#ash being soft/vulnerable

[astraystayyh]

The snow falls, we fall apart.

summary: when heartbreak looms on your life, and winter becomes a time you loathe, hyunjin helps you rewrite your memories with the season, and with it, everything you once believed about love.

genre: producer student!hyunjin x reader. roommates!au. friends to lovers. acute descriptions of heartbreak and general sadness. slow burn. hurt/comfort. healing and hopeless romantic hyune. very inspired by long for you so lots of pining and yearning. (wc: 13k)

warnings: mentions of alcohol. it is implied that reader was in an a very toxic relationship but no details are shared.

a.n: happy birthday to my hyunjin, my muse, my light. thank you for being so full of love that it made me love love again in return. this is i think my most personal piece, and i hope it reminds those who need it that love should be soft and kind, that it shouldn’t hurt, that it should heal not break. i love you guys and i love you my xi, writing this collab with you has been a true honor <3 also!! please listen to long for you while reading :,)

winter falls masterlist.

You’ve only ever felt utter despair twice in your life.

First, when you were seven years old, playing hide and seek with your cousins at your grandma’s house. It was a warm summer afternoon, the air sweetened by pastries you devoured hours ago. You decided to hide in a wooden cabinet up in the attic, only to end up stuck there. The walls felt like they were closing in on you, the oxygen seeping away from the cracks underneath the door, leaving you deprived of air, of life.

Second, at twelve, when you've come to discover sorrow's new facet, clad in grief's heavy cloak. Your parents adopted a hamster for your birthday, but they did not know he had a terminal disease. You were distraught, to say the least, when you awoke to its still form, death claiming a frail heart unaware of its imminent fate.

And now, third, many many moons later, you are knocking on Hyunjin’s door a few minutes after midnight. It is cold out, tears tracing rivulets on your cheeks, your fingers tinted pink from roaming outside in the harsh winds, your heart much heavier than when you were a child. More grief-stricken, at your own hands, this time.

A disheveled Hyunjin opens the door, his blonde ash hair tousled and sticking upwards, a clear indication of the many times he had run his hands through it in fits of frustration. His gray hoodie zipped up hastily, revealing the silver cross necklace he was wearing, nestling perfectly against his honeyed skin.

You've always had an aversion to seeking comfort, saw it as revealing your deepest vulnerabilities to a world that isn't always kind. It was easier, much simpler to do so when you were a clueless child— when you sank in your cousin Lia's hold as she attempted to steady your breathing, when your mother cradled you in her lap after Pinky died.

It is much harder now, much more embarrassing because Hyunjin has never seen you this sad, never glimpsed your shadows that now swarm his doorstep, unannounced.

“What's wrong?” he quickly asks, eyes darting over your figure in a rapid search for visible wounds. He wouldn’t find any. All your injuries stem from within— blood doesn’t have to be spilled for your heart to weep.

You had rehearsed a lie as you walked up to his doorstep. You would say that your car broke down near his place and ask if you could stay over for the night. He would insist he could drive you to your place and you’d refuse, saying that it was too late and you did not wish to bother him. You’d sleep on the couch and slip away in the early hours of the morning.

Yet, it is the genuine worry etched in his eyes that dismantles the fortress you've hidden in, melts the lie in your throat, morphing it into a steel lump coiling in your throat. He looks concerned when all you’ve had directed towards you recently was anger. And you missed someone looking at you in care, not reproach.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” You admit, your voice shattered, fragments of your vocal cords scattered out in the wind like a broken mosaic, the sound of it scraping against your ears.

Blow one hurt. It felt like your body turned against you as it deprived you of oxygen. The sobs that escaped you once you perceived the light pained you, perhaps more than being confined in the darkness.

Blow two was even worse, it was your first time experiencing grief. It was too hard of a concept for your innocent heart to grasp, too complicated for you to find solace in anything as adults do.

You promised yourself that you’d reserve blow three for monumental agonies— big pains and big sorrows only. That’s how you managed to keep all your tears at bay for most of your life. Would they be worth losing your third sob for? No, you've always found the answer to be.

And in all the twisted scenarios you’ve conjured up in your mind, deaths and illnesses and the haunting tale of failure, you did not imagine that it would happen on Hwang Hyunjin’s doorstep. That you’d burst into sobs at the compassionate look in his gaze, and the sad smile he sent your way. As if he knew, as everyone did around you. That you had handed a knife to a serial killer and it was only a matter of time before he stabbed you in the heart.

Two weeks ago.

“I’m trying to understand you but you aren’t helping me,” Seungmin is frustrated as he paces relentlessly before you from left to right like a swinging pendulum. You sit on the couch, beholding only his shoes, avoiding his gaze that would reflect the truth you dare not confront.

“He’s sucking the life out of you, can’t you see that?”

You can, out of everyone that surrounds you, you can see it the most. You feel as if you are carrying a skin that isn’t your own, weighed down by a relationship that has taken everything from you. But admitting it is admitting that you were wrong, in trusting him, in loving him. You couldn’t bear it.

“We are fine!” you shout back, the defiance in your voice surprises even you. This is a familiar script with Seungmin, a recurring conversation spurred by your puffy eyes and diminishing appetite. He tells you, begs you to leave, but where could you go? How could you leave a home where you've shed all your treasured belongings at the door— your skin, your bones, your very self.

What place would welcome you now that you're stripped bare of your soul?

“When was the last time he made you smile, huh? All he does is hurt you, and you...” he chuckles incredulously, running his hand through his hair. “You are letting him.”

Deny, deny, deny.

“This isn’t true. He loves me,” the words taste foreign in your mouth like rusty metal dragging across your lips. A small voice whispers that love shouldn't feel like this, but you quiet it down.

“Are you hearing yourself? Yn, I…” he kneels before you, his hands resting comfortingly on your knees. This is Seungmin, your best friend of five years. You know he has your best interests at heart, you are even more sure of it when his voice softens, shakes slightly when he utters your name. “Yn, please. I’m trying to help you. Please.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you push away his hands, standing up. “I don’t want your help, and I don’t need it.”

You quickly leave Seungmin’s dorm, your heart heavier than when you entered it, foolishly hoping that he'd ignore your distressed state after yet another fight with your boyfriend. But Seungmin doesn't understand, no one around you does— you’ve gambled your heart, and you cannot stop drawing the cards, even in the face of losing strikes.

❁ ❁ ❁

Hyunjin offers you a cup of tea with a gentle smile and you grab the steaming drink from his hands. The smell of chamomile wraps around your senses, and your brain fizzles out for a second before the soothing aroma. But it is a fleeting respite, the tempest of your thoughts crashes back onto you with an unsettling force, causing you to almost drop the drink as your hands shake. You place it down the table without taking a sip.

“I’m sorry for coming unannounced,” you apologize, wincing at the intrusion, “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“I always sleep late. Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, but you know it isn’t a genuine grin, because his eyes betray an unsubdued concern, refusing to morph into their usual moon crescents.

You’ve always thought that Hyunjin wears his emotions openly— when he laughed, he did so loudly, his boisterous giggles traveling around Seungmin’s dorm. When he hurt himself, everyone in the vicinity would know so from his loud yelps. And when something worried him, he would bite his lip, toying with the plush flesh to ease his nerves.

As he is doing now. Looking at you.

“We broke up,” you quickly say, and your words hang over you like a gloomy cloud. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you want me to fight him? I’ll bring changbin too,” he suggests a serious tone underlying his playful offer, and it manages to tear a reluctant giggle out of you.

“Changbin doesn’t know me well enough to fight for me,” you counteract and he shakes his head. “He’ll fight for me, I'm his princess.”

“Are you now?” The giggle escapes your mouth less forcefully, and the smile that graces Hyunjin’s face is a genuine one.

“I am. My proposal stands,” he extends his hand and you wrap your fingers around his palm. “Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind,” you smile but he frowns, flipping your hand around in his hold.

“You are freezing,” he whispers, using his other palm to rub warmth into yours.

“It’s fine,” you lie, slipping your hand out of his grasp, not feeling deserving of his kindness.

Wordlessly, Hyunjin stands, walking into what you assume is his bedroom. You only know of his place because you dropped off Seungmin here some time ago. You are too exhausted to even drink in the interior.

“Here,” he returns, handing you a navy hoodie of his and black joggers. “This will keep you warm at night.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, hesitating for a few seconds before speaking again. “Can you please not tell Seungmin, I... I can't face him right now.”

“Of course. I’ll be awake still if you do need something.”

Hyunjin’s clothing is warm, although peeling away your own garments felt like shedding layers of your skin, as if the fabric melted into your very flesh, just like memories from the day did. You have never felt this worthless before, discarded like a forgotten leaf on the roadside, one he stepped on for his own enjoyment, leaving you crushed in his wake, unable to fly away again.

Hyunjin’s rose perfume wraps around you, and you find relief in sleeping somewhere where your, his, scent was no longer around. You foolishly hope that if you close your eyes hard enough, you’ll manage to convince yourself that you’re someone else, tonight. Someone who isn’t tethered to the heartache, someone who can slip away from the clutches of a love that hurts more than hate could ever manage to do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Heartbreak isn’t beautiful, no matter how eloquently you try to dress it in the syllables of poetry, no words can soften the burn in your lungs, the searing ache that courses through your very core, reminding you that deep within, down to the fundamentals of your being and the most basic alchemy that ties your atoms together— you are unlovable. Whether you cut your hair or allow it to grow, change your heart, or leave it as it has always been, you will remain so.

You don’t remember much of the past week, blurry fragments here and there that float in your mind like a distorted water reflection. There is little room for memories when you are busy trying to remember how to breathe— one inhale in, one exhale out. The simple concept seems harder when there are unkind hands permanently lodged into your heart, squeezing it tight.

What you do remember is telling Seungmin through text the next day, because you couldn’t bear the way his eyes would soften if you spoke to him in person. No signs of surprise cast on his figure, because he knew that it was long coming, a train with one final inevitable destination— you in shambles, him okay.

You remember Seungmin cradling you in his arms when he came to see you, and you trying desperately to keep the tears at bay— too focused on pinching your arm to let Seungmin’s warmth radiate through your being, Hyunjin lingering uncomfortably by the entrance of his living room.

You remember begging Seungmin to grab your belongings from the apartment you shared with your ex because you were unable to face him, him, and everything that your old place spelled out for you. Stand in the ruins of what you once thought would be your permanent home.

And now, you watch as Seungmin and Hyunjin bring suitcases full of your stuff into the latter’s place. And you feel like an outsider in your own body, standing at the corner of the room gazing at utter destruction, unable to stop it, unable to mend it. Seungmin quickly reassures you that you could crash in his and Minho’s place until you find a new one to live in, already taking out his laptop to search for new apartments for you.

But you did not care for it, your eyes zeroed in on the satin shirt peeking out of your suitcase. The one he bought you on your first month anniversary. Back when love felt like a gentle feather running down your spine, and not a dull knife slicing away at your skin.

“This place's expensive too,” Seungmin sighs, rubbing his temple warily. Your logical best friend could not fix your heartbreak but he took it to heart to alleviate your other troubles. You would thank him for it, later, when your tongue finds enough will to move.

“What if you move in with me?” Hyunjin suddenly says and his words filtrate through the fog in your mind easily, as if he rehearsed them enough times so they’d roll out smoothly out of his mouth. “I mean, Felix is away for the next year since he went back to Australia. And I was looking for a new roommate anyway.” He shrugs and Seungmin turns to look at you, his eyes convey the question his mouth doesn’t articulate— is it okay with you?

“I don’t…” your voice is croaked, so you clear your throat. “I don’t want you to do things out of pity.”

“I’m not. If I was, I would've told you to move in with me for free. I still need you to pay rent,” he raises his eyebrows, a playful tease and you smile in relief, nodding, “Okay, I will. thank you.”

Heartbreak is ugly and all-encompassing, weaving through the roots of your heart and infecting each organ with its insidious touch. It renders you immobile, incapable of performing the simplest tasks, burdened by a weight unseen by the world. But you try your best, your very best to contain it.

You smile at the cashier as she hands back your money only to wonder if her soft, well-manicured hands would too crush a soul without remorse. You go to all your classes without fail but your mind is elsewhere, contemplating why the sun filtering through the windows no longer warms your skin. Can nerve endings perish when subjected to too much pain? What's left of life when you can no longer feel the caress of the sun?

You watch a movie at Seungmin's dorm but your mind is elsewhere, fleeting to this morning and how you refused to stay in the shower for more than three minutes because your thoughts might become haunting ghosts tempting you to follow them. You brush your hair and spray your perfume, only because you have to, because you live with Hyunjin and you wouldn’t want your sadness to taint him too. You wonder how long you’ll have to bear it. You wonder if it’ll ever leave you or if the veins in your heart have molded themselves after the pain and they wouldn’t know how to accept happiness anymore.

You greet Hyunjin as he walks past you, shaking your head when he asks you if you want to eat dinner with him, quickly retracting back into your room. You have ten unread messages and a pile of growing laundry you need to do, but all you can muster is to gaze at the empty walls, mirroring the void within you. Your mom told you to call her again and you don’t know how you’ll speak to her without bursting into a sob, how you’ll tell her that all it took was one person to break you. Or maybe it was two people, your hands and his tearing apart your flesh and bones. Maybe that’s the worst part about it. So you don’t call her.

And you only ever emerge from your room when you need to, just like now because your water bottle is finished and you need to refill it. You go to open the kitchen door when you hear Hyunjin’s muted shatter, Felix’s distinctive deep voice coming out of the phone speaker.

“Next you add the melted butter and stir it,” Felix instructs, the sounds of pots and utensils clinking in the background. You fidget slightly, mustering the strength to paint a fake smile on your lips.

“What next?”

“Sift the dry ingredients then add them to your wet mixture,” Felix explains, met with a few seconds of silence. You can almost visualize Hyunjin's perplexed expression, blinking rapidly in confusion.

“Explain it to me like I’m five years old,” he requests, prompting a small smile to etch itself onto your face.

“How are you surviving without me?”

“I’m not please come home,” Hyunjin sounds horrified as Felix’s rich chuckles fill the air. “Why do you suddenly want to make brownies anyway?” he then asks.

You go to open the door when Hyunjin’s response catches you off guard.

“They’re for Yn.”

Hyunjin's words resonate in the air, causing a hitch in your throat and Felix’s teasing whistles simultaneously, but Hyunjin is quick to stop him. “No, no, no, it’s not like that. They’re just a bit down and I remember them loving your brownies. So…”

It takes you a fleeting moment to dig the memory out of your mind, a year ago, right before your ex came to pick you up from Seungmin’s dorm. You had a bite of Felix’s brownies, a surprised gasp escaping your lips at its delicious taste, back when food had taste and happiness came easily to you. It was an insignificant memory, you did not imagine Hyunjin, out of everyone, would remember it.

But he did, and he’s now pacing before your closed door, contemplating how he’ll convince you to finally eat something with him. He throws a thumbs-up in the air for no one but himself, inhaling deeply before knocking on your door.

“Hey,” he greets with a hopeful smile, his gaze meeting your tired form. He hesitates for a second, clearing his throat. “Brownies?” You remain unmoving and he falters, “Hm? Please?”

“Sure,” you nod and a wave of relief floods through Hyunjin as you step out of your room. His joy is short-lived when he takes the brownies out of the oven, only to find them thoroughly burnt.

His mouth hangs agape, and he walks back shamefully to the oven, lowering its door only to scream inside of it.

“This will be more therapeutic,” you say, pointing nonchalantly to the fridge and he agrees, opening its doors and yelling once again in the much larger space.

Your melodic laughter fills the kitchen, Hyunjin’s embarrassment is suddenly a forgotten memory.

“I’m craving kimbap. Should we get it instead?” you propose, a touch shyly and he quickly agrees, afraid you’d change your mind and walk back to your room where he can no longer ensure you are okay.

Hyunjin absentmindedly dances along to the music blasting through the convenience store when a girl sidles up to his side, a saccharine grin on her lips as she looks up at him, “hi,” she greets and his tentative smile mirrors hers. “Hey.”

“Are you single?” she asks, her gaze briefly fleeting to the window. “I think you are really cute.”

“I’m…” he glances at you but you're suddenly engrossed in the ingredients of the tuna kimbap you are holding, pretending not to listen. “I am but I’m not interested, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” she places a hand on his arm and he physically recoils. “Give me your insta and we could talk.”

“No,” he repeats, grabbing her hand to remove it when a loud voice startles him. “Baby, what’s taking you so— What are you doing?” Hyunjin watches in horror as the girl’s eyes grow wide, before she scrambles to the man’s side, feigning fear.

“He kept hitting on me when I said I had a boyfriend, baby.”

“What?” both you and Hyunjin gasped in comical unison. He would find it amusing if not for the escalating anger radiating from the man, who looks like he spends all his days in the gym. Hyunjin suddenly regrets not working out with Changbin.

The man strides towards Hyunjin. “Do you want to die?”

“No? there’s a misunderstanding,” he replies, swiftly standing before you and shielding you with his arm. “Your… baby,” he wiggles his finger in front of the man's face, “she was the one hitting on me!”

The man scoffs loudly, his face growing redder from the anger seething in him. “So you hit on my girlfriend and then accuse her of cheating?” His fist rises threateningly, prompting Hyunjin to step back, accidentally bumping into your chest.

“Wait, wait, wait! Let’s go talk outside, man to man,” Hyunjin pauses, his voice taking on a taunting edge, “unless you're too scared?” he smirks as he feels you pull at his shirt, whispering an incredulous- “What are you doing?” He shakes his head, grabbing your hand and leading you outside, throwing a sly wink at the man behind you now.

“Are you seriously going to fight him?” you ask, your gaze shifting towards the deranged couple who are about to step out of the grocery store. “No, of course not. I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

“You said you'd fight my ex,” you point out and his eyes soften surprisingly.

“You are an exception.” He looks back at the man, who's now walking towards you both. “But anyways, do you know how to run?” he asks and you frown, “who doesn’t know how to—” you pause as realization dawns on you. “No," you whisper furiously.

“Yes.”

“No,” you shake your head, horrified and he nods, eyes apologetic.

“Yes.” His fingers entwine with yours, he squeezes your hand once before he takes off running.

“Hwang fucking Hyunjin!” you shout and he looks back at you, a mischievous smile on his face. “I’m sorry Yn my face is too pretty to be beaten up.”

“He’s following us!” you yell, looking back horrified as the, even angrier, man runs after you.

“Well, run faster!”

“I’m wearing fucking slippers!” you curse and he giggles, tipping his head back, the wind slamming into you both, his hand never letting go of your own.

“Oh my god why is he still running!” you groan and Hyunjin picks up speed, moving you even closer to his sprinting figure

“I know, is it ever that serious?” he yells above his shoulder and you dig your nails into his palm.

“Shut up, this wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so gorgeous.”

“So, you think I’m pretty too?” Hyunjin grins proudly and an incredulous laugh escapes your lips.

“Really? Is this what you’re getting out of this situation?”

“Silver linings, Yn, silver linings,” he shouts as you round a small alley, finally stopping to catch your breath. You both fall to the ground, heavy breaths escaping your chests.

“Holy shit, I’m not athletic at all,” he heaves, his eyes meeting yours. He expects to find anger lingering in your gaze but all he can grasp is your amused smile before you collapse into a fit of laughter, clapping loudly and clutching your stomach with your hand.

“Oh my god, I’m crying,” you laugh harder, wiping away at the tears falling from your eyes. Hyunjin’s weariness disappears in the blink of an eye— he did not realize how much he missed your smile until he glimpsed it again. And it is beautiful. Happiness looks beautiful on you.

“Idiot,” you hit his shoulder playfully, and his response is delayed for a few seconds, the warmth from your smile rendering him immobile.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, pulling you up. “Here, I’ll carry you home,” he squats slightly before you. “How impolite of me. How dare I make your majesty run.”

You shake your head, amused, before climbing atop his back, his warm palms holding your thighs securely. “Only because the slippers hurt my feet.”

You walk in silence for a while, your arms wound up around Hyunjin’s neck, the ghost of a smile still lingering on both your faces.

“They said it will snow tomorrow,” Hyunjin speaks suddenly and you stay silent for so long he starts to wonder if you even heard him.

“Mm? That’s nice,” your tone is melancholic, and he pauses at the peculiar sadness in it— as though you were trying to act nonchalant about something that has once meant the world to you.

“Don’t you like the snow?” he asks and your hold on his neck falters.

“I loved it. Loved ice skating and building snowmen.” Your voice is light and airy, like Hyunjin’s favorite mint chocolate ice cream. “But now it reminds me of bad times, bad memories.”

“I understand.”

Hyunjin knows what it feels like to relinquish parts of yourself you never wished to part from. For someone to grab your happiest places and to cast a gloomy filter atop them. Sometimes it is the loss of a season that hurts more than the departure of a person.

And Hyunjin loves winter.

He’ll do everything so that you’ll come to love it again too.

❁ ❁ ❁

Is it a nightmare if the person in it is one you once loved, looked forward to beholding with your gaze, hoping they’d never slip out of your reach? You don’t know, but you are growing tired of having the same dreams every night. Of waking up with an exhaustion that goes beyond your restless sleep but pleads from your soul to rest after almost a year of torment.

You sigh wearily, rubbing a hand through your face before walking to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. You find Hyunjin there, eating a cupcake while standing shirtless, scrolling through his phone. You blink at the sight.

“Hey,” you clear your throat and he startles, dropping the cupcake on the ground. He goes to pick it up only to bang his head on the table, a loud yelp escaping his lips. You barely contain your giggles as you walk to his side, rubbing your palm soothingly on his head. “I'm sorry I didn't mean to scare you.”

“At least pretend you are sorry,” he mumbles, pointing to your amused smile and you chuckle, taking his hand and helping him to his feet.

“What are you doing up now?” he asks as he grabs some napkins to clean up the pink frosting smeared across the floor.

You hesitate for a few seconds before whispering, “Just nightmares. And you?” you quickly add, not keen on pushing the subject any further.

“I'm working on a song,” he explains, as his gaze lingers on your sunken eyes, weighed down by dark circles from too many sleepless nights.

“And the cupcake?”

“Some people need caffeine to function. I need flour.”

“I literally see you drink three americanos per day.”

“Okay well maybe I need both,” he admits sheepishly and you grin, drumming your fingers along the countertop.

“Can I sit with you while you work?” you ask quickly, before the words linger enough in your mouth that you no longer wish to spit them out.

The smile that Hyunjin sends you is kind, pushing the shadows of your nightmares just slightly out of reach.

“Of course, yeah you can. Don’t even need to ask.”

Hyunjin walks first into his bedroom, quickly slipping on a hoodie while you take in the interior. It is a quite simple room— a large bed with gray covers, and a desk filled with what you assume to be his producing equipment sits adjacent. But what catches your attention is the dried rose hung delicately on the wall, and the array of paintings surrounding it. You edge closer to it, drawn to the well-crafted paintings— a sun-drenched beach, a couple lost in an embrace so intimate their forms can no longer be separated, and an elderly pair riding a motorcycle, their love radiating vibrantly as if enclosed in eternal youth.

“You paint?” you ask, turning around to find Hyunjin watching you. He steps closer, enveloping you once more in the fragrance of his rose perfume.

“In my free time.”

“You are amazing, Hyunjin,” you compliment sincerely, your gaze fixed on that imagery of the old couple, one that most likely grew together. It tugs at your heartstrings, stirs a painful longing within you, a memory of a time when you too believed you’d find such boundless love.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, before brushing his fingertips gently against your forearm, for a fleeting second. “Are you okay?” he asks, a tenderness you’ve been aching for latched into his question. Your eyes refuse to peel away from the paintings and the love spilling from each paint brush stroke, a love that refuses to rest on your being as if you were harboring an armor that repels it.

“No,” you reply sincerely, turning to face him. “It’s really hard,” you say with a smile, hoping that the mechanical display of happiness would keep your tears at bay, tricking your brain into believing you're not as sad as you feel.

It fails to do so, and the tears well in your eyes like a gathering storm. Frustration twists your features as you shut your eyes, tilting your head upward in a desperate attempt to contain the flood. It pauses as Hyunjin cradles the back of your head, drawing you close to the warmth of his neck. His palm glides soothingly along your spine, before patting your back ever so gently.

Your back stiffens, hands curling into tight fists, breath catching in your throat. You've grown accustomed to pushing away comfort, putting up tall barriers to shield yourself. But tonight, Hyunjin seems to break through your defenses.

Tonight, you soften, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, head nestling deeper against his tender skin.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers and another sob wracks through you, but he only holds you tighter. “It’ll get better soon.”

“I loved him,” you hiccup, your voice breaks, “a lot.”

“I know, that’s why it hurts.” His voice is gentle, and yet his hold on you feels secure as if you could stumble and fall, and he would be there to catch you

“I want it to stop hurting.”

“It will, with time.”

Your next words are tinged with a childlike vulnerability, reminiscent of blow one, then two. But you do not care for it, in that instant, you crave the reassurance, you need someone to plant a seed of hope in your soul because your hands are too frail to dig for it.

“Do you promise me?”

His response doesn’t come hastily, carelessly thrown into the air like idle chatters. He takes his time, considering it with the gravity of an oath.

“I promise you.” He finally says, each syllable infused with sincerity. A brief pause hangs in the air before he adds. “And if it doesn’t then you can hit me.”

“On your pretty face?” you ask, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“On my pretty face,” he confirms with a chuckle.

“What an honor,” you roll your eyes playfully as you lean back and he grins, tenderly wiping away your tears with the back of his fingers.

“I can't believe it took three minutes for you to cry in my room. This isn’t good for my reputation.”

“Good thing this will never leave this bedroom, right?” you point a finger at him threateningly, and he pretends to zip his lips, tossing away the imaginary key. “You got it.”

“So what are you working on?” you ask as you settle on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest.

“It’s a pretty sad song, wanna hear?” he offers, sitting across from you on his chair.

“Yeah, I'd love to,” you smile, and Hyunjin deftly adjusts a few buttons, before his melancholic whistles weave through the air, coupled with the somber melody of a piano. Your breath catches in your throat, the music reaching into the very depths of your soul. It's as if the notes are calling out for a loved one, for a time that has long passed, for a past that will never come back no matter how much we long for it.

The instrumental continues, each piano note and each violin string echo like a bittersweet lament, springing tears to your eyes. But the melody remains beautiful, akin to the beauty always found in the sadness— in the tears that cascade down your cheeks like glistening crystals, in the tremble of your hands akin to branches swaying in the wind, in the rise and fall of your chest with each breath, mirroring the ebb and flow of the waves.

Hyunjin watches you intently as the music envelops you both, his gaze softening with each passing moment. You bring a hand to your chest, almost unconsciously, too engrossed in the melody to even blink. He feels a blush sprout on his cheeks as your teary eyes hold his with the last fading guitar strings.

“You keep on making me cry,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion, and he grins, tilting his head shyly against his shoulder.

“You like it?” he asks, a tad eager and you nod, not bothering to wipe the lone tears that are falling down your cheeks.

“I think this is what my loneliness sounds like,” you confess softly.

“As do mine.”

A silent beat runs between you both, it isn’t uncomfortable, but safe. Because you understand him, just as he understands you.

“Sometimes I long for things that have passed," he admits, “although I know I can't get them anymore.”

“The most terrible thing you can long for is yourself.”

“Because no one’s to blame for that loss but you?” he muses and you nod, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, exactly.”

You bite your lip, casting a glance back at the paintings adorning the wall. “I don't love him anymore,” you begin quietly. “I stopped a long time ago because there was no room for love anymore to grow amid weeds and thorns.”

He remains silent, sensing that this is a weight you need to unburden yourself from.

