#next drop will be something more complex

[cryptic-forge]

teapot dragons!

in a way i like this design a lot. on the other hand i think the original teapot animal having a humanoid face is part of the charm; it is supposed to be uncanny. anyway, here be dragons, both available in my shop.

[sluttish-armchair]

I’ve been listening to psytrace a little, so I’m trying my hand at it 😎

[3hks]

How to Write a Character with THAT *Sad Aura*

Have you ever stumbled upon a character, who, despite radiating wholesome, positive energy, also has a subtle undertone of sadness? It's kind of intriguing, isn't it? If you've ever wanted to write a perhaps more complex character or explore writing emotions, why not check this out?

What am I talking about?

Let's do a quick introduction as to what I mean. I've said this a couple times already, but to the reader, this character feels despondent even though they act nothing like it. This doesn't mean they have to act happy all the time (like my first example); they might act cold, or apathetic, but the point is they don't act visibly sad.

This faint melancholic mood provides a charming, or even nostalgic feel to the audience through ONE character! Isn't that kind of fun?

Eye Expressions

This character will not show sadness on their face--that contradicts the idea of "sad aura". But you know what they say, right? Eyes are the windows to the soul; they do not lie!

When trying to highlight some of this unhappiness, write about their eyes. Talk about how their eyes look oddly dim sometimes when they smile, or how they don't meet their friend's eyes when they laugh. These cues are simple but powerful.

Adverbs

You always have to be mindful of adverbs, but here especially, adverbs (and adjectives) unconsciously influence how your audience views the character.

For example, avoid saying too much of "smiled brightly" or "talked excitedly". If these are the adverbs you purposefully want to use to portray your character, then by all means! However, these adverbs add a happier connotation, which you must be aware of. If you want something more neutral (which I recommend for the most part), consider using lighter adverbs/adjectives, such as "smiled softly", or "offered lightly".

Reasons

A reason is normally needed for almost everything. Here, you want genuine reasons to back up why your character doesn't ask for help, thus forcing them to work through their unhappiness alone.

This could be because they think other people can't solve the problem, they don't want to bother others, they don't think their issue is a big deal, or they simply believe there's no solution.

Physical Hints

And if all this isn't enough, then drop some physical hints! Perhaps your character gets distracted often, tends to hesitate before speaking, deflects concerned comments with jokes, or has a hard time acknowledging reassurances, even when it's unrelated to their personal troubles. These habits suggest the idea your character has more than meets the eye.

Mood Changes

When people are upset, their mood tends to fluctuate. For most of us, we're typically upset for a short period, so we cycle through emotions such as anger, sadness, and even joy during these moments.

However, if your character is consistently sad, not just for a day or two, their mood might shift on different days. Maybe they're really tired one day, hardly speaking. Maybe the next, they are more frustrated, snapping at people or ignoring them. Maybe the day after that, they are overly energetic, bouncing everywhere and talking all the time, providing a bit of whiplash.

Purpose

Similar to having a reason for their reluctance of reaching out, you also want to ensure that they have a purpose for fighting. Why haven't they given up yet? This is especially crucial when considering the real world, where feeling upset leads to a lack of motivation.

So, what keeps them going, then? Do they want to fix their regrets? Do they want to change?

Backstory and Actions

To be honest, I wouldn't consider a backstory an absolute necessity, but I highly suggest creating one. Why? Because you can accurately identify the reason for your character's guilt, regret, and sorrows from the past with an actual backstory.

The events of your character's past always influence their future actions.

For example, if they were a part of a severe car accident in the past, perhaps they only feel comfortable when they are the driver in the future because that means they can control the car.

Conclusion

This character is not especially different from any other character, besides the fact that they are neither obvious nor overly secretive of their genuine feelings.

With that being said, focus on embodying their eye expressions, be careful about which adverbs and adjectives you choose to use--I recommend choosing ones with more neutral connotations for a sense of melancholy, explain why your character keeps their sadness to themselves and why they keep fighting despite it, show mood fluctuations, drop physical hints, such as actions and/or specific personality traits, and make sure to connect their past to their present!

Happy writing~

3hks ^^

[enhaflixer]

campus crush!sunghoon x f!reader

stats class. keep ur glasses on when u fuck me. statistical analysis with ur tongue. thats abt it. sunghoon word porn ngl ENHA HARD HOURS (kinda) 18+ MDNI

-

You're late. Again.

The digital clock on your phone reads 3:10 PM as you sprint across campus, your backpack bouncing against your spine with each step. Statistics seminar started ten minutes ago, and Professor Clarke has definitely noticed your absence by now. Not that it's unusual—you've made it a habit to burst through those doors at exactly ten minutes past, a whirlwind of apologies and bright smiles.

"Sorry, sorry!" you announce as you push open the computer lab door, slightly out of breath.

Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward you, but Professor Clarke doesn't even look up from his laptop at the front of the room.

"How kind of you to join us," he says dryly. "We were just assigning semester project partners."

You flash him your most charming smile as you slide into an empty seat. "Perfect timing then."

A few people laugh. You've mastered the art of diffusing tension with humor, of making your tardiness seem like a quirky character trait rather than a genuine inability to manage time. It's gotten you this far in university.

"As I was saying," Professor Clarke continues, "this statistical analysis project will count for forty percent of your grade. You and your assigned partner will select a dataset, develop a hypothesis, and use STATA to analyze your findings." He gestures to the complex statistical software displayed on the projector screen—the same software that has been giving you nightmares since week one.

You glance around the room, hoping you'll be paired with Olivia or Zara—friends who wouldn't mind carrying the team if necessary. But when Professor Clarke reads off, "Sunghoon Park and..." followed by your name, your heart does something unexpected.

It skips.

You've noticed him before—it's hard not to. He always sits in the same spot three rows from the front, always arrives fifteen minutes early, always has his notebook open at the exact moment class begins.

What you haven't fully appreciated until now, as you turn to locate him in the room, is just how devastatingly handsome he is. His dark eyes find yours immediately behind stylish wire-rimmed glasses that give him an irresistible intellectual appeal. One corner of his perfectly shaped mouth lifts in the smallest acknowledgment, and a strand of black hair falls across his forehead when he nods at you. The combination of his reserved demeanor and model-worthy looks creates an effect that makes your stomach flip. He's the definition of a hot nerd—the kind that makes you temporarily forget about statistical analysis altogether and wonder what he'd look like with those glasses slightly askew, his usually perfect hair disheveled.

After partnering announcements finish, Professor Clarke instructs everyone to move next to their assigned partners to discuss project ideas.

You gather your things and make your way to Sunghoon's station, dropping into the chair beside him with dramatic flair.

"Fair warning," you say brightly, "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with this software. Like, none. Zero. Statistical analysis to me is deciding which café has the shortest queue."

You expect a sigh or a look of disappointment—it's what most serious students do when they realize they've been paired with you. Instead, Sunghoon's expression softens.

"It's okay," he says quietly, his voice carrying just a hint of an accent. "I'm... not an expert either."

"But you always look so focused during class," you say, gesturing to his immaculate notes.

He shrugs, the movement slight and controlled. "I write everything down. Doesn't mean I understand it all."

When he opens the STATA program and navigates through a few screens with apparent ease, you lean closer.

"Okay, so you're being modest. You definitely know more than I do."

"Barely," he admits, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile—not the polite one from before, but something genuine that makes you want to see it again. "I just know how to make it look like I know what I'm doing."

"That's an important life skill," you laugh, pulling your chair closer to see his screen better. "So what kind of data are we analyzing? Please say something fun like ice cream consumption versus happiness levels."

Sunghoon doesn't laugh, but his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "Actually," he says, "we can choose almost anything that interests us."

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. "See? We're going to be great partners. I bring the wild ideas, you bring the common sense."

"Is that what they call it?" he asks, and there's a hint of playfulness in his voice that catches you off guard.

"What would you call it?" you challenge.

He considers for a moment, adjusting his glasses with a single finger pushed against the bridge. The gesture shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Survival instinct."

You laugh, genuinely surprised. "So I'm dangerous?"

"No," he says, turning slightly to face you better. "Statistical software is dangerous. You're..." he pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "unpredictable."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one." The quiet confidence in his voice sends a small thrill through you.

Professor Clarke clears his throat at the front of the room. "I expect project proposals by the end of next week. Choose your dataset carefully—it will determine the scope of your entire project."

You glance at the clock. Only fifteen minutes of class remain.

"So, partner," you say, lowering your voice as Professor Clarke continues, "when should we meet to figure this out? I promise I'll try not to be ten minutes late."

Sunghoon's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Would you actually show up if I said 8 AM at the library?"

"Now you're just testing me," you whisper back.

"Coffee shop after class on Thursday?" he suggests instead, his voice equally quiet. "The one behind the science building?"

"Beans & Books? You've got good taste." You nod approvingly. "I practically live there between classes."

"I know," he says, then immediately looks as if he wishes he could take it back.

"You know?" You raise an eyebrow, intrigued and slightly pleased.

A faint color appears high on his cheekbones. "I've seen you there. You always order something different and then type furiously on your laptop."

The fact that he's noticed you before, observed your habits even, gives you a little flutter of satisfaction. "And what do you order, Sunghoon Park? Let me guess—plain black coffee, no sugar."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Close. Earl Grey tea."

"Of course," you nod sagely. "Sophisticated."

When class ends, you gather your things slowly, suddenly reluctant to leave. Sunghoon stands, slinging his messenger bag across his chest in one smooth motion.

"Thursday, then," he says, as if confirming an important business meeting.

"It's a date," you reply with deliberate casualness, watching his reaction.

His expression remains mostly neutral, but you don't miss the quick blink, the slight pause before he nods. "For statistics," he clarifies, but the slight upturn of his lips betrays him.

"For statistics," you agree solemnly, though you're already wondering what other subjects you might explore together.

The coffee shop meeting goes surprisingly well. What you expected to be an hour of awkward dataset discussions turns into three hours of conversation that meanders far beyond statistics. Sunghoon, it turns out, has layers beneath his reserved exterior—he plays piano, reads philosophy for fun, and has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard and makes you laugh harder than you have in weeks.

By the end of the evening, you've not only selected your dataset (coffee consumption versus academic performance—your suggestion, which he surprisingly agreed to), but you've also learned that his stammer appears when he's either nervous or passionate about a topic. You find both instances equally endearing.

When Friday's class rolls around, something shifts. You arrive only five minutes late (progress), and the space beside Sunghoon, which is usually empty, now seems to be waiting for you. You slide into the seat and he glances up from his notebook, the corner of his mouth lifting in that subtle way that's becoming familiar.

"You're almost on time," he says quietly, amusement in his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," you reply, but there's no bite to your words.

Throughout the class, your awareness of him is heightened—the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, how his fingers tap thoughtfully against the desk when Professor Clarke asks a difficult question, the scent of his cologne when he leans closer to point something out on your screen.

After class, you find yourself hesitating as you pack up your things, watching as he meticulously organizes his notes.

"So," you begin, aiming for casual, "I was thinking... we should probably meet again this weekend to work on the project." You pause. "My roommate's gone for the weekend. We could use my dorm? Fewer distractions than the coffee shop."

Sunghoon looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nods. "That would be... efficient."

You laugh at his choice of words. "Very statistical of you."

"I meant—" he starts, a hint of that stammer appearing.

"I know what you meant," you interrupt, grinning. "Saturday at four?"

He nods, adjusting his glasses. "I'll bring the data analysis. You bring the coffee."

"Deal."

Saturday arrives, and for the first time in your university career, you spend thirty minutes tidying your room before a study session. You tell yourself it's just basic courtesy, not because you care what Sunghoon thinks of your living space.

At precisely four o'clock, there's a knock at your door. Punctual as always.

You open it to find Sunghoon standing there in jeans and a simple button-down shirt, his laptop bag slung across his body. He's swapped his usual wire-frames for slightly thicker black glasses that somehow make him look even more attractive—scholarly but with an edge.

"You're making me look bad with this punctuality thing," you say by way of greeting, stepping aside to let him in.

"Sorry?" he offers, clearly unsure if he's actually done something wrong.

You laugh. "I'm joking. Come in."

Your dorm room is standard—bed, desk, small seating area with a loveseat and coffee table—but you've made it yours with art on the walls and plants on every available surface. Sunghoon takes it all in with curious eyes.

"I like your space," he says, and it sounds genuine.

"Thanks. Where should we set up? Desk or coffee table?"

"Either is fine," he says, that formal politeness still present even after your hours in the coffee shop.

You end up at the coffee table, sitting side by side on the loveseat, laptops open. For an hour, you actually make progress on the project. Sunghoon explains correlations in a way that finally makes sense, and you discover you have a talent for visualizing data in creative ways that makes his eyes light up with approval.

But as the afternoon wears on, the small space means your shoulders keep brushing, your knees occasionally touch, and each point of contact feels increasingly deliberate. When you reach for your coffee at the same moment he reaches for his tea, your hands collide, and neither of you pulls away immediately.

"Sorry," you both say at once, and then laugh.

"Great minds," you add, but you're distracted by how his eyes look behind those glasses, warm and focused entirely on you.

At some point, you shift positions, both of you turning toward each other to discuss a particularly complicated aspect of your analysis. Your knees are definitely touching now, and the loveseat suddenly seems much smaller than it did an hour ago.

"So if we compare these variables..." he's saying, but you're watching his mouth form the words more than listening to their meaning.

"Hmm?" you say, forcing your attention back to the screen.

He turns to look at you fully, and you realize how close your faces are. "You're not listening," he says, but there's no accusation in his voice.

"I'm distracted," you admit.

"By statistics?"

"By you."

The words hang in the air between you. Sunghoon blinks, his expression shifting from confusion to something more intense. He swallows visibly, and you watch the movement in his throat.

"I'm... distracting?" he asks, his voice lower than before.

"Extremely." Your eyes lock on his glasses, the way they frame his dark eyes, how they complete his devastatingly attractive intellectual look. "Especially with these on."

His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. "The glasses?"

"God, yes," you breathe, moving closer. "You have no idea how fucking hot you look in them."

A flush spreads across his cheeks, but there's a new confidence in the way he holds your gaze. Without warning, he pulls you forward into a kiss that has nothing of his usual restraint. His laptop slides forgotten to the coffee table as you shift closer, and then somehow you're straddling his lap, your hands on either side of his face as you deepen the kiss.

When you break apart to breathe, his glasses are slightly askew. You straighten them gently, then run your fingers through his usually immaculate hair, deliberately messing it up while keeping the glasses perfectly in place.

"You're so sexy," you murmur against his mouth. "I've been thinking about this since the first day we were paired up."

His hands find your hips, holding you firmly against him. "I find that... statistically improbable," he manages, but his breathing is as uneven as yours.

"I'll show you improbable," you whisper, grinding down deliberately. His glasses fog slightly from the heat between you, and the sight sends a thrill through your body. "So fucking hot," you repeat, unable to stop yourself.

His hands slide beneath your shirt, exploring with a surprising boldness that makes you gasp. "We should—" he starts, breathing heavily.

“Yes,” you agree, already pulling him up from the loveseat, walking backwards toward your bed while keeping his mouth on yours. “The project can definitely wait.”

You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you, careful not to knock his glasses off as he hovers above you. They’ve fogged again from the heat between your bodies, and something about that sight—this controlled, precise man coming undone while still looking every bit the hot intellectual—pushes you past any remaining hesitation.

“Leave them on,” you insist when he reaches to remove his glasses. “Please.”

His lips curve into a smile that’s nothing like his usual restrained expressions—this one is knowing, almost wicked. “If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your neck.

“It’s definitely what I want,” you gasp as his teeth graze your skin. “Along with… everything else.”

There’s a playful air to each touch, a slow building of tension as you both start to peel away layers. You tug at the hem of his shirt first, sliding it up inch by tantalizing inch until he lifts his arms to help you pull it off. He returns the favor by slipping a hand under your blouse, fingertips teasing over your ribs. Every time he tries to hasten the pace, you grin and slow him down, dragging the fabric just a bit more before letting it fall away, leaving him momentarily breathless. The sound he makes—caught somewhere between a groan and a laugh—sends a thrill through you.

Time seems to blur as clothing is discarded piece by piece, inhibitions falling away with each new revelation of skin. The afternoon sunlight filters through your curtains, casting everything in a warm glow.

At some point, you find yourself above him, both of you completely bare except for his glasses, which have somehow remained perfectly in place despite everything. You pause for a moment, taking in the sight of him beneath you—all lean muscle and flushed skin, those wire-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat between your bodies.

“You’re staring,” he whispers, a vulnerability in his voice despite the intimate position.

“Can you blame me?” You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, then another, and another, each one growing more insistent. “God, look at you.”

His hands find your hips, steadying you as you continue to kiss him, his glasses occasionally bumping against your face in a way that only heightens your desire. There's something impossibly erotic about him being completely naked except for those glasses—the contrast between his exposed body and that one remnant of his studious, put-together appearance.

"You're so fucking sexy," you breathe against his mouth. "How does anyone focus in that statistics class with you sitting there looking like this?"

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your lips. "I could ask you the same question."

Your kisses become more urgent, your bodies moving together with increasing need. The heat between you builds with each touch, each whispered encouragement. Sunghoon's usually careful movements grow bolder, more instinctive, as your hands explore each other's bodies. His glasses, still perfectly perched on his nose, begin to fog at the edges first—just a light mist that catches the dim light of your room. But as your passion intensifies, as your breathing grows more ragged and synchronized, the lenses cloud completely.

When you pull back to look at him, you can't help but laugh softly at the sight—this brilliantly composed man now completely blinded by the evidence of your shared desire, those glasses that make him look so irresistibly intellectual now rendered useless by the heat radiating between your bodies. To your surprise, he laughs too—not the polite chuckle you've heard in class or the soft amusement from your coffee shop conversations, but a genuine, uninhibited sound that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. It's rich and warm and completely unguarded.

"I can't see a thing," he admits, his voice husky with desire and amusement. His hands find your face despite his temporary blindness, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with unexpected precision. "But I don't need to see to know exactly where you are."

"Is that so?" you challenge, your breath catching as his fingers trail down your neck, across your collarbone, mapping you with deliberate attention.

"I've been studying you," he murmurs, his touch making you shiver despite the heat between you. "Memorizing. Analyzing patterns." His hands continue their exploration, finding every sensitive spot with remarkable accuracy. "It's very... statistical."

You laugh against his mouth. "Only you could make statistics sound sexy."

Through the fogged lenses, you can just barely make out how his eyes darken at your words. "I have other statistical terms I could demonstrate," he offers, surprising you again with his boldness. His accent becomes slightly more pronounced when he's like this—another detail you've grown to cherish.

"Show me," you whisper, and he does—his hands and mouth conducting a thorough analysis of cause and effect, of stimuli and response, until you're clutching at his shoulders and gasping his name. All while those fogged-up glasses remain perfectly in place, the final vestige of his composed exterior while everything else between you unravels into glorious chaos.

You’re already bare beneath him, skin flushed from teasing and anticipation, but the only thing still clinging to his body—those damn glasses—make it so much worse. Or better. Definitely better.

Sunghoon hovers over you, gaze dark behind the lenses, lips swollen and slightly parted as he takes in the sight of you. You should be embarrassed at how wanton you must look, legs spread for him, body already trembling, but he’s the one who looks wrecked. His composure is gone, shattered somewhere between the desperate kisses and the way you dragged your nails down his back.

His lips quirk. “Still want me to leave them on?”

“Don’t even think about taking them off.”

His smile turns wicked, and then he’s moving—kissing, sucking, trailing his mouth down your body with purpose. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and then he’s right there—close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath against you, the heat of it making your stomach clench.

He doesn’t start slow. No teasing, no light flicks of his tongue just to test the waters. Sunghoon eats you like he’s been starving for this, like he’s been waiting for the moment he could taste you, drown in you. His tongue is hot and relentless, curling against you just right, pressing where you need him most, sending shockwaves through every nerve in your body.

But what really undoes you is the feeling of his glasses pressing against your inner thighs, the cold metal contrasting with the heat of his mouth. Every time he moves, every time he adjusts his angle, the frames shift against your skin—slightly rough, slightly smooth, a reminder of exactly who is between your legs and how absolutely ruined he’s making you.

You fist the sheets, hips jerking up into his mouth, but he pins you down effortlessly, a strong arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you exactly where he wants you. He groans when you tug at his hair, the vibrations shooting through you, making you gasp his name.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—”

His response is a low hum against your clit, and your whole body shakes. You feel the damp heat of his breath, the slick slide of his tongue, but more than anything, you feel the weight of those goddamn glasses as they drag along your skin, fogging up even more, smudging against your inner thigh every time he moves deeper, harder, sloppier.

