#and drawing again for the first time in weeks

[einawnimie]

𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗢𝗔𝗥𝗗 - sylus qin oneshot

summary — She was just the kindergarden teacher—until the twins’ father started showing up unexpectedly, his intentions either unclear or EXTREMELY obvious When an accident shakes them all, hidden feelings surface, and nothing will ever be the same.

pairings — singledad!sylus x fem!reader

content / tags — afab!reader, sylus adopted luke&kieran (4 y.o), kindergarden, non story-based timeline, fluff!, there’s an accident, cute kids antics + more

warnings — mentions of blood, cuts, stitches, fully sfw!!

words — 1.7k

———

You didn’t notice anything until the second week.

The father of the twins seemed to linger by the entrance a little longer each day, asking about their behavior or whether they’d slept well during naptime—even though your answer always remained the same:

“Yes, sir. They both behaved well.”

At first, you thought he was just a very anxious parent, concerned about his children’s well-being.

But the more he stayed, the more he asked, the longer he held eye contact—and the more often he handed you iced coffee when dropping off the twins—you couldn’t help but feel a little… off.

Sometimes, you’d sneak a glance at his fingers, quietly noting the absence of a wedding ring. Was that why he was extra worried for his kids? Because he was single?

You mentally kicked yourself for the rude assumption. But eventually, you found out—straight from the twins themselves—that their father, Sylus, was indeed single.

“Dad is alone. He has no wife,” Kieran would mention casually.

“Yeah, we have no mom either,” Luke added without hesitation.

You sat beside them, gently helping them color a drawing—one of them in shining armor, the other just as valiant. Their father was included too, drawn as a sort of horse (?) beneath them, as they excitedly talked about their little family.

“Oh, I see,” you’d reply every now and then, laughing at their stories of their dad’s odd habits.

“Your dad has a pet crow?” you asked, genuinely bewildered.

“Mephisto is, uhm… what’s that word? Oh yeah, mechanical! Dad made him to watch us while he works!” Kieran proudly explained.

You nodded. “Ah…”

“We should draw teacher too!” Luke suddenly said. Your eyes lit up. “Why do you think so?” you asked, smiling.

“Oh! I get it,” Kieran chimed in immediately. “It’s because Dad likes you! We should draw you on a tower and Dad and us will rescue you!”

If the crow didn’t shock you enough, this certainly did.

“What?” you asked softly, but before they could respond, the entrance door slid open.

Sylus stood there, his usual smirk in place. “Time to go home, kiddos.” He chuckled.

You practically jumped to your toes, still processing the bombshell the kids had just dropped. Though still unconfirmed, your five years of kindergarden experience had taught you one thing:

Kids don’t lie. Even if they attempted to.

You quickly helped the twins into their puffer jackets, shielding them from the freezing weather. Sylus watched as you moved around them with ease, a softness in his gaze.

“Miss, here’s some cake I picked up on the way,” he said once the three of you approached him. You helped the kids with their shoes before accepting the box.

“Oh my, thank you. You didn’t have to—”

“Please. I wanted to treat you,” he smiled.

You stared at the cake for a moment before nodding your thanks again.

“So, Miss? How were the both of them today? Any troublemakers?” he asked, effortlessly picking them both up as they giggled in his arms.

“They were well-behaved, as usual, sir,” you replied. The same line you always gave. It felt automatic now—almost rehearsed.

Usually, he would just nod or thank you. But this time, his gaze lingered a second longer.

“Uhm… they didn’t say anything… embarrassing, did they?” he asked suddenly, making your eyes widen slightly.

“Huh? What do you mean?” you asked, feigning confusion. He let out a soft laugh.

“It’s just— you’re blushing harder than I’ve ever seen. They told you, didn’t they?”

Luke and Kieran snickered, their hands covering their mouths.

“I don’t understand—“

“About my genuine interest in you,” he smirked.

You could’ve melted into the floor. You’d never felt anything quite like it—not even after nearly a decade of chasing your passion in early childhood education.

Your goals had always been different from your friends. Over time, your relationships with them faded.

Most of your blind dates fizzled the moment you mentioned being a daycare teacher. The men would hesitate, then apologize—saying you seemed too gentle, too grounded, too… permanent.

But this man, Sylus—who knew exactly what you did, had seen you with kids, and still showed genuine interest—he was a different story.

“Would you like to join us for dinner, Miss?” Sylus asked, his voice calm, edged with something unreadable.

You hesitated. Your eyes flicked between his face and the twins. You weren’t dressed for an evening out, and you hadn’t planned to stay long. But the warmth in his voice, and the sincerity in his eyes, made it hard to refuse.

“I wouldn’t want to impose…” you started softly.

“You wouldn’t be,” Sylus said gently, pulling out a chair. “We’d love your company.”

You thought of making another excuse, but your stomach growled at the worst moment, betraying you completely.

“…Alright,” you said finally, with a small smile. “Just for a little while.”

The twins cheered as you stepped inside to remove your apron, tidy your hair, and slip on your shoes.

“Shall we?” he asked.

You nodded.

As the days passed, dinner with Sylus and the twins became a routine. Sometimes at cozy restaurants, sometimes at their home where Sylus would cook.

You met Mephisto. And… you’re still unsure how to feel about him.

He’s unnerving—more than a machine, less than alive. His eyes glint like rubies, sharp and too aware. His wings rustle with every movement, their feathers like steel threads. When he screeches, it’s not a sound you hear—it’s one you feel, metallic and raw, deep in your bones.

At first, you flinched when he turned toward you, convinced he saw too much. Now, you meet his gaze and nod. He nods back. Sometimes.

Sylus says he only responds to commands. You’re beginning to think he understands far more than that.

The twins have grown more comfortable with you—so comfortable they ask to hold your hand while walking, so comfortable they nod along when strangers call you a beautiful little family.

You’re in the middle of reading a dragon book with Luke, who is far too immersed and animated for his own good. You had zero knowledge of dragons before today, but now, thanks to him, you’ve learned more than you ever thought you would.

That is, until a sharp cry pierced the air.

It came from the playground—where your co-worker had been watching the other kids.

You immediately stood and ran outside.

And the sight that greeted you nearly made you scream.

Kieran was on the ground, clearly having fallen from the top of the slide. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, sharp against his pale skin.

Of everything that could happen at a daycare, this—kids getting hurt—was your greatest nightmare.

Even a simple fever had you fluttering around like a helpless damsel, desperate to make things better. And now, blood? Stitches?

Your co-worker was already tending to him as you called the ambulance.

Later, at the ER, you sat on the bed beside a sniffly Kieran—his forehead now bandaged from the three stitches—and Luke curled up at your other side. The two of them held hands tightly, drawing comfort from each other.

Suddenly, footsteps pounded down the hallway.

“Kieran! Luke!” Sylus’s voice broke through the sterile hum, tight with worry. He came after your panic call to him.

Kieran looked up and immediately reached for him. Sylus rushed forward, lifting him gently, his hand stroking the boy’s back.

“Are you okay, buddy?” he asked, panicked.

Kieran whimpered and hugged him tighter. Luke clung to Sylus’s leg.

“I’m sorry, Dad…” he mumbled. “I wasn’t with Kieran to make sure he was okay…”

Sylus crouched down, hand on Luke’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he said gently. “It’s alright, bud. You’re not supposed to carry that alone. Accidents happen. What matters is that he’s okay—and that you’re both safe now.”

Kieran reached out toward his brother.

“It wasn’t your fault, Luke. I slipped. You didn’t even see it.”

Eventually, Luke let himself be pulled into his father’s arms, the three of them tangled in one quiet, warm moment. Sylus glanced up at you and mouthed, thank you.

The drive home was quiet. You sat in the passenger seat while Sylus drove, the twins asleep in their car seats.

“Thank you, [Name],” he said softly.

“No, don’t—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let them play outside so long. I was distracted—”

“You still made sure Kieran got to the hospital safely. I appreciate that. I really do.”

As if sensing your lingering guilt, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours while still steering with the other.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your skin. “Ease up, Miss Teacher.” He chuckled.

“They’re boys. At their age, that cut won’t even leave a scar.”

“But what if Kieran hates me? What if he’s too scared to come back—”

He laughed—a little tol loudly.

“Hates you? When they beg me every day to make you their mom?”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Wha—”

“You heard me. Hate you? When I’m clearly so in love with you?” He brought your hand to his lips “Or are you still in denial?”

You leaned back with a soft laugh.

“Is that so?” you asked.

He nodded, making a turn toward your apartment complex.

“And how you saved my son today? That’s another point for my imaginary lover scorecard.”

You laughed as the car came to a stop.

“We’re here, Sweetheart. Don’t worry—”

His words barely left his mouth before you leaned in, silencing him with a kiss.

Your fingers brushed his jaw. The rest of the world melted away.

It was a kiss slow and full of unspoken things. When you pulled back, your foreheads stayed together, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

“Thank you for the ride,” you whispered.

You turned toward the twins.

“That’s going to be tough—waking them up and carrying them in?”

“You know it,” he groaned playfully.

“If only you were my lover, we’d each carry one of them, laugh at their sleepy antics, walk inside the house together…”

“That’s some imagination you’ve got,” you teased.

“…I’m manifesting,” he said, stealing one last kiss before you stepped out.

He didn’t drive off until you disappeared from view. A moment later, his phone buzzed.

You: Careful what you picture—I might just bring it to life.

-fin-

a/n: guess who’s my main in lads 😞 i love sylus & the twins!! fanart credits : （@soro_kichi） on X

[wendichester]

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑ strung on you,

summary. it's a quiet night. those are odd. and it turns even more so when you realize that dean isn't all bad.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 615

You never liked Dean Winchester.

Okay—“never” might be strong. You tolerated him. Mostly because he was Sam’s brother, and Sam was the only reason you weren’t six feet under or holed up in some dusty motel room spiraling into your fifth nervous breakdown.

But Dean? Dean was cocky. Loud. Constantly deflecting with sarcasm and classic rock and some macho posturing you were sure he thought was charming.

You’d rolled your eyes more times in the last three weeks than you had in the past three years combined.

So you don’t know what draws you outside tonight.

Maybe it’s the quiet.

Maybe it’s the low, unfamiliar hum of music drifting through the open door.

Maybe it’s curiosity. Or restlessness. Or boredom. (It's not.)

You step out into the cooling night and see him perched on the hood of the Impala like he’s posing for a vintage vinyl cover. One boot propped up, one leg dangling. The guitar rests in his lap like it belongs there—fingers moving slow, casual, reverent. His eyes are tilted toward the stars. Not searching. Just...looking.

He doesn't see you right away.

You take that moment to study him—really study him—and you hate how different he looks like this. Soft. Still. Like he doesn’t have to wear the Dean mask out here under the stars. Just a man. A little tired. A little sad.

His fingers strum something you don’t recognize. Bluesy. Slow. Almost lazy in the way it curls into the night. He hums, low, like he’s half-singing to himself, or maybe to no one at all.

You blink once. Twice.

Then you walk forward, slow, crunching gravel under your boots. You’re not even sure why. You don’t want to ruin it. Hell, you don’t even know if he’ll let you stay.

But he hears you. Of course he does.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. Just hums another note and scoots a few inches to the left.

An invitation.

You hesitate. Then sit. Cross-legged beside him, knees pulled up, arms around them. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the edge of his warmth.

For a minute—maybe more—neither of you say anything. Just the guitar. Just the wind. Just the weight of shared silence.

He keeps playing. Humming. The same lazy melody looping and twisting, changing just enough each time to keep it alive.

You watch his hands. The little callouses. The confident way he coaxes each note like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t mean anything.

But it does. You feel it. Somewhere low in your chest.

“You’re good,” you murmur, before you can stop yourself.

His smile is so faint it might not even be there. Just the ghost of one. But it’s there.

“Don’t tell Sam,” he says, barely above a whisper. “He thinks I can’t do anything quiet.”

You huff a breath that’s not quite a laugh. “Your secret’s safe.”

He plucks another string. Let it echo into the dark.

You lean back on your hands, eyes tracking stars. “Didn’t know you could play.”

“I don’t, really,” he lies.

And it is a lie. But it’s gentle. Protective. Like the music’s a secret he doesn’t give easily.

You don’t call him on it.

The notes shift again, softening. Slowing. He hums something sweet and a little sad, and maybe—just maybe—it’s for you.

Not all of it. Not fully. But a piece.

You glance sideways. He’s still staring straight ahead, but his mouth has that curve. Just barely. But it’s there.

You don’t smile back.

You just sit with him. Quietly. Until the stars blur and the strings go still.

And for the first time, you think maybe you don’t hate Dean Winchester after all.

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[starrbishops]

⟡So High School⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Summary: You and John have been together (sort of?) for a few weeks. You're still a little unsure on where you stand.

Word Count: 1.5k

Notes: (Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, fluff fluff fluff, kissing, relationship talk (that goes well!) again John is a bad flirt and a little dumb (but we love him), reader is a New Avenger/Thunderbolt)

a/n: And she rises from the grave with another manic Walker fic. This one can also be read as a continuation from Crush and Touch or alone!

One thing you’ve learned about John these past few weeks; he is the least subtle man alive.

On one hand, he has successfully managed to keep the two of you secret from the team. The group was your closest friends, but you didn’t want them to know just yet, especially so early on. On the other hand, you almost constantly get caught, and 90% of the time it is his fault.

Like the time where you were making out in his room and you managed to jump away and hide under the bed just in time for Alexei to barge in with his newest marketing ploy. Or when you were cuddling on the couch watching some old action movie when Bob suddenly decided to join you and John had to grab a pillow to hide his hard-on.

If the two of you were alone together in a room for 10 seconds or more (you’d started doing countdowns in your head), John would pounce and immediately shift from the cocky brash soldier to the surprisingly sweet and very touchy version of himself that he kept for you.

You liked this John a lot. You hadn’t had a proper talk about your relationship since you’d slept together for the first time, but you knew you wanted more. Yet every time you thought to bring it up, John was distracting you with a kiss or with his arms around you and you forgot what you meant to be talking about. He had a tendency to draw your attention elsewhere very quickly.

Like now, as you sat next to him in the truck, staring at his hands while he polished his gun. The way his rough hands managed to manipulate the metal so delicately, the callused hard earned from years of fighting, the little vein that ran along his left hand down to his knuckles. 

John caught your staring, giving you a small but smug grin. You nudged him playfully, small enough that the others wouldn’t think anything of it.

“Alright.” Bucky called from the passenger seat, where his vibranium arm was presently gripping the handle above his door to keep from being tossed around by Alexei’s driving. He’d begged to drive the truck the moment he saw it (“I had limousine business! I am most qualified!”) leaving the rest of you to suffer through his erratic technique.

“Again, this is just a recon mission. We’re checking out this place for any potential Hydra evidence, taking it with us and leaving. No fighting. Got it?” he turned to look directly at John for that line. 

“What?” John shrugged, as if he did not run into fights at every opportunity. You weren’t sure yet if it was stupidity, bravery, or suicidal tendencies. That was a question to address once you’d figured out if you were even dating the man.

“Ava, you’re with me. Yelena, with Alexei-”

“YES!” the Russian man yelled from the driver’s seat, the car speeding up as he stepped on the gas in excitement. In the backseat, his adoptive daughter covered her face with embarrassment.

“That leaves you two together.” Bucky gestured between you and Walker. “Keep him alive, alright?” you nodded, while John murmured a weak dissent. You flashed him a smile as Bucky turned away, one he returned, secretly glad to have been paired with you.

The team was investigating an old Hydra experimentation base, seeing if they’d left any potential evidence of their crimes. Ever the Congressman, Bucky insisted on trying to use the law before they went straight to punching. Even then you could tell he was straining on missions as boring as these.

Still, it was nice to have some alone time with your- boyfriend? Partner? Romantic interest? Still figuring that one out.

“Anything in there?” John shakes his head as he slams yet another empty file cabinet. You’d been sent to the basement to sort through any potential information left behind. Unfortunately, Hydra was good at cleaning up after themselves.

“Fuckin’ Hydra.” John drops himself into a nearby rolling chair, squeaking with age as he sits. “Can’t just make our lives easy and leave evidence everywhere.”

“No files, but human experiments all over the place.” you joke as you slide onto the desk opposite him. He spins to face you, wearing that grin that he reserved for moments like this. Quiet, not urgent.

“Not now, John.” you muttered as he scooted over to you.

“What? I didn’t do anything.”

“I know exactly what you’re gonna do.”

“What was I gonna do then?”

You tilt your head at him. “You act stupid when you’re horny.”

John chuckles, incredulous, a laugh turning into more of a grimace. “Do I?”

You pull him to you, pulling the chair in fully next to where you sit on the desk. “Yeah, but it’s cute.”

You could swear he blushes a little under that damn helmet-hat of his. “It’s been a while for me.”

You furrow your brow. “Since what?”

He sighs as he unclips his helmet, pulling it over his head. “Since I’ve had to… flirt, I guess? To try? The last time was in high school, and we saw how that turned out.”

“Oh.” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

He plays it off jokingly, but you know how things ended with Olivia still hurts him. He fucked up and bad. He tended to wallow in his fuck-ups rather than work to make things better, which is exactly why she left. 

“You’re not fucking this up, John.” you reach for his hand, “I like you. A lot. You can’t let the past dictate your future.”

He snorts, but grasps your hand back. “Did you get that line from Bucky?”

“Alexei, actually.” you smile as he presses a kiss to the top of your hand, soft and reverent.

He takes it in his other hand as well, cradling it like it’s something precious to behold. “When I’m with you, I just get so…stupid?” he trails off.

“You’re not stupid John, I was joking-”

“No, I do. When I look at you I feel like I’m a dumb high schooler on the football team again, and I just forget all my adult skills and go back to dumb flirting tactics.” he runs a thumb over your palm, tracing small shapes into it. “I really do like you. A lot. I’m just, I’m not good at this.”

It clicks for you; the secrecy, the affection at every opportunity, the way it seems like his brain flies out the window when he’s trying to flirt. John Walker, Avenger, has the seduction toolkit of a high school jock.

You can’t help it, you laugh. John holds a pained smile, equal parts trying not to laugh and a little embarrassed. “John, you’re plenty good at it.” you bring your other hand to his cheek, one of his immediately joining it. “I like you. Because you are very cute when you get flustered and try to flirt, because you are brave and determined, and because you are a good man.” you stand and lean in to press a kiss to his forehead. “I can’t guarantee you won’t fuck up, and I can’t gurantee I won’t fuck up, but if we do we figure it out. We fuck up together.”

