#and instead wrote. something equally long

[ofdragonsdeep]

27: Memory

An image or impression of one that is remembered.

A history of collision on the Steps of Faith

Not for the first time, Ar'telan's feet took him out to the Steps of Faith.

The sounds of combat accompanied every step. Steel on scale, the flash of fire from the maw of a dragon. The shouting of the knights. The dying of the knights. The sound of dragons hitting the stones, the life draining from their bodies.

I shouldn't be here.

And yet.

---

The first time he had approached the Steps of Faith, it had been in passing.

They had been cutting a path through the ceaseless snow, he and Alphinaud and Cid. The gates had risen like an ominous sentry from the blizzard, and he had stopped for but a moment to look.

"We haven't the time for sightseeing," Alphinaud muttered, his teeth chattering in the cold. By the cold iron gate, a single elezen in full armour had shot Ar'telan a look that could only be described as venomous, and he had taken them at their unspoken word.

Then, it had been a shadow, barely a moment spent upon it.

---

He walked past familiar faces - for a mercy, none of them dead upon the ground quite yet. With the city behind him, he drew his sword.

The horde had attacked as soon as Nidhogg had flown up from the snow, pouring onto the Steps to secure a way into the city. Barely had they returned from Sohr Khai than the attack did start, and Ar'telan had not had chance to ensure that those he knew were even safe, even alive. Such was the nature of warfare.

In the sky, Nidhogg locked claws with Hraesvelgr. It was a terrifying thing to behold, the power that the Eyes held. That Estinien's body provided enough scaffold, merged wholly with the wyrm's essence as he was, to rebuild him in his entirety. What did it cost him? If they had not risen up against Nidhogg like they had, would he have lived out the rest of Estinien's life as the wyrm? What after?

If the Ascians had never whispered their lies into Tiamat's ears, would Meracydia have answered his death with their own lives? When each body around which the aether grew frail, would another gladly volunteer to take their place?

He would have done. When he had still been home, and even now, he would have done.

---

The second time, it had been purposeful.

It was not part of his duties, assisting the Scions and Revenant's Toll with maintaining their alliance with Ishgard, fragile though it was. Very few things were - he went where he was told, did as he was told, and reported where he was told.

But Lord Haurchefant had seemed keen to show him all those parts of Coerthas which Ishgardian doctrine would allow an outsider to see. Ar'telan had not particularly wanted to go on a whistle-stop tour of all the places they had murdered dragons, but he had no way to rebuke it without whispering heretical secrets in Haurchefant's ear. And he did not trust the Inquisition to know the difference, so he had gone.

"They tell me that the way to the city was more open, once," Haurchefant had remarked. That had surprised him.

"Do the dragons pluck outsiders from the bridge?" he had asked, and tried not to show the bitterness in it.

"Not at all! The entire walkway is warded, as is the city itself," Haurchefant had explained, with that glimmer in his eyes that always accompanied a chance to speak of the good things of Ishgard. There were not many such times, Ar'telan had noticed. "They use the power of the Eye, kept within the chambers of the Vault, as I understand it. All those of the Horde are thus repelled."

"I see." He had resisted the urge to speak of it as a blasphemy. He did not want the people of Ishgard to be subjected to the whims of the frankly vicious dragons he had so far encountered in Coerthas. Even the dragonflies, usually such docile, tiny scalekin, seemed keen to take the head of any passing traveller. Ishgard was not a nation of soldiers, though certainly they were a majority of them. There were children within the city. Innocents, noncombatants. In truth, Ar'telan didn't think that anyone deserved to die, not even the soldiers who drew steel against the tide.

But he wished he knew why.

---

The sound as Nidhogg's teeth tore his brother's wing from his body was a gruesome one, cracking bone and ripping flesh. Ar'telan ran at a sprint to where Hraesvelgr had fallen, terrified that their attempts to stand against one half-alive dragon might claim the life of another.

It was with agony on his face that Hraesvelgr turned to look at him. Agony, but not regret. Across the bridge from them, Nidhogg landed with a crunch of talon on rock.

"Thy strength… is the last… which standeth against him,"Hraesvelgr managed. "So I shall lend thee mine."

Estinien had always held the Eye in his possession like it disgusted him, though the truth had ever been more complex.

The aether of Hraesvelgr's Eye merging with his own felt like coming home. A piece of him, one he understood through some new instinct to be that to which Midgardsormr had bound himself, sung out in answer.

He felt it.

All the rage, all the sorrow, all the agony. Every moment that had driven Nidhogg through that long millenium since Ratatoskr's death, he felt it. The sight of her body, butchered by the tools of man, her soul plucked out and made lunchmeat. The lack of remorse on their faces. The assault on his own flesh as he stood shattered, realising that her song had stopped because she was no longer there to sing it.

The despair that had caught Hraesvelgr when Nidhogg had told him the truth. The Eye he had given to his brother, that his flesh might persist long enough to wrest his own soul back from those who had stolen it. Only not rising to Nidhogg's anguished chorus because Shiva begged clemency.

It was not all of them who killed your sister.

But it would be all of them who answered for it. They would know the same suffering that Nidhogg did - eternal, unceasing, a pain and agony dragged out for so long that none no longer understood why they felt it. Senseless, pointless misery. Over and over and over again.

For a moment, he understood it.

It was the same anger that had fuelled Tiamat, in her despair, to turn to something that could not be turned back from. The feeling that something so hideous, something so callous, something that ripped a hole in the heart that would never heal, had to somehow be answered. That condemning his children to die upon the lances of the villains who had first chosen to stain them with draconic blood was a fair answer - that when they died, it was only proof that the choice was right. But it wasn't. Some small part of Nidhogg still felt it, buried deep beneath the anger and the rage, but he had nothing else left. The part of him that had loved his sister still lived, but the pieces of him that knew her love was ceaseless, boundless - they had withered in the onslaught. Ratatoskr had been failed by so many, and nothing cut more deeply than knowing he numbered among them.

Ar'telan walked past where Hraesvelgr lay, his white feathers staining red. He walked until there was naught between him and Nidhogg but blackened flagstones.

He raised his shield.

---

The third time he had visited the Steps of Faith, it had not been kind.

When the Knights had realised that they did not have enough to weather the Horde's latest assault, they had beseeched Revenant's Toll for help. It had been gruff, and curt, but Ar'telan understood that the act of asking at all meant that they were desperate.

He had not, particularly, wanted to answer. He had called on everyone he knew that might be able to stand against a dragon and live to tell the tale, but he had not offered his own answer. Unfortunately for him, Alphinaud had given it for him, assuming as he often did that Ar'telan would have no complaint with the matter. He had a great deal on his plate, so it had made sense that he hadn't noticed Ar'telan's uncertainty. At least, that was what he'd told himself.

So he had found himself with the van, the only thing standing between the massive seige dragon that the Horde had deployed, and the city itself.

They should not have been able to step onto the bridge at all. The act that they could bespoke an act of treachery, likely from the heretics Ar'telan had been volunteered into dealing with. He had been told the situation was complex, but it still seemed no better than throwing sword and scale against each other until one succumbed, no thought for casualties. The Ishgardians considered the dragons beasts, and killing their young was just eliminating a potential threat. A culling, not a senseless act of slaughter. And the heretics… they were willing to witness collateral, even among their fellow men, if it meant they would stop killing.

Ar'telan had wondered what would happen if one side won.

He had refused to assault the dragons directly. When he was directed to the cannons, he had ignored them. When he was told to man the dragonkiller - a name that made his skin crawl - he had begged Riennaut to go in his stead. He had helped with clearing out the scalekin that accompanied the dragons themselves, and stitched together the wounds of those fortunate enough to escape before the dragon's feet crushed their bones, but he had not hurt the dragon.

Lucia had noticed, and said nothing.

And when they found themselves backed up against Daniffen's Collar itself, naught but that and their own bodies between the Horde and Ishgard, he had asked himself if he was willing to die for that belief. As they set the powder barrels to light, and Vishap screamed in agony, he had asked himself if he would die for it. As Vishap inhaled for one final assault on the wards, he had asked himself if he would die for it.

Haurchefant. The family he spoke of so highly, but never named. Francel, and the memory of his brother, who had given his life against the dragons to see more to safety. The knights at Dragonhead, even those at Whitebrim who had allowed them to set forth into the Stone Vigil. All of them were willing to die for their beliefs.

As was he.

But before it could break that final ward, another dragonkiller lance had rocketed down from the heavens, crashing through Vishap with enough force to sever its neck from its body. Rising from the bloodied mass it created, an extremely grumpy Foulques, lance dripping onto the stone. From the tower where the final dragonkiller stood, Riennaut looking down without any expression on his face.

But he would have died for it.

---

It was not easy for a mortal man to fight a dragon.

Nidhogg was huge. His clawed feet were large enough to crush Ar'telan into paste, if he'd been able to pin him down. Every breath was laced with fire, every action an afterimage of heat.

Ar'telan knew how dragons fought. Even without Hraesvelgr's test, he had grown up around dragons, and he knew them well. He knew the patterns they dived in, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, he knew the way their sharpened claws could be laced with elemental might. He knew to avoid the snapping jaws and lashing tail. He knew it.

But fighting back was difficult when he had to spend so much time evading. He had chosen to take this stand, but every time his sword met Nidhogg's scales he felt the pain that rippled through the great wyrm. And Nidhogg had learned, too, from their initial clash in the Aery - one from which Ar'telan had not anticipated Nidhogg would leave dead, but it had happened all the same. He had witnessed as Ar'telan had begged him to see reason, he had laughed at his futile attempts to struggle against one of the First Brood. And he knew that Ar'telan cared.

So it should not have been a surprise when he shed the dragonskin, and faced Ar'telan as Estinien.

If it had hurt to face the dragon, to lock blades with a friend was almost worse. He had chosen to take this stand, and he had known that he might have no choice but to take Estinien's life in so doing, but seeing him, his skin wyrm-blackened, his every action controlled by the ghost that possessed him, it hurt.

But he had chosen this, so he persisted.

And when the final blow rang out across the Steps of Faith, and Estinien fell to his knees before Ar'telan, both of them fire-singed, both of them wyrm-touched, both of them halfway to dying - Ar'telan wondered who had lost the most.

---

One year hence from that final clash, Ar'telan once more found himself on the Steps of Faith.

The bridge was fit for purpose now, swiftly repaired in the days that had followed that final clash with Nidhogg, to better allow supplies to reach the ailing city. Ar'telan had avoided it, preferring to teleport into the city than walk those snow-dusted cobbles.

But today was different.

He left the city with barely more than a nod to the guard on the gate - everyone in the city knew him now. He walked across the bridge, pausing halfway across to peer over the edge of the stone walls, still somewhat cracked and battered after all this time. The abyss below writhed and seethed with wind, the currents churning at a sickening pace. He imagined the Warriors of Darkness, heros-turned-villains, steeling themselves against the maelstrom to serve Elidibus's ends.

At the time, it had seemed a fitting resting place. One where Nidhogg could lie undisturbed, his Eyes no longer at the whims of mortals. In the cacophony, peace, for one so long denied it. If only they had but known. But how could they have?

It had been a long time now since Ar'telan had held Hraesvelgr's eye within his aether, the gift returned in kind as soon as the battle was done, and Hraesvelgr fit enough to receive it. He felt the echos of it still, even now - it was impossible to fully divest himself of the influence. That persistent sorrow, the mourning for a moment so long ago passed, all those that had been lost - not only Shiva, but Ratatoskr, and Nidhogg twice over. Peace, shattered in a single moment.

Ar'telan knew that Estinien felt it, too. He had not seen him in months, and had not needed to, to know. It was a strange, uncanny thing to share.

He stopped when he reached that final stretch of cobblestone, where he had faced Nidhogg one final time. There had been no body to bury, for the wyrm had died long ago - long before Estinien had fought him in the Aery. He had died with Ratatoskr, and the death throes had strangled a millenium of life thereafter.

Ar'telan knelt down, brushing the fingers of one hand against the stone. He hadn't had much sensation left to feel with when the fight had concluded, that which hadn't been burned in fire quickly numbed in the agony of wresting the aether-rich eyes from Estinien's flesh. Now, it was clean, and cold, no memory of the ash that had stained it or the cracks that had run rampant across the distant. How quickly the stone forgot. It was little comfort to know that Ishgard still remembered.

In his other hand, he carried a small bouquet of Nymeia lilies. It had felt soothing to walk across the bridge without a weapon in hand, but now that he was here, he found he didn't know where they belonged. On the walkway itself, they would soon be trampled beneath the feet of chocobos or the wheels of carts. The rising walls felt wrong, most of them having been demolished by Nidhogg's rampage long before Ar'telan had even arrived on the field.

He got to his feet, and walked over to the edge. Stared down once more into the foggy depths.

As good a grave as any.

He flung the flowers over the edge, watching as they fell until the wind whipped them from his sightline and down into the darkness. An unseen memorial for an unmourned foe. But even if Ishgard would not, could not remember what Nidhogg once had been, Ar'telan would do it for them. Hraesvelgr had shown him. The song had shown him.

He stayed there for for over half a bell, until the sun began to set over the horizon and the chill of the wind had turned his fingers numb. There would never be a grand procession, no service to the gods in memory. Ishgard would hail him as a hero, and think of feasting and merry-making to mark the night.

He had been willing to die for it that day. And though he had walked away, a part of him would always stand upon that bridge, holding half of a Great Wyrm's soul in his hands, and choose to cast it over the edge.

He had been willing to die for it. And he had.

[whosashan]

SELF-DOUBT

Pt. 2

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x reader (reader is implied to be the MC in Caleb's part)

SYNOPSIS: Doubt creeps in, unraveling the fragile thread between you, pulling you further from him before anything even takes shape. (relationship not established)

A/N: I wrote this with a glint of mischief—hope you enjoy it!

Xavier

You sat on a bench, swallowed by the vast silence of the night. Darkness draped over you like a heavy cloak, its quiet lull almost enough to pull you into slumber. Almost. But no matter how exhausted you were, sleep never came. The streets stretched empty before you, hollow and waiting, save for the restless whisper of leaves dancing in the wind.

Beside you sat a half-empty bottle of wine, an offering to quiet the storm in your mind. But instead of drowning your thoughts, it only seemed to amplify them, making every ache more vivid, every insecurity more unbearable.

You were burning—boiling in the realization of how effortlessly Xavier existed.

How carelessly he moved through life, how mistakes never seemed to chain him down. He would stumble, but he would never fall. And if he did, he would rise again, never sparing the past a second glance.

He was magnetic in ways he didn’t even try to be. People were drawn to him, lured by something unseen, something inexplicable. A presence so commanding, so sure. The kind of certainty you would never know.

And you—you were nothing like him.

Every small misstep clung to you like an unforgiving shadow, dragging you back, keeping you tethered to doubt. You were plain where he was extraordinary. Silent where he was effortlessly captivating. A mere bystander in the presence of someone who burned so brightly, he could outshine even the stars.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your palms against your temple, trying to steady yourself.

You were unfit for him.

He was a constellation—distant, celestial, unreachable. While you were the remnants of a flower long past its bloom, wilting under the weight of your own self-doubt. Once, perhaps, you had been something more. But now? Now you were just a shell of what you wished to be.

The thought alone made your head throb, your chest ache in that quiet, suffocating way that reminded you you were still alive.

How ridiculous—how utterly foolish—to believe you could ever be his equal. That you could be worthy of his attention, his time, his kindness. The very same kindness so many others already fought for, already deserved far more than you ever could.

Your gaze drifted upward, meeting the expanse of the sky. A tear slipped free, streaking down your flushed cheek. You let it fall. For once, you wished you could have something that was meant to be yours. Just one thing. Just this.

But fate had never been kind. And you had long since learned that some wishes were never meant to be answered.

Your phone buzzed, the brightness of the screen making you squint.

"You up?"

Xavier.

Probably wanting to watch a movie, play that new game he wouldn’t stop talking about. Something easy, something simple.

But doubt had already woven its way into your bones. You weren’t going to reply. You weren’t going to pretend.

And then, the phone rang.

You should have ignored it. You should have let it ring into oblivion. But maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the ache in your chest—whatever it was, you answered.

"So you're not asleep."

His voice was soft, wrapped in that familiar gentleness you had always admired. No matter what happened, no matter what he said, there was always that warmth beneath his words.

It was unbearable.

"You should stop contacting me." The words spilled from your lips before you could stop them, sharp and cruel, colliding violently with the tenderness of his voice. "I don’t want to speak to you."

A lie. A desperate, pathetic lie.

Silence. You could almost picture his expression—the slight furrow in his brows, the way his lips would part just slightly in confusion.

"What are you talking about?" His voice, once steady, wavered with the weight of worry. "What happened?"

You hated it. Hated that he cared. Hated that he was giving you an out, a chance to explain. Hated that he was proving, yet again, that he was good, too good.

And you? You were selfish. Weak.

"Goodnight, Xavier."

You didn’t wait for his response. Didn’t let yourself hesitate. You hung up, turned off your phone, and let the silence settle in.

It was just you and the stars now.

You wondered if he was looking at them too. If he could feel the weight of your absence the way you felt the unbearable gravity of his presence.

For now, you convinced yourself you were doing him a favor. Letting him go. Giving him the freedom to chase something greater, something more.

Because that something could never be you.

Zayne

Zayne was the kind of man who belonged to the world. A man of purpose, of unwavering resolve—one who mended shattered lives and stitched together the fragile threads of existence. He was a savior, a beacon, the kind of person people clung to in their darkest moments, the reason they saw another sunrise.

And you hated how much you envied him.

Because you, too, had once longed to be someone like that—needed, irreplaceable. Someone whose absence would be felt, whose existence bore meaning beyond the mundane. But the truth was far less poetic. You were no savior, no guiding light. You were painfully, cruelly ordinary.

Drifting through life on autopilot, grasping at dreams that always seemed just beyond reach. And then there was him—Zayne, the ever-composed gentleman. The embodiment of grace under pressure. Always calm. Always certain. Always right. And perhaps, in some twisted way, that certainty made you resent him. Because deep down, a part of you whispered—maybe you could have been that, too. Maybe, in another life, you would have stood beside him as an equal.

But you weren’t his equal. You were a footnote in his story, an afterthought. And it was foolish—so terribly foolish—to believe you had ever belonged in his orbit. To think, even for a fleeting moment, that you were worthy of his time, his presence, his affection.

Yet a quiet, desperate part of you clung to the fragile hope that perhaps—just perhaps—he needed something ordinary to anchor his brilliance. That in the midst of his immaculate world, he might have craved something simple, something real. That maybe, against all logic, there had been a space for you beside him.

But hope was a dangerous thing. And you had long since learned to silence it.

The notification of a new message shattered the silence of your thoughts. You glanced at your phone, breath hitching as Zayne’s name appeared on the screen.

"You’ve been awfully quiet these past couple of days. Is something bothering you?"

Your fingers hovered over the screen, but you didn’t type a response. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You had become quite skilled at keeping your distance. At building walls around the parts of yourself that longed for him in ways you couldn’t control. And now, as your feelings for him grew into something perilous, something unbearable, your instinct was to retreat. To destroy what little remained before it could destroy you.

You prayed he wouldn’t push. That he would let you slip away unnoticed. But deep down, you knew better. Because Zayne was kind. So painfully, frustratingly kind. And his kindness made you furious.

You didn’t want his concern. You didn’t want his pity.

And then—the phone rang.

You stared at it, heartbeat hammering in your ears. For a moment, you almost answered. Almost let yourself believe in the impossible.

But instead, you let it ring.

It was better this way. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what you would keep telling yourself, over and over again, until the bitterness was all that remained.

Every time you stepped outside your apartment, a quiet dread curled around your ribs, squeezing tight. You feared crossing paths with him—not because you despised him, but because you feared what his presence would unravel within you. Would he say anything? Would he even care?

You followed a familiar path, the one your feet had traced countless times before. The setting sun stretched long, spindly shadows across the pavement, casting the world in hues of gold and sorrow. The evening breeze whispered against your skin, grounding you in the present, yet your mind was elsewhere—trapped in memories you had no strength to relive.

You sought solace in the scent of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries, in the soft murmur of a café that had once been a haven. But even that, it seemed, was not yours to keep.

As you scanned the display, preparing to order, a voice—low, steady, unmistakable—cut through the air behind you.

"A slice of cheesecake for me, and—" a pause, deliberate and weighted, "_____ for the lady."

Your heart clenched. Heat bloomed in your cheeks. You didn’t turn around—you couldn’t. But your fingers curled at your sides as if bracing for impact.

He remembered.

Even after everything, he still remembered.

Silence stretched between you like a fragile thread, taut with everything left unsaid. You should have walked away. You should have spoken, filled the empty space with something, anything. But hope—foolish, insidious hope—kept you rooted in place.

"Would you grant me a moment of honesty?" His voice, smooth and measured, held an undertone you couldn't quite place. A plea? A demand? Perhaps both.

You swallowed, your gaze fixed on the counter. "I'm not sure what you'd like to talk about."

"Come now," he said, his tone impossibly gentle, "do not insult my intelligence—or yours—by feigning ignorance. We are both aware of the distance you have so carefully placed between us. I only wish to understand why."

There it was. Direct, articulate, impossible to misinterpret.

Panic stirred in your chest, a quiet, insistent thing.

"Zayne, please—"

"Please what?" His voice softened, yet his words remained precise, deliberate. "Pretend I have not noticed your absence? Ignore the way you avert your gaze, as if the very sight of me has become a burden you can no longer bear? Is that truly what you wish of me?"

Your breath hitched.

"Sometimes," you whispered, "some things are best left unknown."

You turned before he could see the way your expression crumbled. Before he could see the way your hands trembled at your sides.

The café door chimed as you stepped outside. The reason you had come here in the first place—the pastry he had ordered for you—lay forgotten.

But he didn’t follow.

He didn’t reach for you.

And that, somehow, was the cruelest part of all.

Left standing in the empty hollow of your own choices, you wondered—was this truly the only way? Or had you simply chosen the path that hurt the most, just to prove to yourself that you still felt something at all?

Rafayel

It was all too easy to drown in self-doubt when standing beside Rafayel.

He moved through life with an effortless grace, as if uncertainty had never dared lay its hands on him. Confidence clung to his every step, an unshakable certainty in the way he spoke, the way he created, the way he existed. No matter the circumstance, he would find a way—because that’s just the kind of person he was.

And you? You were a spectator in his orbit, a mere shadow to his brilliance.

You hated how easily he captivated others, how rooms seemed to hush when he entered, drawn in by the cruel beauty he possessed—not just in his features, but in his very being. There was something infuriatingly magnetic about him, something that made people linger, hoping for even a fraction of his attention.

And you? You lingered too.