“But in the midst of it I think I stopped loving myself too,” you whisper, a confession too terrible to be uttered out loud. “That's what I long for. The things I used to love that I'm indifferent to now.”

“Like you’re a stranger before everything once familiar to you.”

“Yeah, you express it prettily,” you remark with a small smile.

“It's my job,” he grins lightly.

“I think when your heart is pure,” he begins after a while, pausing to carefully choose the words that will soothe your burn, help sleep come more easily to you. “You give love to others more readily than you do to yourself. And it takes time, patience, to redirect that love back to your own heart once again. But it's not a mistake to love, you shouldn’t hate yourself for it. Nor should you blame your past self for loving the wrong person because they did not know what you now do.”

“Think of it as a caterpillar in their cocoon,” he continues gently, “when they finally emerge from their chrysalis, they might long for who they were, where they once were because it is the only place they've ever known. But they do not realize that they've transformed into a beautiful butterfly, that they can now fly, and witness much more than their chrysalis. So maybe, your new self will love the same things as before, or maybe you’ll find new, better things to love that you would have not known before. But in either way, your heart is beautiful. That is what matters, no?”

A small pout draws on your lips, your eyebrows scrunched as you gaze at him.

“You have a very tender soul, Hyunjin.”

Your words linger in Hyunjin's mind long after the sunrise, as you lay peacefully asleep on his bed. The melody of the instrumental he produced continues to play faintly in the background, serving as a gentle lullaby that eases you into slumber, entwined in his sheets, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself, one hand cradling your shoulders and the other resting gently on your stomach. The image sears into his eyes as he sketches the outlines of a figure holding itself absentmindedly, long into the night.

Hyunjin has had his fair share of compliments, mostly pertaining to his face, and others to his craft. but it is you who seems to have sensed that a part of his soul resided in his art, that he left pieces of his heart hidden in the notes he composes and the lyrics he writes, hoping they’ll find soft hands that will take care of them, just like your own.

Five days later.

hyunjin [11:34 p.m.]: are you home?

yn [11:34 p.m.]: yeahh, do you need anything?

hyunjin [11:35 p.m.]: come downstairs, im waiting for youu

if you say no i’ll freeze to death..

hurry i can’t feel my fingers anymore (please please) ㅠㅠㅠ

“This better be a life and death situation Hwang Hyunjin,” you say threateningly as soon as you appear before Hyunjin, causing him to straighten up from the wall he was leaning against.

“It is a very dangerous life-altering situation that requires your immediate assistance, indeed,” he responds solemnly, ushering you gently to his car and opening the door for you.

“Which is?” you ask as soon as he settles inside the car and he simply grins at you, his left dimple coming forth like the very sun on a gloomy day.

“You’ll see.”

Hyunjin’s eyes fleet to your figure every now and then, but you do not seem to notice, your gaze lost into the blurring lights ahead. He can tell you're still not entirely yourself, so he was prepared to forcibly drag you along with him. He’s almost surprised you accepted to come down so easily.

“Is that… Seungmin?” you speak suddenly, pointing to a man waving in the distance, as Hyunjin parks his car near an empty field.

“And Changbin? And Minho?” you continue, squinting your eyes, “and a bonfire?” you giggle with a hint of excitement.

“You love s’mores during the winter, right?”

Hyunjin smiles, your soul softens.

“I do,” you say quietly, “I really do.”

You quickly exit the car, running into Seungmin's arms with a grin of disbelief plastered on your face. “This is insane,” you almost shout, squeezing him tight in a hug.

“It was so hard to find the perfect middle of nowhere for this,” Minho grumbles as you move to greet him, but the warmth of his embrace assures you he's only teasing.

“Thank you,” you say with a smile as you hug Changbin, who affectionately ruffles your hair. “It was Hyunjin’s idea,” he reveals, and you glance back at Hyunjin, who stands with his hands buried deep within his sweatpants behind you. You mouth a silent “thank you” to him, but he shakes his head modestly as if it is nothing to bring happiness to a bruised heart.

The night unfolds in endless laughter, with Minho and Hyunjin taking turns roasting marshmallows over the crackling bonfire, and Seungmin serving you hot coffee to keep your hands warm. Your stomach aches from the uncontrollable fits of giggles that overtook your being as Minho recounts the time he danced so vigorously on stage for his dance club that he ripped his pants, feeling a breeze where there shouldn't be one; and Changbin tells you the story of the time his voice cracked in the middle of a rap battle, and how none of the boys stopped teasing him about it for months to come.

And as the four of them take turns making you laugh, a quiet, tender realization dawns on you—you are loved. It is something he tried to convince you was impossible, that no one around truly cared for you but him. And even then, you weren’t deserving of his love whole, only scrapes of it, as if you were a beggar tugging at the outskirts of his heart.

But Hyunjin reminded you otherwise. And if your friends found something worthy of love within you then perhaps so will you again, one day.

“Did you have fun?” Hyunjin asks as he opens the door to his, your, apartment hours later. What he doesn't expect is for you to respond by wrapping your arms around his slender torso, squeezing tight in gratitude.

“Thank you,” you whisper and he nods, though you cannot see him, returning the embrace by wrapping his arms around your shoulder blades.

Hyunjin doesn't let go first, sensing that perhaps you need this hug more than he does. He smiles as your eyes meet his again, but his grin falters when he notices your gaze flickering towards your bedroom, a hint of unease clouding your expression. It's as if behind that door lie monsters only you can grasp, wearing the faces of people you once knew, once loved.

“Wanna stay with me while I work on the song?”

“Last time I ended up sleeping on your bed,” you say a bit shamefully, recalling the morning you woke up to find yourself covered with a thick blanket that wasn’t there before, alone in Hyunjin's room.

“It's okay,” he shrugs, “I missed sleeping on the couch.”

You stare pointedly at him and he chuckles, “Fine, I did not miss it. But you needed the sleep, so it’s okay with me.”

“Fine,” you concede, though you did not need much convincing for it. “But only if you promise you’ll wake me up if I end up falling asleep again.”

Hyunjin tilts his head, thinking to himself for a few seconds before shaking his head stubbornly, a small pout drawn on his face, his eyes semi-closed. “No.”

“Hyunjin!”

“Nu-uh,” he insists, shaking his head once more as he walks back towards his room. “I'm waiting for you!”

“I'm not coming!”

But you do eventually join him, after changing your clothes and washing your face. You find Hyunjin clad in beige and white checkered pajamas, his glasses pushing back his silky hair as he hunches over his journal, scribbling away before erasing what he wrote.

“Struggling with lyrics?” you ask, leaning against the wall and he startles. “Do you float on the ground? Why can I never hear you come in?”

“Or maybe you just love being dramatic,” you sing-song, laying atop his bed, much more at ease than the previous night.

Hyunjin sticks his tongue out childishly in response, and you playfully mimic the gesture before both of you dissolve into happy giggles.

“Kind of,” he explains once you both settle down, “I have this specific feeling in mind that I need to convey.”

“You'll do well,” you reassure softly, “your lyrics are always so beautiful. Remember Cover me?” you smile and he scratches the back of his ear, a shy grin spreading across his face.

“You still listen to it?” he asks and you nod eagerly, attempting to belt into Seungmin’s ending high note. You fail horribly and Hyunjin throws a crumpled piece of paper on your face to get you to stop singing.

“My poor ears,” he laughs loudly, and you retaliate by throwing back a pillow on his head.

“You just don’t get my artistic abilities.”

“I’d get them more if you stayed silent.”

You gasp, faking offense as you stand up to tickle Hyunjin on his chair, he starts squirming immediately, his loud giggles spilling all over the room, coating it in vibrant hues of happiness, and you’re suddenly captivated by the sight of him— his head thrown back, a golden lock framing his laughter-filled eyes, his top lowering slightly to reveal glimpses of his collarbones and the delicate veins that trace enticing paths on his neck.

You pause, your hand hovering over the side of his stomach, as a long-forgotten warmth spreads through your heart, like the first rays of dawn greeting the earth after a long winter night. It doesn’t diffuse quickly through your being, but rather drapes like sticky honey on your veins, making you well aware of your growing blush, of how beautiful Hyunjin is in his joy.

“Never singing to you again,” you clear your throat, laying atop his bed once again, and quickly reaching for your phone, anything to avoid his eyes which rival the crescent moon outside his window.

Hours pass before a warm hand gently settles on your shoulder, rousing you from your slumber. Blinking away the fog of sleep, you find Hyunjin leaning over you, his grin wide and infectious. “Wake up,” he whispers, but you only groan, burying your face deeper into his pillow.

He doesn’t yield, taking hold of your wrist and guiding your drowsy figure upright, before wrapping the blanket snugly around your shoulders. Without a word, he leads you out onto his balcony, carefully putting his neon green beanie on your head to shield you from the cold.

“It’s snowing!” he smiles, and his excited tone manages to dissipate the fog in your mind. You blink repeatedly and soon enough, you too behold the fallen snowflakes, each one resembling a tiny speck of light bidding farewell to the sky to greet the earth.

“You missed the first snow so I didn’t want you to miss this one too,” he explains, and his thoughtfulness blankets you with a warmth that seeps into every crevice in your body, drips down your fingertips and makes the cold of 4 a.m. seem less harsh, less biting to the touch.

You don’t know how to say thank you, because those two words don’t encapsulate the depths of gratitude that you feel for Hyunjin. Because he is speaking to the person within you who still loves snow, the part buried underneath layers of dust from a ground heartbreak. But you still manage to hear him, and you squeeze his hand tightly, and he doesn’t let go until you finally do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Remembering has become easier for you these past two months— both the good and the bad. And each day, the scale tips towards one side or the other. Sometimes you recall the suffocation you felt with him, the feeling that no matter what you did you could never please him, that your hands were crafted to break rather than mend. And on those days your wound grows, it throbs and bleeds different emotions.

Sometimes it's anger— at him for treating your heart so carelessly as if you were a being devoid of feeling. And then at you— for staying, for giving him excuses and desperately searching for goodness within him, for the one redeeming quality that would convince you he was worth the pain.

And other days bring an excruciating sadness along, a weight that presses down upon you until you're paralyzed. Because you feel bad for yourself and for everything you went through. Because you’re unsure how to rise when unseen hands push you deeper into the abyss.

And on these days, Seungmin becomes your anchor. He buys your favorite food, skips classes with you, and takes you to your favorite gardens. He talks and he talks and you try your best to laugh because you do not wish to worry him more. It is enough to be your own burden, you do not wish to burden him too.

But when he drops you home, your facade slips away, the smile fading from your face as if it were never truly yours to wear. You are too tired to pretend so you don’t, and Hyunjin doesn’t let you, either. He brews you tea and orders takeout because he knows you lack the energy for cooking. He goes with you on walks and drapes you in pieces of his clothing— scarves and beanies and gloves because he knows you couldn’t care less about a cold when there is a frost coating your bones. He lets you sit in his room while he works on his songs, and while he paints. Sometimes you talk and often you don't need to. But he’s there. He's there with you.

But you also remember the good. You remember your movie night with the boys, Hyunjin building an entire fort for you, adorned with twinkling lights and the softest blankets. How you watched movies until 5 a.m. your bodies so closely huddled together that there was no room left for sadness.

You recall Hyunjin begging you to build a snowman with him at the crack of dawn, the two of you collapsing in fits of laughter as you threw snowballs at one another, your footsteps marking the fresh fallen snow.

You remember being so exhausted after one of your showers that you simply laid atop the couch, gaze fixed on the void, too drained to even untangle the knots in your hair. Yet, it is not the tiredness that you exactly recall, nor the salty tears you shed underneath the scorching water jet. But it is Hyunjin's tender hands as he brushed through your hair, his fingers tracing the nape of your neck, his knuckles ghosting over the slate of your shoulder. You remember whispering that it was a particularly hard day and Hyunjin understanding. You remember him watching many YouTube tutorials to prepare your favorite seaweed soup, only for it to end up being too salty. But you still ate it all, because he made it for you, to lift your wounded spirits. And that alone was enough for it to taste good.

You remember your heart hardening then softening again, breaking then stitching itself back together, closing off then blooming like flowers on the first day of spring. You remember smiling only to cry then smile again. And you remember liking snow, a bit more than you thought you would. Because Hyunjin was there, holding your trembling hand, steadying it enough for you to rewrite your memories with winter.

So, you want to say thank you.

You do not wish to spell it out, because there are too many things to thank Hyunjin for and too few words to do so. Instead, you drag him to the farmer’s market near your home, and you tell him to help you pick flowers.

“I could be in bed watching my favorite show and yet here I am bestowing you with my enchanting presence,” he sighs, not too modestly, as you both eye the array of colorful blooms.

“Okay, Shakespeare, are you done?” you roll your eyes, attempting your best to hide your grin.

“Done annoying you? Never. These are very pretty,” he adds, pointing to the white roses in full bloom, their delicate petals emitting a sweet fragrance into the air.

“I agree, what else should we add?” you ponder, picking out four roses.

“Mm, Hibiscus? The red in the center is so vibrant,” he suggests, taking out his phone to capture the flower.

“Cute. Baby breath’s would look good too,” you say as you gather the flowers, heading to the cashier with Hyunjin trailing behind, still admiring the delicate blooms.

“Can I write a note?” you ask the middle-aged man as he wraps the bouquet in a powder blue paper.

“Sure,” he replies with a smile, and you return the gesture, quickly jotting down your words.

“Are you done?” Hyunjin grins when you return to his side and you nod, exiting the flower shop.

“What do you think?” you ask, angling the bouquet towards him.

“It's beautiful.”

“It’s yours,” you smile, growing shier at the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you, then the flowers, then on you again. “Take it,” you hand it to him, your cheeks flushing like the hibiscus’s crimson core.

“Actually?” he says softly, his fingers trembling slightly as he accepts the flowers and you nod in response. You bite your lip as you watch him take out the note, his eyes softening once he reads the words inscribed in it— thank you for making my winter less cold.

“Should we go?” you say a tad too cheerfully, turning away, but Hyunjin grabs your wrist, spinning you around once more. His fingers trail up your arm, coming to rest gently on your cheek as he leans down to plant a tender kiss there.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. You think that if his soft lips grace your skin a few times more, your nerve endings might forget the harshness they were subjected to. If his gentle hands remain on your cheeks, then maybe, your heart would heal quicker, better. Maybe your past self that you long for would emerge again, maybe Hyunjin would be able to unearth it.

Your hopeful thoughts disappear as quickly as they arrive, overshadowed by a sense of helplessness that crashes over you, all of the sudden. You sense him before you hear him, the familiar anxiety that is only synonymous with your ex’s presence.

“Yn?” the sound of your name feels harsher in his mouth, the syllables spat out rather than spoken tenderly, as they are when Hyunjin pronounces it. Your veins run cold as his voice pierces the air, your heart skipping three beats at once before plummeting to your knees. You wrap your hand around Hyunjin’s forearm instinctively, and he looks down at you, his expression morphing into one of concern.

You’re unsure of what he sees in you— whether it is your pale face, the quiver of your lower lip, or the fear that has coated all your features— but his eyes harden, his brows furrowing as he gazes at the man behind you.

You refuse to turn around, bracing yourself for his next words. “Yn,” he repeats his tone laced with anger, his fingertips grazing your arm as if intending to force you to face him. But before he can touch you, Hyunjin intervenes, swiftly stepping in between you and your ex, shielding you with his own body protectively.

“Leave,” Hyunjin's voice is cold, dripping with a venomous edge you've never heard from him before, his jaw clenching with barely contained fury.

“Is this your new shiny toy, Yn?” your ex taunts and his voice cuts through your being against your will, triggering a flood of memories you've tried so desperately to suppress. Memories of his cruelty, his manipulation, and the pain he inflicted upon you—using your love as a weapon to bolster his own ego.

“What's in it for you?” you find your voice again, though it trembles when you speak. He is the very embodiment of your pain and everything you loathe about yourself. You wish for the ground to swallow you whole, for a bolt of lightning to strike the earth, anything to spare you from facing him.

“It's only been three months, I didn't know you were a whore.”

Hyunjin's fist connects with his cheek before you can register his words. It all unfolds so rapidly that you barely have time to comprehend it. Your ex staggers back, blood trickling from the cut on his lip, while Hyunjin stands before you, his chest heaving with restrained anger, his right hand clenched into a fist, the bouquet still held tightly in the other.

“Fine, I deserved it,” your ex chuckles, his voice laced with mockery as he wipes the blood from his lip. His gaze meets yours briefly behind Hyunjin's back.

“You might not be a whore but you are unlovable, keep that in mind.” He spits out before walking away, crude words that tear at every scab covering your wounds, reopening them with a brutal force. Hyunjin moves to follow him, but you grab his shirt, pulling him back.

“He’s not worth it,” you murmur.

Your words seem to snap Hyunjin out of his haze as he turns to look at you, worry cast across his figure. He moves to cradle your cheeks but you step back, refusing to meet his eyes. He swallows thickly, clutching the bouquet in his hands. “Are you okay?”

You let out a heavy sigh, your shoulders slumping as you shake your head slightly. “Let's just go home,” you whisper, eyes fleeting to his for a split second. All the lights in your gaze are muted.

You’re crumbling before him once again and he cannot stop it, no matter how much he yearns to.

It's long past midnight when you find yourself seated on the floor of your living room, a bottle of red wine placed between you and Hyunjin. You exchange it wordlessly, taking turns sipping from it, the alcohol warming your insides but doing little to ease the ache in your heart. You don’t exactly recall when Hyunjin sat next to you, but you don’t mind. You were too lost in your own thoughts to even register his presence.

“Yn,” he calls out softly and you hum absentmindedly, memories of when your ex spoke your name haunting you, each time he yelled your name, uttered it in disdain as if it was the starting point of everything wrong with you.

“Talk to me, please?” he pleads, angling his body towards your own. But you refuse to meet his eyes and Hyunjin’s heart twists in his chest. He is afraid of all the ugly thoughts that must roam your mind. He wishes he could enter it, open the windows wide, and usher the light in.

“I'm sorry you were dragged into this,” you say, your gaze fixated on the bouquet placed atop the table. The crimson painted on the hibiscus’ petals reminds you of the blood that spilled from your ex’s mouth, and your gaze fleets to Hyunjin's hand, slightly bruised from the punch.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers, “there is nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s as though you don’t hear him, your fingers trailing gently across his scraped knuckles, tears pooling in your eyes the more you stare at his hand.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice thick with emotion, and Hyunjin’s quick to shake his head. “No, don’t worry about it. He deserved it.”

“You didn’t deserve to be hurt.”

“Neither did you.”

Your disbelieving scoff that follows scares him. What if you’re slipping away into a dark place yet again, one void and barricaded, in which the only sound that echoes is your ex’s hurtful words? What if he can’t reach you again?

“If the only person I’ve ever loved says I’m unlovable then maybe I am.”

You’re drunk, you wouldn’t have said such an ugly thing otherwise, wouldn’t have allowed this sentiment to materialize into the air, to take a tangible form apart from your abstract thoughts.

“No,” Hyunjin says in a panic as though he’s trying to quickly pull the brakes on your free-railing thoughts. He cups your face between his palms, your tears falling freely atop his hands but he does not move away.

“No,” he repeats, more calmly this time. “How he treated you is a reflection of who he is. And how you see him is a reflection of who you are. And you wanted him to be loving because you’re full of love. You wanted him to be good because you are a good person. And he can’t stomach that, can’t stomach that you are happy without him so he’s trying to ruin you again.”

“Hyunjin…” you shake your head but he only inches closer to you, his thumbs gently caressing your cheekbones. “No, listen to me. Seungmin loves you so much he couldn’t eat properly for the first few days you stayed here, texted me all the time asking me how you were and if you were feeling better. He isn't good with words so instead he tries to make you laugh. He wishes he could give up parts of his happiness for you.”

A sob swells within you but Hyunjin presses on. “And Minho, he tried to memorize all your favorite recipes so he could cook them for you. It isn’t a coincidence that every time we go over to their dorm it is your favorite food that we eat. He takes more pictures of his cats these days so he could send them to you because he knows it cheers you up.”

“You told me Changbin doesn’t know you well enough to fight for you but when we saw your ex across the campus one day he wanted to get up and beat him. He always asks me if you are well and if there is something he can do for you, anything.”

He inhales deeply, tears welling up in his eyes as well. “And me…” a tender smile graces his lips as he gazes at you, “you make this house a home. I feel like my true self when you are around and loneliness doesn’t come to me as often as it did. Because you are here. You are like a beam of sunlight that lightens up every life you touch, mine first,” he’s baring his soul to you, vulnerable yet resolute. “So tell me, Yn, what’s not to love in you when you yourself are so full of love?”

“Hyune,” you speak the nickname for the first time, and Hyunjin’s heart thrashes achingly around his ribcage. “If you keep talking like this I might end up loving you,” you smile sadly at him as if it is a terrible thing to be loved by you.

“But I don’t want to love you, because I won’t know how to, not anymore. So I'll end up leaving. And I'll long for you, and I don't think I can stomach longing for you from afar.”

“So please,” you place one hand atop his own, wipe away the lone tear rolling down his cheek. “Don’t make me love you, hm? You deserve more than to be loved by someone like me.”

You leave Hyunjin in the living room, alone before the white flowers you gifted him. He doesn’t want to put them away in a vase, for as soon as he grabbed them from your hold, everything around you both crumbled. So he leaves them there for the night, the creamy white petals aglow underneath the moonlight. He spends the night painting the bouquet from memory, but the petals end up too tinged with red, perhaps mirroring the blood his heart refuses to stop spilling still.

He did not realize it before, maybe he blinded himself so he wouldn’t see what was before him all along. But it is all the clearer to him now— that in his attempts to make you love winter again, Hyunjin only ended up loving you.

A week later.

hyune [1:25 a.m.]: i miss you

You and Hyunjin spent the last seven days avoiding one another, well you more than him. He just understood your silent plea when you took a step back the one time he tried to talk to you in the kitchen, swallowing thickly before inching away, allowing you to move past him.

You did not know how to face him after what he said, partly because you were embarrassed by your own response, mostly because even in your drunken daze, his words etched themselves permanently into your memory.

It is his reassuring words that echoed in your brain for the past week, not those of your ex.

hyune [1: 26 a.m.]: and i miss sleeping on the couch

You giggle, shaking your head before replying.

yn [1:26 a.m.]: no you don’t

hyune [1:26 a.m.]: no i don’t ㅠㅠ

but i finished the song

wanna hear?

Walking to Hyunjin’s room feels as familiar as going into your own. And when your gaze finally meets his you can’t help but break into a relieved smile. It was foolish of you to punish yourself, enough people have done that for you already.

“Hey,” he greets tentatively, and you respond with an awkward wave, a moment pregnant with anticipation passes before both of you dissolve into laughter.

“What is this? Are we in middle school,” he teases and you giggle, settling comfortably on his bed once more.

“I know. We are so lame.”

“You are,” he corrects with a grin and you gasp, pretending to leave but he quickly catches your hand, stopping you. “No, please stay. I meant it when I said that I missed you,” he repeats quietly, as if afraid that his confession would make you run away once again.

Your heart aches, the knots in your stomach tightening and unraveling all at once. “I missed you too,” you admit softly, and he smiles, his thumb tracing a gentle path above your pulse before releasing your hand.

“So it's done then?” you ask and he nods, running a hand through his hair with a hint of anxiety. “How do you feel about it?”

“Good. I hope you’ll like it, mostly.”

“I'm sure I will,” you reassure him with a soft smile, and he nods once more, pressing a few buttons before his melodious whistles fill the air once again.

Nothing could have braced you for the sound of Hyunjin's voice that followed, its timbre soft as silk yet imbued with profound sorrow. It's as though he recorded the song on one of his loneliest nights, his honeyed vocals dipped in an excruciating nostalgia that seeps into every corner of the room, every corner of your heart.

In the faded photo, I come across a smile spread across a youthful face, overlapped with the seasons.

Your gaze flickers to Hyunjin as a shadow of recollection dawns on you. You remember telling him that you couldn’t stomach looking at pics of your past, ones in which you smiled so freely because you were blissfully unaware of what was to come.

The night’s so cold that it’s almost unreal.

Because you weren’t aware of the winter that will follow and the biting cold that it would bear, for everything that will go astray in your relationship, for your ex's facade to crack like a glacier succumbing to the pressure of lies and pretense.

I wake up in another silence, and I close my eyes.

You remember Hyunjin confessing that silence haunted him more than words ever could, and you had agreed, sharing how sometimes you shut your eyes, pretending that the reality you woke up to wasn't the one you were living.

The white flower we planted together has bloomed. I do not dare pick it. Now it withers away.

You gaze at the white flowers you brought him, now wilted in the vase placed on his desk, yet Hyunjin refuses to throw them still. You see the card you wrote for him hung on the wall, right next to the dried red rose. He kept it. Though it withered, he kept it all.

So I long for you. And I long for you. And I'll long for you.

You remember the longing you both spoke of, how he understood a feeling you felt so incredibly alone in. How he tried to reassure you when he too was caught in the webs of the past. How you longed for him in the past week. How you wished he longed for you just the same.

So I can keep loving you. So I could be loving you. And morе.

The violin swells and so does the emotion in your chest. You remember him asking you ‘What’s not to love in you’ and how you've spun those words in your thoughts ever since. You remember thinking that if he gave you a few more weeks, just a bit more time, you might have found it in you to believe them.

You see Hyunjin’s glimmering eyes holding yours, you see his heart atop a platter handed to you, and you see the resignation in his being. Don’t make me love you, you told him. You didn’t dare to tell him not to love you in return, deemed it too foolish of thought to entertain.

For he was Hwang Hyunjin, the quiet producer who paints in his free time and who wears his heart on his sleeve. Who remains hopeful, loving, and tender, despite the thorns pricking at his side. Who is beautiful, so much so that he allowed you to see beauty in the universe once again, through his eyes.

How could he love you?

How could you not love him?

“The song,” you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips as you stand, trembling, on your feet. Hyunjin rises too, meeting you in the center of his room.

“It is about you. For you,” he says simply as if his words don’t cause your world to burst at the seams only to mend itself once again, too eager to fix itself and exist in the same timeline as Hyunjin.

“I don't… I don’t know what to say,” you say earnestly, feeling your heart pound in your chest, its beats resounding loudly in your ears.

It is wrong of you to assume he wishes you to say something. He is Hyunjin, the one who finds words in your silences too, after all.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” he shakes his head, taking another step closer to you. “I don't want an answer, I don't wish to pressure you. I just wanted to tell you that my love is here, it is yours to take or to leave, to cherish or to discard. But it is yours, because this is who I am. I am someone who loves you.”

“So do not tell me to forget you because I don't know how to. And don’t tell me that you’ll leave because I will love you still, because you’d still be you, near or far, you are you. And you are someone I long for.” He pauses, his voice softening. “And I long for you, Yn, more than anything I've ever longed for. And I've spent all my life longing.”

His lips meet your forehead tenderly, and you feel your entire being grow limp at the chaste kiss, as if your limbs wish to liquefy and form a puddle on the floor. His touch is soft, and you miss it the moment he parts from you.

“There must be something in this room that keeps on making you cry,” he smiles and you bring your hands to your damp cheeks, surprised to find there tears you didn’t realize had fallen.

“It’s you,” you pinch his arm playfully and he squirms away from your hold, stabbing his toe on the desk in the process. A loud fuck echoes around the room, and your laughter dissipates the tension clinging into the air.

“Can you play it again?” you request softly and Hyunjin’s theatrics fade as a shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Is it good?”

“It's everything to me.”

“It's called ‘long for you’, by the way.”

