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dazevi · 3 months ago

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CHAPTER FOUR: APOCALYPSE

heart to heart series | vi x fem!reader

synopsis: vi keeps coming back. and each time you give in, each time you let her into your apartment, it gets harder and harder to ignore the feelings between you.

content warnings: MDNI. nsfw (18+ content), more angst, fluff if you squint, rockstar!vi, bookshop owner/writer!reader, exes to lovers, friends with benefits dynamic (kinda), smut; more needy sex, pussydrunk!vi, switch!vi but top!leaning, tiniest hint of power bottom!reader, oral (vi and r rec.), face-sitting (r rec.), fingering (vi and r rec.), strap-on sex (r rec.), strap is referred to as a cock occasionally, and idk what else lmk !!!

wc: 15,642

notes: sorry for the long wait on this one! have been having a rough week! anyway this is bit of a long chapter lol. there’s two smut scenes in this btw and it’s barely proofread but i hope everyone enjoys the chapter!! feedback is always appreciated yell at me !!!!!!!!! (also the text messages are now in dark mode since light mode hurts me eyes lmao) fanart by bunimint_ on ig !

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Vi stirs slowly, the early morning light filtering in through the curtains. Her body feels heavy, muscles sore in that way that only comes from an exhausting night—the good kind of sore, reminding her of everything that happened just hours ago. There’s a dull throbbing at the back of her head at the spot where she’d stupidly hit it against the door last night in her rush to catch you but it barely registers, a minor inconvenience compared to everything else she’s feeling.

She groans softly, shifting onto her side, stretching lazily before sighing against the pillow. But then, its hits her.

Her arm slides over the sheets beside her, searching instinctively for warmth, for you. Her brows knit together in confusion as her hand finds only cool sheets. Vi frowns slightly, blinking away the last traces of sleep as she pushes herself up onto her elbows, glancing around the room.

Empty.

You must’ve gone to work—at the shop. You get there at nine in the morning and open shop at ten, she remembers.

But, fuck, she really wanted to wake up next to you.

She thought—hoped—that maybe she’d wake up to you still pressed against her, still warm and soft and sleepy, still hers, even if only for a few more minutes. She wanted to roll over to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, maybe press lazy kisses to your shoulder, feel you sigh into her touch before the rest of the world even had a chance to wake up.

But instead, she’s alone.

You’re gone.

And god, she misses you.

It’s stupid, really. She spent the whole night with you. She touched you, kissed you, held you, had you in ways she’s been aching for since the moment you broke up with her all those years ago.

And yet, even after all of that, the absence of you even now still hurts the same way it did before. Probably more.

Vi drags a hand down her face, sighing heavily, trying to push away the sinking feeling in her chest. She doesn’t know what she expected—if she even had the right to expect anything at all.

You had been clear last night.

No commitment.

And yet, here she is, lying in your empty bed, feeling like a fool for wanting something more.

She turns her head slightly, staring at the spot where you had been, at the way the sheets are still slightly rumpled from where you slept. She reaches out without thinking, fingertips grazing the fabric, but the warmth is already gone.

She should be happy. Fuck, she is happy—happy that she got to have you, to hold you, even if only for a night.

But it’s not enough. It’s never going to be enough, not when she knows what it felt like to have everything with you.

She doesn’t want something casual.

She doesn’t want to wake up alone.

She doesn’t want to pretend that it doesn’t mean anything, that it isn’t everything.

She wants you.

All of you.

Vi exhales slowly, dragging a hand down her face as she forces herself to move, to shake off the heavy feeling settling deep in her chest. Lying in your empty bed, wrapped in the lingering scent of you, isn’t going to make this any easier.

If anything, it only makes it worse.

She pushes herself up, the sheets slipping from her bare skin as she swings her legs over the edge of the bed. For a moment, she just sits there, staring down at her hands, as she could still feel you on her fingers.

Fuck. Get up, Vi.

She finds her clothes scattered across the room, her jeans kicked halfway under the bed, her shirt draped over the chair in the corner, her jacket tossed near the doorway. She takes her time dressing, moving slower than necessary, not because she needs to—but because she wants to.

She smooths out the sheets, pulling the blankets back into place, running her hand over the fabric like it’ll somehow make up for the fact that she’s leaving before she even got to say good morning. It’s almost laughable—how she never used to care about things like this, how she never used to be the type to tidy up after herself after a one-night stand.

But this isn’t just anyone.

This is you.

After the bed is made, Vi takes her time slipping her shoes on, letting her gaze wander around your room.

She stands beside your bed, staring down at the neatly made sheets, her fingers absently smoothing out a wrinkle that doesn’t really need fixing. She’s already done enough to stall—already taken her time getting dressed, already let her hands linger too long on your things, already memorized every little detail.

But now she just stands there, her gaze moving toward your nightstand.

It’s simple, uncluttered. A lamp, a half-read book with a slip of paper tucked between the pages, a small dish with a few rings and hair ties, a glass of water gone untouched.

Vi exhales slowly.

She wishes she could stay—wants to crawl back into your bed and pull the blankets over her, wants to press her face into the pillow and drown in the scent of you.

Instead, she reaches into her pocket, her fingers brushing against cool metal, and pulls out her favorite lighter.

A Zippo—well-worn, the silver casing slightly scratched from years of use, a small emblem on the front that’s barely visible anymore from the way she’s fidgeted with it over time. It’s the one she always carries, the one she flips open and shut whenever she’s deep in thought, the one she’s had for years.

And she leaves it there.

She sets it down on your nightstand without hesitation, placing it next to your book, her fingers lingering against the cool surface for just asecond.

It feels desperate—leaving this here in your apartment—but she doesn’t really care. She doesn’t know if you’ll even notice it right away, if you’ll recognize it for what it is. Maybe you’ll just brush past it, thinking it’s something that was always there. Maybe you’ll pick it up and scoff, knowing exactly who left it behind.

But either way, it’s something hers. A piece of her, sitting there, waiting. A reason for you to reach out.

She pulls her hand away, staring at it for a moment longer, then sighs, running a hand through her hair.

Maybe it’s stupid, she thinks.

But she forces herself to move, to step away from the bed and into the living room.

Her fingers brush over the back of the couch as she walks through the living room, her eyes catching on the shelves filled with books, the neatly stacked notebooks on the coffee table, the soft throw blanket tossed over the armrest.

And then, as her gaze drifts, she sees tokens of your life in different parts of the room. Little trinkets. Small, seemingly insignificant things to anyone else—but to her, they are everything.

Her breath catches as she reaches out, fingers tracing over a tiny, worn keychain that she knows was once attached to her old truck keys. A small ceramic fox she remembers you winning at a carnival back in high school. A faded concert ticket stub—one of her concerts.

Her stomach twists again.

You kept these.

Vi swallows hard, her fingers curling slightly before she pulls her hand away. She doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know what it means. But she lets herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she’s not the only one holding on.

With one last glance around, Vi exhales and forces herself toward the door, her heart feeling heavier with every step.

She steps out into the cool morning air, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders as she makes her way to her truck. The sun is barely rising, the city still quiet, save for the occasional distant hum of traffic.

She slides into the driver’s seat, the door shutting with a heavy thud. For a moment, she just sits there, gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing in particular, her mind still back in your apartment, still in your bed, still pressed against your warm skin. She can still smell you on her clothes, still feel your touch lingering along her body like an imprint she never wants to fade.

Vi exhales sharply, leaning back against the headrest, her fingers flexing against the leather wheel as she lets it all settle in.

She thought she could, thought she could take whatever you were willing to give her and be satisfied with it, but fuck—she isn’t.

She doesn’t want this to be the last time.

Vi rubs at her face, dragging a hand through her hair, before reaching into her pocket and pulling out her keys. She turns them over, staring at them, before slipping them into the ignition and bringing the old truck to life.

She pulls out of the parking lot, glancing up briefly at your apartment building in the rearview mirror as she drives away. The thought of leaving you behind, even just for now, feels wrong.

But she knows one thing for certain—

She can’t let this be the last time she’s with you.

She’s already lost you once.

She’ll be damned if she lets it happen again.

“God, what was I thinking?”

The scent of chamomile drifts upward into your nose. You wrap your hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into your palms, but it does little to ease the frustration in your chest.

The shop is quiet today and day is slow, just a couple customers browsing the shelves of your tiny bookshop, but your mind is anywhere but here.

Your phone is pressed against your ear, Mel’s voice on the other end, half-listening, half-scolding, but you’re too wrapped up in your own spiraling thoughts to care. You sigh, tilting your head against your hand, fingers rubbing at your temple.

Mel hums knowingly on the other end.

“Well, you weren’t thinking,” she corrects, and you can practically hear the smirk in her voice. “That’s the whole problem.”

You groan, setting your tea down with a soft thud, resting your forehead in your palm.

“I know,” you mutter, closing your eyes.

The memories from last night are still so fresh—Vi’s hands on your skin, her lips against yours, the way she looked at you like she never stopped wanting you. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and for a few blissful hours, you let yourself fall back into her arms without hesitation, without logic, without fear.

But now, you can’t help but think about how stupid this all is.

You kissed Vi.

You slept with Vi.

You let her in again.

And worse—you wanted to.

You let out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You pressed your forehead against the cool wood of the counter, closing your eyes for a moment as you tried to gather your thoughts.

“I’m so stupid, Mel,” you muttered. “I really thought I had a handle on everything. But then I… I kissed her and the next thing I knew was that she was in my bed. And, God, I don’t know what I was thinking—I don’t know what I was doing.”

“Okay, first of all, stop right there,” she interrupted firmly. “Don’t call yourself stupid. It’s not like you planned it, right? Things happen.”

“It’s just,” you admitted. “I shouldn’t have. I know shouldn’t have. I should have known better—”

You stopped, swallowing hard.

“She said she wanted to keep seeing me and I… I remembered what it felt like before everything got messy. I got distracted and I let it happen.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and you could almost hear Mel’s mind working, piecing things together in a way you couldn’t.

“Listen, okay?” Mel says, her voice taking on that no-nonsense edge you know so well. “You set a boundary, and Vi agreed to it. That’s important. What happened last night is something you two will have to figure out later. But for now, stop beating yourself up over it. You made a decision and you’ve been clear about that with her. She respects it, right?”

You take a deep breath, then sigh. “Yeah, she said she would. She agreed but… fuck, I feel so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid, babe,” Mel says with a soft laugh, but it’s filled with affection, like she’s talking to a stubborn child who just won’t see reason. “Trust me when I say, the fact that you set a boundary, that you had the strength to draw one, is huge. If you think you fucked up. So what? You’ll figure it out. You always have. Focus on something else. Your bookshop, for example. Try not to think about her. Besides, I don’t think Vi would push you too much right now. She may be impulsive, but she’s always been really good with that sort of thing, hasn’t she? Respecting you, I mean. From what I remember, that girl pretty much worshipped you.”

You stop to think.

“I guess…”

You sigh to yourself, letting her words sink in.

“You’re right,” you whisper softly. “I need to stop overthinking it. It just feels like I’m always just one step behind, now.”

Mel’s voice softens in response, “You’re exactly where you need to be, babe. Just take it slow.”

You smile, a small, bittersweet thing. It’s not exactly the answer you want, but it’s enough for now. You close your eyes, breathing slowly. When you open them again, you’re looking at the books surrounding you.

You lean back against the counter, the warmth of the tea still in your hands, but the comfort of it slips away as the conversation with Mel fades. She wrapped things up quickly, a light laugh in her voice as she mentioned something about Jayce needing her attention—probably a work thing, or one of his latest projects with his lab partner, Viktor, that she always described with a fond sigh.

You knew she was right. But no matter how many times you told yourself to focus, to push it aside, your mind kept drifting back to her.

You can’t help it.

But in this quiet morning, with the books and the soft light filtering through the windows, all you can do is wonder. Wonder if she’s still there, in your apartment, still curled up under the covers where you left her—or if she’s already gone, slipping quietly out the door as if nothing happened.

A part of you hopes she’s still there, that somehow, impossibly, you haven’t pushed her away with the same intensity you’ve been pulling yourself apart. You think about the way her skin had felt beneath your fingertips, the way her lips had tasted when you kissed her last night, the feeling of her in your arms.

But the other part of you wonders if that’s too much to hope for. Maybe it was just a moment. That maybe she’s already out of your life again, just like before.

You push away from the counter, walking slowly across the room as if putting some distance between you and the thoughts might make them stop. The tea is lukewarm now, forgotten in your hands. Your fingers brush the spines of a few books, but none of them seem to hold your attention.

The silence presses back in and you wonder all over again. What is she doing? What is she thinking?

You glance at the clock on the wall. It’s late enough that it feels like she would’ve left by now, if she was going to. You wonder if she’s even still awake.

But soon, the sun is setting just past the window, and you’re sure she’s not there anymore—not that she’d have a reason to stay anyway. You were clear from the beginning.

No commitment.

The bell above the bookshop door jingles softly as you lock up for the night, the key turning in the old brass lock with a quiet click. The streets outside are painted in the dim glow of streetlights, the sky a deep indigo, city lights flickering in the distance. You pull your coat tighter around yourself as you walk, but your mind is elsewhere.

It’s been elsewhere all day.

No matter how hard you tried to busy yourself, Vi had stayed lodged in the back of your thoughts.

The evening feels slower than it should. You walk the familiar route home, your mind circling back to last night.

You push open the door to your apartment, the silence greeting you. You leave your coat by the door, slipping off your shoes, feeling tired. Honestly, you expected to come home to the disarray of an unfinished night, but when you enter your bedroom, you pause.

The bed is made. The pillows are arranged neatly at the head, the blankets smoothed over the sheets, edges tucked in. For a moment, you just stand there, staring at it. It almost feels… wrong. It’s like Vi had been here, had left, and then carefully erased every trace of herself.

A sigh slips from your lips, and you move toward the bed, you body heavy as you slump onto the mattress, your limbs sinking into the sheets. Your fingers graze the smooth surface where Vi had slept, where you had slept together.

You don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to admit that you miss her.

Your breath hitches as you turn onto your side, the cool sheets brushing against your skin, but your mind is still caught up in the thought of her.

You try to push it all away, but your heart doesn’t listen.

You sigh as you close your eyes for moment. When you open them back up again, your gaze falls on the nightstand.

There, catching the light from the bedside lamp, is something shiny.

Vi’s lighter.

Your fingers hover over it, unsure if you should even touch it. You should put it away. You should leave it alone.

But instead, you let your fingers trace the cool metal, the edges of it smooth beneath your touch.

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. You don’t know whether to throw it away or keep it as some strange token of a night you never meant to happen.

You pick up the lighter slowly, your fingers brushing against the cold metal. And for a second, you almost don’t know what to do with it. It feels heavier in your hand than it should and you turn it over, the tiny engravings catching the light.

Stupid, you think, but the word feels hollow. Vi is so stupid.

Her lighter sits in your hand, reminding you of everything you tried to bury, the boundary you tried to set, every reason you told yourself this was a bad idea.

And yet, even as your mind runs in circles, you can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of your lips.

You don’t want to miss her. You really don’t.

But you can’t help it.

You set the lighter back down on the nightstand with a small clink.

And throughout the rest of the evening, you still can’t get Vi out of your head.

The room is quieter now, and the shadows stretch long against the walls, the night growing darker and darker out the window. You should be asleep, but instead, your mind keeps drifting back to her. You try not to think about her—about last night, the way she kissed you, the way everything felt like it was falling back into place, even though you know you shouldn’t let it.

And you shouldn’t text her. You shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

But you are.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you have your phone in your hand, unlocking it without a second thought. Your fingers hover over the screen.

It’s a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea.

But your thumbs move anyway.

You immediately regret it, because you know where this will go, what will come next. You shouldn’t be texting her. You shouldn’t have said anything at all.

The phone buzzes in your hand a second later, and you almost hesitate before you look at the message. But when you do, you can feel your pulse pick up.

It’s too casual, too quick. She’s trying to play it off, like she didn’t just feel the same pull, like she didn’t want you to text her just as badly. You can almost hear the edge of her voice, trying to sound nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s no big deal.

But you know her better than that.

You should stop here. You should put your phone down, pretend you never sent a message, pretend nothing ever happened.

Then, she texts you again—

You stare at the screen, your heart beating a little faster, a little harder than it should. Something tightens in your chest, the reality of what’s happening sinking in with each second that ticks by.

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this. That you wouldn’t let this happen again.

You should stop her. Tell her no. Forget it.

You know that’s what you’re supposed to do, that’s what you want to do.

But you don’t.

And the knock on your door comes sooner than you expected. You glance at the clock, feeling a little jolt of surprise as you realize it’s only been a few minutes, not ten.

You look at the nightstand. The lighter. It catches your eye and pick it up without thinking, fingers wrapping around it. For a moment, you just stand there, turning the lighter over in your hand, staring at the metal as if it could answer the questions you’ve been asking yourself. Why are you doing this? Why can’t you just stop?

You don’t know the answers. You don’t even know what you’re hoping for, or why, after all this time, it still feels so impossible to let go.

The knock comes again, a little louder this time, and you move.

Your fingers tighten around the lighter as you hesitate, standing just behind the door. You consider turning around, locking it for good, pretending you never sent that text. Pretending you don’t feel the way your heart pounds faster with every second that passes.

But your body betrays you. Before you can think twice, you exhale and pull the door open.

Vi is there, standing in the hallway. She looks like she got here too fast, like she barely gave herself a chance to think before she was knocking. Her hoodie is slouched over her frame, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the ink curling around her forearms. Baggy jeans hang loose on her hips and her hair is a mess, sticking up in places like she’s been running her hands through it the whole way over, like maybe she’s just as unsettled by this as you are.

But then you look up at her eyes.

She looks at you like she’s starving. Like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than she’d ever admit.

But how could she be starving? You wonder. You were just with her last night.

Her gaze drags over you slowly, making your breath hitch. She shifts on her feet, hands stuffed into the front pocket of her hoodie, but you can tell she’s holding herself back. Like she wants to close the space between you, step inside before you change your mind. Like she’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of the lighter in your palm. You glance down at it, fingers fidgeting with the cool metal, trying to focus on something other than the way Vi is looking at you.

It doesn’t help.

“Your lighter,” you murmur, lifting it slightly, as if that explains everything.

As if that’s why she’s here.

Vi’s lips twitch, like she might smirk, but it never fully forms.

She doesn’t look at the lighter. She just keeps looking at you.

“Right,” she breathes, but she doesn’t take the lighter from your hand.

She doesn’t even glance at it. She’s just looking at you.

You should probably say something. You should probably take a step back, put some kind of space between you before this becomes something you can’t take back.

But neither of you moves. Neither of you blinks. You can hear her breathing.

And then—

You don’t know who moves first, if it’s her hand brushing against yours as she finally reaches for the lighter, or if it’s you stepping just slightly closer, your body betraying you in the way it always does when it comes to her.

But suddenly, she’s inside, the door closing behind her, and you’re in each other’s space, too close. Way too close.

Her big hands find your face before you can think, rough and warm, fingers threading into your hair as her mouth crashes into yours. The lighter slips from your hand, hitting the floor with a soft thud, forgotten the moment her tongue slips past your lips and into your mouth.

Vi groans desperately, kissing you like she’s making up for lost time—even though it’s barely even been a full day since she had you—like she’s trying to carve herself back into the parts of you that have tried to forget her. And maybe that’s why you let her. Maybe that’s why you kiss her back just as hard, hands fisting in the fabric of her hoodie, pulling her closer, trying to drown in her.

You don’t stop to think.

You don’t stop at all.

Somehow, you’re moving, stumbling, your back hitting the bedroom door, then the wall, then the bed. Vi is all over you—her hands, her mouth, pushing you onto the bed she had made just this morning, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your clothes disappear in the haze of it, pulled and tugged and discarded without hesitation. She’s on top of you, her skin hot against yours, her breath shaky as she drags her lips down your throat, over your collarbone, leaving a path of hickeys as she goes.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

“Need you,” Vi whimpers into your chest, hands kneading and groping your tits with a groan.

You moan as she takes a nipple into your mouth, your nails dragging across her bare back, leaving light scratches over her tattoos and Vi swears she’ll lose her mind if you stop doing that.

She hovers over you, her body caging you in, her hands gripping the sheets on either side of your head like she needs something to hold onto or she might fall apart. Her face is inches from yours, her breath warm against your lips, and when you look up at her, your eyes widen.

She looks wrecked. Desperate.

Her brows are drawn together, her lips parted, her eyes blown wide with something that looks dangerously close to pleading.

She needs you.

Not just your body. You.

And it’s terrifying, because you don’t know what to do with that. You don’t know how to take the way she’s looking at you. Her fingers twitch in the sheets, and she ducks her head, pressing her forehead against yours, like she needs to feel you just to convince herself you’re still here, still beneath her, still letting her have this.

But instead, you reach up, threading your fingers into her messy pink hair, tugging her down, pulling her mouth back to yours.

Vi barely has a second to react before you flip her over, pressing her into the mattress as you straddle her. Her breath catches and her hands immediately slide down to your hips, her fingers slightly slipping past the waistband of your panties. She looks up at you like she’s dazed, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

You don’t give her time to think. You press your mouth to her jaw, her neck, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. She shudders beneath you, her grip tightening, but she doesn’t stop you. She just watches, like she’s afraid to blink, like she doesn’t want to miss a single second of this.

So you keep going. Lower.

Your lips graze the sharp lines of her collarbone, the faint taste of salt and skin lingering on your tongue. You trace the outline of her tattoos with your fingertips, feeling the way her breath stutters, the way her strong muscles tense beneath your touches. Her abs are tight, perfectly sculpted, and when you press a kiss right at the center of them, she lets out a breathy, broken sound that only makes the fabric of your panties wetter.

“Ah, fuck,” Vi mutters, barely a whisper, barely there.

Your hands skim lower, your fingertips brushing against the soft trail of pink hair that leads beneath her waistband. Vi tenses, her stomach twitching under your touch, but she doesn’t stop you. If anything, she melts further into the bed, her fingers sliding from your waist to the soft flesh of your thighs, gripping them a little too tightly, you’re sure you’re bound to see later as faint bruises.

You undo her belt slowly, your fingers working at the buckle, teasing just enough to make her squirm beneath you. God, it’s getting harder and harder to breathe, Vi thinks, her head tipped back against your pillow, her knuckles white where they grip onto your legs.

“Please, baby,” she begs.

She looks ruined already, and you haven’t even touched her properly yet.

And maybe that’s what makes you slow down, what makes you savor this.

“What is it, Violet?” you murmur lowly, teasing, and just a little cruel.

Vi shudders beneath you, her grip on your thighs tightening, her body going tense for a split second before it completely melts back into the mattress.

And then, she whimpers.

It’s soft, barely there, but you hear it, wrecked and desperate, slipping past her lips before she can stop it. Her head tips back against the pillow, her chest rising and falling in shaky breaths, her hands twitching as your legs.

“What’s wrong, Vi?” you taunt softly, fingers slipping under the waistband of her jeans, tracing just beneath the fabric of her boxers. “You can use your words, can’t you?”

“I-I…”

You hum in response, looking up to meet her gaze as you begin to tug her jeans down her legs before throwing them onto the floor somewhere. Vi swears she could faint at the sight of you down between her legs, pulling at her boxers with that knowing look in your eyes, staring down at her like prey.

“Please, touch me,” she says finally, whining softly as she watches you pull her boxers down. “I don’t care what you do, just touch me.”

You can’t help but smile softly at her words. You were never one to deny her whenever she begged so prettily for you.

So, after short second, you finally drag a finger up her wet folds, brushing against her sensitive clit, before slipping two fingers inside her needy pussy with a squelch. So wet. Vi shudders, her biceps flexing as she pulls at the sheets, whimpering your name softly at the feeling of your fingers.

God, it’s been so long since she felt you inside her. Too long. And she needs more of it. More. Please.

You litter kisses along her inner thigh, curling your fingers over and over again. Her hips buck against your hand, craving for more and more friction as her velvety walls wrap around your digits, coating them with her slick.

“Ah, ngh, p-please—” Vi whines, her back arching slightly off the bed. “Please don’t stop—”

And you didn’t plan to.

Eventually, you speed up, pumping your fingers in and out of her, your teasing mouth inching closer and closer between her legs before wrapping your lips around her sensitive clit and sucking hard. Vi tenses immediately, instinctively trying to pull away from the overwhelming pleasure, but you hold her in place as her hands thread through your hair and tugging softly.

You fuck your fingers in and out faster, her legs tensing beside you. She moaned loud, her walls clenching around your fingers as they curled inside of her more vigorously with each thrust. Beads of sweat roll down her temples, panting heavily as she looks down to see you fucking her diligently and fuck, it’s the second hottest thing she’s every seen—the first being you cumming because of her.

God, she was so close. You could feel her getting tighter.

She even swears she could cum from just the sight of you between her legs alone.

“You feel so good, Violet,” you mutter softly enough for her to hear as you press your face closer to her dripping pussy. “Are you gonna cum for me?”

Oh, fuck fuck fuck—

“Y-Yeah—Hah, yes—I’m—Fuck!”

You hum as she cums on your digits, your fingertips brushing that spongy spot deep in her cunt as her slick drips down your hand. You fuck her through her orgasm, letting her ride out her high, her legs trembling as she whines and whimpers, feeling sensitive under your touch.

Vi is sprawled out against your bed, breathing heavily, her skin flushed, her body still shivering. She feels weightless, like she’s floating, like her entire existence has been reduced to this—this hazy, breathless state of complete and utter bliss.

Her arms are slack against the sheets, fingers curling weakly into the fabric. She blinks up at the ceiling, dazed, her mind fuzzy, lips parted as she struggles to catch her breath. Every inch of her feels sensitive, like her body isn’t even her own anymore.

“Holy shit,” she breathes.

She turns her head slightly, eyes heavy-lidded as they find you looking up at her from between her legs, you fingers and your lips glistening. You’re watching her, looking entirely too pleased with yourself, and Vi thinks—yeah, she probably looks pretty fucking ruined right now.

And she is.

Completely. Utterly. Happily.

She lets out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down her face.

Vi barely gives herself a second to recover before she reaches for you, her movements still loose and lazy, but her grip—her grip is strong.

“Fuck,” she rasps, breath still uneven. Then her hands are on your thighs, firm and possessive. “Come here.”

Before you can process it, before you can even think, Vi hoists you up with that ridiculous, unfair strength of hers, flipping you with ease like you weigh nothing at all. A startled gasp escapes your lips, but she doesn’t give you time to protest—her hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, manhandling you into place, and practically ripping your damp panties off of you.

And then—oh.

You realize exactly what she’s doing a second too late.

Your knees settle on either side of her head, your dripping cunt hovering just above her mouth, and Vi tilts her head back against the pillow, looking up at you with that look—hungry, dazed, smug as fuck.

“Better,” she mutters, hands squeezing at your thighs, pulling you just a little closer. “Stay right there, baby.”

She doesn’t give you time to hesitate.

She just pulls you down.

Oh. Oh.

Her grip tightens on your thighs, guiding your glistening cunt into her mouth. And the second you feel her tongue, hot and wet, a sharp gasp rips from your throat, breaking into a moan. Your hands move on instinct, tangling in her hair, fingers threading through her soft, messy strands as your legs squeeze around her head. And god, Vi fucking loves it. She groans the second you grab at her, the sound vibrating against your pussy. Her fingers dig in just enough to keep you from moving, just enough to make sure you don’t go anywhere—not that you could. Not with the way she’s holding you there, devouring you like she’s starving, even though she had her mouth on you just the night before.

Your breath is coming too fast, your body trembling with every teasing of her tongue, every deep, hungry groan she lets out when you tug at her hair just a little harder.

“S-Shit, Vi—”

Your body tenses, pleasure building low and hot in your stomach, and Vi knows. She can feel it in the way your thighs tremble, in the way your hands pull harder at her hair, in the way your moans get higher, louder, breathier, more desperate.

Vi doesn’t even care if your thighs are pressing down hard against her face, your body closing in around her. She doesn’t have to breathe, if it means keeping her face pressed against your delicious sopping pussy. It doesn’t matter. She welcomes it, leans into it, even.

Her hands stay locked on your thighs as she drinks you in, loud and messily. Her breathing is ragged, but she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t want to. The feeling of your thighs, smooth and so soft and plush, against her face, her cheeks, drives her absolutely insane. She can feel your pulse racing, your body trembling, and it only pushes her harder, makes her need you even more, makes her want to make you cum as many times as she can.

“M-Mmm—I–Fuck!”

The way you taste, the way you sound—it’s the most intoxicating thing she’s ever known. She loves it when you sound like this—dirty, loud, moaning—reminiscent of a pornstar, although she never reallyenjoyed that sort of thing when all she had was you to fantasize in about. She could never get enough of you, could never pull away, could never stop. Every part of you feels like it belongs to her, like she’s been waiting for this for so long, like it’s the only thing that matters.

She moans into you, the sound muffled under your legs, making you shudder above her. Her hands move to your thighs, pulling you even closer, urging you to keep going, to give her more. It’s all she wants.

“Mm—g-gonna cum,” you whine, pulling at her pink curls even harder, “Violet—I’m gonna cum!”

Your voice comes out broken, breathless, barely more than a whimper.

Vi only hums in response, sending another jolt of pleasure through your trembling body. She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t ease up—if anything, she doubles down, her grip tightening even more on your thighs, her tongue working you over ruthlessly.

Your fingers tighten in her hair, pulling, tugging, but it only makes her groan, only makes her hold you harder, keeping you exactly where she wants you—pressed against her hungry mouth. The tension coils impossibly tight in your stomach, every nerve set ablaze, and then—

It snaps.

“Nngh—ffffuck—”

Your body arches, a choked moan spilling from your lips as you cum all over Vi’s face.

Your thighs tremble around her, but Vi doesn’t stop. She holds you steady as your orgasm rolls through you, her mouth still working you over, her tongue dragging out every second of your orgasm until you’re shaking.

And still—she keeps going.

You whimper, overstimulated, your body jerking in her hands, but Vi doesn’t let up. She hums again and licks into you deeper, drinking in everything you have to give, like she could stay here forever. Because truthfully? She could.

“V-Vi, wait, I—”

The overstimulation feels like its too much, pleasure spilling into something overwhelming, making your thighs tremble around her head.

She hears you—of course, she does. But she doesn’t care.

Vi only groans, like she loves the feeling of your hands in her hair, loves the way you taste her tongue too much to even consider stopping. She wants this—needs this—like she can’t bring herself to pull away now that she has you exactly where she wants you.

Every flick of her tongue against your swollen clit sends another shiver rolling through you, your body twitching, oversensitive and helpless under her mouth.

The room is filled with the sounds of it—the slick, obscene noises of Vi’s mouth working against your dripping pussy. Every stroke of her tongue against your cunt is met with a sound so filthy it makes your face burn.

The wet, filthy noises fill your ears, mixing with your broken moans, with Vi’s low, satisfied groans as she pulls you closer, as she buries her face deeper, as she keeps pushing, keeps taking, keeps pulling you apart with her mouth until your body gives in again, pleasure crashing over you too fast, too hard.

It’s not long until you cum on her face again for the second time in a row.

Your thighs clamp around her head, your fingers twisting in her hair, but Vi still doesn’t stop.

You cum again just minutes later, too sensitive, an ns it gets to a point where you can’t even remember if it’s the fourth or the fifth time.

And god, she could do this forever.

Vi is completely gone.

Dazed, lost, utterly pussy drunk. She doesn’t even think about stopping, doesn’t even acknowledge the way your body shakes above her, too caught up in the taste of you, in the way you feel against her tongue. She moans softly, pressing her lips against your folds, leaving open-mouthed kisses between slow, teasing strokes of her tongue.

And then, barely above a whisper, she breathes out words meant more for you than for herself—but it doesn’t even feel like she’s talking to you. She’s talking to your pussy.

“Fuck, missed you,” she murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss against you, dragging her tongue through the slick mess she’s made. “Missed you so much.”

Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and possessive, like she’s trying to memorize the way your skin feels against her palms.

“Fuck, you’re so good to me,” she whispers against your slick cunt, pressing her lips to you again like she’s practically making out with your pussy. “So fuckin’ perfect. Can’t—”

She cuts herself off with another deep, slow drag of her tongue, her whole body shuddering.

“God, you’re so perfect.”

She sounds wrecked. Like she’s wanted this for so long that now that she has you, she never wants to come up for air. The wet, messy sounds fill the air, the lewd squelching mixing with her whispers and her low and needy groans as she buries herself in you again, licking into you like she’ll never get another chance.

She doesn’t care if she breathes. Doesn’t care if she suffocates beneath the softness of your thighs. It would be a fucking perfect way to go.

And soon, your body can’t take it anymore.

The pleasure crashes over you one last time, knocking the air from your lungs. Your legs tighten around Vi’s head again, a moan spilling from your lips as your body tenses, then shudder. Your fingers slip from her hair, your body slumping forward as the last tremors of your orgasm roll through your body.

But Vi catches you before you can collapse.

Strong arms wrap around you, carefully turning you over, her touches gentle as she lays you down on the bed, pressing you into the soft sheets. You barely register it, still floating, still reeling, your limbs loose and useless. Your eyes flutter, heavy with exhaustion, as you try breathe properly.

Vi hovers over you, arms braced on either side of your head, her face still flushed.

But she isn’t looking at your body—not anymore. She’s looking at you. And fuck, you’re beautiful.

Completely and utterly ruined beneath her, your skin still damp with sweat, your lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath. Your eyes, half-lidded, barely able to stay open, dazed and glassy with pleasure. She watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your body still twitches slightly from the aftershocks, the way your fingers curl weakly against the sheets.

Vi swallows hard. Because right now, she feels like she’s falling in love with you all over again.

Like nothing has changed.

Like she never fucked up, never let you slip through her fingers, never gave you a reason to be afraid of her, of what she could do to your heart.

She wants to kiss you, wants to hold you, wants to pull you into her arms and tell you everything she never said before—how she never stopped loving you, how she never will.

But she can’t.

Because last night, you were clear.

No commitment.

And Vi knows why. She knows she hurt you. Knows you don’t trust her anymore. Knows that if she pushes, if she asks for more, you’ll pull away again—maybe for good.

“Are you okay?” she asks too softly.

Her fingers twitch where they rest beside your head, itching to touch you, to smooth back the damp strands of hair stuck to your forehead, to run her knuckles over your flushed cheek. But she doesn’t. She stays hovering over you, watching the way your lips part, your lashes fluttering as you try to keep your eyes open.

For a second, you don’t answer. Maybe you’re too far gone, still floating in the aftermath, your body too heavy to form words.

Vi waits. She just wants to hear your voice, wants to know that you’re still here, with her, even if only for a little while.

You manage a slow nod, your head barely moving against the pillow, eyes drooping.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice soft, hazy. “I’m okay.”

Vi tells herself she should move. Should pull away, give you space, remind herself that this isn’t what it used to be. But fuck, it’s hard.

Carefully, she reaches out, brushing a strand of damp hair from your forehead, her fingers barely grazing your skin. It’s a small touch, barely anything at all, but her heart clenches.

Because this feels more dangerous than anything else.

Because it makes her want things she shouldn’t.

Vi watches as your eyes flutter shut, your body fully giving in to exhaustion, and she swallows the words she wants to say. The ones that would only ruin this.

Instead, she just stays like this for a little longer, hovering over you, letting herself pretend—just for a second—that she still gets to have you. She lets herself imagine what it would be like to have you completely, the way she used to, the way she’s always wanted to. She dreams of kissing you like this every morning, of holding you close, of being the one you run to when the world feels too heavy.

Vi’s fingers twitch again, aching with the need to touch you, to feel you even though you’re already here, already so close.

Her gaze softens, something tender in her eyes as she watches you sleep, and then, without thinking, she lowers herself, just a little, her lips brushing against your bare shoulder—once, twice, three times.

I love you. Again.

She pulls back, keeping her forehead pressed lightly against your shoulder for just a moment. She doesn’t expect you to feel it.

And when she breathes you in, pressing her face against your skin, she lets a tear slip from her eyes.

It trails down her cheek, disappearing into the sheets before anyone—not even herself—can pretend it was ever there. She doesn’t sob, doesn’t make a sound. Just breathes you in, feeling the way you breath beneath hers.

Because she knows, when you wake up, you’ll pull away.

And she’ll have to pretend that none of this ever meant anything at all.

Vi keeps coming back.

At night, always at night.

At least three times a week, sometimes more.

Sometimes so late that you’re already in bed, the city outside quiet. Sometimes earlier, when you’re still awake, still pretending you’re busy, pretending that your heart doesn’t stutter every time she knocks on your door.

And you don’t know if it’s a good thing.

It’s easy, too easy, to let her in. To watch her lean against the doorframe, waiting for you, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie, her hair messy. To pretend like you don’t already know how this night is going to end before she even steps inside.

She never stays past sunrise.

That’s the new rule, even though you haven’t really talked about it. No strings, no expectations, no commitment. Just hands on skin, lips crashing together, your bodies tangled in the sheets until you’re both too tired to think about anything else.

But in the morning, the bed is always empty.

She never asks for more, and you never offer it. She doesn’t press, doesn’t push. She gives you space, respects the boundaries you set, even though you can see the way it kills her sometimes.

Even though, you know it. Vi wants more.

So much more.

But she doesn’t ask.

And you don’t really do anything to stop her from coming back.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’re fine. That this arrangement, this thing you have, isn’t hurting anyone. But sometimes, when the door closes behind her and you’re left alone in your apartment, you wonder if you’re lying to yourself.

There’s not much talking either. As much as Vi wants there to be.

She wants to talk. She wants to ask things—how your day was, what book you were reading when she knocked on your door, what you had breakfast, if you were feeling tired, if you ever think about her when she’s not here. If you miss her.

But every time she tries, the words never make it out. Because the moment the door closes behind her, the moment her hands find your waist, your fingers slip beneath her shirt, or your mouth brushes against her jaw, she forgets how to speak. Each and every time.

And then there’s nothing but the heat and her hands and the sound of you falling apart beneath her.

She swallows her words and listens to your moans instead.

She listens to the way your breath catches when she drags her teeth down your throat. The way you gasp when her fingers press into your hips, when she pulls you closer, when she spreads you open and takes her time. She memorizes the sounds you make, the way they stutter when she moves just right, when she makes you come undone for her, again and again.

She wonders if you feel the same way as she does. She wants to know. She wants to ask you what you’re thinking, if you’re feeling the same ache in your chest when the door clicks shut behind her.

Does you miss her when she’s gone?

But Vi knows. She knows.

She knows by the way you kiss her, by the way you melt into her touch every time she pulls you closer. She knows by the way you whisper her name when she’s inside you, when she’s pressed up against you, moving in time with every breath you take, every kiss, every mark she leaves on your skin. You might not say it, but she can feel it in the way your hands never seem to want to leave her. In the way your body curves into hers, like it was meant to.

And Vi can’t lie to herself.

She’s addicted to it. To the sex. To you. To this.

And god, she missed it. She missed everything about you, every second, every touch, every kiss. She missed being inside you.bIt’s a selfish thing, she knows that. But she can’t help it. The way you fit around her, the way every inch of her sinks into you like she’s home—there’s nothing else like it. The way you pull her in deeper, the way your body trembles when you’re close, when you need her. The sound of your name on her lips, the feel of you under her, surrounding her. It’s addictive.

Vi doesn’t even stay in the mornings anymore.

On the first morning when you left her in your bed, the silence was unbearable. The way the bed was already cold when she woke up, the space beside her where you should have been. She hated it. She’d wake up, the daylight creeping through the blinds, and there you’d already be gone. She hated that. She hated the feeling of waking up alone.

But now, she leaves before you wake up.

She doesn’t want to.

But she does it anyway. She’s careful not to wake you, her hands sliding quietly over the sheets as she pushes herself up, slipping into her clothes in the half-light.

Even as she pulls on her boots, ties her laces, gathers the last of her things, she watches you for just a little longer. She watches you breathe, the soft curve of your back, the way your hair falls across your face, so peaceful, so unaware of her standing there. She watches your soft lips, the ones she loves kissing over and over, slightly parted, how the faint hint of a smile still playing at the edges, like you’re dreaming of something good. Something warm. Hopefully, it’s about her.

And she hates that she’s leaving. She hates that she’s not staying. She hates that this isn’t enough to keep her here, to keep her wrapped up in you.

But she knows if she stays any longer, if she lets herself sink back into the comfort of your body, she won’t be able to walk away.

So, she leaves.

And as the weeks pass, the more nights Vi spends with you, the more it begins to wear her down. It gets harder and harder every night.

At first, she told herself she wouldn’t ask for more. That she’d respect the boundaries you set, the ones that kept you both from falling into the mess of old habits, old wounds, old mistakes. She told herself that this was fine—that to have you like this, is better than not having you at all.

But the more she lies next to you, the more she holds you, the more it becomes clear that it isn’t enough. Not for herself. Not for you.

There are moments when she wakes up next to you, your body still pressed against hers, your breath soft and steady against her skin, and she feels like she’s drowning.

She wants to say it, needs to say it, but she swallows it every time. I want you back.

Instead, she keeps slipping in and out of your life like it’s all she’s allowed, like this is the way it has to be. And every time she walks away, it feels like a part of her is left behind—with you.

Vi wants more. She wants more of your laughter, the soft smiles you give when you think she’s not watching, the way your fingers curl into hers, the way you let her hold you when the night gets too quiet. She wants to feel your body against hers all the time, not just for short moments when she’s in your bed, not just when the lights are low and the world is far away. She wants to ask for more—wants to beg you to let her be a part of your life again, to let her fix the things you left her for.

She wants to fight for this.

But she doesn’t know how.

Vi knows she can’t keep pretending that this is all she wants.

She’s never stopped loving you. The part of her that’s still so in love with you, the part that never quite stopped hoping for the chance to make things right, even though she knows how much damage was done.

She just wants you back.

And one night, it slips.

It’s nearly 2AM when your phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling you from the haze of half-sleep. The glow of the screen illuminates your room, and for a moment, you lie there, staring at it in the silence. You blink, your mind still foggy, but the text is there, staring back at you.

You hesitate.

But tonight feels different. You’re not sure if this is a night you want to invite her in.

Still, your thumb hovers over the screen, heart pounding just a little faster than it should.

You hear a knock at your door barely a minute later.

Like she was waiting for you to respond, like Vi had been standing there, holding herself just outside your door, waiting for the green light.

She knocks again, louder this time.

You swing your legs out of bed, your pulse rushing in your ears as you step toward the door. You hesitate for just a second before wrapping your fingers around the doorknob. You sigh, then pull the door open softly.

Vi is standing there, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, shoulders slightly hunched. Her hair is messy, strands falling over her forehead and then—when she sees you—she lets out a breath, like she wasn’t sure you’d actually open the door.

And then she smiles, just barely before it disappears a second later.

