#Fire shutter counter

[sayruq]

In the early afternoon of 29 November last year, several Palestinian boys descended on to their street in the occupied West Bank, where they often played together.Minutes later, two of them lay dead from gunshots fired by Israeli soldiers - Basil, 15, and eight-year-old Adam. As part of an investigation into the conduct of Israel's security forces in the West Bank, which has been under military occupation for more than half a century, the BBC has pieced together what happened on the day the two boys were killed. Mobile phone and CCTV footage, information about the movements of Israel's military, witness testimony and detailed investigation of the scene, including taking measurements, combine to reveal evidence suggesting serious human rights violations. The evidence we found has prompted Ben Saul, UN special rapporteur on human rights and counter-terrorism, to say the death of Adam appears to be a "war crime".Another legal expert, Dr Lawrence Hill-Cawthorne, described the use of lethal force as “indiscriminate”. The Israel Defense Forces (IDF) said the circumstances of the deaths were “under review” but said “live fire is used only in order to remove immediate threats or for arrest purposes, following arrest protocols after exhausting other options”.

Video footage from 29 November shows Basil standing next to a hardware store, its shutters firmly locked down. When Israel's military arrives, shops close quickly in Jenin, a city in the West Bank - Palestinian territory which, unlike Gaza, is not run by Hamas. Witnesses said gunfire had been ringing out from a nearby operation by Israel's army in the Jenin refugee camp. Adam, a football fanatic and massive Lionel Messi fan, stood with his older brother Baha, 14. There were about nine boys on the street in total, all captured on CCTV cameras that provided a nearly 360-degree view of what happened next.

A few hundred metres away, a convoy of at least six armoured Israeli military vehicles turned a corner and began heading towards the boys, who clearly became uneasy. Several of the boys started to move away. At this precise moment, mobile phone footage shows the front door of an armoured vehicle opened. The soldier inside had a direct view of the boys. Basil had darted into the middle of the road, while Adam was 12m further from the soldiers, running away. Then at least 11 gunshots rang out.

Medical reports obtained by the BBC show that two shots hit Basil in the chest. Another bullet struck eight-year-old Adam in the back of the head as he ran away; his older brother Baha desperately tried to drag him to cover, leaving a trail of blood as he screamed for an ambulance.

[scarlethexelove]

Hey are to taking requests I’m think about g!p Wanda where reader lost her job and feels like she’s good for nothing but Wanda reminds her that she’s good for everything and what it starts very soft ends up being in rough s*x reader ends up being pregnant

Perfect Little Housewife

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 2934

Warnings: Poor Reader gets fired, a little bit of depressed reader, crying, comfort, Smut, Wanda has a penis, soft sex, rough sex, Mommy kink, breeding, Wanda calls reader slut once, obviously unprotected sex, a bit of choking, reader gets pregnant.

A/n: I love the request but as a note Anon I would like it if you didn't use the term g!p it can be offensive to some and I try my best to be respectful. So in the future you could either say intersex or just plainly that she has a penis thanks 😊 But I hope you like it cause I did enjoy this one.

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN

A tear slips down your cheek as you set the box full of your things on the kitchen island. Fired is what just happened to you. Well they said you were being laid off but it is essentially the same thing in your mind. You're so useless that you can’t even keep your job. How are you supposed to support yourself and your wife if you lost your job? You loved your job and were good at it, so out of all the employees why did it have to be you. 

A few more tears fall as you let out a sigh. Your hands are gripping the counter on either side of the box as you look down. On top is a picture of you and your wife on your wedding day. Bright and happy smiles at the prospect of a great future but where is that future now. Tears land on the glass and roll down the front. How are you going to tell Wanda? What is she going to think of you? You're a failure. 

You don’t hear the door or the soft footsteps creeping towards you. You’re so lost in your thoughts of failure that you missed the fact that your wife is home. Wanda walks into the kitchen seeing you hunched over a box and the sounds of your sniffles causing a look of worry to cross her face. “Detka?” Wanda calls out to you. You quickly stand up straighter and wipe furiously at your eyes to clear the fallen tears. You turn around hoping that you have composed yourself enough. “Wanda.” You're a bit shocked to see her home so early. “What’s wrong moya lyubov'.” She rushes over to you having seen your red puffy eyes and the slight shake of your hands. Her hand reaches to gently cup your cheek, her thumb rubbing against the skin tenderly. “N-nothing.” You try to sound more assured of yourself but the slight stutter doesn’t fool your wife. 

Wanda pulls you into her, wrapping her arms around you tightly. You can’t help but let yourself break in her arms. A sob you didn’t know that you were holding in escapes from your lips. You grip the front of Wanda’s shirt tightly as you cry into her shoulder. You can’t help as you cry harder because of how pathetic you are right now. First you lose your job and now you're crying like a baby. But Wanda is soothing, her touch brings you comfort. Her hand gently rubbing at your back as she kisses your head, quiet shushes as she gently rocks you. You don’t know how long you cry for but they eventually calm, Wanda not stopping her menstrations to calm you. 

Once you had completely stopped crying Wanda pulled you back far enough so that she could get a good look at you. She wipes the tears with her thumbs as she cups your face in her hands. “Moya lyubov’ please tell me what’s wrong.” Her voice is soft and so reassuring, but there still is a voice in the back of your head that screams that you are a failure. You let out a shuttered sigh. “I was fired … Well laid off b-but that still means I’m nothing.” You thought you were all done crying but more tears shine in your eyes. “Oh Y/n/n you're not nothing. Detka we will be just fine.” You shake your head pulling away from her grasp. “I’m useless. I can’t even keep my job to help provide for you.. For us. What kind of wife am I? Then here I am bawling like a fucking idiot because of how useless I am.” Your sorrow turns a bit bitter, but not at her but at yourself. 

You're now muttering and pacing around at how bad of a wife you are and how pathetic you are. Wanda hates to see you so down on yourself. “Detka.” Wanda tries to get your attention but you don’t even acknowledge her. “Y/n/n.” She tries again but it's still the same. “Y/n!” She is louder and more assertive which causes you to stop in your tracks. Wanda takes this as a chance. She grabs your hips and turns you, pressing your back against the island. “Y/n, sweetheart you are not pathetic or a failure. They were stupid for letting you go.” She gives you a kind and reassuring smile. She helps calm you down with her soft voice and soft touches. 

Wanda leans in kissing your lips softly. “You are beautiful, kind, and amazing. I love you so much. You can stay home or you can come work for me if you really want to.” She pecks your lips constantly throughout her words. She knows just how to soften you up to bring you off of the ledge. “Okay.” You breathe out. Wanda kisses you again pouring all of her love for you into that single kiss. 

You two slowly make out in the kitchen. A need for comfort turning into a need for one another. Wanda easily lifts you onto the counter. You let your legs fall open and Wanda slots herself between them. She smiles into the kiss at your action before she is licking at your bottom lip asking for entrance. You gladly allow her access. A moan escapes your throat as Wanda’s tongue meets yours and she grinds her hips into yours. You can already feel her growing bulge. 

Your hands move down and start to fiddle with the button on Wanda’s pants. You struggle to focus on the kiss as you try to undo her pants. “Please.” You whimper against her lips as you fidget. She smirks, moving to push your hands away and undoing her pants swiftly. But she lets them sit around her hips revealing the top of her boxer shorts. You try to push her pants down but she stops you. Clicking her tongue. “Not yet detka. Mommy wants to see you.” You whine but nod. Wanda reaches to take off your shirt which you help by lifting your arms. 

Wanda’s lips meet yours again in another soft kiss. Her hand reached around your back and unhooked your bra. She doesn’t break the kiss as she pulls it down your shoulders and completely off. Her hands now take their place kneading at your breast. You moan in her mouth as she works you up. Gently kneading before her fingers pinch and twist at your sensitive nipples. “Ahh Mommy.” Your hips buck against hers feeling her cock straining against its fabric confines. “Please.” You whimper. 

Wanda moans as you buck into her. “Since you asked so nicely detka.” Wanda’s hands move down and hook into the hem of your pants and underwear. You lift your hips slightly allowing her to pull them both down in one fell swoop. She steps back to pull them all the way off and toss them to the side with the rest of your clothes. She can already see your wetness smearing on your thighs making her groan. You reach out for her wanting her close but she doesn’t move. Her eyes meet yours before she pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it to the side before she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra letting it fall from her shoulders onto the floor. You so desperately want to touch her and for her to touch you that you let out a whine giving her grabby hands. Wanda clicks her tongue at you. “Patiences moya lyubov’.” She smirks at your neediness. Wanda then pushes her pants down her legs. You can now see her strained cock and the small wet spot of precum that has stained her boxers.

It takes everything in you not to just jump off the counter and rid Wanda of the rest of her clothing. But not soon after Wanda is pushing her boxers down to meet her pants around her ankles. Her cock slapped against her lower stomach. She kicks her clothes from around her ankles off and slots herself back between your waiting legs. Wanda pumps her cock a few times before swiping through your folds stopping to gently nudge at your pulsing clit. You both moan at the action. 

“Fuck malyshka you’re so wet for me.” Wanda groans as she teases your folds. “Mommy please.” You wrap your legs around her waist pulling her closer. Wanda’s desire finally wins over as she presses the tip against your entrance. She slowly pushes in. Your walls stretch to accommodate her size. Your body's desire to be stretched and filled by your wife. She keeps pushing until she is all the way in your warm walls eloping her length. Both of you moan when her hips meet yours. 

You wrap your arms around Wanda’s shoulders lacing your fingers through her hair pulling her into a kiss. As you lips meet Wanda begins to gently thrust into you. She begins to fuck you at a steady pace. Each thrust deep and precise, hitting the spongy spot deep inside of you. Whimpers and moans being swallowed by Wanda’s mouth. 

The sensual moment between the two of you as Wanda doesn’t just fuck you but makes love to you. No matter where you are in life you will always be the most important thing in Wanda’s life. She wants you to feel all of that. This isn’t about being horny it is about showing you how much she loves and cherishes you. All you can hope to do is reflect the same amount of love that she has for you back to her. 

Wanda’s hips keep their steady pace as you continue to softly make out with one another. It’s messy but filled with love. Her arms wrap tightly around you and pull you impossibly closer to her. Your mutual moans being swallowed by the other as you grind back. Your fingers gripping her hair as you break to catch your breath. She leans her forehead against yours. Her eyes looking down to where your two bodies are joined. Small pants as she thrusts perfectly angeling herself every time. “Such a good girl for Mommy. I love you so much detka.” Wanda mumbles against your lips as she gives you a kiss. “Lo-Love you too Mommy.” You mumble breathily. 

Your walls tighten around Wanda’s length as the knot in your lower abdomen tightens. Getting closer to the edge of release. Wanda right there with you, her thrust becoming a bit more sloppy. Your walls clamp around her as her length twitches inside of you. She grinds into you as she thrust in, pleasure shooting through you as you grind back. Your walls are squeezing her perfectly. Your moans are growing as you let your head fall forward onto her shoulder. She gently kisses your other shoulder as you squeeze her tightly. 

Wanda can tell you close. She wants you to finish with her, to feel you release all over her cock. She lightly nips and sucks at the skin around your neck and shoulder, sure to leave marks behind. “Cum detka. I wanna feel you fall apart.” She mumbles against your skin. Her thrust never having turned more than a steady pace continuing to drive into you. You moan as the knot snaps, letting go. Your legs tighten around her waist as your walls spasm around her length. Your cum coating her cock as she grinds into you. Her cock twitches as she releases inside of you. Your walls are being coated by her white sticky liquid. 

Feeling you cum and your walls sucking her in, greedy to milk her dry flips a switch inside of Wanda. She starts to speed up her thrust as spurts of cum coat your walls. She wants to fill you full. Feel you grip her cock like a vice. So instead of bringing you down from your high she starts to build a new one. Her hips now pistoning into you, her cock quickly disappearing in and out of your sticky hole. 

“Mommy.” You whimper confused. “Shhh detka, let Mommy use you now.” She grunts and with a particularly hard thrust you moan. That desirable flip switching inside of you at the change of your wife. You love how she can be soft one moment but rough the next. 

Wanda pulls out of you but before you can even complain about being empty she has manhandled you into a new position. She pulls you off the counter and turns you around. She presses in the middle of your back making you lean over the counter before she grabs your hips harshly and swiftly thrust her full length back inside of you. “Mommy!” You moan out loudly, her thrust at a fast and brutal pace from the start this time. She jackhammers her hips into yours, bouncing off your ass. Her fingers dig into your hips as she grunts. The force of her thrust moves your whole body. 

Your moans bounce off the walls of the kitchen as Wanda continues to thrust into you from behind. She slaps her hand down on your ass causing you to clench around her. “Oh you like that you, you little slut.” She smirks leaning over you, her breast pressed against your back. All you can do is nod your head as another slap connects with your ass cheek. Another loud moan falling from your lips. “Fuck so perfect for Mommy moya lyubov’.” She kisses your shoulder. “M-Mommy’s.” You mumble in agreeance. 

Wanda thrust in and out of you perfectly with each stroke. “Fuck. What if Mommy gets you pregnant baby hmm. You don’t need a job. Mommy will take care of you. You’ll be my perfect little housewife.” You close your eyes, nodding as you moan. “You like that detka? Mommy filling you with her babies.” Wanda grunts as she continues to thrust. Her hand that was left on your hip moving up to your throat and gently squeezing. She pulls both of your bodies up as she never falters her thrust. Her other arm wrapping around your waist keeps your body close to hers. “P-Please!” You moan, your hands gripping her arms wrapped around you digging your nails into her flesh.  

You and Wanda have leisurely talked about kids but nothing solid but her words play in your head. Now would be perfect and she is right she makes enough to support all of you. She can support not only the both of you but all the kids you could ever desire to have together. The door to a career may have closed but another door to a whole new life has opened. One that you are willing to risk it all for. 

“Mommy’s going to fill you so full of her cum. I’ll keep filling this perfect little hole until you're pregnant with my child. Fuck.” Wanda grunts, her thrust becoming sloppy as she draws nearer to her impending orgasm. Your walls are desperately sucking her in just begging to be filled even more. “Want you babies Mommy. Please fill me.” Your words are breathy as Wanda’s hand around your throat tightens.

With Wanda’s hand on your throat and her thrusts you're soon falling over the edge. Your walls clamp hard around her shaft as your head falls back. Silently screaming as you fall over the edge. Your cum once again mixes with hers as your orgasm washes over. Your body trembling in her hold. Her thrust is sloppy as she grows near. The power she has over you in this moment has thrust hard one more time before unloading inside of you. You don’t know how it is possible but she unloads more cum inside of you than the last time. The prospect of getting you pregnant and starting a family with you exciting the other woman. 

Wanda’s thrust slows down as she helps ride the both of you through your highs. If she wasn’t holding onto you so tightly you know your legs would have given out under you. She holds you tight, slowing her pace to a stop when you whimper from a bit of overstimulation. She kisses the side of your head gently as she pulls out of you. “You did so good for me moya lyubov’.” You let out a content sigh as you relax back into her arms. “Thank you Wands.” You mumble with your eyes closed. “Anything for you my love.” She kisses your shoulder gently before she picks you up bridal style. She gently carries you to your shared bedroom and places you on the bed. She quickly gets both of you cleaned up before she slides into the bed next to you. 

You snuggle into Wanda’s side as she wraps her arms around you tightly. Her one hand laying to rest on your stomach. You look up at her seeing her smiling back down at you. You giggle and blush. “Whatttt.” She just chuckles. “You’ll be pregnant. I’m sure of it. We'll have a perfect little family before you know it.” She kisses your lips gently. “How can you know that?” You ask her. “I just know it detka. You’re going to be pregnant with my babies and you get to be my perfect little housewife.” You hum at her words knowing that your wife is never wrong about these things. Snuggling close into her as you let the thoughts of your future take hold. Your eyes sliding shut with a wide smile on your face as you drift off into a peaceful sleep.

[saywhat-politics]

WASHINGTON (AP) — The House passed legislation Wednesday mostly along party lines that limits the authority of federal district judges to issue nationwide orders, as Republicans react to several court rulings against the Trump administration.

In many cases, the courts are questioning whether the firings of federal workers, freezing of federal funds and shuttering of long-running federal offices are unlawful actions by the executive branch and Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency.

The pace of nationwide injunctions has certainly increased during Donald Trump’s presidency. Republicans are arguing that the increase is the result of “activist liberal judges.” Democrats counter that the courts are simply striking down illegal executive orders and actions from the Trump administration. They also note that some of the judges issuing the injunctions were nominated by Republican presidents.

[warpdrive-witch]

Hi! You sound like a very sweet person. It's cute

May I ask for Agatha Harkness x reader? Where after some time of the relationship, Agatha worries reader’ll realize she deserves better but reader shows her that she will always choose her as Agatha always chose Reader

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Anon, you have no idea how much i enjoyed writing this. I hope you like it.

Minors do not interact.

Summary: 13.7k words. Things are never as they seem.

Relationship: Agatha x Fem Reader. With a side of Agatha x Rio Reader

The World Still Burns

The sun had dipped low by the time you reached the edge of the woods. The road had narrowed into gravel and the trees leaned close, their limbs bare and clawed like they’d whispered to one another just before you arrived. You wouldn’t have seen the sign if you hadn’t slowed at the bend.

It hung askew, nailed into weather-beaten wood: Thorne – Antiquarian Books & Folklore. No hours. No neon. Just letters carved deep and filled with flaking gold paint, like it had once meant to impress but had long since given up the performance.

You parked beneath a bowed maple, the last red leaves curling like ash at its roots. The wind smelled like woodsmoke, moss, and something old—like the breath of the earth itself had steeped in memory.

The bookstore crouched back from the road, shrouded in ivy and shadow. It looked less like a shop and more like a house the forest had almost swallowed whole. Weathered shutters hung crooked. The windows glowed faintly amber.

Something in your chest tugged forward.

You stepped out of the car, boots crunching on gravel, coat pulled tighter against the chill. A crow cried once in the distance, and silence followed it like a held breath.

You weren’t supposed to find places like this. But somehow, you had.

The bell above the door gave a low, reluctant chime as you stepped inside.

Warmth met you first—dense and slow, the kind that clings to thick wooden walls and the spaces between well-loved spines. Not heat from a vent, but something older. A hearth, maybe. Or a fire just gone out.

The scent curled around you before you could name it: black tea, something citrusy… lavender, maybe. Beneath that, a whisper of something herbal and sharp, like the edge of burned leaves or a half-forgotten spice. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just strange. Familiar in a way you couldn’t place.

Shelves filled every corner. Crooked, uneven, overstuffed. Books leaned against one another like exhausted friends. The air smelled of paper and dust, ink and time. A small bouquet of wilted wildflowers sagged in a glass bottle near the door.

And then—you saw her.

At the far end of the room, behind a tall counter, a woman sat with a steaming mug in her hands.

She didn’t startle. Didn’t even straighten. She just watched.

She looked to be in her forties, maybe older. Thick dark hair twisted into a loose knot, a soft wool cardigan pulled around her like a second skin. One knee drawn up, foot tucked under her. The mug in her hand was chipped at the rim. Her other hand—resting lightly beside a worn leather journal—wore no rings, no polish. Just faint ink stains at the tips of her fingers.

She looked like someone who had been here a long time. Not waiting. Not eager. Just… enduring. As though she had outlived many things. And let them all pass by.

“Bit late to be hunting ghosts, isn’t it?” she said, voice dry, low, and velvet-edged.

You stepped further in, boots soft against the old wood. “Ghosts don’t keep business hours.”

That earned a slanted smile. Not friendly, not dismissive—just… practiced.

“You’re not local,” she said after a moment. Not a question.

You shook your head. “I’m a Ph.D. student. Folklore and cultural memory. I’m doing research on regional legends—specifically stories tied to the figure of Agatha Harkness.”

That name hung heavy in the air. It didn’t echo—it just landed, with weight.

She didn’t blink. But her posture shifted, barely. Her fingers curled slightly tighter around her mug, then loosened again.

“I’m not here for the myths or the magic,” you said quickly. “I’m not chasing spells. I’m trying to understand how she was reshaped—how memory turned her into something monstrous. I think the truth is something harder. Braver.”

She let the silence stretch—measured, steady. Then set her mug down with care on a small coaster carved with what looked like vines, or maybe runes.

“People come in and ask all the time,” she said flatly. “About whoever Agatha Harkness is supposed to be.”

Her gaze sharpened—not cruel, just pointed.

“And let me warn you now—I’m not in the mood to help you find ghost stories to tell your undergrads.”

That hit like a cold wind against your ribs. You straightened a little.

“I’m not looking for a story to sell,” you said, careful not to let your voice rise. “I’m trying to understand how women—especially women with power—are turned into legends so people don’t have to face what they did to them. She wasn’t just a witch. She was someone who mattered. Someone who scared the wrong people.”

Another pause.

Then, finally, she stood.

Not abruptly. Just… decisively. She stepped out from behind the counter, sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing forearms faintly freckled with age. The lighting made her unreadable. Her gaze was neither warm nor cold—it simply was. Like the gaze of someone who had seen too much and expected very little.

“You’re not the first to think they’ve cracked the angle,” she said. “Everyone wants to peel back the layers. Prove they were the one who figured it all out.”

“Maybe they weren’t listening hard enough,” you offered.

Her eyes met yours again. That pause again. Something shifted—but you couldn't name it.

Then, without ceremony:

“I’m about to lock up.”

You nodded, already preparing to be turned away. “I understand.”

“But,” she added, voice calm as still water, “I’ll give you one hour.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“One hour,” she repeated. “To find something in this place—anything—that tells me you’re here to study, not to scavenge. If you do, I’ll let you stay. Maybe even help.”

“And if I don’t?”

She turned, moving toward the narrow stairway at the back of the shop. As she reached the first step, she glanced back.

“You’ll know when it’s time to go.”

Then she was gone. The door closed with a soft, final click.

And the silence that followed?

It didn’t feel empty.

It felt like the shop was listening.

The soft click of the door upstairs echoed far too long in the silence it left behind.

You stayed standing for a moment, listening. Not for her footsteps—those were already gone—but for something else. Something you couldn’t name. A shift in the air. A breath you weren’t sure was yours.

The room was the same.