John leans into your touch, drawn into the warmth and safety of it. “Now that’s a slogan. We fuck up together.”

“Don’t tell Alexei, he’ll put it on a t-shirt.” you giggle, as John pulls you down for a kiss. His beard scratches against your face, a feeling you’ve come to love, warm lips soft and gentle against yours. 

“And if it makes you feel better, I have a really stupid question I’ve been meaning to ask you.” he nods, smiling shifting to a look of concern. You shut your eyes, embarrassed. “Are we dating?”

John’s quiet. Bad sign. You open your eyes, and he just looks confused. “I didn’t know we had to establish that.” he chuckles softly.

“I know, and I feel dumb asking, but I didn’t want to pressure you into anything and I didn’t know what you wanted-”

He cuts off your rambling with another kiss, this one more intentional, more important. He cups your face in his hands as you wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.

All too soon, he pulls away, his smug smile back on his face. “I want you.” he gives you another quick kiss. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” you answer, too quick for your own dignity, but you couldn’t care less at this point. John smiles, his arms moving to your hips as he pulls you into his lap, causing his chair to wheel backwards, eliciting a squeal from you.

He laughs as you slow down, pulling you in and kissing you once again. It’s bliss, till suddenly you hear Ava’s distinct accent calling your names from somewhere nearby.

You all but throw yourself out of his lap, dusting yourself off as he laughs, rising from his chair.

“You are gonna get us caught one day.” you chide, although you don’t fight it as he brings his hands back to your waist.

“What, is it my fault for wanting to be affectionate with my lovely girlfriend?” he presses a kiss to your temple before you bat him off, him raising his hands in defeat. 

God, your boyfriend is an idiot.

a/n: Every time i write this man I think I'm hallucinating bc how is this the same mf from TFAWTS. Anyways I hoped you enjoyed! If you like my fics pls feel free to request anything (give me inspiration pls) or just reblog or like! Anything is appreciated. As always, it ain't much but it's honest work :)

[sillyteecup]

Second wind, but make it sweat

Aaron Pierre x black!o.c

Warnings:

18+

Language/swearing

Smut

Fingering

Oral (fem receiving)

P in V sex

Unprotected sex (🗣️ONE CONDOM ONE WHAT?)

Spitting

Hair pulling

Roughly translated Patois

Word count: 2799🧍🏾

A.N: I saw the picture when I woke up, wrote this during my study break (writing Psychology soon). So here’s something cool, calm and short. Also, new o.c unlocked!! If ever I write for Aaron himself again it’s gonna be with Sam, so just in case everybody say “hi Sam!” Anyway, I’m gonna disappear for the next 3 weeks for exams so I really hope y’all enjoy this for now. Thanks for reading❤️

~Tee❤️

If their walls could talk, oh the freaky little stories they would tell. The worst ones being of the days Aaron and Sam went to the gym together. A lovely tale of adrenaline and lust carried by affection.

How there would be no warning before the front door flies open with them stumbling through it. Mental maps guiding their steps through the house while their hands wandered freely on each other’s skin.

Soft hums and light gasps chronicling their desire for one another; the occasional smacking of lips like a little ad-lib. Not much of a word exchanged as Aaron awaits a command of direction.

“Kitchen.”

“Bedroom.”

“Bathroom over the sink.”

“Fuck it, right here,” a breathy word or two from Sam, activating him like a sleeper agent.

Their movements would grow more frantic; rushed. They understand how much time they have. They know they should probably take a shower first. But what’s a little more sweat? And why later when sooner is right there? So he’d hoist her up into the arms she adored so much and take her wherever she asked-we’re going to talk about the bathroom today-and alter her consciousness.

Another door flies open, banging against the wall with a force that would have had them both knocked upside their heads by their mothers. Sam’s usually nimble fingers tug at the hem of his shirt before lifting as far as she can reach. From there Aaron finishes the job, pulling it over his head and tossing it behind him, leaving his chain to gleam against his salty sheen covered chest. He returns her initial favour, but more gently to preserve her hair.

He was horny, not cruel.

His wide, soft palm cups the back of her neck while the fingers on his other hand tug her body closer by the waist band of her black Nike tights. Her honey coloured gaze speaks to him. Tells him she wants this as much as he does. Tells him she needs him. As much as he needs her. It calls him in, and he complies, fingers digging into some of the hair at her nape to angle her head upwards.

Their lips mingle for only a moment before getting comfortable with one another like old friends. Their tongues embrace and their bodies collide. Once again he has her entire weight in his arms, walking towards the large bathroom sink. He gently places her there and trails his lips across her jaw with the occasional soft kiss and tender pull of suction.

Her hands move across his shoulders, fingers trembling in need as she studies the skin of her constant undoing. Her parted lips are an instrument of his unraveling control. His kisses grow desperate, paired with teeth and grunts bordering on primal. Biting into her soft, chestnut skin, his hands make quick work of her tights. She assists with the quick lift of her ass from the granite the small counter space. Soon they’re but a distant memory. All Aaron and Sam can think about is what’s next.

Soon, Aaron is on his knees, soft lips planting a wet trail across her thighs. He doesn’t linger there too long though, as the scent of her arousal draws him to what lies beyond them. Aaron was never really a gentle eater. He was more of a “last supper” kind of guy. His tongue’s attack on titan was nothing new to Sam, yet it never failed to rock her world. The way he’d devour her with his entire face in it would always leave her breathless and numb in the head. 1, 2, 3 orgasms with nothing but the power of the tongue; it’s no wonder it doesn’t take much for her to get dick-dumb.

As the echoes of her desperate cries and her thighs vibrate against the sides of his head, he pulls back. His hazel irises have darkened considerably and his clean shaven chin is drenched in her. Always a messy eater when it comes to her. Slowly, he rises to his full height.

“Get down, let me see you properly first,” what should be a soft whisper, comes out as a gruff rasp. But his accent-oh his accent-keeps it tooth-rotting nonetheless. As she instinctively obeys, she just hopes her needs aren’t too weak.

The low yellow light illuminated her body, hypnotising Aaron. She looked like an angel whose skin was the halo. The mirror behind her reflects his thirsty ass expression and her rounded ass; stretch marks, cellulite and hand prints from 2 nights ago nearly send him into a spiral. The previously solid ponytail holding her goddess braids was looser now. The free curls framed her radiant face; gym days meant no makeup, just an intense glow from the workouts, and now having her thoughts ate out of her. The days didn’t matter much to Aaron though. To him, Sam always looked like a dream he never wanted to wake up from.

A cocky smirk stretched at her lips. “You like?” she teased, her silky voice making Aaron’s nervous system act a fool. Something inside him switches as his throat dries. His dick makes a bit of scene by jumping against his cotton sweats. Although his eyes narrow seemingly like a predator zeroing in on its pray, there isn’t a single thought in his brain anymore. No, that’s not true. There is one thought. Only one.

“I fucking love you.”

Without another breath, his hands plant themselves onto her waist, turning her around. His tattooed arm reaches around her neck. Her chin firmly in his hand, he tilts her head to the side as if creating access. Eyes trained hers through their reflections, he drags his tongue across her shoulder, stopping at the base of her neck. Back across the same shoulder he went, this time by wet, gentle kisses.

“Never forget that.”

Before Sam can respond, the hand cupping her chin is on the back of her neck, firmly folding her over the edge of the granite edge. His fingers find her slick folds and parts them for the pad of his thumb to find her clit. Her body shivers against his as his thumb works her into a pleading mess.

“Aaron-“

“Baby please.”

“Fuck me, please! I need you!” she cries, eliciting a dark chuckle from Aaron who increases the pressure of his thumb. For an extra gift, he inserts 3 fingers inside of her, stretching her sweetly around them. The action pulls out one of the most pornographic noises he had ever heard from her. All it does push him further.

His fingers curl.

They scissor.

They retreat.

They plunge back in.

Orgasm number 4 was more of a splash into his hand. Wetter than the previous 3 that’s for sure. Maybe that explained the tears in her eyes. And suddenly her ignored attempts to grab his wrist make all the more sense.

“You alright over there?” he taunts. Her teary browns met his playful greens, struggling to grasp the audacity of this man. Then her eyes widen in what seems like fear as she detects a certain glint in his irises. His lips curve slightly as a silent response. “What did I say you should never forget?” he asks her, his tone deceptively sweet.

“That you lo-AH!” she cries, her answer being sharply cut off by his fingers plunging right back into her. Two curls against her warm walls is all it takes for a 5th orgasm. And in a way she didn’t even know was possible, it’s messier and wetter than the 4th.

Aaron retracts his soaked fingers with the ghost of a sinister smirk across his features. His dry hand grabs the loose ponytail and wraps it around his fist. As if she weighs nothing, Sam’s back is arched inwards, bringing her face to face with Aaron.

“Hey,” is all he says before shoving his pussy covered fingers into her mouth. His fingers dance over her tongue as he essentially uses it to wipe them off. Right as it seems like he’s about to remove them however, they slide further down her mouth right past her uvula. She gags and chokes mindlessly, catching him wink as fucks the back of her throat with his fingers.

Okay, maybe he is a little cruel.

“You know, I’ve always found it fascinating how you still manage to look this fucking beautiful while being the nastiest little whore I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering. Absolutely fucking amazing I tell you,” he muses. It’s at this point that Sam fully accepts her oncoming fate. However she still can’t tell you for the life of her what she did to earn it.

His fingers leave her mouth but not before using her spit to paint her lips. “What did I tell you not to forget just now?” Aaron asks again as his fingers run up and down the valley of her breasts.

“That you love me,” her reply comes out as a croak as a result of him treating her gag reflex like a toy.

“And I do, Sam. I really do,” he pauses to lean in and place a soft kiss on her cheek. “But now I’m going to ruin you.”

His hands are on her waist again as he takes a step forward, pressing her front against the sink. He pushes his pants and briefs to his thighs, releasing his impatient looking cock. A few quick strokes and a slight lift of her waist is all the prep she has before Aaron pushes roughly into her. A ragged moan is all Sam has to offer as her man bottoms out inside of her, stuffing her like a garage pie. With no hand holding her up, the pressure folds her right back over and has her hands inching for something to grab. Aaron isn’t having it though; he reaches for her ponytail again and yanks, only this time she’s flush against him. Holding her there is his meaty tattooed bicep, keeping her in what could be a headlock if she finds a way to test him.

With his other hand on her waist, he wastes no time with waiting for her to adjust and instead just rams into her torturingly slow. Each time he pulls out, her brain is tricked by his tongue and lips peppering kisses on her skin and it confuses itself with false relief. Until he slams right back into her, reaching her soul with his girthy tip. “Look at you…such a pretty little slut aren’t you? Mi deh fuck yuh foolish an’ yuh still look perfect, yuh si?” he groans. The pure eroticism in his tone mixed deliciously with the Patois he had taken to using as a weapon formed against her…

Samkelisiwe Pierre never stood a chance.

Aaron’s strokes, although measured and deep, are unrelenting. The precision at which he hits that sweet, sweet spot makes Sam feel like there’s a secret mission afoot. Like there are other forces at hand. If only she had the power to at the very least fight back against them. Never resist or stop them though. Not when they had her seeing stars like this. Not when they had her stomach doing cartwheels around the pressure building up.

“Fuck, daddy…feels so mmh…gonna cum,” she breathes out.

“Is that right? ‘Cause I don’t recall you asking me to.” To the untrained ear, it sounds like an observation, a comment, a note. But Sam’s ears are seasoned. She’s fluent in “Aaaronese” and to her, this is a veiled warning. He’s daring her to do it without asking.

Unfortunately for both of them, she spoke too late and is too close to turn back. There’s nothing she can do to stop the orgasmic freight train that’s coming at her at lightning speed. Nothing she can bite hard enough to quell the guttural scream that escapes her throat. And unfortunately, there’s no amount of clenching that could stop the 6th wave of pleasure pouring from her onto his dick.

All of it happens so fast; so hard, that she can’t even feel the subtle change in pace as she rides it out. He’s going slower, but only so little that she can’t tell the difference. He should be upset…in fact he should be livid at her blatant disregard. But damn, he couldn’t help but be softened by the way her features twisted and relaxed in euphoria. He also understands that there wasn’t much she could do to stop it. Not after a whole workout and…well.

His arm releases her neck, allowing her more breathing room. She places her hands on one of the sinks, using it to brace herself while she takes in their reflection in the mirror. Aaron is still knee-deep inside of her, letting her recover with a more gentle tempo.

“I’m sor-“ she’s quickly cut off by an even sharper stroke. Then another. Then another. All increasing in pace until all it is is just Aaron pounding into her like a mad man. He may have forgiven her last transgression; that doesn’t mean he’s in the mood to hear her lie about her remorse.

The soft grunts painted on his lips accompany her cries of wanton. He’s chasing his own release. He hadn’t originally planned to do it this soon, but Sam derailed his plans. Now he just wants to paint her walls then clean her off in the shower; take care of her for the rest of the night.

He continues to slam into her, pace completely unrelenting but tempo growing sloppy. He’s close, and judging by the way she’s clenching around him, she was too. He leans forward, kissing her along the jaw and her cheek. Her dazed eyes find him through the mirror. There’s drool on the corner of her lip, so he does what any good man would do. He licks it up and lets it mingle with his own saliva before using one of his hands to cup her chin and turn her face towards him.

Almost like she can hear his thoughts, her mouth is slightly open with her tongue sticking out. Little phantoms of his name trail out, waiting on the gift he’s about to give her.

And it comes in the form of a slow, long line of spit, directly on her tastebuds. And like that, the hard earned white ring around his dick grows. Sam’s grip on him warrants one last punishing thrust; one that shakes her to her core and drowns her in powerful tides of pleasure. Her walls hug him tightly and coax his own release out of him. Aaron has no choice but to comply. With a strained groan, his dick twitches, spasms then let’s go, making a complete mess inside of her to match the one outside.

Having emptied himself completely, he pulls out, still leaning on her back. “You know, other couples usually take showers after the gym,” she giggles, back vibrating against his head.

“Love that for them sweetheart. I generally prefer a snack and some cardio,” he teases hoarsely, planting a soft smack on the side of her ass. Sam glares playfully through their reflections, shaking her head at the innuendo. “I won’t hold you though, that shower does sound like a good time right now,” he adds.

“I hear you. But then knowing you, it could turn into you catching your third wind,” she jokes. His head snaps up, mischief shining in his eyes.

“I mean if you don’t mind-“

“Hayi hayi hayi! Mna, I’m tired. Actually, get off my back before you put that thing back inside me. In fact, ingathi I’m going to shower alone,” her tone is firm, but Aaron can hear the humour below. Besides, she hates showering alone so even if he couldn’t, he would know she’s bluffing.

Still, he listens, standing up straight and moving to lean against the sink himself with his back facing the mirror. He pulls her in for a soft kiss, their lips having a tender little slow dance. The taste of her still on his tongue mingles with the taste of litchi flavoured water and his spit.

Sam shifts a little, finding herself in between his legs with her hands against his chest. His hands travel down to her ass, offering a quick squeeze. A sharp gasp escapes her lips and is quickly stolen by Aaron. Her smooth fingers trace his skin, skating down his abs and stopping right where his happy trail starts. Suddenly, he feels her palm him, and it stops him in his tracks.

Surely they can wait 20 more minutes for that shower. He’d even cook for her right afterwards, whatever she wants too. Just one more round-

“Don’t even think about it big boy. You’re not getting another workout out of me.”

[puck-luck]

Hiya congrats! Could I please order a cappuccino shot with whipped cream and cold foam?

Reader is super horny but Jack just had surgery (😭) so he uses a toy on her. Dom!Jack having some fun edging her.

it's long

this is a lot angstier than i expected it to be😭

i hope you enjoy it because it's not exactly your ask– it went a different direction, which a lot of my blurbs seem to do nowadays😕

Jack has been really frustrated lately– really frustrated. You know it has to do with his shoulder and the sling he’s wearing all the time, but you don’t know how to solve his problem. You’re trying to be sweet, trying to be gentle, and trying to be patient. Jack’s just… grumpy. You feel like you’re walking on eggshells around him, even though he’s not being outright mean to you.

His frustration flares up again when you get a view of Jack on the couch with his legs spread, shorts riding up his thighs deliciously. When you make your way over and lean above Jack, hands resting on his knees and traveling upward when you bend to kiss his lips, he groans and turns his head.

You flinch back like you’ve been burned, withdrawing your hands in a flash and dropping your jaw out of sheer surprise. You turn away from Jack, ready to stomp away and stew in your offended state, but he catches your hand and pulls you back.

“Not like that,” Jack tells you quickly, planting a kiss on your lips like one initiated by him can replace the one that he refused to accept from you. “No, baby, it’s not like that.”

You squirm away from him and turn your own head away from his lips, gearing up to give him the silent treatment for refusing your kiss. “What’s it like? Seemed pretty simple to me,” you snap.

“Baby,” Jack states incredulously. His uninjured arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you onto his lap, cradling you bridal style where he sits. He sighs and hangs his head, forehead touching your temple. “It’s hard to explain, but I promise it’s not you.”

You look at him and glare, waiting for Jack to explain himself further. Your lips are pursed in a half-pout, which Jack pecks a few times in an effort to draw a giggle from you. 

“Go into the bedroom,” Jack coaxes, voice soft. “I can’t explain what it’s like, but I can show you. I’ll be there so soon, I’m right after you.” He taps your behind and ushers you to your feet, pinching your waist when you stall in place and frown at him. He smiles up at you, squeezing your hip, blue eyes earnest. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Fine,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest and stalking to the bedroom. You pitch yourself face first onto the mattress, muffling a squeal of annoyance in Jack’s pillow. You can’t believe he snubbed your kiss and groaned out of frustration when you were standing between his legs, ready to sink to the ground and take him in your mouth and swallow down everything he gives you. It’s what you’ve done a few times a week since Jack’s surgery, careful not to bother his shoulder and still satisfying his– and your– sexual appetite.

So you thought.

“I love when you suck me off, baby,” Jack says as he enters the bedroom. “I love it. You know I love head.”

“Not giving it,” you retort snarkily, giving Jack the stink-eye as you turn over to face him.

Jack chuckles at your response. “Guilty,” he says with a shrug. “But that’s not what this is about.”

“Oh, is it about you, Jack?” you ask sarcastically. “I forgot. It’s never about me.”

Jack blanches, blinking at you with pure confusion on his face. “Sweetheart,” he tries. 

