#HOW DO YOU FEEL TO BE IN THE PRESENCE OF GREATNESS | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shelovesosa · 3 days ago

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Say My Name Like You Mean It

Pairing: Satoru gojo X F! Reader

Contains: MDNI, EVENTUAL SMUT, soft dom Gojo, Oral (f receiving), slow sex, a tinyyy bit of agnst, bad friend, Geto cameo , fluff, lovebirds in denial.

Summary!! Dragged into a blind double date by her best friend Yumi, Y/N expected awkward conversation and overpriced drinks—what she didn’t expect was Satoru. Charming, aloof, and beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. There’s just one problem. Satoru is falling for someone else—Yumi, the girl he wasn’t supposed to notice.

Part 2>>>

You never meant to say yes.

It all happened so fast, like most things with Yumi do. One minute you were swearing you'd stay in, wearing that one oversized t-shirt that smelled faintly like lavender detergent and denial, and the next she was standing at your door with lip gloss too shiny for reason and a mission too loud to argue with.

"A blind double date," she says, grinning like she’s delivering great news. "You're coming."

You blink from the doorway, socked feet planted on your apartment’s cool wood floor. “Why?”

She rolls her eyes, stepping past you like she owns the place. “Because I can’t go alone. Because I lied and said my best friend was super cute and single and down. Because you owe me for ghosting that rooftop party last weekend.”

You frown. “I had a headache.”

“You had a spreadsheet and a minor existential crisis about turning twenty-five.”

Fair enough.

“I don’t even like blind dates.”

“You like food,” she shoots back, toeing open your closet with her heel. “And you like getting dressed up, even if you pretend not to.”

You don’t argue that. Not when she’s already holding up a black dress you haven’t worn in months—the one that makes your collarbones look sharp and your waist feel small.

Somehow, by the time you’re in her car, you’ve convinced yourself it’s just dinner. Not a date. Not anything that means anything. Just a way to keep Yumi from bringing it up for the next three weeks.

But then you arrive at Summer Blue, a rooftop bar near downtown with velvet curtains, rich lighting, and a view of the skyline that makes you feel like you're stepping into someone else’s night. One where the air smells like citrus and high hopes.

They're already there.

Two guys, tucked into a corner booth where the lighting dips soft and golden like honey. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a little sleepy-looking—is sipping from a glass and watching the room with a kind of stillness that feels practiced. His presence is quiet but heavy, like an unfinished thought. That must be Suguru.

Next to him is the opposite. Leaning back, legs wide, arms stretched across the back of the booth, with snowy white hair that falls carelessly over his forehead. He’s wearing sunglasses inside.

Sunglasses. But then he pushes them up onto his head, and you see his eyes—bright, pale, too blue to be real—and it hits you. Hard.

He’s stupidly handsome. In that chaotic, dangerous, “you’ll ruin my GPA and my life” kind of way.

Satoru.

They both stand when you approach. Suguru offers Yumi a handshake and a polite smile, eyes flickering with a quiet warmth. But Satoru grins like he’s just been handed a game he plans to win.

“You must be Y/N,” he says, his gaze skimming over your face in a way that makes your skin hum. “Cute name.”

You smile, tight. “You don’t look like a Satoru.”

He cocks his head. “What do I look like, then?”

“Someone who wears sunglasses indoors.”

He laughs. Loudly. Like it actually caught him off guard.

“I like her,” he says to no one in particular, lips curving around the edges of a smirk. “She’s got claws.”

You glance at Yumi. She’s already sliding into the seat next to Suguru, laughter bubbling up like it’s been waiting to escape. Their conversation picks up like it never had to start.

Which leaves you beside Satoru.

You settle in, stiff at first. His cologne is clean and sharp, something citrusy beneath the warmth. You focus on the menu to avoid how your thigh brushes his every time you shift.

They talk. You listen.

You offer a few lines here and there—safe ones, nothing too revealing. Satoru asks what you do. You tell him. He nods like he's interested, but you catch the moment he stops listening. He laughs more at Yumi’s jokes than yours. Refills herglass before yours. Always looking across the table, never beside him.

It’s not obvious, but it’s enough.

You sip your wine slower. You try to focus on Suguru, who seems quieter, thoughtful, far more tuned into Yumi than anyone else. It makes sense. She’s magnetic tonight—glowing with that effortless confidence that makes people fall in love in record time.

You don’t blame her. You don’t even blame him. But it still stings. Because when you first sat down, he looked at you like he might actually see you. And now he’s not looking at all.

By dessert, Yumi’s practically in Suguru’s lap. She’s laughing in that full-bodied way that makes other tables glance over, and Suguru, though soft-spoken, doesn’t pull away. You see it. The beginnings of something. Or maybe just a really good first date.

Meanwhile, Satoru checks his phone. You realize he hasn’t asked you a single personal question in the last hour.

The check comes. Suguru reaches for it first, insists on covering it. Yumi mouths wow at you like she’s been proposed to. You force a smile.

Outside, the city hums low, busy and buzzing with Friday-night heat. Yumi’s hand finds your arm as you wait for the car. Satoru says something to Suguru—low, sharp, something that makes him laugh.

You look at Satoru one more time. He catches you. Smiles. And just before you turn away, you catch the flicker of his gaze sliding back to Yumi.

The ride home is quiet until Yumi turns and sighs dramatically.

“So?” she asks. “What’d you think of Satoru?”

You pause. The lights from the city flash against the windows, strobing your face in soft gold and shadow. You think of his grin. His jokes. His eyes. And then you think of how none of it was meant for you.

“He’s... not my type,” you say, gently.

Yumi doesn’t push.

She’s texting Suguru before you’ve even reached the freeway.

You turn toward the window, chin resting on your knuckles. You feel something shift in your chest—barely a tremor, but real.

And you wonder why something you didn’t even want hurts just enough to feel like a bruise.

You try not to think about him. You really do.

Monday comes with the same routine as always: your alarm buzzes too early, your coffee tastes too bitter, and the world outside your window glows that soft blue-gray of a city not quite awake. The date with Satoru and Suguru feels like something that happened in someone else’s life. A movie you watched, not a memory you lived.

You tell yourself it didn’t matter. You barely knew him. He barely looked at you. It shouldn’t linger the way it does, tucked beneath your ribs like a paper cut you keep pressing just to see if it still hurts.

Yumi, on the other hand, is thriving.

She’s been smiling more than usual, texting even more than that. You can always tell when it's Suguru she’s talking to—her posture changes. She sits straighter. Her eyes get a little dreamy, her words a little distracted.

It’s sweet, honestly. And it makes you feel like the side character in someone else’s romance arc.

She tells you about their second date on Wednesday. A gallery opening downtown, modern art and little hors d'oeuvres shaped like abstract nightmares. She wears a red dress and you zip her up with careful fingers, watching her in the mirror as she applies lipstick with hands that don’t shake.

“He’s so thoughtful,” she says softly, and you nod, even though she’s not really talking to you. “Like he sees me. You know?”

You do.

You say goodnight when she leaves, but you don’t turn on the TV or make tea like usual. You sit in the silence of your apartment, bathed in the dim light of your kitchen lamp, and wonder if you’ve ever had that feeling. The being seen.

Your phone buzzes with a work notification. You turn it over, face down.

The week creeps by.

You throw yourself into your job, into projects and timelines and the comfort of checklists. People know you as the dependable one, the calm one, the person who always has a backup plan. You like being that person.

But lately, something feels off. You’ll catch yourself staring out the window a little too long. Getting distracted by things that shouldn't matter—like the memory of Satoru laughing at something Yumi said, or the way his fingers tapped against his glass when he wasn’t paying attention.

You hate that you remember that. You hate even more that he hasn’t messaged. Not even as a friend. Not even as a courtesy. Not that he owed you anything. You remind yourself of that at least three times a day. Still.

Friday night, Yumi’s gone again.

Out with Suguru. You tell her to have fun and mean it, but when the door clicks shut behind her, the quiet feels heavier than usual. You pour yourself a glass of wine. One becomes two.

Somewhere around eleven, you scroll through your photos. Not to look for anything in particular. Just to feel something. And there it is.

A blurry candid that Yumi took at the bar. The four of you, half-smiling, a little tipsy. You and Satoru are barely in frame—his arm behind you on the booth, your body leaning subtly away. Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. His does, but it’s not for you.

You should delete it. Instead, you turn off your phone.

Saturday, the sun burns bright and careless over the city. You run errands just to get out of the house—groceries, dry cleaning, a new candle you don’t need. The streets buzz with heat and movement. You slip your sunglasses on, earbuds in, music up loud enough to drown your thoughts. And yet— Somewhere between the fruit aisle and the checkout lane, you think you see him.

White hair. Tall frame. That walk—carefree but too aware of his own magnetism. You turn your head too fast, knocking your elbow into a stranger’s basket. They curse under their breath, and by the time you glance back, the man’s already gone.

It wasn’t him. Probably. But your heart still beats wrong in your chest for a few minutes afterward.

That night, Yumi comes home glowing again. She falls onto your couch in a heap of perfume and expensive fabric, sighing like a girl who's been kissed well.

“I think I really like him,” she says, almost shy.

You smile, this time for real. “I can tell.”

She leans her head on your shoulder. “Is that weird? Is it too fast?”

“Not if it feels right.”

And the truth is—he’s good for her. You can tell in the way she smiles. The steadiness in her. Suguru has a calming effect, like he doesn’t need to be the loudest person in the room to hold attention. Yumi’s usually the sun, but with him, she doesn’t have to burn so bright.

“I think Satoru might’ve liked me too, though,” she says absently, not even meaning it as a brag. Just letting it float.

You blink. “What?”

She shrugs. “It’s a vibe I got. Just for a second. You know how some guys are.”

Your stomach turns, slow and quiet. Not in jealousy, just... recognition. Confirmation of something you already knew.

“I’m not worried, though,” she adds, curling closer into your side. “Suguru makes him look invisible.”

You laugh, but it comes out smaller than you expect. Invisible. Maybe that’s how you felt that night too.

Later, as the city quiets and your room dims to nothing but the faint glow of traffic outside your window, you lie awake longer than you should. You think of his voice. The curve of his grin. The way your name didn’t sit on his tongue the way hers did.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You almost believe it.

The rain starts sometime around noon.

Soft at first. Barely a whisper against your windowpane. But by the time you’re out on the street, it’s turned into that steady, curtain-like kind—the kind that makes people duck under awnings and tighten their scarves and mutter about weather apps being wrong again.

You don’t mind it. Rain feels honest. Quiet. Like the world has decided to soften itself for a few hours.

You’d meant to just grab a coffee. Maybe wander a bit. Something about gray skies makes the city feel smaller, easier to breathe in. But your steps drift, carried by instinct more than intention, until you’re turning onto 9th Street and standing in front of a shop you haven’t been to in months.

Hoshino Books.

It’s the kind of place that smells like cedar shelves and old pages, warm and lived-in. No music playing. Just the gentle hum of a ceiling fan and the muffled sound of traffic from the other side of the glass.

You push open the door, and the little bell above it rings—a soft chime that tugs at memory like a thread.

The shop is nearly empty. A couple of people browsing. Someone at the back in a beanie, sitting on the floor with their nose buried in a thick hardback.

You shake off the rain, fingers brushing water from your coat sleeve. The lighting inside is soft, golden, like it’s been filtered through amber. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

This is what you need. Just an hour or two to disappear into fiction. Somewhere no one can find you.

Somewhere he definitely wouldn’t be.

And then—

You hear a laugh.

Not loud. Not even fully-formed. Just a huff of amusement, low and familiar and impossible.

You freeze.

Because even if you hadn’t seen him in a week—not in person, not on a screen, not in your dreams where he somehow still grins like he belongs there—you’d know that voice anywhere.

Satoru. You turn slowly.

He’s across the aisle. Leaning lazily against a shelf in the fiction section. One foot crossed over the other, a book open in his hands like it only half-interests him. His white hair is slightly damp, curling at the edges. His sunglasses are perched on top of his head again, like they’re part of him. His coat’s unzipped. Underneath, he’s wearing a plain gray hoodie that somehow makes him look more real.

And then he glances up. Blue eyes. Direct. Sharp.

Recognition flashes across his face like a spark on cold steel.

“…Y/N?”

Your name sounds wrong in his mouth. Not because he says it poorly—he doesn’t. He says it with surprise. A softness. Maybe even something close to regret.

But because the last time he said a name out loud in front of you, it wasn’t yours.

You swallow. “Hi.”

There’s a beat. Two heartbeats, maybe three. Then he smiles. A little crooked, a little unsure.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, stepping closer. He closes the book in his hand and slots it back on the shelf without looking.

You try not to notice how tall he is, how easily he moves, how the rain has left a faint flush across his cheeks.

“I come here sometimes,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake. “Didn’t think you were the bookstore type.”

He smirks. “You thought I couldn’t read?”

“I thought you’d prefer something louder.”

“Fair.” His grin widens a bit. “But sometimes I like it quiet too.”

You both stand there.

The silence stretches, long and uncertain.

You should walk away. You know that. You owe him nothing. You’re not friends. You were barely even dates. But still, there’s something about being near him again—something about the way he’s looking at you now, not past you.

Not toward Yumi.

Just at you.

“Didn’t think you remembered my name,” you say, quieter now.

He flinches—barely. But it’s there.

“I deserved that,” he says, voice lower. Honest.

The air between you shifts. It feels like the bookstore is holding its breath.

You turn, pretending to scan the shelf beside you. Your fingers trail the spines. You stop at one—Norwegian Wood. A story about memory. Loss. People who come in and out of your life like the tide.

He’s still watching you.

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick,” he says suddenly, like the words surprised even him.

You raise an eyebrow. “You weren’t?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I just... I thought you weren’t into me.”

You laugh once. Sharp. “You thought I wasn’t into you?”

He shrugs, a little defensive now. “You were quiet. Kind of distant. I thought you were just doing Yumi a favor.”

“I was. But that doesn’t mean—” You stop yourself.

Doesn’t mean what?

That he didn’t affect you?

That you noticed every time he looked at Yumi and not at you?

He looks down. “I screwed it up.”

There’s a vulnerability in him now, barely there but real. Like a crack in glass. It’s not an apology, not quite. But it’s something.

You inhale, slow. The smell of old books and rain. The sound of the ceiling fan spinning above. The fact that you don’t owe him forgiveness—but also the fact that part of you still wants to know what might’ve happened if he had looked at you just once the way he looked at her.

You reach for a book at random. Hand it to him.

“You’d like this one,” you say.

He takes it without looking at the cover. Just watches you.

“Guess I’ve got some reading to do,” he says.

“Guess you do.”

You brush past him. Your shoulder grazes his sleeve. He doesn’t move.

And you don’t look back.

Not yet.

You don’t expect him to text you.

But he does.

Not that night. Not even the next day.

It comes two mornings later—midway through your commute, while you're sandwiched between strangers on the train, earbuds in, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

Unknown Number

heyit’s satorubookstore was a surprise. you looked good in the rainmind if i send a book rec your way sometime?

You stare at it longer than necessary. You even lock your phone and unlock it again just to make sure you didn’t imagine it.

Your heart skips—annoyingly, involuntarily—and you hate that your first instinct isn’t to delete the message.

You wait almost an hour before responding.

I didn’t give you my number.

The reply comes instantly.

yumi did wanted to return the favor. figured i owed you something also wanted to prove i can read books that don’t have explosions

You actually snort at that.

And against your better judgment, you reply.

I like stories that feel like bruises.Quiet ones.

This time, he takes a little longer to answer.

you looked like one the other night a bruise, I mean

the kind that doesn’t show up till later

You don’t respond after that.

But you think about it all day.

By the end of the week, it becomes something of a rhythm.

A message here. A sarcastic observation there. Nothing overt. Nothing intense. Just this slow circling, like you’re both walking the rim of something deep, peeking over the edge without quite falling.

He never pushes. You never invite. But still, the tether stretches between your phones like an invisible thread.

You don’t tell Yumi. You don’t know how to. This isn’t anything, not really. Just two people who happened to be in the same place, and then again, and then again—until the randomness of it started to feel deliberate.

But sometimes, you find yourself rereading his messages before bed. Sometimes, you picture his eyes from the bookstore—the way they softened when they found yours.

Sometimes, you want to text him first. You never do.

It’s a Thursday when he invites you out. You almost say no. But the day’s been heavy with clouds, your brain fogged from too much time staring at your laptop, and you’re craving something that feels like breath.

He sends the name of a café tucked behind a used record shop—nothing trendy or loud, just quiet and narrow and easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

You find him there, seated by the window, coffee in front of him, hair a mess from the rain. He looks up when you enter. No grin this time. Just a small, surprised smile, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually come.

“You showed.”

“I said I would.”

“I thought maybe I imagined that part.”

You take the seat across from him and let the steam from your drink warm your cold fingers. The café smells like cinnamon and rain-soaked wood. The lighting is soft—yellowed and sleepy.

He watches you for a beat too long before speaking again.

“You have this way of disappearing.”

You tilt your head. “You’ve only met me twice.”

“Three times now.”

“Still doesn’t make you an expert.”

“No,” he says, smiling now. “But you’re hard to read. That much, I’m sure of.”

You sip your drink. “That bothers you?”

He leans back, fingers curled around his mug. “A little.”

You glance away. There’s something dangerously easy about talking to him now. Something that’s either going to turn into nothing—or everything.

He’s wearing a simple hoodie again, dark gray, sleeves pushed up. There’s a scrape on one of his knuckles, and your eyes catch on it before you realize you’re staring.

He notices. “Basketball game got messy. Suguru plays dirty.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything light.

There’s a pause. Then—

“You were right, by the way,” he says. “About the books.”

You blink. “What?”

“Stories that feel like bruises. Quiet ones. I’ve been reading one you’d like. It’s slow. Kind of sad.”

“You’re reading something sad?”

“It’s not my natural habitat, but I’m trying,” he shrugs. “Feels a little like you. The kind of story that takes a while to get under your skin.”

You can’t look at him when he says it. You stir your coffee, like it matters.

He doesn’t press.

That’s the thing with Satoru: he could be so much—loud, arrogant, cutting—but when he’s still like this, he’s almost disarming. The way a sharp blade can sometimes look like silver in the right light.

He clears his throat. “So what’s your favorite sad book?”

You raise your eyes to his. “The Bell Jar.”

“Oof. That’s not just sad, that’s devastating.” He shakes his head. “No wonder you look at people like you already know how they’ll leave.”

That makes your breath catch. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know why he sees it.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. Instead, he shifts, pulling a small book from his coat pocket and sliding it across the table.

“I brought you something.”

You stare at it, surprised. It’s worn and clearly used—no cover sleeve, spine bent like it’s been loved hard.

You flip to the first page. The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

“Thought you might like it,” he says, a little too casual. “There’s this line near the end—‘The only truly serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.’ Cheery stuff.”

You snort despite yourself.

“It’s not that bleak,” he adds. “It’s... delicate. Sad in a smart way.”

You run your fingers over the cover.

“Why give me this?”

He shrugs, eyes on you again. “Because I wanted to. Because I think there’s a version of you that lives in this book.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s thick. Heavy with everything unsaid.

You don’t speak until the rain starts again outside—light at first, then louder. You both look out the window at the same time, and for a moment, your reflections overlap in the glass.

