The boy only grunts in response. Hanta brims with questions, wanting to ask for his name, about his scar, if that other boy is his brother. He’s about to open his mouth, to ask the first question, when he walks away. Hanta deflates.

The boy talks to him eventually. It happens at the start of second year when Hanta’s at the gym for the first time in months, having been in Ecuador for the summer.

“You should quit,” are his first words.

Hanta frowns. “Why?”

“You’re not gonna get good fast enough if you can only come once a week,” he reasons bluntly. Sero blinks at the words, not used to this confrontation in Japan. “You should tell whoever’s making you do this that it’s a waste of time.”

He blinks and tilts his head as he takes in the words. Good? Hanta just wants to do it; there’s no question of whether he’s good or bad. “I like it,” is his only response.

The boy frowns. “You like it?”

Hanta nods happily. “Yeah. Do you not like it?”

Mismatched eyes—one a stormcloud and one the sky—avert from his, looking towards the springboards. “Not really.”

“Oh,” he doesn’t know what to say. “You should try another one, then.”

He shakes his head. “I already have. Springboards are on the weekend but I have to do staff on Monday and Wednesday, and balancing on—”

“You get to practice every day?” Hanta asks, bewildered. And extremely envious, a feeling that claws at his chest and stomach.

But the boy frowns, eyes sharpening into a glare. Hanta thinks he asked too much again. He quiets, jealousy pooling in the silence. No scolding comes his way.

He lets his gaze slip back to the half-colored boy, saying before he can stop himself, “I’m Sero.”

Blue and grey eyes stare intensely, almost piercing right through him. He’s reminded of a gaze shrouded in black, a parade in the clear blue sky on hot pavement. A tingle of that mysterious feeling buzzes in his chest. He thinks it means that he needs to hold onto this boy and keep him close.

“Todoroki.”

Sero grins.

Hanta learns that Todoroki is actually very sweet and a good friend. He just has trouble talking to kids his age, something about his dad never letting him have friends. But he and Hanta talk when they can at practice, small flurries of conversation on break—ones that bring a mutual twinkle to their eyes. Hanta learns that the other boy is Touya, that they’re brothers, and that Shouto wishes they could be normal brothers. Instead they train together, against each other, every day. Touya has more natural talent for the staff, an act Shouto hates. But the older eldest’s body is fragile, and especially can’t handle the other training their dad forces on them. At least, not as well as Shouto can.

Hanta wishes they could hang out after practice like other kids get to do. He wants to have a sleepover, the kind he hears snippets of when he tunes into his peers’ conversations. Instead he brings manga he thinks Shouto would like, for him to enjoy in secret. They talk about the books quietly and just for minutes each practice, but Hanta thinks it’s enough.

And when Shouto gives his volume back one day with a timid and unexpected, “Gracias,” Hanta grins so wide his vision blurs.

It’s enough.

Over a decade later, Hanta has trouble fathoming how his life came to be: here, with Hoshi no Sākasu and ‘Roki and Touya. It’s a commonly asked question—What brought you here?—an easy icebreaker, a way to give common ground to everyone in the show. When Hanta is probed, he doesn’t have an answer. All he can think is that he lived. He lived day to day doing what needed to get done, and then left the rest to that funny feeling in his heart.

“You’re kind of a strange one, huh?” the pink haired girl asks—Mina, he remembers.

The comment feels a little like being in grade school, questions about his eyes and his skin and his lunch. He doesn’t feel strange, he just feels like himself.

Mina trails on before he can say anything. “Good thing you ended up here!” It’s punctuated with a laugh, and that’s the end of it. 

He finds a home in the circus. It’s a place where people embrace making a spectacle of themselves—an outlet for their differences that are also their strengths—all the while charging admission. People are themselves here, not blanketed by social norms and the mainstream. There’s a guy with ashen blond hair who speaks more abrasive than Hanta ever has, yet most responses are laughs or teasing words. And when Sero sighs and makes a return comment before he can stop himself, another blond—bright blond, electric—cackles and slaps his back as if to say good one.

Hanta feels warm with these people, welcomed. 

The circus, however, is also sort of unusual—more magic than it isn’t. The acts people here can pull off are beyond anything he ever thought possible. He squints in disbelief when he hears about the sequences planned, that the main tent only needs a night to be assembled. But he believes in magic, or some principle parallel to it. He learns to trust himself and those around him and their shared vision to make something beautiful, together.

The first show he’s a part of is an adapted retelling of The Tale of Genji. It’s a dramatized, overtly mystified version where the silk aerialists are meant to mimic the swirling strokes of calligraphy, him and Tokoyami strung one in front of the other so when they move, the audience can catch brief moments where kanji is legible through their stacked bodies. Tokoyami asks if it’s actually possible. Hanta just hopes he doesn’t have to hold poses the whole time.

“Man, your style is really something.”

Sero blinks at the words as he untangles himself at the end of a practice session. He turns to Kirishima. “Huh?”

The redhead grins. “It’s like, so different from the typical performances, y’know? Usually it’s about speed or drops or poses, but—dude the way you move is insane.”

He wouldn’t know. There was only one rig at the gym, only one person performing at a time, so all he knew was his own practice sessions. Saeko pushed him when it came to technical skills, the speed and drops and poses he assumes Kirishima alludes to. But when he eventually wrangled rides with Shouto during the week, he would rent the rig without coaching. Most of his time was spent freestyle, learning the intricacies of how the silk and his body could improvise together rather than learning new skills. Shouto calls it a flow, the same thing Touya can achieve with his staff. Sero doesn’t understand the distinction.

Their next show is a story about birds.

When Hanta hears the news he freezes, body and mind on pause while he tries to digest the words. 

“Birds?” he finally croaks out carefully. 

Todoroki remains deadpan at his tone. “Yeah, the animals.”

Hanta splutters, “I know what birds are.”

Todoroki’s face doesn’t change.

He pouts. “I’m just… I guess I’m surprised.”

“It is different from our current show, but it makes sense; we have a lot of aerial acts.” Shouto continues when Hanta doesn’t reply, “They want to include a short opera performance. I think it’s going to be a European-focused tour. Kendou’s talking about commissioning a dress.”

Sero’s used to this, getting the details early from Shouto, since his dad is the lead executive of the company. 

“Kendou proposed commissioning someone else?” He can’t imagine it—she’s normally one of the most protective over the Hoshi no Sākasu identity. 

“No. It was suggested by the marketing team.”

Hanta hums. That makes more sense. Suggestions from the marketing team are orders.

“They plan to put Midoriya on the research team, since he keeps coming to training.”

“Sounds like him.” Their friend is supposed to be on break for the week, for his strained arms. Instead he’s come in extra to train on the springboards. Hanta can sympathize, his daily practices a necessary part of staying sane. “Do you think it’ll work?”

Shouto shakes his head. “He’s going to be tired on top of overtraining, from staying up all night.”

Hanta laughs. He can picture it easily, Midoriya furiously typing and scrolling through articles. It’s a common joke that his roommates on tour are the poor victims of relentless fanboying—whether it’s watching old shows, scrolling through acrobats’ social media, or endless muttering, whoever shares a room with him either has to be a deep sleeper or equally obsessive.

Sero bunked with him once, before understanding he should never do it again. He prefers a quiet space where he can read in silence. Shouto is his usual choice—sometimes they’ll bring the same manga and discuss it in low voices—but he also appreciates the unpredicted peace that comes with sharing a room with Bakugou, or the steady darkness of Tokoyami’s presence when they’re alone. It’s part of the profession—one that forces people closer than comfortable for extended lengths of time—to constantly be confronted by unexpected knowledge of the cast. He’s also sometimes met with surprising information about his already friends—Shouto who happily lays beside Midoriya as they watch performances through the night, adding his own remarks.

Hanta grins as he thinks about his friend—how he’s changed and grown throughout the years. He’s still blunt and honest Shouto, but one who leans easily into his friends, opens up when things are hard. He’s Shouto who pays attention to others, so he can take care of them. He’s Shouto, voice trailing on quietly with unwavering faith in Midoriya, to find a way to make it work in the end.

Hanta is stepping into an early iteration of his costume when Midoriya bursts in. Kendou pulls the zipper up the back as the curly haired boy exclaims, “I think I found someone!”

“Already?” she asks.

Midoriya sets his computer on one of the dressing tables, sifting through a window with endless tabs. 

“I found a designer! Someone who goes by Verde and specializes in opera gowns, but has a background in parade costumes. They’re from Latin America originally, but are now based in Milan—it’s too perfect! They say they’re a huge fan of the circus and take a lot of inspiration from Cirque du Soleil, so their style is suitable. I haven’t found many interviews, but it looks like most of their personal projects are birds. And they’re incredible. The way they use fabric is so interesting, and they’re an expert at sewing—their work is very detailed—”

He flicks through the tabs as he talks, showing works ranging from classy gowns to chaotic costumes. Hanta notices a lot of green. There’s an inexplicable feeling blooming in his chest, familiar.

“Wow Midoriya, you’re really good at this,” Kendou muses.

He grins sheepishly, lifting a hand to rub the back of his reddening neck. “Aha yeah, I got lost in the research. This artist just seems so cool! I think if we contact them soon we could definitely have a chance. They work independently at the moment, so we wouldn’t be fighting a company for their time.”

Midoriya steps aside as Kendou flickers through the tabs, eyes lingering on the costume images. Hanta’s follow, and he can’t help but note that they’re different from what he remembers seeing in Quito. These costumes focus on silhouette, shapes carving through the air in deliberate angles and curves. The details are more particular, and they have a grittiness when you look close, despite reading as regal and opulent from a distance.

When Kendou lands on a social media page, she drags her fingers against the mousepad to look through the posts. It’s primarily a mixture of long gowns and occasional feathered costumes. She clicks on the thumbnail of two birds—one red and one green. The sight causes that tingle in Hanta’s chest and arms to intensify. They look familiar somehow, not just because they’re clearly macaws, but their shapes—or maybe the details ring somewhere in his memory. The caption is in Spanish, and Kendou hits the translate button before he can intervene, roman letters becoming a mix of Hiragana and Kanji.

“Where in Latin America are they from?” he asks.

“Costa Rica.”

Hanta hums, ignoring the stroke of disappointment in his chest.

That disappointment is long gone when only an hour later he’s blinking at Shouto, in surprise and excitement. “You want to read Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda?” 

Shouto nods, a curt gesture. “I’d like to make more of an effort to practice my Spanish.” He pauses, mismatched eyes narrowing. “And I’d like to get to know that part of you, even if it’s quite delayed.”

Hanta could cry from the gesture. An earnest grin crosses his face. “‘Roki, that—I really appreciate that, thanks. I’d love to read it with you, I… I love reading that book out loud, with others.”

Shouto only nods in response.

Sero hums. “It’d probably help to practice some more first, so you have the vocabulary. I mean, I can explain as we read, but it’d probably be more enjoyable to not be interrupted so much.” He recalls sitting in mamá’s lap and sounding out the words as a child. “Well, it’ll be fun either way. But we should do it when we have the free time.”

Shouto hums, eyes darting in thought. “What if we waited until the start of the tour? We will have plenty of time while traveling.”

“Oh! That’s a good idea,” Hanta says, brightening. “Are you okay waiting that long? That’s more than half a year out. It’ll be more than enough time for you to practice, though.”

The edges of Shouto’s lips quirk upwards. “It would be most fitting, to read it on tour.”

Hanta recognizes this tone, a playful jab referencing the many late nights before a show flipping through a book he’s read dozens of times. He can’t help reaching for it, safely tucking it in his bag, when Hoshi no Sākasu leaves Japan. It gives him a similar feeling to the circus, of magic and impossibility.

Hanta smiles. His cousins and friends never understood his attachment, why he still clings to the book like a lifeline. Shouto won’t either, most likely, but he and Hanta have been trading books for years—enough to understand each other and how they think about their favorite media. Hanta trusts Shouto with this, to take it seriously and recognize what it means to him. To attempt to genuinely understand him.

For the first time in years, Hanta reads Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda aloud—in the Tokyo Haneda airport. He and Shouto sit against the wall, switching readers every few pages. Hanta gets to introduce the story and the setting of Colombia, while Shouto is the one who meets Santi’s family.

“Wait,” Sero stops him after reading the mother’s dialogue. “You aren’t gonna do a little voice for her?”

“Huh?” 

“You know, like make your voice high pitched or something, so we know it’s mamá.”

Red and white eyebrows furrow. “It says who spoke in the text afterwards. Why do I need to do a voice?”

Hanta hums, leaning his head against the wall. “Nevermind, it was just part of the fun when I was a kid.”

Shouto trains his eyes on Sero for another moment before picking up where he left off. The next line of quotes is Santi’s father. He clears his throat before speaking, attempting to lower his voice several pitches.

Hanta immediately bursts into laughter, mostly from surprise. He has to breathe deeply, to calm himself.

“Did I not do it right?”

“Wait no—” another fit of giggles rushes through him. “No, that was pretty good. I didn’t expect that.”

Shouto just nods, and continues with a stern face. Hanta bites down the next fit of laughs that threaten to surface. He relishes this bubbly feeling in his chest as he listens to Shouto read, raising and lowering his voice as he personifies Santi and his family. Hanta feels warm, on the floor of the Tokyo Haneda airport.

Milan is cold, similar to Japan at the beginning of the year. The city has an old, historic feeling, one that deeply contrasts the modern jungle of Tokyo. Half the streets are laid with black cobblestone, patterned in arches, or the scales of a fish. The buildings are ornate, beige and plastered with divots and curls, corinthian columns next to the spires of cathedrals. The language is reminiscent of home in Ecuador, with a slight shift in pronunciation and words that he nearly understands. When he tunes into the conversations of others he can intuit what they’re saying, but he has no idea how to construct his own response.

The show top stands tall the next day and no one bats an eye. The crew runs through the show in full, smoothing out the timing for transitions and props. Shinsou takes Aizawa’s place when he leaves to pick up the costume designer.

Near the end of their session, the producer passes through the curtain, Momo and Kendou trailing behind him. There are several rounds of reactions, cooing and praise as everyone takes in Momo’s appearance. Hanta blinks at the sight, deep red against pale skin, the array of feathers that line the shape of her head. She twirls to show off the mechanics of the dress, that dark fabric lifting to expose bright white beneath.

“Aw! You’re so pretty Momo!” Mina exclaims, running to give her an excited hug.

Hanta doesn’t register the conversation that follows, eyes trained on the ruffles and the beak and the beads sewn into the bust and torso. He hasn’t seen this style of costume before, one uniquely yours, but it makes him feel that special way, tingles all over his body. The way Santi and the parade and Shouto make him feel.

“Where’s the designer?” Shouto’s question jostles him from his thoughts.

“And Midoriya,” Kirishima adds.

Kendou grins. “Lunch! We sent them away.”

“Man, why does Midoriya get to skip all this stuff?” Denki whines, then darts nervous eyes to Aizawa.

“Midoriya deserves his fanboy moment after all his help. Besides, we’re willing to do anything to keep him from straining himself before the show.”

