#if it were it wouldn’t be noteworthy

[sparklingchim]

game on | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 2.2k

genre: footballer!jungkook, fake dating, f2l

rating: pg

warnings: koo gets scolded for sleeping around 🥺, playboy jk <3, hints of a threesome 🫢, oc fights w a laundry machine

summary: jungkook is in desperate need to polish up his playboy image, and naturally, he turns to you for help.

a/n: hii my pretty besties!!!! it's my bday😋 so i wanted to share this silly piece i've been having so much fun writing!!! love uuu n treat urself to smth nice for me today <3 mwah😙

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Jeon Jungkook is a charming man – and he is well aware of the fact. He plays that card effortlessly.

Most of the time, it works in his favour.

But sometimes, it backfires spectacularly and gets him into trouble.

Which is why he stands in front of his fuming manage, who is radiating enough anger to fill the entire office.

The sight isn’t foreign to Jungkook. He wouldn’t say he is used to it, but he has found himself often enough in this situation to recognise the signs of deep trouble.

Not only is Jungkook’s charm complicating things, but the fact that he is famous too.

Sometimes, he uses that as an advantage. Not in an obvious way — never by flaunting his own achievements or demanding special treatment.

That’s not his style.

His name alone carries weight, and he knows how to let it work for him, quietly bending the world to his will... until the world pushes back.

And right now, it’s pushing back hard.

One thing Jeon Jungkook does enjoy about being a pro footballer, though, is the way women obsess over him.

He knows they love him – sees it in the comments they leave on his ig posts, sees it in the DMs flooding his inbox daily, and experiences it firsthand at public events, where hordes of fans scream his name. Jungkook thrives on that attention.

However, something he doesn’t love, and what he was never prepared for, is the media. The way they scrutinise his every move, how his face ends up on every headline anytime he does something remotely noteworthy.

And now, thanks to his latest shenanigan getting caught by the press, here he is. Standing in front of his manager, Taesung, and his PR agent, Jiwoo, eyes downcast, bracing himself for the scolding that’s already begun.

“You’ve gone too far this time, Jungkook.”

His manager speaks in a flat, monotonous voice, void of even the slightest hint of disappointment, as if he’d long since given up expecting anything different.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean up the mess you leave behind?”

A sense of guilt creeping up on Jungkook, even though he knows if he were just a regular guy, none of this would matter at all. And he finds it a bit unfair.

But to survive in this business, you can’t complain about unfairness.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” Taesung barks.

Jungkook remains silent. He forces himself to.

“If there was more involved than just alcohol-”

“No! Nothing like that,” he denies, his response firm and immediate. “It was just alcohol – and, well, just good vibes because we won the last match, and with the World Cup being next, everyone was just really excited.”

If he had known what kind of trouble a simple, innocent celebration of his team’s win at a club would bring, he would’ve gone straight home yesterday. He would’ve skipped the rounds of drinks, the flashing lights, the loud music, and definitely the attention. But hindsight was useless now.

“Good,” his manager says. “I’m glad you were happy.” Mock sympathy drips from his voice. “Perhaps the last time you are going to be happy this year.”

Jungkook nods, accepting the gravity of the situation. No more clubs, no more parties, no more girls.

At least, not for a while. His reputation had taken a few hits recently, and this latest mess wasn’t helping. He could almost hear the whispers: reckless, irresponsible, unprofessional. The kind of things that could ruin him if he didn’t get a handle on it.

He clenched his jaw. No more distractions. From now on, it was all about the game. He needed to remind everyone why he was Jeon Jungkook — the best on the field, not just the headlines.

“You’re no longer in for the World Cup. You’re out.”

His head snaps up at that. Did he hear that right?

“What?! What do you mean?”

“Myungbo doesn’t want you on the team anymore.” Taesung’s words sound heavy and final.

Jungkook’s heart pounds in his ears.

His world tilts. The room seems to spin, the edges of his vision darkening. This wasn’t just a setback — it was a disaster. The World Cup was everything to him, and now it felt like it was slipping through his fingers. The crushing weight of the news settles on his chest, making it hard to breathe. One silly night is all that happened.

He can’t believe that a single photo of him leaving the club with two girls clinging to each arm has cost him his spot on the national football team. He went home with two girls – so what?

But he doesn’t voice his frustration. He knows better than to add fuel to the fire. Speaking his mind now would only escalate the situation and make things worse. Jungkook knows from experience.

He swallows hard, forcing himself to stay calm. His pulse is still racing, but he takes a deep breath, focusing on controlling his emotions. He has to keep a level head if he’s going to find a way to fix this.

“There has to be a way to fix this.” His eyes move to Jiwoo, his PR agent. “Right?”

His manager fixes him with a stern glare. “Jungkook, remember the promise you gave everyone a few months ago?” Taesung reminds him.

Jungkook cringes. When he made a promise to avoid actions that might damage his reputation, he didn’t think it’d be that serious. He cut back on going out, made the effort to play the role of the “good boy” but really – come on. He can’t maintain that facade for an eternity. Especially after a triumphant victory like yesterday’s.

Taking away his spot on the national football team? He didn’t think that was possible.

“How many more times do we have to fix your problems, because you don’t care enough? How many times do we have to repeat this scenario?”

“I promise I’ll better myself,” he pleads desperately, looking back and forth between his manager and his PR agent. Someone has to believe him, help him.

“Do you genuinely believe this country wants to be represented by a 20-year-old boy, who can’t keep his personal life under control?” Taesung asks, eyebrows deeply pinched together. “This isn’t just about you, Jungkook. It’s about the team, the fans, and the nation. They need a role model, not a scandal waiting to happen.”

“I know. I know.” Jungkook scrambles for something convincing to say, desperate to sway their decision. This can’t be it. He won’t let his career take a hit because of something like this. “But – but this isn’t too bad. This is fixable. I can fix this.” His voice quivers with a desperation he barely recognises as his own. “Jiwoo.” Jungkook turns to her with pleading eyes. “You always know what to do. Please, help me”

“I did propose an idea but-”

“We’re not doing that,” Taesung cuts in. “It’s off the table.”

“What is it?” Jungkook’s eyes bounce back and forth between them. “I’ll do anything. This is – this is everything to me. You have to give me a chance.”

Taesung scoffs. “A chance? As far as I know, you have been given countless chances.”

Sweat coats the back of Jungkook’s neck.

Taesung understands just how much Jungkook has fought to secure his place on the national team. He’s well aware that it’s one of Jungkook’s greatest dreams, a pinnacle of his career that he’s poured countless hours of hard work and sacrifice into. That’s why, each morning, when he wakes up to the latest news of Jungkook’s escapades, he feels a deep sense of disappointment, texting Jungkook with a dejected shake of his head to visit his office first thing in the morning.

When it’s all he wants, like Jungkook claims, why doesn’t he act like it?

“If the head coach won’t give me a chance now, he’ll never do. This is my last opportunity to change his mind, make him rethink. I need to at least try.”

Jiwoo looks at the manager, waiting for his approval. He nods.

“Very simply put: you need a girlfriend,” she says.

For a second, Jungkook is at loss for words.

“A girlfriend? How’s that going to help?” Jungkook tilts his head in confusion. This is not how he thought Jiwoo was going to save him.

“You need a girlfriend to help polish up your image as a player. It’ll make you appear more like a gentleman, softer and nicer. We need to completely shift public perception and counter the negative image they’ve formed about you. It’s all about changing the narrative,” she explains.

“And that is not something we can easily achieve,” Taesung interjects. “Rebranding your entire persona is not feasible at this stage. You’ve been projecting what kind of boy you are to the media for the past two years. It’s going to be incredibly difficult to make a sudden shift look genuine.”

“No! We — I can make it seem real. This is my only chance,” Jungkook insists, his voice gaining a hint of determination. For a moment, breathing feels a bit easier again. “The World Cup is just a month away. That’s enough time to shift public opinion and prove I’m worthy of representing the country on the team.” There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice as he speaks, clinging to the belief that he might not have to bid farewell to his biggest dream after all.

But his manager doesn’t look as hopeful as Jungkook feels.

“How are we going to find a girl who will agree to this? Someone who isn’t an obsessive fan, understands this is purely professional, and can keep quiet? You won’t be able to pull this off.”

“I was actually thinking-” Jiwoo starts, but she’s cut off.

Jungkook hesitates, glancing between them before speaking. “Actually... I think I already have someone in mind.” His voice is more measured now. “That’s not the issue.” Jungkook doesn’t need to think twice.

Taesung sighs while Jiwoo looks at Jungkook apologetically.

“You can’t rebrand your entire persona from a playboy to a lover boy within a month, Jungkook. This is over.” His manager shakes his head, a sense of finality glimmering in his eyes.

One thing that Jungkook forgot to mention is that he is an extremely competitive man, too.

~

“This is ridiculous.”

You kick the laundry machine in frustration, but all you end up doing is yelping and clutching your aching foot.

“That’s the third time this month,” you mutter under your breath. “What did I even spend all that money on if it’s just going to break down whenever it feels like it?”

You shoot a death glare at the machine, teetering on the edge of losing your mind.

“Guess I’ll have to use the public laundromat again,” you sigh, grabbing the overflowing laundry basket filled with your and your roommate's clothes, and heading out of the bathroom with a huff.

On your way to the front door, the doorbell rings.

Please, you think. You were hoping for some quiet, uninterrupted time to deep-clean your dorm on this peaceful Sunday with no one around.

But when you peek through the peephole and see Jungkook standing there, your frustration melts away. You swing the door open, the laundry basket tumbling to the floor beside you in your haste.

“Jungkook!” you exclaim. “You’re timing is perfect! Can you please fix my laundry machine again? It’s been acting up, and I’m getting frustrated.” You groan annoyed.

Jungkook doesn’t share the same excitement upon seeing you.

You grow smaller and take an indecisive step back.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, noticing the tension in his features. “Did you lose the match yesterday? I couldn’t keep up because I had too much cramming to do last night.”

While studying medicine had always been your dream, the reality is less exciting. Right now, it means sleepless nights and relentless pressure. You know that pursuing this path will offer you many privileges later in life, but you have to suffer first.

“I need your help.”

His dark eyes, usually bright and full of energy, seem clouded with worry, and his hair falls messily over his forehead, like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times in frustration.

“Are you okay?” You study him closely, scanning his face for any signs of injury. Physically, he seems fine — still tall, muscular, and as fit as ever. But something is clearly off.

“You need to do something for me.”

“I can help,” you reply, your voice soft with concern. ‘But what is it…?”

“Can you be my girlfriend?”

You blink, repeatedly.

“Huh?”

You start giggling when he doesn’t add more. You expect him to clarify or laugh along, but Jungkook stays serious, stepping closer and gently taking your hands in his. You look down at them, then back up at his face, utterly bewildered.

“You’re silly, Jungkook. If someone on the team made you do this, tell them you did the punishment and quit acting so weird.”

It’s too early in the morning for Jungkook’s nonsense.

“No, ___, you don’t understand.” He squeezes your hands when he feels you trying to pull them back. “I actually need you to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Fake date me.”

[kyseya]

You reap what you sow

Yandere farm brothers x f.reader

—————-

Just your typical luck, your car had suddenly broken down in the middle of nowhere. What will you do now? You can’t stay there, there’s no food or water available. Luckily, you hadn’t run out of recourses just yet but it was very close to being gone.

You stepped out of the car and went around it, staring it down with waves of irritation rolling off you. You tried coming up with a plan. The next stop was miles away and it was nothing but a daydream that you’d be able to make it there on foot.

Right as you were about to give up and let the animals take you, the sound of wheels on gravel caught your attention. Turning around, you saw another car speeding towards you. Yes! You were saved! You waved at the person in the car and luckily enough it stopped. ‘I’m gonna pray it’s not Michael Meyers lost cousin or something.’

The door to the passenger side opened and you spotted a man sitting behind the wheel. He was young, around your age, probably a little older perhaps. He had dark brown hair and equally dark eyes. You instantly noticed a scar below his left eye as you glanced at his face. You had to admit, he was very handsome; in a rugged type of way. You couldn’t help but eye how his plain shirt hugged all the muscles on his body. You mentally slapped yourself, ‘Geez (Y/n), you’re here to ask for help not ogle him like the last piece of cake at the party!’

“Your car broke down?” He asked, looking at the worthless piece of junk that had decided to betray you just minutes ago.

“Yeah, it did.” You scratched the back of your head in slight embarrassment. “I couldn’t trouble you for a ride, could I?” He was quiet for a moment, in which you hastily added, “Not for long! Just so I can get proper help from a mechanic. I won’t be a bother I promise.”

The man nodded. “Alright then, hop in.”

Your eyes lit up at his response. You gladly took a seat beside him and thanked him again for his help. “Thank you so much. You’re literally saving my life.”

He nodded once more. Guess he wasn’t much of a talker. Well not that it mattered much. You’d only stick around until you got to a town and found someone who could fix your vehicle. You didn’t have to be all buddy-buddy with each other. You only had to be happy he didn’t seem to want to kill you and hang your organs like Christmas ornaments. The chance of you meeting again was down to basically zero.

Or that’s what you thought, but life has a funny way of messing with you. It must have a grudge against you or else you wouldn’t be seated in the same position you were previously, only it being about 3 hours later. The drive to the nearest town was long(you definitely wouldn’t have made it by walking) and when you got there, you found out the one mechanic they had was out of town.

You thought you were going to have to spend the night in a bush, but you were pleasantly surprised to have your muscular helper offer a nights stay at his farm. You were grateful(once more) and also confused. Why was he being so nice to you when he didn’t have any reason to? It didn’t make sense. The two of you had just met, plus that you’ve only spoken a number of times and none of the conversations were noteworthy.

It was after you accepted you got to know his name, Weston. It fit him quite well, you thought. He told you there was a spare room you could use. It would be further away from his, to offer you some sort of privacy. He also mentioned there was one other person living on the farm, his younger brother. If he annoyed you, you could just tell him off, Weston said to you.

Your butt was sore from all the sitting, both in your own car but also from this little trip. The sky darkened and the sun had nearly completely disappeared when you finally arrived at the farm. It looked like you imagined. There was a large house which you assumed was the main house. Behind it was a big, red barn. You thought you could hear the faint sounds of animals.

Climbing out of the car, you glanced expectantly at your host, waiting for his initiative. You didn’t want to be rude and march right up to the house. As you were waiting, another figure came into view. He was much like his older brother, with brown hair and eyes to match. He was smiling at the both of you, although you caught a slight suspicion towards you.

“Who’s the new kid?” He asked his sibling, who gave him a rundown of what’s happened. You were a bit annoyed at how he called you ‘kid’, you were very much a grown person. And he’s one to talk, you were sure he was younger than you, even through all that brawn. He wasn’t as tall as Weston but he was no joke either. The younger brother looked at you with sympathy, “Really? Well that’s unfortunate. What’re you gonna do now that the mechanic’s gone- since you need him I’m guessing you don’t exactly know how to fix cars.”

You sighed, “I’m not sure yet. I’ll come up with something tomorrow. I’m too tired from all the driving and thinking.”

“Alright, I get it. I’m Lucas by the way.”

You shook his hand. “(Y/n), and thank you for having me. You’re really saving me here.”

“Haha, well Weston likes to pretend he’s heartless, but he’s really just a giant teddy bear.” Lucas said and smirked as he received a glare from the ‘teddy bear’.

“Come in (Y/n), I’ll show you your room.” Weston led you into the house.

Right as you stepped over the threshold, you felt a slight chill. Something felt wrong. You turned around to see Lucas’ beaming face. He tilted his head in confusion.

“Everything good?” He asked, concern lacing his voice. You’d gotten the impression that he’s a chill guy, but now you started wondering if you’d made the wrong choice.

“N-no, everything’s great!”

There was no turning back now, you thought as you descended deeper into the house.

It was unfortunate that every time you followed one of the brothers into town again, for supplies and other things, the mechanic was never there. Sadly it seemed like his vacation wasn’t over yet which meant no way home for you. However, you didn’t have it so bad. The brothers had been kind enough to let you keep staying with them at their farm.

Honestly it was pretty good there. Sure, it wasn’t what you were used to, but some change of scenery was good for you. Not wanting to appear lazy, you helped them to the best of your ability around the farm. You couldn’t lift heavy things like they could even if you really put your back into it, and you certainly didn’t trust yourself to milk the cows; something you could do was cook! It’d become a routine for them to do their work during the day and you’d make them lunch and then dinner in the evenings. You’d never seen yourself as a homemaker, though this was kind of fun. Maybe it was the heat poking your brain or it was that you genuinely enjoyed their company.

Besides, it was really nice looking out the kitchen window and catching a glimpse of them at work. You weren’t proud, but it did something for you. The way droplets of sweat ran down their backs, not in a gross way though, in an appealing manner. During the instances they took of their shirts, you got a front row seat to see the muscles in action. You now knew Lucas had stone-hard abs and that Weston had a very nice back.

Despite the fun in getting to know both of them individually, there were some things you couldn’t deny making you uncomfortable. For example, there was the curfew. That one had a good explanation; there were wild animals sometimes running around and they didn’t want you to get hurt. That made perfect sense! Though you couldn’t shake off that one time you couldn’t sleep and had gone outside on the porch for some air. You were just relaxing and looking at the bright stars when shouting woke you up more than your insomnia. Lucas had come rushing towards you in panic. He’d frantically asked you what you were doing up. You responded honestly and he slowly calmed down. He said you shouldn’t go out by yourself anymore. If you can’t sleep you can see the stars perfectly from the living room window, or better yet, you can come to one of their rooms instead.

Then there was the room furthest back in the barn. Although it could be excused as well, they told you that’s where they slaughtered the animals. But you could swear you heard something from inside, something that doesn’t sound at all like a cow, a pig or a chicken. Suspicion arose in you, but fear held you in a chokehold and prevented you from investigating. However nice they were to you, there was no way you’d risk pissing them off. Especially since the mechanic still wasn’t back which meant you had no way to escape, if it would be necessary.

Lucas had been right, Weston wasn’t as scary as he seemed in the beginning. Sure, he was a bit rough around the edges but he had sweet moments too. Once during one of your little adventures on the porch, Weston had suddenly appeared by your side, giving you a scare. He apologised and asked why you were out. You were worried he would get angry considering you’d just recently had the ‘no more going out’- conversation with Lucas. To your surprise he chuckled at your nervous demeanor and did not reprimand you. He told you that in his opinion, Lucas was too paranoid for his own good and sometimes didn’t know when to stop. You don’t have to walk on eggshells, though you probably shouldn’t wander off the porch after dark. Better to be safe than sorry, right? Afterwards he declared he’s going to bed before wrapping you in a blanket, you didn’t even notice he had it with him until he turned you into a burrito. He was very sweet in his own way, you realised. From then on you paid more attention to the affection he undoubtedly showed. Sometimes it was hard to see, but it was definitely there.

Lucas on the other hand was more open with his affection; pulling you into hugs, asking about your day, petting your hair. All these thing he did daily. He, too, was incredibly sweet. Sometimes it was hard to comprehend that him and Weston shared DNA. They were so different. The only thing confirming their relation was little things how their eyes lit up the same way or how their smiles were similar(if you were fortunate enough to witness Weston smiling, that is). Lucas also had a protective streak. He constantly worried over your safety and wellbeing. Which was kind of nice, when he wasn’t nagging you about it every five seconds.

You better listen to them. It’s all for your best. Because if you don’t, you might end up walking into the barn, and then you might end up finding the remains of the mechanic you’ve been looking for. And that wouldn’t be very good now, would it?

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Older!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Bartender!reader

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Simon Riley, Reader

Summary: A military lieutenant closing in on retirement, a younger, beautiful bartender, when you and Lt. Riley meet there is an instant chemistry, though it doesn't really go anywhere as he thinks himself a little too mature for you... until one night he stays at the bar later than he ever has and gets caught in a storm. What will happen after closing time?

Word Count: 9.4 k

Warnings:

The night that Lt. Simon Riley walked into the local bar for the first time started off as any ordinary night would. A man of quiet and solitude, spending nights alone in his room were more of his style, but the older that the introverted military officer got the more a stiff drink at the end of a long week seemed to hit better and since there was usually no liquor to be found on base, the next best thing was the bar not a ten minute drive away…well, seven if he took his motorcycle. 

Accompanied by a few of his long time colleagues he stepped into the establishment with nothing else on his mind other than wanting a bit of liquor to ease the ache in his sore limbs and to take the stress of daily life off his mind. The place was small, the locals that seemed to fill the space were nothing noteworthy, but as soon as he settled in at the table the group had chosen and he caught sight of the beauty behind the counter pouring the drinks with a gentle smile on her lips his mind went blank as his heart leapt in his chest.

The lieutenant had done much in his long career and he found it odd how he couldn’t get himself to even walk up to the bar to order from you as a cold sweat broke out across his body. Was he really going soft the older he got? It took him several minutes of self coaxing to get him to actually get out of his seat. Thank fuck for his customary mask otherwise the product of his racing heart would be plastered all over his face for everyone to see. 

As he stepped up to order and your attention landed on him, all the military training in the world didn’t prepare him for how to keep himself composed in that moment. Even that first conversation you had that night left him reeling. You asked about his mask in the most casual way and something inside him decided to play things up. He told you how he needed it to fend off stares whenever he was in public. 

Trying not to chuckle at that curious furrow in your brow as if skeptical about how a 6’4” man wearing a painted balaclava wouldn’t draw attention, he continued by saying how he was just too good looking to go out without it. The laugh that followed, that genuine wide smiled laugh that you desperately needed after the awful night you had had was already working its magic on him.

He was addicted to your company from that moment on. A strange occurrence for someone who had previously been completely to spend time with no one but himself.

Seeing soldiers around wasn’t strange being near a military installation, you’d gotten used to it rather quickly, but the lieutenant was no ordinary serviceman. Skull masked and huge he was hard to miss, yet what surprised you more than any of that was how his personality was much more gentle than what his appearance would lead you to believe. He was a man of few words, but the ones he gave you were always kind and even sometimes funny and in time you have come to enjoy him being around.

Time has passed, but not much about that has changed. It is always a toss up whether you’ll see him that week or if his presence won’t be around for some time, but you swear that whenever he reappears with his war buddies in tow and those dark eyes find you standing in your customary place behind the bar, the tension in his shoulders eases and the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly through the visible gap in his mask as if his mouth has suddenly upturned. You convince yourself that it’s just for the commodities you supply…and yet… that doesn’t stop the way your heart thumps a little harder every time you see him.

It’s dumb, a stupid crush that won’t lead to anything anyway. He’s older, more mature and a bit intimidating, what would he want with someone like you? A man who’s seen the world would surely find a local bartender boring. Still, you can’t help the excitement that fills you up when he returns and immediately seeks out your company for a bit of chitchat and jokes. 

You try to hide away your infatuation as best as you can and soon you feel comfortable enough to call him an acquaintance, maybe even a friend. Just a friend, right? Just a friend.

Don’t mind the fact that you can’t stop yourself from sneaking glances over at him whenever he lifts the lip of that black mask up off the lower half of his face to take a drink. It doesn’t distract you, you haven’t accidentally spilled liquor all over the bar because of it. It’s the only part of him you have ever seen besides his eyes, the only part of him that you truly know, and yet it is more than enough to fuel a certain overwhelming yearning for him.  

Wishful thinking, you constantly remind yourself because nothing is ever going to come of it.

You almost trick yourself into believing that’s true until you notice that the usual routine begins to change. The last couple of weeks he’s been sitting solely at your bar rather than with his friends, lingering until the last minute where they have to shout his name before he decides to leave. It causes your mind to swirl with the possibilities of what this might mean.

Especially tonight.

There is something about tonight that seems different. It’s a fleeting tension in the air, a feeling that permeates the atmosphere inside the bar until you can’t seem to shake it from your mind no matter how you try to distract yourself from it. Is it exhaustion? You try to convince yourself that you’ve just worked a long, busy shift without a break and that’s what got you feeling off, but still something about it won’t quit playing through your thoughts.  

Last call, last rounds, and the bar is slowly emptied out of its patrons one by one until only a few straggling regulars remain inside while they finish up their drinks along with their conversations. Your eyes flit down to the end of the bar and notice that he’s still there. At the counter perched on a barstool, a nearly empty tumbler of whiskey still resting in his large hand, sits the masked military official. 

As you wipe down the glasses you’ve just washed and put them up, you can’t help the quickening in your chest as you keep stealing sneaky glances down towards him. He’s never stuck around this long; you watched as his crew left him behind and yet he doesn’t look too concerned or eager to follow them. Not that you’re complaining, far from it, but you can’t help being curious about how long he’s going to stick around. Could he still be here when the rest leave?  

…please…

You need a plan, something you can put together quickly to make him stay. Every second that passes that he doesn’t move gives you more time to think, even with your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Deep rumbles off in the distance can be heard over the music idly playing through the speakers, the first signs of an early storm about to roll in at any moment and that sparks an idea. If he can just stay past closing time, you know how to tempt him into sticking around. You just hope the weather will cooperate with what you need it to do.

From within the shadow around his eyes created by his mask, that autumn-colored gaze follows you carefully as you move about tidying the bar while he pretends to nurse his drink that he hasn’t taken a real sip from in almost half an hour. An empty glass won’t give him an excuse to stay; he just has to wait a little longer and he’ll be the only one left. 

Then what? The lieutenant hasn’t thought that far ahead. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to leave.

He brings the cup up to his mouth and holds it there, watching discreetly over the rim as you finish up the tasks you can while patrons still inhabit the space. Setting the glass back down as if he’s taking a sip, Lt. Riley pulls out his phone and the screen blooms alive. The light illuminates his eyes as he immediately draws them to the clock at the top left hand corner. It’s less than ten minutes till close and then it’ll just be you and him.

He continues to follow you with his eyes as you leave your spot to persuade the few drunkards still dawdling about the place to head on home to sleep off their hangovers before they get caught in the rain, but you never once make the same request of him even as you pass him to lead the stragglers out into the night. Just as the last patron leaves out the door you are holding open the tinkling sound of rain hits his ears, followed by the distinct click of the door’s lock engaging, and he takes the last swig of brown, biting liquid to finish off the glass before setting it back down on the counter just as you reappear at his side. 

Coffee eyes dart up to yours only to get locked in their gaze as he carefully lowers his mask back over that chiseled, stubble-covered chin and a subtle change in your expression catches his attention. It is fleeting, but for a second the way you look at him with those wide, doe eyes he swears there is a hint of worry in their depths. 

Is he planning on leaving now? No, you need to put your half-baked plan into action fast or you might lose the moment and you don’t know if you will get an opportunity like this again. The rain outside is picking up heavier now, which gives you courage to follow through with this. 

There is a noticeable flush in your cheeks now and he likes the color it adds to your face. He wonders what’s got you all worked up and secretly hopes that it is in fact him, even if he quickly dismisses the idea before it can take hold of him.

“Guess you’ll be wantin’ me gone so ya can finish up,” he says from behind the fabric, though he makes no attempts to stand.

“Who said anything about leaving?” you reply with a smile as you step up to the counter beside him and reach over the cool, sealed wooden surface of the bar to grab you a fresh glass and the bottle of bourbon he’s been drinking that you’ve purposely kept close by. 

Your items procured, you move to the seat next to him and sit down. “Join me for a drink while we wait out the storm. I know you drove your bike here, you don’t want to go out in this. Unless you have somewhere to be, that is.”

He doesn’t say a word, just stares at you as you tip the lip of the bottle into your glass before reaching for his, pulling it to you, and doing the same. He watches the amber liquid pour and swirl into the bottom of his cup and still makes no attempts to exit his seat. You take it as a good sign. “On the house,” you nod towards the vessel of liquid as you hand it back.

Well, no sense in wasting good bourbon; he might as well stay for a bit. Only for the bourbon, he tells himself, only for the bourbon and to wait out the rain and nothing else. 

The sound system continues to cycle slowly through random songs as you raise your glass to him before downing the first swig with gusto, only a slight wince on your face as the alcohol burns its way down your throat. The lieutenant re-situates his mask above his lips and follows your lead. The moment the glass is back on the bar you quickly take it from him and set up another round between your cups before he can object.

“Like a woman who can hold her liquor,” he chuckles quietly and you match his energy with a giggle. 

“Then you’d really like me cause I can handle a lot more than that,” you pick as you place his glass back in front of him. Your heart pounds hard against your ribs as you surprise yourself at how easily the words flew from your lips.