And yet it wasn’t.

The shelves no longer felt quaint. They loomed. The books didn’t just lean—they leaned toward you. Some spines looked fragile enough to crumble if you so much as breathed too hard. Others gleamed faintly, like they’d been oiled or loved or… fed.

You drew in a slow breath. Let your shoulders drop. Then stepped farther inside.

One hour.

No instructions. No rules. Just find something.

You started with the left-hand wall. The books were organized in no order you could decipher. Titles shifted between Latin, Old English, French, Arabic—languages you’d studied but never spoken aloud. Some had no titles at all. Just strange sigils etched into leather or wood. A few bore names you’d only heard muttered in dusty archives, scrawled in the corners of footnotes too fragile to cite.

You passed a set of slim, handmade volumes tied with faded ribbon. Each was labeled only with a season and a year: Spring, 1891. Autumn, 1912. Winter, Unknown. You hesitated, then moved on.

There was a section on charms. One on death rituals. Another on saints who’d been forgotten by the church.

One book, thick and leatherbound, fluttered open on its own. You hadn’t touched it. The page was a poem, handwritten in looping ink. The title? "Return to Me."

You ran your fingers over the words. They tingled faintly. Maybe it was just dust. Or maybe something older was watching.

The farther you wandered, the more you noticed how the light in the shop didn’t quite follow you. Lamps glowed softly in corners you hadn’t seen before. Shadows moved, but not away from you. They simply… adjusted. As if making room.

Your footsteps softened without you realizing. The wood beneath you stopped creaking. The air pressed closer.

It wasn’t menacing. Just attentive.

Then, tucked near the back—between a leaning tower of hymnals and a brittle collection of hearth spells—you saw it.

A small velvet-lined tray, nearly hidden behind a drooping lace shawl. Nothing grand. No inscriptions. No glow. Just a single object resting inside.

A stone.

Round. Smooth. Thumb-sized. Purple as dusk, with a faint shimmer beneath the surface like mica caught in deep water. Not polished, not decorative. Just… worn. Softened at the edges. The kind of stone someone had carried for a long time.

You reached for it without thinking.

It was cold, at first. Not shockingly so—just enough to wake something under your skin. Your fingers curled around it instinctively, pressing your thumb into the natural dip at the center. A perfect groove, shaped by touch.

Something in your chest slowed. The quiet in your mind, that faint thrum of academic urgency—prove yourself, don’t waste time—faded into the background.

You exhaled. A long, full breath.

And for a moment—just a moment—you forgot you were here on a clock.

You turned the stone in your palm. Its weight was gentle, grounding. Familiar in a way that didn’t feel personal. Not like your object. Just one that knew how to be held.

You set it down.

Brows drawn, you moved to the next shelf. Flipped through a hand-stitched folio that smelled faintly of rosewater and mildew. Nothing called to you. Nothing moved. You kept glancing back.

After five minutes, you returned.

You sat in the nearest chair—an old armchair tucked beneath the edge of the spiral stairs. The cushion dipped with a soft sigh beneath you. The room exhaled with you.

Your hand reached for the stone again without thinking.

This time, when your fingers closed around it, the warmth came quicker. Not heat. Not magic. Just the sense of something present. Something listening.

You held it in both hands and stared at it in your lap. Let your breathing steady.

You didn’t know what it was.

But you knew it mattered.

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

The stairs creaked above you, soft and deliberate.

You straightened slightly, the stone still cupped in your palm. The armchair held you like it had been waiting. The air shifted again—warmer now. Or maybe that was you.

The door at the top clicked open. Then the steady rhythm of her footsteps, slow and certain, descending.

You didn’t look up right away. Instead, you focused on the stone—how it had warmed under your fingers, how the curve of it matched the shape of your thumb like it had been molded just for that purpose. Just for this moment.

She reached the bottom step, and her presence settled into the room like smoke curling low against wood. Unhurried. Watchful.

“Well,” she said at last, folding her arms, “let’s see what you think qualifies as proof.”

You looked up.

She was leaning against the banister now, mug refilled, gaze unreadable. Not cold. Not inviting. Just waiting.

You didn’t speak. You simply held out your hand and placed the stone on the table beside you, the cool surface making the faintest sound as it touched wood. The warmth that had gathered in your palm faded instantly, as if the stone had decided to go quiet again.

Her eyes dropped to it.

She didn’t move for a long beat.

Then: “A rock?”

You met her gaze. “Yes.”

“From an entire bookstore filled with rare volumes and unsorted knowledge, that is what you bring me?” she asked, voice carefully neutral.

You nodded once. “It was the only thing that felt like it had something to say.”

A pause. The edge of her mouth twitched—maybe from amusement, maybe something else.

“And what, exactly, does it say?”

You hesitated, then shrugged faintly. “I’m not sure. Only that I kept walking away from it, and something kept pulling me back.”

She walked forward slowly, each step deliberate on the uneven boards. Her sweater shifted in the light as she reached the table, gaze flicking down to the stone. She didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

“I’ve had that thing for years,” she murmured. “No one ever notices it.”

You glanced at her. “Then maybe I’m supposed to.”

She tilted her head at you, examining. Measuring. Something in her expression softened—not into anything you could name, but into possibility. Her fingers brushed the edge of the stone, then lifted it between her thumb and forefinger like she was weighing memory itself.

“It’s lepidolite,” she said finally. “Not particularly rare. But layered. Lithium-based. Carried to ease the mind, or so people say. It’s a stone of quiet… of return.”

You didn’t respond. The air between you felt fragile.

She looked at you again—closely this time. Her gaze didn’t flinch away, and for a moment you had the sense she was trying to see around you, not just at you.

“I’m still not convinced you’re not here for ghost stories,” she said.

Your heart sank a little. But you kept your voice even. “I’m not. I’m here to trace memory. To understand why some names survive in whispers and others in warnings.”

She watched you for another long moment, then gave the faintest nod.

“Fine,” she said. “You can stay.”

Relief hit you so quickly you nearly laughed. “Thank you.”

You glanced toward the front windows, where the last light of the day had dimmed into a soft gray.

“Is there a hotel nearby?” you asked. “Or something in town?”

She blinked once, then gave a short, almost amused breath through her nose. “You’re standing in the only business for ten miles.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“We’re closer to the Appalachian Trail than we are to the next gas station,” she said, turning back toward the counter. “If you saw a sign for a motel, it was either a relic or a lie.”

You gave a soft groan. “Guess I’ll sleep in my car, then.”

That made her pause. Not dramatically. Just enough.

She turned to face you again. Not quite looking at you—looking past you, maybe. Through you.

“You won’t make it through the night,” she said simply. “Not with the temperature dropping. This road gets slick with frost by dusk. Most don’t see it coming. the cold settles in before the stars do. Even the deer know better than to be out past sundown.”

You straightened, a little uncertain. “I’ve done worse.”

She tilted her head, considering something unspoken. Then she exhaled through her nose again, this time quieter. Less amused.

You looked back at her, brows slightly raised. “Are you offering something else?”

She considered you for a long moment. Her expression didn’t change, but the air between you did—subtle, shifting.

“There’s a guest room upstairs,” she said. “Small bed. Clean sheets. No locks. No ghosts. I keep it ready for wanderers.”

You blinked.

“I keep it ready,” she added. “For researchers. Or people who wander in off the road thinking they’ve stumbled on something interesting.”

You hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t offer.”

She turned once more toward the counter and reached for her tea.

“I keep the kettle on,” she said. “There’s tea, if you want it. I won’t offer it twice.”

You stood there for a moment, unsure what to say. Then nodded, slowly. “I’d love a cup.”

“Good,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s stronger than it smells.”

You followed her carefully, the stone warm in your pocket, the shelves watching as you passed. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the glass in its frame.

There wasn’t anything grand about the motion—but something about it felt... specific. Not practiced. Not casual, either. Like a choice made deliberately. Like a door being opened for the first time in a long time.

The stairs groaned beneath you, but only once. The smell of tea and old paper followed you upwards.

She didn’t speak as she moved behind the counter, only reached for a kettle that had already begun to whisper steam. As if she’d known she’d need it.

You hovered nearby, unsure of the rules. The warmth of the shop had deepened in the last few minutes—part firelight, part something else you couldn’t quite name.

“I hope you like strong,” she said as she poured, her back still to you. “I don’t sweeten mine.”

“I’ll survive,” you said.

She glanced over her shoulder, a wry flicker at the corner of her mouth. “That’s a dangerous thing to say in a place like this.”

You weren’t sure if she was joking.

The cup she handed you was old, hand-thrown clay with an uneven rim. It fit in your hands like something carved rather than made. The tea inside was dark, nearly black, with a thin thread of steam curling upward like incense smoke. It smelled richer than you expected—earthy, sharp, floral.

You followed her to a small table tucked near the window. Two chairs. One ancient lamp. A few dried herbs hanging from a hook in the ceiling.

She sat first. You mirrored her. And for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

You sipped.

The tea was bitter, grounding, strangely heavy on the tongue—but it warmed you faster than anything you’d ever tasted.

“You always let strangers stay in your house?” you asked quietly.

“No,” she said without looking at you. “I usually lock the door before they get this far.”

That made you smile.

She didn’t return it. But her gaze flicked toward you, then away again—like a tide testing the edge of shore.

“So why me?”

She didn’t answer right away. She took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down carefully. Her eyes remained fixed on the window, though nothing could be seen beyond the glass now. Just the reflection of old light on older shelves.

“Because you didn’t ask if you were welcome,” she said. “You asked where else you could go.”

You let that settle in your chest. Heavy. True.

“Is that a good thing?” you asked after a beat.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

You weren't sure why her presence quieted something inside you. There was a strange weight to the moment—not tense, but familiar. Like sitting across from someone you used to know in a dream.

“Strange,” you murmured, half to yourself.

“What is?” she asked.

“It’s like I’ve been here before.”

She only smiled, sipping her tea. “Some places find us more than once.”

You sipped your tea. She watched the dark beyond the glass.

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

The shop felt like it had exhaled for the first time in a long time.

You woke to stillness.

Not the dead quiet of unfamiliar places, but the kind that feels lived-in. Like a house that didn’t creak out of protest, but habit. Your body registered the softness first: the sheets, worn cotton and clean. A faint scent of lavender clung to the pillow. Morning light filtered in through sheer curtains, golden and quiet, casting long beams across the wooden floor.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You dreamed of hands wrapping yours in gauze, a spell murmured under breath, lavender smoke curling in the corners of a candlelit room. Her voice—soft, trembling—calling you by a name you didn’t recognize.

When you woke, your palms ached. You didn’t know why.

Then, slowly, you sat up.

The guest room was simple. Small dresser. One chair near the window. A crocheted blanket draped at the foot of the bed. On the nightstand, a stack of books that didn’t seem decorative. Their spines were cracked, well-read. Personal. One had a pressed flower tucked between the pages, long-faded and ghost-pale.

You rose and dressed, pulling your coat on more out of instinct than necessity. The floors were cool beneath your feet. The smell of tea drifted faintly from below—steeped, strong, the same scent from last night. Something grounding and bitter.

You made your way downstairs, one hand brushing the smooth banister as you descended. The shop below was bathed in light now—sun slipping between the trees and pooling across the shelves like honey. Dust hung in the air, undisturbed. The silence was soft, not watching this time. Just resting.

She was already at the counter.

Same cardigan. Mug in hand.

She didn’t look up right away.

You crossed to where she stood and accepted the cup she offered without words. It was warmer than expected. Heavy in your palm. You curled your hands around it, grateful.

She nodded toward the window table. You followed her there.

You both sat with your tea, the morning quiet threading between you like a line neither of you had decided to cross yet.

It was the kind of silence that asked nothing of you.

You glanced out the window. The trees shifted slowly in the breeze, sunlight catching on the dew like glass. The town—or what little there was of it—remained unseen, hidden beyond the woods, as if the rest of the world had quietly agreed not to intrude.

“You open the store every morning?” you asked after a while.

“Most mornings.”

“And when you don’t?”

“I read.” She lifted her mug again. “Or close the shop entirely.”

You sipped your tea. It was stronger than the night before. The kind of flavor that stayed on the tongue long after you swallowed. She hadn’t asked how you liked it this time.

“You’re free to dig around,” she said after another moment passed. “Just don’t move anything that looks like it doesn’t want to be moved.”

You gave her a side glance. “How would I know?”

“You’ll know.”

You didn’t push for clarity.

Instead, you nodded slowly. “Any suggestions on where to start?”

She leaned back in her chair and watched you for a breath longer than was comfortable. Then she stood.

Her footsteps were nearly soundless as she moved behind the counter again. She opened a drawer—deep, creaky—and pulled out a thick stack of keys. Selected one with a red thread tied through the loop. Then she bent, unlocked something out of view, and reappeared with a slim, dust-dark volume bound in gray cloth.

She placed it on the table in front of you like it was a peace offering—or a test.

“Start here.”

The cover had no title. Just a faint embossing of a sigil you didn’t recognize. A circle with notches like teeth around the edge.

“What is it?”

“Transcripts,” she said, folding her arms as she leaned against the counter again. “Journals. Observations. Some nonsense, some not.”

“From?”

“Different people. Different centuries.”

You opened it gently. The paper inside was aged but not brittle. The ink varied—some in scrawling hand, others blocky, mathematical. Notes written in the margins. Diagrams of constellations. One page had a charcoal sketch of a woman standing beside a tree, faceless but unmistakably female.

Something in your chest shifted.

You cleared your throat. “This is incredible.”

“You’ve got a full table, daylight, and one hour before the postman arrives.” She arched a brow. “He’s chatty. If you value your peace, keep your head down.”

You smiled into your tea. “Understood.”

She nodded once, satisfied, and disappeared into the back room, leaving you alone at the table with your cup and the book that felt like it had been waiting just for your hands.

The morning unfolded without ceremony. The pages turned like they’d missed being touched.

And somewhere behind the walls of the shop, she moved—quiet as breath, steady as history.

You lost yourself in the pages.

The book wasn’t linear. It didn’t obey any known structure—no chapter headings, no consistent hand. It read like someone had taken a century of footnotes and folded them all into the same breath. There were moments of clarity—a quote about weather turning before memory, a notation on “the woman in lavender”—but most of it teetered just past understanding. Like looking at a memory that wasn’t yours but wanted to be.

You scribbled notes in your journal, circled phrases, annotated questions you’d ask—if you could figure out how to phrase them without sounding like a child speaking to a priest.

Now and then, she passed through the room.

She never hovered. She didn’t ask how the research was going. But each time she drifted by, she paused for just a second longer than before. A mug refilled. A second book placed quietly on the far edge of the table. Once, you caught her adjusting the corner of the lace curtain near the window, only to realize she’d left behind a plate of something warm and toasted without saying a word.

By late morning, your neck ached from bending over the journal. You leaned back in the chair, stretching slightly, hand brushing the back of your neck.

“You’ll hurt yourself sitting like that,” she murmured as she passed again, not looking at you.

You looked up, amused. “Is that professional concern?”

“It’s personal offense,” she replied dryly. “You’re slouching in one of my best chairs.”

You smirked. “Then maybe you should show me how to sit properly.”

She didn’t stop walking. But the corner of her mouth lifted just barely—like the idea amused her, or like she was choosing not to answer.

Later, she returned with another stack of books—these smaller, thinner, wrapped in cloth.

She set them beside you and didn’t walk away immediately this time.

“They’re unindexed,” she said. “Some entries in Latin. Some not meant to be read at all.”

You looked up at her. “So you’re giving me the impossible pile now?”

Her gaze flicked over you. “You’re the one who claimed you weren’t here for ghost stories.”

You laughed, soft and dry. “Right. Just historical trauma and psychic remnants.”

“That’s better.”

You looked at her for a moment too long.

There was something about her in the daylight. She didn’t look softer—but she did look realer. Like the lines of her face were made of things that had survived. And that survival looked good on her.

“I’ll try not to ruin your best chair,” you murmured.

“I’ll let you know if it’s beyond saving,” she replied.

You could feel her watching as you turned back to the books.

By the time noon brushed the edge of the windows, she returned again—this time with two plates. Soup. Bread. Something savory and herbal and unfamiliar.

You looked up in surprise.

“I didn’t order room service,” you said.

“This isn’t a hotel,” she replied, setting the plate down anyway.

“Still—thank you.”

“Don’t let it get cold. That would be insulting.”

You smiled. “To you or the soup?”

“Yes.”

And just like that, the day passed.

With every hour, something settled deeper in your chest. Something still unnamed. But present.

The stone remained in your pocket.

Warm.

Still.

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

The storm didn’t arrive so much as emerge.

One moment, the sky was overcast, soft and still as wool. The next, the light thinned into ash. The trees outside stiffened. And then the first raindrop struck the glass with the weight of something inevitable.

You looked up from your journal, blinking.

The bookstore was dimmer now. Not cold, but muted—every shadow deepened, every corner a little closer. The silence shifted, no longer the kind that invites rest. This silence was listening again. Awake.

Thunder rolled low in the distance. Not a crack, but a warning.

You heard her enter before you saw her. Footsteps that knew exactly where the creaks in the floor lived. That same deliberate pace. Unbothered. Unmistakable.

She didn’t speak.

Instead, she crossed to the window and stood there, one hand lifting the edge of the lace curtain. The other still curled loosely around her mug. Her profile was cast in grayscale now—stormlight softening every line, catching the silver in her hair.

She looked… unchanged. And yet utterly transformed.

“It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” you said quietly, more to the room than to her.

She didn’t turn. “It rarely does what it’s supposed to, out here.”

You closed the journal, fingers lingering on the cover. “Should I be worried?”

“That depends.” Her voice was calm. Measured. “Were you planning on leaving?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Then you’re right where you should be.”

She watched the fire instead of you. The flicker of orange reflected in her eyes.

“There are things I wish I could tell you,” she said softly. “Things I wish you never had to remember.”

You turned toward her. “What do you mean?”

She smiled—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Never mind. It’s late. The storm has made us both sleepy.”

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

Something pulled you toward the far corner of the room. You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the way the light pooled there—silver and soft—or the way the books leaned like they’d been disturbed recently. As if someone had tried to leave a message behind.

One of the volumes was already open. Wide, thin pages spread like wings.

You knelt beside it.

The paper was delicate—almost translucent—and the ink had faded in places. You turned one page gently. Then another. And there, folded flat between the pages, was a loose scrap of parchment.

Not blank.

Not discarded.

You unfolded it carefully.

The script was tight, urgent, slanted, almost elegant. But it was the words that made your breath catch.

If she remembers, Death will find her.

You stared at it.

Your fingers trembled just slightly.

There was something in the curve of the handwriting that unsettled you. Not because it was threatening. But because it felt known. Like the echo of a voice you’d heard once in a dream and never forgot. Your chest tightened. You looked up.

And she was there.

Closer than she’d ever stood before.

She hadn’t announced her presence. No footsteps this time. No cleared throat. She was just… there. At your side. One hand reaching out—not to take the parchment, but to steady the book beneath it. Her fingers brushed yours.

And the world stilled.

It wasn’t electric. It wasn’t violent. It was worse than that—it was gentle. Familiar. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask for attention because it already knows it has it. Her fingers were cool at first. Then warm. Then gone.

But something in you had already opened.

Your breath faltered, caught in your throat. You didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Her hand lingered just beside yours, as though the moment hadn’t finished deciding what it wanted to be.

The rain struck harder against the glass. Thunder rolled again, louder this time. Closer.

You looked up at her, parchment still trembling between your fingers.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered, voice low and strange in your own mouth.

She didn’t answer. Not right away. Her eyes were on the page, not you. But her posture shifted—shoulders drawn just slightly inward, like something inside her braced.

“No,” she said finally. Her voice was softer now. Not quiet—fragile. “You don’t.”

The space between you shimmered with something unsaid. Something that had no name yet, but knew yours. Her gaze met yours again, and for a second, you saw something—grief, maybe. Or memory. Or longing sharpened into bone.

She blinked. The moment cracked.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said.

Then she stepped back, leaving the scent of rain and paper and something unspoken in her wake.

The shop seemed to exhale with her.

You didn’t move.

You stood there a while longer, the parchment held lightly in your hands, the words staring up at you like a secret you’d been keeping from yourself.

If she remembers, Death will find her.

And still— You stayed.

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

It happened slowly.

Not like a spark. Not like a storm.

But like a door easing open after centuries sealed shut.

You set the book aside, your fingertips brushing the cover, eyes lingering on the soft curve of her profile across the firelight. The rain hummed steady against the roof. The whole world had narrowed to this room, this hour, her.

You reached into your pocket. The stone was there—cool, solid. Familiar.

You rolled it once between your fingers, grounding yourself in its quiet weight.

Then looked up.

She hadn’t looked away.

There was no smile now. No teasing. Just the shape of her gaze, steady and unguarded.

You stood first. So did she.

Neither of you spoke.

You stepped toward her, your heartbeat slow and loud. She didn’t move back. Didn’t ask questions.

When your hand rose—uncertain, trembling slightly—hers met it halfway. Her fingers brushed yours, then curled around your wrist, guiding it gently until your palm rested against her cheek.

Her skin was warm. So achingly human.

And then she kissed you.

Softly, like you were something she’d dreamed about too long. Like she wasn’t sure this version of you would stay. Like the kiss itself was a question she’d been waiting a hundred years to ask.

You kissed her back.

Your other hand found her waist, light as breath. Her sweater was soft beneath your fingers, but she was solid, present. She deepened the kiss just slightly—like she’d tried to hold back, and changed her mind.

Your noses bumped. Your teeth caught for half a second. You both laughed, breathless against each other’s lips.

And then you kissed again—this time slower, more sure. Like you meant to stay in that moment. Like time had bent to make space for it.

Her hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, and you felt it down to your bones. That tenderness. That claiming.

It wasn’t passion, not yet.

It was recognition.

A stillness between heartbeats. A promise passed from breath to breath.

You pulled back just enough to look at her. Her lips parted, her breath shallow. She looked… softer in the firelight. Or maybe it was just that she wasn’t holding anything back.

“I—” you started, and then stopped.

Her gaze searched yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. Quiet. Gentle.

But you wanted to. You wanted to tell her that this felt right. That the shop didn’t feel like just a shop anymore. That the way her voice softened around your name had begun to matter.