The sheer filth of it makes you clench around nothing.

Sunghoon notices, because of course he does—because he’s been studying you this whole time, memorizing what makes you gasp, what makes your thighs tremble around his head. And he’s smug about it, too, because when he pulls back just enough to glance up at you, lips glistening, glasses just barely slipping down his nose, he smirks.

“You like that, don’t you?” His voice is raspy, breathless, wrecked.

You don’t even try to deny it. “Yes—God, yes, don’t stop.”

Sunghoon’s smirk deepens, and he doesn’t make you beg for it. He dives right back in, tongue flicking, sucking, his grip on your thighs tightening as you lose yourself completely. The drag of his glasses, the precise way he adjusts his angle to push you higher, the way he groans into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are—it’s too much.

The coil in your stomach snaps hard, pleasure crashing over you so intensely that you barely realize you’re pulling at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer, like you might fall apart completely if he stops.

Sunghoon doesn’t stop. Not right away. He works you through the aftershocks, his tongue slow, methodical, lazy in a way that makes you shudder from overstimulation. Only when your body twitches beneath him does he finally pull away, chin glistening, glasses fucking ruined.

You’re still gasping when he crawls back up your body, hovering over you, his mouth right there, his glasses so close you can see the way they’re fogged-up and smudged with sweat.

When you finally collapse beside each other, spent and satisfied, his glasses are askew once more. You reach over to straighten them, and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"So," you say, when you've caught your breath, "should we tell Professor Clarke we've found an interesting correlation to study?"

Sunghoon laughs, the sound free and unrestrained in a way you hadn't heard before today. "I don't think this is what he had in mind for the assignment."

"His loss," you murmur, snuggling closer. "I'd say our statistical analysis was very... thorough."

"We should probably actually work on the project at some point," he says, but makes no move to get up.

"Tomorrow," you promise, running a finger along his jawline. "I think we need to collect more data first."

His eyebrow raises above the rim of his glasses. "For the sake of academic integrity?"

"Absolutely," you agree solemnly, before dissolving into laughter.

The statistics of probability have never been so compelling.

-

Over the next few weeks, your statistics class takes on an entirely new dimension. What was once your least favorite part of the week has become the highlight—not because you've suddenly developed a passion for data analysis, but because of the subtle dance that unfolds between you and Sunghoon twice a week in that computer lab.

The Monday after your "study session," you arrive to class five minutes early—a personal record. Sunghoon is already there, of course, and the moment he sees you, his ears turn slightly pink. When you slide into the seat next to him, now officially your spot, he gives you a small smile that feels like a secret.

"You're early," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

"I had motivation," you reply, letting your knee brush against his under the desk.

His eyes flicker to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his notebook. "I hope it wasn't just for... statistical analysis."

"Depends on how you define statistics," you whisper just as Professor Clarke calls the class to order.

Throughout the lecture, you're acutely aware of every movement Sunghoon makes—how he adjusts his glasses when he's thinking, the precise way he takes notes, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking. Halfway through class, you deliberately drop your pen between you. When you both reach for it, your fingers touch, and he doesn't pull away. Instead, he hooks his pinky finger over yours for just a moment before handing you the pen. The small gesture sends a flutter through your chest.

After class, you walk together to the coffee shop without needing to discuss it. Somehow, it's already become your routine.

"How's the dataset compilation going?" he asks as you find a small table in the corner.

"That's what you want to talk about right now? Really?" You raise an eyebrow.

A faint smile plays at his lips. "We do have a project due in three weeks."

"Always so responsible," you sigh dramatically, but there's fondness in your voice. "It's going fine. I've got the coffee consumption survey data from about fifty students so far."

He nods approvingly. "That's a decent sample size for our purposes."

When your drinks arrive—his Earl Grey and your excessively complicated latte—you notice something different about him. He's still quiet, still thoughtful, but there's a new ease to his movements, a softness around his eyes when he looks at you.

"What?" he asks, catching you studying him.

"Nothing," you say, then reconsider. "Actually, not nothing. You seem... different."

He takes a sip of his tea, considering. "I feel different," he admits after a moment. "With you."

The simple sincerity of his words catches you off guard. For all your flirtatious confidence, his straightforward honesty disarms you completely.

"Good different?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy.

"Very good different," he confirms, and beneath the table, his foot rests against yours. Not by accident.

By the third week, you've fallen into patterns that blend the academic with the intimate. Your Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are devoted to actual project work—usually in the library where the public setting keeps you reasonably focused. 

Your Saturday “study sessions” in your dorm room are significantly less productive in the statistical sense, though you joke that you’re certainly collecting plenty of data on other variables.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes every time you say it, but you know he loves it—loves how eager, how shameless you are when it comes to him. Because every time you spread your legs for him, every time you drag him into another compromising position, he never tells you no.

Case Study #1: The Textbooks

It starts with an innocent enough setup—Sunghoon sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against your bed, flipping through a statistics textbook while you sit across from him, pretending to study. But it’s boring. He looks too good in his glasses, sleeves rolled up, the slightest furrow in his brow as he concentrates. And before you even realize you’re moving, you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him right there on top of the book.

He barely has time to exhale your name before you sink down onto him, making both of you groan.

The hardcover digs into your knees, the pages creasing beneath you, but you couldn’t care less. Sunghoon is buried inside you, stretching you open, warm and deep and perfect, and the only data you’re analyzing is how his breath stutters when you roll your hips just right.

“Fuck, you’re unreal—” he pants, hands gripping your waist, watching you through the slightly fogged lenses of his glasses as you use him, ride him slow, grind on him like you want to ruin him.

You do. You want to wreck him just as much as he’s wrecking you. The friction, the delicious drag, the way his hands squeeze your hips to urge you to go faster, harder—it all shreds your self-control.

By the time you both come undone, gasping and clinging to each other, the textbook beneath you is thoroughly creased, sticky, ruined. Neither of you even bother looking at it.

Case Study #2: The Desk Chair

Another Saturday, another useless attempt at studying.

Sunghoon’s seated at your desk this time, one leg lazily spread, hand bracing his forehead as he tries to focus. But you’re kneeling between his legs, and the moment you reach for his zipper, his entire body tenses.

“You’re insatiable.”

“And?” You tug his pants down just enough to free him, palming his length, watching him harden in your hand as his breathing turns shallow.

He leans back, exhaling sharply when your lips part and you take him deep. His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you swirl your tongue around him, tease him, make him fall apart.

His glasses slip down his nose as he watches you, half-lidded and dazed, jaw slack as you take him deeper, sucking, hollowing your cheeks, making obscene little noises that drive him insane.

He trembles when he finally spills down your throat, groaning your name, head thrown back against the chair.

And the moment he catches his breath, he drags you into his lap, flips you onto the desk, and fucks you stupid.

Case Study #3: Against the Window

Another week. Another “study session.” Another location.

This time, you find yourself pressed against the glass of your dorm window, palms splayed, breath fogging the pane as Sunghoon pounds into you from behind.

The curtains are open.

You don’t know if anyone can see—if someone walking by on the street below can look up and spot your bare body, the lewd way you’re bent over, Sunghoon’s hands gripping your hips as he drives into you with punishing force.

But you don’t care.

All you care about is the way he grunts into your ear, his glasses slightly askew, one hand slipping down to rub your clit, making you jerk and gasp his name as pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave.

“Keep your eyes open,” he growls, voice thick with lust, dragging his lips along your shoulder. “Look outside. Look at what a mess you are.”

Case Study #4: The Shower

It’s late, and you should be asleep. But instead, you’re pressed up against the tiled wall of your tiny dorm shower, water scalding hot, steam curling around you as Sunghoon lifts you up, holds you against him, and fucks you slow, deep.

His glasses are gone, finally.

They’d fogged up the moment he stepped into the shower, and the second you’d made a joke about it, he’d taken them off and set them on the sink. But you don’t miss them too much—not when his mouth is on your throat, sucking bruises into your wet skin, not when his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you in place as he rolls his hips into you with exquisite precision.

You come twice before you finally stumble out of the shower, exhausted, dripping, completely spent.

And the moment you walk back into your dorm room, still naked, Sunghoon picks up his glasses, slides them back on, and gives you a look that tells you he’s nowhere near finished with you.

Case Study #5: The Floor (Again, Because You Can’t Stop)

At this point, you don’t even make it to the bed.

You’re both desperate, panting, **clawing at each other like you can’t stand the idea of being apart for another second.**The moment Sunghoon pushes you onto the floor, you’re already wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him down, gasping when he fills you in one smooth thrust.

It’s fast, dirty, messy.

He grits out your name, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open as he slams into you, pace brutal, relentless. The carpet burns on your back will be worth it.

He loses his glasses at some point, but you don’t even notice—you’re too busy coming apart beneath him, clawing at his back, moaning his name like you’ll never get enough of him.

Maybe you won’t.

Because the second you catch your breath, still tangled up in him, you’re already thinking about where you’ll fuck next.

What surprises you most is how much you enjoy both versions of your time together. The project, which should be tedious, becomes engaging through Sunghoon's perspective. He has a way of finding patterns in chaos that makes even the driest data seem fascinating. And through your influence, he's learning to approach problems more creatively, to see beyond the rigid frameworks he's always relied on.

"What if we visualize it this way instead?" you suggest one Tuesday, sketching a completely unorthodox chart on the margin of his meticulously organized notes.

His initial reaction is skepticism—you can see it in the slight furrow of his brow—but he considers it longer than he would have three weeks ago.

"It's unconventional," he says finally.

"But?"

"But it might actually work better for presenting the correlation," he concedes, and the smile you give him is so bright it makes the student at the next table look over.

In class, Professor Clarke notices the change in both of you. Your questions become more insightful, Sunghoon's responses more animated. When you present your initial findings mid-semester, the professor actually seems impressed by your unusual approach to visualization.

"An interesting methodology," he comments, adjusting his own glasses in a way that reminds you of Sunghoon. "Unorthodox, but effective."

You beam at Sunghoon, who ducks his head slightly but can't hide his pleased expression.

After class, he catches your hand as you're packing up—a gesture he would never have initiated before.

"We make a good team," he says quietly.

"The best," you agree, squeezing his fingers before reluctantly letting go. Public displays still make him slightly uncomfortable, and you respect his boundaries.

-

It's during a rainy Friday evening in your dorm room, six weeks into your relationship (though neither of you has officially labeled it as such), that something shifts again.

You're sprawled on your bed with your laptop, Sunghoon sitting at your desk reviewing your latest statistical findings, his glasses reflecting the blue light of the screen. Classical music plays softly from his phone—another new development. He's been gradually introducing you to his favorite composers, and you've found you actually enjoy the background music while working.

"Your scatterplot is missing a data point," he says, turning to look at you.

"Mmm, probably deleted it accidentally," you reply, not looking up from your position. "Is it important?"

"All data points are important," he says, but there's amusement in his voice rather than criticism.

You roll onto your back, laptop balanced on your stomach. "That sounds like something that would be on a statistics department t-shirt. 'All data points matter.'"

He laughs—a sound that's become less rare but no less thrilling to hear. "I'd wear it."

"Of course you would," you tease. "With your glasses and a pocket protector."

He makes a face at you. "I don't own a pocket protector."

"Yet," you add with a grin.

He shakes his head, turning back to the screen, but you catch the smile he tries to hide. After a moment, he speaks again without looking at you.

"My parents want to meet you."

You sit up so quickly your laptop nearly slides off your stomach. "What?"

Now he turns, his expression a mixture of nervousness and something softer. "I mentioned you during our weekly call. Multiple times, apparently. My mother... noticed."

"You talk about me to your parents?" You can't keep the pleased surprise from your voice.

He adjusts his glasses, a gesture you now recognize as his tell when he's feeling vulnerable. "It seems I do."

"What do you tell them?" You set your laptop aside, giving him your full attention.

"That you're brilliant in ways I'm not. That you see solutions I miss." He pauses. "That you make statistics class the best part of my week."

Your heart does that skipping thing it did the first day Professor Clarke paired you together, only stronger now.

"Sunghoon Park," you say softly, "are you saying I'm statistically significant to you?"

His expression turns serious, though his eyes remain gentle. "With a p-value approaching zero," he replies, and though it's phrased as a joke, his tone makes it clear it's anything but.

In statistics, a p-value approaching zero indicates an extremely high likelihood that an observed effect is real and not due to chance. It's the closest thing to certainty that statistics allows.

You cross the room to where he sits, gently taking his face between your hands. His glasses are slightly smudged, and you resist the urge to clean them, focusing instead on the eyes behind them.

"So," you say, "when do I meet these parents who raised such a statistically significant nerd?"

He laughs, pulling you into his lap in a move that would have seemed impossibly bold from him just weeks ago. "They're visiting next weekend. Dinner on Saturday?"

"I'm there," you promise, sealing it with a kiss.

-

The day of your semester project presentation arrives with an unexpected lack of anxiety. You're prepared—more prepared than you've been for any academic presentation in your life. Partly because the subject has actually become interesting to you, but mostly because working on it meant spending hours with Sunghoon.

You stand beside him at the front of the class, watching him explain your methodology with a confidence that wasn't there at the beginning of the semester. His voice is still quiet, still measured, but there's a strength behind it now, an assurance that comes from truly understanding his material. When he gestures to your creative visualization on the screen, there's a hint of pride in his voice that makes your chest warm.

When it's your turn to present, you catch him watching you with undisguised admiration. You explain the correlations you found between different types of coffee consumption and various academic performance metrics, throwing in jokes that make the class laugh and complex statistical terms that make Professor Clarke nod approvingly.

"And in conclusion," you finish, "we found that while caffeine consumption generally correlates with improved academic performance up to a point, the type of environment in which the coffee is consumed may be an equally significant factor."

"Furthermore," Sunghoon adds, stepping forward to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder, "we discovered that the companionship variable—whether students studied alone or with others—showed the strongest positive correlation with both satisfaction and performance outcomes."

His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, and you know he's not just talking about the data anymore.

When Professor Clarke gives your presentation an A and commends your "complementary analytical approaches," you resist the urge to high-five Sunghoon in front of everyone. Instead, you wait until you're outside the building, then throw your arms around him in celebration.

To your surprise, he lifts you slightly off the ground in his enthusiasm, spinning once before setting you down, his face flushed with excitement and mild embarrassment at his own uncharacteristic display.

"We did it," he says, adjusting his glasses which were knocked askew by your hug.

"Was there ever any doubt?" you reply, reaching up to straighten them properly. "We're statistically significant, remember?"

His smile softens, and right there on the path outside the statistics building, with students streaming past on their way to other classes, he kisses you without hesitation or self-consciousness.

"What was that for?" you ask when he pulls away, delighted but surprised by the public display.

"I've been collecting data," he says, his eyes crinkling behind those glasses you've grown to love, "and I've formed a hypothesis."

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow. "And what hypothesis is that, Mr. Park?"

He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as you begin walking toward the coffee shop that's become your place.

"That I'm in love with you," he says simply. "And unlike most statistical conclusions, I'm one hundred percent certain."

You stop walking, turning to face him fully. "That's a bold statistical claim. Absolute certainty is rare in your field."

"I have compelling evidence," he counters, and the confidence in his voice, so different from the hesitant student you met months ago, makes your heart race.

"I might need to review your data," you tease, though your voice catches slightly.

"Extensive observation over time," he begins, stepping closer. "Consistent results across multiple variables. Reproducible effects." His voice drops lower. "Significant positive impact on all quality-of-life metrics."

"Very scientific," you murmur, your hands finding their way to his chest.

"I thought so," he agrees, his eyes serious despite the playful exchange. "So my conclusion stands."

You rise on your tiptoes, pressing your forehead to his. "Well, as someone who's conducted a parallel study, I can confirm your findings. The evidence suggests I'm in love with you too."

His smile, rare and full, lights up his entire face. "Independently verified results. The best kind."

“Should we celebrate this breakthrough with coffee?” you suggest, already knowing his answer.

“I was thinking maybe we skip the coffee today,” he says, surprising you again. “I have other hypotheses I’d like to test.”

“Professor Clarke would be shocked at your dedication to statistical research,” you laugh, letting him lead you in the direction of your dorm instead of the coffee shop.

“Some variables,” he says with newfound confidence, “are worth studying in depth.”

You lean in close, pressing your lips right against the shell of his ear, and whisper the kind of filth that would make even the most shameless person blush.

“Then why don’t you pin me down the second we walk through that door, shove your face between my legs, and eat me so fucking good I forget my own name? And when I can’t take anymore, you’ll flip me over and fuck me like you’re trying to imprint yourself inside me—deep, rough, until I’m crying and drooling on the sheets, too dumb to do anything but take it.”

Sunghoon stops breathing.

You feel the exact moment your words hit him—his entire body locks up, his grip on your wrist tightens, his jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear his teeth grind.

His glasses fog immediately.

A strangled noise escapes him, something between a curse and a choked groan, and then he’s moving.

Not just moving—dragging you, fast, purposeful, like a man on a mission.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, voice wrecked, dangerous, and it sends a thrill straight through you.

By the time you reach your dorm, he’s already reaching for the door handle, barely keeping himself together, and the second it clicks shut behind you—

You know he’s about to make good on every single word you just whispered.

That, by any metric, was statistically significant indeed.

-

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @naurwayyyyy @bloomiize @zzhengyu @annybah @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4 @starniras @wonuziex

[importantpuppystarfish]

Sibling desire by Wonyoung

Male reader x Wonyoung

Warnings: Incest, totally blood related siblings, pissing (if u dont like the fantasy, simply dont read)

As I walk into my room, I see my sister Wonyoung lying on my bed. Her hair tied up and her smooth legs dangle playfully off the edge of the mattress. She looks over at me with a smile and pats the open space next to her. "Come here, I've got something to show you." She purrs. I feel my heart rate pick up as I make my way over to her. What could she possibly want to show me?

Wonyoung swipes through some images. My eyes go wide seeing the series of provocative pics she took - closeups of her lips, chest, the curve of her hip. She watches me closely.

"Do you like them?" She asks with a flirty wink. My mouth goes dry as my eyes drink in the sight of my gorgeous older sister posed so temptingly. I manage a weak nod in response as she never showed me like this.

"Mmm I took them just for you." She confesses, leaning in close and wrapping an arm around me. My heart pounds in my chest. This can't be real…but it's happening!

"I bet you've got quite the reaction going on under there huh?" She teases, reaching down and giving me an affectionate squeeze.

Wonyoung and I no longer have the chance to spend as much time together as we used to, especially since she’s been so busy with her career in IVE. She’s changed a lot over time, and it’s clear she’s grown taller and become even healthier. She’s no longer the same Wonyoung I once knew as her brother.

Swallowing hard, I gather some courage and lean in closer to her, whispering "You look…so beautiful sister…" My fingers trace lightly over her exposed leg.

Wonyoung giggles. "You're so cute when you blush like that." She bites her lip, her eyes searching mine. "You know…you're grown pretty handsome yourself." She lifts her chin, inviting my gaze to drop lower to her lips.

"Say something…say I'm hot." She whispers breathily.

Even though I know I'm not the most attractive guy, Wonyoung's words send a flutter through my chest. I can see the genuine affection in her eyes as she looks at me. She really does think I'm…cute…

She shifts, moving closer until our noses almost touch. "Come on, say it…say your big sister is hot!." Her voice is soft but commanding. I nod mutely, my throat dry. "Y-you're hot, sister…" I croak out.

Wonyoung leans back and asks "Hey, btw this question got me wondering…" She says slowly, her voice low. "What do you think a typical brother and sister relationship should be like?"

She watches me carefully, head tilted expectantly, waiting to hear my opinion on something much more profound than normal sibling dynamics. Her eyes are curious yet almost flirty.

I nod dumbly, not knowing what else to say. "Loving and…trusting," I murmur, feeling like those words don't quite capture the complexity of sibling bonds.

But Wonyoung takes my response and runs with it. She slides closer, her hip brushing against mine. "Mmmm loving and trusting…"

"Maybe…more than just loving?" "A brother and sister who really…connect."

"What do u mean?" I asked.. Wonyoung swallows hard before explaining. "What I mean is…in the most ideal, close-knit family, the brother owns the sister completely. And the sister owns the brother just the same."

She reaches out and strokes my cheek gently. "No limits, no holding back" Her words make me blink in surprise, where did she develop this kind of mindset from throughout these years?

"I should be your first.. No outside partners allowed." She declares firmly.

Wonyoung gazes at me hopeful yet serious, clearly laid out her vision for us.

