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saddleups · 7 months ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 .

★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 . . . 10k

★ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 . . . ongoing , part one of two. JAMES SUNDERLAND X F!READER !! 18+ SMUT MDNI !!

★ 𝐂𝐖 . . . : implied domestic violence/abusive relationship . alcoholism . terminal illness . description of hallucinations . dream sequences . spanking . hairpulling . rough sex . unreliable reader . p_rn w/ plot .

★ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 . . . james sunderland has emerged from the fog of silent hill , bearing the weight of his past but with a tentative acceptance of his guilt. with young laura by his side, he's prepared to leave the town's horrors behind and step into a new chapter. but when laura bolts back into the fog to retrieve a forgotten stuffed animal, james has no choice but to follow amidst his return, he encounters you — a stranger bound to silent hill by your own unfinished business, still searching for answers about your late husband. as the two of you form a reluctant alliance, the lines between reality and nightmare blur, forcing both of you to confront haunted memories and a shared need for redemption in a town that preys on every buried secret.

★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . . where all my sunderheads at??? i guess taking a break from one fic only lead me into the arms of another fic. this will be a two-parter, maybe an epilogue who knows? just testing the waters with this. please be aware that the contents of this fic are in line with the themes commonly found in the silent hill franchise. please consider the warnings and read with caution.

The fog clung to the streets of Silent Hill like a shroud, a familiar yet unsettling presence that whispered secrets of the past. James held Laura’s hand tightly as they made their way toward the town’s edge, the weight of their shared experiences hanging heavily between them. After everything he had endured, he was finally ready to leave this cursed place behind, to start anew with her by his side.

“Are you sure you have everything?” he asked, glancing down at her small backpack, packed full of her belongings. She nodded, her eyes bright with determination. They’d faced enough together, and now, with the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders, he felt a flicker of hope igniting in his chest.

Just as they approached the outskirts, Laura suddenly halted, her expression shifting from excitement to panic. “Wait! I forgot my bunny!” she exclaimed, her voice echoing off the fog-drenched buildings.

“What?” James felt his heart drop. “Laura, we can’t go back! It’s dangerous!”

But she was already pulling away, her small legs carrying her back toward the heart of Silent Hill. He cursed under his breath, adrenaline surging through him as he chased after her. “Laura, stop! Please!”

The fog swirled around him, thickening with every step. It felt as if the town itself was resisting their departure, reluctant to let them go. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, familiar shapes that once haunted him. But now, they merely observed, lingering like specters of the past rather than threats. The creatures, remnants of his darkest fears, stayed back, as if recognizing that James had earned his freedom.

“Laura!” he called out, his voice strained as he strained to catch up to her. “Where did you go?”

The day at the lake was one of those rare moments you held close—a time when you and Chris weren’t at each other’s throats, voices raised, each of you convinced that volume could somehow mend what was breaking between you. Chris was never a great man; he did what he could, and you gave him credit for that. He tried, he really did. But then he died, and… well, that was complicated.

The lake had been everything your relationship wasn’t at the time: calm, serene, a mirror of something whole. The town welcomed you both with open arms, mistaking you for lovebirds celebrating an anniversary. Little did they know it was the last-ditch effort to salvage a marriage already unraveling. You had been done with him, resigned to leaving. But something about that day at the lake changed things. You returned home, and for a while, it was as if Silent Hill had lifted a weight, given you a second chance. Chris seemed different—softer, even attentive. He asked about your day, kept his temper, stopped drinking so much. And for once, being a "good wife" felt possible, like a role you could fit into.

Then Chris got sick. So sick, in fact, that you didn’t know what to do. He refused hospital stays, insisted the doctors were all quacks who didn’t know a damn thing. And he wasn’t entirely wrong—no diagnosis ever stuck. His hair thinned, his weight plummeted, and the six-foot-four man who’d once filled a room seemed to shrink before your eyes. He took to drinking again, convinced it was doing him more good than the doctors ever had. And then, one ordinary Wednesday afternoon, he died. Just like that.

So when you received a voicemail from the Lakeview Hotel saying your husband had booked the honeymoon suite for the weekend, you thought it was a cruel joke. Then came flowers at work, the card signed “Chris” with a note about how much he looked forward to your trip back to Silent Hill. Something was wrong, something deeply, viscerally wrong. But you had to know.

The fog in Silent Hill was relentless, thick and damp, swirling around you as if it were alive. When the wind picked up, it chafed your cheeks raw, and the empty water bottle in your hand felt like a taunt. The town looked so different from what you remembered. Gone were the bustling streets and cheerful Americana charm that had once made you consider leaving the city to settle here. What you found instead was a hollow vessel, the life drained from it, a love grown cold. But you searched on, knowing this desolate place held your only answers.

Time didn’t move right here; minutes and hours blurred together until they meant nothing. The fog rang in your ears, drowning out your thoughts until you found yourself in front of a crumbling apartment complex near the town square. Inside, you moved slowly, feeling like you were following someone else’s steps, picking up right where they had left off. It felt like a cage, in both the literal and the suffocating, metaphorical sense.

The walls—sticky with something infectious—pressed in on you, both restricting and repelling as you paced the decayed floor. The beam of your flashlight crackled, faintly illuminating the mangled limbs soaking in stagnant pools of bile and blood. Your steps traced a path with no end in sight, guided only by luck and a fading wit, absent even a scrap of a map. Someone had taken it before you, maybe to keep you lost. You rubbed at the cross on your chest, though the metal burned cold against your skin, and no prayer would form to soothe you.

How long had it been? How many bullets did you have left?

Then, you heard footsteps. A scrape, then another, louder than your heartbeat but not by much. Slowly, you raised the gun, unable to see much of anything, the pungent stench saturating the air as you squinted into the darkness. A shadow moved in the murk, steps too soft to be anything monstrous. And yet, your finger tightened on the trigger.

The crack of your shot echoed through the hall.

The figure jerked backward, but you could tell it hadn’t struck home. He stumbled into view, lifting his hands, a gun gripped loosely in one. His face came into focus under your wavering flashlight—a man, worn down, wary, yet unafraid.

"Who are you?" you asked, your voice rough.

"Let’s put the guns down first," he replied, voice low and steady, as he slowly lowered his weapon, tucking it away with one last glance at you.

You mirrored his action, hands dropping just enough.

“You almost killed me,” he said.

“Yeah, well, can you blame me?”

A pause, then he nodded. “Suppose you’re right.”

His gaze shifted, still guarded. “James Sunderland,” he added, almost reluctantly.

You hesitated. “That supposed to mean something?”

“Not really.” His eyes lingered, taking in your face, maybe wondering if you, too, had anything left to lose.

You held his gaze, unsure whether this new presence was a relief or just another curse to endure. You swallow, and give him your name.

He repeats it with a polite smile before asking, “What brings you here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m looking for my...daughter. Laura” His words are plain, almost hollow, yet you can feel the weight behind them. There’s a sincerity there, but even so, you keep your distance, wary that he could be just another twisted manifestation of the town, designed to taunt you.

“I’m a journalist…an investigative journalist,” you say, the lie escaping easily enough, though you throw in a casual shrug to help sell it. “Strange things happen in this town. Worth investigating.”

James nods, seeming to accept this, and even manages a faint, tired smile. “Yeah. Well, good luck.”

With that, he turns and walks away. As he does, you notice a sheaf of papers slipping from his back pocket—maps in various states of decay. You quicken your pace to catch up, trying to think of something to say. He glances back, his expression mirroring your own uncertainty. You know playing the helpless act would ring hollow after nearly shooting him in the head, so you try something new. Honesty.

“I’m…lost.” The admission comes reluctantly, and you find yourself unable to meet his gaze. “Just let me tag along, yeah?”

James doesn’t respond right away, and you brace yourself for rejection. But then you speak up, pressing your case further. “I won’t get in the way. Plus, you’ll have an extra gun.”

He looks at you, working his jaw as if weighing a response. You’re ready to hear him refuse when he finally parts his lips to answer.

“Sure,” he says. “Just stay close.”

He’s disarming, isn’t he? Voice so gentle, so steady. You aren’t sure if that’s normal. After years of Chris’s voice sharp with vitriol, you’d almost forgotten that men could speak without dripping contempt.

The two of you navigate the building, slipping from one corridor to the next in tense silence, every footfall weighed with alertness. Neither of you is inclined to push the silence back; this isn’t the place for it, anyway. Each door you try leads to the same dead end: strange rooms littered with remnants of lives long abandoned, like paintings frozen in decay. A child’s single shoe left on a dusty carpet. Newspapers yellowed with age. The walls scrawled with jagged messages that almost seem to call to you personally.

James steps into the next room first, and suddenly the air is cut by a familiar, sickening squelch. You both go rigid. His flashlight catches only the vague outline of it—an amalgamation of twisted, fleshy limbs tangled around itself, no face, no eyes, barely a body but moving like something alive. It trudges toward you with the single-mindedness of something that hunts.

Without thinking, you raise your gun, squeezing the trigger as you aim for its head. The shot lands, and the creature lurches backward, twisting before collapsing in a heap mere inches from James.

James’s wide eyes meet yours, both of you sharing a sharp, relieved exhale. "Thanks," he breathes, still catching his breath. "Guess it’s good you didn’t miss this time."

“Yeah,” you say, your heart pounding almost as loud as his. He presses a hand to his chest as if it might slow the beat, while you take a moment to steady your grip on the gun.

For a moment, you’re both suspended in a quiet that feels heavier than before. Trust was established, and it's almost like it scared you both. The crackle of a record player cuts through the silence, startling you. A song starts, warped and dragging, as if it's being pulled through deep water.

Why do birds suddenly appear…

The voice is strained, drowning in static. You press your hand to head as a pang hits you. The words churning something up you'd thought you'd locked away.

…Every time you are near…

The room looses focus, eyes blur and darkness begins to press in from all asides. Your heartbeat drums in your eyes, every note tangling around your memories of Chris, the way he used to hum this song when things were still.. bearable.

…Just like me, they long to be…

The room spins and you stagger slightly, barely catching yourself on a shelf with a thud. The song goes on, warped, echoing…

Close to you…

“Hey, you all right?” James’s voice pulls you back, grounding you as you blink, disoriented, trying to shake the fog from your mind. He’s closer now, his eyes narrowing, his expression shifting from vague curiosity to something sharper, more focused.

You pull yourself up, forcing a shrug. “I’m fine,” you say, the lie coming out thick. “Just…dizzy, that’s all.”

James studies you, not entirely convinced. There’s a pause as the record scratches, skipping over a verse, the strained vocals dragging out an unsteady note that seems to fill the room. You glance away, letting the darkness swallow your expression, fighting the emotions this song brings up.

“Pretty strong reaction for a journalist.” His tone is quiet, but the words cut through the static. He doesn’t press further, but the question lingers in his eyes.

You laugh it off, masking your discomfort. “Yeah, guess I don’t like this song much,” you manage, brushing past him to look for the record player. “The whole place feels like it’s… like it’s trying to get in my head.”

You spot the record player in the corner, its needle still scratching, caught on the line, "close to you." It’s enough to make your stomach twist, but you shake off the dizziness and press the needle to silence. When you turn, James’s eyes are still on you, his expression wary, cautious.

The silence stretches, heavy with what you’re both choosing not to say. Finally, he nods toward the doorway. “Ready to go?”

You let out a breath, forcing your voice to stay light. “Lead the way.”

As he moves ahead, you catch him glancing back at you, each look carrying a hint of suspicion. You know he’s beginning to piece things together, but you’re not ready to give him the truth—not yet.

Chris was an enigma, a puzzle you never fully solved, even when he was by your side. That song had its roots deep in your life together: road trips, late-night humming, dancing to it at your wedding. You hadn’t heard it in years, and yet it still had the power to unravel you.

“You sure you’re alright?” James asks, his voice steady but his eyes watchful.

“Just… a little tired.” The lie tastes hollow, but it’s enough for now.

James doesn’t press, nodding as he lets it go. You can see Silent Hill’s weight on him too, a shared fatigue between you. There's a muted relief in his eyes, knowing he’s not alone in this—someone else who sees what he sees and is capable of handling the worst of it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, glancing out a window, confronting the fog-choked street. “Me too.”

You’re both drained, each weighed down by the town's relentless demands. When you come across yet another abandoned apartment with a door slightly ajar, it looks as good a place as any to rest. James enters first, gun drawn, carefully scanning each room until he’s satisfied it’s safe. You follow, and the two of you settle into the dusty living room, sinking onto the worn couch across from him. The dim light casting shadows over his face makes him look even more exhausted than before. Despite his guarded demeanor, a flicker of relief softens his expression.

But you’re barely aware of him. Your mind keeps drifting, pulled back to the haunting notes of Close to You, the song’s echo dredging up memories and leaving a strange, hollow ache in its wake. Chris used to sing it with that same reverence you heard in your mind just now. The way it clung to him, stayed with you, as if the song itself held a secret too. You close your eyes, your last thought tangled in memories as sleep claims you faster than you realize.

The dream is seamless, more real than any nightmare should feel.

The church pews overflow with lush white blooms, their delicate petals casting a fragrant veil over the room, mingling with the scent of polished wood and old hymnals. Statues of angels line the chancel, their stone faces serene, hands pressed together in prayer, as if they too bless this day. Friends and family fill the space—faces from high school, colleagues, distant cousins. The two of you are well-loved, and it shows in every corner of this room filled with warm smiles and gentle whispers.

Your dress is exquisite, timeless, the lace delicate and intricate. A sheer net veil drapes over your face, softening your features; Chris never liked heavy makeup, and today, you’re everything he’s ever wanted. The wedding march begins, and as you step down the aisle, heart pounding, you see him waiting—Chris, the man you loved, standing with that familiar smile. It’s perfect, almost too perfect.

You’re standing by the lake now, that same lake you once visited together. The water is unnaturally still, like polished glass, reflecting a cloudless sky with eerie clarity. You look down and see yourself dressed differently—a simple sundress, soft and light, embroidered with tiny flowers. The lake shifts, its surface darkening to an inky black, and Chris’s form starts to dissolve, his features warping as he stares at you. His brown eyes, once warm, pool with a thick, dark liquid that streams down his face—a grotesque mix of blood and tears.

His lips pull back into a grimace, revealing not his familiar smile but a horrifying maw of decayed teeth, blackened and rotten, the gums swollen and raw. It’s almost impossible to look at him, but there’s something in his eyes—a haunting, bottomless pain—that keeps you rooted, feeling his anguish as if it’s your own. You try to reach him, but he keeps drifting farther, swallowed by the thickening fog, his shape barely visible. Your legs feel heavy, unable to chase after him. You open your mouth to scream, but your voice is gone. In place of Chris’s hum, the warped, dragging voice from the record begins to play, twisting the lyrics into something unsettling.

Why do birds suddenly appear… every time you are near…

It’s as if the town itself is singing, mocking your grief, laughing at your misery. You spin around, and now, in the lake’s reflection, you see… James?

He stands in the distance, his gaze fixed on something just beyond your line of sight. His expression is twisted in pain, not the frantic desperation of your own memories but a deep, abiding sorrow that feels almost like acceptance. It’s a sorrow that seeps into the atmosphere, heavy and palpable, and it pierces through the veil of your nightmare, pulling you toward him as if you’re both bound by an unseen thread.

Your mind fractures with the realization that this isn’t your memory—it’s his. You want to call out to him, to bridge the distance between you, but no sound escapes your lips. The fog envelops you both, thick and suffocating, intertwining your fears and regrets into a shared torment. As you look closer, flashes of another woman’s face blur into the water beside Chris’s—faces of those you’ve each lost or left behind, woven into the fabric of this haunting place. The lyrics echo around you, a cruel reminder of your collective longing:

They long to be… close to you.

Then everything shatters—the lake, the fog, and the memories—blowing apart like glass fragments, each shard reflecting images you’d rather forget. You wake with a jolt, gasping, and for a disorienting second, you don’t know where you are. Your hand flies to your chest, feeling the rapid thump of your heart, the remnants of the nightmare lingering. Across the room, James is also awake, his face pale and strained as he stares at the wall, clearly shaken by whatever he just experienced.

The silence stretches, both of you catching your breath, still in the grip of the shared memory. After a moment, James finally looks at you, his gaze troubled. He knelt on the floor across from you, reaching forward. You retreat inward, bringing your knees close to your chest as you attempt to gather yourself from the vivid nightmare.

“You… saw it too, didn’t you?” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

For a long moment, you don’t know what to say. All the excuses you’d planned earlier crumble, replaced by the rawness of what you just experienced. You give a slow nod, your voice shaky. “Yeah, I… I did.”

The weight of this unspoken bond hangs between you, a fragile connection forged through shared suffering. You can tell he wants to ask more, but he holds back, respect or fear—it’s hard to tell.

“You’re not a journalist, are you?” His voice is edged with something colder than distrust. “Why are you lying to me?”

Your index finger digs into the flesh of your thumb, scratching at the nail fold, peeling away the dead skin with anxious precision. With a reluctant sigh, you finally admit,

“My husband is here.” The words sound foreign, almost absurd, and you stop, feeling the weight of them settle uncomfortably. Your fingers drift to the spot where your wedding band should have been; it’s been years since you wore it. You hope James doesn’t notice its absence.

James’s gaze drifts, as though he’s caught in a memory of his own, piecing together fragments that refuse to settle. He remembers his own day by the lake, the memory of Mary and him standing silently together, wrapped in a shared peace as they looked out over the water’s glassy calm. That day had held something pure, untouched. But when that same vision began to warp, blending into a nightmare where he saw you there, tangled in shadows and held close by a man whose features twisted painfully, he assumed it must have been someone you loved deeply. Someone whose memory drew you here, too, searching through Silent Hill’s fog for answers, just like him.

“Did you get a letter from him?” James asks, his voice almost relieved, as though grasping at a thread of shared experience. “Like I did… from Mary?” His eyes search yours, teetering on the edge of desperation, as though hoping you might be a lifeline, someone who could understand.

��No,” you murmur, the answer thick in your throat. “He… he booked us the honeymoon suite at Lakeside. For our anniversary.” You hesitate, then glance up at James. Oddly, there’s a connection there, a shared understanding that feels like an anchor in this distorted reality. “I got a phone call. He said he’d be… waiting for me.”

James shifts, steadying himself, then reaches down and offers his hand. “How long have you been married?”

Taking his hand, you rise, feeling the warmth of his grip. “A long time.”

Lucky for you, he doesn’t ask for more.

You rub your eyes, exhausted. The rest was a waste of time, James knew that. You noticed his urgency, his resolve. It didn't parallel you, who dreaded the confrontation with Chris.

"Who was the woman?"

"Mary," he says her name with such familiarity. There's warmth in his tone that had been absence till now.

God, he must really love her. And you wonder what that felt like, the warm embrace of a man who loved you.

“Is she Laura's mom?”

James voice is low and purposeful. “It's...complicated.”

