#the palm bazaar

[miamaimania]

Hedvig Palm for Harper's Bazaar Spain (Feb 2016) ꩜ Red nails against winter gold

[voguefashion]

Hedvig Palm photographed by Regan Cameron for Harper's Bazaar UK, December 2016.

[bcbombshell]

hedvig palm by oliver stalmans for harper's bazaar kazakhstan october 2016

[scorpieuns]

SWEET INHIBITIONS | PARK SUNGHOON

summary: you know what they say, never answer a call from your boss when you’re drunk off your mind—oh, and never tell him that he desperately needs to get laid.

word count: 6.4k

warnings (18+): smut. swearing. pet names (sweetheart, baby). alcohol. kissing. heavy petting. spanking. semi-public sex. rough sex. office sex. unprotected sex. light teasing. minor brat taming (?). slight dacryphilia.

MINORS DNI!!

A/N: been dying to do an office siren fic for the longest time, lol. and being a huge fan of ‘the devil wears prada’ this just had to be done.

People-watching was a secret pleasure.

When writer’s block struck or your motivation dipped, your gaze naturally wandered across the sea of Vogue employees—the editorial department, buzzing with energy, some typing furiously, others fighting off yawns as they cradled half-empty lattes.

It was a vibrant chaos, punctuated by the occasional sound of heels clacking or phones ringing.

For the past week, your unofficial subject of interest has been Audrey Klein, one of the junior beauty editors.

Every day at precisely 1:00 PM, Audrey would reapply her signature lipstick—Dior Addict 922, a sultry red that had headlined Vogue’s “Power Lips for Winter” feature last month.

She’d peer into her compact mirror with laser precision, tousle her bangs into submission, and sashay toward the pantry with the confidence of a supermodel strutting the red carpet.

Her heels echoed through the bullpen, catching a few glances like she anticipated. The cacophony of staff chatter and the steady hum of keyboards seemed to fade when she passed.

“She’s at it again,” Anton, your cubicle neighbor and the office gossip, murmured as he perched on the edge of your desk.

He nodded toward the pantry where Audrey now leaned against the counter, laughing at something your features editor, Park Sunghoon, had just said.

“Do you think he even notices her?”

Park Sunghoon was practically a Vogue institution. At a young age, he gracefully ascended to Features Editor after a meteoric rise from editorial assistant.

With his impeccable tailoring, razor-sharp instincts, and a résumé that included stints at L’Officiel and Harper’s Bazaar, Sunghoon embodied everything Vogue stood for: brilliance, beauty, and an aura of untouchable mystery.

But the real excitement around the office? Sunghoon was devastatingly handsome. Unfairly so, as Anton liked to say.

He was like a dreamboat from Ancient Greek mythology, beautiful eyebrows, perfectly aligned moles, hypnotic brown eyes that seemed to see right through you—and a smile that drove the young seasonal interns crazy, though that was a very rare occasion.

And yet, he was maddeningly aloof, entirely unbothered by the countless women who lingered a little too long at his desk.

“Dedication or desperation?” you mused, glancing at Audrey. “I’ll never understand why everyone worships him. He’s…exhausting.”

Anton snickered, twirling a pen effortlessly between his fingers. “He’s also fine.”

He stops, tapping the pen against his chin in pensive thought, “I guess his beauty is an apology for his scary personality.”

Anton was only partially right.

Sometimes, you hated the way your stomach would twist whenever he glanced at you during a meeting, willing away your unfathomable fantasies—because, at the end of the day, his looks couldn’t overcompensate for his personality.

Park Sunghoon terrified you.

Not in the obvious sense though. He wasn’t loud or explosive. Sunghoon didn’t need to raise his voice to make his point. He could slice through your confidence with a single look or a flat, unimpressed tone.

And yet, despite the intimidation, you couldn’t help yourself.

You were stubborn. Always had been. And that stubbornness meant that every time he ripped apart one of your articles—usually with a sigh and a biting comment—you couldn’t just sit there and take it.

You’d defend yourself, argue your points, even as your palms got clammy and your voice wavered just slightly under the weight of his simmering gaze.

“You’re insufferable,” Sunghoon said once, after a particularly heated debate over a piece you’d written about emerging fashion tech trends.

You’d stayed late in his office, going back and forth until he finally waved a hand and let you keep half your original draft.

“And you’re impossible,” you’d shot back, clutching your notes to your chest like a shield.

But you’d do it anyway. You’d rewrite your drafts, re-interview sources, and pull all-nighters just to meet his exacting standards. No matter how stubborn you were, the truth was you always gave in.

You did everything Park Sunghoon requested—eventually.

And maybe that was what frustrated you most. Because no matter how hard you fought, he always won in the end.

It wasn’t just you, either. Sunghoon had a way of getting under everyone’s skin. You’d seen seasoned journalists break under his criticism, storming out of meetings or retreating to the bathroom to cry.

He was unrelenting, unapologetic, and always right—or at least, he acted like he was.

Still, despite everything, you weren’t like the others. You didn’t quit. You didn’t crumble.

And that, in itself, was something of a miracle.

Sunghoon had once acknowledged it in his own infuriating way—after tearing apart one of your drafts and sending you back to rewrite for the third time, he’d leaned back in his chair and said, “You’re stubborn. But you’re good. That’s why you’re still here.”

It wasn’t a compliment—not really. But coming from him, it almost felt like one.

So yes, Park Sunghoon intimidated you. He frustrated you. Sometimes, you even despised him.

You grumbled, returning to the half-written article on your screen. “101 Tips to Get the Guy” wasn’t your finest pitch, but it had been approved begrudgingly.

Now you were stuck trying to make a glorified listicle feel worthy of Vogue.

“Oh- three o’clock,” Anton whispered knowingly before retreating to his own desk.

The sound of Sunghoon’s voice startled you.

“(Y/N),” Sunghoon greeted, appearing beside you. His tone was just as sharp, cutting through the din of the office.

He held a coffee cup—likely a black coffee, cold foam, his usual drink of choice—and a clipboard tucked under his arm.

“How’s the article coming?”

You turned, only to be met with the sharp lift of his brow. He adjusted his glasses, the motion precise and maddeningly deliberate.

“Don’t bother lying.” His voice was cold, laced with quiet disdain. “I’ve seen you staring at Audrey all day.”

“I wasn’t…” you trailed off, voice growing small as his brown eyes narrowed slightly, looking away as your face flushed.

“Sure,” he said dryly. “Bring me what you have. My office. Ten minutes.” Sunghoon didn’t wait for a response, striding back to his glass-walled corner office.

You winced, shrinking into a puddle while Anton flashed you a sympathetic smile. “Great,” you groaned under your breath, scrambling to pull your draft together.

Sunghoon’s office was as intimidating as the man himself: a sleek mix of polished mahogany and chrome, with towering shelves of art books, Claude Monet impressions and archival issues of Vogue.

He leaned against his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking like a dreamy editorial spread come to life.

But this somehow felt more reminiscent of a REM Nightmare.

“Let’s see it,” he said, motioning for you to hand him the printout of your article.

You stood awkwardly, clammy hands clasped behind your back as he scanned the first few paragraphs.

The silence was deafening.

Crashing a friend’s psychology class one time in college, could only tell you so much about body language.

Furrowed brows, then raised. Short, irritated huffs between each paragraph—the bottom line? It wasn’t looking good.

After a moment, he sighed—long and dramatic—before dragging a hand through his hair and shoving his glasses up into it.

Why did he have to look so hot when he was disappointed?

“This… reads like something out of Seventeen magazine.” Sunghoon dropped the pages onto his desk with a thud.

“Excuse me?” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

“This isn’t Vogue, sweetheart,” he continued, ignoring your indignation. “This is…fluff. A cute checklist for teenagers who are still figuring out contouring. We don’t do fluff here. We do substance. Style and sophistication. This? It’s juvenile.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “With all due respect, Sunghoon, the concept was approved. I’m simply delivering exactly what was asked for.”

Sunghoon straightened, his sharp gaze pinning you to the spot. “And I’m asking you to elevate it. Vogue readers don’t need ‘101 Tips to Get the Guy.’ They need insight. Depth. Why not reframe it? Something like, ‘The Science of Seduction: Beauty Hacks Proven to Work.’”

“That’s…” You paused, begrudgingly acknowledging it was a better angle.

“It’s Vogue,” Sunghoon said simply, leaning back. “Rewrite it. And please, try not to bore me this time.” He waved you off like a rejected textile, dismissing your presence as he made a call.

The walk back to your desk felt much like a walk of shame, slamming your notebook down with a frustrated sigh.

“Rough?” Anton asked, biting into his sandwich.

“Rough is an understatement. Sunghoon called my article juvenile,” you hissed, collapsing into your chair.

Anton shrugged. “He’s probably just stressed y’know? Winter issues are always chaotic.”

“Yeah, but chaotic doesn’t give him the right to be a jerk,” you shot back. “Honestly, he just needs a good lay.”

Anton almost choked on his food, “with his face?” He smirked, “He probably gets more action than anyone here.”

“With his personality?” you countered, turning to his office.

Over the frosted partition, you could spot him pacing, grateful you weren’t the one being yelled at over the phone.

“Highly doubtful.” You continued.

Anton raised an eyebrow. “I…wouldn’t be so sure. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you wouldn’t mind finding out yourself.”

Your glare could’ve melted steel. “Not even in my worst nightmares.”

But even as you said it, your mind wandered—briefly—to how Sunghoon had looked leaning against his desk, adjusting his tie with his sleeves rolled up, tearing your work to shreds.

Infuriating. And annoyingly hot.

But he was still an insufferable prick. So, you pushed the thought aside and focused on your screen, hammering out an article that might—just might—finally earn a fragment of his approval without the usual snide remarks.

The city sparkled under the glow of Manhattan’s nightlights, alive with the usual buzz of life roaring in the busy streets.

The day of work was finally over, and you, Anton, and Yunjin, fresh from the trenches of Vogue, stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue impatiently flagging down a cab in the gelid air.

Yunjin had her coat draped over her shoulders like a makeshift cape, exuding effortless elegance as always, while Anton clutched a bag of takeout fries he’d snagged from a food truck on the way out.

“Where are we going again?” you asked, voice slightly muffled by the scarf you were wrapping around your neck.

“Lustra,” Yunjin beamed, checking her phone with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Chic but not pretentious—and they make a mean Moscow mule that’ll change your life.”

Anton let out a low whistle, his breath slipping through the sharp hisses of cold air. “It better for the prices they charge. You sure they’ll let me in? I’m just a humble journalist. Not exactly a hot commodity like you two.”

“Oh please, Anton,” Yunjin scoffed, stepping gracefully into the cab that had finally pulled up. “You’re literally gorgeous, they’ll let you in.”

Lustra was everything Yunjin promised: dim lighting, plush velvet seating, and a DJ spinning music at just the right volume to feel alive without completely drowning conversation.

The three of you nestled into a corner booth, Moscow mules in hand, and dissolved into the kind of freewheeling, tipsy conversation that made you forget the stress the day had given you.

Yunjin, as usual, was glowing—slightly moving to the music’s beat. “Did I mention Scarlett and I hit six months last weekend?” she said, her tone humble yet smug.

“Congrats!” you said sincerely, raising your glass as the man beside you gave the beaming girl a congratulatory hug.

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Anton groaned sarcastically. “Meanwhile, I went on a date with a girl who ditched me the second I started talking about my favorite filmmakers. Can you believe that? How do you date someone who doesn’t know who Coppola is?”

You paused, a bit confused, “wait, Francis or Sofia?”

“Sofia.” Anton simply states and Yunjin snorts into her drink, “Okay, very tasteful but you really need to leave the fanboying for like, fifth dates, Anton.”

“What about you, (Y/N)?” Anton asked, eyeing you amusingly, nudging your shoulder. “Any love life updates?”

You swirled the remnants of your drink. “Not much to report. Between deadlines and Sunghoon riding my ass, I barely have time for one-night stands,” you paused, downing your drink, “let alone a relationship.”

Anton chuckled. “Oh, here we go again. Another Sunghoon rant incoming.”

“No, seriously!” you insisted, waving your glass.

“That man is the bane of my existence. He’s so uptight, and his looks—fine, I’ll admit he’s hot—do not make up for his sour mood. And you know what he needs? A good one-night stand. Someone to take the edge off so he’ll stop ruining my life.”

Yunjin raised an eyebrow, her lipstick-stained glass hovering mid-air. “And who, pray tell, is this mysterious someone?” She shot a brief conspiring glance towards Anton who smirked.

“Yeah…do we know her?”

“Oh, shut up,” you shot back with a roll of your eyes, laughing. “It’s not me. I wouldn’t touch that man with a ten-foot pole.”

“Hmm,” Anton said, smirking. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

You were just about to retort when your phone buzzed on the table. The name on the screen making your stomach drop.

“Oh, no,” you groaned.

“What?” Yunjin asked, leaning in.

“It’s Sunghoon,” you said, swiping to answer. “I’ll be right back.” You sifted through the crowd, briefly apologizing for the noise as you stepped out.

Outside, the winter breeze bit at your skin as you stepped away from the club’s noise. Sunghoon’s voice finally came through the line, crisp and formal. “(Y/N), I need you to come into the office. Fifteen minutes.”

Your eyes widened as you slowly processed his words, holding back an incredulous laugh—at this hour?

“Are you serious?” you asked, irritation creeping into your tone.

“Very,” Sunghoon replied. “Unless, of course, you’re too busy… gallivanting at clubs.”

Oh you could taste his sarcasm on your tongue, and you would’ve let it slide if it wasn’t filled with such derision.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Gallivanting? People with hobbies call it living, Sunghoon. You should try it sometime.”

His radio silence on the other end—or maybe the alcohol—suddenly gave you the courage to keep going.

“Screw it, you know what your problem is?” you said, words spilling out faster than your brain could process them.

“You’ve got a lot of pent-up anger, and you know what the cure is? Getting laid. Seriously, you’d be doing everyone a favor. Maybe then you wouldn’t be such a miserable ass all the time.”

“Excuse me?” he said, his voice colder than the air around you.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re gorgeous, fine. But your personality? Yikes. That’s probably why women run the other way. Just…” you groaned, “let your inhibitions go for one day, Sunghoon.”

“Maybe then I wouldn’t be standing in the fucking cold because of you!”

With that, you hung up, your heart pounding.

You brushed the setting panic away as you stepped back inside.

You didn’t remember much after that. Brief flashes of hitting the dance floor, and sipping a couple more drinks flickered in your memory, until Anton took you home.

The next morning, you stumbled out of the elevator nursing a hangover that could bring a lesser mortal to their knees.

Sporting oversized sunglasses and clutching a venti black coffee, you mustered up weak smiles to your coworkers in greeting, before you slumped into your chair.

“I must say, those glasses go with your blazer quite well.” Anton greeted you with a knowing grin.

He handed you a Tylenol, and you pouted at him with a grateful smile.

“Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you muttered, sipping your coffee.