He brings the glass up and keeps it pressed to his mouth for a moment without taking a sip so that he won’t choke from the unexpected innuendo he thinks he’s detected in your comment. Won’t do to look the fool if it actually isn’t there and he’s reading too much into things. 

Heavier still the rain pounds on the roof as it pours down outside, making the small space feel entirely secluded from the outside world. Here within the walls of the bar it’s like you two are the only people left in the world as everything else is cut off by a blanket of precipitation. You turn your attention to the doors to watch the droplets hit against the glass as you breathe deeply through your nose in a vain attempt to slow the racing in your chest.  

“It’s really takin’ a poundin’ out there,” the lieutenant comments as he follows your gaze and you have to clamp your mouth shut as the way he says the sentence has you dangerously close to accidentally admitting that the weather doesn’t have to be the only thing that could be taking a pounding right now.

You swallow hard as you turn back to him and again grab the bottle of liquor. “Guess we’ll be here a while,” you nervously chuckle, waiting for him to finish his second round so you can set up another before tending to your own glass.  

“Ya keep pourin’ free drinks and tha time’ll pass just fine,” he returns as he reaches for the drink and the back of his fingers accidentally brush over the skin of your knuckles before you can pull your hand fully away from the glass.

That stoic military man plays it off as if the minimal contact doesn’t feel like the magnitude from the collision of two universes and it hasn’t just made his heart forcefully restart. You notice his subtle readjustment in his seat and you pretend you aren’t struggling to even pick up your own glass as your limbs turn to jelly and your breath catches in your throat. An uncommon silence falls over the two of you as you both sit facing forward, staring at your drinks and yet you are sure that Lt. Riley is somehow closer to you than he had just been moments ago.

Three shots in and the alcohol is starting to play its deadly tricks. You really shouldn’t be doing this on an empty stomach, but you don’t want him to leave, not yet. The quiet tension that fills the short space between your bodies is thick enough to cut with a knife and the impulsive thoughts that are starting to swirl around in your head are becoming harder and harder to tune out.

Just watch what you say and don’t let the liquor get to your head, you coax yourself internally. If you can just hold it all in, you won’t risk making a fool of yourself. You need to say something, strike up some nonchalant conversation like you usually do; that should help with that ache starting to form inside. 

But as you turn to face him, your eyes get caught in following the line of his strong jaw up to the curvature of his mouth. You begin committing all the subtle details of the lower half of his face to memory now that you are at his side and can notice the beautiful imperfections of those visible features without the distraction of customers to take your attention away: the hints of gray peeking through the hair in his stubble, the mature lines around his mouth, the scars that are aged and faded. He raises his glass to his mouth and you watch the plump flesh of his full lips wrap around the rim in such a sensuous way that your mind instantaneously is overwhelmed with the need to become an inanimate object. 

Squeezing your thighs together a little tighter, you scramble to find an ounce of sanity to cling to while you fight off the desperate thoughts at the back of your mind as Lt. Riley sets his glass back down on the bar top. He feels your gaze boring into him and something about that tonight is sending him into a tailspin that causes him to take a moment to steady his voice from being influenced by the quickening in his pulse before he can ask what it is that’s causing you to stare.  

“Ya alright there?” he poses the question as he turns to face you and he can’t help but get caught up in the look in your eyes, curious about that shine in your dilated pupils as they focus on the bottom of his face.

That’s when it happens; a momentary lapse of judgment, that’s all it takes, one split second where you let your resolve slip and suddenly it isn’t just your eyes that are on his lips anymore. Leaning up into him, you meet his warm mouth in a hazy, quick embrace that makes your mind swim in ecstasy until you aren’t sure how much time has passed. Then all at once you are jolted back into reality as the heat from his breath makes the skin on your lips tingle and the horrid realization of what it is you’ve done slams into your chest with the force of a freight train.

In a flash you break away with an awkward chuckle at the ready to disguise your true feelings by being humorous. “Shit,” you say through your laugh as you place a hand to your temple, “looks like I’m a bit more tired than I thought. Liquor has gone straight to my head.”

Your mind is frantic to come up with something to get you away until you can calm down, but the lingering feeling of the friction of his lips against yours still permeates your every thought. Still it seems your feet know what to do without even thinking as you are now standing. “Let me go clean myself up while you finish your drink, yeah?” you suggest as the man beside you sits silent. “Like I said, it’s on the house, so feel free to leave even if I’m not back once you’re done.”

Those full lips you had just been pressed against stay closed and you don’t give him any chance to respond as you immediately turn tail to head straight for the restrooms at the other side of the bar without a single look back, that euphoric feeling slipping away as anxiety settles itself in your heart. It is probably just a bit of paranoia, but you swear you can feel his eyes staring holes into your back as you finally reach the door and quickly pop inside.  

The hinges on the bathroom door screech through the rust that covers them as you rush to step inside and head straight for the solitary sink near the back wall of the tiny, confined space. “What the fuck was that?” you question yourself as if you have any idea of why you would do such a thing. 

You turn on the taps and cup your hands under the cool water to gather enough in your palms to splash into your face. Fuck, you need to calm down and get a hold of yourself. Blindly reaching for the paper towel dispenser to your right, you grab a fistfull of those coarse bits of paper and pat the liquid off your cheeks before your eyes clock your reflection in the mirror in front of you. Those glistening irises stare back at you as your hands grip onto the sink as if it will help you in taking deep breaths. The blush in your cheeks has blossomed quite bright, bright enough that there is no hiding it even after the few minutes you’ve stood there just inhaling and exhaling. 

Great, you’ve probably run off the one person you actually enjoyed seeing around this shithole by losing yourself in the moment. Is it going to be worth it when he decides to avoid you from now on? That’s the only logical response you can imagine from the events that just took place. Closing your eyes tight, you hang your head with an exasperated sigh as you let the negative self-talk run its course, hoping that at least by the time you finish he will be gone and you can let yourself wallow in shame alone. 

Back outside the bathroom, the lieutenant’s silent gaze follows you all the way until you disappear behind the barrier clearly marked for the toilets. He grips back on and holds tight to the nearly empty glass as he finally turns his attention back around to the rest of the room before him and licks the length of his bottom lip heavily with the end of his tongue to catch the fleeting taste of your kiss as he sits in stunned silence, scrambling to take in all that has just transpired. 

With a few deep breaths inhaled, he throws back the rest of his drink and sets the glass down on the bar with a muted clink for a final time and turning his head back towards the restroom, he pulls his mask down over his face and gets to his feet to slowly head for the door.

It isn’t clear how much time passes before your ears pick up a sound that you do not expect.

Out of your thoughts you hear the familiar squeak of the door hinges and your eyes shoot open to instantly drift towards the source as that can only mean one thing now that the bar is shut down. There, standing noiselessly on the inside of the closed door and taking up most of the frame, is the imposing figure of the one and only Lt. Riley. 

The faint bit of sultry music filtering into the bathroom from the speakers outside the door fills the otherwise quiet of the space as you and that hulking military man simply stare at one another waiting to see who will be the first one to speak. After a few seconds though, the lieutenant makes the first move and slowly crosses the short length of the room with a calm and calculated precision. 

He comes to stop within a few feet of you and finally you find your voice. Those striking eyes never leave yours as he looks down at you through the space in his concealing balaclava and try as you might you can’t read what’s being expressed in his gaze. Is it anger, is it disgust, is it…something else? You don’t know, but you expect the worst and God do you hope you can fix this. 

“Listen, I am so sorry about what I did back there. I’m sure you’re uncomfortable,” you instantly stammer out another apology, only this time with more sincerity. “I genuinely don’t know what came over me to do that to you; we’ve only ever been friendly and I know I’ve overstepped. I won’t make excuses for my behavior, but I promise it won’t happen again. I would just hate to know that I made you feel too awkward to come back.”

There is a pause as his sight stays locked onto your face for what feels like an eternity as he silently tries to discern something within your eyes, a spark that he saw back at the bar, until he finally speaks for the first time since the incident. 

“Did ya not wanna do it?” he asks in a murmur, almost as if he is uneasy to learn the answer. 

The question catches you off-guard, being the only thing that your mind had not anxiously thought could be asked. What are you supposed to say? Under his tender stare you scramble mentally for a believable fib that you can pull off in your distracted state, but the only thing you have is the truth. Goddammit…why can’t you lie to him?

“I- I did, I do, but…” you say in an attempt to explain yourself, but his action causes the words to get lost on your tongue. 

This is not something that Lt. Riley is used to doing, he feels a bit too old and out of place for this sort of thing, but if there is one lesson that the seasoned military man in him always remembers, it’s that when you see an opportunity, you take it and so he moves in until his boots are nearly touching the tip of your shoes. Raising his hand to your head, he brushes his rough fingers through a few loose strands of hair hanging down around your face to tuck them delicately back behind your ear. More of your warm cheek is revealed to his touch and he wastes no time in placing his coarse hand to rest up against it. 

The sound of his voice hits your ears, but your mind is too numb to make out the words as you continue to stare up into his face while his thumb risks a few gentle strokes along the contour along your jaw. You desperately try to speak up, wanting to ask what he said, but your breath gets caught somewhere in your throat as that tender bit of intimacy disrupts all the involuntary processes that normally conduct themselves to keep you functional. 

Being here with him in the soft flickering fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, crammed into this tight space between him and the wall as the natural heat of his body makes the subtle scent of his spicy cologne bloom on his skin, it fills your head with disastrous thoughts that leave you in a haze of intoxication. You swallow hard to gain control. 

“W-what?” you ask.   

Lt. Riley’s strong jaw shifts beneath his mask, preparing himself to restart an admission that could be disastrous, but you’ve already played your hand and now he feels like he should too. “I said I’m done keepin’ this all in,” he reiterates as the softness of your skin under his rugged hand makes his fingertips ache to feel more, “sittin’ in here countless nights pretendin’ like it’s all fine, tryin’ to keep certain thoughts from gettin’ out. Told myself over and over I was too old for ya, that ya’d never go for a bloke like me, and it worked for a time. Then ya kiss me and suddenly I don’t fuckin’ care anymore. Ya say we’re friends, but, ya see, I’ve got enough mates, sweet’art.”

Drifting his thumb over from your cheek to the corner of your mouth he begins to slowly pull the pad of it across the silky skin of your bottom lip. Your mouth parts open with a faint inaudible gasp as he runs the length of all that tender, yearning flesh that is driving him to the brink of insanity. One kiss, that is all it took and now he is sure that there is nothing else that will satisfy him except for you. 

“I wanna be so much more,” he says without breaking eye contact.   

The fingers of his opposite hand find themselves at your side and glide eagerly around the band of your jeans they rest right against your hip. As his exploring touch makes contact with the balmy flesh of your pelvis up under your shirt, sparks of electricity feel like they web out over your skin and your breathing quickens with the increasing beat of your aching heart. 

“Been thinkin’ a lot ‘bout what I’d do if I ever got a chance wit ya like this.” His voice is heavily accented and husky with the magnitude of his need. “Thinkin’ ‘bout all the fuckin’ desperate things I wanna do to ya, but I never thought I’d get an opportunity like this. And now that we’re both ‘ere, I can’t stop the way I’m thinkin’ ‘bout those things again.”

As Lt. Riley traces burning lines over your skin, goosebumps forming wherever he goes, it’s hard to think of anything outside of how he’s never felt more alive than he does right now against you. His experienced fingers flit across your heated flesh the higher they go up your hip and your body trembles under the contact. Is this wrong? Is this right? He isn’t sure of the answer; shit, he’s getting closer and closer to retirement every goddamn day, but all he knows is that he needs you now more than he has ever needed another being before. 

And you need him just as badly.

His inhale is what brings you out of your thoughts and back into the moment. It’s a sharp intake of air and as you focus your sight back onto his eyes, he pauses the movement of his hand before it can get any further up the side of your torso. He’s getting ahead of himself and he needs to hear you to confirm that you need this too. 

“So, that’s why I gotta ask again,” he breathes the words into your face. “Did ya wanna fuckin’ kiss me? Or was it really a mistake?”

You can’t help letting out a wavering breath. Had you been holding it in this entire time? “I did want to do it,” you confirm quietly, struggling to get the words out through the dryness in your mouth. 

In your thoughts you silently beg the universe to not let this be some alcohol induced dream, even though you can feel his hand playing along your skin, sense the proximity of your bodies and the heat that flows off him to let you know that he is real, still you worry. What if this is all wishful thinking? The product of desperation in wanting something you don’t think you deserve to have? You stare back at him with bright eyes, begging for him to prove to you that this is so much more than delusion.

“I swear from the moment I first saw ya behind the bar, every fuckin’ time ya look at me with those pretty eyes ya nearly make me lose myself,” he says, his body so close that you are being physically swallowed up in his massive presence. “I need ya so fuckin’ bad.”

You look into the covered silhouette of his face and up into those dark eyes, the eyes you have adored from afar for so long, and fuck is it intoxicating to finally be the sole object of their unwavering admiration. It is impossible to not feel the want in his gaze, that same want that is overwhelming you too. And suddenly you realize that neither of you is leaving this bathroom…at least not for a while.  

“Y-you don't have to run from it anymore,” you say back softly, “Cause fuck, do I need you just as bad.” 

The desperate way you say it makes his whole body shudder and he struggles to control the ache flooding his limbs as the sound conjures to mind images of him pinning you to the wall and taking you with everything he has, capturing your lips himself this time in an embrace that will leave you faint as that insatiable hunger overtakes him.

Fuck, if he gets any harder he is gonna rip through the zipper of his jeans.

Your gaze pleads with him before it shifts down to the area of his face with the one thing you crave in that moment: his lips, his kiss. You need to have those full bits of flesh against your own again, it’s the only thing you can comprehend the feeling of in the haze that the overwhelming nature of his presence is currently producing to cloud your mind. You have to test that what you felt back at the bar wasn’t just the result of exhaustion and liquor, but that all that chemistry you felt in that moment was real.

And as if in answer to the question you haven’t asked, Lt. Riley slips his fingers into the neckline of his black t-shirt to find the hem of his mask and deliberately he pulls the fabric up to reveal his mouth and stubble-covered jaw to you once again, letting the excess cloth rest across the bridge of his prominent nose in the way he usually does it.

He parts his lips open somewhat to let in a little more oxygen as the space inside the bathroom suddenly feels far too small and the air much too stifling as he succumbs to the anticipation of meeting your lips with his again. This time it is deliberate; what if it doesn’t feel like that first time? It would kill him to know that after all the pining and aching for your touch that he has done that the spark he had just felt was all a farce caused by the liquor and unexpected timing. 

Yet without even thinking suddenly the lieutenant realizes that his hand is cupping the back of your head, his long fingers tangling into the strands of your hair to hold your head in place and you inhale sharply at the rougher contact. A smile forms on his mouth at your reaction, followed by a low groan that emanates out from deep within his chest. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, ya know that? Pretty girl.”

Those full lips of his ghost themselves over your own until the proximity makes you tremble from their seduction and your eyes flutter shut a moment as you let yourself succumb to the anticipation of when exactly he will break the distance. He waits on baited breath until your eyes slowly flit back open and your gaze meets his before he finishes his thought. “I wanna make ya mine so fuckin’ bad, luv.”

A smile crosses over your mouth as you hold his longing stare. You know he’s giving you an out, a way to step away if this isn’t really what you want, but from the moment your lips met back at the bar, there was no turning from this. “Then what are you waiting for?” you ask in the softest whisper as you can almost taste his breath from the proximity of his mouth. “Kiss me. Make me yours.”

You hear the deep breath he intakes before all at once he leans into you in a frenzy, not able to hold back that overwhelming tension for another second. The grip from his large hand palming through your hair is strong and keeps your head safe as he shoves you both into the wall, his firm torso pressing tightly into your curves as the brunt of his need and months of pent up longing is forced upon your lips with a feverish intensity that makes you instantly lose yourself as explosions like fireworks light up inside your mind.

Over and over he captures your mouth with hot aggression until your lips start to burn from the friction the harder he presses into them. You try to draw in air, but his heated advances on your mouth make it almost impossible to breathe; still, you won’t let him pull away even if he tries. The sparse dusting of stumble along his jaw pricks your cheeks and the skin around your mouth as the taste of the whiskey that he had just downed for courage floods the inside of your mouth from his breath and it hits your tongue with its sharp bite.

Your own hands decide they need to explore the man currently devouring your lips and you run up the back of his muscular neck to the bottom of his mask only for your fingertips to be met with cropped hair at the back of his head. The feeling of your fingers brushing over the short strands near the nape of his neck makes him shiver as the pleasure of the act snakes down his spine and you sigh into his mouth.

Lt. Riley is completely and utterly captivated by you…and he needs more.   

The hand he has wrapped around you he draws in towards himself so that you are pressed to him even tighter until your bodies are molded together as if you are one being, your curves meeting the firm muscles along his abdomen, and fuck if there isn’t something hard and throbbing piercing against your inner thigh that he starts to grind into you. 

“That’s it lieutenant,” you coax him as you match his movements in that desperate back and forth, scrambling to get as much friction as possible between your aching bodies. 

There is a deep grunt as he shakes his head. “Simon,” he growls into your open mouth as he readjusts his hips more squarely against you, “I need ya ta call me Simon. Say my name.”

Christ, his first name tastes like honey on your tongue and you feel feverishly excited to repeat it aloud now that you finally know it. His name. “Simon,” you groan through a break in his mouth’s connection. 

Those lips of his that dominate your own are frantic to embrace you until your mouth is on fire from the pressure. It’s like a spell the way you say it and suddenly there is nothing else he wants to hear more. “That’s it,” he breathes into you, “Say it again.”

“Simon.” 

He had always been lieutenant or Lt. Riley, but now he is Simon. Just Simon. And even though this has just started, it already feels like he is your Simon.

There is a heat in the middle of his chest, a burning, gnawing desire that has gripped his heart instantly in a desperate chokehold as his essence leaves your soft lips. “Fuck… again, sweet’art,” he begs; never has his name ever sounded so beautiful before and now that he has a taste of it off your tongue, he realizes just how starved he is for it.   

You say his name again, this time like a plea for more and it leaves him in a tailspin. His body cries out to feel you, all of you, without any barriers between your skin meeting his. He needs to experience every detail, explore every curve, relish every soft bit of flesh he can get his hands on; he’s waited long enough to have you. First he has to start with his mask. It’s in the way and he has no need to hide from you, not anymore, not ever again.

“Screw this damned thing,” Simon groans with agitation at the fabric still sticking to his heated features; he doesn’t want a single restriction between you both and with a quick pull starting from the back of his head, he rips the mask up and off his face, throwing it away without even caring where it lands. 

Cupping your face in between his large palms, he pauses only a moment to take you in as a new man, one entirely free of his anonymity, and allow you to truly see who it is that you crave. There is a vulnerability in his brown eyes that he cannot hold back as if he is waiting for you to change your mind now that you know the face beneath the disguise, but that could not be farther from what you are thinking. The desperate need he has for you shines in the depths of his gaze and it makes your already shallow breathing hitch in your chest. 

A gorgeous mess of dirty blonde hair is accentuated with silvery whisps at his temples, making him look distinguished and experienced. His eyes are even more intense now that they are not hidden in darkness and those solid, distinct features are highlighted with a little spackling of hair along his jaw. You can’t help but stare while you scramble to memorize every beautifully mature detail of the man you desire. He is everything and more than you could ever have imagined and all of it only for you. 

Reaching up, you trace the contours of his visage with the tips of your fingers as if sight isn’t enough and you can feel him tremble under your gentle touch. You outline old scars and just forming creases around his eyes as if they are precious and something about the tender way you take him in is enough to stop his heart.

The way your eyes linger on his face has his blood racing violently through his veins and in a haze of lust and euphoria he grabs you by the biceps to spin you round before he slides his hands up under your arms to pick you up, setting your ass on the edge of the small, one person sink. Expertly he slides himself between your open legs while pushing them open wider with his hands to accommodate his broad hips.  

“Fuck, I’ve wanted ta do this for so long now,” he says as his eyeline locks directly onto your full, juicy pout before he immediately has his hand catch the back of your head again to pull your face back to meet his. He connects your mouths back together with another moist, sticky embrace. 

Simon cannot get enough of you, not when it feels like you are meant to take every single ounce of his desire from the moment your lips met each other back at the bar. Unintentionally you roll your hips into him and fuck does it feel good for you to grind against that stiff peak strainging his jeans to capacity.  

He tilts your head back, his hands cradling your neck as his thumb brushes down the side of your throat closest to him. So soft, so silky, his lips ache to get a chance to caress such beauty. The longer he stares the more the idea blossoms in his mind that all that free space would look perfect with a little reminder of where he has been.

Never has he had something so gorgeous at his disposal. It’s enough to make a man lose himself.

“Ya know what I really been thinkin’ ‘bout? Wanna markup this pretty neck ‘a yours,” he groans the desperate request into the skin of your lips. “Leave my signature on what’s mine now.”

His. 

Fuck, why does that sound so good? Now you can’t think of anything else other than that one word being said in his voice: mine. Nothing has ever made you so instantly needy than the sentiment behind his statement. To be claimed by him is all you want.

“Please,” you beg enthusiastically, “I want you to mark me.” 

You’ve barely finished your sentence before your words are quickly followed by an open-mouthed moan as Simon doesn’t waste a single second in moving his lips straight to your throat, using the pad of his thick tongue to lick up to the spot he’s aiming for before latching onto that thunderously pounding vein right beneath your jaw. The sound of your moan pulls a tight knot deep in his belly so that his cock twitches at the tone.

“Gonna leave ya wit somethin’ beautiful,” he grunts the passionate words without lifting his lips off of you. He has to be sure that the pressure takes and leaves the area nice and visible with his signature. 

His mouth latches onto the side of your throat just below your ear before you feel the sharp sting as his teeth dig hard into the soft, supple flesh. The pressure is so intense from the suction of his lips you can almost feel the skin bubble up further into his mouth; there is no question that there will be a big, angry, purple blotch by tomorrow.

“Open. Your. Legs.” 

With shut eyes you hear his demand through the fullness in his mouth and widen the gap between your thighs just as a broad hand slithers its way inside the top of your jeans and into your panties right up until Simon cups it over your pussy. Your lips are already puffy and slick with your need, the heat filling his palm with your desperation for more as his thick fingers part them like a hot knife through butter.

Gently he uses the pad of his middle finger to circle around the tiny nub at the top of your pussy, that sweet little button full of nerve endings that immediately make you whimper as he plays around it, teasing the sensitive tissue with a light, steady touch without making any contact with it yet. He’s waiting to feel a tremble shake its way through you, your body’s way of begging for more stimulation, before he gives in to the gnawing ache he’s desperately trying to create in you.   

“Please,” the whispered plea falls from your raw lips as agony sets in, but he stays the course. 

You groan deeply, your body straining to hold on as your clit throbs, and just as your head falls back and your eyes close there is a quiver that ripples through your inner thighs. There is no way for you to know, but you swear that his lips upturn against your neck and suddenly he is stroking the tip of his finger over that pulsing node.

Raising your hands to his shoulders, you dig the tips of your fingers in hard to the muscles in shoulders through his t-shirt to hold on as your entire body is enchanted by his stimulation. The pressure from your touch causes him to grunt excitedly into your neck, aroused by the desperate roughness of the contact, and you can feel the vibration in the back of your throat. 

The fluorescent lights overhead flicker with a metallic click and his eyes flutter open just as a bead of sweat catches the light as it rolls down your chest and into the valley between your breasts. Simon watches its entire path as it descends into your cleavage before another grabs his attention. Before this one can get away he licks it up with the tip of his tongue, capturing your salt in his mouth. There is nothing on you that he wants to go to waste, not when he has waited this long to finally have a taste of you.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he moans deeply into your skin as if he is trying to fuse his words with the flesh so that you will carry them with you. “I’m one lucky bastard ta even get the chance ta touch ya.” 

“I’m the lucky one,” you breathe. “I’ve wanted you for so long Simon. Just didn’t want to risk looking the fool and driving you away if you didn’t feel the same. I couldn’t stand you not being around.”

Simon pulls from your throat and his face drifts back up to look into yours, his fingers still working their magic. You meet his gaze with an open mouth as the ecstasy builds, the eye contact intensifying the already intimate act. 

“I’m not fuckin’ goin’ anywhere,” he says with conviction that it turns your already desperate need for him completely feral. 

You tug at his belt, your fingers clumsily fidgeting with the buckle until it finally comes loose and falls away, hitting his hips with a jingle as metal clanks against metal. A swift nip at your bottom lip is his response to being undressed as you grab onto the pull of his zipper and rip it all the way down to reach the seam. His pants are barely hanging onto his body now, clinging ever so carelessly at his hip bones and ready to slip off them at any second with the slightest amount of movement. 

“I need you inside me,” you breathe into his mouth as your hands gripped onto his hips push the fabric down, making him lightheaded at your neediness. 

Of course you’re curious about the protuberance prodding into you and as the last of his clothing falls away, your eyes drift down. “Fuck…” you whimper in a whisper as you release his cock and it springs to life as it’s no longer confined. 

“It’s all yours, sweet’art,” he says as he runs the edge of his teeth across your lip while his hands paw at the waistband of your pants. “Been fuckin’ gnawin’ at the bit to bury it in ya. Goddammit, ya get me so fuckin’ hard I can barely handle myself sometimes. Have to rub one out the moment I get back to base.”

It’s your turn now and he helps to keep you steady while you raise your hips off the sink enough that he can pull down your pants and drag them off your legs, taking your skimpy panties with them so that there’s nothing left to remove. “Fuckin’ hell,” he says, his breathing shaky as he takes you all in. All that glorious, soft, supple skin could not be more beautiful.

You cup his cheek and he comes back into himself, back into the moment with you. “Simon, please.” 

That’s all he needs to hear before he moves to align himself at your pulsing and dripping core. “Need ya ta breathe for me,” he reassures, “just breathe.”

Your head is held upright as he peers deep into your eyes while you struggle to take him in, his girth stretching out your tight hole the deeper he goes until your body contours to his specific shape. He tries to speak, but only incoherent, slurred words trip off his tongue at the feeling of his cock being throttled with how tight and wet you are. How can a being so exquisite want someone like him?

“You’re perfect, luv,” he groans as he scrambles to settle himself so that this doesn’t end prematurely by digging his fingers into your hip. “Ya drive me insane, pretty girl.” 

God, his honeyed words act as an aphrodisiac and the pleasure is almost too much. “I’ve wanted you for so long Simon, thought I was gonna break everytime you came in for a drink. I need you to fuck me good. I’ve waited so long for this.”

He chuckles as he lifts your chin. “Baby, I only want to make you come,” he says while staring deep into your eyes, clenching so that his cock twitches within you to make you gasp with a surprised smile.

To be inside you is mind-numbing, but that doesn’t stop the need he has to thrust, to shove his cock further and further up into you. Even within the first few minutes he is already pussydrunk so that he is slamming into you with a feral roughness that leaves his rhythm scattered for a bit as his brain only has one objective and that is to make you both fall apart.

One hand, fingers spread wide, braces against the wall aside the mirror, the other rests around the back of your neck as his hips snap up into you with a consistent fluidity. The sink beneath you groans and squeaks in time with each of his thrusts, the unfamiliar strain putting pressure where it connects to the wall. 

Having him pounding inside you has you so wet that the sound of slapping skin against skin fills the bathroom and Simon pulls back just enough to watch himself pump in and out of that beautiful opening. A sight like this is deadly and he prays that it is burned into his mind cause he wants this on replay in his thoughts. Nothing could ever look better than this.

Taking two fingers he brings them straight in towards your clit, wasting no time in drawing circles over that overwhelmingly sensitive bundle of nerves. Your hips buck hard against him at the extra stimulation until you are pushing down onto his hand, your eyes rolling back as the ecstasy flows through your veins and that recognizable warmth starts to gather in the pit of your stomach.

“Don’t stop,” you beg, each second bringing you ever closer to your release. “Gonna cum soon.”

Those three lethal words he has longed to hear for months and months now only fuel those strong thrusts and quick flicks of your clit. “That’s it, darlin’, fuckin’ come for me,” Simon growls so desperately it makes your head spin. “I need to feel ya.”