Taking the hint, you refuse to press further, “we should keep moving.”

You come to your senses, dusting off your legs, turning your gaze toward an hallway drowned in darkness. It looked endless, barely visible under a tangle of peeling wallpaper and decay. With a hesitant nod, you follow him; your hearts quicken as you tread deeper into the unknown. As you walk, each step feels like an invitation into Silent Hill’s dark heart. The sound of your footsteps is swallowed by the oppressive quiet, James reached forward firmly grabbing your forearm and pushing you toward him. You let out a scream, it echoes through the hallway sending you into a flustered, embarrassed state. You’d done so well keeping your composure, keeping your fear close to your chest even when Silent Hill beckoned for you to give into it.

“Careful!”

Your gaze falls to the floor and you can't help but notice the large, jagged hole that threatens to swallow you whole. You're still in James' grasp, you look up at him and see the exhaustion etched into his face. The stubble on his usually clean-shaven jaw looks foreign, a sign of how little sleep he's gotten. But despite it all, there is an undeniable warmth in his eyes, a flicker of determination that refuses to be dimmed. It hits you suddenly.

Shit, he’s handsome.

As if sensing your thoughts, James pulls you closer and your body responds automatically. His touch is like a lifeline, one that you grip onto tightly. Your breath hitches as he leans in, his heart beating rapidly against your chest.

It's strangely calming, and you find yourself sinking into him as if searching for some kind of solace. He inhales deeply, taking in your scent, and for a brief moment you both linger in this embrace. Before you can gather your thoughts and thank him for saving you from plummeting to your death, a voice interrupts the moment. It doesn't belong to either of you.

"Well, well. Looks like Jamesie has a new lady friend."

Both of you startle at the unexpected voice, but James responds with familiarity. He knows this woman. And as she steps out from the shadows, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders and her ample assets on full display, it's clear why he knows her so well.

“Maria, don’t,” James’s voice drops, laced with warning. "I said we were finished."

You try to pull away, but James’s grip on your hand holds steady. It’s hard to tell if he’s unwilling to let go of you, or if he’s trying to shield you from something he knows all too well.

Maria steps forward, her heels striking the floor with sharp, deliberate clicks. Her gaze cuts through the darkness of the room, narrowing as they land on you. There's a mocking edge to her expression, something both inviting and dangerous, like she holds the keys to a room you don’t want to enter.

“Don’t what?” she taunts, her voice light, but a dark undercurrent simmers beneath it. The tension thickens, palpable, as though the entire room hinges on Maria’s whims. Something in her presence feels volatile, as if one wrong move might unravel whatever frail sense of reality you have left.

You find your voice, though it wavers. “James… who is this?”

But Maria doesn’t give him a chance to answer. Her lips curl into a knowing smirk. “She makes you feel like such a strong man, doesn’t she?” she purrs, her gaze shifting to him, almost challenging.

“Strong and brave,” she sneers softly, drawing out the words like she’s savoring each one. “But that’s only because she hasn’t seen you like I have.” Her eyes flash with something dark and possessive, a twisted familiarity that makes your stomach churn.

“What would you do if she knew who you really are, James?”

James stiffens beside you, but Maria doesn’t back off. Instead, she takes another step forward. Reaching towards you, gentle hands touching your hair with thoughtfulness, yet the action sends shivers down your spine. Maria tilts her head, studying you with a look that feels both knowing and cruel. “And you,” she says, her tone shifting, becoming almost sweet but dripping with malice. “Poor thing. I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.”

Your fingers tighten in James’s grasp, and Maria’s eyes flicker with wicked amusement as she notices. A low, bitter chuckle escapes her, slicing through the room.

“You really think you’re here for your husband, don’t you? Sweet Chris is waiting for you, dear,” she coos, her voice dripping with venom.

Her words hit like a punch, and an icy chill races down your spine. How she could know Chris—how she could know anything about him—is beyond comprehension. Yet here she is, peeling back your skin, exposing secrets you thought were buried. The anger simmering within you begins to fester, raw and ugly, threatening to spill over.

“Stop,” you plead, voice shaking.

Maria’s lips twist into a mocking smile, and she leans in closer. “Isn’t he?” Her tone is taunting, merciless, as though she’s drawing power from the very pain she’s causing.

"How'd you think he'd feel seeing you locking arms with another man?"

Finding a surge of strength, you step forward, voice firm. “I said stop it.”

For a moment, Maria halts, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. Then she raises her hands in exaggerated surrender, her smile never fading. “Oh, look at you, standing up for yourself.” She gives a small, mocking clap.

“You two really do make a cute couple.” Her words are laced with contempt, every syllable dripping with disdain.

With that, she takes a step back, casting one last dark glance at James before she turns to leave. Her parting words echo in the room, leaving a chill in their wake.

“Good luck, sweetheart. You’re going to need it.”

And then she’s gone, her laughter fading into the silence, leaving you and James in the tense, suffocating aftermath. The silence in the room feels electric, charged with the residue of Maria's taunts. The air grows thicker, pressing down on you as you turn to James, seeking solace in his familiar presence. But instead of comfort, unease flickers across his face—his eyes darting, unable to meet yours. It’s as if he’s caught in a web spun by Maria’s venomous words, and you can feel the strands tightening around your heart.

“James,” you whisper, your voice trembling with uncertainty. “How does she know Chris?” Your chest constricts at the mere mention of your husband’s name, the laughter you once shared with him echoing in your mind. James and you had been inseparable upon meeting, following each other at the heel as you navigated the labyrinth of the apartment complex. It wasn’t plausible to accuse James of telling Maria about Chris, yet you couldn’t conjure up another justification.

James glances away, fingers raking through his hair, a gesture so familiar yet suddenly alien. “I don’t know what she’s playing at,” he mutters, but there’s an edge to his voice that tinges his words with doubt. You feel it—a crack in the foundation of trust that has held strong until now. He swallows hard, his throat working as though he’s contemplating a confession that could shatter everything between you. He shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture that normally calms him now making his insides twist tighter. “She’s just… trying to get into your head,” he finally admits, but the hesitation lingers like a specter. You take a step closer to him, searching for reassurance in his deep-set gaze.

His eyes met yours, “Please believe me."

The air between you feels brittle, each word hanging like fragile glass, and you have to look away. Without a word, you step back and turn down the hallway, putting distance between yourself and James’s pained gaze. You walk, the low hum of silence filling your ears, until you find a room that’s only slightly ajar. With a deep breath, you nudge the door open and step inside, the hollow creak adding to the suffocating quiet.

The room itself is suffused with an eerie calm, yet it carries the faint remnants of something lived-in. Faded wallpaper, once cream-colored and adorned with delicate flowers, now curls at the edges, stained by water and age. Dust particles float in the muted light, casting a dreamlike haze over the place. A loveseat, its upholstery worn to the threads, sits against the far wall, its cushions sunken in, as if weighed down by the echoes of past residents who sought refuge here. An old, ornate mirror is mounted on the wall, the glass cracked, sending distorted reflections back at you. You catch your own image in its fractured surface, fragmented and unfamiliar.

You lower yourself onto the loveseat, and the springs creak beneath your weight, a hollow, mournful sound that matches the hollowness blooming in your chest. Maria’s words ring in your mind, each syllable a serrated edge cutting into memories you’ve tried so hard to repress. Chris—his laugh, his teasing smile, his hand in yours as you danced on your wedding day. And now, here in this place, in Silent Hill, his name feels like a curse, a haunting that even the fog cannot mask.

How could she know about him? How could she know you?

The silence presses on, thick and suffocating, forcing memories to the surface that you’d rather keep submerged. Chris wasn’t perfect; your marriage wasn’t the fairy tale people assumed it to be. You remember the fights, the silences, the times he looked at you as though he didn’t know you anymore. You remember feeling like strangers in your own home. The weight of it—the memory, the bitterness, the grief—settles on your chest like a stone, and you can feel yourself sinking under it, drawn down by a ghost who refuses to let you go.

You clench your hands together, fingers tracing the place where your wedding band used to rest. It’s just an empty strip of skin now, yet it still feels heavy, like an anchor tethering you to a past you can’t outrun. Maria’s voice reverberates in your mind, mocking and sharp, unearthing everything you’ve tried to bury.

How much did she know? How much could she see?

A chill seeps into your bones, the room itself growing colder as though responding to your turmoil. You wrap your arms around yourself, gaze drifting around the room once more, searching for answers in the decayed furniture, the cracked mirror, the peeling wallpaper. But the silence offers no solace, only a hollow echo of a life you once led, a love that may have been more illusion than truth.

The door creaks open softly, and you look up to see James standing there, a shadow in the doorway. His face is lined with concern, his brows furrowed, and he steps inside with cautious urgency, his voice low and gentle. “She’s just trying to mess with you,” he says, moving closer. “That’s what she does—Maria’s… she’s not someone you should trust.”

You feel a flash of anger bubble up, something raw that you can’t hold back. “She may be messing with me, but she’s clearly something to you, James. You think I haven’t noticed? She knows things that no stranger would know.”

You stand, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself as though to ward off the chill that Maria left in the room. “Whatever she is, she’s tied to you. I can feel it.”

He looks away, eyes darkening, an almost haunted expression casting shadows across his face. “Maybe she is. But you can’t believe her. She… she’s just a part of this place, trying to twist things.” His fingers rake through his hair, betraying his own uncertainty. “You have to believe me.”

The truth in his words wavers, not quite reaching you. “Maybe this is where we part ways. You need to find Laura, I need to find Chris… maybe it’s better if we don’t drag each other further down.”

James takes a step toward you, urgency flaring in his eyes. “No—don’t say that. I know it sounds crazy, but I… I don’t want to go on alone. You’re here, and I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels like… like I’m supposed to be with you, like you’re a part of this, too.”

The weight of his words presses into you, and the room falls quiet, thick with a shared loneliness, a strange intimacy brought on by this cursed place. For a moment, you can see the struggle behind his guarded gaze—a longing for connection, for some thread of human understanding. You feel it, too, this tether that’s kept you together, kept you following each other through the shadows of Silent Hill.

His eyes search yours, desperate, unguarded. “Please. We’re both here looking for answers… for the people we love. Isn’t that enough?”

You swallow hard, your emotions twisting into knots that leave you feeling raw and exposed. Chris’s memory looms, heavy and sharp, stirring a familiar pain in your chest. Despite all the hurt he left behind, despite the tangled mess he made of your heart, there’s an ache that remains—a longing, a craving for the simple comfort of touch, of companionship.

Your gaze settles on James, who stands there, his expression earnest, vulnerable in a way that only seems to deepen the strange connection between you. It’s been so long since someone looked at you like that, without judgment, without expectation. Just… seeing.

And James, with his own broken pieces, feels like someone who could understand. Someone you don’t have to explain yourself to. He doesn’t pry or push; his presence is soft, like a balm for the emptiness that’s grown inside you over the years. Chris may have broken parts of you, but James is different. He’s open in his own quiet way, holding his pain close yet giving space for yours.

James feels a slight shiver run through him as he stands in front of you, realizing that he’s not just here searching for Laura anymore. The realization deepens his guilt, the past hangs heavily on his shoulders. He carries the burden through the mist-shrouded streets. It dawns on him that he’s looking for something to believe in, something to hold onto.

Maybe it’s because of Mary, and that guilt has anchored him to this place. But you—you—are here, standing before him, offering the possibility of solace. There’s an unspoken understanding, a thread of empathy woven between your shared pain that draws him in—a yearning for connection, for hope, for a reason to keep moving forward.

Would Mary want this for me, do I deserve to have it?

He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out slowly, as though afraid to startle you. His fingers find yours, and you feel a warmth—a reminder that you’re here, alive. He’s close now, his gaze steady and searching, asking permission without words. You feel yourself leaning in, drawn to him, the vulnerability in his eyes echoing your own.

When your lips meet, the kiss is soft, hesitant. But there’s a sweetness in it, a gentleness that feels like a reprieve, a quiet offering in a place that knows only shadows and despair. It'd been long since you felt a kiss like that, full of good intentions.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing your cheek, anchoring you in the moment. You let yourself sink into it, let yourself forget the weight of Silent Hill, the scars of Chris’s memory, the strange nightmare you’ve been thrust into.

For just a moment, there’s only you and James, two broken souls finding comfort in each other. When you finally part, his gaze lingers on you, a question, a silent promise. Brushing your nose against his, you close your eyes tightly, tears verging to spill through yet for whatever damn reason you stop them.

“Wait,” you whisper, your voice barely a breath. You pull backward, the warmth of his presence falling away like a fragile dream shattered by dawn. “What am I doing? This isn’t right.”

Confusion swirling in your mind like the fog outside. The warmth of him still lingers on your lips, it feels so sweet. So right. But the ache of Chris’s memory claws its way back, a sharp reminder of everything that remains unresolved. All the reasons as to why you were here.

James blinks, confusion clouding his eyes as he searches your face for answers, for assurance that this moment hasn’t meant something else entirely. “I didn’t—” James starts, his brows knitting together in concern. “I thought… I thought we were—”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head violently as if to dislodge the memories that threaten to smother you. “We can’t just… I can’t pretend like everything’s okay here.”

James falters, his expression shifting from confusion to hurt. “I’m not trying to pretend anything. I thought…”

Realization washes over him, an understanding that battles with the hope he had dared to cling to moments ago. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean..” His words stutter, because James did mean something. And apart of you did too. Neither of you were ready to confront it.

James sighs, “we can’t just shut ourselves off from each other either. We need each other. Look around us—this place…” He gestures wildly at the peeling walls and flickering shadows. “It thrives on our pain and isolation. It wants us to stay broken.”

Your breath hitches as you take in the decay surrounding you—a world molded by fears and heartsick memories. Maria’s words echo in the back of your mind, fueling your doubt and straining the bond you have just begun to forge.

“But if we let it, if we lean on each other…” you murmur, a tremor threading through your voice. “What happens when the truth comes to light? When it all unravels and we’re left… shattered?”

James tilts his head, a flicker of defiance igniting in his eyes. “Maybe it can’t unravel if we face it together,” he responds. “Maybe that’s how we find the strength to overcome this—this place, this guilt, these ghosts of our past.” He takes another cautious step toward you, bridging the gap that had formed between your hearts.

“James, I don’t know if I can do that,” you admit, your heart racing with uncertainty. The shadows stretch and creep closer, whispering secrets meant to keep you both locked within their grasp.

“Then let me help you,” he pleads softly, an earnestness in his tone that cuts through the fog of confusion. “We’ve already faced so much together in such little time—more than either of us thought was possible. You don't have to do this alone.”

His words reverberate with raw honesty, pulling at something deep inside you—the spark of hope woven tightly into the air. The flickering light cast shadows that danced across your faces, illuminating the vulnerability in James's gaze. It was a look that you hadn't seen in Chris before, it was a look of promised understanding and comfort. A safe harbor.

“James…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with uncertainty. The weight of Chris’s memory lingered like a ghost, but in that moment, you were acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him, pulling you closer against the chill of the darkened room.

“I'm here,” James said softly, reaching out to cup your cheek.

His touch ignited a flicker of something deep within you, something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time. You leaned into his hand, closing your eyes for a brief moment, allowing the warmth to wash over you. There was an undeniable connection, an unspoken understanding that anchored you both.

“I’m scared, James,” you confessed, your heart racing as the memories of your husband intertwined with the growing emotions you felt for this man. “What if I can’t do this? What if—”

“Stop,” he interrupted gently, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

“You’re stronger than you think. You just have to trust me.”

James’s hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer as the world around you fell away. The kiss deepened, a desperate expression of everything left unsaid—the frustration, the fear, the need for connection. You tangled your fingers in his hair, losing yourself in the moment as your hearts raced in synchrony. It was a kiss that spoke of yearning, of healing, and the promise of something more. In that breathless exchange, you both felt the weight of your pasts lift, if only for a fleeting moment.

As you finally pulled away, breathless and wide-eyed, the room around you felt a little less suffocating. James looked down at you, his expression a mix of surprise and longing, as if he too was processing the intensity of what had just happened.

“Wow,” he murmured, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That was...”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, the tension breaking as you caught your breath. “Unexpected,” you add, your cheeks flushed.

Finding a new companion in the midst of all this was unexpected, yet you couldn't deny it wasn't wanted.

Exiting the apartment, you return to the fog swarmed streets with the intention of going to Lakeview Hotel and settle this.

"Tell me about Chris."

James’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, as though he knew the weight of what he was asking but couldn’t help himself. The question caught you off guard, slicing through the quiet that had fallen over you both since the kiss. You pulled back, eyes narrowing as you measured his expression, wondering why he wanted to know—wondering if you should even answer.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

“What about him?” you ask, trying to keep your tone neutral. The memory of Chris’s face lingers at the edge of your mind, blurring between pain and longing, between a life you lived and a guilt you couldn’t quite let go of.

James shifts, his brow knitting as he considers his words carefully. “Well, you said you were married for a long time… I just thought… maybe he was part of the reason you’re here.” He pauses, then adds almost apologetically, “I just want to understand.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh, the tension in your chest tightening. “So, you kiss me, and now you want me to bare my soul?” you ask, a hint of sarcasm bleeding into your voice, trying to lighten the confession that was pressing against your throat.

James’s gaze holds steady, his face tinged with a mix of embarrassment and genuine concern. “I’m sorry—I just thought…” He fumbles for a second, searching for the right words. “I just thought maybe… if I know, I can help.”

The idea of anyone helping you felt almost absurd, but here he was, leaning into the murky past you’d never wanted to share. You take a breath, feeling the weight of what it means to even think about Chris—to feel the pull of what you left behind.

The truth of it stirs in you, raw and jagged, as you force yourself to continue. “Kissing you…” Your voice falters, and you can’t meet his eyes. “Kissing you makes me realize what I was doing even before I came here.” You clench your jaw, steadying yourself as you try to explain. “I was unfaithful in my own way—long chats, late nights with men I’d never meet. Random strangers who’d call me beautiful just to feel something real again. Just to feel noticed.”

You feel James’s gaze on you, but it’s soft, like he’s looking past the words to the heart of it. You keep talking, almost as if to absolve yourself, or maybe just to say it out loud. “It wasn’t ever physical. I never wanted that. But I wanted to know I could be seen, could still be wanted. That I wasn’t just someone’s forgotten wife.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, and James finally nods, his face shadowed with understanding, though he doesn’t press you any further. The question lingers, though, as if he’s on the brink of asking something more but thinks better of it.

As the fog thickens around you both, you wonder if he can see how broken this confession has left you, your own secrets spilling out like poisoned air. But there’s something reassuring in the way he stays, how he doesn’t look away. He’s searching for his own peace, you can tell. But here, together, you’re both finding something neither of you had expected: a moment of understanding, as fleeting and fragile as it is.

Your confession made the weight of the cross necklace on your chest feel lighter, a burden released, if only for a moment. But Silent Hill had other plans, a different way of reminding you why you were here. That song—the one that had haunted you—warps again, piercing through the fog with an unsettling clarity.

