#calculations of summary tasks

[painsandconfusion]

Writers, here’s your reminder that you should be doing warm-ups!

Athletes need to warm up. Musicians need to warm up. Artists need to warm up. Heck, I even have to play a few matches in video games before I get into a groove every day.

Warm-ups help you get into the right headspace, give you more control of your actions and word choice, get you comfortable in your physical setting (eg: with your keyboard, notebook, tablet, or whatever you're writing with), and spark creativity.

Even if you don’t think you have spoons to write, sit down and do a couple warm-ups. If you still don’t want to, that’s alright. But. I think you’ll be surprised how often they help break that ice.

5-15 minutes is all you need. I personally set a timer for ten minutes each time and do not stop writing until the time is up. Your warm-up can be anything at all so long as it gets you writing and starts nudging those creative juices.

Here's some common warm-ups:

Journaling. Just jot down some notes about your day. Feel free to really lean into something that you noticed. We're going for description and details -- try to avoid settling into a spiral or focusing on something negative that will upset your creativity.

Short story prompts. Type that into Pinterest and pick the most ridiculous, cliche thing you can. Write a little scene, story summary, or even a rant about why you do or don't like the prompt. Just write.

Vocab challenge. If you like a bit more critical thinking to get you in the zone, have a random vocabulary word generator spit out five or so words. Check their meanings and jot down a little story or thought that includes all five. You get more familiar with beautiful and descriptive language, and it gives you a much narrowed prompt (which is lovely if you're like me and suffer each time there's an open-ended task assigned).

Character moments. Try putting your character into a generic setting and write down almost meticulously what their thought process would be. Follow them realizing they've just stepped in mud or dreading the start of the day. Pick a mundane thing and describe them working through it. This will not only get your writing going, but it will wake up the character's voice in your head.

Ongoing storytelling. Did you know that Whinnie the Poo was A.A. Milne's warm up story? He would jot down a quick little story with those very basic characters and did so every day. Whatever came to mind. He kept writing little tidbits on the same characters and eventually it turned into a series. Having that ongoing plot with isolated scenes and simple characters can help you feel more motivated to sit down and write.

Get-to-know-you-questions. Google a list of basic first-date questions (there are a million out there) and answer one yourself. Go into specifics. Where do you most want to travel and why? Let yourself ramble until the question is fully answered.

Writer's block blues. This is a favorite of mine. If you're truly stuck, write about being stuck. Eg: 'I'm supposed to write for ten minutse, but that feels so stupid and impossible. No one is goign to read this anyway. I have no ideas and the page is so overwhelming when its blank. I used to be able to write on and on and nothing could stop me. it was like breathing. but now I have nothign and do nothing and I can't even do a stupid prompt-' Even the rambling and ranting got me writing. It made things easier. It made writing this post easier. Also -- notice the typos? Yeah, don't fix those. You're in writing mode, not editing mode when you're doing this. If you edit while you write, you're forcing yourself to stay in your executive and calculating headspace rather than falling fully into creativity and dream. Ignore the mistakes. That's for future you to handle.

I've officially rambled far too much, but I hope that helps even a little bit. Live well and write often, my friends. Best of luck to you <3

[reidmotif]

Hands-On Learning

Summary: Reader is deep in preparation for her finals, much to Spencer’s frustration. When she creatively incorporates him into her anatomy review, it turns into a pleasurable experience for them both.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: f!receiving oral, face sitting, face riding, f!masturbation, softdom!spencer, but he's needy and desperate, anatomy terms that may have been used incorrectly (sorry), slight dry humping, overstimulation, yearning.

Word Count: 3.3k

Masterlist

Finals season. 

The ever-dreaded, ever-disliked period between the end of April to June where every student you know is scrambling to absorb roughly four months of material in a matter of weeks.

All bets are off in this lawless space of time. Coffee at 2 AM? Completely advised, go right ahead. Hundreds of dollars spent in food delivery? Sure. Anything to keep the grind going, right? Major papers that should’ve taken weeks to write being done in a frantic three hours? It’s a rite of passage, really. And luckily, you get to spend a much-needed summer break afterwards, recovering from all these horrific decisions you’ve put yourself through. 

Needless to say, your current setup involved many textbooks, flashcards scattered about, and highlighters in the most random of places, all in the name of preparation for this beast of a week. 

And of course, it was all set to the sounds of a very needy Spencer Reid, who’d been begging for your attention since he’d gotten here.

“You’ve studied so much already, I swear. Can’t you take a break?”Spencer questions petulantly, sitting on the bed adjacent to your desk, where you were currently hard at work memorizing the thirty-one pairs of nerves that made up the spine. 

You’d been studying intensely for this semester's finals. By making a couple of well-informed choices beforehand, you were actually quite on track when it came to your learning and retention of material.

For the most part, it seemed like you were on track to sail through all your classes without a hitch. That held true, until you brought up Introduction to Anatomy. 

Anatomy was fun, by all means. Interesting labs, interesting people, interesting content. However, what daunted you more than anything in pertinence to the material was the enormity of the terms and vocabulary you were expected to know in time for the exam.

“I haven’t studied enough.” Is your quick response, a small smirk finding its way to your lips. Despite loving your boyfriend, there was a certain pleasure in seeing him so desperate for you, a power-rush that felt unbelievably good.

And to your credit, you really were hard at work memorizing these terms. As much as you enjoyed his company (and the sex he wanted to engage in), it simply could not take precedence over the task at hand. 

“You know, multiple studies recommend at least twenty minutes of a break for every hour you study, for peak brain efficiency, and you-” He checks his watch, mentally calculating how long you’d been at that desk. “You’re due for at least an hour’s worth of break at this point.” 

You finally look up, your finger halting on the paper it’d been tracing over. “Spencer, you know I’d love to take a break but-” 

He sighs heavily. “I’m aware. This is important. I get it.” He grumbles, flopping onto the bed in a slightly dramatic fashion. 

You giggle at the scene. For all his propriety, there was never a more amusing sight than your boyfriend reduced to base desire and instinct. You take pity on him though, and smile gently at him. 

“Look, why don’t you get out? Go have lunch, do whatever, and come back. Hopefully I’ll be closer to finishing then, and we can hang out then?” You offer, hope in your voice. 

He sighs and nods, lifting himself off your bed. “Yeah, sounds good.” He murmurs, coming over to the desk to place an affectionate, chaste kiss upon the top of your head. “Good luck.” He says, cracking a half smile as he leaves, which you return with a smile of your own. 

The door closes, and you’re left with nothing but silence, and the lateral cutaneous branches looking up at you from their place on the page. Time to work at it, you suppose. 

It’s about two hours later, when you hear the tell-tale knock of your boyfriend at your door, presumably back from his excursion away from you. Your place at your desk is momentarily abandoned in favor of letting him in, and there’s instant delight in your eyes, considering the two cups of coffee he presents to you. One is iced, one is not. Without any words exchanged between either party, the iced coffee is grabbed and you grin. 

“Thank you.” You say, taking a sip. Of course he’d remember your order perfectly. 

“You know, that could’ve been my coffee, for all you know.” He teases, striding into the room. 

You roll your eyes fondly whilst you close the door. “Spencer Reid drinking iced coffee? I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Coffee is supposed to be hot!” He protests, immediately, this being an obvious subject of passion for him. “Hot brewed coffee contains far more antioxidants, and doesn’t risk being watered down by ice- oh, and another thing-” 

You stifle a chuckle whilst watching him. This had been an ongoing debate for you two, essentially since the day you met. Your first date had been at a coffee shop. When he'd asked for your order, he looked almost appalled at the prefix of “iced” you’d tacked onto your statement.

Nevertheless, he still ordered it, and did his best to educate you on why hot coffee was “clearly” superior.

Somewhere between lecturing you on caffeine effectivity and nutritional information, you were head over heels. 

“Anyway.” He says, breaking your thoughts, and seemingly done with his argument. “How far are you into studying?” 

You make your way back to your desk, biting your lip as you stand over the material.  “Pretty far.” You murmur, reluctantly. “I dunno. I know I know this material, but I feel like it hasn’t solidified in my brain, you know? Like I need to keep hammering it in until it’s basically muscle memory for me.” 

He moves slowly to be behind you, his hands coming to rub your shoulders gently, soothing the worn out muscles on your back. His touch is warm and reassuring, a quiet way of saying, “You can rest.”

“You know.” He murmurs, softly. “You’d probably do better with a break. Take a breather, let your brain relax for a second.” 

There’s a pause, before he adds in a quiet voice, “Maybe spend some time with me?” His hand comes to move some hair away from your neck, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the side of it. 

You melt into the movement. He always knew exactly where your weak spots were, where you’d falter and give right into his ministries.

But you know you can’t. You force yourself to breathe and look away, as though that simple act might help you forget how his hands had lingered on you just a moment ago.

“I want to, I swear. But I won’t feel good about taking downtime until I’m absolutely sure I’ve got this.” You say, firmly extricating yourself from his grasp.

He gives another one of his heavy sighs, accepting his fate quietly, knowing he won’t be able to convince you outside of your own accord. 

“Alright then. I’ll just hang out here then.. For however long that might take.” 

You give a small, pained smile. “Thank you. I know I’m being difficult.” 

“You’re not. You could never be difficult.” He responds, immediately, returning your smile with one of his own. “It’s just finals season. I know your  performance will be wonderful, and we’ll have all the time in the world afterwards to spend time together.” 

Your heart melts. You were beyond lucky to have him, and that adoration and knowledge is displayed plainly through your expression. “Thank you.” You repeat, unable to verbalize just how much his support meant to you. “I hate finals.” 

“You and I both.” He shoots back, cracking a grin. “You’re going to do great.” 

There’s no trace of doubt in his tone at all. 

For the next hour or so, you both quietly coexist in the same space, the names of musculature and types of fibers muttered under your breath. After a while, the terms click into place, and with a quiet breath, you let the tension go. The final step in your preparation involved practicing the newly learned terms on a human model. Ideally, it would be one of the fake skeletons in the anatomy lab. Your gaze, however, drifted to your boyfriend on your bed, sprawled out, reading your physics textbook for fun. 

Nerd. 

An almost evil plan enters your brain, and your voice goes sickly sweet as you call out his name. 

“Spence?” “Mm?” He murmurs, looking over the book. 

“Can you strip down to your underwear, please?” A harmless smile plays on your lips as you ask.

Spencer’s all ears as he hears that, and in record time his clothes are shed. “Are you-” “Lie back on the bed.” You order. 

He’s so obedient and eager, immediately complying with what you’ve asked of him without question. You smile, and discreetly grab a washable marker before making your way to where he was laid out. 

“God. I’ve been so insanely needy for you all day. I’m so glad you’re done.” He says, his expression reeking of starvation as you straddle him. You can feel him harden under your touch, and choose to ignore that. 

You lean down, your head at about his chest. His breathing quickens in anticipation, already so turned on from the minimal contact between you two.

Before he can make a move of his own, you pull out your marker and mark the space between his clavicle and shoulder.

“Brachial plexus.” You murmur, much to his utter confusion and dismay. 

“You have to be kidding me.” He says, his look of confusion quickly morphing into one of realization. “I thought you were done-” 

“I’m not.” You say, with a small smirk on your lips. “But I will be, if you’re quiet and let me work on you.” 

He groans. “You’re evil, this is evil. I won’t-” 

“The faster we get through this, the faster I’m all yours.” You interrupt, mostly ignoring him, because you know he’ll do anything if it means touching you by the end of it. 

He takes a pained breath and tries to relax while you work on top of him,  his obvious erection straining against the fabric of his briefs.

The pen drags down his chest, as you move down on him to better position yourself in accordance to the medial pectoral nerve you were marking.

“Baby, please.” He groans out, his hands fisting in the sheets below him in an attempt to not grab you and take you right then and there.

The slightest bit of friction seems to set him off, and you can tell he isn’t playing it up in the slightest. He truly was, well and gone for you within this moment.

“Sorry.” You murmur. “Just marking your.. anterior cutaneous branches.. of the thoracic nerves.” The pen drags against a spot on his chest, and he shudders. 

“Won’t this stain my skin?” He says, a slight whine in his tone, doing absolutely anything to free himself from the absolute torture of this predicament he’d found himself in. 

“Nah. It’s one of those pens they use for surgery.” You respond, dragging it along his sternum to mark a few more necessary terms. “It’ll come right off in the shower.” 

You know exactly how to push his buttons. You lean in closer and whisper against his ear enticingly, “We can get clean together.” 

He squeezes his eyes at that, the feeling of your lips brushing against his earlobe triggering an involuntary response, a low moan escaping him. “This is.. so unfair. I just want to touch you. Please.” 

“Not until I’m done.” You fire back. “C'mon. You can be good and wait, right?” 

“Easy for you to say.” He grits out. “You’re not the one, half naked and hard and having to watch you be..” He trails off.

“Be what?” You ask, a bit distracted as you mark another nerve of importance.

“Be.. sexy.” He mumbles out, clearly embarrassed by his own musings. 

A small, wry smile comes upon your mouth. You lean back, a breath of laughter slipping free. “You think I look sexy?” You say, a teasing lilt in your tone.

He rubs a hand over his face, clearly mortified. “Yes. Yes, okay!” He grumbles out, clearly self-conscious by just how much he’s managed to be affected by you. “You’re on top of me, drawing on me, and I’m aware they’re just anatomical terms, but God the way you say them.” 

His voice devolves into a near whimper, pitiful and aching. “It’s killing me.” 

You hum, pleased with yourself. “Killing you, huh?”

“Yes.” He mewls. “Killing me. I want you so much, please. You’re so smart. Please. I know you’re going to do so good on this final. Just please, please, let me touch you.”

He collapses into his words, into you. No pride left, just need.

“Yeah? You think I’m smart?” You murmur teasingly, tracing the plastic of your marker along the side of his neck. 

“Yes.” He moans, lowly. “So smart. You’re so hot when you’re working so hard. Makes me want you so bad.” 

Your head turns back, and you can see the wetness of precum leaking from his cock on his briefs. He wasn’t faking it to get your attention. He yearned for you, plain and simple.

Your eyes find his, and they’re full of need, his expression absolutely shameless and desperate. “Please.” He repeats. “Please let me touch you. I don’t care how. Just- god. I can't do this. Please.” 

It’s enough to make you yield. You slide off of him, and he lets out a soft, needy sound, already missing the press of you, until his breath catches at the sight of you stripping, your clothes landing somewhere off the edge of the bed without a second thought.

“You wanna touch me?” You murmur, crawling up the bed a little. 

“Yes.” He whispers, nodding.

The way he looks at your naked body, eyes fixed, hungry, reverent.. it’s almost too much. You feel dizzy from the weight of it.

You straddle his face, a thigh on either side of him whilst you hover over his face, and then you look down. “Touch me then.” You murmur.

He practically growls as his hands wrap around your thighs. “With pleasure.” 

He pulls you down entirely, effectively forcing your core against his mouth, his tongue lapping against every inch of your wet folds.

You moan, your hands coming to grasp the headboard in front of you. There’s absolutely nothing he could be thinking about, besides the taste and smell of you flooding and overwhelming his senses. 

He devours you with a single-minded focus, his tongue expertly alternating between flattening  and lapping you in slow, deliberate strokes, and quick flicks against your clit. It’s all done in service to you, Spencer thinking of the fastest way to unravel you, desperate to taste your release against his tongue– to hear you moan his name and shake above him. 

He gets his wish when another stroke of his tongue finally causes you to come, your sweet release flooding his face, and him eagerly drinking it in. He moans as he attempts to pull you even closer to his mouth (if that was even possible). 

You let out a breathy laugh as he seems to slow down, indicating the end of your session. “Spence.. Oh god. That was so good.” You try to get off him, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad. 

“Again.” He moans. 

“What?” You ask, not sure if you heard him right. 

“Again, please.” He begs, voice broken. “I need you.” 

The absolute depravity and torment in his voice lulls you into complacency, as you assume your previous position above him. 

“Okay. Okay, baby. We can go again.” You murmur, soothingly.

He wastes no time going right back in, his tongue albeit, a little slower now, keeping in mind that you’d just orgasmed, and that you were probably still sensitive. 

He’s right to do so, little high-pitched moans and drawn out of you as you get comfortable again, despite the overstimulation.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, never properly touching it, delaying your next release. After a while of this teasing, you finally moan out his name, your hips shamelessly rocking against him. 

“Spencer, god. Please. Need to come.” You beg, feeling yourself at the edge of a small death. 

Spencer responds in kind, rapidly flicking his tongue against your swollen bud, and in record time, you’re coming again, much to his delight.  He doesn't let up until he's absolutely sure he's lapped up every single drop, not letting any of it go to waste.

“Okay, baby. I gotta get off. Gotta breathe. So do you.” You pant out, as you get off from your seat on his face.

He shakes his head, tugging you closer. 

“Please, wanna keep touching you.” He pleads, eyes teary, your release practically dripping off his chin. His hand digs into your arm with a lustful urgency.  “Please. We can go again. I know we can.” 

You yield to his request, because honestly, who could deny him right now? His hair messy, lips shiny and his voice, fractured and full of ache, barely held together. 

You nod, lying down, on the bed, motioning for him to roll on top of you. 

He rolls over and kisses you, and it’s absolutely sinful. You can taste yourself on him, moaning as your lips easily part and make way for him, the wet warmth of his tongue sliding against yours. There’s nothing held back between the two of you as your lips connect and reconnect, as his hand slowly slides down the expanse of your skin, finding your clit and beginning to rub slow circles against it. 

“Oh god, Spencer.” You moan bonelessly, feeling the effects of your previous two orgasms and the one you were hurtling towards currently taking over you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “That feel good?” 

“God, yes.” You moan. “You always know how to touch me, always know how to make me feel good- oh-” 

He groans in delight as he dives in for another kiss, his fingers sliding across the slick bud even faster now, determined to make you fall off the edge for him one last time. He humps your thigh, practically desperate for some relief for his aching cock as well.

“Say my name.” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Spencer.” You wail out, in response. 

“Louder.” 

“Oh god, Spencer, please!” You groan, your body beginning to tense up with the tell-tale signs of an orgasm, your body taut like a bowstring. 

“That’s right, come for me.” He whispers, placing a sweet kiss against your collarbone, his hips continuing their rut in an attempt to chase his release as well.

And with a shout, you come, your body seizing up and succumbing to his touch, your hands wrapping around his neck in an attempt to ground yourself as you experienced the intense pleasure that could only result from being with him.

He seems to follow shortly after to the sound of your moans, a wet patch appearing on the front of his briefs.

You whimper as you come down for your orgasm, Spencer stroking your skin soothingly, peppering little kisses wherever he could reach. 

“You doing okay?” He pants out.

“Better than okay.” You murmur, folding into his embrace, feeling as if you were floating on clouds, or some other poetic description of just how light you felt in this moment. 

“I pushed you pretty hard, huh?” He mumbles, his voice tinged with a slight bit of concern. 

“Don’t worry. I deserve it for teasing you so hard." You mumble.

"Thanks for helping me study, by the way." You tack on, already feeling yourself drift off into a quiet, peaceful slumber in his arms. 

He chuckles a bit, and places a kiss against your forehead. “Glad I could make the lesson... hands-on.”

woah!!! hello!! so unfortunately, much like reader, i have also been swamped by finals :( but, this idea came to me and i decided to write it and try to make my way back to writing even a little bit more regularly. as usual, please like, reblog and comment if you enjoyed this fic. reblogs are basically the lifeline of tumblr, and if you'd like my work to reach more people, i would 10000% appreciate it so much. thank you so much for reading regardless, and i hope it was enjoyable. thank you thank thank you for all your support!!!! <333

[roturo]

SUCCESSOR -`♡´-

summary: He believes he’s going to die soon, and the idea of leaving the Kira case unfinished gnaws at him. The thought of his legacy fading away too soon is unbearable. He needs a successor. And soon.

warnings: A LOT of breeding, smut, unprocteted sex, overstimulation, multiple rounds, pwp, tummy buldge, mentions of cum, mating press, virgin!L, obssesed!L, mentions of forming a family, not proof read and sleepy while writing this. and more.

a/n: ik this is going to have as much support as my other works, but it's def one of my best and favs writings, so please show me your support with a comment and reblog! it means a lot for me!

You've been part of the task force for a while now, ever since L handpicked you for his elite team. As a regular member, you've earned your place and trust within the group. The necessity of keeping your identity hidden has diminished, thanks to the expanding team, but you still opt for an alias during meetings, maintaining a veil of secrecy around your true connection to L.

L’s mind is a labyrinth, each thought of a winding path leading to an unknown destination. His strategies are always a step ahead, his deductions razor-sharp. Yet, despite his brilliance, one specific thought has been haunting him lately:

He believes he’s going to die soon.

This isn't a paranoid delusion but a calculated assessment. L understands the immense dangers tied to the Kira case. The complexity of the situation has grown, and he suspects an external force at play, one that eludes even his grasp. This unknown entity has shifted the balance, making the case more perilous than ever.

L is determined not to let his legacy end prematurely. He has dedicated his life to solving the world’s most challenging mysteries, and the idea of leaving the Kira case unfinished gnaws at him. The thought of his legacy fading away too soon is unbearable.

He needs a successor.

And soon.

Finding someone who can match his intellect and tenacity is no simple task. The successor must be able to understand his intricate methods, to carry on his relentless pursuit of justice. The urgency of this mission weighs heavily on him, as he prepares to identify and groom the next guardian of his legacy.

You were the perfect match for him, and his calculations confirmed it. There was an 86% probability that having a child with you would result in someone with a higher IQ than his own, combined with the social skills he lacked. In the realm of interpersonal relationships, L was inexperienced, never having had a relationship or intimacy before. Recently, he had been contemplating how to propose this idea to you.

Should he ask you outright? Should he try to make you fall in love with him first? No, this wasn't about love. It was a precaution, a step in his investigation, a way to ensure his legacy continued if the worst were to happen.

The atmosphere in the headquarters was tense as always, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the room. You sat at your desk, engrossed in your work, when L’s quiet footsteps approached. His presence was magnetic, his aura of mystery and intellect always palpable. He paused beside you, his gaze fixed on the monitors displaying the latest updates on the Kira case.

“Can we talk?” His voice was soft, almost hesitant, a rare departure from his usual confident demeanor.

You looked up, surprised by the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his tone. “Of course, L. What’s on your mind?”

He shifted, glancing around the room as if searching for the right words. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. It’s… personal.”

Your curiosity piqued, you nodded, giving him your full attention. “I’m listening.”

He took a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours. “You’re aware of the importance of my work, of the dangers we face daily. The Kira case has made me realize that I must consider contingencies I hadn’t thought of before.”

You nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“There’s a… statistical analysis I’ve conducted,” he said, his voice becoming more clinical as he explained. “It suggests that if I were to have a child with someone of your intelligence and social capabilities, the child would have a higher IQ than mine and possess the social skills I lack. This could be crucial in continuing my work if anything were to happen to me.”

The gravity of his words hit you like a ton of bricks. L, always methodical and rational, had approached this highly personal matter with the same analytical mindset he used to solve cases. You could see the logic in his plan, yet the implications were overwhelming.

“So, you want me to… have a child with you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yes,” he replied, his eyes unwavering. “But understand, this is not about emotions or personal desire...I think” He whispers to himself before he continues– “It’s a precaution, a part of my contingency planning. I’ve never experienced a relationship or intimacy, so I’m uncertain how to approach this.”

The room seemed to close in around you as you processed his request. It was a cold, calculated proposition, yet it carried a weight of vulnerability and trust. L was placing his future, his legacy, in your hands.

“How do you expect this to work, L?” you asked, your voice tinged with both curiosity and trepidation.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, his facade of invincibility cracking slightly. “I’ve considered different approaches. Should I simply ask you directly? Should I try to make you fall in love with me first? But this isn’t about love. It’s about ensuring that if I am no longer here, someone capable can continue my work.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts and emotions. L’s eyes searched yours, looking for understanding, perhaps even acceptance. You could see the conflict within him, the struggle between his logical mind and the unfamiliar territory of human connection.

“I need time to think about this,” you finally said, your voice gentle but firm.

L nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his features. “Of course. Take all the time you need. This is not a decision to be made lightly.”

Finally, you made your decision.

One evening, you found L in his usual spot, hunched over his laptop, eyes glued to the screen. The dim light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity of his focus. Taking a deep breath, you approached him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“L,” you said softly, breaking the silence. He looked up, his piercing gaze meeting yours.

“I’ve thought about what you asked,” you continued, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “And I agree.”

For a moment, L simply stared at you, processing your words. Then, slowly, he nodded, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of his desk. “Understood. Thank you for your cooperation.”

You took a seat across from him, the air between you charged with a new sense of purpose. “How do we proceed?”

L leaned back, his thumb brushing his bottom lip in thought. “We need to ensure this doesn’t disrupt our work or compromise the investigation. The task force must not be aware of our personal connection, as it could create complications.”

You nodded, understanding the delicate balance that needed to be maintained. L’s expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “I must admit that emotional connections are not my area of expertise. This will be… a learning experience.  Should… we do it tonight?”

“Ah- Ah- Slow down, L-Lawliet!” you gasped, your voice breaking with a mix of pleasure and urgency.

L’s thrusts were sloppy but fast, driven more by instinct than experience. His movements lacked rhythm, a clear sign of his inexperience. He had come twice already without withdrawing from you, his body responding purely on primal urges.

He had done his research, concluding that a mating press might be the most effective position for this purpose. But he never anticipated how overwhelmingly good it would feel. Was it like this with everyone? Or was it something unique because it was you?

His thrusts grew more erratic, almost desperate. Small whines escaped his mouth, each one tinged with your name like a prayer. You could feel every twitch, every movement inside you, the raw intensity of his desire almost too much to bear.

“L,” you whispered, trying to regain some control. “You need to… slow down.”

He nodded, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. “I’m trying,” he panted, his voice unsteady. “It’s just… so overwhelming.”

His usually sharp, calculating mind seemed lost in the haze of sensation. Every thrust, every brush of skin against skin, was a new experience for him. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between maintaining control and giving in to the raw pleasure.

He moaned at the familiar, overwhelming sensation of climaxing again, and you could feel your own release approaching. The intensity was almost unbearable when he grabbed a pillow and slipped it under your back, angling you into an even deeper mating press. His thrusts became more deliberate, his cock somehow reaching deeper, hitting your g-spot with precision over and over again.

The pleasure was so intense, so all-consuming, that all you could do was chant his name like a mantra, each syllable a prayer of ecstasy. “L-Lawliet,” you breathed, your voice trembling with the force of your impending climax.

He watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his own pleasure driving him to thrust harder, faster. “S-shit,” he gasped, his breath hitching, “I think—” His words dissolved into a whine as he came again inside you, his release flooding your womb with a desperate, addictive need.

This wasn’t just about producing a successor anymore. It was about the raw, primal satisfaction of filling you over and over again. He was captivated by the sight of your bodies joined, the way your mixed arousal leaked from where you were connected, glistening in the dim light.

“Lawliet,” you cried out, your own climax hitting you with the force of a tidal wave. Your body tightened around him, milking every last drop of his release as he continued to thrust, his movements erratic and needy.

He whimpered, the sound vibrating through his chest as he pressed his forehead against yours, his dark hair falling in a messy curtain around your face. “You feel… incredible,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion and exertion.

He groaned before pressing his lips to yours, the kiss deep and fervent. His cock remained erect inside you, pulsing with an insatiable desire. The feeling of having you this close, of being connected so intimately, was overwhelming. In that moment, he lost all sense of reason and the initial purpose behind his actions.

His mind, usually so sharp and focused on the Kira case, was now clouded with visions of a future he never thought he'd consider. He imagined how adorable you would look, carrying his child, a baby with his eyes and your smile. The idea of having a family with you consumed him, pushing all thoughts of logic and strategy aside.

Without realizing it, he began thrusting again, the movement instinctual and desperate. Each thrust was deliberate, fulfilling the small bump of cum inside you that was already visible through your tummy. He watched in awe, fascinated by the sight of your bodies joined so intimately, the tangible evidence of his desire and your shared pleasure.

“L-Lawliet,” you gasped against his lips, your hands clutching his shoulders as he moved within you. “What... what are you thinking?”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. “I’m thinking… I’m thinking about us. About a future I never allowed myself to dream of.” His voice was rough with emotion, a raw edge that you rarely heard.

Your heart swelled at his words, the vulnerability in his usually composed demeanor striking a chord deep within you. “Lawliet,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the contours of his face. “I never imagined… I never thought you’d want this.Want me”

“I didn’t either,” he admitted, his thrusts growing more purposeful. “But now, with you, that's all I can think about. The idea of you carrying my child, of us having a family…you in general… it’s overwhelming.”

He kissed you again, more gently this time, savoring the softness of your lips against his. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure through you, the sensation heightened by the emotional intensity of the moment. His hands roamed your body, memorizing every curve, every detail.

“Do you… do you want this too?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

“Yes,” you breathed, the admission freeing a weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying. “I want this. I want us.”

His eyes darkened with a mix of relief and desire, and he kissed you harder, his movements inside you becoming more urgent. The room filled with the sounds of your shared pleasure, each moan and gasp a testament to the bond growing between you.

As he continued to thrust, you could feel the tension coiling tighter within you, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. He seemed to sense it too, his rhythm intensifying as he chased his own release.

“Lawliet,” you cried out, your climax hitting you with the force of a tidal wave. Your body tightened around him, every nerve ending alight with sensation.

He groaned, his own release following closely behind, filling you once more. The feeling was addictive, the raw intimacy of it all-consuming. He held you close, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered mostly to himself, his voice filled with wonder.

“Neither can I,” you replied, your heart pounding in sync with his. “But it feels right. It feels perfect.”

He nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “It does.”

You stayed entwined like that, savoring the afterglow and the newfound depth of your connection. The Kira case and the outside world faded into the background, replaced by the warmth of each other’s presence and the promise of a future together.

Eventually, as the reality of your situation began to seep back in, you knew you had to return to your duties. But the bond you had forged would remain, a source of strength and comfort in the days to come.

As L gently pulled out and helped you adjust, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. “We’ll figure this out,” he said softly in a small whisper. “Together.”

“Together,” you echoed, your heart filled with a certainty that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them side by side.

[annievrse]

ship's seamstress

roronoa zoro x fem!reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic summary: as the sunny's seamstress, it's your job to make new clothes for the crew. so what happens when it's zoro's turn for his measurements? w/c: 1.4k c/w: (very) suggestive, flirting a/n: its cuffing season soon, after all. this is pure thirst.

"Alright! Zoro, it's your turn," Nami says, walking out of the stairs that lead under the ship.

Hiding his smug look, Zoro brushes past the navigator as he takes lazy steps down to your studio. The rest of the crew had their measurements taken for their new clothes, but Zoro stayed behind and insisted that he be the last one to do so.

The chatter of his crewmates fades to silence as the door closes, and he walks down the barren hallway, only the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. A familiar but restless feeling rises in his chest, one that can only be roused by you, and Zoro rubs at his sternum. He can hear you humming, something that only happens when you’re giddy, and the feeling in his chest grows tenfold.

Without knocking, the swordsman pushes the door open. Despite the red silks hanging from the curtain rod, the blue muslin draped on the hutch against the wall, and the chest of buttons that had spilled on the rug, Zoro's gaze zeros in on you like it always does.

You stand at your desk, your back to the door, different fabrics splayed over your workspace. Your hands move, calculating and purposefully as you pair colours and materials together.

"Don't think too hard about what to put me in," Zoro quips, shutting the door behind him. "I don't wear a shirt that much anyway."

The sound of his voice, paired with his words, warms your whole body. You turn around and lean against the desk, hands gripping the edge.

Tilting your head, your eyes scan his build. His thick biceps and broad chest make it hard to focus on the task at hand, and the look in his eye isn't helping either.

"Not sure my measuring tape will go the whole way around."

Zoro scoffs, dropping his head. "Were you like this with the rest of your clients today?"

"Only the annoying ones."

Rolling his eyes, Zoro steps before you, his knee slipping between your thighs. "You think everyone's annoying."

You shrug and reach behind you for the string. "Back up, big boy."

Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, Zoro reaches behind his neck and pulls the back of his shirt over his head. You refrain from glancing at his happy trail for too long.

But Zoro notices everything about you and stretches his arms out with a raised eyebrow. "Well?"

You blink. "Well, what?"

"Will it fit?"

There's a mischievous glint in his eye that excites you. Clearing your throat, you sigh. You're both on thin ice with the crew waiting impatiently for their clothes; who knows when they'd barge into your studio to get their hands on their goods.

"Maybe if your boobs weren't so big..."

"They're pecs." His eyes flicker to your chest, and he runs his hand over his hair, his earrings clinking together as he tilts his head slightly.

Ignoring him, you run the string through your fist and stretch it out.

Standing this close to Zoro will never fail to make your head spin and your breath shorten. His usual musky man smell engulfs you, and you swallow the dryness in your throat. Wrapping your arms around his back, your chest presses against him, the feeling all too familiar.

Shoving the thought to the back of your mind proves more problematic than anticipated, but nonetheless, you catch the other end of the string with your right hand and circle it around to his sternum.

Much to your chagrin, the ends of the string barely meet.

You can practically hear the smirk on his lips.

"Do you still need me here? Or do you have all my measurements memorised, pretty girl?"

Scoffing, you let go of the string and step back, meeting his piercing gaze with your own. "Shut up and sit down."

Raising his hands in faux surrender, Zoro smiles. "Yes, ma'am."

Turning back to your desk, you quickly get to work. You won't give Zoro the satisfaction of saying you did, in fact, already have his measurements retained, but what can you say? You're good at your job. It's definitely not from the countless hours you spend admiring him, watching him hone himself into a weapon, or pressing yourself against him whenever the moment arises.

It's definitely, only because you're a trained seamstress.

You round your desk and sit in the chair, pulling the machine closer to you. Shaking your head softly, you rid your mind of flashes of his sweaty abdomen and thick thighs. He'd invited you to watch his previous workout, cocky bastard.

With shaky hands, you narrowly miss putting your thumb through the sewing machine — you should've sent him away before you started thinking of him like this. And with him not 5 feet away, you're sure he can see what you're thinking.

But unbeknownst to you, Zoro watches you from across the room, his skin hot and mind full of thoughts of you, you, you. He sees you swallow thickly, and he shifts in his chair, the creak jolting you from your daze.

"What?" Zoro asked, his eyebrows furrowed at your surprise.

"Nothing," You squeak, running the sleeve hem through your sewing machine. "Just forgot you were there."

"Forgot, huh?"

Rolling your eyes, you ignore his cocky expression.

Instead of pushing you further, Zoro gets comfortable, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. His eye follows your hands as you work, and all he can think about is your fingers wrapped around—

"Zo?"

Blinking, Zoro's head snaps up, and he fears you can hear what he's thinking. "Yeah?"

His unusual demeanour confuses you, but you stand from your chair and walk toward him, a black garment in your hands.

Your hands—

Zoro clears his throat and sniffs, looking everywhere but your fingers.

"Try this on."

It's not a question but a demand, and Zoro can feel his cocky facade slipping as he stands, muscles rippling as he rolls his shoulders back.

You hand the shirt over to him gingerly, hands clammy. Zoro smiles softly and takes it, tongue darting to wet his lips.

Zoro doesn't inspect it before he puts it on—he already knows it'll fit perfectly. The fabric is soft on his skin, and it's the right amount of tight.

A black long-sleeve that hugs his narrow waist and broad chest, his veiny forearms and thick biceps.

You have to refrain from squealing at the sight of him, and he knows it, too.

Zoro hums in approval, turning to the small mirror you have by the hutch to look over the shirt. He smirks at you through the mirror and you shake your head, a giggle leaving your lips at what you know he'll do next.

And if you had a berry for every time Zoro had purposefully flexed in front of you, you'd have enough to pay his bounty. So, when the fabric stretches just right to accommodate the pressure of his flexed bicep, you physically swoon, and Zoro laughs a laugh only reserved for you.

You walk toward him and place your hands on his waist. "Do you like it?"

Zoro rests one hand on the back of your head and the other on your neck.

"Silly question, pretty," He presses his lips to your hairline. "Thank you."

You close your eyes and bask in his strong embrace. "I—"

A sharp rip, followed by a gasp and a deep laugh, draws you from your stupor. Maybe he had gotten bigger.

"Turn," a shocked laugh leaves your lips, and you inspect the damage with your other hand covering your mouth. Shocked because you're surprised it happened this quickly.

Your fingers trace his spine, fingertips probing the raw edges of the fabric. As you do so, you calculate how much extra fabric to leave on the new shirt so this doesn't happen again.

Zoro tries to look over his shoulder. "Well, shit, that sucks."

"Terribly," You sigh absentmindedly, feeling goosebumps arise on his skin. "I wasn't aiming to boost your ego this fast."

Scoffing, Zoro turns back around. The shirt sits loosely around his shoulders but still tightly on his arms, and you can barely take it anymore.

"Take your shirt off."

Zoro inhales sharply, his eye narrowing. "Keep talkin' like that, and we're gonna have problems."

"Oh, yeah?" You smile. "Would you like new pants too?"

The swordsman looks to the ceiling and mumbles something incoherent. He lowers his head, and you can feel your chest tighten at his fiery gaze. "You're gonna kill me."

Shrugging with a smile, you begin cutting more material, leaving just enough allowance to get the desired look without the possibility of the shirt ripping (not that you're complaining).

[10diamondz]

FAMILY COMES FIRST

Summary: Capitano brings his daughter to a Harbinger meeting because you are currently sick. The Harbingers are surprised, and Alina(daughter) was in awe about the 11th harbinger’s eyes, calling them "water eyes." Her innocence softens everyone in the room, even making Childe smile.

The Fatui headquarters in Snezhnaya had never felt more stunning to you than on this cold, dull day. The wind howled through the snow-covered streets, rattling against the windows of your shared home as you lay beneath the blankets, your skin warm and flushed with fever. Your body ached, and the weight of exhaustion pressed heavily upon you.

The usually soothing presence of your husband, Capitano, was missing, and your mind couldn't help but wander to where he was at that moment. You knew exactly where: in a meeting with the other Harbingers. Normally, your little family was kept separate from such matters, and you were more than happy with that arrangement. However, this time was different. Your husband had left for his duties this morning, leaving you alone with your lively, energetic child—your precious two-year-old daughter, Alina.

Normally, handling her joyful spirit was a joy you cherished, but in your current state, every giggle and playful grab for your attention felt like a backbreaking task.

You hadn’t expected to fall ill, and you certainly hadn’t expected Capitano to be needed at a Harbinger meeting so urgently.

As Alina toddled toward you, her tiny hands reaching for your cheek, you smiled weakly. "Mama's okay, sweetheart," you whispered, though you barely had the strength to lift your hand to stroke her hair.

In the midst of your thoughts, the sound of heavy footsteps approached the door. Capitano returned. His dark armor and massive frame filled the doorway, but his expression softened the moment he saw your state. He quickly approached the bed, his voice low with concern.

"You should’ve called for me sooner," he murmured, kneeling beside you and placing a large, gloved hand on your forehead to check your temperature.

"I didn’t want to bother you…" you whispered. "Besides, I thought I could manage…"Capitano’s frown deepened, his brows furrowing behind his mask. “You and Alina come first, always.

”Alina, who had been playing with one of her father’s gloves, immediately perked up at the sight of him, toddling over to tug at his cloak. “Papa!”

His stern expression softened as he scooped up his daughter in one arm, effortlessly holding her tiny body against his broad chest. The sight made your heart swell. For a man feared across nations, Capitano had always been gentle with his family.

But his position's reality was drawing near. There was no way to skip today's meeting because Capitano was still a Harbinger. He stood with Alina still in his arms, his gaze lingering on you as if weighing a decision.

“You’re too ill to take care of Alina alone,” he finally said. “I’ll take her with me.

”You blinked in surprise, a small laugh escaping your lips despite the ache in your body. "To… to the Harbinger meeting?" Capitano’s eyes flashed with resolve. “Yes. There is no safer place for her than by my side.” The thought of your two-year-old daughter sitting among the most fearsome figures in Teyvat—Dottore, Pantalone, Arlecchino, Pierro—was both amusing and absurd. Yet, you trusted Capitano implicitly. If anyone could protect her, it was him. With a weak nod, you relented.

“Alright, but… keep her out of trouble.” Capitano’s lips twitched upward in the faintest hint of a smile behind his mask. "Of course."

The grand meeting room in the Fatui’s main fortress(?) was as intimidating as ever, filled with the cold air and tension. The Harbingers were standing around a long table.

As he readied himself to address the group, Pierro, the Director, stood at the head of the table, his gaze calculating and sharp. It was a rare occasion for all the Harbingers to gather, and naturally, it came with an air of importance.

But this time, something was… different.

As the grand doors creaked open, every Harbinger turned their attention toward the figure that entered. Capitano, the fearsome 1st Harbinger, marched into the room as usual, his broad figure cloaked in black, his presence as intimidating as ever.

But then they saw it. Perched in his arm, clinging to his cloak, was a tiny child. Her bright, curious eyes scanned the room as she pointed at various Harbingers, muttering incoherently in the way only toddlers could. Silence fell over the room. Pantalone, was the first to break the stunned quiet, his lips quirking into an amused smirk.

"Well, well, Capitano. I didn’t realize our meeting was so… casual today." Dottore’s eyes gleamed with interest behind his mask, Already figuring out the numerous of questions he wanted to ask about this new “subject.” "A curious specimen," he muttered to himself, though loud enough for everyone to hear. Arlecchino’s sharp gaze flickered between the child and Capitano. "You’ve brought a child to a Harbinger meeting?" Capitano remained unbothered by their reactions. He walked calmly to his position, his daughter still sitting comfortably on his arm.

As he took his place at the table, Alina immediately started fiddling with a piece of his armor, completely unaware of the danger and power surrounding her. "Her mother is unwell," Capitano stated simply, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument. "I will take responsibility for her here."Pierro, merely raised an eyebrow. "I trust this will not interfere with the proceedings?"

"Not at all," Capitano replied. He glanced down at Alina, who was now inspecting his gauntlets with great interest. The tension slowly lifted as the meeting proceeded, though more than a few of the Harbingers kept stealing glances at the toddler on Capitano’s arm. Occasionally, she would giggle or reach for something on the table, and each time, Capitano would gently redirect her attention with a soft murmur. The sight of the mighty Captain doting on his daughter in the middle of such a grim meeting was a scene none of the Harbingers had ever imagined.

Even the rigid Pierro seemed slightly amused, though he hid it well behind his usual stoicism. As the discussion deepened, Alina's attention wandered to the other Harbingers. She stared at each of them in turn, her tiny fingers still gripping her father’s cloak. But it was when her gaze landed on the 11th Harbinger, Childe, that she froze.

She simply *stared* at him, her wide eyes fixed on his face, in particular his bright, ocean-colored eyes. Childe, who had been following the meeting intently, slowly noticed the unwavering stare of the tiny girl. 

A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "What’s this? Have I caught the little one’s attention?" Alina didn’t blink. Her mouth parted slightly in wonder as she continued to gaze at him, transfixed. In her short life, she had never seen eyes like Childe’s. They reminded her of the stories you would tell her about the ocean—vast and blue, endless and beautiful. To her, Childe’s eyes seemed like a whole world she wanted to explore. "Papa," she whispered, pointing at Childe. "Eyes like water…"A murmur of surprise rippled through the room.