Not because of his art, though his talent was undeniable. Not because of the way the world adored him, though it was impossible to ignore. But because he was him—a force of nature, a storm and a masterpiece all at once.

You tried to keep up, you truly did. But no matter how quickly you ran, he was always ahead. Already reaching new heights, already standing atop mountains you hadn’t even begun to climb.

Rafayel was the ocean—vast, unknowable, and devastatingly beautiful. Deep with mysteries, with uncharted depths you would never be allowed to explore. You had always been afraid of drowning, but with him, you almost welcomed it.

How pathetic.

You resented how easily he had wrapped you around his finger, how effortlessly he kept you tethered without even noticing. You were there, always there, like a loyal dog at his heels, waiting for scraps of attention, pretending it was enough.

But it wasn’t. And deep down, you had always known it wouldn’t be. You wanted to be selfish, just this once.

Because one day, he would move on. He would walk into a world filled with greater things, greater people, and you would be left behind—forgotten, discarded, chained to memories he would not care to revisit.

You refused to let that happen. You refused to be another fleeting thing in his life, another season passing unnoticed. So, you did the only thing you knew how to do—you vanished before he could make the choice himself. You let yourself slip away, gradually, like the last breath of winter surrendering to spring.

Your phone buzzed. Unread messages. Missed calls. His name appearing again and again on the screen.

You read them. Or, at least, you skimmed the words before doubt crept in, wrapping itself around your throat like an invisible hand. You couldn’t do this. Couldn’t let him see you like this, drowning in the weight of emotions you could never voice.

"Cutieee, did you forget about my art exhibit??? You were supposed to be there."

No, it was better this way. You would return to the life you had before him—a quiet, simple life, untouched by the chaos he had introduced into your world. A life of routine, of predictability. That was what you needed, wasn’t it?

Then why did it feel like suffocating?

You exhaled, sinking deeper into the couch. The room was messier than usual—evidence of his recent visit, his presence lingering in every overturned book, every misplaced sketch, every forgotten jacket draped over the chair.

You refused to clean it up. Not yet.

Not yet.

Your fingers hovered over your phone, mindlessly scrolling—until an advertisement flashed across the screen.

His new exhibit. His name in bold letters, his work displayed for the world to marvel at.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would erase the ache in your chest. As if it would silence the part of you that still longed to be near him, even now.

But longing was dangerous. It was cruel, deceptive.

Your jaw tightened as you closed your phone, fingers moving with practiced finality. One tap. Then another.

Blocked.

You shut your eyes, swallowing down the lump in your throat, willing yourself to believe the lie you had been repeating for days.

It’s okay.

You’ll figure it out.

Even if it kills you.

Sylus

The night air curled around you like an old lover—cold, indifferent, familiar. It filled your lungs, sharp and biting, yet no matter how deeply you inhaled, it wasn’t enough. You were suffocating, drowning in something invisible, something that clung to your ribs like a parasite.

The glass of wine in your trembling hand felt like an anchor. Heavy, grounding. The very same wine Sylus had once recommended, his voice smooth as he described its velvety texture, its lingering finish. You had listened, hung onto every syllable, because that was what you did with him. You listened. You remembered. You cared. And you hoped he did, too.

Your reflection in the glass balcony doors was pitiful—ruined mascara streaking your face like ghostly remnants of hope, smudged lipstick from where you had worried at your lip too many times. You looked desperate. Because you were desperate. And wasn't that the most humiliating thing?

You were nothing more than a fool playing house in a mansion you were never meant to enter. A child trying to hold onto a storm and then crying when it slipped through their fingers.

Because it had slipped.

You had slipped.

Sylus had made you believe, even if only for a fleeting moment, that you could be something—someone—to him. That you were different, special. That the way his gaze lingered meant something, that his rare smiles were meant for you alone.

What a lie. What a cruel, beautiful lie.

You tilted your head back and emptied your glass in one swallow. The burn was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the fire in your chest.

Foolish.Pathetic.Naïve.

You had let yourself believe you could matter to a man like Sylus.

Sylus, who was untouchable. Who could have anything and anyone. A man whose very presence commanded rooms, whose name carried weight heavier than entire empires. He was revered, feared, an unstoppable force of nature.

And you?

You were nothing.

A momentary amusement, an interlude between greater things.

The worst part?

He had never once given you a reason to think this way. Never lied to you. Never made empty promises.

No—this was all you. Your own mind, your own doubts, curling around you like a noose, squeezing, whispering, you are not enough, you were never enough, you will never be enough.

Your phone buzzed against the railing, the sudden vibration slicing through the quiet. You didn't need to look to know who it was.

Sylus.

Of course.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, but you didn’t answer. Not yet. Instead, you let your eyes fall to the lock screen, to the photo you refused to delete—Sylus, asleep, his features unguarded, softened in a way you rarely got to see. It had been a stolen moment, a cruel mercy the universe had given you, because you had wanted to believe he was yours in that moment.

But he wasn’t.

And he never would be.

Your chest ached so deeply it felt like your ribs would crack under the pressure.

You should block his number. End it now before it consumes you whole.

But you couldn’t. Because you were weak. Because even now, when every voice in your head screamed at you to run, you wanted him to call again.

You wanted him to tell you you were wrong.

You wanted him to chase after you, to demand answers, to prove you wrong.

But he wouldn’t.

Because Sylus didn’t need you.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the most painful part of it all.

With a heavy exhale, you turned off your phone, shutting out the only person who had ever made you feel alive.

For now, you would convince yourself this was the right choice.

That you were doing this to protect yourself.

That you weren’t just running away before he had the chance to leave first.

Caleb

Oh, how much you loved and hated that man.

Caleb, the golden child. The one who had always been effortlessly everything.

The one who turned heads when he entered a room—not just because of his sharp jaw or the way his stupidly soft hair always fell into his eyes, but because he was Caleb. Because he had that energy, that confidence, that natural magnetism that made people want to be close to him.

And you—well, you were just the one who had always been there.

The one who followed a step behind, the one who laughed at his ridiculous jokes even when they weren’t funny, the one who made sure he stayed grounded when his reckless nature got the best of him. His constant. His safe place.

But never his choice.

Never the one he reached for in the way you reached for him.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling of your dimly lit room, your fingers gripping your phone like it was the only thing anchoring you to reality. The screen glowed softly, Caleb’s name lighting up in the dark.

Missed call.

Another missed call.

A message: "Pipsqueak, Where are you? You good?"

It was almost funny. Caleb always knew when something was wrong. Always had that frustrating intuition when it came to you.

And yet—he never really knew.

He didn’t know what it was like to stand beside someone so bright, so undeniable, and feel like you were flickering out. Like you were just background noise in a song that was never really yours.

You clenched your jaw, heart twisting painfully. It was suffocating—this love, this stupid, unwanted love that had lodged itself in your ribs, too deep to remove without destroying something vital.

God, how had it come to this?

When had your best friend become the thing that hurt you the most?

You weren’t even sure when the shift happened. Maybe it was the first time you realized how beautiful he looked under streetlights, his laughter warm enough to make your chest ache. Or maybe it was when you started noticing the way his lips curved just slightly before he smirked—like he already knew exactly what you were thinking. Maybe it was the nights he snuck to your room just to ramble about some nonsense, and you let yourself believe—for those fleeting moments—that you were the person he wanted to be with.

Maybe it had always been this way, and you were just too blind, too hopeful to acknowledge it.

But hope was a dangerous thing. And you were so tired of losing to it.

Your phone buzzed again. Another call.

You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers trembling.

You wanted to answer.

You wanted to hear his voice, let him pull you back in with that stupid, teasing warmth, let him fix this in the way only Caleb could—without even realizing what needed fixing.

But you couldn’t.

Because every second you spent with him, you fell a little deeper. And Caleb… Caleb never even noticed he was holding the rope that could either pull you up or let you drown.

Your throat burned as you stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the call.

And for a moment—just a moment—you let yourself imagine what it would be like. If you answered. If you told him everything. If you laid your heart bare and let him see just how much of it he had taken without even trying.

Would he laugh? Would he be kind? Would he let you down gently, tell you that you were important to him, but not in the way you wanted?

Or worse—would he pity you?

The thought made something inside you shatter.

No.

You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t let yourself be that vulnerable.

So instead, you did what you had always done. You swallowed the ache, buried the yearning deep where he would never find it, and turned off your phone.

Maybe in another life, things would have been different.

Maybe in another life, Caleb would have looked at you the way you looked at him.

But in this one?

You were meant to love him in silence.

And he was never meant to hear it.

[awrkive]

[TEASER] CATCH YOUR WAVE (m) — JJK.

the last thing you expected when you strolled into your new school is to become the favorite project of the 5’11” tatted-up overly enthusiastic, golden-retriever-in-human-form PE teacher, jeon jungkook. he’s all goofy grins, bad math puns, and relentless charm, while you’re busy pretending you’re immune to his antics... spoiler alert: you’re not. and that infuriates you. 

alternatively, jungkook tries to prove that opposites don’t just attract — they collide. a classic case of one plus one equals: “oh, no. i like him.”

PAIRING jeon jungkook x (female) reader

GENRE r18+ (fuff, slight angst, mature content) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

WORD COUNT ~15k (still working around the final wc)

TEASER WORD COUNT 1.8k words

WARNINGS/MISC teachers!au, pe teacher!jk, math teacher!reader, seven!jungkook, himbo!jk, coworkers!au (works in the same school), oc gets kinda mean sometimes but jungkook likes it lmfao, extremely corny pick up lines.. he tries 💔 2000s romcoms references (sorry) warnings for this teaser: nothing major. just bad math puns delivered by himbo jungkook :')

NOTES inspired by the whole “can she gaf me💔” vibes in the seven mv (by jungkook) and ultimately the click five’s song, catch your wave (hence the title🥸 pls listen to the song for the whole vibes hehe <3). ive been wanting to write himbo jk for awhile bcs all my jks are like … smart so far so i thought wait we need to change that. gahhhh im so so freaking excited ive been thinking about writing this ever ever since i wrote that one himbo jk drabble 💃🏼

[ CYW MOODBOARD ] • [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

RELEASE DATE 2025, APRIL xx | 01:00 AM KOREAN STANDARD TIME (GMT+9)

They say life is a balance of good and bad days, and you’re not a pessimistic person, but sometimes enough is enough. How is your week already this bad when it’s just barely started? 

Sunday morning, when you picked up your laundry from the shop, you were too late to realize that you mixed not just one but two white underwear with the colored loads. You’d blame it on the fact that they were too tiny, too flimsy for you to notice. But you know you should’ve double-checked before putting them in the machine. And now you have lost two panties. And in this economy? That shit cost a ton. 

When Monday came and the head of the Math Department informed you there was a sudden shift in your schedule for the semester, it meant that instead of teaching three Algebra classes for tenth graders, you’re also teaching pre-Algebra for eighth graders, meaning you’re gonna have to cross the long walk from the high school building to the middle school one, the latter being all the way to the left wing, completely the opposite side of the right wing where the faculty room and your initial classes are. 

Today, you’ve woken up with your WiFi not connected to the internet (something you have to talk to your landlord about when you come back home) and just two minutes ago, you realized you forgot to take your coffee order with you from the cafe across your school building, the sad garlic bread you bought along with it staring right at you without its beloved beverage pair. 

Truthfully, it might be your last straw. How the hell is this happening to you out of all people? The semester is just starting, for god’s sake, and you’re already hanging on by a thread. 

You take a deep breath on your seat before standing up from your cubicle, heading to the coffee machine by the snack bar.

You hate the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep on stocking the pantry with, it’s too naturally sweet – and you don’t like your coffee with sugar. 

But you have no choice but to make do. The cafe’s too far out and your first class starts in about twenty minutes. 

“Good morning, Ms. Math Genius – ready to crunch some numbers today?” 

As if this day couldn’t get any worse, you shut your eyes close for a moment when you hear the familiar voice. 

You stir your coffee with downturned lips.

“Only if you promise to flex those brain muscles—” You say, turning to look to the side. Much to your expectation, it’s Jeon Jungkook, leaning casually against the wall with that usual faux suave he keeps on around you – which you can’t take seriously because his big doe eyes tell you a completely different story. He’s wearing some Nike dri fit shirt, one that’s too tight around his chest and accentuates a comparatively tiny waist that you have to force your eyes upwards. But as they do, they land on the biceps that are straining against the poor material. It wasn’t lost on you though that one second after, they’re suddenly flexing. You arch your brow as you glance a look on his face. “—as much as you flex those biceps.” 

Jungkook’s lips curl into a huge grin, expecting the jab. 

“You know it!” He chuckles, running his fingers through his bangs. “I’m all about solving problems, and I’d say my favorite equation is you plus me equals a perfect start to the day.” 

You fight a loud groan from escaping your lips as soon as he says that, giving him a certain look before shaking your head and going back to your coffee. 

But you should’ve known better by now, because Jungkook – aside from being a PE teacher extraordinaire and every student’s favorite at that, Thee Football Coach, 5’11” tatted brunette with a long, fluffy hair paired with an objectively, annoyingly attractive face – is persistent. 

Most especially when it comes to annoying you. 

A few steps, and then you feel him getting closer to you. 

“Did you know that—” 

You roll your eyes. That’s it. If it’s another one of his corny math pick-up lines again you swear to god— 

“Jungkook, you don’t have to keep doing this everyda—” 

“—we’re like parallel lines?” 

“What.”

“Did you know that we’re like parallel lines?” Jungkook repeats earnestly, just like he always does. When he’s up in your personal space like this, it’s easy to get a waft of his cologne – and your annoyance could’ve been justified if he smelled like shit but somehow, even though he looks like he just got back from a run judging by his running shoes and gym bag, he still smells… okay. 

Just okay. As in, you don’t care how good he smells like or how he smells at all.

You make sure to keep that thought at the back of your head. 

“No.” You say, hoping to dismiss the conversation right there as you pick up the cup of coffee from the machine, ready to turn on your heel, but then Jungkook laughs ever so slightly and gives your arm a barely-there poke.

“Come on, entertain me a little.” 

You squint your eyes at him. He challenges your stare with a growing smile on his face. Scoffing, you roll your eyes again before you put the paper cup back on the table. With a sigh, you cross your arms and look at Jungkook. For a split second, his eyes cast downwards to your chest level but he quickly snaps out of it. 

“Okay… we’re like parallel lines… why? Because we’ll never meet?” You say in response to his little request, keeping your tone impassive. 

Jungkook’s eyes slowly widen at your words, smile slowly dropping – as if the logic of your words have ruined one of his million pick-up lines again. 

“I– no! What? I meant, we’re like, always running to each other! Side by side. Parallel lines.”

“Okay… so still never meeting?” You ask impatiently, brows furrowing. 

Jungkook mirrors your confusion. Then, he raises a hand, one finger up. “One second. I’ll fix this–” he takes his phone out from his pocket, types on it quickly, lip jutting out as he reads whatever he’s looking up, and then, “Ohh, I might have meant asymptote lines. We’re like asymptote lines.” 

Your face contorts into even deeper confusion. Holy shit, you’re not dealing with this very early on in the morning, especially not after the circumstances of the past hours.

“Asymptote lines are more depressing than parallel lines if we’re talking metaphorically.” 

Jungkook squints his eyes at you, suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“I would hope I know my lines, Jungkook. I teach them everyday.” 

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners cutely, and you hate how that tugs something at your heartstrings. 

You catch yourself right at that moment.

Jeon Jungkook is not cute. You keep in mind. He’s not cute. 

Jungkook thinks you’re so cute. Gorgeous, most of all, and unbelievably so. You and your signature furrowed brows and pink pouty lips.

As usual, you have your hair up in a clean bun today, and Jungkook can smell the lace of sweet vanilla from you as he takes a step closer to get a cup for himself. 

He loves the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep stocking the pantry with, it’s sweet as fuck. Just like how Jungkook likes his caffeine dose. Kind of like you, he thinks. 

Jungkook casts a quick glance at you again, can't really help himself when you're so pretty, although he makes sure to be subtle about it.

You’re wearing another one of your pencil skirts, one that he has to avoid staring at for longer than three seconds lest his mind takes him too far – but the upper view is even more of a torture, unfortunaly for him. Because as much as you wear the same outfit every single day and it should mean that Jungkook should get used to it by now, he can never be immune to your silk long sleeves, where you keep the top three buttons open – and as much as Jungkook tries to pry his gaze away from the exposed skin down from your neck, it’s like there’s a strange force in the universe that keeps him on it. Doesn’t really help that you like crossing your arms under your chest, too, making his mind run a mile per minute at the thoughts that form inside his head when a very apparent cleavage shows—

Alright. Damn. It’s like 8 am. 

And you were saying something about lines…

“Yeah? I hope you can teach me too, I need to—” 

“Goodbye, Mr. Jeon.” You cut him off before he can even finish his sentence, taking your coffee with you as you head to the direction of your cubicle. 

The nickname makes Jungkook’s lips curl up. He probably shouldn’t smile, given that you only ever call him that when you want to cut the conversation with him short. But he can’t help it, it sounds sweet coming from your pretty lips. 

In an attempt to not look like a fool, Jungkook bites his lip as he watches your disappearing figure, your heels clicking on the floor as you walk away. Your legs look so long in that grey pencil skirt, and it really should be criminal how you look like that even when you’re just showing your back. 

In his trance, he forgets about the brewing coffee in his cup and absentmindedly takes it out while the machine is still running, the hot liquid pouring from the nozzle quickly burning the skin on his finger. 

“Oh, shit!” He hisses, jumping from the shock, almost knocking his coffee out but thankfully he manages to catch it on time, just as when another member of the faculty walks by the snack bar. 

With an awkward smile, Jungkook raises a thumbs up to Mrs. Lee. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Lee. Looking rad as always.” He cheerfully greets, and Mrs. Lee’s confusion from seeing him fumble with his cup earlier quickly turns into a coo. 

“Oh, Mr. Jeon, you charming kid. I was just gonna get my cup of coffee.” She says, walking towards his direction. 

Jungkook adjusts the strap of his gym bag to his shoulder and takes a cup for Mrs. Lee with a grin, making her smile. 

She thanks him and with a playful salute, Jungkook goes toward the general direction of his cubicle, and because the PE department and Math department are just across from each other, he walks past you, typing something on your iPad before you look around and catch his gaze.

Jungkook automatically waves, smiling brightly, but you only frown, shutting your iPad close and ignoring him.

Amused, Jungkook tries to fight off a huge grin, taking a few long strides to get to his own cubicle. 

His day is already off to a good start.

© 𝐀𝐖𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐕𝐄 2025. all rights reserved. copying, editing, reposting and/or translating any of my works are not allowed.

[theodorenmyth]

hey!

could i please request a fic where theodore's sibling is dating mattheo and they want it to be a secret, but then everyone ends up finding out and they think theo's going to be angry/overprotective but he's really chill? and the pair are confused and a little offended by how unbothered he is?

i love reading your comedy fics because they always make me laugh!!

Secret Relationship

pairings ; Mattheo Riddle x GN!Reader

summary ; You and Mattheo Riddle secretly date behind your brother aka Theodore’s back, fearing his reaction. But when everyone finds out, Theodore is shockingly chill — leaving your chaotic friend group furious and dramatically disappointed by the lack of sibling rage.

A/N ; it's been so long since I uploaded 😭😭😭😭😭 I missed u all sm, AND ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I WROTE A MATTHEO FIC HELLO?! I've been on a Theodore streak I swear 😭 pls enjoy this comedic mess

Warnings ; none, just pure chaos

Word count ; 4.1k+

The night air curled around you in thin, biting tendrils, the wind sweeping through the Astronomy Tower and chilling your fingers where they gripped the stone ledge. The tower loomed above the castle, far removed from the warm flicker of torches and the comfortable murmur of the common rooms. Up here, the world felt suspended—like time had stopped and the stars were the only witnesses to your terrible, beautiful secret.

You were absolutely not supposed to be here.

"You’re shivering."

The voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence. You didn’t even need to look—you’d recognize that voice in your sleep. Mattheo Riddle stepped forward from the shadows with that familiar slouch, half-hooded eyes glinting with mischief and something gentler he’d never admit to. His black coat hung loosely from his shoulders, already halfway off as he reached out and draped it over yours.

The weight of it was immediate—warm, worn, and unmistakably his. It smelled like firewood, mint, and danger. A combination you had no business enjoying as much as you did.

"I'm not cold," you muttered, hugging the coat tighter around yourself despite the denial.

Mattheo arched a brow, unimpressed. "You're a terrible liar."

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are," he insisted, stepping closer, his grin growing with every step. "You always do that thing with your nose when you lie."

You blinked. “What thing?”

"That—" He pointed at you with a smirk as your nose instinctively scrunched. "Exactly that."

Your scowl deepened. “You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told.”

“And yet, here I am.”

He was fully in front of you now, close enough to steal your breath if you let him. His fingers grazed your waist like a question, an invitation. One you never could refuse.

"You could’ve stayed in bed like a reasonable person," he teased, voice dipped in velvet. "Instead, you came all the way up here just to see me."

"Don't flatter yourself," you muttered.

But he knew better.

And so did you.

Mattheo leaned in, his lips brushing yours, barely touching—just enough to set your nerves alight. "Say it."

"Say what?" you breathed, feigning innocence.

"That you missed me."

"I didn’t."

"Liar," he whispered against your mouth, and then he kissed you.

The world fell away.

His mouth on yours was rough and unrelenting, like he had waited too long and thought too much and wanted to erase the time you’d spent apart. You kissed him back with equal fervor, clutching his collar as if to tether yourself to the moment. The cold didn’t matter. The risk didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way his hands roamed your sides like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, like he wanted to touch everything at once.

He was infuriating and impulsive and impossible—but gods, he was yours.

Eventually, you pulled away, lips tingling and lungs begging for breath. He rested his forehead against yours, his grip on your waist still firm, possessive.

"This is reckless," you whispered, eyes half-lidded and drunk on him.

Mattheo didn’t even blink. "Reckless is snogging your best mate’s sibling in the Astronomy Tower at one in the morning while the entire school sleeps."

You groaned and thumped your head against his shoulder. "Don’t remind me."

"Just saying. We’ve already passed the point of no return, haven’t we?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you watched the stars—millions of them, quiet and distant and probably laughing at the mess you’d made of yourself. You should’ve stopped this weeks ago. You’d tried to stop. But Mattheo always had this way of pulling you back in, like gravity.

"This is insane," you murmured.

"Mm," he agreed. "And I love it."

You tilted your head to look at him. "You would."

Mattheo smiled, that crooked, charming sort of smile that spelled nothing but trouble. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that contradicted everything he usually projected.

"I like you like this," he said suddenly.

"Like what?"

"Defiant. Warm. Close." His voice dropped. "Mine."