Why do stars fall down from the sky?

It was louder this time, invasive, its notes burrowing into your chest like needles. The sound seeped through your skin, winding its way through your veins until you could feel it thrum with your pulse. Your body began to tremble, muscles weakening, as if the song itself was commanding you to surrender.

Every time you walk by?

You stagger, trying to shake off the sensation, but the pressure overwhelms you. Your knees buckle, and the world tilts, the song closing in, dragging you down.

James lunges forward, reaching you just as your legs give out, his arms strong around you as he keeps you upright. “Hey!” he calls, his voice tinged with alarm as he holds you close. “Stay with me—stay with me!”

Just like me, they long to be

But his voice is fading, becoming part of the fog as your mind begins to drift, retreating into a darkness that feels familiar yet endless. The haunting refrain echoes, growing louder and louder, pressing down on you, pulling you further from James’s steady grip and deeper into the secrets that Silent Hill had dredged up from the shadows.

Your vision blurs, the edges softening until James’s face is little more than a shadow against the fog. The song’s haunting lyrics spiral in your mind, merging with his voice as he calls your name, but the words feel distant, muffled, like they’re underwater.

Your pulse quickens, heartbeat pounding loud in your ears as your body grows cold and heavy. Your legs tremble and your knees weaken; you try to catch your breath, but it slips away, pulled down by the weight of the memories clawing at you. James’s grip tightens around you, but the sensation barely registers as a wave of dizziness crashes over, sending you spiraling.

Close to you.

The melody presses into you like a physical force, digging into your chest until your heartbeat falters. You reach for James, but your fingers grow numb, vision narrowing into a tunnel of darkness, and the world tilts, fading away as you finally surrender, consciousness slipping into the void.

Slowly, your heavy eyelids flutter open and you find yourself standing in the dimly lit, crimson-tinted bathroom of Heaven's Night. The air is thick with a palpable electricity, a raw and close sensation that sends shivers down your spine. The familiar smells of smoke and stale perfume mingle with something new - the warm, musky scent of desire. You can hear the faint hum of neon lights from the club pulsing through the walls, casting a seductive glow over the small bathroom.

In front of you is an old, dirty sink accompanied by a cracked and weathered mirror. The reflection staring back at you feels surreal and blurred, but you can't help but notice how different you look. Your hair is styled in loose waves, a deep crimson shade staining your lips. Your outfit is a low cut dress that hugs your curves in all the right places, revealing just enough skin to leave little to the imagination. As you take a step back to admire yourself, you suddenly collide into something - or someone.

Turning your neck, you see James standing behind you with a hungry look in his eyes. The gentleness he once had is now replaced with an untapped dominance that sends a rush of excitement through your body. His rough breath fans across your neck as his hands find their way to your waist, gripping you with a restraint that feels seconds away from breaking. Pressed together in the tight space, the intensity between you surges like an electric current, igniting long-buried desires that are now clawing their way to the surface.

James is already so close, but he presses even closer until your bodies are flush against each other. He doesn't stop until your front collides with the cold porcelain sink, causing you to gasp and turn your face towards the mirror inches away from your nose. In its reflection, you see two figures consumed by desire - yours with an equal if not greater intensity than James'. It's been so long since you've felt this kind of want, this kind of fiery desire. And as he leans in closer, you can't help but give in to the temptation and let yourself drown in the heat of the moment.

The first kiss is a violent onslaught, a collision of two tormented souls who have been lost in darkness for far too long. The force behind it is primal and desperate, the mingling of desperation and desire causing an inferno to rage between your lips.

You instinctively raise your arms, tangling your fingers in his hair as he presses you forcefully against the sink. In this moment, there is only him and the overwhelming need for him. James eagerly grabs at your breasts, tearing at your clothing until your laced bra is exposed, barely containing your hardened buds which beg for his touch. His grip tightens as his lips trail down your neck, each touch rough and urgent.

There is a raw honesty in every touch, every shared breath that speaks volumes about the pent-up frustration and pain that has brought you both to this moment. Here, in the seedy sanctuary of Heaven's Night, you lose yourself completely to each other-- no expectations, no inhibitions, just the all-consuming desire to feel alive in a town that takes everything from you.

Your body arches against James' as you feel the hard bulge in his pants pressing against you. In one swift motion, he grabs the hem of your skirt and pulls it up, baring your ass to him. Any sense of embarrassment is quickly replaced by intense arousal.

Without hesitation, James moves your panties aside and spits on his fingers before plunging them into your dripping cunt. You let out a wild shriek, the cool air hitting your exposed sex only to be soothed by the warmth of his wet fingers. He pumps two slender digits inside you with ease, the sound of your wet core filling the room.

His words send shivers down your spine as he scissors his fingers inside you, "Listen to how wet you are for me already." Your hands leave his hair and grip onto the sink for support as you lose yourself in his touch.

He suddenly removes his fingers and gives your wet cunt a sharp slap, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body and out of your mouth. "You couldn't stop thinking about this, could you?" he growls.

"No," you whimper, unable to resist his dominance. "I need it so bad, James," you plead, wiggling your ass towards him. "I need your cock inside me."

He doesn't hesitate, his grunts joining yours as he complies, thrusting his hard cock into you with renewed vigor. Every inch of you is filled, your body shaking with the intensity of it all.

"Harder! James! Harder!" You beg, your voice trembling with need.

James notices your half-lidded eyes drifting shut, lost in the throes of passion. With a growl, he pulls your hair back, forcing you to look at your reflection in the mirror.

"Look at you. Look how cock-hungry you are." His words are a filthy whisper, laced with dominance and affection.

Your eyes flutter open, staring into the mirror where you both are reflected. The sight is intoxicating, your bodies entwined, your faces a mix of pleasure and raw need. You watch as James continues to pound into you, his muscles straining with effort, his eyes locked on yours. The reflection in the mirror is almost too much to bear, the reality of the scene so vivid, so real.

"Please," you whimper, your voice breaking. "I need more."

James smirks, his hand moving to cup your cheek, brushing away a stray tear. "What do you need, baby?" He asks, his tone gentle despite the rough handling.

"I... I need you to make me come," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. The admission feels liberating, freeing.

His eyes darken with intent, a predatory gleam flashing in their depths. "That's my girl," he murmurs, his thumb stroking your lower lip. "But not just yet. Not until you've earned it."

With that, he yanks your head back, exposing your neck, and bites down gently, his teeth grazing your skin. The sensation is electrifying, a jolt of pleasure that shoots straight to your core. You arch your back, pressing yourself further onto his cock, desperate for more.

"James..." You groan, your body trembling with need.

He releases your neck, leaving a mark that slowly begins to throb. His hand moves down, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your ass. With a firm grip, he spanks you, the sting a welcome contrast to the pleasure coursing through your veins.

"Did that hurt, baby?" He asks, his voice dripping with concern.

You shake your head, moaning softly. "No, it felt... good."

He chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "Good girl," he praises, his hand landing another smack on your already reddened skin. "Now, tell me what you want."

"I want you to... to keep going," you gasp, your voice strained with effort. "I want you to make me beg for it."

His grin widens, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Oh, I intend to."

With that, he picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more primal. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding you, controlling you. You can feel the pressure building inside you, the orgasm lurking just out of reach. You clench your muscles around him, trying to coax it closer, but James has other plans.

"Not yet," he growls, his voice harsh. "Not until you're begging, baby."

Your frustration mounts, your body screaming for release, but James is relentless. He alternates between slow, teasing strokes and wild, frenzied thrusts, keeping you on the edge, always just one step away from oblivion.

"Please, James," you plead, your voice breaking. "Please, I can't take it anymore."

He pauses, his breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "What do you want, baby?" He asks, his voice calm, controlled.

"I want to come," you sob, tears streaming down your face. "Please, let me come."

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, a victorious gleam in his eyes. "Beg for it," he demands, his voice firm.

You hesitate for a moment, the weight of his command pressing down on you. But the need, the desperation, it's overwhelming. You crumple under the pressure, your pride forgotten.

"Please, James," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Please, let me come. I'll do anything."

His smile widens, a predator finally catching its prey. "Anything?" He asks, his tone curious.

You nod, your resolve crumbling. "Yes, anything."

With a satisfied hum, he resumes, his thrusts becoming more brutal, more punishing. You can feel the orgasm creeping closer, the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside you. And then, just as you think you can't take it anymore, James pulls out.

Your eyes fly open, confusion and frustration mingling in your gaze. "No," you whine, reaching for him. "Don't stop."

He steps back, his cock glistening with your arousal, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Make a choice, baby,"

“Choice?” You ask, panting.

James lunges forward, his erection pressing hard against your backside. He grabs the delicate cross chain around your neck with a tight grip, pulling at it until it snaps off in his hand. The necklace falls to the ground with a metallic clang, leaving you exposed and vulnerable to his hungry advances…

"Yeah, choice."

The gray fog clears just enough to reveal a run-down convenience store, the dim lights barely illuminating the cracked tile and empty shelves. James adjusts his grip, holding your limp form securely as he pushes through the broken door. The smell of stale air and dust hits him, but he hardly notices—his focus is on finding something, anything to help you.

Inside, Laura sits cross-legged on the floor, her back against a display, a dusty stuffed bunny cradled in her arms. She looks up at the sound of footsteps, her eyes narrowing with cautious curiosity as she spots you in James’s arms.

James releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as he sees Laura sitting there, safe and sound with her stuffed bunny. Relief washes over him, momentarily cutting through the ever-present tension in his chest. He approaches, his arms aching from carrying you, but there's still a sternness in his voice.

“Laura,” he says, steady but firm. “Don’t run off like that again.”

She looks up at him, feigning innocence as she squeezes the bunny closer. “I just forgot Mr. Hopps! You wouldn’t leave Mary’s things behind, would you?”

James’s expression softens, but only slightly. “No, but…” He trails off, glancing down at your unconscious form, still nestled carefully in his arms. “I just need to know you’re safe. We can’t afford to lose each other in this place.”

Laura stares at him, her brows furrowing as her gaze shifts from his concerned face to you. "Who’s that?” she asks, her tone both wary and a little defiant. “Is she okay?”

“She just needs a little help,” James replies, his voice low, soothing—almost like he's trying to convince himself, too. He carefully lowers you onto a patch of clean floor, checking your breathing, his hand lingering near yours before he pulls back. He takes off his military jacket, balling it up and placing it under your head to support your neck.

Laura tilts her head, observing you. After a moment, she shrugs and says, almost offhandedly, “She’s really pretty, you know.”

James glances at Laura, surprised, before his gaze returns to you. He hadn’t thought about it like that—or maybe he’d been trying not to. He just wanted you safe. But with you lying there, fragile and quiet, Laura’s words stir something that catches him off guard.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I guess she is.”

Laura watches him carefully, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “So, you’re helping her because she’s pretty?”

James lets out a short laugh, more a huff than anything else. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m helping her because… because she’s here, and she...” His voice is distant, like he’s still working through it himself. "She… She’s someone who gets it. Someone who needs help, like you and me.”

Laura huffs but nods slowly, her gaze lingering on you, still clutching her bunny. “Fine. I’ll stay. But she better not be all weird.”

James manages a small, weary smile. “No promises,” he murmurs, sitting down beside you both, his eyes on the fog-shrouded streets.

“But we’ll wait here until she’s ready.”

#james sunderland smut #james sunderland x reader #james x reader #silent hill 2 smut #silent hill x reader #silent hill x reader smut #james sunderland x you #james x you #james sunderland x fem reader #saddleups #filed: long to be

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cheriewoo · 7 months ago

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Sweet Candid Saturdays | Jung Wooyoung ☆

~ ~ call me chérie ☆

Navigation | Kinktober List

☆ Day 05 : Cum Play, Overstimulation

↬ [ Synopsis ] : Associating with Wooyoung was bad news, you knew that clearly. But after experiencing the magic his fingers could work inside you, you couldn't help but want more. So, you decided to step into Wooyoung’s world, unaware of the scandals that were about to follow.

Word Count : 2.2k Genre : Smut, Angst, Photographer Au,Non-idol au. Pairing : Photographer! Wooyoung x Model! F.Reader

WARNINGS : Pure smut(18+) , Pls follow the day number before each part they guide the sequence of the scenes, heavy angst, playful and flirty banter, fingering ( fem.recieving ), overstimulation, cum play, media scandal (a lil bit),bold and flirty wooyoung, couch makeout, they makeout in Wooyoung's studio,cum eating, reader has a bulge kink?.

Tag list OPEN! - let me know if you want to be tagged for this Kinktober list

☆☆☆ NOTE : Day 05 is here ma chéries, and here we are with Wooyoung again. Tried a new format, enjoyed it a lot. Hope you guys enjoy it too.

14 days after first meeting Wooyoung, Saturday, 11:30 AM, outside your apartment

Fireworks ignited deep in your belly as Wooyoung’s thick fingers stretched you in the most delicious way, teasingly rubbing while your soaked core begged for more. “Do I need to know your name to do this, baby?” he taunts, his voice dripping with control, fully aware of how your body melts under his touch.

“Mhmm… Wooyoung, ahh… please, more.” you beg, desperation dripping from your voice, a taunting proof of how much you need him.

Suddenly, you’re pulled out of your trance by the sound of camera flashes, chaotic reporters, and crazy fans yelling at you. A hot feeling rush all over your whole being as you remember those initimate moments, 7 days ago at Wooyoung's studio.

That is THE WOOYOUNG EFFECT!

How did you, The Vogue’s top model, end up in a leaked photo scandal like this? Nevermind, let’s get yelled at first, shall we?

"Miss L/n, what do you have to say about the intimate pictures of you and Jung Wooyoung that got leaked?"

"Are you two dating? Y/n, are you dating Wooyoung?"

"Y/n, how long have you two been seeing each other? Why were you so close in those photos?"

Your bodyguards usher you forward, blocking the crowd as best they can, but the questions keep flying. Then, the crazy fans start yelling at you.

"Are you cheating on Joshua? Y/n, answer! Why are you breaking our sweet boy’s heart, you crazy witch?"

"You’re a model, so just be a model. Don’t be a fucking troublemaker, breaking innocent hearts like Joshua’s!"

These are just a few of the false accusations and ridiculous questions thrown at you by the paparazzi and the fans as you leave your home for your fittings. You decide to ignore them,they mean nothing. Wooyoung means nothing. It was just a one-time thing.

Just a one-night stand.

Just one photography session. A steamy one at that.

Just one guilty indulgence.

You knew that notorious photographer was bad news, scandalous even, yet you still decided to have a taste of Wooyoung’s world. Wooyoung... he was supposed to be just an acquaintance, but he became more than that.

It all started with those candid Saturdays. Sweet, even, if I may add.

"I am just a model, so let me be," you think to yourself.

Sweet Candid Saturdays that fucked it all up.

First time meeting wooyoung, Saturday, 05:45 PM, The Lourve ~ Paris.

"Congratulations, Joshua. I’m so proud of you." you say, hugging him to congratulate him on his biggest gallery event yet in his career as a photographer and art gallery owner.

"Thanks, Y/n. I’m so happy you could make it," he replies, hugging you back. "But without you being a part of my Diamonds of the Night photo collection, I don’t think this would have been such a big hit. Thank you so much." he adds sincerely, kissing your cheek.

A small crowd starts forming around Joshua, him being the man of the hour. You smile and excuse yourself, wandering off to explore the artworks Joshua has collected over the years.

As you walk, your eyes land on a series of your pictures, part of his Diamonds of the Night collection and your first-ever photoshoot with him. Honestly, you enjoyed the whole shoot, funny and sweet memories play like a movie reel in your mind as you admire yourself.

But you’re not the only one admiring your pictures.

Jung Wooyoung, the man, the photographer, the legend, stands behind you, taking a closer look at not only the art but also the model, you.

Wooyoung steps closer, his eyes drifting between the photos and you, a slow smile spreading across his face as he drinks in your beauty from head to toe. "It’s funny... The camera caught your looks, but it totally missed the spark. Up close? You’re absolutely dazzling."

"So, you’re saying I’m even better in person?" you ask, playful amusement in your eyes.

No doubt, Wooyoung is breathtakingly handsome. There’s a reason people go crazy for him and beg for his public appearances, even though he only makes one big appearance each year with his works. Millions of fans admire this man, he’s the art itself, loved by many for both his presence and his craft.

Standing up close, you now understand how people feel in Wooyoung’s presence - strong yet alluring and devilishly sexy. He has a pull to him, and people are attracted to him like iron to magnets, like moths to a flame.

"Oh, for sure. Those photos seem like a sneak peek. In person? You’re a whole vibe." he exclaims, pulling you out of your trance, having lost yourself in him for a few seconds. His gaze lingers on you, unapologetic.

You smirk, intrigued. "You always this bold with people you just met?"

He steps in closer, his voice low, intimate. "Only when they catch my attention like you do. Seems I have a weakness for... striking things."

"You must love walking on thin ice." you say, tilting your head, eyes narrowing playfully.

"I don’t mind a little danger, especially when it’s this tempting," he replies, taking a step closer and grabbing your hand, guiding you down the halls of the gallery, swiftly passing through the crowds as he leads you along.

"Tempting? You don’t even know my name." you say as you both weave through the people.

Where is he taking me?

Halting at the first room his eyes land on, he pulls you in, closing the door softly to ensure no one saw you both going in together.

"I don’t need your name to know I want more of this." he finally answers, standing behind you. His warm breath against your ear sends a shiver down your spine. His muscular yet soft hands snake around your waist, hugging you from behind and pulling your back into his chest. Your body eagerly reacts to his touch, goosebumps spread over your skin, and your heart beats so rapidly you think it might explode.

"And what exactly do you think you’re going to get?" you ask, your voice breathy from his mere touch as your head leans back against his shoulder.

His eyes darken, his voice barely a whisper. "Whatever you’re willing to give."

And just when you think the situation couldn’t get any more intense, his right hand travels south, making use of the cut of your dress at your waist, reaching your lacy underwear.

To no one's surprise, you’re wet as hell. Wooyoung chuckles, you can almost imagine the smug look on his face, irritating yet mouthwateringly attractive, a turn-on you didn’t expect. His fingers waste no time, touching your clothed cunt, the wetness making it clear just how turned on you are. His middle finger adds to the arousal as it rubs intensely, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

"Fuck… oh… my… god." a pretty moan escapes your lips, fueling his excitement. His fingers skillfully slip past the lacy fabric, now in direct contact with your dripping cunt. Without warning, he slips two digits inside you, slowly moving back and forth as he stretches you delicioulsy with feverish passion. Your entire body trembles with the trembles coursing through your body.

"Guess someone’s enjoying my company a little too much." he says mockingly as his pace quickens. With your lips caught between your teeth and your knees going weak, you try your hardest not to give in to this pleasure,not to give in to him.