“It’s late, you know,” you murmur tiredly.

“I know,” she says, “Couldn’t sleep.”

You step aside, just enough for her to slip past you, and she does—wordlessly, like she already knew you’d let her in.

The door clicks shut behind her.

You don’t look at her right away. Instead, you turn, your feet carrying you toward the kitchen, as if you need something to do with your hands.

“I’m gonna make some tea,” you whisper, more to yourself than to her.

Vi doesn’t answer.

You hear the faint scuff of her boots against the floor as she follows you, but she stays quiet, leaning against the frame of the kitchen. You don’t have to turn around to know she’s watching you.

You move through the small space, reaching for the electronic kettle, filling it and heating up the water. Your hands work methodically, pulling out two mugs, grabbing the tea bags from the cabinet.

Anything to keep yourself from looking at her.

But Vi doesn’t need distractions. She doesn’t need something to busy her hands.

She just stares. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over her chest, she watches you move around the kitchen like you’re something fragile, something to be memorized.

She’s dazed, lovestruck.

You don’t even notice the way her lips part slightly, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to reach out, to pull you into her, to press her face into your neck and just breathe you in.

But Vi can tell something’s wrong. She can feel it in the way your shoulders tense as you stand by the counter, the way your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for the mugs.

You want to talk.

Vi’s chest tightens. She knows that look. She knows you, knows how your mind works, how you retreat when you’re about to say something you don’t want to say. And she knows what’s coming. You’re going to tell her this needs to stop. That whatever this is—these nights together—it can’t keep happening. That it doesn’t mean anything, even though you both know that’s a lie.

Vi doesn’t let you say it.

Before you can turn around, before you can even open your mouth, she steps closer, wrapping her arms around you from behind. You tense at first, caught off guard, but Vi doesn’t let go. She presses her face into your hair, inhaling softly, her grip tightening around your waist.

She holds you like she’s afraid. Like if she lets go, you’ll slip through her fingers for good.

She doesn’t want to lose this, to lose you—again. Even if it’s selfish, even if she knows she has no right to ask for more, even if she knows she’s the reason you don’t trust her enough to ask for more.

And for the first time in a long time, Vi is scared.

“Don’t,” she mutters, barely a whisper against your skin. “Just… not yet.”

You go still in her arms.

Vi shuts her eyes, breathing you in, feeling the way your body fits against hers, the way you’re warm, real. She needs this. Needs you.

And as her hands slide down to your hips, pressing you slightly into the counter, you freeze the moment you feel it—something hard, pressing right against the curve of your ass.

For a second, you think you’re imagining it. That maybe your exhausted mind is playing tricks on you, reading too much into the way Vi stepped closer, the way it suddenly feels like she’s swallowing up the small space of your kitchen.

You inhale slowly, setting a teaspoon down with more care than necessary, your fingers tightening around the counter’s edge.

“Violet.” You warn her.

Vi doesn’t move.

Doesn’t back off. Doesn’t even flinch at the sharp edge in your tone. If anything, she shifts just slightly, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she planned it. The warmth of her body radiates against your back, close enough to feel, close enough to make your pulse stutter—because of course she’d do this. Of course she’d try to derail whatever conversation she knows is coming before you can even begin.

“What?”

She’s playing dumb. Acting innocent, like she isn’t pressing up against you with a strap bulging in her jeans.

“Violet.” Your voice is sharper this time, firmer, but not as steady as before.

Vi doesn’t care.

She sighs slowly, pressing forward, letting you feel her. The firm, deliberate push of her strap against your ass makes your breath hitch, your fingers gripping the counter a little tighter. She’s testing you, pushing her luck, trying to slip past the walls you’ve been so careful to rebuild.

She sighs again—low, deep—before dropping her head against your shoulder, her breath warm against your skin. Her eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, she just stays there, pressed against you, holding onto something she knows she’s about to lose. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push any further.

She clenches her jaw, inhaling deeply, breathing you in like she’s trying to commit this moment to memory. Because she knows—fuck, she knows—that once you turn around, once you open your mouth, you’re going to say something that’s going to break her.

“I could take you right here,” Vi whispers, rough, almost pleading.

Her hands twitch at your hips, wanting to pull you back against her properly, to make you forget whatever you were about to say.

She presses against you harder, her strap firm against your ass, her breath hot against your neck. She knows what she’s doing. Knows how easy it would be to have you like this—to push the fabric of your sleep shorts down, to lift you onto the counter, to make you fall apart for her before you can even think about saying anything.

She swallows hard. “Please.”

You sigh, your resolve already slipping. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But when you finally turn around, ready to face her, Vi doesn’t give you the chance to think.

She kisses you. Hard, desperate, like she’s been holding back for too long and can’t stand it anymore. Her hands move instantly, one gripping the counter beside you, the other finding your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to make you feel the heat of her palm through the thin fabric of your shirt. She’s close, too close, her body pressing into yours, her strap still firm between you.

The moment your lips part beneath hers, the second she hears the soft, breathy sound that slips from your throat, she loses it.

Her hands move like they have a mind of their own, sliding down your waist, over the curve of your hips, until her fingers slip beneath the waistband of your thin shorts. She palms your ass, squeezing, pulling you flush against her, making sure you feel every inch of her, making sure you know exactly what she wants.

And then her mouth is on your neck. She trails kisses down the column of your throat, slow at first, like she’s savoring the way your body reacts to her. But the second you moan—soft, breathless, completely unfiltered—Vi needs more. Her lips press harder, open-mouthed and eager, her teeth grazing over your sensitive skin before she soothes it with her tongue. She groans against your neck, her breath warm, her grip tightening on you like she’s starving for this, for you. Like she could spend the rest of the night right here, buried in your skin, listening to the sounds you make just for her.

“Fuck,” she mutters against your throat. “Please.”

Her fingers flex against your ass, squeezing, kneading, owning. She pulls you closer, hips rolling against yours, letting you feel how hard her strap is, how badly she needs you.

“Please, let me,” she begs, her words barely more than a whisper.

Her breath is shallow, warm against your skin as her lips trail over your neck again, kissing, nipping, barely in control. Vi’s fingers tremble, just slightly, where they grip the soft fabric of your shorts, and she’s trying to be patient, trying to hold back—but you can feel the way her body betrays her, the way she’s aching, the way she’s needing you in a way it almost hurts.

“Please,” she repeats, her voice strained, pleading. “Let me… make you feel good. Let me show you.”

And slowly, you move your hands to gently cradle Vi’s face, and her breath hitches. She freezes, her eyes meeting yours, those soft, blue eyes full of everything she’s been trying to hide. Vi lets out a breath, shaky and soft, as you move a strand of hair from her face, your fingers brushing against her skin. It’s almost too much, the way you’re looking at her, the way you’re holding her face like she’s the most important thing in the world.

She melts into your touch. Completely.

She could say it right now. She could.

The words are there, right on the tip of her tongue, fighting to escape. She wants to say them, more than anything, wants to let you know exactly how she feels, how much she’s always felt for you.

But she’s scared—scared that you’ll pull away, scared that you’ll look at her and say you don’t want her.

Vi’s breath is shallow as she watches you, her heart pounding in her chest as she waits, her hands resting gently on your waist. She doesn’t need to say anything, though, because you feel it—the way your breath catches as your eyes search hers, the way your lips are so close to hers now, the tension so tight it feels like it’s about to snap.

And then, finally, you kiss her again. It’s hungry—ravenous, the kind of kiss that makes your head spin, that makes your body surge forward before either of you can think, your lips crashing together desperately. Vi groans into your mouth, like she’s been starving for it.

Without missing a beat, she lifts you up, her hands sliding down to grip your ass, holding you up as your legs instinctively wrap around her waist. You gasp against her mouth, the feeling of being held so tightly, so securely, Vi doesn’t break the kiss. She doesn’t let go, her hands strong, the muscles in her arm flexing under her hoodie, as she carries you toward the living room, only a few steps away. The room is dark, the soft glow of the hallway light along the walls, but none of that matters.

When she reaches the couch, she gently sets you down onto the cushions, her lips trailing down your neck, nipping at your skin. Her hands are everywhere—gripping, caressing, exploring like she can’t get enough of you. And all you can do is pull her closer, with everything fading away as she continues to kiss you, touch you, take you in.

“You’re so pretty, baby,” she whispers against your skin, her hands trembling just slightly as she pulls at your shorts, eager to see more of you, to feel more of you.

Her hands finally slip under your shorts, fingers tracing the outline of your panties, and her breath hitches as she feels you, the softness of your skin, the dampness of the fabric. She can’t stop herself—can’t stop the way her body reacts to the sight of you, the taste of you, the way you move against her.

Vi’s breath catches all over again when she slips past your underwear, the wetness against her fingers telling her everything she needs to know. You were so fucking wet already—she hadn’t even touched you yet. A groan escaped her lips as she shifts closer, her hand moving slowly, to rub her fingers through your slick folds.

“Fuck,” she breathes.

Her fingertips press more firmly against you, finding your sensitive clit, feeling the wetness beneath her.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she whispers, barely keeping herself together, as she presses another soft kiss to your neck. “Wanna be good for you…”

Vi lifts her gaze, just enough to catch the look on your face—your eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted. Her breath shudders as she draws her face closer, the heat of her skin brushing against yours, but her lips don’t quite touch yours. Her parted lips hover above yours, warm and so close you can feel her breath against your skin, a whisper of a kiss—just a breath away.

Vi’s gaze flickers to your lips and back to your eyes, her body so close that it feels impossible to think straight. She could kiss you right now, could close the distance and let the hunger between you take over completely, but she doesn’t.

Not yet.

Not until her fingers, down between your legs, playing with the softness of your skin, slide into you.

Her jaw slacks as you open your mouth to gasp against her lips, you eyes fluttering closed as you feel your walls wrap around two of her fingers. She goes in too smoothly, your cunt so fucking wet against her hand, and fuck, she thought she had to prepare you for her strap for a little bit, but with you so fucking wet like this—she’s sure she can slide the toy right in without any trouble.

You moan against her, your arms wrapping around her neck as she curls her fingers, the pads of her fingertips pressing against that spongy spot in your pussy repeatedly. A lazy smirk plays at her lips when you buck your hips against her palm, pushing your clit slightly against her skin.

She pumps her fingers in and out of your cunt, drinking your moans into her ears as she rolls her eyes back at the feeling of you, so warm against her.

It’s not long when she pulls her fingers out—just as your about to cum.

“V-Vi,” you whine, shaking your head in an attempt to ask her to keep her fingers inside. “M-More—”

She smiles and sits back on her knees, not giving into to your pleas too easily, although it was always hard for her to turn you down.

It only takes her a second to unbuttton her pants and pushing it downwards slightly along with her boxers, her strap springing out the lower she goes. She uses her hands to push your knees apart even further, her strap, long and black, resting against your lower stomach. You look up at her with pleading eyes, eyes begging her to keep going, with your pussy wet and glistening between your legs as she pulls you even closer, hands at the back of your thighs, pushing up your legs.

Vi swears she could pass out from the sight alone.

“You look so fucking beautiful right now,” she whispers.

You whine again and she only smirks.

“You want me inside, baby?” She asks, taking a hand to wrap around strap, moving the tip of it up and down against your wet heat. “Tell me.”

“Y-Yes, please—I-Inside—”

“Yeah?” She says, growing more arrogant by the second, slipping only a few teasing centimeters into your hole.

“Fuck—Violet, please!”

Vi rolls her eyes back again, lolling her head back and closing her eyes, reimagining the way you whine her name over and over.

She sighs and opens her eyes again to look down between your legs, watching the strap disappear into your cunt with a squelch as she slowly, slowly slides it in further and further, groaning at how tight you are around the dildo. One corner of her lips quirk up in a smirk only briefly, a breathy scoff falling from her lips as she buries it inside your pussy, down to the hilt, your skin pressing against her.

You feel your jaw drop at the stretch of her strap filling you, your hands gripping the cushions beneath your body as you gasp at the feeling of being so, so full. Your breath grows quick when Vi takes a few long seconds to pull back only slightly, the tip still inside of you, before slams her hips back into you, using your thighs as leverage to pull you closer, her strap hitting you deep inside your pussy.

She groans as you moan, watching you closely as you arch your back off of the couch in pleasure.

“Fuuuuck, yes,” Vi breathes, slamming her hips into you over and over. “You take me so well, baby.”

She gets high off of the sight of you, the sound of you. Using your hips to balance herself, she starts speeding up her thrusts, smiling lightly to herself. God, she loves watching your tits bounce as she fucks her strap into you.

“Shit—Uhngh, fuck, that’s it—”

Every time she thrusts her hips into you, the strap hits her just right, pressing against her clit—fuck. Her pace speeds up just at the thought of it, the feeling of it. Her hand pulls at the flesh of your thigh, watching the way her cock sinks into your pussy, the length of it glistening every time she pulled out, drunk off of the sound of your cunt squelching, the sound of your moans, showing her how good she’s making you feel.

More. More. More. Vi goes faster. She’s close, you can tell by the way her breath hitches, her mouth panting and whining, and her eyebrows furrowing and scrunching up. She feels it on her swollen sensitive clit. It feels so good, it’s so—

“I-I’m gonna cum, baby, I—” Vi whimpers.

You shift, pushing yourself up onto your elbows until you meet Vi with your chest, before pushing her down to sit on the cushions. With a groan, Vi leans back against the couch, watching in awe as you climb into her lap, straddling her hips and when you sink back onto her strap—fuck, she could’ve came right then.

“Keep going, Violet,” you whisper into her ear, before threading your fingers into her hair and pulling it hard so that she’s looking up at you.

Sweat rolls down Vi’s forehead as she shakes beneath you, trying to hold off her own orgasm to get more out of the way you ride her. Her hands rest at your hips, occasionally sliding down to grip your soft, plush thighs. You clit brushes against her happy trail as she bucks her hips up into you, her strap hitting deep, deep inside of you making you squirm above her.

Vi moans pathetically as you tug on her hair, her soft whimpers filling her ears. God, she was so fucking close!

“P-Please, fuck, I-I—” she whimpers into your mouth as you pull her in for a sloppy kiss.

“Gonna cum, Vi,” you moan against her lips.

“M-Me too—”

She looks up at you, eyes dazed and half lidded as she gasps, panting and trembling beneath you, her hands gripping your hips as you bounce on her strap. Bucking her hips up into you, Vi guides you into a quick rhythm, watching her strap disappear into your soaking cunt and each time you grind your hips down, she feels the end of it pressing against her sensitive clit, over and over and over and over… Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She doesn’t even realize how hard she’s gripping your hips, fingers dipping slightly into your skin as you ride her. She does know, however, that you’re probably just as close as her—so, so close—knows that it’s getting harder and harder for you to fuck yourself on her strap, especially when you start mindlessly babbling a stream of curses and moans. You’re pulling at her hair, jaw slacked, eyes rolling back, your tits bouncing in her face—she could cum at the sight.

“V-Vi—I-I’m—”

“F-Fuck, yes! Please, please, please—”

And with one last thrust of her hips, you sink onto the entire length of her cock, hitting that delicious, spongy spot in your soaking pussy. You tense above her, back arching, pressing your front against hers just as the strap presses against her clit.

Vi moans loudly, trying so very hard to keep her eyes open as she trembles beneath you, her hips stuttering violently as she cums at the sight of you, at the way the strap feels against her, at how she can feel your wet juices dripping onto her thighs. God, it feels so fucking good. Her hands make their way back to your waist, easing you slowly to ride out your high, even though her clit is already so fucking sensitivite. She enjoys the way you tremble in her lap, her head dropping to rest on your bare shoulder, panting and heaving against your skin.

You struggle for a couple minutes to catch your breath and a moment later, Vi whimpers pathetically when you shift slightly on her strap—she’s so sensitive.

“S-Sorry, one second,” you whisper, carefully moving to remove her strap from your heat.

Once you’re off, you help her out of the straps hurriedly, dropping them somewhere onto the carpet of your apartment and when you finish, Vi doesn’t waste another second until she pulls you back into her lap, closer against her. She closes her eyes, breathing in your scent as she nuzzles her face into your neck for just a moment before leaning her head back on the couch, lips parted, breathing heavily.

The room is quiet now, save for the lingering echoes of your ragged breaths. Your body is warm over Vi’s lap, your legs still trembling. Her hoodie is pushed up, bunched around her ribs, just past her toned abs, her skin hot beneath your fingertips. Her own fingers trail absently along your back in slow, lazy movements. You watch her, still catching your breath, your hands resting lightly against her chest.

She looks so pretty—lips slightly parted, a flush across her cheeks, her hair sticking to her damp forehead.

But then Vi’s fingers slip up your spine, and she hums, almost like a purr. She tilts her head slightly, opening her eyes just enough to look at you, her gaze heavy-lidded, still hazy with pleasure, dazed, distracted, her pupils blown wide. She’s looking at you like she always does—like you hung the moon, like she’s still yours.

And then, before she can stop herself, before she even registers the words spilling from her lips—

“I love you.”

Your whole body stiffens.

Vi freezes, her eyes going wide after realizing what she said. Fuck. She didn’t mean to say it—at least not now, not like this.

Her pulse hammers against her ribs, her mind racing through the damage she might’ve just done.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Your eyes lock onto hers, wide and startled, your lips parting slightly like you might say something, but nothing comes.

Panic flares in Vi’s chest. Shit. Shit. Say something, fix it, play it off—

“I—” Vi stammers, shaking her head, forcing out a short, nervous laugh. “I mean—shit, that was—I didn’t mean—”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You pull away slipping from Vi’s lap like the air between you has turned solid. Your shirt is the first thing you find, tossed carelessly to the floor, and you tug it over your head, not bothering to fix it properly. You don’t blink. You don’t look at Vi. Your eyes drift somewhere else—past the couch, past the walls—like if you stare hard enough, you can pretend you didn’t just hear those words.

Vi scrambles behind you, clumsy and rushed, trying to catch up to you.

“Just–Just let me explain—” her voice cracks, rough and unsteady, and she fumbles with the waistband of her jeans, pulling them up in a frantic mess, fingers shaking as she tugs her hoodie back into place.

But you don’t respond.

You don’t even look at her.

And fuck, Vi’s never looked smaller than she does right now—standing there in your apartment, jeans not even fully zipped, hoodie crooked on her shoulders, hair a mess, her heart bleeding out onto the floor between you both—but none of it matters. All she’s thinking about is you. The way your arms are wrapped tight around yourself, how your voice trembles, how you refuse to look at her.

You told her. You told her from the start. No commitment.

And she agreed. Because what choice did she have?

If the only way she could have you was like this, Vi would’ve taken it. She would’ve taken anything.

You already told her what this was. What it wasn’t. She knew. And yet, Vi looked you in the eye just now, and told you she loved you. As if the words weren’t a bomb going off between you.

You clench your jaw so tight it hurts, staring at the floor, at the wall—anywhere but her.

“You—” you start, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

Vi pauses.

“Why not?” she blurts out, stepping forward instinctively—and you step back just as fast.

Her face crumbles.

“Why not?” she says again, quieter this time, more desperate.

“Because,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Because it’s not—that’s not what this is.”

Vi looks at you, looks to the wall on her right, then looks at you again, eyebrows knitting together before she laughs, sharp and bitter.

“Do you really believe that?” she asks quietly. “Do you really think I can keep doing this—and–and not feel anything for you?”

Your heart lurches.

“Violet.”

“No, tell me,” she cuts you off. “Tell me you don’t feel anything when I’m here. Tell me you don’t think about me when I’m gone.”

You shake your head again, “I told you what this is, Vi.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything at first.

“This isn’t what we’re doing,” you whisper, more to yourself than to her, “We’re not doing this.”

“I know, but—”

“No, you don’t,” you say, finally meeting her eyes, and Vi’s breath catches at the sight of the unshed tears threatening to spill over.

And it hurts. It hurts so much because you can still feel her everywhere—the heat of her hands on your skin, the rasp of her voice against your neck, her lips, her breath, her mouth, her skin…

“No, no, I think I do,” she shakes her head. “Do you think I came here every night for the sex? Is that what you think?”

Her breath hitches, and she stands there.

“I didn’t come here just to—just to fuck you. I came here because I miss you.” Her eyes lock on yours, searching, pleading.

“We said no commitment,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

“Fuck that,” she says. She’s upset, more than upset, her face twisted in frustration, her breath quick and shaky as she watches you. “Fuck that.”

“Vi—”

“I don’t want that,” she cuts you off. She steps closer, her hands twitching like she wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if she should. “I never fucking wanted that. I just… I want you.”

She stops herself, breathing hard, trying to collect her thoughts, but they’re scattered, all over the place, too many emotions crashing together.

“I’ve spent the last three years thinking about you,” Vi admits. “Wondering if I’d ever see you again, if I’d ever be able to fix things, if I could get you back—”

Her breath hitches, her jaw tight as she stands in front of you, desperate and angry and so fucking tired of pretending like this isn’t tearing her apart.

Vi scoffs, shaking her head, frustration and pain battling in her eyes. Her hand moves up to run through her messy hair, tugging at the strands as if she could pull out the emotions knotting in her chest.

“And—And you’ve been pretending that you don’t feel anything for me, but I know you do.”

“God, you’re so full of yourself,” you snap, feeling the anger rising in your chest, fueled by her accusations, by the way she’s completely ignoring everything you’ve been trying to avoid, trying to hide from. “You always think you know everything, don’t you? You think you know what I feel—what’s in my head—but you don’t. You don’t know a damn thing.”

Vi opens her mouth to respond, but the words catch in her throat as she watches you, and you’re not sure if it’s the frustration or the hurt in her eyes that’s making it all harder. You can feel yourself shaking, the tears threatening to spill over. You don’t want to cry in front of her, but it’s too much. Everything is too much.

“I’ve spent so much time pretending it didn’t hurt,” you choke out, the words coming in gasps. “—that it didn’t matter when you’d leave again, or when you’d go silent for days, weeks, at a time. I kept telling myself that I didn’t care, that I didn’t miss you. That you didn’t matter anymore—”

Vi furrows her brows and halts for a moment, realizing you’re not talking about this anymore… you’re talking about back then.

The tears start to fall, blurring your vision, and you swipe angrily at them, wiping them away, but they keep coming, as if they were waiting for permission to break free.

“But it still hurts, Vi. It fucking hurts. Every single day. And you—you just keep showing up, and I didn’t know how to deal with it anymore.”

Vi stands there, her hand trembling slightly at her side as she steps forward, but you back away again, not ready for her touch. Her heart breaks. Her jaw tightens, her hands clenching at her sides as her chest heaves, like there’s a chance she’ll fall apart right in front of you.

“I know I fucked up,” she says, like she’s trying to shove the truth out of her mouth before she can stop herself. “I know that I’m the reason we’re even in this mess in the first place but—”

You flinch at her words, at how easily she’s admitting it all, like she’s been rehearsing this moment in her head, waiting for the right time to spill everything. But she doesn’t stop—she can’t stop.

“Don’t stand there and tell me you don’t feel anything for me,” Vi pleads, stepping closer, her voice breaking, the desperation cracking through her tough exterior. “Don’t act like this doesn’t mean anything. Don’t act like you don’t love me. We wouldn’t be doing any of this in the first place if you didn’t.”

Your heart twists painfully, and you shake your head, blinking back the sting of tears. “Vi—”

“No,” she interrupts. “I love you. I never stopped loving you. I still love you now.”

You look away, your breathing shaky. But Vi keeps going, her voice trembling now, as if she’s afraid of what will happen if she stops.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t kill me every time I come here,” she says softly. “I tell myself I’m fine with whatever this is, that I’ll take whatever pieces of you you’re willing to give me—but I’m not. I’m not fine”

She takes a step closer, and you don’t move away this time. You’re frozen, caught between wanting to hold her and wanting to push her away again.

Vi’s voice cracks completely when she says, “I want you back.”

Your breath is shaky, a tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it, but you don’t wipe it away.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whisper.

Vi’s shoulders slump, her eyes glistening as she watches you.

“You think this is easy for me?” Your voice rises. “You think I don’t want more? That I don’t think what it would be like if you had just—just tried harder? If you had picked up the damn phone, or come home, or given me one fucking reason to believe I was still important to you?”

Vi’s mouth opens, but you shake your head, blinking through the burn behind your eyes.

“I waited for you,” you say, your voice breaking on the word. “I already fucking tried, Violet. And when I finally saw you, you just kept pretending that we were okay—th-that our problems were just gonna magically disappear if you just stopped to fit me in your schedule for a couple of days—and now you think you can just waltz back into my life and tell me you love me like that’s enough?”

Vi’s breathing is ragged now, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy, but she doesn’t look away. She takes it—every word, every painful, bitter syllable—because she knows she deserves it.

“You don’t get to do that,” you whisper, your voice barely audible now, cracking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding back. “You don’t get to tell me that you love me when it’s convenient for you.”

You watch as her jaw clenches, her hands shaking at her sides. “That’s not why I—”

“No, Vi,” you snap.

“I’m not trying to—”

You laugh, but it’s hollow, as the tears roll down your face. “You think because we’re sleeping together, that it means you get to tell me you love me and I’m just supposed to—what? Fall back into your arms?”

She takes a shaky step forward. “That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then, what are you saying?” you cut her off again, your chest heaving. “Because all I’m hearing is you trying to make yourself feel better.”

Vi flinches, her lips parting—but you’re already speaking again, the words pouring out faster than you can stop them.

“You didn’t fight for me then, so why the hell are you fighting for me now?” Your voice cracks, every word slicing through the air, right into her chest. “Why is it only when I let you fuck me that you suddenly remember how much you love me?”

Her face drops, “Baby, that’s not—”

“I’m not some backup option for when you get lonely, Violet. I’m not a fucking consolation prize.”

Vi stops.It feels like everything she thought she could build with you—everything she’d hoped for, everything she believed could happen—shatters instantly.

A tear slips down her cheek, her hand instinctively reaching up to wipe it away.

“You really think that?” she whispers, all too quietly.

It hurts so much. All these years, Vi had told herself that she would never be the one to hurt you again, that if you ever gave her another chance, she would do everything differently.

But now, standing in front of you, she realizes the damage she’s done. She can’t take back it all back. She can’t erase the time she let slip through her fingers when she should have been fighting for you.

“I never meant to make you feel that way,” she chokes out.

Her breath hitches, and she’s suddenly too aware of the space between you both. She wants to reach for you, to beg for your forgiveness, to pull you close and beg you to understand. But she doesn’t. Instead, she stands there, rooted to the spot, her heart in her throat.

Vi swallows hard, trying to keep the words from tumbling out, but she’s not sure what she’s even asking for anymore.

You watch her as she lets out a heavy breath, the sound shaky, her hands running through her hair in frustration. She tries to stop the tears that threaten to spill, but they still come, sliding down her cheeks as she scratches the back of her neck in an attempt to distract herself. Her eyes flicker between you and the floor, too afraid to look directly at your face for too long. She starts paces in short, restless steps, her mind racing with things she should’ve said—things she should’ve done differently.

You stand still, frozen in place, tears still streaming down your face as you watch her. It feels like an eternity passes.

And soon, you glance down at her neck. Your eyes catch the glint of her necklace, dangling just slightly under the hem of her hoodie.

Vi stops pacing when she sees you, her steps faltering as she realizes what you’re seeing.

But she only looks away.

“I should go,” sbe says too quietly.

Her voice trembles as she glances at you for just a moment, as if she’s waiting for you to stop her.

But she already knows. She already knows you won’t.

Vi steps back, her body tense, her eyes tracing every inch of you like she’s committing you to memory.

“Vi…” you sigh, watching her walk away towards your apartment door.

Her chest rises with a shaky breath, and she reaches for the handle, fingers brushing against it. She hesitates, just for a second, because she wants to look at you. Because maybe… she’s won’t get another chance to.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

She doesn’t wait for you to say anything else. Without looking back, she pulls the door open and steps out into the hallway.

It’s only when the door clicks shut behind her that you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

And when you look over towards the door, you see a glint of silver on the floor.

Vi’s lighter.

Stupid.

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venomvalley · 4 months ago

Text

TYING KNOTS

bottom!sevika x fem!reader | 2k words

SUMMARY: Sevika lets you top her. That's the fic.

TAGS: 18+! sub sevika, restraints, strap-on sex, oral, fingering, overstim, porn with feelings, bratty sevika, very light choking

NOTES: cannot believe its taken me this long to write a sub sevika fic i should be ashamed of myself

“You sure about this?” you ask, sat naked on the bed beside an equally-bare Sevika, silken tie in hand, harness tight around your hips.

She squints up at you, head tilting atop the pillow. “Wasn’t this your suggestion?”

“It’s called consent, Sev.” You stretch the tie out, wrap it around your hand, stretch it out again as she stares up at you, fingers massaging over your thigh. “We’ve never done this before, and I know how big of a power freak you are.”

She smiles wide, front teeth—that adorable little gap—showing between her parted lips. “Nervous?”

“I’m terrified that you’ll break our bed. Paid good money for the headboard.”

You swing your leg over her hip and take a seat on her lower belly, the hair of her happy trail bristly against your pussy. She lounges back into the sheets, tucking her arm under her head.

You smooth your hands over her chest, tweaking at a pert nipple. “Alright, so—“

“If you make me repeat the rules one more time, I’m leaving.”

You lean down to give her a pouting kiss, tits squished against hers, fake cock trapped between your bellies as your hands rise to cup her face. “So grouchy.”

“You’re stalling.”

“Oh, I’m not allowed to kiss my beautiful woman?” She gives you a disapproving glare, lips curling into a frown (though you know that she secretly loves being referred to as yours). “Alright, fine. Give me your arm.”

She holds out her hand with a grin, and you tie her single arm to a notch in the headboard. Fit two fingers beneath the knot to ensure that it isn’t too tight. Her prosthetic lies abandoned on the kitchen table—she didn’t want to wear it, saw no point in putting it on when the idea of this whole ordeal revolves around vulnerability and submissiveness.

Your lips pepper a loving trail of kisses down her arm, fingers ghosting over the muscle of her bicep. “If you wanna stop, just—“

“Red. I got it.”

You lave your tongue over the pulse of her neck, teeth scraping against the skin. Bite your way up to the curve of her jaw, hard enough to hurt—just the way she likes, if the inviting tilt of her head means anything.

You work your way down her body, kisses languid and loving and wet, stopping long enough to suck on each nipple. She grunts, spreading her legs to fit your body until you're knelt before her, face level with the wiry curls on her mound. With both thumbs, you spread her open then lick a slow trail from clenching pussy to puffy clit.

Your head fogs up at the first taste of her, clean from the earlier shower you shared, musk mild on your tongue. Already wet after a little kissing, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't inflate your ego a bit. You moan against her, dipping your tongue into her cunt, and she parts her thighs with a shaky exhale. Cusses under her breath when the tie around her wrist refuses to budge from her fidgeting.

The first press of your fingers, the sharp suckle of your mouth around her clit leaves her back arching, hips tilting into your face. Begging for it. Under her breath, her orders for more, harder, faster sound like pleas. But you obey them regardless.

Your hand curls over the top of her thigh to keep her still when her legs begin to twitch. Her pussy tightens around the heavy thrusts of your fingers, all slick velvet heat.

She groans. “Fuck. That's it, honey—shit—”

Another rough suck of her clit sends her into her first orgasm of the night, and she rides it out with tensed-up muscles and a clenched jaw, breathing hard through her nose.

Too quiet. Something you intend to fix.

Sevika goes all-in with everything she does, and sex is no exception. She wants everything, all at once, as much as you can give her. Won’t accept any less. If you can still form words by the time she's done with you, then she didn't fuck you good enough.

Which is how you got this idea in the first place. Turnabout is fair play and all that.

She sags against the bed as the last of the aftershocks leave her, but you keep your mouth right where it is. A lighter touch against her clit, fingers slowing their speed to build her up to another. Her whole body freezes, thighs closing around your head, hips tilting up into your mouth.

You look up at her, fingers clenched into a fist around the silk tie, head thrown back to elongate the line of her neck. She heaves a gasp when you add a bit more pressure, fingers speeding up in their rhythm. Before too long, her thighs begin to quiver against your ears. And then she's coming on your face, gushing into your mouth.

And you start all over again.

She heaves out a sigh, headboard creaking as she twists her arm against the hold of the silk tie. “Honey—”

“Just one more, Sev. Please.”

It takes her a moment to respond, and you pull your mouth away to stop the fog of her brain. “Fuck, okay. One more—” She grits out a moan when you dive back in, unoccupied hand shoving her thigh to the side, opening her up for you.

She's never been this noisy before, never been this wet between the legs. The lower half of your face is soaked, the curls framing her pussy matted down flat, sticky and slick. You could stay here forever, could drown in her and die happy.

Once again, she flutters around your fingers with a pain-pleasure sigh, grinds her clit against your tongue to both chase and escape the sensation. And then it’s over, each orgasm shorter than the last, and you keep your end of the deal—no matter how much it pains you to pull away.

“You trying to kill me?” she huffs, gives a poor imitation of a glare as you rise to your knees and massage over her inner thighs. A sticky smear from your fingers catches beneath the light.

The fucked-out look on her face directly contradicts her supposed irritation, eyes lidded, mouth twitching at the corners, threatening a smile.

“Like you didn't almost drown me.”

She exhales a breath through her nose when you mouth over her tits, working your way up her chest to the sensitive pulse of her neck. “Whose fault is that?”

“Yours.”

She clicks her teeth, hair spilling over her jaw as she turns her cheek into the pillow. “Brat.”

With a final suck to the curve of her shoulder, you sit back on your haunches, hand curling around the base of your fake cock, thrumming with warmth, soft as the silk restraining her hand to the bed. You smack the tip against her clit and her thighs close on instinct, nerves still sensitive.

“Keep ‘em open, honey.” A swipe of your cock between the lips of her pussy, so slick and noisy your ears muffle with cotton, but she obeys, knees hooking over your hips.

You slide into her with a wet squelch, and she sighs, teeth catching on her bottom lip, head falling back against the pillow. You peer down to where your bodies meet, hips flush against the back of her thighs, and slowly pull out, moaning at the way she stretches around the toy—soaks it so thoroughly it glistens beneath warm lamplight. A hand rises to grab at her waist, stilling her as your free thumb circles over her clit. The tip of your cock catches inside her as she clenches hard around you, hand fighting the tie knotted around her wrist.

You understand now why she loves to fuck you. Seeing her all sweaty and submissive, tender at once-sharp edges might just be your undoing. It's intoxicating, addictive. You want to tear her apart, unravel her atom by atom.

She groans when you thrust your hips forward to bottom out inside her, the headboard creaking beneath the pull of her strength.

“I swear I'll kill you if you break that,” you whisper, leaning forward to suck a pebbled nipple between your lips, teeth a teasing pinch around the skin as she arches up into your mouth. You pull away with a wet pop, breath a hot exhale against her chest as you rock a steady rhythm into her. “Been needing this for a while, haven't you?”

Above you, she huffs out a shaky groan, hips fidgeting then rocking against yours. “Shut the fuck up.”

A smile stretches your lips as you sit back and begin to pull out, the slick noise of her cunt blurring your vision, frying your brain. “Fuck, so pretty like this—”

“Stop.” You almost can't believe your ears at the whine that comes out of her mouth, at the way her nose scrunches up and she hides her face against her arm.

She’s so fucking cute, so pretty all consumed by pleasure—embarrassed by it.

“What, honey?” you coo, leaning forward to press a messy kiss to her sternum, cock bottoming out with each thrust. “Feels too good, doesn't it?”

You back away to circle a hand over her throat, thumb pressing against her jaw to turn her head.

She looks up at you with galaxies in her eyes, like she's falling in love all over again. A reverent kind of beauty, so bright it almost rivals the burn of the sun. Sevika is much like that in many ways: all-consuming, a force of nature, a creature of habit.

You stop.

“What the fuck are you doing? Keep going.”

Her stubbornness to keep up the act while creaming around your cock is nothing short of admirable.

“I'm looking at you. Can I not look at you anymore?”

“No,” she says, deadpan, and you cough out a laugh, and a moment later, she laughs, too.

Your chest fills with warmth, like a patch of flowers has sprouted between the cage of your ribs. Love. Blooming and sweet. Has to be.

You lean forward to kiss her soft on the mouth, sweet and tender, hips grinding your cock into her. “Love you so much.”

“Don't start with the sappy shit.”

You pull away to pout at her, but still at the gleam in her eyes, soft and tender despite her mocking words. She won't say it, but she doesn't need to. Not when she looks at you like you're the only thing that matters.

“Don't be mean.”

She grins against your mouth, tugs your bottom lip between the blunt edge of her front teeth. Teasing, her way of saying I didn't mean that. Hard to read until you know what to look for, and then every action she takes likens to the pages of a dictionary. Color-coded and alphabetized.

"Untie me."

An order so desperate, gasped out, that you have no choice but to obey. You balance on an elbow and yank the end of the tie, and she pulls you close with a hand on the back of your neck. Licks into your mouth with a slow exhale through her nose. Keeps you still so she can kiss you breathless, and you almost forget that you're supposed to be fucking her, hips choppy in their rhythm.

"C'mon," she whispers, hand reaching down to squeeze at the curve of your ass. "You can do better than that."

"Not my fault you're so distracting."

A teasing quirk of her lips. "Excuses."

You give her a bruising kiss then lean back on your knees, shifting your weight to adjust the angle of your hips. She paws at one of your tits, sucks a breath through her teeth when your thrusts begin a slow, pounding rhythm, when you circle a thumb over her slick clit.

"Good?" you ask, a bit breathless, your other hand cupping the curve of her waist.

With squinted-shut eyes, she nods, hums low in her throat. Fully focused on the sensation of you fucking into her, hips slapping against the back of her thighs. Her hand grasps at your wrist, grip so hard the joint creaks, breath heavying inside her chest.

Each thrust inside her pussy accompanies a noisy resistance as she begins to pulse around you with the onset of orgasm. You quicken your thrusts to push her over the edge, and she reaches her peak with a panting moan, thighs tight around your waist.

She slaps you a few times on the ass, sighs out an, "Alright. I'm tapping out."

You groan. "Thank the gods. My thighs are killing me."

"Weak."

"Says the woman who does nothing but exercise all day."

You pull out of her with a wet schlick, hands immediately moving to undo the straps of the harness. You set it near the edge of the bed, reminding yourself to clean it once she's taken care of, and brush your hands over her toned belly.

"Need anything?"

She swallows, clears her throat. "A glass of water would be nice."

With a nod, you move to climb off the bed, but a hand around your arm stops you.

"By the way, love you, too. Shithead."

You smile at her, eyes crinkling at the corners, and she smiles back. A bit of mirth bleeding through all the sappiness.

Next on your list: a glass of water and a wet cloth to clean her up with. Maybe you can coax her into sharing a bath, letting you wash her hair. Maybe if you beg hard enough.

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #arcane x reader #arcane x you #sevika smut #x reader #my fics #fic: tying knots #ns/ft

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drivebypainter · 6 months ago

Text

I redesigned my SVSSS OC as the start of my mission to create a design/reference sheet for all of the SVSSS characters!

(prev design)

Here’s her lore:

The lore behind He Mixin’s arrival:

Shang Qinghua, wasn’t one for extreme superstitions. However, he definitely believed he must have broken a hundred mirrors for him to have the luck he currently had. He was stuck doing paperwork and taxes not only for the entire sect, but the entire northern palace too! Not only that but it was only his first few years as a peak lord and already multiple disasters had happened!

So in order to to minimize any future problems, Shang Qinghua began praying to a god of luck and fortune. Sure it was probably useless and a waste of time, but it felt nice to do it. Soon the prayers turned into little out of the way tasks to increase his luck. The it turned into whole rituals before he sent a letter or before he went on a mission. It seemed to be working too! His paper work seemed easier and people began to turn in their work on time!

However one day it went all wrong. You see, Shang Qinghua in his rush to save a stack of paper from falling off his desk, he stuck his chop sticks straight up- in his bowl of rice! (Bad luck!)

After that once unfortunate moment, everything went wrong again. Taxes grew harder, people began to be late with their reports, and peaks began to have disasters every week!

Desperate to get back his luck, Shang Qinghua begged the little statue of the lucky and fortunate god for help. Shang Qinghua was surprised when the sound of the system suddenly sung in his head with a new mission!

[User01 has gained a new mission with a grand reward of a permanent buff on paperwork and other peakly duties! Does User01 want to accept this mission?]

Extremely excited, Shang Qinghua selected the yes button and immediately forgot about the mission, after the system only gave a vague [great see you in 12 years!]

Over the next 4 years, Shang Qinghua’s luck slowly increased again.. but it never got to the point from before, and in fact any increase of luck was barely appreciated due to his now PAINFUL headaches that he was getting all the time.

On the dawn of the 5th year, Shang Qinghua could no longer take it, and begged the system to end the mission. There was no way he could handle it anymore! The pain was too much!

The system remained silent so Shang Qinghua ran to Mu Qingfang for help. After a quick analysis, Mu Qingfang found the problem, there was something growing next to Shang Qinghua’s brain! Mu Qingfang went to remove the mass and suddenly out popped a whole 5 year old child! Shang Qinghua was horrified- but the child’s birth(?) aligned with the mission… so was this his buff for everything on his peak?

Shang Qinghua decided to name the child He Mixin, (which means “to celebrate superstition”), as a call back to all the silly things Shang Qinghua did in the name of luck!

As He Mixin grew up, Shang Qinghua gave up his superstitions and instead just relied on giving small prayers to the lucky god in thanks. After all, despite its craziness, Shang Qinghua now had his own little ‘good luck charm’.

He Mixin personality/details/how she interacts with others:

He Mixin is a very stubborn and hard worker. She works hard to get things done and to make her baba proud. (thought she’d never tell him that).

She has a lot of anger issues, resulting with dealing with “man-child” peak lords and annoying fellow disciples (and even more annoying fellow head disciples).

She is prone to bouts of impulsivity, as shown by her horrible hair that she did on a day where she wanted to be free of the excruciating heat caused by summer in CQMS.

She is sometimes called the Princess of An Ding, because she is the daughter of SQH and out of all the disciples on An Ding she is rather weak. (though off on her peak she is considered the most physically strong out of her fellow head disciples- despite that strength she is very much not a fighter.)((A Ding disciples have to be sturdy and capable in order to do the amount of physical labor they do)).

HMX doesn’t like a lot of people due to the fact her opinions are usually clouded by the fact she has to deal with their bullshit when she does paperwork.

HMX is lesbian yay.

HMX is friends with Feng Licheng (the Zui Xian head disciple) and Gao Hongxia (the Wan Jian head disciple). The three of them hang out regularly.

HMX was forced to go on play dates with FLC the moment he joined ZXP.

HMX has a huge crush on GHX (GHX is beautiful, kind and competent! AWOOGA!)