“No, Jack, it’s not fair. It’s not fun. I’m not having a good time with this tantrum of yours. You got injured and that sucks and I’m trying to make you feel better, but nothing I do is right. You get pissy no matter what and it makes me feel bad because I can’t even help you,” you vent, feeling your throat get tight. “So I try to give you a kiss and I try to give you some love and you turn away and groan like I’m just another thing that’s wrong here. I’m sorry you blew out your shoulder again. I’m sorry I can’t do more for you. I’m trying my best, Jack.”

“Baby,” Jack breathes out, shaking his head. “It’s not you. Of course not, you’re perfect.” He comes closer and kisses the corner of your mouth, as you’d turned away at just the right moment to give him a taste of his own medicine. He stands back and opens your bedside table, digging around for something and coming up with a silicone toy in his hand. “It’s like this,” he explains, wagging the toy in the air. “I want to make you feel good, but I’m not a part of it. You’re sucking my dick, but I can’t do anything to reciprocate, because my shoulder is fucked up and if I mess up the healing process at all, it’ll eat into next season. I can’t lose another season to this stupid shoulder.”

“I know that,” you grumble, face red and burning. “But I want to suck you off. I like it. You made me feel bad.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack apologizes, his body sagging with the weight of his guilt. “I feel like I’m making you do that because we can barely do anything else unless you’re on top and you hate being on top even though I’m such a good pillow princess.”

That pulls a tiny laugh from you, Jack’s admission that he’s a receiver, not a giver. He really is a pillow princess, especially lately. 

His smile is tight-lipped but wide as he collapses onto the bed with you, fingers of his free hand pulling your shorts and panties down. He removes your shirt next, then your bra, and then his plush lips start to mark your soft skin. 

“It’s not you,” Jack repeats. “Let me show you. Gonna fuck you with this–” He taps the tip of the vibrator against your clit. “–’til you understand what I’m saying.”

The vibrator comes to life with a shake, already sliding past your folds and entering you because Jack has never been one for patience. His uninjured arm pumps consistently, fucking the vibrator into you in smooth and even strokes.

Any thought or response to Jack is stolen when he drags the vibrator out of you and presses it to your clit, the slow humming of the first setting doing little more than exciting you. It’s like when you’re in the middle of climbing up a mountain and your bones are stiff and muscles sore and you can only trudge up the rocky path. That’s how it feels, pushing towards an orgasm on this setting. 

Nevertheless, Jack uses it with such steadiness that you can’t help but be pulled along. He’s got you attached to a tow-rope as he brings you to your climax, until he cuts the cord by removing the vibrator from your body entirely.

For the second time today, you face Jack with pure betrayal written on your face. 

He laughs. Plants a kiss on your forehead. Starts the vibrator again and slips it into you.

“That’s how it feels when I try to finger you with this hand and my shoulder starts aching,” Jack says. “Then I get mad at myself for being like a broken toy.”

You take issue with that, too. “You’re not a toy,” you tell him quietly. “And you’re not broken, either.”

Jack’s smile is mirthful. “I can’t please you the way I want to.”

“That doesn’t matter to me.”

“It matters to me,” Jack says. “And then you just go down on me like it’s no problem. You suck me off, but you get nothing else.”

The vibrations kick up to the next level and Jack nudges your sweet spot before drawing back. 

“I want to give you more and I can’t,” Jack continues. “It’s like… an emotionally ruined orgasm every time.”

You squawk out a laugh of disbelief. “An emotionally ruined orgasm?” you repeat. “When I make you come, you feel worse?”

“I just feel like I’m not doing my part,” Jack defends himself, body language tense like you’ve really ruffled his feathers. “I want to do my part.”

“Baby, you don’t have to do anything,” you tell Jack, gritting your teeth when the vibrator comes into contact with your sensitive clit again and makes your voice waver. “I like blowing you, it’s enough for me.”

“It’s not enough for me,” Jack retorts. He turns the vibrator up again, to its quickest setting. “I miss seeing you squirm when I fuck you. I hate how I’m at your mercy every time you kneel between my legs.”

“You can fuck my mouth,” you offer in a gasp, jolted by the way Jack sheathes the vibrator back inside you in one fell swoop. “That’ll make you feel more in charge?”

Jack’s speed increases, the tip of the vibrator pulsing against your sensitive inner walls. He almost has you at the peak, just a few quick thrusts away from spilling over his hand. 

He pulls the vibrator from you again, just as your legs quiver.

“I feel pretty in charge right now, actually,” he tells you with a smug smile. Jack turns the vibrator over in his hands and brings it back to the first setting. Its next connection with your clit feels like there’s no stimulation at all. 

You stare at Jack, lips parted. You’re not sure what you’re feeling, but it’s not positive. That, you’re sure of.

“Now you know how I feel,” Jack says simply. He bats your hand away when you go to touch yourself, as impatient for your orgasm as your boyfriend usually is for his. “Should I tie your arm up, too? So you know what it’s like to be absolutely helpless when I touch you?” He pushes the vibrator inside of you and nudges his knee between your legs to keep it in place, humming against your back walls. He secures your arm against your stomach with strong fingers wrapped around your wrist, your position mirroring his slinged arm. His face is inches from yours now and you can feel his breath on your face. “This feels a bit more even, doesn’t it?”

[captain-huggy-bear]

https://www.tumblr.com/captain-huggy-bear/779011105919057920/honestly-at-this-point-ive-accepted-that-im

maybe you should write a fic ab clay biting reader (he has an oral fixation i can tell) 😜😜

18+ MDNI/Smut TW: Biting, hickeys, Clay is a possessive little shit (in a hot way), Clay's shitty moustache... We all know how I feel about Clay and biting, like let that man bite the fuck out of me any day of the week. I don't care how much foundation i'll need to cover it all up. I hope the wait was worth it for this cause I was not expecting to write this tonight lol

Requests are currently closed while I work through current ones <3 (We're nearly at request reopening time though) Writing Masterlist

"What the fuck happened to you? You get attacked by a bear or something?" Before you even went on your first date with Clay you were friends with Michael. So it doesn't really surprise you that he greets you like that with a look of concern, bug eyed, the moment you step into the locker room. You're used to weird greetings. It does surprise you that he seems so worried about you though. Especially when you're just there to get Clay after practice.

"Huh?" You're a little confused though, looking down at yourself to see if you'd missed something when getting dressed that morning. You hadn't really looked in the mirror, rushing to get dressed before taking Clay to early morning practice and then walking Lucky before having to rush back again.

"Your entire neck is purple...and is that a fucking bite mark?" You feel a little bit like a zoo animal, every single member of the team turning away from where they're putting their kit away to stare at you and your neck like it's some sort of gallery piece.

"Shit...uh...no?" Your eyes shift to Clay by his stall, arms crossed, leaning back, legs spread in a way that makes you want to sit on his lap. He's in shorts which doesn't help, his thighs looking good enough to take a bite out of. That half smile-smirk on his face, dimple deep in his right cheek, that stupid moustache twitching, eyes half-lidded. He looks like something out of a wet dream except you're in a locker room full of his friends and team mates.

"Oh, no...no fucking way. Gross!" Michael puts two and two together, looking between you and Clayton, the hickeys that litter your skin, the fucking bite mark that he'd bitten into your neck, not hard enough to pierce skin but hard enough to bruise. Not that you'd complained at the time, you'd given him the go ahead despite his hesitation to hurt you. "Dude, there's a bite mark! Are you fucking Dracula?"

Clayton just shrugs, the jeers of the rest of the guys doing nothing except to deepen his smile, bottom lip being pulled between his teeth. Your skin flushes, boiling hot blood rising to your cheeks until you can't stand to be in the locker room anymore, scurrying out to wait for Clay outside. Not wanting to be privy to the ribbing he's about to get, embarrassment too much.

You lean back against the wall, head thumping against it and think back to how you found yourself in this situation.

It had just been one of those nights, the sort that started as a movie night. The Mummy on the screen, popcorn, M&Ms, the sort of food Clayton wasn't supposed to be eating but snuck bites of anyway...it was innocent, sweet, until it wasn't. Until a kiss to your temple became a kiss to your cheek became lips trailing down your neck, that stupid attempt at a moustache he had going on tickling the skin behind your ear, drawing a moan from you that just slipped out.

One minute you're sat upright watching the film, the next you're laying flat against the couch, one of Clayton's legs shoved between yours, hips grinding against his thigh, clit throbbing, while he's sucking at the skin of your shoulder like it's a lollypop.

"Jesus fucking Christ, baby, you're so fucking hot..." His eyes were blown, more pupil than iris, breathing heavy, dick hard, bulge obvious in his grey sweatpants. Pink flush high on his cheeks, lips blushed from sucking on your skin.

The question is there in the air, unspoken, but obvious. He'd mentioned it so many times. How he wanted to mark you up, bite you, gnaw at you like you were his personal chew toy and you'd said one day...one day...one day. Maybe it's his thigh between your legs, the shock of each grind against your clit, the slick soaking your panties. Maybe it's how his lips felt on your neck, the brush of that spindly little moustache he'd been trying to grow. Maybe it was just because it was him and it was you and it was a long time coming.

"Bite me, Clay, fuck, please?" You whine you at him, wriggling against him as he lowers himself onto you further, dick pressing against you through layers of fabric. His breath comes out shaky, eyes shutting tight as he tries not to cum in pants like a teenager while you hump against him like you're not sure what else to do to relieve the ache.

"You sure, baby? Fuck...don't wanna hurt you." He doesn't want to be mean but he does too...God, he wants to bite you right there between your neck and shoulder, leave his imprint behind. He wants to mark you up in a way that makes it known you're his. He wants everyone to see what you'll let him do to you, how desperate you are for him.

"Please? Don't care if it hurts a little, please? Mark me up, Clay..."

"You want everyone to see who you belong to, huh? Wanna show everyone you're mine, baby?" His words have you trembling, shaking as you grind harder against him, fingers sliding into his hair and tugging on instinct.

You nod your head like a bobblehead, aggressive in your agreement but it's not enough for Clay. He wants to hear it, wants to hear you say it.

"Say it, baby, whose are you?"

"Yours..."

"That's right, fuck, such a good girl for me, baby," He stops talking then, only because his mouth becomes preoccupied.

Each kiss on your skin is followed by a nip, a bite or him sucking the skin between his lips until you're left with a bruise, deep purple or bright red. Clay works his way across your shoulders, over your collarbone like he's creating a painting, a patch work, but fuck, it's that spot he was eyeing between your neck and shoulder he really wants. Teeth sinking in deeper than before, not deep enough to bleed, but enough that when he pulls back his teeth marks stay, blood pooling under the skin, already bruising. There's pain there, a sting, but God, it just makes it better, the pain melds with the pleasure, the tingling in your cunt until you're moaning underneath him, writhing against him like you're not sure how to control your limbs and Clay lets you.

Fingers slipping underneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slipping beneath your panties until they're pressing into your wet warmth, two straight into you without preamble, the stretch painful and delicious while Clay mouths at your neck, behind your ear.

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing in circles that cause your hips to stutter, moans broken and whines clear as he thrusts his fingers into you. Fingers finding that spongy spot inside you that causes your back to arche like you've been electrocute.

You're fucking soaked, so wet that obscene squelches sound out every time his fingers pull out and push back into you, thumb sliding smoothly over your clit.

It's the next bite, firmly to your breast where he's pushed your shirt up, teeth enclosing over the plush soft flesh hard enough to leave a mark, that has you breaking. That knot that'd been coiling within you snapping free, hips stuttering, cunt clenching around his fingers until you practically stop breathing for a moment.

Clay nuzzles against your ear, light kisses against your jaw while you come down from it. He's so fucking hard in his sweatpants, painfully hard, that when he pulls back, pupils massive, and sees all his marks on your skin, he's gone. Cumming in his pants like a teenager cause you're marked up by him, purple and red, his teeth marks on your shoulder, your tit, wearing him like a brand. He should be embarrassed but he can't be. Not when you're there like that, looking up at him with hazy, fucked out eyes. Looking like you belong to him.

Nuzzling his nose against your own, whispering praise, how good you were for him, how pretty, how you're his. His good girl, his baby, his everything.

So yeah, you're embarrassed about the entire team seeing those marks and knowing what went down, but you don't regret letting Clay do it. Not when he gave you one of the best orgasms of your life while wanting you so much that he came in his pants like a teenager.

[elliespassagerprincess]

Can you do ellie x reader but the plot is like ‘art class’ by beabadoobee? Your work is truly amazing!

art class - ellie williams x reader

hi anon!! thank you sm:)) i really hope you enjoy this one!!

this story is based off the song art class by baebadoobee. If you can please listen to the song as you're reading:)

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader

requests are open, send me your thoughts and ideas:)

warnings: mild angst

summary: you and Ellie are in the same art class. You think it’s nothing. She thinks you were made for her hands.

masterlist

The first time you really saw Ellie Williams was when the charcoal smudged on her cheek.

You’d seen her before, obviously—grubby Converse, headphones always on, sleeves pushed to the elbow like she had somewhere to be, something to create. But on that Thursday afternoon in art class, she was sitting a few stools over, elbow bent, paintbrush clenched tight like a weapon. Her canvas was a blur of bruises: greens, purples, raw sienna. The kind of painting that looked like it hurt to make.

You couldn’t stop staring.

There was charcoal dust on her cheekbone. A mess she either hadn’t noticed or had stopped caring about.

You pressed your kneaded eraser harder than necessary into your sketchbook, trying to forget her profile, the way her tongue rested against her molars when she was thinking, her messy auburn ponytail. But Ellie wasn’t easy to forget.

Especially when she looked up at you and caught you mid-stare. She didn’t say anything. Just tilted her head slightly—an unreadable expression—and then dipped her brush into green again.

It became routine.

You would come in early, claiming the same spot near the window where the morning light made your charcoal work feel alive. Ellie started showing up a few minutes later. Always behind you. Always with a mug of black coffee in one hand and a sketchpad she barely used.

Some days, she wouldn’t paint. She would just… watch.

She’d sit two tables behind, arms crossed over her chest, pretending to thumb through her sketchpad when in reality, she was watching the curve of your wrist. The way your fingers pressed, the dust clinging to your skin, the way your shoulders curled inward when you were lost in focus.

It became this unspoken thing. You drew. She watched.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

One afternoon, she spoke.

“You always do portraits.”

You looked up from your page—halfway through shading a nameless girl’s collarbone. “Yeah. I like faces.”

Ellie scratched behind her ear. “You ever draw people in this class?”

Your throat tightened.

“No,” you lied.

She smirked, and the lie dissolved between you like fog. “You drew me.”

It wasn’t a question.

You tried to play dumb. “What makes you say that?”

“I saw your sketchbook last week. You left it open when you went to the sink. That one drawing—the eyes. I’ve seen mine in the mirror long enough to know.”

Your stomach dropped. “That’s creepy.”

She only smiled, leaning forward slightly on her stool. “I like creepy.”

After that, it escalated.

She started sketching you. Left her pad open on purpose. Hints of your smile, the slope of your spine, the way your thumb pressed into charcoal. She never asked. She never had to. It was all there in the way she looked at you—hungry, like art class was her excuse to exist near you.

You stayed late once—past the bell, the halls growing quiet—and found her still painting.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

Ellie looked up from her canvas, a long streak of red dripping from her brush. “Waiting.”

“For what?”

She didn’t answer. She just turned the canvas toward you.

It was you. But not like any version of you you'd ever drawn. You looked… raw. Undone. Staring at something just out of reach. Her signature was in the bottom right corner, scrawled in shaky ink.

You couldn’t breathe for a second.

“You don’t even know me,” you whispered.

Ellie’s voice was quiet. “I’ve watched you enough to.”

It became an obsession.

Ellie didn’t go anywhere without her sketchpad. People joked she must be preparing for a gallery, but she was just filling pages with you. You asleep in class, you biting your lip while drawing, you squinting at the sun.

You started noticing things.

The way she always sat so you’d be in her peripheral vision. The way her knuckles flexed when you leaned forward to erase. The way she stared—not at your body, but your hands. Like she wanted to memorize the bones inside them.

You didn’t tell her to stop. You should’ve.

But something inside you liked it. Liked her.

One rainy Thursday, Ellie cornered you by the sinks, the thunder rumbling in the distance.

“Why do you let me do this?” she asked. Her voice was low. Her hoodie was damp. “Why do you let me look at you like that?”

You shrugged, heart pounding. “Maybe I like it.”

That silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was full—dense, vibrating with things neither of you had language for.

“Do you ever think about kissing me?” she asked.

You blinked. “All the time.”

Ellie exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for weeks.

“But you won’t,” she said.

You didn’t answer.

Weeks passed. You still drew. She still watched.

You’d grown addicted to the tension. The possibility of her mouth. The soft rasp of her voice asking questions with no answer. But neither of you crossed the line.

Not until she showed up at your door one night—drunk on exhaustion and something more dangerous.

“I can’t stop thinking about your fingers,” she whispered. “Not in a creepy way. Just… you make things. With them. And I want—I want to be something you make.”

You kissed her. Slowly. Carefully. Like building a sketch from the jawline up.

After that night, nothing was the same. Ellie became yours.

Not just in her paintings, but in stolen hallway glances, ink-stained hands brushing against yours under the table, your thighs pressed together during critiques. She was everywhere, and you let her be.

She still drew you. Every day. You let her.

She said your face was the only thing she didn’t want to forget.

You never ended up together, yet you knew she belonged by you. It was always going to be her.

You find her years later in a gallery, your portrait still framed in cracked gold, her signature still crooked at the bottom. She’s staring at it like it might come alive again.

When she turns, her face softens.

“I always thought I was painting you,” she says, voice full of memory. “But you were always the one who made me.”

You touch her fingers—charcoal-stained even now—and press them to your lips.

And just like that, you both remember why it started. Why it always had to be her.

[pankesitopank]

Jisung x Fem!reader x Felix

Summary: You and your two closest friends, Han and Felix, have been toeing the line between flirtation and chaos for weeks. It was only a matter of time before one late-night movie turned into a confessional… and then something a little filthier.

cw: Threesome (mxfxm), oral (f receiving), fingering, pussy-drunk!Jisung, teasing, begging, overstimulation, praise kink, creampie mention (protected)

wc: 4,5k

note: aaaaa this came from a request but since i had answered it before i don't have it lolll

also i feel that the foreplay was better and it lasted longer than the sex itself hahaha i hope you like it as well

You’d noticed it before — the way Han’s gaze lingered a little too long. At first, you thought it was just him being spacey. Jisung always got that faraway look when he was in his head, dreaming up lyrics or zoning out in conversation. But lately, it wasn’t just spacing out.