“Remind me to never drink like we’re in college again.” You groaned and your best friend chuckled, “but it was fun, our first night off since like, ever.”

“At least I could sleep in after that.” You whined, recalling your haphazard morning routine when you missed your alarm.

Anton leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Ooh, looks like someone else had a rough night, too.”

You followed his gaze to Sunghoon, who was pacing the office, angrily critiquing an intern's layout with the precision of a surgeon.

You watched the intern subtly dab a tissue at her eyes when he walked away, immediately restarting her layout.

“Uh-oh,” Anton whispered. “What’s his deal?”

Wait…

Your jaw dropped in horror, as the memories of your call flooded back, ducking under your cubicle.

Anton noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “I think I know why he’s in such a bad mood…”

In a hushed, frantic whisper, you told him everything, recounting your drunken tirade from the night before.

Anton stared at you, his expression a mix of shock and glee—grin growing by every word and detail you dropped.

He placed his croissant down slowly, like he needed his hands free to fully process the chaos.

“You what?” he whispered, leaning in so close it felt like he was about to crawl into your lap.

“I told him to get laid!” you hissed, slumping further into your chair. “I basically said his entire personality is why women run screaming! And I said it while I was drunk in the middle of the street!”

Anton’s face twisted as he tried—and failed—to suppress his laughter. “Oh my God, (Y/N). You didn’t just burn the bridge. You nuked it.”

“Not helping, Ant!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Anton paused, his grin so wide it looked painful.

“Let- let me get this straight. You—our beloved, mild-mannered coworker—called Park Sunghoon, the Ice King of Vogue, an uptight, sexually frustrated killjoy who needs to let loose. Do I have that right?”

“Essentially,” you muttered through your palms.

Anton sat back, folding his arms with a hum as if to fully savor the moment. “You realize you’re my hero now, right?”

“This isn’t funny!” you hissed, peeking over your sunglasses to make sure Sunghoon wasn’t within earshot. “He’s already in a bad mood. What if he fires me?”

Anton waved a dismissive hand. “Please. Sunghoon doesn’t fire people. He just makes their lives a living hell until they quit.”

“Great,” you deadpanned. “Super comforting.”

“Honestly, though,” Anton said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “he probably needed to hear it. You’re not wrong. He is an uptight control freak, and let’s be real, he could use a night of… recreational activities.” He let out a chuckle, stopping himself when he noticed your glare.

“You’re supposed to help me, not encourage my demise.”

Anton smirked. “Fine. Damage control time. First, don’t mention it unless he does. Second, be professional, act like nothing happened. And third…” He trailed off, eyes lighting up mischievously.

“What?” you asked warily.

He grinned, snapping his fingers and pointing out, “if he does bring it up, double down. Tell him you’re just looking out for his uh well-being.” He covered his mouth to avoid another giggle from slipping through.

You groaned, leaning back in your chair. “I’m doomed.”

At that moment, Sunghoon walked by your desk, his perfectly tailored suit somehow making him look even more intimidating.

He glanced in your direction—just a flicker of his sharp dismissing glare—before continuing down the hall.

Anton leaned closer. “That look was…scary.”

“His looks are always scary,” you muttered, though your stomach churned with nerves.

“No, this was different,” Anton stated. “This was like…‘I’m planning your funeral and choosing tasteful florals for the casket’ scary.”

Before you could respond, Yunjin appeared, holding a stack of mood boards and looking utterly unbothered. “Why do you two look like someone just died?”

“Oh, no one’s dead,” Anton said cheerfully. “But (Y/N)’s career might be.”

“Thanks, Anton,” you said dryly.

Yunjin raised an eyebrow. “What happened now?”

Anton wasted no time filling her in, embellishing just enough to make your drunken tirade sound like a full-on Shakespearean monologue.

Yunjin listened, her expression shifting from confusion to horror to amused admiration.

“Well,” Yunjin said finally, “at least you were honest.”

“That’s not helping!” you snapped.

She giggled with a hopeless shrug. “Look, if he hasn’t confronted you about it yet, maybe he’s letting it slide. Or maybe he secretly agrees with you.”

Anton snorted. “Yeah, because Sunghoon is definitely the kind of guy to take constructive criticism well.”

Yunjin looked thoughtful. “Or,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, “he’s planning to make you pay for it in the most passive-aggressive way possible.”

You groaned again, face sinking further into your hands. “I need a time machine.”

“Or a therapist,” Anton said.

“Or both,” Yunjin added.

The three of you fell silent as Sunghoon reappeared, this time striding toward his office with a stack of proofs in hand.

He didn’t look at you, but the tension in his jaw was impossible to miss.

“Yep,” Anton concluded. “He’s plotting your doom.”

You shot him a withering glare. “I hate you so much.”

“Don’t worry, (Y/N)” Anton said with a grin. “If he does fire you, I’ll buy you a consolation martini.”

“Because that’ll fix everything,” you muttered sarcastically as you mentally prepared for whatever wrath Sunghoon was surely about to unleash.

The office printer room was its own little world—tucked into the far corner of the writers floor, dimly lit, and constantly humming with the soft whir of machines churning out drafts, proofs, and pitches.

It was the perfect place to avoid people, particularly a certain brooding features editor who had taken up far too much real estate in your thoughts since last night.

You spent the morning successfully avoiding him, hiding back in your workspace and typing whatever nonsense to look busy, pretending to speak to coworkers when he passed by and making your coffee in the fashion department.

But, of course, you couldn’t evade him forever.

Every passing moment was spent trying to find the right words to say something when your worlds inevitably collided.

You tapped your foot impatiently as the printer sputtered and beeped, taking its sweet time with the twenty-page document you needed for your pitch meeting tomorrow.

You glanced at the door nervously, praying that fate wouldn’t bite you in the ass.

What would you even say? You’re sorry you told the truth? You’re sorry you got “unreasonably” upset that he called you off work?

“Six more pages,” you muttered under your breath, watching the slow machine spit out the pages like it was mocking you. “Just six more…”

The door creaked open, and for a brief, foolish moment, you thought about pretending you hadn’t heard it. But then you caught a whiff of cologne, that telltale wood scent with notes of vanilla and bergamot.

Only he would wear Tom Ford.

“(Y/N).” His voice was low, clipped, and far too close for comfort.

You forced yourself to look up. Sunghoon stood by the door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder.

Even without the blazer, he looked effortlessly immaculate, his white shirt sculpted to perfection, his expression a familiar mask of indifference—except for the way his jaw ticked slightly when your eyes met.

“Mr. Park,” you greeted, your voice straining for neutrality.

You turned back to the printer, focusing on the flashing green light like your life depended on it.

Sunghoon took a few steps closer, the sound of his leather shoes on the tile making your pulse quicken.

“Avoiding me?” he asked casually, but there was an edge to his tone that made your stomach drop.

“No,” you quickly lied.

The printer suddenly shut off, and you cursed under your breath—grabbing whatever stack of papers remained.

You didn’t even bother aligning them, too focused on your escape. “Just busy. You know how it is.”

You turned to leave, but Sunghoon sidestepped, blocking your path. “Busy club hopping?” he asked, arching a brow.

Your face burned.

Of course he remembered.

“I had a night off, it was a personal evening” you said, clutching the papers to your chest like they could shield you from his piercing stare.

"Hmm. Personal," the tall male repeated, the word dripping with irony. "Interesting. Because I recall a very personal call from you last night.”

You cringed, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

“Something about my... personality? Stressed. Uptight. And my supposed need for, what was it again? Oh, right-getting laid." Sunghoon’s voice was calm, but the restrained anger in his tone was palpable.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your brain scrambling for something, anything, to say. “I—well, I was…drunk.”

“Clearly.” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Drunk enough to think that telling your boss at midnight to psychoanalyze his personal life was a good idea.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he wasn’t done.

“Drunk enough to suggest that I—how did you put it?—‘let my inhibitions go.’”

The way he said it made your face flush even hotter, and your thoughts briefly betrayed you, wondering what it would look like if he ever did.

“Look, I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “It was unprofessional, and it- it won’t happen again.”

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“You’re right,” he said after a moment.

“It was unprofessional. And reckless. And frankly…” He leaned in, just enough to make you feel the heat of his presence. “…you’re lucky I don’t have HR on speed dial.”

Your heart was pounding now, and you couldn’t tell if it was from fear, embarrassment, or the undeniable air crackling between you.

“I said I’m sorry,” you said, your voice coming out softer, more desperate than you intended. “I shouldn’t have said—any of that.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond immediately. He simply stepped closer, gaze locked on yours, unreadable and unrelenting.

“Sorry doesn’t fix it, sweetheart.” he said, his voice low and almost dangerous.

“You don’t just…” he trailed off, his eyes dragging over you slowly. “Get to say whatever you want and walk away.”

You stepped back again, only to feel the cool, unyielding surface of the printer against your back.

He was close now—too close. The scent of his cologne made your head spin, and you couldn’t tell if it was the lingering hangover or his intense presence.

“I wasn’t trying to—” you stammered, your throat dry. “I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Sunghoon interrupted feigning confusion, his hands braced on the machine on either side of you, trapping you in.

“Didn’t mean to call me uptight? Didn’t mean to tell me I needed to get laid?” His tone was sharp, but his gaze softened ever so slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

Your heart was hammering against your ribcage, and you hated how your breath hitched as his face inched closer.

The atmosphere between you was suffocating, the air charged and stifling all at once.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe.

“I—I was drunk,” you reasoned again, your voice barely audible.

“And yet,” Sunghoon murmured, leaning down slightly, his dark eyes boring into yours, “you said it. You think I don’t know what you meant?”

You could feel the faintest brush of his breath on your skin as he bridged the thinning gap. Your knees felt weak, and your grip on the papers loosened slightly.

You turned your head, trying to look anywhere but at him, but he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin, tilting your face back toward him.

“Look at me,” Sunghoon said, his voice quieter now, almost a command, but it wasn’t harsh—it was soft, almost…intimate.

You obeyed, your eyes flickering to his, and that was your mistake.

His gaze flicked down briefly to your lips, and your breath caught as his face drew closer, his lips just inches from yours.

The tension was unbearable at his point. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Every logical part of your brain screamed at you to stop, to say something, to step away. But you couldn’t.

And then, before you could think it through—before you could stop yourself—you surged forward, crashing your lips against his.

The stack of papers in your hand fell to the floor in a forgotten mess as your hands reached up instinctively, clutching the fabric of his well pressed shirt.

He groaned against your lips, his voice rough and full of something you couldn't quite name.

For a second—a fraction of a second—you thought Sunghoon might pull away, but then his hands were on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the kiss deepened.

It was everything you didn’t know you needed—hot, consuming, and utterly intoxicating. The taste of espresso and something uniquely him lingered on your tongue as his fingers tightened around your waist, anchoring you to the moment.

You only briefly pulled back, gasping for air, before Sunghoon’s lips chased yours again, kissing you with a force that almost made your knees buckle.

It was frantic, needy and messy in a way that came from too much tension snapping at once.

Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest as your hands rushed for his buttons, each one revealing a much more intimate vision of him only the naive interns could dream of.

Your hands landed on his chest as his lips grazed along your jaw, planting kisses on your neck that made you fall back in breathy sighs.

They traveled up his neck and into his soft dark strands, moaning softly as he skillfully unbuttoned your blouse, palming your breasts over your lace bra hungrily.

Without any warning you were quickly spun around, and bent over the printer, a soft gasp escaping your tingling lips at the cool contrast of the machine on your hot skin.

“Is this what you meant?” He asked, hating the way your heart skipped at the sound of his belt unbuckling behind you.

His hand crept up your skirt, sending shivers up your spine as he hooked his fingers around the band of your panties, tugging them down without care.

You felt your cheeks flush at the cool air hitting your glistening cunt, practically aching for him.

“Hmm?” He mused, awaiting an answer before landing a sharp, yet pleasurable smack on your ass.

The sound of your gasp echoed off the walls, gripping the machine as you anchored yourself, swallowing a choked moan.

You felt the heat of him pressing against your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your sensitive clit. You let out a breathy moan, trying to rock yourself backwards to feel him inside you.

Sunghoon’s hand pressed firmly on your back, holding you in place with tut. You felt another smack on your reddening skin, holding back a whimper.

“I need you to answer me, sweetheart,” he instructed, “is this what you wanted?”

You nodded, begging he would take the hint.

Of course he didn't, continuing to tease the both of you as his hand caressed your backside, his lips planting kisses across your exposed skin.

When you didn't say anything else Sunghoon spanked you once again, a louder whimper escaping your mouth this time.

"I can’t hear you," he instructed, a smirk tugging his lips, "is this what you wanted?"

"Yes! Fuck." You rushed, with desperate cries.

Without a moment of hesitation his cock slid inside of you, both of you lowly moaning in pleasure.

You had never felt so good in your life.

His hand found its place on your waist, gripping tight as he started a rhythm, bottom lip slipping between your teeth as you willed yourself not to moan.

The last thing you needed was for the whole office leaning their ear against the printing room door in scandalous curiosity.

“Don’t make a sound, ‘hear me?” He instructed, with every slow thrust, inching deeper as you whimpered in response, nodding hastily.

"That's it, sweetheart," he praised, his cock meticulously stretching you out with every passing second, "So fucking tight.."

You shudder under his tight grasp, swallowing a few moans as he slowly bottoms out into you with every drag, arching into him as he bites his lip at the pornographic sight.

“You take me so well, don’t you?” He groaned, practically sensing the cocky smirk on his lips as he reveled in your sweet whimpers.

He was such a prick.

“You’re— you’re a— fuck.” you cry, biting your lip to stifle your moans.

Sunghoon leaned over, his groans tickling the shell of your ear like he wanted you to break, “I’m a what, baby?”

Your brain was too foggy to form a coherent sentence, irritation a mere afterthought as he hit every spot, his cock filling you perfectly. You couldn't even remember the last time someone fucked you so full.

So much for declaring that you wouldn’t even touch Sunghoon with a ten foot pole.

You let your guard down for a few seconds before his hips experimentally snapped into you, lewd moans tumbling past your lips before his hand instantly clamped your mouth.

“You never listen, do you (Y/N)?” Sunghoon grunts, grabbing your hips and slamming himself into you, his cock reaching even more profound places as you cry out, desperate moans muffled by his palm.

His brows furrow, low groans escaping his lips, “so fucking stubborn.”

Your hands search for any surface to grip onto, surging forward from the sheer force of his hips snapping into you, gasps drowned into his palm.

“Walking around challenging my authority?”

You couldn’t respond, pretty eyes rolling to the back of your head, eyes fluttering shut as he pounded into you, making sure to hit the most pleasurable spots inside you.

“Mr Park? Are you in here?” a voice called through the door, loud enough to cut through the haze of everything.

You froze, rising up in alarm before he pushed you down. Sunghoon’s jaw clenched, indifferent to the reality of the situation that teetered on the lines of danger.

“Yes,” he called back, his voice calm and steady, yet still rutting into you.