The pace never falters even though Simon is hanging on by a thread and his body is burning from the constant movement. He can’t be stopped, not with his goal so close. And all that hard work pays off as with a few more minutes your head finally flicks back and your thighs clamped down around his hips, a cry exploding out of you as you come violently that you nearly fall off the sink, but he isn’t going to let you go anywhere.

“Good girl,” he praises breathlessly. “Ride it out, all the way for me.”

Your core is fluttering around him, squeezing around his cock as he takes you all the way through your ecstasy until it’s too much to handle. His fingers scramble to rip up your shirt off your torso to secure it above your bra; he won’t be able to hold on much longer. A few heavy breaths get panted out in time with his thrusts and that is it, like flicking on a lightswitch he cannot hold off the pressure any longer as it reaches its peak. 

His raw mouth latches onto the crook of your neck just as he rips his cock out of you and into his hand to stroke out his orgasm and cover your stomach in his warm cum. Simon’s body shudders as he releases a loud groan with a bass that vibrates through your shoulder as he desperately tries to keep quiet as the intensity of his pleasure rips through him like a tidal wave with each stroke of his hand over his sensitive cock. 

“Christ,” he grunts into you as he milks the last bit of cum out and releases his grip on himself. 

Simon’s head hangs limp a moment as he breathes, exhaustion flooding his limbs so that they feel weighted, before he leans down and catches your mouth in a much more tender embrace than the ferocious ones he had been placing on it just moments ago. Your fingers run through his sideburns and he can’t help sighing contentedly with a smile meeting your lips.  

This has been more than worth the wait. “You’re amazin’ sweetheart,” he murmurs sweetly. “The best thing ta ever happen ta me.”

Simon keeps you in his arms even after he’s gotten you cleaned up and back onto your feet, holding you close to his body as he drags his rough, hardened fingers down over the palm of your hand with a light touch, bringing them down to the tips of your own until goosebumps begin to form along your forearm. 

“It’s late; you’ll probably want ta be headin’ home now,” he mutters quietly as his sizable fingers part through the spaces between your own until they latch your hands together. 

“You’re right,” you agree with a nod of your head, both of you still reeling in the ecstasy of your copulation as your eyes linger on the tender connection of your hands.

Simon looks up from your conjoined limbs to meet your bright eyes and the smile he greets with his sight leaves him desperate to feel it on his lips. You grip into his hand tighter as you move to step towards the door. “You coming with me? Gotta lock up before we can head to mine.” 

He smirks to himself with a shake of his head as he lets you lead him by the hand back out into the bar, ready to head to yours for the night to get lost in you all over again. Fate gave him this opportunity and he is going to take full advantage of enjoying the one thing he’s craved for too long now.

[total-dxmure]

ೃ࿔ CHERRY FLAVORED →【ELLIE WILLIAMS】→ CHAPTER ONE

pairing: mega fan!ellie williams x rock star!reader

summary: your guitarist was carted off to rehab after just one month into your recent tour. fuck. there’s only one thing you can do, and that’s hire a replacement. your band thinks it’s going to be nearly impossible to find someone that is on the same level of talent as your “beloved” guitarist. you don’t have high hopes that anyone can nail the songs quite like he did either, if you’re being brutally honest. enter ellie- she’s a mega fan. the girl knows every lyric and note like the back of her hand. . . and everything about you, which isn’t creepy at all. her apparent obsession with you is something that you and your tour manager can overlook if it means carrying on with the rest of the tour. forced proximity with a stalker-level fan . . . what’s the worst thing that could happen?

warnings: smut in next chapter, talk of substance abuse, the reader is a tease and a bit of a bitch but it’s hot i promise, ellie is obsessed with reader to an unhealthy degree.

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.

It was the kind of love that tortured poets mused over. Ribs straining against a heavy heart. 

Ellie had deluded herself, as any love drunk person does, that she wouldn’t dissolve into a puddle on the floor if she were to meet you. She could keep her cool- downplay the crushing significance you held in her life. Your voice was constantly ringing in her ears. She could see your face in perfect clarity any time she closed her eyes. Pictures like snapshots played out behind her eyelids, and yet you always felt a million miles away for her. You were a perfect performer, situated on your sky-high pedestal, always out of her puny reach. 

Because Ellie, as much as she despised this fact and dreamed of greatness, was a nobody. She grew up in a tiny town of no noteworthiness, her adolescent years spent dreaming about the planets and playing guitar with Joel. By all accounts Ellie was normal, while you were certainly not. Still, she liked to tell herself that she’d somehow manage to make herself worthy of your affections if she were ever to be blessed with them. 

Finding herself in a situation like this seemed like an impossibility. She was partially convinced that she was daydreaming, having concocted some elaborate fantasy just to feed the insatiable ache. She was starved for you with no way to feed herself. 

All it had taken was a single audition tape. One. Single. Tape. Ellie was staring, wide eyed, at Gene fuckin’ Murray. 

The blood rushed from her head, hands breaking out instantaneously into a clammy sweat. She couldn’t think, couldn’t function at the realization that she was staring at one of the people that she had worshiped for years. Gene’s talent had been praised by the likes of Lars Ulrich and Danny Carey. He wasn’t popular just for his looks but for his undeniable talent. 

And he was staring straight at Ellie, arms crossed over his toned chest as he waited expectantly. She felt like an idiot. Should she be playing? If so, what did they want her to play? Surely one of their songs. She’d glossed past the fact that she was a megafan, instead making it sound like she was just looking for a successful band to join. She was talented. No, Ellie was really talented. 

She wasn’t just a technical player, but excelled at making her own rules. She enjoyed the creative freedom that playing the guitar granted, and felt as though the world needed more Jimi’s and Van Halen’s. Ellie excelled at thinking outside of the box. 

She wasn’t very successful when it came to women, but had no problem making her guitar scream and cry for her. 

She wasn’t very successful when it came to women, but had no problem making her guitar scream and cry for her. 

She wasn’t very successful when it came to women, but had no problem making her guitar scream and cry for her. 

So she took a deep breath and tried to steady her heart, once again stepping up to the mic. If there was one thing that all of your bandmates had in common, it was the attitude. She’d watched hundreds of interviews, had studied all of their movements and mannerisms. . .she understood you down to a science. 

“So do you want me to play or what?” Ellie spoke into the mic, gripping the neck of the guitar in the hopes that it might act as an anchor. She was scared that she might float away. 

The manager’s eyebrows twitched at her sudden change in attitude but he didn’t say anything, merely turned to look at Gene. For a second everyone just stared at her, like a bug under a microscope. After what felt like five minutes but was really just five seconds, Gene broke out into a grin, motioning to her with a flick of his wrist. He wasn’t confident in her, Ellie could tell. 

She had a sweet face, she knew that. Big green eyes and freckles- she was unsuspecting. People were usually shocked to find out that she had wrestled competitively in high school and had no problem putting a man three times her size on his ass. People expected very little from her, and perhaps that was part of Ellie’s real charm. 

“What song?” She was staring at Gene now, gripping her guitar pick between two sweat-slick fingers. 

“What ‘bout ‘Sometime Soon’? Know that one?” His tone was teasing. Condescending. 

The song was fast paced. It was supposed to be played loud and hard- one of your angrier songs. Ellie knew that you had been the one to write this one, meaning it was one of her favorites. The notes weren’t beginner friendly, but it wasn’t exactly hard for her. 

It was more style, less technical ability- which meant that Ellie would have no problem making this song her bitch. 

It was obvious that Gene was the one meant to judge her. The manager was just that- a manager. They needed an actual musician to listen in. So she took a deep breath and readied herself. . . 

and then the sound of your singing voice blasted into the booth. Drums, bass- she was meant to play with you. 

She almost missed her que, eyes widening in nervousness. She thought that she’d be playing all by her lonesome. She thought wrong it would seem. They’d started her off right in the middle of the song. Probably to throw her off. She jumped in, fingers sliding along the frets to shape out the correct notes. She tucked her guitar pick against the palm of her hand with her thumb, using the pads of her fingers to tap the strings. Faster. Faster. Faster. She didn’t look up from her guitar to look at the men’s reactions to her playing. Instead she just pretended she was standing in the living room of her apartment, hellbent on getting another noise complaint from the bitchy nextdoor neighbor. 

Her calloused fingers pinched the strings, satisfied with the way the guitar whined over the speakers. The guitar solo in this song was meant to be impressive- and it was, she had to give it to Leon. A lot of it was just bullshitting though. He’d admitted that he came up with the solo in the actual sound booth off of the top of his head while they were recording the song. 

The man was a god. He deserved “guitarist of the year” two years in a row. Ellie had the Los Angeles native beat though. Where he had grown up in the constant presence of “the greats”, Ellie had grown up in a constant state of boredom. She’d been playing the guitar since she was fourteen. Every day she’d sit down for hours and practice until her fingers bled. . . literally. She had thousands of hours on Leon, and she knew that with certainty. 

Ellie moved the guitar up and down gently with her fret hand, prolonging the last note so that it cried the way she wanted it to. The muscles in her arms were sore from how hard she had been tensing during the song. She’d been a lot more mechanical about it than she was used to, but she had something to prove. 

After a second she looked up from her guitar to gauge everyone’s reactions. The manager had dropped his cold and indifferent demeanor, instead flashing her a small smile. It bolstered her, gave her the strength to turn and look at Gene. 

He still had his arms crossed over his chest, and for a second Ellie was sure that he would tell her that she sucked. She widened her stance, shuffling her feet so that she was in a more defensive position. His heated gaze made her feel as though she needed to protect herself from whatever mental anguish he was about to put her through. 

“I thought she was kick ass,” Gene finally spoke up, giving Ellie a small thumbs up. Her face lit up into a wide smile before she could school her reaction into one of indifference. “What do you think? You’re the one that calls all the shots.” He spoke behind him, looking down at someone that had been hidden on the couch all along. 

Ellie squinted her eyes, taking a step closer to the glass to see if there was another businessman she’d somehow overlooked. 

She saw your hair before she saw anything else. It was freshly dyed, different than the last she’d seen you in all of the recent tabloid photos. You were clad in leather- pants so tight that they looked like a second skin. Your top was just as restrictive, breasts spilling out from the top, midriff revealed to show off the small silver piercing you had decorating your belly button. 

You were Hecate in the flesh- dark, sinister, mysterious and capable of anything. Ellie didn’t think that it would be possible, but you were even prettier in person. The sight of you sent a shock through her system, and for a second she felt her knees quiver, as if she could no longer hold up the weight of her own body. Her insides turned to mush; white, hot mush. 

The Stendhal syndrome: Ellie had been brought to the very precipice of existence by sight alone. She was so overcome by your mere existence that she felt her eyes begin to well up with tears. Body trembling, eyes locked on to your face and nothing else- it felt like she might faint. She remembered reading about the syndrome once before in an art history class she took in college. 

“Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty. . . I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations.” 

The urge to flee was just as great as the urge to get her hands on you was. She was thankful for the wide stance she was currently in, because if her legs had been any closer together then she was positive she would have lost her balance and fallen over. 

You were right there in front of her. You’d been right in front of her the entire time, she’d just been so focused on Gene that she hadn’t even seen you in her panic. She stumbled forward, her sneakered foot catching the jack for the amp. She slapped her hands over her ears as a blood curdling screech began blaring over the speakers. 

Ellie could have died. In fact. . . she just might. She dropped her guitar roughly on the ground as she raced over towards the amp, fingers shaking as she turned the knob to the volume.

The booth, once again, was silent. Silent enough to hear a pin drop. Slowly she turned, grimacing when she noticed the looks on everyone’s faces. She’d embarrassed herself and ruined her chance. Even worse was the fact that she’d humiliated herself in front of you. 

She had somehow deluded herself into believing that the two of you were soulmates over the years. She’d compared your birth charts, life numbers- had taken multiple celebrity compatibility tests. All signs pointed to a resounding yes. The two of you were star crossed lovers, cursed to never know one another. She had told herself that if she were ever to bump into you in person that she’d be able to keep her cool. Ellie was certain that she could pretend that she didn’t know who you are- could downplay the significance that you held  

Her ignorance was laughable. She’d been so overcome by your mere presence that she’d stumbled on air while standing completely still. You were standing up straight now, and even from her spot behind the thick glass she could tell how much taller you were than her. You had to be wearing heels or platforms, because according to Google you were- 

“You know how many auditions we’ve listened to today?” You had grappled the mic from the tech and were now hunched over his soundboard, the lights from all of the buttons and knobs casting strange, beautiful shadows over your face. Your eyeliner was dark and smoked out around your eyes, and in that moment Ellie wondered if you were an angel or a demon. “Twelve. Twelve fuckin’ people have walked into that booth today. Every single one of them has been absolute shit. So bad, in fact, that I’ve wanted to blow my fuckin’ brains out in this buildings tiny, piss-stained bathroom.” 

Ellie blanched, lips losing their pink color as the blood drained from her face. She was about to pass out. Her vision was already starting to tunnel. She grabbed onto one of the microphone stands to hold herself up, trying to keep her expression hard and unreadable. People often told her that she had “dead eyes”, and she could only pray that her face wasn’t giving her crushing grief away. It felt like someone had just died; like she had just died. Actually, she would have rather you just go ahead and stab her then tell her she sucked. You were her idol, her dream girl, her everything. 

And you were telling her that you’d rather blow your fucking brains out then listen to her play. How was she supposed to recover from this? She’d heard the saying “don’t meet your heroes” a thousand times, but this? She’d rather you just be a bitch to her. Actually, Ellie would probably like that. This was the worst thing she could have ever heard. Her nose twitched as tears began pooling in her eyes. She blinked a few times, praying that you couldn’t tell in the nearly pitch black room you were standing in. 

“But this?” You turned towards your manager and pointed passionately at Ellie. “This is music.” 

Breath left her lungs in a loud, audible whooshing sound, like a balloon deflating. Her shoulders relaxed, the hand that was white knuckling the mic stand falling limp at her side. No, you didn’t hate her. You liked her. 

You liked her. 

Everyone had their vices. Leon’s had, apparently, been copious amounts of prescription drugs- often consumed simultaneously. You were used to getting what you wanted. You drank whenever you wanted to, fucked just about anyone that peaked your interest and got away with your usual rotten antics and bitchy behavior. You lived the lifestyle that you’d always dreamt of, even when you were a little kid. 

You enjoyed putting on shows. You were flamboyant, loud, and weren’t afraid of expressing yourself. Teachers often described you as a “free thinker” back in your elementary school days. You dressed yourself for school each morning, each outfit louder and more daring than the next. You were an artist, and like most artists you had some inner demons that you fought against. You still fought tooth and nail, even to this day. 

Finally though, after what felt like a thousand years of waiting and biding your time, you had the life you had always yearned for. 

You sold out arenas, appeared on the front page of just about every magazine imaginable, and had celebrities clamoring over themselves to be your “best friend” of the week. Things were good. 

But also a bit empty. 

The friends that you’d made in your youth only used your name for bragging rights. Your parents had stopped showing up to concerts years ago, instead choosing to listen about your successes through their shitty television shows. Life felt a bit hollow.

Exciting. . . just different than you had always been used to. 

“Come play with us.” One of the women whined from her spot on your plush hotel mattress. The bombshell blonde was already stripped down to her underwear, her eyes glazed over from whatever overpriced alcohol she’d already taken from the suite's bar, at your expense no doubt. 

Your manager was used to the up-charges on the company card. He would probably be relieved in the morning when he found out that you didn’t break anything. There was still time for that, of course. It was only one in the morning, which meant you had nine more hours to get fucked up and wreck the cushy room. 

“I’m not feeling up to it right now.” You said simply, already disinterested in the two women you had invited to bed with you tonight. You were holding a beer bottle loosely between two of your fingers, swishing the remainder of the room temperature alcohol absentmindedly.

You weren’t much of an “observer” when it came to sex, more of a very active participant. Still, all you could do was sit back in one of the comfortable lounge chairs, muscles tense after a long show. You weren’t exactly sure why you’d invited the women back to the hotel. They were both attractive and had come onto you at the same time. It was obvious what they had been insinuating, and who were you to deny two beautiful women? The first thing that had popped into your head being “a threesome might make me happy”.

Except now you were bored out of your skull and would much rather be sleeping right now than watch two ditzy girls clumsily fondle each other’s fake breasts. 

“Please? I want you to fuck me so bad-” There was a knock at the door, causing both girls to go silent for a second. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaustion threatening to swallow you up whole. If it was your manager here to yell at you for “accidentally” breaking an amp at tonight's show you were going to scream. It was too late for that bullshit. Still, you saw this excuse as a blessing. 

“Hear that, ladies? Looks like we’ve gotta pack it up. Thanks for showing me a good time.” You stood up from the seat with a small groan, placing your beer bottle onto the counter clumsily. The glass clattered, almost spilling all over the shag carpet. 

The two girls groaned, obviously frustrated that they hadn’t successfully gotten you into bed with them. You weren’t sure what was wrong with you lately. If this had happened a few months ago then. . . well, you would have fucked them- no questions asked. Were you maturing out of your “wild and crazy” phase? No, you didn’t think so. 

You bent down, scooping up a discarded bra so that you could toss it onto the bed. Fabric rustled behind you as they began to quickly sort themselves out, hoping to beat you to the door. 

“Who is it?” You called out in a sing-song voice, deciding that if your manager was already angry enough to show up in front of your door at one in the morning then you might as well have a little fun with it. 

There was no reply on the other side of the door, causing you to scoff. He was giving you the silent treatment. You reached out for the door handle, only to have your shirt yanked on by one of the women. You could hear the seams ripping against the weight of her, her eyes wide with desperation. 

“Please let me show you a good time. I promise I’m good- I swear.” There was a fear of rejection there, you could tell. 

You felt a bit guilty and were quick to lean in to press a kiss on her cheek. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. I’m sure you would have been wonderful- but I’m tired. That’s all, okay? It’s nothing personal.” 

And with that you opened the door. The air from the hallway was brisk, causing goosebumps to instantly break out on your bare arms and legs. You were expecting the balding, bespectacled Barry to be standing on the other side of the door, all in a huff about “expenses” and “damages to the venue”. Blah, blah, blah. 

Instead it was Ellie. A very broken looking Ellie. 

The girls were quick to straighten out their outfits, their attention now turned towards the guitarist. Groupies like this didn’t care who they slept with, just so long as they were getting it in with someone that was in the band. 

“You’re Emma. . . right? The new guitarist? You were so great tonight. I mean- Leon was always a bit of a poser anyway. You’re killing it.” One of the girls started, moving to stand next to you in the doorway. 

You weren’t sure why, but you felt angry. Genuinely angry. Were you jealous of Ellie? No, because you were sure they would still rather fuck you than her. You’d been their first choice, afterall. Maybe you felt the need to shelter Ellie a bit? Yeah, that had to be it. She was still learning the ropes, and the last thing she needed was to be sexually harassed in a hotel hallway.

“. . . -lie” She was mumbling under her breath, eyes locked on the expensive carpet beneath her ratty old sneakers. 

She had changed out of her stage clothes and put on jeans and a t-shirt. Her hair looked wet too, meaning she’d already taken a shower. She smelled earthy- Alpine, even. 

You leaned against the frame, slamming your hand against the doorway to box the two women in, hoping to keep them away from the newbie. They flinched but both seemingly weren’t off put in their newfound pursuit. 

“You’re the most talented guitarist I’ve ever seen live. I mean. . . your solos were incredible.” You hadn’t managed to successfully remember the girl’s names. Just that they were friends with two guys that had worked security for the venue tonight. People often took advantage of connections like that in order to get close to you and your bandmates. It usually worked too. Tonight was different though. Tonight you had a real stick up your ass. 

Ashley? Amber? Sophie? God, you were bad with names.

“. . . -is Ellie.” Your guitarist mumbled again, slowly moving back down the hall in the direction of her suite. 

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion over her attitude, and you were quick to stumble out of your room and down the hall after her. 

“Wait! Emma, can we get an autograph!” One of the half naked girls called after the two of you, trying desperately to shrug on her shirt to follow after. 

Ellie turned then, eyes narrowed and teeth bared. You’d. . . You’d never seen her like that before. 

“My name is fucking Ellie! Who is Emma? Jesus fuckin’ Christ-” She dug her hand into the back pocket of her jeans, trying desperately to find her keycard. 

The girls gasped at her outburst, jostled by the look of pure evil on her face. Even you were taken aback, not used to this kind of attitude from her. Still, you’d be lying if you said that you didn’t know why she was acting like this. 

Ellie was what some would call a “mega fan”, though that would be putting it lightly. The word “stalker” would be more appropriate. Your manager knew that before he even messaged her for an audition. He’d checked all of her social media sites and scrubbed the internet for anything he could find on her. One thing was made very clear: 

Ellie was obsessed with you. 

For whatever reason she seemed to be keeping it a secret from Gene and Chris. All she fessed up to them was that she enjoyed your music, which was why she’d auditioned in the first place. She’d conveniently left out the dedicated fan blogs and the status of her cult-like following.

You didn’t mind it. Sure, it was a bit creepy. . . but she was talented and you liked her. She could hold her own against Gene and Chris’ constant asshole behavior, and had been receptive to Barry trying to teach her the ropes of the business. It was obvious that she wanted this, even if her motives weren’t exactly purely for the music. You’d let her be as close to you as she wanted if it meant that she’d continue playing the way that she does. The crowd had loved her, and it was only her second show with the band. 

She was a bit shy, but that would pass eventually. You remember your early debut days vividly. You’d been just like her, maybe even a little worse. 

“Hey, stop for a second.” You reached out to grab her wrist, stopping her from fleeing after her outburst. She turned to glare at you, but her eyes softened as she took in your features. 

You could feel her arm trembling in your grasp, so you gently let go. No matter how many times you touched her or spent time with her, she still seemed to get overly nervous in your presence. It was endearing. 

“Aren’t you a bit busy? Don’t let me ruin your fun-” She was being sarcastic. 

“I was done with them by the time you knocked on the door. They aren’t exactly my type. I’m not sure why I even invited them back in the first place.” If you had to guess, you’d probably done it out of habit. You were used to inviting people back to your room or tour bus. 

Ellie didn’t seem pleased by your answer. If anything it seemed to upset her even more. She bristled, reaching back into her pocket for her keycard. What did she want to hear? That you hadn’t touched them? You groaned, wiping an exhausted hand down your face. 

The elevator dinged behind you, meaning the girls had finally taken the hint and were leaving with their tails tucked between their legs. 

“Are you jealous or something?” You asked once the elevator doors were closed. The last thing you needed were the girls trying to sell information to some shitty gossip magazine. 

She froze, eyes going wide and lips going pale. It was almost like she didn’t think that you knew all about her dirty little secret. A part of you wanted to tease her. Really make her squirm. 

“Why would I be jealous? Those girls weren’t exactly my type either.” She was good at playing things off. Ellie was a good liar. 

But you were good at sniffing out the bullshit. It was one of your many talents. 

“Not of me,” You leaned against the wall next to her door, watching with curious eyes as she began fumbling in her pockets for her key. “Of them. Do you wish I had taken you back to my room or something?” You cooed flirtatiously, flashing her one of your most sinister smiles. 

She coughed, turning around so that she could hide her face from you. This nearly had you groaning out loud in disappointment. Was she blushing? Do her freckles look even brighter when her skin gets all pink and hot? 

Nah, it was dangerous to think like this. Band members were always off limits. It was a recipe for disaster. The last thing you needed was another Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham situation on your hands. Your PR team wouldn’t be able to recover. They’d just barely gotten over the “Leon” incident by the skin of their teeth. 

Your old band member having to be tackled by three cops in a hotel lobby was horrible. It made you look sloppy. And sleeping with the brand new edition to the band was definitely sloppy. 

“You’re acting crazy.” Ellie told you, shoving the keycard into the lock so that she could clammer into her room. 

Pushing the boundaries was sort of your thing. You enjoyed being bad, fuck the consequences. Right about now you wanted to kiss Ellie. What would her reaction be? Was she a good kisser? You wanted to know. No- you needed to know. 

“You’re right. I’m talking nonsense, don’t listen to me,” You called after her into the room. “Sweet dreams.” 

And with that you sauntered back to your own room, practically purring in delight over the fact that it had been that easy to get to Ellie like that. You loved pushing the boundaries. . . and now you had a new toy to play with.

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[enteroctopusdarkysilis]

✨Kamino’s citadel challenge !✨

I am…very excited about this one. I’ve had this vision for a long time, and I’m so happy it’s ended up looking like that.

Now, there are a lot of things I’ll go into details along close ups under the cut; the only thing I’ll mention above is that I’m very grateful for TCW’s episode guides’ artworks, without which this would have been quite a hassle.

Okay ! Before diving into all the details and things, here is a view from above, to really display how big it is. Dimension-wise, the plank I built it on is around 110*70cm.

Now of course, the first detail which is noticeable is the floor, because, well, it’s everywhere.

This was probably the most challenging part of the build, because making a grid out of Lego is tough. Most of it is rows and rows of dark square, light lines, separated by 1*n tiles. It was the easiest way to get this pattern with as if it were just tiles; because this is one of the objectives I had here : most of this MOC is smooth, except for a few zones (usually voluntarily).

The fact I used this technic means that the floor in most place isn’t very stable, but it actually holds up pretty well because of some hidden connection points with the foundations underneath, which are mostly hidden under the cover blocks.

Here for instance, I’m using modified 1*2 bricks with a Technic hole : it hold the cover block, and it also attaches the floor to the foundation.

Of course, another problem I ran into were slopes. Much harder to get a smooth effect with the technic I’ve used, so it’s a bit wonky and unstable. Also, most them are not aligned properly, which is visible in the picture above (and some area have some really big misalignments because of a few problems I probably won’t bore anyone reading this with).

Now, since they’re also here, I can deal with the cover blocks. These were, among the details, the hardest to figure out, to get a good size while keeping some texture. Eventually I came up with this design, which, ironically enough, uses the same technic the floor uses, in a different orientation.

Another detail : the miradors :

This is one of the first elements I had in place, because I needed them to get a good sense of scale (and was made better by an existing concept art of a tower alone). Most of it does not have anything noteworthy, except for one illegal technic I used (can you spot it ?)

The pillar holding the roof of the mirador is using a technic I had in my toolbox for a long time, but had never had the occasion to use : if you take two 'brick' bricks and attach them perpendicularly on a snot brick, the small space separating the lines of 'bricks' align to let a 1*n tile in. It’s somewhat reliable (for an illegal technic) and an easy way to get octogonal shapes.

Now, before looking at the Citadel itself, let’s turn around for a minute.

This point of view obviously isn’t the intended one, but it’s still worth noting, if only for some composition.

Notice that the wall here is quite small (smaller than the miradors, even), and light gray; it’s in contrast with the towering dark gray wall on the other side, behind the citadel, which technically should give at least some impressions even to the people who never saw TCW.

Anyway, it’s also on this view that we can see most of my slope struggles, including the central one, which is the biggest I had to do.

And I can’t not mention the most important element :

What would be the challenge without a squad of clones to take it on ? These clones (4 privates and a sergent) are ready to fight ! Well. Kinda. I wish I could have actual cadets, but they are not part of the Lego universe (and the floor was enough of a fee, I can’t afford to get customs figures too). I wish I had the Dominos though. I have TBB Echo, and I plan to get my hands on Fives at some point, but they wouldn’t fit here, sadly, so instead I used some movie accurate clones (because all the others are used for a project I still haven’t posted..maybe later…)

Notably, I at some point tried to get the elevator to work - needless to say it was a disaster (it’s too close to the plate underneath to make something working).

Now, without further ado. The citadel.

I’m very proud of it. I got the proportions just right (I actually made some measurements to make sure of it), and there is just enough texture to not make it bland while leaving it as artificial. This alone took roughly 8-10h (which were all spent during an accidental all nighter, whoops), but it was worth it. It’s completely empty inside, and, in fact, the wall behind it isn’t full as well, anything behind the citadel is opened. The spikes are simple 1*3 angle plates illegally connected, and the walls’ small details were made with a bunch of modified 1*2 plates, there isn’t anything really special in it.

The only really complicated zone was the middle tower, because I had to put all the cannons while keeping it clean and smooth, and including the vertical lime lines. It was a fun challenge. And I included the 'flag' At the top, too, just a red transparent cone on a stick (there’s no need for more), which peeks above the gray wall (for composition and because of a lack of pieces).

Anyway, such a long project deserves one behind the scene photo :

Yes, my desk is messy (and include my mandatory tea cup).