But your body and mouth always betray you just when you need them to obey the most. A needy whimper escapes your lips. "Faster… please, Wooyoung, don’t stop." you urge, urgency lacing your voice as the pressure builds up, ready to crash at any moment.

His movements stop; his fingers halt as he pulls out of you completely. A loud whimper leaves your lips, being deprived of your release is torturous. You twist toward him in an attempt to protest but come face-to-face with his fingers. His fingers, dripping with your slick, act as a barrier between your lips and his as you both taste your essence.

"I know your name, Y/n. I’ve had my eyes on you for a while." he smirks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "See you at my studio very soon." With that, he turns to leave, leaving you standing in the middle of the room, stunned and unsure what to make of this whole ordeal.

Just as he’s about to open the door, he turns his head toward you. "Got sexy boobs. It took everything in me not to touch and play with them." he winks before stepping out and softly closing the door behind him.

A scoff leaves your lips as you look down at your chest. A thin paper, a card, sits there. This motherfucker! ,who puts their business card in someone’s cleavage?

7 days after first meeting Wooyoung , Next Week, Saturday. 7:30 PM, Midnight Muse aka. Wooyoung’s studio cum art gallery

After contemplating, refusing, and going to war against yourself, you find yourself here, in front of his studio on a dark Saturday night. Entering now guarantees moments of sweet yet candid experiences of pleasure and thrill. But he deprived you of a release; it was painful yet left you wanting more.

Eager for a taste of his world, surrendering to your lusty desires and an aching core, you push through the front door.

Why is it so empty? Yes, it is a Saturday, but there isn’t a single soul in this building. Is it even the correct location?

You walk through the thin corridor, which opens to a huge studio space, with different setups for different purposes occupying their own corners. The walls are decorated with a billion frames, all from his previous collection, and almost thirty cameras are placed at different locations in the room, capturing every single angle, every single frame. Plants, luxury furniture, and ceiling decor elevate the space, adding to that vintage romantic look, a place where muses make love at midnight, so sultry and inviting.

To say you are in awe would be an understatement. Being photographed in such a breathtakingly gorgeous and aesthetic studio would be any model’s dream.

A specific setup catches your eye, a vintage-looking couch placed at the center with no light source other than candles. Roses surround the couch, adding to its glory, and a sweet musk scent lingers in the air, heightening all your sensations.

An image of doing wild things on that couch with Wooyoung runs through your mind.

“So, my muse finally found her way to my studio.” Wooyoung’s voice catches your attention as you shake off the filthy thoughts and turn around to look at him. Your breath hitches at the sight in front of you.

Wooyoung is clad in a red silk shirt, with the top three buttons left intentionally open, revealing his sexy chest, and silk pants adorning his legs—tight enough in all the right spots where eyes wander the most: his crotch. His clothed bulge is evident in those tight pants.

Your mouth waters at the sight before you, and no words leave your lips. You simply nod, the words “my muse” still ringing in your ears.

Wooyoung smiles, figuring you out and your situation in mere seconds with just one look at you. “I have a dress for you in the changing room, baby. Why don’t you get changed, and we can take a few pictures on that setup?” he says, pointing to the rose-covered vintage couch. “My beautiful muse seems to have taken quite a liking to it,” he adds, a sexy smirk plastered on his lips.

Are you really this easy to read? Or is it just with Wooyoung?

This all somehow feels like a well-crafted and thoroughly set-up plan, making you even more excited in anticipation of what’s coming next.

Wooyoung clicks a few pictures of you as you lay on the couch, asking you to change poses after every few shots. He skillfully guides you into different poses, capturing your beautiful figure like a precious art piece.

For the next few pictures, he wants your hair styled in a certain way, so he makes his way toward you to set it himself. The close proximity quickens your pulse with urgency and excitement. The warmth radiating from his body, his exposed chest, inviting lips just inches from you, and his bulge all contribute to the arousal pooling at your core, leaving you dripping wet.

He sneaks glances at your lips in between fixing your hair, and as his fingers brush against your neck, a needy and sudden moan escapes your lips.

“Wooyoung… I need you,” you beg, urgency lacing your voice, your dripping core demanding his attention as your hands cup his bulge, rubbing his clothed dick. Your touch ignites his body on fire, and a groan escapes his lips. “I was just waiting for you to ask, baby.”

With that, he settles on top of you, capturing your lips as an animalistic hunger takes over. The kiss is messy and frantic, his tongue slipping past your lips, eagerly drinking in the pretty moans that escape your mouth. His hands work their way down your body, finishing the half-finished job.

When his fingers make contact with your slick, dripping core, a smirk spreads across his face as he continues to kiss you. Rubbing your wetness, he slips his fingers inside you, gliding in and out with a perfect rhythm. Each movement satisfies your throbbing core, while also pushing you to the edge of overstimulation.

He collects your slick on his fingers, breaking the kiss and slowly standing up. Bringing his fingers to your lips, he makes you taste your own juices. The flavor sends you spiraling, and you come hard, your eyes fluttering shut as waves of pleasure crash over you, wetness covering your inner thighs and the couch.

As you recover from your high, you find Wooyoung smiling at you—a genuine smile, not just a smirk. His eyes gaze upon you softly, full of warmth and affection. “Would this Vogue’s top model want to be my muse?” he asks, kneeling in front of you.

You feel giddy at the sight of his smile. With the intense, pleasure-inducing moments you both shared, you find it impossible to refuse his offer. “Yes, I’d love to,” you reply, a sweet smile gracing your lips.

You both lean in for a kiss, sealing the deal, unaware that your intimate moments are being captured by someone hidden nearby.

~ ~ Chérie ☆ signin’ off

DISCLAIMER: This is totally fictional and not a real depiction of the ATEEZ members. It's all just for fun only so please don’t take anything seriously and keep the mood light around here.

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neragufetta · 5 months ago

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That is a code, your honor, but better

I'm an idiot. I wrote part 1 immediately after I saw this moment

without realizing that, if I'd waited only an instant more, the teacup is removed and the message becomes visible almost entirely

I won't repeat how to solve the code (because yes, that is a code fully decipherable! :D), but the whole message is:

--the heart of the forest a sudde-- --ic spread among the animals. Fox-- --recting Elephant to douse the flames d-- --wiftly spreading messages of urgency ra-- (h)owever only cared about fleeing for safet-- the forest succumbed to the fire’s wrath.

Determined to prevent such tragedies, the animals hired a detective to uncover the culprit. What they discovered was beyond their wildest imaginations.

He believed that the key to solving the problem was to eliminate all potential sparks that could ignite troubles.

In the previous screenshot, due to some part missing, I totally missed the reference to Liu Xiao metaphor of the forest's animals, so let's start my blabbering from scratch.

The message implies the existence of different people:

the animals and, among them, Elephant and Fox are mentioned. I can't think of anything regarding Elephant but the twins were depicted as foxes in season 2. I don't see how Li Tianchen could be already involved at this stage but let's keep him in mind.

the detective (also referred as He in a following passage) hired by the animals. It could be Liu Xiao, Vein o someone else, depending on how we interpret the rest of the message.

the culprit, which is probably Lu Guang but it could also be Cheng Xiaoshi or, why not, Cheng Wei Ming.

The potential sparks, which probably include Qiao Ling, Xiao Li and the whole group.

Let's not forget the writer and recipient of the message, which could be Xiao Fei and the blond woman, respectively.

Focusing on the content itself, the forest might be a metaphor for the whole society, it could refer to a specific group of people, or it could be a phisical place, but I doubt that, at this point: the forest we see in Lu Guang's memory, back in season two, might not be a real place, I'm not sure yet. The fire is most certainly the moment the past changed, which created different timelines and is probably breaking the time, at this point; however we cannot exclude that an actual fire does happen, we see it multiple times in the opening sequence.

I'm a little less inclined to think that the phrase "Determined to prevent such tragedied" might allude to a person endowed with powers that enable him to see or act in the future, but nevertheless I do not rule it out yet.

And that's it, I hope it was useful.

#link click #shiguang daili ren #link click yingdu #bridon arc #link click theory

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the-entity-down-the-street · 7 months ago

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Okay so. The New Beetlejuice Movie.

I have thoughts about Lydia and Beetz, and how Beetlejuice's feelings developed for her.

Yes. I ship them. I don't think I've come out and said it yet, but yeah I'm one of those. Block me if it bothers you. Winona and Micheal ship it, too. For the record.

Analysis under the cut

Okay folks. So, I don't believe for a second that Beetlejuice loved her in the first movie. He doesn't know her, barely interacts with her, doesn't care about her outside of having a means to an end. You can see this in how he treats the wedding, too. He rushes it and does everything in his power to stop everyone from saying his name. I don't even think they had a cake?

Now, this isn't to say he isn't intrigued by Lydia.

"I think I could get along with Edgar Allen Poe's daughter, she gets me."

Let's be real, though. He's a scumbag and a sex pest in the first movie.

This is in stark contrast to the sequel. He calls Lydia the love of his life, keeps a photo of her on his desk, fulfills all his promises to her, helps her get revenge on Rory *after* making him tell the truth about his motivations, and the DANCE SEQUENCE?? If his goal was just to escape the Netherworld, he'd have rushed the wedding vows and gotten it over with as quick as possible. And considering he has *more* motivation to get out than the first movie-- Delores coming to kill him, for real, permenantly-- that makes the second wedding even more romantic. He is down BAD bad.

So, how did we get here?

That's what I've been puzzling over for past couple days. I think it has something to do with the psychic connection Beetlejuice mentions to Bob.

@herefortheships has an excellent post that helped fill in the "why" of the psychic connection. Lydia can see all kinds of ghosts. What makes Beetlejuice different?

It's because they almost completed the wedding in the first movie. Sure, Lydia never said "I do", but they were almost there, and with this marriage ceremony being so powerful as to bring the dead back to life, even an interrupted wedding forms a link between them. Beetlejuice being such a powerhouse himself, and Lydia being naturally psychic, probably strengthens it. The closest comparsion I'd make is never closing out with a Ouija board. A very powerful, horny Ouija board.

So, this gives Beetlejuice a chance to get to know Lydia over the years. He watches her grow up, with a set of ghost parents no less. He sees her powers strengthen, and how she goes on to start a show utilizing her gift. I wonder if the show inspired Beetlejuice to start his own business?

She becomes a wife, a mother, a fully rounded adult who never loses her adoration of the macabre. I think he sees what he originally saw in Delores, and it ignites something, for lack of a better term, long-dead within him. Lydia is a much better person than Delores, too, and Beetlejuice knows that. After all, she originally agreed to marry him to save her (already dead) friends.

No wonder he's fucking smack dizzy in love. He softens, becomes a marginally more respectable person. Keeping a picture of teenage Lydia on his desk is objectively creepy, but that's also when he saw her in person last, so it makes sense.

Something else I noticed, and this kind of a tangent, but it's interesting.

He only started appearing to her again recently. Like, she'd felt him around the corners, but it's only around the start of the film that he tries to actively get her attention. I have a theory as to why. In part, he wanted to make himself better for her before making a grand entrance (reputable businessman and all), but there's something else that's more obvious.

Rory. He knows Rory's bad news, and I wouldn't be surprised if he used his connection with Lydia to spy on him. Beetlejuice probably knew he was planning to marry Lydia for her money soon. Now, he couldn't talk to her properly due to her blatantly trying to push him out, but he could still be loudly present.

Notice how when Rory summons him, Beetlejuice presents as a relationship counselor. He even says "I think there's an enabler here, but we'll talk about that later," which I think is because he wants Rory to know he sees through the emotionally manipulative bullshit.

I think he also knows Lydia was not going to believe him if he said Rory was a creep. I mean, why would she? Beetlejuice bides his time with gross out gags and other typical Beetlejuice antics. It's only after he's proven himself honest enough to stay true to his word by saving Astrid and sending her boyfriend to hell that he gives Rory the truth syrum.

He's really, really grown to genuinely love Lydia, way more than he ever loved Delores I'd say, and it's because he's fallen in love with the woman he got to watch her become.

#beetlegeuse #beetlejuice #beetlebabes #lydia deetz #lydia deetz x beetlejuice #beetlejuice 2024 #beetlejuice x lydia #beetlyds #proship #beetlejuice 2 #beetlejuice 2 spoilers #spoilers

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bennyboyfics · 27 days ago

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One time thing || Ben Shelton x flight attendant!reader

Summary: You promised yourself it was just one night—until six months later, he shows up like you were never meant to forget.

Wc: 1,556

Warnings: suggestive, slight angst ig

A/n: ik this is such a niche pairing and most likely never been done before w Ben but I just felt like it plus my sister recently became an Emirates flight attendant 😃

MASTERLIST

The air was crisp in Basel, the kind of cold that pinched at your cheeks but still allowed for glamour in a tailored Emirates blazer and pencil skirt. You adjusted your signature red hat, the veil brushing lightly against your cheekbone, your heels clicking confidently against the tournament venue’s marble floors.

You and another crew member had been selected to represent Emirates at the final of the tournament, a tradition rooted in the airline’s sponsorship. It was meant to be simple: stand tall, smile gracefully, escort the players. But you weren’t prepared for him. Ben Shelton.

Towering, magnetic, and exuding the kind of easy confidence that made the room buzz. You recognised him from the brief your team had been given—young, rising star, American, charming in press interviews—but none of that prepared you for the way your eyes locked the moment you were introduced. He looked surprised.

Not in a bad way—more like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Hi,” he said, offering his hand, flashing a smile that wasn’t rehearsed. “I’m Ben.” You took his hand, tried to keep your composure even as your skin tingled from the touch. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shelton,” you replied with your perfect smile.

His eyes roamed your face for a second too long. “It’s just Ben.” The walk itself was routine. Cameras flashed, applause rolled in waves, and your steps were rehearsed—but your heart wasn’t. Neither was his. You felt his eyes flicker toward you more than once, and every time they did, something inside you curled. Tightly.

You walked toward the net where the special guests, the umpire, and your fellow cabin crew were gathering for the ceremonial coin toss and photo op. From the corner of your eye, you watched Ben retrieve his racquet, his shoulders broad and posture loose, and then stride toward the net like he owned every inch of the court.

The umpire tossed the coin. Ben called it. Chose to serve. Then came the photo—the usual lineup, the kind meant to be captured, shared, forgotten. You ended up beside Ben again, this time under bright lights with dozens of lenses aimed at you both. He didn’t say anything, but the moment the cameras started snapping, you felt it.

His hand—large, warm, confident—slipped to the small of your back. It wasn’t inappropriate, but it wasn’t casual either. Gentle pressure, fingers resting just beneath the curve of your waist, his palm flush against the fine fabric of your blouse. It startled you, the sudden intimacy in such a public space.

You moved closer. Not dramatically. Just a shift of your heel, a lean of your shoulder, the subtle language of two people standing a little too close to be “professional.” The cameras kept clicking, capturing an image that would later be posted across Emirates’ socials. You kept your eyes forward, lips curled into a soft, composed smile.

But inside, your thoughts were anything but composed. His touch had ignited something—low, burning, and entirely unexpected. And somehow, you knew he felt it too.

Later that evening, the Emirates event coordinator invited the two of you to the post-ceremony cocktail reception. You hadn’t expected him to show up—athletes were usually whisked away. But Ben was there. And when he saw you, his entire face lit up like he’d found something he hadn’t realised he was missing.

You spoke. What it was like living in Dubai. About travel. About how his schedule made your roster of flights look tame. He asked about your favourite destinations. You told him about long layovers in Milan and nights in Tokyo that felt like dream sequences. He told you about the loneliness of hotel rooms and how the tour felt like a blur sometimes.

The drinks were light, the touches subtle—a brush of his fingers against your wrist as he reached for his glass, the way he leaned in closer when you spoke. And then… it just happened. It started with a glance that lingered too long in the elevator. Then a hand on your waist. A breathless pause before the first kiss—hot and unrelenting against the wall of your hotel room.

He tasted like bourbon and mint. You tasted like trouble. Clothes hit the floor in slow, desperate moments. His hands were all over you, memorising every curve like he didn’t want to forget. And you let yourself forget too—about rules, about uniforms, about how this was supposed to be a one-time thing.

You woke up tangled in sheets that smelled like him and sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. You should’ve left. You were trained to be discreet, unbothered, professional. But you stayed for breakfast. He made you coffee. Neither of you talked about what it meant. He had a match. You had a flight. That was the end of it. No numbers exchanged. No promises made.

Just chemistry, chaos, and the kind of night that lived in your bones for months.

You hadn’t thought of Basel in months. That was the only way to cope with it—tuck the memory away and focus on your job. You’d convinced yourself that Ben probably didn’t remember. That to him, it had been a distraction. A fun night before a match.

So when you saw your name on the list again—assigned to represent Emirates at another tournament—you didn’t overthink it. Not until you were standing backstage, hat perched perfectly on your head, lips painted in that familiar crimson shade, when you felt a presence behind you.

Ben Shelton. He looked… different. A little more polished. Same energy, same presence, but more grounded. Like he’d settled into his own skin over the past six months. And the moment his eyes found yours? He stopped mid-step. You felt your throat tighten. There was silence, except for the bustle of people around you.

His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second, then back to your eyes. “You,” he said under his breath, almost in disbelief. Your smile flickered. “Hello again, Mr. Shelton.” He chuckled, low and disbelieving. “Still with the Mr. Shelton?” You tilted your head, your voice steady even though your heart wasn’t. “Still with Emirates.”

The walk was harder this time—not because of the heels, but because of the electricity buzzing between your bodies. Your hand grazed his arm accidentally, and he exhaled like you’d punched the wind out of him. You didn’t look up. You couldn’t. After the ceremony, you slipped backstage, ready to disappear.

But Ben wasn’t done. He caught you by the elbow gently. “Hey.” You turned. “Hey.” “You weren’t going to say anything?” You offered a careful shrug. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” He studied you for a long moment. “Yeah, well… I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” Your breath caught. He stepped closer. His voice was lower now, private.

“That night. Basel. I thought it was just me. I thought I imagined how good it was.” “You didn’t imagine it,” you said softly. He gave you a crooked smile. “Then why’d you leave without saying anything?” “Because we’re from two different worlds, Ben,” you whispered, eyes searching his.

“And yet,” he said, closing the gap between you, “here we are. Again.” You could feel your heart slamming against your ribs. “I don’t care if it was supposed to be a one-time thing,” he said. “It didn’t feel like that to me.” You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because when he reached out and brushed your cheek, when he leaned in so close your noses touched, it felt inevitable.

#ben shelton #ben shelton fanfiction #ben shelton fanfic #ben shelton imagine #ben shelton x reader #ben shelton tennis #ben shelton au #ben shelton x fem!reader #tennis fanfic #ben shelton x you #ben shelton angst #ben shelton fluff #ben shelton smut #tennis x reader #tennis au #tennis fanfiction #tennis #united arab emirates #emirates airlines

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waynes-multiverse · 1 year ago

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Plastic Hearts – Part 21

Pairing: Director!Dean Winchester x Actress!Reader

Series Summary: Los Angeles, 1985. Y/N’s a young actress without any success, hopping from one failed audition to the next until one desperate mistake brings her to her breaking point. Dean Winchester, on the other hand, is a grade A asshole and washed-up director at the end of his career, known for his godawful slasher movies in the 70s and his love for blow, booze, and women. Lost in the toxic Hollywood life, their paths cross when one hopeless little wrestling show changes their trajectory.