His grip finally left from your side, instead slipping a hand between your thighs and circling over your sensitive clit, jolting as your muffled cries of pure ecstasy were heard by him and no one else.

The voice on the other side hesitated, then added, “I have the updated layouts you asked for.”

Your nails dug into the skin of your palms, fighting the urge to scream as he hitled himself deeply, making a mess of you as he fucked into you over, and over again.

You were damn near the cusp of falling apart from everything, yet the fact that he had the audacity to be so calm and collected while stretching you out, sent you over the edge.

“Leave them on my desk,” Sunghoon replied coolly, not even glancing toward the door.

The footsteps retreated, and you closed your eyes in sheer relief. You were a teary mess now, crying at the dizzying sensation of fingers on you, velvety walls tightly hugging him as his thrusts picked up.

“You crying for me, princess?” He moans, and the soft delivery of his words makes your cunt flutter around him.

He finally moves his hand away from your mouth, as if challenging you to make a sound.

“Sunghoon, fuck.” You cry, in a broken whisper, clenching around him uncontrollably as he tries to hold you still.

“I know baby, I know.” He cooed, savoring the way your legs shaked, pupils blown wide with lust as his pistoned in and out of you so easily.

With his fingers, he continued his assault, working your clit in tight circles as your hips bucked wildly. He groaned, feeling your walls squeezing him, threatening to bring him over the edge.

But he wouldn't cum before you.

Sunghoon’s lips ghosted over your ear, his soft guttural moans shooting straight to your core, “such a pretty mess for me, aren’t you?” his lips curled into a grin as you finally tipped over the edge.

A soft, yet long moan that slipped was quickly muffled by his hand as he fucked you through it, your toes curling and thighs quivering.

White hot pleasure washed over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in sheer bliss. But just when it was starting to subside, he was slamming his cock into you.

The sound of his skin meeting yours was like music, and his fingers returned to your clit, sending you spiraling back into ecstasy.

Your weak cries of pleasure only seemed to encourage him more.

Sunghoon moaned, a beautiful sound leaving him as his cock twitched. With a few hard erratic thrusts, he came, filling you up completely, not wasting a single drop.

He groaned softly, riding out your highs before you whimpered at the feeling of him slipping out of you, both panting.

The silence between the two of you was mutual as you caught your breaths. Sunghoon leaned down, sliding your panties back up and pressing a soft kiss on your asscheek.

It was infuriating to admit that, just as good as he was with everything else, he was really good at fucking.

[iceunhie]

[ 3 + 1 ].

premise. in which entails your daily life being in a relationship with the one and only eccentric wanderer. (alternatively: wanderer's love for you comes in many forms. you welcome them all the same.)

warnings: established relationship, hurt-comfort, slice of life, wanderer is called kuni. jealousy (wanderer), angst. FLUFF fluff fluff. wanhida family goals

a/n: ITS SCARAMOUCHE WANDERER SEASON his event broke me btw [in tears]

BACK TO MASTERLIST || ASKBOX !

# observation one: unconventionally clingy

early on in your relationship, this side of the wanderer remains quite privy to himself alone. this is because he has a very, very uncanny similarity to an aggressive and guarded cat that hisses when given an ounce of affection.

this does not mean he doesn't like your outlandish and grand displays of affection, though; its actually the opposite. (LOL)

the true crux of the matter lies in his inability to let down his guarded pride to admit that he thinks your affection is his lifeblood. (basically, “ew, affection... do it again”)

he's a menace (affectionate), and if you were one for critiquing that aspect of his character, you wouldn't have been in a relationship with him by now, anyway.

however—there is always a however when it comes to him—this does not mean that wanderer doesn't come across points of anxiousness over the fact that his less than affable personality may be something you will grow sick of one day.

he knows he isn't the best choice of a romantic partner; seriously, what were you even thinking... but when he establishes that you are indeed now an irreplaceable part of his life (which will take a long time, good luck), he clings to you with a fierce desperation underneath all that thorn and bristle.

this is part of his visceral fear of abandonment—you are the one thing that he adores, cares for with his entire being (nahida as a close second), and to watch you slip away from him due to his own misgivings will spell out a death sentence for him.

(so please, treat him gently; cradle his cracked palms and broken psyche, and slowly, emphasis on slowly, but surely, he will learn to return in kind.)

this ‘clinginess’ comes forth in his proximity to you. once he has felt comfortable with your relationship, wanderer is quite unafraid to show how touchy he is in his own way.

whether that is to get groceries in your shared home, following after you like a second shadow when you go to the grand bazaar, or even shooing away people that harass you (tba), the wanderer's gaze and all his efforts are always directed to your will.

(you dubbed this as ‘scary cat boyfriend privilege’—and are rewarded with a painful flick to the forehead. ouch.)

—☆★☆—

“where are you going?” the slender hand that stops you from leaving your comfy bed does little to help your need to fall back into the blissful arms of sleep.

“just going to go get some water, kuni.”

waking up to the sight of the wanderer in all his divine glory certainly isn't one of the things you expected in your life, but you welcome it all the same. leaving a simple kiss to his forehead, you pry your hand away with a gentleness you reserve only for him.

he flushes, a lovely red adorning cheeks, to the span of his neck. oh, how you love seeing him melt.

“you won't take too long?”

he doesn't need to breathe, but he sucks in a breath anyway, face twisting to a deep set frown—your telltale sign that your kunikuzushi had a nightmare.

an unanswered question. you won't leave?

your hand caresses the silky soft strands of his purple hair, that in which wanderer nuzzles into. he doesn't seem keen on telling you, and you respect that. you'd wait for him as long as he'd like.

“of course i will. not going anywhere, silly.”

why would i? you convey in that same gesture. i love you.

the tightness of his face relaxes, his grip on your hand loosening. right—you weren't. (you were not going to abandon him.)

“hurry up and come back, then. it's far too early.” his voice is still thick with sleep, though that doesn't temper his signature sass at all.

i love you too. goes unsaid.

your grin sharpens, teasing. “aww, don't miss me too much, okay?”

anddd there's the signature scowl. “...never mind, don't come back.”

“hey!”

shuffling to hide his face from you, wanderer sports a genuine smile, hidden from your sight.

because in your presence, the wanderer stills, and all thoughts of a doomed eternity fall short of how he commits himself to you—wanderer loves and loves, loves you, for you nestle in the space his heart was meant to be, holding onto the mere wisps of your identity and weaving it into the mosaic of his soul.

it's silent save for when you plop yourself back to the bed, bearhugging wanderer and complaining about waking up early again because you stayed up all night playing tcg with him. (he's at 10 wins and 5 losses and he was not going to be caught lacking).

“you do realize that's entirely your fault, right?” he gloats. “it's not my fault my card bested that lawachurl of yours.”

“what?! no way, mister! my all geo team is still superior, mind you-”

once, wanderer wondered about the concept of infinity.

everlasting devotion. of unabashed care and trust. as he listens to your ramblings as the night falls to day, he figures that what you currently share fits that concept just fine.

# observation two: (very) jealous tendencies

it isn't in wanderer's intention to be jealous. well, so he says.

really, he isn't! after all, what was there to be jealous of? absurd! looks, intellect, an extensive range of vocabulary not limited to insults and creative verbal attacks; wanderer boasts quite the sizable number of pros that get most people falling at his feet. (his outward personality leaves much to be desired, however, but his snark does have a certain charm. probably).

and of all the bashful akademiya seniors and well-intentioned young women (and men), you managed to get into a relationship with this black cat of a derisive puppet. this is an achievement worthy of celebration, for not just anyone can take the wanderer and burrow into his many, many guarded walls and claim the title of being his lover.

yet, wanderer is the more jealous one in the relationship.

he knows that you won't cheat on him, and trusts that you won't look at others in such a way. but still, your boyfriend can't help but doubt. be patient when working out his jealousy, for it is a double edged sword—on one hand, wanderer was so adorable when he was jealous; sulky, clingy, hot you name it! and it was very flattering, knowing that he loved you enough to want to keep you all to himself.

but, the other side was quite... a piece of work. should you attempt to tease him about such a thing, it ends in three ways. one, him flying off to god knows where and leaving you alone (😐), two, restricting you from hugging and giving him affection (😭), and worse, giving you the silent treatment (😨). choose your ammunition wisely.

and from this, be prepared for the wanderer to monopolize your attention all to himself— with said admirers mysteriously off the grid or too afraid to approach you for fear of his wrath. i'll say it once: a jealous wanderer is a force to be reckoned with. (and we love him for it)

(he was chided endlessly by nahida for this; “you're scaring all the researchers that want to do a thesis review with [name]!” she says.

a sly smirk was his only reply).

—☆★☆—

“what, and here i thought he had more bark left in him.” wanderer huffs haughtily, with the researcher dashing away as if his life depended on it.

“you'll get scolded by nahida again, you know. i don't think the dendro archon's trusted aide should boast a terrifying reputation.”

he snorts. “lesser lord kusanali has better things to do than chide me for harassment.”

“but you don't have better things to do than scaring away poor kimiya?”

that gets you an eye roll that could reach massive highs of ‘what about it?’ from your boyfriend. “you're overthinking.” (translation: you're right).

“uh huh, sure i am.”

“whatever. who you talk to and interact with is none of my concern. it's not like i care about such things anyway.” he retorts. “i'm not possessive.”

so he says. “by the way, his pickup line was pathetic—‘are you anemo because your beauty blows me away’? atrocious.”

your eyebrow raises in return. really, who was speaking about “not caring” and then judging right after? well, it's fine because he was kinda right.... cyno would definitely get along with that guy.

“it was sincere! i think he has to be commended for his efforts, no?”

“you call that effort?” his face scrunches to a dissatisfied frown.

kinoya, kimiya—he doesn't even remember his name anymore. wanderer doesn't care for those that waste his time, and more especially to those that attempt to get close to you in particular. honestly, what a cheap trick.

and you! you were seriously humoring that moony researcher earlier. you even smiled at him! wanderer seethes, crossing his arms. “its quite irritating, knowing that they flock to you under the guise of—what was it he said? right, ‘shared academic pursuits.’ it was too obvious.”

“first of all: that's rude, second, he really needed help! anyone would feel sorry for him.” you tut, pinching the smooth of wanderer's palm. you wisely decide not to comment on how he immediately interlocks hands with you.

you snicker. “and he was only asking for advice on his research topic, silly.”

“hah! how nice — you're defending him now.” it's incredible how wanderer has the uncanny ability to be just like an annoyed cat that dunked itself into a bucket of cold water; and the way he frowns at you only makes you let out an even worse fit of laughter.

wanderer drinks in the sound, resonating it with the beat of his soul, your laugh the heartbeat echoing deep within his veins. he is reduced to nothing with you—with you, his face relaxes; wanderer may be indifferent to humans, but with you, your mere existence is enough for him to falter like a human, weaken like a human.

and weakly, perhaps in an attempt to save face, he speaks, “you didn't deny it.”

“deny what?”

“...defending him.” (if he were a cat, his ears would definitely fall flat right now).

you let out another light laugh, but sparing your lover the torment, you cling to the side of his arm instead.

“i never had such intentions.” stating it quite firmly, “i'm only saying that there's no competition to be made, darling.”

he gives you a skeptical look in return. “was there even any?”

“none at all.” you lean closer to him, and the wanderer leans into the touch of your hand on his cheek. “since you're winning.”

the flustered blush you receive and the subconscious squeeze of his hand in yours conveys all you need to say.

that did the trick. wanderer's smile is satisfied—smug. “clearly, you managed to make the right call for once.”

“well, i could hardly resist you.”

afterwards, you note that the wanderer's pace doesn't seem as fast as usual anymore. no matter the jaw dropped stares of others at the two of you cozying up together, he never let go of your hand once.

(the next day, kimiya comes to you with a sheepish smile saying that he'd like to focus on his own without your help.

“was it your doing?” you look at the wanderer by your bedside table fastening his vision in pace, voice deadpanning.

“hah? why would i waste my time over some insignificant mortal?” he replies, but as he's putting on his hat, you see him smile to himself.

that little...)

# observation three: secretly? protective/considerate (green flag!!)

if you ask anyone who knows the wanderer on a personal note, you'd find out that he is, indeed, quite considerate—hidden underneath alllll that snark and aloofness and haughtiness, the wanderer cares for those who have helped him in some way, and with you as his partner (romantic), that care is multiplied tenfold hundredfold.

this quality of his, despite being endearing on paper and practice, is reminiscent of that of an aggressive mother hen; if you count wanderer as a hen that pecks someone incessently to show his care.

he chides you like an exasperated young maiden, but the soft way he handles your bruised arm littered with injuries from your recent run in with some strange fontainian seahorse contradicts his harsh scoldings.

(“bested by a fish? are you serious?”

“excuse you, i needed to get it's horns for materials, okay?!”

“...remind me why i'm stuck with an idiot for a companion.”

“uh, because i have a great personality, and you love me?”

“a decision i've made that's quite hard to defend, honestly.”

you stick your tongue out at him. yes, his habits also become yours.)

or how he tells you you're hopeless at cooking, but always manages to excuse himself to cook for you the moment he notices even the slightest decline in your health. one concern though; he throws the bento towards your head—so minus points for domesticity. (...he has cut heart shapes into the vegetables before and has never been the same since.)

if there's anything you can count wanderer for, he will do it. you could ask him to attempt to pluck the very fabric of reality for you, string together the stars and leave them at your feet, and he will do so, huffing all the while (he never means it). he's just smitten like that; not that he would ever verbalize it—yet. his hushed and vulnerable whispers of asking you to let him stay by your side are your closest road to his admittance.

he will not serenade you with ‘shallow declarations of love,’ as he tells you, but you know that he will always be there for you, for better or for worse.

—☆★☆—

fury is an emotion wanderer was once very accustomed to—it reminds him of electric violet, of three betrayals and of yearning for a constitution he was never fated to reach.

and fury tugs at the strings of his being the moment he sees the droplets of tears fall from your eyes, blurring your vision.

“who did it?” something bitter and violent manifests in his countenance, his vision pulsing angrily with gales threatening to harm. (it does not harm you, though. it never does.) “who did this to you?”

his grip on your shoulders tightens the more you refuse to answer, both from anger and fear. you're never this silent; and his panic increases when you opt to bury yourself in his neck. wanderer sighs.

“hey. i'm asking who made you cry like this, idiot.”

“...”

“fine, i won't call you an idiot, then.” but impatient way he speaks the syllables that make your name betrays his worry. “just talk to me.”

“...can we just stay here like this?”

“....”

“sorry, that was a little-” you say, voice strained, pulling away; but the wanderer tugs you close, allowing you to hide from the world that seems so out to get you. (he knows that feeling well, after all.)

it's he who entangles himself with you, listening to the steady rise of your heartbeat, wiping away your tears.