On the left, you can see my remaining floor tiles, which have not been used yet; and just under the citadel, you might notice the foundations visible; it’s a checker of 2*2 tiles which gives my floor a good base to be fixed on. There are also some slopes which haven’t been placed yet (in front of the background miradors), and at this steps, there were no cover blocks or walls yet.

As far as my tools go, you might notice brick separators scattered all around my work environment (I never have enough of those), as well as a tablet in the bottom right hand corner (which i use to check and measure concept arts), and in the middle, the red triangle is an official (albeit old) Lego measurement tool which counts in stud, Lego bar holes and axe length.

Also visible, finally, is the bottom of the foundations, which are stacks of 1*2 bricks (each of the three floor layer is separated by a height of 3 bricks), which means that looking directly under it can lead to watching the dark basement of my build (which isn’t aesthetic…).

Anyway, if you read until here, thanks, I guess ? I still have a few TCW related stuff (a small one next week, some other in the foreseeable feature), so feel free to stick around and maybe leave a note, if you feel like it ? That’s it, bye !

[aeaiila]

A big component of rosquez that I think doesn’t gets explored enough is the idea that Vale thought Marc’s love/affection for him wasn’t genuine. 

Marc loved Vale. From an outside perspective that seems obvious. Vale loved Marc but didn’t want to. It was so easy for Marc to love Vale–his childhood idol, larger than life personality, talented, charming, attractive. So many people, so many young drivers exactly like Marc worshipped Vale the same way. Marc’s behaviour towards Vale wasn’t super unique. And up until Sepang, Vale’s behaviour towards Marc wasn't really noteworthy either. Vale was friendly with a lot of younger drivers. He always liked taking on a mentor role.

I honestly think you could be forgiven for not reading too much into their interactions up until Sepang 2015 because the really damning part on Vale’s end is how he reacts after the divorce. The fact that Marc wasn’t even his main rival, and the fact Vale was STILL ahead in the championship up until his penalty in Sepang (which happened as a direct result of the drama with Marc). It’s the fact that all of Vale’s past rivalries were way more consequential to his results. AND YET the only one he hasn’t made up with is Marc, in spite of Marc continuously trying.

Marc doesn’t love easily but he loves fiercely and singularly. I don’t doubt Marc had real affection for Vale. However, I think you can forgive Vale for doubting whether or not Marc was genuine.  Vale, the ego maniac control-freak that he is, was probably very comfortable in their dynamic at first because he so clearly had the upper hand. He was Marc’s childhood idol, Marc worshipped him. Vale probably had a sense that the relationship was very one sided, and that gave him a sense of control. I’m sure at first, Vale liked giving Marc attention and praise because I mean we’ve all seen the clips, how could anyone, let alone an egomaniac like Vale, not preen at receiving that much unfiltered adoration.

But at some point, Vale grew to love Marc and I don't imagine it was a pleasant experience for Vale. He goes from feeling in control of their dynamic, very literally having the upper hand, to feeling very vulnerable. I could see him not quite understanding it at first (or ever). If Vale didn’t care about Marc outside of racing, than he wouldn’t be bothered by Laguna Seca 2013 (And I don’t think he was at the time! Because he didn’t really care that much about what Marc thought of him outside of racing. Yes, it was annoying at the time but I think it only became painful in restropect. Laguna Seca and the episode at the ranch in 2014, those first fracture events, I think the problem was that they hurt Vale and he didn’t really know what to do with that. I think Vale could understand being annoyed that this little twink used HIS move against him and that he showed up to Vale’s place and BEAT him. I think Vale could rationalize being annoyed, and though he probably wouldn’t want to admit it, I think he also could accept that Marc beating him made him feel insecure. BUT! Vale didn’t only come away from Laguna Seca and the episode at the ranch annoyed and his ego a little bruised, he was HURT. Because Marc was treating Vale like he would anyone else, like a competitor. Those two events communicated to Vale “you’re not special”. But theorectically, that should be fine right? Vale sees Marc as a competitor too and it would be worse is Marc LET HIM win just because he was Marc’s idol. But those two events were a problem because Marc was special to Vale. Vale cared about how Marc acted towards him.

And that completely changes the power dynamics of their relationship. All of a sudden Vale is very vulnerable to getting hurt. In Vale’s fucked up little power balance equation, whoever cares less holds the more power, because they are less likely to get hurt. Everytime Vale feels hurt by Marc it’s evidence he’s losing the idgaf war (so to speak) and that’s terrifying. Because, at this point, what evidence does Vale really have that Marc, genuinely cares about HIM, as a person, and not just Valentino Rossi, the larger than persona that he fell in love with as a child on TV. 

I imagine the part of Vale that wanted love and connection was probably desperately searching for evidence that Marc loved him, HIM, and not just the persona. But does Vale even know where does one end and the other begin? Especially in 2013-15. That being said, could he ever be sure that Marc really loved him and not just the persona? (listen to Young and Beautiful by Lana del Rey and picture it from Vale’s perspective for maximum brain damage)

The part of Vale that was scared probably jumped at every bit of evidence that Marc’s hero’s worship wasn’t genuine. I also think this is why his friends were able to convince him to buy into this crazy narrative that he’s sticking with to this day. In a fucked up way, I wonder if he was relieved when uccio showed him the telemetry. Now, he could say Marc was a villain. If Marc was evil and most importantly DISINGENUOUS, he could be angry and that would be safer than being scared. Deep down I think he knew that Marc was genuine (at least to some extent) but even the remote possibility of Marc rejecting HIM or the more plausible scenario where he cared more about Marc than Marc did about him, were just TOO much for him to deal with. 

If you were to make a pyramid of the delusional things Vale tells himself to justify everything… Vale’s first line of defense, the excuse he actually gives other people, is that Marc was evil and conniving. And this works because Marc do be committing war crimes on track and how could you have a relationship, let alone a friendship with someone like that. However, I think Vale only really believes his own bullshit about Marc being a supervillain like 5% of the time. His second line of defense, the one that he tells himself most often, is that Marc wasn’t genuine and he was doing the rational thing by protecting himself and pushing Marc away. In the end, I think all of this mental gymnastics is to protect himself from thinking about a scenario where he lets Marc in and Marc sees the real him, and still decides to leave.

[nexysworld]

Summary: Leon is sent on a mission to carry out a hit for the government. He hated these missions the most, but worst of all you weren't supposed to be there. You weren't supposed to see him. Pairing: ID!Assassin Leon x Fem!Reader Tags: NSFW, MDNI, Smut, canon typical gore, graphic depictions of murder, comfort sex, mild dubcon, unprotected sex, fem!receiving oral sex, soft sex, angsty sex, hurt/comfort/hurt, dark content, descriptions of wound dressing. WC: 5.2k

A/N: This was a birthday fic for the wonderful @elfven-blog. <3 Title from the lyrics to the song Sextape by Deftones. Edit: I also have a bot based on this fic now: Character AI | Spicychat

Read on A03 || Ask Box || Masterlists

Cool air bristled the hairs on the back of his neck, limbs tingling with the typical anticipation of what came next. Hits weren’t his favorite type of mission, not by a longshot, he wanted to save people, not kill them. But with experience came a certain professional numbness and a way to compartmentalize. It didn’t help that the locale for this affair was in the dead center of a suburban upper class neighborhood. Every home had that same limestone brick or white overlapping paneling. Every door the same mahogany brown, tacky lawn gnomes, overly green grass, white picket fences – the works. The possibility of witnesses was high, the escape routes limited. 

Regardless, Leon was a professional, and he would make it work. He always did.

Tilting his wrist, he looked down at the gold rolex, it was a little past 2:30am. He listened closely, to ensure there was no movement inside. The double windowed back doors were his point of entry. The brass knobs were old, the locks inside not quite as intricate as modern ones, all it took was a good smack against the swiss army knife he’d jammed into it for the lock to click open. The door opened quietly, he made sure to not close it completely behind him to ensure he could make his escape. 

The house had an eerie quiet over it, almost like the universe knew what was about to happen. Leon cracked his neck and let out a breath, careful to not touch anything as he moved throughout the lower floor, clearing each room. The kitchen was pristine, nothing out of place on the island or counter. There was no homely smell of food, only the lingering scent of some harsh cleaner. Not a sign that anyone had even been down there within the past several hours – a good thing, he noted. Through the archway came the living room, he had been hopeful someone had opted to sleep on the couch, separate targets were easier targets. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t so lucky. 

The plush gray sectional was untouched, not so much as a divet into the cushion. The TV remote lay on the dark oak coffee table. Unlike the kitchen, this room felt more homely. The faint smell of some fruity air freshener was all over, the cherry walls were lined with gold plated frames of the family. 

His target was some small town politician, Jackson Moore, normally somebody not noteworthy to the government in the slightest, but he made the unfortunate mistake of shaking hands with terrorists, facilitating the sale of some new viral invention through the local pharmacies. The idea of another Raccoon City incident made his stomach turn. He wasn’t sure who he held more anger for, the people like this person who’d bring it about, or the government that he knew turned a blind eye until now – the same government who wouldn’t make the effort to save the people who uphold it. 

He shook his head, and pushed his bangs back refocusing for a moment. He scanned over the pictures. Most normal family outings, some graduation photos and holiday ones in there. Hunnigan had told him beforehand that all of the kids were off to college, none due back for several more weeks. The only targets in the house were Mr. and Mrs. Moore. 

There was only one more room on the bottom floor, where he was sure his victims were, the master bedroom. Leon made his way over, silently padding down the short hall staring at the door. It was cracked, the sound of light snoring and the smell of mint wafting from the room. He peeked inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dark room, a string of moonlight the only thing illuminating the sleeping lumps on the bed. 

He tested the door, it squealed slightly as it opened making him freeze. One of the sleeping forms moved slightly rolling over. He waited, still as a statue until he was sure that both still remained asleep before sliding himself through the narrow opening he’d made. 

Looming over the sleeping forms, he pulled his gun out from it’s holster attached to his waist. Even with the silencer, he knew he needed to be quick. One shot would wake the other, and then it was a matter of speed. He cocked the pistol, taking a few more steps towards the unaware persons before him. The gun felt heavy in his hand, but he lifted it anyway, deciding to start with the official target first. 

Will the trigger pulled back, the room lit up for a split second with the bang of the gun. Time slowed as he watched the man’s body jolt slightly, blood splattering onto the pillow, the walls. The smell of gunpowder and iron hit his nose. The man’s fingers twitched slightly before his movement stopped. Just like he had expected, his wife was awake instantly, though no noise came from her. 

Wide eyed, she stared at Leon, then down at her husband next to her. Her mouth opened like she was trying to scream, but the noise was caught in her throat, tears welled in the woman’s eyes. Blood had splattered onto her too, some chunks of brain along with it dripped from her curlers onto her lap. Her trembling hands reached over to her husband, “Jacks.” She whispered, reaching over and putting her hand on his deformed face. “Jacks.” She leaned over the man, trying to scoop the bits and pieces of him back together. 

Leon wanted to feel sorry for her, wanted to wonder if that’s how someone might react to his death some day. But he pushed those feelings aside, she was a target, culpable in everything just as her husband was. He lifted the gun again, pointing it at her.

As she looked at him, eyes wide with fear, her mouth formed the shape of a word. He didn’t need to hear it to know it was a plea. He pulled the trigger again.

Deadshot, like putting down an animal, between the eyes. 

Her body crumbled over itself as she slumped forward onto the bed, the back of her head exploded open like a volcano of bone, blood, and brain matter. 

Not dwelling on it,  he put his finger to the device in his ear. “It’s done, Hunnigan.” “Good work Leon. I’ll make sure that –”

“Hey mom, you still up? I thought I heard something.” 

The soft voice pulled Leon from his conversation, there were footsteps out in the hallway and the sound of a lightswitch clicking on. ‘Shit.’ He cursed to himself inwardly.  He took a few steps back from the door, whispering to Hunnigan. “You said there were no other targets here.” “There aren't –” “The daughter is home.” “Does she know you’re there?” “No, not yet.” 

There was a moment of silence on the line before she spoke again. “Leon.” Hunnigan’s voice was serious, she knew him well enough after all these years to know his thoughts. “Leave no witnesses.” “There won’t be, she doesn’t even know I'm here.” The sound of the fridge opening and closing indicated the girl’s location.  “Everyone at the location is a target, Leon. Everyone at the location is a witness.” “Not if she – “ “Leon, this is an order.” “I can wait for her –” “Leon –” 

“She doesn’t have to die.” “Dad, is that you?” The sound of his voice, despite him doing his best to stay at a whisper, must've alerted the girl.  There was shuffling around on the other end of the line, the next voice he heard made his blood cold. The head of the D.S.O shouting into his ear. “Kennedy, this is an order, kill her! Complete the mission. Do you understand me?”

“Understood.” He said flatly, disconnecting from the call. In a worse stroke of bad luck, the door to the bedroom swung open nearly at the same time. 

And there you were. 

Glass shattering as it hit the floor, water splattering around as the light from the hallway lit up the room from the opened door. You trembled in place as you processed the sight of things. Leon was frozen where he stood too. You were an adult, but young, more importantly innocent in all of this. Rarely in his forced-on-him career has he had to kill someone completely innocent. Usually it was the partners of criminals, civilians caught in crossfire. But never someone as young as you, never in a situation so targeted.

He hardly registered the shriek you made before you bolted. Acting purely on instinct he took off after you, the delay of his own shock didn’t matter much when he noticed the slimy trail of bloody footprints from where you’d ran through the glass left in the hallway. His own boots crunching it against the ground as he moved.  If you had been smart, you’d have turned for the front door, or even the back. Instead, nearly sliding on your own blood you went for the staircase, the one route that would trap you on the upper floor. You let out a yelp of pain, trying your hardest to only use your less injured foot to bounce up the stairs as quickly as you could, the blood matting down into the carpet with each step. 

It didn’t take long for Leon to catch up, thumping up each one loudly as his boots made contact. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t take his gun out, why he was even letting you attempt this unwinnable escape, he also didn’t know. Maybe it was just delaying the inevitable. 

He reached out for you just as you made it to the top of the stairs. A simple shove was all it took to send you flying into the decorative hall table that waited at the top. A sickening crack was heard as your head collided with the dark wood, knocking it over as you rolled over with a groan, dazed from it. Managing to prop yourself up on your elbows, Leon could see the trickle of blood that began to run down your eye and cheek, along with the starting to swell shiner from your high-speed table collision. 

You scuttled backwards, as best you could, haphazardly tossing the vase that had fallen at him. It missed, and went crashing onto the stairs. Tears mixed with the blood on your face, diluting the color, only leaving the dry specs stuck there. You looked pathetic and terrified in a way that made Leon’s heart twist.

“P-please… don’t.” You pleaded, putting your hand out and up as if that simple gesture would be enough to stop him, distance him from yourself. 

He couldn’t do this, at least not like this. He kneeled before you, cupping your uninjured cheek in his hand. “Shhhh. Shhh.” 

“P-please… I won’t tell any–” “It’s ok,” he cooed. “It’s not my style to hurt pretty girls, you know that?” He added as he scooped you up from the ground bridal style. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Getting his DNA all over you, getting your blood on him. This wasn’t a clean kill, this wasn’t what the upper brass wanted. For the moment though, he didn’t care. “Where’s your room, Sweetheart?”

You didn’t point or make a sound, your eyes darted from him to the cracked door next to him and then back to him as you shook in his hold. He wedged it open the rest of the way with his foot, before gently placing you down on your bed. It didn’t look right, all the blood staining into the fresh and plush sheets. It was different than your parents downstairs, the whole room screamed you. From the decor on the walls, to the laptop on the nightstand, your college hoodie hanging off the back of the chair at your desk. More reminders that you didn’t deserve this. 

Before you could, he swiped the phone off of the side table, stuffing it into his pant pocket. “I know you hurt right now.” He said sweetly, “Give me a minute and we’ll get you all cleaned up, alright?” He gave you a moment to process his words. ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ He asked himself, as he held your hand, patting your arm gently. He could see the confusion in your eyes as the gears in your head turned to try and make a decision – timidly you nodded. He shot you his signature smile. “Atta girl. Stay here for me, no funny business.” Pointing a finger gun at you before he slipped out into the hallway and into the upstairs bathroom. 

The suddenly bright lighting stung his eyes, he saw himself in the mirror, your blood speckled onto his jacket, some dried to his face. He looked rough, a cold sweat broken out onto his face, blue eyes distant looking back at himself. He splashed some cold water onto his face to calm his nerves before digging around to see if there was anything he could use to alleviate some of your pain, even if temporarily. The medicine cabinet was well stocked, though nothing would be enough to really combat the pain of your cracked head and torn up feet. He bit his lip as he grabbed some bandages and the bottle of peroxide. 

First aide wasn’t really his specialty, but he knew enough from training. Along with the other supplies, he filled the empty cup on the counter with warm soap water, and took the washcloth with him. 

To his surprise you were exactly where he’d left you, splayed out on the bed, looking scared and exhausted. Your head rested against the pillow, eyes staring up at the ceiling. “I’m going to take a look at your feet first.” Not that he really gave you the option, but you nodded in return. Leon was no stranger to gore, guts, and the rest, but something about them gave him pause. There was so much blood he could hardly see what was skin and what was glass. “It might sting just a little.” He assured, pouring the cold liquid out onto your feet. You hissed and squirmed a bit, but he placed his arm over your ankles to keep them still, watching as the peroxide bubbled, clearing away the redness of the blood. Small pieces of glass fell with it onto the now stained carpet. He opted to speak to you, see if he could get you to calm down some more while he worked, pouring more over the wounds. “You’re in college?” There was something about you that was indescribable to him, familiar to him, and he wasn’t sure why. 

“Yeah.” Finally you answered with words, voice barely above a whisper.  “Shouldn’t you be at school then? I thought the semester was still going.” He as he checked you over for any more obvious glass. When it was clear the peroxide had done it’s job, he took the bandages, gently wrapping them around your feet, gauze padding them. 

“D-dropped out.” You squeaked out. “Last minute decision, had to come home.” He tied off the bandage before moving to look at your face. “School’s not for everyone. You’re probably better off without it.” Leon dipped the washcloth into the cup, wringing it out over the carpet, not really caring about the mess. He dabbed it gently against your injured face, helping to remove the remaining mess and to get a better look. Luckily the cut above your eye seemed superficial and the blood had stopped running, it was just a matter of cleaning up the  dried mess that was left over. He was careful around the tender purple skin as he cleared as much as he could. “You have a boyfriend you leave back at school?” 

“No. Never had one at all actually.” You replied, wincing when he accidentally touched a painful spot.  “Never had one?” He asked more for himself than as a real question to you. ‘Hasn’t finished school, never had a boyfriend. This is so fucked up. She can’t be any older than Ashley was…’ He thought to himself, debating whether the court marshalling would be worth letting you go. In the same train of thought, he considered what would happen to you if he did. The government would probably send someone else just like him, someone less soft. He bristled at the thought, sitting up straight on the side of your bed. “That’s a shame, I would’ve thought a cute girl like you would be drowning in guys asking her out.”  “Not really” You seemed to relax a bit now, well as relaxed as a person could be in your state. He could still tell from your blown pupils and 1000 mile stare that you were still in shock. Probably a good thing. “My parents are… were, strict.” Your face contorted like you were about to be sick at the memory. 

Leon went back to stroking your cheek gently for comfort. “So no boyfriend, ever have your first kiss? First time?” Now that he had a better chance to really look at you, all cleaned up he realized who you reminded him of. Not so much Ashley, she was more strong willed and you didn’t quite look the part either. It wasn’t just the age, no…your voice, mannerisms, the way you looked. It was so very much her. Someone he hadn’t thought about since before even Raccoon City.

“Yeah. Wasn’t very good, some drunk frat boy.” You admitted leaning slightly into his touch. Silence passed between you both, nothing but the ceiling fan whirring above you. An automated air freshener spritzed roses and lilac into the air, barely covering the distinct peroxide and blood smell. Leon was surprised when you finally spoke again. “Why did you do it?”

The look on your face gutted him more than it should have. “I had to.”  “Because of his job?” “Something like that, yeah.”  “Did he deserve it?”  “Yeah.”

You nodded, turning your eyes away from the ceiling to look at him. There was another tense silence before you spoke again. “Are you going to kill me too?” 

He felt a chill ran over his body at the question. He leaned forward pressing his forehead to yours, moving his hand up to stroke your hair. “I don’t want to.” It wasn’t a real answer and he knew that, but it was honest.  “Why are you being nice to me?”  “I told you, I don’t like to hurt cute girls.” “That’s not it.” 

How you read him for filth like that he’ll never know. “You remind me of someone.” He leaned back just enough to look at you again, but kept your faces close, so close he could feel the warmth of your breath on his face.  “Who was she?”  “My first girlfriend.” He admitted.  “What happened to her?”  “We broke up.” He said with a short laugh. “Right before my very first day as a cop.” While the conversation was far from appropriate for the situation, he supposed it worked to calm you down more as he felt you relax into the bed. His internal struggle was still playing tug-of-war with his psyche, not sure of how to proceed.

The piece in his ear picked up with some static before Hunnigan’s familiar voice was heard. “Leon are you there?” 

He ignored her in favor of continuing to dote over you, hand gently running through your hair, taking in your features more. That trepidation never left your eyes – he understood it. He probably looked psychotic right now, a murderer who was being eerily kind. He was self aware enough to know that much. 

“Leon, we haven’t heard a status report. Has the last target been eliminated?” She spoke loud enough this time that while it couldn’t have been above the lowest whisper for you, it was obvious you heard it, eyes widened again, mouth opening slightly. To keep you quiet he leaned forward pressing his lips to yours, a soft kiss you didn’t really return. “Stay quiet for me, ok?” He mumbled against your lips, before sitting up again. He considered replying to Hunnigan, but looking down at you, he took his earpiece out, tossing it to the other side of the room instead. 

Hey eyed you again, before adding another kiss. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this.’ He reprimanded himself, as he placed another this time to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then jaw. Another on your neck for good measure. ‘I should’ve done it the second she opened the door. I should’ve done my job.’ Despite his mind’s dialogue he continued now at your collar bone. ‘Like ripping off a band aid…. I can’t let her last moments be like that.’ He began to rationalize as he looked up at you. “Let me make you feel good.” 

“Wh-what?”  “You deserve better than a drunk frat boy. Let me make you feel good.” He repeated.  “Why?���  “Because I want to.” He could clock the nervousness in your voice immediately. “You can say no.” He added. “I’m not a rapist.” 

“A-are you going to kill me if I say no?”  “No, of course not.” Again, it wasn’t technically a lie. He wouldn’t be doing it because you declined, but he felt mild disgust with himself for side-stepping the reality of the situation again. ‘It’s better this way though. For her.’ 

“Ok.” You said, nodding at him to continue.  He treated you like glass, gently working your thin tank top up and over your breasts. He continued by kissing each one tenderly before taking your left nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it until he felt it pebble. When you whimpered at the feeling, he began to suck on it, kneading your other breast with his hand. When he pulled himself off with a pop, he looked down at you, lips parted, eyes closed. Enjoying so much despite him having done so little. Adorable. 

He ran his thumb along your bottom lip until he saw those pretty eyes crack open before capturing your lips again, taking the chance to slip his tongue inside once parted. You were sloppy with inexperience, but tasted like dessert, sweet. It made his cock twitch against his pants. He groaned slightly into your mouth, ignoring his own need. Pulling away he let you catch your breath, giving him the chance to move down your body one kiss under your breasts. The next above your naval – stomach contracting slightly. He added one more above the hem of your night pants. 

He looked up at you, silently checking with you if it was alright to continue again. When you nodded, he helped you out of the pants. Gently tugging them down from the waist band, lifting each separate leg himself, careful to not hurt your already injured feet. “You alright?” “Y-yeah.” 

“Let me know if anything hurts, ok?” “Ok.” “Good girl.” 

Leon tugged his leather jacket off discarding it on the floor before rolling up the sleeves of his button up. He claimed a spot between your legs, lifting one over his shoulder for better access to what he was about to do. He gave a reassuring kiss to your thigh, using a free hand to part your folds, rubbing his thumb over your clit gently. He eyed you watching as you melted under his touch, soft whimpers tickling at his eardrums. “Such a pretty girl.” He cooed, replacing his thumb with his tongue, swirling it around the sensitive bud. 

He had to grind down on the bed himself to relieve some of his own tension, reminding himself to keep his focus on you. His grip on your leg tightened as you arched your back, squirming more and more against his touch.  “God…oh god…” You chanted, head tossed back, the leg draped over his shoulder kicking at his back. He knew you were close when your voice cracked, soft gasps escaped your lips. He continued lapping at you as you ground against his face, letting you ride through your orgasm – only stopping when your hands made purchase in his hair to get his attention. “C-can’t…can’t.” 

Pulling back, he wiped your slick off his chin with his forearm, looking down at you. He watched as your chest heaved slowly, returning to a normal rhythm. Your uninjured eye was lidded less with shock and more with that familiar coming down of pleasure. He went to move back when you grabbed his arm, looking directly at him. “What about you?”  He was a little shocked by the words, your concern for him. “I said I wanted to make you feel good.” He chalked it up to your likely traumatized and now lust hazed brain. “Don’t worry about me.” Leon made the motion to move again.  “Wait.” You called, grip on his arm tightening. “What if… what if I want to?” 

He didn’t move, unsure of how to respond. He’d already fucked up the mission, already covered you in his DNA, yours on him – but he couldn’t do what you were asking. That was too far.

“P-please?” You choked out, tears now welling in your eyes, spilling over and staining your cheeks again. 

And just like that he was taken back to that day again, right before Raccoon City. A night he swore was the worst of his life, until he knew better. Sitting there across from him, begging him not to go – you sounded just like her too, like she was frozen in time beneath him. Even worse, this was the opposite of what he wanted, he wanted to make things easier for you, relax you.  “I just want to be close, please? Please?” You were full on crying now, face scrunching up, barely able to catch your breath.  “Ok. Ok.” He said, leaning down to kiss you again. “Shhh, don’t cry. Don’t cry. How do you want me to take you?” Your words came out between sniffles and hiccups. “Any way, you want.” 

He nodded, sitting back enough to help you sit up, slipping your shirt off all the way. “Can you flip over for me? Lay down flat on your stomach.” He helped you comply with the command, still careful of your injuries. He could see the bandages on your feet had turned a slight pink. Once you were laid out the way he wanted, relaxed, face down into the pillow, he worked his own shirt off, tossing it over in a pile atop his jacket. His gun was removed from the holster, he was careful to lock the safety, discarding it with his other items. He left his pants on, undoing them enough to free his half hard cock, the head still weeping. 

He spat in his hand, giving himself a few good tugs, feeling himself hardening fully again. “You ready?”  “Yeah.”  He crawled forward, gently lifting your butt up just enough for him to line himself at your soaking entrance. He grunted when he pressed in, you sucking him in warm and wet. He let you take a moment  to relax down again as he leaned forward, pressing the entirety of his bare chest to your back, sinking his cock in slowly until he was buried all the way inside of your heat. 

He kissed up your shoulders, and neck, rolling his hips into your slowly. “God you’re tight baby.” He whispered against your ear. He didn’t have the heart to rail you into the mattress, wanting to abate your request for closeness, intimacy.  “S’big…” You lazily mumbled into the pillow.  “I know, I know.” He crooned your neck just enough for him to lock your lips together again. “But you’re doing so good, taking me so well.” Letting you rest, he returned to focusing on the motion of setting a steady but not too rough pace, angling himself so that he hit that spot inside of you that had you whimpering again. He rewarded the noises by rolling you both onto the side, where he could wrap an arm around you like a tight hug, leg gently pulled over over his own so he had a better angle.  Likely for the best, Leon was close already, he slowed down more, returning to simply rolling his hips as he trailed his hand down your stomach, ghosting it over your naval and thighs before rubbing at your clit for a bit as he kissed and sucked softly against your neck. He fucked you like he would’ve done to her, like you were his lover, the most important thing to him. 

Your velvet walls felt like heaven as they squeezed against him, closer and closer to your own second orgasm. “That’s it baby.” He whispered hotly against your ear. “One more time for me, ok?” He sped up his fingers, feeling you tighten around him so much that he nearly felt his own eyes roll back. “G-good girl.” He praised, gripping your hip to speed up his own movements, his balls tightening as he came, cock throbbing as spurts of his seed painted your insides. 