Your breath hitched.

You hated how easily he could unravel you.

“You know my brother would murder you,” you said, only half-joking.

Mattheo’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah, well. That’s why he doesn’t know.”

“And if he finds out?”

His eyes darkened—not in fear, but in resolve. "Then we deal with it. Together."

Something in your chest tightened painfully. Mattheo Riddle was not known for making promises, but when he did, they meant something.

You tried to play it off, to lighten the moment. "Very noble of you. Might even make you look brave."

"I'm always brave," he deadpanned.

You laughed despite yourself and leaned up to kiss him again—softer this time, slower. Like a lullaby in the middle of a war.

Another set of footsteps—distant but undeniable—snapped you both out of it. Mattheo jerked away instantly, eyes sharp, scanning the stairwell below.

Your stomach dropped as you ducked behind one of the stone columns, barely breathing.

Please not a professor. Please not a prefect. Please not—

Silence.

The footsteps faded.

Mattheo let out a slow exhale. "That was way too close."

You nodded, pressing a hand over your pounding heart. “We need to stop doing this in public places.”

"Then invite me to your dorm."

"Absolutely not."

"The library?"

"Too exposed."

"Empty classroom?"

"Too cliché."

"Room of Requirement?"

You paused. "...Too convenient."

He gave a low laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Mattheo leaned forward and kissed your cheek, just above your jaw. “Tomorrow night?”

You hesitated. You should say no. You meant to say no.

“…Fine. But somewhere safer.”

"Deal."

He squeezed your hand once before retreating back down the stairs with the grace of someone who’d done this a dozen times and would do it a dozen more.

You stayed a moment longer, the weight of his coat still wrapped around your shoulders and the ghost of his lips still on your mouth. The stars blinked silently overhead, their light cool and unjudging. You exhaled and turned to go, already thinking about tomorrow—and all the chaos it might bring.

You were in too deep.

And you didn’t care.

Rain was pouring against the windows like the sky itself was throwing a tantrum, Hogwarts cloaked in that damp, miserable grey that made everyone collectively more dramatic than usual. You trudged into the Great Hall, dragging your feet like a ghost of your former, snogged-out self. You spotted your friends instantly—because they were loud, nosy, and sitting in their usual spot, plotting world domination over croissants and coffee.

You slid into your seat next to Blaise with the elegance of a sleep-deprived troll and immediately reached for a slice of toast, praying today would be normal. No scandal. No drama. No accidental references to someone’s pine-scented hair or stupid smirking face or warm hands on your—

Mattheo Riddle plopped himself directly beside you.

Your toast froze mid-air.

“Oh, excellent,” he said, sounding obscenely cheerful for someone who hadn’t brushed his curls. “You got the good jam.”

He reached across your plate like a heathen and scooped up a glob of raspberry jam with his butter knife, smearing it messily on your toast like he was helping.

“I was going to eat that,” you deadpanned.

“And now you are, but with flavor,” he replied, looking far too pleased with himself.

Across the table, Lorenzo choked on his tea. Draco froze mid-butter-spread. Blaise leaned back slowly with a suspicious grin. Pansy squinted like she was trying to read the entire history of your existence from the look on your face. Astoria didn’t even look up—she just let out the most disappointed sigh in the history of human breathing.

You, a rational and responsible person, did the obvious thing.

You pretended absolutely nothing was happening.

Mattheo, who was clearly born to make everything worse, leaned in. “Are you going to eat that, or are you going to keep staring at me like you’re in love?”

You dropped your toast. Draco visibly gasped. Blaise bit his knuckle.

“Okay,” Lorenzo said slowly, dramatically. “I think we all need to pause and—what the hell is going on here?”

“Nothing,” you and Mattheo said in perfect harmony.

A collective suspicious silence fell over the group.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “You’re sitting suspiciously close to each other.”

“Coincidence,” you said.

“He stole your toast.”

“Generous community breakfasting,” Mattheo supplied.

“You’re blushing,” Draco noted, pointing a butter knife at your face.

“It’s warm in here,” you snapped. “There’s body heat. Circulation. Weather.”

“You’re playing footsie,” Blaise added smugly.

“We are absolutely not playing footsie,” Mattheo said, jerking his leg away from yours so fast he kneed the underside of the table and nearly knocked over the entire jug of pumpkin juice.

“Okay,” Lorenzo muttered. “If this isn’t a secret relationship, then I am the ghost of Salazar Slytherin, here to reclaim his house from the deranged couple defiling it.”

You tried to glare. Really, you did. But Mattheo had crumbs on his lip, and his eyes were doing that annoyingly attractive sparkle thing, and your face betrayed you by melting.

“OH MY GOD,” Pansy screamed. “YOU’RE LITERALLY SO IN LOVE.”

“I am in denial,” you barked. “Which is very different.”

Blaise laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench. “So, just to confirm—are you or are you not snogging this absolute chaos goblin in secret?”

“We’re not snogging,” Mattheo said quickly. “Why would we snog? Snogging is for people with… lips.”

“You have lips,” Draco said flatly.

“Debatable,” Mattheo replied, before turning to you with pleading eyes. “Help me.”

“Everyone is being very dramatic,” you announced. “Mattheo and I are friends. Acquaintances. Mortal enemies with occasional group project chemistry.”

“You left the Potions lab last Thursday with your tie undone and a hickey on your neck,” Astoria said without looking up.

“It was a mosquito! ” Mattheo cried. “They were everywhere.”

“In the Potions lab?” Blaise asked, blinking.

“...Yes,” you said weakly. “It was.. uhm.. infested.”

Pansy slammed her hands on the table. “HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?”

“Five minutes,” you blurted. “No time at all. We’re still in the test trial phase.”

“Two months,” Mattheo mumbled at the same time.

You turned to him slowly, eyes wide. “What happened to denying everything?”

“I panicked!” he whispered. “You’re really bad at lying and it’s contagious!”

“Oh my god, it’s been TWO MONTHS?” Draco’s voice cracked like a choirboy’s. “And you didn’t tell us? We could’ve made popcorn!”

“I’m going to cry,” Pansy announced. “I feel betrayed. Emotionally compromised. Romantically offended.”

“You literally told me yesterday to snog someone or die lonely,” you muttered.

“I didn’t mean him! ”

Mattheo raised a hand. “Okay, now that’s just rude.”

“I SWEAR,” Pansy continued, “if Theodore finds out and kills you, I am not attending your funeral unless there’s drama and vengeance.”

You blinked. “Okay, but—what if he just doesn’t… find out?”

The table went still.

Pansy looked like she was about to burst into flames. “Okay. Someone get Theodore. He deserves to know that his sibling is dating—dating—Mattheo ‘bite me’ Riddle.”

You stiffened.

The entire table stilled.

Then, as if summoned by the devil himself, all heads turned in slow-motion toward the far end of the Slytherin table… where Theodore Nott sat, expression calm, buttering a scone with the serenity of a man who was either extremely zen or planning to murder someone using only a teaspoon.

You froze.

Mattheo froze.

Even Draco looked nervous.

“He doesn’t know,” you whispered.

“He definitely knows,” Astoria said calmly. “He’s buttering that scone with deadly precision. No one but assassins butter that neatly.”

Blaise leaned in, stage-whispering like a six-year-old gossip. “He’s holding the knife like he’s considering options.”

Pansy was practically vibrating. “I live for this. Theodore is going to explode. It’s going to be glorious. I want screaming. Threats. At least one table flip. I want to feel alive again!”

“Do not summon violence into this sacred breakfast,” you hissed.

Draco smirked. “Better tell Mattheo to run now while he still has all his limbs.”

Pansy stood up and immediately rolled up her sleeves. “I AM READY FOR THE DRAMA. BRING IT. DUEL AT DAWN. I’LL BE YOUR SECOND.”

Astoria grabbed her by the back of the cloak and yanked her down like she was restraining a feral cat. “Sit. Down. You’re not sword-fighting Theodore in the middle of breakfast.”

“Why not?” Pansy whined. “We live in a magical castle. This is the perfect place for sword-fighting!”

You and Mattheo exchanged a horrified glance.

“I think we just declared war,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Well. At least we’re dying pretty.”

If Mattheo Riddle had a Galleon for every time he thought, “this is how I die,” he could’ve funded a whole underground resistance, a few cursed artifacts, and still had enough left to buy you a shiny ring and a nice flat in Hogsmeade.

This time, though?

There would be no ring.

No flat.

No wedding.

Just his body launched into orbit by Theodore Nott’s inevitable, unstoppable rage.

You were standing in the corridor just outside the Great Hall, trying to decide whether to walk into your own execution or drag your boyfriend back to the dungeons by his ear.

Mattheo Riddle had been pacing like a man possessed for the past fifteen minutes.

“Okay, okay, okay—maybe I should bow?” he muttered to himself. “No. Too much. Theodore might think I’m mocking him. Should I curtsy? Would that be better? Classier?”

“Mattheo,” you said, voice deadpan, “if you curtsy to my brother, I will physically throw you out of a window.”

“I just—he’s going to murder me,” Mattheo wailed, throwing his hands in the air like some kind of tragic widow. “He’s going to skin me and use my corpse as a decorative throw for the Slytherin common room. I’ll be throw fashion, darling.”

You stared. “You’ve lost your mind.”

He spun dramatically and grabbed both your hands. “You don’t get it. That man terrifies me. He’s tall. He’s quiet. He wears all black. He looks like he reads tragic poetry for fun. He has ‘I’ll bury you behind the greenhouse’ energy.”

You tried not to laugh. “He’s just my brother.”

“No. He’s a whole experience. A terrifying one. Like one of those silent movies where the guy never speaks but everyone dies anyway.”

“Mattheo—”

“What if he pulls a wand on me and casts some obscure ancient curse from the Nott family grimoire and my skin turns inside out?”

“Then I’ll get you some exfoliating cream and a hug.”

Mattheo gave you an utterly wounded look. “That’s all the sympathy I get in my darkest hour?”

“Your darkest hour hasn’t even started.”

Footsteps echoed ominously down the hallway.

Mattheo froze, grabbing the wall like a man in mourning. “Oh Merlin. It’s him. It’s Theodore. I’m not ready. You said I had five more minutes!”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I wasn’t emotionally prepared then and I’m *less* emotionally prepared now!”

You didn't have time to argue. Theodore turned the corner, walking toward you with his usual unbothered, slow-as-hell stride, like he had all the time in the world to arrive at your crime scene.

Mattheo made a strangled noise like a dying bird and—without shame—threw himself behind you.

“Don’t let him hurt me!” he whisper-yelled into your shoulder. “If I die, tell your mother I looked amazing at my funeral.”

Theodore raised a single eyebrow. “Are you hiding behind my sibling?”

Mattheo popped his head out. “Not hiding—strategically retreating. It’s different.”

“Yes,” you muttered, “the strategy is cowardice.”

He clung to your robes like a damsel. “This is not cowardice. This is self-preservation, thank you very much.”

Theodore stared at him blankly. “You’re pathetic.”

Mattheo inhaled deeply and then stepped out with the air of a man marching to the gallows. “Okay. Okay. Theodore. I—I want to say something.”

Theodore tilted his head, mildly curious.

“I want to apologize for—uh—for all the... snogging. And emotional bonding. And, uh, the fact that I may or may not have licked and attacked your sibling’s neck in a highly inappropriate location on the Astronomy Tower—NOT THE POINT—what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry and please don’t hex my kneecaps or transfigure my ears into cauliflowers or whatever it is you Notts do when people betray your bloodline.”

Theodore blinked.

Mattheo cleared his throat. “I just—really, really like your sibling, alright? Like, a lot. Like, ‘I’d write you letters in blood if I wasn’t squeamish’ a lot. And I know I’m kind of a mess and also a little deranged but I swear on Salazar’s bald head that I’m serious about this and if you want to punch me, just go for the left side, that’s my less photogenic side anyway—”

“I already knew,” Theodore interrupted.

Mattheo stopped mid-rant, finger in the air like he had more dramatic declarations to unleash. “Wait. What?”

“I’ve known for weeks.”

There was a beat of complete, shell-shocked silence.

Mattheo’s hand slowly lowered. “You… what?”

“I saw you sneaking out of the Astronomy Tower the first time,” Theodore said casually. “The scarf was a dead giveaway. And the second time. And the third. And the time you came back to the dorms with glitter in your hair and that weird grin like you'd just invented a new sin.”

Mattheo blinked rapidly. “So you knew... this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“No.”

“You didn’t curse me? Or duel me? Or send a howler to my mother?!”

Theodore shrugged. “I was enjoying watching you panic.”

You smacked your forehead.

Mattheo gasped and dramatically grabbed your sleeve. “He played me like a fiddle. A fiddle made of pure emotional torment.”

Theodore looked at you, dead serious. “If he breaks your heart, I’ll feed him to the Giant Squid.”

Mattheo nodded solemnly. “Honestly? That’s fair. Bit overkill, but poetic.”

“You two are insufferable,” you muttered.

Mattheo flopped against your back again, sighing dramatically. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He peeked at Theodore again. “So we’re good?”

Theodore gave him a long look. “Don’t push it.”

Mattheo immediately retreated behind you again. “He said don’t push it. I’m not pushing it. I’m hiding behind it.”

“You’re a grown man.”

“I’m a terrified man!”

Pansy, who had just turned the corner behind you with Draco and Astoria in tow, screeched like someone had been stabbed—an unholy, earsplitting shriek that ricocheted off the stone walls of the corridor like a cursed howler let loose during a funeral.

“HE FUCKING KNEW?!” she howled, her eyes wide with the sheer betrayal of it all, like Theodore had personally wronged her ancestral bloodline.

The entire hallway fell into a stunned silence for half a second before chaos exploded like a badly brewed potion. A nearby portrait of a sleepy wizard jolted awake and threw his goblet at the ground, muttering something about “witches these days.” You and Mattheo both flinched so violently you almost knocked heads—and Mattheo, being the brave soul that he was, dove behind you like a coward, clutching the back of your robes with the death grip of a man facing an angry hippogriff.

“HOLY SHIT, Pansy!” Lorenzo barked, careening in behind her like a gale-force wind in Gucci boots, nearly tripping over his own feet and the bag of crisps he had clearly brought specifically for this moment. “You trying to rupture the space-time continuum with your lungs? I think my left eardrum just committed suicide!”

“You—you KNEW?!” Blaise turned to Theodore with all the grace and fury of someone who just found out his favorite soap opera had been canceled mid-cliffhanger. “And you didn’t do anything?! Not even a single ominous shoulder squeeze? A disapproving nod? A slow, terrifying walk behind them in the corridors with your eyes narrowed like a cryptid in the fog?!”

“I was counting on some emotionally stunted vengeance,” Lorenzo chimed in, now holding his crisps like a judgmental gavel. “You let us down, Nott.”

“EXACTLY!” Pansy shrieked, spinning around with the energy of a banshee leading a revolution. “Where’s the drama?! Where’s the furious wand duel at midnight in the courtyard? WHERE'S THE TWO-PAGE SPEECH ABOUT BETRAYAL AND SIBLING HONOUR AND A TRAGIC LOVE DOOMED FROM THE START?!”

Draco looked like he was genuinely grieving. He placed one hand on his heart, the other dramatically outstretched as if speaking to the heavens. “This is worse than my father’s fourth engagement party. At least that had fireworks and an enchanted swan that exploded.”

Theodore, for his part, looked like he’d just woken up from a nap and couldn’t be arsed. Standing with his hands in his pockets and his expression set to “Could Not Care Less If I Tried,” he said, “I already told them. I’ve known for weeks.”

“WEEKS?!” Blaise yelped, clutching Lorenzo’s shoulder like he needed emotional support.

“And you didn’t even glare once?!” Draco gasped, eyes practically bulging out of his head. “You didn’t pull out your wand and threaten to CRUCIO his bloodline?!”

“I expected some level of ominous sibling rage,” Lorenzo muttered. “Instead I got... emotional neutrality. Honestly, it’s offensive.”

“I’m just—confused,” Blaise said, flinging his arms out. “Do you even care? You’re acting like Mattheo hasn’t spent the past month playing tonsil hockey with your sibling in every broom cupboard in the castle.”

“I expected fireworks,” Pansy seethed. “Screaming. Maybe a duel that would’ve made the school nurse cry. At least a threatened expulsion! And instead—” she gestured wildly at Theodore “—we got this! Calm! Rational! Emotionally intelligent?! I’m DISGUSTED.”

Astoria, who had been quietly standing by, now had both hands around Pansy’s waist, physically holding her back like she was restraining a chihuahua on steroids. “Pans, don’t lunge. You promised no tackling.”

“I DIDN’T PROMISE NOTHING,” Pansy roared.

Theodore blinked slowly, looking almost bored. “If Mattheo breaks their heart, I’ll throw him off the Astronomy Tower myself. Until then, I’ve got exams.”

Mattheo, still half-hiding behind you like a traumatized Victorian child, made a strangled sound. “He’s gonna what—?”

“I—I tried to apologize,” Mattheo spluttered, peeking out from behind your shoulder with the world’s most wounded expression. “I was halfway through my bloody sentence and he just cut me off! I had a whole speech! With metaphors!”

“You didn’t even get to the metaphor about comparing Theodore’s glare to a dementor with a caffeine addiction,” you whispered.

“RIGHT?” Mattheo pointed at you with a pout. “That was my best one!”

“You were sobbing into a chocolate frog outside the potions lab,” Blaise said, deadpan.

“Yeah, I remember that,” Lorenzo added with a snort. “You kept whispering, ‘he’s going to turn me into a ferret’.”

“You weren’t even dating me when you did that,” you muttered.

Mattheo groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “I was emotionally preparing! For war!”

“And there was no war!” Draco cried. “Just—just peace! Like we’re living in some healthy, emotionally mature AU!”

“This is worse than my cousin’s vow renewal,” Pansy snapped, now pacing in a circle. “At least that ended with a hexed priest and someone’s wig catching fire.”

Lorenzo clapped Blaise on the back. “Well, guess I lost the bet.”

“What bet?” you asked, dreading the answer.

“I had twenty galleons on Theodore turning Mattheo into a cactus and leaving him outside Hagrid’s hut.”

“Honestly, I would’ve preferred that,” Mattheo muttered.

“Same,” Draco said, disgusted.

“You’re all insane,” Theodore said.

“And you’re boring,” Blaise fired back. “Where’s the trauma?! Where’s the iconic sibling rage? You had the perfect opportunity to deliver a one-liner and threaten him with a slow, painful doom! Instead you let him live?!”

Pansy turned on Theodore with wide, devastated eyes. “You’re not mad at all? Like not even a little? There’s no secret plotting? No passive aggressive breakfast commentary?!”

Theodore just shrugged. “I like my sibling. I don’t hate Riddle. I’m not wasting spell energy unless he does something dumb.”

“I am something dumb!” Mattheo squeaked from behind you.

“WE KNOW!” Pansy and Draco yelled in unison.

Astoria buried her face in her hands. “I’m too sober for this.”

Draco sighed dramatically and crossed his arms. “Fine. New plan. Someone date someone they shouldn’t so we can salvage this absolute travesty.”

“I VOLUNTEER!” Lorenzo said immediately.

“NO YOU DON’T!” Blaise and Draco snapped.

You turned to Mattheo with a dazed smile as the rest of your friends devolved into chaos, arguing over who should pretend to get engaged for maximum scandal.

“Well,” you muttered. “That went well.”

Mattheo blinked at you, still clutching your robes. “I feel like I survived an execution by emotional chaos.”

You patted his cheek. “You did great, sweetheart.”

“I hate all of them,” he whispered.

From behind you, Pansy screamed, “SOMEONE THROW SOMETHING DRAMATIC OR I’M GOING TO COMBUST.”

A shoe flew past your head.

“Okay,” Mattheo muttered. “Maybe I don’t hate them. I just… fear them.”

You nodded. “Reasonable.”

And somewhere, Theodore was already walking away from the scene like a man who had never emotionally invested in anything except his morning tea and the hope that someone, someday, would shut Pansy up for more than two minutes.

[thevampireladyambrosia]

Subject 013

Request via anon.

Pairing: Male!Slime x Female!Reader.

Content Warnings: Dubcon, oviposition, soft yandere, harassment, people go "missing", tentacles, general mindfuckery. I wrote this in the very early hours of the morning.

You couldn't help defending the poor slime.

It had recently been brought into the lab for experiments related to their unique biology. But when you saw the way the scientists and researchers talked to it, you had them fired and took on the case yourself, despite the ever-growing caseload you already had as a head scientist. So that's what led to you watching this slime.

It was a blue gelatinous thing. It seemed unable to speak or take a humanoid appearance. You had already marked it as one of the ones that didn't possess near-human or human intelligence. It didn't seem particularly strong either, so you wondered how it survived out there. Still, you spoke softly to it, told it what you were going to do next in experiments, and just showed it basic decency.

One day you came into the lab in tears. You had been harassed by a group of men on the street. You ended up venting to the slime, strangely enough. It was a surprisingly good listener. Despite the fact it had shown no sign of any understanding, it let out a soft noise. It was oddly comforting. You never saw the men again. You wondered if they had moved to another street to taunt women.

So you continued your research. The slime wasn't the only subject you had. So you tried to divide equal attention to all cases. You have felt really paranoid lately. You couldn't shake the feeling that something or someone was watching you.

You don't realize you had sealed your fate months ago.

Days blur into weeks. The cycle grows rather comforting. As a human there's a certain discomfort that typically comes with change. So the repetitive days are soothing. You do the same tasks, with some minor deviations, daily. You work with the same subjects. You do the same paperwork. So why couldn't you shake the growing unease?

It was a normal Monday evening when the alarms started to go off, signaling an escape. The robotic voice let you know there wasn't one, but eleven escapees. You went to run in that direction. Only to slip on… Slime? Before you can faceplant, something tentacle-like wraps around your wrist.

You turn fast. The blue slime you had been studying? It's in a human form behind you. The only difference is it has tentacle-like appendages instead of limbs.

“You possess the ability to mimic humans?” You immediately ask. You had studied this slime for months. There had been no sign of anything like this. To your shock, it actually responds.

“I possess a lot more than that.” The creature’s mouth doesn't move. It's like the voice comes from its very being. It's a rather deep voice. Almost soothing. Except your nerves are on fire, and everything is screaming at you to run or do something to help stop the subjects from escaping.

“I need to go help capture the escaped subjects.” You say. To be honest? You didn't really want to. You got this job to help the monsters. Yet, it hurts you to keep them locked up. Especially since they get captured against their will. But you also needed this job. It was the only thing that kept you alive. It paid your rent, bills, and for your food. The slime knows this.