Instead, you leaned forward and kissed her again—just once more, slow and grateful.

Then you rested your forehead against hers.

No heat in the stone. Not yet. Just the steady comfort of her touch and the silence that wrapped around you both like belonging.

And outside, the storm passed—just as quietly as it came.

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

You hadn’t packed the night before. You couldn’t.

So you did it slowly that morning—folding clothes as if each one might buy you another minute. The guest room looked strange without your things. Bare. You fluffed the pillow once, then stepped back from the bed, heart thick with everything unsaid.

Downstairs, the shop was exactly as you’d left it—quiet, golden with morning light, and somehow older than it had been the night before.

She was already there.

At the counter. Mug in hand. Same cardigan, same posture, as if nothing had shifted between you.

Except everything had.

You lingered in the doorway a moment too long. She didn’t look up right away, but you knew she’d heard you.

“I should head out,” you said softly. “If I leave now, I’ll make it back to campus before dark.”

She nodded, eyes on her mug. “The road’s clear. Weather’s holding.”

You stepped closer, fingers brushing your coat pocket. “I’ll stay in touch. If that’s… something you’d want.”

She looked up then. No hesitation.

“I’d like that.”

You smiled, tentative. “I’ll send letters. Updates on the research. And I’ll call—if that’s okay?”

“Evenings are best,” she said. “But whenever you can… call.”

There was something in her voice that made you ache. Something careful, but open. Like a door left unlatched.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out the stone.

“I think this belongs to you,” you said, offering it out.

She looked at it for a long moment before shaking her head.

“No,” she said. “It never did.”

You blinked. “Then… where does it belong?”

Her eyes met yours. Steady. Unmoving.

“With you.”

You swallowed. The stone felt heavier now, warmer, as you tucked it gently back into your coat.

Then your hand reached out—just a breath of a motion—and she didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back.

You leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t long. But it was intentional.

Soft. Certain. Grateful.

Her hand found the side of your face for just a moment. Fingertips cool against your cheek. When you pulled back, her gaze didn’t drop.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For everything.”

A beat passed.

Then: “I’ll miss your company.”

A small breath caught at the corner of her lips—surprise, maybe. Or just quiet heartbreak.

“I’ll miss yours too,” she said. And it sounded like truth.

You smiled. Not a full one. Just enough.

“I’ll write.”

“I’ll read.”

“And I’ll call.”

“I’ll answer.”

You hesitated. Just long enough for it to hurt. And then you turned, stepping toward the door.

The bell above it gave a single, hollow chime behind you.

You didn’t look back. But the stone in your pocket began to warm.

Not a flare. Just a presence.

As if it knew you were already finding your way back

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

The call came late.

Not because you meant it to, but because the day ran long—office hours, meetings, a lecture that stretched an extra thirty minutes because your students were actually listening. By the time you made it home, the sky had gone navy and the stone in your coat pocket had grown warm again.

You sat on the edge of your bed, lights dim, your laptop closed and forgotten beside you. The stone lay in your palm now, thumb pressed into its worn groove. The familiar shape of it steadied your breath.

You pressed her number before you could talk yourself out of it.

Two rings. Then three.

Then her voice.

“Hello?”

It was soft. A little hoarse from evening quiet. You imagined her in the shop, maybe by the fire, that same chipped mug cradled in her hands.

“Hi,” you said, trying not to sound breathless. “It’s me.”

A pause—just a second.

Then: “I was hoping it was.”

You smiled, head tilting back against the wall.

“I didn’t wake you?”

“No,” she said. “Just sitting. Rain started again about an hour ago. Thought about calling you.”

You swallowed. “Then I’m glad I beat you to it.”

She didn’t answer, but the silence between you was warmer than any greeting.

“I’ve been working through the last two volumes you lent me,” you said, letting the conversation ease in. “That journal with the star charts? You were right—it’s connected to the missing transcripts from 1763. I finally matched the ink formulas.”

“That’s impressive,” she said. “Though I admit I’m more impressed that you’re still writing by hand.”

You laughed. “It feels right. Like it belongs in the margins.”

She hummed softly. You could hear the smile in it. And then, gentler: “How are you doing?”

You paused.

Not because you didn’t have an answer—but because it felt good to be asked.

“I’m… okay,” you said. “Tired. I keep thinking about the shop. And you. And how everything’s quieter here—but not in the way I want it to be.”

You could hear her shift on the other end. Maybe curling into a chair. Maybe just breathing a little deeper.

“I miss your tea,” you added.

“Flattery,” she murmured. “Cheap tactic.”

“It’s working, though.”

A silence. Soft. Real.

You hesitated.

“Would it be alright if I came up? Just for a few days?”

You waited.

The rain tapped gently at the windows. The stone pulsed warm in your hand, like it knew the question before you asked it.

Then her voice—steady, quiet, and something like relief:

“Yes. Of course.”

You smiled, breath catching slightly in your throat.

“I’ll bring fresh notebooks.”

“Bring yourself,” she said. “That’s all I want.”

The call ended, but you didn’t move. The silence in your room was thick with everything unsaid, everything still blooming between the lines.

Your fingers closed around the stone.

And there it was again—warmth. Not heat, not pulsing magic, but a steady, low hum. Like a heartbeat. Like it knew the decision had been made.

You looked down at it, the shape so familiar now it felt like part of you.

“I’m coming back,” you whispered to the empty room.

The stone glowed faintly. And then cooled. As if it was satisfied.

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

She didn’t move for a long time after the call ended.

The sound of your voice still clung to the air like steam—soft, warm, fleeting. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding her breath until the line went quiet.

A storm curled behind her ribs, old and patient. Not panic. Not dread. Just… Hope.

Carefully, she stood from the chair by the fire. Her knees ached more these days—years had left their mark—but her hands didn’t tremble as she reached for the old lockbox beneath the floorboards.

She didn’t open it often. She couldn’t.

The latch groaned softly under her fingertips, reluctant but obedient. She lifted the lid and brushed aside the folded cloth at the top.

There, nestled between dried herbs and the remnants of another lifetime, sat the second stone.

A twin. Not in shape, but in spirit.

Her fingers curled around it with quiet reverence. The moment her skin touched the surface, it flared. Not light. Not heat. Just the deep, unmistakable feeling of presence.

She’s thinking of me.

Her breath caught. The fire cracked softly in the hearth, but she barely heard it.

“She found it,” Agatha whispered. “After all this time… she still knows you.”

The stone pulsed once.

And Agatha Harkness—witch, wife, wanderer—clutched it to her chest and closed her eyes.

Come home, she thought. Not aloud. Not with magic. Just…

Come home to me.

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

The road unwound like a memory.

Mile by mile, the world fell away—the city, the lectures, the emails left unanswered. You’d packed in a rush that morning, fingers clumsy with want. The moment you passed the county line, it was as if something inside you settled. Like a compass, long ignored, had finally spun true.

The trees leaned in closer as the gravel crept beneath your tires, their limbs bare now, rattling softly in the wind like bones telling secrets. The deeper you went, the quieter the world became. The sky was gray, close. The air smelled like cold stone and pine needles and something faintly sweet you couldn’t quite place.

The stone sat warm in your coat pocket. Not urgent. Just there. Steady. Sure.

Your hand drifted toward it more than once during the drive, brushing it like a reflex, like checking to be sure this wasn’t a dream.

You weren’t even sure when you started smiling.

It wasn’t big. Just a soft thing. A secret thing. The kind of smile that lived in the corners of your mouth when you realized you were heading home, even if you didn’t have a word for what home meant anymore.

And then—

There it was.

That crooked sign nailed into weather-worn wood. The ivy-wrapped shape of the bookstore, half-shrouded in shadow, hunched just past the bend like it had been waiting for you.

You pulled in under the same bowed maple, the leaves gone now, its branches bare and reaching. The engine clicked softly as it cooled. You didn’t move right away.

Your heart had already beat its way into your throat.

You reached for the door.

And she was already there.

Standing at the top of the steps.

She wore her usual cardigan, sleeves pushed up, hair pinned messily like she hadn’t bothered with a mirror. She wasn’t smiling—but her arms weren’t crossed. Her shoulders weren’t guarded.

She looked at you like you were something familiar. Something missed.

You stepped out of the car slowly, coat slung over your arm, bag hanging from your shoulder.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“You made good time,” she said.

“I didn’t stop.”

She nodded once. Her eyes flicked down—maybe to the outline of the stone in your pocket. Maybe to the way your fingers had curled instinctively toward it.

“I turned the heat on upstairs,” she said. “The guest room’s ready.”

Your chest tightened.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

She stepped back, just enough to hold the door open. Warmth spilled into the chill.

You climbed the steps slowly.

And when you crossed the threshold— it didn’t feel like you were entering.

It felt like you were returning.

The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed up against the windows and settled into the corners.

You lay in the guest bed, sheets tangled at your waist, dressed only in your boxers and a tank. The air was cool against your skin, but you barely noticed. Not with the stone in your hand.

You rolled it slowly across your palm—thumb over its familiar curve, again and again and again.

It had been just one night. And yet…

Your mind wandered back to the kitchen. To her.

To the way her body had leaned just a little too close when she reached past you for the honey. The way her fingers brushed yours without flinching. The way her mouth had looked in the low, amber light—lips parted like a question neither of you had dared to ask.

And then the kiss.

God, the kiss.

It had started slow—like the last time—but this one had deepened fast, surprising you both. Hands in hair. Mouths open. Her breath had hitched when you pressed closer, and the sound had sent a bolt of heat down your spine. You had kissed her like you were starving. She kissed you back like she didn’t care if she drowned.

You remembered the way her hands had fisted in your shirt, how her hips had arched once—just once—toward yours before she pulled away, breathing hard, pupils blown wide.

“We should stop,” she’d murmured. “Not yet.”

And you had nodded. Not because you wanted to.

But because you knew if you didn’t, you’d never come back from it.

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

You’d been thinking about her hands lately. The way she passed you books. The way her fingers brushed yours when she handed you tea. The way her eyes lingered, soft and unreadable.

You weren’t supposed to want her this much. Not this fast. Not this deeply. But something in you ached like it had waited too long. Like the wanting had been echoing down through lifetimes.

Now, in the dark, you couldn’t stop thinking about

How her mouth had tasted faintly like cinnamon and something older. How her body had felt—warm and solid and curving into yours like it fit. How her breath had sounded in your ear.

You bit your lip and let your head fall back against the pillow.

You wondered—dangerously—what she would sound like if you touched her like you wanted. If you kissed lower. Slower. If you sank your teeth into the base of her throat. If she’d whisper your name, or curse it.

You imagined the sound of her moan, close and desperate.

You imagined her above you, eyes dark, hips rolling—

The stone in your hand flared hot.

You startled, breath catching, as the warmth bloomed—not from your skin. Not from your heat. But from it. A deep, pulsing glow that seemed to radiate from within the stone itself. It was humming now, faintly. Like something inside it had begun to turn.

You sat up, heart pounding, hand still curled around it.

And for the first time in a month, the stone felt awake.

The air in the room thickened, just slightly. Like something had shifted beneath the skin of the world. Like the rules had changed and no one had told you.

Then—

A knock.

Soft. Measured.

At your door.

You froze.

The stone cooled instantly. Not gone. Just… waiting.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, pulse still thrumming in your throat.

“Yeah?” you said, voice low.

The door opened a crack.

And there she was.

Framed in shadow. Barefoot. Wrapped in that same cardigan, sleeves pushed over her hands. Her hair was loose this time, falling over her shoulders in soft, silver-streaked waves.

Her eyes met yours—and they were dark. Not afraid. Not hesitant.

Just… burning.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

You swallowed. Your fingers still wrapped tight around the stone.

“I know the feeling,” you murmured.

A pause. Her hand lingered on the frame.

Then, softly:

“May I come in?”

Her voice was steady.

But there was something beneath it—raw and unfinished. A note of longing too long suppressed.

You nodded. “Of course.”

She stepped inside without hesitation, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The hallway light disappeared behind the frame, and the room folded into shadow and silence, broken only by the hush of her breath.

Neither of you moved. Not at first.

She stood a few feet from your bed, wrapped in that cardigan, bare feet planted firm against the old wood floor. You were still seated on the edge of the mattress, one hand wrapped tight around the stone in your lap.

Her gaze flicked toward it. “Is it warm again?”

You hesitated, then slowly opened your palm.

The stone was quiet now. Cool again. Resting.

“Not anymore.”

She crossed to you in two slow steps. The floor didn’t creak. Your breath did.

She reached out—gentle, slow—and took your hand in both of hers. Her fingers were soft but certain, curling around your wrist like she was claiming it. Like she was anchoring you.

“I don’t know why this feels the way it does,” you whispered.

Her eyes met yours, and something inside them cracked open.

“I do,” she said softly. “I think I’ve known for a long time.”

You didn’t ask her what that meant.

Because in that moment, the only thing that mattered was her.

Your other hand found her waist—hesitant at first—but when she leaned into your touch, your fingers tightened, drawing her closer. She stood between your knees now, her cardigan brushing your bare thighs. She smelled like old books and dried herbs, like lavender smoke clinging to wool, and something richer, older, that made your pulse stutter.

You reached up, fingers threading through her hair, and pulled her mouth to yours.

The kiss was soft—at first. But there was a tremble behind it. A hunger neither of you had spoken aloud. A need long held.

She opened to you like a secret.

Your hands found her back beneath the cardigan. Heat rose from her skin, and her sigh into your mouth sent warmth spiraling through your chest.

You stood, your knees brushing hers, and let her walk you backward until the backs of your legs hit the bed. She didn’t hesitate.

She pushed the cardigan from her shoulders and let it fall.

Her nightshirt was worn thin, clinging to the curve of her breasts, the softness of her waist. Your hands lifted instinctively, brushing the swell of her hips, the small of her back, your fingers reverent in their discovery.

Or remembrance.

You didn’t rush. Your palms moved like they’d always known her. The lines of her ribs. The slope of her shoulders. She trembled, not in fear, but in the unbearable intimacy of being seen.

She reached for the hem of your tank, fingertips skimming your stomach, brushing your ribs. Wherever she touched, your skin burned.

She leaned down, pressing her lips to your throat—soft, reverent.

Your head tipped back, your eyes fluttering shut.

“You feel familiar,” you breathed.

“I know” she whispered. “In ways that scare me.”

Your hands slipped beneath her shirt. You lifted it slowly, and she raised her arms without hesitation. You bared her to the soft glow of the lamplight.

She was beautiful.

Pale in the quiet light. Her breasts full, her nipples already peaked, her stomach curved and soft, her thighs thick and real. There were lines and freckles and scars—a map across skin you hadn’t known you remembered until now.

You kissed her like she was sacred.

Because she was.

She pushed your boxers down next, slow and deliberate. You stepped out of them without breaking her gaze. Then, with both of you bare, she moved with calm certainty and climbed onto the bed.

Straddling your hips.

Her skin was hot against yours. Her thighs on either side of yours. The swell of her breasts brushing your chest. Her hair fell loose around you both like a veil.

She looked down at you as if she didn’t quite believe you were real.

And then—she moved.

Her hips shifted forward, down—pressing her soaked folds against yours. The first grind of clit against clit pulled a gasp from both of you.

You grabbed at her hips, her waist, anything to steady yourself.

Her moan—her first moan—spilled hot into your ear.

And your body shuddered.

It wasn’t just the friction. Not just the heat of skin against skin. It was what rose with it—something old and thunderous, pounding behind your ribs like a forgotten name.

Your mind clicked. A brick fell loose. A lock turned.

And then she ground against you again.

Her second moan—higher, breathier—ghosted down your throat. Her clit caught against yours and dragged slow, pressure building between you with each drag of your slick bodies.

And again—something opened.

A flicker of a memory: red wax. A sigil drawn in salt. Her hand clutching yours in the dark.

Gone. But not lost.

“You—God—” you gasped, breath hitching.

She rolled her hips again, this time deeper, needier. Her body rocked over yours like she needed it—needed you. And every sound from her lips—every gasp and cry and whisper—dragged another piece of the past into focus.

Her third moan was wrecked and low, barely a sound at all. It vibrated against your throat as she ground her clit hard into yours. The slick slide of her against you felt devastating. Perfect. Familiar.

And suddenly—a vow.

A voice in your mind. Hers. Yours.

Hands bound. Lips bloodied. A promise spoken under breath. Salt and iron and rose petals.

You choked on a sob you didn’t understand.

She kissed you, and it was no longer soft. It was desperate. Open. Familiar.

Her thighs tightened around your hips. Your hand slid between her legs, not to guide—just to feel her. The heat. The slickness. The rhythm you matched as your own hips lifted to meet hers.

You cupped her breasts, dragged your thumbs over her nipples. She whimpered, her body arching, her clit grinding against yours in frantic, sacred rhythm.

You whispered her name. Again and again.

And every time she cried out—every moan, every gasp—another piece returned.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Please—don’t stop—”

You couldn’t if you tried.

Your hands on her hips. Your thighs locked together. The room filled with the wet sound of friction. Her body moving like she remembered you in her bones.

She was close.

So were you.

Your mouth found her breast again. You kissed her nipple. Sucked gently. Her moan—raw and broken—sent you over the edge.

She came first.

Not with your name. With another.

A name you didn’t recognize. But you knew it. It lit your spine like fire.

She cried it out into your mouth as she came—her body convulsing, hips grinding down with frantic desperation.

And you followed.

Clit to clit. Body to body. Heart to memory.

You came with her. Not after. Not alone. With her.

And the world tilted.

The stone on the nightstand began to glow.

Soft. Pulsing. Alive.

You held her. Still trembling. Your arms tight around her, her breath catching as she buried her face in your neck.

And in the silence that followed, one truth settled over both of you like an incantation returning home:

This was not the first time.

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

It was quiet after. Not just silent. Still. Sacred. The kind of stillness that feels like something waiting to be named.

She lay beside you, one arm draped over your waist, her body a slow-breathing warmth against your side. Her skin was soft with the sheen of sweat, cooling now, though neither of you moved. Not yet. Not even to wipe the damp from your chests.

Her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink, a halo of silver-streaked darkness that tangled in your collarbone. You could feel the steady rise and fall of her chest. The way her thigh rested over yours. The scent of her skin—salt, smoke, lavender, and the earthy sweetness of something older.

And then— You felt it.

Not a sound. Not a shift. A gaze. Heavy and lit like firelight at the edge of your vision.

You turned your head. And found her eyes already on you.

But what lived there wasn’t softness. It wasn’t fear. It was something… older.

Older than this room. Older than the bed that creaked beneath your tangled bodies. Older than the name you thought belonged to you.

Her hand lifted slowly from your stomach. Not hesitant—just deliberate. Like a choice she’d made in a language older than time.

She reached past you. To the nightstand. To the stone.

Not the one you’d carried. Not the one that called to you in dreams. The other. The twin. The one she’d kept hidden, wrapped in shadow and wood and time.

She picked it up gently—fingers reverent, like touching something sacred. Not an object. A promise.

She cradled it in her palm, her thumb brushing the surface with aching familiarity. The stone pulsed faintly, the same rhythm you now felt in your own blood—slow, ancient, sure.

Her eyes never left yours.

And then— She moved.

She leaned over you, hair falling like a curtain around your face, brushing your collarbone, your breastbone, your bare chest. Her breath was warm—carrying that strange blend of honey and earth and time as it ghosted across your cheek.

She held the stone between you, both hands around it now, like it might break if handled without love. It hovered over your sternum, just above the heartbeat that suddenly thundered like a drum in your ears.

And then— She whispered.

Just one word.

Not in English. Not in Latin. Not in any human tongue you’d ever learned.

The sound curled through the air like incense. Like smoke. Like heat from a fire long dead and just now reigniting.

It didn’t just land. It coiled. It claimed. It wrapped itself around your ribs and pulled.

And it hit— Like a curse. Like a blessing. Like a name you didn’t know had ever been yours.

And your mind— Opened.

Not with violence. Not like glass shattering.

But like a door unsealing. Like light creeping through cracks in a forgotten temple. Like breath after drowning.

Your mouth parted—no words. Just air.

And then the memories came. One. Then another. Then everything.

You didn’t just remember.

You returned.

The memory wasn't a rush. It was a slow unfolding. Like a petal in moonlight.

You stood barefoot in a grove soaked in starlight. Your hands trembled, but hers were steady as she bound them with a ribbon dyed with ash and myrrh. You could feel the river humming nearby, the scent of lavender smoke twisting through the trees.

She was radiant—not in the way light reflects, but in the way a vow burns beneath the skin. Her silver hair was braided down her back, streaked with wildflowers. Her voice didn’t shake as she said the words.

“I bind myself to you—heart to heart, magic to magic. In all lifetimes. Even the ones where you forget me.”

You remembered the ache in your chest then. How you’d sworn your soul would always remember.

“I choose you when the sky is quiet, and I will choose you when it breaks.”

Between your joined palms, she had placed the stone. Warm from the fire. From her magic. From her love. The moment you kissed her—everything inside you had quieted. Magic didn’t crackle that day—it pulsed, low and sure, like a heartbeat beneath the skin of the world. The ribbon binding your wrists was still damp with the smoke of myrrh, edges frayed where her hands had gripped too tightly. You remembered the scent of her skin—sandalwood and river moss—and the way the world hushed the moment your lips met. A warmth spread through your joined hands then, and the stone glowed like a coal banked in velvet. Not just magic. A vow made flesh.

And then… You remembered the way she smiled like she didn’t believe it would last. You remembered the laughter. The fights. The way she smelled when she’d been reading too long. The feel of her magic brushing yours in the dark.

The next memory came sharp. Bitter.

Her hands were shaking. Agatha stood alone in the house you’d built together—your wedding grove visible through the rain-streaked window. The hearth was still burning, though low. Everything around her looked the same. Except the light was wrong.

She had drawn a circle. Salt and crushed petals. Blood from her own palm.

You had been asleep upstairs. Or unconscious. You weren’t sure anymore. The last fight had hollowed you both out.

She pressed a kiss to the stone and whispered the words. Not in fear. In grief.

“I give her back to the world. Let her forget. Let her be free.”

Her voice broke as she whispered the final line: “If she finds us again, let it be her choice.”