Leon held you like that for a while, curling in on you, offering soft praises as he nuzzled into your neck from behind. He didn’t move a muscle until your breath evened out completely, and he could tell by the low thrum of your heartbeat that you were incredibly close, if not already asleep. He looked up at the clock on the nightstand – 4:45am it read. He had about 20 more minutes max before someone from HQ would be sent in as backup, now that he’d been MIA for so long. 

Now fully soft, he gently pulled himself out of you, and carefully rolled off the bed. He watched you for any more signs of movement as he buckled back up and redressed. There was that eerie silence settling over the house again, he felt heavy with the weight of the evening crushing against him like an invisible force. He wished for a moment that the world would swallow him up where he stood so he didn’t have to face his responsibilities, the consequences. 

You looked peaceful laying there. He knew it was just the exhaustion, shock, and grief, that kept you tugged under the waves of unconsciousness, but for his own sake he pretended you were in a truly relaxed state. Moreso, he was glad you wouldn’t experience any more of that pain or fear tonight.  Leon clicked the safety off the gun, watching you for any signs of movement. Not even a twitch as he cocked the gun again. He walked over, sitting at the side of the bed again, eyeing you over one more time. It felt like he was saying goodbye to a lot of things at that moment, his ex all over again, your future,  another piece of the man he wanted to be.  “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this, you know?” He whispered, mostly to himself as he pressed the barrel of the pistol to the pillow. 

He couldn’t look this time. He wouldn’t look this time.  His chest tightened, having to take a moment to stop the bile trying to work its way up, and the urge to cry that had him wanting to heave against the floor. He grabbed his earpiece as he made his exit. 

“This is Kennedy to HQ – the last target has been exterminated.” 

[llamagoddessofficial]

An HMF x OC commission from @radpunch that made me swoon ❤️ any chance to write this big lug, I'll take!!

---

It was love at first sight. 

Looking out his car window was, oddly, one of the few joys he still had. It was such a strange thing to look forward to. Papyrus wouldn’t allow him to drive anymore, given the state of him, and although it frustrated him to lose his agency having a driver meant he could sit in the backseat and stare out of the tinted window. 

... He was sick and tired of the way everything would stop when he entered a room. He was sick of the world that refused to forget the parts of him he wanted to forget, but at the same time, forgot the things he desperately wished to hold onto.

His eyelight rolled over the street, taking in it all. The colours, the sounds, the sights. He could almost forget what had happened to him. He got the sense of normalcy he had been missing, craving, for so long; nobody could gawk at him like they usually did, nobody even knew he was there. From the safety of that bulletproof box he could see how the normal world went on. People bustling up and down the streets, moving in and out of stores, chatting with friends or arguing with each other, laughing and yelling and living their lives.

How things used to be.

His eyelight landed on something that should’ve been another normal sight. An entirely unremarkable flower shop, sat between a cafe and small family market. It was the kind of area he and his brother would’ve collected protection from in the early days of their ‘business’. There were flowers arranged outside of the store, grey metal buckets full of bouquets set spaced across a low wooden table.

... There was a human woman tending to the flowers. Your apron was the same colour as the store’s green banner.

...

His Soul stilled inside his chest.

“... stop the car,” he said, before he even knew he was speaking.

You weren’t doing anything particularly incredible, nor noteworthy. You blended in with the rest of the people on that busy street - standing outside your shop. Watering the plants? Pruning them? He couldn’t tell from this distance.

Impressively, the driver had heard his mumbled command, shifting down a gear despite the look from the bodyguard in the passenger seat. 

“Where would you like to get out, sir?”

... It was strange. But Sans missed the days when his drivers would question him. It just wasn’t the same now that nobody ever even thought of challenging his word. Sir, this isn’t where we’re stopping. Sir, Papyrus said we must be there at eight, we cannot pull over. Sir, I’m under express orders not to let you go to the bar. 

Now, even the slightest sign of questioning would probably be considered stupid. 

“... florist.”

Sans didn’t miss the second strange look the bodyguard gave to the driver. He would’ve felt anger at that, usually, but instead he watched intently as you headed into the shop.

The driver pulled up to the side of the road, a few cars’ distance from the entrance to the store. Sans opened the car door. 

“How long will you be, sir?” the guard asked. 

Sans didn’t reply; he often didn’t, these days. He merely stepped out of the car. He knew the driver would wait.

The second he exited the vehicle, Sans saw the world around him realise he was there, and react with its usual amount of terror and disgust. His presence was always a blight. People in the street immediately began to stare, freezing in their path, refusing to cross in front of the giant that had just appeared. A mother with a child who had been walking their way suddenly spotted him, and jerked her child by the arm, turning the two of them around and rushing in the other direction.

Usually, he only had to pretend that he didn’t care. But this time, he genuinely didn’t. 

... He was excited.

Sans made his way over to the flower shop, ignoring all the tiny people that flitted away from him. His Soul was... beating. It was beating, thudding against his ribcage. 

He opened the door, ducking slightly under the frame. A tiny bell chimed.

... It was such a quaint little store. Clearly strapped for space, every corner was occupied with pretty things; while one wall was dedicated to shelves full of decorative pots and bottles of flower feed, the rest of the store was bursting with different kinds of blossoms, arranged in all kinds of creative ways. Every taste was catered to - elegant bouquets of dark paddle-leaves and pale lilies, stringy minimalist green stalks dotted with clusters of tiny blossoms, extravagant bunches of pink that more resembled floral fireworks than anything natural. A blackboard displayed bouquet prices, with sweet little illustrations of the various bridal styles available. *Please note that out-of-season flowers might be more expensive!

And at the far end, behind the counter... by far the prettiest thing in the whole room.

You.

Whatever had happened to him in the car, it happened again. His chest was tight, his head was swimming. His Soul felt heavy, and hot, he was certain it had manifested itself inside his ribcage - it felt as if it was twice its usual size. Everything was brighter, more saturated.

You did look at his head crack when he entered. Everyone did. You glanced up from the bouquet you were organising, a classic bunch of perfectly red roses; but your eyes quickly skirted away from the injury, aware that you were staring, and probably not wanting to be rude. It was more politeness than most bothered to afford him.

... Then you smiled at him.

He literally felt his Soul pulse. All his breath escaped him at the same time. You were smiling? At him? People didn’t smile at him anymore, not genuinely. Their smiles were sly and patronising when they assumed he was stupid, or desperate and weak when they were a cornered animal doing their best to appear nonchalant in the face of a predator. 

This smile... your smile...

“Hi sir,” you said, in a voice like a lullaby. “what can I get for you?”

What could you get for him? He hadn’t even started thinking about that. He had just seen you across the road, and followed you like a lost dog. His eyelight scanned the shelves; he couldn’t say he’d ever been into a florist before, nor that he knew how to order a bouquet.

“... what’s...” For the first time in a long time, he was really really trying to get his words right. He was willing to put in the effort. “... your name?”

“Dove. You?”

It took him a moment to remember his own name. 

“sans.” 

Everything about you was soft. You had little lines around your smile that he wanted to trace with his claws. “It’s nice to meet you. Is there anything you’re looking for?”

you. “... just flowers.”

To his surprise, you giggled. It was a small sound, but it shot through him like lightning.

“Of course. My bad.”

“... was lookin’ for... somethin’ pretty.” He stared across the room at you, emboldened by your laugh. “... think i already found it, though.”

You went pink, and looked down at the counter.

Sans was... 

... Well, he was shocked. 

When was the last time his attention had incited anything except absolute terror? Regardless of gender, even just a glance from would make people shudder and cower, retreating into themselves. But here you were, blushing at his first attempt at flirting in what must’ve been years. He almost didn’t know what to do with himself.

... He couldn’t remember a single instance, after his injury, where he genuinely wanted someone. He had a vague aesthetic interest in a member of a rival gang, once, but she’d been so frightened by him staring at her that he quickly gave that up. He hadn’t felt these kinds of feelings in a long time. 

... In fact... now that he was looking at you and your lovely nose and lips, he couldn’t remember a single instance before his injury when he felt this strongly about someone. His younger self had been a playboy who chased anything pretty and distracting. 

He’d never felt these warm, intense, fluttery sensations before.

It felt like love.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked him. “For the flowers, I mean.”

He approached the counter. “... a gift.”

“Are there any particular flowers or colours you have in mind?”

“... which... flowers do you like?”

Your blush hadn’t gone away. Was he just seeing things because he was desperate, or were you leaning on the counter like that to be flirtatious? “Oh... I know it’s stereotypical to say as a florist, but I can’t pick a favourite. I like so many of them.”

His eyelight lingered on your neck. He didn’t want to make assumptions and scare you off. But at the same time, he wanted so much. “how come?”

“Well... there’s a lot of folklore behind flowers. Pretty much all flowers have certain meanings.” You kept fiddling with the roses, changing the position of blooms. “The Victorians were really into it, they got super specific, even down to which hand you gave flowers with. Nobody really cares about that kind of thing nowadays, they just want the bouquets to look good. Which is fair enough. But every time I find out the hidden meaning of a flower, I think about how someone long ago must’ve loved that flower enough to give it so much meaning. And I get all emotional.”

You looked up at him, your eyes glistening in the light. He dug his thumb into the side of his index finger to stop himself from reaching out and caressing your face.

“... Y’know, it does make me laugh, sometimes, when people pick rude flowers without knowing their meaning.” You looked up at him from under your eyelashes. “They have no idea they’re sending a bouquet that would’ve meant ‘I don’t trust you, and I’m extremely disappointed with you’.”

He couldn’t help but smile when you smiled. That... was kinda funny. Papyrus would like this sort of thing.

“what kinda messages... can you send?”

“Almost anything.” You moved the roses to the side. “I can’t say I know many off the top of my head. Romantic love, platonic love, wisdom, bravery. There’s a lot for love. My favourites are the mean ones, though, because it’s so funny to me - orange lilies used to mean hatred. Could you imagine getting orange lilies delivered to your door?”

... He chuckled. He could listen to you talk forever. 

“... could i...” he hummed. “... get somethin’... with a meaning?”

Your whole face lit up. You beautiful thing.

“Of course! I don’t think I’ve ever actually gotten to make a bouquet that uses flower language." You were beaming. "What message were you thinking of?”

He looked right into your lovely, shiny eyes. “love at first sight.”

... He could see exactly how your mind worked, in that moment. There was an instant of surprise, then a glimmer of flattery and embarrassment, it came with another flash of warmth across your face that only deepened the colour in your cheeks. He could tell you were immediately trying to pull yourself back, convincing yourself he couldn’t mean you, reigning in the sudden feelings.

“Whoever it’s for must be very lucky.” You tucked some hair behind your ear. If only you knew. “Hold on, just let me grab my flower language book.”

You rushed over to a shelf. As you did, he looked down to double check that his Soul wasn’t shining through his clothes.

“Here.” You came back quickly, holding the book in question, already leafing through it. It was a faded beige, with beautifully illustrated blossoms on the front, encased in an embossed golden border. “This should help.”

He wanted to purr. You were so cute. Moving around with so much excitement, he liked when you were excited.

“There’s a few, I think. You’re in luck, we have these in stock.” He wasn’t paying attention to the book, he was just looking at you. “Thornless roses - gloxinia too. This one says that lilac roses are good to represent first love. We could make some really nice arrangements with these shapes and colours.”

just keep talking, was all he could think. talk to me forever...

Eventually, you looked up at him, still smiling. He had to physically fight the urge to just pick you up and walk out the door. “What size were you thinking?”

“... whatever... you think... looks best.” He wanted you to have fun with it. “... money’s... no object.”

“I think something medium would be good for these flowers. Anything bigger and it'll just look silly. Any particular styles?”

“... somethin’ romantic.”

You gently giggled. He guessed that that wasn’t a proper bouquet style. Usually, when people laughed at him, he felt the urge to cave in their skull... but when you laughed at him, he laughed too, a soft chuckle escaping his massive chest. His mind was racing to figure out why you laughed, so he could make you do it again. 

“i like your laugh,” he said, before he could stop himself.

“... I like yours, too.” Your voice was sweet. Almost... coy?

He was daring to hope that, despite his gruesome injury, you liked him too. 

... The store bell let out a little chime.

Sans turned around. And, much to his immediate aggravation, he saw his guard standing at the entrance.

“Hello.” Your voice was very different to the one you were just using with him. Far more customer service, far more ‘normal’. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The guard ignored you, looking to Sans. “Sir, you...”

Sans’ glare must’ve said shut the fuck up fluently enough to make the man close his mouth again. 

don’t you dare. don’t you fucking dare ruin this for me.

“... Do you two need to speak in private?” You had probably lived in this city long enough to know when it was time to make yourself scarce. “It’s fine, I can go make the bouquet while you talk.”

... He nodded. 

“... sorry. s’cuse me.”

You disappeared away, into the back of the store.

...

He turned to the guard. He could feel his eyelight starting to burn, sharpening and filling with aggressive magic. 

“what.”

The guard visibly shrank into himself. Sans didn’t even want guards, he didn’t fucking need them, he could more than handle himself. But Papyrus was still shaken from the incident to this day, and wouldn’t let him anywhere without at least one armed guard.

“S-sir, we’re... we’ll be late,” he said. 

Sans didn’t care. The clowns he was meeting with would wait for him like nervous children, no matter how long he took to arrive. As the moments ticked by, the guard just withered more and more under Sans’ stare. 

...

He eventually sighed, through his nasal cavity. Being around you had softened his mood significantly. He didn't even feel like breaking anything.

“i’ll tell... pap... you tried to rush me.”

... A wave of relief passed over the guard’s face. Though Sans was the one most feared, Papyrus’ wrath was still nothing to sneeze at. 

“Here!” Your voice snapped him back to attention. He turned around, just in time to see you set an arrangement down on the counter. “What do you think? I’m happy to make adjustments.”

... It was lovely. Really lovely. He leaned in to get a closer look. He knew what lilacs and roses looked like, but he couldn’t say he’d ever seen a gloxinia before; they resembled open roses, lipstick red petals with ruffled white edges. Gloxinia and bunches of lilacs were interspersed by small lavender-hued closed rosebuds... minuscule baby’s breath flowers had been added too, on their thin stalks, floating over it all like stars.

“... s’perfect,” he murmured. You immediately smiled wider. Who would’ve known he’d grow a fondness for flowers?

He took out his wallet, rummaging until he had enough bills. It didn’t take long. He pushed them across the counter to you, and you graciously picked them up. 

“Do you mind me asking who the lucky someone is?” you asked, starting to count what he’d given.

... Sans pushed the flowers across the counter a little, over to you.

“gotta go.” he murmured. “... late.”

...

You looked up at him, blankly. It was such a cute expression on your pretty face. Again, he was restraining the urge to purr, it would just be too inappropriate to do in public. Especially with someone else right behind him. Maybe if the two of you were alone...

“Huh?”

He turned, nodding to the guard, who made his way over to the door and opened it for him. As much as he wished he could just skip the meeting and stay there in that shop with you forever, he did have business to attend to. 

You sounded flustered, behind him. “W-wait. You gave me too much,”

Sans waved over his shoulder at you. 

The walk back to the car was a blur. His soul was still thundering. He genuinely wasn’t looking at the people around him, he didn’t care what they thought. All he cared about was what you thought.

All he was thinking about was the different ways he could make you his.

[01zfan]

number 45 | o. sh

volleyball player!shotaro x manager!reader | 5.4k words

anons who requested this. i am SO SORRY it took me so long to get to this. i had to channel my past in volleyball for this and find the motivation for it so i hope the quality and the length makes up for the wait!

contains: semi-public, hand stuff only, mentions of clothing being tight (???)

shotaro would’ve never thought he’d end up playing volleyball. as a child he liked watching basketball the most, and when he he was in middle school he played soccer. but one summer at a sleep-away camp he picked up a volleyball for the very first time. shotaro received so many compliments about how he was a natural that he decided to tryout for the team on a whim. he knew it was insane to go into tryouts for a sport he never played, that it was less than likely he would be selected for the team. but it turned out everyone was right, he did have a natural talent. it wasn’t long before shotaro was accepted, becoming the libero on the junior varsity team.

shotaro also didn’t think he’d stay with it. just like soccer he found himself hitting ruts that caused him to lose momentum. he had to learn a completely new sport, he had to learn how to go for passes with his hands and dig for balls by diving his body to the floor instead of using his legs. the frustration of moving his body differently manifested into him not caring for the sport. it wasn’t long before he was not giving his all at practice, only nodding his head or shrugging his shoulders when the coach would ask him what was happening.

he even considered quitting when the coach wouldn’t bench him at the games. he knew he couldn’t stop himself from doing his best during games, especially with his team counting on him. he reluctantly ended up doing the best he could, and as a result his team did the best they could too. by his sophomore year shotaro was on the varsity team, and by the time he graduated he was captain.

when shotaro came to college it was a completely different atmosphere. he was against people stronger and taller than him, and he was up against people who didn’t have anything but love and passion for the sport. after the first day of tryouts shotaro stayed behind long after everyone left, practicing the drills he messed up. he was in his own little world, sweat dripping from his brow as he wondered if volleyball was worth it anymore.

“the gym is closed.”

shotaro turned away from the net to follow the voice. he remembers your face, but the amount of names he heard that day made him forget. all shotaro knew was that you were the assistant student manager. he saw your duffle slung over your shoulder as you wiped sweat from your brow with the bottom of your shirt. 

“you’ll only hurt yourself at this point. try sleeping on it, the drills will come to you naturally.” you turned around to walk out of the gym, and shotaro was getting ready to resume his drills. you turned around again, hand on the strap of your bag as you got his attention again. “you’re shotaro right?” you asked.

shotaro was shocked that you remembered his name. he was one face out of the crowd of athletes. he doesn’t even remember if he had the chance to formally introduce himself to anyone before they started explaining the process of tryouts.

“yeah.” shotaro said.

”cool.” shotaro saw you look down at your feet, his eyes caught on the brace that was bound to your ankle and the small scar down your knee. “you’re really good. i hope you make the team.” you said.

shotaro could only nod, giving you a simple wave as you left the gym. he thought nothing about his performance was noteworthy, much less worthy of praise. but you seemed to mean it, and as you walked away shotaro took your words of advice seriously. he packed up shortly after you left, and he had a long nights rest to recuperate from all the exercise. 

he found out you were right when the drills came to him like second nature the next day. he saw you watching him a few times, giving him nods of approval and a thumbs up each time he caught your eye. shotaro found himself looking to you each time he did a perfect serve, or was able to get a ball that seemed unsalvageable. he found himself overhearing the pointers you’d give to everyone else, even if they didn’t apply to him. each time you gave him advice shotaro listened intently, blaming the heat he felt across his face on the strenuous workouts. 

at the end of the week when he made the team, you were the first person he looked for. in such a short time shotaro decided that you were his good luck charm and that he needed to let you know. he was quick asking for your number, hiding it under the guise of needing to have the student manager’s contact information. you gave it to him with a smile on your face, putting your name and number in his phone.

“i’m going to the dining hall after this.” you handed shotaro back his phone and he texted you so you could have his number too. “if you wanna come with.” you offered.

shotaro took you up on the offer a little too quickly. he sat with you and the rest of the team, sharing stories about volleyball before coming to college. shotaro saw you nod and smile, understanding all the nuances of what it was to be a volleyball player, but never sharing stories of your own. he knew not to ask about it, he had come to that conclusion after finding about your vast knowledge of the sport and seeing the scar on your knee.

you and shotaro had made fallen into your own post-practice routine. he would wait for you in the main gym while you finished your clerical duties at the end of the night, and you two would walk together to the dining hall. sometimes you would end up catching the rest of the team, but more often than not it would be just the two of you sitting in the booth of an emptying dining hall. you two talked about life back home, what you were planning to study, and everything in between. 

the friendship blossomed quickly, but the dynamic changed the more you two spent time together. shotaro went from sitting across from you in the booth to sliding in next to you, so close that your shoulders touched. you two went from saying goodbye outside of the dining hall to shotaro walking you to your dormitory. eventually he was holding your duffle bag for you on the walk over, and one day he finally got the courage to reach for your hand. 

by the middle of the season, you two were in a relationship. everyone on the team seemed to know before you guys did, some even bet on how long it would take before you two got together. you two kept your relationship out of practice. you didn’t hesitate to advise shotaro and you refused to hold back critiques relayed to you by the coach. 

he respected you for your professionalism and passion for the sport, he truly did. he loved how you cared for the team and managed the responsibilities of the job while also easing everyone else’s stress. shotaro and his team never had to worry about the logistics of practice, they never had to worry about the little things if you were there. shotaro always found himself puffing out his chest proudly when his teammates would praise your hard work or mention that they never had a student manager like you. so shotaro didn’t know why he would feel a pang of jealousy seeing the girlfriends of his teammates in the stands wearing their jerseys. 

he knew it was unfair to impose anything on you. shotaro was able to get your support constantly outside the context of games, so he didn’t know why he felt that way. sometimes all shotaro could think about during games or practice was seeing his player numbers across your chest. he thinks he would be unstoppable on the court if he saw it only once—he’d keep a picture of you in his mind like soldiers did of their wives back home before going to war. but he would never ask you to do anything that would show such blatant favoritism, even if he was your boyfriend and everyone knew it. he could also never bring himself to admit the primitive aspect of it all, that he would feel some sense of satisfaction seeing his number on your body. so because of that, shotaro simply kept it to himself. 

he had planned to never tell you about it, but it was hard to avoid the conversation when it was staring at him right in the face. 

it was another long practice, ending with you walking around the main gym looking for shotaro. you called out his name and texted his phone to see where he was. you knew that no one else was in the gym at this time, you had even seen the custodians leave for the night after cleaning the floors. you followed the sounds of the showers, standing outside as you called out your boyfriends name again.

“i’m in here.” he called back.

“i’ll wait outside!” you yelled, hoping your voice would carry over the sound of running water.

as soon as you were done speaking, you heard the water shut off.

“come in. it’s just me.” shotaro said.

instantly you shook your head, looking up to the camera that was pointing right at the entrance of the showers.

“i can’t. not allowed.” you said simply.

shotaro came from around the corner of the tile wall, only wearing a towel around his waist. he had another towel in his hands, running through the wet strands of his hair.

“if anyone asks, say you heard me slip and fall.” shotaro beckons to you, and your feet started moving on their own accord. “come in.” he smiled. 

shotaro lead you through the winding tile walls of the showers until you made it to the main dressing room. you set your duffle down beside the bench, sitting on the polished wood as shotaro finished getting ready. you looked up in the large mirror embedded into the wall in front of you to stare at him. the pale blue tiles went all the way up to the white ceiling. you counted them up and down, each time leading you back to the reflection of shotaro’s body in the fogging glass.

he pretended to not notice your stare as he took his towel off to dry the rest of his body. when he looked in the mirrors reflection and saw you look away quickly, his laugh filled the room.

“it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” shotaro said.

you nodded your head sheepishly, still looking down at your feet. he wasn’t wrong, you had seen shotaro naked more times than you could count on your hands and feet. but it was different seeing him outside the privacy of your dorm rooms. you have never seen shotaro naked in a place that could easily be invaded. all it took was a straggler from practice or a custodian to catch you staring at your naked boyfriend. you only slightly settled down when you heard him pull up the pants to his tracksuit. when you looked back up to the mirror shotaro was putting on his shirt. 

he came behind you, looking at you in the mirror with a smile on his face. shotaro bent down and kissed the crown of your head. you tilted you head to look at him directly.

“how was practice for you?” you asked.

shotaro shrugged his shoulders, moving his hand to massage your neck. he continued looking in the mirror to stare at you, and when he got to a stubborn knot you let your head lull forward.

“it was good. i’m a little nervous for the game tomorrow.” shotaro answered.

you hummed sympathetically, pulling shotaro’s hands away. you guided him around the bench to stand in front of you. you were sincere as you spoke, holding his hands tightly.

“you’ll do great, i know you will.” you encouraged.

shotaro nodded his head, feeling the anxiety of the important match melt off of his shoulders. he already felt like he was on top of the world just by looking down at you. shotaro watched the serious look on your face change to a bright smile as you squeezed his hands again.

“i do have a surprise for you.” you excitedly waved his hands around. “it just came in today and i can’t wait.” you said.

shotaro couldn’t control his own smile. he thought about what you could possibly give him as he cocked his head to the side.

“and what is that?” he asked.

you guided his hands again until he was standing next to the bench opposite of you. you both moved to straddle the bench, and shotaro watched you look to your duffle bag before looking to him.

“close your eyes.” when shotaro’s eyes stayed on your duffle bag you stopped messing with the zipper. “taro i’m serious!” you laughed.

shotaro hesitated for a moment, but let his eyes close. he let his imagination run wild, trying to think what surprise was waiting for him in your duffle. he thought maybe it was his favorite snack, maybe it was a lucky pair of socks or a handwritten note. when shotaro thought he heard the sound of your clothes jostling he had to compose himself. he tried to beat the dirty thoughts away with a stick as he held onto the edges of the bench. he heard you curse under your breath a moment later. 

when everything was still in the room again, he stuck out a tongue to wet his lips.

“okay. open them.” you said hesitantly. 

shotaro wasn’t expecting to actually be surprised when he opened his eyes. his wildest imagination would’ve never been able to pluck the view he was blessed with down from his mind to place it right in front of him. he let out a sigh from the other side of the bench as he took all of you in. he got the perfect view from where he was. he was able to see the 45 of his jersey stretch across your chest and how the tight fabric rode up to reveal your stomach. shotaro couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you pulled at the end of the sleeves in efforts to make it fit right. 

“it’s a little snug.” your attempt to pull down the bottom of the shirt was futile. it rode back up immediately once you were done pinching the fabric. “i thought mens sizes were supposed to be bigger.” you said

shotaro still couldn’t take his eyes off of your chest as he shook his head. the primitive thoughts shotaro tried to keep at bay became barbaric as he watched the tight jersey material stick to you. when you crossed your arms to cover your chest shotaro’s hands went to your bicep, pushing them back to your sides.

“perfect fit.” shotaro spread his legs on either side of the bench further as he took his hands off your arms. “it’s a perfect fit. no reason to hide.” he said.

he watched you mesmerized as you continued to move in his jersey. your end of the bench felt like it was miles away the longer he looked at you on the other side. he reached out a hand to you, letting his palm drag across the polished wood as he pulled his hand back. shotaro was grateful you understood what he needed as you came forward, your hands gripping the edges of the bench. you brought your arms in to make your chest poke out more, trying to give him a show. his eyes ran over his numbers before he went to the shy smile on your face. shotaro mirrored your grin as he scooted forward closer to you. shotaro’s smile only got bigger as you two came closer and closer, by the time your face casted a shadow on his you could see his gleaming teeth. he only stopped smiling a moment before your lips touched his, biting them as he looked down to yours.

your kisses were light and soft, both of you tilting your heads to accommodate the other. one of shotaro’s hands came from behind him to go to your waist, and one of your hands let go of the bench to hold onto his face. you could feel the soft skin of shotaro’s cheek underneath your fingertips as you deepened the kiss. you held his head in place as you pushed your tongue past his lips. shotaro’s other hand went to your waist and he pulled you in closer, until you had to put your legs over his.

shotaro only brought you closer, and he moved towards you to cover the rest of the space. you could feel all of him press against you as one of his hands moved to your ass and the other moved to the small of your back. shotaro applied pressure, making your chest come closer to his as your hand that wasn’t on his face went to his shoulder. he was grabbing handfuls of you, kneading whatever part of your body he could get his hands on while your grip on his shoulder tightened. neither of you refused to pull away, only catching quick breaths in the seconds one of you would pull away to readjust. 

when you moaned into shotaro’s mouth he remembered where he was. he was supposed to be like you, taking his role on the team very seriously. he remembered that he shouldn’t be making out with you in a place where you two could so easily get caught. so he pulled away from you reluctantly, and moved a gentle hand to your shoulder to keep you from leaning forward again. your plump lips called to him, but he remained steady as he caught his breath.

