#there is something so devastatingly human about them

[dragon-flies-72]

Sengen is so weird to me cause when I get into a fandom I tend to gravitate to ships that have certain tropes: enemies to lovers, rivals, sun/moon, best friends to lovers, soulmates and so on.

But Sengen isn't any of that? Like don't get me wrong i do love other ships in fandoms that don't follow tropes but for a main ship in the fandom its so normal? (Weird bc literally nothing about them is normal) They like eachother because they do. That's it. They just enjoy being in eachothers company. No 'the universe put them together' kind of stuff, no its because they just want to.

There's something so simple about that, that I just love. They dont follow a trope or pattern or anything. They are just themselves, and it's because they are themselves that they are together. No fate, no destiny just two people choosing to be together. They don't have the whole 'Soulmates in every universe' thing, they just choose eachother.

And that makes it hit so much more than any other ship in any other fandom I'm in.

[holyshit]

.

[sluttyten]

The Devil in Me

Kinktober Day 9 | Haechan Masterlist | Member Masterlist

tags: loss of virginity, first time, oral sex, marking, biting, possessive/protective Haechan, mentions of human sacrifice, demons, a lot softer/romantic than it sounds

length: 8293

Maybe you should have heeded the warnings of your friends and family, but you’d thought it was all just a bit of small-mindedness and prejudice. 

When you started seeing a guy who was a loud and proud satanist, your friends and family had all told you that he would be bad news. But you’d done some research into the belief system of satanists, and it wasn’t inherently evil, as they all seemed to believe. And you liked this guy, he was charming and handsome and he spoke to you like you were his everything, that you were someone special to him. 

And now, in your present position, you can see that you were in fact someone special to him. 

You were his virgin sacrifice. 

It had been a mistake to tell him that you were a virgin. You could’ve fed him some other excuse for why you didn’t want to have sex, but you’d gone with the truth. And now look where it got you. 

He’d brought you out into the woods on the premise of a night hike, stargazing, camping and keeping each other warm beside a campfire. But now you were strapped to a wooden table in the middle of a circle of fire in the woods, and he was pacing in circles around you, chanting words and drawing symbols on his bare chest in either red paint or some kind of blood. 

He’d already given you the evil villain speech. This was a ritual to summon a demon he’d read about — a chaos demon who could grant him wealth and talent by stealing it from others. He was going to sacrifice you and blah blah blah. You’d stopped listening after a while. The straps on your wrists were so tight that you were losing feeling in your fingertips. Your ankles were tied down too, and you could see no way out of this, resigned to your fate. 

All you know is that if he kills you, you’re going to haunt the shit out of him. 

When he stops his pacing, when the chanting slows, you close your eyes and send a prayer out to anyone listening to save you. 

The asshole teases you with your own death. He trails his hunting knife from your neck down between your breasts, slicing apart your shirt as he goes. 

Your shirt falls open, and he returns the blade to your throat. You refuse to make a sound, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing you cry out. 

“Look at me!” He yells, his hand gripping your chin. “I want you to watch.”

Your eyes fly open, and you stare this asshole in the eye, putting as much hatred and vitriol in your gaze as you can. 

He grins, trailing the knife lower, and with a flick of his wrist, he gives you a shallow cut just above your left breast. You can see the first drops of your blood well up to the surface. His eyes light up, the chant falling from his lips again as he lifts his hand and the blade, drawing them up into the air over the center of your chest. 

He’s going to plunge it into your heart, that’s something he said during his monologue. 

You suck in a breath, watching his hand, watching the moonlight glint off the blade. 

He swings. 

And a tan hand curls around his wrist, halting the movement. 

“I don’t think so,” a smooth voice says. 

You watch the hand on your would-be murderer’s wrist. The hand guides his, redirecting the path of his blade, and you squeeze your eyes shut as the blade draws across his throat. You try to tune out the wet choking sound as your would-be murderer collapses, as he pulls himself away through the grass and the brush, as he dies the ugly death he would have given to you. 

You open your eyes when you can no longer hear him struggling to survive, and you see before you a beautiful, beautiful demon. 

His eyes glow a deep red. Two black horns stick out from his black hair. Ragged black wings jut out from his shoulders. And he’s beautiful. Devastatingly handsome. 

The summoning ritual worked. 

The fight for survival comes racing back through you, and you jerk against your bonds, crying out, screaming for help. You’ll not have your soul taken by a demon. That’s not happening tonight!

“Don’t be afraid,” he says calmly, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

With a wave of his hand, the bonds on your wrists snap, your ankles suddenly are freed as well. You sit up, clutching at the sides of your shirt to pull them together over your chest. The demon looks at you, and then turns his head to the side towards where you last heard that bastard's dying breaths fade away. 

“Some humans are real assholes, yknow?” The demon says, still not looking at you. “They think we all want sacrifices, which, don’t get me wrong, they can be nice from time to time, but we don’t demand the murder of virgins. We certainly don’t demand unwilling pretty women be murdered in the woods.”

He spits towards what you can only assume is the dead body of your would-be murderer. And then the demon looks back at you, eyes aglow. 

“I’m Haechan,” he introduces himself, holding his hand out to you. “But you can call me Donghyeok.” 

You hesitate for a moment, uncertain if you should give him your name or shake his hand. You feel like you’ve heard stories about how bad doing either of those things could be. But in the end, it’s the way that the corner of his mouth tilts up as he watches you that convinces you. 

You put your hand in his, and you give him your name. 

Donghyeok lifts your hand, brushing his lips across your knuckles. “Pleased to have saved you.” 

Your pulse throbs in your veins, pounding in your ears. 

An actual demon is holding your hand, standing before you smelling like sea air and citrus rather than the burning brimstone stories would have you believe. Donghyeok lowers your hand, and you pull it back into your lap. 

“That guy seemed like a dick.” Donghyeok turns away, shaking his wings as he walks over to the nearest flickering ground torch. He continues talking while he extinguishes that torch, saying, “Very bossy in his summoning chant. I probably would’ve ended up killing him even if he wasn’t trying to murder you. How did you end up here, anyway?”

“I was stupid.” You droop forward, hanging your head as you look down at your knees. “I let him trick me into thinking he was a good guy despite all the warnings from everyone around me. I thought they were just prejudiced since he was a Satanist, but they were right.” You risk a glance in Donghyeok’s direction. “I shouldn’t have ever told him I’m a virgin, I was basically just asking to get sacrificed in a demonic ritual.”

Donghyeok’s wings flare as he turns to look at you. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever blame yourself for the actions of a stupid man. He is the one that did this, not you.” 

He extinguishes two more torches before either of you speak again. 

“Virgin sacrifices don’t actually mean, like sexual virginity, yknow?” Donghyeok says, his back facing you while he puts out another torch. Now only four of them remain lit in the circle. “It’s virgin blood. Blood that’s never been used for a ritual before. As soon as he cut you, I felt the call, and I saw what he was going to do to you. I’m tired of men killing women with the excuse of summoning me. I just require a few drops of blood to be spilled, not a life taken.”

Donghyeok waves his wings, and three more torches flicker out, leaving just one glowing right in front of you, providing just enough light to see by as Donghyeok strides back to you. His bloody red eyes sweep over you from head to toe. 

“What are you going to do to me?” You can tell your voice is small, nearly lost in the whisper of wind through the trees. But Donghyeok hears, and he cocks his head slightly to the side to watch you. 

“Haven’t you been listening?” He reaches up, snapping his fingers together and drawing a handkerchief out of thin air. “I’m not here to do anything to you. I came to rescue you from that asshole, and now you’re free.” He holds the handkerchief out to you. 

“So you’re just going to leave me here?” You accept the silky white cloth, and you find one corner of it embroidered with flowy script — LDH, it says, and you run your thumb over the fine threads making up the letters. 

“I didn’t say I was leaving you.” He smiles, and again, your pulse thunders. “We can go, or we can stay here and have sex.”

A squawk of surprise and indignation leaves you, which makes Donghyeok laugh. And fuck, you thought he was beautiful before, the sight and sound of his genuine laughter makes him even more beautiful. 

“I’m joking!” He keeps laughing, his shoulders shaking as he tries to hold it in while he speaks, “But I can get you out of here in a snap so you don’t have to hike back through these woods in the dark.” 

“Please!” You reach out, grabbing both of his hands, holding them between yours. “Please, get me out of here.”

Donghyeok’s expression goes serious. “I will, I promise. And what about him?” 

You begin to turn your head to look, but you change your mind, keeping your gaze fixed on this beautiful demon. You shake your head. “Leave him. The police can deal with him, I’ll report the crime when I get back to town.”

Donghyeok watches you for a moment, contemplating something. Then he shrugs, holds tighter to your hands, and you feel a tug behind your navel. 

The scenery around you has changed.

You’re still in the woods, but just at the edge of it. You can see the lights of town just ahead through the trunks. 