Chapter Warnings: +18, language, smut (p in v, dirty talk, spanking), fluff, angst, comfort

Word Count: 7.6k

A/N: It's finally happening! Get the Office gifs ready 👀😂 It's so good to bring this series back after such an unexpectedly long time away. We've got five more chapters left, so let's make 'em count with as much drama and ridiculousness as possible, shall we? Ready? And action! 🎬

<< 20 || Spotify Playlist || Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

21. Rock You Like A Hurricane

Dean swallows the clot that has formed in the back of his throat as the first button of her white cotton blouse flies open. The air in the office feels dry, his mind hazy. Is he dreaming? Once again, he reminds himself to stop mixing booze and blow. It never ends well and barely ever helps.

Another step forward, another button, another swallow.

Y/N is a Fata Morgana, a mirage, slowly moving towards him through blurry lines and summer heat.

“Don’t you want me?”

The innocent lip bite that accompanies her question sends him downstairs, predestining him to burn in hellfire. He swallows again. Of course, he wants her. He always does.

The heels of his boots dig into the rotten floorboards as he pushes back on his office chair, enough to free his thighs from underneath the wooden desk and show off the bulging erection blooming in his jeans. It started to form as soon as she walked in and turned that damn lock behind her back.

The corners of her pink lips rise to a smile. She likes what she sees, and soon enough, she finds herself slotted between his bow legs with his greedy palms smoothing up her denim-clad thighs until they find a home on the juicy globes of her ass and squeeze tight. Green eyes darken as they wander up her frame before they meet two sparkling orbs that mirror his own lust back to him.

More buttons spring open, the blouse slipping off her shoulders and hitting the ground. A gray leotard becomes visible, two pointed peaks on luscious hills poking through the thin material, his mouth forming a ring around one of them, hot air igniting her skin and stealing her breath. Her arms weave around his neck, her head lolls back between her shoulder blades, her legs grow unsteady. Eyes close, fingers tangle in his hair and claw at his skin.

One large hand travels to the front, works the zipper of her jeans, and shimmies the denim fabric down two smooth thighs. His other arm snakes around her waist, holds her tight, and pulls her closer until she straddles his lap and lets their hips fuse into one.

Their eyes find each other. Gently, he brushes her hair out her face, tucks it behind her ears, strokes her flushed cheeks. She’s breathless and breathtaking, and then she dips her head and catches his lips, kissing him until he is, too.

“Wait, wait, wait…” He draws back in a drunk state of mind and gasps for air, hoping oxygen will help in clearing his head.

“What?” She pouts, her voice velvety soft and delirious.

“I just-… I have to ask you something first, make sure…” The air works wonders, the fog dissipates from his mind. Green eyes watch her closely. There’s something off, something wrong, something out of place. Y/N wouldn’t just stroll into his office and throw herself at him. As much as he enjoys this little dream sequence, it’s not who she is. “Why are you doing this? You’re not-, uhm…” He swallows harshly, his mind racing in circles. “You’re not fucking me, so I’ll stop being mad at you, right? ‘Cause that’s not what I want.”

God, the thought alone kills him. It’s his goddamn nightmare. What if he subconsciously manipulated her to do this? What if he’s taking advantage of her? What if he drove her so desperate that she sees this as her only option? What if she actually doesn’t want this?

But a gentle smile forms on her face instead. She pecks his lips, rests her forehead against his, and softly shakes her head. There’s amusement in her voice. “You already said you weren’t mad at me, remember?”

“Then why?”

Y/N shrugs and licks her ample lips. “I want to. I want you… You’re the best guy I know. I can’t think of anyone I’d want this with more,” she assures him with a sweet smile and caresses the scruff on his cheeks, her hips grinding against his crotch. “It’s just-…” She bites down on her lower lip, cutting off her sentence.

“What? Tell me, sweetheart.” He clutches her chin and draws her gaze to meet his eyes.

“Even with the show being over, I don’t want the girls to find out,” she confesses nervously.

Dean nods in understanding and gifts her a smile. “Lucky for you, I’m good at keeping secrets. Have I ever let you down in that regard?”

She thinks for a beat, then shakes her head and matches his smile. “No.”

“See?” He grins, showing his pearly white teeth, and pulls her lips back to his for a searing kiss that seals their deal.

His hands begin to roam the curves they’re holding, her hips rocking against his in a needy rhythm, desperately searching for more friction to scratch the unbearable itch he seems to cause.

“Need you so bad, need this cock so bad…” she whispers between kisses and ragged breaths.

“Yeah? You think you can get off like that?” Dean lifts his thigh a little higher, shoves it right against her clothed cunt to give her a bit more friction, and listens to her whimpers in satisfaction. “Show me how much you want this… want me, baby girl. Wanna know how desperate you are for this cock, Y/N. Work for it.” His challenge is accompanied by a little smirk, which soon disappears and becomes stuck in his throat when Y/N accepts with eager nods.

Shit, he really needs to stop underestimating her. That’s already been his first mistake when he met her.

Her arms lock tighter around his neck for more balance as she rubs her pussy against the rough denim that covers his thick thigh. Her breathing grows so labored that kissing becomes an impossibility, the need for air in her lungs greater than the need to stay connected. The strong arm slung around her waist helps her move while his other hand tweaks, pinches, and gropes her tit, prying the gray cotton of her leotard over one shoulder to free the flesh and expose her nipple to the cool office air and his hot breath. He feels a wet patch forming on his leg, sees the stain on his jeans from her arousal as he peeks down between them.

“Dean, I’m–…”

Y/N doesn’t have to say it out loud. He can see it on her face that she’s damn close. “Such a good girl. Cum for me, huh? Let me finally fill and stretch this nice pussy with my cock, baby. Been waiting for you,” he coos. “Bet you’re so tight, yeah? How long’s it been?” His tongue licks the hardened bud before he pops her tit in his mouth and sucks, bites, tears.

“Fuck!”

She explodes, his name falling from her lips in prayer as she trembles and quivers in his arms. Her mouth parts, sucks in as much air as she can to fuel her lungs. Her arms cling to him, fingers denting the skin on his broad shoulders.

“That’s my girl,” Dean praises her, smiling as he lets her ride out her orgasm. “So, so pretty when you come. I missed that face.”

“Dean, please… Need you inside me now,” she purrs against his lips, swallowing his groans as they connect.

“Yeah? You sure?”

“Uh-huh, please,” she begs breathily. “How d’you want me, boss?”

“What do you want, Y/N?” Hearing what a woman wants him to do to her or what she wants to do to him has always been one of the biggest turn-ons for him. “Tell me.”

“Want you to bend me over your desk, take me hard, punish me… Been a bad girl. Need you to punish me, please,” she whimpers and hungrily claims his lips, her nails digging into his jaw.

Now, Dean should probably be worried or at least stumped by her somewhat strange request. Not because it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard a woman ask for in the bedroom, but because it’s not necessarily something Y/N would say. However, she’s also an actress, and he’s about 99.9% sure she’s playing a role and following a script in her head. And well, hey, he likes playing too, so who would he be to deny her wishes? He’s been dreaming about spanking her ass and punishing his favorite Russian villain for weeks at this point.

“I think we can arrange that, baby girl,” he promises, a saucy smirk plastered on his lips. “But first – need to see your face when I break you in, yeah?”

Y/N grins and nods against his lips, her hand reaching down between their heated bodies and unbuckling his belt, pulling it from its loops, metal clinking before the sound of a zipper follows. Lifting her ass from his lap, he helps her strive off the denim, pushing it down his legs till it pools by his ankles, only leaving a thin barrier of cotton between them.

“Condom?”

Dean nods and motions for her to stand up, so he can reach into the bottom drawer of his desk. As he fishes out a foil packet, Y/N discards her leotard, nothing but naked skin and flesh left for his eyes to devour. Removing his own pair of boxers, his long cock bounces against his stomach and stretches to his belly button, fully erect, head swollen, and leaking at the tip. He tears the foil with his teeth and rolls the latex down his aching length before his hands drag her back into his lap.

Her arms settle on his muscular shoulders, her lips find and bruise his as he lines himself up with her entrance and threads his dickhead through her dripping folds. Her cunt is pink and glistening, hot and wet as he slowly slides inside, lets her feel every inch that fills her tight hole to the brim, her small body sinking down on him till they’re inseparable.

A moan escapes them both when he’s fully sheathed in her heat, and Dean knows lasting long would border on a miracle. Her mouth falls open as he stretches her tight walls, her eyes seeking his and not daring to look anywhere else. Unsurprisingly, Y/N takes direction well. She remains connected to him – mind, body, and soul.

“Fuck, Dean,” she breathes and swallows at the sheer thickness inside of her, her eyes finally falling closed as their foreheads meet.

Dean caresses her cheek and softly pecks her hairline. He then shuts his eyes as well and just focuses on the feeling of her wrapped around him for a blissful heartbeat. This is all he ever wanted.

Her. Here.

“You good?” he checks, his fingers trailing soothingly up and down her spine as she relaxes her muscles and adjusts to his size.

A gentle smile twitches and tugs on her lips. “Yeah, I’m great… You feel great.”

“You know, if you keep giving me compliments like that, it’s gonna be hard for me to smack your perky ass purple and blue,” he chuckles and watches a grin form.

“I like to make things hard for you,” she sasses and kisses his lips, her pussy purposely gripping his throbbing dick.

“There’s my bad girl.” Dean can’t fight the smile on his face. “Alright, you ready?”

Dean doesn’t have to wait for an answer as her hips begin to lift and rock against him, calming like the Pacific waves and soothing like the lullabies his mother used to sing when he was sick as a child.

“M-more,” Y/N whines, the needy desperation haunting her vocal chords.

“Beg for it,” Dean whispers, nuzzling his nose against her ear with a smirk.

“Please… Please fuck me, boss,” she rasps her pleas. “Need it hard and fast.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.” Dean catches her lips, the kiss scorching and lasting before his hands smooth up her bare thighs and grab her ass tight, lifting them both from the chair.

Swiftly, her soles hit the ground as he swirls her in his hold and bends her over his desk. Her tits press flush against the wood, his palms finding her hips as he pulls her closer to him, ass up until it brushes against his solid length. With his knees, he spreads her legs wide and easily slots between them. He palms both asscheeks, caresses the skin before he administers his first slap, the sound echoing through his quiet office with her whimper as he watches the juicy flesh ricochet, completely entranced.

“You got a safe word, Y/N?” Dean asks as he soothes the red spot on her cheek.

“Hmmm,” she muses and bites her lower lip, and he can see the mischief twinkling in her orbs. She giggles, “What about ‘camera guy’?”

His palm strikes the other globe, making her yelp and jolt on the spot.

“Ow, fuck!” Y/N’s moan drowns in a laugh. “Jesus, Dean, I was just kidding.”

The director chuckles, “Yeah, well, I wasn’t.” With one harsh and fast thrust, he drives his cock back into her tight cunt, causing her to slam forward, her hips bruising against the desk. Her fingers curl tightly around the edge, knuckles white as she keeps herself pinned in place. He leans forward, his chest pressing against her back as his warm breath fans against the shell of her ear, his blunt fingernails denting the skin on her hips. Smirking, he demands, “Safe word. Now.”

“Fuck, uhm…” Breathlessly, her mind spirals, his cock slowly dragging in and out of her and not stopping to give her even a second to ponder. “Squirrel?”

“Squirrel it is,” he agrees amusedly, straightening as he picks up his pace and drives in deeper, watching as his dick gets swallowed by her soaking cunt, his swollen shaft glistening with her slick. “Shit, baby girl… Wish you could see how well you take me. Your needy little pussy sucks my fat cock right in,” he groans, listening in delight as his balls slap against her ass with each roll of his hips.

“Maybe you can bring your camera next time, boss,” Y/N mewls her suggestion as she falls apart underneath him.

“Yeah? Would you like that, huh? Would you like to see how fucking desperate you are for me, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh, would love that, boss. Wanna see how you fuck me and split me open,” she breathes hazily, her moans getting louder with each slam of his hips. “F-fuck, so close… Wanna come on your cock, please.”

“Oh, we can arrange that, sweetheart,” Dean chuckles, his breathing growing more labored as well as sweat starts to collect on his skin in sticky beads. He’s close, too, feels his cock throb and swell inside of her. His palm smacks her asscheek one last time. She cries out with pleasure as the sting burns her skin, her pussy clenching around his dick and gripping it tight.

But just as his hand sneaks to her front and finds the sensitive little nub, their ears both perk up as the big metal door of the gym flies open and a wave of female chatter floods inside.

“Oh, shit!” Y/N moans loudly at his last violent pound into her pussy before Dean’s palm covers her mouth and stops the rest from spilling out.

Pulling her up, her back straightens and presses flush against his body. He slows his thrusts but still pushes in deep enough to tickle her cervix and keeps the little circles on her clit alive, feeling her knees give in as her legs become putty. Her breathing is harsh and restricted against his palm, her lips straining and tightening to keep the screams inside.

“Ssh, ssh, ssh… you’re doing so, so good, baby,” Dean whispers his praises into her ear and chuckles as she clenches hard around his dick. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Trust me, they won’t hear us over their blabbering,” he chuckles. “Relax, okay? Let loose… little more,” he orders her, feeling the tension in her muscles shift to her head as she bites down on his fingers to keep it locked inside. “There you go… Gonna need you to come quietly, and I’ll be right behind you, alright? Can you do that?” Y/N nods against his hand. “Good girl,” he coos and pecks her temple quickly.

And then, he draws out till only the tip remains inside her drenched channel before he roughly slams back in. His thrusts become relentless in both speed and force as he fucks her, her screams of pleasure only muffled by his palm and the harsh bite of her lip. Tears sting her eyes and stream down her cheeks, trickling onto his fingers at the intense pressure as her walls tighten. One more thrust, and they begin to flutter, her body convulsing as she falls over the cliff and milks his cock for all he’s got, pulling him over the edge with her.

A primal grunt rumbles in his chest and crawls out of his throat, his fingers leaving bruises on her hips behind as he spills hot ropes of his seed into the condom, his cock throbbing in rhythm with her twitching cunt. His hand falls from her mouth as she braces her palms on the wooden surface in front of her.

Deliriously, they both gasp for air, every breath jagged before the storm within them calms. Dean brushes her hair from her sweat-covered neck and lovingly kisses the salty skin on her shoulder blade, a blissful smile gracing his lips.

The sun blinds her eyes as Y/N stands on the green, perfectly cut lawn of the Dusty Spur. The boys have called an emergency meeting at the motel this time, gathering all the women in front of the reception outside.

It’s been three days since she has fucked the director in his office. He was careful not to leave any marks on her throat behind or anywhere else where it might catch unwanted attention, no one batting eyelashes at the new bruises on her hips that joined some of the old ones from training.

Dean told her he wanted a repeat of their encounter, whispering the dirtiest and most sinful promises into her ear. However, they haven’t seen much of each other since then. Both of them have been quite busy after the news of their new time slot and impending cancelation broke. And while it certainly dampened the lighthearted mood in the gym for a day, hope was not entirely lost, though, and still thrived in everyone but Y/N and Jo.

Yet, the two of them played along with the illusion the show still could be saved for the sake of the team. She didn’t know why Jo was entertaining the farce, but Y/N did it for her friends and, well, Dean, who’d been pondering and working nonstop to try and figure out what went wrong in his well-oiled machinery.

Y/N hates that he blames himself, not having the guts to tell him it’s in reality all her fault. Even with his sunglasses on his freckle-dusted nose, she can see the bags under his green eyes from the lack of sleep in recent days and feels more guilt pooling in the pits of her stomach. She doesn’t want him to be mad at her again, which is why she’s glad she can use Billie’s new, harsh training regiment as a good excuse to avoid him.

“They gave a men’s wrestling show our slot! And you wanna know why, hm?” Cas throws his rhetorical question into the group. Y/N has never seen the producer so angry and swallows more shame down. “Truth is, they’re better! They fly higher and hit harder!

“They hit harder because they’re bigger. It’s physics,” Y/N points out and tries to keep her annoyance at bay. It’s a men’s world they’re living in, and she’s getting sick and tired of the comparisons.

“Oh, fuck physics, Y/N!” Cas yells, causing her to flinch at his tone. “I need you to take everything you got and push it all the way to the limit, okay?”

“I don’t know what else we can do. We’ve been training for hours almost every day. Sun up till sun down,” Donna says and sighs.

Maybe it’s not too late, and Y/N should request a private meeting with Dick at the network, try and smooth things over before they get any worse. Maybe a blowjob in the office is enough to get them their old slot back and save the show. Dean wouldn’t ever have to know, right?

Besides, would he even care? Maybe he’d be grateful. After all, she doesn’t have much worth beyond fucking someone if you asked anyone here.

“I don’t need to hear excuses. I need to hear results,” Cas huffs and places his hands on his squared-off hips, shaking his head.

“You want bigger moves? Fine, you’ll get ‘em,” Billie assures him with a biting fighter spirit.

Cas’ lips curve into an enthusiastic smile. “That’s what I wanna hear! Look, I know this is gonna be hard, but I believe in miracles, and we’re going to make this miracle happen!”

Jo heaves a sigh. “Right, so we break our bodies and wrestle harder and magically get our time slot back?” she asks wryly, but her sarcasm is sadly lost on Cas.

“Yes!” the producer agrees joyously. “Look, I have it from Richard Roman himself that this is what they’ve been missing.”

At that, Jo’s blaming eyes wander to Y/N as the two former friends share a look. Shamefully, Y/N averts her gaze to the green grass underneath her feet, and Jo clenches her jaw tightly and starts to grind her teeth. Ever since their heated conversation in the gym, things have went downhill between them. Nowadays, there are just judgmental looks and passive-aggressive comments passed between them.

“So you met with Richard Roman?” Jo turns her unresolved anger towards the guys.

Cas groans loudly and rolls his blue eyes back. “Jo, I’m sorry, okay? It was a guy thing. We had to storm the gates,” he explains.

“Yeah, don’t get back up on your feminist high horse, alright? We didn’t leave you out, okay?” Dean jumps to Cas’ defense and unsuccessfully smooths things over. “We just think your focus should be on performing this week, you know? You and Y/N have a big match coming up. The, uh, continuing tale of the bereaved mother and the insane Russian, right?”

Jo nods and clenches her jaw once more, biting back her surely fiery comments.

“Okay, enough talking! Let’s do it!” Cas announces eagerly and claps his palms together as the women scatter back to their rooms to get ready for today’s training.