“I don't think you actually want to do that.” It says, tightening its grip on your wrist. Before you can process, or say more, you're being pulled away. Out of sight of the cameras. Into a bathroom in the back. You don't fight or kick or anything. Even when its tentacles start to grope your tits.

“I've waited too long for this.” The slime confesses. “Far too long.” You're surprised but you don't protest, even when the slime pulls off your lab coat and melts through the fabric off your clothes. Another thing to add to the list of things you didn't know it could do.

“This is okay, yes?” It asks as it continues to grope your tits and massages your clit with tentacles. It wouldn't stop anyways. But you don't know that.

“It's okay.” You confirm. You feel so warm. So dizzy with arousal. The tentacle rubbing your clit speeds up. Your legs feel like jelly. A tentacle around your waist quickly supports you. Another tentacle penetrates you. You feel a knot tighten as you throw your head back in a moan.

“Such a pretty thing.” The slime coos. “Can you come for me?” It sounds almost condescending, yet you nod. It seems happy that you said this.

And come you do. In fact, you squirt. It's humiliating how your whole body forces out every drop of liquid. But you're too lost in pleasure to care. It feels like the Earth has stopped spinning and there's only you and the slime.

You're snapped back to reality when the first egg presses against your cervix. It hurts when it forces it open and pops in. You go to scream but the slime stops you, cooing and shushing. Another pops in. Then another.

By the time you're released you're heavily distended with eggs and cum. The slime soothes you and helps you fix your clothes. You are then whisked away from the lab.

Now that the slime has you, it intends to keep you forever.

[thedilfdiaries]

a sweet arrangement

sugardaddy!Joel Miller x f!reader

Masterlist ♡ Sugar Daddy Masterlist

Wordcount: 3,374

Summary: You sign up for a sugar daddy app. What's the worst that could happen?

Warnings: 18+, fingering, oral (both m&f receiving), light bondage, reader might have pullable hair (i dont rememeber if i took it out) quick mentions of slut, baby, sweet baby, sweetheart, darlin

Notes: tysm @saradika-graphics for the dividers. I was cheated on over the weekend, and I wrote this as a "I wish I could be here" instead of being sad." Just another rich!daddy fantasy

You've been feeling financially stretched lately, and after hearing about the concept of sugar daddies and sugar babies from a friend, you decided to give it a try. You sit on your bed and hesitantly create a profile on a popular app, describing yourself as a young, independent woman looking for a mutually beneficial arrangement. As you sit scrolling through, you can't help but feel a sigh of reluctance escape your lips. You never expected to find yourself on a sugar daddy dating app, but life has a way of surprising you sometimes.

After a few moments of looking around the site, a notification pops up. It's a message from a user named "Contractor_Guy."

Curiosity piques, and you open the message, hoping it's not some creepy come-on. To your surprise, it reads:

"Hey there. I don't usually do this sort of thing, but I figured it's worth a shot. My name's Joel. If you're interested in getting to know me, send me a message back."

Feeling intrigued, you reply:

"Hi Joel, I'm not sure what 'this sort of thing' is, but I'm curious now.”

The response comes quickly.

Contractor_Guy: "Haha, 'this sort of thing' is something I usually avoid. But hey, it's a new day, and who knows what it might bring?"

You: Hopefully luck! But seriously, what exactly are you avoiding?"

Contractor_Guy: "Haha, well that's a bit of a long story, darlin.”

You: "Oh, I don't mind a long story. I've got some time to kill. Besides, I find it intriguing that someone like you is on a sugar daddy app.”

Contractor_Guy: "Well, my last experience wasn't the best, and I'm just being cautious this time around.

But, here's the long version. I met a girl a few years back, and at first, things were great. We clicked, and the relationship was mutually beneficial. I was able to provide for her in a way she couldn't for herself, and in return, she was there for me when I needed emotional support. As time went on, she started to change. She became more demanding and less appreciative. It got to the point where she would expect extravagant gifts just for a simple text or phone call. I realized that she was only interested in my money and not in the relationship we'd built."

You: "I'm sorry to hear that. It's not easy to find someone who's genuine and appreciates what you have to offer."

Contractor_Guy: "Yeah, it was a tough lesson to learn, but I'm hoping to find someone different this time. Someone who appreciates the little things, too, not just the material things."

You: "I think that's a fair expectation. We all deserve to be appreciated for more than just our wallets. So, Joel, tell me more about yourself. What do you do for a living?"

Contractor_Guy: "I'm a contractor. I do mostly residential construction and home remodeling projects. What about you? What do you do when you're not scrolling through dating apps?”

You: "Lol, I'm usually at work. I'm a graphic designer, so I spend most of my days in front of a computer. It's not the most glamorous job, but I love what I do."

Contractor_Guy: "A graphic designer, huh? That's pretty impressive. I've always been more of a hands-on guy myself. But I must admit, there's something intriguing about a woman in the arts.”

You: "And who doesn't love a man who can wield a hammer and a chainsaw with equal ease?"

Contractor_Guy: "Oh, I'm definitely good with my hands darlin' ;). ”

You: "Maybe one day you'll show me just how good you are with your hands."

As the conversation continues to flow effortlessly, you both exchange numbers and agree to meet for a coffee date tomorrow. Before signing off, you send a playful message with a picture attached

You: "Well, I'm off to begin the countdown to our coffee date. I'll leave you with this little teaser. ;)"

Insert a picture of you posing confidently in a cute outfit, with a mischievous grin on your face.

Contractor_Guy: "Wow, that definitely has me counting down the hours! I can't wait to see you in person."

With that, you end the conversation eagerly anticipating your first in-person meeting with the intriguing contractor.

The two of you meet for the first time at a trendy coffee shop downtown, and you can immediately sense Joel's charm and confidence. You can tell he's done this a time or two. He offers to buy you a drink and pulls out the mattest black credit card you have ever seen to pay with. He guides you to a table in the back corner, and you both engage in light conversation, discussing your interests and goals. Joel is clearly intrigued by you, and you feel a spark of attraction towards him as well.

"So, tell me more about yourself," Joel says, his eyes locked on yours.

"Well, like I said on the app, I'm a freelance graphic designer," you reply, “It's not the most stable job, but I love what I do."

"I can imagine," Joel says, a hint of admiration in his voice. "I've always been a fan of the arts. But I'm sure you understand the struggles of making ends meet as a freelancer. That's why I'm interested in this arrangement."

"I do understand," you agree, your mind already contemplating the potential benefits of such an arrangement. "It would be nice to have some financial stability while still being able to pursue my passion."

"Exactly," Joel says, his tone firm but understanding. "And in return, I'd like you to be my companion when I need someone to spend time with. We can go on dates, attend social events, or just relax at home. I value your company, you're easy on the eyes and brain, and I believe we would make a great team."

"I think that sounds fair," you say, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. "I'm looking for something similar - someone who understands my situation and is willing to help me out."

Joel offers to take you to his place for a glass of wine, and as he leads you to his car, the conversation shifts to the details of the arrangement.

"Now that we've established the terms," Joel says, his voice low and serious, "I want to make something clear. I'm going to support you financially in any way you could ever dream of or want, but there's one condition."

"What's that?" You ask, your curiosity piqued.

"I want access to you whenever I please, however I please," Joel says, his eyes meeting yours. "I want to be able to use you for my pleasure whenever I want. Are you comfortable with that?"

Your heart races as you consider his request. You know what he's asking for, and you're not sure if you're ready for that level of intimacy. But at the same time, you can't deny the excitement coursing through your veins.

"I need some time to think about it. This is a big decision."

"Of course," Joel replies, his tone understanding. "Take all the time you need. But remember, this is the condition of our arrangement."

As Joel drives you to his mansion, you can't help but feel a mixture of excitement and trepidation. This is unlike any arrangement you've ever been a part of, and you're not sure what to expect. As you follow Joel upstairs, your heart races in anticipation. He leads you into a large, dimly-lit room, its walls adorned with black velvet and soft, glowing lights. A large bed dominates the center of the room, surrounded by various toys and restraints.

"I want to show you what I mean when I say I want access to you whenever I please.” Joel says, his voice thick with desire.

Joel leads you over to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. He takes a seat on the edge, patting the space beside him. "Come here, sweetheart," he says, his voice soft and inviting.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do. But the curiosity and excitement pulsing through you win out, and you find yourself sitting down next to him. Joel's hand reaches out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. "You're so beautiful, you know that?" he says, his gaze intense.

You feel your entire body get warm at the compliment, your heart racing faster than ever before. "Thank you," you murmur.

Joel's hand begins to trace a path down your arm, sending shivers coursing through your body. "I want to make you feel good, sweetheart," he says, his voice low and husky. "I want to give you pleasure like you've never experienced before."

Your mind is racing as Joel's hand continues to explore your body. You're not sure what to do, but you find yourself leaning into his touch, your body craving more.

"I want to show you something," Joel says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He stands up and walks over to a large wooden chest at the foot of the bed. He opens it, revealing a variety of toys and restraints. Your heart races as you take in the sight. You've never seen anything like this before, and you're not sure what to make of it. Joel walks back over to you, a blindfold in his hand. "I want to show you how good it can feel to let go and trust someone," he says, his voice soft and soothing.

You hesitate for a moment but something about Joel's words and the look in his eyes makes you feel safe, and you find yourself nodding in agreement. He gently places the blindfold over your eyes, cocooning you in darkness. You can feel his hands on you, guiding you back onto the bed. You trust him, and you let yourself relax into the feeling of his touch.

Joel's hands continue to explore your body, tracing patterns and circles that send shivers of pleasure coursing through you. You can feel the bed shift as he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear. "I want to make you feel so good, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice barely above a whisper. Your breath hitches as his hands continue to wander.

Suddenly, you feel something soft and silky against your skin. It's a scarf, and Joel is using it to gently bind your wrists to the bedposts. You gasp at the feeling of being restrained, but the sensation is not unpleasant. Instead, it heightens your senses, making you more aware of every touch and caress.

Joel continues to explore your body, his hands moving lower and lower until they reach the waistband of your pants. He pauses for a moment, waiting for your consent. "May I?" he asks, his voice low and husky. You nod, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He slowly begins to slide your pants down your legs, his hands lingering on your skin as he goes. You can feel the heat of his touch, and you find yourself arching up towards him, wanting more. Finally, your pants are off, and Joel's hands are free to explore your body in earnest. He caresses your thighs, your hips, your stomach, each touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

You can feel yourself growing wet, your body responding to Joel's touch in ways you've never experienced before. You moan softly, your hips bucking up towards him. Joel takes the hint, his fingers finding their way to your wetness. He begins to explore you, his touch gentle but firm. You gasp at the sensation, your body quivering with pleasure. His fingers move in slow, deliberate circles that send shivers of pleasure coursing through your body. You find yourself moaning louder and louder, your hips bucking up towards him as you chase the feeling of release. Finally, you can't take it any longer. You cry out as the orgasm washes over you, your body trembling with pleasure. Joel continues to touch you, his fingers gentle as they bring you down from the peak of pleasure.

Slowly, your breathing returns to normal, and you become aware of your surroundings once again. The blindfold is still over your eyes, and you're still bound to the bed. But you feel safe and content, your body still humming with pleasure. He unties the blindfold, and you blink your eyes against the sudden brightness of the room. He's standing above you, a wicked smile on his face. "Did you like that, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice low and seductive.

"Yes sir," you get out with a hoarse voice.

Joel's gaze travels down your body, taking in the sight of you spread out on his bed, still bound to the bedposts. "Mmm, such a good girl already," he says, his voice full of satisfaction. "I have so much more I want to show you."

He walks over to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed and rummages through it, pulling out a variety of toys and restraints. Joel turns back to you, a pair of handcuffs in his hand. "May I?" he asks, his voice low and seductive.

“You may."

Your heart racies with excitement as Joel cuffs your hands above your head, replacing the soft, luxurious ribbon, and securing you back to the bedpost. You test the restraints, finding that they hold you firmly in place. Your heart is racing with excitement, your body tingling with anticipation. He walks back over to the chest and pulls out a vibrator. He turns it on, the buzzing noise filling the room. You watch as he approaches you. He traces the vibrator over your body, teasing you with each touch. You arch up towards him, wanting more. But Joel is in control, and he takes his time, drawing out the anticipation until you're nearly begging for release."Are you ready for more, darlin’?"

“Yes please,” your breath coming in short gasps.

"Good girl." He traces the vibrator lower, teasing your clit with each pass. You moan, your hips bucking up towards him. But he pulls the vibrator away just as you're about to come.

You whimper in frustration, but Joel just smiles. "Patience, baby, patience," he says.

He continues to tease you, bringing you to the brink of orgasm again and again, but never letting you fully come. You're writhing on the bed, your body begging for release when Joel leans down and whispers in your ear. "Do you trust me, sweetheart?"

You nod, your heart racing. "Yes, I do," you whisper.

Joel smiles, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He leans down and captures your lips in a passionate kiss. You moan, your hips bucking up towards him. You're ready for whatever comes next.

Joel breaks the kiss, his eyes locked on yours. "I'm going to take you to the edge, sweetheart," he says, his voice low and seductive. "And then I'm going to bring you back again. And again. And again. Until you can't take it anymore."

Joel's hand moves back to the vibrator, tracing it over your clit once again. This time, he doesn't stop. He continues to tease and pleasure you. Suddenly, Joel pulls the vibrator away once again. You whimper in frustration, but before you can protest, he's replaced it with his mouth. His tongue expertly teases your clit. His hands roam your body as he brings you to the brink of orgasm once again. This time, however, he doesn't stop. He continues to lick and suck at your clit, his fingers entering you and curling against your G-spot as he pushes you over the edge.

You cry out, your body shaking with pleasure as you come hard against his mouth. Joel doesn't stop, his tongue continuing to torture you as you ride out the waves of your orgasm. As you come down from your orgasm, you gasp for breath, your body still trembling with pleasure. Joel's gaze is intense as he watches you, his face flushed with arousal.

"That was so, fucking good," you manage to gasp out, your voice still hoarse from your orgasm.

Joel smiles, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm glad you thought so," he says, his voice low and seductive. "But I think it's your turn now."

"My turn?" you ask, your eyes wide with curiosity.

"Yes," Joel says, his smile widening. "It's time for you to return the favor.”

You feel a pang of nerves flood your body. “But I'm still all tied up.”

Joel smirks, leaning in. He grabs the hollows of your cheeks, forcing you to look at him, “ I never said you needed to be untied, did I.”

You swallow hard, your mind racing with the implications of his words. Joel releases your cheeks, his gaze traveling down your body. "You're going to make me very happy tonight, sweetheart. Just remember - I want access to you whenever I please, however I please. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," you reply, your voice full of submission.

Joel's smile widens, and he reaches down to unfasten his pants. He steps out of them and his boxers, revealing a hard, thick, ready erection. He climbs onto the bed, his legs straddling your chest. "Now, I want you to take me into your mouth," he says, his voice firm and authoritative.

Your heart is racing as you obey. He brings it up to your lips, and your tongue darts out to lick the tip. You can taste the hint of salt and musk, and you find yourself growing aroused again. You open your mouth wide to accommodate his size. He tastes so good, so intense, and you can't get enough. You begin to move your head, your mouth sliding up and down his shaft. Joel gasps, his hips bucking up towards you.

Suddenly he grabs your hair and holds his cock to the hilt, filing up your entire throat, blocking your airway. You try to gasp for breath as Joel holds you down on his large throbbing cock but it's no use. Your head is swimming with pleasure and arousal, and you're not sure if you can take anymore. Just then Joel releases his grip on your hair, allowing you to breathe again. You take the opportunity to pull away, gasping for air. Joel smirks down at you. "Such a good little slut for daddy already," he says, his voice full of praise. "Daddy wants to see more. Show me how much you want me."

You nod, your heart racing with anticipation as Joel pulls away and undoes your restraints. When he's back on the bed, you take him back into your mouth, your hands roaming his beautiful, full thighs. You begin to suck and lick at his cock, your tongue exploring every inch of him. You can hear Joel growing more aroused, his breaths coming in short gasps.

You feel a hand on the back of your head, guiding you. Joel is thrusting into your mouth, his cock sliding in and out. You moan around him, your hands reaching up to cup his balls. He's tensing, his hips bucking harder with each thrust. Suddenly, he lets out the most primal groan you've ever heard, his cock swells in your mouth. He thrusts into you one more time before coming. You can feel his warm come filling your mouth, and you swallow it down eagerly. Joel groans, his hips stilling as he rides out his orgasm.

You pull away, gasping for air and Joel collapses onto his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You can see the satisfaction on his face, and you feel proud of yourself. You've never done anything like that before, and you're not sure how you feel about it. But there's a part of you that's excited, that wants to do it again.

You're both panting heavily, your mind still reeling from the intense experience you've just shared. Joel's gaze is locked on yours, his eyes full of admiration and desire. "You were amazing, sweetheart," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I can't wait to show you more." A wave of excitement washes over you as Joel reaches out and gently strokes your cheek, his fingers lingering against your skin. "I want to make this arrangement work, darlin," he says, his voice soft and earnest. "But I need to know that you're in this for the right reasons."

Your heart races as you consider his words. You know what he's asking, and you're not sure if you're ready for the level of intimacy and commitment this arrangement requires. But at the same time, you can't deny the excitement coursing through your veins, the thrill of being desired and pursued by someone like Joel. You nod, your heart racing with both excitement and trepidation. "I think I'm ready to accept your condition," you say, your voice low and hesitant. "But I need to know that you're in this for the right reasons, too."

Joel's eyes meet yours, his gaze intense and serious. "I promise you, I want nothing more than to care for and support you, both financially and emotionally," he says firmly. "And I expect the same companionship in return."

You take a deep breath, your mind racing with the implications of your decision. But there's a part of you that's eager to explore this new world, to find out what it means to be truly desired and cared for by someone like Joel.

"Okay," you finally say, your voice full of resolution. "I want to make this arrangement work too."

Joel's face breaks into a smile, his eyes filled with relief and joy. He pulls you into a warm embrace, his arms wrapping around you tightly. "Thank you, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice full of gratitude. "I'm going to make sure you never regret this decision."

---

Thanks for reading ❤️ let me know if you'd like more from these two

[beenbaanbuun]

hierarchy w/ poly hohong

words - 3.1k

genre - smut

warnings - dom!yunho, akita hybrid!yunho, soft dom!hongjoong, human hongjoong, sub!reader, unknown dog hybrid!reader, mentions of past abuse, mentions of scars (from fighting), reader is a brat, cunnilingus

i wrote this ages ago and idk if i like it or not but rather than sitting and stressing about that, i decided to post it instead 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

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your dinner looks entirely unappealing as you push it round the plate with your fork. the peas are an unsettling shade of green and as they float upon the thin layer of gravy at the bottom of your dish, your stomach can’t help but churn a little. it’s nothing like the instant ramen and microwave meals your old owner used to feed you, and for that reason you simply won’t touch it.

there’s a sigh from across the table and you lift your gaze to see where it’s coming from. you’re met with two pairs of eyes, both of them equally as fed up at the other. there’s hongjoong, staring you like you’re the sole reason for everything bad in his life, and there’s yunho, watching with a tight jaw and hungry eyes. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think that the giant akita-hybrid is more seconds away from jumping your bones and taking you right there and then. you’d be lying to yourself if you said the idea doesn’t appeal to you. it just so happens that you are an exceptional liar.

“you haven’t touched your food,” hongjoong sighs as he lifts a hand up to brush over his tired expression. the so-called ‘experienced hybrid trainer’ is clearly losing his patience with you, although you’re not entirely sure why. you’re not even trying to be a nightmare; he should see you when you’re not on your best behaviour.

“i don’t like it,” you reply, putting your fork down just so you can fold your arms petulantly over your chest. yunho scoffs, his muscular arms shifting until his position mirrors yours.

“how do you know you don’t like it if you won’t even try it?” he says in the same tone he’d use if he were talking to a child. you can’t help but scoff that that; you’re not a child.

hongjoong reached over to place a hand on yunho’s arm. it’s a silent direction for him to be quiet and let hongjoong do the talking. he is your owner after all; a sentiment that fills you with a strange mixture of sadness and annoyance. you were perfectly fine in your old home. you didn’t have to be ‘rescued’ from them and you certainly didn’t have to be rehomed here.

“i know what i like,” you spit as you push the plate away from you, not even blinking an eye as gravy spills over the edge onto the mural painted upon the top of the wooden table. you’d found out on your first day here that yunho had painted it for hongjoong upon his one-year anniversary of being adopted; you hope you won’t be around here long enough to even think about doing something so utterly pathetic.

honestly, as yunho growls and lays his fluffed up ears flat against his skull, you can’t imagine him doing something so pathetic. all you see now is a highly trained attack dog, nothing like the precious puppy that hongjoong makes him out to be. you almost cower in your seat as he glares at you, but you’ve faced far worse than being pinned by an overgrown akita—you have the scars to prove it too.

“please, hyung,” he begs, voice far too soft to be coming from such a dangerous looking individual. “please let me put her in her place,” his eyes flicker down your form as another growl makes it way up his throat, “pups like her need structure; they need to know their position in the hierarchy.”

hongjoong hums, clearly contemplating it. obviously they’ve had this discussion about you before and whilst the thought of them talking about you behind your back makes you more than a little moody, you can’t help but feel like this has some deeper implications. does it mean that they’re planning on keeping you around? if they want to establish your place in this made-up hierarchy they seem to have, then surely they’re not planning on getting rid of you any time soon. your tail flicks in annoyance at that revelation.

“are you sure, yunho?” the hybrid nods and hongjoong resigns all too quickly for him to not have already been considering it. “fine; we can try it your way.”

and just like that, yunho’s expression transforms. the snarl on his lips changes from one of annoyancs to one of authority. you feel like a disobedient pup getting put in its place by an overbearing adult; one that doesn’t know the meaning of the word mercy. you suck in a shaky breath, the anxiety of facing the unknown becoming far too apparent. you’re the only one at this table who has no idea what’s going to come, and that frightens you to no end.

yunho stands up and stalks his way around the table. it takes an annoyingly short amount of steps for him to reach you, and once he does he wastes no time in grabbing your jaw with one huge hand. it tugs at your face until your neck is bent at an uncomfortable angle and your gaze is on his face. his pupils flicker over your expression, searching for any signs of discomfort or fear. you’re anxious, sure. uncertain, absolutely. but scared? not at all. you’ve been through worse and once you’re out of here, you’re almost positive you’ll go through worse again.

he leans down until his face is mere inches from your own. the smirk has fallen, morphed into something far more serious. he inhales, deep and calm and you can’t help but try and mirror it. it never twigs that his intention is exactly that; to soothe you before whatever is yet to come. if you were more aware of what he was doing, perhaps it would’ve made you spiral further. why would he want your defenses lowered?

