#still too smooth...unsettling...

[wuntrum]

sorry for the me jumpscare but the passage of time (+ hrt) is so crazy...the first image is from like 6 years ago

[lowkeyren]

—how to win my husband over 101

in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?

wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.

surprise pookies @vxnuslogy @luvether @knnichs @kazucee it’s finally here!!!!

PROLOGUE: HOW TO SURVIVE THE EARLY DAYS

you married a stranger to save your homeland.

there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment. 

it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.

you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.

but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.

the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.

marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.

servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.

you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.

dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity. 

“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.

“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.

“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.” 

it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”

you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.

the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.

is he drinking... blood?

your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?” 

flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”

you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself. 

for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.

the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.

his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”

you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.

with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”

you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you. 

“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination. 

you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.

yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband. 

you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him. 

you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.

all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.

(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.

there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in. 

it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.

as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest. 

the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.

"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"

ah. 

well at least he has jokes..?)

or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace. 

(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.

so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?

you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.

"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing. 

“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal. 

you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)

either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!

today will be different.

failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.

so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.

but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.

perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.

pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—

a sudden force slams into your back.

the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.

it’s deeper than you thought.

icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down. 

as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.

the next thing you feel is warmth.

your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees. 

you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.

his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.

for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.

did he jump in after you..?

“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality. 

your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve. 

it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you. 

he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"

the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."

his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.

“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."

mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent. 

a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—

a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.

“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”

sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.

“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him. 

his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”

there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.

he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place. 

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.

held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.

and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena. 

the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent. 

within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.

mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.

the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side. 

phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."

mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.

“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”

phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.

alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.

exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”

but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.

the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone. 

“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.

mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.

“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”

“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”

“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit. 

mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.

the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.

and yet, here you are.

as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.

he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.

something tugs at the edge of his mind. 

you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.

so why do you still look at him like that?

his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.

“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.

you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.

you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.

“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.

but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters. 

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

he freezes.

he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence. 

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.

your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”

you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner. 

the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."

you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts. 

phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses. 

you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."

phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."

you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"

to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.

—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."

the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.

you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.

“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—” 

your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?

“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain. 

beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.

but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”

“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing. 

the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.” 

she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”

“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—” 

her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.

and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.

your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.

a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.

you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you. 

mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry. 

a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.

“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”

the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”

“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself.  she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.

“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward,  “take her away.”

 “y-your highness, i only—”

mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”

the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.

then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction. 

phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”

but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.

with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.

“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”

he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”

you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”

phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.

mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”

he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it. 

the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly,  as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.

it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.

the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—” “mydei.”

…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.

“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”

he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips. 

he looks good like this, you think.

with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”

a half-truth, at best.

your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.

but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”

mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.

"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."

mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.

warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.

you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”

mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.

"especially when they were a gift from you."

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”

he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."

mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"

phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words. 

“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"

the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”

ah. that does it.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth. 

“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.

phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.

“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”

“i’m not mad i—”

“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”

mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters. 

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”

the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development. 

you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.

right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.

phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.

because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.

“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.

phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”

he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”

you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.

“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?” 

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”

“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”

there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.

still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—

only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.

just your luck.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite. 

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

did he just—?

heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat. 

mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—

your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.

you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.

phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.

the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall. 

seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.

you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.

before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”

mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.

(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)

you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.

rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.

it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.

…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.

so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either. 

still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.

as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”

you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble. 

oh no.

“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”

you frown. “phainon—”

he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”

“huh?”

"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.

you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.

"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"

“that’s enough.”

both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.

phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”

the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?” 

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear. 

even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch. 

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.

you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.

(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.

all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.

from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena. 

the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.

the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.

and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.

you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.

with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching. 

nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.

without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.

you blink, momentarily startled.

warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.

it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince. 

and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.

you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”

he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout. 

“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.

you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?

“... and i wanted one today.”

“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”

as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”

his eyes flick to yours, ���there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident. 

it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway. 

“if it’s for you,”

his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it. 

ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears. 

your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip. 

the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.

you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal. 

the crowd cheers for violence.

warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.

and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought. 

the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.

because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want… 

is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.

the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.

the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.

the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back. 

for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.

then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.

for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.

“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.

he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.

the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see. 

a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.

and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.

in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips. 

with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.

you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

“i always will.”

you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.

at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.

mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it. 

“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”

you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.

“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.

he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”

the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand. 

you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”

he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”

you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”

with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.

you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”

“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands. 

“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.

the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.

his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.

"i love you, [name]."

and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

MASTERLIST

[sunsets-and-crows]

Sleepy confessions

SFW - The Softest Sylus I could write.

I was feeling far too many feelings today.

I wrote this because I really needed to feel a little loved today and if a man isn’t going to do it, I’ll write it for myself. It’s deeply self-indulgent but this is the kind of love I want. Not just any love, but the kind that is all-consuming and unwavering. I’ve never been in love, nor have I ever truly felt loved and as I approach my 30s, I’m feeling it! Maybe this kind of love is unrealistic, maybe I’ve read too many stories that paint devotion in impossible hues. But if I were to be loved, this is how I would want it.

Sylus had always found the quiet unsettling. 

His life had always been loud and chaotic, dangerous even. His past life, too, had been filled with sound, of dragon wings beating through the skies and fire roaring over cities. When those cities came for him, their shouts resonated through the air, filling his days with a cacophony that became his white noise, his comfort.

Now, the sounds of guns blazing and motorcycles purring were his norm. Days were his nights and his nights were chaos, loud chaos. He was used to it, thrived in it even.

Silence usually meant that something was wrong. That something was building and chaos would erupt soon. Silence was deadly. 

But right now, in this moment, with you curled up against him, chest rising and falling, he thought maybe he could learn to love the quiet too. This moment of peace was far too precious, too perfect that he’d be willing to wage war on anything that dared to break the stillness.  

Poor thing.

You’d fallen asleep so quickly, curled on his lap. Your body warm and trusting, your cheek pressed against his chest. He could feel the soft puffs of your breath against the skin bared beneath his robe, the way your fingers had instinctively curled around the fabric at his waist before going slack. 

It was too much. Too tender. Too perfect. 

His heart squeezed dangerously, threatening to burst with emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for milenia. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. 

His hand moved on its own, trailing down your spine, smoothing over the curve of your back, fingers brushing lightly over your hair. 

Each tiny shift came with the softest little noises of contentment, sounds he wanted to bottle up and keep forever. 

This is what love feels like.

He’d experienced it before, with you. Love that was shouted from rooftops, that set cities aflame and was declared loudly, passionately. 

But this was something else. Quieter. Deeper. Unassuming. An entirely different kind of love to the ones he'd experienced before. 

It crept up on him in the silence and wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing tightly, narrowing its focus to only you. 

It wasn’t a sudden, violent force, like a city razed to the ground. 

No, this was entirely different. It was the moment that lobster realised that the pot was too hot to survive, the only choice was to surrender. 

And in the end, wasn’t that feeling of giving in a relief? 

His throat tightened. His eyes stung.

Sylus exhaled softly, shaking his head gently. “You really do trust me, don’t you?”

The words were barely more than a breath, a desperate attempt to preserve the quiet of the room, but they made that grip on his chest tighten imperceptibly harder.

You had no idea what it meant, how it affected him, to have you like this. Warm and safe in his arms. Completely unguarded. 

Completely his.

He scoffed lightly, remembering the way you had first met in this life. The fear, the hatred in your eyes, the anguish in his. 

“You're impossible,” he murmured, his voice even quieter now, almost reverent. “You know that?”

You stirred slightly, nuzzling into his warmth, but didn’t wake. 

“Of course you don’t. You have no idea.” 

Another sleepy noise escaped past the pout of your lips, and he smiled, warm and soft. 

A little while ago, Luke and Keiran had knocked on the door, the soft sound enough to make a frown crease between your brows. They’d entered to find a glare fixed on them, red piercing eyes telling them that whatever they had to say could wait. 

They left quickly, smart enough to forget the sight before them. 

Sylus’ fingers traced idle patterns along your arm, his touch featherlight. 

You’d tell him off, if you were awake. Tell him to start his day. Order him to tend to Onychinus. You were so selfless, so giving. You’d put anything and anyone else before yourself.

Luckily, he had no such ideals.

Somewhere, far away, the world still existed. There were people waiting for him, needing him. Things that needed his attention, his approval. None of it mattered. 

There was no past. No future. Just this.

Just the steady rhythm of your breathing. Just this moment, stretching infinitely, like a dream he never wanted to wake from.

He was selfish when it came to everything but you. And even then, he was still a little selfish. 

He would keep anyone waiting, if it meant he got to hold you, like this. He’d run his business into the ground for the taste of your lips. 

He had, and would again, raise entire continents to the ground to ensure your safety, uncaring of anyone that resided there. 

Yes, he was selfish.

And he didn’t care. 

A quiet sigh left him. He didn’t deserve any of this. Did he? He had ruined too much, burned too many things and left too many ghosts in his wake. Yet, here you were. Pressed against him, completely at ease. 

His throat constricted. How? How could something as good as you ever belong in the arms of someone like him? 

No he didn’t deserve it, but he would keep it anyway. A dragon’s nature was to hoard. 

His eyes roamed your face, memorising everything. Each freckle. Each eyelash. The soft curve of your lips, parted just slightly with sleep. He reasoned that you had to have been made by some higher force. That somewhere, there was a god that claimed you proudly as their creation. 

He was torn by that. By the idea that there was something or someone else out there that had a right to you. But you were a masterpiece and it was the only way you made sense. 

So if there was a god, let them bear witness. Let them take notes. That his devotion, his heart was offered in quiet surrender to that creation. To you. 

Slowl, with infinite care, he raised a hand to cup your cheek, brushing his thumb over your lips in a barely-there touch. Soft. Delicate. Sacred. He wanted to kiss you, but he wouldn’t. Not yet. He wouldn’t wake you. 

Instead, he leaned in and pressed his forehead against yours, your breaths’ mingling, breathing you in. You smelled warm, like sleep and something sweet, something inherently you. He shut his eyes, just for a moment, letting the sensation settle in his bones.

And when he pulled back he just stared.

Memorising you. Worshipping you.

It had been a long time since he said those words to you.

Reluctant to break the sanctity of the precarious relationship the two of you had, he’d kept them inside. But here, in the hush of the night, with you deep in sleep, he could be honest in ways he never could before. 

“You have no idea how much I…” He swallowed, tilting his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, willing away the fullness that threatened to spill from his eyes. “How much I love you.”

A single tear dripped down his cheek, tracing a glistening path, evidence of his quiet confession. 

His heartbeat increased, loud and strong in the quiet of the room. He willed it to still, wished he could make it stop beating lest it wake you from your slumber. 

And then-

A sleepy hum. 

A shift of your body. 

And a murmured, drowsy, “Luh you too.”

His breath stopped.

You were barely conscious, probably didn’t even know what you were saying, but his chest ached all the same. A deep overwhelming ache.

He looked down to see your bleary, unfocused eyes gazing back at his. Heavy with lingering sleepiness and slow blinks. 

Your hand cupped his face and swept away more tears that had fallen from his eyes. 

Hands wrapped around his shoulders, holding him tightly, like you were afraid he would let you go. 

Silly thing, he would never let you go. 

Your head nestled into his neck and you pressed a soft kiss to his racing pulse. 

“Love you, Sylus.” 

His arms tightened around you in response, pulling you closer, needing the physical closeness to ground himself, to remind himself that this was real. 

Your breathing deepened again, soft breaths tickling the skin of his neck in a way that promised he’d have a patch of condensation there in a little while. 

He didn’t care. 

“I love you too,” he whispered into the silence of the room. 

His arms flexed around you slightly. His heart, beating a pattern just for you. A silent vow.

This, the two of you, would never be a fleeting moment. It wasn’t something he would allow to slip through his fingers like smoke, something he would lose in the chaos of the life he led. 

No. 

This was eternal.

He would build up a world from dust to ensure your place by his side. To keep you safe, protected, his. 

No matter what happened, he would never let this go.

Never let you go. 

And just like that, he let the silence have him.

➽──────────────────────────────────❥

Well, that was a diary entry disguised as a fanfiction. Enjoy 🥺

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, captive reader, omegaverse, forced bonding is implied, subjugation, some type of sexism, soft dom, but extremely patronizing

♡ fem reader

You offer to go down on him for the first time since he claimed you for himself, and his heart swells with all sorts of bliss—shock and awe, love and pride—utterly overjoyed at the pretty sight of you, so pliant and on your knees, acting like a proper Omega for a change—his cutest little mate. It’s so adorable he ought to take pictures, yet he doesn’t want to miss a thing or spoil the mood—after all, you always get so embarrassed when he brings the camera out.

So he settles for just watching—his adoring eyes resting on you, admiring how you struggle to fit all of him inside your mouth, thinking it’s the just cutest and sweetest how you try so hard for him. Bless whatever brought this new change of behavior on. He can’t be grateful enough.

It was only a couple of days ago when you’d still bite and claw and run away from him at every turn, growling and snarling like a rabid wildling and not the sweet Omega he knew you could be with the proper love and care. Maybe it’s just that—has his love for you finally tamed you? Oh, he couldn’t be more pleased if that’s it.

Look at you… trying your very best. He didn’t mind if you could only fit half of him—just seeing you try to take it all made him more than happy. The way your pink tongue slides along his veins—all teasingly and ticklish—makes him smile while looking down at you. Petting your head in smooth, encouraging strokes—reminding you to breathe every now and again.

He even pinches your cheek when you cough, crooning, “Careful now, there’s no need to rush, baby—take it slow.”

You curse him from where you kneel at his feet, trying to get it over with quickly. Despite your struggles, he seems pleased, and you think you might have managed to get yourself off the hook. That is… until he wraps his cock with one of his big hands and pulls it away from you. 

“I think that’s enough for now,” he says in his best attempt at sounding suave by nature, and yet, as you look up at him, you see it plain as day.

It makes your guts fold—the eagerness that encompasses him as he looks down at you with kind eyes and a smile—not completely able to hide the frenzy behind it.

No, please, you sulk inwardly—your clit is so sensitive from yesterday, you think you might die if he toys with it again today. You almost indulge the urge to scoot back, attempt to crawl away, and hide in false hope. But you know, chasing you around would just serve as kindling to his inner animal—he would take it as a game, hunting and pinning you down only to lick you clean like a dug-up bone.

You shudder at the thought and almost beg him to allow you to continue, almost insist you can do better, but all you manage is to bite your tongue and cry instead.

“You did so good, baby, don’t pout,” he coos, cradling your face and lifting it up to let him kiss it silly—chastely yet excessively—quick pecks all over, the same way you’d kiss something that’s just too cute for its own good.

It’s his way of comforting you, you suppose, or it might just be him poking fun. You can never really tell with him—if his coddling is all some act or something even more unsettling. But you suppose it doesn’t really matter either.

“Come here, baby, and I’ll do the rest, okay?” he asks, and yet it isn’t a question as he hauls you up off the floor and repositions you as he sees fit—on your back, belly-up beneath him.

His alpha pheromones are quick to overwhelm you, thick and suffocating, pouring over you in waves, drenching you in sweat and something else—something that makes everything sensitive.

The former fight you had when you were still independent has all but left you completely—siphoned from your being every day that’s passed and left you soft like the rest of those Omegas you vowed you’d never become—weak-willed with a body even more so. You feel like a stuffed animal at this point, full of cloudy cotton with a broken voice device that only knows how to squeak when played with.

He takes you beneath the knees and folds them down neatly by your head—one large hand taking both your summoned ankles in a single grip—and you’re locked in, unable to do much else other than pant—kept from breathing too much by the weight of your own thighs pressing down on you.

This had been what you were trying to avoid—this awful position which he seems to love just as much as you dread.

He whistles in awe at the pretty sight of you—all squished beneath him like that—face flushed, and your bloated lips parted with cute little draws of breath—tits bunched together, glossed in a sheen of sweat and heaving with the labored rise and fall of your chest—and that adorable cunt, wet and puffy, swollen up like a pink pillow eagerly waiting for him, a soft bed for his cock and a perfectly bite-sized slice of his favorite cake. His gut rumbles, and his mouth soaks. To think he hasn’t had a single taste all day—he’s beyond starving.

You squirm under him, and he chuckles again, this time breathily—showing more of the unsightly animal with the low growl that seeps into his voice, “Such a pretty girl…” It’s unclear if he’s talking to you as his inkwell eyes are set on something else. He sags forward, back hunched as he bows down to face the object of his desire with only a hair’s breadth of separation—breaths thick, puffed hot against you—canines bared in an eerie smile. “So shy…”

He ignores your wiggling completely—pinching the chunk of cunt where your clit hides, making it peak forth like a little button to press, and his grin broadens.

“There it is,” he licks his teeth with a raspy sigh—eyes wide and deadset. “My beauty.”