HMX is frenemies with Ming Fan because the guy is annoyingly bossy! No other reason! (MF and GHX are friends- HMX is insanely jealous every time they hang out)

HMX hates Yang Yixuan to the bone because the brat is Bai Zhan and Bai Zhan sucks (YYX is a pure baby who never did anything wrong.)

HMX’s relationship with SQH is sorta like begrudging father/daughter type deal. HMX wants, but then also doesn’t want, a father, and SQH doesn’t know how to deal with children LOL.

MBJ was shocked the first time he met HMX- “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAD A KID POP OUT OF YOUR HEAD???”

HMX was taught embroidery by SQH and now regularly does little embroidery projects on either her own clothes or on little scraps of paper.

Both Feng Licheng and Gao Hongxia belong to @sillygoofyqueer

#svsss #svsss oc #my art #drivebypainter art #He Mixin #my oc #friend ocs #her lore was literally just the sentence ‘premature athena birth’ LOL #her lore also was originally way simpler but goofy convos with friends made it more ‘involved’#ALSO originally her lore was ‘SQH was tired of doing paper work so he begged the system for some help and the system tp’d the closest orphan #LOLOL #anyways thanks for readinf ❤️

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mossangelll · 5 months ago

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Im absolutely enchanted with your yandere jinx....This brings the question tho....how would Yandere Jinx handle her darling being on her period? (I mynself am on my period and I kid you not- I feel worse than when eating taco bell)

yandere!jinx x reader on their period

honestly not as much of an overt yandere as usual - if you squint, it’s pretty much a normal jinx hc!

hcs like this which are more ‘slice of life’ are super fun and i would be interested in doing them for more characters (e.g. what they’re like when you’re sick) if anyone’s interested!

tysm for requesting

⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

cw: periods, mentions of blood, mentions of kidnapping, sexual mentions but not in too much detail, slight noncon, reader isn’t referred to by any gendered pronouns but female anatomy is mentioned

yandere!jinx who can’t sleep without holding onto you during the night

yandere!jinx who reaches over for your body just to feel the cool bedsheet under her

yandere!jinx who notices the bathroom light is on and without hesitation believes that your escape attempts have finally resulted in a success

yandere!jinx who crashes into the bathroom to find…you, crying on the toilet with your head in your hands

“toots, i hope you aren’t thinking of making any stupid decisions.” her voice is still grumbly from sleep but it doesn’t manage to hide the underlying annoyance simmering beneath

you look up at her with pained eyes and that’s when she notices your underwear, pooled at your ankles and stained with blood

her eyebrows shoot to the top of her head and her demeanour softens like she was never mad in the first place

“oh! i didn’t know it was that time of the month.”

she sees how you wilt away in shame, arms crossed over your midsection, at such a normal bodily function and rushes over to cuddle you, toilet be damned

yandere!jinx can be a lot of things - overbearing, compulsive and downright abusive, but she knows that what you need right now is someone to comfort you

yandere!jinx who understands what you’re going through painfully well

yandere!jinx who still acts awkward around you for the first few periods you have when you’re in her captivity - the cons of relying on her sole father figure growing up

yandere!jinx who doesn’t trust you to go outside without trying to cry for help so she ends up getting essentials for you

yandere!jinx who doesn’t need to ask what kind of products you usually buy; she already snooped around your house before she took you and knows whether you prefer pads, tampons or cups, the kind of snacks you crave, whether you’re the angry or teary type - she knows everything

yandere!jinx who gets you a ridiculous pile of desserts she stole from some fancy piltie bakery just to make sure your cravings are satiated

yandere!jinx who washes any bloody sheets, clothes or underwear for you with her own two hands - not only is she gratified at how flustered you get, she wants to feel closer to you in any way possible and getting to do such intimate chores is honestly euphoric for her, it emphasises how you belong to her and her alone

yandere!jinx who doesn’t let you use a hot water bottle; she wants you to come to her for comfort, wants to be the one to hold her hands over your stomach and ease the cramps

yandere!jinx who gives you tiny drops of shimmer, not enough to get seriously high but enough to take the pain away

yandere!jinx who loves how your pink eyes match hers after she’s dosed you

yandere!jinx who loves to see you cry at something that’s not her because it means you won’t reject her attempts to make you feel better

yandere!jinx who hopes and prays that your cycles sync up so that you two become even more attached

yandere!jinx who massages your lower back when you complain about it aching, maybe even using special shimmer-imbued lotion she got from singed to aid her efforts

yandere!jinx who would love if their darling gets tender breasts around their period since she can cop a feel while using “pain relief” as her get out of jail free card

yandere!jinx who doesn’t care about any of the symptoms that you think are “gross” or “disgusting” - everything about you is perfect and she can’t find it in her to hate any of it

yandere!jinx who isn’t turned off by the sight of a little blood and tries to convince you to let her pleasure you, even if you are shaken up by the idea - after all, she heard that orgasms help alleviate cramps!

yandere!jinx who tells you all about her embarrassing period stories from when she was younger to make you feel better if you bleed through your clothing in front of her

yandere!jinx who becomes your personal jester if you’re bedridden; she tells you jokes and does a myriad of insane tricks that you can’t even fathom how she pulls off - it definitely gets your mind off of how terrible you feel

yandere!jinx who supports you every month and hopes that when you become accustomed to your new life, you’ll eventually do the same for her <3

masterlist

#jinx x reader #yandere jinx x reader #arcane jinx #yandere #toxic jinx #yandere!jinx #arcane headcanon #arcane #jinx league of legends #request #arcane request

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takumiraine · 6 months ago

Text

Once upon a time chapter 3

3 chapters in as many days? Nobody tell my Ao3 readers. I don’t have siblings, but I hope I captured banter well.

Once upon a time two men stopped believing in fairy tales.

Jason walked into the admissions office with Dan’s schedule memorized as well as Bab’s working schedule in the library to debrief both before and after and make sure their own girl genius ate. She was the only one in the family that didn’t treat him differently since the whole dead until he wasn’t thing after all.

“Hi there,” Jason said to the woman working the desk, turning on every ounce of charm, bringing out the smile that historically got him into as many troublesome spots as it got him out of. “I’m Jason Todd-Wayne and I think I’m ready to put down roots and get my degree in Literature. Russian or English, doesn’t matter.”

“Oh!” The woman looked suitably flustered, and he felt suitably stupid as he stood there with that thousand sun smile and his stupid shock of white hair and completely unprotected t shirt and jeans. Yeah he had a couple of knives in his boots but… he felt entirely too exposed. “Let me… make a call and see who can get you settled in.”

An hour and one incredibly flimsy “yeah well I’ve been doing absolutely no learning the last five years just give me the remedials first” lie later, and Jason had a schedule that matched up in a couple places with this Dan person.

He went to go see Babs at her job in the library, stopping at the campus coffee shop to bring her her favorite drink. May as well add some extra bribery to keep her from spilling if Bruce asked.

Jason doubted he would but weirder things have happened.

He walked up to where she was tapping away on one of the computers at the reference desk. He reached over and set the coffee near enough so she could grab it and far enough away that she wouldn’t throw a fit about the possibility of spills.

Jason looked around idly, waiting for her to be done with whatever task she was set to. Once she was done she grabbed the cup. “He’s here.” She said, taking a drink from her coffee.

Jason blinked. “What?”

“Yeah. Once I saw him this morning, without static, I realized why he was familiar.” There was the steady beep-beep-beep as she checked in books. “He practically lives here. Northwestern corner on the desktop.” More beeping and Jason turned his head under the guise of scanning the space as he sipped from his own drink. “Wouldn’t be suspicious except for last night, and knowing his class schedule.”

Jason nods, pushes off the desk and makes a slow circuit under the guise of looking for a book. The kid, under bright daylight, looks like hell. Pale with dark circles under his eyes. Thin. A quick glance at the screen shows him working on math way more complex than the remedial class he - they were taking. He selected a book from the shelf and returned to Babs.

“Kid looks more dead than I am,” Jason muttered, setting his cup down and paging through the book. Not only did the kid not notice when Jason got close but didn’t look over. No sense of danger that one.

He stood, making bland conversation with Babs and skimming through the book. At least until the kid got up. A quick check of the clock showed it was almost time for their first shared class. He walked out first, and pulled out the sheet of paper with his schedule. When the kid passed by Jason stopped him.

“Hey, sorry to bug you,” he wasn’t, “I started a bit late. Any idea where DL 115 is?” Danny startled a bit as he realized he was being spoken to, before nodding.

“Yeah. Headed there now. C’mon. I’m Danny.” The kid gave a smile and Jason was hit with the thought that with some sleep he was probably handsome.

As they walked Danny rambled a mile a minute, giving directions and a mini tour. Everything surface level, but kind nonetheless. He stifled a yawn as they passed the cafe where Jason had gotten the two coffees earlier that morning “and I’ve heard this place has the best coffee anywhere near campus. Haven’t tried it myself so your mileage may vary, but the smells are right.”

Jason normally found this sort of prattle irritating, but he found himself more amazed at the fact that a kid who had a knife in his stomach no more than 12 hours before was moving like nothing happened.

When they got to class Jason took the spot next to Danny. “Thanks for the tour man,” he said, wishing he could drop the Jason Todd-Wayne persona and go back to being just Jason.

“Yeah. Of course. Gotta help where you can.” Point one against being a rogue in the making. “Whats your major?”

“Literature. You?”

“Mechanical Engineering. I’m shit at lit, my high school teacher once accused me of being that dense on purpose.” Jason couldn’t help the snort, and he caught Danny’s lips quirk in a smile.

“Whats an engineer doing in a remedial math class?”

“High school was murder. Spent most of the time ghosting my classes.” He shrugged a bit, arranging the books he brought on the table. “Chronic underachiever.” The last two words were said with the same tone of someone who had heard them more often than anyone bothered to ask the reason behind it. Jason wasn’t quite sure where that point fell.

“Well, we need more engineers here. You grow up in one of the districts?” Small talk was a Wayne staple and even though Jason could appreciate the way they were helping him get information from the kid, it made him want to claw his face off.

“Nah.” A pause and the pit in Jason burned suddenly. “Small town in the Midwest. They need good ones there too. But Gotham was willing to pay me to be here.” He shrugs. “It’s a living I guess.” Jason had to resist the urge to grit his teeth. “You grow up here?”

A breath in. Out. Control. “Yeah. Crime alley until I was adopted by Bruce Wayne.”

Something in Danny’s look changes subtly, and the pit shrieks. Jason clenches a fist under the table, nails biting into his palm. “Doesn’t he fund the Justice League?” Knowledge outside his scope. Either the kid researched or had inside info. One point for rogue. Jason shrugged one shoulder and did his best ‘I just work here’ voice.

“I think so. Managing the money is more my brother’s thing though.” Keeping his voice even is a struggle with the way the pit lashes inside of him. Sweat beads at his hairline even though he’s certain the air conditioning just clicked on from the way the air is suddenly cooler around him.

“I hate those assholes…” he heard Danny mutter as the teacher entered and began the class. Another point towards rogue. So far it was pretty even, but there could still be an explanation.

The teacher began droning on and slowly the pit calmed in him as more math was put in front of them. Jason wished it would act up. Trying to manage it would keep him occupied from the numbers. They always only meant one thing. There was no subtext. No beauty. No romance to it.

God. If anyone knew that the vicious Red Hood was secretly a romantic? Kill him again now. He glanced over at Danny’s notebook when he realized he missed some instructions. The guy’s handwriting was a mess, little notes jotted this way and that with arrows connecting it to something else that Jason recognized from the more complex math that Babs and Tim sometimes got on about.

Danny caught him looking and trying to copy, and rolled his eyes but put dots next to the things he was missing once he looked over at Jason’s mess of notes.

After class, Jason couldn’t help but ask “why are you in this math class? I’m the wrong guy to ask but that sh…stuff,” he corrected, reminding himself who he was supposed to be. Danny raised an eyebrow but let him continue, “seems way more complicated than what we’re learning.”

“I’m a bad tester.” He shrugs. “I’ve had worse lecture experiences.”

Jason had an opening to get to know this guy better. “Any chance you’d be willing to tutor me?”

Danny’s eyes furrowed at him, “I’m sure your dad could hire someone with a math degree, not just some….” He waved his hand “nothing nobody from nowhere.” He finished. Jason considered, or at least pretended to.

“He could, probably a whole fleet of them. But I hate asking him for things. Rich people are just….”

“Pompous assholes?” Danny supplied when Jason seemed to struggle for a nice way to put it. Even Sam had been at first, her parents’ attitudes surrounding money rubbing off on her.

“Yeah. We don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. But I will pay.”

Danny seemed to consider that for a while, watching him more closely than the exhausted appearance would make anyone expect, something sharp and calculating in his gaze. Finally he seemed to decide and nodded, opening to a page where he had his schedule scribbled out. “I guess. When?”

“As soon as possible, I’ve already missed a couple weeks and I’m totally lost.” Not a complete lie. He could get himself caught up but making the bridge with Danny was more important. “Dinner at the cafe? I’ll buy for the inconvenience and then we can head to the library and get started?” Jason remembered Danny showing the mugger the empty wallet the night before. Either the kid kept his money elsewhere or he was broke.

Those sharp blue eyes landed on him again and narrowed slightly, and Jason got the distinct impression he was trying to weigh Jason’s soul against a feather. Then, again, Danny looks away and shrugs. “I guess. My next class is out at five.” Jason made a point of checking his watch. It was three. He nodded. “Meet you there at quarter after.” Jason nodded his agreement and stood. As Danny started to walk off Jason heard “And don’t think I’ll take it easy on you just because you’re a pretty rich boy.”

Fuck. What had he just gotten himself into?

The class Danny was headed to wasn’t one they shared, so Jason returned to the library. “Any idea what the kid does on the computer while he’s here?” Jason asked quietly, standing next to where Babs was shelving books. She handed him one and he put it back where it belonged, over her head.

“Excuse you, libraries are havens for those who want to be away from the panopticon of spying that is the powers that be.” Babs shot back, handing him another book. She could have reached that one but they both knew the understanding was clear, ‘you stand here to bother me during my normal girl hours, you work.’

‘And I know you’ his look countered. She sighed, wheeled herself and the cart to a different shelf.

“Nothing suspicious. Some conspiracy forums. Spends a lot of time sharing conspiracies with accounts named Technus and Ember, occasionally gets told to ‘go outside and eat something’ by an account called Desiree. Everything seems normal, or as normal as can be from conspiracy nuts.”

“What’s their favorite conspiracy?”

“Ghosts mostly. Though Pariah, Dan, also talks about how the JL is either in the pocket of the government or vice versa. He can’t seem to decide.”

“Any idea why he hates them?”

She hums, finishes with that shelf and moves along, waving cheerfully at some students that come out of a study room and keeps on her way. Jason is amazed that she manages the heavy book cart with her wheelchair. It’s just proof that there’s nothing that Babs can’t do. Jason doesn’t offer to push it. If she wanted his help she’d tell him. Or hand him something.

“Something about only helping when it suits them. Sending the government to put down anyone who needs help that they don’t want to give.”

“Threat assessment?” Jason was willing to bet that there was a reason. Maybe not a good reason, but a reason.

“Minimal so far. If they are working together, this forum seems to be their only point of contact. Ember is in Bludhaven, and although I haven’t been able to get any real id on her, Dick says there hasn’t really been anything abnormal out there. She uses a different computer almost every time and pays in cash. Technus is in Metropolis. Has some pretty nasty firewalls. I could get past them but then he’d probably know. Desiree is in Yale, studying psychology. She’s probably the one I have the most information on. Real name Jasmine McLain. Eldest daughter of two middle class parents, younger sibling died in a hit and run in high school, left town first chance she got and never looked back. Overachiever in high school and got an associates in Psychology while working full time. Doesn’t know much about net security but nothing stands out beyond that.”

Jason shelved a few more books. Wished he still smoked. “Something doesn’t feel right.” He couldn’t put his finger on what.

“Sure it’s not that jacket?” Jason looked down at himself, frowning. He looked pretentious. He looked like an asshole. He looked like Tim or Bruce.

“Now that’s just mean and uncalled for Barbie.” He said her name just loud enough for some stupid barely 18 year old somewhere in the stacks to chirp back ‘Hi Barbie’ almost automatically.

Babs pulled a face, elbowed him in the ribs. “Laugh it up J.J. the Jet Plane.”

In spite of the carefully honed bat instinct that said he was missing something important, Jason smiled.

#writing #fanfiction #dpxdc #dc x dp #danny fenton #danny phantom #batfam #jason todd #red hood #dead on main #dp x dc crossover

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fluentmoviequoter · 2 months ago

Text

Anniversaries

The Bradfords Series Masterlist (6/?)

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!cop!reader

Summary: As a difficult anniversary approaches, Tim struggles to deal with his past. Torn between giving into his desire for you and remaining strong, he puts everyone on edge before he finds the perfect place to heal.

Warnings: angst, nightmares, PTSD, fluff and comfort

Word Count: 2.5k+ words

A/N: Catch the song reference and I’ll give you a cookie.

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Tim,” you call, taking quick steps to catch up with him. When he stops and turns toward you, you tip your head toward a nearby door. “Do you have a second?”

Tim nods once, then tells Lucy to get the war bags and ready the shop. He spreads his hand across your back and leads you into the empty office.

“Are you okay?” Tim asks, his arms stiff by his sides.

You don’t answer. Raising your arms, you move closer to Tim. As you wrap him in a hug and press your chest to his, you can feel him tense beneath you. Then, nearly as quickly, he relaxes, seeming to melt into your touch.

“Breathe,” you encourage, measuring your own breaths. “You’re here, Tim. Everything’s okay.”

Tim nods, but when he wraps his arms around your waist and clings to you, you know he needs more. In the time you’ve known Tim, you’ve learned his cues. Since you got married, you’ve developed a system for doing what you can to help him in moments like this. Though it seemed harder than learning to decipher his needs, you have also discovered what you should avoid. Some days, Tim can’t handle touch, but right now, the trauma his mind is cruelly reminding him of makes him need you, even if he’s too proud to ask.

You remove one hand from Tim, bring it to your collar, and unbutton the top three buttons on your uniform. Carefully, you pull one of Tim’s hands off your side and guide it beneath your shirt. His palm spreads across your chest, warm and steady against your skin.

“You’re home, Tim,” you whisper.

“I… Thank you,” Tim replies.

You nod. Tim stays in place for several breaths, then brushes his thumb over your collarbone before he steps back.

“You know where to find me,” you remind him. “Don’t bury it.”

“I’ll try.”

Tim leads you out of the office, and you straighten your shirt as you walk toward the garage. Lucy smiles when she sees you, and you wave to her. Watching Tim get in the driver’s seat, you wish you could do more.

“Do you think your future kid will want to be a cop?” Lucy inquires.

Tim doesn’t reply. His eyes are steady on the road ahead, his shoulders are tense and drawn up, and his eyes are puffy.

“Are you okay?” Lucy asks softly. “Trouble sleeping?”

“Not important,” Tim murmurs in reply.

“Okay. Just let me know if I can do anything to help.”

Tim clenches his jaw but nods. He couldn’t help himself then, so why would he ask for help now?

You wake just after 2 a.m., rubbing your eyes as you yawn. The bed shifts, and for a fleeting moment, you think it’s an earthquake.

“S’a trap,” Tim mumbles.

He flips onto his back, pulling the sheets around his legs. You shift, sitting up as you wait. Some nights, his nightmares pass without a problem. He never talks about them, and you don’t press him too. But, on the other nights – the bad nights – you have to pull Tim back from the battlefield in his mind.

“Tim,” you whisper.

He shakes his head against his pillow.

“Tim,” you repeat louder.

“Too late,” he says in his restless sleep.

“Sergeant Bradford.”

Tim grumbles as his eyes blink open slowly. He sees you, and the tension in his shoulders lessens.

“I’m sorry,” you offer.

“Sorry I woke you,” Tim replies.

“Do you need anything?”

Shaking his head, Tim declines. His hand moves toward yours, and the soft smile you send him acts as a promise that you won’t lead his side. Tim has trauma, and he understands that it will continue to affect him for the rest of his life. You understand just as well because you know what it’s like. Being together, you have a support system – even if it relies on someone who isn’t always emotionally available and gives more terse nods than verbal affirmations. But it works. You work.

Since you got married, you’ve learned that nights are worse for Tim. When he deals with nightmares, you hold him when you can and give him space when he needs it.

“Friday will be twenty years,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence around you.

You don’t respond, giving him the space to think and talk as he needs to. Anniversaries are stressful, especially when it comes to milestones. Twenty years is a long time to be stuck in a vicious cycle, damned to relive your nightmares forever.

“I feel like I can’t breathe,” Tim admits, leaning against the headboard.

“It’s a Sisyphean task,” you remind him. “But you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“It’s… it’s heavier now.”

“Don’t let it drag you down.”

Tim nods, then raises his arm. You move closer to him, leaning toward him. With your head on his chest and your hand against his stomach, you find comfort in your husband’s presence as you attempt to ground him and bring him back to this moment.

“Get some sleep,” Tim urges.

“Only if you do, too,” you stipulate.

You can feel your blinks slowing, and Tim’s heartbeat in your ear and warmth beneath you threaten to pull you under.

“I’m right behind you,” Tim whispers.

He feels your breaths even out, then drops his chin to press a kiss against the top of your head. When Tim first met you, he saw your potential. Then, he saw your heart and someone he could love. After you married, Tim realized that you’re his salvation. This life is an anchor holding him down, but you keep him above the water when his inner critic tells him to give up and sink to the bottom. You saved Tim Bradford, yet he hesitates to share his past with you because if it’s too heavy for him to bear, why would he weigh down the one good thing he has left?

Your trauma and the long-term effects manifest uniquely. As do Tim’s. On the day of the twentieth anniversary, the morning after you fell asleep on Tim’s chest, giving him a moment of clarity and peace, Tim feels all of it. He hasn’t been sleeping well, he is under a tremendous amount of stress, and his past has gone from weighing him down to eating away at him. Everything is at risk, but Tim can’t show how much he’s affected. Sighing, he exits the locker room and encourages himself to keep everything inside for one more day. One more shift, and then he can decide to face this head-on or hide in the privacy of his shared home with you.

“Can I give him a warning?” Lucy asks during a traffic stop. “He’s trying to get to his favorite restaurant to catch up with his friends; he’s been out of town for a few months.”

“Then the ten minutes added by going the speed limit shouldn’t make a difference,” Tim snaps. “Ticket.”

“But Tim-“

“Ticket,” Tim repeats sternly. “Stop buying their sob stories, Officer Chen.”

Lucy inhales but nods and says, “Yes, sir,” before she returns to the car.

Lucy deals with Tim in the best and worst moods, but this differs. She takes his aggressive comments in stride, but after an hour of being so close to Tim’s bad mood, she feels as burdened as he does. She’s watching her steps rather than where she’s going, and if Tim were present enough to notice, he’d have something worth reprimanding.

“Shut up,” Tim demands, glancing at the suspect in the back of the shop.

“Lawyer!” the woman replies.

“You’ll get one when we get to the station.”

“I know my rights!”

“Then please invoke the one to remain silent, before I-“

“Officer Bradford,” Lucy interrupts. “Stop.”

Tim looks at Lucy as he slows to turn. His glare causes her to apologize, but he doesn’t say anything else to the perp behind him.

While Tim books the woman, Lucy watches the bullpen. You arrive as Tim fights to get her fingerprints, and Lucy rushes to meet you.

“Officer Bradford!” she calls.

“Hey, Lucy,” you greet, looking up from a folder. “How are you?”

“Uh, I’m fine. I wanted to ask how Tim is, though. He seems… off. Is he okay?”

You close the folder and see Tim through the clear glass pane separating you. His shoulders are so tense you can see the muscles through his uniform. Shaking your head, you wonder what he’s done or said today to make Lucy so concerned.

“He will be,” you answer. “I’m sorry for whatever he’s done.”

“Oh, it’s fine.”

“I’d do something if I could, but he’s- you know. He’s working through some stuff on his own, and I can’t make that go faster.”

“I get it,” Lucy assures you. “Thanks.”

“Chen!” Tim yells from the doorway. “Let’s go!”

He sees you, and when you smile, his eyes soften. But as Lucy passes him and his mind returns to work, his gaze shifts again. You pull your radio from your belt and ask dispatch to alert you of any calls Tim accepts.

“7-Adam-19 responding to a 242 call on Wilshire,” dispatch alerts.

“Code 1,” you reply. “Responding Code 2.”

You pull in behind Tim’s shop and exit your vehicle. Then, you hear yelling. Keeping close to Tim’s vehicle, you anticipate seeing an active battery, with your husband and his rookie in the middle. Yet, the silhouette of someone in the backseat of the shop tells a different story.

At the front bumper, Tim and Lucy are face-to-face.

“Because that is not your job!” Tim yells.

“You’d be just as mad if I didn’t!” Lucy counters.

“Hey, what’s going on?” you ask, moving toward Tim.

“You’re going to get yourself or someone else killed, Chen! You do not want that on your conscience!” Tim continues.

“I will worry about my conscience.”

“Did you think that maybe I don’t want your blood on my hands?!”

“Whoa,” you say, pushing between Tim and Lucy. You place a hand on Tim’s chest and push him until he steps back. “Stop.”

“I’m not sure my boot knows the meaning of that word,” Tim exclaims.

“Officer Bradford,” you interject. “Stand down.”

He looks at your face, then down to your hand on his chest. He nods once and steps back, letting your hand fall.

“Lucy, take this guy to booking,” you instruct. “I’ll alert Grey that you’re returning without your TO. You may get desk duty, but I can’t change that, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Lucy murmurs, walking around the shop to avoid going past Tim.

After she pulls away, you turn off your body camera and call Sergeant Grey. You explain that you’re bringing your equipment back to the station but need some personal time this afternoon. As does Tim. With his permission, you end the call and rub your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Tim offers.

You show him your hands, then pull his body cam off his chest. As you climb into the driver’s seat, he collapses into the passenger seat and stares at the floorboard. You knew Tim would explode if he bottled everything up. You didn’t expect him to do it on Lucy, the boot he cares for, even if he’s terrified of admitting it.

The drive back to the station is silent, and when you lead Tim into your home, you find your place in the kitchen and give Tim all the space he needs. It is his decision whether to leave or be alone for the rest of the day, and you allow him every opportunity to make it.

Tim returns from the bedroom dressed in an old Dodgers t-shirt. He stops by the door, and you look up from the cookie dough on the counter. You'd be touching if you both extended your arms, but it feels like miles between you. You assume there will be miles soon.

But, as you prepare to tell Tim to be careful wherever he’s planning to go, he steps forward. Tim closes the distance, waiting at your side. You wipe your hands on a nearby towel before you turn toward your husband. When you look up at him, he moves forward another inch. His eyes are red and glassy, and the tension you noticed in his muscles earlier today is gone. Tim looks deflated as if he’s moments from giving up and letting the pain consume him.

So, you do what you know he’s inviting you to do. You wrap your arms around him, holding him up. Slowly, you lead him to the couch, and he sits beside you, content in your arms.

“I came by here to get lunch yesterday,” you say softly, brushing your fingers along Tim’s back. “Kojo was asleep in his bed when I came in, so I tried to stay quiet and not disturb him.”

Tim shifts in your holds, clinging to you as he presses his face against your chest. He clings to you like you are the only thing holding him together.

“The second I opened the fridge, it was like he teleported,” you continue, smiling. “He was just there, looking up at me and waiting for food.”

Tim exhales, and you can feel the tension in his back release. The cords of his muscles seem to unwind as he relaxes against you. In your embrace, the pain fades, driven away by your kindness and love, as your arms act as shields around him. Rather than the racing memories of heartbreak and devastation, Tim refocuses, and he sees you. He listens to your story of Kojo, which is meant to distract him, and sees his family.

“You,” Tim mumbles against your shoulder.

“Hmm?” you hum, brushing your fingers over his jaw.

Tim pulls back, keeping his hands on your waist, tucked beneath your shirt. “You make the pain go away,” he confesses. “In your arms, my mind quiets. Nothing else is like this feeling.”

You smile, slipping your hand along his shoulder before you trace the top of his pec. Tim sits up, his eyes clearing as he sees you. Gently, he removes his hands from your stomach and holds your face. He leans forward and kisses you, and every touch communicates his gratitude. Tim may not offer endless praise or deliver romantic speeches, but there is no doubt that you are loved and appreciated and that Tim needs you.

The following morning, you meet Tim and Lucy in the bullpen after roll call. His mood has improved, thanks to you and a new morning. Lucy looks between you carefully, and when you smile, she perks up.

“Tim,” she says. “I was going to ask you yesterday, but… Anyway, do you need a hug?”

Tim looks at you, his eyes shouting that he loves you. He glances at Lucy and deadpans, “Not unless you want your arm dislocated.”

“Be nice,” you chide.

“Yeah, Dad, be nice,” Lucy echoes.

“You didn’t call me Dad yesterday,” Tim realizes.

“Well, you probably scared her,” you interject.

“Mom’s right,” Lucy says. “You really should be nicer to me. You’re trying too hard to act like you don’t like me. Which we both know isn’t true, because you really love me, way deep down.”

Tim rolls his eyes. You step past him, brushing your fingers against his hand. Tim nods once when you look over your shoulder to wish them a good day. Another unspoken promise.

“You guys do know I can see all of that, right?” Lucy whispers.

“Fifty pushups,” Tim replies.

“But it’s cute! It’s not a bad thing,” she defends.

“One hundred.”

“Dad-“

“Two hundred.”

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford x you #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford fic #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford #the rookie abc #fem!reader #hanna writes✯#the Bradfords🩶🚓

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erodasfishtacos · 4 months ago

Text

But I Got Wise (You're the Devil in Disguise) || DWD

Prompt: Harry & YN are the picture perfect couple of their suburban little neighborhood where everything is pristine and manicured. It's the 1960’s and they're just like any other husband and wife in this era, right?

AKA The Don't Worry Darling AU I never wrote

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: PLEASE REFER TO BOTTOM OF THE FIC AS IT WILL SPOIL EVERYTHING IF I PUT WARNINGS HERE 🖤

author's note:

I upload a piece of writing every 1-3 days.

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2-3 one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

Tier II - $5 USD where you get access to every piece of writing!

you can check it out here!

Inspired fully by this song

It’s a give and take.

An ebb and flow.

The most skillfully crafted routine of all time.

YN should win an Oscar for her perfectly crafted wide-eyed expressions or shocked gasp that could fool every single person in a room.

Every woman wanted to be YN.

Every husband wishes their wife was YN or something of a clone to her.

YN was the ideal housewife.

The sprawling mansion pristine, the meals delicious, and her appearance was always without a hair out of place or a smeared liner.

The jealousy came from YN’s upbringing, a family with old money, the kind that sent their children away.

YN was raised in a Swiss boarding school, where she had etiquette classes and learned how to be a lady.

At least that was the story that had so neatly constructed.

She always knew which cutlery went on which side, what fork was used for salad versus entree, and never had an elbow on the table.

YN was always polite to their guests.

No matter how standoffish the women were, she only smiled and acted as if she didn’t sense the tension.

When their husband’s make passes at her, she swiftly but always kindly, gently turns them down with a sympathetic look.

Like if she could she would but she can’t, she only cannot because she’s married.

Her acting made these men believe that if it wasn’t for Harry, they would have this chance with her.

And that was part of her magic, in the process of denying these men, it made them become even more interested with her.

YN was private, comparatively to the group of women, and didn’t share any information that the others would willing give away.

No one knew anything about her marriage.

Not like how everyone knew that Barbara’s husband was drunk nearly every night which resulted in whiskey dick.

Or how Rhonda’s expects it every night, even on days where he’s worked twelve plus hours and they’re both tired.

YN listened attentively, pouted empathically when necessary but never add anything to relate to it.

When pushed once by Catherine, YN was graceful in her rebuke when asked how her sex life was with Harry.

Was he a dud or star between the sheets?

They were dying to know.

He was a gorgeous man, the most successful out of the lot, and the only one who didn’t need hard liquor to loosen up.

Harry seemed too perfect, just like YN, to the point whs dimples smile seemed more wolfish and intimidating than welcoming.

When one of these men would hit on YN, Harry would make sure to give their hand a near bone-breaking shake on the way out as a warning.

All with that dazzling smile.

YN had not taken the bait.

She sipped her tea, acting as if she was flustered, and coquettishly replied, “Harry is a good, respectable man. A man with strong morals of how to treat a woman.”

All the women took that as a confirmation that he was a dud, the vanilla type who only knew missionary before rolling over to snore.

In an alarming discovery, the group of women all came to the conclusion that none of their husbands had ever gotten them anywhere close to climax.

YN had stayed mum, when curious eyes landed on her, she only gave a closed-lipped smile, and shrugged delicately, “I don’t speak about such things. It’s not very ladylike.”

As much as the gossipers want to roll their eyes at her holier-than-thou approach, it created wonder in what her life was like.

YN nor Harry ever cracked, never once.

Of course, every couple tried to put on their best faces for dinners and cocktails but they’ve all slipped a few times.

Like when Caroline had huffed at her husband to, “make his own damn cocktail.”

Or when Bart had let it slip that Gretchen threw a glass at his head during one heated argument a few days back.

Not Harry and YN.

Dinner tonight was hosted at the Chamber’s home, though no one would say it, they preferred when the couple hosted.

YN’s food was impeccable, the kind that only really was served at high-end restaurants, and cooked to absolute perfection.

Their house was incredible, expansive and an open-floor plan that was not the norm for house concepts - it was new, innovative.

They got together every other weekend, the neighborhood parents while a few of the teenage girls watched the young ones.

It was a mystery too.

Harry and YN were the only ones who were childless in their neighborhood.

At twenty-seven and twenty-nine years old, it was a bit scandalous that the two hadn't brought any additions to their family.

When bluntly asked once over tea about the issue, asking too crudely about infertility - YN had replied that no, she wasn’t and they just hadn’t wanted to start trying yet.

That her and Harry were happy right now.

Which was a concept that the others didn’t understand, majority hated their husbands, minority could tolerate them.

Children were something that brought joy to an otherwise dull life, to put something between husband and wife as a barrier to interact because every word seemed tense.

The largest house in the neighborhood, with five bedrooms, and none of them occupied by little ones.

It was a yearning to be like them.

YN was perfect down to the delicately painted polish on her fingertips.

The most mild-tempered personality, who seemed perpetually bubbly and not one negative, pessimistic molecule in her body.

Harry matched the same energy to an extent.

He had a temper unlike his wife, he wasn’t boisterous or belligerent like the other men but he was much worse.

It was subtle, passive, and it made the person who was the target of his anger feel like they were walking on eggshells until Harry decided not to hold the grudge anymore.

Harry was not one to mess with.

Once their neighbor Tom thought it’d be a funny prank to do a burn-out in their front yard.

It tore up a section of their healthy, thriving green grass that Harry watered before work every morning.

Mud, dirt, their meticulous landscape was tainted by the ruddy tire marks of the Chevy Impala that resides next door.

It was passive aggressive, Tom definitely had some not-too-secretive envy for his next door neighbor.

Harry had all the things the men wanted.

Top of that was a nice, obedient little wife who smiled and kept their mouth shut when the men were talking.

Tom anxiously peeled out his window that morning, blinds drawn only barely as he watched Harry come out of his front door.

Always at fifty-thirty on the dot, he grabs the hose, and it’s a bit comical because he’s already in his pressed, tailored suit, and shining loafers that YN must polish daily.

Harry…doesn’t give a reaction.

Which makes Tom’s stomach sink for a reason he cannot quite put his finger on.

Harry does not lose his shit like Tom was hoping, goading him into breaking his picture perfect image that they know.

No, Harry simply waters the grass, as always, and only glides over the disturbed soil to not make it any muddier.

His facial expression does not even twitch.

“He’s going to take that out on his wife,” Janet, his wife, frets as she looks over his shoulder, “You know he’s going to go in there and knock her around because he’s angry.”

“That’s not my fault,” Tom retorts defensively, letting the curtain fall back so they can no longer see him, pissed and unsettled.

“Tom-“

“Go make me breakfast before I knock you around, alright? You’re pissing me off,” Tom dismisses her as he grabs his cup of coffee, watching her scurry into the kitchen.

It honestly disappears from Tom’s mind after not getting the reaction that he wanted so fiercely.

But Tom was also relieved that Harry hadn’t come over, banging on his front door, or leaving a nasty message in the mailbox.

Nope.

It’s not until Tom walks out to the driveway, where his brand new burnt orange Chevy Impala is waiting for him, his pride and joy.

Tom sees it right away, his tires, the expensive brand new tires he had just paid an arm and a leg for were deflated.

Not just one, all of them.

And it’s easy to see that they’re sunken and useless because the underside of the car is closer to the ground, and not to mention the massive slash marks.

Tom thinks he’s about to have an aneurysm as his face starts to fluster into a shade of beet red, his hands trembling.

Just at that moment, Harry’s exiting his front door with YN walking behind in, tied up in a beautifully floral robe that ghosts on the stone.

Tom is boiling, if he was a cartoon character, steam would be coming from his ears.

Harry leans in to kiss his wife, this soft peck as she cups his face like she doesn’t want him to go, whispering against his lips.

He indulges her in a few more before she’s letting him go, not before pressing her thumb into the indent of his dimple.

“What the fuck, Chambers?” Tom roars as he storms to the edge of the driveway, staying in his own land but throwing his arms up.

Harry does the same fucking shit as before except the twerk of his lips.

Harry fucking smirks at him but his eyes were as slicing as recently sharpened daggers through flesh, he gets under Tom’s skin.

“Tom, watch your language in front of my wife,” Harry replies back calmly, “That’s no way to speak in front of a lady.”

YN’s lips are tight, eyes not dancing anywhere near Tom’s as she holds her husband’s bicep in concern, the typical over emotional woman.

Harry leans over, must tell her to go inside because she does go back into the house with a slam of the door, a deafening click of the lock in the still sleepy neighborhood.

“This crime is getting out of control for how much my mortgage is,” Harry lets out a breezy laugh, waving towards his front lawn, “First my yard is torn up, now your tires! I thought this was the safest place in the state!”

Tom is flabbergasted, he doesn’t know how to respond because Harry is acting like they both don’t know what is actually going on right now.

“I might have to get a watchdog, a rottweiler or something like that,” Harry’s smirk does not fade an inch but his tone gets deeper, more threatening, “Rip the jugular out of the next person who comes on my property uninvited.”

They both were aware that Harry was talking directly about Tom, threatening him in a subtle but almost more malicious manipulative way.

Tom freezes up, unsure of how to even answer him but he stutters slightly when he says, “Yea-yeah. A Rottweiler, not a, uh, bad idea there.”

“I better get going,” Harry thumbs back to his jaguar convertible, “My employees will have my ass if I’m late. You know how it is.”

Another jab.

They both know Tom doesn’t know how it is because he’s a low-level at his desk job where he makes barely enough and still has to rely on his parents sometimes.

“Yeah,” Tom bleats dumbly, now having to figure out this mess that was his car, “Have a good one.”

“You as well,” Harry returns, his dimples teasing at this point with his wide smile, “By the way, Tom, if you ever curse in front of my wife again. We’re going to have an issue. She’s a fucking lady and you’re going to treat her like one.”

Tom can’t reply because Harry has already ducked into his Jaguar, revving the engine, and peels out of their driveway with a loud squeal of tires.

Tom and Janet continue to come to dinner parties like nothing ever happened.

Harry will still mix his normal Moscow mule with a question about how his work is going, no one but Tom knows it’s a jab when Harry asks how his new tires are doing for him.

YN is cordial as ever.

When Tom takes her aside to apologize, he doesn’t miss how Harry’s eyes lock on him like a bullseye of a target - watching, clocking every subtle movement.

Harry watches the interaction in its entirety as Tom keeps his voice low, “I apologize for my language the other morning. I shouldn’t have cursed in front of you.”

YN let’s out a short, girlish giggle as she pats him arm, “No apology needed. Harry acts as if I’ve never heard the word before. Though I do not hear it often, I will admit. Harry keeps me sheltered.”

“A good husband,” Tom huffs out, she was adorable, and there was something so innocent about her that made not just him but many drawn like a moth to a flame.

“The best,” YN smiles sweetly, squeezing his bicep as she starts to move away, “Now I must check on my pork chops. I’d be mortified if they’re dry. Enjoy.”

And with that, she glided away, eyes couldn’t help but follow.

YN was cutting up the garnishes, the last touch on the dinner that was about to be served, sprigs of cilantro under her fingers.

A few women flocked around her, sipping martinis and gossiping like grade schoolers.

Harry had sauntered into the kitchen a few minutes after, hands finding her hips, and a chaste kiss to her cheek, “I’m starving.”

“Dinner will be ready in five,” YN looks over her shoulder to tell him, knife pausing for a moment.

“Oh, dinner sounds good too,” Harry’s hand slips from her hips to a bit more suggestive position on her lower back.

“Harry!” YN scolds him, a scandalized expression on her face as the other women flush and giggle.

They all wish the had their own Harry, a husband who was affectionate, a bit inappropriate but he made it obvious that he desired his wife.

His eyes never wandered, not even when Catherine bent over at a barbecue and the wind blew her dress over her head - cotton panties for everyone to see.

All the men had nearly drooled at the sight of skin but not Harry, he glanced with a bored expression at his watch and leaned in to kiss his wife’s nose.

“Out, out,” YN shoos him like a dog begging for a bone, giving him a light shove as he snickers, hands up in surrender.

YN’s eyes are glued to the cutting board, embarrassment latent on her face, “I apologize about that. He sometimes forgets he needs to filter his thoughts before speaking.”

The group around her titters, trying to hide how their cheeks feel warm because how does YN even handle her husband saying to her?

They’d swoon instantly if Harry told them that he was starving for them.

The dinner is served on beautiful, imported dishes from Italy - a wedding gift that was treasured from Harry’s parents allegedly.

The spread was as picture perfect as always.

It was because they were picture perfect.

Most of the men, aside from Harry, were drunk or quite close to it after the salad was served.

By the time the pork chops was on the table, they were bordering on something more uninhibited and unfiltered.

“And Marshall’s new secretary,” Henry’s voice is booming, monopolizing as every one gives him their attention, “Biggest tits I’ve ever seen. Natural too.”

The men all let out these crowing, obnoxious laughs out.

Except Harry.

“I bet her ass is just as -“

“Gentlemen,” Harry cuts in smoothly, raising his lowball glass, “This is no type of conversation in front of the ladies.”

“Catherine’s heard this talk before,” Henry tries to brush him off easily, glancing over at his wife who looks uncomfortable put on the spot.

Harry acquiesces with a sip of his drink, raised eyebrow, and nothing more.

It’s silent for a moment before the conversation continues.

It typically doesn’t wander into such raunchy, debauched territory at a neighborhood dinner but something was in the air.

“Janet wouldn’t let me touch for a month after I broke the radio, even after I bought a new one!” Tom complains between loud chews, “No hand or mouth stuff even!”