“i didn't say you couldn't hug me, stupid. it's fine. do as you like.”

if it were a person that did this to you, that would've been better murder was never really out of the table with him, but when faced with something he is unable to solve for you; whether it be a bad day, bad luck, or even something he cannot control, wanderer finds himself at a loss.

because the concept of love, with you, is foreign—terrifying, even. betrayal and scorn were his guiding compass, and to be rid of it and to be seen by you, held by you, and to know that you were not going to follow in the footsteps of those he once clung to was far too good to believe. (yet he tries. for you.)

returning your embrace only passively, he tries to scramble for words of comfort—and when he fails to find the nerve to do so, he does the only thing he can allow himself to do.

with the kindness and gentleness he fostered (still fosters, thanks to you) from his memories as the kabukimono, the wanderer holds you, if only to remind himself of his place by your side, unchanging and adamant—as you remind him of his place beside yours.

he leads you to calm yourself down, albeit roughly as he tells you to stop fussing over trying to help him get you something wipe your tears with—and for all his flushed visage, he lets you cling to him, seeking his comfort.

i'm here, it goes unsaid. wanderer knows you'd pick up on it anyway. please talk to me.

(“if i die from this, i'll come haunt you as a ghost.” you shake like a leaf in his arms, clutched tight and staring at anywhere but the ground. who comforts someone by putting them almost 80 feet up in the air? heights are so not your thing.

“like i'd let you.” wanderer says, rolling his eyes. “and you're shaking too much. just keep your eyes on me, will you?”

“...was that flirting?”

“i will drop you.”

“wait, i'm kidding!” a particular breeze leaves you in goosebumps, with wanderer tightening his grip on you. “don't let me fall, please?”

“are you stupid?” he snaps, but urges you to look at the sight of the sunset on the horizon. his hold is more gentle this time, too. “why would i let you fall? now stop shaking and hold on to me.”

you think you fell just a little harder for him that day.)

—and if you decide to press a kiss to the back of his nape as a way of thanks, you're rewarded with a playful gale and a little zap to deter you in response.

“watch it, [name].” he says, but the shifty eyed way he doesn't meet your eyes isn't fooling anyone here; neither is the red on his cheeks. “you're too close.”

“hehe, sorry, sorry, couldn't resist.”

nonetheless. he supposes the growing smile on your face in place of your tears are sufficient payment for wanderer's efforts. hmph.

he'll let it slide for today.

(he does a lot of that when it comes to you.)

# deciding conclusion: totally in love with you (real not clickbait)

saying it outright: being with the wanderer is not a smooth road. it is full of hardships, hurt, and learning. there will be many times when his built in self destruction (read: abandonment issues) will kick in, hurting you in the process.

getting him to say ‘i love you’ will seem impossible at first, and there will be times when his doubt pierces your heart and renders it tattered to pieces. he's doing his best chat, pls help him

he will not be able to utter sweet words of adoration like you do, or return your embrace as easily as you would with him—and there will be many moments when he will feel as if he's not enough.

but nourish your affections, stay consistently by his side, show him that he is worth loving, worth staying for, and like the foundations of a steadily built tower, his trust and love for you too will grow.

(it will sometimes feel tiring, it will feel hopeless, and it's more than what you've bargained for, but it will all be worth it in the end.)

because you know he cares; it's in the way his expression morphs into helplessness when he sees your face fall in an argument, how he doesn't push you away when you kiss him and shower him with hugs, and when his hands lock tightly in yours in a sea of people, with you only in his sights. how his eyes betray him to look at you with fondness and warmth.

(it's wordless whenever wanderer decides to hold you tight at night, hugging you like his last lifeline. especially after a disagreement, with only the quietude of the night to observe.

he said some hurtful words today. that much he knows.

“are you asleep?” his voice is muffled against your shirt, and he may not need to breathe, but he inhales your scent anyway, memorizing the sight of you in his arms like a promise. “...you probably are.”

silence. “i'm sorry.”

“.....”

his lip trembles, his grasp on your arms bruising if not for your non-awareness. there's a wetness growing against your shirt, and small sniffles.

“i'm sorry.” and gently, so gently, wanderer presses his forehead against your shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of your body. “i shouldn't have snapped at you and told you those sorts of things.”

i'm sorry i hurt you.

please stay.

please don't let go of me.

i need you.

i love you.

when morning comes, you wake up to the sight of the wanderer in your bed, face nuzzled in your chest.

there are tearstains on his face.)

getting him to be open and vulnerable is akin to keeping a rusty, torn boat afloat; it will not be easy, no, but you know that he tries, (so very hard) to make it work. that he fights desperately against his own clumsily strung tethers and rebuilds himself anew, if only to understand and perceive you—to love you as you deserve.

and when that time comes, wanderer will cling to you, desperately, completely, and make sure your efforts will never ever make you regret giving him the chance to open up and be with you.

—☆★☆—

“what would happen if we ever broke up?”

dropping such a bombshell in the middle of having the wanderer on your lap was not how he thought things would go to, granted how pleasant the atmosphere was—he'd agreed to going on a much needed date (your words) with you after lesser lord kusanali had just graded him on one of his essay papers. (he got an a, obviously)

you don't think you've ever seen such a distraught look cross wanderer's face—aside from the time you finally beat him at tcg (5 out of 4); and you've never seen him look so angry either.

rather, he looked scared.

“what brought this idea on?” he tries to lodge out the words, trying to act coherent. but underneath, a storm brews—his hands are shaking. wanderer feels like he's swallowed a bag full of needles.

am i not doing enough? was i too harsh on them when i scolded them for fighting that damn mechanical desert robot? he's scared. or... do they really....

the mere idea of you being tired of him—sick of him, and ready to leave him behind leaves an ugly, disgusting feeling. like acid on his skin.

perhaps, you don't love him anymore? wanderer panics, senses going overdrive. was it that argument months ago when he hurt your feelings? he knows you know he apologized, and he's doing everything in his power to make sure he wasn't repeating that mistake anymore—but why would you say this out of nowhere?

or maybe it's because he didn't notice you feeling uncomfortable in your relationship? no, you would have definitely told him if so. then what is it? you don't just say things like this out of nowhere so seriously-

“i mean... at this point, i think i wouldn't ever want to break up with you.”

“...what?” wanderer blinks.

“you heard me.” cupping the sides of his face with your hands, you restate your words with more vigor. eyes determined. “i don't think i've ever loved someone so much as i love you. heck, not even close! kuni, if we break up, i might actually never recover.”

and the wanderer falls. how could you even say such a thing?

“that's... you're shameless.” he states it like an insult, but his hands go up to hide his eyes, hiding his embarrassment from your romantic words. “why would you even say something so out of pocket like that? you utter fool. you almost made me think i-”

- would lose you. even thinking it made him feel nauseous.

“why are we still dating then? but really, i mean it. i love you too much.” you coo, and that, in return, leads the wanderer to release an exasperated, weary sigh. if he were human, he's sure his blood pressure would never be normal because of you.

but contrary to his attitude, he relaxes his face and allows you to hold him. lightens up, even. you continue, rambling on, “be honest, you know you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

and that brings out such a bright and dazzling smile on your face that the puppets sarcastic smile is replaced by a real one when you huff and smack at his head. (all is well.)

“you're so unromantic.”

indeed, being with this strange, eccentric puppet was certainly a challenge in more ways than one. nonetheless, you know he cherishes you—because with you, the wanderer is different. he's bristly, infuriating, and honestly a pain (lovingly), but he cares for you.

he tells you to stop ogling at his pretty face and do the dishes, yet he never minds the attention at all. he tells you that you were a fool for accidentally getting yourself injured by eremites because you wanted to save some fungi, but follows you anyway and makes sure no one messes with you.

he says he probably wouldn't miss you while you're gone, but is always the first person you see when you return to sumeru city. it's these little things that make you love him, and you know the feeling is mutual—even if he'll act indifferent about it in the meantime.

“hey, kuni?”

wanderer's eyes are closed, serene. once he knew that you were not, in fact, going to break up with him, he relishes the feeling of his head resting on your lap. it was safe, warm, and everything to him; but he'd rather let the world burn before he tells you. “what?”

“thank you for letting me love you.”

....

“...idiot.” is all he says. you can feel him shift to the side so you won't see his face. “you don't have to thank me for that. that's so sappy...”

(and if you ever saw the slight sheen of glossiness in his eyes, you keep it to yourself.)

i should be thanking you. he thinks instead. i'm glad you love me.

so many things pop up in his head for this, so many unspoken words—and he may not be able to convey such things to you; he might never be able to, but you know that he loves, loves, and adores you.

because you accepted his past, his sins and his imperfections and treated him with tenderness and care. and you know that no matter how many sides of the wanderer you have yet to explore, you will love each one.

and that is enough for him to never let go.

a/n: IM CRYING I FINISHED THIS RIGHT ON TIME AFTER HIS EVENT and his growth has come so far,,, so proud of him 🥹

[poguehearted77]

Lights, Camera, Action!

Summary-> It's your first day on set and your nerves are through the roof but the cast makes you feel at home. You practice your lines, but the sparks between you and Drew are unscripted.

Belongs to my: OBX Season 5: Payback for Maybank Series

These can be read in any order!

You're jet-lagged, but your body has no idea. Too distracted from the abundance of nerves pumping through your veins as you walked around the enormous film lot toward the set.

You stand on the edge of the bustling Moroccan set, heart pounding as you clutch your sides. The scarf draped over your head feels both like a costume and a shield, helping you blend into the character you’re about to bring to life. Even with the months of preparation and the script readings under your belt, this moment feels surreal.

Everyone hustled across the set with purpose, knowing exactly what their job was and how to do it. You had only a fraction of that confidence as you were approached by a familiar face, one of the directors, Josh Pate.

"I can sense your anxiety from a mile away." He teases and it pulls a smile and a small breath of relief that he was friendly. With a comforting hand on your shoulders, "Take a deep breath, go grab a muffin from craft, have some water and I'll see you back here for your scene in 20, alright? I don't need any more faintings on the clock."

Once the words process, he's already gone. Fainting?? More??? With dazed eyes, your eyes scan the environment, dozens of people dressed just like you. Some sitting on the sidelines while others got into place on set. You'd even spotted Madelyn off to the side, a make-up artist lightly padding her face to protect it from the lighting as she prepared for her scene.

You took Josh's suggestion seriously, and promptly, or at least you tried to. You had no idea where to find crafts services or even if you'd be able to find your way back. "Craft Services is the first door on your left." Your head whips around with a face of slight terror in your eyes at the mind-reader from behind you. It's JD.

"How did you know?" It's the first thing you say, slight amusement and a hint of awe evident in your voice. He shrugs, "You were either looking for craft or the bathroom. It was a 50/50 shot, to be honest." He laughs and it calms your nerves a little. After a little while and a good conversation with JD, you glanced at the clock on the wall.

It became apparent you didn't have much time left. Quickly you end the conversation and head inside the room he'd directed you to. The studio was warm, credit to the Morrocan heat that surrounded you on the outside.

"Cups, cups, cups.." You mutter to no one in particular as you desperately scan for the item you need. "Here you go," A big hand is outstretched in front of you with a new cup dwarfed in its palm.

Your eyes followed up the length of the arm until they met those famous ocean-blue eyes that owned your TikTok feed for months last fall. Drew. He has the infamous buzz and soft smile as he looks down at you.

"Thank you," It's a simple response but it's the best you can do in a situation like this. Turning away from him, you fill your cup and finish its contents in nearly one sip before tossing it and rushing back to set not wanting to be late.

You rush back to set, still feeling the phantom warmth of Drew’s presence. For a moment, you wonder if this strange mix of tension and excitement is something all new actors feel or if it’s just you. The scarf draped over your head has now become a makeshift security blanket, as much for your nerves as for your character.

Josh greets you with a reassuring thumbs-up as you step into position, the antique shop set sprawling around you with meticulous detail. Dusty shelves lined with ornate trinkets, cracked pottery, and rusted brass figurines fill the space, dimly lit to convey the musty atmosphere of a forgotten bazaar. The air smells faintly of incense, which only adds to the immersion.

As the Pogues enter the set, Madelyn offers you a friendly wink, her playful energy making the tension in your shoulders ease. You remember bumping into her at one of your meetings with the writers. She's as pure as her character and it was relieving to see a friendly face on set.

Chase gives you a nod of encouragement, while Jonathan seems almost shocked to see you, probably since you'd never mentioned who you would be playing. He sends you a motion of acknowledgement anyway and you smile back.

The cameras start rolling, and suddenly, you are no longer you. As though it were a chemical reaction to the words 'Action', your brain switches to the character you've studied for months in anticipation. No longer Y/n, now Piper.

You busy yourself behind the counter. Attending to the tasks that depend on you as the owner of your antique shop. Your focus is set on the vase in your hands as you sweep over its rim with a cloth.

The bell of the shop chimes as six foreigners enter the shop, standing in a crowd with some of the most grim expressions you'd ever seen. "Vases on the left, woodwork on the right. Let me know if you have any questions." The phrase sounds ingenuine as it has only been repeated every day for the last three years.

"We're not here for some fucking pottery-" Rafe claps his hands down on the counter, you don't react. Sarah corrects him, "Rafe." You look back to the bunch, now standing at your full height,

They were filthy, covered in sand, dirt, and essentially any other grime that could find them. "We need supplies." Sarah says and you shrug, "What did you have in mind? Glasses? Lamps? Clocks?" The group lets out a frustrated set of sounds.

Pope clears his throat, "We need weapons, and we were told to come find you... the pied piper." You tug down the fabric that'd been covering your face to the bridge of your nose. Unveiling the full length of the scar that begins in the center of your forehead, runs down over your left eye and reaches your cheek.

John B whispers, "Just like he said," You make him speak up, "Just like who said. Who sent you?" He steps closer, "Mr. Alami, the merchant from Agapenta. He said you would be able to help us." Your expression elicits a sign of understanding but quickly returns to disinterest.

"I don't help foreigners." The explosive one outbursts again, "You sound just like we do, clearly you're not from here either, so stop shitting us and give us the guns." Those cobalt orbs penetrate the window of your soul but only bring out the sinister grin on Piper's face. "Fine," Swiftly reaching behind your back, revealing the weapon they so desperately wanted, you hold them at gunpoint.

"-And Cut!" You place the gun down on the counter and Drew approaches the counter once again. "That was really good, I even got caught up in it." He places a hand on his chest to add sincerity.

"Thank you so much. I was really nervous for today, I had no idea what to expect." Someway somehow your conversation moves off to the side of the set, seated on those acting chairs.

You laugh as he brings up your fleeting encounter earlier, "I had no idea you were playing Piper. One second I handed you a cup and I turned around and you're gone." Your stomach hurts from laughing. You take a deep breath of air to stop yourself from dying. "Stop stop stop," You beg, neither of you sure what you were laughing about anymore.

There wasn't much time until you would resume the scene but in the short time, Jonathan and Carlacia invited themselves over, giving a proper introduction, sparking a lively group conversation. Being 26 put you somewhere in the middle of the cast's ages, but no one got treated any differently because of it.

