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hh0320 · 4 months ago

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. ♡ ۫ . ୧ ⠁ room shots.

🪐 synopsis. you’re certain, if he moves away from that window, if he trespasses the invisible wall between you and gets what he came here for—there won’t be anything that either of you can do to stop him. he’ll ruin you. you’ll let him.

🪐 warnings. use of pet names, melancholy, alcohol abuse, rough play, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex.

🪐 word count. 3.6k

Three weeks.

The heart was still raw, tender. The flesh decaying, the sheets warm, the wine glasses untouched, as they were, as he left them on your window, the red deep, surface rippling every day with the evening train.

Sometimes, late at night, surrounded by unshakable silence, and only ever in the dark, you’d touch between your thighs and swear you could still feel his mouth hot on your aching cunt, his hair tickling the sensitive skin around it, his forehead feverish, resting against your pubic bone, his favorite spot to lay. It used to mortify you, that he would do this. You’d get all shy and red-faced, hiding your face in your hands, trying with a humiliating desperation to close your legs and push him away.

San would chuckle at your fickle attempts and pin you down on the mattress—the bed in the corner you cannot fall asleep on anymore—trailing open mouthed kisses from your navel all the way to the tips of your feet, whispering filthy things, things he did to you over and over again, despite your weak protests and even weaker threats.

‘I love this,’ he’d murmur with eyes closed, head returning to the place he knew most intently. ‘You give it to me so easily, it can’t be anything but mine. Here is where I can be closest to you. Show me you understand, sweetheart, because there’s no other way I can explain it.’

You did not understand. As he rings the doorbell to your apartment over and over like a madman, you cannot understand. Twenty-one days. He left after an argument over nothing of importance, and you haven’t seen him since. There were things that he’d said, words that you logically knew but could not comprehend, not when they came out of his mouth, and even now you refused to acknowledge. For all intents and purposes, this had been a break-up.

The break-up. One and only. San was an atomic bomb, a nuclear weapon that had wiped everything from your map, all familiarity, all dream of waking up after and somehow surviving his disappearance. You’d been a blank canvas when he met you, complete in his presence, completely empty in his absence. He’d taken all sun, all meaning, all joy and purpose with him, and left a harrowing death behind as white as snow, cascading over your entire life, sinking you down under.

Do you open the door? Do you let someone like that back in, after the wound had barely stopped resembling the shape of a being that could irrevocably hurt you; after the bleeding had finally managed to stop, and the tears had dried?

Let me mourn in peace, you plead in your mind. Go, and never come back, as your gaze remains locked on the doorknob, his shadow visible under the chipped door. You’ve been meaning to repaint. He’d offered to help you, to get all the parts you couldn’t reach, to ease the burden of mundane tasks that seemed to overwhelm you the most. Now, he stands on the other side, like a stranger. Self proclaimed.

You never agreed to this.

“How long are you going to pretend you’re not in there?”

Your heart does somersaults, your system kickstarting, voice operated. The flowers on your nightstand startle awake, unbending their back, proud and freshly cut once again. The lamp above your head stops flickering, your sink stops leaking. Your house was holding its breath, waiting for its unofficial owner.

Strange you don’t feel the same relief. Grief has wrapped vines around you and is squeezing with every haggard inhale. San is not using his key. He has one, you know because you gave it to him. He’s waiting for your consent. He’s being kind. Considerate.

You hate him a little, you think. You have no kindness for him, no compassion. He hurt you. A different sort of hurt than the one you allowed him. A hurt that went against everything you thought he was.

“Sweetheart,” he tried again. The pet name stabbed at you, pointed, a well-honed dagger. “Let me see you. ‘S all I want. Allow me. Please.”

“Why?” It comes out without you meaning to speak. The bitterness is choking you, thick and heavy in your chest. “Why should I?”

A long pause. The shadow shifts. You hear him sigh deeply, a sad sound that cuts your anger in two. Is there a possibility he’s hurting as much as you? Could there be an explanation for this mess he put you both through?

“I have no answer for that,” he replies, his voice faint. “You’re holding the reins, baby. It’s your choice.”

For a long time, you don’t move. You think, surely he’ll leave.

Now.

But he doesn’t. He stays put, and waits patiently. He has hope. He thinks you naive and foolish. Taken for granted. (He doesn’t.)

You reach for the knob out of spite. Greet him with all your broken heart, and find his soul bared in front of your eyes, pulsing miserably, half extinguished.

The usual glint in his gaze is muted, his face gaunt, pale. His hands are stuffed in the dark pockets of his coat, an impenetrable object that has never before revealed any weakness to you. It springs tears in your eyes where you thought there were none left to cry. San, the sweet man that had been whispering your name against your temple like the most ardent prayer every night, the man you never needed a label with because he was above all, above everything—

He towered over you like a place that was forbidden to enter. His raven hair had grown, the smudge of sleeplessness painted under his eyes like a repentance. Was he punishing himself for what he did? Did you want him to?

He looked so sad. His expression unreadable, but you could see his eyes roaming over you with a raw urgency, like he wanted to make sure you were unharmed, like there was nothing else he cared about in the whole world. You don’t know how much time passes before someone stirs.

It’s you. You’re the first one to break, moving aside for him to pass, for him to enter once again, and if it happens twice, at least you know it was your fault this time. You love him. You tried to forget him, but it’s too early to move on. He knows this. You hate that too. You hate it the most.

He looks around like he doesn’t belong, and then he stops. His eyes fall on the wine bottle, on the glasses. You watch him watch them. You left them there on purpose. You left them there because you couldn’t bear to touch them, and if he ever came back—you said this to yourself many times—you would make him wash them. You would pass him the towel to dry their rims, and you’d let him open your cupboards and store them where they go.

You’d leave it unsaid. You know me this well. You know me this well, and yet you dared to leave me anyway.

“You saw me, then,” you say, willing your hands to stop shaking, willing your voice to sound impassive. Who were you kidding. Your cheeks were wet. His jaw was clenched, locked at the sight. “Is that all?”

His hands come out of his coat. You notice how tightly shut they are, stuck to his sides as if gravity itself was pulling them down with extreme force. His boots were shiny leather, slightly worn out with use, the black of his pants pressed neatly to his long legs. He looked so put together, like nothing could ever possibly affect him. (You’re wrong.)

“Are you eating well?” Then something impossible happens. Something that, in the beginning, sounded like a harmless cough to you, turned into a wretched sob he shoved behind one of his fists, a dry, guttural sound that shook you to the core and scared you back. San rubs at his face once, exasperated, lonely, so impossibly lonely, his eyes coming away bloodshot.

“My fucking God, I can’t stand the sight of you so far away from me.”

There’s nothing you can say. Everything’s lodged in your throat, tearing at the flesh but ultimately unable to come up. You’re too shocked to speak, too stunned to react. You can only stare. You can only see him come apart at the seams.

He’s drunk, you realize in an absent sort of way. He’s fucking drunk. He came to you like this, a kicked dog, searching for his owner. But you were the one kicked. You were the one without an owner. Why, then, did it not feel like it anymore?

What has he done?

“Why are you here, San?”

“There’s nowhere else, sweetheart. Nowhere else I can go. Nowhere I belong.”

Lies, you vehemently refuse. You left that night. You had somewhere to go that night. He looks at you like you’re the only source of light. It fans a flame inside you that burns brighter and brighter. You’re afraid it’ll consume you before you’re done with him.

“Did you get your answer?” Behind your eyelids, a party, two people dancing, the distance between them carved with a knife, set in stone. Then, San, ruining everything. Going for blood. “Did you find out what you couldn’t get out of me?”

The man in front of you flinches, as if you hit him across the face. You want to, your palms are itching, but the thought of causing him pain is unfathomable. He was always the one drawing it out of you. Pleasure and pain. Pain and something worse. The recognition on his face is enough to erase all else.

This is how you two communicated best. You gave your body over to him. He did all, he did everything else. Trust absolute.

“Don’t do that,” he shakes his head categorically, and shrugs his coat off in an attempt to cool off, moving by the window, pain self inflicted. It’s not anger what he’s feeling, rather . . . a craving. An insatiable hunger. A longing desire. As gruesome and just as cruel as anything that could have his fists flying. “I never doubted you. It was me. I was furious with myself.”

A twist of the knife. Time wasted, time taken away from you because of a mistake. You cannot forgive that. It makes you feel better that you now know—so can’t he.

“So, that’s it then? All this for some heroic sense of self sacrifice? You broke my heart because you broke yours?”

He signaled with his eyes you were trudging dangerous waters. His straight brows falling heavy, expression becoming one of stoic rage, a careful edge to it that you had to walk through. You’ve understood it many times, have breathed deep breaths and taken your time with it. It means ‘don’t test me’. It means ‘me and you are the same, and I am telling you to stop.’

“How can I take care of you when I get like that?” He crossed the Red Sea to reach you, but he still wouldn’t touch you. From up close, making the effort to crane your neck brought all the memories back and the tears hot and running. San watched them fall with utmost difficulty, his hand raising to your cheek, a phantom haunting. “Do you even know, sweetheart, what you fucking do to me? I could lose my mind over you. It would be so easy . . .”

The bitterness that spills out of you in the form of a crazed, manic laugh does nothing to stop your heart from contracting all over again. “Then do it. Do it. Show me!” Your hands come up to bang against his castle wall of a chest, against stone and more stone. “Show me. You wanted to leave so bad, but what about me? What about me?” Uncontrollable, the avalanche of emotion. It tumbles out of you violently, it rages against everything that he is. “It was nothing to leave me behind. Nothing. That’s what you did. That’s all you did.”

San shakes his head, absolving everything. He binds your wrists under one big hand, and pulls you on him, his mouth crushing against yours ruinously, and as always, like every single time he does that, everything bleeds away like rain on glass.

It hasn’t been twenty-one days, instead mere hours, and he didn’t leave you as much as he went to get a change of clothes and came back right after, like promised. Time is impossible around him, it forgets to exist. He silences your mind, and induces memory loss. His strong legs carry you back to your bed, and when he lays you down, your bones sigh in relieved rest.

He never breaks away from you, not once, and you think it’s so he never has to hear those words come out your mouth ever again. As he pulls your hands over your head, you open your eyes to see he’s moving downwards, over your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there, taking what has been left to pale over, no longer a painting of purple hues, but instead the blank canvas once again.

“I’ll say this to you only once,” he whispers fervently behind your ear, his knee parting your legs with ease, your hands reaching between you to unbuckle his belt, unzip his trousers, claw at his shirt. No time wasted. A river sweeping along everything in its path.

“Only once, because I cannot fucking bear it any longer,” fingers digging into your scalp as yours wrap around his cock, a hissed breath, a rocky exhale, then his tongue parting your lips, washing over you, washing away, taking for his own. “He’s in love with you. My best fucking friend, in love with my girl and I had to choose. I had to choose, because I love you both,” his erection pressed against your entrance as you angle your wrist, the tip rubbing on your clit as his hips begin to move, to familiarize themselves again—

“Because me being here hurts him, and me not being here hurts us.”

You hide your face in the crook of his neck, too lost in the feeling of him to realize the extent of his agony. What he’s really trying to tell you. Wooyoung has always been important to San. It’s been the two of them since before you came into the picture, since the beginning of existence it’s felt like, at times.

But as San shoves two fingers in your mouth and forces you to coat them with your saliva, as he curses at the sight and orders you to open wide and spits inside, as he shifts on his knees and pulls your panties to the side, as he delves deep and curls those same digits in your cunt—you forget what he means. You don’t think of the loss, or the sacrifice.

He’s here, his weight intoxicating, his breathing heavy, his hard cock arched upwards, touching his stomach. He wants to fuck you. He wants you. He never truly left.

“Please . . .” You moan brokenly, body writhing under what he only can provoke. “I missed you, please . . .”

His hair falls over his forehead, over his eyes, finally the last pretend making way for the man he is in your bed, for how he is when he’s with you. The warmth radiating through him is enough to solar an entire ecosystem, but his eyes, his mocha eyes—

They stare at you with something akin to marvel. Something that could go to war for nothing. I could tear myself apart for you, they say. I would betray my country. I would turn away from my friend.

It’s a sobering fact.

“Please what?” He asks, fucking his fingers into you, other hand rubbing over his lengthy cock sloppily, rocking with you to an invisible rhythm only your bodies understand. “What is it, sweetheart?”

You don’t even have to say it, your gaze is pleading enough.

When San enters you, you burst into tears and hold him close, tight against your breast, terrified for what will come next. Afraid for the moment this is over with.

“Why did you leave?” You sob at the top of his head, and he wraps his arms around your entire body, lifting you off the mattress to bring you on his lap, the position deeper than anything ever, the connection inexplainable.

“I don’t know,” he kisses your collarbone, your earlobe, pacifies you, brushes your hair away from your face, pistoling into you with fervor, with longing, begging for forgiveness, for retribution. “I don’t know, baby . . . Hush now, hush . . . I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” a pitiful lullaby, words you can’t hear.

He lets you bounce on him, lets you hold onto his face and hatefuck him, lets you make him feel like shit and takes it all in stride. You need this, he knows. You won’t let him anywhere near your heart if he doesn’t give you this.

And when you ask him to slap you, he does so tenderly, he does so because he loves you and you’re surrendering so beautifully, and no one’s ever given him this much power. He hopes you know he’ll never take advantage of it, but even as he thinks this, he’s aware you probably think he already has.

“I wanted him to,” you gasp as he bites on your shoulder, hands palming underneath your ass, lifting you high, dropping you savagely onto his rock hard erection. It hurts, but your cunt squeezes around him, soaking wet, aching for more. “He asked me. Would you let me? He asked. I almost said yes. I wanted to understand why.”

San growls with the effort it takes him to not lash out. Putting distance between you for a second, he pulls out and flips you on your stomach, the room spinning, the window open, as he presses your head against your pillow, and takes you from behind, hard and fast, your pussy clenching, sore already. How you like it.

He spanks you. Again, and again, and again, until he pulls tears out of your eyes. You think he will always be able to. You think you’ll be crying oceans of tears for him, forever and ever. With every rejection, no matter how small. You love him as much as you love your life. Little by little, suffering.

“Why would you say that?” He grunts, nails digging crescents at your hips. “You want to hurt me, is that it, darling? You want me miserable. Why would you fucking tell me?”

Slap.

“Admit it,” you cry out. Slap. “You can’t stand it because you can’t have it for yourself. Because you refuse to.”

His rough hand coming from behind to rub circles against your clit, brutally beating against your raw center, drawing your orgasm out of you prematurely. You whine and try to push off, to get away from his rampant storm, from his malicious ministrations.

The world tilts at its axis and you’re being pulled by your hair and forced to face him. His expression is that of a wild beast, tear stains dried on high cheekbones, red blotched and palming his cock, releasing on your stomach, a man mad with grief, unrestrained, obsessed.

San crawls down suddenly and hooks his arms under your thighs, pulling your crotch directly to his mouth, licking at your juices as if starved. You fight to break free but to no avail. He’s locked on you. Locked to what he missed. He’s come to take it all back.

And then?

“Tell me it turns you on to hear me talk about another man fucking me,” you lean into the fantasy, feeling his tongue lap between your lips, the smell of what you’ve done enveloping your senses. “Or is it specifically this man?”

“You’re out of line, sweetheart,” he spits on your glistening folds and sucks hard on the little bundle of nerves, making you see stars, making you wish you were dead. “Be careful now.”

“Or what?” You pant. “Admit it,” softer. Sadder.

When you come again, he finally rests his temple on the inside of your leg, a man ruined, exhausted, poring over his work of art. Your fingers rest in his hair, playing with the sweaty strands, your body shaking, your heart pounding.

“Nothing to you,” he rasps. “Doesn’t hold a goddamned candle.”

Your eyes involuntary fall closed, the pit of your stomach hollow. “You’re lying.”

“No,” San replies. “You want me to, but I haven’t. Not once.”

“Everyone lies.”

“Not me. Not to you.”

Nothing but your breathing returning to normal for a while, the wind from outside picking up, sky nearly black now.

His breath.

Your breath.

“I wouldn’t mind, you know,” you say very quietly, willing your voice to keep steady. “If you brought him. If you wanted to.”

A warning bite on your thigh. The ceiling is painted in shadows. His scent is overwhelming.

“Stop talking about it,” he cautions. “Please.”

His breath.

Your breath.

Then, “Don’t forgive me.” A long pause.

A car drives by. Goosebumps rise on your skin, unwelcome, and yet it’s warm where San’s seed is on you. You don’t want to get up. You don’t want to move an inch. If you ruin this he might leave.

Your fingers continue caressing. A lump rises in your throat.

“I love you,” you say.

“Don’t say that.”

“You know I do.”

“I don’t deserve it,” as he wraps tighter around your lower body, pressing his nose against your opening. You think he’s trying to suffocate himself in you. “I haven’t deserved you for a single moment,” he confesses. “Yet I keep coming back. I can’t stop myself. You’re every road I take.”

Your sharp inhale.

His soft kiss.

Your bodies, melding together, again and again.

#ateez scenarios #ateez smut #san ateez #san ateez scenarios #choi san x reader #san ateez smut #san smut #san scenarios #ateez #san x reader #choi san smut #mine.#this is for you t!!!!!

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autisticbucktommy · 7 months ago

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autistic tommy kinard headcanons:

Must wear slippers inside the house at all times, but no socks ever.

Makes the exact same coffee and breakfast every single day (he may change it up, every 7 years or so, if his safe food changes).

Cuts all the tags off his clothes. He only wears cotton or flannel, none of this rayon-polyester blend crap.

He is hypo-sensitive (sensory seeking) when it comes to food. He needs texture, crunch, spice, different flavors. And Buck watches on in horror whenever Tommy makes himself a sandwich and it has at least 4 different sauces, with chips and marshmallows. Buck swears that Tommy blindly chooses ingredients from the fridge and mashes together whatever will fit into his mouth.

He watches the same comfort romcom movies on repeat. He's seen "Love Actually" at least 200 times. It's comforting to play in the background while he does housework.

He hates hates when people bail on plans at the last minute or when they consistently show up late. It makes his skin itch.

He regulates his nervous system mostly through Muay Thai workouts, lifting, etc. but he also meditates every morning to help prevent burnout/meltdowns.

When he's on shift for 24-48 at harbour, his coworkers know to give him a wide birth of space between calls. He needs to carve out alone time or he gets snappy.

His intense feelings about social justice have gotten him in trouble more than once. He's always stepping in if someone is rude to a waiter or if he overhears a racist comment; he sees red and loses it. He's gotten better at handling his temper with age but he's still working on it.

After Buck and him get back together and have some deep talks, Tommy finds himself opening up to his boyfriend in ways he never has with anyone else. Evan quickly becomes his "safe person" who he can depend on when he's in a bad headspace. He gets in the habit of calling Evan's contact number, instead of hiding away and beating himself up over it.

Sometimes Tommy feels like he's vibrating out of his skin and the usual light-stimming (tapping his fingers against his legs, tapping his foot, etc.) isn't enough to tide him over. And so he just looks at Evan with this twinkle in his eye (Evan calls it his big scary monster look) before he attacks Evan with cuteness aggression; tackling him into the couch or bed with feral energy, as he growls and mauls him. Kissing him, squeezing him all over, wrestling him and pinning his arms above his head, and then fucking him, if the mood calls for it.

Buck buys Tommy a shirt that says "autistic and ready to fuck" as a joke gift one year for Christmas and Tommy wears it unironically around the house. And he thinks he's hilarious because sometimes he'll come out of the bedroom wearing it and nothing else, and then crook his finger like "let's do this" and Evan rolls his eyes every time because what a goofball?? What an absolute DORK of a man, he thinks, as he trips over his own feet to follow him like an eager puppy.

Tommy has an oral fixation. he loves eating Buck out. He'll do it for hours if Evan will let him. Tommy will come home from work, put his stuff away, and then he's yanking Evan's pants down and flipping him over and he's got his mouth on him. He loves lazily eating Evan out and he loves controlling if and when Evan can touch himself about it.

Tommy likes being in control in general, but especially in the bedroom. It's incredibly satisfying telling Buck what to do, because he takes it like a dream. So eager to obey, eager to please. And always so good for Tommy, which tickles his brain in the most satisfying way.

Tommy loves tying people up. He's been studying Shibari since his early 20's when he learned about it from one of his buddies in the army. There's something about working with his hands in that way, that puts him in a meditative trance. He's a regular at a few kink-rope events in the city and he will tie up various levels of kinksters who choose to volunteer. 95% of the time it's not sexual for him, unless he's doing it to his own partner. But even then, depending on the person, it can bring them so deep into sub space that he often leaves them (with supervision) to float in that euphoria for an hour or so, before working to untie and massage them; giving them after care and sweet kisses.

His favorite things to collect are work tools, bondage rope, and DVD's (the latter of which Evan relentlessly teases him about).

When he was a kid, Tommy's dad refused to believe the teachers when they suggested Tommy be tested for autism. And he made Tommy's life hell at home because of it. He knew Tommy was different and would do everything he could to try and "fix him", which would often leave young Tommy covered in bruises where other adults couldn't see them. "You can't scare the autism out of a child, but try telling my dad that," Tommy had said to Evan about his dad one day.

When Tommy needed minor surgery in the hospital as a kid, one of the nurses gave him a teddy bear named "Max" and he used to keep it under his pillow to hold when he got scared. Occasionally in adulthood, he'd pull Max out of his closet when he needed something to squeeze extra tight to make him feel better. He hasn't needed Max since Evan walked into his life though. Now he just squeezes Evan and does a happy wiggle under the sheets, nuzzling into the back of his boyfriend's neck with a sappy grin.

#I was a little self-indulgent w these but I had fun writing them :3 #bucktommy #tevan #autistic tommy kinard #tommy kinard #mine #tommy kinard headcanon #bucktommy crack #autistic bucktommy #kinkley

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jungkoode · 3 months ago

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OFF-LABELS | 10

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: EXPLICIT. 18+.

→ DATE POSTED: March 17th, 2025.

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: Full demonstrations of medical knowledge, thorough anatomy lessons, counting exercises that get out of hand, precision training with devastating results, and empirical proof that some experiments require multiple trials. | endurance training, multiple orgasms, squirting, fingering (f), oral (f), humiliation and praise kink, medical expertise, power dynamics, dominance and submission, stamina building, oral fixation, manual dexterity, cruel + soft words, punishment, slight spanking, overstimulation, pill aid.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 6,6k

→ MINI SERIES: PREVIOUS | NEXT

→ A/N: So um… this happened. Started writing a simple punishment scene and somehow ended up researching autonomic nervous system responses at 6 AM. Sorry to my FBI agent—those Google searches probably looked concerning. Now before anyone comes for me or realism because ‘kiki no women can actually—' SHUT UP. SHUTUP SHUT UP SHUTUP YES THEY CAN. You know what I haven’t seen enough of? Multiorgasmic queens. NONE. Nada. I know it’s not super common and not every woman out there is blessed with that anatomy, but point is—Chip is. And that’s what I wanted to show in my narration, which is why she states at the beginning she’s managed to get to 5 on her own. Because she knows she can chain up orgasms—and that’s a characteristic of being multiorgasmic. So if I hear anybody complain about it being unrealistic, I’ll grab you by the throat. Anyway yeah, of course king Hoseok already knew that because mf is so attentive it’s borderline scary (and hot). ALSO before somebody also comes to scream about consent or the usage of the pill being toxic or whatever—LISTEN TO ME RIGHT NOW. The pill thing is because Y/N implies she doesn’t think she can get to 15, so that’s why he gives her the tablet. It’s NOT an aphrodisiac or something to make her pliant or submissive or whatever weird porn bullshit you better not dare accuse me of—it’s AN ENHANCER. As he helpfully supplies in dialogue, it simply enhances her multiorgasmic capabilities. THAT’s IT. She TRUSTS him and I explicitly mention that at some point by the end. THIS IS ALL consensual sexual activities between two grown adults. *drops the mic* Okay now I’m gonna apologize to my couch. My neighbors. And probably God or whoever high being has observed me writing this filth.

Edit: since, of course, someone still tried to pin me as problematic and whine about themes in this chapter, I encourage you to read the reply before making a fool of yourself and sending a baseless ask.

PLAYLIST

The elevator doors slide shut with a soft ding, sealing you in mirrored walls and the scent of his rage.

Hoseok doesn’t set you down. Doesn’t even look at you. Just adjusts his grip, surgical fingers digging into your thigh as he smashes the penthouse button.

Your pulse stumbles.

“Hobi—”

“Dr. Jung.” His voice is so sharp it cuts through the alcohol haze in your skull. “You lost the right to call me that when you decided to act like a reckless fucking brat.”

A shiver licks down your spine. He never swears like that. Not at you.

But he isn’t done.

“Was he fun?” His free hand slides up your bare leg, calluses catching on sensitive skin. “That intern? Mike?” The name drips with venom. “Tell me, Chip—was he worth it?”

Your throat locks.

“Was he worth my fucking patience?”

A sharp rip punctuates the question, and—oh God—the air hits your exposed heat before your brain catches up.

He tore them. He tore them.

"Hoseok!" You squirm, face blazing hot, but he just dangles the ruined lace in front of you.

"Shhh." The saccharine sweetness of his smile makes your stomach turn. He tucks them into his pocket, like a trophy. “Disobedient brats don’t deserve coverage.”

His hand returns to your exposed slit, fingers parting you with clinical precision. His touch is colder than usual—calculated, impersonal. Like a scalpel sliding over flesh.

"Elevated heart rate. Dilated pupils. Excess lubrication." His nail scrapes over your clit and you gasp. "Diagnosis: pathological need for attention.”

Your hips jerk. “Fuck you—”

"Precisely what you're angling for, isn't it?" His voice drops, low and lethal. "Parading around in this gorgeous dress. Looking devastating. Letting somebody else’s hands touch what’s mine."

The floor numbers climb.

"Prescription,” he murmurs against your ear, “intensive correction.”

His fingers plunge inside you without warning, and you choke on your own breath.

"Count the floors, Chip." The heel of his palm grinds against your clit, unrelenting. "That’s how many times you’ll cum before you take my cock.”

Your stomach plummets. “You’re insane—”

"Three."

His fingers curl, precise and punishing.

"Four."

Another brutal thrust.

"Five."

Your nails dig into his back as your vision blurs.

"Six."

Another stretch—his middle and ring finger, scissoring wide.

"Seven."

The mirrored walls reflect your debauchery—legs spread over his shoulder, dress pooled at your waist, face contorted in pleasure-pain.

Your pulse is a frantic, fluttering thing.

“Eight.”

His knuckles press deep, unyielding.

“Nine.”

You come with a sharp, broken cry, back arching off his shoulder.

Because it’s been too long. Because you’ve been riled up the whole night. Because he’s finally here and he’s swearing, and relentless and—

He doesn’t stop.

“Ten.”

His thumb replaces his fingers, circling ruthlessly.

“Eleven.”

"Please—" You're sobbing now, oversensitive and raw.

“Fifteen.”

The doors ding open.

His fingers withdraw abruptly, and your wrecked body convulses at the loss. He licks your slick from his fingers with a detached hum, gaze sweeping over you clinically.

You barely register him moving through the hallway. The scent of antiseptic and expensive cologne drifts through the air. His grip around your thighs is bruising. His steps are steady. Unhurried.

The keys jingle. The door clicks open.

Then—

You’re airborne.

Your stomach flips as he throws you over the leather sofa. The impact knocks the air from your lungs.

The creak of leather. The bite of cold air against your exposed flesh. The press of his palm between your shoulder blades, flattening you into the cushions.

His sigh floats above you, disappointed.

"Welcome home, Chip.”

The belt jingles.

“Let’s begin your remedial education."

The leather cushions are cold beneath your cheek. The air conditioning hums low, steady. The only sound between it—between you—is the slow, deliberate slide of silk as Hoseok loosens his tie.

You can’t see him properly.

Not like this, facedown, spine arched obscenely, ass raised like some offering.

But you feel him. Feel his presence behind you, feel the heavy drag of each movement—tie slipping free, glasses clinking on the table, dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the roll of his sleeves exposing forearms you already know are capable of making you crumble.

You inhale, too shallow, too fast.

His watch ticks.

You twist, craning to catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder, but the instant you do—

"Face down, ass up.”

The command snaps like a whip.

Your body locks.

His fingers press against your nape, firm but not forceful. Just… insistent. A nonverbal correction. The heat of his palm brands your skin.

“Better get used to that position, Chip.” The rasp in his voice sends something hot and humiliating curling low in your stomach. “You’ll be like this for a while.”