You can feel his attention drift to you. Not like it did before—not with half an eye on someone else. He’s looking at you now.

And you’re afraid you might look back.

It starts with a book.

The one he gave you—worn at the edges, dog-eared like it passed through other hands before yours. You read it in pieces. On the train. Before bed. In the lonely silence after Yumi leaves for work. You underline a few lines, fold some pages, leave faint smudges on the margins. Not because you want to mark them—but because you're holding it tighter than you mean to.

One night, you text him:

The book is cruel. In a way I understand too well.

He replies less than a minute later.

yeah i think that’s why i wanted you to read it

You don’t answer right away.

Your room is dark. Your window slightly open. Rain is dripping somewhere—on leaves, on concrete, on glass. You stare at your phone. You wonder if he’s up.

And then you call him. You don’t plan it. You don’t rehearse. You don’t think.

It rings once. Twice.

“...Hello?”

His voice is hushed. Not groggy—just low. Like he was already awake.

You hesitate. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just... wasn’t expecting to hear your voice.”A pause. Then, quieter:“Hi.”

You let out a breath. “Hi.”

A longer silence stretches between you. But it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels like something being held in both hands, carefully.

You shift under your blanket, phone tucked close to your ear. “You read that book and thought of me?”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he exhales.

“There’s this part I kept rereading,” he says. “Where she’s standing in front of all those fig trees—each fig a different version of her life—and she realizes if she waits too long, they’ll all rot and fall.”

“I remember that line,” you whisper.

“Yeah. Me too. Felt... familiar.”

You press your eyes shut, picturing it—the slow rot of imagined futures. The ache of wanting so many lives and choosing none.

“Do you ever feel like that?” you ask. “Like you’ve wasted something without even knowing what?”

“Every damn day,” he admits. “I think that’s why I talk so much. To fill the silence. To pretend I’m not stuck in my own head.”

You smile faintly, turning to face the window. “You never seemed like the type.”

“That’s the trick,” he says. “People like me are always hiding in plain sight.”

The rain picks up outside, tapping gently against your sill.

“What would you do,” he murmurs, “if no one was watching? If there were no figs to rot?”

You think about it. “Disappear. Just for a while. Not forever. Just... long enough to remember who I am when I’m not being watched.”

You hear him shift—maybe lying back now. “I think I’d follow you.”

The silence after that sentence is different. He doesn’t laugh to soften it. Doesn’t brush it off. Your fingers tighten around your phone.

“Why?” you ask quietly.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe because... being near you doesn’t feel like pretending.”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how. It’s too soon, too tender, too dangerous. And yet—you stay on the line. He doesn’t hang up.

For a long time, neither of you speak. Just the soft sound of his breathing, and the rain, and your own heartbeat pushing against your ribs like it wants out.

Eventually, you fall asleep with the phone still pressed to your ear. And in the morning, you’ll wake up to a quiet “goodnight” he whispered after you stopped answering.

The next time you see him, it’s not planned.

Not really. Yumi drags you to one of Suguru’s low-key gatherings—more “wine and weird records” than loud party. You think about saying no, but it’s been a heavy week. The kind that lingers in your shoulders and makes your apartment feel too quiet. You need a distraction.

So you go.

The place is a loft somewhere in Nakameguro—brick walls, records scattered like confetti, an old turntable in the corner humming low jazz. Satoru’s already there when you arrive, sitting on the floor with a drink in his hand, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the room without trying.

His eyes catch yours immediately. It’s subtle—just a glance, a half-smile—but it lands like thunder beneath your ribs.

You look away first.

Yumi is busy catching up with Suguru. There’s a girl beside Satoru now, too. She’s laughing at something he said, leaning in just a little too much. You recognize her from before—someone orbiting their circle. You don’t know her name, but the way she touches his arm tells you she wants to be known.

And the worst part?

He lets her.

At least at first. But then he sees you again—across the room, your back pressed to a bookshelf, wine glass untouched in your hand.

He excuses himself from the girl gently, politely, and then he’s walking toward you. And your breath—damn your breath—actually hitches.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says softly.

“You’re not as surprising as you think,” you reply.

That makes him grin.

But there’s something quieter behind it tonight. Less teasing. More focused.

“You okay?” he asks after a beat. “You look...”

“Tired?”

“Not tired,” he says. “Far away.”

You glance down at your glass. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

You don’t smile at that. And he notices.

You feel the shift between you—barely there, like a change in pressure before a storm. He steps closer, just enough for your arms to almost touch. The music from the record player croons something sad and slow, and the chatter around you fades.

“Want to get out of here for a second?” he asks.

You hesitate. “Where?”

“Just the balcony. You look like you need air.”

You should say no. You should.

But you follow him anyway.

Outside, the city glows beneath the early night. Neon reflections blur across wet rooftops. The balcony is narrow, barely wide enough for the two of you. You lean against the railing. He stands beside you, close but not touching.

It’s quiet for a while.

Then he says, “She’s not my type, by the way.”

You don’t answer.

“I saw you looking,” he adds, more softly. “And I don’t want you thinking—”

“Satoru.”

He stops.

You glance at him, tone even. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

His jaw works for a moment. “Maybe not. But I still want to give one.”

You look back out at the sky.

“Do you do that often?” you ask. “Say what people want to hear?”

His eyes find you again. “Not with you.”

You don’t believe him. But you want to. And maybe that’s worse.

You feel the heat of his body beside yours. The way the air changes when someone wants to touch you but doesn’t. Your breath fogs faintly in the cool air, curling into the night.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not supposed to.”

He turns toward you then—really turns. His shoulder brushes yours.

“Then why are you here?” he asks. “With me?”

You don’t have an answer. Or maybe you have too many. The space between you narrows.

He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. But his hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers linger for a second too long. His eyes fall to your mouth, and your pulse spikes.

You step back. Too fast. His hand drops.

You take a breath. “I should get back inside.”

He nods. But his voice is low when he says, “I’ll see you soon?”

You don’t say yes. But you don’t say no either.

Inside, the girl from before is laughing again—this time with Suguru. She’s spinning one of his records. Yumi is curled into the couch, cheeks flushed with wine, eyes bright.

You go to her. Sit beside her.

And that’s when you hear it. From across the room, Satoru says something. Laughs. But your name doesn’t fall from his mouth.

“Yumi,” he says, to someone who’s not her.

You freeze. You look up. He wasn’t talking to Yumi. He was looking at you.

Your name is not Yumi.

But that’s the one he said. His smile falters instantly. Your heart drops like a stone in water. The girl beside him glances between you, confused. You don’t stay long after that.

Part 2 >>>

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lheslie · 2 days ago

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Omni Mark X Wife Reader: Daughters

I'm sorry if this took too long to post.

He didn't know how it all started but he fell in love with you.

Your presence brought him happiness and he felt that he finally had a home again with you.

He loved coming home smelling your cooking, he would come quietly from behind hugging you.

"What's for dinner?" He whispered smelling your sweet scent.

"Your favorite." You laughed, looking at him, he looked at you, giving you a peck on the lips.

You and Mark would always have simple dates together, holding hands and walking around the park.

He believed that this was everything he wanted and yearned for nothing more, but all of that changed.

When you were carrying your friend's baby, cradling the child.

When he saw you smile, looking at the baby, while you smiled at him, showing the baby in your arms.

He now imagined what it would feel like if you two had a kid together, wouldn't that be perfect?

When you the two of you got home, Mark was acting weird because he was on top of you in bed he was hugging you tightly, and you felt something poking your thighs.

"M-mark? Is there something wrong? You're acting strange." You pointed out, he looked at you with his pleading eyes.

"Can we have a kid?" He asks you nicely, making you flustered. "O-out of nowhere?" You replied, shocked at the sudden revelation that your husband wants a child out of nowhere. "Seeing you holding that child ignited something within me." He hides his face on your neck again. "It'd be great if we had a child like that on our own, you'd be so beautiful carrying them.." He whispers in your ear.

That night, something was sparked within the two of you that resulted in you getting pregnant. Mark made sure he was with you all the way, even when you became insecure of yourself because of your huge, swollen baby.

He would kiss your belly and stretch marks, and he would even help you massage your hands and feet, he wouldn't let you up, no, he won't, you need all the rest you need.

You would give the most random requests for your cravings and he would do everything to get them for you, even though it's weirding him out.

He makes sure everything you want is all within reach. He also helped you choose the baby clothes, cribs, and stroller. What he loved most were the mittens and the tiny little shoes; he was excited to hold the baby within his hands.

He thinks that you even got sexier when you got pregnant, he loves to see your baby bump out in the open, he loves putting his ear to the bump, talking to your child as you carry them.

He would tell you and the baby stories of what would happen when they got out, and when the day finally came, you gave birth, Mark was with you when you gave birth, and you held his hand as you pushed. Our baby was out, he reassured you, and even gave you kisses as you pushed her out.

When the baby was out, the doctor gave the baby to Mark, letting Mark hold her for the first time and cut the umbilical cord. He looked at her, and he cried for the first time in his life.

That day he had promised that he'd do anything for the baby.

When you both came home, the baby's cry would only be satiated with her father's touch, which made you a bit jealous at first, but thanks to that, you got a full night's sleep as Mark stayed awake just to cradle your daughter to sleep.

Whenever you carry your little daughter around in your arms, Mark looks at you as he think he wants another one, but you had just given birth, so he didn't want to pressure you.

He watched his daughter crawl for the first time, stand for the first time; you bet that he took records of it in a photo album, for safekeeping.

Nothing could make him handle it for the first time when he watched his daughter go to pre-school, his heart broke as he had to spend a few hours without her.

One day, your daughter went to Mark asking for a sibling, and Mark said. "You want a sibling? I'm on with it as long as your mother is, what I care most is if she can handle it again." He softly spoke kissing his daughter's cheek.

Your daughter started her journey to walk to you asking you if she could have a sibling, and after she did, you and Mark made sure she went to bed.

"Did you convince her to say that?" You giggled asking Mark who's currently on top of you. "I wish I did." He replied.

A few years later, you and Mark had more daughters, running around giggling, playing on the grass field in beautiful white dresses.

Mark would do anything for all of them; he always made sure they had everything they ever needed.

His weakness is when his daughters plead for something.

He would give them flowers on Valentine's. "If a man doesn't give you flowers, leave them."

He would help them even in the smallest things, even fixing their car. "If he can't do that for you, leave them."

Thanks to Mark, your daughters' standards were so high that you weren't even sure if someone could meet them.

He also started to train them and made sure that no man could hurt them.

He's the type of father to wear a tutu at a dance recital.

He's the type of father to buy them a whole set of Barbies in a dream house.

He's the type of father to that's strict when it comes to their health.

He's the type of father who encourages his children to exercise and eat vegetables

He's also the kind of father who falls asleep after reading bedtime stories.

He'll make sure that every guy who tries to approach his daughters will go through a long interview.

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible mark grayson #invincible mark #omni mark #invincible omni mark #invincible omni mark x reader #omni mark x reader

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messyemmy · 2 days ago

Text

Grapejuice (fic) Part Five

Premise: How much chaos could possibly happen in a single day? A lot. When that day involves the company of Harry, prancing about in tiny trunks, and he's promising pastries in exchange.

Word Count: 12.3k.

Warnings: Smut (oral), Alcohol, Mind-blowing banter. Use of She/Her.

Grapejuice Masterlist

Fashion Board / Playlist

Other Writing

Its just past noon, and the catamaran has docked along the coast of Marina Piccora for the rest of the days adventures.

The four of you have already spent the morning snorkling coral reefs, stumbling upon a small pod of playful dolphins, and Jack has already somehow managed to scrape his knee.

Savina is seeking out shade, Jack is swimming, again, and you’ve decided to take this opportunity before supper to catch up on some good reading.

Harry doesn’t have to do a thing to prove he intends to make his presence known; you know him well enough, and you feel his lingering stare simmering atop your skin as you try your damndest to pay him no mind.

But just in case his peacocking has only been 99% successful in garnering your attention, he’s still taking measures for that last one percent, waiting patiently for you to pick a spot where the pebbled stones are scattered and the sand is at its softest, rolling out a neon orange bathtowel and settling down, before he saunters over.

Pine green swim trunks tight against his obliques, hanging dangerously low, Harry halts as his toes meet the edges of the fuzzy towel, casting your exposed body in his pining shadow as you busy yourself searching the tote for sunnies and your newest Murakami.

And you’re clearly clinging to that one percent, ignoring his presence and leaning back, elbows sinking into the sand. It would be so much easier if Harry weren’t stealing the sun, if he would just do the normal thing and admire from afar. Or at least from an angle that doesn’t soak up the rays.

Letting the glasses dip to the bridge of your nose, eyes bright and glimmering up at him, there’s that familiar faint crinkle of expectancy for him to go on to express his intentions.

Harry lets his hot gaze glide up the curves of your hips and conjures up the first thing that comes to mind,

“Why aren’t you in the water yet?”

“Have to get hot before I get cool.” You simply shrug, opening up the paperback.

“Lookin’ like that, how could you possibly get any hotter?”

“Do you have an off switch?” Scoffing, you find the page where you had last paused.

“Yeah, it’s below my waist.”

You don’t have to look to feel that cheeky, proud grin of his, and you have to work even harder not to give in to your desires to take a peek at his ink-stained waist, his meaty thighs, the slight cock-bulging consequences of those tight little shorty-shorts, and…

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

All you can do is lift your shades to mask your bashful blinks, letting the softest huff slip as you will the guaranteed blush to stop blooming like a damn garden filled with the sweetest daisies.

Harry would somersault to match the ones his stomach and heart do at the sight of the faintest tint of fresh strawberries ready to be harvested along your cheeks.

Perhaps he could use his lips to help, gentle kisses plucking each one with great kindness. Then he would drizzle the berries in thick, melted chocolate caresses, moulding his touch along each crevice of your flushed skin till’ you’re a sticky mess of his fervorous, molasses-y adoration.

Harry can’t keep away, needs to crawl nearer into that static bubble of yours, and when he starts to lower to his knees, he wonders if it stirs up something deep within you. If you like the idea of him being at your beck and call, just as he predicts.

It seems to nudge a spot hiding just below your surface whenever his neediness takes the forefront, a sudden and extremely subtle reaction of your body- the slightest stutter- a jolt of desire that has Harry believing there’s a part of you dying to push past that silky dermal layer, to put him in his place. He’d beg until hoarse if it pleased you so.

Harry can’t- just yet- so for now, he focuses on perforating that precious bubble of yours, invading it by wordlessly resting his head atop your stomach, warm skin connecting with the curve of his neck.

And you swear your guts have shrunken into nonexistence, your mind straying to the gallows with the swift, satiating satisfaction of being in close contact with Harry again. As if a piece of you was craving something you couldn’t quite place, something it seems only Harry knows how to soothe.

Tummy muscles clenched, stiffening under his curls, you figure that he’s warmed you up more than some massive glowing star ever could, and instead of being free to relieve that simmer with fresh saltwater, here you are, trapped under Harry’s spell, willing to stay put even if it ends with your skin melting off and sticking to each grain of sand.

It’s in these moments that your mind starts to ponder if Harry feels the same. If this nerve-aching longing is something he has also been sentenced to suffer.

But he always seems so unfazed, as if slipping into your orbit is something second nature to him, like he doesn’t mind this gnawing desire to hold you nearer, perhaps wants to indulge in it.

Far too calm and collected for your liking, you’d pay a fortune to find out what Harry’s fantasies look like, if his thoughts are also a flushed mess of stray hands, pulling one another nearer, sloppy kisses leaving glistening trails along your calves, and if they’re as half as vivid as your own, how the hell does he consistently keep it together?

How can he think about doing anything other than grabbing a pair of scissors and tethering those thin little strings that bind that restrictive pink material to the natural waves of your body, replacing them with his hands and fitting you oh so perfectly between his soft palms?

But he soaks up the summer sky without a care in the world, sinking into the sand and wondering aloud,

“What’re you reading?”

“Kafka on the Shore.”

“Fitting name.” He hums, ��Read it to me.”

“No-”

“Please? I like your voice.”

And how could you refuse when he used that one little magic word that slips from his pretty, plump lips so sweetly, so very politely?

Sighing, you pick up where you left off last night, skimming the page until your eyes land on the next unread sentence.

“I'm not trying to imply I can keep up this silent, isolated facade all the time. Sometimes the wall I've erected around me comes crumbling down.

It doesn't happen very often, but sometimes, before I even realise what's going on, there I am- naked and defenceless and totally confused.”

The universe must have picked up an extra shift today, what else could explain the odds of inadvertently baring your soul through the expression of a story?

You wish Harry were thick enough to miss the nuance. Then again, he seems to know things about you well before it ever registers on your end.

🍷

“Harry. Don't you dare!”

He has you slung effortlessly across his shoulder, free hand stretched along the expanse of your upper thighs, dangerously close to the perky curve of your bum cheeks.

Your view is that of his caramel freckled back as his body dips up and down with his feet sinking into the sand.

“I'll deal with the consequences later.”

The water is nearing, you can feel flecks of salty droplets painting your forehead as Harry’s ankles submerge and disappear beneath the sea foam.

He’s moving so fast, it makes you loathe his love for running; he’s up to his thighs by the time you start to accept your soaking-wet fate.

In a last-ditch effort, you take a hearty chunk of his back between your teeth and bite down just hard enough to deter his mission.

And it does deter Harry; he yelps out in surprise, stumbling forward until he can no longer hold the two of you up, and you come crashing into the sea, a wave of splashes left in your wake.

You reemerge, salty droplets clinging to your eyelashes, pooling past your stunned and parted lips.

Harry’s already back on his feet, water bumping and breaking against his mid-torso, and he’s beaming down at your sopping figure with a satisfaction painting face. His stupid, stupid, pretty face.

You finally find some footing, chest completely submerged by the sea, toes digging into the soft sand, and your arms find their home, crossed and pressed to your rest below the curve of your breasts.

“You are so dead.” The only threat you can muster after Harry has just proven that they mean nothing at all.

“Please, you would've killed me long ago.” He confirms with a predictable eye roll.

The web of punishment you always threaten seems too easy for Harry to weave out of; perhaps it’s time for a new tactic. One that will leave him a little more apologetic than ever before.

So you push your arms upward, tactically pressing and presenting your chest to Harry, who evidently has the perfect seagull-eye view.

As predicted, his gaze travels and greedily indulges in the idea of replacing your arms with his palms, giving you pleasing squeezes, pebbling his thumb across your nipples, latching his tongue- teeth- onto your supple skin, leaving you covered in dainty lavender love bites.

He’s putty, and you’re going in for the kill.

“Maybe I like keeping you around.”

Your body wades over to his, knee brushing along his outer thigh, palm reaching out and slowly grazing along the waistband of his tiny swim trunks,

“It's fun to have a plaything.”

“Hm.” Harry’s features morph into one of thoughtfulness with something mysterious glazing across his green gaze.

“You don't like?” Your hand trailing further up, gliding along his stomach, then his ribcage, palm splaying flat atop his damp chest.

“Oh, I like. Very much.” He confirms with an avid nod as his arm snakes around your lower back like a liferaft, gently tugging, your body bobbing effortlessly into his own as he bows his head and shrugs,

“Just don't think you're taking full advantage.”