It was staring.

And it was always at you.

Sometimes when you were talking to Felix, sometimes when you were doing something as simple as sipping from your drink. Once, you caught him mid-bite into a slice of pizza, frozen with his mouth open like his brain had short-circuited just from watching you lick tomato sauce off your thumb. He’d turned beet red when you caught him, muttering some garbled excuse as he choked down the rest of his slice.

And now? It was getting harder to ignore.

The three of you were hanging out in Felix’s room, surrounded by a fortress of blankets, half-empty snack bags, and dim fairy lights clinging to the walls. You’d started with a movie, but it had long since become background noise — just low, occasional explosions and muffled dialogue while the conversation drifted between jokes and deep-late-night thoughts.

You were curled up between them on the bed, legs tangled, Felix’s thigh pressed warmly against yours. Jisung was on your other side, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie, his elbow bumping yours every now and then like he was trying not to get too close but failing miserably.

You could feel it again.

That gaze.

You turned your head, slowly, meeting his eyes — and sure enough, he froze. His lips parted, like he was about to say something. But he didn’t. Just blinked rapidly and looked down, ears pink, like you’d caught him peeking into something private.

Felix noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned forward to grab another handful of popcorn, the movement drawing your attention with it. His hand brushed across your knee — casual, but purposeful — and then he tossed a single piece into his mouth with a loud crunch.

“You gonna keep staring at her like that all night, or are you gonna say something?”

The silence dropped like a stone.

Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned your head again — not to Jisung this time, but to Felix. He wasn’t looking at the screen. He was looking at Jisung, one brow raised, lips curled into a small, smug smirk.

Jisung flailed immediately, choking on air. “I– I wasn’t–! What are you talking about, I wasn’t staring, I was just–!”

“Just burning holes into the side of her face with your eyes?” Felix said calmly, chewing his popcorn with a casual pop of his jaw. “You’ve been doing it all night… pretty sure she noticed too.”

You swallowed. Your fingers curled into the blanket bunched up around your lap. Felix wasn’t looking at you, but you felt the shift in his tone — the slight drop, a little heavier, a little smoother. He knew. And he wasn’t going to let it go.

Jisung groaned, dragging his hoodie over his head and flopping backwards. “Felix, why—?!”

“Because it’s obvious,” Felix said, finally turning his gaze on you. The look in his eyes made your stomach flip. “Isn’t it?”

You were caught between them. Heart hammering. Jisung flustered to your right, red-faced and squirmy, and Felix calm and steady to your left, looking at you with something unreadable but not unwelcome.

“I… noticed,” you said softly, voice thinner than usual.

Jisung let out a quiet, pitiful whine behind his sleeves.

“I mean,” you added, glancing his way, “It wasn’t, like, creepy or anything. Just… obvious.”

“Thank you,” Felix said, like you’d just handed him a long-awaited answer.

“Can we not do this right now?” Jisung moaned, still hiding. “I will literally melt into this mattress. I will evaporate. You’re going to kill me.”

Felix leaned over your legs and plucked a pillow from behind him. He smacked Jisung gently in the face with it. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re trying to expose me in front of my crush!”

You blinked. That made Felix pause.

“…Your what?”

Jisung froze again, this time with genuine horror. His hands dropped slowly, hoodie tugged halfway off his head, eyes wide like he’d just realized what he said.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Did I say that out loud?”

Felix’s smile widened. “You did.”

You stared at him — the frantic twitch of his fingers, the nervous chew on his lip. “You… have a crush on me?”

“I– I didn’t mean to–! I wasn’t gonna say anything, it’s just–!” Jisung sat up, fists clutching at his hoodie strings. “You’re always so nice to me, and you laugh at my jokes even when they’re dumb, and you look really good when you’re sleepy and wearing those big shirts and I’m really sorry I ruined everything–!”

“You didn’t,” you said before you could stop yourself. Your voice was soft. Maybe too soft. “Ruin anything, I mean.”

That shut him up fast.

Felix’s gaze ticked between the two of you. And then he leaned in, voice smooth and low. “So. You like her.”

Jisung groaned. “Obviously.”

Felix turned to you. “You like him?”

The question hit harder than you expected. Not because you hadn’t thought about it. You had. A lot, actually. Jisung’s laugh, his ridiculous impressions, the way he always remembered the little things — like how you took your coffee, or that you hated when popcorn kernels got stuck in your teeth. He was chaos wrapped in sensitivity, flirty in a shy kind of way, and sweet enough to knock the breath out of you when you weren’t ready.

And then there was Felix. Felix, who saw everything, who sat close and spoke softly and somehow always knew when to step in and when to let things play out. He was watching you now like he already knew the answer.

“…I do,” you said finally. “I like him.”

Jisung made a sound — like someone had taken all the air out of him in one punch.

“Cute,” Felix said. “Very cute.”

You turned to him again. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re the one bringing it all up.”

Felix tilted his head, golden hair falling into his eyes. “I’m just making sure everyone’s honest. No more secrets.”

There was a pause. A pulse of something heavy in the air.

“So…” Jisung started, voice wobbly. “What now?”

Felix looked between you again. His eyes lingered — on Jisung’s flushed face, your parted lips, the inch of space between your thighs on the bed.

“I think,” he said, voice like velvet, “You’ve been wanting to kiss her for a while.”

Jisung squeaked. “dude!”

“I’m just saying,” Felix shrugged, reaching for more popcorn. “Now seems like a good time.”

You turned your head again. Jisung’s eyes were wide, mouth opening and closing in silence. He looked like he was about to explode.

You leaned in just slightly, letting your knees bump his. “Jisung.”

He looked at you, breathless.

“Do you want to?”

His fingers twitched. His whole body leaned slightly toward you, like gravity was pulling him and he was just now allowing himself to feel it. His eyes searched yours, mouth parting slowly.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I really want to.”

Your heart thudded loud enough you were sure Felix could hear it.

You leaned in — and Jisung met you halfway.

His lips were soft. Hesitant at first, just a brush, and then again with a little more pressure, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this. You felt his fingers graze your thigh, and when he pulled back, he looked dazed. Like he’d just stepped into a dream.

“…Whoa,” he breathed.

Felix smirked behind his hand.

And you? You were still holding your breath, blinking in slow disbelief, skin buzzing where Jisung’s hand had touched you.

Felix leaned back on his hands. “Alright,” he said with a grin. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” his voice was a little lower. Slower. Like he was savoring it.

Jisung was still blinking at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like the kiss had short-circuited him. His mouth was pink and parted, and his cheeks were so red they nearly matched the hood tugged halfway down his face. You could feel the heat from him, the fluttery static in the space between your bodies, and somehow the air in Felix’s room suddenly felt too thick to breathe properly.

Felix didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dragged over both of you. He looked relaxed — reclining on one arm, one leg bent up on the bed, the other draped carelessly off the side. Casual posture, but there was something sharp behind his gaze. Something knowing.

He tilted his head, and that simple little movement had your stomach tightening.

“So?” he said. “How’d it feel?”

Jisung squeaked, still looking at him with shock

“It’s a fair question,” Felix said, popping another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “You’ve been staring at her like you’d pass out if she even touched you. And now she kissed you.” He looked at you next, his grin spreading. “Twice.”

You weren’t sure how your voice even worked with the way your pulse was thrumming, but you still found yourself answering, “Felt good.”

Jisung made another strangled noise. “You guys are evil.”

Felix just laughed, leaning forward to bump his knee against yours. “No, no. We’re just honest.”

And then his hand slid across your thigh — slow, like a whisper — before it returned to his own lap. Your whole body stilled.

“Felix…” you said, your voice catching slightly.

“What?” he said, all innocence. “You’re between us, sweetheart. Can’t be surprised if you get caught in the middle.”

Sweetheart.

You felt that all the way down your spine.

Jisung sat up straighter, brows furrowed. “Wait, are you—?”

Felix turned his gaze on him, and Jisung shut up immediately. Not because he was scared — but because the look on Felix’s face was serious in a way he rarely ever saw.

“I think,” Felix said quietly, “you’re not the only one who’s been looking.”

It hit you then — the memory of a few touches that lingered too long, the way Felix always made room for you to sit close, how he sometimes murmured your name with a soft drop in his tone that made you feel a little dizzy. He was subtle, sure. Controlled. But now, with the air cleared and your body still humming from kissing Jisung, you realized what had been simmering underneath this whole time.

“You—” you started.

“I have eyes too,” Felix said with a faint smile. “And you’re very, very hard not to look at.”

Jisung made a noise of protest. “You said you were just making sure we were honest—!”

“I was,” Felix said, spreading his hands. “But then you kissed, and now you’re both sitting here all flushed and squirmy, and it feels a little unfair if I don’t get to have some fun too.”

He said it like a joke. Like it was just friendly teasing.

But then he leaned in — right up close to your ear — and his voice dropped into something softer, silkier.

“Besides,” he whispered, “I don’t think you’d mind.”

You didn’t. You really, really didn’t.

Your breath stuttered as you turned toward him — just in time for him to draw back with that smug, slow grin. His hand found your knee again, fingers trailing just along the edge of the blanket, not quite slipping under it.

Jisung looked like he might faint. “Are we—what is happening?! Are we seriously—?!”

You turned to him, a soft laugh breaking from your lips despite how warm your skin felt.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Are we?”

That question seemed to knock the wind right out of him. He stared at you, at Felix, then back at you — like his brain was trying to load multiple tabs at once and crashing under the pressure.

“I don’t want to mess anything up,” he said suddenly, eyes wide, hands clasped in his lap like he didn’t trust them not to do something stupid. “You’re… you’re both really important to me. I don’t wanna—if this is just a one-time thing or if I catch feelings too fast or if we get weird—”

Felix reached out, steadying him with a hand on his thigh. “Hey. Breathe.”

Jisung blinked. “But—”

“We’re not doing anything you don’t want to do,” Felix said, gentler now. “And we’re not going anywhere unless all three of us are sure. Okay?”

Jisung’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Okay.”

Felix turned to you next. His hand slid slightly higher on your leg. “That goes for you too. If you say stop, we stop.”

Your chest tightened. You nodded, voice quiet but firm. “Okay.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the soft sound of the movie still playing in the background. Jisung’s eyes drifted to your lips, then darted away. Felix’s hand was warm on your skin, resting steady just above your knee. And somewhere in the stretch of silence, something shifted again.

“Can I kiss you?” Felix asked.

The question hit like a shot of adrenaline. You looked at him — those dark, cat-like eyes, the way he was watching you like he already knew your answer. Your lips parted around a breath.

“Sure,” you said.

He leaned in. Slower than Jisung had. More deliberate.

His lips brushed yours first — just the softest press — then again, firmer. His mouth was warm and plush and so careful, like he was testing you, seeing what you liked. His hand on your leg gripped just a little tighter, grounding you, and you tilted your head to deepen it without thinking.

When he pulled back, your lips felt kiss-bitten and sensitive, and he looked almost too proud of himself.

Jisung was quiet beside you, staring like he was witnessing something sacred.

“You okay?” you asked him softly.

His voice cracked a little. “Yeah. Just… watching you kiss Felix.”

Felix chuckled. “Wanna try something?”

That made Jisung blink. “Like what?”

Felix nudged him with his knee. “Come closer.”

Jisung moved without thinking — scooting toward the middle of the bed again, knees brushing yours.

“Closer,” Felix said, beckoning.

He obeyed, slowly, until Felix reached out — slid a hand behind his neck — and tugged him into a kiss.

Your mouth dropped open slightly.

Jisung froze at first. But Felix didn’t push. Just coaxed it out of him, slow and lazy, like drawing a confession with his mouth. When Jisung finally relaxed into it, his hand found Felix’s hip, and Felix let out the faintest noise against his lips — quiet, encouraging.

You could feel your thighs pressing together.

When they pulled apart, both of them were flushed and panting slightly. Jisung stared down at the blanket between you all like it held answers to the meaning of life.

Felix looked far too pleased.

“This is getting dangerous,” you whispered.

Felix raised a brow. “Why? Because it’s hot?”

“Because I want both of you now,” you admitted.

Jisung made another pained little sound. “This feels illegal.”

Felix smirked. “It’s not.”

His hand slid up your leg again — higher now, pushing the blanket back until it pooled around your waist. You were wearing soft sleep shorts, and the way his fingers skimmed the bare skin just below the hem made your whole body jolt with awareness.

“Still okay?” he asked, eyes on yours.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jisung shifted closer too, his hand brushing yours like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch. You took the lead — turned and reached for him, sliding your palm up under his hoodie, fingers brushing his side. He sucked in a breath.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel so good…”

“You can touch me too,” you murmured, looking between them.

“Fuck,” Jisung breathed.

Felix leaned in from behind you, lips brushing your ear. “Say it again.”

Your breath caught. “Touch me?”

“Mmm. Just like that.”

Jisung’s hands were trembling as he lifted them — one cupping your waist, the other sliding up to your ribs. You weren’t wearing a bra, and the realization hit both of them like a punch. Felix made a noise behind you. Jisung groaned under his breath.

“I’m gonna die,” Jisung mumbled. “I’m not built for this.”

“You’re doing fine,” Felix said, his hand sliding around to your stomach. “You’re doing so fine.”

You leaned into both of them, head spinning from the weight of four hands on your body — one on your waist, one under your shirt, one skating along your thigh, one brushing just under the curve of your breast. It was overwhelming, and gentle, and charged with something just shy of explosive.

And when Felix finally whispered, “I want more,” you felt the bottom drop out of your stomach in the best way.

You weren't sure which of them moved first.

All you knew was that hands were suddenly on your hips, your waist, your thighs. Soft but firm, guiding but patient. A blur of touches that made your head spin. The air felt heavy with heat and wanting — the kind that had been coiling in the background for far too long, finally unleashed in full force.

Jisung was already breathless, pupils blown, mouth parted like he couldn’t get enough oxygen. He looked at you like he wanted to sink into your skin — like the sight of you under his hands was more than his brain could handle.

“You’re—fuck—you’re so soft,” he stammered as his thumbs skimmed under the hem of your sleep shirt. “Can I—?”

You lifted your arms without a word, and he tugged the fabric over your head.

His hands froze halfway up your body.

No bra.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

Felix, already behind you, let out a low, appreciative hum. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re gorgeous.”

And then he was pressing in — his chest flush to your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear, one hand coming around to cup your breast while the other slid down, down, stopping just before the waistband of your shorts.

“You still good?” he murmured.

You nodded, the movement small and shaky. “Yes.”

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you said again, stronger this time. “Please don’t stop.”

Felix smiled against your skin. “Good girl.”

You whined, hips twitching backward against him. He caught that, too — and rolled his hips forward in response, letting you feel the hard line of him through his sweats.

Jisung was kneeling in front of you now, mouth practically watering as he took in your bare chest. His hands slid up your sides slowly, reverently, until he was cupping your breasts with wide eyes and trembling fingers.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, thumbing one nipple experimentally.

You gasped. He moaned.

“I wanna—can I—?” he leaned forward, lips hovering.

You nodded.

The second his mouth closed around you, your whole body arched. He was warm and eager, tongue dragging in slow, sloppy licks, sucking experimentally as if he was testing how loud he could make you moan.

Felix kept his touches more restrained — his thumb brushing light circles over your other nipple while his hand between your legs finally dipped under the fabric of your shorts.

He groaned the moment his fingers met wet heat.

“Oh, she’s so wet,” he said, almost to himself. “You’re dripping, baby.”

Jisung pulled off your breast, eyes wide and shining. “Can I taste?”

Felix didn’t answer with words — just tugged your shorts down your hips and helped you step out of them. You were bare now, completely naked between the two of them, and they both stared like they were starving.

Felix helped you onto your back while Jisung settled between your legs. He looked up at you once more for permission, lips already wet, curls falling into his eyes.

You nodded.

He dove in.

There was nothing slow or tentative about him now. Jisung was hungry — mouth latching onto your pussy like he was afraid someone might stop him. His tongue licked a wide stripe up your folds before swirling around your clit, and your hips jolted up into his face with a sharp cry.

Felix groaned behind you. “That’s it, baby. Let him hear how good he’s doing.”

Jisung moaned like you had done something to him, hips grinding against the mattress like he couldn’t help it. His hands wrapped under your thighs, holding you wide open for him, and he buried his face even deeper.

You heard your own voice — high, cracked, moaning his name like a prayer.

“Oh my god, Jisung—!”

He was babbling into you now, praise and filth tangled together in the wet sounds of his mouth.

“You taste so good, fuck, I could do this all night, never wanna stop—fuck, you’re so wet—so pretty, baby, so fucking perfect—”

Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling tight as your hips bucked helplessly.

Felix, still behind you, moved your legs just enough to climb between them. His hand slid up to your throat, not tight, just holding you there gently — grounding you — while his other palm stroked over your stomach, your chest, your thighs.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m gonna—fuck—”

“Let him make you come,” Felix whispered. “He wants it so bad.”

And god, you did. Your back arched, thighs trembling as Jisung sucked hard on your clit, moaning like he was getting off just from the sounds you were making. You crashed into your orgasm like a wave slamming the shore — messy, loud, raw. Your thighs clamped around his head, and he whined, desperate, like he wanted you to suffocate him.

Felix let out a ragged breath. “Fuck, you’re so hot when you come.”

Jisung pulled back only when your hips stopped twitching, lips shiny, cheeks flushed, pupils blown.

“Can I—?” he asked again, voice rough. “I wanna—please—”

“Want to fuck her?” Felix asked, amused.

Jisung groaned. “Yes.”

You were still panting, body thrumming from aftershocks, but you reached for him without hesitation.

“Yes,” you said. “Want you.”

He nearly exploded on the spot.

Felix laughed, low and pleased. “Condom?”

Jisung scrambled for his wallet, hands shaking. Felix took the wrapper, tore it open, and passed it back.

“Take it slow,” he murmured, guiding him between your legs. “She’s sensitive now.”

Jisung nodded, then pressed his forehead to yours as he lined himself up.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he said.

You kissed him.

That was all the answer he needed.

He sank into you slowly, inch by inch — thick and hot and stretching you open. You gasped into his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist, arms clinging to his shoulders.