Wonyoung puts her hand upon my shoulder trying to hug and then kiss me. I held back as I say "Sister what are u doing!!!?".. Wonyoung pouts when I protest, but keeps holding me tighter. "Shhh…" she whispers against my lips before planting a soft kiss there. "Didn't u say our bond should be of loving and trusting?."

She pulls back just enough to speak again, her breath hot on my face. "You're my brother…and I'm your sister. Isn't this loving between us?" She tries coaxing, hand trailing down my chest.

Wonyoung seeks to reassure as she leans in again, more insistently this time. I can feel her want, yet the wrongness of it all makes me hesitant.

Before I can react, Wonyoung crashes her lips onto mine in a deep, demanding kiss. Her fingers dig into my shoulders as she takes control. The kiss is aggressive, all tongue and teeth. Unable to deny her any longer, I give in completely in the kiss. My lips part eagerly beneath hers, savoring the intoxicating sweetness of her kiss. One hand rises to grip her waist tightly as the other tangles in her hair, pulling her closer.

She tastes like everything I've ever craved without knowing it. I surrender completely, losing myself in the dangerous allure of this twisted intimacy between us.

"Huh? U liked it right…" Wonyoung says.

Wonyoung smiles victoriously against my mouth, pleased she's gotten me to respond. "Mmm…good boy…" she whispers, running her fingers through my body. Her hands begin working at my shirt buttons, trying to remove it impatiently.

"You're already mine aren't you brother?" Her voice is low and sultry, her eyes shining with delight at having me under her spell.

She tugs at my shirt again insistently, waiting for me to obey…

She pushes my shirt open, exposing my chest.

"Shhh…" she hushes me again, biting her lip as she palms me through thin fabric. "Do you like that sis…is making you feel good?"

She shrugs off her shirt first, tossing it aside carelessly as she unhooks her bra next. It falls away, releasing her flawless form completely to me. She shakes her hair out, gazing down at me expectantly.

Her tits were perfectly proportioned, small medium sized yet supple. Her bosom is a delicate handful, delicate pink nipples starts to make my mouth watery & hungry.

"Well?" she asks coyly, fingers releasing me just long enough to begin shrugging out of her pants next. "Are you going to watch your sister strip?" Her voice drops another octave, daring me.

My eyes widen slightly when she fully reveals herself to me. I never dreamed this scene totally in my lifetime.

"Do you like it, brother?" She breathes, hands coming to rest on her hips. She pushes slightly against me, seeking contact. "Tell me…" she asks demandingly.

"Come now, get on your knees." Wonyoung orders. She wants me low before she grants me any further privileges.

She takes her own swaying breast in hand and guides it towards my mouth.

"Suck" she commands, voice rough yet compelling. I part my lips obediently and she presses forward, my tongue meeting the stiff peak. She gasps at the contact.

"Yes that's it…" she praises, running fingers through my hair again as I begin to suckle eagerly. Her sweet nectar coats my tongue, sweaty flavors making me thirsty for more. I lose myself in the sensation - it smells and tastes so good. Her skin, the weight of her supple figure in my mouth.

"Mmm yes, keep going, make them feel good…" Wonyoung crooks a leg behind me, pulling me closer until I'm fully engaged between her thighs. Releasing her tits from my mouth, I glance up at Wonyoung with a silent question. She nods eagerly in response.

"Taste me brother…" she purrs, guiding me lower.

I settle between her thighs, inhaling her heady aroma before diving in. I take and deep breathe and start licking her clit. She cries out, hands gripping the sheets as I lose myself in bringing her pleasure.

My senses are overwhelmed, the salty-sweet musk of her, the velvety give of her pussy lips against my tongue, the rhythmic pulsing against my tasting buds as I relentlessly stoke that bundle of nerves. Wonyoung gets so wet and squirts over my mouth as she moans.

"Yes…just like that!" sister gasps out, bucking against my mouth as I drive her wild. Wonyoung grabs my head and pushes me more deep inside her.

Wonyoung squirts more inside my mouth as I swallow it all. My jaw aches from her insistently grinding on my tongue but I don't care - I want to obey, to make her cry out louder.

"Don't stop! Make me come on your tongue!" she cries.

Now the most extreme part, without warning, I feel a hot stream splash across my face and into my mouth. Wonyoung releases a surprised laugh as I'm suddenly showered in my own sibling's piss warmth.

"Well well, did you like your sibling's taste?" she asks teasingly, still catching her breath. I genuinely replied her I loved it because why not? It tasted so delicious yet taboo. She reaches down and wipes out the dampness from my face by licking me with her tongue.

"There now, all cleaned up." She grins.

`😁' continues

Wonyoung sinks gracefully to her knees before me, running her palms up my thighs as she looks up with a coy smile. "My turn to return the favor…" Blowjob time!!~ Now as she takes me in fully in one smooth motion. I bite back a groan at the sudden enveloping warmth.

Her tongue swirls expertly around my length as she begins to move, focused solely on me now. I tangle my hands in her dark locks, overwhelmed by the sight and feel of her so intimately connected to me.

As Wonyoung gives me a head, her eyes never leave mine, locking me in place with that defiant gaze even as her mouth brings me such wonderful pleasure. She takes me deeper.

She uses one hand to stroke what she can't fit, twisting lightly near the tip. Her lips pursue a rhythm - up, over, down again.

She grazes her teeth along my shaft on the way back up, a wicked glint in her eyes. The sensation sends shivers through me.

"You taste good brother…" she purrs before diving back down again.

Me taking advantage of my sister's submissive position, I grab a fistful of her hair and guide her back down roughly. "Open up sister." She lets out a small, surprised sound but parts her lips obediently. I push deeper than before, hitting the back of her throat over and over. Her fingers dig into my legs as she takes everything I give. "Such a good sister…" I murmur approvingly.

I deepthroats her deeply, she is taking all of me down her throat. Wonyoung chokes and gags as I use her mouth without mercy. Tears prick her eyes but she forces herself to relax and accept my aggressive advances. She looks up at me defiantly between gasps for air.

"Mph! Mmmph!" she whimpers in protest yet doesn't fight back. Her hands move to try and stroke my leg reassuringly as I claim her throat so roughly. She knows she deserves this punishment for pushing me so far already.

I lose control suddenly, releasing my dirty yellow urine unexpectedly inside her mouth. A small gasp escapes her as she gulps down every last drop. She swallows quickly when warm liquid hits her tongue. Surprised look crosses her face. She pulls back a little, eyes wide. Accidentally swallow¿…

She pulls back, lips sealed as she looks up at me disapprovingly. "Oh my, did you just piss on ur dear sister's mouth?" Her voice drips with fake scolding. She opens mouth to show me completely coated on her tongue.

"You made quite the mess brother…"

She closes mouth and swallows once more before speaking again. "But I suppose I should expect such accidents from you." A hand comes to rest lightly on my thigh in mock reprimand.

(Wonyoung takes control now)

She stands abruptly, causing me to stumble back a step. With hands on her hips, she looks down at me with newfound confidence.

"Enough of me being sweet elder sister." Her tone is firm yet playful. "Time for me to ride you hard lil brother!"

She pushes me down face first onto the bed sheets. The boldness of her switch to dominance sends a thrill through me.

I lay in the bed fully and Wonyoung starts to climb on top and me.

As Wonyoung is straddling over me now, she guides me between her legs. My tip probes her slick folds before she sinks down, gasping as I stretch her for the first time.

"Yes, that's it…" she purrs, working to seat herself fully upon me. Her hands grip my shoulders as she grinds down hard, enveloping every inch.

"You're mine now…" she declares with a wicked grin.

(Now that she has me inside, Wonyoung starts to jump and ride my dick!)

Bouncing up and down, she sets a rhythm, riding me deeper with each roll of her hips. Her tits bounce as she picks up speed, face flushed with pleasure.

Wonyoung rides me fast. She leans back, hands braced on my thighs, exposing her bouncing tits very properly now. Her cries get louder, the room filled with the sound of flesh slapping together. She must have done this before…

She chuckles darkly as she sees my pain since shes jumping over me so rough. Her pace suddenly becomes relentless, pounding down hard again and again. She grips my hands and pins them down, refusing to let me escape the incredible sensation building inside.

"Does my little brother like when big sis rides him rough?" she taunts, eyes flashing dangerously. "You're so sensitive…you're going to…"

She bites her lip, grinning wickedly. Her slick heat grips me tighter, claiming every inch.

Wonyoung leans forward to me to have a french kiss. Our mouths meet in a deep, passionate kiss as our bodies move as one. Her tongue slides against mine, mingling flavors on my taste buds. She pulls back just enough to whisper against my lips…

"Mmm yes, keep up brother…"

She begins to grind harder, waves of pleasure radiating outward. The scent of her mouth is wonderful. I can feel my own release rapidly approaching despite the initial discomfort. Wonyoung seems determined to push me over the edge…

"You're close aren't you?" she purrs, her fingers digging into my chest as she bounces faster.

Our lips lock once more as I spill everything deep inside her hot depths. As I can't really say anything due to kissing with her, I show a signal I'm about to CUM! She feels it too, muscles clenching around me as she smiles triumphantly.

"That's it brother…let it all go," Wonyoung murmurs against my ear before sitting up again. She looks thoroughly pleased with herself for me bringing such a sweet release.

Wonyoung grinds down harder, relishing the feeling of my seed coating her walls. "Mmm yes, u filled up my insides bro…" she pants out.

She moves more slowly now but the sensation is still intense as she uses me to satisfy herself. I watch in amazement as she rests through the pleasure besides me.

My sister's glistening, saturated folds continue to cling to me even after spilling everything. Her delicate petals swollen and stretched completely full of my thick seed. She must look utterly claimed by me…

I take a peek down below to see the mess I've done on my sister's pussy. She catches me staring down below and winks playfully. "Like what you see?" she whispers, a hand coming down to scoop up some of my spilled cum glistening on her fingers. Bringing them to her mouth, she licks them clean with a satisfied hum.

"Damn ur such a naughty sister. May I ask when did u get so horny like this?" I ask. Wonyoung replies as "well well, my bsf Yujin had sex with her father. So she suggested me why not i have with my brother too? After that I'll tease our dad and I'll make him fuck me too"…

I tilt my head curiously at her response. "Yujin and her dad too?" My eyebrows rise in surprise. "So this was her idea?"

Wonyoung nods, tracing idle patterns on my chest with her fingertip. "Mhm. She said it felt amazing having such a close forbidden connection with her dad." Her eyes glint mischievously. "Now I want our Dad to give me that too…"

Despite feeling slightly jealous at the thought of my dad being with my sister next, a dark part of me stirs with intrigue. Seeing my usually sweet, innocent sister like this makes me feel things I shouldn't…

"Sister!…" I start hesitantly. "Are you really going to sleep with Dad too?"

She nods again, her face lighting up delightedly. "Mmmhmm! He's next on my list." Her fingers wrap around my arm possessively. "Just you wait…"

She grins wickedly, already planning out her tactics to seduce him. "Dad won't stand a chance against my charm." She giggles. "Once he's mine, we can share stories and jokes about how we've each…taken care of one another." She bites her lip, clearly excited about her dastardly scheme.

Wonyoung pauses thoughtfully then adds, "Oh by the way…" "Leeseo is your age right?"

I nod in response and she smiles excitedly.

"She's so cute! I bet you'd like sleep with her too huh?" She winks at me. "Why don't I bring her over one day? She's still an untouched virgin but we've had a little fun together like lesbo stuff."

My eyes go wide hearing this news about what my sister and her friend (Leeseo) did. But Wonyoubg just giggles, running her fingers through my body.

"Maybe the three of us can play next time. I'm sure Leeseo would love to join." She grins deviously, clearly imagining all the ways she could involve others in her growing web of sinful encounters.

I agree & nod to everything what she says. Now as I announce I need to use the bathroom for my stress relieve, Wonyoung grins wickedly. "You don't need that room sweetie. What are you gonna do in there? Pee?" She asks teasingly.

At my confirmation that yes, I just need to relieve myself, she laughs. "Why waste ur good fluid going down the drain when you have me?"

My brow furrows in confusion but before I can respond she's kneeling before me, eyes alight as if eager for this bizarre request. She looks up expectantly.

"Go on now…let it all out for your sister" she purrs. As I piss, she drinks it directly from where it produces like a dog. My sister Wonyoung, with who I had a typical sibling relationship with, has unfortunately turned into my human toilet and sex partner.

[starkwlkr]

girl, so confusing | f1

an: might make this two or three parts, not sure yet but oh well <3 love y’all THIS IS AN AU WHERE ALL THE F1 DILFS ARE SINGLE

faceclaim gisele bündchen

part 2 part 3

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sebastianvettel don’t tempt me

ferraridepressionclub y/n fr has all the dilfs in her comments i wanna be like her when i grow up

paddockgirlies she’s so iconic

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INTERVIEW WITH Y/N L/N | VOGUE

In conversation with Y/n L/n about being a mother and a racing driver, and her what’s in store for her.

Known for her fierce driving and even fiercer spirit, has seamlessly transitioned into a life that’s as complex as it is rewarding. A name that echoes through the halls of motorsport history, her story is one of reinvention—a journey from high-speed thrills to quiet, profound moments of motherhood, and, possibly, a return to the racing world in an entirely new role.

The 2000s were Y/n’s golden years at Williams. Her raw talent shone even when the team’s fortunes dipped, and she quickly became a fan favorite. Known for her courage, sharp wit, and stunning moves on the track, she formed friendships with some of the sport's brightest stars—Mark Webber, Sebastian Vettel, and Jenson Button. Their bond, a cocktail of camaraderie and unspoken attraction, became as legendary as her driving.

But the glamorous world of F1, with its dazzling lights and high expectations, took a toll. In 2004, Williams made the decision to drop her from their roster—a move that would alter the course of her life forever. Y/n, at the time, found solace in the chaos. Late nights, parties, and the company of friends became her refuge.

"I wasn’t ready to let go of F1, but at that point, I wasn’t sure where I was headed." Y/n said as we chat in her London home. It’s a beautiful house with stained glass windows and the perfect amount of sunlight shining in. Her daughter is also present though she much prefers to continue with her reading as she cuddles up to her mother.

But in the unpredictable world of racing, the story of Y/n was far from over. A fresh start beckoned when McLaren offered her a seat, a move that many saw as her redemption arc. She embraced the opportunity, her focus sharper than ever. The partying ceased. The cigarettes were put out. It wasn’t just a return to the sport—it was a return to herself.

Her career, marked by precision and passion, came to an official close in 2014, but Y/n’s influence has never waned. Retirement, though, didn’t equate to slowing down. Today, Y/n is a mother—something that’s become a cornerstone of her identity.

“I’ve always been independent, but being a mom has redefined what it means to be strong," she says, her eyes softening. "It’s a different kind of challenge, but one I’m grateful for every single day.”

Her daughter, now nine, was born a year after her retirement. She had announced the birth on her social media with a simple caption: “welcome to the world, my beautiful girl”

“As a mom, I’ve learned the art of balancing," Y/n reflects. "There are days when I’m just a mom—no racing, no interviews, no drama. And then there are days when I’m reminded of who I was before all of this. It's about finding peace with both versions of myself.”

At this point, her daughter stops reading her book and places several kisses on her mother’s cheek. It was a beautiful moment between mom and daughter.

“The future is full of possibilities. I’m focused on what’s next, but I'm not in any rush. We’ll see what happens. Right now, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Motherhood may have softened some edges, but it has only sharpened her focus. If there’s one thing Y/n has taught us, it’s that the greatest drivers are those who can keep pushing, even when they’re driving toward the unknown.

INTERVIEW WITH Y/N | THE PADDOCK SESSIONS PODCAST

“Welcome everyone to the paddock sessions podcast. I’m your host Dan and todays guest is a very special one. She is my favorite driver and I’m going to try not to freak out right now. Y/n L/n welcome to the paddock sessions!” Dan the host said into his microphone.

Y/n smiled and thanked Dan for the introduction. “Favorite driver? Dan, I’m flattered. I’ll pay you later.” She joked.

“You’re actually the reason my girlfriend watches formula 1. She watched your past races and was devastated when I told her you retired in 2014. I think she was thinking of breaking up with me because I told her,” Dan admitted. Y/n chuckled at his words. “But can we see a potential comeback for you? I know I’m not the only one that would love to see that!”

“Well I can’t really stay away from formula 1. I try to watch the races with my daughter, but she’s not interested in racing at all so I always end up watching them alone.” Y/n explained as she adjusted the microphone.

“Daughter of a racing driver isn’t interested in racing? That’s wild. But at least she knows that her mom is a legend in the sport, yeah?” Dan asked.

“She’s reminded every time we go out and I’m stopped because someone wants an autograph or a picture,” Y/n laughs. “But she knows the basics, she knows what all the number means, she’s a smart girl.”

“Amazing. Um, on the topic of your daughter, and you can stop me if you want, you’ve always been an open book in many ways, yet when it comes to your daughter’s father, you’ve kept things private. How hard has it been to keep things like that private? I imagine it must be frustrating.”

Y/n nodded and cleared her throat. “I’ve always believed in protecting my daughter’s privacy, and for me, that extends to the people closest to us. I’ll say this: my daughter is incredibly lucky to have the most amazing father. He’s the kind of dad who would do anything to keep her safe and happy. I know she’s growing up in a secure and loving environment because of him. He’s protective, but in the best way possible.”

“Have you seen the tweets regarding it?” Dan asked curiously.

“Oh yeah, it’s all over my feed. I’ve actually read some pretty crazy shit about the father of my daughter.” Y/n said.

“Any favorites?”

“There’s a thread that was posted recently on why Lewis is the father of my daughter. I love Lewis, but I can confirm he is not. He’s actually the godfather.”

“Well, you heard it hear first folks!”

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

Author’s Note: okay so this fic has received so much love! I’m opening the Taglist back up!! Let me know if you want added! 💜

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 7: Ripple Effect

The day had passed in a blur of activity, each hour packed with tasks from your meticulously reworked schedule. The morning vocal recording had stretched into early afternoon, followed immediately by dance practice where you'd watched from the corner, tablet in hand, coordinating with the production team via text while the members perfected their formations. The concept meeting had run later than planned, necessitating quick rearrangements for tomorrow's photoshoot.

By the time you all returned to the house, exhaustion hung heavy in the air. Dinner had been a quiet affair—takeout ordered on the way home, everyone too tired for much conversation. Even Wooyoung's usual animated energy had been subdued, his head occasionally nodding as he fought to stay awake at the table.

"Early night for everyone," Hongjoong had announced, his leader voice brooking no argument. "We need to be fresh for tomorrow."

You'd retreated to the guesthouse after helping clear away the takeout containers, intending to review the next day's schedule before sleep. But after thirty minutes of staring at your tablet, the words blurring together as fatigue weighed on your eyelids, you'd made a decision.

What you needed wasn't more work. What you needed was to clear your head.

The pool that connected the main house to your guesthouse had been tempting you for weeks now. You'd admired it daily but never found the time to actually use it, despite San's occasional reminders that it was there for everyone, including you. Tonight, with your muscles aching from tension and your mind still racing despite your exhaustion, a swim seemed like the perfect solution.

You put on the waterproof tape over your blocker an changed into the black bikini you'd brought from your old apartment but hadn't yet had occasion to wear. The simple two-piece was modest by most standards but still revealed more skin than any of the members had seen from you before. For a brief moment, you hesitated, wondering if you should opt for more coverage given the complex dynamics that had emerged recently.

"Don't be ridiculous," you muttered to yourself, dismissing the thought. "It's just swimming. They're professionals."

Besides, the house lights had been dimmed when you'd left, most of the members presumably already retreating to their rooms for the night. Chances were good you'd have the pool to yourself.

With a towel draped over your arm, you stepped out of the guesthouse into the warm evening air. The pool area was illuminated by soft underwater lights that cast rippling blue patterns across the stone deck. The sight of the still water, glowing invitingly in the darkness, confirmed you'd made the right decision.

You dropped your towel onto one of the loungers and approached the pool's edge, unaware that your solitary moment was about to be interrupted.

---

Wooyoung had been rummaging through the refrigerator, searching for the last yogurt drink he was certain he'd hidden behind Seonghwa's vegetable containers. His quest had brought him to the kitchen at precisely the moment you stepped out of the guesthouse and into the pool area visible through the large glass doors.

He froze, yogurt drink forgotten, as he caught sight of you walking toward the pool.

Seonghwa, who had been wiping down the kitchen counters before bed (a nightly ritual that the others teased him about but secretly appreciated), noticed Wooyoung's sudden stillness.