“What time do you wanna rehearse today?” Y/N bitterly asks her blonde opponent, already expecting a bitchy answer.

“Oh, any time, really. I mean, we could rehearse all day and night. It won’t make a difference,” Jo replies in an annoyed tone as anticipated. “You of all people should know that.”

Y/N watches Jo leave, trying her hardest not to strangle her former friend. She gets it. She fucked up, but she still doesn’t agree with Jo. Would sleeping with Roman and sacrificing her dignity really have saved the show?

“Hey, everything alright?” Dean’s deep voice startles her. She was so preoccupied with killing Jo in her mind, she hasn’t even noticed the director sneak up on her. “I know Cas was a little intense today. Never seen the guy this riled up before. It’s like a puppy getting rabies.”

Y/N forces a chuckle from her throat and brushes him off. “Oh, uhm, yeah, wasn’t so bad. I get it.”

Dean’s brow creases, sensing something is off with her. Shit. She does not want the director to find out about what happened.

“You’re not mad at me, right? I know I’ve been a bit MIA the last few days. It’s just been crazy with everything going on,” he explains sincerely and shoots her a soft smile. “I meant to call you or at least talk to you. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah, no, like I said, I get it, Dean. Don’t worry about me, okay?” she assures him and compels another smile to her face before her curiosity takes over. “Did Roman really say our moves weren’t good enough?”

Her hope comes flooding back. Maybe it truly wasn’t her fault. Maybe the guy hits on so many actresses on a weekly basis that he doesn’t even care if one rejects him. Maybe it’s just all in her goddamn head, and it was just bad luck all around.

Dean shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, he didn’t say it exactly like that, but you girls are amazing. He’s gonna change his mind, and you’ll be back in your old slot in no time,” he promises her hopefully.

“Yeah, I guess so…” Fuck. It’s definitely about her.

“You sure you’re okay?” Dean checks again, noticing her absentminded behavior. Y/N’s usually chipper, eager, talkative, and hard to keep contained. She’s a warrior. The woman in front of him right now is the complete opposite, however. He almost doesn’t recognize her, and it worries him a little.

Is it him? Did he break her?

“Uh-huh, yeah, just tired, you know? Billie’s been riding us pretty hard this week,” Y/N excuses her strange mood with a half-truth, and Dean seems to buy it.

“Yeah, I bet.” He nods understandingly, chuckling. “Well, uhm, I’ve got some free time tonight. You wanna come over for dinner and I don’t know maybe… stay? You could ride me pretty hard, too,” he suggests, making her snort. “Admittedly, that sounded better in my head. Sorry.”

“No, uhm, I’d love to,” she replies honestly, giggling at his bashfulness. “But I’m pretty beat. Probably gonna fall into bed around seven like a dead person. Raincheck?”

Truthfully, there’s nothing she’d rather do than spend her nights (and days) with Dean, but the guilt in her belly is eating her alive. She can barely look him in the eyes. As of right now, though, she can see even more disappointment shimmering in his green orbs.

“Sure, yeah. Open invitation, sweetheart,” he says and acts as if her rejection doesn’t bother him. “But still, if all you wanna do is sleep, then you’re welcome to do that at my place as well. I do have the better mattress than the motel. Maybe a good night’s rest and a hot bath is all you need to recover, you know?”

Hot bath. The words make her skin crawl and take her right back to that horrible night where it all went wrong. How could she have been so stupid?

Y/N swallows the lump in her throat and fights for words. “Oh, uhm… I don’t, uh…”

“Hey, it’s okay, alright? No explanation needed, sweetheart,” Dean says and lets her off the hook. “Just wanted to offer, you know?”

“Thanks, another time.” Y/N forces one last smile to her lips.

Dean hasn’t seen Y/N in a whole week. Well, that’s not entirely true. He sees her every day at training in the gym, rolling around with Jo in the ring. But he hasn’t seen her privately since their little naughty stint in his office.

By now, he’s sure she’s avoiding him for some reason, but he doesn’t have the guts nor the balls to ask her straight. He’s too afraid of her answer, scared she has changed her mind about them and their arrangement. He’d accept it, of course, but he still doesn’t want to find out if that’s the reason why she keeps her distance. It would most certainly break his heart.

A knock on his office door makes his head snap up with hope that it’s Y/N. Either she’s here for another booty call or to end it. He’s prepared for both. To his surprise, though, it’s Donna who’s stopping by for a visit.

“Dean? Can we talk?” the curvy blonde asks insecurely, concern etched into every crease of her face.

“Sure, uh, what’s up?” Dean knows Donna and Billie have given their all to train the girls over the last few weeks, and if production could afford it, he’d give them both a gigantic raise. Unfortunately, he can’t but hopes it’s the thought that still counts.

“It’s about Y/N and Jo,” she informs him, and his ears perk up at that.

He’s noticed some tension between those two as well, so he’s not as surprised as he should have been. But honestly, sometimes it’s hard to tell what those two are fighting about. If it’s something new or just the same old beef.

“Usually, they do a good job of keeping their weird friendship stuff out of the ring, but not in the last week. There’s something wrong with them,” Donna tells him.

No shit, Dean thinks. Those two having issues is not an entirely new thing.

“What d’you want me to do about it?” Dean asks. He knows Donna didn’t just stroll into his office to chat and gossip. She’s looking for direction. Like the rest of these women downstairs, the blonde expects him to solve their problems. In the end, that’s his job.

“Postpone the match,” Donna prompts, the worry deepening. “I don’t think they should fight. They’re not communicating properly. Someone’s gonna get hurt.”

Dean tries not laugh, but in reality, it’s just fucking funny. Do these women ever think things through? Y/N and Jo’s match is the main storyline, the two of them being the best fighters as well. If they’re not entering the ring, he might as well just throw in the towel now and quit. The show would never make it back on air.

“Donna, I can’t do that,” he tells her frustratedly and runs a palm over his face. “C’mon, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like they’re gonna kill each other.”

“Dean–” Donna is about to interject when he stops her.

“Fine, all right? I’ll talk to her,” the director assures the blonde.

Donna’s brow shoots up. “Her?”

“Them. I’ll talk to them,” Dean corrects quickly and watches her leave his office, clearly dissatisfied with his solution.

Dean hates West Hollywood like a mouse hates a cat. He can’t believe he fucking agreed to this thing in the first place. And the only reason he did agree was his stupid daughter, who’s not even here tonight because she’d rather spend time with her boyfriend than with her dad.

Fucking teenagers…

Honestly, Dean’s got no clue why he still came here without Claire. Maybe because he’s old-school and actually keeps his commitments, or maybe it’s because he’s got nothing better to do since neither his kid nor his not-girlfriend want to spend time with him. So, it was either getting drunk at home alone like he always does or do this.

As Dean enters the dark theater, he notices not a lot of seats are taken. Surprise, surprise! No one cares about him or his movies…

There’s a group of teenagers in the front row, though, who seem to be way to young to watch one of his films. But who is he to judge? He’s not their fucking parent. God knows he’s got his hands full with one teenager already.

He’s about to take a seat somewhere in the back when his green eyes spy a familiar head of hair. His heart skips a beat when he recognizes his favorite actress. Out of all the places in all the world, he’d never thought he’d meet her here.

“Hey,” he says as soon as he’s made it to her row. Her head darts up, but she doesn’t seem too surprised to see him here, which makes this coincidence even weirder. He assumed she strolled by this theater by accident and saw one of his movies was showing, deciding to check it out, which just so happens to flatter him and stroke his ego perfectly fine. “What are you doing here?”

Dammit. That sounded way too aggressive. He’s honestly happy she’s here; he just hasn’t expected it. Call it a ‘pleasant surprise.’

“Oh, uh, Claire invited me,” Y/N explains and gulps nervously. “But I can leave if you don’t want me here.”

Damn that kid. Of course, she meddled in his affair. Does she know he likes Y/N? Is it that obvious? Well, either way, someone’s getting a bigger allowance this week. Doesn’t he have the best kid?

“No, uh, stay. Please,” he says and sends Y/N his best smile. “Can I sit with you?”

Her face lights up. “Sure.”

Dean sits down on a red velvet seat next to her and feels like a goddamn teenager on a first date. His knees are shaking as he anxiously taps his boots on the sticky movie floor and drums his palms repeatedly on his thighs. Something inside of him urges him to hold her hand and interlace their fingers, or do one of those moves where he yawns and slings his arm around her shoulders.

In fact, he can barely concentrate on the movie until he takes her hand in his. But who cares? He wrote and directed this masterpiece, so it’s not like he’s missing out on anything important. He already knows the plot and every single shot.

Once their fingers touch, his heartbeat accelerates to light speed. She shoots him a look and raises her brow with a teasing smirk. He can catch it from his periphery but doesn’t dare to look straight at her. Instead, he awkwardly clears his throat and glues his green eyes stubbornly to the silver screen, pretending it’s not a big deal.

When did holding hands become such a fucking thrill? He’s not goddamn sixteen anymore, for crying out loud.

Y/N takes note of his uncomfortableness and focuses back on the movie but still gives his hand a small squeeze, telling him everything is all right. They remain exactly like this till the end credits roll across the screen.

And then, to his greatest surprise, there are cheers and claps from everyone in the theater. Y/N lets go of his hand to clap as well and bites her lip to hide a smile once she sees him blush furiously at the attention and admiration.

The group of teenagers then approaches him and stops by his row as a young, scrawny boy speaks up, “You’re a genius, Mr. Winchester.”

Mister?! How old do they think he is? Well, granted, he probably shot that movie before those kids were even born. Talk about feeling old.

“Your disorientation factor is truly masterful,” the boy continues. “Claire told us we’d love it.”

His brow shoots up in surprise. “Claire? How do you know my kid?”

“Oh, we’re all in AV club together,” the boy replies and gestures to his peers before they filter out of the theater.

“Huh.” Dean is gobsmacked, truly. For one, he didn’t even know Claire was in AV club. And secondly, he’s goddamn proud of her. Who knew the kid would take after her old man?

“See?” Y/N pokes his arm with her elbow, a big grin adorning her face. “You have a whole fan club of teenagers who adore your movie that they are, for sure, too young to see.”

Dean chuckles softly and wishes he could hide his reddening cheeks from her.

“I liked your movie, too,” she says then and watches his reaction closely.

“Oh, c’mon,” Dean tries to brush her off. She’s probably just saying it to appeal to his ego. He knows she’s not the biggest fan of his work. “Really?”

“Yeah!” Y/N says enthusiastically. “Those kids were right. It was disorienting. You were doing your own thing.” But then she catches her mistake and corrects herself, “Are. Sorry! You still are doing–”

Dean, however, shakes his head at her correction. “Nope, you’re right,” he admits and scoffs. “That was me twenty years ago. My hands all over everything like the biggest control freak, driving everybody nuts. I mean, my operator actually became so frustrated with me that he quit the first day and threw his camera at me. I had to shoot the rest of it myself.”

“You shot that?” Y/N’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Wow.”

“Yeah, I did.” Dean sighs and pensively scratches his beard. Something’s been bothering him for a while now, and talking to Y/N usually helps him sort through his jumbled thoughts. After all, she’s his Alma. “You know, I’m accustomed to a certain level of failure. When a project usually goes wrong, I know exactly what happened. It’s just-… with our show… I have no idea what went wrong there. I don’t know why they shit-canned us. Not a fucking clue. None. It’s driving me insane.”

Y/N grows quiet next to him and fumbles with her fingers. She swallows deeply before she opens her mouth. “I have an idea. I know why,” she confesses.

The director’s brow furrows. As he looks at her, he recognizes her nervousness. It causes him to worry. “What d’you mean?”

“Richard Roman, the head of the network? He-, uhm, he invited me to dinner… at his hotel room,” Y/N begins, the uncomfortableness growing inside of her and expanding in her chest.

Dean, on the other hand, stays perfectly still and quiet. The calm before the storm, so to speak. Because as soon as she said those words, he could feel his heart stop and drop several feet into the depths of hell. There, he’s sure he’ll find some kind of weapon he can use to kill that motherfucker before he comes back topside. The director knows how that story ends before she has even finished it, and it makes him want to puke his guts out and burn this godforsaken city down.

“He came on to me. As in… he wanted to have sex with me,” Y/N continues and clarifies in case he didn’t catch on. She’s not entirely sure the director is getting the message since he hasn’t said a word yet. “But I left before anything could happen. Ran away, actually. Bolted right outta there.” Her little chuckle at the end is a futile attempt to lighten the mood.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Dean’s furious, his nostrils flaring. He wants to punch and kill someone, but most of all Dickhead Roman himself.

“No, I’m not,” Y/N replies meekly. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Bewildered, he frowns. “Mad?” That’s when he notices that she suddenly seems scared. Is she frightened… of him?!

“Maybe I can still fix it. Just call him and ask him if I can come by his office,” Y/N suggests, her voice laced with desperation. But not the good kind that usually turns him on. This time it’s just plain sad.

“To do what exactly?” Dean prompts grimly, already knowing her intentions. Over his dead body is she doing that!

“Well–”

“Fuck no!” Dean doesn’t even allow her to finish her sentence. In fact, he doesn’t want to hear it at all, or he might have to scratch his ears out afterward. God, he doesn’t even want to think about it. “You’re not fucking doing anything, alright?”

“But–”

“That stupid fucking son of a bitch,” Dean huffs and shakes his head. “What a goddamn prick!”

“So you’re not mad?” Y/N checks insecurely.

For a moment, Dean stops his rage to look at her, his heart almost breaking as he does. She deserves so much better in this life than all the shit she’s getting. How the fuck is any of this fair?

“At Dick cocksucking Roman, yeah. But not at you. Never at you, okay?” he emphasizes and sees her nod in relief. His heart shatters anew. How could she even think for a second he’d hold some sleazebag’s actions against her? But then his suspicions grow as he puzzles the pieces together. “When the fuck did this happen?”

“Uh, a little over a week ago,” Y/N answers quietly. “The night before they moved us to the nighttime slot.”

“That’s when you came to my office, and we–” Dean doesn’t finish his train of thought and cards a hand through his messy hair. Now, it makes sense. Her strange behavior, the inexplicable need for punishment, and everything in between.

‘You’re the best guy I know,’ he remembers her words. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d want this with more.’

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Was that why you were avoiding me?”

A part of him feels unbelievably relieved. It’s not him but literally someone else’s fault. For once, he’s done nothing wrong. For once, he hasn’t ruined everything. But another part of him, the bigger one, just wants to rip Dickbag Roman’s throat out with his goddamn teeth. What a pathetic fucking loser…

Dean wishes he could beat the guy black and blue and leave him bleeding on the highway till a truck runs over him. He wishes he could cut off that guy’s dick and put it through a meat grinder. His mind can’t stop imagining the most gruesome ways to make that asshat suffer and die. In fact, he wishes Manson was still roaming Spawn Ranch and would send his Family over to that Roman’s mansion and leave Sharon Tate the fuck alone.

“I’m sorry. I guess I was scared you’d react like Jo.” Y/N gulps and averts her eyes to her trembling hands in her lap.

His brow knits, Donna’s warning words echoing through his mind. “Jo knows? What did she say?” But before Y/N can answer him, the director stops her again. “No, wait… I can take a fucking guess,” he mutters bitterly. The blonde bimbo probably told her to blow the guy in his goddamn office. Typical…

“Well, she’s not entirely wrong, you know,” Y/N mumbles and bites down on her lip without looking at him.

“What d’you mean?”

“All I’m good for is a fuck,” she says with a wry smile and wipes away a small tear. Dean’s heart twinges and hurts for her, but that pain is nothing compared to the cool blade of a knife he feels soon instead. “I mean, you of all people know that…”

Dean’s quiet for a moment and bites his nails as he ponders. His mind is a maze, and he knows he has to pick and choose his words carefully in order to get out of it.

“No, I actually don’t know that,” he states and catches her attention.

He tries his best not to sound angry or offended, even though he is a little. Hasn’t he been building her confidence for weeks now? Hasn’t he been instilling in her that she’s his favorite – and not just among the cast but on this planet in general? He figured she knew how much she truly means to him, but maybe he hasn’t been clear enough yet. He knows Y/N’s self-worth issues could fill every damn swimming pool in California, so maybe he shouldn’t expect a miracle so soon.

Mostly, he’s angry at Dicksuck Roman and Barbie for ruining all his hard work with one asshole move and a few bitchy words.

Dean wets his lips and lets out a sharp exhale through his nose before he looks at her. “Y/N, you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met in my entire life. You’re never just a quickie in the office to me. Do you understand that?”

She nods in slow reluctance. “I think so.”

“Good,” he says sternly. “Now believe it ‘cause it’s true.”

The green-eyed director cups her cheeks and pulls her to his lips, tongue meeting tongue in a searing kiss. The old seats creak when their weight shifts, Y/N leaning into his touch as she wrings for oxygen with heavy breaths. And where words fail, he tries his best to show her how he feels through his actions.

“Sorry,” Dean apologizes cheekily once he lets her get some air. “Couldn’t hold myself back any longer. That’s okay, right? We’re still on?”

Suddenly, it dawns on him that she might’ve still changed her mind about him. Has he just sexually harassed a woman right after she told him how she’s been sexually harassed by a superior? Jesus fucking Christ, he’s goddamn tone deaf, isn’t he?

To his luck, though, Y/N finds his stupidity amusing and giggles, placing another sweet kiss on his plump lips as she shakes her head. “We’re still on, boss,” she assures him and hears him heave a big sigh of relief.

“Awesome.” He grins from ear to ear and brushes a strand of rogue hair out of her face. “Are you and Jo okay? ‘Cause if you’re not, you gotta tell me. You wanna postpone the match?”

Now that Dean knows there’s no chance in hell the network’s going to let the show survive, he doesn’t even give a shit if the girls resort to doing the chicken dance in the ring or taking a dump on stage. No one truly gives a fuck anymore, least of all him. He never has.

The only thing he cares about is sitting right next to him.

Y/N, however, vehemently shakes her head. “No, we’re fine. I wanna fight. ‘Sides, I’m supposed to win this match, and I can’t wait to kick Jo’s bitchy ass.” She grins broadly.

“That’s my bad girl.” Dean smirks and pecks her lips. “You’re gonna stay over at my place tonight? Play a little Cold War in my bedroom?”

“Only if I can do my accent,” Y/N says, beaming.

The director playfully rolls his green eyes, even though he’s direly been waiting for that sort of role play. “Oh, you’ve got yourself a deal, Natasha.”

22. Girls, Girls, Girls

Hope you enjoyed this one! We came back with a literal bang 😂 Next up we deal with more drama and a hospital stay 👀

Don't forget I re-did the tag lists after the break, so pick your new place (everything, specific character, or series) and put your username in there ❤️

TAGS:

Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey @deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies @agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28 @mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33

Old Series Tags (only for this part): @jessjad @mrsjenniferwinchester @smellingofpoetry @justrealizedimmascifygurl @leigh70 @4getfulimaginator2022 @yeahmynameiscool06 @luci-wiggles @darkened-writer @mimaria420 @samanddeansannoyingsis @sarasolros

#plastic hearts #dean winchester #director!dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x female reader #actress!reader #dean winchester au #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfic #director!dean winchester x actress!reader #glow au #supernatural au #supernatural fanfic #supernatural

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hamsterclaw · 2 years ago

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switch pt 2

Seokjin and you get into trouble, and Yoongi gets mad.