Even Arlecchino, normally one to show little emotion, blinked and softened at the innocent awe in Alina’s voice. Childe, too, was caught off guard.

His usual cocky demeanor faltered for a moment as he looked at the small child, her innocent wonder disarming him completely. "Well, I suppose that’s one way to describe them," he said, his smile gentler than before. "Didn’t expect to be admired by such a little lady today. "Capitano’s hand rested protectively on Alina’s back, but he said nothing, his eyes shifting toward Childe. Alina, however, was too young to understand. She simply continued to stare, still fascinated by Childe’s eyes. When the meeting finally came to a close, she tugged at Capitano’s cloak and whispered again, “Papa… can I have water eyes too?”

Arlecchino allowed herself a rare, fleeting smile, her eyes softening as she watched the child’s pure, unfiltered curiosity. As he prepared to leave, he looked down at his daughter and whispered gently, “You have eyes far more beautiful than the ocean, little one.”

- 10Diamondz, Reblog w/comments are appreciated!

[dawnwriterimagines]

Rewriting Part 5 of Traitors Among Us

CLEAR SKIES (A Rewrite)

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x PLATONIC!FEM!READER Rewrite of PART 5 of Traitors Among Us

Traitors Among Us Masterlist

Summary: With your resignation approved, Price discovers you've resigned. You head back to begin to pack your life away from Task Force 141, running into those who've betrayed you.

Author Note: Soooo, I decided to rewrite Clear Skies: part 5 of Traitors Among Us because...I didn't like it as much lol, and it wasn't received as nicely as the other parts. It's pretty much completely different lol. So, here I am rewriting this part! Don't worry, the multiple endings of Traitors Among Us will be releasing very soon...

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Silence filled the air in the Chief Officer’s office, thick with tension. Captain John Price stood rigid, arms crossed, eyes locked on Laswell as she calmly sipped from her tea, her lips set in an almost casual line. He’d expected a straightforward debrief, not this.

“You did what?” Price’s voice was low, disbelieving. His brow furrowed, the anger creeping in like a slow burn.

Having arrived at the administrative building, delivering his mission reports and making his way into Laswell's office. Captain John Price wasn't expecting to receive the surprising news so casually that the woman in front of him had signed off on your resignation, without so much as consulting with him, your Captain.

"I gave her what she wanted, John," Laswell rolled her eyes, sitting in her seat. "I let her go. She was never about to meet with you, and I won't let a soldier like that leave, under my supervision, without some type of severance," she speaks, casually, tapping her spoon of tea along the rim of a porcelain mug. "I do apologize, I was actually preparing a better way to tell you this. Time got away from me, I suppose." Although, Laswell says so unapologetically as she takes her first sip with a hum.

Price blinked, caught off guard by the detached nature of her words. He shook his head slowly, still processing.

"Severance?" Price gritted. "She didn't lose her place on the force, Laswell. She's on temporary leave for recovery not discharged--I would've never--"

"Oh, stop it, John," Sweeping away a few locks of hair, Laswell sits back in her chair. "Even if, would it matter? The girl's petrified of you, if she saw you she might actually kill you," she can't help but release a humored hum. "Willing to turn down her pension, her insurance, just to resign in peace.

She would've never come to you, and you were foolish enough to think she'd stay," she laughs this time at the absurdity of it. "She wanted an out," she takes another sip, shrugging. "I gave it to her." She then slides a few papers her way, preparing to continue her paperwork, interrupted for the second time today.

Slamming a hand over the stack of papers, Price can't contain the expression twisting his face, his anger, his grief. "Let her what?! You stripped her of her title, does she know that? There is no lawful resignation without my signature, what've you done?"

"Well, you are in need of a Demolition Operative now, I will say," she hummed, tapping the spoon against the rim of her mug, her voice annoyingly casual. "I already have someone in mind, luckily for you."

"Operative Gray is an integral part of this Task Force, it's not up to you how I handle my team anywhere outside of our missions, Laswell," Price hardly held his tone.

“Funny, John,” Laswell mused, not looking up, her voice dripping with dry amusement. “I seem to remember you handling a certain... situation under my orders.” Her eyes met his now, sharp and calculating. "Just fine."

Price’s jaw tightened, and the old guilt gnawed at him. “The worst mistake I’ve made on the force.” His voice was quiet but raw.

Laswell’s smile didn’t fade a bit. “No, John,” she said softly, her tone almost teasing now. “Your mistake is thinking you have any authority here that I don’t already have.”

Price froze for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. He reached for the papers on the desk, his hand curling into a fist before he let them go. Laswell slid the stack back across the desk with a single, deliberate motion, then stood up.

As she passed him, her shoulder brushed against his, and he stiffened, barely holding himself together.

“Oh, John,” she said, almost too sweetly. “The military is engrained in all of us. In your blood. In hers. Don’t worry,” she hummed, tapping the edge of a file. “She’ll be back. They always come back. In one way or another.”

"Well..." Laswell shrugs, calmly. "Just never to Task Force 141," she turns back to Captain Price, dismissed him with a wave, leaning back in her chair., slipping a file from her desk. "Not like that wasn't the original plan before our informant came clean, hm?"

Wary, grieving eyes drift away from the Station Chief, chest tight. "Well what about Gray?" Price swallows. "I can't allow her to leave without everything she deserves from her service, I won't."

"Christ, John, you take the fun out of everything nowadays." Laswell’s smirk faded into something more calculating, more serious, before rolling her eyes. "We'll hold off on that for now," before Price can interject, she holds up a new folder, stamped a harsh red CLASSIFIED, it glares up at him. "You and your team have other matters to discuss."

Price hesitated, brows furrowed. He took the folder, the tension in his muscles still tight. He opened it quickly, scanning the document with a sharp eye. His face darkened as he read, the information weighing a heavy burden, but nothing he could say was undeserved.

Lips pressing tight together, John Price presses down into the folder hard, creasing the papers and clenching his jaw. Fuck.

---

The sliding doors open automatically, the lobby going quiet at the sight of your sopping wet figure stumbling through the entrance. Dropping your hands from over your head, you pause to stare down those who held eye contact too comfortably, quickly their stares dropped.

Entering the residential building, it's nearly midnight, the mess halls still quite lively, soldiers prepping for their next mission or staying guard in the halls. Your boots squeak with every step unwarrantedly, trailing a puddle as you shuffle your way down the hallway, face flushed cold from the rain.

The hall seems much too long suddenly, the wet squeak along the marble floor, the damp cling of your clothes to your skin, the uncomfortable twist of your brace around your legs, the pruning of your fingers. You were ready to just lock yourself away in your room, pack and never see even the silhouette of this place ever again.

Rushing to the elevator, ignoring the whispers, the burning eyes on the back of your head, you rub your clothed arms to warm yourself up, soaked to the bone. Stealing a jacket from one of the racks before leaving the building, it wasn't as insulated as you'd hoped but it was better than nothing, or Kyle's pity wear.

Pressing the upper arrow, you wait for it to light up.

It doesn't.

So you press it again. This time it does glow, finally.

...But, no opening.

You wait a few seconds, then check the electronic number above.

1.

First Floor.

You press the arrow again. Waiting for the doors to open.

Clearing your throat, you press down on the down arrow this time. Just open up.

Nothing again.

Motherfucker...

A few heads turn while you press the buttons on the elevator one too many times, taking a breath as you continue to tap on the buttons along the panel. You didn't care as long as it would just open. Up. Down. Up. Up. Up. Down. Fucking somewhere, just open the fuck UP!

"Just fuckin open..." you grit out, attempting to keep your nerves down. For all you knew, Simon or Price, or Kyle or Johnny, could've seen you enter the building, they could be walking up to you right now. The very thought had you anxiously holding down on the elevator buttons, contemplating the stairs but walking was already a hassle with your brace. "Open. Open, open, open!"

"Open!" Your fist coming up in frustration to slam into the panel, the metal creaks and bends back but it doesn't make the elevator go any faster. It does hurt your hand though.

Taking your now sore fingers into your grip, pressing into your knuckles, your nostrils flare and you take a breath. You don't dare turn around as you hear the chuckle behind you, you can feel your teeth already grinding to nubs.

"So, you're the reason this thing breaks down every week, huh?" sliding up next to you, a soldier, lieutenant by the single silver bar on the shoulder of his uniform, his kevlar unhooked and new, prepping for departure. "Ya know, you can't make it go any faster that way?" nodding to the dented panel, before flashing a charmed smile your way.

Narrowed eyes link with his. "Excuse me?"

For a moment, all he can do is stare back, words lost on his tongue as he darts between your eyes, mesmerized. His smile doesn't drop even as he clear his throat, "I just mean, you'll hurt your...hand."

"Oh, will I? I didn't know that," you wonder, sarcastically. Before, hitting the panel again, a louder bang sounds in the hallway, causing attention. "Maybe I'm doing it wrong." A screw comes loose with a cling, your jaw twitching at the sound as he only huffs a humored sound.

"Yeah," he chuckles briefly as the metal falls with a klunk. "You're quite the mechanic."

"Can I help you, lieutenant?"

"Just a stranger, looking out for another, that's all," the lieutenant says simply.

"Ok, Stranger," you speak, this time turning your back as the elevator finally beeps as it descends to the ground floor. You direct your chin back to where he came. "You can leave now."

He feigned disappointment. "Ouch," he sported a playful grin. "I thought we were getting along pretty well."

"Well I'm sure you've got a flight to catch, don't let a stranger make you late."

"The only stranger I've met worth being late for," he says, genuinely.

"Oh!" Surprised, you glance away from him. "Subtle," you take a step back, uncomfortable with the space between the both of you now. You lean against the edge of the elevator door, it dings again, your knee brace wasn't helping your leg pain at all.

His charming smile fades, brows lifting as he quickly backs off, reading the lines. "Oh, sorry, I-"

"No," you clear your throat, hearing the ding of the elevator behind you. "No, no I'm just..." your hand goes to your ring finger, you used to fidget with your engagement ring all the time, there used to be a tan line imprinting it along your skin, now that same finger was scarred up to the nail. "I'm just not the flirting type right now." Your hand tensing up, balling into a fist, you'd nearly forgotten...

"Ah," He notices, clearing his throat, embarrassed at himself. "You're with someone."

You wanted to scoff at that, not anymore.

"No," Your knuckles cracked. "Just uninterested." Your hand falls to your side. The years you'd spent loving Simon, adoring him, fighting beside him, all that time...it was painful to know it would all just lead up to this. But, it was easier now to just feel nothing because it ended such a way.

The elevator opens and the both of you looks back towards it.

The lieutenant's eyes flicker back to you. "M' sorry," your brows lift in question. "About your...lover."

"He's not dead," you say.

His lips press together, thoughtfully, before nodding once. "Sounds like quite the guy."

"No idea," you scoff, an understatement indeed.

After a moment of silence, the elevator door, with a squeak, beginning to close. The persistent stranger puts his hand out before you have to, fully stopping the closing door before it can seal, taking a large step to catch it.

You froze as he unintentionally corners you, for the moment take him in, analyzing every detail as you'd always done as a soldier. His hair and clothes damp from the rain, cheeks flushed for a reason you weren't sure of.

He reminded you terrifyingly of Simon. Though the two had to be quite different in all capacities besides ranking and muscle definition.

He's tall, wide broad shoulders, a scar curved through his left brow to his temple, green wide eyes and he smelled...warm, was the only way you could describe it. You're sure his skin would feel as so.

You were quite cold from the rain, though you've been freezing ever since that day and you've never gotten past the phantom cold, eager to be warm again.

Not once in this disturbing, cold and humiliating event had you ever felt a moment of comfort. Of warm, loving comfort. A single embrace would destroy your every resolve. Not a minute, not a second, not a breath of warmth.

Your eyes flicker up, surprised to meet his staring back, seemingly taking you in the same way. His hand leaving the opening elevator door, to rest above the wall above your head. He was close enough for you to feel the leather of his kevlar against the back of your hand, for once your first thought wasn't to push someone away. His gaze lingers on the fresh scar beneath your eye, the tinted pink fading in the white of it.

"You shouldn't do that," you breathe.

There's nothing good here left for you anymore.

You're no longer a soldier.

"Do what?" he asked.

No longer apart of the Task Force, no longer apart of any of this.

And the scars you'd be left with just for being here...

Bringing your hand up to your face, running over the raised, ruined skin, your jaw tightening and your lips pressing together. You shift to the side, your hand finding the handle grip along the sides of the elevator doors.

He notices, straightening, awkwardly. Swallowing thickly, "Sorry, I didn't mean to, uh..." he squeezes his fist, as if berating himself internally. "--that's quite the memorabilia." Again his expression twists at his own question, fist squeezing, that was a dumb thing to ask.

"It is," you grazed the tender flesh of your scars. "Isn't it."

"I'm sure you've got quite the story."

Lips pressing together hard, fingers curling into your palm as if your own scars had burned you.

"Um..." going into detail meant a lot of things you didn't want to confront right now, pressing the button for the elevator again, it opens this time. "I appreciate the conversation, stranger. But, you should go."

"I'm sorry-" he realized he'd touched unsavory ground, voice lowered with regret. "I didn't mean..."

"It's fine," you swallowed thickly, taking a breath. "It was nice to meet you truly."

He follows you to the divide of the open elevator as you step in and though the divide, turning to see his face, desperate for a glimpse of yours.

Your stranger speaks soundly. "Wes."

His name you realized, you press your lips together, thoughtfully as he stares at you, not expecting anything in return, seeming peaceful with you just...knowing. The elevator doors slipping closed. You say nothing else, but you can't help but look at him differently, humming softly. You supposed he was no longer a stranger.

"Ok..." you managed a meaningful smile that struggled to begin. "Wes, then."

You could see the relief in the drop of his shoulders.

As the metal doors ding in preparation to close, you catch a glimpse of someone beyond your persistent stranger, as he turns to leave.

An approaching figure that enters the building, exiting the rain with heavy steps, dragging his feet along the marble, a black mask painted white along the curves of his mouth and nose, a skull. Stalking the halls like the ghost he preferred to be, Simon.

And he haunts you as so.

You hardly notice as the doors begin to close, a sinking feeling in your stomach erupting as you made eye contact with Simon Riley.

His slow, deliberate steps become nonexistent, he's instantly rooted to the floor, you were sure he'd even stopped breathing.

Though you felt your blood run cold, your chest squeezing violently with ache, and a rage in your soul that begged you to claw his fucking eyes out and rip out his heart like he'd done to you weeks ago, you didn't freeze.

No, instead your hand comes out, taking the closing end of the elevator door. It pauses with an electronic strain of its gears beneath your resistance, while you stare unblinkingly at your Ghost. And it opens again with a light ding.

Simon's eyes widen a fraction, he straightens noticeably, hopefully. His hand coming up, pulling at his mask, the skulls creasing down to reveal himself to you, but he'd remain as so...your ghost.

"(Y/n)..." you can hear the whisper of your name from his lips, but you've turned from him now.

Stepping forward and off the divide of the elevator, you take Wes by the arm, pulling him back around to you, his eyes are wide in surprise, innocent enough to have never expected more from your encounter and unable to find the nerve to speak smoothly now that you're making a move.

"Sorry..." you breathe to him, before reaching up and pressing your mouth to his.

It's not a messy kiss.

It's hardly a kiss.

But, it gets the message across.

You had loved Simon, completely and utterly. There was no punch or kick you could ever throw at Simon that could convey the collapse of those feelings.

So this, was the next best thing.

As Wes melts into your lips for the brief moment of surprise intimacy of a stranger, you cup the back of his neck, as you've done many times for Simon. Eyes opening to gaze back to your ghost, and as you do, you're not surprised to see him practically looming over the two of you.

He's a mess of himself. A fraction of the man he was before. A ghost of himself.

But, he'd always been a ghost to be feared.

As Wes's hand climbs up to grip at your hair, you retreat back, tucking your hair back and taking a breath.

Your guiltless eyes blink up to Wes, "You should go."

Hardly given a moment to recuperate, still reorganizing the thoughts you'd taken and filled him with all in the seconds you'd spared him with. He, rightfully confused, breathes. "What?"

"She said, you should go."

As Simon speaks, voice heavy with emotion, anger and resentment but most of all hurt, PAIN. Only then do your lungs fill with air again, untainted by the weight of your fears of him, of broken dreams and memories your defiled love.

"My dead lover's risen again," you speak, sarcastically. Staring down the hollow-eyed man, "A ghost."

The metal doors close with a light thud.

And so, maybe you had no fear of him anymore. Maybe you were tired of being frightened. Whatever it was had more guts than you had the energy to have in the last few weeks.

Because the next thing you know, you're shoving past Wes, blood red in the tint of your vision, your fingers expertly popping the gun out of his holster and you take your aim at Simon.

He doesn't flinch.

Neither do you.

Your finger is steady on the trigger. And you pull.

---

The subtle light of the safe house cast shadows across the room, the usual tension of Task Force 141 momentarily replaced by an air of anticipation. Everyone knew but you. Ghost stood slightly apart from the group, his mask hiding the myriad of emotions that flickered beneath. He’d planned this moment carefully and yet being trapped in a safe house during the night of the dinner he'd planned for you both wasn't apart of it. It was still meant to be tonight.

Your lover stared at you in the reflection of the window, catching your beautiful eyes in the glass, they sparkle and his bones feel liquid and he nearly loses his grip on the velvet box. What better time could there be?

Ghost turned to you, pulling his mask away, revealing Simon Riley, garnering your attention with a surprised stare, "What's...goin' on?"

His deep voice steady yet laced with a rare vulnerability. “Wherever you are, I wanna be,” he took a step. "Wherever you go, whether you like it or not, I'm goin' too."

"Stalker," you quipped, though your voice could barely reach a whisper as you stared at the tiny box in his hand, watching as he came closer.

He cracked a smile, but he continued. "Everywhere you are, anywhere you want to be, if you'll let me, since you're right...I just can't stay away," he teased, watching as you short circuit as he approaches steadfast. "...and if you want me, as you'll have me...I wanna be everywhere you are."

The team fell silent, the weight of the moment sinking in. Price raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk dancing on his lips, while Johnny tried to stifle a grin, Kyle cursed quietly shifting in anticipation. "The best thing I've ever held onto in this life is you. It will always be you."

Simon takes the closing steps to you, watching you closely, the two of you sharing the same overwhelming expression, though yours freer in its willingness to express. He was being serious. This was really happening. "I can't imagine taking on this life of chaos without you."

With a small, almost hesitant movement, Simon revealed the velvet box. The flicker of metal caught the light as he produced a small box, his hands surprisingly unsteady. His eyes momentarily flickering downwards before gathering the nerve to look you in the eye again. “We’ve been through hell, we're in the aftermath of it now, another glimpse not far behind, but there’s no one I'll ever know, that I’d rather have by my side.” He dropped to one knee, the rest of the team exchanging glances, a mix of excitement and surprise evident in their expressions. "No one but you."

As Simon kneels before you, your heart races, disbelief clear on your face, brows furrowing into each other, watering as you look to him, all your feelings flooding your senses. His words echo in your mind, and the world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you.

“Marry me...” His voice was firm, yet you could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the way he waited with baited breath, his shoulders halting all movement as he wouldn't take a single breath until your answer. "I'll choose you. I'll choose you every time..." The room held its breath, the only sound the quiet rustle of fabric as the team leaned in slightly, as if to witness a moment that transcended their usual world of warfare. "Marry me..." his voice is a breath against your skin.

You feel your heart race with feelings that seared itself into your soul, a moment that would never leave you, your vision blurred with tears. "Simon..." the world narrowing down to Simon and the hope in his gaze. The silence was palpable, a shared moment of vulnerability among seasoned soldiers. Finally, you nodded, emotions swirling as a smile broke across your face. “Yes,” you laughed with a sob, nodding as you wiped your face. "Of course, Simon. Yes!"

Simon rose, slipping the ring onto your finger as cheers erupted from the team. The laughter and joyful roars of Task Force 141, your family, fade into the background as you focus solely on Simon, the man you love.

Johnny clapped Simon on the back, Price grinned widely, laughing heartily in glee, and Kyle let out a whoop of approval. In that moment, amidst the chaos of their lives, there was a rare glimpse of hope and happiness—a reminder of what they were truly fighting for.

---

The clouds, still held hostage by the night, moved almost imperceptibly through the midnight air, the rain having stopped by now and the stars taking action to be seen beyond.

You breathe evenly, stroking the broken skin of your knuckles, smearing the blood that still leaked through and picking at the dried specks of it along your nails.

Heavy hangs the air as you sit in your silence, nothing but the light scrapes of your nails along your own skin. Then, a heavy padding of footsteps outside the door, your eyes drawing to the movement as a shadow pulls along the flooring of the lighting beneath the doorway, the door clicks open.

A round-faced, army suited man, your attorney, enters the room, behind him two men standing at attention, stomping his dark boots down onto the old wood eager to be noticed, lifting a document to read. "Sergeant (L/N), due to potential endangerment of yourself and your fellow man, you are to be supervised continuously throughout the night until the remainder of your scheduled departure from central Orloz Military Base.

From there, as requested, all contact will be terminated, all personal and packaged requests, terminated. All inquiries, all personal and otherwise familial advises for continued contact, terminated. Due to the nature of your injuries and the unprecedented circumstances brought upon by the events of June 23rd 2023, you've been pardoned from additional..."

What use is there listening to more?

Leaning your head against the cool glass, you let yourself fall blissfully unaware of his voice, drowning in the sea of your own mind.

You stare down at the scars enveloping your hands, your wrists, still raw and sensitive even now. Along your ring finger was the imprint of your engagement ring, it would fade with time, but nothing else would.

You felt so blind, so dumb for thinking this family was ever real, that they were anymore than colleagues, soldiers of war. An idiot for believing in Ghost, believing that he was more than the soldier you'd fought beside for a decade.

Who would've thought things would've turned out this way.

The weight of everything—the heartbreak, the disappointments—were pressing down on your chest like a block of cement.

Letting the absent, warm tears fall down your cheeks, soaking into the dampness of your shirt.

You press your palms into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, but the overwhelming feeling spiraled further, tightening your throat till it hurt.

---

Simon's face is burned red with scratches, blood smeared along his face. His hand holds tight to your wrist, the gun having long fallen from your grip, the entryway still smoking from a missed fire.

Your teeth pull at Simon's exposed skin, biting down on the skin of his wrist until you can feel it snap away from the bone, resistance failing the muscles.

With a pained groan, Simon pushes you back into the metal doors of the elevator, "Stop this, (Y/n)!" he hissed at you, as he locks you into his grip, cornering you as soldiers come forward at the commotion.

"You promised," came your voice, your mouth filled with blood, a chunk of his flesh from your mouth as he shoves your neck into the metal divider, keeping you as still as possible. "You promised you'd choose me..."

Simon's twisted expression unravels as he hears his own vowed words from your tortured lips, seeing glimpses of the woman he's always loved in the livid, scorned woman he'd left behind in that cell.

"(Y/n)..." he began, his grip loosening.

Clicks of rifles and heavy booted steps filled the dormitory, interrupting him. "HANDS UP!"

---

"...if you're in understanding of these terms, we can proceed as stated."

"...Yeah," you whispered. "Understood."

"Thank you for your service, Sergeant (L/N)," he saluted shortly, before picking his beret off the table and walking out of the room. "Your assistance to the dormitories will be available shortly."

So, when he leaves, claiming to be back to escort you back to your quarters, you sit there. You sat there for hours. Or maybe it just felt like it. Either way, it didn't matter.

This time tomorrow you'd be off base, no longer a soldier but a citizen of no one, with no one to turn to and disowned by your family...

What was there to look forward to now?

Your hand comes up, tracing the water lines running down the glass, the ray of light from the street lamps that burn into the room, stinging at your eyes and lighting up the evening.

A streak of red follows your stained fingers.

Dried blood melting off your skin and running down the glass, falling slow.

Nothing to look forward to at all...

Multiple Endings coming soon. The end of Traitors Among Us... STAY TUNED

ENDING ONE

[almostempty]

run (marcus acacius x f!reader)

wc: 2k | other fics | rating: 18+ | ao3

summary: general acacius hunts you in the woods for ‘training’ then fucks you, duh [inspired by  this post]  tags/warnings: explicit, pwp, primal play, size kink, raw creampie, idk what historical accuracy means, darker marcus, no mention of lucilla

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ “It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”

You tell yourself through hoarse breaths. Your lungs burn. Every muscle screams at you to stop. You push forward.

All you can do is run.

If it were real, you would hide. You’re smart—confident you’d outthink him.

But he’s going to catch you.

The pounding of blood in your ears nearly drowns out the steady rhythm of his footsteps, closing in. The tiny hairs on your neck raise a moment before it happens.

A hand wrenches you back.

You collide with him, shoulders slamming into his broad chest.

His barking laughter rolls across the sky as he digs his fingers into your slick, overheated skin.

“Too easy.” His voice booms, but his heavy breathing contradicts the sentiment.

“I’m sorry,” you pant, gasping in air so deep your ribs might crack.

He doesn’t release you. Instead, he studies you for a moment—assessing. Calculating.

Then, without warning—he shoves you forward.

“Run.”

You stumble, but recover fast enough to hit your stride before he comes after you again.

The purpose of this so-called training makes no sense to you. Soldiers train with weapons, endurance drills, and formations. But you are not a soldier.

Your body is not being conditioned for war—it is being conditioned for him.

Other servants have whispered about the General and his private exercises.

He led troops through heavy weapons training, cavalry drills, long marches. But privately, he had to be sharper, faster, stronger. You’d heard that he wrestled men into the dirt until they couldn’t stand again. That he trained with foreign gladiators, learning their weapons, their fighting techniques.

And that sometimes, he hunted.

That was the part you never understood. The rumors were vague, but the pattern was clear. A servant would be chosen. A beautiful one. They would be taken away for days. Weeks.

And they never returned to their old tasks.

No one dared ask what happened to them.

Some whispered it was an honor. Some believed they were given riches, sent to estates far away. Others, more cynically, assumed they were cast aside when he was done.

But you don’t feel honored. It wasn’t a choice. You were given orders.

You traveled with General Acacius into the forest, leaving his campsite and guards behind. You had just begun to think you were far enough from camp that no one would hear you scream—

That’s when he stopped you.

That’s when he finally spoke to you. Not with an explanation.

Just:

“Run.”

And now—“I’ll give you something to run from.”

The words echo in your skull. A chill streaks down your spine—so icy you shiver despite the heat licking at your skin.

Your tongue feels dry when you force yourself to ask:

“Are you going to kill me?”

His teeth flash, white against sun-bronzed skin, before he laughs again. A sharp, wicked sound.

Then the smile fades, slowly.

“No,” he says, voice dropping low. His fingers grip your chin, tilting your face up. Giving you time to absorb the hunger in his gaze.

“But the next time I catch you will be the last.”

The forest stills. Even the birds seem to quiet.

His voice drops to something darker, heavier.

“The next time I catch you, I will have my way with you. You will be mine to use. And nothing will stop me.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks, curling hot in your gut.

You should be afraid. You should fight.

Instead—your mind betrays you.

Vivid images flood in, unbidden—his body pinning you down, his strength making you helpless.

Your gaze flickers—the sheen of sweat on his chest, the muscles shifting beneath his skin, the thick veins along his forearms. The breadth of his shoulders.

You’ve heard the rumors.

You know how these hunting sessions end.

And you’ve heard that the General’s cock is as massive as his ego.

It’s a game.

It was always a game.

The ones before you played it too.

And none of them returned.

Your voice comes out steady, but just barely.

“Understood.”

His eyes narrow.

“You think this will be a reward.”

Your skin prickles at the disdain in his tone.

Before you can react—his hand is on your throat.

Not tight, not squeezing—just enough to make you feel it. His fingers press against your pulse, slowing the flow of blood. Your body reacts before your mind can.

The reality of his overwhelming strength lights a fire deep inside you.

But the last flicker of self-preservation rises, whispering a warning.

How depraved are his desires, that he must bring you here, alone, to the foot of a mountain, to chase you into the trees as the sun creeps lower and lower?

You shudder at the thought—and he sees it.

And he is satisfied.

“Run.” 

You take off before he can launch you with his arms.

Adrenaline gives you an edge, but it’s not enough. Not against him. Every step you take feels too loud, your own breath deafening in your ears. You cut left, thinking you’ve outmaneuvered him—until a low chuckle reaches you from behind.

Too close.

He’s playing with you.

You clamber over obstacles, acting on pure instinct, guided by the fear of being hunted.

He crashes through everything you use to create distance, but he’s more than brute strength.

He doesn’t just chase—you feel him stalking. He lets you think you have a lead, lets you trip and scramble, and then—he’s there.

Always there.

A shadow at your back. Patient. Inevitable. Dragging out the moment before he takes you down.

You’d be embarrassed that a man so much older than you has better stamina, but this is his whole life. In peak physical condition, he trains, he fights, he wins.

And he’s coming for you.

Time means nothing as the woods grow darker. Dusk adds danger, reducing visibility, and before frustration can boil over—he’s on you.

He tackles you into the dirt with a grunt. You yelp.

You claw at the dirt, scrambling for freedom. But he’s never letting go of you now. One firm grip on your waist, and he flips you onto your back.

You kick and twist—a desperate, instinctual bid for freedom. Useless. He absorbs every struggle, every contortion of your body, and then he takes.

He lets you feel it—how much stronger he is, how little choice you have now.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think. Just tears at your tunic, baring your skin to the moonlight.

He doesn’t admire. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t need to. He grips you too hard, pins you down with the sheer force of his body. A beast. A predator. And you—his willing prey.

His mouth twitches to something like a snarl.

“Nowhere to go now.”

“I submit,” you nearly squeak.

He’s vicious, unrelenting. One hand traps your wrists overhead while his teeth graze your throat, hovering where your pulse beats loudest. Your only option is surrender—tilting your jaw to offer him more.

He marks you up, sinking his teeth into your flesh. Bruises bloom on your neck, shoulder, chest. His other hand claws at you, squeezing too hard, digging into your muscles until you cry out—a sound tangled in pain and pleasure.

Everything is amplified. The weight of him atop you. The hard ground beneath you. The low noises in his throat. The breeze in the trees.

It’s not emotional, but it’s raw. Charged. Selfish.

The way he gropes your tits—he’s not a commander of men—this is primitive. Carnal. Unrestrained.

He doesn’t care for modesty or impressions. He’s caught you, and he intends to use you. Just like he warned.

And, fuck, if he doesn’t want you bad.

His ferocity delights you, even as you writhe and arch beneath him. Knowing, at his most unfiltered, when he’s driven by lust—he wants all of you.

It clouds your mind and sends an overpowering wave of heat to your core that nearly hurts.

As if he can smell the wetness between your legs, he looses a strained hum. The sound buzzes between you, vibrating through your bones, and you squirm—all discomfort and unspent energy, feverish with need.

The thrill of the chase still courses thick in your veins as he positions you roughly on your hands and knees.

He wastes no time. His cock is out, heavy, hot. You press your thighs together instinctively, but it’s no use. His hands are relentless, forcing you open, making space for himself. He drags the thick tip along your slick folds, savoring the way you stiffen.

“Still fighting?” he murmurs. “Good.”

Then he thrusts, and whatever resistance you had is only a memory.

He works in shallow strokes at first, forcing you to stretch around the girth of him—but patience isn’t his strength. He slams in deeper, faster, splitting you open with a sharp, brutal thrust that chokes a ragged moan from your throat.

His grunts grow rougher, more strained. You don’t know if it’s ecstasy or frustration bleeding into the noises—your cunt is still gripping him too tight, refusing to let him all the way in.

You have no concern for volume, wholly enraptured by the pace he sets, each thrust pressing deeper into you.

Soon, he’s shoving his fingers into your mouth, quieting you manually, reducing you to a set of drooling holes for him to fill.

Finally, he buries himself to the hilt, and you forget how to think.

His thrusts turn severe, dragging raw cries from your throat as you push back, desperate for more.

For the first time, he hesitates, peeling off of you and sitting upright behind you. One hand yanks your hips into his lap, and you don’t slow down—can’t.

Flesh ripples from the impact as you bounce against his cock, your body finding its own rhythm, lost in the mess of heat and slick between you.

His groan is guttural. His fingers bite into your hips.

“So tight. I thought you were a virgin.” His voice is wrecked. “But you fuck yourself on my cock like a desperate whore.”

You’d be embarrassed, but he doesn’t sound—or feel—very upset.

And you can’t stop chasing the pleasure anymore.

He fills you so deep that tears spill from your eyes, sinking into the dirt beneath you. The tension builds, pulling taut, but you can’t quite break.

A desperate whimper slips from your lips.

With a mercy you don’t expect, Acacius glides a hand down your stomach, pressing hard as he finds your clit. He drags his fingers through your slick, coating them in everything he’s forced from you, teasing and rubbing in slow, precise circles.

Your body shakes, trembles, collapses.

You’re only able to pant, gasp, and moan for him.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, he finds new ways to devastate you.

Fucking faster. Harder. Deeper.

Your mind was already gone. But somehow, he fucks you dumber—until there’s nothing left but wrecked, ruined need.

He keeps going until you break. 

Your knees are raw from grinding into the dirt, your arms giving out beneath you. You’re half-collapsed, unable to hold yourself up, but he doesn’t slow down.

He wants to feel it again.

“Another.” His voice is husked, nearly feral.

“Mmm.” You can’t protest, it’s the closest you get to agreeing. 

Determined, he works you up again.

Faster this time. More efficient. His fingers are ruthless, dragging another orgasm from you before you can even catch your breath.

When he finally breaks, his body locks up, muscles tensed, a snarl ripping from his throat as he spills inside you.

Hot, endless.

His weight crushes you into the earth, pinning you there as he catches his breath.

Finally, when he pulls out, his hands slide along your soft, trembling thighs. Watching.

“Poor pussy is just gaping now.” His voice is full of mockery. “So stretched out. She wastes my gift.”

You’re too far gone to respond. Fucked stupid. Boneless.

He drags his fingers between your swollen lips, stuffing his come back inside.

You move to fix your clothes—but he stops you.

“You're not done. And I'm not nearly finished.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ thank you for reading <3 pls tell me if you liked or hated any of it sign up for my new tag list here! 

@lovely-vamp-princess @gothcsz @auteurdelabre @adoreyouusugar @swankyorange @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ivoryandflame  @indiegirlunited @syd-djarin  @harriedandharassed @bbyanarchist @94namkooksworld @sunshinehaze1 @lilac-boo @ohhoneypascal

[thedensworld]

Run Devil Run | c.sc

Pairing: Incubus Seungcheol! x Con Artist Reader! (feat. Incubus Jeonghan)

Genre: Supernatural romance au!

Type: fluff, angst, fantasy, smut (mdnil!)

Word Count: 16k (supposed to be 24k—tumblr didn't let me)

Summary: Who would've thought that a simple job—to stage a scandal with a rising actor—would entangle you in the world of an incubus label director?

The bar buzzed with conversation, jazz humming softly in the background. It was Saturday night—meaning Yoon Jeonghan would be here.

You’d done your research. A top actor, effortlessly perfect, scandal-free. Your client wanted that to change.

Your task? Make him fall. Break him. Ruin him.

At the bar, Jeonghan leaned against the counter, whiskey in hand, smirking at a friend’s story. A glance—brief but deliberate—flickered your way.

Hook set. Now, let him bite.

The job had come a week ago, a simple text: “I need your help.” You ignored it—until the money arrived. Then a name: Yoon Jeonghan.

The woman’s story was familiar—whirlwind romance, lavish dates, and then… nothing. Left in the cold, she wanted revenge.

You didn’t care for love or betrayal. You cared for the payout. And tonight, Jeonghan would learn that even the untouchable could fall.

You swirled the drink in your hand, watching as Jeonghan laughed at something his friend said.

Jeonghan was used to being chased.

Women fawned over him, men admired him, and the world seemed to orbit around his existence. Yet—you wouldn’t do either. That was the trick. The secret to standing out in a crowd of people desperate for his attention.

So, you didn’t approach him.

You didn’t stare.

You didn’t giggle or whisper or find excuses to brush against him like others did.

Instead, you let him notice you.

A game of restraint. Push and pull. You exchanged fleeting glances, offering just enough of a smile before looking away—calculated disinterest wrapped in a veil of mystery. Just enough to spark curiosity.

And then, as expected, the inevitable happened.

He came to you.

“You seem familiar,” Jeonghan mused, sliding into the barstool next to you. His voice was smooth, effortless—the kind that made people want to listen. The kind that could make anything sound interesting.

You blinked, feigning mild confusion. “Do I?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you with the slow precision of someone who enjoyed the chase, not just the catch. His smirk deepened, a quiet amusement settling in his gaze, as if he had already figured something out.

“No,” he said. “But I wanted to see what you’d say.”

Clever.

You exhaled a soft chuckle, tapping your fingers against the glass, letting the moment stretch just a second too long. “And what did I say?”

Jeonghan took a slow sip of his drink, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Something dangerous.

“Exactly what I expected.”

The corner of your lips twitched, but you held back a full smile. Interesting. Yoon Jeonghan had expected you to play along, and you had. But now came the real challenge—staying one step ahead of him.

“You must hear that a lot,” you mused, swirling your drink, letting the ice clink against the glass. “People thinking they know you.”

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, elbow resting on the bar, gaze never leaving yours. “You tell me,” he countered. “Do you think you know me?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. Did you know him? Not in the way his fans did, not in the way his past lovers did. You knew his habits, his routines, his weaknesses. You had studied him like a script, memorized the beats of his life until you could predict his next move.

But the real answer? Not yet.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, lips curving just enough to leave him guessing. “But I do know people like you.”

Jeonghan’s brow lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. “People like me?”

“Effortless,” you said, lifting your glass in a lazy gesture toward him. “Everything comes easy to you. You don’t chase—you let people come to you. And when they do, you decide how long they get to stay.”

Jeonghan let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if to acknowledge the hit. Bullseye.

“And yet,” he murmured, resting his chin on his palm, “you’re still here.”

You hummed, letting his words settle between you. “Maybe I just like a good drink.”

Jeonghan’s smirk returned, sharp and knowing. He didn’t believe you. And that was fine—you weren’t here to be believed. You were here to make him want more.

“Then let me buy your next one,” he said smoothly, signaling the bartender without waiting for your answer.

You should’ve refused. That would’ve been the smarter move. But you let the moment linger, let the tension coil just a little tighter before you nodded.

One drink. One conversation. One night.

Step one was complete.

But Jeonghan wasn’t the only one watching you tonight.

*

The articles were everywhere. Headlines flashing across news sites, gossip forums buzzing with speculation, and YouTube videos dissecting every detail of Yoon Jeonghan’s playboy agenda.

You watched it all unfold with a satisfied smile, the soft trickle of water from your watering can filling the quiet space of your office. The scent of damp soil mixed with the rich aroma of coffee, the warmth of the air feeling heavier than usual.

Your laptop played a video in the background, a commentator going on about Jeonghan’s fall from grace. It was almost amusing—how quickly the world turned on someone they once adored. But you knew better than anyone that public opinion was fickle.

Then, your phone buzzed.

A notification flashed across the screen. Transaction complete.

Your client—Jeonghan’s scorned ex—had sent the rest of the payment.

Your smile grew.

You set down the watering can, wiping your hands on your jeans before sinking into the worn-out couch. Your office—small, cluttered, filled with plants—was yours. For now, that was enough.

You pulled out your calculator, fingers moving swiftly.

First, your brother’s tuition—non-negotiable.

Second, your grandmother’s care home—she deserved comfort.

Third, office renovations��peeling ceilings, a collapsing couch, long overdue.

Lastly—yourself. Barely enough, as always.

Despite pulling strings to bring down a top actor, you were still scraping by. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

On your laptop, gossip videos dissected the scandal you’d created. They’d never know the truth.

Or so you thought.

Your phone buzzed, a new message lighting up the screen. And just like that, something shifted.

Unknown Number: You work fast.

Your breath hitched.

Before you could even process it, another message came through.

Unknown Number: But tell me—did you really think you could play this game without consequences?

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to loosen your grip on the phone. Threats weren’t new.

People didn’t like to lose—especially the rich and powerful. Anonymous warnings were nothing new—bitter exes, regretful clients, or nosy threats trying to scare you into confessing.

Your eyes flickered to the message. Jeonghan? Unlikely. You had covered your tracks well. He was an actor, not an investigator, too busy with the media storm to suspect you.

Whoever it was, it didn’t matter. You tossed your phone onto the coffee table, watching it slide to a stop. Job done. Paid. Time to move on.

Yet, as you leaned back, arms crossed, the unease lingered.

*

The air in the office was tense, thick with the weight of unspoken accusations. The blinds were half-drawn, blocking out the city skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The atmosphere was suffocating, the kind that made even the most composed individuals feel restless.

Director’s Office.

Yoon Jeonghan sat in the center of it all, arms crossed, his usual effortless confidence slightly fraying at the edges. Across from him, his lawyer and the head of PR were reviewing documents, their expressions unreadable.

At the head of the table sat Choi Seungcheol—director of the label, and the one man in the room Jeonghan actually cared to hear from.

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before leaning forward. "You saw her, right? She was seducing me first." His tone wasn’t defensive—more exasperated, like he couldn’t believe he even had to explain himself. His gaze flickered toward Seungcheol, silently urging him to back him up.

After all, Seungcheol was there that night. He saw it happen.

But the director didn’t react. He sat with his arms folded, watching Jeonghan with the kind of expression that made it clear he wasn’t interested in excuses.

The PR manager sighed, adjusting her glasses before flipping a folder shut. “That doesn’t change the fact that you wanted to keep in touch with her,” she said, her voice professional but firm. “We warned you about this, Jeonghan. You know how fragile your public image is. The media was just waiting for a story like this.”

Jeonghan clicked his tongue, leaning back in his chair. “So what? I can’t even talk to someone without it becoming a scandal?”

His lawyer, who had been mostly silent until now, finally spoke. “It’s not just about talking to her,” he said evenly. “The photos, the texts, the late-night meetings—it all paints a picture that’s hard to defend.”

Jeonghan frowned. He had played this game long enough to know how the industry worked, but this—this felt orchestrated. Too precise. Too perfectly timed.

“Someone set me up,” he muttered, more to himself than to the room.

“I don’t care who approached who,” Seungcheol finally said, his voice edged with irritation. “I care that this is everywhere. I care that my phone has been ringing non-stop since morning. And I care that the shareholders want a statement before this gets any worse.”

His gaze hardened as he looked directly at Jeonghan. “I need a solution. Now.”

Silence hung in the room. The PR manager exchanged a look with the lawyer before clearing her throat. “Damage control is possible,” she said, flipping through her notes. “We issue a vague denial—something like, ‘These rumors are unfounded, and we ask for privacy.’”

Jeonghan scoffed. “That makes me look guilty.”

She shrugged. “You already do.”

Before he could argue, Seungcheol spoke. “What about flipping the narrative? A bigger distraction.”

Seungcheol tapped the desk, thinking ten steps ahead. “A fake relationship could work. But we need more—something bigger to pull focus.”

Understanding clicked. The PR manager hesitated. “You want another couple. A distraction.”

“Exactly,” Seungcheol said. “Jeonghan’s scandal won’t fade with a denial alone. But if we drop a flashier dating rumor within the label, it’ll steal the headlines.”