His chest clashes with your own, back and forth, in sync with the choppy sea, and your thoughts are sloshing about, swirling between the desire to punish Harry and the greedy need to indulge in this closeness.

“Yeah, if you had it your way, you'd be on your knees and between my thighs.”

Harry’s guts twist with pleasure at the mere mention, and he gladly lets a soft groan slip in agreement, hands gently squeezing your skin,

“You know me so well.”

“Mhm. And I'd tire you out eventually.” You sing-song, and Harry hopes you’re being serious.

“Kiss my forehead and snuggle me after?”

Your hand continues its invasion along the divots of his collarbone, isolating the curve of his shoulder beneath your arm, nails spanning out along the back of his neck, slipping into his mass of blackened curls and shrugging,

“If I'm feeling nice.”

“Baby, you'll be feeling more than ‘nice’ when I’m done with you.”

Guaranteed. Nice is an understatement.

Though you’ve been feeling anything but. This entire day has been nothing but a nerve-riddled, relax-free nightmare.

Perhaps if Harry had skipped all the alluring suffocation and had simply invited you into the sea, you would’ve indulged his wishful desires.

Now, you’ll fulfil your desires, gliding your free hand down to the curve of his waist, palm pushing past the dense water to settle on the dune of his swim trunks, softly, but sternly cupping his cock,

“What about this?” Adding pleasurable pressure, “Does this feel nice?”

“So nice.”

Harry’s eyes are feeling heavy, fighting a war to remain open and fixed on the way you so proudly gaze up at him, sparkles of water reflecting like a disco ball dancing along the dips and swoops of your face.

“Yeah? Like it when I take care of you?” Palm moving in a lax, swirling motion.

“Love it.”

Harry seems short on words, a sure sign that he’s losing the ability to pay attention to anything but the blood-pusling arousal pooling below his waist.

For someone who sets so many sneaky traps, he sure does let his guard down a lot around you.

“Aw, poor baby, already so hard. These shorts must be hurting, hm?” You sweetly deride.

“A little.” He admits softly.

“Shouldn’t have picked such tiny trunks just to get my attention.”

“I didn’t-”

“Don’t lie. You always pick your little outfits in hopes that I look at you.”

Tutting, your touch subdues, starting to turn featherlight, goading Harry for his greedy attempts to make you his girl.

“Silly boy, doing almost anything just to be seen by me.”

“That’s not-”

Harry doesn’t know why his mouth is making such contradictions; all he knows is that this fleeting hold you have on him is on the line, and just as predicted, your movement comes to a cruel conclusion.

“Alright then.” You feign disappointment, revelling in the panicked despair robbing his features of pleasure.

But your palm remains in place, a sinisterly friendly reminder that just as Harry sees through you, you see through him. His lips part, and a jumble of mutters fills the space between your faces.

“What's that, sweetheart?” You chide.

“Want you to keep touching me.”

Every word holds individual desperation, each letter is a plea for you to put him out of his misery. The waves are ringing in his ears, he’s nearly drowning in the anticipation of your next move.

“Harry.” Cooing agreeably, tilting up as far as your toes allow.

“Y/n?”

He’s bending his back, ready to latch onto your words, and hopefully, your lips. They’re near enough now as it is, beelining for the bulb of his earlobe, ensuring those words he’s waiting for are extra sticky for his clinging.

“We don't always get what we want.”

With a feisty smirk, you use all the force the water allows to give his chest a firm shove, and Harry stumbles back with shock spreading along his face, allowing enough distance for you to get a head start back to the shore.

He’s sure to catch up, but that blood-pusling problem below his pants is guaranteed to slow him down. Your hips are ascending the water by the time Harry’s gained enough balance to call out your name, and all you can do is let out an evil chuckle.

🍷

Harry’s gaze has been searching for you, and you’ve only been gone for roughly three minutes. Three too many, he thinks.

His stare is soon satiated at the sight of your figure: the open back of your fuchsia sundress is a fantastic view, and the red frills draped midway and at the bottom of the dress flow in similar motion to your body as you busy yourself with balancing two cups needing refills, and talking to a stranger.

A stranger whom Harry can’t get a good look at, but still manages to evoke a sting of envy that prickles up the nape of his neck. Even though the margarita in your left hand is for Harry, a top-up you had offered, his body is out of the chair and ambling over to interrupt whatever seems to have you smiling so sweetly.

And, lord knows, Harry feels like a fool when he’s already halfway over and you’re turning his way, the unknown man disappearing with nothing but an unnecessarily small gap taking his place.

Harry briefly considers turning on his heels and fast walking back to the fire, but it’s obvious you’ve spotted him by the way your eyes brighten and your hands raise to show off your successful refills.

God, you’re adorable, and totally unaware of the power you yield: sending Harry into a tizzy and then soothing him with a tender gesture seconds after.

Strolling over, you meet Harry’s still figure, extending your arm for him to take back his drink, and he does, but as soon as your hand is free, he grasps it in his own, entwining your fingers, giving you a gentle tug to follow him.

Hardly keeping up, you protest something along the lines of “G’na spill my drink” as Harry leads the two of you to the nearest palm tree, and after the past few interactions you have had with these thankfully large trees, there’s no way this is gonna end well.

He has you gently pressed against the palm bark, creating a little cave around your perplexed body as he steps nearer, slotting a leg between your separated ones and bows to see you better.

In a bid to ignore how mouthwatering the blend of salt water and coconut seeping from Harry’s pores is, you shift focus to the small splotch of margarita that seems to be soaking into your dress, pouting and using your pointer finger to guide his gaze to the deep magenta patch.

“Now my clothes smell like tequila.”

“Hush up.”

Harry’s shushes, his free hand finding its rightful home latched around your jaw, thumb brushing firmly along your bottom lip- and they separate with a sigh like it's second nature.

His body tilts forward to close that selfish gap separating his chest from your own, and you’ve already succumbed to whatever Harry’s attempting to achieve. Now, his face is a breath away from yours, and you want to suck the air out of that breath like life depends on it.

A gaze is worth a thousand words when it’s yours, quizically waiting on Harry to tell you what's coming next. And Harry’s ability to understand and answer your charade is worth a thousand pounds.

“Just wanna finish what you started.”

He expects a comeback, but it was swallowed and settled in your stomach the second he curled your hand in his and dragged you into the shadows of the trees. Your only desire is to submit. So, you do, soft as a whisper.

“Okay.”

That breath-sized gap is gone, and Harry has sucked it in with startled glee, taking that green light and putting it to good use with his lips, slotted against your own, his fingers splaying out along the nape of your neck.

Free hand fisting the collar of his white tee, you feindishly tug him nearer, Harry quickly follows orders, his palm snaking around the back of your thigh and lifting it up to wrap around his hip, and your hand releases the cotton, hooking your arm around his shoulders.

Forgetting where the two of you are, it’s all tongue and teeth as Harry’s mouth parts and your lips mould against his, taking any and every chance to lick along the curves of his pretty, plump lips, and with his body, so plianty, so languidly, lulling into your hold, a feral impulse acts on your behalf and takes a gentle bite.

Harry shamelessly and seductively moans out into the chasm of your mouth, filling the space inside of you, just begging for him to take care of you. Giving in is inevitable, and… exciting?

His hand takes hearty squeezes at the sides of your waist, fingers digging into divots of your dress-clad upper thigh, and you’ll do absolutely anything to coax more sounds out of him.

That proves easier than pi as your lips detach from his, and Harry whines out pitifully, only to emit another gravelly groan as your splayed-out tongue drags up along the lower dune of his neck, ascending until the lobe of his ear and nibbling gently.

He reaffirms his hold on your face, luring your flirtatious lips back to their rightful position, smooshed against his own, and you simply slip like silk under his touch, kissing back unabashedly.

Just as Harry cheekily pinches your thigh and causes you to softly squeal, this perfect moment comes to a familiar crashing halt with the faint ‘helpful’ calls of Jack.

“Harry, there’s food!”

Your arm swiftly unlatches from Harry’s shoulder and moves to his chest to give him a soft push back.

He stumbles out of your orbit, but is clearly undeterred by the interruption as his smile only spreads cheekily and starkly counters your shock-infused gasp.

“That’s exactly why we shouldn't be doing this.”

“Oh, please. You love the thrill.”

“I do not.” You breathlessly defend.

“You do.”

Harry’s pointer finger dips into the curve of your flushed cheek, and his palm presses fretfully to your chest, which thuds so powerfully that your hand raises and falls in tense tandem.

“Seriously, my heart is in my throat right now.”

The mixture of skittishness and mortification morphs your features, and Harry thinks you might be the most adorable person, but nobody should be so high-strung after such a spellbinding smooch.

“C’mere.”

He offers his palm as a pillow for your flushed face, and you lean into him with little thought, eyes lulling shut under his smooth, silky skin, heart rate already settling down to subtle thuds.

Harrt steps nearer, glistening lips ghosting over your lax forehead as he rests your back neatly against the tree, his even-paced breaths start to encourage your own to slow,

“Take a deep breath.”

You fulfil his command like it’s the difference between life and death, mimicking his deep inhale, holding, and letting it out with a sigh of composure.

“There.” He places a tender kiss just above your brow, “Good as new.”

Harry lets his hand drop, and your cheek chills at the absence. He looks calmer than ever, and far too chuffed for the circumstances. Taking a sip of his untouched drink, he gives you a cheeky parting glance,

“I’ll go first.”

“This is the last time, Styles.”You call out in a desperate bid for control.

“Sure it is, Klutz.” He mocks sweetly, exiting the mask of trees.

Your hand is still stunned and stuck to your chest as you wait for Harry to successfully keep this little interaction a secret.

“Where’s Y/n?” Jack ponders, eyes scanning the area.

“Think she needed another refill.”

Harry shrugs casually, and their voices are starting to fade before you can hear Jack’s response.

Perpetually, you bring the mostly full cup of sweet spirits to your mouth and gulp down its entirety. A refill is precisely what you need.

🍷

Someone has carefully dug a wide, shallow hole in the sand, which has become home for today's captured seafood.

Lying a few logs atop the scattered crustaceans, a twig and charcoal fire begins to cook the assortment of clams, lobsters, oysters, and more.

Your friendship quartet are seated around the toasty flames. Savina attempts to explain the life cycle of a crab to a very curious Jack, and Harry listens along with you.

But after a third question, it’s clear that this will take a while, and Harry finds it far more entertaining to carry on his favourite hobby of making you hot under the collar.

“I’ll give you credit.” He commends, “You might be the strongest-willed person on earth.”

“It’s taxing.” You concur.

“How do you do it?”

Listen to Jack’s silly tandems? Well, it takes years of practice and patience, but Harry should know that by now.

“Do what, exactly?”

“Not give in to your desires.”

Oh, that. Well, that right there is something you’ve spent the last few weeks going back and forth over.

No worthy developments so far, all you know is that it’s becoming more difficult by the day, and Harry does not need to be privy to that discovery.

“I give in to plenty of my desires.”

“But not me?” He counters.

“Bold to assume I desire you.”

“I see the way you look at me.”

Any hopes that your longing gaze had gone unnoticed are stomped like grapes beneath his slides, and to cover up how shameful that makes you, the best bet is to find out how much he knows.

“How do I look at you?”

“Like you want me to help you forget your own name.”

Harry’s right on the money. Thank the pope that he chalks your stare up to fervour and not the complicated crush that truly simmers below the surface.

“Maybe I do.”

“So, what's the hold-up?” He shifts to humbly face your honesty,

“You can't still believe I have nothing to offer.”

“No, that's not what I'm worried about anymore.” You grumble.

“Give us a shot, then.”

Harry has this cute hopefulness clouding his clear gaze, he has you wishing that you shared his brazen surety, wishing you could switch your brain off for just a while, just long enough to see things through his eyes.

“Stop being so confident.”

“You love that about me.” He’s not wrong.

“It's annoying.” You’re not wrong. “How can you possibly know?”

“That us sleeping together would be otherworldly when just kissing you is heaven? How could I not?”

Flashbacks of your skin pressed to the palm trees, sitting on the bedroom dresser with his head between your thighs, kneeling for him in the club bathroom, so many stolen kisses, so many almosts.

“Jesus, Harry.”

“Want me to get on my knees and beg? Have a feeling you quite like it when I’m at your mercy.”

Your features frantically snap sideways to see if Jack and Savina are hearing any of Harry’s immodest, crude statements.

Miraculously, Savina seems interested in whatever theory Jack is currently proposing, and your tipsy lips turn back to Harry,

“You're saying all the right things.”

“Remember when I recommended Atonement and you said it sounded lame?” Yeah, you remember.

The two of you shed tears and pretended not to see the other doing the same,

“And then you made us rewatch it like three times?” Oh yeah, you cried thrice,

“Every now and then, I'm right, y’know?”

“Yeah, about music and movies, not about fucking me.”

Saying it aloud feels liberating; it sends a shiver of anticipation along your bare spine, and a similar spark ricochets against the bones sleeping beneath Harry’s skin.

“Don't be crass.” He chides sternly, “And don't doubt me till I give you reason to.”

Perhaps you’ll keep that in mind.

🍷

Dinner was delectable, there’s nothing like fresh supper down by the seaside- the view and company that come with it is simply a bonus.

Harry finds himself taking a breather from the bunched-up group of diners, finding a spot on the boardwalk, letting his back rest against a bamboo railing.

This time, it’s you who seeks out his company- coming as a surprise to both of you- under the guise of gathering him for the boat ride home.

A couple of passengers are slowly gathering around the docks for the departure of a boat yet to arrive.

Harry has been cocooned by the comfort of your presence either way, and is a tad flattered that you’re visiting him by total volition.

His focus has been fixed on the repetitive sea meeting the shore, revelling in the many moments that have made today so rewarding.

Now, you’re looking at him like you want to know what he’s thinking.

“Where’s that cute head of yours at?” Your own quirks to the side.

“You really wanna know?” He lures.

“Think I already have an idea.” Stepping forward, shoes bumping into his.

“Do tell.” This he wants to hear.

“Probably thinking about how wet and snug I must be.” You shrug, “How you’ve been dying to taste me again… Something along those lines.”

“Well, now I’m thinking about a few things.”

Harry loosely loops his hand with yours, and where bashfulness would usually have stopped you in your tracks, the words you’ve uttered are now the only thing worth thinking about.

“What was the first thought?”

“Watchin’ Fleabag and kissing you till my lips are sore.” Harry’s preface is as innocent as it is enticing, but he just can’t resist adding a little retort,

“But if you’re offering another taste, who am I to decline?”

A chuckle exits the chamber of your chest and echoes out into the early evening air, head tilting to the sky before returning to Harry’s enamoured stare, your features showing endearment in a way words just can’t encapsulate.

“You’re a trip, Styles.”

Then it clicks. That loopy grin, front teeth biting your lips, glossy with remnants of salty tequila, the way your eyes seem to be swelling with giddiness, shamelessly travelling along his face with an obvious and filthy desire. Harry’s amused, to say the least.

“Hang on, missy. Are you drunk?”

“Drunk on you.” Your pointer finger pokes the middle of his chest.

“That’s a yes, then.” His chest vibrates with chuckles.

After evidently indulging in all of those refills, you don’t bother with a response, simply letting your body lean back against the bamboo.

You stare so innocently at Harry, clueless to how nervous you’re making him, how your gaze bores so sternly into his soul. How could he not be in so deep?

And when you’ve finally thought of something worth saying, it’s enough to anchor Harry to the ocean floor,

“Bet you’ve heard how pretty your eyes are a thousand times. But I’ll be a thousand and one. You have very, very pretty eyes.”

“Coming from you, it sounds brand new.”

Harry wishes he could put into proper words how stunned he feels at just the sound of his name slipping past your lips, a direct compliment has his body pulsing as if the wooden railing suddenly struck up an electric current.

And hell, you wish these similar shocks pulsing up your spine were from an electric railing and not just from being in Harry’s presence.

It’s uncomfortable, and has you desperate to shift closer to him, to soothe your scalding skin with his soft kisses. But the only thing your ego will allow is a tried-and-true scoff,

“Just say thank you.”

“Thank you.” Harry pauses, but ultimately can’t help himself, “For being even prettier than me.”

“Ugh.” You should’ve known better.

You should also know better than to let that ball of self-doubt dictate your actions, but here you are, asking for reassurance,

“D’you really think I’m that pretty?”

Harry thinks you’re perfect, but he also thinks you must be insane for asking a question that is, in his eyes, so obviously true, something that simply makes up just one of the many intoxicating things about you.

“You’re kidding… Right?”

But when you only stare up at him with confused doe-eyes and pouty bottom lip, Harry realises that despite the thousands of sweet compliments he might have coated you with, maybe it merely dusted over you like powdered sugar instead of sticking to your skin like the thick caramel adoration he truly feels.

God, if he could show you- properly show you- how quickly he would jump at the opportunity to leave kisses and touches all over your body until there’s no question about his attraction for you.

For now, he’ll try to make it as clear as words can,

“Every time I see you, it’s like the first time. ‘Nd I get lost for words. Pretty is the biggest understatement.”

“Stop.”

You can feel the tips of your ears throbbing with redness, feeling silly for asking, because nothing is worse than Harry seeing your shyness as a result of his statement.

But he does see it- a faint rosy tint creeping up your neck, tickling your jaw, even reaching the tips of your ears.

“Klutz, are you blushing?” He practically sings.

“You’re seeing things.”

“Sure am.” He nods in agreement, “I can see that you’re blushing.”

“Alright. I am. Happy?”

You concede- though it leaves a sickly sour feeling in your throat, revealing such a safeguarded secret.

Harry’s face remains unsurprised, but his gaze gives it away as his pupils swallow up all of that greenery: you’ve definitely set him off.

Enough that he wavers nearer, entering your orbit with that intoxicating minty, musky incense of his, Harry holds your stare captive, clinging on to whatever spell he seems to have cast over you.

“Do I give you butterflies?”

“You make me nervous.” Swallowing hard on the ball of anxiety suddenly sticking to the back of your throat.

“Y’seem just fine to me.” He shrugs with a testy smile, inching closer, head tilting lower.

“Send your regards to the Margaritas.”

“So, not nervous now, then?”

Harry wonders aloud, hand returning to its home resting atop your jaw, waiting for an answer that never arrives.

He can see your chest harshly hitching with anticipation. Angling his face to reach the arch of your neck, his lips ghost cooly against your goosebump-ridden skin,

“Even when I do this?” His pearly whites harshly nip at the thin skin of your jugular.

“Not at all.” You gulp, gearing your attention to the subtle shaking of his palm: that poker tell of his,

“But you seem to be.”

“I am.” He states simply, sloppily licking over the blooming bite mark.

“Y’are?” You didn’t expect this type of candour. “Never known you to be a shy little thing.”

Around you, Harry can’t help but bring his most assertive and self-assured attitude, but it’s only because he feels the need to live up to you, to show no signs of cracks in his sanguine persona.

“Better keep it between us. Got a reputation to uphold.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” They always are.

Harry’s hand drops from your face and settles along the span of your left waistbone, squeezing the swells of your skin as he urges,

“Now, tell me one.”

Either you spill your guts about these unresolved, conflicting feelings you seem to be harboring for him, or you sacrifice a good enough secret to satiate his curiosity.

“I was kinda hoping you’d win the bet.”