“Here, let’s at least make it look like you’ve run back here.” Donghyeok crouches down, filling his hand with soft dirt. “May I?”

You’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to, but you nod. Immediately, Donghyeok is touching you, spreading dirt over your clothes, a smear of mud along the torn open edge of your shirt. He runs his fingers through your hair (which shouldn’t feel as good as it does). He plucks some twigs and leaves, sticking them haphazardly in your hair, dangling from a new rip at the bottom of your shirt. 

He takes a step back to appreciate his handiwork, then nods, satisfied. 

You both stand there looking at each other for a moment, and finally you say, “Thank you.”

Donghyeok nods. “You didn’t deserve what that asshole was going to do to you. None of them ever do deserve it. He, however, deserved everything he got, and everything he’s going to get when I get back to Hell.”

“Thank you,” you repeat because you mean it, and there are no words more genuine that you can think to say. “Really, Donghyeok, thank you.”

You turn towards the lights of town. You’re going to the police, filing a report, making sure they know that that bastard tried to kill you, and he's the reason he’s dead. 

“One thing before you go!” Donghyeok steps in front of you. You look up at him just as he reaches out and puts his hand on your right shoulder. His hand burns hot and then hotter through your shirt, and you hiss in pain, trying to draw away, but Donghyeok holds on, only releasing you once the pain begins to fade into a tingle. 

“That’s all. See you around.”

And then the demon disappears into a shadowy mist. 

You stand there for a moment before you pull yourself back together, and you walk into town, straight for the police station. 

They believe the story, which is good since most of it is true. Only part of it is fictionalized: when you say that you managed to slip the bonds he’d had on your wrists, the part where you wrestled the knife from him, where you’d cut him across the throat and then run miles back to town through the woods. But the story is believable because the facts and evidence are all there — the police trek through the woods and find the site of the ritual, find his body, find a blade that somehow has your fingerprints; they find plans in his apartment, records of messages between him and others, of his search history on how to summon a demon and how to perform a virgin sacrifice. 

When you finally leave the police station, returning home under the care of your family and friends, you finally get a moment to yourself in the shower. 

You peel off your pants and socks, drag your shirt over your head, slip off your panties and bra, and then you look at yourself in the mirror. 

Black inky lines that weren’t there before these events are there now. You twist, angling better towards the mirror to be able to see what appears to be a whole tattoo that you never got. 

A sunflower curves from front to back over your shoulder and down onto your arm. 

You brush your fingers over the petals, feeling your skin tingle in a not unpleasant way. It sends a curl of warmth into your belly, makes your heart pound. 

It’s Donghyeok, you know it is. 

This is his mark, left on you. 

The next time you see him, it’s too brief for your liking. 

There’s a street festival, sort of like a carnival in town, and you spend hours down there one day as afternoon turns to evening turns to night. It brings all the weirdos out, from your town and those surrounding. You stick close to your friends, you have fun, you spend too much money on greasy food and rigged carnival games, you flirt with a cute carnie to get the big stuffed teddy bear prize. 

Your friends decide to ride the Ferris wheel, but your mild fear of heights and the lure of a big pink cloud of cotton candy call to you instead. You’ll stay here feet firmly on the ground, enjoying your cotton candy, and watching them take a turn on the giant wheel. 

But first you have to find the cotton candy booth. 

You’re carrying your teddy prize like it’s a toddler, hoisted up to sit on your hip. You’re still rather pleased with yourself for having flirted it out of the carnie, even though you’re not quite sure what you’re going to do with it, and carrying it around for the rest of the night is possibly going to become a bit of a hindrance. 

You cut between two game booths, slipping into the shadowed path that runs along the backs of the games, like an alley between the ring toss games facing one way and the basketball and shooting games facing the other. The cotton candy booth is visible at the end. 

You have to step over wires, bags of vacuum-sealed prizes, a crate that’s surrounded by cigarette butts. The dings and chimes, alarm sounds and cries of joy all sound muffled, leaving you feeling a bit apart from the carnival despite being right in the heart of it. 

A figure melts out of the shadows, suddenly keeping perfect stride with you. 

You gasp, twisting around with the bear between you and this shadow-born devil. 

“Me again,” Donghyeok laughs. 

He’s got his hands tucked into his pockets. The devil horns are concealed by a hood. He’s wearing a leather jacket that has black wings stitched into the back panel. He could pass for normal, you think as your heart settles back into a more normal rhythm, if only his eyes weren’t still a deep red with his pupils reflecting light like an animal’s eyes at night. 

“Donghyeok.” You almost collapse against the back of one of the game tents. 

His lips curl around the sound of your name. You like the sound of that — his voice, your name. 

You just stand there staring at him for a moment, amazed that he’s actually here. In the days after your near-sacrifice, you’d almost convinced yourself that Donghyeok had been nothing more than a figment of your imagination used to soften the trauma of that night a little. But here he is again. Real. In the flesh. 

“Are you keeping out of trouble?” He asks, and when you nod, he scoffs. “But you’re back here walking by yourself? Do you know what kinds of people are drawn to work these carnivals? The transient lifestyle calls to some pretty awful people.” He turns to look back along the path you’ve been walking in this makeshift alleyway. 

Several feet back, there’s a slumped over figure where there hadn’t been before. And the longer you look, the more you realize it’s that cute carnie that had given you the bear.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ve got your back.” Donghyeok pats your right shoulder, his skin hot against yours. “You should get back to your friends before they start worrying. Here, this is for you.” 

Out of thin air, he draws a large fluffy pink cotton candy, holding it out to you. 

Donghyeok escorts you back towards your friends, and he blends in with the crowd, looking perfectly human except for his eyes. His shoulder bumps against yours. He chatters and laughs with you. You find it so curious the way that your heart skips each time you look at him. 

Hours later, once you’re safely ensconced at home, you notice that the center of your sunflower marking on your shoulder is darker than it used to be, almost like you’d gotten it shaded in. 

Donghyeok again, you’re sure. 

You recall his hand on your shoulder, the gentle but pleasant burn of his skin on yours. 

You turn your head, resting your cheek against your shoulder. The center of the sunflower is warm against your cheek. 

A few weeks later, you’re certain your family thinks you’re crazy. You’ve not seen Donghyeok again since that night at the carnival, and honestly, you’re beginning to feel very Bella Swan in New Moon about the situation. You’re about to start throwing yourself into harm’s way just to see if Donghyeok will make an appearance to save you; although, you have a strong suspicion that if he knew you were doing dangerous things intentionally, he would make a point of not showing up. 

So, instead of trying to cross paths with dangerous men (again), you decide to go to the library and local bookstores and pull any books you can find on how to summon a demon. You do research online, printing out pages and pages of summoning rituals. You’ve got a whole wall of your bedroom dedicated to the stuff.

“There is something very wrong with you,” your dad says one afternoon when he sees it all. “You survived that satanist dick. Why would you put yourself through this?”

You’re pretty sure your family and friends think you’re doing this to torture yourself. You can tell they’re all worried for you, all of them concerned about what path you’re taking.

But you’re not diving headfirst into satanism or anything like that really. You just want to summon one demon in particular – a chaos demon named Haechan who has asked you personally to call him Donghyeok.

You seek out a different ritual than the one performed when you first met him. You don’t want to have to sacrifice a virgin even if it only means a few drops of voluntary blood; that veers too close to the sacrifice you’d almost found yourself to be in the woods. 

Eventually, you find a source online that suggests a few specific crystals, certain herbs, fire and chalk and a spell in a language that you’ll have to teach yourself. But it seems doable. You just have to find a shop for all of those things, and then you’ll summon Donghyeok. You just want to see him again. You’re drawn to him, and maybe it’s because he saved you so you’ve got some weird type of twist on Stockholm Syndrome, or maybe it’s this sunflower he marked on your shoulder, the roots it’s put down inside you making you want to see him more and more, thirsting for him like a desert plant in a drought. 

You find a shop perfectly suited to your needs. The woman running the place seems quirky enough that you don’t have any qualms about telling her everything — what you’re looking for, how you’re going to use it, why you’re using it — and you’re obsessed with the gleeful twinkle in her eye as she dances around the shop, gathering the items you’ve listed, plucking them from dark corners, from a bay of windows, from bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling. 

“I do have to warn you,” she says as she carefully packs it all into a bag for you, her voice dipping towards a serious tone to say, “Some demons are always listening for a call, even if it’s not for them, especially when it’s a pretty girl like you calling with almost no taint in your blood. Just know, dear, that when you call for your demon, someone else might try reaching through. So be careful when you speak the spell. Clear pronunciation, clear focus and determination.”

She pats your hand tenderly before you leave, and she wishes you well. 

You set up the ritual in your bedroom. You push all the furniture out of the center of the room, roll back the rug that usually covers the floor beneath your bed. You sketch out the symbols in chalk on the hardwood floor, you set up the crystals exactly according to the diagram on the website, placing candles exactly right too. You scatter herbs across the pentagram, sprinkle a few in a bowl set in the center of the ritual space, and finally you kneel beside it. 