“we could get caught.” shotaro said.

you only nodded your head, eyes wide as you tried catching your breath. shotaro nodded too, trying hard to not let his eyes wander back to his numbers across your chest. he still had a handful of your ass, and he could feel you arch your back in efforts to give him more. your hands that were still on shotaro’s face pulled him in, and he only resisted for a second before going back in. 

now it was you smiling against his lips, taking a deep breath in as you pulled on his bicep. shotaro’s hand went to your thigh as he lifted to get you completely on his lap. your hand on his face went to the nape of his neck before traveling up his scalp, reveling in the soft strands running through your fingers. when you pulled shotaro sighed, slipping his tongue further into your mouth.

you two were so caught up in the act of kissing that you forgot what always followed it. you were lost in how shotaro’s soft lips pressed into yours that you nearly gasped in his mouth feeling his dick pulse against you. he responded by only pulling you closer, and when your lips broke apart shotaro went to whatever part of your body he could reach. when you tilted your chin back he went to your jaw, traveling all the way down your neck until he got to what his jersey covered. shotaro pulled your hips down to his lap and he pushed into you when you pulled the hair at his scalp.

“you’re really hard right now.” you sighed.

“sorry.” shotaro said in between kisses. “you just look so perfect.”

“yeah?” you laughed, bringing your hands to shotaro’s face so he could look up at you. “i thought we could get caught?” you asked.

“i don’t remember saying that.” shotaro said.

you both let out quick chuckles and shotaro couldn’t stop thinking about how all of his restraint melted away feeling in your presence. it was a problem he was developing, even worse than his habit of not saying mine when going for a ball or cursing under his breath when a play wasn’t set up perfectly. he looked at the glint in your eyes and down to his number that was covered up by your two bodies pressing together. 

there are worse problems to have.

shotaro travels his hand up your thigh, watching the anticipation build behind your eyes as you preen into him. he messes with the fabric at the end of the shorts before pressing into you. you break eye contact to tilt your head back but shotaro’s eyes stay on you, how your neck bobs as you get the little relief. he feels himself becoming impatient at the sight, and he pulls your waist down with his other hand so you can feel all of him.

he repeats the action, just pressing into you and bringing your hips down to meet his each time you raise them. he can feel his dick pulsing in his pants, and shotaro almost sticks his own hand underneath his waistband to relieve the aching. but he doesn’t want to miss a single second of you getting teased as your eyebrows furrow from the almost pleasure.

“shotaro.” you sigh, looking up to the ceiling.

your own hand starts drifting down, taking the time to press into shotaro’s chest and stomach before you reach the pants of his tracksuit. you look down to shotaro when the thick band of fabric stays in your way, and he looks up at you with his eyes gleaming. his hand stops pressing into your heat to go up to your waistband. 

“mhm?” he hums.

neither of you say anything else as both of your hands move at the same time. you grab his dick and shotaro goes to your clit—not wasting any more time to tease. you both silently come to the conclusion you will have time for all the other stuff later, right now it was all about sated the desperation both of you felt until you were somewhere more private. 

shotaro knew he’d have to take his time with you in his dorm when he rubbed the first circle around your clit. instantly you were curling into him, muffling your tiny whimper into his shirt. shotaro knew he would be better composed later in the day, that he would be able to tease you or coo at the sounds you made into the fabric of his shirt instead of biting his lip to keep his own sounds at bay. he couldn’t help himself when you squeezed your hand around his dick just right, and when you had his name and number written all over you. 

the both of you were too reckless to start at a slow speed. when your hands went to eachother you both started fast, rushing through the motions as the last bit of your brains that were working told you that you had to be quick. so you quickly pumped shotaro’s dick until he was thrusting into your hand and he wasted no time teasing your clit until you were begging for his fingers. you both were messes for eachother in seconds, hands wedged between smushed bodies and shoved underneath clothes in shotaro’s team locker room. the novelty of it all would’ve made you both laugh if you weren’t so caught up in trying to feel everything.

shotaro felt the joking mood shift as you looked up to him. he could see the lights of the locker room reflect your glassy eyes, making it look like you had stars swimming in your irises. you were serious as you looked up to him, lips pouting as you spoke.

“you’re so good at volleyball.” you said, looking straight into shotaro.

his fingers on your clit faltered at the sudden praise, only finding their tempo again when you bucked your hips and let out a small desperate sound.

“what?” shotaro asked, trying to keep up with your hand that tightened around his dick.

“you’re so good at volleyball.” you repeated.

you repeated the words without faltering, tilting your head. you could see the confusion written on his face, flickering between that and how his lips parted when you squeezed a little tighter. you leaned back to rest on your hand that wasn’t on shotaro, giving both of you enough room to move your hands faster. the new angle let you pull down shotaro’s sweats enough to see the tip of his dick peaking out past your hand.

“i know i said you could do whatever you want.” you pumped his dick faster, feeling him pulse in your hand each time you went back down from his tip. “but i wanted to die when you told me you were thinking of quitting.”

shotaro quickly changed the angling of his hand in your pants, making his palm face the ceiling so he could finger you and stimulate your clit at the same time. you closed your eyes from the change and let a tiny fuck slip past your lips before opening them again. you clenched around his fingers when shotaro licked his lips.

“why?” he asked weakly.

“because you’re such a good leader, even if you aren’t captain yet” you started swiveling your hips into his hand, chasing that feeling building in the pit of your stomach. “they couldn’t do it without you.” you whined.

shotaro found himself chasing after something else, and a different feeling erupted across his body hearing your praise. he didn’t know what to do with himself hearing the rushed compliments fall from your lips as he watched you try and fuck yourself on his fingers. shotaro came to the embarrassing realization that he didn’t need you to touch him anymore, he could fall apart just from watching you and hearing you talk to him.

“they’re more than capable.” shotaro bent his fingers inside of you, eyes already focused on your chest to watch it jolt in the confines of his jersey as your whole body twitched. “feels good?” he asked.

shotaro watched you lull forward, eyes lazily focused on him as you nodded your head. he could see you actively trying to remember what you were saying, swallowing as you prepped your shaky voice.

“eunseok would’ve never been able to fix his jump serve if you didn’t help him.” shotaro tried putting in a third finger, but when he saw you wince he pulled back. “and sungchan kept touching that fucking net until you scolded him.” you said.

shotaro could tell you were getting close by the way your words were turning into babbles and your hand on his dick was becoming more and more rushed. he watched you screw your eyes shut and when you opened them he could see the tears in the corner of your eyes as you tried to focus on his. shotaro kept his eyes open wide, trying to remember the sight when he tries out for captain. 

your walls closed around shotaro’s digits repeatedly, and he continued pumping his fingers in and out even if it felt like you were trying to suck him in. 

“you think i’m a good volleyball player?” shotaro asked the question just to see you pitifully nod your head.

“you’re the best.” you arched your back, and the new angle helped shotaro go deeper inside of you. “you’re my favorite.” you whimpered.

shotaro’s eyes were wide as he took in every word. your voice dripped with sincerity as you rushed through sentences. shotaro used one of his hands to trace the curve of your body, ending at the bottom of his jersey. he pulled on the material, bringing the pinched fabric down your torso until it was completely straight. shotaro felt a newfound pride in himself that materialized in his chest, trickling down like molten lava to his stomach. immediately when he let go the tight fabric clung to you like a second skin, riding up the same way it did before. shotaro ran a quick hand through his hair as he felt the excitement prickling across his body.

“i’m gonna cum.” shotaro said.

his voice was beginning to waiver, floating between grunts and prolonged sighs. you nodded your head again, pushing up from your other hand to focus. you squeezed shotaro’s tip, using his precum as lubricant for your ministrations. he jerked his hips up quickly, bunching his pants at his mid thigh to free the rest of his dick. you moaned at the sight, using your legs that were still on shotaro’s to bring your body closer to his.

shotaro wrapped his hand around your back, giving you stability and enough space to work your hands the same way. when he saw you bring the end of his jersey down shotaro couldn’t hold out any longer. he pressed his fingers into your side and he closed his eyes as relief washed over his body. you kept working your hand when shotaro stilled underneath you, and he heard more mumbled praises fell from your lips as his his dick twitched in your hand. he left out one final curse, leaning forward until his head rested on your shoulder.

when shotaro opened his eyes he saw his cum glide down your hand and his abs. he saw some of it on your stomach, dribbling down your body to seep into the fabric of your sweatpants. you looked down too, looking back up to shotaro with a hunger that made him almost ready to go again. 

before you could close the distance between your lips shotaro leaned forward, working still feeling the buzzing across his body as his lips ghosted over yours.

“i couldn’t have done it without you.” shotaro said it quietly, afraid that if he got any louder he would only moan. he took his fingers from your clenching heat to focus on your clit. “you’re my motivation to be in this stupid sport and the only reason i stayed.”

shotaro felt your legs shake over his and your hand moved from his dick to dig your nails into his stomach. shotaro flexed for you, hardening the muscle underneath his skin. he could feel the cum on your hand smear onto his stomach, warm and sticky as your grip on him changed.

“you close?” shotaro asked, readjusting his hand around your back.

“so close.” you whimpered. “just keep going.”

“okay baby.” shotaro’s hand across the small of your back pulled at you, making you lean forward into his chest. “moan into my shirt if you need to.” he whispered.

you nodded while pushing your hips forward trying to work with shotaro’s fingers. your entire body went tense, gripping shotaro’s shirt so hard the fabric wrinkled. your moans became whiny and you could feel shotaro nodding his head.

“i got you.” he whispered into your ear.

your full body shook around shotaro, and he continued to nod and keep the same speed. he could feel the same relief coming off you in waves, and shotaro let a finger run down your folds to gather your cum. he used that as extra lubrication on your clit, speeding up until you let out a shuddering breath. he didn’t stop until you started shaking your head against his chest and your hand on his abs clasped around his wrist. he still tried circling his hand, smiling as how you had to push yourself off his lap before you got overstimulated.

“baby.” shotaro breathed.

“mhm?” you hummed. 

you still leaned into his chest, and shotaro watched your back raise and lower as you tried catching your breath. he saw the small trace of tear tracks underneath your hooded eyes.

“did you mean all the stuff you said?” he asked.

you put your hands to his face as you nodded your head. shotaro leaned into your palms, and the need to be touched by you took over his mind again. 

“of course i did.” you bring shotaro forward to kiss his forehead. when you pulled back he saw the facetious smile on your face. “i would love to tell you more about it, actually.” you teased.

you and shotaro were tripping over eachother as you gathered your belongings. you readjusted your sweatpants and threw shotaro’s hoodie over his jersey. shotaro slung both of your duffles over his shoulder quickly. you moved in a haste, not looking back at the bench to see if you left a mess. shotaro didn’t turn around till he made it to the exit, peaking at you one last time with a joking smile on his face.

“just make sure the jersey stays on.” he laughed.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Well Directed.

Written for a very lovely, very patient anonymous commisioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Arlecchino x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 2.0k.

TW: Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Intimidation, Biting/Blood, Unhealthy Relationships, and Slight Dehumanization.

Arlecchino greeted you the way she always did – through touch.

Despite everything, you had to admit Arlecchino’s ability to dampen her footsteps, to muffle her breathing, to somehow disguise the weight of her state and heat of her unnaturally warm body and the very fact of her own existence was undeniably impressive – even more so when she managed to hide herself from someone like you, someone so preoccupied with knowing the exact position of every actor as soon as they stepped onto your stage. Your first hint that she was coming to see you was the feeling of her talons on the dip of your shoulder, drifting upward to the curve of your neck, then the sight of her reflection in the mirror of your vanity, appearing as if she’d always been there, as if your eyes hadn’t been fixed to the door of your dressing room since locked yourself behind it, content to spend your intermission in peaceful seclusion. You’d planned to use what little free time you had to clear your head and prepare yourself properly for the rest of the night, but as always, she was there to make sure your mind would be filled with only thoughts of her. If Arlecchino had it her way, there was a good chance you’d never be able to think about anything else.

When you tried to stand, crumbling under the reflex to put any amount of distance between you and her, Arlecchino’s hand rose to your throat, catching you just under the chin and burying her claws in each corner of your jaw. Immediately, you went still, and she rewarded you with an airy chuckle, a tilted head. “Good puppet,” she praised, loosening her hold on you with the assurance that you’d learned your lesson quickly. “You were brilliant out there. Truly, the rest of the production is paler for having to stand in comparison to you.”

You wished you could’ve preened, could’ve basked her praise the same way you did when one of your performances caught the eye of a particularly flattering columnist, when you overheard one of your costars gushing about how proud they were to be working with someone of your renowned. Instead, all her words – no matter how kind, no matter how adoring – ever seemed to do was send a chill down your spine, to make you regret ever auditioning in the first place. Could her praise be considered sincere, if you knew she wouldn’t remember a single line you delivered a few minutes after the curtains closed? Could you take her compliments as anything but blatant condescension, if you knew the only reason she’d sat through your performance at all was to admire her newest toy?

But, you couldn’t say that out loud, so you only bowed your head, settling onto the stool of your vanity as you attempted to find your voice. “It was only the first act,” you mumbled, eventually. “And my scenes were hardly anything noteworthy. My character doesn’t really find their footing until the climax.”

“I disagree. Try as I might, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.” She didn’t have to tell you that. You’d felt stare prying into you every time you were on stage, and if it hadn’t been for the blinding lights, you were sure you would’ve been able to see her in the dead-center of the first row, grinning wildly as she watched you put on a show she’d already attended half a dozen times since opening night. If she actually bothered to pay attention, you were sure she would have the script memorized, by now. “Although, I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t wearing my last gift. What if I lost track of you up there, dear?”

Her last ‘gift’. Your heart skipped a beat at the reminder. It’d been a gaudy thing – a rose-shaped breastpin, crafted with tens of hundreds of pinprick rubies and lined with a frame of pure obsidian. She’d let one of her masked soldiers make the delivery, but her note had been clear enough. You were supposed to wear the awful thing during your next performance, in front of a crowd of hundreds. You’d crushed it under your heel before your anger could turn into mortification. The dread had only taken root as you cleaned up the broken pieces and began to imagine how Arlecchino might react to your ungratefulness. She could weather most things, but such blatant disobedient had never gotten you more than a bruised cheek, rope-burnt wrists, and a few days spent in the guestroom of her manor.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I tried, but the costuming department overruled me.” You let your eyes fall to the ground, playing sheepish. As if you were genuinely apologetic. As if any part of you regretted not being able to wear her claim on you in front of half the population of Fontaine. “You know how it is. Everything has to be approved by the director, lest a misplaced prop lead the audience to the wrong conclusion.”

She hummed, letting her hand fall to the low collar of your top. It was far from the most risqué costume you’d ever worn, but the plunging neckline suddenly left you feeling more exposed than you would’ve liked. “Give me a name.”

You stiffened. “…excuse me?”

“Who made the call? Give me a name and I’ll take care of the rest.” Her pitch-black claws ran over your collarbone, playing with the idea of breaking the skin. You already knew that the ghost of her drifting affection would linger for seconds, minutes, hours after she was gone, when you were left alone with her voice still ringing in your ears. It was more than likely that you’d spend the second act performing under the careful supervision of her phantom touch. “If it’s the director, don’t bite your tongue. The show can go on without that bumbling idiot.”

“No, I—” The threat was clear, direct. She’d made similar promises before – when the man behind the counter of her preferred bakery called you by your name as you hung from her arm, when one of her subordinates seemed just a little too excited to attend one of your shows. In her ideal world, you’d be little more than a ballerina twirling in one of her music boxes; there to smile and dance when she desired to see you and locked away from prying eyes when she did not. You’d do nothing but giggle and laugh and bend to her whims, too happy in her gilded cage to ever throw yourself at the bars. “I’m sorry,” you said, again, and this time you tried to mean it. “I… I lied to you, earlier. I damaged it this morning while trying to put it on, and—” A pause, a laugh. “Archons, I’m so embarrassed. I just couldn’t stand the idea of letting you know I was so thoughtless with one of your presents.”

It was far from your best work. Your speech was too stilted, your tone too dire for the occasion, your body language too stiff to convey much of anything beyond the simple hope that she would believe you. You would’ve been mortified to let anything so visibly improvised make it in front of a real audience, but Arlecchino was far from a critic. Her grin – as unwavering as it was monstrous – softened, her sadism partially sated by your complete, unabashed submission. Her hand fell away from you completely, and you beamed, letting your heart soar at the thought that she’d finally found some scrap of empathy for you.

Of course, your elation was quickly punished. It always caught you off guard – just how fast she was, just how strong she was, just how much she enjoyed reminding you of exactly why she could afford to be so self-indulgent when it came to her ever-growing collection of pretty little things. One moment, you were smiling at her reflection, and the next, the mirror had been shattered into more pieces than you could ever be able to count, anything it might’ve once shown distorted beyond all recognition. An intricate web of hairline fractures stretched outward from the point where her fist connected with the glass, but she regarded the devastation with little more than a slight hum, a sleeve dragged over her bleeding knuckles. “I think it’s my turn to apologize.” The sound of her heels against tile, the feeling of her arms wrapping around your waist. “You know how I get when I’m upset.”

Upset. You could’ve laughed, if you hadn’t forgotten how to use your lungs. You could’ve cried, if you weren’t too scared to move. If your unresponsiveness bothered her, if she noticed you hadn’t blinked since she lashed out, your paralysis wasn’t deemed worthy of her concern. Instead, she only pulled you against her chest, letting her chin rest on the dip of your shoulder. “You’re special, you know. I don’t lose my temper for every little actor who thinks they can get away with being so…” Her claws skirted over your side, threatening to tear through the delicate fabric of your costume. “Unappreciative. That’s a good word for it, isn’t it? You’ve always been the more eloquent one, between the two of us.”

Multiple temptations surfaced in you all at once. Part of you wanted to cry, to beg for her forgiveness, to promise you’d never be so selfish and so stupid again if she’d only let you go unharmed tonight. Another more rebellious faction screamed at you to run, to try in vain to hide yourself away from such an obvious predator, unwilling to acknowledge how many times you’d tried that before and how many times it hadn’t worked. And yet, neither impulse overwhelmed you, in the end. Arlecchino’s training took control and you left you speaking hollowly, the words finding your way to your tongue before your conscious mind could so much as realize that you’d opened your mouth. “Unappreciative, my lord. I’ve been unappreciative.” Then, leaning against her, “What can I do to earn your forgiveness?”

“Good little thing,” she said, by way of an answer. Her grin was the widest it’d ever been. “My perfect little puppet.”

This time, you were able to find a note of joy in her praise, to seek comfort in the fact that her faux-affection meant you wouldn’t be the next thing crushed under her rage. That happiness was only partially dampened by the weight of her lips against your shoulder, then drifting upward, latching onto the tender patch of flesh just below your jugular. Her teeth, like her fingertips, were sharpened to fine points, each able to pierce your skin with all the thought it would’ve taken her to swat a fly out of the air, to pluck a wildflower from its patch. You felt warm blood trickle past her lips and down your collarbone, let a low whimper slip past your grit teeth as she dug that much deeper, as she carelessly tore through everything she touched. When you shifted, attempting to relieve a fraction of the pressure on your throat, of the burning ache just underneath your skin, her hands clamped down around your hips, her hold on you tightening and dragging you that much closer to her chest, that much deeper into her embrace.

By the time she pulled away, there was a dark ring of bruising carved into the side of your neck, emphasized by the bright red stain of her lipstick against your skin, the trail of crimson dripping down your chest and pooling above your collarbone. You weren’t able to stop yourself, cursing as you scrambled for something on your vanity table that you could use to limit the damage, but Arlecchino stopped you, taking up either of your wrists and forcing your arms to your sides. “Trying to hurt my feelings again?” She ran her tongue up the side of your throat, adding a vulgar smear to the mess she’d made of you. “Leave it as it is – I want you wearing my mark for the rest of your performance. And, if someone tries to stop you, tell them I’m the only one you’ll be taking direction from, from now on.”  

You were too stunned to respond, too mortified to blink. Somewhere in the distance, a stagehand called five minutes to curtain, and Arlecchino let out a breathy laugh. With no small amount of hesitancy, she detangled herself from you, making her way to the door of the dressing room, the space now too contaminated to be called your own.

As her fingertips grazed the knob, her glanced back to you, her eyes meeting yours in the shattered remains of your mirror. You could’ve sworn you could still see the faint tint of your blood on her teeth as the corner of her lips tugged upward and something buried deep, deep inside of you withered and died.

“I’ll be watching, dearest.”

[luckydragon10]

Fic Writers: You Need No Justification

I've had a few noteworthy incidents recently with the way readers have chosen to engage with my fic.

First, an early TLDR: Fic writers, you are under no obligation to justify either yourself or your writing choices to your readers. Ever.

There may come a day when a commenter thinks they can say whatever they like, without any care as to how that might affect you. They might, possibly, even be hoping to get a reaction. When that happens, I want you to remember that this commenter Is not your audience. 

And you don’t have to let them walk all over you. 

Recently, a commenter chose to disagree with my characterization and relationship dynamic choices, starting with a dismissive “Naah” and saying “I don’t like this idea that…” and “I don’t like this {character}...” and “I am sad now…” and “I can’t continue.” 

And I chose to tell them to back off. Firmly. Then I got a response that really concerns me.

Name is hidden for no reason in particular. Because it’s a throwaway name anyway.

First of all, this commenter folded as soon as I showed I wouldn’t cater to them. Second, the fact that this person comments anonymously with “random names” is a dead giveaway that they know their behavior isn’t above board, and that having it traced back to them would be less than fun for them. 

I also had another commenter recently who willfully chose to ignore tags, triggered themself, and left a comment about how upset they were. Similarly, I reminded this person that they chose to read the fic and recommended they make healthier choices for their own sake. 

So once again: As a fic writer, you don’t have to cater, you don’t have to placate, and you don’t have to justify yourself.

(Note: The threads are frozen already, no need to go searching or get involved.)

[giantchasm]

Hey, so, a while back I made a revelation, and I’m finally posting about it on Tumblr because I continue to have A Few Goddamn Questions.

Alright. So I want everyone here to take a good hard look at Joronia/Spider Sectonia. Something you might notice about her design is that she’s pretty clearly wearing clothes. And like… of course she is— why wouldn’t she? She’s more or less a mirror of Taranza’s design, and he’s wearing clothes, so she is too.

But… Sectonia. The Sectonia WE know. The final boss you defeat at the end of the video game… while she has design elements that evoke the image of clothing, seemingly only the collar, the crown, the gloves and maybe the sleeves are actual clothing. Everything else is just her body.

Which wouldn’t be all that noteworthy if she were a standalone design. Plenty of characters in Kirby, including Kirby himself, don’t wear clothes! I’m certainly not going to point at Marx and accuse his practically running around butt-naked of being weird, but in the context of the fact that Sectonia used to wear clothes?

It kind of makes it feel like she stripped for no discernible reason following her descent into villainy, and that’s really, REALLY funny.

GIRL! PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON!!! THERE ARE STRANGERS IN YOUR HOUSE.

[itsfairly]

Two Negatives Make a Positive // Nanami Kento x f!reader

word count: 2.4k

cw: f!reader, neighbors to lovers, valentine's inspired (not mentioned but that's the main idea), not proofread

summary: dating can be tricky and nanami has confirmed that fact tonight on his date. but as he gets home and sees his neighbor alone by the stairs, he gets the feeling he isn't the only one with a bad night.

notes: i have no notes other than you can tell when things started to flow for him in this one.

liked this? show it with a like, reblog, and/or comment. each is greatly appreciated and celebrated!

His date wasn’t going well. Not because his date was rude or not interested, but it didn’t feel like a date. Rather than feeling his cheeks hurt from how much he was smiling, Nanami felt he was just being polite rather than smitten. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions so quickly, he thought, maybe as the date went on things would fall into place to meet again.

But things never seem to fall just right. Conversation was bland and when it seemed like it would get better, the moment didn’t seem to last for longer than a few seconds whether because of an interruption or because that was the end of that thread. They couldn’t seem to find their pace, resulting in multiple occasions when they ended up interrupting each other mid-sentence, maybe her sneaking her phone down the table as if to escape the awkwardness of the situation, which only made it worse in his eyes. It was obvious to know that, despite the kind “we should do this again sometime”, they wouldn’t meet each other for a second date.

After walking his date to their car, Nanami sighs, running his fingers through his hair. This one wasn’t as lucky either. Neither was the last, and the one before that, and the one before that…when did dating become so complicated? Even with this many ways to meet other people, the universe didn’t seem to help him much with his cards. Again, it wasn't like the people he met were horrible, they were always polite and even lovely, but it didn’t seem to click with any of them. Nanami was beginning to think that maybe he was looking for a spark that didn’t exist for many people, that he was having too high of expectations and he had to lower them to his dismay.

For now, he just wanted to be alone, maybe have something to get rid of that sad taste in his mouth once he got home. The drive was nothing noteworthy, simply love songs playing on the radio no matter how much he tried to avoid them by changing stations, almost as if the universe decided that mocking him was much more fun than helping him in his predicament. But eventually he gets home, but he also sees you. His neighbor was all dressed up and sitting by the entrance of the building with your phone in your hand.

Of course he knew you, but he had to admit he had to double check to confirm it was you. He just never caught you looking so…elegant like this, you were always rushing out of the building and coming back so exhausted from work that you always kept your appearance simple to make it easier to maintain. Not tonight. Tonight it was obvious that you took the time to impress someone: flowery dress with heels, blush and glossy lips, string earrings that match your necklace, along with a small purse that kept you company on the side. Another thing that was different was your face, not because of the make up but because of your expression. Rather than the bright and confident look that you always wore, you were looking down with a soured expression, letting out a frown as you put your phone down and buried your face in your hands.

While Nanami did know you, it wasn’t anything beyond neighbors. Hello and good evening accompanied by small talk for the sake of being polite, nothing more. But it wasn’t like he could just walk past you when you were obviously distressed. It might not be his place as a guy that happened to live in the same building as you, but he couldn’t ignore that you were alone outside and all dressed up. His mind made two and two together and decided to walk up ahead to you.

“Seems like I’m not the only one ending the night on a bad note.” Nanami said, trying to sound as casual as possible. He didn’t want to seem as if all he wanted was to downplay what you were going through.

You run your hands up through your hair, looking up at Nanami before you. Just like you, he was dressed quite elegantly, his blazer hanging around his arm and revealing the rest of his white shirt and black vest. He always dressed quite professional, being a businessman and all, as well as always looking quite stressed. Tonight though, he seemed let down, just like you did.

“You’re a man, right?” You asked, sounding gloomy. Before he could express his confusion to the question, you continued with, “explain to me why a guy would cancel a date five minutes before it.”

So it was as he thought, he got much luckier than you by not getting stood up by his date like you were. Offering a sympathetic chuckle, he sits down one the stairs with you. Not by your side but on the opposite side of the stairs to you. It was one thing for a date to not work like this, but it was another one to get canceled at the last minute, practically to be denied the chance to know whether or not it would lead to something more. It was a quite immature move to cancel so quickly and out of nowhere, especially when it seemed like you really put a lot of consideration into tonight if you looked like that.

“Do you want a polite answer or my answer?” He asks, bringing his hands together as he rests his elbows on his legs.

“Whichever is more real.” You mumbled.

Nanami sighs, looking up at the night sky as he searches for an answer. He didn’t want to make you feel worse, especially considering that your date’s actions are nowhere near your responsibility, but he knew how it could be so easy to beat yourself up over it if you looked distressed over it.

“Maybe he got cold feet at the last minute, realized that dating isn’t his thing or found someone else. Regardless, if he canceled minutes before your date, they are not worth your time if they disrespect you so quickly.”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around your legs and resting your head on your knees, looking straight ahead. Nanami could only hope that his words weren’t too harsh on you, so he decides to add onto his answer to soften whatever blow he might have landed.

“Besides, a man doesn't cancel a date so close to it. Maybe you got lucky avoiding such an immature guy just now.”

You chuckled, the corner of your lips lifting for a second in appreciation. You turn to look at him, your back resting against the stairs rail with a sigh.

“I know it has nothing to do with me or that I did something wrong, it’s just that I was excited for tonight. You know, that giddiness that comes on a date, getting to know each other, and…just hoping for more…”

As your words trail off, the two of you sit in silence, letting those feelings of disappointment come back up for Nanami. Those experiences you described were the ones he felt he was left out of tonight, instead getting brushed to the side at times by getting interrupted or his date focusing on something else other than their date together, as well as hoping for the date to either end or get better rather than wishing more of it. Of course, you probably felt the same as him, deprived of what so many people call the purpose of life. What a joke, he thought. If the purpose of life was to find someone you loved, then why was it so hard for some over others.

It felt weird for this to be his first conversation with you outside of small talk and other neighborly matters, but at the same time there was this odd comfort in knowing he wasn’t the only one feeling robbed of some romance for tonight, someone to share his misery with, even if you two were yet to know each other better.