Her lips trembled as she sealed the final glyph with blood. Her shoulders shook, but she kept chanting. The magic clawed up her throat, wild and resisting, and she bit down on the scream rising behind her teeth. When she pressed the stone to your heart, her magic fled her like breath from a dying body—violent, aching, final.

She collapsed to the floor after. Not in pain. In surrender.

Your chest seized.

You gasped.

The air still shimmered with the echo of the vow. You smelled ash and lavender and honeysuckle in bloom—scents no season should hold together. The magic didn’t vanish when the vision ended. It followed. Coiled beneath your skin like a second heartbeat, like a compass that had finally found its way.

And when you opened your eyes—

You weren’t in the guest room anymore.

You were in the house.

Your house.

The one you built together long ago, before time bent and broke. The wood beams you traced with symbols carved into their grain. The hearth you'd blessed. The window where Agatha once stood, bathed in morning sun, hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

The bed beneath you was the same. The sheets. The smell. The creak of the floorboards.

You sat up slowly.

Heart in your throat.

And then—

You felt her.

Behind you. Barefoot. Watching.

You turned.

And there she was.

No cardigan. No softened disguise.

Just her.

Ageless and powerful. Silver streaks like lightning through her hair. Magic humming around her skin like a storm held in a glass jar.

You didn’t ask her name.

You knew it now.

The word came quiet. Certain.

A breath returned to its body. It rose from your chest like a prayer. A word older than memory. It sat on your tongue like something you'd spoken in every lifetime. You hadn’t known it until now, but your body had never forgotten.

“Agatha.”

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for a hundred years.

And whispered back:

“You remember.”

The magic simmered under your skin like something reawakening.

Not sharp. Not burning.

But steady. Old.

Yours.

It hummed in your bones now—not because she’d given it to you, not because she taught it—but because it had always been there. Waiting. Sealed away by the one person who swore she loved you most.

The woman now standing in front of you. Bare. Trembling. Real.

Not the bookshop owner. Not the quiet woman with bergamot tea and cautious smiles.

Agatha Harkness. Your wife.

And you remembered everything.

You stepped toward her. The stone still glowed in your hand, pulsing faintly. Her breath caught.

“Say something,” she whispered, voice hollow. “Please.”

You stared at her—really looked. Her eyes red from tears. Her shoulders tight, as if still bracing for you to disappear. Like some part of her believed she was seconds away from losing you forever.

And she would’ve. If you hadn’t fought.

If you hadn’t followed the ache in your chest. If you hadn’t stepped into that strange little shop. If your soul hadn’t reached out for hers the only way it knew how—

Through stories. Through pages. Through a trail of words, because once upon a time, she had taught you that’s where magic lived.

And now—

Your voice came quiet, but sure.

“I have always chosen you.”

She flinched, tears spilling again. Her mouth opened, trying to argue. To reject it. But you stepped closer.

You held the stone between you, and you said it again:

“Through every life. Through every silence. Even after you took it all from me—I found my way back. Because I never stopped choosing you.”

She crumbled.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Her knees softened. Her head bowed. Her hands covered her face as a broken sob escaped her.

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around her. She came into you like something collapsing. Her skin against yours. Her breath shuddering. Her magic—no longer held back—curled around your ribs like ivy finding its home.

“I thought I was protecting you,” she whispered into your shoulder. “I thought if I just… let you live a quieter life, you wouldn’t have to carry the weight of what we were. What I was.”

You held her tighter.

“You thought you had to become something less so I could become something more,” you murmured. “But you were always enough, Agatha.”

Her breath caught.

“You are enough now. You were enough then. When you were scared. When you were proud. When you were powerful, and wild, and devastating. I didn’t love you in spite of those things. I loved you because of them.”

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you.

Her hands trembled against your ribs. Her lips parted, trembling, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“You don’t have to be soft to be loved,” you said. “You don’t have to hide your power or your past. You’re allowed to be fierce. You’re allowed to be afraid. You’re allowed to be real. And I will still be here. Loving you. Choosing you.”

Her eyes overflowed.

“I ruined everything,” she choked. “I let fear decide for us.”

“No,” you whispered, brushing her hair back, cupping her face. “You made a mistake. A devastating one. But I still found you. And that has to mean something.”

The stone in your palm burned bright for a moment, then cooled.

You pressed it into her hand, curled her fingers around it.

“No more pretending you’re someone else. No more hiding. I remember who I am now. And I remember who you are.”

You leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“You’re Agatha Harkness. You’re my wife. And you are enough.” “I spent so long trying to be someone new,” she whispered.

“I didn’t come here for someone new,” you said. “I came here because my heart remembered what my mind couldn’t. And it led me back to you.”

You pressed your forehead to hers, and this time, the magic between you didn’t hide. It glowed.

She collapsed into your arms fully, sobbing into your shoulder as the weight of years—centuries—finally broke.

And you held her.

As she had once held you.

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

The wind shifted. Just one breath. Cold. Sharp. Wrong.

Your smile faltered.

Agatha’s magic surged beneath her skin—an instinctive, ancestral current. Violet light flickered along her fingertips like candle fire clinging to life. You felt her still beside you, utterly motionless, the kind of stillness that only came from bracing for something that had already begun. Her hand tightened in yours, the pulse beneath her wrist quickening—not from fear, but recognition. This wasn’t new. This wasn’t unexpected.

It was inevitable.

The silence wasn't peaceful. It was loaded. The kind that comes before glass breaks. Before skies open. Before memory returns.

Then— The stone in your pocket flared. Once. Again. Hot. Blistering. Furious.

Your chest locked. Your ribs screamed. Something ancient—a part of yourself that had been buried beneath spells and silence—rose up through you like floodwater breaking a dam.

And then you felt her.

You didn't see her. Not yet. But your soul knew before your mind could catch up.

“…Rio,” you whispered.

And the world— shattered.

The front door didn’t open. It detonated.

A sound like mountains splitting reverberated through the walls. Wood exploded into splinters. Hinges tore free. The storm that tore through the house wasn’t made of weather—it was her.

Fury given form. Grief given breath. Vengeance shaped like love.

Wind screamed through the room like a god grieving at full volume. Candles snuffed out. Books took flight, spines cracking mid-air. Shelves snapped free. Glass sprayed like knives into the walls, catching the lightning as it forked through the night.

And at the center of it— Green magic.

Violent. Alive. Devastating.

It slammed through the house like a judgment. The magic of harvest and reckoning, of endings and returns. You could feel it press against your skin, your teeth, your bones.

Agatha stepped in front of you with a snarl, arms raised. Her power ignited in twin blooms of violet, crackling at her palms, spilling sparks into the ruined air. Her hair lifted in the wind. Her eyes burned bright white. She didn’t hesitate.

But it was already too late. She had found you.

“WHERE. ARE. YOU ?”

The voice wasn’t loud. It was seismic.

The house reeled beneath it. Floorboards shrieked. Rafters bowed. Walls shook like they were trying to flee.

Footsteps hit the stairs. Deliberate. Final. One. Two. Three.

Each step sounded like a gavel. Like the end of something holy.

You staggered back, eyes wide, as the power pouring through the house reached a crescendo—wild, divine, utterly relentless.

And then—

She arrived.

The hallway blackened. Smoke curled over the floor like a living thing. The doorway bent with shadow.

And there—

Rio.

Hair wild, curls tangled in wind and light. Skin glowing like moonlit bone. Her body crackling with power that had been dragged through fire, grief, and centuries of silence. Both of her palms burned with raw, green magic. No restraint. No apology. Just truth.

And Rio— Rio was Lady Death.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not whispered in myth or whispered in prayer. She was the end that waits at the edge of everything.

The weight of her presence bent time. Bent you. The air around her fractured, trembling like it wanted to kneel.

You could feel her. In your ribs. In your blood. In the stone still searing a hole through your pocket.

Her power reached first. It touched yours. And recognized it.

And her eyes— Her eyes locked on you.

Not Agatha. You.

And for one heartbeat—just one—her fury broke.

She inhaled. Shaky. Like the sight of you alone had shattered her from the inside out.

And you— You stood there glowing. Magic pooling under your skin in ribbons of sunset orange. A perfect blend. Violet and green and something new. Your magic, born of three souls braided across lifetimes, bloomed like memory returning from the grave.

The storm paused.

You swallowed.

And whispered: “Welcome home.”

The words hung there like a blade unsheathed.

Agatha didn’t flinch. She stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with you, her jaw set. Her voice came dry, edged with humor so sharp it could bleed:

“Making an entrance so dramatic, my love?”

But Rio didn’t laugh.

She took another step. Glass cracked beneath her boots.

And her voice—low and gutted, like a blade run across stone—came shaking:

“You hid from me.” Another step. “You hid her from me.” Closer. “You hid yourself from me.”

Green fire rose behind her eyes. It didn’t flicker. It consumed.

Agatha didn’t speak.

Because she knew.

She had rewritten everything.

Rio’s fists trembled. Her power flared brighter, brighter—until it licked the ceiling and seared the paint from the walls.

“I mourned you,” Rio rasped, broken and divine. “I mourned both of you. And you were right here. Pretending.”

Her voice broke like lightning cracking through centuries of silence. Her eyes burned—not from fire, but from the wound love becomes when it’s denied.

“How fucking dare you.”

The air snapped.

Violet met green.

And your orange magic rippled out in response—reflexive, protective, ancient. It bloomed around you like sunset flame—slow and sacred, but rising now with the force of revelation. You stepped forward, stepped between them, your eyes locked on Rio as her fury gave way to something worse:

Devastation.

The house had gone silent. But the magic hadn’t. Your skin shimmered. Light orange, warm and aching, flickered from your chest like a memory clawing its way free. The spell Agatha had cast—the one that buried you both—was unraveling.

And Rio— Lady Death herself— was standing in its wake.

Agatha exhaled, just once. Her expression unreadable. But her voice—when it came—was low. Honest. Almost broken.

“I thought I was protecting her,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving Rio’s.

Rio’s fists clenched. Her shoulders trembled beneath the emerald blaze curling off her skin.

Agatha’s voice didn’t waver.

“And I thought I was protecting you.”

The green aura flared—bright enough to scorch the air.

And Rio whispered, sharp as a dagger drawn from the bone:

“You don’t get to make that choice for me.”

The ground shook.

You felt it in your ribs—in your marrow. The weight of their shared past, your shattered memories, their love, your love—everything—crashing together in a single, breathless moment.

Magic collided in the space between them—violet, green, and orange—twisting, sparking, burning.

Agatha’s face twisted—not in fear, but in grief. Rio’s twisted in fury—grief sharpened into rage.

And you— You stood in the center of it all. The memory. The betrayal. The storm of what comes next.

Agatha looked at you. And for the first time, her voice broke.

Not from fear. Not from guilt. But from love.

“She was young, Rio ” Agatha said softly, her voice like parchment curling in fire. “She had years ahead of her. A future. Not a war. Not a curse. Not a lifetime bound to a centuries-old witch with a bounty on her…”

Her eyes flicked to Rio. Her voice fractured on the edge of the words.

“…and Lady Death.”

Her voice cracked like glass.

“She deserved more than us.”

Rio inhaled sharply. Her magic trembled—flickering violently at her fingertips. The air around her warped, shimmered, threatened to unravel. And just before the next spell struck— Just before the house shattered again— Rio turned to you.

And her voice— Low. Ragged. Wrecked— broke open the night like a final vow:

“You’re mine.”

The room held its breath.

And the stone in your pocket— exploded.

Light—orange, gold, green, violet—all of it spun into the air like a spell set loose from time itself.

Magic screamed between your fingers. The room fractured. The world tilted on its axis.

And then— Black

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

You woke up. Gasping. Drenched in sweat. Blankets twisted around your legs like ivy. Moonlight spilled through the open window, silver and soft and wrong somehow. The air pressed in, too quiet. Too still.

You were in bed. Their bed.

The scent of lavender, earth, and cedar smoke clung to the sheets, warm and familiar. Rain pattered gently outside. The walls around you were old wood and golden lamplight—the cabin tucked into the woods where you’d spent the last few months falling for your professors.

Agatha and Rio.

It had started with a research grant, a thesis on witchcraft and folkloric inheritance. They had offered guidance. You’d taken their course on gendered magic systems. Hours turned into late-night emails. Then coffee. Then whispered confessions under oak trees.

You’d thought it was all metaphor. Symbolism. Not memory.

Not truth.

You exhaled shakily, heartbeat crawling back from the cliff’s edge.

Beside you, Agatha stirred—barely—her arm still draped across your chest. Her fingers were resting right over your pulse, like she'd known exactly how fast it was racing.

Rio was behind you, her legs tangled with yours, a blanket twisted around her thighs. The heat of her bare skin pressed against your back in a way that was grounding. Familiar. Worshipful.

And still—

Your body remembered something else. The dream. The night before.

Their mouths on you. Their voices tangled in ancient language. Words you hadn’t known you could understand, whispered against your skin as they made you theirs—again and again until you couldn’t breathe. Until you forgot your name. Until you remembered, it wasn’t the first time.

Your head fell back to the pillow.

“God,” you whispered. “That felt real.”

Agatha shifted. Her voice was hoarse with sleep. “Nightmare?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “I don’t… know.”

Rio’s arm moved over your stomach, tracing a slow, calm pattern. Her touch sent a flicker of heat down your spine.

“What was it?” she asked softly, her breath against your neck.

You swallowed a laugh, still shaking. “You were witches.”

Agatha didn’t move.

Rio stilled.

“You put a spell on me,” you said, grinning. “Rio, you were Lady Death. I think you shattered the front door and demanded to know where your wives were.”

You laughed a little louder now, letting your head fall back against the pillow.

“I mean, I must’ve been really out of it,” you murmured, trying to lighten the tension. “I had orange magic. I mean, it was a beautiful orange, but..” You leaned back against the pillows, still smiling faintly. “Guess I’ve been buried in too many books. All that research is finally melting my brain. I even found a line in a book that said ‘If she remembers, Death will find her.’

You turned to look at them.

And froze.

Around Rio’s throat—green stone glinting like emerald fire.

Around Agatha’s neck—a pendant of deep violet, almost black, pulsing like a heartbeat.

And dangling just above your shoulder—resting against Agatha’s bare collarbone—was the chain.

Your stone.

The one from your dream. Sunset orange. Warm. Alive.

The room shivered.

The air shifted.

And inside your chest, your magic—that impossible, familiar hum—burst into life.

Orange light flared across your skin, curling up your wrists, weaving between your ribs like something ancient unsealing.

You sat bolt upright.

Your voice broke as it escaped your lips:

The same one from the dream. The one Agatha had kissed. The one that had unlocked everything. And it was glowing.

Your eyes widened. The air shifted. The soft warmth of the room turned thick—charged.

Something cracked inside you. Like a seam in your mind splitting open. The orange glow surged through your fingertips.

You sat up fast.

Your voice broke as it escaped your lips:

“…What the fuck is happening?”

For a moment, they didn’t move.

Not Agatha. Not Rio.

Then—slowly—they sat up.

No longer sleepy. No longer soft. And in their eyes—

Violet. Green. Knowing.

Not fear. Not guilt. But something older. Something earned.

And then, in perfect unison, voices echoing a vow made long before this moment—long before this lifetime—they spoke:

“We promised we’d come back once the world forgot how to burn.”

Agatha’s fingers tightened over the edge of the blanket. Her voice, when it followed, was quieter. But not less powerful.

“It’s not our fault,” she murmured, looking directly at you, “that out of every single topic… you chose to study the one thing you were already intimately bound to.”

Your stomach dropped. Agatha placed the chain around your neck, the stone pulsed.

Like recognition. Like relief. Like the moment before a name is spoken aloud.

You hadn’t just fallen for your professors. You hadn’t just studied witchcraft and lore. You had chosen—by instinct, by heart—the one thread in the universe that could unravel everything.

The silence held.

Then Rio’s jaw tensed.

She reached forward—not to comfort, but to steady. Her fingers brushed your wrist like a shield locking into place.

Agatha’s breath hitched.

And then—

Rio spoke.

Low. Controlled. Terrible.

“They know you’re awake.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Agatha’s hand found your back flat and firm.

“The spell broke,” she said, her voice shaking now—not with fear, but with fury barely restrained. “Which means the ones we hid you from felt it.”

The stone around your neck flared—orange, searing. “The world never forgot how to burn,” Rio whispered. “It just got better at hiding the match.” Your pulse spiked.

The walls of the house creaked—like something outside was listening.

Waiting.

“They’re coming,” Agatha said softly. “And this time… they know exactly who you are.”

Then the light blew out.

All of it.

Darkness swallowed the room.

And in the silence that followed, you finally understood—

This wasn’t the end of your story.

It was the beginning of a war.

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

Dear Anon, I hope you love this.

[christopherisfoive]

Hello can I request a hyunjin prompt 6 and 14. Also be ready to see me a lot in your request because these prompts are amazing.😏

Hi jinnieboosworld ☕️—your Prompt 6 + 14 latte is ready! Love that you’ll be dropping by often; the creative bar is always open and stocked for you. See you for the next round!

Backstage Static Hyunjin × Reader | Prompt #6 + #14 | K-Pop backstage AU | Enemies → Lovers spark

You shove the dressing-room door, but the antique handle only rattles like loose teeth. Great—locked in with Hwang Hyunjin on the biggest broadcast night of the quarter. Somewhere beyond the walls, staff sprint and walkie-talkies squeal; in here, the air is all humming fluorescents and the scent of fresh hairspray.

Hyunjin paces behind you, jacket half-zipped, blond fringe in disarray. “Did you do something to the latch, Director Y/N?”

You whirl, clipboard clutched like a shield. “Right, because sabotaging my own live show is exactly the promotion I’m after.”

His laugh is low, edged. “You did insist on trimming eight counts from my freestyle. Maybe karma’s punctual.”

You glare. Three weeks ago you arrived as the music show’s new performance director—tasked with shaving seconds, refining lines, bruising egos. Hyunjin, golden boy of the lineup, met every note with a smirk and a muttered “Try keeping up.” He’s brilliant; he knows it; you hate that he still hits his marks after rolling his eyes.

Now a dressing room hardly bigger than a props closet holds two clothing racks, one couch, zero exits. Your comm radio blinks a dead-battery apology from the vanity. Outside, footsteps fade. The show starts in forty minutes.

Heat blooms as the AC sputters its last breath. Hyunjin shrugs off his jacket, the motion carving definition beneath a thin black tee. You focus on the floor. “Save the striptease,” you mutter. “I need your set list.”

He tosses the folded paper; it lands at your feet. “Memorized. Unlike some people, I respect a plan.”

“Memorizing and following aren’t synonyms.”

He huffs, drops onto the couch, legs splayed like a bored cat. “Fine. While we’re stuck, give me the director’s grand critique.”

You should refuse. Instead you recount camera angles he always misses, the shoulder lift that steals from the lyric’s downbeat. He fires back, dissecting the way your blocking ignores narrative tension. The volley sharpens, then—somewhere between “charisma isn’t the same as clarity” and “your precious counts flatten emotion”—laughter breaks loose. It surprises you both, echoing off the mirrors.

“I’ll trade you,” he says, dimples flashing. “I fix the shoulder, you let me extend the spin into a full eight.”

“Six,” you counter.

“Seven.”

“Deal.”

Silence settles, not uncomfortable this time. He studies you through the mirror. “Why’d you really cut the freestyle? Management pressure?”

You swallow. Confession tastes like stale coffee. “Pressure to prove I’m not a fan with a clipboard. If the segment drags, ratings dip, my name’s on the line.”

Something in his expression softens—a shutter clicked open. “I thought it was personal.”

“It was professional,” you say, softer. “Mostly.”

He stands, closes the distance until the fluorescents crown his hair with a halo you refuse to admire. Up close, cedar and stage sweat blur into something heady.

Funny how quiet gets loud.

His fingers brush yours as he reaches for the lone water bottle on the vanity. Static zips up your arm. You snatch it first, just to breathe. “Thirsty dancers need hydration,” you say.

“So do overworked directors.” His hand remains over yours. Neither of you lets go.

Somewhere in the corridor, breakers trip. The lights snap off, replaced by emergency reds that paint everything desire-dark. Your pulse seems to sync with the distant bass check.

Hyunjin’s voice is a whisper meant for no microphones. “For what it’s worth, I pushed back because I respect you.” He hesitates, then lets the words fall. “And because fighting with you is the most awake I’ve felt all season.”

Your laugh stutters out, half-shock, half-agreement. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet here we are.”

He reaches up, tucks a strand behind your ear—the age-old cliché somehow brand-new at arm’s length. His knuckles trail heat across your jaw, and you lean before pride can haul you back. He kisses like a live wire: tentative spark, then full current. Your clipboard clatters; his hands cage your hips against the door that once defied you both.

You tug his shirt, feeling abs flex beneath cotton, taste peppermint on his tongue, remember in a dim corner that there’s still a show. Breathless, you break away, foreheads touching. “Stage in twenty-five.”

He grins wolfish. “Plenty of time if you stop arguing.”

Somewhere overhead, metal thuds and the latch unsticks. A maintenance tech swings the door open, eyes widening at two flushed, tousled professionals standing a hair apart.

“Uh—camera rehearsal,” Hyunjin says smoothly, straightening his shirt. You grab your clipboard, nod like that explains everything.

Backstage bustle swallows you. Onstage lights flare. From the wings you watch him dance, every line razor-perfect, every camera mark dead-center, the seven-count spin landing like a victory. Mid-routine he finds your gaze, grin slicing through strobes—a private encore.

The crowd roars. You clap, surprised at the warmth flooding your chest. Rivalry, it seems, can double as ignition.

After final bows he appears at your side, hair damp, smile reckless. “Director, tomorrow’s blocking session… should we test another door?”

You arch a brow, fighting a grin. “Only if the latch is reliable.”

He twirls a backstage keycard around his finger. “Trust me, Sweet Bean,” he murmurs, borrowing the café nickname crew teased you with, “I’m excellent at encores.”

You’re not sure whether you want to roll your eyes or kiss him again. Maybe both. For once, you skip the argument and signal toward the darkened corridor.

“Rehearsal room’s that way,” you say, already walking.

His answering chuckle, low and pleased, follows close—like a downbeat ready to drop.