You clear your mind except for thoughts of Donghyeok, your wish to have him in front of you, and you begin speaking the words you’ve been practicing since you found them. 

Before, they’ve felt like hollow words, but now as they fall from your lips there’s a new weight to them. 

You continue, keeping your mind set, and you strike a match, watch the flame flicker and wave as you continue speaking the spell, the foreign words feeling strange on your lips and tongue, creating a tingle that makes you feel that this must be working, that you’ll be able to see Donghyeok again. 

You drop the match into the bowl of crushed herbs in the center of the pentagram. The bowl is instantly engulfed in flame, the heat kissing your cheeks, and the final words of the spell incinerate in the air, the flames crackling and flashing a solid purple for a moment. 

You feel the air from the room disappear as the fire swirls and sparks, as the candle flames around the circle shoot up elongated and casting shadows. The crystals crack and shimmer.

And when it all falls away, when the flame in the bowl extinguishes and the candles resume their normal flame size, you look up at the demon standing above you. 

It’s not him. 

You gasp, falling back on your hands. 

The demon is fearsome, brutish. He reaches for you, gnarled red fingers clawed with filthy talons. You scramble backwards as he grabs for your sleeve, tearing the fabric when you jerk backwards. 

Suddenly the demon releases you and stands straight within the pentagram. 

“Haechan’s mark?” He utters in a garbled, deep voice straight from the pits of Hell. “You are under Haechan’s protection?”

A sharp whistle from across your bedroom draws your attention and that of the hideous demon in front of you. 

Donghyeok sits on your bed, looking relaxed as ever. He cocks his head to the side, staring down this other demon. “That’s right. She’s under my protection, so get the fuck out.”

Donghyeok flicks his fingers, and the other demon vanishes in a wave of smoke and embers. 

You can’t look away from Donghyeok lounging on your bed like it’s his throne. He’s wearing that leather jacket again, though right now his devil horns are visible poking through his dark hair. You’ve missed looking at him. 

He looks at you now too. “You called?”

“I wanted to see you,” you tell truthfully. 

“Why?” Donghyeok asks, not moving from the bed, just sitting there and watching you. 

“Well why did you mark me?” You lift your fingers to the flower on your shoulder, brushing your fingers over the petals. 

Across the room, Donghyeok’s eyelids flutter, and he rolls his head on his neck a little as if to relieve tension. “I marked you because I want you to be safe. I knew if any other demons saw my mark on you, they would leave you alone, as just evidenced.” He gestures at the pentagram. “And because I wanted you to have something to remember me by. And I like the thought of you wearing a memory of me.”

You stroke the petals of the flower again, and Donghyeok sits up on the edge of your bed, sitting forward. 

“The flower changed the last time I saw you.” You draw your finger up to the center, darker now than it had been when Donghyeok first marked you the night you met. “The center has color now.”

“I know.” He leans forward, but doesn’t leave your bed, though he seems to just be hanging onto the very edge of it. He doesn’t explain more, just looks at you as if waiting for more. 

You climb to your feet, picking your way through the candles and crystals and herbs, and you come to stand just in front of Donghyeok. He raises his gaze to your face, his hands are planted on either side of his thighs, and he doesn’t say a word as you reach out a hand, as you first touch his cheek with just your fingertips, and then you move them along his jaw, up into his hair. 

Donghyeok’s eyes flutter shut, a sigh falls from his lips. 

Your fingers find his horns, and gently you run your fingers along them both. 

His hands fly to your hips, a breath catching audibly in his throat. “What are you doing?” He asks, voice tight but not in a way like he wants you to stop. 

“You’re beautiful, Donghyeok,” you can’t resist saying, “And you’ve marked me, so maybe I want to return the favor.”

Donghyeok’s lips draw into a smirk. “Mark me how? Who are you trying to show that I’m yours?”

Your heart thunders, heat racing through your body at the sound of that. I’m yours, he said. “Say it again,” you demand. 

“Say what?” Donghyeok’s eyes open at last, flicking open and lifting to meet your gaze. “That marking me would show others that I’m yours? That I belong to you in some way?” His hands tighten in your hips pleasantly, and you shuffle a little more forward into the V of his open thighs. Donghyeok smiles up at you, saying, “Baby, you’re mine. And you have been since the night we met, since I put my mark on your shoulder. It’s only fair that you put a claim on me too. Do your worst.”

Challenge burns in his red eyes, and heat flows through you, rivers of fire that all lead to one point, settling low in your belly — a pool of burning need that you’ve never felt with anyone else before. 

With your fingers still in Donghyeok’s hair, you tip his head back. His lips pull into a wider grin, a soft sound of amusement, and then, “I forgot, baby, you’re a virgin. Are you intimidated by the thought of marking me?”

“No,” you groan. “Shut up.” 

You push Donghyeok’s shoulders, and he flops onto his back in your bed. 

God, he just looks like a guy, any normal guy that you might have found and invited back to your bed. And you’ve had a man in your bed before. You’ve had make out sessions, had heated heavy petting that never led anywhere. You’ve had hickeys, and given out your fair share of them too. 

But Donghyeok is Donghyeok. There’s definitely something intimidating about the confident way he’s looking at you, the sexy look in his eye as he watches you — not just a look that says that he knows he’s sexy, but even more arousing is that the look in his eyes tells you that he finds you incredibly sexy. 

You sink onto your bed on your knees, straddling the demon’s lap. Donghyeok lifts his hands up, interlacing his fingers behind his head as he watches you, and the expression on his face is just stoking that fire inside of you. 

“Can you sit up?” You ask. “Take your jacket off?”

“Mm,” Donghyeok hums. “I like when you tell me what to do.”

Your belly swoops, and his grin widens. 

He sits up, and you find his smile just inches in front of you. He shrugs out of his jacket, pushing it off the bed, and then he’s sitting here beneath you in a plain white tee, the denim of his jeans rubs against your thighs. And he’s right here. Right here. Lips just in front of you, and your hands drift back to touch him, to feel the warmth and breadth of his shoulders, and then your thumbs are sweeping in to trace over his Adam’s apple, which bobs when he swallows and breathes in sharply. Your fingers slide around to the nape of his neck, just pushing into his hair, and Donghyeok makes a noise so quiet yet so filled with desire. 

You’ve been sitting here watching the path of your hands, but now you look at his lips so full and moist in front of you. And then you look just a bit higher to his eyes. 

Perhaps the demonic bloody red of them should scare you, but they don’t. They stare into yours and you can’t bring yourself to give a damn about the fact that Donghyeok is a demon and not just a man. 

That doesn’t matter to you one bit when you finally press your lips to his. 

Donghyeok immediately kisses you back, opening up to your kiss, but he lets you take the lead, lets you do what you want with him. He moans when you push your hands higher into his hair at the back of his head, moans when you suck on his tongue, moans when you press your chest against his. 

You moan when his hands finally find your hips again. Donghyeok drags your hips across the front of his pants, and you break the kiss to let out a shuddery moan. 

“Okay?” He murmurs, lips falling down to your jaw, leaving butterfly kisses along the underside. 

“Yes,” you sigh, “Do it again.”

Donghyeok drags you over his crotch again, rolling his hips up too, and you can feel him then, his erection beginning to press against the front of his jeans. He does it again and again, and after a few moments, you pick up the rhythm, taking over as you simulate riding him, and you bring his mouth back onto yours. 

Again, Donghyeok is happy to let you lead, to control what’s happening. 

He just touches you without pushing you, kisses you at the pace you set, although that doesn’t mean he’s a passive participant in all of this. He’s reacting and vocal, occasionally nipping at your bottom lip, occasionally bucking his hips out of rhythm with your moves. It’s like he’s giving you little peeks into his desire for you, moments when his cool demon facade slips. 

Donghyeok moans when you leave his mouth behind to instead kiss his neck. His hands come to rest on your ass while you keep rolling and grinding down on his straining erection, and you’re feeling the tightening in your belly, you know if you don’t stop soon you’re going to cum like this. But it wouldn’t be the first time. You’ve had boyfriends and casual relationships before that respected your virginity, that had been content with things like this, found it hot to cum when fully clothed. 

Donghyeok seems to be in the same mindset. 

His golden skin beneath your lips is hot, and he moans your name again and again, rolling his hips up to meet each downward push of yours. You rock your hips more frantically, losing control as your orgasm rises. You bite at his throat as you cum, and Donghyeok’s hands on your ass keep you moving, keeping up with the push and pull of your pussy grinding over his erection. 

Your body is still tingling as you roll off of him, as you lie down in your bed and pull him over you. “More,” you demand, “I want more.”

“Are you sure?” The demon above you asks. 

You crave more from him. Donghyeok has you hotter than any man ever has before. 

