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sweetkpopmusings · 2 months

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stray kids soulmate aus | h. jisung <3

a/n: oh boy do my jisung feels have me dizzy ! i love him so deeply and eternally it's ridiculous :,,,-) pics not mine <3

content: fluff, soulmate au | wc: 1.7k | warnings: none really! | pairing: soulmate!jisung x gn!reader | requests: open

the year you’ll meet your soulmate, you receive a one-sentence description of how you’ll meet.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“jisung!” chan called from the entrance to the apartment, “you’ve got mail!”

jisung appeared with a confused expression, not able to recall any recent purchases that would result in a delivery. his confusion grew when he saw how bright and wide chan’s smile was. if he weren’t so sleepy from the nap, jisung probably would’ve put the pieces together as soon as he held the lavender envelope in his hand.

inside, there was a small piece of paper, with one sentence typed perfectly in the center: after a near-miss, they’ll recognize you by the sound of your voice.

chan shimmied his shoulders, “what does it say?”

jisung’s brain buffered, still not quite understanding what this was about. it clicked after the fifth or sixth time he read the sentence.

“how does this help me?” he groaned.

chan gently picked the fateful piece of paper from jisung’s hands and read it himself, “huh.”

jisung scoffed, “yeah.”

“at least it’s…..romantic?”

jisung’s unamused look was enough to make chan giggle, which allowed a smile to peek through jisung’s annoyance, “romantic, but an entirely unhelpful clue as to how i’m going to meet my soulmate.”

“ah come on jisung,” chan patted jisung's shoulder, “you’ve got the whole year to sort out what it means. let’s at least celebrate the fact that you’re meeting them within the next 12 months!”

though frustrated by the ambiguity of the letter, jisung could not deny the way he got an adrenaline rush at the thought of his soulmate becoming a part of his life soon. even if he couldn’t anticipate the circumstances of it happening, the inevitability of it changed his perspective on just about everything. the months passed, and the meaning behind the sentence never became clearer. but, by the time he could count the weeks until the year’s end on one hand, jisung couldn’t get the idea of love out of his head.

“jisung!” hyunjin laughed, “you’re making no sense right now!”

“what do you mean?!” jisung retorted, “is it really that crazy of a thing to say?”

seungmin joined hyunjin’s laughter, “yes, it really is that crazy. thinking of love so much while writing these songs must have melted your brain.”

jisung groaned, following behind his friends as they exited the clothing store, “i don’t even know why i’m arguing with you. neither of you have met your soulmates, so clearly you wouldn’t get it.”

“hey! you haven’t met yours either!” hyunjin frowned.

“even if we had, i doubt we’d agree with…whatever it is that you’re claiming,” seungmin made a face of disgust.

jisung’s eyes grew comically wide, “i’m not saying love is related to someone’s feet! i’m just saying, theoretically,” he used his hands to emphasize the fact it was hypothetical, “shouldn’t you know how to describe someone’s toes if you really, truly, deeply love them?”

hyunjin grimaced. jisung gaped at his friends with desperation. a laugh burst into the air beside them and then wafted away, prompting seungmin to laugh.

“someone, a stranger, just laughed at your theory,” seungmin smirked, “now you’ll never convince me that it’s logical.”

jisung frowned. when he opened his mouth to make another argument, hyunjin shook his head and started walking to their building. this probably saved jisung from digging his grave even further, but it didn’t save him from overthinking the interaction. with each step, he felt a pang in his chest. it seemed unlikely, but what if that moment was the near-miss he’d waited for? he had been talking about love when they laughed at his statement. that had to be some kind of sign, right?

jisung considered all the possibilities. by the time they made it back into the practice room, he convinced himself he was just desperate, grasping at straws for a sign. he never even saw who laughed, so he couldn’t be sure that they were laughing at what he said. in the end, jisung felt next to no hope and tons of embarrassment. maybe one day he could joke about this story with his soulmate. today, unfortunately, was not that day.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

you set your bag down, sighing in relief at the fact the day was over.

you went about your evening routine, decompressing from work and listening to your favorite music. your workload was a bit stressful, so you were thankful that the day wasn’t particularly notable. if asked, you probably couldn’t describe anything about your day that stood out. seeing as your brain felt fried, you weren't going to complain about an uneventful day.

as you were getting ready for bed, you glanced at the lavender envelope on your nightstand. it sat there, carefully placed, for almost an entire year. every night you looked at it, trying to figure out any possible scenario that would match its narrative. nothing seemed to fit, not even your most imaginative scenarios. still, like clockwork, you picked up the envelope and traced your finger over the words inside: one day, they’ll make you laugh from a distance, and the next day they’ll confess their love.

you scoffed. sure, sometimes the fact that soulmates existed seemed too good to be true. but this? it felt like it was something that could only make sense in a romance movie, and a farfetched one at that. as you settled into bed, however, you remembered the only interesting thing that happened to you today. it was a fleeting moment, probably nothing special. yet you could hear the person’s voice so vividly, as though they were in the room with you.

shouldn’t you know how to describe someone’s toes if you really, truly, deeply love them?

you laughed. whoever said that certainly had a mind of their own, which impressed you. still, you had a hard time imagining what would prompt that sentence. perhaps because of its ridiculousness, you wondered if that could be a sign. on the street, you had laughed–too loudly, you feared–when you heard them say it. you felt your heart rate rise, hopeful and excited.

you didn’t want to risk getting your heart broken like so many other times this year, though, so you ran over the situation again and again and again. you hadn’t even seen who posed that strange question. how could you know whether they were your soulmate? it wasn’t the first time a stranger made you laugh, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

you tried to convince yourself that you couldn’t trust the encounter to mean anything, despite how that person’s voice filled your mind as you drifted off to sleep. a part of you felt that you would hear that voice for the rest of your life, even if only in your memory.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

the next day was not as lackluster, but not in a good way. at work, nothing seemed to go right: plans went awry, mistakes were abundant, and every meeting went over time. you sighed deeply when you stepped out of the office, and you sighed again when you checked the time. the only thing you’d been looking forward to was the walk home because there was the potential that you could run into the person behind the voice again. given how the day had gone and how late it was, deflation replaced the small hope that you had clung to all day.

still, you felt your body relaxing as your workplace grew farther and farther away in the distance behind you. there were fewer people around as the evening commute rush had come and gone. you appreciate that, if nothing else, this walk home had offered you peace and quiet.

at least, there had been peace and quiet until someone bumped into you.

“ah! oh my god! i’m so sorry!”

the person stared at you with wide, flustered brown eyes. you held your hand up to signal that you were okay–and that they could take a breath–but something kept you from speaking. brow furrowed, you tried to figure out what seemed so familiar about this person in front of you.

“wait! you’re the love and toes person from yesterday, right?”

you looked at the stranger with amusement, and jisung’s jaw dropped. he grew more flustered and his ears turned bright red. the embarrassment was quickly balanced out by elation. jisung’s mind recited that frustrating, fateful sentence over and over, until he knew it had to be true.

“i’m in love with you.”

jisung internally kicked himself for that reply. thankfully, you spoke before he had to stumble through another apology.

realizing that this was the laughter to confession of love plotline you’d been waiting for all year, your face lit up, “so it is you. i was hoping there was a reason that i couldn’t get your voice out of my head last night.”

jisung blushed even harder, grinning all the same, “yeah! it’s me! and it’s you! wow!”

“i’m y/n,” you chuckled, charmed by jisung, “what’s your name?”

“jisung!” he answered quickly, “y/n…y/n…” he paused to appreciate how it felt to say your name, “i love your name!”

“well, jisung, i would hope so, given that you are apparently in love with me.”

jisung laughed, hiding his face in embarrassment. at least his soulmate had a sense of humor. he bit his tongue, both to prevent himself from saying something ridiculous again and to cherish the feeling of you being right in front of him after an eternity of waiting.

“sorry again for bumping into you,” jisung rubbed the back of his neck, smiling apologetically, “where are you headed?”

“it’s really okay. it kind of worked out in our favor,” you smiled, which made jisung's knees feel weak, “i’m on my way home from work now.”

“oh! nice! would you…uh…do you think…could i maybe walk you home?”

you felt your cheeks hurting from grinning so much at how endearing jisung was, “you want to walk me home?”

he nodded enthusiastically, “yes, please! i’d love to have a chance to memorize your voice the way you memorized mine.”

your heart skipped a beat. maybe you were already in love with jisung too.

unable to think of a reply that could match the sweetness of his answer, you turned your head in the direction of your home, “i live down this way. while we walk, would you mind explaining to me your toe-related claim about love?”

he groaned, “if i do, do you promise not to bring it up again?”

you giggled, stomach doing flips at the way his pace matched yours right away, “that depends on how good of an explanation it is.”

“i’ll take it!”

jisung’s eyes sparkled as he spoke to you, and you knew that, regardless of the subject, you genuinely could listen to his voice for the rest of your life.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

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astralnymphh · 2 months

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The Sweeter the Wheat

# pair: post-seattle!jackson!ellie x reader

## summary: There is no better birthday gift than loving her.

### reader discretion is advised: romance angst, fluff, bit suggestive towards the end, alcohol consumption, jesse is alive (he thought ahead this time), loser!ellie, sometimes!awkward!ellie, sometimes!cheekyandflirty!ellie, reader is sickenly envious and a bit nosy, but aware, ravenous and tipsy makeouts, sappy shit. #### a/n; listened to "to all of you" by syd matters + "cardigan" by taylor swift while writing parts of it.. got a love/hate relationship with this fic but it slaps i guess

SPRING SUN

“At least we got back before her birthday. Psh—‘magine that sweet tooth havin’ to commemorate her twentieth with nuts and jerky.”

Jackson tholes the bright spring against countless heavy hearts, numb from the death groans of winter. Under the melted snow, came old meadows, but nobody returned to comb through them. Only to pluck them bare of flora for a sole reason—a sole person—and not in the name of beauty.

Some meadows were stabbed through. Pierced into, made into a final home for the dearly departed he.

Time slipped slowly.

“Huh?”

Jesse sits at the tail of the bar, mumbling somethings that fly right past your ears. The diner is packed and the jukebox softly plays, but that of joy and conversation rules, so all nearby speech that is spat has become hodgepodge, herding your brain to run where the world is quiet. Given that, and the subtle significance in the day around you, you feel less than yourself. Immaterial.

There's a rightful wager that you didn't hear Jesse at all. Something about birthdays, maybe.

You pull yourself from the stars with a head-shake, having to retire the tiny notepad in your clutch. “Sorry, I completely tripped out just then. Why are we talking about birthdays—whose birthday are we.. talking about?”

Jesse appeared to be in doubt that your star-scaping moments were over; his features contorting more and more into disbelief as you gave him that barely curious squint. Poor him for having to be offended for somebody else.

A special somebody else at that!

His drawl comes in handy, “Come on, man. Four years strong and now you wanna forget that girl's birthday?” a voice so versed in pettiness, you could smack it right from his clever, grinning lips.

At whim, you almost do. But then his words fall into perfect place; that subtle signifigance makes all the more sense.

Spring: dappled in sunlight and vigorous in the trees, seems lovelier than it would in March or May. Seas of crimson and clovers thrive in the middle of April, and so does the red in her hair—soft, auburn tines—and the meadows in her earnest and shiny eyes. Recently dim, bruised and disheartened. But there, and unplucked at least, above the freckles you least regret missing when vengeance and a clue drove her out of this large, timber sanctuary. Home.

Every year on this day, the sun is relentlessly beautiful. No wonder, you think, now that you remember.

It's Ellie's birthday.

“Shit,” you curse, chewing at your guilty lip. “Is Ellie hiding out today as well? Haven't noticed her walking the thoroughfare at all.” Through the idle-talk, your hands find stray porcelain to retrieve and pile in the sink, scoffing at the liters of coffee that inevitably go cold in forgotten mugs.

“Do you notice anything working behind that counter?”

“Duh, dipshit,” you spout, back-talking him shamelessly, “I noticed you ambling towards the window earlier and knew my ears were in for a grating punishment.” Minding your eyes on nothing but the various plates you grab, the clutter clears fast. Like a damn robot.

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, not my fault patrol’s been on cruise control this week.” With a part of the counter graciously tidied by your speedy work, he reclines in the barstool and claims that space with his lower legs, off to the side. Blissfully permission-less. “Can't say the same for here, though.”

You draw in a prefacing breath, tilting a cup at him. “You could if you hel—”

“No chance.”

“Fuck you, Jess,” you reply wielding a nickname given for occasions of defeat, little knives glaring from your eyes. “Thought this friendship had a no-questions-asked sort of thing. You've disgraced me.” Cueing that age-old love for drama, you gild the lily; mock a drama-queen. Hand to your heart and a pout to your mouth.

Hating Jesse is out of the picture, and hate is an easy pill to swallow. Sure, you two bark blank insults from time to time, but it's all in good humor. You just get each other too well. A hitch fated to click. A shoulder to violently sob into.

Jesse tuts at you, rolling a smug pair of eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Diners just aren't my thing, as infected aren't yours.” He reaches and grasps his mug of coffee that'd been basking there ever since you whipped up his usual, content in keeping his gob flat for the ‘noon.

And you're content in the casual peace and company. Always are. It coerces you to fulfill orders quicker, you would say. Here you stand, in perfect function, machine of the cogs.

That's how all days streak by here. A warm sun arises, and the hustle and bustle of human nature crowds every faded red booth in here, as your kin would have you sustain, and you sustain it fine enough. Even with the latching, mostly silent presence of your best bud Jesse to keep boredom a stranger and insanity a myth. Peckish lips, thirsty throats; everybody. All famished faces of Jackson, satisfied in the wake of your work. All, save one.

Ding!

At the entrance, you hear the jingle of the tiny, golden bell topping the door, and it doesn't intrigue you to investigate. Everyone is a frequenter, and you're basically omnipresent; sensing who it is and where they're routed to before they even sit. Call that perfect function.

Abruptly, the vintage magazine Jesse blankly browsed through is smacked back in place, and his throat clears. “First customer to break the hour-long streak. Let's see who—” he trails, and a dramatic pause thickens the air. Surprise loudly ensues. “Oh, ain't that funny. Look what fate dragged in.”

“Is it not a regular?” you ask, and at last perk your chin up. Intrigue clasps you now, as Jesse thought it atypical enough to point out.

Turns out, it isn't a regular at all.

Fate was a scary portrayal, as fate—and unfinished threads—would have you snuck into a corner and stranded for her to find. Plaid and blue, stood Ellie, lost as a doe in tangled woods, yet tall with purpose in front of that swinging glass door. From here, you notice her right arm supported in a white sling and twisted into her chest, right off the bat, as you did the night of return. Changes were made, obviously, sprigs of marker detailing the canvas-color of it, no doubt produced by those pesky kids in-town. Her tattoo is sorely invisible behind the bandages too; you've always liked that thing.

She's a bona-fide crush. A red-headed angel.

There and then, you recall why your heart reawoke into a prance that night she returned head to toe in dry, aged blood. You felt the revival of an inner-warmth, tracing fingers over the stitches in her back as she hunched in repressive quietude. Felt the moon evaporate off your skin, felt her wrist tensen in your palm as you dressed the wounds in hers. Felt the elusive moment staying became going, as it wasn't right.

You went straight home and threw right up, that very night. Her cold, marred skin was as deathly-like as the skin of a corpse. And you trailed your fingertips, all over it.

Strange. In a week, her flesh has been suppled of life. Hale, blushing and glowing as in younger days.

In your heart: a tremor. It reaches up every time you swallow, and blooms its beat, pounding at the pit of your throat. You don't feel real, you feel light, you feel fright. You feel the past, waking from a slumber in you, emerging breathless beyond the surface. So many things.

You feel fourteen again.

“Guess her ears were burning,” mumbled Jesse, polite enough to not transform your shared scrutiny into a scene, only so he could leave it in your hands. His head carefully turns, speaking softly, “You spoke to her at all, recently?”

“No,” a weighted breath departs you, and your shoulders repose. “Only the night she returned, while I tended to some of her travel wounds. Conversation wasn't easy to digest.” Shunning her very blatant presence, you pick your wash rag and begin again, foraging distraction.

“Bet not. Shit got hectic on the route Tommy picked,” he hums, and his eyes pursue once more to secretly follow her walking the opposite direction. Eyes you expectantly the second she slips into a booth. “Gonna take her order?”

You glower at his smug stare, knowing full well he intends to badger you into jumping the gun. Well, you're employed to do that, but, fuck fate! “Uh, duh? Di—”

“—Ipshit. Stop stalling.” He aims his hand, escorting you. “Birthday girl awaits.”

“Yeah, hold that smile. See what happens later.”

“Mhm.”

EXTRA SYRUP

Spectral hands suffocate your heart, and now your chest is tightened. Gut nervously sickened. There, she sits, seemingly absorbed by the air, and the sun that ripens with it. Thumbing at her nails, but not anxiously. Blowing at her lip, but not boredly. Hair dark ochre as the earth, yet fiery as the flaxen ray that pours into it. Tucked into a neat bun, as it was in December, January, and every paving year before. You like her hair that way.

She halved it up when Joel passed, and Seattle howled her name.

A lot about Ellie changed, really, but that is the perennial nature of water. Ellie is Neptune; a late-teenage girl experiencing a crucial shift into a new, individual season. Ones so seldom—they're cataclysmic, but temporary.

So much of her is eclipsed to the naked eye. Buried to make burrowing space for others. Just not you, it seems.

Every now and then, she glances as you intricately work your way over, a fist cupped to itself as if it alone safekeeps her deep and untold intentions; the warrant for sitting there. And you too, glance when her eyes smoothly retreat, dedicating pockets of this single, cherished minute to drink in little glimpses of her face. Trying to read her, read the shapes on her face if they indicate trouble, or truce. Last time you talked, you declared your resentment for being left worried and sleepless in Jackson.

Was it out of love?

Through the fair-haired light, that scar-heavy look on her features has noticeably abated, recapturing the tender warmth that gave her face the kind, puppy-browed ambiance you hesitated the world for. Gently laid brows, scarred the same as ever.

Those fucking freckles, too; a constellated map. Hidden miles and miles away for one sun and moon too many.

Not a mile bridges you both apart now, not anymore.

“Hey, Ellie,” you chime in, frail in respect of the one-mind conversation her idle stare partakes. Just her, and the spring sun. Sweet wheat skin is taken from its aerial shine as her head heeds your voice, a loose twine of auburn falling from place.

Your somber greeting fine-tuned the focus in her eyes, softening into a shape less spacious, more devoted.

And though away from underneath the boughs of sunlight, her eyes found a disembodied source. Dried moss, gleams into a violent sea glass, pupils taking in how you hold that notepad firm in thumbs and pointers.

For the first time in an age, you too, have changed.

The corners of her lips crease into her cheek. “Hey,” her reply mirrors the breathiness of yours, and her left arm low-arcs up to rest on the booth seat, body facing you head-on. Totally relaxed. “How come you didn't mention the job switch? Was lookin’ for you,” she asks curiously, a tinge of that sweet-talk peeking through her wide grin.

Now that you've stepped closer and garnered her attention, you can see and feel every notched nicety of her face on yours. You can only imagine how a swollen, sliced lip feels, and the continual migraines a fractured nose brings. Weeks of healing have swept by, but her afflictions in particular weren't petty.

“Guess it felt irrelevant to bring up when you got back. But you're here now, and you found me. So?” your tone edges on.

“Well, yeah,” she chuckles. “Did you not miss me?” She feigns offense; brows quirking and her tone pitching slightly.

You did.

A sigh starts in you, “Hard to not miss and worry for somebody when you picked up their slack in every patrol dating way back.” Barely nipping what you really felt with a snarky tease. “Oh shit, that rhymes,” you glance off and whisper to yourself, still loud enough to inspire mirth.

And it does; her forehead pinches and her voice rises in mirth, laughing casually and shifting in her seat to lean one elbow upon the table. “Ha— yeah,” she admits defeat. Ellie is undeniably cute when she does, always shrinks into herself and sinks into thoughtful conference, thinking of something—anything smart to knock you back into that corner. “Guess you're right. Hm, always were on my ass about that, huh?”

You tut, “Mhm. Missed my scolding in Seattle?” crossing a leg and bearing weight upon it.

“Nah,” she confesses briefly, and you barely believe it. Wringing in doubt at that sly smile she tries to conceal from you. “I learned my lesson this time.” Ellie glances up, a prayer written on her face asking you to hold your scolds. “Trust me.”

“Hurt enough this time?”

“Fuck you!” She punts you playfully in the ankle and begins a laugh again. “You’re not allowed to point that out!”

That was the way of things; Ellie would charge into a fight wearing her life on her chest, slackening the rules, and you had to reel her in. Tug the leash. It had you suspecting her to have a foolproof reason as her backbone, like she was daring the devil with eyes fearlessly open. Steadfast intent. She would lure runners to her, grapple them from you, or push you away beyond safety. Leave you to watch an animalistic vigor fill every bind in her body until you're convinced she’s either coming out bitten or scathingly torn.

You wish she saw how worrying she truly looked; a sweet face splattered hair to chin in the blood of infected, catching her breath and shaking the arm of the croaking infected she just slaughtered off her ankle. Being way too blithe-hearted for the sacred sake of everyone involved.

“Don't worry about me.”

One day, when she asked you with her solemn eyes to be afraid, you thought she finally trusted you to handle yourself past her overprotective nature. Then, one clicker got too close for comfort, and she retracted the pact of fighting equally. Losing more than what her blade owes the earth would prove her fears to be a product of her unsacrifice.

Ellie figured it was half the reason you quit patrol duty, but not that it was fully the reason you anguished over her leaving for Seattle later on; her appetite for violence.

She accepts it so easily. But even when you had sworn she had place in something as simple as retiring from patrol and nothing else, she smelt the sugary scent of a white lie. Joel did it before. She never accepted it under a gentle radar. Instead, it had her wondering if she had upset you, if you would forgive the crimson melodrama and still take her up on breakfasts at ten when she returned. Regardless if you painted the full picture in the end, apologies spilled alike to winded waters out of this girl; sorry that she still could not stomach you tagging along for vengeance. Never-ending sorries, and you lapped each one up. Brought gaping arms around her and absorbed all the ugly and hopeless sounds. You wanted to prove her fears wrong, but perhaps it was time fear let you be the lamb. Live and let live.