This current moment was proof. You and Carlacia posed for a selfie she insisted on taking, honouring the 'newest member' into their family. Both leaning in over the image on her screen you share a hearty laugh. JD is captured in the background in the middle of a gnarly yawn.

"Give me the phone, Lacy. That picture is a federal offence." He threatens, not an ounce of seriousness to be sensed in his voice. "I demand justice." You're almost certain you'd have a fully developed six-pack by the end of filming just from all the laughing.

Before you knew it the break was over and you were back where you'd left off. Went through the scene once more, adjusting anything that needed to be altered and carrying on. "I'm only going to ask you once, what do you want?" You've got a tight grip on the weapon and a crazy look in your eyes.

For the first time, Kiara breaks her silence. "Chandler Groff killed our friend! We can't let him get away with it." Her pleas pique your interest, and it's evident in your expression. "Chandler Groff, The conman?" They nod slowly and you begin to fume.

"Come." You wave them over, whipping open the curtains and entering the back of your shop. Four walls filled with various weapons from swords to machine guns. "Feeling like a kid in a candy store." Cleo beams, looking at the options, nothing but revenge in mind.

"Is that a canon?.." Pope trails off, "You've gotta be ready for anything. Expect the unexpected." Pope wholeheartedly agrees while John B begins questioning your knowledge about Groff. "He wronged some friends of mine. He got away before I could get to him, and that was a good call. I would've blown his brain to bits if I got my hands on him."

Kie smiles at that mention, "That's the dream," John B mutters. "Last time he was here, he was after some magical relic, a mythical one might I add. The blue... crest?" The item is lost on you when Sarah fills in. "The blue crown." It dawns on you at the mention.

"It's real," Kie admits and all the pogues turn to her with horror at her honesty. "Groff has it and god knows where he could be with it." You think, "If what you're telling me is true... then that crown is worth hundreds of millions of dollars. He can't just sell it at any auction. There's only one person with money like that. Mr. Finch."

"Where can we find him?"

"He's far. A two-day journey at minimum. You'll be forced to cross enemy territory and only locals know how to navigate the oasis under the radar. If you really are set on killing Groff, I'd be happy to lead you."

You notice an exchange of various looks between the group. "We need a second." Suddenly there's an exclusive huddle that leaves both you and the tall man at odds. He was sending daggers towards you. "Too cool to be part of their little club, are you?" Rafe stalks towards you, long intimidating strides. Displeased with your little joke.

Your faces were close enough that you could see his pupils dilate and contract now in the light from the window. "Listen. I've heard everything you said, and I'm not buying it. I don't trust you, and if you think for even a second I'll let you get in my way, you've got another thing comin'."

You noticeably gulp, it was unscripted but your nerves propelled it. He towered over you, your dark brown eyes searching his blue ones for any signs of insincerity but none was to be found. Every word he said, he meant it.

"And Cut! Drew, Y/n, amazing," Josh adds, and it's only when you hear your names called that you both back away from each other. However, it felt a little harder than normal, as if something was drawing you in.

Madison calls you over, and your feet are already on the move. With one last glance over your shoulder, your eyes meet his for just a moment.

His piercing eyes hold yours, a mix of curiosity and something unspoken flickering behind them, making your chest tighten with uncertainty. You can see it—he feels it too.

Taglist: @percysley, @lilithblackkk, @rafegf-real, @eternallovers65, @drsza

[zyxoxox]

observations.

> wanderer x reader. fluff! established relationship.

in which you spend some time to take all of him him in, and lay rest to his doubts.

it was a warm day in sumeru city, and you found yourself thinking about how wanderer’s skin would feel.

soft and smooth; flawless. cold, almost lifeless, as though you were running your fingers through a piece of silk.

it had no blemishes, no marks, no signs of blood that coursed underneath. it was perfect, too perfect, and he’d say perhaps that was another reason he was a mistake.

“and then, it turned out- [name]! are you even listening to me right now?”

oh! you were listening, truly! but… you couldn’t help but also stare very hungrily at his lips.

they really looked like candy. a soft, subtle shade of baby pink, ever so slightly glossy. delicious, even.

if only you could lean forward and take a bite-

“[name]?! what are you doing?!”

you blinked. your fingers were on his cupid’s bow, faces so close your noses nearly touched. gently, you pressed a kiss to his lips. his eyes widened, but he didn’t flinch back.

“tch.”

he was trying to sound unbothered. but with the way his eyes darted all over you, you could tell that was far from the case.

taking two fingers, you stretched his right eye open, looking into it intently. it was sapphire blue, in every sense of the word. as the sun light hit it, it glittered, refracting all the colours of the rainbow in tiny little glass shards.

when you first met him, his eyes felt like a dark ocean; an enigma that light couldn’t touch. but now that he was yours? though they were the same shade of blue, they held the sky, with a sun that never set.

wanderer held on to your elbows, pushing you back a little. “what- what’s gotten into you today? you’re looking at me like i’m going to die tomorrow.”

the two of you were on the floor, you kneeling into his lap. you used the newfound distance between you to put your head onto his chest. instinctively, you expected to hear something, but it was a void.

wanderer grew a bit stiff. squeezing onto your elbows, he tried to pull you back up to face him. “you’re not going to hear anything, you know. i don’t have a heart.”

but you were quite adamant to stay that pose a while longer. “i don’t hear a heartbeat,” you said. “i hear the ocean instead. it’s going shh-zhh-shh-zhh. that’s what your heart sounds like.”

he grumbled. “where do you get stupid ideas like these?”

his tone carried disdain, yet he had rested his chin upon the top of your head, while his hands rubbed rounds into your arm.

you snaked your fingers down his neck. feeling around a little, you found a circular dent there. in the yesteryear, it used to pump some godforsaken purple liquid into him. you shuddered at the thought. it gave you nightmares just thinking about it.

“how many of those do you have?” you asked him.

“does it really matter now?”

“how many, ra?”

“…six.”

“can i see them?”

he sighed, lifting up his shirt and turning around. sure enough, there were six similar scars on his back, of varying sizes. they tainted his supple snow-white skin, almost looking out of place. you traced each of them over and over, etching the feel of his skin in your mind.

after you were done, you slid your hands around his waist, hugging him from behind. with your chin on his shoulder, you peered over to look at his palms.

taking his hands in yours, you began to fidget with his fingers. like the rest of him, it was smooth. it was also empty, with no palm lines at all.

“there’s nothing there either. you can’t read my future or whatever, like those stalls at the bazaar.”

you shook your head, pressing a kiss to his jaw, right below his ear. “that just means your fate is whatever you wish to write it to be, ra.” you mused.

“ever the idealist,” he muttered. “now, are you done? going to look at my feet next?”

you giggled. “nope! today’s inspection is complete. i’ve made all necessary observations.”

wanderer pulled you back in front of him. “oh? so then, what’s the report?”

laughing, you kissed his lips. “this has been only one trial so far, silly! i’ll need many more before i can give you the results!”

his sarcastic smile faltered a little. “don’t do that. don’t look at me like i’m a temple to be worshipped. i’m not. you just… you haven’t realised it yet.”

grabbing his cheeks, you forced him to look at you. “so when i realise this ‘it’, i’ll leave you? run away?”

“…i’m flawed, [name].”

“good. as am i, as is sumeru, as is teyvat. and i like it better that way, don’t you?”

[diyasgarden]

no pomegranate trees

patrick zweig x reader, 4.9k words, features mentions of blood

I was treasuring my past, I was treasuring your future [taken from in our garden there was no pomegranate trees by Şükrü Erbaş]

Patrick’s made the street vendor blush now. A soft rosy color against the depth of her cheekbones, only emphasized by the way her gaze sheepishly flits down to the table in front of her. Her eyes run over the piles of citrus and pomegranate. A futile attempt to regain some composure that only serves to make her look more flustered. 

The slight upturn of his lips becomes more defined as you both take her in. It’s the same smirk he would use to convince a caterer to give him a bottle of champagne when you were teens and too bored at whatever gala you were dragged to. Or at one of those dinner parties to deflect questions when everyone felt entitled to know your dreams and mock you for it. He’d use it when visiting you in a new city to snag a few extra drinks at a club or get out from paying the full taxi fare. So routine, it feels intrinsic to his spirit. The sharp, lopsided smile blooms an odd sense of comfort in your chest, its familiarity mildly drowning out the worry about this random trip to visit you. 

He took a red eye after some challenger in the midwest, and landed in Istanbul at eight in the morning. When he called thirty minutes later to tell you he was here to visit, “What? Can’t I surprise you?” was the only thing he said when you asked if everything was okay. Right before he hung up, he let out a laugh. A small chuckle that felt pushed out of his throat, and you regretted not asking about the tournament before the call ended. 

He leans over the table, closer to the street vendor who’s flush deepens at the action. “Please?” he asks, still grinning like the Cheshire cat. He fiddles with the money in his hand, thumb running over the wrinkles of the dollar and folding the edges aimlessly. She lets out what you think is a quiet giggle, but the bazaar is too loud to actually hear. Tired of watching the exchange, you look around to the other stalls by where you stand. Tables of produce and barrels of spices mostly, with booths lined with Persian rugs and copper pots in the distance. If you squint, you can see the fragmented light of mosaic lamps as afternoon descended into night. 

Even with the sunset around the corner, there’s a lingering sense of spirit to the market. A potent vibrancy of sounds, smells, and people, that navigating made you feel close to the heart of the city. Or as close as you could, only living here for a month. It wasn’t like any of the other places you lived. Not that you could really group any together, each with their own withstanding singularity. 

Often you’d wonder if Patrick felt the same way about the places he went to on tour. If every country club had its own energy or if any city struck out more to him. Although, you’d never ask. He’d answer it of course, but you couldn’t help thinking it’d be an insult to you both, and frankly it was just another question on the long list of things you wanted to ask him.  

You turn to look down at the piles of pomegranate in front of you, aimlessly reaching to cup one of them. The fruit is a little larger than your palm, firm to touch and vaguely leather-like. You squeeze to see if you can make some sort of mark on the hard exterior, but when you move your hand to the next pomegranate you see no indication you ever touched the first. Your fingers draw small shapes against the rough skin of the second, slowly stopping when you see Patrick’s hand come up to touch the same one. His thumb brushes against yours, the rough skin of a callous sending a pleasant shiver up your spine before he moves to pick up the pomegranate, along with the first one you touched. 

“We’ll take these,” he tells the shop vendor, reaching over to give her the money in his hands. 

“Seriously?” 

It takes Patrick a moment to even register the question, too occupied in trying to capture every detail on the walk back to your apartment. Sometimes he imagines a common thread between all the places you’ve lived. An intangible likeness that calls to you, even if the only true connection is the fact that you’ve lived there. 

When the playfully sarcastic tone of your voice pulls him away from the stray cats and street signs, he laughs. Deep and genuine, the sound seems to echo down the street. It’s a stupid question, but he can hear the slight undercurrent of unease in your voice. 

 “I haven't converted any cash since I got here,” he starts, with a small chuckle, thumb pressing into the skin of the pomegranate in his hand. He has one in each palm. The globe-like fruit fits perfectly in his grasp. “It makes no difference, she can just go take it in for whatever they use here.”

“Lira,” you sigh with a delicate smile. The edges of your eyes move in turn with your lips. Titled up to the sky with a ripple of gentle wrinkles bound simultaneously in content and worry that fill him with warmth regardless. The sight prompts a grin on his own, and he looks away in front of him, hand flexing against the firm curve of the pomegranate as you get closer to your apartment. Of course you’d know that. Now living in Istanbul for how long? Three weeks? A month? It’s not like you stayed long in one place anyway.

You moved to London after he first went on tour, in pursuit of some vision for yourself. It wasn’t a surprise, you and Patrick spent years discussing it. Him playing tennis and you traveling the world in search of something deeper. While he didn’t understand exactly what you’re searching for, he assumed your heart would eventually guide you to it. He just hadn’t expected it to take you to so many places. 

“Well she can go convert it for lira then,” he adds jokingly, voice slightly clipped. He wants to make some joke about how you’re settling into the country, but in between the jet lag and the thoughts in his mind nothing comes. He should have told you he was coming to visit. Called at least before the flight took off, but it’s all a blur to him. He was driving by an airport after his game, and the next thing he really remembers is the flight attendant telling him they landed in Turkey. 

His hand squeezes the pomegranates, the friction stinging against his skin. 

“I had lira, you know. I could have given it to you,” you suddenly say, stopping in front of the door to the apartment building. He turns to see you looking up at him with gentle concern. Eyes wide and lips parted like you have more to say. He has to physically restrain from pressing his thumb against the space between your eyebrows and pushing away the knit of worry that’s formed. He can’t decide if you look like an adult waiting for an explanation or a child waiting for an apology. 

He shakes his head, but can sense you’re about to protest anyway. Shifting both pomegranates to the same hand, he steps to open the door. “Now where else would I practice flirting in Turkey?” 

He’s been holding the pomegranates the entire way back. A tight grip which you’re convinced must sting. He has more calluses now, you think. Physical burdens of the tennis racket which hurt just to look at. 

You press the elevator button, and sneak another look at him. Tennis has always more or less left Patrick tan, but it’s more prominent now. Each day in the sun marked with a new freckle or wrinkle. Delicate little things which emphasize his age, no matter how much the boyish smirks or humor clings to his youth. 

Your gaze drifts down, following along the vein in his arm back to his hand, still clutching the pomegranate. Your hand gravitates to his, reaching for the fruit, but he moves just as your finger grazes it. The elevator doors open with a ding and he steps in, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. 

“Whatcha doing?” he asks, the smirk teasing a reappearance. 

“I can hold one,” you insist, stepping in beside him. You try to take it once more, and again his hands move before you can. He holds it up, too high for you to grasp as the elevator doors close with a metallic thud. 

“I mean sure…if you can reach it,” he grins, immaturity pushing its way to the front.

When you roll your eyes and lean against the elevator wall, his look softens to something gentler. His hand comes down to his chest and he cradles both pomegranates as the elevator moves up. The weight of his gaze remains on you, pushing your own to the ground. Now you stare at his mud stained shoes, an exhausted greyish brown against what was once white. It’d probably take at least five washes to get the stains out, stomach churning at the thought. With a stronger resolve, you look up again. “Give me one” 

“It’s fine” 

“Just give me one, Patrick” 

“No,” he chuckles, shaking his head. You don’t have another chance to try grabbing it as the elevator opens to your floor, his free hand extending to guide you out. With a sigh, you step into the hallway, hand digging in your back pocket for the key as you walk towards your door. Patrick follows, pomegranates still pressed to his chest as you come to a stop. He hovers closer, as you move to push the key into the lock. 

He’s never had any concept of personal space. You can feel him next to you without a glance, heat radiating off his body in waves. The smell of cologne and sweat fill your senses. Distracting enough that you hold your breath to unlock the door. Finally pushing it open and stepping in with a deep exhale.