“F-fuck,” he choked. “You’re—shit, you’re so tight, I—”

Felix watched, one hand stroking over your ribs, the other ghosting up Jisung’s back.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmured. “Look at how well she takes you.”

Jisung buried his face in your neck and whimpered. “I’m not gonna last. Fuck. Fuck.”

“You will,” Felix said. “You want her to come again, don’t you?”

Jisung nodded frantically. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He started to move — slow at first, careful. Then deeper. Harder. Each thrust made your breath catch, your body stretch, your nails dig into his back.

Felix shifted beside you, one hand sliding between your legs again, stroking your clit with slow, tight circles.

Your hips jerked.

“F-Felix—!”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Come for us again, sweetheart.”

You were close again — your body never quite recovering from the first orgasm, every nerve still raw, and now Jisung was fucking you like his life depended on it, and Felix was touching you like he knew exactly how to break you apart.

“Gonna—fuck—gonna come again—!”

Jisung’s rhythm stuttered. “Do it, baby. Please. Wanna feel you—fuck—wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

Felix kissed your temple. “Let go.”

You did.

Your second orgasm hit even harder — your legs clenching, back arching, voice cracking into a cry that echoed off the walls. Jisung sobbed your name, thrusting deep once, twice, then pulling out and finishing all over your stomach with a desperate, broken moan.

You both collapsed.

For a moment, the room was silent save for heavy breathing, tangled limbs, and the soft buzz of the fan.

Then Felix leaned over, kissed your cheek, and whispered, “My turn.”

Your eyes fluttered open. “Please.”

Jisung groaned, rolling to the side, completely dazed. “God, I’m dead. I died. This is heaven.”

Felix chuckled, already rolling on a condom. “Not yet, hyung. Stay with us.”

He moved between your legs, guiding himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours.

“Still okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yes. Want you.”

“Good girl,” he murmured.

Then he pushed in.

You gasped — body already sore and swollen from Jisung, and now filled again by something just as thick, just as perfect, but moving in a different rhythm. Felix was slower, deeper, more controlled. Every thrust was deliberate. Every drag of his cock was designed to make you feel everything.

Jisung watched, glassy-eyed and panting, as Felix fucked you like he owned you — kissing you deep, praising you in that low, warm voice.

“So perfect,” he whispered. “Taking me so well. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

You whined, nails digging into his arms. “Don’t stop—fuck—don’t stop—!”

“I won’t, baby,” he said. “I’ll give you everything.”

He shifted his angle, grinding deeper, and you screamed.

Jisung moaned from the side. “She’s coming again—fuck, look at her—look at her—”

Felix never looked away. He held you through it — whispered you through it — kissed you through it — and when he came, he did it with a deep groan and your name falling from his lips like a hymn.

Later, the three of you lay tangled together, limbs a mess of sweat and blankets, bodies still humming from everything that just happened.

“Next movie night’s gonna be awkward,” Jisung mumbled into your shoulder.

You giggled. “Why? Planning to pretend this didn’t happen?”

He groaned. “No. Just… might pass out again.”

Felix reached over, tugged him into the cuddle pile. “You’ll live.”

You smiled sleepily, nestled between both of them, heart full.

Yeah. You would live.

And maybe — just maybe — this was only the beginning.

[universefcb]

Hemlooo could you pls write something for cuba our boy?

Where reader has a tattoo on her ribs but she never told him (or he just never asked) and one day he sees her tattoo and is mesmerized by it and is just a lovesick obsessed bf 😸

BETWEEN THE SKIN LINES

→ Pairing: Pau Cubarsí X fem!reader

→ Warning: Mention of Reader. Fluff.

→ Author's note: Pau Cubarsí's parents, let him get a tattoo 🙏🏻

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

It wasn't planned. Like almost everything that made Pau lose his breath—it happened by chance. And that was what drove him the most crazy.

They were in his room, a lazy summer afternoon, windows open letting the heat mix with the muffled sounds of the city. They were both laughing at something that barely made sense, he lying on his side and she sitting on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly scrolling through the playlist on her phone.

She was wearing one of his blouses. One of those he would purposely leave in her apartment, pretending he had forgotten about it. But the truth is that Pau loved seeing her like this: dressed in herself, in the life they shared in silence, without promises, just presence.

They had started dating a few weeks ago — and even with all the familiarity they had from the beginning, they were still in that sweet phase of discovery. Where everything was new, curious, charming. Where even a silly gesture could reveal a whole world of meanings.

She reached for the water bottle, and her blouse—loose, thin, and slippery—rose a little higher than usual. It was in that moment, almost imperceptibly, that his eyes caught it.

Something on her side. Left rib. A delicate black line, hidden beneath the skin he thought he knew so well.

"Wait…" His voice came out low, surprised.

She turned around slowly, confused by his tone.

"What?"

Pau sat up in bed, eyes fixed on her as if he were faced with an ancient secret revealed by mistake.

"That." He pointed with his chin. "Do you have a tattoo?"

She seemed to hesitate for half a second. Too small to say she hid it, big enough to say she never told.

"Yes I have."

He approached as if approaching something sacred. The room fell silent again, as if even the city outside had held its breath.

"Can I see?"

She calmly lifted her blouse, exposing the side. The warm skin, golden from the sun of the last few days, revealed a small, almost shy tattoo: a thin line forming an olive branch, delicate and crooked, as if it had been drawn by hand.

Pau didn't speak. He just looked. Closely. He looked with the concentration of someone who sees art. The black line seemed to have been made to be there, on you — hidden like a secret message that only now was he worthy of deciphering.

"It's beautiful..." He whispered.

"I thought you would laugh."

"Laugh?" He laughed, yes, but it was in astonishment. "Why?"

"I don't know. I never told you. You never asked."

He meant he was too busy adoring other parts of her. That he was always so caught up in her eyes, her laugh, the way she bit the sleeve of her sweatshirt on cold days, that maybe he never noticed what was underneath.

But now that I had seen it… I couldn't think of anything else.

"Can I touch?"

She nodded, and Pau slowly touched his fingers. First with fear. Then with the devotion of someone holding an old, fragile piece of paper, full of valuable words.

He ran his thumb over the line, as if he could absorb its meaning. His eyes dropped to where the skin curved, and he thought of all the times they had been there, one on top of the other, and she had kept it from him. He thought of the way she had let him get close, but there were still mysteries hidden away.

"Why this drawing?"

She took a deep breath before answering.

"Because it is resilient. The olive branch... it survives fire, drought, war. It always grows back."

Pau felt his chest tighten. He was silent for a moment, his fingers still tracing the outline of the tattoo. His eyes lifted to hers, and there was something new there: not just the desire, which was constant—but a deeper, more obsessive, more devoted love.

"That's you," he said softly. "You're that branch."

She laughed awkwardly, but her eyes were shining.

"Corny"

"Totally." He smiled. "But it's true. And now... now I have to live with the knowledge."

"Of what?"

"That you have this here," he pointed. "This hidden art. A part of you I've never seen before. It drives me kind of crazy, you know?"

She looked at him lightly, not understanding the gravity of what she had just caused.

Pau brought his face closer to her ribs and placed a slow kiss, lasting longer than he should have. Then another. And another. As if marking every inch around it, making sure that it was now his too.

"You don't know what you did to me," he murmured against her skin.

"No longer…"

He lifted his face, his warm eyes locking onto hers.

"I love you in a weird way, you know? A kind of... obsessive way." He laughed, but it wasn't funny. It was a confession. "Sometimes I think about you when I'm on the field. Like... in the middle of a play. I get distracted, I miss a pass, I get mad at myself. But I can't stop. You live here." He pointed to his head, "And here." Then, his chest.

She bit her lip, trying not to melt.

"Now you're going to think of me every time you remember the tattoo?"

"I already thought so. Now it's only worse." He laid his head on her lap, facing the tattoo. "I'll never get over this. You with a secret tattoo on your rib cage... that's how you lost me. Now I'm yours forever."

She stroked his hair, smiling silently.

He closed his eyes. And he knew, more certainly than he had ever known anything else, that there was no turning back.

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinott @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[starsinthesky5]

what are songbird and joe’s favorite sleeping positions?🥹

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early relationship

back then, joe didn’t really sleep. at least not well. he ran warm, both in body and mind, always thinking too much, caught in the buzz of early mornings and late nights and pressure pressing in from every direction. but somehow, the first few times she stayed over, everything in him just…stilled. the first night she curled into his side, nervous and shy, her cheek resting against his chest. he barely breathed. he wrapped both arms around her instinctively, almost too tightly, like his body didn’t trust she was real. he held her like she might disappear in the night if he didn’t. his grip eased once her breathing steadied, her leg hooking softly over his like a sleepy tangle of trust. she murmured something unintelligible into his chest and settled deeper into him, and just like that, he fell asleep. deeper than he had in weeks. he didn’t tell her that until much later. but after that night, it became a pattern. she’d stretch out across his chest like she belonged there, and he’d hold her like a lifeline. the way she fit against him quieted everything else. she was his soft place to land, even before they had the words for it.

his favorite position now

these days, he sleeps best when she’s tucked into him. on her side, her back pressed to his chest, and him curled protectively around her. it’s not just habit, it’s instinct. his left arm always ends up beneath her pillow, curled just enough that she can rest her head in the bend of his elbow. his right wraps around her waist, his palm settling low on her stomach or resting on her hip, fingers sometimes sneaking just under the hem of her shirt. never suggestively though. just needing that little bit of skin. that contact. that reassurance she’s right there. he’s not even always conscious of it. it’s how he levels himself. sometimes, if she stirs early and tries to slide out of bed gently, his arm tightens instinctively. like a seatbelt across her waist. a gruff, sleepy voice murmurs behind her ear, “where you goin’? come back,”.

and she always does.

her favorite position

she loves to sleep on top of him. sprawled out, full-body contact, weight spread across his chest like a warm, sleepy blanket. head tucked beneath his chin, one leg draped heavily over his hips, arms folded under her like she’s nesting between his body and the mattress. she always jokes she’s “charging,” like she draws energy from his heartbeat. he rolls his eyes, calls her a clingy little starfish, but never moves her. he rubs her back in slow, even circles until she’s completely out, and then leaves his hand there like a promise. if he’s sore from a game, she adjusts, lays more carefully across him, her hand resting right over his heart, fingers tracing soft, meaningless shapes against his chest. sometimes she’ll murmur “you okay?” and even in his haze of exhaustion, he’ll whisper back, “i’m okay, baby. i promise,”. and she’ll believe him. because she knows what his voice sounds like when he isn’t.

middle of the night patterns

they always start with intention—her curled into his side or on top of him, him spooning her, one of them pressed against the other like it’s the only way to breathe. but by 3 a.m., she’s usually sprawled across the bed in a position that defies physics. diagonal, arms flung above her head, one foot tucked neatly under his calf. joe, somehow, never complains. he just adjusts. shifts closer. finds her again. sometimes her arm lands across his chest like a weight. other times her cold toes end up against his thigh and he just lets out a soft, resigned sigh and pulls her in tighter. on rough nights—when he has a bad dream, or she does—they find each other like magnets. no words. just instinct. hands reaching, bodies curling together in the dark until breath and heartbeat sync again. she’ll kiss his shoulder and whisper, “i’m right here,”. and he’ll whisper back, “i know. i’ve got you,”.

when they sleep apart

those nights are harder. joe doesn’t say much about it, but she knows he doesn’t sleep well when she’s not there. he falls asleep holding one of her shirts. one of the oversized, soft ones she always wore to bed. he keeps one tucked in his suitcase on road trips, tucked with care like it’s something precious. once, before a long away stretch, she spritzed one of his pillows with her perfume and tucked it into his bag. he pretended to roll his eyes, but she found it on his side of the bed when she visited a week later—well-used, still tucked against his chest. she struggles too. especially when she's in another timezone or when she's just not physically with him, after chaotic days. they fall asleep on facerime on those nights, her face lit by the glow of the screen, voice sleepy and uneven. sometimes she talks until her words slur into silence, and he just watches, making sure she’s okay before finally ending the call. on nights when she’s especially strung out, he hums to her. soft, low, no melody, just comfort. and she drifts off to the sound of him, her phone still clutched in her hand.

their morning position

no matter how they fall asleep, they always wake up facing each other. by the time the sun filters in, they’ve drifted into that natural position, legs tangled, foreheads close, noses brushing. her fingers splayed over his chest. his hand resting on the curve of her waist, thumb stroking lazy circles through the fabric of her shirt. sometimes she wakes first and just watches him, face soft in the morning light, jaw slack, lips parted slightly, messy hair sprawled out against the pillows. peaceful in a way few people ever get to see him. and sometimes he wakes first and just looks at her, eyes half-lidded but completely present. “you’re staring,” she’ll mumble, blinking sleepily. he’ll shrug, smile, thumb brushing her cheek, “can’t help it,” he murmurs. “you’re my favorite thing to wake up to,”. she always kisses him for that. slow and sleepy. and then tucks her face into his neck so he can’t see her smile.

[yandereonepieceimagines]

Could I request an oblivious reader with yandere shanks?

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Ooooofff… Poor Shanks… Even he has his limits. xD

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"Red-Haired" Shanks

The sky was a cloudless blue, and the sun blazed over the endless, restless sea. There was no fanfare as the Red Force, flagship of the Red Hair Pirates, cut through the water that day. Only the subtle hum of a well-run ship and a certain newness in the air.

You stood by the railing, your travel pack slung over one shoulder, watching sunlight flicker on the waves. The deck beneath your boots was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. You’d always liked the beginning of another new voyage. Every ship and sky a promise of uncharted places.

Your being here was never part of the plan. A week ago, you’d only stopped in a battered little port town for supplies, only to find the place in chaos: powerful bounty hunters and pirates trading blows, barrels exploding in the square. In the end, it was your sharp aim and a well-placed distraction that helped turn the tide for the Red Hair Pirates. But only because you knew that this particular group of bounty hunters was corrupt to its very bones. When the dust cleared, Shanks himself laughed. He’d arrived a minute too late to end the fight himself. Still, he had invited you to join them, at least until you found the next fork in your own journey.

You accepted, with a simple, “For now,” and nothing more. The sea was vast, and you had your own maps to fill. Your own ship yet to buy.

The crew welcomed you with the easy camaraderie of people who trusted fate. Lucky Roux shared his lunch, Yasopp wanted to help you train through target practice, and even Benn Beckman, who said little, nodded in quiet approval as you unpacked in a spare cabin.

But you noticed, after a few days, that Shanks watched you more closely than what's normal. Not with suspicion. Instead, a sort of quiet curiosity.

If you spent the evening on deck tracing new constellations into your journal, he’d appear with a bottle and a joke, standing just close enough that you could feel his presence. If you helped repair the rigging, he’d offer advice, though you were sure he knew you didn’t need it.

You assumed it was just a captain’s habit. He seemed the type to look after all his people. You respected his easy confidence, the way he led the crew with nothing more than a laugh or a look, how even the rowdiest pirates seemed steadier in his warm presence.

You never saw the way his eyes lingered, or how his smiles grew softer when you were near. You didn’t notice the crew exchanging knowing glances as Shanks sought your company again and again.

One evening, as the sun bled into the sea, you stood alone at the bow, drawing the outline of a new island from memory. The wind carried voices from the galley, laughter and song. Shanks joined you, wordless at first, watching the water with a thoughtful expression.

Finally, he spoke, his tone unusually serious for a man like him, and of his legend. “Not many people get to see the world from this ship,” he said. “You fit in here, you know.”

You smiled slightly, eyes still on your journal. “It’s a good ship. Good crew. But the New World’s big. I won’t stay long. There’s more for me to see. Preferably alone.”

He grinned, but there was a tightness around his eyes. “Maybe I’ll convince you to linger. I could show you all the best places. Things you’d never find on your own.”

You glanced at him, calm and unhurried. “If you know any islands that aren’t on these charts, I’d be grateful, then.”

He chuckled, but you didn’t notice how he watched you, searching for something in your gaze. A sign that you finally understood what he actually meant by it. All he found was quiet honesty and that stubborn restlessness.

When you returned to your journal, content and oblivious, Shanks stayed by your side a little longer, silent as the sea. Something possessive flickered deep in his eyes for just a moment. The first real spark. And for the first time in years, Red-Haired Shanks realized he truly wanted something, and that he might not be able to simply take it.

The feeling only grew as the night deepened, unnoticed by you. And so, the first threads of obsession quietly took root.

Another week passed at sea, and the Red Force was a world of its own. Pirates in constant motion, the smell of salt and stew, and laughter that never seemed to run dry. You found a quiet rhythm among them, and the crew had learned to give you space to scribble in your journal or to quietly examine the stars. It surprised you, sometimes, how normal it all felt.

What you didn’t notice was how often you still caught the Yonko’s eye. Or the way Shanks had started showing up wherever you went. Always with an easy grin, sometimes with a joke, sometimes just to watch.

He tried, in his way, to be subtle at first:

Once, during breakfast, he slid his chair a little too close, eyeing your carefully spread map between the plates. "Be a shame if any of this coffee ended up on your chart," he mused, tone light. "Would you trust me to keep it safe, or should I keep you safe from the coffee instead?" You only glanced up, unfazed, and shifted the map further from both cups. "It's waterproofed," you replied, missing the playful spark in his eyes.

One dusk, while you studied the horizon, Shanks joined you quietly. "You know, sunsets like these are supposed to be shared with someone special," he ventured, voice low. You barely looked up from your notes. "It's useful for measuring direction, especially with the way the colors hit the clouds out here. Is it always this vivid in this part of the New World sea, though?"

And once, when you came in from a cold watch, Shanks offered his coat with a little flourish. "Might suit you better than me tonight." You thanked him, used it as a cushion for your journal instead, and returned it later without a thought.

You were used to men who spoke too loud or got too close, so his presence was just background. Like a gentle breeze that shifted with you. But Shanks, for all his power and fame, was not immune to frustration. In private, his teasing started to grow more deliberate. It didn’t work.

Then one night...

It was after dark, the deck mostly quiet except for the slap of water and distant voices from below. You lingered on the railing, tracing a new constellation into your notebook by lantern light, when Shanks appeared with that unhurried swagger of his.

He leaned beside you, intact arm nearly brushing yours. “You know, I’ve noticed it’s been a cold week on the seas. Lonely, too, if you’re not used to pirate company.”