Departing your lips, it sounds as foreign as it feels. Keeping the truth train running,

“But if you mention this in the daylight, I’ll deny, deny, deny.”

Harry’s face has inched back from your neck to take in this vital information.

One look at his mossy irises and you are so done, mercilessly whining,

“And now you’re edging me, ‘nd there’s no reward in sight.”

Harry’s watching you go through some type of computer malfunction, rushing through the motions, and he’s just waiting for you to run your course so he can whisk in and problem-solve.

Right now seems like a good time to get a word in,

“Who said anything about ‘no rewards’?”

“Focus, Harry.” Your insides lurch, but your mouth protests,

“I’m being haunted by my imminent doom.” And the way your brows furrow to match your sweet pout is a death sentence for Harry.

“First off, you’re so dramatic.” He informs, and you groan- proving his point,

“Second, if you wanted an orgasm, all you had to do was ask…” Loving the way your lips part in a little “o” shape, Harry wants it to widen enough to slot his fingers into,

“And C, you need to learn patience to be a proper good girl.”

Both you and Harry know how much distaste you carry for the inclination of being anything other than a well-behaved brat, enough to earn him an unimpressed eyeroll.

“If I lacked patience, we wouldn't be talking right now.”

Harry wishes you had as little patience with him as you do when it comes to scarfing down chocolate croissants. Wishes he got to be the one to feed, and then fuck you, into a euphoric stupor.

Mostly, he wishes for the tender touches and cuddles in between all of that chaotic tension, the moments of shared stillness.

“You’re such a romantic.”

“I’m actually a very romantic person, thank you very much.”

You’ve defensively hopped into Harry’s snare of sneaky investigation, a furry creature who doesn’t know her fate is being tested by a sly fox disguised as a harmless hunter.

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

“All I’m gonna say is, if I treated you the way I did my ex, I think you’d be a very happy, very satisfied man.”

There’s a tinge of jealousy circling Harry’s thoughts at the reminder of the past, but that’s little compared to the surge of longing that won’t be cured without your reciprocated love.

“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

“Last thing I need to do is convince you.” Right arm slinging over his shoulder,

“Have we or have we not watched almost every rom com ever to exist?”

This is a piece of the past that Harry doesn’t mind returning to, a time where weekends consisted of movie nights, Jack falling asleep during the action film he picked. You putting in whatever romance you managed to get ahold of. Harry finding excuses to sit by your side, sometimes staying up to greet the sunrise, sometimes falling asleep on laps or shoulders.

“Think we have a few to catch up on.”

“Deal.” You’d like that.

“We should start with Normal People.”

Harry doesn’t know if it’s possible to ignore opportunities to tease you, how can he when it earns him some endearing variant of chastising, every single time?

“That’s practically just sex and tears.”

“But mostly sex.”

That’s debatable, but there’s no time to get into it because a boat horn is going off, and that’s the cue to go back to the catamaran before there isn’t one to return to.

“Which you’ll never get if we miss that boat.” You straighten up.

“Lead the way.”

His back leaves the bamboo, and as soon as you’re around a foot ahead of him, he plants a soft and swift smack across your bum cheek, causing you to squeak, and Harry thinks that might be his favourite reaction.

🍷

Harry’s pretty green gaze reflects the stems of the fresh array of blooming flowers scattered before his view.

On his daily stroll through the quaint town, he nearly walked past the little florist on the left of the sidewalk, but his senses were suddenly so overwhelmed with an assortment of sweet aromas akin to the ones from that day at the Botanical Gardens, that Harry stopped in his tracks.

His attention is garnered quickly by a gorgeous bundle of lime-stemmed tulips, an array of pastel pink, ducky yellow, and bloody red. They seem perfectly suited to be scattered around your body in a spiral of adoration.

He hasn’t seen you for a few days now, and as much as he enjoys being kept entertained by Jack and all of his antics, Harry hasn’t been thinking about anything other than you. He feels guilty, almost, for having a mind many miles away, harbouring a longing to be lounging about in the lagoon of your lovely eyes.

The young florist is tending to another patron, and Harry is already deciding on his desired selection of colourful petals, imagining how they might look idolised in a vase. What would you prefer? You’ve always had an eye for these things, he thinks.

With all this thinking of you, Harry’s on the edge of tumbling into an excitement-turned-anxiety-ridden disaster. Forget what you’d think about the colours; how would you feel about receiving flowers? From him? In general?

Now he can’t think straight, and the sound of a cash register dinging is reverberating in his chest. In a couple of seconds, the spotlight will be back on him- and this time, he feels woefully unprepared.

Change is being exchanged, and then an enthusiastic, ‘Ciao!’, and Harry doesn't wait for the employee to turn around because he is getting as far away from that stall as fast as his sneakers will allow.

Muttering, feeling foolish, and out of his element, Harry only slows to a stroll when a grocery store comes into view, letting the cool air conditioning wash over him like an ice bath, like some miracle healer for a love-sick musician like himself.

Nothing could completely dismiss your presence; it had taken up permanent residency before Harry could negotiate agreements, and now he’s just a nervous wreck wishing for you to invite him inside.

Around forty-five minutes later, just past noon, you open the front door and find yourself breathless at the sight of Harry, his cream pirate shirt partially buttoned, the cotton has shifted from his movements, framing his chest like the artwork it is.

And, did he even pack long pants for this holiday? Because how are you supposed to spend the rest of summer suffering a shortness in willpower every time he steps out with those dense, chewable thighs on full display?

Today’s pair are striped maroon and deep green, barely visible tattoos peaking out, and boy, do you want to take a big bite.

He looks soft and sun-kissed, staring back at you like he’s waiting for you to get a clue. God hopes he mistakes the parting of your lips as a bid for frustration and not the fiery attraction you feel just looking at him.

With a swift shake of the head, you shift on your feet and fix your posture, extending your arm, letting the door widen as a sort of welcome. His bottom lip sinks beneath the shy bites of his teeth, bouncing on the back of his heels.

Harry makes a mental note to compliment your clothes, and to point out the irony of wearing a similar styled oversized pale yellow button up, but you’ve paired it with some mid-thigh frayed light denim shorts and some old electric blue sneakers. His second thing to put a pin in: purchase himself some jean shorts.

Taking notes and admiring living sculptures sure does take up a lot of time because one of your feet is tapping expectantly, forehead shaping your eyebrows into question marks.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Harry only uses his head as a guide, nodding down at his arm at the same time as he lifts a large brown paper bag into view. Giving the bag a quick jiggle, his other hand raises to reveal a bottle of Bordeaux.

“I brought food.”

Your quirked brows return to their resting place, and admiration replaces any suspicion surrounding Harry’s arrival on your front porch.

“Right this way.”

You step aside, and Harry doesn’t hesitate: following your every footstep through the villa, snailing along the trail through the entrance room to the kitchen where he unpacks his bag of goodies, scattering several selections of fresh pastries along the countertop.

You can feel yourself salivating at the sight of so many golden, flaky treats staring back at you, practically screaming to be bitten into, desperate to fill your mouth with sweet custardy, powdered sugary, and chocolatey deliciousness.

The rate at which you grab two plates and start dishing up is shamefully high, and Harry does nothing to hide a knowing, endeared chuckle.

In a bid to both ignore his teasing gaze and to shovel several sweets down your gullet, you guide his lax figure out the sliding door and onto the aged-stone veranda, bare feet stepping down onto the velvety grass.

Harry’s on your heels like a needy pup, only giving you some space when you stop in front of an adorable little white aluminium coral-seater; a circular table with curvy crochet-like chairs for two.

🍷

If someone were to ask, you’d tell them that a massive eagle swept down and stole most of the pastries right off the plate. It certainly wasn’t because you were almost finishing off a third pasteis de nata by the time it occurred to you how famished you’ve been behaving.

But with the help of a very hungry Harry, those custard slices and croissants are long gone, replaced by two glasses of ruby rouge wine glimmering in the sunlight. It’s a great bottle- Harry pats himself on the back, for the earthy taste and for how easily it settles the fretful flutters that followed him the full trip from the florist to right here.

Almost always, seeing you is enough to ground Harry, but today has felt so out of sorts and hell if he could figure out why.

Getting a glimpse of your smile is a surefire way to set off a glitter bomb in his stomach, yet today, that wonky, spellbinding widening of your lips is like a detonator. Perhaps a second glass of vino will buy him another day, or, at the least, another hour.

Mid-afternoon is painted with primary acrylics, the sun colouring the two of you in secondary hues of pastel orange and pink, tinting Harry’s cheeks with a peachy blush to match the balmy, imminent inebriation brimming beneath his epidermis.

It’s not the artist formerly known as ‘weather’ or the fermented grapes that foster a feeling of fascination within you; it’s just Harry being Harry. There’s something abnormally daunting about acknowledging that alarm bell of a detail.

Gratefully, he’s caught up in a core memory and hopes to rent a horse-drawn carriage to take you along through the twisty pathways of his thoughts, picking the scenic route, rewinding the last two decades, reaching a destination he searches so restlessly for in dreamland. Perhaps you seek it, too.

“Favourite place you’ve visited.”

You tilt back thoughtfully, swirling the contents of your glass, gaze captivated by the stormy whirlpool, just like they did way back when you were sitting on the South African shore watching the choppy cerulean sea do the same.

“There’s this place, Hole in the Wall, it’s in the middle of the sea, and as the sun sets, these amazing golden rays peek through the gap and it’s just- wow.”

Both Harry and the shimmering sun above ache with a selfish desire to be the sole reason for the amorous spark of reminiscence flashing across your features, crinkling cutely at the corners of your eyes.

“Sounds incredible.”

Harry knows it won’t be as incredible as spending time with you, but he had no inkling- neither had you- that the two of you watching the sunset through a stony sphere side-by-side was on the table.

“I’ll take you some day.”

In this moment, it's confirmed, you’re offering a seat for two.

“I’d like that.”

It’s best to ignore the comfort your insides receive from those simple words, better to chalk his sticky hold on you to the circumstances, to the excitement of a little fantasising of a hypothetical future together. This is as far as you’ll let it go.

“What about yours? I’m sure it’s hard to narrow down like, hundreds of cities-”

“Remember that little creek just past Twemlo? With the weeping willows.”

“And the rickety bench.”

“Where you, Jack, and I carved our names.” He recounts.

An old place with even older memories, a destination you had tucked so carefully away that it had been misplaced entirely. A time capsule of a life long gone, and lives that were never to be.

You deemed this reason enough to neatly fold that little tableau of youth and all of the seemingly world-ending trials and lows, neatly filing it away for a later date- hopefully, never.

It was also a vignette for the better days- a sanctuary for silly jokes and make-believe universes, the home of scrapes and bruises, but always patched up with plasters and wholesome laughter.

“That's your favourite place?”

“By a landslide.”

Harry hasn’t hesitated once. He thinks about that little creek a lot.

After a while, he realised that little frozen slice of childhood was his home. Something he would forever miss.

Sitting here, across from another slice of his youth, Harry’s starting to feel like you were the missing piece all along.

🍷

Swollen sun starting to sink in pursuit of the scattered ocean of olive trees, your arm is extended, bottle in hand, topping up Harry’s glass and emptying the bottle, when he stops languidly and longingly staring at you and speaks up about something that lingers with him, even in slumber.

“D’you ever wonder if life might've been different?”

Why does it feel like Harry’s always pushing you out of a plane with no parachute? Is his goal to send both of you spiralling?

A motto of your evidently avoidant guide to living is to shove any questions regarding decision-making into a dark corner of one's mind. Then, when you’re alone, sometimes a good sob is allowed.

“Do you?”

“Course I do. S’hard not to when… y’know?” Even now, a decade later, the words get stuck in his larynx like a silky web of shame.

“When you’re famous?” You coax casually, “You can say it. It’s what you are.”

“Alright, I wonder what life would’ve been like if I weren't famous.”

“Even I’ve thought about that once or twice.”

You cannot begin to comprehend why the need to reassure him is so rampant today. Lord knows Harry is revelling in every second of it.

“Does it end with the two of us walking down the aisle?”

Great. That right there is guaranteed to become a new scenario for you to spiral over under the cover of those creamy cotton sheets.

“I’ll never tell.”

“Fine. Tell me what happens leading up to that, then.”

Even when Harry’s conceding, he’s a right pain about it. And you know he’s only relenting because he’s looking for information he deems more important.

God only knows what that is, but you’ll be damned if you help clue him in, intentionally or not.

“Hm. I suppose I could have turned down that scholarship and travelled the Mediterranean like I swore up and down I would do as soon as I hit eighteen. Maybe waitressed by the seaside, dunno.”

“You were always gonna run away from home.”

He might not mean to, but it comes off as some implication that you’re like some caged canary, confined to a golden cage, locked up and longing for freedom from the chains of shut windows and loving owners. Perhaps there’s some truth to that, but there’s also a lot of uninhibited love and tenderness that’s being tarnished by the word ‘run.’

Harry spots the slightest sign of pensive frustration flicker across your features, but it’s gone in a flash, replaced by fast-spoken deflection.

“In every scenario, Jack scrapes through graduation and goes on to become the man of the match for almost every CSC game.”

Nodding along, Harry is waiting for his name to be brought into the picture, to be sketched out by your graphite gaze, for you to draw him into a portraiture of normalcy.

“And you…” You muse, “Well, you probably would have gone to CU, majored in literature and loathed every second of it. But, there’s no way you wouldn't have dropped it all to keep making music.”

“Yeah?”

A scoff seeped in incredulity slips past your mouth without a moment's notice, baffled as to how Harry can’t see how his body was just built to move: to glide across the stage, to sway his hips and dance.

How his voice was specially hand-crafted to hit that sweet spot between haunting and beautiful.

The gift of garnering people’s attention, and holding it, captivating gazes with his lyrical thoughts and ideas. There’s gotta be a way to make this sentiment stick.

“You were born to make music. Do you not remember how much you sang and performed and shared your favourite songs with me?”

Seldom do you get to witness Harry’s face so powdered with blushing pink.

He embodies bashfulness in a way that encourages you to do just about anything to make it a permanent feature.

Stretching your leg out to bump your shoe playfully against his shin,

“Sometimes your suggestions weren't half bad.”

It’s not the time to tell him that he has never recommended anything less than pleasurable.

Harry’s already looking at you with that knowing smile that reaches up and encourages his eyes to do the same.

“In conclusion, even if you never made it big, you would be doing exactly this. Cause it’s your passion ‘n all.”

Harry likes- more than- the way you see through all the colours, and places, and complicated decisions, that you look at him and still see that teenage boy with nothing to his name but a deep love for music.

He wants to be that guy again.

And he wants you to know that in every universe, or timeline, he’ll always be seeking out the silhouette of your swaying figure slotted between the fans.

“Singin’ at a local bar, dedicating songs to my favourite groupie.”

Harry lets his leg stretch out and hooks his heel along the curve of your ankle, sending you a lazy wink and soaking in the satisfaction of watching how swiftly your lips separate with scepticism at his accusation.

“Me?”

“You were my first groupie.”

“In what possible way was I your groupie? Let alone the first.”

“You were at that first-ever solo gig I did in the back of Sunny’s Pub.”

Harry’s watching the cogs turn behind your stare, attempting to oil up another memory so rusted and overlooked. He’s happy to lend a helping hand, supplying a little grease to spruce up those forgotten gears of the formative years.

“Oh, I remember it well.” He recounts dreamily, “You invited Nova and Annalise Robinson. Jack and the usual group were also there.”

It seems Harry’s got those gears going, but he hasn’t even mentioned the most memorable part of the performance.

“You mouthed along to all the words and even gave me a proper hug after.”

Oh, yeah. You remember.

And you also remember the days leading up to his performance, how you kept your bedroom window open to amplify the pretty ad-libs echoing across the yard during his rehearsals, or reverberating off the tiled walls of his bathroom, muffled by the instrumental of the running shower. ��

“That doesn't make me your groupie.”

“It was a week later when you praised me in front of your friends and convinced them all to come to the next show.” He’s got you now.

“That’s when you became my groupie.”

“You rave about me all the time.” And you have no idea that he does it when you’re not around, too.

“Does that make you my groupie?”

“I’m the chairman of your fan club.” He proudly confirms.

Harry certainly does do a bang-up job of reiterating his dedicated adoration for you. Come to think about it, he was a supporter of yours long before the conception of crushes and romance.

“I will admit, you are a very loyal fan.”

“Til’ the day I die.” Nodding along as if it’s old news.

🍷

Since Harry’s sunburn, the two of you have finished the first season of Fleabag, and right now, you’re already mid-way into the third episode when Harry’s focus mindlessly shifts to the soothing weight of your smooth, sock-clad feet resting atop his lap.

But even though his hand is already swirling circles along your skin, he’s touch-starved. For you, and you alone.

Letting his fingers glide further up, briefly greeting your knee before resting atop your upper shin, Harry glances over to test your reaction, but Hot Priest is speaking, and clearly has all of your attention.

“Y’know something?” Harry tries.

“Hm?” You don’t spare him a glance.

“I’m still hungry.” He persists, finally garnering your gaze.

“I think there’s leftover carbonara in the kitchen-”

“I’m craving something sweet.”

In the time it takes your face to become one of confusion, Harry lifts your legs from their cosy spot on his lap and gently tugs them, removing your body from its resting place on the sofa’s arm.

“Hey!”

You gasp as your body slides across the couch and the back of your head comes into contact with the cushion, and Harry’s crawling over, pinning your waist between his knees, one elbow settling next to your head, his other hand slips into the back of your hair.

Staring up at him like a blubbering fish, his freckles are like stars under the shimmering rays of the television moon, words blurring out into nothing but an instrumental for your frantic thoughts, and his lips look so damn kissable, it would take the only slightest tilt of the chin to meet him halfway.

So, you do just that, and Harry’s glad you’ve got the memo because it means wasting no time in covering your mouth with his own.

Now that he’s got your attention, nothing is stopping you from letting him hold you tighter, widening your legs for his left one to slot in between.

His tongue pokes at the parting of your lips, encouraging you to allow entrance, which you effortlessly grant, and as soon as you do, your lips trap his tongue and suck selaciously.

A gravelly groan stirs from Harry’s chest, enthusing your need to have him nearer, palm wrapping around his angular jaw, the other clutching onto his bicep, which is deceptively strong, left leg latching onto his waist, foot gently digging into his lower back.

Harry pulls away- just enough to end the kiss, but, for you, more than enough to cause a tortured whine to inhabit the space separating you.

Chuckles vibrating from his chest to your own, his thumb strokes your cheek with a type of compassion curiously foreign for yours truly.

“So sweet.”

His nose lovingly nudges yours. Leaving featherlight pecks at the corner of your parted lips, your hot cheeks, the curve where your jaw meets your neck, and he whispers,

“Just as I predicted.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He is- but you really do like that about him, and you like him even more when his hand lets go of your face and his fingers hook into the denim belt loops of your shorts, slightly prying the material away from your skin in a ponderous manner,

“Can I have another taste?”

Bless the power that is low self-esteem because you’re seconds away from telling him how, so, very much, you’d like that.

And just to make sure you understand how intense his craving is, Harry breathes out,

“Please.”

“Yes.”

Harry’s guts twist in delight at the sight of your little avid nods of approval, uprooting the shelter of his body from yours, shuffling himself until he’s hovering above your waist.

His left hand captures the corner of your shirt and pushes it upward to expose your stomach.