Everyone is laughing, the women more of an uncomfortable chuckle than anything, and again - Harry’s face was unreadable.

“How long do you hold out the goods when Harry fucks up? Or are you a good girl who never leaves him wanting?” Henry shoots the question towards YN, innocent YN, who looked like a spotlight had just been shown at her on stage.

“Henry,” Catherine hisses with an elbow in the ribs.

“That’s improper to discuss,” YN wipes at the corner of her lip with her napkin, “I do not do anything other than my duties as a wife.”

The tension is starting to creep in like a thick fog, though he doesn’t speak, everyone’s eyes shift towards the head of the table - Harry.

“I am hoping I heard you wrong, Henry,” Harry sits his glass down knocking loudly against the oak surface, “I know you surely didn’t ask my wife about our intimacy, She wasn’t raised in a barn, to talk crudely, or act it. I do not want you tainting her innocence with such filth.”

The way Harry regarded his wife made it seem like she didn't even know what sex was.

Which again, added to the mystery of what they even got up to (if anything) in the bedroom.

Henry flushes, his face pink from the liquor, and he shakes his head, “I apologize, I’ve had too much to drink.”

Harry gives the sarcastic, crooked smirk, “It seems most of you had. Now I wouldn't want to stress my wife out any further with this nonsense. I think it’s best we end the night here. She most likely needs a lie down from these inappropriate discussions.”

This delicate flower, YN, who just wishes everyone a good night without any fuss about Harry kicking out their guests mid-meal.

Obedient.

Submissive.

Innocent.

The perfect wife.

As soon as the last couple is gone, Harry locks the front door, and kicks his loafers off by the front door.

He truly hated his fucking neighbors.

The best part of these dinners was when they left.

YN had sat back down at the head of the table, opposite Harry, and took a long sip of red wine as she watched him walk back in.

“Those men were pigs tonight,” Harry breaks the silence, taking his spot at the opposing end, finishing off his dry whiskey, “I can’t believe the lack of respect around women.”

“Mm,” YN kicks off her black stilettos before she’s kicking her feet up onto the dining room table without a care.

The basket of rolls tumbles to the floor, a gravy pitcher toppling over and starting to drip on their expensive linen tablecloth.

The skirt of her dress rides up, revealing an expanse of her bare thigh, and enough of a peek at her hips to see no elastic in sight - no underwear.

“How do you think dinner went, my dear?” Harry asks conversationally as he pours himself a glass of Merlot from an open bottle.

YN shrugs as she finishes off her own glass, a red drop of liquid chasing down her jawline, throat, and chest - soaking into the white material of her dress.

“I wasn’t paying much attention to any of them,” YN replies honestly, the honey-sweet airheaded tone was gone and a more demure lift was in her words, “I couldn’t get the idea of you fucking me on this table out of my mind.”

Harry grins like a cat who just found a canary, setting his wine glass down, and leaning back in his chair - spreading his legs more.

“My love, watch your tongue,” Harry teases as he starts to loosen the tie around his neck, never taking his eyes off of her, “It’s improper for you to speak like that.”

YN grins sharply, uncrossing her ankles, and bending her one leg, resting her foot on the plush cushion of the chair, the other one the table - giving him an obscene, gorgeous view when she hikes up her dress even further.

“They would be mind-blown, you know that,” Harry’s voice has gone deeper, rougher as his arousal starts to sink into his bones

“Mind-blown about what?” YN switches back on that innocent, friendly tone but it doesn’t match her actions as her fingertips dance near her inner thighs.

“That you’re a fuckin’ filthy little slut for your husband,” Harry rasps as he starts to go for his belt, yanking the leather from the loops.

“That’s not how you speak in front of a lady, Mr. Chambers,” YN scolds with that faux scandalized melody, her fingers were running over her outer folds, gentle and unrushed.

“M’not in front of a lady right now though,” Harry disagrees as he shoves off his suit jacket..

“You’re not?” YN asks in surprise, doe eyes but the foot on the table purposefully knocks over a half-full bottle of wine - splashing on their rug below.

Harry just smiles, teeth gleaming white and wolfish in the low lighting, “You’re the sweetest, most proper little thing in front of company, aren’t you?”

YN blinks at him, her expression unyielding and still playing into this role they’ve constructed over the years -the perfect couple.

“You are,” Harry answers for her, “I make sure no one speaks crudely in front of you. I remind them that you’re pure, unassuming, and delicate.”

“But you’re not delicate nor anywhere near pure,” Harry continues, his hand gripping at himself through his briefs - squeezing for a bit of relief as the sight in front of him was enough to have him come.

“I am,” YN argues weakly, her index and middle finger finally parting her folds, and pressing against her already swollen clit.

Harry lets a loud laugh echo through their now quiet house, only a low static hum from a song playing in their formal living room on the record player.

“You are? It could have fooled me. You acted scandalized when Henry asked if you withhold intimacy to punish me.”

“I was scandalized,” YN lies but it isn’t with conviction, her focus isn’t great as she presses tight circles over her bud.

“I think Henry would have been scandalized if I told him that you’d never withhold it because you love cock so much. Remember when you lasted what, a half-a-day when I came home late to dinner?”

“By bedtime, you were teary-eyed, and begging me even if I’d just give you the tip, huh?” Harry pushes his hand inside his briefs to really grip him up, a hard squeeze at the base to calm himself down.

“Or he’d be scandalized to know what you’re really like when it’s just me and you. How fuckin’ dirty you are. The words that come out of that cute mouth, how cock-hungry you get, how fucking much of a brat you are when you don’t get your way.”

YN bites her lip, trying to scowl but her toes curl and her thigh muscle twitches as she rubs at herself just right.

“I’ll tell him how you sit pretty for me on your knees when I arrive home from work or how you like to sneak my fingers up your dresses under the table at work events. Should I? The list goes on.”

“They wouldn’t believe you,” YN murmurs as she lets her head fall back, showing off the length of her throat as her legs threaten to close.

“Fuckin’ right they wouldn’t because I’m a good husband, aren’t I?” Harry runs his thumb over his sensitive slit, spreading the precome down the length of his shaft.

“I make sure everyone thinks you’re a delicate little thing when you’re nothing of the sort. If only they knew, dear,” Harry tells her, there’s a heavy amount of fondness intertwined with his words.

“Show me your cock,” YN’s head tilts back up, eyes expectant and focused as she slows the friction on her bud, she could have come by now if she wanted to but she’s teasing herself.

Harry makes a show of giving himself a few rough strokes, letting an echoing groan out as all YN sees is movement under fabric.

“Get the fuck over here,” Harry orders with a new gruffness, “If you come on your fingers then you’re done for the night. And I know how greedy you are for your orgasms.”

YN likes to push limits, always, and she doesn’t move from her chair.

Instead she keeps the same sluggish pace before tracing lower to tuck to fingers in, spreading the wetness back to her clit.

“Maybe I’ll go see if Tom can help me out,” YN sighs airily as the tablecloth bunches under her heel, careless when a serving bowl of green beans flips.

Harry barks out a laugh, hand going to the root of his length because YN looked too fucking good, she looked like the definition of a sin, and he gave into temptation every time.

“I think he’d have a heart attack first,” Harry isn’t even exaggerating, “I am certain that our neighbors are convinced that you do not even know what sex is.”

“I barely have a clue,” YN laughs but it’s a stuttering quip because she's actually close to coming, her calf muscles contracting as she braces herself.

Harry’s out of his chair before YN can register it (or notice how he grabs his leather belt from the crumbled mess of his clothes), striding to the other side of the table, and without any warning, yanks her chair by the back hard.

It drags against the carpet but does what Harry had wanted it to do, makes her leg fall off the table, leaving her to grip the bottom of the chair to not fall, and effectively taking her hand away from her core.

“Harry! You fucking prick-“ YN begins to curse because she was close and she full intended on coming in the new few moments.

“Quiet,” Harry leans down to hiss in her ear, his hand coming around her front to cup her throat, not hard enough to it air flow but enough that it makes it more difficult.

“I was about to come,” YN tells him but her words are choppy, like there’s cotton balls in her mouth, and her tongue refuses to move.

“Were you about to come?” Harry mimicked her words in a parroting tone, fingers pressing in only slightly more, “And I didn’t say you could. But you’re not the obedient, submissive wife everyone thinks you are.”

YN bites his bottom lip hard when he tries to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth from behind, that was enough of an answer.

“No, they didn’t realize how hard my job is,” Harry’s voice goes sympathetic, for himself, “How impossible it is to have this needy, bratty slut of a wife who is never satisfied.”

Harry’s lip was oozing, only a drop or two of blood but his hand moves to the back of her skull, knotting in her hair, and brushing their mouths together - smearing it as if it was a blood pact.

YN doesn’t shy away from it, in fact she tries to sink her teeth back into the wound that was already there but he knew her tricks - as unpredictable as she could be sometimes.

It was almost comical, the song that comes on next.

A new one and it hummed lowly in the background, as Harry gathered her hands together behind the chair to wrap together - he couldn’t help but sing the lyrics.

“You look like an Angel.”

“Walk like an Angel.”

“Talk like an Angel.”

“But I got wise, you’re the devil in disguise.”

YN has this cocky grin on her beautiful face, perfectly applied lipstick was smeared to her chin, spotted with his swipe of blood.

Already a mess.

And all his.

With her hands secured behind her back, over the slats of the chair, it is no doubt going to make her limbs ache from holding the unnatural position.

Her chest pushed outwards, shoulders jutting broad as they try to compensate for her wrists being bound together - helpless.

“S’a pretty dress,” Harry compliments with deceiving kindness, the back of his hand running up the bare expanse of her strained arm, “Did it cost me a lot of money, my love?”

He traces the strap of her dress, hooking his finger underneath the fabric before letting it snap back against her skin.

She hadn't seen him pick up the bread knife but she feels the cold of the stainless steel against her skin when he slips the blade underneath the strap.

Sliced through like warm butter, the material falling limply away, and when he cuts through the opposite side's strap - it has his desired reaction.

Not only does the fabric fall away like scraps but it loses all structure and support, and effectively falls towards her belly.

Her tits spilling out, fully on display with the way her back was arched, and pretty nipples pebbled into perfect peaks.

YN has this snark of a grin on her face, trying not to show she's affected by what he just did, how her cunt ached into her whole body.

She loved the fucking games they played, and she flutters her eyelashes at him, “I thought you said I'm worth every penny.”

Harry stands in front of her, stepping on his suit jacket without a care that it took time for YN to starch and iron it that morning - his tie joining after he tugs it down and unknots it.

His fingers go towards the buttons of his dress shirt, the green of his eyes was barely visible but they couldn't pick, spoilt for choice.

From her face, to her tits, to her belly, to her core.

“You're the most expensive fuck I've ever paid for. I gave you my wallet, my accounts, my life,” Harry grunts as he makes her wait, only getting to the second button, his trousers split open by his hips, hanging loosely on his narrow waist.

“You act like-” YN’s words are cut off by a knock at the door, startling her into surprise because who the fuck would be knocking?

Harry peeks around the corner wall of the dining room, getting a clear view to the tall, narrow windows on either side of their front doors.

“It's Tom,” Harry informs her, moving to zip and button his pants back up, shifting them higher on his hips, “I better get that.”

“Harry,” YN stutters in a burst of adrenaline, she can't move from where she's sat - a sitting duck, vulnerable but aware of it, “You can't answer that.”

“I can't, why not, honey?” Harry’s words have this nuance of confusion, artificial and all for show, “It's the right thing to do.”

“What if…what if he sees me?” YN’s chest was heaving with a filthy mixture of arousal and nerves, “He could walk in.”

“I guess you better be quiet then,” Harry walks up to her, thumb dragging her bottom lip down before smearing her lipstick a bit more at the corner of her mouth, “Or he will come to investigate and how on earth would I explain this?”

Harry is walking out of the room before she can say anything else, leaving her alone in a almost-state of undressed with nowhere to look but their wall.

The music is quiet enough that YN can hear the conversation, Tom was naturally a boisterous man without volume control.

“Harry,” Tom greets when her husband opens the door, “I thought it best I come over and another apology for all of my behaviors. Will you grab YN so that I can extend my amends to her?”

YN’s heart seizes, skipping a beat because she wouldn't put it against Harry to push this, prod at her until he feels he's gotten under her skin.

However, YN needs to remember that Harry is already back into his 'perfect husband’ role, he's the Harry now that everyone knows him as in the neighborhood, not the one that was just in front of her.

“YN had to go lie down,” Harry tells him, making sure he sounds disappointed in his friend, “She really is delicate. Your wife may be okay with that kind of fall but she really cannot. It flusters her.”

“How the hell do you get anything from her? Did she pass out the first time she saw your prick then?” Tom chortles, a joke that isn't received well, Harry doesn't laugh.

Harry redirects though, “What was it exactly you wanted to apologize for? I really must get upstairs to check on her.”

Tom’s voice gets lower, still enough that YN can hear but it's their neighbors' attempt at a whisper, “Listen, I know you slashed my tires. It's fucking fair, alright? I got in a fight with my wife, went and got hammered at the bar, and drove home. I was drunk off my ass, I thought I was doing them in my yard. I wanted to piss my wife off.”

Harry’s voice is unsuspecting, casual, “Oh? I didn't know it was you who did those burnouts. I thought it was those teenagers who drive up and down the road at all hours of the night. Apology accepted for the burnouts but I didn't slice your tires. I hate to break it to you.”

“Oh god, I'm sorry for even thinking you did. I just assumed -” Tom begins to babble, anxious because he just accused Harry of a crime that he had no evidence to corroborate said hypothesis.

“As long as it doesn't happen again, you know?” Harry’s tone is still amicable, unbothered but there's an underlying threat that could not be mistaken for anything else, “It really upset my wife and you know how hard it is to control an emotional woman.”

YN rolls her eyes at that but she does admire how well Harry played his part as the stereotypical husband like every other man who lived in this community.

“Can I come in to apologize? I'll be quick, I am so utterly embarrassed,” Tom nearly begs, hoping to not have disrupted their ‘friendship’ with his nonsense.

There's footfall on the marble, YN’s adrenaline starts pumping through her veins because even as she starts around - there is nowhere for her to hide.

Unable to do anything.

Tied to this heavy chair, she couldn't possible move in this awkward position.

Shoulders and arms were already radiating an ache from being held in the same way for this amount of time.

The only modesty she can muster is to close her legs as tight as they can possibly go.

YN starts taking these greedy inhales to try to not freak the fuck out, on displayed with her tits bare and though her legs were closed - it really wasn't doing much to hide the fact she wasn't wearing underwear, skirt of her dress ruffled around her hips.

“She's already gone upstairs to lie down. I was supposed to bring her an adavan and martini to help her relax. I will pass on the message, Tom,” Harry redirects much to YN’s relief, chest starting to not feel as tight.

“Sorry, again. I really admire you, Harry. You just…Every man in this town wishes their wife was half the woman YN is. A true housewife,” Tom means it as a compliment, a disgustingly masochistic banter that insults not only his wife but all women.

“She is wonderful,” Harry agrees wistfully, everything happening in their dining room begs to differ but he acquiesces to Tom nonetheless.

The door closes, the deadbolt clicking, and Harry’s leather loafers were tapping against the floor as he makes his way back.

Harry was observant, in tune with every want and need of his wife, and now is no different as he steps into the room.

Her face must be a dead giveaway.

Harry strides right up to her, gripping her chin tightly enough that her muscle twitches, and he brings his face to hers - eye level.

There's annoyance in his words, the green cutting like sea glass, “You know I would never ever let anyone see you like this. Why the fuck were you worried for even a second?”

YN tries to sound tough, “You don't know! He could have stormed in. You…you didn't know.”

Harry’s fingers move from her chin, to her jaw but end up in her hair.

He knots his fingers in, tugging her forward until their noses bump. “You know as well as I do that I would have fuckin’ slit his throat before he got within view of you. He wouldn't have left this house.”

YN pushes forward, trying to button their lips together but instead of moving backwards, he moves her head back by the roots of hair.

“Apologize to me,” Harry hisses lowly, teeth set like he's resisting to bite her, claim her as an animal would their mate.

YN knows Harry just as well as he knows her.

YN knows that he's upset that she would for a second doubt it.

“I love you,” YN tells him, tilting her neck back so she's leaning into his grip, showing him all the power he truly has over her.

Harry doesn't kiss her lips but instead, the center of her throat, and then further down to her collarbone until he's at the top swell of her breast.

His hand comes to thumb the skin right below her bellybutton, dragging downwards until can fit the whole of her cunt in his palm.

“Wet f’me,” Harry murmurs against her skin, he licks her nipple, smoothing his tongue over one before he’s blowing cold air on it, “I think I'm going to make you work for it.”

“No,” YN whines pleadingly because when he made her work, fuck, he made her really fucking word for it - sweat, tears, spit, and slick.

“I've been such a great husband,” Harry chides as his index finger traces up her seam, ghosting over her bud, “Am I not? Who covered for you? Who always covers for you, my little fucking devil?”

“You do,” YN mashes her back molars together, jaw aching with strain as she keeps her hips planted to the cushioned seat.

“What did I cover for this time? Say it,” Harry middle finger joins his index to split her lips, exposing where she was swollen for him.

His thumb pressed firmly on her bud, rubbing in precise circles, the surest way to get her coming as quickly as possible.

YN can't help her greed, bucking forward into the touch, and riding down on his thumb to get the exact friction she wanted.

“If you come,” Harry’s voice is lulling, a false sense of security, “You won't be able to sit at our next neighborhood dinner because you're ass will ache that fuckin’ bad.”

“Then take your hand away, fucker,” YN bites out, wetting her body lip, it was too good to pull away, and she wasn't far off from an orgasm.

A hand comes to her cheek, not hard but stinging as he smacks it, “Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? You aren't supposed to speak back to your husband.”

YN grins at him, only fueled by the slap, rough was the name of the game, and she sits back in her chair - unbothered.

“Filthy fuckin’ girl,” Harry grunts as he takes a step back, admiring his wife as she keeps her legs spread lewdly - pink and puffy, perfect.

YN flutters her eyelashes, innocent and coy.

“Now answer me, sweetheart. What did I cover for? Why did I have to lie to Tom?” Harry tilts her head, eyes narrowed and tracking her every twitch, “Hm?”

Harry can't help himself, coming closer to the pet at the patch of downy hair on her mound, touching everywhere but her clit.

“Because I slashed his tire,” YN talks through her teeth, willing herself to keep her hips from moving off the chair below.

“That motherfucker,” Harry had growled when he came in from watering the grass, “Tore up our front yard with that cheap piece of shit Chevy. If I wasn't going to be late for work, I would go knock him the fuck out.”

YN had been sitting in their breakfast room, sipping on honey-lavender tea in a silk, lace robe that was a deep royal blue.

“I don't want to see you upset,” YN frowns as she puts her cup down, standing up, and trailing over to him, “I'll call the landscapers today, have them fit us in.”

Harry tugs her into a hug, a kiss on her hair, “Do not worry about me, my love. I'm okay. Just pissed off. I've got more important things than Tom to care about.”

“What time will you be home?” YN asks as she blinks her pretty, twinkling doe eyes up at him, arms around his narrow waist.

Harry brings up his arm to look at his watch but sees that his wrist is bare, “God damn. I left my watch upstairs. I'll be right back.”

Harry pulls away, the tension in his broad shoulders was a tell that he was much more enraged then he was letting on.

His expensive Italian leather loafers clicking against the marble as he storms back up the staircase towards their bedroom.

YN hated seeing her husband upset, she craved to see him happy, and she would do anything for him.

It's why she's not thinking twice before grabbing the sharpest knife from the butcher block in the kitchen, tucking inside her robe, and going out the back door.

YN is quick, eyes darting to make sure that no one has seen her as her bare feet hit the dewy grass between their yards.

YN pulls her arm back, using all of her force to push the sharp blade into rubber, and loves it when she hears the air start to moan out as it escapes.

Fuck Tom.

YN scurried back to the house and hoped that she would be efficient enough that her husband hadn't come back down stairs yet.

That was not the case.

He was standing at the back glass door, observing with pursed smile, hands in the pockets of his dress pants with his watch reflecting off the kitchen light.

YN bites her lip, caught out as he opens the door for her, and ushers her in.

His voice is dry, bleak, “Give me the knife.”

Oh shit.

She's in trouble.

At least she thinks that she is.

Until he kisses the side of her head, opens the back door once again, and strides across the lawns like she just had down.

He makes it appear effortless when he slashed the remaining three good tires, pulling the blade down so that there's no hope of patching the rubber.

Harry runs the blunt tip against his door, scraping off the paint like gum on the sidewalk before he's walking back towards the house.

“Darling, you have to slice when you do it. All four will be at least two of his paychecks, a small price for what I'll have to pay the landscaper,” Harry tells her nonchalantly like they were talking about the weather and not a crime they both committed.

Harry glances at his watch, “Shit. I have to go. I'll see you later, alright? Be good f’me even though you're always such a good girl.”

And it's sincere because that's how twisted their relationship is.

YN committing a crime to seek retribution for Harry’s anger was the most romantic sign of her love that he could ask for.

The first contact that meets her clit is his palm, when he smacks her flat over her bundle of nerves, and it was hard enough to make her jump.

Her legs start to close but he roughly shoved a knee into her thigh to force them to stay open, “What? You're so tough, right? Surely, surely you can take a few hits, my love.”

YN grits her teeth, molars clashing as the residual pain radiates down her thighs, and at the same time, it had her pulsing.

Her wetness was soaking the cushion, there was nothing that got her slick faster than when he wasn't worried about his heavy handedness.

“Can you take it?” Harry drops his hand to her center, thumb tucking up the hood of her clit, pressing tightly against her bud, and it's too much straight on.

Her legs twitch, dying to close because she was throbbing with sensitivity, pinpricks make her eyes feel tingly because it's too much every other second.

When Harry asks her that question, it is rhetorical, he doesn't wants an answer because he would fluidly switch into something softer, more coddling if she needed.

It wasn't.

YN presses her lips together, refusing to give him answer as she bites on her tongue to point she can taste metallic.

“S’funny, most men can't even find their wife’s clit or don't care about it at all. Aren't you lucky you have me?” Harry’s smile is wolfish, mean, and a different version of her husband, “I've found it? Haven't I?”

He accompanies his words with an unexpected smack before his thumb right up again, no reprieve or mercy for her.

It felt fucking amazing and like hell all at once.

She just needs a bit lighter pressure, slower circles, and that would be it.

Harry knows that and is choosing to torture her instead, not concerned about actually getting her off at the moment.

“Is that all I need to shut you up, pet? A thumb on your clit? I'll have my hand up your dress every second of the day then,” Harry chuckles cruelly, pressing and pressing before his fingers are crooked up inside her walls, squeezing at the unexpected, and robbing her of the stimulation on her clit.

YN wants to hurt him, dig her nails into his back muscles until he bleeds on her, sink her teeth into his thigh where no one but her will see the healing bloody marks.

“Fuck you,” YN can't help herself because he's ruthless, finds it funny, and she feels like if she doesn't come within the minute she’ll explode.

Harry withdrawals his fingers, wiping them crudely on her cheek, dragging to her lips before he's parting her lips and pressing down on her tongue.

When he puts pressure there, it causes her to gag and her eyes instantly start to water, and it shouldn't surprise him when her teeth meet his knuckles.

Harry grunts out in pain when she clamps down which causes him to pinch her tongue, she yelps, and it gives him enough time to remove his fingers.

“S’funny, all these men in the neighborhood want you, huh?” Harry asks condescendingly, his hand goes to the back of the chair, and he tips it.

Her reflexes cause her to twitch, trying to find stable ground but she can't because of the way she's tied up.

Harry keeps her on the edge of falling, her heart lodged in her throat.

“But they don't know what a disobedient little bitch you are?” Harry lets the chair come back down with a loud clatter, “Don't listen to a word when you're hungry for cock. They should be lucky their bored wives aren't so needy.”

“I'm not needy,” YN disagrees sharply, they both knew she was lying through her teeth but she couldn't let him just say those things without a rebuttal.

“You think Janet or Catherine bend over any surface for their husband, forgo panties while they clean so that their men get a glimpse of their cunt, or wake up in the morning dripping and soft?”

“You love it,” YN manages to keep her voice steady when Harry swipes his finger through the whipped cream on top of the pineapple upside cake that was untouched on the table.

“I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world,” Harry agrees, momentarily sincere, a break from his character.

He wipes the sweet, tacky fluff on her nipples before going back for more, destroying the dessert as he grabs a handful of the cake.

Harry smears it from her collarbones, all the way down her belly, and it was absolutely fucking messy as crumbs strayed everywhere, the syrupy sauce sticky on her skin,

“Harry,” YN gasps because she's surprised, she hadn't expected him to rub the cake on her, their dining room was a mess, everything was destroyed.

“Can't let this dessert go to waste. You made my favorite cake, I have to try it,” Harry kneels down, shoving between her legs and leaning forward.

He flattens his tongue above her belly button before trailing in up on a straight line, licking off the clumps of cake in turn.

“Mm,” Harry rumbles as he licks up her sternum, between the valley of her breasts, and his hand is digging to her ribs - keeping her still, “I can't decide which tastes better, your cunt or this cake.”

Harry carelessly grabs a smaller handful but he rubs it from below her navel to her mound, stopping right where her folds begin.

YN was dying, watching him, feeling him lick the traces off of her body with no rush, as if he had all the time in the world.

He bites at her belly after he's cleaned off the cake, making YN’s stomach suck in reflexively because it hurts and she is hazy from all the different sensations.

When he gets down to where she's aching, her heartbeat palpable in her center, he lazily cleans it off her mound.

“Sweet as pie,” Harry hums as he spreads her open, licking into her hole but ignoring where she actually needs him, “Or should I say pineapple upside down cake?”

It was starting to get overwhelming, the arousal was all that was plastered in her thoughts, and nobody else wants their husband to fuck then like she does.

None of them are married to Harry.

Her arms are aching, a dull shout from being held in the same position for so long.

“I love when you're all bound up. I can do whatever I please, right?” Harry takes these harsh laps at her clit before pulling back between each, thumb dancing around the seam of her core.

YN can't even bring herself to respond, it was warm in the house as it was, and sweat was beading from her temples.

“That's what Father Matthew said in marriage counseling before our wedding. Do you remember? He said that your body is mine, that you shall offer yourself whenever I wish, for my fulfillment and satisfaction.”

YN nods, she remembers Father Matthew saying that but it had been a part of their personas in the first place to go, they weren't religious, and neither practiced Catholicism.

It was all an act, like most other aspects of their lives, giving off the appearance that they were normal like every other young couple.

YN had sat prim and proper, agreeing to the priest’s misogynistic words as he droned on about how waiting until marriage to have sex was the utmost important.

To prove how wrong Father Matthew was, Harry had encouraged YN to tie him to their bedpost.

She then proceeded to edge him until he was pink, panting, and bruised on his chest, inner thighs from vicious love bites.

Just to prove the point that if her body was his, then Harry was to offer his body in the same way.

“And you're such a good little wife, aren't you?” Harry accentuates his words by pushing two fingers into her, curling towards her plush walls, and finding her spot like nothing.

YN can't help but moan, to finally have something to get her there after teetering on the edge of losing her orgasm because he knew how to keep her there.

“Always so generous with this pretty cunt,” Harry’s thumb comes to rub at her bud, over the hood to dull the sensitivity a bit - how she liked it, “I can't believe it's all mine. For the rest of our lives, baby, this is mine to fuck, eat, and worship. I love this pussy, just like every other bit of you.”

It was actually sweet, earnest words if you filtered through the crude accompaniments because he was loyal, madly in love with her, and always strived to make her happy through the thick of the chaos.

“Sweet thing prepares dinner, entertains our guests, and everyone would be scandalized to know what crosses my mind when you're bringing out dessert,” Harry's mouth finds her nipples, he gets sidebarred for a moment as he wraps his lips around the peak, pulling it hard as his other hand continues on.

Harry knows this is a monologue, her brain is too fuzzy, and all she can think about is an orgasm - all his words are barely registering, like he's speaking underwater.

“All I could think about was knocking it out of your hands,” Harry's breath is cold in her nipple, grazing with his plump lips on every word, “Flipping your dress up, eating your cunt from behind, and making them watch this proper housewife get treated how she likes, how you beg to be my slut.”

“But you can't be, baby. M’sorry to break it to you,” Harry coos as he presses his hand stops, it fucking stops, “Can't be a slut when you're a married woman who only opens her legs her husband.”

There's fat, pathetic tears dribbling down her cheeks because he had tricked her, she had truly thought that she was going to be able to come.

Her chest was heaving, she was panting like a water-deprived dog, and she knew what she had to look like.

Hair frizzed out from humidity and perspiration, her mascara running down her wet cheeks with her lipstick smeared off the corner of her mouth.

And Harry was looking at her like she hung the moon, that she was the most beautiful piece of art in the museum he was visiting.

“Darling,” Harry laughs but it's not mean, it's genuinely as if she's taken his breath away and he's in awe, “Darling.”

“Please, H, please,” YN chokes out unashamed in how vulnerable she was right now, crying because she's aching, and her body is stressed out to the point of near exhaustion.

Harry leans forward, kissing her forehead which was almost obscenely chaste for their current situation as he leans behind her to unbind her wrists.

Her face pressed into his chest as he reaches, her lips founds whatever is close, mouthing at the skin of his pectoral muscle - desperate to taste him, to have him without the game.

YN doesn't realize that she's been babbling, a noncoherent string of pleas, “Want you, please. I just want you. Need you.”

“Sweet girl,” Harry hums as he understands just how floaty she has become, her eyes moony and glazed as she struggles to focus, “You are doing so good for me.”

“Want t’come,” YN’s replies with staggered syllables, blinking at him with heavy eyelids, “M’aching.”

Harry chuckles at her, it's disgustingly fond because he's that in love when he brings her arms to her front, kissing her quiet when she whines at the ache.

Now that her hands are free, she's gripping and ripping at whatever she can sink her claws into because she can't wait any longer.

Harry tries to help, stepping out of his trousers, and tugging down his briefs until he’s exposed again, pretty and thick.

The angry red of the tip, along with the glistening drops of pre-come that were sliding down the shaft were a sign of how turned on he was.

“How do you want it?” Harry asks as he cradles her face, pressing kisses to her cheeks, lips, neck as his fingers tweak her nipple, “Lady’s choice.”

“Want t’ride you,” YN doesn't hesitate, hoping her words came out intelligible because her head was spinning.

YN had a few lousy lays before Harry, nothing to write home about in her teenage years.

She was positive that no other man on this earth could get her even close to the nirvana that her husband drove her to.

It was something she would never be able to regret or explain if she had to write it out - it would be mindless ramblings without true words.

Harry obliges as he helps her stand, wobbly legs as he takes her spot, and huffs out a mean jest, “My arse is wet from your slick. Darling, you're going to have to take my slacks to the dry cleaner. Hopefully they can get out the marks of a naughty girl’s cunt.”

YN doesn't respond, far too focused on straddling his waist, and gripping his around the girth of his base which filled her hand impressively - fingers struggling to meet.

“Hey,” Harry tries to grab her attention but she’s too focused on lining him up to her center, her hands were clumsy because of the livewire that was running through her body, his voice gets firmer when he barks out, “Hey.”

He grabs her wrist, tugging it off of his cock, and wrangles both of her hands into one of his.

Harry holds them against her chest, making her sit back on his thighs, and the tip of his length is brushing right up against the seam of her lips - if she could move forward a little bit, she may be able to get friction on her clit.

YN is far too enticed by trying to wriggle her hips forward, her eyes zoned in on him because he was the prettiest - in all aspects from his eyes to his nose to his arms to what lay in the cradle of his hips.

“How can you go so dumb for a cock you haven’t even gotten in you yet?” Harry scoffs as he uses the grip on her wrists to yank her forward until he is pressing through her folds.

YN has tears tracing down over her lips as she sniffles, her mouth twisted into a sad pout, “Stop being mean t’me. Just want you.”

Harry knows instantly, knows that's her way of voicing that she's hitting a limit, and she was ready for him to be nice.

“Okay, okay,” Harry simpers as he lets go of her wrists, allowing her to find balance gripping his shoulders as he takes hold of himself, “Be patient for me. Always such a good fuckin’ girl. Fuck, I love you.”

YN’s eyes squeeze shut with instant relief when he helps her sink down until her bum is flush against him once again.

“Baby,” YN lets out the mewl, her head tilting back as she begins to move her hips, more like a roll to get the friction on her clit, pulsing and swollen.

“You squeeze me like a dream,” Harry groans as he kneads her hip, allowing her to move how she needed to nudge her spot and give her bud that extra love.

Harry reaches behind, hand knitting in the hair by her nape to pull her back, to smear their lips together as she moves her hips in this crude, self-indulgent way.

“That's it, greedy girl,” Harry goads as his mouth finds her nipple again, sucking at it before pulling back with a audible pop, “S’all yours to use.”

“Only mine,” YN grits out, possessive even when she was floaty, that never dulled- the claim she felt over him.

Harry kisses the center of her center, “Of course, my love. M'your husband, I vowed that it's yours. I'm not like Bart who doesn't take that shit seriously.”

“I'd cut your dick off if you cheated,” YN manages to scrape out between heavy breaths, she was close, and trying to extend the sensations.

“I'd hand you the knife,” Harry agrees as he grips her waist with more firmness, starts moving her hips in these forceful, direct motions, “I don't have time. When m’asleep I dream of you, when I'm working I'm thinking about coming home to you, and when my cock gets hard - your the only reason it does because I'm thinking about this cunt, about the cute noises you make when you feel good. I’d fucking make a deal with the devil if that meant I got you.”

“You already made the deal,” YN let out this devious giggle, ringing through the quiet space of their sprawling home.

A home they had earned from other means than the others in their neighborhood, it was chaos wrapped in a suburbia bow.

A hideaway from their lives outside of this cul-de-sac of rich, over-privileged men with wives who didn't think for themselves.

It wasn't just Harry brings in the money, no, they brought it in together, and no one would be the wiser to it.

Not their neighbors, their family, the police - everyone was clueless to who the most wanted criminals in America were.

The crime duo who had shoot-outs with police, duffels filled with banded stacks of cash, gold bars, jewelry that was so expensive there wasn't an assigned value.

All in their vault hidden in their walk-in closet, where the secrets, the evidence, and the reward was hidden from unsuspecting guests in their home.

“I'd make the deal a million times over,” Harry replies as he leans forward to bite at the hinge of her jaw, “Just to have you squirming on my cock.”

YN digs her nails into the meat of his shoulder, eye fluttering like butterfly rings as they struggle to stay open, and her mouth drops in a moan.

“Harry,” YN throws her head back, her hips rolling into the cradle of his hips with force, keeping her clit smushed to his pubic bone, and there was slick coating the trimmed hair around the base of him.

“Fuck yeah, c’mon. Keep going,” Harry grits out because his balls were throbbing, begging for a release after she'd just squeezed him like a god damn vice.

YN always gets lazy after an orgasm, especially after being edged, and her hips are starting to stall into sluggish, barely there effort.

Harry takes it upon himself to move her how he wants, gripping her hips, and she whines when he digs his fingers into the meat of her love handles.

“If you didn't want it to hurt, you would move your hips yourself,” Harry reminds her as he graciously kneads bruises into the spot, guiding her into a swivel where he's persistently nudging her spot, “Fuckin’ move.”

YN doesn't ever take orders well so instead she slouches forward until she's hugging him, their chests pressed, and effectively putting all her weight on him.

Instead of getting frustrated, it melts Harry, and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her as close as possible.

“I fucking love you,” Harry murmurs against her hair, his feet planted flat on the floor as he fucks up into her with brutal but paced thrusts, “Did so good for me. I want you to give me another one.”

YN sinks her teeth into his shoulder, he doesn't acknowledge it as he angles his hips better to give her clit the stimulation she needs.

“O-oh,” YN mewls when it suddenly sparked a much less intense but still as good orgasm, “Harry.”

“I know, sweetheart. Fuck, you're going to make me come,” Harry assures her as he picks up the speed of his actions, teeth getting, “You take me so well. God, this cunt is mine, yeah? Fucking tell me.”

“Yours, S'yours,” YN whines because her body is tired, starting to ache in all the places he’d dug into with his fingers, had hit, and grabbed.

Harry wraps her hair around his knuckles but he's completely gentle when he goads her to move her head back.

He buttons their lips together, in a kiss sweet enough to make your teeth rot, a contradiction to what they'd just done.

Because despite all the show, they were a love story, and Harry loved YN so deeply that he wouldn't hesitate to take a bullet for her, push her out of the way to take the brunt.

Without thinking he would.

He has shielded her body countless times with his own, was grazed by a slugger to his thigh, and shoulder before.

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” Harry grits out through clenched teeth, moving her down harder until she purposefully clenched to get him to come.

“Shit, that's it's,” Harry tilts his head back, smiling when YN starts smudging kisses to his throat in a goading support, “That cunt is a fuckin’ dream.”

YN giggles as he comes down, brushing his hair off his face, going into her normal caring mode as she starts to fuss over him.

He doesn't allow it for more than a moment, despite her pout because it was his job to take care of her, his duty as her husband.

“You're absolutely filthy,” Harry chuckles as he helps her stand up in front of him, sticky, wet, bruised, and his softening cock gives a weak twitch of interest, “Let's get up to the bathroom, quick shower before bed, yeah?”

“The food,” YN motions to the mess around them, everything was a disaster, “I have to clean this up first, H.”

“I'll do it. You did so much today,” Harry assures her because it was true, she was phenomenal, and the least her could do is clean up all the remnants, “I want to get you clean and curled up in our bed. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“It's Coastal Trust Bank, in Santa Monica, yeah?” YN asks as he guides her towards the staircase, her movements languid and strained.

“I have it mapped out already, we're going to hit it at closing this time. They only close up with three employees at the end of the night. A manager and two tellers, not too many people to wrangle up,” Harry informs her, casually as if they're planning a weekend getaway.

“I want the keys to the safety deposit boxes. I want a Diamond tennis bracelet,” YN grumbles because she has yet to find one that she likes, there were at least seven sitting in her vault that weren't exactly what she wanted.

Harry shakes his head with a laugh, dimples popping as they walk up the stairs, “Or we could just buy you one, darling.”

“S’not as fun,” YN frowns in disagreement, it gave her a sick satisfaction to have someone else's hard earned money on her wrist as they yearned for their belonging back.

“I'll get you the keys to deposit boxes, anything you want,” Harry placates because it will also keep her occupied while he's shoving stacks of cash into the duffle bags he had splayed open.

“God, you're so romantic,” YN hums without any jest, this was their love, their secret, and the life they had created together.

YN didn't get nervous anymore, not when she walked into the bank at six-fifty, ten minutes before closing in a pretty bit plain tailored dress, a purse on her shoulder, and a coat over her forearm.

YN gives a fake name, the name of someone who actually patronizes the business, and asks questions about how to get a loan for a car.

The teller pulls out a binder, rifling through stacks of paper with small print, finger tracing over the page to find what he's looking for.

YN has to play the part when a litany of loud noises comes from the front entrance, all three employees and her look instantly.

Harry was dressed completely in black, covering every inch of his skin, gloves to disguise his hands, and a balaclava to only show the piercing twinkle of his eyes in the fluorescent lighting.

He had straps of artillery across his chest, two guns sling over his back to make an X, and a shotgun in hand as he pointed it towards them all.

“Get on the fucking ground!” Harry roars loudly, booming and frightening as all of them instinctively put their hands up in surrender.

Harry keeps an eye on them while he barricades the front door, he had already done so from the outside for the other exits - no escape.

YN matches the energy of the rest of them, tears streaming down her cheeks as she kneels on the ground until it's her turn.

Harry makes a point of binding her last, with zip ties around her wrists but they both know it's a trick pair - all she needs to do is use a bit of force and they'll break for her.

“Don't hurt the lady,” The manager begs as Harry roughly shoved YN towards the particular door, barking at her to sit back down and don't fucking move.

Harry turns to glance at the manager, “I'm going to kill her unless you open that fucking vault and hand me the money without any trouble.”

YN subtly nudges his foot.

“And the master key to the safety deposit boxes,” Harry facts on because even in the middle of a heist, he's still a doting husband.

warnings: Bonnie & Clyde AU mixed with DWD, mean H, d/s undertones, light bdsm (hands tied behind back), name calling, hitting, blood, guns, crime, knives, edging, overstimulation

I absolutely love this. I put a lot of work into it and it is definitely one of my favorite pieces. I would love to know your thoughts!

#harry styles writing #harry styles masterlist #update #harry styles #harry styles fic rec #harry styles fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #dwd #dont worry darling

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aurorasdaybreak · 27 days ago

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if this world were ours ‿❀° sylus qin (m)

summary: during the first sunny spring day in linkon city, you and sylus decide to pick up right where you left off. info: sylus x afab!reader | story compliant | fluff, smut | 18+ | 11k words warnings: this is tooth rotting fluff with cheese levels comparable to a romcom bc the sweetest man deserves it after everything he's been through (;-;), hesitation on both sylus and mc's parts, references night of secrecy memory but if mc didn't go with sylus, tara and simone make an appearance, almost getting caught in a dressing room by the previously mentioned characters, sylus x reader smut, the slightest bit of dom!sylus x sub!afab!reader but it's barely mentioned, use of pet names (kitten, angel, vixen), f!receiving nipple play, teasing, f!receiving oral sex, clit play, f!receiving multiple orgasms, f!receiving overstimulation (GUYS SYLUS IS A PLEASURE DOM I KNOW IT IN MY SOUL), mentions of safe signals, sylus has a big dick, unprotected sex, cumming inside, this is very sappy and cheesy i am warning you NOW author's note: guys titles are hard to come up with SDGHJBGFHJSD but happy belated birthday to the sweetest dragon man - and thank you guys for waiting :')) work is kicking my ass but MAYBE HOPEFULY FINALLY I AM WRITING MORE!! as always pls feel free to leave your thoughts in my ask :')) thank you for reading!! <3 disclaimer: not beta read, will edit soon for any mistakes!! if you are a minor and you're seeing this, i ask that you turn away and do not read. this is an 18+ story and minors are not welcome. if you are uncomfortable with any of the topics listed in the warning, please do not read this story! ‿❀° songs listened to include take a chance with me by niki and luther by kendrick lamar and sza

The first sunny spring day after a long winter is always your favorite day of the year.

You wake up to the warmth of sunlight on your cheek, filtering in between the gap of your curtain. There’s a pleasantly lazy feeling that spreads through your body - one that makes you want to curl back into your sheets and doze off for a couple more hours.

You groan when you hear your phone vibrate against your side table, though, and you blindly reach around to grab the offending gadget.

You don’t even look, simply swiping your phone across the screen and holding it up to your ear. “____ here, what’s up?”