You glanced up, barely pausing. “That’s why I keep a flask of a warm drink and three layers.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “But you know… Sometimes, it helps to have a little extra warmth. A body’s warmth. I could share mine, if you ever get tired of the cold…”

You didn’t miss a beat. “There are plenty of spare blankets in the storage, Shanks. You don’t have to freeze for pride. Not when you’re one of the Four Emperors. I’m sure your reputation can survive an extra blanket or two.”

For a split second, Shanks looked as if he’d swallowed his own tongue. Then he smiled brightly, just a bit crooked. “You don’t make this easy, do you?”

You shrugged, noncommittal, already turning the page in your journal. “Easy isn’t always interesting. That goes for many things in life.”

His eyes lingered on you a moment longer. Long enough for the air to thicken with something unspoken and wild. You missed it completely, focusing instead on the steady flickering of the stars and the gentle rock of the ship.

When Shanks finally left, footsteps quiet and retreating, a sense of urgency seemed to coil around him. Restless and sharp, driven by the knowledge that you were openly planning to leave at the next port. For the first time, a darker thought took root: if he couldn't win your heart with charm, perhaps he would have to keep you by his side until you let him.

What began as a spark of intrigued hunger was quickly growing sharper by the night...

[witherby]

Yoooo, reading Hideaway with Mouse and Conner made me wanna know how it would go if someone actually *did* manage to walk in on them being intimate.

Imagine the chaos, the violence, and the sobs from Dick as he realizes just how mature Mouse has actually become.

Or even worse - what if actual pregnancy scare. They'll probably tell Hal first, cause he won't immediately try and kill Kon, or Jason, who just runs off to buy some tests because if Mouse was caught buying them, all hell would break loose, but Jason? Jason could have just had a one night stand and wanted to be sure

I can tell you what would happen!

What if you had gotten caught in the act?

Bruce: expressionless face, closes the door and walks away immediately, cries alone in his bedroom because his youngest kid is growing up so fucking fast, finds Conner after the deed is done and they've had time to get themselves together and asks him to please never fuck in this house again. It's taking all his strength not to put the manor in Red Sun Mode and beat his ass.

Hal: gasps, blurts an apology for barging into Mouse's room like that, leaves, gives them both a little goody bag with condoms and candies afterwards and emphasizes the importance of locking doors, and "hey did you know that putting a sock on your doorknob —"

Dick: screams, sobs, gags, clings to Mouse afterwards and tells them to stop doing grown-up shit, they're just a baby (they're in their 20s). Glares at Conner and tells him to stop committing sin with his little itty bitty baby sibling (Mouse is only a head shorter than Dick).

Jason: startles, realizes he should've knocked first, leaves, minds his business.

Tim: audibly blurts "EW, WHAT?" and slams the door. Avoids Mouse and Conner like the plague for at least two weeks while he desperately tries to get the image of what he saw out of his brain. Every time he sees them both his face goes >:[ automatically.

Damian: shouts in shock and disgust, immediately draws a knife out of seemingly nowhere to attack Conner so you have to slip into the shadows with him, rants and scolds your shadow forms on the floor for several long minutes until someone else drags him out of the room, apologizes because Jason forces him to.

Alfred: tuts in disappointment, closes the door, and pointedly laments the good old days when people got married before going for a romp in the sheets at dinner.

What if there's a pregnancy scare?

Bruce: outwardly he is keeping a calm and level head, letting Mouse know they have options about keeping it or not, and insists he will support them no matter what. Inwardly he's screaming GRANDBABY? GRANDBABY?? I WILL BE A GRANDPA? GRANDPA TIME? BABY? MY BABY HAVING BABY? BABY!! GRANDBABY!!! GRANDBABYGRANDBABYGRANDBABYGR

Hal: outwardly supportive of any decision taken, just like Bruce. Inwardly going g-grandbaby???? I will be grandma??? I'm gonna fucking CRY, GRANDBABYGRANDBABYGRANDBABY

Dick: screaming, crying, throwing up, so emotional at the prospect of being an uncle, begging Mouse to let him babysit when the fuckin pregnancy test isn't even done running yet

Jason: absolutely when and bought the tests for Mouse. Bought two of a few different brands just to be sure. Insists whatever they wanna do is perfectly fine and valid, even Conner, but after some wheedling he does admit having another baby running around would be kinda fun again

Tim: loudly declares "EW" but then immediately follows it up with "I get to babysit before Dick. It'll be so funny. Please let me babysit first."

Damian: takes some deep breaths, does not bring his knife out again, brings home pregnancy tests from the hospital, and promises he will either give Mouse the best prenatal care on the planet or find them the best hospital for a quick and painless abortion, then tells Conner flat-out that he won't be allowed to be a deadbeat or he'll just be dead.

Alfred: great grandpa? Great-grandbaby??? GREATGRANDBABYGREATGRANDBABYGREATGRANDBABYGREATGRANDB

[sumluckr]

Ashes in your lungs

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x female reader

Summary: You’ve loved him since you were fifteen. Now he’s dying, won’t quit smoking, won’t fight. No wedding, no kids—just you, him, and a future turning to ash in a shitty apartment.

Warnings: terminal illness, grief, explicit sex, emotional breakdown, smoking, profanity, medical neglect, death of a loved one, graphic depictions of illness, toxic/codependent relationship dynamics, suicidal ideation (implied), heavy angst.

The apartment reeks of stale smoke and despair. Grey dawn light seeps through the slats of the blinds, cutting across the clutter in pale stripes. Dust motes swirl in the hazy air, illuminated by the weak glow of a streetlamp that never turns off. It’s too early, or too late—time lost meaning somewhere between the hospital visits you begged him to go to and the nights spent watching him cough up what remains of his life.

You sit on the edge of the sagging couch, fingers worrying a loose thread on a cigarette-burned cushion. Behind you, Seong-je draws a shallow breath. Each inhale rattles in his chest like broken glass. The sound of it sets your teeth on edge. In the ashtray on the crate doubling as a coffee table, another cigarette smolders, adding to the permanent cloud above. The scent of nicotine has long seeped into the wallpaper, the curtains, your clothes, your skin. You wonder if when he dies, the apartment will still smell like him—or just the cigarettes that killed him.

He fell asleep with it still burning again. The cherry has nearly reached the filter. You pluck the cigarette from the ashtray with a sigh and crush it out, a faint hiss in the silence. The motion makes him stir. Seong-je’s eyes crack open, bloodshot and glassy, the dark circles beneath them sunken deep. Even now, even like this, your heart twists at how much you love his eyes—sharp and fierce in a way that first drew you in—but now dull with exhaustion.

“Why’re you awake?” he rasps, voice raw gravel. There’s phlegm rattling in that question, a wet undertone that makes you want to scream. “Couldn’t sleep,” you mutter, still half turned away. You don’t add that you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, maybe months. Not since the day he came home coughing blood and you both knew it was something fucked up and serious.

He pushes himself upright against the couch back with difficulty. The cushions sag and protest under his shifting weight. You glance over your shoulder and catch a grimace tightening his mouth. A flicker of pain crosses his face, quickly masked with a familiar scowl. He would never admit how much it hurts now, but you know. You see it in every shallow breath, every time he holds his ribs when he thinks you aren’t looking.

He notices the dead cigarette in your hand, the one you just snubbed out. For a second, something like annoyance flits in his expression. Maybe at you for killing it before he was finished, or at himself for dozing off again. You can’t tell, and you don’t particularly care. A spark of anger lights in your chest—anger at the cigarette itself, at him, at this entire goddamn situation. You set the crumpled butt down in an overflowing ashtray and finally meet his eyes.

“It’s not enough that it’s killing you, you have to burn the apartment down too?” you say, voice sharper than you intended. Your words slice through the murk. There’s accusation, and fear, and sleepless bitterness all tangled in your tone.

Seong-je’s lip twitches, almost a smirk. “Morning to you too,” he replies flatly. He shifts, swinging his legs off the couch so he’s sitting more fully upright. The movement costs him; you can tell by the way his jaw clenches to stifle a cough. He reaches a trembling hand toward the pack of cigarettes on the table. Without thinking, you snatch it up before he can.

“Give it back,” he says, low and dangerous. The man who used to send tremors of fear through half the city with that tone is still in there, somewhere under the sickness. But it doesn’t work on you. Not anymore. You hold the pack out of his reach, your hand shaking with anger. “Are you fucking kidding me?” you snap. “You almost lit yourself on fire, and your first thought is to have another?”

His eyes narrow. The old him might have leapt over the table and snatched it from you by force. The old Seong-je could’ve done a lot of things. Now, he can barely stand without swaying. You see him calculate, his pride warring with the reality of his frail body. “Just give it.” There’s a pleading edge beneath the roughness of his voice that almost makes you falter. Almost.

“No.” Your voice cracks on the word. “These are what’s killing you.” You hurl the pack across the room in a flash of fury. It hits the wall with a thud, the cigarettes spilling out across the stained carpet. For a second, neither of you speak. Your chest heaves with rage and fear. His gaze follows the scattered sticks of tobacco and paper like it’s a bag of dropped gold.

“What the fuck?” he growls, spitting out your name like a weapon. He hasn’t called you by a pet name in a long time; every syllable these days is edged. He grips the arm of the couch and forces himself to stand. The moment he does, a violent cough wracks him. He doubles over, hacking, one hand braced on his knee as if it might keep his lungs from tearing out of his chest. You freeze, anger instantly smothered by a wave of concern. “Seong-je—” you start, heart pounding in alarm.

He spits onto the floor, a dark speck of phlegm and blood. You watch it land near your bare foot, stark red on worn hardwood. Your stomach lurches. It’s not the first time you’ve seen blood, but it never stops terrifying you. “See?” he wheezes, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “Told you—already dead.” The casual defeat in his words hits you like a punch. How can he be so calm saying shit like that?

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You’re not dead yet.” You move toward him, wanting to help, to steady him, something—anything—but he flinches away from your touch. He stands upright again by sheer will, eyes flashing with a familiar stubborn pride. “Not dead yet,” he echoes bitterly. “So let me live a little while I can, okay?” There’s a snarl in his tone, but underneath it, you hear the fear. He won’t name it, but it’s there, quivering under the anger.

“Live?” you echo, incredulous. “This isn’t living, Seong-je. This is…” Your voice breaks. This is dying. You don’t finish the sentence, but it’s hanging in the air between you, heavy as the smoke. He knows what you mean. His eyes flicker away, unable to meet yours for once. In that silence, you catch the faint sound of traffic outside, the city coming alive while your world cracks apart.

He sinks back down onto the couch, chest heaving from the effort. His head tilts back against the threadbare fabric, eyes closing as he fights to catch his breath. You stand there trembling, hands balled into fists at your sides. There’s nothing left to say that hasn’t been screamed already on other days just like this. The anger drains out of you, leaving only a hollow ache and the thud of your heart in your ears.

A smear of red glistens on the floorboard where his spit landed. With a shudder, you shuffle to the kitchen corner, grabbing a wad of paper towels. Your vision blurs as you crouch and wipe up the blood. Dark, wet, and stark against white paper. It strikes you with morbid irony—how many times have you wiped this man’s blood off a floor? Just never like this.

Your mind flickers back years, unbidden. Another apartment, another night: a much younger Seong-je sitting on the edge of a bathtub while you dabbed at a split in his brow. He had come home well past midnight with his shirt soaked in someone else’s blood and a new cut above his eye. You remember the adrenaline in your veins, the anger and relief that he was alive, the way your hands shook as you pressed a warm cloth to his face. He was seventeen and fearless, more feral than human sometimes. Every time he ran off spoiling for a fight, you feared it might be the one that’d take him from you, yet he always came back, no matter how many fists or bottles or knives tried to break him. You’d lost count of the nights you played nurse, taping up his bruised ribs or holding ice to his swollen eye.

That night, you were crying angry tears as you cleaned him up, cursing him under your breath for taking such stupid risks. He just sat there, quiet for once, letting you scold him. When you finally met his gaze, he gave you that damned lopsided grin—blood on his teeth and all—and said, “You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?” It was so absurd, you almost laughed. Instead you smacked his shoulder and told him if he died you’d kill him. He had grabbed your wrist then, pulled you close with a sudden seriousness that silenced you both. You can still recall the exact rasp of his voice when he promised, his voice soft and serious as he spoke your name, “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

Now here you are, wiping up his blood again. Only this time, it’s not from some street fight or turf war. No one to blame but a lifetime of cigarettes and a bad roll of fate. It almost feels like a cosmic joke—after all the knives, fists, and bullets he dodged in the streets, it’s his own lungs turning on him that will do him in. The one enemy he can’t brawl into submission is eating him from the inside out. And he is going somewhere you can’t follow. No matter what he promised.

You swallow the lump in your throat and toss the bloody paper towels into the trash under the sink. Your reflection in the oven door glass catches your eye—a wild-eyed ghost of yourself. Tired, so tired. You rub the heel of your palm against your eyes, angry at the tears that won’t stop threatening. You refuse to cry in front of him right now. Turning on the faucet, you scrub your hands as if you could wash away the fear clinging to your skin.

Three months ago, in a fluorescent-lit hospital office, you sat next to Seong-je as a doctor delivered the verdict. Stage IV. Inoperable. The words hit you like bricks to the chest. You had stared at the scan results—opaque clouds in the shape of tumors spidering through his lungs—and felt the room tilt. Seong-je had been unnervingly quiet, jaw clenched, as the doctor gently explained the treatment options: chemotherapy, immunotherapy, palliative care. He might have been listing weather reports for all the reaction Seong-je showed. You, on the other hand, were shaking, clutching Seong-je’s hand so tightly it went bloodless. When the doctor said “perhaps a year, maybe less,” you had let out a small, strangled cry. Seong-je just set his gaze on the floor and didn’t blink.

Outside, in the parking lot afterward, you exploded. You remember yelling at him through hot tears, begging him to say something, to get angry, something. He just lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. Right there under a “NO SMOKING” sign. You slapped it out of his mouth, hysterical. He didn’t yell back. He just pulled you into his arms as you broke down sobbing against his chest. You felt his racing heart, his silence more terrifying than any rage. When you finally looked up at him, his eyes were wet but he wasn’t crying. Not outwardly. He just muttered, “I’m sorry,” and it wrecked you. He refused treatment from that day on. No chemo, no trials—“No hospitals,” he growled. “I’d rather die at home than die slow in there.” No matter how you fought him on it, he wouldn’t budge. That was the first time you truly felt despair: knowing you were watching him choose the path of least pain for himself, even if it meant no hope of a cure.

When you return to the living room, Seong-je has managed to light another cigarette. He sits hunched forward, forearms on his knees, the smoke curling up around his drawn face. A part of you wants to slap it out of his mouth, but you don’t. You’re both drained. Instead, you sink into the threadbare armchair across from him. Neither of you speak. The distant honk of a horn six floors below and the tick of the clock on the wall fill the void.

Watching the orange ember glow between his fingers, you feel a fresh wave of grief lap at your insides. You never asked him to quit before all this; you never asked him for anything he couldn’t give. Not a ring, not a promise of forever, not the kids you sometimes secretly daydreamed about on lazy Sunday mornings. Sometimes you’d imagine a small child curled up on his chest, maybe a boy with his eyes and your smile, or a fierce little girl that he’d secretly spoil rotten. You pictured him grumbling about school recitals or broken curfews, playing the tough dad but giving in with a soft spot for his kid—because you knew, deep down, he had that gentleness in him. Those were just fantasies, of course, but they were yours. You knew he wasn’t the storybook husband type, and marriage and white picket fences were worlds away from the life you led. But damn, you would have taken it—any version of a future with him, however imperfect. He would have given you that life in his own way, you know he would have. In the fierce, protective way he loved you, in the way he always came home to you no matter what. You didn’t need papers or church bells; you just needed him, growing old by your side. That modest dream—the only future you really cared about—has been reduced to ash and smoke.

Your throat tightens, heat prickling behind your eyes. You bite down on the inside of your cheek until the pain grounds you. Across the room, Seong-je stares at the floor, oblivious to your silent breakdown. Or maybe he’s deliberately not looking at you, giving you the moment to compose yourself. He used to tease you for crying at sad movies, gently thumb away your tears with that cocky smile. Now, he pretends not to notice when you cry, and you pretend you don’t cry at all.

The cigarette slips from his lips and almost falls. He catches it just in time, cursing under his breath as a bit of ash spills on his shirt. You startle from your thoughts. “Shit,” he mutters, brushing ash off his thin T-shirt. His hands tremble subtly, enough that you see the grey flecks scatter. Not long ago, those hands could knock out guys twice his size. Now he can barely hold a smoke.

“You okay?” you ask quietly. It’s a stupid question—of course he’s not—but it’s what comes out. Seong-je glances at you, surprised by the gentleness of your tone. He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Peachy,” he says, voice dripping sarcasm. But then he sighs, long and tired. His gaze softens a fraction. “You?” he asks back, in a tone so low you almost don’t catch it.

Your lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Peachy,” you echo. For a split second, the ghost of what you two used to be passes between you. A hint of dark humor in the face of shit circumstances. It disappears as fast as it came, but it’s enough to ease some tension.

For a little while, neither of you speaks. In that fragile peace, a memory finds you unbidden. You recall another night years ago, in this very apartment back when the walls were a less yellow shade of nicotine. The power had gone out during a summer storm. You and Seong-je lit candles and drank warm beer on the floor. You were upset about something trivial—work drama, maybe. You can’t even remember now. He was never good with words of comfort, but that night he scooped you up off the floor and pulled you into a slow dance right there in the dark. No music, just the rain as your soundtrack and the thud of his heart under your cheek. He swayed you both, humming some off-key tune into your hair. You remember laughing at first, calling him a dork, but then you melted into it. Into him. He’d held you so close, like he was afraid you’d slip away. When the lights came back on, you were kissing him, and the look on his face… pure adoration, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. That was the night you realized for certain that, however messed up it all was, this man was your home.

Eventually, the rest of the day drags by in a haze. Seong-je dozes on and off, the television mumbling low in the afternoon not for him to watch, but just to fill the void. You manage to coax him into eating a few spoonfuls of soup around noon, but he mostly just pushes the bowl away, mumbling that it tastes like metal. His appetite is gone; yours isn’t much better. You pick at a slice of toast, the food turning to ash in your mouth. Neither of you mentions the morning’s fight again.