Pressung a flush kiss to the pudge below your naval, Harry peers up at you, right hand unhooking the button of your shorts and sternly instructing,

“Up.”

You’re shamefully quick, waist poised for the ceiling, impatiently waiting for Harry to take his sweet time dragging the material from your hips down your thighs and eventually tossing them over his shoulder.

Harry’s hands are back on your exposed skin in an instant, refamiliarising himself with the dips and swoops of your hips, exploring curves he might have missed the first time he had you in a similar position.

His lips sloppily glide along the crease of where your hip meets the chewable mound of your thigh, and its only a matter of time before he’ll reach the damp patch clouding your lilac panties.

It’s a good thing you’ve lost the ability to feel shame.

Harry will find out soon enough, but right now he’s happily taking him time leaving kisses on your legs, snailing smooches along your smooth skin as he meanders towards your inner thigh and uses his hand to spread your left leg for better viewing.

The moan that Harry emits is so filthy it could set a church alight at the mere sight of you all splayed out and already practically soaking for him.

It’s the type of sound that has your thighs involuntarily clenching around his shoulders.

Harry dismisses your jutting legs with a firm hand, holding you still enough for him to proceed with his plan to lather every inch of your skin in kisses, reaching the band of your panties, capturing the elastic between his teeth and giving the material a slow tug.

The cotton departs your skin and you have to stop yourself from hissing out at the sudden lack of contact, the cool air only seems to arouse you further, and as soon as your panties are dangling from one ankle, Harry lowers himself, wrapping his large hands around your upper thighs and lets his mouth fall slack at the sight of you all slick and desperate to be kissed all over.

He intends to do just that, but only after singing your praises a little longer,

“Christ, you look as sweet as you taste.”

A whine starts to tickle at your throat, and when Harry suddenly glides his thumb up the hilt of your clit, that whine is let out for him to bask in.

His finger is damp and glistening as he brings it up to his lip and sucks harshy, eyes rolling back like he just been thumped in the head.

And he’s looking at you like you’re some type of higher entity, with a stare that shifts between worship and desire, he’s observing every reaction your body has to his touch, the way your forehead releases its strained frown as soon as Harry blows cooly over your needy core, soothing the sensory shock with a sweet kiss.

You can’t keep up with his stern stare, squeezing your eyes shut, and sighing out euphorically as Harry’s tongue flicks out and feverishly laps up into you.

Harry’s been thinking about how you taste for far longer than he’s actually known the answer, but everything he’s eaten since you has been a dull experience.

He doesn’t believe there’s anything quite like the taste of your thick, syrupy excitement.

Just as his thumb presses to your entrance and threatens a pleasurable thrust, the little voice inside your head that ‘knows better’ suddenly speaks up and warns of the game Harry might be playing right now.

Is this just a red herring meant to put you in your stubborn place?

He know’s somethings on your mind even before your knees instinctively react to those erratic thoughts and begin to close the space holding them open.

“Yes, angel?”

He can practically feel the frustration vibrating along your skin as you search for the least desperate-sounding way of clarifying,

“Are you doing this to get back at me for the beach?”

“I’m not cruel.” He tuts, but his smile is soft and reassuring.

Everything inside you aches to argue that you aren’t cruel either. But the ache to be filled with Harry’s fingers is far stronger.

He knows you well enough to press a slow, tentative peck to your inner thigh before tapping it encouragingly and insisting,

“Open up.”

You do- and Harry goes straight to burying his face between them, licking into you with well-rehearsed rhythm, soft stubble brushing against your bare skin as he breathlessly sucks the begs- diguised as whines- from within the depths of you.

His tongue takes on a swirling motion atop the nub of your slick mess, pointer finger teasing the possibility of joining in, but when his focused-gaze glances up and sees that you’ve covered your features from his view, Harry replaces his tongue with his thumb and frowns,

“Let me see your face.”

In any other scenario, you would have switched the stubbornness up a notch, especially when feeling vulnerable, yet your arm drops from being a visor and chooses to rake into his toussled curls.

Harry’s pride is through the roof, as he rewardingly inserts a single digit into you, feeling it brush against the spongey cocoon of your arrousal, he can’t help but reiterate,

“Shouldn’t be hiding somethin’ so beautiful.”

His finger dips in and out of you with slick ease, working up your nerves, eagerly curling around you, feeling the way your body clenches around him.

Harry returns his mouth to the mix, earning a frantically rough tug of his chocolate roots by yours truly.

You want to tell him to add more, but it seems Harry has a sixth sense as he pairs his middle and pointer finger and slides them snugly into you, sighing out at how cozily you fit him, how perfectly you’d swallow his cock whole.

As his pace quickens, there’s nothing you can do to stop your hips from leaving the cushion, back arching up, desperately chasing a high that only Harry can supply.

His hand splays out of over your stomach and softly pushes you down, covering your pussy with his mouth, letting his tongue glide over the spot just above where his fingers rhythmically thrust in and out, soaking the two of you in a mix of spit and arousal.

The tightly-wound bundle of nerves blooming in your lower abdomen is losing the strength to stay spherical- aching to burst and send spirals of hot euphoric ribbon shooting up your spine.

And Harry can tell by the way you tighten around him, walls latching onto his fingers in a desperate bid for him to never leave, to push that needy nerve bundle over the ledge and let it shatter into a million little climaxes.

So, he does what any good boy should and speeds up his pace, letting his tongue slurp and lubricate his fingers as they meticulously pivot into you, slide almost all the way out, and plunge back in, over and over, until your free hand has to find some grounding buried in his hair, tugging at him- anything to bring him closer.

Holding on is becoming as hard as it is to see through the daze of euphoria that casts your gaze in a hazy blur, and your mouth is parting and spewing words before you can think,

“Harry, I-”

“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes.

And it’s all the encouragement you could ever need to let your body succumb to the overwhelming pleasure, it courses through you with such power that no mind is paid to how harshly you push Harry’s face into you, how frantically you press yourself up against his mouth, grinding down on his fingers until the base of them are sopping wet.

He guides you through the high, whispering sweet praises, never slowing until your body signals tiredness, hindering the ability to keep your legs up, and only then does Harry lessens the pressure and focuses on placing lethargic open-mouthed kisses atop your swollen bud, over your pelvis, carefully crawling up along your body, a kiss to your stomach, then neck, and finally slotting between your lips.

A few lazy smooches later, Harry’s fingers leave their home buried inside of you, and hell, you feel emptier than ever before- the faint whimper that follows is as tragic as it is cute.

His lips part and his slick fingers are absorbed with an indulgent suck, savoring the remains of an unravelled and raw version of you- a version he’s gonna spend an eternity lusting after.

The instrumentals of your heavy breathing are starting to fade and the room begins to chorus with the sounds of a character crying over a haircut.

Harry ruefully strips his stare from admiring the war your eyes are waging against staying awake and glances over at the telly screen.

“Think we’re g’na need to restart the episode.”

“Grab the remote.”

You grumble, getting ready to stand up and search for those long-forgotten panties of yours, but Harry’s palm presses to your shoulder to halt any movement as he lean over and retrieves the lilac cotton, manhandling your legs to help put them back on.

You scoff and swat his hand away, needing to prove how clearly capable you are of doing anything other than sinking into Harry’s chest and falling into a cosy slumber- even if that happens to be the only thing you can focus on.

Harry sits back on his bent leg and watches as your frustration dwindles with exhaustion, making the simplest task look like climbing a mountain.

Once more, he impatiently reaches out to offer help, and once more, you ruefully shoo him away.

How difficult you like to make things in the name of pride, and how cute that Harry’s figuring out how to smooth out those rigid edges.

“Just can’t tame the brat in you, can I?

He reclaims the remote and returns it to your restlessly waiting hand, and as you busy yourself with rewinding the episode, he recklessly wraps his arms around your slouched figure and tugs, shuffling and manouvering around each others limbs until you’re twisted up comfortably enough.

You wonder how Harry could possibly think he hasn’t tamed you straight into the depths of his den when you are literally right here, cheek squished against his stomach, body sinking into the cushions.

But, if he thinks there’s more to tame, your last words before dosing off are those of encouragement,

“Keep trying.”

🍷

Sleep is slipping away, a blur of blackness starts to brighten to a silver blue smooch, and you are quickly coming to your senses. The soft hum of the television and the overwhelming heated blanket known as Harry has tucked you in with such care.

The heat of his presence is enough to lull you straight back into slumber, but the faintest sound of a sniffle draws you straight back into alertness, craning your neck, with guaranteed bedhead, your groggy vision attempts to make sense of your surroundings.

And then another sniffle, a little louder this time, enough to confirm that something is amiss. But Harry has his jaw pointing west, out of sight, his freckled skin illuminated by the warm, orange hues of the television.

“Hey, why are you-” Harry is startled, turning to look at you with surprise. It’s in this moment that you notice the stream of tears staining his cheeks, glistening under the TV hues. Attention turning to the screen, you recognise that familiar scene- that scene that could make an old man break down, and now you know what has Harry worked up,

“Oh.”

His eyes are heavy and brimming with new tears, and to be fair, he should have seen this coming. He could feel it squeezing at his heart the moment the credits rolled into the final episode. And you were sleeping so soundly, melting into Harry’s thighs, arm clutching the material of his sweats like a lifeline.

He did his best to hold it together, but he’s only human, and his throat tightened in a horribly suffocating threat. If he didn’t succumb to this sadness, he would surely suffocate trying to resist.

But now you’re looking up at him with a concerned frown, and Harry finds himself harshly wiping his cheeks of their salty stains, brows furrowing with his own concern, waking you up in the middle of one of the most vulnerable and adorable experiences in existence.

“Fuck, did I wake you?” His voice is gravelled with emotions.

“Don't worry about that.”

You easily dismiss, detaching your hand from his thigh and shifting to face him properly. There’s a reason you avoid watching endings, particularly ones shrouded in as much sadness as Fleabag.

So, you do the only thing you would want someone to do for you in this moment: you partially unlatch from his heavenly embrace, extend your arms and welcome him in for a proper cuddle,

“C'mere.”

Neither of you expected how quickly Harry would comply, sinking his body into the sofa, his nearest arm wrapping around your lower back, shuffling you around to lie beside him, chest pressed flush against his own.

Harry melts into your hold like butter in a skillet, tanned skin crisping like bacon at Sunday morning breakfast as your palm finds his bare arm, tentatively dancing your fingers along in a swirling motion.

He can’t look you in the eye, his sad and swollen gaze focusing on the swooping slope of your nose, sharp cupid's bow flush and puckered from slumber. But he also can’t stop this ache for confession, so easily comforted by the simplest gesture on your part.

Green eyes still glued downward, you wish Harry would look at you. You wish more than anything that he felt safe enough with you to let his guard down completely, but for now, you’ll be whatever he needs, and what Harry needs is just to get the words out.

“Life can be so sad.”

“It can.” Your heart aches at his revelation, because it’s true —so true. Yet, here you are with Harry in your hold, and life doesn’t feel sad-not in the slightest,

“But it can be so happy, too.”

He finally builds the brawn to grant you his gaze and blinks up at you bashfully through puffy pink eyelids and long lashes that have dampened into inky black feathers,

“Yeah?”

“So happy.” You firmly reassure, “I promise.”

Boldly, yet mindlessly, your lips find a home atop his forehead, chaste and possibly the surest way to show him you truly care. Harry’s charcoal feathers flutter lazily, face leaning into your kiss.

“Let’s put on Heathers, yeah?” You offer, and as if Harry doesn't already feel seen, truly seen, knowing you want this moment to continue breeds a new type of hopefulness within.

He dreads moving away from you; the brief duration of retrieving the remote is enough to restart the welling of tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. But once it’s back in your hold, so is he, turning his body and letting his back relax into the curves of your chest.

Your work quick, locating the teen drama, pressing play and letting your left arm take the lead in lethargically wrapping itself around his upper arm, using your right as a pillow for your cheek.

On the screen, Veronica is speaking, but the words are a mere instrumental supporting the rise and fall, soft and stable breaths Harry takes, the smell of his citrus shampoo, how easily your body has become an extension of his own.

Sleep is looming once more, and this time it seems to take Harry along; he feels more at home than, well, perhaps ever.

“Mm. You're comfy.” He sighs out just about a whisper, “Will you play with my hair?”

“Of course.” You feel like you’re fulfilling a need you never knew existed within.

“Harry?”

“Mm?”

“I’m happy you’re here.”

He’s slipping away, at the doorstep of slumber, but your silky words will surely echo in the corners of his mind for an eternity.

Here it is! Let me know what you guys think!! Lots of chats and less smut, but I think we can all tell how the next chapter is likely to contain hehe. Also super grapejuice song coded which is cuteee! - Mimz. x

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i-dont-know-how-this-site-works · 3 days ago

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All Star Wars references in "The Enigma of the High Visionary" explained:

Since some people asked for it/were posting that they didn't get the references, here it is explained by a SW fan: 1. "Your child, his vision count is off the charts. I've never sensed a power like it." So, in the SW universe, there is this mysthical entity called The Force, that allows you to do some cool ass shit and some people cannot commune with The Force at all, some are Force Sensitive and possess the ability to tune into it and use it and some individuals are very Force Sensitive and very strong in the Force. In Episode I, The Phantom Menace, two Jedi knights discover a slave boy on the remote planet of Tatooine and they test his abilites/blood for this thing called a "midichlorian count" (which existance was highly devisive in the fandom), which is basically like a benchmark score for how sensitive you are to the Force. This boy, called Anakin Skywalker, had an insane midichlorian count and was basically the strongest known Force user in the galaxy. Also, there is this line of dialogue in TPM:

2. "How many vision-chlorians did you measure?" A pun on the midichlorian-measuring thing.

3. "It was higher than the Grand Visionary's." In the movies the two Jedis from the gif above comment on how this child's midichlorian count is higher that the count of Yoda, who was one of the most powerful Force Users at the time and the spiritual leader of the Jedi Order.

4. "He must join us. He will join us." So, in Episode V, Empire Strikes Back, we learn that Darth Vader is the biological father of Luke Skywalker (sorry for the 45 year old spoilers!) and he tries to convince his son to join the Dark Side (i.e., the bad guys) and be Evil Together. He goes to great lenghts to convince his son to join him, as Darth Vader's boss would most likely kill Luke if he didn't prove himself as useful to him/Vader.

5. "I am a high-functioning dad" Not really a SW reference, but Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader was an absolutely shitty father. 5. "- At the council? - The Council have been blinded for too long. They don't recognise me. The granted me the... the rank of Vision Knight, but they don't let me sit upon the Council!" In Episode III, Revenge of the Sith, Anakin Skywalker gets a seat on the Jedi Council (the highest governing body of the Jedi Order), but is denied a promotion to the rank of Jedi Master. This makes him blow up and leads to this scene that has been so memed to death I can quote that shit in my sleep:

youtube

6. "Not just the men, but the women, and the children too." A direct quote copied from Episode II, Attack of the Clones, when Anakin murdered a bunch of people and told his crush about it.

7. "I thought we could watch your favourite film, The Phantom Menace." A lot of people thought this movie was absolute garbage (Sam included).

8. "I would love to watch The Phantom Menace, the best Star Wars movie." Sam hates it. 9. "happy-J" AJ loves it. 10. "I like how that alien sounds offensively Japanese.", "That looks a bit anti-semitic.", "Sure, that will age well." Some of the aliens in the prequels seem like thinly veiled stereotypes of some racial/ethnic groups, sometimes bordering on offensive. 11. Sam screaming "whooo waaaa bumballa" or something is him humming this song (which is a banger, just listen to this shit)

youtube

12. If you have watched the above clip to the very end, you will notice one of the Jedis got killed. This is what Sam references when he says "Liam Neeson just died."' 13. When Sam does the motorbike hands and engine noises, it's a reference to pod racing, which is basically the equivalent of motorbike racing.

youtube

14. "Meesa called Jar Jar Binks. Meesa Gungan." "That seems racist." In Episodes I and II there is this character called Jar Jar Binks, who is widely accepted to be the worst character in the history of cinema. He is also somewhat a Jamaican stereotype. 15. "I feel a presence." Force users can sense other Force users when they appear in a non-defined radius away from the user. The more familiar/stronger the Force user, the easier it is to pick up on their presence. 16. When Thomas Senior shows Thomas Junior to the High Visionary, it looks like the scene from Episode VII, The Return of the Jedi, when Darth Vader presents his son, Luke Skywalker, to his boss, Emperor Palpatine. Luke refuses to work with the Emperor, to the Emperor tries to kill him. Darth Vader then has a change of heart and saves his son by killing the Emperor. If I missed any, do let me know! (at the request of @shootfromthehipobsessed)

#shoot from the hip #sfth #star wars #the enigma of the high visionary #Youtube

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babybluey · 19 hours ago

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Parents, Freedom and how Carol Holiday has been present since the beginning

Carol is already climbing up there as my favorite character in chapter 4, if not of the whole game, and we literally just met her lol

But because of this I’ve been thinking about her a lot… and I realized that she’s been foreshadowed since literally the beginning of the game and it’s driving me actually insane.

Like, since the very first chapter, the bosses have all had this thing where they’re just incredibly shitty parents. And when they’re not parents they’re just incredibly shitty irresponsible adults.

In chapter 1 we meet king, a tyrannical ruler who doesn’t think twice about using his young son to further his own ends, and is a slimey coward to fakes remorse to take advantage of ralsei’s good nature.

This trend continues in chapter 2: Queen is an overbearing mother that, while genuinely wanting to do good for the lightners, assumes herself as smarter than them and forces all her decisions on them with no thoughg on whether they even agree.

Tenna is a bit more shaky, but since the TV dark world was created by Kris, I think Tenna is either:

⁃ representing kris’ repressed trauma and loneliness over now being alone in a once warm and lively house, wanting to get those days back (Tenna child of divorce memes are so real)

⁃ More generally Tenna acts like a very troubled parents who uses their kids (the lightners) as emotional support and validation instead of actually dealing with his own insecurities and problems, alienating them in the process

I personally think both of these observations are true.

The titan’s in chapter 4 also produce children versions of themselves, though I think that’s pushing it as the titan is more if a force of distraction than a character.

But who do we get introduced in chapter 4 who fits this theme? Carol Holiday that beautiful soul

The MOMENT, I swear, THE MOMENT SHE WALKS IN, THE WHOLE ATMOSPHERE CHANGES IN A DIME. It’s crazy, we’ve met tyrannical rulers and wire-mind controlling dictators, and we were forced to live the TV apocalypse by a man child, but this random, average, boring everyday woman is the single most hatable character in the whole game.

Because the tyrant, the dictator, the manchild, THEY ARE ALL HER!

Since chapter 1, we’ve been establishing this oppressive parental force in the form of the bosses, they’ve all been terrible but ultimately, before ch 4, it’s all been a game, you could defeat them. You can’t defeat Carol, she isn’t a game. Her mere presence is a blizzard. The adults don’t take her seriously, but Noelle, her own daughter, is terrified of her. Her whole character arc in ch 2 was standing up to Queen, but she can’t even look her own mother in the eye.

When it was revealed her and Kris are working together my jaw actually dropped. Because it means she’s been involved in the plot since the very beginning, even though we could never see her. If she’s the knight (which I don’t think she is, but this can’t be dismissed) it wouldn’t be out of pocket that the chapter bosses have been manifesting as they are because of her disposition, since chapter 4 establishes that the lighter that creates a fountain DOES influence the behavior and appearance of the darkners in some way.