“puppy,” he says in a tone deep enough to send a shiver down your spine, “i need you to remember that what is going to happen isn’t out of your control; if you don’t like it, you tell us. it shouldn’t be difficult for you. you’re good at telling us exactly what you don’t like, hm?”

“what’s going to happen?” you ask, your voice probably the least defiant it’s been since stepping through the doors of hongjoong’s home.

“you’ll find out sooner or later ,” he says with a soft smile, “now be a good puppy and wait upstairs in hongjoong’s room, alright?”

you furrow your brows. hongjoong’s room? you’ve never been allowed in there before. it was one of the rules that was set in place when you first arrived here. ‘hongjoong’s room is his, your room is yours. stick to your own space unless it’s an emergency.’ you remember it very clearly and it’s one of the ones you’ve tried your hardest to stick to. privacy is something you appreciate and hongjoong respects yours. the least you can do is return the favour.

“i’m not allowed in there,” you state the fact as though it’s law. to you, it practically is, “i’d be breaking the rules.”

“says the little brat who’s been stealing our possessions for her nest since the first day you got here. what, you’ll steal my ratty old sweaters but you won’t go in my room?” hongjoong’s smile is apparent in his voice. he sounds fond, for some reason, as if he hasn’t just—rightfully—accused you of stealing from him. “it’s okay to break the rule this once, sweet thing. i give you my explicit permission, okay?”

yunho gives you a smug smile. it’s a small ‘i told you so,’ even though you hardly think the situation is worth it. it’s not like you were trying to avoid whatever fate awaits you in hongjoong’s room—although maybe a little—you were simply trying to stick to the one rule you actually believe in! in a childish huff, you stick your tongue out. that ought to show him…

“cute,” he chuckles, “now do what you’re told, alright? go upstairs and wait on hongjoong’s bed,” a few seconds tick by as you contemplate whether or not you want to resist him even more. on one hand, you’re still anxiously unaware of what’s to come, but on the other, you’re almost positive things will get worse if you don’t comply. sure, yunho told you that you’re the one in control, but you really don’t feel it. no, this time it’s better to obey than to be a brat.

you push yourself to your feet, slowly enough to allow yunho to straighten up too. there’s a pleased hum fall from his lips as he scans you up and down, honing in on the small details. the way your speckled ears twitch nervously atop your head, the way your fluffy tail tucks itself between your legs, and most importantly, the way you subtly bare your neck in a subconscious show of submission. he knows it’s more of a safety thing than anything; the scars that litter your body tell him that you’ve learned how to stay safe the hard way. it hurts a little, but it’s a start. it shows him that you know you should submit; now he just has to make it so you submit because you want to, not just because you feel it’s necessary.

you side step him, careful not to brush past him accidentally. shaky legs guide you to the stairs, the anxiety of what's to come mixing with the knowledge that you’re being watched, studied, by the two men that are in charge of your fate. it’s safe to say that you’re grateful to finally get your hand on the banister that leads up the stairs. without it, you can almost guarantee that you’d have tripped and fallen.

the seconds tick by as you climb them and make your way towards the room at the end of the corridor. perhaps it’s your nerves that make it seem as though the door is getting endlessly farther and farther away with each step you take closer. it seems so far, almost like you’ll never reach it. step after step and still you’re not there yet. it gives your brain too much time to think, filling itself with ‘what if?’ questions and worse case scenarios.

until, of course, you do reach it, and then everything seems like its come to fruition all too quick. you suck in an anxious breath, placing your hand on the doorknob and counting to five before pushing it open and forcing your feet to carry you to your doom…

but it doesn’t feel like you’ve reached your doom in here; it’s far too cosy for that. in fact, it’s safe to say that you’ve probably never seen a room quite like this one, littered with soft colours and warm blankets, plants hanging from every surface and some even dangling from the ceiling. it’s a far-cry from everything you’ve ever seen before and yet it makes so much sense. hongjoong had been so eager to fill your room with things when you first arrived, none of which you’ve bothered to unpack. you told him you didn’t need them since you were certain you wouldn’t be around for long. the man had insisted upon buying you more and more until the pile of unused blankets and soft furnishings in the corner of your room could be arranged into some sort of seat that you sometimes use as a change of scenery from your bed. you didn’t understand why he wanted your room to have ‘warmth’ but now you see it; you’d be happy to spend an eternity in this room.

in some sort of giddy haze, you stumble to the bed and sit upon it, just like yunho had instructed. that pit at the bottom of your stomach is still very much there, but as your thighs sink into his soft quilt and your fingers spread themselves across the soft cotton, you find that the awe you feel is far more prevalent than your nerves right now. again, if you took the time to think about it, it might have made you panic more. the odd sense of security you feel from this room should have left you utterly terrified, and yet there you sit, a small smile upon your lips as you let the comfort of the room wash over you.

but just as fast as you made yourself at home, it’s all torn away from you. the door clicks open once more and everything positive you'd briefly felt is torn away in seconds. socked feet fall heavily against the wooden floor, followed by a softer step that you can only assume to be the smaller of the two men. your breath shudders as they grow closer, hitching when a large hand once again finds its way to your chin and pulls at it until there’s nowhere to look but yunho.

“you’re a good puppy at heart, aren’t you?” he purrs as he strokes your cheek. in your peripheral you see hongjoong crawl his way onto the bed and up to the headboard. “i know it’s hard when all you’ve known is neglect, but you deserve to have a family. you just need to learn your place.”

the hand slips from your cheek down to your shoulder and with a gentle shove, pushes you back against the mattress. your body is pushed and pulled into position until you’re lay exactly where they want you, head resting on one of hongjoong’s thighs and your legs spread just wide enough for yunho to slip between them on his knees. hongjoong wastes no time in lacing his fingers through your hair, nails catching against the base of your ear. it’s been a long time since anyone has scratched your ears like that and the sensation has your eyes fluttering shut. he chuckles at your satisfaction and while normally that would earn someone a harsh nip to whatever exposed skin you can access, you let it rest for now.

“remember, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he scratches your scalp, “this is all up to you,” yunho’s hands make their way to the waistband of your shorts, fingers dipping just below the hemline. it’s enough to have your breath hitching in your throat, and while you know you can stop this, you don’t. not because you feel like you can’t, but because you don’t want to. not yet, anyway. perhaps curiosity killed the cat, but it’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this.

besides, satisfaction brought it back.

yunho hums in agreement as he begins to tug gently on the fabric, catching your underwear with his fingers as they make their way down past your hips. “if you want me to stop, you tell me,” the air of the room is cold as it hits your exposed pelvis, and it sends a shiver down your spine as yunho lifts your hips to pull them past the swell of your ass. it’s a little uncomfortable when your wetness is uncovered but yunho is quick to remedy that with a swift kiss to your clit. it’s enough to make you moan a little, but it’s gone just as soon as it’s there. half of you is tempted to buck your hips up in a silent request for more, but you figure your safety is more important than your pleasure. you press your hips back down to the bed.

it takes him very little time to completely tug your shorts free from your legs, tossing them somewhere vaguely behind him. they thud as they hit the ground, but he has no interest in seeing where they went; not when your naked lower half is spread out on the bed for him. he tries to ignore the scars on your thighs, simply smoothing his hands over the remnants of your previous life. they don’t matter anymore, anyway. you’ll never have to fight ever again.

he lets his hands travel to the apex of your thighs, your pussy waiting, ready for him to take as his own. he must be doing something right since it’s already practically dripping. all he wants is to lean forwards and taste it, but he hesitates, gaze travelling to your face first.

“can i?” he raises a brow in question.

“can you what?” you respond.

“taste you, puppy,” you eye him up suspiciously, not quite sure why he’s asking you that. he wanted you to submit, didn’t he? so why is he asking for permission to take what he wants from you? “i want to taste you.”

“yes, but—”

“the answer’s yes?” yunho cuts you off, hands massaging your thighs heavily. there’s a sly look on his face, one that tells you you’re in for more than you you bargained for; more than just saying ‘yes’ to a simple question. you swallow thickly as you nod. “good,” he says, “now ask for it like a good puppy.”

you tip your head to the side curiously, your ears flopping as you shift your position on hongjoong’s thigh. there’s a chuckle from the otherwise quiet man, and with a quick flick of his wrist, your ear is back where it’s supposed to be.

“ask?” he nods.

“like a good puppy,” you feel a shiver run down your spine as his hand brushes against the length of your tail, not stopping until it reaches the base. he tugs upon it gently a couple of times. it’s annoying and anyone else wouldn’t have gotten away with it. you’re not exactly in a position to fight, though, so you let him tease you in the most childish of ways hoping that when all this is over you find an opportunity to tug on his tail instead. “like hongjoong always tells you; don’t tell,” he tugs, “don’t take,” he tugs again, “ask. politely.”

you grit your teeth, “can you?”

“can i what?” he leans in close, breath fluttering against your wet folds as he spurs you on. he’s so close to giving you what you want; a single buck of your hips would brush your aching clit up against his nose. you could get what you want if you really tried hard enough, but somehow you know it won’t end well for you.

“can you eat my pussy?” your words come out defeated and sad, and you have the expression to match. hongjoong coos from behind your head, fingers moving swiftly against your scalp to try and help you feel better about your surrender to yunho. it doesn’t quite work as well as when the hybrid lays his tongue flat against your slit and obscenely slurps up your juices.

“now you’re getting the hang of it, puppy,” hongjoong says, voice sweet and caring like it always is, “all you ever have to do is ask.”

[xoxochb]

heeeey I absolute love your fluffy aftercare w leo valdez would you please made something like that but with my pretty boy percy ?

— short n sweet ꣑ৎ‧₊˚.

★ - warnings: SMUT, fluff at the end pairing: percy jackson x fem! reader a/n: was listening to short n sweet when I wrote this so I thought the title/theme was appropriate

you can’t breath, you can’t focus, you can’t think, you can’t do jack shit. there’s barely any time to react before percy is placing his mouth over your core, taking you in instantly, eliciting a guttural moan from you. what you wanted to do instead was beg him to take more of you, plead please please please!! until he finally does (though you’re sure it won’t take much convincing anyways). he’s so warm, too warm, eagerly licking over you as you give your best attempt to even take in a breath (is this how you’re going to die??), they come out in more so pants, like you had been trapped in an enclosed space for hours, though the only thing enclosed was your airway

percy doesn’t seem to care one bit, finding great joy in your disoriented state, your squirming and moans as you grind down on his face. he ushers you to continue as he works you quicker, nearly sending you over an edge. your head is clouded, you feel lightheaded, stuck in a euphoric state. and you’re sure he knows he’s doing this to you too, that’s the worst part. you’re so close, just at the very tip, that small space between the cliff and air, the tiniest pinch away. percy doesn’t stop for a moment, savoring the way your legs shake and the soft noises only he gets to elicit from you

he additionally doesn’t seem to put himself on pause when you reach a pleasurable climax, loudly moaning his name. he doesn’t waste another second before removing himself from inside of you and transferring his lips to yours feverishly, making you gasp at the swift contact, he kisses you once and twice, grinding himself against you roughly, resting his forehead on yours. you so wish you didn’t want more because you didn’t know how much you could handle. you flip him over, now you straddle him, and now percy is the one whining and pleading. he attempts to grab your hips but you slap his hand away

“not yet” you pant, giving a particularly hard press into him, making him moan your name. the feeling of him filling you up pushes you over a second edge, as if the first hasn’t been that long of a fall. you curl your nails into his biceps as you let out a strangled cry. that had been your ending climax. slowly, you slide yourself off of him and to the side, your chest rising and falling as you attempt to regain yourself. you pull the sheets— mostly falling off the bed— over yourself, cuddling into percy who equally struggles to breathe. he traces lazy circles on the bare skin of your back

“does this mean I get my hoodie back?” he rasps. you furrow your brows and look up at him

“what? no”

“fair enough” he kisses the top of your head

then, the room resorts to a comfortable silence until percy speaks again, “are you okay?”

you nod. “perfect”

[mommyeater2000]

The hunt

i haven’t wrote in such a long time, and i’m soooo sad about yellow jackets so i needed to write about mari because she’s to sexy to die:(

Mari x Reader

Description: The hunt where Mari is supposed to die, reader decides that they aren’t gonna let that happen. instead of mari falling into the pit, reader pushes her out of the way.

We stood in a circle, but it didn’t feel like one. Circles are supposed to be safe. Closed. Equal. This wasn’t that. It was uneven, jagged—like the shape had been broken and hammered back into place. Cold seeped through the animal skin and unusual outfits that everyone wore during their hunts.

My fingers itched against the hilt of the dull knife at my side. Not to use it. Just to feel it. To have a sense of safety I shift my left foot to my right fidgeting with my fingers on my left hand

Mari was across from me. Her hair was pulled back, jaw locked, eyes half-lidded in that way that looked bored but meant the opposite. She always looked like she was about to say something sharp. I meet her eyes.

We weren’t touching. But she kept glancing at me, and I kept looking back.Everyone knew about us. We weren’t secret. But I don’t need to be with her all the time I can feel her presence from a mile away like she’s a part of me, a part of my soul.

A wind moved through the trees—long, low, curling—and the sound of it stirred something deep in the group. The way dogs start whining before a storm.

misty took a step forward. The deck was in it. Worn playing cards, stained in places I didn’t want to think too hard about.Everyone quieted. You could feel the silence pressing down on our skin.

One by one, the cards started to pass.

I watched each girl as she drew—quiet, cautious, fingers twitching as they turned the cards over looking at it then turning it to the group. each time i see their face relax, like a weight has been lifted off they’re shoulders. i could just feel a bigger weight on mine. my chances to get the card are higher.

van first, then natalie, lottie. who almost looked disappointed, taissa.

And then it came to Mari’s turn. but Shauna steps beside her and Taissa.

“Shauna you don’t have to take any extra risk. you can go back to you’re spot. ”taissa spoke

shauna smirks, tilting her head slightly. “how’d you get into AP stats? it doesn’t change the odds. besides. i trust whatever it wills. Misty, keep going.” she looks back to the group. Mari spoke up. “No, go back to your spot. That’s not how this works, you get what you get.” Shauna grins at her, and looks eyes with you. she knows something. her shit eating grin doesn’t flatten. “Misty, the cards.”

Her hand didn’t hesitate.

she took the card holding it up to the group, a smug look on her face. she’s safe. Mari gives her a nasty look.

Mari looked at me.

Just for a second.

Then, without a word, she reached her hand forward. grabbing the card, her breath stuck in her chest. But, Her expression didn’t change. She turned it over with two fingers. The motion was almost lazy.

The Queen of Hearts stared up at us.

And nobody breathed. van gave her a sorrowful look. Mari almost wanted to put the card back and refuse to play. like a little kid you say’s they’re not playing anymore after they get tagged.

“Oh…tough break. Mar. take off your cape.” the steps in-front of her. a nasty look on her face. Mari bite her lip, looking at me. Almost like she needs reassurance, but I can’t help. she begins to untie her cape. refusing eye contact as Shauna put’s what once was the lucky necklace that jackie gave her, now is just full of bloodshed. she start’s to count, Smiling.

“one…Two.” Mari lounges at her with a knife she swiped from Shauna’s side, as van and some others hold Shauna back. while gen, Akilah and me help Mari up from the ground she was just thrown on. my hand goes right to her’s. she returns the gesture with a squeeze. “you’re going to be fine, okay. every thing will be fine.” i say breathing heavily. I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince me or her that it’s going to be okay. “Better Me then you, right?” she pulls me into a short hug the side of my cheek resting on her shoulder.

Lottie speaks up. “Three, Four, Five, Six….” She look’s towards Shauna who lets out a small laugh.

Mari cuts Lottie and Shauna off. “You deserve everything that’s coming to you!” she let’s go of my hand, running towards the wood’s. Mari didn’t look back as she began her sprint, weaving through the trees with that eerie, calculated grace. Her figure was a blur of movement.

Lottie Keeps counting as everyone sits there and watches.

everyone gets there weapons. i don’t move to grab any, i don’t need any.

Mari is far ahead of me.

She always is, in some way or another—quicker with comebacks, faster on her feet, somehow always a step ahead even when she’s pretending not to care. I lose sight of her somewhere after the second ridge. Just flashes of movement now, the white of her dress darting between trees like a flicker of lightning in a dark sky.

It feels like it’s been hours. Or maybe minutes. The woods stretch and bend time around you until nothing makes sense except the pounding in your chest and the cold gnawing your fingers.

There are others behind me—I can hear them. The loud breathing, the slap of feet against frozen earth, rustling fabric and muffled voices. But they all feel distant now.

I don’t know what I’ll do when I reach her. I don’t know if I’m supposed to stop her or hide her or just… see her. Make sure she’s okay. the second Shauna forced that switch with Mari, She didn’t even react. No wide eyes, no trembling hands. Just that dead expression. Blank, almost bored. Like she was already somewhere else.

And then she ran.

in the same direction of the pit me and Travis set up, The pit she once fell into, but has no memory or where it is. and the pit that’s completely covered, filled with wooden spikes.

i skid across a patch of ice under the snow and nearly fall. I don’t stop. I’ve already lost too much time. My lungs burn. My hands are numb. My thighs ache with every sprint uphill, and my throat feels like I swallowed glass—but I keep going.

Somewhere ahead, a branch cracks.

I spin toward the sound. There—movement, sudden and sharp. I catch the shape of her, just her back, the white dress bright against the dark trees. She’s stripped everything else off—her jacket, her pants, her boots. Left a trail like breadcrumbs.

I push harder.

“Mari!” I shout.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn.

Of course not. She probably thinks I’m someone else. One of the others. Another girl high on frenzy and frostbite, chasing down blood in the name of ritual. Maybe part of her still doesn’t believe I’m not one of them too. Maybe part of me doesn’t know.

She slips between two evergreens. I veer right to intercept her, trying to circle around. My boots sink deeper into the snow, and I stumble but recover. I hear her breathing now, quick and sharp. She’s close, too close.

i can see her running from the side, i just need to speed up. I come up beside her, angling from the left—not directly behind, not where she’ll expect. She’s not even looking in my direction. She’s focused on moving forward, on outpacing whatever madness is nipping at her heels.

It’s just snow. A patch of it, like all the others. Soft and untouched. Quiet. There’s no warning. No edge. No dark hole in the ground. “Mari!” I yell.

She doesn’t hear me. Or maybe she ignores me. She’s too focused. Too fast. Her foot lifts—she’s about to step into it.

I throw myself sideways and Time slows.

My shoulder slams into her ribs. Her breath leaves her in a grunt. I watch her stumble, caught off balance, arms flailing. Her bare feet scrape across the snow. She falls sideways, not forward. into the whiteness.

I hit the ground hard beside her. Hard enough to make my vision rattle.

But I keep moving.

I’m rolling. Something shifts beneath me—like a breath held too long suddenly letting go. The snow caves. The earth disappears.

I slide.

No, I drop, i swear i could have felt Mari try to grab my hand. but It’s to cold to tell.

I open my eyes and try to move, but everything feels distant. My leg pulses with heat and pressure. Something’s crusted to the side of my head. My mouth tastes like copper and dirt. I blink again—slow. The light above has changed. Dimmer now. Or maybe my eyes are just fading on me.

I don’t know how long it’s been.

Minutes?

Long enough for the adrenaline to drain out of my veins and leave only the ache behind.

I hear footsteps.

Not imagined ones—real. Crunching snow, breathless voices, shapes moving at the edge of the pit. Someone swears. A sharp intake of breath.

She’s in there,” someone mutters.

“Is she moving?”

Another voice. Closer. Familiar.

Mari?

No. It’s not her. Not yet.

i hear Lottie’s voice cut through the air, and i could almost see her head looking down at me.

“i don’t think she’s going to survive, if she does then the wilderness rejected her, rejected them. the hunts called off.”

I try to say something, but it catches in my throat. My tongue is heavy. My body is heavier.

More noise now. Ropes. A branch cracking. Someone’s lowering something—maybe a jacket, maybe a rope tied together with scraps of fabric. I can’t tell.

“She’s bleeding—don’t yank her.”

“Careful—watch her leg.”

Mari’s voice cuts through it all, clear and too close.

“Move. You’re not touching her.”

It’s not a request.

And just like that, they do.

I feel her more than I see her. The shift of shadow. The snap of her breath in the cold air. from above the pit. Then her hands. Rough, shaking slightly. Warm. and then my eyes close.

When I wake up, I don’t know where I am.

There’s something heavy pressed to my leg. A weight. A dull pressure.

The ceiling is wooden. Slanted slightly. The air smells of blood, pine, and smoke. I’m in the hut, Mari’s hut. where is Mari?

I don’t remember how I got here. Only pieces. The cold. Mari’s voice. The feeling of being lifted, swaying. Maybe someone carried me. Maybe they used a sled or a tarp or their bare fucking arms. I don’t know.

My leg’s wrapped, tight. My hip aches like it’s been stabbed and sewn shut. I don’t look yet. I don’t want to see.

Mari’s sitting on the floor beside me, leaning against the wall. One knee up, one arm draped across it, her head tilted back—exhausted, but alert. Her eyes are half-closed. She hasn’t left.

Her jacket’s still off. Her hair’s a mess. There’s blood on her hands—not hers.

Mine.

She moves instantly, leaning forward, expression hard.

“You’re awake.”

It sounds like an accusation. But her voice is quieter than usual. Rough with something unspoken. “Hi,” I manage. It comes out hoarse.

“You fucking idiot,” she mutters, and looks away. And stands up. Staying in the same spot.

I try to push myself up a little, but the pain flares and Mari shoves me back with a hand against my shoulder—not gentle, not rough, just firm.

“You have a hole in your leg the size of a fist and you’re saying ‘hi’ like you tripped on a goddamn tree root? you could’ve died.”

“I saved you.”

“No, you almost died for me!”

That silences me. Not because I disagree, but because of the way she says it. Her voice breaks hard on the last word, and she turns away from me like she can’t stand to look at me right now.

“I saw you fall in. I thought you were dead. I thought—” She cuts off, swallowing something jagged. “There was blood everywhere. You weren’t moving. And I thought… That’s it. That’s the last time I’ll ever see you move.”

“Mari—”

“No. Shut up.” She turns back toward me, and this time her expression is all fire. “You don’t get to talk right now. You don’t get to make this okay. Because it’s not okay. You scared the shit out of me, and I hate you for it.”

I breathe in, trying to find the words. “i rather it be me the you. i helped you.”

Her hands ball into fists at her sides. “are you stupid? You think I want to feel like this? You think I like trying to get you out of a death trap. everyone else tried to help you get out. what if you did die? were you just gonna leave me alone with some kind of fucking survivors guilt?” There’s something wet in her voice now. Not tears yet, but close.

“They helped me out?” I ask gently.