He kisses you without warning, jolting forward and sweeping you into a dramatic, hungry kiss. You want him, and you pour that desire into the kiss, impatient and horny for him to give you more. 

You don’t wait for Donghyeok to start undressing you, you reach down and unfasten your shorts, maneuvering them off your hips and down your legs. The shirt’s a bit more difficult to rid yourself of, but Donghyeok obligingly breaks the kiss to let you pull it over your head, and while you’re in this position with space between you, you reach for the hem of his shirt. 

“Can I?” You ask, tucking your fingers beneath the hem. “I want to have all of you.”

Donghyeok’s eyes flash flaming red. His voice is rough with emotion when he says simply, “Yes.”

You drag his shirt over his head without another moment wasted. And then your hands are back in his hair, stroking the curve of his horns as Donghyeok crushes his mouth to yours again. 

Donghyeok grinds against your thigh while the two of you make out, and you have to pull one of your hands from his hair, seeking out one of his hands to pull down between your legs. 

You’ve been touched like this before too. Over the panties, an ex rubbing your clit and stroking along your slit with the thin fabric between you and him. You’d managed a weak, unsatisfactory orgasm from it after a drawn out attempt, and decided to end things with him a few days later citing that you just didn’t feel the chemistry. 

But presently, the moment Donghyeok’s fingers make contact with your clit over your panties, your brain is buzzing. Every nerve ending in your body is alert. 

Donghyeok kisses you through every gasp and sigh. He smiles when you whine and buck your hips, when you circle your hips and grab at his wrist to guide his fingers towards your wet entrance, to the spot where your panties are absolutely soaked through. He kisses the corner of your mouth, and teases, “Do you want me to continue?”

You push away your panties, almost tearing them in your rush to be rid of them. 

This much you’ve never done before. Never done penetration even with a man’s fingers. 

Whether Donghyeok can read that in you, or if he sees the slight anxious anticipation in your gaze, he tenderly kisses your lips, sufficiently distracting you as he slicks his fingers against your bare pussy. This is a first for you too. Bare fingers and bare pussy, slick wetness making the glide so much easier and more pleasant. 

Donghyeok kisses you and touches you until you’re whimpering, reaching for his wrist. “Inside me, put them inside me,” you beg, urging his hand lower. 

It doesn’t make sense for a demon to be so gentle, but he is. Donghyeok eases first a single finger inside you, then another. He leaves your lips to kiss down your throat and chest, kissing lower and lower, drawing down your body until his mouth is right there and he licks your clit. 

You’re not sure if it’s just the experience of oral sex or if it’s because it’s Donghyeok, but your entire body lights up as he licks your clit, as he thrusts his fingers into you again. He takes his time with you, filling you with his fingers, curling them inside you and brushing a spot that makes you gasp, body jerking at the incredible sensation. 

Donghyeok laughs, delighted by how you’re reacting. He kisses your hips and your belly, slowly works his way back up, and you swear it feels like he kisses every part of you. His fingers press inside your pussy, slow thrusts until you’re begging for more, raking your fingers through his hair while he’s kissing your belly. Your fingers find his horns, and you use them like handles to guide his head back down. 

He’s laughing still, thoroughly enjoying you taking control, guiding him to where you want him. 

You arch your back, rolling your hips down against his face as Donghyeok sucks your clit between his lips, his fingers suddenly fucking into you at a faster speed, skilled at touching you exactly right. 

A second orgasm sweeps through you, and you ride it out on his face and fingers. 

When you push at Donghyeok’s devil horns, he backs off, kneeling up between your legs, and he gazes down at you while he licks his lips, and brings his fingers up to his mouth. You can’t look away, completely enraptured as he licks between his fingers, as he sucks them into his mouth. His eyes are hot, raking over your body. 

You want him bad. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Donghyeok asks, pulling his fingers out of his mouth. His hand drifts down to the front of his pants, and you watch him give himself a squeeze. “Looking like you want to eat me, baby.”

You want to take a bite out of him. Well, you at least can’t fight the urge to bite him, to leave the imprint of your teeth in the curve of his shoulder, to bite his neck again since he’d seemed to like that earlier. You don’t want to eat him, but you sure want to take all of him, to have this devil inside you. 

Donghyeok slides the heel of his palm along his clothed erection, and you decide right then in that moment that you’ve had enough of waiting. 

“I’m ready,” you tell him. 

Donghyeok blinks, and again he looks more human than demon. “Ready? Like for… for sex?”

You nod. 

“You want to lose your virginity with me?” Donghyeok clarifies. You nod, but that’s still not enough for him. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Donghyeok, please will you have sex with me. I’m ready to let go of the idea of my virginity. I’m ready to have sex, and I want it to be with you.” Can you be more clear?

Yes, you’ve waited a long time for this. You’ve picked and chosen, selecting this actual demon over some normal men. But despite Donghyeok’s demonhood, he’s treated you better and been more considerate than any of the men you’ve come close to considering doing this with before. You’ve just been waiting for the right man to come along, and the right man in this case just happens to be a horny, red-eyed demon. 

Donghyeok kisses you once again, and then he waits, holding just above you until you reach up and pull him back in. He’s smiling when you kiss him, and again, he lets you take over, lets you touch him and do what you want. So when you run your hands along his ribs, when your fingertips reach the waistband of his jeans, Donghyeok just moans happily. 

His hands join yours in the effort to push his pants down, and the demon above you laughs delightfully, kissing you thoroughly making you forget the slight nerves you feel at the prospect of finally doing this, finally having sex, instead you’re just excited, just laughing and moaning along with him. 

As soon as Donghyeok’s pants are slid down and kicked off, you reach for his dick, touching him the way an ex-boyfriend of yours had liked. He’d always told you to make it all about him, taught you to do things the way that he liked. 

“Wait,” Donghyeok says, “You don’t have to do all that. I’m already worked up for you, baby. You may think being a demon comes with supernatural endurance or something, but in this I’m no better than a human man. You’re gorgeous, and that makes me want to just…” He cuts himself off by kissing you, but you think you get what he means. 

He finds you beautiful, and not only that, but beautiful enough that he feels at risk of cumming too fast if you keep touching him before he’s inside you. 

“Then fuck me.” You whisper the words to his lips. “Take me as a virgin sacrifice, Donghyeok. Like I was meant to be.”

Donghyeok scoffs, kissing you again and then he’s moving. His hand brushes yours away from his dick, and he rolls his hips forward, pressing the tip against your entrance without actually entering you. 

“Are you sure?”

“I find it beyond charming that you’re a polite, gentlemanly chaos demon, Donghyeok. Yes, I’m sure.” You shift your hips, circling them down, and Donghyeok’s dick sinks in. 

He keeps going, pressing in deeper. He’s watching your face, and you hold his gaze while you adjust to the full feeling, the different feeling of having something this thick and deep inside you. Not a bad feeling, just a different kind. 

“Don’t stop!” You gasp when Donghyeok just goes still inside you. 

He holds himself above you, just looking down at you with this expression and all of these emotions in his red eyes. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask, lifting a hand up to cover his eyes, but it does nothing to block his radiant smile. “Are you gonna move or just dock yourself in me?”

Donghyeok laughs again, and you’re quickly realizing that’s your favorite sound. “Maybe I’m taking in your virgin sacrifice,” he teases, “Doing my demon thing.”

“Right, sure. But can you hurry up with your demon thing?” You move your hand from his eyes, pushing your fingers into his hair to find his horns again. Donghyeok shudders with pleasure as you stroke your fingers over the ridges on one horn and then the other. “You’re not acting very demonic, you know. Treating me all gently and tenderly.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’d rather I bend you into strange shapes and fuck you hard and rough for your first time?” Donghyeok pulls his hips back and pushes back in roughly. It stings a bit, but you don’t mind all that much. And then he does it again. “Like this?”

“Sure,” you whimper, “Fuck me like you’ve done to all the other girls you’ve ever fucked.”

Donghyeok simply kisses you, getting you to melt beneath his lips, and then he moves again, thrusting into you. You gasp into the kiss, and Donghyeok takes advantage of that to deepen the kiss, making out with you as he fucks you, his dick reaching places that you didn’t even realize existed. He’s got your legs spread wide, his hips crashing against you repeatedly, drawing pretty moans from you with each thrust against your sweet spot. 

And once you get used to this new sensation of having a dick inside you, you really enjoy it. Donghyeok’s tongue being down your throat helps a bit too, his skill with kissing is definitely distracting you from the less pleasant sensations. 

Your whole body tingles each time that Donghyeok buries himself to the hilt in you. He grinds forward, stimulating your clit, externally and internally. He touches your boobs, but that doesn’t do a whole lot for you. You keep your hands in his hair, on his horns, and that seems to drive him mad with lust; each time you’ve got your fingers on his black devil horns, Donghyeok jerks, fucking into you a little harder, a little out of control. 