“Long for you,” you repeat quietly. There has never been a prettier combination of words.

The title all but makes sense as you lay on the bed, your gaze fixed on the paintings hung on the wall, Hyunjin sketching quietly on his desk, the song resonating softly in the background. You've longed for many things in your life—the person you once were and the tender love you once craved—but amidst it all, nothing has weighed heavier on your heart than the longing for the man sitting just two meters away, almost in your loving grasp. Almost.

❁ ❁ ❁

It is an excruciating five days that Hyunjin spends apart from you, the both of you too caught up in your assignments to find a moment to properly speak. But you do not shy away from him when he greets you, and your grin is kind as it drapes across his being, and Hyunjin swears he has never seen a prettier sight than you smiling.

On the sixth night, Hyunjin completes the cover for the song— a figure wrapped around itself protectively, mirroring the way you hug yourself in your sleep. He hangs it on the wall, right next to your thank you card and the white bouquet he drew once again, wishing to properly immortalize its beautiful flowers, to purify that memory from the tumult that followed it.

On the sixth night, the house is quiet, the full moon high up in the sky, snowflakes falling softly to the ground. Hyunjin wonders if you too mimicked the snow’s descent— both of you falling apart with it.

But then, there’s a knock on his door.

His heart catches in his throat, his body freezing as if it forgot how to move. You are here.

“Come in,” he manages to say, his voice barely above a whisper. You push the door open, and Hyunjin's words wilt on his tongue as he sees what you're carrying—another bouquet, filled with white flowers, yet again.

“Hey,” you smile, standing by the door.

He remains silent, unsure of what to say, or how to speak. He longs for you when you are away, even more so when you’re before him.

“We shouldn't let these white flowers wither away too, right?” you smile slightly, placing the bouquet on the desk before walking to Hyunjin’s bedside. His voice falters, vocal cords refusing to move and overshadow your voice.

You sit beside him, gently pulling his hand so that you’d both lie on the pillows. Your hand doesn’t leave his own, instead, it moves to rest on his cheek, reminiscent of the many times he had cradled your face before. Inch by inch, you close the gap between you, nuzzle the tip of your nose against his own. “Hi, Hyune”, you say softly, and he swallows thickly, his voice coming out just as quietly.

“Hi, my Yn.”

“If we take care of the white flowers together do you think they’ll survive a bit longer?” you ask, your gaze never wavering from his, countless stars twinkling in the depths of your irises.

“I believe so,” he says tentatively, too aware of the warmth of your palm against his skin, of the sweet ache unfurling within his being.

“Mm, and even if they wilt we can always buy new ones. We can learn how to care for them better, with time,” you say, and he nods in agreement, laying his hand atop your own, tilting his head to bestow a chaste kiss on your palm.

“With time,” he echoes softly and you smile, vulnerable yet secure in his gray sheets, in his hold.

“Will you give me time too?” you ask, and Hyunjin reads in your eyes what you mean, understands in the shake of your voice the question you are too afraid to voice. Will he give you time to heal in order to love?

“As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures, pressing his forehead gently atop yours, and you both close your eyes, as a running warmth encloses you both, blooms a blush on both your cheeks.

His arms wrap around your back, drawing you close until your chests are pressed together, your head resting naturally in the curve of his neck. And it is long forgotten in your mind, all the nights you slept in this very bed alone. You feel safe, safe enough to long for love knowing that it patiently awaits you behind the door, once you find enough courage to turn the doorknob. You feel serene, as Hyunjin’s warm palms glide soothingly up and down your spine, as every muscle, every nerve, every atom in your being relaxes in his hold.

You are healing, slowly, with each fleeting second that passes in which Hyunjin’s heartbeat resounds within your chest, as its melody runs through your veins, melds with your own as if it was destined to be there all along. As you rest in Hyunjin, as you find a safe home within his soul to discard your worries at the doorstep and breathe.

“It did get better,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Hm?” He leans back to look at you, and he’s so beautiful, so tender as he gazes at you, you can’t help but trace the contours of his face with your fingers, hoping to commemorate him with your eyes, with your touch.

“You promised me it’ll get better, and it did,” you smile, as your legs further intertwine with his, and his rose perfume becomes an indelible mark on your skin. “Too bad I can't hit your pretty face now,” you joke and he giggles, tipping his head back.

He's so beautiful, body and soul, and he longs for you, you alone.

“But I can still do this,” you murmur before finally pressing your lips against his like a boat finally reaching the shore after months of sailing. You both exhale, in yearning, in relief, as your mouths move together in a slow, languid dance, his hand finding the pulse on your neck, yours settling atop his jaw.

He would kiss you again, this intimately, in the coming months, when your heart expands enough to contain the love Hyunjin deserves. He would kiss you again, when your past comes to haunt you, and healing sounds like an elusive myth you’d never encounter in your life.

And he would kiss you again, over the kitchen table and under the fridge’s light, in between paintings and in supermarket aisles, while picking flowers and watching the first snow.

He would kiss you, this tenderly, in the next winter, and the ones after it, as if his longing for you never wanes. Till blow three disappears from your memory, till all you remember is the love, the true one, the kind one, the soft one Hyunjin alone could have brought you.

[diejager]

how does a (monster AU) phoenix! reader sound? ...I kinda imagine 141 (except price) getting a heart attack when reader takes a bullet and bursts into flames and then a heap of ash, and then (im pulling a harry potter description of pheonix but its ur choice) the most ugly bird or something pokes their head out of the ashes and they're like '...oh'.

I remember watching Fawkes burning and turning to ash before he popped his head out. So adorable.

Ashes Cw: burning, death, rebirth, tell me if I missed any.

Ghost knew when someone was lying, able to sniff out a liar within a mile. Your dimmer smile, shorter laughter and exhaiusted expression, nothing seemed to make your days better than a warm bump of tea once or twice a day to sooth the ache in your bones and the strain in your muscles. He’d approach you with a clear mind, wanting to get to the bottom of your sickness, why you’d occasionally cough, voice weak and breathy until it cracked. You told him you were fine, that it was just the weather affecting you, but he’d seen this kind of sickness before, a cold that sunk into the bones and clogged every sinuses with intent —sick and vulnerable.

He wasn’t alone in this thought, Alejandro and Gaz shared similar doubts, coming forth to Price with their fears rather than sneaking around like he did, but Price had waved them off, telling them that it was a seasonal thing, you got sick from time to time and rose back from it as if death failed to catch you. This did not seem like something simple and mundane, Ghost could see death follow you like it followed him, it was ever present, so much so that Alejandro and Horangi - the two with the weakest nose out of the four - could smell it ooze off you like a dark miasma plaguing your body.

It seemed as if the both of you shared something that the others weren’t privy to, a low whisper in the dark that they failed to catch or the secret you shared through confidentiality higher than even a colonel. The captain knew you before you joined them, forming a tight connection through past trauma and fuck ups. Perhaps that’s why Price seemed almost chipper about your saddening state.

It seemed that Ghost was kept in as much darkness as the rest, the higher ups had kept it hidden from him, from König and from Alejandro who should’ve had the jurisdiction to have access to your documents. Especially after seeing you burst into flames after being shot in the neck by a surviving sniper (Ghost was quick to shoot him down), body gone in a coud of ash and dusted feathers. He panicked, but he wasn’t the only one to rush towards what remained of you. Despite their panicked mumbles and frantic thoughts, Price had reassured them that it was normal, that you were still alive —all they had to do was wait a few seconds for you to reappear.

Appear you did, a small, ashen head, beak the length of a child’s thumb, small ad brittle, big, rounded eyes blinked at them, narrowed in confusion until you called, a tiny croon from a chick’s throat. You shuffled your way through the mess, featherless wings flapping as you hopped towards Price, who quickly met you half way, picking you up with one nimble swoop.

“Look at you,” Price cooed, pressing his thumb to your forehead, feeling the soft, newly grown feathers that glowed white, “About time you burned, yeah?”

“Fuckin’ hell,” it was the only thing he could answer with when his mind was building up these theories, every little thought in his head went to understand what and how you were made. It was as close as Soap’s Steamin’ bloody Jesus or König’s dumbfounded Was.

“Is that why you told us not to worry, Captain?” Gaz’s ability to think clearly in adrenaline-inducing moments was a blessing, able to restrain his unending thoughts to connect two together and conjure up a sentence - a few words, a mumble or a plea - to understand whatever happened to you. “What happened?”

Price let out a deep rumble, a laugh from his belly, deep and amused, a striking contrast to their worried frowns. He handled you softly, petting and pinching at the young feathers growing on you while he turned you around, showing them how Price held you with such careful ease and soothing smile. Ghost doubted that Price didn’t have any prior experience in caring for you, seeing how loving he was with you —like a lover caring for his sickened, or a dragon guarding his treasure, Ghost wasn’t sure which one was right.

“Hunter’s a phoenix, “ he smiled softly, eyes gleaming with too much glee, a silent laugh at their sudden bewilderment, approaching you slowly to admire you themselves. “They burst to flames every three years or so, the last one was around five years ago- long overdue for a reset.”

Soap and Horangi were the first to attempt to touch you, the excited dog and the curious feline, tentatively poking at you with a finger until you pecked it, annoyed by their incessant jabbing. You let out a shrill cry from your throat, small and hilariously fierce for something so small and fragile. You crawled to the ends of Price’s fingers, wings flapping to urge them to pick you up instead of pointing a finger and cooing at you as if you were an exotic animal. You somewhat were —exotic, that is.

“A wee thang, aye, Cap?” Soap awed, cradling you in his palms, you weighted so little, as light as a feather on Gaz’s wing.

“Ugly as a rat too,” Horangi snickered, making light of the situation that had made their hearts stop.

You screeched, shaking your head wildly at him, his shoulders bobbing while you showed how offended you felt by acting out, an angry, little chick putting on a show of aggression and courage. His dark thoughts receded, Ghost’s fears and demons falling back into the depths of his mind when his eyes met your beady ones, round and doe-eyed, your age shining through the innocence of a newly-hatched. It made him wonder how you’d look once your feathers grew out, would you be as majestic as the stories portrayed phoenix did, with your great wings and great strength, feathers bathed in the sun’s warm embrace and tipped with the power of undying flames of power. Phoenixes were seen as symbols of immortality, resurrection —of life and death. Untouchable by death and favoured by life, you would live in a cycle of ashes and flames, embers cracking until it softened to flickers, a soft, gentle flame ready to yield to nature.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143

[yeyinde]

in undertow | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

They won’t shut up about why he wears the mask. 

This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before. 

Maybe, then, it's the rookie inside of you still burning to be included, to be acknowledged, accepted, that makes you flick your mic on with a single press of your stupid little finger. Makes you open your stupid little mouth, and say: 

"You're all wrong, boys; he's just keeping my seat warm." 

(a joke at your lieutenant's expense has unexpected consequences.)

part ii

tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; face-sitting: oral - f!receiving; female!reader; male-solo: Ghost makes himself cum whilst drowning in pussy; some plot. kinda. but it’s mostly 7K+ of clownfoolery

notes: Ghost eats pussy like he’s starving. that’s it. that’s all, folks. 

(also, this is so thirsty. this man is making me feral. send help pls)

*bonnie-scottish term of endearment, kinda similar to hen or lass, and is not a name. MC is not named.

  It's not uncommon to tune into a channel on downtime, and hear your Lieutenant being mentioned in some manner or another. 

Ghost is infamous. Legendary. The men in your unit, and the ones you ally up with, are–in equal measure–his biggest fan, and his bitter rival. 

It's all one-sided, of course. If Ghost was any other man, you'd confidently say that he didn't even know who they were, but he isn't. And he does. Which, of course, makes the rivalry all that more bitter, blistering, when he refuses to acknowledge their challenges. 

He proves himself time and time again, and isn't even trying to. 

So, they flex their arms– see, bigger than yours –but he hardly notices, much to their chagrin. 

Sometimes, they'd turn to you–the unofficial arbitrator, a denomination that seemed unanimously decided on by the whole team; Ghost, bemusingly, included–and ask stupid questions:

Who's arms are bigger? Mine, come have a feel, lass. 

Ghost seemed decidedly tolerant of these moments, watching with those dangerous eyes as your hands flexed around the bulk of your teammates' bicep, cooing cloyingly at him. Ooh, working out, I see. Feels like the leg of a fawn!  

Now 'im, they'd say, your heart would warble in your chest.

A strange, off-rhythm pulse that almost hurt. He'd match your gaze when you looked over your shoulder, peering at the imposing man lurking in the midst of everyone else. Firm, steady. Unflinching. He'd hold it, always.

He does that, doesn't he? 

When Ghost looks at you, the air in your lungs dissipates; dissolves into ashes, then into smoke. 

(Sometimes, he stares at you, and it feels like a challenge. Like he's waiting for something.) 

Your smile folds, wan. Lieutenant–

Go on, then! He ain't bigger than me.

It turns several shades of apologetic when you slide up to him, palms spread flat, docile. Walking up to him feels like approaching a predator. Any sudden movements, and he'll have your neck between his jowls. He never would, you know this deep down. But still. 

You, uh, don't have to let me. 

His head would duck down–too tall to look at you without bringing a kink to his neck–and his eyes would waver in the light. Midnight black to charcoal. Smoke. Ash. The same taste in your lungs. 

S'alright. He'd prop his arm up for you, eyes dancing. Best get it done with before these geezers get into a fit.

He doesn't look away. Doesn't break contact. It's intense. Too much. 

You demure.

You're not submissive to anyone. Your teammates, the enemy, politicians–no one makes you break. No one makes your chin lower to your chest, your eyes drop. You can't–not, really. Not here. Not in this world where everyone is looking at you like you're too soft, too vulnerable, to be of any use. When even your teammates slip sometimes, try to carry you despite knowing how capable you are on your own. 

The hurdle you have to fling yourself over just to prove yourself to your teammates, your backers, is a skyscraper. 

They call you Nile –the moniker born from the startling resemblance to the aggressive, territorial crocodiles that live in the water–and you do your best to live up to the comparison. 

You don't shy away from anyone. 

Except him. 

Your eyes fix on your feet. Hands tremble as they slide over the hard muscle of his biceps–firm, unyielding: flesh-covered iron. Your stomach in knots. Chest too tight. 

Ghost's eyes are glued to your face. His muscles flex under your exploratory fingers. Ticking, bulging. His flesh jumps when you touch him. The heat of his skin sear your fingertips, so hot you think it might burn the prints off your hands. 

You both love and hate these moments. 

When hypoxia flashes through your head–dizzying, nauseating–you step back, clear your throat, and stammer out the winner. 

Ghost, always Ghost.

His eyes are shades lighter. Slate-grey, now. Amusement, you think. 

The men around you riot, demanding a rematch. 

(You blame it on testosterone.)

One such occurrence happens to be right now. The comm is clogged with feverish conspiracy theories as to why Ghost wears the mask ranging from the grounded (to conceal his identity–he's a big OP: can't go showing his ugly mug to everyone) to the absurd (he's probably hideously deformed; heard he took a hit to the face–considering what I heard is under there, I'd say he's doing us all a favour), and everything in-between. 

This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before. 

Maybe, then, it's the rookie inside of you still burning to be included, to be acknowledged, accepted, that makes you flick your mic on with a single press of your stupid little finger. Makes you open your stupid little mouth, and say: 

"You're all wrong, boys," you purr, eyes fixed on the weapon you were tinkering with. "He's just keeping my seat warm." 

The line goes pin-drop silent. A poignant shush. It's so eerily, unnaturally quiet on the comm, that you look up, blinking. Was it frozen? 

You glance at the computer, checking the channel to see if you'd changed it by accident. It's on. And–

Open, it says. Open mic. Open broadcast. 

It never occurred to you to check the channel they were using. 

It's not a private one between groups; it's the main one. 

Why would these bellends use the main comm to talk about a man, their superior officer, on the channel he preferred, the one he was always tuned into? 

You pale. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

You blame your stupid little mouth, and testosterone. Mostly, testosterone. 

Maybe, Ghost wasn't listening. Maybe, he –

"Jesus Christ," Soap groans after several agonising seconds. Soap, who was on recon with Ghost. Soap, who was with Ghost. Soap who –

The line falls dead once more. No one says anything. Not even a murmur of how well and truly fucked you are. Then, it crackles again. You jump, tensing. Please be some stupid rookie. Please be someone else. Please don't be–

"Fuckin' hell," comes the brassy timbre, the sandpaper tone scratching your ear. 

You shiver. You're fired. No, no–they can't fire you, you know too much. You're dead. You're–

"Rookie," he barks. You struggle to stifle a whimper. "Report to me when I get back." 

You weakly stammer out a yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir.

"And everyone else – get off the main channel." 

    Nervous would be an understatement. 

It's the crushing weight of utter humiliation, embarrassment, and shame all admixing into an imbroglio of dire consequences looming ahead. Your stomach is in knots. 

There are murmurs of sympathy from the others when they eventually make their way back into the pseudo-compound, but you notice none of it. Eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete. Shoulders up to your ears. Cheeks stained the colour of the Russian oligarch you gunned down the night prior. 

Nile is nowhere to be found. You're no longer the wet-behind-the-ears Rookie, barely of legal age, as you clamber through the ranks in a spiteful, feverish effort to prove yourself. Now, a fully fleshed adult: moulded by your determination and grit to persevere.

You're the little girl pushed to the pavement. Skinned knees, blistered palms. Drenched in rain, and told you're not enough. 

"Fuck me," comes the slurred drawl of Soap. You flinch. 

"Yeah," you agree. 

No words need to be said. You're done. Over. You stroke the barrel of your rifle, and wonder if you'll be forced into an office job, running the numbers, working in a barren cubicle that sinks of fresh paper and ink. The only action comes from Martha's affair with Josh in Finance. 

"Y'know…," he adds, because apparently, some words need to be said. Your gaze flickers toward him. He leans against the metal pillar, arms folded. "Never seen the Lieutenant speechless before." 

You let out a whimper. Fucked, royally, of course–Soap only confirms what you already know. What you've known the moment you looked up, a stupid little smirk on your stupid little face, and saw the meagre amount of respect you clobbered together from your Lonewolf–actions have consequences and if it were you or the mission, don't even bother asking what his choice is Lieutenant being summarily flushed down into the depths. Obliterated because you couldn't keep your stupid little mouth shut. 

Because you heard ugly and deformed and immediately thought of smoke. Ashes. Gasoline. Gunpowder. Firm biceps that leapt at your touch–the only man to do so when you feigned annoyance and reluctantly felt them up–and the velvet steel of his bulk. Your hands didn't fit around the thick of him. It made your head dizzy. Made your heart ache. Heat throbbing between your legs in a way that most men never even accomplished with you spread out and willing. And–

Eyes darker than the ocean, framed by ashen lashes that fluttered when he glanced down at you, brushing over the coal smeared around his face. 

You thought of him–that stupid Cockney mouth and those stupid jokes–and how – how stupid he makes you, and you – 

Stupid.

Full stop. End. Done. Fin. 

Maybe, you can grovel for transfer. Please don't kick me out completely, I've done so much to simply prove myself – more than most of the men here because I've had to, and I don't want to lose it all because I'm–

"Stupid." You spit the word like a curse. 

Beside you, Soap huffs. 

"Ain't the only one, bonnie."

    Shame blisters your cheeks, and the burn of it makes you a coward. Weak. 

You spend the rest of the day idling away in your makeshift quarters (a closet, really) in the compound loaned by the government who requested your aid. Stiff-limbed, you lay back on the cot, and try to commit everything around you to memory. 

Noises from the men downstairs. Chatter and laughter. Loud and raucous. The heady scent of testosterone is thick in the air, mixing with the cloying tang of cigarette smoke, cigars, and the bitter taste of gun oil. Kerosene rich, and stifling. 

The bed is lumpy, but in the middle of nowhere luxury is hardly needed when you're making a massacre of men who want to start a war. It's far more than you'd gotten before. Alvarez jokes, saying at least it isn't the ground. You're inclined to agree. 

Your gear sits in the corner, tightly packed as it had been when you'd first arrived, and dropped it there. You never unpack your things. Experience gives you the foresight to know it's useless, dangerous. Your location can be slipped at a moment's notice. Gunfire ripping through the metal on a whim. 

Ghost never unpacks, either. Soap. Most of the men here don't.

But now you wish you had.

The pile of it feels like an omen as it sits, mocking you; ready to go when you're given the boot. 

You wrench your eyes away from it when the salty burn of tears you haven't shed since Porthmadog rear. It's fine. You clench your fists into tight balls by your side. It'll be okay. You'll get on–your experience and insight make you a desirable name to have; someone lusted after when they needed intel only you managed to wiggle out, and get. Another team will be easy to find once the politicians paying for them read about your exploits. 

On paper, anyway. 

Nile is a name that makes their fingers spasm. 

You, however, are a name that makes them hesitate. 

You'll have to start at the bottom again. Kissing the gravel with your palms once more; struggling to find your foothold along the chossy that wants you weak. Wants you broken, and docile. Obedient. 

Ghost never asked that of you. 

He looked at you, hands curled into half-moons by your side, eyes unwavering as you glared at the man backing the mission, and ground out your accomplishments like you were spitting in his face. 

"I don't know…" he started, hesitating; his eyes flickering down the length of your body. Too small compared to the men they'd seen before you. Too fragile. Giving. 

All at once, you were back in Porthmadog. Salt on your cheeks. In the air. Your throat. Gravel digging into your palms. Broken down into a crushed shell with nothing inside. It was the day you realised you were empty. Hollow. Nothing. Vacant. A vacuum. 

Worthless. 

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? Ghost speaks for the first time, and your eyes find his through the palpable cloud of rejection. So, what've you got to lose, soldier? 

Soldier. Not girl, not Dame, not Duchess, Princess. Soldier. 

You square your shoulders, eyes blazing. Everything, you vow. All the substance you pushed inside of the barren landscape of who you once were, filling it with purpose, and dignity. A reason to live. A reason to be. Everything. 

His head tipped back. The whites of his eyes were fuller under the flushed lamp on the desk. 

Inside, you could almost glimpse that same emptiness you found when they'd broken you into pieces, and nothing spilt out. 

"A'right." He nods. "Welcome to the team." 

The team. The patchwork family of people far too unhinged to fit into the rest of the world. Names and faces came and went. Many were lost to the effort, to the cause. Time to mourn took place outside of this microcosm when no one was around to see you break. 

You'll miss them. It rings out in the hollow gap between your rib and your heart, an aching sting that has your hands spasming around the sheets to stem the sudden hurt. Fuck, you'll really miss these goddamn idiots. 

And Ghost, too.

The prickly leader who says he'd sacrifice all of you if it meant finishing the mission, but still throws himself into the fire so none of you gets burnt. The man who bites at your heels, snaps at your attempts to get closer, but brushes his fingers along the seam of your arm, chin jerking toward the only closet in the compound where he'd dropped your cot. 

Up there, soldier.  

He's a bastard of the worst kind. Surly, mean, and gruff around the edges, but he's a good man despite what he says. He's a great leader–the best, undoubtedly, that you've ever had. That you will have. 

And you might be a little bit in too deep already. Washed out to sea in the middle of a hurricane, and left floundering as waves crashed over you in the form of a brutal, off-limits affection for a man who keeps everyone at a distance. 

Maybe, this is for the best. Leaving here now, when these feelings are simply tugging at you, and not yet dragging you under. It might be a better alternative than being discovered with your head under the waves, and your lungs filled with salt from the sea. 

It's better this way, then. 

    The call comes hours later. The compound is empty. Silent. Your comm rings, and it feels like a guillotine being hoisted into position. 

Right. 

You haul yourself out of the cot, and go meet your end. 

    You will yourself not to demure under the heavy slate of his eyes, but it's futile. You wilt, pathetically submissive to this behemoth of a man. Face downcast, shoulders hunched. 

"Let's not fuck about, alright?" the gritty timber of his voice makes your chest shudder. 

You nod. Sharp, and deep. Dutiful soldier. You brace yourself for it. He won't draw it out. He isn't the type. 

But you falter when his hands tug on the end of his mask. 

"Keepin' it warm, huh?" He asks, but you know by the tone alone that it's rhetorical. 

"Sir, I–" you falter, stammering into a terse silence. What excuse do you have? 

"Well," he asks, lifting his head. Eyes brand your body. The command is clear. "Aren't you comin' to take your seat, Rookie?"

You sputter. Shattering. The world as you know it flips on its axis. Upside down and wrong. 

It's a joke. It has to be. A cruel one. A bad dream that will leave you in aching shambles when you wake, stealing with it a piece of yourself that you'll never reclaim. Another etch in the exterior of who you are. A fracture. 

"S-sir–," you gasp, choking on the word when his hands lift, pulling up the bottom of his mask until a full, pink mouth is revealed to you. "What–"

"It's gettin' cold, now." 

Seeing him speak is blindsiding. You're so used to painted jowls moving, a mockery of bared, white teeth, and a warped jawbone. This is – this is too much. This is – 

Not good. 

Ghost doesn't seem bothered at all when he settles, leaning on the back of the desk, eyes burning through you. Bulging forearms cross over his massive chest. The ripple of ink flexing, breathing, with his impatience that thrums in the air like a heartbeat. 

"Best hurry up." His tongue–his fucking tongue; blood-red and wet –flicks out, gliding over chapped lips.

"Lieutenant–," his title is a strangled wince from the depths of your bewilderment, flavoured with uncertainty. "This is–is a joke, yeah?"

His head tilts. "Do I look like the joking type?"

And that's such a misleading question. So utterly stupid, you choke a little on a bark of hysterical laughter. 

"How am I supposed to answer that?"

"Or were you joking, soldier?" 

The breath sucked in between clenched teeth is audible. 

"Fuckin' hell," he rasps in response. "Then stop muckin' about and get over here if you want it."

If you want it. 

He addresses the power imbalance by placing the choice in your hands. By giving you the freedom to decide what to do with this. Take the step, or leave his office, and never speak of this moment again. 

If you stay– sit on his face –you're not entirely sure how you'll handle being around him afterwards. Will it be a–a thing? A one-off? 

And could it just be a one-time thing for you? Once you have him so intimately, can you forget it, move on? Go back to the pining. The slow descent into an inescapable chasm where you have feelings– blasphemous –for your Lieutenant. For Ghost.

But could you just walk away from this? 

You don't know. Neither question has a clear answer, and you're once again treading frothing waters. Left to sink or swim all on your own. 

Ghost says nothing while you mull it over, but there's a weight in his gaze that makes your stomach prickle with want. A heaviness inside the inky black of his stare that makes your thighs squeeze together, pussy aching with need. 

The choice is pretty obvious.

Your hands drop to your trousers, fingers peeling off the buttons. 

For once, your eyes never leave his. 

For the first time, Ghost is the one to look away. 

His tongue slides out again when you wiggle out of your pants, thumbs crooked in the band of your panties, until you're bared before him. Your trousers pooling at your ankles. Panties caught on your calves. 

His swallow is a gunshot. It clicks in his throat. 

"Christ, Princess." 

You step out of them, licking your lips. "No muckin' about." 

His eyes darken at your words. "Get the fuck over here, then." 

"Is that an order?" 

"Affirmative, soldier."

With your approach, he sinks to his knees on the floor, eyes only for you. His breath is haggard when he catches a glimpse of your cunt when you're less than an arm length away from him, eyes fixed on your mound. 

"M'gonna touch you, now." His head lifts, stare bores into you. 

The brass in his voice makes your belly tingle, makes heat bloom inside of you. It has you whimpering your consent, and the moment it leaves your throat, his hands–fever hot and rough–are on you. 

They settle, heavy and firm, on your hips, pulling your stomach into his face. The plastic of his mask digs into your skin when he presses his covered nose above your mound, breathing in deeply. 