“Being on the date isn’t easier either,” Nanami broke the silence with a light scoff.

You raise your brow at him, taking a good look up and down before asking, “Is that why you're all dressed up? I mean, you’re always looking very fancy and elegant. It’s just that tonight you looked like you were headed to somewhere nice.”

He chuckled, surprised at the subtle compliment, he doesn't comet much about it. “I did. It just wasn’t the date I was hoping for.”

You softened, your brows pinching together as your shoulders relaxed. “Was it that bad?”

“It wasn’t bad. She didn't do anything outrageous, but it was just uncomfortable. Not because of first date nerves, but because we didn't really click.” Nanami explained, shrugging his shoulders to show that it wasn’t that big of a deal. It wasn’t that things didn’t work out on this particular date that bothered him anyways, it was that things weren't working out for quite some time and it was growing frustrating for him.

You nodded, taking in his words as well as his frustration. It was a different kind of frustration to yours at the moment, but it was the same feeling. You two were still looking for that romance that simply didn’t seem to come to either of you just yet, no matter how hard you tried to find it.

“Seems like dating is hard for the both of us.” You chuckled, resting your head against the railing. “It’s too tricky. Maybe we should start a support group for the romantically challenged."

Nanami chuckles, no, he laughs. It was enough to lift up his spirits after bringing them down. He shrugs, looking at you with a sympathetic smile, “That would mean we would have to find other people to join in.”

“I think people would be embarrassed to even join. You know, between dating apps and all, they would feel like there’s no excuse to complain about being single.”

“Then it can be just the two of us. It seems like we understand each other right now.”

You smile, making Nanami’s mood improve when he sees that smile that you always wear. That smile simply pulls your look together, brighter than the jewelry you’re wearing and softer than the dress around your body. It was strange. He just came out of a nice restaurant, the kind that has a nice dinner with dim lights, and he was having much more fun at the stairs of his building with his neighbor. One moment frustrated that his date didn’t click and the next feeling his lips curl up because of your smile, a smile that was because of him.

It took a second for him to realize that he was smiling much more sincerely before you than he did before his date tonight, a smile that not only reached his cheeks but also his eyes. That his chest was warming up with that feeling he has been seeking for longer than just this evening. That things were clicking.

After a few seconds of silence, he speaks up, his voice softer and tender, “I should’ve said this before, but you look really pretty tonight.”

Your smile softens as your head tilts downwards to look down at your clothes, as if you had forgotten that you had gotten ready for tonight, before looking back up to him, “oh, thank you…you look very nice yourself. Well, you always do, considering that this…” you signal to his clothes up and down with your hand, “...is what you wear on a daily basis. It’s a really good look on you.”

He chuckles, looking downwards for a second as he thinks on what to respond before he realizes he has a blazer on his lap. He looks up at the sky, the moon high on the night with the stars shining all around it, making him remember your smile and the earrings that frame your face nicely. He thinks that sight of you looks just as beautiful as the sky right now…

“Thank you. I wasn’t saying it to be nice though. I meant it and it’s a shame that they canceled and missed out on such a lovely person.” He reaffirms, scooting a bit closer to you.

You hummed, not scooting away from him or pushing him away. In fact, it seemed like your eyes couldn’t drift away from him. Whether it was the moon shining on them or something else, there was a shine to them now. He liked it. He really really liked it.

“Say,” Nanami clears his throat, swallowing his nerves as he looks at you with a hint of shyness now that he realized how much of a reaction he was having at the moment, “since we’re both so dressed up, what if we go out for a drink? To end the night on a better note.”

You chuckled, nodding at his proposal as you extended your hand for him to grab. “Thought you never ask.” You say playfully, your smile reaching your eyes as they squinted slightly.

Nanami chuckles as well, getting up from the stairs and standing in front of you to take your hand. As he lifts you up the stairs, he wraps his blazer around you, meeting a soft “oh” from your lips. When you try to take it off, insisting that he doesn't need to, he shakes his head.

“Please, it’s already late out here and cold. At least until we reach my car.” He insists, tilting his head down towards you to meet your eyes.

You keep your hands on his blazer, pulling it closer to you by the edges of it as you thank him. It was a nice feeling, maybe this is what he meant earlier when he called the guy that stood you up as immature because here he was as his contrast. Nanami wasn’t even your date until a few seconds ago and he was already making you feel all those butterflies in your stomach, that giddiness, that excitement of getting to know him…maybe this was what it meant to go out with a man that knew the kind of relationship he wanted. Secure and upfront, but also tender and considerate.

Opening the door of the car for you, Nanami helps you into the seat and then walks around the car on his own, a genuine smile on his face as he drives off to a café you recommended just now. As he drove, those same love songs from earlier keep playing on the radio, making him thank the universe for letting things play out the way they were supposed to. Now, not only did he know you two would do this again soon, but he also got that spark he has been looking for with you.

[unusualtfs]

Mr. Entwistle

truly blown away by the incredible response to my first story! hope you enjoy this one as well — it's the first of many age progressions to come!

A little voice in Daniel’s head whispered that he really shouldn’t be doing this, but he ignored it as he lifted his twinkish frame over the fence into Mr. Entwistle’s backyard. So what if this was technically breaking and entering? Really, Mr. Entwistle had started it.

The situation was this: Growing up, Daniel had been neighbors with a sweet old lady named Mrs. Owens. She made the best cookies and instantly charmed everyone she met, but most importantly, she had a pool in her backyard — and everyone was invited to use it. The neighborhood children eagerly took advantage of this arrangement, Daniel most of all. He took to it like a duck to water, spending hours perfecting his form, and his hard work paid off when he was offered a scholarship to compete for his university’s swim team. Suffice it to say, the property may have been Mrs Owens’, but everybody knew the pool really belonged to Daniel.

So imagine his dismay when he returned home from his first year in college only to find the pool had been walled off, sealed away in plastic and plexiglass. Apparently, Mrs. Owens had moved to be closer to her grandkids — and her replacement was her polar opposite in every way. 

Mr. Entwistle was a middle-aged man who never seemed to smile. He was tall and broad, but not notably so, and in any case his dad bod was invariably obscured by his business-casual uniform of a dumpy dress shirt and drab khakis. Combined with his rapidly thinning auburn hair and his just-starting-to-gray beard, it all added up to make him the epitome of middle-aged male mediocrity. The only noteworthy thing about his appearance was that Daniel could have sworn he had spotted a wedding ring on his finger. But if the man had a wife, Daniel had never seen her.

In terms of Mr Entwistle’s personality, there wasn’t much to speak of. He was cold and taciturn, gazing at everyone with a vaguely disapproving look in his eyes. This was reflected in his daily routine, which consisted of him exiting the house at 8 on the dot, driving to wherever it was he worked, returning at 6, and disappearing until the cycle repeated itself the next morning. Insultingly, at no point in this schedule did he even use the pool — it just sat there in its cage, its chlorinated waters placid and lonely. But on the flip side, Mr. Entwistle’s rigid routine made it trivial for Daniel to plan his little heist.

It was currently 10 in the morning, which meant Mr. Entwistle was at work and wouldn’t be home for hours. And Daniel planned to spend each and every one of those hours swimming in the pool that was rightfully his. Not wanting to delay, he stripped down to his baggy green swim trunks, revealing his pasty, lanky, and hairless body. He quickly snapped a cheeky selfie to commemorate his audacity.

He could already feel his pale skin beginning to burn in the sweltering summer sun, so without further ado, he dove into the pool with perfect form, leaving behind only the faintest ripple.

The water was cool and refreshing, and for a moment, Daniel allowed himself to just tread water as he basked in the sensation. But it wasn’t just the feeling of the pool water lapping against his skin that excited him — it was also the thought that he was reclaiming his property, his territory, from that interloper Mr. Entwistle. His cock briefly rose to its underwhelming length of 4 inches at that rebellious idea, but his swim trunks were so baggy that they entirely concealed his boner. Well, it didn’t matter — he had better things to do in this pool.

Once his erection had receded, Daniel got started on his training regimen, doing laps around the pool until his entire body tired. At that point, he allowed himself to mindlessly float on the surface until he felt rejuvenated enough to continue. But even when he was exhausted, his face displayed a wide, genuine grin — it felt good to be back in this pool. It was somewhere he truly felt at home. 

Occasionally, he paused his training to swim to the deck and check the time on his phone, wanting to give himself plenty of time to leave. Right now, it was 1:33, which should have given him plenty more hours of pool time. The key phrase was should have, because at that moment, Daniel heard the telltale rumble of Mr. Entwistle’s car pulling up in the driveway.

Oh shit, Daniel thought. That’s not good. You see, there was one unexpected variable in Mr. Entwistle’s schedule. On certain days, he came home from work in the early afternoon — and when that happened, rather than entering the house through the front door, he liked to go through the gate to the backyard and relax by the poolside. These short days at work seemed to follow no rhyme or reason that Daniel could perceive, but Mr. Entwistle had just had one the previous day, so Daniel had assumed it wouldn’t be an issue. Evidently, he’d assumed wrong.

Panic set in as Daniel realized he had just seconds to escape before Mr. Entwistle arrived to witness his trespassing. That panic soon became despair as his eyes darted between his phone and his scattered clothes, forced to admit that he’d never make it out in time. As he heard the car door slam shut and Mr. Entwistle’s heavy footsteps trudge toward the backyard gate, Daniel grew desperate. And in his desperation, he did the one thing he could think of — he took a deep breath and dove underwater, praying that its turquoise hue would hide him from view.

Through the muddled underwater light, Daniel watched, terrified, as his neighbor’s silhouette walked down the pool deck. A few seconds passed, and he gave a mental sigh of relief. It seemed Mr. Entwistle somehow didn’t notice either Daniel or his belongings strewn across the patio. Of course, from his submerged vantage point, Daniel had no way of noticing his clothes and his phone fading into nothingness above him.

Mr. Entwistle remained up there for a minute, then another. Daniel was quite strong at holding his breath, but he couldn’t keep at it forever, and he was quickly reaching his limit. Just when Daniel thought he would be forced to abandon his hiding spot, a miracle happened — Mr. Entwistle got up and went inside, probably to use the bathroom.

As soon as Mr. Entwistle was out of sight, Daniel rushed to the surface, his lungs burning. But rather than emerging into the bright sunlight, he instead felt his head hit something solid with a muted thunk! Alarmed, he reached his hands out and found them unable to breach the line between the water and the air. There was some kind of invisible barrier covering the pool, preventing him from surfacing! He banged on it, pushed against it with all his might, but it was no use. He was trapped.

Now Daniel was in full panic mode. He was about to drown! Was this his punishment for breaking into his neighbor’s property? He tried to conserve his remaining air for as long as possible, but he only lasted a minute more. With his air depleted and his time up, he inhaled.

Surprisingly, he didn’t die. In fact, it was as if he could breathe underwater. Although he could feel the pool water entering his lungs, it was a rather pleasant feeling, filling his chest with pleasurable warmth. He didn’t notice that this wasn’t all that was happening to his chest. As he greedily inhaled more and more water, his torso rapidly inflated, bulging with muscle. His previously flat chest grew into two balloon-like pecs, and he developed chiseled abs far more prominent than anything his lithe swimmer’s build had previously allowed. His back grew, too, developing an immaculate triangle shape that any man would kill for.

Daniel now had the torso of an Adonis, which looked quite strange in tandem with the rest of his skinny body. But he wasn’t quite done yet. One last gulp of water caused a layer of fat to grow over his muscular middle, thickening him up while doing nothing to hide the strength that lay underneath. It was a shame that such an impressive body had no hair to accompany it, but that soon changed as Daniel felt pins and needles erupt across his torso. Black hair erupted everywhere the sensation appeared, and soon his chest, stomach, and back were covered by a carpet of the stuff — a vast improvement over his previous hairlessness.

Its work done in that region, the lovely warmth moved out to his appendages, where the process repeated. First he gained bodybuilder levels of muscle — biceps, triceps, quads — and then an additional layer of padding and hair to complete the package. As an extra perk, a tattoo appeared on his left shoulder, a simple, masculine thing that would have looked out of place on the man he had been but fit perfectly on the man he was becoming.

From there, the warmth migrated to his extremities, turning his delicate and skinny hands and feet into meaty and calloused bludgeons. His fingernails and toenails, one perfectly groomed, became cracked and weathered. His feet also grew tremendously, exploding into a monstrous size 15.

Next was his head. As the pleasant warmth traveled up his neck, Daniel’s vocal folds thickened, dropping his voice from a youthful tenor to a rumbling bass. He felt a satisfying cracking sensation as his facial features shifted. His nose became squatter, his brow became much more prominent, and his sharp chin became wider and rounder. Every part of his face did, actually, as it grew fatter, making it difficult to tell when his neck ended and his head began. 

His face sagged a little as it became weathered and slightly wrinkled, as did the rest of his body. Daniel now appeared to be well into middle age, a far cry from his former self. Adding to that impression was the fact that all the hair atop his head was beginning to fall out, floating freely in the water before vanishing entirely. Soon his head was entirely bald, proudly exposing his smooth, shiny scalp to the world forevermore. As if to counterbalance that, he rapidly grew a well-groomed goatee, surrounding his mouth with a thick circle of hair.

The warm water centralized in Daniel’s brain, rendering him in a state of total, blissful calm. At some point in the process, he noticed all that was happening to him, but it was so relaxing and so pleasurable that he couldn’t bring himself to care. So he didn’t question it as thoughts and truths started rearranging in his head. The burgeoning knowledge and potential he had gained in his first year of college drained away, permanently slowing his brain to a sluggish crawl. He was dumb, and he didn’t care. In place of intelligence, more important skills entered his head, and suddenly he was an expert at bodybuilding and auto mechanics. That’s what he was now, an auto mechanic, although he hated to get dirty. No, wait, that wasn’t right, he realized. While Daniel the young swimmer couldn’t stand dirt and grime, Daniel the middle-aged mechanic couldn’t get enough of the feeling of sweat and engine grease on his body. That was just one facet of the cockier, manlier personality he was developing. Ironically, the new him wasn’t even all that into swimming, except as a means to cool off or show off his hot bod.

At this point, anyone who looked at this burly bear of a man would have no inkling of the weak little twink he used to be. There was just one incongruity left — his cock. His previously baggy swim trunks were now skin tight against his tree trunk thighs, exposing his 4-incher to the world. But a man like Daniel wasn’t meant to have such a glaring weak point, so the warmth rushed down to his penis, bringing with it all his memories and traits from his old life. They filled his balls, inflating them twofold, and aroused him like nothing he’d felt before. In the midst of the pleasure, his cock suddenly went soft, but it remained the same length — and then it hardened again, doubling to a monumental 8 inches that strained against his trunks. The trunks themselves shrunk into a black Speedo that left nothing to the imagination, making his cock even more prominent.

The arousal was so great that Daniel immediately found himself jacking off, moaning every time his fingers brushed his sensitive manhood. However, something within Daniel prevented him from going all the way. Deep down, he knew that if he allowed himself to give in to the pleasure, he would lose everything that made him, him. So slowly, reluctantly, he separated his meaty hands from his throbbing erection.

But then a face appeared in his mind’s eye — Mr. Entwistle’s. No, his name is Scott, his mind corrected. And Daniel realized how wrong he had been to dismiss him as mediocre before, because Scott was truly the hottest man he had ever seen. Everything about him, from his receding hairline to his curly beard to his perfectly proportioned dad bod, got Daniel going like nothing else. More information about Scott entered Daniel’s head, information he should have had no way of knowing, but through his newfound adoration for the man he didn’t question any of it. It was just a fact of life that he loved Scott’s hairy body (not nearly as hairy as Daniel’s, obviously), and his work ethic, and his sharp intelligence, and the way he was really a big softie underneath that stern demeanor, and of course the hot and raunchy sex he had with him. Really, he loved everything about Scott Entwistle, his husband, and that epiphany was enough for him to climax, releasing his old self into his Speedo without even touching his prodigious cock.

The force of his orgasm physically propelled him upward, breaking the invisible barrier and allowing him to breach the surface as his new, better self — Dan Entwistle. 

Blinking to adjust to the afternoon light, Dan was faced with a welcome sight: Scott, his beautiful husband, lounging in a pool chair in nothing but trunks, his massive pouch clearly visible and ready for action.

Scott greeted him with a wry expression and a peace sign — his husband was a man of few words.

“Someone’s home early,” Dan said, relishing the sound of his sexy, masculine gravel. Not that his voice had ever been anything else.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Scott said in his sensual baritone.

“Well, Mr. Entwistle,” Dan replied, “consider me surprised.” Dan noticed Scott’s 7-inch sausage perking up at that. After all, Entwistle was Dan’s surname, which Scott had adopted after their wedding. To be called “Mr. Entwistle” was a reminder of their love — and a massive turn-on.

Knowing his horny husband was like putty in his hands, Dan stepped out of the water, fully revealing his godlike body — and giving Scott a full view of his bulge within his Speedo.

“I think that you deserve a reward for surprising me,” Dan said, feeling himself begin to chub up even though he’d just come minutes prior. “And this Speedo ain’t gonna hold much longer.” He winked, causing Scott to shiver. “Why don’t you hop in the pool with me and see how else you can surprise me?”

Scott licked his lips, clearly into it. “But babe… what if the neighbors see?”

“Oh, Mr. Entwistle…” Dan said. ���That’s what this fence is for.” And he fell back in the water with a mighty splash, knowing his husband would follow.

[diamantar]

MARKS OF FIRE

→ Aemond Targaryen x fem!OC

✦ Synopsis: Between courtship and love, the truth about their scars comes to light.

✦ Warnings: Fluff / Mention of wounds and fights.

✦ Words: 1133

✦ Request: @sarcasticsweetlara

✦ Spanish Version: Marcas de Fuego

Walking through the hallways on the second floor of the Red Keep, a maid nodded politely to those she passed, lowering her gaze in respect when crossing people of higher status. With hands neatly folded in front and a straight posture, she maintained her formal demeanor until the crowd began to thin as she reached quieter, less populated areas. Glancing discreetly from side to side, she paused by a stone railing, quickly adjusting her hair when the breeze uncovered the scar that marked her face.

The bruised and shiny skin had been a source of gossip when she first entered the castle. Servants and nobles whispered—sometimes with distaste—about her unfortunate appearance. In truth, the scar had been with her since childhood, so long that she could barely remember a time without it. This made it difficult to relate when others pitied what they saw as the loss of her attractiveness. She wasn’t sure if she would have been considered beautiful without the burn, but the mark certainly hadn’t stopped one of the princes from pursuing her.

At first, interactions with the stern and intimidating Aemond Targaryen were filled with protocol and politeness, the maid barely keeping herself from trembling under his icy gaze. She was sure he silently judged her for having the audacity to wear her disfigurement so openly. Unlike him, who took great care to maintain an air of perfection from head to toe.

Over time, though, the distance between them lessened. Their conversations, initially brief and formal, grew longer and deeper. Walks in the garden and visits to places unfamiliar to her became frequent. Little by little, the physical distance between them shrank, their arms brushing against each other as they walked. Affection developed slowly, yet surely, and she did not hesitate when the prince eventually confessed his feelings for her.

Since then, their affections had deepened, with kisses following, and their relationship blossoming in ways she had never imagined, considering her initial hesitation.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

With a slight start, the young woman turned and smiled at the Targaryen she had been expecting. As usual, he was dressed in black leather, his hair half-tied back, with both hands clasped behind him.

"It's no problem; I’ve just arrived."

Aemond moved beside her, tentatively taking her wrist and slowly interlacing their fingers, a small smirk on his lips.

"How was your day?"

"Routine, nothing noteworthy," she shrugged. "You’re the highlight."

"Am I?" he asked, raising his only visible eyebrow.

"Of course. Did you have someone else in mind?" she replied, tilting her head playfully.

"Careful, my lady, or I might put you on Vhagar and take you somewhere only I can appreciate you," he teased with a smile.

She gasped, covering her mouth in feigned shock, well aware that his threats were part of their innocent game. She was about to respond when a sudden gust of wind hit them, causing her to hold her hair in place and cover most of her scarred skin.

"You don’t need to hide with me."

Surprised, she looked at him and lowered her hand, shrugging quickly as if it were no big deal.

"Force of habit."

Aemond hesitated, a small muscle near his mouth revealing his thoughts.

"I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable or intrude, but we’ve never discussed our scars."

"Given that we both bear them, the conversation is long overdue."

"Do you want to talk?"

After a moment, she nodded, acknowledging the mark as more significant than the story behind it.

"It was just an accident," she summarized. "At six years old, on a family hunting trip, I encountered one of my cousins. For reasons I don’t understand, we never got along, and on the third day, we fought near a campfire's remnants… I didn’t consider the danger of the hot coals, but I learned when I fell and my face touched them," she shook her head, trembling as the memory of the pain surfaced.

"I'm sorry you went through that," he said sincerely, gently brushing the edge of her burn. "I hope your cousin faced proper consequences. I can’t imagine letting someone go unpunished for hurting you."

Her smile returned as she leaned into his touch, appreciating how comfortable she felt with him now.

"My cousin received some beatings, and the shock left him speechless for five days… He never troubled me again."

"It might be harsh, but he deserved worse."

"It's in the past. Nowadays, we’re good friends. He sends letters and gifts regularly; we care for each other."

"Hm."

She laughed softly, taking both of his hands in hers and affectionately kissing his palm before focusing on him.

"And what about you, my prince?"

Aemond looked down, pressing his lips together in an attempt to hide his sudden anger.

"One of my nephews took my eye with a knife."

"Why?" she asked, frowning.

He smiled bitterly, his pale face reflecting the resentment of the memory.

Impressed by the range of emotions he displayed, she hesitated, unsure whether to give him space or try to soothe him. She chose to remain silent, listening as he spoke of Laena Velaryon, Vhagar, and how his relatives resorted to physical violence instead of just exchanging insults.

"You don’t need to feel sorry for me," he said, lifting his chin in a display of pride. "One day, I’ll have my vengeance."

"Have you held onto that resentment all this time?" she asked sadly, her eyes reflecting her concern.

"Would you forgive someone who…?" he began, ready to defend his desire for retribution, but stopped as he remembered her own experiences.

She tilted her head and released his hands to cradle his face, her thumb gently tracing the end of his scar.

"Your achievements and abilities are impressive; you’ve proven who you are. I wish you could move on and leave the past behind," she murmured, her voice tinged with defeat. "But I understand why it’s hard when everyone forces you to relive it just by looking at you."

Aemond took a deep breath, closing his eyes to calm himself before wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Especially when the one who hurt you still laughs at the jabs he used to throw when he lived here."

"That’s why I don’t judge your feelings. I know every case is different."

"But that doesn’t diminish your opinion."

"Thank you."

With the distant sound of servants passing by, they closed the distance between them, sharing a simple and reserved kiss. They were still getting to know each other, and both adhered strictly to the rules they were raised with, so their physical affection grew gradually as their loyalty deepened.

“Marked by fire and courted by a dragon… I will always be grateful for the fortune of finding you, my destiny.”

[neosero]

[ 01:15pm ]

and sometimes you have to remind yourself they’re gods

p.ii | fontaine version

[ 12:30am ] and yet, you still resist

word count | 7.5k total

noteworthy warnings | gn!reader; excessive use of the word ‘you’ sorry lol; rushed fiction; dark themes [ ? ]; violent/gory descriptions [ ? ] ( venti ); false descriptions of the archon war, implied kidnapping ( zhongli ); false post-cataclysm descriptions; inazuma spoilers for new players ( ei ); implied sag!au ( nahida ); version 3.2 spoilers and beyond ( special mention o.o );

if you find any of these warnings uncomfortable scroll away. viewer discretion is advised.

THE ANEMO ARCHON Lord Barbatos | wc. 1.5k+

Venti had always been known to chug down one too many kegs of wine when given the chance.

Although he slurs about the price going to his tab, it is always you who has to fix up every mess. Whether it be ending fist fights, pleading with angry bartenders or paying half his tabs in compensation, the guy really knows how to ruin someone’s night.

“It wasn’t my fault this time.” Venti’s whining starts right off the bat, not caring that you have barely made it any distance from the bar. It's clear with the way he stumbles that he has long since past his limit. Your arm securely holds him by the shoulder opposite of you, an attempt to steady his wobbly footing although the sigh from his lips tells you he believes the touch is something else. 

“I don’t need your excuses, Barbatos.” Your words are hushed but still harsh. His body deflates at the sound of his name used in such a tone, however he still refuses to relent.

“I promise you it wasn’t me who started it. The guy was…mouthing about everyone in there; he started saying nasty stuff about Brook’s drinks, called my music terrible and he then started…” saying things about you.

Well the guy attempted to until Venti stood from his stool, the force of the movement - or so he explained - must have tipped the drink over and spilled all over the poor guy’s clothes. Of course he got angry, who wouldn’t but when he started shouting about payment that’s when things took a turn. When Venti declined and left to grab another bottle the guy rushed him. It wasn’t his fault the guy was so drunk he missed the swing and stumbled off so badly he tripped and broke his nose. But it wasn’t like you were gonna believe a word coming from his mouth, he’s played the intoxicated card too much for it to have just been an accident this time around.

“I know you pushed him.” He opens his mouth to retort, “I know you pushed him because candles just don’t blow out within a closed bar with no windows, Barbatos. I know you pushed him because that man explained it felt like he was being shoved into the ground when he fell, Barbatos. I know you pushed him because this has been the same story with you for the last three weeks! By the gods, what has gotten into you?”

You’ve both gotten far enough from Springvale to talk freely, but hearing your voice carry in the winds of the quiet forest hurts a lot more than being scolded in front of the dozen or so citizens. You come across an abandoned supply wagon and take this as a moment to stop. By helping Venti up the back of the wagon to sit on its edge, you take the time to look him over. It is always surprising how he comes back unscathed from every encounter; not a single hair out of place, nor smudge of cheap alcohol anywhere on his clothes or lingering scent of said alcohol anywhere in the air - only noticeable when close enough to his lips. Venti sways in his seat, head hung low like a child who's been told off by their parents and sometimes it feels like just that. You sigh.

“I’m not upset with you.” The change in your tone makes his head raise and a noticeable color return to his face.

Yeah, just like a child.

“I just wish you’d fix whatever you have going on with you right now. I have a lot on my plate as is with the Knights of Favonius and getting everything I can with that Snezhnayain diplomat. I had to leave a meeting that could have been a pivotal breakthrough with them today because of you!”

You don’t see it with how you fix the legs of your armored plating, but Venti rolls his eyes. He knows about the plans of the Cryo Archon. He knows a lot more than what he lets on to the traveler or anyone else who inquiries about the matter; there's a reason he normally steers clear of the Adventures Guild’s Katherine. Still the more he relays the information to you, warnings upon warnings of caution, you don’t listen. It is demeaning knowing what little trust you have for your own god, let alone having to continue this conversation every night.

“...and you might not take this seriously, Venti, but it's really disappointing.”

“You're more disappointed that I ruined date night.” Venti had tried to hold it in, he really did but hearing you praise that woman Signora over giving praise to your own archon would make any one of Celestia’s chosen snap. He stands then, the most sober movement he has had all night and you scoff.

“Oh may Celestia take me now! This again? For the last and final time I am simply working with the women. It’s my job and whatever I do shouldn’t matter to you.”

“And why is that?” 

“Because you are a god!” The winds pick up, there is a clear green gleam in his eyes you’ve never seen before. “People offer prayers to you daily. They work and celebrate all in your name. You used to split mountains, Barbatos…What I do should be insignificant to the eyes of someone like you: our supposedly high and mighty deity.”

“It's high time you act like it.”

There is a heavy thudding in the distance, you turn around missing the clear shake in Venti’s hands. The wind rages on stirring the clouds above but you don’t care as you catch sight of a Mitachurl barreling in your direction. Clearly your shouting stirred it somehow and with how fast it's charging there is no room to run.

You draw your sword and stand in front of Venti as protection, “Damn. We’ll continue this later.” He’s gone quiet and when you dare to look away from the charging beast to see your archon, your skin runs cold. He’s bleeding in his right hand, fist balled so tight he shakes as he breaks skin and it runs down to evaporate before it hits the ground. His lyre rests in his left but it's different; the strings, once a vibrant glow of green, run a deep dark red almost the same color as the blood on his skin.