You squirm a little more, even though you know you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t waste much more time—not allowing you to prepare. Keeping the pinch, he opens his mouth wide and takes the chub with eyes closed, tongue flattened and wide, cloaking your exposed clit with thirst. “Mmgh…”

He always gets like this—cute-aggressive and pussy-whipped. It’s as if he and your cunt have their own private affair, the way he completely ignores you. No, that’s not entirely fair—he gets like that when feeding you his tongue as well, but you suppose it’s easier making out with your pussy as it doesn’t need to get up for air. 

Neither does he, it seems.

He groans loudly and releases your clit from his pinching grip—but keeps his whole mouth on you—lips, tongue, and all—nose and chin too, buried there while his hand moves down to slip three digits inside, filling you up with little regard to the stretch.

Your breath flares and shudders with a whimpery moan, toes curling along with his fingers, biting your lip at how he hooks them right into the soft spot of your gummy walls, then fingerbangs you fast, right down to the knuckles each time.

“Fuck, baby—so, so good, always so good,” he slurs out into you, tongue otherwise too engaged to bother sounding coherent, yet you understand nonetheless, even though you can never really get used to it—how utterly unashamed he is. “Come on, baby, cum f’mo—cum on my face—” he all but happily begs, tongue out, slurping your slit brazenly.

He’s not a very classic Alpha—how he worships you on his hands and knees with a throat full of plead and praise. He doesn’t even touch himself—cock left hung and bobbing against the bedsheets, hard and strung up with a net of veins, pilling pearls of pre that all go to waste—too busy with you. 

It’s stupid how you’re the one who ends up feeling ignored as the unwanted and overwhelming pleasure manhandles you into submission.

“Cum, baby, give it to me.”

You mewl as his tongue draws something out from within you, making your clit blare and thrum with your heartbeat. You struggle to enjoy it, you always do, feeling forced to surrender, and yet the more you try and deny it, the firmer his hold gets, relentless as he sends you right over the edge. You yelp and seize up once it takes you—clenching tightly around his digits as they unknot your insides, turning you into utter putty in his palm. 

And even then, he doesn’t stop—as if he doesn’t know how—sighing with elation as you quake on his tongue. That crooked smile on his face, nothing short of predatory and vile as he maintains the motion of his fingers, moaning in turn at your cute spasming and all the wordless babble that leaves your lips as you shake your head, crying for him to leave it alone. “Plea’ no more—stop, too much—”

He just chuckles against you—you really are too cute for your own good. Silly little Omega, don’t you know what your pheromones do to him? But okay, fine, since you asked nicely. He gives the slit one last thorough lick before wiping his smile while sitting up.

You haven’t even started coming down when he dabs the weight of his shaft upon the sensitivity, cooing at the lewd little plaps it makes, all slick as he slides the length between your flustered pussylips—fucking through the fat of the mound, running over your full clit, again and again, while listening to you squeak more nothings.

He only croons, “Yeah, I know you like that, baby—this pretty pussy of yours just loves my attention, doesn’t it?" His eyes seem to glow with something sickly, his voice thin, just shy of unhinged. "Always so cute, I could die.”

He can’t get over it—you’re too adorable like this. Watching you pleasure him was a welcome surprise, but ultimately, this is how he always wants you—flipped and pinned with your cunt exposed to his every wish—his favorite toy that never disappoints.

“Your pretty pussy’s always such a crybaby, y’know that? Look how it weeps f’mo—so needy to get stuffed. I bet you want my knot, huh?” he keeps mumbling while using his cock to play with your overworked cunt without yet entering it. “Alright, baby—don’t worry—I’ll give it to you,” he rasps, drooling.

You can’t keep from whimpering when the bed jostles, accounting for his repositioning as he moves to mount you with his feet planted down flat on the bed. Your ankles are pinned passed your head at this point, tipping your cunt up higher than your head.

“Yeah—I’ll give you what you want.” His voice darkens, and so does the look in his eyes—soaked in something you don’t like—something wild and downright terrifying. “And I’ll give it to you good.”

You almost protest, but you know there’s no getting through to him—not with that expression. You hate Alphas, you hate him, and you really hate this awful pose—this mating-press pile-driving overkill where he always bullies into the backroom of your cunt, insisting on fucking your cervix as he digs his cockhead right at the mouth of your womb, knotting you and filling you up with the full worth of his load. It never fails to make you feel utterly wrecked and bedridden in the morning.

But he doesn’t care about that. You have no places you’re supposed to be anyway—nowhere aside from right here, in his bed, where you belong—his sweet Omega bride who’s going to give him lots of pups.

He lines himself up, pressing his head past the ring—watching it swallow around him and biting his lip at the sight. “Look at it, baby—look as I stuff that perfect pussy all the way up—”

He sinks in slowly, revering your cunt for every inch you receive—watching it in awe as it takes the entirety of his length right down to the base. It’s like a magic trick how it all disappears—you’re so tiny, and yet you’re built for this, to take every part of him in, hugging his shaft with velvet heat, milking him as he kneads the spot inside you that always makes you cry out so good for him.

“Yes, baby—that’s my girl—take it all,” he coos, all but sitting on your ass with his cock down your cunt. “It’s like your pussy’s made for me, isn’t it? Perfectly tight, perfectly deep, perfectly wet and chunky to feel like I’m fucking heaven itself—”

You feel no different from a toy when he does this—a squeaky toy manufactured for a Chihuahua puppy, yet mistakenly given to a full-grown Rottweiler. He straight dogs your cunt through several peaks—so soaked now that it fossettes down both the slope of your belly and the cliff of your spine. And still, he keeps going, rambling on like usual—all words that fail to reach you.

You’re so lightheaded you’re on the brink of passing out—overheating and out of strength, numb and tingly, beyond happy when you finally feel his knot swell within, propping you to take his seed. 

He keels over—his thighs pressed down tightly atop yours—panting above you—eyes half-mast and glazed, almost crying in bliss while feeding you his cum, knowing it's flooding your womb, breeding you full of warmth and love.

“Yes, every drop, baby—it’s all yours.” He keeps a thumb rubbing over your clit as he croons. Voice beyond lovesick, “Let’s make too many pups to count.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[noredemptionhere]

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂 ⚝ 𝚆𝙸𝙵𝙴!𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙺𝙰 𝚇 𝙵𝙴𝙼!𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁

warnings: some of these are a bit unsettling and darker than arcane’s usual tone. if that’s not your thing, scroll. no need to tell me sevika is a pookie wookie she wouldn’t hurt a fly—i promise i do not care.

⚝| sevika has an uncanny patience when dressing you. sliding silk over your shoulders, fastening buttons, smoothing down fabric. but when she undresses you, it’s different. she never rips, never rushes, but the way she peels each layer off feels clinical, like she’s dissecting something precious.

⚝| sevika never corrects you when you’re wrong. but when someone else does, she just looks at them, quiet and unreadable, until they shift uncomfortably and drop the subject. later, in private, she murmurs the right answer against your skin like a prayer.

⚝| she never raises her voice at you, ever. but her silence cuts deeper than any shouted argument. when she’s upset, she just watches you, eyes heavy lidded and still, until your nerves unravel and you start apologizing before you even know what for.

⚝| sevika has a ritualistic way of loving you…every night, she brushes your hair in long, slow strokes, unraveling every tangle with near-reverence. it’s soothing, but you don’t realize it’s a form of control until you miss a night and she grips your wrist, jaw tightening, voice low “sit down. i’m not asking.”

⚝| sevika feeds you with her fingers, not utensils. no matter how messy, no matter how impractical. she never lets you take the food from her hands, only lets you open your mouth and accept. sometimes she waits too long, lets the food linger between her fingers, watching your lips part in hesitation before she finally presses it to your tongue.

⚝| sevika doesn’t like locked doors, not yours, not hers. you don’t even have a lock on your bedroom anymore; she removed it one day while you were out. didn’t say anything about it, didn’t acknowledge it. but when you ask, she just raises a brow. “what do you need a lock for?” and there’s something in her voice that makes you feel ridiculous for asking.

⚝| sevika keeps your old nightgowns, the ones that have worn too thin, the ones that smell too much like you. she never tells you why. you only find them later, folded neatly in the back of a drawer you don’t open often, tucked away like something sacred.

⚝| sevika is obsessed with your warmth.. but only when you’re sleeping. when you’re awake, she touches you gently, reverently. but when you sleep, when you can’t see her, she holds you differently. arms locked, face buried against your skin, inhaling deeply like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. some nights, you wake up gasping, feeling like you were being suffocated, but she’s just there, still, unmoving, barely breathing.

⚝| sevika remembers everything you say in passing. weeks later, she hands you something you forgot you even mentioned wanting. she repeats things back to you, word for word, like a recording. sometimes, she tells you things you don’t remember saying at all. and she never lies. you know she never lies. so you believe her.

⚝| sevika has a way of making you feel small without making you feel weak. it’s in the way she stands close, in the way she speaks low, in the way her hands find your waist so easily. she makes you feel delicate, precious, something to be handled carefully. and you like it. you like it so much it scares you.

⚝| sevika hates hearing you apologize. it doesn’t matter what it’s for. every time the word slips past your lips, her jaw tightens, her fingers flex like she’s holding herself back from something. “don’t,” she says, firm, steady. but the next time, you still say it. and the next time, she doesn’t say anything at all, just looks at you for a long, long time before shaking her head.

⚝| sevika kisses you like she’s taking something. it’s never harsh, never forceful. just deep, lingering, like she’s breathing you in, keeping something for herself. and when she pulls away, you always feel a little.. lighter. like something small has been plucked from you, but you can’t tell what.

⚝| sevika doesn’t like when you smell different. if you use a new soap, a new perfume, she notices immediately. her fingers trail over your pulse, slow, deliberate. “this isn’t yours,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper. there’s no accusation in her voice, but something about it makes you feel guilty.

⚝| sevika picks out all your clothes.. not just your nightgowns, but everything. you never really noticed when it started. now, when you try to choose something yourself, you hesitate. your hands hover over the fabric, uncertain, like you’re waiting for her approval even when she isn’t there.

⚝| sevika wears glasses when she reads.. a rare sight, one you can never resist. the moment they rest on the bridge of her nose, you’re on her lap, draping yourself over her like a silken shawl. you press kisses along her cheekbone, her jaw, whispering saccharine nothings against her skin, drunk on the contrast of her sharpness and your softness. she exhales like she’s indulging you, like she’s letting you win.. but she never takes the glasses off. she keeps reading, one hand turning the page, the other resting heavy on your thigh.

[carnalcrows]

EX MARKS THE SPOT — THANOS

pairing: plug!thanos x male!reader

synopsis: After a messy breakup, you turn to Thanos, a dangerously smooth dealer in a suit, for more than just supplies—and somehow end up making your ex jealous while questioning your life choices (and his cologne).

content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, drug usage, mentions of alcohol, myung-gi is reader's ex, marijuana, drunk sex, riding, shot-gunning, breeding, creampie, myung-gi is an asshole.

word count: 2.2k

A/N: this is hands down the funniest thing i've ever written lol. enjoy!!

Texting your ex always felt like poking a bear—pointless, frustrating, and dangerous. Yet, here you were, staring at a string of messages from Myung-gi, your recently demoted ex-boyfriend, as he passive-aggressively reminded you of all the things you’d “lost” when he left.

“Good luck finding anyone who’ll put up with you. Or supply you. 😊”

The nerve. You could practically hear his smug tone through the screen, and it made you want to chuck your phone into the nearest body of water. This man had cheated on you, lied about it, and somehow still had the audacity to act like you were the problem.

You rolled your eyes so hard you swore you saw the back of your skull. Myung-gi might’ve taken his flashy car, his designer cologne, and—worst of all—his “supplier,” but there was no way you’d let him hold your good times hostage.

Still, it was hard not to get irritated. Myung-gi always had a way of making your blood boil while somehow convincing you it was your fault. He was like an evil mastermind but dumber, pettier, and with terrible taste in socks. (Who wears neon argyle with loafers? Seriously.)

You shoved those thoughts aside and scrolled through your contacts. A friend had slipped you a number a few days ago, prefaced with, “This guy’s the best in town. Professional. Discreet. Just… don’t piss him off.” You hadn’t planned on using it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

You took a deep breath and typed out a message:

You: “Hey. Got your number from a friend. Need to talk.”

The reply came almost instantly, which was mildly unsettling.

Unknown Number: “Come to 10th & Main. 9 PM. Cash only.”

Straight to the point. No pleasantries. Not even a "Hello."

You hesitated for a moment before typing back:

You: “Cool. What’s your name?”

Unknown Number: “Thanos.”

You stared at your screen, blinking slowly. Thanos? Thanos? Like the purple guy from the Avengers? What kind of name was that?  Was this some kind of joke? You half-expected his next message to be something like, “Bring me the Infinity Stones,” or, “I hope you enjoy dust.”

A dozen questions raced through your mind. Should you be scared? Impressed? Concerned he might snap his fingers and wipe out half your neighborhood? You weren’t sure if you were meeting a dealer or the final boss of a video game.

After a long moment of contemplation—and a quick Google search to make sure “Thanos” wasn’t slang for something illegal—you decided to go for it. Worst-case scenario, you’d die in an alley, and Myung-gi would probably gloat at your funeral. Best-case scenario? You’d have a cool story to tell.

With a sigh, you texted back:

You: “Alright. See you then.”

Unknown Number: “Wear something cute.”

Your jaw dropped. Was he… flirting? With you? Oh, this was going to be interesting.

When you showed up at the alley, you immediately regretted your decision. Thanos was leaning against the wall, his lean frame illuminated by the dim, flickering streetlight. His head gleamed like a polished amethyst, and his piercing gaze locked onto you the moment you stepped into view.

“So,” he said, his deep voice rolling over you like a summer storm. “You’re the newbie.”

You swallowed hard, clutching the cash in your pocket. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

He pushed off the wall, his towering presence somehow even more overwhelming up close. His suit, far too nice for a back-alley transaction, clung to his broad shoulders like it was tailor-made.

“You guess?” he repeated, tilting his head with an amused smirk. “Pretty boy doesn’t know what he wants?”

Your brain short-circuited for a moment. “I’m here for… you know… the stuff.”

His grin widened, and he handed you a small bag of green nuggets. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m not gonna bite. Unless you want me to.”

Your face flushed, but you tried to play it cool. “Thanks,” you muttered, already turning to leave.

“Hold up,” Thanos called out, stopping you in your tracks. “Do you even know what to do with it?”

You hesitated, clutching the bag like it was a live grenade. “Uh… yeah?”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Don’t lie to me, pretty boy. Come on.” He gestured for you to follow him, and before you could protest, he was walking toward a nearby bench under the dim streetlight.

You trailed after him, curiosity outweighing your embarrassment. He sat down, pulling out a rolling tray, papers, and a grinder like he was some kind of cannabis sommelier.

“Watch and learn,” he said, his hands moving with surprising finesse as he broke down the green nuggets and ground them up. He sprinkled the freshly ground product into the paper, rolled it up with precision, and sealed it with a quick lick.

“There,” he said, holding up the perfect joint like it was a masterpiece. “Now you try.”

“I—uh—I don’t know if I can…”

“You can,” he said firmly, pushing the supplies toward you. His large hands hovered near yours as you awkwardly tried to mimic his movements. Your fingers fumbled with the paper, and you could feel his amused gaze on you the whole time.

“Here,” he said, reaching over to guide your hands. His touch was warm, steadying. “Like this. Don’t roll it too tight. You want it to burn evenly.”

You felt your pulse quicken as his fingers brushed against yours. By the time you managed to produce something vaguely resembling a joint, you were red-faced and flustered.

“Not bad for a first-timer,” he said with a chuckle, lighting your creation and taking a slow, deliberate drag before handing it to you. “See? Not so hard.”

You took a hesitant puff, coughing immediately, which earned a laugh from Thanos. “Easy there, sweetheart. No need to impress me.”

As you recovered, he leaned back against the bench, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’re cute when you’re trying too hard, you know that?”

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you just focused on not coughing up a lung.

Thanos grinned, watching you with that same predatory confidence. “Don’t be a stranger, pretty boy. You’re fun.”

A few days later, you found yourself at a house party you didn’t even want to attend. The music was loud, the drinks were cheap, and the pool in the backyard looked way more inviting than the sweaty chaos inside. You’d planted yourself there, floating in the shallow end with a Bacardi in hand, silently regretting your decision to show up.

And then, of course, he appeared. Myung-gi . Your ex was lounging by the pool with his new girlfriend—a painfully perfect, Instagram-model type who looked like she’d never experienced a bad hair day. He was laughing loudly, probably for your benefit, his arm slung around her like he wanted to rub it in your face.

You downed the rest of your drink in one go and muttered to yourself, “Great. Just great.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

You turned at the sound of the deep, familiar voice, and your jaw almost hit the water. There, standing at the edge of the pool, was Thanos. He looked unfairly good—white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark slacks that hugged his thighs in all the right ways, and that same smirk that made you question all your life choices.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice coming out more surprised than accusatory.