A whimper escapes before you can swallow it down.

Hoseok laughs under his breath, and—fuck, that sound. Dark amusement, unshaken control. Like he already knows exactly how this night ends.

Like he planned for it.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

The rustle of fabric shifts further away. His footsteps—measured, even—carry him across the room, the click of a drawer pulling open sending another shudder through you.

He’s retrieving something.

You wet your lips, pulse spiking as you hear the clink of glass vials, the quiet tap tap of fingers against a container. His tone is almost casual when he speaks.

“How many floors, Chip?”

Your stomach plummets.

You knew this was coming.

Your fingers curl into the couch cushion, nails pressing deep.

Fifteen.

You know it was fifteen. Because he counted them out loud, each number spoken with unshaken authority, each one branded into your skull between thrusts of his fingers.

But fifteen—

Fifteen is impossible.

Your highest was five. Alone, desperate, overstimulated and aching but still your own control. And now he’s—

Your throat bobs.

“Ten.” The lie slips out fast. Too fast.

The air shifts.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just lets the silence stretch too long, so thick it suffocates. Your chest rises unevenly against the cushions, fingers trembling where they grip the leather.

Then, slow—too slow—

"Ah."

You flinch.

"So lying, too, now?"

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The footsteps return, unhurried. You squeeze your eyes shut. The sound of a cap twisting open, a faint rustle of packaging.

“You disappoint me, Chip.”

His voice is soft. Almost gentle.

It terrifies you.

The footsteps stop.

You hold your breath.

Then—

Click.

Something small lands on the cushion in front of your face. You blink, vision hazy, and focus on—

A pill.

Round, pale. A delicate thing.

But its weight feels unbearable.

Behind you, Hoseok hums, shifting closer, the heat of his body radiating against your back.

"Fascinating," he murmurs, voice smooth, composed. "You knew the number, didn’t you?"

Your pulse thunders.

“Answer me, Chip.”

The threat in his tone is quiet. Unrushed.

Your breath wavers.

"Yes." The admission is barely a whisper.

He hums again, almost pleased. "And yet, you lied.”

You whimper.

"Curious," he continues, like he's cataloging your reaction, filing it away into that clinical, calculating mind of his. "You understood the assignment perfectly. You knew the floors equaled your orgasms. You knew exactly what I expected of you."

A pause.

"Yet you still lied."

The realization makes your stomach drop.

"You don't think you can do it."

The words aren’t a question.

They're an observation.

Your nails bite into the leather. Because he’s right. Because fifteen—fifteen times, fifteen orgasms, fifteen waves of unbearable pleasure before he even thinks about giving you his cock—

It’s—

"It's impossible," you rasp.

Silence.

Then—

Hoseok chuckles.

Your entire body goes rigid.

"Impossible?" He repeats, and—fuck, fuck, you shouldn’t have said that, you should not have said that—because his amusement is not the warm, teasing thing you're used to.

No.

This is something colder. Something sharper.

Something dangerous.

A hand brushes over your ass, slow, possessive.

Then—crack.

A sharp smack lands against your skin, and you yelp, jerking forward. The burn seeps deep, stealing your breath.

“Incorrect.” His voice is steady, unaffected.

Your stomach clenches.

Another smack, harder this time. Your legs twitch, body instinctively trying to pull away, but his free hand presses against your lower back, pinning you down.

“Shall I explain why?”

You swallow hard.

He leans in, breath warm against your nape.

“Because I know you.”

Your throat locks.

His palm soothes over the burning skin, fingers pressing possessively into the tender flesh.

"No," he corrects himself, tone contemplative. "That’s imprecise."

He drags his fingers through your slick, spreading the wetness, slow and deliberate. Mocking you.

“Empirical data,” he muses, almost to himself. “Your clitoral network has approximately eight thousand nerve endings. Your vaginal walls contain—”

A finger sinks knuckle-deep, curling upward.

“Ah, pay attention.”

You bite the cushion to muffle a whine.

“Concentrated stimulation of the anterior fornix—” Another finger joins the first, stretching you brutally. “—combined with sustained G-spot pressure—” His thumb finds your clit, rubbing precisely. “—induces serial orgasms in seventy-three percent of subjects.”

The statistics shouldn’t arouse you.

The clinical detachment shouldn’t make your hips roll back against his hand.

But here you are. Dripping onto his imported leather as he lectures like this is a fucking TED Talk.

“I’ve observed your responses.” His tone is calm, measured. “Your refractory period is negligible. Your nerve sensitivity is well above average. Your arousal duration is…” His fingers spread inside you, mapping you out, committing every reaction to memory. “…exceptional.”

His thumb drags over your clit.

“You’re multiorgasmic, Chip.”

A strangled noise rips from your throat.

“Fifteen orgasms isn’t a punishment.” He withdraws his fingers and smears your wetness over your swollen folds. “It’s preparation.”

Your whole body shudders.

Hoseok tuts.

“Do you really think I’d feed you eight inches without ensuring you were properly conditioned? Slippery, dripping, pliable?” His voice drops lower, smooth like sugar lapping at your core. “Without making sure you’d take me without pain?”

Your heart flutters.

His breath brushes against your nape. “You thought this was cruel?”

A hand slides between your thighs, forcing them wider.

“This is mercy.”

The words barely register before his fingers tap against your lips.

You flinch. The touch is light, impersonal—barely there. But when you glance down, something small rests against his fingertips.

The pill.

You blink, still dazed, vision blurry from arousal and exertion.

“What—”

“Open.”

Your stomach tightens.

His voice is calm. Detached. Like he’s instructing a patient instead of pressing a pill to your lips.

You hesitate.

He hums, amused. “Sublingual Sildenafil. Accelerates clitoral engorgement. Ensures optimal conditions for multiple orgasms. It will simply enhance your own multiorgasmic capabilities.”

Your thighs twitch instinctively, trying to press together, but his knee is still between them, holding you open.

“Ah.” A quiet, disappointed sigh. “Non-compliant patient.”

Your stomach plummets.

Then—a nudge. Parting your legs wider.

“You do understand,” he murmurs, almost amused, “there are other forms of absorption.”

Your throat locks.

Your breath stutters.

“What?”

A slow hum. A contemplative pause.

“Oral is most effective.” His free hand smooths over your ass, light and detached, like he’s just considering his options. “But mucosal absorption is still viable.”

You inhale.

“Rectal administration,” he continues, tone casual. Clinical. “Less efficient, but still sufficient. The lower absorption rate means you’d take longer to reach full saturation, but…”

His fingers trace the curve of your hip.

“If you’re unwilling to comply…”

His knee shifts—just enough to remind you how vulnerable you are.

“Spread yourself wider.” His voice is smooth, patient. “Hold yourself open for the administration.”

A wave of heat slams into you. Something between terror and arousal. Your hands fly up instinctively—gripping his wrist, nails pressing into his skin.

“N-No—” The words tumble out too fast, breathless, desperate. “I’ll—I’ll take it. Mouth.”

A pause.

Then—

A smile. Slow. Knowing.

“That’s what I thought.”

The pill presses against your tongue, and your mouth clamps shut around it before you can even think to resist.

His watch beeps.

“Ninety seconds.”

Your stomach lurches.

His fingers tap against your lips again—light, satisfied.

“Good girl.”

The pill tingles beneath your tongue.

Hoseok straightens, rolling his sleeves up his forearms, unhurried.

Then—

His hands go for his belt.

The buckle clicks.

A slow, methodical tug pulls the leather free, the sound thick in the quiet.

You whimper, pressing your cheek against the couch, pulse pounding.

"Proper experimentation requires..." His voice is a slow drawl, calm, unaffected. The belt falls to the floor. "…controlled variables."

He takes the rest of your dress off. Bra follows.

Then his fingers press into your dripping heat.

"Let's begin."

The first tingle blooms beneath your skin, warmth trickling down your spine like the first sip of whiskey.

Hoseok watches.

Of course he does.

You can feel his gaze, heavy, assessing, as the effects take hold. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, watch gleaming on his wrist, fingers flexing idly like he’s already calculating his next move.

You squeeze your thighs together instinctively.

It’s a mistake.

The friction—just the barest shift—sends a pulse of heat straight to your clit, so sudden and sharp that you gasp.

Hoseok hums. “There it is.”

Your stomach lurches.

His palm smooths over your lower back, warm and firm, the weight of it keeping you pinned. You don’t know what’s worse—that he expected it, or that you reacted exactly the way he predicted.

Your breathing stutters.

“It’s working faster than anticipated,” he muses, more to himself than to you. “Good. I’d hate for this to take all night.”

He’s lying.

You know he is.

He wants it to take all night.

Your thighs tremble. The buzzing under your skin intensifies, a slow, creeping build, pooling low in your belly. The ache is growing—not unbearable, not yet, but constant. Like an itch too deep to scratch.

Hoseok’s fingers trace down your spine, featherlight. “Tell me what you feel.”

Your lips part—then press shut.

He waits.

You breathe in, shallow, unsteady. “Warm,” you admit. “Tingling.”

His fingertips ghost over your hip. “Where?”

You swallow. “Everywhere.”

“More specific.”

Your fingers tighten against the leather. “My—” Your face burns. “My clit.”

His hand stills.

For a moment, there’s nothing. No sound, no shift, just his steady, patient silence.

Then—

“Show me.”

The command is quiet.

It’s not a request.

Your stomach tightens.

Slowly, shakily, you obey—your fingers creeping between your own legs, breath hitching as they meet wet. The slickness is obscene, spilling over your thighs, making your own touch slippery, electric.

Hoseok exhales through his nose. “Good girl.”

A fresh wave of heat floods through you.

It’s humiliating, how much those words affect you. How easy he makes it seem—like compliance is inevitable, like your body is designed for this.

Like he already knows what you’ll do before you do it.

Your fingers move clumsily against your clit, the sensitivity almost unbearable. You’re too wet, too warm, the pleasure mounting too fast.

Hoseok watches for a moment—silent, clinical—then, without warning, his hand covers yours.

Your entire body jerks.

“Slower,” he instructs, voice low, controlled. “Focus on the pressure.”

You whimper.

His fingers guide yours, pressing down, rolling slow, steady circles. The change is immediate—the pleasure sharpening into something more potent, more targeted, the kind that makes your thighs tremble and your stomach clench.

Your hips rock.

Hoseok hums approvingly. “Better.”

His hand is warm, steady over yours, dictating the rhythm, making you follow it.

And that’s the worst part—you do.

You let him lead. Let him train you, let him control the pace, let him show you how to touch yourself properly.

A moan tears from your throat.

Hoseok exhales through his nose, satisfied. “Tell me when you’re close.”

You’re already close.

The words stick in your throat, but he knows. His fingers press down, a fraction harder, a fraction slower, dragging it out, prolonging it—

Your back arches. “Hoseok—”

“Dr. Jung.”

Your breath shatters.

His fingers disappear.

The loss makes you sob.

Hoseok smiles. “One.”

Dread and lust conquer your soul.

Your chest heaves against the leather, heart slamming against your ribs.

He’s counting. He’s counting them out loud, marking them like he did in the elevator.

There’s fourteen more.

You whimper, legs trembling.

Hoseok tuts. “Already sensitive?”

Your response is a choked little sound, barely coherent.

He laughs softly, dragging his fingers through your slick again, coating them in your arousal.

“It’ll only get worse.”

Your whole body shudders.

He shifts behind you, and then—

A wet press against your clit.

You gasp.

It’s his tongue.

The sensation is too much, hot and soft and lethal, wrapping around your swollen bud with precise, devastating pressure. Your spine curves off the couch, legs twitching, a wrecked little sound spilling from your lips—

Hoseok’s hands clamp down on your hips, pinning you still.

“Stay put.”

Your vision blurs.

Then—suction.

Your moan is shattered.

The pleasure slams through you, instant and overwhelming. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t ease you into it, just takes—his mouth tight, his tongue pressing against your clit like he’s studying it, like he’s testing responses and cataloging results.

Your whole body is shaking.

“Dr. Jung—”

The title is barely a gasp.

Hoseok hums against you—approving—and the vibration sends you spiraling.

The orgasm detonates before you can brace for it.

You wail.

Your body locks, every nerve seizing, pleasure white-hot and unbearable. You can feel the aftershocks, each ripple making your thighs twitch, your lungs shudder.

Hoseok doesn’t move.

He doesn’t pull away.

Just stays there, mouth locked around your clit, tongue lapping at the oversensitive flesh, drinking in the aftershocks, making them last, making you suffer.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes.

Your whimper is broken. “Hoseok—”

A sharp smack lands against your ass.

"Two."

You sob.

He chuckles. “Oh, Chip.”

A slow drag of his tongue makes you quake.

“You’ve got thirteen more.”

Your thighs twitch violently, your body trying to escape the onslaught of his mouth, but Hoseok’s grip is ironclad.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, lips brushing wet against your clit, and you sob because you can’t.

Your entire body is humming, nerve endings screaming—but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you breathe, doesn’t give you a second to recover before his tongue presses against you again.

“No, no, no—”

Your hands scrabble against the couch, trying to find purchase, trying to ground yourself, but it’s useless, because the pleasure is already mounting again, rushing up your spine, curling hot and unbearable beneath your ribs—

“Already?”

His voice is drenched in satisfaction.

Your walls clench down on nothing.

He laughs, and you can’t discern whether it’s mocking or fond.

“You were made for this, Chip.” His lips brush against your slick heat, the tip of his nose nudging your entrance. “So desperate. So pliable.” A slow, teasing kiss over your clit. “Tell me—” His voice drops lower, lips just barely grazing you. “Are you going to give me number three?”

Your moan is wrecked.

His hands tighten on your hips, forcing you down, pressing you flush against his mouth.

The pressure is devastating.

His tongue flicks against your swollen bud—once, twice, again—the motion too light, too perfect, just enough to make your body ache for more, to make you chase it, to make you rock back against his mouth—

“That’s it,” he murmurs, like you’ve done something right.

The praise shoves you over the edge.

You scream.

Your whole body locks, your toes curling, your back arching off the couch as the orgasm rips through you—hot and sharp and overwhelming, pleasure blooming outward in a wave so intense it hurts.

Hoseok doesn’t move.

Doesn’t let you go.

Just stays there, tongue pressing slow, devastating circles into your clit as you shake, your release gushing over his chin, his cheeks—

But he doesn’t care.

He just licks you clean.

“Three,” he breathes, satisfaction curling around the word like smoke.

You wail.

He hums, amused.

Then—

He flattens his tongue against your clit, lips sealing over the aching bud, and sucks.

Your scream is immediate.

Too much, too fast, too soon, the overstimulation like a live current dragging you under—

“No, no—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he says smoothly, and then—

His fingers push inside.

You sob.

It’s instant—the unbearable stretch, the precise, practiced curl against that devastating spot, the obscene squelch of your own arousal as he fucks into you, his tongue relentless, his fingers ruthless.

The orgasm slams into you before you can fight it.

Your vision whites out.

Your whole body seizes, your breath stalling in your throat as you clench down on his fingers, every muscle locking tight, pleasure ripping through you so violently you almost black out.

His mouth never leaves you.

“Four,” he says against your skin, barely pulling away before his lips wrap around you again.

The suction is brutal.

You jerk, shrieking, your walls still spasming around his fingers, your nerves already fried—

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the next one is already building.

Your body is chained to it now, helpless against the tidal wave of sensation, every cell in your body primed to keep going.

He knows.

Hoseok knows.

“That’s it, Chip,” he murmurs, almost proud.

His fingers stroke inside you, his mouth working your clit with calculated, rhythmic flicks, forcing you to stay on the edge, forcing your body to keep trembling under his hands, forcing you into a state of constant, inescapable pleasure—

“You’re learning.”

Your scream splinters into another orgasm.

“Five,” he purrs.

You’re crying.

Because you’re still coming.

Still coming when the next one starts, the two colliding, blurring into each other, your body locked in an endless cycle of pleasure, every sensation rolling into the next and the overstimulation is hellish, a wildfire under your skin, your walls still fluttering, still convulsing around his fingers, still unable to stop, still being dragged under—

He doesn’t let go.

Your legs are twitching, muscles seizing, your mouth falling open in a silent, wrecked moan—

“Six,” he breathes.

Your vision goes fuzzy.

Your body collapses against the couch, limbs trembling, sweat slick on your skin, pleasure roaring in your veins—

“Seven.”

Your breath shatters.

It doesn’t stop.

It won’t stop.

Hoseok’s voice is quiet, distant, a soft rasp in your ringing ears.

“You’re remarkable.”

Your body is still shaking. Your brain is gone.

And then—

The first real pause.

A moment to breathe.

You gasp, chest heaving, legs twitching. Your entire body feels wrecked, like you’ve been torn apart and remade.

You can’t move.

You couldn’t if you tried.

Hoseok chuckles darkly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, fingers sliding against his soaked lips.

He’s drenched.

Jaw wet, chin slick with your release.

He looks fucking filthy.

He looks fucking hot.

And so goddamn pleased with himself.

Your mind is floating, but your body is trembling. Your breath still hasn’t evened out. Your skin is burning, your clit pulsing, your thighs still shaking.

He smirks.

“Look at you.”

A warm hand spreads over your ass, massaging the flushed, tender skin.

"You’ve given me seven, Chip." His tone is almost soothing, like he's pleased. Like he's proud of you.

The heat in your belly tightens.

His fingers drag through your soaked folds, slow, teasing.

You whimper.

He hums.

"One more."

Your stomach drops.

Your eyes fly open, panic surging in your chest—

But Hoseok just laughs.

His fingers slip inside.

The stretch is devastating.

He leans in, voice a whisper against your ear—

"Let’s finish the first half, shall we?"

You can still feel the last orgasm pulsing inside you.

Your muscles twitch with every aftershock, your thighs trembling, your walls fluttering around his fingers even as he slows his movements. Your breath is still ragged, uneven, your skin damp with sweat.

But you’re not done.

Neither is he.

Hoseok knows.

He’s watching—waiting—taking in every tremor, every unconscious clench, every microscopic shift in your overstimulated body.

“Pl—please—" you manage to croak out because there’s seriously no way you can keep cumming like this.

But your body clearly has different ideas.

So he hums, tilts his head. “You’re not coming down, are you?”

You can’t form a reply. But that’s okay. He already knows the answer.

The pleasure is still there, smoldering low in your belly, a slow, molten burn that refuses to fade.

Hoseok chuckles.

“Good.”

Before you can brace—before you can breathe—

His fingers leave you.

You wail.

But then—

You're moving.

Your body is weightless for a second before the leather disappears beneath you. You yelp as he flips you effortlessly, dragging you onto your back, thighs draped over his arms, your entire body stretched out beneath him.

He’s still fully dressed.

White dress shirt clinging to his shoulders, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black dress pants still perfectly fitted against his waist.

And you—

You are bare.

Slick and flushed and open for him, laid out like some kind of experiment.

You don’t know why the comparison makes you wetter.

His hands slide under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest. The shift changes everything—the angle, the pressure, the way your swollen, aching clit is now completely exposed to the air.

You shudder.

He watches.

Hoseok’s eyes darken. “Let’s try something new.”

A new wave of arousal pulses through you.

Then—

His thumb presses against your perineum.

Your whole body jolts.

The pressure is light—just a warm, steady presence against that sensitive patch of skin, pressing upward, sending a strange, unfamiliar sensation curling through your core.

Your breath stutters. “What—”

“Relax.” His voice is low, measured. “Just feel.”

Then his mouth is back on your clit, and—

Fuck.

It’s different.

The dual stimulation—his lips wrapped around you, his tongue flicking over your swollen bud, his thumb applying that slow, torturous pressure beneath you—

Your vision whites out.

You scream.

The pleasure is deeper, like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely, like a direct tap into something raw and untouched inside you.

The pressure beneath your entrance makes everything tighter, amplifying every sensation, making you ache in a way that feels utterly foreign.

Hoseok groans against you. “That’s it.”

Your thighs tremble.

The orgasm sneaks up on you—doesn’t build so much as it erupts, slamming into you before you even realize you’re close. Your whole body arches, the tension snapping, pleasure ripping through your core—

And then—

Another.

And another.

Your body is spiraling, the pleasure cascading, one peak slamming into the next with no time to recover, your hips jerking, your nails digging into his arms—

Your vision swims.

Your throat is raw from moaning.

Hoseok just smirks.

He pulls away, lips shining with your slick, his tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his mouth.

Your chest heaves.

"Eight," he murmurs.

Your stomach drops.

Because he isn’t stopping.

Hoseok tilts his head, dragging a single finger through your soaked folds.

"You’re still trembling," he notes, almost amused.

Your whimper is pitiful.

Your whole body is still twitching, still throbbing with the aftershocks. You feel the orgasms reverberating through your core, stretching out the pleasure, making it impossible to come down.

And he’s going to use it.

Hoseok’s fingers flex against your thighs. “Let’s see how many we can chain together.”

Fucking sadist.

Fucking masochist, you, for enjoying it.

You know what he’s doing.

He’s taking advantage of your body’s responsiveness. Pushing you through a continuous orgasm cycle, keeping your muscles engaged, forcing your body into a loop of release after release, making it impossible to stop—

A whimper breaks from your throat.

Hoseok smiles.

"See, how you can behave if you want to?"

Then—

His fingers sink back inside you, and—

The pleasure surges forward like a breaking wave.

Your body clenches, your walls fluttering around him as the next orgasm takes over before the last one even fades.

Your body can’t tell the difference anymore.

There’s no start or stop, no separation between each peak—just one long, continuous state of pleasure, your muscles locking tight, your mouth open in a silent scream, the overstimulation forcing you to the brink again and again and again—

"L-let m-me—"

“That's nine.”

Your thighs tremble.

The pleasure is never-ending.

Every time it ebbs, every time it flickers even slightly, Hoseok adjusts. He keeps you there, keeps you riding the high, his fingers curving deep, his palm grinding against your clit, his voice keeping you spiraling—

“Ten.”

Your stomach flips.

He’s doing it on purpose.

Drawing them out.

Tearing you apart.

Your whole body is dripping, slick everywhere, thighs shaking as another orgasm slams through you, your muscles clamping down around his fingers, his wrist soaked with your release.

Your moan is hoarse.

Hoseok just smirks.

“Eleven.”

Your vision blurs.

You don’t even know how many are left.

You don’t know how much time has passed.

Your body isn’t yours anymore—it's his, his to push, his to mold, his to fucking train.

A sob rips from your throat.

Hoseok groans, his fingers fucking into you harder, his mouth brushing your ear—

“You’re perfect for me, Chip.”

Your whole body locks up.

The next orgasm slams into you without warning.

It’s violent, a full-body seizure, your muscles spasming, your breath stuck in your throat—

Hoseok grins.

“Twelve.”

Your vision goes black.

And he still isn’t finished.

Your body is wrecked.

You can feel it—the deep, aching exhaustion settling in your muscles, the uncontrollable twitch in your thighs, the overstimulation thrumming through every raw, abused nerve ending.

And he isn’t stopping.

You’re still trembling, pleasure still echoing through your core, your cunt still clenching helplessly around nothing, searching for something to hold onto, something to pull you down from the endless, unbearable high—

But Hoseok won’t give it to you.

Instead—

He laughs.

Low and quiet. Amused.

Like he’s barely even bothered.

Like your suffering is entertainment.

Your whimper is wrecked. "No more—"

Hoseok hums, dragging his fingers through the absolute mess between your legs, spreading it slow, smearing the evidence of your undoing across your inner thighs.

"Poor thing." His voice is gentle. Mocking. "Already begging?"

You sob.

Your arms shake as you try to lift yourself up—just enough to see him, just enough to plead, but the movement makes you dizzy, makes your vision blur, makes the world tilt—

And then—

He presses against you.

A new heat. A new kind of pressure, one that makes your walls flutter with desperate, helpless need.

Because—

Oh, fuck.

His cock.

It’s thick, the outline unmistakable beneath his dress pants, hot and solid where it presses into your soaking slit, the warmth searing through the fabric.

Your whole body locks.

He just stays there.

Utterly still. Pressed against you. Completely unshaken.

Watching.

Waiting.

His head tilts. “You want it already?”

Your breath shatters. "Yes."

It comes out wrecked, a plea, a sob, a humiliating, desperate confession.

Hoseok exhales through his nose, disappointed.

"You were so eager to earn my cock before," he murmurs, rolling his hips—just barely, just enough to tease, to let you feel the size of him through his pants, to let you ache for it.

Your mewl.

"Now you just want me to give it to you?"

You nod frantically, tears spilling over your cheeks. "Please—"

He chuckles.

And then—

He grabs your chin.

The grip is firm, fingers pressing into your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb swipes over your wet cheek, smearing the tear tracks across your skin.

His smile is cruel.

“Three more, Chip.”

Your stomach plummets.

Three.

Your breath shudders. "No—"

"Three more." His grip tightens. "Then I’ll give this weeping cunt exactly what it needs."

Your whole body shudders.

The words land hot in your gut, twisting and humiliating and burning. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing, aching, soaked, still dripping for him.

You sob—pout—shaking your head, but he just laughs.

“Come now, Chip.” He releases your chin, exhaling through his nose as he leans back against the couch, rolling his sleeves up higher, the Rolex at his wrist gleaming in the low light.

Then—

His legs spread.

The black slacks stretch over thick, muscular thighs, and he pats one of them—calm, nonchalant.

A simple, silent command.

Your fingers dig into the leather beneath you, lungs fighting for air, because—

No.

No, no, no—

"You want my cock?" His voice is easy, like he's bored, like this is a waste of his time. "Then work for it."

Your vision blurs.

He won’t help.

He won’t help you.

He wants you to do it yourself.

You sob.

But you move.

Shaky, wobbly, exhausted—you crawl into his lap, straddling his thigh, knees pressing into the couch cushions, cunt slick and aching as it spreads over the firm muscle beneath you.

The heat of him—his body, his skin, his cock still impossibly hard beneath his slacks—

It’s too much.

Your whimper is humiliating.

"Go on," Hoseok murmurs, arms draped over the back of the couch, watching you passively, as if this isn’t even worth his effort.

Your exhale is rather needy.

Fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging to him, hating the way this makes you feel—needy, desperate, fucking pathetic.

But you grind.

The first drag of your clit against his thigh makes your whole body jolt.

It’s instant.

The friction—just enough to sting, to spark that unbearable ache again, to keep you there, to make your swollen bud throb with every roll of your hips—

Hoseok hums. “That’s it.”

Your whole body trembles.

You rock forward again, the slick mess between your legs smearing everywhere, soaking through the fabric of his pants, making each movement obscene.

"Pathetic," he murmurs, almost amused.

Your face burns.

But you don’t stop.

Your movements grow sloppier, thighs shaking, the pressure almost unbearable, every drag sending sharp, electric heat curling through your stomach, your breath coming faster, voice breaking on every exhale—

And then it’s there. It’s right there, once more.

Your orgasm tears through you.

Your vision goes white, your muscles locking up, hips stuttering against his thigh as the pleasure overwhelms you—

Hoseok clicks his tongue.

"You can do better."

Your sob shakes through your chest.

Before you can breathe, before you can stop trembling, before you can even begin to recover—

Strong hands grip your waist.

And move you.

Your body jerks as he shifts you into place—straddling his lap, pressed directly against his cock.

Your whole body locks.

You can feel it now, properly, not his thigh anymore, nothing to dull the reality of it—his cock is huge, solid and burning hot beneath his slacks, nestled perfectly between your soaked folds, the ridge of it pressing directly into your clit.

A broken sob tears from your throat.

Hoseok grins.

"That’s better."

You shake your head. "No more—"

"Two more," he corrects, fingers tracing down your sides, barely touching you, refusing to help. "You still want it, don’t you?"

You whine. "Yes—"

"Then move."

Knots form in your chest.

Because you do.

Because you have to.

Because you need it.

Even as the shame burns, even as the overstimulation shreds through you, even as your vision swims, even as you sob against his shoulder—

You grind.

And Hoseok just smirks.

"That’s my girl."

Your whole body is trembling.

Shaking with exhaustion, with pleasure, with ruin.

But Hoseok is not done with you.

Not yet.

Not until you give him two more.

So you continue grinding against him, thighs burning, chest heaving, your entire body stretched too thin. Your clit is aching, so overstimulated it feels like a volcano against the hard press of his cock.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

It’s everything at once.

You sob against his shoulder, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for anything to hold onto—

And then—

Warm hands.

Hoseok’s hands.

They move.

Not fast. Not rough.