The lawyer adjusted his glasses. “So, we sacrifice another artist?”

Seungcheol’s lips curled. “We redirect.”

A heavy silence settled. The PR manager finally asked, “Do you have someone in mind?”

Seungcheol nodded. “Mingyu.”

Jeonghan snapped his head up. “What?”

“He’s perfect. Popular, clean, beloved. A dating rumor with the right person won’t hurt—it might even help.”

Jeonghan scoffed. “You think he’ll just agree to this?”

Seungcheol’s gaze turned cold. “Mingyu knows how this industry works. And if he doesn’t—he’ll learn.”

The heavy door clicked shut behind the PR manager and lawyer, leaving the room unnervingly silent. The moment they were gone, Jeonghan let out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through his hair, his frustration no longer masked by the polite indifference he wore in front of them.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, pushing himself up from his chair and pacing toward the window.

Seungcheol watched him from behind his desk, fingers loosely laced together. His expression was unreadable, but Jeonghan had known him long enough to recognize when he was thinking—really thinking.

“You were there that night.” Jeonghan said, turning back to face him. “She flirted on me first. You saw it.”

Seungcheol exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “I did.”

“Then why the hell am I the one getting burned for this?” Jeonghan scoffed. “I didn’t even take her home. Hell, we barely touched. And yet, somehow, I wake up to articles painting me as some kind of serial womanizer?”

Seungcheol tapped his fingers against the desk, his gaze still sharp. “Because it wasn’t just that one night, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan’s frustration stilled.

“What?"

Seungcheol tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but firm. “You kept talking to her after that.”

Jeonghan frowned. The past few weeks flashed in his mind—messages exchanged late at night, conversations that stretched on longer than he expected. She was intriguing, he’d give her that. Something about the way she spoke, the way she held herself, made him curious enough to keep coming back.

“I mean… yeah,” Jeonghan admitted, crossing his arms. “But it wasn’t anything serious. Just casual conversations.”

Seungcheol arched a brow. “Casual conversations that somehow ended up in the hands of reporters.”

Jeonghan clenched his jaw. He hated this. The scrutiny, the accusations, the way the media twisted reality until even he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

With a sharp exhale, he stood up abruptly, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The city stretched beneath him—bright, alive, and completely indifferent to the storm brewing in his career.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered, his reflection staring back at him. “Why now? Why her?”

A beat of silence.

Then—Seungcheol’s voice, quieter this time. “That’s what I’ve been wondering too.”

Jeonghan turned, catching the way Seungcheol’s gaze had darkened.

It wasn’t just frustration anymore.

It was something else. Something more calculating.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, Jeonghan felt a flicker of something uneasy settle in his chest.

*

Your eyes fluttered open, neon light streaking across the ceiling. A slow breath, a hand against your chest—your heartbeat was fast but steady. Just a dream.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. Yet, warmth lingered down your arm, a whisper brushing your ear. The details slipped away the more you reached for them.

"I finally found you."

The words echoed—unfamiliar yet strangely familiar. Stress, maybe. Or exhaustion. You sighed, rubbing your face, glancing at the clock. Too early to wake, too late to sleep.

You swung your legs over the bed, cool floor meeting your feet. Just a dream. But as you poured a glass of water, unease crept in. It didn’t feel like a dream.

Settling at your desk, your laptop’s hum filled the quiet. The screen glowed as you skimmed emails—clients, trouble, requests. Your fingers hovered over the trackpad when a notification popped up.

Hansol [2:03 AM]: Not sleeping yet?

You sighed, already knowing where this was going.

You [2:04 AM]: Why?

The reply came almost instantly.

Hansol [2:04 AM]: Have you thought about the last project I told you? The offer still stands, sweetheart.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair.

You [2:05 AM]: No bride project for at least ten years. The last one gave me so much trauma I had to get therapy sessions with Seungkwan.

A beat passed before his response popped up.

Hansol [2:05 AM]: LOL! Then let me know if you’re willing, alright? The money is yummm.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. Of course, he’d say that. His “bride projects” paid well but came with headaches, complications, and emotional baggage you had no interest in carrying again.

Closing the chat, you turned back to your emails—plenty of jobs, none that would leave you questioning your life choices at 2:30 AM. The city never slept, and neither did you.

The streets were quieter, wrapped in a hush interrupted by the occasional car. The neon glow of the convenience store flickered as you pushed the glass door open, the familiar chime greeting you. You had one mission—ramen.

As you debated between spicy or cheese, thud.

A sharp collision sent you stumbling.

“Shit, sorry,” a low voice muttered.

You looked up. A man in a dark hoodie, his features shadowed. Just another late-night customer—except something about him felt familiar. Not his face, not his voice, but the scent that lingered as he passed—warm, deep, intoxicating.

Your fingers tightened around the ramen cup as you watched him grab a drink and head to the counter. Had you met him before?

You weren’t sure. But as you stepped back onto the quiet street, the feeling lingered in the cold night air.

*

Hansol’s car smelled of coffee and faint cologne, a familiar mix that usually kept you alert—but not today. Your head lolled against the seat, exhaustion weighing you down as the city blurred past. Before you could fight it, your eyes slipped shut.

Hansol chuckled. "Wow. You’re actually sleeping?"

You barely registered his teasing. He’d never seen you like this—always sharp, always tense. But lately, even with rest, the exhaustion never left.

A gentle nudge stirred you. “Hey, we’re here.”

Blinking, you sat up, wincing. “My head hurts.”

Hansol glanced at you. "You drank last night?"

You hadn’t. In fact, you’d been sleeping better than ever—yet waking up drained.

"You should see a doctor," he muttered. "It’s time, Y/n."

You shot him a glare. “I don’t need a doctor.”

He sighed but let it go.

Stepping out of the car, you slipped effortlessly into your role. The fatigue faded as you straightened your posture, the poised, confident woman you were paid to be taking over.

Hansol dropped you at the meeting point, and soon, a sleek black car arrived. Your client stepped out, adjusting his cufflinks with a practiced smile.

"Shall we?"

Looping your arm through his, you matched his polished aura. "Of course," you replied, flashing a perfect—if tired—smile.

Dinner went flawlessly.

Every answer was effortless—Ivy League graduate, prestigious hospital, exclusive golf membership, world-renowned cooking class. His skeptical parents melted, and even your "fiancé" looked relieved. If his mother had planned more blind dates, this dinner had surely put an end to them.

Stepping outside, you exhaled as the cool night air washed over you. The act was over. Another job done. Another paycheck secured.

You turned to bid your client goodbye, offering a polite nod as he thanked you. But as he walked away, a strange unease crept up your spine.

Something was missing.

Your bag.

Your pulse quickened. You glanced around, retracing your steps in your mind. Had you left it inside? Dropped it along the way? You turned, scanning the pavement, your fingers twitching with impatience.

Then, a shift.

A scent—faint yet unmistakable—brushed past your senses.

Your breath hitched.

It was subtle but eerily familiar, the kind of fragrance that stirred something deep in your memory, something you couldn’t quite grasp. Your body tensed before your mind could make sense of it.

And then you saw him.

A man stood before you, holding your bag.

"You left it on your chair," he said.

His voice was deep, steady—too steady. There was something unsettling in the way he spoke, an inexplicable weight behind his words. His presence was striking, commanding, as if he belonged nowhere yet filled the space completely.

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

Something about him…

The way he stood, the way his fingers curled around the strap of your bag, the way the glow of the city lights flickered against the sharp lines of his face—it all felt disturbingly familiar.

“Ms?”

His voice cut through the thick silence, pulling you back from the haze clouding your mind. You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to focus.

He extended your bag toward you. “Here. I need to go.”

You reached out, fingers barely brushing against the fabric before he turned away, slipping into the night like a shadow.

And then it hit you.

Your breath caught, cold and sharp.

A chill slithered down your spine, your limbs locking in place as realization clawed its way through you.

It was him.

The man from your dream.

The whisper still lingered in your ears.

The ghost of his touch still burned on your skin.

And now—he was real.

The dream wrapped around you like silk, pulling you into something deep, something intoxicating. You weren’t just dreaming—you were feeling.

Warm hands traced the curve of your waist, deliberate and slow, as if memorizing every inch. A breath ghosted against your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

"You feel it, don’t you?" The voice was deep, teasing, laced with something darkly amused.

You did.

Your body arched instinctively, pressing into the warmth that surrounded you. His touch was light but possessive, fingertips skimming along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before stopping—just enough to drive you insane.

You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. The way his lips hovered just above yours, close enough to steal your breath, but not quite touching. The way his presence consumed you, making it impossible to think.

"Who…" Your voice was barely a whisper, lost between shallow breaths.

His lips brushed your ear. "You already know."

Your pulse surged, heat pooling low in your stomach. You wanted to answer, to reach for him, but the moment your fingers grazed his skin—

You woke up.

A sharp inhale, your chest rising and falling as if you had run miles. The air in your room felt too cold, your sheets too warm, your skin still tingling from a touch that wasn’t real.

But it had felt real.

Your fingers curled against the fabric beneath you, trying to shake off the lingering sensation. Your mind was still hazy, but one thought pushed through the fog.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t just a dream.

*

The hotel lobby buzzed with chatter and clinking glasses as you nursed an overpriced latte, eyes on your client’s target—a CEO lost in conversation with a younger woman. Routine. Predictable.

Then, the air shifted.

A presence entered, commanding, electric. Your breath hitched. Him. The man from your dream. Tall, refined, exuding quiet authority. His sharp gaze swept the room, as if aware he was being watched.

Impossible. Just a dream. And yet, he was here.

You should’ve ignored it. Stayed focused. But your feet moved before you decided.

He was heading to the bar.

Your heels clicked against marble as you followed, anticipation curling in your stomach. He looked rich—dangerously so. But you knew this world, played its games, mastered its weaknesses.

Still, as you stepped into the dimly lit bar, your confidence wavered.

Seungcheol sat alone, whiskey in hand, fingers tracing the rim. Shadows accentuated the sharp planes of his face—control, power, effortless command.

And against all reason, you walked toward him.

He noticed you the moment you approached. His gaze flickered to you, lingering, as if he had already expected your arrival.

“The bag?” His voice was smooth, rich—like something expensive and aged, much like the drink in his hand.

You nodded, fingers lightly brushing over the strap of your purse. “I saw you the other night. I wanted to thank you properly.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, subtle yet undeniably amused. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Neither did I.” The words left your mouth before you could filter them. It was true—you hadn’t planned on this. But now that you were here, standing in front of him, you weren’t sure if you wanted to walk away.

Seungcheol leaned back slightly, studying you with the quiet intensity of someone who had already figured out half of your secrets. His gaze wasn’t intrusive, but it was sharp.

Then, as if testing the waters, he asked, “Was that your boyfriend with you?”

Your breath hitched—just barely—but you recovered quickly, shaking your head. “No, he’s just a friend.”

He hummed, as if considering your answer. Another brief silence stretched between you. The awkwardness was all on your side, and yet, he didn’t push. He didn’t pry. He just observed.

You weren’t sure whether that made him dangerous or intriguing.

The bartender set a fresh drink in front of him, and Seungcheol picked up the glass, taking an unhurried sip before finally speaking again.

“I’m Seungcheol,” he said at last, setting his drink back down. “Choi Seungcheol.”

For the first time in years, you hesitated.

Not because you didn’t have a name prepared. Not because you were crafting the perfect lie.

But because, against every instinct, you didn’t want to lie.

So, you did something you hadn’t done in a long time. You reached out, your fingers meeting his in a firm handshake. His grip was warm, steady, unwavering.

“Ji Y/n.”

Seungcheol held your gaze for just a second longer than necessary. And in that fleeting moment, as your skin tingled where it touched his, you had the unsettling feeling that this man—unlike anyone before him—wasn’t easily deceived.

At first, it was just a dream—fleeting images, whispers, a touch so real you woke up breathless. But as the nights passed, the dreams became more vivid, more intense. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the weight of his gaze, the ghost of his voice murmuring things you could never quite remember in the morning.What unsettled you most wasn’t the dreams—it was how easily you fell into them.

For someone who once needed medication just to rest, sleeping before 11 felt unnatural. And yet, here you were, slipping into unconsciousness effortlessly.

Then, Seungcheol started appearing.

At a restaurant, seated a few tables away, his laughter blending into the hum of business chatter. At a convenience store, where his hand brushed yours as you reached for water.

“Didn’t take you for the instant ramen type,” he mused.

“Didn’t take you for a convenience store kind of guy,” you shot back.

Then, a café. A library. Each time, his presence was casual, yet deliberate. Until now—when he stood just a few shelves away, flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading.

You leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed. “Busy man like you sure has a lot of free time.”

He smirked. “Coincidence?”

“No.”

“Luck, then?”

You scoffed. “Not the word I’d use.”

He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—rich, spiced—filling the space between you. “Then what would you call it?”

Your pulse skipped.

Coincidence? Fate?

Or something else entirely?

*

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But here you were, beneath him, the warmth of his body caging you against the mattress. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the depth in his dark eyes as he looked at you—really looked at you.

Your breath was uneven, hands gripping the sheets as if they could anchor you. Seungcheol’s fingers traced a slow path down your arm, his touch light but deliberate, sending a shiver through you.

His thumb brushed against your cheek, a touch so gentle it almost felt unreal. “Tell me to stop,” he said, almost like a challenge.

You parted your lips, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue. But they never came.

Because despite everything—despite the dreams, despite the unsettling pull you felt toward him, despite the fact that you barely knew him—

You didn’t want him to stop.

His kiss was deep, consuming, as if he was trying to claim every part of you. The room filled with the sounds of your shared breaths, your soft whimpers against his mouth. His movements were measured, deliberate—each thrust a silent declaration.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, one hand moving to tilt your chin upward.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. There was something vulnerable there, something raw that made your chest tighten. The intensity in those dark eyes was almost too much to bear.

Your fingers traced the contours of his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath your touch as he moved. This intimacy—it terrified you. Not because it felt wrong, but because it felt too right.

"I've wanted this," he confessed against your neck, his voice strained. "Wanted you."

You arched into him, your body responding to his confession in ways your words couldn't yet articulate. His name escaped your lips in a breathless whisper, and you felt him shudder against you.

"Say it again," he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"Seungcheol," you breathed, and it felt like surrender.

His rhythm changed, became more urgent, more desperate. Your nails dug into his shoulders as pleasure built within you, a crescendo approaching its peak. The world narrowed to just this—his body against yours, the heat between you, the way he looked at you like you were something precious and wild all at once.

"Seungcheol," you gasped, gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. His rhythm never faltered, even as your body began to tremble beneath him.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with desire. "Let go for me."

The pressure building inside you crested like a wave. Your vision blurred at the edges as pleasure consumed you, radiating from your core to the tips of your fingers. Seungcheol watched your expression intently, seeming to savor every flicker of ecstasy that crossed your face.

"Beautiful," he murmured, slowing his pace slightly to let you ride through the intensity of your release.

When you began to come down, he pressed his forehead against yours, his breathing labored. "Not done with you yet," he whispered, adjusting his angle slightly before resuming his determined pace.

Your oversensitive body quivered as he continued his relentless rhythm, each thrust sending aftershocks through your system. The new angle had him hitting a spot that made your toes curl, building another impossible wave of pleasure.

"I can't—" you whimpered, but Seungcheol silenced you with a deep kiss.

"You can," he breathed against your lips. "One more time for me."

His movements became more erratic, a telltale sign he was close. One hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your most sensitive spot with practiced ease. The dual sensation was overwhelming, drawing a broken cry from your throat.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his voice strained. Sweat glistened on his brow as he maintained his punishing pace. "Together this time."

Your body responded to his command as if it belonged to him, trembling and tightening around him as a second climax built impossibly fast. His eyes never left yours, dark with hunger and something deeper—possession, adoration.

"Seungcheol, I'm—" Words failed as pleasure crashed through you again, more intense than before. Your back arched off the bed, pressing your chest against his.

"Fuck," he growled, his rhythm faltering at last. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave marks as he drove into you one final time, burying himself deep. You felt him pulse inside you as he came, his whole body tensing before he collapsed against you, careful to brace most of his weight on his forearms.

You had slept with Seungcheol more times than you could count.

What started as a dream—his touch, his voice, the way he fit so seamlessly into your nights—became reality, over and over again. Every time you were with him, it felt like stepping into a world where only the two of you existed. His lips traced paths you once imagined, his hands held you in ways that left no room for doubt. He knew your body better than you did, drawing out sensations that blurred the lines between dreams and waking.

And yet, no matter how many times you fell asleep beside him, no matter how deeply you surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, you always woke up exhausted.

At first, you ignored it. You chalked it up to the intensity of it all—the way he consumed you, the way you let him. But then it became impossible to overlook. You were sleeping earlier than ever, yet you woke up feeling depleted. Your limbs ached, your thoughts dragged, and there was a strange hollowness in your chest, like something inside you was slowly being siphoned away.

Seungcheol, on the other hand, only seemed to thrive.

You noticed it more with each passing day. He looked sharper, stronger—his skin glowing, his energy boundless. If exhaustion ever touched him, he never showed it. If anything, he seemed even more alive after every night spent with you.

The realization gnawed at you, a silent unease creeping up your spine.

One night, as you lay in his arms, your body sinking into the mattress with a heaviness you couldn’t shake, you finally gave voice to the thought that had been haunting you.

“Do you ever get tired?”

Seungcheol’s fingers stilled against your skin, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable in the dim light.

“Why do you ask?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to push past the drowsiness that had already begun to pull at you. “Because I do.”

For a long moment, he simply looked at you. Then, with a slow, almost knowing smile, he reached out, his fingertips tracing along your collarbone.

“Maybe you should rest more,” he murmured.

And just like that, exhaustion swept over you again, pulling you under before you could say another word.

*

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “She looks like hell.” He gestured toward the closed bedroom door, where you lay unconscious, an IV hooked into your arm. “And before you start—yeah, I know you don’t want me here, but someone has to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t drain her.”

Jeonghan gave him a pointed look. “Then why is she hooked up to an IV in your bed? You’ve been feeding on her too much, Cheol.”

Silence settled. Then, Jeonghan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “So, this is it? You’re using her to set a trap?”

Seungcheol leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Didn’t she do the same to you?”

Jeonghan’s smirk faltered for half a second before he scoffed. “I knew she was playing a game the moment she approached me. I just didn’t expect you to be part of it.” He studied Seungcheol.

Seungcheol didn’t answer.

The door clicked shut behind him as he stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. His gaze landed on you, your figure shifting beneath the blankets. A deep sigh left his lips—part relief, part something heavier he refused to name.

Your eyelids fluttered open, confusion flickering as you spotted the IV in your hand before meeting his gaze.

“You passed out yesterday,” he said, voice low. “I called a doctor.”

Your brows knitted. “Yesterday?” Your throat was dry.

Seungcheol handed you a glass of water. “Drink.”

You sipped slowly, mind piecing things together. Exhaustion, then nothing. A blank space where time should have been.

“What happened to me?”

Seungcheol’s expression remained unreadable. “You’ve been overworking yourself. Your body shut down.”

A lie. A careful one.

“I don’t just pass out,” you muttered. “What aren’t you telling me, Seungcheol?”

His fingers curled slightly against his thighs. “You need rest. That’s all that matters.”

Doubt lingered, but you couldn’t resist the pull—an invisible force tethering you to him. You should have been wary, but his touch sent warmth through your veins, his presence grounding you.

You let yourself drown in him, as if he were a calm ocean, deep and endless. You didn’t care if you couldn’t breathe—as long as it was him, you’d be fine.

And you were addicted. Obsessed.

With the way his fingers traced your skin, the way your name sounded in his voice. The way he kissed you—slow, deliberate, savoring every second—left you aching for more.

It wasn’t just desire. It was something dangerous.

And even if it destroyed you, you didn’t want to escape.

*

Hansol’s eyes narrowed as he took in your appearance, fingers wrapping around your wrist. "You're so busy these days. Rest, won't you?"

You forced a small smile, gently pulling back. "I’m fine."

He didn’t look convinced but let it slide, plopping onto your couch and stretching out. Then, as if it had just crossed his mind, he asked casually, "By the way, I saw you with a man the other day. Who’s that?"

Your body stiffened for a fraction of a second before you masked it by tidying the scattered papers. "What man?"

Hansol scoffed. "Don’t play dumb. I know all your clients, and that guy? He wasn’t one of them." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So? Who is he?"

You sighed. Hansol wouldn’t drop it. "Just someone I met recently."

"And by ‘met recently,’ you mean what? Your new mark?"

You hesitated before shaking your head. "No."

"Then what is he?"

That was the real question, wasn’t it? Even you weren’t sure how to answer.

"Anyway..." Hansol grinned, pulling out a freshly purchased comic book. "Look at this! Just got it today."

You glanced at the cover, amused. "You still buy physical comics? Everyone’s moved to digital."

He scoffed, hugging the book dramatically. "Digital has no soul. Nothing beats flipping through real pages."

You chuckled. "Alright, what’s this one about?"

His eyes lit up. "It’s about an incubus."

Your brows furrowed. "An incubus?"_

Hansol blinked. "Wait—you seriously don’t know?"

You shrugged. "Should I?"

He sighed, flipping a page. "An incubus is a demon that seduces humans and feeds off their energy. You know—" he wiggled his eyebrows—"in that way."

You rolled your eyes, nudging his shoulder. "Figures you’d be into this."

"Hey, don’t judge! It’s actually good. It’s about a girl who dreams of an incubus but doesn’t realize he’s real. Every night, he visits, making her crave him until she’s completely dependent. She thinks she’s just exhausted, but he’s been feeding on her, draining her little by little. By the time she figures it out, she’s already too weak to fight back."

Something twisted in your stomach.

Tired. Drained. Weak.

Hansol kept talking, flipping pages. "She loses weight, feels dizzy all the time. Always tired but wants him more, not knowing why." He smirked. "Sounds intense, right?"

You swallowed, forcing a chuckle. "Yeah… intense."

"Told you it’s good. You should read it. Might learn something interesting."

You laughed along, but your hands tightened around your sleeve.

Because suddenly, the exhaustion, the weight loss, the dreams—none of it felt like a coincidence.

You found his business card when you were at his place one night. It must have slipped out of his pocket, lying unnoticed on the floor. Instinctively, you reached for it, intending to put it back where it belonged. But the moment your eyes scanned the text, your breath hitched.

Choi Seungcheol

Director of Universe Factory.

Your heart pounded violently against your ribs. Jeonghan’s label.

Your hand flew to your mouth, stifling a gasp.

How had you missed this? How had you not recognized his name, his face, his presence?

The realization hit like a freight train. Did Seungcheol know?

Did he know that you were the one responsible for making his company’s profits plummet a month ago? The same person who had meticulously executed a con that left Universe Factory scrambling to recover?

A cold shiver ran down your spine.

You had to get away.

You tried. You really did.

You made excuses—work, exhaustion, anything you could think of to put distance between you and him. He never questioned it, only offering short replies to your messages, never demanding more.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because even when you weren’t with him, he was still there. Lingering in your thoughts. Haunting your dreams.

The first night, it was just a presence—watching from the edges of your subconscious.

The second night, he was closer. A whisper at your ear. A phantom touch against your skin.

The third night, you woke up breathless, his name slipping from your lips before you even realized.

You pressed a hand against your chest, your heart racing.

You had stopped seeing him.

So why did it feel like he had never left?

*

Seungcheol had been wondering about you.

He wasn’t sentimental—more of a deal with the mess later kind of guy. But you had left him with a mess he couldn’t clean up.

Something had changed.

He had been watching—casually, of course. Just a little supernatural surveillance. Totally normal. Except what he saw wasn’t.

You were better. Brighter. Lighter. The exhaustion that once clung to you was gone. Meanwhile, he was restless, irritable—craving something he couldn’t name.

Then, there was that night. When Jeonghan touched you, Seungcheol saw it—a spark. Energy demons would kill for. A problem.

So when Jeonghan’s photos with you surfaced, Seungcheol stepped in. Don’t see her again.

Jeonghan had only smirked. Oh, you have no idea.

Maybe he didn’t. Because then, Seungcheol crossed the line.

A little dream visit—just curiosity. But then, it became a habit.

Your subconscious wrapped around him like warmth after centuries in the cold. Your energy seeped into him, made him sharper, stronger—alive.

It wasn’t just hunger anymore.

It was you.

And now, he was hooked.

*

The smoky scent of the city clung to the cool breeze as Seungcheol spotted you instantly—he always did. The way your grip tightened around your glass and your shoulders stiffened told him everything. You weren’t just uncomfortable. You were ready to bolt. And you did.

Seungcheol sighed, already knowing you wouldn’t make this easy. He followed at a steady pace, matching your quick strides onto the quieter streets. The moment you felt him near, you spun around, eyes sharp.

"Don't touch me," you said, voice firm. "I'm done."

Seungcheol exhaled, half frustrated, half amused. But then he saw them—a group of men lingering in the shadows, eyes locked on you. His smirk vanished. Before he could act, you stopped abruptly, your next words heavier than before.

"Let's stop all of this."

Your gaze met his, searching. Then, barely above a whisper—“I know you’ve been hiding something. And now... I know.”

Seungcheol’s smirk returned, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "Huh. So you figured it out."

"You knew I'm a con artist," you pressed. "You’re dragging me down, aren’t you?"

Seungcheol blinked, then chuckled. "Huh?" His tone was almost amused.

"You’re doing this for revenge," you accused.

His smirk deepened as he stepped closer. "That’s all you know?" His voice was smooth, teasing—testing you.

Your breath hitched. "What else is there to know?"

Seungcheol tilted his head, considering. Then—"If you really knew me, sweetheart, you'd know I never get involved unless there’s something in it for me."

Your pulse quickened. “Right. You wanted revenge for Jeonghan.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “But if that’s all you think this is about…”

The flickering streetlights cast shifting shadows over his unreadable expression, making you feel like you were standing at the edge of something dangerous.

"What do you mean by that?" you asked, voice steady despite the tension coiling in your chest.

Seungcheol only hummed, stepping forward. You instinctively stepped back.

That smirk deepened.

“Think about it,” he murmured. “If I really wanted revenge, wouldn’t I have done it already?”

That shouldn’t have made your stomach twist the way it did.

You narrowed your eyes. “So what do you want?”

Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you, eyes flickering over your face like he was searching for something. Then, suddenly, his gaze dropped lower—to your wrist.

A slow grin curled at his lips.

“You’re still wearing it.”

You froze.

Your pulse pounded as you followed his gaze—only to realize what he was looking at.

The bracelet.

A simple, dark-threaded band with a single obsidian stone at its center. A gift—at least, that’s what he had called it when he first slipped it around your wrist.

You had never really thought about it before, had never even considered taking it off. But now, standing under the weight of his gaze, it felt like something else entirely.

A claim.

Your stomach twisted.

You looked back up at him, searching his face, suddenly desperate for an answer you weren’t sure you wanted. “What is this?”

Seungcheol chuckled, a deep, amused sound that sent a chill down your spine.

“You don’t know?” He stepped closer, voice dropping just slightly. “And here I thought you were catching on.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Something about the way he was looking at you made your breath catch.

Your mind flashed back to Hansol’s words from days ago—the way he had joked about incubus—demons and energy and how they marked their territory. You had laughed it off at the time.

But now���

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight around your wrist.

Seungcheol’s smirk didn’t fade. “Let’s just say… it’s been keeping you safe.”

Your heart pounded.

Safe from what?

And why did it suddenly feel like you had been walking into a trap this whole time—one that had already closed around you before you even realized it?

*

The room was enveloped in a hushed silence, broken only by your soft moans and the distant, steady hum of the city beyond the window. His breath was steady and rhythmic, while his fingers lazily traced gentle circles on your skin, providing a soothing contrast to the electric tension in the air.

Again.

You were at a loss as to how you always found yourself in this position—beneath him, with him, despite the myriad reasons you had to stay away. Yet here you were, captivated once more.

His body moved with a practiced rhythm, sending you spiraling into a realm of bliss. The way he touched you was intoxicating, and you craved him repeatedly, an insatiable desire igniting every nerve. His lips melded with yours, a fervent welcome to another peak of ecstasy. You moaned his name, a symphony of pleasure that made him chuckle, the irony of the situation not lost on him.

“Tell me you still don't want me," he murmured, his voice a low growl as he thrust into you with an urgency that matched the intensity of your need.

You couldn't lie—not in this moment when your body betrayed every rational thought. Words failed as pleasure coursed through you, rendering your earlier protests meaningless. The moonlight filtering through the half-drawn blinds painted silver streaks across his shoulders, illuminating the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I..." your voice faltered as he shifted his angle, drawing a gasp from your lips.

"That's what I thought," Seungcheol whispered, his breath hot against your ear. His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending shivers cascading down your spine. "You can deny it to yourself all day, but your body never lies to me."

Your fingernails dug crescents into his back, marking him in ways your pride would never allow you to claim out loud. The evidence of your surrender was written in every arch of your spine, every breathless plea that escaped your lips.

"I hate you," you whispered, the words lacking any conviction as they dissolved into another moan.

Seungcheol laughed, the sound vibrating through your joined bodies. "No, you don't." His pace slowed deliberately, making you whimper in protest. "Say it. Say what you really feel."

The city lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes that bore into yours, demanding honesty when you were at your most vulnerable. He knew exactly what he was doing—reducing you to nothing but raw sensation and truth.

"I need you," you admitted, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside you.

It seemed to satisfy him.

"It's not fair," you managed to whisper, your voice breaking as he continued his relentless pace. "The way you—" Your words dissolved into a moan as his hand slid between your bodies, finding that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

Seungcheol's eyes darkened, pupils dilated with desire as he watched your expression change. "Life isn't fair, baby," he said, his voice rough with restraint. "But this—" he rolled his hips in a way that made you arch off the bed, "—this is exactly what we both need."

The sheets lay tangled around your legs, a testament to the fervor of moments past, and the comforting warmth of Seungcheol's body remained pressed against you. His touch was still imprinted on your body, the weight of him lingering even as he shifted beside you, one arm draped over your waist like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.

“You never learn, do you?” he mused, voice low, teasing.

You scoffed, refusing to meet his eyes. “Shut up.”

His chuckle was deep, amused. “You say that, but here you are.”

“Tell me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Why are you here, really?”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

But then, without warning, he reached down, fingers barely grazing your wrist—right over the bracelet. A slow, almost possessive touch.

And suddenly, you remembered Hansol’s words again.

Demons don’t just take.

They claim.

Your stomach twisted.

Seungcheol’s lips curled. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

The truth was, you had been thinking about it. Ever since he pointed out the bracelet, ever since he hinted at something you weren’t sure you were ready to understand.

And now, here you were.

Back in his space.

Back in his hands.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost… coaxing. “You’re exhausted.”

You wanted to protest, wanted to push him away. But the moment his fingers traced slow circles over your wrist, a sudden, overwhelming exhaustion settled over your body.

Heavy. Draining.

Your eyelids fluttered.

You barely felt it when he pulled you to his chest, guiding you under the sheets, his warmth pressed against your back.

The last thing you heard before sleep took you was his voice, a whisper against your skin.

“You’re mine.”

*

The night stretched in quiet warmth, the city lights casting soft glows against Seungcheol’s bedroom walls. His sheets smelled like him—musky, familiar, intoxicating in a way that made it harder to breathe. Your body still tingled from where he had touched you, but your mind was louder, restless, caught in the weight of everything you hadn’t said yet.

You turned your head, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair was slightly tousled, how his lips were parted just enough to make you want to kiss him again. He looked relaxed, at ease—like none of this meant as much to him as it did to you.

That thought hurt more than it should have.

“I think I…” You swallowed, forcing yourself to speak. “I think I love you.”

Seungcheol stilled.

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. No teasing smirk, no amused glint in his gaze—just quiet, unreadable silence.

Then, he exhaled, running a hand throuugh his hair. “You don’t have to say things like that.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m not just saying it,” you murmured, your fingers tightening around the sheets. “I mean it.”

Seungcheol sighed, his expression conflicted. “You think you mean it,” he said carefully. “But we both know what this is.”

Your chest tightened. “And what is this?”

He hesitated. “It’s… fun. It’s good. But it doesn’t have to be more than that.”

You felt something inside you crack.

“You think I only want this because it’s fun?” Your voice was quieter now, the hurt creeping in despite how hard you tried to hold it back.

Seungcheol sighed again, this time rubbing the back of his neck like this conversation was making him more tired than it should. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Too late.

“You keep coming back to me,” he said, softer this time. “And I know part of it is because I—” He stopped himself, looking away. “I know what you did to Jeonghan.”

Your breath hitched.

“I know why you started this,” he admitted. “And I don’t think you owe me… whatever this is.”

He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t being cruel. But somehow, his quiet honesty hurt even more.

“I wasn’t lying,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I do love you.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes for a brief second before meeting your gaze again. “I’m not the kind of person you should have feelings for.”

Silence.

Seungcheol woke to silence—empty, cold. His arm reached out, fingers brushing against vacant sheets. You were gone.

His jaw tightened. Last night. Of course.

He exhaled, rubbing his face. He had warned you—he wasn’t someone you should want. But it didn’t matter.

His fingers brushed the bracelet on his wrist—the same one you wore. A claim. A binding.

You could try to leave. You always did.

But you would always, always come back.

*

You sat in front of your laptop when the door opened. Looking up, you saw Seungcheol enter, sleeves rolled up, suit jacket draped over his arm.

Three days. Three days of silence, of neither seeing him nor feeling his presence in your dreams.

You missed him—that much you could admit. But missing him didn’t change the fact that you felt alone in this game, one where the rules were never in your favor. And if there was one thing you hated, it was losing.

Straightening, you leaned against your desk, arms crossed. "I'm not an entertainment label director, so my office isn’t sleek or modern," you remarked casually, but there was an edge to your tone.

Seungcheol chuckled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked exhausted—shoulders slightly slumped, faint lines near his eyes.

"You’re avoiding me." His voice was low, unreadable.

Before you could respond, his finger traced the curve of your jaw, featherlight yet sending a shiver through you.

"I’ve been busy."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Too busy to even dream?"

You stiffened. Of course, he had noticed.

His hands settled on your waist, grounding you. His voice softened. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

You turned away, throat tightening. He had wounded you, and the worst part? He didn’t even realize it.

It hurt.

You had confessed, bared your heart, only for him to look at you like you were foolish. Like your love was laughable.

He didn’t think you deserved him. That someone like you should love someone better.

But what was he? An incubus? A demon who fed on pleasure, draining those he touched?

The thought ached, a dull weight pressing on your ribs.

"Please, don’t."

Your voice was fragile, but it was enough to make him freeze. His grip on you tightened—not in possession, but in hesitation.

Even now, he was still searching for an answer instead of realizing what he had done.

His eyes, usually dark with desire, flickered with something else—confusion, uncertainty. And then, frustration.

"You don’t mean that," he murmured. "You always come back to me."

A bitter laugh threatened to spill from your lips.

"Is that what you think?" you whispered, finally turning your gaze to meet his.

His breath hitched.

You saw it then—the faintest crack in his confidence, the small flicker of doubt behind his usual smirk.

He stepped closer, closing the space between you, his warmth wrapping around you like a force you couldn’t escape.

And you—God, you—tried so hard to fight it.

Tried to fight the way your body still reacted to him, the way your heart still ached for something more, something real.

You wanted to hate him.

But you wanted him more.

And that was the cruelest part of it all.

The kiss was deliberately slow, lingering in a way that felt like a silent argument—one neither of you was willing to lose. It wasn’t just about desire; it was about proving something. That this pull between you was inevitable. That no matter how much you tried to deny it, fate had already tangled you together.

You wanted to push him away, to yell at him to leave, to tell him that you were done. But you couldn’t. Physically, you couldn’t. Your body refused to obey the logic screaming in your head, betraying you in the cruelest way.

Then, the sound of approaching footsteps cut through the haze, snapping you both back into reality.

You broke apart just in time for the door to swing open.

Hansol froze at the entrance, eyes narrowing at the tension in the room—Seungcheol too close, your pulse too quick.

"I… didn’t know you had a guest," Hansol mused, gaze flicking between you two before smirking. "Should I step out?"

You steadied yourself. "No, you’re good. He was just leaving."

Seungcheol’s smirk lingered, but he didn’t argue. You pushed him back, out the door, locking it before he could speak.

Hansol crossed his arms. "Okay. What the hell was that?"

You exhaled. "Did you bring the comic?"

He blinked, then pulled it from his bag. "Almost forgot."

You traced the cover, grounding yourself. Hansol studied you. "Who was that?"

"Nobody."

Hansol scoffed. "Right. Locking the door wasn’t suspicious at all."

"Do you want me to read or not?"

He sighed, then muttered, "If he’s messing with you, I’ll handle it."

You smiled, knowing he couldn’t. Not when Seungcheol wasn’t even human.

*

Seungcheol and Jeonghan sat at the dimly lit bar, the low hum of conversation surrounding them. Seungcheol looked exhausted—more than Jeonghan had ever seen.

"You’re never this tired," Jeonghan mused, swirling his drink. "Haven’t fed in a week?"

Seungcheol exhaled heavily, rubbing his face. As his wrist shifted, Jeonghan caught sight of it—the bracelet. His expression darkened.

"You actually did it," Jeonghan muttered, fingers tracing the intricate design. "You claimed her."

Seungcheol gave a small, reluctant nod.

"You know what that means, don’t you?" Jeonghan pressed. "It binds her to you. No other demon can touch her. But you can’t just walk away either." He studied Seungcheol’s face. "Let me guess—you haven’t fed on her since."

Silence.

Jeonghan scoffed. "She’s avoiding you?" His smirk was sharp. "The great Seungcheol? And here I thought humans were addicted to you, not the other way around."

More silence.

Jeonghan sighed. "I warned you," he said, shaking his head. "You were playing with fire the moment you visited her dreams. But claiming her?" He gestured at Seungcheol’s worn-out state. "Look at you. You’re falling apart."

Seungcheol scoffed, but there was no amusement in it. "She didn’t walk away."

"Then where is she?" Jeonghan challenged.

Seungcheol didn’t answer.

"You thought you had control," Jeonghan continued. "Thought she’d keep coming back. But you did something worse." He leaned in, voice quiet but sharp. "You made her love you."

Seungcheol inhaled slowly, the weight of the words settling.

"And now," Jeonghan murmured, "you’re suffering the consequences."

Seungcheol chuckled dryly. "Drop it."

Jeonghan set his glass down. "You know what happens when a demon loses control of the bond."

Seungcheol remained silent, but his grip on his glass trembled. The exhaustion wasn’t just hunger anymore. It was something deeper. A creeping weakness. His once-effortless strength now required effort.

"You’re already feeling it," Jeonghan observed.

"I just need to feed," Seungcheol muttered.

Jeonghan scoffed. "You think that’s it?" His gaze flicked to the bracelet. "You tied yourself to her. And she’s rejecting you." His voice dropped. "You already know what that means."

Seungcheol swallowed hard. He knew.

The demon in him was fading. And something else—something human—was taking its place.

*

A late-night knock startled you. You had been drowning in work, avoiding sleep—avoiding him.

But there he was.

Seungcheol stood at your door, weaker than you’d ever seen him. Paler, unsteady, his usual confidence gone.

"Seungcheol—"

"I need you..." His voice was strained before he collapsed.

Instinct took over. You caught him, his body cold, his breath shallow. Panic rose as you reached for your phone, but his weak grip stopped you.

"No… don’t," he murmured. "Your touch… it’s enough."

Your heart pounded.

Guiding him to the couch, you watched him slip into unconsciousness. Your gaze flickered to Hansol’s comic—a scene of an incubus fading without his bonded partner.

Your stomach twisted.

"How much do you need me, Seungcheol?" you whispered, brushing your fingers over his icy skin.

His eyelids fluttered. A ragged breath.

More than you had ever imagined.

"A kiss?" You swallowed, searching his face. "Sex?"

His fingers twitched weakly beneath yours, but then, his voice—so soft, so unlike him—broke the silence.

"I just need you here."

Your breath hitched.

For the first time, there was no teasing in his tone, no smirk playing at his lips. Just quiet, raw honesty.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows, the scent of cologne and something unmistakably him lingering in the air. A slow, rhythmic beeping filled the silence, drawing your gaze to the IV drip beside you.

Your body felt impossibly heavy, fingers curling weakly against the sheets. Then, you noticed him.

Seungcheol sat beside the bed, dark eyes trained on you. He looked different—strong again. The exhaustion that once drained him was gone. A chill ran through you.

"I'm sorry you had to go through this," he murmured.

Your throat was dry. "What time is it?"

"You passed out for two days."

The weight of his words settled over you. Two entire days—gone.

Your mind traced back to when he had collapsed in your arms, weak and powerless. And now… he was whole.

"You drained me."

He didn’t deny it. Just a slow, deliberate nod.

"You know now."

Seungcheol parted his lips—I was…—but the words never came.

"You almost died." Your voice was barely above a whisper. Without thinking, you reached out, cupping his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut.

"But I drained you."

You shook your head, a tired smile forming. "I'll be fine."

His gaze lingered before he pulled the duvet over you both, warmth seeping into your skin as he traced your face, memorizing you.

"I missed you..." His voice was fragile.

You hesitated before muttering, "I missed you too."

Something in him softened, but it was fleeting. He took your wrist, pressing a lingering kiss near the bracelet—his mark on you.

"But if I keep doing this… I’ll drain you."

"You can drain me," you replied without hesitation.

His jaw tightened, resisting the urge to kiss you, to erase this moment.

"I told you," he whispered, "I'm not someone you can have feelings for."

Your breath hitched. "Then what? Let you waste away for two weeks, only to return to me in the middle of the night, desperate?"

His breath caught.

For the first time in centuries, Seungcheol felt something foreign coil inside him—something dangerously human.

"You don’t love me," you whispered, resigned. "But you need me."

Seungcheol clenched his jaw, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath his touch. He wanted to deny it. Wanted to push you away.

But he couldn’t.

Because you were right.

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening on your wrist before he forced himself to let go. His lips parted, but for a long moment, no words came. You watched him, breath steady, heart not.

"You deserve the truth," he finally said, quieter than you'd ever heard him. "I should've told you a long time ago."

You waited.

"I'm an incubus."

His gaze stayed on you, searching for fear, for rejection. But you stayed. You always stayed.

"I feed on energy," he continued. "Desire. Touch. That’s how I survive."

You curled your fingers into the duvet, letting his words settle. You had suspected it—pieced it together from his presence in your dreams, the way he moved, and most of all, from the comic Hansol had lent you.

"I read about this," you said, voice steady. "In a comic."

Seungcheol blinked. "A comic?"

You nodded. "Yeah. It explained a lot—how incubi bond, how they claim someone as their main energy source." You glanced at your bracelet, smirking. "Though it didn’t mention incubi being this annoyingly persistent."

He let out a short laugh. "That’s what you’re taking from this?"

"Well, yeah. You disappear for weeks, show up half-dead, and now I’m your personal charger."

He scoffed, amusement flickering in his eyes. "It’s more complicated than that."

"Maybe. But it also means you need me more than I need you."

Seungcheol leaned in, smirking. "Is that so?"

You lifted your chin, playful. "Pretty much. So, what do I get for keeping you alive?"

He studied you, then sighed dramatically. "Fine. I’ll owe you one."