By evening, the city lights outside blink on, neon signs painting your living room walls in faint hues of red and blue through the window. Seong-je is awake, propped up by a heap of pillows on the couch, absently flipping through an old magazine. You know he’s not really reading it; his eyes haven’t moved from the same page in fifteen minutes. He’s just pretending for your sake, maybe. You sit nearby, folding a week’s worth of laundry piled on the chair. You pair his socks (threadbare and grey) and fold his favorite old band tee with the cracked print—mechanical, routine tasks to keep your hands busy and your mind from imploding. An uncapped bottle of cough syrup and a half-empty blister pack of pain pills sit on the table, mostly untouched. He hates how the meds knock him senseless; he prefers to numb himself with nicotine and stubborn willpower instead. Every now and then a dry cough from him breaks the silence. Each time, your eyes flick up in concern that you try to hide. Each time, he notices anyway, and his jaw sets in annoyance or embarrassment, you can’t tell.

Night fully falls. The apartment is too quiet. Without asking, you flick off the overhead light, leaving only the amber glow of a lamp in the corner. Cozy, you pretend. Almost normal, if you ignore everything else. Through the thin wall, you hear neighbors laughing, the faint bass of music from someone throwing a party or just living their life. It feels like another universe. In here, it’s just you and him and the smoke and the silence. In truth, it’s been just the two of you for months. He pushed away anyone else who tried to come around. His old running mates from the gang, the few that remained, stopped knocking after he made it clear he didn’t want a pity party. You stopped calling your friends back too; you couldn’t handle the well-meaning platitudes or the way they’d go quiet when you said he was getting worse. This claustrophobic little world is all you have left: just you, him, and the slow ticking of time running out.

Seong-je breaks the silence by clearing his throat—this time not from choking, but like he’s steeling himself to speak. His eyes meet yours across the dim room. There’s something different in his gaze now, an intensity that cuts through the haze of smoke and sickness. He tosses the forgotten magazine aside. “Come here,” he says quietly, patting the space on the couch beside him.

You hesitate only a second before you rise from the armchair and cross the small distance. Your heart flutters with a sudden, nervous energy. You perch next to him, the cushion dipping under both your weights. Up close, his body radiates heat—whether from a low-grade fever or longing, you can’t tell.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. He lifts a hand and brushes a thumb along your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is achingly gentle, so at odds with the man he used to be, yet so perfectly him in this moment. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, barely audible. Before you can respond, he leans in.

His lips find yours in the dim light. The kiss is slow, tentative at first, as if he’s afraid you might break. Or maybe he’s afraid he will. You taste tobacco and desperation on his breath. It’s been a while since he kissed you like this, with purpose rather than habit. It ignites something in you, something beyond grief and anger—a flicker of the passion that’s been buried under months of despair.

Your hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the hair grown a bit longer at his nape. He makes a low sound in his throat that sends a shiver through you. Carefully, he draws you closer, your bodies turning toward each other on the couch. The kiss deepens, months of pain and love and regret pouring into the way your lips move together. You can feel the pent-up emotion trembling in him, in yourself.

His tongue brushes yours, hot and urgent, and you answer with a soft whimper that you didn’t mean to let out. It seems to spur him on. Seong-je’s hand slips under your shirt, palm gliding up your waist to your ribcage. His touch is feverish and a little unsteady, but it’s him—it’s still him, and your skin yearns for it. You arch into his hand instinctively. Under your fingers, his neck is burning, tendons taut. You remember to be gentle, but he doesn’t want gentle right now—his kiss grows harder, more demanding, teeth grazing your lower lip like he’s starving for you.

You tug at his shirt and he lets you pull it off, tossing the thin fabric aside. Your hands roam over his bare torso and your breath catches. You can feel every rib, every notch of his spine. His once athletic frame has withered to skin and bone. Your fingertips ghost over old scars from fights long past, and new protrusions of bone that shouldn’t be so sharp. He watches your expression, and for a second, you worry he’ll see the sorrow in it. So you lean forward and press your lips to the hollow of his throat, nipping gently, drawing a ragged sigh from him.

His fingers slip under your top, pushing it up. You raise your arms to help shed it. He pauses to look at you—like he’s trying to memorize every inch. Then his mouth is on your collarbone, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your breast. You gasp as he takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking tenderly. A bolt of pleasure cuts through the haze of misery, and you hear yourself moan his name. He groans against your skin in response, one hand kneading your other breast. Despite everything, desire coils low in your belly. Your body responds on instinct to his touch, to the familiarity of him.

He guides you to lie back along the couch. You do, pulling him with you, not willing to break contact. For a moment, he’s hovering over you like times past, his lean body pressed to your side. His lips crash onto yours again, more urgently. You tangle your legs with his, craving any closeness you can get. His hand fumbles at the waistband of your sweatpants, hooking fingers to tug them down. You help shimmy out of them, kicking them to the floor. Heat pools between your thighs at the thought of him filling you, a desperate need to feel alive with him, even if it’s for the last time.

Seong-je shifts, attempting to brace himself above you. He’s trying to be gentle, to not crush you, but he’s hardly heavy enough for that to be a worry anymore. His face is flushed, breaths quickening with arousal and exertion. You slide a hand down between your bodies and palm him through his sweatpants. He’s hard, and he sucks in a breath at your touch. “Fuck…” he whispers into your neck, bucking faintly into your hand. The sound of his need, the way he trembles—it’s almost too much. Tears prick your eyes again, an overload of love and pain and want all mixed up together.

You push his waistband down, freeing his cock. He hisses as the cool air hits feverish skin. You stroke him softly, feeling the weight and heat of him in your hand. For a moment, he lets his head drop against your shoulder, a strangled noise escaping him that might be a sob or a moan or both. “I got you,” you murmur, kissing his temple. He nods shakily, pressing a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, like he can’t stop touching you, can’t get close enough.

But as he moves to position himself between your thighs, his breath falters. He pauses, chest heaving not just in desire, but in effort. A coughing fit chooses that moment to seize him. He tries to hold it back—God, he tries. You feel his whole body go taut and trembling as he clenches his teeth, determined to push through. He manages to align his hips with yours, the tip of him just brushing against your entrance… and then it all falls apart.

A ragged cough explodes from his throat, and he jerks back, pulling out of your grasp. He collapses onto his side on the couch, wracked with one heave after another. Each cough is brutal, scraping out of his lungs like barbed wire. “Seong-je!” you scramble up, reaching for him, your pulse spiking in panic. He rolls off the couch, landing on hands and knees as he hacks and gasps. You follow to the floor, half-naked and heart in your throat. A speck of something dark stains his palm when he covers his mouth—blood, you realize. It sends a bolt of horror through you.

“Fuck… fuck!” he rasps, slamming a fist down on the floorboards. Tears of pain or frustration or both shine in his eyes. His coughing finally subsides, but his breathing is ragged, wheezing. You move closer, wanting to hold him, to help him up, anything, but he twists away like a wounded animal. In a flash of movement fueled by rage and humiliation, he snatches the closest object—an empty beer bottle from the floor—and hurls it across the room. It shatters against the wall with a sharp crash, glass raining. You flinch, a yelp of surprise escaping you.

“Get away!” he chokes out, voice breaking. He slumps back against the couch, half-sitting on the floor, half propped by the cushions. His face is a contorted mask of agony—physical and otherwise. He swipes at his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood and snot. He’s sobbing and cursing under his breath, wheezing through his teeth. “Can’t even… fuckin’ do this…” he spits bitterly. “Can’t even make love to my girl… Useless… I’m so fucking useless…” The last word devolves into a ragged sob that he tries and fails to swallow.

“Stop,” you plead, crawling to him. Broken glass glints on the floor, biting into your palm as you move, but you couldn’t care less. “Stop, please…” You reach for him, and this time he doesn’t fight you. He’s too far gone in despair. You cradle his head against your chest, wrapping your arms around his shaking shoulders. He shudders, choking on sobs as they pour out of him. It’s the first time you’ve seen him cry like this—truly break. It guts you.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out between breaths, fists curling into your thighs as if to hold on for dear life. “I’m sorry… I c-can’t… I’m s-sorry…” He’s apologizing to you, and that makes it even worse. You stroke his sweat-damp hair, kiss the top of his head, rocking him slightly as if he were a child. “Shh, it’s okay,” you whisper, voice thick with tears you can no longer hold back. “It’s okay… it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault, okay?” Your words come out rushed, desperate, because you need him to believe it. “I don’t care about that, I don’t care… I just want you.”

He clings to you, his gaunt arms wrapping around your waist. You can feel the dampness of his tears against your skin. “I c-can’t even be a man for y-you,” he stammers, shame and anguish coloring every syllable. “You deserve b-better—” You cut him off, tilting his face up with gentle fingers on his jaw. His cheeks are wet, eyes red and overflowing. The sight of him—proud, fearless Geum Seong-je—reduced to this broken shell, it undoes something in you. “Don’t you dare,” you hiss, not in anger at him but at the idea. “Don’t you fucking dare say I deserve someone else. I want you. Just you. Always have.” The fierceness in your own voice surprises you. “We’re in this together, don’t you know that by now? You die, I die. Maybe not right away, but…” your voice cracks, “but I’m dying with you, Seong-je. Can’t you see that?”

He looks up at you through tear-clumped lashes, anguish etched deep. “I did this to you,” he whispers, horror in his tone. “I’m killing you—” “No,” you say firmly, pressing your forehead to his. “This cancer, these cigarettes, fate, whatever the fuck—maybe they’re killing you. But you… you are the only thing that’s kept me alive this long. You gave me a reason. You…” Your voice falters, and a sob escapes your throat. “You idiot, don’t you get it? I love you. I’m here because I love you. Nothing’s gonna change that. Not even this.”

For a long moment, the only sound is both of you crying softly, holding onto each other on the floor as the city hums obliviously outside. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel his arms tighten around you with what little strength he has left. “I love you,” he croaks out, the words muffled against your skin. It’s unclear who trembles more at that, him or you. You clutch him harder, as if sheer will alone could fuse you together and keep him here. “I love you, Seong-je,” you answer, your lips against his temple. “So fucking much.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that on the floor, entwined in grief and love, half-dressed and wholly broken. Eventually, the storm of tears settles into sniffles and ragged breaths. His coughing has subsided, leaving him utterly spent in your arms. You press a soft kiss to his forehead and he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. There’s nothing sexual in it now—only raw intimacy, the two of you clinging to what’s left of your lives.

“Come on,” you whisper eventually, brushing damp hair from his eyes. “Let’s get you to bed.” He nods weakly. He can hardly hold himself up, so you do it for him, pulling his arm over your shoulder as you both struggle to your feet. Your knees wobble, partly from the adrenaline crash, partly from the pieces of glass that had cut into your skin. You grit your teeth against the sting and focus on guiding him the few steps to the bedroom.

You manage to get him into bed, both of you stripped down to underwear and an old t-shirt on you. You tug the blankets up over his thin form and slip in beside him. He immediately curls into you, head on your chest, arm draped across your stomach. It’s an intimate tangle, skin to skin, heart to heart. His breathing is still labored, wheezing softly, but the terrible coughing has stopped for now. In the quiet dark, you stroke his back in slow circles. “I’m here,” you murmur, unsure if he’s fully awake. He hums faintly, a broken purr of contentment or acknowledgement.

Minutes or hours pass; you can’t tell. You refuse to sleep—every moment feels painfully precious. You just listen to him breathe, each inhale shallow and wet, each exhale a little weaker than the last. Your mind drifts through the years you’ve shared, half-dreaming with your eyes open. You remember the first time he ever said I love you—drunk on cheap soju, arm slung heavy around your shoulders on a rooftop at 3 AM. He’d slurred it out with a goofy grin, and then, more soberly, whispered it again against your neck as you laughed and cried at the same time. You remember the way he had kissed your tears away after your first big fight, holding you so tight you could hardly breathe. You recall the day you moved into this apartment together, how he cursed six flights of stairs but carried the heaviest boxes without complaint, sweat and pride mixing on his face. And lazy Sunday mornings tangled in threadbare sheets, how he’d nuzzle your chest and groan that five more minutes could solve all of life’s problems. A lifetime of moments, big and small, all of them leading here.

A faint scratchy whisper pulls you out of your haze. “Hey… you still up?” he asks, words slurring just a bit. You sniff and realize tears had been leaking from the corners of your eyes into his hair. “Yeah,” you say softly, voice thick. “I’m not going anywhere.” You echo those words he gave you years ago, and he must recognize them, because you feel a weak huff of breath that might be a laugh against your ribs.

His hand gropes lightly at your side, getting your attention. He tilts his face up, the effort clearly costing him. In the slice of moonlight through the window, you see his lips tremble. “Can I… have one more?” he asks, eyes flicking toward the nightstand, right beside a creased photo of you two from years ago, where a stray cigarette and a lighter sit. His emergency stash. Your stomach twists. Even now, he wants a smoke. Your instinct is to say no, it’s the last thing you need, but then you realize: it is the last thing he needs. The last thing he wants. Who are you to deny him now?

Wordlessly, you reach over and take the cigarette and lighter. Your hands shake as you flick the wheel. It takes two, three tries for the flame to catch. He watches you with a grateful, sorrowful half-smile. You hold the cigarette to his lips and he inhales. The tip flares orange in the darkness. Smoke drifts from his mouth as he exhales a content sigh. “Thanks,” he whispers. You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod and blink back more tears.

He gestures weakly, inviting you to share. You’ve never been much of a smoker, but for him, in this moment… You bring it to your own lips and take a drag. It burns harsh and bitter down your throat, making you cough softly, but you hold it in, let the nicotine spread through your lungs. He watches you, eyes heavy-lidded. In them, you see love, and regret, and a quiet resignation.

You pass the cigarette back to him. He only manages one more shallow pull before his hand trembles too hard. Ash falls onto the sheets, but neither of you care. You take it from him before it can slip from his fingers and stub it out in the half-empty water glass on the nightstand. A thin wisp of smoke snakes upward from the dampened butt, curling toward the ceiling before it fades into the dark. When you turn back to him, his gaze is distant, unfocused. Panic flickers through you. “Seong-je?” you whisper. You touch his cheek and find it cold, clammy. He blinks slowly, then looks at you as if from far away.

“…Love…” he breathes out. It’s barely a sound. Maybe just a movement of his lips. Your heart seizes. “I’m here,” you whimper, clutching his hand. His fingers curl weakly around yours. He draws in a rattling breath, and for a beat, it’s like the whole world holds still. Then he lets it out soft and long… and doesn’t take another.

“No… no no no,” you plead, bolting upright. You cup his face; his eyes are still open, unfocused and empty. With a shaking hand, you gently slide his eyelids closed, your thumb and fingers feather-light on those beloved features. Even in death, he almost looks peaceful—almost just asleep. “Seong-je, please—” your voice cracks violently. Another useless plea falls from your trembling lips. “Please…don’t…” But you know. You know.

A keening wail rips out of you, something between a scream and a sob. You half-collapse over his still form, shaking hands pawing at him as if you could jumpstart his heart by will alone. He’s so fucking still. The realization hits like a bullet: he’s gone. He’s gone.

A strangled cry tears from your throat as you clutch at his body. “No, no, no… please, come back…” you’re babbling, pressing your forehead to his and sobbing so hard your ribs ache. It hurts—God, it hurts like nothing you’ve ever felt. Every ragged breath feels like broken glass in your lungs. His skin already feels different, like the warmth is evaporating by the second. You pepper his face with frantic kisses—his forehead, his slack eyelids, his cooling lips—desperate, panicked motions, as if love could somehow resuscitate. But there’s no response, no spark of life leaping back into him.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, entangled with his lifeless body, wailing and begging for the impossible. Eventually, your screams turn to whimpers, and your whimpers to silence. The world narrows to the weight of him in your arms and the shatter of your heart. The pain is immeasurable; a part of you has been ripped out, leaving a raw, gaping wound. You want to howl and rage at the universe for taking him, for making you live through this hell. It’s so goddamn unfair—you’d trade anything, everything, to have him back. But there’s no one to bargain with, no fight to win here.

Your voice comes in a broken whisper, words spilling out to the quiet corpse in your arms. “Why… why did you do this?” you hear yourself say, lips against his cooling ear. “We were supposed to have more time… we were…” A hiccup of a sob cuts through. “Damn you, Seong-je.” There’s no venom in it, only anguish. “Damn you for leaving me. What the hell am I supposed to do now, huh? We never even made it out of this shitty city like you always talked about.” Your fingers curl into his shirt, bunching the fabric. “You promised,” you choke out, forehead pressed to his. “You promised you wouldn’t go without me… you promised.” The silence that answers is unbearable. “I can’t do this without you,” you whimper. “I don’t want to… I don’t want to do any of it without you.” Sheer exhaustion weaves through your voice as you press your lips to his temple. “Maybe… maybe I’ll see you on the other side, huh?” you whisper brokenly. “So don’t go too far without me, you hear?” The confession hangs in the still air, a truth meant only for the dead.

But dead men don’t answer. He just lies there, eyes closed as if merely asleep, while your world collapses. A faint ray of morning sun slices across the bed, lighting dust and smoke in the air. It falls over his face, and for a moment it almost looks like he might stir, complain about the light in his eyes like he used to on lazy mornings. But he doesn’t. He won’t ever again.

He promised he wouldn’t leave without you. But here you are, alone among ghosts. You want to howl and rage at the universe for taking him, for making you live through this hell. It’s so goddamn unfair—you’re living a punishment you don’t deserve. But there’s no waking from this, no one to hear your fury.

Suddenly, a sharp electronic chirp cuts through the silence. Your phone on the bedside table springs to life with an alarm—one you set weeks ago for his morning medication. The cheerful chime is a cruel contrast to the horror in your soul. You lunge for the phone and shut it off with a trembling finger. A sob of laughter escapes you, high-pitched and empty, because what use are alarms and pills now? What the hell is the point of any of it?

The cigarette smoke lingers in the air, a ghost of his last moments. You inhale it, choking on tears, wishing it would fill your lungs and end you too. But it doesn’t. You’re alive. And he’s not. A broken sob hitches in your chest as you press one final kiss to his forehead, your tears dripping onto his ashen skin, breathing in the fading scent of tobacco and him that still clings to his shirt.

In the growing light of morning, you hold his body close and scream silently into the hollow of his neck. Your future with him has burned down to ash, and all you can do is cling to the remains. Without him, you don’t know how to exist.

All that’s left are the ashes of tomorrow, and the echo of his name in the silent room around you.

[woundedsoul12]

Thursday Bangers Time!

Rules for your Copy and Paste: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

This week's Banger just really jumped out and spoke to me so I hope it does the same for you. I am getting suggestions for weekly bangers and I love that and am adding them to the request line.