It’s one of those times that you’ve got a hand curled around one of his horns, your other hand cradling the back of his neck as Donghyeok kisses your collarbones, that he moans so beautifully for you. “Fuck,” he moans, “I want to give you everything, baby. Everything I’ve got, all for you.”

You want it, whatever that means. Whatever Donghyeok has, you’ll take it. 

A moment later, he cums, heat flooding your belly, sticky and slick as he pulls out, streaking it across your inner thighs and your pussy. 

“Everything, baby,” he murmurs, kissing along your collarbone to your right shoulder. He rolls his hips forward, filling you with his dick once more right as he kisses the sunflower mark he gave you that first night. 

Fire ignited throughout your body, pleasure and desire tangling together, ramping up higher and higher. Your climax tears through you like a wildfire, and Donghyeok fucks you through it, hips driving against yours; his teeth dig against your shoulder, his tongue following to soothe the bitemark. You can only hold onto him, hold tighter, keep moving your body with his to keep the waves of pleasure coming. 

Even once you’re coming down from your orgasm, your whole body is still tingling and warm. Donghyeok is all but stuck to you, both of you are all sweaty so your skin sticks together. His lips press to the sunflower mark he left on you, his hands slide against your ribs, leaving a hot tingle deep under your skin, and you have a feeling he’s leaving another mark, another claim or protection. 

You can’t get a good look at the marks he’s left on you, but you can feel them all – the warmth of the sunflower on your shoulder, which you’re pretty sure looks a bit more yellow in the petals now than it did earlier; there are the hickeys and bitemarks Donghyeok left on you; now these new marks on your ribs, which look like a swirl of small inky spots that are resolving into anything familiar, and on the other side you swear it’s a fine-line rendition of the sun. 

You wish you could do the same and leave a mark on him, more than the sparse hickeys you left on his throat earlier. 

For right now, you settle for just holding him. You wrap your arms around him, and Donghyeok tucks his face into your shoulder, moaning softly as he rolls onto his side, bringing you with him. Your legs are still tangled, bodies pressed together, his dick still inside you though he’s gone soft. 

“Call me crazy,” Donghyeok whispers to you, “I know we’ve only met twice before tonight, but I feel like we have a really good connection. I like you.”

Your heart races at the confession. “I like you too.”

You feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin. “Good. I’d hate for you to have just given up your virginity on a guy you don’t even like. A demon, at that.”

“It doesn’t bother me that you’re a demon yknow. You’re more decent than most of the guys I’ve known.” You trace your fingers down Donghyeok’s back, feeling two long angled scars by his shoulder blades, like that’s where his wings come and go from. “If anything, I don’t understand why a demon is interested in me.”

Donghyeok lifts his head, and he looks you in the eye as he says, “I told you earlier. You’re gorgeous, and the moment that asshole tried to sacrifice you to me, I caught a glimpse of your soul. You’re a pure soul, so utterly good that it pains me to look at you with all the layers peeled back, but not in a bad way. It hurts me the way it hurts to look at something you aspire toward; looking at you is like looking at the stars and knowing that you’ll never be able to hold one in your hand.”

But his hands are on you now. 

His fingers trace over your ribs, and you can tell by the tingle now that he’s definitely left a new mark on you. 

You take up his hand, pulling it up to your lips, and you place a kiss in the center of his palm. And when you look at his face, you see right there on his cheek that maybe. He’s closer to holding the stars than he thinks. You trace the constellation of moles on his cheek and down his throat, so similar to one that you see in the night sky. 

Donghyeok leans his cheek into your hand, and he holds you a little closer. He presses his forehead to yours. 

The candles behind you on the floor have burned down to nothing but puddles of cooling wax. The herbs and crystals and chalk symbols can be picked up and wiped away in the morning. But for tonight, you hold a demon in your arms, completely at ease in his warm embrace.

a/n: I'm sorry for the long wait on this one! Day 9 is finally being posted on Day 11, which has definitely put me behind, and is making me reconsider my decision to do this for this month. But I really liked writing this one! I've been very Haechan-biased since The Dream Show 3, so I needed to write this tbh.

If you notice any errors or if you feel I should include some more tags/content warnings, please let me know!

I hope you enjoyed! Reblogs are deserving of my eternal gratitude, likes are greatly appreciated, and your thoughts and comments are always welcome !

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎𝒷𝑜𝓎 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: It started as a joke—a casual tease whispered into the ears of your closest friends, never meant to go beyond harmless daydreams. You had once donned a bunny suit for them, after all. In my opinion, it was only fair that they returned the favor, right?

What? You didn’t expect them to actually do this right?

Now, one by one, your choice, the men of TKATB + Special Guest ! ! stand before you, ears twitching, tails bouncing, and suits hugging them in ways that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

My dearest readers, I absolutely adore the artist alyysahh, or what many of us know as Waza on [ TikTok ] and [ Twitter ]. Her art inspires me so much—she even sparked the idea for part two—this from this fanfic [ 𝒷𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎 𝓈𝓊𝒾𝓉 ] I’m so excited, omg!

The rules are simple: look, but don’t touch... unless, as always you dare to find out just how far the bunny boys are willing to go for your approval.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Such Mister Bunny Blues.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then you stare, because what else are you supposed to do when Crowe—the ever-composed, polished, practically dream-worthy Crowe—is standing in your living room wearing a dark blue bunny suit?

It fits him too well. Hugging every sculpted line of his body, the matching floppy ears drooping pitifully over his brow, and a tiny, ridiculous puff of a tail perched right above... Places you should definitely not be looking at—You look anyway. You’re only human.

His face is already red, a deep, molten flush darkening his beautiful skin, but he holds his ground like a man about to face a firing squad. Or a firing squad armed with bad pickup lines and worse intentions — yours included.

"You're—" you sputter, laughter clawing its way up your throat, "Crowe, what the hell are you doing? Well, wearing, dear?”

He shifts awkwardly, and the tiny bunny tail wiggles.

You might actually die right then and there, your soul floating out of your body in sheer blissful absurdity.

"I noticed," he says, voice low and steady — the kind of tone he usually reserves for comforting small animals and broken hearts — "you seemed... off lately. Sad." He tugs gently at the loose braid hanging off his shoulder, a nervous habit you know better than you should. "I thought... maybe this would help."

You blink again, your heart doing something catastrophically stupid inside your chest.

He did this—this—for you?

Crowe, the walking embodiment of poise and calm, decided to prance around in a bunny suit because you were a little gloomy?

God, you were going to marry him out of spite.

"You thought dressing up like the world's most handsome Easter reject would cheer me up?" you tease, stalking closer like a predator that's just spotted very, very vulnerable prey.

You reach up and flick one of the floppy ears. It bounces.

Crowe flinches like you just electrocuted him.

"I don't regret it," he mutters, eyes locked on your —deep blue, steady, dangerous in a way that ties knots in your stomach. "If it makes you smile... I'll do a lot worse."

You bite your lip, feeling heat bloom deliciously up your spine. It’s criminal, truly criminal, how he manages to look so devastatingly good even while trying very hard to pretend he isn't internally combusting. Shiiii really and vice versa. YOU tried so hard not to combust. 

His long fingers—those beautiful hands you’ve absolutely not thought about at night, nope, not once—clench and unclench at his sides. His nails, well-kept and gleaming, catch the golden glow of the living room light.

Strands of dark hair have slipped free from his braid, falling across his cheek in a way that demands your attention, demands your touch. The temptation to grab him by the ears—to tug, to pull, to ruin him—is almost overwhelming.

"You're a menace," you whisper, smirking wickedly.

"And you're worth it," he murmurs back, voice low, rough, wrecked.

The room feels too small now. Too hot. The air crackles between you, so thick and heavy you could wrap your fingers around it. You take one daring step closer, close enough to smell him — warm and clean, with the faintest hint of something woodsy and natural underneath, like he’s just come in from standing in the spring rain.

You trail a single finger down his chest, slow enough that Crowe visibly shudders. Poor thing—still trying so hard to stay composed, to stay gentlemanly, even while dressed like a snack-shaped bunny.

You are a cruel, cruel person.

"You know," you muse aloud, drawing innocent little circles against the silk of his costume, feeling the thundering beat of his heart beneath your fingertip, "you didn't have to go this far, Crowe. I mean, if you wanted my attention, you could’ve just, oh, I don’t know..."

You grin up at him, flashing teeth. "Kissed me."

Crowe makes a noise. 

A soft, panicked sound, half-choked at the back of his throat. "I—" He freezes. "I wouldn't... presume—"

You reach up, grab the floppy ears between your hands, and tug him down.

There’s the faintest split-second where he realizes what’s happening—where you see the panic flare bright in those beautiful blue eyes—before you crash your mouth against his.

Crowe melts. Absolutely, spectacularly melts.