You grinned. "Make it a big one."

Shaking his head, he chuckled. "You really are something else."

*

Jeonghan finally saw you again after months of you staying with Seungcheol, and to say he was amused was an understatement. The very person who had caused a scandal, who had once driven Seungcheol into a blind rage, was now living under his roof.

Leaning against the bar counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips, he asked, "So, you stopped being a con artist?"

You matched his smirk. "Who said I did?" The challenge in your eyes hadn’t entirely faded.

Jeonghan chuckled. "You weren’t this feisty when you approached me."

You shrugged. "That was work, Jeonghan. I was paid for that."

Turning to Seungcheol, Jeonghan smirked. "See? I told you—humans are more evil than us."

Seungcheol sighed, rubbing his temple. "Not this again."

Jeonghan only grinned. "It’s just funny. You were ready to tear the world apart over her, and now? Look at you—domesticated."

Seungcheol didn’t want to admit it, but something was changing. He felt drowsy, struggled with paperwork, even found himself getting emotional over your favorite animated movies.

Jeonghan noticed. "Have you been visiting the Underworld lately?"

You perked up. "What’s the Underworld?"

"A place where we were born," Jeonghan said vaguely.

"I thought incubi were born from humans," you mused.

Seungcheol chuckled, handing you a plate of apples as he settled beside you. "Your comic didn’t mention that?"

Jeonghan smirked. "You learned about us from a comic? Alright then, what else have you learned?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Well, incubi are supposed to be effortlessly seductive, but judging by Seungcheol’s struggle with paperwork, I think my comic exaggerated."

Jeonghan laughed while Seungcheol groaned. "Remind me why I keep you around?"

"Because you need me." You grinned, taking a bite of your apple.

Jeonghan nudged Seungcheol. "She’s not wrong."

You tapped your fingers against the plate. "Actually, some things in the comic were true—incubi can’t form real emotional attachments, they need to bond with someone to maintain energy, and if they go too long without feeding, they lose their abilities."

Jeonghan and Seungcheol exchanged glances.

“That’s... accurate,” Jeonghan admitted. "Who wrote this comic?"

"Some guy named Laurent."

Both men froze.

You frowned. "What?"

Seungcheol sat up. "Laurent?"

Jeonghan let out a low whistle. "That explains it."

Your curiosity grew. "You know him?"

Seungcheol exhaled sharply. "He’s one of the oldest incubi. No one’s seen him in centuries."

Jeonghan crossed his arms. "If he wrote that comic, it means he’s been watching from the shadows."

You blinked. "So… I’ve been getting life lessons from some ancient demon?"

Seungcheol groaned. "Pretty much."

Jeonghan smirked. "And here I thought it was just a random fantasy story."

You glanced at the comic, suddenly seeing it in a new light. "Great. So I’ve basically been studying from a demon history book."

Seungcheol and Jeonghan shared a look. They knew what to do.

*

Tracking Laurent down had taken effort—favors, cryptic messages, and a web of connections. Yet, standing before a plain apartment door, Seungcheol felt an odd disbelief. No hidden sanctuary, no forgotten castle—just this.

With a breath, he rang the doorbell. An older man answered, his sharp gaze assessing.

"I’m here for Laurent," Seungcheol said evenly.

The man’s lips curled. "What’s your business?"

A strange unease crept into Seungcheol—his hands trembled. Why?

Then—

"Scoups?"

His demon name. No one had called him that in ages. Seungcheol stepped back, stunned.

"Who are you?"

The man chuckled. "It’s been a long time." He pushed the door open. "I’m Laurent."

Silence.

Seungcheol stiffened, mind reeling. Laurent—one of the most powerful incubi—stood before him, aged. Human.

They sat in dim light, the air thick with unspoken truths. Laurent poured himself wine, watching Seungcheol with quiet amusement.

"You already know why you’re here."

Seungcheol’s fists clenched. The exhaustion, the emotions, the way his body responded to you like a man’s, not a demon’s.

Laurent sipped his drink. "You’re becoming human."

The words hit like a blow.

"Why?" Seungcheol demanded.

Laurent’s smirk was almost pitying. "The energy we take—it doesn’t just sustain us. When given willingly, with love—it changes us."

Seungcheol froze. Images of you flashed in his mind—your touch, your warmth, your unwavering presence.

"You love her," Laurent said simply.

His stomach twisted.

"And she will die."

The air left Seungcheol’s lungs.

Laurent’s voice softened. "Just like mine did."

Seungcheol saw it then—the empty, endless future without you.

"You have a choice," Laurent said.

Seungcheol swallowed hard. "What choice?"

"Leave. Sever the bond. She’ll live."

A cold, meaningless existence stretched before him.

"And if I stay?"

Laurent’s gaze darkened. "Then she will give all of herself to you until there’s nothing left."

Later that day, you noticed Seungcheol sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the floor. His usual sharp, confident presence was replaced with something distant, something unsettling. His fingers idly played with the edge of the bracelet on his wrist—something he rarely did unless he was deep in thought.

You set down your book and shifted closer to him. “Seungcheol?” you called softly, but he didn’t react.

Frowning, you reached out and touched his arm. That finally pulled him out of his trance, his dark eyes flickering to you as if just realizing you were there.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, searching his face.

For a moment, he hesitated. You could see it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed back words he wasn’t sure he should say. But then, with a slow exhale, he leaned back against the couch and ran a hand down his face.

“I met Laurent today,” he admitted. His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual weight.

You tilted your head. “And?”

He let out a bitter chuckle. “And he’s human.”

That made you pause. “Wait, what?”

Seungcheol turned his head to look at you, his expression unreadable. “He used to be like me. An incubus. One of the strongest. But… he told me something.”

You stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

Seungcheol’s fingers tightened around the bracelet, as if grounding himself. “He said that the energy we feed on… if it comes from someone who loves us, it changes us. It makes us human.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I never thought that was possible, but… he’s proof.”

Your lips parted slightly, trying to process that revelation. “So… you’re becoming human?”

He inhaled sharply, his gaze dropping. “It seems like it.”

Your heart pounded at the thought. Seungcheol, the man who had once told you he couldn’t feel love, who had warned you not to fall for him—was changing.

“You’re becoming human?” you repeated, as if saying it out loud would make it even more real.

Seungcheol’s brows furrowed slightly at your reaction, but before he could say anything, you reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly. “Seungcheol, that’s… that’s amazing! Do you know what this means?”

His lips parted, hesitation flickering in his eyes. “…What?”

You laughed softly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It means we could grow older together. You won’t have to live in the shadows anymore, no more feeding on others—just us, together.” The words tumbled out with excitement, your heart swelling with a hope you never thought you’d have.

But Seungcheol didn’t smile.

Instead, his grip on your hands tightened just a fraction, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between you, and your joy slowly began to wane.

“…What is it?” you asked, suddenly feeling uneasy.

Seungcheol took a shaky breath, his gaze dropping before he finally forced the words out. “Laurent’s bonded partner didn’t survive.”

Your heart stopped.

The warmth you felt just moments ago was snuffed out in an instant, replaced by something cold and heavy in your chest.

“What?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched. “Laurent became human because his partner loved him. But that love… it drained them. Took everything from them until there was nothing left.” He finally met your gaze, and for the first time, you saw something you never thought you’d see in his eyes.

Fear.

“If this keeps happening,” he whispered, voice unsteady, “you’re going to die.”

*

"Whatever happens in the future, let's face it together."

Seungcheol took a week off. It shocked everyone—he had never taken a break before, never needed one. But this time, he did. And if things between you and him were bound to change, if your time together was uncertain, then he wanted to spend at least this one week with you.

The days passed in a blur of warmth and quiet happiness. Mornings began with sunlight filtering through the curtains, the soft rustling of sheets as you slowly woke up. Seungcheol was already beside you, tracing his fingers over your cheek, smiling as he watched you stir.

"You made me breakfast?" you murmured, voice still laced with sleep.

He nodded, leaning in to kiss you. "Of course."

And though breakfast wasn’t the only thing shared that morning, you were grateful.

The week felt almost surreal—coffee dates where he held your hand across the table, late-night drives with the windows down, cool air rushing past as he stole glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. Dinners where he let you order for him, just to see what you’d choose. Walks through quiet streets, fingers laced together as you talked about everything and nothing.

For the first time in his existence, Seungcheol understood happiness—not fleeting pleasure or the rush of energy from feeding, but something real. If this was what it meant to be human, then maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t so bad after all.

Time stretched, endless yet fleeting. He had never lived like this before—indulgently, freely, with no urgency pressing against his back. He no longer needed to feed, no longer felt the ache of hunger clawing at him. Instead, he felt full in a way he couldn’t explain.

With you, time was measured in laughter filling his home, in the absentminded way your fingers played with his as you watched movies. In the weight of your head against his shoulder when you dozed off mid-conversation, in the way you hummed while stirring sugar into his coffee—like you belonged there.

One evening, you dragged him grocery shopping. A mundane thing, something he’d never thought about. But as he watched you debate over cereal brands, something settled in his chest. He wasn’t just existing—he was living.

"You okay?" you asked, tilting your head.

He blinked, realizing he had been staring. Exhaling a soft chuckle, he nodded. "Yeah… I just—" He hesitated. "I think I’m human now."

You furrowed your brows. "Seungcheol, you’ve been human for weeks."

He swallowed. It wasn’t just the physical changes—no fangs, no unnatural strength. It was the way his heart ached at the thought of losing this, of losing you.

Without thinking, he pulled you into his arms. Right there, in the middle of the grocery aisle, between shelves of canned goods and snacks, he buried his face in your shoulder, holding you tightly.

"You made me human," he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "Good. Now you can grow old with me."

"You're my first happiness."

That night, Seungcheol held you closer than ever before. There was something different about the way he felt your warmth against him—something deeper, something human. For the first time in his existence, he felt alive.

His body no longer burned with an unnatural energy. Instead, there was only the steady rhythm of his heart, matching yours. His breaths, once controlled and measured, now rose and fell in sync with yours. He had never truly slept before—not in the way humans did—but with you beside him, he drifted off into the most peaceful slumber he had ever known.

At some point in the night, you had whispered, voice quiet but full of meaning, “If you said I’m your first happiness, promise me I’ll be your first grief as well.”

He had furrowed his brows, eyes still heavy with sleep, and pulled you even closer. “Don’t say things like that,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. “We have time.”

You had only smiled in response, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his chest until his eyelids finally shut.

For the first time in his life, Seungcheol dreamt—not of darkness or hunger, but of a future with you. A future where you both grew old together, where he learned to live as a human by your side.

That morning, the world was unusually quiet.

A soft breeze filtered through the open window, carrying the distant sounds of a city slowly waking up. The golden light of dawn stretched across the sheets, warm and gentle, casting a glow on the two figures still lying in bed. Everything felt still, peaceful—like the universe itself was holding its breath.

Seungcheol stirred first.

His arms were still wrapped around you, your body tucked safely against his chest. A small, content sigh escaped his lips as he buried his face into your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of you. For the first time in his life, he had truly slept. And it had been beautiful. Warm, comforting—human.

He never thought he’d experience something so simple yet so precious.

His lips curled into a lazy smile as he murmured, “Morning…” his voice husky from sleep.

But you didn’t answer.

His brows furrowed slightly, but he brushed it off. You always took a little longer to wake up, especially after nights like last night. His fingers found your cheek, ready to trace the familiar shape of your face, but the second they touched your skin, something cold shot through him.

Seungcheol’s breath hitched.

His entire body tensed as his mind tried to deny what his senses were telling him. Slowly, he pulled away just enough to look at you. His heart slammed against his ribs, harder and harder, as his hands gently shook your shoulders.

“Hey…” he whispered, voice unsteady. “Time to wake up.”

But you didn’t move.

Seungcheol let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to stay calm. Maybe you were just in a deep sleep. Maybe you had overexerted yourself the day before. Maybe—

He pressed his fingers to your wrist.

Nothing.

His throat tightened. His hands trembled as they moved to cup your face, tilting your head ever so slightly. Your lips, once so full of warmth and laughter, were parted slightly—silent, unmoving. Your skin, which had always been so soft under his touch, now felt distant, cold.

Seungcheol’s stomach dropped. A sharp, unbearable pain coiled in his chest as he shook his head, as if denying reality could somehow undo it.

“No,” his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. He pulled you into his arms, holding you as if his warmth could bring you back. “No, no, no—please, baby, wake up.”

His grip tightened, desperate. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps as his world began to shatter. “You said we’d grow old together,” he choked out. “You promised.”

But you didn’t answer.

You never would again.

And just like that, Seungcheol understood.

He had finally become human.

And now, he had to endure the cruelest part of being one.

Loss.

His first happiness. His first grief.

Seungcheol held you tighter, his body wracked with silent cries, whispering your name over and over again like a prayer, like a plea.

But the only answer was silence.

*

Sleep, my love, don’t be afraid,

I’ll hold you close till dreams fade.

Hush, my love, don’t shed a tear,

My heart will always keep you near.

Drift, my love, where stars shine bright,

I’ll follow after—just not tonight.

*

Seungcheol jolted awake, breathless, your voice still lingering—a lullaby so vivid he swore you had been there.

The next night, half-asleep, he saw you again. Sitting at the edge of his bed, fingers threading through his hair, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. Warmth spread through him—until he woke up to an empty room.

At work, he was a shell of himself. His staff whispered, assuming love sickness, a long-distance strain. No one knew the truth.

Until Jeonghan, absentmindedly, let slip: her funeral.

The office fell silent. The rumors shifted.

"Boss’ girlfriend passed away?"

The weight of it settled. It explained his hollow eyes, his exhaustion, the way grief clung to him like a shadow.

But even with the world knowing, nothing changed. Seungcheol still woke up alone.

"You know," Jeonghan started, his voice casual, "since you’re human now, maybe you should start thinking about dating again."

Seungcheol barely reacted. He exhaled slowly, shutting the file and setting it aside. "Not interested," he muttered, rubbing his temple as if the mere suggestion gave him a headache.

Jeonghan sighed. "Look, I get it. Losing her… it messed you up. But you can’t spend the rest of your life alone. You’re human now, Seungcheol. That means your time is limited. And whether you like it or not, humans aren’t meant to live in solitude."

Seungcheol let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I’ve lived for centuries without love, Jeonghan. I can do it again."

"But you weren’t human then." Jeonghan tilted his head, studying him. "You feel things now, don’t you? The loneliness, the exhaustion… the emptiness."

Seungcheol didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Jeonghan could see it in his eyes.

Instead, Seungcheol changed the subject. "Why are you really here?"

Jeonghan smirked, knowing he had struck a nerve but letting it slide. "The governor’s charity ball. It’s next week, and you need a partner."

Seungcheol scoffed. "I’ll pass."

"You can’t pass," Jeonghan corrected, pushing himself off the desk. "It’s an important event for your company, and the governor personally invited you. You know how these things work—you show up alone, and people start whispering even more." He smirked. "And trust me, you don’t need any more rumors flying around about you."

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I’ll figure something out."

"You mean I’ll figure something out," Jeonghan corrected with a grin. "Don’t worry, I’ll find you the perfect date."

Seungcheol waved him off dismissively. "Don’t bother."

Jeonghan ignored him, already pulling out his phone. "Too late. Consider it my personal mission to make sure you don’t look miserable at that ball."

Seungcheol didn’t argue. He was too tired to. And deep down, maybe he knew Jeonghan was right. But that didn’t mean he was ready.

*

The morning light seeped through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the room. Seungcheol stirred, his breaths uneven as his body adjusted to reality. His skin still burned with the lingering sensation of touch—your touch.

It had been so vivid. Too real.

In the dream, you had been there, warm and alive, your hands tracing over his skin like you were memorizing him all over again. He could still hear your breathy laughter against his ear, feel the way your fingers tangled into his hair as you whispered his name like a secret only the two of you shared. Your lips ghosted over his, gentle yet intoxicating, pulling him deeper into something that felt both familiar and foreign.

Seungcheol swallowed hard, his chest tightening. The dream wasn’t just intimate—it was overwhelming. He had never felt so close to you before, not even when you were alive. As he stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering in his chest. It wasn’t just a dream. He knew it. He could feel you.

But you were gone.

The cruel reminder settled over him like a weight he couldn’t shake. He let out a sharp exhale, running a hand over his face. He needed air. He needed to move. Anything to escape the phantom sensation of you still lingering on his skin.

As he got up, his gaze landed on the mirror across the room. For a moment, he swore he saw something—someone. A soft silhouette, watching him with the gentlest smile.

He blinked, and it was gone.

But the warmth in his chest remained.

The day of the charity ball had arrived, but Seungcheol barely felt present.

His phone buzzed with a message from Jeonghan.

Jeonghan: Found someone for you. She's the daughter of a business partner. Classy, quiet, won’t talk much. Just show up and leave—it’s just one night.

Another text followed, listing the dress code details. Jeonghan had already informed Seungcheol’s secretary, who had arranged everything.

Seungcheol sighed, rubbing his temple. He had barely gotten through the day, his energy drained before the event even started. The morning had already left him shaken—your dream, your touch, your presence still lingering in his mind like an unfinished melody. He barely had the focus to sit through meetings, and his staff had stopped trying to engage him in conversation.

They all knew. The rumors had already spread.

"Boss' girlfriend passed away."

He could feel their pitying glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. He hated it. Not because they were wrong, but because they were right. He had lost you. And the weight of that loss sat so heavily on his chest that even breathing felt exhausting.

The thought of putting on a suit, standing beside a stranger, and pretending for the night—it was suffocating. But he had no choice.

With another tired sigh, Seungcheol loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It was going to be a long night.

As Seungcheol arrived at the grand charity ball, his phone buzzed with a message from the woman Jeonghan had arranged for him.

_I'll be waiting outside the ballroom._

With a quiet sigh, he notified his secretary before making his way through the lavish venue, away from the crowd and towards the entrance.

His eyes landed on a woman standing with her back to him. Short, wavy hair cascaded down her shoulders, and she wore a gown that matched the tone of his suit perfectly. Jeonghan hadn’t even mentioned a name. How was he supposed to address her?

For the sake of appearances, for the sake of networking and those who relied on him, he had to do this.

Clearing his throat, he stepped forward.

"Excuse me?"

Seungcheol’s breath hitched. His body stiffened as the woman turned around, and suddenly, the noise from the ballroom behind him faded into nothing.

It was you.

Standing there in the dimly lit hallway, wearing the same tone of gown that matched his suit perfectly, you looked just as you always had—alive, warm, real.

His mind refused to process what he was seeing.

His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure whether to reach out or step back. He had spent months waking up to the ghost of your touch, hearing your voice in dreams, feeling your presence haunt every waking moment. But this—this wasn’t a dream.

It couldn’t be.

You smiled softly, as if his shock amused you. "You're late," you teased, tilting your head slightly.

Seungcheol’s lips parted, but nothing came out. His throat tightened. His heart—his human heart—was beating so loudly he could hear it in his ears.

This was impossible.

“You…” His voice barely came out. “You’re—”

You took a step closer, reaching up to brush your fingers lightly against the lapel of his suit, the same way you always did when fixing his collar before events. “Did you miss me?”

His breath shuddered. His entire world tilted on its axis.

Seungcheol didn’t know if he was dreaming, if he had gone insane, or if something beyond his understanding had brought you back to him.

But at that moment, he didn’t care.

Because you were here. And that was all that mattered.

*

Jeonghan was deep in conversation about his acting comeback when he saw you—alive, casually dining with one of Seungcheol’s business partners. His breath hitched. Impossible. Yet there you were, smiling and waving as if nothing had happened.

Later, he found you waiting for him. Arms crossed, you met his gaze.

"You mind explaining how you're here, breathing?" he asked.

“It’s complicated," you admitted. "God gave me another chance—on one condition."

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. "You’re not human. What condition?"

"A job. A mission." You smirked. "Exposing frauds."

He scoffed. "Fitting for an ex-con artist." Then his tone shifted. "Have you seen Seungcheol?"

You hesitated.

Jeonghan studied you. "You know he’s human now, right? And a wreck since you left. Barely eating, barely sleeping. Still hears your voice."

Your fingers tensed around your glass.

Jeonghan sighed. "Why are you really here?"

A whisper. "I had to come back."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Jeonghan exhaled. "Go see him."

And now, Seungcheol stood frozen in the dimly lit corridor just outside the ballroom, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and longing. His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure whether to reach for you or step back, afraid this was nothing but a cruel trick his mind had conjured.

But you were real. The warmth of your skin, the rise and fall of your breath—it was all real.

Before he could think, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his grip almost desperate, as if you would disappear the moment he let go. His heart pounded against his ribs, erratic, uneven, human.

He buried his face against your shoulder, inhaling deeply, his voice breaking as he whispered, “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

You smiled softly, your hands finding their way to his back, tracing slow circles to soothe him. “You’re not dreaming, Seungcheol.”

His arms tightened around you, afraid—so afraid—because he had already lost you once. He had held you in his arms before, lifeless and cold, and now here you were, warm and steady, breathing life back into his world.

“I’ll be here, Seungcheol,” you murmured, your voice gentle, reassuring. “I won’t go anywhere.”

He exhaled shakily, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “You can’t just say that and disappear again,” he muttered, his voice rough with emotion.

You pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, your fingers brushing over his cheek. “I won’t. I promise.”

Seungcheol finally loosened his grip, just enough to look at you properly. His eyes traced over every detail of your face, memorizing you all over again as if you might disappear if he blinked.

“You said you wouldn’t go anywhere,” he murmured, his thumb grazing your cheek, still afraid to believe this was real. “But how? How are you here?”

You let out a small sigh and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll explain everything later. I promise.”

Seungcheol studied your face, searching for answers, but the warmth in your eyes kept him grounded. He nodded slowly, though he still had a thousand questions swirling in his mind.

Then, as if something clicked, his expression shifted. He swallowed hard, his voice lowering. “In my dreams…” His fingers tightened slightly on your waist. “The lullaby. You touching my hair. Kissing my temple.” He looked at you intently, almost afraid of the answer. “Was it really you? Or just my mind playing tricks on me?”

Your expression softened, and you reached up, cupping his cheek with both hands. “It was me, Seungcheol.”

His breath hitched.

“I couldn’t wait until today,” you admitted with a small, sad smile. “I wanted to see you. Even if it was just in your dreams.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes for a moment, taking in your words, letting them sink into every part of him. His grip on you tightened as if needing to anchor himself.

“You have no idea what that did to me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Hearing you. Feeling you. And then waking up to nothing.”

“I know,” you said softly, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “You’re here now.”

“I am.”

And for the first time in months, Seungcheol felt something other than grief—something like hope.

Later that night, as Seungcheol and you stepped out of the ballroom, his secretary followed closely, ensuring everything was in order before escorting you both to the car. The evening had been overwhelming—full of whispers, stolen glances, and emotions Seungcheol wasn’t ready to process just yet.

But as they reached the parking lot, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. His secretary looked at him in confusion.

“Sir?”

Seungcheol exhaled, then turned to face him with a firm expression. “Listen carefully. Tomorrow morning, I want you to make an announcement at the office.”

His secretary straightened. “An announcement, sir?”

Seungcheol nodded, glancing at you briefly before saying, “Tell everyone my girlfriend isn’t dead.”

There was a beat of silence.

His secretary’s eyes widened slightly, his professional mask slipping for just a second before he quickly composed himself. “I—Understood, sir.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness, before letting out an amused chuckle. “Wow,” you muttered, looking at Seungcheol. “That was… direct.”

Seungcheol turned to you, his expression serious yet affectionate. “I don’t want anyone talking about you like you’re gone.” His fingers brushed against yours before he clasped your hand fully, squeezing it gently. “You’re here. And I want the world to know it.”

You tilted your head, watching him, your heart swelling at how fiercely he claimed you—like he was making sure no one, not even fate, could take you away from him again.

With a soft laugh, you squeezed his hand back. “Well then, I guess I’m officially back.”

As the car door opened, you reached for Seungcheol’s wrist, stopping him before he could step inside. He turned to you, puzzled, but his expression shifted when he saw what you held—a bracelet, woven from threads darker than night, laced with a faint shimmer of silver that seemed to glow under the ballroom lights.

Without a word, you wrapped it around his wrist, fastening it with a soft touch. The moment it clicked into place, a faint warmth pulsed against his skin, spreading up his arm like a heartbeat in sync with yours. Seungcheol's breath hitched as he felt something shift within him, something deep, as though an invisible thread had tied you both together.

His fingers traced the charm at the center, feeling a soft hum of energy beneath his touch. “What is this?” he asked, voice quieter than before, almost reverent.

“A bond,” you murmured, watching his reaction. “A connection. A reminder that no matter what happens, we’ll always find our way back to each other.”

Seungcheol stared at you, then at the bracelet. He felt it—you—through it. Your presence, your energy, something anchoring him in a way he hadn't felt since the moment he realized he was losing his power. His grip on your hand tightened, afraid to let go, afraid that this was all still just a dream he would wake up from.

You smiled softly, brushing his hair back as you whispered, “Whatever happens, we’ll find a way.”

The silver in the bracelet gleamed faintly, as if responding to your words, sealing the promise between you.

Seungcheol swallowed hard, his heart pounding in a way it never had before. Then, pulling you into his arms, he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, breathing you in as if grounding himself in your reality.

“We always do,” he whispered. “And this time, I won’t let anything take you from me.”

The bracelet pulsed once more, as if sealing the vow between you both.

*

The memory returned like an old song—familiar yet distant. Seungcheol still tasted the bitterness of wine, the scent of aged oak and candle wax lingering in Laurent’s dimly lit apartment.

Laurent swirled his glass, voice tinged with regret. “I once thought love was just a transaction, a necessity for survival.”

Seungcheol listened.

“But after I became human, I realized how little I understood—the way love lingers, even when they’re gone.” Laurent sighed. “I wish I had cherished her more. Maybe then… she would’ve found a way back too.”

Seungcheol’s grip tightened. He knew who Laurent meant.

Laurent chuckled, void of amusement. “I was a new human. My heart was still learning. But you—you loved her enough to defy the order of things. To believe there was still a way.” His gaze softened. “I never did. And that’s why she never returned.”

Seungcheol watched the wine cling to the glass before slipping down.

Laurent leaned back. “I hope your story has a different ending.”

The words stayed with him.

Now, as you brushed your fingers against the bracelet on his wrist, Seungcheol held onto that memory—and onto you.

Because this time, he wasn’t going to lose you.

[tarotsoul]

Smoke & Light — Part Two

SUMMARY: A run in with the cops is another reminder of the horrors Azriel faced through his childhood. Maybe one day hell open up about it, but not today. Today, he's solely focussed on helping you out of a bad trip.

WARNINGS: swearing, reoccurring themes of use of recreational drugs (weed), greening out, teasing, flirting, kissing, dirty talk, use of toys hehe, slapping/spanking, spitting, dom!Az, mentions of Az's abusive childhood.

WORD COUNT: 8.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST

When Azriel was a young boy, he dreamt of becoming a guitarist. It didn’t matter to him then if he was famous or not. Just so long as he was good enough to be able to replicate famous rifts with his own spin, and create his own music, too. 

For his fifth birthday, his mother bought him a children’s guitar, complete with the plastic pics and a leather strap with his initials etched into the fine fabric. He knew, even at that age, that the gift had cost his mother a small fortune. But she didn’t care how much it set her back. The look of pure shock and excitement on her boy's face was worth every single penny she spent. 

He could still remember the untold amounts of sleep he would forfeit to learn a new chord or finally string more than three together at once. By seven years old, he could recreate the first half of Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd—albeit choppy and slightly out of time—and memorise the chords by heart. 

His half-brothers had never liked that about Azriel. His talent and passion for music and the guitar. Even at the ages of five and four, they did not like Azriel. More often than not, they’d plant broken vases and stained cushions for their parents to find, and blame them on Azriel. They knew their father would take away his guitar for a few days to a week as punishment. 

But even then, a week wasn’t long enough. Their hatred for Azriel stemmed long before his love for guitar had grown. From the moment his half-brothers learned how to talk, Az was on the daggered end of their spiteful tongue and manipulative masterminds. As young as he was, Azriel wasn’t blind to the cause of it. He wasn’t blind to his step-father’s hatred for him, that he then instilled in his own blood sons. 

Being what they called a ‘blood traitor’ would always be their main justification for what they did. Azriel had never admitted to anyone the second reason his brothers set his hands alight. But the other thought behind it—the more vicious and calculated thought—was to burn not just his hands, but his dreams, too. 

For months after the incident, Azriel’s hands remained bandaged. He could hardly use them for everyday tasks like dressing and washing and eating. And when they had finally healed enough for the bandages to be permanently removed, he couldn’t play his beloved guitar. 

The strings were too harsh on his sensitive skin. It hurt so much just pressing down on the chords on the neck, let alone pinching the pic for longer than thirty seconds at a time. Azriel had to learn how to play all over again, covered in blisters and burnt flesh. And then his marred skin began to harden and callous and every strum was more painful than before. 

He often wondered if this would still be his life path had the burning never happened. If he would have still met Rhys and Cass, if he would still be selling drugs. He knew he wouldn’t be this well-off financially, but at what cost? What did all of this money mean when it was just him? When he wouldn’t be able to fulfil his biggest dream in life? 

He mostly thought about it all in times like this, when he was spontaneously pulled over by the cops for what they called a “random stop and search”, though they had never given a plausible cause for it. And today would be no different. 

“You stalking me again, Reynolds?” Az asked in a rugged tone as he exhaled the smoke from his cigarette. 

Officer Reynolds, one of the few officers that continuously pulled Az over and searched his vehicle, leaned against the open window with his arms crossed. His blue eyes gleamed with hope of catching something on him this time, though Az knew Reynolds would walk away with another few grey hairs to add to his collection. 

Reynolds was a strange looking man. Not in his features, but in the glint of his eyes and the disturbing tug of his lips whenever he offered a grim smile. He radiated nothing but offsetting energy, one that stunk of noncy behaviour and less than ethical tendencies. 

His iced eyes darted quickly across Azriel’s lap and the passenger's seat, coming up short and settling his gaze on the man again. 

“Random stop and search, nothing personal.” He grinned that awful smile but Azriel paid no mind to it. “Step out of the car, licence and registration.” Azriel was already reaching into the glovebox for his paperwork before Reynolds could even speak. 

He handed them over, opening the door as the officer stepped away, and stood with his hands on the hood of his Mustang. Azriel knew the drill. He’d been patted down and had his car searched more times than he could count in the past six months alone. 

And each and every time, Reynolds always came up short. 

“Got any weapons in the vehicle?” 

Azriel rolled his eyes, looking over his shoulder as Reynolds began to pat down his stomach and thighs. “Do I look like the type that needs a weapon?” 

A dry chuckle slipped from the officers lips as he patted harder down Azriel’s calves and ankles before turning to his full—albeit short—height. “What about narcotics? Any drugs that I should be aware of?” 

Az grunted with another roll of his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Officer Reynolds didn’t offer a response. Instead, he bent his body into the driver's side of the Mustang and began stifling through every nook and cranny that his swollen hands could reach. 

Azriel’s foot tapped impatiently as he waited and waited for the search to end. They wouldn’t find a damn thing, especially because of the new addition Azriel had recently added to his modded car. 

But that knowledge of the secret compartment didn’t stop his muscles from tensing just slightly when Reynolds wrapped his puffed fingers around the foot mat and peeled it up. 

Azriel’s stash was well hidden; wrapped and locked in an extended box beneath his footwell that managed to also keep the scent out. He knew it was a matter of time before they started bringing a K9 with them on their searches, so Azriel had to be prepared for that well in advance. 

Especially with how strong the new strain smelt. 

With a huff, Reynolds haphazardly threw the foot mat back down and struggled to clamber out of the car. And just like Azriel suspected, he came up short. 

Reynolds handed him back his paperwork and rested his hands back on his belt, fingers itching for his baton to give Az a taste of the frustration he caused him. Azriel didn’t so much as bat an eye at it. He knew Reynolds wouldn’t touch him. Not if he wanted to keep both his stumpy legs in use. 

“You know, this is getting pretty old. How do I go about filing a harassment charge?” 

Reynolds scoffed. “Good luck with that.”

If there was one thing Az liked about having his brothers home, it was the lack of talking his mind did. There was no silence for his brain and thoughts to gang up on him, to have him question every thought and decision he’d ever made. 

Music and guitar usually helped to quiet those demons—the shadows that he had no control over—but the frustration from his earlier encounter with Reynolds had the desire for playing at the bottom of his list. 

Instead, he settled for Nesta’s demand to braid her hair. She knew him better than she let the others know. Since they first met years ago, he became the brother she never had, that she never knew she needed. She was quick to learn his quirks and mannerisms; what they meant and how he felt. 

And he learnt the same for her. 

“You’re doing it too loose,” Nesta huffed, picking at her nails from her seat on the carpet between Azriel’s parted thighs. He huffed, flexing his fingers and undoing the braid. 

“Last time you told me it was too tight and it gave you a migraine,” he retorted back with an exasperated huff.

They argued like real siblings, too. 

“Just do it a little looser than last time.”

Azriel split her hair into three sections once more and slowly started to braid, overlapping the sections and tugging a bit tighter than his previous attempt. Nesta hummed in approval.

They didn’t pay much mind to the others. Rhys and Feyre were cuddled on the loveseat opposite them, Cassian on their left with a bulky pair of headphones on his head as he smashed the buttons of the gaming remote beneath his fingers. 

He was growing frustrated that he was losing, but it didn’t help that his hands were so massive that the pad of his thumb was big enough to press all the buttons at once. 

“Hey, Az… there’s this girl I know…” Azriel’s grunt cut Feyre off before she could say anything else. He tied Nesta’s braid and tapped her shoulders, signally he was done. 

“Not this again, Fey,” he groaned. 

A sheepish smile sat on her full lips, a gentle tint of pink blushing the apples of her cheeks. “I really think you guys would get along, though. She’s super laid back and so gorgeous.” 

Nesta moved from between Az’s thighs on the ground and clambered back onto the sofa, reaching for her tumbler of gin and tonic. Azriel was used to this, to Feyre trying to set him up. Each time, he’d always shut her advances down, but that never stopped her.

Feyre considered it a challenge, and she wouldn’t stop until Azriel agreed to go on a date. Just once, and she’d back off. She was fairly confident that one date would be all it would take for Azriel to fall for her mysterious friend. 

“I don’t need to be set up,” he spoke, finality in his tone. 

Rhys cocked a brow at how quickly Az dismissed his girlfriend but said nothing. He knew Feyre could get a bit too much with it sometimes, but Rhys himself still had hopes that maybe one day, Az would bite the bullet and just agree. 

But Azriel had no plans to do that. He didn't want to be set up on a blind date, and he most certainly did not need nor want his friends involving themselves in his love life—or lack thereof. It wasn’t that he struggled with girls, Mother, no. Not once in his life did Azriel ever have a shortage of pussy.

If he wanted it, he would get it. On his own. Without his brother's girlfriend’s self-involvement. 

His phone chimed from his back pocket, and not bothering another glance at Feyre, Azriel retrieved it to read over the message. 

You: you weren’t kidding. This shit is strongggg x

His heart rate quickened as he read the text again and again. Azriel hadn’t heard from for three days—since that kiss—and now he was reminiscing on the taste of your mouth on his. 

Azriel: I did warn you

You: maybe next time you could write a reminder on my baggie?

A grin stretched across the expanse of his lips, eyes glittering at how quickly you responded. The act didn’t go unmissed by Nesta, who grinned against her staw and wiggled her toes against the side of Azriel’s thigh. She knew that face—that look. 

“Azzy doesn’t want to get set up because he already has a crush on someone.” 

All eyes snapped to Azriel and Nesta at her words, eyes so wide they almost bulged from their heads. They all knew Az was a ladies man, that although he kept his sex life private, he was well endowed in that aspect. But what they had never really seen was Azriel with a crush. 

With someone who was more than a booty call or a fling.

Az narrowed his eyes at Nesta, a hard expression removing his previous smile. The phone in his hand began to vibrate and a quick glance at it had your number filling the screen through an incoming call. 

His heart stammered. 

“I don’t have a crush. It’s just a client.” He stood from the couch, his scarred thumb hovering over the answer button. 

Nesta grinned maniacally, taking another sip of her gin. “A lady client?” Azriel’s response was a pillow launched at Nesta’s face before leaving his family and shutting himself away in his bedroom. 

Az took a deep breath then swiped his screen to accept the call. “Hey,” he greeted, bringing the phone to his ear. “You doing okay?” 

There was a pregnant pause for a moment before your airly laugh breathed down the line and Azriel’s throat began to close up at the sound. “I think I’ve greened out a little,” you giggled, almost painfully. “Everything is spinning and heavy and when I close my eyes, I get seasick… is that normal?” 

Az pursed his lips, biting back his own smile. The fact that you’d managed to text full sentences and then call him suggested you hadn’t greened out too badly. And by the light self-deprecating laugh at your own situation, he knew you weren’t falling in too deep of a hole. 

“It should pass soon, it shouldn't get worse than how you feel now. Where are you?” 

“I’m at home so I’m okay. I just didn’t know what was the best thing to help.” 

Azriel shouldn’t have let your words affect him the way they did. They shouldn’t have warmed his heart and sent it soaring in his chest. But in your slightly vulnerable predicament, out of everyone that smoked in your life and would understand, it was him that you called for advice. 

Not your friends, not your ex. Him. 

“Honestly? Food and water.”

Another pause of silence had Azriel thinking a bit too much again. If you were calling him for advice, this was likely your first time greening out, and he wondered if you’d even be able to handle making yourself food alone. 

After a moment of consideration, he spoke again. “Want me to stop by?” 

Azriel could hear your soft breath through the call. “Isn’t that crossing a line?” you asked in a gentle voice. 

He frowned, brows pinched. “What line?” 

“I’m your client, you’re my plug,” you reminded him, and something about it sent a sour taste to the back of his throat. 

“You’re my friend,” he offered. 

He wondered if you considered that or not, and by the pause of silence once more, he got his answer. 

“I am?” The soft tone of your question hurt him more than it should’ve. It shouldn’t have hurt him at all. 

“Am I not yours?” 

You were considering it, though. In your book, he was definitely your friend. He’d comforted you just a few nights ago after the fiasco with your sister's secret wedding, had bought you food and then… He’d kissed you. Or had you kissed him? 

You supposed he was your friend, but you didn’t think you meant anything more to him than being just another client. Clearly, you were wrong. 

“Yeah… I guess you are.” 

The corners of Azriel's lips tugged upward slightly. “Great, so send me your address and I’ll stop by with some food.”

Perhaps you should’ve told him no, that it truly wasn’t necessary and you could just pick at a couple of leftover cookies you’d baked yesterday. But you didn’t. You wanted to see him again, wondered so desperately if that kiss had meant anything at all… if it would happen again. 

“I have a spare set of keys in a security lock outside. The code is 4369, let yourself in.” 

You didn’t know how much time you had to try and sort yourself out before Azriel would arrive. But as hard as you tried, every time you raised your head you were met with an onslaught of nausea and dizziness. 

You spent around five minutes attempting to regulate your breathing to rid those feelings, but your body remained stomach down on the couch with your face squished against a pillow. 

If you could stomach the feeling of your eyes being closed for longer than five seconds at a time, you probably could’ve fallen asleep. But alas, the sound of a key entering the lock of your front door had your eyes widening a little further and heart stammering against your ribs. 

“Knock, knock.” Azriel’s voice dripped with honey as he spoke into the expanse of your open plan living-kitchen area. 

Though you couldn’t see him from your position, you could hear the faint rusting of a takeout bag in his hand as he closed the door quietly and kicked off his shoes at the door. 

You didn’t need to call out to him for Az to see you. Sprawled on the sofa, just off to his left, he grinned comically, ignoring the unfamiliar swell in his chest. His feet padded closer to the couch, settling the food on the coffee table and the smell of hot, fried chicken wafted through your senses. 

Azriel helping you sit up and handing you the same meal you ordered the last time you saw one another was a bit of a blur. But the second the food hit your tongue and your tastebuds exploded in delight, the nausea slowly dwindled from your senses. 

“You are my saviour,” you moaned around the food, eyes fluttering closed and none the wiser to Azriel’s growing blush. 

Sat in comfortable silence, Azriel didn’t want you to focus on anything other than feeling yourself again. Within a few minutes, you’d both finished your food and your face didn’t seem so sunken and pasty. 

Now, you looked wonderfully blitzed, skin a little brighter than before and a sparkling sheen to your bloodshot eyes. Yeah, you were out of the woods, your body warm and relaxed. 

“You feeling okay?” he finally managed to ask, shoving the last fry between his lips as you nodded at his question. 

“I feel perfectly baked now.” 

A laugh spluttered from his lips at your words as he wiped his scarred hands clean on a paper napkin. For the first time in the past twenty minutes, Az allowed his eyes to gaze across the expanse of your rather cosy living room. 

Soft, golden lighting that warmed the room, plants of varying shapes and colours tucked into every corner and crevice available. Mismatched furniture and draping vines. 

It was cute, all of it. Very you. The wall facing the couch was hidden beneath tall bookcases that were filled to the brim with every type of book he could imagine. Even with squinted eyes, he could make out a few familiar authors amongst your shelves. 

“Have you read all of those?” He threw his gaze to you, wonder and slight adoration in his eyes, though you were sure you imagined the latter. 

“Mhm,” you hummed around your drink. “Some more times than I can remember.” 

You watched him stand from the couch, his tall frame approaching your collection. He was dressed in black again – his simple jeans and sweater combo – and his hair was perfectly tousled and swept down his forehead. 

Eyes on him, his finger traced the spines of your beloved possessions, settling on one in particular that made your breath still in your chest. Azriel gently pulled it off the shelf, hazel eyes examining the near-pristine cover. 

“Careful,” your soft voice warned him. “It’s worth three grand.” 

Azriel’s eyes almost bulged from his head as he turned to you with the most bewildered expression you’d ever seen. It took every ounce of control not to burst into laughter. 

“What?”

“It’s 134 years old. I restored it the best I could. You should’ve seen it when I found it.” 

Azriel’s brows pulled into a confused frown. “Restored it?” 

“Yeah, that’s what I do for work.” 

When his frown didn’t ease, you cleared your throat to continue. “I work between an auction and a museum in the city. I find the old books and restore them, then sell them through the auction, or they go to the museum.” 

His once furrowed brows raised, his eyes darting back to the book in his hand as if he was inspecting the eighth wonder of the world. Azriel finally turned back to you with a smile that borderlined a smirk. 

“That’s actually pretty cool.” 

A satisfied yet sheepish smile found its way to your lips, cheeks warming under the intensity of his gaze. Azriel slid the book back onto the shelf and continued his observations. 

If you were being honest, it was a little too intimate for your liking. No one in your life had ever taken such interest in your books, not your friends or past lovers. It wasn’t like your love for books was much of a secret, but no one had taken the time to get to know them. 

To know your books was to know you. 

You shouldn’t have been surprised that Azriel was the person to do so. In the short time you’d known him, you realised he was full of surprises.

“What about you?” Your voice greeted his ears softly as you cleaned up the trash from your food. Azriel casted barely a look over his shoulder, eyes caught on your limited edition fantasy book set. A part of you begged to take Azriel’s attention off them. “What do you do for work?” 