Hey, this can work even if the knight is dess (which I believe), because she could be projecting her feelings of her mother on them as she’s making the fountains, intentionally or not.

And like… what better way to represent the game’s theme of denied choices, of having only one path you can follow through regardless of whether it’s actually good for you, of whether it’s beneficial at all, of whether you want it, than through an oppressive parent?

Like, being born is literally the shittiest gamble of all. You need to beg on your hands and knees that you’re gonna end up with decent enough people as your caretakers, because Jesus Christ, if they’re not, you’re FUCKED.

You can obviously still have a great life, but your parents will affect your life FOREVER, you have a part with them with you wherever you go, every single little action from them can cause a shift in you inexperienced soaking child brain that affects your ENTIRE LIFE. And that’s just the people, the economic status they come with can be even more deterministic of the kind of life you can have, most people will stay in the exact social class as their parent. Throughout history you’d have the same exact job as your parent, regardless of your talents or passions.

And goddamn, Carol SUCKS, and she’s obvious she’s got kris right where she wants them. I struggle and won’t put a definition on them yet, since the nature of their relationship is so vague, but I really don’t blame people for interpreting it as grooming, it does NOT look good. Even if kris was super on board on whatever the plan is, it’s obvious that they’re relationship with Susie and Ralsei is deeply affecting them and they not be so keen on going on with everything anymore, but they can’t do anything about it, with or without soul, they’re never free, there’s only 1 path.

I don’t think Carol is going to be complitely unredeemable, she could have very sympathetic motives, but her actions have an horrible effect of every single character in story. Like bro literally all the major characters have parents issues in some way!!!! And all the parents, while good people, fail to properly relate and understand them.

All of them except one: the Old Man.

Since his earliest scenes, this old turtle has proven to be the next best thing to warm bread. He’s so amazing he makes me cry.

He’s a happy, wise, truly free person that doesn’t need anything else from life, and wants the kids to be as fulfilled as he is, but, and this is important: THROUGH THEIR OWN MERITS.

He knows the kids need help, and he gives it to them, but not by imposing his views on them, or acting like he knows better just because he’s older, he knows the kids are smart and he lets them come to their own conclusion naturally.

He encourages them all throughout the chapter to not follow a prophecy just because it has been written, that they can write their own story, that’s the beauty of stories! He’s the FIRST character to suggest that the prophecy doesn’t have to be followed, and he himself as a character is a complete coincidence! He wasn’t meant to appear, since as the representation of a loved one he can only present himself in extremely specific circumstances, but now that he’s there he’s not gonna make any moment go to waste, he’s gonna guide these kids and make amends with his son regardless of the fact he’s literally dead and it wasn’t meant to be!

His appearance could legit be the catalyst for the prophecy being destroyed and it was all an accident. I’m obsessed with it.

There’s also the whole thing with Susie and her freedom, and how that so easily also corresponds to teenage rebellion to authority, she’s writing her own life dammit!!! Fuck you mom!!!! Fuck you society!!!!

This could have been the same for Dess as well at first, before it turned into a more negative, destructive, and selfish kind of freedom, but this is more speculative.

I’m so fucking excited for how this whole thing gets explored, there are so many possibilities and they’re all peak. The lighters could team with knight Dess to defeat Carol, or maybe Carol and the Knight are working together with Kris, or maybe Kris and Carol are working AGAINST the knight but for different reasons that the heroes, it’s all so hype.

These are my two cents but I love stories that take the small, private and personal and turn it into a metaphor for larger, more philosophical themes and I’m so glad deltarune is looking to be one of those stories.

Susie kill that hag.

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bloodb3nders · 2 days ago

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part four.

| shota aizawa (eraserhead) x fem!reader |

wc: 2k

content warnings: reader being stupid oops

a/n: filler chap im sowyyy

NOW PLAYING: guilty as sin? t. swift

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶

the morning sun filtered through the windows of class 3-a as you arranged your lesson materials on your desk, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened every time footsteps echoed in the hallway. tt had been two weeks since exams had taken place, and shota's demeanor toward you had begun shifted ever so slightly. small changes that you told yourself meant nothing, but couldn't quite dismiss. eyes lingering on you longer than they should, small hellos passed between hallways, awkward conversations about the weather.

a soft knock pulled you from your thoughts. you glanced toward the door, expecting to see a student, but your breath caught when shota's familiar figure appeared in the doorway. he looked different somehow, less guarded than usual, though still maintaining that stoic expression that gave nothing away, even though years ago, you could see through it.

"sorry to interrupt," he said, his voice carrying a gentleness you hadn't heard since high school. "i brought the supplementary materials for the joint exercise next week."

you blinked, confused, your brow scrunching. "joint exercise?"

"the psychological evaluation training," he clarified, stepping into the classroom with a small stack of papers. "i thought your students could benefit from practical stress management techniques."

the students began filing in as he approached your desk, their conversations dying down as they noticed shota's presence. some of them were still just as terrified of him as they were when they were in class 1-a.

you accepted the papers, your fingers brushing against his for just a moment, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through your chest.

"thank you," you said softly, aware of twenty pairs of eyes watching the exchange with barely-concealed curiosity.

something flickered across his expression before he nodded. "your approach to psychological training is thorough. the students respond well to it." he said, before leaving your classroom, glaring at the watching students as he did.

thorough.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶

"your analysis of the villain's psychological profile was thorough," shota spoke, sliding into the seat beside you in the UA library. "most people would have focused on the physical quirk manifestation."

you looked up from your hero psychology textbook, and smiled at him. shota rarely ever praised you or hizashi, usually scoffing affectionately at the two of you. not to mention, hizashi wasn't the best at his course work, so he never really shared any academic achievements. however, your class had been assigned some psychology homework for a change, to better understand villain mindsets, and you'd scored the best out of the three of you.

"thanks shota! this is kind of what my mom does for a living, so i guess i just channeled her," you'd said softly, hoping the heat rising up your neck wouldn't give away how fast your heart was beating at his close proximity. "one day, after i'm done being a pro, i think i'd like to do what she does."

he nodded, his dark eyes studying your notes with interest. "i think you'd be great at that," he said softly, offering you a rare smile. you failed to notice the faint pink dusting his cheeks, to wrapped up in how giddy you felt at his compliment. trying to hide your feelings, you buried your nose back in your textbook, missing the way his eyes lingered on your face before he quietly returned to his own work.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶

"sensei l/n?" nejire hado's voice pulled you back to the present. "are you alright? you look a bit dazed," she spoke, and embarrassment flooded your features.

you shook your head, refocusing on your students. "sorry, just thinking about today's lesson plan. let's discuss the psychological impact of quirk discrimination in hero society," you rattled quickly, opening the textbook on your desk quickly.

but even as you launched into your lecture, your mind kept drifting to the way shota had said 'thorough.' like he'd been thinking about it, about you, for longer than just this morning.

two days later, the night brought another surprise. you were grading papers late into the night in your teacher's quarters. however, you felt sleep heavily weighing on you, as you struggled to keep your eyes open. a knock at your door startled you, a small yelp escaping your lips as you got up, and walked slowly to your door, grabbing the robe on your bed and wrapping it around your figure. you were in a baggy shirt and some tiny sleep shorts. you slipped on your slippers, before opening the door, pulling it back slowly.

on the other side of the door stood shota, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. his hair was pulled back, and you couldn't help but stare a little at the tight black t-shirt he wore and some flannel pajama pants. your heart quickens, body feeling fuzzy as you realize you've been staring at him for too low.

"brought you some coffee, assumed that it was a late night of grading when i saw that your light was still on," he said softly, and you smiled thankfully.

"thanks, i could really use this," you said honestly, taking the mug at him. you tried to ignore the way electricity surged through your fingers as they brushed his. you stood there for a moment, holding the mug, watching him for his next move.

"your lesson yesterday on trauma-informed hero work," he said quietly. "it was... insightful."

and then he was gone, leaving you with coffee that tasted like consideration and a growing suspicion that somehow this coffee was something of an olive branch.

the memory that surged to your mind hit you like a physical blow: seventeen-year-old you, exhausted and running on fumes during final exam week, slumped over your desk in the common room at 2 AM. You'd been surviving on vending machine coffee and pure determination, your notes scattered around you like fallen leaves.

you'd fallen asleep at some point, face pressed against your hero law textbook, when the gentle touch of a blanket being draped over your shoulders had stirred you awake. through bleary eyes, you'd caught a glimpse of messy black hair and tired dark eyes before the figure retreated.

"shota?" you'd whispered into the darkness.

"go back to sleep," his voice had come from somewhere across the room. "you'll hurt your neck sleeping like that."

but when you'd lifted your head, you'd found a cup of hot tea waiting beside your books, still steaming. by morning, both the tea and shota were gone, leaving you to wonder if you'd dreamed the whole thing.

you'd never asked him about it. had never been brave enough to acknowledge the small acts of kindnesses that he'd gone out of his way to do for you throughout your final year, the way he'd wordlessly slide his notes across the desk when you'd missed a class due to a training injury, how he'd always seem to appear when you were struggling with something too heavy to carry alone, the careful way he'd check on you after particularly difficult training sessions.

you'd convinced yourself it was just shota having a hard case of senior-itis. he'd totally do the same stuff for hizashi. nothing more than him being a good friend.

the pattern of small gestures continued throughout the week. extra whiteboard markers appeared when yours ran dry. relevant research articles showed up on your desk with sticky notes in his precise handwriting. your classroom's perpetually broken heating system was mysteriously fixed after you'd mentioned the problem to hizashi.

each interaction was brief, professional, but there was something underneath it all that made your skin feel too tight and your thoughts turn to dangerous territory. the way his eyes would linger on you for just a moment too long. the careful distance he maintained, like he was fighting some invisible pull. the way his voice went softer when he spoke to you, losing that sharp edge he used with everyone else.

it was during your free period on thursday that you found yourself in the teacher's lounge, grading papers and trying not to think about the way shota had looked at you that morning when he'd asked about your weekend plans. you'd been so surprised by the question that you'd probably given him a completely incoherent answer about grading and cleaning your apartment.

"you look deep in thought," hizashi's voice interrupted your brooding as he collapsed into the chair across from you. "let me guess—thinking about shota?"

you nearly choked on your tea. "what? no, I was just—"

"Oh, come on," he grinned, his voice thankfully lower than usual. "you think I haven't noticed the way your so called old crush seems to still leave you dumbstruck? it's getting painful to watch, y/n,"

"sorry you have to suffer at the expense of my feelings. he went to hating me to suddenly being nice again!" you protested. "we're colleagues now, but i know that's all it'll be."

hizashi's expression shifted to something more serious, more knowing. "you know, back in high school, I used to think you two were the most oblivious people on the planet."

your heart stuttered. "what do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "that you were both so obviously gone for each other that it was painful to watch. and apparently, some things never change."

the memory surfaced unbidden: your second year at UA, after a particularly brutal training session that had left you battered and discouraged. you'd been sitting alone on the steps outside the gym, holding an ice pack to your ribs and trying not to cry from frustration.

"rough day?" shota's voice had been gentle as he'd approached, settling beside you on the steps without invitation.

"i'm never going to be strong enough," you'd admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "everyone else has these amazing combat quirks, and i'm stuck with these two lame blue orbs i barely know how to control. i'm just, me."

"just you?" he'd repeated, something sharp in his tone. "y/n, your quirk is one of the most versatile in our class. you can read opponents, predict their moves, understand their psychology better than anyone i've ever met. that's not 'just' anything."

you'd looked at him then, really looked, and seen something intense burning in his dark eyes. "you think so?"

"i know so," he'd said firmly. "any villain stupid enough to underestimate you is going to find themselves thoroughly outmaneuvered before they even realize what hit them."

the conviction in his voice had made your chest tight with something you hadn't been able to name. you'd wanted to tell him how much his words meant to you, how much he meant to you, but the words had stuck in your throat.

instead, you'd just whispered, "thank you, shota."

he'd smiled then, a real smile, rare and beautiful, and for a moment, you'd thought maybe, just maybe, he might feel something more than friendship for you too.

but then hizashi had burst through the gym doors, loud and exuberant, and the moment had shattered like glass.

"earth to y/n," hizashi's voice brought you crashing back to the present. "where did you go just now?"

"sorry," you mumbled, focusing on your papers to hide the flush creeping up your neck. "just tired."

"uh-huh," he said, clearly not buying it. "you know, shota asked me about you yesterday."

your head snapped up. "he did?"

"mmm," Hizashi hummed, looking far too pleased with himself. "wanted to know if you were settling in okay, if you were happy in the dorms we have. very casual, very 'just wondering' kind of questions." he said, amusement at the edge of his tone.

"that doesn't mean anything," you said quickly, but your heart was racing.

"doesn't it?" Hizashi's grin widened.

"i should get back to grading," you said quickly, gathering your papers with hands that shook slightly.

"y/n," hizashi called as you reached the door. "for what it's worth, i never told him how you felt. but i also never told you how he felt."

that evening found you in your living quarters, trying to focus on lesson planning but failing miserably. your mind kept wandering to hizashi's words, to the memories that had been surfacing all day, to the way shota had been acting lately.

your phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:

"it's aizawa. the police want you on the shie hassaikai raid."

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶

all likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! mwah!

taglist (12/50): @pixelcafe-network @mjuhgydxf @mirophobic @khaylin27 @l0ckedtomb @jxisnwaol @vynn01 @jinnyart06 @sxgacxbe @ginevraxrogers @saltypuffin1040 @etherealvampire6 @sillylittlethoughtdaughter

#bnha #mha #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha aizawa #shota aizawa x reader #aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #shota aizawa #aizawa #bnha aizawa #shota aizawa x yn #shota aizawa x you

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mikkies · 2 days ago

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「 EVEN AS WE GROW, MY LOVE NEVER FLICKERS. 」

Mayor Thaniyel x GN! Reader

warnings: none!

notes: I mixed up present and interpretation of past Mayor Thaniyel. But it's just hints 🤭

Your relationship with Thaniyel is one of quiet companionship and mutual respect. Both of you have lived long enough to appreciate the small, meaningful moments in life.

There’s an unspoken bond between you, where words often aren’t needed. A shared look or a gentle touch says more than conversation ever could.

Despite his reliance on a cane, Thaniyel loves taking slow, peaceful walks with you. The two of you are a familiar sight to the townsfolk, walking arm in arm as the sun sets over the city he governs.

He sometimes pauses to point out changes in the town, saying, “I’d never have noticed that without you here with me.”

Thaniyel is a man of subtle gestures: resting his hand over yours, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, or squeezing your arm gently as a sign of reassurance.

He’s not overly verbal with his affection, but when he does say “I love you,” it’s in a soft, almost reverent tone, as if he’s still amazed by the depth of his feelings.

You and Thaniyel often reminisce about your younger days, trading stories and finding joy in discovering parallels between your lives.

He adores hearing about your adventures and always listens intently, occasionally adding his own witty or heartfelt comments.

You’re his quiet rock during the challenges of governing Turitopulis. Whether he’s dealing with political conflicts or trying to manage his strained relationship with Brad (Griefer), your presence calms him.

Thaniyel often seeks your advice, and your wisdom reassures him that he’s on the right path.

On days when his age catches up with him, you’re there to remind him to rest and take care of himself. Likewise, he does the same for you, often insisting, “Let me do that; you’ve done enough for today.”

You’ve both perfected the art of taking care of each other in small, thoughtful ways—leaving a favorite book on the nightstand, brewing tea, or making sure the other has their coat before heading out.

Thaniyel loves the simplicity of shared moments: tending to a small garden, enjoying a warm meal together, or watching the rain fall from the porch.

He often says, “I never realized how beautiful the little things could be—until you showed me.”

Though Thaniyel often appears sad, you’ve managed to bring out a lighter side of him. Your playful teasing and sharp humor catch him off guard, and his rare chuckles are music to your ears.

“You’re the only one who can make me laugh like that,” he admits, his expression softening as he looks at you.

Thaniyel admires your strength and independence, often saying it’s one of the qualities he loves most about you.

While he’s always there to support you, he never tries to overstep, understanding that you’ve lived a full life on your own before him.

Both of you care deeply about the town, and your love becomes an example of harmony and unity for the community.

Together, you’re seen as a beacon of wisdom and compassion—a power couple, even in your elder years.

You gently remind Thaniyel to stay patient with his son, encouraging him to reach out even when it feels hopeless.

Sometimes, Brad jokingly calls you his “bonus parent,” which secretly brings Thaniyel great joy. He sees you as the glue holding his family together.

For both of you, being together is like finding home after years of wandering. There’s a comfort in knowing you’ve found someone who understands you completely.

Thaniyel often takes your hand in his, his thumb tracing gentle circles as he whispers, “I didn’t think I’d find this kind of love again—but I’m grateful I did.”

#* ∙ ✰ ◞ 미키 ✗ posts.#block tales x reader #block tales #roblox block tales #mayor thaniyel #mayor thaniyel x reader #block tales roblox #x reader #blocktales x reader

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lost-in-thoughts03 · 1 day ago

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ONE MORE NIGHT || Hwang In-ho

" I'm feeling stupid, feeling stupid crawling back to you."

Summary: You've been abducted by your father's mafia enemy. Your father owes him big-time. That's why he needs to teach him a lesson so that next time, if he's going to borrow some cash, he should pay on-time so no one in your family is going to be in harm.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, DARK, au, explicit content, violence, threats, coercion, kidnapping, obsession, possessive, matured language, manipulation, stockholm syndrome, mafia! In-ho, age-gap (40s x 28), forbidden, using of drugs, cheating, identity crisis, toxic relationship

The bass thumped from the club speakers as laughter spilled from your lips, your voice mingling with those of your friends under the kaleidoscope of flashing lights.

The scent of perfume, spilled alcohol, and faint smoke swirled around you. You lifted your drink—a crisp gin and tonic—to your lips, eyes darting toward the bar where a man with a disarmingly kind smile had just returned from ordering his own.

Hwang In-ho.

He had been nothing more than a charming stranger earlier—or so you thought. His presence wasn’t overpowering; it was deliberate. Calm. Calculated.

Now that you think back, even his slight, harmless stutter seemed like a perfectly practiced detail in his performance.

“ Be right back.” You had told your friends, excusing yourself to check your phone where your father had texted—a string of warnings and missed calls you had ignored.

Mistake number one.

When you returned, your drink was waiting. Ice hadn’t even melted yet. You laughed at a joke, raise your glass, and took a sip.

Mistake number two.

The chemical was subtle.

Tasteless.

Fast-acting.

It clawed its way through your bloodstream, tightening around your limbs like invisible rope. Your vision blurred, your words slurred, and your knees buckled just as In-ho caught you, feigning concern.

“ She’s had too much!” He shouted to your friends, who barely noticed the shadow that passed behind his grin.

“ I’ll take her home.”

Mistake number three: no one questioned him.

…

You woke up groggy, restrained, the scent of old wood and gasoline filling your nose. Dim lighting flickered overhead—a swinging bulb, casting long shadows across the floor of what looked like an abandoned shipping container.

Your wrists were bound with zip ties.

There was duct tape on your ankle.