Then, Dina would step in, and Ellie would be wrapped around her finger in sudden laughter. Happy and unhurt. Couldn't even remember what occurred before her sun entered the room, and dried those tears.

Crimson melodrama is all you preserved when abandoned, and is all you could look at her with when in longing.

The winter dance had your guts up to your throat.

Seattle, inexplainable.

You don’t hate Dina; your envy lies with the disconnection of it all.

“What do you recommend?” she questions, and her eyes anticipate you to be the ultimate apocalyptic-dining expert. Locked and attentive. She then begins to shake her head in gesture, planting the menu down. "I don't— I don't usually go to these kinds of places, so.. What do you think?" she awkwardly giggles, tapping the menu's plastic sleeve.

Tension presses a smile onto your lips at her inelegance. "Nobody does, not even people who went to these places before the outbreak," you opine, swapping the notepad to one hand and sliding into the booth. "It's okay. I mean.. hmm, what do you prefer? Sweet or salty?"

Her eyelids flick down, fingers coming to lace together as her eyes traverse the options. "Uh, I guess I— wait, wait," she interrupts herself. A swift finger draws you to look down at the menu, "You guys make pancakes here?" green eyes gaping at you with pupils more voracious than her stomach—or her sweet tooth.

"Yeah."

"I'll have that then."

It was a steadfast verdict. The sweet honey pancakes, she shall have, at the cost of a couple minutes and a couple ingredients. But it isn't traditional for birthdays, so you weigh in. “Just pancakes? I mean.. Faye is back there if you want something a little more celebrator—”

“—I'm not really a blow-the-candles-out and make-a-wish type of person,” she corrects you, brows cinched in as she rambles. Then, her free hand scoots the menu forward. “But you already knew that, you just insist otherwise,” she chuckles, unable to meet eye and eye.

True. Your soft insistence dawns from wanting nothing less than heaven inside everything for her, and maybe a dash of that sweet-sweet crush on her. But, Ellie is so staunch in being the humble girl that doesn't glorify every recorded happening with string lights and a wish hurled into the uncaring universe bent upon nurturing demised, late lights young girls reach for. She kept everything low-key: a small garage get-together on her last birthday, the one before that, and the one predating those two. Alcohol in your palms and movies playing back to back. Budding distorted laughs and tumbles into each other. Birthday things.

The remnants of her fifteen-year-old mind hangs aimlessly inside that museum. Dangled and stretched into archaic bones. On the day of return, she arrived happier than a sunflower drunk on the sun. Broad smiles and whatever else.

Wasn't for long.

“Forget you're so down-to-earth and reserved about all the fun things,” you snarkily deliver, retiring that still empty notepad behind your back. Memory shall serve. “Will that be it then?”

“Are you saying I'm not fun?”

“I'm saying you need more of it.” You emphasize with a tiny bounce-up on your calves, tilting your head north. Though, nothing she uttered was wrong and so your voice silkily drones on, “And that.” You act the lack of a ruder way to insinuate. “But yeah, okay. One order of pancakes coming up.”

“Cool, I'll uh—have a 'celebratory' drink in the meantime?” She nudges the menu towards you once again, irises pulled thin on themselves. Thoroughly staring; your reflection in a bead of black.

You have to laugh, kindly laugh. “No alcohol here, dumbass.”

“Oh. Right.” Her doe-stare only crescendoed from there, shying away at the result of her asking. Something reluctant is lodged in her pale throat, stumbling out only when it feels imminent as you turn away. “D-Do you wanna chat, afterwards? There's so much bullshit surrounding Seattle I have to catch you up on and I-I didn't before, so.."

Swinging your head back, you gauge that mercurial girl there. Tripping up her request like it couldn't escape hibernation from her head any quicker than insult does.

Faye shouldn't mind. “'Course, I was left to wonder about everything since that night anyway.” Your boss might even encourage it; knowing that your long-standing crush for her—heartbreaking to fathom, beautiful to feel—never swept you from rambling Ellie into some fairytale, so she would use it to psych you into asking her out. Jesse, too. Damn the nosy ones!

But it's the one thing that keeps you worried now.

“Cool, cool. Oh, hey, add extra syrup will you?”

What does Ellie think of you?

“Mhm,” syrup is nowhere as sweet as your hum. “Got it.”

Does she think of you at all?

MOUTHS ALL-CONSUMING AND DEPRIVING

Minutes in, minutes out, wallowing at that ruby-red booth fed the realization to Ellie that the nerves feeding off her anxious chest could not combat conversation alone. She needed an aid. Liquid courage. Velvety smooth and robust.

Fortunately for betting gods and heaven-watching anyones, leftover whiskey from the last bonfire made stock in her cloistered, chaotic cabinets. So it founded no surprise that it whirled to mind after the celebratory-drink fact; leading you here, in her bedroom, on her bed. She pours whiskey into stubby glasses, One for her, one for you, and a lucky extra two for further along this unexplored line. Nothing overflowing limits.

But, oh boy, did it make you all lovey-dovey.

Her lips move and they dance over words, but all you hear is your own enamoration of how heart-shaped they are. You see, but fail to hear and comprehend. Floating aimlessly into those freckles, again. Something a fourteen-aged, sanguine mind would do.

Ellie was relaying Seattle to you, she prefaced. Prefacing didn’t aid you in paying attention, though. Today is not your sharpest, it dates to be your most absentminded. Not your usual, at all.

Nods are swayed to every shock-value word that you manage to understand, but the star-crossed rest, you miss, and replace with whatever story her pupils trace. They flit to read your face after each end of her sentences, so it has you thinking too much of her time has slipped without the company of a listener, and now that her time slips into you, she can use it to stretch your expression with whatever witty remark she makes.

She did one day blurt that your laugh compliments your smile—or however that fucking flirt threw it over the crackle of that bonfire.

In fact, when you begin to let parts of her body neck-down from her face distract you, only then do you decipher how much she has grown in a month.

She pitches her drink to sip, and your eyes are hot on that glassy trail, artistically concerned with the way she swills down whiskey: fluently gulped, throat bobbing, the scar on her lip licked clean. Her brows too, have thickened, much so as her leathered skin, her callouses. She traces her thigh in circles repeatedly—a fidgety habit—and her lips purse and tug and wrinkles hug and press said lips when they are prettily wide.

Every high noon or low point of her body was different, and you have missed a great many things you care too much about to not appreciate every brink and midst. You don't want her to be lost to otherworld winds without studying her presence harshly. She is in your scrutiny, now more than ever.

“So, do I get to see my pancakes yet, or?”

“Oh, oops.” You snap out of your woolgathering, wagging your head left to right. Then briskly as you assented her invitation, you slide your knees under you, reorganizing your seating. “Can't blame me for being so invested in your epic tales. Could totally be a comic narrator for the school in town.”

Ellie had already been sat skyward. Sprawled at one leg and tucked at the other, arm in her lap, where her whiskey is nestled. “Oh, sure,” she says with a sarcastic edge. “Those kids are a bunch of little shits. They would probably interrupt me with fart jokes or make actual fart sounds than sit still and pay attention for thirty minutes.”

“Hmm,” you hum, short and atonal, peeling the corner of the plastic lid back. “And who do you think taught them those terrible jokes, huh?”

Soft lids narrow together to sharpen her gaze; glaring at your clever comment, lips propped slightly open. “Terrible?” An offended, toothy smile pulls on her lips. All sentences she could possibly muster up come crashing into each other; an agglomeration, “I—They aren't bad jokes—and they're puns, really, so they're actually pretty fuckin' smart,” she boasts with brows raised. “And It isn't my fault that every annoying kid picked them up and started repeating them.”

It most certainly is her fault. Hell, even you catch yourself reciting them at the crest of nightfall, giggling into your palm. Although, why she's trying so rigorously to plead her pun-enjoying case to you, might just be funnier. “Are you seriously trying to explain puns to me?”

“God,” she surrenders in a chuckle, and bows her head to introduce another quick sip to her parched lips. Ellie then eyes you for a blank second thereafter, tugging the plump of her lower lip through her teeth. Like contemplation has her hindered.

Around you, the lungs of the garage’s foundation inhale, and exhale; creaking and settling.

She dashes a huff. “You basically asked,” Ellie reminds you, her tone and eye-roll implying obviousness. “Can I eat my pancakes now? M'hungry.” Her face sutures into a pseudo-frown and encloses herself to a crisscross, impatiently behaving.

Now, as for the pancakes. Fluffy, biscuit brown, star-shaped, bountifully rivered in unrestricted syrup, topped off by a definitely-melted, humbled ingot of butter. Needless to say, you're pleased by what boredom and intact cooking-books taught you, and she hasn't even seen them yet.

The ask for a carryout-container was already in order the moment you set pace for her table, because you wound up in a near-catastrophe as she sought you out around the kitchens like a lost pup and maundered right into you. Thank patrol for instincts; it's the one thing you held an undying clutch to. And the sweet pancakes you proudly plated, making refuge on the counters as you cross-examined Ellie in case you injured her arm more.

Lucky girl was all fine and peachy, of course.

She only knocked you two right into that near-injury mess to invite you here. Persuasion sat readily in her throat incase you questioned her motives—most of her ideas turning out to be a little friend-group antic, never anything serious or singular—but you agreed to it in double-time.

“Think you might just be one of those kids at this point.” You gingerly tweak the rim of the plate you kept the pancakes on and lift it outside the container, planting it between all four knees.

“Eh, you're not so innocent yourself,” Ellie contends before she even casts her first peek at the hillock of starry sweetness, totally taken aback when she does. “Holy shit,” she awes, just as if she were a young teen again, “Are you kidding me?”

Labor-intended nights never slip soft through the gaps of your fastened fingers, not even days where your work period is abridged, but hey, strange, space-brain girls are far beyond ordinary exception. Hell, Ellie is vital! Commemorating the red angel you worship in the patterned and soapy act of cooping up on her bed, toasting to the moonlight and letting her talk your ear off for old times' sake is your approach to telling her you love her.

“Know I'm not a pancake-connoisseur, but I gave it a unique whirl. Just for you.” You held a fork out, gracing her with first honors. “Don't blame me if it gives you a stomachache,” your forewarn is a doubtful one; in your mind, morningtime will arise with an extra punch to her gut.

Ellie, however, stares right into the baying eyes of a challenge, snatching the fork from you. "Hey, if it's good enough for my tongue, then it's good enough for ma' gut!" and promptly after exclaim, gashes and tears her fork into the sweet, airy texture of the pancake, popping it past her sweet, berried lips. “Mhh—and I will blame you. So you end up feeling sorry n'take care of me.”

God, whatever souls you would sell to spend paradisal afterlife with this fool. Talking with a gob flush of the birthday project you're humiliated to be proud of. You scoff, “Asshole,” lightheartedly scornful as can be, and it snaps something to mind. Head tilting eye-to-eye, “Dina wouldn't be the one to?” you ask, right after she swallows.

That particular question seemingly struck a chord as her brows cinched together, eyes dropping with allusion. “No,” she says meekly, soft in the sound, but you can tell it came up heavy. Shadowed by a sigh, and an untimely chuckle. “Do you want to know?” She throws on a shrug that ripples through her head, sending it to hang lopsidedly. As the stout willow grows.

“Guess so,” you agree temperately, not wanting to seem too eager—even though with this topic, you just might be. Camouflage those old, foul feelings of envy. “Did Seattle have you kicking more ass than just Wolves and infected? Couldn't have been a very romantic tr—”

“Dina's pregnant.”

Silence carves it's way after that. Thick, tense and unyielding. You had words lined up but like a shot in stark night they've just—vanished, sunk back into the chamber. Nothing prepared you to hear that, “Pregnant?” lowering a hand to your belly where you swear your heart has pummeled to.

Ellie glances up, once at your widened face and once at your hand. A bite of humor works it's way above her chin; smugly smirking. “God, don't tell me you're pregnant now too.”

“What? No!”

Damn idiot. Should punch her right in the—nevermind.

Ellie is way too quick to make serious things unserious. “You're a damn menace,” you unapprovingly giggle.

“Am I?” Amusement raises her brows, tearing into the pancake with her fork for another bite. “Cause you seem to like menace.”

You adjust onto propped elbows, “Do I?” playing all nonchalant. “I mean, what do you mean by that?” your voice dims, expending for the small space that separates you and her.

“Mhh,” she contemplates with a purring sound, and shrugs. “Dunno.” Ellie retreats those eyes downward where you won't compel her to smile. You can tell she battles the letch to look up again, which—as proven in her case—doesn't fucking work. She shoots up carefully, and it's a conflicted gaze this time. “Not with Dina anymore, though. That’s the other thing.”

And we're back.

Having reconciled the chance, you retrace. Look at her with somber concern. “Did something between the two of you happen?” It's a gentle question, reinforced by the bulletproof stare you offer her to unwind in.

The air in her voice softens, “Sort of,” and the meridians of your body then become easier to look at as she continues, wrinkles in her brows. “Said some things I shouldn't have, and we.. figured it best to leave it at that. For now.” her explanation sounds desolate and attemptless, like she has sat in shadow and vigil accepting this fact and has given up on hope. Crestfallen and quieter; this isn't like her. Bent at her wrist, dangling that glass above her crisscrossed lap like a sad child pokes at the food on their plate.

“For now?” You hate that you pry, but that sick greed in your gut from times before haunts with a hunger for knowledge. Your envy that is enlightenment. Still, you hesitate to seem nosy, wanting nothing than to possibly just console your friend in need. “What's holding you back from.. calling it quits? The pregnancy?” You crane your body upright slowly.

“Just still feelin' bad.” Her fingers begin a tap-dance at the glass' rim. “I'm an asshole.”

You duck at the neck, searching for her downcast eyes. “Come on, El. I've only ever seen you rant and rave at middle-aged grumpy men and infected, no way it was that bad.”

“You weren’t there,” she insists otherwise with an earnest voice, inciting a refreshed sigh as she swigs her whiskey.

“Well, what did you say?” You are relentless. No, normally you would not condone it, but tonight, tongues are loose and boundaries are blurry. You miss your happy girl. “I could talk to Dina, if it helps.”

“Wouldn’t change shit.”

“If you love her, you would try.” Even if it sickens you.

Ellie slots her drink in her lap, and grouches. “Dude.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and stifles a groan, frustrated. It draws out in words without proper footing, “It's weird. We just don't know what to say to each other—I don't know what to say to her, it.. it's just how it is—it was a mutual agreement. None of your business, really.”

Her own tongue is a very obvious byproduct of nerves, whiskey, stress, by and large a lot of things. Being goaded, definitely.

How it is, is how it will be.

“She broke up with me.”

You didn't mean to goad her, but curiosity—and a kiss of alcohol and envy—ate your refrain. The lack of any eye contact or movements to stray from you thereafter her word is telling enough. That it aches her head, and a cold, guilty sweat crosses over your skin. It was a stupid thing to blurt. You feel fucking stupid for even saying that.

Fuck.

Her dry sniffle is noisy on your shortcoming, and has you scrambling to think. “Sorry, just been worried for weeks.” But you shrink into a ball of abraded arms and legs, conserving yourself into a shy, spotted egg of curiosity that clads no hatching cracks to be convicted of. “Thought you two finally getting together would be the dream to end all dreams.” What the fuck do you know anyway?

Her eyes watch through you, into you like water; she notices, and the pancakes are slid to the side. Shuffles of fabric clamber closer as she eats the inches between you two, her breath brushing your forehead. “Hey, hey. I didn't mean anything by it. It's fuckin' great that I got somebody I can drink with and mope to. Really. Just been shitty all around—Tommy? Fuck, he's been the worst lately.”

Everything ascends in temperature once her hand plants on the side of your neck, every nerve petrifies; unheard-of touch. She can feel the gasped tension in your throat, thumbing the muscles down.

“Don't worry about it,” she says, and her saying that amuses you.

A moth-eaten phrase in particular is what was said. You scoff at it, plopping your legs back out. “Dude.” You bite a smile into your lips. Sucks that such a hackneyed thread of words does so; you're really chewing back the urge to call her any byname of dumbass, per usual. But damn that sincere face on her face that sweetens the teasing deal for you. You settle for low-hanging fruit. “You always say that, Ellie.”

“Ugh,” she seconded a scoff back at you, grimacing coyly. “Don't you start.” Ellie drags her hand off, not intending for it to land smack-dab on your thigh. It takes her a second to register the sound, the texture, slinking her hand behind her when you say nothing.

“Start what?” you stutter a laugh, bringing your thighs together.

“Nothin,”

“Don’t bullshit me, WIlliams.” To educe her, you dig your foot into her side, poking her. “Does it have anything to do with only me being here and not anybody else?” You lean into her.

Ellie does too, an exact mirror of you. “No..” The only thing that contrasted you, was her hand again, seeking what was left behind on your thigh. “Just wanted to see you first,” her lips barely move besides a slick smirk. Voice tiptoeing through the air, the noise-level two clandestine lovers live at, in secret song.

“You fuckin liar. No hang-outs for weeks before you left and suddenly you want to see me?” You call bull when she relucts to raise her hung head, witnessing the corners of her lip curl. Her head twists away more, and you spearhead the first, little move: tuck that irkful strand of auburn with a single finger. “C'mon.. what is it?”

“Stupid,” she blatantly spits, and at last confronts your face with her puckish one—glimpsing down, and up, and down. Watching her grip flex into your leg intermittently, chewing her lip. “Mhh, maybe 'm starting it.”

Ellie is heart-poundingly close; her breath is now yours to breathe. You whisper, “Maybe you are,” perking yourself right up to her cheek, unnoticing of the ardor her eyes spin over your face. Unsure where to stare. You pretend the pressure on your thigh flies under the radar, too, and that your heart isn't in the middle of a love-logged swell, and your cheeks aren't tender from smirking at the feeling of it perched there. Love-struck death befalls, if else confessed, so you tease, tease, and tease to stomach your excitement. “Maybe, you're stalling on those pancakes because they actually gave you a stomachache. You feeling good?”

Her bitten lips part, and the next sensations you feel—are transcendental.

Wisping whispers so hot, and intoxicating on your skin, you fail to catch her hand coming up from your thigh to clasp your face, or that hers has shifted in front of yours. She breathes out, “Won't you shut up already?” through lips pulled into a smirk, and rushes to press it fondly against your mouth.

You wince—somewhere between an electrified gasp and a reaction of delight—into the kiss she stole, and it only beckons her to starve more for you. The heat of her whiskey breath pours into your mouth, and you drape your eyes closed. Scoring these seconds by, she spends them concentratedly rolling the skin together, others pushing and shying from the kiss, until she stills and bleeds out the pressure in a slow, wet smack. Hazily eyeing you for a response.

Once you feel her no more, your eyes blurrily creak open, and the corners of her lips at soft upturn greet you. Single creases at either side, the few freckles above them outspread.

Judgement renounces you, leaving you with pathetic pickings for reply. You aren't sure what she wants—or needs you to say. “Ellie?” daintily, a mumble flows onto her lips, and is far from a frail sound of concern. Intrigue encapsulates you.

What does this mean?

You think you know, but self-reason has always proven itself to be naive and too eager to trust.

By cruel emotion, she misunderstands you. “Sorry,” she pants out breathlessly, blowing the shape of it into your cleft lips and hovering right upon. Her fingers gouge the fabric clothing your chest, mangling it into her fist—an attempting grasp. This proximity is all she could ever dream of. “Is this okay?” Yet, dreams always sever at the apotheosis. So when she comes in for the second kiss, she wants no more for dreaming; the reality she yawns with hunger into, is insurmountable.

A dewdrop of something cold dribbles between you. Tears.

In turn, you misunderstand her. Using your own stubbornness to create an enigma. To think, that out of the blue, all of this would transpire? After endless wishes unanswered? You doubt it.

You love her, but you refuse the reality of it happening upon you.

Separating from the plush, licked skin of her lips fleetingly, you speak. “Is this you being drunk?” Only to be drawn back in without her processing your words right away, and then drawn back out. Intricate intimacy.

“Please,” Ellie begs, “Answer me, before I feel like an asshole again,” and chuckles sobbingly before her teeth feel rapaciously empty, and cannot tolerate it any longer. Instinct, and teeth nip your bottom, vulnerable lip.

Neither of you could be totally drunk, having only drank a modest portion.

So this is raw.

Thinly pulled, she slowly stretches it across the air between, and watches it spring back beneath eyelids sunken low. The action entails nothing else for her to feed satisfaction from, already panting right in your mouth in search of more as soon as your tongue descries the answer. “More than okay,” you heave in a passioned breath along that all-consuming, deprived mouth. Your hand squeezes her fist confirmingly.

It quenches her lust to know, a hot-blooded, moaned and voiceless curse snapping into your mouth. “I fuckin' love you.” Her rage softens in meeker kisses, peppering them up to the corners of your lips until she pauses, and pulls herself away. Her eyes turn troubled and adrenaline-rushed. Stains of tears shimmer beneath, along new ones that begin to plunge, and for the first time ever, you know they're yours. But then the flesh between frowns, the mood shifting, and she croaks, “Am I.. an asshole?”

It breaks you to hear that.

You glare, and stammer, “W-What? You aren't.” Hooking dearly onto her wrist when her hand glides up to rest against your cheek. “Why?”

“Cause I sprung this on you, 'nd I don't wanna force you to..” Ellie cranks to a halt, mouth screwing shut like her thoughts were too much to bear hearing aloud. “Fuck,” she quietly spews, cowering her face near your neck.

“Said it was okay,” you coo, clarifyingly coo, raking your fingertips up and through the tied loops of her hair. “The only asshole thing you'd ever done was not let me come with you.”

“I know.” Her eyes search for uncomplicated plains. The sheets, her lap, your neck. A kiss is planted as she tips her head, the gust thereafter a warm reminder of her sorries.

“Thought you were going to die.” You awoken in violent patterns, cold nights restless in bed, tossing and turning. Waking and falling into daydreams of how Jackson would feel missing a cardinal component. A girl to rave against dying lights. Thorns scale your throat at the thought. “You're reckless, y'know?” you mean it as a gentle insult, chuckling as it leaves your lips, and sealing it into her scarred palm. Kissing reckless consequences.