That seemed to earn his full attention, causing him to turn to face you fully. With an amused smirk, he followed you a few feet into the open kitchen. “You know what I do for work.” 

Ah. 

“You don’t have anything…legal…to keep on the books?” 

He tried to hide his amusement at your words, but to no avail. Azriel’s smirk only grew and he found himself wondering if his answer might make you think differently of him. 

“If you wanna talk…legalities…then I’m an investor in the stock market.” 

It was your turn to hold the raised eyebrows – a look that Azriel was quick to mirror. “What?” He asked. “You don’t think I could work in stocks?” 

“Do you?” You pressed. 

Azriel’s grin widened slightly. “I do. And I’ll have you know that I’m very good at it.” 

You didn’t want nor need to know any more. You weren’t about to outright ask how much money he had, and if he told you out of his own desire, you were certain it would only make you feel like pure shit. 

Your apartment and belongings weren’t much but they were yours. Everything you had, you worked for. You could do without knowing how many thousands he had sitting pretty in his bank. 

Azriel noticed that distant look in your eyes and took a seat at your island. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable. And if he was being perfectly honest, it was appallingly refreshing to speak with a woman about his side-hustle without them swooning or prying for more details. 

And it appeared that it was only now that either of you were realising how different things were the last time you saw one another. When your lips pressed against his and he kissed you back with just as much want and vigour. 

As if remembering that searing moment, your face and chest began to warm. You were quick to turn away from him, needing a moment to compose yourself and the tight feeling in the pit of your stomach. 

You tried desperately to ignore the ache between your thighs at the memory, instead opting to focus your attention on the half empty box of cookies on the counter. Flipping the lid, you offered one to Azriel who took it without much prompting. 

“Tell me if I’m crossing a line, but if you make enough money investing in stocks, why do you still deal?” 

Azriel’s eyes fluttered closed as he took a bite out of the chocolate chip cookie, and you found your eyes zeroed in on the way his plump lips moved and his broad shoulders slacked slightly. 

His eyes opened to focus on yours. “These are incredible.” You offered a smile, waiting. “Dealing is what got me the money to be able to invest. Don’t get me wrong, I’m good at it, but I lost a lot to get where I am. Dealing is steady income for now. It’s not something I plan to do forever.”

You didn’t probe any further, satisfied with the answer he provided and not wanting to push your luck. Your eyes were drawn to his mouth again, flashes of memories littering your mind as your body warmed once more. 

Clearing your throat, you desperately tried to blink away the haziness he seemed to make you feel. 

“You can smoke out on the balcony, if you want.” 

Azriel finished the last of his cookie and leaned forward on the counter. “I didn’t bring anything.” 

Your head tilted slightly to the half-smoked joint on your counter, stubbed out and back in your open tin. “Smoke the rest of that. It’s too strong for me and I know your tolerance is higher than mine.”

Azriel laughed; hearty and rich and deep. It tickled up your spine and reached around your neck and jaw to tug the corners of your lips into a smile. The effect he had on you was growing to be a slight problem. 

“You wanna come? Fresh air will help.” 

He watched you pinch the joint and lighter from your tin and lead him through to your bedroom. It was decorated similarly to the rest of your apartment–twinkling fairy lights and books and plants–and out on the small balcony, you’d managed to cram a rattan loveseat and table with vines wrapped around the short iron guard rail. 

“Here.” You handed him the joint and lighter. “I’ll be back out, I’m just going to change.” 

Azriel sparked up the joint between his lips, taking a long drag as you returned to your room. The smoke hit the back of his throat sharply, almost knocking him sideways. Even he hadn’t smoked a joint this packed and strong in a while. It was no wonder you’d had a wobble with it. 

He took a seat on the rattan furniture, admiring the little view your balcony offered. The summer air kissed his skin, even as late as the evening was. The warmth of it had him shrugging off his sweater and throwing it over the table, taking another deep pull. 

If Azriel was honest, he was quite thankful for the moments reprieve from your presence. He needed to take a second to calm himself down. Az couldn’t remember the last time he partook in something like this with someone who wasn’t his brothers or their girls. 

This was more of a common thing with Nesta, smoking and eating together. Never Feyre, she always preferred a glass of wine, and occasionally Mor would smoke with him when she was passing through town. Never a random girl, never a new friend. 

But that moment's reprieve was ripped away far too quickly, because you were sauntering back onto the balcony and stealing the breath right from Azriel’s smoked lungs. 

He was fucked. Comepletly and utterly fucked. He’d never seen you look so relaxed, dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of mismatched socks. Your hair was thrown up lazily and stray pieces fell out to frame your face. 

Your legs, however, he couldn’t stop gawking. Soft skin and a whole lot of thigh. Azriel forced his gaze to your face again as you took a seat beside him on the loveseat, leaning your back on the armrest and bringing your knees up to your chest. 

Mother above, he could feel his cock begin to strain in his pants, his eyes begging to sweep your body once more to see what lay between your slightly parted legs. From his peripheral vision, he could see you cross your ankles, effectively shielding yourself.

But Azriel was good at reading people, and by the slight flush of your cheeks and the way your eyes grew more hooded by the second, he was more than certain you knew what you were doing and the affects your actions had on him. 

He took another pull of the joint. “You weren’t kidding,” he mumbled, “this shit is strong.” A bubbly laugh fell from your lips at the way his eyes squinted when the drug settled into his lungs. 

“I did warn you.” 

Azriel offered it to you, watching your inner turmoil as you weighed out your options until pinching it from his fingers. “One pull will be enough to keep me buzzed for the night.” 

He watched your lips thin as they clamped down on the roach. He watched your chest rise as your lungs filled with the thick tar until you pulled the joint from your lips and exhaled slowly. You handed it back to him, cutting yourself off completely for the night. 

Azriel took it between two pinched fingers, keeping his eyes on your slightly flushed face as he took another few drags before stuffing the cherry out in the ashtray. His gaze found purchase on your lips again as he mirrored your position on the loveseat, though Az didn’t tuck his knees to his chest. 

“Are we gonna talk about it?” He asked. 

You blinked at him, head tilted slightly to the left. “Talk about what?”

The way his taunting smirk grew made you shift uncomfortably. You had an inkling as to what he meant, but you hoped if you played dumb, he would drop it. Clearly not. 

“About the last time we saw each other.”

Yup. There it was. 

That familiar warmth spread across your face and chest again in waves of anxiety and embarrassment. You couldn’t handle this type of conversation right now. You were mortified enough as it was, you didn’t need to reminisce about your stupid mistake, nor the way he kissed you back as though his life depended on it. 

You let out a long sigh. “I was kind of hoping you’d forgotten about it.” 

Azriel quirked a brow. “Forget about it?” he asked. “You expected me to forget a kiss like that?” 

It felt like all the air had been completely sucked from your lungs. You could hardly breathe, struggling to string a coherent reply together. Azriel continued to smirk at you, bathing in the way he clearly made you feel. Like he was getting off on your flustered state. 

The state he put you in. 

“It’s been replaying in my head for days.” Azriel’s admission sent your mind into a frenzy. You had no idea what to do with that information or how it was supposed to make you feel. 

What you did know, was that familiar burning in the pit of your stomach, that daunting ache between your clenched thighs. And the way Azriel's eyes darkened and slowly traced the silhouette of your figure, you got the hint he felt the same way, too. 

“Yeah?” Your words came out as barely a whisper, lashes fluttering as the weed you’d just smoked began to settle into your bloodstream. 

Azriel inched a hand tentatively toward your ankle, the tips of his scarred fingers brushing against your cotton socks. The touch had your body keening for more, your legs twitching as he slowly wrapped a large hand around your lower leg. 

“Yeah,” he replied, almost breathless. 

He was testing the waters, desperate to get a feeler as to what you wanted from this interaction. Azriel watched you closely, cataloguing every response your body gave his touch. How goosebumps broke across the silky skin of your legs, how your cheeks flushed slightly and lashes fluttered at him. 

“Is that all you’ve been thinking about?” Your husky voice finally broke through the silence. Az raised a brow at your boldness. “Or do you let your mind wander to what else could’ve happened?” 

If it weren’t for the stifling warmth in the air, Azriel was sure he would’ve come in his pants from your words alone. Because he knew that meant you’d been letting your mind wander to something more. 

You allowed him to gently tug your leg down, resting the back of your calf across his thigh. Your covered cunt was surely exposed, but Az didn’t look. Not yet. A sneaky peek wouldn’t be enough to satiate the appetite he had grown for you. 

He needed to bathe and bask and bury himself in your scent. Mould his body to your body, meld his soul to your soul. Even then, he would never be able to feel you as closely as he craved. 

“You want me to tell you what places my mind has wandered to?” His eyes were glued to your mouth, watching as your tongue slid out to wet your lips before tugging the bottom one between your teeth. 

It was with a surge of complete arousal and haze that had you uttering, “I want you to show me.” 

Azriel’s lips were on yours not a moment later when he surged forward to trap your small frame beneath his large one on the loveseat. You could barely make sense of where you ended and Azriel began. 

His scarred hands cupped your face, his tongue massaging hotly against your own. Your legs had wrapped around his waist, ankles locked across his back to keep him close to you. 

It was unlike any kiss you’d experienced before. Passion and need and desire. Pure want and carnage. Like nothing could ever stop him from tasting you again. Like he was savouring every single piece of you. 

“If you want me to show you…” he muttered against your lips, “I suggest you let me take you inside.” 

You pulled away just enough for your noses to bump and make out a blurry picture of him before you. Swollen lips, mussed up hair that you hadn’t realised you’d been running your fingers through. 

“Worried someone might see?” You panted in a teasing tone. 

His eyes shadowed impossibly darker. “I don’t like to share.” 

Squirming beneath his thick body, your fingernails scraped across his broad shoulders, scratching at the cotton of his t-shirt. “It’s not sharing if they’re just watching.” 

Azriel nipped your bottom lip. “Well, I’m a greedy man, and I don’t want anyone else watching you come on my cock but me.”

A breathless moan tumbled off your tongue like hot honey, your eyes fluttering closed at the words he spoke. You hoped this was just the tip of the iceberg with him. Prayed that he was as filthy as he was gorgeous. 

Without another second to get lost in your thoughts, Azriel was gripping your hips, lifting you as he stood. Your legs around his waist tightened as your arms snaked to circle his neck. 

Even in the dark, he moved swiftly, settling your body onto your mattress without missing a beat. He crawled back between your thighs, the moonlight kissing his tanned skin through the cracks of your window. 

His lips were on yours again, searing and eager. Azriel poured every ounce of need and desire into it, massaging your tongue and licking against the roof of your mouth. He tasted like the cookies you’d baked, a hint of smoke and a tang of bud. 

It was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. 

Your fingers tugged at the curled tendrils on the nape of his neck, ushering him impossibly closer. His body flattened atop yours, the grooves of his abs pressing deliciously against your stomach and chest. 

Gods, he was solid. Built like a fucking Greek God and your fingers itched to trace the delicate intricacies of his golden skin. 

“Azriel,” you panted against his lips. “If you don’t touch me right now I’m going to burst into flames.” 

A dry chuckle left his throat as he dragged his mouth across your jaw and down to your neck; kissing and licking and sucking. He nipped at a sensitive spot, begrudgingly tugging himself off your frame. 

Sitting on his knees between your open thighs, he was a fucking sight. His chest heaved as he took a breath, his eyes dark and hair an unruly mess. Excitement was getting the better of you. So much so that when his scarred fingers looped in the neck of his shirt and tugged it up, you all but foamed at the fucking mouth. 

An unexplainable sound squeaked from the back of your throat. He was fucking beautiful. His skin was flawless, abdomen toned with divots of muscle, and dark ink of swirls that adored his chest. 

You could physically feel your arousal seep from your cunt, could feel your clit throb in desperate need for him. You could hardly breathe, your lungs almost crushed by his sheer beauty. 

You could stare at him forever. 

“Are you going to be good for me?” His rugged voice broke you from your trance. You blinked at him. Once, twice. 

Gone was the flirtatious Azriel who once made you blush from teasing. Gone was the light warmth in his smile and cheeky glimmer in his eyes. 

The Azriel before you was cold now. Calculated. He oozed power and dominance and your pussy clenched in anticipation of the pleasure he might inflict on you. 

The Azriel before you held all the control. And you’d gladly surrender whatever you had left to offer. 

“Yes,” you whimpered in response. 

He didn’t reply. Not with words. Azriel’s large palms flattened on your inner thighs as he pried your legs further apart. The calluses of his marred fingers scratched at your silky skin as they inched closer and closer to your core. 

His fingertips grazed at the soaked fabric of your panties. “Look at you, pretty girl.” 

Your lashes fluttered closed, lips parted open, head rolled back. Gods, you wanted his voice on a loop in your brain for the rest of eternity. If he was going to continue talking, you wouldn’t last long. 

“Look at your dripping little cunt.”

You couldn’t hold in the whimper, nor the way you clenched on nothing—so desperate to be filled by him. 

“I’m going to take my time with you.” You knew it wasn’t a threat, but Christ did it sound like one. You were far too pent up to be touched in any way that wasn’t with a cock buried deep inside you. 

Foreplay could come next time, you’d let him spend hours devouring you if that was what he truly wanted. Not now, not when you were borderline going to sob. 

“Fuck me, Az.”

He stilled, eyes on you as his hands halted on your inner thighs. “Please,” you whimpered, “I need you to fuck me. You can do what you want to me next time.” 

Azriel cocked a brow, the familiar hint of him returning to his face for a brief moment. “You promise?” 

Neither of you allowed yourselves longer than a few brief moments to bask in the vow of a next time. Not when he ghosted his fingers across your cunt and you nodded your head quickly, desperately. 

“There’s condoms in the drawer.” Your words came out a breathless pant as Azriel’s toned body leaned over yours. He rifled through your nightstand, blindly reaching for a foil packet when his fingers grazed against something else. Something silicone.

His eyes found yours in the night, a mischievous glint that darkened his honeyed hazel iris’. Your lips parted. “What?” 

From your angle, you couldn’t see what he held in his hands. Not until Azriel leaned back on his knees between your parted thighs, and the moonlight bounced off the hot pink toy in his palm. 

Oh, fuck. 

Without breaking your gaze, Az gently stroked the tip of the six inch object against your panty-covered cunt. You were soaking through the fabric, your thighs trembling on either side of his legs. 

There was no way this was happening. No way he was going to–

“I think I wanna fuck you with this instead.” 

You couldn’t argue with him, couldn’t even muster a single word to leave your lips. No one had used a sex toy on you before, much less a fucking dildo. And yet here Azriel was, eager to please you in the dirtiest ways possible. Even if it denied him his own pleasure. 

“Az—“ 

He held his free hand in the air. 

“Let’s call it a compromise.” His tone suggested there was no room for argument. You clamped your lips shut and continued to take deep, ragged breaths through your nose. 

“If you’re a good girl with this toy, I’ll reward you with my cock later.” 

Later. As in, he wasn’t planning on making you come just once…

You nodded once more, vigorously. 

If it was down to Azriel he would’ve tied you up and taken his time with you anyway. He would’ve told you not to be a spoiled brat and to take whatever he gave you like a good girl. 

But he couldn’t do that, not yet. 

He couldn’t deprive you of the one thing you desperately wanted. But he could take away the thing to cause the most pleasure. Replace his cock with a toy. Watch you come all over it. And then ruin you until you creamed all over him and sobbed from overstimulation. 

Azriel’s cock leapt in the tight confinements of his pants. He was desperate to free himself, touch himself. Have you touch him. He’d imagined the feeling of your lips around his dick for days, let his mind wander to what you’d look like on your knees for him. 

He needed to be patient, he’d be able to stuff your throat full soon enough. He was sure of it. Then he’d let you sit on his tongue and suffocate him until you were both seeing stars. 

“Please, baby.” 

Your pleading voice broke him from his trance and Azriel wrapped two fingers around your panties and pulled them to the side, baring yourself to him. 

And what a sight you were. 

Swollen and soaked. Your pussy glistened under the moonlight, your hips rolling lazily as if trying to chase the touches he wouldn’t grant you. Az wanted nothing more than to bury his face in your warmth and stay there all fucking night. 

But he didn’t touch you, at least not with his own body and skin. Azriel motioned the toy to your heat, teasingly sliding through your slick folds to collect your arousal. You jolted at the sensation, shuddering beneath his looking touch. 

Azriel leaned over your body, one arm supporting his weight beside your head, the other coaxing the toy through your head, nudging the head against your pulsing clit. 

“You’re gonna keep your eyes on me, and you’re gonna imagine it’s my cock fucking your tight little pussy.” Your chest arched into his, nipples pearled beneath the thin fabric of your t-shirt. 

“Do you understand?” There he was again, that dominant and overpowering Azriel you saw just moments ago. 

You nodded, lips blubbering slightly. “Yes.” 

He cooed you softly, his head dipping down enough to brush his nose against yours. Azriel lined the dildo to your entrance, teasing your hole deliciously before gently pushing through your tightness. 

Your lips parted, brows knit as your body grew taut. His honey gaze dripped into yours, melding you to him as Azriel rolled his hips to mirror what he would do if he was the one fucking you. 

“Such a good girl, taking that cock.” 

Your eyes fluttered closed at his praise, head rolling back into the pillow until his weight shifted above you and a briefly sharp sting met the side of your cheek. Your eyes flew open again, wide and confused.��

Azriel looked down at you, his hand now gripping either side of your cheeks, his gaze much darker than before. 

“I told you to keep your pretty eyes on me.” And then he sheathed the toy deep in your cunt. 

A shriek of pleasure tore through your throat, hands reaching for the warm skin of Azriel’s shoulders. Your nails dragged across the muscles that rippled beneath your touch, scratching at the surface with a cry. 

“Fuck!” 

Azriel began with slow thrusts, allowing you a few brief moments to accumulate to the intrusion. Not much time, but enough. Because after the fourth thrust, he picked up the pace. 

The noises were obscene, your high pitched cries and moans and the squelching of the toy that fucked your sopping cunt. 

Everything was too intense to comprehend. The fullness you felt, the lack of control you possessed. And the way his eyes bore into yours, as though he was claiming your soul to melt with his own. He was hauntingly beautiful, even in his dark demeanour. 

In your hazy state, it looked like even the shadows curled around his figure. As though he was their master, too. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, baby,” he praised. “Taking that cock like a good little girl.” 

His voice dripped with sex and arousal, and when he shifted his hips once more, you could feel the thick and solid bulge of his length in his trousers. You wanted nothing more than to feel it, taste it. 

You clamped tightly around the toy, dragging scratches and marks down Azriel’s golden skin. “Please let me come.” You had never begged to come before, had never even asked. But you felt no shame in pleading to the God above you for your release. 

You’d give him anything he wanted. 

Azriel’s own breath grew shaky, unready. “Open your mouth,” he commanded. You listened and complied immediately, eager to please him. 

He leaned closer, pinching your face harder before spitting into your mouth, onto your awaiting tongue. Then he was kissing you, biting you, claiming you. 

Your entire body felt like it burst into flames, hot fire licking at you from the inside out. You couldn’t breathe. Your entire being completely locked and consumed as you came around the toy with a frantic sob of his name. 

Azriel couldn’t cope, couldn’t handle the sound of his name on your lips as you came around something that wasn’t him. Every ounce of self control was crumbling down at the sight of you—of your eyes still fixed on his, your jaw slack and your supple body arching to meet his. 

He’d never seen anything so fucking sinful yet heavenly at the same time. Never felt so connected to someone without even touching them. He couldn’t take it, needed to touch you, feel you, taste you. 

Az pulled the toy from your pussy, dragging it up between your bodies as you desperately attempted to catch your breath. He held it to your mouth, and without command, your tongue swirled around the length of it, tasting your own release with your eyes still boring into his soul. 

And now he had an even more vivid image of what you’d look like sucking his cock. 

Before Azriel could get a taste for himself, that cursed blaring of his phone broke through the heaving silence. He didn’t hear it at first, not until it stole your attention from him. 

“Your phone,” you muttered breathlessly, barely coherent. 

Azriel dropped the toy to the side of the bed, his hands gentle on your body and face now. “Ignore it,” he breathed softly. 

His lips met yours in a taunting kiss, one so stark opposite to the way he’d treated you just moments ago. The versatility of this man was going to give you whiplash. 

But the phone blared again. And again. And suddenly, neither of you could ignore it anymore. His forehead rested against yours, a frustrated sigh tumbling off his lips. 

“You should go.”

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to. 

“You don’t wanna come with me? Do some drop-offs?” He was tempting you, desperately wanting to spend more time in your presence, especially if it potentially ended like this again. 

You hummed, considering it. But your body was spent and the idea of being in his car and not being able to have your hands all over him at any moment you pleased sounded like torture. 

“Next time?” You posed it as a question, though the hope in Azriel’s eyes proved that he was more than happy to not only fuck you again, but to spend time with you, too. 

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

He nosed at your cheek, planting a teasing open-mouthed kiss to your jaw, nosing back up to your ear. “You look fucking breathtaking when you come.” 

Your eyes fluttered closed when he pulled away, your thighs trembling as he knelt and then clambered off your bed. Azriel watched your spent body for a moment, the way your thighs rubbed together as you squirmed, no doubt still horny. 

It pained him to leave you like that, wanting more. But if he didn’t leave now, he likely never would. And that wasn’t something he could afford to do right now. 

So without another word, he bent down to press a kiss to your mouth, and then he left—still high on both the drugs and you. 

A/N: I can’t even put into words how excited I am for this to be back and to be writing this again!! I’m hoping to have 5 or 6 parts to this series and I have 90% of it planned out too!! Updates may be irregular as I do have a job and a child and a busy life but I will do my best. If you’d like to be added to the tag list, please send me an ask and I’ll get you added for future parts <3

If you enjoyed it please consider giving it a like and reblog! Writers love to hear your feedback <3

[heliosunny]

Yandere!Phainon x Assistant!Reader

Summary: After being isekai’d into the world of Honkai: Star Rail, a game where players explore intergalactic civilizations and fight cosmic threats, you awaken in the city of Amphoreus as the assistant to Phainon.

In this fic contains different details from the original game.

A sharp chill ran down your spine as you opened your eyes. The first thing you noticed was the crystalline glow of Amphoreus stretching endlessly before you, its otherworldly beauty rendering you speechless. You blinked, expecting to see your screen, your controller, your familiar surroundings—but no. This wasn’t your room, and this wasn’t the game anymore.

“You’re awake.”

The voice was smooth, melodic, but carried an undercurrent of control that sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. You turned your head, and there he was—Phainon. Standing close, too close. His eyes, the same shimmering turquoise you had admired on screen, seemed to pierce right through you.

“Are you just going to stare, or do I need to remind you of your duties?” His lips curled into an amused smile, though his tone was sharp.

Duties? Wait—what was happening? You looked down at your clothes, now a sleek uniform of dark fabric adorned with golden embroidery. A datapad rested in your hands, glowing faintly with information that you couldn’t process. Your heart pounded as realization struck.

You were in the game.

And not just as a spectator—you were his assistant.

“I—uh…” Words caught in your throat. How were you supposed to explain this?

Phainon’s smile faltered, and his gaze turned calculating. “Are you unwell?” His hand reached for you, his fingers brushing against your forehead as though checking for a fever. “Strange. You’re not one to falter in your tasks.”

His touch felt unnervingly real, and you couldn’t help but flinch. That small reaction was all it took for his expression to darken.

“You’ve changed.” His voice dropped an octave, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t like it.”

Before you could respond, a shimmering figure emerged from the nearby crystalline canal, interrupting the moment. A council envoy approached, their translucent form glowing faintly in the twilight.

“The council has summoned you, Lord Phainon.” the figure said, its voice echoing like a chime. “They request an update on the breach in the southern district.”

Phainon dismissed the envoy with a wave of his hand, his attention returning to you almost immediately. “Follow me,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And don’t stray.”

You stumbled after him, still trying to process the impossibility of your situation. As the two of you entered a grand hall bathed in twilight, the weight of countless eyes settled on you.

Phainon took his place at the center of the room, his aura dominating the space, but he kept you close—so close you could feel the brush of his robes against your arm. When a council member dared to question your presence, Phainon’s turquoise eyes burned with something dangerous.

“They belong to me” he said simply, his voice cold as ice. “And that’s all you need to know.”

The possessiveness in his tone sent shivers down your spine. You couldn’t tell if it was part of the game’s narrative or if Phainon—the character you had once admired from afar—had taken his obsession with his assistant far beyond what you’d ever imagined.

As the meeting concluded, you found yourself alone with him once more. He turned to face you, his gaze unreadable.

“Something’s different about you,” he said, stepping closer until you had nowhere to retreat. His hand tilted your chin upward, forcing you to meet his eyes. “But no matter what’s changed, you’re still mine.”

You followed Phainon through the shimmering corridors of Amphoreus’ central council chamber, your footsteps echoing against the marble-like floors. Every now and then, his sharp turquoise gaze flicked back to ensure you were still behind him. The air between you crackled with an unspoken tension—a mixture of curiosity and something far darker.

Your mind raced. This has to be a dream, you thought. But no dream had ever felt this vivid. The coolness of the air, the hum of energy radiating from the crystalline walls, the weight of Phainon’s presence—it was all too real.

As you walked, fragments of your memory returned. Before waking here, you had been playing the new update, marveling at the Amphoreus map and Phainon’s enigmatic character. You had admired his aesthetic, his power, his complexity. But now that you were face-to-face with him, every instinct screamed that he was far more terrifying than you’d imagined.

“Stop daydreaming” Phainon said sharply, breaking your train of thought. He paused at the entrance to an elegant chamber, gesturing for you to step inside. “We have work to do.”

You hesitated, glancing into the room. It was a war room of sorts, with a large, glowing table projecting a holographic map of Amphoreus. Streams of data and symbols floated in midair, all indecipherable to you.

“I…” You faltered, unsure how to respond. You were supposed to be his assistant, but you had no idea what your responsibilities actually were.

Phainon’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “What’s wrong with you today?” His voice was soft, but it carried a dangerous edge. “You’ve been acting strangely since this morning. If you’re hiding something, I’ll find out.”

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t tell him the truth—he wouldn’t believe you, and even if he did, there was no telling how he’d react.

“I’m just… tired” you said, forcing a weak smile. “Maybe I need some time to adjust.”

He studied you in silence, his gaze piercing. Then, to your surprise, he sighed.

“Fine,” he said, his tone softening ever so slightly. “You’ve always been diligent. I’ll overlook it—for now. But don’t make a habit of this.”

Relief washed over you, but it was short-lived. Phainon stepped closer again, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was almost tender, but his next words sent a chill down your spine.

“Whatever is going on,” he murmured, “don’t forget your place. You’re mine.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yes, Lord Phainon.”

Adjusting to life in Amphoreus was far from easy. You quickly realized that the assistant’s role was far more integral to Phainon’s work than you had anticipated. Not only were you responsible for managing his schedule and monitoring intelligence reports, but you were also his confidant, someone he trusted implicitly—perhaps too much.

Phainon’s possessiveness became more apparent with each passing day. He refused to let you out of his sight for too long, insisting you accompany him to every meeting, every inspection, every event. When other figures of authority—council members, envoys, or even subordinates—spoke to you, his gaze would darken, and he’d find subtle ways to end the conversation.

“You’re wasting their time” he’d say coldly, guiding you away with a firm hand on your shoulder.

Yet there were moments of softness, too—moments that made it difficult to reconcile the man you’d admired in the game with the one standing before you now. Late at night, when the weight of his responsibilities bore down on him, he’d sit with you on the terrace overlooking the crystalline city.

“I never asked for this” he once admitted, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Power, duty, control—it’s all meaningless without someone to share it with.”

You didn’t know how to respond. The intensity of his gaze as he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t speaking in generalities.

As you tried to navigate your new reality, a troubling realization began to take root. Phainon seemed to suspect that something about you was different, but he didn’t push the issue—perhaps out of fear that he’d lose you if he did. His obsession only grew stronger, manifesting in subtle yet suffocating ways.

When you finally found a moment alone, you attempted to access the datapad he had given you, hoping to find some clue about how to escape this world. To your shock, the datapad seemed to respond to your thoughts, displaying fragments of your real-world memories.

“Curious, aren’t you?”

You froze. Phainon stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“I knew you were hiding something” he said, stepping into the room. “But I didn’t expect it to be this.”

He moved closer, his turquoise eyes glowing faintly. “Tell me” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “Where are you really from?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. His smile widened, but there was no warmth in it.

“It doesn’t matter” he said, his hand reaching out to cup your face. “You’re here now. And I won’t let you leave.”

Phainon’s hand lingered on your face, his fingers impossibly cool against your skin. His gaze bore into yours, far too perceptive for comfort. You tried to pull back, but he caught your wrist with his other hand, holding you in place effortlessly.

“You’ve been acting strange since the day you woke up” he murmured, his voice low and measured. “Avoiding questions, hesitating with tasks you used to handle flawlessly… Do you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about” you stammered, your heart pounding in your chest.

His smile darkened, the turquoise glow in his eyes intensifying. “Lying to me, little one? That’s unwise.”

Before you could protest, he guided you toward the chair near the glowing map table. His grip was firm but not painful, though there was no mistaking the underlying strength in his movements. “Sit” he commanded, and though you wanted to resist, your legs betrayed you, folding beneath his imposing presence.

He leaned over you, one arm braced on the chair’s backrest, trapping you in place. “Let’s try again” he said, his voice soft yet sharp as a blade. “Who are you really? Because I know this isn’t the assistant I’ve trusted for years. And don’t bother lying—I’ll know.”

The intensity in his gaze made your throat tighten. You tried to think of a believable story, anything that wouldn’t reveal the impossible truth. But before you could speak, his hand brushed your cheek, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw with unnerving precision.

“Let’s make it easier” he murmured. “I’ll take the truth myself.”

You barely had time to process his words before a golden glow spread from his hand, sinking into your skin. It wasn’t painful, but it felt invasive, like his presence was sinking into your very mind. You gasped, trying to pull away, but the energy surrounding you was unyielding.

“No, no” he whispered, his tone almost soothing. “Don’t fight it. Let me see.”

Images flashed before your eyes—your life in the real world, the moment you were pulled into this game, your growing dread at being trapped here. You could feel his mind brushing against yours, unraveling your thoughts, your secrets, your fears.

When the glow finally faded, you slumped in the chair, trembling. Phainon straightened, his expression unreadable as he processed what he had seen.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice tinged with a strange mix of amusement and fascination. “You’re not from this world. You don’t belong here.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but his finger pressed gently against your lips, silencing you. “Hush” he said, his smile returning—but this time, it was tinged with something darker. “I understand now. You came here from another place, another reality. But you’re mine now. And I won’t let you leave.”

He straightened, stepping back slightly, but his presence still loomed over you. With a wave of his hand, golden chains of light materialized around your wrists and ankles, locking you in place.

“Phainon, please—” you began, your voice shaky, but he cut you off with a raised hand.

“This is for your own good” he said calmly. “Amphoreus is dangerous for those who don’t know its rules. And now that I know what you are… I can’t risk anyone else finding out.”

His fingers traced one of the glowing chains, and the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “You should feel honored,” he said. “I don’t let just anyone stay this close to me.”

You shivered as he leaned down once more, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But don’t misunderstand me. If you try to escape, if you try to defy me…” His voice dropped to a whisper, sending chills down your spine. “I’ll remind you exactly who you belong to.”

His hand moved to your chin, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze. For a moment, the intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by something almost tender.

“I’ll take care of you” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid… as long as you don’t forget your place.”

Your heart raced as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. His lips ghosted over yours, teasingly close but never fully connecting. “That’s my assistant.” he murmured, his voice dripping with possession.

Then, as quickly as the moment had begun, he straightened, leaving you breathless and trembling.

“I have business to attend to” he said, turning toward the door. “Rest here for now. We’ll continue this… discussion later.”

The golden chains binding you faded slightly, enough to allow you to move, but you could still feel their weight—both literal and symbolic. Phainon glanced back at you one last time, his smile as enigmatic as ever.

“Don’t go anywhere.” he said, his tone both a warning and a promise.

[livvv-218]

Rules we break

Summary - What happens when you can’t go through with your order of eliminating Sangwoo. Pairings - Fem!guard x Sangwoo Warnings - smut, manipulation, age gap (reader is in her 30s and Sangwoo is in his 40s), unprotected sex, oral sex (fem receiving), mention of being abandoned, guns, swearing

The cold fluorescent lights above flickered as you led him through the narrow corridor. Sang Woo walked in silence behind you, his footsteps muffled by the heavy echo of the empty hall. He likely believed you were escorting him back to the main room after his victory in the second game—Dalgona. How wrong he was.

You didn’t want to do this. Not at all. Despite the walls you’d built around yourself- walls necessary for a job like yours - something about Player 218 had gotten under your skin. You weren’t supposed to care—it was part of the job, after all, assigned to you by one of the VIPs. But from the moment you first laid eyes on him, you knew he was different. He wasn’t like the others—he understood what these games were truly about, what was needed to survive. You couldn’t help but admire that about him. While the others clung to false hopes, he faced reality. He was also undeniably attractive, but you refused to let your feelings cloud your judgment.

The assignment came from one of the anonymous VIPs the day before the games began. Your task was clear: eliminate Sangwoo, without raising any suspicions. The VIP had been cryptic, providing no real reason for the order beyond the vague claim that it was for "revenge." There was no explanation as to why the VIP couldn't simply allow Sangwoo to be eliminated by the games themselves, he just said it had to be done, and that was enough.

You weren’t the only one involved in this execution. A few other guards were responsible for tampering with the security footage, making sure no one would see you leading Sang Woo away from the main dormitory. But you were the one specifically assigned to carry out the final act—to assassinate him yourself.

The reason for being chosen for this particular task was unclear. As a triangle guard, you were hardly one of the higher ranks. But times were tight, and money was money. It was something you needed badly—to pay for your little sister's treatment. She was all you had left after your parents vanished, running off with what little you had to your name years ago. From that day on, raising her became your sole responsibility.

A few minutes later, you reached a red door that signaled you to turn left, instead of continuing straight toward the main dormitory where all the players were. As you made the turn, you could feel Sang Woo’s suspicion rise—he was starting to realize something was off. When you turned around, you found him standing still, staring at you with that calculating gaze. He wasn’t following.

You stepped toward him, your pace quickening, and aimed your gun directly at his chest. The movement was immediate. He began walking again, but you could see the glint of awareness in his eyes, and it made your stomach twist.

After what felt like an eternity, you finally reached the room. Normally, the door would be locked, but today it stood wide open, almost as if inviting you in. Sang Woo tried to maintain his composure, but it was clear—his facade was cracking. You could see the fear in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened with every step, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him.

Sang Woo followed you into the room, his movements reluctant, eyes darting around as if searching for an escape. His gaze landed on the corners, and it didn’t take long for him to notice the absence of security cameras. His expression shifted, a flicker of realisation crossing his face. Shit.

You reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to your waist, your fingers briefly brushing against the cool surface before pressing the button. "I'm in the room. This shouldn’t take too long," you said, your voice steady despite the unease curling in your stomach. Seconds later, the crackled voice of the operator came through the speaker: "Received."

You turned to lock the door, the metallic click echoing through the room, then set your walkie-talkie down on the small table beside the lone chair. The silence felt suffocating. Slowly, you raised the gun in your hands, aiming it directly at Sang Woo. His eyes went wide for a split second, and in that instant, panic overtook him. He raised his hands slightly, a silent plea for surrender.

"You don’t have to do this. We both know I’m worth more alive than dead. Think about it." His voice was calm, but there was an underlying desperation in it. Your expression remained void, your hand steady as you moved the gun closer to him.

Sang Woo paused, realizing his attempt to reason with you wasn’t working. His eyes flickered, calculating. Then, with a subtle shift in tone, he tried another approach. "Please. I need this money for my mother. She has no one else but me. Surely you have a family too. Imagine someone holding a gun to them... you’d want mercy, right?"

You knew it was manipulation, a calculated move to tug at your heartstrings. But still, the words lingered in your mind, like a weight pressing down on your chest. It was working.

The silence between you both grew heavy, thick with the tension of the moment. Sang Woo’s eyes never left you as you stood there, the gun still aimed at him. You could see the way his gaze softened, as if searching for a crack in your facade. He didn’t speak immediately; instead, his focus shifted to your mask.

"You're not like them," he said, his voice quieter now, almost coaxing. "You don't belong in this place. You don’t want to do this. I can tell'.

You flinched, but quickly masked it with a cold expression.

He stepped a little closer, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate now. "Take off your mask," he murmured. "Let me see the person beneath the uniform. Let me see who you really are."

You took a sharp breath, your pulse quickening. You knew it was a dangerous request—he was trying to break down every wall you'd built. But part of you wanted to. A part of you wanted him to see you. You hesitated for a second too long, and that was all he needed.

In one fluid motion, Sang Woo stepped closer, his fingers brushing the edge of your mask, tracing it gently whilst looking in your eyes. His touch surprisingly tender. "Please," he whispered, his voice laced with something almost pleading.

He gently cupped the edge of your mask, his fingers brushing against the cool surface, waiting for any sign of protest. For a moment, your pulse raced in your throat, the room seeming to close in around you. He wasn’t rushing—just watching, almost as if he knew you were debating whether or not to stop him.

When you didn't react, when you didn't move to pull away or object, he carefully lifted the mask. The air hit your skin immediately, cool and unfamiliar against your exposed face.

Sang Woo didn’t immediately speak. He simply studied you, his gaze lingering as he took in every detail of your face. For a moment it almost seemed as though there was adoration in his eyes—a flicker of something more than just survival instinct.

His jaw clenched slightly, as if in disbelief, as his eyes traced the curve of your lips, the soft indent of your dimples, the deep, captivating look in your eyes. His breath seemed to catch in his throat, and for a fleeting second, it felt like he wasn’t just seeing a guard, but a person, someone who could break through all his walls.

"You're... beautiful," he finally whispered, his voice low and steady, but there was a softness there that almost seemed foreign coming from him.

Your heart skipped a beat, the soft look in his eyes turned hungry. His hand lingered at your jaw, and before you could react, he stepped in closer, the space between you shrinking with each beat of your heart. His lips brushed against yours, gentle at first, as if testing whether you’d pull away. But you didn't. When he saw that you hadn't pushed him off you, one of his hands moved to your waist and he pulled you closer into him.

He groaned as you gently tugged his hair, his soft lips hungrily devouring yours felt incredible. You chose to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how much trouble you could get into for this. You didn't care, at least at the moment. His hand tugged at the zip on your uniform, pulling it down desperately, like he couldn't wait any longer to have you.

You felt yourself getting wetter as he moaned huskily into your mouth. He unattached himself from your swollen lips and buried his face into your neck, sucking your skin gently and leaving wet kisses all across your neck and on your jaw. You moaned in pleasure as you felt his erection growing against your thigh.

''Jump'', he ordered as he grabbed your ass allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He put you down on the table and stood in between your legs, grinding against your thigh, making you moan loudly. You bit your tongue, trying to be quiet, the fear of being caught gnawing at you. But then, Sangwoo’s fingers gently lifted your chin, tilting your head to face him. His breath was warm against your ear, and his voice was low, almost a growl, as he whispered, 'please.. let me hear you baby'. Hearing him begging heightened your arousal even more, making your inner thighs become soaked.

He pulled off your uniform and threw it on the floor, leaving you in nothing but your bra and pants. You moaned in pleasure as he traced your wetness on your pants gently using his finger. He hooked his fingers loosely in the waist banned of your pants and looked at you to ask if it was okay. The moan he received in response was enough, he pulled your pants down to your ankles and kneeled down before you. He licked his lips before placing his face in-between your legs, leaving wet kisses all over your inner thighs. You tug at his hair in pleasure, pushing his face even further up your thighs.

He then started licking your clit, slurping all your juices and leaving sloppy kisses in between your folds. You felt yourself grow close, unable to contain yourself anymore, ''I'm so close Sangwoo'', you said, moaning his name. He looked up at you, his chin soaked with your wetness, ''cum for me baby''. You came undone on his tongue as he continued to flick your clit. 'Yeah, just like that baby. You taste so good. You're being so good for me'' he whispered into your pussy.

He stood up and kissed you hungrily, his tongue entered your mouth deepening the kiss. You grinded against his hard erection making him moan into your ear. You then reached to his trousers to pull them down revealing the massive bulge in his pants. He moaned loudly as you palmed his cock through his pants. ''I-I need you'' he whispered into your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your body. You responded by pulling down his pants, freeing his cock dripping with pre-cum.

He stood back in-between your legs and lined himself up by your entrance. It felt like heaven. You didn't give a shit how loud you were being this point, you couldn't help it. The way he hit your sweet spot each thrust made you want to scream in pleasure. ''Fuck your so tight baby - I'm gonna cum'' he groaned, his head tilted back in pleasure. A second later you felt him come undone inside you, making you cum too.

You both were a panting mess. His face was buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he caught his breath. He smiled gently at you, his expression softening in a way that you hadn’t expected. His thumb brushed delicately across your cheek, the movement tender, as if he were savouring the feel of your skin against his.

The moment was shattered by the crackling sound of your walkie-talkie. "Number 16, is the job done?" The cold, robotic voice from the other end felt distant, out of place in the intimacy of the room. You reached for the device, your hand still trembling slightly from the closeness you’d just shared with Sangwoo.

"Yes, it’s done," you replied, your voice steady, almost too steady, as if the words didn’t belong to you. They were just part of the job. The moment wasn’t yours to keep.

You placed the walkie-talkie back down on the small table beside you, your fingers brushing it lightly as you turned to Sangwoo. His eyes, still searching yours, softened as you stroked his hair gently, as though you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet but sincere, his smile a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something harder to read. His hand reached up, cupping your face in his palm, and before you could even react, his lips pressed against your forehead. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and it left a warmth that spread throughout your chest.

"I’ll have to keep you in my room until the end of the games," you whispered, meeting his gaze, your voice dropping slightly with the gravity of your words. "Then I’ll sneak you back to the mainland. I can't risk them finding out you're still alive."

He kissed you again, this time on the lips—brief, but with an intensity that made your heart skip. You could feel the weight of the promise in his kiss, the unspoken bond forming between you. His eyes softened with understanding, nodding in agreement. You knew the risks, and so did he. You know you had made the right decision by sparing his life, you would break the rules one hundred more times if it meant he could live.

[jjungkooksthighs]

Zenith

♊︎–Pairing: (X-02) Caleb x fem reader

♊︎–Genre: Angst, fluff, and smut

♊︎–Rating: 18+/ nsfw (mdni)

♊︎–Word Count: 17,200 words (31 pages y’all are in for it)

♊︎–Summary: After being torn away from you, your lover finally comes home to you after a mission alone and without you. You soon realize he hasn’t been taking care of himself in his separation from you and take it upon yourself to fix that in the ways that only you can. 

♊︎–Warnings: Possessive!X-02/Caleb, obsessive!caleb, soft dom!Caleb, sub! reader, mentions of blood, slick and pre-ejaculatory production, scenting, dirty talk (lbr I love that shit), praising, handjob, grinding, cunnilingus (oral f), creampie, breast worship (just a tad), breast/nipple play, nipping, sucking, begging, muscle kink, scratching, cum eating, manhandling, cursing, wet and messy sex (he’s hungry alr), size kink, face riding, pinning, lots of marking, fucked against the wall 

♊︎–A/N: I humbly present my first offering to fellow LADS and Caleb enthusiasts that was made with excitement following his myth release and then horniness when I started ovulating this week. I was extremely horny and this…well, this happened. 