Just… slow.

Slipping from the couch rest behind him, dragging down the curve of your back, lingering at your waist. Large and steady, fingertips pressing into your hips with that familiar, unshaken control.

A slow inhale.

A pause.

And then—

He guides you.

His grip tightens, pressing your hips down against him, rolling them in slow, devastating circles over the thick length of his clothed cock.

A wrecked cry breaks from your throat.

“There we go.” His voice is soft, soothing, his breath warm against your temple. “Let me help, baby.”

Tears well up on you eyelids.

Nails clench into his shoulders as he moves you, pressing your soaked cunt over the stiff heat beneath his slacks, dragging your swollen clit over every ridge and vein.

The friction is perfect.

The pressure is blinding.

And then—

His lips find your throat.

Your breath catches.

Soft, wet kisses drag down your neck—lingering, teasing, maddening—before his mouth descends.

Lower.

His tongue flicks over your nipple, warm and wet, before his lips wrap around the peak and—

Oh, fuck.

A sharp suck.

Your entire body jolts.

Your moan is shattered.

His tongue swirls over the hardened bud, lips moving slow and sweet, sucking like you’re dripping with sugar, like he can taste your ruin on his tongue.

Your hips jerk.

Your walls clench down on nothing.

You’re so close.

And Hoseok knows.

"Look at you," he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with something sweet, something warm.

His hands squeeze at your waist, pressing you harder against him, making you feel him, making sure you grind yourself open for him properly.

"Like caramel stretched too thin.” His teeth scrape your nipple, making you cry out. “Glistening, golden, melting all over me."

Your stomach flutters.

The words shove you over the edge.

Your body locks up, the orgasm ripping through you like a flood, so sharp, so raw, that you nearly collapse. Your walls flutter helplessly, your thighs trembling, the pleasure surging through every raw, aching nerve.

Hoseok groans.

“Fourteen,” he breathes, sucking hard at your nipple, letting your pleasure drip onto his slacks, soaking through the fabric, making you suffer in the overstimulation—

And then he flips you.

You gasp.

Your back hits the couch, thighs sprawled wide, and before you can even process it—

His hand is between your legs.

His fingers slide through your wrecked, swollen folds, pressing against your entrance, teasing, mocking, before thrusting deep—

Your scream catches in your throat.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice is so soft, so cruel, the pads of his fingers ruthless as they curl inside you, pressing against a spot so deep inside you that makes you convulse.

You sob, shaking your head, too much, too much, but he just shushes you, voice thick with mock sympathy.

"You've been holding out on me, haven't you?"

Spit catches in your throat. "W-what—"

Hoseok chuckles.

Deep, pleased, knowing.

"Don't worry, baby." A sharp thrust, his fingers spreading inside you. "I'll show you."

You whimper, legs kicking uselessly, body fighting something you don’t understand—

And then—

A firm press against your lower belly.

And then—

Another thrust.

The pleasure shifts.

It's new. It's deeper, sharper, something different curling at the base of your spine, something building too fast, something—

"Hoseok—"

"Shh," he soothes. "Just let go, baby."

Your stomach tightens.

The pressure is unbearable.

Your walls clench, your whole body shaking, something hot and unbearable coiling deep inside you, something you can't stop, something rushing to the surface, something—

"Oh—fuck—"

Your body takes over.

"Let it happen. Trust me."

Trust him.

You do. You absolutely trust him.

And maybe that’s the problem, or maybe that’s the solution.

Your thighs tremble, your spine arches, your vision blurs—

And then—

You gush.

Your whole body seizes, pleasure ripping through you in a violent surge, liquid spurting out of you, drenching his hand, his pants, the couch, your thighs—

You scream.

Your muscles lock, your walls fluttering helplessly, your release spurting in hot, wet pulses as Hoseok groans, watching you fall apart completely.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice thick with awe.

Your body shakes.

Your mind spins.

Because—

What the fuck just happened?

Your whole body is trembling, gasping for air, blinking dazedly as the aftershocks pulse through you, as your thighs twitch, as the overwhelming humiliation of what just happened sinks in.

You whimper. "Hobi—"

He shushes you.

Soft. Gentle. Warm.

His hands move immediately—stroking down your sides, pressing into the muscles that are still twitching, still wreckedfrom the relentless overstimulation.

"You did so well," he murmurs, voice thick with something warm, something sweet. "So well for me, Chip."

His lips find your forehead, pressing a slow, lingering kiss there.

Your whole body melts.

His hands don’t stop moving—brushing over your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist, grounding you, reminding you that you’re safe, that you’re here, that he has you.

"Poor thing." His voice is low, gentle.

A kiss to your temple.

“So sweet when you cry for me."

A kiss to your cheek.

“Like honey dripping from the comb.”

A brush of lips against your jaw.

“You ready for your reward now, baby?"

Your whole body shudders.

You nod, desperate, a wrecked little whimper escaping your lips—

And Hoseok laughs, dark and pleased, as he finally moves to cradle you.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @hobis-sprite0218 @mcflurry-220 @mar-lo-pap

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vivalabunbun · 2 years ago

Text

As You Are, I Am Too

Summary: If we compare people to magnets, opposites attract and sames repel, so why are two stoic faces paired as soulmates?

Word Count: 15.4k (why are you surprised at this point, get some snacks)

Tags: Alhaitham x Fem! Reader, Smut(r18+), NFSW, MDNI, Modern AU, Soulmate AU, Mutual Pinning, Fluff, Slow Burn, Slow fic, Perfectionist! Reader, angst, arranged pairing, TW: Toxic family, unhappy childhood trauma, child of strained marriage trauma, TW: Themes of self-loathing, themes of infidelity(misunderstanding), toxic work environment, slight workplace harassment, pushy boss, slightly yandere! Alhaitham?, Soft! Alhaitham, second chance romance?, slightly bratty! reader, Dom! Alhaitham, Degradation, Heavy adult themes, attempts at comedy

Author Note: This is experimental, I want to explore if two same sides of a magnet can still attract. I want to explore the fumbles and mistakes of love.

Side Note: Here is a continuation

Do you believe in soulmates?

It’s nothing to be ashamed of if you do. Because who doesn’t want to believe in it? The concept of an ‘other half’, a missing piece that completes you. Someone who loves you and only you unconditionally.

Who doesn’t want to experience that?

To be loved, to be accepted, and to feel whole are all natural human desires. So it’s no surprise society, regardless of the century, culture, or demographic all obsessed over finding that other half.

To find a hand that fits perfectly within the gaps of one’s own.

The greatest minds in all of Tevyat came together, analyzing each pattern, quantifying each data point, and testing each hypothesis until their magnum opus was created: The Akasha System.

Taking the work out of fate’s hands and into a large database.

What criteria did this wonderful system use to piece together two halves of a whole? Who knows, it’s a black box. However, the machine was quite smart, quite quick, and quite accurate.

So much so, there was no reason not to use it.

Humans, no matter how much some might deny it, despise being lonely. They fear it so much they’d rather hold a hand which strangles theirs with an equally crushing grip.

That’s why people rush toward their soulmates the moment the Akasha finds them, they fear being alone.

But do you believe in soulmates?

“No.” Alhaitham puts down his drink.

“But you still used the Akasha??” Kaveh juts a finger in the direction of an ashen-haired man.

“And?” Disinterested eyes glance at the time displayed on a clock in the rowdy bar.

“And?! What do you mean and? You just said you don’t believe in soulmates!” The slam of Kaveh’s palms on the table made a bit of beer lap over the edge of his cup.

“I don’t believe in soulmates, but I’m not ignorant to the benefits of marriage.”

“Huh?”

“It’s convenient.” The blunt statement rolling off Alhaitham’s tongue as he motions for the tab.

“Ugh, you know what, forget it.” Kaveh chases his heavy sigh with a hearty swig of his cup.

“Well then, I’ll call it a night.” He’s stayed out long enough.

Placing a handful of mora on the table to cover his tab, Alhaitham bids goodnight to his two workplace acquaintances and former college roommate.

He swiftly strides towards the creaky tavern door, swinging it open as he steps into the warm Summer evening. Tomorrow is another workday, better to get an adequate amount of rest.

“Still the same even after a full year with her, huh,” Kaveh sighs dryly.

“Did you really think he’d change after marriage, Kaveh?” Cyno finally chipped in from the sidelines.

“I should’ve known, someone as egotistical as Alhaitham practically married himself.”

“Now, now, his wife is nowhere as egotistical as him,” Tighnari says over the rim of his glass.

Cyno and Kaveh paused for a moment, sharing a glance as they considered Tighnari’s observation. With a shrug, they concluded: you weren’t nearly as egotistical as Alhaitham.

Still, the great mystery remains.

“How is he the first to marry?” The blond bachelor slumps further on the tavern stool.

“Life is full of wonders.” The ebony-haired bachelor gave a few comforting pats.

———————————————————————————

Unlocking the solid oak front door, Alhaitham steps into the serenity of a quiet house. Good, his ears were slightly buzzing from the boisterous conversation in a crowded bar.

Taking a few more steps into the entranceway, the man shuts the door behind his body.

The dull gossip over a few rounds of drinks made their influence known to him, he just wants to go to bed. Thus he takes a few more steps toward his bedroom.

“Place your shoes into the closet, I just mopped the floors.” A level voice called out from the living room.

Alhaitham’s movement halts, quickly glancing down at the Oxford shoes still on his feet, taking note of the spotless floorboards.

Wordlessly, Alhaitham unties the laces allowing him to kick them off with ease, placing them onto the shoe rack just behind a closet door.

It’s a habit that slips his mind every now and then despite a year of marriage; Surprisingly unsurprising when you take into consideration his busy mind.

However, times were different now, he’s no longer a kid, free to be lost in thought. He’s now a homeowner of a spacious house, a space he shares with you, and you liked things clean.

Not a speck of dust lingered on surfaces, no plates left in the sink, and books pristinely placed on organized shelves. Qualifications that he deemed exceptional for a life partner.

Now with slipper-clad steps, Alhaitham makes his way through the house, peering into the living room to spot your curled figure reading on a sofa. The warm glow of a floor lamp illuminated the soft curves of your cheek.

“Is something the matter?” You didn’t look up from the page as you addressed him.

“No, just heading to bed.”

“Okay, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The start and finish of tonight’s conversation, after all, you valued a quiet house as much as he did. His colleague’s words weren’t without merit, even Alhaitham isn’t stubborn enough to deny the obvious.

Hobbies identical to each other, books upon books lined up along numerous shelves, preferring to stay within the walls of this house unless dragged out by friends.

Your indecipherable gaze and stiff lips rival his own stone face. Perhaps that’s why the Akasha paired the two of you together. Two beings with stoic faces only another stoic would bear for a life partner, like two sides of the same coin.

Alhaitham stops unbuttoning his shirt behind his shut bedroom door, reanalyzing the previous statement. Actually, that isn’t a very good analogy.

It'd be more accurate to compare you and him to a double-sided mirror that reflected only one view.

“I don’t believe in soulmates.”

The man sitting across from the cafe table, introduced as Alhaitham, bluntly states, interrupting your sip of coffee, warm beverage just barely touching your lips.

Placing your cup back down on the coffee shop table, your gaze observed the stranger who just met you moments ago - a meeting in a small cafe arranged by Sumeru’s Ministry of Human Relations, the government body tasked with delivering the Akasha’s verdict.

After a few breaths, you decided to humor his abrupt statement with a response. Staring straight into his teal-orange eyes, you say, “What a coincidence, neither do I.”

————————

So then why did two nonbelievers follow the verdict handed to them? It’s simple really.

Two salaries combined can buy a sizable house. Two pairs of hands get chores done faster. Two signatures on a certificate save tax money. Life is simpler with a partner to bear some of the burden.

Young professionals and fresh graduates aren’t known for their financial independence; a boy eager to move out of a cheap flat and away from an infuriating roommate, a girl trying to escape a noisy environment.

The circumstances had aligned.

And that’s how it’s been for two years now, a nice quiet house. Although, you’d be lying if you weren’t thankful that the Akasha paired you with someone as handsome as Alhaitham. Silver hair, broad frame, and beryl eyes with a hint of ochre - maybe he’s an apology gift from some fickle god.

He’s a well-rounded and capable man; perceptive enough to know not to cross boundaries drawn in the air, apt enough to not disrupt the serenity, and able to take care of himself.

Although, he could learn to launder better.

Your lips tug down as your eyes scan over the deep wrinkles crimping the fabric of a freshly washed button-down. It looks too rumpled to look professional, even on him. A sigh falls from your lips.

The presence of slow steps make your head turn in their direction, connecting with Alhaitham’s neutral eyes, quirked gray eyebrow questioning your purpose.

Two bodies, two rooms, and two beds.

The only time you or he crossed into the private haven of one another was when the floors needed to be mopped or shelves dusted. Owning a house means owning up to tedious chores and dividing up responsibilities spares one’s sanity from the tediousness.

It’s best to point out the critiques now to spare your own clothes from the same fate. Picking it off the back of his chair, you show him the shameful state of the garment.

“Leaving your clothes in the dryer for too long will create stubborn wrinkles.” You advise.

Teal eyes glance at the shirt in your hands before they flick towards the closet rack, your own gaze follows, noting the numerous other shirts in a similar state. Another heavy sigh escapes you, it's obvious Alhaitham attempted to do laundry yesterday.

Wordlessly, you begin gathering each wrinkled garment.

“I’ll rewash them and hang them outside, it’s the best way to smooth them out. Heat isn’t recommended for your fabrics.” You swiftly walk past him with your arms full.

“Thank you, I’ll clean the floors then.” He takes hold of the mop against the wall.

This seamless switching of responsibilities is done with less than two sentences, the efficiency of which is only possible between two people such as yourselves.

Button-downs are much more fickle than a casual t-shirt, using the wrong detergent or leaving it unattended for too long will cause unsightly wrinkles.

Alhaitham’s laundering skills have improved in the last two years… perhaps the singing of the dryer still slips past his preoccupied mind.

The two of you are working professionals. Crucial insight you’ve learned from your parents: A nicely ironed shirt, neatly brushed hair, and elegantly tied ties are all it takes to make others believe in the white lie of a put-together life.

Alhaitham was raised by his grandmother, a detail you recall from a passing conversation some time ago. It shows.

The amateur attempts at chores, the books strewn about a desk absent-mindedly, and the afternoon naps spent on a couch underneath a sunlit window are secrets only seen behind closed doors - all telltale signs of being well-loved.

‘How nice it must be.’ You thought, clipping his freshly washed button-downs to the clothesline, allowing the Sunday morning rays to shine down upon them.

A stone-faced man was once a beloved grandson. Maybe his juvenile attempts at chores were too endearing for an elderly lady to correct.

Hidden from everyone but the audience of swaying fabric and a curious star, a bittersweet smile tugs at stiff lips.

The clinking of forks against porcelain plates accompanies the evening news. Your eyes starring indifferently towards the TV just around the corner from the dinner table; looks like tonight's topic was the annual metrics of the Akasha.

With each passing year, these metrics only climb higher and higher, a machine learning to calculate better and better.

“What’s your theory behind the Akasha?” you blurt out the question without looking away from the screen.

A pair of utensils halted their movements as Alhaitham glances at the evening news. He takes a moment to wipe the corners of his mouth before humoring you.

Technically, the two of you have yet to fill your daily conversation quota. Might as well do it over dinner.

“It’s all mathematics, the Akasha system. Pairing individuals based on collected data. Demographic, interests, and dispositions, are all factors in a pairing,” he explains in his baritone voice.

“Mmm, then again it's all just a black box, we can’t be certain unless they choose to reveal it.” You ponder aloud.

“Correct. Those factors are all key when it comes to compatibility. The Akasha simply uses probability. However, there’s the element of human variability.”

“Meaning it can’t always be right.” You know this, live it even. “Is that why you don’t believe in the concept of soulmates?” Pivoting to an adjacent question, you return your attention back to the man across the table.

“Yes, it’s an unrealistic belief.” Alhaitham sips on his wine.

“Such a brilliant conclusion, what an astute mind you have.” Honeyed-voice mimicking awe over a glass of water.

Narrowed teal eyes honed in as his glass returned to its place on the lacquered surface, unamused by your quip.

“How about you? What theory brought you to hold the same brilliant conclusion?”

“Do you know phenylethylamine? PEA?” Glancing up from your glass.

From his idle gaze and unmoving lips, you take his silence as a “no”.

“It’s a stimulant that causes your heart to beat abnormally, released when you’re around a special someone. It causes what people describe as the ‘rush’ or ‘fever’ of love.”

He says nothing, waiting for you to continue.

“But then your brain gets used to it, and the abnormality in your chest corrects itself.” You take a sip before continuing, “Nothing last forever, so why do people think love is an exception? That only one person ever will cause their hearts to flutter till the end of time?”

A dry giggle follows the clink of your water cup against the wood.

“How insightful.” Alhaitham takes another sip of wine to chase his sarcasm.

Maybe it was the amusing quip or how tonight’s butter chicken turned out to be exceptionally delicious, but a subtle smile curls at the edges of your lips. With today’s conversational quota fulfilled you focus your full attention back to the awaiting dinner.

You remain ignorant to the gaze of teal eyes, oblivious to how it fixates on the faint smile complimenting the soft curves of your cheeks and plush lips.

“...”

The front door shuts and locks behind you, your shoes are halfway into the closet before a familiar scent beckons you towards the living room.

Quickly getting into your slippers, you trek through the entranceway and round the corner. The vivid hues of pale blues and gentle violets with pops of bright yellow catch your eyes, confirming your speculations: it’s a bouquet.

The bundle of flowers were placed into a long-forgotten vase. Turning away from the blooms, you face the man currently thumbing through a book on the couch -the only other person with access to this quiet haven.

Turning back to observe the blooms, you note each species of flower. The Sumerian Rose, Kalpalata Lotus, and…Padisarah.

You observe how the pollen of the Padisarahs dusts the radius of the surface around the vase. It’s a fickle flower after all.

A fickle and potent-smelling flower.

A scowl twists your face despite your best efforts, the sickly-sweet fragrance of the capricious blooms assaults your senses.

“Please open a window.” your hand comes up to shield your nose.

“Is something the matter?”

“The smell is giving me a headache.”

A headache forms from within the deepest depths of your mind, the same visceral reaction to the heavy perfumes that plagued your childhood walls. Your mother believed the saccharine scent could cover up her infidelity if she sprayed enough.

Compared to that artificial perfume, fresh Padisarahs were much tamer, but still enough to make a bitter taste appear at the back of your tongue.

“I see.” Alhaitham sets his book down, getting up to allow the Autumn breeze in.

Swiftly, you trudge away from the vase and its potent blooms and down the hall, eager to find an untainted corner of the house. It’d be best to sleep the headache off.

In the morning when you round the corner back into the living room, you notice the vacant vase and table wiped clean of any speck of yellow pollen. Passing through into the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts in the air.

As you pour yourself a cup, you take note of how the trash has already been taken out, a fresh trash bag lining the bin.

Good, flowers were a hassle to keep around the house.

———————————————————————————

“Chocolates?” You study the box of sweets left out on the kitchen table.

“I picked them up while getting ingredients for dinner,” Alhaitham answers, busy chopping carrots.

“You can have some.”

You return your gaze back to the intricately designed package in seasonal Winter colors. It’s not often that you indulge in such elegant treats, you couldn’t refuse such an offer.

Delicately picking up a piece, the glossy dark chocolate shine looks inviting, you can see the quality in these sweets. Placing the small chunk onto your tongue, savoring the rich flavor. Not too sweet and not too bitter.

Using your tongue to maneuver it towards your teeth you bite into its center, only for your tastebuds to be assaulted by a foul flavor. The distinct and sharp tang of alcohol and the revolting aftertaste of bourbon spoils the sweetness.

Refusing to allow the detestable flavor to remain on your tongue, you briskly swipe up a few napkins, spitting the foul sweet out. You frown at the stubborn tang of bourbon which threatens to ruin your appetite for dinner.

“You can have the rest.” You throw out the crumpled napkin.

“Are they of poor quality?” The tapping of the knife paused.

“They’re just not to my taste.”

“In that case, I hope tonight's dinner is.” Alhaitham resumes his task.

Taking a glass out from the cupboard, you fill the cup with fresh water before gulping it down, washing the foul tang of alcohol from your tongue, and even fouler memories of the stench of sour wine and crushed cans.

Wiping the escaped droplets off with the back of your hand, you go for a second glass. Hopefully, you can cleanse your palate.

———————————————————————————

“Do you have plans tonight?” Alhaitham’s words make you stop in the middle of the hallway.

You have a book ready in hand for a night of reading on the sofa under the soft glow of the floor lamp. You know his eyes can see that, gaze questioning his intentions.

“I was given two tickets to a movie, would you like to accompany me?” He holds out the slips of paper.

As your eyes pass over the printed font, you recognized the title, a name picked up within the chatter of coworkers at the office. It’s An adaptation of a famous light novel from Inazuma, and the reviews seem positive.

“Sure.”

You could get out of the house a little more.

…

It seems like everyone wants to see a movie tonight, the theater lobby is filled with bustling crowds, families with excited kids, and couples holding hands.

And then there’s you and Alhaitham. Standing side by side, his hands carrying two carbonated drinks, your hands holding an overpriced bag of popcorn, walking toward the room printed on the tickets.

“C5…C6, looks like we got good spots.” You settled into the plush seats, careful not to spill the bag.

Alhaitham hums in response, placing your drink in the cupholder. More and more people filed into the screening room, waves of ‘excuse me’s and ‘sorry’s rolling through the space until all the seats were finally filled. The lights begin to dim as the opening logo booms through the sound system.

The cinematography was beautiful, the musical scores accompanying the plot pleasing to the ears, and the popcorn perfectly seasoned.

It’s been a while since you’ve last gone to a movie theater, maybe you should go more often. As you brought a few more pieces of popcorn to your lips, your eyes travel toward Alhaitham.

His arms crossed as the light of the silver screen reflects onto his skin, noticing your stare, his teal gaze connects with yours.

Moving the striped bag closer to his frame, you offer him some popcorn, he paid for the refreshments. It'd be a shame if he didn’t get to enjoy them too.

His large hand reachs over and takes a handful, your curiosity wanting to see his reaction to the snack. However, a piercing shrill snaps your attention away.

Just a few rows away, a woman stood up from her seat, throwing a bag of popcorn at the man sitting beside her. Screaming words you couldn’t quite make out as they merges with the onscreen dialogue and equally furious shouts of the now popcorn-covered man.

Their thunderous voices were only amplified by the acoustics of the theater.

They’re both standing now, still hurling insults and grievances one after another. There’s a ringing in your ears, their faceless silhouettes in the dim theater replaying a scene you’ve seen many times before. It’s as if they’ve finally developed a conscious, now aware of the stares and glares thrown their way.

Oh, look they’re leaving now, still fighting the whole way out of the screening room.

With the disturbance now cleared, a low wave of murmuring swept through the audience before dying out. The dialogue and soundtrack were audible again, the atmosphere reverting to how it was.

You didn’t feel like snacking on the popcorn anymore. Gaze focus on the fluffy puffs for the rest of the movie.

“Did you enjoy the film?” An indifferent voice resounds from your right side.

Walking out as the credit rolled in the background, following the flow of traffic toward the exit. You were walking by Alhaitham’s side, but your mind was elsewhere, a subtle frown etched on your lips.

“It was fine, just crowded and loud.” Your voice was just as flat.

“Oh.”

Tossing the unfinished bag of popcorn way into the nearest trash can, the two of you continue on the silent journey home.

Perhaps, it’s best if you just stayed curled up with a book.

“Eh? It’s been three years and you’ve never gotten your wife flowers? I knew you were cold-hearted, but not to this extent. Here, a quick bouquet of some fresh flowers I picked.”

“You should gift her some sweets, maybe then you two can talk a choco-lot… Did you get the joke?”

“Are you serious?! Almost four years and you never took her on a date?? You’re hopeless! Take these tickets and take her to the movies. By the way, you’ll have to pay for them.”

Alhaitham wasn’t sure what made his colleagues so invested in his marriage, maybe a projection of their own lack of one. To his colleagues, you were just as much of an enigma as the ashen-haired man.

Any passing comment, no matter how vague or curt, would bring forth an onslaught of unsolicited advice. And it was for that very reason within the walls of your home these details shall stay.

Alhaitham isn’t sure which was more irksome, the uninformed guidance of bachelors, or the fact he was the one who actually tested each suggestion. Regardless, at least these trials were fruitful in the sense he can gauge your dislikes now.

You despise flowers for their fickle messes and scent. You’re revolted by overpriced chocolates. You detested rowdy theaters and subpar films.

Four now going on to five years, and these were his results. Frankly, he didn’t have to subject you to such experiments for these results, because they aligned with his own preferences.

A waste of time, disturbing your peace for the sake of his own curiosity.

A heavy sigh falls from his lips as he sets the bucket of water down, one hand holding a mop as the other turns the knob of your bedroom.

It’s a Sunday, meaning the floors needed to be mopped. Your door's hinges sing as they swing open only to be abruptly silenced as Alhaitham stood motionless under the door frame.

Oh. He should’ve knocked.

You were in the midst of getting dressed in front of your floor-length mirror, glimpses of smooth skin peeking out from under baggy fabric. Before he could stop, teal eyes followed the dark fabric reaching just down to the middle of your thighs and draping low on one shoulder. Your fingers were in the middle of buttoning the clearly oversized shirt as you turned back to focus on him.

Blank gaze traveling up your soft lips set in a neutral position and meeting your deadpan stare, Alhaitham’s conscience restarts.

Today was Sunday, which meant it was laundry day yesterday, and it was the ashen-haired man’s turn to wash and dry the clothes. Somehow, his button-down got mixed in with your blouses, leading to your unamused reaction.

“I’ll be more mindful next time, did my shirt dull any of your whites?” Forcing his eyes to avert, a late attempt at respecting your privacy.

“It’s fine, fortunately, the dye didn’t bleed out during the wash.” You turned away as your hand pulls the draping fabric up your shoulder.

“Just place the shirt over the chair in my room, I’ll take care of it later.”

“Okay.”

Once more your door sings as he shuts it on the way back into the hall, deciding to clean the floors of his room first and allowing you to change into your rightful clothes. It was early noon and a weekend, meaning there was no reason for Alhaitham to brush out his sleep-tousled hair. Hopefully, messy gray locks were enough to conceal burning ears.

———————————————————————————

“The Evolution of Everything.” His eyes scan over the title held out in front of him.

A newly published scientific journal filled with freshly collected data, the book's spine still in mint condition. Alhaitham takes note of the identical copy held in your hand.

“You seemed interested in this genre, so I picked up a copy for you.” You motion for him to take it.

There wasn’t a rule etched in stone that forbade the sharing of books within these quiet walls. The books on your shelves have been more interesting than his as of late. A pattern of folded corners inflecting more and more pages of the books lining your bookshelves, evidence of a certain man’s meddling.

The warning glare every time you smoothed out a creased page directed his way didn’t seem to be enough to stop the unconscious habit of his hands.

It looks like you’re trying out a new solution, getting him his own copy to prevent the infection from engulfing each and every corner of your bookshelves.

“Thank you, I’ll read it soon.” He accepts the peace offering.

With that, you made your way back to the sofa. Flipping open your own copy, fingers gently making sure to not crumple the delicate pages or crease the pristine spine. Alhaitham compares it to the book currently held in his own hands.

An older book, while not falling apart or tattered, it’s obvious the man has thumbed through its pages. A well-loved book as his grandmother would’ve described it.

Alhaitham needs to stop this practice he never corrected in childhood.

———————————————————————————

“Alhaitham.” You greet him at the entranceway.

Said man is currently placing his outside shoes away into the closet, returning from an uneventful day at his office. You usually got home before him, but this was the first time you’ve waited for him at the front door. He notes that you seem to be holding something behind your back.

“Here.” Bring your arms out from your back, the distinct crinkling of plastic was heard.

Teal eyes study the gift basket filled with bath products, body wash, shampoo, conditioner, and lotion all nicely packaged with a satin ribbon.

“It’s to thank you for helping me with errands lately,” you explain.

Recently, you’ve been asking him to accompany you to the cluttered streets lined with stalls and haggling merchants. With his towering frame and larger hands, he could carry heavier bags and part a path through the pushy crowds easier. You were using your resources to maximize efficiency.

“There’s no need to trouble yourself with this, I’m just doing my part. But thank you.” He takes the basket from your hands, eyes remaining collected.