His eyes flutter shut. Ashen lashes brush over the bulge of his mask where it sits, piled up, on the bridge of his nose. You want to reach out, and touch. Slip your fingers through his hair. Cup his jaw. You want to press your mouth against his, and taste the flavour of his tongue. You want, you want – 

His eyes snap open. Black holes. Unfathomably deep, and quivering around the edges. 

"C'mon, Princess," his voice sounds like it was wrenched through barbed wire, smokey and thick. "Kept it nice and warm for you." 

You can't stop the shiver that rockets down your spine at his tone, dark and primal. He looks at you, and you feel like a meal. A lavish banquet in face of a man starved. 

"Fuck, Ghost–" you moan, your hips jerking in his hold. 

"Simon," he rasps, tongue flicking over to taste the skin of your mound. You feel the knick of teeth, grazing and blunt, and it almost wrecks you. He hadn't even started, and your knees are practically knocking together; cunt dripping slick down your thighs. 

His hand glides down the curve of your flesh until he meets the seam of your legs. "Spread 'em, pet. I wanna see your pretty cunt." 

Fuck–

Your knees quiver, almost giving out under you at the base tone, drenched in the slick coil of want, hunger. He's there, hands firm and unyielding on your body, a low chuckle falling from his lips when he catches the shake in your legs. 

"Little fawn is just achin' for it, ain't you?" 

"Please, Simon –" he pulls your thighs apart, peering at the apex where your glistening sex is waiting for him. 

He buries his head in your belly, groaning at the sight of you–all pretty and pink for him, and so wet he can see where it leaks out, drenching your flesh. 

"Fuck, pet," he grinds the words out from between clenched teeth, inhaling deeply as if he can't get enough of your scent. "You're gonna make a mess outta me, aren't you?" 

You've never heard him sound so excited before. The tremble in his voice is enough to keel you over, sending you toppling down into an inescapable abyss where his eyes brand your flesh, and his mouth devours you whole. 

Your hands fall to his shoulders. The plea you utter is painted in the colour of desperation, and it makes his eyes flutter again, makes them spume with that white-hot desire, that dark promise of how much he's going to ruin you. 

He takes one last breath, nose pushed against the bottom of your mound, as close to your pussy as he can get, and he moves. 

One of the things you've never really understood was how a man so massive managed to move the way he did. Agile, lithe. Like his body was elastic. Liquid. 

He's on the floor, mask pulled up high until his nose and mouth are bared to you, and then he's beckoning you forward with a crook of his finger. His eyes burn like wildfires when you tremble down beside him–all of your honed, practised grace dissolving into nothing with just a flick of his too-red tongue wetting his lips for you. 

You fumble, pussy clenching with the thought of having his mouth on you–soon, so soon; and yet, not nearly quick enough–and settle before him, kneeling by his head. 

"C'mon," he snarls, the bite in his tone blistering. 

It has you whimpering, cunt spasming at the urgency, the impatience, in your once-cold leader. Distant, unshakable. You've never seen him so eager, nearly driven mad by the frustration of not already having your weeping slit on him, the taste of you on his tongue. 

You've never sat on someone's face before. When you tell him this, his eyes shudder, blunt teeth digging into his lower lip to keep the filthy groan from rolling out. 

You can't say shit like that, he grouses, his hands gripping your hip, pulling you closer. 

He helps you settle over him, thighs spread over his head, ass resting on his chest.

His eyes are glued to your cunt as it opens up for him. 

There is a war raging inside of you, one that taints the room with the scent of ichor. It fuels you, makes you bite your lip, coy and playful, and notch your knees further apart until you're bared, fully, to him. Fingers slipping over the hem of your shirt, hiking it up so he can see all of you. Teeth sink into the end of it, keeping it up as your hands drop–one to your covered nipple, the other to your soaked pussy. Two fingers glide over your mound, your clit sitting in the V. You spread them slowly, splitting your folds apart. 

Your cunt pulses with the vibrations of his chest as he groans again, low and deep, at the sight of you spread out before him. A breath away from his lips. 

It feels like a battle when his hand grips your flesh until it bubbles between his fingers. You'll be bruised when he's finished–a mosaic of black and blue and purple and yellow; a palette startlingly similar to his own–and it's the notion of his mark on your body, the proof of that his indomitable man, this untouchable entity, was between your thighs, gazing at you as if he wanted nothing more than the pink folds of your swollen slit on his tongue. 

You shiver. Pleasure stroking through your body as your knuckles graze your clit. 

You're not submissive to anyone–can't afford to be in this world–and you feel the swell of that intoxicating confidence return to you, the incipient spume of what made them liken you to an apex predator, one who hunted human men for sport pooling inside of you. 

Does he see it when his lids lift, eyes seeking yours instantly. Does he read in the list of your head? The flutter of your lashes. You drop your shirt. Your hand falls to the side of his face, the brush of his skin on your fingertips somehow more intimate than this. He's warm. Feverish. You burn, too. 

"Is my seat ready?" You purr, belly filling with victory when his eyes twitch, lowering back to your aching cunt. 

"Always," he grunts, a soft sound polluting the word with the noxious promise of more.  

You shudder, panting, now as you rock forward onto your knees, arched over his mouth. 

Ghost's hands settle on the outside of your spread thighs, fingers gripping your flesh. He tugs, harsh and demanding, and you quickly settle, body turning into malleable polymer in his burning hands. He manoeuvres you until your pussy is right where he wants it, eyes flickering up, catching your glossy gaze. He holds it, lashes fluttering as he inhales, deep and long, and then breathes it out through his mouth, warm breath ghosting over your exposed, slick cunt. 

"Well?" He drawls, the word nearly shredded and raw when it slips out of his throat. "You gonna take your seat, pet?"

You shudder again, shoulders tensing so tight, it aches. Pet. Pet. Pet. Fuck – 

"Yeah," it's a whisper, a gasp. Needy and quivering. 

Your hand moves from his face, fingers chilled without his warm skin against them, and you settle it on the desk beside you, muscles in your thighs straining as you slowly position your sopping wet cunt over your Lieutenant's waiting mouth. 

His lips brush the seam of your pussy, and the groan he lets out rumbles over your flesh. Liquid pleasure blooms. He hasn't even touched you yet, and you're already aching for release. Already inching toward that precipice. 

When you're close enough, he pulls; glueing you to his mouth. He wastes no time before diving in. 

His tongue laves over your drenched folds, dipping inside your swollen pussy to dance over your aching clit, your throbbing hole. You press your wrist to your mouth, biting down hard to stifle the moans that threaten to spill out–somehow more taboo than having your Lieutenant eating your pussy out like he's starved for it. 

Pain blooms on the fat of your ass cheek, your surprised gasp swallowing the sound of his hand smacking your flesh.

"I want to hear you," he growls into your cunt, wrecked and drunk off your taste. His words are slurred, accent thick and heavy. Almost incoherent. 

His eyes are pits. Little black holes. The pupil completely eclipsed his irises. Desire spumes. 

When you pull your hand away, settling it on the corner of the desk instead, he flashes his approval, and then buries his face back into you. His tongue is demanding as it licks over your folds, circling your throbbing clit. 

Liquid pleasure seeps from the tip of his tongue to the base of your spine, where it pools into a molten puddle of bliss. It's good. No, it's better than that. It's –

Your head drops back, hips rutting into his mouth, chasing that euphoria his tongue brings when it toys with your flesh, then slips down, pushing into your drenched, fluttering hole. He fucks you with just the tip, groaning when your hips cant into his face, smearing your wetness all over his chin, jaws. He'll be drenched in your slick by the time this is over. 

He's still your superior. Still your boss, technically, but fuck –

Your hand drops from the desk, sliding into the fabric of his mask until a fistful sits in your grasp. A tug makes his eyes snap open, darting up to meet yours. Is this okay? you want to ask, but the question is swallowed by the filthy groan he lets out into your cunt when you pull a little harder, accidentally snatching the hair beneath.

It's good, then. You pull a little more. His mouth drops, panting into you. 

You whine when he stops, hips bucking into his mouth. "Please, please, don't stop–"

"Fuck, Princess," he slurs. "That's it. Ride my face, c'mon."

You're a good soldier. So, so good. You could never deny a command from your superior officer. 

It's clumsy at first–hesitant. A slow roll of your hips, too afraid of smothering your Lieutenant, and having to fess up to being the one to murder him with your cunt keeps you from pushing your core into his face, taking your pleasure. You want to, though. Want to so bad your thighs quiver with the effort of holding back. 

The room is filled with the sticky slick sounds of your sopping centre dragging over his eager mouth. Breathless pants spill from your throat at the obscene pleasure that burrows into your core. 

And his groans. 

God, his noises are enough to make you whimper. Filthy growls into your aching pussy as he eats you up, as if he can't get enough of your taste. As if he's parched and your wetness is the first drink he'd had in years. 

It rumbles through the slick, softness of his tongue, and straight into your clit. The vibrations make your head numb, fuzzy, until you're stupid off the way he devours you whole. 

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes into you–voice reverent as his molten tongue slips inside again, as if he can't get enough of it. "Gimme this pretty lil'pussy. C'mon… yeah, that's it…"

His voice is muffled when your hips rock faster against him, but the praise in his tenor has you shamelessly bucking into his mouth, against his tongue. The sounds wrenched from your throat are wonton, and needy, a breathless plea for more. Fuck, so much more –

His tongue parts your folds, gliding through the drenched slick until he's pressing the tip into your aching hole, splitting you apart. It pushes into you–quick flicks, a pistoning motion; a facsimile of what you want his cock to do to you so badly. It has you keening. Has you riding his face, unbothered whether or not he suffocates between your thighs so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with that sinful fucking tongue that has you singing, has your eyes rolling back in your head, reaching so far you can see the cosmos. 

It's a deep, toe-curling pleasure. The dangerous kind–the one that teases, that makes dark promises against your core about how badly it'll mess you up, get you hooked on the taste of it, and then absolutely delivers. The kind of bliss that has your stomach clenching, roiling with molten heat that happens too fast, you barely have enough time to warn him before you're begging for it, whining for the thickness of his tongue inside of your throbbing cunt. 

His fingers bruise your thighs when they grip your flesh between his fingers, dragging your puffy, drenched pussy over his mouth to suckle on your aching clit until Nirvana flashes behind your eyelids. A whiteout so divine, you nearly slip into him when your knees give out. 

His responding grunt sends pleasure blistering through your core when you lose yourself in the rasp of his tongue sweeping over your weeping slit. 

Ghost's hand leaves your thigh as you tremble through the shockwaves sputtering out, leaking molten bliss through each synapse, each nerve, until you're moaning, shameless and desperate with the release that bludgeons through you.

The world dissolves into white noise. The buzz of it rings in your head as you break apart, ground, once more, down to atoms and molecules that burst with the undulating wave of molten euphoria that drags over you. 

The white static in your head fades in a gradual ebb and flow as the world slowly pieces itself back together again. 

His mouth hasn't stopped. 

He rides you through it all, tongue laving over you as you clench around nothing but the phantom thought of how good his cock would feel inside of your soft, fluttering walls. 

You pant, heaving for air, and grip the edge of the desk tight when his insistent licks become too much. 

"Simon," you whine, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't slow. 

His tongue drags through your folds, thrusting back into you. You clench around the thick muscle, whimpering as whips of pleasure spark through your core once more. 

It's too much, too intense; the pleasure is battered into you until you're forced to accept it, forced to take the bliss he flicks into you with a quivering gasp, and trembling thighs. 

He's not done with you. The taste wasn't enough. 

You lean back, almost desperate to get away from that greedy mouth that consumes you, but the slick sound from behind you makes you pause. 

Pleasure rolls through you again; a molten pulse of agonising want, pulling taut and snapping against you like a rubber band. 

He's touching himself. 

To the taste of you. To the feeling of your pussy drenching his face. 

Fuck. Fuck –

You peer over your shoulder, whimpering when you catch sight of his furious strokes over his hard, weeping cock. The tip is flushed blood-red, leaking spend all over the mushroomed head, and down the long, thick length of him. Your thighs snap together, knees pressed taut to his ears. 

He grunts into you but doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. His tongue fucks into you at the same pace as his almost brutal strokes. Thick prepend puddles around the base of him, soaking his trousers, his hands. His fist. 

"Fuck, Simon," you purr, too blissed, too far gone, to think properly. "You're so big." You grind down against him, eyes fixed on his hand. "I want you inside me. I want you fuck my pussy with your fat cock–"

He makes noises against you that sound like a wounded animal–low bellows into your swollen lips, groans of a starving man–and his relentless devouring of your cunt has your belly fluttering with the lashing of pleasure spooling in your core. It's everything–the hungry sounds he makes as he consumes your taste; the furious, almost desperate way he fists his throbbing cock in his hand, hips jerking into the tight seal of his palm as if he was imagining how the clutch of you would feel around him. 

He could have taken his pleasure in reciprocity. Had you on your knees, sucking him off until he came down your throat. He could have bent you over the desk, and fucked into you like he so clearly wants. 

He could've had you any way he wanted; he put you in any position he desired, and you would have gone willingly, eagerly. 

But he doesn't. 

His mouth glues to you like he can't get enough, like he doesn't want to stop, and he takes his pleasure from the taste of you alone. 

It's –

It's so agonisingly hot. 

The mask is rough between your fingers when you grip it tight, rolling your hips against his mouth–a tease of how you would ride him if he let you–and the sight of him, hips battering into his hand when you move, sinful groans whispered into your slit, sends you plunging into those depths once more. 

It takes you by surprise: the orgasm is ripped from you, stolen by the sight of his cock twitching, spitting out ropes of cum all over his hand, his stomach. 

You keen, toes curling as he squeezes every last drop out, panting into you as he rides himself through it, nose pressed taut to your raw clit, swollen and so sensitive it hurts. 

He grounds out your name, a wrecked whisper into your pulsing slit, and the sound of it has your head dropping, gaze cresting down to gaze at him. 

Simon's eyes are lidded. Heavy. All black. Endlessly so. They flicker up, as if he can feel your stare, and the glazing of pleasure in those slate-grey eyes makes you lose your footing once more, hurtling over the edge of a precipice too steep to climb out of.  

A chill grazes your spine. Fuck. You're fucked. You're absolutely, utterly, irrevocably fucked. 

    He's a mess, absolutely drenched. Slick with your wetness, and covered in his own cum. 

You hate how enticing he looks.

You sit on the ground, knees pressed together, watching him as he cleans up, wiping his hand on his shirt, and then dragging the hem up to his mouth. 

The muscles in his thick abdomen make you squeeze your thighs together, a low throb brimming up at the sight of his inked, bulky flesh. Fuck. He's good-looking. Maybe. You only saw a peak of his face. A glimpse of his chest. But God, it's enough. 

He could be a troglodyte under there, with just a handsome chin, and full pink lips, a long, curved nose, and you wouldn't care. 

You'd gladly sit on his ugly mug any day. 

He releases the bottom of his filthy shirt, and tugs the ends of his mask down. You wonder if he still smells you under there. If it whets his appetite as much as the thought of it does yours. 

There are things you want to say, questions you want to ask, but they slip, reluctant, and–for the first time since Porthmadog– fearfully into the recesses that broke open when you'd said those stupid words. When you came face to face with the hideousness of wanting a man who wasn't allowed to want you back. 

Simon– Ghost, now; Lieutenant–is an amalgamation of every bad decision. He's wrong and off-limits personified. 

It's not that he's a bad man. Far from it. If there were any good men left in this world, then he was undoubtedly one of them. 

But he's an illicit drink. Ambrosia. A forbidden elixir. 

He's a man you're not allowed to want—a man you're not allowed to touch, to covet, to need. 

It's all moot. Rendered out into ashes, dust. You can't have him. 

You turn away when he straightens out. Ghost has the uncanny ability to read you unlike anyone else. He'll see this moment of weakness when your defences are in shambles. 

"Y'alright?"

Your chest thunders at the rawness in his voice. "Y-yeah…"

"Good," he murmurs, hands falling to his sides, shoulders straight. 

You pull yourself together. Try to, anyway, but it's hard when he's staring at your sticky thighs when you shakily stand up, and wrench your pants on. 

"Hey," he calls, softer than you'd ever heard him speak. It makes you tense; the blistering sting of rejection is already there in the periphery. 

"Yeah?" 

He's quiet for a moment, and you risk a peek over your shoulder. It's –

Well. 

It's fleeting. There for a second, and then gone the next. Barely a flicker. Had you not spent a whole year in the desert with him dodging scorpions, and men with machine guns and a lust for blood, you might have missed it. 

But it was there. You saw it in passing. 

His resolve seals over the fissure. His eyes are blown black and distant. 

"We move out tomorrow." 

You respect the fact that he doesn't press, doesn't push. He doesn't ask if you're good, if you're okay. Doesn't try to hash things out when you have death looming over you in a few short hours. He compartmentalises. Draws a thick delineation in the sand, and picks a side. Instant. Effortless. 

Right. 

Your fist quivers. You shove it in the pocket of your trousers. 

When you look up, the gleaming gaze of a crocodile lurking in the murky waters stares back. 

"Roger that, Lieutenant." 

And you leave. It's simple. Effortless. 

(Another hole in the veneer. Nothing leaks out.) 

    A week later, and the world around you is at peace once more. Mission: successful. 

You keep your feelings a tightly guarded secret, and tuck them inside your ribs for safekeeping, unwilling to let them go quite yet. 

You're a dutiful soldier. A professional. You look him in the eye, and don't flinch. You face the men around you, and pretend you don't know what Ghost sounds like when he grunts your name in pleasure. He, in turn, acts as if his breath doesn't carry the taste of you. As if you don't linger behind his front teeth; piquant and damning. 

It's a dance. 

The choreography is new, but the rhythm is the same. You follow the beats, and let him lead you around the ballroom until the cracks inside have been plastered over. Something normal settles–or, rather: something as close to normal as you can get when you can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin. 

Soap looks on with something a bit too keen in his eyes, but mercifully says nothing at all. He isn't the type to pry–least of all when it comes to Ghost. 

The others pick at it like a scab, watching it peel and bleed for their amusement. To them, nothing happened. You got reamed out, reprimanded, and that's all. A slip of the tongue; a joke gone too far. It's nothing new. Stuck in a foreign country with men trying to kill you at every corner, tempers fly. Fists, too. 

When the dust settles, all is forgotten. New again. 

They hear you call out to Ghost over the comm, and when he responds back–tone pinched and gruff like it always is–they know it's done. Dealt with. 

Sometimes, they mock you. 

Never in front of him, of course: not when the last man to do so, tapping his chin with a toothy grin, and a singsong, gotta seat for you right here, doll falling from his lips, was met with the brunt of his Lieutenant's anger. Scathing words that slash, deadly and sharp, pointed enough to vivisect a man clean through the gut. 

"I hope you have a brain in your skull to use instead of just that tiny pecker in your trousers, because if that's the only one you got, I think it's safe to say we're all fucked, aren't we?"

And with that, it's over. Done. 

The world goes back to shades of espionage and counterterrorism. Games of poker between putting a bullet in a man's head. A drink after cutting the throat of a shady politician. Drenched in blood. Dressed in metals. 

When the mission finishes, you find yourself staring at your bags already packed up in the corner, and wonder if you'll ever unpack them one day. 

(You wonder if he ever will, either.)

It's Soap who knocks on the door. "Wheels up in twenty." 

"Roger." 

Soap doesn't usually linger, but today he hesitates. 

You lift your chin and meet his pinched expression. 

"Alright, bonnie?"

The bags mock you. Filled to the brim with things that should be a necessity, but haven't been used in years. It's bursting. Chock full. Pushed to its mettle. And yet, decidedly empty at the same time. 

A picture of what you do, what you are. 

Your head lists to the side. "I think so." 

His nod, too, is sharp and deep. A soldier, a brother in arms. 

"Hey… you, uh… what did you mean by–um." You falter. It's your turn to hesitate. 

"What?" 

"Before, you know… with Ghost." 

The confusion slips deftly into understanding. And then a distinct grimace. "Why?" 

"Curious, is all."

There is a weight in his stare, too, but it's different from your Lieutenant's. Less intense. Invasive. Soap looks at you like you're an idiot. A wet-behind-the-ears rookie nursing a crush on the one man who is firmly off-limits. And really, that's what you are, in a sense. 

In that single degree of separation, you think you find the substance you were looking for all along. You think it's been there the whole time. Mocking you like the bags in the corner. Untouched. Unnoticed. Waiting. 

You suck in a breath at the thought. 

It's not enough. Not yet. You need to know–

You do what you’re good at. You gather the intel.

Soap shakes his head. An imperceptible movement, almost missed. 

But you catch it. 

"Bonnie," he says, heavy. His shoulder sags against the door frame. Then he sighs. Shakes his head. "There are very few people out there that can distract him from a task. From a mission." 

Your heart is in your throat, featherlight. The wings of a small bird preening its plumage. 

Your breath shudders out of you. 

Mission, you think–

"Better know what you're gettin' into."

You smile, wide and bright. Bigger than any you'd carried with you in Porthmadog. "I think I do."  

    He always sits alone on the plane unless he needs to go over the game plan, or discuss positions with others. Head always turned. Eyes shuttered, fixed out the window. 

He never looks up. Never moves. 

You think about that thing you saw. The vague glimmer in his eyes. It's the bolstering confidence you need, the one that carries you. 

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? It propels you forward–a mantra, a gospel–and you use it, now, in this sleepy jet that reeks of men, gunpowder, and sweat. They're all riding high on the success of a victory–one with no casualties on your side: a rarity–and most of them are out cold, or blubbering over finally going home to their family. 

It's an earned break. Deserved. 

You don't know what to do with it. Where to go. Home hadn't felt like home since you sunk your palms into the pavement, and stained the gravel with your blood. Years on the move, living in the shadow, has reduced the idea to a whim, an evanescent thing. You don't quite mourn its loss, but you miss the compunction that used to sit low in your belly when you turned your back to the place, and shouldered your duffle bag. 

Now, it's just another city on the list of many. 

His head lifts when you approach. Your heart stammers, featherlight, and heavy as a paperweight. 

You find his eyes over the pews that separate you. 

Slate. Charcoal. Black holes.

You wonder if he'll tear you apart if you get too close. 

Your fingers ache to find out. 

"Rookie," he grouses, hoarse from the meagre sleep the night prior. It's a bland acknowledgement in itself, but his look alone belies the nonchalance in his greeting. There's a question there. 

You have one, too. 

The sun crests over the plane when it rises, drenching him in ochre. Your smile feels a little too full and a touch too wobbly, when it quirks on your lips. 

His shoulders ease. Eyes drop, lidded and heavy. Unguarded, disarmed, for the first time in years. 

You think if he could, he'd be smiling, too. 

"Is this seat taken?" 

[dmitriene]

THOUGHTS ABOUT SIMON LETTING HIMSELF BE DOMINATED BY YOU.

cw: tooth rotting fluff, comfort as well as emotional, pure smut, established relationship, male and female anatomy, kind of dom and sub energy, ooc simon because of his description maybe, overstimulation, mentions of previous orgasms, p in v, cowgirl position, unprotected sex, emotional sex, creampie, crying after orgasm and from intense feelings, pet names, praising, aftercare, tiny bit of cockwarming, vulnerability. pairing: bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

there's something exhilarating about watching simon not in his usual reserved and tense stance, but in his relaxed face and dark eyes rolling with pleasure, at the muscles limp under your gentle palms, covered in sweat and a light layer of fat that has come with the years.

to be able to give him a gift of relaxation, to turn this man underneath you into an absolute putty in your hands, from which you can mold anything, while he accompanies you with gentle, burning eyes and a chants of your name from his slightly chapped lips.

your shared bedroom is dimly lit, a small lamp somewhere on the bedside table, barely glowing with a yellowish light, now half covered by your underwear, as squelching sounds waft through the air, coming from a source reflected on the wall by two dark silhouette shadows.

simon's grip on your waist tightens, his fingers and short, groomed nails dig into your flesh just slightly as you straddle him with a primal hunger, the friction between your wet, engorged cunt and his pulsating, meaty cock ignites a fiery sensation that courses through your body in sparks that go down to your belly and make you even more wet.

his head tilts back on it's own, exposing the column of his neck and bulging veins, as a guttural moan escapes his lips with bobbing of his adam's apple, the sound reverberates through the room, filled with a raw, animalistic desire that matches the fervor in his brown eyes.

calloused, wide palms roam your body, exploring every curve and crevice with a possessive urgency to squeeze and touch, fingers graze over the swell of your breasts, teasing the sensitive peaks, twisting gently in tandem with your soft, airy whines, while others trail down your spine, leaving a trail of burning fire in their wake, the one that caress you gently, without burning to ashes.

you can feel the power radiating from simon, his muscles taut and ready beneath you, the scent of sweat and arousal that fills the air, mingling with the musk of your bodies, the power of being able to be dominated, laying down there absolutely pliant, at your mercy.

with each movement of your hips, you can feel the throb of his cock, how deliciously his fat tip knocks against your spongy spot and gets you high on pleasure, making you mewl deliciously, thick girth stretches your cunt to accommodate him, to let your pulsing, tight walls milk him dry to all his worth, turning him more delirious with each thrust.

as you continue to ride him with an unyielding determination, your slick walls milking his cock for every drop, a feral, guttural growl escapes his lips — “slow.. s-slow down, darling, f-fuck!„ his slightly wet, brown eyes narrow with a mixture of pleasure and desperation, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, attempting to slow your relentless pace.

but you don't slow your movements, the sound of your ass slapping against his thighs reverberates in the room louder, punctuating the raw intensity of your coupling, the mixture of your fluids, a blend of milky cum and clear slick, coats your folds and his girth, creating a slippery mess that heightens the friction between you.

his cock, once proudly pink and erect, now appears red and angry, the veins pulsating with the force of his previous releases, the short, trimmed hair at the base of his cock is soaked with the evidence of your passion, adding to the primal allure of the scene, his light, scarred skin coated in sweat and bright red marks, muscles hardening before getting limp again, eyes glistening in the dim light, looking just on you.

with each downward thrust, his cock reach deeper, swollen and throbbing with need, pressing against your cervix to knock out your breath and thrusting with each your movement, which only speeds up, making his eyes whiten as he rolls them at the back of his skull, your hips roll faster with each smack of your bare flesh against his, skin jiggling, letting him find on what to hold when his toes curl and spine arches, making you coo.