Sero has to reign himself in as he listens to them talk. A tightness clenches his chest and stomach, a mix of jealousy and urgency. Jealousy? He wonders, unsure why he would be envious. It’s a possessive jealousy, one focused on the fact that Midoriya’s with you—where Hanta should be instead. He frowns to himself; what gives him the justification to feel this way? He doesn’t even know you.

But that feeling doesn’t leave him. His eyes trail back to Momo’s dress. He wonders if it has to do with the earlier tingling in his being—at the sight of the gown.

“Fuck this. Why’s mine the most fuckin’ stupid?”

Kaminari laughs, a loud and bubbly sound. His shoulders shake as he wheezes and clutches his stomach. “Who did that? Kendou? God, I hope she gets a raise.”

The angry blond grunts, almost growls as he reaches for the other, hands aiming for Denki’s neck. The movement jostles the ends of his hat, lengths that stretch out around him in floppy cones topped with bells. The jingling probes more laughter, harder laughter, the blond swaying out the way just in time to miss Bakugou’s fists.

“Why’s it so… bright?” Kirishima adds, eyes trailing the saturated green and orange stripes along Bakugou’s hat, the purple on his ruffled collar, the patchwork of his shirt.

“Yeah, and why’d Hanta get an actual color palette?”

Sero frowns in confusion. “It’s just black?”

“Exactly!” Kaminari exclaims. “Kacchan looks like he’s auditioning for Beetlejuice and I look like I drew my clothes out of a hat.”

“I guess he does have a strange mix of clothing styles,” Kirishima muses, eyes trailing from Hanta’s pants to his shirt.

“Everyone shut the fuck up,” Bakugou interjects, pulling the hat from his head and tossing it on the ground. “I’m not fuckin’ wearin’ this. Tell ‘em extras someone else can ‘ave that shit.” He storms off.

“Katuski!” The redhead calls, following dutifully and leaving Kaminari and Sero behind.

The taller grins, watching the redhead try to stop the blond. Denki giggles again, recalling the sight and sound of Bakugou in costume. 

They leave as a pair, bumping into Shouto by the exit. He’s sporting a clown collar similar to Bakugou’s, swallowing his shoulders. It’s topped with a rounded woven hat for rice farming. Kaminari complains that he makes it work—even with the addition of Akado pants, flared at the thighs and wrapped around his calves. Sero invites him to join, but his friend declines in favor of waiting for Touya.

So Denki and Hanta roam the markets together, a pair of clowns in uniform. They mostly wave and smile at curious passersby, and occasionally take a photo or talk about the show starting tomorrow.

“Italians are nice,” Kaminari comments as they turn through another column of stalls. “But kind of intense… and loud.”

Hanta hums noncommittally, eyes trailing tables and shelves with products and food on display. His finger draws along a length of satin, lost in bright turquoise with swirls of yellow. The humming of strings waves through his ears, letting him phase out of the busyness of the festival for a brief moment. When he tunes back to his surroundings, Denki is gone. Hanta glances around unhurriedly, curious to where his friend wandered. Instead of looking for him, he continues down the line of vendors.

He turns through the next row, approaching the rattling of a tambourine, paired with fast notes on the accordion. They hum through the alley of tents, pulling him closer like a tug on his chest. He succumbs happily, gliding towards the open plaza. People walk by, holding street food and drinks and bags, and he weaves through their bodies as best he can. He's stopped for a picture that he happily accepts, crouching to match the height of the older woman. She holds her phone out to take a selfie, and the shake of the camera prompts Sero to take it instead. He holds it further away, steadily and smiling as his eyes return to the screen as he presses the button and—

You. You're standing in his periphery.

Hanta doesn't know how the picture turns out, distracted as he returns the phone and waves goodbye. Instead his eyes float to you: a smear of green in his vision, dancing merrily by the musicians. Your hand is holding a young girl—for a moment he wonders if she's yours—and you're stepping rhythmically from side to side, at a beat that doesn't match the music at all.

The scene lights something inside of his chest—something intense and overwhelming as it radiates down his torso and arms. The costume you're wearing… surely it’s you, the designer for Momo's dress. That bright chartreuse with feathers and swoops of fabric, they’re unmistakable even if he's only seen the glimpses from your social media. And your dancing—he knows that pattern, the forwards and backwards steps of salsa, obvious when paired with the sway of your hips. They only last a moment before you're matching the girl's movements, eventually coming to a still when the song ends. He watches as the kid scurries off, and suddenly he's stalking forwards, entering your path as you take a step and bump into him.

His heart constricts at the proximity, the brush of your bodies in contact, and then it squeezes again when you tell him, “Sorry.”

But that special, indescribable feeling is still there, growing stronger in his chest. He wants to dance with you, to see you move with someone who can match your steps. When he slides against you in the sensual glide of bachata, there are no nerves plaguing his heart—just glee.

Your skin has a chill, the breeze of winter air. But it warms him, ignites fire in the hand clutching yours, prickles of heat raining down his shoulder when you grasp it. He notices your fingers are calloused, a rough bump on your thumb and index finger. The detail makes you feel real. Hanta feels so light he thinks he’ll start floating to the stars. 

You move with him, fluid steps and rolls of your hips. It's perfectly timed, completely in sync despite the syncopation of the music. Your laughter is another instrument, another melody to guide him. Hanta’s warm, alive, in this moment. His hands trail to your shoulders experimentally to see if you’ll catch his signal.

You do.

When you drop into his touch, letting him hold your shoulders while you spin, a spark runs through his chest—a new feeling. This one is a pool in his stomach, a flaming heat that takes over his face. He wants to be closer, to pull you into his chest and run his hand down your spine, slotting your head against his heart and your legs entangled in his own. He wants to hold you there forever.

You laugh again, head tilted to the sky while your mouth splits your face beneath your beak and the black night, and Hanta thinks he’s six again, watching a show that expands the edges of everything he knew, making him feel so small and impossibly infinite all at once. Hanta is six again, watching you bring your head back down and twirl, this time with a hand in yours as it trails to press into your neck. He wants to cup his hand around it and pull you in, to press his face against yours—and maybe even your lips.

It’s you, right? Hanta is new to this desire running through him, but this other feeling… he knows this buzzing, knows it deeply and intimately even if he’ll never be able to name it. He wants to ask you, wants to indulge the many questions bubbling in his throat. Was it you in Quito? Surely—you as the toucan with your dancing and your smile. The words sit there, waiting against his tongue as his body lulls with the music. His heart hammers in his chest, face heating while he fishes for the words. What should he do? What should he say? What should—

“Yo! Hanta!!”

Sero grimaces, eyes begrudgingly tear from you to Denki. His heart skips a beat as it continues to race. You take a step back and he thinks no, no, no. An urgency floods his veins, one that finds himself clutching onto you as you try to part from him. Your face is twisted in confusion and he wants to let everything out somehow. There are no words he can muster, only a silent plea trying to communicate itself through his eyes trained on yours. Can you feel what he feels? Do you understand?

Denki waves him over. He has to go, but he doesn't want to let you go. Not when he feels like he's finally found something he's been unknowingly searching for. 

Not when you’re still looking at him like he’s a stranger.

He holds your hand for one more moment, between both of his as his mind wanders briefly. You’ll be back, he’s sure of it. There’s no need to rush. The night has only started; he can come back to you. His heart hurts when he finally releases your hand.

So he lets you go without asking anything—just a quiet thank you. His eyes bounce back to Denki, the blond waiting with a mirthful grin. Your hand falls to your side, eyes curiously trained on him. Good, he thinks. Please remember me.

When you barely whisper that you’ll see him around, that special feeling grows, blooms from deep within him, compounded by this aching desire. He knows that your paths will cross again.

Denki’s still grinning when Sero finally meets him. “Dude, I did not know you could dance. What the hell!?”

“What? I’ve invited you to social dancing at least ten times.”

The blond pouts. “I didn’t know you were working like that. Can I come next time? Please? Why do you never pull those moves when we go out?”

Sero rolls his eyes. “Because bars and clubs don’t play the right music? What’d you call me for?”

“Oh! We’re rounding up at Satou's stall. Kendou said it’d only be a minute, so you can go back to serenading your stranger.”

While Denki drags him by the wrist, Hanta takes a final look back. He only catches your back, the feathered shoulders and cape-like wings. You don’t turn to meet his gaze.

When the short debriefing with the staff is over and he hurries back to the cluster of musicians, you’ve disappeared.

“Illusion tents?” Momo asks the next morning.

Hanta nods, eyes wide with hope. He couldn’t sleep last night, mind racing with thoughts of you—thinking of ways to get your attention, to notice him. “Yeah like… a space where someone could walk in and experience a whole story laid out for them. Maybe something based on memories, something to try and trigger a connection.”

He wants to make something special—for you.

Dark eyebrows raise in confusion. “That’s… quite vague.”

He frowns. “I don’t have the full picture myself, but I have some ideas.”

“Sero… Who is this for?”

A long pause settles between them before he answers. “I think… I think I know the costume designer. But I’m not sure. I just—I want to see if they know me too. And… I want to do something for them. Something beautiful and meaningful, even if they aren’t who I think they are.”

Momo blinks, and then nods. “If you can come up with a clear design, I’ll do it.”

His face brightens. “Really? Thank you Momo, so much. I can come back in a couple hours with some ideas?”

She grins. “I should thank you—I’ve been wanting the chance to do something in return for them. Besides, we want them—for Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe we can sway them with a personal show.”

Hanta’s eyes grow with surprise. He hadn’t heard about that. Was Shouto aware? “Wait—they’re joining us?” he asks, voice heavy with anticipation.

She grunts in denial. “Kendou asked yesterday; they seem interested but unsure. I haven’t heard the details, so I don’t know what their reservations are.”

You, traveling with them and working on the costumes back in Japan—the thought brings a twitch to Hanta’s lips. He presses his fist against them in an effort to contain his reaction. His chest is tight at the idea of seeing you almost daily, getting to work beside you. You and Shouto and the silks.

An hour before the show he stalks into Momo’s trailer. Kendou is there too, already filled in on the situation. She watches eagerly as Sero hurries through the door and approaches the table, pulling out a few pieces of paper folded in his pocket. They’re sketches, marked with crude and unsure strokes, but clear enough to get the main ideas across. Momo nods and hums as she listens to him explain his visions for the next few days.

“I can work with that, and the time we have,” she says. Sero exhales gently with relief. “They’ll be on the spot, and any gaps will be naturally filled in with my own imagination.”

“That’s fine, I’m sure anything you can execute will be perfect.”

Kendou hums in agreement. “These sound really interesting,” she adds. “There are still two more days of the festival, though.”

Hanta nods. “I have some ideas, but want to think about them a little longer.”

“It’s fine,” Momo interjects, waving dismissively. “As long as you tell me the day before and give me visuals like these, I can make it work.”

A lifesaver, Sero thinks. And a genius. “You’re the best,” he says. “Truly.”

She laughs. “I know, I know. Now put those away and leave unless you want to spoil the surprise.”

He glances at the time, realizing you must be coming any minute, and folds the papers back into his pocket. One final gratitude slips from him as he stands to leave.

There’s a knock on the door.

A matching knock thumps through his chest, heart racing at the assumption that you’re on the other end—Aoyama would have simply burst in. His wide eyes dart to Momo’s in surprise. She gives him a look, one that asks him what he’s waiting for. He steps forward slowly, hand hovering over the knob. 

Knowing that it’s you doesn’t prepare him for actually seeing you: you with a giant fluff of feathers wrapped around your neck—black and soft and breezing against your skin. Little clumps of snow stick to the edges, and against your hair. He wants to pluck them out and runs his hands through the strands, pulling your face close. He stands tall, a few steps above you, unable to withhold whatever embarrassing expressions are likely flashing across his face. You’re cute, and you look happy to be waiting there, clutching a paper bag against your chest. 

When you speak he has to reel himself back in. Yes, you’re seeing each other again—already. He wants to say something, anything, but the words don’t come out. Kendou intervenes for him, introducing you after you brush by to enter. He nearly shivers at the contact, you and cool air wafting in. His shoulder tingles, a familiar feeling overwhelming him. He grins at the sight of you, not fighting the joy as he finally says something.

“Nice to meet you properly.” Is that lame? Shouldn’t he say something… more?

“Sero was just about to get ready,” Momo interjects before you respond. 

His face falls, not wanting to go when you only just arrived. He pouts at the longing in his chest, a sinking weight, but Momo’s commanding expression is persistent—eyes not faltering as they glance from him to Kendou. He sighs.

“Yeah, I was on my way out,” he manages honestly. He doesn’t know what face he’s making as he leaves, too honest to contain it.

You send him off with a wave and an offering of one of your little sandwiches. It’s a small gesture, one he takes greedily. He pulls a tramezzini with prosciutto, lips tugging into a frown as the door closes behind him. He’s not a fan of cured meat. He eats it anyway.

He closes his eyes when he reaches the bottom of the steps, inhaling sharp cold air into his lungs. He holds the breath in his cheeks, palms cradling his own face. Enough time passes for Aoyama to appear, bumping Hanta aside to enter the trailer. He moves to let the holographic blond pass, shoving his hands into his pockets as he cranes his neck to the sky. 

Snowflakes dot his vision, slowly falling through muted blue. When they touch the skin of his face, feather-light, they’re akin to hesitant fingertips tracing curiously. He thinks of you and your cold skin, callused hand in his.

“Sero-kun?”

Midnight eyes fall to the horizon, then the freckled man before him. Hanta hums.

“Is everything okay? You’re… I’ve never seen you cry before.”

Hanta blinks in surprise, the wetness along his lashes not noticeable before. He gently wipes the skin, smearing the rapidly cooling tears against his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice tinged with a rasp. “I’m just overwhelmed, I think. And a little confused.”

He grins at Midoriya, an earnest smile. His friend looks at him skeptically. Hanta laughs and walks toward the main tent, where Midoriya will be getting ready soon.

“You never get weird before a performance,” his friend persists. He follows Sero closely as they reach the entrance.

Hanta doesn’t have a response, settling for a shrug. He urges Midoriya to get on with his costume and makeup, assuring that he’s fine despite his unusual behavior. Curious green eyes don’t leave him, darting back to Sero even after the show starts and he begins his warm up.

Hanta doesn’t get nervous before a show, usually one of the most calm of the cast, all relaxed smiles. Going on stage is no different than entangling himself in practice—it’s just him and the silks, always.

Except for now, because you are in the audience. There’s a new tightness in his chest at the thought of you watching him, seeing him. But he’s learned to trust himself—himself and those around him and their shared vision. This is the first show for Gōyoku, but it will be beautiful and magical and everything Hanta’s ever chased.

Something in his stomach clenches when he sees Monoma strut backstage. His neck is wrapped in the fluff of black feathers, grin stretched wide as he proclaims he’s already stolen the show. Hanta’s mind races. Did Monoma touch you—take it without your permission? An ugliness burrows inside him, the one that first appeared when he heard of your lunch with Midoriya. His chest flares with the claim that he should be the one to with your boa, to have something from you.