"What's wrong?" he asked, following Wooyoung's gaze toward the glass doors.

Wooyoung's voice came out strangled, barely above a whisper. "Hyung, I'm trying to be respectful, I promise, but Y/n is walking to the pool... in a bikini and—oh my stars, she has a spine tattoo. I think I'm going to pass out!"

The soft landscape lighting illuminated your figure, revealing the black bikini and, more startlingly, a delicate tulip tattoo that ran down your spine, its stem following the gentle curve of your back.

Seonghwa's immediate frown of disapproval quickly dissolved as his own eyes moved to the pool area. He had opened his mouth, presumably to chastise Wooyoung, but whatever reprimand he'd planned died on his lips as he caught sight of you by the poolside. A flush crept up his neck despite his best efforts to maintain his composed facade.

"We shouldn't be watching," he managed after a moment, though he made no immediate move to look away. The elegant line of the tattoo trailing down your spine had caught him by surprise—somehow both delicate and striking against your skin.

"Guys, have you seen my phone charger?" Yunho's voice preceded him into the kitchen, followed closely by San and Mingi. "I thought I left it—" He broke off as he registered Wooyoung and Seonghwa's frozen poses by the window. "What are you looking at?"

Before either could respond, Wooyoung gestured silently toward the pool, his expression a mixture of awe and something more intense. The three newcomers moved to the window as if drawn by magnetic force.

"Oh," Yunho said softly, his tall frame going perfectly still as he caught sight of you.

San let out a low whistle that earned him a sharp look from Seonghwa, though the eldest's reprimand lacked its usual conviction given the flush still evident on his own face.

Mingi said nothing at all, but his sharp intake of breath was audible in the suddenly quiet kitchen. His eyes followed your movements with an almost predatory focus as you tested the water with your toe.

"What is everyone looking at?" Jongho's curious voice joined the group, the youngest appearing in the doorway with Yeosang close behind. Neither waited for an answer before following their gazes outside.

Yeosang's usually impassive face registered genuine surprise, his eyes widening slightly before his natural reserve reasserted itself. Beside him, Jongho's reaction was less guarded—a visible gulp before he quickly averted his eyes, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks.

"This is inappropriate," Seonghwa finally said, though his voice lacked its usual authority. He looked to Hongjoong for support as the leader entered the kitchen, drawn by the unusual gathering. "We shouldn't be—Hongjoong!"

The sharp call of his name was necessary because even their leader, typically the most disciplined among them, had become momentarily transfixed by the sight of you slowly descending the pool steps, water rising around your waist as the blue lights illuminated your skin.

Hongjoong snapped back to attention at Seonghwa's call, his eyes clearing as if emerging from a trance. "Everyone back to what you were doing," he ordered, his voice low but commanding. "Now."

The alpha authority in his tone was enough to break the spell, sending most of the members reluctantly dispersing—though not without backward glances toward the pool.

"But hyung," Wooyoung protested, "I was just thinking I could use a swim too..."

He took a step toward the door, still fully clothed in his loungewear, but was immediately intercepted by Seonghwa, who grabbed his arm firmly.

"Absolutely not," Seonghwa hissed, pulling him back from the door. "She deserves privacy."

"I wasn't going to—" Wooyoung began indignantly.

"You were," San countered with a knowing smirk. "We all know you were."

Wooyoung deflated slightly, his mischievous grin acknowledging he'd been caught. "Fine. But can you blame me? Did you see that tattoo? A tulip! Right down her—"

"We all saw," Hongjoong interrupted, his voice carrying a warning edge that silenced Wooyoung immediately. "And now we're all going to respect her privacy and go back to our rooms."

"Some of us need to go take very cold showers," Mingi muttered under his breath, earning a sharp elbow from Yunho and a suppressed snort of laughter from San.

Seonghwa, having successfully prevented Wooyoung's pool expedition, turned to herd the remaining members out of the kitchen. "Go on, all of you. Early morning tomorrow, remember?"

As the others reluctantly filed out, Hongjoong remained by the window for a moment longer, his expression unreadable as he watched you swim a smooth lap across the pool. There was something almost pained in his gaze—a conflict between desire and restraint that echoed the complexity of the situation they all found themselves in.

"You too, Hongjoong-ah," Seonghwa said quietly, returning to find the leader still watching. "Whatever this is between all of us... we need to be careful."

Hongjoong nodded, finally turning away from the window. "I know. It's just—" He paused, struggling to articulate the feeling. "It's getting harder to remember why we're being so careful."

Seonghwa understood the sentiment all too well. What had begun as an inexplicable connection with their new assistant had evolved into something far more profound over these past weeks—a pull that defied professional boundaries and conventional explanation.

"Because she works for us," Seonghwa reminded him gently. "Because we don't fully understand what's happening. Because eight alphas and one beta is a complicated dynamic no matter how you look at it."

Hongjoong gave him a strange look at the word "beta," as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Instead, he simply sighed and moved away from the window. "You're right. Goodnight, Seonghwa."

As the kitchen emptied, silence settled over the main house, though the ripples from your simple decision to go for a swim continued to spread through the minds and hearts of eight alpha idols, each trying to process their reactions in the privacy of their own rooms.

---

The water felt heavenly against your skin, cool enough to be refreshing but not cold enough to be uncomfortable. You swam lazy laps, feeling the day's tension gradually melt away with each stroke. The silence of the night, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the pool's edge, was exactly the reset your overstimulated mind had needed.

After fifteen minutes of swimming, you floated on your back, gazing up at the stars visible through the Seoul light pollution. The peaceful moment was interrupted by the distinct sensation of being watched. You tilted your head toward the main house, but the kitchen windows showed only darkness, the lights having been turned off at some point during your swim.

Shaking off the feeling, you decided you'd spent enough time in the pool. Tomorrow would be another full day of comeback preparations, and despite the rejuvenating effects of the swim, you still needed proper rest. You climbed out of the pool, water streaming from your skin as you reached for your towel.

As you dried off, you couldn't shake the lingering sensation that had prickled at the back of your neck—that brief, certain feeling of multiple eyes on you. Had the members seen you in the pool? The thought sent a flush of heat through you that had nothing to do with exertion or temperature.

You wrapped the towel around your waist and gathered your hair over one shoulder, wringing out the excess water. The night air felt cooler now against your damp skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. You hurried back to the guesthouse, suddenly self-conscious in a way you hadn't been before entering the pool.

Inside, you showered quickly to rinse off the chlorine, your mind still caught on the possibility that some—or all—of the members might have seen you swimming. What would they have thought of the tattoo? Most people were surprised to discover you had one, given your typically professional appearance. The delicate tulip that trailed down your spine was a reminder of your mother, whose favorite flower it had been. You'd gotten it on your twentieth birthday, a private symbol of connection to her that was rarely visible to others.

As you changed into your pajamas, your phone chimed with a message. You picked it up, expecting perhaps a schedule update from Minwoo, but instead found a text from.

Hongjoong: Everyone's meeting at 7:30 tomorrow instead of 7:00. Extra half hour of rest before the photoshoot. Make sure you take advantage of it too.

The thoughtfulness of the message warmed you, but you couldn't help wondering about the timing. Had he seen you at the pool and decided everyone needed more rest? Or was it simply his leader instincts kicking in after a long day?

You typed back a quick response:

I'll let everyone know. Thank you for the consideration.

After a moment's hesitation, you added:

The pool was perfect tonight. I should have been using it all along.

You hit send before you could overthink the addition, then immediately wondered if it was too obvious—if it somehow acknowledged the sensation of being watched that you couldn't quite dismiss.

Hongjoong's reply came faster than you expected:

Glad you enjoyed it. It's there for everyone to use. Sleep well, Y/n.

The neutrality of his response gave nothing away, but something about it still felt charged with unspoken meaning. You set your phone aside, trying to dismiss the overthinking that threatened to undo the relaxation your swim had provided.

As you settled into bed, you couldn't help but imagine how the members might have reacted if they had seen you—Wooyoung's dramatic commentary, Seonghwa's attempt at propriety, Mingi's intense gaze. The thoughts should have embarrassed you, but instead, they sent a flutter of something else entirely through your stomach—something dangerously close to anticipation.

Your hand drifted to the scent blocker behind your ear, the habitual gesture grounding you back in reality. Whatever was developing between you and the eight alphas under your care, it existed within boundaries—professional, practical, and self-protective. The blocker was a physical reminder of those boundaries, of the essential truth you kept hidden from them.

Yet as sleep began to claim you, your last conscious thought was to wonder how much longer those boundaries could hold against the tide of connection that grew stronger with each passing day.

---

The next morning

"Did anyone ever get me a coffee? I feel like I asked for coffee hours ago. Or was that in my dream?" Wooyoung's dramatic complaints filled the kitchen as you entered the main house at precisely 7:30, tablet in hand and ready for the day's packed schedule.

"If you want coffee, the machine is right there," Yeosang replied dryly, not looking up from his own mug.

"But it tastes better when someone else makes it," Wooyoung whined, before his eyes landed on you in the doorway. For a split second, something flashed across his expression—a reminder of whatever he might have seen last night—before his usual playful demeanor reasserted itself. "Y/n! Good morning! Have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite person in this household?"

"Not in the last twelve hours," you replied with a smile, setting your tablet down and moving toward the coffee machine. "Let me guess. One sugar, extra milk?"

"See?" Wooyoung exclaimed to no one in particular. "She remembers! This is why she's the best!"

You felt other eyes on you as you prepared Wooyoung's coffee—subtle glances from the members scattered around the kitchen and dining area. There was a different quality to their attention this morning, a heightened awareness that hadn't been there before. You mentally replayed your swim from the night before, wondering if the pool area was more visible from the house than you'd realized.

"Sleep well?" Hongjoong asked casually as you handed Wooyoung his coffee. The leader was reviewing something on his phone, his posture relaxed, but there was a careful neutrality in his tone that piqued your suspicion.

"Very well, thank you," you replied, equally casual. "The extra half hour was appreciated."

Seonghwa entered from the pantry with an armful of breakfast ingredients, his eyes meeting yours briefly before sliding away, a faint color rising to his cheeks. "Good morning, Y/n. Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes."

"Can I help?" you offered, moving toward him.

"No need," he replied quickly—perhaps too quickly. "I've got it under control. You should sit and review the day's schedule with Hongjoong."

You nodded, returning to where you'd left your tablet, but not before catching the subtle glance Seonghwa exchanged with the leader—a look laden with meaning you couldn't quite decipher.

As you took a seat at the island, San sauntered in, his hair still damp from a shower. His eyes lit up when he saw you, a mischievous smile playing at his lips. "Good morning! Did you have a nice swim last night?"

The direct question confirmed your suspicions, heat immediately rising to your cheeks. So they had seen you. The question now was: how many of them, and how much had they observed?

"I did, actually," you replied, aiming for nonchalance despite your flushed face. "The pool was perfect after such a long day."

"I bet," San said, his smile widening as he caught Mingi's warning glare from across the room. "Water looked... inviting."

"It was," you confirmed, now certain that at least some of them had definitely watched you swimming. The realization should have mortified you, but instead, you felt a strange thrill at their collective attention—at the knowledge that they had seen a different side of you than the professional assistant they were accustomed to.

Jongho and Yunho entered the kitchen together, both pausing almost imperceptibly when they saw you before continuing to their usual seats. Jongho couldn't quite meet your eyes, a tell-tale blush coloring his cheeks despite his attempt at composure.

"The car for the photoshoot will be here at 8:45," you announced, deliberately changing the subject to safer, professional territory. "The concept team sent over the final wardrobe selections this morning, and they're excited about the underwater theme for the second set of photos."

"Underwater theme?" Wooyoung repeated, his eyes sparkling with barely contained mischief. "How appropriate, considering—"

"Considering the comeback concept focuses on transformation," Hongjoong smoothly interrupted, shooting Wooyoung a pointed look. "Water being a symbol of rebirth and change."

"Right, right," Wooyoung agreed, not looking remotely chastised. "Transformation. That's exactly what I was going to say."

You bit back a smile, focusing intently on your tablet screen. The dynamic in the room was charged with a new energy—playful but intense, like a shared secret hovering just below the surface of normal conversation.

"Before I forget," you said, remembering a detail from your morning emails, "the stylist wanted to know if anyone has a problem with using temporary tattoos? They’ll be featured in the concept photos. Apparently, they've adjusted some of the styling to include more revealed skin than originally planned."

The question landed in the room like a stone dropped in still water, ripples of reaction spreading visibly across eight alpha faces. San choked slightly on his orange juice. Mingi suddenly became intensely interested in the ceiling. Wooyoung's mouth opened and closed without producing sound.

"I don’t believe so," Hongjoong replied after a beat too long, his voice carefully controlled. "I think we’ve all suddenly become a fan of tattoos."

Yunho let out a frustrated groan and sat on the couch, earning a glare from Seonghwa. 

"Interesting choice of question," Yeosang observed quietly, his perceptive eyes studying your face. "Any particular reason you're asking about tattoos this morning?"

The deliberate prod confirmed what you'd already suspected—they had all seen you last night, including the tulip tattoo trailing down your spine that was normally hidden beneath your professional attire.

Two could play at this game.

"Just being thorough," you replied with an innocent smile. "After all, sometimes what a person shows to others might be different than what they truly feel. Best to be prepared."

The double meaning hung in the air, acknowledged in the slight widening of Yeosang's eyes and the muffled laugh Yunho tried to disguise as a cough.

Seonghwa, ever the peacekeeper, cleared his throat loudly. "Breakfast is ready. Everyone should eat quickly since we have a tight schedule today."

As the conversation shifted to more mundane topics, you caught Mingi watching you, his dark eyes intense in a way that sent a shiver down your spine—right along the path where your tattoo bloomed against your skin. When your eyes met his, he didn't look away. Instead, he held your gaze with deliberate focus, a silent acknowledgment passing between you.

They had seen you. All of you—not just the professional assistant who managed their schedules, but the woman beneath the polished exterior. The woman with a tattoo trailing down her spine and enough confidence to swim alone under the stars.

And judging by the charged atmosphere in the kitchen this morning, none of them would be forgetting the sight anytime soon.

As the meal progressed, Wooyoung cleared his throat dramatically, drawing everyone's attention. "I've been thinking," he announced, as if sharing profound wisdom.

"Dangerous," Yeosang muttered, earning a glare from Wooyoung.

"As I was saying," Wooyoung continued pointedly, "I think our Y/n needs a nickname."

Your eyebrows rose, immediately suspicious of where this might be heading. "A nickname? I think my name works just fine."

"No, no," Wooyoung insisted, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "We all have nicknames for each other. It's part of being in the group."

"I wasn't aware I was 'in the group,'" you countered, though the idea sent a pleasant warmth through your chest despite your wariness.

"Of course you are," San chimed in, clearly catching on to whatever Wooyoung was planning. "You've been with us for weeks now. You're practically family."

Wooyoung nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! And I've thought of the perfect nickname for you." He paused dramatically, his eyes locked with yours. "Tulip."

The simple word hung in the air, its implications immediately clear to everyone at the table. Heat rushed to your cheeks as several members suddenly became very interested in their breakfast. Hongjoong shot Wooyoung a warning look that went completely ignored.

"Tulip?" you repeated, your voice impressively steady despite the flush spreading across your face. "Any particular reason for that choice?"

Wooyoung's smile widened, the picture of false innocence. "They're elegant flowers. Delicate but strong. They have... interesting stems." His gaze flicked momentarily to your back, making his meaning unmistakable. "It suits you."

You could see his satisfaction at having flustered you—at the blush you couldn't control and the awkward silence that had fallen over the table. He thought he'd won this little game, pushing the boundaries of your professional relationship with his playful teasing.

But two could play at this game.

Something shifted in your demeanor as you made a split-second decision. Leaning forward slightly, you rested your chin on your hand and fixed Wooyoung with a gaze you knew was far from your usual professional look.

"Tulip," you repeated softly, letting the word roll off your tongue in a way that was almost a purr. "I like it. Especially coming from your lips, oppa."

The deliberate honorific coupled with your sudden shift in tone had exactly the effect you'd hoped for. Wooyoung's triumphant smile froze, his eyes widening as the tables turned. Around the table, you heard a few sharp intakes of breath.

Not stopping while you had the advantage, you continued, your voice dropping to a tone that walked the line between playful and seductive. "Are you saying you liked what you saw last night? My... interesting stem?"

Wooyoung's mouth opened but no sound emerged. The flush you'd been sporting moments ago was now mirrored on his face, spreading rapidly down his neck. From the corner of your eye, you could see Mingi gripping his chopsticks so tightly his knuckles had whitened, while Jongho seemed to have forgotten how to breathe entirely.

With a soft laugh, you broke the spell, rising gracefully from your seat and gathering your tablet. "Tulip it is, then. I think it has a nice ring to it." You glanced around the table, enjoying the collection of stunned expressions. "We should leave in twenty minutes if we want to arrive on time for the photoshoot. Don't be late."

As you walked out of the kitchen, you couldn't resist glancing back over your shoulder. Wooyoung remained frozen in place, his breakfast forgotten as he stared after you, looking like he'd been struck by lightning. San was doubled over in silent laughter beside him, while Seonghwa appeared torn between disapproval and reluctant amusement.

Hongjoong's eyes met yours across the room, something dark and appreciative in his gaze that sent a shiver down your spine—right along the path of the tattoo that had started this whole episode.

You left the kitchen with a smile playing on your lips, oddly invigorated by the exchange. Every time they thought they had you figured out, you found a way to surprise them. Professional assistant? Yes. But perhaps a bit more complex than they'd initially assumed.

Behind you, you heard Yunho's voice break the silence: "I think Wooyoung just short-circuited."

"Worth it," came San's delighted reply. "Totally worth it to see his face."

"Tulip is officially the most dangerous person in this house," Mingi added, his deep voice carrying an unmistakable note of admiration.

The new nickname—and what it represented—marked another shift in your evolving relationship with the eight alphas. Whatever game you were all playing, the rules were changing by the day, boundaries blurring even as the connection between you deepened.

Today's schedule would be demanding, the comeback preparations intensifying as the deadline approached. But beneath the professional responsibilities and practical tasks lay something deeper—a current of connection that continued to pull you all toward some unknown destination, one revealed truth at a time.

Next>>

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[sixxels]

yearn ~ r.sukuna ~ angst.

fratboy!sukuna x reader

the smoke clings to the ceiling like guilt, thick and slow and suffocating. sukuna stares at the burn mark on his comforter, where the ash from the blunt dropped earlier, but he doesn’t move to brush it away. the room’s quiet except for the low hum of the old fridge and the occasional burst of laughter from the living room where the rest of the frat is pretending life isn’t ugly. his head tips back against the wall, eyes red and glassy, not from crying, he tells himself, but from the high.

he can still hear your voice. soft. cracked around the edges. “why are you acting like this ryo?” you’d asked, standing in the doorway of his room that night, fingers curled into the sleeves of your hoodie like you were holding yourself together. “what... what did i do wrong...?”

he’d scoffed, mean and hollow, biting down on his lip to suppress the ache in his chest. “don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. you didn’t do anything. i’m just not interested.”

“you’re lying,” you whispered. you looked so sure. so goddamn sure. like you could see right through him. like you weren’t afraid of what you’d find. “ryo, please, i know you don't feel that way, i know—”

“you don't know shit y/n,” he snapped, standing up so fast the chair he was sat in screeched across the floor. “this? whatever fantasy you’ve got going on up in your head? it’s not real. i hook up, i fuck, that’s what i do. i’m not boyfriend material, sweets. you fucking knew that.”

he’d watched something in your face shatter. your eyes went wide for a second like you’d just been slapped, and then you nodded. once. sharp. “right... i... i get it.” your voice shook, but you didn’t dare cry. not yet. you just turned around and left, shutting the door behind you like he was something to leave behind.

he’d stood there for hours after. didn’t go to the stupid party that raged on downstairs. didn’t drink. didn’t even move. because that wasn’t what he wanted to say. what he wanted was to grab your wrist and pull you back and tell you he was scared. that he’d never wanted anything more than you. that you made him feel like maybe he could be more than just some fucked-up frat boy with a god complex and too many bodies to count.

but he stayed quiet. because love from him? it was a curse. and you deserved better.

he drags another inhale from the blunt, coughs into the sleeve of his hoodie, and blinks back the memory of the next night after he had rejected you so coldly.

you were sitting on the steps outside the frat. head bowed, hair falling in front of your face. and gojo was next to you, arms slung around your shoulders, voice low and steady like it always is when he’s trying to be serious. “you don’t have to talk,” he’d said, brushing your tears away with his thumb. “but you’re not alone, alright? you’re not alone.”

and you’d leaned into him like you belonged there. like it was safe. and sukuna watched from the shadows like a fucking coward, nails digging into his palms, teeth clenched so hard it hurt. because he should’ve been the one holding you. but he knew how this played out. gojo was soft where sukuna was sharp. patient where he was reckless. the type to kiss your forehead and mean it. the type to remember your birthday without needing a calendar.

so sukuna turned around and walked back inside, pretended he didn’t see the way you clung to gojo like you were drowning and he was air.

he’s been pretending ever since.

his phone lights up with a text from some girl he doesn’t remember meeting, heart emoji at the end like he’s worth feeling something for. he doesn’t open it. just lets the screen go dark again and stares at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he got here. two years. two fucking years of falling for you in silence. laughing at your jokes even when no one else got them. offering you his hoodie when you were cold even though he played it off like he was just tired of hearing you complain. calling you sweetheart because it made you roll your eyes and smile up at him at the same time.

he still remembers the way you looked at him once, months before the fall out. you were on his bed, scrolling through your phone, and he was just watching you like a goddamn idiot. you glanced up and caught him staring, and instead of asking what, you just said, “you’ve got that look again.”