You turn on the lights and look at Patrick. With his free hand he closes the door, locking it before turning back to you. The slight reddish stubble against his chin catches the light with a sharper shine than the browned undertones of his unruly curls under the light. His hair isn’t long, shorter than when you were teens, but the dark curls still move without any order. 

Closing the door and kicking off your shoes, you ask, “I’ll put the pomegranate in the kitchen?” 

He steps away, not even letting you reach for it this time. “I'll cut them soon.” Still holding them tight as he moves to kick off his own shoes. For a moment you imagine just grabbing it and running away, not giving him the option to say no. A silly thought. He’d be fast enough to stop you anyway. 

“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, turning away before you unwillingly give into impulsivity. “I’m making tea”

He followed you into the kitchen, unsure what else to do with himself. The apartment is furnished and decorated. Warm in its own way, but he’d much rather stay closer to you than just wander back and forth taking in the pictures on the walls. The pomegranates remain close to his chest as he leans against the fridge, watching you standing over the stove and pouring water in the dual teapot. He imagines you every evening coming back to this apartment alone and making tea for yourself. 

He likes to imagine what you do in each city. How your life is spent in a new place each time. Years ago he’d picture you moving somewhere new and exploring, making friends, and finding time to write and draw and do all the other things which made you happy. Now he isn’t really sure what you do besides what he sees in front of him. 

What would you tell him if he asked? Would you be honest? Lie about some grand adventure? Probably just deflect the question as a whole, but he wants to anyway. It's a desire rooted in concern that reeks of greed. 

“Jet lag?” you ask softly, shaking him out of his thoughts. “It looks..” you purse your lips, “like you may pass out.” 

Something about your voice makes it seem like he’s going to fall apart in front of you. As if there were stitches between each limb that would come undone, reducing him to a pile of bones that you’d have to put back together. He can’t help but snort out a laugh. 

“I’m serious,” you add, and when he looks at you he sees the knot of worry between your brows again. The worried wave of wrinkles scrunching tighter than before. 

For a moment he debates explaining the image in his mind, about him falling apart and you slowly rebuilding him, bone after bone, but it’d probably just make you more upset. No words come together in apology, so he sighs. With the deep exhale, he murmurs, “Just tired… I’ll sit down.” He pushes his back off the refrigerator, taking one last look at you and your worry, as he forces himself to the living room taking the pomegranates with him. 

The sharp smell of tea circles around the apartment as you pour it from the pot. You can feel Patrick watching you from where he sits in the living room, looking a little too out of place in your apartment. Both too big for the small ottoman he’s sitting on and for the space at all.  His hand is playing with the flimsy crown of the pomegranates on the coffee table in front of him, and you look away to stare at your faint reflection in the black tea. Slowly, you move your hands to the tray the thin-waisted cups rest on, carrying it with you to the living room. You sit on the ottoman across from Patrick, and place the tray down by the pomegranates. 

A weird sort of silence has formed between the two of you. The sounds of the street come in from the window, a honk every now and then, but neither of you have made a noise. It seems as if time has stopped within the walls of your apartment, giving birth to some half-silence that is too much to bear. Trying to fill the void, you pointlessly murmur, “Turkish tea.”  

Thankfully,it’s enough to break the quiet. “Didn’t know,” he quips sarcastically, bringing back some sense of normalcy to the moment. You both reach to take a cup, but you just hold yours as you watch him bring the glass to the plush of his lips. He takes a sip and his nose slightly wrinkles as he puts it back down on the coffee table. “Strong…,” he says, kissing his teeth. 

Weakly you chuckle, looking down at the deep brown of the tea which is too dark to be anything but over brewed. “I’m still getting used to making it.” 

Now he laughs, an odd forced sound that reminds you of the call when he arrived. The same one from right before he hung up. “So not fully settled then” he says, tone weighed down by something heavy. Some mix of frustration and worry you can’t pull apart.

You look back at him, but even he feels the weight of his words. He looks to the side, before you can even look him in the eye. You bring the glass in your hands up to your lips, trying to push it down with the tea, but it makes the feeling sting down your throat. 

When he finally looks back at you, he lets out a shaky exhale. His exhaustion is so glaringly obvious, you think the only way it could be more apparent is if he wrote “I’m tired” with a marker on his forehead. There is not a part of his body or any action not tinged with a weariness you knew was because of tennis. 

His lips part to say something, but without much thought you interrupt to ask, “How’s tennis?” 

“What?” he asks back, eyebrows furrowing as he sits up straighter. 

With more determination, you repeat, “How is tennis?”

He lets out that awful laugh again. “You’re asking me how’s tennis?” mockingly shooting the question back at you, voice tinged with an incipient anger. 

“It’s just a question,” you sigh, shaking your head. Placing the tea down in front of you, you momentarily look at the pomegranate on the table before turning back to him.  

Patrick huffs, looking at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes pierce into yours before they go downcast. “I know,” he concedes in a murmur, still not making eye contact. 

He says nothing more as you still wait for some answer to your question. It’s almost as if the half silence has returned, but this time you can hear the faint sound of his breathing. You open your mouth to ask once more, but he speaks before you can. 

“What do you do here?” he asks, eyes suddenly looking right at you again. 

It takes a moment to even process the question, and in the confusion, you only repeat, “What do I do here?” 

“Do you have friends? Or are you writing something? Painting? Music? What?” he spits out quickly, volume increasing with each word. 

“Patrick–”

“I mean what do you tell people when you move to a new place? You have to say something when they ask!” 

“What?” 

“What do you do!” 

His voice is sharp, with a contorted sense of urgency that causes your heart to speed up. He’s out of breath, just looking at you with furrowed brows. A knot in your chest, as you watch his own heave up and down. 

Then, unexpectedly he asks, “Are you happy?” 

“Happy?” you repeat, more to yourself than him. 

“Like here, are you happy?” He leans across the coffee table closer to where you sit. You hear your heartbeat in your ear and the knot in your chest hardens to exasperation. 

“You’re asking me if I am happy?” you snap, your own frustration seeping into your voice. “You randomly show up and now you sit here asking me if I’m happy?”

He doesn’t wait a moment, moving in even closer. “Well are you!” 

“Yes!” you scoff. 

“You’re happy?” he repeats with the awful laugh, the question now rhetorical and cruel. “You’re happy moving from place to place. Just wasting away the trust fund throughout Europe?” making a sharp hand motion alongside his words. 

“Jesus,” you mumble, looking away. 

“What?” he questions, sounding offended at your dismissal. “You used to make things, be…be passionate…” he pants, clearly out of breath. “And now…you just keep moving from one place to another and for what?” 

“You don’t get to judge me!” you shout back, head snapping in his direction. “You’re the one wasting away because you can’t even hit a ball right”

He says nothing, staring at you. Breath ragged as he takes in your words, face twisting from anger to hurt. The reality of what you said sinks in, clarity coming too late. Your lips part in apology, but he just forces out that laughs again. 

“Okay,” he says, pushing away from the table with a force that knocks the pomegranates to the floor. You watch the fruit roll away as he walks out of the apartment. 

He dangles the cigarette between his lips as he searches himself for a lighter. To no use, of course. It takes him a moment to remember he couldn’t bring one on the flight, and that he’d probably have to go back up to the apartment to borrow one from you. He huffs, just keeping the cigarette between his lips. 

The night wind hits him gently. He wants to take a walk, but his legs feel rooted to the ground. Leaning against the building wall, he looks up, trying to see if he could see your apartment from here.

Patrick remembers you called to tell him about the move. You were still in Berlin then,  and he was at some tournament in the Midwest. An irrelevant challenger he only made a hundred from. He tries to remember exactly how you told him, but your words are hazy. Now some deformed product of his own mind, born in some desperate need for clarity. 

Instead, what he does remember is the musky smell of motel sheets he laid on, spent from the game, and confused by the news.

 “Istanbul? Like Turkey.”

“No, like Italy,” you laughed, before pausing with a slow exhale. Then softer, you said,  “Of course Turkey.” 

He remembers laughing at the joke, before his chest constricted at your tired breath. “I thought you were enjoying Berlin” 

You didn’t respond at first, but he remembers your soft breaths into the phone. Measured and deep, to a rhythm he memorized when you both were sixteen. “It was just… time for a change.”

“A change?” 

“Yes,” you whispered. “A change”

He accidentally bites down on the tip of the cigarette between his lips. The bitter pungent taste overtakes his mouth, but he still doesn’t move the cigarette. 

You don’t move for the next couple of minutes, just staring at the pomegranates as they come to a stop. They rolled alongside each other, before getting too close, and pushing off the other in opposite directions. One to the left and one to the right, now both standing still on each side of the room. Slowly, you push yourself to stand and move towards them.  

You bend down, reaching to pick up the first pomegranate, now slightly dented from the fall to the floor. Your hand runs over the soft dimple, taking in the purplish tint of the area. A growing bruise that would only darken with time. Your legs guide you to the other pomegranate across the room and as you hand wraps around it, you feel another dent. Just as deep and big, it feels identical to the first. You run a finger against the concave curve trying to find some difference, but both dip in the same formation. Holding one in each hand, you straighten each arm to properly look at the subtle marks. Barely visible against the deep red of the skin, but there nonetheless. 

You walk to the kitchen, placing the fruit on the counter. Stacked in a way so the bruises rest against each other. You hold them like that, before slowly stepping back and just looking at the two fruits. The dents press into the other with ease, each fruit supporting the other, and it dawns on you it’s probably from when they hit each other rolling, not from the fall itself.

You leave them like that before going to your room.

He’s not sure how long he was outside, but by the time he forces himself back into the building, he is relieved you didn’t lock your apartment door. Quietly, he rotates the knob and pushes it open, to be greeted with nearly the same sight he left. The lights are on, and the two cups of tea rest on the coffee table, but you’re nowhere in the room. Neither are the pomegranates. He walks around trying to find wherever you moved them, before finally stopping in the kitchen. Both on the counter top, one leaning against the other. With a deep exhale, he moves in front of them. He picks up one in each hand, both feeling heavier than before. 

Knives, he thinks. He needs a knife. 

He puts the pomegranates down and looks around again, trying to find something to cut the fruit with. When he finds the thin knife block, he pulls out the first one he can reach. He turns back to the fruit, gripping the blade in his left hand and moving his right one to hold the pomegranate steady. He takes a deep breath as he tightens his grasp on the fruit. 

There are gentle thuds from outside your room. You didn’t hear the front door open or close, but you know it’s Patrick from the sound alone. It’s the thud of his steps, steady and gentle, becoming softer as he walks farther away from you. 

You close your eyes as you lean against the bedroom door, not ready to go back out, as you try to follow the sound. In the distance you can still hear him walking. Shorter steps, but still steady and gentle.

The pomegranate has a soft waxy sensation, slightly slippery. His hand squeezes again around the rough surface, pressing the fruit to the counter. He moves the knife to the dense exterior, trying to push its way down the middle, but it remains stuck in the width of the peel. He tries pushing it again to no use. With a huff he pulls it out all together, trying to steady himself before thrusting it into the pomegranate again, getting deeper but still barely into the flesh.

The sound of the steps are replaced a more aggressive thud in the distance that keeps repeating. For a moment it sounds like he’s punching the wall or something like that, not enough to make a hole but enough to create a vibration that lingers. You step away from the door, and still hear the harsh thumps. Your heart picks up beat to the disjointed rhythm of the noise, as you finally open the door. 

What are you doing?” he hears, looking up to see you now walking towards the kitchen. 

Aligning the knife with the valley of the first cut, he harshly retorts, “What does it look like I’m doing?” He lifts it up and hacks into the fruit with a force unstable enough that it shifts in his hand.

You step closer to him, opening your mouth to say something to no words. Each movement of his arm is ragged and sharp, no fluidity as he pushes the blade into the fruit. His grip on the fruit jolts which each cut, getting closer to the blade each time.

The subtle grooves of the fruit press into his callouses. You're standing close, he can tell, but his eyes remain on the pomegranate. It's almost fully split. He holds it tighter, as he brings the knife down again. 

He’s not lucky this time. 

You hear him before you see the blood. The guttural groan of pain, accompanied by the clang of the knife falling to the floor. 

The fruit, now cut down the middle, leaks red all over the countertop, merging with the stream of blood from his hand. The same deep shade, indistinguishable from the other.

His eyes close in pain, hearing your frantic steps in every direction. The sound drowns out as he draws in a breath and is met with the smell of tart and metal. A bitter sweetness that overcomes him, only to be pushed away with the sharp ache of the wound. It shoots up his arm to his head, which now throbs to the rhythm of his former cuts to the pomegranate. He leans against the counter with short, panting breaths.  

Suddenly, he feels you take the injured hand. The touch sends a wave of relief up his arm now, followed by a guilt that constricts his chest. You press a soft cloth to the wound. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “Stay still,” repeating the words in a hushed succession. You hold it tight to his skin, burning in an oddly comfortable way. 

Slowly he opens his eyes and looks at you hunched over the cut. He can feel the depths of your breath brush against his hand with each exhale. He turns to the counter, pomegranate finally cut open, laying in a pool of red. The other one has someone rolled closer to it, both resting in the combination of juice and blood.

“You’re fine," you repeat once more. His eyes turn back to you, still hunched by his hand. The white cloth you hold is stained red, and the guilt grows tenfold. 

He rasps, “I’m sorry.” 

You say nothing, too focused on the cut, so he repeats louder, “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, not looking up at him. 

He lets out a tired exhale, as he says your name. Quiet and firm, wanting you to meet his eyes. When you do, he repeats, “I’m sorry.” 

Eyes wide, you stare at him for a moment. He watches the familiar knot of worry between your brows slowly come undone, as he feels your grip on the cloth relax. You nod softly with your own exhausted exhale, “I know.”

“I am too,” you add in a quiet whisper. “I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah” 

author’s note: hi!! it's been some time since i've written a longer piece, and this idea has been lingering in my head in November. a combination of an old poem i wrote and a specific scene which came to me during a fever dream when i had the flu, so silver lining of that experience i guess. been feeling very unsure about my writing, but i needed to get the idea on paper. special shoutout for @cha11engers to beta reading certain scenes and motivating me to not let this rot in my drafts!!! thank you all for reading and please please please tell me all your thoughts <3 i love you guys!!!

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Tactile.

A Grab-Bag Commission For The Very Lovely @ohsotearful.

Pairing: Yandere!Wanderer x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: ~750.

TW: Non-Con, Somnophilia, Stalking, Non-Consensual Touching, and Obsessive Behavior.

This was an old pastime, for him.