Hanta speaks his mind, but he can also recognize that this is different from the honest nature within him. This is something irrational and possessive and ugly. The words don’t surface, a tamed righteousness. His fist tightens from the need to redirect his anger. He exhales.

When he finally enters the stage and sits under bright lights, he returns to confidence and ease. He scans through the crowd, meaning only to do a quick survey, but his eyes are drawn to you. Even without the boa he knows it’s you—it has to be. You’re a speck of white in the crowd, tinted purple from the blacklights. His heart tightens as your eyes stare back. Will you watch him? Will you see him?

Black silk falls—his blanket of safety—and he nearly smiles as he reaches for it.

This performance, he is entirely in his element. The silk wraps around him perfectly, smooth fabric that works as an extension of his body. He’s entirely unrushed, in euphoric focus as he wraps and unravels himself, gliding through his routine. He is nearly swimming through it—through air and threads and the darkness of the night, swimming through stars and dust and everything there ever was. He feels closer to you, held right against you, completely taken by that incredibly overwhelming sensation—that buzzing in his entire body. 

You watch him the whole time, really watch him. He knows without having to check, but everytime his eyes drift to yours, they are trained on him. A deep satisfaction roots into his chest at the end, at knowing he was able to show you something beautiful.

He nearly skips backstage when the act concludes, despite the fatigue.

“Midoriya told me that you cried earlier.”

He groans at Shouto’s voice, steps faltering. “Dude, at least let me sit first.”

Shouto’s eyes widen as he pauses and nods. Blue and grey watch closely as Sero grabs his water before sinking into one of the cushions.

“You cried earlier,” he repeats.

Hanta laughs this time, tilting his head against the seat. “Not really. I just got lost in thought.”

“Thoughts that make you cry?”

He smiles gently. “I’m okay. Sometimes it just happens.”

Shouto pauses. He stands quietly before saying, “You know you can talk to me, if you need.”

Hanta nods. “Of course I do.”

Shouto nods back, a curt gesture.

Hanta can’t withhold his grin, ever appreciative of his friend’s straightforward care. He catches the slight quirk of Shouto’s lips—and knows exactly what it means.

He excitedly debriefs with the others after the show—animated conversation with Mina and Monoma, Bakugou standing with a scowl to the side. Monoma is just beginning a monologue about the details of his enthralling performance, prompting Bakugou to leave, when Mina’s eyes light as she points excitedly.

“Oh, cutie spotted! With Deku!”

Hanta turns towards her gesture, eyes locking onto your form. His heart races with surprise, not realizing you would be coming backstage. But then that possession seeps back inside his chest, claws piercing right through it. You’re standing with Midoriya—closely, and talking with excited gestures. Your eyes are shining with delight and Midoriya matches your energy with his rapid speech. The envy catches him by surprise, layered with a twinge of doubt. Suddenly Hanta wishes he asked more questions, to Midoriya and Momo and Kendou—to have learned more about you in any capacity.

“Oh? Looks like my cue,” Monoma answers, reaching to untangle the boa from his neck.

Hanta moves before he can process his actions, slender fingers gently prying the garment from the blond.

“I’ll do it,” he says, uncharacteristically stern before starting forwards.

By the time he’s behind you, all tension in his body has evaporated, instead replaced by childlike giddiness. He catches you by surprise, draping the scarf over your neck. His grin is easy and lazy when you turn to him. The attention fills him with warmth.

And then you openly sing praise, shining eyes now locked on him.

“You were incredible,” you breathe. “I’ve never seen someone move that way—”

Oh.

This… this is unusual for Hanta. He’s never been the main character or even had a true solo for Hoshi no Sākasu, but you’re here noticing him, telling him he’s one of a kind. The attention is an embarrassing ambush, flooding head through his chest and face. It prompts him to be shy, to hide himself and hold this warmth carefully in his hands.

But it’s you, with excited eyes that are opened so wide, so focused—all on him. You want to know more about him, greedily soaking in his answers. More heat overtakes him until he feels like he’s buried in it. It’s a new type of feeling, a flush he’s never experienced before—something beyond nerves or self-consciousness. Maybe it’s the heat of being known; the heat of being seen. The heat of being special to someone.

He thinks you deserve to feel this way, too.

He feels a little betrayed then, when Midoriya butts in, pulling a laugh from some sort of inside joke you share. Momo shortly after steals your attention, the two of you trading special glances and tenderly touching hands. Hanta has the urge to pout as others join, continuously whisking away your attention.

His antsiness grows from the waiting. By the time he can have your attention again, he doesn’t have anything meaningful to say. In a moment of desperation, he makes a comment about the orecchiette—tiny and wobbly bowls pooling meaty sauce. He blinks in surprise when you answer defensively.

He finds himself grinning stupidly as he probes further. “What about fettuccine?” 

“With this sauce?” you ask aghast. His grin grows. He can tell it’s a crooked one, tugging to the side with delight. “I don’t even know much about Italian food, but that would be a six out of ten at best.”

It’s stupid, this conversation, but he can’t help beaming from your responses—at the way your presence alone fills him with a special feeling of intensity. He's seven years old again, talking to Shouto for the first time and knowing instantly that he should keep him close. He wants to reach for you, hold your hand or even just your sleeve.

A question rests in the back of the throat, something like is this you? You: the one at the parade, in Quito.

“Are… Do you—”

It makes him a stumbling, clumsy version of himself when he tries to ask. He can only say the beginning of the question, rephrased over and over again. Are you the one I'm thinking of? Do you remember me?

Can I be special to you even if you don't?—If you aren't who I think you are?

In his periphery he can see Shouto approaching. It’s either right now, in these mere seconds of privacy, that Hanta can ask. Can he stand to wait another moment, another day?

“Hey ‘Roki,” he says instead. In his imagination, another Hanta appears to grab him by the throat and shake him—for being a coward.

“I wanted to tell you that we’re about halfway through the book. We just finished the chapter where Santi is pulled into Marco’s world.”

Hanta’s heart drops.

You… you know about the book? His book. One he’s clutched to his heart since he was just a boy, taken everywhere and practically memorized. How does Shouto know you know? How does everyone seem to capture these stray details about you—everyone except for him? That ugliness in his chest returns, this time a harsh squeeze of spite. One that runs down his arms with the need to act.

It’s a squeeze that immediately releases when you grin, teeth on full display. Suddenly he’s light again, your excitement a source of peace. The change is like whiplash; he’s not used to his feelings being this volatile—rapidly changing, without warning, pitting him against his closest friends. All the while you’re standing and smiling as you say that you read his favorite book every night as a child. That you made a dress based on one of his favorite scenes.

“You know the book he’s reading?” He has to ask, to confirm this is real.

Suddenly you’re giving in easily, sharing tidbits of information while probing ones from him. You tell him you’re from the western shores of Costa Rica and he delights in this information, knowing that even on different continents you two shared an ocean, a connection through water and salt and currents and wind. Maybe there were times you were in the water at the same time. Did the water that held him hold you too? The thought sends a buzz through his body and the warmth of summer saltwater.

Even when Shouto interjects, Hanta happily soaks in the details. Despite your attention no longer focused on him alone, there’s a specialness in this moment—the sight of you and his best friend, trading thoughts about his most treasured book.

The idea comes to him during his second performance, nearly lasered directly into his brain. While he’s weaving through the lengths of silk from the ceiling, he suddenly imagines pulling them from the water himself, stardust strings that bridge his world to yours—a bridge you know—where he can hopefully translate that special feeling in his heart and stomach and entire being.

When his act finishes he rushes to scribble every detail that surfaces. He sits in one of the trailers, not risking you looking over his shoulder despite his yearning for your attention. The ideas pour out of him and through graphite, trailing along a stack of papers. It leaves lines of black and grey dust, glittering under the lamplight—like stars, or specks of dark sand.

Kendou grabs him when the show ends, pulling him aside to say, “We got your tent set up in the last row. Verde won’t be around long tonight, but Momo thinks they’ll find it in time. They’ll be here tomorrow during the first show, to talk about work.”

Hanta nods, thanking her. He’s not worried; he trusts that things will work out as they need, because he trusts himself and his friends to make something that will reel you in. And he trusts you, to gravitate towards his offering and to find it.

You do.

The next morning he has everything pictured perfectly in his mind. Momo can’t meet until close to showtime, leaving Hanta antsily waiting. It manifests as a weight in his stomach and a distracted mind. In the meantime, he and Shouto work through another chapter while eating breakfast. Or rather, Hanta continuously loses himself in thought while Shouto reads, receiving a nudge when they’re supposed to switch.

“You’re distracted today,” Shouto says bluntly.

Hanta sighs. “Sorry, we should probably call it after this chapter.”

He tilts the book to read the last couple pages, but Shouto interjects. “Does it have to do with why you cried yesterday?”

“‘Roki,” he huffs. “It’s really—” he stops. He was going to say nothing, that it’s really nothing. But it’s not nothing.

“It’s…?”

It’s you.

“It’s complicated,” Hanta decides.

Shouto’s eyes narrow, intense swathes of a storming sky that don’t budge when Hanta tries to dismiss himself. He caves.

“I think… I know them—” you. The admission is scary, to turn thoughts into words and tell them to someone else.

But Shouto is nothing if not serious. He takes everything Hanta has ever said with full consideration, even if he doesn’t understand. Because they’re friends, and they trust one another. “Verde?”

Hanta nods. “Well, not know them, or even of them. But I think we’ve… met before. Not formally—but I think we saw each other at a parade when I was little.”

“A parade?”

“Yeah.” He smiles while recounting the memory. “They were dressed as a bird, at the Fiestas de Quito. A toucan, I think.”

“Oh.” Shouto watches his friend carefully. Hanta recognizes that he’s thinking, gears shifting and spinning behind an intense stare. “Do you want to tell them?”

Hanta pauses. Does he want to tell you? When he thinks about it, he doesn’t think that part matters so much. “Not necessarily. I think it’s more that they make me feel a certain way… and I want to get to know them better because of it.”

“I see. I understand.”

Sero’s eyebrows lift in surprise. A smile tugs at his lips. “You do?”

His friend nods curtly. “Yes. You perplexed me when I first saw you. It always made me very irritated at practice, because I wanted to ask you questions.”

Hanta laughs, a bright sound. “Because I wasn’t very good? And I was wasting my time?”

“Yes.”

Another laugh rings, this one releasing the weight in his stomach. He smiles for himself, at Shouto’s presence grounding him in this moment.

“I think you should tell them you feel that way,” his friend continues.

“I have some ideas.”

“For what to say?”

Hanta shakes his head. “No. I want to show them my feelings, since they’re hard to explain.”

Shouto’s eyes linger on his friend’s face, searching dark irises. He glances at the book between them, lips twitching in a suppressed smile as he says, “I understand.”

After finishing his act, Hanta grabs the papers from his bag before rushing to the trailers. He’s eager to share with Momo, to finalize his plans for you. As soon as the door opens he’s announcing, “Momo, I have the rest of my ideas for the—”

tents, he almost finishes before he spots you.

His mouth shuts in an instant, with enough force to hear his teeth clack. You’re surprised to see him, eyes blown open. He swallows, not expecting to see you either—you with your curious gaze and unbroken attention. He could blush from the eye contact alone, if there wasn’t a thick fog of tension in the room; if you didn’t look so uncomfortable. Suddenly he wants to ask what’s going on. He wants to know about this conversation and everything you’re thinking.

“Next one over,” Kendou grits through her teeth.

It snaps him out of his thoughts, nodding on instinct as he fumbles backwards through the door. “Shit,” did he fuck something up by coming in? “Sorry. I—sorry, thanks.”

He chews on his lip while walking to the next trailer. Suddenly he’s nervous. He timidly knocks, waiting for Momo’s invitation before opening the door. He lacks his earlier confidence when he sets the papers down to start explaining his concepts for the remaining tents.

“Sero?” Momo interrupts. “Are you okay?”

His shoulders feel heavy, hunched over the desk. He’s not sure. “I accidently went in Kendou’s trailer.” 

Momo’s face morphs into one of understanding. “Don’t worry about that,” she reassures. “As long as you didn’t give anything away, we’re fine.”

He shakes his head. “No, I just… it was kind of tense in there.”

“Oh,” her face blanks. “You mean the conversation they’re having.”

He nods.

“It’ll be fine,” she repeats, then nearly scoffs. “Designers.”

He doesn’t know much about designers and their habits. Does the air around them normally feel like a storm approaching? But he nods, trusting her judgment.

Hanta is part of the working crew for the festival that evening. He keeps himself towards the back where he can spot the red-coated tent. You’re absent, he assumes inside already and sifting through the many memories of the circus. He’s curious about whose you open, what you see. He wants to peek inside for himself—to see how Momo executed his thoughts. He wonders if you’ll come to know the others better than he does.

It feels a little like being on patrol, wandering through the same paths and having the same conversations, occasionally smiling for a photo. His steps slow every time he passes the tent, waiting on edge throughout the night.

When he rounds the corner to the last row, walking towards the red stall once again, he catches a flutter of the entrance flaps. His heart races as your hand parts through them, slicing your way out and into the chilly air. He paces forwards, hoping to catch you, but then freezes when you stumble out in full.

There is no pause between your exit from the tent and your dash to leave the festival. Hanta watches with guilty curiosity as you sprint away. Your face is twisted, grimacing and tear-stained, while your hand is clenched by your heart. You dart the opposite way from him, not even spotting him, before suddenly you are gone. Vanished. Like a ghost, or the wind.

His stomach drops like he’s going to be sick. It aches—a painful guilt he’s never felt before. Did he try too much too fast? Did he ruin something that hasn’t even had the proper chance to start?

He’s not sure how long he stands there, when a clattering of jingles stomps up behind him.

“Oi! The hell r’ya standin’ around for? Yer in everyone’s fuckin’ way!”

Hanta doesn’t respond or react, still frozen and staring. A rough hand grabs his bicep. It yanks him from the center of the path and forces him to turn to Bakugou.

“Sero! Y’fuckin’ deaf?” Red eyes glare at him, but they’re focused—concentrated. Thoughtful, even. They stare at the bottom of Hanta’s eyes, the waterline where tears have unknowingly clumped in his lower lashes.

“I—” he can hardly get out. His voice is shaky, wavering.

Bakugou grunts, tugging Hanta’s arm down the row of markets, past the red tent. Sero swallows as the crimson blurs away. His feet follow obediently, stepping in time with his friend’s as the bells on his hat jingle in matching rhythm. He would laugh, if he had the mind for it.

The blond doesn’t speak when they’re finally out of the congested path. Instead he looks at Hanta expectantly. Impatiently, but still waiting nonetheless.

“Fuck,” is the first word he releases. It’s a breathy, broken sound. His face crumples, that guilt in stomach rolling upwards to his chest and his shoulders and pooling heat in his face.

“Fuck, I—did I mess things up?” What was he thinking? Projecting all those hopes onto you, as if you were some fated soulmate of his. Did he subject you to something awful? How could he think to use memories like that—as some sort of game to play with between you two. How could he leave something so delicate in the hands of something so unpredictable?