“what look?” he asked, voice rough.

“like you want to kiss me but you’re too scared.”

he almost did. right then. almost leaned over and ruined everything early. but he just snorted and said, “you wish,” and turned away, heart pounding like a fucking war drum in his chest. because he wanted to. so fucking badly he wanted nothing more than to have you, to kiss you like he meant it.

now you’re with gojo. and he can’t even hate him for it. gojo’s good. really good. he’ll treat you like you’re the center of the universe. and you deserve that. deserve someone who shows up and says how they feel instead of burning bridges just to avoid the pain of vulnerability.

sukuna doesn’t get that. he gets this. a room full of smoke and silence and regret, the weight of unsaid words choking him harder than any blunt ever could.

he runs a hand over his face, dragging his nails down his jaw until it stings, eyes fluttering shut. he whispers to the dark, voice hoarse and cracked like something long-dead, “i’m sorry.”

no one hears it. not you. not gojo. not the version of himself that still believed he could be better.

but it’s the truth. and maybe that counts for something.

he’ll never tell you. never say it out loud. never ruin what peace you’ve found just to unburden his guilt.

he’ll just sit here, night after night, loving you from a distance. too much of a coward to let you in, too in love to ever let you go.

[majinbangus]

continuing my big simon x single!mom reader bullshit :P

-> more here

There's a frantic knock on his door.

It's insistent. A peculiar sound to hear near the end of his day during the late evening. Visitors are a rare occurrence, and if he does get them, he usually knows they're coming.

The knocks persistent. Audacious. Bold. Demanding. He approaches the door, not overly concerned with who it may be, but with a healthy dose of caution. Knowing his history, he brings along a small glock.

When he unlocks the door and cracks it open- this complex doesn't have peepholes- his gaze drops down, and he moves to tuck his gun into the back of his jeans, widening the door.

It's your boy, his little name twin. Alone. Scared. On the verge of tears. Like another little boy he knew in another life. A boy he once was. He drops down to one knee, placing a hand on the lad's shoulder.

Little Simon is trembling. He scans the hallway behind his young visitor. Empty. Void of life except for this child in front of him, clearly seeking his help. A tiny storm about to break in this ostensibly lifeless building. The neighbors wouldn't even know it. Then, he cracks. A warning before the lightning strikes.

"S-Simon-"

He cuts the lad off before he can get anything else out. Before he breaks. "Where's your mum? What happened?"

The tears fall and your boy throws himself into his chest.

"Mama won't wake up!"

-

He carried you from the couch to your bed.

You're sick. Really sick, but Simon doesn't think you need to go to the hospital. Not yet. He places a hand on your forehead. Still hot.

He checked your temperature once he got you settled. Thirty-eight degrees. Simon's no medic, but he'll continue to monitor your status throughout the night. Make sure you don't overheat. Take you to the hospital if you need it. He can do that much. A simple mission compared to anything else he's faced.

There's a creak from your bedroom door, and he drops his hand from your forehead, looking up at the little prowler.

"Simon," he greets and the lad curls in on himself, hesitating before edging closer in the room, walking up to where Simon stands. He stares at you with eyes too haunted a kid his age should have.

"Will Mama be okay?"

His voice is hoarse and his eyes are red. A puffy mess from crying earlier. Simon doesn't shame the boy for it, and he won't lie about your condition, but...

"I'll make sure she is," he promises.

Your boy turns to him then, eyes suddenly sharp. Protective. A cub ready to fight for his incapacitated mother. The resemblance almost makes Simon pause. Makes him think back to when he wore a similar look a few times when he grew up, though your Simon wears the look a lot younger than he ever did. Is braver than he ever was as a child. His own words echo in his ears.

A good lad.

Your boy holds out his little finger, and Simon stares. His little name twin glares at Simon with something akin to judgement. A test. "Pinky promise?"

It's no question what he does next.

Simon reaches out and curls his own pinky around the lad's. "Pinky promise."

A smile breaks out on your boy's face.

Test passed.

-

It's 03:03 when you wake up.

Simon is ready and attentive. He's been taking a nap beside your bedside every other hour in a chair he brought from your kitchen table. Not the worst place he's ever slept and not the worst sleep he's ever had. He's certainly thankful you have cushions for your chairs.

You're groggy. Shivering a little, but Simon knows your fever has gone down slightly since he got here. He's been changing out the cool, wet towel on your forehead every time he woke up, keeping you elevated, making sure you can breathe.

You panic a little when you see him, scrambling to create some space between each other,

"What the-?!"

He turns on the lamp on your nightstand, holding up his hands in a non-threatening manner. "It's just me. Simon came and got me when you wouldn't wake up. I've been keeping an eye on you."

You stare at him, the aghast in your eyes still there, but slowly calming down as you get your bearings. "You're- you're-"

"Big Simon." He cracks a wry smirk, lowering his hands again, giving a lazy bow of his head. "At your service."

He doesn't hold back his snort when you squeak, adorably indignant for someone so sick. "You're not gonna let me live that down, are you?"

"'Course not," Simon drawls and it goes silent for a few seconds as you take him in, studying him with eyes that look just like your boy's did when he made him pinky promise, except your eyes hold a certain level of caution the lad should learn. You shift in your nest of blankets, adjusting them around your body when a particularly harsh shiver runs through you.

"Simon got you, you said?" You finally speak up, voice scratchy. Tired but guarded.

He nods. "Told me he tried to wake you up after that movie you were watching together."

"And you brought me here?"

"Made sure you didn't choke on your snot, too."

The offended squawk that escapes you is hilarious, as if you truly had a high opinion about your runny mucus. Maybe it's because you see Simon as a brute who has no room to talk. Maybe it's because you're embarrassed at being seen at a weak state.

You have no rebuttal, choosing to huff instead, looking down at the blankets covering you, sobering in contemplation. Simon waits for you to speak again.

"You really did that?" You eventually ask, voice quiet, not looking him in the eyes.

"Yes," he answers bluntly, and you look up, trying to get a read on him, but Simon gives you nothing, staring back with a blank look.

You break first, breathing out a slow, wheezy sigh. A yawn escapes you next as you sag onto your elevated pillows. "... Thank you, Simon. Not just for tonight, but also for last time. For being kind to him. Simon wouldn't shut up about you the whole time we were shopping."

He snorts. "Made quite the impression on him, did I?"

You give your own small noise of amusement. "Think it's because you share the same name."

"Like I told your lad before: it's a fine name, innit?"

You bark out a laugh, a few coughs slipping in here and there, but you nod your head. "It is. I wouldn't have named my son that if it wasn't."

A smug smirk stretches across his face, and you grin back, falling into a comfortable silence, staring at each other. The peace and quiet of the night settling in the air. A special kind of tranquility being shared between two people who are still practically strangers. It goes undisturbed until you yawn again, and Simon shifts, getting up to refresh your towel and grab water and the medicine your boy showed him where to find earlier.

He comes back and hands them to you. When you're finished taking the medicine, he offers, "I can leave right now if that would make you more comfortable, although I'd recommend you call someone to look after you if you don't think you need the hospital."

You take a slow slip of your water, keeping your face carefully blank. Thinking. Contemplating. Then, you place the water on your nightstand and shake your head. "No... um, stay. Please. I... you..."

You can't finish your sentence, breaking off with a tired exhale, but you don't need to. He understands.

"Sleep." Simon turns off the lamp and leans back into his chair, getting comfortable once more. "I'll watch over you tonight."

You say something back.

He almost misses it in the darkness of the room, but the words linger, permeating the air. He doesn't think the words are entirely for him. They almost sound like a secret. Like it was meant for someone else. Shared with him only because he happened to overhear.

It doesn't offend him. He wasn't the only one who helped you tonight.

Thank you, Simon.

[slut4megantheestallion]

Arcane characters - with a childish but genius reader

Characters: Vi , Jinx, Caitlyn, Mel, jayce, Viktor, vander.

Genre:fluff

Summary: Arcane characters in a relationship with a childish yet secretly intelligent reader.

-Vi

●At first, Vi thinks you're just an airhead. You get distracted by little things, chase pigeons in the street, and constantly come up with the most ridiculous ideas ever

●"Babe, why are you trying to balance a spoon on your nose? We're in the middle of a serious conversation."

●She's overprotective of you, worried that someone might take advantage of how playful and carefree you seem.

●But then, one day, she watches you casually solve a complex mechanical issue that even Ekko had been struggling with, and she's just stunned.

●"Wait, wait, hold on. You did what now?"

●Now she's fiercely proud of you and will brag to everyone about how you're actually a genius.

●If someone underestimates you, she'll smirk and say, "Go ahead, challenge them. I dare you." And when you inevitably outsmart them, she just leans back, arms crossed, grinning.

●Loves that you bring out her more playful side - she's always up for a stupid game or a race through the streets with you.

●If you start rambling about some complicated theory, she won't always understand half of what the fuck your saying, but she listens anyway because she loves hearing your voice.

-Jinx

●Oh, she adores your childish energy. Finally, someone who gets her brand of chaos!

●"You wanna build a potato cannon?"

●"Babe, you're speaking my language."

●You two are an absolute menace together - pulling harmless (and sometimes not-so-harmless) pranks, running around Zaun causing trouble, laughing your heads off.

●At first, she thinks you're just her playful partner-in-crime. Then, one day, she catches you casually, working through some insane calculations for a weapon design.

●"Wait, wait, you figured that out? I thought you were just doodling little cats on the blueprint!"

●Now she's obsessed with your mind works. She'll beg you to explain things, even if she doesn't always follow.

●"So, if I put this here... it won't explode in my face? Ohh, see, that why I keep you around."

●She loves how unpredictable you are- One second, you're blowing bubbles in your drink; the next, you're explaining quantum physica like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

●If someone underestimates you, she finds it hilarious. She'll just sit back and watch them embarrass themselves when you outsmart them.

-Caitlyn Kirraman

●Caitlyn was very skeptical at first. You're constantly getting distracted, making silly faces, and skipping around like a child. She thought you lacked focus.

●But then she catches you dismantling and improving one of Piltover's security devices in under five minutes, and then she nearly drops her tea.

●"You- how did you do that?"

●Now, she absolutely adores your mind. She loves discussing problems with you, even if you randomly interrupt to say something like, "Do you think ducks have existential crises?"

●She's so patient with your antics. If you get distracted mid-conversation, she just sighs, waits for you to finish your tangent, and then guides you back on track.

●she loves how you challenge her and how you make her world so much more fun.

●"Darling, while I do appreciate your enthusiasm, maybe don't poke the criminal while I'm interrogating him?"

●If someone doubts your intelligence, she’ll give them a knowing smirk and let them make a fool of themselves before stepping in and destroying them with logic.

-Mel

●She immediately finds you endearing. You're playful, unpredictable, and full of life.

●At first, she assumes you're just a whimsical, carefree spirit - someone who brings joy into her serious world.

●Then, one night, she finds you effortlessly strategizing a flawless political move that even seasoned council members hadn't thought of.

●"Oh, love... you are dangerous. I like that."

●She adores the contrast between your childish antics and your sharp mind. It fascinates her.

●If someone insults your intelligence, she'll simply smile and say, "You should challenge them. See how that works out for you.

●Loves how unpredictable you are - one minute, you're doodling all over her important documents; the next, you're making a move that changes the entire political landscape.

●"Darling, I can't decide if you're my biggest headache or my greatest asset." (It's both, and she loves it.)

-Jayce

●Jayce is confused at first. You seem so carefree, like you don't take anything seriously.

●But then you casually correct his calculations on Hextech energy output, and his jaw drops.

●"Wait. Say that again."

●Now, he's obsessed with your brain. He asks for your opinions all the time, even when it's something he should probably figure out himself.

●He loves how you bring joy into his life. You make him laugh when he's stressed, and you remind him not to take himself too seriously.

●Protective. If someone underestimates you, he's quick to say, "You have no idea who you're talking to."

●Sometimes, he has to drag you back on track when you go off on a tangent, but he secretly loves your randomness.

-Viktor

●Viktor was not fooled by your childish nature. He noticed your intelligence immediately.

●"You play the fool well, but I see the way your mind works."

●He absolutely adores how unpredictable you are. Your ideas, no matter how outlandish they sound at first, always seem to work.

●"A rocket-powered toaster? That is... ridiculous. But actually, it's not a bad concept."

●He lives for your strange, out-of-the box thinking. You help him see things in ways he never would have considered.

●If someone doubts your intelligence, he just chuckles and waits for you to absolutely destroy them with logic.

●He finds your childish tendencies endearing - he secretly loves watching you chase butterflies or balance a spoon on your nose.

-Vander

●He treats you like you're his favorite kid. You make him laugh, and he loves that about you.

●He assumes you're just the fun-loving type until you start outsmarting people left and right.

●"Huh. You're sharper than you let on, ain't ya?"

●He's so proud of you. He brags about you to everyone, even if you're just goofing around.

●He adores your playful nature but makes sure you're safe - no reckless stunts on his watch.

●if someone talks down to you, he gives then a warning look: "Best watch what you say. They ain't clueless as you think."

[cryptic-forge]

shrooms & blossoms

another noodle dragon drop for my shop. probably the last one for a while; the next drop will be something different.

[velvetinks]

Takes One to Know One

Joel Miller x Jackson! Reader

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, dom!Joel, dirty talk, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (in fiction), rough but emotional sex, wall sex, possessiveness, reader and Joel both emotionally repressed and horny, homophobia (called out), protective Joel, minor angst, language.

You and Joel Miller couldn’t be in the same room for five minutes without tearing each other apart.

Not literally. Not yet.

You clashed over patrol routes, rations, radio static, the fucking weather. He thought you were reckless. You thought he was a control freak with a savior complex. The only thing you agreed on was your mutual hatred.

So of course Maria put you on security duty together during Jackson’s annual church dance.

“Try not to murder each other,” she’d said.

You lasted twenty minutes before Joel got under your skin.

“You always gotta fidget?” he muttered, arms crossed as you shifted your weight from foot to foot beside him.

“You always gotta breathe so loud?”

Joel exhaled through his nose. “I swear, you were built in a goddamn factory just to piss me off.”

You opened your mouth to reply but that’s when it happened.

From inside the church, you heard a voice. Loud. Cruel.

“Didn’t know they let d*kes slow dance now.”

The music stuttered. A few people laughed, awkward and mean. And in the middle of it all, Ellie Williams stood frozen on the dance floor, her hand still in Dina’s, cheeks burning red.

Your vision tunneled.

You were already halfway through the crowd before you realized Joel was right behind you.

“Say that again,” you snapped.

The man a smug, soft-bellied prick named Jared raised his brows. “Just surprised, is all. Thought this was a family event.”

Joel stepped beside you. “You run your mouth again, and I’ll make sure you don’t come back to any event.”

“Or walk straight,” you added, voice like ice.

Jared held up his hands. “Touchy, touchy. Damn. Didn’t know y’all were the lesbian defense squad.”

Joel grabbed him by the collar. “And I didn’t know bigots made it past the gates.”

“Joel,” you warned. He didn’t loosen his grip.

“I got it,” he muttered, shoving Jared back. “Get the fuck out.”

When the asshole stumbled off, Joel turned to Ellie. “You good, kid?”

She nodded stiffly. Dina held her hand tighter.

You knelt a bit, lowering your voice. “Ignore him. He’s not worth the dirt on your boots.”

Ellie looked up at you, surprised, then gave a single nod. You ruffled her curls.

As you stood, you caught Joel staring. Not with contempt.

With something else.

Outside, the air was cooler. The music kept playing, muffled now behind stained glass. You sat on the steps, cracked open a new beer, and tried not to let your pulse trip over itself. Joel stood next to you in silence.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you muttered eventually.

“I know.”

“But you did.”

He nodded.

You glanced at him. “You care about her?”

“More than I care about being right all the time.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Joel turned to you. There was something unreadable in his face. “You think I like fightin’ with you?”

You blinked. “Don’t you?”

“I do it ‘cause if I didn’t, I’d be…” He cut himself off. Jaw clenched. “Forget it.”

“No. Say it.”

His voice dropped. “If I didn’t argue with you, I’d be tryin’ to fuck you.”

The beer nearly slipped from your hand.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He stepped closer. His broad body blocked the lamplight. His voice went low, rough. “You get under my skin like no one ever has. You piss me off, make me lose sleep. And I still wanna taste you so bad it makes me dizzy.”

Your heart pounded.

“I hate you,” you whispered, voice shaking.

Joel smirked. “Yeah? Then hit me.”

Instead, you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him like you were starving for it.

He groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he’d been waiting years. The kiss was messy, open-mouthed, full of teeth and heat. You bit his bottom lip, he backed you into the church wall.

“Goddamn mouth on you,” he muttered, pressing you hard into the wood. “Always runnin’. Gonna fill it.”

“Promises,” you hissed, grinding against his thigh.

He shoved your coat aside, fingers working your jeans open with practiced ease. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you gasped as his hand slipped into your underwear, two thick fingers finding you wet and throbbing.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re soaked. All that fightin’ just gets you worked up, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head fell back against the wall as he pumped his fingers in and out, curling them just right, watching you come undone like it was his goddamn mission.

When you came, it was sudden and sharp, and he swallowed your moan with another kiss.

But he wasn’t done.

“Turn around,” he said, voice gravel.

You obeyed, hands braced against the wall. He yanked your jeans down to your thighs, grunted as he undid his own belt.

Then you felt him—hot, hard, lining up against your entrance.

“You want it?” he asked, chest pressed to your back, breath at your ear. “Say it.”

“I want it.”

“Say my fuckin’ name.”

“Joel—”

He pushed in slow, deep, a rough groan ripping from his throat as you clenched around him.

“Goddamn, girl,” he muttered. “Tighter than I imagined.”

He fucked you hard, one hand gripping your hip, the other covering your mouth as your moans got louder. Every thrust punched the breath from your lungs. Your fingers dug into the church wall like you were praying.

“This what you wanted?” he rasped. “This what all that attitude was about?”

You nodded frantically.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” He bit your neck. “You take me so good, baby.”

You came again with a choked sob, and that set him off. He groaned your name into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spilled into you.

For a minute, neither of you moved. Just panted. Pressed together. Sweating. Shaking.

Eventually, Joel pulled out and helped you fix your clothes, hands strangely gentle.

You turned to face him, lips swollen, neck marked.

“So,” you said breathlessly. “Still hate me?”

His smile was crooked. “Guess I’ll have to fuck the hate outta you.”

You kissed him again. This time, it wasn’t rough.

This time, it felt like maybe, just maybe, you’d been wrong all along.

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 16

<<<Previous Next>>>

No, you would go. But today would be different. You had decided determined, really that today would be nothing more than a lesson. All work, no jokes. No lingering on things that didn’t matter. No personal questions. No stolen glances. Because it wasn’t fair. He knew so much about you. Your struggles, your habits, the way your mind worked…or failed to work, at times. 

He had seen you laid bare metaphorically, of course, but somehow that was worse. He had read you like an open book, and yet when you tried to do the same, you found the pages blank, sealed, or written in a language you could not understand. What did you know of him? He played the harpsichord. That much you had gathered. But what did he listen to when he was alone? What was his favorite piece?