Just as the basket leaves your hands, the distinct chime of your phone goes off as ‘Bahram’ flashes across the screen. The name of your boss.

“Excuse me, I have to take this call. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.” Turning away, you walk toward the kitchen.

The he hums in response, slipping into his inside shoes. With brisk steps, he covers the distance from the front door to his room, closing then leaning against the solid oak.

Sharply inhaling as one hand balancing the basket of toiletries and the other holding his head.

You’ve always prefer to maintain the serenity of the house. Resolving strife with proactive actions or brief comments. Not once in these past five years did you ever nag him, you’re too pragmatic for that. At times it’s a curse more than a blessing, evidenced by the gift basket staring back at him mockingly.

Although Alhaitham was messy at times, he knows the importance of hygiene. Teeth brushed twice a day, a shower taken every day before dinner, and deodorant applied daily.

However, the temperatures this Summer were at record highs, even for Sumeru. The packed market streets pushing the two of you closer than usual, perhaps he’s no match for the heat this time.

Washing his hair twice and his body thrice, Alhaitham finishes his prolonged shower by gurgling some mouthwash for good measure. Walking into the kitchen in a fresh set of clothes and his hair still damp. The table set with potato boat and some steak. Impassive eyes met inscrutable eyes as you motion for him to take a seat.

Your nose remained relaxed, meaning you were probably satisfied with his efforts.

Alhaitham makes a silent reminder to research some cologne after he finishes washing the dishes. One that isn’t overbearing nor too weak to linger.

How embarrassing it is, five years in and the stoic prodigy known as Alhaitham is still testing the bounds of his wife’s patience. Selfish experiments and habits he can’t seem to correct conflicting with your wishes for a clean, serene, and quiet home.

The entire reason why you bothered signing your name next to a stone-faced man who said ‘I don’t believe in soulmates’ before asking ‘How are you?’.

Flowers, chocolates, and movie tickets.

You weren’t oblivious to the sentiment behind these arbitrary actions. In a way, it was expected. A husband wants to get closer to his wife, it’s simple chemistry.

The human mind craves connection, oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin released at the sight of gifted blooms, crafted sweets, and from simply sitting within each other's presence.

A chemical cocktail the mind gets drunk on.

Alhaitham isn’t immune to it and neither are you. Even if you were able to stiffen your lips, steady your gaze, and hide those flushed cheeks. Nothing you did could quell the abnormality in your chest, was Alhaitham having the same issue?

There comes the first hurdle, the unknown which hung in the air formed over years of peaceful silence. The thought of two stoic faces peering into each other’s eyes as two monotonous voices stated the obvious would make any romantic keel over and die.

It’d be too embarrassing, especially when it’s already been awkward.

Headache caused by sickly sweet blossoms, spitting out pricey sweets, and dulled reaction to a critically acclaimed film. None of this was Alhaitham’s fault, how can you blame someone for something they don’t know?

He never asked, you never told.

No one knew what happened within that noisy house with empty bottle-covered floors of two ‘soulmates’ who refused to release their crushing grips. All except the three unfortunate souls trapped within its Padisarah-scented walls.

Still, his keen eyes didn’t miss those details, reassessing his actions before ultimately channeling more of his energy into chores around the house instead of frivolous gifts. What a proactive husband.

A sting of guilt felt as you recall his sincere attempts at trying to cross an icy bridge. What should you say? ‘Thank you, you tried.’ Sounded far too condescending, it could even lead to a huffy fight. Something you’ve been good at avoiding these past five years.

Marriage is filled with compromises, meeting each other halfway along the road of life, side by side. So you tried this time.

Curiosity guiding you as it did a naive hero towards the brilliance of a red star.

———————————————————————————

Your first attempt was inspired by an article that popped up on your phone’s feed, something about wearing your partner’s shirt to make them flush, nonsense known as the ‘boyfriend shirt’.

You still gave it a try. Swiping up one of your husband’s black button-downs one Saturday night, only building up the confidence to put it on the next morning.

Your original plan was to just casually wear it around the house as you got the Sunday morning chores done, but that got thrown out when Alhaitham suddenly opened your door when one-third of the buttons were still undone.

A moment of tense silence followed, impressively you managed to maintain a cool facade. Grasping the opportunity to leave this stale silence with an expertly crafted response.

———————————————————————————

In the end, he just wanted his shirt back. So for your next attempt, you toned it down, no longer taking advice from nonsensical articles.

Recently, Alhaitham has taken more of an interest in your bookshelf. More of the once pristine edges of your books folder here and there. If it was anyone else, you’d make them buy you a new copy immediately, but for now, you simply smoothed out the paper.

If he wants to read the theories and studies that muse you, why don’t you read them together?

However, two bodies pressed together on a sofa trying to read the small print along pages at the same time is simply uncomfortable. Plus, Alhaitham reads much faster than you.

To ensure a pleasant reading experience for both of you, two copies were the best solution.

He read it after you.

———————————————————————————

Your next attempts used thinly veiled excuses to get Alhaitham to accompany you to the bustling markets of Sumeru City. In a way, trying to make up for that lackluster movie experience.

Only for it to soon turn into using Alhaitham to carry arm fulls of bags as he shielded you from the push and pull of the busy crowd.

Perhaps you should stick to gift-giving, to spare your husband from working like a Sumpter Beast in this weather.

But besides books, what should you give him? He’s just like you, if he sees something he wants, he’d just buy it with his own money.

On the way home from work, you caught sight of a shop, one which displayed handmade soaps and fancy lotions. Huh, Alhaitham often takes your lotions, maybe you should get him his own. A bell ringing overhead announces your entrance into the cozy store.

“Welcome!” A bright voice chirped as a shop assistant with vibrant red hair and an equally vibrant smile bounded toward you.

“I’m Nilou, how may I help you today?”

“I’m just looking for some lotion.” You politely responded, trying to ignore the faint fragrance of Pardisarahs.

“We’ve got plenty of hand-made ones, for you or for someone else?”

“For my husband.”

“Oh? What does he like?”

You paused for a moment, lips pressed together in contemplation before deciding.

“Something fresh and not overbearing, nothing made from Pardisarahs.” If he liked using your lotions, then he must have the same scent preferences.

“We just got this new lotion that fits the criteria! Oh! But it pairs very well with this body wash… actually this shampoo and conditioner set is also a good fit. Oh! What if we bundle them?”

What was supposed to be a simple lotion turned into you leaving the small shop with an entire gift basket. A sigh leaves your lips, looks like you’re not as immune to sales tactics as you originally thought.

That night you handed the ribbon-wrapped basket to Alhaitham. Even if he isn’t interested in expensive handcrafted soaps, he’ll still use them out of necessity, they were a gift after all.

However, it doesn’t seem you had to worry about that. He used up the fancy soaps and lotions.

The opulent scent lingering on his skin and towel-dried hair, looks like your gift made you discover a new side of your husband.

He enjoys really long showers, evidenced by your rising water bills.

Still, the vast expanse of uncertainty didn’t shrink, not even one bit. Just like the distance between an outstretched hand toward the sun.

Books, lotions, and walks through a market, looks like it was all for naught.

The mutual agreement to not lock eyes, these cold halls, these awkward dinners filled with nothing but the clattering of silverware and plates. Where have you seen these patterns before?

Oh, you’ve seen these in your childhood home.

Ah, was this a curse passed on to you? What an awful wedding gift from uninvited parents to a courthouse office.

Clutching the straps of your bag tighter, your legs quicken their pace, wanting to get out of the crowded streets filled with the mumbles and pushes of people freshly off the clock.

With each stranger knocking into your shoulder another drop is added to a bottle. White knuckles gripping on your straps as a pressure rises within the bottle’s glass body, threatening to shatter it.

You can’t let this continue, the mounting pressure will sooner or later detonate into a hideous mess. Best to avoid that scenarios. Eyes catching sight of a small reprieve from the crowd, you direct yourself there.

The small store front provides you with some shelter for your lungs to breathe. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The pressure subsides just a bit. There’s still room in there, you can suppress a little more, you can endure a little longer.

Eyelids fluttering open, you recognized the name of the shop. It’s the fancy soap shop, one with the vivacious sales assistant.

Peering through the glass you searched for that brilliant shade of crimson. And you found it, right next to glimmering silver hair. It’s like your body forgot how to breathe.

From the rumbling of the late evening rush, all you could do was read their lips from behind a thick glass door.

Petite pink lips giggling behind clasped hands as Nilou looks up at Alhaitham, tilting her head to the side as if she asked him a question. His lips remained stiff, but teal gaze reflected crimson as they softened. Something you never witnessed within the quiet walls of your home.

Looks like you found the cause of the rising water bills, perhaps Alhaitham likes the smell of Padisarahs.

Your bottle couldn’t contain the ocean anymore.

It wasn’t an Earth-shattering catastrophic event, no tidal waves crashing down, no flood flood devastating everything in its path. Only a defeated ‘pop’ and its pathetic echo as your bottle finally overflowed.

Bitter sea-foam fizzled out as it made an unseen mess.

Listlessly, you rejoined the rolling crowd, letting the eb and flow of its movement carry you all the way to the front door of a false haven. Systematically inserting the key, placing your shoes into the closet, and shutting your room door behind your back. Staring at the clean floor with its intricate wood grain.

However, your mind weren’t processing any of it, busy with its calculations.

When did his fever start? That one Autumn night with a chaste bouquet. What day is it now? The cusp of Summer. How long has it been? In a few months, it’ll be three years.

A lecture from an inescapable past resurfaces.

————————

“Hey, kiddo.”

Slurred words made you stop in your tracks, small hands tightening their grip on your backpack straps.

You weren’t quiet enough, the careful steps of your feet were rendered useless when it came to the creaky wooden floors of this house. Your lungs burned for air, but you didn’t want to breathe in the stench which permeated this air.

The aroma of cheap perfume, sour wine, and cheap beer. The source of this foul smell? The freshly awakened man laying on the couch just a few inches away: a man known as your father.

Still trying to reserve your stored supply of oxygen, all you offered the drunkard was a firm hum. Not that he’d care, judging from the crushed cans and empty bottles littering the path, he’s probably too far gone.

“Did you know love is a chemical? Something called ‘phenylethylamine’?” A hiccup interrupts his sentence, but he continues, much to your dismay.

“Haha, it makes your heart beat faster and your cheeks flush because it’s considered an amphetamine, one of the most powerful drugs.” His stumbling hand blindly reached for another can, knocking over empty shells until it found one with just a bit of liquor.

“Too bad the high can only last three years.”

Your disinterested gaze trailed off down the empty hall, legs itching to break away from the lecture you’ve heard numerous times before. Lungs begging to inhale the untainted air of your room, the only sanctuary this hollow home held.

Just a few minutes was all you needed, then you’ll start mopping these foul floors.

A clink of aluminum hitting the wooden boards draws your attention back to your father who had finished moisturizing his throat with another swig of beer.

“Stay away from that drug, kiddo” A sloppy grin stretched across his face as he stared up at a blank ceiling.

The sight made your arms bristle, seeing a smile on your father’s face was uncanny. Something you’ve never seen at the dinner table, just silent scowls and disgruntled glares constantly exchanged over a subpar meal.

Wanting him to finish this one-sided conversation, you gave another firm hum, every now and then glazing back toward the hall.

“Or you’ll end up like this old man.” He wraps the conversation up with a bitter laugh, one which resonated off the blank walls.

————————

Maybe you should’ve heeded your father’s words. A brilliant scholar to the public but a pathetic drunk when within the confines of a cluttered, noisy house is still a brilliant scholar.

This was your punishment for straying away from your beliefs. You reached your hand out towards the fire despite knowing it’d hurt, and you fell in love. Now look at where you are.

How utterly laughable, you, the ever-bright Ms. Perfect, who’s broken love down to its base form of chemical compounds, fell victim to the addiction that was love.

So blindsided by it.

The fog of love is slowly running its course through him. Once the trees abandon their vibrant greens for shriveled browns in the Autumn, his fever will be over. There’s no such thing as an endless Summer.

How did you not see this coming? Covering your eyes with ignorant hands, blatantly ignoring the signs right in front of your nose.

No more flowers, no more chocolates, and no more movies.

Turning back around, you took note of a figure in a floor length mirror. Indifferent gaze identical to how your husband looks at you.

Two sides of the same mirror, what’s what you and him are. What’s the use of that? Shiny surfaces point off in opposite directions, yet only ever reflecting one view. What’s the point of having two sides then?

You don’t intrigue him, you can’t show him his blind spots, and you can’t reflect to him a view he’s never seen. Same perceptions, same hobbies, same expressionless faces, how stale it must be.

It’s much more interesting to have a wife who’ll smile at receiving flowers, a wife whose eyes light up at chocolate, and a wife who’d blabber on about a movie as Alhaitham listens intently. The beating of his heart is starting with someone new.

Emerging out of your thoughts, you stare directly at the person in your mirror.

Dull eyes stared right back, light dimmed from years of staring at a bright star grasping at its warm rays in substitution of a cold house, only for your fingers to slip pass right through.

Idiotic girl, you can’t touch the sun, not even Icarus did.

An unlovable child grew into an unlovable adult. Add that to your footnote, so you’ll never forget this lesson again. The fool in the mirror finally looks away.

It didn’t matter if Icarus smiled or laughed as he tumbled from the sky. Silly girl, did you forget what happens in the end of that tale? He drowned alone.

Drowning isn’t like what the movies show. The thrashing of limbs against cold waves, the garbled screams under the water, all accompanied by the ominous soundtrack crafted by a sound master. It’s all dramatized for the silver screen.

Muscles pushing through the cold exhaustion, mouth agape but prioritizing large and fast gulps of oxygen over cries for help, followed by the melodic lull of water lapping over eardrums until the head disappears under its surface. Never to breach it again.

It’s possible for a person to drown in a pool full of people. Just like how it was possible for you to feel alone despite having your husband just across the lacquered expanse of the dinner table. Forks and knives clacking porcelain plates.

It’s a silent death.

For once you’re grateful to attend a nugatory dinner hosted by your company. Venue filled with superficial smiles and handshakes all over food served on sliver platters. Even if the heels are killing you, you’d rather not wallow in a quiet house.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips, catching someone’s attention.

“What a heavy sigh, here have some wine to ease the burden.” A glass filled with fragrant wine was held out in front of you.

Your eyes travel up the hand which offers the vile beverage to you, sights landing on the face of your boss, Bahram. Pushy as always, always testing the limits of your loyalty to a nice pension and dental insurance.

As always you politely push the glass away, uttering a firm “no thank you.”

“Oh c’mom Ms. Perfect, you look like you could use a drink.” He pushes the glass closer.

Stares from all around the formal dinner table hone in, the weight heavy on your shoulders. Stakeholders and coworkers turn away from their shallow conversations to watch the brewing spectacle just across the table.

That’s right, you have to be professional, where was your crafted mask? Make use of all those years observing the masters of deception you knew as your parents.

So you accept the vile glass.

Before the aroma could register on your palate, you emptied the whole glass. Not a single drip escaped past your lips. It took all your strength to no scowl at the sweetly bitter and alcoholic flavor.

“Oh? Ms. Perfect is drinking tonight?” Some nameless coworker mused.

Ah, the name lightly tossed around at the office with oblivious chuckles and ignorant smiles. You despise being called that, but not as much as you despise being told ‘you’re just like your father’ and ‘you’re acting like your mother’.

Better to be Ms. Perfect, so disgruntled ‘soulmates’ can’t compare you to their flawed counterpart.

“Do you like this wine? Have some more.” Eagerly, your boss fills the glass once more.

Staring at the beckoning liquid swirling in the glimmering cup, as the weight of those stares force your hands to accept it once more.

Maybe you should’ve just stayed home.

“I should really be trying to sell you our products but… I think you’ll find a better gift at another store. Here, I’ll write the address down for you! They have the best jewels, I’m sure you’ll find something for your wife there!” Hastily the shop assistant scribbles on a notepad before pushing the slip into his palm.

“Just don’t tell my manager.” Clasping her hands in front of her mouth, signaling to him to keep a secret.

Alhaitham simply nods, examining the address in his hands. He hasn’t tried jewelry yet, but a ring would look nice on your hand. Maybe you’d think so too.

“You really love her, don’t you mister?” Nilou notes how attentively his hands smooth over the address.

Pausing for a moment, Alhaitham envisions the softness of your cheeks shifting as that tender smile spreads across your lips. Yours eyes reflecting the light off the polished and cut gem as he slips it onto your bare finger.

“I do.” Unable to stop the softening of his gaze.

———————————————————————————

A ring still left in its miserable black box, stowed away in the depths of a drawer. A sigh slips out of him just like how he let another opportunity to place the jewel on your finger pass. You’re attending a company dinner tonight, a rare occasion requiring you to dress up.

The dress draped over your figure and curves just right and highlighted the contours of your body. He wanted to tell you this earlier as you were leaving, too bad he was occupied with swallowing ‘stay home’.

There’s an annoying itch in the deepest depths of his mind. Covetous hands crawled up his spine, they tried to convince his own fingers to grasp around your wrist and pull you back into the house.

Alhaitham shakes that itch away, refocusing his attention onto your bookshelf in front of him.

You have a life and responsibilities outside these walls, he can’t overstep the boundary to block you from your individuality. Running a finger along the tops of the neatly lined books, searching for something to redirect his impulses.

Momentum halting when his finger sunk into pages when he expected the firm edge of a spine. The force crumpling the paper, immediately he pulls it into his hands, smoothing out the folded edges. Title catching his attention.

The Lifespan of Love, the only book where the spine wasn’t facing out. Flipping it to the back, Alhaitham scans the blurb, noting the portrait of the scholar who authored it.

A familiar face, a professor who’s lectures he barely attended. A distinguished researcher and mentor in the eyes of his old university.

The sight of his face made Alhaitham recall a scene he once witnessed.

————————

The halls of the Psychology department were desolate, as they always were. A much-appreciated reprieve from crowded foyers as a quiet student walks to his next exam in the department next door.

Just as his hand reached up to activate his headphones, two voices caught his attention, the high shrills of a woman and the raspy shouts of a man leaking out from an office door left ajar.

It has nothing to do with him, Alhaitham know this, but he still had 30 minutes to kill before the exam.

Teal eyes peer through the gap between the oak doorframe.

A man the student recongizes, but the scowl and flush of rage twisted his face into an unrecongizable mess. The professor juts his finger towards the woman as foul names left his mouth, the same mouth which lectured the brightest minds of Sumeru.

The woman screams back equally loathsome words, tears leaving mascara trails down her red cheeks. Suddenly, she grabs a lamp off his desk and hurls it to the floor.

For a brief moment, the scholar pauses as his eyes scanned over the broken debris scattered along the floor. Then his fist slammed into the solid oak of his desk, thud so forceful the office ratted with the poor furniture.

His shouts resume, volume escalating by the minute.

Alhaitham backs away from the door, turning on his noise-canceling headphones. He’s satisfied his curiosity enough, walking off to his exam.

————————

A peculiar sight behind the superficial mask of a respected professor with his jolly grin and light hearted jokes with students. Inspecting the name printed just underneath the portrait, a furrow forms between his brow as he scrutinizes the spelling closer.

The professor’s last name was spelled the same way as yours.

Oh. So this is the source you were citing back then. Numbers and figures published by a notable name backing your rebuttal to the societal notion of a soulmate. Inquisiveness rearing its impatient nose, inciting his hands to choose this book as his subject tonight.

You never told him, so he never asked. This was a chance to peer into a view sealed behind your closed lips.

To study, dissect, and analyze the resources which congergated together to form the you of today. Alhaitham isn’t going to deny such an opportunity.

Teal eyes glance at the ticking hands of a clock, he’s got a good few hours of reading before you return.

The distinct rumble of an engine leaking in through the living room window interrupts his peace, the slam of car doors causing Alhaitham to promptly fold over the corner of the page he has yet to finish.

The dinner must have ended.

Getting up from a cushy couch, Alhaitham makes his way toward the entranceway.

His keen ears picking up the unmistakable hearty chuckle of a man, Alhaitham stills for a brief second before continuing to the door.

Before the chime of the doorbell had the chance to sound throughout the home, Alhaitham already pried open the front door.

Teal gaze darkening as they examine the display on the front steps.

Your arm around the shoulder of another man while his arm was snaked around your waist, pressing your body against his as he supports you up the steps.

The sound of the hinges directs the man’s attention to the homeowner currently staring at him, oblivious to the way Alhaitham’s grip threatens to crush a metal handle behind solid oak.

“Oh! You must be Ms. Perfect’s husband. I’m Bahram.” The man greeted.

Alhaitham already knows him. He’s seen that name flash up enough times across your phone. He’s seen you pick up no matter the hour and step out into an empty room.

A new habit of yours which started some months earlier.

“Haha! She drank a bit too much tonight.” The jovial man continues, his hand still resting on your hip.

Drank? You drank? You don’t so much as glance at Alhaitham’s wine cabinet at home, yet you drank with this man? The begins of scowl start to set into Alhaitham’s face.

“I’ll bring her inside for ya.” Bahram takes a step forward only to be blocked by a towering frame topped with ashen hair.

“I’ll take it from here.” Alhaitham barely bit back a pointed tone, forcibly smoothing it over to make his voice pass as neutral.

Prying that hand off your hip and your arm from Bahram’s neck, Alhaitham’s strong hold supports your slumping figure against his own body.

Pulling you across the threshold of the front door, finally putting some distance between you and that damn boss of yours.

“Have a goodnight.” Venomous lie rolling off Alhaitham’s tongue as he firmly shuts the oak door, not bothering with any more pleasantries.

It didn’t take much effort to carry you into the living room. Setting you down on the sofa then kneeling down with dexterous fingers, Alhaitham freed your feet from the chokehold of those heels.

You make a mental note to throw them out tomorrow morning.

“Thank you,” you breathed out, relieved to finally be home.

Your husband doesn’t respond as he walk away to place your shoes into the closet. The lingering taste of wine churns your stomach, you needed some water to wash it out.

Carefully, you amble into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with fresh water. Praying it can finally rid you of that foul flavor.

After three glasses of wine, your stakeholders and coworkers finally turned their attention elsewhere. You’ve entertained them enough.

Granting you the freedom to push away anymore glasses your boss offered, only getting him to stop after you agreed to his offer of driving you home.

What a troublesome night, your mood sourer than it has been for the past few months.

As you fill up your glass again your ears catch the pattering of Alhaitham’s steps as he trails into the kitchen, stopping only a few paces away watching you glup down your second glass.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” His husky voice resounds from behind you as his finger taps against the marble countertop.

“No.” You fill rinse out the cup, the stubborn grip of wine not releasing your tastebuds just yet.

“Oh? It sure looks like you did.”

Your body stiffens as your turn the faucet off, glancing over your shoulder with eyes narrowing.

“What do you mean by that?” Your tone a bit more sharp than you’d like it to be.

“I’m certain you know exactly what I mean.” Alhaitham stops his tapping as he lays his palm flat on the table, teal eyes boring straight into you.

“Well, well looks like your assumption is wrong.”

“I doubt it, stop mincing your words and just say you enjoyed a few drinks with your boss.”

Your body turns around fully, glaring stare connecting with his teal one. Ticking of a clock sounding throughout the quiet kitchen.

So that’s why he’s behaving like this, partners with wandering eyes tend to project their hypocritical insecurities onto the other after all.

“Then why don’t you say you’ve been enjoying your visits to Nilou?” Something more venomous than sour wine drips off your words.

“How is she related to this conversation?” His eyes narrowing at you, unlike the same teal irises that reflected the scarlet of her hair.

“You know exactly what I mean.” You spat his own words back at him, maneuvering around him as you make your way back to your room.

At this point you weren’t sure what was the cause of the headache threatening to form.

The wine? This deafening silence? Or the thought of Padisarahs?

You don’t care, you want to go to bed. The thuds of his steps weren’t far behind yours as you trek through the halls.

“Our conversation hasn’t concluded.” His deep voice ringing in your ears.

“Yes it has.” Your room was just in sight.

“No it hasn’t.” His hand encloses around your wrist.

There you were, halfway through the doorframe of your room with the pull of his hand preventing you from getting the rest you want.

There’s no longer any space left in a shattered bottle, just a rippling ocean getting rougher and rougher with each deep breath.

“Can’t you be honest?” His ironic, paradoxical words causes the tide to crush against each other.

“Can’t you be honest? Do you think I wouldn’t notice your showers right as you come back from ‘work’? You’ve been driving the water bill up with your cover-up efforts.” Glaring right into those damn beryl eyes, frown breaking your stiff lips.

“Cover-up? What a bold accusation coming from the same person who awaits a call everynight.” He mirrors your scowl.

“Maybe its because work offers better company than this stifling house.”

Alhaitham grip tightens on your wrist as his lips press into a firm line, indecipherable stare weighing down upon your frame. His broad shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath.

“Strip,” he commands.

“Have you gone mad?” You snap back, unable to budge in his hold.

“Yes, furious even.”

It didn’t take much effort for him to make his way into your room, pulling you in as well. You could barely keep up with it all, glaring at him but it didn’t affect him one bit.

The movement causes your dress to shift. Glancing down you realize a strap of your dress slipped off, leaving one side of your breast dangerously exposed.

With swift strides, he arrives at the edge of your bed. It’s rare for you to dawn such attire, applying a lovely shade of crimson to those plush lips, and tying your hair up so nicely. Did you get all dressed up for Bahram? Why couldn’t it be for his viewing only?

Tsk, noisy nonsense is cluttering his mind, those the claws of a green-eyes monster digging into his last shred of restraint. Seizing his rationality in its ugly, greedy hands tighter and tighter the longer your soft thighs pressed against his tense body.

Crashing into those crimson lips of yours, one hand positioning your face to allow his tongue to catch yours by surprise. Letting the two muscles dance together as his other hand explored the expanse of your body, pulling up the silky fabric to grant his palm the pleasure of gracing your soft thighs.

‘Oh, so this is what he wants,’ you thought as your lips moved against his.

‘Fine, might as well experience what he’s been doing behind your back.’ The fingers of your free hand tangling themselves into his hair, tugging at ashen locks with disregard.

Unfortunately, the pesky need for oxygen made Alhaitham release your lips. Chest panting as his darkened gaze observed the state of your lips. Crimson smeared over the corner of your glossy lips. You put so much effort into painting them, making sure they were nicely defined.

However, it felt so cathartic to know that he’s the one who messed them up, no one at the party saw them like this. Only him.

“I’ll ask you one last time, strip now.” Not letting go of your face.

“Go to hell,” you spat out.

And the last chain broke, dignity and self-control reduced to nothing more than ash as his hunger commanded him. Go to hell you say?

“Then I’ll take you with me,” he sneers through clenched teeth, pushing you into the mattress face down. One hand restraining those disobedient hands of yours behind your back.

Before protest could leave your lips a rip resounds through the hot air. Alhaitham knows he should be delicate with it. That he should carefully pull the zipper down your back, letting the fabric naturally drape off your frame.

However, a man who starved for six years now knows nothing about patience.

You feel the silky fabric slip off, leaving you in nothing but your panties. Teal eyes honing in on the darkened patch on the thin fabric, a dry chuckle leaving his lips.

“Wet just from this? Or were you wet during dinner too?” He pulls the fickle fabric off.

You wiggle in his hold, face flushed with frustrated embarrassment at your current predicament. However, in terms of strength you’ll always lose to Alhaitham. A violent flinch jolts your body as he runs a finger runs along your glistening slit.

“What a lewd thing, has he seen this slutty hole of yours?” Alhaitham watches the way your cunt quivers with each stroke of his digit.

“Do really you think I’d sleep with my boss?” Your voice slightly muffled by the sheets as you turn your face to the side.

“I need to confirm it.”

With two fingers, he spreads your soft pussy lips apart, keen eyes observing the trail of slick starting to drip down from between them. He sees the muscles of your entrance clenching around nothing, he glides a digit in, feeling your slick walls clamp around it. Clear essence drooling out. He hums in satisfaction before sliding his finger out, you bite into the sheet to silence any sounds.

“Enjoying this?” He muses, fingers spreading your cunt again.

You don’t respond, but the glare you’re sending his way makes his lip curl into a smirk. For once he could read the emotions behind your stoic eyes, he wants to see more.

Trailing his fingers up your slit until they bump into a hard nub making your body twitch. Softly pinching your clit between two fingers, he slowly rolls the senesitve bundle of nerves as you bite harder to stop your moans.

Cunt slick but unstretched, clit throbbing but not swollen, only your essence coating his fingers. Looks Bahram hasn’t gotten the chance to taste you yet.