“The hell r’ya goin’ on about?” Bakugou’s quip pulls him from his spiraling. 

Hanta shakes his head. It’s too much to explain, something Bakugou wouldn’t understand. He should go find you, or Momo, to get a sense what you might’ve seen and to start on a way to repair—

“What’s this? Are we hiding from our responsibilities?” the bubbly voice of Kaminari chirps behind him. Hanta grimaces, not wanting to deal with more obstacles.

But Bakugou is already making it everyone’s problem, demanding, “Icyhot, the hell is wrong with yer extra?”

“Hanta?”

Shouto’s deep voice grabs his attention, turning to see him and Denki. They must have passed while doing rounds near the music together. To help Shouto socialize, Kaminari had explained before splitting up.

The firebreather steps forward quickly, breaking from Kaminari to assess his friend. The blond puffs his cheeks in a pout.

The conversation is a mess—Sero attempting to explain what happened and why he’s upset—but Shouto takes it in stride, nodding in understanding. The blonds stand to the side, watching with confusion and annoyance, respectively. 

“Do you want to talk to Momo?” Shouto asks. “We can go look for her.” Bakugou makes a face at the implied inclusion in ‘we’. Kaminari looks greedy for more drama.

Hanta shakes his head. “No, it’s—I’ll try to talk to her in the morning instead. I just assumed it would be harmless, I didn’t think about the potential stress this could cause.”

“It sounds like you were trying to show them something beautiful,” Shouto replies. His voice is strong, stern. “It will be okay.”

In the morning, Momo explains that the setup was a collection of tables with marbles scattered over their surfaces, strung to look like bottles in the contained space of the tent. They were labelled based on shape and color—for the type of memory, and whose. “Anything intense would be more of an abstract feeling or experience, and not a fully cohesive scene.”

Hanta purses his lips as he thinks. Is an abstract experience of something painful any better than the entire experience in full? Could it even be worse—to only know the fragments of trauma, lacking proper understanding to process the bits you’re given?

Momo watches carefully as his expression shifts in thought. She adds, “It’s comparable to reading a book—it allows you to experience something in a safe and controlled environment when you can end it at any time. If they experienced something unpleasant, it wouldn’t be traumatizing, just unpleasant.”

Hanta understands what she’s trying to say, but the words don’t properly infiltrate. Momo didn’t see the way you left, how sad and troubled your face was. But he thanks her for the information.

“Should we not go through with the rest?” he asks.

Momo hums in surprise. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t. They’re very well thought out, and none of them run the same risk as last night’s.”

He stays quiet, looking at her skeptically.

“I think the one you planned for tonight is good,” she asserts. “I think they would appreciate seeing it.”

Hanta’s gut is still uncertain, and his ability to differentiate his nerves from his gut is out of touch. But he trusts his friend.

He’s still troubled by the time the show starts, especially when you haven’t made an appearance, since Kendou assumed you would visit every day. Hanta hopes he didn’t push you away.

You still don’t appear when he dresses and begins his warm up. Bakugou is standing by the high bars when Hanta ambles over to stretch. The blond eyes him while he hangs, letting his shoulders loosen before he gently rocks them.

“Ya done tweakin’?”

Hanta laughs, already more relaxed with his body in the air. He stretches each shoulder individually, pulling one arm off the bar at a time to sink into the feeling. It feels familiar—good.

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m better than last night.”

He doesn’t get a response, just sharp red eyes that watch him closely. Bakugou doesn’t leave.

“Hanta!” He hears a voice call behind him. “I got your drink! And a special someone.”

He turns with a frown, confused by the cheeky edge of Denki’s words. Then he blinks in surprise. You’re there with him, eyes trained on ahead. You look fine—good, and he nearly flushes when the words register, the implication that Denki brought you for him. 

He paces over quickly, drawn to you even while nervous.

Should he ask about last night? To be upfront and apologize, even if it ruins the surprise? It might be overwhelming for you—

“Hanta,” you whisper. It’s quiet and breathy, like a prayer—or a plea. You say it like you meant it for yourself. A secret.

His body flares with tingles at the sound of you calling his name. They fester in his chest and through his shoulders and arms, prickles that migrate down to his stomach and his legs. His hands feel weak. His knees almost give out.

“Huh?” His voice is small, nearly choking on his breath. He presses his knuckles to his lips, knowing his face must be beet red.

You make a face, a cute face of confusion and then embarrassment. You’re quick to apologize, trying to explain your realization about the pronunciation. He nearly laughs, but bites his tongue. If he makes a sound right now, it’ll be a whine or something infinitely more embarrassing. He swallows and inhales before he answers: 

“I prefer it anyways.” From you. He wants to add. Always from you.

You’re still embarrassed even after he assures you of it. Meanwhile he’s still tingling—recovering from your initial ambush.

“Stop flirting in front of us,” Denki pouts in Japanese as he slides Hanta’s drink across the table.

Dark eyes point at his blond friend. A warning, or a plea, to stop. Even if you can’t understand what they’re saying, it makes him nervous. He lifts his drink, hand still tingling and weak, to uncap his order and breathe it in. The scent is dark and rich, a less volatile sort of warmth that soothes him from the inside out.

When the others join to collect their drinks, Hanta takes the opportunity to step away from you. He’s overwhelmed by your presence, trying to will away the buzz and heat radiating along his skin—but he still steals glances when you aren’t looking his way. You look happy and excited, but also tense. Is he imagining it? He frowns, frustrated at his inability to assess clearly.

Your eyes suddenly meet his. They’re piercing, and they make his heart jump. He looks away immediately, hand splaying across his face to hide his overwhelming fluster.

By the time you’re standing with Momo to send her on stage, he’s decided that he’ll talk to you. He’s Hanta: always honest and upfront, and he thinks it’s worth spoiling the surprises in exchange for knowing that you’re okay, that he didn’t hurt you somehow. After Momo disappears through the curtain he waits for you, even when it takes a moment for you to turn around, fiddling with something in your pocket. 

He feels a wave of guilt when you start backstage and he scares you, your body nearly flinching from his presence. There’s a sharp clink of something hitting the ground, barely audible over your noise of surprise.

He apologizes immediately, crouching for the little object you dropped. When his eyes land on it, he pauses. Something in his stomach tightens painfully, before releasing completely.

A marble.

It’s a small clump of glass, with a crescent of a glare against the dark floor. Hanta’s memory drifts back to Momo’s words this morning. Marbles, she said, scattered across the tables in the tent—elongated into bottles in the small space she can control.

“I found it yesterday,” you explain when he hands it back to you. Your palm is cool against his fingertips. “In the festival.”

“It’s pretty,” he manages, breathless. 

You took the marble from the tent—a bottle, a green one: one of your own. He recalls the fist you held to your chest as you rushed outside. Were you holding it there, against your heart? Was that something you wanted? 

He watches you tuck the marble back into your pocket, shoulders dropping in relief. That knot in his stomach, the guilt and the worry, unravels in an instant. You smile. It’s small and soft, but he can’t help beaming in response, grin widening across his face. It prompts yours to grow, brightening further.

He should’ve trusted himself, he thinks. Trusted himself, his friends, and you.

Sero is off duty with Shouto that evening. They wander through the nightlife of Milan, stepping into a bar Kaminari demands they must see where a robot arm prepares their drinks. After one cocktail, Hanta’s had enough. He slips away, leaving his friends to enjoy themselves.

The streets are busy as he strolls through chilly winter air. The sky is dark, but the ground is bright, illuminated by the orange glow of street lamps. He watches a flock of pigeons chirp and peck at the ground, where a to-go container was dropped. He sidesteps the congregation, toeing along the curb of the sidewalk before recentering. His phone buzzes after a couple more steps.

It’s a text from Momo that reads: Success! I don’t think you have anything to worry about :-)

He pauses, standing in the middle of the sidewalk as he tries to calm his heart now racing again. A man grumbles as he brushes by, pushing his shoulder into Sero’s. He falters, stumbling towards the edge and out of the way. He wants to ask questions, to probe for details. But he trusts Momo, so he sends an Okay, thanks in return.

When he lays in bed and drifts to sleep, his dreams take him to the sky as a green-feathered bird. His wings slice through the air like a malleable knife, giving him the mobility to spin and dip and glide. Beneath him is the vibrant blue of the sea, rapidly transitioning into lush green canopies. There’s another bird up ahead, below him. He chirps before swooping down to meet it.

When he wakes the next day he feels light. Soaring.

You don’t come backstage.

It puts him on edge, breeds nerves in his body. Not from the fear that he’s done something wrong, but with worry that you’ll miss the tent Momo has for you tonight. This one is special—they’re all special. He hopes that you’ll see it. He reminds himself to trust you.

He’s soaking in the music when you bump into him. He’s delighted by your appearance, simultaneously wrecked with nerves. 

“Hi Sero,” you say. It’s a quiet, private greeting. He warms immediately, then flushes when you correct yourself. “Hanta.”

His body threatens to shiver from the tingles in his shoulders and chest. He’s breathless when he responds. “Hi.”

You look calm next to him, peaceful. You’re enjoying your night, you say; it’s been really good. The affirmation puts Hanta at ease.

A reminder to trust you.

He stands with you in the quiet, your proximity enough. But with the lull of the musicians—acoustic guitar and violin and stand up bass—he also wants to move. After a moment of hesitation he asks you to dance. You tell him only if he has the courage to handle your shoes. The response has him beaming, heart warm as he takes your hand—a cool and callused thing—to guide you through an improvised waltz. You don’t know the steps, your clunky shoes stomping on his toes through the sweeping gestures. They’re hardly noticeable when he gets to hold you close, when he has your hand in his. Your face is nearly pressed into his chest, right at his rapidly beating heart. A tingling and yearning heart.

He cherishes this night and the ease you seem to have with him. He wishes it could be like this, always. 

Forever.

“They’ll be watching the last show,” Momo tells him.

He finds you immediately, partially because you’re conveniently seated in the same spot but also because you’re you. He’ll always find you. 

He is not prepared to see you in your dress.

In the crowd it’s not noticeable, covered by the people sitting in front of you. But when you step backstage wrapped in loose dark fabric, silken and sheer swathes draping elegantly across your arms and waist and legs, it’s all he can see. You, with stars smeared over your skirt, trailing light strings as you move, like meteors over a still pond in the night.

It takes time to compose himself before he speaks to you, taking a moment to face the wall with shaky breaths. It isn’t until you’re left alone by even your friend—Chia, you call her—that he has the composure to speak to you. You start complimenting him again, and he’s weak in the knees, unraveling under your attention. He presses his fist to his face again, hoping it can help transfer away the heat in his cheeks. You must know what you’re doing to him—you in your beautiful self-made gown, singing him praise.

“Smash. But without the shoes.”

Hanta’s swooning is halted at Touya’s sneering Japanese, immediately replaced by heated irritation. He knows Touya’s games, that the words are meant to rile him up in front of you. He luckily tampers his anger quickly, but not before shooting the elder Todoroki a glare. He only receives a wide smirk in response. 

Shouto intercepts, pulling a musical laugh from you. Before you can ask for a translation, Hanta’s asking questions about your dress again, redirecting your attention. 

You eventually introduce him to your friend, someone direct and sharp but who you scold easily and make faces of displeasure at. He hasn’t seen this side of you.

“Tucano?” she calls, and his stomach drops.

You hum in response, like it’s a name you’re called often. Hanta knows he’s making the most absurd face—eyes wide, jaw agape, cheeks probably flaming. He doesn’t catch your response, only able to hear the thumping of his heart and too focused on not throwing up right there.

It is you, after all. Right? 

He leaves. He can’t handle standing near you for another moment, no matter how much his heart yearns for it. He’ll know tonight. You’ll see for yourself and then he’ll know everything he needs.

“Dude, you aren’t working tonight,” Kirishima’s voice sounds from behind him.

Hanta turns around, jester’s hat in hand while his clothes are switched to his festival costume. He realizes he didn’t have to put the costume on. “Oh…” he doesn’t know what to say. “I guess muscle memory took over. I’m going to the festival tonight anyway.”

He doesn’t change.

When he steps into the tent, minutes after you, the first thing he thinks is that he owes Momo everything. The illusion is so real, a tangible, living story that brings to life everything he could have imagined. It’s immersive, it’s beautiful, it’s perfect. When he stares into the pond and sees your form on the other end, pulling you into his arms to fall through the galaxy and land on a beach made of stars, you on top of him in a gown that matches, he knows that he will forever be indebted to his friend.

Pulling you across the water is like a dream. Leading you through his childhood home is like a secret. Seeing you in the parade again, reliving his memory—this time entangled with yours—is something he can’t put words to, something too precious for metaphor.

This time, with your imagination working with his, he sees more details—new details—like the way you look to the woman beside you as a guide, how you reach for her. She’s a macaw, a mix of blue and gold, with a silhouette akin to the one you wore the night before the first show.

(That’s where he knows that shape from—what struck familiarity in him when he saw the costume for the first time.)

This time he can also see that you’re nervous. It’s an aching feeling, an apprehension clearly displayed across your face. The old woman calms you, encouraging and assuring that everything will be alright.

It feels like a gift, to have this moment one more time. And it is a gift, for it to be saturated with new colors, inks bleeding through a page and running together, swirling perspectives and memories. It’s beautiful, in its own messy, inexplicable—inseparable—way.

You meet his eyes and wave like the first time, watching as he grins with new recognition. Then in a flash the two of you are in the piazza, standing on opposite ends of a crowd. He watches you nervously. Was he able to reach you?

You run to him.

Everything will be okay.

He steps forward to meet you, revels in the way you cling to his shirt. Your eyes are teary and your voice is hoarse. He wants to kiss you, your eyes and your lips. He wants to tell you everything will be alright, that he's here for you.

It's more to reassure himself—that you're here. For him.

You're asking him broken questions and he's trying his best to answer, waiting with bated breath to hear what you think—if it all came together like he hoped. You say they were everything, everything you were missing, and he nearly floats from the relief, melting and then evaporating from the heat that flares inside him. All he can do is grip your waist and tell himself you’re here. All he can do is whisk you away, so he can finally have you to himself. 

“Gracias, Hanta. Para mostrarme,” you whisper under the canopies.

“It's you,” he tells you. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Even before it was you giving him that special feeling, it was the precious book that would lead him to you anyways. It was always you, only ever you, your essence infused in everything he ever reached for. It was you who guided him to Hoshi no Sākasu and it was you he was bound to cross again.

Here in the dark, in the quiet of the garden away from the noise of the festival, Hanta finally feels like he has you. He has your attention and your acknowledgment. You know who he is and what you mean to him. He feels unhurried, simply happy to hold your face in gentle hands and murmur sweet things back and forth. He wants to take his time with you. 

But then you call him beautiful, and he needs you now.

Kissing you shoots a buzz through his body, nearly vibrating from the intimacy. You’re close, so close, pressed into him at the hip where he can feel a heat stirring from within. You try to pull him closer and all he can think is that he wants that—whatever you want. He wants to be as close as you’ll let him. He takes everything you offer, and croons when you give into his every initiation.