One of his arms locks around your waist on instinct, hauling you up against him—so much strength, so much quiet, hidden power—and his other hand fists into your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

His mouth is soft and reverent against yours, as if he's memorizing you, as if he's scared to take too much, even when you’re the one who started it.

You smile into the kiss—a little smug, a lot victorious— and nip playfully at his bottom lip.

That does it.

Crowe makes a small, desperate sound, deep in his chest, and kisses you harder. It's not perfect. He's a little clumsy, a little frantic, as if he's scared you'll pull away, laugh at him, regret it—but it's real, and it's messy, and it's him, and you wouldn't trade it for anything.

When you finally break apart for air, Crowe looks wrecked. Flushed, panting, wide-eyed and disheveled, his bunny ears flopping pitifully to one side.

You’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

"You’re... evil," he breathes, voice hoarse.

"And you," you say, cupping his face between your hands, "are mine, mister bunny."

Crowe groans, low and helpless, and buries his face against your shoulder — probably to hide how violently he’s blushing. You pat the fluffy bunny tail mockingly. It wiggles again.

Crowe stands there, his back rigid, the dark blue bunny suit clinging to every inch of his body like it’s made specifically to torture you. You can’t help but let your gaze drop, catching that tiny tail wiggling as he shifts, trying — failing — to act like he’s still the composed, collected man you know.

His breath is still uneven, a bit of flush lingering on his cheeks, and his posture is so stiff it might as well be a marble statue. But there’s something else. Something in his eyes.

That dangerous glint.

And the way his gaze flicks to your lips every few seconds is enough to set your pulse pounding again.

You lean against the couch, arms crossed casually—too casually, almost—watching him with a smirk. "You know," you tease, your voice dripping with sweet venom, "You look a little... flustered there, Crowe. I thought you were the composed one?"

Crowe shoots you a side glance, and you can see the way his hands twitch, like he wants to grab you—or possibly strangle you—but instead, he just exhales sharply and straightens his back even more. His voice is a little tight.

“I’m fine. Just... fine.”

You hum, a sly smile playing at the corners of your lips as you walk toward him, your steps slow and deliberate, each one bringing you closer to his tense form. "I didn’t know bunnies got so... embarrassed. So cute, though. You should try wearing that more often. You know, maybe every day, just to brighten my mood."

His gaze snaps to yours, a brief flicker of guilt passing through those deep blue eyes—or is it resentment? Either way, you can see the crack in his armor. He’s pretending he’s unaffected, but it’s obvious. 

He’s dying inside.

"You're... really pushing it." His voice is soft, but the way his jaw clenches as he grinds out the words says otherwise.

You smirk, and without warning, you slap his ass. Hard.

The sound rings through the room, and his entire body tenses. His head jerks back, and he makes a sharp, strangled noise that, frankly, you didn’t expect.

The fabric of his bunny suit pulls taut against his body as you let your hand rest there for just a moment too long, watching the play of muscles under his skin flex, feeling the warmth of his body.

"Oh, come on," you tease, your fingers trailing dangerously close to where the curve of his ass meets his thighs. "That bubble is so much bigger than mine. Who would've thought, huh?"

Crowe’s eyes flash with something darker—defiant. Before you can blink, his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist and spinning you around with effortless strength. You stumble, caught off guard, and end up pressed against the nearest wall.

Your breath hitches.

Crowe stands there, inches away, his chest rising and falling, his breath heavy against your neck. His hand still holds your wrist, but the grip is no longer tight.

It’s more... possessive now.

“You think I’m embarrassed?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "I’m not the one who needs to be embarrassed right now, are we?"

You feel his free hand glide over your body, skimming your waist, your ribs, before settling dangerously close to your hips. He’s leaning into you, his breath hot on your skin, sending a shiver straight through you.

"Don't act like you're not enjoying this." His voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s a smirk in it. He’s not quite teasing anymore. He’s all in control now, leaning into the teasing game in a way you didn’t expect.

And then, like a switch flipping, he presses his lips to your neck—soft, slow kisses at first. But as your breath catches, he intensifies them, biting gently, nipping at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear.

You’re trapped. Not physically, but emotionally. 

He’s got you exactly where he wants you.

You can’t help the way your pulse picks up. You grab the front of his suit, pulling him closer as if you need him to prove that you’re right, that he's just as tangled in this as you are. "Crowe..." you whisper, a mixture of longing and challenge.

Before you can say anything else, his hand slides up your side, cupping your jaw gently but firmly. His thumb brushes your lower lip, a simple, intimate gesture that sends a wave of heat rushing to your core.

"You like me dress up as a bunny, don't you?" His voice is rougher now, darker. 

You open your mouth to respond, to fire back another snarky comment, but you don't get the chance. Crowe closes the gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so deep, so heated, that it almost knocks the air from your lungs. His kiss is demanding, but there's also a tenderness to it, as if he's trying to show you exactly how much he's willing to do for you. How far he'll go.

And maybe it's the way he presses against you, pinning you into the wall with his weight. Or maybe it's the sudden surge of need between you two—but when he pulls back, there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Now," he breathes against your lips, "I think this mister bunny should teach you a lesson."

Before you can even brace yourself, Crowe’s hands are on your hips, lifting you off the ground and pinning you up and against the wall, holding you there as his lips return to your neck, kissing and biting with a growing hunger. He’s marking you now—staking his claim.

“Now tell me where I should start first…” he murmurs, his voice breathless, as his lips trail down your collarbone. “…my beautiful starlight.”

He kisses his way back up to your ear, biting down softly as you gasp. “I-I don’t know!!"

"Mhm, nothing? Fine I’ll choose for you ."

 Yep. Fucking. Best. Day. Ever.

no words, like no words, dearest readers, AHHHHHHH.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Emo Bunny Attention Seeker.

You’re just sitting there. Minding your business.

Or at least, pretending to, stretched lazily across Sol’s bed like you owned it—because let’s be honest, you kinda did. One leg crossed over the other, twirling your phone between your fingers, content to simply exist in the familiar comfort of his room.

His soft scent wrapped around you like a warm blanket—a mix of cedarwood, something sweet and sharp underneath, and whatever shampoo he used that made you want to bury your face in his hair and never come out again.

You hear the telltale creak of the closet door opening. 

Sol’s quiet, almost suspiciously so, and then you hear it: a small, nervous huff, like he’s working up the courage to face down a firing squad. You glance up casually. And promptly choke on air.

Standing there, awkward and stiff, cheeks burning brighter than a dying sun, is Sol — your sweet, bashful, absolutely doomed Sol — wearing a dark green bunny suit.

And not just any bunny suit.

This thing clings to every muscle, every dip and flex of his body like it was stitched directly onto his skin. His black-and-green streaked hair falls messily around his shoulders, those crimson-orange eyes wide and pleading under the weight of the matching floppy ears drooping pathetically over his forehead.

Fishnet tights hug his long legs, and bruises — old, new, kissed purple and yellow — scatter across his arms and thighs, peeking through the mesh.

You don’t even get the chance to fully process it before — plop — the breast flap of the bunny suit flips down, casually revealing one of his nipple piercings, the little silver barbell gleaming like a beacon in the dim light.

You stare. He stares back. Time stops.

You bite your lip—hard—to keep the howl of laughter that bubbles up from ripping out of your throat. “Oh. My. God," you manage, grinning wide enough to hurt. You sit up on your knees, predatory now, delight buzzing in your veins.

Sol immediately flinches like you physically touched him, his hands scrambling to cover the exposed skin, bunny tail wiggling frantically behind him.

"I—! I d-didn't mean for that to—!" he stammers, voice cracking halfway through, as red floods all the way down his throat, painting him guilty and so, so deliciously adorable.

You lick your lips, slow and deliberate, dragging your gaze up and down his body like you’re memorizing every sinful inch. “Sol, sweetheart,” you purr, tilting your head. “You sure you’re not trying to seduce me?"

His knees buckle. Actually, buckle. The poor thing grips the edge of his desk like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

"I—I just—!" he blurts, eyes wide and glassy, red face, the fishnets squeaking slightly as he shifts his weight. "I just wanted you to— to look at me, and maybe— maybe you’d—"

“Maybe I’d what?" you coax, crawling forward across the bed like a slow, lazy predator, letting him watch you stalk him.

He swallows audibly, throat bobbing.

"Maybe y-you’d touch me," he whispers, so soft you almost don't catch it. His fists tighten, knuckles white. "Y-You always look so good on my bed, and I— I just wanted to—"

You practically purr with amusement, stopping at the edge of the mattress, sitting back on your heels, crossing your arms. "Come here, Emo Bunny," you say, voice like velvet wrapping around a knife.

He doesn't even hesitate—he stumbles forward, bunny tail bouncing, cheeks burning, until he’s standing right in front of you, trembling like a leaf.

You trail a finger up his fishnet-clad thigh, slow and teasing, until you can feel the muscle jump beneath your touch.

He shudders. Whimpers.