No matter what happens, he cannot come between us again I know we're better than friends- Million Dollar Baby by Tommy Richman

No pressure tagging @himluv @thedissonantverses @mythals-whore @serensama @whispersleo @tarasmom @hedwigoprah @becausedragonage @kindlyfeline @davrinsleftpectoral @fenrelmercar @plasticfreckles @kai-dimir @teamtakagi @a-mumbling-nerd @fiberpunk027 @larknnightingale @jenn2d2 @hyperions-light @tkwritesdumbassassins @feelslikepants @trash-nerd @cute-ellyna @brennacedria @lottiesnotebook @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @operative-arrow @librivore42 @obsessed-with-book-boyfriends @fireheartedpup @mikylechase @bonesandivy @vime5 @notyourmamasdeerbat @griffongrey @master-of-the-elements @chaoslifeforme @carrieing0n @serstolas @beachhotdog @nirikeehan @basedonconjecture @bygonesigh

And if you are reading this...

You

Reminder if you want to be added/removed from the weekly tag list just let me know. Also please tag me when you post your bangers I love to read and share them (though I also browse the tag)

Let's go a little Lenashur this week. From my The Dragon's Den series. Where a broken-hearted Lena has returned home to Ashur after Lucanis broke up with her. Special thank you to @redheadsramblings for a line I stole from one of her comments

“Ashur-”

The Shadow Dragon leader looked up from his desk as the door creaked open. Revealing his smallest dragon, his little assassin, with rumpled parchment clutched in hand. His jaw already clenching as he saw her red rimmed eyes. Her lip trembling as he closed the space between them in three strides. Not pausing as he pulled her into the safety of his arms. Where she belonged, would always have a home, as a fresh wave of tears began to fall.

“Shhh, whatever it is I'm here,” he murmured gently against her hair as she clung to him.

He wanted to scream in frustration, but it wouldn't help the situation. It had been a week, an entire seven days since his Rook had her last breakdown. Since they stood on the roof and he forgave her. Since she kissed him softly through the leather of his mask.

It had gone no further and he was happy enough with his little slice of heaven. She needed time. Support. His fragile Lena healing the pain that bastard had caused. But Ashur would always be there to catch her. Love her. As he had silently done for years, and would continue for decades more.

If he didn't finally lose his control and kill the Crow for what he had done. The Divine was supposed to show mercy above all else, but some sins were beyond forgiveness.

Especially when she pressed the note against his armoured chest. A shudder running through her as she took a ragged breath. “He- wrote to me,” she whispered as her gaze fixed on the ground. “He wants me to come to Treviso. To- talk about what happened.”

He was glad he wore his mask, though it did little to hide the growl that rumbled from his chest. And the low curse of venhedis that escaped him when she jumped from the harsh sound and obvious anger radiating from him. Fear in her eyes that he hated to be the cause of as she subtly pulled away.

“Little assassin, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-” He attempted to reach for her but she sidestepped him. Her head clearer now that she was no longer wrapped in his arms.

“It's alright,” she brushed off as she stuffed her emotions back down. Hiding from him for the first time since her return to Minrathous. “I will deal with this.”

It wasn't Lucanis that finally broke his careful leash on his emotions, it was her. The coldness in her eyes as she turned from him. The stiffness to her shoulders as she walked towards the door.

There was only so much one man could endure. So much understanding he could give. The Divine spoke for the Heavens, but he needed someone on earth to keep him grounded. And now that his anchor had returned to him, he was in danger of losing her once more.

“Rook.” Her name was a command, an order from his lips. A tone he rarely used with his little assassin, and one that had her freezing in her tracks.

“Yes boss?” She didn't hide her annoyance, and he didn't care. Desperation made men crazy, as did fiery women with pouty lips and broken hearts.

“Look little assassin,” he began in a calmer tone as her body visibly relaxed. “I have not said much these last few weeks regarding that Crow, and I feel I have been very understanding.”

She cast a look of uncertainty over her shoulder at him as he spoke. A call that he answered as he stepped forward and gloved fingers reached out to dance along her jaw. “We are friends, Lena. Better than friends if we will both be honest with each other.” She licked her lips then, a subtle agreement that made his heart thunder in his ears.

“I want no secrets between us,” he said as he leaned forward. Her eyes fluttered closed as his words echoed into her very soul. “I love you, amate. I always have. And while I support whatever decision you make, I'm not sure how much more my heart can take if you return to him.” It was true. He would always be there as her friend, but a return to Lucanis would be the end for anything further between the two of them.

She smiled then. A warmth as if she knew a secret she was about to share. Turning to reach up as she unclasped the buckle of his mask. Calloused fingers tracing the angles of his face. Until her thumb came to the fullness of his lips and he sucked in a breath.

“Good,” she replied with a slight grin as the last of the tension finally left her. “I just needed to hear that. That- you would never let him come between us again. That you would protect me. Even from myself.”

She was still fragile, but he made her strong. Enough that she could face the days ahead. That she could continue to heal. That she could reach out for something new. Something she had been craving for much longer than she had allowed herself to realize.

She kissed him then. A full press of her mouth to his that was gentle at first, but grew more hungry as he pulled her against his chest and greedily took all that she offered. Only stopping when a soft whimper escaped her. Satisfied when he looked down to see her lips swollen and her eyes unfocused.

“I promise little assassin,” he chanted as his lips ghosted a soothing train across her brow, “No one will ever take you from me again.”

[noorvell]

Anchor

pairing: Jackson!Tommy x F!Reader

summary: Joel is dead, Jackson is wrecked. And you're his lifeline.

It’s in the way he won’t meet your eyes anymore.

You feel it first in the space between his hand and your back when he lies beside you at night—how it used to settle like a shield, heavy and warm, curved to the shape of your spine, and how now it hovers, undecided, before drawing back with a guilt-soft sigh. You feel it in the hush of his breath when he thinks you’re asleep, the way it catches, falters—the beginning of a name he doesn’t say out loud.

Joel.

The walls of the cabin creak with the spring thaw, soft water dripping off the edges of the tin roof, the air damp and laced with the smell of wet pine and distant smoke. The mountains beyond Jackson still hold snow, but the valley's gone to mud and pale green buds that will open into leaves by next week. The season turning, again. Unbothered by grief.

Tommy’s been staring at maps.

Not the kind you hang on walls for decoration, but the folded, stained kind—creases worn into fault lines by years of sweat and memory. He runs his fingers along them like braille. He traces rivers, roads, old routes he hasn't taken in years. You saw it first on the kitchen table, next to his untouched coffee. Then by the bed. Then in his jacket pocket. And tonight—spread open beneath the lamp’s dim yellow halo, casting long shadows over Seattle’s twisted streets and red-scratched notes scrawled in his familiar, rushed hand.

You know what it means.

And you’re tired of pretending not to.

“You’re going to go after her, aren’t you?”

Your voice is quiet. Not accusing. Not angry. Just tired. Like something that’s lived inside you too long has finally come up for air.

Tommy doesn't answer. Not right away. He doesn’t look at you. His eyes fix on a place somewhere over your shoulder—maybe a spot on the wall, maybe a memory. Maybe a ghost. His jaw shifts, clenches, unclenches. His hands remain still, but the tension in his shoulders speaks for him, rising like a tide about to break.

You step closer, close enough to see the way the lamplight pools in his lashes. Close enough to smell the earth on his skin from fixing the outer fence earlier that day. He’s been working too much lately. The kind of work that doesn’t need doing. Not really.

“You want to get her, right?” you ask again. No edge in your voice. Just the weight of a decade between you. The kind that makes words redundant.

This time, something shifts. A flicker. His shoulders dip—barely—but it's enough. Enough to know. Enough to feel the floor tilt beneath you.

“All right,” you say, and it lands like a stone in still water.

His head jerks slightly, his eyes—startled, sharp—finally finding yours. It’s like he’s forgotten you could read him this well. Forgotten what it means to be seen this way. And for a moment, something tender and pained passes between you, suspended like dust in sunlight.

You watch him swallow, mouth parting, unsure. And then the words come, fragile.

“No. Don’t—” He reaches for you, his voice catching. “You can’t.”

But you’ve already stepped forward, taken his hands, callused and warm, fingers stained with dirt and old blood. You place them on your waist, anchor him with the weight of your body.

“I will,” you say. “You said it yourself—together. That’s what this ring means.”

You lift your hand, the silver glint of the band catching the light. Simple. Worn. A symbol of something hard-won, something earned in blood and grit and the long, quiet ache of survival.

His hands rise to your face, slowly, reverently. Always so gentle, even now. As if you might break. As if he doesn’t know you’ve already been broken and rebuilt a dozen times since the world ended. His thumb traces the curve of your cheek, and he leans in, forehead pressed to yours, like he can will you to change your mind through proximity alone.

“I’ve already lost my brother,” he breathes, voice low and raw, “I can’t—can’t risk you too.”

There it is. The fault line in his chest. The quake beneath the calm.

You close your eyes, let the words wash over you, but you don’t pull away.

“I’m not asking,” you say, soft but firm. “I’m as good a sniper as you. And I’m ten years younger. I’m not a liability. I’m an advantage.”

Tommy’s mouth opens like he might argue, but nothing comes out. He knows. You both know. You’ve always been his match—in the field, in the fight, in the way you love. He remembers what you did for the Fireflies, the missions no one wanted, the cities no one came back from. The time you bled out beside him behind a half-collapsed pharmacy in Capitol Hill, holding a pressure dressing with your own palm while whispering instructions through gritted teeth. The way you shot a man clean through the eye from a rooftop three blocks away without so much as blinking. You weren’t just good. You were his.

“I know the WLF,” you press, voice steadier now, memory running thick in your chest. “I know Seattle. I know the routes, the ambush points, how they move.”

You lean in, close enough that he can’t look away. “Don't forget I was stationed there. When they did the exchange with Fireflies. Before we burned our patches and ran.”

The air between you stills. Heavy with the ghost of that time. Seattle wasn’t just a city. It was trenches. Concrete and betrayal. You still remember the rain pooling in your boots, the crackle of a radio gone dead mid-sweep, the smell of rot in the downtown tunnels. You remember the names—Isaac, Owen—just faces then, just shadows in doorways and rifle scopes. Not yet tangled with Joel. Not yet stained with blood you’d have to reckon with years later.

“I trained with some of them,” you continue. “Drilled with them. I know how they think. How they work. Who they follow.”

Tommy flinches at that, and you know it’s not you he’s reacting to—it’s the inevitability. That this path winds backward just as much as forward. That going after Ellie means walking the same streets you both once bled on, only now with your hearts cracked wide open.

You say, quieter now: “You need someone who understands what you’re walking into. That’s me.”

And he knows you’re right. That’s the worst part.

His brow furrows. Fear and logic war on his face, tugging him in opposite directions. You can see him crumbling under the weight of it—love and grief, duty and dread. He looks like a man caught in the current, unable to swim to either shore.

“If you don’t let me come,” you say, quiet now, almost a whisper, “I’ll follow you. You know I will.”

He exhales, slow and shaking.

“If you try to avoid me,” you continue, “I’ll find you. I’ll shoot you in the foot and drag your stubborn ass back to Jackson.”

And that, at last, earns a cracked smile. Barely there. But it’s real. Like winter breaking. Like ice thawing under sun.

His eyes close.

A long silence stretches between you, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid, and everything said too late. The map lies forgotten on the table, its creases splitting at the seams, inked lines tracing old memories and future losses. Outside, the breeze slips through the cracked window and stirs the edges—Seattle fluttering like a heartbeat in the half-light.

Somewhere beyond, a horse snorts in the stable, the thud of hooves against damp ground echoing faintly. Life keeps moving. The world doesn't stop, not even now. Not even for Joel.

Tommy closes his eyes.

And in that darkness, the past rushes in like floodwater—too fast, too much. Joel’s laugh, sharp and crooked, rising off the back of a pickup at sunset. Ellie’s voice, high and angry and right. Your hand in his, years ago, bandaged and bloody, clutching his like a lifeline in a Denver alley while the sirens wailed and the Firefly insignia burned in your coat lining.

He sees it all. And none of it brings him peace.

He opens his eyes again, slow, as if sight itself hurts now. You’re standing there, not moving, just watching him, and Christ, it guts him—the stillness of you, the certainty. The way you carry your grief so quietly, so completely, and still remain upright.

“I don’t like it,” he says, and it scrapes its way out of his chest like something sharp-edged and unfinished.

You nod.

“I know.”

And then you step into him, and it’s not a kiss, not yet, not even a touch—but the air between you hums with it, like static before lightning. And finally—finally—he moves.

His arms come around you slowly at first, almost reverently, like he’s not sure he deserves it. Like he’s afraid you might vanish if he presses too hard. But you don’t. You lean into him like a tree bending toward water, fitting yourself into the hollow of him, one hand curling at the base of his neck, the other clutching the fabric at his side. And that’s when he lets go—lets the weight of it all fall forward, into you.

His face finds the warm crook of your neck, breath trembling against your skin. You smell like pine and gun oil and that little bit of lavender you found once in a trading stash, worn into your collar. You smell like home. Like before. Like something he thought was only going to live in memory now.

And he holds you.

Harder now. Desperate. The kind of hold that says: I am drowning, and you are the only thing I have left to hold on to.

He thinks of the nights in Denver. You in a rain-slick jacket, kneeling by a dying man with your jaw set and your hands steady, even though he knew you were shaking inside. You taking the shot no one else could. You coming back for him, always. Even when you shouldn't have.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers into your skin, voice raw and aching. “I can’t.”

Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading through the strands going grey, and you hold him like you’re trying to stitch the pieces of him back together with your touch.

“They won’t make a widow of me,” you whisper, not angry, not pleading. Just sure.

He pulls back slowly, just enough to see your face, and his hands frame it like he’s memorizing you—every scar, every line, every freckle from years under broken skies. His thumbs brush your cheeks, and his eyes—wet, frantic, tired—search yours for something he can’t name.

And maybe he finds it. Maybe he always has.

Because this time, when he speaks, his voice doesn’t shake.

“No,” he says. “They won’t.”

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, the terror recedes. Not gone. Never gone. But quieted. Because you’re here. And you’re not letting go.

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

a/n: first tommy fic, needed some angst otherwise it wouldn't be me. likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated. thanks for reading, see you next time.

@grayandthyme, hope you enjoy it.

[bunji-enthusiast]

He remembers the first time he met you like it was yesterday; infallible, imperfect, and confidently coincidental. Sluggish movements, a devil-may-care attitude about what you wore, it was perfectly comical. Yet, it was comfortable.

Huddling into the caverns of your chest as if it would pertain to more warmth for your cold skin, straggling by as you went down on the items on your list — groceries for the day, or week, didn’t matter really. It was for the most part, human. Despite the capitalist regime that always seemed to sputter up and down, humanity persevered with its own quiet moments and gentle domestication. Something he more then appreciates, and does so silently (especially generously) every single day.

As a militaristic man—Old habits die hard, he notices the way you walk, how long your fingers linger on some sort of treat or item, and even how you pull down some stray scuff if your pants happen to ride up. His most favorite and particular habit most people share that he’s noticed is how one draws down their sweater if they happen to wear one, which in this particular circumstance, you were.

It was nice to acknowledge, such a simple detail. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was trying to integrate himself back into normal civilian life, his ability to notice things would’ve been far duller —that is what he felt fortunate for. In a way.

Standing there could be standoffish, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it. It was as if the light emitting from the fluorescent lights overhead brimmed with life despite the lack of greenery evident in the store, the very environment curled in on your energy, following you with hopeful eyes. You also interacted with others, sparingly, but in those few minutes you interact: they go on their day with a lighter gait. He almost felt guilty for thinking you strange, but then again, he often thought that with every civilian he came across.

Then came your voice, he remembers that the most: “Something you can’t find? Let me help you look for it.”

The suggestion seemed almost impossible at the time, but it was one and the same with his wide-open experiences in combat, only now… it was in a grocery store. How Silly.

Your tone was light, notes musical and airy. Despite the evident exhaustion weighing down your shoulders, you always mustered the energy to help others if you could. That very thing was something he could share, a trait he also admired. So in a hopeful attempt In socialization, he responds.

“Uhm, no.”

Immediately he regrets his words, feeling the boiling warmth simmering beneath the neck of his skin and ears. He felt mortified at making such an impression, but in the midst of his internal turmoil, you simply shrugged. “Okay, but you sure? You look real confused.” You asked, something small tugging at your lips.

Inwardly he jumps at the subtle change of expression, he could sense that you knew — he was socially awkward. Poor him, he was already so introverted. He just had to go be weird the moment he spoke. But it was fortunate right now, that you understood.

“S’okay man,” you replied finally, bobbing your head with a tilt. “We got our days, you military by any chance? I don’t mean to assume, but you got that look.”

He was, beforehand not too long ago that he had just gotten off a tumultuous two-month long deployment—and even before that one was long over five months. It was nice to have moments of reprieve, to rest and recuperate the old body. The guilt eats at him easily unfortunately, the unforgettable routines and memories of Senior Officers barking orders but otherwise decent enough was ingrained.

Having love for others always seemed to present itself as some sort of unfortunate event however, one way or another. But, this was a memory he experienced, where none of that happened. Being allowed to exist simply, here, long before being the man they called Slayer -- long before the bullshit that happened on Phobos. He was human, a little broken, but human. At the time, something weighed heavy on his heart. As if it were the cataclysm to events, this reminder he bore, that he had always fought for something greater.

Something simpler.

So it aches, aches heavy in his bones with every step he takes, yet with every step he continues. With both, he is not sure why, yet within the same breath. He knows.

That is something he hates, and it is something he appreciates. It's accursed, the way he remembers things. How sometimes, something flashing in the peripherals of his vision. Fractured pieces of his former life, bits and pieces resuscitating the man he used to be. The man he was before the dreadful titles, the horror he carries on the breadth of his back. But he carries it not only out of the terror he instills in his enemies, but to be a shield, a powerhouse of savagery. Something that people rely on, even if that relying meant walking on the tightrope between all those who intended him sorely for the power he wields. Himself.

The duty of Slayer was his prerogative, the god-fearing anger and justice that represents all that is humanity.

How ironic is that he himself, continues to deny such a right. He reminds himself of such a thing, once or twice, but then it gets erased. Hands easy for war, calloused by blood, the white purity stained by constant combat.

But he remembers all of it, the young and the beautiful. You, a gentle kindred, though torn down by the weight of the world and the constant expectations, was made a free spirit.

The Slayer was no longer that.