You want him too.

The thought alone has him burning, aching, but then you start saying his name—chanting it with need—“Hanta, Hanta, Hanta—” and he whines into your skin: secrets that can’t find proper words. But he trusts that you receive them, that you can understand.

When you’re finally in his room he’s thrumming with want, fully guided by the tightness of his pants, the carnal desire to have you. He wants to feel everything—your warmth and your skin and the reassurance that you’re here. With him. You make choked sounds while he presses you against the wall, gasps and whines that ring as chiming bells. He wants more, so much more. He wants everything from you until you have nothing to give.

“Lo siento,” he tells you, because he truly is sorry to move at this pace. Only his heart means it.

But you groan, like you need him now too. It’s enough to shrink any hesitation into a sliver in his chest. He lifts you towards the bed, fingers working your dress to fall down your chest. It pools at your waist, sliding down your arms like liquid coals, a woven night sky. He nearly chokes, overwhelmed by the sight of you. His heart is stuttering, rapidly thumping against his sternum while he repeats this is real in his mind like a mantra.

When he leans to press his lips to your chest, kissing and biting and sucking at the skin your heart is buried beneath, he finally feels an inkling of relief. He feels close to you, pulling you closer with a hand on your ass as your hips stutter into him. His own hardness grinds against the mattress, shooting a buzz up his torso, burning his body from the inside. He groans into your neck as he encourages you to continue. He wants you to feel good, for him to make you feel good.

(To make you feel so good that the decision for whether to stay or go becomes obvious.)

Your hands bury in his hair when he brings you over the edge. It sends shivers through him, pulling him through another type of euphoria, one that originates in his chest and dissolves his body through the air. Maybe he can seep into you, into every part of your being—so you can hold him close forever. 

When your grip finally relents, releasing him back to earth and letting him prop above you, he watches attentively. Your eyes open slowly, blinking at him in disbelief. He can’t help grinning, even while cautious at your delicate state. His next touches are gentle, traces along your thigh to ask for permission, skimming further along when you don’t protest.

There’s an ache in his stomach and between his legs, his desire for you, for another level of closeness. But the thought of going further—to fulfill that—brings a hollowness in his chest.

He halts. It’s a this moment of clarity, realizing that he’s not dictating his own actions consciously. What is he being propelled by? What does he actually want? His firm cock pulses with an obvious desire, but his chest is heavy—with a conflict he’s never felt before.

This possession and this urgency—is this how he wants to be with you? Acting out of fear and panic, to have you now, as if there is no future to look forward to. This isn’t him; this isn’t the way he acts.

You’re watching curiously, expecting him to continue. He swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Hanta?”

Will it disappoint you, if he ended things here? If all he really wanted was to lay against your chest again. He felt closest to you there, where he could feel the drumming of your warm heart. There’s a knot in his stomach, an uncertainty. That apprehension earlier reduced to a sliver in his chest is now surrounding him.

He should trust you.

He’s honest when you ask if he’s okay, through both his shaking voice and his words as he confesses what he’s thinking. How he doesn’t want to rush.

You tell him it’s okay. He’s okay.

Estás bien.

At the sound of your assurance, your insistent, “Hanta, it’s okay,” he exhales a long breath and drops his forehead against your shoulder. You hold him, your hand threading through his hair in a delicate cradle. His eyes sting with fresh tears, though he’s not sure why: whether it’s guilt or fear or some third thing. You trace your fingers over him, down his neck and along his spine—a balm against his bruising.

“Lo siento,” he says, though he still doesn’t know why—if he’s sorry for rushing things, or for not following through. Maybe he’s sorry for not trusting you to begin with. Maybe he’s sorry for something to come later.

You don’t seem bothered, or even surprised. You simply whisper, “Yo también,” as you continue to hold him carefully.

Hanta can’t imagine what you would need to be sorry for.

Waking next to you is something like a dream. He returns to reality pressed against your chest, face buried in sleep-warmed skin. His own chest feels light while flush to your stomach. He exhales carefully against you, taking in the buzz that coats his skin.

It gets too overwhelming, so much that he has to untangle himself. He rolls carefully onto his back, welcoming the coolness of the morning air as it rushes against the dampness of his—and maybe your—sweat. He tears off the blankets and bunches them against you as a replacement for his form. A sliver of light runs down the length of his body from the curtains, bending as his chest raises from a deep inhale. He lays like that, collecting himself as the minutes pass. Eventually the buzzing in his heart becomes steady and familiar, enough that he feels normal again.

Reading distracts him from watching you sleep, worried he’ll fall apart if he looks at you for too long. He props himself on his elbows while his eyes glide through the chapter he lived last night. They pause when Santi begins pulling stars from the surface of the pond. He reminds himself that he needs to thank Momo, again. Forever.

He glances at you every few paragraphs, normally at the bottom of each page. After a few pages he finds that you’re awake. He tenses, as if he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, until you grin sleepily, encouraging him to smile back.

You’re quiet in the morning, all whispers and low voices. Touchy too, the featherlight brush of fingertips and lips. You’re also more open, he thinks, a little easier to read when you’ve just woken in his bed. Or at least your face is: an honest display of curiosity that you won’t verbalize. Instead of asking for anything you say your thanks again. 

There’s a pang in Hanta’s chest. He tries to explain himself and how the tents worked, what he wanted from them. You look uncertain, like you can’t stomach real answers—or at least ask the questions to find them—so he speaks vaguely. You don’t respond and he finds himself apologizing, for last night, and for any of the previous ones that may have gone awry. You hold his face and tell him it’s okay.

You let him read to you, starting over from the beginning of the page in front of him. Reading to you is different from reading to Shouto. There’s something deep and familiar here, not the excitement of showing a friend his precious treasure for the first time. You know these words and this story by heart, rooted in your soul and in your life, its essence carried through your actions. He wonders if your copy has the same empty promise of a sequel buried in the back.

It doesn’t.

There’s a particular sort of excitement that overtakes him at your surprised face—something about having the privilege to be the one to tell you new information about a shared love. He watches carefully as you read the description, wonders what you’re thinking when you lay on your back. He’s curious if you see yourself as Santi, too. He wants to know if he’s worth wanting to be together, forever.

Things don’t change the way Hanta hoped they would, after his confession and your realization of how intertwined your lives have been. You let him come with you, to spend the day by your side while you work, but there’s a distance wedge in the gap between you. He marvels at your studio and all your old costumes, some known to him but most unseen. Watching you piece together fabric, running hands under a whirring needle, is sort of thrilling. Your fingers move quickly, expertly, as they transform big sheets of fabric into a beautifully layered skirt.

But he feels a little like he’s in grade school again, wanting to ask too many questions that others won’t answer—questions that will make the room tense, because he wasn’t supposed to ask. He wants to know about your sister you make dresses for, if she’s the one in your contact with a matching last name, whose calls you fervently dismissed. He wants to ask about the woman next to you in the parade, the blue and gold macaw that you looked to whenever you seemed uncertain. He wants to probe about the empanadas in the freezer, why they’re a month old, who made them. He wants to know why you respond to him in English, why you cried leaving the memory tent, what you saw in that little green marble.

He wants to learn about you, he wants to know the answers to these questions. He wants more.

He wants to reach for you and hold you like he did last night. He wants to wrap his arms around your waist, press his head into your neck, kiss your forehead. He wants to hold your hand or brush his leg against yours beneath the table.

But there’s a delicate dance the two of you are doing, skirting the edges of the conversations and touches he wants most. It’s still fun and fulfilling to be with you like this, and he wonders if maybe he should take his time getting to know you too. Maybe this is how these relationships develop, at their own pace.

You tell him that you’ll meet at the station after dinner, but he’s nearly pacing with anticipation. He doesn’t want to ask Momo or Kendou where they’re eating, disrupting their time with you, so he tries Bakugou—likely the one who gave them the recommendation if they didn’t ask you.

His phone pings only moments later, twice. The first response says Fuck should I know? and the second is a link to a map pin.

Knowing Momo and Kendou, he waits outside the restaurant an hour after your reservation. The host appears after a few minutes, asking if he has a table for tonight. 

Sero smiles with embarrassment, only understanding a few words. “I’m waiting for someone,” he tries in English. The host nods and goes back inside.

A quarter hour passes of him huddling by the door until Momo appears. He’s uncharacteristically nervous. Something about meeting you in the night, stripped of costumes to hide behind, frightens him. In an instant the two of you are alone and awkwardly trailing through responses to one another. You nod after his, “Yeah,” and he almost feels the urge to run away. But he stands persistently, even as your eyes trail him sharply, like you’re assessing him.

You laugh, and he’s reminded that everything will be okay.

He just has to be honest, and trust that you will be too.

The gelato gives him something to busy his hands so they don't yearn for yours. He picks the orange flavor, though its color is closer to red. It has a sour and floral taste—blood orange, he realizes after taking the first bite.

You eat yours much faster, and then rest your hands by your sides. He wants to scoot closer to you, so your arms might brush.

“I was trying to put off our serious conversation until tomorrow… But I get the sense that it’s making you nervous. So, sorry. For being selfish.”

He doesn’t know how to answer, spoon still in his mouth and sweet tang on his tongue. You tell him that you haven’t made a decision about joining the circus yet. You haven’t made a decision about him. You want it, you say, but it’s not the right time.

Your words are pangs in his chest, an ache from disappointment and raw hurt. Hanta would choose you in an instant; he’s been choosing you his whole life. For you to have any uncertainties or reservations… Does he not mean to you what you mean to him?

He’s forgotten, or maybe never acknowledged, that you didn’t know who he was until a week ago.

“The timing?” he encourages. 

You mention your abuela, the need to return home before you can go anywhere else. An image of the blue and gold macaw flashes through his mind, dancing next to you in the parade. He sees the dress on your costume rack that looks like the ocean. He sees your phone screen from over your shoulder, with missed calls from someone with your last name. Another pang strikes through him, this time his stomach, and with guilt. You have your own life you’ve been living, a life outside of him, without him. He should have considered that—not assumed you would leave everything behind for him.

But it still hurts. And he still wants you.

Your eyes are teary, tugging at his heart. His hand moves before he can stop himself, for the smallest touch. His heart jumps at the contact. He thinks he understands this talk about timing when he realizes he can’t stay for you either. He’s bound to Hoshi no Sākasu for the next two years. You call him insane, but he wants you to listen, to understand everything you mean to him—that he would choose you over and over again, because that’s all he’s ever done. You are the reason he’s here now. You are enough of a reason to stay.

You look at him like you’re going to bolt. Fuck, he’s not guilting you, right? He just wants to be understood, even if it hurts him that your decision will take time, that you might stay after all. It’s okay if it doesn’t work out the way he imagined, with you and him and endless time to get to know one another. The thought makes his eyes and heart sting, leaving the pains of flame on his skin. 

Is this his fault, always somehow getting what he wanted? Never learning how to accept when things don’t go his way, when it comes to this special unnamable feeling in his body?

“I’m sorry,” you say, and he feels defeated.

His chest hurts. It hurts so much, like a weight crushing through it. You shouldn’t be sorry for him and his disappointment. The fault is with him, for having expectations in the first place. It’s enough, in the end, if you two simply find space for each other in distant lives. You start blinking tearily and it’s like another stab to his chest.

Hugging you is a relief. He holds you tightly, body on edge as you cry into him. It makes him feel powerless, builds a sadness inside him that requires your closeness even after you finish crying. You don’t make him let go.

The conversation is painful, and there’s still a dull ache afterwards, but Hanta feels better after it happens. You let him come home with you, your hand wound in his as you guide him forwards this time. Your touch is chilly, like the night air. He rubs his thumb over the back of your hand, feeling as the skin slowly warms. 

You let him into your bed. You let him hold you close. You let him ask questions he was scared to ask earlier in the day.

“Mi abuela,” you answer, when he asks what you saw in the little green marble, who made the empanadas from lunch.

He gets explanations that, while short, broaden his understanding.

“I ghosted my family, after she died.” It’s a whisper of a confession. “Her ashes are in my living room.”

His heart drops as he sits up, nearly snapping his neck at the force. The movement pulls him over the edge of the bed but he flails his arms and legs in time to barely catch himself. “Que!?” he yells, hands lowering from the air to grasp the roots of his hair. He tugs harshly, an attempt to focus on something other than his heart about to explode. “You—you what? Ay Dios mío, asaste a tu abuela.” Is that… legal? No wonder you need to go home first, what else were you planning to do—take her to Japan with you? Hanta squeezes his eyes shut while he inhales. His face is burning. This can’t be real.

When he takes a nervous glance your way you’re still laying in the bed, watching him with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. Too calm.

“Cremation is common in Costa Rica,” you tell him. He pulls his lips tight, grimacing while wanting to believe you. “We’ve done it for other relatives and were planning it for her. But, you know, back home. She died here after getting surgery, and… I couldn’t bring myself to face everyone.”

Hanta thinks of his own abuela, the giant flowers spread over her coffin when they lowered her. She has a cross over her grave where he and his relatives stuff bouquets before spreading dinner out on the grass.

“Do they know?”

You nod, a small shake of your head. “I called my sister when she passed, but haven’t talked to her since.”

“Do your parents?”

You don’t nod. “My sister told mamá, I’m sure. But I haven’t spoken to her myself.”

His heart races with fear—for you. Just imagining being in your position floods his veins with ice. He nearly shivers, body tense and curled.

He's afraid to ask, “How… How long has it been?”

“A few months.”

He blows out a breath, not sure if that’s better or worse than what he assumed. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. You’re still watching him with a complicated expression, but too calm for his liking. He thinks you look sad.

Your lips purse before asking, “Did I ruin your fantasy?”

He frowns. “Huh?” The noise brings a twitch of a smile to your face.

“I guess… I wonder what kind of person you thought you were chasing,” you muse. “I wonder how good I was in your head.”

Oh… Hanta hadn’t thought about that before: neither the kind of person he would ultimately find, nor how knowing he was looking for you would make you feel. He never imagined beyond what he saw, had no assumptions of the kind of person you were, because it didn't matter to him. All that mattered was how he felt. All that mattered was that he wanted to meet you.

He leans forward carefully to lay beside you again. His hand reaches for your face, thumb gently running under your eye.

“I didn't imagine,” he says softly. “I just remembered.”

You hum and lean into his touch. He’s soft; his heart clenches and buzzes, a tingle that runs from his shoulder down his arm and to his palm against your cheek. He presses kisses over your eyes and you grab his wrist to press your own over his hand.

Even with his earlier resolve and understanding, he still wishes it could be like this. Forever.

Leaving in the morning is a painful process. After a final kiss to your forehead he’s out in the cool air and aching to run back into bed with you, but he returns to the hotel to get his things and friends for the parade. The piazza is crowded early, filled with costumes and floats scattered everywhere. Hanta is surprised to find himself overwhelmed, heart racing like he’s a child overstimulated from the sounds and the sun.