“Yeah. Eventually. After I fucking snapped at them. Lottie kept saying you weren’t meant to survive.

“and you didn’t listen?” She scoffs. “I don’t listen when it comes to you.”

That shuts me up again.

We sit in silence for a long minute. Her hand drifts closer, fingers brushing mine. Not taking it—just near enough that I could if I wanted.

I do. She doesn’t pull away.

“what happened with the hunt?”

She snorts once—bitter. “they ended it. You crashing into a pit sort of ruined the mood.” I almost laugh, but my ribs hurt.

I squeeze her hand.

“I knew the pit was there, me and Travis came up with it. He was gonna come up with a plan to make Lottie walk on it. That’s how I knew it was close.”

“That’s pretty Dark, didn’t take you as somebody to do something like that.” she say’s Half joking.

She hasn’t let go of my hand.

Not really. Not fully.

Even when I shift a little, the pressure changes—less grip, more presence—but it’s still there. The way she anchors me. My whole body hurts, but it’s the kind of pain that tells you you’re not dead. The burn of healing starting too soon. My leg throbs, wrapped in something rough, and the bandages are already soaked through with the edge of blood. My side feels swollen and heavy, like the skin there isn’t mine.

But it’s Mari’s hand that keeps me grounded.

I try to adjust my breathing, but it stutters. She notices instantly. Her gaze flicks over me—sharp, assessing, worried in that way she pretends isn’t worry. “How bad is it?” I ask.

She doesn’t lie.

“You missed most of the spikes. But one caught the side of your thigh and it… it opened up deep. You lost a lot of blood. Honestly you’re lucky, there’s almost 0 Chance of you landing like you did.”

“And my waist?”

She hesitates. Her jaw tightens.

“You were lucky,” she mutters. “It tore through the side, but it didn’t hit anything vital. Or… at least I think it didn’t.”

“You think?”

“I’m not a doctor, genius.”

I try to smile. It doesn’t quite land.

“Still,” I say. “You got me out of there.”

She looks away, jaw working like she’s chewing through guilt.

“you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t think.” Her voice sharpens. “You just threw yourself in after me like some kind of—”

She cuts herself off, breath ragged. Her eyes go glossy again, but she blinks it back fast.

I want to say something. I want to tell her I’d do it again. That it wasn’t a decision, it was instinct. That there’s never been a single second since we crashed here where I wouldn’t risk everything for her. But the words get stuck. Not because they aren’t true—because they’re too true.

Mari isn’t the type to let her guard down without a fight. So instead I say, “You were about to fall in. You didn’t see it. i got lucky.”

“No,” she says, low and certain. “You got hurt. That’s not being ‘lucky”

She finally meets my eyes again. And there’s something in hers I’ve only seen a few times before—back when she thought I was sleeping, or when she thought no one was watching. It’s not softness exactly. It’s more like fury at the idea of losing me. “I didn’t know if you were going to wake up.”

“I didn’t know either,” I whisper. When she finally speaks, it’s lower. Rougher. “You keep doing this. Putting yourself in the fire like it’s your job to make sure the rest of us come out okay. And I love you for it and I fucking hate you for it.”

The words land like a punch. I can barely hold them.

“You love me?” I whisper.

Mari finally meets my eyes again—and there’s no escape in her gaze now. Just rage, exhaustion, and something too bright to name.

“You already knew that,” she says. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

I try to reach for her, but my fingers shake. She sees it, and without another word, she takes my hand and presses it flat against her chest. Her heartbeat thuds against my palm. Unsteady. Real.

“You’re not allowed to die before me,” she says. “Got it?”

“I’ll try,”

she brushes her hand on the top of my head.

It’s not affection, not exactly. It’s something rawer than that. Like she’s holding me down so I don’t slip away again.

“Does it hurt?” she asks after a long pause.

“Yes.”

She nods, and I swear she looks almost relieved to hear it.

“Good,” she mutters. “Means you’re still alive, and you deserve it for being careless.”

“stop with the angry act. You stayed,” I say.

“Of course I did idiot.” she crosses her arm

I close my eyes.

It’s not peace. It’s not safety. Not here. But it’s something.

Mari, alive. Me, alive. Barely. Together.

That’s enough for tonight.

[wandering-pirate]

Mouthwashing Characters Headcanon

Christmas Day with You

Captain Curly

You and him baking sugar cookies in matching aprons? Peak domestic fluff His apron said "Sugar Daddy," and yours? "Daddy’s Sugary Snacc"

Yeah, that was all his idea. He couldn’t stop showing them off, grinning ear to ear, parading them around Walmart like it was a fashion show.

Meanwhile, you were just trying to hunt down all the ingredients in peace, but nope, he had to follow you around, flaunting those aprons.

After a war of flours, you successfully conjured up a decent batch

You had to use actual physical restraint to stop him from adding Vegemite to the cookies. The audacity. And when he ate one, took a full spoonful of it, and moaned?? Yeah, a monster

He’s obsessed with ski or any snow sport video game and always teases you for being a noob. But it’s all in good fun—he’s learned his lesson after the Mario Kart Incident that shall never be mentioned again

"Sweetheart, you’re gonna twist your joint with that posture—"

"Hush! You just wanna win gold again. Stop tempting me, you tall, handsome, bulky-ass demon"

Naturally, your competitive streak kicked in and, somehow, you ended up twisting your ankle

He played the role of nurse, cold compress in hand, sneaking kisses to your ankle because “it speeds up healing” (and also because he’s a shameless flirt who’ll use any excuse to be touchy)

You both gave up on the active stuff and just settled in for a holiday romcom. Of course, you both passed out halfway through

Nurse Anya

You made sure the fireplace was stacked to the brim with firewood because Anya + cozy fire = Christmas must

Your tradition? Her reading a book with her legs propped up on your thighs while you either watch your favorite YouTube videos or game

She’d be all serious about the book, but every now and then, she’d peek over at your screen, giggling at your reactions, but pretending like she was still super into the book

"What did he even trip on? Hell no, he deserved more than just getting skinned alive"

“Y/N, sweetie, natural selection. The weak always get eliminated”

"Mmm, makes sense"

When the clock hit a certain hour, it was handwritten letter time. Instead of gifts, you both wrote love letters to each other. This started when she told you how she re-read your first love letter whenever she got stuck on months long of hauls as a crew nurse

"Yeah, sorry, Anya. No letter this year"

"What? Bu—"

"Because you’re not getting back on that claustrophobic flying submarine this time"

Knowing how much she wanted to enter med school, you gave her the ultimate gift: fully paid tuition for a six-month medicine review center. You’d worked all year for it, and seeing her reaction made every second of it worth it

It was the first time you saw her cry. Anya, who’s always calm and composed, was sobbing in your arms, and it just wrecked you with love. You hugged her tighter, not sure who was more emotional at that point

"Y/N, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me"

Intern Daisuke

He planned the perfect Christmas adventure, complete with bullet points, timestamps, and color-coded charts. You had to give him credit for actually being organized for once—he really took his Christmas plans seriously

But, of course, the Christmas spirit was clearly not on his side this time. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong:

Alarm didn’t go off

There was a traffic jam due to a fender bender

Your favorite thrift store? Closed for maintenance

Even the skating rink shut down after some bizarre oil spill caused a dogpile (like, how does that even happen?)

By the end of the day, you weren’t mad at all, just hungry. And somehow, Daisuke turned every misfortune into something you both would be giggling about

You both bought GIGANTIC mugs at Walmart that read, “The Grinch pales at my naughtiness.” They were immediately used to create the world’s sickest hot chocolate, piled with as equally large marshmallows and a diabetes-inducing amount of whipped cream.

Meanwhile, Daisuke was relentless in roasting the Grinch—he couldn’t stop hating on that movie.

“Who even hates Christmas? It’s the grand finale of the year! Absolute loser behavior.”

Mechanic Swansea

Christmas in the garage, for short, his sanctuary. The man thought of everything: fully insulated it, brought in a heater, all just to make sure you were warm and comfy while you both worked

Both of you had this wordless agreement to work on woodcrafts for Christmas. He taught you the basics of woodworking and you proved yourself to be a modern abstract Picasso. You improved throughout the years, tho. Your pieces? From abstract Picasso to expressionism Picasso

He loves carving because it gives him the perfect excuse to sit right behind you, guiding your hands with his. His big teddy bear frame is all around you, and something about that just hits him deeply. Like when he knows you’re safe and protected in his arms. And your eagerness to learn and follow his moves. He melts.

Naturally, you got a splinter, triggering his fierce Tsundere side

“What did I tell you about not rubbing fresh-cut wood? Keep this up, and I’ll just have you sit on my lap while I do your work for you.”

But underneath all that scolding, you could see his silent panic. He just hides behind transparent glass

"Stop smiling at me like that, you clumsy goof"

After crafting a spoon with a thirty-degree angled handle and an awkward head (he still called it perfect, of course), he whipped up his signature paella

Somehow, despite having eaten a thousand spoonfuls of it over the years, you still weren’t tired of it

Co-pilot Jimmy

Jimmy’s not really one for celebrating Christmas. Not bitter about it or anything, but he just treated it like any normal day. That all changed, though, when he realized that Christmas was your thing.

“Babe, why Christmas?”

“Honestly? I’m not really sure. But you know how, when we were kids, there’s that feeling of excitement, like when Christmas is coming and you can’t stop smiling? It just brings all that back, and suddenly, you feel like a kid again. So I guess, it’s just nostalgia, huh?”

He never really thought about it that way before. After all, his goal as a kid was always to grow up faster than everyone else.

So, you took it upon yourself to share all your favorite Christmas traditions with him, hoping to bring a little of that magic into his world:

Decorating your tree? He suggested replacing the star with an angel figurine... with your printed face glued on it. (Naturally, he followed through after you both went to bed, sneaking up to do it.)

Making a gingerbread house? He blocked the chimney, and when you asked why… well, he said it best:

“I don’t want some fat bastard breaking in, he’d eat the entire damn house”

By Christmas Eve, looking around his once-bare apartment, now filled with colors he didn’t even know existed, he couldn’t stop that tugging in his heart. He didn’t even realize how much of his childhood was missing until now.

You were patching up his unhealed wounds with your bandaids, and he didn’t even notice until it was too late. He's down bad

a/n: I know it's late T.T, but here's the crew having some holiday break... future angst coming up with curly and you (sorry)

also p.s. english ain't my first language, so i kinda felt like my whole headcanon writing abilities were crap... but these somehow are the top liked posts soooo... future HCs comin' down your way

[yandere-romanticaa]

can you feel my heart?

❝ can you hear the silence? can you see the dark? can you fix the broken? can you feel, can you feel my heart? ❞

synopsis: Your love for Albedo burns brighter than any flame, but what happens when an imposter ruins everything? Furthermore, what else awaits once you start walking side by side with the imposter, only for him to end up falling for you instead?

yandere! imposter! albedo x gn! reader

a/n: this story was originally published back in earlyish 2022 and I haven't really touched it since. It was better received on my Quotev account, in which I also wrote a chapter two. However, I recently got the spark back to maybe continue this and if there's a demand, I'll post the 2nd chapter on here too and try to continue it.

The echoes of footsteps rang in your ears as you desperately tried to keep your vision steady and clear, but the endless amounts of ice and snow decided to make that task difficult for you. You had just recently stepped foot into Dragonspine, the urge to help out your friends too strong to stop. Amber had recently complained to you that a lot of strange things had been happening on Dragonspine and while she never dwelled on the details you could tell that something was terribly wrong. You were hardly a seasoned adventurer, if you could be even called one. Most of your commissions stemmed from collecting herbs, helping the locals, keeping guard of trade routes and simply cleaning up the great statue of Barbatos, which would take you countless hours because you did not posses a Vision. Even so you weren't too shabby with a sword and you had been on the icy mountain countless times much to everyone's surprise. Ever since the sudden Stromterror attack on the city, Albedo became a wonderful ally as he took you under his wing to show you all of the beauty and mysteries the world could offer. You sat through countless lectures, written and read endless theses and notes but you still lusted for more, just as much as Albedo did.

The only difference was, knowledge wasn't the only thing you craved in the long run.

It really wasn't that hard to fall for the alchemist, he was so oddly charming that you couldn't help but to be utterly smitten. He had his quirks that others thought were strange but you adored them, it were those little habits that made Albedo, well, Albedo. You wouldn't change anything about him. Your silent adoration came with a price, a price your poor heart just wasn't ready to pay - you had to suffer all by your lonesome. Albedo clearly did not see you in such a light, you were just a student and a friend to him. You doubted he even noticed your longing stares let alone the frantic beating of your heart.

Being in love was hard.

But not being loved back was even worse.

You silently hoped that by doing these tasks he would notice you, he would see you as his equal and hopefully more but that was asking for too much. You were willing to settle for anything, that's how desperate you were. Dragonspine was more than a training ground to you, it was a chance, a chance for you to seize and conquer the heart of the person you admired the most in this world because if you didn't, it felt as though the earth itself would open and it's jaws would swallow you whole! ...well, that is a bit dramatic but that really was how you felt. Even if you couldn't have him, even if he could not love you, just being by his side should be enough for you. Just seeing his face was more than enough to brighten your day.

And the day was yours to seize.

Straight ahead a bit higher on the path was Albedo, a small smile on his handsome face face as he outstretched his arm towards you, a sign that he was going to help you climb up further onto the mountain. You hid the blush that creeped up on you with the soft scarf that you wore, he really was a true gentleman. Times like this became incredibly precious to you as he would finally show you his softer side and you would end up falling in love all over again with him. He greeted you kindly and linked your hand with his own as he lead you down the Snow Covered Path towards the campsite, a comfortable silence between the two of you. Despite the wind and chilly ice, the sun was high up in the sky and its rays outstretched far into the horizon, the soft orange hues bathed the tall mountains in a ethereal glow that made you feel so warm on the inside. The company you had also made things even better than they already were.

"You look so happy right now, I could almost paint you."

Stopping dead in your tracks you turned to Albedo, his comment had caught you off guard. A bright smile was plastered all over his face, his eyes were glimmering with a mischief that you only saw on a few rare occasions. Still, he never said something like this to you, never. 

Archons, was your heart going to explode?

Your stunned silence started to scare him a little so he tried to comfort you by putting his hand on your shoulder, not knowing what kind of impact this entire situation left on you. You swore on your life and everything you ever owned that if a boulder just fell from the sky and crushed you to bits you would die happy. 

Making haste, you quickly ran in front of him, telling him to hurry up unless he wants to stay here out in the open until the sun sets, making this place even more dangerous than it already was. He laughed a little and caught up with you, making sure to throw some snow at you while he could. The two of you walked like that for a while, just enjoying the scenery and each others company before it was time to buckle up and get serious. It was so refreshing to see him like this, so happy and carefree. He was oddly chatty with you today though, which wasn't too unusual but it was indeed noticable. Albedo usually stated the facts and the truth, with the occasional joke if he was in the mood for it but he seemed to be quite talkative today, not that you complained. He asked you how your day was and what you did, while also sharing his own activities with you. He didn't have a lot of time to paint today unfortunately but he did finally manage to get some of his notes and experiments in order, allowing him for more free time in the upcoming days. Still chatting away with him you made sure to take the turn you usually took to get to his camp but before you could he stopped you by suddenly grabbing your wrist. Odd, you thought to yourself.

"Your camp is right here, isn't it? We always take the turn here, I know we do." 

"It is but... I was having some issues so I had to switch locations, unfortunately. Here, come this way instead."

Gripping your wrist a little too tight than you would have liked, Albedo randomly just shoved you into the opposite direction, leaving you confused, downright dazed. You could have sworn that you saw some fire flickering near the entrance but you couldn't even comment on it with how hard and fast he was going right now. The happy atmosphere shifted into this very tense and awkward one, the sheer quietness was so thick you could almost cut it with a butter knife. Only the sound of your footsteps and of the bustling wind remained. You were tempted to speak up but you ended up opposing the idea as Albedo was in a very troubled mood. Was his camp raided, did someone steal something that wasn't supposed to be seen? Albedo did have quite a lot of strange but powerful things lying around the place, it's possible that someone stole some of his notes or tampered with his projects while he was outside of the hideout. Yes that must be it, you reasoned with yourself. Why else would he be acting like this? 

"We're here."

Huh, well that was fast. 

The new camp was located on the opposite side of the mountain and it was buried deep inside of a hard to find cave but he was smart enough to leave a few scratch marks on the wall in order for it to be identified. Not so large to be remembered by random travelers but not too small to be forgotten by him either. Quite smart of him, as usual. 

Letting go of your hand, he offered to take your coat off your hands while you made yourself warmer by the fire. Letting out a sigh of relief you allow the soft flames to tickle your chilly fingers. The sudden smell of meat being cooked overtook your senses, causing you to let out a cheerful laugh. Turning your head to the side you noticed Albedo tending to his own flame, a nice, large black pot was placed over it, filled with meat and hearty veggies, perfect for a delicious stew. His eyes sparkled with joy as he grabbed a nearby spoon and carefully stirred the stew, the intense smell of it even made his stomach grumble. A comfortable silence overcame the two of you, much to your relief. That earlier interaction made you feel a little tense but it was nice seeing him in high spirits again, even a genius like him gets lonely from time to time, you pondered to yourself. Your train of thought was stopped suddenly once you noticed the unsatisfied scowl on Albedo's pretty face. Frustration was written all over it as he suddenly stood up from his chair and grabbed his jacket and bag.

"I need to go out and get a herb or two, I'll be back before you know it. There should be some nearby, they'll make the stew that much more delicious."

With his back turned to you he started walking towards the exit, but before he left he had one final thing to say to you.

"Feel free to stir that thing every once and a while, maybe even read a book if you get too bored. But don't touch anything on that table in the corner, okay?"

His tone was gentle and the request was simple so you nodded with a smile on your face, saluting him in the process. With a chuckle he turned his back to you once more as he existed the cave, his footsteps were getting farther and farther away from the cave.

Soon enough you were all by your lonesome, your only companions being the few scraps of paper that were littered on the ground, the boiling pot and the crackling fire that sat next to you. You grabbed the wooden spoon and examined it in your hand, while also keeping an eye on the stew. The hearty smell made your tummy grumble which caused you to let out a semi loud groan as you dramatically held your stomach with your free hand, your eyes still zoned in on the food. You sat there for a few minutes, just enjoying the peace and quiet. It didn't take long for your stomach to act out again, begging you to just eat something. Besides, who knew when Albedo was coming back anyway. He was definitely more familiar with the mountain and terrain than you were but that still didn't change the fact that you were starving. 

Standing up from the chair you decided to look around for something to munch on before your companion turned up once more. There were a couple of old oak tables in the cave with thousands of books and even more notes scattered across their surfaces, a clear sign that Albedo had been quite busy for a while now. You quickly scanned through everything but nothing caught your eye, to top it off there was no food in sight. He probably used up the rest of his leftover supplies to cook this little feast that was bubbling away in the corner, but you digress. 

Your fingers gently traced the edges of the tables as you occasionally stopped to go through the various documents, even tidying up little areas here and there. Albedo really could be sloppy sometimes which why you took this tiny liberty. As you stood there with several books in your hands you couldn't help but to look at the table in corner, the one table Albedo warned you not to go anywhere near. You first turned your head to the side, a little angry at yourself for even letting the curious thought wander into your mind but the more you wandered around, the more fidgety you became. For starters that table was suspiciously tidier than the rest but somehow had even more junk on it compared to the others. An old lamp was on it, the wick inside of it was clearly lit not too long ago. You didn't even notice that the sun had started to set and just how colder and darker your surroundings had become. The only heat source was the fire that cooked your dinner, but even that threatened to go out any moment now. You had some matches in your pocket, surely you could light up this one lantern... right? You cautiously walked towards the forbidden corner, the contents on it remaining a complete mystery to you due to the darkness that continued to expand all around you. You were barely able to make out the small lantern, it's lid already open a little bit. You reached out to your pocket and took out your matches and tried to light them up. The first one went out almost immediately. The second one stayed lit for a few seconds but before you could even get it close to the lantern, it also faded. Grumbling to yourself, you grabbed a third match and prayed to the Archons to just let you light this stupid thing already. With a steady motion, you carefully tried to grab the lantern with your other free hand but you didn't even realize just how shaky you were. The match suddenly slipped right past your fingers and the lit flame fell onto the papers that were beneath you. With a shriek you picked everything up hastily while also trying to repair the damages you stupidity caused. You cursed yourself for your clumsiness, who knew how Albedo was going to react? He even told you not to go near this dumb table, you really should have listened to him... He was definitely going to notice what you did, so, you might as well try fixing them up while you could... That would hopefully make him a little less angry with you.

Stepping closer to the entrance, you held the papers tightly to your chest as the strong wind almost knocked you over, but your determination was unwavering. You were going to fix this mess and that's final. With the few glimmers of light you finally looked at the contents of the papers, but instead of the usual notes that you were used to you were met with something much more... gruesome.

With a shriek, you threw the papers to the ground, but your eyes remained glued to them none the less. Icy chills coarsed through your veins as you looked at the images that were staring back at you, another scream threatening to break out. 

On the ground was a drawing of a mutilated Albedo, with another Albedo that was standing above him with a bloody sword in his hand and a devilish sneer on his lips. The image itself was already disturbing, but it were the little details what caused you to freak out so much. The look of absolute fear in his eyes, the organs that were ripped apart from his stomach and were tossed so carelessly to the ground. His intestine decorated the bottom part of the page like grass as the Albedo above him held his weapon, his sneer forever engraved in your mind. You didn't even notice him holding a bloody heart in his other hand, the fist was high up in the air, like it was being shot up into the moon. 

With shaky knees you crouched and took the papers in your hands and examined all of them. Some contained notes in a language which you could not decipher, the sharp penmanship made you woozy. Other pieces of parchment contained more drawings, each more disturbing than the last one. Human hearts, the general human anatomy, several scenes across Dragonspine were all drawn with a simple pencil but what stuck out the most were the portraits of Albedo, Sucrose and yourself. All of them were done with pristine detail, there was obvious care put into every little line. You sprinted towards the table, your anxiety skyrocketing beyond the roof, You moved everything around, hoping to find something that would explain the gory and eerie drawings but instead of answers you were met with even more questions - several pictures were hung up on the wall in front of you, all of them had Albedo as the center focus. It was him walking, eating, studying, drawing, sleeping, living...

It was beyond disturbing.

There were hundreds of little notes stuck and hidden in any corner of the table, all of which contained information about Albedo and his life. His height, his clothing, weight, everything was there. Your lungs felt like ice as you hyperventilated, your mind just couldn't comprehend what was going on. Why was he keeping so many methodical notes about himself, what was up with these sick drawings? Sick, there really was no other word to describe them. Repulsive, disgusting, sick, it was too much to handle.