— “too much for you, pretty boy? gonna cum? fill me, ha — ahh, again?„

simon's dark eyes snap open as your coos of pleasure reach his ears, locked onto your form, his grip on your flesh tightening to the point of pain, fingers spread your asscheeks, exposing every inch of your heated core to the air, while his hands slide to roam your hips, groping the softness and guiding your movements unintentionally.

in response, your cunt clenches around his swollen, bulbous shaft, pulsing with a rhythm that matches the beat of his own pounding heart, the sensation drives him to the brink of madness, his chest rumbling with growls and hoarse moans, his eyes locked onto yours with a predatory intensity, pale lips opened in an «o» shape just so he would be able to babble incoherent pleas with furrowed, thick brows and glinting, fiery gaze — “let.. let me cum, love, just — hnng, let me cum„

his words reach your ears, and with a slight grin and a small grunt, with sudden surge of strength, you stand up slightly, hovering on the tip of his cock that remains nestled inside your dripping hole, and then, with a raw, desperate need, you slam yourself down, taking him to the hilt.

the forceful impact sends a jolt of pleasure through your bodies, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing in the room, mingling with your loud moan singsongs that leave your throat with tingling sensation.

his fat, bobbing upward cock slams against your cervix, causing a white hot wave of sensation to ripple through you, and a strangled, pitiful whiny moan escapes his lips — “ahn! f — fucking hell, love!„ as he shudders beneath you, overwhelmed by the intense pleasure coursing through his veins, making his wide frame tremble and his thighs shook beneath you.

his grip on your ass tightens to the point of bruising, leaving marks of his possession as red imprints, and as his body trembles against yours, you can feel how the base of his cock throb with an insatiable need, aching to paint your insides with his cum again, stuff you full of his potent seed as his cock nestles against your cervix and you plop on him down with each jiggle of your ass and his thrust upwards, broad hips bucking into your sloppy pussy till you clamp on him and he cries out.

simon's body tenses beneath you, his muscles rippling with the strain of his impending release, with a few desperate thrusts of your own, you slow your movements, rolling your hips softly as your cunt clamps around his cock, the sensation triggers a powerful climax within you, causing your body to arch slightly, your grip on his shoulders tightening to the point of bruising, nails digging in his shoulders, whimpering mewls spill back and forth around the room, soaking into the walls of your shared bedroom.

your walls pulsate and contract around him, milking him for every drop of pleasure, and as the intensity of your orgasm triggers his own release, his whole shaft throbbing painfully as his tip spurts forth watery, milky seed, the hot rush of his cum floods your insides, mixing with your own slick and cum, coating your folds and his pelvis in a sticky mess.

his spine arches and his hips buck uncontrollably, a strangled whine escapes his trembling lips, the overwhelming sensation, coupled with the tight, vice like grip of your walls elicits a response that borders on overstimulation, his eyes well up with tears, a mixture of pleasure and vulnerability, as he sobs shakily, still caught in the throes of his release, clear tears drip down his flushed cheeks, pupils blown wide and looking at you through blurred haze, not registering your breathy words until you lean towards his face as gently as possible.

—“hey, hey, si.. simon? come on, shh, it's alright.. it's alright, baby„

your words are a gentle, melodious baritone that caressing his ears and bringing him out of his trance, and his eyes meet yours again, a gentle coo escaping your lips, as with a tender touch, you cup his face, your fingers tracing the lines of his cheekbones, wiping away all wetness, and your lips hover against his to meet in a gentle kiss, a soft press of warmth and intimacy.

as your lips move against his, he gasps, a choked sound muffled by the kiss, his body relaxes into the sheets beneath him, surrendering to the sensations that wash over him, a fuzzy haze envelops simon, his muscles going limp under your touch, letting go, as you gaze at him through fluttering eyelashes and purr at him softly, sound that morphs with the sound of your kisses

— “yeah, just like that, good boy.. doing so amazingly for me, si„

your hands trail down to his neck and shoulders, fingers gliding over flushed, sweaty skin with tender care, the massaging motions elicit a sense of relief, easing the tension that had built up within him so suddenly, his eyes flutter, almost closing as he succumbs to the soothing sensations, his pulse getting calmer by the second in time with his puffing chest.

it takes time for the both of you to find solace in each other's arms, your breaths gradually slowing down in unison, your chests press together, the rhythmic rise and fall creating a soothing cadence as the sweaty skin collides together.

your hands continue their gentle motions, now stroking his sweaty, dirty blonde hair with a tenderness that belies the roughness of the previous encounter, soft lips pepper his face, leaving feather light kisses upon the scars that mark his skin.

with a shaky strength, simon finds the will to wrap his arms around your body, his hands curling against your lower back, the touch is gentle, his fingers caressing the flesh they come into contact with, as he buries himself in the crook of your shoulder, seeking comfort and solace in your embrace, as he confesses his small need in hushed murmurs

— “need to.. stay like this for a while, love, just a bit..„

a softest giggle escapes your lips at his words, the sound carrying a hint of amusement and tenderness, coming with quiet — “as long as you need, si..„ your fingers continue their gentle exploration, combing through the short strands of hair at the back of his flushed neck.

with a gentle tug, you elicit a contented purr from him, the vibrations resonating against your skin, his warm breath cascades over your shoulder, a comforting sensation that sends shivers down your spine.

he leaves a gentle kiss upon the exposed skin, his lips lingering for a moment before he finally allows his eyes to slip shut, the weight of his warm body against yours, the sensation of his softened cock still buried deep within you, creates a sense of intimacy and closeness, as your legs remain intertwined.

you'll change the sheets and take a shower a little later, but for now, wrapped in the warmth and smell of each other, you'll allow yourself to linger in this connection, deeper than usually, with simon's senses open raw for your touch and words.

[misswynters]

Prophecy

[TAGS: sadness, soft aemond, angst

[notes | i need more soft aemond, not proofread

inspired by @demigoddessqueens <3

gif: @barbieaemond @peachysunrize

Aemond stood on the balcony of Maegor's Holdfast, staring out at the smoldering ruins of King's Landing. The twilight sky was heavy with smoke, the scent of ash and death permeating the air. Despair and anger twisted within him, threatening to consume him whole. His family was gone, scattered like leaves in a storm, leaving him to face the desolation alone.

The weeks leading up to this moment had been a nightmare. Aemond’s rage and fear had grown increasingly volatile, and you bore the brunt of his turmoil. Each time you tried to reach out to him, he shut you down with harsh words and cold stares, lashing out in fear and anger.

“Leave me be!” he had shouted one night, hurling a goblet across the room. It had narrowly missed your head, shattering against the wall behind you. You had flinched but stood your ground, refusing to be driven away by his outbursts.

“Aemond, I’m not your enemy,” you had said softly, your voice trembling. “I want to help you.”

He had turned on you then, his face a mask of fury. “Help me? How can you help me when you don’t understand? When you can’t possibly know what it’s like to have everyone you love ripped away from you?”

You had taken a step back, tears brimming in your eyes. “I understand more than you think. But you need to let me in, Aemond. You can’t keep pushing me away.”

His response had been to storm out, leaving you alone in the shattered remnants of his anger. It had been like this for weeks—moments of near-violence, followed by suffocating silence. Each time you approached him, he would lash out, his fear of losing you manifesting as uncontrollable rage.

Now, as he stood on the balcony, the weight of his grief pressing down on him, he felt a familiar dread. His grip on the stone railing tightened, his knuckles white. Memories of a childhood marked by doubt, insecurity, and fear surged to the surface. The tears that pooled in his eye were an unwelcome reminder of his vulnerability, and he despised himself for this perceived weakness.

Footsteps echoed softly behind him, but he didn't turn until he heard your voice. "Aemond?"

He turned slowly, his heart heavy. Your eyes, filled with worry and concern, met his. It was almost too much to bear.

"Would you leave me all the same, my love?" His voice was raw, laced with a bitterness that surprised even him. "Just like my family?"

Your eyes widened with hurt, and you stepped closer. "Aemond, no. I would never leave you. I'm here. I'm always here."

He scoffed, turning away from you. "That's what they all said. And look where I am now. Alone."

"Aemond," you pleaded, reaching out to touch his arm. "Please, look at me."

He remained rigid, the tears finally spilling over. "I don't know how to hold on anymore. Everyone I've ever loved is gone. How can I believe you'll stay?"

You moved in front of him, your frustration bubbling over. "You get like this when you're losing me or when you're being challenged. You shut down, lash out, and push everyone away. But I'm still here, Aemond, despite all of it. I’ve seen the worst of you, and I haven’t left."

He stared at you, anger and confusion warring in his eye. "How can you understand? You don’t know what it’s like."

"You’re right," you said, your voice firm. "I don’t but i can see how it’s affecting you. I don’t want you to end up in a place you aren’t meant for."

He looked away, the weight of your words sinking in. "But what if I can't protect you? What if I fail you like I've failed everyone else?"

"You haven't failed me," you whispered, your thumb brushing away his tears. "And you won't. We will face whatever comes."

Aemond's shoulders shook with silent sobs, and despite his initial resistance, he allowed himself to be pulled into your embrace. "I'm so scared," he admitted, his voice breaking. "I've lost so much...I can't lose you too."

You held him close, your own tears mingling with his. "You won't lose me, Aemond. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this. Together."

He clung to you, his walls crumbling in the face of your unwavering support. As he held you, he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, amidst the ruins, there could be a new beginning.

But then he pulled back slightly, his expression shifting to one of deep worry. "Helaena," he whispered. "She told me something. She said I would die when I go harrenhal and fight a battle at the Gods Eye." Your heart clenched at his words but remained silent since you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t want aemond to die a brutal death, it can’t be true. However aemond pulled you out of your mind as he spoke.

"I've always trusted her visions," he continued, voice shaking. "If she's right...if I'm fated to die, how can I keep you safe? How can I protect you from what’s coming?"

You took his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. "We can't live in fear of what might be. Helaena's visions may come true, but they don't define us. We face whatever comes, together. And if you go to the Gods Eye, then I'll be by your side, no matter what happens."

Aemond's eye searched yours, filled with uncertainty and fear. "I can't lose you," he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

"You won't," you vowed. "Not now, not ever. We're stronger together, Aemond. And we'll face whatever comes, side by side."

In that moment, amidst the ruins and the smoke, Aemond found a glimmer of hope. With you by his side, he felt a strength he had thought lost forever. And though the future remained uncertain, he knew that, together, you could face whatever fate had in store.

tags: @benjicotblckwood @beebeechaos @spn-obession

banner by: @cafekitsune

[madschiavelique]

hi can we get some fluff drabble with girl reader + miguel where he finds himself unexpectedly enjoying being a small spoon but rather die than accept it. if you want you can turn it into a soft smut where he is a whimpering mess because she jerks him off from behind while massaging his chest and leaving small kisses across his neck and back

THIS IS ADORABLE ANON AAAAA

i loved writing this (i might relate a bit too much to miguel in some paragraphs of this fvdsbjsqdhfds)

summary : miguel enjoys being a little spoon (not proofread)

content warnings : fluff at the beginning that turns into SMUT (18+) minors dni, handjob, praise, miguel is so horny for your touch omg, no use of y/n, fem!reader word count : 1,6k

tag list : @fandom-ash

As on many evenings, Miguel had come home late. His professional commitments meant that your life and his could sometimes be out of sync. He was exhausted, and gently laid down on the bed without waking you, lying beside you and kissing your forehead.

He laid down against you, acting like the big spoon as he drew you closer to him in his embrace. Coming back to his flats every evening and finding you there, in bed, all peaceful, was the ray of sunshine that caressed his heart after his day. He closed his eyes, surrendering against you as he drifted off to sleep.

It was only a few hours later that he woke up, his eyes had opened on their own and he had no idea why. Perhaps he was having insomnia? That would be the crowning glory of his exhausting day. Even in his sleep, didn't he deserve a little respite?

Then he wondered if perhaps this awakening was due to his Spidersenses being alerted by something. And that's when he felt it, that pressure against his back, the sensation of something around his waist.

You were pressed against his bare back, your steady, even breath landing tenderly on the back of his neck as your hand rested on his stomach, close to his navel.

He was almost tense, completely alienated by this kind of intimacy, but he was slowly trying to relax, to simply enjoy the feel of your body pressed against his.

He was used to being the one who was the big spoon, the one who protected, who formed a shell of his whole body to protect those he loved. He'd already lost so much, so he couldn't afford to lose you, and that translated into many actions, which of course included being the big spoon.

And the back is a sign of vulnerability. Showing someone your back was proof that you trusted them enough to let them have free rein without fearing that you'd be stabbed in the back.

But he felt so... good, he felt safe, like this, in your gentle arms. In fact, he felt that he could be vulnerable, and that little feeling that he could never admit aloud was starting to grow stronger and stronger in his veins:

It felt like he was taken care of, and he liked it.

Why was it so hard for him to admit that he liked, no, wanted to be taken care of? He was always the one who took care of others, not the other way round, but he couldn't help sighing softly. He was comforted by the touch of your skin against his, by your unconscious embrace of him.

You shifted gently in your sleep, your hand accidentally touching a little lower than his navel, on his groin, just a few centimetres away. His breath became a little shakier, the sensation making him quiver and boil at the same time.

You breathed in deep suddenly, as all sleepy people do from time to time, and what he felt gave him the impression of melting: as you breathed out, he felt your breasts pressing against his back.

Now it was going to be difficult to keep his composure. Every breath you took let him feel your breasts on his back, even if they were covered. He swallowed, trying to concentrate on not...

But it was too late, he was starting to feel himself getting hard, his erection rising little by little.

He mentally insulted himself as your hand, with every breath you took, constantly brushed against his skin. Shit, he was getting way too horny. Your breath on his neck, the feel of your body against his, his hand so close and yet so far away.

He let out a little moan as your head moved close to the back of his neck. He had to do something, move perhaps, get out of the embrace, but he didn't want to move away from this sweetness that was being given to him.

He moved a little, just to get your hand away from him and save him from further torment.

"Babe?" your slightly sleepy voice froze him in place, "are you all right?"

Damn, with all his emotions he'd woken you up.

"Nothing's wrong nena, go back to sleep," he whispered, his breath coming in fairly ragged gasps all the same, trying to relax and breathe normally.

You moved slightly, raising yourself gently and accidentally letting your hand rest a little more against his skin, the sudden change from brushing against his lower belly to touching it immediately drew a groan from his throat.

You frowned, waking up a little more.

"Are you sure you're okay ? You seem all so tense..." you asked as you straightened your face until your lips brushed his jaw.

His breath trembled, his back arching.

"Mhm, everything's alright," he said, trying to contain himself even though the urge was growing, "go back to-"

"Miguel," you asked simply, your tone astonished, "are you... hard?"

He bit his lip, his nose wrinkling as he tried to concentrate. But all the sensations you were giving him were preventing him from staying still. He felt almost guilty that he couldn't contain himself, that he was simply being aroused by the mere gesture of you hugging him from the back.

"It's okay," he swallowed, softly, "go back to sleep, it's fine."

He didn't want to disturb you, and he felt guilty that just by you spooning him you'd managed to turn him on.

"You had wet dreams?" you murmured softly, starting to feel more and more awake and aware of the situation.

If only that was all it was, but no, it was completely and utterly you. Your simple touch, your breath, your body, everything.

He hesitated, was admitting that the reason he was horny had simply been the fact that he was the little spoon? Or was he going to make up a trifle? He couldn't even admit to himself that he was immensely affected by your embrace, without it even becoming erotic.

You gently kissed the corner of his jaw, pressing yourself against him.

"What is it," you said, your breath catching on his cheek as he sighed, "hmm?

Your hand drifted down to his erection at last, caressing him with your fingertips, his back arching as he let out a sigh of relief.

"You're so hard..." you remarked softly, whispering against his ear as you placed little pecks on the back of his neck, "I wonder what got you so turned on..."

If only you knew... Your fingers skimmed the length of it, letting the fingertips run down to his balls, caressing them gently. Miguel breathed in deeply, his lips parted.

Your fingers wrapped around him, snaking around his head, letting your thumb make circular movements as the little drops of pre-cum glistened on his tip.

"Would you look at that, so horny..." you mumbled as your other hand slid down his back, tracing the line of his spine as you kissed his shoulder blades.

He let himself be touched, the sensation of your hand slowly and softly pumping his cock as you let your lips and fingers travel up and down his back felt so good it was like he was dreaming.

The warmth of your body, your voice, your presence alone and everything you brought him completed his sensations until they took him to paradise.

You were taking care of him, and he loved it.

He swallowed, the moans multiplying in his voice as you kissed his back.

Your hand took on a slightly faster rhythm, putting slightly more pressure into your stroking when coming back up his head, spending more time just underneath his crown tracing sinuous patterns, his voice trembling as you twisted your wrist while jerking him off.

"Does that feel good?" you asked, kissing his ear, nipping lightly at his lobe as a dark growl rose from his throat.

All those kisses, all those touches, he wouldn't last long.

"Mhm," he nodded, his voice quavering, "increíble, nena."

His hips began to move of their own accord, one of his hands coming to rest on your hip to pull you closer to him. He wanted to eliminate any space that separated his back from your torso, intoxicated by the physical sensations, the exceptional feeling he had in his lower back.

Your kisses were tender, your words sweet, your hand taking him perfectly and touching him wonderfully in all the right places. He felt himself melting under your touch, the friction you were giving him so perfect that he could already feel himself coming.

"So good, muñeca," he breathed, his hips accelerating, his pelvis undulating to fuck your hand, "so good..."

His breath quickened, and with a loud groan, he came, spurting over your hand. His hips jerked as you gently slowed the pace, tenderly caressing his hard skin as you kissed his neck, murmuring tender words.

He turned to lie on his back, watching you. He came over to kiss you, almost as a thank you, but mainly because you'd just given him such wonderful sensations.

You brought your hand to your lips, licking them gently.

"I wonder what made you so hard," you said in a murmur, coming back to place your head on his torso.

You had eventually understood the reason for his arousal and globally his delight, and from then on, as soon as you were both in bed, you would take him in your arms like a good little spoon against you. Because he had shown you how vulnerable he was, and because he too had the right to know that there was someone there who cared about him and would protect him at all costs.

[illyrianbitch]

Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths — Part Two

Pairing: Morrigan's Sister!Reader x Azriel

Summary: After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.

Warnings: inner circle being unable to emotionally regulate, y/n being a soft spot for mor, y/n being suspicious, keir (🤮), some necessary build up for future parts, men in general (🤮).

Word Count: 3.9k

←Part One Part Three→

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

It didn’t take long for people to get suspicious. You had planned for this, of course, you knew the nature of your people. It took a few years, but soon enough you had a system in place; a way to get around the skeptical and paranoid eyes of Hewn City– a way to avoid the power your father held. In the worst case scenario, you always planned to take your own life. Set fire to your information, to everything that revealed the acts you had committed. Your work would die with you. After all, you swore to protect it with your life. 

You were caught one evening as you returned home, becoming aware of the man trailing behind you within moments of his appearance. Easily, your hand found itself resting on a dagger hidden in your sleeve, and you pulled him into an alley, holding him with your knife against this throat.

You recognized him, recognized his golden brown hair and bright green eyes. A commander. He didn’t struggle against you, nor did he make any moves to fight back. “Please,” He had said, his arms up in surrender, “Hear me out.” 

They had spent weeks deliberating their visit to you, wondering if it was worth the effort— wondering if they really needed your help. With the plan underway, Feyre, Mor, and Cassian had stationed themselves, waiting with bated breath for Rhys and Azriel's return. They knew it was unsuccessful the minute both men entered. Rhysand’s usual grace was replaced by visible frustration as he stormed in, the failure of their trip clung to both him and Azriel like a heavy layer of clothing. Mor's gaze flicked between the two, an expectant look ingrained into her strong features. Wordlessly, Rhys moved swiftly towards his office.

"So, by your cheery smiles, I'm guessing it went smoothly?"

Rhysand shot Cassian a piercing glare as he walked past, causing him to recoil in his seat instinctively. Feyre watched Rhysand's retreating and frowned, turning towards Azriel. His hazel eyes met her gaze briefly before looking away. Saying nothing, Az walked to an empty chair and dropped himself down with a deep exhale.

Feyre sighed, and with a resigned glance, she handed her wine glass to Mor, who took it without a word. With a brief look back at her friends, she made her way towards Rhysand's office as Mor eagerly poured the remaining wine into her own cup and took a large sip.

The room remained in a hushed stillness as the mated pair retreated into the office. Cassian and Mor exchanged uneasy glances before they both drew their gaze over to Azriel. His posture, typically erect and poised, now sagged as he curled into himself, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands as he ran them up and down. There was a slight twitch in his wings as they settled behind him, slumped and slightly limp, reflecting a certain vulnerability– one of a man caught off guard.

It was a rare sight: Azriel, the Spymaster, usually shrouded in shadows and secrets, now laid bare before them. Az wasn’t one to wear his emotions openly, even in front of his family. He’d gotten good at it over the centuries— the practice of keeping his walls up just long enough for him to reach his bedroom, to welcome the sweet release of solidarity before he let his emotions breathe. But here he was, so evidently feeling. The sheer sight of it made Cassian uncomfortable, on edge, as if he should be prepared for an enemy to walk in any second and finish Azriel off.

"What happened back there, Az?" Cassian asked, his voice low and concerned.

Azriel hesitated.

“She called me a dog." He admitted, his voice barely above a murmur.

Cassian, taken aback, let out a sound of surprise that mirrored both a laugh and a scoff. He opened his mouth to respond, a teasing remark making itself to the tip of his tongue, but the burning intensity in Azriel's eyes, which were now on him, halted him in his tracks. Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Cassian chose silence over a misplaced joke, quickly coughing to stop himself instead.

Then, he got up and slowly walked over to Azriel, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it can only get better from here, right?" He said, his voice carrying a hopeful tone as he tried to alleviate the suffocating tension that reeked in the air.

Azriel turned his head to look up at his brother, his expression a bold showing of both disbelief and deep irritation. Cassian continued.

“I mean… theres only up once you’ve hit rock bottom.”

Mor rolled her eyes. Annoyance etched across her features as she huffed audibly, setting her wine glass down with a clatter before making a swift exit.

"Well, everyone's making fun exits today, huh?" Cassian gave a wry grin, gesturing towards the space Mor had just vacated.

Azriel just sighed, sinking further into the couch, shadows swirling restlessly around him. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he saw you again. Your face. Your eyes, your anger. He ignored the way his stomach clenched as he pushed the image of you away.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Rhysand was beside himself.

Feyre could see it written on his face, felt it even deeper in her chest. His emotions were burning through their bond, hot enough for a heavy discomfort to settle in her own heart. Rhysand wasn’t just frustrated, he was angry, sad, disappointed, and guilty— all at the same time. The emotions were mixing among themselves, swirling inside of him and replacing any ability for coherent thinking. Instead, he was spewing every thought, every irritation.

"She didn't let me talk, treated me like a stranger in her home!"

Rhysand's voice was loud, an icy anger laced in it. Feyre watched as he paced back and forth, his hands clutching into fists at his side as he continued his rant. She hummed slightly.

"Well, did you at least give your condolences? For Caladan?"

Rhys stilled. He turned around and looked at his mate, at her scrunched eyebrows and expectant face. Suddenly feeling as if he was a child just caught in a lie, he looked away in shame.

“No. I did not.”

Feyre released a sigh.

“Rhys,” She said, the disappointed sound of his name falling from her lips. “That was your in.”

She was right, as she usually was. He had rushed headlong into business, seeking favors, and demanding help, and in doing so, he likely sabotaged the entire plan. And any potential for reconciliation, too. The realization gnawed at him and a sense of regret colored his features.

“Come here,” Feyre said, beckoning him to where she stood. He took hold of her extended hand and sat at the edge of his desk, taking in her kind face, the patience in her eyes. Feyre moved to stand between his thighs, her hands gently running through his hair in a soothing rhythm. The quiet, comforting touch seemed to ease some of his tension as he let out a deep breath.

"You went to her as High Lord. Maybe it would have been more successful if you had gone to her as Rhys, her cousin. Cassian seemed to think so as well.”

Rhys shook his head, leaning into Feyre’s touch.

"Cassian wasn’t there,” He said. “He didn’t see how she was, how she spoke to us—of us. She disrespected you, Feyre.”

She looked into his eyes, a dark violet now, pupils blown wide, and gave him a small smile. Threading her fingers through his hair, Feyre spoke softly to him.

"Whatever she said, I’m sure I’ve been told worse."

He shook his head again, clenching his jaw. Then, he gently reached to where her hand lay on his cheek, grabbing it in his own and bringing them to his lap.

"We may have overestimated the connection she still holds to us."

"Let's not make any assumptions now,” Feyre said with a small frown, a crease forming between her brows. “It was only one visit, and a short one at that."

Rhysand replayed the visit in his mind, the memory now a fresh and painful wound. He walked himself through it, wondering what he could have fixed, where he might have been able to mend the fraying threads of the connection you once held to him. His mind fixated on the look etched on your face, the callousness with which you addressed him and Azriel – even Azriel. 

The change in you baffled him. He tugged at memories of the girl he had grown up with, the one adorned with a soft smile and bright eyes. How had that radiant spirit transformed so swiftly? The answer immediately echoed in his mind – Hewn City, an insidious place breeding misery. It had claimed you, just as it had claimed the rest.

“I don’t know what I can do,” Rhys admitted. “She was just so…”

“Cold? Detached?”

The sound of Mor’s voice caused both Feyre and Rhys to separate, turning their heads to the blonde who leaned casually against the now open door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” She said flatly. She turned her gaze to her cousin. "So, am I right? Was she cold, detached, exactly like I said she’d be?"

Rhysand shared a glance with his mate but said nothing. He couldn’t find the right words to say, and wouldn’t take the chance of saying the wrong ones. Not when the situation was so fragile, so delicate— and especially not when Mor was looking at him with that hard look on her face. The one she only wore when it came to you.

Mor took his silence as confirmation and crossed her arms against her chest. "I told you," she declared with an air of exasperation, her tone laced with pride. "It’s no use. You’ll sooner find spring flowers in the Winter Court than ever get her to agree."

Feyre felt herself deflate. She wanted to believe you were good, wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it was her relationship with Nesta, a woman that she knew with anger in her veins, similar to how Rhysand spoke of you now. Or maybe it was the few times she’d interacted with you, when you’d surprised her with your sweet tone. 

Feyre casted a look at Mor. 

“We will figure something out. Just be patient.”

Mor let out a small scoff, shaking her head. She pursed her lips before responding.

“Patience won’t thaw a frozen heart.”

Feyre watched as Mor lingered for a moment and then excused herself. But she didn't miss the subtle shift she saw in her friend's face. Underneath her anger and pride, Mor seemed sad… disappointed.

And Feyre was right. Mor was disappointed.

She had only seen you a handful of times since you returned to the hell that you both had escaped. Each of those times had been worse than the one before, an unspoken tension between you two, harsh glances thrown when you’d meet one another's eyes. Yet, deep down, despite her worst beliefs, a part of her had held onto hope that when Rhysand and Azriel returned, you would be with them.

It was a foolish dream, and now, having heard how Rhys spoke to Feyre about you, Mor felt like an idiot for ever entertaining the idea of you coming home. Well, the idea of you at all. 

As she left Rhysand’s office, Feyre’s encouraging words echoed in her head. But she couldn’t feel them, not the way Feyre wanted her too; because Mor knew, deep in her heart...

You were a lost cause.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You knew about the rumors.

Of course you did.

After all, you were the one who started them.

A part of you found it unnerving, how easily the lie rolled off your tongue. You knew that time had changed you, had hardened you to a certain extent. You wouldn't have been able to survive this city otherwise. And you'd lied a lot since your return. Your entire life was a lie.

But you had been so careful when it came to them-- to your family. You wanted to believe that you were better than the people you looked down on, better than Rhysand, better than Mor, better than the people in your life that were selfish and blinded. But maybe you weren't. Perhaps you had gotten so good at lying that you didn't even realize when you were lying to yourself. You weren't ready to face that reality yet.

Rhysand and Azriel weren't supposed to find you. They weren't even supposed to know- not yet, anyway. You had planned for more time, hoped that Rhysand would be busy with his new babe, that Azriel wouldn't be around to dig into your secrets. They hadn't frequented the Court of Nightmares recently-- preoccupied with their perfect city and the three Made sisters, you assumed. Your own sister was never a worry with her trips to Hewn City being short and far between, usually accompanied by the three men you once loved so deeply.

Azriel's stare lingered in your mind. The hazel color bore into you, made you feel like the memory itself could grab you and drag you back to a past you couldn't escape. You had dreamt of those eyes, of conversations left unfinished, of explanations that never came. Seeing him, when you had been so unprepared, so exposed, was a burning reminder of what you had lost and what you had become in its wake.