Hoshi no Sākasu’s preparations run smoothly—minus Kaminari’s disappearance after Hatsume checks the mechanics of his puppet, along with Bakugou who was supposed to keep an eye on him.

“Where are the blond goons?” Shinsou asks after a headcount. His lips are pursed tight.

Kirishima bites his lip, checking his phone with the shake of his head.

“How do you lose a giant mechanical bird?” Shigaraki asks plainly.

“My baby is missing!?” Hatsume yelps, looking up from the mass of wiring in Tetsutetsu’s costume.

“Not missing,” Shouto assures her. “Just distracted, probably.”

“Or lost,” Shinsou huffs. “It’s hard to get through the crowd. Ugh—this is why I needed everyone here. And to stay here.”

“That’s what Bakugou was for!” Kirishima whines.

Hanta’s eyes glaze between everyone speaking, not fully absorbing the conversation. He wonders where you are and when you’re supposed to arrive. He wishes he asked before he left this morning.

Luckily he soon hears the sigh of a relieved Kirishima.

“Oh thank god!”

Hanta turns to the sound, spotting the bright yellow bird above the sea of people. Bakugou appears a moment later with a twist of annoyance on his face.

“I got’im headin’ over,” he says gruffly. “That bird freak is with ‘im.”

Bird freak? Hanta’s eyes widen. You?

“You left them to get here on their own?” Hanta asks. There’s an edge of accusation he doesn’t mean. His face softens in surprise at his own tone.

Bakugou catches it, grunting. “No. ‘M gonna go back.”

Hanta swallows with a nod, eyes apologizing. Bakugou gives him a curt nod back before disappearing through the crowd again. The yellow bird lets him track your progress, a buoy on the sea. Kirishima is the first to greet Kaminari, immediately pointing him to check with Shinsou.

The blond grins cheekily, eyeing Hanta while saying, “Just had to pick up a delivery, is all!”

His breath catches.

His heart might explode at the sight of you wrapped in black and yellow, a matching beak in your hand. You don’t notice him until he calls your name, but you immediately smile, only indicated by the crescent slivers of your eyes uncovered by the fabric concealing your nose and mouth. He swallows at the sight.

A toucan, you confirm. Like the first time. All he can think is that it’s you, it’s you, it’s you. He knew this already, but now you’re here in front of him, for real. He’s no longer in the crowd, unknown to you except for that split second. This time he’ll be in the parade, with you. He wants to hold you at the waist and lift you above him to spin in circles.

“Please go make heart eyes somewhere else, I’m begging you.”

Hanta rolls his eyes at Denki’s whine, but abides his plea. He whisks to the edge of the piazza where the crowd thins. This time when his friends briefly stop you, momentarily stealing your attention, he’s unrushed—filled with ease. This time he is secure, sure of himself and the unique relationship you have together. 

Standing next to you, hand in yours, he feels like everything will work out—even if it costs more time, and it’s not the future he expected.

The parade is perfect.

The weather is cold, but the costumes are warm enough, especially under the shining sun in the blue of the sky. Hanta is giddy and warm from the excitement, from getting to stand next to you as everyone floats down Milan in costume. He can’t tear his eyes from you for more than a couple minutes, always glancing your way in hopes that you’re looking at him too. After a couple blocks you start to wave frantically, blowing kisses from your beak overdramatically towards the crowd.

He turns and squints, eyes landing on a pair your age waving back dramatically. One is the match to your green macaw, only red. He thinks it’s your friend Chia, noticing how she blows kisses back by waving both her arms at you. The other is a woman in a costume of its own theme—a giant Renaissance dress with shimmering pink fabric and swirls of white. There’s lace and layered sleeves and a dramatic mass of curls done up on her head, matching pink to the fabric and glitter along her eyes. She catches your kiss and pulls it to her heart, pretending to swoon. Hanta hears you laugh, a melody ringing beside him.

“Chia’s in the red macaw,” you say to him loudly, fighting the sound of the music and the crowd. “My friend next to her is Davide—the one in Renaissance drag.”

Hanta offers them a wave. Chiara smirks at him while raising her hands to make a heart while the man responds with a thumbs down. You yell in response—a string of enunciated Italian that he doesn’t understand, but based on your tone and the few recognizable words, he can infer it’s a scolding.

Everything goes smoothly—minus Denki accidentally brushing a powerline with his puppet at the end, almost collapsing from the shock. Touya grabs his arm to help him stand, only to scowl when the electricity buzzes through him too. He immediately runs to Keigo, slapping him on the back between his costume wings and pulling a yelp from the blond.

You offer to help them tear down, hovering around the puppets and float to lend your hands. Hanta smiles as he watches, eventually stalking over. He gently holds you by the waist, turning you to look at him. A necessary kiss is placed against your forehead before he grins and insists they’ll take care of things. You try to protest.

“Employees only,” he says while shaking his head. “How else will we keep the magic a secret?”

He wishes he could see the entirety of your face. Your eyebrows are furrowed, as if angry, but are you pouting? He brings one hand to your cheek, brushing his thumb over your lips. They are pouting, but soften from his touch. He feels tender holding you this way, an overwhelming rush of warmth through his chest. He can’t stop himself from leaning to kiss you through the cloth. It’s soft, his lips barely brushing over yours. He leaves his forehead pressed to yours when he pulls away, eyes trained on you as they slowly open.

“I’ll come see you when we’re done,” he promises. He doesn’t even know if you’re available.

Your eyes crinkle while you nod. “I’ll be home.”

An elbow juts into his side before he responds. He frowns from being torn from you, turning to glare at Monoma smirking beside him.

“Please—if you’re going to be unhelpful, at least get out of the way.”

Hanta huffs and rolls his eyes, reaching for you to step further away from the others. Your goodbye is a soft promise to see him again.

Hanta knocks on your door. There’s no click of a lock before the knob turns, revealing you in long, loose clothing. The room is dimmed by the approaching evening, none of the lights illuminating the space. He steps inside slowly, shrugging off his shoes while he lets the warmth run over him. It smells good, familiar, and his eyes dart to a paper bag on the counter. It’s printed with the name of the empanada place you mentioned the day before.

The scenario feels like coming home.

He kisses you by the entrance, hand against your neck and body slotted into yours. It’s long and slow and sweet. He takes in the press of your chests, the warmth that flows between you two. Your arms reach for his sides, igniting tingles down his spine. His hands slithers around your waist to hold you closer, longer. 

Your face buries into his neck when you part, his hand sliding to cradle your head. His eyes lift, taking in the room—your living room—and he remembers what you whispered to him last night.

Her ashes are in my living room.

“Can I meet your abuela?”

The words fall from his lips before he can think them through. His eyes widen when they register. It’s too soon, right? Of course it’s too soon. Your own family hasn’t seen her in this state. 

It’s quiet. A tension sits in the air. But he doesn’t retract the question.

You break from his arms slowly, nodding when you’re a full step back. He feels his breath catch.

It takes a while. You move slowly to the table and take your time opening the drawer to reveal the box where she rests. It takes even longer for you to open it.

When you do, you tell him it’s the first time you’ve looked inside for yourself.

Hanta gets two blissful days of Carnival with you. Two days of you in costume, leading him down the streets of Milan to watch performers and buy rounds of chiacchiere and tortelli di Milano—sugar-dusted and puffy treats. You pull him to your favorite attractions, to the squares where your favorite performers usually gather. He catched live storytelling and other circus acts from the Clown Festival. Your friend Chiara joins one morning, not so subtly asking Hanta of Shigaraki’s whereabouts. At some point you meet with Denki and Shouto and Midoriya, all graciously enjoying your expertise on what food trucks to stop by. Momo and Kendou and Aoyama follow along your favorite streets of market stalls.

The festivals and costumes remind him of Ecuador while the climate feels more akin to Japan. It’s weird, like being both connected and out of place—both home and homesick. But he’s beside you: a personified piece of home that keeps the discomfort at ease.

And you look happy to be that for him. You pull his arm the way he pulled mamá through the streets of Fiestas de Quito. You pull his arm the way he pulled you along the Pacific, from black sand beaches to the back porch of tío’s house.

Hanta gets two blissful days with you, where everything feels as it should be. They’re so blissful, so perfect, he nearly forgets that there are only two. That he has to leave.

He invites you to dinner with the cast on the last day. It’s routine, a group goodbye to the city. He wants you there, to see you for as long as he can. It’s a reality he’s ignored until the last minute, stomach tight on this final day when he realizes he won’t be waking up next to you tomorrow morning.

“How fancy is the dress code?” you mumble sleepily in the morning.

“Does that matter to you?”

You hum. “Just wanna know the energy.”

Hanta smooths his palm over your forehead, brushing away baby hairs. “There’s no dress code.”

You laugh sharply. He grins.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Where’s the dinner?”

He rolls over to grab his phone, scrolling through his messages with Shinsou to find the name and read it to you.

“Mmm… so classic Milanese…”

You look concentrated, like you’re thinking hard. But you won’t budge when he asks, curious to know what’s running through your mind. You just giggle to yourself when he pulls you close and buries his head into your neck. He watches you stand in front of your closet with an intense expression, demeanor much more serious than he’s used to seeing from you. He wants to know what you’re thinking as you skim through garments and costumes. You try to kick him out so you can piece a final outfit in peace, but he pouts.

“I haven’t seen you get ready before,” he nearly whines.

You pause, considering his point. It takes more coaxing, but you fold and let him sit on the bed and watch while you rummage through the options. He doesn’t bother containing his grin, happily staring at the focus on your face—the manifestation of your churning mind as you silently set aside a variety of pieces. Hanta thinks it’s fascinating, the same intensity you have while working. It’s a different side of you, one he wishes he had more chances to get to know.

The thought tightens his stomach. His grin falters.

He convinces you to let him stay while you assemble your outfit. You raise your eyebrows skeptically when he insists he doesn’t need to go back to his hotel, that he can wear his clothes from yesterday. You mutter something about letting him borrow something of yours. He just grins.

He leaves your home and enters the metro with a hand in yours. You’re dressed in several layers, a transparent dress over a suit and covered with a coat and scarf and hat and gloves and—

and Hanta walks happily beside you in his simple linens, swinging your hands while you step into the station. Nobody looks your way, heads down and absorbed in their own worlds.

When you two arrive, Aoyama is the first to greet you. “You look fabulous.”

“Thanks,” Hanta immediately responds with a grin. 

You huff a laugh while he tugs you inside, immediately pull off your hat and loosen your scarf. He guides through the crowded room, neck craning to assess the tables. Only half or so people are present, but he sees Kendou sitting with Ibara and steers you over.

Dinner with his team is energized as always, loud chatting flitting through the room and crossing tables. People switch seats on impulse, and once dessert makes its way around, clusters of standing conversations form. Hanta freely grabs your hand at random, right on top of the tablecloth. You blink at him questioningly the first time, blooming a warmth and an ache in his chest that makes him squeeze it tighter. He stays by your side when others come to talk to him, and he follows you when you point towards Momo.

Bakugou is standing nearby, swirling his drink. His eyes are narrow when he looks over your clothes as you speak animatedly with the singer.

“They know their brands,” he mumbles to Hanta, trailing the length of your dress.

Hanta lips twitch at the comment, responding to the strike of pride that goes through his heart. It happens again when Shouto strides over, talking easily with the two of you. Momo squeezes your hand with a promise to talk again before stepping aside to greet someone else.

You look comfortable, like you belong here. And the cast has already adopted you, ready to take you in—whenever you’re ready too.

His grin falters, again.

Watching you say goodbye is sweet. It’s all tender touches and sorry eyes between you and Momo and Kendou, whispers of wishes and maybe’s and apologies that you won’t accept from one another. You say a special thanks to Midoriya, for discovering you—this one a conversation of red cheeks and mumbling. You have awkward, incomplete farewells with Shouto and Uraraka and Kaminari. Bakugou hardly spares you a glance. Touya gives you a sneer that makes Hanta roll his eyes and Shigaraki couldn’t be less subtle in trying to ignore you.

Saying goodbye is painful.

It happens outside, away from the entrance in a quiet side street. He has to go with the others. Hoshi no Sākasu leaves tonight. Hanta gathers you knew this early on when Momo relayed the schedule. The look in your eyes—intense and faraway—tells him enough. 

Tonight is the coldest he’s experienced in Milan, a nipping chill that flushes your cheeks while you’re buried back in your scarf and hat. His heart stings at the sight, an ache that bites like ice against skin. He wants more time with you, more running through streets with hands full of desserts. He wishes things were different and you knew what you wanted, too. Will it end here? When will you know what you’ve chosen?

Maybe these questions are splayed on his face, one that can’t hide his feelings. You’re the first to break the silence, with a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

His heart tightens at that, already feeling the sting behind his eyes and nose—tears, pooling along his waterline. He breathes slowly, trying to calm himself while he shakes his head. It’s not your fault, he’s trying to say.

“Kendou’s giving me until June to decide.”

He exhales. June? June as in over three months from now? The deadline is a comfort, to know that things will be decided eventually. But he grimaces at the thought of waiting in that grey space for months. Usually he knows these things for himself. Easily, instantaneously. He’s not used to waiting for others.

“Okay,” he breathes.

“Okay.”

His hand reaches for yours, fingers sliding down the fabric of your glove. He wishes they were uncovered, so he could touch your skin instead. The other hand comes to your cheek, taking in the coolness of your face. You lean into it, eyes fluttering closed. Hanta wants to cry.

There are too many things he wants to say, wants to acknowledge. But how can he speak on everything that’s happened in the past couple weeks? The days were earth shattering. His time with you was everything. Should he talk about the costume? The show and the tents? Everything you shared with him, about home and your family?

“Thank you,” is all he manages to say in the end. “For letting me reach you.”

You swallow, lips pursing as your own eyes water. “Thank you,” you whisper back. “For reaching for me.”

Your lips are salty, covered in both of your tears as he kisses you in the quiet darkness of the alleyway. They’re cold against his, mumbling soft words of sweetness and gratitude and farewell. He chokes at the sounds, poetry spilling into the space between your bodies. Will it expand with the distance—making your separation more and more beautiful as you drift apart?

He can hear the faint sounds of his friends as they exit the restaurant and turn down another street, ignoring when he hears the murmur of Has anyone seen Hanta? He just wants one more minute with you—one more kiss and one more touch and one more promise.

Before he has to go with the others. Before he has to escape into the night to be carried over the mountains and across the border.

Before he’s gone, waking up in Switzerland in a bed without you.

oh my god pasting fics into this website it such a chore

[mythicalgeek]

Ever heard of Red shoes and the seven dwarfs?

Its a animated retelling of snow white with a twist. In this, Snow white is a plus size princess who while searching for her missing father, stumbles on a pair of magical red shoes that make her look more traditionally beuatiful and the seven dwarfs are a group of hero's who after making a mistake are cursed to be drawfs unless they get a kiss from the most beautiful women in the world

The movie got a bad reputation a few years ago as a fat shaming movie because of a poor marketing decision, but the movie itself is actually the exact opposite.

Snow white is not ashamed of her body, infact she love's who she is but its other's treatment of her that makes her keep the shoes so that she can find her father and stop her wicked stepmother.