He crouched down, his golden watch glinting in the moonlight. “Got invited. Seems I’m more popular than I thought. But seeing you here? That’s a bonus.”

Your face heated, and you quickly looked away. “Well, enjoy the party.”

“Not until you stop sulking.” His gaze flicked to Myung-gi and back to you. “Ah. That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“You’re sitting here like a kicked puppy because of him.” He gestured toward your ex with a tilt of his head. “Pathetic, honestly.”

You bristled. “I am not sulking.”

“Sure you’re not.” Thanos chuckled, then slid off his shoes and rolled up his pants, stepping into the pool like he owned the place. The water rippled as he waded closer, stopping just a foot away. “Wanna make him jealous?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” He leaned in slightly, his smirk downright devilish. “We could give him a little show. Something to really stew over.”

Your heart raced. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” He cocked an eyebrow, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

You glanced over at Myung-gi . He wasn’t looking now, but the idea of wiping that smug grin off his face was very appealing. You turned back to Thanos, who was watching you with an expectant look, and something in his confidence made you throw caution to the wind.

“Fine,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “Let’s do it.”

His grin widened. “Atta boy.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, Thanos closed the distance between you, one hand cupping the back of your neck as his lips met yours. The kiss was anything but subtle—his mouth moved against yours with a ferocity that left you breathless, his other hand gripping your waist as if to anchor you to him.

The water lapped around you, the sounds of the party fading into the background as you lost yourself in the moment. His lips were soft but commanding, his teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp.

You vaguely heard the sound of spluttering from the side of the pool, and when you opened your eyes, you saw Myung-gi standing there, his face a mixture of shock and rage.

Thanos pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against yours as he murmured, “Think he’s mad yet?”

You glanced at Myung-gi , who looked like he was about to explode, and couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, he’s pissed.”

“Good.” Thanos grinned, pressing another kiss to your lips, this one slower, almost teasing. “Serves him right.”

By the time you finally broke apart, Myung-gi had stormed off, dragging his bewildered girlfriend behind him like a kid throwing a tantrum in a grocery store. You barely noticed, too caught up in the heat of the moment and the rush of adrenaline coursing through you.

Thanos leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “You’re welcome.”

“For what?” you managed to ask, your voice a little shaky as you tried to play it cool.

“For reminding him that he downgraded,” Thanos replied with a smirk, his thumb brushing a stray drop of water from your jaw.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He tilted his head, his piercing gaze making your pulse quicken. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Before you could come up with a witty retort, he reached out and took your hand, pulling you out of the pool with an effortless strength that left you momentarily flustered.

“Come on,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, rich and enticing. “Let’s find somewhere quieter.”

You hesitated for half a second before nodding, letting him lead you away from the crowd and the noise of the party. Your heart pounded as he guided you down a dimly lit hallway, past closed doors and muffled laughter, until he pushed one open and gestured for you to step inside.

The room was cozy and dim, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. As the door clicked shut behind you, the weight of the moment settled over you, thick and electric. Thanos leaned back against the door, his smirk softening into something more genuine.

“You good?” he asked, his deep voice cutting through the silence.

You nodded, your breath hitching slightly. “Yeah.”

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in the best way possible, and as his lips found yours again, all thoughts of Myung-gi —or anyone else—faded away.

You didn’t know how you ended up in this position. Or maybe you wanted it to happen. The booze and the weed had certainly gotten to your head.

Thanos was puffing on a blunt while you rode him, bouncing up and down on his cock with fervour.

“That’s it my boy…Taking it like a champ,” he mutters, the praise going straight down to your dick.

The hand that wasn’t holding the blunt was wrapped around your waist, guiding your hips on his length. He slowly took in a slow drag of his blunt while locking eyes with you, his dark orbs stained with red from all the substance. It certainly was a sight to see.

He pressed his mouth to yours, shot-gunning the smoke straight to your throat as you inhaled. You had gotten slightly better with the weed by now, so thankfully, you didn’t start coughing all over the place.

Your pace on his dick slowly sped up, you were at the brink of an orgasm. “Fuck… cum for me baby,” Thanos groans as his grip on your waist tightens. He takes another long drag of his blunt, before handing it to you.

You feel the scent of the herb hitting the back of your throat, and with that, you climax all over the purple-haired man’s stomach with your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Thanos releases soon after, painting your insides white.

You bask in the after-glow of mind blowing sex, lazily leaning forward on Thanos’ shoulder. The click of the doorknob alerts the man, who looks at a fuming Myung-gi and his still-confused girlfriend (the poor thing).

“Rise and shine my boy, I think we have an audience~”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and I take genuine effort to do them.

[meowdei]

“What’s got you so grumpy?”

Sukuna dodges your finger. It fails to meet its destination of his cheek as he tilts his head to the side, earning a frown from you before you huff and try again.

He looks up from his phone with an irritated glance when your fingertip digs into his face.

“What are you talking about?” He grunts.

He knows exactly what you’re talking about. Normal Sukuna is irritable enough—grumpy Sukuna is about as bad tempered as a hornet who’s had its nest kicked. (Which is to say: he’s pretty fucking unfriendly at the moment.)

“You’re sulking,” you point out—and that statement earns a sharp glare from him as you seat yourself on his lap. (Still, he makes room easily for you, leaning back on the couch and putting his phone down to the side so his hands can rest on your hips. Grumpy Sukuna is never grumpy enough to push your body away—if anything, it’s the one way to get him less agitated).

“I’m not fucking sulking,” he says. It’s almost petulant, but you have enough grace to spare his dignity and not point it out. “I don’t sulk.”

“Are you sure?” You raise a disbelieving brow—he clicks his teeth at the way you choose to question him, but it softens considerably when your lips peck his jaw delicately. “You look pretty sulky to me.”

“Get your eyes checked.”

“Can’t. Then I might see you for all your ugliness. We wouldn’t want to throw years down the drain once I come to my senses do we?”

It’s his turn to raise a brow, sarcastically snorting as you give him a cheeky wink. “If you wanna try ‘n be a smart ass, at least be realistic about it. Saw you checking me out just this morning through the mirror.”

“Maybe you need your eyes checked,” you huff, “I was not checking you out.”

“Pretty sure you were,” he smirks, lips pulling into a haughty grin. Getting under your skin with his smugness is about the only way to cheer him up, it seems, because he looks rather pleased when he adds, “it’s okay. Don’t blame ya for bein’ possessed by my impressive physique.”

“Too bad your personality isn’t as dazzling,” you quip back easily.

It’s meant to be lighthearted, of course—but it seems to be the wrong thing to say. Quite wrong, in fact, because as soon as the words escape you, he tenses before locking his jaw.

There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Something you don’t think you’ve ever seen in Sukuna’s face—doubt. It’s a little odd, in all realness. Sukuna is not a doubtful person. He’s confident, and he’s confident enough that it’s almost to a fault. He’s cocky and smug and sometimes a little too self-assured for it to be considered good for his health.

It’s a bit unsettling to see his face almost fall at something you say, especially when you just say it for the sake of light banter.

“Yeah?” He chuckles dryly. It sounds dangerously self-deprecating—enough that it makes you frown. “Good thing I have my abs to keep you glued to my side then, huh?”

“Well, it’s not just your abs,” you hum, one hand smoothing over his shirt to feel the ridges of his muscles through the shirt. “Your boobs are pretty great, too.”

To prove your point, you give his left pectoral a gentle squeeze. He scowls before shoving your hand away as blush creeps along the back of his neck.

“You fucking freak,” he mutters.

Something is bothering him. You know you can’t directly ask it out of him, otherwise he’ll deny it left and right, but something is bothering him. Sukuna is not good with words or emotions. In fact, he’s pretty awful at anything that has to do with anyone’s feelings. (He’s better about yours more than other’s, but he’s pretty far from good.)

You don’t mind. There’s something oddly charming about witnessing the way he navigates softening up for you—it’s like watching a baby take their first steps. Wobbly. Slow. Unsure. Pretty badly executed, but endearingly rewarding all at the same.

Except, this time, it’s not your emotions he’s navigating. For some reason, yours are easy than his own. Navigating yours means he doesn’t have to try. He knows you better than he knows himself. Knows when your feelings are hurt by the twitch of your brows alone. Knows you’re sad by the dimness in your eyes. Knows you’re pretending joy when your laugh is quieter than usual. Knows you’re faking it when your smile is a much more tight lipped and a less bright version.

But his own feelings are complicated. A lot more than he cares to try and understand them for. In true Sukuna fashion, he always aims to ignore his problems until they seemingly disappear.

But you’re too difficult to let that slide. He brushes things under the rug, and you pull the rug from under his feet and make him fall face first into his problems.

“Hey,” you nudge him, cupping his face with your hand gently, “what’s gotten into you? It’s weird when you’re not pissing me off a couple of times every hour.”

“And that’s supposed to be a good thing?” He challenges, like your words seem to tick him off more, “what are you sittin’ here for if I’m always pissing you off?”

Oh, you think. So that’s what it is.

You smile, humming before you gently tilt his face up. Something vulnerable is attached to that frown of his. Like he’s waiting for your answer because he needs something to hold onto. Some metaphorical lifeline where your feelings are attached to his own, just to keep you chained together. Where you’re always somewhere that he also is. Where he doesn’t have to care about his emotions because what you feel is what he feels, too, and as long as you’re okay, so is he.

But you care. You seem to care a pretty great deal because you lean in and brush your nose against his as you kiss his lips softly.

“Who cares if you piss me off?” You snort, “I piss you off better. I’m pretty good at it.”

“You are,” he agrees instantly.

You give him a fleeting huff against his mouth as you mumble, “you don’t have to agree so fast.”

It pulls a small laugh from him, making his arms snake around your waist and tug your body closer. Chest to chest, heartbeat thumping in two, synchronized rhythms.

“What happens when I’m all old and expiring and my abs are gone?” He raises a brow. You hum, stroking a thumb along his cheek as you smile and admire him.

“We’ll still be pissing each other off, I bet.”

“That’s supposed to be good?” He repeats, this time much more unsure. Anyone else could hardly catch the air of hesitance in his words, but you catch it instantly.

“Why not?” You shrug, “it always worked for us, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “that’s until it doesn’t.” He spits the words out, not meeting your eyes. It’s like they taste acrid is mouth and he can’t bring himself swallow them down.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you lean in and just press a line of kisses from his chin to the corner of his lips, purposely dodging his mouth and littering small, delicate pecks along his cheek. And then his forehead. And then the bridge of his nose.

Never his lips, though. And he gets increasingly frustrated by it.

“What are you waiting for?” He grumbles, eyeing you with a look that screams: quit fucking around.

You fight back an amused smile. “Does it piss you off?”

“Course it does. Kiss me properly or back off my face—”

“Cause you love me right?” You ask cheekily. He pauses, thinking on it for a moment before slumping wearily.

“And if I do?”

“You piss me off too. Because I love you too,” you whisper, forehead against his as your hands cradle his cheeks. Because you do.

When he texts late, and makes your blood boil, it’s only because you love him. When he’s brutally honest and doesn’t say what you want to hear, you’re only mad because you care what he thinks so much. When he’s stubborn and refuses to meet you halfway, you’re only angry because there’s no one else you’d rather cross the bridge with than him.

He pisses you off. You care enough to be pissed because it’s him. And when you piss him off too, he cares enough to deal with it because it’s you.

It’s a funny, twisted little way to love and be loved, but it works. For some odd reason, it does. It’s a seamless, smooth, crackless road.

You don’t ever fix something that’s not broken.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he sighs, resigning himself to your weird, roundabout explanation. You laugh, pinching his cheek as you grin brightly.

“That’s because you’re a bit dim.”

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes, “okay. Anything else?”

“Yeah, actually. I love you.”

He pauses. Swallows for a moment before his arms tighten their grip on your hips just a smidge before burying his face into your neck and mumbling, “me too. Love you so much, it pisses me off.”

“I like to get under your skin like that,” you stroke his hair, beaming as you add, “guess you’ll just have to deal with it.”

His lips stretch into a small grin before a low, rumbling chuckle breathes itself against your skin. “Guess so.”

————————

a/n: insecure modern! au sukuna who doesn’t admit it and refuses to acknowledge that he’s aware he’s difficult to love and can’t understand why you love him but he also doesn’t want to question it for fear of scaring you away is very near and dear to me and i’ll be talking about it from my grave still. you’ll just hear my ghostly voice spooking you through the night talking about how he’s a softie deep down under all the layers. like an ogre okay? ogres have LAYERS.

[softaestluv]

Nine Lives

Simon Riley posts an ad for a stray cat he does not want, and you answer.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!reader

Tags: fluff, short n’sweet, eventual romance/smut

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 | last part | ao3 | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Friday comes as planned, Simon’s week consumed by anticipation of seeing his girl and his cat.

But Churro doesn’t seem to have the same plans, doesn’t come to see her self-proclaimed father.

She doesn’t show, no aggravating meowing or grating scratching on his porch. All he’s met with is silence, a noise grown far too unfamiliar, leaves something in his core unsettled in its absence.

You show up on his doorstep anyway, don’t seem to realize Churro hasn’t made an appearance, smiling wide at him when he opens the door.

At least now he knows you’ll still smile so sweetly at him even if he doesn’t have a furry cat in his arms.

“Hi!”

“Hi, bird. Is Churro at home?”

Your brows pinch, confusion painting your expression, “No, I thought she was visiting you? Came to pick her up like always.”

“She’s not here,” He explains, “Didn’t show up earlier, that’s why I didn’t text you yet.”

The corner of your lips droop, “Well, she wasn’t at home. I figured she was with you even if I didn’t get a text.”

You fidget from heel to heel when he shakes his head in disagreement, shifting your eyes swiftly as worry etches into your irises, wringing your fingers together.

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” He reassures, attempting to dry the flood of emotions that are surely surfacing in your lungs before they burst out of control, ushering you in with a hand on your back, “We’ll lay out her favorite food, yeah? She came real quick that first time remember? Wait an hour tops before we start worrying too much, okay?”

You nod quietly, following his lead to his couch, but your face stays stiff, each curve contorted anxiously. Doesn’t smooth the entire time the two of you wait, reminiscent of the first time you met him, except this time you’re nerves aren’t alerting you to run from him, flee from the danger of a man he appears to be. Instead, you’re looking to him for comfort, darting your wide eyes to his every time he starts to speak like you’re clinging to every word in an attempt to distract you from the fact that Churro isn’t in either of your laps.

By the time forty-five minutes passes he’s sure you ripped the skin around your fingernails tender and bloody, burnt a hole in your shoe from the speed you're bouncing it. Maybe before he knew you, before he knew Churro, he would’ve thought you were being dramatic, caring for a bloody cat entirely too much, but you’ve grown on him. Maybe a little too much because the sight of you nervous, anxious, scared, upsets him, doesn’t want to spend another second watching you peel yourself apart.

Maybe he’s a little upset at Churro— don’t you know you’re worrying your mom, his girl, too much, pest?

It’s enough to make him stand, waiting does nothing to ease your nerves, so he prepares a search for a cat he used to cast away, a cat he used to wish got lost on the trail to his house. The two of you should’ve expected it to happen one of these days, it wasn’t necessarily a short distance between your homes, but Churro had seemed smarter than that, memorized her trek through town to find Simon.

You start on foot, separating in two to cover more ground, walking through Simon’s neighborhood calling for her at the top of your lungs. The search lasts for an hour, scavenging through every nook, bush, tree, and alleyway the two of you can find to no avail. Simon even goes to his neighbors, asks if they’ve seen the fawn-colored cat. Maybe the cat lady ended up taking her in by mistake, but they all deny, haven’t seen her.

When you don’t find her, your search widens, desperately exploring multiple blocks around his neighborhood until the sun starts to set, desperately searching with the flashlight from your phone in the dark. It takes some convincing and negotiation on his end to get you to return to his porch without Churro in your arms, argue that you won’t be able to sleep unless you know she’s safe. Still, he manages to wrangle you back to his house, promising that the two of you will search for her tomorrow, that she’ll make her way to his home in the night like she always does.

You agree begrudgingly, but when he finally gets you to his front door and looks down at you, your eyes are downcast, your bottom lip wobbling as you shift your eyes to his. You’re dewy-eyed and beady, fists balled at your side in an attempt to stop the inevitable dam from cracking.

It doesn’t work, of course, it doesn’t, not when the look in his eyes is sincere, slams the finishing wedge in your control with one look.

“Sweet girl.”

His voice is softer than he’s ever used before, more tender than he even realized he could use, foreign to his own gruff ears, but it doesn’t help your restraint from breaking on the spot. He reaches out, placing his hand on the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair before pressing you into his chest, snug under his chin.

The embrace punches the breath straight out of your lungs, inhaling a shattered wheeze before a sob wrecks from your core. Fisting the fabric of his shirt in your palms as you hiccup over your breaths and tears, staining his shirt wet.

The constricting in his chest is unfamiliar, burns strangely, painful, and bitter at the mere sounds you make, at the way you cling to him like he can absolve you of your pain, like you need to feel his touch to mend your weary heart. It congeals something protective in the back of his mind, large palms finding the backs of your thighs to hoist you in his arms. You don’t even pull away, just band your arms over his shoulders like it’s where you need to be.