“____!” Came a cheerful, peppy voice that has you waking up just a little bit faster. You sit up as you process that it’s Tara, and you can’t help but smile as you run your fingers along the silky fabric of your bedding.

“Something’s definitely up,” you joke as you rub your eyes. “It’s 6 am and you’re always grumpy at this time, so either we get today off or you got a really good coffee.”

“Ding ding ding! We have today off, bestie!” Tara’s excitement is contagious, and you can’t help but laugh. “The higher ups have some sort of meeting out of town today, so while tech staff have to be in office today we’re on call but technically have the day off. Simone and I were talking about going to the mall so we can get noodles and blind boxes, do you wanna tag along?”

“Hmm,” you muse, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “While I’d love to, I need to do some grocery shopping and return some books. Maybe we can plan a proper outing together soon?”

“For sure,” Tara says. “Maybe we can check out that new karaoke place and barbecue place during the weekend! We need a good girl’s night out.”

“As long as I’m not the DD,” comes your half-joking, half serious reply. “The way you convinced Simone to keep taking shots was…inspiring, to say the least.”

“Oh please,” she scoffs, and if you put your mind to it you could almost see her waving her hand. “I’ll just have Nero pick us up or something. You need to partake in the shots too - don’t think I haven’t seen the way you gaze out the window and sigh longingly to yourself about your mystery hunk.”

“I have not!” Even with how quickly your reply comes, though, you and Tara both know that she’s right.

Because, oh, yes you have.

It had been some weeks since your…night with a certain Onychinus leader - a night that you keep replaying in your head over and over again, no matter how many times you tried to focus on the present and current missions in front of you.

You had been slated to go with him to your shared destination, but a frantic call from Jenna had you regretfully cancelling your ticket last minute and dropping him off at the airport instead. You still remember the way his palms felt cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing the damp skin under your eyes and wiping away your sadness before pressing his lips to your forehead and leaning down to whisper in your ear:

“Don’t miss me too much sweetie, we’ll see each other soon.”

You turn your head to the direction of your bedroom window following the end of your memory, staring at the dust dancing between the filtered streams of sunlight while you think of soft eyes and an uncharacteristically sweet smile as he turned back and gave you a salute before disappearing in the sea of travelers.

You wonder what he’s doing right now.

“Earth to ____!” Came Tara’s teasing voice from your phone. You blink rapidly and feel yourself heat slightly with embarrassment at how you’ve left Tara hanging. “You’re thinking about your mystery hunk, huh?”

“Ye-no, ugh! Tara!” You try to ignore the flare of indignation that burns in your stomach at her laughter, although you can’t help the smile that begins to form on your face. “I’m hanging up now.”

“See you tomorrow, ____!” With her last greeting, you hang up the call and toss your phone towards the foot of your bed before flopping back down onto your pillow and grabbing a random plushie so that you can scream into the soft toy.

“Freaking stupid,” you mumble to yourself when you finally lift your head away from the plushie, only to groan when you see it’s the stuffed crow that he won for you. You poke at its eye, imagining that it can see right through you like the person who won you the toy.

“Y’know, sometimes I think that he can see me through you,” you mutter softly, tracing the crow’s exaggerated eyebrows. You poke at its beak, and you giggle when you imagine poking a certain someone’s nose. You poke its beak once more before you reach up to pet its head, shaking your head and sighing deeply while you do so. “If it just so happens that he can see me through you…well, you better get home safely.”

You hold your breath, waiting for the crow’s right eye to glow a vivid red.

One beat passes, and then another…

…but nothing happens.

You sigh once more, gently placing the crow by your pillow before pulling the sheets off of your legs and standing up to stretch and get ready for the day.

It would do you no good to worry about him, you have stuff you need to do for yourself.

You’re proud to say it - you’ve gotten a lot of shit done in the past couple of hours.

You’ve returned your books that were teetering on the edge of being overdue, smiling sheepishly at the librarian who quirked an eyebrow at you when you plopped down another stack of romance novels onto the checkout counter. After quickly dropping off your books back at your apartment, you make your way to the mall nearby so that you do some window shopping.

You slowly make your way through the crowded mall halls, easily dodging the small children that run amuck and apologizing to the couples strolling arm in arm when you’re too slow to maneuver past them. Even with how busy it is, however, you still maintain your good mood - and it seems as though everyone around you does as well.

Everyone around you is relishing in the first warmth of spring, and you can’t help but smile in contentment.

You stop outside of a Twinkle Toys storefront, looking down at the new blind boxes that they have on display. You hope that none of them catch your eye, but then you see it: a cherry blossom series where your favorite characters have silly poses and goofy smiles.

You heave a sigh, torn between buying a full set so that you can display it throughout the entire year or saving your hard-earned money. Your eyes flicker between the set and your purse, and you shake your head to yourself before stepping in and approaching the display.

“Just this once,” you murmur to yourself as you pick up a box. “Just this one set, to reward yourself for doing a good job.”

You make your way to the cashier, and you try not to cringe as you place the box on the counter. The worker barely blinks though, and easily scans the item as they read off your total. You bend your head so that you can fish out your wallet, but before you can hand over your card you find your attention caught by something.

A 6’2, silver-haired, red-eyed something.

“Please tap your card on the screen- lady, hey, wait-!”

You don’t even register that you’re walking away from your new blind box set and making your way out of the store, pushing past a crowd of college students as you begin to pick up your pace.

There’s no way it’s him, right?

You slowly see that head of silver hair come into your vision, and you all but break out into a sprint as you attempt to catch up to him before the crowd swallows you whole. You’re not gonna let him go - not without talking to him first, at least.

Soon enough, you’re within a fingertip’s reach to the man’s (ridiculously ornate) trench coat, and you reach out to grab the fabric so that you can get his attention-

-only to be pushed into his solid frame, stumbling and crashing into his body.

You hear an oof escape his chest as you collide, and you squeal as you try and stabilize your body so that you don’t topple over. Your footing isn’t so steady, however, so you end up tumbling into a pair of arms.

You gulp when you see a black silk button-up, and you let your head slowly move up just so that you avoid his eyes - instead focusing on the pair of lips you’ve dreamed about over the past couple of weeks. You watch as the mouth forms its signature smirk, and you can’t help but shiver when you hear the laugh you didn’t realize you were craving until now.

“Looks like the kitten distribution system is at work today,” comes Sylus’s amused tone, and you feel yourself heat slightly before pushing your body away from him.

“I just had to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating,” you murmur back sheepishly, taking the time to straighten your cardigan and smoothing your skirt of its nonexistent wrinkles. You finally build up the courage to stare at his full face, and you can’t help the way that your stomach flips when you gaze at him.

Oh, how you missed his handsome face. You didn’t even realize how much you craved his presence until just now, when you were confronted with the sight of him after a long couple of weeks.

You try and wrack your brain for something, anything to say. You should ask him about the trip, how the investigation went, and when did he come back to Linkon? Why is he in Linkon in the first place?

Did Sylus think of you as much as you thought of him?

Out of all of the things you could say, however, the first thing that slips out of your mouth is a breathless, “There’s no way you’re not sweating in that ridiculous trench coat.”

Sylus quirks an eyebrow at your statement. “I’m quite well ventilated, thank you very much.”

“Well…you don’t really fit in,” you say lamely, gesturing to the crowd around you. “It’s uh, it’s pretty warm today, Sylus.”

The corners of his lips tilt up, and you can see the exact moment he decides to humor you. “Oh, is that right sweetie? What do you suggest we do about that?”

You can’t quite hide the pleased smile that forms on your face as you hear the word “we”, although you try to maintain your bravado as you pretend to ponder over your already created solution. Your contemplation is short-lived, however, when a couple jostles you back into his arms.

Sylus catches you with ease, and you try to disguise the way your hands shake as you push him away once more. You can still see his smirk, however, so you scowl and push the sleeves of your cardigan up to your elbows.

“You need a clothing makeover.” It’s a ridiculous statement that makes him chuckle and you think for a moment that he’ll shoot down the idea, but you’re pleasantly surprised when he grabs your hand and places it in the crook of your elbow with a gentle reverence.

“And what will this clothing makeover have in store?” His voice is right by your ear, and you fight the shiver that races down your spine at his sudden proximity and deep, lilting voice. “Polyester?”

It’s his way of teasing you - you know it from the way his eyes sparkle as he regards you softly, the beginnings of a genuine smile curling on the corners of his lips. He’s waiting to see if you’ll back down or rise to the occasion, to see just how much of a rise he can get out of you - so you decide to play coy.

“Worse.” You make it so that your tone reflects his intimate quality, and you find that you feel pleased in the way he looks slightly flustered when you tiptoe up so that you can place your lips right by the shell of his ear. “Matching cardigans.”

“Oh?” Sylus shakes off his momentary daze and composes himself. His eyes trace a line from the curve of your neck to the white knitted cardigan you paired with your jean skirt this morning, and you feel your fingers tremble when you see the tiniest spark in his eyes before it flits away. “Don’t suppose this comes in black?”

You barely feel it, but his hand snakes around your back and settles on your hip, making a subtle show of rubbing the fabric in between his fingers and letting the pads of his fingers just barely run along the curve of your hip. You feel yourself heat slightly at this sudden proximity - torn between pulling yourself together so that you can spend a proper day with him or pulling him towards the bus stop so you can bring him to your apartment and show him just how much you missed him.

“Kitten?”

Sylus breaks you from your self-imposed lust with a squeeze to your hip, and you fight the urge to go with the latter option. Instead, you shake your head to give yourself clarity before smiling up at him. “It’s nothing at all, let’s get you a matching cardigan in black.”

You wait with bated breath as you see if he’ll buy your lame excuse, hoping that he doesn’t look too deeply into your shaky smile and the way you know your eyes look slightly unfocused. You know you look like you’ve been thinking about something that shouldn��t be thought of in the middle of a public space - it’s the same look that Tara and Simone have caught you with while Sylus was gone the past couple of weeks, and you pray that Sylus just doesn’t think too heavily about it.

You don’t quite know what you would say to him if he even brought it up.

Thankfully, Sylus chooses to brush past it - retracting his hand from your wait and placing your hand back into the crook of his elbow. “All right, sweetie,” he says as he looks at you expectantly. “Lead the way.”

“First order of business,” you say as you pull Sylus into a clothing store. “You’re in clothing that’s way too gaudy and…fine for all of us civilians here in Linkon City. We need to disguise you so that the Hunters who are off duty don’t haul your ass to the Association.”

“Interesting,” he muses as you gesture for him to turn for you. He grins and humors you, holding out his arms and slowly turning in an exaggerated circle. He stops his movements with an over the top pose, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at him.

“Keep your arms out,” you command, and he follows your request as you guide him to the men’s clothing section.

“This is quite a lot, sweetie,” Sylus says curiously as you begin to dump a selection of short sleeved button downs and cotton shirts into his arms. “And very…mundane.”

“Oh calm down, almighty leader of Onychinus.” You grab a plain shirt from the pile in his arms and hold up the tag to his eyes, making sure that he sees the words 100% COTTON written on the label. “These clothes aren’t going to make you any less handsome or make you break out into hives because it’s not silk, they’re just meant to have you blend in with everyone here in Linkon.”

“So you think I’m handsome,” he replies cheekily. You fight the urge to roll your eyes once again, although you can’t help the way your skin heats slightly at his teasing tone.

“Oh, shut it Sylus,” you mumble, and he laughs at the way you turn your head back so that you can rub at your cheeks furiously.

His arms full of clothing, you begin guiding him into the dressing rooms nearby. The attendant raises an eyebrow at the amount of clothing Sylus has with him, but lets him enter anyway. You walk him to his assigned dressing room, and Sylus raises an eyebrow at you that has you giving your own confused look back at him.

“Aren’t you going to join me, kitten?” He asks, and you sputter at the insane question.

“What- no! Sylus, you’re the only one meant in the room-” The words tumble frantically from your mouth as you all but push him into the room, yanking the curtain shut so that he can’t see the way he leaves you flustered so easily. “Just…just try on the damn clothes Sylus!”

You try to ignore the way his chuckle makes your knees weak.

You stand vigil at his dress room, occasionally offering comments to him when he opens the curtain and lets you see his try on haul. You automatically say no to an electric blue short sleeve (“It’s like your color analysis only favors you in shades of red and black!”) and he discards all of the shirts that have even a percentage of polyester in its blend (“Absolutely not, ____.”) but you both find a common favorite with a simple, black, short-sleeved button down.

“It’s just…” you begin, and you taper off when you see the way the buttons at his chest strain.

“Just what?” He repeats, and he looks down in confusion when you point at his chest - looking off at the wall behind his head so you don’t have to see the muscles of his body or the smirk on his face.

“Ah.” He replies, and he shrugs casually as he begins to unbutton the top. “Just get me a bigger size, then.”

And before you can even say anything else, he shuts the curtain.

On you.

“Dammit Sylus,” you mutter, and you roll your eyes when you hear his snort from the other side of the curtain.

“Unless you want me to go out-” he begins, but you gulp and pull the curtains shut when you see his fingers wrap around the fabric, ready to pull it open.

“Just stay there!” You squeak, and you run off before his teasing laughter can envelope you once more.

You take your sweet time wandering around the store - not because you don’t know where the button down is, but because you need the time to get a grip on yourself. Why are you acting like a giddy, doe-eyed college girl around him? It’s just Sylus, for goodness sake!

You stop in front of a mirror by the button downs, looking at yourself in the reflection. It’s still you - still the same cardigan, tank top, and long jean skirt you put on this morning. Still the same hair, same nails, same eye bags under your eyes you gained when you tossed and turned over him and his safety…

You scowl at your reflection, marching over to the rack you picked up the shirt and rifling through for a bigger size. By the time you grab the article of clothing, you have settled something in yourself and created a new, calm demeanor in which to approach your emotions so that they don’t go mucking up your time with him.

It was one night, and he surely isn’t thinking about it in the same way you were over the past couple of weeks. You’re over it. You don’t care.

And you’ll spend the rest of this spring day convincing yourself if you have to.

You make your way back to the dressing room, but you pause when you hear a pair of voices drawing closer to you. You pause, straining to hear - only for your muscles to freeze up when you realize just who those tones belong to.

Shit shit shit, ____! Hide behind the clothing rack-

“Man, I miss ____,” Tara sighs as you all but throw your body against the nearest clothing rack, holding the shirt you picked up for Sylus and praying that the silky black fabric makes you vanish from all view. “She’d make today so fun! I mean, we could go to the library and then do groceries, maybe cook a meal in her dream of a kitchen?”

“____ and I would be cooking,” Simone corrects, and you shiver when you hear Tara’s scoff move closer to you. “You would be eating the things we prepared before we even finished anything!”

“Okay, in my defense-” Tara begins, but you can’t find it in yourself to be interested in their rambles when you see Simone’s signature inky black hair in your peripheral vision. You don’t even think, you just walk as fast as you can towards the dressing room.

You breathe a deep sigh of relief when you make your way back to Sylus’s designated fitting room, pulling the fabric just the tiniest bit and shoving the hanger into the small room.

“You were gone for a while, ____.” Sylus’s voice is casual as he takes the hanger from you, although you don’t miss the curiosity that tinges his tone as he pulls the curtain shut. “What were you doing, fighting Wanderers in the mall?”

“I wish,” you mumble, and you tilt your head back against a nearby column as you remember your vow to keep your cool around him. “I got…I got lost.”

“You don’t sound so sure about that,” he replies teasingly.

“I- fuck, Sylus,” you curse, and you fiddle with the ends of your cardigan as you direct your vision to the ceiling and try your absolute hardest to not spill your every thought about him to him. “I saw my friends so I needed to dodge them.”

“Why would you need to hide from them? Did something happen?”

“No, not at all!” you begin, trying to think of some sort of reason that’ll get him off of your back. “I just-”

“Just what, kitten?”

“I-” you try to begin again, but your voice tapers off as it dawns on you just how insane this entire situation is. The person you’re falling deeply for is currently trying on clothes, and you’re right outside his dressing room while your friends are in the same store the two of you are in. You’re on the precipice of inadvertently announcing to the world that the infamous leader of Onychinus is the one you can’t get your mind off at all - but your fear of his response is holding you back.

You try to squash the words that are on the tip of your tongue, the questions that have been haunting you over the past couple of weeks. How can you even begin to tell Sylus how much you missed him, that you think about that night more times than you care to admit?

Does he know how deeply he’s burrowed himself into your heart?

You clench your fists and open your mouth, ready to come up with some shitty excuse, but before something can spill out you hear Tara’s voice and you gasp.

“Shit-” you all but gasp to yourself as you yank the curtain open, stuffing yourself into the dressing room before you can even think about your actions.

“I could’ve sworn I heard her voice,” you hear Simone muse as you hear footsteps walk past the dressing room. “She said something about a…stylus?”

You hear a chuckle from above you, and you immediately push your hand up to cover his mouth while you grip the curtain in your fist. “Don’t. Even. Start.”

“Just say you miss ____ and keep moving!” Tara’s muffled voice gets louder as the pair passes by Sylus’s dressing room, and you close your eyes as if it’ll make you disappear. “Although…I miss her too, honestly.”

“I’m not exaggerating, Tara,” Simone scoffs back, and a little piece of you dies when you hear her enter the dressing room opposite the one you’re currently in. “I could’ve sworn I saw her too, in that cardigan she was agonizing over buying-”

“You just have ____. She’s probably at home, cooking my favorite meal while I can’t swipe it away.” Tara sighs. You hear the dressing room’s curtain next to your’s swish open, and your stomach drops even more when you hear Tara’s laughter too close to your space as she shuts the curtain. “Or taking a nap. Maybe reading a book.”

“Didn’t you say she has a mysterious man she’s been sighing over for the past couple of weeks?” You feel Sylus’s mouth quirk up in a smirk from beneath your palm at Simone’s musings and you scowl as you press your hand harder against his face, cursing all those times you dreamed about those same lips while at work. “Maybe she’s getting railed.”

You feel the embarrassment deep in your stomach before you even register what she said, but when your brain processes what she just said - “Oh no, oh no no no this cannot be happening,” you squeal quietly to yourself, chancing a look at the man who’s lips went slack against your hand.

You see Sylus’s eyes widen in realization before taking on a slight sparkle. His lips begin to move against your palm but you press your hand into his face, looking back up at the ceiling and chanting at the universe to do something, anything to get you out of this situation. Hell, you’d even accept a Wanderer just magically spawning in the middle of the dressing room instead of this mess.

“Ew, Simone - not something to be discussing in a dressing room!” Tara fake gags and you almost want to say thank you out loud - but that’s before Tara laughs once again. “But let’s be real, she probably is getting railed right now.”

“And good for her!” The both of them laugh in their respective dressing rooms, and you look down at your feet because you want nothing more than to have the ground swallow you whole.

There’s no way this is happening to you right now.

All of a sudden, you feel your wrist being pulled away and your body being pressed up against the wall of the dressing room. Your eyes widen as you see Sylus in his cocky, confident glory, and you try not to gasp too loudly when his palms rest against your waist. “You’ve been dreaming about me at work, kitten?”

“That’s not-” You try to begin, but you find that you can’t focus on his eyes and his face because you refuse to believe that this is happening to you right now. You have to shift your attention now, because if you don’t you lose your mind at your shared proximity with him right now.

You feel yourself grow flustered as the seconds begin to drag by and you try to look somewhere, anywhere that isn’t his face, but that means looking at his neck - the same neck you’ve been wanting to leave marks on. Your eyes travel past the silver chain resting against his collarbones and it’s only when you see the top of his chest do you realize that he’s shirtless - only in the unbuttoned cotton shirt he was trying on and his low hanging pants.

“Fuck,” you mumble, and you try to hide just how nervous you are by closing your eyes and willing yourself to just get it together.

“I think it’s endearing, ____,” Sylus whispers, and you gasp when you feel his mouth against your ear. His lips just barely brush against your earlobe in a way that has you believing that you’re dreaming, and you shiver when he begins to map a course along your jawline. As his lips run its course down your neck his hands slowly move down from your waist, and you feel your stomach do a dangerous flip when his palms slowly squeeze the flesh of your hips. You can’t help it - you move your hands up to his shoulders and let your head fall against his collarbone so that you can try to disguise just how much he affects you.

“How cute you must be, looking out the window and thinking about little old me,” he teases - just enough to annoy you, but also in a gentle tone that lets you know he more than likes the idea of your thoughts being consumed wholly by him. His hand reaches up and cups your chin, forcing you to look up at his soft eyes and coy smirk. “So much so that your friends know and think that you’re…how did they say it?”

His fingers tense against your chin ever so slightly, and the words tumble out from your lips before you can stop them. “You railing me.”

Sylus’s eyes widen at your candidness, and he huffs out a small laugh as pink begins to dust his cheeks. “Yeah, that.”

There’s a lull in the conversation as the two of you hear Tara and Simone giggle softly, discussing something amongst themselves. That telltale tightness of apprehension begins to grip at you and you move to make some sort of space between you and Sylus, but before you can do so he shifts so that his left arm is braced above your head and his right hand rests on your cheek, thumb gently brushing the skin right below your lips.

“Is that what you want, ____?” He murmurs, this time letting his lips press harder against the skin of your cheek. “Do you want me to press you into your mattress and fuck you until you’re crying into your pillows?”

“Sylus-” You gasp at his sudden crass words, and you feel lightheaded as all of the fear of getting caught turns into molten lust that settles into the pit of your stomach. “Don’t say that so loudly-”

“I’m not, though.” He knows it, and you know it too. “Can you even process what I’ve said over the beating of your heart, ____?”

You still yourself as much as you can, and you register with a start that he’s right - your heart is practically beating out of your chest, the drumming clouding your earlobes. “I-”

“I don’t want to fuck you like that, though.”

Your hands travel from your sides to his shoulders, fingers grazing the wrists of his silvery white hair as he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. You finally allow yourself to tilt your head up to look directly into his burning gaze - one that speaks of the desire that he has only for you.

“I want to take my time with you,” Sylus confesses softly, pressing his body against yours. Your fingers tighten on his hair when you feel the beginnings of hardness against your stomach, and you fight every urge in your body screaming to roll your hips against his when you hear a low groan rumble in his chest. “I want it to be gentle and take care of you, like that night. I - fuck, ____, I want to worship every inch of you again.”

His lips are hovering dangerously close to yours, and you know that if you angle your head up at just the right angle - he would lean down and finish the job. And oh, you want him to do it.

You want him to confirm the truth that the both of you know. You want him to make you his.

“Sylus-” you sigh, neediness coloring your tone as you begin to tilt your head up. “I-”

“I know, my angel,” he murmurs softly, lips just far away enough you can feel his lips barely brush against yours. “Is it terrible for me to confess that all of my thoughts were consumed by you while I was gone?”

“No,” you immediately say back, the movement of your lips creating the slightest bit of friction against his smiling mouth. “My friends are right, you know. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you these past few weeks but you…you haven’t left my mind in a long time, Sylus.”

You feel the corners of your lips tilt upwards in a smile that mirrors him, and your heart melts ever so slightly when you see the crinkles on the corners of his eyes - the ones that only appear when he’s truly happy. Your thumb swoops down to trace the skin and he leans into the contact, allowing his nose to brush against yours.

“____,” he whispers softly, beginning to bend down and press his forehead against yours. You tiptoe up, beginning to close the space in between the two of you and he presses his hands into your hips to steady you. “I-”

“-I’m starving!” Tara squeals as you both hear the curtain next to you open.

It’s like a bucket of cold water was thrown at the two of you. You’re both immediately creating space between each other - you rubbing at your cheeks furiously to hide the dazed look you know is on your face while Sylus clears his throat and tries to discreetly adjust the front of his pants.

“Yeah yeah,” Simone grumbles, and your sudden relief almost drowns out your intense need when you hear her curtain open too. You hear their footsteps join together, and you hold your breath as they continue their conversation.

“Can we get noodles now? I’ll pay this time, swear on my life,” Their footsteps travel past the dressing room you and Sylus are in, and you hear Simone make a noise of agreement before their sounds recede into the distance.

You count to ten in your head, gathering as much bravado as you can and schooling your face into as calm and pleasant of one as you can manage before turning around to face him. While you were steeling yourself for whatever Sylus may have thrown at you, you still feel yourself deflate at how quickly he’s composed himself too - although you can still see a particular softness in his gaze as he regards you.

“I take it we’re not getting noodles?” He asks rhetorically, and you can’t help but snort.

“Absolutely not,” you mumble. You look at the pile of clothing in the dressing room, and you point to the black, short-sleeved button down that’s currently on his body. “I like that one, by the way.”

And before he can say anything else, you’re making your way out of the dressing room - lest you do something stupid like kiss him then and there.

Surprisingly enough, you and Sylus bounce back easily from…whatever the fuck happened in that dressing room.

Dinner was a quick affair, with you insisting on pasta from an Italian spot close to the center of the city. Having changed into his casual spring clothing, Sylus drove the two of you to the chosen restaurant. It was clear to you that Sylus was also affected by what happened because his hand hadn’t rested on your thigh like it always did. Instead, his fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel as you looked out on the horizon - craving his contact but knowing that the two of you needed time to think about what was said.

Even during the actual meal, the two of you were silent save for the occasional praise for the pasta or the appetizers. You could feel the tension between the two of you - thick as a knife, but which one of you would make the first move?

You wish you had the courage to reach out and hold his hand.

Even now, as you’re walking in the Linkon City Central Gardens, it’s clear that the two of you are too afraid to reach out and do something. Sylus walks a comfortable distance behind you, taking in the beginnings of blooms that line the paths. Cherry blossom petals drift in the air and you think to yourself that it would be much better with someone walking side by side with you - holding your hand, arm around your shoulder, anything.

That’s it, you think to yourself. Have courage and think of something.

“You know, they sometimes have daturas on display,” you begin.

You hear his strides grow longer until he walks beside you, the beginnings of sunset washing him in a golden hue. “Oh, yeah? Are they hidden in a corner because they’re poisonous?”

There’s a bitter edge in his tone, and you realize the implications of your words. Does he think that you don’t want to display your affection for him to the entire world?

“Not at all,” you reply, and you finally take your chance and stretch your pinky so that it brushes against his ever so slightly. You breathe a slight sigh of relief when his pinky reaches out, looping itself around you and you take it as your sign to continue. “The gardens have education nights, and they have a specific one called MIsunderstood Beauties. Daturas are a big highlight of those nights.”

“And why is that?” Sylus muses.

“Well,” you begin, fighting to keep your breathing even when he finally intertwines your fingers together. “They first go over the risks of them, just for safety. And then they talk about the science and structure of the flower.”

“And then?”

“Then they talk about the myths,” you continue, letting your feet guide the two of you aimlessly. “People fear the things they don’t understand, so they create reasons to cope with that. Yes, the flowers are poisonous but they’re given a bad rep of witchcraft and evil. They’re actually more complex than that, though.”

“Tell me more,” Sylus says, and you look over your shoulder to look at him curiously. Your heart beats just a little bit faster when he looks at you with rapt attention, although you’re not quite sure if it’s because of your impromptu flower lesson or you.

“In another culture, daturas symbolize protection.” Sylus’s fingers tighten at your statement, and you smile to yourself as you continue. “People would display them in front of their houses to ward off evil and invite sweet dreams in. Daturas grew to be a symbol of safe keeping - the most beautiful protector of all things good.”

You let a comforting silence blanket the two of you as you continue to guide him around. You know he isn’t dumb, you know he’s figured out what you’re trying to tell him.

You just hope that he knows you mean it.

You stumble upon a clearing, and you gasp as you come across one of your favorite flowers. “Sylus!” You squeal, and before you even register what’s happening you're dragging him to look at the field full of sunset colored ranunculus flowers.

“I didn’t realize they were blooming already!” You begin excitedly, taking in the nearest peach colored bloom. “They only bloom for a few weeks during the springtime…”

You don’t even realize it in the throes of your happiness, but Sylus is looking down at you with an unspeakable warmth in his eyes as you continue to ramble on about the flowers - the beginnings of his rare, real smile forming at the corners of his lips as he takes in the sheer joy that is you.

He slowly moves his eyes down your face, carving each detail he’s cherished in his past lifetime into his memory for safekeeping. The slope of your nose, your mouth gasping in awe at the flowers before you, the way the setting sun hits the back of your head and gives the illusion that you’re a real angel - every bit of you is scored onto his heart, because he doesn’t want to forget the details that make you his very reason for existence.

Not only in this lifetime, but in future lives.

His hand twitches, and he jolts a little when he realizes you still have his fingers wound around his own. He looks down at your intertwined digits and every instinct is screaming at him to pull you closer, wrap his arms around you and never let you go, to kiss you, dammit - anything at all. He should do something to cement this moment, mark it as something that only exists between the two of you-

-but he can’t bring himself to do so.

Sylus knows in his heart of hearts you feel the way that he feels - that you care for him in a way that he doesn’t deserve. He knows he’ll move heaven and earth to give you anything you would ever want, make sure you never felt any sort of pain or sadness. He wants to protect you because you are the good in his life - but he’s scared to let you know that.

He doesn’t deserve this purity - your overwhelming love and light.

Realizing that Sylus has gone still, you stop your ramblings about the flowers and look up at him with a curious expression. “What is it?”

You feel his fingers tense slightly between your own as you take in the way he swallows nervously, giving him the time to formulate his response. You watch as he battles with the swirling thoughts in his mind, and you feel your heart sink slightly at the way he schools his face into his usual cool demeanor - although you're slightly placated by the way his fingers squeeze reassuringly.

“It’s nothing, ____.” He murmurs. “Let’s get you home.”

The drive home is…uneventful.

In a way, you’re almost thankful for it - thankful that you even have this peaceful time with Sylus after the time he’s spent away from you. The silence that filled his car wasn’t uncomfortable at all - it’s pleasant, the two of you simply soaking in the last inky strands of purple that streak the horizon before the dark indigo of night spread itself over the entirety of the sky. His hand resting on your thigh never strays any higher and your palm easily finds its way on top of his, gently massaging his knuckles while wishing that you were just a little bit braver.

For what? You’re not entirely sure.

Maybe to say something to him when he was looking at you while the two of you were at the Linkon City Central Gardens. His eyes were indescribably soft, and his mouth was slightly slack before it morphed itself into a real smile. It wasn’t any of his usual smirks or half grins -your favorite one that overtakes his entire face.

A smile that mirrors how you feel about him.

He had pulled away from you then, but maybe you can try to find it in you to pull him back in. Even just to tell him how you truly feel - how you feel that he’s the datura that protects you and brings you peace in your sleep when he’s close. Maybe kiss him on his cheek.

Yes, maybe you’ll do that tonight.

You don’t realize your self-imposed stupor until you feel the car slowly roll to a stop, Sylus cutting the engine and squeezing your thigh gently. “We’re at your’s now, kitten.”

You can’t help the way your heart sinks in your chest, but you put on a brave smile as you squeeze his hand in response. “Will you walk me up to mine?”

You know you don’t even have to ask, but he humors you by giving you a wink and pushing himself out of the car. You wait patiently for him to walk around the front and open the passenger door, and you accept his waiting hand.

“Make sure to drink plenty of water,” he says softly as the two of you step into the elevator. You press the button that leads to your floor, and you allow yourself to lean your head against his shoulder. Sylus responds by pressing his temple against your own, and you can’t help but smile at the sudden warmth.

“You need to take care of yourself too,” you reply once you hear the telltale ding! of the elevator stopping. You both walk towards your door, and you swiftly type in your apartment’s code before opening the door and standing at the threshold.

“Well…” Your voice drifts off as you try and think of a way to extend your time with him - you don't want this to end at all.

Sylus quirks an eyebrow at you, a teasing smirk beginning to form on his face as he crosses his arms. “Well, kitten?”

The silence stretches as you try and think of something to do. The ball is very well in your court and you don’t want to toss away this opportunity - you need to think of something and fast.

Fuck it, you finally think to yourself before you tiptoe up to press a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

You watch with slight mirth as his face flushes an endearing pink, his fingers reaching up to touch the skin your lips graced. You flash a quick smile at him, and you murmur a soft goodnight before turning to enter your apartment-

-only to be turned back around by a strong hand, and a warm mouth finally pressing against your own.

Your eyes instantly flutter shut, arms reaching up to wrap around Sylus’s broad shoulders. Sylus’s hands fumble blindly behind you, pushing the door open and allowing him the space to guide you into your apartment. He kicks the door shut behind him, and it’s only a quick moment before his hands travel to your thighs and picks you up easily, wrapping you in his embrace.

“Sylus-” you pull away and barely gasp his name before he groans, leaning back down to press kisses all over your face. You giggle at the feeling and he smiles down at you before recapturing your lips.

The kisses are slow, filled with a sense of longing that the two of you felt during your long weeks apart. You can feel Sylus’s intent to stay - to hold you for as long as he can, to lavish you in the attention you so crave from him.

And you have no intention of stopping him.

Soon enough, you enter your bedroom and he gently pushes you down onto the bed, allowing for him to press his entire body weight onto your body as you slowly sink into the cushy material. It feels like you’re floating in the best way possible - you’re surrounded by the spicy, almost wine-like scent that lingers on his clothes that mixes in with something that makes Sylus Sylus.

It’s addicting. You never want it, him, to go away.

You pull away just a little bit to take in the flush on his cheeks and you smile when you do so, gently pushing his hair away from his forehead and letting yourself play with the slightly sweaty strands. “You’re so handsome.”

He scoffs slightly, grabbing your wrist so that he can bring his mouth to your hand. You shiver when he presses gentle kisses onto the pads of your fingers, his actions reverent and filling your stomach with that same lazy, content feeling you experienced this morning when you woke up.

“And you’re the most ethereal person I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing,” he mumbles back, kissing your mouth lazily. He pulls away and props himself up, letting his hands push the fabric of your cardigan and tank top up over your stomach. “I want these off, angel.”

You comply with his soft command, letting him drag the layers over your head and tossing them to some corner of your room. Your fingers dance along the buttons of the shirt you brought him and he lets you push the offending garment off of his shoulders before pressing himself against your body - but this time, he kisses the skin of your jaw and slowly moves down.

You shiver when his lips run along the column of your neck and you arch your back, subtly giving him a hint. He catches your meaning, deftly unclasping your bra and helping you remove the garment so that he can pay attention to all of you.

“Sylus,” you moan softly, and your head falls back when his lips wrap around one of your nipples. You whimper when he flicks his tongue against the sensitive skin, his left hand reaching up to tease the other bud. His ministrations leave you writhing on your bed, and you all but gasp out, “More, please.”

“Good girl,” he praises, and he continues to move his lips down your stomach. His fingers make quick work of the button holding your jeans closed and pulls the stiff fabric off in one movement, leaving you exposed to the cold air of your bedroom and his hungry stare.

You watch, body trembling as his eyes slightly narrow and his lips slightly open in awe. When you first spent the night with him, he had asked you to never be shy when with him - so you keep these thoughts in mind as you slowly spread your legs open.

“I missed you a lot,” you confess shyly, although your movements are anything but demure. “What are you going to do about it?”

In a blink of an eye you’re flat on the bed with your legs high in the air, Sylus slowly kneeling in front of you. His breathing is labored, eyes hooded as he looks up at you. You gasp when his hands land on your thighs, placing them on his shoulders and effectively keeping you spread open for him - exposing yourself for his awaiting mouth.

“Little vixen,” he murmurs. His warm breath washes over your most sensitive spots and you shiver, feeling yourself clench in anticipation. Your eyes slip shut when you feel a single finger slide up the front of the panties you’re wearing, and his laughter has your stomach doing a delicious turn - right on the precipice of getting exactly what you want.

“I should make you wait,” Sylus muses darkly.

“Please don’t,” you whimper, voice cutting off in a high pitched whine when his finger rubs a slow circle right on top of your clit. The sudden stimulation has your back arching, core fluttering dangerously close to his devilish lips. Sylus presses a firm hand on your lower stomach, though, stopping all movement and letting you stew in your desperation.

“Please,” you beg, tears beginning to form in the corners of your eyes. “Please, it’s been too long and we didn’t get to go together. I missed you, I need you, please don’t make me wait.”

“You’re right, we’ve waited long enough,” he replies. His fingers push the soaked piece of fabric away from your sticky folds, and you jolt when you feel the sudden air on your sensitive pussy. Sylus pinches your thigh and you look down just in time to see him give you a quick wink before he presses his lips against you.

“Fuck, Sylus-” Your voice is a broken moan, and your hands immediately find themselves in his silky hair in a bid to pull him closer. Sylus hums in pleasure and the tiny vibrations spread throughout your body, bathing you in an electric pleasure that has your head spinning.

Sylus’s tongue is slow, gently flicking the tip up and down the length of your entire pussy so that he can collect your juices and savor what he missed over your weeks apart. His movements slowly build up a pleasurable knot in your stomach that you feel will unravel at any moment - but Sylus is the one that gets to decide when that is, leaving you entirely at his mercy.

“Please,” you gasp. Tears prick on the corners of your eyes as you tug on his hair imploringly, making his lips disconnect from your pussy for just one moment - a moment that feels like an eternity in your lust-affected state. “Sy- Sylus, please make me cum.”

His eyes meet yours, and you feel yourself clench at the dazed look in his eyes. Sylus rarely ever lets things get the best of him, you know that to be pure fact. But in this moment, with how vulnerable and hazy he looks just from lightly pleasuring you - it makes you feel incredible.

He’s quick to recover, though the hazy look in his eyes never fully diminishes. His hands tighten on your thighs and he regards you once more. “You know the signal, right?”

You tap your thumb on his forehead twice, and he gives you a smile and a quick kiss on your knee. The subtle touches have you melting for him in more ways than you could ever fathom, the sweet movements making your heart skip a beat as he slowly wrecks you from the inside out.

His mouth is back on your pussy with a flash, lips wrapping around your clit so that his tongue can lightly flick at the sensitive bud. Your head falls back onto the mattress and your chest heaves, the sudden onslaught of sensations bathing your body in an inescapable pleasure that has the knot in your stomach unravelling. “Sylus-” you begin, but he stops you.

“Cum for me, angel,” he murmurs, just audible enough for you to hear before sucking on your clit once more.

The knot in your stomach snaps at his soft command and you can barely gasp as your orgasm washes over your entire body, making your toes curl and thighs shake against his head. You barely register the moans you’re making - would anyone file a noise complaint tomorrow? You don’t really care, not when Sylus is igniting your body with the pleasure he laves over your body with just his mouth.

Your orgasm slowly subsides, and you whine at the sensitivity of your pussy as Sylus continues to suck against your hole, groaning at the taste of you against his tongue. Your hips buck so that you can try and move away from his mouth, but his hand reaches down to stop you once more.

“You know the signal, angel.” It’s a reminder, a dangerous one when you feel his fingers slowly beginning to sink into your needy hole. “I’ll stop when you want, but you have to tell me properly.”

Even with his rough tone, he pulls away just the slightest bit - waiting for you to call the shots. His care makes your heart soar, and you shake your head the tiniest bit. He nods once more, returning to your pussy with the same amount of vigor as before, but this time, his fingers join the fray.

You whine at the feeling of his ring finger entering your cunt, the stretch making you moan. While he was gone, you had tried to fill the gaps in yourself but it never felt good as when he did it - and so you welcome the burn, especially when his middle finger joins his first finger, slowly beginning to thrust in and out.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he says in a whisper. “I missed your beautiful body, this pretty pussy…”

His voice tapers off as his fingers begin to speed up, and your voice leaves you in a pretty gasp. “The way you tighten around me as you moan, wishing it was my cock.”

His fingertips graze a certain spot in you, and you cry out. Even though you’re sensitive out of your mind, Sylus’s ministrations have you back on the teetering on the edge, ready to fall off-

-and he grants you that, letting his fingers press against your g-spot and triggering the end you so desire.

Your body seizes up and you nearly scream at the sensation, your orgasm leaving you breathless and covering your body in a light sheen of sweat. Your fingers flex against Sylus’s head - undecided on whether to pull him closer or push him away because you’re overstimulated beyond belief but you want him to continue ruining you in the way you’ve craved.

Sylus decides for the both of you, and he hastens his movements to help you ride out your orgasm. He pulls his fingers out of your fluttering hole and places his hand back on your thighs, pulling you as close as he can so that he can drown in you. You cry out when you feel his tongue lash at your clit once, twice, three times before a weaker climax washes over your body and leaves you limp on your bed.

You barely register Sylus pulling away, the drunk look on his eyes warring with the concerned frown that graces his lips. “Kitten, are you okay?” His fingers brush against your forehead, and you shiver when his thumb moves to brush the line of your jaw before pressing against your swollen lips.

“You. I need you, please.”

It’s a breathy plea, one that’s full of yearning and a signal that let’s Sylus know you’re okay. You know he would stop with just one word from you, but you have no intention of stopping until you see him unravel in the same way he made you fall apart.

You see Sylus’s hesitation, but before he can say anything you wrap your legs around his thighs to pull him closer to you, allowing for his hard cock to brush against your sensitive pussy. You both moan at the contact, and you let yourself wantonly grind your hips against the fly of his pants so that he knows just how much you want him.

“Pretty angel,” he murmurs, his fingers massaging the skin of your hips as he guides your rhythm. “You’re glowing as you make a mess of yourself on my pants, you know that? You’re so beautiful right now.”

“I just want you,” you moan back. Your hands land on top of his and you intertwine his fingers in between yours, giving him a squeeze. “I want you to feel good, too.”

“I already feel incredible, ____.” Sylus lets himself fall on top of you, shifting his weight so that his hips press against your pussy just a little bit harder. He leans down to brush a chaste kiss over your mouth and you tilt your head up, chasing the lips that you so deeply crave. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, my angel.”

“I’m more than okay,” comes your immediate response. Your hands travel down his shoulders, past defined pecs and the center of his chest. Your fingers brush the sensitive area and he groans, letting his head flop onto your shoulder. You take his heavy breaths as encouragement, tracing his abs before finally letting your fingers graze against the waistband of his pants.

“I want you in me,” you say softly, equal parts desire and honesty coloring your voice. “I missed you, Sylus. I don’t want you to leave for a long time - I want you to stay with me.”

Sylus’s eyes soften at your words, and he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. You feel his hands cover your own, and he helps you with unbuttoning his pants before he pushes the unnecessary fabric down his legs, kicking them aside.

“You already have all of me.” It’s a statement he seals with a kiss to your lips before he pulls at the flimsy lace of your panties. You force your hips up and he drags the scrap of fabric down your legs, barely casting it a glance before he tosses them over his shoulder. He adjusts your body so that your heads rest on your pillows and you’re settled comfortably before the bed, and he makes his way on top of you so that he hovers above you.

Your breath catches in your throat when you feel his swollen tip catch against your clit and your eyes roll to the back of your head when he presses himself flush against your pussy, letting himself grind messily against your cunt. “All of this for me,” he muses in between short pants. “My kitten, my angel, my ____. I’m all yours, even if you decide that you don’t want me anymore.”