You wanted to bury the past even further into your brain, find a crevasse unfilled and stuff every thought of them into it. But you knew it would be a futile attempt. You would never be able to outrun what haunted you, not when those ghosts were still alive.

Your head pounded. You felt the urge to sit and drink your thoughts away, to find Evadne and smoke her specialty herbs. But first, you needed to protect yourself, cover your tracks. Your muddy, messy, and obvious tracks.

The night air in Hewn City was thick with the stench of filth and decay. Dirty alleys echoed with the sounds of bawdy laughter, predatory and wolfish. Occasional sounds of distress from unseen fae pierced through the night, quickly drowned out within the chaos of the city. The ground was layered with grime, and every step felt like wading through a cesspool.

You moved through the twisted streets, a heavy hood on in an attempt to go unnoticed. Still, catcalls and jeers followed. C'mere sweet thing. You continued walking. The man followed. Bet you'd be even more interesting without those pesky clothes, wouldn't you? You grimaced, swallowing the bile that rose a the sound of the grating voice. Quickly, you moved forward, avoiding his sight. Your shoulders fell in relief when you heard his retreating footsteps, followed by loud drunken complaints about how you'd ran off like a tease.

As you approached the hidden building your father had recently taken space in, the atmosphere changed. Your heart instantly felt heavier, and you began to mentally prepare yourself for the interaction. The heavy door creaked open. Keir, surrounded by a select few of his men, looked up from the table where he sat. His eyes, sharp and piercing, bore into you as you entered-- stern gaze irritated by the intrusion.

"Keir," you addressed him with a feigned urgency, "I need to speak with you."

Instantly, anger flashed in his eyes.

"Show me respect." Keir demanded sharply.

"Forgive me," You quickly corrected. "May I speak with you? It's urgent."

Keir's gaze intensified, his eyes narrowing. "How rude of you not to say hello to my men," he sneered, emphasizing each word. "It seems you've forgotten all your manners."

You forced a strained smile, acknowledging the men with a cautious nod. "Hello," you offered.

You casted a wary gaze around the room. Each man looked like a nightmare, their large and intimidating frames were adorned with scars and grimy features that bore witness to countless battles. Some wore smirks that reeked of arrogance, while others openly eyed you up and down, their predatory gazes unsettling and intrusive. Suddenly, you felt 17 again-- bare, defenseless, and vulnerable; subject to the leering gazes of those who saw you as nothing more than an object. It was a feeling you thought you'd left behind, a discomfort that dredged up memories you wished to forget.

You felt dirty, a sense of defilement creeping over you. You were a prize in their eyes, irrespective of any respect they might harbor for your father. These men, loyal or not, saw an opportunity to showcase you as a possession, a symbol of conquest. The thought of how they might do it sent a shiver down your spine, and you recoiled from the mental images that threatened to invade your consciousness. In that moment, you yearned to escape the suffocating atmosphere, to break free from the repulsive feeling that clung to you like an indelible stain.

Keir leaned back in his chair, a twisted grin forming on his lips. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Your attention fixated on Thorne, one of your father's captains. You despised him-- despised the way he wore a sense of self-importance that trailed after him like a pet, despised how he spoke, even how he walked. His eyes scanned you slowly, sweeping up and down as if assessing your every vulnerability. The strength of his scrutiny ignited a simmering anger within you, and you gritted your teeth, resisting the urge to let your temper flare.

You envisioned an alternate reality – a world where consequences were fleeting, and you could seize control. The image of slamming Thorne's head against the table played vividly in your mind. The satisfying thud, the sudden silence that followed, and the triumph of asserting dominance over the predator before you.

But reality anchored you, and you took a deep breath as your fathers voice pulled you from your thoughts.

"Well? You've interrupted me, and now you've left me waiting.”

"I have news," you replied, a subtle unease settling in as you braced yourself for the next part.

"Well, speak," Keir gestured with impatience, and you sensed the collective gaze of the men fixed upon you. It dawned on you – this wasn't a private exchange. Your stage had expanded beyond just you and your father.

"I was just paid a visit by a certain spymaster," you began, your tone carefully modulated. You decided that you would keep Rhysand’s presence a secret— for now. It would bring up too much, too fast. One presence was enough. Azriel alone would do. Keir's gaze sharpened, and you noticed a subtle tensing in his posture.

"Oh, is that so?" He responded, his tone laced with a disdain that didn't go unnoticed. "And what did that deformed overgrown bat wish to talk to you about?"

You felt a strange primal urge to defend Azriel against his words. He doesn't need your protection, you thought, doesn't deserve it. But the same image from earlier came to your mind; where Thorne once was, your father had taken his place. With an internal struggle to maintain composure, you responded.

"He wished to speak to me about rumors of an uprising."

Your father perked up.

"And what did you say to this?" Keir questioned, his eyes narrowing, probing for information.

"I told him I had heard no such thing," you replied, choosing your words carefully. "That perhaps he had been listening to his shadows too much, started to hallucinate situations where he was needed."

As the words left your lips, an uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of your stomach. Each syllable felt like a burning confession, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. It was a calculated deception, a necessary statement, yet the words felt wrong – a sinister compromise that clawed at your conscience.

You needed to do this to survive, you reminded yourself, they deserve it. But nonetheless, it left a residue of self-loathing. You couldn't help but compare yourself to the men in the room – those vulturous gazes, the filth that clung to them like soil. The realization that you had willingly immersed yourself in their skills, ones of deceit and cruelty, left you feeling dirty-- like you had been tainted by the same darkness you claimed to despise.

Keir responded with a contemplative "Hmmm," and you seized the opportunity to further weave your narrative.

"I told him that there are always rumors in Hewn City." You paused for emphasis before adding, "He asked me to tell him if I heard anything else. I told him no."

Silence. You resisted the urge to look away from your fathers heavy gaze, but the idea of looking at any of the other men surrounded you was a worse fate.

"How can I trust you?"

You felt his skepticism hang in the air like a heavy fog, his eyes scrutinizing you for any sign of deceit.

The weight of his distrust settled on your shoulders, and you took a moment to consider the best way to allay his suspicions. As you looked at him, a twinge of pity tugged at you. Your father, for all of his power, was paranoid and weak. He trusted no one. And you couldn't help but feel sorry for the life he led – one constantly clouded by suspicion. But that pity quickly faded. Keir deserved to live in such uncertainty, deserved every bit of discomfort that it provided.

"I hate them too," you said with an energy that mirrored the intensity in his eyes. "I hope I have proved myself thus far, proved that I want nothing more than to see them get what they deserve."

A pregnant pause lingered in the room as Keir absorbed your words. You could almost hear the gears turning in his mind as he assessed the credibility of your declaration.

"Especially Morrigan."

By the way his face slightly relaxed, you knew your words had done their job, played into his vulnerabilities with a precision that left you feeling both triumphant and repulsed.

"I'll take this into account," He conceded, his gaze lingering on you. "I'm assuming he will not be making any more late-night visits to you?"

"No,” You shook your head. “If he does, you will know.”

"Very well," Keir acknowledged. "Leave us."

He dismissed you with a wave of his hand.

A part of you could have sworn you detected a glimmer of pride in his eyes – a sickening acknowledgment that you had played your part too well. The sense of dirtiness clung to you like a wet blanket as you navigated your way home. The streets felt colder and the shadows more ominous, as if each and every one of them were Azriel’s and they knew what you had done-- what you had become. You wished you could shed your skin, remove the evidence of your life here, become something cleaner, something purer.

In the deafening silence of your home, you curled up in bed and shut your eyes tightly. You tired mind slowly formed it’s own hands and pulled you to images of a life before, you thought of the stars, of Velaris, of Mor, and of Azriel and his hazel eyes.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

a/n: woo!!! its starting!!! im prewriting as much as i can for this so i can get it going but eeek!! im just setting some groundwork down so stick with me babes.

y/n will be the president of the “my father is the worst man alive and i am his favorite daughter” club and the queen of dealing with anger as a form of grief.

tag list (some weren’t letting me so lets hope it works)🫶🏻

@kalulakunundrum @janebirkln @thelov3lybookworm @secretlyhers @nightcourt-daydreaming @sidthedollface2 @gorlillaglue25 @abysshaven @historygeekqueen @acourtofbatboydreams @justdreamstars @darling006 @inloveallthetime @dr4g0ngirl

[shibaraki]

STEADY BEGINNINGS ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

tags: GN reader, developing relationship (eventual friends to lovers), touch starved shouto, physical affection (hand holding + long hugs), good god the yearning, obliviousness, jealousy, fluff + angst, pro hero shouto, reader works at hero agency

wc: 3.8K

series masterlist: 2/5

Shouto was born to be a hero.

It is a sentiment shared by reporters and fans alike. Todoroki Shouto, the pride of Endeavor, the saving grace of his family name. True, his development had been entirely up to chance—no matter the intent or cruel desperation behind his father’s actions, he had to rely on the probability that the next offspring would win the genetic lottery—but low and behold, he did, and to many people that alone was a sign of destiny at work.

Ultimately, he chose to continue the path of being a hero himself, but no higher being put him there. His father did. At the time of his birth Shouto had not been a son, not even a baby. He was a project. A small, shapeless, squirmy thing. Malleable, like any young mind. It’s a miracle he retained any will and individuality.

Sometimes when alone with his thoughts, Shouto would hypothesise on the whys and the hows. The conclusion he always comes to is this: any sort of reality in which Shouto succumbs to his father’s ideals and manipulation would have to be a world in which his mother does not exist.

While his existence was planned, and wanted, he was to be a hero and as such, wasn’t cut from love—that came after. He loved his mother. So much so that when she hurt, he hurt. When she cried, he cried. She taught him what it meant to be gentle, to have hope, to aspire to be his own person. Years spent amongst the country's finest heroes and Shouto still regarded his mother as the bravest woman he knew, strong because she refused to be hardened by her circumstances; soft so that she can’t be broken again.

You are like his mother in that regard. Those same echoes of reassurance that softness isn’t weakness, and it isn’t earned. You’ve been touching him more as of late, as if determined to prove it. Static between brushed fingertips, words expressed by simply pressing your knees together, the weight of your hand on his bicep to garner his attention. The build up is subtle and cumulative and yet each instance strikes him with the magnitude of a thermodynamic explosion.

Nobody bats an eyelid to this shift in physicality, which makes it all the more difficult to determine whether he is reading into things or not. It could be that he’s noticing those small instances only because it’s you, and you are all he can think about lately.

You’ve given him permission to reciprocate. He merely has to ask for more if he wants it. What Shouto hadn’t accounted for is the unbearability of being vulnerable enough to ask. An innocent “can you hug me?” becomes so much more daunting to voice with all that longing crowded up behind it. He can’t help worrying you’ll see right through to the bottom of his desires.

A hand comes into view. Bakugo’s ash-smudged finger and thumb pinch and snap together in front of his face. “Come back to Earth, dumbass. Your thousand yard stare is scarin’ my new assistant”.

Shouto blinks out of his stupor and the blurred vignette surrounding his vision recedes. He glances at the skittish man sitting outside Bakugo’s office currently sending worried glances over his shoulder. “I think he’s more scared that you’re back,” Shouto intones dryly. “Isn’t he the fourth one this year?”

“Not my fault they’re all wimps,” Bakugo huffs. A slap reverberates around the office as he throws down a manila folder onto his desk and drops heavily into his chair. He regards Shouto with suspicion overtop his computer monitor. “Whatever you were just thinkin’ about—stop”.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking about”.

“I know you always manage to make Olympic level leaps in logic,” Bakugo rolls his eyes and tears open the folder. He slides out what Shouto assumes is a debrief and flips it between his fingers. Shouto keeps quiet. He reclines into the couch cushions and returns to reading the incident report on his lap, counting down from ten in the privacy of his mind. Anytime now.

Three, two, one.

“So what is it?” Bakugo asks, trying too hard to sound flippant but landing squarely on irritation. “Spit it out before you give yourself an aneurysm”.

Shouto opens his mouth and closes it again. A wave of hot embarrassment washes over him. He knows Bakugo will do him the kindness of being blunt and honest but it doesn’t make it any less humiliating to admit.

In their younger years Shouto saw something of a kindred spirit in Bakugo. He too did not like touch and aggressively voiced his distaste for it whenever he got the chance—which was often, because divine intervention sought fit to give him the most tactile, handsy friend group possible.

As they got older though, Shouto began to realise that the protests and threats were hollow. Despite being vehemently against affection, Bakugo would allow it anyway, and sometimes even seek it out. The aggression was bravado. Bakugo liked having his friends draped around his shoulders. He liked when Mina kissed his cheek, or Kaminari played with his hair, or Kirishima gathered him into a too-tight hug, or Sero tangled their ankles together on the couch.

Only, for him to comfortably accept it, Bakugo needed to act as though he were doing them a favour by allowing them into his space. And Bakugo’s friends played along without complaint.

From what he’s observed you are also an affectionate person. You are liberal with your warmth and adapt seamlessly to the boundaries of those around you. But you were also visibly uncomfortable whenever people took that affinity for intimacy as an open invitation, and recoiled if they encroached on your own.

Shouto has imagined reaching out only for your body to flinch away from him more times than he can count. It’s a battle staged in his head, ingrown fears. The possibility alone was enough to keep him from reciprocating, set in a state of fawn-like inertia.

“There’s somebody I want to get closer to. A friend,” he begins. Bakugo makes an inquisitive noise, props his cheek against his fist and narrows his eyes as he listens. Shouto retells the story in part, deciding to omit your name, and by the tail-end of it Bakugo’s forehead is deeply creased in dissatisfaction.

“You make all your own problems, Halfie. Y’know that?” he mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and sinking back into his chair. “Fine, you don’t want to make this person uncomfortable, or whatever. If you need a hug so damn badly, why not ask Deku? Not like he’d say no”.

Knowing Bakugo would make his dilemma sound ridiculous is one thing, actually hearing it is another. “How do you know it isn’t about Midoriya,” Shouto returns petulantly.

“It ain’t Izuku or anyone else from your nerd squad,” Bakugo says, dropping his hand to drum on the desk. “I would’ve heard about it”.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t touch people. And that’s fuckin’ fine, yeah? But if you had, I know for a fact any one of them would’ve burst into tears and told everyone in a five mile radius”.

“Oh,” it leaves him a little off-kilter to hear. Shouto leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, setting the report on the dark wood coffee table. The corner of the page is curled, and the spine is creased, and the ink annotation has smudged under his thumb. He details these things as he deliberates, the excuses cloying in his throat and thick like he might cry too.

Bakugo was right—if he craved close contact so badly, why couldn’t he go to Midoriya? He knows he would likely be met with enthusiasm.

“You don't have to tell me who. I don’t care. But you’re overthinking it,” Bakugo grunts at his lack of response, in a way that very much suggests that he cares. “Go ask. If they say ‘no’ it’s tough shit, but the world isn’t gonna end. From what you’ve told me they wouldn’t say ‘no’ anyway. Dumbass”.

Shouto nods and gives up the pretense of reading the paperwork. He feels coltish as he stands and brushes down his front, straightening the creases.

“You’re right”.

“I know”.

“Thank you, Bakugo,” he says. A small smile unfurls across his anxiety-bitten mouth. “You’re a good friend”.

“Shut up,” Bakugo grumbles. It’s a testament to his concern that he hadn’t cursed Shouto there and then. “Now get out of my office. What are you doing here in the first place? You got your own!”

“Yours gets all the sunlight. And it’s always quiet because nobody comes in here,” Shouto ignores the baleful slit of an eye Bakugo turns on him. “I’m going to take my lunch now”.

“Do what you want,” Bakugo dismisses haughtily, and Shouto smiles while thinking, not for the first time, that he’s very lucky to have friends like these.

The fidgety assistant bows as he exits and turns into the sun-drenched hallway. Warmth drapes around Shouto’s shoulders, lingering at his nape while he descends the dark stairwell where the light doesn’t reach. His boots thud against the linoleum, and he counts each footfall to keep his face neutral as his legs carry him toward your department.

Somewhere between one and one hundred and thirteen, a fraction of Shouto’s courage starts to dwindle. He grits his teeth. A hundred steps can’t be enough to dissuade him after decades of denying himself any kind of indulgence.

The further he goes into the support wing the more elaborate the layout becomes. You’re in research and development, assigned a workshop close to the quirk analysts. Heads turn as Shouto rolls through. Heroes didn’t often make personal visits to this area. If he thinks hard enough he could count a grand number of two past visits and neither of them were for you.

His stride falters when he catches sight of your nameplate. It is fixed to the wall outside your door, polished and gleaming proudly. Shouto traces the characters of your name engraved into steel before raising his hand to knock.

Your voice rings out from inside, “Come in!”

A pitched beeping sound comes from overhead. The workshop doors begin to open in a theatrical fashion, receding like curtains to reveal your space. The floor is mapped out with tape. Clear boundaries drawn between the work benches, the fume cupboards, the vault and your personal office, in an attempt at organised chaos. He might have been more interested in poking around for the first time if he had not felt on the edge of intrusion.

You’re tucked behind your curved desk surrounded by numerous monitors that dwarf your frame. Shouto furtively takes in your cute, rumpled appearance. The upper half of your coveralls have been undone to reveal an undervest, sleeves tied tight around and accentuating your waist.

“Take a seat, I’ll be with you in…” the dull tapping of practiced keystrokes comes to a stop as you notice him in the doorway. The professional veneer disappears. “Shouto?” you say, mostly to yourself. Your gaze slides beyond his shoulder, looking for whoever might be accompanying him. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a worried twist in your mouth that he wants to smudge away. A look in your eyes—a combination of warmth and weight that tugged at his being. Shouto rolls his shoulders, shaking off the tension, and moving deeper into your office. The doors close automatically behind him. “I’m okay,” he assures, taking the seat across from you.

Your expression gentles, and he likes how your gaze follows him. “I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me,” he continues. “But if you’re working I can head back”.

“Lunch?” you repeated. Your eyes darted to the corner of the monitor closest to you and promptly widened. “Oh, shit. When did that happen?”

An upswing of fondness catches him like a blow to the chest. His mouth quirks into a smirk. “How long have you been here?”

“Too long. I got lumped with a new project a few days ago and it’s almost done,” the monitors shut off one by one as you sheepishly press each button. Then you gave him a soft, apologetic look, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. Must’ve missed me if you came all the way down here”.

Dread shriked through him. The low whirring from the equipment scattered around your workspace is suddenly inordinately loud. Was he that obvious?

You, however, fail to notice Shouto’s anxiety and grab him around the wrist as you pivot the desk. “C’mon. Let’s go before the good stuff is gone,” you tell him.

Shouto had absolutely no clue what the ‘good stuff’ entailed—maybe he should’ve bothered to ask. Atleast it would take his mind off your hand. It’s wrapped around his sleeve, right where the fabric ends, loose enough for him to unshackle from if he wants. When he doesn’t protest the contact you stroke your thumb in an arc over the heel of his hand and squeeze.

Shouto falls into step, too caught up to realise you’ve taken him to the cafeteria. He expects you’ll drop his wrist in the presence of your colleagues, yet you adjust your grip and glance back at him with an encouraging tilt of your head.

“I’m starving. I think I’ll get a rice bowl. Smells pretty good today, don’t you think?”

Shouto hummed his agreement. He felt out of his depth, and he didn’t trust his voice. The spark of giddiness was doing embarrassing things to his throat. The line is mercifully short and before long he has a warm bowl of food held against his front.

“Did you want to sit in here? I can take us to one of the senior staff lounges instead if you want,” you cast a nervous look across the sparse crowd. “I mean, support engineers aren’t really gossiping types but…”

A petty part of him hoped the whispers would escalate. To have your name linked with his, to be known as a person that you cared about—he found that deeply satisfying, for reasons he couldn’t yet put his finger on.

Then again, being alone with you far eclipsed the appeal of flaunting your friendship. “The senior staff lounge sounds best,” he answers after a minute of feigned consideration. You nod, regretfully having dropped his hand, and motion for him to follow once more.

The lounge is a modest room with a kitchenette, a breakfast nook and a few bean bag chairs. It smells faintly like peeled oranges. There are post it notes and blueprints haphazardly stuck to the pinboard, covering an out of date calendar filled out in illegible scrawl. This is no shop awning. There is no rainfall to lend to the ambiance. But you are together in an enclosed space, and that is enough to make his heart beat in anticipation.

You scoot into the breakfast nook. He sits on the same side of the table and tries to subtly spread his knees enough to nudge your thigh. You side-glance in surprise but choose not to mention it. Instead you smile through your first mouthful and ask, “How've things been since I last saw you?”

Achy, like he’s used an atrophied muscle. Lonely, and frustrating beyond words. But he doesn’t say any of that. He digs crescents into his thigh through his pant leg and says, “Boring”.

“Figured that might be the case. I saw the livestream of you fighting Haywire,” you bump your shoulder against his. “The Commission probably dumped a whole load of paperwork on you, huh?”

Shouto wrinkles his nose. He hoped you hadn’t caught that fight. The pursuit of Haywire—an eco terrorist with an electrical quirk—managed to cause an unprecedented amount of damage to the city infrastructure.

“You handled it as best you could. The power grid can be fixed. What’s important is people are alive because of you,” a warm weight covers the fingers restlessly whittling at his pant leg. You pet his hand, “I’m glad you weren’t hurt”.

Guided solely by his impulses, the instant you start to draw back he envelops the top of your hand and sandwiches it between his own. He goes hot and cold all over in quick succession. Boundaries, he reminds himself. But you’re not pulling away. You’re studying him with a knowing gleam in your eye.

Shouto clears his throat. Heat pricks across his skin, concentrated in his cheekbones. “Sorry,” he says. You can ask, a memory echoes. “Is this okay?”

“You don’t have to apologise. I told you it’s fine,” you reply firmly. “I’m happy to remind you if you need to hear it”.

“No, I…” his brow furrows. “I’ve been thinking”.

“That’s not good”.

Shouto snorts and shakes his head, his amusement petering out into a shallow breath. “I want to ask. I’ve wanted to ask like you said I could,” he explains vaguely. “I’m not very good at it, I think”.

You make a soft, understanding sound that immediately sets him at ease. “I guess, after denying yourself something for so long it can be scary to let yourself have it again,” you murmur, a faraway look in your eyes. After a pensive moment the sheen fades and your laughter lines deepen, “I’ll do what I did before, then. If you look like you need a hug I’ll ask you instead”.

“In what way do I ‘look like’ I need a hug?”

“You get this—I don’t know how to explain it,” you gesture vaguely at him. “This blankness about you, but not your normal resting face, I mean you don’t seem all there. I don’t like it. I like it best when you’re happy”.

“Ah,” comes his eloquent response. Shouto drops his gaze to where your hands knot together. Every quark in his body is urging him to get closer, and remain close. “Bakugo thinks I should try to hug Midoriya, too,” he adds, oddly flustered.

“Huh. You talked to Bakugo about—? That’s a surprise. A nice surprise, I mean! Well, Midoriya does give great hugs. It would be good for you to…”

Shouto’s thoughts grow louder and he frowns down at his rice. You’re saying something about physical touch and wellness and friends. Dopamine and serotonin. It barely registers. Two truths are pinging around his skull.

You have hugged Midoriya. Of course you have. You’re friends.

You think he’s great at it.

Why is that so unsettling? Teenagers think like this. Single minded and overly emotional.

He feels the shifting of your knuckles under his palm. “Hey. You’ll need one of these back if you’re going to eat,” you say.

“Right,” he lifts his left hand and picks up his chopsticks to take a pinch of rice from his bowl. He chews until the clamouring in his mind has settled, and you patiently accept his stoic silence without explanation. Shouto hasn’t been this awkward since highschool, and even then he was too wrapped up in his familial problems to be aware of it.

“What’s the project you’ve been working on?” he eventually asks.

You take the change of topic in your stride, leaning closer and lowering your voice to an excited whisper, “I’m not supposed to tell you but—it’s for Deku’s new costume”.

“Midoriya is getting a new costume?” Shouto replies. You playfully shush him and he pouts a little.

“Don’t sulk. He doesn’t know yet either,” you poke a chopstick at the corner of his jutted mouth. “It’s my job to prepare a design portfolio and talk through everything next week. You’ll get a new one too, when you break the top five”.

“If,” he amends.

“You don’t think you’ll move up?”

“Reaching the top was never really a priority for me,” Shouto’s attention splinters, half of his focus on the conversation and the other on the sensation of your skin. He considers overturning his hand to entwine your fingers. “I just want to be the best hero I can be”.

You hum, and as if plucking the desire right from his mind, absentmindedly slip into the gaps between his fingers. Shouto steadies his breathing and takes another mouthful.

The rest of the hour passes, syrupy and slow like molasses. By the final minute Shouto’s palm is sticky and reluctant to part from yours. You usher him out from the breakfast nook first, stacking the empty bowls before directing him back toward the emptied cafeteria.

You slide the bowls along the counter for the kitchen staff to take. Then you wipe your hands down your front as you pivot to face him, thrusting out both arms as he stands frozen.

“Can I hug you?”

Shouto touches his face and you laugh.

“This is because I want one,” you clarify with a warm grin, beckoning him closer.

Shouto inhales steps into the embrace, his arms instinctively wrapping around your back. There are less layers this time—the heat of your body is overwhelming, alongside the gentle rise of goosebumps across your bare shoulders. Your breath fell gently on his collarbone, his head lowering to curl into you. He thinks, were he not born to be a hero, he must surely be born for this.

“Thank you,” you mumble, squeezing his waste a final time as you retreat. “I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

Shouto nods. Your presence moves away like the sun being blocked out and he watches you go, departing words caught in his teeth, an incessant buzz in his fingertips. The walk back to his office is a gauzy yellow haze. Every physiological response in his body told him that he was in a free fall, despite his feet being firmly on the ground.

“Shouto!”

Shouto halts mid-step at the familiar voice. He turns to look at Izuku, at the tentative beginnings of his smile. “Izuku,” he says.

“We missed you at lunch—are you feeling alright?” Izuku asks, slightly bemused. “You look kinda… floaty,” his eyes are dark, softened in the afternoon light as they sweep over Shouto’s figure and his face.

"Izuku," Shouto said before he could convince himself otherwise, “Do you want a hug?”

The innocent question appeared to crash into Izuku with the levity of a bullet train in motion. Tears sprang to his eyes, brighter now. Shouto tenses as he is swept into a solid hug. Izuku smells like fresh air, sweat and sweet-salty broth. He holds Shouto as though trying to keep his seams from bursting; thick arms are secure around his shoulders, and a rough palm rubs broad strokes down his back, smoothing the tension until Shouto is relaxed.

You were right. Izuku does give great hugs. Shouto came away doughy, and fuller, and with the stark realisation that while touching Izuku soothed the ache, it still felt completely different to touching you.

Later, as he leaned his head against the desk surface, he sluggishly contemplated the implications of that.

[ashwhowrites]

hello ash, your writing is lovely!! i was wondering if i could request reader being in subspace after a night out with a guy who didn't give her aftercare, so roomate!eddie makes her feel better? just like taking on the role of caretaker and telling reader that he'll keep her safe and just tucking her in and giving her cute, chaste kisses?

(this is totally self indulgent cos i was sent home after no aftercare and had to do it myself)

Aftercare has my heart. That's one of my favorites parts about being intimate with my partner, the pillow talk that comes after

Thank you for requesting! I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it <3

Small fluff blurb

Y/N tried to hold back her tears as she slammed the door. She cursed herself for even leaving the bar with that guy. She should have known a random hookup at a bar wouldn't be romantic or respectful in any kind of way.

She scoffed as she thought about how he rolled off of her and told her to be out by morning. The way he didn't bother to see how she was, just closing his eyes. He had the nerve to go to sleep while she sat there naked and vulnerable.