He carries you to his kitchen, grabbing a water before maneuvering you to his bedroom because he’s not going to send you home crying and distressed when he can keep his girl comforted in his arms. You fall onto his bed willingly, sitting on the edge of the mattress as you watch him rummage through his drawers. He presents a pair of shorts, to which you nod teary-eyed, let him peel your jeans off, and replace them with his own clothing.

He climbs into bed with you, guides you under the sheets with him, and into his arms. Pulls you flush against his chest once again, smoothing his touch down your back and through your hair in his best attempt to soothe your nerves.

“Don’t worry,” He murmurs when you shift to look into his eyes, “Won’t do us any good looking for her when you’re all teary-eyed will it?”

You huff a laugh, not entirely amused as it should be, only making more tears well in your eyes, but he takes it, pressing a kiss against the crown of your forehead.

“We’ll look for her first thing tomorrow morning, yeah? Our pretty lady will come home to us.”

@lighthousebats @cococococ @sai-int @tessakate @starboykel @imrandomstuffsblog @your-internet-tenshi @glossy01 @orangegreensun @uriahs-barn @ye-olde-trash-panda @akkahelenaa @h0lydrag0ns @pukbadger @dawnnightshade666 @lizziesfirstwife @little-b33 @topaz125 @v1x3n @hadassery @afanofbeans @definitely-not-sammie

[ghstyles]

Elysium | His Angel

· · ─────────────·────────── · ·

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 6.5k

Summary: How Harry Styles met his angel

His Angel Masterlist

· · ─────────────·────────── · ·

The bass thrums through the exclusive nightclub, vibrating beneath Y/N's feet as she follows her friends through the crowd. The place screams money and danger in equal measure. All sleek black surfaces, private booths guarded by serious-looking men, and beautiful people trying too hard to look like they belong.

"I can't believe we got in!" her friend Mia shouts over the music, clutching Y/N's arm excitedly. "Do you know how impossible it is to get into Elysium without being on the list?"

Y/N shrugs, taking in the scene with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. "Perks of knowing the right people, I guess."

Their other friend, Zoe, leans in, nudging Y/N’s side. "And being hot.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes. "That's ridiculous. We didn't get in because of that"

Mia nudges her, eyes wide. "Come on, let's get drinks!"

They make their way to the crowded bar. As Y/N waits, she feels a prickling sensation, as if someone is watching her. She scans the crowd, her eyes eventually landing on a VIP section elevated above the dance floor.

There, lounging with casual dominance in the center of the booth, sits a man who seems both part of the scene and separate from it. He's undeniably handsome. Sharp jawline, intense eyes, an air of controlled danger in the way he holds himself. Unlike the eager crowd around him, he appears almost bored.

Until his eyes meet hers.

Y/N feels the impact of his gaze like a physical thing. She quickly looks away, unsettled by the intensity of the brief connection.

"Who's that?" she asks Mia, nodding discreetly toward the VIP section.

Mia follows her gaze and nearly chokes on her drink. "Holy shit, that's him. That's Harry Styles. The owner. He never comes here on Saturdays."

Before Y/N can respond, a bartender approaches with a glass of amber liquid.

"Compliments of Mr. Styles," he says, placing it in front of her.

Y/N stares at the drink, then back at the VIP section. The man—Harry—is still watching her, one eyebrow raised slightly in challenge. She can feel her friends buzzing with excitement beside her.

"Tell Mr. Styles thank you," she says to the bartender, then adds clearly, "but I prefer to buy my own drinks."

She pushes the glass back across the bar, ignoring her friends' shocked expressions.

"Are you insane?" Zoe hisses. "You don't turn down Harry Styles!"

"Watch me," Y/N replies, turning her back to the VIP section and ordering a vodka soda.

The night continues, and Y/N determinedly enjoys herself with her friends, though she can't shake the feeling of being watched. An hour later, the same bartender approaches again, this time with a different drink. Something fruity with an umbrella.

"Mr. Styles thought perhaps his choice wasn't to your taste," the bartender explains with a barely suppressed smile. "He's offering alternatives until he finds something you like."

Y/N can't help the laugh that escapes her. "Persistent, isn't he?"

She glances toward the VIP section. Harry is leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, watching her reaction with undisguised interest. When their eyes meet again, he raises his own glass in a mock toast.

On impulse, Y/N takes the fruity concoction and walks directly toward the VIP section. The security guards look to Harry, who nods once, allowing her to approach.

"Most women would be flattered by the attention," Harry says when she reaches him, his voice deep and smooth, with an edge that suggests he's used to getting what he wants.

"Most women aren't me," Y/N responds, placing the untouched drink on the table in front of him. "And I don't drink things from strangers, no matter how expensive their clubs are."

Instead of being offended, Harry looks amused, his eyes traveling slowly over her face, down to her lips, then back to her eyes.

"Harry Styles," he says, extending a hand. "Now we're not strangers."

Y/N hesitates, then takes his hand. His grip is warm and firm.

"Y/N," she replies, deliberately withholding her last name.

Harry's lips curve into a smile that makes her heart beat a little faster.

"Y/N," he repeats, as if tasting her name. "Sit with me."

It's not a request, but not quite a demand either. Something in between that makes her want to both comply and resist.

"I'm here with friends," she says, nodding toward Mia and Zoe, who are watching with wide eyes from the bar.

"They can join us," Harry offers, though his eyes never leave hers, making it clear who he's interested in.

Y/N considers him for a moment, then shakes her head.

"Maybe another time," she says, turning to leave.

Harry catches her wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the strength she can feel in his fingers.

"Dance with me, then," he says, his voice lower. "Just one."

Y/N looks down at his hand on her wrist, then back to his face. Up close, he's even more attractive. Sangerous in a way that should send her running but instead makes her curious.

"One dance," she agrees finally.

The dance floor is crowded, but people seem to instinctively make space for Harry as he leads her through the press of bodies. When he turns to face her, pulling her closer than strictly necessary, Y/N feels a thrill of something that's not quite fear run through her.

"So," she says as they begin to move to the music, "is this what you do? Send drinks to women and expect them to fall at your feet?"

Harry's hand slides to the small of her back, warm through the thin material of her dress.

"Only when they catch my attention," he replies, his eyes holding hers. "And they don't usually send the drinks back."

"Maybe you need the challenge," Y/N suggests, surprised by her own boldness.

Harry's eyes darken slightly, his fingers flexing against her back.

"Maybe I do," he agrees, pulling her incrementally closer. "Though I usually get what I want in the end."

Y/N raises an eyebrow. "Pretty confident for someone whose drink I just rejected. Twice."

Harry laughs, the sound rich and genuine, transforming his face from intimidating to almost boyish for a brief moment.

"Yet here you are, dancing with me," he points out.

The song changes to something slower, more sensual. Harry's hand slides lower on her back, not quite inappropriate but definitely possessive. Y/N knows she should step away, create some distance, but something about him draws her in.

"I'm curious," she admits. "What does a man who owns a place like this do when he's not sending drinks to women?"

Harry studies her, as if deciding how much to reveal.

"I have various business interests," he says vaguely. "The club is just one of them."

"That's not an answer," Y/N challenges.

His lips quirk. "It's all you're getting for now."

They dance in silence for a moment, the chemistry between them building with each sway of their bodies.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” Harry says finally, his thumb tracing slow circles on her back. “And I notice everyone who walks into my club.”

Y/N raises a brow, amused. “That’s a lot of people to notice.”

Harry’s gaze sharpens, locking onto hers. Without a word, he spins her smoothly, guiding her back into his chest. His lips lower to her ear, his voice low and deliberate.

“I would have noticed you.”

Her breath catches as his words settle over her, the bass of the music a faint echo compared to the quiet intensity of his tone.

“Probably because I don’t go out much,” she says, trying to steady her voice. “I’m at Westlake University. Moved here for school.”

Harry nods, filing away the information, spinning her back to face him. “Studying?”

“Psychology. With a minor in criminal justice.”

That earns her a small, intrigued smile. “Planning to analyze criminals?”

Y/N smiles. "Something like that."

Harry leans back in, his lips near her ear. "And what would your analysis of me be, Y/N the psychology student?"

His breath against her skin sends a shiver down her spine.

"I'd need more data," she manages to say, her voice steadier than she feels.

Harry pulls back just enough to look at her, his expression shifting to something more intense, more predatory.

"I could give you more data," he suggests, his meaning unmistakable.

Y/N knows she should walk away. Everything about this man screams danger and complication. But the heat in his eyes, the chemistry crackling between them, makes her reckless.

"Your office," she says, surprising herself with the decision. "Not your home, not a hotel. Just an hour, then I go back to my friends."

Harry's eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting her directness. Then that slow smile returns, satisfied and hungry at once.

"My office it is," he agrees, taking her hand and leading her away from the dance floor.

They navigate through the club, Harry nodding to security as they pass. No one questions where they're going or tries to stop them. It's clear who's in charge here.

His office is surprisingly tasteful with dark woods, leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Harry locks the door behind them, then turns to face her.

"Having second thoughts?" he asks, noticing her hesitation.

Y/N shakes her head, stepping closer to him. "Just wondering if you do this often."

Harry's hands come to rest on her hips, drawing her against him.

"Bring women to my office?" he clarifies. "Never."

Before she can decide if she believes him, his mouth is on hers, hungry and demanding. Y/N responds immediately, her body arching into his as his hands slide down to cup her ass, lifting her against him.

"Fuck," he breathes against her mouth. "You taste even better than I imagined."

He walks her backward until she hits his desk, then lifts her onto it, stepping between her thighs. His hands are everywhere—tangling in her hair, tracing the curve of her breast, sliding up her thigh beneath her dress.

Y/N pulls at his shirt, wanting to feel his skin beneath her palms. Harry helps, practically tearing the buttons in his haste to remove it. His body is a work of art—toned and tattooed, with a strength that makes her mouth go dry.

"You're sure?" he asks, his voice rough with desire as his fingers find the edge of her underwear.

Y/N nods, beyond words as his touch sends electricity through her veins. Harry's eyes hold hers as he pushes the fabric aside, his fingers finding her already wet and ready for him.

"So responsive," he murmurs appreciatively, circling her clit with his thumb. "So fucking perfect."

Harry's fingers work with devastating precision, drawing small circles around her clit before dipping lower to tease her entrance. Y/N's head falls back, a breathy moan escaping her lips as he slides one finger inside her, then another, curling them to find that spot that makes her thighs tremble.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice low and rough.

Y/N forces her eyes open, meeting his intense gaze as he continues to work her with his fingers, his thumb maintaining that maddening pressure against her clit.

"I want to see your face when you come," he tells her, the crude words somehow making everything more intense. "And you will come, angel. First on my fingers, then on my cock."

The confidence in his voice, the absolute certainty that he can deliver on that promise, sends another rush of wetness to her core. Harry feels it, his eyes darkening as he increases his pace.

"That's it," he encourages, his free hand gripping her hip to keep her steady on the desk. "Let go for me."

Y/N feels herself tightening around his fingers, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. When his mouth drops to her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, she shatters, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through her.

"Fucking beautiful," Harry murmurs against her skin, working her through the orgasm, not stopping until she's trembling from oversensitivity.

Only then does he withdraw his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste her as he holds her gaze. The sight is so erotic that Y/N feels desire pooling in her belly again, despite having just come undone seconds before.

"You taste even better than I imagined," he tells her, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through her. "And I've been imagining it since I saw you walk into my club tonight."

His hands move to the hem of her dress, pushing it up her thighs.

"Off," he orders, helping her pull it over her head and tossing it aside.

Y/N sits on his desk in just her black lace bra and matching thong, feeling both vulnerable and powerful under his hungry gaze. Harry steps back just enough to unbuckle his belt, his eyes never leaving her body.

"Touch yourself," he instructs as he unfastens his pants. "Show me how you like it."

The command should embarrass her—she's never been this bold with previous partners—but something about Harry makes her want to obey. She slides her hand between her thighs, fingers finding her still-sensitive clit as she watches him free himself from his boxers.

The size of him makes her breath catch, both intimidated and desperately eager to feel him inside her. Harry strokes himself slowly, watching her fingers move between her legs.

"Condom?" she manages to ask, her voice breathy with arousal.

Harry reaches into his desk drawer without taking his eyes off her, retrieving a foil packet. He tears it open with his teeth, rolling it on with practiced ease before stepping between her thighs again.

"Spread wider for me," he directs, his hands gripping her hips to position her at the edge of the desk.

Y/N complies, letting her knees fall further apart as Harry aligns himself with her entrance. He teases her first, running the head of his cock through her wetness, circling her clit in a way that makes her whimper with need.

"Please," she breathes, beyond pride now, wanting only to feel him inside her.

"Please what?" Harry asks, his voice strained but still commanding. "Tell me what you want, Y/N."

The use of her name sends another jolt of arousal through her.

"I want you inside me," she tells him, meeting his gaze directly. "Now."

A flash of approval crosses his features before he pushes forward, entering her in one slow, deliberate thrust that has both of them groaning. Harry pauses once he's fully seated, his forehead dropping to rest against hers.

"So fucking tight," he murmurs, his breathing ragged. "You feel even better than I imagined."

He gives her a moment to adjust to his size before he begins to move, setting a pace that's deep and measured, each thrust hitting spots inside her that make her see stars. Y/N wraps her legs around his waist, changing the angle and drawing him even deeper.

"That's it," he encourages, one hand moving to the small of her back to support her. "Take all of me."

The desk creaks beneath them as Harry's thrusts grow more forceful, his control visibly slipping as pleasure builds. He reaches between them, his thumb finding her clit again, working it in time with his movements.

"Come again," he orders, his voice strained. "Come on my cock, angel."

The combination of his touch, his words, and the relentless pressure of him inside her pushes Y/N toward the edge again. She clings to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as her second orgasm approaches, more intense than the first.

"Harry," she gasps, her inner walls beginning to clench around him.

"That's it," he growls, his pace becoming punishing. "Say my name when you come."

The command sends her over the edge, her body arching as pleasure explodes through her, his name falling from her lips like a prayer. Harry's rhythm falters as she tightens around him, but he doesn't stop, working her through the orgasm before pulling out completely.

Before she can protest the sudden emptiness, he's turning her around, bending her over the desk, her chest pressed against the cool wood surface.

"I'm not done with you yet," he tells her, his hand running down her spine before gripping her hip. "Not even close."

He enters her again from behind, the new angle allowing him to go even deeper. Y/N cries out, oversensitive but still somehow wanting more. Harry establishes a brutal pace, one hand gripping her hip while the other tangles in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her back.

"Look at you," he says, his voice rough with exertion. "Taking it so well. Like you were made for my cock."

The crude praise should offend her, but instead, it sends another rush of arousal through her already overstimulated body. Harry seems to sense this, his words becoming filthier as his thrusts grow more erratic.

Just when Y/N thinks she can't take anymore, he pulls out again, turning her to face him before lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrap around his waist as he carries her across the room, pressing her back against the wall.

"Hold onto me," he instructs, supporting her weight with his hands beneath her thighs.

Y/N locks her arms around his neck, marveling at the strength it takes to hold her this way. Harry enters her again in this new position, the angle hitting a spot inside her that makes her cry out.

"There it is," he says with satisfaction, adjusting to hit that same spot repeatedly. "One more time, angel. Give me one more."

She didn't think it was possible. Not after two already and especially when most guys struggled to get one. But the way he's moving inside her, the way he's looking at her like she's the most exquisite thing he's ever seen, has her building toward a third peak.

"I can't," she gasps, even as her body tightens around him.

"You can," he insists, one hand moving from her thigh to where they're joined, his thumb finding her clit again. "And you will. For me."

The pressure of his thumb, combined with the relentless thrusting and the weight of his gaze locked on hers, pushes her over the edge one final time. This orgasm is different. It’s more intense, almost painful in its pleasure, ripping a scream from her throat that Harry captures with his mouth.

Only then does he allow himself to follow, his rhythm becoming erratic as he chases his own release. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside her, a guttural groan escaping him as he comes, his body shuddering against hers.

They stay like that for several moments, both breathing heavily, his forehead resting against hers. Y/N feels boneless, completely spent, her body still pulsing around him in aftershocks.

Eventually, Harry carefully lowers her to her feet, keeping an arm around her waist when her knees threaten to buckle. There's something almost tender in the way he steadies her, a gentleness that seems at odds with the man who just fucked her senseless against his office wall.

"Alright?" he asks, his voice quieter now, a hint of concern in his tone.

Y/N nods, unable to form words just yet. Harry guides her to the leather couch at the side of the office, grabbing his discarded shirt along the way and helping her into it. The gesture is unexpectedly thoughtful, as is the bottle of water he retrieves from a mini-fridge, uncapping it before handing it to her.

"Drink," he says, the word still carrying that commanding tone even as his expression softens slightly.