Calming the thrashing of a green-eyed beast just slightly. However, this wasn’t enough. Alhaitham feels the parchedness of his throat as his eyes scan over your glistening slit.

Alhaitham once believed that the touches exchanged when his fingers brush against yours while passing plates, when you pull a blanket up his napping frame, or when your bodies briefly pressed against each other as he helps you hang the laundry out was enough to satisfy him. That he could sustain off just borrowing your lotions.

Such a false assumption, a foolish one even. As the heat radiating off your body melts away another restraint he imposed on himself. Alhaitham realizes just how much he’s been starving himself.

Thumb rubbing firm circles into your clit, the pleasure making your legs close together, trying to shut him out but the grip of his hand stops your attempt.

“Tsk, stay still.” His strength pinning your legs apart, showing you just how ‘feeble’ he was.

In retaliation, he pushes your legs further apart. Exposing more of yourself to him, it was embarrassing enough to almost make your lust-hazed mind care.

Thick fingers gathered up drops of slick leaking out from your dripping cunt as your lewd hole unable to contain its greed. Allowing him more access, feeding into his greed further.

Two fingers tracing the rim of your entrance before it slowly pushes through. Instantly, your gummy walls clamped down on his fingers, making him hiss through clenched teeth.

“If you’re grasping my fingers this much, how will you take something larger?” His breath ghosting over your cunt.

Your toes curled in the air as a kiss was pressed against your throbbing clit, almost enough to let a gasp escape you. Biting back a drawn out moan as his tongue traced your leaking slit, starting with your sensitive numb then traveling up to lap at the essence escaping your stretched hole with the smooth muscle then back to flick at your clit.

You never realized just how pent up your body was until whines and moans just fell from your lips like water. Turning your head away, pressing your face into the mattress in hopes it’d catch those sinful sounds.

“Tsk.” Alhaitham escalated the pace of his fingers.

A sharp slap against your puffy clit, shooting white-hot pleasure up your core. With a gasp you pulled away from the sheets, unable to stop the moan which tumbled out. Hastily, you tried to muffle your voice again, only for a warning squeeze on your still pinned wrist stopping you.

You’ve enjoyed your silence, he’s been deprived of those sultry moans, so for tonight let him enjoy them to the fullest extent.

Your back arched, hips bucking in the air. Your little pussy finally rewarded his hard work with a rush of slick soaked the sheets and his face further. Swiftly removing his fingers again with a disgraceful squelch, only for his tongue to dip into the cavern they left. He slurped and lapped up every drop of your nectar, quenching a thirst he never knew he had.

Overstimulated clit trying to flinch away from each nerve-frying lick while your weeping walls beckoned his tongue to go deeper. The tightness in his pants was painful now, engorged tip rubbing against the fabric and soaking it in precum.

With his unyielding hold, his half-lidded eyes, and his unrelenting tongue lapping up all of your essence while bullying your poor nub, you were powerless. Unable to hide from his hungry gaze, nails digging into his unflinching hand, and chest heaving with the mounting pleasure in your core.

Scowl long replaced by a loose expression, the pleasure ripping through every fiber of your being. Shooting up from your curled toes to the eyes seeing only the back of your head, the edge growing closer and closer-

Alhaitham pulls away, your slick dripping down his chin glistening in the moonlight illuminating the room. Cruelly pulling back from the edge before you could taste true euphoria. No, he doesn’t think you deserve it yet. Flipping your body effortless on your back, wrists now pinned above your head.

His teal eyes drank the sight of your breast bouncing with each pant, puffy cunt clenching desperately, and the glimmering tearful eyes rivaling the stars themselves. A sight so sinful the devil is writhing in envy.

“What the fuck?!” You thrashed in his hold again, mourning the lost of the orgasm your body was denied.

“With this attitude, you should be grateful for what you got. I’m tired of waiting.” Alhaitham sneers next to your ear, chest pressed against yours before his warmth pulls away.

Tugging his pants and boxers down his thighs with a hand still coated in your nectar, trailing kisses and red splotches in the valley of your breast as his precum and your slick mixed with each stroke of his shaft. The wet sounds even reached your ears.

Making the mistake of looking down, your eyes widened as they comprehended his length and girth. Your restless pussy twitching but your legs closing as to preserve the last of your ego. Something thick pressed against your dripping pussy making your hole quiver and legs freeze as his tip threatens breach your entrance.

“Trying to be coy now? When you were moaning like a whore mere minutes ago.” Smug teal eyes peering down at you.

Another frown breaks onto your face at his pointed words. Your tongue is just as sharp, best to remind him of that fact.

“What a practiced line, you say the same things to her as well?” A mocking smile curling your lip as a scowl tugs down at his.

Too self-satisfied with your small victory to notice his large hand gripping onto your hips, aligning himself with you. With a sinful squelch, Alhaitham snaps his cock fully in. Your lips thrown open with a gasp as your back arches off the mattress.

“I. Never. Had. An. Affair. So, instead of spewing out anymore nonsense, why don’t you just moan instead?” Puncuating each word with thrust of his hips, feeling the vibration of each syllable in his chest pinned against yours.

Jagged words ready at the tip of your tongue, yet you couldn’t form a single sentence. With a broken moan your back slowly descended back onto the sheets.

Tearing a hiss from his clenched teeth and a breathless moan from you, gummy walls contracting down tighter and tighter with each girthy inch pushed as his balls slap against the slick down your ass. Nothing could’ve prepared him for this. Alhaitham stays there, tip pressed against the deepest part of you, a furrow between his brows.

Alhaitham knows he should be gentle. He knows he should allow your walls to grow accustomed to his girth by slowly rolling his hips against yours.

However, you just won’t stay still. Mewling and whining against his frame, nails clawing at his hand as your legs fluttered in the air. Each movement makes your pussy slurp around his stiff cock, lapping at the girth as if trying to pull him deeper than he already was.

Tempting his hunger like a lunatic testing a starved beast, it’ll only be so long before the hunger bends the iron bars containing it and devours you.

“AH!” A sharp slap of his hips rips a moan from your lips.

Alhaitham pulls you off his cock until the tip threatens to slip out, then thrusts it all back in one fluid motion. Instinctively your teeth clamps down on your disobedient lips, desperately trying to bite back those lewd noises. The slurping of your greed welcoming him over and over was embarrassing enough.

What a selfish move, trying to deprive him once more of your pretty moans. Provoking that ugly appetite within the pits of his stomach again. If you won’t behave, Alhaitham decides to fuck the stubborness out of you.

Each thrust of his hips into yours rocking the sturdy bed, bullying your poor sensitive pussy still recovering from a ruined orgasm. Hands and hips held within bruising grips. The pitched gasps every time he railed into a certain spot didn’t escape his keen ears, his hips now angled to bully that spot with each thrust.

How helpless you were to the devastating rush of dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin. Unable to ground yourself on anything, your last wisps of sanity swept away by the waves of pleasure.

A groan reverberates deep in Alhaitham’s chest, the sudden convulsions of your slick walls trying to milk him. It was almost impossible to move with the way your pussy just kept clamping down.

Unfortunately, his hips couldn’t seem to care, operating solely on selfish desire.

Fortunately, a fresh wave of arousal aided in his rhythm, relentless slams bouncing your body and bed.

Strength long leaving your arms Alhaitham releases his hold on them in favor of supporting your limp hips, a breathy chuckle leaving his lips as lust-hazed eyes honed in on the frothy white ring forming on his shaft.

All your lips could do was babble out nothings as the headboard continued to beat the poor wall. Cunt thanking his cock with a contraction every time his tip knocks against your weakness.

The sweet moans caressing his ears, the filthy slaps echoing through the room, and your walls pulling him deeper and deeper, Alhaitham was at his limit.

There was nothing separating you two, he had enough sense left to know that. Reeling in the reins of his greed, he pulls back, fingers digging deeper into your plush skin. Well, he tried to pull back, but your locked ankles behind his back foiled this plan.

He felt so hefty in you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as his girth and length tore apart your sensibility. Something deep inside your cunt pleaded to be fed, to be filled, pushing your limp legs to lock ankles.

He feels a bit too far for your liking, blindly your hands groped at his body. Finally, reaching his face, cupping it roughly, you crash his lips down onto yours. Tasting yourself on his tongue still, but you couldn’t care less.

As your tongues tangled together, Alhaitham reached his limit. Pressing his thick tip as deep as it’d go, thick ropes of cum start to coat your walls with each twitch of his cock. His shaky moans swallowed up by your kiss.

The slurping of your pussy milking his still throbbing cock only prolonged his hunger.

Dropping his head into the space between your neck and shoulder, he relishes in what he’s been depriving himself of. Feeling the faint shiver of your neck against his face.

Something was fogging up his mind, Autumn breeze doing nothing to quell the heat burning him.

–

“Ah! Mmmh! A-ah Ah!”

The first rays of dawn breaking through the navy sky, the light so flushed by the scene it witnessed, it’s pink hue illuminated skin into the room heavy with lust and the slap of wet skin.

“N-no more… too m-Ah!-much-ch.” Intoxicated brain sputtering out broken sentences.

It really was too much, you’ve cum too much to bother remembering, from the creamy drops dripping onto the soaked sheets, he’s also cummed too much.

Pussy overflowing and spasming with each thrust pushing more milky seed out.

Cock rubbing its red tip rawer with each quiver of your gooey walls.

Six years of starvation will make any man forget gluttony is a sin.

“Too much? No More?” A husky pant between each word as Alhaitham continues with his punishing rhythm.

“If that’s the case… then why is your pussy refusing to let me go?” His chest pressed against your back, caging you further as his breath tickles your ear.

Unable to form a sentence anymore, your head pathetically shook side to side, stubbornly denying the obvious. Looks like he hasn’t fucked out of you yet, better change that. Large fingers digging further down on bruised hips, as the pistoning of his thrusts escalated.

Bed frame pushed to its limits.

Each smack of his hips against your limp body further drowning your pride out in a flood of dopamine. It’s mounting again, that familiar pressure building up in your core, making your toes curl in painful arches.

There’s a sudden flick at your swollen clit, walls flinching as his fingers encircles around the abused nub.

“Who’s making you feel this way?” His husky voice too close to your ear.

Groundless pride preventing you from unsealing you lips, refusing to feed into his ego anymore than your wanton moans already did.

“Who are you showing this shameful face to?” There’s an edge to his voice again, why must you be so stubborn?

Once more you refused to answer. Making Alhaitham’s jaw clench and his fingers roll your clit harsher, making your bruised hips thrash.

“Who’s shape is engrained into this lewd body?” Voice dangerously low as he pushes his thick tip deeper against your beaten and painted walls, fingers never stopping their torment on your little nub.

The edge was getting closer, you knew you’ll fall off it soon, you’ll dive head first into the euphoric sea of dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin and drown.

“Ah-ah Al-mmh!” You try to collect your breath.

Alhaitham quickens his fingers on your clit, feeling your greedy cunt clamp down on him again, walls suckling his twitching tip as his balls tighten. He’s close, but he needs you to say what he’s been waiting to hear all night.

“Alh-ah a-a…” Your hips shaking violently in his hold now.

Lust-glazed eyes staring straight into equally hazed teal eyes. Shaky hands slowly weaving themselves into his damp ash locks, gently pulling his ear closer to your lips, your hoarse voice just barely audible.

“A bastard.”

Self-satisfied smirk plastered over your loose face as your tear blurred vision catches the stunned expression on his handsome face.

The heat of his touch, the chemical stirring in your brain, and the pleasure frying your nerves made a delirious smile grace smudged lips. Your sight so hazed by lust you couldn’t see where your smile was even directed to.

Alhaitham wanted to etch the sight of your debauch face, smeared makeup and glazed eyes rolled back, into his memories forever.

Too caught off guard by your response to remind his hand to stop its movement before it was already too late. Eyes seeing the back of your head, back arching under his frame, you fell back into the all consuming waves of pleasure.

A hard earned victory in this veiled battle of two egos. Exhaustion seeping into every fiber of your being. The pale pink of twilight dimming in your vision as the dark hands of sleep covers your eyes.

Somewhere in the middle of drifting off into a blank nothingness, you feel a hand tenderly guiding your head to rest on a soft pillow.

Your eyelids twitch and brows furrow as the brightness of the room crept its way behind your shut eyes. Unable to retreat back into the dark embrace of sleep, you begrudgingly open your heavy lids.

Greeted by blurred shapes and fuzzy colors, you slowly blink your unfocused eyes. Gradually, the shapes and colors merge into distinguishable objects: a mug left on your bedside table with vapors rising from its rim.

“It’s morning-after tea.” A husky voice followed by the distinct flip of paper tenses every muscle in your body.

Alhaitham’s still here. You wish he wasn’t, you wish he’d realize last night was a mistake created from the clashing of egos, you wish the other side of your bed was empty.

So why did the tightness in your chest melt away with the mere sound of his voice?

You drag your sore body up from the sheets, shaky hands supporting the weight of numb legs and throbbing hips. Your sealed lips refusing to give him the satisfaction of any audible ques of your current state.

Sitting at the edge of your bed, back bare of anything but your hair draping over the marked skin facing him, you took the warm cup into your hands.

A harmony of methodical sips and soft turns of pages fill the room, an open window washing away the haze of lust with an Autumn breeze. Just as the last bit of tea slides down your throat a gentle slap of a book snapping close brings an end to the heavy silence.

“It’s unreliable,” Alhaitham announces.

Peering over your shoulder with a quirked brow, freezing as you recognize the book clutched in his hands. Not waiting for a response, he continues.

“Anyone with eyes can see how his biases exude through each sentence. He only studied 15 couples, not an appropriate sample size for a world filled with millions of pairs. His experiments have yet to be replicated, it seems his status is what got this nonsense published.” He sets the book down.

“What are you trying to say?” Your eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Your theory of phenylethylamine having a shelf life is based on nonsense.” His eyes connect with yours with that familiar indifference.

A frown twists your face, so he still wants to argue huh. Of course, what else did you expect? You and him have long gone down the bitter circular path you’ve seen travled before.

Irritation rising in your chest, like Alhaitham had jabbed his finger into a wound you’ve yet to heal.

“Oh, then your theory must be the intrinsic truth, huh?” Words leaving an acidic aftertaste on your tongue.

“I never-”

“Look at you, so correct with no data to support your vague mathematical thesis.” You cut him off, anger replacing the soreness of your legs.

Cup knocking against a bedside table as your hand casts it to the side, getting off the bed you march into your closet, pulling a random shirt on without regard of your movements wrinkling the fabric.

You just needed to leave this room, just being by his side is making your blood pressure rise. Your bed creaks as Alhaitham gets up as well, but your back was already through the door.

Two sets of steps trekking through the halls, paces mismatched as one tries to take quicker steps to counter the broader strides of the other. Alhaitham keeps pace with your escalating march.

“It’s a critique of his research, not you,” he voices.

You didn’t want to hear it, sharply pivoting into your home office, but you weren’t fast enough to stop Alhaitham from following you in.

Now a husband wants to spend time with his wife, where was this before?

“It’s an experiment conducted at the Akademiya, how is that not reliable enough? You think you can do better?” Your body whipping around with a glare directed at him, your hideous ego showing its face again.

“Are you listening to yourself right now? Do you even believe in such a shallow analysis?” He mirrors your glare.

“I’d rather believe in something with actual quantifiable numbers.”

“Fine, you want quantifiable numbers? Care to calculate along with me? Or is your mind still recovering from last night?” Alhaitham folds his arms in front of his chest.

“Go for it,” you say through gritted teeth, accepting his challenge, wanting to shush that snooty tone of his.

“The Akasha bases its pairs off demographic, interest, and dispositions, all variables we can calculate,” he states.

You straighten up your back, staring him in those teal eyes with your head held up high.

“Sumeru city is home to roughly 1 million people. Only 1/3 are around my age.” Alhaitham begins his trail.

“That brings that number down to about 333,333.” No delay in your response.

“Only 1 in 10 people have a personality I can tolerate, then suppose only 1 in 20 of those people can withstand mine.”

“ Rounding up that leaves about 1,667 candidates.” You tsk at his estimations, that number should be far greater than 20.

“Next comes shared interest, only 1 in 4 people have touched a physical book in the past year.”

“417 left.”

Perhaps the gods didn’t think cheating you out of a childhood was enough, out of 417 people you had the misfortune of staring at his stony face.

“Having to arrange 417 separate meetings at a small cafe would be much too burdensome for the Department of Human Relations. The scope needs to be narrowed further.” Alhaitham takes a step forward.

“Only 1 in 16 will have the patience to teach a grown man how to avoid wrinkles in his button downs.” Baritone voice losing its pointed edge.

“26 left.” You take a step back to preserve the space, hating how your skin craves the heat of his.

“Only 1 in 8 of those people will allow me to borrow their books even when they know the edges of the paper will be creased when its returned.” He takes another step.

As you take another step backwards, the edge of your office desk prevents you from retreating further. The sensation of the cold wood distracting you momentarily from your calculations.

“Then only 1 in 6 people will drape a blanket over a body that hogs an entire couch for a nap, placing a pillow under my head to ensure I don’t wake up with a sore neck.” Alhaitham doesn’t stop.

Reaching an arm out, he firmly sets his palm on the expanse of your desk, caging you between the wood and the risk of your skin feeling the heat radiating off his body.

“How many people are left now?” His breath ghosts the shell of your ear.

“ 0.543,” You blurted out.

A deep furrow appears between your brows, something must’ve gone wrong in your calculation, it’s impossible to have half a person. In the context of the Akasha, one person, a whole person, is matched to another.

Once more your mind ran the numbers over again, then again, and then thrice trying to recompute the figures.

Each time the same number came back: half a person.

“Are you mocking me with those groundless fractions? Where did you even get those statistics from?” Your pointed gaze still directed at him, did he intentionally lead you down this illogical trail?

“Logic is neither an art nor a science but a dodge.” He peers down at you, teal gaze back to its neutral state.

“Ha! Says the man who places logic and rationality on a pedestal, what caused such a change, Alhaitham?” You laugh dryly, not bothering to decipher the most brainless qoute you ever heard him use.

No change in his expression as his shoulders rise with a deep inhale, exhaling slowly as he leans his face in, his finger digging his palm against lacquered wood.

“Instead of wasting time citing subpar research, you should’ve just been honest. Then maybe I’ll give you what you want and sign those damn papers you hid away in this desk.” Voice low but steady as his gaze never leaves your frame.

It was a strange phenomenon, the chirping of the crickets had halted as two bodies remained unmoving, not even a single grain of dust dare move. If it weren’t for the faint ticking of a hallway clock, it would’ve seemed like time had stopped.

How long has he known about the divorce papers neatly stacked away a desk drawer?

Alhaitham slowly backs his body away from yours, hand returning to his side, freeing you from the cage it created. Teal eyes carefully observes your downcast stare and stiff shoulders as guilt suffocated him.

All the emotions he bottled up, all the fervor he held back, all the desires he swallowed down. It all came tumbling out, spilling out into a murky, repulsive mess.

“Wife.” If he had spoken any louder than a breathy whisper, that word would’ve crumbled on his tongue.

“I love you.” Alhaitham finally allows the words which have been clinging on his tongue for years now to fall out of his mouth.

Every inch of you froze at those three words, the weight of his stare heavy on your shoulders.

“Do you really feel nothing from those words?” Baritone voice beckoning an answer from you.

You don’t dare lift your head, gaze downcasted and frozen. Because you know you’ll have to stare at your reflection in his eyes.

Phenylethylamine, oxytocin, dopamine.

All these hormones and chemicals should’ve ran their course through your body. The haze should’ve faded and the abnormality of your chest should’ve corrected itself. It’s been three years at this point.

So, why is your chest aching?

The wood grain of the floor began to blur together as bitter tears compensated for the painful stinging of your irises. There it is, your brain finally short-circuits as the logic which once held up your sanity has crumbled away.

Finally, you met his gaze, staring right at your reflection in teal irises.

“It’s suffocating to be with you… it’s so lonely in this quiet house… it burns me like fire to touch you… yet… and y-yet see-”

“Seeing you leave will kill me, ” Alhaitham spoke the words just about to fall from the tip of your tongue.

The last piece of evidence that shattered the hypothesis he cultivated for all his life. If soulmates don’t exist, if the concept of an ‘other half’ doesn’t exist, then why is he feeling the same agony as you?

Looks like both theories were wrong in the end. Mathematics and chemistry unable to solve the enigma known as love.

“I… I want to love… but I’m drowning… Alhaitham.” You were finally honest, you’ve been drowning all your life, thrashing hands searching for something to hold onto.

Would you be oh so kind enough to grab that pen just behind you and stab its steel nib into his chest? Alhaitham’s certain that it would hurt less than the words that left your trembling lips.

A gentle hand cradled the back of your head as he pulls you closer. Letting those bitter tears strain his shirt and burn his skin.

No one, but the audience of a curious star and capricious gods peering down behind their blanket of clouds into this quiet house.

Alhaitham once thought of himself as a good husband. Doing his fair share of chores and paying his half of the bills.

However, seeing your broken figure barely clinging onto his stiff frame, it’s clear that his overconfident assessment was a grave error.

A good husband would’ve been more attentive. A good husband would’ve noticed the tide slowly sweeping you away into the rough sea. A good, loving husband would’ve never let you sink alone in salty tears.

“Then I’ll drown with you.” His other hand grasping onto one of yours, slowly easing it away from his wrinkled shirt with soft caresses.

Only monsters live in the deep cold sea, the only creatures able to survive the saltine waters and the pitch black nothingness. But as long as your fingers wove themselves into the gaps between his, he’ll be warm even as he sits on the sandy bottom of the murky ocean.

Maybe that’s where the two of you belonged, two unromantic and prideful fools sitting at the bottom of the ocean.

Hand in hand so that the stupidity contained between the two of you won’t pollute anyone else.

Gradually, those aching hiccups of yours faded into nothing more than muffled whimpers. Allowing silence to creep its way back into the gaps. The cause of this mess in the first place.

He has to remedy this, but what should he say? All those encyclopedias and journals he had thumbed through were all for naught. For Alhaitham’s mind couldn’t recall one fact from those pages.

One hand patting a slow rhythm into your back, trying to buy the man some time.

When logic and reasoning fail to explain the unexplained, folklore takes its place.

“According to legends, people used to have two pairs of hands, two pairs of feet, and two faces pointed in opposite directions.” He began.

“Back then, humans were powerful, powerful enough to threaten the gods who created them. So the gods split them in two. Cursing humans to a cruel search, desperate to be whole again.” His other hand still toying with your fingers.

You peer up at him, head still resting against his chest, feeling the soft beating of his heart. Blinking away the tears, listening to his telling of a myth.

“That’s the origin of a soulmate.” He finishes.

A soft giggle leaves your lips, a mixture of confusion and disbelief from Alhaitham quoting a fairytale.

“And you believe in that?” Amused gaze connecting with brilliant beryl eyes.

“Yes…because I found you.” Alhaitham tenderly brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss against your fingers as a glint catches the sunlight.

With a foreign sensation hugging a finger, your brows furrow. Holding your hand out toward the light again. Blinking eyes finally identify the gem which coyly appeared on your ring finger.

So that’s what he was doing, your tear stained cheeks shifting up as a smile stretches your once stiff lips.

Burying your head in the chest of the most unromantically romantic idiot you’ve ever known, a radiant laugh bubbling in your chest as it resonates off quiet walls.

But as he is, so are you: An unromantically romantic soulmate in love.

~Fin

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS.

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okkotsuus · 3 months ago

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"WE HUG NOW" ー taro sakamoto 🪽

features: taro sakamoto (sakamoto days)

contents: assassin!reader, one-sided pining, angst, heartbreak, implied trauma, injuries, depictions of wounds, mentions of blood, very mild gore warning, kind of implied self-harm/self-destructive behavior, tailing, insecurity, songfic, 1.9k words.

notes: this actually came to me in a dream and then i had a batshit crazy one after, oh and i'm still reading the manga so no spoilers pls... blaming @17020 because mimi got me into sakadays and now i'm a little hooked.

taro sakamoto was the world's legendary assassin, he was the best at everything there was: like some sort of god amongst men. everyone loved him, and if they didn't love him: they feared him.

no one was ever fully able to reach him, or even keep up with him. no one except nagumo, rion, and you.

if sakamoto was placed on a mission, even if it was solo, somehow you were always 'in the area.' whether it be okinawa or shibuya: you just happened to be there.

at first, taro thought nothing of it. you were his friend, and you always managed to make any hit run smoother with that sharp wit you were requested for. it was mutualism, scratch sakamoto's back and he'll scract yours.

eventually, it began to grow into something more.

neither of you noticed it; and if you did, you kept quiet about it.

little things began to happen, things like sakamoto keeping a change of clothes for you in his go-bag. or having your preferred mm of ammunition to go with your favorite gun.

the two of you existed in this weird sort-of in between space.

you weren't lovers; but you were certainly more than friends.

only you knew the code to get into his gun safe, and only he knew how to get past the security system outside your apartment.

assassins don't let people in.

it's an unspoken rule of the job.

one you broke.

it all happened one night, when you and taro were both scraped up from a rough mission to assassinate the head of the yamaguchi family.

wordlessly, you were both splayed over a motel bed, not even under the sheets as both of your eyes remained locked onto the swirling ceiling fan.

"why did you let that one grunt get a shot on you, y/n? you're better than that." his voice rumbled, tone non-commitant despite the obvious lacing of worry in his words.

sakamoto has always cared about those dear to him, maybe more than he should.

he always had let rion talk about anything that interested her, played along with nagumo's tricks. he was a good man, assassin or not.

so, when you don't answer, his head lolls to the side to see if you had even heard him in the first place. and brown eyes widen, just barely perceptibly at the hollow stare e/c irises give him.

"i always let myself get hurt on a hit. it's how i atone for the lives i take."

the words echo between the two of you, they make silver brows furrow and thin lips draw flat.

he doesn't speak, so you look away, head turning to make interest of the chipping paint on the smoke-stained walls.

a grazing of fingertips over the torn fabric of your jeans sends your body moving before you can even think. cheap lobby pen pressed against sakamoto's carotid as your weight pins his hips down to the shitty matress below.

taro doesn't even move, not trying to shove you away. he just lays there, limp boned and pliant.

lithe fingers find themselves in the skin on the side of your thigh with an audible squelch. it hurts, feeling him root around in your flesh: but any assassin could take a little pain. his intrusion into your wound is gone as he pulls a 9mm luger from you and tosses it haphazardly onto the carpet.

you don't know what to think, what to do. so you remain atop his form, ballpoint still just barely poking at the skin beneath his jaw. you can see the way his pulse makes the pen dig deeper before it falls once more.

and he's just letting you do all this.

not a single muscle in his body has made any move to resist you.

when he so easily could.

it has your brows raising back to normal, e/c eyes rounding in curiosity.

sakamoto wipes his bloodied fingers on his shirt before tearing the hem of it to wrap it around your thigh, tying it off in a messy knot.

your makeshift weapon fall from your fingers, "why are you doing this, taro?" he hums, fingers drumming against the shitty box spring you have him against.

"you shouldn't hurt yourself, it's not good." he drawls, eyes finally finding your own as he stared up at you in a way that sends your stomach twisting. "can't let the world think my partner's getting weak."

god, you know he doesn't mean it that way.

he means it because you two work together, because he lets you tag along on his missions.

but some selfish, foolish part of you eats it up: the definition you want it to have, that the two of you are really something more.

dumbly, you nod, sitting back and rolling off of him.

"okay, i won't." he's satisfied, turning onto his side with a grunt, broad back facing you.

within a few minutes, he's softly snoring, as if he hadn't just sent your carefully constructed world toppling asunder.

you don't sleep that night.

or many others, for that matter.

all you want is to think he meant that the way you thought he did, even though you know it is the furthest thing from the truth.

assassins don't fall in love.

it seems like you're a pretty shitty one, then.

nothing ever changes, a part of you so deeply repressed is too scared to be the one jumping into the unknown.

that awkward space you had always been in with sakamoto remains. too far to be just friends, but just too far from being lovers.

he makes it hard. unbearably so.

taro is a kind man: he remembers anything you tell him, he keeps his apartment stocked with your snacks, he doesn't let you leave on a mission without saying goodbye (once you forgot and he showed up on the roof of your car).

then, one day, he goes on a mission while you were stuck in a stealth operative on the northern coast. normally, he finishes a hit quick and comes by your apartment after with some shitty takeout and MREs: which he seems to prefer, for whatever unknowable reason.

but, this time, you have to find him.

he's not at his place, not at the JAA, not with nagumo.

you worry about him, for possibly the first time in the years you had known each other. sakamoto is japan's best, everyone had some sort of interest in having him gone. no one had succeeded; hell, no one had gotten close.

what if today they did?

the thought has an indescribable ache burning under your ribs.

it punch in his code and lock the door behind yourself, sat on his couch, and felt tears burn at your eyes for the first time in god knows how long.

he comes home at around 1:32am, doesn't even acknowledge your presence as he shrugs off his coat; even though you know he can see you. his hands are empty, except for a convenience store bag.

sakamoto doesn't eat anything other than MREs, unless it's the fancy dinner provided at order meetings. he certainly doesn't eat junk food and snacks.