"Please," he gasps out, desperate now, the word ripped straight from his soul. His hands flex uselessly at his sides, like he’s aching to grab you but too scared to move without permission.

You smirk. Wicked.

"Please what, bunny?" you ask, tipping your chin up, making him look down into your eyes. "Use your words, pretty boy."

His face crumples, overwhelmed with how much he wants, how much he needs you—it’s almost tragic, really. "I—!" He bites his lip, shaking his head, shame and need warring inside his body. "Please... touch me... please just—!"

You let your hands roam, slow and deliberate, trailing up over his hips, feeling the tremble of his thighs, the heat radiating from his skin under the thin, humiliating fabric. You tug gently at the strap dangling from where the top had flopped down, snapping it lightly against his chest.

He whines. A sound so pathetic, so gorgeous, you could’ve melted into the mattress right then and there.

"You're lucky you're cute," you murmur, thumb brushing teasingly close to his exposed nipple, feeling him jerk under the lightest touch. His hands finally move — only to grip your shoulders, grounding himself like he might float away otherwise.

"Please," he repeats, broken now, voice hoarse, wrecked. "I’m yours—please just—anything you want, I’ll—"

You smile—wide, dangerous, cruel in your affection. "Anything, huh?" you hum, dragging your nails lightly down his sides, watching him physically twitch under the featherlight sensation.

He nods frantically, the floppy bunny ears bouncing with the motion. "Anything," he breathes, reverent. Worshipful.

Fuck, he’s beautiful like this—flushed and trembling and ready to fall apart just because you looked at him like you wanted to eat him alive.

You hook a finger through the key necklace dangling against his chest, tugging him down so he’s eye-level with you.

His breath stutters. His eyes are huge, wide and glassy and so, so ready. "Good boy," you whisper against his lips, just barely brushing, not kissing — no, you control this.

"Now, beg a little prettier for me, Emo Bunny."

You watch him closely, eyes narrowing with that playful, teasing gleam as Sol stands there, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. His wide, uncertain eyes never leave yours, but there's something else there now—need. A desperate, aching need that you've ignited with just a few words, a flick of your wrist.

“Good boy,” you whisper again, your voice dripping with affection and cruelty in equal measure. You reach up, fingers curling into the strands of his messy hair, tugging him closer. Sol doesn’t resist — hell, his breath catches when you pull on it, his body leaning forward instinctively, as if to be closer to you is the only thing that matters.

He’s so helpless under your touch.

“You want this, don’t you?” you murmur, just a breath away from his lips, savoring the scent of his skin, the electricity between you. Sol nods eagerly, a small sound—something between a moan and a whimper—escaping his throat. His breath is shallow, every word a struggle as he fights to hold himself together.

“Please,” he gasps again, his voice strained with need, “I need you. I’ll do anything. Just please—” His hips shift, like he’s trying to find some kind of release, but you stop him, pressing your palm flat against his chest.

“Down boy,” you command, just one word, but it has all the power.

Sol obeys instantly, his knees buckling as he lowers himself in front of you, the fabric of his bunny suit shifting with every motion. His lips are parted, face flushed with a mix of desire and humiliation, and the sight of him like this—so willing—makes your pulse race.

“On your knees,” you coax, your voice thick with authority, “You want to beg for it? Beg for me. Show me how desperate you really are.”

He obeys again, slower this time, hands trembling as he presses them to the floor. You can feel the tension building in him, his body coiled tight as a spring, ready to break.

Your foot slides out from beneath you, placing it gently—but with intent—on his bulge. The pressure is subtle at first, but you start to push down, slowly, deliberately. Sol gasps sharply, his eyes snapping up to meet yours, looking at you like you’ve just commanded the stars to fall from the sky.

His entire body jerks under the weight of your foot. “Please,” he whispers, voice barely audible, but the word is there, dripping with need. “Please, don’t—don’t tease me anymore.”

You increase the pressure, your foot pushing further against his thigh. Sol’s breath hitches, his entire body trembling like a leaf caught in the wind. His hands shake on the floor, fingers gripping the carpet as if that will ground him.

“Tell me what you want, Emo Bunny,” you say softly, knowing full well what it’ll do to him. His body shudders in response, and he lets out a soft whine, lips trembling.

“I—I want you,” he gasps, his voice cracking as he struggles to speak through the overwhelming wave of emotion and desperation. “Please... I’ll do anything, just please—”

You press down harder, making him gasp, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You can feel his whole body shaking beneath your foot, a soft, almost pitiful sound escaping his lips as he tries to hold back. His breath is ragged now, and his eyes—those fiery orange and crimson eyes—are filled with so much need it’s almost too much to look at.

“You sound so pathetic, Bunny,” you tease, your voice laced with dark amusement. 

“Begging for me like this. You really can’t take much, can you?”

Sol’s entire body shudders, and you watch his face twist with pleasure and frustration. He’s so far gone, he can’t even formulate a proper sentence anymore, just a jumble of desperate pleas.

“Please, please—” he whimpers, his voice breaking as he drags his hands to your legs, clutching at them, trying to pull you closer. His body is taut with tension, and you can see how badly he wants more. 

“I need— please—”

You laugh softly, one hand tracing down the back of his neck, feeling the way he melts into your touch. You can’t help but marvel at how good he looks on his knees for you — how easy it is to make him beg.

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” you murmur, a dark promise in your tone. “I’m not going to leave you hanging. You’ve been so good for me.”

With a swift motion, you shift your foot to the side, and before he can even react, you grab his hair again, forcing his head back, exposing the delicate line of his throat. He lets out a soft gasp, eyes fluttering closed as you pull his head back to give you full access.

“Look at me,” you order, your voice firm, and Sol complies instantly, his eyes locking with yours. They’re full of pleading, full of fire. 

He’s barely holding himself together.

“I want you to beg for it, Sol,” you whisper, pulling harder on his hair until his neck arches. His lips part, but no words come out—just a broken, frustrated moan. His hands scrabble at your sides, gripping your thighs as you shift forward, pressing your leg against his chest.

You smirk, dragging your thigh up until it brushes his lips. “Kiss.”

A shudder wracks through him, but he obeys, pressing his mouth to your skin in a feverish, open-mouthed kiss. His breath is ragged, his lips trembling as you rock against him, teasing the friction he so desperately craves.

“Beg me, Bunny,” you murmur, grinding down just enough to make him whimper. “Beg like you mean it.”

Sol gasps, his hands clutching your hips as he tears his mouth away just to plead, “Please—fuck, please—I can’t—I need—” His voice cracks, his body arching up against yours, seeking more.

You tug his hair again, forcing his head back. His gaze is wild, pupils blown, lips wet from kissing your skin. “Well, then,” you tease, rolling your hips slowly, watching him unravel, “you’ll just have to beg a little more prettily for me, won’t you?”

He chokes out a sob, fingers digging into your flesh. “Please—I need you so much, just—please—anything, I’ll do anything—”

You smile, wicked and satisfied, finally relenting. “Good boy.” You release him, smoothing a hand down his chest, feeling the rapid hammer of his heartbeat. Leaning down, you press a kiss to his forehead. “You’re so good for me, Bunny.” Your lips brush his ear as you whisper, “You’ve earned this.”

Sol shatters for you, right there—whispering desperate, frantic pleas against your skin, hands trembling, body tense and burning and begging you to ruin him in that stupid, adorable, obscenely hot bunny suit.

The tension between you two is electric, your breaths mingling as you press closer. His bunny ears—soft, slightly askew—tilt forward as he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a teasing promise.

"You’re keeping those on," you murmur against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair just beneath the fuzzy headband. He lets out a low chuckle, warm and wicked, before capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

Every touch burns—his hands gripping your hips, your nails dragging down his back—but it’s the sight of those damn bunny ears that undoes you.

And when he finally loses control, his head tipping back with a groan, those ears flop adorably to the side—just before you yank him back down to you, claiming his mouth again.

"Good boy."

ayyyyy, I’ve might got carried away, what?? I’m a big bully.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Mr. Grumpy Bunny

You didn't think the day would ever actually come.

Two months. Two entire months of coaxing, pleading, bargaining—bribing, even. You had tried everything short of selling your soul just to see Geo, the ever-serious, ever-stubborn Geo, in a bunny suit.

And now, here you were, casually sitting on the tatami floor mats, mindlessly dangling a feather toy above his black cat’s head. The little creature—sleek, yellow-eyed, and infinitely more willing to entertain you than his master—batted lazily at the feathers. You were completely engrossed, giggling under your breath, your knees tucked neatly beneath you on the smooth straw flooring.

You didn’t even hear him coming.

Only when a pair of feet entered your peripheral vision did you pause, the toy mid-sway in your hand.

You blinked slowly. 

Sheer black tights. Shiny, bluish-purple bunny suit that hugged his lean figure like sin itself.

Matching gloves. Long, upright bunny ears perched atop his dark, bluish-purple hair, tied back neatly into that stubborn low ponytail you always teased him about.