She obeys, suddenly aware of how thirsty she is. Harry sits beside her, still gloriously naked and apparently unconcerned about it. His hand comes to rest on her thigh, thumb tracing small circles on her skin.

"You're full of surprises," he comments, watching her with an intensity that makes her wonder what he's thinking.

"How so?" Y/N asks, finding her voice at last.

Harry's lips curve into that dangerous smile again.

"You don't seem like the type to follow a stranger into his office," he observes. "Let alone let him fuck you three ways from Sunday."

The crude language makes her blush, but she holds his gaze.

"Maybe I'm not usually," she admits. "But there's something about you..."

Harry's smile widens, satisfaction evident in his expression.

"The feeling is mutual," he tells her, his hand moving higher on her thigh. "Which is why I'm not done with you yet."

Y/N's eyes widen, her body somehow responding to the promise in his words despite how thoroughly he's already wrung her out.

"I don't think I can—" she begins, but Harry cuts her off with a kiss, this one slower, more deliberate than the desperate ones they'd shared before.

"You can," he assures her when he pulls back, that same absolute confidence in his voice. "And you will. But not here."

He stands, offering her his hand.

"Come home with me," he says, and it's not really a question, though his eyes search hers as if waiting for permission. "Let me show you what I can do when we have a proper bed and all night."

Y/N knows she should say no. She knows nothing about this man except that he owns this club, commands respect from everyone around him, and just gave her the most intense sexual experience of her life. Going home with him is reckless, potentially dangerous.

So  shakes her head, reality returning now that the haze of desire has cleared.

"I can't. My friends will be worried."

Harry looks like he wants to argue but instead reaches for his pants off the floor, extracting a business card. He scribbles something on the back before handing it to her.

"My personal number," he explains. "Call me."

Y/N takes the card, tucking it into her purse without promising anything. Harry pulls her in for one more kiss. Slower this time, almost tender.

"You'll call," he says against her lips, somewhere between a statement and a question.

Y/N smiles enigmatically. "We'll see."

She doesn't call. Not that weekend when she returns to her university, not the following week. She tells herself it was just a one-time thing, an exciting story to remember but not repeat.

But two weeks later, as she exits her favorite coffee shop near campus, a familiar black Range Rover pulls up to the curb. The window rolls down to reveal Harry, looking both out of place and perfectly at ease in the college town.

"You didn't call," he says simply, his eyes taking in every detail of her surprised face.

Y/N stares at him, coffee clutched in her hand. "How did you find me?"

Harry's smile is slow and confident. "I told you, Y/N. I usually get what I want in the end."

And despite knowing better, despite all her training in psychology telling her this is a dangerous path, Y/N finds herself walking toward the car, drawn by something she can't—or doesn't want to—resist.

She steps closer to the car, “what do you want Harry? I’m busy” she crosses her arms, taking a sip of her coffee that Harry knew had too much sugar than a normal person should have

He leans slightly out the open window, his forearms resting on the door as he studies her with those intense eyes. He's dressed more casually than at the club with a simple black t-shirt that clings to his shoulders, expensive watch glinting on his wrist, but he still radiates the same controlled power.

"Too busy to call?" he asks, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Or just busy in general?"

His gaze drops to the coffee cup in her hand, then back to her face.

"Three pumps of caramel, extra sugar, light on the actual coffee," he says, nodding at her drink. "Your barista looked concerned for your health."

Y/N's eyes narrow slightly, unsettled by how he knows her coffee order.

"That doesn't answer my question," she says, maintaining her composure despite the flutter in her stomach at seeing him again. "What are you doing here, Harry?"

Students pass by on the sidewalk, some glancing curiously at the luxury vehicle and the imposing man inside it. Harry seems oblivious to the attention, his focus entirely on her.

"You were supposed to call," he says simply, as if that explains everything. "When someone doesn't follow the script, I get...curious."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against her arm where it's crossed defensively over her chest.

"Get in the car, Y/N. Let me buy you lunch."

It's not quite a command, but it's definitely not a request either. That same in-between tone that had worked on her at the club.

Y/N takes a deliberate step back, out of his reach.

"I have class in an hour," she says, though she doesn't immediately walk away. "And I don't appreciate being tracked down. It's creepy, not flattering."

Harry studies her for a moment, then nods as if coming to a decision. He opens the car door and steps out, his height and presence immediately dominating the sidewalk. Several passing students actually stop walking to stare.

"Forty-five minutes," he counters, moving into her space with a confidence that borders on arrogance. "That's all I'm asking. Then I'll drive you to your class myself."

He reaches for her free hand, his touch surprisingly gentle as he uncurls her fingers from their tight grip.

"Unless you're scared," he adds, the challenge clear in his voice. "Afraid you might actually like me beyond a quick fuck in my office."

Y/N inhales sharply at his crude reminder of their encounter, heat rising to her cheeks despite her best efforts.

"I'm not afraid of you," she says, the lie obvious to both of them.

Harry's smile turns knowing, almost predatory.

"Not afraid of me," he corrects softly. "Afraid of how I make you feel."

He's standing too close now, close enough that she can smell his expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely him. Close enough to remind her body exactly what it felt like to be pressed against his.

"Forty-five minutes," he repeats. "Then you never have to see me again if that's what you want."

Y/N knows she should walk away. Everything about this man from his unexpected appearance at her school to his obvious disregard for normal boundaries screams danger. But there's something else there too, something in the intensity of his gaze that makes her wonder if there's more to Harry Styles than the dangerous club owner with too much money and power.

"Thirty minutes," she counters, asserting what little control she can. "And you stay on your side of the table."

Harry's smile widens, genuine amusement mixing with triumph.

"Deal," he agrees, opening the passenger door for her.

As Y/N slides into the luxurious interior of his car, she can't help wondering if she's making a terrible mistake. But when Harry gets in beside her, his eyes meeting hers with that same electric intensity from the club, she also can't help wondering if some mistakes might be worth making.

"So," she says, buckling her seatbelt as he pulls away from the curb, "how exactly did you find me? And don't say 'I have my ways.' That's not an answer."

Harry glances at her, then back at the road, his hands confident on the steering wheel.

"You told me you study at Westlake," he reminds her. "Psychology with criminal justice."

"That doesn't explain how you knew I'd be at that specific coffee shop at this specific time," Y/N presses.

Harry is quiet for a moment, then shrugs slightly.

"I had someone look into your schedule," he admits without apology. "You go to that coffee shop every Wednesday between your morning classes."

Y/N stares at him, caught between outrage and disbelief.

"That's…that's stalking, Harry. You can't just investigate people because they don't call you back."

He turns to look at her, his expression serious despite the casual way he's just admitted to having her followed.

"I wanted to see you again," he says, as if that justifies everything. "Normal methods weren't working."

"Normal methods like accepting rejection?" Y/N suggests pointedly.

Harry's jaw tightens slightly, the first crack in his composed facade.

"Is that what you were doing? Rejecting me?"

His tone is casual, but there's an undercurrent of something else, perhaps genuine uncertainty, which surprises her.

Y/N sighs, looking out the window as they drive through the college town.

"I don't know what I was doing," she admits quietly. "That night was... intense. But complicated. You're complicated."

Harry pulls into the parking lot of an upscale restaurant and the kind of place college students rarely frequent due to the prices.

"I'm actually very simple," he says, turning off the engine and facing her. "I see something I want, I pursue it."

His eyes hold hers, intense and unwavering.

"And I want you, Y/N. More than I've wanted anyone in a very long time."

The raw honesty in his voice catches her off guard. Y/N swallows, trying to maintain her composure.

"Thirty minutes," she reminds him, reaching for the door handle. "And then I have class."

Harry's smile returns, confident now that he's gotten what he wanted—for the moment, at least.

"Thirty minutes," he agrees. "For now."

They take a seat and Y/N sit with her arms crossed, “so, how many other women have you harassed into having lunch with you?”

Harry settles across from her, his posture relaxed despite the tension between them. The restaurant staff clearly recognizes him, a nervous maître d' having practically tripped over himself to seat them at the best table in the house.

Harry smirks at her question, unfolding his napkin with deliberate movements.

"Harassed? Is that what we're calling this?" he asks, seeming genuinely amused rather than offended. "And to answer your question: none. Contrary to what you might think, I don't make a habit of tracking down women who ignore me."

He signals the waiter, who appears instantly at his side.

"Bring us the chef's selection and a bottle of the Château Margaux," he says without consulting the menu or Y/N. "And water for the lady."

The waiter nods and hurries away. Harry turns his attention back to Y/N, his eyes tracing over her face as if memorizing every detail.

"You're special," he says simply. "A first for me in many ways."

Y/N raises an eyebrow, maintaining her defensive posture.

"Let me guess: I'm the first woman to ever say no to the great Harry Styles?"

Harry's expression shifts slightly, something darker passing behind his eyes.

"Among other firsts," he acknowledges. "But I'm more interested in why."

"Why what?" 

"Why you didn't call," he clarifies, leaning forward slightly. "We had a connection. You felt it too so don't bother denying it. Yet you walked away."

Y/N shifts uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny. The waiter returns with water and wine, pouring a glass for Harry before retreating again.

"Maybe because normal people don't pursue connections with men they meet at clubs and sleep with once," she says finally. "Especially men who clearly have...complicated lives."

Harry takes a sip of his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass.

"And what exactly do you think you know about my life?"

Y/N uncrosses her arms, leaning forward slightly.

"I know enough. The way people react to you, the security, the resources to track down a random college student." She gestures around at the restaurant. "The fact that you can walk in here without a reservation and get treated like royalty. You're either old money or you're something else entirely."

Harry's lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Perceptive," he murmurs. "That psychology degree is working for you."

"You didn't answer my question," Y/N points out.

Harry studies her for a long moment, then sets down his wine glass.

"What if I told you I'm both?" he says finally. "Old money...and something else entirely."

A server appears with their first course, small plates of artfully arranged appetizers. Harry waits until they're alone again before continuing.

"My family had money," he says, his tone shifting to something more detached. "But I built my own empire. Through methods that wouldn't exactly make the cover of Forbes."

He watches her reaction carefully, waiting to see if she'll run.

Y/N takes a sip of her water, processing his words.

"So you're what…a criminal with a trust fund?"

Harry actually laughs at that, the sound unexpectedly genuine.

"That's one way of putting it," he acknowledges, his posture relaxing slightly. "Though these days, most of my businesses are legitimate. On paper, at least."

He picks up his fork but doesn't eat, instead pointing it at her plate.

"Try the scallops. They're exceptional."

Y/N ignores the food, focusing on him.

"And that doesn't bother you? Breaking the law?"

Harry's expression turns contemplative.

"Laws are made by men in suits who've never had to fight for anything," he says quietly. "I learned early that following the rules only works for people who are born into the right circumstances."

There's an edge to his voice now, something raw and personal that catches Y/N off guard.

"So you just decided to make your own rules?" she challenges, though her tone has softened slightly.

"I decided to survive," Harry corrects her. "And then I decided to thrive."

He reaches across the table, his fingers stopping just short of touching hers—respecting her earlier boundary despite the clear desire to break it.

"I'm not a good man, Y/N. I won't pretend to be. But I'm honest about who I am, at least with you."

Y/N studies him, her training in psychology making her look for tells, for signs of manipulation or deception. But all she sees is surprising sincerity.

"Why me?" she asks finally, the question that's been bothering her since she saw his car outside the coffee shop. "You could have anyone. Why chase after a college student who didn't call you back?"

Harry's expression shifts again, something almost vulnerable appearing before he masks it.

"Because you looked at me and saw a person, not a resource," he says quietly. "Even when you were walking away."

He picks up his wine again, taking a drink as if to wash away the unexpected honesty.

"And because you're fucking gorgeous when you tell me no," he adds, his tone shifting back to the confident man she met at the club. "It's refreshing."

Despite herself, Y/N feels a smile tugging at her lips.

"You're used to people saying yes," she observes.

Harry's answering smile is predatory.

"To everything," he confirms. "Always."

Their eyes lock across the table, the air between them charging with the same electricity from the club. Y/N is the first to look away, suddenly interested in the scallops he recommended.

"These are good," she admits after taking a bite.

"I know," Harry says, watching her with undisguised interest. "I only surround myself with the best."

The implication is clear, and Y/N feels heat rising to her cheeks despite her determination to remain unaffected.

"Twenty minutes left," she reminds him, glancing at her watch. "Then I have class."

Harry nods, accepting the boundary for now.

"Tell me about your studies," he says, surprising her with what seems like genuine interest. "What made you choose psychology and criminal justice?"

Y/N hesitates, then decides there's no harm in answering.

"I've always been fascinated by why people do what they do," she explains. "Especially when their choices hurt others or themselves. Understanding the mind behind the action..."

She trails off, suddenly aware that she's basically describing her interest in people like him.

Harry's smile suggests he's made the same connection.

"And what have you learned?" he asks, his voice dropping lower. "About people who break the rules?"

Y/N meets his gaze directly.

"That they're usually running from something," she says honestly. "Or toward something they think they can't have any other way."

Harry's expression flickers, something hitting home in her assessment.

"And which am I, Dr. Y/N?" he asks, his tone light but his eyes serious. "Running from or running toward?"

Y/N studies him, seeing beyond the dangerous exterior to something more complex beneath.

"Both," she answers softly. "Just like most of us."

Harry looks momentarily taken aback by her insight, then nods slowly, acknowledging the truth in her words.

"See?" he says, his voice rough. "This is why you should have called me back."

Y/N checks her watch again, gathering her things.

"Time's up, Harry," she says, standing from the table. "I have class."

Harry rises immediately, signaling for the check without taking his eyes off her.

"I'll drive you," he says, making it clear this isn't negotiable.

As they walk to his car, he stays close but doesn't touch her, maintaining the boundary she set despite the obvious tension between them.

"This doesn't change anything," Y/N says as he opens the passenger door for her. "One lunch doesn't erase the fact that you had me followed."

Harry nods, his expression serious as he closes her door and walks around to the driver's side.

"I know," he says once he's settled behind the wheel. "But it's a start."

He drives her to class in comfortable silence, pulling up outside the psychology building with five minutes to spare.

"Thank you for lunch," Y/N says formally, reaching for the door handle.

Harry reaches out, his fingers wrapping gently around her wrist to stop her.

"Have dinner with me tomorrow," he says, his tone making it clear this matters to him. "A proper date. No tracking, no showing up unannounced. Just text me yes or no."

He releases her wrist and pulls out his phone, sending her a text so he can be sure she has his number.

Before she can question how he knows her number, Y/N feels her phone vibrate in her pocket but doesn't check it yet.

"I'll think about it," she says, which is more than she intended to give him.

Harry's smile is knowing, as if he can already sense her answer.

"That's all I ask," he says, though they both know it's not all he wants.

As Y/N walks away toward her class, she can feel his eyes on her back, watching until she disappears inside the building. Only then does she pull out her phone to see his message:

Say yes. I promise to stay on my side of the table. Unless you ask me not to.

Despite herself, Y/N smiles, already knowing she'll probably say yes, even though every instinct tells her Harry Styles is dangerous in ways she's only beginning to understand.

· · ─────────────·────────── · ·

A/N: what do we think of the series so far?

Taglist: @silastylesswift @babegoals @harryssunflower17 @puzio19 @goldensunflowerss-blog @drewrry @tinawritesstuff @dipmeinhoneyh @spinninc @harrystyleshotwife @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @estaticheart

[ghostlycamil4]

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜: 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝐷𝑎𝑚𝑛 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟 (𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦)

Masterlist

Bakugo always had something to say. That you were too loud, that you didn’t know how to stay still, that you were always all over him. And yet, what unsettled him the most—though he’d never admit it—was how easy it was for you to love.

And yet, that shameless and sincere way you showed your feelings was, ironically, one of the first things that broke down his walls.

“Move over a bit,” you said suddenly, standing in front of him.

“What? Why?” he grumbled without budging.

Without answering, you put one knee on the couch, then the other, and with smooth, confident movements, you climbed onto his lap like that was your rightful place. Bakugo tensed up, surprised. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air for a second, like they didn’t know what to do. You, on the other hand, just settled your weight, straddling him naturally.

“Woman, get off. I’m not a damn chair,” he growled, but his hands ended up on your waist, clumsy at first, like he was trying to convince himself it was to push you away… even though he made no real effort to do so.

“I don’t wanna, Katsuki,” you whispered, leaning in until your face was just inches from his.

“I need space…” he repeated, voice lower now, less firm, betrayed by the faint blush creeping up his neck.

You tilted your head with a small smile, and instead of answering with words, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his jawline. His body shivered beneath yours.

“Damn it, what are you—”

You didn’t let him finish. You brought your hands to his face, warm and gentle, cupping him tenderly as you started kissing him little by little, like you were tracing an invisible map across his skin.

First his cheeks, one by one, with soft kisses that left behind the subtle mark of your favorite lipstick. Then his forehead, right in the center. Bakugo closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath. His fingers now gripped your hips firmly.