[xxnghtclls]

Flickering Lights

Chapter 4 - Fate

Chapter 3 I Chapter 5

True Form Sukuna x Reader

NSFW I Explicit I Slow Burn

Infos and tags on Masterpost

Used music is linked in text.

-

801, 801, 801, 801

Like a mantra, you repeat the number in your head.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

Your lungs burn like fire, as you swing yourself around the next corner, taking the next pair of stairs. 

Up! Up! Up!

Time grows little and your legs weak. 

801, 801, 801, 801

The thoughts of what will happen next are stinging in your heart, like a spear, as you try to push them to the back of your head. 

Step. Step. Step. Step.

The ground starts shaking, heavily. Parts of the walls are crumbling. 

Dust is coming down and blinding your sight, itching in your eyes and throat, making you grab tightly onto the rails with every step.

Suddenly, you feel creatures stare into your back, snarling and hissing.

Run!

You run impossibly faster, quicker, all those steps up. 

Like prey that‘s running from a predator. 

801, 801, 801, 801

Your thighs start to cramp, as you look around the corner of the next stairs with wide eyes. 

Panic swells up in your chest as you realise, that you‘ve lost track of which story you’re in. 

There’s no time.

No time.

Not enough time.

The ground rumbles harder. 

Your feet lose balance, making you trip, 

as something heavy hits your neck and you fall-

A sharp pain stings through your heart, as you jump forward with a sharp inhale. You rip your eyes open and you feel that your sheets are drenched in cold sweat. Panting with a sore throat, you stare at the upper corner of your window at the end of your feet. Light shines against the shutters from outside, painting shadows and figures upon the plastic.

Not again.

You inhale deeply and slowly exhale.

“I’m home.” you reassure yourself.

The punches of your beating heart are harsh against your ribcage. With your left hand, you tap inside the darkness for your phone. 

03:06 a.m.

The screens brightness hurts your eyes. You click your tongue and switch it off again. Burying your face in your hands, you sigh loudly, before shifting your weight.

Sliding forward, your feet reach the end of your bed. Letting them dangle off the edge, you carefully crawl down the ladder, until your toes are met by the soft carpet on the ground. You take two steps and reach into the dark corner next to your window, turning on the lamp. It has a warm, white light, that gently meets the backs and bindings of your mangas and books in the tall shelf on the left wall, as well as the little Maneki-Neko, that is shining exceptionally bright in this light. You like how it fills the whole room with a calming atmosphere. Two steps towards the kitchenette on the opposite side and you reach for the metal handle of the fridge in order to take out a bottle of water.

Sip.

The cold fluid reaches the back of your throat, crawls down your oesophagus like a river carves its way through dry soil.

It hurts.

You smack your lips and groan at the sting, before you put the lid back on the bottle and leave it on the counter, before you walk past the fridge to grab a towel from the drawer that’s sitting right next to it.

It’s quiet in your little flat, as you head into the bathroom and turn the faucet on. While you wait for the water to warm up, you avoid looking at the mirror, tapping your fingers gently against the sink. 

It’s been six months…  Why did it feel more real this time?

Your throat starts to tighten and your bottom lip starts to quiver, along with a cramp in your stomach. A second later, your face is buried in the toilet next to you, puking out the stress this nightmare gives you. It’s disgusting and you spit a few times to get rid of the taste. After rinsing your mouth, you undress your sweaty shirt and throw it into the hallway. You wet the cloth and start to clean yourself, before you put a new shirt on.

Shuffling back to your window, you pierce two fingers inside the shutters to take a brief look outside. 

It’s quiet.

Only a few lights from the skyscrapers offices adorn the night sky. Like always. The shutters plastic scrapes harshly against your skin, as you pull them out and reach for the lamp to shut it off.

So real… Was it because of -

Your heart picks up a beat, as you remember what happened in your office just a few hours ago. Turning back, you spread the shutters once again- Still quiet. No creatures. No Stranger.

Your eyes wander, something inside you makes you wonder where he might be, where he came from and what he wants, before you decide to crawl back up into your loft. 

The brightness of your phone stings in your eyes, as you open Mio’s last message, her reply for the situation with Itō-san.

[ Mio ] 🤷‍♀️

And you frown and smile. She definitely has a sixth sense for men.

[ Y/N ] Witch.

You reply and change the app to scroll through your social media. Trying to distract yourself, to read and like some posts here and there. You always do this, when this dream haunted your night and woke you up.

Food. Food. Cat. Actor. News. Food. Cat-

However tonight, your thoughts don’t drift back to your nightmare, but instead to your encounter. Back to him.

This Stranger. 

And you can’t help to like this change of habit. It distracts you from your usual madness.

You recall what he looked like, how intimidating and tall he was. The tattoos, the mask and what he sounded like, his four arms and eyes. How they pierced into your soul, as if he could see the misery that you believe you to be. Almost a bit like… sorcery.

03:59 a.m.

You blink and open your photo gallery. Hesitantly, you tap on the the last picture you’ve taken, the nightly view of the broken window of your office. You adjust the brightness, all the way up and scan the whole picture with your eyes. Disgust shivers across your face, as you see the cat-sized fly. You spread your fingers across the display to zoom in, squinting your eyes. The creature is barely visible, almost as if it’s merging with the background, yet you can clearly see it. You clench your jaw, before you zoom out a little and drag the picture over to the dark hole that’s left in the office window. And you zoom in again.

Closer. 

As close as you can. 

And there, right there in the shadows of your office, you can make out four dimmed red spots, more like a bunch of pixels. Small, barely visible and you’re not even sure if your brain is making them up. You try to zoom in further, but it always jumps back. Holding the zoom with your fingers, you see a hint of a boney mask, maybe also the outline of a chin.

His face?

You stare. 

“What am I doing?” you sigh, before you close the app and reach with your right hand into the darkness in front of you and search for your headphones. “Ah shit!” you curse under your breath, as you remember that you left them as trash on the kitchentable.

Giving up, you decide to continue to listen to your Ghibli Playlist on speakers and roll on your back. You close your eyes, as the music quietly plays into your ears and fills the room. And you can’t help it. Those feelings this dangerous Stranger awoke in you, this danger and adrenaline, fascination and curiosity…

Those feelings… They make you want to see him again.

And after a while, the music stops. End of playlist.

Silence.

And with this Stranger on your mind, you fall asleep.

.

.

.

Brrrr Brrrr

You wake up. With one heavy eye, you peek at the message on your phone.

[ Mio ] Morning Peanut. Akihabara later? 🧙‍♀️

You focus on the clock.

10:32 a.m.

A loud sigh shatters through your throat and you close your eye again. 

Nooo… Wait. Yes.

You try to open your eyes again and text back.

[ Y/N ] Yea, need nee headpjones

[ Mio ] Ohhh sleepy ❤️ Text me when you’re ready

You force yourself to get up, brush your teeth and comb your hair. A little bit of skincare goes on your cheeks and a little more than that on your eye bags, before you get dressed in yesterdays outfit. Then you grab your keys, bag and cap and slide your phone into your pocket. 

[ Y/N ] Gonna get some breakfast then I’ll be there. About 40 mins.

[ Mio ] Oki doki 👌

Clck.

You close your front door and tipple through the corridor to the elevator.

Doa ga shimarimasu, you mouth along, as the doors close in front of you.

La Familia. pork-mayonnaise Onigiri. Tea. 

Another day, the same routine.

As you enter the station, the tech store at the corner catches your eye, thinking that you just could buy new headphones here and go home again and call off Mio, because yesterday was-

Wait.

Something you didn’t consider until now pops up in your mind. On Monday, you’ll have to face the aftermath of your encounter with the Stranger in your office.

Hirose-san is going to fire me.

You swallow and your stomach drops.

Fuck. Distraction it is.

You walk past the shop and down the stairs. This time you follow the signs to get to the Ginza line. 

Scan. Platform. Queue. Waiting. 

Suspiciously, you watch your environment, as you breathe the familiar thick, warm air. And no unusual things start to occur.

No creatures. No Stranger.

You enter the train and during your ride, you stare out of the window across from you. Listen to the railway and see the lights bouncing and dancing against the wall of the tunnel passing by. Some red dots flicker up inbetween. 

One. Two. Three. Four.

You blink, before you pull out your phone and open the photo of last night. In the light of the train, you don’t see as much as you saw in the darkness of your room. With a disappointed sigh you lock your phone again and continue to look out the window, thinking it’s too strange to even consider talking about the whole situation to Mio.

“Excuse me, is everything alright?” an elderly woman that’s sitting right next to you throws you a concerned look. You must’ve zoned out.

“Uh, yes! Sorry.” you force a smile on your lips-

>< The next station is: Akihabara ><

The announcement rips you out of this uncomfortable conversation and you’re quick to get up and text Mio to meet at the tech store.

“Oy, peanut!” Mio’s voice comes up behind you moments later, making you turn around and nudge your head to her, shooting her a look.

“What’s up?” you greet her, trying to act cool, while spreading your arms.

She smiles and goes in for a tight hug. 

“What happened to lil peanut?” you ask, while she squeezes you.

“Didn’t know you’re a rapper.” she replies with a grin, before flicking her fingers against the hood of your cap. “You wear a cap, but you’re not a baddie. Especially not with those eye bags.” she continues, waving you to come after her. “Let’s go!”

You met Mio in the nightlife of Tokyo. Met her in a phase of your life when this feeling inside your soul would start to knock on your mind almost every day. Mio was fun, distracting and you kept going out with her. She would take you to lots of different clubs, even the ones in the underground. 

And you needed it. Despite having Mio and Kobayashi-san, you needed distraction from this strange feeling of loneliness and emptiness that was creeping up inside of you. You felt ashamed for it and you would do anything, for every weekend, in order to suffocate what was growing in your mind and soul. For months, you would try going from music and dancing, to sex and more sex, then booze and sometimes even other drugs. Slowly at first, but then more and more frequently, until everything changed. 

You lost Kobayashi-san and those creatures started to creep inside your vision. Like a crack in the desert, your soul carved itself into the ground and deeper. You slowly came to realise, that the highs those nights gave you didn’t last, that they couldn’t satisfy this longing in your heart and that, in fact, nothing could. Everything started to feel worthless and grey and you stopped going out, never having the courage to tell Mio the reason why, never telling her about this hole inside your soul, the nightmares or the creatures. But, she stayed with you and you stayed with Mio. She was the one who was able to pull some parts of you out of the ground again. No matter how exhausted you feel, she often manages to distract you from the empty weight inside your heart, makes you feel normal somehow, makes you cherish small things. That’s what you love her the most for.

And you feel selfish for it.

“How do you like this one?” she asks, holding a phone case under your nose. Huge, pink and with little glittery stones and charms. You purse your lips, making her glare at you.

“What?” she squeaks. “You’re the one who walked around with a Hello Kitty phone for the longest time!”

“Buy it then!” you chuckle, as you shuffle to another aisle, looking for headphones. “Madame Discoball.” 

“It’s cute!” she complains. “I’ll take it.”

You gently smile at her remark, before you finally find the headphones you were looking for and head to the cash registers. 

“What do you want with this cheap trash?” Mio eyes your choice, while standing in line behind you. “Will you ever treat yourself some proper ones?”

“No.” you smile, before a cashier waves at you.

On your way out, Mio tipples after you, fishing out her new phone case out of the plastic bag.

“Why not?” she asks.

“Because they’re cheap.” you grin at her confidently. “Obviously.”

And she doesn’t reply, just shakes her head in disbelief. You two walk down the street, dip into a merch store here and then, poke the plushies that are displayed outside of shops, before arriving at a booth that sells Taiyaki. Mio gets you one with custard filling, while taking one with chocolate herself. As you two bite into it, she hums.

“I gotta leave for a work trip to Gifu tomorrow.” she chews, making you frown.

“Gifu? Tomorrow? It’s Sunday.” 

Another bite.

“Yea I know.” she nods. “They want to include team-building activities, like… hiking.” 

You snort and she rolls her eyes. Mio is a colourful, glittery party girl, not a hiking girl. It doesn’t suit her.

“And apparently this Sunday is the day they thought is perfect for a hike!” she continues in an annoyed tone, before taking another bite. “I’ll be there for a few days.”

“I hope you have proper shoes.” you tease, knowing exactly that her wardrobe only contains sneakers and high heels.

“Shut up.”

“It’ll be fine.” you stuff the remaining Taiyaki in your mouth. “Take care though!” 

“I will!” she nods, after swallowing her last bite. “The Taiyaki is on me by the way.”

You look at her with your stuffed mouth and a smile spreads on your face.

”Thank you!” your eyes are glowing in gratitude. “What brings me the honour?”

”It’s our anniversary!” she grins. “Today it’s been a year!”

A year since you and her met. A year since you promised each other to hang up an Ema at the Meiji Shrine as an anniversary gift to your friendship. Drunk.

“Already?”

“Yep!” she grins widely and hooks her arm into yours, before she pulls you down the street towards Akihabara Station. “Maybe we should go out again sometime… you know, for old times sake.”

“Yeah maybe.” you smile, trying to sound genuine.

“Maybe tonight?” she carefully asks in a sweet tone, making you helplessly chuckle and chew your lip, as you search for an excuse, before she continues. “You know, it’s fine. I just hope to see you having fun again. You grew so quiet after Kobayashi-san.“

“I know.” you sigh, making her sigh, too. 

A pause.

“Maybe I do need dick though.” you joke quietly to distract from the topic, making her gasp and snort. “It’s been months!”

“Yes, you do! But that’s not what I want to say!” she exclaims. “You just look exhausted lately. Maybe going out will give you some energy? Distract you a bit?”

You smile and nod slowly, while listening to her words, pondering.

“I need to get up early tomorrow so it won’t get late either. Just for a drink or two to kiss me goodbye, before I need to leave for my hiking trip.” she continues. “Pretty please?” she looks at you with big eyes, making you snort.

“You’re so annoying.” you shake your head at her, knowing you won’t be able to dodge this situation forever. Not, without telling her the truth.

It’s just for her…

“Alright. One drink only!” 

“That’s my girl!” she grins brightly and squeezes your arm, as you both enter Akihabara Station.

>< The next station is: Yoyogi ><

After a short walk, Mio and you arrive at the entrance of the shrine. It’s busy, like always. Tourists and locals everywhere. But, as soon as you walk through the Torii and the trees start to seal off the noises of the streets, it grows surprisingly quiet. As quiet it can be at least. The sheer mass of people still makes you uncomfortable. You inhale, breathing in the fresh air from below the trees.

Maybe I just need a vacation.

After a ten minute walk through the beautiful area, through the trees and nature, you arrive at the entrance of Meiji Shrine. You head to the Chōzuya to clean your hands and mouth, before you walk inside, straight towards the camphor trees, where people hang up their Emas. Mio steps closer, reading some of the wishes that are already hung up, while you go and purchase two of the little wooden plates. Handing one of it to Mio, you tipple back to one of the desks and start writing.

For my lovely Mio.

Now it’s been a year with you at my side and I hope for many more.

Wish you all the best, good food and a roof above your head.

Also, please have the safest travel to Gifu, a good hike and a lot of fun.

Your Y/N.

You draw a little deer in the corner, since that’s her favourite animal, before you hang it up. Mio steps into the corner of your eyes and reads it with a soft smile in her eyes, before hanging her own plate right next to yours.

For my lovely y/n.

Please let her have the most fun, good sleep and good food. 

Let fate have a little big adventure in store for her.

She deserves it. So much.

Your Mio.

You smile and your heart warms up, reading her wish for you. However, you can’t help to frown at her choice of words.

“Fate?”

“Yea! Just like fate brought us together.” she smiles back and you snort.

“At least one good thing fate had in store for me, I guess.” you sigh, before you point at the plate. “You forgot to draw a cat.”

“I cannot draw a cat.”

“Idiot.” you huff and hook your arm into hers, before you turn around and see- him.

The Stranger. Just a few steps ahead of you.

You freeze in your spot, as you see his pink spiky hair and his black coated back turned to you. 

“What’s up?” Mio asks, as she notices how tense you are and tugs at your sleeve, but you can’t speak. Your heart starts racing in your chest.

Badum. Badum. Badum.

You watch him and how he walks towards the stairs of the praying area, before Mio snips her fingers in front of your eyes to pull you out of your trance.

Snip snip

“Helloo!” she chimes, making you shake your head and blink. 

“Sorry.” you mumble, but your gaze immediately fixates back on the Stranger, causing Mio to catch focus on him as well.

“Who’s that?“

“I don’t know.” you breathe, while you watch how he walks up the stairs.

In the corner of your eyes, you see other people walking around him, peeking and staring and mumbling about his unusual appearance and tall height. Arriving at the top of the stairs, he suddenly reaches out and shoves a praying, middle aged woman out of his way. She tipples, looses balance and-

Bam!

falls down the stairs, while he’s stepping in front of the Saisen-bako that’s sitting between the huge doors. You flinch and an appalled gasp is heard from the by-standing people. Some of them rush forward to help the woman.

“Disrespectful asshole!” Mio exclaims in disgust and wants to go forward too, but you grab her sleeve, holding her back.

“Stay!” you warn her with an anxious tone. Confusion paints on her face, but she complies.

You look back to the scene and watch him lay his right hand on the wooden surface of the Saisen-bako, while he keeps his other hands hidden behind the fabric. The crowd becomes uneasy, it gets louder. People start to talk to him, try to get his attention, but he’s ignoring them, concentrating on doing whatever he came to do. But, your eyes stay fixated on his hand, how it lays flat on the surface under its palm, how it’s tensing and relaxing.

The bystanders grow louder and louder, but the sound grows mute in your ears. Mio notices your trance and calls you, but you hear without hearing. Almost as if you’re hypnotised, you watch how the wooden surface starts to vibrate, how the lines between his hand and the wood start to blur. Something in you wants to step closer, wants to see, wants to know.

What is he-

A deep humming vibrates in your ear, just like last night and whatever he’s doing, it has you in his grip. Mio calls you again, louder and snips her fingers again to wake you, but you keep being fixated on his hand until-

“Hey!” another man shouts and tugs on his Haori to get his attention. Without even looking, the pink haired man raises his left hand and flicks two of his fingers. 

A bone chilling cry echoes across the place, as the throat of the other man suddenly bursts with blood, before his head falls from his shoulders-

Pap.. Pap… pap!

Down the stairs it falls and rolls. Your heart drops and your eyes widen in horror, as Mio and more people start to scream. Blood splatters everywhere, as the head rolls and comes to a halt next to the feet of another woman, coating the holy grounds with red essence. And your blood starts boiling with adrenaline, making you feel the fear in your chest and legs and arms.

“Y/N!!” Mio calls your name again, now very loud and clear. You meet her eyes and she grabs your wrist.

“Run!” you shout, before you move. 

Both of you run towards the entrance, already seeing security guards run into the opposite direction. The other people run in panic and scream, shoving you out of their way, almost making you stumble and fall, before you finally reach the gate.

Sirens are already howling in the distance, as Mio and you and other visitors run through the park in order to get back to the street. Suddenly a gust of wind rushes through the trees and the birds start flying and screaming. Your heart is pounding in your throat and your throat is as dry as sand, as you finally reach the exit. A glance to Mio and she nods back at you, before you both hurry to her little house in Shibuya.

Bam!

Zschk Zing!

She locks the front door, as you sigh loudly, slumping down on one of her kitchen chairs. 

“Fuck.” she sighs under your breath, her hands still lingering on the door-lock, while you just stare into nothing and focus on the restless pumping of your heart.

“Gonna make tea.” Mio says, before she walks to the open kitchen and fills the cattle. “The police will get him right?”

“Yeah…” you say absentmindedly, hoping the image of that rolling head won’t give you another dose of nightmares. “Maybe they shot him on sight.”

She hums and the kettle starts to whistle.

Louder and louder.

Louder and louder.

Mio takes it from the stove and fills two cups with water and teabags. You take a sip and the warmth flows through your body, making you feel better in an instant.

“Let’s just wait a bit. It’ll be safe in a few hours.” she mumbles into her cup.

You nod and quietly drink your tea and so does she. Inbetween you check your phone and so does she. However, unlike her, you don’t receive any messages. You listen to how she types her replies to other people, before you lay your phone back on the table. Looking out the window, you notice how it’s slowly growing dark outside. The streetlights turn on and paint shadows on the streets and houses. Here, in this neighbourhood, it seems calm. Safe.

And you start ask yourself, if he’s still out there, alive… wonder how you survived your previous encounter with him. 

What is he doing here?

“You think he would have slashed that man, if he let him do his thing in peace?” you sip and she glances over to you. “…whatever he was doing, I mean.”

“What are you talking about?” she responds, visibly annoyed. “Nothing can justify what he’s done.”

“Yeah.” you gently blow on your tea. “You’re right.”

A pause.

“How did he do it anyway? I didn’t see a knife.” you question quietly.

“Probably hid it in his sleeve?” she frowns, her tone growing upset. “Doesn’t matter now, they probably shot him.”

Your eyebrows twitch at the thought. Somehow, you don’t feel like it’s true. 

It’s bizarre how curiosity works sometimes. How it grabs you by your scalp and forces you to look and see. How it forces you to want to know more…

“What is it?” Mio suddenly asks, making you feel caught.

“Nothing.” you lie, while she looks at you as if you lost your mind. “Isn’t it just… Isn’t it like a movie?”-

“Yes.” she interrupts you, before you continue to speak at the same time.

“A horror movie.”-

“Extraordinary.”

“What?” she scoffs.

“Don’t get me wrong!” you’re quick to continue, gesturing your hands in a calming manner. “I pissed my pants. I saw the horrors unfold in front of me and it grabbed my soul. But, it made me feel so alive… I never felt like this before. It was extraordinary.”

“Do you want me to slap you now or later?” she spits, before crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her words makes you chuckle, but you quickly stop, as you see that Mio doesn’t even flinch. Instead she seriously glares at you.

“Sorry.” you mumble, before biting on your lip to not let your mouth escape another grin. And after another second Mio scoffs again. 

“Too bad that fucker hijacked our plans for tonight. You do need dick.” 

You look back at her and she stares back you.

“Yes.“ you reply, as serious as you can. “Extraordinary dick.” 

A pause, before she finally breaks and a grin cracks onto her lips, making you both burst into laughter at the same time.