Did he hum while he worked, or did he sit in silence, letting the weight of knowledge fill the air? Did he prefer tea or coffee? Did he even need to eat? And if he did, what was his favorite meal? Who were his friends? Did he have friends? Or was he always the Sage, always standing apart, untouchable and revered? What had he been like as a child? Had he always been this way poised, unwavering, impossibly composed? Or had he once been clumsy, uncertain, still learning what it meant to be the Sage of Truth? Was he spoken for? 

That thought, more than any other, made something twist inside you, a sharp pang of something you refused to name. It wasn’t his fault you had gotten attached. But you had. And now, you had to fix it. You pushed the door open, stepping into the study room with renewed resolve. Today, there would be no unnecessary conversation, no lingering warmth. Just work. At least, that was the plan. You only hoped he wouldn’t make it difficult.

You entered the room, not bothering to hesitate at the threshold. No unnecessary thoughts. No unnecessary emotions. Just work. Without so much as a greeting, you pulled out your notes, flipping to the section you had struggled with most. The paper was a mess of hurried scribbles, half-finished equations, and the occasional margin note that made less sense now than when you first wrote it. But that didn’t matter. You dropped the pages onto the desk in front of you and spoke clear, direct, without hesitation.

 "On the application of astral runes in planar stabilization," you began, skipping pleasantries altogether. "How does the stability matrix account for flux when the anchor points shift independently of one another?"

It was an advanced question, more than a little out of your depth, but that was precisely the point. If you buried yourself in complex theory, there would be no room for anything else, no stray thoughts, no wandering emotions, no reflections on how unfair it felt to be this exposed while knowing so little about him.

You finally lifted your gaze, forcing yourself to meet Shadow Milk Cookie’s golden eyes. He had been watching you from the moment you stepped in, his hands folded neatly on the desk, his expression unreadable. Usually, he would greet you with a thoughtful remark, perhaps a small observation on your mood or state of mind. But this time, you had given him no opening.

No space for idle chatter. Only a question. His gaze lingered for a moment, searching, as if trying to discern something unspoken. Then, with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, he answered. "A precise question." His voice was as smooth as ever, but there was something else there, something quieter. "Let us begin."

You sat down with a sharp, deliberate motion, placing your notes onto the table before Shadow Milk Cookie could say anything. No greeting, no lingering hesitation, just a question. “About the theorem we covered last time,” you said, flipping to a particular page in your notes, voice brisk, focused. “I was reviewing the applications, but I’m not sure how it applies when you shift the variables outside of the original bounds.”

The words left your mouth in a rush, leaving no space for anything else. No space for warmth. No space for familiarity. No space for him to see through you. For a moment, there was silence. Then, Shadow Milk Cookie, ever composed, inclined his head. His golden eyes flickered over you not with suspicion, not with amusement, but with something unreadable. He did not acknowledge the shift in your demeanor. Did not ask why there was no hello, no trace of your usual energy. Instead, he smoothly picked up the thread of your inquiry, as if nothing had changed.

“A fair question,” he mused, steepling his fingers before him. “To understand the constraints of the theorem, one must first consider its foundational premise. If we deconstruct the function as an extension of its primary logic, we find that-” He launched into an explanation with his usual measured eloquence, his voice even and assured, weaving seamlessly between theory and application.

Good. Good. This was what you needed. You nodded along, forcing your mind to follow the thread of his reasoning, gripping onto each word like a lifeline. If you focused truly, deeply focused on this, then maybe the rest would fall away. Maybe you wouldn’t feel the weight in your chest, the sting of self-awareness whispering that you were lying to yourself. But Shadow Milk Cookie was thorough.

He explained the theorem in layered depth, drawing diagrams with practiced ease, his golden eyes alight with the quiet thrill of dissecting knowledge. His words flowed effortlessly, forming intricate patterns of logic, each thought linking seamlessly to the next. His explanations were precise, unraveling the structure of the problem with such clarity that, for a moment, you felt yourself being swept into it.

You blinked. Wait. What? Your grip on your quill faltered as you scrambled to process the last few sentences. Somewhere between defining the function’s behavior and its correlation to alternative magical applications, he had gone far beyond what you could follow. “Slow down,” you blurted, lifting a hand in surrender. “I don’t-I don’t understand.” Shadow Milk Cookie halted mid-sentence, his gaze flicking to yours. His expression did not change, but there was something in his eyes something careful, something aware. You swallowed, feeling frustration creep into your chest not at him, but at yourself. At the fact that you had let yourself get caught in the cadence of his voice, in the way his words spun knowledge so effortlessly, and now you were struggling to keep up.

No. That wasn’t the only reason. You were frustrated because even now even after deciding that you needed to create distance, that it wasn’t fair how much he knew about you while you knew so little of him he still had the power to pull you in. Still had the ability to make you forget yourself. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering you. Then, instead of continuing, he leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the table with practiced ease. "Tell me, then," he said, his voice softer now, less of a lecture and more of an invitation. "Where did I lose you?"

You gritted your teeth. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair. If he had just been indifferent, if he had simply continued as though you were nothing more than a struggling student, it would have been easier. But he wasn’t indifferent. He was patient. And worse he was perceptive. You forced yourself to exhale. “The part about restructuring the function,” you admitted, flipping back a page in your notes, trying to ignore the way your voice had lost its sharp edge. “You lost me there.”

Shadow Milk Cookie nodded once, then, with the same patience as always, began again. And you let him. You let him guide you back through the explanation, let yourself focus on the words, let yourself be lost in the steady rhythm of learning. Because deceit was a warmer embrace than truth. And if you focused hard enough, maybe you could convince yourself that this was all there was. Your quill hovered over the page, ink pooling at the tip, threatening to drop onto your already messy notes. You stared, not really seeing the words anymore, your mind an unsteady blur of half-formed thoughts.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice was steady, patient as always. His explanations wove through the air, each word carefully measured, precise, yet they slipped through your grasp like sand. You tried to follow, tried to focus, but nothing stuck. You knew it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the material. It was you. And that made it worse. “Do you follow?” he asked, his tone as composed as ever. You blinked, suddenly aware that he had finished speaking. You hadn’t even processed the last thing he said.

“Uh-” Your grip on the quill tightened, your heartbeat loud in your ears. You scrambled, flipping back a few pages in your notes as if searching for something, anything that would make the past few minutes click into place. But it was useless. His gaze was expectant, not impatient, not unkind. Just waiting. Waiting for you to catch up. Waiting for you to be honest. Your chest tightened. You couldn’t do this. “I don’t get it.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, low and tense, barely above a whisper. You swallowed, willing your voice to stay even, but the frustration was creeping in, sinking its claws deep into your ribs. “I don’t” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I’m not following anything you’re saying.”

Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like me to simplify it?” That…That was it. The final push. You let out a short, bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it. Your quill clattered onto the desk as you leaned back, rubbing a hand down your face.

“What’s the point?” His expression didn’t change. He simply regarded you, eyes steady, waiting for you to continue. You almost didn’t. But something in you snapped. “It’s not like I’ll get it if you keep trying,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I don’t...I don’t know why I even bother.” You exhaled harshly, hands clenching into fists on your lap.

“I just...I thought if I kept showing up, if I kept listening, I’d get somewhere, but I...” Your breath hitched, frustration rising to the surface, sharp and undeniable. “It’s useless. I don’t get it. I never get it.” Your voice wavered at the last part, and you hated that. A quiet settled between you, thick and heavy. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the heat behind them to go away. You didn’t want to be seen like this weak, frustrated, cracking under the weight of something that shouldn’t even matter this much.

But then he spoke. “Are you frustrated with the material?” The question was simple. Too simple. And for some reason, that made your chest tighten even more. You opened your mouth, ready to snap out an answer, to deflect, to insist that yes, of course, it was the material. What else could it possibly be? But the words wouldn’t come. Because it wasn’t just the material.

And Shadow Milk Cookie…He was too perceptive for his own good. You clenched your jaw, turning your face away, unwilling to meet his gaze. “I don’t know,” you muttered. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. Silence stretched between you again. You wished he’d just move on. Let it go. Let you sit in your frustration and wallow until the feeling passed. But instead, he said  “Truth is not always kind.”

Shadow Milk Cookie rested his chin against the back of his hand, watching you carefully. “It is a mirror that does not bend to our wishes. And when we look into it, we do not always like what we see.” You stared at him, words caught in your throat. He continued, voice calm, unwavering.

“Deceit, on the other hand, is a gentler embrace. It soothes, where truth may wound. It comforts, where truth may force confrontation.” He tilted his head slightly, gaze sharp, piercing. “Would you rather remain in deceit, then? Because it is easier?” You jolted as if struck.

Your mouth opened, then shut. You had no response. Something in you curled inward, like an exposed nerve, raw and aching. You wanted to say no. You wanted to deny it, to insist that you sought truth, that you weren’t weak enough to cling to something false just because it hurt less. But wasn’t that exactly what you were doing? Wasn’t that why you were here, sitting stiffly in your chair, forcing yourself to create distance because you had let yourself see too much? Your throat tightened. “I-” Your voice failed you. You suddenly felt… exposed. Like he had peeled back a layer of yourself you hadn’t even realized was showing.

Your hands clenched into fists. You needed to focus. You needed to ground yourself in something solid before you spiraled too far. You forced yourself to look at your notes, flipping a page just for the sake of doing something, anything. “Let’s” You cleared your throat, trying to steady your voice. “Let’s just get back to work.”

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment. His gaze wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t pitying, either. Just… knowing. You didn’t like that. But he did not press. “Very well,” he said simply, and began again. You tried to follow. You really did. But your thoughts were elsewhere, your mind still tangled in the weight of his words. And before long, you realized, You weren’t listening at all. You were staring. You weren’t sure when it happened, but at some point, you had stopped hearing his words entirely. His voice became nothing more than a distant hum, like waves rolling in and out against the shore. His gestures, his careful movements, the way his golden eyes flickered with thought it all blurred together into something incomprehensible.

“Are you following?” You snapped upright, startled. You blinked rapidly, heat rising to your face as you scrambled to make sense of where you were, of what he had just said. But you had nothing. You had absorbed none of it. Your breath caught. Your heart pounded against your ribs. You swallowed thickly, gripping the edge of your notes like they could anchor you back to reality. “Wait-wait, slow down, I-I don’t understand.”

Shadow Milk Cookie paused. Then, slowly, he leaned back, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “I see,” he mused, and there was something almost amused in his voice. “You weren’t listening at all, were you?” Your face burned. You turned away sharply, jaw clenching, frustration bubbling up all over again.

“Forget it,” you muttered. “Forget it?” he echoed, arching a brow. “You were so determined when you arrived today. I wonder, what changed?” Your breath caught. You wanted to say nothing. You wanted to pretend it was just another day, another failed attempt at understanding material that would always slip through your fingers. But you couldn’t. Because you knew what changed. And you were afraid to admit it. To him. To yourself.

The silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure how long you had been staring at the parchment in front of you, but the words no longer made sense not because they were difficult, but because they felt distant, irrelevant. Like trying to grasp smoke. You knew he was watching you. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet patience with which he waited for you to speak. But you had nothing to say. Your fingers curled against the edge of your notes, gripping them tightly before relaxing again.

What were you doing here? You had asked yourself that before, but the question had never burned as much as it did now. It wasn’t his fault. That much you knew. It wasn’t his fault that he was always composed, always steady, always carrying himself with the unshaken confidence of someone who knew their place in the world. It wasn’t his fault that he could look at you, really look at you and see through the barriers you thought you had built. That he could tell, without needing to ask, whether you were listening, whether you were engaged, whether your mind was somewhere far away. Instead of addressing anything he continued tutoring in the hopes you’d start to follow along.

The ink on your parchment blurred before your eyes, the symbols and diagrams twisting into meaningless shapes. You weren’t even tired…not really, but focus felt impossible, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. You knew he could tell. Of course he could. Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t miss things like this. Even now, as you sat stiffly across from him, your notes spread out in front of you, you could feel the weight of his gaze.

Patient. Expectant. Waiting for you to catch up, to ask a question, to engage. But you hadn’t. Not tonight. Instead, you had simply nodded along, feigning understanding when in reality, your mind was a thousand miles away. Shadow Milk Cookie finally set down his quill. The motion was deliberate, the quiet tap against the desk almost deafening in the heavy silence.

“You are unfocused.” Your jaw tensed. It wasn’t a question. You swallowed, gripping your quill a little tighter. “I’m fine.” His golden eyes studied you. “Then tell me what I just explained.” You hesitated. There was an answer somewhere in your head, you were sure of it. But when you reached for it, all you found was noise his voice, the rhythm of his words, the structure of his explanations, all slipping past you too fast to grasp. “I-” You frowned. “It was about…” Nothing. Your silence was all the answer he needed.

Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, tapping his fingers lightly against the parchment. “Curious. If you are fine, as you claim, then why do you falter?” You inhaled sharply, irritation prickling under your skin. “I just zoned out for a second.”

“More than a second.”

You clenched your jaw, heat rising to your face. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “It is if you wish to learn.”

That was the thing, wasn’t it? You did want to learn. You wanted to be here. Or at least, you had convinced yourself that you did. But tonight, everything felt wrong. You had walked into this session determined to build a wall, to keep things strictly professional, to separate whatever this was from what it needed to be. He was your tutor, nothing more. And he knew you weren’t listening. It was unfair. Unfair that he could read you so easily, unfair that he always seemed to know exactly what you were thinking, unfair that he could see right through you while you…You knew so little of him. You had spent all this time by his side, listening to his teachings, watching the way his mind worked, the way his words wove knowledge into something tangible. You had seen him confident, assured, unwavering. But beyond that?

What did he like outside of all this? Did he have a favorite color? A favorite meal? Did he ever get frustrated? Did he ever feel lost? Who were his friends? What was his childhood like? What made him him? He had told you once that his hair was a reflection of who he was. But that answer had only left you with more questions. And yet, he had never offered more. And why would he? Why should he?

Your fingers curled into fists on the table. This wasn’t his fault. That was the worst part. This wasn’t his fault. It was yours. Yours for letting yourself get attached, for allowing yourself to wonder, for looking at him and seeing something beyond what was there or worse, for seeing something that was there but was never meant for you.

Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly. “Shall we begin again?” His voice was calm, composed. Like this was just another lesson, just another evening. Your frustration swelled. You couldn’t do this. Not like this. “Why do you care?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, sharper than you intended.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s eyes narrowed slightly not in irritation, but in consideration. “Is that truly what you wish to ask?” You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “I just. I don’t get it. Why does it matter if I’m paying attention or not? It’s my problem, isn’t it? It’s my responsibility to learn.”

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back slightly, regarding you with a look you couldn’t quite decipher. “You misunderstand.” You frowned. “Do I?”

“Yes.” His tone was measured, deliberate. “It is not that I care whether you listen. It is that you wish to listen, yet you do not.”

Your heart stuttered. His gaze didn’t waver. “And that, I believe, is what frustrates you most.” Your breath caught in your throat. You did want to listen. You wanted to be here. But your thoughts had tangled into something unmanageable, something overwhelming, and no matter how hard you tried to pull yourself back, you couldn’t. You looked away, your voice quieter now. “It’s not that simple.”

“Is it not?”

You scoffed. “Of course you’d say that.” His lips quirked up at the corner, almost imperceptibly. “I only speak the truth.” You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temple.

“You always do, don’t you?” There was a pause.

“Would you rather I lie?” You looked up at him sharply, startled by the question. Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze remained steady, unyielding. But there was something beneath the surface. You swallowed. “No.”

He nodded, as if that answer was expected. “Then tell me.”

You hesitated. “Tell you what?”

“What troubles you.” You nearly laughed.

“That’s not how this works.”

He tilted his head slightly. “No?” You let out a dry chuckle. “You’re the Sage of Truth. You already know, don’t you?” He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was softer than before.

“I know what I observe. But I am not omniscient.” Something in your chest tightened. You shook your head, looking away again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” You exhaled sharply, frustration flickering back to the surface. “Why?”

He regarded you for a long moment before speaking. “Because truth is not always what one wants. And yet, it remains. Would you rather embrace deceit?”

Yes. Yes, because deceit was easier. It was a warmer embrace than the truth. Because the truth was…You liked him but…you didn’t know him. Not really. And yet, you had let yourself want to. Your fingers curled against the parchment, heart pounding. Shadow Milk Cookie sighed, leaning forward slightly. “We will begin again,” he repeated, quieter this time. You swallowed hard, nodding without a word. You didn’t know what you were doing anymore. But you knew you had to move forward. Even if the truth was the last thing you wanted to face.

The sharp edges of frustration had dulled now, replaced with something else something quieter, something bitter. You had let your emotions dictate your actions, let them warp your thoughts into something unbecoming. You had sat here, barely listening, building walls between yourself and the one person who had done nothing to deserve it. And for what? Because he saw through you? Because you didn’t know him the way he seemed to know you? It was childish. You were childish.

Your grip on your quill tightened before you finally sighed, letting the tension slip from your shoulders. “I…” You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry.” Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t respond right away. He merely watched you, eyes unreadable in the dim candlelight of his office.

“For what?” You hesitated, pressing your lips together before exhaling. “For… behaving like that. For letting things get to me. For…” You frowned, searching for the right words. “For allowing emotions I don’t even understand to dictate what I do.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering your words. “A rare admission.” You let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah, well. I feel foolish.” His gaze didn’t waver.

“Foolishness is not in acknowledging one’s emotions. It is in denying them.” You stared at him for a long moment before shaking your head. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Say things that make too much sense,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. Then, after a beat, you looked at him again, more serious this time. “How do you always know the truth?” He blinked, the shift in topic catching him off guard. “I am the Sage of Truth.”

“No,” you interjected. “Not as the Sage of Truth. I want you to answer me as Shadow Milk.” His expression flickered, the ever-present composure cracking just slightly at your request. You leaned forward, elbows resting against the table. “What is the truth to you? And don’t give me some grand, philosophical answer. I want to know what it means to you.”

Shadow Milk Cookie was quiet for a long time, his fingers idly brushing against the parchment on the table. You could see the way he weighed his words, measured them as he always did. But this time, it wasn’t for the sake of some grand declaration. Finally, he spoke. “The truth,” he said slowly, “is both burden and gift.” You frowned slightly, but let him continue.

“It is an unyielding force. One that exists beyond our desires, beyond what we want to be true. It does not change, no matter how we plead or fight against it. And yet…” His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. “It is also what guides us. What shapes us. What reveals us, even when we do not wish to be seen.”

You exhaled through your nose, mulling over his words before finally asking, “And what about me?” Shadow Milk Cookie blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You said truth reveals us even when we don’t wish to be seen.” You met his gaze fully now, unwavering. “What do you see? What do you know just from what you observe in me?”

His expression shifted something deeper settling in his gaze, something you couldn’t name. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. “I see someone who tries to convince themselves they do not care, when in reality, they care far too much.” Your breath hitched. “I see someone who holds their own struggles close, too stubborn to share them, because they believe no one would truly understand."

You held your breath. “I see someone who seeks knowledge not just for the sake of learning, but for the sake of proving something to themselves, to others, to someone whose voice still lingers in their mind.”

Your chest felt tight. “That’s-” But he wasn’t done. “I see someone who is afraid.” Your breath caught in your throat. His voice was softer now, but no less steady. “Afraid of being seen. Afraid of being known. However…” He studied you carefully, as if peeling back the layers of your very being.

“You crave it, all the same.” The room felt too small. You swallowed hard, looking away. “I hate that you’re right.” Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, tilting his head.

“Did you want me to lie?” You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “No.” He nodded, as if that was all he needed. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“…Is that all you see?” The question was quieter than before, uncertain. Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his golden eyes. “I see someone who is trying.” You looked up at him. He continued, voice steady. “Someone who, despite everything, still moves forward. Who still chooses to be here. And that, I believe, is no small thing.”

Your chest ached. There was nothing grand about his words, nothing overly poetic. Just simple, honest truth. And somehow, that made it harder to bear. You exhaled, rubbing your temple. “You really don’t hold back, do you?” His lips curved ever so slightly. “You asked.” You let out another breathless chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah. I did.” The weight of the conversation still lingered, pressing down on you. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite so suffocating anymore. “…We should probably get back to studying,” you murmured after a beat. Shadow Milk Cookie inclined his head slightly. “If you are ready.” You hesitated just for a moment before nodding. “I am.” And this time, you meant it. At least you thought you did.

The conversation lingered in your mind, even as you forced yourself to refocus. Shadow Milk Cookie had said his piece laid bare what he saw in you and though the weight of it still sat heavy in your chest, you found yourself breathing a little easier. And as the lesson resumed, something within you eased.