When your lips touched the bridge of his nose, he opened his eyes again and muttered:

“You’re completely nuts…”

And then, finally, you kissed his lips. It was short, loud, one of those kisses meant just to let the other person know you care. The sound broke the silence between you. Bakugo held your gaze for a moment, and even though his brow was still furrowed, there was no threat left in it.

“I’m gonna kill you,” he muttered in a rough voice, without any conviction.

But you saw the smile. It slipped onto his face without permission. And the tips of his ears, red as a warning light, gave away what he still refused to admit.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

[morhido]

Sighs. Okay yeah i have thoughts about cgi toothless.

First of all, why does he look so... slimy? He feels too smooth. Like they just stretched some scaly skin over a skeleton and let it walk around. Immediately offputting.

His body language is. Fine? Am i being nitpicky or does it seem just the tiniest bit less expressive? I'm guessing this is either the scene right after hiccup cuts him free, in which case he should be way more intimidating, or the fish-sharing scene, in which case he should feel a little friendlier and more curious around hiccup. It's a quick shot so i won't put a ton of expectations onto it, but i think it's worth noting.

Okay this is a legitimately cool detail though. He has a secondary eyelid!! You can see it slipping away when he opens his eyes. That's a detail exclusive to the books so i like that they included something as small as that.

Sighs again. And this is the shot that prompted me to make this post.

Look at the original, and then look at the cgi version. I could write an essay about how inferior the cgi version is in comparison.

First off, they flattened his face. I swear every iteration of night furies after the first movie has just been compressing their snouts until they're sufficiently 'cute' enough for the audience to forget they're supposed to be sleek and aerodynamic.

Second, his eyes. Absolutely radioactive. I understand using a brighter colour for his eyes, especially in a relatively darker environment to make him stand out and seem more fantastical. But. They're just so bright. It's mildly unsettling how saturated they are compared to everything else.

Third, his eyes. Again.

Toothless is supposed to be terrified but still threatening in this scene, and the original shot conveys that perfectly. If it's a threat, then by all means hiccup should kill it or at least run, but instead he draws a connection between both of them being scared of the other and decides to cut him loose instead. And that's the core of their relationship. Toothless is staring him down with a slitted pupil that could just as easily be interpreted as "fuck around and find out" but hiccup just acknowledges that there's a frightened, injured animal in front of him that needs help, and he helps.

Is any of that conveyed in the cgi version? No!! It's trying so hard to be cute that it's gone full circle back to just being scary. The wide-eyed stare, the dilated pupil, he's basically just saying "🥺🥺 uwu pwease i'm so cute and innocent don't kill me aha 👉👈". Which is a lot less of a compelling reason for hiccup to free him!! Plus the fact that toothless turns up to look at him instead of lying and accepting his fate like in the original, which only makes it seem even more like he's trying to show off how apparently adorable he is.

Idk. Just the difference between the in-your-face sanitised cuteness of "teehe you wouldn't kill little old me would you? 🥺" and the expert subtlety of his "please don't hurt me" of the original doesn't give me high hopes for a toothless that stays true to his character from the first movie. Even from something as small as this. He's gonna get woobified. I can feel it.

[differenteagletragedy]

Part Eight of Simon Riley x Single Mother, they're really doing this thing <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven

By the time Emma’s first birthday rolls around, Simon has a ring in a box that lives in his nightstand back at his apartment. He keeps it there, safe and sound, instead of slipping it on your finger like he really wants to.

It’s not because he’s still thinking about it — he knows exactly where that ring belongs. It’s because, all told, it hasn’t been all that long since you got together. And while he wants nothing more than to lock this down, to breathe a little easier with the help of a sturdy gold band looped around his ring finger, he doesn’t want to scare you off. Wants to give it time to make sure that you’re in the same place he is.

So he waits. And every day he wants it a little more.

What pushes him to act, to move past his fear of rejection, is a close call during a mission gone wrong.

It's strange, he thinks, because he'd definitely been in worse predicaments. He didn't even get hurt, just felt the whizzing of bullets flying past him, a little too close for comfort, and he can't get it out of his head. If he'd been a little less aware, even if the wind had been off, he could have died, and while that never bothered him before, it's unsettling now.

The thought of you on your own again, of Charlie and Emma wanting for anything, forgetting him ... it aches. It keeps him up at night, even when he's laying in your bed, your warm, solid weight resting against him.

He tries to sleep, but it's no use. It's his third day back after coming home, and he's exhausted, but he can't rest like this. He finds his fingers running lightly your arm, up and down and back again, and before long you're stirring, turning slowly to face him.

"Simon?" you ask, your eyes still closed. "Everything ok?"

On one hand, everything is ok -- more than ok. Everything is beautiful. He can hear a faint stream of white noise coming through the baby monitor by the bed, telling him that Emma and Charlie are fast asleep in their room. You're in his arms, too, and it's perfection.

But tonight, just like last night and the night before, it feels too fleeting.

He clenches his jaw, struggling to find the words, and at his silence you open your eyes, sleepy concern etched on your face. He lifts a finger to smooth out the crease in your forehead, then trails it down your temple and towards your jaw.

You're so delicate. Strong too, he knows that, but now ...

"Marry me."

It's not a question, but a plea. Your eyebrows shoot up, and he puts his hand on the back of your neck, keeping you close.

"I ... really?" you ask. "You're really asking me to marry you?"

"Begging, love," he admits quietly. "Please."

He got the ring months ago at this point, and in all that time, he'd never landed on just how he wanted to propose. He never imagined this specific scenario. You deserve better -- than this, than him -- but he's desperate.

"... You sure?"

"Got a ring back at mine," he tells you. "Got it ages ago, never been more sure of anything."

It's hard to put into words how much this means to him, so he keeps his gaze steady, hoping you can, in that special way you always do, see it in his eyes.

And you do.

In a flash, you're pressing yourself against him, kissing him deeply. He pulls you closer, indulging you, but still, he needs words.

"If this is a 'yes,' I need to hear it," he says.

"Yes, Simon, of course ... yes."

That night, he sleeps better than he had in recent memory, and in the quiet of the morning, he slips away, just long enough to retrieve the ring from his place before you and the kids start stirring. When he's back, he slips into bed beside you, gently takes your hand and slides the ring on your finger.

It's a weight off his shoulders. He can't imagine how good it will feel watching you sign the marriage certificate.

This time, you don't quite wake up, you just snuggle up against him. But before long, he starts hearing soft sounds playing through the baby monitor: Charlie muttering what he knows are good morning rambles to his little sister. There's some rustling, and soon he hears two sets of little footsteps coming through the hall, then your bedroom door opens and Charlie and Emma are there, hand in hand, ready to start the day.

"Come on then," you mutter, still nestled against Simon.

The two children scramble up into the bed quickly. Emma tucks herself against your side, still sleepy herself, but Charlie is characteristically alert and energetic, and he throws himself across you and Simon, burrowing himself in the middle.

It's the morning routine now. The four of you stay in bed, slowly (or in Charlie's case, with minimal patience) waking up together. After a few moments, you finally notice the ring newly placed on your finger, and you smile, holding your hand up to get a good look at it.

"What's that?" Charlie asks.

"A present from Simon," you answer.

"But it's not your birthday or Christmas or anything."

"Doesn't have to be a holiday to get a present," Simon points out, and Charlie swiftly turns to look at him.

"Do I get a present too?"

You laugh, warm and happy, and tell him, "In a way."

Simon wants to do it all, and he wants to do it right. Marry you, then work on adopting Charlie and Emma. Sort out everything for all three of you, make it so that you're safe and taken care of, while he's here and, if anything ever happens to him, when he's gone.

But for now, this sleepy Sunday morning will definitely do.

PART NINE

[cloudwisp]

Sylus has always been honest and expressive when it comes to you. Even now, when you inform him about your upcoming travels over the weekend for an important assignment dispatched by the Hunters Association. His encircled arm around your waist tightens and he moves his body on top of yours to burrow his face into the curve of your neck and grunts to show his dismay. Of course, you anticipated this reaction when his most cherished part of the day is being together and spending time with you.

Your attempt to bite back a smile fails when he clings to you and breathes in your scent. Dread looms over him as he considers how much he’ll miss you and crave your presence for those two days—he’s already aching at the thought. It’s endearing to know that your preconceived absence is getting to him and he’s making quite the fuss about it while he still can. But you know you’ll miss him just as dearly when you’re miles apart from him, counting down the hours until you’re leaping back into his arms again.

“It’s just two days—you’re acting like I’ll be gone for two weeks or two months. You’ll be completely fine without me.” Your fingers smooth through his silver locks expecting to appease him, but he gently nips at your sensitive skin when you mention an even more undesirable window of time. “Hey, that tickles!”

“Two days is too long being away from my wife.” His warm breath spreads across your collarbone as he pulls back slowly to meet your gaze, and there’s a hint of petulance in his voice. Your hands reach up to hold his face for a moment before bringing him down for a sweet and lingering kiss to dispel the faint pout on his lips. He hums and welcomes the tenderness, melting into the fleeting yet blissful exchange.

“I promise I’ll call you and text you often. I’m certain being Onychinus boss will keep you busy in the meantime, and you won’t even notice I’m gone before the two days are up.” Just when you think you’re making light of the situation, the furrow in Sylus' brow deepens a mere fraction when you paint him out to have so little regard for you.

“Now, that’s not true, kitten.” He shakes his head with a soft sigh and his reluctance to let you go increases tenfold. “I will notice every second that you’re not with me. How can I not when I think the world of you.”

You can feel the weight of his words behind his pensive stare that holds timeless affection and boundless devotion than he knows how to convey. He’s well aware that traveling comes with being a Hunter and the dangers of dealing with and eliminating wanderers. Even though you’re more than capable and can hold your own ground, he still can’t stomach the unsettling feeling that anything could happen to you and you’d be so far away that he couldn’t protect you. “Just promise me you’ll be careful out there. Reach out to me if you ever find yourself in trouble.”

You gleam with a smile and pepper quick kisses on the corners of his mouth followed by a loving and sincere one full and center on his lips as though you’re sealing the promise with your sweet little ritual. “I do have a husband I love coming home to. I wouldn’t do anything that involves risk, and I’ll update you regularly so you’ll know I’m being perfectly safe.”

Sylus finally relents and a glimmer of mirth appears in his deep red hues. He turns over onto his back, pulling you along with him so you’re half-splayed across his broad chest. You feel a chaste kiss brush against your forehead as he holds you close, wanting to savor every moment he can before he’s deprived of your comforting warmth and the privileges of skinship. “If you go quiet for too long, I’ll drop everything and come to you myself.”

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

that one guy - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader has an off feeling about this one guy... so spencer has a look at said guy

genre: fluff wc: 0.8k warnings: boyfriend!spencer, r wears a dress, made up womanizer character named tristan, drinking, blond guy slander a/n: anon request!

We all know that one person.

The one that everyone likes–the one that always has the most charming smile and the most lovely personality.

In this case, it’s that one guy. All of your friends love him and you, well, don’t. It’s just a certain something about him. He’s too squeaky clean for someone who jumps from girl to girl, calling them all crazy afterwards. Every last one was either a stalker, too clingy, or so batshit that he had no choice but to dump her over text.

But nobody thinks that’s something odd.

Especially your friend that fell for him quicker than what it takes for him to write a goodbye note. You warned her, over and over. Yet, she stuck up her nose and called you an unsupportive friend.

Which is preposterous, by the way.

Your mission for the night is to find a reason why this guy is so bad. Because, right now, you’ve got unfortunate dating history and a hunch. Call yourself a journalist.

Instead of doing this all on your own, you’ve called for reinforcements. Very cute reinforcements if you do say so yourself.

Your boyfriend, Spencer Reid, the profiler he is, is going to help you get some insight on this guy. Hopefully being a male will also help.

The party was supposed to be a simple get-together for your friend group but, how parties go, too many people found out and the guest list multiplied.

Your hands smooth out the fabric of your mini dress as you look at yourself in the mirror.

“Ready to go?” Spencer asks, peeking into your bedroom.

“Yeah.”

The party is less of an ordeal than you imagined. The house isn’t filled to the brim with ass-hats with red Solo cups–instead, there are guys in suits and girls in mini skirts.

Not frat assholes, but snooty assholes.

Yes, music is still blaring and you’re sure this is Spencer’s worst nightmare, but it’s less get drunk and pass out on the couch than most of the parties you’ve been to.

“Is he here yet?” your boyfriend wonders aloud, hand on your back.

Your manicured finger points to a blond–of course he’s blond–standing and talking to a short guy in a tux by the drink table.

“Allow me to introduce you,” you grin ironically. You drag him by the hand while he never loses his grip on your waist.

The man is tall with a wicked smile and a face that says my dad owns the place, do you want to go upstairs? That face unsettles you.

He looks down at you and yells over the music, “well, hey! I didn’t expect you to come. I thought you’d be knitting or something…”

“I don’t knit.”

He nods, taking a gulp of his scotch. “Who’s this?” he asks, pointing to Spencer.

“This is my boyfriend! Spencer.”

“Tristan,” he introduces himself before his eyes find you again, “I didn’t peg you for the boyfriend type,” the man smiles like it was a compliment.

“Right.”

Your eyes meet Spencer’s for a moment before you turn back to your enemy (no, that’s not an overdramatization).

“I’m going to get a drink!” you hum in faux pleasantness.

The excuse to skedaddle was obviously not believable considering the assortment of alcohol was quite literally right in front of you.

Spencer’s gaze follows you until you’re impossible to spot even with a magnifying glass. When he turns back to the slightly shorter man, his eyes are fixed on where you–and your short dress–were last visible.

“You got an interesting girl.”

“What’s that mean?” your boyfriend attempts to sound curious, not protective.

Tristan shrugs dismissively.

“She’s… someone that gets old fast.”

Your heels click on the tile as you enter the kitchen. Everyone here is dressed so nicely. The bustling atmosphere both overwhelms and exhilarates you. Sparkling faces and smiles surround you as your fingers wrap around a flute of something bubbly. It fizzes all the way down your throat. Your brain keeps floating back to the conversation you’re missing out on.

It’s only when you feel a large hand on your shoulder that you don’t feel like you’re missing out on all that much. “Let’s go,” Spencer mutters before an awkward smile that makes his lips press together in a flat line.

You aren’t so upset to leave.

His words come out strung together and garbled while he guides you out of the party, “I don’t mean to–uh–be controlling or anything, but you should… stay away from that guy.”

And, you know what?

Yeah.

“The amount of misogynistic, conservative, and frankly perverted things that I had to listen to…” he shakes his head and his voice raises an octave to say, “also, the way he talked about you! Honestly, just, for your safety–”

“Spencer,” you giggle, spinning to cup his face. “I really just wanted an excuse not to talk to him.”

Those pretty teeth of his peek out thanks to a pretty smile. “Okay,” he laughs.Your feet bring you down the porch steps swiftly. A soft (albeit childish) giggle leaves you before you squeal, “also, his name is Tristan.”

[tender-rosiey]

Hii, can I request a fic where sukuna is trying to court the reader but she's still scared of him and doesn't realize what he's trying to do?🫶🏾

tethered — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: i could not let reader be trampled on; am sorry :( i mean you can tell she is scared but she aint gon take crap from him ALSO if you guys saw that I used this sukuna panel before, pls tell me tyyy

the room feels far too small with him in it, despite its towering ceilings and wide stone floors. his presence suffocates every inch of space, like the weight of a storm pressing down on you, demanding attention.

your hands tremble slightly as you pour tea into the lacquered cup, but you force them to steady. you’ve been doing this long enough to know better than to show fear, even if your pulse hammers in your throat.

the weight of sukuna’s gaze is heavy, as always, but you keep your eyes trained on the task, pretending not to notice the way he watches your every move, like a predator biding its time.

you place the tea in front of him, bowing respectfully.

yet the air between you shifts—his presence thick with something unfamiliar. you glance up, wary, only to find his eyes, crimson and sharp, still locked onto you.

that smile—the one that sends chills racing down your spine—curves his lips.

“you’re trembling again,” he says, his voice low, dark amusement coloring every word.

you grit your teeth, forcing yourself to breathe slowly, evenly.

“it’s cold, my lord,” you respond, as calmly as you can manage, though the lie feels feeble. everyone knows that with sukuna in the room, it’s never the cold you have to fear.

he leans forward slightly, one of his lower arms lazily resting on the table, the other two still folded across his broad chest. “is that so?” his voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it that unsettles you more than his usual biting remarks.

you’ve heard the whispers, the rumors—how he’s been different lately, his focus shifted. and it’s not hard to guess where that focus lies.

you’ve felt the shift, too. the extra care given to your meals, the finery left in your chambers, and the subtle way he’s been keeping you close. too close.

you glance at him from the corner of your eye, nerves flaring. “I don’t mean to waste your time, my lord. if there’s nothing else, I should return to my duties.”

his chuckle fills the room, rich and deep, as though you’ve just said something absurdly amusing. “so eager to leave?” he asks, his voice low. “I’ve been generous, haven’t I?”

there’s something different in his tone now, something dangerous. your stomach knots as his gaze sharpens, studying you with unnerving intensity.