The story is really about Merlin (the main male lead) learning to see past his shallow views of beauty and loving snow white for she really is, and the love story is really sweet, well developed and is everything you want from a fairytale romance.💕

The film has a great body positive message and it's a dame shame that the marketing did the film so dirty because there's a lovely story here about how beauty is only skin deep and that true beauty is about what lies within one's heart, and as someone who has always struggled with body imagery, this movie was more than cathartic.

If your a fairytale nerd like me then you'll injoy the film because even though its mainly a Snow White retelling it also mixes some Beauty and the Beast elements and it very losely takes inspection from Hans Christian Anderson's red shoes tale. The way the magic works is very unique and even a little creepy, sort of like how magic in the grimm brothers fairytales works but not as horrifying.

And Merlin has this cool card lightning trick that he does and it's just so fun to watch.⚡

The movie is a little cheesy at time's but it's also very cute, has good animation and if your a fan of Tangeld or Shrek than this should be right up your ally.

Red shoes and the seven dwarfs is a great movie to teach us about not judging a book by it's cover, so don't let the marketing fool you because this is very sincere fairytale with one of the best body positive message I've seen in film and left me with a smile on my face. 🍎👠

But also Merlin is yummy 😏

[sunflowersandforgetmenots]

Congratulations on your engagement!! I was thinking that Kassandra and 8 would be an interesting fic :) Don’t feel like you have to write one though if it doesn’t float your boat!

Thank you so much! I'm very excited! I might post updates on how things are going when we get further in the engagement! Also CONGRATS ON BEING MY FIRST ASK BACK LET'S GOOOOOOO!!!

Summary: In a world where the gods blessed mortals with the ability to find their soulmates through matching wounds and scars, Kassandra has always felt immense guilt for her bloody job.

Pairing: Kassandra x Reader

Genre: Soulmate; No Smut

Potential TW: Blood, wounds, scarring, intentional scarring of a soulmate

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Kassandra never noticed the small cuts and bruises on her body. She was a mercenary, a life of injuries great and small was something she would always be used to. So when papercuts and bruises on the hips and shins appeared, she never took notice, never really wondered which ones were from her soulmate. Some who asked found that selfish, that she never worried over which of the injuries weren’t hers, that her soulmate was out there in pain and she had little care. 

But they never saw the big picture. 

Kassandra never cared about which ones were her soulmate’s, not because she was selfish, but because she hated that every injury that was hers appeared on whoever was her destined. Did she lie awake scared some nights, worried that the medium sized wound in her leg was actually much larger on Kassandra? Did she trace her fingers over scars that branded Kassandra, hating that they marred her skin just as much? It made her ache, deep in her soul, that she was causing pain and injury. Yet she couldn’t stop. Fighting was in her bones, carried over from the darkness of that spartan night on the mountain. It was her living. She had lives to support. Surely, hopefully, because her soulmate’s wounds never hurt her when they appeared, her own simply marked the skin, never harming the softness that she was surely destroying. 

Then, she learned the truth. In the market, a hot summer evening on the docks of Kephallonia, Kassandra watched as a woman bent in half, screaming in pain as her soulmate carved his name over and over into her arm. It wasn’t uncommon, branding your own skin with marks to ensure that you would find each other, but most people just do a small scar. A burn somewhere. A scar through the eyebrow. Something lasting that wouldn’t hurt much, but be noticable. Later, the woman praised the gods for her husband’s foresight, but the image of that woman, terrified and crying out in pain as the blood dripped down her arm onto the wooden docks stayed with Kassandra, haunting her nights and her mornings.

Now, the worries became nightmares. A woman, beautiful as the morning sun, gentle as the midnight moon, screaming and sobbing in pain as a spear wound appeared in her side. Claw marks raking down her face. Her eye bleeding as Kassandra’s own was impaled. Such extremes would never happen, the mercenary tried to remind herself, the gods had made it so your destined would never suffer that much from the injuries you face. And still, the dreams would haunt her. 

So she learned. Dodging became her speciality, arrows barely grazed her now, she could catch thrown spears with ease. Eventually, the wounds on her body became more bruises, something she came to live with, though Kassandra desired not a single spot on her future love’s body, no more. Now, their lives could be spent without pain, and only laughter and passion. 

Then, one night on the Adrestia as they sailed past Athens, Kassandra was woken up with a tearing pain across her upper left bicep, trailing down to her wrist in a slow, meticulous motion. She sat up with a startled cry, half expecting some wild creature set upon her by a rival or the Cult to be attacking her. A dagger flashes in the moonlight, swinging wildly for a second only to be met with air and the silence of the sea night. Barnabas wakes with her, shouting in response for the rest of the crew. Only a few stir, used to the nightmares of their crewmates after what they’ve seen after following her across the Greek world. 

“Barnabas? There’s nothing…” She pants, her hair messy from her restless sleep. 

“Aye, there’s nothing Captain.” Her first mate says, rising to his feet to come to her aide. “You were the one who woke me up- By the Gods! Your arm!” 

She looks down, eyes widening as her arm shone with blood, dark and messy in a way that she’s used to after a fight with a wild beast. And then the pain hits her. It’s nothing she’s not used to, but the absence of any attacker aboard her ships grounds her in a reality more painful than most anything she’s ever experienced. 

“No… this isn’t my injury to bear.” Kassandra croaks out, voice hoarse. “She’s been hurt.” And verbalizing that, even to a silent, concerned Barnabas and barely awake Herodotos, is easily the hardest thing she’s ever had to do.

—------------------------------------

It was months later that Kassandra finally realized what happened to her soulmate that fateful night. It had taken Barnabas a week to convince Kassandra that searching every town in Greece would take much longer than they had time for and that her soulmate wasn’t dead because of the bruises and calluses on her fingers left by a weaver’s work. So, she just kept an eye out for any woman with the same deep scars tracing down the muscle of her arm. 

And she found her. 

A beautiful maiden, laughing with a customer at her simple booth in an Argos market, a laugh that Kassandra could swear she’s heard in her dreams, and she had the same scar carving into her skin. Left bicep, all the way down her wrist. A part of her felt pain over it. The real thing, right there, something that caused someone so lovely so much pain, was the only reason she knew it was her. 

The maiden turned, ready to greet Kassandra as a new customer, then stopped, staring at her face with a very clear look of awe. Before she could stop herself, Kassandra reached out, touching the very end of the jagged mark. 

“Tell me… I’ve wondered so long, how did you come to bear this pain?” 

At first, the woman who Kassandra loved before this day looked embarrassed, then, recognition. Her own eyes trailed over the mercenary’s left arm, shock and relief gathering in dazzling eyes as she matches their scar together. 

“You’ll be so infuriated with me.” She mumbled. Kassandra nearly burst into laughter. She had caused her so much pain before, such a scare would never make her angry. Not if it came from her. “But I tripped down a hill.”

The laugh that Kassandra was holding back ripped out of her. What a woman.

[femmefatalevibe]

hello, gorgeous. im starting college soon and im on my way to become a femme fatale, so i have two questions for you

1. how can i incorporate the femme fatale way of being into academia?

2. what things/brands are affordable for a college student? i’d love to wear high-quality clothes like the ones you recommend, but i can’t afford them. are there any other products/services that i could add to my routine for a cheap price?

thank you so much in advance xx

Hi love! Congratulations on starting this new chapter of your life <3

Here are my thoughts:

1. how can i incorporate the femme fatale way of being into academia?

Understand the importance and power of:

Knowing how to learn, study, and get in the practice of regularly acquiring new information

Understanding how to work through concepts, set goals, and clearly communicate your thoughts to better articulate a concept or build a case/argument

Becoming a better writer, reader, and remaining focused/prioritized when it comes to your tasks and to-do list

Learning how to absorb information and apply this knowledge to different situations/areas of life through these acquired skill sets/methodology

Developing important self-presentation skills through presentations, written/verbal communication/networking

Refining your aptitude for pattern recognition, gaining more insight into human nature/what makes people tick, and learning how to persuade/seduce others through your words/insights

2. what things/brands are affordable for a college student? i’d love to wear high-quality clothes like the ones you recommend, but i can’t afford them. are there any other products/services that i could add to my routine for a cheap price?

Totally get it! Budgets are particularly tight for many college students.

For a service option, I would say I recommend Rent The Runway (I believe it's around $100/month for 10ish items rotated throughout the month).

For more affordable alternatives, I would say your best bet is to dig deep into the sale sections of department stores/The Outnet and similar e-commerce sites by utilizing all the filters you need (budget, size, colors, item type, etc.).

If you're searching for more affordable brands generally, I would say some of the highest quality affordable brands available are:

Express: The "Body Contour" line has amazing basics and I love their Editor High-Waisted Flare Trousers (these might be too professional for what you need right now), but I've heard they have very solid denim and shirting options, too!

Oak & Fort (I prefer them to Everlane/Abercrombie TBH)

Quince (for washable silks, cashmere and basics for $40-$70)

4th & Reckless (a lot of their items are on sale for $25-$50!)

Because of Alice (Outlet) – mostly under $70

Pixie Market (sale items are often around $50-70)

Banana Republic (especially the sale section)

Everlane/Abercrombie have their gems – some of the trouser/outerwear quality is iffy, though

Lioness/DISSH

Frankie Shop (in-house brand – on sale it's similar to Mango prices)

Maniere de Voir (mostly under/around $100, TOP quality for the price)

Shoprumored

Mango/COS (better than other fast fashion choices, IMO)

Hope this helps xx

[magnolia-among-the-stars]

delicate (jake seresin pt. 10/12)

PAIRING: JAKE ‘HANGMAN’ SERESIN x Female Plus Size Bartender!Reader

NICKNAME: Sunshine

Warning: A bit of self-body shaming

It goes without saying but I do not give permission for anyone to use my work or copy it somewhere else.

PLOT: Penny Benjamin’s niece works at The Hard Deck, saving the money she earns to get out of the west coast and put herself through Graduate School. What happens when a pretty boy pilot ends up as her fake boyfriend?

PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR / PART FIVE / PART SIX / PART SEVEN / PART EIGHT / PART NINE / PART TEN / PART ELEVEN / FINAL PART

“You were all I’d ever asked for, you know that right?” your words cut through the air, rage rising in your lungs at him.

“I fucked things up okay?” Jake’s jaw clenched as he closes his eyes and takes a heavy deep breath. “I want to make things up to you. Please,” he reaches forward, clutching your hand in one of his as he pulls your fingertips to his chest. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, warming you up all cozy as you take slow and deep breaths. The rage inside of you from your insecurity and Jake leaving starts to simmer from his closeness and your brain goes dizzy.

“Jake, I don’t know,” you shake your head, watching as he puts your flowers down and grabs your other hand. His hold is gentle, the space between the two of you intimate as he leans into your space. One hand rises above your head, taking your breath away as his sparkling green eyes are holding your gaze with such an intensity.

“Let’s take things slow here, okay?” your breath fans over his face from the closeness of your face. “I want to trust you, but I need time.” Your answer is honest, and it sends a rubble of nerves through your stomach. There’s a bubbling in your chest of an ache to want to be close with him but your mind takes over and your palms flatten out on his shoulders to slowly peel him off you.

There’s a misting in his eyes and his bottom lip quivers a bit, but he nods wholeheartedly and steps away from you. He clears his throat and collects the flowers again, holding them out for you. “These are beautiful,” you whisper, taking his hand in yours as you move into the bright white kitchen. You reach up to grab a vase from a top shelf, your dress rising enough that Jake gets an eyeful of the soft flesh of your supple thighs.

He holds back the groan that wants to escape him, instead finding a pair of scissors to trim the stems while you fill the vase with water. Jake’s hands are cautious as they trim each stem, dropping them onto the countertop in a neat pile before he tosses them into the water and fluffs the bouquet out. You watch him with a dazed glow, fist coming up to rest your chin on as he discards the excess.

“Where did you learn to finesse a bouquet?” you ask, surprised by the tender nature of his flower handling.

“Mom never went a week without fresh flowers from the Farmer’s Market,” Jake’s accent twangs slightly as he took in your heavy gaze. Before you have a chance to reply, someone clears their throat in the doorway. You both turn, jumping at the new person joining the kitchen.

“I’ve been sent in to break up the tension and let you know that the food is ready,” Rooster’s standing with his hands clenched in front of him, his shoulders tense as he tries to look anywhere but the two of you. “Are you…you aren’t going to kill each other, are you?”

His statement makes you giggle as you roll your eyes and cross your arms, feeling self-conscious. “No Rooster,” you say as you turn to look at Jake, smiling slightly. “Not killing each other.” You make your way out through the slider doors, leaving the men behind you as you step out into the warmth of the Californian sun. There’s a beautiful breeze as you settle into the backyard, joining Nat and Gemini at the patio table who slide you a plate.

They take turns telling stories of life on the aircraft carrier, the tight quarters and bunks that they had to share. “God, Javy has the worst gas,” Mickey cracks, his pearly whites gleaming as he lets out a loud laugh. Javy, not even the slightest bit ashamed, began to laugh along with him.

“That is so gross guys,” Gemini scrunches her nose, leaning into Bob as she wipes her hands on a napkin and tosses it onto the table. “I’m so lucky to bunk with the ladies, we atleast try to keep it silent.”

“Silent but deadly,” Nat cracks with a wiggle of her eyebrows and the group erupts in laughter again. You take your final bite of some pasta salad before leaning back against your patio chair. Jake notices your relaxed state, wishing so desperately that he could tug you onto his lap. But instead, he leans over and nods to your plate.

“All done?” his voice is low as he reaches forward, offering to grab your plate.

“Thank you,” you flush, nodding as you hold your plate out for him. He takes it, striding over to the trash to toss it out before heading to the cooler. You watch his movements, slower than usual, gentle in how he lifts the lid. The scabs of his cuts are illuminated from the patio light, turned on for the dimming sunlight and it’s then that you remember his words. I almost died during an exercise and the first person I saw when I was going down was you.

The comment brought a whole wave of fear through you, a terror of something having happened to Jake before the two of you got to talk through everything. Even after Jake’s birthday, you were unsure of what you would hope for in the future state of your relationship, but you surely didn’t want him to die before you figured it out. You zoned out, watching as his arms flexed in pulling two beers from the cooler and closing the lid again.         

Jake’s eyes connect with yours as he turns back to the group, tilting to the side as he notices you staring. You blink once, then twice as he approaches and goes to hand you one of the beers. “Shit, hold on,” he objects, pulling back and tucking his own bottle between his legs. He wipes the bottle he was planning to hand to you, the dripping water from the melting ice onto his shirt before finally handing it to you.

“Thank you.” You turn back to the group, noticing Nat and Penny watching you slowly with a ghost of a smile on their faces. You tuck your chin into your chest, picking at the label of the Blue Moon until enough time passes that you feel like they are no longer looking. Everyone disperses after dinner, a few people finding their way to the cornhole boards while Mav and Penny disappear into the house together like giggling teenagers.