"you hungry, taro?" the words come out more fragile than you intend, but he doesn't speak on it. the man shakes his head, holding up his bag as he comes to sit on the couch next to you, tearing into a wafer bar and crunching at it.

it's upsetting, how he won't even look at you, how he doesn't even dignify answering you with words.

"i thought you hated pre-packaged foods..," you mumble, brows furrowing. he pauses for the briefest moment, mid-bite. "the girl at the register said they were good," he speaks.

oh.

that's a weird feeling. one you don't think you've ever quite felt from something sakamoto has said to you.

it goes away when he hands you a pack of your favorite chips from the bag. 'probably why he went in, in the first place,' you think, as if to soothe yourself.

even as you tear into them, there's a lingering sting in your nose, almost like burning.

it never quite fully goes away.

taro sakamoto rarely goes out for the sake of it, much less alone.

so why is he leaving in the middle of the day?

you catch him as you're coming back from a mission, his favorite MRE from the association and some chinese takeaway for yourself. he doesn't look at you, standing on a nearby rooftop and watching in a baffled curiosity.

in a selfish moment, you follow, out of sight.

and you see him meet a girl.

a girl who looked so normal, so soft. not a single bone in her body was dangerous, her gaze never hardened past annoyance. she was so utterly everything that you weren't.

because she wasn't an assassin.

at first, you're angry: furious, even.

you think he's so stupid, choosing a weak woman knowing exactly what happens to people in his line of work. how could he, when you had been standing there waiting for so long?

but when you see the gentleness in the way he touches her arm, like he knows he can break her and it's the last thing he would ever want: it's hard to stay angry.

because she's beautiful and kind and so gloriously normal.

you lose your food on some random roof as you leave. the wind friction from how fast you're moving has tears forming in your eyes, or maybe they were from something else.

sakamoto doesn't seek you out. he doesn't hunt you down when you go on a mission without saying goodbye first. he doesn't show up on your doorstep with food after his hits. he doesn't bandage your wounds when the guilt gets to you and you let your target land a blow.

it doesn't surprise you when he retires.

since he met her, it had only been a matter of time.

you don't plead with him like nagumo does, you don't accept all the offers people make you for his head, you don't ever try to find him: even though he makes it so painfully easy to.

how could you?

he was happy, surely. and you weren't selfish enough to risk ruining it.

sakamoto always got everything he wanted, whether it be fame, money, power, or even his eventual family life. while you got stuck with the weight of what could've been, of everything that you let slip between your fingers because you were just too damn scared.

to him, your friendship was just a small thing that happened in his past as a hitman. to you, when it ended: so did the world with it.

⚜️ ㅤ okkotsuus ㅤ 25

#sakamoto days #sakamoto days x reader #sakamoto days x you #sakadays #sakadays x reader #sakadays x you #taro #taro x reader #taro x you #sakamoto #sakamoto x reader #sakamoto x you #taro sakamoto #taro sakamoto x reader #taro sakamoto x you #sakamoto taro #sakamoto taro x reader #sakamoto taro x you

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evilminji · 3 months ago

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Question! Because it's bugging me!

But also... COULD it work?

Tianlang-jun. The mountain.

A tragedy of many parts.

The man is stuck, in pain, but he is a full blooded Heavenly "Not Even The God's Could Kill Us" Demon. So? His death is slow. A chipping away of ten million life points, one by one. Effective, yes, BUT...?

Only so long as he's IN the Seal... right?

His power is locked away. Stopped. In a "pinned down and AOE" Sort of way. Because anything DIRECTLY effecting? His body will laugh derisively at, then fuckin EAT.

But! He can't HEAL inside that Seal. So the chip effect IS gonna take him out. Eventually.

Is it Cruel? Very. But it's effective.

However!!!

According to Shen Yuan? Luo Binghe has been able to heal from lost limbs, in PIDM. From, we can only assume, getting stabbed through vital organs. All while being? HALF his father's blood... and a FUCKING BABY in comparison to experience.

Tianlang-jun has been rocking around for A WHILE.

Theoretically?

You COULD...? Cut him in half.

He'd fuckin walk it off. I'm completely serious. After all, so long as his HEAD and preferably his heart were in tact? Meh. It'll SUCK... but he just needs food, rest, and A LOT of QI.

Now, I'm not saying it'd be as "lol, you thought that'd WORK?" As it normally would be. He's been fucked up pretty bad. His health is delicate right now. (For the given quality of that) But like?

Collect the blood he IS bleeding. Put it under stasis, in a demonic Qi rich environment. Prep a medical bay of sorts. Bring him MEDICINE while he's IN the seal to boost him. Good ol clean water, food, and keep him up to date on the plan etc.

Then get HIS help? To cut him in half. As close to the crush point as possible! The trapped him under a mountain. Yes. His power doesn't work. EXTERNALLY. But can it work INTERNALLY? Can he prepare, mentally, for it to START working? Keep his blood from LEAVING the half that contains his brain?

Don't fall asleep, you Majesty. You need to make your own circulatory system until your lower half heals enough to have veins again.

And "oh no! The seal won't let us carry him out!"? Pssssh. You are like BABIES.

Side Step that Fucker! Who ever said we were going through the front door? We make our own rules in THIS house!

Get in the Qiankun pouch, your Majesty!

The we either run like we totally just alerted those gold wearing bastards to our jail break (cause we probably did) OR we go through the teleport method of your choice! To the medical bay. Where Tianlang-jun gets a nice, emergency, talismans(sry, I know you hate them and probably now have trauma) cleaning, and gets lovingly dumped into the blood tub.

Of blood! You know... HIS blood. The blood we saved (and Qi soaked) from him!

Have some steak. Looooots of steak, your Majesty. Mmm, those muscles repairing red meats! Bone too. Qi for days. No, no, you sit your ass back down! Healing first. THEN vengance!

@mayfay @legitimatesatanspawn @spidori @babbling-babull @hdgnj

#minji's writing #still kinda mad that binhe never goes to save his dad #unfilial child #yeah i know he didnt raise you #but he kinda DIDNT GET THE CHANCE #you think he wouldnt have WANTED TOO?#he adored your mom!#he would have been GLOWING with joy #washer mom would be disappointed in you binghe #tianlang jun #deserves better #i love my sad dangerous trainwreck king #wanna platonicly marry you #cause who could ever compete with Su Xiyan lets be real here #svsss #PIDM #bailu mountain

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mama2bears · 10 months ago

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Starting Over Again - Chapter 4

Pairings: Tyler Owens/Female Reader

Warning: Injury, Tornado, a few swear words, near death of character

A/N: The words to the songs used in this story is “River and Highway” by Pam Tillis and “Starting Over” by Chris Stapleton. I don't own any of the lyrics or songs.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Chapter 4

The sound of a door closing startles you awake.

“Morning!” Tyler smiles at you, holding a bag of something that smelled amazing.

“What is that I smell?” you ask, sitting up.

Tyler sits next to you on the bed as he pulls out the to go boxes, “We have a good 'ol Oklahoma breakfast here! Chicken Fried Steak with scrambled eggs and biscuits and gravy .There's donuts, cookies, sticky buns, and chips in the truck along with plenty of water for snacks.”

He gives you your box and hurries over to the dresser in the room, “I also got us coffee and orange juice. Cream or sugar for the coffee?” he asked.

“Oh...um...both.” you answer looking over the food, “Do you always eat this big for breakfast?”

“Only on days that we are planning to be out chasing most of the day. Might not be enough time to stop for lunch, so we fill up with a big breakfast and bring plenty of snacks.”

“Thank you. This all smells amazing.” you start to eat as the room grows silent.

“I am sorry about last night.” you broke the silence, you're eyes meeting Tyler's.

“What are you sorry about?” he asked.

“I am sorry I woke you up. Sorry I cried all over you.” you gave a small smile, “Sorry I unloaded my ugly past on you.”

“Don't be sorry.” he smiled softly, “I didn't mind.” he paused as he thought about his next words. Should he tell her the truth, that he believed he was falling in love with her, that he wanted to get to know her better, that he wanted more nights of her falling asleep safely in his arms? Or, should he play it safe, not knowing how she feels, wanting to give her time to move at her own pace, what felt comfortable for her..finally, he gave a small smile, “What are friends for, right?”

“Right,” you smile at him. You're both relieved and a bit saddened.. At least you knew how he felt about you now. You were friends, and that's how it should be, at least for now. You only met him yesterday. Sure, he was easy on the eyes and you felt at home wrapped in his arms...but he was a friend. You were still married to an abusive husband that may or may not be tracking you down right now. You honestly couldn't pin point exactly how you felt about Tyler. Your heart was screaming you loved him, but your mind was saying take it slow, you don't even know him. This was how you got into trouble with Lee. You were lonely and looking for love and fell for the wrong guy. You did not want to make THAT mistake again.

“Anyway, I think I got the room situation straightened out.” he stated after a moment of silence. “They gave us the wrong room yesterday. There is a couple here on vacation and they only needed one bed. They accidentally got our double room and we got the king one. We're going to pack our stuff up this morning and by the time we come back tonight they will have the rooms switched for us,” he paused, “That is if you are still okay sharing a room...”

“Yeah, that's fine,” you give him a smile.

“Great, I'll start loading up the truck and we can hit the road.”

“What's the plan for today?” You try not to notice how tight his black shirt was fitted over his chest, try not think about how he looked dripping wet or how warm and safe he felt as he held you close to him.

“You and me are going to ride together. I've got a laptop with weather radar set up in the truck. Help us track the storms, take video and photos. Boone and Lily are going to be in the other truck filming as well. Dexter and Dani will bring up the rear in the RV. Dexter is going to be helping track the storms with the systems in the RV.”

“Sounds exciting.” you nodded, eager to get started on your first day being a storm chaser.

“What's the biggest tornado you ever been in?” he asked.

“Not many big tornadoes in Tennessee.” you said, “Probably would have been an F3 that hit downtown Nashville. My mom and I were there on a weekend trip to see the Grand Ol Opry when it came though. There was an F5 during that weekend as well, but it was farther away from where we were staying. It was known as the Forgotten F5 because of the lack of news coverage. Everyone covered the tornado that hit downtown Nashville because it was so unusual for a large tornado to strike a downtown area, actually, it was the first F3 tornado to hit a downtown area in twenty years.”

“Were you scared?” he asked softly.

“Terrified! I was only a kid and I was already scared of storms...that only enhanced my fear. We had to run and take shelter in a building. Windows were breaking, glass littered the downtown streets, the sky was so dark it was like night.”

“Yet, here you are...a storm chaser chasing tornadoes...riding your fears!” he grinned.

“Riding your fears...what exactly does that mean?”

“It means you don't just face your fears, you jump in and conquer them. You can't just run and hide from it. You learn from your fears. In the case of tornadoes, we face them head on to try to learn about them, and prevent more people from getting hurt.”

“Makes sense.” you nodded, “are you scared of the storms?”

He was silent for a moment before answering, “Yes...and no. I am not scared of anything happening to me. I know the risks and I take them. I make it fun. I am scared for my team though, for those I care about...” he looks you in the eye, “I am scared for all the people in the path of the storm. We can't always stop a tornado, we can't always predict when and where it's going to hit. Sometimes, we miss it. Sometimes we are too late. That is what I fear.”

You nodded as you finished your breakfast, “That's why I wanted to get into weather. I was terrified of storms as a child, but as I got older I learned to love them. I loved the beauty and power of storms, but I hated the devastation they caused. I wanted to help find a way to warn people and to help people.”

“Well, you're in the right place then.” He grinned, “ready to ride your fears?”

“Defiantly.” you give him a smile back, feeling confident about the day and your decision to come to Oklahoma.

* * * * *

Lee sat staring at his computer, “I will find you, Y/N. I swear, you can't hide from me forever.”

He typed in your name again and was about to give up, not finding any results until...

“Who's the new mystery girl with the Wranglers?”

Lee clicked the link and found varies videos and photos from fans for a group called The Tornado Wranglers, who currently appeared to be in Oklahoma.

There, he found a picture of a woman standing next to a red Dodge Ram with a bunch of equipment attached to it. To Lee it looked like one of them tornado trucks.

“Who's the new mystery girl with the Wranglers?” the poster asked.

“She just showed up yesterday, I saw her and Tyler at a restaurant. They haven't introduced her yet. Maybe she's a girlfriend?” another poster stated.

Lee zoomed in on the photo and grinned, “So...Oklahoma.” he muttered, “not far enough. Not far enough at all.” he clicked on the link that lead him to the Tornado Wranglers YouTube channel.

After a few videos, he figured out that the team was currently in El Reno Oklahoma and the photos from the fans proved it was differently his Y/N hanging out with them.

* * * * *

“Any leads yet?” Tyler asked you as the team drove though a lonely country road. So far, the day had not seen much action.

“Here, just west of here.” you point on the radar, “it looks to be getting high and that hook is forming.”

Tyler glances at the radar and nods in agreement, “Dexter, what about that cell just to the west?”

“I am watching that one, Ty. Looks promising. What does Y/N think?” he called back.

Tyler flashed you a grin, “Ah, she agrees! That's where we're heading!”

You smiled to yourself as you looked out the window at the building storm. You were happy to have made a good decision, a step in the right direction, proving that you did know a little something about storms.

“THERE!”you shout, We got a funnel!” You pull out your camera and start filming the development of the twister.

“Hang on...we're going in!” Tyler grinned, jerking the truck to the right and though an open field.

You let out a scream of surprise and grab for the dash, “What the hell do you mean we're GOING IN!”

“Ride your fears baby, ride your fears!” Tyler yelled out, parking a mere feet from the now fully developed tornado, “Look at her! She's beauty!” he screamed over the roaring winds, but he was looking more at you then the tornado as he mashed the button, anchoring the truck to the ground. “Hang on!” he yelled.

You hold the video camera with one hand, keeping a death grip on the dashboard with the other. You couldn't believe what was happening. The tornado was going to go right over you.

“Tyler, is this SAFE?” you yell.

“Sure it is! This looks to be a EF2, maybe EF3. Depends on the damage it does. This truck is good up to EF4.”

And then the truck was surrounded by a whirling black cloud, debris bouncing off the metal with big thuds, pops, and bangs. The roaring of the wind and the shaking of the truck felt and sounded like a freight train running right over you.”

And just like that, as quickly as it started...it was over.

You looked at Tyler with a huge grin, “Oh my GOD! That was a freaking tornado! We were INSIDE of a TORNADO!” you shouted.

“Nothing like it, now is there?” he flashed you a grin.

“Thank you...” you smile at him.

“For what?” he asked, “putting you in the path of a tornado?”

“For giving me a chance...for giving me this experience..for being there.” You shrugged. You didn't know how to put into words everything you were feeling. This man gave you a job without even knowing if you were telling the truth. He was willing to give up his hotel room so you could be comfortable. He held you in his arms last night when you woke up screaming from a nightmare. He has done everything he could since you met him to make sure you were safe and taken care of. Then, he gives you the experience of a lifetime by driving directly into a tornado.

“Anytime, Darling.” Tyler smiled at you, “This tornado seemed to be a little short lived, but lets drive though town and make sure everyone is okay. If the radar still looks quiet we could grabs some dinner.”

“Sounds good.” you agreed.

“We're taking a ride though town, make sure everyone is okay. If all is good and radar is quiet we'll grab something to eat.” Tyler called over the radio as the trio of vehicles made a turn into town.

As you rode though the town, gazing out the window, you were thankful that it appeared that the only damage was to some trees and power lines, maybe some roof shingles and windows. Everyone looked to be okay.

“What you see on radar?” he asked you.

“Not much of anything. All the storms seemed to have died out for the day.”

“Let's call it a day, guys.” Tyler radioed, then looked at you, “Can I take you somewhere?” he asked.

“Sure.” you shrugged.

“I am going to take Y/N for a little tour and lunch. How about we meet up back at the hotel later tonight and we'll make our plan for tomorrow?”

“Sounds good Ty.” Lily confirmed.

“See you tonight.” Dani agreed.

“Hey, don't do anything I wouldn't do!” Boone yelled into the radio, making you blush a little.

“Idiot.” Tyler laughed.

“There's a sandwich shop on up the road here, do you mind if we take it to go?”

“No, not at all.”

Tyler pulled into the parking lot and hurried around the truck, opening the door for you before you had the chance. He started to reach for your hand as you walked towards the little shop, but decided against it. You hadn't lend him to believe you wanted anything more then friends, but he was determined to be there if and when you changed your mind. He stepped a bit ahead of you instead and opened the door to the shop.

“What will it be?” he asked as you two looked over the menu above the counter.

“All American sub with mayo.” you answer

Tyler placed the order for the two sandwiches, drinks and chips and you two walk back to the truck.

“So, where are you taking me?” You asked when he opened the truck door for you again.

“To a little slice of heaven on Earth.” he grinned, giving you a wink, “It's only a few miles up the road.”

Within minutes, Tyler turned next to a sign that read 'Lake El Reno Park'

“There's a creek that runs into this lake, called Fourmile Creek” he told you.

“Let me guess...it's four miles long.” you grin.

“Yep!” Tyler smiled, “It feeds into the lake and there's a bridge that goes over the river...” he paused, “It's just a nice place for a picnic I thought.”

“Sounds beautiful.” you smile as he parks and collects the food bag and a blanket. You open the door and get out this time before he gets around to open it for you.

“Hey...that's my job,” he pretended to pout.

“I am a big girl and I know how to open my own doors.” you stated.

“But I like to open them for you.”

“Alright, next time.” you agree.

Tyler spreads the blanket down and you set out the sandwiches, chips and drinks and take a seat next to him.

“Oh...one more thing I forgot.” he grabbed his keys and sprinted back to the truck. A moment later he returned with a guitar.

“You sing?” she asked.

“I try.” he laughed. “There's a old country song that this place reminds me of.” he said, strumming a few cords. “Um, here, let me just sing a few verses for you.” he starts playing the music and softly sings

And he rolls, he's a highway. Where he goes, time will tell. Heaven knows, she can't go with him. And he rolls, all by himself. All by himself.

But every now and then, He offers her a shoulder. And every now and then She overflows. And every now and then A bridge crosses over. It's a moment, every lover knows.

And she rolls She's a river Where she goes Time will tell.

Tyler trailed off seeing a tear roll down your cheek.

“Hey, what's wrong?” he asked, setting the guitar to the side, “I am sorry, I didn't mean to upset you.”

“No...no you didn't. It's a beautiful song, one I have loved for a long time.” you whisper then smile at him. “I never figured you for the romantic type.”

He shrugs it off picking up his sandwich, “Aw, it's just that I can kinda relate to the song is all.”

“Is there a special someone in your life? Or was there?” you ask, almost afraid of the answer.

He locks his eyes on yours, “There hasn't been. I dated...a lot...but there hasn't been that special someone..” he wanted to say, 'until now.' but he decided to hold it in, for now.

You both finish your lunch and make small talk about the chase of that day and team. Tyler cleans up the trash and sits back down next to you.

“It's so peaceful and quiet out here.” he said softly, watching the sun go lower on the horizon.

“Yeah, it is.” you agree, “I miss this. Before Lee, I used to love hiking though the mountains, or taking a quiet boat ride on the lake. Some days I would go into the woods, climb up in a tree and just read a book.”

“I'd like to do that sometime.” Tyler turned and locked his eyes on yours, “with you. Maybe you can take me to Tennessee and show me the mountains you loved, or we can spend the day cruising a lake. Maybe I could take you up to the Ozark Mountains around my home town.”

“I'd like that.” you smiled.

“One more song before we head back?” he asked picking up the old guitar. “There's another one that seems to be running though my head. Sometimes...I can say what I want in a song better then I can words.”

“Really? I am the same way. The song speaks to what I am feeling and can't say.”

Tyler strums a few cords and smiles softly at you, “You are the only person I have met that understands that. OK, so here it goes.."

And it don't matter to me Wherever we are is where I wanna be And honey, for once in our life Let's take our chances and roll the dice I can be your lucky penny You can be my four-leaf clover Starting over

This might not be an easy time There's rivers to cross and hills to climb Some days we might fall apart And some nights might feel cold and dark

But nobody wins, afraid of losing And the hard roads are the ones worth choosing Someday we'll look back and smile And know it was worth every mile

He lays the guitar down and reaches for your hand, “Y/N. I am sorry about this morning.”

You frown, “What about this morning?”

“I referred to us as friends.” he sighed, “We are friends, always will be. I'd like to be something more with you though. That's what I am trying to say in these songs because Lord knows I am not good with words and I am not good at showing my feelings. I know we only met yesterday, but I believe in love at first sight. I knew I was going to love you the moment you stepped off that bus. There was a connection there and I can't explain it. We'll take this as slow as you want, I am not going anywhere.” his eyes glistened with tears, “I hate that you've been hurt in the past. I wish I was there to save you then, but I am here now. I swear I will never do anything intentionally to hurt you. I'd like for us to date, hang out, whatever you want to call it. I want to be with you as much as you will have me. I want us to be a team, to be friends, and to be more...when you are ready.”

“I want that too.” you whisper, “I never felt this way about anyone. Not even Lee. I was lonely and scared and looking for love and I thought I was in love with him...but now that I've met you...I can't explain what this feeling is. It's so much more then I have ever felt before for anyone. I feel safe with you. I feel comfortable with you. You feel like home, and when I say that, I mean the home I grew up in. A home that was my safe place. A home where I was loved and felt like I belonged. I haven't known a home in a very long time, but I believe I have found it with you.”

Tyler leaned in slowly and paused, waiting for your permission. Waiting to see if you would lean in or pull away. His eyes gazed into yours and you felt butterflies in your stomach as you leaned forward and brushed your lips against his. He wrapped his arms around you and deepened the kiss.

A clap of thunder made you jump as lighting streaked across the sky.

“Well, I knew there sparks between us, but that was amazing.” Tyler grinned, standing up and helping you up. “Let's get to the truck before the skies open up.”

Tyler holds the blanket and guitar with one hand and your hand with the other as you both run for the truck.

“Where's the keys?” he asked checking his pocket where they were suppose to be.

You look around the ground and inside the truck and spot the keys and cell phone on the backseat.

“Tyler...those keys?” you grin.

“Oh no. no. no. no.” he pulls on the doors but they were locked.

“Okay,” he sighed, “You got your phone? We'll call someone out here to unlock the truck. I must have left them there on the seat when I got the guitar.”

“My phone is in the truck. I didn't think there was a reason to bring it just for a picnic. I am sorry.” you muttered as the rain began to pour down.

“It's okay.” he wrapped you in a hug, but looked at the sky with concern.

The air pressure was changing and you picked up on it too. Wind swirled around you and suddenly from inside the truck you heard the alerts go off on your phones.

Tyler quickly scanned the area for a safe place to go. “There!” he pointed to a ditch next to the river, “Go!”

He runs behind you pushing you towards the ditch as debris fly around. “Down!” he yelled over the roaring winds as he pushes you into the ditch, throwing his body over yours and pushing you as close to the ground as he could. He covered your head with one arm and kept the other arm wrapped around you. “Just hang on, it's going to be okay!” he promised.

You hear trees snapping in half, feel the pounding of the rain, you feel the wind trying to suck you up...and suddenly, Tyler screams out in pain and you feel his body get shoved against yours.

“TYLER!” You scream grabbing his arm that was still tightly holding you. “TYLER! YOU OK?”

“I am okay.” he promised as he gasped for air, “I think it was a tree that fell on top of us. You okay?” he asked. He felt what he assumed to be sharp broken off branches cutting deep into his leg, the weight of the tree pinned against his back.

“Yeah, I am okay.” you told him as the winds finally calmed down. The rain continued to beat down in sheets. Tyler was laying against you gasping for air.

“Tyler?” you were worried when he didn't move. Were you trapped? How badly was he injured?

Tyler laid there, feeling the blood running down his leg. He knew he couldn't get himself out, but he was damn sure going to do whatever he could to get you out.

“I am stuck here pretty good.” He finally answered, not wanting to concern you, “I am going to try to left up a little. I want you to get out from under me and go get help.”

“Tyler, no...I can't leave you.”

“Y/N...I don't know if there's more twisters out here or not. This rain pouring down could lead to flooding. The river is literally right next to us. I will be okay, we just need some help lifting this.”His body collapsed against yours as he worked to catch his breath again and you knew there was something more serious wrong.

“OK.” you agree, knowing that you weren't going to leave him, but also not wanting to waste his energy arguing about it.

“Ready?” he gasped, fighting against the pain. He had to remain conscious, at least until he knew you were free.

“Ready.” you answered.

Tyler screamed in pain as he pushed up against the tree and collapsed back against you. “Too heavy.” he gasped his body seemed to go limp.

“Tyler...stay with me.” you pleaded, trying to wiggle enough room to at least turn around and look at him and see how badly he was injured.

“I'm here.” he muttered, “just...need...to rest.”

You both lay in silence for a moment, the unrelenting rain washing over you. The rain was so intense that at first you didn't notice the water filling the ditch. It wasn't much, but you could tell it was raising.

“Tyler...water. We got to get out of here.”

Panic raced though his body. Water was filling the ditch, it was flooding...and he had you pinned face down. He was trying to protect you...now he was your death trap. He had to move, even if it killed him. He had to ignore the pain and move so you could be free.

“Y/N..listen to me.” he gasped. “I am going to move this thing.” he paused catching his breath.”You don't worry about me. You fight, you get out of here. You will drown if you stay pinned under me, and that in itself will kill me. I will NOT be a cause of pain for you. You get out of here and get help. Please Y/N...I need to know you will be alright.”

“Okay, I will.” you promise though the tears, “Tyler...I love you. I love you like I have never loved before.”

He laid his face against yours and kissed your cheek softly, “I love you too baby girl. Hang on, we will get through this. We will get through this and I will show you the love you deserve.” he choked back his own tears, trying to hide the pain in his voice. He didn't think he was going to get out of this one, but he dame sure was going to try.

Tyler took a deep breath, “Okay, on the count of three. I lift and you get out of here..one...two..THREE!” he lifted with all his might, ignoring the pain raging though his body.

If anything good was coming from the rising water, it was making the ground softer. You pulled and felt yourself sliding free. “I am out!” You yelled, scrambling to your feet as quickly as possible.

Tyler collapsed back to the ground, now having to raise his head to keep it above water as he gasped for air. “Go...go get help.” he pleaded as his eyes drifted close and he slumped face first into the ever rising water.

“NO! TYLER!” You hold his head above water, “please, you gotta stay with me. Help me...I need you to help me.”

He moaned hearing your voice calling to him. You needed him. He had to fight to stay awake. “I am here.” he muttered.

“I am going to try to move this tree and free you. Stay with me..hold your head up for me so I can try to free you.”

“Hmm hmm.” he muttered.

“TYLER!” you screamed.

He jolted awake.”I am here. I am here.”

“We gotta hurry, the water is rushing in now, but it might help me to move this off of you.” you looked at the mangled tree that was pinning his waist to the ground.

Tyler nodded, holding his head as far up as he could. You push against the tree, going with the flow of the water. Tyler screams out in pain but you keep pushing, you can't stop. If you stop, he drowns.

Slowly the tree shifts, and Tyler is able to roll over on his back and start to pull himself out, but suddenly the tree rolls back, crashing into his chest and completely pinning him under the rushing water.

“Oh God no! TYLER!” You scream, trying to lift his head up, but the water is just too deep and the tree was pined against his chest.

He was glad for one thing, the water was washing the tears in his eyes away. This was it..this was how he was going to die. He was going to drown. He always figured it would be a tornado that took him out, but he never thought about a flood. His heart broke for you. All the pain that your husband had put you though, he thought maybe he could be a chance at happiness for you...now, he would just be the cause of more pain. His lungs screamed for air and his final thought was at least he protected you from the tornado. He could only pray that you would find safety from this flood...he wished he could be there with you, holding you in his arms and comforting you. He wished he could still protect you...and then nothing but blackness.