The ticking of the clock, once a sound that elicited excitement in the promise of his return, now grates on your ears like the engines of the spaceship that has become a prison rather than a home to you. The clock’s sound, after years of longing fiercer than the sun, was harsh and unforgiving in its continual, ceaseless passing that waited for no one. 

Least of all the love of your life. 

It had been a blue moon the last time you’d been separated from him, but this mission that the higher ups had given you both had been unlike anything either of you had been assigned.

It had come after your paired scouting of the ruined planet of Philos, the life and greenery of the planet now a wasteland of death and scraps. 

You both had been tasked with discerning if the planet were habitable after years of quiet desolation, and after only a single moon on Philos, you had determined that the anger and sorrow of the system had harvested too deeply into the very soils to sustain more than the weeds that grew sadly from the split, fractured soil. 

You try to sleep, the dark canvas of space and array of stars offering you their respects in the dim, slow blinks of the white balls of light that colored the endless expanse before the glass panes of the viewport that act as bars between you and the limitless freedom of darkness beyond. 

That damn ticking. It doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even muffle itself in apology when you throw a pillow over your head as your thoughts fly to the terrible, cold abyss of the worst that could have happened to the only person who held your heart in his hands. 

You toss and turn, body sore and aching from being launched too hard into the metal of the training room walls when the training bot, who had taken the form of a large, mechanized Hoartfrost Wyrmload, had taken advantage of your momentary lapse of action when your lover’s face, twisted in pain, had flashed through your mind when you’d let it wander.

Had it not been for the powered exosuit you’d worn, you surely would have had bruises, much less broken bones. 

To punish you for your failure to clear the training floor unscathed as Ever’s most finely crafted and battle-hardened weapon, you had had to fight for hours in that fluorescently lit room, the loud clangs and broken whirrs of the bots slicing through the air as the black, blade-like extensions of your power cut them through. Sent out in waves, it had been relentless monotony, but you’d had no choice. 

The  organization’s manipulative, calculating leader would never allow you to see your lover-much less protect him from their malevolent experimentations-if you did not do their bidding. 

Only after 202 monsters and a decapitated Wyrmlord had the thick, heavy automated door risen and you’d all but run to your chambers, heart racing in excitement. 

Asta, the ship’s commandant and head of Ever, had told you that the he who your heart desired would finally, finally be allowed to rendezvous with you there after he debriefed the highest ranked officers on his mission that he’d been sworn to keep hidden even from you.

It’s been 2 days, 20 hours, and 2 minutes since his departure and each second feels like a decade in the excruciating torment of his absence. 

You curse under your breath, the sharpness of worry curving your nails inward toward your palm as the blanket your other half had made for you slides from your shoulders when you rise from your bed. Its warmth fails to offer even half the amount that your lover does, but you still cover your shoulders with it, imagining that it is him that envelops you as you pad forward toward the biggest of the translucent panels that overlooks the infinite space of the darkness. 

The brightest of the hot, white orbs of light of the stars looks like two joined stick figures, forever together in each other’s embrace as the two twin bodies who you’d named Pollux and Castor study you. 

It is the Gemini constellation– one that you find your attention drawn to in your lover’s absence. You press your hand against the glass, peering up at the star sign he was created under and praying to it to watch over him while you cannot. 

You liked to think that the stars knew when your lover was near and tried to commune with you in your bottomless worry whenever you were apart from him, for the glow of their light always seemed so much brighter when he was near. When he held you in his arms under them and spoke sweet, wonderful promises into your ear that he always, always kept. 

Right now, Castor and Pollux flare fiercely, almost as if to mock you in the biting, gnawing loneliness that only your lover could soothe. 

His name flits between your lips like an atom through space–quiet but there, refusing to be relinquished. 

The quiet of your chamber soon steals his name, its taunt loud in the seizure of it. 

You pull your blanket tighter around your barely clad body, the thin, short nightgown of black you’d worn to match your sinking spirits leaving much of you exposed to the prickling chill of the chamber that never was warm unless he was in it. 

“Hurry back to me, Caleb,” you whisper to the stars, hoping they will hear your plea, “I miss you.” 

The figures of light nestled within expanse of the endless sky of ebony twinkle as if to tell you they’ve received your wish, and then the only door admitting entry to your chambers directly behind you opens, all the way across the room, makes reverberating rumbling noises that grind your ears in their unpleasant din. 

The clock continues to chip away at time as if you aren’t enslaved to it. 

He’d have come to you by now if he were on the ship, and so you don’t bother to look away from the stars when you grouse, “If Asta has sent you to examine me out of concern for my performance, you can shove that bullshit up your ass.”

You’d become well acquainted with combat, your own code rewritten by Ever over and over again in their pursuit to make a heartless warrior capable only of doling out death and destruction. But your hardwiring had changed the moment your lover had laid his lips over yours, had professed his love so tenderly that it disassembled the walls around your heart and tuned it just to him. 

Footsteps sound from behind you, the thud of heavy boots not lifting a hair of fear on you. Their wearer moves with purpose, never standing still as they cross the open chamber toward you. They do not cease their magnetic pull toward you until they stand behind you, still and unmoving as the planetary systems before you. 

So absorbed in the memory of his smile that brought more light to your world than any moon and in eyes that have entire supernovas swirling within them, you don’t even notice the way your body has already begun to seek the one to the back of you. 

“I was told that it is good manners to speak when you’re spoken to. I don’t need an examination right now. Leave, because no one except X-02 may touch me.” You adjust the soft velvet blanket closer around you, wishing with the might of an entire galaxy that your lover was here with you. “You can tell Asta I’ll execute whatever Wanderer that Ever wants dead in two seconds flat if he just gives me the word. I’ll terminate it in exchange for what I really want.” 

Silence. 

A heart’s beat passes before strong, familiar arms encircle you around your middle, and instinctively, you let their bearer bring you against him. 

Were it anyone else, your impulse to fight would already have rendered them unconscious and in a heap on the floor. 

But you know this embrace. You’ve been swathed in it many, many times before.

Then, with a voice smoother than honey, “And what is it you really want, huh, pip-squeak? Surely it must be me.”

From the very first word he speaks, your entire soul seems to ascend, your attention uncontrollably tugged into those familiar, warm discs of nebulae that make a ring where irises should be that are of purple and pink. 

“Caleb…” You say his name like he’s a cosmos that has bewildered you, gazing up from where he stands over a head above you as one of your hands rises so your fingers can explore him in a gentle orbit along his cheekbone as if to prove to yourself that he’s here, that he’s not some holograph you unwittingly conjured up. 

The usual black visor he wears is gone, the same powered exosuit of black covering him from his neck down. It was the garb that most shook in terror upon seeing, but for you, it inspired only the weightless feeling of joy and joviality. 

. 

The sunset of his eyes bask you in their tenderness as he leans into your touch, a long, drawn out breath falling from between his lips as he relishes in the feeling of softness that only you can summon in a universe so twisted and cruel. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long to come back to you, pip-squeak.” He apologizes, the guilt caging each syllable while he tilts his head down so their sin is left at the crest of your forehead, his arms coaxing you more insistently into him so that not even the air can come between the two of you. “You were in my every thought whether I was awake or in hypersleep. Every second I spent away from you, I wanted to be by your side. I wanted to be with you in any way I could.”

His larger hands that rest on your abdomen move around the atmosphere of you, around each side of your waist, urging you to turn and face him. He rotates you as if you’re his very axis, and the truth of his confessions utterly disintegrates the sadness that had begun to pressurize between your ribs— that had begun to make even breathing a hard thing to do. 

In its undoing, however, the bottled up emotions you’d kept so carefully contained spiral out of control, overwhelming you such that you–without even a fraction of your strength–strike your fist against where his heart throbs for you. 

“You stopped responding to my messages and calls exactly at hour and minute 22:02. I thought something had happened.” Your eyes start to burn with the tears that threaten to escape, your fingers finding the edge of his jaw before you take his chin between them. He crumbles at your touch, his expression shifting to one of shame over his err as he lets you maneuver him closer like you’re the center of his gravitational field. “You aren’t allowed to do that to me, Caleb. I…I-” your voice deserts you, the tight lump that has formed in your throat forcing you to try to swallow past the worry that had been gripping you with the intensity of a thousand hands. 

I can’t lose you. 

His dark brows stretch toward each other, concern shooting through his eyes in their versions of meteorites before he rests his forehead against yours. “I’m here now, pip-squeak. It’s alright.” His fingers dig possessively into the soft flesh of your waist as if you might disappear if doesn’t hold onto you tight. “I want you to know that I lost contact with Ever when I went too far past the protofield protecting the ruined kingdom of Philos. It somehow fried my communication systems, pip-squeak.” His voice cracks under the weight of being alone, of being ripped away from you while he’d been able to do little but be Ever’s volatile weapon who it kept from exploding by using you as its collateral. “I couldn’t contact you no matter how many times I tried. When I returned, I demanded to see you, but they threatened to hurt you if I didn’t brief them on what had happened down there.” 

“You of all people know that I can handle myself,” you sniffle when the first tear falls, his irises tracking it as it descends down your cheek. Long, metallic digits of his right hand find it before it can douse his foot in your sadness as you croak, “I can handle anything so long as I am with you.” 

Your sadness, surely, is his Roche limit in how cataclysmic it is to him. Enough to make him want to collapse everything until only the two of you remain. But there was no escape from some gravitational phenomena. Phenomena like Ever that had invaded every corner of the universe and would never cease to persecute you until he tore it all down for you.

And to do that, he needed to get stronger. No matter what it took.

“I know, honey. I know that better than anyone. But I have to be Ever’s dog to keep you safe. You are their prized possession–but more importantly, mine.” He adds after a pause, irises locked onto your next tear on the other side of your face. He catches this with the same hand where no sensation kindles his receptors any longer–with the knuckle in the middle of where a human finger would have been– the cool wetness of your emotions putting his systems into alert. “Do you remember what  I told you when we went down to the remains of Philos together, Y/N?”

You nod against him, too choked up to answer beyond that even if you tried. 

You both had crash landed on that planet, only his metallic wings and the tortuous pain they caused him saving the both of you when your cruiser’s engine had failed. He’d become unconscious after using his body as a shield against terrain that had slowly been doomed to death by a planet that’s energy source had abandoned it. It had been your kiss that woke him, the distraction of your tender lips almost enough to negate the agonizing pain that stabbed into your every cell like pointed icicles from where your palms had been connected through the transfer port in your mechanical suits.

You’d felt the grimace and contorted expressions against your lips while you’d siphoned the sounds of his suffering into you, wishing with every fiber of your being that you could have taken all of it into yourself. 

So many times you had been forced–trapped– in the experimental glass pod, unable to do anything but watch while the only person your heart longed for had suffered, his heart-rending bellowings unfathomable and unescapable even when the prickling syringes and needles tried to erase your memories. 

Always they remained and lingered, just like the name you’d given him.

And his pain… it was beyond anything any creature should have been capable of bearing—an unholy force that consumed every part of him, twisting his insides, grinding his being into pieces. It wasn’t a simple ache or throbbing wound. It was as if every nerve in his body had been frozen and shot with ice, each pulse of agony a jagged shard of frigidity, carving deeper and deeper until he could no longer tell where anything was. 

But he never failed to recognize you and he had not hesitated to hold you close in his arms, cradling you there as if you were the most precious thing in his eyes as you both careened into the landscape of decay and desolation. He’d willingly taken the brunt–or rather, the entirety–of the fall for you, the idea of any harm coming to you more horrifying to him than his own death. 

His unconsciousness had become his enemy, his worst nightmare exerting itself upon him in a reaper’s scythe that brought only your sharp screams and wails, your lifeless, broken body in a heap while he’d held you against his chest. His own sorrow had flowed forth like a waterfall in the stream of crimson tears down his face, the grief and suffering breaking every part of him into pieces that attacked and impaled themselves into each other over and over again. 

He’d only escaped that haunting, horrible hell of darkness and cold worse than any winter was by following your voice that beckoned him back towards the soothing, warm light of life that he only found meaning in when you were the his moon that drew the waves of being forth, his very epicenter attracted to your beautiful, gentle core. 

In what once had been a lively, vibrant meadow rested nature’s cemetery. Only the sickly, warped weeds sprouted beneath him where you’d somehow managed to drag him against a dead trunk of a tree that had been split in half by the sickness  that had ravaged this land. 

But there you were, on your knees between his with your kind, nurturing lips planted between the part of his hair as you’d hummed the remains of the song he’d sung for you since you were children whenever he needed to calm you down. 

It was a song only you knew. A song that needed no words when your eyes could speak them so much clearer than any letters could hope to try to describe the meaning of. A song that, like a black hole, called forth everything that you both were to each other. It channels it all together before transforming, evolving, changing it into something so much more than any word could express. 

He’d confessed to you there, in that meadow on Philos–a once human inhabited planet that required massive amounts of energy, power, and sacrifice of one sovereign for many–what both of you had been held captive from admitting for so many years prior, your memories chipped and chaffed by the needle of Ever’s scientists that, until he’d grown strong enough to serve as a better candidate, had stuck into you. 

In effort to find a way to contain you, to control you, the head of Ever had assigned only one person to ever be your partner when sent on missions meant for bloodshed and annihilation of the monsters it had created. 

And oh, how hard he had fallen for you. It was as inescapable as trying to free himself from gravity. 

You grounded him. Enveloped and surrounded him in every sense of the word with your cute laughs, your pretty smiles, your glimmering eyes, your voice of silk that, even when you told a bad joke, still trilled softly and dulcetly in his ears. You were everywhere in his head and yet, so far away, as untouchable as the clouds in the sky up until that fateful day in the meadow. 

There, he’d let the confessions burst through his chest like some supernova, the bond you’d built together with him birthed anew under the crushing weight of what had been–and what could be–when he’d pierced through the deep space of the forbidden and uttered, the undeniable and undisputable.  He’d only ever wanted to be in your world, for he’d for so long yearned for a place beside you that was not one of imagination or observance from a distance. 

After all, he had been doomed to that tortuous fate before becoming your hunting partner when he’d been stuck behind that horrible glass wall with you trapped on the other side. 

And when he’d coaxed you close in that meadow, those same arms–one cold,  rigid, and bionic while the other was warm, pliant, and fleshly– led your front against the strong, chiseled chest covered in the dark fabric that lovingly clung to what little of his human body remained,  he’d declared a different kind of need–one that wanted to devour you from where you’d sat atop of him. 

You’d never forget the way his mouth had sought your ear, his breath hot against the shell of it as he’d said something that would lay eternally with you every time you closed your eyes. Every second that was spent in the shivering rigidness of his absence. 

“I want to feel your warmth, your heartbeat…Everything…I want you to stay with me…Forever.”

When he’d nuzzled his cheek against yours, coveting every moment of touch that made every single one of his receptors charged with what felt like electricity zipping through his body, you’d let him, the obsessive flare in his eyes sparking something baser in you that only ignited deliciously more when he touched you like you were his entire world and looked at you like you were a celestial creature descended from the sun, the moon and the stars. 

No amount of testing or experimentation on you could erase that memory. He’d made sure of it, hiding that, among what remained of your memories with him, inside a small pocket of a void in your mind that even Ever could not touch after many attempts spent honing his power for your sake. 

Only two months and two days have passed since then, but he’d turned your world upside down and become the equator of your system far, far before then. It was as if your kiss had been the unavoidable calamity that had made his desires collide and converge, their amalgamation too powerful for him to resist in your magnetic pull whenever he saw you, smelled you, thought of you. 

And now, as he stands before you as solid as the glass at your back, that same reaction, set off by every atom that made you up, has you repeating those words he’d spoken to you by the remains of that charred yet living tree stump on Philos. The same stump had had the beginnings of moss attached to it, the two bodies of alternate forms helplessly clinging to each other even after their environment had been unforgiving to them. 

Under the intensity of those nebulous eyes powerful enough to make you fall to your knees, you repeat what your lover had professed so ardently to you, his yearning dressing the guilt that is draped under his eyes. It is enough to take your breath away when his long, mechanical fingers wrap around your wrist where you had been dragging your own digits down towards his lips. 

He leads your digits to them, the pads of your own fingers steered along the edge of his mouth before they follow the outline of his lower, fuller lip. It has become cracked in the aridity of whatever planet he’d been sent to, and you wet your own as you stare, unabashedly at his. 

Embarrassment that had once perched heavily over your shoulder at the very thought of him no longer does in the nest he’s made in your chest, and so the words fly free when he draws your digits over and along his thinner upper lip to his defined Cupid’s bow. It, too, is dry and begging for the nourishment only you can give. 

“You are dehydrated, Caleb. You weren’t taking care of yourself again,” you whisper, the nerves in your still human digits crackling with sensation when he pilots them so they catch and carry the plumpness of his lower lip down, his saliva seeking you before the pink of his lip returns to contain it after your fingers have been conducted toward the corner of his jaw so you can hold him there. 

Your touch sends sparks down his spine, and he relishes in the warmth of you that no sun could ever hope to emit as he closes his eyes, nudging into your hand while he utters, “That does not matter to me when there are more important things that require my attention.” 

The meaning of that is not lost on you, and you knew well the lengths he would go to shower you in every iota of his devotion as vast as space itself. His calibration had, for a long time, been warped in its centering all around you, and so descript was it that he often forgot to attend to his own needs as long as yours were. You’d since figured out a way to navigate that, for it burned you to see him neglect himself for your sake. 

“I’m thirsty, Caleb. Carry me to the kitchen, will you?” You ask, affection flowing forth like water when he gives a smile that could light up any room at your request. You encircle your arms around his neck, needing this closeness just as much as he does after being away from you too long. 

“You don’t have to tell me twice, pip-squeak,” his hands travel down from where they’d been resting on your hips, ginger and gentle as they glide from your sides downward past the curve of your backside to their destination on the backs of your legs. 

When he’s wound his fingers around the underside of your thighs, it takes little effort for him to hoist you up against him, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist like he is your own charging port. Unlike you, part of him has been fused with metal, his right arm lost to Ever’s unassailable greed for perfection in creating life that was as dangerous as it was perfect. 

Created to serve as your precursor–your corrupted guardian and watchdog–your body had been spared over the trials done on his so that you could be the organization’s angel of blood and slaughter. 

With you held closely in his arms, he crosses the distance of the open concept chamber complete with a long, rectangular coffee table made entirely of glass that is accented by two black leather couches in front and behind it. On the far side of it are two lounge chairs, one smaller than the other, arranged next to each other and facing the viewport with its wide view of the stars and dark sky. The larger one is worn and has small tears in its armrests from where he’d gripped them so hard during many dawns and dusks spent either with you in his head, on his lap, or between his legs. 

On one end of the parlor is an impressively sized bedroom, grand bathroom, and boudoir, the last of which he’d built himself using his Evol, his sweat, and his hands. On the other end of the sitting room, there is a sleek kitchen of chrome appliances, grey cabinets, and a sizable island of white marble that looked like the moon’s dust had settled across it. 

It is here that your lover brings you, unwilling to let you go even for a moment as he strides to the refrigerator and waits patiently for you to open it. 

In the short time he’d gathered you in his arms, you’d been swept astray into the whirling domain of his eyes, and when he arches a brown brow upward in a teasing move that gets your pulse quickening, you pry your sights away from him. 

Like he is your own force of momentum, your inertia is swift to alter its state and you open the refrigerator door, quickly procuring the pitcher of apple juice he’d prepared for you the morning he’d left. The note written on a sticky note still remains stuck to its side, the words ‘Made with love for my special, beautiful girl whom I miss dearly’ smudged from the oils on your fingertips as you’d held it.

 Only a quarter of the amber colored liquid remains, for you’d been unable to resist the sweet taste that reminded you so much of him when it fell across your tongue. He doesn’t question your choice of drink when he notices the bent edges of the sticky note that must have been anxiously fiddled with by your fingers while you’d waited for him. 

Instead, he teases you once again as he turns to place you on the island behind you. “Missed me, didn’t you, pip-squeak?”

“You taught me that missing someone is wanting them to be with you even when they can’t be. And every minute you were away, I wished for you to be here with me, by my side.” You confess, the frigid and hard stone under you a stark contrast to the calefaction he radiates. Not wanting to let him go, you ask, “By the way, can you get me the glass I left at the edge of the counter? My arm isn’t long enough to reach it.”

Your admission has his blood rushing to his face, a grin that even Cupid would have been jealous of crossing his face. 

“But of course, my lady,” he bows his head in obedience, the playfulness jumping off each vowel tugging at the chords of your boundless feelings for him. “One glass for the pretty girl coming right up.”

As if every second of your touch had charged him up, he dutifully reaches around you for the apple-shaped glass you’d left out earlier. The small action has him leaning forward, his hot breath fanning against your lips. Like this, you can tell that the usual lively color of those lips of his that are vibrant like a flower’s petal in spring had lost some of their vivid pigmentation, the lack of proper nutrition stealing it from him. 

It makes your stomach twist, even the basic tenets of self-care eradicated from his mind when all but you dwelled in it during the times he was separated from you. 

With the cup in tow, he rises back to his full height, oblivious as usual to his malnourished state that only befell him when he was away from you.  Anger worms its way through you, an anger that would bury itself in you until you’d found a way to save him from the assholes that sent him on that godsforsaken mission and did this to him. 

“How much do you want, pip-squeak?” He inquires, taking the pitcher from you and pouring the sparkling juice forth from it. 

His voice cools the ire that had been slithering inside your stomach, but jealousy over a damned cup that had apprehended his attention away from you makes you possessively squeeze him between your thighs where he stands. 

He makes a surprised sound at that, the sound making you ascend as it tumbles from his cracked lips. 

Your resolve hardens as you watch him selflessly tend to you through the stream of juice that conforms to the shape of the cup he’d crafted for you. 

“Give it all to me.” You tell him, impatient for his attention again to be attached to you. 

The burbling stops, and finally, those eyes of his rush toward yours like fucking meteorites.

“I told you before, pip-squeak,” His fingers constrict around the neck of the pitcher, the glass cracking under the pressure of him as he sets it down, “If it’s my unique scent you want,” with his other hand, he brings the cup of juice under your lips, “a uniform filled with memories,” he tips the cup just the slightest bit toward you, your mouth parting to accept the cold, tart liquid over your tongue, “or even the authority to command me,” the last few words siphon something hungry in you despite the liquid that is beginning to fill your mouth, the slender, metallic digits of his other palm slipping around the back of your neck to tilt your head back so more of the juice can spill between your lips with its sweet tinge, “I’ll make sure you get everything you could ever ask for.”

You hold eye contact with him like he might vanish if you don’t keep him held under the whirling pressure of you, tipping your chin back more as he encourages you with the hand he holds you with while he keeps you close, just as unwilling to be too far away from you. 

The sight of you–your legs spread with him nestled between them and your wet, soft lips accepting what he feeds you as you let him lean you back, willing and pliable for him–makes the still-fleshy organ in his netherregion harden where he’s confined in his powered exosuit.

He observes you with captivation starring the corner of his purple-pink orbs, watching the honey-colored juice disappear into the cavern between your lips as it pours forth into you. Each mouthful of it down your throat has him feeling as though his internal temperature has begun to overheat, a different kind of steam demanding to be let out when the last of the contents of the drink flow into the chamber of your mouth. 

You don’t swallow this one. 

Rather, you lift one of your hands, making a come-hither gesture with your finger while intention–magnifying and polarizing–harnesses him to you like a magnet. 

He knew you more intimately than you knew yourself, and so the realization that dusks over his countenance casts you into the heatwave of his fierce, intense emotions once reserved only for his mind. 

As tall as he is, his shadow shades you in the soft light of the moon that sits in the distance of the dark realm outside as your lover’s front falls forward, one of his hands closing around the edge of the counter as he husks. “You’re a bad liar, pip-squeak. You can’t fool me. You want me to drink from you that badly, huh?” the glass he’d been pressing against your lips is put down, his irises dipping from yours to your mouth before his index comes upon one side of your cheek where his thumb spans your other, his other knuckles urging your chin up so that you can’t escape the all encompassing gravity of his affliction for you. His hot breath fans your lips as he draws inevitably nearer, “You can be such a silly girl, and yet-”

Waiting for him to come to you is an eternity you can’t possibly bear, and when finally he closes the distance between you– two masses of matter inextricably colliding and crashing together as you seek each other’s every molecule in a searingly passionate kiss–the natural release of the liquid you’d been storing for him is diffused into the chasm of his mouth, his groan short-circuiting you as he deepens the kiss, the fusion between you expelling reason and logic until all there is is him. 

More you give and more he takes, his long tongue flitting over yours while he explores you like it’s the first time.   

Against your mouth, he breathes, “You’re irresistible to me. I can’t stop myself from falling for you. Every. Single. Time.” The words are passed between voyages of his mouth as he returns, over and over again, to his origin point of you, fire licking up at you from where he’s connected to you. 

His fingers depress themselves into your flesh as if you are the foundation he needs to stay afloat in the depth of his all consuming weakness for you, the slight pressure that action imposes on you making your lips pucker against his where you feed the still crisp juice to him. Stray trails of it dribble down your chin, your neck and then between the valley of your breasts that strain against the low v-cut nightgown hardly even reaching past your ass. 

You’d chosen it knowing it was his favorite of the many he’d stitched and sewn himself just for you. He’d taught you a great many things about feelings, emotions, and that little thing called desire, and you’d begun to see just how much-with the tiniest of actions or words- you jumbled his impulses and want that only you could rewire, rewrite, and reshape. 

“Caleb,” you grapple for the leather strap overlaying his powered exosuit below where the amber colored crystal is embedded at the base of his neck, his mouth claiming yours as you pull him closer, needing him everywhere and anywhere you can have him in the visceral summonings only he can make well up within you. Your shallowing breaths and spit swirl together in the clash of your tongues and teeth, neither of you able to resist the other.

He swallows what makes it past the ring of his lips, hungry for more even when your lungs begin to burn from lack of air, and in their enviousness,  rip you away from him. 

Like the wane of a moon, his eyes have gone dark when he breaks the seal of his mouth over yours, the string of saliva bridging you to him refusing to snap until he straightens, his index smearing the remains of his own essence over your upper lip as he utters, “My name isn’t a safe word, pip-squeak. Saying it won’t make me stop.” His hand slides into your hair while the other now has the counter in an iron-grip as he battles to control himself, his lips coursing toward the edge of your mouth where his finger had been. The pink of his tongue slips from between them to lap up in a long, wet stripe as he collects the pleasing, saccharine remnants of apple juice that had escaped. “You just make me want more.”

Your eyelids flutter at the sensation, his words making heat bloom in the apex between your thighs that you hadn’t even realized you’d begun to rut against him in search of friction where they are still wound, with the rest of your legs, around his waist. 

“Y-you made it spill,” you stammer when that knowing muscle betwixt his lips is brought under the edge of the other side of your own. There, he leaves the slick of his saliva from his tongue’s travels downwards as he gathers the taint of sticky, sugary remains on you there, too. 

“You think that was an accident, baby? It wasn’t.” His hand slinks toward the back of your head so he can take a handful of your locks and gently guide you down until your back meets the hard plane of the counter. Reduced to a weightless mass in the omnipresent skies of him you could forever exist within,  you can do little but wait for him to maneuver you, your own digits holding on tighter to the leather strap below his neck where he hovers above you because somehow, someway, you needed to keep yourself by him, the void of space observing you from outside the glass walls of your chambers both a hope and a curse. 

“Mmm… Thank you for feeding me. That was good,”  He hums, the transparency of his yearning there in his eyes, showing the basest part of him sequestered in the far reaches of his orbs while he continues his devoted descent, the passage of his mouth one that follows the winding paths of the existing tracks of liquid that had traveled south along your throat and chest from earlier. Each time his soft lips land, the hot of his tongue is there to scavenge for your taste that has become deliciously mixed with that of apples. Between them, he tells you, “I missed you so much, pip-squeak.”Craving more of you, he keeps driving his mouth to the ocean that is you, the wet sound of his kisses on your flesh and devoutness of his touch making everything else sink away. 

Before they can completely desert you, you need him to know something. You hardly stutter his name out in a poor excuse for his attention, but it is enough for him to pause, his mouth ghosting the spot between your collarbones where’d he’d been laving the pink muscle along the trails of the sweet liquid that had converged into one before dripping down your chest. 

“What is it, my sweet girl?” He questions, tilting his head to the side so the ebony of his bangs falls just over the one eye that he usually sweeps free of his fringe. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You’re not allowed to leave me like that again. It felt like one half of me was missing. Like there was an empty hole in my chest the entire time you were gone.” You tug him down with you, the metal of the roboticized fingers of his right hand bracing him by one side of your head while his other cradles the back of your skull. His breath hitches when you confess, “It was like that hole sucked up all of the happiness and good in my world because you were not in it.”

Before him, you’d been a stranger to all but death, your swords sharp and your orders from the scientists at the lab unforgiving. But despite missions of bloodshed and piercing, terrorizing screams, everyday you’d both watched each other from behind the see-through wall of your glass cages. You’d listened to his stories and musings raptly while inextricably drawn to his side like he was the center of all gravity, your palms separated by the barrier between you when you weren’t trapped in your glass pod. 

He had always been the only source of sensation or sentiment, and in him, you’d found what only he could give: home. 

He can feel the vulnerability that has locked your muscles in place, so he croons, “I’m here now. Nothing will take me away from you ever again. We will always be together.” 

“Promise me,” you don’t let his words drift away from you, the echo of a vow made when you’d both been much smaller surfacing in the back of your mind, “Promise me again, Caleb. I won’t forgive you if you break it.”

Something flickers behind the window of his eyes. The tenderness that colors his voice dulls everything but him, even the clock’s ticking muted when he answers, the blizzard of the air pushed away when the summer of his breath blows along your chin from where he looks fondly down at you, “I promise, my one and only.”

When you relax beneath him, your ligaments freed from their invisible chains, you use the grip you have on the leather strap to lead him to your waiting lips, the sincerity of his words tangible in the featherlight brush of his lips over yours that makes your heart skip a beat. He must hear that,  because he deepens the kiss as if he can circumfuse all of his love into you through that action alone. Insistence takes over, and you relish in it when he slots his mouth harder into yours, not willing to release you from the endless expanse of his ardor for you until oxygen–the damned nuisance–tears you away from him once again.

His breaths are short and shallow while they coalesce with yours, his chest heaving above you where your other hand–the one not already clutching the thin strap below his throat–rises so your fingers can carefully trace the outline of his lips that are fine and fair, almost like satin. No longer are they dry, the sheen of your spit there, embracing them in your care for him while he stares lovingly at you. His lips are so malleable, so nimble as your digit glides across them, his mouth pursuing your hand as if to forage for more of your warmth. 

“Affection?” You pose the question, a fledgling still to the ways of showing the indescribable ways he makes you feel when you’d spent so much of your life behind a glass case. 

His orbs soften under the silver light of the moon that all but makes him glow when he affirms, “Affection. Do you need me to shower you in affection, my one and only?”

Your fingers gravitate down his chin, his throat, the upper plane of his chiseled, muscled pectoral where his own heart pounds fiercely and quickly, like it, too, is trying to reach for you; like it, too, preens happily under your touch and attention. Your own thrums against your ribcage to the same hurried rhythm as if in a dance of passion, neither able to step away from the other. 

Swept into that symphony of sensation that only he could orchestrate, you don’t hesitate when you answer, “Yes. As long as it is you, the answer will always be yes.” 

You watch his veiled control crease his thick brows and diverge his lips, a fragmented breath leaving him when the hard, cool, robotic fingers of his right hand circle around your forearm to direct your open palm up, the sculpted realm of his body hidden by the mesh of his suit where his chest is before the rigidness of alloy encases his throat and shoulders. 

At the base of his throat that alloy is carved out to contain a golden crystal, and it is here that he lets your fingers hover, waiting for you to tap it so you can press the series of holographic buttons only you know the right combinations to. 

“Humans show affection in many ways. But there are ways they do it that are only done when they have found their other half…their one and only.” The metal of his hand ascends up your arm until his palm is pressed against the back of yours, the interconnected phalanges of his fingers bending around yours as he tells you, “Kissing is one way of it. But to let the one person you share the deepest of bonds with feel and see you–all of you– so they can accept and welcome that, too…that’s another way. And I want you to do that with me, my precious girl. I want you to accept every part of me.” 

With his digits wrapped around yours, your index lightly pushes against the crystal nestled between the two notches of his collarbones, the familiar amber light of the holographic panel coming to life before you. You don’t need to look down at it anymore, opting instead to glimpse the nebulas of his eyes that glint intensely at you while your fingers move with practiced ease over each of the three symbols amid the pyramid displayed before you. 

After you’ve hit the final one, there’s a series of chinks and chimes, the nanotechnology embedded in his suit fluorescing in particles of purple that ripple outwards from around the crystal, the flow of light extending outward from it as the black mesh and alloy disintegrate everywhere the light falls like a tide of violet over the glorious sculpture of his body.

Inch by inch the canvas of him is bared to you, neither of you hearing the thud of the abandoned crystal hitting the ground beneath you when the art in front of you captures all of your attention, the polar pull too strong for you to resist even if you wanted to when your eyeline veers down his body in a mouthwatering view that has both sets of your lips slickening. 

Years of modification, missions, and maintained training regimen had corded every bit of him in muscle, his abdomen etched into six defined, sharp blocks across his middle. Framed by two more below, he’s a well-made mosaic of a human being. Even his pectorals are cut seamlessly in their curvatures that cling to the rest of him, his broad, strong shoulders accenting it all where the left arm connected to them looks as if it has been stroked entirely with thick thew from his bicep to his forearm. From the back of his hand, thick veins branch out, the raised lines offshooting up his forearm. 

Where flesh and that same muscle should have wound down his other arm, the metal of a robotic replacement remains. Like a restoration piece, it attempts to match its mirror in the sinuous, sinewy make that no longer can receive feeling beyond pain. 

He senses the subtle squirm of your fingers where they now rest against his sternum, your basest receptors  within itching to rediscover him. 

 “Go on, pip-squeak. Feel me,” he implores, trailing the hand of yours that he still holds down across his pectoral until your palm rests just over the strong, erratic palpitations of his heart, “This is all yours. It always has been.” 

The beat of the organ beneath your hand pushes your own along, your fingers becoming curious travelers that wander along the mountainous range between his pectorals, the smaller pads of each of your five fingers crossing along, under, and around every contour and curve of him upward from his defined collarbones to the blocks of muscle lining his abdomen. Somewhere along the way, his hand detaches from yours, his knuckles turning white where grips onto the counter so you’re pressed between the pleasing warmth of his body and the cold foundation of the countertop. 

Each stroke of your fingers along the plains of his chest has his breaths deepening like each touch both satisfies and starves him, and when your fingers roam down a little too far past the slabs of thew settled over his stomach, that’s when he nestles his nose into the crook of your neck, his balmy breath sweeping over the sensitive area on the side of your throat as he inhales the essence of you before he checks, “You want to go there, my darling? Are you sure?”

You had never cared to know what pleased a man before him. But years of tension and longing for this man before you had built up inside you and made you overflow and fucking brim with want that could only be fulfilled by him. 

No one had ever asked what you wanted, much less if you were clear on what it was you even thought you wished for in the first place. 

But he had. He always had. 

That is why your own digits drift downward until they amble along one side of the impressively large shaft standing at attention between his thick, muscled thighs, fingers skimming along the ridges of his proud cock. 

“Fuck,” he curses when you reach his base, only able to get half of your hand around him before ascending. “You really did miss me, didn’t you, my sweet girl?”

“Can I show you?” You turn your head, lips searching for his where they linger along your sternocleidomastoid muscle lining the side of your throat. You peer at him with innocent doe-eyes that are enough to make him into your slave if you wished it. “I know how because of you.” You squeeze him lightly–deliciously– under the bulbous head of his cock, transfixed by the way his eyes become hooded while your hand descends down back to his engorging base just the way he’d taught you to.

Unable to ever deny you when you look at him like that, he breathes out, “You know you can do whatever you want to me, pretty girl.” His handsome expression contorts into one of contained pleasure, his brows pulling together and mouth falling open when you handle him just a little faster, your thumb spreading the newly rolled beads of pre-cum over the mushroom-shaped tip of his length that made your own mouth and sex cry out of need for him. 

“This body is yours, baby.” He emits a long, drawn out sound of pleasure when you stroke him there and back, your other fingers brushing at the swelling bulbs of his balls beneath his sumptuously sized cock. You feel, fascination pooling in your core, the way the veins that wrap around his member have begun to jump excitedly under your touch, and gods, did the man in front of you look delicious when in the throes of rapture only you could bring. 

Watching him was addicting. It was like a drug that you could never, ever, stop taking, your brain and very blood now so dependent and entrenched in the sights, sounds, sensations, and thoughts of him that it could no longer fire correctly unless your fix was with you–or inside you. 

“Mine.” You repeat, your hand picking up the speed you rub him up and down with, your other fingers curling around one of his engorging balls and massaging it before giving the same attention to the other. He inclines his head as if in deference, irises loyally bowing down to yours, for he is utterly weak to your ministrations. 

Your voice and touch are his aphrodisiac, and in his absence, he’d become so very starved for you. 

“You’ve become so good at this, haven’t you? You’re going to make me cum for you if you keep going like this, pretty girl.” He pants laboriously, concentration painting its way across his face when you tighten your grip around him, the vice of your hand making the top of of his length weep, its wetness drawn down by you every so often when you wind and twist your hand around his large, fleshy head before dragging it back down. “Feels so fucking good, pip-squeak. I taught you too well, didn’t I?”

“I had a very good teacher,” you agree, your legs securing around him harder in your keenness to bring him closer because as near as he is, you need him more than the air that hovers between you while you rub at his testicles with one of your hands and other, becoming a vice around his cock, gropingly glides along his length without pause–without abandon– your joined flesh making obscene sounds of his slick and wetness as you please him. 

His breaths become heavier the faster you go, knuckles going whiter than snow as he fights to contain his release that he can feel quivering in the base of his balls all the way to the curving arc of his cock that reaches for you in its beautiful, long curvature. 

He’s so fucking close. He’s just at the fucking edge of the precipice of his release, but that end that suspends itself over him now is not the one he had envisioned upon his return to you. The appetite he had for you made him hunger for another, more carnal means. One that only you could parch the cavern of his mouth from. 

No, he needed you in a different way. He could wait. He was no stranger to that when it came to you. 

“Yeah? Well as much as I want to cum for you, pretty girl,” both of his larger hands seize your wrists, pinning them above your head, his cock pressing against the wailing apex between your legs as he tells you, “You did so well to feed me earlier, and now I want more. I’m so hungry, pretty girl. And only you can satisfy me.”

“Hungry?” You moan when he gives a purposeful roll of his hips into you, the tip of his fully erect cock a little ways under his belly button yet the rest of him sliding deliciously along your folds. 

He chuckles low when you moan at the way his cock slides against the button of nerves above your folds when he undulates those toned hips of his again. 

“Yes, baby. Starving.” The space around your arms shifts and invisible streaks erupting through it before the colorless, leaden matter set alight by embers shoots down around your forearms and hands, his Evol over gravity tethering you in place so his hands can wrap around your thighs, pulling them over each of his broad shoulders so he’s got your ass resting against his sternum and your sex inches from his waiting mouth.“I told you before…I want everything you are willing to give me. That includes your sweet, delicious honey.”

You don’t resist him. You’re exactly where you want to be right now while his irises lower to where you’re bare for him. He sucks in a breath, staring like he’s looking a fucking meal, “You left yourself bare for me…what a needy girl. But you know, I like my girl needy for me. That’s hot.”

He inhales deeply through his nose, your intoxicating scent making his eyes roll back before those heavy tendrils of his power, receptive to his hunger, pull at the edges of your nightgown. They slowly tug it up your body, each sliver of skin you present to him making his salivary glands water as he swallows around a suddenly dry throat. And between his legs, his cock hardens impossibly more when the fabric of your nightgown crests over your perfect, pert breasts, the peaks of which are stiff and demanding of his attention. You’re already glistening with wetness for him, the evidence of your arousal evident in the sheen of it that coats your cunt from your earlier illicit activity. 

“pip-squeak…you’re so beautiful.” It’s a remnant of his usual voice that comes out, for you’ve stolen his ability to breathe not for the first time, and certainly not for the last. “Please let me have you right here on the counter in our kitchen. I’ll make you feel good just like I always do. I’ll take such good care of you, baby.”

Ever mindful of you and your wishes, he gives you the chance to decide. And ever the light to his shadow, you could sooner reject him than the moon could halt its wayward journey around the solar system. 

“I’m all yours, Caleb.” You muster, your own words rushed under the current of his eyes that garner every bit of your attention. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me when you say that, my sweet girl?” The pink of his tongue peeks from between his lips, stretching and elongating before it gently passes itself along the slit of your sex, licking up in a long, wet stripe before it curls back into his mouth, the thick glaze of you covering it before it disappears between his lips. “You make me want to please you so fucking much. I won’t be able to stop until you’re a moaning, writhing mess for me.” His eyes darken as the essence of you spreads itself across every taste bud, his fingers coiling harder into your thighs. “I’m going to eat you out until I am satisfied, my sweet girl. Until you fill my fucking mouth with your precious come.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond after that, for he attaches his mouth to your cunt like a man starved, his mouth becoming a circle of searing suction that demands everything you have. The tang of you is unlike any savory substance he’s ever had across his palate, and mixed with the sugary drippings of apple juice that had coursed down from your breasts to your belly to the thin thatch of hair that his nose is now buried in, you’re a mix of delicacy and sin that he will never tire of supping. 

“C-Caleb…ah-” You stutter when that expert of a tongue of his sidles between your folds, lapping you up like he’s a dog. 

“Mmm, you taste so fucking delicious, baby,” he hums against your sex, the metal of one hand glinting in the silvery moonlight as he slides it up the supple curves of your body until his fingers are wound around your breast. There, he kneads into your flesh, loving the show of expressions dressed in your satisfaction that you bear to him while you are made the receiver of his gluttony. “Your tits are so perky and perfect just like the rest of you. I love how they fit in my hands, pretty girl.” The strong muscle that he glides between your labia there and back makes a sweltering heat begin to pool in the basest part of you, the fingers he has on your breast running over the dusky bud of your areola before they roll it between them. “I can’t wait to put my mouth on them later.”

Your spine arches at that, the beauteous arc of that making him ache between his legs as he ravenously suckles you like you’re a meal he’s happy to wolf down, your very essence slathered across his tongue where he flattens it between your soddened lips, dragging it up and over your hole that clenches around nothing while he consumes you with the vigor of a man drunk on the high of you. 

“Yes, fuck…more, pretty girl. Feed me more,” his words are muffled with his mouth still swathed around you, the flat of his tongue splaying itself over your hole only to twist around it in frenzied rotations to draw out more tears of your need from it. “You’re so fucking good.”

Freer than water over the brim of a cup, your voice spills from your throat, “P-please, Caleb…Please.”

With your pleas drawn forth from you, thirst saturates his orbs as he sucks you between his teeth, the sounds of his slurping causing an even fiercer wave of desire to engulf you as your sex sheds even more slick for him. He catches it all onto his tongue with fervor, the resulting sigh of his satisfaction joining the filthy sounds of your passion that you make together.