To add more fuel to the fire, you suddenly felt a thin blade being pressed against your neck.

[piningforstan]

Leave Them

Summary: You’re really impressed with Stan after fighting the zombies. And his brass knuckles.

Pairings: Stanley Pines x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: 18+, this is SMUT, smut without plot, fingering, kind of praise kink, inappropriate use of brass knuckles

A/N: forgive me Father (Alex Hirsch) for I have sinned (wrote smut about Stan Pines)

“You-You saved us.”

The details of Stan’s face sharpened in clarity as he approached, looking wary and handsome as ever. Even in the darkness, you could see his gaze drift over you, examining for any injury. You couldn’t imagined how you looked — you had just been attacked by a horde of townspeople-turned-zombies — but whatever he saw must have sated him. His large hand ghosted your cheek.

“You alright, kid?”

Without permission, you leaned into his touch. You nodded. Ever the genius, you repeated, “You saved us.”

Stan returned a strained smile. “Someone had to. Might as well’ve been me.”

You racked your brain for something more intelligent to say, perhaps a thank you. The remains of fear stilled gripped you, though, along with the image of Stan fighting the undead. You had never seen him in action before. Of course, you’d heard his stories about his past, about boxing, but like everything that Stanford Pines said, you had to take it with a grain of salt.

He wasn’t lying. At least about this.

Watching him had ignited something primal and core-clenching inside you, an ember of desire only fanned more by his close proximity. You decided that words would not be sufficient enough to express your gratitude, instead rocking up on your toes and grabbing Stan by the lapels.

You half expected shock or resistance when you pressed your mouth to his. But, to your relief, there was none of that. Almost as if you had done it a million times before, Stan immediately slipped one hand behind your head and one around your waist. His mouth was equally if not more fervent than your own, consuming you with an abandon that confirmed his feelings for you.

All of the words you wished you could say you poured into that kiss. A silent conversation between both of you, the ebb and flow of a tide, crashing into you with unfettered intensity. It wasn’t long before you needed more. Breath fanning across your face, Stan steered you backwards, cushioning the blow as he cornered you against the wall. A groan escaped you that he seemed determined to capture, replacing his mouth on yours once more — then your neck, your collar, amassing sound after sound from you.

It didn’t take long before you were helping him out of his jacket, tugging at the buttons of his undershirt. Stan kept his hands at your waist, securing you against the wall, against him, moving only to let his jacket slip down his shoulders. They caught on his wrists, the brass knuckles he wore.

Stan swore. “Fuckin’ hell —”

“Leave them,” you said, touching his arm.

Stan paused to peer at you strangely. A blush warmed your face, prompting his to split into a crooked grin. “Leave ’em, eh?”

He promptly maneuvered the jacket off with impressive dexterity, which only made you that much more eager for his touch. Your whole body seemed to sigh as he flicked open your jeans, fingers warm and calloused and wonderful. He shoved your pants down to your thighs then placed his free hand between your legs.

“Oh, doll, you’re killin’ me,” he growled, finger curving upwards almost by reflex at your slickness. Your hips ground into his hand. “Say it again.”

“What?” You breathed, arcing into his palm. He teased your entrance, keeping you from what you really wanted.

“What you said. Before,” he clarified, voice rasping, deeper than usual.

You reached through the haze of desire clouding your brain, panting out, “You saved us. Saved me.”

“That’s right, couldn’t let nothin’ happen to you,” Stan muttered into your neck. One finger buried itself inside you and you cry out in surprise, in pleasure. “You’re mine. My girl.”

Another finger, then a third, stretching you out. Even just the slightest of ministrations has you gasping. He curled his fingers, coaxed out your orgasm, wrist snapping. White light blurred the edges of your vision. Right when you think that you might release, he removed his fingers. You barely have time to protest when he replaced them with something else.

Something cool and distinctly metal.

“Stan.” You grabbed hold of the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Since you like ’em so much,” he grunted in way of reply. He pressed the ridges of the brass knuckles against you, brushed your clit, along the sensitive skin of your thighs.

Already you can feel yourself unraveling, bucking up into the combined feel of his skin and the metal of the brass knuckles. Stan watched you almost obsessively, as if to commit every second of this to memory — his body on yours, your undoubtedly swollen lips, the way you pant out his name with each touch.

Stan is completely in control, releasing and providing more pressure depending on your reaction. You hissed. “Stop—teasing.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”

The metal pressed to your clit. You inhaled. His opposite hand reached up to palm your breast, thumb brushing over your raised nipple. It’s almost too much, Stan like this, confident and solid and breathless. Your body bowed to him, pliant like a plant bending towards the sun, desperate for the faintest touch.

“That’s right,” Stan rasped, “Come for me. Let me hear ya.”

Your head fell back. The combination of his heady smell and the cool metal, his knee pushing your legs apart to better access you, pushes you to the edge. He’s there to catch you as you take the plunge, free falling, ecstasy sweeping over you. There’s nothing to anchor you except him — Stan — holding you upright as you shuddered through your climax.

“Never knew they could be used for more than kicking ass,” Stan said with a laugh.

You swatted at him. Hopefully in the dark he couldn’t see you blush. “Shut up.”

Hands curling in his lapels again, you pulled him to you, more than eager to return the favor, when there’s a loud thump from upstairs. The sound made both of you freeze.

“Grunkle Stan? Are they gone?”

It’s Mabel. Shit. You both forgot that the kids had retreated upstairs to hide.

Stan groaned, pinching his nose. There’s a trace of promise in his eyes when he glanced at you, making sure that you’re both buttoned and tidied and separated before the kids shuffled downstairs, eyes widened with fear.

“They’re, uh, all gone. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout,” Stan said. Dipper and Mabel ran across the room to hug him and he bent to one knee to accept it.

Your heart fluttered with happiness. You’re alive, and more important the kids are alive. And Stan returned your feelings.

Never one to linger too long in sentiment, Stan started ordering the twins to start clean-up. You’re watching the entire thing unfold when he caught your eye and darted his tongue over the brass knuckles before removing them and tucking them into his suit pocket.

Oh, you’re definitely returning the favor.

[mostly-marvel-musings]

You already knew I was coming in for Kinktober!!

May I pleaseeeee have Hugh Jackman with these prompts.

“Remember who’s in charge here baby, I’d choose your next words carefully.” 

 “Act like a brat and I’ll treat you like a brat.” 

I'll send in a logan one here in a few 😉😉😉😉

In charge

A/N: I wrote this one for Logan instead! Hope you don’t mind! Also this was pending since Kinktober 24’ sorry 🫣

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut. Little fluff?

Logan/Hugh Jackman Masterlist

.

The fight had started on the jet. A mission gone sideways, too many bodies, too little backup, and one impulsive decision on your part that nearly got you both shredded.

You didn’t expect a thank you for pulling his ass out of the line of fire—but you also didn’t expect the growled lecture. The barely restrained fury behind clenched teeth. The way Logan yanked you aside once you were safe, nostrils flared and voice rough, calling you reckless, stupid, goddamn infuriating.

Now you’re back at the cabin, the air thick with leftover adrenaline and pride.

“You don’t get to talk to me like I’m a rookie,” you snap, pacing in front of the fire like it’s the only thing keeping you from launching something at the wall. “I saved your life, Logan. You’re welcome.”

“You risked everything for a goddamn chance.” His voice comes from the shadows, low and unbothered, like he’s not nearly as pissed as he should be—but his knuckles are still white around that cigar.

“And I’d do it again. What, you’re mad I didn’t let you play the hero?”

That earns you a low, bitter laugh. He leans back further in the rickety armchair like a wolf who knows he doesn’t need to chase—you’ll come to him. You always do.

You’re breathing hard, body coiled tight. Heat radiates off your skin. You’re angry. And you’re looking at him like you want to tear something apart.

Logan just tilts his head.

“You done stomping around like you’re lookin’ for a fight, or do you need a damn invitation?” he says, voice sharp as broken glass, smoke curling up like a warning.

You stop. Turn slowly. Arms crossed. “Careful, Logan,” you say, tone syrup-sweet and soaked in defiance. “You might just get what you’re asking for.”

That’s when his eyes darken. The chair creaks under him as he stands, the cigar flicked carelessly into the fireplace behind you.

“Remember who’s in charge here, baby,” he growls, closing the space between you in two long strides. “I’d choose your next words carefully.”

You smile. Sweet and defiant.

“Or what?”

He closes the space between you in two slow steps.

“Act like a brat,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, “and I’ll treat you like a brat.”

You don’t back down—not when he closes the distance, not when his breath grazes your skin. You lift your chin instead, daring him with that gleam in your eye that always gets you into trouble.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Cute,” he mutters, voice thick as molasses, dripping heat and warning in equal measure. His knuckles brush along your jaw, featherlight. A touch so gentle, it feels more like a tease than comfort. “You really wanna play this game tonight?”

“I’m not scared of you,” you whisper, even as your pulse hammers against your throat.

Logan’s lips twitch into a smirk. Not amused—hungry.

“No,” he says, thumb dragging slowly across your bottom lip. “You’re not. And that’s exactly why you’re dangerous.”

He takes his time then—circling behind you, fingertips grazing your arm, your waist, like he’s mapping you out for later. Like he’s memorizing all the places he’s going to ruin with nothing but patience and heat.

The fire crackles behind you, but it’s nothing compared to what’s building between you two. The room shrinks, the tension coils tighter. You feel it in every breath, every inch of skin exposed to the cold air and to him.

He leans in again, lips ghosting over your ear. “Say somethin’ bratty. Go on,” he dares you, voice almost playful. “Give me an excuse.”

And damn it, you’re tempted.

You twist just enough to glance at him over your shoulder, a sly little smile playing on your lips. You feel his breath against your neck, warm and steady, but his eyes—those eyes are locked on you like you’re prey he’s already claimed.

“Well,” you purr, “if you’re in charge… why are we still talking?”

Boom.

Logan stills for a second—just a second. Long enough for the air to snap like a live wire between you. Then he lets out a low, guttural sound that starts in his chest and ends with his hands grabbing your hips hard enough to brand.

“You think that mouth of yours is cute,” he snarls, spinning you to face him.

You barely register the movement before your back’s against the log wall, his hand braced beside your head, the other wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just reminding you. Who’s bigger. Who’s stronger. Who’s in charge now.

“You wanna be a brat?” he rasps, nose brushing against yours, lips just grazing but never giving. “Fine. Let’s see how long that attitude lasts when you’re beggin’ me to slow down.”

Your smirk falters—just a breath—but it’s all he needs.

His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth, swallowing that last shred of smugness and replacing it with raw, messy need. His hands are everywhere at once—pulling, grabbing, owning—like he’s trying to get you closer even though you’re already tangled up in him like wildfire.

Clothes hit the floor with reckless speed. Boots thud, zippers scream, buttons fly. It’s not clean. It’s not careful. It’s desperate—two people trying to win a war they’re both secretly dying to lose.

He lifts you effortlessly, like your weight’s nothing, and slams you onto the bed with a growl that’s more animal than man. Your laugh—breathless and defiant—only spurs him on.

“Still not scared of me, sweetheart?” he pants, eyes dark and wild as he hovers over you.

You grin, cocky and unrepentant. “Make me be.”

Logan stares down at you like you’ve just declared war—and lucky for you, he loves a fight.

“You got a damn mouth on you,” he mutters, half to himself, as his fingers trail down your body like he’s committing each curve to memory. “Good thing I know how to shut it.”

Before you can come up with something smart—and bratty—he kisses you again. Deeper. It’s not gentle. It’s consuming. Like he’s trying to devour the attitude right out of you. His hands move rough and deliberate, calloused palms sliding along your thighs, parting them like a man on a mission, like a man who’s already decided how this ends.

He drags his lips down your neck, over your collarbone, taking his time to leave bruises—claims—with every bite and kiss. You arch into him, nails raking down his back, and that earns you a low, dangerous chuckle.

“Feisty little thing,” he growls against your skin, nipping your side just hard enough to make you gasp. “You were made to drive me crazy, huh?”

You smirk. “Took you this long to figure that out?”

And that’s the exact moment the leash snaps.

He flips you in one smooth motion, face pressed into the pillow as his body cages you in from behind. His hand settles between your shoulder blades, holding you in place—not hurting, just… controlling. Every instinct in him screams alpha, feral, yours. And you love every second of it.

“You wanna act like a brat?” he hisses, hips grinding slow and punishing against you. “Fine. You’ll take every goddamn inch like one.”

You whimper—finally, a crack in that defiance—and Logan hears it.

“That’s what I thought.”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s rough, deep, and filthy. His name punches out of your throat in a moan so needy it makes him curse. He sets a brutal, perfect rhythm, giving you no time to catch your breath—just the sweet, relentless ache of being completely ruined.

His voice is right in your ear, panting, wrecked, sinful.

“You feel that? That’s what you get for running your mouth.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The words are gone. Evaporated into the thick, hot air along with every ounce of smugness you had.

He grabs your hair, pulls you up just enough so your back arches into him, so he can see your flushed, dazed face in the fogged-up cabin window.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty when you’re losing.”

You don’t remember when it ends—just the sound of your name in a broken whisper and the way his body trembles against yours as he finally lets go. Like a dam breaking. Like he’s been holding back forever and only you could undo him.

There’s a moment of silence afterward. The kind that hums with leftover heat and breathless shock. The kind that makes the world feel far away.

Then Logan moves.

Gently.

More gently than you’d ever expect from a man built like sin and raised on violence. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just slips out of bed, muscles taut and shining with sweat, and disappears for a second—long enough that you almost miss the weight of him.

But he comes back. Of course he does. With a damp cloth and a glass of water, a fresh blanket tossed over one arm.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair from your face with a touch so soft it could make you cry. “You okay, baby?”

You nod, throat tight, heart weirdly full. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

His smile is small and a little shy—like it catches him off guard every time you look at him like that. Like he means something.

He wipes you down carefully, murmuring something about how he “might’ve gotten a little carried away,” which is hilarious considering your legs are currently jello and your neck probably looks like a topographic map of his teeth marks.

“You did great,” you whisper, hand sliding over his chest, still rising and falling too fast. “Scored a ten in ‘brat discipline.’ Might even let you win next time.”

He groans, dropping his head into your shoulder with a muttered “God help me.”

After a while, you end up wrapped in one of his flannels—ridiculously oversized—and tucked against him like a puzzle piece. Logan’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your thigh, his lips pressed to your temple.

No words. Just warmth. His breath in your hair. The distant sound of snow falling outside.

And then, just as your eyes start to flutter closed, he murmurs.

“You keep talkin’ like that, darlin’, I’m gonna have to show you round two’s got teeth.”

[acourtofthought]

"Lucien is the easy path for Elain".

Actually, no. Lucien is the difficult and scary path for Elain.

The NC with Az is where Elain continues to experience the same coddling she's experienced her entire life. Where those who are supposed to care for her the most continue thinking she's someone who needs protecting, who fail to give her credit for saving their lives, who need her to stay in her gardens and not do anything too big or scary. The NC is where she remains living close to her sister's just as she's done for 24 plus years, something that is familiar to her.

Lucien represents change in a major way. He's someone who lives beyond the NC, who is not part of the day to day life of her sisters the way Azriel is, someone who she has an extremely non-human like connection to, someone who looks about as far from the human males she grew up with as can be (long hair, pointed ears, a scar down his face and a magical eye). Staying close to Feyre and Nesta equals the illusion of safety for Elain and it's understandable why she'd cling to that after everything that happened but long term it would be detrimental to her growth. Sarah tripled down on that fact for the reader in SF and an author does not write lines like "no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court...it sucked the life from her", "the Spring Court had been made for someone like her" and "Elain's scent like a promise of Spring" without reason. Some hold so fast to the idea of the Elucien mating bond, claiming that is the easy path for her but was the easy path for Feyre following Rhys (her mate) into the NC? The easy path for Feyre would have been staying with the fiancé she loved, remaining in his manor planning parties and wearing pretty dresses but Feyre didn't want easy and Sarah doesn't want easy for her FMCs. Instead she wrote Feyre as pushing for more beyond what would have been simple and that decision led to her challenging herself, led to her coming into her powers, led to her saving their world. Elain's mating bond with Lucien is a single piece of a bigger puzzle but it doesn't surprise me how some fixate on that as if it's all that matters in Elain's story. That her defying her bond for "love" is somehow the biggest, most important thing to her arc (this isn't the 1950s people) instead of what would actually be a more meaningful and powerful story for her, leaving the safety and comfort of what she's familiar with and exploring the world with those she's just getting to know. With people who don't have all the pre-conceived notions of her that her sisters and those in the IC do, with people who push her because they've got no reason to think she's not the sort of person who can't be pushed. Elain remaining in the NC with her sisters and their friends under their protection is what she's always known, it's the easy path. Elain leaving with Lucien and meeting others who do not coddle her represents change and that is the hard choice, not the easy or safe one. Her mating bond with Lucien is irrelevant to that.

[solvyn]

A new anon here! I was wondering if you could do a LaMelo Ball fic where reader is a singer and Melo and reader were in a long term relationship but recently broke up and reader releases a break up album about it

track seven - l.ball

summary: after releasing an album about your breakup with lamelo, you struggle with the weight of your emotions and the quiet aftermath, only to find that some things left unsaid might still find their way back word count: 1.1k warnings: angst (a/n: i left this as a cliffhanger because i wasn't sure whether to give them a happy ending or not. should i write a part two?)

you don’t check your phone when the album drops.

it’s not that you don’t care. god, you care too much. but you know if you pick up your phone, you’ll see his name. and right now, you can’t handle that.

instead, you sit in your apartment, curled up in the oversized hoodie you stole from him months ago—back when everything was good, when you thought forever meant forever. your hands are curled around a mug of tea that’s gone cold, your mind buzzing with anticipation and dread.

it’s out now. the world knows.

your pain, your heartbreak, your sleepless nights and empty mornings, they’re all out there, woven into melodies, laced between lyrics that tell the story of love and loss. of him. of you.

lamelo ball was your first love. your greatest love. and now he’s your greatest heartbreak.

it’s been four months since the breakup, but it still feels raw, like an open wound that won’t close. you’re doing what you do best—turning your emotions into music—but you know it’s going to hurt him. it’s going to hurt you, too. but this is how you heal. or at least, how you try to.

when your best friend calls, you hesitate before answering.

“girl, have you been online?” they ask, their voice buzzing with equal parts excitement and nerves.

you sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple. “nope. avoiding it.”

“well, you might wanna start preparing yourself because it’s trending. everywhere.”

of course it is.

you exhale slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. you knew this was coming. you just didn’t expect it to happen this fast.

“what are they saying?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“mostly good things,” your friend says. “they love it. they’re calling it one of the best breakup albums of the year. some are even comparing it to s.o.s. and red.”

that makes you smile, even if it’s small. you poured your heart into this album, and to see people resonate with it, to see them feel it, means everything. but you know that’s not all there is.

“and?”

your friend hesitates. “and… he posted.”

just like that, your stomach drops.

“what did he say?”

“it’s a story. just a black screen with a caption. ‘damn.’”

your heart clenches. that single word carries so much weight. you can picture him saying it, the way he does when something catches him off guard. you wonder what he’s thinking. if he’s angry. if he’s hurting as much as you are. if he regrets the way things ended.

but you can’t afford to think like that. you wrote this album for you. not for him. not for closure. not for revenge. for you.

so you don’t respond. you don’t reach out. instead, you let the music speak for itself.

three days later, he calls.

you shouldn’t answer. you know better. but your fingers betray you before your brain can catch up.

“hey.”

his voice is deeper than you remember, raspier. like he hasn’t been sleeping much either. there’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“so that’s how you really feel?”

your throat tightens. you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “melo…”

“nah, i just—” he exhales sharply. “i didn’t know it was like that.”

“what did you expect?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “we broke up. i wrote about it.”

“yeah, but—” he pauses. “some of those songs… you made me sound like the villain.”

your chest aches, because part of you knows he’s right. but the other part? the part that spent nights crying over him, over the way things ended, over the pieces of you he took with him when he left? that part doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“if that’s how you heard it, maybe you should ask yourself why.”

he’s quiet. too quiet. you can hear his breathing, uneven like he’s trying to hold something back.

“i never wanted to hurt you,” he says finally. “you know that, right?”

you swallow the lump in your throat. “i know.”

he sighs, a heavy, uneven breath that crackles through the phone. “then why does it feel like i lost you all over again?”

because maybe he has.

maybe you’ve lost him, too.

silence lingers between you, thick with words unsaid. you could tell him that you still think about him when certain songs play, that sometimes you reach for your phone only to stop yourself, that you still sleep in his hoodie because it’s the only thing that makes your bed feel less empty. but none of it changes the fact that you’re here, on opposite sides of something too broken to fix.

“melo…” your voice wavers. “i don’t—i don’t know what to say.”

“yeah.” his voice is barely above a whisper. “me neither.”

there’s a pause, a second where you think he might say something else, something that could undo the space between you. but then the line goes dead.

and just like that, he’s gone again.

time moves forward. the album continues to climb the charts. the songs that once felt too personal to share are now being sung by strangers, their voices carrying pieces of your story. of his. of yours, together.

you don’t know if he listens to it anymore. if he still thinks about you when certain lyrics play. if he regrets calling you that night. you don’t reach out. neither does he.

but sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the world is still and your heart aches just a little bit less, you wonder if he’s out there listening, remembering, missing you the way you miss him.

and maybe, just maybe, he is.

because one night, long after the world has quieted and your apartment is bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, your phone buzzes.

a text.

it’s him.

“i heard track seven.”

just five words, but they knock the breath out of you. because track seven is the one song you almost didn’t put on the album. the one where you weren’t angry, or bitter, or drowning in sadness. the one where you admitted, in soft harmonies and raw lyrics, that you still loved him, in some small, stubborn way. that a part of you always would.

your fingers hover over the keyboard. you could ignore it. you probably should. but instead, you type.

“yeah?”

his response comes quickly.

“yeah.”

[sprytesukii]

hazy dreams

sero hanta x shinsou hitoshi x reader

rating : 18+, explicit, MDNI

wc : 4.7k

tags : trans!masc!!reader (he/him pronouns, good boy used to refer to reader), afab anatomy (clit, cock, pussy, cunt, hole, all used to refer to genitalia), mmm!threesome, hanta & hitoshi are also into each other (they kiss among other things), drugs! (only weed), oral (reader!receiving), squirting, reader makes suicidal jokes, piercings mentioned, other horny stuff >.<

an : i wrote the first half of this like . a year ago and i don’t remember even doing that but it was fun & sexy so i decided to finish it . it’s deeply self indulgent , i literally wrote this For Me so i will be so geeked if you enjoy it <3

Your living room, however cozy it usually is, currently reeks of weed. 