“my lord, I—” you stop yourself, choosing your words carefully. the last thing you want is to provoke him. “you’ve been more than kind. but I am still just a servant. I don’t require such attention.”

his smile widens, showing more of his sharp teeth, the predatory glint in his eyes growing darker. one of his upper hands moves, reaching out to tilt your chin upward, forcing you to meet his gaze head-on.

“just a servant?” he repeats, voice dripping with mockery. “you really think I would waste my time on someone who means nothing?”

you swallow hard, refusing to flinch under his touch. his hand is surprisingly gentle, but the power behind it is unmistakable. you force yourself to meet his eyes, despite every instinct screaming at you to look away.

“I—I…think I don’t know why you would waste your time on someone who isn’t afraid to speak her mind.”

his eyes flash with something dark and unreadable, but it isn’t anger. it’s interest. you can see the amusement flickering beneath the surface, and it sends another chill down your spine.

“you think you’re brave?” he muses, his voice lowering to a dark whisper. “or perhaps foolish?”

your breath hitches, his words unsettling. “I don’t think it’s foolish to speak honestly,” you reply, voice steadier than you feel. “especially when I’ve done nothing to earn the attention of someone like you.”

sukuna leans forward again, all four arms now resting on the arms of his throne as he stares you down. the air feels heavier, charged with something dangerous and electric.

his voice drops low, smooth as silk but with a dark edge. “you’ve earned it by surviving in my presence this long. by not running when you had the chance. that interests me.”

your heart races, the closeness unnerving, but you refuse to back down. “I’m here because it’s my duty,” you manage, your voice sharp and defiant. “not because I seek your favor or your… gifts.”

sukuna laughs then, the sound deep and rumbling, like distant thunder.

“ah, so you do notice my gifts. modest as they are.” he leans in closer, one of his lower hands brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “tell me, little servant, if it’s not favor you seek, what do you want?”

your stomach flips, the closeness sending a wave of heat through your cheeks, but you stand firm.

“I want to be left alone,” you reply bluntly, trying not to flinch under his gaze. “I want to do my duties without feeling like prey every time I enter the room.”

his eyes narrow slightly, a dangerous glint flashing in them, but there’s something else too. amusement. curiosity. he’s not angry—if anything, he seems more intrigued than before.

“you think you’re prey?” he muses, his voice lowering to a dark whisper. “perhaps you are. or perhaps, you’ve already caught the ‘predator’s’ attention in ways you don’t yet understand.”

his words sending a chill down your spine, but you stand firm. “If I have, it’s not by choice, sukuna-sama.”

his smile softens, just a fraction, but it’s no less menacing. he rises from his seat, towering over you as he closes the distance between you in a heartbeat.

his four hands move with calculated grace, two of them resting on either side of your face, trapping you in place as he looms over you.

“choice is an illusion for you humans,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “but you’ll come to understand that in time.”

despite the trembling in your limbs, you lift your chin, meeting his gaze with a newfound defiance. “I’m not afraid of you.”

he smirks, his eyes gleaming with approval at your boldness. “good. fear is boring.”

then, in a startlingly unexpected move, he leans down, brushing his lips against your forehead—an act of tenderness that catches you completely off guard.

the warmth of his breath lingers, and the moment stretches between you, almost surreal.

“besides,” he continues, voice low and surprisingly gentle, “I find your spirit rather… enticing.”

your heart races, confusion mingling with the fear that had gripped you moments before.

this man, this powerful being, was something else entirely, and as you step back, you can’t shake the strange warmth that blooms in your chest.

with that, he releases you, stepping back and letting the tension between you linger like smoke in the air.

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do not copy or plagiarize

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[alexiroflife]

jjk men as "sinners" vampires... trying to lure you in

MDNI, mentions of violence, ryan coogler's "sinners" film references, angst, vampire!au, slightly gory descriptions, a smidgen of fluff with a whole lot of seduction, uhh mentions of spit in choso's, f|ngering in choso's gulp, suggestive themese, mentions of death, taunting, i'm in a chokehold

gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna

-> sinners changed my life. i don't even have the words. the history, the music, the representation, the cinematography??? BROTHERRRR. my culture is so beautiful and so is bo chow telling grace that he got the car warmed up after he turned and micheal b. jordan with vampire grills, so now i gotta make this a cross-fandom headcanon problem. ya'll this had to be done and it will be done with aot men too.

satoru gojo: "come give me a kiss..."

you know it's not your husband when you catch the flicker of hellfire in his normally, now you particularly realize, virtuous sapphire eyes. in the midst of tonight's horror, he stands so still as a symphony of daunting low humming, celtic triumphance, and the nauseating stench of blood rise into the air and intermix, dancing about in a manifestation of dark chaos. and there your husband is in the doorway, a partner to the horrors with a hand pressed to the frame as shaggy white hair flutters into lidded eyes. eyes that you know are no longer his.

his pink lips curve into a soft, flirtatious smile, one that you have seen time and time again. yet the image you would have sworn you knew like the back of your hand appears foreign to you. something silent, something sinister grasps it, and gone is the man you once knew. gone is the spirit from his gaze and grin, an undead mischief serving in its place.

"what's the matter, baby?"

his smooth voice rumbles into a playful taunt, filtering into your ears like a seductive lament for the dead. a rasping breath subtly catches his words, striking you as something like a predatory animal. your eyes well with tears as you look over satoru's pearly white skin, somehow even paler in the moonlight... he practically glows.

your eyes drift down to the tattered button-up adorning his strapping figure as he crosses an ankle over the other and leans, hovering over you between the invisible barrier protecting you from the outside of the club.

you gulp, tracing the patches of smeared blood over his white fabric with your trembling eyes, over the stains that coat his fingertips. your body shakes, a lump lodging itself in your throat as you are forced into abrupt mourning.

this isn't satoru. this isn't the man you love.

he's dead before you.

"you're looking a little pale," he continues, causing you to snap your eyes back up to his face. he tilts his head as his smirk stretches, dimples poking into his cheek with the subtly baring of his sharpened teeth.

it's strange. you can still feel his desire as he zones in on you, soaking you into his surveillance as he shamelessly admires your features like he wants to ravish you.

however, now, you are sure that he does not intend to ravish you the way you would necessarily hope.

"is my pretty girl not feeling well?” satoru practically bullies you with his tone and his words, for the monster knows exactly why you appear so unsettled before him. he is mentally stripping you down, taking you apart piece by piece, utilizing the love he knows you have for him as well as his love that has charged into hunger as a means to reel you in.

“do you want a kiss to make it all go away? that used to help with anything. i’m certain it’ll help now. aren’t you?”

your heart is hammering with fear, grief, love, and you are afraid to even open your mouth to speak. to make a single movement with your body. satoru has you paralyzed. a spell has been cast over you by some kind of curse, and you are distraught. distraught by the death that has suddenly gripped your husband of two years, and distraught by the fact that you are having a significantly hard time mustering up the strength to walk away from him.

for though his soul has left his body, it still looks like him. it still, to some extent, feels like him. your heart and mind and body still long to react to him as if he is still yours, as if he is still alive and human.

"come on, (y/n)."

and when he calls your name, it is still his voice that rings it, his tongue that your address rolls off of so longingly.

“just step on outside and give me a kiss.”

you must be insane for wanting to, you think to yourself. for how can you accept the vicious murder of your husband so easily, especially when he stands before you, devilishly handsome, asking you for something you did not think you would ever be able to give him again?

“come on. you know you want to,” satoru hums. “it’ll make you feel so much better. i can make that pout on your pretty face go away just like that.”

you do not even take offense when he refers to your bloodshot red puffy eyes, tear stained cheeks, and snotty nose as a ‘pout.’ all you hear is your satoru, and it kills you internally how desperately you still need him though every bone in your body is screaming at you to turn away before you are next.

when satoru catches that a part of him is getting to you somehow, he shifts himself slightly, lifting his head to stare down at you head on, his playfulness dwindling as his steely eyes sharpen.

“or… if you don’t wanna come outside…” he murmurs, eyes tracing down your body, studying calmly how tear droplets break from your chin and splatter onto your exposed chest. he takes in a slow, deep breath through his nose, distant memories of watching you dress in pink silk for tonight’s festivities fluttering somewhere in the back of his skull, further fueling his bloodlust, melded with an honest desire to never part with you.

you hold your breath, looking directly into his eyes as his lips part and shiny fangs peak through. “...you can just let me in so i can feel that pretty mouth of yours on mine. you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. i’ll take care of it for you. just like i always do.”

his words wrap around you like a snake tightening its coils around prey, entrancing you in the steady dismantling of your self control.

your breath hitches in your throat, your fist tightening at your sides as your fingers dig in your palm hard enough to draw blood.

satoru notices, and for the first time since his slaughter, you see his lips spread into a toothy, excited grin, canines pointed enough to break skin with a simple nick.

“ohhh…” he coos “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

you gulp heart, fighting yourself internally, nose flaring, skin heating.

“well, i can make that happen. all you gotta do, pretty, is say the words.”

he brings his face in just the smallest bit closer, still confined to the outside by his current obstacle. you can smell the fading cologne on his neck, feel the bitter coolness of his breath fan your face.

“let me in.”

suguru geto: "you know better..."

"angel..."

you hear his voice practically singing for you from just outside the doorway, on the other side of the wall, but you do not dare fall for his charm. you can not afford to now, for it unfortunately may cost you your life.

but suguru geto has always been a twistedly persuasive man. perhaps it was the manipulative tendencies he tended to put to use when working with unpleasant people, but he never would have used them on you before...

not when he was alive and human, at least.

now, as you shield yourself by pressing your back to the wall just beside the entryway, hiding away from your turned fiancé's beautiful face, you dread the notion that you may fall victim to his pretty words.

"now, now. you know better than to hide away from me, let alone pretend you don't hear me speaking to you."

his gentle voice slinks into your ear, testing you, tempting you.

you tense, cramping up every muscle in your body as if that will help you reject him, as if restricting your body will somehow reduce your longing to be with him, no matter what he was turned into.

you can practically feel him. how he hovers, how he lingers just on the other side of where you stand, how he taunts you with his looming physicality, how he knows that your instilled connection to him will draw you out of hiding any moment now.

you want to fight the drug that is him that has somehow amplified in his vampiric state, but your fiancé is gone. he’s been ripped from you, and all that is left is this monster that resembles him, that is his flesh and bone but not his soul.

in spite of it all, in spite of the carnage he seeks and the chaos he wishes to inspire, it is still suguru geto. it is still his long beautiful hair, his silky skin, his damned hypnotic voice.

"don't do that to me, (y/n). don't ignore me. it makes me so sad."

you can hear the playful pout, and your stomach flips.

"i can hear you, you know. i can hear you breathing."

your eyes blow wide and you instinctively hold your breath, raising your head and pressing your lips together tightly.

a melodic, gentle chuckle slips out of him, the sound just as beautiful as it was when he was living.

"nice try, but that means i can hear when you try to hide it too."

christ, he will let nothing go unseen? he's torturing you, swarming you with the attention he knows you will not be able to deny.

"i can hear your heart beating too," he reveals, his voice dropping deeper, lower. "it's beating so fast. am i making you nervous?""

"just stop talking, suguru," you hush out along with your held breath, and now that you have answered, both you and suguru know that he's caught you.

"ahhh, there's that beautiful voice," he smiles. "how lovely it is to talk to you again, angel."

"suguru, this is-" you suck in some air as sweat beads over your forehead. "this is fucked. leave me alone."

"why are you giving me so much attitude? i thought you liked talking to me."

"you're not my fiancé."

"now how could you say such a thing when your fiancé is right here talking to you?"

"suguru, stop. i can't do this with you. you're gone. you're dead. i know why you're here, and you're not gonna get inside.''

"that's a bit pessimistic... i prefer to keep my mind open and stay positive."

"well, optimism isn't gonna make me do otherwise. i'm not letting you in."

"alright. then you can come outside to me."

you whip your head. "no," you deny sternly.

"you're thinking on this too much, (y/n)," he says. "i'm not gonna hurt you. you know i'd never hurt you."

"i don't believe you."

"i just want to see you. can't you at least let me do that?"

"i said no, suguru."

"you don't have to step outside. i won't make you," he continues. "i just want to speak to you face to face. i hate having this wall between us."

you close your eyes and grind down on your teeth.

he's too good at this. too good at making you want to give into him.

"just take a few steps to the right so we can talk in the doorway. i can't get in either way. you have nothing to worry about."

you do not answer, for you ponder it.

"(y/n)," he drawls. "what did i say about ignoring me?"

"shut up."

"you know that's not how we communicate. we never ignore each other."

and you hate yourself for it, but that is what does it for you. that is what crashes through the weak wall you temporarily had up in order to keep yourself from giving him too much, from deceiving you into eventually letting him inside. it starts with letting him see you, and nevertheless, you break because of how perfectly his previous words align with something the normal him would have said.

it is your only glimpse of who he was before he turned. before he died.

he fooled you, with references to your relationship style and the sweetness of his tone.

he must sense that you are relinquishing control, and he leans further into it. "right?"

"one minute," you state swiftly. "you have one minute to say what you want to say to me."

"one minute," he agrees, humoring what you convince yourself to be the control you already lost. "no more and no less."

you know you shouldn't. you know you'll only fall for what he tells you.

but you have to look him in the eye and see him truly changed before you.

so you cautiously step away from the wall and into the doorway, open to a perfect view of the vast land and abandoned cars.

suguru slowly saunters his way over, a satisfied smile capturing his face with shining eyes. his hair sways with his movements as he stands before you, the splatters of blood on his cheek not going unseen.

the urge to cry takes over you as you look over him, and his smile widens. "atta girl."

nanami kento: "i got the car all warmed up..."

you think you're dreaming up some kind of horrific nightmare for a moment.

it all happened so fast. the witnessing of a demon of the night flying into your innocent friend, sinking teeth into his neck and blood spurting about the grass and the side of the wall.

you could only pray that your husband made it home safely until you see him saunter over to the open doorway where you stand calmly, dress shoes crunching into the gravel as he approaches. the bloody scene transpires to the side, and you find yourself whipping your head between both the murder and the unfathomable sight of your husband, who has not even spared a glance into that direction.

"k-kento?" you stammer, heartbeat in your ears.

the said man looks up at you and smiles, fiddling with his car keys.

you do not wish to think the worst. you know this image is strange, but you do not want to entertain the thought... that your husband has become one of them.

yet his entire presence is offputting. not a trace of anxiety or concern for anything is written on his face. he presents as something like a simulation or robot beyond your comprehension, for this thing is not behaving the way your husband, nanami, would, despite his identical likeness to him.

"let's go, honey," he looks at you blankly with a small, polite smile. you blink, immensely confounded. you twitch to go with him, but those around you, as well as yourself, instinctively know that you must stay put.

you have not accepted it yet. you can not accept it yet.

you furrow your brows, eyes glazing over as you look at your strapping husband in awe. he looks back at you almost lovingly, kindly, but it is not the same love and kindness you know him to possess. it feels empty, the way his honey brown eyes meet yours. it is like he is voice of feeling, void of any warmth that you once knew him to withhold.

"kento, what are you doing? what happened?"

the gnarly sound of hungry growling accompanied by flesh ripping fills the space when it is silent, and you fight how you want to look over.

you find it disturbing how the blonde has yet to spare a passing glance to the scene. a man is actively being devoured by a vampire right there before you all, and he looks at you expectantly as though he does not notice.

"i was just getting the car warmed up for you, sweetheart," he assures you affectionately. "it's all ready to go. come, love. let's go home."

home?

you feel something crumble within you.

you want to go home so terribly. it is the one thing you want more than anything in this life at the time being, and kento knew that before stepping out to get the car. he knew by the look of terror on your face that he had to get you out of here, so he tredded out into unknown danger for you hours ago. he got the car started for you. and he came back for you...

but you realize that the nanami that left you is not the same nanami that has returned to you.

kento turns after your pause to outstretch his had clutching the keys and click a button. your car beeps in response, but you did not miss the blood staining the back of his shirt that is only revealed when he turns his body.

your jaw hangs open and your hands come to cover your mouth to prevent from openly wailing. this catches kento's attention, as he turns back around and lowers the keys.

"see?"

he lifts his brows at you, holding out his hand toward you. your eyes blur over with tears as you stare at his hand. the hand you would once eagerly clasp in your own now tinged with blurred red.

"let's go."

"ken, wh-" you're shaking uncontrollably. struggling to speak through your tremors as your hands hover over your face. "d-do you not see what's- what's happening right next to you?"

a tear breaks past your lashes as kento finally turns to look, and a naive part of you almost hopes that he will jump back in shock upon taking in the sight he could have possibly missed.

instead, he lowers his head with a soft chuckle. his hair, once slicked back, falls over his face in waterfall-like strands as he ducks in amusement. "don't worry about that, honey. he's just a little hungry. that's all."

you think you are going to be sick when you register his reply.

kento looks back up at you casually, stretching his hand out to you once more. "i'll get you away from that. it's alright."

you can hardly see him now through your tears, and you do not wish to. you can not look at the face that was once true to you as whatever hides in his skin tries to trick you with sweet promises.

your husband is dead, you realize, and your world comes crashing down around you.

it all happens within your mind, however, as you are now void of any words that could even begin to respond appropriately to this situation or convey how you are feeling.

kento notices how you do not take his hand and he lets it fall to his side. "if you're not comfortable with that, then..." he pauses, tucking the car keys back into his pocket.

he takes a few steps closer to the doorway, pressing his lips together as he peers down at you peacefully. you unwind before him, yet he does not pay any mind to your turmoil.

instead, he presents you with another solution.