Her lips loiter on the pulse of your throat. They drag, and they drag.. sloppily limping over your jaw as she makes her way to observe you in her palm, mumbling low, and gravelly, “How many times am I gonna have to say it?” Ellie deems it redundant to tell you that she knows again, resorting to her own little gentle insult, “Such a fuckin' sap.”

“Says you.”

Her hand is comfortingly warm; you aren't fain to break away. But her fingers are curious, thumb nearly making it into your mouth before she second-guesses herself, easing it at the verge of your lips instead.

A longing moment of Ellie staring at the way her thumb looks—a decoration to your mouth—passes, and she responds, “Still alive, aren't I?” to that loose thread of a plea you forgot you even said. It calls you right over, bidding you to look into her eyes again as space finds itself thinning again, her scratchy, band-aided nose caressing yours. “Dumbass.”

She chuckles into your mouth as you chuckle into hers, cutting yourself off with a kiss that ebbs, and flows. Suckles, and smacks, snaking her tongue in for a change. That sweet, sweet wheat. Saccharinity you can't explore anywhere else other than the outline of her mouth. And you—of grunted volitions in her chest—take exploration further, replacing the grasp of her shoulder with the coursing of fabric, sliding under the hem of her shirt and palming the skin there.

You feel her skin breathe, her belly breathe into your hand, and a content wrinkle pinch between her brows. Her skin, is as soft as nothingness.

“You're a dumbass.”

Air clings to your cheek as her hand reaches around you, pressing fingerprints into the base of your head as to prop you for her delightments. Ellie is no amateur, enjoying you as if she knew you were hers without explicit pledge.

“Sure, babe,” she scoffingly counters, and pulls her tongue out of you, lips messiy shining. She scouts you out; lays eyes on your expression with undertones of satisfaction and presses an appetent bite right back into your damp skin, grunting into the filthy kiss.

Your mind is one-pathed right now; in the most maddened form, you crave the story further down her throat. In that warm space, is air thinned and balmy with the scent of alcohol and syrup. In those whimpers, is the sincere confession she held tight in throatly gloaming, all those intimate times before. In all of your yearnings, your lips never parted for more.

Two holes that want to consume each other.

Weeping, wailing, tormenting in an empty forever.

“Fuck you, Ellie,” you cathartically sob into the humid cavern of her, a hint of wanton—and other repressed things, taking form. That hand under her shirt wanders from her navel and tweaks the button of her jeans, pressing your body against all of her like it hurt to be inside your own, singular body. Overcame by a need you could not chew out.

Ellie cuts the kiss, quick to soothe the movement with her hand pressing down and collecting yours. “Hey, hey, too fast,” she laughs, distancing herself and giving you those eyes that could see you were overstrung, hectic to go somewhere you aren't prepared for.

She loves you, but that means appreciating you enough to wait until time is perfect.

Her head cocks, “Let's take shit slow, huh?” fingers weaving into the pliant gaps of yours and pulling your fist dear to her chin, kissing it.

You speak over the repeated sounds of her smooches, “Yeah, sorry,” cringing slightly at how fucking cheesy the scene became. But, when is Ellie not? Wonder clasps you now; intent to know what this makes out of the two of you, having held your feelings for forever. “Well, what does all this mean, then?”

“It means..” Ellie slants her body even more, stealing your wrist along with her. Planning something, no doubt. “You and me, breakfast tomorrow at ten, Tipsy Bison?” Her mouth stuck to the side of your hand like syrup, so firm in not letting you go.

It makes your ears simmer hearing her shamelessly set up a date, of all things she could have said. God. You errantly laugh, totally not giddy when her mouth starts sprinkling up your arm at an alarming pace. “Sounds more than good—hey! You slow down!”

Happy birthday, asshole.

perm taglist; @whore4abby @aouiaa @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @maleelee @seraphicsentences

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the-oblivious-writer · 6 months

Text

Too Sweet

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Drabble

Summary: You and Wednesday were simply night and day, contrasting personalities preventing any chance of pursuit

Warning(s): No dialogue, pining!Wednesday, & no pronouns but the word 'goddess' is used once

Notes: Based off of 'Too Sweet' by the lovely Andrew Hozier, this song feels wenclair coded - hopefully I get the energy to edit them to it one day. This is my first time writing for Wednesday, so constructive criticism is more than welcome, and much appreciated! 🙏 (as it always is)

Wednesday despised you. She loathed every fiber of your being, every word you spoke, every path you chose. Yet no matter how deep her hatred for you ran, it was all out of pure spite.

You were close friends with Enid, so inevitably that meant you and Wednesday often found yourselves in the same atmosphere. Sometimes you and Enid would have sleepovers and it did not take long for Wednesday to discover you were an early bird opposed to her late night writing sessions.

You always looked so peaceful while resting. How do you sleep so well? Wednesday wondered. What do you dream about? It’s silly and utterly ridiculous, she knows. But her mind can’t help but stray when it comes to you. You have shown your own concern when it comes to the Addams’ erratic sleep schedule, if you could even classify it as one. You have always said to others—including Wednesday—to live right, to go to bed before the daylight.

You wake up to watch the sunrise; it was repulsing how rottenly pure that is. You were drunk on life, a poet—but far from Wednesday’s brand. You had a bright perspective; it was naive, yet wholesome. Your poetry revolves around the optimistic, steadfast side of life—while Wednesday’s consists of more realistic themes such as death, betrayal, and eternal heartbreak. It was a drastic contrast.

Wednesday could never bear such a naive way of life, so she simply doesn’t understand how you do. It was such a frustrating thought, the way you went about. Don’t you just want to wake up dark as a lake, smelling like a bonfire, lost in a haze? You lived such a reserved life in her eyes; treating your mouth as if it's heaven’s gate, your body like it’s the TSA.

She wasn’t oblivious to the glances you spared her; it was an internal battle refusing to meet them. But there were consequences. Wednesday has seen horrific things, things she believes would force a person like you into abandoning their wide-eyed outlook on life; she refuses to be the one who corrupts you. She wishes she could go along, don’t get her wrong. You were a goddess on earth, inside and out; bright as the morning, as soft as the rain, pretty as a vine, as sweet as a grape. Tooth rotting was what you were, but Wednesday did always deem herself a masochist.

If you can sit in a barrel, maybe she’ll wait. But until that day, she’d rather take her whiskey neat, raw as the honey in your tea, and coffee black as the ink you use to craft your sugar coated poems. Your sweetness was too overwhelming for her to carry, the looks you gave her alone were laced in your perfection.

Everything pointed to the evident conclusion; you’re too sweet for her.

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A/N: I feel eh abt this one, but I need to experiment with Wednesday more if I wanna get used to writing for her

#wednesday addams x you #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday addams x gn!reader #wednesday x you #wednesday x y/n #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams

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yerion · 1 year

Text

(love) you.

jungkook is shameless, especially when it comes to his lips. although you only want your lipstick to stain his lips, you find someone else’s; it’s a shame, because your shade would look prettier on him.

pairing : player!jungkook x art student!f-reader. au(s) : nevertheless!au. genres : mainly fluff, slight angst.

content : jungkook doesn’t date, but he still loves.

word count : 3,4k.

“did you do anything yesterday?” you ask as you observe jungkook get ready. at his usual delay, your gaze rolls flat onto the ground in disappointment, escaping the sight of jungkook fixing his hair in your mirror.

the couple of calls you made to him last night after gruelling moments of hesitation were all missed. you know he isn’t obliged to answer you, but for someone who’s been sleeping over at yours for countless nights, you anticipated a little more—just a little more attention.

“what was that?” jungkook then asks back absentmindedly.

“oh,” your gaze bounces up, knowing he’ll stare back once you reply. “were you busy yesterday?”

a lopsided smile flourishing on his lips, he turns his head to meet your expectant gaze. “i was at another gathering,” he answers. “you might know them, actually.”

“really?” a forced grin inevitably latches onto your features at his obliviousness. he talks as if he’ll invite you the next time he’s out, but the truth is that he won’t—more so if you know the people he’s planning to spend time with.

the moment jungkook fixes the last of his stray hairs, he retreats from his own reflection to position himself next to you on the side of your bed. “were you waiting for me?” he whispers teasingly into your reddened ear.

“no,” you interject in embarrassment. “i was just—”

a knowing chuckle spills past his lips. “sorry,” he murmurs sweetly. “my phone was on silent.” you watch his doe eyes evaluate; in his mind, he’s calculating what would throw you out of these phases of disappointment.

so he knew you called.

you shake your head profusely in dismissal. “don’t worry about it.”

at your reassurance, jungkook’s attention diminishes from the conversation. instead, he moves a hand close to your face, a finger delicately gliding across the lower lip before pressing down on it, causing your lips to separate and subtly spread apart.

“hey,” your voice squeezes out muffled.

“can i find you after class today?”

again, you’re found nodding at his suggestion. jungkook smiles at that, pleased with your compliance. he proves it to you by swiftly leaning forward, stopping mid-way just to catch you breathless before drawing close enough to capture your lips for a taste.

jungkook backs away with the sound of a subdued smooch, and you immediately sling yourself back and gasp dramatically in utter surprise. your eyes widen at jungkook who’s now grinning triumphantly.

at times where you should be fighting for extremities, he never fails to render you silent. he works harmoniously with the prickly sensation that only emerges into prominence when he’s around.

“i’ll see you later.” he whispers softly.

your head is peeking out and peering out to the distance while on your tiptoes expectantly. a sigh eventually tumbles out of your lips when another minute of nothing passes.

what are you waiting for?

you drop your head back, allowing the tide of disappointment to consume you as whole again. class ended an hour ago, and for jungkook, his class should’ve ended at a similar time to yours.

you peer up, exhaling freely at the galaxy looming over you. it’s the brightest company there is, yet here you are, waiting for someone who only offers fractured promises.

you don’t even know why you’ve devoted yourself to such shallow loving—he’s barely given you any signs of reciprocation, and deep inside, you know that—you’ve set yourself for detonation.

you begin to walk, breaking free from these hollow expectations embedded into your head. you leave any thought knotted with the remnants of jungkook in the air.

upon passing familiar buildings nearby, you coincidentally find someone who looks exactly like jungkook standing on top of a flight of stairs, melded majestically in flickering light. even with his back turned, the resemblance is uncanny.

stealing a glance through your narrowed lenses, you struggle to see the rest of his façade after observing for minutes. the anonymous barely moved since. he isn’t alone, because you can see another pair of legs through the gap of his own. your perspective from the lower ground is helpful in that sense.

then slight movement—you watch the mysterious guy randomly lean forward, naturally revealing more of the other person with him at this hour.

it’s a girl—a girl in your practical class.

now the mystery unveils; a fervent sensation pinches parts of your heart when you notice that the guy is in fact jungkook.

without giving you a second to breathe, he inches closer to plant a chaste kiss onto her lips. you’re unconsciously counting the seconds of their intimacy like a psychopath even with the aggravating heated jabs in your chest.

“jungkook?” she questioned, insolence apparent in her voice. “he doesn’t date.”

“he’s hot, but what’s the point when all he does is fuck around?”

you were warned.

you were seriously warned.

it’s you who chose this twisted fate for yourself.

with the lamp on, you lay still in bed, gazing at the dimmed ceiling. the stuffy feeling in your chest simmered, but now you’re dealing with a bundle of sickening anxiety that claimed its spot in the depths of your stomach.

the sigh you release aligns perfectly with the noise of your doorbell chiming. mainly startled, you spring up, creasing the sheets beneath as you stumble towards the monitor connected to the camera on your door.

as if god is entertained by the thought of suffering from your self-inflicted consequences, your breath hitches and your tongue tangles at jungkook’s spontaneous advent.

oh god.

through the fuzzy quality of the monitor, you feast your eyes on the rare moments of him waiting for you; for you to open up and embrace the danger he emanates like the scent of his fresh cologne.

that ultimately provokes you to push open the door. your frustration towards your own self is immeasurable, but there’s no cure for lovesickness. deadpanning, you raise your head, feeling a draft of wind caress your face before finding jungkook’s indifferent eyes.

“you’re ridiculous.” in all sorts of ways, jeon jungkook.

however all he does is let his eyes roam, allowing him to explore the elusive details of your body. averting his gaze from your eyes, he then stares at your lips, the curves of your neck before overtly pausing at your bare collarbones.

your jaw drops ajar the moment you decipher the true meaning behind his stare; you’re in nothing but your pyjamas—a tank top and shorts.

“have you eaten?”

brows collapsing into a tenuous frown, you shake your head adamantly. “no,” you shut down. “i wasn’t hungry.”

“still,” jungkook sighs out loud as he places his palm against your forehead, checking your temperature for his sake. “i don’t want to think about you getting sick again—”

you immediately grab ahold of his wrist, tearing his hand away from you. “come in,” you mutter. “i want to talk to you.”

jungkook steps in, automatically stopping in front of your closed door instead of entering further. “i’m listening,” he says knowingly. “tell me anything.”

you inhale, voluntarily stopping yourself from breathing at his sweet offer. “why do you make me wait?” you confess. “am i that easy?”

jungkook raises an aggressive brow, offended by your accusation. “it’s not that.”

“i saw you on the way home.” you cut in determinedly. “i didn’t mean to, but i saw you with someone else.”

“why does that matter?”

of course.

this is the type of person jungkook is.

“is it the kiss you’re worried about?” jungkook takes a step forward deliberately, naturally causing you to trip backward until your shoulders are harshly pressed against the wall, trapped under his piercing gaze.

shooting a pained glare at him, you scoff inwardly. “so you do know.”

jungkook looks away as he sighs frustratedly. “it wasn’t anything special.”

“that makes you even worse.”

“if it didn’t mean anything to me, you should be caring less about it.”

jerk.

you scoff in a series as you brush your hair back angrily. “that’s clearly not the point here.”

“then what is?”

he’s right.

what is the point of arguing when you’re the reason behind this heartbreak?

you knew this.

you had this coming.

“forget it.” you exasperate bitterly, “what can i say as someone who isn’t important to you either?”

“that’s not it.”

“then who am i to you?”

“someone different to me.” he answers vaguely. “you’re the only person i enjoy being with.”

his words take you aback, inducing heat to reside in your body again in unease; it melts down your next words lingering on the tip of your tongue.

“how about you?” jungkook asks deeply. “how do you feel about me?”

“i don’t know how to feel about—”

“should we let it go then?” his hand reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin in tender strokes. “one word from you, and i’ll stop.”

you’re anxious; you’re frightened in case this might be the last.

jungkook is a paradox you can’t seem to grasp. behind your back is a world that carries his name; your mind searches for him in a cloud of cigarette smoke and a garden full of butterflies.

you’re afraid that’ll torment you; it’d kill you to think there was once a possibility to make that all into bliss.

because after all this time, no one’s ever been as magnetising as him.

fuck it.

tilting your head upward ever so slightly, you lean into plant a gentle kiss on his lips. you resign from the kiss quicker than usual; avoiding eye contact and turning your head to the side.

“are you sure?” jungkook questions.

“i’m not.”

oblivious to the silence, your gaze flickers, unsure of what to do next to relieve the tension. your blood surges, heightening the warmth in your cheek, making it known to jungkook’s fingertips.

wordlessly, his hand falls, instead it finds your jaw; he holds the end of your chin, steadily turning your head back to him.

your heart begins to race at a speed you’ve never felt; hard thumps thrash against your ribcage. there’s butterflies pedantically fluttering in your stomach, probably alarmed by the brute force of your heart.

“are you busy tomorrow?”

you simply shake your head.

“spend it with me then.”

“don’t you have class tomorrow?”

“i’ll just miss it.” jungkook draws in, shortening the space between your bodies before pulling in for a kiss harsher than yours. your eyes shut at his eager lips, arms instinctively finding its way to hook around his neck.

this is… fine—right?

before your shoulders can ram any harder against the wall, he fluidly slips his arms under your thighs, carrying you high against his chest. not only does it grant you the room to fully loop your arms around his neck, but it brings you dangerously near, offering you the option of fuelling the fiery kiss.

when he perches you on top of your own kitchen counter without giving your lips a rest, you fall back into his arms, curious to see the expression he has on for you.

jungkook tilts his head in wonder. “is this my first time seeing you with your hair tied up?” he smiles slyly, stiffening his grip around your waist.

“oh—” your hand frantically rummages for the hair tie buried in your hair. once you grab it, you slide it off in a panic, knowing it wasn’t your best job. you accidentally left it in and tossed around in your bed. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“what was that for?” he cracks into an airy chuckle. “now i can’t say you look gorgeous.”

you purse your lips teasingly. “can’t you still?”

“but with your hair down—” he purposely tips into the curve of your neck to breathe against your ear, sending you continual waves of electricity. “—you’re something else.”

you smack his shoulder with a tough blow. “give me a break,” rolling your eyes sarcastically, you huff out a small pout. “i had enough of your vague words today.”

“yeah?” jungkook hums, “i’ll leave it to your imagination then.”

“very funny.”

“should we eat something?” jungkook coaxes in a whisper.

you side-eye the clock. “it’s so late, but…” you trail off. “this is the best time to eat.”

“that’s what i like to hear.”

“you did what?”

“please, don’t be so loud!” a girl hushes her friend beside her.

the ruckus lured your gaze to lift. it’s how you envisioned—just two girls procrastinating on their due work and relaying updates of each other’s lives on the weekend. you simply nod alone in understanding, gradually letting your attention pan back to your painting.

“come on!” a burst of laughter escapes the friend’s entire body. “jungkook came over to yours on saturday?”

inevitably, your whole existence comes to a complete stop at the sound of his name slipping out of someone else’s mouth. your finger buffers, causing your brush stroke to deviate elsewhere, abandoning a permanent red stain on a place you wanted uncoloured.

“shut up.” she stresses behind clenched teeth. “people are going to hear.”

you’ve seen and heard about him kissing people heartlessly, but a story about him staying over at another girl’s house is not only just breaking news, but something you weren’t mentally ready for.

“who cares!” she cackles hysterically. “it’s not like anyone here had the same amount of romance as you with him.”

“romance?” the girl groans knowingly. “as if he does any of that.” she sighs in sheer disappointment; a sound you thought you could only make regarding him. “i fucking wish.”

“we need to talk more about what the two of you did after class.”

the girl dunks her paintbrush back into a can of dirtied water. “where should we go?” she giggles enthusiastically. “my house?”

“ew,” her friend screeches. “without knowing what the fuck you two did in there?”

“shut up!”

lost in a world that now feels uncomfortably fuzzy, you suddenly jolt at a random vibration in your pocket. your phone alarms you of what feels like a new text. with a half absent mind, you take the phone out of your jeans for a dire distraction.

[jeon jungkook] 14:22.‘you’re finishing soon.’

[jeon jungkook] 14:23. ‘i’m coming to see you. let’s get lunch together?’

14:23. ‘sure.’

unlike him, he matched the time perfectly to invite you for lunch. it’s only minutes before your two-hour long recreational class ends, and all you’re taking to the future is an unerasable and disastrous story caused by a single mention of his name.

you’re pathetic.

of course, it’s from here onward, time loses its power against you. it always has, especially if it’s anything related to jungkook. though you’ve thoughtlessly accepted to be the extra company he can unconditionally ask for, you decide to remain seated in an emptying classroom, stupidly waiting for him to notice your wretched choice to rebel against him for the very first time.

this is who you’ve become—a person craving nothing but short-lived attention from someone who gives you bruises like presents.

“found you.”

there he is.

“not hungry again?”

your eyes stay grounded and your lips remain sealed in thinking. eventually, you feel a breath caress your ear, sending a frigid shiver down your spine. it wakes you up, triggering your gaze to shoot towards the beautiful yet menacing cause—jungkook.

flustered, your eyes widen in embarrassment. you totally lost your equilibrium. “i was distracted,” you mutter. “what did you say?”

“i’m complaining because you didn’t let me court you today.” jungkook replies smoothly. “did you change your mind?”

court you?

“a little.” you answer vaguely, still uncomfortable to face the truth.

“i’m a little hurt.” jungkook jests softly. “i missed you.” he casually drags out a spare seat beside you to sit on. “how about you?”

missed you?

you look fixedly at his attractive uneven grin. “more than you did.”

“really?” his eyebrows raise in contentment. “are you sure you’re not more interested in the masterpiece you’re working on than a date with me?”

a date?

with your head lowered, you sigh deeply. “let’s drop this.” you propose abruptly. “let’s drop it before i start to annoy you with my feelings.”

“is that the reason?”

“it’s the reason and the problem.” you turn back to jungkook, facing him through your seat aligned with his. “so let’s not see each other like this after today.”

he seems taken aback, speechless—almost.

“the reason and the problem is that i started to care about who you meet and kiss.” you confess. “and that shouldn’t happen between you and i.”

you knew all this time.

“because that’s a break of your rules.” your sick rules of seeing people without strings attached.

jungkook avoids your gaze by looking to the side. though not visible and barely audible, you can pick up the muted sound of his breath that’s longer than usual. you watch his eyebrow piercing twitch in contemplation as your chest starts to carry weight again. it feels heavy inside; it’s no longer a foreign feeling to you, but something so familiar.

pushing yourself out of the stool, you set off a loud screech before standing on your feet upon securing enough room. “i won’t apologise for it.” you exhale strongly, “i won’t join you today.”

“don’t forget your painting.”

“you take it if you meant what you said before.”

when you try to take a step further away from him, jungkook grabs ahold of your swaying wrist to stop you halfway. “do you mean it?”

“are you talking about the artwork?” you scoff lightly before clearing your throat awkwardly regardless. “i have to restart.”

“i meant your feelings.”

“what about it?”

“are you actually taking me seriously?”

offended, you aggressively flick your wrist away from his grip. “you’ve never been a joke to me like i was to you.”

“you’re judging me way too quickly here.”

“then can i give you time to explain?”

at the end of your sentence, he’s silent to make his hand known to you again. his fingers clamp your wrist gently, grasping it in a way that brings you to feel baffled at the unfamiliarity. he’s completely defenseless with you, to the point it’s forcing you to think you could be the person to break him if you wanted.

your breath trembles in confusion as you blink profusely at jungkook’s sealed lips. your arm solidifies under his grip.