Usually, you’d grimace at the scent, worried about the pungent yet familiar smell seeping into your thrifted furniture and deceptively inexpensive throw pillows, but it is indicative of the presence of your two favorite people on the planet (excluding your cat Doorknob, of course). 

Hanta and Hitoshi don’t come over to your place that often anymore — something about your neuroticism ruining the vibe or some other, equally pretentious shit — so when they do choose to grace you with their presence, it’s a real treat. 

The last time you’d hung out with them had been over a fortnight ago. The last time you smoked with one another was even longer than that, and you find yourself brimming with childlike anticipation. 

You’d already cleaned the modest apartment top to bottom (not that it’s hard - a studio in the heart of the city only really guarantees a place to sleep and not much else) when the two come knocking, a lazy smirk playing on Hanta’s lips while Hitoshi offers you a small nod, his tongue toying with the piercings adorning his bottom lip. 

The fact that you don’t immediately heat up and squirm in aroused embarrassment is really a testament to how much you and your composure have steeled over the years. 

When you’d first met them in college, you couldn’t look in their direction without feeling that swoop of something tugging at your gut, making you stutter, gape, or, once, spill the contents of an entire tray of food all down your front. 

It still shocks you they even befriended you after that, the awkward boy who only wore oversized hoodies and couldn’t make eye contact, but you’ve learned not to question your good fortune. 

Of course, they aren’t just pretty faces — but, oh, pretty faces they are, with Hanta’s smooth, tan skin, mischievous, straight toothed smile, and shiny black hair, and Hitoshi’s perpetually tired, kind gaze, various tattoos and piercings creeping over his pale skin, and ringed, long fingers. No, they also have the gall, the audacity, to be good people and even better friends. 

It makes you a little sick to think about, how sweet they are to you and how attracted to them you are, but you put it out of your mind as often as you can. 

Even if they were interested, which they most certainly are not, you’re terrified of being another one of their groupies that follow them around, begging, vying for their attention and a chance to bed one of them. 

These people are rarely, if ever, successful, instead kindly rebuffed by the always smiling Sero or the soft spoken Shinsou, a fact you would feel good about if not for the reality that you’d be met with the same fate if you tried anything near what you’ve secretly fantasized about. 

So, instead, you get pleasantly high with the two of them every once in a while, soaking up their friendship like a sponge, knowing it’s all you’re likely to get. Despite your gratefulness that you get anything at all, you can’t help the hunger. 

The want.

“Yo, you good? Where’d you go?” Hanta calls out to you playfully, nudging your pajama pants-clad leg with his where he sits beside you on your mattress. 

You blink rapidly, bullying your want back into a more feasible, ignorable shape in your chest, shooting him a half smile that feels fake, even to you. 

“Nowhere, sorry! I was just thinking about work,” you lie, shrugging. You don’t miss the way Hanta glances at Hitoshi where he sits on a beanbag, your face heating in embarrassment in response to their blatant attention. 

Are you really this transparent? Mortifying.

You wave off their concern while trying to smooth your grin out into something more real, reaching for your cart where it lies lost in your sheets. 

“Who cares! Weed! Let’s get high, yes?” Your overly exaggerated enthusiasm works, at least a little, Hanta whooping in excitement and Hitoshi’s expression smoothing out into something less troubled. 

“That’s what I’m fuckin’ talking about,” Hanta laughs while pulling out his pipe, slender fingers plucking two small baggies from his bag, before tossing the other to Hitoshi. “You finally gonna smoke with us, babe?”

The term of endearment makes your stomach roll, but you manage to shake your head, pouting. “Hell no, not unless you want to bury me when I inevitably choke on the smoke and die in this shithole. Lowkey, would rather kill myself.”

Hitoshi makes a face — he’s never liked your fatalistic way of speech, but it’s a habit you just can’t kick (kind of like the two of them).

“Don’t say shit like that.” He says your name, low but firm, even as he rolls himself a frankly beautiful looking joint, tattooed digits handling the weed gracefully. “You know we wouldn’t let that happen.”

Hanta nods emphatically and you have to look away, lest your face give away everything, choosing to take a hit from your pen instead, shrugging. 

“Yeah, you guys are my knights in shining fuckin’ armor,” you say on the exhale, a puff of flavored smoke filling the air by your face. You can already feel it, the high settling in your bones (you’ve always been a bit of a lightweight), and you sigh, tilting your head back. “Ah, there we fucking go.”

This time, you do miss them looking, but not at each other — at you. At your bared neck, your pursed lips. The barely there peek at your pink tongue. 

You take another hit and then another, your brain filling with the fog, making it a lot harder to think about why you’re so on guard around the two, about why you don’t do this shit every day. 

“Slow down, baby,” Hanta chides, but you know it’s mostly for show. You crack open an eye to watch him light his pipe, taking a steady, deep inhale before exhaling with a low sound that sends a bolt of heat to your gut. 

You ignore it to switch your focus to Hitoshi who catches the lighter Hanta tosses him and lights his joint before taking a drag. The only sign it affects him at all is the way he slumps further into your beanbag, his eyes falling even further to half mast where they rest on you. 

A part of you preens under the way they both seem to give you their undivided attention every time you do this, but the rest of you cringes and fights to run and hide — this time, like most times, the latter wins out. 

You pat around your sheets, searching for the remote to your tiny television at the end of your bed to toss it at Hitoshi’s chest, successfully ridding yourself of the weight of his purple gaze. 

“Pick something easy to watch. Nothing scary, I'll shit my pants.”

Hanta huffs out a laugh while blowing smoke through his nostrils, something that shouldn’t be hot, but absolutely is. 

“Try that again. Nicely, this time.” Hitoshi raises a pierced eyebrow at you, the action and the order making you throb. 

You can hear a soft ‘oh shit, okay’ off to the side of you, but you ignore it, that heavy focus you thought you’d deflected hitting you at full force. You don’t shudder, but it’s a near thing, his tone seeping through your defenses and warming you down to your marrow. 

“Can you put on something easy to watch, please?” You want to sound more careless, more jokey, but your voice comes out breathy. A little thready. Hanta exhales harder out your periphery and self consciousness creeps back in like a well worn coat. 

You shrink back into yourself, curling up against your pillows, further away from Hanta at your side and Hitoshi on the other side of the room, your eyes trained on the television. 

Thankfully, Hitoshi doesn’t push, instead turning on the TV like you’d asked. 

Later, you’ll blame the weed for fucking with your senses because you remember just a beat too late what exactly the last thing you were watching was. 

“Wait, fuck, wait-" you scramble, but you’re too slow, too syrupy from the substances coursing through your body, and all you really manage to do is get even more tangled up in your sheets. 

A soft whine emanates from the tinny speakers, followed by a series of moans, gasps, groans, and slick sounds. You clench your eyes shut, hoping that, somehow, if you don’t open your eyes, there won’t be graphic porn playing in front of the two men you’ve been attracted to for years. 

Unfortunately, the childish notion does not work and when you gather the strength to crack an eye open, both Hanta and Hitoshi’s eyes are trained on the images of a woman being tongue fucked within an inch of her life. 

“Oh my god,” Hanta breathes, his fingers clenching the sheets beside him, “I had no idea you even knew what porn was. This is the best day of my life.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna kill myself. I’m gonna step into the next room and you will find me swinging from the rafters, fuck.”

The embarrassment is practically pouring off of you, even as the noises coming from the screen make your hole clench in arousal. 

Hitoshi says your name in slight reprimand which does the opposite of help, an anguished whine escaping your throat. 

“Please turn it off, please,” you beg quietly, pressing your palms to your eyes. Not even the floaty feeling the weed is giving you is enough to spare you the full brunt of shame you feel in this moment.

Hanta doesn’t seem to get the memo, making a noise of protest. “Hell no! As a fellow munch, I love watching someone eat box, especially if you can tell they’re an aficionado, much like myself. Game recognizes game.”

Another wounded animal sound slips through your lips and you collapse, burying your burning face in your pillow while your libido attempts to conjure up images of the two of them eating you out and getting off on it.

“Stop it, Hanta,” you can hear the smile in Hitoshi’s voice even as he turns the volume down a little. “You’re embarrassing him.”

“Aw fuck, sorry dude. Was I pushing it too far?” The genuine apology has you sitting up, despite the molten lava in your veins, shooting him a half smile. 

“N-nah, it’s chill—“

“No, he’s horny.” Hitoshi’s blunt words stop you in your tracks, your eyes widening and mouth dropping open to protest - to say anything, really - but the weed slows your thoughts and you just end up gaping. 

Hanta’s worry morphs quickly into something predatory, something wolfish as he stares you down, eyes flitting over your form as if to find whatever clue Hitoshi picked up on so quickly. 

You press your thighs together, head spinning. “What, I — no! I mean, what?” Not your best work, but what could be done? You tried!

Your sputtering only seems to confirm it to the pair, Hitoshi’s already heavy gaze growing more heated. 

“You imagining the best head you’ve ever gotten? ‘s that what’s got you so hot and bothered?” He almost sounds casual, like he’s asking about the goddamn weather and damn, if that doesn’t get you, a choked sound creeping up your throat, unbidden. 

You barely manage to shake your head, shaking it again soon after in attempts to clear it, but between the high and your arousal, it’s impossible. 

“Uh, I — no. I’ve never — no one has ever done that to me. I just — I like to think about it.” Fuck, your tongue is loose, and you watch as your words hit the pair. 

Hanta’s eyes widen, his pupils blooming in real time while Hitoshi’s tongue slips out to nudge his piercings, his gaze darkening. 

“You hear that ‘Toshi?” Hanta’s usually bright voice is gravelly, and even though he’s talking to Hitoshi, his eyes are on you. “He just likes to think about it.”

Fuck, you feel like you’re going to die. A soft gasp falls free without your consent, much to Hitoshi’s delight. 

“I wonder who he thinks about. A celebrity, maybe? Or maybe it’s someone we know?”

“Ooh!” Hanta eats it up, cocking his head at you in mock thoughtfulness. “Who could it be? Shoto is pretty hot, but he’s probably too soft for our baby.”

Our baby. The words nearly stop you from breathing, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before you get a hold of yourself, but it’s too late. Hitoshi and Hanta are looking at you like they want to consume you, like keeping up your walls for all these years were for naught. 

They could always see through you. They know you. 

“Please,” The word slips out, soft and thin. “Please, don’t fuckin’ tease me.”

Both of them soften at that, Hanta moving across the bed to be closer to you, one of his hands pulling your head to rest in the crook of his neck, rubbing soothing circles on your nape. 

Against your better judgement, you melt against him, the weed in your system urging you closer, melding you to his side. 

“Aw, don’t worry,” Hanta hums, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We won’t let Shoto have you. You’re already ours.”

You blink at that, eyes wide as you attempt to extricate yourself from his grasp, to get a look at his face and judge what he’s saying, but he doesn’t let you get far, instead grasping your jaw and kissing you. 

His lips are softer than you thought they'd be and you melt into it, the chaste pecks, just a pressing of lips.

It deepens quickly though and you feel heady, having never been kissed with such intention, with such skill, with such desire.

His tongue probes your mouth, the kiss getting messy as he maps out the wet cavern, before sucking your tongue in past his lips, the action drawing a wanton moan from you. 

The sound permeates the space between you and Hanta groans in response, his other head cupping your face and holding you still so he can continue to ravage your mouth. 

“Slow down, Hanta, we don’t wanna kill him,” Hitoshi’s voice sounds from behind you and you jolt, pulling away from Hanta with a string of spit connecting your lips. 

Hanta makes a petulant noise, but doesn’t argue. Instead, his big hands come up to rest at your waist and pull you into his lap, giving Hitoshi room to slide onto the bed behind you.

Anticipation thrums beneath your skin and you feel yourself soaking the seat of your boxers as you hold painfully still, thighs quivering with the strain of keeping your crotch away from Hanta's.

You're expecting Hitoshi to start grabbing and groping at you with the same hunger Hanta displayed, but you should know better. Quick and dirty isn't really his style.

This is made quickly evident by the way he presses himself against your back, effectively sandwiching you between their two broad bodies, pushing his face into crook of your neck, and inhaling.

You feel embarrassed for some reason — you didn't shower before they came over, having spent most of your day agonizing and cleaning in equal parts, so the idea that all he's doing right now is smelling you is unnerving.

"'Toshi," your voice comes out quieter than you'd like as you try and pull away from him, only to be stopped by one of Hanta's hands back on your jaw, holding you still.

"Be good," Hitoshi whispers, his breath heating the skin of your nape while his hands creep towards the waistband of your pajama pants, your hips twitching instinctively, both towards and away from his questing hands.

It's not even that you don't want this — no one in the room is under that impression, least of all you — but you're so overwhelmed. You're more turned on than you've ever been in your life, slick almost certainly seeping through all your layers, and the idea that these two men who you've been pining after for ages are about to see you at your most stripped bare is staggering.

Hanta seems to notice your internal struggle, the hand on your jaw tilting your head down so he can look you in the eye.

"You okay, baby? Need us to slow down?" He's earnest, red-rimmed, dark eyes flitting across your expression for any indication of true discomfort. It makes your heart kick in your chest and you shake your head slowly.

"It's just -" you pause, voice catching as Hitoshi noses up to your earlobe, cold piercings meeting heated skin, "- it's embarrassing. I want you guys so much."

The latter part of your sentence comes out akin to a whisper. Admittance, no matter how obvious the statement is, is a leap. One you'd have to be hard-pressed to make, if it ever happened at all.

Both men pause completely at the quiet confession and urge to flee comes back at full force. You almost launch yourself out of Hanta's lap, a half-formed excuse blaming the weed for your comment already at the tip of your tongue, but before you can do anything at all, the world spins and you're on your back.

The movement rumples your clothes, your hoodie now exposing your navel and the wet spot at the crotch of your bottoms to the cool air coming from your open window.

Hanta and Hitoshi's glassy eyes trail over your newly dishevled appearance and you try to bury your face into the pillow beneath your head, your face heating up quickly. You can't look at them, not when they look at you like that.

Like you're more than a fuck or a fling or a friend. Like you're something.

Like you're everything.

"Is our baby stupid, Hanta?" Hitoshi speaks first, tone like gravel, and though he's addressing the man at his side, he can't look away from you.

Shame rockets through your body and you shake your head vehemently before Hanta can respond. You know you're a lot of things — awkward, pathetic, soggy — but you aren't stupid.

The corners of Hitoshi's lips tick up at your reaction. He looks amused by you, almost like one looks at a pet who's just completed a simple trick. It makes you want to hide again, but when Hanta chuckles, soft and dark, reaching down to toy with the drawstring on your pants, you freeze, caught.

"He's not stupid," he replies, tugging the knot loose. The bottoms slacken around your waist.

Hitoshi hums in what you assume (hope) is agreement, one of his hands carefully pushing your hoodie further up, exposing you more. "If he's not stupid, why doesn't he know how much we want him? How much we care?"

Your mouth opens, shocked, then snaps shut. Hanta hooks his fingers into the waistbands of your boxers and pants, tugging them down until they get caught between your ass and the bed. They can't be removed unless you help, but you're stunned into inaction.

"You didn't know? We're not very subtle, sweetheart."

Of course you didn't know. You never would've assumed two of the sweetest and sexiest people you've ever had the pleasure of meeting would be into you, but now that you're faced with the brunt of their attention and attraction, you feel a little foolish.

"You can't blame me." You glance up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the swimming of your head and the heat pooling in your gut. "I mean, it's - it's you guys. People proposition you all the time and you always turn them down. Kinda thought you were dating each other at one point."

Hanta snorts at that, bumping shoulders with Hitoshi who rolls his eyes, before curling his fingers in the hair at the base of Hanta's mullet and kissing him, hard. Your eyes widen, cunt clenching at the display.

They aren't shy or unfamiliar with one another — no, Hitoshi is easily pushing his tongue past Hanta's lips and dragging it across every surface inside, drool collecting at the corners of his mouth. They've done this before, it's obvious, and you can't help but imagine what it looks like when they're alone. How far they've gone together.

Your fantasies are cut short, Hitoshi pulling away from Hanta with a soft groan, thumbing Hanta's plump, pink lower lip, before turning his attention back to you. "We like each other just fine, but we also like you. Let us take care of you."

There's nothing you can do but nod at this point, tired of fighting the force that's pulling the three of you together. If they end up tossing you away after they sober up, you'll deal with it. It might take anywhere between a few years and the rest of your life, but you'll recover. For now, you want to be greedy.

You want to take.

Hanta watches your expression change and he smiles, wide and horny. "There he is. C'mon, 'Toshi, help me take his pants off. Wanna get a good look at his cock. Bet he's hard, huh?"

You shiver at his words, but lift your hips obediently when Hitoshi tugs them down. He exhales hard at the string of slick connecting your puffy folds to the soaked fabric, his hand clenching in the clothing before he tosses it aside.

"Fuck." Hanta leans down, eye-level with your pussy, his warm breath wafting over you, making you spasm. "He's so goddamn wet."

He sounds reverent, worshipful almost. Two long digits run up your seam, fingertips coming away drenched and you whimper at the contact. He lifts them to Hitoshi's lips, surpassing the pierced flesh to press your essence directly against his tongue.

His eyes flutter shut on a breathless hum, sucking Hanta's fingers like he's sucking dick. You watch his jaw work and cheeks hollow as Hanta pinkens, before pulling them free with a wet 'pop'.

"You're gonna make me cum in my sweats, dude." His words, while jokey, come out breathy and strained. Hitoshi looks delighted.

"Not before our baby does." He nods down at you, biting his lip. "Go on. I want to watch."

Hanta lets out a disbeliving laugh, but follows Hitoshi's instructions, laying on his stomach so that he's inches away from your core. Your cock is swollen and throbbing, twitching at Hanta's proximity. He takes the same two fingers, now wet with Hitoshi's spit, and spreads you open, watching you with an eagerness akin to that of a wild animal faced with its prime choice of prey.

Embarrassment creeps back in and you reach up to cover your face, only to have your hands taken into Hitoshi's own as he moves to sit behind you, pulling your upper body against his.

"None of that." He chastizes. It's not mean, but it is forceful, and so is the grip he has on your wrists.

The tightness of his grasp is distracting enough, but everything flies out of your mind at the first lick Hanta gives to your cunt.

The weed enhances everything, makes you feel like you can discern the texture of every tastebud as they drag against your sensitive nub. It's electric, so much so that your eyes immediately clench shut and you moan. Loudly.

Hitoshi kisses your temple, the cool piercings resting against your warm skin, before he tilts your head up so he can kiss you on the lips instead.

He doesn't kiss you like he kissed Hanta. This is so much more possessive — wet, sloppy, and controlling. Wrenches your mouth open and sucks on your tongue like it's his to do so with. All you can do is grip his arm, trying to stay grounded. It's nearly impossible, though, between the sex and the high that's still lingering.

Hanta sucks your cock into his mouth, his tongue rubbing circles into the underside, pleasure zinging up and down your spine in a way you've never experienced before. You gasp into Hitoshi's mouth, tears leaking out the corners of your closed eyes, while Hitoshi threads his fingers into Hanta's hair, pulling him further against you.

The action makes Hanta moan, the sounds vibrating around your clit. Your hips jerk, grinding against his tongue, and you pull away from Hitoshi to apologize. "S-shit, 'm sorry, 'm sorry -" you stutter out, whines underscoring every word.

Instead of stopping you, Hanta looks up at you through his thick lashes and opens his mouth wide, his tongue flat against the nub. The bed shakes as he thrusts against it, hazy, leisurely. You feel Hitoshi shudder at his display, at the way your cum coats his tongue, at the way he waits to be used.

"Go on, baby." Hitoshi whispers against the shell of your ear, grinding his hard cock against your lower back which effectively pushes your own further against Hanta. You don't know why you're surprised to feel evidence of Hitoshi's arousal, but you are, your head falling back against his shoulder.

Hanta hums in encouragement and you whine, rolling your hips towards his face, dragging your sex along his tongue again and again and again. You don't know how to keep a rhythm, but you chase your high, the weed making it feel like it's coming quicker than it usually does when you're alone.

As your pleasure mounts, your noises increase. You're whimpering and cursing every other word, torn between pushing back against Hitoshi's dick and Hanta's mouth.

"So fucking good, baby, you're being such a good fucking boy," Hitoshi growls against the shell of your ear, his rutting losing rhythm as his cock leaves trails of precum against the small of your back where he's soaked through his sweats. His tattooed fingers tighten in Hanta's hair. Hanta's eyes roll back at the feeling and you can relate.

You feel like you can't breathe. Your cunt is spasming beneath Hanta's ministrations, the coil in your stomach tightening and tightening until its a hairsbreadth away from snapping.

"'Toshi, Hanta, 'm gonna - fuck - somethin's gonna come out -"

You can literally feel Hitoshi pulse, dick kicking, at your slurred words. He holds Hanta down, hot mouth enveloping your cock completely while two of those long fingers press inside you and curl up.

They hit your spot with expert precision, massaging it until that razor thin wire snaps.

You cum harder than you ever have at your own hands, your stomach dropping into a freefall. You absolutely soak the sheets and Hanta's face, bucking and jerking as clear liquid sprays with an intensity that forces his fingers free from your cunt. He continues to suck your cock, moaning all the while, prolonging your orgasm until you're openly crying against Hitoshi's shoulder.

Through the haze of pleasure-bordering-on-overstimulation, you just barely register a choked groan leaving Hitoshi as his hips stutter and warmth blooms against your back. He slumps back into your pillows, loosening his grip in Hanta's hair to tug him gently away from your pulsing core.

Hanta goes easily, detaching himself from you with such a graphic, wet, suction sound, you visibly wince. He's absolutely covered in you, but he doesn't seem to mind, sucking his fingers clean with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I'm good, huh?" He's smug as fuck, but you can't blame him. That was the best thing that's ever happened to you, you think, and you say that, filter utterly demolished.

To your surprise, the tips of Hanta's ears pinken. He's embarrassed. Flattered. You would tease him for this if it wasn't for the fact you're about to fall asleep, wrung dry (literally and figuratively), nestled into Hitoshi's side.

"Yeah, you are." Hitoshi answers for you, reaching for Hanta's hand to pull him to your other side, the two of them lifting the sheets to cover your bare lower half. "So are you."

He presses a kiss to your temple before leaning over you to kiss Hanta, gentle and chaste. You want to say something, anything, but the world is slipping away from you like handfuls of sand, and all you can manage is tiny grunt of dissatisfaction.

Hanta laughs softly, pecking your slack lips. "Sleep, baby. We'll be here when you wake up."

As you give into the sweet release of sleep, eyes falling shut, Hanta's words reverberate in your mind.

We'll be here.

You choose to believe them.