“Idiot.” she mumbles with a grin, as her phone pings, making you tap on your phone as well.

23:30 p.m.

“I should go now.” you grab your headphones. “The last train goes at 23:45 p.m.”

“What?” she exclaims. “No! You’re gonna stay here!”

“Nah, you need to get up early tomorrow and I don’t wanna bother you.” you lie.

Usually, you lie because of the nightmares, but tonight there’s something else.

Bizarre curiosity.

“There’s no way, you’re gonna go home alone right now.”

“Please, it’s fine.” you smile gently. “Police will be everywhere.”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest and clenches her jaw, mustering you.

“Alright.” she mumbles through her teeth. “You’re a grown woman.” she stands up and walks you to her door. “If you loose your head, don’t blame it on me.”

“Wow…” you comment, while putting your shoes on. “You mean if fate grabs me by my hands?”

She rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue.

“Now be careful and text me when you’re at the station, ok?”

“Ok, mama.” you mock, as you lean in for a tight hug. 

“Gonna miss you.” she sincerely whispers into your ear.

“Gonna miss you, too!” you mumble back, fighting tears, as you press her against you, before you separate. 

This day was a lot. For both of you.

However, it’s not over yet. Not for you at least.

“We’ll make up for the drink when you’re back from Gifu, yes?” you wave at her, while putting on your headphones. She nods and you notice how her eyes grew wet, too.

“Text me!” she yells after you, as you walk down the street, before you wave at her a second time and walk out into the night. 

[the-froschamethyst4]

Cold Season, Hot Drink

𖤐Pairing: Husband!König x Wife!Reader

𖤐Pronouns: She/Her

𖤐Warnings: Smut, some fluff, language, teasing, married couple, dirty talking, kissing/making out, groping, nipple play, food play, blowjob, Dom! König, Innocent! Reader, mention of nudity,

𖤐Summary: The cold season is upon König and Y/n, and Y/n needed a bit of a hot drink to keep herself warm while König was thinking about something else

————

————

Winter, the best time of the year, where you can finally wear comfortable clothes and not get looked at like a psycho, Y/n sat in front of the fireplace where there was a fire dancing in it, her husband König came inside from being outside and chopping wood for the fire.

He comes in kicking his boots off by the door and started to strip out of his outdoor clothes, and got cozy with Y/n by the fire. Y/n had already made herself some hot chocolate but it was getting low.

"You're so cold," Y/n says.

"Then warm me up," König smirks knowing what he was doing, but Y/n thought he was just joking around, she slightly pushes away from him because of his body being so cold.

"No way," she giggles. She gets up off the fluffy white rug that was in front of the fireplace and heads to the kitchen to make herself some more hot chocolate.

König looks at her in the kitchen and gets off the rug as well, he walks behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder, and his hands then going under her shirt, she shutters at his touch.

"Jesus! König! You're hands are s-so cold," she laughs and looks at him over her shoulder.

"Sorry," he chuckles and kisses her neck.

"Do you want some?" She asked, talking about the hot chocolate.

"No, I have another way to warm myself up," he smirks, he starts messing with his belt while he starts attacking her neck with soft kisses. His cold hands going under her shirt to grope her breasts, and then run them down her waist sending shivers down her spine.

As the kiss became a heated make out session, König just barely opened his eyes and saw the whipped cream Y/n was putting on top of her hot chocolate along with the green and red sprinkles she was using. He smirks into the kiss and moved his left hand to grab the red can.

He shakes the can and pulls away from Y/n's lips, she sees the can in his hand and tilt her head back almost like she knew what he was going to do, he sprays the cream into her mouth, he sprayed a lot and when Y/n closed her mouth some seeped from the corner of her mouth, König smirks and licks the corners of her mouth to taste the cream.

König's hands moved quickly back under her shirt and lifted it up over her head and tossed it on the ground, his hands go behind her back and then unhook her bra tossing it on the ground next to her shirt. He shakes the can once more and sprays it all over her chest.

She moans when feeling the coldness on her chest, her nipples harden. He takes the sprinkles off the counter and shakes a large amount onto her chest, once he was done, he steps back to admire his work and smirks.

"Oh how fucking sexy you look," he says, smirking.

"I feel too exposed," she says. He smirks and he leans forward running his tongue over the mess he made all over her chest, earning moans from her lips.

"I feel sticky," she whines.

"Not yet," he picks her up and takes her to their shared bedroom, he placed her on the bed, whipped cream still in hand and shakes it spraying some cream on her nipples, earning some soft moans from her.

König pulls his pants off along with his boxers, his dick was a bit limp but no problem, once he showed it to Y/n, she starts giving him a hand job, moving her hand up and down on his dick making it hard almost instantly.

Once hard he sprayed the whipped cream on his dick, he smirks while Y/n takes his thick cock into her mouth, her head bobbing up and down, she starts moving fully down on his cock her nose touching his lower stomach, and the cream seeping from the corners of her mouth again.

He put his hand under her chin and smiled down at her as she takes his cock just fine. He chuckles and pulls her off his cock, he gives himself a few pumps and sees the cream that was resting on her nipples was slightly falling off.

The cream soon did land on her thighs. He pushed her on her back, her legs resting on his shoulders, he smirks and starts pinching her hard and sensitive nipples.

He starts pushing his hard cock inside of her, her head goes back hitting the pillow behind her head. His thrusts were sloppy and has no rhythm, but soon he figured out a patterned to make his girl feel good.

"Does it feel good?" He asked, going a bit slow. She nods and squeezed the sheets under her till her knuckles turned white. He starts picking up the pace, watching her bounce up and down, and watched her breasts as well.

He moved his hands from her waist to her breasts, squeezing and pinching at her breasts.

"K-König," she moans, she looks at him letting him know she was close. König leans down as their hot, sweaty, sticky body touch each other, he cups her face kissing her lips and starts picking up the pace almost ungodly.

Her head goes back and she felt herself tightening around him, he keeps going at the pace and soon felt her release on his dick, he pulls out watching the cum start spilling out of her, he gives himself a few pumps till he comes on her stomach.

"Well, I'm warmed up," he teased.

"Cute, I'm hot and sticky," she says.

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

König had cleaned up around the house, picking up clothes, etc. as Y/n was in the bath cleaning herself up but she had gotten out of the bath, she comes downstairs seeing him clean up and looked at the fireplace seeing some mug of hot chocolate.

"König did you make some hot chocolate?"

"I did, figured you might want some," he says, walking to her and resting his hands on her back to pull her close to his body. "Go warm up," he says.

She goes and sits by the fire and König placed a new log on top of the fire. He sits next to her and rubs her side, he kissed the top of her head and brought her weighted blanket on top of her to make her feel even more comfortable. Her head resting on his lap as they watched the fire dance in the fireplace. His thick thigh was a good pillow for her head.

"You comfortable?" He asked.

"Yes," she says.

König and Y/n stayed in front of the fireplace cuddled up to each other keeping warm, König loved the cold season for one thing to being able to cuddle his wife and give what she wants.

[seancekitsch]

A Win is a Win: A Hughie Campbell x Reader Kinktober fic

warnings: semi public smut, mentions of blood, hughie is too sweet for his own good, slightly dom hughie? cream pie, slight exhibition, this is really nice and sweet smut

“We lived! Don’t you get it? We lived! We should celebrate,” you excitedly slap Hughie on the arm from your seat on top of a checkout counter, kicking your legs as you watch the air tag move further and further away from your location, going back uptown.

“Okay, but barely,” Hughie scoffs, slightly skeptical that the coast is clear. You tilt your phone screen towards him, showing him the GPS. You then motion to the shuttered abandon storefront you’re taking shelter behind. The angle of the slats let you see out to the street, but as far as anyone out there knows, this place is empty. People walk by the near abandoned building without knowing any wiser, going about their day talking and laughing. There’s no sign of danger. You’re protected. Poor Hughie, you think, always worrying and always trying to think two steps ahead.

“Hughie,” your voice goes soft, pulling him by the arm closer to you, “Please just count a win as a win.”

You’re not begging, but you might as well be. He nods, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows.

“A win is a win,” he concedes, leaning his hip against the counter you’re sat on, leaning into your touch. His body is warm against you, radiating around you. You really should have worn a jacket, but then again, you’re never prepared for how the cold settles in New York in the fall no matter how long you’ve lived here. He leans into you, his peacoat pressing into the side of your face as his body relaxes. This is maybe your favorite thing about Hughie, when he lets his guard down and the tension leaves him.

“You said you wanted to celebrate?” he asks, bringing up your original excitement. You nod against his arm, looking up at him with a smile on your face.

“How did you want to do that, hmm?” he asks, a smile starting to tug at the side of his lips as well.

You look away from him, pursing your lips for a second pretending to think about it.

“What about…” you trail off, eyes meeting his as you press your tongue to the inside of your cheek, pushing it out. He half cough, half scoffs.

“Seriously?” he asks, the smile tugging a little more at his face. You shrug, why not?

“Wh-what? Does running for your life, like, get you going or something? This what you’re into?” The criticism in his tone is playful, with Hughie leaning more into you as you start to laugh at his insinuation.

“Only when it comes to you,” you fire back, a wry smile spreading.

“Oh only me?” he asks, pointing at himself with fake surprise and a voice full of sarcasm, “Wow, I must be so lucky.”

“Shut up,” you mumble as you slap him in the chest playfully, Hughie moving to come around you, his hands placing loosely at your hips.

He kisses the top of your head, and squeezes your hips.

“And let me guess, you wore leggings for easy access or something?” He asks, and you actually gasp. Usually Hughie isn’t the one making the sexual jokes, but you play along.

“Uh huh. You got me! I put on easy access clothing because I wanted to run for my life in broad daylight just as a little treat for you,” you scoff, and your fingers start to move against the buttons of his peacoat, hands grasping for his chest as he settles between your knees. His hands move from your hips down the sides of your thighs, and then back up the tops of them. His hands are so incredibly warm, so unlike the fall chill outside. He pulls your hips to the edge of the counter, effectively pressing you against him and spreading your legs even more to accommodate.

“Well, this is like the one thing I won’t complain about,” Hughie admits, and then captures your lips in a kiss. He kisses slowly, like he wants to taste every inch of you.

His lips and tongue work you open, your arms pulling him in as everything Hughie consumes you. His tongue moves against yours, voracious and passionate. Subdued, sweet Hughie, as you’ve noticed, likes to take the lead like this. His hands move of their own accord too, shifting from your hips to your ass, squeezing and feeling you up. His pushes kiss you backwards, his long and lean frame bending atop you. Pushing, pushing, until you finally cannot bend further. You break the kiss laughing, ungracefully letting your elbows break the fall of your back against the counter. Hughie cracks up, on pulling away long enough to throw his head back in laughter.

“Sorry,” he apologizes between giggles, but you just break down in laughter too, letting yourself lie back flat against the counter.

Hughie takes this opportunity to grab your thighs, to pull you by them to the edge of the counter. His hands move up and down the fabric of the leggings, soft to the touch. Hughie’s hands stop at the apex of your thighs, spreading them only enough to fit his hand between them. His touch is like lightning as his thumb makes connection with you through your clothes, rubbing a tantalizingly slow line up and down your center. You hum in appreciation at his ministrations, leaning into his touch as he smiles down at you.

“Right there,” he mutters to himself, pressing himself harder now. You can feel him against your ass, painfully hard and straining in his slouchy jeans.

“Hurry up,” you rush him, voice strained and half a moan. He chuckles at your eagerness, and removes his hand. You whine at Hughie, high pitched and needy. You hear him mutter something about patience under his breath, but nevertheless, his hands go for the waistband of your leggings; stretching and pulling the elastic down past the curve of your ass.

The cold of the counter stings as it makes contact with your bare ass, and you gasp.

“Commando? You really were planning this,” Hughie jokes, but there’s something dark in his eyes that lets you know he’s very appreciative. 

You weren’t planning this, not exactly. What’s the point in wearing underwear on what was supposed to be a cozy Saturday running errands in Tribeca with your new friend with benefits? But no matter what, it’s definitely working to your satisfaction, especially as Hughie lifts your ankles up to rest on his shoulders. 

“Careful, Hughie,” you warn him, “Keep teasing me and I’ll start wearing underwear more often.”

You don’t actually mean that. Hughie knows you don’t actually mean that.

He laughs, and unzips his jeans. Hughie gazes down with you with eyes full of affection, warmth coloring his every motion as he lines himself up with you. He rubs the tip of his cock against you, the same slow and teasing motion he did with his thumb, and you gasp; shutting your eyes tightly as you ready yourself. 

He pushes in with a gasp of his own. This is maybe only the fifth time you’ve done this, Hughie and you and this all new as you both agreed to hook up to ease the pain and stress, already a sensation you crave with him. 

He bottoms out with a groan, placing his hands on your thighs and once again rubbing them up and down to soothe you. 

“You into this?” you ask, not exactly done messing with him, “You into the fact that if any of these people walking by could become looky-loos if they tried hard enough?”

Hughie rolls his eyes and scoffs, before rolling his hips back into you; shutting you up. 

“Don’t use that word,” he dismisses. 

“What word? Hard? People? Fact?” you keep pressing the joke, and he rolls his hips a little harder to make you yelp as his hips bump your ass. 

“I wish I could kiss you right now to shut you up but I don’t bend that way,” he jokes back, and starts to pick up a rhythm. He thrusts steadily, holding you in place as you try to arch your back into his motions. You do shut up, half because you dont want to tease Hughie too much, half because he’s making you breathless with each thrust. You gasp and moan in time with his hips: in-gasp-out-moan, in-gasp-out-moan. 

“Fuck,” Hughie gasps, sweat beading across his brow as he speeds up. 

“Close?” you ask, your voice breathy and far away, like being carried away through the air. He nods eagerly, hands squeezing your thighs, fingernails digging into the soft flesh. 

“Me too,” you nod as well, straining the arch in your back to get to that angle that makes you see stars. Hughie seems to know what you’re trying to do, always weirdly in tune with your wants and needs. Even the first time you and he hooked up, he just seemed to know what helped you reach your pleasure without asking. 

Hughie takes your right leg off his shoulder, and moves it to his other shoulder to rest with your left leg. And this new position… God. Everything feels tighter, hotter, brighter. 

“Oh my god,” Hughie groans, clearly also loving the change, “So fucking tight.”

Hughie throws his head back with another groan, his fingers digging even harder into your legs. They’re sure to bruise, and you don’t care. A loud moan escapes your lips, and your hands flex, reaching for any purchase as you rapidly approach your end.

“Fuck, Hughie, I-“ you cut yourself off with another moan, your head falling back hard against the counter with a thud. 

“Let go, let go,” He coaxes you, squeezing your legs together tighter.

A dam breaks— you shudder, a low moan, Hughie works you through it, slowing his pace but never stopping; his own release coming quietly, heat pooling in you.

“Hughie,” you gasp, as he finally slows to a stop inside you. He holds you there, a moment of stillness. 

Then Hughie moves your legs, and pulls your leggings back over your ass; he tucks himself back in his jeans as you sit back up and grimace. 

“What?” he asks, coming back to the counter to envelop you in a hug.

“This walk home is gonna be so gross,” you say, already feeling yours and Hughie’s spend starting to drip.

“Well do you think the coast is clear? We can walk back to your place and take a shower,” Hughie suggests, turning his head to peek through the slats in the security gate. 

“We?” you ask, joking with him, “Who says I wanna make a day of this?”

“Uh, well, the best scalp massage below ninth street might be a factor in your decision,” Hughie jokes back, sarcasm laced in his tone. You can’t deny that man has some magic fingers, especially when they’re rubbing shampoo into your hair. You'd found that out last week as you scrubbed blood form each others bodies.

“You make a fair point, Campbell. Lets go.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Assistant 13

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, cheating, creep behaviour, violence, anger. These warnings are not exhaustive and some triggers may not be specified for plot reasons.

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

Summary: As an assistant at the Daily Planet, you’re rarely noticed. Until you are.

Characters: Clark Kent

Note: We came back.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Lord Farquaad loves unnecessary vowels. Take care. 💖

🖊🖊🖊

Your new life is more of a death. The old you is dead and can never be again. Not quite a true death, it’s a purgatory you’re slogging through, waiting for the ultimate end. 

Your first days are bleak. The house is filled with a stagnant pall as you wile away the hours playing your role. It’s easier when you pretend you're a character in a book, just like you did as a girl. When you became Elizabeth Bennet or one of the Pevensie kids. You escape in your mind because there is no other way out.

A routine quickly falls into place. You wake up, though sleep is sparse and hewn in wretched nightmares that mirror reality, and wait until Clark stirs. He never rouses very long after you. You open yourself to him, laying on your back, legs splayed as he grunts and ruts.

Tender, you dress in one of the thin dresses he collected for you and you go to work. You cook him breakfast. Sometimes, he takes you back to bed after he eats. Others, he pins you to the counter or the table. Then you clean up; the table, the dishes, and yourself.

When he stays, he sits and reads. You hover around him, busying yourself with a broom or just watching him, weighing the minutes. Not yet, not yet.

Lunch comes and you take care of that too. Then him. His appetite never wavers. The heavy pain sticks in your pelvis but he can’t think the limp is from anything more than the chain tugging at your ankle.

You pace, restless and wait. That’s all you do. Wait. For the first chance or his next whim. Whichever comes before the other.

You stand at the window and watch the wildlife. You feel him watching you in kind. When he leaves, he closes the shutters, latching them tight on the outside. Locking you in like a toy in a chest. A doll he can pick up to play with whenever he likes.

Dinnertime. Another meal. You’re not very hungry but you make yourself eat. If he lets you have a bath, you can puke it back up when he goes to get a towel. That is the last marker of time before bedtime…

Sleep is not won without a final surrender.

That day, as you wrap potatoes to cook in the oven, all noise seems louder, every movement more strenuous. The staleness in the air is suffocating. Your ears buzz from the constant silence. You crinkle the foil around a potato and drop it, rubbing your lobes.

You keep your hands on your ears and stare at the counter. You could scoop out your brains with a spoon. Are you going crazy? Your head feels itchy on the inside and you would be all to happy to scratch right through the bone. 

“Honey?” Clark’s voice ripples through the air. “Is something wrong?”

You close your eyes and cringe. You drag your hands away and wrap the other potato, wincing at the aluminum's raucous wrinkle. He stands and you shudder. He’s coming close.

“It’s too quiet,” you say at last.

He nears and looms beside you. You put the potatoes aside and drag over the pan of marinating steak. His large hand rests on the counter.

“Can I help?” He offers. You shake your head.

“No, thanks, I got it, honey,” you reach to touch his hand. You just want him to back off. Sweat stains your skin as his proximity sets you on fire. 

He leans in to kiss your crown, his hand dancing down your back. He gropes your ass and growls. His hand lingers and you brace yourself. It isn’t unlike him to interrupt.

“Love you,” he grits before he draws away.

You let your breath out in short spurts. You don’t want him to hear the relief in you. Your thighs quiver, bruised and raw. You carry on without pause. Keep yourself busy and he’ll let you be. For now.

🖊

The next day, Clark leaves you. You don’t know what he does when he isn’t there. Sometimes he brings back groceries or little things he’s forgotten. Others, he’s gone for hours and returns only with stress in his shoulders. You try not to think too much about what happens outside these walls, that only makes them close in tighter.

When he comes back, just around lunch time, he presents you a radio. An orange and black radio you’ve seen used by those in remote regions. He sets it on the counter as he flicks it on and adjusts the knob, searching for a station through the crackle. You cross your arms as you watch around his elbow.

The stringy tune comes through and warbles against the static. The music soothes you. You only realise then, you’d never thought you’d hear it again. Clark turns to you as you stare at the speakers.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

You nod and unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, “yes, thank you.”

Is this all you have? A radio?

“Do you… wanna dance?” He murmurs shyly.

You look at him. You reach for his hand in acceptance. Nothing he gives comes without a price. He takes you into his arms wordlessly, his face brightening as he leads you into a slow shuffle.

‘I bless the day I found you I want to stay around you And so I beg you Let it be me’

The song is older. You’re not sure who it is. By your guess, it’s even older than your parents… you know you won’t see them again. Even if you do get your chance, you can never go back to the life before this.

“I remember the first day I saw you,” Clark says as he pulls your head to rest against his chest, “you were wearing that little pink plaid dress…”

His words hang in the air. You remember the day too. The day you thought you’d figure it all out. You’d pay your dues as an assistant, work your way up to a writer one day, and maybe, in your wildest dreams, an editor…

“I love you, honey,” he pets your head.

“Love you too,” you eke out.

He pulls back to look down at you. You gaze up as he brings his fingertips under your chin. He leans in to kiss you and draws away reluctantly. He hums as his other hand closes around yours.

“Let’s take a bath,” he lets go of you and follows the chain to its end, unhooking it from the loop in the floor. He tugs you after him as he lets the radio play.

You let him take you into the bathroom. He’s intent on his mission. He drops the chain, the links hitting the floor heavily. You stare at it, just for a second, not too long for your heart to spike.

He bends over the tub and cranks the faucet. You watch him, fingers tingling, as he puts in the stop and holds his hand under the water’s flow. Stay calm.

You move closer to him as he undresses. You help him lift his shirt and you pet the soft hair along his torso. He turns to you, that foggy look in his eyes. You bring your hands to his pants and undo them, biting your lip as you hold his gaze.

You pull down his pants and let them fall down his thick legs. You tilt your head at the sudden thought, tweaking your ear towards the music. He reaches to stroke your chin.

“What is it, honey?” He snarls.

“This song,” you stop and listen to The Ronettes' iconic beat, “can I turn it up?”

He rolls his thumb across your chin and exhales, “sure, honey. I like this one too.”

You smile and shift your head, taking his thumb into your mouth. His eyes round as you swirl your tongue around his salty fingertip. You pop your lips off as he sighs.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Mmm, baby,” he breathes.

You turn slowly, measuring your steps and your heartbeat. You go out into the kitchen, the chain rattling with each step. You peer around, taking in the place. You hear the water swish as he lowers himself into the tub. You peek over as the end of the chain trails just outside the bathroom.