“I’ll always want you,” you reply, matching your hips with his rhythm. You place your palms against his cheeks, directing his gaze so that he’s looking directly at you and the sincerity in your expression. “I’ll always find you, and you’ll always be by my side.”

A beat passes, and your heart clenches when you see an indescribable emotion pass over Sylus’s face - one full of intense yearning and a tinge of pain that lets you know he was afraid of you going against your promises in the past. His face smooths out and he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss as he begins to push himself into you.

Even with your climaxes before and how wet you currently are, it’s still a tight fit. The stretch makes you gasp against his mouth, fingernails digging into his shoulders as you try to hold on so that you don’t fall apart from just his cock barely entering you. Sylus takes his time though, massaging your hips and letting his lips wander all of your face as you relax and let him in further and further - until he’s all the way in and you’re full of him.

“Sylus-” you moan, head falling back. His head rests against your neck and he latches his mouth against your sensitive pulse point, sucking on the skin until he leaves a noticeable mark. Your walls clench at his action and you both moan at how your walls squeeze him tightly, trying to pull him in further and further.

“I forgot how fucking tight you get,” he seethes. He leans down and kisses you once again, borderline desperate from how worked up he was seeing you fall apart multiple times and now - deep inside the woman he’s so deeply in love with. “You truly never want me to leave, do you?”

“No,” you cry out. Sylus begins to move his hips - slow, rolling movements that consistently hit your sweet spot and bring you closer and closer towards your shattering point. Your ankles cross against the small of his back, keeping him in place as you begin to lose yourself in the feeling of him ruining you. “Stay with me, please.”

“I don’t intend to ever leave you, my angel,” Sylus grunts out. One of his hands moves to rest on your mound so that his fingers have easy access to your clit. His fingers strum along the sensitive bud as he punctuates his statement with a thrust of his hips, leaving you a moaning mess on his cock. “I don’t intend for the most beautiful person the universe has given me to slip in between my fingers.”

His words have your stomach tightening, and you pull him down so that you can kiss him. Unlike the last slow and languid kisses of before, this one is filled with desperation and need - letting the both of you know that you’re both reaching your respective ends.

“Please,” you whisper, neediness coloring your voice. “I want you to cum in me.”

“Fuck, ____-” he groans, voice cutting short when he hits your g-spot - making you moan and tighten impossibly more around his cock. “Are you sure, angel?”

“Please,” you beg. Your stomach tightens once more, almost about to fall towards your climax. “Cum in me, Sylus.”

“Oh, shit-” With his words he falls apart, his lips falling onto yours with a messy kiss as he cums in your pussy. The sensation triggers your final end and you fall after him, tremors wracking your body as your back arches. So lost in your pleasure, you can’t register the words that Sylus groans reverently above you, but you don’t care in the slightest.

It feels like you’re glowing from the inside out - both from the overwhelming pleasure he’s currently giving you and the intense love that you feel for him in your chest.

Sylus leans down and presses his lips against your own in an open-mouthed kiss. His kiss is messy and hot, tongues dancing together as he thrusts into you with a stilted rhythm. Even in his end, he’s still making sure you feel incredible, and your heart warms at that obvious motive.

Sylus groans after he finishes his spend, letting himself fall on top of you. The sudden weight knocks what little wind out of your body, and you laugh as you gasp for air. “Sylus!”

“Mmm, shush kitten,” he mumbles, nuzzling his nose into your neck and breathing in deeply. “I feel like my soul left my body.”

His statement draws another giggle from your chest, and you feel his smile in the kiss that he leaves on the mark on your neck. Your arms wrap around his neck and your fingers brush the sweaty strands that stick to his forehead, and you feel the almost purr that rumbles his chest at your fingernails slightly scratching his head.

“I meant what I said.” It’s a sudden serious statement that has Sylus looking up at you, although you continue to stroke his hair. “I want you to stay with me.”

His eyes soften, and he smiles at you with your most favorite smile. “And I mean it too, ____. I don’t intend to leave you in this lifetime.”

Sylus shifts upwards, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close until your breasts are pressed against his chest. His hand catches your wrist gently and he moves your hand down so that it rests on his left pec - right on top of his steadily beating heart.

“I may be a wanted criminal by the Hunter’s Association, and I may not be able to fully express my…affection for you,” he says steadily, although you catch his hesitation right before he says “affection.” He clears his throat though, and lets his nose brush against your nose. “But you, ____, are scored on my heart.”

He presses your hand against his heart, and you feel your eyes water at the devotion in his eyes. “I swear to always be there for you.. We may not be able to ever go on big public dates, but I swear to you, I will be beside you as an equal if you’ll let me. And I…I will always protect you.”

His words render you speechless, eyes watering at his honest declaration. He may not have said it out loud, but you both know that deep down, he loves you.

And you love him.

More than life itself.

“When this world is ours, I’ll show you off and scream that you’re mine from the rooftops.” Your voice is steady with conviction, and you grin when he laughs at you. “But for now…”

Your hips roll against his once more, and you both groan when you feel his cock begin to harden against you once more.

“Why don’t we make up for lost time?”

a/n: well ,,, hello there :D i hope you enjoyed <3

#phia's memories #love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace fluff #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus qin #qin che #lads sylus fluff #lads sylus smut #sylus x reader smut #sylus x reader fluff #oh boy tags!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#also i am SO sorry this is late omfg #i need to get it together fr (;-;)#but pls enjoy!!

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leesolbeesol · 4 months ago

Text

LIGHTWEIGHT

univeristy!au taesan x fem!reader (ft. the rest of bonedo!)

SUMMARY: Meeting Taesan at a basement party doesn't go as planned, what happens when you can't get rid of him? Do you even want to?

GENRE: fluff, slightly suggestive in one chapter, university!au (mentions of fraternities, classes, lectures, dorms, etc.) WARNINGS: Taesan gets punched, he doesn't deserve it but everything is okay | swearing | mentions of moaning but it doesn't get too crazy, reader makes fun of Taesan for it | fem!reader | heavy mentions of alcohol in the first chapter | EXCESSIVE flirting | ends with a confession!! NOTES: I have never been to a frat party. I have never participated in Greek life. I do not drink for personal reasons. I have never dated Han Dongmin (unfortunately). In other words, this is likely very unrealistic because my information comes from speculation, reddit threads, and other fanfics on tumblr dot com. This was so fun to write WC: 16.2k, divided into 6 "chapters" of varying length

RIDE OR DIE

You shift on your twin bed and feel the crinkly sheets shifting under your weight. You glance at the egg-shaped off-white clock on your wobbly, school-provided desk. The clock hits noon, your roommate will be home any minute and you’re hoping to power through the end of this report before then. Since you chose her as your roommate freshman year (because of maybe five instagram messages), Jen’s been your best friend, your literal ride or die, but she’s not the best body-doubling partner for cranking out assignments. When she’s with someone, she needs to provide commentary on whatever's going on, which is both a blessing and a curse. It’s a curse when it comes to being someone’s study partner.

The wooden door opens in an instant, and Jen’s frame appears in the doorway, flanked by about three bags. “Oh, dear roommate!” She greets you in song. She lets the bags fall from her arms with a thunk on the floor, and a couple papers scatter on the floor out of one of many of her partially-zipped backpacks. She marches towards you, waving her phone in your face. “Look at this! One of our sisters invited us to a party Sigma Chi’s is throwing this evening!” She says excitedly before steadying her gaze on you. You back up as a carefully manicured finger stretches out towards your face. “We need to go.” She always refers to her sorority sisters as your (plural) sisters, which you think is sweet. It’s her way of including you. You figure that, at some point, she decided ‘my sisters this, my sisters that’ got a little bit exclusionary.

“No.” You answer her and turn back to your computer, entering the link for a hopefully-penultimate citation. This is the one thing you’re maybe not so “ride-or-die” about with Jen. You like parties, sure, but you aren't going to give up a good night’s sleep (without midterms, and all) so easily.

“What do you mean? It’s going to be so much fun!” She whines. “We just finished our midterms, we need to celebrate! What could you be even working on anyway?”

“There’s a presentation after midterms for some fucking reason, I don’t know. Plus, it's a totally bad idea to bring me. Nothing good happens at frat parties.” You tell her, pointedly. You do this dance with her semi-frequently: she invites you, you say no, she asks why, you say why, she asks again, you (sometimes) give in. You’ve got this waltz down to a science.

“Can you finish it later? Come on, please? You skipped out on the last three.” She looks at you with pleading eyes, ignoring your advice. You wonder if this was how she got everyone to do her bidding; pouting at them with her big brown eyes. You eye her suspiciously. It was true: you had denied her invitation to the last three events and probably the last three hosted by Sigma… what was it? Sigma Key? Whatever. You don’t particularly like most frat boys. In your experience, they tend to be on the annoying side… the very annoying side. The avoid-at-all-costs side.

You look at her as a smile grows on your face, “Will you do my laundry for a week when we get back from break?” At this point, you were considering going anyway, but you were going to try and milk it.

“And I’ll take out the trash.” She smiles back. Now… maybe hanging out in a dingy basement flanked by drunk college kids doesn’t sound that bad, right?

“Promise?”

She raises her hand as if to be sworn in to lawyerhood—or whatever they call it. “I, your loving, adoring roommate, solemnly swear to do your laundry and take out the trash for two weeks when we get back from break.” You suppress a laugh.

“What time is the party?” Satisfied, you surrender, albeit happily. She does manual labor for a couple weeks and you only have to go with her for a couple hours? Sounds like a dream.

“11pm.”

BUDDING ALCOHOLIC

The faint taste of tequila on your lips is your only reminder of your promise not to get the fuck out of dodge. If you hadn’t pregamed this party, you would have been regretting coming right about now, even if it means two weeks worth of chores being eliminated from your future. The music is noise-complaint worthy and not that good, even as far as frat music tends to go. Your best guess for timing is that it’s about midnight, and a couple of your peers are already drunk by the looks of it, making out by the window and stumbling on the grass out front. It already smells like vomit as you walk through the front door. To be fair, you’ve never been to a frat house in the daytime, so maybe the smell of vomit is just a permanent feature.

“You’re the best! Thanks for coming!” She swings an arm around you, at least a little tipsy. You shift in your Jen-approved outfit: a (very) tight black tank top, light-wash jeans, and a pair of Jen-borrowed, frat-designated, almost-destroyed sneakers. You’ve gathered from your brief excursions into the world of Greek life that this is the frat uniform.

“Hey, Jen-fer!” A guy, clearly a brother, comes up to the two of you with a cheeky smile on his face. It seems like every time someone greets Jen, she has a new nickname. Or maybe he’s just drunk and slurring his words. The guy looks like “people call me Chad but you can call me tonight” personified in his khaki shorts and impressively only slightly wrinkled t-shirt, sporting your school’s mascot with ‘VARSITY BASEBALL’ across it in loud, chunky lettering. “Who’s this?” He inquires as a girl swings her arm around his neck. The smile never leaves his face as he leans down to peck her. You watch as the girl and Jen have some sort of telepathic conversation by exchanging big smiles and little waves — she’s a sister, maybe? You really only know the girls that Jen’s closest to: Madelin (spelled like mandolin), Avery (who you thought was a boy for a couple months because you only know one other Avery, a boy), Elliann (whose name you remember how to spell only because you wrote Ellyanne once and you got a talking-to), and Gene (whose contact you have saved as the jeans emoji).

“Ugh, Jay! She’s my roommate, I told you about her.” You smile weakly as she points her attention towards you, “this is Jay. You remember Jay, right? From Econ?”

“Yeah… from Econ.” You mumble something unconvincing because you very much do not remember Jay from Econ. There are about a million Jay’s at this school. There’s Jason’s and James’s and Jongseong’s and Joshua’s and Julian’s who all go by Jay. Hell, there’s even a Jachariah (pronounced exactly like Zachariah but substitute the Z) who goes by Jay in your English Comp class. You think it would make sense to go by Jack (Like Zack) because there are less Jack’s, somehow, but whatever. When you return from zoning out, Jen starts talking at you. Some people are touchy drunks, some people are sad drunks, but Jen is a very, very talkative drunk. To be honest, she’s a talkative sober too.

She asks you to choose between the two drinks in her outstretched hands, naming both, though you can’t identify the taste or ingredients either, even with the name provided. Both looked like water.

Fuck it, what’s the difference? “Um, that one.” You say, pointing to the red cup in her right hand.

“Great! Are you okay on your own? I’m going to talk to Ellen!” She smiles big. Who’s Ellen? You have no idea. “Oh, hey! Meet my friend —hic! This is Tay!” She waves to someone behind you, and beckons them over with a finger. Great, now you have a Tae to keep track of. Her goodbye is sonorous, “Bye bye!”

“Bye, Jen-fer.” You tease her with the drawling nickname, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she waltzes off. You break into a slow smile as you see her leave. If you could remember what feeling sober is like, you would know by the drowsiness alone you’re a little more than tipsy. If Jen is a talkative drunk, you’re a sleepy drunk. You take a big swig of the red cup and it burns as it goes down, making you cough instinctively to get rid of the sensation. After taking a moment to compose, you shotgun the whole cup. Aside from the burning, you’re left with the distinctive aftertaste of artificial sweeteners sticking to your throat.

You back up a little, and bump right into a wall. You curse, thinking you probably looked stupid doing that… that is, before you nearly jump out of your skin when the wall puts a hand on your shoulder. Sufficiently scared, you jump right back to where you started like a tennis ball.

In your inebriation, you're pretty sure it might be the worst mistake of your life to look at the wall when you land eyes on the definitely-not-plaster you bumped into.

You realize that she was saying Tae, not Tay. Tae, though you know him as Taesan, is the name of a—kinda emo—guy in your World Literature class who you decided was cute one time when zoning out in a lecture and have been a little shy around ever since. Why is he here? A frat does not seem like his scene. Your drunk self agrees with your sober self on the former issue, however. He is cute—really cute. His hair is straight and black and his bangs fall just above his eyebrows. You were definitely catastrophizing, because bumping into Taesan is maybe the best thing you could have hoped for at this Greek-whatever party.

“Oh… it’s Taesan!” It doesn’t even cross your mind to suppress the giant grin that spreads across your face as you say his name as you sway. “Can I call you that instead of Tae? Too many ay’s around, I think.” You mumble, feeling as cloudy as ever.

He shrugs, “Sure, I mean, I call you by your full name, usually.”

Mostly ignoring him, you continue, focusing on the way the edges of his lips curl like he’s suppressing a smile. Squinting at him, you monologue. “You’re cute. But you’re bad at…” You squint harder, circling your finger in front of his face as if to cast a spell. He looks a little confused with his straight eyebrows raised, but he doesn’t look scared—yet. If you were in your right mind, you would have been amazed and totally terrified that you hadn’t scared him off with the wiggly finger. Maybe the slipped compliment at the beginning helped build some rapport? “You’re bad at… analysis.” You decide on pinpointing a weakness of his. Now, his analysis is actually pretty good. Sure, he's not going to win any awards with it, but who is in an undergraduate World Literature class taught by a less-than-enthusiastic professor nearing retirement? The alcoholic fog is just a little much, anyway. Maybe you’re more of a lightweight than you care to admit.

“I think my analysis is pretty good, actually.” He frowns, but doesn’t seem offended in the slightest. He’s always quiet in lecture, you’re surprised he hasn’t made a quick excuse to get away yet.

You part your lips as you squint harder and point up at his face again, grasping for words that don’t come all that easy to you. “You… should kiss me.” As the words fall out of your mouth, he seems to look around a little bit in surprise. To your luck, he still doesn’t run screaming.

It’s his turn to point a finger at himself and his cool, bad-boy act slips, “kiss—kiss me?” He stutters, going wide-eyed and glancing around like this is a big reality TV-style prank and there are cameramen waiting in the shadows of this sticky, stinky basement, itching to catch him off guard. Perhaps you’re subconsciously practicing rejection therapy.

“Yeah… you should analyze kissing me.” You attempt a smile as you try to keep your eyes open. The music is pounding in your ears as you stare into the gap between him and the wall to his left.

Still dumbfounded, he tries to find words, now staring at you staring off into space, “well, uh… you… that would be cool, but… I don’t… I don’t think you actually want to kiss me. You smell like tequila.” The alcohol is definitely taking its toll on you, evidenced by the way you lean forward and slump onto the boy in front of you, closing your eyes. His words don’t even go in one ear and out the other, they go over your head entirely. You could feel his body heat even through his thick navy tee. You hear his heartbeat and—you’re no medical student—it’s loud. With your eyes closed, you hear the DJ switch the song to something with less bass and you feel a warm hand come to your shoulder blade, patting it awkwardly. You hear an attempt at words coming from his vocal chords, but you hear nothing identifiable as human language. Just a few um’s and maybe an uh.

“Hey, Tae!” You hear Jen approach behind you, calling out to the boy who you’ve designated as your new mattress. You open your eyes for a second, and you’re kindly greeted with a view of his chest. Slowly analyzing your field of vision (which includes a fuzzy wall and his shirt), you blink once, twice, and then, the third time you close them, they stay closed. As fast as that, you’re gone: disappeared, asleep.

Before you can open your eyes again, you’re assaulted by a pounding headache. You haven’t felt a headache like this since the first time you got drunk with Jen. You’d assumed you’d learned your lesson. This time, it’s not a good thing that you exceeded your own expectations.

You open your eyes and see a rather unwelcome sight of Jen who has her hands on your shoulders, shaking you. It’s certainly not helping your headache. As you come to consciousness, you become aware of the damp, suffocating sweat that clings to your body and the aching that you feel in each and every of your muscles and joints. You can’t even lift a finger.

“Hey. Wake up! Don’t worry, you’re not dying. It’s just a hangover.” She consoles you, but she doesn’t stop pushing you, however. “You drank way too much.” She laughs, drawing out her words and turning her head to the side as her hair falls in front of her face.

You muster your words, “what?” Your voice is grainy and low. You feel like pure, unadulterated hell. The pounding in your head doesn’t stop, it just migrates from one side to the other. Back to left to front to right and back again like a cue ball bouncing around the table.

“You… are… hung… over.” She says like she's trying to teach a baby to say mama. You groan and roll over, freeing yourself from her manicured hands and burying your head in your sheets. As you roll over, you feel the familiar and deeply uncomfortable scratch of the seam of your jeans. You were still wearing the clothes you wore to the party, hooray! “And,” she continues, “you’re going to tell me why Han Taesan is at our door.” Her voice sounds half like she’s scolding you and half like she’s waiting for you to spill. Processing this information, you scrunch your eyes and groan again.

“He’s not.” You deny with a murmur despite the knocking that you hear on the door. The person at the door, reportedly Taesan, knocks one, two, three times.

“He is. He wants to know how you are… tell me what happened between you two!” She urges.

“You’re lying. He is not at the door.” Maybe if you say it enough he’ll go away. Manifesting, you know? You want to know nothing about why he’s here. The party last night was a blur. You remember drinking, seeing a couple familiar faces, bumping into Taesan and then it’s dark and you wake up in your bed with Jen shaking you.

“He is.” She says solemnly. She cocks her head and continues in a more sympathetic tone, “do you want me to tell him to go away?” She asks.

“Yes.” Regardless of whether you want to see him, specifically, you don’t want to see anyone at all. You’re still in your clothes from last night, your whole body hurts, you feel like total crap, and you doubt you showered last night. You do not want to see Han Taesan, and that’s final.

“Yes, ma’am.” She says and jumps off the tall bed. Through half-lidded eyes, you see her crack the door and exchange words with the visitor. You confirm it’s Taesan when his stupid face appears in the crack. Almost involuntarily you close your eyes. As the saying goes, out of sight, out of mind. Even with a foggy mind and a throbbing headache, you know nothing good can come out of talking to him, or even seeing him, when you’re so wildly hungover. You feel like a ghost haunting your body. You hear the door shut, and you open your eyes to see Jen shimmying over to you with her eyebrows raised and a disbelieving smile across her face. You close your eyes again, you do not want to see or hear what she has to offer unless it’s an ibuprofen.

“I can’t believe he came to check up on you! Isn’t that sweet? I have no idea what was happening with you two before I got there, but he was so cute about you. He looked so nervous! It’s not like him at all.” You can practically hear her dancing around in excitement. “Your love life never goes anywhere, this is so exciting!” You grumble in protest at her jab at you. She’s been begging to let her set you up with someone, but the only people she knows are frat bros and sorority girls, neither of which are your type, usually. Is Taesan part of a frat? Doesn’t seem like him.

“Jen… advil… please.” You reach out for her with a weak hand.

“You’re not dying.” She assures you, but dutifully returns to your bedside with two little red pills, a bottle of water, and a bag of goldfish. This is how Jen is, you’ve learned; poking fun at you while still looking out for you. “Come on, take them.” She says, holding out the pills. “You’re lucky it’s a Saturday. For a hangover, you need water, food, and sleep.” She recites. Maybe hangover care is a required class for members of the sorority known for the most functions.

“Thanks…” You mutter, bringing a weak hand to your still pounding forehead. “What happened?” You ask. It might help to know what you’re up against in terms of embarrassment.

“Before I got there? No idea. After I got there? Well, you were passed out,” she laughs, “I had no idea you could fall asleep that fast. He looked crazy confused, having you slung over him and all, you know? Anyway, he was dry sober, he just got there. I had the car, obviously, and so he offered to give you a ride back to the dorm in my car. Now, I went with you, of course. For one, I’m always going to come with you when you’re asleep and being taken care of by some man. Two, there’s no way I’m letting any man drive my car without serious supervision.” Now, this elicits a stifled laugh from you, after which you immediately wince in pain. Laughing isn’t good medicine for hangovers, apparently. “Anyway, he picked you up bridal-style, it was really cute, and brought you to our car, and then drove both of us home. I put you to bed, and he left after.” She states, "I wiped your drool, don’t worry.” She nudges you with an elbow.

“Ugh, Jen. Don’t joke with me right now.”

“No, seriously, you did drool. It’s one of, like, five reasons I’m never going to put you in a room with alcohol ever again.”

“I told you it was a bad idea to bring me.” You lament. You don’t like the idea of drooling in the vicinity of Taesan. And he carried you to the car? Seriously, not a high point for your ego. It’s not even about your germinal maybe-crush on him. “Give me some goldfish.”

“You always say that it’s a bad idea, but okay.” She hands you a handful and you shove it into your mouth. It doesn’t mix well with the morning-breath taste and somehow lingering tinge of alcohol. Your head is pounding and if the headache doesn’t kill you, the embarrassment might.

THE ILLUSION

Dr. Woo claps his hands together as the final undergrad enters the lecture hall. The long tables that act as desks proceed away from the central board in stairs.

“Yeah. Big project coming up, right?” He says with a hint of fake enthusiasm. “It’s going to be a group project, if two people count as a group. Hooray.” A resounding groan emanates from the student body. Dr. Woo is visually unphased by this. “Despite the fact that choice is an illusion, you can pick your own partners. This is college. I don’t care.” He waves a hand dismissing any rebuttal, not that any was coming. Regardless of any other feelings about Dr. Woo, everyone knows he’s a great (read: easy) grader. “Anyway, go crazy. You all know the topic.”

Your heart drops as the room immediately erupts in chattering. Your circle was small at best, and you knew no one in World Lit except for… oh no. You feel a tap on your shoulder. Almost in slow motion, you turn around and see Taesan’s damned handsome face.

“Hey,” he says, very, very casually, “do you want to be my partner?” Oh, what the fuck.

“Um…” You furrow your eyebrows. It’s not that you don’t want to be partners with him, really. It’s just that you don’t want to recoil in embarrassment every time you work on a project worth 20% of your grade.

He cocks his head to the side, “so?” You’re pretty sure his face could bring world peace. Have him try to convince a warlord to stop fighting by flashing a smile and they’d be a pacifist in under ten minutes.

You sigh, “yeah. Sure.” You try to smile, it doesn’t work that well. Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen? Do it for the plot, right? Choosing to partner with him is definitely for the plot. You’re not entirely convinced that he’s pure in his intentions to partner with you; maybe this is part of a bigger frat boy scheme.

“My analysis is actually good, I swear.” He says as he pulls back the chair next to you to sit down. Is that a reference? To what? You are thoroughly confused, clearly remembering very little of that fateful night. He tucks his hands behind his head and leans back.

“What?” You laugh a little, if only out of awkwardness.

He presses his lips together and they contort as if a laugh is threatening him. “Nevermind. It’s nothing, really.” He is utterly unconvincing when he lies. Maybe he couldn’t convince the warlord.

“Taesan, what?” Your arms cross as you lean back in your chair. Around you, there’s a buzz of new partnerships and dates being set to meet. You two, however, are alone in your own world. In your periphery, Dr. Woo is staring you down. You’re pretty sure he can sense when work isn’t getting done. You can’t tell if he’s just a salty old man or a teenager with a gossip itch trapped in an old professor’s body.

Taesan notices, “Dr. Woo is creeping me out. I’ll tell you in the hall.” He picks up one of your pens and hands it to you in a non subtle suggestion for you to pack up.

You sling your backpack over one shoulder (despite how you’re told it’s bad for your back) and lead Taesan out of the lecture hall.

“So, are you partners with me just to make fun of me?” You probe him as he catches up to you. “I’m taking you to my dorm, by the way. We can get started on the project.” There’s a silent addition of ‘even if you’re being an asshole, I chose to be stuck with you for some reason’ when you give him a purposeful glance. Maybe Dr. Woo is right. Maybe choice is an illusion. He looks completely lost.

“No, no. It’s not like that, really. I didn't mean to make you feel bad, I just thought it was funny.” He turns around and shakes his head to punctuate his point.

“Is it better if I don’t know what happened at the party?” One eyebrow raises and you stare him down with some weird level of confidence. Maybe knowing that he’s seen you drooling, drunk, and looking crazy makes you feel like you don’t have much else to lose.

“No, nothing bad happened. You were just drunk. It happens to the best of us.” He shrugs as you enter onto the green.

“Don’t drag this out, let me bite the bullet if I want to.”

He laughs a little, “alright. In summary, you backed into me, told me I was cute, told me my analysis sucks,” so that’s what that was about, “and told me I should kiss you and I told you that you were too drunk,” oh, what the fuck, “and then you fell asleep on me and Jennifer came over. I carried you to the car and drove both you and her home because she had a couple drinks and I had none. I checked up on you because I knew you were going to have one hell of a hangover.” Great, you’re stuck with this fucker you borderline harassed while blackout drunk.

“You were right. It was one hell of a hangover.” You grumble, looking at the floor to avoid any eye contact with him.

“Don’t be embarrassed. You’re not the first person to tell me I’m cute when they’re drunk.” He teases and you roll your eyes. In your heart, though, this is deeply, deeply embarrassing. The thought of what happened stings like a blade in your heart and in your mind. It’s not as bad as the hangover, but it’s pretty damn bad.

“Yeah, right. I was drunk, okay?” Your words are biting. “Why are you partners with me, then? I wasn’t that great the one time you met me.” Maybe you don’t want to know the answer, but the words are already out of your mouth. You scuff your heels as you walk, still avoiding contact with the one and only Han Taesan.

“You’re cute and you’re smart.” He shrugs and you break your rule of avoiding his eyes because now you’re staring at him in disbelief. “Plus, you’re great at keeping me humble.” He meets your eyes now and you’re immediately regretting thinking anything about the previous compliment meant anything at all.

“If you keep being a jerk, I’m going to keep you humble as hell.” You grumble.

“Sorry,” he frowns mildly, “the first part holds more weight.” And now, you’ve flipped. It does mean something… maybe. You face forward again to hide a smile that he totally catches anyways. You’ve made great time alongside Taesan, you’re almost to your dorm.

“Thanks?”

“My pleasure.” He postures. “Why were you there in the first place? No offense, but you don’t strike me as an alcoholic. An alcoholic can handle being drunk better than that.” It’s sort of a compliment, you guess.

“None taken, I don’t believe that being an alcoholic is in the cards for me.” You snort. “Jen dragged me there. I told her it was a bad idea, but she convinced me to go anyway by bribing me with doing my least favorite chores for a week or two.” You explain, crossing your arms and he laughs. “No offense, you don’t seem like you’re part of the frat nor do you seem like an alcoholic. So, what were you doing there?” You redirect. It’s true: he doesn’t seem like a brother nor a drinker.

“I lost a bet. Riwoo bet me that I couldn’t fit fifteen grapes in my mouth and I wanted to prove him wrong because, well, he’s Riwoo, but I lost the bet.” A laugh bubbles up from your chest imagining the situation. Not only did he try, but he tried and failed. “My punishment was either to go to a frat or to do mine and six of my roommates’ laundry for a semester. I picked the frat, obviously. I’ve lived with those guys for long enough to know that all of them stink like hell.” He adds, grimacing. “Plus, ‘doing laundry’ meant changing the sheets and picking up laundry, too.” He looks at you, pointedly.

“You’re lying, no way.” You laugh, partly with him and partly at him.

“You clearly haven’t met my roommates, this way?” His finger points to the building that you’re rooming in with Jen. You pray she’s not there or you’re going to be met with a litany of highly invasive questions.

You nod at his direction, “yeah, there are like seven thousand people here and I can recognize about thirty faces max. That’s like nothing-percent.”

“Good for me, then. I don’t think I’d be the first person you’d be calling cute if they were there with me.” The tone of his voice is light, but in his eyes you see that he fears it’s the truth. Huh, Taesan is just like the rest of us, who’da thunk?

“Where did your cool guy act go?” You tease, leading him up the stairs to your dorm, distinguished by the handmade felt pennants, spelling your’s and Jen’s names. “Drunk me wasn’t lying when she said you were cute, seriously.” You assure him. “Now, I just have to learn if your analysis is as bad as she said it was.” You push open the door with your back, mostly so you don’t have to face him after calling him cute to his face. Last week, you would have run away on the spot; Taesan has you acting like a bad ATM—all out of order.

ENTOURAGE

You hated to admit it, his analysis was great. By spending hours writing and rewriting scripts to memorize for your oral presentation, you watched Taesan connect dots you didn't even know were there and recall obscure details from lectures that happened to be integral to the coherence of your project. You can practically see the cogs turn in his head, the way he bites the inside of his lip when he’s really focused, the way his face lights up when he gets an idea, the way he slides his thin wire glasses up his straight nose with a knuckle when they slip down because he furrowed his eyebrows too much.

This is how you find yourself at four on a Wednesday afternoon, weeks after your first incidental meeting with him: admiring his work on your dorm floor.

“Damn, Taesan.” You still kept to calling him his full name instead of Tae, you felt like it meant something. “This is amazing, I would have never thought to connect those passages, we read that first book ages ago!” You shook your head, his analysis was that good. Maybe not award-winning, but definitely worth an A, even in your harshest grader’s class. He smirks as he laughs a little, taking off his glasses and stretching his hands up, grasping at nothing while trying to stretch his back. You two had been sitting for hours on the hard floor of your dorm room; you told him to sit on your chair, but he refused, demanding he sit next to you so that he can ‘see what you’re writing’ better.

“You brought up At the Bottom of the River in the first place.” He deflects your praise. You’ll gladly take the compliment even if you had no part in his discovery. As you shrug his deflection off, you feel his arm come down around your shoulder and you jump a little, not expecting the touch. Of course, his hand feels nice where it rests, but you’re still not quite used to the way Taesan evidently shows affection. The first time he pulled the classic ‘I’m-just-stretching-actually-I’m-putting-my-arm-around-you’ move, you didn’t expect it in the slightest. You had finished a part you were putting off and he moved to stretch, suddenly putting his arm around you and shaking you while cheering you on about your victory. The laugh you let out when that happened was something entirely unprecedented for you, you laughed until your stomach hurt and your eyes watered, and you couldn’t even pinpoint why.

“Yeah, sure.” You look at him, exaggerating your skepticism with your one raised eyebrow, his arm still around you.

“When’s Jen getting back? Do we have time to mess around or should I go before she starts pestering you?” He asks, half-joking as he tilts his head towards yours. Jen had taken a liking to him, if not too much of a liking to him… for you. Whenever you and Taesan were together and Jen spotted you, she made the least subtle comments possible telling you to get together, wiggling her eyebrows and full of exaggerated winks. It wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Hey, look at the position you two are in right now: foreheads so close they’re almost touching, alone in your dorm, with his arm wrapped around your shoulder. Still, you’ve gathered that’s just kind of how Taesan is with his friends. From what you’ve heard, he’s like that with everyone. It’s not unique to you.

“She said she’d be back at five, so…” you check the egg clock, “like, thirty minutes?”

“Nice.” He purses his lips. “Are you nervous for the presentation? It’s tomorrow, you know?” Taesan has his sensitive moments, for sure. He sounds—he is—genuinely concerned about how you’re feeling about it, you can hear it in his voice. He’s not great at hiding things like that. Even when he’s making fun of you, it’s never malicious.

“I’m fine. I’m nervous, but it is a big presentation, after all. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” You tell him, flexing an arm to prove your point, though the action is inhibited by his arm still around you.

“Never doubted you for a second, Miss Independent. You can still be nervous though, it’s okay to be nervous.”

“Are you nervous? You sound like you’re projecting.”

He exhales, “yeah, I’m nervous as hell.” He laughs a little after the admission, but it’s not a humorous one.

“Hey, text me if you get nervous before, right? Doesn’t help to keep it to yourself. And, no offense, but I think I’ll be better at commiserating with you than your roommates, however lovely they are.”

He exhales. “Yeah, thanks.” He’s being surprisingly soft, and you can’t help but seize the opportunity to connect a little with the sensitive side of Taesan instead of the cool, nonchalant Taesan. From what you’ve gathered, his Nirvana-decorated headphones, monochrome black clothes, and his sullen resting face makes him less approachable to your peers.

“You’ll be fine. As you said to me when we were partnered, you’re cute and you’re smart. You’ve got it.” You tell him, leaning your head onto his shoulder. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating out of your chest. Can you feel someone’s heartbeat through their shoulder? Probably not, but the human body is full of surprises. One surprise is how hard you can see his pulse through his carotid artery, pulsing in his neck. Good God, this boy is going to get high blood pressure if his heart is always going a million miles an hour. “Tell me about writing music. I’m tired.” You tell him, closing your eyes.

You’re brought back to what you were told about the first time you met him. This time, however, you falling asleep on him isn’t so much of a surprise. Your knowledge of composition contrasts Taesan’s, you know little more than the basics. Asking him to talk about it is an easy route to a one-sided conversation where you get to listen to him talk, which is always a good time. He gets so animated, it’s hilarious and adorable.

“Your wish is my command.” He laughs, and you feel the vibration against your head and he starts on a critically tangential spiel.

Before you can get too comfortable leaning on Taesan listening to him talk about rhyme schemes, the door swings open. Jen walks in after opening the door with her signature slam. Why you haven’t gotten any complaints yet, you have no idea.

“Oh… my God.” You can practically hear her freeze in the doorway. Out of sight, out of mind, so you keep your eyes closed.

“Jen, no one’s dying.” You assure her, suddenly deeply uncomfortable, shifting on the floor.

“You’re right, no one’s dying. My heart is so happy, look at you!” She almost giggles.

“Is this a good time for me to go?” Taesan starts to ask the pivotal question that’s going to determine exactly how embarrassed you are going to be this afternoon.

“Yes—” “No—” You and Jen say in unison. You open your eyes just to glare at her, seeing her standing over you.

“No… I’m going to get to know my best friend’s… group project partner.” She winks very not-subtly at you. Taesan looks at you just as you look at him, and he shrugs.

“The more the merrier, right?” He asks. The rhetorical question becomes immediately very literal as Jen continues.

“Oooh… I like the way he thinks, girl.” She says, pointing to you. “Taesan, invite your roommates over, too. We can have a party!” She’s almost clapping with how excited she is, rolling back on her heels.

Taesan lights up, “oh hell yeah! I’ll see who’s available.” Oh, Taesan. Always the extrovert.

You groan, but it’s futile to try and stop the scheming. How did this get so bad so fast? “No drinking.” You instruct them.

“Half of them can’t even drink legally yet, plus, do you seriously think I’m going to drink the night before our presentation? No way.” He assures you, and you groan again in hesitant acceptance.

“I’m never letting you drink again. Don’t worry about that.” She promises you quietly before switching back to hyped-up Jen mode. “Oh, this is so exciting! When can they get here?” She’s sitting cross-legged in front of you two now, rifling through contacts on her phone in its sparkly case.

“Well,” Taesan pauses, “If they’d answer my texts—” ding! Almost like he scripted it, he gets a notification. “And there we go. Turns out they’re just hanging out at our place, all of them are free. Do you want them here now?”

“Hell yeah, I do! We should watch a movie… what movie should we watch? Don’t tell me they like horror…” She pushes her eyebrows together in what sounds half like a threat and half like a plea.

“Yeah, not that I know of.”

“We should watch 10 Things I Hate About You.” You suggest.

And that’s how you got to be sitting in a circle on your room’s floor with Taesan, Jen, and every single one of Taesan’s five roommates. You’d only briefly met a couple of them in passing before. Right now, you’re even managing to not cut each others’ throats out while playing UNO! What an achievement!

“And the color is… wait for it!” Taesan’s roommate with the light brown, almost orange hair and rounder, blueish-green black glasses says, leaning around to intimidate the others with a giant smile on his face. Everyone erupts in laughter at him. You remember that this is Riwoo, the one who dared Taesan to stuff 15 grapes in his mouth in the first place. “Blue!” He announces.

Your last card was red. Damn it.

Jaehyun immediately slumps over, Sungho frowns, Leehan stares at the card deck and Woonhak stares, terrified, at Jen when she jumps up, screaming “Uno!” as she slams her blue five on the pile. Shouts resound from the boys around you. Taesan is laughing.

As the room erupts around you, Taesan nudges you with his shoulder, showing you his card. His last color was red, too. “We’re both winners in my heart.” He tells you with a wink. What a sap. You push his face away with a hand, stifling a laugh as you feel a heat come to your cheeks. Your light push makes him dip away from you like the inflatable tube men outside gas stations.

“You’re so corny.” You tell him as you take in the scene unfolding around you. Inviting Taesan’s friends over was a great idea. Jen is yelling at Jaehyun, Jaehyun looks terrified. Woonhak and Sungho are yelling at Riwoo, Riwoo is laughing at them. Leehan is laughing at Riwoo laughing at Woonhak and Sungho.

Taesan catches you smiling at the camaraderie, “if people yelling at each other was all it took to make you smile, I’d have invited them over way earlier.”

“Taesan,” you laugh, “I don’t like schadenfreude. It’s nice to see Jen let loose sometimes. I don’t think she gets to argue with anyone very often.”

“If she wants anyone to argue with, I’m available.” He spreads his arms to punctuate his point. At this, you laugh even harder. As you look around again, you see everyone laughing and collapsing on the floor, except for Jen, who’s pretending to fume and sulk on her bed. You know her well enough to catch the smile that pulls at her lips.

“It’s like watching kids at the park.” You motion towards Taesan’s friends, who’ve clearly become very comfortable around you and Jen.

“This weird authenticity is kind of their whole M.O.” He smiles, very clearly adoring their antics. “Imagine having to do their laundry though. I’m glad I chose to go to the party instead.” He pretends to shiver which draws out a laugh from you.

“Yeah, if you had chosen to do their laundry you also wouldn’t have been able to see me drool on you when you carried me to the car.” You snort. You’ve made peace with your drunken night. After all, you’ve already lost your dignity and he’s still hanging around.

“It was so cute though!” He contests and you roll your eyes at him. You have sworn up and down that he doesn’t like you like… that. Even if he did like you, you’re pretty sure no one likes anyone else enough that their drool is cute. Therefore, Jen’s points are null. Simple as that.

“I’m just soooo adorable,” you roll your eyes, “you don’t have to rub it in, dude.” you smile incredulously at him, throwing one of your legs over the other, just short of taking out Riwoo’s leg.

“I’m not joking!” His tone is defensive in ultimate Taesan fashion.

“Yeah, sure.” You tell him as Jen reaches out to you and pulls you to your feet, leaving Taesan alone on the floor.

Jen whispers to you, “so, when’s the wedding?” You roll your eyes.

“Shut up, you always do this.” You groan. “Do you get some sadistic joy from seeing me uncomfortable?” You cross your arms, almost elbowing Woonhak. This room is not big enough for eight people to fit in comfortably.

“Can I be the maid of honor?” She ignores your complaints and you let out an exaggerated groan in response.

“Don’t make me regret not making him go home.”

“Fine, fine.” She looks to be backing down. That is until she smirks, meeting your eyes again. “I’m not the only one who sees something!” She says cheerily before bouncing off as far as one can, which is about a foot. She looks back at you and winks before (lightly) punching Woonhak in the back to get his attention. She’s immediately drawn into some debate of some sort or another. Earlier, Leehan had assigned you both fish and Jen had been assigned a ‘Cherry Barb’ and she immediately took issue with the name for some reason or other. It was very cathartic for Taesan to watch someone contest Leehan’s fish opinions. He was totally dumbstruck; it was hilarious. Then, of course, you got an informational speech from Leehan which quelled Jens’ argument. Now, she’s a Cherry Barb.

Maybe this is how it should be, friends arguing with friends and laughing about it after, cramped in a too small room. When you meet Taesan’s eyes, you see the sparkle in them tell you he thinks so too. Maybe your friends will become the opposite of children of divorce, gaining family instead of it being separated. Is that just children of marriage? Ugh, Jen’s infected you.

“So, when’s the wedding?” Taesan wiggles his eyebrows, clearly having heard the conversation. You roll your eyes.

BREAKING CODE

Jen is passed out on her bed on the opposite side of the room. The egg clock greets you with the time in blaring white: 11:32 pm. Head in your hands, you groan. No amount of free-on-youtube reality TV was going to calm your nerves. None of your favorite episodes are helping, even the one you have open on your computer.

After the boys had left, you guaranteed yourself that everything would be fine. Your presentation would go great, no questions asked. Now, sitting in your room practically alone, you feel way less optimistic.

Thoughts of Taesan cross your mind and you furrow your eyebrows, trying to shoo them. You wonder if he’s awake right now, if he’s anxious like you. You try to calm yourself by thinking that it could be worse, the presentation could be 30% of your grade. Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t help. Your phone, thrown aside earlier and laying on the bed, is practically inviting you to make a bad decision with its open, empty screen.

You stare out the window, contemplating whether or not to take the risk and text him. Your window opens up to a view of the door to enter your dorm building, and you can see the freshly fallen snow settling around it. The snow covers the creaky benches and even the overhang above the door. It’s while you're doing this contemplating that, to your fortune or maybe misfortune, the risk decides to take you with a ding from your phone.

On your home screen, you see a contact pop up and you freeze. You read the name again, it still says MOUNTAIN. Taesan put that as his contact name.

You look again, you weren’t hallucinating. It’s Taesan texting you. Is he nervous? Did he seriously take you up on your offer? You were simultaneously hoping that he would text you while hoping that he would never, ever even think to.