Your mouth tasted like copper and guilt.

Footsteps approached.

“ Rise and shine, princess.” In-ho’s voice slithered through the air.

He crouched in front of you, that same warm smile still stitched across his face—only now, it was venomous.

“ You—” Your voice cracked. “ Why…?”

“ Oh, sweetheart.” He cooed, mockingly brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“ This isn’t about you. This is about your father. The great, untouchable man who thought he could borrow from me and vanish into his golden palace.” He chuckled.

“ Turns out his weakness was out partying with friends...drinking unguarded cocktails.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.

“ You don’t know him.” You spat.

“ I know him better than you do.” He hissed, eyes narrowing.

“ He’s a coward. And now? He’s going to learn what it feels like to lose everything.”

He stood, walking to a workbench lined with small bottles and tools. His fingers traced over them like an artist admiring brushes.

“ You really think you’re innocent in all this?” He said, back turned.

“ Do you know how many lives he ruined? He’s just never told you. But I’ll tell you. Every. Single. One.”

The suspense was broken momentarily by the low hum of music—he’d put on a radio. A dark, jazzy tune filled the silence like a sick lullaby.

You searched the room for an escape.

Anything sharp.

A nail.

A shard of glass.

Nothing.

“ I like you.” He said suddenly.

“ You’ve got to fight. Spirit. I can see why he loves you.”

You turned away in disgust.

“ Don’t worry.” He added, voice suddenly dropping to a low whisper.

“ I won’t hurt you…yet. But your father? Oh, he’s going to think you’re already dead. And that’s the kind of pain he’ll never recover from.”

He laughed again. “ Tragic. Poetic. Almost Shakespearean.”

And then he leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear.

“ But if you play your cards right…who knows? Maybe you’ll learn to like it here.”

Your throat ached as the words scraped past it. “ Why…? Why me?” You whispered, your voice trembling as you struggled to sit upright on the cold metal floor.

Your wrists burned beneath the zip ties, the sharp plastic cutting deeper with every twitch.

“ I have nothing to do with this. Your problem is with my father—not me. Please…just let me go. I swear I won’t say anything. I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear from me again.”

Your voice cracked, but your eyes didn’t waver.

You wanted him to see the fire still in them.

In-ho paused.

He turned slowly from the workbench, the soft clink of metal tools stopping as silence filled the space. The flickering bulb above made his shadow stretch across the floor like a predator.

Then he walked.

Measured.

Calm.

A panther in human form.

You watched every step, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding so loud it echoed in your ears. You expected him to laugh—or yell. But he didn’t.

Instead, he knelt beside you.

Then, without a word, his hand rose and caught your chin between his fingers—not harsh, but with a grip that brooked no argument. His touch was cold. His eyes were colder. He tilted your face up, studying it.

“ No.” He said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

“ You’re exactly the one who needed to be here.”

Your pulse stopped. “ What do you mean…?”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your skin, scented with danger and the faintest note of mint. His other hand braced on the bed above you, boxing you in.

The room shrank.

The air thickened.

“ Because now…” He growled, jaw clenching.

“ Your father knows what it feels like to be helpless. To watch someone he loves vanish—just like I had to.”

You flinched.

He saw it.

Good.

That was what he wanted.

“ But here’s the thing…” He continued, eyes dark as obsidian, flicking from your eyes to your lips.

“ He has two choices now. Pay the money…or watch as I make you mine.”

Your breath hitched. “ You wouldn’t—”

“ Oh, I would.” He snapped, cutting you off with a heat in his eyes that chilled your spine.

“ Because if he doesn't cough up the debt—all of it— by the deadline…you stop being his daughter. And start being my property.”

He leaned in so close your lips nearly brushed, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“ But you’re smart, aren’t you?” He purred, voice dipped in false sweetness.

“ Maybe you’ll learn to like it here. Maybe you’ll even beg to stay.”

He lingered there, breath and tension both heavy between you—before finally pulling back with a bitter smirk. He stood up, pacing, running a hand through his dark hair.

“ You’re scared. Good. Fear makes people obedient.”

You stared at him, your body tense, mind racing —calculating—looking for the opening that would come.

Because one thing was clear: He underestimated you.

Your voice cracked through the silence, sharp and furious.

“ I have a boyfriend!”

The words slapped the air between you like a gunshot.

You glared at In-ho, your chest rising with each breath of disbelief and rage. “ I love him. He’s everything you’re not. I would never betray him with someone like you—some psychotic, twisted, power-hungry freak playing God in a cage.”

For a split second, his eyes flickered.

Not with anger.

With delight.

He chuckled.

Low and slow.

The sound crawling under your skin like ice.

“ Ohhh…” He drawled, stepping back, just enough to tilt his head in amusement.

“ So the little kitten has claws.”

Then, without warning, he was close again—too close. His nose brushed against the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like a wolf savoring its kill.

You jerked violently, panic clawing up your spine. “ Get off—!”

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he murmured against your skin, lips barely hovering, “ I don’t give a damn if you’ve got a boy toy waiting at home. What makes you think that matters in my world?”

He pulled back slightly, just enough so his eyes could lock onto yours. “ Because soon…he won’t matter to you anymore.”

The words struck like venom.

He stood tall again, looming, dominant, his smirk darkening. “ Your boyfriend? What’s he going to do? Call the cops? Cry in bed because his pretty little princess got taken away by the big bad wolf?”

He scoffed. “ He’s nothing. And I—”

He leaned in again, this time his breath hot against your lips, voice dropping to a low, dark whisper.

“ I always get what I want.”

You twisted your face away just as he brushed his fingers along your cheek. His touch burned, not from heat but from the weight of control—the way he moved like he already owned you.

You hissed through your teeth and jerked away, glaring daggers at him.

That made him laugh.

Not a light laugh.

A dangerous one.

“ I like the fire.” He said, as if he was complimenting you on a dress.

“ But don’t mistake my restraint for mercy.”

His gaze darkened, dropping the charming façade for something real—something feral.

“ This is the world your father made deals in. The world of blood…for blood. Money for pain. Debt for suffering.” His tone turned sharp, cold, like a blade pressed to skin.

“ But me? I’m not like the others. I don’t beat women. I don’t kill for sports. I don’t get off on fear.”

Then his voice dropped an octave, slow and deliberate. “ I claim. I own it. I take what is owed. And your father owes me more than money.”

He lifted a strand of your hair and let it run through his fingers, slow and possessive, like silk over bone.

“ So consider this your warning, sweetheart. You keep testing me…and I’ll stop playing nice. But if you behave…”

His grin widened, chilling. “ You might just find out that being mine isn’t the worst fate in the world.”

He stood then, pacing away with a swagger that made your blood boil. But just before he reached the door, he turned back, finger pointed toward you like a promise.

“ Sleep tight. Tomorrow, we will play a new game.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

You're alone again.

Breathing hard.

Your heart is screaming for escape. And yet...somewhere beneath the terror, another emotion simmered.

Rage.

Desperation.

And a spark of defiance that he hadn’t crushed.

Not yet.

...

The sharp buzz of In-ho’s phone cut through the tension like a razor. His jaw loosened, his eyes flicked toward the device, and a wicked grin began to spread across his face. It was almost unnatural—the way he shifted from furious to gleeful in a heartbeat.

He answered with a casual, “ Yeoboseyo?”

From across the room, you could hear the voice on the other end—screaming.

A man’s voice.

Broken.

Desperate.

Your heart stopped.

In-ho’s gaze found yours, and he smiled wide, like a boy showing off a new toy. “ Someone wants to say 'annyeong'.” He said, tapping the screen and flipping the phone to face you.

And then—you saw him.

Your father.

Disheveled. Wild-eyed. His face flushed with panic, voice raw with rage and fear.

“ Where is she? You piece of shibal shit!” Your father shouted.

“ Let her go! I swear, I’ll give you what you want! Just don’t touch her!”

Your mouth opened, but no words came. You froze. Your mind blanked under the flood of emotion—shock, disbelief, anger, sorrow.

In-ho laughed.

Actually laughed.

Mocking. Deep. Cruel.

“ I told you…” He said to the phone.

“ She’s fine. I feed her. I keep her warm. I even made breakfast this morning with my own hands.” He paused, licking his lips.

“ She’s under excellent care.”

Your father’s face contorted with rage. “ If you lay a single hand on her—”

“ Oh, I’ve laid plenty.” In-ho said smoothly.

“ But not the way you’re imagining…yet.”

Your father exploded. “ I’ll hunt you down, In-ho. You hear me? I’ll tear apart the world if I have to. I’ll bury you alive.”

In-ho’s smirk widened. “ Now we’re talking. I accept that challenge.”

He tilted the camera again, showing a slow pan across your terrified, tear-streaked face.

“ Say hi to Daddy.” He cooed.

You stared into the camera, chest heaving.

A thousand words caught in your throat.

“ Dad...” You choked out, voice trembling. “ Don’t…don’t give him what he wants. I’m okay. Just don’t—”

The screen went black.

In-ho had ended the call.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Then he turned to you, rolling his shoulders like a man who had just finished a particularly satisfying workout.

“ Whew…” He exhaled. “ That was…invigorating.”

He bent down and retrieved the spoon from the floor, twirling it lazily in his fingers as he walked back toward you. His eyes never left your face.

Your hands gripped the edge of the mattress as he approached, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“ You’re worth more than I thought.” He said.

“ He’s already begging. Desperate men are so easy to manipulate.” His voice dropped.

“ But let’s spice it up a little.”

He grabbed his phone again, tapping on the screen. “ New deal.” He said aloud, mostly for your benefit—but loud enough for your father to hear on the other end of the line.

“ If you want your precious daughter back, you’ll pay double. Every cent. No delays. Or…” In-ho let the word linger like a hook in flesh.

“ She stays.”

You couldn’t help it—your rage boiled over.

“ You psychopath!” You screamed. “ You’re using me like I’m some pawn in your sick game!”

In-ho only grinned. “ Not a pawn.” He whispered, leaning close.

“ You’re the queen.”

You jerked away.

“ You don’t get to decide how long this goes.” You snapped. “ And you definitely don’t get to win.”

He laughed, dark and low. “ I already have.”

Then—his smile faded.

Just for a second.

A crack in the armor.

“ Unless…you really believe he’ll pay.”

You looked away.

Because deep down…you weren’t sure.

Your father was many things. A criminal. A survivor. But when it came to loyalty—to family—you’d always been uncertain where his limits truly lay.

In-ho studied your face. “ Ah…” He said quietly. “ There it is.”

He stood up, victorious, and walked back toward the window.

“ Let him stew.” He said. “ Let him panic. The longer he waits, the more desperate he becomes. And the more desperate he is…”

He turned slowly to face you again, his voice a whisper—“ The longer you stay mine.”

“ Fuck you! I wish that you could die right now and let your damn spirit rotten in fucking hell!” You curse at In-ho, hurling venom at him with every breath you can muster.

But instead of flinching, he laughs—a deep, indulgent sound, as if your fury is a melody he enjoys too much.

“ God…” He says with a smirk.

“ I like this version of you. The fire, the rage—it could burn through steel. But I’d let it scorch me if it meant I gotta stay close enough to feel it.”

His phone buzzes again.

You flinch—heart racing.

With a casual flick of his thumb, he taps the screen.

Your father’s voice roars through the speaker—frantic, louder this time. But In-ho barely listens. He’s already smug, already coiled like a predator.

“ Save it, old man.” He says.

“ I’m done with your whining. You know the price. Double it. Or she stays.”

Another voice cuts in suddenly—clear, firm, furious.

Your eyes widen.

“ Put her on the phone.” Says the voice.

Jung Woo-sik.

Your boyfriend.

Alive. Searching. Fighting.

In-ho’s jaw tenses. His playful façade evaporates, replaced by something darker. Colder.

“ Oh…” He growls. “ Who's this clown?”

In-ho rolled his eyes and leaned against the edge of the table, staring at you like he was watching a play unfold—one he wrote, one you were trapped in.

“ Relax…” He muttered into the phone.

“ We’ll get to the terms. But first—let’s make things interesting.”

“ Yah. In-ho. You sick freak—get her away from this. You’ve already crossed the line.”

You feel the shift in the air. It’s no longer a game. The temperature in the room drops as In-ho steps toward the phone, grip tightening so hard you hear the plastic creak under his fingers.

“ What the hell are you doing on my call?” In-ho snarls. “ You lost something, lover boy?”

“ You’re done.” Woo-sik spits back.

“ You don’t get to touch her. You don’t even get to speak her name. I’m coming for you—and I swear, you’ll never see daylight again.”

“ In-ho…” Woo-sik snapped back.

“ You really think this is going to end with you winning? She’s not yours. She never was. You’re just a parasite playing with power.”

In-ho’s eyes glinted with something primal.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t explode.

He commanded.

“ Listen to me, you pathetic leech.” He growled, voice dipped in venom.

“ You think she’s yours? You think she wants you? Wake the fuck up. You’re just a placeholder. A name in her contact list. A body she barely tolerates.”

“ In-ho, shut the—”

“ No, you shut up.” In-ho snapped, his voice rising just enough to echo off the walls.

“ The next time I call, you won’t hear her voice, you won’t hear her crying for you. No.”

His head slowly turned toward you, gaze dark and heavy.

“ You’ll hear her moaning my name. While I have her pinned beneath me, screaming for more—while I fuck her so hard she forgets you ever existed.”

You gasped, heat rushing to your face, shame and fury crashing into each other as your nails dug into your palms.

“ You son of a bit—!” You shouted, but he silenced you with a look.

Woo-sik’s voice turned vicious. “ Touch her like that and I’ll kill you. I swear to fucking God—”

“ Oh?” In-ho smirked again, but this time it was twisted, poisoned.

“ Big talk for someone who isn’t here. You’re out there, throwing words like stones. I’m here, in my bed, in my house. I hear her breathe. I feel her warmth. You? You have nothing.”

“ Try me.” Woo-sik growls. “ I dare you.”

“ Challenge accepted.” In-ho snaps, and ends the call.

He turns back to you, the mask slipping again—jealousy blazing in his eyes like wildfire. In-ho slowly lowered the phone.

His hand trembled.

Not from fear—but from restraint.

He turned toward you, eyes locked.

“ What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He said, voice a whisper now, softer than it should be.

“ Are you upset…or excited?”

You tried to step back, but he moved faster—closing the space between you until his body nearly caged you against the wall.

“ You don’t have to lie.” He whispered, brushing a knuckle under your chin. “ Not to me. I know your fire. I’ve felt it. And I know…”

He leaned closer, lips ghosting your ear.

“ No one takes what’s mine. Not even a prince in shining armor.”

You wanted to scream.

To slap him.

To run.

But your pulse was too loud. Your breath is too shallow.

Because part of you hated him.

And part of you wasn’t so sure anymore.

A/n: Heya, everyone! I'm too happy to be back. Although this is another Hwang In-ho story, it is more sinister than my earlier pieces. I hope everyone is fine with that. Guys, you are welcome to leave this story if reading it makes you uncomfortable.

As you can see, there are warnings. I hope you read them carefully because it is your responsibility to continue or not. Please refrain from reading this if you are under the age of 18. I have given you a warning already. This is not your typical romance. It's a twisted and toxic one.

Always read with responsibility.

Why did I come up with this concept? I dunno. I was using C.ai when I read about one of the characters available, which inspired me to write a story about them.

#Spotify #squid game #squid game 2 #fanfic #hwang inho #hwang inho x reader #hwang inho x y/n #hwang inho x you #hwang in ho x y/n #hwang in ho x reader #hwang in ho #hwang in ho x you #in ho x reader #inho x reader #in ho #in ho x you #in ho x y/n #dark romance #content warning

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mejomonster · 3 days ago

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Okay FINALLY saw fangs of fortune episode 1:

Fantastic. Fucking amazing.

It was underhyped if anything. And you guys loved it so it was pretty hyped in my mind.

I watched without subs to make life hard for myself. Still great. I love Wen Qiao. I love her dearly. I loved her and the other girl who died. I want to know who Wen Qiao's dead shifu is and I hope its another girl. I got a taste of what having dramatic intense xianxia baihe in a show could be and now i wannnttttttt itttt (Eternal Love actually also gave tastes of that, despite how much i hated the later writing portion it had a LOT to ship if you just went into it thinking everyones bi until proven otherwise)

Wen Qiao i'm just totally thrilled by. I liked her actress in other stuff, but I feel this role is going to let her shine broadly, in a way her shows playing a side character did not.

I'm also thrilled there's no annoyingly innocent high pitched girls of a particular trope here (yet). More like the Word of Honor women characters, who kick ass and have their own agenda, which I really enjoy.

Zhu Yan sure is something. He's hot. He's a demon I presume (yao). He walks up like Sephiroth, untouchable and plaguing the big eyed hero type. He can simply escape. He cant die. He's there because he wants to be, and who knows why he wants to be (maybe he said it amd i just couldnt understand though). I love his character type. I love when shows let a demon boy/lead be one of the main focus points (thats why Love and Redemption got so much love from me partly... Xuanji IS the biggest scariest devil, and her boyfriend is the most talented demon who wants to help people). I felt like I imagine Thousand Autumns feels? Isnt that novel about a big scary demon sect leader and a noble well intentioned guy? Anyway I'm getting distracted.

The music? LOVE IT.

Loved the battle music with Zhu Yan, i usually LOVE a cdrama when i hear music like that. If i fall for the music, its pretty much guaranteed i'll love the show.

I loved Wen Qiao's music scenes. I loved all of her parts though.

Zhu Yan's actor being who he is, I can't imagine he'll actually be evil. Since that actor always plays a hero good guy in everything I've seen. I do love him playing a Sephiroth like presence in this though, along with the moments of comedy like when he walked himself back to his cell that was fucking hilarious.

The show also just. Generally has a lot of my favorite things in a story - demons I want to root for, cool women, lovely costumes, lovely sets, amazing costumes, solid music, gets right INTO the story and will tell us more later - no 10 minute prologue set up exposition dump, no slow scenes, just establishing the vibe and the key players and then ramping up into cool fights! Love that.

The end credits where the cast gets to dance? So cute! I love when shows do something fun for the credits. Ultimate Note would play scene outtakes/bloopers on their end credits.

#rant #lb #liveblog #fangs of fortune #fangs of fortune lb #anyway i know you guys told me it was good but #i didnt think THIS GOOD LIKE MAKE ME WANT TO IMMEDIATELY KEEP GOING GOOD #i watched with no subs because im working on my chinese listening skills and iqiyi has cc that can be turned off #honestly it was pretty easy to follow. except some things zhu yan said #which i suspect were very fake-historical wording or poetic #and i wasnt sure if wen qiao was actually the pink demons sister or they were just calling each other jie and mei #i hope they werent related because i ship them.

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myokk · 16 hours ago

Text

different

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 4,2k

summary: Sebastian is not as she remembered.

cw: enemies to lovers, dark sebastian (I guess?), relic!Sebastian, smut (18+ ONLY), unprotected sex, maybe he has a breeding kink...I just don't know what to tag this it's angsty

a/n: or: Sebastian has probably gotten in over his head even though I don't specify what's going on with him🤭

Sebastian Sallow is not as she remembered.

There's something...unkempt about him. Feral. Unhinged. Uncontrolled. She feels absolutely ridiculous thinking it, of course, could never confide in anyone about what she's noticed.