“You want this tongue inside you, baby?” He mouths from where his mouth is melded to you, “What my sweet girl wants is what she will get.” His last word is swallowed by your cunt when the tip of his tongue slips into your hole, and he slowly sinks into you inch by delicious inch. You keen at that, and when he flicks it against your walls side to side, it makes the warmth of bliss surge up through your fucking veins from where he’s fixed to you with each devastating flick of it along your plush, velveteen insides that welcome him eagerly. 

There’s nothing languid about the way it writhes along the soft cushion of your walls, the movements of it wild and fevered like he can’t get enough of your addicting flavor as he uses the possessive grip he’s got on the pillow of your thigh to impel himself deeper inside you while you tighten around him. With his tongue still lodged within you, he mumbles, “Be a good girl and wrap your legs tighter around me, baby. I want to feast on you as much as I can. Can you do that for me?”

The vibrations of his voice are carried along his tongue and straight into the bundle of nerves nestled deep within you. You barely manage to comprehend his request, your brain malfunctioning under the burrowing of his tongue farther into you so you’re stuffed unbelievably with the wet length of him while he palms at your breast, twiddling your nipple between his thumb and index while heat coils in your core.

In the absence of your mind’s input, your walls constrict around him and your body obeys him, your thighs closing around his head to keep him lodged between your legs, your ankles crossing over each other so your heels can secure and lock him in place.

“There you go.” His words are smothered by your cunt as he dines on you, “That’s it, pretty girl.” He guzzles you between his lips, tongue grazing and gliding over each and every edge and lineation of your silken basin until no part of you has not been left lathered in his saliva while his other hand joins its counterpart so on your neglected breast. 

You feel those familiar tendrils of his Evol holding your hips in place, even his own power refusing to relinquish you while his hand cups the underside of your tit, thumb dragging itself along your nipple while his artificial palm fondles your other. 

You cry out at the series of sensations that don’t pause or let up, his eyes misting over in the haze of his desire that demands every bit of you as he breathes in your inebriating aroma that drives him fucking mad. 

You call out his name, begging for him once again, and it earns you another twirl of his tongue around the tunnel of your pussy as he intones, “I know, pretty girl. I’m making you into a desperate little mess. But don’t worry, I’ll make you come soon, baby. I want you to cream all over my face just as badly as you do.” He draws in a deep breath of you at the same time that vulgar tongue of his swivels inside you, his fingers playing with the buds of your nipples while you moan loudly as the coil in your core tautens. “You’re getting close already, huh, baby? It makes me feel so good to be able to listen to you sing for me while I pleasure you. Shit...I just can’t get enough of you.”

You entice him even nearer with your legs, squeezing him between your thighs by way of answer, your words lost to the pleasure that steadily begins to wind around your lower abdomen all the way to your brain. Your hips try to buck against him in search of more friction, but his Evol keeps you in place, unable to move while he tongue-fucks you, swallowing every now and again the taint of your own appetence. 

He notices that small movement of your hips, listens to your resulting whine when you are halted from that endeavor, because then the tendrils of his Evol that had been binding you still from above and below your waist start to conform to your shape, the makeshift digits acting as hands that support you down your back and ass rather than tethering your hips in place. 

“Ride my face, pretty girl,” he instructs as the hot length of his tongue penetrates the tight ring of your hole, immediately striking you frenetically along your walls while he’s swaddled in the vice of your cunt that clenches around him. “Remember what I taught you.” 

His encouragement fires the sparks of your action, and you immediately follow his directive. Your hips roll into him, the border of your lips catching on his nose and just barely hitting the edge of the bundle of nerves crowning your cunt while his fingers gently trace the pebbling outline of your nipples. Your mouth soon falls open to emit the wanton sounds of your blissful rhapsody. 

Headiness makes the air heavy between you, your back bowing at the tantalizing thrill that he arouses in you while he continues to flit his tongue in rampant, gyrated motions inside you while you grind yourself against his face like he’d told you to while he praises, “Just like that. You’re doing so well for me, baby. You’re so nice to suck on while you’re using my face to feel good.” 

Over and over you oscillate your hips against him, for each time producing a faster, fevered rhythm in the back-and-forth of the hot muscle of his tongue against you while he swills your piquant quintessence into his mouth. His hands never stray from your breasts, devoted to the peaks of your tits that have peaked under his constant attention. His irises smolder you in his zealousness, and you can’t escape the wildfires they make you burn with as he lavishes his love on you. 

Inevitably, the coil of need that had been building inside you threatens to burst, and he knows it, because when he buries his face even farther into you, angling his chin in this way and that so he can lave his tongue up the far end of your walls before pivoting it provokingly at places you didn’t even know existed in the trench of you, he feels the way you grip onto him harder, your sex contracting harder around him while he coos, “Yeah, fuck, I’m so hard for you, baby. Keep going.” 

Your hips hasten their pace, chasing the ecstasy that twines itself tighter in the base of your belly with every sway of them along the lower half of his nose, cheeks, and mouth. Your breaths have become shallow, barely a figment of what they once were where you whimper for him. The globes of your breasts heave up and down even with his hands still covering and rubbing at your rigid peaks while you rock yourself shamelessly on him, deliriousness spewing into him as you careen toward your end. 

“Tell me how good I am, baby.” His voice is smothered by you, his tongue drowning most of the syllables in the depths of you, “Tell me I’m the only one who can make you into a wet, dripping mess that wants no one but me. Let me hear your voice, pretty girl, and I’ll give you what you want so badly.”

You grind like a craven creature  along the bridge of his nose all the way down to the end of his chin, the gleam of your taint left in your continual passage atop of him, your entire system flushed with the same frenzy he takes you with. 

Coherency has forsaken you now, its forebear of wantonness left to overwhelm you in its place. 

It is why you moan out, “You’re so good to me, Caleb. So, so good. Better than anyone could ever be,” you throw your head back, and he sees the whites of your eyes when his tongue streaks faster than a comet back and forth within your plush galaxy that he could spend years exploring, words slurred from your efforts as you soddenly cant your hips astride him while avarice incarnate churns your core and cunt. “No one can fuck me like you, touch me like you do, or kiss me like you do. No one, and absolutely no one, can love me as you do.” 

The words are but echoes of a chant he’d been your maestro for, aiding and directing your notes of enthrallment for him while he’d pitched you into an impassioned  dance your body had responded only to him with. 

Your answer activates something feral in him, his pupils blowing wide and nearly absorbing the circlets of compressed morning dawn in them. Metal fingers take your chin between them, maneuvering your attention back to him and all you can see are the dimmed nebulae of his eyes as the space above where you both have become one distorts and distills. The tendrils of his Evol divaricate and break through it, reaching down until-

“Only I can have you like this. Now look at me when I make you cum, baby. I want you to remember this memory of me between your legs and never, ever forget it. You’re going to recognize me by sight, smell, touch, sound…everything.” Your eyes snap open and latch onto him when the cumbrous, corpulent striations of his Evol, all at once, press down on your clit in a feeling akin to hundreds of tiny palpitations and pulses against the bundle of nerves as he manipulates gravity solely for you. Your gasp is garbled and your hips jerk and jounce at the sudden flux of sensations, and then his other hand is there, on your hip, to help you keep going while his tongue makes schlepping noises where he fervently frisks it up and down in rapid succession within your clinging walls. “Such a good listener you are. I need you to cum in my mouth now, pretty girl. I need you to feed me your honey.” 

Your mouth falls open in an ‘o’ shape, the sonorous scream that resounds from you making even the walls tremble in its volume as your body obeys his directive and your world goes white with the shattering of the tension he’d founded in you. From its springs a fierce, fiery pleasure that floods you from he’s fused with you, the torrid, intense waves of it washing over you from the tips of your fingers to the ends of your toes that cramp and curl behind his back. 

He fucks you through your orgasm, the ribbons under his control winding down your sex slithering around and between his lips before they nuzzle the flowerbed of nerves buried far into you. The hot length he threshes about in your silken channel moves with an inhuman speed as the other hundreds of tendrils of his Evol ruinously ravage your clit over and over again while you wail and whimper for the man beneath you, your cunt cinching and spasming around him. 

Your essence gushes forth like a lewd stream into his anticipating mouth where he’s still got it moored to you, groaning deep and low where he receives you before he’s relaxing his tongue and opening wider to thirstily drink up the saccharine juices you have made for him. 

“Keep coming. Fuck, keep coming for me. I love your taste. Need it every fucking day,” he sloppily swallows your slick down, “Give me every drop, baby. I want your taste to linger in my mouth forever.”

You don’t have to be told twice, the tendrils ceaseless and unabating in their pressure as they depress themselves over the most sensitive parts of you without pause. They leave no area unclaimed, rushing and lapping at you everywhere over and around your clit and g-spot in their own kisses to you that make their master jealous.

Their master, who pushes his hips into the counter, halting the small undulations they’d been making into it while he observes your euphorically erotic performance just for him. Their master, who squeezes himself between the counter and his body where his cock splutters with pre-cum, a pervasive twinging of an ache declaring its longing for you even when he stifles it with the small, constringing threads of his Evol that force his orgasm down into the base of his balls. 

More you spill into his mouth as if a dam had been broken between your legs while he guides your grinding pussy there and back along his nose to his chin, the reservoir of his mouth receiving your release while you gush uncontrollably between his lips. 

“Such a tasty cunt,” He drains you like you’re the fountain of his very life, each movement of his Adam’s apple bringing with it the sound of his gratification in the low groans he lets out. When the flow of your juices begins to slow, each of those colorless ribbons of his power disintegrate,  his tongue retreating into his mouth so he can sip on you again and again– insatiable for you as an emaciated, famished male who hasn’t fed for weeks. 

His want is there, each time he draws you in, and it writhes in the irises that dilate and expand as he besottedly ogles the blissed, fucked out expression that has you mewling, the unbelievable intensity of your climax leaving you feeling as if you’re suspended entirely in some astral dimension that only your lover could augment before you. 

“Thank you,” he says it in some kind of daze, like the tart twang and tangy scent of you have clogged his mind of any reasonable thought while he languidly cleans you up, “Thank you so much, my love.”

Fondness makes your heart swell for him, and you’ve forgotten that the ribbons of his Evol still keep your arms tied down and entirely too distant from him. 

“Caleb,” your voice is hoarse from your earlier outcries, “I want to touch you. Can I?”

Your plea has the tendrils binding your arms to the counter dissolving and releasing you, your request brushing past the brume of the trance that you’d put him under while the other strands of his Evol encasing you around your pelvis diffuse into thin air. 

He cleans you with his tongue, entreating whatever remains onto it, your thighs slackening and opening around his head in the feeling that has been sapped out of you.

Once he’s sure he’s devoured every last morsel of the dinner, lunch, and breakfast that he’d made of you, his hands return to your sides to carefully ease you back down onto the counter so you’re laid against it once more. 

“You do not need to ask me that, my love. I love it when you touch me,” He licks his lips, the lewd daubing of your taint embracing the wet length of him as satisfaction morphs his handsome features when the last of you is lathered across his palate. “I live only for you, anyway.”

His confession makes your cheeks flush a shade of red even rubies couldn’t hope to compare to, and it only becomes a mightier shade when you blink up at him with those long, obsidian-like lashes of yours while he uses the back of his artificial, roboticized hand to wipe away the glistening sheen of your essence that still sullies his chin and nose before the pink muscle in his mouth slips out to relish in that, too. “I would do anything for you because I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

Familiar heat simmers between your legs, and you extend your slightly shaky arm toward him, fingers outstretched in effort to make contact with him while you answer, “You would never let me forget.” As tall as he is, he’s too far away even though he’s stood against the countertop, your own legs now dangling on either side of him. 

You whine at his unwanted farness despite your thighs that tremblingly try and fail to clamp him between them, and the resulting chuckle of amusement makes wings take flight in your chest as he responsively tilts his front forward, head lowering a little so you can dotingly cradle his cheek in your hand.

“What do you want, pip-squeak?” He rests his head in your hand, his knuckles of his other hand tenderly trailing down the underside of your arm to feel more of your smooth skin while his other, bionic one braces him against the counter so his chest hangs closely above yours. 

“You.” Your answer is fetched forth by the attracting force that is him, the debris of hesitation eradicated under the nebulae in his eyes that spin with adoration and devotion solely to you. 

“You have me, sweet girl,” he coos. “You always have.”

You’d never been good with words. Still, he made you want to be. 

So you try to show him what you mean another way, bending one elbow under you so you can surround yourself in his musky, masculine scent of iron and grass. Like this, you can’t miss the fully engorged, painfully erect member between his thighs that’d he’d left neglected out of his devoutness to you. 

You whine at the sight of him, fingers twitching impulsively at the sight of him as he tells you, “I know that look in your eyes, pretty girl, but I won’t last if you touch me there right now. I need you too much right now.” 

An emotion your language simply didn’t have a means of expressing makes the whole of your heart twinge and pang for him, your fingers drifting down from his cheek so they can maunder down his neck to where pliant flesh meets rigid, hard metal. The daintiness of your touch makes him shudder, and his carefully shrouded vulnerability exposes itself in the shadows within the corner of one of his eyes as your fingers nimbly meander down the dark plating of iron where his receptors can’t feel you anymore–nonetheless, you don’t stop until your palm lays against the back of his. 

“You once said that humans who love each other can mate their souls together if their vessels become one.” Your digits curl inward, filling the space he’d left open for you between his metallic fingers while his other digits reverently follow the curve of your shoulder blade to the dip of your spine. “I want that with you.”

His breath is snagged away by you, and he still sounds so very winded whenever the imaginings he’d had of you are replaced with the reality that is so, so much more beautiful than anything his mind could conjure. 

“Are you certain, my one and only?” He asks breathlessly while you bring the artificial phalanges of his iron hand to your lips, kissing each where human joints would be in the middle of every single one of them. 

Ever considerate of you and your own will, his question only whisks forth the truth of many moons and suns spent basking in the rays of his care and affection. 

“These past two cycles without you made me realize that there is only one thing that has any meaning to me in this place, Caleb, and that is you,” You profess, turning his hand over so you can intertwine your fingers with his. He interlaces his with yours, each fitting perfectly next yours like they were designed just for this purpose. All the while, he admires every bit of the spread of red dusting over your cheeks while you say, “Make love to me until our spirits mate for life. Until we can’t remember what it was to be without each other.”

The kindle of your voice sets him alight with pining that refuses to be doused until his very being is joined in the heat of passion with yours, and he stiffens unbelievably more between your parted legs while the bulbous head of his enlarged, swollen cock leaks his pre-cum that has you wetting your lips, your tastebuds secreting saliva at the delicious sight of him. 

“As you wish,” he faithfully utters before using the union made by your hands to help you sit up. His other digits faintly course down your spine, pebbling your flesh as they go. The soft pads of his fingertips don’t disappear until he reaches the small of your back where the globes of your ass hide you from him. “My moon and my stars,” those calloused digits fasten around your thigh, “My one and only in this life and the next.” 

You watch him bring your intertangled hands to his mouth, the shape of them pledging themselves to you in the fleeting, deferent kiss he impresses upon the back of yours before he ensconces it over the corded thew of his shoulder, doing the same to with your other.

“However you’ll have me, I’ll come to you. And I will make all your wishes come true. Every single one of them,” His bionic, metal hand joins its counterpart along the home of the backs of your thighs so  he can entwine you around his toned torso one leg after the other. While he does this, he angles his head to the side, the hotness of his breath blown against the shell of your ear while he murmurs, “I made a promise to you that I’d bring you to a paradise that is just for us. Whether it is my body or being that takes you there, my sweet girl, you’ll find it with me.” The torrid territory of his mouth skims the cartilage of your ear as he admits, “After all, you have been my Eden from the first time I looked upon you in that garden of tubes, glass, and monitors.” 

“Take me, then. Make me entirely yours so that we can always be together.” You declare, wrapping your legs and arms resolutely, unwaveringly around him. 

His control snaps, and from its remains, his want takes over. 

“Finally,” The word is hurried, rushed from the base of his throat when he easily lifts you up against his body and turns to hastily trudge away from the counter, his mouth tangling with yours in a mess of teeth and spit, the wet smacking of your lips all that you hear past his groan when you move your hips against him, your sex skirting along the tip of the several inches of his infatuation with you before your spine hits a wall, an untamed intent rearing in his eyes when he surfaces for air to husk, “Take it off for me, pretty girl. You won’t need that little nightdress before, during, or after what I’m going to do to you.” 

You heed him, peeling it off your body where it had been bunched atop your breasts and discarding it somewhere behind him unceremoniously while his irises roam and ravage your completely exposed form to make heat ignite everywhere they raze. 

“Caleb,” you whine, entranced by the unbridled, unadulterated lust that conflagrates in his orbs, stoking you in his desire. 

“You looked so pretty for me when you were getting off on my tongue earlier, my love. I would have come against the counter just from watching you, but I couldn’t let myself. Do you want to know why?” He mutters, adjusting and raising you up before the streaks of his Evol quickly clamor around your lower half so he can release you with one of his hands to take his massive, veiny and girthy length into it. “One: you were so beautiful while you enjoyed yourself on that countertop. I couldn’t bear to stop when you looked so tempting. Two: I wanted to come home. I wanted to cum inside you.”

Possessiveness has him slapping his head against your core to sodden you in his own essence, your pussy contracting around nothing while you shed more tears for him there. 

He exhales shakily,  prodding at your entrance with his tip. “You’re so wet for me, pretty girl. My spit and your juices look so pretty on you.” He lines himself up with your drenched hole and he sighs satisfactorily at the way you gaze at him from under a fan of dark lashes, “I’m going to fuck you until all that you know is me, my love. Until all that you can think about is me. Until all you can remember is me.” 

You clasp your arms around his neck, touching the bridge of his nose with yours, “That sounds like paradise to me.”

With your consent, his Evol bears you down onto his cock all in one fluid motion, the delightful fullness and friction from him bottoming out within you making your eyelids flutter while the both of you elicit the vocal sounds resonant of your rapturous union. 

“Fuck,” he curses, “You feel like a dream.” He husks, the invisible tendrils under his control holding your hips in place and turning you weightless while he nearly draws himself out of you only to bury himself back into you to the hilt nice and deep. “No, you’re better than a dream. And you’re all mine. Say it, pretty girl. Say you’re mine.”

“Y-yours,” you stammer when his warm, wet mouth encloses you where your shoulder meets your neck, sucking you between his teeth hungrily as the blood that rushes beneath it is coaxed to where he mars you while he thrusts debasingly into your pussy. 

“I have to remind you that I belong to you, baby, and leave traces of me all over you. You’ll look so gorgeous with my marks all over you.” Up your neck he travels, leaving flowers of red and pink in his wake while he crosses the orchard of your neck to the other side, the veins of his cock brushing against your walls caressingly as he picks up his pace needfully. “When you look at them, you’ll see that I chose you. That I’d only ever choose you. ”

Your walls embrace him tightly at that, and it earns a long, drawn out groan from where his mouth captures yours, teeth gnashing and tongue thrashing against yours in his insistence.

“I want it. Want you,” You mewl into him, your head falling back when his skilled maw descends to dote on your chest, the hot length of his tongue licking around and then over the pliant area of your nipple. He draws a line of spit with it to your other, taking it into his mouth so he can taste you while he plunges powerfully into you with his bulging cock that rubs deliriously against you.

“I’ll give it to you, pretty girl. You’re taking me so well. You feel so good,” He grits his teeth at the divine and damning sanctuary of your body, hastening the drive of his length into you even through the denial of his own end and continual shunting of it with his Evol that swells his balls and member to the brim in the buildup of his captivation for you. “I was made for you, pretty girl. And you were made just for me.” 

Through the haze of your lust that he fills you with, you can vaguely ascertain that he’s fuller than usual, that the network of veins and ridges constellating his much thicker cock pulsate sporadically while he tries to mask it with a bite onto your tit, teeth sinking into you that will surely impart a series of crescents there in the shape of him. 

“Caleb-” You barely get his name out before he shoves his throbbing member harder into you so every bit of him is seated in you, his pace quickening with each purposeful drive of his cock inside your willing and waiting cunt that clamps around him as if to keep him there. 

The slap of his heavy balls against your ass are obscene even to your own ears as his tip kisses your cervix with each quickening thrust, each one turning your thoughts to mush while his eyes flash feverishly up at you from where he’s got your tit bound between his lips. 

“Command me,” he orders, teeth territorially leaving their impression over and around the peaked bud of your other breast while he slams his length into you even faster as he sets a brutal, merciless rhythm, your whimpers wrenched from your throat while he drools around you, spit gleaming licentiously in its viscous venture down your belly. “Command me to let go for you, baby. Tell me to give the seed of my love to you that you’re going to carry inside this pretty pussy of yours.”

You can’t even think anymore, your words lost to the unwavering, relentless pistoning of his pulsating, swollen member that knocks against your g-spot each and every time he pounds into you to make the heat that has spread in your core smolder and flare with an intensity that even a wildfire would fail to contain.

Fingers of steel that can no longer detect sensation grab your jaw in an iron-grip, the manic glint in his eyes sending you deeper into the flames of felicity while his other hand flattens against your belly to feel himself where he protrudes against you while rams himself into your silken channel. “I said,” he punctuates each word with a lurid lurch of his hips, “Command me.”

His order summons your voice from the bowels of your body, your baser being temporarily avulsed from the depths of yourself as your mouth falls ajar when the palm against your stomach turns so the pads of his index and middle fingers can zealously stroke the cluster of nerves of your clit, the heel of his hand pushing into the sensitive area just above the thatch of hair overlying your sex to make his intrusions even more decadently depraved. 

“Let…l-let go for me, Caleb,” you incoherently babble, “W-want your…want your seed inside me.”

His eyes darken, and then he hums, “Mmm, I knew you would listen. You’re such a good girl. I’m going to ask you to do one more thing for me. Can you do that?” 

You nod, not trusting your voice to last with how he splits you apart until you don’t know where you start and he ends, tits jiggling and jostling where the colorless striations of his Evol don’t pin you in place against the wall while his fingers render aberrant patterns over and on your sensitive bundle of nerves cresting your cunt. 

“Fall apart on my cock and succumb to me, baby. Milk me fucking dry.” His fingers push down along your engorged nub while several invisible streaks of the power under his control stretch around and between his digits to consort with him like extensions of his own hand, brutally impelling themselves against your bloated button of nerves in tandem with the catastrophic whirl of his fingers against it. ”Show me how much you love me while I fill you up with mine.” 

You dazedly watch his lips move, the meaning of them slow to find you while he ravishes you with his cock with a final, fatal, calamitous blow that hits you in all the right places, not a single part of you devoid of his length as your body obeys him. Your walls spasm and convulse around him as you let out a piercing cry of his name and hot, blinding, white pleasure uproariously makes you its fortissimo. 

He’s bewitched by you as you move like a melody caught in slow motion, each breath a note drawn out, deliberate, aching with anticipation. The rhythm built inside you–a private symphony–pulsing low and deep like bass beneath the velvet sky of the dark. You were the strings of a musical instrument and he the composer, your body arched in perfect sync with the rising tempo. When your climax comes, it is a full crescendo–raw, electric, soul-deep–the kind of moment where the world falls away and only the music remains, echoing in your bones long after the final note fades. You don’t just feel pleasure–you become the song, and in that instant, you and he are infinite.

Your voluminous, glorious orgasm sends him into his, and he fucking bursts, shooting his molten seed inside you with a reverberating rumble of groan that sets your blood afire. 

“That’s right, pretty girl,” he encourages, “You’re so gorgeous when you lose yourself on top of me, my love. Keep going. I won’t let a single bit of me out of you.” 

You do as he says, even your labored breaths clinging to each other as he ruts his hips into yours, helping you to ride out your orgasm until your walls have stopped fluttering around him in a euphoric ballad while his mouth secures itself to yours, mingling his saliva and breath with yours in a messy string of kisses that don’t cease until his fingers find the backs of your thighs so he can languidly summon his Evol into the ether just to hold you nearer against his chest. 

Still he fills you, each white spurt lovingly caressing parts of you that you didn’t even know you had. 

So stuffed full of his cum, a sliver of it slips down your thigh, but several streaks of his power push it back up inside your cunt, keeping it all there while you try to hold the rest of his release within you. 

Your limbs tremble from the intenseness of your illicit activities, but it is a pleasing kind of numbness that is left in his wake while your hands dangle from the back of his neck, fresh red lines made from your nails now adorning him there that he wears proudly.

He waits until you’ve caught your breath until he asks, “Are you okay, pip-squeak? Was I too much?”

You smile at him, a different kind of feeling flittering through your chest when his eyes light up at you while you say, “There’s no such thing as ‘too much’ with you. I loved it…and you.” You attempt to card your quivering, jellified fingers through his tousled, mussed hair and he preens at the action. 

He croons, his own smile reaching his eyes when he rubs his nose against yours, “That’s what I like to hear. I love you, too, you know.” He gives a soothing squeeze to your strained and still quaking muscles along your thighs, “ Do you need me to give you a massage? You may not be able to use your legs for a little while, pip-squeak.”

Your cheeks burn at that last part, the inclination to hide your face in his neck where he’s shining with the sheen of sweat awfully provocative right now. “That does sound appealing, but you have not properly eaten yet. You need to.”

He arches a brow, and incredulous, he retorts, “What are you talking about? I just did. And it was delicious.”

Impulsiveness wins over your still recovering rationale, and you claim his Adam’s apple between your teeth while you challenge, “That’s not a real meal, mister. I’m not going to let you starve because of me. I love you too much for that. You can make us both something and we can eat together. I’ll tell you about the dreams I had of you while you were gone. How does that sound?” 

That piques his interest, and then he’s heading toward your bedroom with you tucked safely in his arms while he offers, “Sounds good to me. But I think a shower is in order after that. I need to clean you up.”

He watches your irises dip down where you’re both still connected, chuckling to himself when you give an inquisitive look. “And you plan to keep that inside me while you do?”

“Oh, pip-squeak,” he muses, “There are many ways to make sure it stays where it belongs. And if you lose any of it,” He takes the bottom of your earlobe between his teeth, “I’ll just make sure you give you some more.”

Familiar heat stirs between your legs, and you playfully nip over the notch of his Adam's apple while you say, “You’re insatiable.” 

“Only for you, my love,” He passionately professes through a pleased grunt, “So, what do you want me to make for us?”

“Anything as long as it is made by you. You can choose for me. You know what I like better than I do.” Your answer honestly as your lids grow heavy, and when you lay your head against his chest, you can hear how his heart is tuned to the same beat of yours. “My only request is something with apples in it. They remind me of you.”

“And what is it about them that reminds you of me?” His tone is the timbre of music in its peaked curiosity, the plop of his feet against the floor a soft backdrop against it as he peers amorously down at you. 

 Crisp where he needed to be, soft where he allowed, with a tartness that showed when life bit too hard. The scientists and commanders of Ever thought they knew him after one passing, scrutinizing glare, but they missed the way he carried seasons in his soul– the sunlight, the storms, the long patient ripening. And like an apple, he held your truth at the core– not always easy to reach, but real, and worth it.

You confess the musings you’d long harvested in your heart, they flow easily when he looks at you like you’re his entire universe. Each word nurtures in him a happiness that beams from those brilliant eyes of dawn and sunset that are merged together in them, and he effuses that comfortable warmth through your every bone, cell, and atom, your body fusing itself to his in a manner of seeking that went far beyond the flesh and mortal coil. 

Hours pass and he never drifts from you, unable to leave his moon and stars. Time is but a poor construct in his presence, because he instills and imparts in you the rich, vibrant wonders of life that manifest down to his every breath. 

When your bellies have been sated and he’s carefully washed you of the sweat, spit, and slick you’d unconditionally made for each other,  he takes you to bed. There, his fingers–magnetized to you–lulling each tensed, overused muscle of yours into relaxedness from where he’d lain you atop of him before tracing the outline of your every curve while whispering sweet nothings into your ear where it had been nestled into the crook of his neck. 

You’d given in easily into the tantalizing tug of sleep, for he’d enticed all of your energy and ability to move properly, the devout worship of his digits–both of metal and of flesh–too divine not to surrender to. 

When your even, measured breaths brush at his throat and your eyes have fallen closed, that’s when he presents his mouth against your temple, surreptitiously delivering a vow of his fealty, loyalty, and faith while you sleep peacefully–blissfully– in his arms. 

“Rest well, my one and only. I promise to you that in life and in death, we will never be apart.” 

Your peaceful expression lures him into his dreams, wanting to be with you there, too. 

The black void of space soon swarms him, his body robbed of its weight as he falls toward a scorched, scarred planet iriscable in the flame of its doomed fate. He’s been torn away from you again, and when he attempts to move, to try to find you, his appendages each fail him, each bereft and depleted of strength. 

Dismembered drones, Wanderers, and synthetic droids plummet past pieces of what once were cruisers, the lone, untouched ship of steel above him an abandoned refuge to the holder of his heart who dives toward him unflinchingly and determinedly as you cry out his name. 

Your kindling touch, when you furl your arms around his neck, restarts his every nerve and it’s all he can do to warn you of the imminence of his decay, your consuming connection corrupted by the same source that made you for each other of which he’d been trying to protect you from.  

There’s nothing but conviction in the pools of your eyes when you confess that this–being with him– is where you want to be. That the world being wrought in disastrous destruction is not scary, but losing him–going on to exist in a place where he is not– that is a nightmare you could never bear. 

There, in the pit of space, he makes his final promise to you, sealing it with a deep and devouring kiss that even the sun and moon commit to memory in the passionate profession of your love to the galaxy beyond. Then, the powerful intensity that your souls burn with for each other finally, fatally combusts into an inferno of light and matter. 

Like two stars that can’t be contained in their destiny to be together, the spark of your connection explodes, and then, he knows only you as the brilliant phosphorescence your union creates swirls and whirls around you, a supernova of destructive proportion coupling you with him forever that is felt through the far reaches of space. 

Subconsciously, he ensconces you in his arms just a little tighter from where you both lie with each other in your bed, your name spoken as a servant addresses their goddess. 

And unknowing yet just as perceptive to him, you press yourself against him just a little more insistently, his name a pleading prayer as it flits past your lips while you slumber on in the solace only he could ever bring.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Hii, I was wondering if you could do poly141! with a crush on administrator!reader? Like how they would all be having a crush on her and eventually bringing her into the relationship? No worries if not, I love your work and you’re one of my fave accounts. Have a good day💗

At Their Mercy

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings: Tension, suggestive flirting, possessiveness, military setting, mutual pining, rumor mill drama, reader described as professional/feminine-coded, slow burn with romantic payoff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy! I absolutely love this idea!! This is a fantastic idea and I hope I captured what you imagined! I’m so glad you love my writing as well!

Summary: You run the tightest operation Task Force 141 has ever seen. But even the sharpest minds can be unraveled when four elite soldiers set their sights on you.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You ran a tight ship.

The kind of ship that never hit rocks, never leaked, and never allowed room for error. As the lead administrative liaison for Task Force 141, you were the bridge between elite chaos and tight military structure. Every mission roster, clearance request, requisition form, and post-op report came through you first. You were the force behind the front lines—silent, efficient, untouchable.

You dealt with mission logistics, debriefs, diplomatic correspondence, and more red tape than any human being should have to suffer. Every supply chain was calculated to the second. Every form filed precisely. Even if it meant chasing men with blood on their boots down the hall to get them to sign a single line.

It was a high-stress job.

But you thrived on control. On being the one fixed point in a volatile world.

Until they came along.

Captain John Price. Simon “Ghost” Riley. Johnny “Soap” MacTavish. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick.

The 141.

They were a storm wrapped in Kevlar—brilliant, lethal, insubordinate, and damn near impossible to manage. They were the embodiment of beautiful chaos. The opposite of everything you stood for.

And your undoing.

John was the first to notice you—not just for your mind or precision, but for your calm. You were a lighthouse in the combat fog. You never flinched when brass raised their voice. You never cracked under pressure. He respected it. Then he admired it. And before long, that admiration curled into something deeper. Something more.

Simon came next. You didn’t shrink away from him like others did. You handed him mission packets without hesitation. Spoke to him like he was just another man, not the reaper in a skull mask. That grounded him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

Johnny flirted from the start. Relentlessly. At first, it was just to get a rise out of you. But when all he got was sarcasm and the occasional unimpressed glance? That made it personal. A challenge. And Johnny loved a challenge. Especially when the prize was someone like you.

And Kyle… Kyle never pushed. He observed. He noticed how you rubbed your temples when no one was looking. How you tucked your mug into the same corner of your desk every morning. How you softened—just a touch—when it was only them in the room. He didn’t flirt. He *saw* you. And that made it worse. Because it made it real.

You tried not to encourage them.

You dressed sharp. Stayed professional. Avoided lingering. You didn’t meet their eyes when they looked too long.

But they knew.

They noticed when your shoulders relaxed in the privacy of your office. When you started teasing Johnny back under your breath. When you called Simon “brooding” and made him *smirk*. When you caught Kyle watching you and actually *smiled*. When you told John to stop looming like a disappointed father, and he laughed.

They saw the cracks forming.

And then the rumors started.

You heard them in the mess hall, murmured by soldiers with too much time and too little respect. That you were sleeping with the 141. That Kyle got special treatment. That Johnny kissed you behind the armory. One lunatic even swore he saw you sneaking out of Simon’s quarters—which was laughable, considering no one knew where Simon actually slept.

None of it was true.

Yet.

It got back to you fast. You called a meeting with HR. Filed two formal complaints. Nearly took a corporal’s head off when he winked at you in the hallway.

You thought maybe the 141 hadn’t heard.

But one day, you stepped into your office to find John seated at your desk.

“Close the door,” he said quietly.

You did.

“We heard the rumors.”

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “They’re lies.”

“Don’t doubt that,” he said. “But they’re still hurting you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to us.”

You looked at him, and something shifted in the air between you. “Why?”

Simon stepped in from the side room. “Because we care.”

Kyle leaned in the doorway. “Because we’re tired of pretending.”

Johnny entered last, his face softer than you’d ever seen it. “Because it’s true. Maybe not yet—but we want it to be.”

Your heart hammered in your chest.

John stood and came closer. “We’re not asking you to throw away your job. We’re not going to parade anything. But the four of us… we’ve talked. We want you. All of us.”

Simon added, “You make us better. Tighter. Calmer.”

Johnny smirked, just a little. “You even make Ghost smile. That’s a miracle, love.”

Kyle’s voice was gentle. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

You looked at all of them—John’s fierce steadiness, Simon’s burning silence, Johnny’s relentless affection, Kyle’s quiet care—and something in you broke open.

You didn’t speak. Just moved.

You stepped forward and curled your hand into John’s shirt, tugging him down. You kissed him. Soft. Certain.

Then turned and kissed Kyle—slow and sweet. Simon stepped closer and pressed a palm to your waist like he was anchoring you, and you turned and kissed him, too, his mask barely lifted, lips warm and wanting.

Johnny grinned when you reached for him. “Knew you liked me,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I like all of you, but you’re all still insufferable.” you whispered back.

Their touches were careful after that. Reverent. John cupped the back of your head. Kyle rubbed slow circles into your back. Simon rested his hand at your hip, solid. Johnny leaned his forehead against yours like he never wanted to leave.

It wasn’t perfect. It wouldn’t be easy.

But it was yours.

And for once, you let yourself fall.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[gingerteafairy]

THE SEASON BEFORE SUNRISE

friedrich harding x fem!reader

summary: feelings shift like the changing seasons.

tags n warnings: smut/mdni, angst, arranged marriage, death, post anna death, widow!reader. word count: 6.4k

Everyone knew of the desolation Friedrich Harding faced after the loss of his beloved wife, Anna, his dear companion since childhood. Yet little was spoken of the grief you were enduring from the recent death of your husband, a man who had been your companion since your early youth, and from the loss of Anna just a few months ago. Even though the years had diminished the frequency of your contact, your affection for her remained, deep and unaltered. Perhaps it was the weight of society at the time that inhibited such feelings, where female grief was treated as fleeting hysteria, a whim of weak minds and idle hands.

Women, they said, should keep themselves busy, as if the burden of suffering could be softened by daily tasks. It was due to a peculiar tradition in your family, where bloodlines and fates intertwined in strange ways, that you were now the next in line to marry Friedrich. You, the only woman not bound to him by blood, but with a dowry substantial enough to offer comfort to a widowed man. A cold comfort, perhaps, like the silent pact between two broken hearts. It was ironic, you thought, how a marriage without love could be the most fitting consolation. Two widows united not by passion, but by a shared grief and a common memory: Anna.

You and Friedrich had agreed to set aside the formalities of courtship, and secret meetings in the winter garden of your home had become a regular practice. There was no time to waste. Youth had already passed, and both of you had experienced the weight of losing something precious. Now, only pragmatism remained. The marriage would come, and with it, the certainty that the wedding night would not be consummated. There was no reason for it. There was no more urgency.

The next morning, you woke early and dressed simply, but appropriately, for breakfast. When you entered the kitchen, you saw Friedrich seated at the table, his tired eyes absorbed in a thick book. His cup of tea was nearly empty, and the morning sunlight cast soft shadows on his face, highlighting the lines of weariness that loss had etched into him. When he noticed your presence, his body straightened subtly. He closed the book with a careful gesture and set the cup back onto its saucer with an almost automatic delicacy, as though the simple act of drinking tea was a ritual of composure.

"Good morning," he said, his voice rough and formal, clearing his throat with a slight motion of his hand—an old habit of someone accustomed to maintaining an elegant facade, even amidst pain.

"Good morning," you replied softly, almost inaudibly, as you moved closer to the table. You sat down with the grace of someone who already knew the intricacies of the space, your eyes briefly settling on the fresh pastries and fruits laid before you. The gentle scent of herbs from the tea filled your nostrils, offering an unexpected sense of comfort.

“Had an unpleasant night?" Friedrich asked, lifting his cup with precision, his eyes—tired but alert—never leaving you. He took a pastry, bit into it carefully, and paused, letting the silence linger for a moment before drinking his tea with measured, slow movements, as though each gesture were calculated.

"Quite the opposite, Mr. Harding," you said, offering a gentle smile, feeling the weight of the title. The word "Mr." seemed so distant, a barrier that still lingered between you. "You have a lovely place." You paused briefly, your fingers almost absentmindedly tracing invisible circles on the edge of your cup.

"Friedrich, please," he corrected, his tone softening in contrast to his earlier stiffness. His hand moved to the napkin, white and clean, to remove a tiny crumb that had settled on his elegant mustache. Even now, after Anna's loss, he exuded an unshakable class. "We agreed to make this as normal as possible. We are adults."

"Yes... Friedrich. I apologize." You spoke with a cordiality that flowed naturally. Your smile was timid yet sincere, and you resumed your breakfast with a slower pace, as if you were still adapting to the new routine—strange and, at the same time, familiar.

The ensuing silence wasn’t uncomfortable. There was an unexpected tranquility in the air, like a silent conversation that both of you knew how to navigate without words. Being with Friedrich was different from anything you might have expected. The void left by shared losses had turned into a tacit alliance. You weren’t just widows; you were companions on a journey that no one else could truly understand. The bond between you was more than just suffering; it was the mutual acceptance of the present moment—a silent contract that, despite the pain, something new could grow. Not from love, but from necessity, from the understanding that, in some way, both of you were navigating the same turbulent waters.

"I’m afraid I must go to work," Friedrich announced with his usual polite formality, rising from the table with a smooth motion, as though every gesture of his were part of a well-rehearsed ritual. You, too, stood up, moving instinctively to give a curtsy, but he raised his hand, halting your movement with a gentle yet firm gesture.

"There’s no need," he said, his voice low, almost impersonal, but with a hint of something more—an unspoken desire to break free from the formalities.

"I always did this at my old home," you murmured, an unexpected wave of discomfort washing over you for the first time in his presence. The seemingly simple gesture felt like something larger, something from another time, something you still carried with you as a relic of upbringing.

Friedrich merely offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile as he folded the napkin with deliberate calm, his gaze briefly dropping to the table. "Don’t worry about that here." His voice softened, almost intimate, as though he were trying to push away a part of himself you didn’t yet know. "Get used to being free, without those mechanic acts."

You swallowed hard, sitting back down at the table, a little disoriented, and turned your attention back to your coffee, trying to find comfort in the small things, like the warmth of the tea. "I… Thank you, Friedrich… Have a good day."

"Thank you, Miss. Have a wonderful day," he said, giving a small nod. With a nearly imperceptible movement, he stepped away from the table, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the heavy silence that filled the air.

That small encounter, despite its simplicity, ignited something in you. A forgotten spark, a glimpse of something approaching freedom—a faint light, yet still, something that could guide the way. Even with the emotional distance between you, that moment felt significant in some way. He seemed emotional, perhaps even unsettled. You tried not to be drawn into it, but then, you heard it.

"I’m sorry." His voice broke the silence, the softness of the words catching you by surprise. When your eyes lifted, you found his gaze. Blue, deep, seeming even more lost than before. "For your husband. It must not have been easy."

There it was. The strange and unexpected connection you had sensed between you. It was the first time anyone had expressed their condolences in such a genuine way, without offering empty advice about remarrying or retreating to a convent. He understood your grief. He understood you.

"Well… Thank you for your condolences… Friedrich," you said, your voice trembling slightly, the lump in your throat tightening. You adjusted yourself in the chair, trying to find a more composed posture, yet something inside you was shaken. "My previous marriage wasn’t as happy as yours. Your loss, without a doubt, must have been much greater than mine."

"On the contrary, my dear," he responded softly, almost warmly, and leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh, as if sharing a painful secret. "You suffered the most of us all. I heard the stories of your husband. I have happy memories of my Anna. But what about you? What remains?"

His words were a sharp blow, like a knife driven deep into your chest. He knew the stories, knew the whispers and murmurs about your marriage. You fell silent, lifting the tea cup to your lips, trying to hide the tremor that spread through your hands. You sipped the tea more forcefully than you intended, attempting to silence the pain that surged up in a way you hadn’t expected. The past, with all its lies and absences, seemed to manifest once more.

"I loved him." The words came out softly, almost like a silent confession. That phrase, so simple, still felt like a heavy burden. Even after all this time, you could still feel the echo of something that, for a brief moment, seemed like love. "It was a shame we never had the chance to have a child before the… accident. I feel like it might have distracted me, perhaps."

He took a deep breath, the air seeming heavy in his lungs, and nodded, as if the words didn’t need to be spoken for both of you to understand the pain. The atmosphere, once light, now carried the weight of memories neither of you wished to revisit. Plague, death, lost causes. The torture of being left behind by those you loved.

"Would you like to take a walk?" His question caught you off guard, and the tension seemed to drain from your posture as if by magic.

"Yes. Of course. That would be lovely," you replied more quickly than you had intended, feeling an unexpected lightness in your chest. For a moment, you could have sworn you saw a glimmer of something softer in Friedrich’s eyes—something you couldn't quite define, but it stirred a mutual curiosity.

He forced a small smile and rose from the table. You took a final sip of your tea before following suit, gently wiping your face with the napkin. Friedrich took deliberate steps until he stood beside you, extending his arm so you could walk closer to him than you had expected. You looped your arm through his, and together, you walked in silence toward the garden. The only sound was the steady rhythm of your steps, almost in unison, and the faint noises of a few servants at work in the distance.