A Vows story - read the rest here.

Pairing: Yoongi x f! reader, Seokjin x f!reader

Word count: 2.6k

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Sex, swearing, smoking, Seokjin or… sex with a swearing, smoking Seokjin?

Your husband is not the type of man to raise his voice, and he would never raise his hand against you.

You know this, but somehow Seokjin doesn’t, despite the fact that he’s known Yoongi longer than you have.

Seokjin pushes you behind his back as Yoongi stares at you with fury in his eyes.

You protest, try to push in front of him, but he grasps your arm to keep you behind him.

Yoongi stops dead, blinks. His lips curl back from his perfectly straight teeth in a snarl that makes you both terrified and awed.

Your husband is beautiful when he’s angry.

Yoongi reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Tips one out, hand cupping over the tip as he lights it.

The amber gleam of the ignited end flashes bright, fades out as he inhales.

You know Yoongi smokes occasionally, of course, and in all honesty you don’t mind the taste of him when he does.

After a moment, he offers a cigarette to Seokjin.

Seokjin accepts, touches his cigarette to Yoongi’s to light it.

Both men smoke in silence, and you realise, with a flash of clarity, that this is a well-practiced sequence of events for them.

You’d known that Seokjin and Yoongi had grown-up together, had gone to the same schools, graduated from the same college.

Had dated the same girls, sometimes.

‘Fucking idiot,’ Yoongi says.

Seokjin takes another drag, taps the ash onto the ground of the balcony you’re all on.

‘I’m sorry, Yoongi. If I’d thought there was any chance of her getting hurt there’s no way I’d have risked it.’

Are these assholes talking about you like you’re not even there?

Fuck them.

Hurt, you start walking away.

‘Get back here.’

Again, your husband hasn’t raised his voice, but the command in it makes you stop just the same.

You refuse to turn around.

There’s footsteps, a catlike tread on the plush carpet of the hotel suite.

An arm loops around your waist from behind, a face presses into your hair, breathing in deep.

You’d know Yoongi anywhere, and this isn’t him.

Which means —- it’s Seokjin who’s touching you like this.

You turn your head only to be met by Seokjin’s chest.

‘Yoongi,’ you call, uncertain.

‘It’s ok with me, jagiya,’ comes your husband’s voice from behind Seokjin. ‘If you want this.’

Seokjin cups your chin gently, tilting your face to his.

Your eyes meet, and the hunger in his eyes makes your heart pound.

He smiles at you.

‘Do you just like teasing me, brat? It’s ok if you just want to tease. We don’t have to do anything.’

You’re hesitant.

Seokjin strokes the underside of your jaw with his thumb, slow.

You press the flat of your hand against his chest, go up on tiptoe, and kiss him.

Seokjin breathes in, deep, and his hand lands over yours.

He kisses you back, and it’s thrilling.

He’s built differently from your husband. Taller. Cooler compared to Yoongi’s warmth.

You whimper as he bites your lower lip, sinks his teeth in, hard.

His hand, confident, assured, sinks onto the curve of your ass. He cups you, fingers tightening on your flesh, pulling your hips up against him.

You whimper is completely involuntary, slipping from your parted lips.

Seokjin grunts with satisfaction.

‘Don’t mark her, Seokjin,’ Yoongi says. There’s a warning in his voice.

You go up on tiptoe to look over Seokjin’s shoulder at Yoongi.

He’s still smoking, leaning against the balcony doors, outlined by the city nightscape.

He tilts his chin at you in that familiar way.

‘He’s not allowed to mark you, that’s only for me, isn’t it jagiya?’

The gravel in his voice makes your thighs squeeze together.

Seokjin’s got his mouth on the curve of your neck.

You and Yoongi lock eyes as Seokjin kisses along the line of your neck.

You turn your face into his, and he stops, leaning down so his forehead is against yours.

His whole body tenses as your hand slides over his side.

‘You can touch me,’ Seokjin tells you. His voice has dropped low, a rasp in it you haven’t heard before.

His lips brush the line of your jaw. ‘You can mark me.’

You reach up, place a hand on his chest, fingers poised over the top button of his shirt.

You look up at him inquiringly, and Seokjin looks amused.

‘Are you asking permission, brat?’

You scowl at him and his hand tightens on your jaw, fingers digging into your cheek.

He’s strong, using force to keep you from jerking your face away despite Yoongi’s warning not to mark you.

Your eyes meet.

Seokjin says, voice silken, ‘Say please.’

You grit your teeth and stare at him, stubborn.

Seokjin’s grip tightens on your face.

‘Say please,’ he says.

He’s hurting you, but you’re getting wet anyway, cunt tightening at the look in his eyes.

You clamp your lips shut.

Seokjin sighs. ‘I knew you’d be like this.’

He lets go of your face, and you hiss in pain.

He leans down and kisses along the marks he’s made on your skin.

��Seokjin,’ you murmur.

‘Yes, brat?’

His hand’s smoothing along the creases of your dress, drifting close to the curve of the underside of your breasts.

You can’t stifle the whimper you make when he brushes the tips of his fingers along your nipples.

Your thighs tremble as he cups your breast with one hand and your ass with the other.

‘You’re so soft,’ Seokjin murmurs into your ear.

He takes his time touching you, letting the strap of your dress fall down one arm so most of your right breast is exposed.

He says, ‘Take this off.’

You lift your arms and he slides the dress up over your head, drops it carelessly on the floor.

He studies your bare breasts and black panties for so long you can feel heat spreading from your cheeks to your chest.

‘Exquisite,’ he says, finally, and behind him, your husband speaks.

‘Jagiya,’ Yoongi says, low, slow, dangerous. ‘What did I say to you about lying to me?’

‘I wasn’t lying, Yoongi,’ you tell him, earnestly. ‘I just wanted to do something for you.’

Yoongi’s still angry, you can tell, but he sighs.

‘I didn’t know you and Lee Sangcheol were —‘ you grimace, and tread carefully, ‘unfriendly.’

Yoongi’s eyes go to Seokjin.

Seokjin says, exasperated, ‘you told me it was all water under the bridge, Yoongi.’

‘I didn’t say to bring my wife into it,’ Yoongi replies, terse. ‘You know better, hyung.’

He takes another drag of his cigarette.

Seokjin’s unbuttoning his shirt, untucking it from his trousers, draping the white cotton over your bare shoulders.

His scent surrounds you, fresh and crisp.

The sleeves fall past your hands.

‘You look so pretty in my shirt,’ Seokjin says, gentle. ‘Come sit in my lap.’

He pulls you onto the long sofa.

Your husband takes a seat in the armchair across the coffee table. In the dim light his face is shadowed, all you can really make out is the silhouette of his profile as he lights another cigarette.

Seokjin’s kissing you again, drugging and sweet, so distracting it takes you a moment to realise he’s got his fingers tucked into the band of your panties.

‘Lay down,’ he utters.

Seokjin helps you lay back, slips your panties over the curve of your ass, down your thighs, off your feet. He leans down, face between your legs, nose to your cunt, and inhales.

You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so horny.

Seokjin spreads you apart, laps at your slit, pressing his plush lips to your folds like he can’t get enough of you.

You can hear him swallowing, licking you deep for more, and you gasp his name. Your clit throbs, and when he seals his lips around it you nearly come off the couch.

‘Fuck,’ moans Seokjin. He lifts his head, his chin and lips gleaming with your arousal.

You’re arched back so far that your husband’s large hand fits around your neck perfectly.

‘Jagiya,’ he says. ‘Can you come for Seokjin hyung? I’m sure he wants to taste you.’

Yoongi’s lips meet yours as Seokjin goes back to fucking you with his tongue. There’s pressure on your clit, firm strokes with Seokjin’s thumb, and when Yoongi flicks your nipples you come with a cry into his mouth.

Seokjin groans as he licks you clean. His tongue laps at your clit gently, sending aftershocks of pleasure through you.

Yoongi presses a kiss to your forehead, strokes your hair back from your face as you catch your breath.

‘You are so fucking precious to me,’ he tells you. ‘Don’t put yourself in a situation like that again, my love.’

Seokjin’s hand, resting on your thigh, tightens briefly.

You glance down at him, and find you can’t tear your eyes away. He’s beautiful, face flushed, lips gleaming with your arousal.

His tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip.

‘Give me that cigarette.’

Yoongi scoffs, hands him his half-smoked cigarette.

Seokjin leans back on the couch, inhales deep.

‘Fuck. I never wanted to be you so badly, Yoongi.’

Yoongi takes a break from kissing up your neck.

‘You want to reciprocate, jagi?’ he asks, eyes on you. ‘You want to show Seokjin how good you look choking on his cock?’

You search Yoongi’s gaze.

Yoongi presses another kiss to you, warm, sweet. ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Show me, too.’

Yoongi’s hand clasps yours, tugs it behind your back as you scoot on your knees over to Seokjin.

He sighs out a breath, watches you intently, eyes hooded.

You tilt your chin at him.

‘You expect me to undress you too?’ you ask.

Seokjin laughs, takes another drag. ‘A brat always. At least you’re consistent.’

He unzips his trousers, shows you the length of his cock through his boxer briefs, tugs them down to show you his cock.

His hand curls around himself, and he angles his cock towards your parted lips.

‘Like what you see, brat? This is what I’m like when I’m hard. Like when I watched you and Yoongi fucking in the elevator of my building the other day.’

He tilts his head at you.

‘I came —-’ he pauses to stroke the head of his cock over your bottom lip.

‘So —’ he taps against your bottom lip, once.

‘Fucking —’

Your lips part further to let him in, and he groans. ‘--- hard.’

He’s thick, hard like velvet over stone, and the smirk on his lips makes you determined to take all of him.

You press your tongue firmly against him as you let him slide further into your mouth.

His head nudges the back of your throat, and tears fill your eyes as you will yourself not to gag.

You look up, and the smirk’s off his face now, his cigarette burnt to ash on the coffee table, forgotten.

He’s watching you, his own lips parted with anticipation as you lower yourself further onto his cock.

Your nose nudges the skin of his lower abs, and you swallow.

Seokjin utters a ‘fuck’, low, impassioned.

‘Fuck.’

Behind you, Yoongi’s got both your wrists pinned in his hand, another hand trailing idly along the backs of your thighs, under the curve of your ass.

‘Jagiya,’ Yoongi says, his voice a low rumble that makes wetness pool in your core. ‘Can I?’

You don’t know what he’s asking, lightheaded and hazy as you are trying to breathe around Seokjin’s cock.

You mumble a ‘mmph’, and Seokjin nudges your chin.

‘Your husband asked you a question, brat.’

You wriggle your wrist so you can grasp Yoongi’s hand, and pull slowly off Seokjin’s cock.

‘Anything, always, Yoongi,’ you say, turning to face him.

Yoongi grasps your face, his big hand gentle in contrast to Seokjin’s steeliness.

‘I’m yours,’ you tell him.

Yoongi kisses you, long and sweet.

He sighs. ‘What am I going to do with you, jagi?’

He turns you back to Seokjin, nudges his bare cock against your cunt.

He enters you, and you lose yourself in the pleasure of it.

Unbelievably, Yoongi’s still speaking, voice low and intense, punctuating every word with a thrust.

‘You can’t. Stop. Misbehaving.’

You would clamp your teeth into your bottom lip if you could, but you can’t, with the head of Seokjin’s cock nudging the back of your throat.

Yoongi’s large palm lands on your ass in a spank, and Seokjin groans as he’s nudged further down your throat.

Yoongi reaches around you to lazily circle your untouched clit with the pads of his fingers.

‘When are you going to learn, jagiya?’ he asks.

Seokjin reaches down, cups your breasts, thumbs flicking your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through you.

You press your tongue firmly, fully against Seokjin’s cock, and he swears. A moment later he’s spurting hot cum down your throat. He says your name once, then he’s quiet.

He’s still hard when you pull off, but he leans down to take your mouth, lips sealing against yours in a kiss.

‘Thank you, my love,’ he tells you.

You catch the way Yoongi and Seokjin exchange a look, then Seokjin’s walking away, off to the balcony.

Yoongi pulls out of you.

‘Let’s get into bed, jagi.’

Yoongi leans back on the bed, braced with his arms behind him.

His cock’s so hard you want it inside you.

Yoongi makes no move to touch you, even when you’re positioning yourself on his lap, lining him up.

He pockets his tongue in his cheek, dark eyes watching you intently as you sink onto his cock.

‘I’m sorry, Yoongi,’ you tell him, as you start to move.

Yoongi throws his head back. His hair, longer lately, almost touches the sheets.

‘I can’t be there to protect you all the time, jagiya.’

‘I don’t need you to protect me all the time.’

‘I know that,’ he says. His hand grips your hip, helping you move. ‘I want to.’

You lean close, and Yoongi’s teeth sink into your bottom lip.

‘You look pretty with cock in your mouth,’ Yoongi tells you. ‘Even when it’s not mine.’

‘I only want yours, Yoongi.’

Yoongi groans. ‘You have it.’

You’re grinding into his lap, clit to pelvis, pleasure unravelling you with every rock of your hips.

Yoongi’s fucking up into you now, hands on your hips to give himself leverage.

You cry out with every movement he makes, you’re so close, so close.

You come with a gasp, an intake of breath like you’re drowning.

Yoongi grunts, and you realise he’s coming.

Like Seokjin, he says your name, drawing out the syllables as he rides the wave of his pleasure.

Yoongi pulls you down against his chest, and, exhausted by the events of the night, you doze.

You wake to the rumble of Seokjin and your husband talking. You pull on a robe and go to look for them.

As you approach the balcony doors, you can hear Seokjin say, ‘I’m sorry, Yoongi-ah.’

Yoongi’s answer stops you in your tracks. ‘She is everything to me, Seokjin.’

You take another step, and Seokjin spots you.

He gets up. ‘I’m sorry about what happened, Y/N.’

You say, quietly, ‘I am as responsible for what happened as you are.’

Seokjin steps forward. ‘I’d still rather have been there than not.’

He stops in front of you. ‘Especially considering how this turned out.’

You can’t help returning his lazy grin.

Seokjin leans down to kiss you on the cheek.

‘Good night, brat.’

‘Good night, Seokjin.’

You wait until the suite door closes behind him, then you walk over to where your husband is sitting.

Like you, he’s in a robe.

Yoongi puts his hand on yours. ‘Are you feeling ok, jagiya?’

‘I miss you, Yoongi.’

Yoongi scoffs. ‘I’ll always be here.’

You search his face, but he’s not looking at you.

After a moment, he lifts his arm, and you snuggle into his side, resting your face against his shoulder and chest.

You watch the sunrise together.

#yoongi smut #seokjin smut #bts smut #yoongi x reader #seokjin x reader #bts fanfic

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cheemscakecat · 4 months ago

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How I would fix the Star Wars sequels. [Part 1]

I’m planning to read the old legends continuity books for the first time starting this year; so the following ideas are more based on the trilogies. But I have some idea of the sequence of events that happen in the legends continuity too, so there will be similarities.

Palpatine died in the Death Star, no cloning, no weird life support machine.

Based on the deaths of Obi Wan, Yoda, and Anakin, it looks like a requirement to become a Jedi force ghost is to accept your passing and let yourself fade in peace. But what about Sith ghosts?

Palpatine was a person who saw his carefully laid out plans come to fruition, reveling in the Empire he built for 20 years. When Luke Skywalker came to fight Vader, he still had a full proof plan. Luke would either succumb to the dark side and kill Vader, giving the Emperor a more promising prodigy, or he’d die and stop being a problem. Vader gave up all hope and was firmly under his boot for decades, he wasn’t supposed to be a risk.

But Anakin came to his senses and killed Palpatine, just when he was finally about to be rid of Skywalker. Inconceivable! Outrageous!

If a Jedi ghost is formed when one is at peace with their fate, a Sith ghost must be formed when one refuses to accept. Clinging to the mortal plane like a noxious vapor, seeking revenge or blood or power.

Palpatine died in that explosion. But his cursed soul remained, lurking around the galaxy plotting his revenge on Skywalker for thwarting him and undoing years of his work.

2. Kylo Ren needed a parent; but the adults in his life were too busy to be the parents he craved.

A rebellion’s work isn’t over just because the Emperor is dead. A power vacuum will form, people will argue over what new Government should replace the old, and how things should be run.

Kylo was force sensitive and a would be target of Han and Leah’s enemies. Sending him to the Jedi order to live with Luke seemed to be a wonderful idea at the time.

And to Luke’s credit, he was a wonderful uncle. But he was also the founding father of the new Jedi Order, someone with many responsibilities and people to look after. He loved his nephew, he did, but he couldn’t be the ideal father figure like Kylo so desperately wanted. His real parents couldn’t visit as much as they wanted.

Then the ghost of an old man arrived, A friendly old man who also knew about the force, but didn’t like uncle Luke very much. Kylo Ren was so happy to finally have a father figure all to himself, he never once questioned the old man’s intentions.

3. Palpatine’s ghost orchestrated Kylo Ren’s hatred of Luke and fall to the dark side.

Luke had sensed that something seemed off, but his vision had been clouded until the Emperor decided he was ready to strike. One can imagine the horrible panic Skywalker was thrown into when Palpatine himself appeared, threatening his nephew and then rushing towards the boy’s room.

Naturally Luke ignited his lightsaber, because he’d almost died to the Emperor’s lightening strikes once, and if any ghost could still summon them it would be the aged old monster himself.

Kylo Ren awoke, and the Emperor changed his appearance to one of a far more sane looking old man. He started accusing Luke of coming into the hut to kill Kylo, insisting the boy run away with him, promising to keep him safe.

“Search his feelings, he’s afraid of you, afraid of what you can do, Kylo! He came here to kill you!”

Skywalker would never think to kill a defenseless child, if he knew they were tempted by the dark he’d try to speak to them about it. Kylo Ren was only a child. He didn’t understand that the fear and resolve Luke was feeling was not fueled by wanting to slay him.

He was afraid of what the Emperor would do to those kids, especially his nephew. There was a difference, but those emotions were easily misread as proof that Palpatine was telling the truth.

Skywalker didn’t get a chance to reassure the poor boy and set things right. The Emperor seized his chance to cloud his senses with illusions and snatch Kylo up. Luke and the rest of the order searched and searched, but they couldn’t locate Kylo Ren.

4. Luke didn’t run away of his own volition and leave Leah to deal with a new Empire; he was exiled by the new Republic.

Losing a child who was under your care, a Senator’s child? The new Republic didn’t take kindly to that. The New Jedi Order was disbanded, and Master Skywalker was exiled despite Han and Leah’s protests.