Everyone knows she hates Sebastian Sallow and shouldn't be noticing anything about him. But...when they sit next to each other in their NEWT Arithmancy class and are forced to spend time with each other, there are things she cannot help but see.

Because of proximity, of course.

As she glances over to him, all she can think of is how his hair is more tousled than usual, a strange, feverish flush spread across already ruddy-freckled cheeks, his normally pristine uniform wrinkled and the top buttons undone. She is used to hating him from afar; their previous years at Hogwarts have been spent glaring at each other across the Great Hall, fighting to be the first to answer questions in class, him purposely antagonizing her and going out of his way to make sure she's annoyed by his presence and...

Well.

In the short first month of their seventh year (arriving to Hogwarts without his sister), so far he has been avoiding her. Avoiding everyone, really. More reclusive, less of the magnetic and commanding presence that demands people pay attention to him. As much as she thought she would rejoice the day he stopped bothering her, it is rather disconcerting.

He looks over at her, catches her staring at him, and his glazed-over-glossy eyes flash in fury.

"What," he hisses, barely disguised hatred poisoning his deep voice, "are you looking at?"

She starts, the quill she's holding slips out of her fingers and clatters to the table, and ink splatters across the page of notes she was working on. "N-nothing," she mumbles, before clearing the mess away with a wave of her wand.

The rest of their time together is spent in silence, both determined to not look at the other.

She secretly observes Sebastian any time they share a class - it's impossible to see him between classes, as he's disappearing to Merlín-knows-where, but he's still yet to be fully absent.

Some days, he looks better than others, almost like the mischievous Sebastian who used to torment her. A small smile might even grace his full lips.

But most days, there's an unhealthy pallor to his flushed skin, his shoulders holding an ungodly amount of tension; last week in Charms he snapped five quills in half, one for every squeak of Professor Ronan's chalk on the blackboard. She was sitting right behind him, unsure if anyone else noticed, but how could she miss it? The tension in his broad shoulders seemed to radiate off of him in waves, the skin she could see of his neck between his collar and his tousled hair was flushed and sweaty, and as soon as class was dismissed he was pushing his chair back and striding out with long legs, black robes billowing behind him.

This has been repeated more and more often as of late.

Where is Anne? -

"What do you think of Sebastian this year?" She's trying to act like she doesn't care about the answer, pushing food around her plate, resting her chin in her hand, but the truth is she's dying to have someone else acknowledge what she's been seeing.

"He's grumpier than usual," says Leander helpfully.

"He almost singed my eyebrows off in Charms," pipes up Garreth.

Cressida is too overcome by giggles to speak properly at first. "I've been trying to count the freckles on his forearms every chance I get," she confesses, "but every time I reach forty he turns around and I'm worried he'll kill me. Why? Are you upset he's finally moved on from his infatuation with you?"

None of them seem to be worried about him like she is. At Cressida's last question, she flushes and glances across the Great Hall and her eyes find his immediately. It's almost as if he's heard their conversation; his eyes are two black pits glowering into her own and she's worried that if she keeps staring she might fall in. Gaunt is sitting next to him, murmuring who knows what in his ear. The contrast between the two of them: one blond and elegant and deathly pale, the other flushed and disheveled and full of rage: is eerie.

She shivers and looks away.

As the days progress, Gaunt seems more and more upset with his friend. She catches the two of them having heated discussions under their breath on more than one occasion; the tip of Gaunt's wand flaring like his nostrils as they quarrel.

Normally, the two of them walk the halls of Hogwarts together like they own the place. The fact that they are almost never seen together anymore is preoccupying, to say the least.

She soon abandons any pretense of being nonchalant, of secretly watching, and finds herself looking forward (if it can be called that) to every class shared with Sebastian Sallow. His presence is intoxicating somehow - she couldn't look away from him even if she'd wanted to, and she is simply too curious to see how far he will fall.

Is he going to be normal today? she wonders as she sets up her station in Potions. Almost hoping to the contrary, but he doesn't show up.

She's...disappointed.

Or maybe she's just bored. Watching Sebastian has started to consume her, his strange behavior the only thing that seems to interest her these days.

When he barges into the Potions classroom five minutes late - not enough for Sharp to chastise him - their eyes immediately meet and he beelines for her station, unceremoniously dumping his bag at the empty spot next to her. Although they don't speak for the entirety of the class, she shows him the recipe she is working on and he pulls the cutting board towards him, surprisingly gentle with the knife as he starts chopping up the ingredients.

Soon, his robe is shed off. The classroom feels muggy and stifling and even she feels dazed from the heat and fumes of the combined cauldrons. He silently slides the cutting board to her, everything cut perfectly; she glances at him before nodding slightly and adding everything in with precision. Sebastian takes over the stirring as she adds the ingredients one by one, but soon he's pulling at his tie and collar to loosen then as he stands over the flames, rolling up his shirtsleeves and exposing his tan, freckled forearms. For one mortifying second she wonders if he's going to take off his vest too.

He's so different from the exasperating boy she thought he was. Before, he was mischievous and charming and annoying and always getting into trouble with his sister. But now...now, he's angry in a way she isn't used to: his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turn white, his dark brow always furrowed in displeasure.

She finds she wants to smooth it away with the pad of her thumb.

At the end of the class, they get a rare 'well done' from their professor, and then before she can blink Sebastian is striding out of the class just as quickly as he has been for the past month. She hurries to shove everything into her bag and stumbles out after him, almost sprinting to catch up as he's already at the end of the hall.

"W-wait," she gasps, reaching out a hand that grazes his sleeve. He slows down a bit but keeps walking, not acknowledging her presence otherwise. "Sebastian."

He stops at the sound of his name, the fury in his glare makes her pause - maybe she shouldn't be addressing him like this, but they were friends before, weren't they? And now he continues walking, much slower this time, but still with purpose.

She takes this as an invitation.

She doesn't let go of her grip on his robes, not wanting him to disappear on her again.

The truth is, although everyone knows she hates Sebastian Sallow, she always kind of liked the attention he gave her. Out of all of the girls he could have pursued - almost any of them - she was the only one he ever paid attention to. As much as she was exasperated by him in previous years, there had been a few moments last year when...

She shakes her head to get rid of the thoughts. Clearly, that Sebastian lives in the past, and the one she is following now is someone else entirely.

Sebastian pulls her into an empty classroom and whirls around to look at her after the door slams shut, his cheeks colored and more ruddy than usual, and her heart is pounding as she stares up at him. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to follow him, and she curses herself for her damn curiosity. But...she can't deny that a thrill runs through her body, heat pooling in her stomach as she sees him glower at her. Maybe she's missed having Sebastian's undivided attention, and now she has it.

"I-" he starts, taking a deep, shaking breath as he looks down at her. He closes his mouth, runs long fingers through his hair, disheveling it more (she quite likes it, but -), paces around the room. She just stands there, watching him, clutching the strap of the bag that's pressed across her chest. "I know you're watching me."

"I," he says again, looking down at her, his warm breath fanning across her face, "cant get you out of my damn mind. You're always there, and it's..."

She feels his words tremble down her face, slide down her neck; she shivers. In fear? In anticipation? Heat pools deep in her stomach at their intense eye contact, at the fact his mouth is mere inches from hers, the fact that he's looking at her like that.

"Y-you don't hate me?" she whispers, moving the tiniest bit forward. Her lips brush his lower lip as she speaks, a thrill runs through her body at the contact. Sebastian is stock still.

"No," he responds. This time he is the one who moves the tiniest bit forward, his head inclined the tiniest bit more towards hers. Now, with every breath she takes, every inhale, their lips are touching.

She doesn't know who moves first: between their shallow-soft breaths mixing and mingling and the general haziness of her mind that still lingers after their Potions class: all she knows is that somehow, their mouths have crashed together and all reasonable thought has left her mind.

As Sebastian's lips move hungrily - desperately - against hers, her fingers clutching the collar of his robes so she doesn't lose her balance, one of his hands grips her by the hips to keep her pressed against him. His other hand comes up to her face: caressing her cheek: bringing his thumb to her jaw to feel her pulse as they kiss: slowly moving to tangle itself in the soft hair at the nape of her neck so she can't pull away.

She feels as if she should feel embarrassed at all of the small noises escaping her mouth, but she can't help it. His lips are soft against hers, a contrast to the hard body pressing against her, the sharp angles of the desk she's being pushed against. And besides, Sebastian's making just as much noise as she is. The sinful noises coming from him are making an unfamiliar heat spread through her body, making her feel as desperate as he is acting.

But...- as she's moving to undo his tie, her mouth wandering down to kiss his pulse point as she uncovers it - noises that somehow slip through the hazy bubble of just her and Sebastian make her pause in fear. A burst of happily chattering students walks past the classroom and makes her wonder what the bloody hell she's doing.

They could have been caught - and then what? She would find herself in a forced betrothal to this bizarre, dangerous version of the boy she once knew. Because, of course, propriety would have to be followed.

It's as if the scales have fallen from her eyes and she pulls away from Sebastian slightly, her chest heaving. She just lost control of herself for one second. His strange magnetism hoodwinked her into thinking - or lack thereof, she's not sure that any thinking was involved when she kissed him back - that she wanted this.

There's no other explanation.

She pushes him away slightly, scowling at his bemused expression. Merlin, he's insufferable. His lips are swollen, his freckled face flushed, and all she wants to do is grab his stupid face and keep kissing him.

She pushes his chest again, and this time he stumbles back a bit. Now that she's free, she bends down to grab her discarded school bag, her robes crumpled to the ground at her feet. As she shrugs them on, she glances at Sebastian over her shoulder.

The open expression on his face is already starting to close off, the scowl that she's now used to taking its place.

If she had thought Sebastian Sallow was strange before their -

She gives her head a small shake and rests her chin on the palm of her hand, trying her hardest to listen to Garreth speak about whatever it is he's telling her. It's impossible however, with Sebastian sitting across the Great Hall from her.

There might be a couple hundred students sitting between them, chattering about inconsequential and trivial matters, but it's as if none of them exist. She knows how many times he's taken a bite of his lamb, how many time's he's turned to whisper something to Ominis before realizing that his friend is not by his side. It's a stormy night, and every so often an occasional bolt of lightning cuts the Great Hall in half, illuminating the whole room in an eerie light - almost making everything look black and white for a split second before thunder rumbles in the distance. And, she swears that every time the room is lit up, Sebastian is glowering straight into her eyes.

For as much as she is trying to pretend that he does not exist (and failing miserably), Sebastian is not hiding the fact that he is watching her. She can feel his eyes boring into her back as she walks down the halls between classes, and she feels uncomfortably seen in a way she is not used to.

She can't get rid of the feeling of being watched, not even when she knows she's alone in her dormitory. Sebastian and his all-consuming presence are haunting her mind, and she often finds herself waking drenched in sweat in the middle of the night, needing him in ways she isn't used to. In ways she decidedly doesn't want.

After her meal's finished, she scurries out of the Great Hall as fast as she can, like she has been for the past week since their wretched kiss. Another bolt of lightning shoots across the ceiling; everything is painted with that eerie silver light again for a brief moment and thunder is beginning to rumble through the air as the huge wooden door closes behind her.

She's not quite sure where she wants to go, and she makes a mental inventory of the castle. Her common room is boring - nobody of interest will be there and is she really just going to sit around by herself pretending to be occupied? The library is off-limits, due to Sebastian's propensity to show up in her periphery when she's trying to study, it's too early to sleep and she's scared of what might happen if she's alone in her bed, the...

She huffs as she marches aimlessly through the hallways. Maybe the occasional ghost crosses her path, but otherwise it's empty. Every suit of armor she walks past, every empty classroom, every portrait, reminds her of moments when she was spying on strange-not-the-same Sebastian this year. She hates him. Why couldn't this year be a continuation of the previous years, with their harmless flirtation? Things feel different this year, more dangerous, and...

Somehow, she ends up in the Transfiguration Courtyard, and she decides to march through it, rain be damned.

She's soaked to the bone by the time she reaches the old oak tree in the middle of the courtyard; the storm seems to have somehow picked up, but she finds she doesn't mind it. In fact, she might like it. In her own over-active imagination, she feels as if the rain is helping numb her over-sensitive emotions, the raw feeling she's been harboring in her chest all week isn't as awful as it has been all week.

She breathes a sigh of relief and lifts her face to the sky as the rain pours down against it; when she feels the brush of someone's robes against her arm as they sit by her side she isn't surprised.

It's inevitable, after all.

"Sebastian," she says, so quietly she isn't sure he can hear her over the noise of the storm, "why are you following me?"

If he says anything in response, she certainly doesn't hear it. But what she doesn't hear is made up for by his touch. A hand slides up her arm, clumsily - her eyes are still closed, face still upturned to the pouring heavens - and when it makes its way up to her jaw, tilting her head slightly, she lets him. When his lips brush against hers, she allows it.

(maybe she's been hoping for this very thing)

The kiss isn't sweet for long: maybe it's the cold rain, maybe it's the thunder rumbling in the background, maybe it's the quickly darkening night: but their kiss grows desperate faster than she can fully realize what's happening. Sebastian groans into her mouth, his lips hot and demanding against hers, and when his tongue swipes across her lips she lets him in without thinking.

It's impossible for any thoughts to be in her brain whatsoever, apart from the overwhelming lust that's currently heating up her body and causing her to be greedy and want more. Maybe, if she were in a proper state of mind, she would be embarrassed at how quickly his touch has unlocked something feral inside of her. Sebastian's hands are running down her back, sliding to her waist, pulling her closer to him. One hand comes up to brush against the underside of her breast and her gasp seems to spur him on.

She finds her hands moving of their own accord to caress his face, her fingers glide down his cheeks and up his neck to run themselves through his soaking wet curls - Merlin, what's gotten into them, into her? Snogging in the middle of a thunderstorm that only seems to be picking up.

She pulls away slightly, breathing hard as she finally peels her eyes open. Sebastian's eyes are dark, his brow furrowed as if to ask her why she's stopped; she just gives him a small smile, leaning forward to brush her lips against his before lacing her fingers through his and dragging him to the covered area of the courtyard overlooking the Lake.

She can see a question forming on his lips, but before he can say anything, she reaches forward and grabs him by his collar, pulling his face down to hers and he's eager to reciprocate. She's worried that maybe, if words are spoken between them, it could break the tenuous connection the two of them seem to have. Because they are connected somehow, aren't they? Something is compelling and pushing them together, time and time again, and she is simply curious to see where it's headed.

As his hands drag down her back, holding her tight at the waist, pulling her closer, she's reminded of the fact that they're soaking wet. She fumbles with her wand, whispers a hasty drying spell, and then it clatters out of her hand as Sebastian roughly pushes her towards the wall. She's moaning, gasping, yearning into his mouth as the kiss deepens, as she's pressed between the cold wall and his too-warm body, and she vaguely wonders if he can hear her, if he can taste her desperation for him in their kiss.

She's not quite sure what she wants, the sweet kisses she's shared with Garreth she now realizes were chaste in comparison to Sebastian's overpowering, addicting presence. He practically growls as he pulls his lips away from hers, but before she can whimper in protest, his lips have moved to her jawline, her neck, leaving a hot trail of kisses and it's all she can do to stay upright. Her head falls back against the cold stone wall, her hands scrabbling in his hair to hold him closer, try to find some purchase so she can stay upright.

Her knees go weak as Sebastian slowly moves a hand up her thigh, dragging her skirt along with it. The feeling of his fingers ghosting over her woolen stockings - her whole body is so sensitive that she may as well be wearing nothing - is causing an unfamiliar heat to pool low within her stomach and, oh, Merlin, he's reached the top of her stockings where her skin is bare. She doesn't recognize her voice as she moans, Sebastian moving his mouth back to hers to devour every noise she makes and - yes, she thinks, there: his hand grazes the edge of her knickers. He lets his fingers brush over her folds - barely-there touches that she's not even sure are happening outside of her imagination - and she is insensible. Nobody has ever touched her there apart from herself, lately, thinking of Sebastian - and she feels herself get wet at the mere thought of Sebastian touching her.

When he pushes her knickers to the side and starts slowly circling her clit with his thumb, all she can do is moan. His other hand is helping keep her in place, and she soon finds herself rocking against his hand. When he slips a finger inside of her, far from being uncomfortable, it causes a jolt of pleasure deep inside of her and she gasps against his mouth. She's unsure if she should feel embarrassed at how wet she is, but she's past the point of caring how she comes across.

"So good," Sebastian murmurs against her lips as he inserts another finger without warning, and she just moans in response, bucking her hips against his hand. He's curling his fingers inside of her, still rubbing her clit with his thumb, and he can But, as she feels pressure building deep within her, he slowly pulls his fingers out of her. She opens dazed eyes to glare at him, fully prepared to chastise him as how dare he stop? When -

Sebastian grabs her by the arse and lifts her up, and she instinctively wraps her legs around his waist, her skirt still bunched up, still completely bare to anyone who were to walk past. He slides his arms underneath her knees, bracing his arms on either side of her, and she feels something decidedly different than his fingers pressing against her soaking wet entrance.

A bolt of lightning and its resounding thunder fill the air as she whimpers against his mouth while he slowly pushes himself inside of her - there's no resistance - how could there be, when she's as wet as she is? He stops once he's fully inside of her, pulling away from her mouth to take a deep, steadying breath. His lips move clumsily across her face - her eyelid, her nose, her cheek - as he gives her time to adjust to the feeling of him inside of her - Merlin - how does it feel so good?

Soon, however, Sebastian decides that patience is not a virtue, and he drives into her, hard, over and over again, and they fall into a rhythm of sorts. The obscene wet noises, his grunts, are overpowered by the storm around them, and she's unsure if he hears her moaning his name as she feels herself getting close. The heat inside of her, building up in her, is unbearable: "Please, Sebastian - don't stop - please -"

He doesn't slow down his pace, hiding his face in her neck, desperately kissing her wherever he can, and she could almost cry in relief as her orgasm crashes over her; she shudders against his mouth, moaning so loudly it's nearly a scream. Her every muscle tenses, contracts, her body is squeezing and trying to hold Sebastian inside of her for as long as it can, and yet he doesn't slow his pace at all. It's unbearable - she's so, so sensitive, and yet he doesn't stop.

But then - his whole body tenses against her and he pushes himself as deep inside of her as he can. He gives out a low groan, pulling away from her slightly to look her in the face as he comes. It's an expression she has become accustomed to this year, uncontrolled, dangerous, and as the two of them are breathing hard, staring into each others' faces, realizing what they've just done, he moves slightly. He's still deep inside of her, she can feel every twitch he makes, but...when he moves...

Something metallic clatters out of his robes.

Lightning strikes, and, through half-lidded eyes, she sees a strange object fall to the ground.

"Sebastian, what -"

He hushes her with a dizzying, toe-curling kiss as he slips out of her.

#as always if I forgot any tags please let me know!!!#I hope you like this one!!! I basically started with vibes and then had to finish #but maybe tomorrow when I wake up I’ll be embarrassed and delete😆😆#we’ll see #im just happy I pulled this out of my brain #and I got some practice writing which is always fun too #hogwarts legacy #hphl #hogwarts legacy fanart #hogwarts legacy mc #hogwarts legacy oc #eloise babbit #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanart #sebastian sallow fic #hogwarts legacy fic #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow smut

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