“are you alright with someone like me?” he asks softly while caressing your wrist with the pad of his thumb.

you watch jungkook’s eyes deepen in curiosity. “i wouldn’t be here if i wasn’t.”

“really?” jungkook cracks into an enigmatic chuckle, masking his insecurities. “i want to believe you so badly.” he mutters under his breath.

“jungkook,” you pronounce.

the lingering movement in jungkook’s fingers halt at the sound of his own name gently rolling off your tongue.

“how do you feel?” you spin the bottle back to him verbally. “did you stop me because you’re afraid you might be losing one of your many girls, or did you stop me because you mean it?”

“i feel like i’d miss you.”

“to that someone you’re planning to miss, you’ve been flirting whilst kissing different girls in front of her eyes.” you mutter back. “can you get back to her when you feel apologetic about that? because she likes you so much now, she can’t handle the sight of you being your usual self anymore.”

“can i let her know that this is my first time feeling like this?”

“feeling like what?” you ask hesitantly.

“i feel like you’re going to be my last thought every night if you go like this.” he answers. “and i don’t know for how long.”

“i like you, jeon jungkook.”

“i—”

you whisper, “and i think you like me too.”

“yeah.”

turning towards his wrist, you take a step forward to close into his face. jungkook peers up to you from his seat in astonishment, however you simply reach out to press your fingertip against his bottom lip, wiping a darkened lipstick stain away in the opposite direction as an evident frown paints your softened features.

jungkook stares at your dirtied digit. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay.” you now reply softly in slight embarrassment. you talked with a bigger mouth than usual, which is a colour jungkook has never seen until today.

“is it?”

you shift your head to the side. “my shade would look prettier on you.”

“prove it.”

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anna-the-undertaker · 1 month

Text

Look At Me

My late night thoughts were not pure

Mature Content

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

The grand ballroom of the Demon Lords palace was awash with shimmering lights and the murmur of countless conversations as beings from various realms gathered for one of Diavolo's famously extravagant balls. The air was perfumed with an intoxicating mix of otherworldly flowers and the rich, spicy aroma of exotic dishes. At the heart of it all was MC, whose presence commanded attention not just for their unexpected role at this event, but for the sheer magnetism of their attire.

MC had stepped into the ballroom, transformed. The formal wear clung to and flowed around their body perfectly, accentuating their best features. The fabric shimmered with each movement, catching the light and casting lustrous shadows that played over their form like soft, caressing fingers. From the elegant cut of the outfit to the tasteful yet daring accessories, everything about MC's appearance was meticulously crafted to dazzle and seduce.

As they made their grand entrance, heads turned, conversations momentarily paused, and appreciative murmurs filled the air. But it was not the general admiration that MC was tuned into; it was the intense, unwavering gaze of someone whose eyes had not strayed from them since they appeared.

This particular observer's eyes sparkled with a mix of admiration and something deeper, more intense. As MC navigated through the throngs of guests—greeting dignitaries with a polite nod here, sharing a laugh with a fellow exchange student there—they were acutely aware of the burning gaze that followed their every move.

The evening progressed with dances and toasts, the music a lively backdrop to the whispered conversations and subtle politics played out among the attendees. Despite the distractions, MC felt the pull of that gaze, like a tether drawing them inevitably toward their admirer.

Finally, seizing a moment when they found themselves near their not-so-secret admirer, MC paused. With a grace that belied the nervous flutter in their chest, they allowed their eyes to leisurely travel up the length of their admirers body. The appreciative scan was slow, deliberate, and when their eyes finally met, there was a palpable charge in the air.

Leaning in just close enough to let their words be heard over the music, yet not close enough to touch, MC's voice was low, teasing, "If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I'm gonna catch cold." The words hung between them, a flirtatious challenge, a promise of possibilities.

A playful taunt that left their admirer momentarily dazed, heat rising in their core.

Lucifer

From the moment MC stepped into the grand ballroom, Lucifer's attention was unwavering. The transformation of MC into a figure so alluring and elegantly dressed was not just a visual treat; it was a challenge to his composure. He stood near the edges of the ballroom, his gaze fixed on MC as they mingled with the other guests. Each laugh and graceful gesture they shared added a layer to his growing admiration—and desire.

Lucifer was no stranger to his desire for MC, but he prided himself on his ability to control it. Tonight, however, with MC looking every bit the part of a temptation crafted specifically to test him, his control was put on the line. He watched, almost pained, as others admired and approached MC, sharing dances and conversations.

When MC finally drifted closer to where he stood, their eyes meeting, Lucifer felt a jolt of electricity. The room seemed to grow quieter, the chatter and music fading into the background. As MC’s eyes traveled up his body, the intensity in their gaze was palpable, and his heart beat a fraction faster in response.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I'm gonna catch cold,” MC's voice, low and teasing, reached his ears, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips—a rare, genuine, hungry smile.

Lucifer's response was a soft chuckle, the sound rich and heated. “My apologies,” his voice dropped an octave, thick with veiled intentions. “It seems only fair to offer you something to keep you warm then.” The words, though spoken lightly, sent a shiver through the both of them.

Offering his hand with a devilish grace, they stepped onto the dance floor, that hand found the small of MC’s back, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to guide them closer than the dance necessarily required. His other hand captured theirs, holding it gently but with undeniable command. Each step and turn they took was choreographed perfection, yet it was the subtleties of his touch that spoke volumes — a light caress here, a slightly firmer grip there, all calculated to make MC acutely aware of his presence and the electric tension that thrummed between them.

Throughout the dance, Lucifer’s gaze never wavered from MC’s eyes, but his whispers were for their ears alone. “Every turn, every step, remember this feeling,” he murmured as they moved together, his voice a velvety threat that promised much more. His thigh occasionally brushed against theirs, a seemingly innocent contact that sent a clear message with its precise placement.

As the song drew to a close, and the last notes lingered in the air like the touch of a lover's caress, Lucifer leaned closer, his lips hovering just beside MC’s ear. The warmth of his breath against their skin, the controlled depth of his voice, all designed to entice and promise. “This is but a taste,” he whispered, his words laced with a predatory smoothness. “Imagine what awaits when the night is done.”

He punctuated his statement with a subtle nip at the shell of MC’s ear, a brief, gentle bite that elicited a sharp, involuntary gasp from them. The sound was drowned out by the applause of the other guests, a cover for the intensely private moment they shared amidst the public setting.

As they parted, Lucifer’s hand lingered on MC’s back, his eyes holding theirs in a gaze that was both a challenge and an invitation. The subtle smirk that played on his lips was confident, knowing. He stepped back, allowing MC to feel the sudden coolness of his absence, the ghost of his touch still burning on their skin.

Mammon

As the opulence of the gathering washed over the attendees, Mammon’s attention was fiercely locked on MC from the moment they emerged from into the room, their attire hugging every curve and accentuating each line of their body in a way that was downright sinful. The formal wear seemed tailored to tease, to draw and hold the gaze—something Mammon found impossible to resist.

Throughout the evening, Mammon watched MC with an intensity that bordered on possessive. He struggled to keep his cool as others admired and approached MC, feeling a surge of jealousy each time someone else made them laugh or led them onto the dance floor. It wasn’t just their looks; it was the way they carried themselves—with a confidence that was alluring, and to Mammon, maddening.

As MC drifted closer to where he stood, his heart raced with anticipation. Every casual touch they shared with others had stoked a fire within him, and now, as they approached, that fire threatened to burn through his every restraint.

When MC stopped near him, their eyes boldly traveled up his body, taking him in. Mammon felt his breath hitch, his body responding with a sharp thrill. Their gaze was a physical touch, one that left him aching for more.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” MC’s voice was a low tease, charged with a flirtatious energy that drew a dark chuckle from him.

“Oh, trust me, love,” Mammon’s voice dropped to a husky murmur as he stepped closer, eliminating the scant distance between them. “If I’m undressin' ya with my eyes, it’s only to think about how to keep ya very, very warm.” His words were a promise, laden with an intent that made no room for misunderstandings.

The challenge in MC’s eyes sparkled with an equal measure of desire and daring. They didn’t step back, but instead leaned in, their breath mingling with his. “Prove it,” they whispered back, a playful yet passionate invitation that Mammon was only too eager to accept.

Without a word, Mammon took MC’s hand and led them away from the crowded dance floor, his grip firm and assured. They navigated through the throng of guests with a purposeful stride, heading towards one of the palace’s shadowed alcoves—a semi-private nook framed by heavy velvet curtains.

Once secluded from the prying eyes of the other guests, Mammon wasted no time. His hands found MC’s waist, pulling them close with a possessiveness that his usual tsundere demeanor rarely revealed. He kissed them, his lips pressing against theirs with a hunger that had been building all evening. The kiss deepened quickly, fueled by the pent-up desire from watching them all night, each slide of their lips a stroke of flame that left them both wanting more.

MC responded with equal fervor, their hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. The heat between them built, each touch and nip adding to the fire that the formal setting of the ball could no longer contain.

Breathless, Mammon finally pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against MC’s, his breath heavy and mingling with theirs. “I’ve been wantin' to do that since I saw ya tonight,” he admitted, his voice thick with desire. “And believe me, I don’t plan on stoppin' here.”

Leviathan

Leviathan found himself in unfamiliar waters. The formal atmosphere, the immaculate attire, and the sophisticated chatter all felt alien to him, but none of that mattered when MC stepped into view. Dressed in a sharply tailored outfit that seemed created to ensnare his senses, MC looked nothing short of captivating. The fabric clung and flowed in all the right places, each movement highlighting a harmony of elegance and allure that Levi couldn’t pull his eyes away from.

From the moment MC entered the room, Levi’s usual backdrop of shyness and self-consciousness was overshadowed by a more intense and primal focus. He wasn’t used to feeling this way—so raw and exposed; his heart raced with every glance he stole in MC’s direction.

As MC mingled and laughed, their charisma lighting up the room, Levi’s feelings shifted between admiration and a growing, gnawing envy of anyone who held MC’s attention even momentarily. He lurked on the outskirts of the festivities, his gaze tracking MC’s every interaction with an intensity that surprised even him.

The moment MC drifted closer to where he stood, almost as if they sensed his intense scrutiny, Levi felt his breath catch. MC’s eyes met his in a look that brought fresh heat to his cheeks. There was a pause, a silent acknowledgment of the tension that Levi felt crackling between them.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” MC teased, their voice a sensual whisper that sent shivers down Levi’s spine. The statement was playful yet provocative, striking right at the heart of Levi’s tumultuous emotions.

Levi, usually not one for quick comebacks, felt a surge of boldness spurred by the charged atmosphere and MC’s daring gaze. “Maybe that’s just my strategy to offer you my coat,” he replied, his voice surprisingly steady and imbued with a flirtatious undertone he seldom used.

The corners of MC’s lips twitched into a smile at his response, and with a flirty, confident swagger, they sauntered away, leaving Levi momentarily dumbfounded and marveling at his own audacity. As MC integrated back into the crowd, Levi’s resolve hardened; he wasn’t ready to let the evening end without staking his claim, without showing MC that his usually awkward nature could give way to something fiercer.

Fuelled by a mix of desire and newfound confidence, Levi made his way through the throng of guests, catching up to MC. With a gentle touch that belied his nervous energy, he tapped MC on the shoulder, drawing them away from the crowd under the pretense of needing air but in reality, seeking a moment of privacy.

Once they were secluded on a balcony overlooking the palace gardens, the cool night air doing little to quench the heat between them, Levi faced MC. His hands were shaky, but his voice was firm. “I’m not good at this... at any of this,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely back at the ballroom. “But I’m tired of just watching. I want... more.”

MC looked up at him, their expression softening, a hint of intrigue in their eyes. “Levi, you don’t have to be anything you’re not. Not with me.”

Encouraged by their words, Levi leaned in closer, his earlier shyness melting away under the sincerity of the moment. He kissed MC, a careful, testing pressure that soon deepened as he felt MC respond with equal fervor. The kiss was a clash of emotions—a mixture of Levi’s pent-up yearning and MC’s bold invitation.

As they broke apart, breathless and with cheeks flushed under the moonlight, Levi felt a surge of triumph mixed with relief. Tonight, he had stepped out of his comfort zone, driven by a desire too potent to ignore. And from the look in MC’s eyes, his gamble had paid off.

Satan

The atmosphere was charged with decadence and intrigue, but Satan's attention was captivated solely by MC. Their attire was nothing short of intoxicating, tailored to perfection, accentuating each curve and angle with a precision that seemed to beckon the very shadows to dance across their form. The fabric shimmered with every deliberate movement they made, ensnaring Satan's senses and tightening his focus with an intensity that felt almost primal.

From the moment MC stepped into the grand hall, Satan felt a visceral pull, a stirring of desire that was usually kept under strict control. Tonight, however, as he watched MC navigate through the crowd, interacting with an effortless charm that drew both admiration and envy, a raw, possessive urge began to simmer within him.

As MC approached, their eyes locked with Satan’s in a challenge that was as provocative as it was inviting. The air between them crackled with tension, each shared glance and smirk making the fire in him burn hotter.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” MC’s voice was a sultry tease, a playful spark that ignited a fierce response in Satan.

Satan’s reply was a low growl, barely audible above the hum of the ballroom. “Perhaps you’d prefer if I warmed you up in a more... direct manner,” he suggested, his voice a seductive whisper that promised indulgences far beyond the dance floor’s chaste touches.

MC’s smile turned knowing, their gaze lingering on him with an intensity that dared him to make good on his words.

Without waiting for further encouragement, Satan took MC’s hand and led them away from the prying eyes of the crowd. His steps were purposeful as he guided them through the corridors to the palaces library, a private sanctuary bathed in shadow.

Once alone, Satan wasted no time. He dragged MC into one of the aisles, pressing them against a bookshelf, his hands roaming over their body with an ownership that spoke of deep, unyielding desire. His lips found theirs in a demanding kiss, one that brooked no hesitation and offered no escape. It was a kiss that seared, that consumed, fueled by a night’s worth of anticipation and the raw need to claim and be claimed in return.

MC responded with equal fervor, their nails scraping against the back Satan’s neck, pulling him closer as if to meld into him completely.

As they broke for air, Satan’s gaze was dark and intent. “I intend to explore every inch of you tonight,” he murmured against MC’s lips. “To learn what pleasures make you sigh, what touches make you gasp.... what will make you cry out for more.”

MC’s breath hitched, their eyes alight with hunger. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Asmodeus

Asmodeus was in his element, the very epitome of charm and seduction. However, even amid the grandeur and flirtations that filled the air, his attention was inexorably drawn to MC. They were resplendent in their formal attire, which clung to and flowed around their body with a precision that was both alluring and tasteful. The fabric shimmered with every movement, capturing the light and seemingly setting it aflame with every step they took.

Asmo, ever the connoisseur of beauty and desire, found himself utterly captivated. He watched MC with a predatory intensity, his gaze tracing the lines of their figure, appreciating the way the outfit enhanced their allure. The demon of lust was no stranger to desire, but the sight of MC tonight stirred a deep, insatiable craving within him.

Throughout the evening, Asmo found himself maneuvering through the crowd, positioning himself ever closer to MC, his gaze occasionally meeting theirs in a silent exchange of unspoken promises. When MC finally approached, stopping mere inches away from him, the electric charge of their proximity sent a thrill racing through his veins.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” MC teased, their voice low and sultry, tinged with flirtation and a hint of challenge.

Asmo chuckled, his voice a smooth, seductive purr. “Oh, my dear, if I'm undressing you with my eyes, imagine what I could do with my hands. But fear not—I assure you, I'm quite skilled and will keep you very warm.”

The playfulness of MC’s statement and the charged atmosphere spurred him into action. Asmo took a step closer, eliminating the scant distance between them, his eyes locked onto MC’s with an intensity that bordered on hypnotic. He leaned in, his breath caressing MC’s ear as he whispered, “Why don’t we find a more private setting? I have a feeling that you and I could create our own heat.”

His hand gently grasped theirs, fingers interlocking with a gentle yet firm assurance. Guiding them away from the crowd with a practiced ease, Asmodeus led MC toward one of the palace's less frequented terraces—a spot secluded enough to offer privacy but still open to the starlit sky.

Once alone, Asmodeus turned to face MC, his hands finding their waist as he pulled them close. The space between them sizzled with anticipation, each breath they shared laden with desire. He gazed into MC’s eyes, seeing the flicker of arousal and curiosity there, and smiled—a slow, knowing smile that gleamed with delights yet to come.

He kissed them then, a soft yet insistent press of lips that quickly deepened as he coaxed them to respond. The kiss was an exploration, a negotiation of lips and tongues. HIs hands roamed over MC's back, pulling them even closer, his touch igniting sparks wherever he touched.

Breaking the kiss, his eyes gleamed with a mix of devilry and desire. “Let me show you just how much heat we can generate together,” he murmured, his voice husky. His hands were gentle yet commanding as they invited MC to abandon their reservations and give in to the night.

The terrace became their world, where the chill of the night air contrasted sharply with the warmth of their entwined bodies. Each touch, each kiss, stoked the fires of desire higher, drawing them deeper into a dance of seduction and satisfaction. Asmo reveled in every sigh and shiver he drew from MC, each response fueling his own desire to give more and to take even more still.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub’s usually single-minded focus on food was uncharacteristically diverted. The catalyst was MC, stepping out in a form-fitting ensemble that seemed designed to torment him with desires far more complex than his usual cravings. The attire clung and draped in all the right places, emphasizing each curve and line with an elegance that was both tantalizing and exquisite. The rich fabric caught the light with every movement, casting a spell over Beel’s senses that was both bewildering and intoxicating.

From the moment MC entered, Beel found himself watching them with an intensity that felt like hunger but deeper. He was used to feeling physical hunger, but this was different; it was a visceral pull that anchored him to the spot every time MC laughed or danced, their joy and charisma lighting up the room more effectively than any chandelier.

Throughout the evening, Beel’s gaze followed MC, tracking their interactions with a mix of admiration and something fiercer that he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just their physical appearance that captivated him; it was the way they moved with such confidence and ease, the way they engaged so effortlessly with everyone around them. It stirred something primal within him, a yearning to be close, to be the one who made them laugh, to feel the warmth of their body against his.

When MC finally drifted towards where he stood, seemingly casual but surely aware of the effect they were having on him, Beel’s heart pounded with a mix of nervous anticipation and raw desire. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the clamor of the ball seemed to quiet just for them.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” MC teased, their voice a sultry murmur that reverberated through Beel’s frame like a physical touch.

Beel, usually straightforward with his thoughts and affections, felt shyness overtaken by the urgency of his feelings. “I, uh...” he started, his voice a low rumble, “I was just thinking how I’d like to keep you warm.” The words came out rougher than he intended, his intense gaze locked on MC’s, leaving little room for doubt about his intentions.

The playful challenge in MC’s eyes sparked a courage in Beel that he seldom felt outside of battle. With a newfound determination, he took a step closer, effectively closing the distance between them. “Maybe we should find somewhere less crowded,” he suggested.

MC’s smile widened, and they placed a hand lightly on Beel’s chest—a touch that sent a jolt of electricity through him. “Lead the way,” they replied, their voice laced with anticipation.

Without another word, Beel guided MC away from the bustling ballroom, through ornate corridors, to a quiet balcony overlooking the palace’s vast gardens. The cool night air was a stark contrast to the warmth bubbling between them, adding a thrill that made their secluded spot feel even more intimate.

Once alone, Beel’s hands found MC’s waist, pulling them close with a gentle but firm grip that spoke of need and affection. He lowered his head, his lips finding MC’s in a kiss that was both a question and an answer, a merging of hunger and affection that deepened as they responded with equal fervor.

The kiss grew more passionate, driven by the raw, earnest desire that Beel often kept hidden under his calm exterior. His large hands were cautious yet eager as they explored MC’s body, drawing them even closer, if possible. MC’s hands roamed over his shoulders and chest, their touch igniting fires along every nerve.

As they finally broke apart for air, Beel rested his forehead against MC’s, his breath heavy and warm against their skin. “I... I don’t want this night to end,” he confessed, his voice a husky whisper that carried his deepest fears and wishes.

MC looked up at him, their eyes shining with a mixture of pleasure and something tender. “Then let’s not let it end just yet,” they whispered back, pulling him in for another kiss.

Belphegor

Amidst the glamour and revelry, Belphegor found himself in a rare state of heightened awareness, entirely fixated on MC. Draped in an outfit that seemed to defy the mere concept of formal wear with its daring elegance, MC moved through the crowd like a living temptation. The way the material clung to their body and highlighted every movement with a tantalizing grace had Belphie's usual lethargy replaced with an uncharacteristic surge of desire.

Belphie, often aloof and withdrawn, wasn't one for public displays of affection. Yet, tonight, as he watched MC, a deep-seated restlessness took hold. His gaze, usually sleepy and distant, sharpened considerably as he traced the lines of MC's form from across the room, his eyes darkening with each flirtatious laugh and turn they shared with others.

When MC eventually approached him, threading through the throngs of demons and other creatures with an ease that spoke of their comfort in this infernal court, Belphie’s usual cool demeanor wavered. Their eyes met, locking in place.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” MC said, their voice low and charged with a playful yet provocative undertone. It was a challenge, delivered with a coy tilt of the head and a smirk that beckoned him closer.

Belphie’s response was a slow, mischievous smile, one that often graced his features. “I think you’d find I’m good at keeping things heated,” he murmured back, his voice a soft growl that matched the predatory gleam in his eyes. His usual indolence was nowhere found as he stepped into MC's personal space, the air between them charged with an electric anticipation.

Without waiting for further encouragement, Belphie's hand found the small of MC's back, pulling them flush against him. The contact was bold, possessive, and sparked a heat that neither the coolness of the night nor the prying eyes around them could dampen.

“Let’s find somewhere more... secluded. I’d hate for you to freeze,” Belphie suggested, his words dripping with an intent as intoxicating as it was clear. His grip tightened slightly, not enough to restrain but enough to convey his unwillingness to let the moment slip away.

MC’s eyes glinted with excitement at the suggestion. With a nod that sealed their mutual consent, they allowed Belphie to lead them away from the crowd. They moved together through lesser-known corridors of the palace, each step building a simmering anticipation.