The broad strokes remained the same, but the details differed. As Scaramouche, the Balladeer, a glorified weapon for a foreign military waiting to become something he was always promised he would be, he watched you from a distance, passing your stall in the local bazaar when he had time to spare and letting himself into the recesses of your mind while he was still testing the boundaries of his newfound godhood, letting the nights you spent with him fade away like passing thoughts. As a wanderer, a being with no name or history to tie him down, he was more… physical in his approach, more eager to be close to you in the way that even the most insignificant flower strives to grow towards the sun. During the day, he’d trail after you like a lost puppy, desperate for your attention, and at night, he’d slip through your bedroom window, kneel at your bedside, watch the gentle rise and fall of your chest until his eyes stung and he couldn’t stand just to watch, anymore. In that life, he’d been naïve, so unaware of what he was that he couldn’t do anything more than cup your face and feel your warmth sink into his cold, porcelain skin. He hadn’t even thought to kiss you, much less leave a mark. It was all just feather-light touches – little objects of his sentiment you’d barely remember by the time the sun rose. It was all meaningless, and Scaramouche’s daydreams weren’t much better.

As the man he was now, still nameless but not quite so untethered, he’d learned his lesson from Scaramouche’s distance, from the wanderer’s artlessness. Close enough to make contact but not quite so caught up with his own pining that he couldn’t bring himself to touch you – he let his hands drift to your neck as he thrust into you, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat as he drank in the plushness of your delicate, tender skin. In the cold of night, your warmth was more addictive than ever, your body as inviting as it’d always been. Your expression was one of disrupted peace; the tranquility of rest agitated by the feeling of his cock fucking into you at an idle pace. He pressed the heels of his palms into your throat with just enough force to feel your breath hitch, to watch your features scrunch in aimless panic before pulling away, one hand drifting to take hold of your waist and the other finding your chest, nimble fingertips circling around your hardened nipple. You jerked in response, your reaction muted but visible enough. That was something he’d always liked about you: even at a distance, he could always draw something out of you.

Not that he wasn’t satisfied with your closeness. It was a sensation he, even now, wasn’t used to – the softness of your skin as opposed to the stoniness of his, the sharp cuts and awkward bends of his body lying in comparison to your smooth, vague curves. A being crafted by the hands of a god and polished by centuries of unyielding cruelty measured against a creature designed by no one and made to do nothing, where the former always seemed to somehow come up short. If he’d been able to, he would’ve hated you for it. If he’d been just a little stronger, he would’ve hated himself for not.

He let himself slip, rut into your deeper, fuck into you faster, savor the feeling of your wet heat dulling his rougher edges. He wouldn’t let there be a distance between you and him this time, he decided – he wouldn’t dwell in the back of your mind or sneak into your bedroom, wouldn’t find excuses to steal glances at you from the other side of a crowded bazaar or be happy to spend his days basking in your shadow. He’d always be this close to you, always be able to press himself into the elysium that was your meaningless, mortal body. He’d waited long enough for it, sought it out with enough desperation, and in that moment, buried inside you, your scent in his lungs and his affection for you finally delivered without reservation, he couldn’t imagine ever going without you again. He shouldn’t have to. He wouldn’t have to.

He dug his nails into your hip, a wide smile spreading over his lips. He watched with hawk-like attentiveness as your eyes fluttered open, as your expression went from confused to distressed. You started to say something, to scream, but his mouth crashed into yours and he swallowed anything you might’ve said, your voice slipping like milk and honey down his throat. When your protests faded into an incoherent collection of whimpers and sobs, he pulled back, grinning as he finally started to thrust into you properly.

This was an old pastime, but he wasn’t the person he used to be.

Maybe it was time for something to change, after all.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Plotting Serpent.

A Sorcerer in the Sands seeks something far bigger than himself. Freedom, sweet freedom.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

Bundled up in several layers, Jamil makes his way down a twisting path and into an open market.

The ground crunches softly under his boots. His breath is chilled, turning into a fleeting fog as he exhales. He retreats to the comfort and safety that his bulky coat provides, watching bales of white lazily drift down around him.

Snow instead of sand—imagine that.

The market operates straight out of the town square. From a vantage point--his temporary housing upon a hill--he can see the entirety of it, all the stalls forming a circle. The market is, by no means, large—but it has the spirit of something grander. The banter, the bartering.

Not so different from the bazaars at home.

Jamil ducks in, taking his time to pace around to each vendor. He’s agile and bright, like a child first viewing the moon and rushing to catch it in his palms.

Most sellers—and most customers—are elderly, gnarled like the roots of a tree. The cold colors their rounded cheeks the same red as many of the apples on display.

There’s pink and yellow and green too, and other fresh produce. The majority of it, he is told, is grown in Harveston. Others are foraged from Mt. Moln—nuts, plants, berries, and mushrooms.

Other stalls offer already manufactured goods. Scarves and gloves to protect against the winter, steaming apple drinks and sweetly spiced snacks, toiletries lovingly handcrafted with botanical oils.

His eyes light up with interest. He stops to inspect a row of shampoo and conditioner bars.

Feel free to touch and smell! says a sign at the stall.

He does, testing the weight of a bar in his hand. It is light and has an easy slip to it, and gives off the faint aroma of apples. Slightly tart and juicy.

It'll be good to have on hand, especially when it weighs less than liquid variants. The sign says these bars are made with apple seed oil, an ingredient that treats split ends and dryness while restoring a shine...

He absentmindedly feels the ends of his hair. The locks are normally dark and glossy, but the cold has not treated them well, leaving them slightly dry and brittle.

That's the cost of travel. It can be difficult to predict how my skin and hair react to different climates.

“Excuse me,” Jamil calls out to the stall owner, “I’d like to buy one of these shampoo bars, please. One in the conditioner bars as well."

“Sure thing!!” The owner wraps up the bars and slides them over. As Jamil hands him a few bills, he pipes up. “Say, yer not from ‘round here, are ya, sonny?”

“Yes. I am but a traveler.”

“Traveler!” The owner’s eyebrows shoot up. “Real fancy livin’ ya must have."

“No, not at all. I try to live humbly and travel light.” Jamil indicates his backpack, the one piece of luggage that follows him wherever he goes.

"That so? Not many young folk visit these parts." The owner strokes his rounded chin in contemplation. "I figured ya must be on yer way to the city. A lot more for youngins to see 'n do there."

“I beg to differ. The village has shown me incredible hospitality during my stay. Delicious foods, friendliness... I can enjoy Harveston's natural sights without worry. I'm content with just that."

With each word that leaves his lips, he feels the weight that has been on his shoulders lifting.

Jamil, you're free, the wind seems to whisper. The realization is intoxicatingly sweet and crisp, the first bite taken from a forbidden fruit.

"Aww, that warms mah heart ta hear ya say," the owner beams. "Yer a good kid, yer parents would be proud of ya."

"My... parents?" Jamil falters at the mention of them.

His parents are back home. His sister, too. Najma had texted not long ago, pestering him about bringing her a souvenir and asking when he’d be back.

His family is waiting for him. And... who else is there?

Jamil's brows furrow. Suddenly, he feels as though someone should be beside him, and he, trailing after them. A hopeless person buying up all the stalls, shoveling new dish after new dish at him.

"Here, try this, Jamil! Oooh, and this! That looks super tasty, have some too! And this cracker!"

"Where did you get all this food from?! There's no way we'll be able to feasibly finish this before it goes bad. Why do you never listen to me, Ka..."

A growl rips from his stomach. Jamil's eyes widen, and his face heats.

The stall owner's laugh cuts through his confusion. "Gahahah! Ya hungry there, son? Here, lemme grab ya somethin' on the house."

"Oh no, sir, I can't accept that."

"I insist!! Won't be long 'fore ya mosey on outta here and move on ta the next place. Eat yer fill while yer here, there ain't nothin' like a homegrown Harveston meal or snack anywhere else in Twisted Wonderland!"

The owner rustles with utensils behind the stall, He fills a container with a generous slice of pie--oozing with apple filling--and fluffy pancakes, plus a few potstickers. Then he pours hot tea, apple cubes bobbing in the spiced brown liquid, into a paper cup.

Jamil gets a whiff of it from where he stands and--against his better judgment, his mouth waters. When the owner hands him the container, cup, and a wooden fork, he doesn't refuse them.

"Remember us ‘n all the fun times ya spent here."

"Thank you, sir." Jamil bows his head. "I will. I'll never forget your kindness."

"Don't 'cha mention it. Go on 'n git now, ya got plenty more of the village to visit!""

Jamil departs with his purchase and his gifts, which he immediately settles into.

Lifting the paper cup to his lips, he sips his tea. It's deep and tangy from the cinnamon and apples it has been brewed with. He pleasantly warms from head to toe.

It isn't long before he downs the rest of the drink, apple cubes and all. They're not fresh, but dried--so when his teeth slices them into halves, they're springy and chewy, with a strong flavor.

Jamil lowers the cup, dragging out a satisfied sigh.

It's then that he realizes he's walking directly into a black wall. He veers sharply to the right, but still brushes his arm against that of the incoming person.

“Pardon me. I wasn't watching where I was going...” Jamil looks back, but is startled to find no one where his shoulder has made contact.

Hm? Was I imagining things?

Jamil glances around the marketplace. The crowd is too sparse for him to miss anyone. There are grandmothers and grandfathers, mothers and fathers, each dressed in thick coats and boots, some wrapped in scarves and others sporting fuzzy hats or earmuffs.

But no one is wearing all black.

He shakes his head.

It was probably nothing then.

Jamil returns to browsing the square, his every stride as light as a feather. He feels as though he is dancing atop the snow.

The cold no longer bothers him.

The wind, carrying a new message that resonates with his heart. It seems stronger now, rumbling like a deadly avalanche.

"Be free, Viper. Be free."

[canonkiller]

today's Thing I Like: universe for sale, a short point and click sci-fi game available on steam! (and on sale!)

from the website:

A space station nestled in the clouds of Jupiter. A bizarre bazaar where a young, worried woman crafts entire universes in the palm of her hand. A mysterious cultist who’s stripped the flesh from his bones in order to reach enlightenment. Here, there’s a universe for sale. You buying?

I got this as an unassuming little title I'd never heard of in a humble bundle and really, really enjoyed it. its simple to play but has a really interesting narrative structure and I really liked how the mechanics of the game itself are tied into the story (as all good games should do). check it out if you have the time and a few bucks to spare!

[minisugakoobies]

Taste | LMH

Pairing: Minho x Gender Neutral Reader Genre: smut, porn without plot, non-Idol!AU Rating: M (18+) Warnings: oral sex (m receiving), spit used as lube (who am I?), deep-throating, choking/gagging on dick, wet & messy, face-fucking, cum swallowing, dom/sub undertones (dom!minho and sub!reader), use of the word "pet," I left the relationship vague so feel free to imagine what you will Word Count: 860 Disclaimers: NSFW, obviously I don’t own SKZ - they just inspire me

Summary: Minho's waiting for you… have a little taste.

A/N: So… I wasn't planning on writing anything this week. Then I saw the photos from SKZ's Harper's Bazaar Japan photoshoot. I could not stop staring at Minho with his legs spread wide… and then this happened. I kept it short for once!

Big thank you to @minttangerines for taking a look at this one. Please let me know what you think and if you'd like me to keep writing for SKZ! 💕

SKZ Masterlist

Minho sits with his legs spread, head tilted as he gazes at you with eyes blacker than the night sky. 

“Come get it.” 

The words seem like a tease, but his tone is firm. Commanding. It should be embarrassing how quickly your mouth waters as you step forward, crossing the room in only a few short strides. Should be. 

You kneel between his long legs, hands folded neatly in front of you. “Touch,” he says, and you slip them up his calves, over his knees. The black leather under your palms creaks slightly as you rub his thighs. His eyes fall shut for a moment while you massage away the stressful day he’s had, working his body to the limit once again. 

The zipper yields easily to your deft fingers. There’s nothing underneath but him. You tug on the waistband of the pants and he lifts his hips just enough for you to slide them off. His cock springs free from the confines of the leather, head flushed dark from the bloodrush. He’s already hard for you. It’s a heady feeling, knowing that you have this effect on him. Just the thought of your lips wrapped around him is enough. 

The warm almond and honey scent of his body wash floods your senses as you wait. Despite the evening breeze fluttering the curtains behind you, the air in the room feels hot and thick with anticipation. A beat of sweat trickles down his bare chest, rolls all the way to his Adonis belt before stopping. Your tongue is already licking your lips, ready for a taste, when he smirks, crossing his arms behind his head. 

“Go ahead, pet. Help yourself.” 

Gently, you hold him in your hand. His skin feels like silk, and you stroke lightly, smoothly rolling your wrist. When your thumb glides over his slit, Minho hums, deep in his chest. You repeat the action a few times, earning yourself more content rumbles. 

Those rumbles become a low groan as your tongue flicks out to coat the tip. Around and around you drag it, covering his head in your saliva, wetting it as best you can. It’s not enough, so you draw yourself up on your knees, lean over his lap, and spit. 

“Fuck,” Minho mutters. He’s still reclining, body looking completely relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, focused, observing your every movement. 

Satisfied with how slick his cock is now, you lower your head, taking him in your mouth. A heavenly sigh fills your ears, spurring you to go further, swallow him down more. He’s tickling the back of your throat when you stop, reversing your movement, pulling back to lavish more licks across his swollen head. In no time at all you’ve got a steady rhythm, bobbing up and down.

It’s a lax tempo you’ve set. You’re in no hurry, wanting to take your time with Minho. Drag out the pleasure for as long as you possibly can. You know he doesn’t mind by the way he keeps his hands behind his head, letting you set the pace. He moans again, and you glance up at him, finding him watching you with an intensity that has you desperate to be touched yourself. But you can be patient. This is about him. 

“So good, pet,” he whispers. No matter how many times he calls you that, it always feels like the first time, a torrent of desire rushing through you. 

Inhaling through your nose, you hollow your cheeks, making your mouth so snug around him that Minho growls. You ache terribly, needing him inside you, but you’re not done yet. His abs start to tremble as his breaths quicken. “More,” he demands. “Again.” 

Your mouth is full of saliva now, running over your lips and down his hard length as you suck again and again. Wanting to be good for him. Wanting to please him. Your hands roam, cupping his balls, tugging lightly, just enough to have him gasping. When his hips begin to buck, you know it won’t be long. 

His fingers come to rest on the back of your head. Immediately, you go still, ceding control. A strong press guides you down, as his thighs lift from the chair beneath him to meet you. 

“Gonna fuck your mouth. Be a good pet and hold still.” 

Nothing in the world could move you now. Minho starts easy, rolling his pelvis, cock gliding along your tongue, thick and salty as you swallow around him. Then he thrusts faster. The room fills with loud wet gagging noises that mingle with grunts and the filthy praise he utters as he comes undone.

“Just like that. Fuck, such a sweet mouth. Oh shit, yes, so tight, just like that!” 

As you choke down more saliva, Minho hisses, feeling your throat constrict, and it’s enough to push him over the edge. He spills then, hot and pulsing quick, and you keep swallowing until there’s nothing left in your mouth but him. 

With deep, steadying breaths, you recline on your heels, hands on your thighs. Minho’s chest rises and falls as he regains control. Finally, he sighs, reaching for you. 

“Your turn.” 

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜 

© 2023 by minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost.