“NO!!!!” you scream, feeling him go limp in your arms. You struggle to hold on to him, struggle to free him. Suddenly the tree shifted in the current and and you pulled with everything that was within. You felt him come free and you struggle to pull him out of the water and away from the ditch.

“Tyler...” you cried, feeling for a pulse and not finding none...”You can't leave me...” you yell, placing your palms over his heart and doing 30 compressions. You pinched his nose closed, tilting his head back and covered his lips with yours, blowing in two breaths before going back to compressions ....one...two..three you counted until reaching 30 again.

You check again for a pulse. There was none.

Giving him two more breaths you continue the compressions with tears streaming down your face, mixing with the pounding rain.

Suddenly Tyler gasped and started coughing. Quickly you turn him over to his side and hold him as he coughs up water.

“Tyler..” you cry, rubbing your hand along his arm...he continues coughing and gasping, spitting up more water and then lets his body collapse back against you. “Ty...” you hold him close to you, running your hand though his hair.

“You okay?” he asked, opening his green eyes to gaze up at you.

“You DIE on me, and you asking if I AM okay?” you laugh though the tears.

“Well...” Tyler was gasping for air still, pain etched into his face, “are you?”

“I'll be okay when you're okay.” you tell him, checking him over for injures. You spot the blood soaking though his jeans from a large gash in his leg. “I gotta go to the truck and get that blanket. You need something to slow the bleeding on your leg.” you tell him, but he doesn't answer.

“No...Ty.” fear grips you as you quickly check for a pulse, breathing with relief when you find one. Quickly you run to the truck and back to Tyler, wrapping the blanket around his leg as tightly as you could, keeping your hand pressed against it. “Hang in there,” you whisper, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“You all okay?” You hear someone yell. It was a police officer out checking the streets after the storm.

“NO! We need help! We need an ambulance. He has a bad cut on his leg.” you yell, not willing to leave Tyler's side.

“Ambulance is on it's way ma'am.” the officer told her.

“Sir, one more thing...could you tell the Tornado Wranglers at El Reno Inn that Tyler Owens is hurt and heading to the hospital? That's our storm chaser team. They will be looking for us. The names are Lily, Dani, Dexter, and Boone.”

The officer wrote down the names, “Will do.” he nodded.

* * * * *

Chapter 5

******

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#tyler owens x reader #twisters fanfiction #tyler owens fic #twisters fic #twisters fanfic #twisters x reader

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ipilokko · 27 days ago

Text

-| I Dislike Redheads |-

– Chapter 2 - The Tomorrow

Mollie once again, was trying to get ready in limited time. She had left her phone plugged ever since she was done watching The Silence of The Lambs for the millionth time last night. She had eaten two and a half bags of chips and she could smell them on her hands even after nine hours of one of the best slumbers of her thirty-one year life and washing her hands three times. Even though she knew how unhealthy those things were, she didn't regret eating that many as she hadn't tasted them for over half a year. This was how it would go. She'd randomly crave for a snack one day and overdose it then she wouldn't even look at its package for months.

She checked the battery just in case it would decide to betray her again. It was full. She plucked the metal socket out from the bottom of her phone. These things still were never to be trusted though; she had learned the hard way.

She walked along the stranger but pleasant streets of the human part of the neighborhood. A few people were spending their morning gardening. She walked by them, passing through the cloud of flower scent.

After a few minutes of walking and following signs, she made it to the subway. Unlike yesterday, there were actually people. She didn't make the same mistake as yesterday and spent that two stops in the metro this time.

Roy opened his satchel and took out his keys. He pushed the cold metal into the keyhole, turned it to the right and pressed on the handle once he felt the pins had positioned correctly.

As soon as the door left the threshold, the smell of coffee welcomed him, telling him to go to the kitchen. He hoped he didn’t forget to close the lid of the coffee jar yesterday. He hung his satchel and coat before going in to check. The lid was where it was supposed to be; on the jar, yet he had forgotten to throw away the coffee filter he had used.

He picked it up before taking the coffee out of the filter and putting it in D'artagnan's pot. He didn’t like throwing things away and D'artagnan enjoyed having coffee in his pot, just like most of the other plants did. He went back to the kitchen to put the coffee filter in the paper recycle bin before he pulled up the curtains and switched on his system.

One of his customers had yet to pick up her freshly repaired Jadis JA200 MKll. It had been quite some time ever since he’d had the chance to listen to one. He knew, of course, if he started listening to it, he’d spend the whole morning trying to talk himself into turning it off to start working. Jadis sounded magnificent, but few were fortunate enough to lay their hands on it, which meant they rarely found their way to his desk. He wouldn’t hesitate to get one for himself if his budget could ever catch up.

And this was another perk of running a second-hand hi-fi repair shop. As an audiophile, he had the daily privilege of choosing from a large stock that was kept fresh with his customers leaving their sound systems to his care for a period of time. Sometimes, in cases like this; cases like the Jadis JA200 MKll, testing was less of a purpose but more of an excuse to listen.

He went behind the wall of varied sound systems to channel his Wilson Sophia 3 to pick up the sound from the Jadis, Jadis from REF 6se preamplifier, it from Audio Research EAR 834-p phono amplifier, and it from his Technics sl-1210 turntable. After he’s done he went back to the open space, standing in front of the giant wall of records of all genres, most of them being jazz. Today was one of the rare cases that he was in the mood for smooth jazz. He picked up Bob James’ ‘’Double Vision’’ to insert it into his turntable.

When the first track began he melted instantly. He loved being alive, he really did.

And one bad thing about running a second-hand hi-fi shop was that he had to say goodbye to his favorite systems every now and then. Maybe not the Sophia 3, but the Jadis was there only for a short period of time. Even though he enjoyed listening from the eighty-five percent of all the modals he currently had to some degree, he really wanted to keep that Jadis.

After taking time to listen past the beginning of the track, he went back to his workroom and checked the post it note on one of the many amplifiers that were patiently waiting for service. It read;

"Slight buzzing sound”

He stuck the post it note on his shirt, put his hands on either side of the case and slipped his fingers underneath for better grip. He lifted it with a small grunt, took it to the test room and placed it on the stack of assorted amplifiers. He paused the music and turned the volume down to avoid damaging the other equipment as he did the channeling.

When he started listening, there was a faint buzz and the sound lacked clarity, although as much was already expected. It sounded dry, flat and lifeless, worsened the more he brought the volume up. He rested his hand on the chassis, his fingers picking up a slight vibration.

The failing transformer, it was. He switched it off and waited for the hum to fade, then unplugged it to take it to his workroom for a proper look inside.

Mollie was tired of the boring atmosphere of her workspace. She could barely stand still until it was lunch break. Her arms, her feet, her back, her neck, seriously, all of her body was screaming at her ears and pulling her hair for her to just move, walk around a bit. As soon as it appeared to be 1.40 she got up without wasting another second and made her way to the giant break room after grabbing her beef sandwich in hunger. There were seven giants and… and some number of humans in the room, filling the room with buzz.

She cracked her back and neck, stretched her arms and feet. Luckily she had managed to warm up before her libs started attacking each other with their bags like karens fighting over who was using the cash register first– since they all had bought out the ⅓ of the whole grocery store.

She took the elevator to one of the tables. A giant and a human were watching something from a phone that seemed to be more than triple of her height in length. Even when It was turned sideways, the shorter side was still over her head.

‘’Heyy, what are you two watching?’’

‘’The Shining’. Danielle hasn’t seen it yet." The human replied, looking up at the giant. He was sitting on an eraser next to the giant girl’s hand, who was towering over both of the humans. After trying to pause the movie three times, the touch screen finally caught the human his hand .

‘’Well, what do you think so far?’’ She looked up at the woman whose name was Danielle, apparently.

‘’To be honest with you... I’ve seen better."

‘’Than ‘’The Shining?’’ Mollie chuckled.

‘Are you being sarcastic or for real?"

“You’ll never know.”

That looked fun, she wished she could have that three-wheeled bike. She’d crash somewhere as soon as she’d start riding it, though…

She just stood there as the movie played, in silence if you don’t count the movie.

Okay… This was awkward. She decided to leave them alone and go outside. ‘’You guys enjoy the movie. I’ll go outside."

‘’Thank you, Toodles!’’

After a long walk, Mollie finally reached the door.

Even though she was craving for people interaction a minute ago, right now was one of the times when she was glad nobody was outside– other than some protesters which sounded to be a few streets away. She leaned against the wall and took out her beef sandwich. She stared into the sea for a little, then noticed the giant from like a day ago? He was on one of the benches under the marble gate-like thing whose columns were human subway stations. He was facing the sea, his back to Mollie. She couldn’t name what, but she had some good feelings about him…

And instantly she decided to was crave for ‘people interaction’ once again. She decided to join him and walked the distance until she neared the bench.

"The ocean is beautiful." She commented.

The giant took a second to process. "Yes, I..." He looked in the direction of the voice. "...Agree."

Roy smiled kindly, leaning a little forward to see the human down on the ground. He was unable to see the details of her face, but the general shape of it and the sound of her voice belonged to the lady from yesterday. He didn’t have a clear reason but he was happy to see her again.

The giant’s gentle but strong voice slightly rattled her bones even after traveling all that tens of feet between them. "Isn't it weird that just big holes full of water actually look like this?"

She stepped into the elevator inside the column-station thingy and pressed the button for the highest balcony to be eye level. Looking up wasn’t her favorite thing to do.

“I… Suppose it is…” He put his fist on the space between his nose and his rounded chin, covering his thin lips. "Depends on how different your weird and my weird are.”

Being a person and having your own point of view was weird when you thought about it. Drawing and thinking was weird, and some bugs looked weird as well…

"Well, I don't know about you but I love weird." she leaned her back against the oversized marble that sparkled almost like glitter as the sun shone on them. It reminded her of the snow, if it was a little cooler in shade. “Do we at least agree that it’s a good thing?”

"Mostly, yes." the sides of his eyes creased slightly as he moved his fist a little to his cheek, thumb curving around his chin. “Life would be far less enjoyable if there weren’t any weird in it.”

“I can’t agree more.” She looked at the ocean for a short moment. “Now I’m curious about how an ocean flavored ice cream would taste like.”

“Personally, I am more curious about opal.” he smirked slightly. It was bizarre to look at his face here from afar. It looked big and close enough that she could touch it if she reached out, yet at the same time she could feel every inch of the seventy feet distance between them. She wondered how he could even hear her.

“I don’t know why but I feel like opal would be bitter if it was a flavor.” She paused to think for a second. What are your favorite ice cream flavors? I bet you like lemon or tangerine.”

“I do like lemon. But my favorites are walnut, honey-almond and salted caramel. And you?”

“You want the truth? I'd eat anything except for yogurt.”

Both smiling, they sat in silence for a few moments until Mollie decided to break it. ‘’So… what do you do? I mean for living.”

"I repair hi-fi systems.”

"Yeah sure, I can pretend to know what those are."

He chuckled. "High end sound gear…” And a money pit– one he was happily stuck in. “They’re meant to allow you to hear the details regular systems miss.”

"Ehh, I’m happy with my average headphones."

He shook his head slightly. “That, I cannot.”

She had never thought of switching, her headphones weren’t really expensive and they got the job done just fine. Though now she had to admit that she was curious about a ‘high end sound gear’.

‘’Oh well, Where do you work?"

"I’d like to hear your guess."

She looked around for anything sound-oriented. the building across the street caught her eye. “Wave of Sound? That's close."

"It is…” a small drop of salty water hit his face as a wave crashed. His hazel irises looked soft, the skin drooping over them made him look a bit tired, even if he wasn’t. “What about you?’’

“I’m a storyboard artist. I just started to work at that game company back there… The previous one was The Vivid Light though."

"The Vivid Light, you say?"

"You've heard of Them?"

"My niece and I are quite fond of their films. His mother too."

"Seriously?” Mollie let out a short laugh. “It's so rare I meet someone who knows about them."

"We put on one of their films whenever he comes over. It's a tradition." He chuckled.

"That’s adorable, made me proud as well.” She grinned. “ How old is he?”

“He’ll turn six soon.” He chuckled, “I’ve been trying to keep up since three.”

she giggled and checked her watch. “...I should probably get back to work. I’m Mollie, before I forget to tell you."

"Pleasure meeting you, Mollie. I’m Roy." he gave her a warm smile.

"So you're not a Dave? I have to work on my name-guessing skills..."

“See you tomorrow?” She added.

"Certainly."

Beaming up at him, she took the elevator back to the ground. She waved and took a few steps towards her workplace.

"Mollie."

She turned back around and walked until the column stopped blocking Roy’s face.

She rested her hands on her hips. ‘’Yeah?’’

‘’Have you ever experienced a high-end sound system?"

‘’Nope. I don't think I have.’’

he asked after taking a short moment. ‘’Would you like me to walk you to work?"

‘’Ahh thank you, that would be great!"

The giant nodded and slowly rose from his seat, his already tall stature extending to an even more impossible height.

‘’Whenever you like, you can come by." He kneeled and laid his hand flat on the ground for her to climb on.

“We’ll see. I have to decide if I like you enough first.” She chuckled as a palm like a wider version of Dracula’s dinner table, and fingers like construction pipes neared her, only full of life. You could definitely fit two beds in the length of that hand.

‘’Geez, you’ve got huge hands. How tall are you?’’ Mollie put her foot on the warm flesh and tested the squishiness, then brought her other foot as well, almost losing her balance in the process. She eyed the surreal curves of the ridges of his fingerprints and the barely visible stretch marks on the skin, with the bizarre feeling of feeling a different kind of heat beneath her feet. She could pick up a faint ironish smell from his fingers, though considering he was mingling with the iron or copper or whatever cables or all the electric stuff she didn’t know about was made of, it was understandable.

“Sixty-nine metres, fairly average, for someone like me.” he paused, “1.78 in magnameters, if you prefer it that way..”

“Almost there, I’m 1.76… You can get up, by the way.”

He slowly lifted her as well as rising up himself. Even though he was being much gentler and steadier than Mrs. Smith had been, she could still feel a very slight jerkiness. Though this was probably just him being giant. She swayed with each step he took, almost like a gondola. How much she loved riding those things with her cousin when they were kids.

She put her hand on one of his slightly curled fingers to balance herself as he began to lower her back on the ground. His palm was pretty much soft, but his fingertips seemed to be a little more hardened; the ridges of his fingerprints almost scratching her hand when she touched. She could relate to him a bit, having a small callus on her middle finger right where she would place her pencil.

When she couldn’t feel any more major movement, she stepped down from his hand, taking support from his thumb. “You just saved me ten minutes, thanks.” She smirked. “Don’t get your hopes up for another round of chatting, though. I’m probably late already.”

"Your favorite color? Your favorite food?’’ Mollie asked Roy as she stepped down from Roy’s hand for the second time today. Finally, it was home time. Almost… Maybe not so almost… From here to her hotel room was a long way to go. a whole hour of subway couldn’t be underestimated… Despite sitting all day she was so tired. All she wanted to do was to sleep, sleep and sleep.

"I've always liked brown. Persimmon, too… And I love any kind of salad."

"My favorite color has to be dark blue. Prussian blue specifically. And dark red as well. I like literally anything from Italian cuisine.”

“What do you like the most about Italian cuisine?”

“I don’t know… pastry, I guess?” She expected him to ask questions like “What do you like to do? How do you spend a day?"

He chuckled innocently. “Not much, I’m a boring person.”

"I… wake up, sometimes have a chat with my plants. I like to have a bit of jazz playing in the background while I work... Breakfast’s nice, too.”

“I like walking to work by the shore, especially under the sun or rain… I like to read, I like to watch films… I like… laying down, feeling the sun on my face, Smelling flowers… Daily things, mostly. You?”

“I like... Drawing? I hate cooking. But sometimes I also like cooking because sometimes I like doing things I hate... I know it's weird but I just like it. I like watching movies as well, I also like doing things I definitely don't need or shouldn't be doing. Mine is kind of daily too, I guess. Whose isn’t, though.”

She made her way to the entrance of the column in a suppressed rush and smiled warmly.

“Well, Roy… My tomorrow wasn’t so bad after all... See you later.”

“Goodbye.” He smiled, watching her go inside.

He got up, taking support from his knee. There weren’t many humans that he knew the faces of– other than a few close friends. And he wouldn’t be upset if Mollie became one of the minority.

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previous // next // first // Index

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Yeah... sure, why not. I struggled a lot writing this one, as I'm not the best at my word choice in english (esp on dialogues)... I've edited this one myself!

Fret not, though! The next chapter will be much better, I promise! We're getting closer and closer to the better parts!

I can't express how excited I am for them! I keep geting butterflies when thinking lol.

I didn't want to wait until I finished the illustrations because they still have some way to go.

also my exam week starts tomorrow please wish me luck...

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techav · 1 month ago

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On Keeping Time

To run a simple program, a computer needs some kind of storage, and some kind of input/output device. To run a simple operating system, a computer will also need some random-access memory for holding onto information temporarily. To run a sophisticated operating system that supports many users and programs reliably, a computer will also need some way to make sure one user doesn't hog resources and prevent other users' programs from running.

My Wrap030 homebrew computer currently has a flash ROM which holds a bootloader program from starting other programs from disk. It has 16MB of RAM. It has 9 total serial ports for I/O. It just needs that last thing to be able to run a sophisticated operating system.

I've written before about how computers can share a single processor between multiple users or programs. The simplest option is to have each program periodically yield control back to the system so that the next program can run for a little while. The problem with this approach is if a program malfunctions and never yields control back to the system, then no other program can run.

The solution is to have an external interrupt that can tell the CPU it's time to switch programs. Each program can be guaranteed to have its chance to run because if a program tries to run too long, that interrupt will come to force a switch to the next program.

The way this is typically accomplished is with a periodic timer — ticking clock that interrupts the CPU regardless of what it's doing.

And that's what my Wrap030 project is missing. I need a timer interrupt.

The catch is, my system has always been a little fragile. I have it running well right now with three expansion boards, but there's always a risk of it being very unhappy if I try to add another expansion board. If I could somehow pull a timer interrupt out of what I already have, that would be ideal.

Nearly all of the glue logic pulling this system together is programmable logic in the form of CPLDs. This gives me the flexibility to add new features without having to rework physical circuitry. As it happens, the logic running my DRAM card currently consumes under half of the resources available in the card's CPLD. It also has several spare I/O pins, and is wired to more of the CPU bus than any other chip in the system.

So I added a timer interrupt to my DRAM controller.

It is very minimal — just a 16-bit register that starts counting down every clock cycle as soon as it's loaded. When the timer gets to 1, it asserts one of those spare I/O pins to interrupt the CPU.

And all it took was a couple bodge wires and a little extra logic.

I put together a quick test program to check if the timer was running. The program would spin in a loop waiting to see if a specific address in memory changed. When it changed, it would print out that it had, and then go right back into the loop. Meanwhile, the interrupt service routine would change the same address in memory every time the timer expired.

This is great! It was the last significant piece of hardware I was missing to be able to run a proper operating system like Unix or Linux — which has always been a goal of the project. While I still have much to learn before I can attempt to get a proper OS running, I can still put this new timer to use.

I had previously built my Multibasic kernel to run cooperatively. Each user instance of BASIC would yield control whenever it needed to read or write to its terminal (which it does at every line while running a BASIC program, checking for the Ctrl-C stop sequence). This worked well enough, but a particularly complex BASIC program could still slow down other users' programs.

Converting my Multibasic kernel from Cooperative multitasking to Preemptive multitasking was actually fairly easy. I just needed to initialize the timer at startup, and add an interrupt service routine to switch to the next user.

(It's not really something that can be seen in a screenshot, but it's doing the thing, I promise.)

Now that I have all of the requisite hardware, I guess I need to dive into learning how to customize and build an operating system for a new machine. It's something I have always wanted to do.

#mc68030 #motorola 68k #motorola 68030 #wrap030 #retro computing #homebrew computing #homebrew computer

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thepascalofus · 2 years ago

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Supply Run - Return (part two)

AO3

PART ONE

Supply Run - Exchange (part three)

Pairing: Mando/Din Djarin x afab!Reader

Word Count: 8.0k

Summary: You’ve been Mando’s crew partner for a year now. Throughout that year Mando has warmed up to you and given you signs that your heart throbbing crush on him is reciprocated. There’s one thing making you hesitate. The condoms he bought on the most recent supply run.

Chapter Summary: While Mando takes a trip to the market and gets what he needs, he ponders your relationship and what it means to him.

Content Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only! Switching POVs, post season 2, the Crest lives, strangers to friends to lovers, mentions of Grogu, soft!Mando, insecure!Mando (a smidge), helmet loopholes, pining, idiots in love, jealous!reader, sad!reader for a little, mentions of sex work (sex work is work!), eventual SMUT (making out, grinding, f!receiving fingering, f!receiving oral sex, p in v, PRAISE kink, dirty talk), FLUFF, cuddling, happy ending guaranteed!

A/N: Thank you all so much for the responses on the first part! This is my first fic that I've ever shared and it makes me so happy that other people enjoy my writing! Enjoy!

Mando handed his scope off to you in the worn down store. Wallpaper peeled from the ancient wooden planks of the walls. Cobwebs littered the untouched areas of the store. The work stations in the back, visible from the pick up counter at the front, were in complete disarray. Several projects started, but not finished. Several projects finished, but not retrieved.

You took the scope in your hand and twisted it in your hands until your gaze landed on the name of the manufacturer and the serial number. Your eyebrows shot up once the brand of the scope was revealed, it twisted in your hands once more. Hands raising the metal tube so it was level with your eyes, you looked into the scope.

“Ah! I know what it is!”

Mando watched in confusion as you ran to a workstation and grabbed a singular tool. How did you know what was wrong so quickly? He sat in the hull of the Crest for hours attempting to fix the scope. The motions of taking the scope apart and putting it back together were etched into his brain from the number of times he did so.

You returned to the front of the store with the tool in hand. “This manufacturer has been having these issues lately. They built their magnification system like no one else, but they didn’t seem to account for the need to recalibrate the scope every once in a while. Recalibrating too often causes the lenses to misalign.”

Mando calibrated his every day. He had to. It was part of his job. A miscalibration could be the difference between a two hour hunt and a twelve hour hunt.

Your face twisted in concentration as you inserted the tool into the side of the scope. Jostling the metal, it popped open and allowed access to the inside. “For some reason they put these weird pins in…” You trailed off while you removed a total of three thin metal pins. Once the pins were removed, you clicked the top of the scope back into place and handed it to Mando.

Mando previously took the scope apart countless times. He never noticed any pins.

“Twenty credits, please.” You said with a smile. Your gaze met his–you somehow found it through his black visor–and you maintained eye contact.

The display on the inside of Mando’s helmet only progressed seven minutes after he entered the store. Inside of his helmet his eyebrows shot up. He was impressed. Not only with your efficiency, but with the reasonable price as well.

“I’m impressed.” He stated. Nodding at you, he retrieved a few credits from his utility belt and set them on the paint chipped counter. He turned and walked a few paces and then stopped in front of the door.

He’s been looking for a crew mate for weeks. The potential candidates he’s stumbled across were either annoying, rude, or incompetent. Throughout his time as a bounty hunter he’s been to countless repair shops. The service was always lack-luster, prices were too high, repair time much too long.

Sure, he just met you eight minutes ago, but you had potential. He turned on his heel and faced you. Armor glinted in the low lighting of the run down shop.

“Are you in the market for a new job?”

–

Walking to the market, he’d been reflecting on his decision to bring you onto the Crest as a crew partner.

It was the best decision he ever made, besides saving Grogu from the Empire.

You were intelligent. Friendly. Resourceful. Efficient. Brave.

You stared a Mandalorian straight in the eyes–well, visor–and didn’t even flinch. You didn’t even break eye contact, unlike everyone else. People would turn to whoever they’re with to avoid his gaze. They spoke like he wasn’t a meter or two away–and like he couldn’t amplify their voices with his helmet.

His tall, broad stance usually set everyone on edge. The heavy weight of beskar armor, a reminder of his skillset, didn’t aid in calming the nerves of anyone either. He was typically soft spoken around others, as he noticed people’s reactions when he spoke–eyes wide, speech stuttering, shaking hands–scared.

Everyone was afraid of him.

Except you.

When you first boarded the Razor Crest, Mando was extremely careful in making sure you were comfortable. The majority of his days not hunting were spent in the cockpit or in his bunk. Whenever you crossed paths in the hull you offered him a small smile and quickly looked away. Did your bravery fade away?

He came back from a hunt one day, quarry in tow, and he was relieved to hear, “How was your day?” Fall from your lips once the bounty was in carbonite.

Still cautious–mindful of how the modulator made his voice sound–he kept his answers short and to the point.

“Fine.”

“Busy.”

“Awful.”

Hearing the four words you said after each return from a hunt, and being able to give you a response without you slinking away, made the hunts worth it.

One night always stood out in his mind. It was just like any other return from one of his hunts. Mando dragged the quarry up the Crest’s ramp by a cord tied around their ankles. He lifted the man to stand up, doing so effortlessly with a few grunts to spare.

Your living space was in the hull, so he always tried to make the ends of his hunts fast. You didn’t have any choice but to watch. Mando didn’t want to make you watch for too long. Maker, he didn’t want you to watch at all.

His fist slammed the button to begin the freezing process. Breathing heavily, he stood and watched the bounty as they froze into the carbonite cell. A blanket of silence covered the hull once the hissing of the freezing mechanisms came to a stop.

“How was your day?”

There it is. His favorite part after the hunt. Knowing you were there, safe within the hull, and that you wanted to be friendly with him–even after witnessing him freeze a person he tracked down for several hours.

“Nothing you want to hear about,” he replied, his voice tinged with tiredness. The helmet’s modulator most likely didn’t register the sleep in his voice. Truly, he didn’t think that you would want to hear about it. The Mandalorian was afraid that hearing about his hunts would put you on edge. You already extended a branch of friendliness to him twice a day. He didn’t want to give that up by talking about the bounties he tracks down.

“Try me.”

Those words.

Those words have only ever been spoken to him by enemies. It always caused annoyance to wash over him, head to toe. He’s a Mandalorian. Confident of his skills in combat. No matter the odds, Mando knew he would like them.

But when those words tumbled from your lips, it was different. When his enemies weren’t scared of him, it was annoying. When you weren’t scared of him, adoration filled his body. And not adoration in a patronizing way, but adoration as a form of respect.

It made him want you that much more.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Mando realized the crotch of his pants were tight. Nonchalantly, he clasped his hands together and rested them below his belt.

“Quarry tried to escape and they ran. Would have been back four hours ago,” the modulator gritted out. Again, he was conscious of how the modulator warped his voice. “Not too fun,” he added in an attempt to make the conversation more casual.

You were silent. He whispered a curse to himself under his helmet, one that he was certain wouldn’t be picked up by his modulator. Was his answer too much? Mando quickly became nervous and started to shift his weight from one foot to the other. The silence you left in the air made him a bit anxious.

The T shape of his visor peered over to you. You stood still in shock, reminiscent of the people that saw him in public. Before his thoughts could spiral too much, you replied, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Dank farrik. He didn’t want you to feel like you had to comfort him. “You don’t have to be sorry,” his chest brushed against your shoulder as he swiftly hopped onto the first rung of the ladder up to the cockpit. “It’s my job.”

“That doesn’t mean it sucks any less,” you said. He smiled underneath his helmet at your consideration. Your eyes widened and your mouth opened and closed as you realized what you said, “sorry, I probably shouldn’t have said that your job sucks.”

You weren’t wrong. Making his way through tough terrain, relying on a blinking red light on a piece of metal to guide him. Finding them was a task in itself, but dragging them back to the Crest was the other half of his job that sucked. Mando looked over his shoulder at you and replied matter-of-factly, “My job does suck.”

A giggle bubbled out from your chest. Every once in a while you would be reading a funny article on your Holopad and your laughs would echo through the hull of the Crest, making their way up into the cockpit. He needed more of them. His silver helmet shook slightly from side to side and he turned back to climb the ladder. But not before he also let out a small chuckle.

If you were comfortable enough to stand up to him, and laugh at his awful attempts at jokes–after he just hauled a bounty onto the ship–Mando realized he was safe.

Not only were you safe with him. He felt safe with you, in more ways than one.

Kriff it. You extended a friendly attitude towards him–a faceless warrior covered in impenetrable armor–then he could extend a friendly attitude towards you as well.