Reaching an empty bedroom, Belphie turned to MC, his hands framing their face as he leaned in. The kiss he planted on their lips was not gentle—it was demanding, fervent, and deeply passionate, seeking to claim and be claimed in equal measure.

The kiss broke only for the need for air, their breaths mingling. Belphie’s hands wandered, tracing MC’s sides, pulling them closer still. “I don’t do half-measures,” he breathed against their lips, his gaze locked onto theirs with a raw intensity. “I want all of you, here, now.”

Diavolo

This event marked by opulence and spectacle, was a night where the Devildom's elite gathered to revel in their ruler's grandeur and for the exchange program to be celebrated. Diavolo himself, with his immense power and charisma, was accustomed to being the center of attention. Yet, tonight, his focus was entirely captivated by MC, who had arrived looking nothing short of stunning. Their formal wear was not just clothing but a statement, crafted to accentuate every curve and line with impeccable taste, shimmering under the chandeliers' glow as if woven from the night sky itself.

From the moment MC stepped into the grand hall, Diavolo found himself watching them, a feeling of awe mingling with a deeper, more primal interest. The way MC moved through the crowd, with a grace and confidence that matched his own, struck a chord within him, igniting a desire to see them not across the room, but by his side.

As the evening progressed, Diavolo’s usual rounds of greeting and politicking felt unusually tedious, his gaze repeatedly seeking out MC. Their laughter, the easy way they conversed with other guests, even the subtle gestures they made, all seemed to draw him in deeper. When MC finally approached him, their eyes locking, Diavolo felt the full weight of his position as the host. Yet, at that moment, he wished nothing more than to cast aside the formalities and indulge in the connection that simmered between them.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” MC teased, their voice a perfect blend of humor and seduction that fit the night's festive air.

Diavolo chuckled, a sound deep and resonant that filled the space between them. “Is that so? Perhaps it would be more prudent, then, to find somewhere warmer where such dangers can be thoroughly mitigated,” he replied, his tone smooth and inviting. The underlying suggestion was clear, his words a velvet-lined invitation to escape the public eye.

The playful challenge in MC’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed. They leaned in slightly, a conspiratorial smirk playing on their lips. “Lead the way, then, My Lord.”

With a hand extended in offer, Diavolo guided MC away from the throngs of guests, his touch firm yet careful, as if he were handling something precious and infinitely valuable. They navigated through the opulent corridors of his palace, each step taking them further from the noise and closer to solitude.

Diavolo chose his private office for its seclusion and comfort—a space where his rule was absolute and interruptions were forbidden. As he closed the door behind them, the sound seemed to seal them away from the rest of the world.

Turning to face MC, Diavolo’s gaze was intense, his usual affable demeanor replaced by a more predatory grace. He stepped closer, the confined space of the office suddenly charged with the energy of their proximity.

Without waiting for further banter, Diavolo’s hands found MC’s waist, pulling them flush against him. His lips found theirs in a claiming kiss, deep and urgent, as if he could communicate his rising desire and the depth of his attraction through this contact alone. His kiss was a mastery of pressure and movement, a clear dominion of experience and longing that coaxed MC to respond with equal fervor.

MC’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss into a fervent clash of lips and tongues. Diavolo’s control slipped further with each moment, his hands roaming over MC’s body, tracing the lines of their outfit, appreciating the way the material accentuated their every curve and hollow.

As he broke the kiss, his breaths were heavy, his forehead resting against MC’s. “I’ve wanted this since I first laid eyes on you” he confessed, his voice husky. His fingers deftly worked at loosening his tie, his actions deliberate and tantalizingly slow. “And now that I have you here, I have no intention of holding back.”

He guided MC’s hands to his shirt, inviting them to feel, to explore. As their fingers brushed against his chest, Diavolo maneuvered them toward his desk, sweeping aside papers and artifacts of his rule with a careless flick of his wrist. The message was clear: nothing was more important than the here and now.

Lifting MC onto the desk, Diavolo’s lips trailed kisses down their neck, his hands busy at the task of divesting them of the beautiful yet confining layers of fabric. Each revealed inch of skin was worshipped with kisses and touches that left MC breathless and craving more.

Barbatos

Barbatos moved with the poised elegance that was his hallmark, overseeing the intricacies of the event with an expert eye. However, his usual demeanor of unshakeable calm was disrupted by the entrance of MC, who captivated his attention entirely. Dressed in an ensemble that was was both elegant and tantalizing, MC moved through the crowd with a grace that drew eyes from every corner of the room. The way the material clung to their figure, accentuating every move with subtle allure, left Barbatos more affected than he cared to admit.

Throughout the evening, Barbatos allowed himself the rare luxury of observing MC from afar, appreciating the way they interacted with the other guests. His duties often required him to remain at the periphery, but tonight, his attention invariably returned to MC, their presence pulling at something deep within him.

Then MC approached him, a playful glint in their eye. “If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” MC teased, their voice low and charged with a hint of flirtation.

A slight smile tugged at Barbatos's lips, the expression rare and fleeting. “It would be most remiss of me to allow that,” he replied smoothly. His voice, though low and controlled, carried a warmth that matched his words. “Perhaps a change of environment is in order.”

With a discreet gesture to the little D’s, Barbatos ensured that their journey would be undisturbed. The diminutive demons nodded, their understanding clear—they would ensure no one ventured towards the kitchens, a domain ordinarily under Barbatos's strict control but tonight serving a different purpose.

Guiding MC with a hand at the small of their back, Barbatos led them through the less frequented corridors of the palace to the expansive kitchen. The room was deserted at this hour, the earlier frenzy of preparation for the ball having given way to silence and warmth retained from the day’s cooking.

“Here we are,” Barbatos announced as he closed the door behind them, the click of the latch a definitive note of privacy. The kitchen, with its large ovens and warm hearths, offered a comforting heat that enveloped them—a stark contrast to the cool elegance of the ballroom they had left behind.

Turning to face MC, Barbatos’s demeanor shifted subtly, the lines of his usual reserve softening as he stepped closer. “Much better,” he murmured, the space between them charged with the heat of the room and the heat of his gaze. His hands rose to gently grasp MC’s chin, his touch deft yet filled with a tentative question.

The response was immediate and fervent, MC leaning into the touch, their hands finding his sides. Barbatos leaned in, his lips capturing theirs in a kiss that was exploratory at first but quickly deepened with a shared urgency. The kitchen, a place of culinary creation, became their sanctuary, the stainless steel and polished surfaces bearing witness to a different kind of chemistry.

Barbatos's kisses were meticulous, each one placed with intention and care, exploring the depth of MC's response. His hands, always precise, mapped the contours of MC’s body with equal skill, pulling them closer, their bodies aligning with natural, magnetic precision.

As the kiss broke, Barbatos whispered against MC’s lips, his breath warm, “I find myself desiring more than just your company tonight.” His hands ventured further, undressing MC with a careful urgency that belied his outward composure.

The kitchen became a world unto itself, the counters and islands, once used for preparing decadent dishes, now supported a different feast entirely.

Simeon

Simeon found himself taken aback by MC's stunning presence. They wore an ensemble that seemed to capture the very essence of celestial grace—elegant, yet charged with an undercurrent that seemed almost out of place in the infernal opulence of the Devildom. The fabric played with the light as they moved, enhancing their inherent radiance and drawing Simeon's admiring gaze.

Throughout the evening, Simeon maintained a respectful distance, his admiration expressed through brief, appreciative glances rather than overt attention.

When MC finally approached Simeon, there was a softness in their eyes that matched the gentle timbre of their voice. "If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold," they teased, the playful challenge delivered with a warmth that brought a tender smile to Simeon's face.

Simeon chuckled softly, his blue eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and affection. "Then it is my duty to ensure you remain warm and well," he replied, his voice low but filled with gentle warmth. "Perhaps a dance would suffice to keep the chill at bay?"

Accepting his outstretched hand, MC allowed Simeon to lead them to the dance floor. As they moved together in rhythm to the soft strains of a demonic melody, Simeon was acutely aware of every point of contact—the gentle touch of MC's hand in his, the slight pressure of their hand on his shoulder, the closeness of their form as they moved in harmony. The dance was a quiet conversation, their bodies speaking in subtle shifts and turns.

As the song drew to a close, Simeon felt a reluctance to part, a sentiment he sensed was shared. His hand lingered in MC's as he led them away from the dance floor to a quieter corner of the ballroom, a secluded alcove framed by opulent draperies.

"Thank you for the dance," Simeon said softly, standing close enough that their mingled breaths warmed the cool air between them. His hand reached up to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind MC's ear, a tender gesture that belied the depth of his affection. "Your company, as always, is a blessing."

The air around them seemed to hum with a quiet energy as Simeon leaned closer, his gaze fixed on MC's lips for a fleeting moment before meeting their eyes again, seeking silent permission. Finding no hesitation, only quiet acceptance, he closed the distance between them, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to their lips.

The kiss was gentle, a mere brush of lips that spoke of respect and a deep-seated fondness, yet it held the promise of deeper affections held carefully in check. As they parted, Simeon’s smile was serene, reflecting the peace that their presence brought him.

"If the evening grows too cold or the festivities too wearying, know that my company is yours whenever you seek tranquility," Simeon offered, his voice a soothing balm against the backdrop of the night's revelries.

Solomon

Solomon was already weaving his own brand of mischief among the glittering throng of demons and other supernatural beings. However, his playful antics paused, and his cunning eyes fixed with a sharper intent when MC made their entrance. Dressed in a form-fitting outfit that seemed to draw every gaze in the room, MC was an intoxicating vision of allure. The fabric shimmered with each movement, hugging their form in a way that left little to the imagination and much to Solomon's appreciation.

Throughout the evening, Solomon’s usual facade of nonchalance was punctuated by his keen interest in MC. He used his mastery of magic not just to entertain and dazzle the crowd but to send little magical teases toward MC—slight gusts of wind to flirt with the hem of their outfit, or a whispered incantation that made the air around them subtly shimmer, all designed to draw a laugh or a delightful shiver from them.

When MC approached, their eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and challenge, Solomon was ready with a wry smile. “If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold,” MC quipped, their voice low and teasing, yet laced with a warmth that matched the heat of the ballroom.

Solomon’s laughter was genuine, resonating with his usual charismatic resonance. “Oh, I suspect there are more enjoyable ways to keep warm than mere clothes can provide,” he retorted smoothly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But if it’s warmth you’re after, I know a few enchanting tricks that could help.”

Without waiting for a response, Solomon’s hand waved discreetly, casting a subtle spell that caused the air around them to warm noticeably. The immediate area around MC felt like a gentle embrace, a magical cocoon that made the ambient noise of the ball seem distant.

“Shall we put some of these tricks to the test?” Solomon suggested, offering his arm with an inviting grin. MC took his arm, and together they strolled to a quieter corner of the ballroom. As they walked, Solomon whispered incantations, enchanting the path with small, glowing sigils that sparked under their steps, a private light show that added an element of wonder to their walk.

Once secluded from the majority of the guests, Solomon’s demeanor shifted from the grand sorcerer to something more intensely focused. His hand reached up to gently brush a strand of hair from MC’s face, his touch lingering longer than necessary, charged with a potent energy.

“Now, about keeping you warm,” he murmured, leaning closer so that his breath tickled MC’s ear. His fingers traced a spell in the air, a visible shimmer of magic that danced like fireflies around MC, heating the air with a sensual warmth that made the fabric of their clothes feel suddenly too much.

The kiss that followed was a melding of magic and desire—deep and consuming. Solomon’s lips moved against MC’s with an expert mix of precision and passion, his tongue tracing spells of arousal that left them both breathless. His hands were not idle, exploring MC’s back and sides, where each touch left a trail of warmth that seeped through the fabric, heating their skin directly.

As they parted from the kiss, Solomon looked into MC’s eyes with an expression that was both tender and wild. “There are deeper spells we could explore, spells that require... much less distraction,” he teased, his voice a soft growl that promised much more than the warmth of his teasing tricks.

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me mammon #obey me mc #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me belphegor #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me solomon

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vilhelios · 6 months

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— IF YOU'RE THE SACRED SCRIPT, I AM THE HIEROPHANT.

( if you're the holy church, i'm gonna worship . ) ; the old, dusty tomes that amund gives you state that the lemurian gods are perfect, flawless beings. not a single scar or freckle adorns their skin, no emotion creases their hallowed faces.

cw: fluff !!! ; established relationship ! ; abysswalker!rafayel <3 + brief mentions of god of the sea rafayel; slight spoilers for rafayel's sea of golden sand and forgotten sea (?) myths + siren's song anecdote; i am the self-proclaimed ceo of lemuria world building (lemuria lore headcanons!) 💪 ; not beta-read !!!

" THE GODS ART PERFECT BEINGS — FLAWLESS IN FORM AND IN ESSENCE ; THEIR SKIN IS UNMARRED, NAY SCAR OR FRECKLE ADORNS THOSE DIVINE. NAY LINE OF EMOTION MARKS THEIR HALLOWED, PRISTINE VISAGE. "

"RAFAYEL?" you ask, your voice so loud in the quiet dark of night. a hum, a shift in the arms that hold you. "i heard that the gods are perfect."

“they are supposed to be, yes.” rafayel murmurs, hands gently carding through the strands of your hair. the desert is quiet tonight, not a single howl of wind, or a curious fennec fox or gerbil, race across the expanse of sand. the only sounds in your ears are the mingled breaths and synchronised heartbeats of you and your dear abysswalker, tangled beneath the sheets in your shared tent.

his blue-pink eyes stare, searching your gaze. the dark circles beneath them are prominent in the shadows cast by the silvery moonlight. you watch as he takes in a deep breath, and then exhales: "... what books did amund give you today, my love?"

"you know very well that all amund gives me are books and scrolls about lemuria," you huff, thinking of the stack of dusty old books the old man had shoved into your hands at noon, "which would not bother me, if he did not sneer so condescendingly while he gave them to me."

"alright, alright." he sighs, there will be things to discuss with amund in the morning, if the slight exasperation in his tone is anything to go off of. and then, he asks, voice gentle: "what did you learn about the gods, my heart?"

" OUR GOD OF THE TIDES HATH BEEN TAINTED. HIS SKIN HATH BECOMETH SPECKLED. HIS HEART HATH BEEN SURRENDERED. NAY LONGER PERFECT IS HE, WHO IS'T HATH, IN LOVESICK FOLLY, GIVEN BOTH LIFE & DOMAIN. "

"they say you are no longer perfect." you murmur, brushing your lips against his jawline, "using their definition, perhaps they are right. you have scars, and little beauty marks."

"the scars are inevitable. you should know it yourself, my heart." he sighs, solemn, "but they dissolve with us during each seamoon ceremony — i am not reborn with the scars of my past."

"and the beauty marks?"

he hesitates, a bit. there's a far-away look in his eyes that you've grown used to seeing. "they persist and accumulate." rafayel states eventually, as if it's fact, "new ones appear, but i never lose them."

"you never lose them?" you echo, and he nods.

leaning into him, you inspect his face as best as you can in the moonlight. your lips graze his cheek, right above where one lies below his eye. another lies at the tip of his nose, and you repeat the action, rafayel's breath hitching beneath your touch. another sits at the bridge of his nose, and you feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin as you continue.

"there is something about them, in the books." you start, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. rafayel leans into the warmth of your touch (after all, you think, grimly, a stray dog will take all the food it is offered, afraid to go hungry again), and you continue with a smile against his skin, "they say that they represent where your lover loved to kiss you, in your past lives."

rafayel hums, holds you ever closer in his arms, considers the thought. when he falls silent, you know he is aeons away; somewhere below the waves, somewhere thirty thousand years away—you patiently wait for his return, like the shore that welcomes a weary sailor home. a gentle kiss is pressed to right above where his heart should be, and another in the middle of his collarbone. it's instinct, second nature, as natural as the way waves lap at the shoreline and leave seafoam in their wake.

"perhaps there is some truth in that." he finally says, returned to your side from his reverie. he presses a kiss to your temple, a gentle smile against your skin, "after all, it seems you still do as you used to, even now. determined to uphold tradition, are you?"

( & aeons ago, beneath the waves, lies the first mark; the first bearer of sin in eden. a young god of the sea laughs, a rumble in his chest, as his beloved kisses right above where his heart should be. every touch is reverent, like tending to an altar. it is no wonder, then, that he entrusted his heart to such a devout worshipper — after all, it will be in loving hands. )

a/n : hi hi hi i think lnd needs to CALM DOWN with all the rafayel banners or i'm gonna intervene. quite rushed and not as deep symbolism woooo as the last one because i was in a haze.... abysswalker my beloved is as odd to write as usual but i think it's not too ooc... also this is just a little manifesting/tribute thing for my god of the sea rafa myth pulls today i want him to come home !!! i'm so so excited for the myth story !!!! good luck to anyone pulling! may the god of the sea give us his heart without us needing to open our wallets 🫧💕 if you sent in a request recently for the follower event, thank you! it'll still be a bit until i can answer them, but it shall be done !!! <3 will be crossposted to my ao3 if you prefer the fic being in actual capitalisation and in normal text!

update: i had to drag him home with 130 pulls ,,,, i also spedran the myth,,, guh buh,,, whadahell,,, someone please talk to me about them,,,,

#love and deepspace headcanons #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel x reader #rafayel fluff #rafayel headcanons #love and deepspace fluff #qi yu headcanons #qi yu x reader

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maximumkillshot · 10 months

Text

"I Can't Lose You" Part 6

Warnings: Aftermath of a miscarriage, descriptions of grief due to losing a baby, Angry Everyone, Death is mentioned, Wanting Death, Shock, Grief, PTSD Flashback, Panic, there is a parallel to a person jumping off a bridge (NOT ACTUALLY)

Pairing: Bangchan x Reader

Characters: Stray Kids, Reader

A/N: Ok if you read the above, you'll notice that anger is in the warnings. This is the first half of a chapter that had me crying as I wrote it. This is something that you all need to take into consideration... I LOVE YOU GUYS AND I AM SORRY IN ADVANCE ONCE AGAIN. My asks are always open for you guys to vent about this one.

Also remember, this is a fanfic. All of the boys are so sweet IRL.

Stray Kids! Masterlist

Overall Masterlist

ALL WORK IS UNDER ME AND MY BLOG. DO NOT TRY TO REPUBLISH OR STEAL MY WORK, AS THAT IS COPYRIGHTED UNDER ME AND IS CONSIDERED COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT WHICH IS A PUNISHABLE OFFENSE.

ANY WORK THAT YOU SEE ON OTHER SITES THAT ARE MY WORKS PLEASE NOTIFY ME IMMEDIATELY.

Previously:

He was mad at himself at those thoughts, Chris was so clearly into you so he used Bin’s insecurities against him… and it had worked. He thought about how all of this wouldn’t have happened and you and him would be happy together. That’s all he ever wanted for you. That was why he let you go in the first place. He wanted you to be happy.

After about half an hour of hushed talking, while Bin kept you relaxed, a set of footsteps walked down the hall. Just hearing them, Bin’s ears perked up. They had an authority to them, almost pompous in nature. Commanding… he knows those steps.

Now:

The minute Minho saw who it was entering the room his whole body went rigid, his hands in fists at his side as he got up and used his body to block whoever it was. He motioned for the boys to get closer to the bed. All of them standing, ready to jump.

“Just let me talk to her,” Bin’s vision started getting blurry, on the verge of blacking out with rage. He looked down to you, very unbothered by the sudden voice that assaulted the tranquility of the room. The first tranquil moment you've had in months. Months of your husband hiding and sneaking. And months of you planning and working excitedly making every detail perfect.

Bin made a split-second decision to lightly cover your ear that wasn't to his chest. Trying to prolong the inevitable.

Next up was Han as he said in a hushed tone, “she’s finally asleep. You are not coming in this room, Chris.” His tone was dark and that one sentence rolled off of his tongue like a warning.

“She’s my wife. I am going to see her whether you like it or not.” He sounded annoyed. Like this was an inconvenience. Bin did everything in the book to calm his heart, which was starting to spike at just hearing his voice.

Bin went on an internal tirade, how dare he come here? Killing your child wasn't enough? Making you so stressed out that you almost bled to death wasn't enough? Ripping your heart out and trampling it… not enough for him? NOOO let's show up when it's convenient, when no one expects it, playing the 'husband' card. When Bin knew he CLEARLY gave up that title already.

Especially when you did everything to be available for him. When he started to pull away you came to Bin and Han in tears, not knowing what to do. You love him so much that you actively went to find out what it was. Was it your weight? Did you talk too much or not enough? Did you ask for too much? Did you seem too boring? He has already been enough of a plague on your life already.

Minho giggled darkly, “You really want to die today, huh? Did you not hear Han, she’s resting. Now go away.”

“Not until I see her.” His voice raised slightly. The bite in his voice made Minho want to strangle him, to be honest. He doesn’t have any entitlement to you. Especially after what he’s done. As far as what Minho thinks, Chris was never your husband. No husband neglects their wife. No husband makes their wife lay awake at night, worried about if he had eaten or not, or if she’d even see him when she woke up.

That was enough for you to stir on Bin’s chest. Bin had to think quickly as he said "It's okay, go to sleep, Angel. I'm here," in the most delicate whisper. That was enough to knock you out again, humming against his chest.

Chris pulled back the curtain, even though Han and Minho tried their best to get him away. At that point, I.N, who was the closest to Chan, blocked him from your bedside.

“Get away from her.” He whispered, “She’s too fragile right now.”

Chris just looked at I.N. and said, “No one is keeping me from my wife, you’re lucky I even went along with it for this long. I’m not going to wake her.”

The venom in Chan's voice made the hair on Bin’s neck and arms raise. Not out of fear, no he could snap Chris in half if he was pissed off enough. His hair raised out of anger and knowing he couldn't do anything about it. The fact that Chan had the audacity to come into that room after what he did, knowing that you are fragile. That you barely made it out, and even now, you aren’t completely out. Yet there he was trying to force himself in. Like he had a right to be there, even though he was the one that caused it.

I.N looked at Han and Han signaled him to let it go.

Han knew that he was right, none of them had spousal rights. So technically Chris can kick them out, especially because she is still so weak, she can’t fend for herself or be able to sternly say ‘get out’ to her husband, not without consequences. They had no other choice.