She felt alone, scared, and used. All she wanted was to feel good. But now she couldn't help but feel like an idiot. She felt like she did everything wrong and she wasn't even worthy of being taken care of. Was she a burden? Was it too much to ask for a soft cuddle afterward?

~~~

She freely cried once she made it into her apartment. She slammed the door and ran off into her room.

Eddie was on the couch, a hand in a bag of chips when she ran past. He sat up worried, he dusted off his hands and followed behind her.

She was on her bed, lying on her side as she curled into a ball. She sobbed into her knees, her small dress riding up. Eddie could see the beginning of small hickies forming on her thighs.

"Oh, pretty girl." He cooed, walking over to the side of the bed. He kneeled, his face close to hers. He used his right hand to softly pet her hair.

"I don't wanna talk about it." She sniffled, and her red eyes looked at him. She looked so scared and hurt.

"Then we won't talk." He said softly, he stood up and removed his sweatpants. She watched him confused but didn't say anything. He gave her a trusting smile and took off her heels. Then he slid the sweatpants up her legs.

She sniffled but could feel the tears stopping. The comfort of her bare feet against her warm blanket. The softness of Eddie's sweatpants on her bare legs. Eddie grabbed her hands and helped her sit up. He nodded to her dress, and she got the hint. She reached behind herself and unzipped the dress, she stood up and let the dress sink. She stood in a bra, but Eddie's eyes stayed on her face.

"Good girl." He said softly, the praise warmed her stomach as she felt a small smile on her face. He walked over to her drawer and pulled out a small shirt.

"I'm going to turn around while you take off your bra and put this on, can you do that for me? It's okay if you can't." He asked, she nodded and took the shirt. Just as he said, he turned around but left his arm behind his back. His palm upwards gave her the chance to hold it if needed.

She couldn't help but melt at how nice he was. The way he was soft and easy with her.

"Done." She said quietly, she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do next. He turned around as she stared at him, blankly waiting for the next direction.

"Look at you! You did so well." He praised. "Let's go into bed and have some cuddles. I know you love cuddling before bed."

She nodded excitedly, moving onto the bed and slipping underneath her covers. Eddie turned off her lamp, crawling over her body as he settled next to her. He wrapped his arm around her, his lips next to her ear as he breathed against her.

The air hitting her ear and his arm wrapped around her made her feel safe. She didn't feel alone and she felt wanted. Why couldn't every guy know what she needed like Eddie?

"You're safe here." He whispered, he leaned forward and pecked her cheek.

And she believed him

Tags!

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @manyfandomsfanvergentreblogs @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @thegemaqua @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37

[mononijikayu]

toothbrush — nanami kento.

At times, Kento thought that you should just sleep here, rest here until you had enough rest. The idea of waking up next to you, of starting his day with your presence beside him, filled him with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. He wanted to cook you breakfast, to share a leisurely morning with you as the sun rose, painting the room in soft hues of gold and pink. The simple pleasure of a shared meal, of casual conversation over coffee, seemed incredibly precious.

GENRE: alternate universe - modern au!

WARNING/S: alternate universe - canon convergence, ceo! nanami, rated 18 and above, explicit content, strangers to lovers, one night stand, p to v sex, lirting, seduction, romance, humor, fluff, comfort/no hurt, mention of alchohol, mention of sexual euphemisms, depiction of explicit sexual content, depiction of drinking and alcoholic drinks;

LISTEN: toothbrush by dnce

NOTE: i chose the youtube lyric video of the song because that's how i imagine reader leaving nanami and the thoughts of the song is just nanami waking up to you leaving. the ending of in bed together, that's how the ending is. anyway, just one mroe and side 700 is going to be complete and i can write ashes of love again. thank you for being patient with me!!! i love you~

masterlist

kayu's playlist — side 700;

HE REALLY DIDN’T DO THIS MUCH. Nanami Kento sat at the corner of the dimly lit bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He untied the knots of his tie, loosening it slightly as he savored the quiet moments, the noise of the world fading into the background, replaced by the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. It was a rare evening where he allowed himself to unwind, to escape the relentless demands of being a CEO.

He sighed, taking another sip of his drink, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. The bar was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could forget about the spreadsheets, board meetings, and the constant pressure of making decisions. Here, he could just be Kento, not Nanami Kento, the powerful executive.

You slid onto the barstool beside him, your presence drawing his attention. He glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than usual. There was something about you that intrigued him, something that made him want to know more. Your eyes met, and a smile played on your lips as you introduced yourself.

"Hi, it’s nice to meet you," you said, extending your hand with a warm smile.

Kento looked up from his drink, his eyes locking onto yours. There was a brief moment of hesitation before he took your hand, his grip firm yet gentle. "Kento," he replied, his voice smooth and deep. "Nice to meet you."

The simple exchange seemed to spark an immediate connection, a current of electricity passing between you. His eyes lingered on yours, and you noticed the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. You slid onto the barstool next to him, feeling an inexplicable ease in his presence.

"I haven't seen you here before," you remarked, trying to ease into the conversation. "Do you come here often?"

Kento chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, not really. Just needed a break from the usual routine. How about you?"

You nodded, swirling the drink in your glass. "It's one of my favorite spots. There's something comforting about the atmosphere here. It's a nice escape."

He nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "I can see that. Sometimes, it's good to step away from everything, find a place where you can just... breathe."

You smiled, appreciating his sentiment. "Exactly. So, what do you do when you're not finding solace in dimly lit bars?"

He leaned back slightly, a small sigh escaping his lips. "I run a company. CEO life isn't exactly a walk in the park."

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. "A CEO, huh? That's impressive. Must be pretty demanding."

"It is," he admitted, his eyes meeting yours again. "But tonight, I'm just Kento. No titles, no responsibilities. Just... me."

There was a vulnerability in his words that caught you off guard, making you see him in a new light. "Well, Kento, it's just nice to know we feel the same."

The conversation flowed effortlessly from that point, each of you peeling back layers of your lives. You talked about your passions, your dreams, and the little things that made life worth living. He listened intently, his eyes never straying from yours, as if he was genuinely interested in every word you said.

As the night wore on, the bar around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your own little world. The flirtation became more pronounced, the touches more lingering. When your fingers brushed against his while reaching for your glass, a spark ignited, sending a thrill down your spine.

"It's nice, drinking here beside you," Nanami confessed, his voice low and sincere. 

“It was nice to have you with me too.” You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his ear as you whispered something that made him smile—a rare and genuine smile. 

“I should say the same thing.” He smiles at you, holding the rim of his own glass. “You make me feel like something nice after a long day.”

"Oh, you have no idea how good it is, to know you.." you said, your voice a little softer, "I didn't expect to have such a good time tonight. It is…rare. To find someone interesting.”

"Neither did I." Kento replied, his gaze intense. "But I'm glad I came. Meeting you... it feels like a breath of fresh air."

The sincerity in his words touched you deeply, and you found yourself leaning closer, drawn to him in a way that felt both exciting and inevitable. "Do you want to get out of here?" you asked, your heart racing.

His eyes darkened with desire, a smile tugging at his lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

The walk to his place was filled with anticipation, your fingers brushing against each other as you navigated the quiet streets. When you finally reached his apartment, he opened the door and led you inside, the atmosphere charged with unspoken promise.

The rest of your time sober was blurred into a haze of shared stories, laughter, and fleeting touches. Eventually, he brought out some wine. And another one. And it was all tipsy from then. The decision was made in a heartbeat, a shared understanding passing between you. You wanted to experience ecstasy. You could see it in each other’s eyes, trembling with want. With relief. With desire.

The things that followed was a whirlwind of passion and intimacy, a connection that felt both new and familiar. You let him take you to bed, one kiss pulling you harder than gravity in itself. You found yourselves lost in each other’s magnetic pull, exploring every inch of skin, every whispered word. When you finally fell asleep, it was in his arms, feeling a sense of belonging that was as unexpected as it was welcome.

The heat burned off your skin, as flesh echoed on flesh with passionate warmth. You didn’t notice it but you couldn’t help but let your heels dig into the center of his lower back, moaning against him. He liked it a lot, that you were doing all you could to pull him closer, deeper — more of him into you. It was a greedy little desire, but he couldn’t help but let his throat rumble with approval, feeling your tender hands press harshly against the depths of his own hot skin. You were such a little thing, fitting in the confines of his body’s wholeness. 

You couldn’t help it, but you were a wanton little thing. It was just what Kento needed. It was the way you were pushing and pulling —- arching your back at the perfect angles, ripping his back apart with your sharp bright, colorful nails with his own flesh and blood. He wanted to drown in each harmony of pleasure from your lips. It felt like the song of heaven to him, calling out to him as he dug deeper and deeper towards the crevices of your pleasures. 

But Kento thinks it still isn't enough for him. But somehow, it was all he wanted. At times it was just right. And all at once, it's too much to bear. It was a semblance of emotions, of pleasures that he had never explored before. There was so much depth to fucking you. Layers and layers to how you suck him in, to how you take him in. To how your cunt just lets him make a home inside of you. To mold your womb to his shape. And you egg him on, over and over with your delicious incoherent pleasure–ridden screams. 

Your pretty doe eyes are dangling across the space as he switches position, pulling your legs just right up the small of his back. You yelp as he enters you deeper. He settled himself, kneeling on the bed, and leaned forward. You whimper, your eye rolling back further as you become more fucked out.  He couldn’t help but be pleased with himself. There was nothing that you can think about. Nothing else mattered, other than him and this pleasure.

The weight of him was crushing you whole, as though there was nothing but that pleasurable oblivion. He was quite a muscular man, after all. Yet you couldn’t care much, despite the fact that he was heavy on top of you. Or the fact that it feels as though he's going to spur you out of air, suffocating you with pleasure. You were a masochist in a sense. You told him that. You want him to crush you. And each moan begging him to go faster, to push deeper over and over —- it confirms it all.

Kento allows his lips to thank you with tender blossoms against your flesh. But in that moment, he buries his head against your jaw, his ragged raspy moans rapidly marking every inch of skin with his brutal, hot kisses. One after another, it was an experience. Your neck with his brutal kiss of his teeth, leaving metallic essence against his lips as you wail against him. You feel a trail of sweat pouring out with your sweet tears, his hot breath making your skin burn harder than ever before. 

You couldn’t see straight anymore. But you didn’t care. Not even when your eyes roll back inside your head, as he pistons into you harder and harder. His grip on you gets tighter and tighter as your toes slowly curl against the small of his back. Drool falls against the side of your lips as you let Kento’s hands rest against the small of your ass, gripping as tightly as he could. Your breath gets stuck in your already dry throat. You were close again. You don’t know how many times this man has made you cum. But you know that he was too good. It was all too good.

The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and intensity that leaves you gasping for air. Every thrust, every movement pushes you closer to the edge, and you cling to him as if he's the only thing grounding you. The world outside ceases to exist; it's just you and him, lost in this moment of raw passion 

Your nails dig into his back once more, leaving traced marks that he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, the way his breath hitches over and over again and his grip tightens on you tells you he likes it, to keep doing it. He liked being marked by you. And he hopes there’s more times like this. He hopes he can keep getting marked by you like this. His rhythm never falters, each roll of his hips sending waves of pleasure through your body, making you shudder and moan his name.

"Kento," you gasp, your voice a mix of desperation and ecstasy. He responds with a low growl, his lips finding your ear, whispering words that send shivers down your spine. “‘bout to c-come…oh! oh! m-more….more! Please!”

His eyes looked at you, dark with pleasure. “Then come, honey. Let me feel you sweeten my cock like that.”

You're teetering on the brink, the intensity building until it feels like you might burst. His pace quickens, and you feel the tension coil inside you, ready to snap. With one final, powerful thrust, you come undone, your body convulsing in his arms as you cry out in pleasure.

He follows soon after, his body tensing before he collapses on top of you, both of you spent and breathless.  You could feel the heat of his cum overflow inside of you. There was too much. And he doesn’t yet pull out. And you didn’t want him to, still locking your legs against the edge of his back. For a moment, you lie there in a tangled mess of limbs, the only sound in the room your ragged breaths and the pounding of your hearts.

Finally, he lifts his head, his brown eyes meeting yours. There's a softness there, a look that tells you this was more than just a physical connection. You smiled exhaustedly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, and he returned the gesture, his fingers gently caressing your cheek with all the tenderness in the world.

"You're incredible." he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. You smile against his mouth, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the heat of the moment and everything to do with the man holding you. “Truly.”

As you both drift off to sleep, still wrapped in each other's arms, you know this is just the beginning of something extraordinary.

He didn’t think he’d wake up alone. The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the room. He groaned quietly, shifting slightly as his eyes adjusted to the bright echo of the sun against him. Nanami Kento thought it was quite a spectacle to wake up alone, with the bed beside him empty.

He sat up, the events of the night before slowly flooding back. His clothes, usually primly put away, were scattered and tattered across the room. He looked at them for a moment before sighing, his head slightly pounding from the drinks. Usually, it was Kento who left before the sun came up. When he took his pleasure, it was transactional, devoid of any emotional connection.

Last night was different. It was only one night, but he couldn’t help but feel as though he wanted more of you. The way your touch had ignited a fire in him, the way your laughter had filled the room with warmth—those memories clung to him now, in the stillness of the morning.

He ran a hand through his tousled hair, glancing around the room. The sight of your note on the nightstand caught his attention. He reached for it, his fingers trembling slightly. The simple message, " Call me up, sweetie ;) " brought a faint smile to his lips. He traced the words with his thumb, feeling a strange mix of hope and uncertainty.

Nanami wasn't used to this feeling, this longing for something more than a fleeting connection. The thought of you lingered in his mind, your touch, your smile, the way you had made him feel alive and vulnerable all at once. It was intoxicating, and he wanted more of it, more of you.

He stood up, gathering his scattered clothes, the remnants of a night that had left a profound impact on him. As he dressed, he couldn't shake the memory of your heels digging into his back, your breathless moans in his ear, the way you had looked at him with such intensity. It was imprinted on his mind, an indelible mark that he couldn't ignore.

Fully dressed, he picked up his phone, staring at your number. He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the call button. For a moment, doubt crept in. Was he foolish to think that this could be something more? But then he remembered the way you had pulled him closer, the way you had whispered his name with such need and desire.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. For a moment, the loneliness of his existence seemed to lift. He folded the note and slipped it into his wallet, a spark of anticipation igniting within him. The day ahead seemed a little brighter, the promise of your next encounter lingering in his thoughts.

He couldn’t wait to save your phone number.

He’d have to find a way to charge his phone.

Besides, looking at the clock, he’s pretty late.

And a CEO shouldn’t be late for his own meetings.

WHEN HE MEETS YOU AGAIN, KENTO IS ENAMOURED. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about you since that morning, the memory of your touch and the warmth of your laughter haunting him in the best way possible. The days had stretched on, filled with his usual routine, yet every moment seemed tinged with a new sense of anticipation. And now, standing here, seeing you again, he felt a surge of emotion he hadn't expected.

The bar was a cozy haven tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the city, its warm, dim lighting casting a golden glow over the polished wooden surfaces and vintage decor. The air was filled with the soft hum of jazz music, creating an intimate ambiance that made it feel like a world apart from the chaos outside. The scent of aged whiskey and fresh citrus mingled in the air, adding to the inviting atmosphere.

You sat at the bar, your presence effortlessly captivating. The dress you wore was stunning—a sleek, deep emerald green that clung to your curves in all the right places, shimmering subtly under the soft lights. The neckline was modest yet alluring, and the fabric seemed to flow like liquid as you moved. Your hair frames your face perfectly, and a touch of red lipstick highlights your smile, adding a hint of classic glamor.

Kento's heart pounded in his chest as he made his way toward you, each step bringing him closer to the person who had so unexpectedly turned his world upside down. The usual confident air he carried felt slightly shaken, replaced by a nervous excitement that he hadn't felt in years. As he approached, his eyes were glued to you, everything else in the bar fading into a blur. The clinking glasses, the muted conversations, the soft jazz—all of it became mere background noise.

You spotted him, and a slight smile played on your lips. It was a smile that held both warmth and a hint of mischief, a smile that made his pulse quicken. He could barely tear his gaze away from you as he slid onto the stool next to you.

"Hi," he greeted, his voice betraying a hint of the nerves he felt.

"Hi, Kento," you replied, your eyes sparkling with recognition and something more—something that made his breath catch.

For a moment, he simply drank in the sight of you. The way you held yourself, the way the dress accentuated your figure, the way your eyes seemed to see right through him—it was all he could do to remember to breathe.

The bartender approached, breaking the spell momentarily as Kento ordered a drink. But even as he spoke, his attention never wavered from you. He couldn't help but notice the way the bar's golden light played on your skin, giving you an almost ethereal glow.

"You look incredible," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

"Thank you," you replied, a pleased flush coloring your cheeks. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

The conversation flowed as easily as it had the first night, but there was an added layer of familiarity now, a deeper connection that had been forged in the time since. The flirtation was more pronounced, the touches more deliberate. When your fingers brushed against his, he felt a jolt of electricity, the same spark that had ignited between you before.

Kento couldn't focus on anything but you. The way you laughed, the way you tilted your head when you were thinking, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you were passionate about—it was all mesmerizing. He found himself hanging on to every word, every gesture, completely lost in

"Kento," you greeted him warmly, your eyes sparkling with a mix of surprise and delight. "I was hoping you'd call."

"I couldn't stop thinking about you,if I’m being honest." he admitted, his voice softer than usual. "I just had to see you again."

You smiled, and the sight of it sent a rush of warmth through him. "I'm glad you did."

As you talked, the conversation flowed effortlessly, just as it had that first night. There was a connection between you that felt almost tangible, an invisible thread drawing you closer with every word. Kento found himself captivated by the way you spoke, the way you laughed, the way your eyes lit up when you shared stories about your life. He felt a deep sense of admiration and curiosity, wanting to know everything about you.

The evening passed in a blur of conversation and laughter, the bar around you fading into the background as you became lost in each other. Kento couldn't remember the last time he had felt so at ease, so completely himself. With you, there were no pretenses, no need for the carefully constructed walls he usually kept up. You saw him for who he truly was, and that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

When the night began to wind down, he found himself reluctant to say goodbye. The thought of returning to his empty apartment, to the solitude that had once been his comfort, now felt unbearably lonely. As if sensing his hesitation, you reached out, your hand gently brushing against his.

"Would you like to come over for a drink?" you asked, your voice filled with a hopeful note.

He nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'd like that."

The walk to your place was filled with a comfortable silence, the kind that speaks volumes without needing words. Once inside, you poured two glasses of wine, and the conversation continued, growing deeper and more intimate as the night went on. Kento found himself sharing things he had never told anyone, opening up in a way that felt both terrifying and liberating.

As the night turned into early morning, he realized just how much he had fallen for you. It was more than just physical attraction; it was a genuine connection, a bond that felt rare and precious. You had seen past the façade he presented to the world and embraced the man underneath, flaws and all.

When it was finally time to say goodnight, you stood close to him, your eyes searching for him. "Kento," you whispered, your voice filled with sincerity, "I'm really glad you called."

As the conversation continued, the air between you grew charged with anticipation, a palpable energy that seemed to crackle with every passing moment. Kento found himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the magnetic pull you exerted over him.

Leaning in closer, he could feel the heat radiating from your body, the warmth of your presence enveloping him in a comforting embrace. His heart raced in his chest as he closed the distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in a tender, almost hesitant kiss.

There was a softness to the touch, a delicate intimacy that spoke volumes without a single word being uttered. In that fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still, the world around them fading into insignificance as they became lost in each other.

The kiss was gentle yet charged with an underlying passion, a silent acknowledgment of the undeniable connection that had blossomed between them. And as Kento pulled back, a faint smile gracing his lips, he knew that this was only the beginning of something extraordinary. And seeing your face, how wonderstruck you were — he knew you knew it too.

 "So am I." he murmured against your mouth, feeling a sense of contentment he hadn't known he was missing.

You smiled, blush echoing across your face. “You’re a good kisser, you know that?”

Your compliment sent a warm flush creeping up Kento's neck, a rare display of bashfulness from the typically composed CEO. He chuckled softly, the sound tinged with genuine appreciation as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to regain his composure.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of self-consciousness. "I suppose practice makes perfect."

There was a hint of amusement in his tone, a subtle acknowledgment of the unexpected turn their conversation had taken. Despite his usually reserved demeanor, he found himself enjoying the playful banter, relishing in the easy rapport that had developed between them.

“I’ll see you soon, then. I, uh…..have to go home.”

“Have a safe trip home, lover.”

As he walked home, the memory of your kiss lingering on his lips, he knew that this was just the beginning. Meeting you again had changed something within him, opened up a part of his heart he had long kept locked away. Kento was enamored, and for the first time in a long while, he felt truly hopeful about the future.

He dreams of you all through the night.

Your smiles are ever so warm only for him.

And your bright eyes are full of love for him.

When he woke up, he realized what it meant.

Nanami Kento was truly captured by you.

THE NEXT TIME, YOU STAY WITH HIM IN HIS BED TILL MORNING. He didn't want you to leave just yet, didn't want you to rush and slip away from his fingers before sunlight. You had finished a fiery session of lovemaking, one of the many rounds of passionate obsession with each other. The intensity of your connection was almost overwhelming, each encounter leaving both of you breathless and yearning for more. You had done this over and over, whenever you saw each other — and more regularly these past few weeks.

As you lay there, bodies entwined and hearts beating in sync, Kento's thoughts wandered. He watched you as you drifted off to sleep, your face serene and content. There was something profoundly beautiful about these quiet moments, a sense of peace that contrasted sharply with the fervent passion of the night. He gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.

At times, Kento thought that you should just sleep here, rest here until you had enough rest. The idea of waking up next to you, of starting his day with your presence beside him, filled him with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. He wanted to cook you breakfast, to share a leisurely morning with you as the sun rose, painting the room in soft hues of gold and pink. The simple pleasure of a shared meal, of casual conversation over coffee, seemed incredibly precious.

Kento's mind drifted to the little things that signify a deeper connection, a merging of lives. He imagined you leaving a toothbrush here, a small but significant symbol of permanence. It was a step towards belonging, towards fitting into each other's lives in a tangible way. He pictured you having a drawer in his apartment, a space carved out for you in his world. These thoughts were filled with longing, a desire for something more profound and enduring.

He wanted that with you. He wanted you to start leaving your things here, to make his place feel like a shared home rather than just a temporary haven. The idea of your belongings scattered around his apartment — a hairbrush on the vanity, your favorite mug in the kitchen, your scent lingering in the air — filled him with a deep sense of contentment. It was more than just physical intimacy; it was about creating a life together, about building something that went beyond the confines of the bedroom.

As he lay there, holding you close, Kento realized how much he wanted to make you his. He wanted to be the person you came home to, the one who shared your joys and your sorrows, your everyday moments and your grand adventures. He wanted to be the anchor in your life, just as you had become in his. The thought of you being a permanent part of his world was both exhilarating and terrifying, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

He gently kissed your forehead, his heart swelling with affection. More than you probably could ever know, he wanted you to be his, to share a future together. As the first light of dawn began to filter through the curtains, he held you a little tighter, hoping that this moment would be the start of something lasting and beautiful.

In the quiet stillness of the morning, with you nestled in his arms, Kento felt a profound sense of hope. For the first time in a long while, the future seemed bright and full of promise. And he knew that, whatever happened, he wanted you by his side.

Kento held you close, savoring the warmth of your body against his. He had never felt this kind of connection before, this blend of deep affection and raw desire. As the first light of dawn began to filter through the curtains, he made a silent promise to himself: he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him, how deeply he cared for you.

Kento's gaze softened as he watched you stir from your slumber, the gentle rise and fall of your chest accompanied by the faintest flutter of your eyelashes. It was a moment of quiet intimacy, one that he cherished more than he dared to admit.

As your eyes fluttered open, a sleepy smile graced your lips, and Kento felt his heart swell with affection. There was a warmth in your gaze, a softness that melted away the lingering traces of the night's passion, leaving behind a sense of tranquility and contentment.

Returning your smile, Kento reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch gentle against your skin. In that fleeting moment, surrounded by the hazy glow of morning light, he felt a profound connection to you, a bond that transcended the physical realm and delved into the depths of his soul.

"You're beautiful," he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper. It was a simple statement, spoken from the heart, yet it held a world of meaning behind it. In your eyes, he found solace, a refuge from the chaos of the outside world, and he knew that he never wanted to let you go.

With a tender smile, you leaned into his touch, your eyes locking with his in a silent exchange of love and understanding. In that moment, Kento realized that he had found something truly special in you, something worth holding onto for a lifetime. And as he gazed into your eyes, he knew that he was ready to embark on this journey with you, wherever it may lead.

"Good morning," he whispered, brushing a gentle kiss against your lips. 

"Good morning," you replied, your voice soft and warm. 

As the warmth of the morning sun filtered through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft golden glow, the two of you remained entwined in a cocoon of shared affection. Each breath seemed to synchronize, a silent symphony of contentment that enveloped you both in its comforting embrace.

Reluctantly, Kento stirred from the languid embrace, his movements slow and deliberate as if he were hesitant to break the spell of intimacy that hung between you. With a soft sigh, he shifted his weight, gently extricating himself from your embrace and sitting up, his muscles protesting the sudden movement after the night's passionate exertions.

Stretching his arms above his head, Kento let out a low groan of satisfaction, the tension of the previous night's activities melting away with each satisfying stretch. Despite the physical exertion, there was a sense of peace that settled over him, a tranquility that he hadn't felt in far too long.

Glancing back at you, still nestled in the rumpled sheets, Kento felt a surge of affection wash over him. Your tousled hair frames your face like a halo, and the soft curve of your lips tugged at his heartstrings in a way that he couldn't quite explain. It was moments like these, when the world seemed to stand still, that he felt truly alive.

"I could stay like this forever," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. There was a tenderness in his touch, a silent promise of his unwavering devotion, as he allowed himself to be drawn back into your embrace, savoring every precious moment that the morning had to offer.

You smiled at him with the most beautiful smiles he’d ever seen. It was that sort of smile that had the power to light up the darkest corners of his soul, to chase away the shadows of doubt and insecurity that had plagued him for so long. It was a smile that spoke volumes without uttering a single word, conveying warmth, understanding, and an unspoken connection that transcended mere words.

As you gazed at him with those radiant eyes, filled with a mixture of tenderness and affection, Kento felt a sense of wonder wash over him. In that moment, everything seemed to fall into place, as if the universe had conspired to bring the two of you together in perfect harmony.

Your smile was like a beacon of hope, guiding him through the labyrinth of his own emotions and leading him towards a future filled with promise and possibility. It was a reminder that amidst the chaos of life, there existed moments of pure joy and unadulterated happiness, waiting to be embraced and cherished.