The soft morning light touched your face, the cool breeze contrasting with the warmth of the sun, kissing your cheeks with a refreshing coolness. You glanced briefly at Friedrich, who returned your look with a small smile, his blue eyes sparkling under the soft morning light. He inhaled deeply, the fresh air filled with the scent of newly blossomed flowers and the distant scent of pine trees in the garden. It was spring, but there was still a chill in the air. The birds chirped carelessly, crossing the blue sky with few clouds, which looked more like mere decorations in the landscape.

"If it weren’t for the circumstances, I’d say this feels like a romantic play," you remarked, letting the gentle breeze play with your hair. The sense of freedom felt almost absurd against the complexity of the situation.

"Indeed. It’s a beautiful day today," he replied, his tone lighter as he scanned the scene around him. Then, he paused briefly, a subtle movement that indicated a puddle in front of you, his attention that of someone who had done this countless times before. Attentive, but almost unconscious.

"Did you always do this with her?" you asked, carefully stepping around the puddle and continuing your walk. Your gaze followed his movements, unhurried, almost automatic. It was a gesture that seemed to be part of his nature.

"Not really. She was careful, as though she knew every stone she stepped on." His tone grew distant, as if momentarily transported to memories of times past. Then, a small, almost nostalgic chuckle escaped him. "But I never stopped doing it. At least it served a purpose with you. You’re a bit clumsy."

"Clumsy?" you laughed, surprised by the playful and sarcastic jab he’d thrown your way. Your laughter echoed lightly through the tranquility of the garden. "Is that an implicit signal for me to pay more attention, Herr Harding?"

"Don’t be silly." He smiled, a look of amusement crossing his face before he stifled a chuckle in his throat. "Don’t change your behavior because of some nonsense I let slip. I just mean, it’s easier to handle it that way."

"What do you mean by that?" you asked, feeling the proximity of his presence, the warmth radiating from him in contrast to the cold wind that still marked the changing of the season.

"Anna was perfect. Fabulous." He paused, searching for the right words, as if he were touching something painful, yet inevitable. Then, he cleared his throat, a subtle attempt to clear the tightness before continuing. "But sometimes I felt like I always had to be…"

"Nervous?" you completed his sentence, your gaze attentive to every unspoken word, the soft rustle of the breeze contrasting with the heavy silence. Friedrich gave a slight nod, acknowledging your guess.

"Like I always had to be perfect," he sighed, coming to a stop and sitting down beside you on a small bench in the garden, shaded by thick trees. He seemed exhausted, yet relieved at the same time, as though the weight of the words had momentarily lightened. "I know I’ll never replace her. But with you, I feel at ease. Like a confidante."

“Well, two widows together. Is there anything more tragicomic than this?” You joked, once again touching on the peculiar humor that seemed to flow so naturally between you. This time, Friedrich couldn't suppress the laughter. The sound came from him lightly and effortlessly, like a wave, vibrating through his chest, free of the constraints that had held him back before.

“You’re quite subversive, aren’t you?” he said, a playful expression spreading across his face. He ran a hand over his mouth, as if brushing away his smile, crossing his legs and slowly retrieving a cigar from his pocket. The movement was deliberate, almost like a ritual. “Do you mind?”

“No.” You shook your head with a smile, signaling for him to go ahead. Still, he placed the cigar back in his pocket with a silent respect, as if he already understood what truly mattered between you. “I’m subversive because I have a sense of humor? I didn’t know you were so conservative.”

“Spare me. These rules of etiquette are nonsense invented to rob us of life.” He chuckled, shaking his head as if pushing away the weight of societal expectations. “Look at us. We were forced to marry because someone said it’s not good for man to be alone.”

“Are you tarnishing the holy word, Friedrich?” You teased, raising an eyebrow, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. He uncrossed his legs, relaxing beside you, his posture loose.

“I think I’m not punished more than we are in this situation,” he laughed again, the sound genuine and unconstrained, a rare, welcoming laugh that echoed melodically, breaking the last traces of tension between you.

“We still broke the wedding night rule,” you reminded him, and he threw his head back in a hearty laugh.

“My God, we’re a lost cause,” he chuckled, but the laughter soon softened, fading as he turned to look at you, trying to calm his amusement.

There was something captivating in the way he seemed to reflect on the moment, a mix of enjoyment and resignation. With a nearly imperceptible movement, he tilted his head to the side, distracted, then pulled out his pocket watch. The gesture marked the end of the lightness in the conversation.

“I fear it’s time for me to attend to business,” he interrupted, his tone turning more sober.

“Of course,” you replied, standing up at the same time he did, the tension between you both dissipating as you shared one last light smile.

However, noticing that he had briefly watched you, you couldn't resist offering a small, mocking bow, one that escaped you almost without thought. He caught the gesture, and for a moment, his smile curved just slightly, a polite expression that nonetheless betrayed a shared intimacy between you.

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” he promised, his words carrying a promise of something unsaid, something suspended, waiting for the right moment to be picked up again.

Even in his haste, he accompanied her to the hall. What once seemed like a simple, everyday obligation had now transformed into a silent ritual, almost a shared pleasure between them. As if fate were playing with its invisible threads, their marriage had occurred at the end of winter—an understated departure of the season’s chill, while spring began to make its first tentative steps, blossoming alongside hearts now beating in sync.

The scent of roses lingered in the air, reminding her of the bottles Friedrich would gift her from time to time—subtle gestures that concealed more than mere intentions. A soft breeze wound its way through the house, reviving memories of his elegant presence, lifting the curtains in an ethereal dance, sweeping away the dust, and bringing a refreshing coolness to every room.

Then came summer, and with it, the sun’s awakened rays poured life into what had once seemed faded. Morning conversations, filled with musings on the weather or trivial matters, filled the emptiness of a new day. In the afternoon, their exchanges became sharper, commenting on the neighbors and the townspeople who fancied themselves important, yet were, as he put it, "clowns dressed in finery." In the evenings, conversations grew rarer, more spaced out—not just due to the fatigue they both felt, but because of the weight carried by the “unsaid.”

Even though they were married before God and the law, invisible barriers still separated them. But in the rare moments they sat together after dinner, those moments felt almost precious—revealing a little more of the inner worlds hidden behind the curtains of formality.

As days passed, summer slowly gave way to the melancholy of autumn. The golden glow of warm days was replaced by a softer, almost nostalgic light that painted the afternoons in shades of amber and crimson. The wind, once a messenger of warmth and life, now blew with a distinct coolness, carrying the earthy aroma of dried leaves that gathered along the paths.

The house, once flooded with vibrant sunlight, now seemed to be wrapped in a cozy shadow. The curtains no longer danced so freely, weighed down by the thicker air of the season. Friedrich, always attentive to the subtle changes around him, watched time shape every corner with its unshakable patience. The silence of autumn was not empty; it was filled with meaning—a quiet invitation to introspection, a harbinger of something new.

The garden, once a sea of vibrant colors, had now transformed into a mosaic of orange leaves drifting from the branches like unsent letters to the wind. The last rosebuds held firm, defying the growing cold, as though refusing to accept that everything must, eventually, wither. It was a season of transition, of fleeting beauty. And, in some way, it mirrored the silent shift that was settling between them.

“You know, from the first time I saw you, I felt like I could trust you,” he confessed, his voice low but steady. As he took a draw from his cigar, he exhaled the smoke with a deliberate movement, as if releasing more than just tobacco. His free arm was lazily draped over the divan, fingers almost brushing against her clavicle, but not quite making contact—just grazing her skin in the subtlest of gestures, as if the touch was unnecessary, yet still undeniably present in the space between them.

“At the church?” You asked, turning your head to look at him. He slowly rotated his eyes to meet yours, his head slightly tilted, watching your face with an expression that could have been contemplative, though, at its core, remained inscrutable. It was as though his mystery deepened with each word spoken.

“In the garden,” he answered, pausing again to take another puff from the cigar, his eyes focused on the horizon, searching for something invisible in the landscape. When he exhaled the smoke, it moved slowly, almost poetically, as if his words were still being shaped. “When you made the agreement. You were firm. You knew what you wanted. I admire that. Strong, determined people.”

“Do you think I’m strong?” You asked, your voice softer now, a trace of curiosity slipping into the words. It wasn’t a rhetorical question, but a genuine uncertainty. Your eyes met his, waiting for an answer that might reveal more about him than about yourself.

“Stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen,” he replied, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. The world could have fallen apart around them, but in that moment, on that divan, there were only the two of them, as though nothing else mattered.

As always between them, emotions and glances didn’t need words to communicate. It was a mutual, silent understanding—the kind of connection only those who share a bond so complex can truly grasp. What they both needed in that moment was simple: touch. Warmth. Something physical and pure, the reminder of what it meant to be near, to be present. Friedrich pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was brief yet intense, pulling away slowly, as though making sure you wouldn’t pull back, that you were there, willing to allow it.

It had been so long since he had touched anyone, and neither had you. As if, for a moment, you both had forgotten the softness of human touch, the way bodies recognize each other when they are close. He absently crushed his cigar in the ashtray, his focus now completely on you. Nothing else mattered.

Slowly, he brought his hand to your face. First, his fingers slid gently over the texture of your skin, as if every millimeter was a discovery. His eyes were fixed on you, not just any look, but a deeply attentive look, as if he were memorizing every detail. When the palm of his hand met your cheek, the fit was perfect, as if your faces had been made to touch this way. He stood there for a few moments, just watching, his fingers tracing a delicate path across your lip with his thumb. A gesture that, although simple, carried immense meaning. He was with you, entirely.

“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” The question came naturally, without haste, without expectation. It wasn't a simple rhetorical question, it was something genuine. Something he wanted to know.

The silence that followed was an implicit answer. You watched him for a moment, almost as if you were reflecting on the weight of those words, and then, as if confessing a secret you had kept, you answered:

“Maybe never like this.”

“You are beautiful.” He repeated, as if those words were the key that fit perfectly into your heart, as if he knew you needed to hear them in a way no one had said before. “Can I show you that?”

With the soft touch of your hand on his, you asked for more, without saying a word, but the request was there, clear and transparent. Consent. Desire. Begging. He noticed, and the answer was immediate. He leaned in once more, his lips meeting yours in a hesitant kiss, but not without intensity. It was as if the world dissolved even more in that moment.

It was just a brush. A soft touch, as if the very air between you was impregnated with something sweet and ancient. You could feel the softness of his skin, the faint scent of nicotine that still lingered on his fingers, the trace of expensive cognac, the kind of drink he kept in his library for special occasions, and even the delicate scent of strawberries, which mixed with the sensation of his touch. It was a mess of gastronomic and artistic sensations that you longed for, something sublime and complex, where each detail seemed like a fragment of something that, perhaps, had never been fully understood until that moment.

"Stay with me, Friedrich." Your voice came out weak, a whisper laden with pleading, dissipating in the thick silence of the room. The only immediate response was the crackling of the wood in the fireplace, soft clicks that seemed to mark the time between each of his breaths, warm and deep, brushing against your skin. "Stay with me until sunrise. Just for tonight." An indecipherable gleam passed through Friedrich's eyes, as if this was the prayer he had been waiting to hear for centuries. A slow smile formed on his lips before he tilted his face towards you.

"How can I refuse you, my dear?" The answer came in a low, intimate whisper, as his lips traced a reverent path across your face. First, a delicate kiss on your forehead, then on your temples, as if he wanted to engrave you in his memory.

He moved down to your cheeks, his lips brushing your skin in an almost imperceptible touch, warm and devoted. Your chin, the tip of your nose — every inch was graced with his attention. It was a silent blessing, a profane sacrament sealing a bond forgotten by time. Then, Friedrich closed the distance between you. His lips took yours with precision, without hesitation. The kiss was neither hurried nor voracious — it was a wordless oath. There was no sarcasm, no ghosts from the outside world. Just that moment, charged with something greater than the two of you. Love or not, there was an uncontrollable impetus there, something unforgettable. 

Friedrich's fingers slid along your jaw, slowly rising until they intertwined in your hair, tugging lightly, as if he wanted to keep you from disappearing. In response, your hands sought his, groping until they found them, fitting your fingers with his. The touch was cold, but not unpleasant; on the contrary, it felt like the anchor of something much deeper. He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes half closed, his breathing ragged. The fire in the fireplace cast shadows on the walls, dancing to the rhythm of the growing desire between you.

"Until sunrise," he murmured against your mouth, almost a promise. "All night."

Friedrich stood up with his usual elegance, extending his hand to you. Your fingers gently wrapped around his, and in an almost ceremonial gesture, he lifted you, guiding you with a care that made it seem as if time slowed down around you. Like a prince leading his maiden through an enchanted castle, Friedrich led you to his room—a previously unknown territory that you had only glimpsed in passing, always disorganized, with books piled haphazardly and traces of sleepless nights.

But now, everything seemed different. There was an unexpected order to the usual chaos, as if he had prepared the environment for this moment. The furniture was impeccably arranged, the curtains slightly open, letting the pale moonlight fall on the sheets. His familiar scent permeated the space, a mixture of stale tobacco and the woody aroma that always lingered on his clothes.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Friedrich turned the key in the lock, a discreet click echoing in the silence of the room. A simple gesture, but one that carried an invisible weight—he didn't want to be interrupted, not now.

"I prefer our night to be comfortable for you." He communicated, approaching, his steps calm but full of intention.

His gaze was a veiled invitation, a wordless promise. When his lips touched her face, it was not a hurried kiss, but an intimate mapping of her skin. He kissed her forehead as if consecrating that moment, her temples like a devotee in prayer. The line of her jaw, the curve of your cheek, every inch explored as if it were a rediscovery.

Nine long months without being touched by him, adding to the tally the months in which your husband had not touched you. You thought you had forgotten what it was like to be kissed. But the moment Friedrich’s lips met yours, all the dormant memories came back to life—not as distant memories, but as something as vivid as the warmth of his body against yours.

“Touch me.” You asked, sincerely. Need gave no room for shame at that moment. You needed to be touched by him.

“Anything you want.” His hoarse voice came out like a sinful whisper against your face.

Friedrich took a step back, then, walking behind you, he began to pull the lace of your dress with a mastery that you knew where it came from. But, at that moment, it was as if it were only yours. With precise speed, you felt the thin and expensive fabric, every penny intentionally bought by Friedrich, falling to the floor, with any other old rag that you forgot after a long time, leaving only the small nightgown and the corset underneath, which was also untied by him, allowing your muscles to relax again.

You turned your ankles, meeting Friedrich’s hungry gaze on your body covered only by the thin cotton with carefully embroidered lace on the sleeves. You moistened your lips, bringing your hands to your hair. Your fingers began to remove the pins, your perfect hairstyle falling apart, your long strands falling down your spine like a colorful waterfall. 

Friedrich felt a fleeting tremor in his vision, Anna’s memory mixing with his own in his head. No. He murmured, no. You could never be her. Not even if you tried in a million years. But there was something about you that pulled him back like a magnet. You stepped forward, giving him a chaste kiss on your lips.

“Anna would never do that.” He murmured, not sure how this would affect you or himself, trying to explain himself. “She was always so chaste, so reserved, so… pure. Even when I touched her. But you— I feel like a boy playing too close to a lake, where I fall in and never want to get out again.” 

“What’s in that lake?” You asked, reaching your brave hands for Friedrich’s vest, each button being unbuttoned faster with the courage inside you. 

“So many things. So much… life.” He paused, his gaze so distant, yet so present in that moment, alternating between which of your eyes he should look at. “It’s enchanting. There are so many fish, frogs, mud where I slip, but I always come back for more. And in this lake it rains, so hard. God.”

“Are you cold?” You encouraged, Friedrich helping you, putting the vest over your arms and taking off your shirt in just one pass over your head.

“I am.” He says, closing his eyes to one of your hands, cold from the night air, touching his neck, the other lazily in his strong arms. “I never want to leave here. I want to be trapped in this moment forever.”

It was your turn to be silent, swallowing hard at the confession between Friedrich’s eloquent lines. Noticing your hesitation, his strong hand took yours and placed it on your chest. Your hand feeling the strong and accelerated beating in his chest, you were causing this.

Intertwining his hand with yours, his other hand went to your waist, holding you as he guided your steps to the bed, where you lay right in the middle of the huge mattress. Friedrich put his fingers in the waistband of your pants, pulling them down, recording the memory of you, so delicate, but so honest and brave in that bed. It didn't seem like you were going to be devoured like a little lamb, but that he knew you would give pleasure and be pleased, like a nymph.

Friedrich crawled across the bed until he was on top of you, supporting himself on one arm, the other hand easily unbuttoning your nightgown, your beauty being served to him. With a gentle touch, he groped your breasts, rolling the small spot with his thumb, admiring the view.

“I had forgotten this feeling.” He commented, lifting your breast, palming it, squeezing it, like a boy discovering the female body for the first time. “It feels so good.”

You nodded, enjoying the moment, glimpsing every admirable reaction Friedrich had in that part of your body. He kissed both your breasts, moving down with kisses to your exposed sex, inhaling your essence.

“What’re you gonna do?” You asked, closing your legs instinctively, a touch of fear laced with desire in your voice.

“Have you never been touched like this?” He asked, surprised by your desperate reaction, opening your legs and doing his best not to embarrass you by facing your intimacy.

“No.” You confessed, without even knowing what he planned to do. There were hypotheses, but the ideas that went through your mind were hot, but they didn’t make sense.

“Can I show you?” He suggested, wetting his lips with his tongue in anticipation. You nodded, reluctantly opening your legs.

Friedrich took a deep breath before lowering his head, kissing the inside of your thigh. He sucked a small part of your skin, going down with small bites to your groin, where he placed a small kiss that made you shiver.

When he licked your pearl, you understood the surprise in his eyes. That was heavenly good. Your fingers went to Friedrich’s head, pulling his hair as a way to dissipate the pleasure that was growing between your legs.

His tongue licked your sex, pressing harder to hear your louder moans, switching to small, weak licks to turn you inside out. His large hands were firmly on your thighs, keeping you in place as he sucked on your sensitive spot with precision.

Lifting your head to look down, you saw Friedrich with his eyes closed, concentrating. The scene was stimulating enough to feel the pressure building in your stomach. Hearing your needy moans, he ended up licking faster and faster with more pressure. The tremors indicated that you were close and he focused only on your clit, punishing the flesh with his tongue fast and strong in sinful circles until he felt you collapse into his mouth with one last loud moan, lifting your hips against his mouth.

Not wanting to push you to the limit right away, he lifted his body, returning to be on top and kissing you, the taste of your pleasure mixing on his lips. He lowered his lower part, showing his ugly cock that was throbbing hard against your belly, smearing your skin with pre-cum.

“Ready?” He asked, wiping the cloth down your legs and throwing it on the floor.

“Yes.” You confirmed, watching Friedrich grab one of the pillows and place it under your hips, which you lifted to help him.

Guiding his cock to your saliva-soaked and aroused intimacy, he pressed the tip against your entrance, showing a small reaction of discomfort before pleasure took over your face when you felt the length entering your canal, stretching your walls.

His hips began to move, slowly at first, so that you could get used to the recent intrusion after so long. When you were already showing pleasure, the rhythm became frantic, almost merciless. He murmured sweet nothings in your ear, not hiding any sound, and it drove you insane. You wanted everything from him, the sounds, the contorted expressions of pleasure, every thrust he changed the rhythm of, every compliment and disgrace he whispered. All of him.

In a short time, he melted inside you, loving you to the last drop, a hint of pride for having made you arrive before him, kissing your mouth to finish you off, leaning his forehead against yours, his breathing calming down.

He stood up, holding your hand firmly but unhurriedly, guiding you to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror revealed the marks of the night—sweat, tears and fluids, strands of disheveled hair. Friedrich smiled sideways, an almost complicit glint in his eyes, before taking a damp cloth and starting to clean you.

His every gesture was calm, almost ritualistic. He gently wiped the cloth over your face, removing traces of intimacy, his fingers brushing your skin with a caress that made your heart slow down. When he wiped your collarbone, he took a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the touch. When he passed it through your hands, he intertwined his fingers with yours for a brief moment, before continuing.

The world outside was slowly waking up. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the cracks in the curtain, dyeing the room with soft golden tones. The air still carried a remnant of the night—of whispered promises, of something unnameable that hovered between you.

But then, something sour settled in your mouth. A bitter taste, an inevitable memory. You looked away from Friedrich, the echoes of the previous promise resonating in your mind. Until dawn.

"I... I think I should go." Your voice came out hesitant, almost trembling. You turned your back, preparing to leave, but before you could take another step, you felt a firm tug. 

Friedrich wrapped you in an intense, almost desperate hug. His body was a wall against which you snuggled without resistance, feeling his heat pass through your skin. Friedrich's breathing was heavy against your hair, and his fingers, once so careful, now tangled possessively in the strands, as if he wanted to hold you there, forever.

"Never leave my side again." The whisper was filled with something primal, something he didn't usually express. "It's an order. The only one I give you." He inclined his head, his lips brushing your temple, the touch as gentle as a shared secret. "I will make you happy in your marriage. I will make you create good memories, I will be your anchor, your wine, your pleasure." 

You lifted your face, your eyes searching his, and then you moved closer, placing your lips on his bare chest, right over the place where his heart beat slow and deep. Friedrich's breathing faltered for a moment, and you let yourself sink against him, listening to that steady rhythm, like a melody that only the two of you understood. 

"I'm already yours, Friedrich." You whispered, filled with certainty. You closed your eyes, resting your head against him. "And I will be yours until the end of my life, living every sunrise by your side."

[zepskies]

'Twas the Night...

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean listens, sometimes when you least expect it. This year, Christmas begins to become something new for both of you.    

AN: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone! This is my @spnfanficpond Secret Santa gift for @eldritchlibertine! The idea is based on this request from @whichwitchwanda (a story prompted from the header image).

Word Count: 2.4K

Tags/Warnings: Fluff and more fluff! Christmas feels. ❤️

A door burst open, and your eyes raised from the page. You nearly dropped your book into your lap when you saw it—the wide, bristled top of an evergreen tree trying to shove its way through the door of the bunker.

Or rather, it only seemed that way.

All the way up at the top of the rod iron staircase, grumbled cursing and muttering and arguing filtered down to you in the common room, where you were leaning back in your seat with an old copy of Wuthering Heights. You sat up, an incredulous smirk beginning to curve your lips.

“Dean, it’s not gonna fit.” That was Sam, obviously. You’d recognize his testy bitching anywhere.

“You kiddin’ me? All that work I spent sawing this thing outta the ground, I’m gonna damn well make it fit. Come on, put your big boy pants on.”

The equally familiar gruff, grousing tone of your man’s voice almost made you snort. You set down the book on the table and debated whether you were going to get up and try to help, or let them hash it out. You were surprised they hadn’t called out for you yet.

After a few more seconds of listening to their frustrated huffing and puffing, you shook your head and got up. You reached the top of the stairs, and their sounds of irritated, breathless struggle became even clearer.

“Dean,” Sam protested.

“Shut up. I’ve almost got it…”

“You’re gonna break the damn frame—”

“Something tells me you didn’t get this thing at Home Depot,” you remarked.

There was a pause, and Dean called your name questioningly. He also sounded a bit embarrassed.

“Yep, I’m here, Chevy Chase,” you said, laughing as you grabbed the branches that were stuck in the doorway. You bent them at the angle the guys needed to get the whole thing inside, and all too quickly you had to step out of the way as Sam and Dean broke through the doorway with the rest of the tree.

Sam caught himself on the wall, while Dean threw a hand out to grasp at the railing of the stairs. You grabbed Dean’s arm to help steady him. Once he had his feet planted, he slung an arm around your waist and looked down on you with a satisfied smile—one that he then aimed at Sam.

“See? Told you it would fit.”

“Where did you even get this thing?” you asked. You eyed Dean in curiosity, even as you were helping him stream the lights around this seven-foot monstrosity. You’d also taken great delight in putting on some holiday music. Now, Frank Sinatra’s “White Christmas” was playing from a Bluetooth speaker on the War Room table.

Dean shot you a distracted smile as he worked in concentration, bringing a string of lights around the part of the tree that was closest to the wall. He handed off the other end to you, and you wrapped the line of multicolored lights around.

“Eh, there’s a nice bit of forest a few miles out of town,” he said. Your brows raised high. You’d suspected, of course, but you still shook your head with a smile.  

“You know you need a permit for that, right?” you said.

“I tried to tell him,” said Sam. He was on his way up the stairs, heading out back to the car to get the box of ornaments he and Dean bought at Walmart this morning along with the pretty multicolored lights, all while you were still sleeping.

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother, but just kept focused on his task. Once he started something, he had to finish it, you noticed. And when he got into something, he was Mr. DIY, putting in his all. You liked watching the crunch between his brows, the set of his lips, the sureness of his hands while he mentally calculated what they were going to accomplish next.

Most of all, you liked the look of self-satisfaction when he was done, and happy with his finished product. It didn’t matter if he was tuning up the Impala, making a home-cooked meal for the three of you, or decorating a wild tree. That face was the same. 

“Illegally obtained tree aside,” you said, not bothering to temper your smile, “I thought you guys didn’t really celebrate Christmas. Or any holidays, for that matter.”

Dean gave you a small grin, though again, he seemed a little embarrassed. He freed one of his hands to scratch at the back of his head.

“Yeah, well…weren’t you the one who was talking about the Christmases you had growing up?” he said.

You blinked, your mouth gently falling open in surprise. That had been a couple weeks ago, when the first snow of December began to fall over Lebanon. Late that night, after settling into bed together, you’d turned towards him in his arms. Maybe it was the turn of the season making you nostalgic, but somehow the conversation drifted into you making a confession, about what you missed the most about your family.

Your parents had passed on, and your sister was distant. She had her own family and her own life, and she wanted to keep it far away from the things you hunted. You couldn’t blame her, even if the thought of her always pierced your heart.

Beyond than that, what you missed was the house where you grew up, small but cozy and lived in. You missed the smell of pine and cinnamon that filled the living room every day of December. You missed the nights you and your sister curled up by the fire late at night playing imaginary games, long after your parents’ had put you guys to bed. You missed your mother’s cooking, and helping her bake molasses cookies on Christmas Eve.

You missed togetherness, the feeling of warmth and safety.

You tilted your head at Dean.

“Yeah, but…” you trailed, not willing to finish the thought as another suspicion grew in your mind.

“Just thought we could do some of that this year for you, that’s all,” he said. And he shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. His hands were busy untangling some lights. “Matter of fact, we could all use the time off.”

You couldn’t help but pause. Your breathing shallowed, and no matter how much you fought it, tears stung in your eyes. You bit your lip to try and hold it all at bay. When Dean glanced up at you, he had to do a double take. It made you smile, despite your slightly blurring vision.

“Hey, what—”

You dropped your end of the lights and went to him. You raised up on your toes so you could wrap your arms around his neck in a warm hug. Dean uttered a surprised huff, but his arms came around your waist and gathered you closer. He soon realized he was still holding onto the tangle of lights, and he hung them on a nearby tree branch for now. His smile overtook his surprise and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“I love you. You know that right?” Your voice was muffled in his neck, but he heard you well enough. He chuckled and slipped a soothing hand up and down your back.

“I do know, actually,” he said, his voice warm and teasing.

A giggle escaped you. You tugged on his short hair in retaliation, making him chuckle.

“Hey,” he warned, but it had heat of a different kind. His hand began venturing down to your ass, but before he could do some retaliating of his own, a door swung open and Sam came down the stairs hefting a couple different boxes of ornaments.

He raised a brow, though he smiled at the way you and his brother were entwined. You half pulled away to nod at Sam, sniffling at quickly wiping at your face. Dean dried some of the wetness from the corner of your eye with a curled finger. You glanced up at him and couldn’t help blushing, smiling, despite your embarrassment.

Dean still had an arm wrapped around your waist as you peered over at the boxes Sam set down near the tree. One of them caught your attention and made your eyes widen.

“Oh my God. They’re Scooby Doo themed!”

The rest of the afternoon was spent decorating the tree with Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby echoing throughout the common room. After you made a trip to the grocery store, soon the smell of cinnamon, brown sugar and rich molasses joined the scent of pine throughout the entire bunker.

It was a Christmas Eve well spent. The night was filled with a rewatch marathon of Home Alone and Christmas Vacation. You agreed to Dean throwing in Elf into the mix, as long as you got to watch Love Actually, and The Holiday with Jude Law. Dean complained more than Sam about your girly chick-flicks, but he became just as invested in Colin Firth pouring his heart out in mangled Portuguese to Aurelia as you were, if less teary-eyed.

When The Holiday came around though, he was half asleep as he laid sprawled across your lap and the couch. Your nails gently massaging his scalp nearly did him in, along with Sam’s heavy-ass pour of eggnog. It was tradition, at this point.

By the end of the movie marathon, you were the one snoozing from your corner of the couch, your hand still in Dean’s hair.

He carried you to bed that night, your eyelids heavy as you teetered back and forth between slumber and the waking world. At least you were already in your pajamas. All he had to do was tuck you under the sheets on your side of the bed, then slip in behind you afterwards.

His arm draped around your waist, and you curled towards him, half on instinct as you let out a deep breath. Dean smiled as you settled against his chest. Your soft snores soon greeted his ears. Only then did he let himself rest…

Just not for long.

You woke earlier than you planned to in the morning, mainly because your man pillow was no longer beside you. You reached out a hand and found Dean’s side of the bed empty and cold, the covers pulled back. With a frown, you opened bleary eyes and checked your phone. It was around the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m.

What the hell was Dean doing up at the crack of dawn?

Unless… You paused as your memory served you a grim reminder. Unless he’d had a rough night, kept up by memories and dreams he didn’t always want to talk to you about. It wouldn’t be the first time he came back to bed after a few hours with the heady smell of bourbon on him.

You got up with a sigh, rolling your neck as you did so. You just wanted to check on him. Maybe you could even persuade him to come back to bed.

You threw on a sweater over your pajamas and some fluffy slippers Sam bought you for your birthday—all to shield you from the bunker’s chilly air and ice-cold floors. You’d have to remind Dean to check on the heater.

You padded out of the bedroom and down the long hall…and became distracted by the Christmas tree in the common room. It really was beautiful all lit up. The lights softly flashed in green, red, purple, and gold. Traditional red and gold ornaments hung beside the Scooby Doo themed ones, with Fred and Daphne front and center, along with the rest of the gang scattered throughout.

And then you found Dean.

“Damn it…friggin’ piece of shit ribbon…” 

Dean’s muttering drew your attention to his hunched figure kneeling at the base of the tree. Your head tilted in wonder as your face broke out into a smile. What the hell is he doing? You tried to be light on your feet as you approached him from behind. Peering over his shoulder, you could almost see what he was trying do with some shiny red wrapping paper and a big golden bow.

Your heart swelled. Had he really gotten you and Sam something for Christmas too? He didn’t need to get you anything…

Dean’s hunter reflexes must’ve been tingling though, because suddenly he sat up straighter and looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened when he saw you standing there in your pajamas, arms crossed over your robe.

He actually jolted, muttering a curse as he tried to cover up what he was doing.

“What’cha doin’, babe?” you asked. Your eyes gleamed with amusement.

Dean tried to get up, but his foot slipped on a stray ribbon. He careened back onto his ass and knocked into the tree. Not only did its branches poke into his face and arm, making him wince, but he managed to displace a couple of ornaments, sending them tumbling to the floor by his hand. He grunted and raised up onto his forearms. For the pièce de résistance, that lovely golden bow landed right in his lap.

With raised brows, you took in the sight of your man—all bedraggled and looking sheepish (and adorable) as hell. Your hand went up to cover your mouth, but you were unable to quiet the giggle that bubbled up and escaped your lips.

Dean cleared his throat. “Hey.”

You glanced down at the bow, almost perfectly placed in his lap.

“Hey,” you replied, your lips curving into a smile.

You lowered down to kneel in front of him, and you took his face in your gentle hands before you leaned in for a sweet, sensuous kiss. Dean breathed into it. Your eyes shut along with his as you savored the moment, and him.

When you parted, your smile remained as you fingered the shiny edge of the bow. Dean began to smirk as well, despite how warm his face had gotten. His big hands found their way to your hips, welcoming you when you took a comfortable seat over his thighs.

You whispered against his lips, “I already know which present I’m gonna unwrap first.” 

AN: Lol there we go, a cheeky ending for you! Let me know if you liked this! ❤️💚

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Dean Winchester One-Shots List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester Tag List

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl

@thebiggerbear @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @deans-spinster-witch

@deans-baby-momma @sanscas @kaleldobrev @spnwoman @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

@globetrotter28 @adoringanakin @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean @iprobablyshipit91

@chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @pieandmonsters

@deansbbyx @sarahgracej @chernayawidow @mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @mxltifxnd0m

@my-stories-vault @kayleighwinchester @rizlowwritessortof @samslvrgirl @tortureddarkstar

@tmb510 @syrma-sensei @artemys-ackles @malindacath @mrsjenniferwinchester

@jc-winchester @charmed-asylum @fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378

@deanbrainrotwritings @urfav-tz @alwaystiredandconfused @mrlonelycat @deans-daydream

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70 @aylacavebear

@kmc1989 @siampie @rubyvhs @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33

@winchestergirl2 @a-lil-pr1ncess @winchester-whiskey @spnbabe67 @cheynovak

@megara0224 @yoongi-holland @illicithallways @perpetualabsurdity @deansimpala

@jessjad @impala-dreamer @k4marina @atenea585 @king-of-milf-lovers

@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @daisychaingirl @star-yawnznn @number1whorehome

@g0ldfishd00dles @10ava01 @sixxteenbullets @tayl0rfanatic @everything-is-all-clear

@trashmoutth @riteofpassage77 @bleuatlas @luci-in-trenchcoats @valerinapetrova

@spnaquakindgdom @podiumackles @ladykitana90 @cookiechipdough @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@dmz1975

[idkdudethisisntpermanent]

Elixir

wednesday addams x female reader

part i | part ii

summary: What happens when your best friend's roommate who you're always at odds with, suddenly becomes uncharacteristically affectionate towards you? Just what was in that mysterious bottle that set everything into motion?

word count: 1.9k

a/n: I've made a taglist! If you want to join, refer to this post

————

Friday nights at Nevermore Academy held different meanings for different students.  Some gathered for the Vampire Book Club, an all exclusive group that spent their evenings immersed in gothic horror novels.  Others were part of the secret society, kicking off the weekend by leaving cryptic messages and riddles around the school in search of their next recruit.  And then there were those fortunate enough to be welcomed home by their parents for the weekend.

But for you, Friday nights meant something different. You had no interest in secret clubs or cryptic hunts. Instead, you chose to spend the weekend cozied up with Enid for a movie marathon.

With a grin, the werewolf-in-training held up two DVDs, one in each hand. "Okay, we've got 10 Things I Hate About You and When Harry Met Sally."

You point to the hand holding the first film and Enid squeals excited to begin your long awaited movie night. It's been difficult finding a time where you both could commit to a long task like watching a movie without Wednesday getting in the way.

It wasn't that Wednesday particularly got in the way of these activities, but you both did. You two would inevitably clash when put in the same room together and be at each others throats until you were separated by some brave soul (most of the time Enid).

"Are you sure we won't be interrupted?" You ask as Enid climbed into the bed.  "I don't want to get my hopes up, and believe that I can actually have a moment of peace in your room," you added, recalling all the times you've stormed out of this very room due to Wednesday.

Enid bumps into her drawer as she climbs into bed and almost knocks off a glass bottle with a bulbous base, fortunately you were able to grab ahold of the dresser leg in time and stabilize the furniture before the glass bottle filled with liquid could fall.

"I should probably put this somewhere safer," Enid says grabbing the glass and walking it over to Wednesday's side of the room and placing it on her desk. "And yes Y/n, I've quadrupled checked.  She should be in the car by now, heading home.  Her mom was really insistent on her visiting this weekend, so she had no choice." Once Enid and you cozy up together in her bed and turn all the lights off, you hit play and the movie begins.

"Wednesday will literally deep cleanse this room if she found out we're watching rom coms in it," you laugh as Heath Ledger makes his appearance on screen.

Enid giggles, "Sometimes I think she's a secret romance lover, recently I found out she knew the plot to Clueless."

"No way!  I wonder what critiques she has about that film," you muse sarcastically. "She definitely had to feel some type of way about that yellow outfit."

Enid hums and you notice that she's now engrossed in the film.  Taking the cue, you focused on the screen as well, ready to enjoy your peaceful night together.

Only thing was, you couldn't.

As the film continues, all you can think about was how relieved you are that Wednesday isn't here.  How you don't have to listen to the incessant click-clack of her stupid type writer.  How you don't have to endure her cold, calculating gaze that always seems to dissect your every word and action, and especially how you don't have to listen to her sharp and cutting remarks that always seem to find their mark.

At some point during the movie Enid notices that you were not present and paused the film.  "Okay what's on your mind?"

Absentmindedly not registering her question, you respond, "Wednesday." Your eyes go wide, "Wait! I meant-"

She smirks, "You know Y/n/n, for someone who hates her, you bring her up an awful lot.

You scramble at Enid's statement. What was that supposed to mean? "She's just frustrating you know? Get's under my skin, obviously I'm gonna bring her up."

Wednesday suddenly enters the room following your explanation, and sits at her desk without a word. Then after a minute she speaks, "It's gratifying to know that my efforts have left the desired impact."

You didn't care that Wednesday walked in on you complaining about her however you did care that Wednesday walked in.

You give Enid a look, "I thought she wasn't supposed to be here."  The blue-eyed girl holds her hands up in defense, "She wasn't! I swear she was supposed to be back Monday morning."

She then turns to her roommate and asks, "Wens, what are you doing here? I thought your mom wanted to see you?"

"Something came up," the unconventional girl replies short, not explaining any further.

Enid knew that was the only explanation her roommate would give, and there was no point questioning any further. You however did not care, and narrowed your eyes at Wednesday. "Something came up?" That's all you're going to say? You're just going to crash our night with no explanation?"

Wednesday raises an eyebrow, her voice cool and detached. "I wasn't aware I needed your permission to be in my own room."

"You know that's not what I'm saying," you snap back, frustration bubbling up. "You always do this—just show up and take over, like no one else matters. We had plans, Wednesday."

"And now you have new plans," she replies evenly, not a trace of guilt or concern in her voice. "Plans that include me."

You let out a groan. "But that's your problem, you can't just conform to our plans. You always give Enid and I shit for the things we want to do and we always end up catering to your needs. This is exactly why we can't get along. You never consider anyone else's feelings. It's always about you, your needs, your twisted games."

Wednesday's gaze narrows, and her tone turns icier. "If you can't handle a simple change in plans, that's your weakness, not mine. My presence shouldn't be so disruptive unless you're letting it be."

Letting it be?! You couldn't just let this dark kooky girl think that she has some sort of effect on you.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself, Wednesday," you retort, standing your ground. "Your presence isn't 'disruptive' because I'm weak, it's disruptive because you deliberately make it that way. You thrive on pushing people's buttons, and I'm not about to give you the satisfaction."

Wednesday's expression remains unchanged, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—amusement? "Is that so? Then why are you so bothered by it?  If I truly had no effect on you, you wouldn't even be arguing with me right now."

You clench your fists, struggling to maintain your composure. "Maybe I'm bothered because I care about Enid, and you're always in the way. Maybe I'm just sick of you making everything about yourself!"

Wednesday's eyes narrow further, and her voice drops to a whisper.  "You care about Enid, yet you argue with me, knowing it will disturb her. Perhaps you should examine your true motivations, because from where I stand, it seems you're more interested in clashing with me than in protecting her peace."

You scoff, "I don't know what you're implying." Behind your cool nonchalant front you were panicking, worried that Wednesday will say something that you did not want to hear.

You glance over at Enid who is picking at her nails, calculating the perfect time to break you and Wednesday up without getting hit in the crossfire.

"I'm sorry Enid," you say genuinely. As much as you hate to admit it, Wednesday was right, you're a hypocrite. You know how much it bothers Enid when you and Wednesday fought, yet you always find yourself caught up in these verbal battles with her.

Giving Wednesday one last glare, you storm out of the dorm room not knowing where exactly you're headed. All you know is that you're done with the movie night—and done with Wednesday.

As you march down the hallway, footsteps echoing behind you catch your attention. You don't slow down, but you know exactly who it is before she even calls out to you.

"Y/n, wait!" Enid's voice rings out, filled with concern. You sigh, your pace slowing down automatically.

Enid catches up to you, and grabs onto your arm incase you decide to storm off again. "Please talk to me, I know you're upset."

You find your frustration start to crumble as you sense the concern in your friend's eyes. "I don't know Enid," you begin, your voice quiet. "It's like every time I'm around her, I get so worked up. And tonight, I just couldn't take it anymore. I'm so tired of feeling like this, I'm just constantly on edge around her."

Enid carefully listens, her expressions softening with empathy as you speak. "I get it Y/n. But you don't always have to fight her. Sometimes walking away is the best thing you can do for yourself and for her."

You nod, understanding where Enid was coming from. "You're right, I guess it's just hard when she knows exactly how to get under my skin. And tonight when she accused me of arguing with her for some other reason, like it was something I wanted. It just got to me." You finish in a whisper.

"She has a way of getting to everyone, but that doesn't mean you have to let it affect you so much. You've got to take care of yourself too." She smiles gently.

"Yeah, you're right." As you look at Enid, you can see the worry in her eyes, not just for you, but for Wednesday too. You get it. Wednesday is her friend as well, and even though she came running after you, she's probably also concerned about how Wednesday's handling things. Not that anything in this world could really faze her, but still, Enid cares.

You sigh dreading your next words, "Go." Enid quirks her head to the right like a puppy. "Let's go back to your dorm, I have to grab my bag anyways, and... you should check on her."

Enid smiles in relief and gives you a quick hug before you stroll on back to the dorm room of the polar opposite girls.

As you approach the door a sense of unease starts to creep in, but you push it aside. You probably just didn't want to face Wednesday after your heated exchange.

When you open the door, the sight that greets you is... off. Wednesday is sitting at her desk, but something about her looks strange— her normally sharp posture seems a bit more relaxed, and her gaze, usually piercing, is unfocused, almost dreamy.

Before you can fully process this, you hear a soft rolling sound, and your eyes dart down to see Thing, casually pushing the glass bottle that Enid almost knocked over from earlier. It stops right at your feet. You pick it up, turning it in your hands. It's empty.

A chill runs down your spine as realization dawns on you. Wednesday drank whatever was in this bottle.

Enid steps closer, noticing your frozen expression and the empty bottle in your hand. Her eyes widen in alarm, quickly shifting to Wednesday, who now seems to be gazing at you with an intensity that's entirely different from her usual cold demeanor.

"Wednesday?" Enid's voice is hesitant, as if she's afraid of what the answer might be.

Wednesday stands up slowly, her movements uncharacteristically casual. She steps toward you, her eyes locking onto yours, and for a moment, it feels like the air in the room has shifted.

"I'm glad you're back," Wednesday says softly, her voice carrying a warmth that catches you completely off guard.  "I was just thinking... how much better this night would be if you stayed."

Your heart skips a beat for reasons you do not know the answer to yourself. You exchange a bewildered glance with Enid, something is definitely not right.

The room falls silent, the tension thick as you both realize that Friday night just took an unexpected turn. Looks like your movie marathon will have to wait.

next chapter