Bin looked at Chan as he took a seat next to the bed, taking in your sleeping form. His heart was breaking at seeing how weak you looked. Your cheeks were slightly sunken in and your face was completely pale. The dark circles dominated your eyes, making your face look more like a mummy as opposed to a living breathing person. He looked at your arm with a blood bag hooked to it. When he looked up at Bin he could see that it took everything in Bin’s body not to kill him.

Bin just mouthed to him, “What the fuck are you doing here, get out.” The more that he looked at Chan the more he wanted to rip him apart. He looked well rested, smelled like he showered, hell he even did his hair. That pissed Changbin off. You’d think that he would at least look more disheveled. Given, he could see that he did look worried and sad. He didn’t look guilty.

Chris just ignored him and kept looking at you. Chris was transfixed on you. He was even more transfixed by your hold on Changbin. You looked like you were cuddling your favorite teddy bear. He remembered the last time you held him like that. Yesterday morning, when he came home to sleep for two hours, the minute the bed dipped you subconsciously reached for him, and he slightly rolled his eyes as he succumbed to his fate, smile on his face. You sighed so happily, you mumbled, ‘Mhmm missed you, love you,’ as you kissed his bare chest, and just like you’re positioned now, you were asleep. Now seeing you holding Bin like that makes jealousy more prominent in his mind.

It makes him sick to think about all of this as he plays with his wedding ring, thinking about not feeling you again, your hugs, your breath on his skin. The moans that’d he pull out of you, soothing his soul. The looks that’d make his heart stop. The giggle that’d be forced out even if you were mad. Not having the feeling of your skin on his, these thoughts make him want to die. He’s trying to actively ignore it. He’s trying to ignore the fact that he did something so disgusting, so unforgivable that he lost you. For him, it’s easier to be angry, angry and convinced that you’ll come back. That’s why he is doing what he is doing. That’s why he walked with bravado into that room.

He went to put some hair behind your ear just to have some contact and I.N’s hand flew out and wrapped his hand around his wrist. His jaw set. Bin wanted to do the exact same but it’d jolt you.

I.N. growled “No.. touching… get out of the room,” his brows furrowed, his usually soft eyes looking more like a piercing gaze.

Being the maknae, he has never challenged Chan before… At all. There’s a good reason as to why he is challenging him right now. Innah has always felt like he was awkward. He didn’t really know where he belonged in the team. Yes, he has a good voice and yes he’s good with choreography but he never really hung out with people other than Seungmin and Felix.

You being the person you are, you figured it out. He was watching one day, just seeing all of the members interacting, some of the older ones trying to bring him into the fold but it seemed ingenuine to him. Like he was the little brother that had to be included or Dad would get mad. You truly found the things that he loved interesting, really talked to him, and made him feel safe and welcomed.

There was one particularly hard night for him. Nothing went right that day and he was tired, frustrated, and needed to feel safe. He didn’t know where to go or who to go to. So he called you without knowing why. You picked up and the minute he heard your voice he started crying. You ran to his dorm. No one else was home, and of course, Chan was nowhere in sight. So you stood with him, talked, and cooked a midnight dinner with him. Got him to laugh, you both passed out on the couch after watching some anime.

After that night that no one knows about except the boys in the Danceracha house, I.N. was just like Hyunjin, except he’d do drive-by hugs, sometimes just falling on you giggling and looking for hugs and head scratches, like the fox he is. There were other times when he would just stand behind you, put his chin on the top of your head and say, “What are we doing here Y/N/N…. I am BORED” as he’d flop on you, “Let’s get Ramyeon.” You’d laugh and say, “How about this… you get through today… and Ramyeon’s on me.” He still smiles at those memories.

So of course, I.N. would fight King Kong if he had to if it meant protecting you.

Now, seeing Jeongin doing this, standing up to Chan, just to protect you, his Noona, made everyone that wasn’t Chan smile.

Chan stood up to his full height and said, “I just want to be here for her,” with a tight lip at the challenge of the maknae of his team. Chan can’t take the disrespect anymore. Even though he knows that he more than deserves to be treated like this and worse, he is still in that limbo of trying to convince himself that this didn’t actually happen or worse, that he can fix it.

Bin felt your grip tighten on him…

You said to yourself that you didn’t just hear that voice. You squeezed your eyes shut as you wiggled up a bit to bury your face into Bin's neck. You didn’t want the boys to see you cry.

The cologne you just smelled when you were on Bin's chest, that was Chan’s cologne. The voice you just heard, that was Chan’s voice. There was a war going on in your head. Do you talk to him? Can you talk to him? What do you say? What does HE have to say?

“Y/N?” Chan said as his body snapped to you. Seeing you now burrowed into Bin’s neck and chest.

It made the jealousy that he had before start to boil. That’s his wife, after all. Chan was your safety. He was the one you run to, not Changbin, of all people. Why does he fit so well next to you? Why does the feeling of you slipping away elicit anger at others, not himself? Why did he see you buried in Bin’s neck and not his own? It felt to him like someone was touching his favorite toy without permission. Why did she go to Bin for comfort and not him?

“Y/N, Baby?” He asked a little louder…

“Stop calling me that,” you responded to him, muffled by Bin’s neck as you cried in your own dark cocoon, that was what you imagined when in Bin’s neck. Surrounded by him, he’d never let anyone near close. He was your safety bubble.

Bin just moved his hand up to pet your hair back as you fought with yourself.

The only one who knew you were crying was Bin, who felt your tears on his neck. They felt like acid on his skin, he could feel the pain through them, the fear, the rejection, the grief. He hated seeing or feeling you cry. The fact that you were comfortable enough to trust him with your fragility was the only solace in this for him. He knew that no one could protect you more than he could. That’s exactly what he’s going to do, protect you.

“I’ve got you,” He whispered as he turned his face into you, trying to hide as much of your face as he could, to give you more shelter to cry in. He hated that you had to go through this. You would think that for even one second his bonehead bandmate would put his own ego aside for just one fucking day to give you the room you desperately needed. It’s not even like he could make the excuse of thinking that you are going through it alone. It’s clear that you aren’t, Bin always took care of you. Sometimes Chan thought that it was the perfect deal for himself. He was married to you, so obviously you wouldn’t betray him, and Bin was so in love with you that he’d move Heaven and Earth for you. So Chan being distracted was never the issue, Bin was always there. In his head Bin was like a Knight protecting the Queen in a chess game. The king doesn’t have to worry about the Queen.

Bin’s tone with you was gentle,“You tell me to get him out and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.” His face read danger, eyes never leaving Chris.

You really didn’t know what to do. You are at a loss really. You just got about half an hour in nearly 30+ hours of being awake. One thing you do know is that you are feeling your pain uptick at the thought of leaving Bin’s neck.

“Please, let me talk to you,” Chris pleaded with you. He tried to touch you.

Jeongin stopped him again, gripping his wrist. His grip was bruising in strength this time, “She did not say you could touch her. So you are keeping your hand to yourself. Either that or I rip it off, understand?”

Bin’s jaw was tight, if Chris made one more move, Bin was going to gently switch out with Seungmin, just to murder Chris, then switch out again so you could sleep, very simple.

“At least let me see your face, Baby,” Chris said as he yanked his hand from I.N’s grip.

Then you spoke again… your tone now carrying an authoritative air, “I told you not to call me that fucking name. I heard it enough when you were fucking her in our bed. Take that name and shove it, Chris.”

“As for seeing my face, you don’t deserve to see it after what you did to me. Neither of you deserve to see my face.”

“Give us the room,” Chan ordered. He was doing his best to keep his composure and to try to gauge how much control he lost of the group. He is very much aware of the fact that the power dynamic has changed. Chan knows that they don’t even respect him, let alone trust him. Another thing that he knows is that he would feel the same way.

He’s also embarrassed, not at what he’s done but at the fact that his members found out. The fact that he was caught with his pants down, both literally and figuratively. The fact that his members watched him do something so amoral was something that he was pissed off about. Not as much at the fact that he had no moral compass, but it was the fact that they reacted the way they did. They screamed at him, Chris, Bang Chan, their elder. They challenged his authority left and right. The fact that they’re rebelling only added fuel to the fire. He wanted, needed to get control back.

As far as he was concerned, this was all something that he could come back from. You love him, right? So obviously you’ll come back. You sunk 5 years into him, of course you’ll be back. There was far too many decent memories for you to check out now. You’re hurt, demoralized, angry, yes. However, knowing the peacekeeper you are, you’ll be back, he knows it. Why can’t they see that, why can’t they fight for him just as hard as they are fighting for you. Why can’t they get their noses out of his marriage and watch some K-Drama like they always do instead of driving a wedge further in between himself and his wife.

The frustration alone made him want to lose his composure. Everyone has their role, that is something he is an avid believer in. To you, Chan is the protector, he’s the one to chase all the bad things away, he is your husband. Changbin is your friend, nothing more. So it drove Chan crazy to see you relax in Bin’s arms.

He felt like Bin had no business in a bed with you. It being completely lost on him that he did the same thing, but worse with his wife’s best friend. Bin is not there to sexually gratify you, he is there to hold whatever’s left of you together.

Bin is trying desperately to reassure you, to look at all of your broken pieces and help you, to let you know that he won’t let Chris close enough to hurt you again.

When Chris ordered everyone to give him the room, not one person moved a muscle. All they did was look at you, waiting for an answer.

Bin whispered to you, “Do you want us to leave?” Internally he was praying that you wouldn’t want him to go. He as well as the rest of the boys don’t trust Chris as far as they can throw him.

You shook your head, “Can’t take it.” You knew that there would be no way that you could have this conversation alone, you’d be right back to square one. If you were honest there isn’t a way you can see this going well. You are still really weak. You can’t do much of anything at all yet, even needing help shifting in your own bed. Not to mention the person who did it to you is demanding an audience with you like you didn’t just go through a near-death experience and is barking orders at your boys. You couldn’t even scream at him for that.

Bin looked at the boys and said, “We aren’t going anywhere, Y/N’s orders.”

With that all of the boys had a seat, smiles on their faces as if to say try us, we dare you.

Chan’s face turned hard at that. It was worse than he thought… Not only did he lose control, he handed all of it over to you on a silver platter. Chan is an A personality type. He is very particular, one of those places he’s particular about is that he is the Alpha. He is the leader, the spearhead. So for everyone to do this, made him not only mad, but scared. He isn’t used to not being in control. That made his tone harsh as he barked,“Look, I know that you are in pain and I know that you don’t even want to see me right now, but we need to talk in private.”

Immediately I.N. bristled and took a step to him, Minho getting up and claiming the bottom half of the bed, looming on the post of it, glaring at Chan.

Felix growled, “Watch your tone, you aren’t the one calling the shots, Chris.” as he bore daggers into Chris’ forehead, standing at the ready.

You didn’t respond and Chan said something that made your blood boil,something he knew you couldn’t ignore, “It was mine too.”

It..IT?! Your heart cracked again as you left your cocoon, “IT?!” You raised your voice. You winced at the pain the movement caused. “MY child was not an IT… THEY WERE HERE CHRIS.” You grabbed your stomach, feeling your diaphragm scream at you to be quiet, your abdominals agreeing full-heartedly. “YOU gave up ANY parentage by fucking someone else when we were trying to have a baby for TWO FUCKING YEARS!”

“WHAT?!” Han exclaimed. Han started to see red, yet again… Han thought to himself, They were trying to have a baby for 2 years?!. Han looked briefly at everyone else, their faces set in the same murderous stare that resided on Han.

Meanwhile, Bin didn’t let that sink in, he was too busy noticing you started looking slightly confused and woozy. Whatever little color you had was turning more grey by the second.

“Y/N you need to breathe,” Bin tried to remind you. He tried his best to guide you back down but you weren't having it. Your anger taking control. He had a sinking feeling as his own heartrate picked up.

You thought for a few minutes and said, “I still can’t believe it, you know? It’s like last night was a horrible nightmare but, the pain, the blood… It really happened. My baby is really gone.” A stray tear ran down your face, “I don’t want to believe it. It hurts too much. But my body knows. It feels different. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t… I can’t…”

Bin was watching your heart rate, the last time you tried to revisit this, you had to be sedated and apparently, Han is thinking the same thing. He looked at the monitors and got a bad feeling.

“I just wanted to surprise you, to show you how much I love you! To let you know that I am there for you and you repay me by emotionally cheating on me with my BEST FRIEND for a YEAR and physically cheating for two whole months?! NOW YOU WANT A PRIVATE CONVERSATION?! How is this for a private conversation.” You felt your body starting to fail again. The rage coursing through you is the only thing keeping you aware of your surroundings.

Chan went to look away, he couldn’t see you hurting this much. He couldn’t come to the realization that he did this to you. You screamed with what little energy you had , “LOOK AT ME YOU FUCKING COWARD!” as you held your stomach, trying to control the new waves of pain.

When he looked at you, you said, “Here’s a little private conversation for you. I’m granting your wish. You said to her ‘I can’t wait to leave her’... Guess what?” You gritted out, “I’m leaving you!” you started spiraling back into what happened not even a full 24 hours ago at repeating his sentence back to him. Hearing those same words in your head, seeing the blood, the reality of it once again slamming into you like it did before.

The minute that last sentence left your lips, the world slowed down for Chris. He saw everything, the wedding, the laughs you both had. Even the simple things like how whenever he got up, which was always well before you woke up; he’d stare at you, brushing your cheekbones with his knuckles. Watching your peaceful form and marveling at how effortlessly gorgeous you are. Now as he watches you, seeing the shreds of you that were left, he had a realization. He realized all at once that the person he loves and has always loved is dead. She’s dead, along with his child, because of him.

You started staring off tears freely falling, “I just want my baby… Bin, I want my baby.”

Your heart rate started climbing fast as you stared at your lap, seeing blood that wasn’t there anymore, then blinking and it disappearing, your face began to show distress, as tears started falling, and your mouth opened letting out rapid puffs of air. Bin looked at Han and yelled at him, "Get the nurses, go!" The next second Han ran out the door as the alarms went off on the monitors.

Bin looked at you and said, “Hey look at me, stay here with me, Angel.” Then he looked at Minho and said, “Clear the room. Get Chan out of her NOW!” Minho immediately started getting everyone up and out of the room as fast as possible.

Chris slowly backed up until he hit the wall,everything moving in slow motion. He looked at the monitor, seeing your ungodly fast heart rate. The fact that you could die right now from a heart attack made him want to collapse to his knees and start praying. Chris was watching how Bin handled you, tears were starting to sting in his eyes. He was shaking, feeling the gold of his wedding band as he watched a man who was so much more than he could be. How delicate he was with you. Why did I do this?

He was staring at your face, he could see it, the heartbreak. He wanted to help, to take all of it back. Flashes of memories flickered in his mind. All of the opportunities he had to be with you but chose not to. All of the times that you would try to save him from himself, even if it was as simple as reminding him to eat. He’d yell at you and tell you that he was a grown up. I’m not grown. You’d remind him to get up and stretch, to be present in the now. You always tried to connect to him, always tried to soothe him, always tried to bridge the gap he put in between the both of you. His heart felt like lead, sinking further. His voice, his legs, his body didn’t move. It was Innah who dragged him out of the room by the collar.

Bin looked back at you, “Y/N…” He could see, you were completely dissociated.

You weren’t responding to him at all, eyes glazed over as your heart rate kept climbing, you were glancing around, clearly confused. What he didn’t know is that you felt everything at once. You could hear him like he was underwater. Your vision was blurry, and you really couldn’t feel anything aside from the pain in your chest at the thought of anything, because you felt guilty.

“Angel, look at me, try to breathe for me. Come back to me.”

“They should be here, not me. My baby didn’t deserve that Binnie. I want to hold my baby!” You screamed, “I want to take them a bath, feed them, I want my Baby.”

Bin realized then that it’s the reality that’s so painful. Everything that was around you reminded you of the fact that you were living and your child wasn’t. He could see the pain on your face as he gently held your face, trying to get through to you. “I know you want to hold your baby, I want that too. I want that so badly but I can’t give you your baby, that can’t happen. No one can bring your baby back, Angel.” Tears were rolling down his face at seeing you like this. Your eyes were constantly searching as more tears fell from them, he tried to wipe the tears away as fast as they rolled down your cheeks.

Bin got behind you, caging you with his arms and chest. He pulled you flush to his chest and ran his hands up and down your arms as he slowly rocked you. He was trying to provide enough stimulation to get you back to being able to self-regulate. You were only getting worse as he watched helplessly. He tilted your head back to see you spiraling further down, “Binnie help me. I want my baby please.” You just wanted to let it consume you already.

You quaked as you wished out loud, screaming without even knowing it, “Please, just let me die, let me go, I want my Baby.” You knew it was the pain, but at this point, not having your child was worse than death. You screamed without fighting anymore. Sometimes the seconds would stretch as you screamed till no air was left to make a noise. Those sobs made you feel like your chest was in a car crusher. You couldn’t stop them no matter how hard you tried, but in your mind, there was no point in stopping them.

Changbin’s blood ran cold hearing you say that, feeling as if he got dunked in an ice bath. He choked on his own breath as he did his best to try to get his own voice to work. You may not want to be here right now, but he’s going to make sure that you make it. He looked into your eyes and they were completely dilated, you just lay on Bin’s chest as you made the decision. You were done fighting, the pain was too much. Bin felt it, he could feel the fight leave you as you went limp, crying.

He knows this feeling… this was the same feeling that he felt when you were losing consciousness. His gaze snapped to your eyes, no fight, no struggle. You looked like you were calling out to Death. You wanted it so badly. What was worse was that Death was answering, he could feel it in the room. Cold, dark, and looming.

His body went into overdrive, the shock melting into panic. He wasn’t going to let Death take you, “Han hurry up, she's slipping!” He screamed at the door. His scream didn’t sound like him. The sound akin to a bystander watching a loved one jump from a bridge. Watching the body disappear all because of one step. He couldn’t wouldn’t let you fall. He screamed as if he dove for your hand, the same hand that fits so perfectly in his, as you threatened to disappear over the ledge of that bridge.

Bin got closer to your ear, so you could hear him better, “Please don’t say that. I know it hurts, just stay with me, hold on. I’m here. Stay with me. You can’t leave me here, please.” Changbin tilted your head, so you could hear his heartbeat. Subconsciously thinking, If you go I go. He gently wrapped his arm across your breastbone, trying to provide some soothing pressure to your chest. His hand resting on your opposite arm, rubbing the meat of it in a soothing pattern. His other hand was petting your hair. The hold he had you in gave you someone to hold on to. As soon as his forearm rested you wrapped your hands around it, grabbing his hand as you dangled on the ledge.

“Binnie it hurts, pleaseee. Help me, it hurtss.” You sobbed, your voice cracking and breaking, a mirror of your soul. Bin continued to slowly rock you, “I know Angel, I know I want to take it away. Just hold on for me. Hold on to me.” He had no idea how he was able to be calm for you. A part of him knew that he needed to. He was not going to collapse so you could face all of this on your own. He refused. He needed to fight for you, and he would, for eternity if he had to.

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

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atinyniki · 8 months

Text

atelophobia.

group: stray kids !

pairing: idol!bangchan x f!reader x idol!lee felix

genre: angst, fluff

warnings + additional info: reader is referred to as y/n, proposals, insecurities, crying, mentions of sex but no smut, suggestive jokes, lots of kissing, y/n is neglected

authors note: omggg my first fic for the 'making @miuracha happy' event !!! i really hope you love it <3 this fic really spoke to me because i guess... its just people being people. relationships have problems, but communication is so so important in order to keep it alive ! this has a happy ending, dw... this is also not proofread. english is not my first language, so please excuse any grammatical or spelling errors. happy reading :)

wc: 1771

atelophobia - the fear of imperfection.

“baby? we’re home!”

you quickly check the time from the clock above the stove, cursing yourself for not finishing earlier and rushing to the door to greet them. “hey loves…”, you smile tiredly. they share a look before wrapping you in a hug, dirtying their clothes from the contact with your messy apron.

you relax in their warmth for a bit… its been a long day. “missed you, my baby…”, chan whispers. felix hums in agreement from your side, leaving tender kisses across your cheekbones. they finally pull away from you, and you assess the damage done to their clothes.

you don’t mean to make your frown so noticeable, but it’s inevitable. “what's wrong love?”

before you can answer, you crouch down and use your hands to dust off the rice flour from their clothes, apologizing profusely for ruining them. the truth is, recently, it’s felt like you’ve only made things worse for everyone. it’s thrown you into this bad mental state, thinking that your boyfriends deserve so much better.

“hey, it’s really not a big deal. we’re gonna wash up soon anyways, yeah?”, felix shoots you a tired smile.

you nod, standing back up and smiling sheepishly. “um… dinner will be ready soon. it should be done by the time you’re out.”

the both of them nod, making their way into the bedroom and then the bathroom. you rush back to the kitchen to check on the tteok, but you frown once you realize you must have boiled it for too long. the rice cakes look a little too mushy, but you hope that it’ll taste good in the tteokbokki.

about ten minutes later, you hear the two giggle as they walk into the living room. “gosh, i thought you’d have more stamina baby…”

he rolls his eyes playfully, placing another kiss onto chan’s lips. regularly, you’d be happy about it. it’s nice to have a loving relationship and be able to see their love progress alongside them, but the sight of them now makes your heart clench.

it’s different now than it was a week ago. you feel undesirable, unwanted. why can’t you ever be intimate with them? why don’t they kiss you like that? the questions run through your mind at a sickening pace, and it takes everything in you not to cry.

chan turns his head to look at you, but you look away before he notices you staring. “gosh what are you making? i’m hungry as hell…”, he giggles.

“i’m sorry… it’s taking longer than i expected”, you mumble out. felix is the first to notice your uneasiness. “no y/n, i think he just meant… because it smells so good, you know? don’t apologize, there’s no need to rush, yeah?”

you nod, smiling at him and turning back to the pot of simmering tteok. only a couple minutes go by and you’ve plated all the food nicely, setting their meals down onto the kitchen table. “food’s ready!”

the boys rush to the table, smiling once they’ve seen the food. it pushes you further to your breaking point, seeing them smile so widely at the food, but never at you. you regularly don’t need constant reassurance, but right now it feels as if everything’s breaking apart in front of you.

to make things worse, they sit opposite to you around the small circular table. your body seems to be betraying you, your bottom lip slightly quivering, and you quickly bite it to hide your pain.

they each take a bite of their food, quickly eating due to their hunger. you smile at their eagerness, finding their puffy cheeks adorable, until you see their faces go red.