The usual rhythm returned the back-and-forth, the push and pull. You let yourself slip into the banter, your playful nature peeking through in small quips and exaggerated sighs of suffering whenever he asked a particularly difficult question. “Of course you’d expect me to remember that,” you muttered, frowning at the notes before you. Shadow Milk Cookie merely arched a brow. “Would you prefer a simpler question?”

You scoffed. “What, and give you the satisfaction? I don’t think so.” He exhaled, amusement dancing in his golden eyes. “Your defiance is commendable, though misdirected.”

You grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” And so it went. You asked questions. He answered them. He posed new ones, guiding you toward realizations without simply handing you the answers. Somehow, without even realizing it, you learned. Not through rigid memorization or frustrating drills, but through genuine discussion. By the time you finally closed your notebook, the weight of the day felt lighter, the earlier frustration nothing more than a faint echo in the background.

“Well,” you sighed, stretching slightly. “That’s that.” Shadow Milk Cookie gave a satisfied nod. “You grasped the concepts well.” You hummed, tapping your fingers idly against the cover of your notebook before saying, “I don’t actually think I needed to learn this.” His gaze flickered to you, mild curiosity in his expression.

You shrugged. “I just picked the concept that seemed the hardest.” You smiled a little, rolling your shoulders. “Figured if I was going to spend time learning something, it might as well be the biggest challenge. Maybe it’ll come in handy one day.” Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a moment before exhaling a quiet chuckle. “That is certainly one approach.”

You smirked. “Hey, if I’m going to suffer, I might as well choose my suffering.” He shook his head, though there was no real disapproval in his expression. “You continue to be an enigma.” You laughed. “And yet, somehow, you always seem to figure me out.”

He hummed, watching you with that ever-measured gaze. “Not entirely.” That made you pause. Your grin faltered slightly, just enough for the shift in expression to be noticeable. But before you could ask what he meant before you could linger too long on the thought he spoke again. “Shall we conclude for today?” You blinked before nodding.

“Yeah. That sounds good.” He nodded in return, gathering his own notes as you shut your notebook. You found yourself wondering just for a moment, if he had truly meant what he said. That he didn’t entirely know you. That there was still more to be seen. You left his office only to return. You should have stayed gone. But, It wasn’t time for dinner yet, and you had nothing to do. You also nothing to say, no reason to sit here idly while he worked.

Your fingers tapped against the arm of your chair, your gaze flicking between the bookshelves that loomed over his desk, the faint glimmer of candlelight against the deep blue strands of his hair, and the serene focus on his face. Shadow Milk Cookie hardly seemed to register your presence. Or maybe he did and simply chose not to acknowledge it. You weren’t sure which would have been worse. You shifted in your seat, uncomfortable, not with him but with yourself.

Your mind was restless, searching for something to latch onto, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. “…What do you actually like?” The quill stopped mid-stroke. For a long, silent moment, he did not move, his head only barely tilting in your direction. Then, his golden eyes flickered toward you, unreadable. “…I beg your pardon?” You swallowed, suddenly feeling foolish, but you had already spoken. There was no taking it back. “I mean… I don’t know anything about you. Not really,” you admitted, leaning back in your chair. “I know the Sage of Truth. I know the scholar, the mentor, the one everyone looks up to. But… I don’t know you.”

That surprised him. You could tell by the way his brows lifted just slightly, the way his quill lingered, forgotten, between his fingers. You exhaled, shifting under his gaze. “What do you like?” you repeated, softer this time. Shadow Milk Cookie set his quill down, folding his hands neatly over the parchment. “You are quite direct today.”

You huffed. “Would you rather I beat around the bush?” He studied you, something thoughtful behind his gaze, before exhaling softly. “No,” he admitted, almost to himself. You weren’t sure why, but the way he said it made something in your chest feel lighter. Still, he seemed to consider your question carefully, as if deciding how much of himself he was willing to share.

Finally, he answered. “I enjoy playing the harpsichord,” he said, voice even, measured. “The act of creation through music is… calming.” You blinked, you knew this.

He continued. “I find solace in quiet libraries, where the weight of time lingers in the air.” He glanced briefly at the nearest bookshelf, his expression softening just slightly. “And I prefer tea to coffee. Something floral, with a subtle sweetness.” You listened, eyes fixed on him, taking in every word as if they were the rarest truths you had ever heard.

Shadow Milk Cookie hesitated for a fraction of a second, then added, quieter almost like an afterthought “…I like the night sky.” Your breath caught. Not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. There was something different in his tone something uncharacteristically unguarded.

You tilted your head. “Why?” He glanced at you, then away, his fingers pressing together slightly. “…Because it is vast, endless, and unknown.” A pause. “Because no matter how much I seek to understand it, there will always be something beyond my reach.” You watched him carefully, his golden eyes fixed somewhere distant, as if lost in thought.

For a moment, he wasn’t the Sage of Truth. He was just himself. Perhaps you selfishly wanted to see more of that. You hummed, letting his words settle before saying, “So… if you like the night sky because it’s something you can’t fully understand… does that mean you like a challenge?”

His gaze snapped back to you. And for just a second just a heartbeat you thought you saw it. A faint warmth at the tips of his ears. It was gone before you could be certain, but something about it made your own heart stumble over itself. Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his expression, though his eyes held something else something curious. “

You are quite bold today,” he remarked. You shrugged. “Maybe I just wanted to see what kind of answer I’d get.” His lips quirked up slightly, a ghost of a smile, before he leaned back in his chair. “And? Are you satisfied?”

You studied him for a moment, the quiet flicker of candlelight reflecting in his eyes. Maybe it was because you swore just for a moment that you had seen something there, something warm and human and quietly sincere, but you found yourself smiling. “…I think I’ll need to keep asking to know for sure.” Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly, shaking his head, but there was no disapproval in it. Only quiet amusement. “…So be it.”

The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the polished wood of Shadow Milk Cookie’s desk, casting long shadows that stretched toward the walls lined with books and parchment. You leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as you let your thoughts drift, the memory of the night in the Ghost City lingering in your mind. You had meant to focus on your studies tonight to keep things light, simple, free of the tangled web of thoughts you kept getting caught in. But your curiosity gnawed at you, persistent and unshaken. And so, before you could think better of it, you spoke.

“You know… the other day, when we went to the Ghost City, I heard this story.” Shadow Milk Cookie hummed in acknowledgment, quill still moving against parchment, his focus undisturbed. “Oh?”

“Yeah. A ghost told it in the Storyteller’s Circle,” you continued, watching his expression carefully. “It was about two lovers who could only meet once every hundred years.” His quill paused for just a fraction of a second before continuing its path across the page. “A compelling premise,” he mused, his tone neutral.

“What did you make of it?” You huffed, tilting your head. “I don’t know. Chai Latte thought it was romantic.” He let out a thoughtful sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Hazelnut Biscotti said it was tragic,” you added, crossing your arms. “A reasonable perspective.”

“And Earl Grey Cookie said some people are worth waiting for.” At that, Shadow Milk Cookie finally glanced up from his work, his golden gaze flickering toward you with quiet intrigue. “And what do you think?”

You hesitated. That was the real question, wasn’t it? You exhaled, shifting in your seat. “I think… I don’t know if I could wait that long. A hundred years is a long time.” You tapped your fingers against the desk idly. “But I guess it depends.”

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you carefully, setting his quill down. “On what?” You met his gaze. “On the person.” A beat of silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure if he caught the way your voice dipped slightly, the way something quiet curled beneath your words. If he did, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, considering. “A rather pragmatic answer.” You shrugged. “So… would you?” His brow arched slightly. “Would I…?” 

“Wait,” you clarified. “A hundred years. For someone you cared about.” You tried to keep your tone casual, as if this were just another question in a long list of inquiries about philosophy, logic, and the nature of truth itself. But your fingers curled against the fabric of your sleeve. “Would you wait that long for someone?” His eyes searched yours. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, though your heart had a traitorous way of lodging itself in your throat. Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly, his fingers pressing together in thought. “I suppose,” he began, voice measured, “that would depend on what awaited at the end of that wait.”

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“If one waits a century,” he mused, “it is not merely a question of patience, but of purpose. Is the reunion assured? Or is it a mere hope, a wish cast into the void?” His golden gaze flickered slightly. “If there is certainty. if the one I waited for would be there, unchanged, unwavering then perhaps.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words. Then, after a pause one that felt light, almost playful you added, “Are you waiting for someone now?” It was meant to sound like casual curiosity. A natural follow-up. But even you knew better. Something in his expression shifted not in a way that was easily decipherable, but in a way that made your stomach flip nonetheless. He held your gaze for a moment too long. Then, a slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

“An interesting question,” he murmured, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Why do you ask?” You forced yourself to shrug. “Just curious.” His expression didn’t change, but there was something about the way he looked at you something you couldn’t quite name. You realize now it’s hard to make out his expressions. Perhaps it’s faint amusement. A quiet knowing. Then just for a moment you swore you saw it again. A flicker of warmth at the tips of his ears. It was gone as soon as you noticed it, replaced by the careful neutrality he always wore so well. Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back slightly, regarding you with interest. “And if I were?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“If I were waiting for someone,” he elaborated, “what would that tell you?” You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because what would that tell you? Your heart was a traitor, thrumming in your chest as if it knew something you didn’t. But you weren’t ready to answer that yet. So instead, you scoffed, crossing your arms. “It would tell me that someone has very high standards if they’re making you wait a hundred years.”

That earned a chuckle from him soft, real. “I see,” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “A fair assessment.” And just like that, the moment passed like a leaf caught in the wind, drifting just out of reach. But even as you turned the conversation elsewhere, even as you forced yourself to move on, you couldn’t quite forget the way he looked at you in that fleeting second. Or the way something in your chest felt just a little warmer because of it.

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you carefully, golden eyes gleaming with quiet curiosity. You weren’t sure why you kept talking why you pushed just a little further. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to know everything about you, yet you knew so little of him. Maybe it was the way he answered without answering, weaving around your questions like a scholar sidestepping an argument they didn’t want to commit to. Or maybe it was something simpler. Something quieter. Maybe you just wanted to hear him say it…whatever it was. You exhaled, leaning your chin into your palm.

“I don’t think I’d even live to a hundred years old,” you mused, keeping your voice light. “A century is a long time to wait for someone.” Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head. “Indeed it is.”

You tapped your fingers against the desk, gaze flickering toward him. “If it were me, though…” That caught his attention. His fingers stilled against the parchment. “If I knew it was you,” you continued, voice thoughtful, “I wouldn’t keep you waiting.” A flicker of something crossed his expression so brief you almost missed it. You shrugged, as if the words hadn’t set your heart pounding, as if you were merely speaking in hypotheticals. “I mean, someone as important as you? It’d be ridiculous if someone kept you waiting for a hundred years.” You laughed, trying to pass it off as a casual remark. “Who in their right mind would do that?”

Silence. You expected him to brush it off. To give you some grand, scholarly response about patience, about truth, about the nature of time itself. But he didn’t. Instead, he regarded you for a long, quiet moment, his expression unreadable. Then, so softly you barely caught it he spoke. “Who indeed?” Your breath hitched. It wasn’t a question. It was something else. Something weightier. Something that made warmth coil low in your stomach, even though you weren’t sure why. You blinked, forcing out an awkward chuckle. “Well, it’s just a thought.”

 “Is it?” You froze. He was still watching you, head tilted slightly curious, contemplative. He didn’t press, didn’t pry, but the weight of his gaze alone was enough to send your heart into an uneven rhythm. You swallowed. “Yeah. Just a thought.” He hummed, studying you for a second longer before looking back down at his parchment.

But that flicker of warmth the one you swore you saw, barely dusting the edges of his ears didn’t quite disappear. And neither did the feeling settling into your chest. Shadow Milk Cookie was silent for a beat too long. His quill hovered above parchment, the ink threatening to blot as his golden eyes flickered toward you, unreadable. Yet there was no mistaking the way his ears' traitorous things remained dusted with that telltale warmth. You had caught him off guard. But the Sage of Truth was nothing if not adaptable. Slowly, his lips curled into something unreadable too knowing to be innocent, too amused to be cruel. He set his quill aside with deliberate grace and leaned back ever so slightly, watching you with something that made the space between you feel suddenly smaller. "What about you though...Would you wait for me?" You asked with faux confidence, after all it was just a follow up question nothing more...

"A most fascinating inquiry," he mused, tilting his head. "Tell me, are you testing the limits of my patience? Or is this merely a cunning attempt to unravel the heart of the Sage of Truth?" Your breath hitched. You hadn’t expected him to turn it back on you. He must have noticed, because his smile deepened. "You have already given your answer, have you not?" he continued, fingers steepling as he regarded you.

"You would wait for me. And yet, here you are, asking if I would do the same." His voice lowered mischievous, like a scholar who had just found a contradiction in a well-argued thesis. "Curious. What is it you are truly seeking, I wonder?"

Your face grew warm. "I was just asking," you muttered, crossing your arms. "It’s not that deep." "

Oh?" His golden gaze gleamed. "Not that deep, you say? And yet, you pressed the matter. As if my answer mattered greatly to you." You had never wanted to shrink into your chair so badly. "I was just curious!"

"Ah, curiosity!" He gasped theatrically, placing a hand over his heart as if he had just uncovered a great mystery. "A scholar’s greatest vice. And yet, I cannot help but wonder…" He leaned in just enough to make your breath falter. "Is it truth you seek from me, or something else entirely?"

You opened your mouth then closed it. He had you cornered. And the worst part? He knew it. His expression was far too pleased, as if your silence was the answer he had been seeking all along. "You are unfair," you grumbled, shoving a book toward him in some weak attempt at distraction. He chuckled, the sound richer than you expected.

"Unfair? My dear scholar, it is not I who sought answers this evening." You scowled, looking away. "Just forget I asked."

"Ah, but you did ask." His voice was teasing, yet there was something else beneath it something warmer, more thoughtful. "And for that, I shall give you an answer…" You dared a glance back at him, finding his expression softened. He did not look away. "If it were you," he said, quieter now, "then I suppose…" A pause so brief, yet so heavy.

"Waiting a century would not be such a terrible thing." Your heart stumbled. Before you could react, he picked up his quill again, the moment vanishing as quickly as it had come. "Of course," he added, voice turning light once more, "I imagine it would be quite inconvenient for you. You did say you wouldn’t last a hundred years, after all." You gaped at him. "Are you seriously throwing my own words back at me right now?" He gave you a slow, knowing smile. "Why, of course. What kind of scholar would I be if I ignored inconsistencies?" You groaned, dropping your head onto the desk. The Sage of Truth may have been flustered before. But now? Now, he was enjoying this far too much.

For a long moment, Shadow Milk Cookie said nothing. You weren’t sure if that made it better or worse. The weight of his gaze lingered, golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable something you couldn’t quite grasp. And yet, the corners of his lips twitched, ever so slightly, as if he was holding something back. Amusement? Intrigue? Something crueler? It was almost infuriating. “Curious,” he murmured at last, tapping a gloved finger against his parchment. “You asked such a question, knowing full well what you have already declared.” You frowned, tilting your head. “What?”

 “You claimed you would wait for me,” he said simply. “With that same breath, you asked if I would do the same. Are you hoping to trap me in my own words? Or…” He leaned forward slightly, just enough to be teasing, his voice taking on that lilting quality he used when debating. “Are you seeking something more, something beyond a mere answer?” Heat crept up your neck. “That’s not-” 

“Ah, no need to deny it.” His eyes gleamed, a smirk playing at his lips. ���It is only natural. When one flirts with the unknown, they wish for something in return. A revelation. A secret.” He tilted his head, mock-considering. “Perhaps even a promise.”

Your breath caught. He had to be doing this on purpose. You clenched your fists, looking away, frustration bubbling under your skin. It wasn’t just the teasing…it was the way he always did this, always knew more, always stayed just out of reach, dangling answers like bait but never letting you catch them. “I was supposed to be mysterious,” you muttered, your voice quieter now. “Cold, even.” Shadow Milk Cookie blinked. The teasing glint in his eyes faltered, ever so slightly. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “As silly as it sounds… it’s not fair.” You glanced at him, gaze searching.

 “You know everything about me. Where I come from. My friends. How I react to things. And yet, I barely know anything about you.” A pause. A shift. Your hands curled into your sleeves. “It’s not fair.” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment, his smirk fading into something quieter, something more thoughtful. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed not gone, but subdued, as if considering your words in a way he hadn’t before. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a soft chuckle. “Ah… so that is what troubles you.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, fingers steepled together.

 “You wish for the truth, yet I remain an enigma. A most tragic plight.” “Don’t mock me,” you mumbled. “Oh, but I wouldn’t dare.” He tapped a finger against his temple, a slow, thoughtful motion. “It is true, I know much about you. Perhaps… an unfair advantage, as you say.” You raised a brow, wary. “And?” He hummed, as if considering. Then, he smiled mischievous, teasing, but not unkind. “Very well,” he said lightly. “Ask, then.” You blinked. “What?”

 “Ask,” he repeated, tilting his head. “Since you wish to know me as I know you… ask a question. Any question.” His voice dipped slightly, a challenge hidden beneath the invitation. “Let us see if you are ready for the answers you seek.” Your heart thumped. You swallowed. For all your complaints, for all your frustrations, you had not expected him to offer this. And yet… now that he had… What would you even ask?

For a moment, you hesitated. Not because you didn’t have anything to ask, but because there were too many things. Countless questions had been building in your mind since the day you met him things he sidestepped, things he answered only in riddles. But if this was your only chance… if he truly meant only one question… You had to make it count. Your fingers curled against the table. “Were you always immortal?” Shadow Milk Cookie stilled. The glint of amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by something quiet.

For the first time, he looked… caught off guard. You had never seen him hesitate like this before. The weight of the silence between you thickened, pressing against your ribs. He did not scoff, nor tease, nor weave his way around the question like he usually would. Instead, he merely studied you, his golden eyes flickering with something distant. Finally, he spoke. “I was made this way.” His voice was softer than you expected. Not heavy. Not sad. But… thoughtful.

Carefully measured. You watched him, searching his expression. “You were made immortal?” He nodded, fingers tracing the edges of his parchment, though his focus was nowhere near it. “From the moment I came into being, time held no claim over me. It was never a question of fate or choice. It simply was.” The way he said it was almost… detached. As if he were reciting something from a book, something he had accepted long ago. Your heart thumped, but you pushed further. “So you’ve never known anything else?” A soft chuckle escaped him not mocking, but almost… amused by the idea itself. “No. I have not.”

You bit your lip. That answer felt so final, so matter-of-fact. But something about it gnawed at you. Because if he had never known anything else… had he ever wanted to? You hesitated, then asked the next question before you could stop yourself. “And do you ever wish you weren’t?” This time, he truly paused. His fingers stilled against the parchment. Golden eyes met yours, and for the first time, you weren’t sure what you saw in them. He did not answer immediately. The silence stretched not uncomfortable, not tense, but thick with something unspoken. Something considering. He exhaled softly, tilting his head. “You do not hesitate to dive straight into the depths, do you?”

“You said I was allowed to ask,” you murmured, voice steady despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “I had to make it count.”

Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a long moment before letting out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Ever the scholar, seeking the deeper truths.” He hummed, almost to himself. “And yet… you are the first to ask me this.” Your breath caught. The first? Before you could dwell on that, he leaned forward slightly, resting his chin against his steepled fingers.

“There are those who would envy my existence,” he said, voice measured. “To be free of time’s grasp, to witness centuries unfold like pages in a grand tome… It is a privilege few could even fathom.” You swallowed. “That’s not an answer.” His lips curved not quite a smile, but something close.

“No, I suppose it is not.” A flicker of warmth coiled low in your stomach. He wasn’t avoiding the question not exactly. But he was making you wait for it. So you did. You held his gaze, waiting. Finally he spoke. “There are moments,” he admitted, almost absently, “when I wonder.” Your fingers curled against the desk. “I do not regret what I am,” he continued, as if carefully choosing each word. “Nor do I mourn a life I have never known.” A pause. A slow inhale. “But to exist beyond time… is to be a witness, never truly a participant.”

A witness. Your stomach twisted at the weight of that. “How lonely,” you whispered. His eyes flickered. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Another silence stretched between you, heavier this time. And then slowly, deliberately his smirk returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ah,” he mused, tilting his head. “And here I thought I was meant to be the enigmatic one.” You rolled your eyes, but your chest still felt tight. “You still haven’t really answered me.”