[seabirdtxt]

.Irminsul stash --Traveler_Inventory

You and Scaramouche head over to ask the Traveler for some groceries [< prev] [Blog tag] [next >]

Notes: SAGAU without cult shenanigans, mostly filler chapter. sorry for the long hiatus!

WC. 1.5k

----- ⚘ -----

As much as you enjoyed spending your time running around Teyvat in-game, nothing quite prepares you for how vast it actually is. 

Of course you’ve known that, logically speaking, it’s impossible to correctly scale an entire city using a limitation such as video game engines. You are still knocked completely off your feet at the sight of the sprawling verdant domes and alabaster walkways of Sumeru City. 

You jog down from the Sanctuary doors and lean over the railing, eyes tracing the knotted branches of the Great Tree where they mesh flawlessly with the infrastructure of the city. The scale of things is easily dozens of times bigger than what is shown in-game, and despite the beautiful graphics it has, the game definitely cannot do justice to the sheer variety of buildings and people that make up Sumeru City. Unable to help yourself, you make wordless noises of awe as you take in the scenery.

“You’d think you’ve never seen a city before,” Scaramouche’s deadpan voice states from a few paces behind you, where he’s lazily following you down the ramp. You turn and face him, taking note of how he’d removed the colourful belts, ropes, and other identifying markers of his outfit, leaving only his bodysuit and black jinbei. He looks deeply annoyed by this state of undress, so you wisely choose not to mention it. 

“I mean, I’ve never seen it like this before,” you agree, gesturing to the skyline with a wide sweep of your arm. “Like, I’ve seen some of it from a certain, uh, distance? But seeing it in person… Wow. Just doesn't compare.” 

Scaramouche says nothing as he finally comes to a stop beside you, arms crossed as he surveys the view. After a few seconds he snorts derisively. “Looks the same as it always does, to me.” He scoffs. “Come on, we don’t have all day.”

You let him drag you down the rest of the ramps until you both meet the pale bricks of the main road. You follow him as he leads you, presumably, to wherever the Traveler is staying. Your eyes wander aimlessly, taking in the sights. 

Something tugs at the gem of your shirt and you stop walking, surprised. When you look down, you see a small child with dirt stains on their hands and knees, and a streak of dirt across their face. The child beams up at you, holding out their closed fist and shaking it at you.

“Oh, hello. What’s up?” You ask, crouching down beside them. You hear a noise of disgust from Scaramouche, which you wave off in favor of giving the child a smile. “Anything I can help you with, buddy?”

The child shakes their fist again and you finally get the message. You present your own open hand, palm upturned, and the child drops whatever they’re holding into it. They scamper off quickly before you can say anything, so instead you peer at the tiny object in your hand.

It’s a small stone, with a very simplified carving on it. It appears to be some writing, and an angular leaf shape. The marks are gibberish to you, but surely it has significance of some kind, so you pocket it and stand back up. You give Scaramouche an apologetic grin, to which he simply rolls his eyes and continues on.

The walk is, understandably, much longer physically than it is in-game, and you find yourself a little winded by the time you’re anywhere near the Grand Bazaar. You do eventually get to a building that you (very, very vaguely) recognize as the inn the Traveler and Paimon stayed at during the Sabzeruz Festival arc, and you huff a sigh of relief that the long stroll is finally over. Before you can even approach or knock, you’re bowled over by a flying white mess of limbs.

“Creator! You’re here!” Paimon squeals in your ear as she tackles you to the best of her ability, and you wince as she excitedly hugs whatever part of you she can reach. “I’m so glad that stupid mean puppet didn't kill you yet!”

Scaramouche makes an offended noise at that last remark and flips Paimon the bird.

“Yeah, here I am!” You laugh after untangling her from around your head and pat her head as the Traveler joins her, looking a little worse for wear. Their outfit is a little stained in places, and bears some signs of scorch marks at the edges.

“Good timing, we just got back from our morning commissions,” they say with a wave. “I didn’t think you’d be out and about so soon, is there anything you need help with?”

“We want your ingredients supplies.” Scaramouche blurts out, interrupting any of your attempts to phrase it in a nicer way. 

“All of them?!” Paimon gasps, absolutely devastated. You quickly step in before Scara can say anything else.

“No no! Just a little bit,” you reassure the sprite, then address the rest of your request to the Traveler with an affable shrug. “If you have anything to spare we’d really appreciate it. We don’t exactly have a lot of food in my teapot yet. Or, uhh… Any food, at all.”

“Oh!” The traveler smacks their forehead with the heel of their palm. “I didn’t think of that, Your Grace, I’m so sorry!”

“You really don’t have to call me that,” You laugh awkwardly at the title and volume at which the Traveler said it, conscious of the curious glances your little group has attracted. All around you you begin to hear indistinct murmuring, and you frantically hope they’re not talking about you. “And, uh, don’t worry about it! It’s a bit short notice, I get it.”

“As long as you leave some for us, it’s no problem!” Paimon says as she recovers from her shock. The Traveler turns to her with a sly grin.

“As long as they leave some for you, you mean?” They tease, to which Paimon splutters in protest. The Traveler gently pokes her cheek while she throws her tantrum.

“Can we take this inside?” Scaramouche asks waspishly, stopping the pair’s bickering for a moment. “Or literally anywhere else? Maybe you two enjoy being ogled like zoo animals, but I personally don’t appreciate being eyed up by the unwashed masses.”

“How rude! You haven’t learned a single thing, have you?!” Paimon scolds, turning her wrath on the harbinger. 

“Actually, I agree,” you give a halting laugh as you step closer to the building. More and more eyes are turning toward you. You give the crowd an awkward wave, and suddenly the murmurs turn into a clamor as people begin to understand your identity.

“Oh, whoops,” the Traveler says, grabbing both your hand and Scaramouche’s bicep. Paimon quickly gets the idea and grabs onto the sleeve of their outfit. “Time to go!”

-----

You spiral back into existence high above the streets of Sumeru, close to the Akademia front doors, having been forcefully teleported as a group with the Traveler. They set you down gently, while simultaneously dropping Scaramouche like a sack of potatoes. 

“Ow! Hey, watch it!” 

“Are you alright, Your Grace?”

Three pairs of eyes watch as you dust yourself off and give a cheerful thumbs up. “All good!” You announce. “Let’s talk groceries, shall we?”

In the end, the Traveler decides to give you and Scaramouche three bags of dry products—things like fruits and veggies, rice, sugar, coffee beans, and cured meat—and promises to stop by your teapot sometime later in the week to deliver cold foods and more fresh produce. 

“I’m sure some of this probably isn’t what you’re used to in your world,” the Traveler says apologetically, giving you a wry smile. “If you have any questions about it, I’m sure you can ask Wanderer. He’s been enrolled in some cooking classes for the past few semesters, so he’ll know what he’s doing.”

“Hah! As if.” Scaramouche snatches the last bag of groceries out of their hands with a sneer. “That weakling is going to be out running errands for Buer’s every whim. Do you really expect him to be around long enough to cook adequately? I’ll handle this.” 

The Traveler only raises a single eyebrow at the declaration, then shrugs. “Suit yourself,” they chuckle. “Just don’t poison the Creator, I guess.”

“Can the Creator even get sick?” Paimon asks, hovering around you and inspecting you closely enough to make you ticklish. “I’m not sure gods are supposed to be able to get sick, you know!”

“Well, we don’t want to find out!” 

“It’s fine, a little food poisoning won’t kill me,” you reassure the three of them, knowing you’ll be having a rough go at it for the foreseeable future given what you know about Scaramouche’s current cooking skills.

“So, what? None of you have any faith in me?” Scaramouche frowns and crosses his arms as best as he can around his grocery bags. 

The response comes from the three of you at the same time.

“No.”

[dindjarindiaries]

Dincember 2024 - December 5: Boots

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompt: Boots

main masterlist • dincember masterlist

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙

Din was polishing his blaster when he heard Grogu coo from across the cabin. He looked up, narrowing his eyes as he tried to find the kid. The little womp rat had been getting back into impromptu games of hide-and-seek, but Din really wasn't in the mood on their first night back at home.

"'What's going on, pal?"

Another coo split the air, and it was one of Grogu's long ones. Din knew what it meant: Come here!

Din sighed, setting aside his blaster and rag as he pushed himself up out of his chair. He mumbled about the fact that this little venture better be worth it as he headed towards his bedroom, where he'd heard Grogu's voice coming from.

Sure enough, the kid was there, hugging one of Din's boots by the bed. Din stopped in his tracks and set his weight on one hip, his hands rising to his waist just as his eyebrow lifted in an unimpressed maneuver.

"Why are you holding my boot like that?"

Grogu huffed, rolling his eyes—Din really should be calling him out on that blatant disrespect—and tapping the boot a few times.

Din still wasn't getting it. Force, was he excited for the day the kid could finally talk.

"You... want me to put them on?"

Grogu palmed his wrinkly forehead and pointed at his own foot. He went back and forth a few times.

Realization finally dawned over Din. "You want a pair of your own boots?"

Grogu nodded and let out a relieved coo. Din chuckled and closed the distance over to him, kneeling in front of him and running his fingers along his long ear.

"You know, buddy, you could've told me that last time we were at the bazaar." Din nodded. "I would've found a pair for you."

Grogu shrugged and looked down bashfully. Din chuckled and scooped Grogu into the nook of his arm.

"C'mon, kid." Din glanced book at his boots, making a more permanent mental note to remember Grogu's next time they were out, and kept heading back to the living area. "It's time you learn how to polish a blaster."

Grogu's eyes widened in delight, and Din warmed at yet another sign that his son was truly learning—and was enjoying it.

[sugareey-makes-stuff]

2025 FTH Crafts Bazaar Stall- Sugareey's Crocheted Critters

Hi all! For FTH this year, I'm part of the Crafts Bazaar, and I'm offering some crocheted buddies that can brighten up someone's day. I have four 1 Ready To Ship smol critter who is looking for a new home. First come, first serve! Ready to Ship critters have all been claimed, but I still have 2 custom crochet slots open via auction if you want:

a. A wee little Bronosaurus or Nessie (which will definitely fit and sit in the palm of your hand). Winner can choose the colors for its body and embroidered eyes.

b. A regular sized Jellyfish. Winner can choose the colors for its body and embroidered eyes, and have the option of having ties added (to hang up this buddy if you wish!).

Bidding for custom crochet slots close on Monday, March 10, 2025 at 6pm EST.

Want to know more? Get all the deets via my craft stall! And of course, I'd love it if you can spread the word to others and reblog. Thanks so much for your support!

[thatgirlonstage]

mermay prompt: JamiKali + gold?

I'm not entirely happy with the way I ended this one but if I keep picking at it I will run out of time to work on other prompts so I'm calling it good. Keep an eye on the Ao3 collection next year, I might put a revised version up once I've had longer to sit on it. I really like the worldbuilding concept I'm playing with, anyway :3

(also I hope you see this, nonny — sorry for taking most of the month to get to it!!!)

———

Mermaids cry pearls and their scales are made of gold.

Those are the kinds of myths that Jamil grows up hearing, circulating in whispers through the bazaar, repeated like a dreamy incantation by traders in their cups, posted in hashtags below visibly photoshopped images of supposed beachside treasures.

“If only they knew, huh Jamil?” Kalim giggles by his side, letting silk run over his hands like water. When his fingers lift away, there’s an embroidered pattern of fish leaping along the edge of the headscarf, flashing in the sunlight. Kalim’s smile is brighter than the pure silver of the thread, a searing thing, white teeth a slash in his brown skin. “I don’t think these people even believe mermaids really exist.”

Jamil bites down hard on the urge to tell him to shut up. Drawing any attention will only make Kalim’s remarks seem significant to anyone who already overheard them. He bites down so hard that his lip splits. He tastes iron. Kalim, brow furrowing, reaches up and swipes a thumb over Jamil’s mouth.

When mermaid blood is spilled on sand, it turns into rubies.

“Are you all right?” Kalim asks, popping his bloodied thumb back out of his mouth. “You’ve been so quiet today.” He spits a shard of something glittering and red into his palm, considers it, and discards it on the ground. A moment later, Jamil hears a muffled exclamation from behind them. He does not look back. Looking back will only draw attention. People exclaim in bazaars all the time.

“It’s too hot,” he says by way of excuse. “It’s making me tired.”

Kalim pokes him in the shoulder, a friendly reproach. “You should have said! I would’ve come on my own. It’s only the groceries.”

“Last time I let you go on your own, you left an entire frieze of the legend of Sinbad carved over the entrance of the fish merchant’s stall.”

Mermaids have sea silk for hair. I bet if you plucked a mermaid’s eyelashes they’d be made of saffron.

Kalim laughs, the sound high and bright and as bubbly as a stream. “I forgot about that! The poor man was so confused.” He trails just the edge of his pinky finger along a piece of pottery, and the mosaic pattern gains a thin golden outline. “I’m sorry I make you worry, but it’s just that your magic is so abundant, I’m overflowing all the time.” He leans up and presses his lips to Jamil’s cheek. “Take a little back, okay? It’ll help me behave.”

When a mermaid kisses you, forever after, every time you speak, gems will fall from your lips.

Jamil feels his own magic surge backward into his skin, electricity racing up and down his spine. It sits there, crouching in his nerves, making every hair on the back of his neck stand up, locked in his blood. He inhales sharply and lets the breath hiss back out between his teeth.

“Warn me when you’re about to do that,” he says. “It’s not exactly comfortable.”

“Oops.” Kalim looks contrite. “Sorry, I gave you back a little more than I meant to!” He reaches as if to take some of it again, but Jamil jerks his head away.

“It’s fine.” The magic pulls at his tendons, crackling with unreleased potential. He grits his teeth against the scraping, scrabbling, screaming need for release, the way it hits a wall at every turn. Kalim is at least no longer quietly turning every pebble he steps on into sea glass.

“Your magic really is just that potent,” Kalim tells him, settling back into his place next to Jamil, grin diamond-white in the afternoon sun. “I can make anything you want, Jamil.” He slides his hand into Jamil’s, interlocking their fingers. “Just ask. Whenever you want anything, just ask and it’s all yours.”

Jamil hopes the smile he gives in return looks less forced than it feels. He can’t bring himself to speak, to tell Kalim the truth. He only breathes and lets himself imagine the contact of their palms makes his magic trickle back into Kalim a little faster, that the pounding desperation in his skull to let the magic out of his skin is a little lessened, that the tightness of his jaw is due to sun and stress and hours spent with Kalim as company, and not a curse weaving its prohibition into his tongue and teeth, stopping any spell from passing his lips.

If someone asked Jamil Viper to tell them a story about mermaids, this is what he would have said:

It’s true, mermaids can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.

But they can’t do it alone. They have to borrow your magic.

If you wish, you can promise them magic in return for jewels, for gold, for pearls, for anything your heart could desire.

So go to the river if you want, trail a finger in the water under the full moon, and send out a spark to let one of them know you want to talk.

But be careful.

Once you’ve made a pact with one it cannot be undone.

They will stay bound to your bloodline forever.

———

Mermay prompts are open until May 31st!