“oh my gosh… what did you put in this?”, chan asks incredulously. he obviously doesn’t mean it in a rude way, but it seems that way due to everything else that’s been going on.

“i- im sorry…”, you whisper.

you pour him some more water, and refill felix’s too. “it’s so fucking— augh —spicy!”, felix groans.

“i’m sorry.”, your voice gets even quieter with every apology, the tears brimming in your eyes. “i can’t even eat this…”

“i said i’m sorry!”, you yell.

and you break.

the tears brim over your lash line, now spilling over your cheeks, and the boys finally look up from their plates and at you. the way their cheeks are filled with water makes them look incredibly stupid, and yet it doesn’t make you laugh like it normally does.

instead, you cry even harder, knowing that you’ve put them in pain. you cover your face with your hands, not wanting to show how truly vulnerable you are.

“baby…”, chan gasps out. the two of them stand up, immediately rushing to your side. the burn of their tongue can’t even compare to the pain in their heart at this moment.

“my pretty girl… what’s wrong?”, felix coos at you. you shake your head, “i’m okay, i’m sorry…”

you feel chan’s breath ghost over your neck while he whispers in your ear. “can i touch you?”

you nod, and you’re immediately picked up by chan and set down onto the couch in felix’s lap. “what’s wrong, love? did we do something wrong?”

“i just… i don’t know. i guess the feelings have been there for a while now, but it’s never gotten this bad.”, you sigh out. the boys share concerned looks, only making you want to cry even more.

“i’m fine, really. i don’t need to be babie—“

“tell me what’s wrong, y/n.”

“chan i- it’s not that simple… there’s a lot.”

you hear felix sniffle from above you, and you pry your eyes open to look at him. you feel upset, yes, but nothing would prepare you for this guilt. “how long?”, he rasps out.

“what?”

“how long have you felt like this? you don’t have to keep it from us… you can tell us everything…”

“i just…”, you sigh, covering your face again. chan grabs your wrist loosely, running his lips over your knuckles. “don’t hide from us, baby, please… tell us what’s going on.”, chan begs.

“i just… i don’t feel like your girlfriend anymore… i just feel like a roommate that you occasionally kiss at this point. you and lix have been out so much more than usual and you… you never bring me anywhere. i just want to be loved… i want to cook with you guys… and i want to sit next to you while we eat. i want to be intimate with you like you are with eachother… and i know that sounds crazy… but i just feel so… out of the loop.”

“y/n… that’s not—“

“felix… please… i just- just a little love is all i ask for… hold me, hug me, spend time with me… just don’t make me feel invisible.”

“i… i’m so sorry…”, he whispers. you open your eyes to stare at chan, who’s basically bowing on the floor, looking away from you so that you can’t see the pain in his eyes.

“there’s no reason to—“, before you can finish, he pulls you up from his lap to wrap you in a hug.

“there's a reason, y/n. you don’t deserve that from anyone… and definitely not from your boyfriends. you mean the world to us, you really do… we were just… dealing with some things.”

“then tell me felix! i don’t mind that you two love eachother of course, i want you to. i want you to be in love with eachother and care for eachother but i just want to be in the picture. so tell me… am i still in the picture?”

“you will always be in the picture, my love…”, you hear chan whisper from beside you.

you turn your head towards him, and you almost jump when you see the dark red velvet box. his head is hung low in shame, and all you can hear from felix and chan are harsh sobs.

he flicks open the box, the three gorgeous trio rings glimmering in the light. “chan i- i—“, felix interrupts you before you can even get another word out.

“we wanted to make it special for you… that’s why we were out so much… so excited and happy all the time. it’s because of you.”

your voice gets caught in your throat, your tears suddenly fading away. the weight on your heart seems to be lifted, and yet it’s like these two are acting like the entire world is falling apart.

but that’s because it is. you’re their entire world, and they’ve hurt you. “we don’t need a special proposal, y/n. we just need you… so what do you say?”

felix pushes you up closer to his back so that you can feel his heartbeat against it. “will you marry us?”

you clamp a hand around your mouth, trying your best to suppress your sobs, but you can’t. you nod frantically, unable to say any words. nothing could have prepared you for this moment.

chan slides the silver band onto your finger, leaning over to kiss away your tears. “oh baby… don’t cry…”

“i- i didn’t mean to ruin it… i’m sorry.”

“you don’t have to apologize, my love. i’m sorry for putting you through so much pain.”

chan finally makes space for himself on the couch, pulling your legs over his lap. he lightly strokes them up and down, felix threads his fingers through your hair. all of a sudden, your stomach starts rumbling, eliciting giggles from the boys.

“you hungry baby? we can go back and eat”, chan smiles.

“i’ll just make something else… it won’t be too long, i—“

“baby, listen. it doesn’t taste bad i swear… it’s just… so spicy.”

he kisses over your eyelids, trying his best to soothe you. “it’s okay…”

“hey… we love you, you know that right?”

“i love you both too…”

you hum in satisfaction at the feeling of their hands on you. even when it’s not in a sexual way, there’s something so grounding about their touch. “eat later… i missed you guys”

“awh baby… you’re so cute. i guess we can wait a bit, yeah?”, felix coos. you lean up to leave a peck in his cheek. a simple gesture, and yet it’s so innocently sweet.

chan leans over to swipe another tear away from your cheek, and that’s when you know you’re okay. they care about you. you don’t have to be perfect for them to love you. they want you for the person you are and nothing else.

and you can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with them.

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amber-sekio · 7 months

Text

Relationship Headcanons

Fandom: BSD -Bungo Stray Dogs

TW: none? I think?

DAZAI

I said it in my Soukoku fic, Dazai wouldn’t know affection if it slapped him in the face ten times

Like he might realize when someone is showing interest in a sexual kind

And he would probably notice if someone is crushing on him

But like, if he likes them back?

Man is blind

He’s too busy panicking over read denying his own thoughts and feelings over you to analyze your actions

He’s busy trying to think of anything but how pretty you are when he sees you -thank you very much

No joke though, this can be applied to pretty much anyone he cares about

I mean he practically had a heart attack when Atsushi gave him flowers

Anyways if he finally admits to himself that he likes you then I could see him trying to push you away if I’m being brutally honest

He doesn’t want to lose you and he believes that anything he wants that he obtains, will be striped from him sooner or later

But…, in a perfect world he would eventually work up the courage to ask you out

He would probably avoid directly asking you but this is Dazai so he could defiantly figure out some round-about way to ask

As for the relationship?

He would still be his teasing self

But he would tone it down

Not because he doesn’t want to annoy you but more so because he actually lets some of his masks down when alone with you

He defiantly is very clingy to you

Man has been touch starved for a long time and he fears attachment too much to be touchy with the ADA members

But now he has you, who not only tolerates him but has decided to stay with him?

Of course he’s not going to let this chance slip from his grasp before all this inevitably ends (he’s still in denial)

He never cared much for holidays like Christmas or Valentines

But now he wants to experience them, with you

He’s always thinking, plans and outcomes racing through his mind, what ifs and regrets

But like, if you ruffle his hair, his brain just stops.

Like no thoughts, he short circuits

When his brain returned to him the first time it happened he panicked

Like, who gave you that amount of control?

After that first time he continued to try and get you to do it without asking

He needed his brain to shut up every now and then, and now he has a reliable source

Anyways, he likes to be a spoiled princess

No one can change my mind

For all his predictions he will never be able to predict your love and kindness for him

CHUUYA

Someone give this poor man a hug

Ugh, my heart

I can‘t imagine him wanting to date a normal citizen, too much of a risk

So you’d probably have to work in the Mafia

Even then, dating you would still be placing a huge target on you

He would actually take you out on dates before asking you out

Dates with him would be romantic

Like dinner by candle light vibes

He’d be strategic on where you guys sit

No need to be precarious on what you order, it’s all on him

When he does ask you out he would be slightly flustered but it just makes him adorable

Say yes, he doesn’t deserve to be hurt any more

He would spoil you to no end

If you want it, you can have it

You’re the only one allowed to call him short

He might get flustered from PDA in the start but will gradually warm up to it

Nothing clingy, just hand holding, a hand around your waist, a quick kiss here or there

But if he sees some guy hitting on you?

Down right possessive, arm snug around your waist, shoulder to shoulder

And if he’s drunk? Even worse

Like he’s pulling you onto his lap just to make sure that asshole knows your taken

If you do work in the mafia with him, he likes going on easier missions with you

And while he knows that you can handle yourself just fine, he can’t help but imagine something bad happening to you when he isn’t there to save you

He’s lost too many people in his life, please, don’t leave him as well

He loves when you rest your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat

And while you do that he’ll run his fingers through your hair

Chuuya loves to spoil you rotten as I stated, it’s his love language

So sometimes he’ll just hand you his black card and let you go shopping with friends or something

In fact, he encourages you to buy what you want

FYODOR

Honestly? Where do I start with him?

Like congratulations if you meet him and make it out alive

I don’t know if I should congratulate him taking an interest in you though

I feel like he believe that the interest he had in you was purely innocent curiosity

But I also don’t think he would try to delude himself for as long as Dazai does

Eventually he would notice that something was different about his interest for you than usual

And while he would hesitate to put a name to it so quickly he would eventually give in after realizing there was no stoping this feeling from festering in him

After coming to terms with his romantic? Feelings and interest in you he would definitely begin to manipulate you into feeling the same way for him

If you don’t already that is

If you don’t confess then he’ll definitely do the same thing Dazai did

And when you agree, he of course knew you would, he makes you move in with him

He can’t let his dearest other slip from his finger now can he?

I feel like before ever getting into a relationship, you would have been made aware of his ‘work’

Please, make sure the man eats

And takes his iron pill

Nikolai is getting a little tired of that daily routine despite how much he loves to be around Fyodor

Anyways, dates aren’t a very common thing in fact, very, very rare

I mean… what did you expect?

Man’s a literal terrorist

That being said, from time to time he’ll leave his ‘lair’ to spend time with you

If you ask, he’ll gladly play the cello for you

If he snaps at you for ‘bothering him with pointless things’ when you bring him his iron pill or food just listen

Don’t bother him with such things

And then same thing the next day

And after some 4 or 5 days he’ll stumble from his room

Staggering as he tries not to collapse or faint from both his lack of energy and his iron deficiency

And when he walks into the kitchen trying to get the iron pill bottle open?

Let him stumble his way over to you and ask for help before you finally do as such

And he realizes just how dependent on you he’s become

It’ll happen again eventually

But as of that moment, it’ll at least be awhile before the cycle repeats

(That last part of Fyodor’s was based upon some fanfic I read for him. I'm not sure who it was by, but I’ll tag it if and when I do find it.)

A/N: anyways, believe it or not, I love Chuuya just as much as I do Fyodor and Dazai

I’m just not as confident in his character. Since I’m a lot like Dazai, he comes easy to me and by substitute, Fyodor does as well

But Chuuya? Despite him being one of my 5 favorites along with Dazai and Fyodor, I just don’t resonate personally enough with him to write him really well

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spookyserenades · 2 years

Text

Trouvaille Masterlist

Pairing(s); BTS OT7 x Reader

Genre/Themes; Hybrid!AU, themes of the supernatural and the occult, paranormal themes, religious themes, violence, hurt/comfort, horror, romance

Rated; 18+ for swearing, violence/gore, future sexual themes. Reader discretion is advised.

In a world where hybrids are both the hottest commodity and largely exploited, a recent shortage of hybrids nationwide due to the wealthy adopting for sport hunting dominates the news headlines. More than ever, stray hybrids are whisked off the streets and taken into shelters to meet the demand. Mistreated, neglected, forgotten – in a notoriously disreputable hybrid shelter in a pocket of downtown Boston, seven “aggressive” hybrids await their inevitable fate of being sold for sport.

After years of trying to distance herself from her mystical past and upbringing, Y/N finds herself quitting her emotionally-draining job and is forced to face past mistakes. While accompanying her friends looking to adopt a child hybrid into their newly-formed family, Y/N inadvertently finds herself face-to-face with seven hybrids doomed to die. In a spur of the moment epiphany, Y/N decides to change the course of fate for the better; though bringing seven aggressive hybrids into her life and the darkening spiritual energy of her old home is trickier to navigate than she originally thought.

Ko-fi 💜

MAIN STORY;

Find Trouvaille on Ao3 and Wattpad, too!

Chapter One posted 2.7.23; 20.4k words

Chapter Two posted 3.7.23; 20.8k words

Chapter Three posted 3.20.23; 21.5k words

Chapter Four posted 4.7.23; 20.6k words

Chapter Five posted 5.7.23; 20.5k words

Chapter Six posted 6.7.23; 20.9k words

Chapter Seven posted 7.7.23; 22.3k words

Chapter Eight posted 8.7.23; 23.4k words

Chapter Nine posted 9.7.23; 21.8k words

Chapter Ten posted 10.7.23; 21.9k words

Chapter Eleven posted 11.7.23; 20k words

Chapter Twelve posted 12.7.23; 16.6k words

Chapter Thirteen posted 1.9.24; 16.9k words

Chapter Fourteen (M) posted 2.8.24; 22.3k words

Chapter Fifteen (M) posted 3.10.24; 21.3k words

Chapter Sixteen (M) posted 4.8.24; 20.5k words

Chapter Seventeen (M) posted 5.7.24; 25k words

Chapter Eighteen (M) posted 6.8.24; 17.4k words

Chapter Nineteen posted 7.11.24; 16k words

Chapter Twenty posted 8.17.24; 17.2k words

DRABBLES;

WIP REQUESTS PAGE

"My boys" posted 9.1.23; 2.2k words

Valentine's Day special posted 2.13.24; 1.4k words

Male receiving oral (M) posted 8.21.24; 409 words

EXTRAS;

Trouvaille playlist

My Pinterest

Mood boards - Seokjin . Yoongi . Hoseok . Namjoon . Jimin . Taehyung . Jeongguk . Y/N

Style boards

Reference pictures

Individual playlists for each hybrid

Trouvaille Inspirations (coming soon!)

Things readers have created for Trouvaille

Teaser to Chapter One

PREQUELS (coming soon!);

Something Kind of Fantastic Hoseok, coming soon!

Fire, Walk With Me Yoongi, coming soon!

Midnight on a Moonless Night Taehyung, coming soon!

Almost Doesn't Matter Jimin, coming soon!

Same as it Always Was Seokjin, coming soon!

You See Them... They See You Jeongguk, coming soon!

Truth Beyond Our Own Namjoon, coming soon!

#bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts ot7 x reader #hybrid au #trouvaille #bts ot7 x y/n #bts hybrid au #bts fic #bts au #bts hybrid x reader #bts hybrid fanfic #namjoon fanfic #seokjin fanfic #yoongi fanfic #hoseok fanfic #jimin fanfic #taehyung fanfic #jungkook fanfic

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wordsinhaled · 2 months

Text

payneland neighbors AU

(a.k.a. one of my million WIPs that may actually be seeing the light of day)

edwin is an Alive Boy, who has had a near-death experience being bullied while he was at school, so he can now see ghosts.

charles is a Dead Boy, who is starting a detective agency out of his new flat, which happens to be next door to edwin's.

edwin does not realize charles is a ghost at first.

they are mutually down bad and trying hard (and failing) to be normal about it.

pining and shenanigans ensue.

should be able to get this posted to Ao3 sometime later today as chapter 1/? of who knows how many because apparently payneland has made me that person with multiple multichapter WIPs, lmao ~*~*~

Edwin does not think about his new neighbor across the hall.

(Said new neighbor's name, it will turn out, is Charles.

And Edwin most certainly does not fixate on the compelling glint of Charles' single earring in the sun, or the curve of his smile so easily offered.)

The story of it is this: Edwin had held the door to their building for him one fine spring day. Simple politeness, and moreover basic human decency, both dictated this was the proper thing to do for someone carrying such an absurd quantity of unwieldy parcels.

He had not expected the stranger to look so taken aback.

(He had an honest-to-goodness crystal ball propped precariously atop a stack of antique-looking books; and those teetered on top of several cardboard boxes near buckling under the weight of whatever they held within. A cricket bat protruded from the pin-encrusted rucksack slung over his shoulder. People did insist on having such incongruous pastimes, Edwin thought; and, apparently, atrocious packing habits to go along with them.

But the titles of the volumes Edwin managed to glimpse were as intriguing as the crystal ball was misguided—and he'd found himself rather helplessly curious.

"Cheers, mate!" the person he will soon know to be Charles had said, sounding obscenely grateful as he manouevred his way inside, and had flashed Edwin a grin so radiant and wide it hurt Edwin's cheeks in sympathy just to look at it.

Still, Edwin tried to think no more on him; nor on how surprised he'd appeared to be at Edwin's tiny show of kindness—at Edwin's perceiving him at all, even. Tried being the operative word.)

He'd been aware Jenny was letting the rooms across the hall, because she asked him several weeks ago if he might know any potential tenants. Edwin had informed her he did not. His last neighbor had listened to ungraciously-loud electropop at all hours of the night and harbored a seemingly endless stream of stray cats despite Jenny's very clear policy against animals.

Edwin would far prefer the space to stay blessedly vacant and blissfully quiet for as long a stretch as possible. He deserved some sort of a reprieve, he'd thought.

it seems he is not about to get one.

Edwin is reading when he hears a muffled string of colorful swearing, the lugging of things, the scraping of furniture across hardwood floors. While he may be able to studiously avoid thinking about the beautiful boy he'd met downstairs, Edwin cannot escape the inevitable and inconvenient fact that they will now be living in proximity. The telltale commotion that can only be made by someone moving in comes right to his proverbial stoop.

Who else could it be but him?

Edwin sighs. The only thing for it, he supposes, is to go over and introduce himself.

#dbda #dead boy detective agency #dead boy detectives #payneland #starting a whole AU simply on the basis of a hannaloony fanart + 'strange overtones' by david byrne is so on brand for me isn't it #i'm sorry but i'm so amused at the thought of thomas blasting 'choose your fighter' at an unholy volume and edwin just SO VEXED next door #one time he knocked on the door to ask for the volume to be turned down to bearable and thomas answered it with his shirt unbuttoned #pointing his bluetooth speaker remote over his shoulder to pause ava max/grimes/christine and the queens/troye sivan or whatever #all 'is there a problem sweetheart?' while the cat of the week runs out the open door to rub up against edwin's legs #he's SO HAPPY when jenny finally finds a reason to evict him #anyway he's so worried charles is going to be in a similar vein but charles is Different in an Equally Torturous Way #also edwin has very strong opinions on very many things #including how pretty charles is and that fortune-telling is tosh

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reidingandwriting · 6 months

Text

coming out > shouta aizawa (mha)

Word Count: 2.1k

Pairing: Aizawa & Daughter!Reader, Reader x Momo (not official,,, yet), mentions of EraserMic

Warnings: Like one or two curse words, anxiety about coming out, probably a little OOC characters but oh wellll. Mostly fluff, I love writing Dadzawa

A/N: This was a request from @wi-2006 I hope you enjoy it!

you fell to the ground with a pained thud, and you scowled as you stared up at the sky. “damn it,” you huffed as you sat up, and you rested on your knees.

“i’m so sorry! are you okay?” izuku held out a hand to you and you allowed him to pull you up before you dusted off the knees of your costume.

“‘m fine,” you brushed back a few strands of hair that had escaped from your ponytail before you got back into position. “i’m ready now.”

“need to focus, kid,” your dad’s voice called from a few yards away where he was helping hitoshi with his capture weapon. to anyone else, he appeared bored, bored of correcting your mistakes and calling out your lack of attention, but you recognized the concern in his voice. you knew he’d be talking to you later and you briefly considered faking sick to avoid the inevitable conversation. “try again, then take a break.”

you nodded as you turned towards izuku again, eyes narrowing as you focused. you had been sparring for what felt like hours at this point, and you wanted to perfect this new takedown. your close combat skills were usually your strength, but you couldn’t focus today.

izuku nodded briefly at you before he was off, and you quickly countered his first attack. the two of you continued to spar, each getting a fair amount of blows in before you finally saw the opening you needed. you jumped into action and when izuku was finally pinned, you leaned back against the ground and let out an ‘oof’ as your back hit the grass, your eyes screwed shut from the sun. you enjoyed the feeling of the sun for a minute, and a moment later, you heard shifting beside you. you squinted your eyes open and reached over, shoving at izuku’s arm as he sat beside you.

“you did good today,” you said and izuku smiled at you.

“thank you! you did, too.” a brief pause. “i asked mr. aizawa if we could go off campus and grab dinner for everyone, i think it’s shoto’s night to cook.” you shuddered at the thought and nodded.

“good idea.” you sat up. “let me get my gym bag and say bye and we can go.” izuku nodded and you stood up, and you walked over to grab your things. hitoshi was finishing his cooldown stretches, your dad watching from a few feet away. you walked up to him and butted your head against the back of his arm. you smiled as your dad’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and his hand ruffled your hair.

“good takedown,” your dad commented before he looked at you. “still coming home tonight?” you nodded, gnawing at your lip. you switched between your dorm with your class and your room in the teacher’s dorms; you loved your classmates but sometimes you needed a break from them. and your dad’s was the best place to get that break. you missed your old house, but you still have the cats and hizashi and your aunt nemuri are close, so it was still pretty nice.

“gonna do dinner, watch a movie, then head over,” you let your eyes flutter closed for a moment, enjoying the rare moment of peace with your dad. he briefly rested his head against your own before he patted your shoulder.

“should shower first, too. don’t need you stinking up the house,” a subtle smirk made its way to his face and you glared up at him.

“just for that, i’m not going to.” you stuck your tongue out at him, narrowly ducking from the stray edge of capture weapon that shot out at you. “rude!”

you exchanged goodbyes with your dad, called out a goodbye to shinsou, then jogged over to izuku. you and izuku walked off campus and you talked about classes, upcoming exams. you were texting the class groupchat about dinner orders when he asked a question that made you pause.