You stop by the radio and glance over your shoulder. Now. You turn up the radio, just loud enough. You bend and tug the chain inch by inch towards you, the noise disguised by the drumbeat. You coil it around your hand, allowing enough for you to walk.

You peer over at the bathroom doorway.

“I’ll bring towels,” you call over the music.

“Hurry,” he booms back as he lets out another gritty sigh, “baby, I need you.”

You turn without hesitation. This is it. You march into the front room and to the front door. Of course he wouldn’t lock it, not with the cuff on your ankle hooked to the loop. You glance over at the hook in the floor and steel yourself.

You open the door, lifting it on the hinges to keep it quiet. The radio drones behind you as you let yourself out into the cool air. You take one step, then the other, each one quicker than the last. You approach the trees and take a breath.

It’s now or never.

You plunge into the woods, your gait uneven as you run with the chain yank with each step. You don’t know where you’re going or where to go, you just need to get far away from here. You can’t live like this. You can’t die like this.

Your feet hit the forest floor, unfeeling to the jab of sharp rocks and the scratch of twigs. Don’t look back, just go, just go. You sprint until your lungs burn, until your mouth is parched and scratchy, until your limbs ache.

You stumble onto the ground and gulp. You can’t go any further. You’re too weak.

You shake on your hands and knees, fighting to catch your breath, trying to urge yourself on. 

Then you hear it. A giggle. A chirpish yelp and the splash of water. People? You crawl forward towards the noise. You lift yourself to look over the overturned trunk at the edge of the incline. There’s a lake below, there’s bodies splashing through the waters, screaming and laughing.

Oh, god! You stand and throw your hand up, mustering your strength to cry out. Help!

As you open your mouth, your voice shrivels up as your throat is clamped in a vice. You're dragged back away from the drop off and turned to face your villain. Clark stands naked amid the trees, seeming as towering and thick as any of them, as he grips your neck. He lifts you off your feet, your toes dangling above the ground.

You claw at his forearm as you wheezes. Your eyes well as he glares at you, shaking with rage. The chain falls from your hand and hits the floor, weighing on your ankle. He bears his teeth and hisses.

“Why would you do this?”

You can’t speak. Your head throbs as you reach to bat at his chest, begging silently for him to release you. ‘Sorry…’ you mouth, ‘sorry…’

“I love you, sweetie, I love you so much,” his voice quakes as he squeezes tighter, “why did you do this?”

Your lips open and close as your head swells violently. Your arms feel heavy as you grasp at him desperately. I can do better, I can do better. Just one more chance, honey. Please.

“You’re the one, you’re the one,” he chants tearfully, “I never loved anyone like I love you.”

“Cl-Clark,” you force out, “ple-ease—”

“No,” he crushes your throat so not a single wisp can get through, “I will never… love anyone that way I love you. Never…”

Your cheek twitches as your lashes glazes with tears. Your heart pounds in your chest as your mind swirls. His eyes fill with red light, glowing hotter and hotter. You see yourself in the scarlet glare; you in your tub, reading your favourite novel, that first day at the office when you nervously introduced yourself, your days in school, running between classes, your high school graduation, the little girl dancing in the fields, a princess out of time.

You see it all behind you and you see the emptiness ahead of you. You shake your head above his grip and use the last of your effort to mouth the words to him. The truth.

‘I….’ you make certain the movement is clear, even as your eyes threaten to roll into your skull, ‘hate.’ Your lips twist in a cruel smirk, ‘you.’

Your head lolls and you stare into his glowing irises. You’re ready. This is ever after. 

The world is consumed in a red flash and a striking heat. It sears to the bone and ends just as quickly. All is black and gone. A life burnt to cinder.

Stayed tuned for the epilogue

[mrs-dot-kennedy]

Happy pride my lovelies. Her, have some sapphic angst as a treat!

As if you could stay - Camilla Macaulay

summary. one cannot live on love alone, especially not when it exists only hidden beneath the dark veil of night and secrecy.

paring. camilla macaulay x reader

warnings. internalised homophobia, doomed yuri, angst

Whatever you have is lived like this -in stolen moments away from prying eyes.

Under the sterile hum of the kitchen’s fluorescent lights, where shadows bloom under her cheekbones and her gold hair is piled lazily atop her head. Or in the hush of the library, where only one candle burns and dust dances like ash in the still air.

There are no declarations. No promises. Just fingertips brushing against yours under the heavy oak table in the library, the scent of old paper and beeswax between you. A hand cupping your jaw in the shadowed corridor, where the stone walls breathe cold air and secrets.

She’s always golden, Camilla. Like the sun. Even here, where the windows are half-shuttered and dust lingers in the shafts of light. Even in silence. Even in secret. She belongs more to myth than to the world you inhabit. A dryad half-remembered from a fever dream, all eyes and silence and grief tucked behind her chest, her voice a ribbon of something tender and elusive, and when she looks at you -really looks at you- you understand how men could go mad for less.

And yet.

“Do you want anyone to find out?” you ask one night.

It’s late. The others were gone -Richard in his room, Henry deep in his books, Bunny asleep, Charles and Francis wandering somewhere like smoke. And you’re here, half-sitting on the kitchen counter, her between your knees, your hands in her hair. You can smell gin on her breath, but her voice is cold when she pulls back.

“No.”

She doesn’t even pretend to hesitate.

You blink. Your hands fall to your sides. “Right.”

She touches your thigh lightly, as if to soothe the wound she’s just made. “It’s not that I don’t want this.”

“But you don’t want anyone to know.” You laugh -bitter and low. “You’re afraid of them seeing you like this. With me.”

Camilla’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t deny it. She never does.

It goes on like that. Always like that.

She reaches for you when the house is dark, when the doors are closed, when the lights are low and the wine is gone and the fire is dying. She kisses you like she means it, with hunger and reverence, but when you reach for her in daylight -she turns her face away.

Once, you grab her hand in the hallway. Just take it, natural as breathing. Her fingers stiffen. She jerks it back like you’ve burned her.

“I’m not ashamed,” she says quickly. “It’s just… complicated.”

“You’re ashamed,” you say. You don’t mean for your voice to crack.

She doesn’t deny it.

She tells you she doesn’t believe in happy endings. Not for people like you. Not in this world. She says this while lying beside you, skin still warm from you, her hair tangled across your chest like spun gold.

“I don’t want to be a secret,” you whisper.

She’s quiet a long time. Then: “You already are.”

You close your eyes.

“You want me to say I love you,” she says. “But I won’t.”

“I don’t want you to say it. I want you to mean it.”

Camilla sits up, and you see her silhouette against the moonlight -all long limbs and shadow. She reaches for her cigarette case. Her lips ghost across your cheek, barely a touch. “I do mean it. That’s why I won’t say it.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. But you do nothing, because you know her. Camilla belongs to everyone. Everyone but herself.

So you live like this.

In the stolen hours. In the half-light. In the press of her body against yours in the quiet places where no one looks.

She shines like the sun. You worship like a shadow.

She doesn’t come to you for days after that.

You see her with Francis, with Charles, laughing, brilliant, otherworldly. And you wonder how she does it. How she turns it off so easily. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

But that’s the thing about her.

She’ll touch you like she means it. She’ll whisper your name like it’s sacred. She’ll run her hands over your hips like she’s memorizing them. But she’ll never stay. Not where people can see. Not where it becomes real.

You find her one night in the library again. The candlelight makes her look soft. Younger. Like she hasn’t ruined you yet. A single candle flickers on the desk beside you, its light throwing amber shadows across the spines of unread books.

Camilla is reading. Or pretending to. You can feel her not looking at you.

“You always find me when it’s dark,” you say.

“I thought you liked that about me,” she says, not looking up.

You sit across from her. “I used to.”

Camilla’s lips curl. “And now?”

“I want more.”

She looks at you, eyes narrowing -like you’re being unreasonable. Like asking to be loved in the open is asking for too much.

“You knew what this was,” she says.

“Did I?”

“You did.”

You stare at her, heart thudding. “I think you’re afraid that if anyone sees you with me, they’ll know something true about you.”

She stiffens. You’ve hit something raw.

“I’m not afraid,” she says. A lie.

You lean in across the table. “Good luck pretending that forever.”

She doesn’t answer.

She just stands. Crosses the floor. Kisses you slow, as if to apologize without saying a word. Her fingers tremble on your face.

But when the door creaks in the hallway -she pulls away.

You sit alone for a long time after that.

The candle burns down. The silence settles. The warmth of her mouth fades from your lips like a vanishing spell.

She loves you.

But not enough.

She never will.

And that’s the way it ends. Not with screaming. Not with betrayal. But with the quiet realization that she will keep choosing safety over you. Reputation over truth. Fear over feeling.

Camilla shines like the sun.

And you are always left in the dark.

[thegiantsneeze]

A Counter Encounter

G/T Snzfic. Warning: MESSY!

I have been sitting on this one for a little while now. I wanted to put some actual effort and time into it so I took the time to edit it and try to make it nice. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Venturing into the GiantLands was always a risky and potentially dangerous affair. Many giants would squash a human like an unwanted pest if they were caught. Even a benevolent giant could be a source of peril for a regular sized person by accident. Plenty of risk takers still dared to enter these lands anyway in search of treasure or at least whatever valuables they could snatch from under a giant's nose undetected.

One risk taker named Finn was on the tail end of his adventure into a giant's home when he found himself in danger. On his back he wore an utterly stuffed backpack full of items that were small to a giant and easy to forget about but would be worth something if he brought it back home to pawn.

The giant of the house stood by the countertop and tapping his fingers against it. No doubt pondering what he was to have for dinner. Unfortunately in order to leave the giant's house Finn had to cross the countertop. There was no other way around.

He tried his best to creep by out of sight. He stuck to the back of the counter closest to the wall and behind the spices and whatever else the giant had on his counter. He might have been able to creep by undetected with this method if he hadn't been startled by the sudden loud gurgling sound of the giant's sniffle. Finn turned in surprise at the sound and as he did so his massive backpack collided with a giant pepper shaker.

Finn watched in utter horror as the shaker was knocked over and began to rapidly roll to the edge of the counter. He was totally going to be caught now! It was game over! Should he run? The shaker shattered on the ground with a glassy crash which got the giant's attention almost immediately.

Just when the giant was about to turn his eyes to Finn's direction an ominous cloud of pepper wafted up from the shattered remains of the shaker like a portent of doom. The giant inhaled the cloud almost immediately through his massive nostrils.

Finn stood frozen as the giant's eyes fluttered shut and his head leaned backward. Now instead of being directly in the giant's line of sight Finn was staring down a colossal pair of twitching and flaring nostrils. The giant's lips parted as he took in a deep shuttering inhale. It was a contorted facial expression as familiar as it was primal. The giant was going to sneeze.

“…HhhuuuuHHHHHhhhh…”

It was like a booming roar. The giant's tremendous nose flared and quivered at the mercy of the invasion of pepper.

“HhhhHHHHHHHHHHHH… Hh’HHHHHH-HHHH-hhhuhhhh…”

The sound grew in pitch. The giant's broad chest expanded as the sneeze built up, ribs straining beneath the wool of his nightshirt. His eyes began to water, and his breath hitched with an escalating desperation.

Then it happened.

“HHHUUUUURRRRRAAASSSHHHCHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOO!!”

The sneeze erupted with volcanic force. A hot, wet blast of air and mucus exploded into the kitchen. The ground trembled beneath Finn's feet as a shockwave of spittle and mucus slammed into him. He stood frozen and afraid to run lest he be spotted as he was hit with a spray that soaked him from head to toe.

Before Finn could react and try to find cover the giant's breath hitched helplessly and desperately again still completely at the mercy of the pepper.

“Huuhhh… hhuhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHhh… HHH’HHHHhhhhh…”

The giant's eyes were completely squeezed shut. His nostrils flared wider and wider uncontrollably. Mucus formed in those massive nostrils like a weapon loaded and ready to fire in Finn's direction.

“HHH-HHHHHHHRRHHHHHSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOO!”

It was like the roar of some great dragon as another concussive sneeze exploded into the room, wetter and harsher than the last. It ended in a rattling gurgle, and a glob of thick, snot slung from one nostril, swinging like a rope. Again Finn was completely drenched to the bone. A glob of snot had slung close enough to the adventurer that it nearly knocked him off of his feet.

There was no time to react before the giant started to inhale and hitch again. This time the hitches were higher pitched gasps of desperation. Tears that beaded at the corners of the giant's closed eyes now rolled down his cheeks.

"Hhh- HH - HHH - HHH - !"

It came on like a rapid barrage. An unstoppable fit of sneezes.

“HaCHH! Huh’TSCHHH! Hh-GCHHHhh! GSHHH! HHH-HHHRRSHH! HH-TSHHHHHH! KSh-ooo!! KSSH-OO! KSH-! KSH! KSHKSHKSH-!! KSHOOO - KSHEW KSHEW KSHEW KSH KSH KSH-!”

Fast, ragged, unrelenting. Each sneeze snapped the giant’s massive frame forward, bending him nearly double. His chest heaved, his nose streamed like a broken faucet, and his moans of irritation were drowned beneath the symphony of wet, convulsive eruptions. Some sneezes were short gasping bursts while others were long, full-body explosions.

Droplets and mist rained from the giant with no end in sight.

By the time the giant's fit began to slow the giant's face was flushed, drenched, and dazed. His massive shoulders rose and fell with deep, rattling breaths. One final gasp escaped him. One final attempt at expelling the last of the irritants from his massive nose.

“…huhHH… huhhhHHHHHH’CHHHHuuuUUUUuhhh!”

Another wet slap of mist and mucus against Finn.

Then the quiet after the storm. The only sound that filled the air was the sniffling and moans of the giant as he grabbed a tissue to wipe his face and blow his nose. The sound of his nose blows was as wet and gurgling as his sneezes had been if not moreso. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, and with a final congested grunt, he turned and lumbered away. He was likely going to find something to clean up the shattered glass of the pepper shaker and the rest of his snotty mess on the counter.

Finn wasn't about to stick around for that. Not only did he not want to get caught he also didn't want to get drenched any further if the giant started having a rapid sneezing fit again.

Running and sliding fully soaked Finn escaped with his treasures and silently wondered if it they were worth everything he had just been through.

The giant never did figure out what knocked over his pepper shaker that day.

[jukeboxsweethearttt]

Liquid Smooth

Anthony Bridgerton x Fem Reader

cw: angst:( , Anthony being a butt hole but a sad butthole, no use of y/n i think, reader is kinda insufferable.

(loosely inspired by Liquid Smooth by Mitski (if you can’t tell by now I love doing this) enjoy!)

this ask!

The grand estate loomed ahead, its pristine facade bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. You had always admired its beauty but tonight it almost seemed almost mocking.

Inside those walls your husband, Anthony awaited.

The man who had captured your heart and now seemed to be slipping away.

As you entered your husband’s study he was there, his posture stiff, eyes fixed on the fireplace.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with unsaid words and unhealed wounds.

"Anthony."

You began, your voice trembling slightly.

We need to talk."

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable.

"About what, precisely?"

"About us."

You replied, stepping closer.

"About what’s happening to us."

Anthony's jaw tightened, and he looked away he was expecting this just not so soon.

"I have duties, responsibilities. I simply cannot afford distractions."

"Duties!"

You repeated bitterly.

"Is that all I am to you? A distraction?"

He didn’t respond immediately, the crackling fire the only sound breaking the tense silence.

You felt a lump forming in your throat, the weight of your emotions pressing down on you.

"I thought we had something real, Anthony,"

You whispered, your voice barely audible.

"I thought our love was strong enough to withstand anything."

His gaze softened momentarily, but then his walls went back up.

"You don’t understand the pressures I’m under. The expectations as Viscount."

"I am your Viscountess Anthony!

You exclaimed towards your shallow husband.

Anthony winced at your tone never hearing or seeing like this in your 7 months of marriage.

So please help me understand."

You pleaded, tears welling up in your eyes.

"Don’t shut me out."

Anthony sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.

"It is not that simple."

"Why not?"

You muttered, your frustration bubbling over.

"Why can you not let me in? I am your wife, Anthony. I am supposed to be your partner’s

You felt like you were standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering on the brink of an abyss.

"You knew what you were marrying into when you agreed to court me."

He said quietly.

"The Bridgerton name, the responsibilities that come with it."

"I married you, Anthony. Not the title, not the estate. You"

You said, your voice breaking.

"But the man I fell in love with is slipping away, and I don’t know how to reach him."

Anthony's expression softened for a fleeting moment, but it was quickly replaced by a mask of stoicism.

"I have to be strong. For the family. For you."

"Being strong doesn’t mean being distant.”

You countered.

"It doesn’t mean shutting out the people who love you."

He turned away, staring into the flames.

"I don’t know how to be any other way."

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm.

"Then let me help you. Let me in, Anthony. Don’t let us fall apart."

Anthony remained silent, his body tense under your touch.

The fire’s warmth contrasted sharply with the cold distance between you.

You felt a pang of despair, wondering if this was the end of the love story you had cherished so dearly.

"I love you."

You whispered, voice shaking.

"But I cannot and will not do this alone. I need you to fight for us, for what we had."

He finally looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and longing.

"I do not want to lose you."

He admitted, his voice hoarse.

"Then don’t," you urged. "Fight for us, Anthony. Let’s face the challenges together, as we promised."

For a moment, it seemed as if he might reach out, might take that step towards reconciliation.

But then the shutters came down again, and he turned away.

"I don’t know if I can."

he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart ached at his words, but you refused to give up.

Stepping closer, you gently took his hand, your touch soft yet resolute.

"We can, Anthony. We can face anything together."

He looked at you, the conflict in his eyes evident.

"I am scared."

he admitted, his voice cracking.

"Scared of failing you, of not being enough."

"You are enough."

you whispered, squeezing his hand.

"We’re enough. But only if we stand together."

Anthony’s resolve seemed to waver, the walls around his heart beginning to crumble.

Slowly, he reached up and cupped your face in his hands, his touch tender and filled with longing.

"I’ve been so afraid of being vulnerable."

he confessed, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"But losing you would be the greatest failure of all."

A tear slipped down your cheek as you leaned into his touch.

"Then let’s stop being afraid. Let’s be strong together."

With a shaky breath, Anthony pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly.

You felt his heart beating against yours, the warmth of his embrace melting away the cold distance that had settled between you.

"I love you."

he murmured into your hair.

"More than anything."

"I love you too."

you replied, your voice filled with hope.

"And I believe in us."

As you stood there, wrapped in each other’s embrace, the weight of your fears and doubts began to lift.

Together, you faced the future with renewed determination, ready to conquer any obstacle that came your way.

Hand in hand, you walked towards the light of a new beginning, leaving the shadows of the past behind.

And as the sun set on the Bridgerton estate, you knew that this time, you would find your way back to each other stronger, wiser, and more in love than ever before.

[bambiraptor9blog]

'It's Complicated'-Sonadow Fan Fic-Chapter 1

Posting this chapter here in its entirety from my AO3 page. If you like what you read, please feel free to add notes, blaze, comment and read the rest on my AO3 account-thanks! :)

Chapter 1-The Mean Bean Coffee Co

The black quilled Hedgehog with crimson tips looked up at the entrance to the corner coffee shop, raising an eyebrow curiously while folding his arms against his chest. His white patch of chest fur puffed up with the brisk icy wind—Montana was not known for gentle climate, especially not in the dead of Winter—and he stowed the thought that he was freezing cold deep down inside his mind, letting his child-self seize in pain whilst he took on a dour expression.

“The Mean Bean,” he grunted softly to himself, his hot breath instantly becoming a miniature cloud on the cold breeze. He blinked his bright red eyes, shook his head, and let out a bemused, “Tch!”

“Hello, other Hedgehog,” the more heavy-set Dr. Ivo Robotnik—Sonic often called him Eggman—had somehow snuck up behind the black and crimson quilled creature in question. He dramatically pivoted to block the creature from entering his beloved slice of Americana—as well as his secret lab. “I see you’ve found my quaint establishment in the heart of Green Hills! I trust you—hoofed it—all this way okay?” He swept his white gloves through his comical moustache, getting icicles off its wiry mass, and grinned maniacally, his red snow goggles obscuring his eyes from the Hedgehog before him. “You know—all you Hedgehogs look awfully alike. What’s your name again?” He paused grooming his moustache to fold his arms across his chest, doing his best to mimic the Hedgehog’s pose. “Don’t tell me—wait—it’s something contrived and simplistic, isn’t it? I mean, the red one with those big, meaty paws is called Knuckles, the fox with two tails is called Tails, so you must be—”

“Shadow,” the Hedgehog grunted, rolling his eyes. “And I know who you are. Move aside, Doctor. I’m here to investigate this little…coffee shop…of yours.”

“GUN didn’t make you part of the Health and Wellness Advisory board, did they?” Robotnik spread his arms out wide, lightly tapping his fingers to sections of his palms as he did so in a rapid-fire text. Agent Stone, within the shop, shuttered the blinds and switched out the F- grade placard to an A placard, catching a glimpse of Shadow with fear in his large brown eyes.

“Doctor—who is that?!” Stone typed frantically while shutting down his Robotnik Cosplay Device 2.0, now with an added Sims 4 component.

“I have no idea, Stone,” Robotnik typed back while facing Shadow. “Let’s play nice for now and see where it gets us. You know my order by now, baby.” He smiled even wider at the scowling creature.

“Latte—with steamed Austrian goat milk!” Robotnik heard Stone say, and the lab was now a storefront once again, with warm lighting, a fireplace in one corner, and coffee grinders revving up, crunching down the beans that sat within them loudly.

Shadow sniffed the air. A memory hit him—one where he found a container of Professor Gerald’s prized Arabica coffee beans while he and Maria were playing hide and seek aboard the ARK. He let the memory stay, the cold mountainous town drifting away into a sea of starlight below his air shoe clad feet. Robotnik marveled as he levitated, watching the fire from the boosters instantly melt the snow on the ground.

“Oh ho! Where did you get those? I haven’t seen air shoes since…since…!” Robotnik was about to sink into his own reverie when he broke Shadow’s.

“I must get inside,” Shadow gruffed, and pushed past Robotnik toward the doors. Robotnik’s jaw dropped and he whirled about with a sound mimicking one of his badniks turning on its chassis.