“Haven’t I?” You scowled. “Not properly.” A thoughtful hum. “Perhaps not.” You huffed, crossing your arms. “Then at least answer this if you could choose, right now, to be mortal… would you?” Another pause. A longer one. His gaze met yours, not just glanced, not just observed, but looked. As if he were weighing something unseen, something vast and unspoken. Then, very softly he answered. “I do not know.” Something in your chest ached at that. Since you met him, you weren’t sure who had truly won this exchange. You hesitated for only a moment before exhaling, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Well… if it makes you feel any better, we’re friends now...remember?."

A/N Sometimes it really is easier to put a band aid over it ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ In other news I did not do as great as I thought on that chem exam...However, I still have 2 more exams to lock in for...but I got a 93 on my philosophy midterm sooooo, it balances out sort of...

Anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

[lisenberry]

Feral Friday 141 Thoughts     

NSFW/MDNI/18+    

When you really need to ride him...

...He’s sitting on the couch, watching the day’s match.  Knees spread wide and taking up half the cushions.  You’re cuddled under his arm with your feet tucked up, reading a book or a download on your phone.  It’s in the middle of a steamy scene in your latest bodice-ripper.  After chapters’ worth of fighting and resisting, the heroine is finally going to come all over the big mean villain’s engorged appendage.  

You’re so engrossed, you’re sure he can feel your breath change and your cheek heat up where it rests against his chest.  Can he sense your arousal as it dampens your knickers underneath the old, softened t-shirt you claimed from his bedroom floor the first time you slept over?

When the whistle sounds to end the half, you vaguely notice, until he stirs next to you. “Hey, babe?  We got any snacks?”

“Umm, I th-think so.”  You pull your attention away just in time to meet his eyes.  And he immediately knows. 

“Got yourself a good one there, do you?”  You’ve bitten your lips raw, you’re sweating, and your chest is nearly heaving with lust as you nod desperately.

“Do you mind if I take the edge off?”  You squeeze your thighs together and feel the slick dripping past the fabric.

“Your finger or mine?” he asks, keeping one eye on the telly and one on you as your maneuver out of your underwear.

“I’m going to need something a bit more this time,” you nearly whine as you launch onto his lap, careful not to headbutt his chin in your urgency.

GAZ – He doesn't miss a beat as you nestle your excited little pussy just over his cock.  He’s already rock-hard and it doesn’t take much to pull him out from the sweatpants he wears slung low on his hips.

“Take what you need, love.”  He smiles proudly as you drop down onto him, slipping and sliding on your own slick. 

And you do, pitching forward to settle him against the bundle of nerves deep in your belly.   He’s so long, he doesn’t just graze it, he impales it.  You swear he’s in your lungs, stealing your breath with each rise and fall.

He cheers you on the whole way. 

“Look at you bouncing so well on my cock...So pretty all flushed and sweaty...Fucking hot, you are.”

Your unfairly handsome, quick-tongued rake tenderly wipes the hair and perspiration from your face, and lets you use him until you're shattered and worn out. 

SOAP:  He lets you grind against him for a bit through his gym shorts, dick fully chubbed like the pommel of a saddle. 

“Please tell me it’s a Scottish highland warrior that’s got you so bothered, and not some prissy English lord.  You’ll hurt my feelings.”  He grins, his eyes already rolling back in his head at your steady stroking.

“Keep talking, Johnny.”  You hump against him faster, knowing the second you put him in, you’ll be done for.  A weeping, overstimulated mess before he even catches his stride.  His burly, veiny length has an upwards curve like he was molded and kiln-forged just to fit you. 

And he could go for hours if you didn’t wind him up good.  Tease him and test him, get his attention exactly where it needs to be.

“Let me suck on your tits, bonny lass.”  He deepens his brogue and his voice an octave as he tries not to laugh, while he strips your shirt off and buries his face into your bosom.

You are quite sure that the hot-headed highland scoundrel in your story didn’t use the word ‘tits’, but you let it slide.  The one between your thighs is everything you need, and more.

GHOST – He’s wearing jeans, so it’s a bit harder to get him free.  After you let out a frustrated huff at the complexity of his wardrobe, he cups you under your ass and stands you both up.  Undoing his belt buckle and the fly one-handed before setting you back down astride him again.

“Needy little dove today.”

“Just let me try, Si.”  You rarely ever ride him.  The few times you’ve attempted it, you give up when your thighs turn to mush and your cunt aches from being split in two.  He’s just too thick for a quickie.

“Are you going to let me help this time, or are you going to be stubborn?”

“Help!”  The strangled sound escapes your throat as you fit him in to the hilt.  He takes up so much space, you can’t tell where you end and he begins. 

“You’re fucking soaked.”  He rolls his hips to stretch you further, to find the right spot, as your slick trickles down to coat his balls.  You feel them wet and sticky against your seam.

“Mmmh-uhhh, that’s it.  Right there,” you bellow gratefully to the ceiling.

“What are you going to do about it?”  He grabs your hips rudely, fingers pressing to dimple the skin and hold you down as he spears your nerves like a spike.

You fight against his hold, knowing that’s what he's looking for.  Just a little fire in your belly, a little steel in your spine and your merciless, battle-scarred rogue will give you anything you want.

“That’s it, dovey.  Fuck me good.”

PRICE – He’s watching you with awe, wide-eyed and slack jawed, so immersed in the act of being milked by your warm, soft walls that he’s relinquished control completely.  You know that look too well.

“Do not come yet, John.  Please.  Think of bullets.  Hollow points and grenades.  A...ummm, a panzer!”  You’re almost there.  So...close your mind is just pulling words from memories of past conversations you were only barely listening to.

“A panzer?  Like the bloody old German tank?” he asks with the sort of clarity of mind you need of him in this situation.

“Yes, keep thinking of dusty relics rotting in museums.  While I ride your big, beautiful cock—”

“You’ve done it now.”  He groans, and you feel him stiffen inside you.  The sensation of it, coupled with the hot spurts of his spend hitting your most sensitive spot, get you there just in time to join him.

You don’t even mind that it was so quick.  It warms your heart, and your cunt, that the callous, domineering war hero falls to pieces so completely for no one but you.

[chimielie]

hockey player!iwaizumi x f!reader, tooth-rotting fluff, like sweeter than cotton candy, slight injury

When Hajime lost his tooth, he hated it.

He’d always privately had a little bit of a complex about his looks. Growing up best friends with Oikawa made it hard not to compare their looks and come up lacking. He tried not to let it get to him, never verbalized it to anyone, knew that he was still fine. Just nothing special.

They both grow up playing hockey—at least he can beat up Oikawa on the ice (and they always laugh about it off of it). Oikawa goes pro, right out of high school, and Hajime spends a little time dicking around playing college hockey in America before he gets drafted.

He had met you at the bars after a game; his first win after being traded to the team Oikawa’s played for for a couple years now.

The memory is clear: It’s great to be back together, but he feels some trepidation in the car the guys rented, some childish part of him reticent about the idea of going out and watching chicks swarm his best friend, just like their teen years.

He doesn’t even really have time to think about that once they’re in, though, because he, the newbie, gets sent up to order. While he’s waiting for the bartender to pour them the first round of shots, you tap him on the shoulder, touch so soft he barely feels it after getting pummeled on the ice. His right shoulder is tender because he’d slammed hard into the railing right after stealing the puck from Ushijima, sending to Tooru, who had pushed it neatly into the net. An assist on the first goal of the night, and he’d gotten a goal in himself by the third period too.

It twinges as he turns to face you, a clear question written all over his face. It’s not like he’s totally oblivious, like he’s never been flirted with. It just somehow always surprises him still.

“You’re fine,” you declare, already a little tipsy, your cheeks warming as he observes you in your night out outfit. He doesn’t notice a single other girl, talking to Oikawa or not, the whole night.

The next morning, you repeat it to him, curled up against his naked chest, eyes unclouded by drink but your words just as genuine.

It was the first time he’d ever thought of being fine as a good thing.

So when the tooth, his right front one, comes out, cracked by a hard high stick to the face, he almost doesn’t want to come home after the game. It probably doesn’t make sense to get it replaced completely—injuries like this are common in his line of work, and it’ll be a hell of a lot more trouble to keep replacing fakes. He opts for a partial denture, something he can take out during games, but the mold takes twenty-four hours to cure.

You attend as many of his games as you can, but he’d insisted that you head home on your own while the doctors checked him out. You’d ceded only on the condition that you’d have dinner waiting when he got back, something soft and good at room temperature so he wouldn’t aggravate the nerves.

He frowns when you see him, crossing the room and hovering your hands over his swollen cheeks and telling him how worried you’d been, how happy you are he’s okay.

“When’s it gonna be technically healed?” You ask, and his heart clenches.

“It’ll probably be sensitive for a few more days, but they’ll have a coverup ready by tomorrow,” he says. Before he can crack a joke like so you don’t have to look at this ugly mug too long, you’re looking at him with a contemplative expression, one he doesn’t know how to read.

“So… will it hurt if I kiss you?” You want to know. “I feel so bad, ‘cause it must have sucked, but you look so cute like this.”

His heart drops straight through the pit of his stomach in relief.

“Yeah, baby, it’ll be fine… Ow! Ow! Okay, little gentler.”

Still, he wears the flipper as often as he can once he gets it. He doesn’t like the way it looks, the gap, he reasons. Just because you say you do doesn’t mean he’s okay with showing up to functions looking even more like a scrub to your perfect ten. And yeah, he’d think you were beautiful with a paper sack over your head, but it’s just different.

He can hear you whispering before he even walks into the kitchen. You beam up at him, as beautiful as that night in the bar, and his face breaks out into a smile before he even registers it.

“Do you wanna…” you nudge your daughter, and she turns to him, smile just as bright as yours. His heart stops.

There’s a big gap in that smile, the right front tooth missing.

“Look, Daddy!” He catches her up in a big hug, hefting her up so he can inspect her face closely. “Now we match!”

It’s all crashing down on him. He’s bubbling up with it, the fizzy feeling you’d given him in the bar, the tears as he vowed until death do us part, the softness as he’d cradled her in his arms for the first time. You stand, leaning your head on his shoulder as your daughter tells him all about the loss of her first tooth, about the importance of being the first in her class to lose one.

“You’re so brave, kiddo.” He kisses her head. “Makes you even cuter. Want some yogurt?”

[asxgard]

Companionship | pt. 2

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You and Michael have some late night phone calls. He struggles to open up.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: wow! Y’all are really so nice omg, I really appreciate all of you who took the time to like, comment or reblog. I also appreciate all you silent readers too! I’m genuinely surprised with how much traffic part 1 got, so thank you all so much! Contemplating adding this to my AO3 account from the perspective of a f!oc, but still undecided (I prefer to keep my reader works strictly for tumblr, idk why). This is definitely going to be multiple parts (my rough outline currently has ten chapters whoops).

I don’t know much about sugar babies aside from what I’ve read, so I took some liberties with my guesstimates.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: age gap, slowburn, foul language, allusion to a panic attack, work stress, Robby trying to avoid his feelings/anxiety, my basic understanding of accounting, angst

not beta read

“You’re lucky. Someone only looking for companionship is a small pool of men. Not as lucrative as a traditional sugar baby, but if that’s more your speed, maybe reach out to some more.”

Your smile twisted, “I’m already uncomfortable with just one. Thinking about adding more makes me feel icky.”

Erin rolled her eyes, “Why? They know what they signed up for. If they wanted fidelity, then they should get a girlfriend.”

“I’m telling you, I could hook you up with a shift or two a week at the bar. I make great tips.” Marsi said, her eyes not flickering from her laptop.

You frowned. “I already gave him my number. My Google Voice number, but yeah.”

“That’s my girl!” Erin praised with a laugh.

You wondered if it was a mistake. He had not reached out since you had sent the number on the app, nearly four days prior. Perhaps he was having second thoughts. Anxiety filled your chest at the thought of having to go through the whole process again.

Or just drop it and take Marsi up on her offer.

—

Your night passed slowly, studying with your friends until dinner time, when they left. You kept your focus on the Excel spreadsheet in front of you, checking over your homework with careful eyes. Numbers were easy, they did not hold the complexities of human beings—

Your phone buzzed on the table, immediately pulling you away from your work.

You have any time to talk?

It was an unknown number. You watched as the three dots appeared immediately after, though it wasn’t hard to guess who it was.

This is Michael by the way.

So formal, you found yourself thinking with a small smile, quickly adding him to your contacts.

I have time.

It only took a few more moments before your phone started ringing. Anxiety thrummed through your system, heart beating like a drum against your ribcage. You took a long breath through your nose before answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” He answered awkwardly.

“How are you?” You asked out of habit.

There were several moments of silence. “I want to say I’m okay.”

“But you’re not?”

“But I’m not.” Came his quiet reply.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Another measured silence. “No. Yes? I don’t know.”

You hummed. “I understand your hesitation, we don’t know each other. But isn’t that the whole point? I’m unconnected to your life and you basically have anonymity. I won’t pry, so we can talk about something else, if you’d like.”

He was silent for a long time. You checked the call to make sure it hadn’t dropped. The seconds ticked away on the call, so he was still there. You waited.

“Just a…rough day.” He said, his tone sounding stressed. “I think I’d rather talk about your day right now.”

“My day?” You questioned, surprised.

He only hummed in response.

“Do you want the play-by-play or the cliff-notes?”

Michael exhaled a ghost of a laugh, “Give me all of it.”

You cleared your throat, “So my alarm went off at 5:20, no! 5:25, and then I got out of bed—”

He laughed, bringing a smile to your lips.

“I have early classes on Thursdays, so I was up earlier than I usually like to be…”

“Night owl?”

“Guilty.” You smiled. “But it was my forensic accounting class, which I’ve been enjoying, so I wasn’t too upset getting out of bed. Add in my morning coffee, and I was a pretty happy camper.” You paused, but he was quiet on the other end. “I had taxation today too, and despite the fact I love the numbers, learning tax law just isn’t my favorite thing.”

“Why do you like it? Accounting?”

“Oh, um,” you paused, deliberating. “I like turning unreadable stuff into a well-crafted report, turn a mess into an easy to read story of a company’s financial history. Plus, numbers are a lot less complicated than human beings.”

There was his quiet laugh again. “Yeah, I can see how that can be true.”

“As a doctor, I can imagine you would.” You were smiling.

“I’ve seen…a lot of complicated people.”

You waited a few moments, but he didn’t elaborate. People were the primary reason you had left the medical field early on in your college career — while you enjoyed being helpful, people could be too overwhelming.

“And my shift today was good, busy and boring, but easy enough.”

As you went on about your day as a payroll clerk (though vague about the company details), Michael was quiet. It was clear he needed the distraction from whatever his day had been. You explained your studying routine with your friends and your love of baking. You got the occasional hum of acknowledgment, but it was clear he just wanted to listen to you talk. You moved from topic-to-topic without complaint, pausing occasionally to make sure he did not want to comment, or change the subject.

It was late when you realized the time: 11:08.

“Michael? I’m sure I could keep going, but I’m not sure you want to hear my opinions on office politics.” Your tone was jesting.

Still no response. Furrowing your brows, you listened silently to the other end.

Small puffs of air, slow and steady, in and out. In. Out. He had fallen asleep.

Your first instinct was to be offended — no telling how long since he had drifted off or how long you had rambled to no one. But then you relaxed. He had clearly needed the distraction from what was going through his head when he first called, enough to quiet his brain. Or perhaps he was just that exhausted. Either way, you did not take it personally, you would have likely been up this late anyways.

You ended the call at two hours and seventeen minutes.

—

Are you available at 9?

You checked your phone when you moved into the living room, dinner cooking in the oven, finding a text from Michael. Per your agreement, you usually talked about once a week. He usually gave late notice, though it usually reflected how bad his day had gotten. Your last talk, however, had only been three days prior.

In addition to the one only days ago, you had talked two additional times since your first, typically at night, where you did most of the talking. You almost found your talks therapeutic; plus you were getting paid to just talk. Though, you wished he talked more — part of you felt like you were taking advantage of the situation and he was barely getting anything out of it.

He had already put money on the prepaid Visa card you had picked up after your first phone conversation. Michael thought the card would be more discreet and confidential than Venmo. The $400 dollars you had agreed on for the month had done wonders with relieving the pressure on making your rent payment.

Erin had encouraged you to set up an online wishlist as well, adding things periodically in case he wanted to buy something extra for you. “As a tip,” Erin had told you, a wide smirk on her face. That same day, Erin had coincidentally brought her new Valentino canvas bag that you were sure cost more than your rent payment. You held off on the wishlist, but you kept a few things in your notes app. Just in case.

You sent him a confirmation that you were fine with nine. He must work late hours. He had said he was a doctor, but you wondered in what specialty or where, but you had never broached the topic. You both valued your privacy when it came to your arrangement, not wanting to muddy the waters.

Surprisingly, he did not call at nine. He was usually pretty punctual when it came to a time he asked for. You waited patiently for several minutes before moving to start some hot water for tea, looking out the window at the rain. You figured to give him a bit of extra time before turning in.

At 9:24, your phone rang. Part of you nearly picked it up on the first ring, but you gave it a few moments before picking up. When you answered, he spoke first.

“Please just talk. About anything.” He sounded out of breath, talking quickly. His tone sounded more stressed than you had heard before.

“Are you alright?” Was your first instinct instead of doing as he asked, standing from your chair at the dining table, mug of tea forgotten.

“Fuck. No, I’m not. Please just talk to me. Your day. Your job. The fucking traffic this morning. Anything,” Your name was so quiet on his tongue, you nearly missed it.

It sounded like a plea.

You swallowed, pulse quickening, before running with it, “This asshole actually cut me off this morning, which considering his bumper stickers, wasn’t all that surprising. No blinker, nothing. I swear, sometimes the subway is less stressful, though I hate the morning crowds.”

Suddenly realizing talking about stressful things might not be the best way to calm him down, you pivoted, pacing across your apartment. Deciding quickly on something boring to most, you began to explain your most recent accounting assignment. How you came up with the financial analysis from the numbers your professor had given, to the tax implications of several of the (fake) business’s decisions. You explained it as best you could in layman's terms, trying not to make the math too complicated, before walking him through your report and your thoughts about how to help the business improve.

You paused long enough to hear his breathing, not quite as ragged but still loud and quick. “I don’t need you to respond, but think of five things you can see.”

Oh this was cliche, but you did not dwell on it.

After a few moments, “Okay, four things you can touch.” You paused, finding four things of your own to ensure he had time. “Now three things you can hear.”

“You.” He croaked, much quieter than he had been. “I can hear you.”

“That’s good. Now two more things.”

“…the rain. The cars outside.”

“Good,” you breathed out. “Two things you can smell?”

He didn’t answer, though his breathing had slowed tremendously from when you had first answered his call. It felt relieving, and you finally made your way to sit on the couch.

“Last is one thing you can taste.”

He let out a long deep breath, but kept whatever it had been to himself.

“Are you okay?” You asked again after a few moments.

“No.” He said. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

You nearly huffed, but the annoyance was fleeting. You smiled, “I can tell you more about accounting, but most people find it incredibly boring.”

“You seem to really enjoy accounting. Though, I can’t imagine being cooped up in an office all day.”

“Well I wasn’t quite cut out for psychiatry, and I’ve always enjoyed a good spreadsheet.”

“Psychiatry?” He sounded surprised. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“What does that mean?”

“You would’ve been good at it.”

Oh?

“Thank you.” You whispered. “Um, can I interest you in what my professor assigned today or how my manager nearly fucked up payroll this week?”

He cleared his throat, “I’ll take ‘how my manager nearly fucked up today’ for $200, Alex.”

Your lips quirked back up at the Jeopardy reference, trying to shake off the feeling his praise had given you. With a long sigh, you rubbed your fingers along your hairline.

“He messed up the new employee’s tax deductions by misclassifying his title. When he backtracked to fix it, he cleared out the entire category — thankfully I caught it when I was putting my own numbers in for the small team I oversee.” You told him, looking at your nails. “Led to quite a frustrating day.”

Despite the fact that it had led to quite a hectic start to your workday, adding several tasks that interrupted you workflow, you felt mildly pathetic knowing his day had clearly been so much worse. You tried not to compare, your days had just as much value as his, but it was still a creeping feeling in your gut.

You continued on after a beat of silence on his end. Fixing the problem hadn’t necessarily been the issue — it was redoing every employee's numbers that led to your annoyance. That, and the lack of accountability from your manager.

Time ticked on, Michael only adding in his thoughts here and there, mostly staying quiet.

He coughed awkwardly during a lull in your conversation, “Uh, thank you for tonight.”

Beginning to feel your exhaustion, you smiled tiredly. “No thanks necessary.”

“Goodnight,” there was your name again.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

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