“you seemed really distracted today. is everything okay?” you and izuku were close, you and him quickly becoming friends, and you had the same friend group.

“i’m a little worried about my weekend with my dad,” you admitted after a minute, and izuku stayed quiet, having learned when to let you rant. “he knows something is bothering me and i’m worried about him asking me. i can’t lie to him, he’s my dad. but i’m also terrified of how he’ll react.�� izuku stayed quiet for another moment, and you sighed. “i’m thinking about telling him.”

you could practically hear the gears turning in izuku’s head until it clicked. your crush on momo wasn’t glaringly obvious, but you had let it slip to some of your friends (izuku, hitoshi, and ochako). your entire friend group knew you were bisexual, hell you’re pretty sure your entire class did, but your dad didn’t know. and you didn’t know what was worse- telling him about it or him realizing you’ve been hiding it from him for so long. and you were scared. scared of how he’d react, scared if things would change.

“do you want to tell him?”

“yes. no. i don’t know? he can tell something is up and today just confirmed it. it never should’ve taken me that long to knock you on your ass. he’s gonna ask what’s bothering me and i just… i can’t lie to him if he asks me.” your phone vibrated and a quick glance left you smiling once you saw the text. “he’s bound to find out soon, and it would only be worse if he found out from someone else.”

izuku nodded, a sympathetic smile on his lips. “it’ll be scary, but i know you can do it. if you want any of us there with you, we’d all be happy to.”

“thanks, zuku. this is something i need to do myself, though. but if it goes bad, i may hide in your room after.” izuku wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side, and you wrap your arm around him. “thank you.” no other words were said as you walked into the restaurant and the nervous pit in your stomach started to fade away a little.

dinner came and went, and now your class had spread out across the common room to watch some pre-quirk era movie about this hero that resembled a spider.

“sero! do you think you could-“ denki started and without looking away from the screen, you spoke.

“don’t even think about it,” you said and denki’s friends started laughing.

“okay, sensei,” denki huffed and you instinctively shot a glare at the blonde. denki yelped and hid behind hitoshi, who wrapped an arm around him.

“dude, she’s not actually aizawa, you don’t have to hide from her.” you rolled your eyes, an amused smirk on your lips.

“she looks just like him! look at that,” denki whined. living with aizawa, naturally you adopted his facial expressions and even his ‘teacher voice’ at times. denki would forever be haunted by the resemblance you had to your father when he had accidentally woken you up, your eyes might as well have been glowing with the glare you had given him.

“well he is my father,” you drawled and momo giggled from beside you, and you willed yourself to keep your expression calm.

the rest of the movie played out and you had started to fall asleep on the couch. you froze as you felt a blanket drape over you and someone lean down.

“goodnight,” momo whispered, her lips brushing against your cheek before she excused herself to bed. a minute later, you peeked an eye open and were grateful to see you were the last one in the common area. what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck-

“coming to bed?” your dad’s voice startled you and you jumped off the couch. he raised an eyebrow at you and you nodded.

“sorry, yeah. just started falling asleep,” your dad’s gaze was disbelieving but he dropped it for now.

“have everything you need?” you felt for the phone in your pocket and nodded, and you tucked yourself into your dad’s side as you yawned. “let’s go.”

you woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee and the faint hum of the television. you stretched and yawned as you sat up before you stood and walked to the living room. you were greeted by the sight of your dad, coffee mug in one hand and pen in the other as he graded papers.

“morning,” you greeted as you walked to the coffee maker and you poured yourself a mug. you took a seat beside your dad a minute later, and you looked down at the papers as you leaned against him. “how’d i do?”

“good as usual,” your dad turned to kiss your temple, and you smiled. a comfortable silence filled the room as you watched your dad grade, occasionally looking up at the TV screen. it was quiet, it was peaceful. and then your dad spoke again.

“i’ve noticed you’ve been a little in your head lately. distracted easily, not as focused as usual.” a brief pause. “is everything okay?” you swore your heart stopped and you set your mug down with a shaky breath. your dad set his pen down and turned to face you, his focus fully on you. “kid?”

“i’ve wanted to tell you, i-i was just worried you’d get mad.” you whispered and he frowned.

“well, you’re sitting here now so you haven’t been arrested.” the blunt statement shocked you and you couldn’t help but smile a bit. “i’m your teacher, so i’d know if you were expelled, suspended, or failing anything. none of your classmates ever come to me with any complaints about how you treat them. i don’t see what you could’ve done that would make me upset with you.”

“it’s nothing i did. it’s just… i don’t know how to explain it. just something i… discovered?” you could practically hear the gears in his head turning.

“is it about school?” you shook your head.

“do you remember the crush i had on hitoshi?” you decided to finally get to it and your stomach twisted and turned. he didn’t have his capture weapon on, you could realistically make it out the door before he could get it. you wouldn’t make it far, but you could make it to nemuri’s or hizashi’s. no, you needed to tell him. you could run away after.

your dad nodded. “didn’t that end a while ago? when he started liking someone else?” you nodded.

“i had never had a crush on anyone before hitoshi and when he told me he liked someone else, i was upset. i had my friends to help me through it, and i got close with one of them. i think i really like them, but…”

your dad stayed quiet, waiting to see if you’d continue talking or if he could talk. you took a deep breath before you looked your dad in the eyes. “i like momo.” you whispered. “i, i never liked another girl before and i didn’t know i could. then denki talked to me about it and said i could be bisexual? and i am. bi.”

the silence was deafening and you felt your hands start to shake. you wanted your dad to say something, anything, but you were scared of what he would say.

“have you asked her out yet?”

“i’m sorry, i’ll go back to the- wait, what?”

“why are you apologizing?” your dad asked and suddenly, his expression softening. “did you think i would react badly?” your vision immediately became blurry and your eyes began to burn. seconds later, you were pulled into your dad’s chest and you latched onto him. you sobbed against him, tears soaking through his shirt as he rubbed your back. “you’re happy, you’re healthy, you’re not hurting anyone. that’s all i could ever ask for,” another sob left you at his words and you shifted to look up at him.

one hand combed through your hair and the other cupped your cheek, thumbs wiping away stray tears. “i-i don’t know why, but i thought you’d be mad at me,” you whimpered and your dad shook his head.

“never. you can’t control who you love, it would be illogical to get mad over something you had no control over.” your dad leaned back against the couch, and you curled into his side. “besides, would be extremely irrational of me to get upset over you being bi since i’ve been dating hizashi for the last two months.” it took you a minute to process his words and you sat up.

“what?! you and hizashi?” your dad nodded, amused smile on his face and you stood up. “come on, get up. i need to go talk to him if you thought you two could date without telling me!” laughter filled the dorm and as you walked down the hall a minute later with your dad trailing behind, you couldn’t be happier. maybe now you could finally ask momo on a date.

#aizawa #shouta aizawa #shota aizawa #aizawa x reader #aizawa!daughter #aizawa x daughter!reader #platonic aizawa #my hero x reader #mha x reader #mha fluff #mha fic #my hero academia fic #bnha x reader #bnha fic

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matchavellichor · 1 year

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okay huge fan of your dark!seb but hear me out…… dark!ominis

A.N: I absolutely adore dark!ominis omfg—I have like five diff dark omi drabbles in my google docs that i've abandoned bc i feel like no matter how i write it, it seems too out of character for him, then i end up hating it LOL. This isn't as bad as my dark!seb but here's Ominis doing some.....uhhhh questionable things to MC under Imperius.

Just This Once

dark!Ominis x f!MC - NSFW/Angst - 3.1k words - ao3

Tags: !!Non-Con!!, Pining, Obsession, Inappropriate Use of Imperius, Unconsensual Kissing/Touching, Masturbation, Omi Being a Lil Pervball

Summary: Ominis' infatuation leads him to break some of the principles he's held dear to him for the better part of his life.

Part 2, Part 3 (づ￣ ³￣)づ

The fireplace in the Slytherin common room has long gone out for the night, only a few crackling embers to fill the silence. Moonlight seeps in from the windows, through the murky waters of the Black Lake, casting the room in a palid, green hue.

Despite the hour, he knows he’ll find her there.

He wonders if it’s one of the rare nights where she’s asleep by the time he arrives, curled into herself on one of the armchairs with her book forgotten on her lap.

One of the rare evenings where he can afford himself a bit less self-control. Indulge in the silkiness of her skin, trace his fingers over her features until the point she inevitably stirs, and he’s forced to retract himself as if he’d never touched her.

It doesn’t matter if it is. Tonight, he’ll touch her the way he wants to, either way.

His skin prickles with warring emotions as he makes his way soundlessly down the steps of the dormitories. Shame, guilt, disgust—overwhelming anticipation.

The dizzying feeling of want overshadows them all.

An ugly, marred tug of obsession claws its way under his skin like a parasite. He can’t escape it, can’t make it stop—hasn't been able to for a while now.

He’s grown accustomed to it. Grown used to the way his nerves burn when he touches her, the way his lungs scream for oxygen when he catches her scent.

He always wants, yet he never gets, and he’s so, so tired of wanting.

Just this once.

The reminder eases through him like a breeze, quelling the incessant pounding of his heart in his ears, the thin sheen of sweat settling itself over his skin.

His hand trembles when it dips into the pocket of his robes as he approaches the familiar set of lounges in front of the fireplace. He feels for his wand and tightens his hand around it, the wood biting into his skin, a sensation almost comforting in nature.

Just this once.

“Was wondering when you’d show,” her voice is warm and sleep-rough, a hazy melody that proves just as useful in easing his nerves. “Long day?”

“Something like that,” he murmurs. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, weighted with attrition for something he has yet to do.

She waits for him to sit down beside her, but instead he stays in place, hovering over the side of the couch.

He clears his throat, nerves stiffening his voice. “Do you think we could read in the Undercroft tonight?”

She looks at him perplexed, until her lips curl into a smile.

“Since when did you become such a rule breaker? Sebastian finally rubbing off on you?” She humors, stretching her sore limbs.

“I’d just prefer it. Change of…scenery.”

She snorts. “Change of scenery, huh?”

He nods sheepishly, cheeks burning. Change of scenery? Really, Ominis?

He can feel her staring at him, contemplating. He’s half-convinced she can hear the way his heart is nearly beating out of his chest.

“Please,” he adds for good measure.

His fingers find his wand again, tucked surreptitiously behind layers of fabric. He supposes he could cast it here, even if that isn’t part of the plan. The thought makes anxiety trickle up his skin. He doesn’t want to stray from the plan.

When she rises from her seat with an acquiescent sigh, his entire body sinks with relief.

“Alright, fine, let’s go…but we’ll have to be quiet.”

The walk to the Undercroft is spent in the silence of disillusionment spells and muffling charms. Inside the darkened cellar, with only the soft sound of her humming as she settles onto one of the old chaises, a flurry of second-thoughts numb his brain in white static.

Disgust settles itself like a boulder in his gut, the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat as he takes a seat beside her, as he considers over and over again what he’s about to do.

He can feel her thigh press against his when she shifts in her seat. It’s strangely grounding. He feels the taste rescind.

She’s so incredibly warm, so terribly close, that it buries any trepidations he holds deep into an untouchable part of himself, until he can think of nothing but the prospect of more of her skin on his, until desire overshadows any inkling of guilt he might possess.

The urge to touch, and taste, and caress, subjugates the contrite voice in his head that repeats a litany of you promised, you promised, you promised.

His nausea blends into something else as he quietly slips his wand from his pocket, and any vows he’s made to himself about never doing what he’s about to do, dissolves into inexistence as the spell passes through his lips in a whisper.

“Imperio.”

The incantation takes effect with such fluidity, with such little effort, that in that moment, despite all his years of fervent resistance, he has never felt more like a Gaunt.

He resists the urge to double over and be sick on the flagstone floor.

He can barely hear the sound of the book in her hands falling to the floor, nor his own wand slipping from his fingers with a dull clatter. The ringing in his ears is far too loud to allow it.

His core buzzes with the thrum of dark magic that washes over him, a mordant reminder of what exactly he’s done, one that he can feel impress itself on his very soul. He takes a fortifying breath.

Just this once.

“Turn to me.”

The command works over her immediately, and though he can’t see her, he can hear her shift in her seat to face him. He’s never been more grateful for his blindness than in that moment, that he can’t see the glazed-over appearance of her eyes, her vacant stare. He’s certain it would break him.

He shifts forward himself, and when he touches her for the first time with trembling hands, the incessant ringing in his ears ceases. The drove of self-reprehension comes to a halt, replaced by something starved, replaced by the instinct to take.

He drags his fingers unsteadily over the ridge of her cheekbone, traces the contours of her brows, down the bridge of her nose, the same way he’s done before only briefly in her sleep, though this time with more unabashed exploration.

The thrill of not having to be careful awakens something in him. He wants to commit every millimeter to memory.

His thumb brushes over the gentle arch of her cupid’s bow, then over the plush pillow that is her bottom lip.

He doesn’t even realize he’s been holding his breath until his lungs burn for oxygen. His hand takes hold of her jaw and he dips forward, so that his first inhale is made up of nothing but her, his nose pressed to the soft hair at her temple.

He tilts his head and lets his lips land on the smooth plane of her cheek. Her skin is warm and silky, just as he remembered from the brief bits of contact he’s allowed himself in the past. He lets out a contented sigh.

Slowly, patiently, he works himself up to his destination, planting tender kisses along her face, reveling in every little sensation, until he reaches the corner of her mouth.

Her mouth.

He’s almost convinced he’s dreaming.

He takes a shuddering breath and connects their lips the way he’s wanted to for an agonizingly long time.

If he’s ever known softness before, it’s incomparable to what he receives from her lips, from her face cupped in his hands.

He’s filled with the insatiable desire to know more, to drown in it, to suffocate on the feeling of her against him.

His tongue brushes over her bottom lip, tentative and a bit too cautious. He’s not exactly sure how to kiss her, but he notes rather morbidly that she won’t mind either way. It’s not like she’ll remember.

He tries again, experimenting, prodding at her lips softly at first, but she doesn’t part for him the way he expects her to, doesn’t grant him entrance. It’s… not right.

His brain blares with alarms in deafening repetition that it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.

She’s stiff against his lips, frigid and unmoving. It’s not how it should be. It’s not how he wants it to be. It’s askew and breaks him out of his fantasy and it makes him angry.

Makes his fingers dig too harshly into her skin, makes him crowd her against the armrest of the lounge and press his mouth to her more forcefully, as if he can brutalize the compliance out of her.

A whimper escapes her, a brief breach in her trance-like state, and he’s snapped out of his overwhelming frustration. He breaks the kiss and pants against her skin, the reminder of the power he has over her surging back.

“Kiss me.”

Relief oozes into him like the trickle of a downpouring stream, cooling his blood and letting him melt into the feeling of her lips finally moving against his. His touch retreats back to tenderness.

There’s a clumsy sort of uncertainty in the way his mouth moves against hers, an unpracticed mess of tongue and teeth. He doesn’t mind, doesn’t let himself dwell on the chagrin that is his first kiss.

It’s all he’s ever wanted with her. She tastes sweet on his tongue, the culmination of all his desires being fulfilled, and yet still, somehow, it’s not enough.

Even as he kisses her deeply, tenderly, until his lips feel raw and kiss-bruised, and there’s a delicious soreness in his jaw — he can’t shake that little, driving pain in his chest of want.

No, not of want. Of need.

There’s a part of him that he doesn’t quite understand, a part of him that aches for more without being conscious of just what more is.

He’s aware of it, though. He feels it in the tension pulling just below his navel, the heat pooling in his blood. He recognizes it in the depraved instinct to slip his hands up her blouse, to hike up her skirt, and— and—

He contemplates straying from the plan for the second time that night.

All he wanted was to kiss her, just this once, just this once— but as he tips her back onto the cushions, as he hovers over her with his lips never leaving hers, he realizes that isn’t true.

He lets himself sink against her. Her body molds with his, presses against his own, plush and warm and indescribably perfect. He pins her down with his weight—even if he’s aware he doesn’t have to, he finds some sick sense of security in knowing she can’t escape.

He wants more.

He slots himself between her legs and tugs one of her thighs around his waist. It’s almost too much, his breathing scattered and uneven.

He wants more.

Even if he isn’t sure what more entails, he possesses some idea as his hips begin to rut against hers of their own accord. The whimper he lets out makes him burn with shame.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck to hide his mortification. He inhales, until the dizzying scent of her perfume numbs his brain.

He’s subtly aware of the fact he’s grinding right against her knickers, her skirt bunched up haphazardly at her hips to accommodate him between her legs. He tries not to think about it.

His thoughts feel hazy as he contemplates the fact that only a thin piece of cotton separates her cunt from rubbing right against the front of his trousers. It would be so easy to—

He can’t.

He forces himself to keep his hands above her waist, far from temptation. He doesn’t force them not to wander, though.

Just this once, he repeats, as his fingers hover over the front placket of her blouse. He muffles his breathing with his lips pressed to her throat.

He trails his hand up to her collar and unclasps the first button with trembling fingers. He tries not to think about it, either.

He concentrates on how she tastes when he dips his tongue out to lick a stripe just under her jaw, and for a moment he doesn’t care how lewd it is, doesn’t care how utterly debased he’s acting.

Her breath hitches, just the subtlest change in pitch, but it’s enough for him to pretend that she wants this. That she wants him.

Little, brass buttons clatter to the stone floor of the Undercroft in quiet clinks, byproduct of his impatience, of his self-restraint slipping from his fingers in the hasty manner he undresses her.

The same hasty manner he fumbles with his belt—before he can think too long about what he’s about to do—until he’s gripping his weeping cock and biting down on his lip to stop the shameful noises threatening to escape his throat.

He palms himself shakily, remorse adling his unsteady movements, while he tries to work the courage to actually touch her. It isn’t long before his hand is slick with his arousal, and the skin of her neck is damp with his heavy breathing.

His hand hovers over the bare skin of her midriff, fingers twitching with the desire to sink them into her soft flesh, to trace over her curves and memorize the contours he’s only felt in daydreams.

His voice is raw when he commands her, riddled with shame. “Ask—ask me to touch you.”

She obeys in a whisper. “Please, touch me.”

It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, it’s not—

“Ask me to touch you and say my name.”

“Touch me,” she breathes, and he can feel the vibration of her voice where his mouth is still latched onto the base of her throat. “Please, Ominis.”

There.

His name on her lips strikes his nerves on fire, lights the very blood in his veins alight. He caves.

Her skin is warm under his fingertips. He can feel her heartbeat where he presses his palm to her sternum, a frantic pounding— undoubtedly a reflection of her subconscious beneath the influence of the spell.

He doesn’t allow himself to feel guilty, he can’t. Not now.

Instead, he indulges. Pushes the sheer material of her chemise the rest of the way up, until it’s over her chest, and he can feel.

Her nipples pebble as they come in contact with the cool air of the Undercroft and he runs his hand over the stiffened bud, rolls it between his thumb and index.

She’s overwhelmingly soft. It disgusts him how badly he wants to defile her for it.

He notes wryly how revoltingly weak he is, if all it took was some poorly-placed obsession for him to do away with every last principle he’s spent the better part of his life cultivating. How easily an Unforgivable spilled from his lips at the prospect of feeling hers.

He’ll scrub his skin raw afterwards in the shower in a desperate attempt to forget all of this, he promises himself. He won’t do this again, he can’t—

Just this once.

His head sinks to her chest and he murmurs against her skin, “Again— Say, say it again.”

“Please, Ominis.”

He sighs in blissful relief. “Yes.”

He counts the rows of her sternum with a drag of his tongue. Her chest is already sticky with his saliva when he takes hold of his cock again, the dripping tip sullying her untouched skin.

His hips rut into his own hand and the Undercroft fills with the sounds of his quiet grunts. He squeezes his eyes shut and imagines it’s her he’s thrusting into as he fucks his fist, his other hand groping blindly, fondling and squeezing her supple flesh until he’s sure he’s left marks in his carelessness.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, because he likes to pretend it’s real. “So–so good, angel.”

She lets out the softest whimper, and it’s enough to make his jaw fall slack, a pleasured groan escaping his parted lips.

He presses his forehead to hers. “I love you. I love you so much. Tell me— tell me you love me. Please say it.”

“I love you.”

She obeys too fast, her voice too vacant. It’s unnatural. He doesn’t care. Those three little words are enough to wrench a strangled sort of sound out of his chest.

“Again,” he begs, voice hoarse, and he’s only distantly aware of the wet tracks running down his cheeks. His thrusts are sloppy and frantic, so close to his undoing. “Say my name.”

“I love you, Ominis.”

“Fuck,” his voice cracks, his head dropping to her shoulder.

He’s pushed over the edge with a sob, painting her stomach and chest in ribbons of milky white. An endless litany of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry pours from his lips as he shudders through his climax.

Shame sears through him like fiendfyre and he moans his forgiveness on a cry against her lips, kisses her tenderly as if it’s an act of retribution.

His hand finds her stomach, his palm rubbing into the incriminating mess of his seed on her skin, and the satisfaction he feels with it only serves to amplify his self-disgust.

He kneads the sticky flesh beneath his fingertips, as if he can make it so that even after the scourgify, some part of him will be there, a memory only he’s aware of. He doesn’t want to let her go, he can’t— he—

He does so anyway. He forces himself off of her on unsteady legs and tucks himself into his trousers.

He cleans her with all the care in the world, as if his tenderness will somehow make up for how crudely he’s violated her trust tonight.

Everytime his hand brushes over her skin as he redresses her, he repeats to himself that it was just this once. Brands it into his brain, lets that contrite voice repeat it over and over again until he might go mad.

He takes her back to the common room and sets her down gently into that same armchair she was waiting for him in at the beginning of the night. Brushes a lingering kiss to her forehead that stretches for a moment too long.

He mutters a reluctant finite incantatem under his breath, pairs it with a heavy sleeping spell, and retreats to his own dorm before he can fall to temptation again.

Only then, behind the drawn curtains of his four-poster, skin still prickling with the memory of every way he’d touched her, is he made certain of something he’s been trying desperately to deny all evening.

This was the first time, but it certainly won’t be the last.

#hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy smut #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis x mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #ominis x reader #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis gaunt x mc #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #hogwarts legacy fan fiction

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