You steel yourself and open your phone, that’s when you get your answer.

[MOUNTAIN]: are you up [MOUNTAIN]: i’m nervous are you

You did tell him to text you if he was nervous. That offer, however, happened when you were feeling a little bolder. You are not feeling especially bold right now.

[you]: i might be [MOUNTAIN]: meet me lets go to the convenience store [MOUNTAIN]: chills me out before midterms usually and this is like the same thing

You didn’t need to even try to make a bad decision, the bad decision came to you, enticing you with the lure of a convenience store and a chance to escape your stuffy dorm.

Resting your phone on your chest, staring at the ceiling like a corpse with the way your hands are positioned, you weigh your options. Mentally, you make a list.

PROs:

You see Taesan

You get a snack probably

CONs:

You see Taesan

It’s been established that crazy shit goes down when you see Taesan past like nine pm—it’s like your friendship is a vampire but night-intolerant instead of day-intolerant

The last time you made a for the plot decision it didn’t turn out that bad. Yeah, partnering with Taesan could have sucked, but it didn’t. Going to the party was a kind of yolo-esque decision, too, and that was kind of a blessing in disguise. You rationalize your preference for meeting him with the fact that you know him better now. He’s not a rando and, as far as you know, he’s not evil.

You only live once, right?

You pick your phone back up and text him before you can rethink it.

[you]: meet where? [MOUNTAIN]: outside your dorm building in 10

You squint at the screen. His place is like a twenty minute walk away and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t have a car, that would be weird for him. You can’t pinpoint why, but you don’t like the idea of him owning a car, despite the fact that he’s driven Jen’s with you in it. Ugh.

[you]: okay

You are totally chill about this.

Looking over at Jen in her bed, you decide you don’t want to be interrogated about this decision yet. She will not let you hear the end of it, and that’s not going to calm your nerves. It’s kind of against customary law safety recommendations to not tell your roommate where you’re going at night, but you decide that’s not applicable here.

Taking your computer off your lap and swinging your feet over the side of your bed as quietly as possible, you assess the situation. The nice thing about totally embarrassing yourself the first time you met him is that you now don’t particularly care about how you look. You’re wearing Jen’s mother’s giant Hartford Whalers hockey team brand shirt and some irritatingly red plaid pajama pants that totally crash with the cool blues and greens of your shirt.

Tiptoeing to the square, wooden-framed mirror hung in the entrance you check how your hair looks. You pull on your oversized puffer jacket as quietly as possible from the command hook-provided coat hanger adorning off the back of the exit door. The zipper is cold in your hands as you check to make sure Jen is oblivious to your impending excursion. She is still fast asleep, evident from the way her chest slowly rises and falls and the faint snores that you hear from her.

The door handle is freezing to the touch. You expected as much from a dorm building with as little central heating as it tends to cater, but it’s still unpleasant. The door opens with a loud creak. You stand assured that no one has successfully snuck out of any single one of these dorms because the floorboards creak and the doors practically announce over the loudspeaker when anyone opens them.

Thankfully, Jen is none the wiser as you glance back at her, she’s in the same sleeping position you last saw her in: lying on her stomach with one leg thrown up closer to her chest and an arm flung over her head. It’s completely bizarre and totally adorable of her.

You make your way through the straightforward yet somehow labyrinthine halls of your dorm building. As you approach the glass entryway, you see Taesan illuminated by the orange streetlight, leaning against the red brick of the adjacent building standing on a recently-hardened layer of snowfall. He’s layered an unzipped black puffer jacket, similar to yours, over a gray hoodie and accessorised with a hat that makes his head look round like an egg. He’s rubbing his gloved hands together to keep them warm. He sees you before you even open the door, and his face lights up when he does.

After suppressing a smile, you scold him, “I can’t believe you called me to meet you at this hour!”

“You told me I could!” He defends. You notice how you can see his breath against the cold air. It’s colder than you thought, you push your bare hands further into your pockets.

“How did you even get here so fast? Do you secretly live in the next building, or something? Are you my tropey boy next door?” You nudge him, wiggling your eyebrows as if this was some plot straight out of a fanfiction.

“Yeah, right.”

“Come on, you’re not secretly pining for me?” You tease him, sinking deeper into the collar of your coat on account of the biting wind that hits you once you leave the sanctuary of the protected building and, though you’re not willing to admit it to yourself, because the boy next to you makes your cheeks hot.

“Yeah, I’m secretly hanging off of your every word, just waiting for the moment I can confess my undying love for you.” He rolls his eyes. Noticing your hands shoved in your pockets, he changes the subject, “are you cold? I brought some extra gloves, do you want them?” His words are surprisingly considerate considering the incessant teasing you subject him to daily.

“Yeah.” You laugh, freezing as he takes the knit black gloves out of his pocket. Taking them from him and putting them on, you adjust them carefully. They’re far too big for you, but it’s the thought that counts, right? The “thought that counts” is definitely keeping your hands warmer. As you examine your new apparel with a smile, you feel a pressure over your head. Somehow, you hadn’t noticed him taking his hat off and now he is pushing it onto your head. You jump back, “hey! You could have lice!” Your smile disappears in favor of a pout. The hat does feel nice on your ears though.

Taesan bursts out laughing, “I do not have lice, I promise.” Still laughing, he elaborates, “plus, you’re cold. Your ears were so cold they were getting red.” You glare at him as he only laughs harder. Instinctively, you throw up your hands to cover your ears

“Point me to the convenience store or I’m going back inside whether you’re nervous or not.” You grumble.

“Okay, Miss Grump. Just follow me.” He says with a stupidly charming smile and grabs your wrist before picking up the pace. To him, picking up the pace means speed-walking, but for you, it means jogging.

“Ack!” You jump at the sudden movement, “Taesan! You can’t do that!” You try to free your wrist and, when you succeed, you cross your arms, standing solid in place as he turns around.

“If you don’t come with me, I’ll yell that you think Heath Ledger is super sexy during the presentation!” He yells, running backwards. Your jaw drops open. You want to trust Taesan enough to think he wouldn’t do that, but you also know Taesan well enough that he totally would do that. It was a bad idea to watch 10 Things I Hate About You with him, Jen, and his roommates after the Uno game. You do not need your personal preferences aired out to an auditorium of your peers and Dr. Woo. Plus, the only thing you like about Heath Ledger is that he essentially serenaded Kat Stratford!

Damn it. Stuck between would and would not, you narrow your eyes and start sprinting after him before he can turn a corner.

“You’re so on, Mr. Mountain!” He turns to look behind him, seeing you gaining fast on him as you run as fast as your legs will take you towards him. It’s his turn to be surprised, and he speeds up. After all, he wasn’t going that fast in the first place. As you close the gap between the two of you, you can hear his infectious laughter that makes you press down a swelling in your chest. You do not like Taesan, you assure yourself. It’s all in good fun. It’s only good fun. Focusing on the challenge ahead, you see Taesan just ahead of you, about to turn down a sidewalk.

He’s right behind a snowbank. If you’re the sun and the snowbank is the earth, he’s the moon in a solar eclipse.

It’s impulsive, your next action, truly. Presented with the right circumstances, however, you like to take your chances. With a shout that’s more primeval than you intended it to be, you grab onto his puffer jacket and tackle him onto the earth that is the snowbank.

It’s almost like slow-motion when you, with an evil smile, keep your eyes focused on Taesan as you see the world around you slowly become more horizontal as you fall, yourself falling on his back as he falls flat on his chest.

When his front compresses the snow enough to stop his descent towards the obscured grass, you hear him let out a moan. A moment of silence passes as both of you process what just happened. You’re propped up on your hands (gloved, thanks to Taesan) and he’s lying on his back, hands thrown above him because of his attempt at stabilization during the fall. His lips are slightly parted in shock, and his eyes are wide open, staring at you. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. He totally moaned when he fell. At least you can play teasing offense on him instead of having to defend why you tackled this man that is in no way, shape, or form your boyfriend. To be fair, men whimpering is hot. It’s just that you didn’t expect the man whimpering to be Taesan. It doesn’t really fit with his image.

You hold yourself up with one hand, clutching your stomach as you double over in laughter. “Oh my gosh, this is hilarious! I’m going to tell Riwoo that you moan when you get pushed around by women. He’ll never let you hear the end of it!” Taesan looks completely scandalized. His mouth is open and he looks totally terrified, you almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

He covers his eyes with his gloves, “don’t you dare say anything.” Tears form in your eyes as you attempt to suppress a laugh to try and spare any more of his dignity. That doesn’t extend to teasing, though. It’s simply too good of an opportunity to pass up.

“What if, during the presentation, I yell out that you moan when someone pins you down?” You theorize him, sitting down on the dry ground next to him, throwing your legs over his stomach.

Still holding his hands over his eyes, he mutters a defensive response, “it’s not like that!” Flat on his back, he looks, somehow, handsome with snow visible in and contrasting against his darker hair, and his gloves covering his reddening face in embarrassment. If you’re lucky, maybe this is how he felt watching you fall onto him when you were drunk the first time you met. It’s more adoration than disgust.

“Aw, there’s no shame in it.” You coax. He is completely and totally embarrassed, you can tell by the way his ears are bright, cherry red.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay? What do you want?” He whines, refusing to look at you even when you try to pry his hands away from his face.

“Whatever we do and wherever we go together, it’s on you. Monetarily, I mean.” You push a finger into his chest as he finally frees his eyes from his own grip, daring to look at you face on.

“You serious?” He groans, he’s still red but looks to be over the initial shock. Either from the biting wind swirling around you or because of your teasing, his cheeks are coated in a dusting of red.

“Yeah, unless you want everyone to know about your sexual preferences.” Releasing him from your pushed finger, you cross your arms and shrug innocently.

“This is blackmail. This is extortion!” He complains, covering his eyes again.

“So… yes or no?” You grab his wrists and rip them from his face, revealing his angsty stare.

“...Yes, I’ll pay. Will you let it go now?” His words are harsher and he’s sulking, glaring at you. Maybe you pushed it too far.

“Hey, I meant it when I said it’s nothing to be ashamed about.” You let go of his wrists, opting to rub his shoulder instead, in an attempt to reassure him. “Listen, I lost my dignity by falling on you and drooling when we met, and you lost your dignity just now. Let’s just say we’re even.” You smile optimistically, hoping it will psych him into believing you because what you say is the truth, even if it’s a touchy subject, apparently.

Once he’s reminded of your not-so-cute meet-cute, he seems to relax a little. “You did drool like crazy. Do I really have to pay?” He’s smiling now, thank God. He rests his hands on his chest, looking way more comfortable.

“Yup. You do.” You laugh, it’s a softer laugh than your earlier fit, though. “Convenience store?” You prompt him, offering a hand to have him get up. As your hand interlocks with his, a smile tugs at the sides of your lips and you still can’t tell if the heat in your face is from the wind chill or Taesan. “And, take your hat back, idiot. Your ears are red.” The hat traps all the heat radiating from your flushed face and it makes you almost feel sweaty.

He laughs a little before speaking, “thanks for the hat. My ears are just so cold.” He jokes. “The store is just this way.” He points to the right he was going to take when you knocked him down. He was leading you the right way, at least. “Never try to blackmail me again, I swear.” He threatens, pouting, and then shoves you, however lightly. He doesn't look very scary.

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.” You retort. He glares at you, keeping eye contact as you walk closer to the glowing, welcoming arms of the convenience store in the form of its bright lights, illuminating the street from the inside, casting an eerie glow onto the otherwise dark and snow-ridden street. In response to his look, you childishly blow a strawberry at him. This hasn’t been either of your finest hours. Your antics draw out a smile from him, at least. Practically skipping along, you try to change the subject to something less personal, maybe. “What did you expect when you called me out here? You said you were nervous, after all.”

“Yeah, I did say that. I got the pre-presentation nerves, you know? ‘Thought we could talk about it.” He rubs his neck. This is definitely a less personal topic, but that’s not to say it’s impersonal.

“So, talk.” You command, avoiding eye contact mostly so you don’t laugh, replaying him falling over.

“What is there to say? I had some nerves.” He laughs, opening the silvery door to the convenience store, stepping aside to let you through.

“What a gentleman,” you muse, “how’d you learn that? Rom-coms?”

“I’m allowed to be nice, too, you know. You watch more romantic comedies than me.” He rolls his eyes.

“I do it ironically.” You drawl. “I was nervous too, to be honest,” you were not going to tell him that you were watching rom-coms trying to relax, that would be a little too much ammo for him, “Jen was fast asleep and I was just kind of… lying there.” You pick up a miscellaneous chip bag, lazily inspecting it.

“Oh, I totally get it. The only other person awake was Leehan, and he was going to trap me in fish conversation if I even so much as approached him.” You snort at this. Even from your brief interactions with Leehan this afternoon, his passion is palpable. You can just see it in his face that he’s a little bit of an uber-nerd about those particular animals. Nerd is being used affectionately, of course. His interest is admirable. “Do you want those chips?” He asks, pointing to the bag in your hand.

“Not really, I like those other ones better.” You shrug, pointing to the alternative, an equally fluorescent bag of slightly better-tasting chips. “We can tame the worries together,” you smile at him, reaching behind you to grab your preferred flavor, “the question is how.”

“Going to the convenience store is a pretty good start.” He pushes his bottom lip into the top one. As you watch this action, he suppresses a smile, suddenly. “I have an idea.” Of course he does. He says this with a growing smile on his face as he locks eyes with you. “We should have a snowball fight.” Your own smile grows as he waits for your response.

“We should.” You nod. This time, you have an idea, a bad one. “Only if you moan again.” You charge him with the scandalous comment, and he looks affronted again, and immediately reaches out a free hand to shove you.

“Don’t say that so loud!” He hissed, looking around the almost empty store to see if anyone heard him. “That stays between you and me.” You roll your eyes but you can’t hide your amusement.

“Yeah, okay.” You walk off towards the cashier across the store to buy your snacks, sticking out your tongue at him. On the way, you inspect and in turn pick up a chocolate bar and a mediocre-looking apple to buy with your chips; it’s all about balance.

Taesan comes up behind you as you place your haul on the mini conveyor belt and gives a small bow to the cashier. He sets down two bags of chips and an enoki mushroom snack that has Japanese writing on it, for which you give him a disgusted look. Perusing his other selections, you smile when you see the second chip bag, for which you change your disgusted look for one of gratitude.

“Aw, did you get those for me?” You ask, pointing to the less perfect, but still pretty good flavor.

“No, I got them for… um…” He pauses, seemingly unable to think of someone else he would get them for. It’s kind of cute, if not a little embarrassing. “I got them for you. I can be kind, remember?” Sassy man apocalypse.

“Duly noted.” You purse your lips. You look at him expectantly, going from him to his card on the back of his phone, again.

“What?” He asks, innocently. Sungho wasn’t joking when he said that he looks like a cat. As he realizes you’re deadass, he narrows his eyes and turns to you, “are you serious about the whole paying thing?” He cocks his head.

“I was pretty clear. That is, unless you—” You’re cut off by Taesan clamping a hand over your mouth, for which he gets a repulsed and highly suspicious glare from the middle-aged cashier, he meets this with another bow, unclasping your face from his grip. When you’re let go, you raise your eyebrows at him as if to say ‘really?’ His hand smells like lavender soap, it’s kind of pleasant, actually. From the state of his and his roommates’ everything-but-sleeping room, you wouldn’t have guessed they were in possession of floral hand soap. When you’re done thinking about how he smells, you’re feeling a little embarrassed and also physically being led out of the store, hopefully after Taesan paid.

“Was that really necessary?” You ask, hands free because Taesan’s holding the store-provided bag that houses all of your treats.

“I don’t need anyone hearing about… that. Especially a middle-aged anyone.” He clarifies and fair enough. You take the opportunity, however, to scoop up a clump of snow (distinctly not yellow, you checked) and pitch it at him. Still carefully holding your bag, he looks at you with a sense of betrayal. “Oh, I’m going to get you.” He threatens before hurling a snowball that splashes against your only water-resistant coat.

Snowball after snowball is thrown, before your brief yet intense brawl is cut short by ice cold rain slicing through the air around you. Without Taesan’s hat, the sleet pummels your head and it hurts. Your puffer has no hood. Before you can let out an ‘ow,’ even, you find your oasis above you, a puffer. Taesan’s puffer. He managed to, in the short time it started sleeting and you noticed it, drop all of his stockpiled snowballs, pick up the convenience store’s bag, take off his puffer jacket, and cover your head with it, protecting you from the harsh, half-frozen rain. When you look at his face to your right, he looks totally angelic. The streetlight behind him makes him look like he has a halo from the light filtering through the edges of his hair. He’s smiling, despite all the teasing and irritation you put him through in the short time you’ve been out of your dorm.

“Yikes, that came fast.” He comments, looking around and noticing how the sleet pelts down around the two of you. “I’ll take you home, I think it’s our cue to wrap this up.” He suggests. His sweetness contrasts against the wistful feeling that unexpectedly forms when he mentions parting. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation or maybe it’s the chill getting to you, but you feel like you’re on cloud nine, it’s the most you’ve laughed since Jen told you the crazy goings-on between her highschool ex-girlfriend and one of her friends. Apparently, her ex-girlfriend is absolutely smitten for her friend and said friend completely ignores her at every turn. You laughed until your cheeks hurt that day. Your cheeks don’t hurt from laughing, necessarily, but it’s the same sort of freeing feeling. You don’t know what to make of that, but you’re damn sure you like the way he’s smiling at you.

“Whatever you say. Thanks for the roof.” You beamed, pointing up at the make-shift shelter he’s made for you.

“My pleasure, Miss Grump.” He says this with a posh accent that makes you laugh. You have no idea since when he’s started calling you Miss Grump, but there are worse names, probably.

“Don’t make me kick you.” You threaten, trying (and failing) to suppress the grin that tugs at your lips.

“Sorry, Madame Grump.” He corrects, still holding the cover over your head.

“I’m not even being grumpy.” You warn him, not even trying to hide the smile that spreads across your face. “Come on, get moving.” You cue him to start the walk back to your dorm.

“Your wish is my command, Miss—”

“Don’t you dare.” You threaten and bump your shoulder into his. The walk back to your dorm is short, it took you far longer to get to the convenience store because of… well… tangential events. Checking your phone, you finally learn the time. It’s fucking two in the morning. Great! You’ll get essentially no sleep, but that’s nothing a little caffeine can’t fix.

“I dare more than you think I do.” He purses his lips.

“Okay, I dare you to admit you moaned when you fell.” You challenge him with a smirk.

He groans, “I pick truth.”

“This isn’t truth or dare, you don’t get to pick. Plus, truth would be ‘did you moan when you fell.’” You can see your dorm from where you stand in front of the red brick building, it’s still brightly lit. Hopefully that means that Jen is still asleep and hasn’t woken up to turn the overhead off.

“You can’t subpoena me so I’m not playing this game.” He shrugs, stopping underneath the overhang above the glass door that marks the entrance to your building and the separation from Taesan. As he steps aside, taking his puffer with him and putting it back on, you’re suddenly and unfortunately aware of his body heat now that it’s gone.

“I’m less nervous.” He says with a smile that seems almost confidential, like a secret only you know. He’s undeniably easy on the eyes with his stupid hat and soaked gloves and hoodie.

“Me too.” The words come out of your mouth softly. Somehow, they’re vulnerable words to say. “Goodnight, Taesan.” After your parting words, neither of you make a move to leave. His full name feels more meaningful than his nickname, somehow. You stand there, lit up by the LEDs of the hallways, staring at each other, and you’re not entirely sure why. The tension might be thick, it might not be, you can’t tell by the way you’re focused on his face. Well, it’s not exactly his face. It’s the way his hair frames his face, yes, and the way that his eyes scrunch when he smiles, even slightly, it’s also the way his egg hat looks and the way his hoodie is so damp because he was trying to keep you warm and dry.

Then it’s all over. When the tension breaks, it’s not like it’s cut through. It’s more like it dissipates. It dissipates thanks to the man who barrels down the street adjacent to your bubble, blasting a Spanish ballad and singing his heart out. Soy capitán, soy capitán, soy capitán! blasts through the complex. You break eye contact with Taesan just to laugh at the oddity passing you. You watch him coast down the street on his green bike, singing, without a helmet, hands-free. Your mother would not approve. Taesan’s not laughing, but he’s beaming and staring at you as you crouch down because of your laughter. You try and convince yourself it’s not even that funny, but something about the era of the night just makes you heave with how hard you’re laughing.

“I mean,” recovering, you let out a sigh, finally releasing a breath that you don’t remember holding, “it is a college campus.”

“You can say that again.” His hands are on his hips, and he’s managed to pry his eyes away from you. The sleet’s stopped somewhat, but the ground is still icy from the snow and sleet and rain that have frozen and refrozen over the past few days. The same wistful silence settles between you two after the interruption.

“Maybe it’s a sign.” You laugh in disbelief. Now you’re sure you’ve laughed more than when Jen told you about her friend’s drama. Way more.

“A sign for what?” He questions, jocose and almost suspicious of your deduction.

“A sign you’ve violated like a million rules of common decency!” Another voice, one other than the singing man’s melody and Taesan’s and your chatter, is heard echoing throughout. “Han Taesan, I’m going to beat your ass!” The voice threatens angrily. At first, you don’t know where it’s coming from. At second, you don’t want to believe where it’s coming from. You slowly look up to your open dorm window and see Jen’s disheveled figure poking out with the single most serious scowl you’ve ever seen her wear. The only time that gets close to this nouveau expression is the time she decked a guy for… being a total freak for one of her friends, let’s say. Your body is confused on whether to panic, run, or just freeze. Waiting to act is still an action, and it’s the prognosis your body suggests. You freeze, looking from Taesan to the window, where Jen is notably absent.

You look at Taesan.

You look at the window.

You look at Taesan.

You look at the hallway.

Taesan looks terrified, you look utterly and visibly confused, and for Jen… well, it looks like there's smoke coming out of her ears as she storms down the hallway towards the doors that open to reveal your two-person symposium. Jen slams open the door and, if it wasn’t specifically made not to slam, the impact of the slam would have reverberated until even Dr. Woo heard it across the campus in his (probably sound-proofed) office where he probably still is because, you know, he’s Dr. Woo.

“You motherfucker, what did you do to get her to go out without telling me! What are you hiding? Are you a criminal? Are you a smoker? Oh no, you’re just a piece of shit trying to get in her pants!” Jen steps in front of you, blocking everything but Taesan’s head from your view. From what you can see, Taesan hasn’t been sucker punched yet. His eyes are wide and he’s holding his hands up like he’s waiting for her to swing, and maybe he is. You know he doesn’t know her well enough to know that she wants to beat the shit out of him, but she did say explicitly that she was going to beat the shit out of him so he had some reason to suspect that that’s what was incoming.

“W-what? I don’t— I didn’t do any of that stuff!” He’s shaking his hands wildly and Jen still looks like she’s about to swing by the way she’s pushing a finger into his chest. Still too shocked to do, well, anything except watch.

You see her rear up in a way that’s all too familiar to you, and when you remember you can move, “Jen, wait! It’s–” As soon as the words leave your mouth, you see her closed fist collide with his cheekbone and the impact make him reel back, clutching the affected area with a mittened hand. He almost knocks his head into the pole supporting the overhang, and you can see he’s visibly out of it. Is this a good time to mention that Jen is freakishly good at karate? What Jen is, however, not amazing at is analyzing the situation. As she battles with the follow-through of the swing, she loses her footing on the icy ground, falling flat on her ass. Now, both parties accompanying you are on the icy ground and you’re the only one still standing.

You act in a delay. “Jen! He didn’t do anything, I swear!” You reach for her shoulders that are no longer there, trying to stop an action that’s already happened. You watch as Taesan crumples further into a fetal position and you stand there in shock.

“See!” She spits, snapping her head back to look up at you. “He’s not even trying to help me up!” Her eyebrows are furrowed and angry.

“Jen,” you almost can’t help but laugh, “you decked him, he doesn’t even know what planet he’s on.” You look from your best friend to your… Taesan, and wonder how you attend to both of their bullshit situations at once. “Okay, first of all, Jen, please don’t punch his ass again—”

“Yeah, I’ll punch him in the gut.” She snarls, cutting you off.

“No! There will be no punching.” You declare, trying to sound confident but you’re so bewildered it comes out more as a question. You turn your attention to Taesan, whose nose is bleeding ever so slightly. He’s holding his hat-clad head in his hands and is grimacing in pain. You mirror him, a grimace appearing on your own face as you look upon his pitiful condition. This is going to be so fun to explain. “I came out here because I told him he could call me if he was nervous for the presentation tomorrow and I’d talk to him about it and so we went to the convenience store and… I’m fine! He’s not just trying to get in my pants, he would’ve done that already if he wanted to.” You ramble, using logic that probably wouldn’t withstand in court but works well enough when you talk a million miles an hour to a less than law-savvy subject, that subject being Jen. The subject, Jen, looks scandalized by this information.

“Where did my innocent baby go?” She pouts, getting up to put her arms around you. “Where did my sweet, lightweight, baby with no love life go? She’s sneaking out to see boys?”

“Jen, I’m a grown woman.” You tell her, incredibly blasé and stiff as she embraces you in a hug. From over her shoulder, you catch Taesan’s eye. When your eyes meet, he laughs and then winces. It probably wasn’t a good idea to welcome an uncontrollable movement when you have some sort of abrasion on your cheek and blood coming out of your nose. Jen pulls back to look at you and shakes her head, you can almost hear her saying they grow up so fast. Maybe this is the same kind of telepathy that goes down between her and her sisters. Maybe you get it. Jen, coming back to earth from her sappy, self-appointed caretaker meltdown, narrows her eyes and looks from you to Taesan, and then from you to Taesan, again.

She opens her mouth and lets out a puff of air as if to start speaking, but she only does so a few seconds later. “So… there was no reason for me to deck him?” She asks, raising an eyebrow in genuine confusion. You nod, solemnly. Her jaw drops and her eyebrows push together. She puts her tongue in her cheek, mind reeling. This is when she realizes she gave this poor man a bloody nose and probably a black eye for no damn reason. Suddenly, she fixes her gaze on you, “you’re the one I should be chewing out! Do you know how many staples of girl code you’ve violated?! You could have died!” She exclaims, clearly ready to give you a talking-to, way worse than when you spelled ‘Elliann’ as ‘Ellyanne.’ She’s like OSHA but for general female wellbeing.

You reach out to grab her hands that are moving dramatically to illustrate her point, “okay, you can chew me out after Taesan isn’t bleeding out.” She seems to relax like a combative patient injected with midazolam.

“I’m not bleeding out.” He huffs, but is still holding his nose bridge, so he’s still bleeding, at least, and that’s not exactly ideal.

“You look like shit, though.” You tell him

“Thanks,” he groans, “can I get some tylenol, or something?” Yeah, he totally looks like a hurt puppy. It’s kind of cute, you guess.

“Yeah, we’ll get you patched up.” You assure him, breaking away from Jen to attend to Taesan.

“No ‘we.’ Only you. Don’t let her punch me again.”

“We’re over the combat phase, it’s fine. Get up, do your legs still work?” You try to say your biting words as comfortingly as possible. It’s past two in the morning, you’re too over-tired to try to pick your words so they’ll feel better for the receiver. What’ll make Taesan feel better, physically, at least, is tylenol and making sure his nose isn’t broken.

“My legs don’t, my ass hurts like hell.” Jen complains, but helps in picking Taesan up anyway.

“It’s very hard to break a tailbone, a nose, on the other hand…” You raise your eyebrows but say no more. Taesan gets up just fine, but still clutches his nose. “Campus clinic’s probably closed, we have a first-aid kit, though.”

Jen issues a half-hearted-sounding yet fully meant apology in the form of a mutter of “sorry for punching you, man.”

“You’re cool, man. Cool that you were looking out for her.” He gives her a small thumbs up. It’s a weird moment of friendship between these two. For having met barely a week ago and having spent five hours together tops, these two have a more tumultuous relationship than most twin siblings at the age of nine, which is saying something considering most have chased each other with a knife by the age of five and a half. Jen has gone from asking to be the maid of honor to decking the presumed groom and now having a hopefully more stable relationship with said groom. So much plot it’s not even ‘for the plot’ anymore, you’re just riding the wave of unexpected inciting events.

“The more the merrier.” You mutter as you sling Taesan’s arm over your shoulder. Why he abets this when the damage is to his face, who knows. The more the merrier indeed in your cramped dorm, trying to ignore how the cold compress on his bruise keeps melting even though it’s so cold and the fact that you have an injured and sleep-deprived boy on your hands.

GOT GOOD

You bite the inside of your cheek, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to express your dismay. You kind of bombed your presentation.

Scrap that, you really bombed your presentation.

As you step out of the lecture hall following the sea of your peers, you step aside to press your back into a free wall. It’s one of the moments where you need to just detach. Crossing your arms for stability, you melt into the wall. The overhead light that you can see even through your closed eyelids is obscured every so often by a moving body. This drowsiness is familiar.

Amid the frequent passings of students, the light is masked for longer than would be caused by someone in passing. You know who it is.

“Hey, it wasn’t that bad.” You open your eyes to a squint and see Taesan leaning against the wall next to you. Despite how you try to ignore it, you’re immediately drawn to the squashed berry purple color that blossoms on the inflamed skin under his left eye, giving way to a lighter almost green tint near his nose. Jen got him good. Your blinks are slow, the scant hours of sleep are getting to you. You slept through your alarm, foreboding you from even getting coffee before the presentation. Despite his injury, he’s smiling.

“I lost where I was like every other sentence.” You attempt to mirror his smile, but it doesn’t really work, leaving you with a smile that reaches your eyes but not your lips, somehow.

“It’s Dr. Woo, you’ll be fine. He doesn’t care nearly as much as you do. We got all of our information out. It doesn’t matter how graceful it was.” He lays out his reasons and you cock your head, weighing the possibility that he’s right.

“Are you like a vampire, or something? You don’t need sleep?”

“I’m used to it.” He shrugs. Maybe living with five as many people as you do makes you sleep way less; especially since it seems like Taesan is their chaperone despite the fact that Sungho and Riwoo are older than him, you’ve learned.

“You shouldn’t be. Sleep is good.” You close your eyes again, and a silence settles over you. You’ve created your own little bubble in the hallway, and it might not even include Taesan. Right now, it’s just you and your desperate need for rest. You are not the kind of person to pull an all-nighter.

“I told you you were going to crash.” He reminds you and you hum in response. “Look,” he gets your attention by putting a hand on your shoulder, “the boys are out, come back to my place and you can take a nap. I know that your room still smells like disinfectant.” A smile creeps across your face at this. It’s true: your room smells like the pungent iodine that you used to clean the minor abrasions on his cheekbone. You still have no idea why Jen has that much power in her.

“Lead the way.”

“It’s way closer to this building than it is to your building, it’s barely any walk at all.” He assures you. Regardless, you have to speed walk to keep up with the pace.

“Do you have hot chocolate, or anything?” At your drawled request, he tsks. Pressing his lips together, you take that as a no.

“I’ll see what I can do. Woonhak owes me like nine favors.” He laughs a little at this, and you smile too. Unremarkably, it hasn’t become spring overnight, and so the wind is still nipping at your face. You were wise enough to wear your Taesan-provided gloves, though. Looking at Taesan’s face and the way the wind makes his face a little pink, you’re pretty sure you could find the whole color palette on his face. Except blue, maybe. You’ve got the other colors covered. Red for his cheeks, orange, yellow, green, and purple for his bruise. Huh, that bruise contributes a lot. “It’s just this way.” He says, guiding you with a pointed hand towards a complex highly similar to your own. Same red brick buildings and same overhang. The difference is that, you know from picking your roommate, this building is the apartment sector. Frankly, it’s incredible that Taesan and his roommates are all friends. You know other people who got apartments, or even quads, who aren’t so happy.

As you step into the entrance way, you feel the warm air hit your face. This building is much warmer than yours, maybe that’s a good thing. Walking up the stairs, Taesan is steady behind you. You wonder if he’s thinking about catching you like he had to the time you were drunk off your ass.

As soon as you enter the apartment dorm, your focus tunnel visions on the soft couch in the middle of the room. It looks like heaven as you step towards it. You were unfairly ripped from the comfort of your bed for that fuckass presentation and now you can return to your natural state, sleeping. You thank whatever power is out there because this is so incredibly opportune.

As soon as you shed your backpack and winter coat and collapse on the couch, you’re out like a light. No words from Taesan can wake you now, even if it is him professing his undying love for you. No, it’s up to your internal clock to make you up, lest you sleep forever.

Your internal clock does wake you up. You’re groggy, but it’s still light out, so you couldn’t have slept for so long. As you assess your situation, you notice two differences.

First, you’re warm.

A navy blue throw blanket has been carefully draped over you, and you’re pretty sure you didn’t do that yourself. You bite the inside of your cheek—happily, this time. It’s proof he does care, and maybe you’re letting the gesture get to your head. You do… not like Han Taesan, right?

Second, you’re alone in Taesan’s living room.

There are no signs of life, not from his roommates nor from the mountain himself. That’s more puzzling. You would have assumed he would have stayed for one reason or another, maybe he went out to get hot chocolate? He told you that he would have Woonhak do it.

Looking around the room, you take in the sights. There’s a modest TV with various video game consoles, there is a section of the room clearly designated for guitars, and it’s remarkably clean. Not too bad for five early 20-somethings and one 18 year old. It’s kind of impressive, actually. There isn’t any leftover food out and even the dishes in the sink have been rinsed, if not thoroughly washed. You pat down the area around you in search of your phone, mainly to check the time, but also to figure out where the hell Taesan went. Something about his absence hurts your heart in an uncomfortable way. You would have liked to see him when you woke up. Still… you do not like Han Taesan… do you? No, no. You don’t like him, that’s silly. He’s just your partner for a group project.

As you locate your phone, you hear the door open behind you and you swing your head around to see Taesan standing in the doorway with a hand behind his back and a bag in the hand that’s visible to you. Another bag, nice.

“Good morning.” He smiles at your state. The way he looks at you suggests your hair is out of order. You fail obviously as you try to subtly sort it out.

“I had a great nap. You have a good napping couch.” You bring a hand up to rub your right eye even though your mom says it causes astigmatism. It would suck to have contacts in right about now.

“Well,” he says, setting down the bag on the counter, “I have your hot chocolate.” You’re pretty sure your face lights up at this, it’s the perfect thing for this kind of dingy day. “And,” he continues, “I got it from a café near here; store-bought isn’t as good.” He takes a cardboard carrier out of the bag and presents his finds to you, two lidded cups.

“You sure know the way to my heart.” You mean that on a deeper level that you hope he doesn’t catch. “What’s behind your back?” You ask, pointing to the obvious hand still tucked behind him.

He looks sheepish and brings the hand to his front, “I got these for you.” His cool act is far gone, he seems almost timid. In his left hand he grasps a bouquet of an assortment of colorful flowers. There are assorted yellows, blues, pinks, purples, and reds. It’s like a sunset wrapped in brown paper and tied in a pretty twine bow.

“Taesan!” You exclaim excitedly, jumping up from the couch to go collect your gift. “Why?” You poke. He’s quiet for a second, the question seems to echo throughout the room. A chorus of ‘why.’ You meet his eyes for just a second, but the shared glance makes your heart beat faster. He seems to bite his tongue, there’s a shining reflection of the kitchen light in his dark brown eyes. You don’t see them crinkle up, indicative of a straight face.

He swallows like his throat is thick, “I got them for you because I like you… I like you romantically.”

You’re not sure if your heart swells or drops.

From this one statement, you learn two things. You learn that Han Taesan likes you, and you learn that you like Han Taesan. You really like Han Taesan. You like the way he’s cold but kind and the way his bangs fall and his endless care for his roommates and his hardworking nature.

You like Han Taesan.

You take the bouquet in your hands, analyzing the flowers. You notice they’re mostly tulips, but flanked by carnations, baby’s breath, and bluebells. A smile grows on your face as you look back up at him. He looks absolutely terrified. It’s not worth it to tease him here. He’s vulnerable, you should be too.

You begin to open your mouth, but before you can, he continues in an attempt at defense, “listen to me, please. I thought you were cute and smart even before the party and all of those incidents, but now that I know you I can’t not tell you. You’re witty and stubborn and playful and it’s so easy to talk to you. You were cute when you were drooling, I didn’t know that was possible. You make fun of me but I like it because you’re so kind. I… I like you.” He confesses, he’s talking fast and you think your heart might burst with excitement. Excitement isn’t the right word—euphoria? Joy? Happiness? Exhilaration? No word is quite right for how you feel about Taesan. “The tulips symbolize love.” He says under his breath and the flowers take on a whole new meaning. You feel like a tulip. Tulips symbolize love.

The smile that bursts across your face makes his eyebrows release all their tension immediately, “Taesan, I like you too. I really like you,” you tell him, “tulips symbolize love.” You look down at the bouquet and see the array of tulips that smile back at you.

“Can I kiss you? I’m not drunk, I swear.” He promises. The allusion to your first meeting makes you laugh. You met with an ask for a kiss, and now he confesses with an ask for a kiss.

“Yes.” You whisper, and he throws his arms around you, pressing his forehead to yours. You sway like that for a moment, you feel the cold of his jacket against your arms and the pressure of his hand on the small of your back. You look at him and in his eyes you see him. No walls, just you two. Just you and Taesan.

You wrap your arms around his neck, one hand still holding the bouquet and pull his lips to yours. Warmth blossoms in your chest—his kiss is soft and tender and he tastes like mint. Mint might be your new favorite flavor. His lips fit perfectly with yours. You feel the soft press of his fingers into your back, pulling you closer to him. Your lips part slightly and you’re out of breath before he even starts to pull away. His kiss is just like him, just when you think you know him all, he shows you a new surprise, something new. After stalling for just a second, he pulls you back to him and deepens the kiss. You could kiss this minty boy forever.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours again, fluttering his eyes open and shut.

“I wrote a song about this. A serenade.” He says breathlessly.

Even in the dead of winter, you think your heart melts all over again.

NOTES: Shoutout Hartford Whalers even tho they sports disbanded! SINGING MAN CAMEO! The singing man is a genuine character in my life. Living in the city center of a major city means I get LOTS of people doing weird shit like the emoji guy (who wears outfits only with bright fucking emojis, my friends have seen him too, he’s wacky), the tree guy (a man who always walks around with a fallen branch on his head, no idea why), and the supercar medical worker (woman in scrubs who drives down the streets with a loud ass car that looks like one of those fuckass shoes with big holes in them you know what im talking about the kidney shoes). I take a pic and keep them in a folder on my phone called “recurring characters.” I have never seen the singing man. He walks past my house every weekday at 11pm and I like to have my windows open and he sings loud Spanish ballads. I love him. Singing man my beloved. Sorry this is a slowburn, it was forced out of me i fear. is this a slowburn? methinks so.

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kissamiyahh · 5 months ago

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ミ★𖦹꡴ Hands

Emily Engstler x reader (SMUT)

Summary: You love Emily’s hands so she decided to give you a treat.

Warnings: SMUT obvs, fingering (r! receiving) kissing, fluffy sex, Emily doesn’t get any Im afraid, slight choking kink, reader has female genitalia and is referred to with feminine pet names, NOT PROOFREAD!

You love everything about your wonderful girlfriend. From her caring, determined personality all the way to her perfectly sculpted body, but specifically her hands.

Of course Emily knows about your obsession with her hands after all the time you two have known each other. Which leads you to now. A movie playing quietly in the background, lights dimmed, the bright lights of the city illuminating the room through the tall windows opposite the bed. And you, sat up against Emily’s tall muscular frame, surrounded by the soft satin sheets, with her hands in between your legs.

Tight circles are being drawn on your clit while she nuzzles her nose in between the valley of your neck and shoulders in an effort to comfort you from the pleasuring torture. Planting feather light kisses all the way up to your ear, Emily’s hand doesn’t slow causing a shiver the run down your spine and a breathless whimper to escape from your lips.

“I got you baby, it’s alright just let go f’me” Emily’s sultry voice says enticing another moan from your lips.

Her hand traces its way from holding your thigh, groping your boob and then up to your neck, squeezing it gently whilst turning your head to face hers. Her love coated eyes scanning your fucked out face, eyebrows furrowed with wide glazed eyes, and in Emily’s opinion, the most perfect parted lips that are plump from the previous make-out session.

“So beautiful aren’t you my gorgeous girl,” she whispers trying to make eye contact, “look at me when I’m fucking you baby.”

You manage to focus your attention on her features, her messy hair, sleepy eyes and plush lips aching for attention. Finally, your gaze locks on hers causing Emily to smile and squeeze you neck a little harder anticipating your inevitable reaction.

“Good girl princess, can feel how close you are.”

You let out a trapped groan at her words, legs spreading just a little bit wider to give her more room. Encouraged, Emily’s movements falter and then begin to speed up, her two fingers inside of you pumping impossibly faster while her thumb paces its attack on your clit.

“M’so close em.” You whisper into her lips,

“I know you are baby,” she utters out before smashing her lips onto yours while the coil inside of you snaps, earning a groan from her and into your mouth. Being overtaken by your powerful orgasm, it takes you a minute to come to, but eventually the effects begin to wear off.

Having only elicited whimpers from you, Emily manoeuvres your body to lay chest to chest on hers, rubbing your back soothingly as you come down from your high while setting gentle pecks on your shoulder for comfort.

“Goodnight baby, I love you.” She whispers to which you mumble the sentence back and fall into a peaceful sleep.

First smut ever so don’t judge me guys! Hope y’all think this eats and send me requests if you want! ILYALL ❤︎︎❤︎︎

#emily engstler x reader #emily engstler #wbb x reader #lqbtq #lesbian #smut #wlw smut #wlw post #wlw ns/fw #wlw blog #wlw sub

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amuromi · 1 year ago

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★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.9k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! heian era!au, concubine!reader, true form!Sukuna, unprotected sex, established relationship (married), canon typical violence, era typical misogyny/gender roles, unhealthy obsession, mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism and blood, (Sukuna is a lunatic), Sukuna is referred to exclusively as “Lord Sukuna”

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I got a bit carried away with this one. My love of psychological horror was clawing to be free but I think I kept it pretty contained…

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 ✦ ⋆˙ engawa ┈ a hallway-like path surrounding the house ⋆ shoji ┈ a sliding door/divider ⋆ koto ┈ a Japanese zither/stringed instrument

The winter storm has leached everything into bleak shades of black and white, like ink on parchment. The trees are thick black strokes against the deep gray clouds, dusted with a thick layer of snow as flurries fall like stars through the courtyard. In the moonlight each snowflake shines like pearls, soft and lustrous as they dance on the wind. From the edge of the engawa it almost looks like staring into the great gaping mouth of a beast that’s swallowed the world, spears of ice hanging like jagged teeth from the edge of the roof, the wind shuddering through the estate in howling gusts. The cold night is scented with dreams of spring, sweet smelling coal burning in braziers, wafting gray wisps of floral-scented smoke into the wind.