You asked him about this day, both in the mornings and the evenings. He learned about what you like and didn’t like. One item stood out to him. Caf. He always entered into a cloud of caf scent when he sauntered into the hull in the mornings. Mando was usually up before you, so he figured he would start making you a cup every morning. Confident enough in knowing which kinds of caf you preferred, he would stock up on caf every supply run.

The Mandalorian got closer to you, both physically and emotionally. Sometimes he would catch his hands landing on your waist or your lower back when he passed you on the ship. You’d shoot him a small smile in response. The distance he kept from you only decreased. He wanted to see your smile more and more.

One thing he didn’t see coming was your interest in Mando’a. He would mumble to himself in the ship while completing various tasks.

“What’s that word mean?” You’d occasionally ask. The Mandalorian would explain their meanings, sometimes struggling to translate the word to Basic.

He must have taught you at least two dozen words in Mando’a by now. Each time you asked you would give him your full attention.

At night, if he amplified the sound with his helmet enough, he could hear you practicing the words and recalling their meanings. It motivated him to share more words with you.

–

All of these experiences have led to this day. He’s been planning it for a month or two now.

He wants to ask you on a date. Nerves bubbled up from his stomach and throughout his body. They suddenly came to a halt.

Not now. First, he needs to collect information on a quarry.

Lost in his thoughts, he looked up and the market filled his vision with you in his peripheral. It wasn’t too busy, part of the reason why he was comfortable enough for you to shop on your own. He clarified the meet up point to you and watched as you took off. You had a bounce in your step, probably due to your excitement at shopping alone.

Once he meandered further into the market he began to collect information. This market was the bounty’s last location. Mando’s guess was that he either simply wanted to be in a small city, gambled their life savings away, or they paid for visit after visit with the workers at the brothel until they ran out of credits.

Only one way to find out. The gambling and brothels didn’t start up until later in the afternoon. To kill the time, and to possibly find the quarry, Mando wandered throughout the different sections of the market.

He asked a few vendors about the bounty. Mando described the man to many market sellers and only got a slight lead from one woman donned in patterned fabrics.

“I think he went that way,” the woman gestured with one of her hands towards an intersection, “Take the left path. I don’t know anything else beyond that.”

Mando dropped a few credits into her hand and gave her a polite nod, “Thank you.” He continued on and curved his gait to take the left path. From the signs and general merchandise displayed on each stall, he knew he was entering the clothing section of the market.

The helmet covering his head swiveled from left to right and right to left. No one matched the description of his quarry. Repeating his previous process, he made his way down the stall-lined alley and asked a couple different vendors.

Once the last vendor finished talking, and provided him with another lead, he dug his hand into his pocket and slid the credits on the stall’s counter towards them. Turning his back towards the vendor, his feet carried him two steps back into the market.

Then he saw you.

You stood hunched over a table of colorful bracelets. Tapping his fingers to the temple of his helmet, Mando zoomed in and the helmet displayed your face to him, deep in thought. Looking down, you were hovering your hands over a grid of various green bracelets.

You stopped on one. Mostly brown, almost too much to be in the green section, Mando thought. Nonetheless, the green and silver streaks peeked in and out of the thick threads of brown that made up the bracelet. Your fingers sorted through the sizes of the bracelet and selected one that looked close to your size.

Clutching it in one hand, the other hand searched for another of the same bracelet. It was larger than the previous size. You set the smaller bracelet down and tested the strings. The bracelet was adjustable, and you smiled at the discovery.

You transferred the bracelets onto the table of the stall and used one hand to dig into your pockets. Palm held out flat, Mando guessed that about twenty credits sat in your palm. He followed your gaze to the sign listing the prices.

PRICES

1 bracelet = 15 credits

2 = 30 credits

3 = 45 credits

4 = 60 credits

Shoulders falling, you dropped the credits back into your pocket and returned the bracelets to their original spot in the grid of green. Ground crunched beneath your shoes as you turned and continued wandering through the market.

Mando noted it was the third stall to the left of the bright green stall on the left side of the alley.

Not wanting you to realize he saw you, the Mandalorian walked in the opposite direction you took. After twenty minutes he noticed that the stalls became much more strange than the stalls in the clothing section of the market. Peering at the different products for sale, he saw a potions shop offering “super strength elixir” and a vendor selling various pet-like creatures. A few more vendors passed his peripheral vision as he continued his strides. They came to a stop once a building larger than the surrounding stalls came into view.

His helmet tilted upwards to read the sign displayed front and center on the large building: BROTHEL.

Tapping the side of his helmet, the time on the helmet’s display indicated that the brothel and gambling scenes had just begun. Mando tapped the temple of his helmet once again and the warm bodies within the building lit up, like he had x-ray vision. He counted a dozen in total. One body stood in the same spot inside near an entryway–the bouncer, Mando thought.

The bouncer was the individual that allowed access in and out of the building. If their memory was decent, they would be like a living guest book. Mando figured he could bribe them to reveal information, which was his usual plan with most of the beings he spoke with.

He sauntered over to the side of the building the bouncer was standing at. A singular light flickered over the side door, the sun was still out, so Mando was confused why it was on. The beskar helmet observed the side door.

Metal. Double deadbolts. Keypad on the left side. Small slit at eye level–neck level for the Mandalorian.

As soon as he crouched down to look near the slit, it slid open and revealed a thick pair of black eyebrows. Black eyes bore into the brow of Mando’s helmet, as the bouncer couldn’t seem to find his eyes.

“Do you have an appointment?” The bouncer asked. The voice behind the door was gruff, as if the words had to crawl from the depths of his throat.

“No,” Mando responded.

Black eyes blinked and then disappeared when the bouncer closed the metal slit.

Mando was taken aback and furrowed his brow. His fist pounded on the door. He just wanted this hunt to be over with. He wanted to get back to you.

The slit in the door revealed two black eyes once more.

“I have credits and will pay you if you give me information on a client your establishment may have served.” Mando’s modulator gritted out loudly. Straight and to the point. All business.

Eyes disappeared again, but were then accompanied with the sounds of the deadbolts unlocking. The metal door swung open to reveal a man dressed in all black with a silver name tag. Black hair matched the rest of his ensemble.

Still holding the door, the bouncer asked, “What’s the bounty look like?”

An eyebrow raised inside Mando’s helmet, but he figured the bouncer knew the drill by now. Even other bounty hunters knew that brothels were what many bounties visited. A gloved hand unbuttoned a pocket on his belt and retrieved a bounty puck. Clicking the side of it, the puck displayed the quarry.

The man stepped out of the doorway and onto the pavement, pulling the door closed behind him. His black eyes slightly squinted when his gaze trailed up and down the hologram.

“Ah yeah, I’ve seen this guy. He has a type, always goes for the blondes.”

“Does he have any upcoming appointments?” Mando questioned.

The bouncer sighed in thought and pulled a small notepad from his pocket. Mando mirrored the man’s motion and produced a pen and notepad from his pocket.

“The guy has an appointment in two days. He just asked to see a blonde. Figures.” The man shrugged and opened his notepad. Mando noticed it was a planner, and the bouncer flipped to the pages for the appointments two days from today.

“Which workers would take him as a client?” Mando’s modulator churned the words. His pen clicked as he readied himself to write.

The man donned in black made a fist with one hand and raised a finger with each name, “Ari. Taima. And Nomi. They would be in rooms one, five, or seven.”

Wow, Mando thought, this guy really knew the drill. He quickly finished up writing down the names and room numbers of each worker. The pen scratched feverishly against the cream colored paper, leaving behind black strokes to form letters and numbers. Notepad folding closed and the pen clicking, signifying the end of his notes, Mando returned the pen and paper to their place in his pocket. His opposing hand reached into a different pocket and produced a sizable amount of credits. Feeling generous, thankful that this hunt was going to be quick, he compensated the bouncer handsomely.

First task done. Second task on the horizon.

Creaking produced from the hinges of the metal door as the bouncer disappeared behind it once more. Flickering light gleamed off the beskar armor that protected the Mandalorian in combat. Although he wasn’t going into combat, because he wouldn’t be nervous if he was.

Mando trained most of his life with the greatest warriors in the galaxy. Combat flowed through his blood easily. It was a part of him.

But he was never trained on how to ask people out on dates.

On top of that, he was never trained on how to ask you out on a date.

He didn’t want to misread the situation. You could just be friendly. Who would want to date a man and not know what he looks like? Who would want to constantly live on a ship, without a permanent home?

Being Mando, he prepared for the worst. If you said no, he figured that you would be uncomfortable living with the man who asked you out on a date. Knowing that he’s attracted to you. He would fly wherever you wanted and give you some credits to get started. Kriff, he’d send credits for however long it takes for you to get on your feet. Then he’d leave you alone.

Admittedly, the Mandalorian would probably keep an eye on you to make sure you were safe. You just wouldn’t know he’s there.

But if you said yes.

Mando’s chest bloomed with anticipation. Firework-like tingles trailed up and down his limbs at the thought. He bit his lip within the confines of his helmet when he realized his pants had gotten tighter. Thankfully he was a Mandalorian, because heat washed over his face, half due to arousal and the other half in embarrassment.

The brown eyes underneath the helmet widened. If he wanted to do more with you and you agreed, he didn’t have protection.

Turning on his heel, cape whipping behind him, he made a quick pace back to the brothel.

Once he arrived at the gray building, the light at the side of the building having more of a purpose, Mando glided towards the same door as before. Bringing a fist up to the metal, he knocked three times.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Clink. Shhhkt.

“Do you sell condoms?” the modulator quickly blurted.

All business.

—

He arrived at the meet up point before you. Leaning against a nearby tree, Mando checked the time constantly, as if he was devoted to the action more than his Creed. If you were late, he always went looking.

Thankfully, you trudged up to the food stall on time with a hefty bag full of purchases. Fine, brown gravel grinded against the soles of Mando’s shoes as he made his way over to you. His gloved hand slipped the bag from your grasp and the pair of you began walking back to the Crest.

Both of you carried on with your normal post-supply run routines. You and Mando, but this time just Mando, piled the purchases from the market onto the hull’s floor. From there, the items could be sorted through and put in their respective places around the Crest.

As Mando finished unloading the large bag of purchases, he quickly dug around for the receipts. He knew how much you liked to review the shopping haul each time a supply run was completed. Mando enjoyed seeing the satisfaction wash over your face after you read over the receipts.

But this time was different. You froze once you got to the last receipt.

Mando’s helmet tilted in confusion. He took a few steps closer towards you, “What’s wrong? Did we forget something?”

You remained still while your eyes darted over the lines on the receipt. With your back turned to him, Mando found the opportunity to zoom in on the ink printed on the flimsy paper.

ITEMS PURCHASED (1)

CONDOM - 12 PACK

Oh. Fuck. FUCK.

He hasn’t even asked you on a date yet and now you probably already think he’s a perv. Nerves took over his body as you continued to stand still.

Your hand quickly crushed the receipts and threw them in the trash, “Nope! The last receipt didn’t look familiar but,” you trailed off slightly but recovered, “I remembered what I bought from the place.” A nervous laugh–obviously fake, Mando knew what your real one sounded like–escaped from your lips.

He fucked it up. You knew he was interested in you like that. And you didn’t feel the same. He hasn’t even asked you on the date yet. It’s all screwed up now.

But he also felt like he didn’t have enough evidence. What if you did like him but the idea of…needing to use the condoms…made you nervous.

Mando had to at least try. The least he had to do was ask you.

He cleared his throat and grabbed the bag off of the floor. You stood away from him, biting the inside of your cheek, nervously watching his movements.

“I’m going to go to the night market,” he informed you, “I have some business with a bounty I need to take care of.”

The bounty wouldn’t be captured until two days from now. In reality, he was really going to go and purchase snacks, takeout, and a pair of those bracelets you admired. It would have been suspicious if he met you back at the meet up point with bags full of snacks. The beskar man figured it would be best to hold off on buying them until later, and tell you he was getting a bounty, so you wouldn’t catch on.

He should’ve waited for this second trip to buy the condoms, he thought.

–

Mando left to, “Go to the night market,” he said. You saw the condom listed on the market receipts, you knew where he went tonight. What he’s going to do.

The brothels.

Yeah, sure, he’s paying a worker to give him a service. No feelings attached. But you didn’t want him to be with anyone else. Was Mando necessarily yours? No. Have you ever had sex with him? Also no.

That didn’t stop you from getting jealous.

And it wasn’t just jealousy. It was fear. What if he fell in love with one of them? Or what if he was going on dates? He could have a romantic interest you don’t even know about. Next thing you know, they’re going steady and you’re kicked off the ship. Or worse, you have to watch him love someone that isn’t you.

No more silence with him in the cockpit, watching as the hyperspace lights soar past the windshield. Feet tapping down the ladder as you both began your nighttime routines. He’d wait in the hull near the door of the fresher in just his helmet, undershirt, sleep pants, and socks. As he lifted off the wall from his leaning stance he’d ask you, “Are you done?” Holding his own hands in front of him, trying to seem relaxed, as if he was trying to look less intimidating. “Yeah,” you’d quickly respond, leaving the fresher and brushing past him. Sometimes his hand found your waist as he passed, or the small of your back. “Thank you,” he’d grunt gently as he closed the fresher door.

No more of Mando letting out a small, “Good night,” before lingering on your closing eyes and watching as your lips smiled, forming your response, “Good night.”

Falling asleep, you knew you’d wake up to him. He would be up before you on most days, leaving you a fresh cup of caf and your favorite ration pack (when he had them). The short chatter between you two, going over the logistics of the next hunt, telling stories from your past, or just thinking out loud to each other. Gone.

You would be banished from home.

The fear struck your chest. Heat searing through your ribcage and meeting your spine, the visions repeated over and over in your head. Tears fell like waterfalls from your eyes. Most streams connected underneath your chin and trailed down your neck. Your back met the hull’s wall as you sank down onto the floor. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Your head was heavy and numb.

Just breathe. You knew you weren’t going to die. Go through some heartbreak? Maybe, but you knew you’d be alive. It helped. Your breath slowed and the fear dissipated into the air around you. That didn’t stop the flow of tears down your cheeks as your eyes were fixed on the closed ramp.

–

Mando’s footsteps set a steady pace back to the market.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

He displayed a map of the marketplace as an overlay on the display of his helmet. Mando usually reserved this practice for combat to aid in determining exit strategies and the best plan of attack.

But now he was using it to calculate the most efficient route throughout the marketplace in order to see you again sooner.

Closing the overlay from the helmet’s display, he was met with the sight of the market. Long strings of lights decorated the different stalls. Many vendors took advantage of the dark and used different, bright combinations to reel in customers. Some lights were multicolored. Some flashing. Some huge and some small. He thought of the “ooh”s, and, “ahh”s that you would let out at the brilliant display.

The Mandalorian started in the food section of the market. Carefully examining which vendors carried your favorite snacks, he made purchase after purchase in quick succession. His helmet remained on a swivel, scanning the stalls from right to left and left to right.

A stall offering your favorite kind of takeout came into view.

Once Mando arrived at the stall he ordered two takeout meals. The vendor looked startled and confused as he ordered. They shakily accepted the credits for the two meals. Gazes drifted away from Mando and quickly returned as he stood waiting for the meals to be prepared. A bell rang and he retrieved two warm containers, placing them in his bag alongside the snacks.

One last stop. The bracelets.

Marching through the food district, he came upon an intersection at which the left path led him to the clothing district. Yet again, his helmet pivoted on his neck from one side to another.

The third stall to the left of the bright green stall on the left side of the alley.

Mando continued his steady pace until the bright green stall came into view. The brightness of the exterior paint was exaggerated by the warm light emitted by lanterns, which decorated the outside of the shop. He didn’t notice before but the store sold children’s clothes. Onesies. Small shoes. Tiny hats.

A small tunic. Small enough for a human child younger than one year old. The tunic reminded him of Grogu’s. Mando’s bare hands brushed against the material countless times as he cradled The Child in his arms.

The last time he spoke about Grogu was with you. You listened and offered support. He’s never had anyone do that for him.

His visor turned to his left. The soft fairy lights of the stall reflected off of the beskar helmet on his head. As if the beskar reflected a dark sky decorated with bright stars. Various fabrics hung from the side of the vendor’s stall to cover the old wooden planks. Little accessories were placed throughout the shop on different tables and displays.

Mando wasn’t focused on those items, he was focused on the long table of bracelets organized by color. His feet carried him to the green section. The helmet turned downwards to allow him to observe the selection.

Shit.

There were so many bracelets similar to the pair you held, just all in different combinations of green, silver, and brown. Was it the bracelet with the large green cord and the small silver and brown threads? Or the one with the large silver cord and green and brown threads? Or thick brown cord with streaks of green and silver? His hands hovered over the options, doing his best to recall the details from earlier in the day.

“It’s this one,” a woman’s voice said.

A bit startled, the Mandalorian looked up and found a woman standing on the other side of the table. She wore long robes with intricate patterns. Jewelry decorated every limb and part of her body, like jewels were dripping down from her skin from a storm of gemstones. Hair cascaded around her shoulders and down her back. Her smile was kind and her gaze met Mando at his eyebrow.

A good try, he thought.

“I’m sorry?” He replies. She couldn’t possibly know which bracelet he was trying to find.

“You were watching them earlier. From across the street,” she let out faint exhales as she let out a short laugh, “Maybe you should hide a little better next time.”

She reached out and picked two bracelets out of the display grid. “I remember the sizes too,” she said, “The person you watched held onto them for so long, they seemed pretty attached to them. I kept track of which bracelets they were just in case.” The robed woman shot him a friendly wink.

“In case of what?” Mando questioned. He was still in shock that the woman noticed him staring at you from across the street.

The woman glanced up at him like that was a dumb question, “In case you came back to get them, Mandalorian. This isn’t my first day on the job.”

It saved him the time and stress of trying to remember which one it was, so he shrugged and watched the woman’s jewelry dangle as she typed onto the register.

Beep. Beep. Beep beep. Ching.

“Okay sir, twenty credits please!” The woman extended her hand out and waited for Mando to place credits into her palm. She was met with the tilting of the black T shape on Mando’s beskar helmet.

“I thought the price was thirty,” he stated as he began to reach into his pockets to retrieve his credits.

The woman let out another small laugh, “Oh, I suppose I should have made the sign larger,” her decorated fingers pointed to a small sign above the one that displays the bracelet prices.

$10 OFF WHEN YOU BUY TWO OR MORE

Mando’s shoulders dip in realization that you could’ve bought the bracelets in the first place. A sigh escapes his modulator and he hands the credits over to the intricately robed vendor. The credits clink into her palm, and then into the register.

He waits silently for her to package them up in a small bag.

“They like you, you know,” the woman mentions, “No one like them would be deciding on which bracelets to buy for that long if they didn’t.” She paused as she was about to place the larger of the two into the small bag, “And look at the size of this one! It’s definitely for you.”

The Mandalorian nods, “I appreciate that,” he pauses before turning away, “let’s hope they do.”

–

Mando sets a faster pace back to the Crest than the one he took from the Crest to the market. He’s impatient, he can’t wait to walk up the ramp and see your body curled up, comfortable and safe, while you sleep soundly in your bed–if you can even call it that, he thought. You usually went to bed early when he went on hunts, otherwise you would be awake talking to him.

Slipping the bag from his shoulder, an ungloved hand rummaged through the contents searching for a small bag. His fingers found the familiar texture and he pulled it out from between the snacks and the takeout.

Mando slung the bag back over his shoulder, pulled the larger of the two bracelets out of the small bag, and slipped his hand through the ring of brown, silver, and green. Grabbing one of the ends with his fingers and pinning it to his palm, the other hand tightened the bracelet to a comfortable size around his wrist.

Once the small bag was returned to its place inside of the larger one, Mando peered around him to get a good look of his surroundings.

The sun was about to set, leaving only a sliver of light available to provide dim light to the landscape. Rocks littered the ground. Shadows from each one making them appear larger in the light of the impending dusk. He reached up and tapped a finger to the temple of his helmet. No living thing was around him.

He paused and set the bag on the ground. Doing one last scan of the area, one of his hands gripped the chin of his helmet and lifted the beskar from his head. The hand held the helmet at his side while he marveled at his wrist.

He caught a good patch of remaining light and watched as the green and silver threads gleamed against the thick brown ones. The bracelet was beautiful. Not only because of the design, but because you picked it out. And it was for him.

Becoming paranoid, the Mandalorian quickly slipped his helmet back onto his head. He waited for the seal of the helmet to engage before continuing back towards the Crest. This time, at an even faster pace.

–

You sat there until you heard heavy footsteps approaching from outside, the hydraulics of the ramp coming to life. Thinking fast, you stood up and made your way towards the fresher to start your nighttime routine.

“Why are you still awake?” Mando’s voice was confused. He stood in front at the top of the ramp with his helmet tilted, hands resting on his hips, but his shoulders were slumped, a bag slung around one. He looked…worried.

Mando was right. Usually when he went on hunts you went to bed early. Nowadays the only thing that kept you awake was him. Talking with him was how you spent most evenings on the Crest, your voices echoed and bounced back to each other in the hull.

He’s used to seeing you curled up on the sleeping pad covered in blankets. Soft breaths came from your body and radiated throughout the Crest. Just like a minute ago, his footsteps would come up the ramp with his bounty in tow. Soft grunts could be heard kitty-corner from your spot in the hull. A hiss of mechanisms as they froze the bounty in carbonite. Then a bit of silence.

The absence of the carbonite freezing stood out in your mind. No bounty, even when he said he was going to go and find one. Your eyes teared up slightly again as the realization truly set in. Mando really did go to the brothel.

You just wanted this night to be like any other night he came back to the Crest with a bounty.

After the bounty was frozen, heavy footsteps made their way across the floor of the hull. But they always stopped a few paces away from your bed, halting for a moment. Mando would complete his nightly routine. Setting the Crest’s coordinates for the next planet and showering in the fresher if he needed to–he usually did.

No matter what the events of his nightly routine were, it always ended with him standing in the doorway of his bunk–the sound of his footsteps always stopped partially inside.

“Good night, cyar'ika.”

You didn’t know what the Mando’a meant, since Mando never used that word around you, but you knew that the, “good night,” was all you needed to finally fall asleep.

You always waited up for him, only until reasonable hours of the night, of course, but he didn’t know it.

The sound of his footsteps in the present snapped you out of your hazy state. Crying really does a number on your brain.

“Just…couldn’t fall asleep,” you offered him a small smile as you pulled some products out of the tiny fresher cabinet. You wet your face and applied a small amount onto your fingertips, tapping them together for both hands to have the product. As you lifted your face and your hands to the mirror to begin washing your face, you were met with swollen lips, puffy eyes, and slight tear trails dried onto your face, despite the water you just splashed onto it. You froze.

There goes any of your chances to get away with how you spent your night. Staying up late staring at the Crest’s ramp. Waiting for Mando to come home. At least what you thought was home.

“What’s wrong?” Mando’s voice got clearer as he approached the fresher door. His strides long, footsteps clunking, as he removed his leather gloves and tucked the pair into his utility belt.

You went to turn away from him but he got there faster than you could. His ungloved hand rested on your shoulder, grip slow yet firm as he turned you to face him. He rubbed tiny circles onto your skin with his thumb once his eyes beneath the helmet noticed yours.

Your reflection on the silver beskar of his helmet stared back at you. Could you even get away with a lie at this point? What else would have made you cry? It’s not exactly like you could have said the truth either.

Oh yeah, I was sitting here having a panic attack as you participated in a perfectly normal service that is offered on this planet. Then I spiraled and thought about how you might not even want me to be here, that you’ll find another partner to be on this ship with you, and toss me away like none of this meant anything to you.

Mando’s hand waved in front of your face and it brought you back into the present moment. “Did someone come onto the ship while I was gone?” His voice gritted out from the helmet’s modulator.

“Maker, no,” you huffed and tried to look less suspicious, hoping he’ll just drop the topic.

“Then what is it?” He murmured, his modulator barely picking up his syllables. His wide shoulders took up most of the fresher’s door frame. The grip on your shoulder tightened slightly.

“It’s…I don’t think you’ll want to hear it.” You shrugged and repressed the heat of anxiety creeping down the back of your head. Turning to wash and dry your hands, you let out a sigh and started to walk towards the main open space of the hull. Your shoulder gently bumped him as you slid past his large frame in the doorway.

Suddenly your hips were being snapped backwards and dragged back towards the fresher. His damn finger was in your belt loop again.

He pulled you close to him, feeling the heat from his knuckle dig into your hip and spread throughout the rest of your body. His helmet leaned down to look you in the eye and tilted once again.

“Try me,” he paused. He brought his hand up to grip onto the valley where your neck meets your shoulder, slowly enough so you could back away if you so desired. His large palm and thick fingers were calloused and warm. The grip he had on you was still gentle, slightly squeezing. “You know you can tell me, right?”

You let a deep inhale permeate through your lungs. The words flowed through your individual cells. Thoughts of lying escaped your body with each breath. The debate inside your head would end. Whether he had those feelings for you or not.

“I got upset because you went to the brothel.” You told him. Lips trembling and eyes squinted open in an attempt to meet his gaze.

“The brothel?” He held both of your shoulders and brought his visor closer to your face. Thumbs rubbed your shoulders yet again. He sighed as your name left his lips and traveled through his helmet, “I didn’t go to a brothel tonight.” A titled T-shaped gaze met yours. You knew he was looking you in the eyes, and yours into his.

Brows furrowed, you sniffled slightly, “I-, I saw that condoms were on the market receipts.” The thumbs on your shoulders stopped, his chest didn’t rise and fall. He froze. You made Mando freeze.

“Look I know I’m just being dramatic and paying for that kind of thing is completely normal. I just,” you trailed off and thought of a quick replacement for your worry, “I was worried you would get hurt there.”

Mando’s shoulders fell and his helmet cocked to the side. “What?” He questioned. “How would I get hurt? None of the workers there had weapons.”

“How would you know that if you didn’t go?” You whispered to him. Your gaze left his and it dropped to the shape in the center of his chestplate. The crystal shape rose up and down slowly.

“I got information on a bounty there earlier,” he sounded like he was talking to a hurt animal. Gentle. Slow. Calm. “What's the actual reason you’re upset?”

Kriff it.

“I had a panic attack because I thought you went to the brothel. Maybe you would like the worker there more than you like me, I spiraled and thought about how you might not even want me to be here, that you’ll find another partner to be on this ship with you,” your chest heaved and as you listed off your previous thoughts of worry. Your hands shook as they landed on top of Mando’s, and you took a deep breath, eyes meeting his gaze like before, “and toss me away like none of this meant anything to you.”

Mando is quick. He flipped his hands to grab one of yours and tugged you into the hull. Kneeling, he opened a cloth bag, one from the market, and dug into it to search for something.

He actually went to the night market. You thought, now you look so clingy. So needy. He was just going to show you what he got to prove he went.

He turned and held his hand out. Sitting on top of the golden skin on his palm was a bracelet.

The bracelet from the market.

“I saw you looking at these, you looked for a long time and then put them down,” He stood up and set his gait to slow steps as he made his way over to you.

You laughed nervously, accompanied by a small sniffle, “Sorry yeah, I know I just should have been getting the stuff we needed. You didn’t have to go back and get it for-.” Mando raised a finger to halt your speech and continued what he was saying previously, “you put them down. You had two bracelets.”

“They had lots of them that I liked…I had two that were a tie and I just decided to get neither-.” Mando cut you off again.

“You were holding one bracelet consistently and then picked another in a bigger size,” you froze at his words. Dank farrik. Now he was going to think you’re super clingy.

“I wasn't completely sure who you wanted to wear the bracelet, but I took a guess.” He pulled his long sleeve past his elbow and revealed his bare forearm. Strong. Capable. Solid. And a matching bracelet was donned on his wrist.

Your cheeks radiated with heat as he took your wrist and put your bracelet on you. His warm fingertips brushed the soft skin of your wrist, sending chills throughout your body at the meticulous skin-on-skin contact.

Once the bracelet was secure around your wrist, Mando dipped his head and looked down at the floor. One of his hands gripped the underside of his helmet, and the other held onto your wrist. Your breath caught in your throat at the gesture. He quickly lifted his helmet to release his mouth, and he pressed three kisses on your wrist where the bracelet was. Mando’s lips were soft and timid, his hand caressing the skin on yours. Silver from his beskar helmet blocked your view, but Mando sealed his helmet and brought his eyes underneath the visor to look into yours.

“This means everything to me.”

Supply Run - Exchange (part three)

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