Bob and Gemini sat setting up the small pit fire, perfectly leaning the logs against each other as if they’d been camping together for ages. Perhaps they had. You wondered how they maintained a healthy and quiet relationship, just for them. They seemed so free of insecurities, of hiccups as they curled up together and kissed every now and then between crumbling up some twigs for the starter.

“You doing okay?” Nat’s voice echoes behind you as you turn, hands shaking slightly as you catch her stare at you for the third time that day. “You’ve been quiet since we left you guys in the kitchen earlier this evening.”

You pull some of your hair off your shoulders, taking in her words. “I’m not sure.”

“Did he apologize?”

“Yeah,” you share, a loud giggle bursting through your chest. You take a peak behind her, taking in Jake’s wide smile and the crow’s feet at his temples from beneath his ray bans. He’s chatting aimlessly with Rooster, deep in conversation and ignorant to your stares. “So many apologies that I don’t know what to do now.”

“What do you want to do?” Nat slides down beside you in the grass, leaning back to watch you. She gives nothing away in her gaze, no opinions or judgement. This is what you loved about Nat, her relentless ability to intimidate and love in such a fierce manner.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” you hold your breath, letting it sit in your throat at the contemplation of what came next for you and Jake. When you finally let it out, your head thumps back against the plastic of the chair. “I don’t have any fucking idea. Before today, I was so furious with him that I couldn’t consider myself ever getting that vulnerable again.”

“And now you’re wondering how after one conversation with the man, you’re falling deep and fast back into wanting to be around him at every moment’s notice?”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience Phoenix,” you joke, deliberating nodding to Aries who is helping clean off the table and bringing out the pitcher of sangria that she’d made with Penny. “I’m pathetic.”

Nat’s hand comes up to clutch your shoulder, squeezing it tightly. She takes in the way your forehead puckers and how you begin to chew on your bottom lip. “You’re not pathetic,” she shakes her head. “You’re falling in love with Bagman and that’s okay.”

“That’s not,”

“It’s totally true,” she crosses her ankles, staring directly at you without blinking. “It’s disgusting because it’s Bagman but he’s not Bagman with you. Other than he’s severe lapse of judgement in leaving that morning, he’s been a shocking delight when it comes to you. To us, he’s always been this cocky SOB but he’s always been Jake to you. This kind, sweet and gentle giant from the South. You’ve had his heart from the moment you came to work at the Hard Deck.”

You don’t even realize tears are streaming down your face until she reaches up to brush her thumb below your lashes. You sniffle as a sweet and radiant smile finding it’s way onto your face.

“And you know that I would not be vouching for the man if I didn’t think he was redeemable.” The statement causes you to belly laugh, snorting at how serious she looks.

“I know,” you glance over at him again, only this time, he’s staring back at you. You twinkle against the glow of the fire and Jake finds himself falling even deeper in love with you. Penny calls for everyone to come grab a slice of cake in celebration of your success. You shovel down the delicious raspberry and chocolate slice of cake she’d bought just for the occasion before returning to circle around the crackling fire.

Curling up in your chair, Mav talks through his wild adventures when he was your age and shares about how he and Penny met for the first time. “You took her for a fly by?” you squeal, leaning up to look at your aunt in disbelief. “You are so bad.” You slap her leg and giggle, the slightest wave of a buzz starting to settle into your bones.

One by one, the group began to dissipate as Penny handed out supplies for smores. As the beer began to simmer in, a lightness washed over you. Your fingers were starting to get slightly sticky from a marshmallow that you’d tried to catch, and midnight crept around when the fire began to smother. “I think it’s time we call it folks,” Mav announces, rising with his arms wrapped around a tipsy Penny.

You nod, sluggishly and rise to your feet to set in. You’d have to leave your car until tomorrow and walk home for the night. You blink slowly with a lazy smile, turning to look at Jake. He looks so fluffy, so cozy in his hoodie and when he glances at you, his gaze softens in confusion. You reach forward without hesitation, sliding your hands over his slender waist and settle your cheek against him as you snuggle close.

He freezes, unsure of what to do. He’d been waiting for the day that he could have you back in his arms but hadn’t expected the day to be today. It takes only seconds before he’s wrapping you up in his embrace, large palms rubbing up and down your back. You sigh contently and close your eyes.

“Can you walk me home?” your voice is mumbled against the plush material of his blue hoodie, but he hears it. You sound so innocent, so vulnerable as you clutch at the hem.

“Anything for you Sunshine.”

Taglist:

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@emma8895eb

@rachkon

@senjoritanana

@shanimallina87

@luckyladycreator2

@ceilingfann

@rosiahills22

@child-of-sunshine

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@loving-and-dreaming

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@vabeachazn

@comfortzonequeen

@rae-you-gotta-be-kidding-me

[lixii00]

Empire's Siren

Lucious Lyon x f!reader

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings:-DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! explicit smut, size kink? (he's huge ) sexual banter & sexual , pet names, slight jealousy/possessiveness, semi-public horniness (some sexy pool action), praise, mentions of f!masturbation, dirty talk (we love filthy Lucious ), fingering, implied sex.

summary: Ambitious (Y/N) becomes assistant to music mogul Lucious Lyon, navigating power plays and undeniable attraction at Empire Entertainment. Intense sexual tension simmers beneath their professional facade, culminating in a forbidden dance of desire where the lines between boss and subordinate blur, and passion threatens to consume them both.

The glass doors of Empire Entertainment hissed open, and (Y/N) stepped into the polished lobby, the cacophony of New York fading behind her. She clutched her portfolio, the leather cool against her sweaty palms. Today was the day. Assistant to Lucious Lyon. It still sounded surreal.

(Y/N) was twenty-six, a recent MBA graduate with a sharp mind and a fire in her belly. She’d always been drawn to the music industry, and Empire was the pinnacle. Lucious Lyon was a legend, a titan, a lyrical genius who’d built an empire from the ground up. And, admittedly, she found him devastatingly attractive. The way he moved, the commanding presence, the gravelly voice that sounded like velvet over steel – it was magnetic.

The elevator whisked her to the executive floor. As she approached his office, the low thrum of bass vibrated through the walls. A new track, probably. She took a deep breath and straightened her skirt. 

The door was ajar. She knocked softly. “Mr. Lyon?”

A voice, deep and resonant, rumbled from within. “Come in.”

Lucious was sitting at his expansive desk, surrounded by monitors displaying waveforms and lyrics. He was even more imposing in person. His dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, flicked up to meet hers.

“Ms. (Y/LN), right? Welcome to the jungle.” He leaned back, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Hope you’re ready to work.”

The next few weeks were a blur of meetings, calls, and paperwork. (Y/N) was constantly on her toes, anticipating Lucious's needs, managing his schedule, and learning the intricate workings of Empire. He was demanding, expecting perfection, but he also possessed a shrewd wit and a surprising generosity.

He’d often call her into his office just to bounce ideas off her, seeking her opinion on everything from album art to marketing strategies. Their conversations would often veer off track, touching on everything from their favorite artists to the state of the music industry. (Y/N) found herself drawn to his intelligence, his passion, and the vulnerability that occasionally peeked through his hardened exterior.

The sexual tension was palpable. It was in the way he’d hold her gaze a beat too long, the subtle brush of his hand against hers when he handed her a file, the low, teasing comments he’d murmur under his breath.

One evening, as (Y/N) was organizing his schedule for a charity gala, Lucious leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You know, (Y/N),” he said, his voice a low rumble, “you have a way of making even the most mundane tasks…interesting.”

(Y/N)’s heart skipped a beat. She met his gaze, a nervous smile playing on her lips. “Is that a compliment, Mr. Lyon?”

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. “Take it any way you want, baby girl.”

He called her "baby girl" often. It shouldn't have thrilled her as much as it did.

The gala was a whirlwind of flashing lights, champagne, and forced smiles. (Y/N) stayed close to Lucious, navigating the crowded ballroom, deflecting unwanted attention, and ensuring everything ran smoothly.

Later, as the party began to wind down, they found themselves by the pool, the city lights twinkling like scattered diamonds. Lucious had removed his jacket and loosened his tie, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of his chest.

He took a sip of his whiskey. “Tired, (Y/N)?”

“A little,” she admitted, feeling the weight of the evening settle on her shoulders.

He stepped closer, his presence radiating heat. “You did good tonight. Real good.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. “You’re a natural, baby girl. You know that?”

Her breath caught in her throat. The proximity was intoxicating. She could feel his gaze burning into her, stripping away her composure.

Suddenly, a reporter approached, camera flashing. Lucious immediately straightened, his expression hardening. He pulled away from (Y/N), the moment broken.

Jealousy, a sharp and unfamiliar pang, stabbed through her. She knew he was a public figure, but seeing him compartmentalize her, dismiss her so easily in front of others, stung.

Back in the office, the tension only amplified. Lucious seemed to be testing her, pushing her buttons, his comments laced with double entendres.

One afternoon, he was working on a new track, a raw, gritty anthem about power and desire. He called (Y/N) in to get her opinion.

The lyrics were explicit, the beat pulsing with a primal energy. As Lucious rapped, his voice dripping with sensuality, (Y/N) felt a flush creep up her neck. The words were aimed at her, she knew it.

“She walks in the room, head held high, Eyes like fire, burning in the sky. She thinks she can handle the heat, the game, But I’m about to whisper her goddamn name…

…And show her what it means to be owned, consumed, By a king who knows exactly what he’ll do…”

He stopped, his gaze locking with hers. “What do you think, (Y/N)? Does it resonate?”

She swallowed, her throat dry. “It’s…powerful, Mr. Lyon.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Powerful enough to make you wet, baby girl?”

She gasped, her cheeks burning. He had no right to speak to her like that. But a part of her, a secret, shameful part, thrilled at his audacity.

(Y/N) started avoiding him. She made excuses to be out of the office, burying herself in work, desperate to regain control. But Lucious wouldn’t let her escape. He’d find her in the conference room, corner her by the water cooler, his presence a constant reminder of the simmering desire between them.

One evening, she was working late, the only light in the office coming from her computer screen. She was exhausted, frustrated, and desperately horny. The memory of Lucious’s lyrics, his voice, his gaze, kept replaying in her mind.

She closed her laptop, her body aching with need. She ran a hand down her body, over her breasts, down past her stomach. She imagined Lucious's hands there, his long fingers spreading her open, exploring her.

She reached for the vibrator in her purse…

The door clicked open.

Lucious stood there, silhouetted against the hallway light. His eyes raked over her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the flush on her cheeks.

“Working late, (Y/N)?” His voice was dangerously low.

She quickly turned away, embarrassed. “Just finishing up some things.”

He stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. The click echoed in the silence. He walked towards her, his movements deliberate, predatory.

“Don’t lie to me, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice husky. “I can smell your arousal from across the room.”

He reached out, grabbing her hand. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through her. His hands were large, calloused, infinitely capable.

He pulled her closer, his body pressing against hers. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the hardness pressing against her thigh.

“Tell me what you were thinking about,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

(Y/N) froze, her mind racing. She knew she should stop this. She knew it was wrong. He was her boss, decades older than her. 

But God, she wanted him.

“I…” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

He tightened his grip on her hand, his gaze intense. “Tell me, (Y/N). Tell me what your body craves.”

She closed her eyes, surrendering to the desire that had been building between them for weeks.

“You,” she whispered, the word barely audible. “I want you.”

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “Now, let's see if you can handle what you asked for."

He kissed her then, a deep, possessive kiss that stole her breath away. His tongue plunged into her mouth, exploring every corner, claiming her as his own. She moaned softly, surrendering to the pleasure.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, (Y/N).” He trailed kisses down her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin. “A long goddamn time.”

He lifted her onto his desk, his hands roaming over her body, exploring her curves, teasing her nipples through her blouse. She arched her back, moaning, her body begging for release.

He unbuttoned her blouse, his gaze burning into her as he revealed her lacy bra. He reached out, his fingers tracing the outline of her breasts, teasing her nipples until they were hard and erect.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “You are so goddamn beautiful.”

He leaned in, sucking one nipple through the lace, his tongue teasing and tormenting her until she cried out. He moved to the other breast, repeating the torture until she was writhing on the desk, begging for more.

He pulled back, his eyes dark with desire. He reached down, unzipping her skirt, his fingers brushing against her skin. She gasped, her body trembling with anticipation.

He slid her skirt down her legs, revealing her silk panties. He reached down, his fingers tracing the curve of her hips, teasing the edge of her panties.

“You’re wet, baby girl,” he whispered, his voice husky. “So wet for me.”

He slipped his fingers beneath the elastic, parting her lips, exploring her with slow, deliberate strokes. She moaned, her body arching against his touch. She was so sensitive, so close to the edge.

He continued to tease her, his fingers working their magic until she was on the verge of orgasm. She cried out, her body shaking with pleasure.

He stopped suddenly, his eyes burning into hers. “Not yet,” he murmured. “Not until I’m inside you.”

He stepped back, unbuckling his belt, his gaze never leaving hers. He pulled out his cock, his size making her gasp, her mind reeling. It was thick, long, and throbbing with desire.

He reached for her again, guiding her hand to his cock. She wrapped her fingers around him, feeling the heat radiating from him, the pulsing of his veins.

“You like that, baby girl?” he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

She nodded, her throat dry.

He guided her hand up and down, his cock growing harder with each stroke. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the pleasure.

He pulled her hand away, his eyes burning into hers. He reached for her panties, tearing them off in one swift motion. He lifted her legs, placing them on his shoulders.

He positioned himself between her legs, his cock throbbing against her entrance. He paused, his eyes searching hers.

“Ready, (Y/N)?” he murmured.

She nodded, her body trembling with anticipation.

He pushed into her, slowly, deliberately, filling her with his size. She gasped, her body arching against his.

He continued to push deeper, until he was completely inside her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him tight.

He began to move, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She moaned, her body writhing against his.

He gripped her hips, driving into her with a primal force. She cried out, her body shaking with pleasure.

He continued to fuck her, harder and harder, until she was on the verge of orgasm. She cried out his name, her body convulsing with pleasure.

He thrust into her one last time, his body exploding with release. He collapsed on top of her, his breath ragged.

They lay there for a long moment, tangled together, their bodies slick with sweat.

Finally, he pulled back, his eyes searching hers.

“You okay, (Y/N)?” he murmured.

She nodded, her body still trembling.

He smiled, a slow, satisfied smile.

“Good girl,” he said. “You were amazing.”

He kissed her again, a soft, tender kiss.

“But this doesn't change anything,” he said, pulling away. “This stays between us. Understand?”

She nodded, her heart sinking. She knew he was right. This was a mistake.

But God, it was a beautiful mistake.

The following days were fraught with a new kind of tension. The air crackled with unspoken desires, with the memory of their forbidden encounter. (Y/N) was torn between wanting to run and wanting to fall into his arms again. Lucious, meanwhile, seemed to revel in the power he held over her, his gaze lingering, his touch electric, always just a hair's breadth away from escalating. The slow burn was agonizing, and she knew, deep down, that this couldn't last. Something had to break and soon.

A/n my first empire story!

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