It’s quiet aside from the sharp whistling of the wind and the hissing of snow melting over hot coals, then, somewhere within the estate, a bell tolls for the Hour of the Rooster. Nightfall, despite the veil of darkness already laid out by the storm clouds. Suddenly there’s the sound of footsteps soft as summer rain, pattering through the estate and the shoji begin to blossom with the warmth of firelight as candles are lit throughout the sprawling house. More snow gathers in soft sheets over the courtyard before there’s a gentle knock to announce a soft-footed servant coming to renew the braziers and light the lanterns. The scent of lavender is renewed as the coals are sifted and replaced and the engawa is streaked with blushing shades of gold as the pink-tinged paper lanterns are lit in turn.

Of all the rooms in the vast estate, yours is the most adorned. Which is to say, it looks as though your room is used for more than sleeping. There’s a modest desk with inks and paper, a small table for combs and perfumes, and a trunk for miscellaneous things beside the chest of drawers filled with kimono. When she’s lit the last lantern, you ask the girl to send for your personal maid. A dowry servant, though not originally one of yours. Life in this estate is fleeting in that way.

An unbalanced teacup had been the undoing of the girl your father sent to accompany you in your marriage. Stained silk and scalded skin, later soaked with splatters of blood. But the tatami were changed and the kimono and girl were replaced. Your new maid is a bit older–a few years your senior–originally belonging to a woman that came before you. Certainly not First Mistress because she would loathe to see you even look upon anything of hers. No, she served a less honored concubine that wasn’t worthy of the title “wife,” even if it’s a hollow honor in itself. Still, your maid had belonged to the unknown mistress before she perished. It all happened before you were brought to the estate, but the haggard weight of the loss still sits heavy on her shoulders. Her face always looks like a crumpled piece of paper that someone tried to smooth flat, creased with hidden worries. She arrives quickly, kneeling to await her orders.

“I’m happy,” you tell her. “A new Mistress is joining the family tonight, isn’t that right? Happy news.” The maid hums something to the tune of affirmation, long since grown used to your unflinchingly jovial disposition. She once asked if you wear a smiling mask throughout the day and take it off once you sleep. It’s a silly question, of course, but you like to imagine that you smile even in your sleep. There is nothing to be sad about. Living a life such as this is no different than a deer grazing in a meadow. There is nothing beyond the grass. Nothing farther than the horizon or higher than the tallest tree. What is there to be sad about when the world has been folded into something small enough to hold in your hands, a piece of origami meant to be appreciated and not pondered. There’s happiness in the simplicity that this life provides, though you seem to be the only one to realize it.

The other two Mistresses of the house say that you should be locked up in a rice chest and left out to die. That it’s cruel to let you live in such a state of delusion. How little they know, yet it’s still too much. At times, it seems that they are far deeper in their minds than you’ve ever been. Caught up in worries and tribulations that haven’t plagued you in a long time, since you let go of your humanity. What use is pretending to be human when you’re treated like a pet. Treasured and pampered but still inferior to the master of the house. Because your husband has no true use for human brides. In keeping the three of you, he has honored each of your families with the knowledge that their blood has produced something too intriguing to kill off just yet. Perhaps if he desires an offspring to assume his legacy he’ll have a true use for one of you.

Other brides have been offered and had their families culled like squashing bugs. It made you feel some air of superiority, knowing that you were chosen from a dozen women to be honored as a new wife to the King of Curses. It only took a few months for you to realize your place in all this and the last thread of your humanity snapped like a frayed koto string. Thinking of yourself as a person is useless when the person that holds your life within his hands sees you as no more than a doll to be toyed with as he sees fit.

“I’m happy.” You always mean it when you say it. Happiness is all you have left when faced with the truth of how finite your existence is. There is no world beyond the walls of this estate. No people beyond its residence and staff. No purpose outside of serving your husband with unwavering loyalty. In that regard you are the most precious of his wives. The others, their devotion wavers. You’ve seen it in the way they still hesitate to follow simple instructions, still tremble and shrink in Lord Sukuna’s presence even as you bloom like a flower in the light of the sun. He is your sun. There is no life without him. Which is why you are happy to simply exist in this small world that he’s made for you.

His power has greatly uncomplicated your existence, turned it to something purposeful, something that will end when you’re no longer of use. And Lord Sukuna will always tell you when you serve no further purpose to him. How many underlings has he executed because they were no longer of use? You imagine they must’ve felt great pride in the moments before their demise at the hands of their King. Pride in knowing that they did what they were made to do. As a child you had scoffed at the idea that your only purpose was to be wed and serve your husband as a proper wife should, but that was when the husband of your future was set to be someone unremarkable. Lord Sukuna is greater than any man that’s ever lived. Perhaps even ascended beyond the concept of a man to become the strongest sorcerer to ever live. As the daughter of a highly regarded family known for birthing remarkable sorcerers, you take pride in your small but purposeful place in all this. The culling of clans, the clashing of factions trying to unseat your husband. History will remember you because you will play your part until the very end. An end you’ll greet with a smile if it should come by your husband’s hand.

“Will the Fourth Mistress be here soon?” A new deer to join the herd, a new flower planted in the garden.

“By the Hour of the Bird, the last message said.” Your maid agrees. Soon, a new Mistress will be here. It’s been so long since another woman has joined hands with Lord Sukuna. The last being yourself nearly two years ago. First Mistress had been collected three years ago, and Second Mistress came along only a short few months behind her. Lord Sukuna had waited half a year after that to marry a third wife, and you must’ve served him well because there’s been no need for another until now. It makes you wonder if death is close at hand. A raven had come earlier in the day, before the snow began to fall, announcing that Lord Sukuna would be returning from his excursion by nightfall. Perhaps he wanted to arrive home in time to greet his new bride.

Fourth Mistress. Unlucky number Four, terrible number Four. Blowing into her marriage with a snow storm. It’s all terribly inauspicious, but Lord Sukuna has reason for everything he does. Nothing is without purpose. Even death has cause when dealt by his hand. Even if it comes tonight you will go towards it fully satisfied. The snowfall looks beautiful, and the cold isn’t so terrible with the legion of braziers burning around you and the thick furs draped over your shoulders. It’s a wonderful night to die if it should come to that.

“Shall we go welcome her?”

“First Mistress insisted that you need not be present for Fourth Mistress’ arrival, your highness.” First Mistress, Jurina, whose hatred towards you cannot be quelled by any manner of platitudes.

When you first arrived, you’re sure it was mere jealousy that compelled her to act out against you. A multitude of wives is not uncommon among high ranking men, but rarely is it expected that they should all live together. Most wives are left in their parents’ homes to be visited whenever their husband deems it fit. To walk the hall of your home and come across the woman your husband sees when he is not with you must be jarring to the first woman he married. Jurina seemed adamant about dispelling you from the family upon your first arrival. Now, her animosity isn’t borne of jealousy, but discomfort.

Your happiness makes her nervous. She’s said it herself. Snapping and raging at you for your unflinching smile even as she and Second Mistress have slowly begun to lose themselves in the monotony of this life. Sitting and waiting, then serving when Lord Sukuna comes home. To them, your complacency, your happiness, is something eerie and othered. Akin to the curses your families seek to eradicate. Unnatural. Inhuman. Though it hardly matters what they think of you. They are not your reason for being, and Lord Sukuna seems to find your smile charming.

Despite the chill, you find yourself reaching for a fan. A gift from Uraume. They’re strangely doting towards you in a way that they aren’t to Lord Sukuna’s other wives, bringing you gifts when they accompany Lord Sukuna on long trips away from the estate. A set of calligraphy brushes, a jade bracelet, a new kimono. You’ve amassed quite a collection of possessions by Uraume’s spoiling, though the fans are your favorite. All made a beautifully lacquered wood, some painted with gilded designs, the folded paper painted by the hands of careful artists. Crashing waves and blossoming trees decorate each of your fans and you take great pride in keeping them all in pristine condition because you’d hate to perform a dance with a damaged fan.

Of all of the things filling your room, your koto is the most precious. It had belonged to your mother and she offered it with teary eyes as your wedding gift, absolutely bereft that she had to marry her daughter off to a monster to appease the head of your father’s clan. But such was your purpose in being born into a highly acclaimed sorcerer clan. Take your blood and lend your body to another clan so that you might make more powerful jujutsu users. Your father had complained of the waste in sending you off to quell the King of Curses, insisting that sending you to Lord Sukuna would be a waste of a bride. Curses have no use for brides nor, truly, does their King. Still, Lord Sukuna keeps all of you alive and well in his home. To what end? It’s hardly your concern.

“Bring my koto,” you hum. “I want to dance.”

The maid goes about carrying the large stringed instrument to the edge of the room where the opened shoji separates the warmth of your room from the chill of the engawa. It is a happy coincidence that your maid had been taught to play the koto some years ago when she was still an eligible maiden. But her father grew ill and when he passed her mother sent her off to find work to support herself because she couldn’t afford a dowry to marry her off properly. So she sits and serves, waiting for you to name your song of choice with her fingers poised over the strings. The song you choose is one of comfort, the first your mother ever taught you when you were learning to dance and play. There’s a practiced grace to your movements, smooth as a flowing river as you dance with your fan. The song is short but it is always your favorite to perform.

A rare beauty in the north, she’s the finest woman on earth. A glance from her, the city falls. A second glance leaves the nation in ruins. There exists no city or nation that has been more cherished than a beauty like this.

Flecks of snow melt against the bare nape of your neck, so cold it feels like burning, but you want to keep dancing. The weather has no bearing on your mood. Rain or shine you are happy to sing and dance, amusing yourself as you wait to be of use to your lord husband. Perhaps he has already returned home along with his new bride but without the order to accompany him you will stay in your room, performing to your heart’s content. Your maid begins to pluck out the notes of your next song request, fingers stuttering over the strings as if she’s forgotten how to play the melody. That’s alright, you will dance even without proper music, swinging your fan with practiced poise as your voice contests with the howling of the storm. It’s a song of longing and melancholy. Fitting for a woman separated from her husband.

Are you going away? Leaving me alone? How could I live if you’ve gone away? Are you going away? Leaving me alone? I want to keep you unhappy with me. I fear you may never return. Sadly, I will let you go–

“Stop whining, I’m here.” A voice interrupts your singing, a smooth timbre that rumbles like a roll of thunder. So please, come back soon after you leave. In a heartbeat you’re on the floor, kneeling before your husband. Lord Sukuna is soiled from his travels. Kimono stained and torn, the scent of blood lingering heavily around him, along with the buzzing aura of excess cursed energy leaking into the cold air around him.

“Welcome home, Lord Sukuna.” He purrs at how you prostrate yourself at his feet, always so satisfied with your absolute submission. He once told you your lack of fear was something intriguing, your unwavering adoration far more interesting than submission borne of fear. It’s something he’s found in so few of his followers and you imagine it’s why he shows such preference for Uraume’s company. Of all of your husband’s subordinates, they are by far the most devout. Perhaps even more than you because they know what Lord Sukuna is trying to achieve with all the calamity he causes. Your lord husband has never made you privy to that knowledge, and as a good wife you remember it is not your place to ask. If you are meant to know something, he’ll tell you.

“Get out.” His voice is thick with something akin to revulsion, though you don’t bother to raise your head. Lord Sukuna hasn’t spoken to you so gruffly since you first proved your devotion to him. Behind you there’s the sound of frantic movements as your maid assumedly makes herself scarce in the presence of her master. When she’s gone Lord Sukuna gives you permission to lift your head. In the low light, you can hardly see his face. It’s hard to tell Lord Sukuna’s mood even in bright lighting. He hardly changes from his stoic expression unless there’s blood being spilled, then a smile–more like a deranged baring of his fanged teeth–finds its way onto his face.

“Come bathe with me.” He doesn’t wait for you to react, already halfway down the engawa by the time you gather yourself enough to stand. Lord Sukuna traverses the estate with practiced ease, as if this was his childhood home and not all place of residence usurped from some affluent family. Though the perks of Lord Sukuna’s minions commandeering such a luxurious home for their leader and his family are the accommodations afforded to only the highest nobility. Because only families with more money than time to spend it can afford to build their home large enough to encompass a hot spring along with all the other necessary land. The air is humid around the bathhouse, curtained with steam as clouds of warm air seep out of the secluded space.

Lord Sukuna stands expectantly at the edge of the rocks surrounding the steaming pool, waiting for you to fulfill your wifely duties. With great haste you begin to undress him. His kimono is ruined beyond repair, delicate white silk tattered and stained with browning patches of blood. Still, you take great care in folding each article as it’s removed from his body. There’s no added layers despite the inclement weather, no added underclothes beneath the outer layer of clothing. Your hands reach skin sooner than you expected, flinching away from the warmth of his muscles as if his skin were an open flame. Despite your status as his wife and your consequently intimate knowledge of his body, you still err on the side of caution when it comes to touching Lord Sukuna. He had only asked you to undress him, not to run your fingers over the corded muscles of his arms. Luckily, your husband seems unconcerned with the wayward touch. Instead of snapping at you he rolls his shoulders as if the layers of clothes had been restricting his movements. In all likelihood, they probably have.

Lord Sukuna is something that is no longer human. A higher being ascended beyond the physicality of a normal man, as if his body could no longer handle the brunt of his power and needed to evolve to fit the newly emerging shape of his soul. Once, before you first laid eyes upon him, Lord Sukuna had the appearance of a mere man. An unremarkable face and body. But now he has become something beyond the shape of a human. “A two faced demon with four arms,” as the members of your clan had called him when talks of appeasing the great King of Curses began whispering through the halls of your maiden home. Of course his rumored differences held no bearing on whether or not the clan would be willing to sacrifice a bride to satisfy the Disgraced One. His four eyes and black markings make no difference to your devotion. He is still the husband you’ve dedicated your life to.

Tentatively, you try to strike up a conversation as Lord Sukuna settles himself in the warm pool. “Has Fourth Mistress arrived yet?”

“Yes, she arrived before I did. I expected you to be with the others, fawning over her. Why weren’t you?” His tone is calculated as if he is trying to decide if there is cause for punishment. Your next words are chosen carefully.

“First Mistress did not think–it was requested that I not attend to Fourth Mistress’ arrival.”

“Are you not my wife?” Lord Sukuna asks, annoyance thick in his tone. Of course you are. In this life you are nothing if not his wife. “I expect that you’ll act your part. The lady of the house is meant to greet guests upon their arrival. I don’t care what Jurina says. You’re of noble birth. You know the rules on how to conduct yourself. Act like it.”

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lord, but I am not the lady of the house. That is First Mistress Jurina’s title.” To go against your husband’s word is wrong, reason enough for him to lash out at you, but it is the truth that Jurina is always reminding you of. She is First Mistress, the matron of the estate. It is you that is a lowly concubine in comparison to her status as a legal wife. Lord Sukuna bristles at your insolence and you duck your head to receive your reproach. He’s a short distance away, submerged to his waist in the warm water, but Lord Sukuna can move like a striking snake. It would only take half a beat of your heart for him to reach you and tear it from your chest if he so desires it.

Tonight’s admonishment is far less violent. Coming in the form of a disparaging growl before he snaps at you to undress. You do so with the same care that you disrobed your husband. As his wife, you are an extension of him, and you dare not mistreat his items in his presence. Once your clothes are folded you approach Lord Sukuna with hesitant steps. You’ve discovered that drowning and burning are the worst means of death and the boiling water of the hot spring is a combination of both. Still, if tonight will be wasted on death, at least it will come in Lord Sukuna’s arms. He reaches to help you into the water, drawing you close while his second pair of arms stay splayed on the rocks behind him. He moves you as he pleases like a doll being perched on a shelf, positioning you to straddle his thigh.

“Look at me, woman.” His tone doesn’t sound angry, but that has never been a successful way to guess at Lord Sukuna’s intentions. He can execute someone with a smile. You hope he’ll offer you that same cruel grin when he pushes hot beneath the bubbling water.

“I do not care what order I married any of you in. It should be clear by now that you are the woman of this house. First or third, it doesn’t matter. Jurina’s words hold no weight over you. Do I make myself clear?” There’s a franticness to the way you nod your head, chirping out a pinched “yes, Lord Sukuna!” as he holds your chin to keep your eyes on his.

“You’re the only wife that matters to me, stupid woman. The rest,” he scoffs, “I wouldn’t spit down their throats even if their lungs were on fire. Even the new one. Jurina is nothing and no one. I will kill her right now if it will please you.”

And that had been the original crux of Jurina’s jealousy. The priority with which Lord Sukuna always seemed to treat you. There were always rumors about the estate that you are the favored wife, the one that truly matters, but it is hard to believe rumors when Lord Sukuna hardly does anything to validate them. Though his constant quelling of his temper in your presence should be evidence enough. It’s a rare thing for your husband to lash out at you, but you always assumed it was simply because you were careful with your actions. Never giving him any reason to turn his ire against you. It’s plain to see now that the reason for your persisted well treatment is simple. You are his favorite wife.

Possessive as he is, Lord Sukuna has favorites in everything. Cursed weapons that he favors over all others, and servants that he calls on more often than the rest. To know you hold weight among his most precious possessions is dizzying. Of course, to Lord Sukuna, a favorite thing is a useful thing. It’s easy to imagine that you’re the most useful of his four wives. Neither of your seniors have remarkable cursed techniques despite hailing from quite notable families in the hierarchy of the jujutsu world. And any technique they do possess is woefully untrained as is expected of women in the world of sorcery. Women of jujutsu-laden clans are meant to be vessels from which the next generation of male sorcerers are born, not taught to be sorcerers in their own right.

It was only by a terrible coincidence that you were able to train your own technique. A jealous cousin and a well. A harsh push to your back after she whispered about how she should be the one to marry first despite her inferior talents as a homemaker. She got her wish, the husband she so covetously desired. Last you heard she’d been returned to your family’s estate after being set aside for a more fitting woman.

When she pushed you, falling felt like flying and dying felt like burning as your lungs filled with water. In the end you’d spent nearly a week at the bottom of that seldom used well, floundering for your life as your cursed technique kept you in a constant loop of dying and reviving, bursting back to life stronger than when you died. Chrysalis is what your family had taken to calling your ability when you were finally fished out with a bucket of water. Death was something impermanent to you, though the manner of which you passed holds bearing on how long you’ll be stuck in your “cocooned” state. You imagine being killed by means of jujutsu would kill you properly, forever, but no one has been bold enough to try. Certainly not now that you are a treasured wife of the King of Curses. Though you’re sure Lord Sukuna will kill you eventually, when your purpose has been served. For now, it seems your purpose is to provide him with the comforts a wife can offer her husband.

“Kiss me.” He commands, hand on your jaw already pulling you towards him. There’s never been anything delicate about Lord Sukuna as far as you could tell. He’s always had an air of harshness to him, something wild and untamed that bleeds into his every movement. You’ve decided it must be because he lives the same as you, unimpeded by the world around him. The King of Curses bows to nothing and no one, so why should he govern himself by the laws and morals of humanity. Kindness, restraint, it doesn’t seem to exist to your lord husband. The same way fear no longer exists to you. So when Lord Sukuna’s hand–large enough to hold your head in his palm–pulls you towards his fanged mouth, you feel nothing but unadulterated lust. It’s unbecoming of a woman to find herself so lost in her bodily whims but you’re no longer just a woman. You’re Lord Sukuna’s woman, and within the walls of his home, shame no longer exists. You melt against him as his sharp teeth find the softness of your lips. Blood spills between your open mouths, dripping down your bodies before dripping into the water with a soft tinge of pink.

“Sweet,” he hums.

It’s no secret that Lord Sukuna is prone to fits of bloodlust so blinding he’ll tear his teeth into anything soft he can find, no matter the origin of the flesh. Animal or human it’s all the same when he’s tearing his claws through a warm body. He’s mentioned sampling your body once. How he’s thought about tearing off bits and pieces of you to taste. Of course, he told you that he would only maim you in such a way as punishment for misbehavior–it hardly matters when death would only find you mended and made anew–though it hasn’t stopped him from sinking his teeth into you when he’s wrapped up in another kind of lust.

Usually imperceptible if you aren’t looking for it, the only sign of Lord Sukuna’s arousal stands proudly between your legs, so large they breach the surface of the water as he holds you steady in his lap. His upper arms are still splayed out on the stone behind him as he reclines as if he is seated on a throne. He’s shown you what a throne fit for the King of Curses would look like, but only once. In his domain. An infinite wasteland bathed in blood with a single shrine standing at its heart. A corrupted chinjusha of flesh and bone. All gaping maws and cracked skulls. A shrine dedicated to the only higher power Lord Sukuna will ever respect; himself. The strange mouth splitting a seam between his muscles always reminds you of his Malevolent Shrine, of the four grotesque mouths that stand where the four doors of a shrine would be. Its tongue is strangely textured, like that of a cat’s as it lolls out of his stomach to lap at your skin. Sometimes you find yourself wondering if Lord Sukuna has control over the appendage or if it acts of its own volition each time the grainy feeling drags over your body, but it isn’t your place to ask. Who has control or not, it doesn’t matter. Lord Sukuna is your husband and you relish even the smallest touch whether it’s intentional or not.

“Are you going to please your husband?” He asks. The answer is always simple. Yes. It is your sole purpose now that he’s taken you as his wife and torn your world into the smallest pieces until only this single scrap remains. It’s becoming so precious no matter how small and defaced it becomes. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you stepped out of line. Tried to leave the estate, tried to defy Lord Sukuna. In truth, you’ll never know. Your husband is your world and your world is your husband. Of course you will do everything within your power to please him. He seems satisfied with just the look in your eyes as you stare up at him, waiting for his next command. If it would please him you’d slash yourself open, spill your innards into his lap and watch him feast on your flesh. His true wish is far more gentle, something a more humble husband would ask of his bride.

“Touch me.” His clawed hand is already guiding yours to his stiffness, wrapping your fingers over the length of him. It’s so strange that curses can bleed, but Lord Sukuna isn’t exactly a curse nor is he a human. He’s something more but his heart beats just the same. You feel it in your palm as his cock twitches in your grip, thick veins thrumming under his skin. Perhaps it’s the water or more likely it’s something innate to your husband because he always feels hot to the touch, his skin is nearly scalding as you wrap your hands around his twin cocks, fingers spread too wide to touch around his girth. Lord Sukuna looks pleased as he leans back, eyes watching you as if to catch a flaw in your presentation. A rogue frown or unintended scowl that would prove your supposed dedication false.

Even after so long he’s waiting for you to break, to truly realize what you’re doing and be disgusted enough to shrink away. The only thing you feel at this moment is heady arousal. It pools like molten lava deep in your stomach, seeping between your legs and into the water. There’s been no permission given so you remain still, but your hips ache to shift against the strength of Lord Sukuna’s chiseled thigh, to relieve a bit of the tension his lingering gaze has caused. But his hand hasn’t strayed from your hip, in fact his grip has tightened with each stroke of your hands. There’s a stinging bite as his claws dig through your skin, burying deep enough to draw blood despite the composure still set in stone on his face. He is still a man in some regard. Still a husband enjoying the touch of his wife. The thought blooms sweetly in your chest, lifting a soft smile to your lips. Lord Sukuna notices in an instant, four eyes still trained on your face. He snatches your chin up, straining your neck with how quickly he guides your eyes towards his.

“What are you smiling about, brat?” Another attempt to catch you in a lie, to find some falsehood in your contentment. Even your lord husband finds himself questioning if your happiness is true. You thumb over the head of one of his cocks, bringing the taste to your lips. And because he is watching you so intensely you make a coquettish show of dragging your tongue over the pad of your finger, gasping when Lord Sukuna’s fingers bury deeper into your delicate skin. There will be cuts and bruises when he’s done with you. There always are. Then your maid–or, on some occasions, Uraume–will come to tend to your body marked by your husband’s touch. You like the way your body burns when he’s through with you, memories of his touch simmering in your mind. He scoffs when you wrap your lips around your thumb. With a cruel smile he hooks his own thumb into your mouth, talon scraping against your tongue as he pulls your jaw until your mouth is as wide as you can bear with only the slightest twinge of pain.

Drool pools in your mouth, dripping out of the corners as they sting with the strain of Lord Sukuna’s strength. He sneers, looking pleased with the mess you’re making as he leans down to lick it up before spitting it back into your open mouth. You nearly choke and rush to swallow with a rattling cough. It tastes like blood, likely your own though you wonder if your husband sank his teeth into something before coming to you. The blood on his clothes looked dry, though you can never be certain with Lord Sukuna. You banish the thought, thrilled with the way he no longer seems to be dividing his focus.

Before he had looked uninterested, as if his mind was elsewhere even as he looked at you servicing him so happily. Now he’s leaned in close enough for you to see his eyelashes, a rare treat with his immense stature. He’s nearly all you can see, all you can feel and you revel in it as your world shrinks to this tiny pinprick. There’s nothing outside this bathhouse. Only the infinite nothingness that surrounds a domain. The world could come apart outside these four walls and you wouldn’t care as long as Lord Sukuna keeps you in his arms. As if he knows your thoughts, the very deepest desires of your heart, Lord Sukuna drags you up his leg by the hand still embedded in the fat of your hips and the feeling sings through your body as your clit catches against the firmness of his thigh. Your hands tighten around his cocks still pulsing in your hands, though his only reaction is the slightest twitch of his lip.

“Am I doing a good job, Lord Sukuna?” You ask around his thumb, truly desperate for approval. If you were any more pitiful he might’ve pet your hair like a loyal hound. Instead he laughs, something short and sardonic as his teeth nip at your cheek. Warmth blooms then drips down the curve of your face and you know he’s broken skin once more.

“Enough with the stupid questions. If you want my praise you know how to earn it. Show me how badly you want it and I might reward your efforts.” You slip from his lap, mourning the loss of his leg pressing between yours as you kneel in the water. It’s up to your neck as your knees meet the bottom of the pool, steam billowing like a veil in front of your eyes as you center yourself at the apex of Lord Sukuna’s thighs. He’s spread out above you like a proud effigy, a statue meant to be worshiped. You feel a transcendent kind of devotion kneeling at the feet of your lord husband. The taste of him lands heavy on your tongue as your lips tease at the head of his dick, swallowing him in slow increments. Despite the harsh preparation of your mouth, you still wish to savor every moment spent servicing your husband.

His face is clouded in shadows again as he leans back, head tilted towards the ceiling. The lanterns flicker playful shadows across his body, highlighting and shrouding pieces of him as you bow to take him into your mouth in earnest. Your jaw still aches from the way he nearly unhinged it, but it works in your favor as your lips wrap around his length.

There’s nothing dignified about the way you’re swallowing his dick, little focus being allotted to your own comfort as you take him as deeply as his size will allow. His body is strange, of course, but it’s all you’ve ever known of a man. Aside from Lord Sukuna you’ve never seen any man bared beyond his chest, although you know innately that humans aren’t meant to have the endowments he does. His second cock presses against your cheek, dribbling over your skin as you hollow your cheeks until Lord Sukuna’s thighs twitch. Muscles seizing tighter as the head of his cock meets the tightness of your throat. Breathing is far from your mind, a need secondary to pleasing your husband. It’s a messy endeavor and you loathe to think of how terrible you must look. It’s always been a point of pride to preen yourself to perfection because husbands like their women to look beautiful when they arrive home, or at least Lord Sukuna seems to prefer it. Though he never seems bothered by what is surely a horrid display as split slicks down your chin and tears dot along your lash line as you gag around his dick.

Lord Sukuna flicks your forehead after a while, likely drawing another scratch between your brows. It’s a fraction of his power. It’s likely he could take your head apart as easily as squashing a peach under his heel yet he hardly puts effort behind the reproach. Only enough to draw your attention as he drags you, coughing and drooling, off of his cock. They’re both gathered into one fist so he can drag the taste of his leaking precum over your parted lips.

“You know better.” Lord Sukuna does not take things in half measures. His intentions are clear. If you’re going to pleasure him, do it right and do it well. Your jaw pops open again, wide enough to take his twin cocks into your mouth. He stretched and strained your mouth but there’s only so much that can be done with the sheer size of him. And while he does well to shield his thoughts at the best of times, you imagine he must be gleaning a fair bit of pleasure from your messy sucking as his hand remains in your hair. His claws scratch against your scalp, gentle enough to keep your skin intact as he keeps your mouth wrapped around him. A burning type of exertion settles painfully in your jaw but you’ll endure. Lord Sukuna never likes to keep you like this for long. With both of his weeping cocks tangled between your lips you can hardly take more than the head of each. In the end, his preference will always be the wet heat brewing between your legs. Another bout of pain sings through your scalp as Lord Sukuna pulls your mouth away from him, leaving threads of spit dripping between your bodies. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, pressing against the grooves where his teeth bit into your skin until they begin to bleed anew.

He manipulates your body as if you’re merely a puppet dancing on strings. A flex of his arm and you’re lifting off your knees, hips stretched wide to accommodate the width of his body between them. His spit-laden cocks are pressed between your bodies, grinding into the soft expanse of your stomach as he pulls your bleeding mouth to his. He suckles at your torn skin, humming at the taste of your blood seeping onto his tongue. His hands find your hips, pressing into the marks he’s already left there as he hikes you higher against his body. The tongue lolling out of his stomach finds its way between your thighs, lapping at the mess that’s left after the water washed away the first wave of your arousal. It’s nearly too much with how textured the wide appendage is but you welcome any type of relief you can find as Lord Sukuna pulls your head to the side quick enough to send a stinging twinge up the column of your neck. The pain is only intensified as he noses against the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder, as if he’s looking for something.

His tongue sweeps over your skin before his fanged teeth make a home in it. There’s a rippling groan that thunders in his chest as a true taste of your blood spills into his mouth. Before long, your head is spinning from blood loss. Lord Sukuna must feel the change in your pulse as it turns slippery, harder to catch beneath your skin. He pulls away with a satisfied groan as his hands press your hips deeper into the expanse of his lower tongue.

“Enjoying yourself, brat?” Lord Sukuna sneers, and because you have no sense of shame you find yourself nodding earnestly. He’s hardly touched you and what touches he’s shared have been steeped in equal parts pain and pleasure, yet you’ve enjoyed it all the same. It’s awkward and teasing because there’s no tact to the way his lower tongue moves between your legs. It’s like striking a flint without starting a fire, dull sparks of teasing pleasure that leave you wanting more. You’d rather have his face between your legs and a more dexterous tongue teasing you to the edge, but it would be presumptuous to make any kind of demands of your husband especially when he’s a man like Lord Sukuna.

In most regards, your pleasure is incidental. Secondary to his own. So when his teeth snap over his claws, biting the sharp points into flattened nubs, you feel your excitement growing. He’s learned from experience that his rough treatment of your body should not extend to certain places. After only a few times he pressed his clawed fingers inside you, Lord Sukuna learned that it would better serve him if his nails were dulled before he went poking them inside you. And they’ll be grown back to full length by night’s end. He can manipulate the shape of his body as easily as fire melting snow. His hand smooths over the side of your body, sliding against your ribs and hips as he makes his way between your legs. His fingers plunge inside with little warning, forcing you open with a swiftness you could almost call desperation. If something so undignified could ever be said about the King of Curses.

Lord Sukuna is a behemoth, dwarfing you in every regard, and his hands are no different. His fingers reach deep inside you, stroking over the place that has your back bowing as he makes space for himself inside you. He hums at how easily you take his fingers, sounding somewhere between amused and approving. It flutters through your chest and settles atop the arousal already building inside you.

“Give your body to me, woman. Open yourself to your king.” You try to say something as he slips another finger inside you but it comes out as little more than a breathy whine. This is already too much and yet it can’t compare to how full you’ll feel when he gets his cocks inside you. His fingers are a luxury offered in preparation for his true reward and you take it happily. He smirks at the way your thighs strain as you try to grind against his touch. The heel of his hand is pressed tight against your clit and you buck your hips against the feeling. Lord Sukuna’s skin is thick, nothing like the softness of your own and it feels just the right amount of rough against your clit. One of Lord Sukuna’s hands finds your hair again, yanking hard until you’re looking up at him with tears shimmering in your vision.

“There’s my spoiled brat. This is how you act. This is how the wife of a king is meant to be. Take what you want, woman, take everything I give you.” A dark laugh booms through the room as you whine and paw at Lord Sukuna’s chest. He adds another to the litany of scratches decorating your skin as his teeth nip at your neck, distracting you from the sting of another finger finding its way inside you.

“You were made for this,” he reminds you. “Made to be mine. My bride. You can take it.” He sounds almost patronizing, voice softening to a teasing lilt as his thumb presses against your clit. Like with everything, Lord Sukuna is harsh, forcing you to the edge quicker than expected. Each curl of his fingers yanks at the string tightening inside you, pulling you closer and closer to the edge as he moves his hands with inhuman speed inside you. Everything is hard and fast and your thighs start to tremble in his hold, body shivering as Lord Sukuna all but wrings the orgasm out of your body. You clench hard around his fingers, pussy dripping down your thighs as you try to steady yourself with your hands on Lord Sukuna’s shoulders. He allows it, revels in it as he pulls you into another bloody kiss. But even as you tremble in his arms, Lord Sukuna doesn’t stop. His thumb is still circling your twitching bud even as you try to whine out a plea for mercy. It only brings a fanged smile to his lips.

“Take it,” he grunts, “I know you can.” It really feels like you can’t. The tension brought on by your orgasm hasn’t dispersed and you feel like a knot being pulled ever tighter, back curling until your face is buried against his chest. He smells like the bath. Like sweet oils and wildflowers as your nose is buried against his scalding skin. With your forehead pressed against his chest your eyes have nowhere to look but down. Down at the way his cocks are straining to be touched, flushed and leaking just out of reach. You look up to distract yourself with the black markings etched into Lord Sukuna’s chest. Your kisses are sloppy, wet and open-mouthed as your tongue peeks out to trace the shape of each tattoo. It’s not until your teeth begin to nip at his chest that Lord Sukuna scruffs you once more.

“Trying to leave a mark on me, brat?” As if you could. Your teeth are likely no different than trying to pierce his skin with a blade of grass. “What a greedy little bride I have. So eager to defer to another wife’s authority when you’re this possessive of your husband. Isn’t that right, woman?” You try to shake your head. Of course, you aren’t possessive of him, you know your place. You are the Third Mistress. Perhaps you are his favorite but there is a hierarchy that must be upheld in the household. To so brazenly try to claim full authority over your lord husband would be lunacy. There is no higher authority than the King of Curses himself. You’re simply a pebble lingering in the shadow of the highest mountain.

“Yes you are,” he grins. You whine as he pulls his hand from between your legs. “Look at the mess you’ve made trying to mark me up like a bitch in heat.” There’s no sense of embarrassment welling at his degrading words. What sense is there in hiding how well your husband pleasures you? And Lord Sukuna seems proud as his tongue licks up the mess you’ve made on his hand before pressing a kiss to your parted lips. You taste yourself on his tongue. Your blood and your pleasure.

“You’re going to take me so well, aren’t you?” It’s hardly a question. Simply an ordered phrased as if you could deny yourself the feeling of being split open on Lord Sukuna’s cocks. He starts with one, always. Dragging the leaking head through the mess he’s made of your cunt, tapping against your clit until he finally presses inside. His body is a marvel and you’re blessed to be so acquainted with it as the length not pressing inside you grinds against your clit as he makes you take him as deep as your body will allow. Lord Sukuna has been known to be rash and unpredictable, a being of pure chaos when the mood strikes him, but when he’s with you like this everything he does is deliberate.

He’s rough but not destructively so. Yes, you’re bleeding as he bounces you in his lap, drawing a litany of breathless sounds from your lips, but he’s always intentional when drawing blood. You’ve been trained well in these years of marriage to take him. To weather any storm Lord Sukuna throws at you. His hands are bruising on your hips as he drags you up and down his length, hands that could shatter your bones with the slightest bit of effort and yet he only uses enough strength to hold you close. You’re not deluded enough to think that Lord Sukuna loves you, certainly not in the way a lover should, but he cares enough to treat you with a level of gentility.

“Thank you,” you babble it like a prayer, over and over. Worshiping at your husband’s altar for even the briefest thought given to your safety, your pleasure. It can never be said that Lord Sukuna is a neglecting lover, at least not with you. He’s everywhere all at once. Hands on your hips and at your breasts, pinching at the aching peaks of your nipples. His face is buried against your throat, teeth surely raising welts as his tongue laps at the taste of blood and sweat dampening your skin. You cling to him in turn, nails digging into the thick muscles of his arms with no hope of ever drawing blood. Still, he grunts out a laugh as you drag your dull nails across his skin, leaving nothing but the whisper of claw marks behind. An arm slips out from under your grasp, unbalancing you, but Lord Sukuna is quick to steady your boneless body as he reaches between you to take hold of his second cock. It’s thick and straining, leaking against your skin as he presses it in beside the first. The stretch is harsh, a stinging pinch between your legs soothed only in part by his thumb drawing shapes against your clit. He hushes you when your whining gets too loud, hands clamping tight to your hips to keep you from squirming away from taking all of him.

“Be a good wife and accept your reward.” Lord Sukuna hisses as he presses deep inside you. The weight of him settles like molten heat inside you, his hand pressing over the shape of himself through your stomach. “Hush, you can take it.” He hisses, biting at your cheek as tears well in your eyes once more. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a strange feeling to be so full all at once.

“My pretty wife.” He’s only this sweet when he has you close to breaking, teetering on the edge of insanity from the way he’s taking his pleasure from your body. “Look at me, woman. Keep your eyes on your king.” It’s hard to look anywhere else. He isn’t sweating, this is hardly more than a leisurely stroll for him, but the humidity has left his skin beaded with moisture. It makes him shimmer in the torchlight like the divine being that he is, wasting his time on a creature as lowly as you. It’s your blessing that he’s so enraptured with you at the moment. Your eyes slip shut, tears streaming down your cheeks as every corner of your body feels lit aflame, the heat only made worse as Lord Sukuna’s hand finds your jaw.

“I said, eyes. On. Me.” He growls. With a bit of resistance, your eyes flutter open, white light swimming at the edge of your vision as Lord Sukuna drags you to the precipice of insanity. He’s close. Far less careful and coherent as he drags you up and down his lengths with startling strength. He’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, igniting a thousand flames at once that threaten to swallow you whole. There’s a pitchy mantra of “wait, wait, wait” playing on your tongue but it only seems to further entice your husband.

“You gonna sing for me, woman? Go on, let me hear something pretty when you come for your king.” He’s taunting you, laughing at how shrill your voice sounds. It nearly does sound like you’re singing as you wail his name, back bowing as he rips another orgasm from your spent body. It’s as quick as a lightning strike and nearly as blinding, eyes clouding white for a moment as you fight to keep your eyelids from fluttering. From taking your eyes off Lord Sukuna for even a moment. You feel yourself clawing at him, clinging and grasping to keep yourself grounded as pleasure shatters through your body. Vaguely you can hear Lord Sukuna laughing, something tinged dark with amusement as he works you through your orgasm. He has no patience to wait for you to regain your breath, to see the light of coherence return to your eyes. Instead, his hands grip tighter to your waist, nails biting into your skin as he works you faster over his cocks. His voice dips low, a rasping gravel as he grunts, squeezing every bit of his own pleasure from your body. It’s barely a change, just the slightest shift, but you’ve done this so many times that you can almost sense when he gets close.

Lord Sukuna gathers your loosening muscles back into some semblance of an embrace, holding you tight to his chest as he pushes your hips low enough for your bodies to meet in earnest. The feeling is a wet slide of skin against skin, the mess of your joined pleasure slicking up your bodies. It nearly feels like choking as he holds you still, the shape of him pressing every so slightly against the softness of your stomach. He’s more gentle now, but only by a hair’s breadth, as he thumbs over the shape of his body making a home for itself inside yours. There’s always a hint of softness at the edges of moments like this. A bit of the darkness bleeds from Lord Sukuna’s eyes as he guides your hips to grind against him, thumbing where he sees himself beneath your skin. Lord Sukuna has always been smart, his intelligence far exceeding that of your woefully undereducated mind.

There’s never been a time where you were certain of his thoughts, but in moments like these you think there’s a hint of curiosity sparkling in his eyes. Something desirous of the unknown and intangible. He moves in shallow thrusts, thumb dancing lazily over your puffy clit for only a moment more before he’s spilling inside you with a satisfied groan. But, still, he keeps you there. As if forcing your body to take to everything he’s given you. If it were up to you, your womb would quicken to give him a child; proof of your devotion. But even the fantasy sounds impossible. Lord Sukuna has shed his humanity and with it, you assume, his ability to continue his legacy by way of heirs. Though he hardly needs them.

Lord Sukuna is a shining beacon of the height of jujutsu, proof of what greatness can be achieved when you’re willing to go beyond the standards set out by society. He’s immortal, indomitable. Children would only be another jewel in his crown, more pawns to serve his greater will. And it’s unlikely such children of greatness will ever come to pass. In all your years of marriage, there’s never been a single moment where you thought for even a moment that Lord Sukuna’s seed took. And it likely never will. It’s wasted as he lifts you off of his softening length, everything he gave you dripping out into the spring water. The light flickers and for a moment it almost looks like there’s a spark of disappointment in his eye, then the torches shift again and the shadows are gone.

“You did well, woman.” He hums, running his hands over the length of your body. The heat of his palms and the babbling water works to soothe the aches and pains of being so thoroughly used by your behemoth of a husband. “Who do you love, wife?” He asks after the breath finally returns to your lungs. Of course it’s him. There is no one else. No man could compare, like a pebble being compared to a shining jewel.

“Good girl.” He says when you’ve finished your babbling. Like a true king, Lord Sukuna loves to hear his own praises and you’re more than happy to sing them. Sometimes it’s startling how perfectly the two of you exist together. He’s the sun and you’re a flower turning your face to gaze upon him always. Which of his other wives could ever share in a fraction of your devotion? No one will ever love Lord Sukuna as you do, save for maybe Uraume. Perhaps they don’t love him, but there is a fine line between love and admiration. The loyal servant comes bustling into the bathhouse after Lord Sukuna has had his fill of soft caresses and breathless praises.

The fact that both of you are bare makes no difference to Uraume. They lift you from Lord Sukuna’s arms with startling strength, hands frigid against your skin as they guide you to sit and go about drying your body and combing your hair. It’s always strange to be tended to by someone other than your personal maid, more so when it’s by the hands of Lord Sukuna’s most trusted servant, but it seems Uraume sees you as an extension of Lord Sukuna as much as you do. They dry and dress you, sending you back to your room so that they may speak privately with your husband. Some time later when the bells of the estate are tolling for the Hour of the Dog, the strumming of your koto is interrupted further by screaming. Something bloodcurdling terrified as it rings through the house, echoing into the snow speckled night. Vaguely you think of how the screaming sounds like First Mistress Jurina.

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