Even when organized attacks began happening against the fledgling government, the Senate refused to lift Luke’s exile order. But his friends and former students managed to relay information to him about what was happening.

The force revealed to him that the Emperor was using Kylo and others across the galaxy to sabotage the Republic. Refusing to give the rebels what they worked so hard to create, just like he did with the Jedi Order.

Attempting to reenter society in secret, to try and work with Leah and the others failed; he had lost the trust of the wider government and they reacted with hostility when he was found out.

But, Luke also saw that the force was moving against the Emperor’s plans, and that the Jedi were not stomped out. Former pupils of his were still using the force and teaching friends and loved ones about what it was and how it works.

Master Skywalker knew that trying to sneak around the galaxy and rejoin the fight was not going to work; he would only draw attention and resources away from the problem. He wouldn’t regain the Republic’s trust by disobeying them.

But he could go to planets that were hard to find and deeply connected to the force. He could search for the forgotten relics and knowledge of the Old Jedi Order. Luke could train and meditate using old techniques.

5. Old man Skywalker.

Leah was not the only one in the galaxy pointing force sensitives towards Luke. There were many in the struggling Republic who fought to keep the ghost Emperor from grabbing back all his power, and force sensitives were no exception.

Former students of the New Jedi Order often found themselves recommending a visit to some backwater planet where Skywalker was holed up. Sometimes though, it took more than one trip, because the old master was quite a sight to behold.

These young people didn’t understand why their respected friends and mentors held the old hermit in high regard.

When one first saw Skywalker, he seemed like nothing more than a greasy, insane shut in. His robes were stained, and smelled of any number of coolants, fuels, and chemicals. He shambled around with ridiculous looking contraptions on his face and body, always made of rusty junk metal that couldn’t possibly be “tools” like he insisted.

But looks can be deceiving.

Luke Skywalker could navigate in terribly dangerous, rough terrain, places even the locals of these planets shied away from. One by one, skeptical force users followed him out into these wildernesses, not understanding where he was wandering off to or why they should follow.

You’d always be handed at least one of the blasted inventions, and no matter how much you refused and insulted the handiwork and asked why, Luke would insist you wear it. Something about you needing it. Sure old man, sure.

But once you were out in the wilderness, overwhelmed by the dark, or the stink, or the cold, or the heat, once you had to make it across a chasm or cliff, once there were animals or assassins about to attack?

Every single time, those deceptively useless looking tools would turn out to be something brilliant. They’d save you or let you progress when you never could have without them.

But then you’d realize something else; Skywalker didn’t actually have to lug that trinket around. He wasn’t wearing another one on the trip.

For example:

In the absence of the night vision goggles made of old bottles, he’d still be walking through a seemingly endless underground tunnel as if he’d gone that way his whole life and knew every cranny. With considerable more grace than you, and you have the night vision.

”How are you doing that? I was told you arrived here just a few months ago!”

”Oh I did. This is a cave I hadn’t visited yet.”

”That’s impossible.”

”I’m using the force to sense what’s ahead. You’d be surprised how much you can see that way.”

”… Why’d you make the goggles then?”

“Well for one thing, I like to tinker. It can get a little boring being in exile, when I don’t have a project.”

“What sort of project?”

Luke Skywalker did appear to be a crazy old man who liked to play with random scrap; but in reality he was a walking library of all things related to the Jedi. He taught countless new people how to be Jedi and sent them away with relics and texts to share and cherish.

But even though those 14 years of exile were helping his friends and bringing about a new Jedi Order successfully, there was something else Skywalker wanted.

He wanted to save Kylo Ren. But the boy was scarred for life and Luke knew in his heart that Palpatine had been poisoning his mind with lies. Especially since the Jedi were still growing in number and he was still alive.

The students always had the understandable idea of facing Kylo in battle, but they didn’t believe he could be saved. Oftentimes, Luke Skywalker felt like he was the only Jedi in the galaxy who believed a Sith could be reformed. It had always felt that way, even with Obi Wan and Yoda.

He was looking for someone who did want to reach out to Kylo Ren, someone who would try to get him away from the Emperor’s lies and put an end to the uprisings peacefully. If he could have done it himself, he would have. But Kylo still believed that his uncle wanted him dead, and that if he came back they’d have to fight to the death.

#Star Wars #star wars sequels #Star wars rewrite #Luke Skywalker #Kylo Ren #Emperor Palpatine #No but for real why did Yoda of all people have lightning powers as a force ghost???#And how did Palpatine survive???#Me yapping #Disney: Yeah Luke would think about killing his own Nephew for having dark side- Mara Jade: 🙄

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hayatheauthor · 2 years ago

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A Step-by-Step Guide to Crafting a Compelling Storyline

I'll warn you, this is a long one. I kind of took 'comprehensive guide' a little too seriously.

You have a fantastic concept burning at the edges of your imagination, a collection of characters whispering their stories to you, and a world just waiting to be explored. But how do you weave all these elements into a story that grips readers and refuses to let go? The answer lies in effective plot planning.

A well-crafted plot isn't just a sequence of events; it's a carefully orchestrated symphony that takes readers on an unforgettable ride. Whether you're an experienced writer or someone trying to start their first book, here are my personal steps to crafting a compelling storyline with good plot planning.

Step 1: Idea Generation and Conceptualization

Every great story begins with a spark of inspiration. It's that moment when an idea ignites in your mind and beckons you to explore its potential. The journey from a fleeting thought to a fully-fledged concept is an exhilarating one, and it all starts with idea generation and conceptualization.

Techniques for Idea Generation

Mind Mapping

Grab a piece of paper or use a digital tool to create a mind map. Write your central idea in the middle and branch out with related concepts, characters, themes, and settings. Mind mapping can help you visualize the connections and possibilities within your idea.

Bullet journalling

Bullet journalling is my personal favourite way to generate ideas for your WIP. Get a piece of paper or open a Word/Docs document and create three different sections: world, characters, and plot. Now add facts to each of those sections that you've come up with so far.

You can even go a step ahead and create more detailed sections, for example, you could do this for your different characters or different places in your world. Usually, one bullet point leads to the next and once you have an idea of everything you've already established you'll naturally start adding more to it.

Blurting

Talk to someone about your WIP, or pretend that you're talking to someone and write down everything that comes to mind. You can even use AI tools like ChatGPT and ask it to hold a conversation with you about your WIP. Tell it to ask you questions along the way, this will get the wheels turning and even help fill plot holes.

Prompts and Challenges

Explore writing prompts or challenges to spark your creativity. Websites, books, or even random word generators can provide the nudge you need to generate fresh ideas.

Refining Your Concept

Once you have a collection of ideas, it's time to refine and shape them into a cohesive concept.

Identify Themes

What themes or messages do you want to convey through your story? Is it a tale of redemption, the power of friendship, or the consequences of ambition? Pinpointing your core themes will guide your storytelling and also give you a clear image of the end goal.

Find Your Angle

Consider what makes your idea unique. How can you approach a familiar concept from a fresh perspective? For example, if you're doing a classic murder mystery, what makes your book different from others? Take some time to look up titles similar to your WIP and find any repetitive themes/patterns.

Maybe most murder mysteries end with the partner being the killer, or maybe the fantasy books written in the same mythology as your WIP's all involve a war. Knowing what is currently a popular trend in the market can give you a clear idea of where you can be different from comparable titles. This is especially important for genres like horror and romance.

Develop a Premise

Your premise is the foundation of your story. It's the "what if?" question that drives your narrative. For instance, "What if an ordinary high school student discovers they have the ability to control time?" You need to have a solid premise before you even think about writing your story.

Step 2: Character Development and Motivation

Characters are the beating heart of your story, and crafting them with depth and authenticity is key to creating a narrative that truly captivates. Your characters often leave more of a lasting impact on your readers than the plot itself.

Think of it this way: a good plot will get you readers, but memorable characters will get you fans. Some of the largest communities in the book space all run on the readers' fondness for certain characters rather than the story itself. Yes, your story and the way you tell it is very important, but nobody wants to listen to the story of a boring person.

Bringing Characters to Life

Personal Histories

Delve into your characters' pasts. What experiences shaped them into who they are today? A traumatic childhood or a life-changing event can influence their motivations and behaviours. Maybe your antagonist has a soft spot for single parents because their mother was the only person who cared for them. Maybe the love interest seems like a sunshine character because they feel the need to always seem put-together and perfect.

Physical Traits

This might sound obvious enough, after all a character's appearance is the first thing people think of when visualising, however, many authors fail to have a clear image of their character's physical traits which can lead to inconsistent or boring descriptions. Sure, your protagonist can have bushy hair and brown eyes, but what else?

Think about their body type, height, fashion sense, the way they carry themselves, walk, and sound. Do they have a random mole at the back of their neck? Do they always smell like a certain perfume because their dead father gifted it to them? It's important for you to have a clear image of who you're writing.

Strengths and Flaws

Just like real people, characters have strengths and weaknesses. These traits affect their decisions and interactions. A courageous hero might also struggle with recklessness, adding complexity to their personality. It's easy to create 2D characters by using tropes or shallow descriptions 'an all-powerful villain' 'the chosen one who trained their whole life and is perfect', but 3D characters are what will actually catch your readers' attention.

There's a reason why people often love the grey characters, the anti-heroes or anti-villains. Those who have complex personalities that make them seem human. This makes us empathise with the characters, and as a writer, it also helps you think of your characters as real people with flaws and problems.

Motivations: The Why Behind the What

Goals and Desires

What do your characters want? Their goals drive the plot forward. A detective's desire to solve a mystery or a scientist's quest for a groundbreaking discovery sets the narrative in motion. Why is your protagonist doing what they are doing?

You could simply give yourself a generic answer like 'they want to save the people' or 'they're a good person' but this can lead to confusion in the long run. If as the writer you yourself can't understand your character's goals it will get very hard to showcase them to your readers. Try to pick apart each character and genuinely consider why they are the way they are.

Inner Conflicts

Characters often grapple with inner turmoil – the clash between their desires, values, and fears. This inner conflict adds layers of intrigue and reliability. Maybe your protagonist realises the antagonist's qualms with the government are actually valid and suffers from moral conflicts as they contemplate whether or not they are the 'good guy'. Inner conflict adds dimension to your characters which in turn makes it easier for your readers to empathise with them.

Step 3: Outlining the Key Plot Points

Now that you have a clear idea of what you want to write and who you want to write it with, it's time to consider the how. You have a story, but how do you want to tell it? Break down the key plot points that shape your narrative, creating a roadmap that guides your characters through their trials and triumphs.

The Building Blocks of Plot

The Inciting Incident

The spark that ignites your story. It's the moment when your protagonist's world is disrupted, setting them on a path of change. For example, in "The Hunger Games," Katniss Everdeen's sister being chosen for the Games is the inciting incident that propels her into the arena.

This can be a little harder to recognise in genres outside of SFF and horror. For a thriller novel, this moment could be the moment your protagonist uncovers a sketchy detail in their relative's death. In romance, it could be the moment your protagonist is introduced to the love interest.

Turning Points

These are pivotal moments that shift the course of your narrative. They introduce new challenges, reveal secrets, or force characters to make crucial decisions. Think of them as the gears that keep your story machine turning. It's important to have some sort of turning point in your story to keep things interesting.

Maybe the character your protagonist was suspecting throughout the first half of the book ends up having a solid alibi, or a seemingly innocent character suddenly seems sketchy.

The Climax

The peak of tension and conflict. It's the moment your characters face their biggest challenge and must make their ultimate choice. In "The Lord of the Rings," the climactic battle at Mount Doom decides the fate of Middle-earth. In a murder mystery, this can be the moment the real killer is unveiled, or in a rom-com, it could be when the love interest moves to a new city to follow the protagonist.

Falling Action and Resolution

As your story winds down, the falling action ties up loose ends and provides closure. Readers witness the aftermath of the climax, and the characters' arcs find resolution. This is the bit where you make sure you aren't leaving any plot holes behind. Remember that random character your protagonist suspected at the start of the book? What's their alibi, why did they suddenly get out of the picture?

Structuring Plot Points

Introduction of Stakes

Introduce what your characters stand to gain or lose early on. This creates a sense of urgency that propels them forward. What if your protagonist fails to complete their missions? What if the detective never unveils the killer's identity? What if your protagonist doesn't win over the love interest? Show your readers the worst possible outcome early on so they know why they should be rooting for your protagonist.

This doesn't necessarily have to be something big or scary. In Harry Potter, many of us wanted Harry to stay at Hogwarts because his life with the Dursleys was cruel and he deserved happiness. That was a small yet significant stake that made the readers empathetic and silently root for Harry.

Foreshadowing and Setup

Plant seeds of future events throughout your story. Foreshadowing builds anticipation and adds depth, making later plot developments more satisfying. I have written a lot of blogs that either cover or briefly mention foreshadowing so I'm going to keep this point a little short.

Foreshadowing helps your readers slowly piece everything together and have that 'I knew it!' or 'how did I not see this coming?' moment. It might also encourage them to turn back and reread your work to focus on the little hints you left throughout the book. Foreshadowing is especially important in murder mysteries.

Step 4: Subplots and Secondary Storylines

Subplots and secondary storylines are the secret ingredients that transform a good story into an unforgettable masterpiece. They add layers of intrigue, provide character development opportunities, and keep readers eagerly turning pages. If you're confused about what is a subplot and how to create one you can visit my previous blog that focuses on this topic.

The Role of Subplots

Enriching Character Arcs

Subplots allow secondary characters to shine. They can showcase different facets of your characters' personalities, revealing their strengths, weaknesses, growth, and relationships.

Theme Reinforcement

Subplots can explore and reinforce your story's themes from various angles. For instance, a romantic subplot can underscore the theme of love and sacrifice, in turn making your protagonist’s heroic death at the end of the novel seem more impactful. We all know Pepper’s reaction to Tony’s death in End Game made the moment more emotional.

While creating subplots and considering which one might be relevant to your book you should think of how this subplot would impact your end goal and whether it would help emotionally connect with your readers.

Parallel Journeys

Subplots can create parallel journeys that mirror or contrast with the main plot. This dynamic adds depth and resonance to your storytelling. Maybe the antagonist’s assistant has a similar backstory to your protagonist but while the protagonist was rescued by the government they were taken in by the antagonist. As the two geniuses face each other your protagonist can’t help but consider whether they would still be fighting for the ‘good’ side had their roles been switched.

Balancing The Main Plot and Subplots

Interconnectedness

Subplots shouldn't feel disconnected from the main plot. Instead, they should interact and influence each other, creating a harmonious narrative flow. Your subplot could help bring a satisfactory end to a certain arc of your story, or it could sow the roots for the important climactic moment of your book.

Pacing and Tension

Strategically introduce subplots to maintain pacing and tension. They can provide moments of relief or heightened drama, enhancing the overall reading experience.

Character Integration

Ensure that characters involved in subplots maintain relevance to the main plot. Their actions and decisions should contribute to the overarching story, even as they pursue their own paths. You should also think about whether or not your character is overshadowing the protagonist. In Harry Potter there were several characters such as Ginny, Luna and Neville with subplots and backstories of their own, however, they never overshadowed Harry’s tale.

Step 5: Crafting Scenes and Sequences

Welcome to the realm where the magic truly comes to life – crafting scenes that resonate, captivate, and propel your story forward. Scenes are the building blocks of your narrative, each one a window into your characters' world and emotions. They help infuse your story with tension, emotion, and unforgettable moments.

Again, this is a topic I’ve covered separately in another blog so I won’t go into too much detail here.

Scene Structure and Elements

Objective and Conflict

Every scene should have a purpose – a clear objective that drives the characters. Introduce conflict that challenges their goals and motivations, creating tension that keeps readers engaged.

Emotion and Stakes

Characters' emotions are the heartbeats of scenes. Amplify emotions by highlighting what's at stake for the characters. Whether it's a heated argument or a tender moment, emotions draw readers in.

Sequences: Crafting a Flow

Cause and Effect

Scenes connect through cause and effect. Each scene's outcome sets the stage for the next, creating a seamless flow that propels the narrative. A character's choice in one scene can reverberate and shape subsequent events.

Rising Action

Craft sequences with escalating tension. The stakes should intensify, drawing characters deeper into challenges and dilemmas. This creates a sense of anticipation that keeps readers eagerly turning pages.

Step 6: Mapping the Journey: Creating a Visual Plot Outline

Visualising your plot, characters, and world can be very hard sometimes. Let's be honest, words can only do so much and if you don't have a clear idea of what you want to show your readers you can end up going down a path of 'telling' them everything. This can take away from the point of your story and end up boring your readers. If you find it hard to visualise where you're going with your book, here are some tips that can help.

Visual Tools for Plot Planning

Timelines and Flowcharts

Create a timeline that outlines the sequence of major events, from inciting incidents to resolution. Flowcharts visually depict the interconnectedness of plot points, making it easy to track the evolution of your story. You can also cut out or add bits depending on how far along you are. This will also help you keep track of what scene/development should be introduced when and why.

Index Cards or Post-Its

Write down key scenes, plot developments, and character arcs on individual index cards or sticky notes. Arrange and rearrange them on a board or wall to visualize the narrative's flow. You can also do this if you're confused about the climax of your novel by adding different ideas to the post-its and putting them alongside the rest of the book's plot to see what things would look like from a reader's perspective.

Infusing Creativity

Playlists

Curate a playlist that captures the mood and emotions of your story. Music has the power to transport you to the heart of your narrative, helping you channel the right atmosphere while plotting. You can listen to this playlist every time you sit down to write WIP. With time, this will also help you overcome writer’s block since you can put on this playlist every time you struggle to get into the right writing mindset.

Moodboards/Pinterest Boards

Create a visual feast by collecting images, aesthetics, and visuals that embody your story's essence. Platforms like Pinterest allow you to craft moodboards that serve as visual touchstones. I would recommend creating a separate pinboard for every character so you can get a clear idea of their vibe and appearance. You can even refer to these every time you're writing about or from the perspective of a new character.

Step 7: Flexibility and Adaptability

As you embark on your writing journey, remember that stories have a life of their own. Embracing flexibility and adaptability is your compass through uncharted territories.

Allow characters to surprise you, let plots pivot, and themes emerge. Balancing structure with spontaneity ensures a dynamic narrative that resonates deeply. Listen to your characters, explore ethical complexities, and evolve alongside your story.

By staying open to the unexpected, you infuse your writing with authenticity and richness. Your plot outline is a guide, but your characters and themes have the power to shape the course. Embrace the unpredictable, and watch your story flourish beyond your imagination.

I hope this blog on A Step-by-Step Guide to Crafting a Compelling Storyline will help you in your writing journey. Be sure to comment any tips of your own to help your fellow authors prosper, and follow my blog for new blog updates every Monday and Thursday.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks?

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Haya’s book blog where I post writing and publishing tips for authors every Monday and Thursday! And don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey!

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