"then maybe you can let me in so i can get all of our things and head home."

he threads a bloody hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face so that he can see you clearly.

with this new view, you watch a pale light swirl in his dead brown eyes as he lowers his voice for you, and only you, to hear.

"would that be better for you, honey?"

choso kamo: "just a taste..."

you've never seen choso so commanding in his fit of desperation before.

the last you had seen of him before he whisked you away from a game of spades with the gentle call of your name and the clasp of your hand was when he stepped outside to ensure the area was safe at this time of night.

and suddenly, he's come back with a blinding hot urge to strip you naked and take you in the middle of the dance floor for everybody to see.

the club is alive with soulful music and dance, and therefore choso is as well, sliding warm palms expertly down your naval from behind, pressing your back flush to his chest as your hips sway with his.

he is so quiet, but you know he is there by the way he touches you, the way he breathes you in with his nose nudging the pulse of your neck, and the way his diamond eyes train on yours.

normally, the brunette's actions are careful, hesitant, but tonight he takes charge in the way he holds you and stares into your eyes, an unspoken greed simmering in his gaze.

your body knows better than to deny this, but your mind wishes to warn. something gnaws at you in the back of your mind to be careful, but you elect to ignore the feeling.

it's choso, after all. the man has been your loving boyfriend for years. he's the only man you would confidently say that you feel safe and secure in the presence of. if anything, you decide that the alcohol buzzing in your system has risen a hint of irrational paranoia.

so you lean into him, head falling against his shoulder as he further encircles you. he hovers over your shoulder, inching his face closer to yours as though on a mission. he keeps you snug, tightening his embrace of you and brushing the tip of his nose against yours.

the erratically soul-twisting strum of the guitar ascends, almost puppeteering choso's actions as he rushes in to kiss you hard, mirroring the pulse of the crowd with the swallowing of your mouth.

you hum, taken as he cradles your head and leans you over, dipping you as the chorus livens. choso is firm, possessive, and it has your head reeling. he feels different, suddenly. stoic, yet buzzing inside with hunger for you.

it does not take long before you are led in a daze to the nearby bathroom and shoved roughly up against the wall. you can not even open yours eyes to see choso slam the door behind him as he swarms you, lips swimming passionately together as he presses you between himself and the wall, leaving you with nowhere to run.

"cho," you moan as you momentarily part, a string of spit connecting your damp, swollen lips.

choso groans, a deep, desperate sound that he forces you to swallow when he pushes back in, tongue slithering into your cavern and intertwining with yours.

you're lightheaded, hardly cognizant of anything but your boyfriend's touch and the way you grind eagerly against his crotch. large palms caress over your dress, travel down, and sneak under the silk, sliding over bare skin and hiking your fabric up to your hip.

he hoists you up, your legs wrapping over his torso as he steadies you with a hand to the bum and your back flat against the wall. "don't look away from me," he breathes when he snaps his lips away from yours.

your heavy eyes search his as you nod obediently, lips parted. choso holds you gaze intensely, diamond eyes shining rather brilliantly as his free hand sneaks between the two of you, creeping fingers toward your heat.

your jaw falls open the moment his thick fingers brush against your bundle of nerves beneath your panties and your arms tighten around his neck instinctively. choso shudders an inhalation, keeping his eyes to you as he tugs your panties to the side and slowly drags his middle finger up your wet slit.

you gasp pleasantly and choso twitches, breath heavy.

"cho," you whisper his name again, but he does not stop. you can tell a part of him is listening to you though as his finger slowly nudges past your folds and to your entrance. you whimper softly. "c-cho, you're... you're drooling, baby."

and though he does very little to acknowledge your observation, a trail of saliva slides down his chin from the corner of his mouth. he says nothing, only grunting to himself as his finger slides into your warmth. you gape, knocking your head back against the wall as choso follows, bringing his slick lips to hover over yours.

"lick it off of me," he orders, hot against your skin.

the orgasmic spell you are under eases you into action. you lean forward pressing your tongue out to glide against his milky skin as he tenderly works his finger in and out of you. you both synchronize a needy moan as you lap up his spit, and choso catches your lips before you can fall away from him again.

your soft moans transition into muffled cries as choso swallows them up, an added finger, then suddenly three pistoning in and out of you with loud squelches. you cling to him tightly, drowning in pleasure as he kisses you as though it is the very last time he ever will.

he moves down to slather wet kisses over your jaw, then down to your neck. he sucks and slurps graciously at the skin. your cries blend into the music just outside the door, and choso lets you scream. he encourages you to - pushes you to.

you feel his teeth graze your neck in the midst of his kisses and he nips lightly. you feel him tremble. you clench around his fingers, inching closer and closer toward your high when you hear a sharp intake of air followed by the bitter pinch of teeth sinking into your neck.

you scream out in pain, your pleasure having been short-lived as choso rips his hand from your legs. his teeth are still embedded into your skin as you writhe against his strong hold, seering blood dribbling from the point of puncturing.

you are befuddled, startled, before the terror grips you. choso breaks free, ripping from your skin as you wail. he tosses his head back, savoring the blood that lingers on his lips and stains his mouth down to his chest. his tongue darts out to collect the dribbling, oozing liquid, and when he lifts his head, you see a monster staring back at you with yellow eyes and razor sharp teeth.

"you taste delicious, my love."

it is the very last thing you hear him say before your world goes dark.

toji fushiguro: "let me out, baby..."

you know you aren't hallucinating.

you felt his life leave him, you watched the light fade from his eyes as he stared up at you, angered, aggrieved, missing the future you in his very last moments.

you held his head as his blood soaked into your clothes, drenching your hands and arms. you sobbed over him as his guts spilled from his left side.

you watched your boyfriend die.

so how is it possible now...

that you can hear him on the other side of the storage room door, banging mercilessly against the locked door, calling out for you over and over.

you stare in shock and terror as the sound of his fists pounding against wood echoes throughout the space, the door itself creaking and curving outward under the sheer force of his hands.

you know that strength. you know those hurried, impatient grunts, the passion entangled with every dangerous shout of your name through the barrier that keeps you rightfully separated. you know the hoarseness of that voice, the impatience, the power.

you know it to be toji fushiguro's. you know it to belong to the love of your life's, but your mind betrays you when the recent memory of his murder flashes across your brain. toji is dead. you watched him die. you are mourning him right now, so what the fuck is fighting against the door, working desperately to break free from the only space occupied by your dead man's body?

"(y/n)!" he bellows again, a throaty, rugged call... the call of an otherworldy being, not the call of the man you know. "(y/n)! i know you can hear me, girl! why ain't you answering me?"

goosebumps sprout over the entirety of your skin, and your pupils shrink and your eyes grow wide. your heart sinks to your stomach and suddenly, you can not breathe. you can not think. you can not hear anything happening around you except for toji.

except for his undead presence.

and suddenly, the urge to see him strikes like a bolt of lightning. you had locked him away, urging yourself to stay far from the reminder of what you and many others have lost. you had pushed back thoughts of burying him to be dealt with later, for you had sworn to yourself that the last time you had seen him was the final time.

but there he was, manifested in sound alone just beyond that door.

it could have been a trick. it could have been a hallucination.

either way, you know it's too good to be true, which is why you are so drawn to see, to check, to take him in one more time.

you take a cautious step forward, shiu's demands for you to step back falling into white noise behind you. you approach the door slowly as it bangs until you are right there before it.

you press your hand to the caving door carefully, ever so slowly, and a whisper brushes past your lips. "toji."

suddenly, the pounding stops. the door lay still, silent, and toji's shouts for you cease. the empty air rings in your ears as you wait for it to be occupied by something again, anything that could bring him back to you.

everything is painfully still until you hear heavy feet shuffle.

"dollface," he exhales into something resembling a relieved chuckle. you jolt, stunned by his response, for it can only mean that the sound - the presence of toji is in fact real before you.

and his voice, now steady and low, treading with a light silkiness that almost gives you whiplash due to its contrast from his previous snarls, shakes something within you.

"talk t'me, doll. i know you're there," he encourages after a moment of prolonged silence. you ache and give in, just as you always would have.

"hi toji," you shiver.

you can practically hear him grin. you can feel him behind the door through your head as he knocks his head against it. you imagine his arms supporting his weight as they prop above his head on either side of the frame.

"hey, darlin'. that's right. it's me, it's toji," he breathes out as though exasperated. his voice is pressed to the door, muffled against your ear as you ease into him as much as you safely can. "i know you heard me callin' ya. why didn't you answer?"

you sniffle, throat tightening and brows scrunching. "toji, you were dead," you hiss. "i held you."

"nah, nah," he denies the very reality you both lived, the reality you will relive for the rest of time. "nah, it was just a little scratch. that's all it was. y'know it takes a lot more than that to knock me out. i'm all better now."

"you bled out. that thing... it attacked you."

"like i said. a scratch. it scratched me, but i survived. i'm alive."

he sounds almost manic to you, swearing things you know to be untrue. speaking to you with his mouth to the wood, urging you to be convinced by the tautness in his low voice.

you shake your head, trusting what you saw though it kills you. "no," you whimper, rubbing your forehead against the ridges of the door. "no, toji. no."

"what're you crying for, huh? i'm right here."

"you're dead, toji," you break out a sob.

"cut that out. you hear me talkin' to ya. i'm good," he grumbles. you close your eyes, imagining his head pressing against yours, his hands holding your waist, his scent capturing you.

"i can't," you tell yourself, him.

"heyyy, it'll all be okay, (y/n). i know ya miss me. i'm right here, darlin'. go ahead and open the door so i can show ya. i don't want you cryin' no more."

you press your lips together, swallowing down your cries as your chest jerks and the tears flow once more.

"...(y/n)... let me out, baby. let me out so i can see ya."

a part of you wants to. a part of you allows your hand to fall onto the door knob and just hold it as you toyed with the thought of letting him take you, of letting this monster posing as your boyfriend tear you away from life the way toji was torn from his.

"soon as you let me out, i can take you outta here. how's that sound? we can go wherever y'want. get some food, pop open a beer, and i'll lay you down over th'counter just the way ya like it. i'll love on you real sweet. yeah? you want that? just open up, and you got it."

you can feel his patience dwindling, for you have nothing more you can say.

"(y/n). doll..."

speech suddenly fails you, and before you can blink, your heart is jumping and you're moved hastily away when the pounding abruptly resumes and knocks against your head.

"(y/n)! get me th'fuck out of here! open the door! (y/n)!!"

you assume it is shiu who has gripped your arm and yanked you back as toji's fists attempt to break into the wood. he yells, growls, screams your name once more, reminding you that toji is long gone.

ryomen sukuna: “I’m here to help…”

"get the fuck away from here."

the stranger’s response to your sudden attempt at taking initiative is the same it had been the three times you’d spoken to him prior - a low chuckle accompanied by the trace of his eyes over your body.

you knew something was wrong with him the second he appeared in the fog, like a shadow manifesting from thin air. he had an energy about him, one off putting and bone chilling, cold and unliving.

the second he asked for permission to step inside the club you've taken cover in, you knew for sure something was terribly wrong. you did not take this burly giant as one who would ask anyone for anything. considering his stature, in all his 6’5 glory, he would have very little trouble pushing his way through, past a woman much smaller than him.

this is a being that exudes power, pride. and he certainly was not asking if he could come in to be polite.

and you, tormented by the vision of him, grip a wooden stake tightly in your grasp as you raise it overhead, demonstrating that you will use it to strike on him at any moment you need to - though that is not necessarily a major concern right now, considering the fact that the salmon haired beast can not even walk through the door without your say so.

you are sure he finds it amusing how you grip onto the piece of wood for dear life anyhow, for it is the only thing giving you any sense of security now that your only sense of security is dead, manifested in expired flash as a devil come to haunt victims.

this stake is the only thing you can cling to, to keep from breaking down, to provide some mask of bravery hiding away a heartbroken, terrified victim of massacre.

"my, my," the vampire known to you now as sukuna muses, that condescending tone you’d accustomed to buttering his voice. "you’ve got such a temper, peach. what makes you believe you can get away with talking to me like that?"

"i mean it,” you try to be firm. “go. away. you’re not welcome here.”

“hmmm,” he hums, smirking at you from where he stands a few feet away. he tucks his hands into his dress pants pockets and quirks a brow, flickering a fiery glow in his eye solely to tease you. “that’s not very kind of you. i was hoping to partake in some of your celebration.”

your jaw clenches.

“why so tense, eh?” he pokes gently, crimson eyes beaming their way through the darkness. they appear as small red dots to you from where you reside, and your lips tighten. those eyes, they beam like a serpent’s, like a killer’s, and in turn your blood runs cold beneath their guise. “you must relax. i don't mean any distress."

his voice is dripping with something sinister, and you can tell that he enjoys this mind game he plays with you. he lives for it, for watching you doubt yourself as you pathetically hold up something that likely will not be strong enough to stop the likes of him on its own.

"bullshit," you scoff, turning up your nose. "i know what you're here for."

"yes, as i told you. to celebrate... you should have kept the music playing."

your breathing hastens. "no. no, i know what you are. this isn't about the music, it's about you killing people."

"oh, dear. what a beautiful fool you are," the tan skinned being simpers, fangs shining with his wicked grin. there is something almost sedating about him, as well as there is something intensely frightening.

the ease in which he carries himself with, as though every stride he takes is one he has taken before and memorized... like the very earth was made for him to walk on.

the gentle threat that hides in plain sight within his eerie tone. how it is laced with seductive venom.

the unwavering confidence instilled in him. it unnerves you so, how he trusts that he will get what he wants though you are standing before him and refusing it.

he is too cool and collected for the horror that you know him to be, and it messes with your mind. it has you second-guessing your gut.

"would you like to know something, woman?"

he takes a step forward, to which you involuntarily take a step back from. your movement seems to please him, as he continues with his approach. you ensure that a space still divides you as he strolls up to the doorway, the light from inside illuminating his features.

you see the blood staining his lips, that piercing glow in his eye, and the greatness of his presence, all the better now. you lower the stake slightly, subconsciously, and sukuna's pleasure doubles.

you frown. "i thought i told you to get away."

"those friends of yours," he begins in a hushed tone. your face drops, as you know he is referring to the people he has killed and turned that likely roam about the club in the dusk as you speak. crimson eyes study your paling skin, and the skin beneath his eyes crease with gentle, malicious delight. "particularly... the one with the hat."

you freeze, for you knew it was coming. you knew he was going to taunt you with those he took away from you, and now he does so by making you relive the moment he killed your partner.

he sees that he has struck a nerve, taking note of your glassy eyes, and he presses further, staring you directly in the eye. "mmm. yes. that one. who seemed to have a love for groveling at your feet."

a strike to your heart. "shut up."

"his thoughts... his mind is connected to mine, you see? now that he has joined me," he continues, smirk widening the further your face plummets. "would you like to know... what he thinks of you?"

"no. stop."

"all the sinful, aggregious things that you haven't let him get away with yet?"

"stop it. stop it now."

"did you know that he thinks you're a prude? holding out on him like that. denying him such pleasures."

you know what he is doing. he is trying to push you to the edge. to make you appeal to nonsensical anger for hope that if you snap, you will stupidly challenge him and invite him in.

you can see it, but you find yourself reacting to him and falling into his trap anyway.

you raise the stake high once more, a newfound frustration and anguish clear on your face. you're fueling his fire. you know you are, but you can not seem to stop. he will not let you.

"come, peach. you can not expect yourself to always be wound up this tight. it makes for a bad impression on your lover. look at you," he purrs. "look at how stiff you've allowed yourself to be."

you're body is burning. your thoughts are jumbling with anger, with heartbreak, with desire, with fear, and you do not know what to do but hold onto this stake as a devil picks you apart piece by piece without even touching you.

he has been doing this all night, pushing your buttons, trying to get you to break. you're exhausted. you feel heavy, like you can sink into the floor, and the persistent, alluring jab of this ancient creature is doing little to help you push through.

there is barely anyone left, and he sees that. he sees you. he's seen you since the very first moment he approached this establishment.

"would it not feel amazing to just let go for a moment and give me what i want?" he hums, something sharp flickering in his eye. "if you give in to me, your little friend will surely feel it on my behalf."

his words break you. it is still hours from morning, and you can not take much more of this torment. you are tired. you feel unstable and violent, and you want to give in though you know you will lose.

your lips curl into a tight grimace as you glare ahead with wild eyes, watching the very moment sukuna knows that he has won.