“Vent-” you begin to call out but the words are cut off by the heavy shout before you. You turn your neck quickly to see the Mitachurl with its ax raised high, about to strike. When had it gotten so close? You brace yourself ready to hold off the blunt force as best you can, turning again to shout for Venti to move.

But he strums his first note.

This sound is far different then what you’re used to. What was once a gentle, harmonic strumming of a lyre blessed in the winds, now feels dissonant. The sound is a deep vibration one that could only be described when hitting the wrong keys at the end of a piano in quick concession. A sound you feel breach into the roots of your lungs and pry out all the air you have stored.

You can’t breathe.

The sword falls from your hands as you frantically clutch your chest. Your legs wobble and your head is hammering, the need to breath is overwhelming but with every harsh breath you take in it all seems to be sucked out.

“Barbat-”

“You want a god. I’ll show you god.”

Barbatos strums his second note. 

This sound has a higher pitch, the noise most quickly catches you as that of a violin when you bring it’s bow down with a little too much pressure against the wrong chord. There’s a force to this note, one you must assume was the same the guy at the bar felt as you are shoved into the wagon. The force of the blow leaves you more winded then you were before. All your strength feels drained from your body and your knees give out. There is no time to recover though…

Not when Lord Barbatos pulls at his third and final string.

You don’t register this one, the ringing in your ears and overall loss of oxygen leaving you closer and closer to the brink of unconsciousness. Even so you watch him toy with the string. The wind has picked up and now you notice the Mitachurl raised in the air, it struggles with its head thrashing about. Venti turns to you, a smile crazed and eyes dim.

Then he lets the string go.

It's hard to watch. Wind isn’t a visible thing, but in this very moment you pinpoint just where the breeze shifts and changes as it tears through the beast limb from limb. Arms and legs twist and bend, its chest constricts slowly and its head rotates like an owl with a chorus of loud cracks of bones; if it wasn’t for how close you feel to the brink of death yourself you know the sounds of the snapping and screams would have killed you alone. Barbatos stares still. 

It doesn’t last long, the sheer horror of it all ends quickly as the Mitachurl is compressed into the origin of the tornado it's caught in until it blows in a rain of blood. The loss of oxygen finally gets to you as your eyes drift but not before seeing the finale of your oh so mighty deity. 

He stands unmoving as the blood pours down in a shower along his face, eyes now closed, “disappointed in your god now?”

THE GEO ARCHON Rex Lapis | wc. 1.6k+

Six-thousand years ago, the start of the Archon War.

A long and painful four-thousand years of battle over a couple seats at the throne that was already predetermined. Four-thousand years wasted away killing friends and family and loved ones for power they themselves now wish to throw away. A lot of gods didn’t want to be a part of this…holy massacre - or whatever these scholars wish to paint it as - and you were one of them. You were given many names for your time: Theia, Anthos, Gia. The only thing that remains certain within all books of history is your ability to create elemental stones.

Ascension silver, within today’s terms, was a skill none could manage; for being a god who could bond to a multitude of elements at once was beyond even the original seven of Celestia. The gems you produced offered various needs opposed to the power of visions; pyro silver for warmth, hydro silver to be shattered and give rain, geo crystals for fortitude in times of terrible weather, dendro crystals to fertilize plants, cryo silver to cool in the warmer weathers and electro silver to strengthen weapons for combat. It all could be found in the midst of your domain.

Your domain resided in the Huaguang Stone Forest, within the underbelly of Mt. Aocang. It was just a large hollowed cave filled with crystals and home to a small community of humans. They traded off the crystals you produced, for food and supplies, holding festivals and village gatherings under your name. When they needed protection, your crystal walls provided and the Vishaps, organic creatures of your creation, helped protect those from outside.

All was good, all was at peace. 

Until six-thousand years ago, the start of the Archon War.

Tremors grew in both number and extremity over time. Your people starved and scared as trade drew to a halt and more and more outsiders flocked for your domain for protection. The energy of fellow gods and people you once thought would grow old together die out like the stars one by one. However, within your domain all was good, all was at peace, all was protected.

Or so you thought until you met Rex Lapis, the self proclaimed God of Geo, four-thousand years ago during the Archon War.

He requests your assistance, he speaks of monsters and demons emerging from the earth of Guili Plains and that without you they would consume the earth and all within it. You were hesitant to believe him, not when he stormed in covered in the blood of gods and an army of yaksha armed tooth and nail to your fortress of peace. When you speak of the wellbeing of your people he promises to ensure their safety with a few of his yaksha, but when you question him further its General Musatas who warns you to watch your tongue when speaking to one of the chosen seven. Thinking back about it now that should have been the first sign of danger; putting your trust in a god fighting to be apart of the corrupt Celestia. But your people needed more help than what you could provide alone, and you still young and naive wanted to believe that the word of the god of gods was absolute.

So you leave and for a thousand years you fight for a cause you thought to be pointless. You watch gods die, your crystal shields only doing so much in the onslaught of war. Whenever you came close to being wounded it was Morax who protected you from harm time and time again. Taking the blunt force of claws and the heavy pummeling from Osial, all to keep you from harm's way. You had thought it was admirable…if only that same persistence was there for Guizhong.

When she perished on the battlefield you all were pushed back. In a last stand against the enemy you took hold at Mt. Tianheng, and it was there we prospered. Rex Lapis’ sheer power and battle strategy in command of the adeptus and five general yaksha pushed through for the victory and settlement of Liyue. It was then the god of contracts requested a binding: all remaining adeptus would stand to protect Liyue if danger ever stirred once again.

And once again you were a fool to trust the words of the god of gods. 

For the others were allowed to roam as they pleased until called upon and you were to remain within Liyue Harbor forever at the side of your god Rex Lapis. He claimed it was for protection, your powers being the strongest he’s seen for a lifetime, however you could only recall being of no help to protect the ones you hold dear on the battle field. 

You fight, complain and wrestle against his iron grip but the contract holds still. As the Harbor prospered and grew over the years, it left you with the stronger desire to see your people once again. A request with the yaksha would fall on deaf ears as they were still to handle the aftermath within the Plains, but when talk of corruption and madness spread among the masses you had feared the worst. Against your better judgment you left, you thought the wellbeing of your people is more important than the loyalty you have in some god.

When you return to the Stone Forest, you’re enveloped with a sense of home. You spot Cloud Retainer at the top of the peak, but she is gone before you can offer a wave. When you finally reach the door to your domain your heart drops. The Geovishaps who stand guard are nowhere to be found and the energy of your barrier left so long ago has run dry. Even with the clear signs, you still push forward and believe in the word of Morax.

Still so young and naive.

The domain is bathed in dried blood. There are bodies upon bodies of your people scattered along the floor, their blood painted over your crystals and the bodies of yakshas having killed everyone else looked to have turned against each other. Tears of pure silver fall from your eyes as you make way through your temple, a last ditch effort for hope of any survival…for anything.

Everything lays in shambles - crystal decoration of your own design shattered across the floor, Vishaps of all ages lifeless and unmoving just like the images of the gods all those years ago. What breaks you is what sits at your throne: the remaining villagers all curled together encased in a crystal prison. It was a skill you taught your strongest Vishaps just before your departure, never considering that they would need to use it you had no way of reversing its effects. You fall into a sob, pillars of crystals sprouting just where your tears meet the bloody ground. All hope is lost from you until you feel the looming presence of Rex Lapis.

At first, you're overjoyed.

He could somehow fix this. Given his ability to cleanse gods and shape islands with minimal effort, this could be done by the snap of a finger. You stand with some difficulty, the gems having crystalized at the bottom hem of your garments almost keeping you weighted to the floor as a warning. You pay no mind.

Then, all at once, you’re afraid.

When you reach him, smiling and happy for once to be in his presence, the weight around you feels heavy. The glare of Rex Lapis is stone cold, gold irises like slits of the dragon you witnessed decapitate so many of your old friends. The general Alatus to his left stands armed and ready, and to his right Cloud Retainer - one normally so proud and boastful, hangs her head low behind the god before her. 

“You left.” His voice is calm, a stark contrast to the way he is looking at you. Glaring at you like the enemy. “Well yes.” You begin, a stutter to your voice, “the war has long since reached its close…and with n-no more danger I thought it would be alright to-”

“Danger is always upon us. You went against our agreement.” There's a bass in his voice that rocks a tremor through your body as well as the cave you reside in, its strength leaves Alatus to stumble his footing and Cloud Retainer to dip her gaze that much lower. You, however press on, “I had no plans to be gone long a-and with no word from my home I feared the worst. So I had to-”

His hand envelops your throat in an instant. Rough, scaled fingers grip tightly around you and when you make an effort to speak he squeezes harder. “You had to remain within the harbor. We had an agreement. You swore an oath to me, an oath that was never to be broken.” Frantic fingers grip at his hand, you try to pry him off of you but your body feels like it's being pulled by an unknown force that leaves you weak and him unmoving. He watches you struggle, and somehow in those eyes you see him pleased with the way you whither in his grasp.

“Should I take care of them, Master?” General Alatus’ mask envelopes his face, karmic energy flowing from his body. You shutter as his blade is brought to your sides. Rex Lapis turns his head swiftly, the first he’s looked away from you since he’s got here, and glares harder. In seconds the general is brought to the floor in a shout of pain. In the position he kneels, Alatus clutches the floor in a grip so tight you’d think he was trying to push against the heavy pull of the world’s gravity. “You will hold your tongue until I see fit for your suggestions, General.”

Alatus nods as best he can, body struggling just as much as yours to try and fight against the power of the god of geo. The glow of his scales dims, and the yaksha begins to breathe as he stands on wobbly legs. It is then the archon drops you. You swallow oxygen in desperately and cough it back out heavily as you gaze up at the man before you. When he reaches for you again, you scurry away but not far enough. This time he grasps your arm dragging you away breathless and reaching for what’s left of your home.

He scoffs at your sorry state, “your offense to me isn’t great, but you still will be punished for your disobedience.” You’re helpless to it all, too weak to challenge one of the chosen seven of Celestia. He snaps his fingers and just like all those years ago he takes you from your home.

Back then it was for a cause, an unspoken oath you had no idea would chain you to a man you don’t believe in; but now it's as a prisoner, a powerless god who watches their domain crumble right before your eyes.

THE ELECTRO ARCHON Raiden Shogun | wc. 1.1k+

“Leave us.”

For a moment, you think she sounds disappointed. The guards release you from your binds and you're quick to snatch your wrists away to rub the tender skin. They give stiff bows and with stiff, sharp pointed turns make way for the doors of the Shogunate’s chambers. When they leave the room, Baal and the kitsune Saiguu emerge from the panels behind the back of the throne. Baal is as calm as ever; she sits eyes closed, knees folded below her and her wagasa twirling in her slender fingers as if pondering something. Saiguu seems more openly displeased; her tail rests rigid behind her when she sits beside her own Shogun, she looks concerned as she scans your body and you notice she has left her cigarette holder behind.

You are in real trouble now.

Beelzebul had descended her throne before the guards even walked through the door. She paces in between you and her sister, her strides come to match the tempo of the thunder that increases in volume over the heavy rain from the outside world. When a particularly loud clash resonates through the skies, Baal stops her twirling. “Ei, you’re beginning to cause a stir amongst the people.”

She stops her pacing and so too does the thunder if only for a little. Beelzebul looks you over and it seems that fans her flame even more when her eyes rack over your body. Her gaze doesn’t match that of Saiguu’s though. “You’re wounded.” She finally speaks, it's more at you than to you. The wound is nothing serious, a small scratch to the arm that has left your garments a little bloody but it's really nothing that won't heal by the morning. She moves quickly for bandages, trying and failing to distract herself from imploding, but when she gets close with the adhesive you dodge around her touch.

The first clash of lightning strikes the seas.

Beelzebul sighs and stands, you watch the bandage begin to buzz and spark in her grasp. “Bleed out for all I care.” In an instant, the cloth blows and dissolves in a small show of flames. You flinch.

“Ei-” Baal begins again, her hair glows at the tips and you know she is fighting to calm the storm of emotion that continues to rage outside.

“What did you hope to gain by seeing her again at such a time? We are in the middle of a war of gods and you see it fit to chase a traitor.” 

“Chiyo is no traitor!” You don’t mean to yell, but the way she spits the word ‘traitor’ has your blood boiling. Baal makes no effort to calm you down. “She had been trapped inside the belly of that beast for so long; months fighting her way from the inside out. That could turn anyone to madness…and when she finally emerges scared and confused you try to kill her.”

“She’s become crazed with madness. Something in that beast left with her and a blight like that can’t be cleansed. Saiguu knew the moment she saw her.” You break your gaze to look at the goddess.

Saiguu nods at you even without looking your way, “Not even a cleansing from the Sacred Sakura would have helped. Even being that close I could tell that blight ran deeper than her soul. I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head vigorously. There had to be something you could do, even if that meant caging her within the temple for an eternity anything would have been better than more death. “There was something we could have done. I know it. Rukkhadevata would know something; she knows everything. Let me go to Sumera and-”

A dry chuckle bursts from Beelzebul, “It seems you might have been tainted by whatever she had. If you think you are in the right to start making requests now I can assure you it won’t happen. Have you forgotten the current situation: we are at war, not just us but all the gods. You were only lucky enough to get to the forests before I had to save you from that beast.” The air around you feels static. The hairs on your body raise and the wound on your arm feels like it’s being pinched every so often. “Why are you so adamant on leaving my protection?”

“Protection?! Your protection! You keep me imprisoned. I cannot see anyone but who you allow me too. I am followed constantly and whenever I so much as breathe in the direction of the outside world I’m dragged away. You keep me here shielded like some precious doll while everyone else fights.” Baal’s gaze meets yours behind her sister almost there to push you on. “I am a soldier to this nation before anything else and would rather take my chance out there than to live knowing I sat sheltered and protected like a coward with you here.”

Ei’s stunned. A storm ripples through her gaze and for a second you think those purple hues of clouds show shines of rain. 

Instead lightning clashes before you.

The blunt end of her blade is brought to the heart of your chest in a flash. The feeling of its energy pulsing so close makes the tales of its power in battle sound underplaying, stray bolts of lightning bounce off it and reach in to rub under your clothed skin. You jolt. Saiguu makes an effort to stand but Makato raises her hand to halt her advance.

“If you wish to die so eagerly, I will strike you down here myself.”

It's clear she means it; having already slain and severely injured two of her closest friends there would be no hesitation if you had to be next. Makoto finally decides it's time to intervene, her fingers curl along her sister’s shoulder and although Ei doesn’t break away the energy pressing into your chest does decline in pressure if only for a second. “Pain doesn’t last an eternity.”

They don’t even look at each other when she speaks, she just holds her there. You think it has to be something only they could feel as twin gods and hope Makoto wins the internal battle. The sword dissolves in her grasp and you let go of the breath you had thought to be your last. “You're both hurting and you might fight it but it's for the same reason. Chiyo was dear to all of us, so were Sasayori and the others but we cannot let their deaths bring about our own. What would they have fought for? Have died for?” Ei brushes the hand from her shoulder and walks towards the balcony in long strides. 

Makoto does nothing to stop her, choosing it best to let her storm settle on its own then to try and guide its course. She does turn to you, pleading you to understand — her sister only cares for the best of you. You don’t respond, staying glued to the floor while your mind tries to catch up to your heart. Ei pushes into the storm outside that leaves the doors rattling and a chill to the room. Tearing your gaze from the ground you look to your god, she now stands on the ledge head turned up towards the heavy rainfall. She looks almost strangely content with the chaos outside, you could still make out the rotting corpse of the great serpent in the distance. There is a pain bubbling from your gut as your heart still hammers in your chest. Is this the weight you must bear under the care of a god?

THE DENDRO ARHCON Lesser Lord Kusanali | wc. 1.5k+

“Tell me: what do you think shapes a dream?”

You should have known something was wrong the moment Nahida had requested to see you personally. This wouldn’t be the first time one of the archons has requested something like this from you, however Nahida’s tone of voice somehow puts you on edge. The way it echoes in the hollow room she had led you in racks a chill down your spine.

“A dream is made solely by your emotions.” You recall this from your psychology class, the professor was so invested in the topic it was kinda hard to forget. “Whatever fuels that of your wishes, memories and abstract thoughts all tie into what can shape a dream when you fall asleep.” You’ve recited that line so many times before that final exam and still remember being so pissed it was never even mentioned within the test. “However, the worries that rest in the back of your mind might also shift the course of a dream as well.”

“Hmm. I had never thought of it that way.” Nahida curls her hand under her chin thinking, “would that be the same case for a nightmare?” 

“I would assume so…yes.” There is a piece you’re missing in the puzzle of questions. Her curiosity is hiding something else, something that you can’t picture right out but you do feel it with every passing second. “But why would someone try to sleep with negative emotions moving through their head?”

If it weren’t for the fact that you knew this is a virtual world you would have been fooled to see Nahida as the child that she is. Her small frame looks up at you expectantly; being the only person in her world to ever know more than that of her vast case of knowledge, she treats you much more like a new toy to play around with than as the high god everyone else believes you to be. 

That in and of itself is both a blessing and a curse.

“Sometimes it can’t be helped.” You try to not think about it but you tell yourself this everyday now. “It’s something we can’t fight…the negative emotions, they are always with us because we never know what the future will hold.” 

“It's all a random chance of time. One day, you could find yourself on the receiving end of a terrible storm, you could walk straight into dog poop with brand new shoes or you could even walk into a meeting with all your clothes inside out…One day you could lose a loved one, you could walk into a store and see your house in flames on the news, you could even-”

“Be trapped with no way home.” Your eyes widen. Nahida’s head is tilted ever so slightly, eyes squinted and you realize she is studying your reaction, “y-yeah you could.”

“Fascinating.”

You don’t even realize it but your voice waivers, “What is?”

Nahida looks away from you to her holo-screen behind her. With delicate fingers she swipes through files and documents you can’t catch sight of until her little fingers stop on one. You can make out the screen and it looks like a video. She taps it.

A screen materializes before you and the video plays. Image looks like the holding cells of the Knights of Favonius headquarters, but the person within the cell looks like no character you have seen in game at all. It isn’t like you remember every npc within this world, however, each character has similar features that make it obvious in telling who is who. Could this be a new character? There is no knowledge of them in recent patch notes.

Nahida’s voice startles you. 

“Oh…you must be curious? This is user 804897112. Although the name he chose at the start was Starlord, his real name is Chris.”

What?

“It took him four weeks before he slipped up. They hadn’t noticed him as the Creator of that server yet but when he went around sprouting drunk nonsense about the Archon War at Angel Share things took a turn.” You haven’t been watching the screen, too caught up on understanding what Nahida had just said but the scream catches you off guard.

That person. That real life person, Chris, is chained and on his knees before Jean, Rosaria, Kaeya, Diluc and Venti. Kaeya’s sword is jabbed into Chris’ shoulder, Rosaria looks to be trying to get him to cough up any information he knows but you can’t hear anything. Did Nahida only want you to hear that screams? There is a troubled look on Jean’s face like she’s reluctant to continue this, but Venti says something that rouses everyone in the room and pales Chris’ skin. He’s crying now, snotty and nasty as Diluc beelines to him with his heavy blade.

Diluc’s greatsword raises and you gasped in horror as its brought down on Chris’ head. Out of sheer fear you clutch your own neck. Blood seeps out in a sparkle of gold and they all stand as stunned as you, the poor boy’s head tumbling over in the pool of it blood. The video ends there.

It’s hard to breathe and you're given no time to recover yourself as another plays. “This is user 119876532, Diana. She asked questions about Scaramouche’s true origins to the Shogunate. Knowledge no one should possess and again before the establishment of her identity as Creator.” This one carries no build and is from a farther angle atop a tree, like from the perch in the eyes of a bird, but it's all so vividly clear. The girl is tied to her knees before the shogun, spilling out words too quickly for you read and understand. There is no need to though, Ei is as calm as ever. She listen to Diana’s rambling, and for a second you think she might believe whatever she’s saying. Five seconds later, you watch Diana die in the same flash of lightning as La Signora.

You can’t stand now, legs given out in the horror of it all. The videos continue like this until you can’t bear to look at the screen anymore.

User 908765342 crushed by meteorite hurled by Zhongli. User 743828950 — Sam, found dismembered by a pack of hilichurls. Robert gets mauled by a geovishap. Lee can’t take it anymore and…

“Why?” The tears fall from your eyes in heavy waves. “Why show me all this? Why tell me about all these people? I don’t-”

It all connects in seconds: they found out about you.

You move to stand hurriedly and make a beeline for the exit but your feet stay planted to the floor with the sight before you. The Doctor stands grinning from ear to ear. He clasps his hands together with a sigh of glee. “You ask why and it’s simple: you survived.”

He’s on you in an instant, tightly holding your wrists in his hands and preventing your escape no matter how hard you thrash. He breathes into your neck harshly and you sob. He whispers breathlessly into your ear how he has never been this fascinated, this drawn to a specimen before and promises to be gentle in your dissection. Nahida watches you with wide interested eyes as you struggle in hope of saving yourself. You cry out to them, to your guards, to Lumine or Dehya or Thoma. To anyone who would hear you even though no one can. But still…

You scream.

Cyno breaks down your door, his gaze looking over the room hastily to find the culprit to dare stir the peaceful slumber of the Creator.

It was a dream? It was a dream and yet your wrists burn, the images of all those people looked so real.

Was this a sign? Would that happen to you if any of them ever found out? Have they already started to suspect something? What if you don’t ever get out of here? What if-

“Your grace?” Cyno’s hand brings you back to reality, hard. His fingers feel almost frozen over against the skin of shoulder and you flinch away in such a haste it brings crease to his brows. You almost question why he runs so cold but with him looking at you with so much concern you don’t think it's him that is the problem. “Do I need to go get Tighnari? I will only be a couple hours but I could stop by our Archons domain just so-”

“No!” Your voice is filled with fright, but it’s obvious that the sheer volume of your scream is what stuns him the most. You can feel the sweat run down your temple and the pound of your heart so aggressively in your ears. It takes you far too long to compose yourself but you are grateful that Cyno listens and just stands by your side.

“There is no need for all of that. I’m just a little shaken.” He doesn’t seem to take your word for it but when you explain that it was only a dream and not some illness that caused this he is partially relieved. “The doctor won’t be needed for this and it isn’t like this is something of his expertise.” 

Cyno offers a quick nod before he settles in a chair at your desk. He shuffles closer to your bedside with a cross to his arms and a tense raise of his shoulders. You can’t blame him for staying alert; dreams are a new phenomenon within Sumeru and with the few months you have known him, you know Cyno doesn’t do well with handling business he cannot comprehend for himself.

It takes too long for you to finally get calm within the safety of your own bed, but it does help that Cyno — as loyal to you as he once was to the akademiya — stays by your side the whole night. 

It gets hard trying to keep your mind from blurring the line between your life outside and the one within this game. Watching Cyno sleep next to you, the steady rise and fall of his chest is far too detailed for your sensitive mind to keep considering these people aren’t real people. A Sumeru rose, a gift handed to you by a child of the city, loses a petal and you watch the leaf fall then blow in a spark of pixels. You’ve been here too long. 

You need to get out . . . and soon.

THE EVERLASTING GOD OF ARCANE WISDOM : Scaramouche | wc. 1.2k+

You should have known this could have been another one of the Doctor’s tricks.

You are privy to his experiments and know just about everything there is to know about his latest desires as a man of knowledge…but it seems you have gotten too relaxed within his presence to suspect that you were the next pawn to be sacrificed within this long orchestrated game.

Being left to go through with the final reports on the Balladeer’s status without his supervision should have been the first and only sign needed to show you something else was at play here. The Doctor was always to see everything himself, deeming everyone else — even you — inferior to his intellect and prone to time consuming slip ups. Why you would ever trust an order like this for its face value you will never know. But now you can tell it was a mistake.

The laboratory has been cleared on the orders of the Doctor, and yet you feel like you have been being watched ever since you have entered the building.

Since you entered Sumeru for the matter.

Pushing away the chills, you check the sixth harbinger’s vitals. Everything looks to be in order but that is to be as expected; the Doctor had said this could be close to being his greatest creation and that would obviously show in his work. You hum triumphantly and quickly move on to the next task. The body of the Prodigal is kept in a separate room, with how massive the final product came to be it was bound to happen. It is still mesmerizing to know how much raw power is stored within a gnosis on its own. Crazy how an item so small is able to create mass destruction in the world.

Everything seems in perfect shape when you finally reach the test sight. The distant hum of the overhanging lights do little to add any glory to the giant machine before you. Even without eyes its looming figure looks down upon you as if it can tell the significant power difference between you two. Dottore had told you it was nonsense; the Balladeer would be in a state of hypostasis until his body finally converges with the power of the electro gnosis. He couldn’t possibly be able to tell a slime from a hilichurl let alone know when anyone enters the room. 

You find it — much like everything else that comes with interacting with the Doctor —  demeaning. He undermines everyone and if it weren’t for his rank you'd have thought he was just too full of himself. His genius could be on a par with the dendro archon but that's something you’ll never admit even to the nicest of his segments. 

Data shows that Scaramouche is still stable. The gnosis too somehow remains with a constant flow of energy as it diverts power to the main systems. It still eludes you how someone like Scaramouche can handle power as strong as this for as long as he has. Though you do not know the criteria of the ranking amongst harbingers, his order in the hierarchy holds true.

So caught up in your own thoughts you hadn’t even noticed how close you had gotten to the body. If that presence was intimidating at a distance it pales in comparison to being up close. It towers above like the clock-house in Snezhnaya, arms and hands long and big enough to crush you whole. You shake your head from the thought. 

Your hand reaches to touch the machine. The metal is cold to the touch but there is a sensation of static that travels along your arm the longer you linger there. By the time you move your hand away ready to depart to report back to Dottore, a sudden shock sparks from your hand. You pull it back with a wince. This must be an unforeseen side effect to the gnosis. 

All at once your head throbs with white noise. It starts off faint but then rises to ring above all else. At first you believe it to be a faulty pipeline and look around for any signs of damage but yet again you see the perfectly unharmed lab. The sound is overwhelming and you can feel something pressing into the back of your mind. Memories not of your own flash before your eyes.

The sensations are too much to bear and you collapse when it's all too much at once. The moment you come too it feels different. The buzzing in your arm has spread throughout your body, and the noise that filled your mind is now gone, replaced by knowledge that leaves you weighted to the ground trying to understand it all.

The Balladeer…Scaramouche is…

“Was a puppet.” The voice is familiar and you cannot believe that its real. “A puppet that now wields a greater power than that of the god who chose to abandon him all those years ago.” He has ascended and so soon. Dottore’s notes were foolproof, everything down to the last decimal was precise so how could his hypothesis be false?

Scaramouche offers a snarl, and it's only now that you can register that he is inside your head with his reply, “because Dottore is a buffoon. He will always underestimate someone who he believes he could outsmart at any game, under any circumstance and do so without question. It’s that pride that will be his undoing in due time.” He walks around you, there are long pauses between every sentence and he speaks as if you will be overwhelmed by him just looking in your direction. You don’t know why you feel so grateful for it.

“Enough about him though.” He stops to kneel down to where you lay on the ground. His hand ever so delicately lifts your chin to meet his gaze and he gives you opportunity to look away. You don’t. “Let me see into you.”

Words filter through your head without him even needing to open his mouth. You’ve been connected to him by the soul, a pact between your compatible life force and his new godly abilities that were enforced the moment you touched him through the machine. You’ve been chosen as his first and whatever that entitles you don’t know but you do feel the tears roll down your eyes. Your mind cannot decipher if they are tears of joy or resentment of this new god.

Why are you calling him that?

Scaramouche wipes them away with a wicked smile. “No need for sorrow my chosen. For as your new god I will craft a world for you that leaves no room for those emotions to ever cross your features again. The Everlasting God of Arcane Wisdom will pave a way for your salvation and my glory to rise. So long as you put your faith in me and me alone.”

His hands fall from your face as he stands, but they still remain outstretched to you. The invitation hangs in the air and yet his smile never waivers like he knows what you will choose him over anything else. Like you will choose him over life itself. 

And for a moment you think you will.

a/n: this is very dark of me and really shouldn’t be my comeback post but rewatching nahida’s introduction really had me in the mood to bring our archons back into the light. also yes i am formally back to writing so do expect more posts soon to come.

p/s: furina version will be up as soon as i catch up enough with her character.