Unable to resist the pull of your magnetic presence, Kento found himself drawn closer to you, his heart swelling with a sense of gratitude for the serendipitous twist of fate that had brought you into his life. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of your smile, he knew that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

"Me too." you whisper back to him, causing his heart to beat as he listened to your words reverberate in the morning quiet. "Being here with you? it's nice."

Kento's soul felt tender at those words, it was like he could live forever in that moment. He could feel that warmth spreading through his chest as he soaked in the sweetness of your sentiment. It was a simple statement, yet it held a profound meaning, resonating deeply within him.

"I'm glad you feel that way," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "Being with you... it feels different, in the best possible way."

There was a sincerity in his tone, a raw honesty that he seldom allowed himself to reveal to others. But with you, it felt natural, effortless even, to let down his guard and bare his soul.

As you lay there together, basking in the quiet intimacy of the moment, Kento felt a sense of contentment wash over him. In your presence, he found solace, a refuge from the stormy seas of life, where he could simply be himself without fear of judgment or expectation.

With a soft smile, he reached out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch light and tender against your skin. "Thank you for being here," he whispered, his gaze locked with yours, silently conveying a depth of emotion that words alone could not express. “Truly.”

"Of course," you replied, a smile gracing your lips as you looked up at him. "You make it easy."

His eyes softened at your words, a warmth spreading through him. "I was thinking," he began, glancing back at you, "how about I make us some breakfast? We can take our time, enjoy the morning."

Your smile widened at the suggestion, a spark of anticipation in your eyes. "That sounds perfect," you said, nodding in agreement. "I'd love that."

Kento felt a surge of happiness as he got out of bed and headed to the kitchen. He prepared breakfast with care, wanting everything to be perfect. As he worked, he thought about the future, about the possibility of you becoming a permanent part of his life. 

When the meal was ready, he brought it to the table, where you were already seated, wrapped in one of his shirts. The sight of you in his clothes filled him with a possessive satisfaction, a sense of rightness.

"Here you go," he said, setting the plates down. "I hope you like it."

You took a bite, your eyes lighting up. "It's delicious, Kento. Thank you."

He sat down across from you, watching as you ate. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and shared smiles. It was a glimpse of what life could be like if you were together, a tantalizing promise of happiness.

After breakfast, you both lounged on the couch, talking about everything and nothing. Kento felt a sense of peace he hadn't experienced in a long time. He wanted this, all of it. The mundane, the extraordinary, the quiet moments and the passionate ones.

As the morning wore on, Kento's thoughts kept returning to the idea of you leaving your things at his place. He wanted to ask you, but he didn't want to rush anything. Instead, he decided to show you how he felt through his actions.

"You know," he said casually, "I was thinking maybe you could leave a few things here. A toothbrush, some clothes. It might make things easier, you know, since you're here so often."

You looked at him, surprise and something else flickering in your eyes. "You want me to leave things here?"

He nodded, trying to keep his tone light. "Yeah. I like having you around. It feels... right."

You smiled, and Kento felt his heart swell with hope. "I'd like that too, Kento."

From that moment on, things began to change. You started leaving little things at his place: a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a few clothes. Each item was a small but significant step towards building a life together.

Kento cherished every moment with you, every sign that you were becoming a part of his world. He cooked for you, took care of you, and made sure you knew how much he valued you. And as the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, he realized that his feelings for you had only grown stronger.

One night, as you lay in his arms, Kento looked at you, his heart full of love. "I want you to know," he said softly, "that you mean everything to me. I want you in my life, permanently. Will you stay with me, not just for tonight, but for always?"

You looked up at him, your eyes shining with emotion. "Yes, Kento. I want that too."

At that moment, Kento knew that he had found something truly special. With you by his side, the future was bright and full of promise. And he was ready to face it, hand in hand with the person he loved.

A few days later, he sees that bright purple toothbrush.

Right next to his blue–green that had been lonesome.

He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them together.

It looks like you won’t be rushing out his door anymore.

[aweina]

ᰔ. pretty little secret : sub-zero. scorpion + smoke.

bi-han falls asleep at any given moment. years of gruesome self-discipline and carrying on prime titles like grandmaster can be exhausting — even for the cyromancer. in his secluded office, he would have a spread of boring scrolls and unread parchment laying on his desk. for him, that would be a perfect time to take a short nap that he didn’t get the night before. sometimes he would even doze off during training. with his intimidating stance and eyes closed shut, it would seem like he’s in deep thought — listening intently to each heavy punch and swift kick. bi-han is a firm believer that you should never show weakness and for him, that meant his constant restlessness. if a traitor were to catch him off guard in his most vulnerable state, it would destroy all he’s ever worked for. one other thing he’ll never want to admit is that he’s getting old, so keeping his secret habit in the dark is best for his pride.

kuai liang enjoys watching period romance dramas. every since he was formally introduced to earth realm’s technology, he found himself watching lengthy love tales during his free time. there’s a small, television seemingly “unused” in the corner of his room. but if you turn it on — it stores dozens of unfinished chinese period dramas. he even secretly commutes to fengjian to enjoy the melancholic films with the elderly locals — quietly sipping on scorching black tea in interest. aside from an engaging story enriched with beautiful visuals and costumes, kuai liang simply believes that love is a beautiful concept that needed to be seen, whether it would start in a begrudging arranged marriage or through the first moment of eye contact. he isn’t completely worried about his little secret being revealed, rather he would just simply be flustered at the surprised reactions he would receive if word ever got out.

tomas smokes cigarettes when he’s stressed. ironic, right? training with smoke magic all throughout his youth made him fond of the bitter, rich haze. especially with his new appointed duty to mentor the new initiates of the shirai ryu, tomas always found himself on a midnight stroll, his overused lighter flicking a weak flame as a cigarette rested between his lips. it gave him a warm buzz, soothing all the tense nerves in his body. since his robes and gear always have a faint scent of acrid ash, nobody would ever suspect him of smoking. even his soft and friendly personality can be quite deceiving from his smoking habit. although tomas isn’t ashamed of using harsh fumes to get him through a rough patch, he still had his personal reasons to keep this little secret. the main one being that he simply didn’t want to encourage his students to do the same thing — they’re still young after all.

add. note : thinking about making a part two of this but who knows with me ㅜㅜ

[inubaki]

Adam’s Pride Au

-story section by @rainforestakiie. Was kind enough to write this while helping my develop the design. Please check out their stuff. ——

Adam felt undeniably diminutive, a mere wisp of his former self. He was far smaller than he had ever been in his Edenic days and, naturally, infinitesimally tiny compared to his celestial form. He barely grazed the shoulder of his angelic self—how utterly disheartening! His new form seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. Although he was uncertain of the full extent of his new body's powers, his present concern was more with its appearance.

His face was heart-shaped, softly feminine, with a nose that curved gracefully like a bird’s beak but lacked its sharpness. His lips were plump and tender, featuring a subtle, secretive dimple at one corner. His skin was the colour of delicate ash on fresh snow, milky-white and sprinkled with grey freckles that cascaded down his cheeks, neck, shoulders, and back. These freckles meandered down to the lush, pastel green and blue fluff that framed his thighs and extended to his dainty, delicate hooves. Though he lacked the long, arrow-like tail of Lucifer, his tail resembled a delicate spring of blue feathers, starting close to his backside and arching upward like a plume worthy of Hera.

His hips were rounded and plush, akin to the fanciful Barbies Adam had once seen the young Winners chatter about. His arms were slender and cushioned with tender flesh, his fingers long and delicate, tipped with the same blue and green hues as if bruised. His hair was a cascade of soft brown tufts, interspersed with genuine blue and green feathers that sprouted from the sides of his head, two of them curving like horns. Resting serenely between them was a sweet, sinuous snake, coiling gently and floating above his head like an ethereal halo.

Adam's cheeks were rounder than he had ever imagined, blushing with a faint pink tint. He winced, pinching his right cheek and hissing in surprise. It was far more sensitive than he remembered and disturbingly reminiscent of Lucifer! His wings were long and plush, cascading down his back and sweeping along the ground behind him. He inspected them with curiosity; they weren’t gold but a mesmerising gradient of green and blue, interwoven with hints of orange.

He wondered if he could lift them—and if they could lift him. With a determined squint and an arched back, he watched as his wings began to unfurl, nearly causing him to have a heart attack. They didn’t resemble typical wings but rather the majestic plumes of a peacock, stretching around him and fluttering softly. The eyes embedded in the feathers shimmered in gold, purple, and orange, framed by gentle greens and blues, echoing the feathers sprouting from his hair.

Adam's eyes widened in shock as he gazed at his reflection.

“What the fuck am I?” he exclaimed, his voice echoing with disbelief.

A soft gasp fluttered from behind him, drawing his attention. Adam turned slowly, his gaze squinting against the soft, shadowed light of the hotel room.

There, standing in the doorway, was Lucifer, eyes wide and mouth agape in astonishment. “You’re… beautiful,” he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of awe and admiration.

Adam's heart sank.

Fuck!

He’s even shorter than fucking Lucifer?! The pint-sized King of Hell?! How did this fucking happen?!

———

The concept idea was what if Adam’s sinner punishment was to look like Lucifer.

The face of everything he thought as evil and through him excused his own horrid deeds. All that he took pride in and suffered through vanity is stripped away. Leaving a shorter, more ‘ delicate’, even feminine version of himself. He retains his wings but they barely hold the strength to lift himself. His halo becomes a snake, one he later names after constantly trying to chase off. (Though being separated, gives him migraines.). Adam keeps those hips though! Cause damn boy!

Watercolor pencils and @m-d-tr1 was kind enough to color one as well. But all drawn by me. I wanted to test out the colored design.

[escapedaudios]

Yapping about Ash and Lexi

Did you notice! In Ashley's depression playlist, every song relates to his relationship with Lexi in some way and his stages of letting her go. When he's speaking to Denny's, the last song that plays before Risk by Metric is A Pearl by Mitski and the order was very intentional. Listen to them side by side and pay attention to the lyrics! You'll see both Ash and Lexi's mental progression play out between the songs.

The previous two songs that play before that (while Denny's is listening to Ash and Lexi through the door) represent Lexi's point of view. They are Don't Speak by No Doubt and Baby Teeth by Flower Face. You can see her perspective through there, and you're meant to empathize with her. It's the first scene where you see that under all her malice and her seemingly unbreakable confidence she is human and vulnerable and filled with regret. You start to understand why Ash had such a hard time letting her go when you see that there's more to her than the antagonistic and manipulative side of her that you've been exposed to. There are layers of unseen complexity to their relationship.

She really was a bad person, but she also really loved him. I might do a flashback sometime depicting them pre-breakup to examine her more. Her downfall came from getting a taste of the feeling that she possessed and controlled him, and enjoying the feeling of pushing the edges of what he would tolerate a little too much. When she loses Ash, she pretends not to care to uphold her image of control, but in private she grieves. When she greets Ash with a smile at the audition, she feels actual pain when he groans at seeing her, but she hides it to keep appearing confident and in control. She's terrified by the idea of someone taking her place by simply deserving what she wants more than she does. She cries in secret to the exact same songs Ash does and checks her phone waiting for a missed call or message from him that never comes. After their breakup, she grows and changes for the better, but it's too late and she still has to suffer the consequences and regret of loss.

Anyway I love Lexi. Partly because I have a soft spot for humanizing the glittery mean girl stereotype, but also because she's so ripe for character work involving becoming a better person just for the sake of it and not because you have anything to gain. She will be back in Thad's series playing a very different part in the story, but still being her iconic self.

[yuutaok]

₊˚⊹ ☾ “Before Dawn” - Vampire! Yuuta Okkotsu

Your discomfort always welled up when Yuuta vanished. Often, he'd be absent for what seemed like an eternity, embarking on journeys to address matters he insisted were his alone to resolve, urging you not to worry. Before he left, he'd promise with a tender kiss that he would always make it back to you. "With patience," he'd say, "I'll be with you before you even have a chance to miss me."

₊˚⊹ ☾ Content Warning: 18+, MDNI (minors do not interact), afab!reader, blood, possessiveness, codependent relationship, biting, unprotected sex, riding, creampies

₊˚⊹ ☾ A/N: Truly self indulgent! I channeled every ounce of vampire media I consumed as a kid. This ended up more tame than I originally thought it would be, but it was still so fun! Happy October!

But you always did. You always missed him.

It scared you more than anything to imagine that, for some unknown reason, he might just fade away. You'd always feared that when the sun rose, he would be gone. That he would no longer be the solace you could sink into, but merely flesh and bones turning into ash and dust slipping through your fingers.

When you first met him, you recalled the night being so cold with no moonlight. A storm raged outside, heavy snow wisping through the air. You were lost, not just in that storm, but in life. Your boots crunched in the snow, each step feeling heavier and heavier. At some point, you thought that perhaps you could lay down and just let the storm consume you, a more graceful surrender than fighting tooth and nail through a tempest that threatened to engulf you. Maybe it would wash away the jet-black feeling in your heart. You were ready to accept your untimely fate until Yuuta appeared.

From that day forward, you no longer believed in God, but in him.

You often wondered if you meant as much to him as he meant to you. How much space did you occupy in his head?

He'd catch you staring at him sometimes, his eyes filled with sadness, knowing that your thoughts had drifted into those realms of uncertainty. "I cherish every moment with you," he'd say, pulling you close, "You have all of my thoughts, my heart, and my eternity."

One night, as the clock's hands ticked closer to dawn, the front door creaked open, and Yuuta stumbled into the dimly lit room, his face bloodied, his clothes torn, and his dark blue eyes filled with pain. You rushed to his side, panic overtaking you.

"Yuuta, what happened?" you asked, your voice trembling with fear.

He smiled weakly, his sharp fangs glistening under the soft light. "I ran into some trouble, my love. But I'll be alright."

You helped him to a chair, concern etched on your face as you examined his injuries. As you cleaned the blood from his face and tended to his wounds, your heart ached at the thought of losing him. It was nights like these that reminded you of the danger that always lurked in the shadows.

Yuuta leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "I promise, I'll always come back to you, no matter what."

As you continued to clean Yuuta's wounds, your worry for him only grew.

With trembling hands, you asked, "Yuuta, do you need anything else? Anything I can do to help?"

He looked into your eyes, his dark blue gaze unwavering. "There is one thing, love," he whispered, his voice laced with a hint of vulnerability. "I need to feed. The injuries have drained me, I'm sorry.
"

You shook your head, "Mm- Don't be sorry. I'd do anything to help you feel better." Vampires needed blood to heal and rejuvenate. In your heart, you had always been willing to offer him anything, even your own life's essence if it meant keeping him by your side.

Without hesitation, you offered your wrist, the blood in your veins surging with the rush of anticipation. Yuuta took your offered arm gently, his touch sending shivers down your spine. His lips brushed against your skin, his fangs lightly grazing your pulse point, creating a delicious mixture of pleasure and pain. The moment his fangs pierced your flesh, an electrifying connection surged between you two, a sensation that transcended any other physical feeling.

Your breath quickened as you felt his cool lips pressing against your skin, his rhythmic feeding becoming an intoxicating dance between you and him. In the darkness of the room, time seemed to stand still, and the line between pleasure and pain blurred.

The possession Yuuta had towards you, your body, your mind, and your soul, only ever intensified when you shared your blood with him. He drank from you not only to heal but to reinforce the bond between you, to make sure you belonged to him and only him. You knew he'd never let you go, that you were now a part of him in a way that no one else could ever be.

As he fed, you couldn't help but feel a strange mixture of fear and desire, of being utterly vulnerable yet safe in his arms. In those moments, as he clung to you, you realized that this was the price of love.

When Yuuta finally withdrew, his eyes met yours, and a possessive, almost predatory hunger lingered in his gaze. He kissed the wound on your wrist gently, sealing it with a mix of reverence and possessiveness.

"I love you more than anything in this world," he murmured, his voice husky and filled with longing, "and I'll do whatever it takes to protect you."

As Yuuta pulled away from your wrist, you felt a rush of emotions flooding your senses. Your fingers, still trembling from the sensation, reached for his face, guiding it towards yours. You pressed your lips to his, tasting a mixture of your own blood on his mouth.

The kiss was fierce and hungry, worry and tension moving its way to the back of your mind as you melted into your Yuuta. You moaned softly as Yuuta's fangs brushed against the softness of your plump lips. Yuuta's hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, and his tongue entwined with yours in a dance that made heat flood into the pit of your core.

Breaking the kiss, you looked deep into Yuuta's eyes, your voice a breathless whisper, "I'm yours, completely. Possess me, claim me, as I've claimed your heart. I love you"

A growl of desire rumbled deep in Yuuta's chest, and his hands moved over your body with a possessive urgency. His lips found your neck, and he planted hungry kisses along your skin, his fangs grazing your pulse point with a teasing edge that sent shivers down your spine.

"I've always been yours," Yuuta confessed, his voice filled with a possessive longing. "Every part of me belongs to you ,from the outermost layer of my skin to the profound depths of my very bones, it's yours."

His words only fueled your desire, and you pulled him closer, feeling the cool of his skin against yours. Your breath quickened as he began to remove your clothing, every touch filled with a fierce passion that left no room for doubt.

Yuuta carefully slipped off your panties, experienced fingers moving between the wet of your lips to toy with your sensitive clit. Your breath hitched as his digits slipped inside of your sopping, Yuuta's gaze hungry as he watched you take his digits. He worked to stretch you out, nice and wet for his cock. It had been a while since you two were intimate, and he wanted to take care that you were just perfect for him.

You moaned as you felt his digits curling and pumping inside of you, closing your eyes as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. You rutted your hips against his hand, Yuuta chuckling at how desperate and touch-starved you were for him. The tightness in your gut grew but before you could climax Yuuta quickly pulled his hand away, much to your dismay. You whined but Yuuta hushed you, "Be good." You nodded.

Yuuta pulled you down for another dizzying kiss, moving his hands to free the hardness from his pants. His member sprung out, his slit leaky with a bead of precum rolling down his shaft. Your mouth watered as he ushered your hips over his length, his thumbs pressing bruises into your sides as his tip kissed the wetness of your cunt. You sucked in a breath as he guided you down his cock, there still being a stretch despite how much Yuuta had tried to prep you.

Your breath hitched and your toes curled as your thighs lowered into Yuuta’s lap. Your nails dug crescents into Yuuta’s shoulders until finally you sat situated on your beloved’s length.

Yuuta sighed against the crevice of your neck, using every ounce of his strength to be delicate for you. He fought against the deep insatiable desire to pound your brains out and abuse your pussy until you could scream nothing else but his name over and over again.

That, he decided, would come later.

Instead, he gently lifted you up and down, up and down, making sure his tip fully kissed deep inside of you. You two began a slow and sensual pace, bucking his hips into your cunt as you twitched and tightened around him. He felt so thick inside of you, filling you up so perfectly.

You sighed at the intimacy, happy to be in Yuuta’s arms. He was happy to be in yours, too. You two kissed, licking into each other’s mouths as you rutted down onto his length.

Yuuta groaned against your mouth, nipping his fangs on your lips as your pace became more messy, more wrecked as his cock continued to hit deep into your core. The taste of iron danced on your tongue, blood smearing across your lips.

“Fuck,” Yuuta whispers, “You are so perfect for me, my darling girl, I’ll give you the world.” He hissed as he pounded harder and faster into you, dragging your hips and making you bounce relentlessly onto his length.

You sobbed out, seeing stars as he fucked into you. Your thighs shook and your toes curled as you clung onto Yuuta, letting him fuck so deep into you. “Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta,” you chanted, like a prayer, “I’ll keep you forever.”

And with that you felt the tightness coil in your stomach, “O-oh I’m cumming, Yuu! Please, I’m gonna cum,” you cried. Yuuta smiled, thrusting harder into you, “My cute girl, cum for me,” and so you did.

You sobbed into Yuuta’s neck as he continued to pound into you, fucking you stupid. Your eyes rolled back as you creamed yourself on his cock. Your darling Yuu was not far behind, “-m cumming, fuck, you’re mine” he groaned. His nails dug into your skin, crimson dripping from your hips as he bucked his hips into your messy cunt. He leaned over your neck to take a final bite out of you before spilling his hot seed into you, lapping his tongue across your marked skin.

You sleepily hung on as Yuuta finished, eyes heavy and body sore from the night’s activities. Yuuta let you rest for a moment before he lifted you up and carried you to your shared bed, cleaning you gently with a warm cloth and making sure to rid you of spit, blood and cum as sleep washed over your eyelids.

As the night turned into dawn, you clung onto each other, the room bathed in the soft, silvery light of early morning. The warmth of his presence enveloped you, and you could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The world faded away as you drifted off to sleep, leaving only the two of you, entwined and inseparable.

[sinisteryanderescribe]

Hello Sia I was thinking of what Norton's reaction if Nurse Reader if she got invited into the manor

Maybe in the ashes of memories timeline Nurse Reader is like an employee that the manor hired to help with Alice, because she isn't feeling well during the part 2

Then Nurse Reader saw Norton doing during the night or something

A Memorable Face

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Norton is likely to experience a range of emotions upon encountering you at the manor. Given his experiences in the mines, he might initially feel a mix of surprise, confusion, and perhaps even a tinge of gratitude upon seeing you again. The memories of the explosion, as well as the care and kindness you showed him during his recovery, could resurface, evoking a sense of nostalgia and perhaps even a renewed appreciation for you.

Moreover, Norton might undergo a transformation as he realizes the significance of you being at the manor. He may be compelled to reflect on his past behavior towards you, recognising how you had treated him with kindness and respect despite his initial coldness. This realisation may lead Norton to feel a sense of remorse and a desire to make amends for his past demeanor. Even though you may be a class higher than him, he couldn’t help but admit to having a soft spot for you.

Norton's heart raced as he stepped into the opulent halls of the manor, his mind still reeling from the enigmatic invitation that had brought him to this place. The memories of the mine explosion, the acrid scent of smoke, and the agonizing pain that had wracked his body flooded back with every echoing footstep. As he navigated the grand corridors, his thoughts drifted to the you who had tended to him during those dark days of recovery, your unwavering kindness a stark contrast to his own initial aloofness.

Meanwhile, you who was just hired by a strange manor just walked out of Alice’s room after tending to her, a sweet but noisy little thing she is. As you wandered the ornate halls of the manor, a sense of anticipation mingled with trepidation, your thoughts inevitably turning to the enigmatic figure of Norton, whose distant demeanor had not dulled the empathy and care you had shown him during his convalescence.

You’ve always wondered what could have happened to the man. After the accident of the explosion the news stated that there were no survivors but there was a few who got heavily injured and some who were reported missing…

It was under the moon's silvery gaze that your paths converged once more. Norton, his troubled gaze scanning the dimly lit ballroom, caught sight of you, a familiar figure amidst the gathering. Time seemed to stand still as your eyes met across the room, a torrent of unspoken emotions swirling between them. The years had etched lines of wisdom and resilience on your faces, yet the bond forged in the crucible of adversity remained palpable, an invisible thread that connected their souls.

For Norton, the sight of you reignited a long-buried ember of gratitude and remorse. His steps faltered as he approached you, the weight of unspoken apologies and newfound appreciation heavy on his tongue. As he stood before you, the flickering candlelight casting a soft glow on your features, he found himself at a loss for words.

…you were still as beautiful as ever.

In that fleeting moment, you beheld the man you had once nursed back to health, your hand tenderly cubbing his cheek, grazing your thumb on his cheek. His gruff exterior now softened by the passage of time. The echo of distant pain lingered in his eyes, yet beneath the surface, you glimpsed a glimmer of vulnerability that had eluded you before. As your gazes locked, an unspoken understanding passed between you, bridging the chasm of silence that had separated you for so long.

The touch of your soft skin stirred a tempest of emotions within Norton, kindling a fervent desire to express the depths of his guilt and remorse. Yet he didn’t know when to start.

With a reverent touch Norton gently wrapped his arms around you, drawing you into the shelter of his embrace. He found solace in the gentle curve of your waist, his touch a whispered vow of unyielding devotion. Pressing his lips against the crown of your head, his breath mingling with the soft tendrils of your hair.

“ Norton…”

The man said nothing but with a whispered sigh, he nuzzled his nose and face in your hair, inhaling the delicate fragrance that enveloped you. The heavy scent of your perfume stirred a symphony of memories, each note a testament to the enduring imprint you had left on his heart.

There’s so much to ask but right now, you stayed silent as you melted in Norton’s arms…

[cattlemons]

The Unfortunate Man

| Toji loves you more than anything but nothing can withstand fate.

Toji x Fem!reader

TW: Death angst, I feel like there's one or two swear words in there, is kinda sad, 800 ish words in this bad boy, tell me if I missed anything

Toji is an unlucky man. 

And he knows this all too well.

He was born to be unfortunate, in his opinion. After all, how can you call yourself lucky when in a world of curses and power, you are born with none. It would’ve been fine had he been unknowing of it, but he was thrust into a family so acutely aware of it. So aware,  to the point where he is reminded of all he lacks, at every waking moment. 

This led him to be a lonesome figure. He grows indifferent to love, to feelings, and to emotions. He deems love to be something that only the lucky few deserve. Those lucky enough to be vulnerable, lucky enough to allow someone to see the parts of yourself that are a bit below the bar of acceptance. It is a hard pill to swallow but he’s had a few decades to learn how to accept his unfortunate fate. He supposes love is just not meant to be something he can experience, at least not in this lifetime. 

That is until he met her.

She is a soul so bright, so warm. Something in her eyes makes him feel safe, comforted. She’s perfect in all the right ways, so full of love and kindness. Her eyes would always be trained on him and, for once, he doesn’t feel judged by the gaze, instead, he felt seen, loved.

He doesn’t know how he got here. How he got so damn lucky to have met her. Her presence alone would chase away his darkest clouds and her smile, oh her smile, it would only take one to make his day better and two to make his year better. Hell, it would make his decade better if she would so much as crinkle her soft eyes, closing it into beautiful crescent moons for him when she laughs. 

His relationship with her developed much like a whirlwind romance. Love stories you’d find teens giggling and obsessing over but, in a way, also a love so profound it’s written intended for tears. His life is so instantly uprooted by her love, its roots dangling above the ground. It feels strange and so surreal but at the same time, he doesn't quite mind. He’d, quite literally, follow her anywhere she went, he’ll climb up to heaven and fall down to hell for her. 

If loving her meant never seeing his family again, he doesn’t quite mind. 

If loving her meant leaving behind his immoral ways, he doesn’t quite mind.

And if loving her meant that he would forever be able to love, he doesn’t quite mind. 

Until he remembers. 

He is an unlucky man.

It was an ending to a wonderful day outside. It had been a date that’s been planned out for so long now, Toji had even decided that today will be the day he would propose to the love of his life. Sure, they’re both young and, basically, already married but he wants to make it official. He desperately wants this tale to be written on paper, to finally be a love that can last. 

But, of course, this is something that can’t happen to him. 

It happened too quickly the way the damned curse lunged at her. It is impossible to measure the amount of pain he was feeling, to be so feeble and helpless despite knowing that his lover is being torn apart. He could do nothing except watch in horror as the woman he had promised his forever to, dies. 

That day, Toji lost a big chunk of himself. For what is he to do, when his luck runs out and his forever ends too soon. 

Years passed Toji by. Much like the waves crashing onto an unwavering rock, he has endured. But at what cost, he can’t be sure. 

He works hard on both his physique and fighting prowess. Turning the ashes and dying ambers of his love into fuel to strengthen himself. He’s now returned to the jujutsu world as a vigilante of sorts, working in the shadows and remaining undetected,  something he does well considering he’s already invisible to the sorcerer world in the first place. 

Though appearing strong to his foes and oppositions, he truly is just a weak, unfortunate man on the inside. Though he fought valiantly for whoever it is that bids the highest for his skill and service, at the end of the day, he would return to his bed, lonesome and broken.

It’s around the times when he’s most fragile that he finds himself looking for any fragment, any pieces of her that the world has yet to steal from his hands. It’s quite ironic how the thing he desires more than anything is only fulfilled by the one thing he can’t have. 

A curse. 

Yes, the answer comes in the form of a curse that is you, a love he will never have. A plague he’s forever inflicted with. One that causes him to heave your name in silent sobs at the dead of night because he’s forgotten the sound of your laugh. 

Truly, an unfortunate man.

Extra

a.n. ngl this one hurts a bit. Also I feel like there isn't enough toji angst in this economy. Thought I'd do the angst girlies a solid.

Hope you liked it!