“Eager to try our Mean Beans, I see!” beamed Agent Stone, in his barista outfit. The slender, olive-skinned man with short black hair and a well-groomed beard-and-goatee rushed around the counter to meet Shadow, and to ensure Robotnik’s rage was quelled long enough to develop a customer service façade.

“Coffee,” was all Shadow could mumble, overwhelmed now by the sight of the grinders and state-of-the-art dispensers, in polished stainless steel. The smell of coffee is what made his head spin more than when he performed a homing attack—the rich, heavy, earthy smell that reminded him of home, of the love of his beloved Maria and her comfort. His air shoes hit the tile floor and singed the grout slightly, making Stone inwardly sigh, Oh great. Another space porcupine to clean up after…I hope Ivo knows what’s he’s dealing with this time…I’d…I’d really like for just us to… “Barista…Stone. I’d like to try some of your coffee, please.” Shadow read his crooked nametag, which Robotnik narrowed his eyes at, and then Stone straightened it nervously.

“Absolutely—uh--?” Stone replied as he scuttled back behind the counter, holding the creature’s cold, soul-piercing gaze, waiting for the name. He swallowed hard. This space porcupine…why does he remind me of Ivo in our younger years? Focus, Stone! Focus!

“Shadow,” the softest hint of a smile started to thaw the iciness in his gaze. “Shadow the Hedgehog.”

Stone scribbled on a cup while Robotnik ambled over and took a seat in a booth by the front counter, staring at both of them curiously. Why my fate continues to be tied to these…Hedgehogs…is beyond me. Still, the gems they keep bringing to this world will make for an incredible source of power…and this one. This one will be the one to beat! I wonder…what makes this creature tick? He seemed to be lost in thought with the smell of the coffee—perhaps a loved one? A lover? Maybe both? Who cares? I have to get into his head before he gets into mine! Robotnik thought, all while Stone served him a lovingly etched cup of hot Austrian goat milk latte.

“Would you like a latte? An espresso? If you’re feeling cheeky, maybe a flat white’ll do ya right, mate!” Stone tried to impress Shadow and failed miserably as he returned to the counter of the shop. Shadow just stared at Stone, blinking. Robotnik rolled his eyes and sipped his latte slowly, loudly.

“Stone,” Robotnik’s tone made the other man freeze. Stone looked down at the floor, his eyes wide, his smile fading. He was expecting a rebuke, a sharp retort, a cruel jab at his big heart. Robotnik lifted his chin, and winked. “You did excellent, adding just the right amount of mushroom. Keep it up, and you might get a raise!”

“Yes, Doctor!” Stone felt the spring in his step as he continued to address Shadow. Shadow raised an eyebrow again, staring at them both even more curiously than he stared at the false storefront moments ago. What an odd mating ritual. Humph. Pathetic humans, groveling for attention.

“Mmh,” Shadow thought for a moment. Then, “Can you do me a favor, Barista Stone?”

“Yes, whatever you’d like!” Stone felt his voice crack. Robotnik furrowed his brows at that, and Stone cleared his throat, waiting expectantly while leaning over the counter slightly.

“Put only your finest roast beans in the cup. No water, no espresso, no grinding. Just whole beans.”

“You don’t drink coffee?” Robotnik mumbled aloud. “Fascinating.” What a little weirdo, he thought, finishing his cup.

“Of—of course?” Stone asked Shadow, looking over at Robotnik for clarification. The doctor shrugged and started adding notes into his watch. “Any specific flavor?”

“Hm…” Shadow stood there, thinking, letting the recesses of his memory rise to the surface, like the twisted tendrils of Black Arms aliens, turning his gaze distant. He recalled popping open Gerald’s glass coffee container and eating the beans with his hands, soiling his gloves, struggling to chew them. He read the small white label on the container’s glass surface as he ate. “Ah-ra-bick-uh,” he grunted aloud, phonetically sounding out the word as he did when he was young.

“Dark or light roast?”

“Dark, of course,” Shadow returned from his reverie. Just the way Gerald and Maria liked them…as did I… “Oh, and please include a serving spoon. I don’t want to get my hands dirty.”

“Not yet you don’t!” Robotnik chortled, a glint in his eyes that only Stone could catch.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Doctor?” Shadow asked, genuinely unsure of his double entendre.

“Nothing at all, my fine black and red quilled fellow!” Robotnik grinned, wandering over to Stone and Shadow. He set his goggles on one end of the counter and balanced his weight with his elbows against it. “So. What brings you here tonight? Your…usual den too cold?”

Stone prepped the coffee and listened in on the conversation attentively.

“I’m no mere Hedgehog, Doctor. I thought your grandfather clued you in on that ages ago,” Shadow gruffed in response, avoiding the man’s eye contact.

“Well an alien Hedgehog, at least to us here on Earth, yes,” Robotnik nodded, fidgeting with his moustache. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, raising an eyebrow at Shadow.

“You know why I am here. I was sent by Gerald and GUN to investigate your establishment,” Shadow gruffed.

“Are you familiar with the other Hedgehog that lives here on Earth?” Robotnik wanted to know, ignoring his statement.

“There’s…there’s another?” Shadow wondered. I thought they were all extinct, wiped out with the Siege of Longclaw! I thought I was the last…!

“Yes, and he’s been…antagonizing…” Robotnik gritted his teeth, “the residents of this town for years, including yours truly. His name…is Sonic. Sonic the Hedgehog!” and with Hedgehog! Robotnik shouted angrily, making Stone wince and Shadow’s eyes widen in alarm.

When the echo of his voice died down, Robotnik caught his breath, and he cleared his throat.

“I take it you know of him? I know GUN does…”

Shadow was quiet for a long time. Stone peered at him from behind the counter, blinking slowly.

A blush had risen to Shadow’s cheeks. He tried to force down his feelings, tried to hide the years of longing that welled up in his chest and in the tears he felt moving to the corners of his eyes. He closed them, taking in a few deep breaths, his chest hairs quivering with the attempt to calm down.

Another Hedgehog? A…a chance to have a mate at last? A chance to…be happy?

Then, aloud, softly, “The story goes all Hedgehogs, as you know of us, died out along with the owls years ago. I…I didn’t know…another had…escaped that fate!”

“You see,” Robotnik continued, chewing on a cookie Stone presented to him. He wiped away the crumbs with taps of his fingers, infinitesimally tiny bots cleaning them away from his suit, and started to pace the floor between Stone and Shadow. “I’ve been trying to track the origins of that blue quilled menace for a while now. Alas, I can only pinpoint a comet that orbits close to our solar system once every 50 years.”

“A…a comet?” Shadow felt an internal shudder. An unbidden memory arrived, a roving slimy yellow and red eye, moving listlessly in a black and red skinned alien being, hissing his name after he emerged from his incubator tank…

“It turns out that my grandpapa, as brilliant as he was, had to make a deal with an extraterrestrial devil to keep his business alive. And this devil was involved with these…Hedgehogs…and this comet, too.”

“I am more than a mere Hedgehog, and more than Gerald’s business, Doctor,” Shadow growled, his quills and fur hackles rising with the implication. He pointed a finger at the mustachioed man and continued, “I am the Ultimate Lifeform on this planet! The only hope we have against such…intruders! How dare you insinuate that I am allied with them!”

“Ah, but Sonic is allied with this comet and this devil, it seems!” Robotnik nodded, pausing in his pacing to face Shadow.

“What!” Shadow was taken aback. At that moment, Stone gave him a cup full of the roasted beans.

Shadow chewed on the new information and the dark roasted Arabica beans. He grunted in pleasure, which Stone and Robotnik found oddly arousing, and they stared at him as he ate, enraptured.

“It’s never good,” Shadow continued while swallowing, “to dilute the flavor.” He cleared his throat, noting the shocked expressions of both men.

“Stone,” Robotnik whispered. Stone started to blush and sweat, adjusting his collar.

“Yes Doctor?” Stone wanted to know, unable to take his eyes off Shadow as he dug in another spoonful and ate, rolling his red eyes in bliss.

Robotnik hissed to Stone: “This Hedgehog is not the same as Sonic. Clearly not. He’s got to be some kind of mutant hybrid. I mean, who eats raw coffee beans?”

“I…I honestly don’t know, Doctor. I can’t help but watch him…! I mean, how does he--?!” and Stone let out a gurk! as Robotnik grabbed the man’s necktie below his barista smock and yanked him close.

“The way he looked when I mentioned our blue rat…do you think there’s a possibility, an inkling that he could be…attracted to Sonic?”

“I thought they were related!”

“No, you buffoon! I was using that information as a decoy, to set him up into thinking that somehow, someway, they might be distantly related. Obviously not direct, Shadow was supposedly a project my grandpapa kept secret from the government for decades! But is this Shadow…my Shadow? Catch my drift?” Robotnik set Stone down, who gasped for air gratefully.

“I…I think so, Doctor…” Stone swallowed, recovering and adjusting his tie, straightening his barista smock.

“This coffee…is…most…excellent,” Shadow proclaimed, nearly finished with his cup. His quills began to stand on end and he started to rev up his air shoes instinctively. “I will need to go on a run soon to burn it all off. So tell me, Doctor and Barista Stone…is this Sonic…am I…somehow involved with this…comet? Is Sonic allied with the ones known to me as the Black Arms? Did he betray us, betray…me?”

The Black Arms? Could that be the devil alien race my grandpapa knows?! Robotnik leaned in even closer to Stone, his voice an imperceptible whisper that made the latter’s neck hair stand on end: “He’s into him, Stone. Hook, line and sinker.”

Then, pulling away and ambling toward Shadow: “This Sonic…ever since he came here, he’s been nothing but trouble toward me and Stone here. He’s nearly destroyed this town with his buddy cop daddy, and last I checked, he has the Chaos Emeralds.”

“The Chaos Emeralds?” Shadow wanted to know. He coughed slightly, the coarse beans sticking to his throat. Then, Robotnik continued:

“We both know the kind of power he has with those—he could be some kind of terrorist, out to conquer the world for Hedgehog kind! So we’ve been trying to get the Emeralds back—”

“Why?” Shadow wondered, tossing his cup in the trash and giving the spoon back to Stone, who grimaced in disgust—it was covered in his saliva, and teeth marks made divots into it. “Doctor, there’s no need to safeguard the Emeralds for GUN. That’s my job, last I checked.”

Robotnik sneered and then put on a wide fake smile. “I’m the smartest man on this planet. Well, aside from Stone. And I know what’s at stake here, Shadow. I know what that power means, in the wrong hands. Shouldn’t I—I mean, shouldn’t we, as humans that are the stewards of this blue planet—do the responsible thing, and prevent chaos from reigning supreme over this world? Isn’t that what Maria wanted?”

 Maria! Shadow’s heart nearly stopped on hearing her name. His angel, the blonde human girl with blue eyes deeper than the ocean floor; the one who, despite being sickly, loved him unconditionally. The one who sent him to Earth 50 years ago…the one whose name once again brought him back to life.

Shadow’s rage began to rise on thinking of his loss, and he scrunched up his nose in a deep scowl.

“A Hedgehog like Sonic cannot be captured. Only bested, Doctor,” Shadow tsked. His eyes glowed red like coals on an open flame, and energy started to surge through his quills, turning them neon orange. The lights in the Mean Bean began to dim and flicker as Shadow’s energy started to build. Shadow’s limiter rings tightened on his wrists and ankles, making him wince for a split second.

Robotnik noted the rings and tapped on his watch, taking photos of them silently. Then, “Race that blue rat to the ends of the Earth if you have to, Shadow. I want you to fulfill my grandpapa’s—no, Maria’s!—promise. You say you’re here to protect mankind? Prove it, and bring that Hedgehog back to me, so I can…deal with him…accordingly.”

Then, he snarled, “Sonic will be mine, Doctor. I will make sure of it, because I am the Ultimate Life!”

Before Robotnik could give a single quip in response, Shadow was gone, blasting out the doors of the Mean Bean Coffee Shop in the dead of night, his quills and air shoes the only brief light before total darkness surrounded the streets of the mountain town.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Agence France-Presse, via France 24:

The Global Engagement Center, a State Department unit established in 2016, shuttered on Monday at a time when officials and experts tracking propaganda have been warning of the risk of disinformation campaigns from US adversaries such as Russia and China. "The State Department has consulted with Congress regarding next steps," it said in a statement when asked what would happen to the GEC's staff and its ongoing projects following the shutdown. The GEC had an annual budget of $61 million and a staff of around 120. Its closing leaves the State Department without a dedicated office for tracking and countering disinformation from US rivals for the first time in eight years. A measure to extend funding for the center was stripped out of the final version of the bipartisan federal spending bill that passed through the US Congress last week. The GEC has long faced scrutiny from Republican lawmakers, who accused it of censoring and surveilling Americans. It also came under fire from Elon Musk, who accused the GEC in 2023 of being the "worst offender in US government censorship [and] media manipulation" and called the agency a "threat to our democracy." The GEC's leaders have pushed back on those views, calling their work crucial to combating foreign propaganda campaigns.

The Global Engagement Center, which opened in 2016 as a vital tool to serve to counter disinformation campaigns from foreign actors such as China and Russia, shut down this week after eight years due to the right-wing faux outrage campaign against agencies cracking down on disinformation.

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 9

Prompt: Stuck in Wall Pairing: CampusCrush!Wooyoung x fem!reader WC: 1.8k Summary: Instructions unclear, stuck in the new IKEA Bestå. This is a work of fiction, it does not represent Wooyoung or any Ateez member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this. TW/CW Under the Cut!

TW/CW: just so fucking stupid. little bit of ass fixation, slight dry humping, protected sex, really fucking stupid

 “I cannot believe I’m stuck in some cheesy porn script. Oh this sucks. Oh my god this sucks,” you yell.  The assembly instructions for your new television console clearly stated that it was a two person job and yet, you were stubborn and went ahead. Now, almost two hours later, you’ve somehow pretzel’d your way through one of the cubbies with no way out.  “Wooyoung help! Can you hear me, you moron, help! You’re going to go deaf if you keep listening to music that loud you little-SHIT,” a sharp slap to your ass interrupts your tirade. “WOOYOUNG!”  His witch cackle gives him away. Presumably somewhere behind you, your leg kicks blindly back.  “I dropped the screwdriver and now- it’s too heavy I’ll get squished if I knock it over,” you gesture at your predicament.  He cackles again. The cold snap of a camera shutter echoing in your mind.  “Did you just take a picture of my ass?” You practically scream. “Help me or the second I get out of this thing I’m going to end your entire short twink-y life you GREMLIN.”  Sighing, Wooyoung places his phone on the kitchen counter. Appraising what exactly had you helpless in front of him. “You can just go back the way you came?”  “No moron. If it was that easy I would've done it. Now can you please PLEASE pull me?”

 One hand bracing the frame of the console, the other holding your waist Wooyoung pulls. You don’t budge an inch. He huffs, blowing a tendril of hair up and away from his face. You bounce on your tippy toes with frustration, the fat of your ass jiggling alluringly. You don’t even know you’re doing it as he’s chubbing up inside of his sweats.  “Help me out on this would yah?” Wooyoung asks as he readjusts his arm placement. “I”m holding the shelf just focus on pulling back with me, three, two, one, GO!” Both of you tug down, your ass grinding into him, adjusting the height as you push back harder and harder. Still you stay trapped between plywood boards and what’s worse is you can feel him slowly hardening in his loungewear and you don’t hate it.

 You’d had a soft spot for Wooyoung, how could anyone not. Handsome with the right amount of self awareness and unique strange charm. In part you wanted to surprise him with the fully built furniture as a way of impressing him, showing him how sufficient you were, as if singlehandedly setting up the entire apartment would win his heart. Dumb, but crushes make you do dumb things.  “At least your ass looks great like this,” Wooyoung laughs, taking a handful of flesh in his grasp. “God, I never understood how people could be into those cheesy porn plots but… damn. Really is all out there, vulnerable and whatever.”  You stamp your feet, “Wooyoung it isn’t funny.” It wasn’t how you wanted to catch his attention but if it was working who were you to stop it. “What am I gonna do?”  Having had a fondle with one hand his other joins, grabbing the opposite cheek, massaging in large slow circles. “Maybe if you relax a bit,” he trails off. “Take advantage of the situation, meditate…or something.” As if hypnotized by his own languid touches, his hips drift forward to meet your butt. He rests there just leaning into you as blood rushes from his brain to his dick.

 You aren’t doing much better, practically melting in your pants from even this slightest of touches. It was ill advised to move in with him, but you thought that living together would kill the small flame you’d been carrying. Instead the spark had become a full kitchen fire and now it was spreading to the living room. Your head swimming with his suggestion to “take advantage” of your current predicament. “I’m not very good at meditating, could you help me relax?”  “You know, it’s really convenient that I’m home right now. Right when you’re building this. If I’d gone out you’d really be out of luck.” Wooyoung’s teeth catch his lower lip, fighting back a moan as you adjust yourself, ass rubbing against him in the process. “Here’s the problem. I also need help with something,” he pauses, leaning forward and pressing his bulge into you harder. “I think you know what with.”  “Mhm,” you nearly whine, lips pressed together hard, making a thin line across your strained face.  “It’s sort of your fault, if you think about it. So you should be the one to help me. Take responsibility and all.” He fully settles his clothed bulge between your cheeks, dragging them along his length.  “Yes, really, god yes.  It’s totally my fault,” you capitulate easily, voice tightening as need sinks heavily into your core. “However you want me to take it, I will. Responsibility I mean. Take responsibility. I can take it in whatever way.”

 Wooyoung is ready, just waiting for your word before he drops his waistband to his thighs, a small damp spot already formed in his underwear. Running the length of his shaft along the smooth spandex of your tights gives him goosebumps, a tremor of elation passing through his spine. Tentatively he presses the head into the stretched fabric, watching it dimple and pucker under his microthrusts.  “You can take it however I want you to?” His cheshire smile spread wide across his face, tinting his tone. “Even if it’s just this?”  “Mhm,” you desperately want more than just this. Fingers gripping the slats of wood as he jostles you. A short sad wheeze escapes through your nostrils. Despite your best efforts to tamp down your desire your body betrays you.  Wooyoung laughs again, a short outburst, hand coming down hard on your ass before wrapping you in a hug, as best he can. “You sound so distressed! How will you relax if this is all I give you?” Hand snaking south he presses on your mound, the wet squelch of soaked underwear against his fingers sends another shiver down his spine. “You really want me, don’t you?”  “Fuck Woo, yeah I do.”

 The response of your pussy to the telltale crinkle of foil is almost pavlovian, walls fluttering in anticipation of fullness. Feeling the warmth of Wooyoung’s palm on your lower back you can picture the packet between his lips, tearing it open with one hand, not wanting to be too far from you.  The console rocks as he roughly pulls your leggings just under your ass, just enough to give him access to what matters. Strings of your wetness cling and shine as his fingers slide along your slit.  “I was going to prep you but-” he wiggles two fingers in, your walls sucking him deeper. It’s enough to interrupt his train of thought, his persistent teasing. All he can think about is the comfort of your sex. How inviting it is, how ready you are, how much you must want it. “-fuck that’s hot.”  “Please Woo, please, hurry.” You beg. You don’t need to as he quickly replaces his fingers with his cock. Grabbing the frame of the furniture he pulls you back onto him in one smooth thrust. The fullness twists in your gut, knocking the breath from your lungs. “OH! Shit, you feel-why are you so big?” You sound almost offended as you moan, adjusting to the pressure.  “You don’t know that,” he kneads your lower back, rocking closer. “God I wish I could grab your tits. They’ve always looked so fucking delicious. Just sitting there, taunting me.”  “Grab them later fuck me now.” You groan, swirling your hips on him. The wood of the console keeps you from doing much more than rocking and twerking on him.  “Show me how much you want it.” He demands. “I know you can do it. You set all this up. Show me how much you need me to fuck you.”  Whining you arch your back, wiggling your hips side to side. It barely shifts him within you. He still doesn’t move to fuck you. Bouncing on the balls of your feet, you try humping back on him as best you can. Jaw slackening a dry hiccuped sob escapes you. “I’m stuck, you have to. You have to!”

 With a smirk he grabs your waist, tugging back on you to hold you in place. Leaning back and away he rolls his hips, the ridges of your walls dragging along his length. Driven by crazed lust, it isn’t enough to feel how you grip him, he needs to see it. Wooyoung holds the hem of his shirt between his teeth, watching how his abs flex as his bodyline rolls again, your lips tugging with the slow thrust of his cock.  “Woo,” you moan as he slowly fucks you. It’s nice to moan his name aloud for once instead of just in your head. “God damn it Woo. Ssooo good.”  “Hmph,” his response is muted by the cotton shirt. Speeding up little by little.  Your eyes glaze over, mind hazy. Getting fucked by your crush in the living room you shared. Nothing matters except for the insistent drag of his cock against your walls. His hips feel like magic, melting your tension with each stroke. Your leg shakes as your orgasm builds, the entire structure swaying.  Wooyoung’s hands migrate from you to the wood, gripping it and using it as leverage to pound into you harder than before. The ripple of your ass with each percussive slap of his hips has him hypnotized. Lost to the friction of your walls, he thrusts deliriously with abandon, uncaring of the precious nature of the situation. Chasing the delight of your punched out moans and groans.  Core contracting, air is forced from your lungs. The wave of pleasure crashes over you, every muscle bracing as it hits hard. At the same time the console creaks, your top half jolting free. A choked yelp escapes you, unable to warn Wooyoung. The structure crashes forward, fear clamping your walls tightly down on him.  “Shit!” He yelps, eyes wide he spills into the condom unceremoniously. “Fuck!” He continues a steady stream of swear words as he pulls from you, stumbling backwards as you crumple to your knees, panting.  “Can’t believe that worked-”  “I came,” Wooyoung sounds dejected, red and panting. “FUCK! I came so quick.”  Your eyes dart under the sofa, a glimmer of the a loose screw hiding underneath. Looking from Wooyoung to the screw you scoot and reach your arm towards the glimmer, instead grabbing the crossbar of the couch. “Uh…I hate to say it Woo but-”  His eyes twinkle, “you’re stuck? What a dummy, getting stuck twice. I’m going to start thinking you’re doing this on purpose.”

I just love giving Wooyoung the most ridiculous of prompts. He’s fun to write for me.