His usual teal-and-white block earrings swayed slightly, catching the light, and that damn septum piercing glinted mischievously, almost like it was in on it.

You swallowed hard, your eyes dragging up his body like you were trying not to crash a car, until they finally met his aquamarine ones—irritated, narrowed, unmistakably Geo eyes. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, as though holding onto the last shred of his dignity.

"Tsk," he clicked his tongue at you sharply, standing over you like a judge sentencing you to death.

You immediately slapped a hand over your mouth, your cheeks puffing out with the effort to hold in your laughter. Oh, you would not survive this. You would not survive this and you knew it.

Turning away dramatically, you hunched your shoulders to further hide your hysterics, feeling your entire body shake with the sheer force of your suppressed snickers.

"You wanted this," Geo growled lowly, an irritated edge undercutting his words. "Look at me."

You shook your head frantically, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the strain of holding it all in. The little kitten, sensing the rising chaos, skittered off into another room with an indignant chirp, abandoning you to your fate.

Strong hands gripped your shoulders, not rough but firm, trying to turn you back toward him. "Look," he demanded again, exasperated, and your traitorous body gave in with a helpless, shaky breath.

You turned, finally, and instantly collapsed into giggles, your forehead pressing to his hip in a desperate attempt to smother the sound.

Geo huffed above you, and when you dared glance up again, his flush had traveled all the way to his ears, a pretty dusting of pink that stood out against his normally pale complexion. His expression was murderously unimpressed.

Before he could scold you again, you took your moment. 

Leaping up with a playful tackle, you pushed him backward. Geo let out a startled grunt as he stumbled, catching himself awkwardly with one knee bent, but you used your weight—and frankly, his momentary stunned brain lag—to push him down fully onto the tatami mats, landing squarely on top of him.

His arms instinctively tried to push you away, grabbing at your wrists; however, you were quicker. 

You wriggled your hands free and immediately went for the kill: tugging one floppy bunny ear and cooing dramatically, "Who's the cutest little bunny? Mr. Grumpy Bunny! It's you, Geo! Yes, you are~!"

The noise he made was somewhere between a pained groan and an indignant snarl, eyes squeezing shut like if he didn't see you, you wouldn't exist. "Stop," he gritted out, trying to push your hands away again.

You only laughed harder, dropping your forehead onto his chest briefly to muffle your cackles. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath you, the bunny suit’s material sliding against your clothes, slick and warm.

Before he could mount another defense, you leaned up just enough to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, grinning wickedly.

"Thank you," you whispered, saccharine sweet and deliberately close, your breath fanning across his ear. "You’re the sweetest Grumpy bunny ever."

Geo stiffened underneath you, his entire face exploding into an aggressive, furious red. He jerked his head to the side, refusing to meet your gaze, mumbling curses under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch.

Before you could gloat too much, he moved fast—pressing his face right into your chest with a strangled noise, his hands locking tightly around your sides.

"Shut up," he muttered, voice muffled and embarrassingly high-pitched, sounding more like a pouty child than the usually icy and unbothered Geo you knew.

You blinked down at him, absolutely flabbergasted... then, seeing an opportunity for even more chaos, you shifted slightly, pressing closer, your hand idly stroking his bunny ear again.

"You know," you said slyly, your voice dripping with mischief, "if you keep holding me like this, I’ll start to think you actually like this silly crap."

Geo’s arms tightened briefly around your waist before he gave you a sharp, warning tug downward—yanking you off balance so your whole body collapsed against his, nose brushing his flushed cheek.

"I don't care," he growled quietly, aquamarine eyes flashing dangerously up at you. His voice was low, raw with some emotion you couldn’t immediately place—somewhere between mortification and... maybe a stubborn, reluctant affection he hadn't figured out how to voice yet.

You let out a low whistle, unable to stop yourself.

"Damn, Mr. Grumpy Bunny’s getting bold now," you teased, tapping your finger against the tip of his red nose playfully.

He groaned again, this time with pure suffering, and thumped his forehead lightly against your shoulder as if hoping he could simply phase out of existence.

At this rate, you were starting to think you might actually kill Geo with secondhand embarrassment.

You’d mourn him properly.

But first... you were absolutely getting a picture.

You felt unstoppable now, grinning like you’d just won a gold medal in teasing, ready to pull out your phone and immortalize this rare, once-in-a-lifetime moment of Geo in his bunny suit.

You were this close to snapping the perfect picture of his mortified face, maybe even showing off the ridiculous bunny ears that made it look like he belonged in a very different kind of scene.

However as you reached for your phone, you felt Geo's body tense underneath you, his grip tightening around your waist. "No."

His voice was quiet but low—dangerously so. You immediately knew something had shifted, his stubbornness turning into full-blown defiance as you tried to reach for your phone again.

Without warning, he moved fast—quicker than you expected—and suddenly, your world flipped. You were pinned to the tatami mats in a breath-stealing instant.

Geo’s body was above you now, a solid weight pressing into your back, his arms locked firmly around your wrists, securing them against your back. His movements were fast, precise, like a well-trained assassin.

"Not... not this time," he muttered darkly, his breath hot against the back of your neck, his body straddling your hips to keep you firmly in place. He was like a weight on top of you, his arms crossed over your hands as he gripped you with surprising strength.

The sensation of being held down, restrained—pinned—only served to make the situation even more charged. Your heart skipped a beat as his presence loomed over you, his soft groan against your skin making it all feel way too intimate.

Geo’s voice was rougher now, almost strained.

“You think you can mess with me like that?” he murmured, the words lost in a strange mixture of embarrassment and something darker you couldn’t quite place.

You could feel his chest pressing into your back, the heat of his body seeping through the bunny suit. The fabric, snug and form-fitting, felt like a whisper against your skin, and you were suddenly hyperaware of every inch of him—his body on top of yours, his breath hot on your neck.

The smile never left your face, even as you shifted beneath him, trying to squirm free. The playful tone you’d maintained before had shifted into something more dangerous, a fire in your stomach that matched the heat of the moment. 

"You think you can stop me?" you teased, your voice breathless, barely holding back the excitement in your chest. “You’ve got a lot of nerve for someone in a bunny suit, Geo.”

His grip tightened further, his lips brushing against the back of your neck as he leaned down, his voice now barely a whisper. “Shut up,” he growled.

You couldn’t help it—your body, pressed into the floor, was pulsing with heat, but you couldn’t let up. You twisted your hips to rub against him playfully, laughing when he let out a choked sound, clearly caught off guard.

But before you could escalate it further, Geo did something unexpected—something that made your breath catch in your throat.

In one smooth motion, he shifted his weight, making sure to keep you pinned down, but his face was suddenly right next to yours. You could feel the tension in his body, his breath shallow against your cheek, his soft, furious whisper carrying through the air.

“If you don’t stop this,” he warned, “I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

For a moment, you felt a sudden shift. The teasing energy you’d been enjoying slowly turned into something much more intense, much more loaded with heat and raw emotion. 

You were really pinned now—both physically and emotionally.

Then, something clicked. Geo’s gaze softened ever so slightly as he adjusted his position, bringing his body even closer to yours, until you could feel every inch of him against your back. His grip on your wrists slackened, just a little, but his weight remained firmly above you, locking you in place.

His voice was quieter now, a small thread of uncertainty threading through the harshness. “I’m serious,” he muttered. “This is… this is too much for me. I can’t... you’re—”

You shifted, just enough to meet his gaze, your chest still heaving from the struggle. “You’re what? Not enjoying this?” You knew that tone—teasing, poking, drawing out whatever was left of his already rattled composure.

Geo’s flush deepened. It was almost enough to rival the red of the bunny suit. His eyes closed, and his breath quickened, his voice betraying him. “I’m not… I don’t… You make me feel ridiculous,” he admitted softly, almost too quietly for you to hear.

You smirked at the vulnerability in his voice, and despite the intense physicality of the moment, you realized something—a secoud of warmth spread in your chest. His words had an unexpected effect on you.

But before you could tease him further, Geo seemed to sense the opening he’d given you, and he took the opportunity to shift again. His face—barely inches from yours—turned slightly, but this time, he kissed you.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t sweet or apologetic. Instead, it was desperate to shut you up, and for once, his urgency made it feel a little less like a game. His lips were pressed hard against yours, his breath mingling with yours as his hands slid from your wrists to grip your shoulders, forcing you to stay still.

The kiss wasn’t long, but, it was enough to stop you.

Geo pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if trying to calm himself.

He closed his eyes, his voice quieter now but still carrying the weight of his emotions. “There. That should stop you. You’re a fucking menace, you know that?”

You chuckled softly, savoring the rare moment of intimacy before you responded. “Maybe,” you teased, “but you still kissed me. Guess I’m winning, Bunny Boy.”

Geo made a noise in his throat—part exasperation, part something else entirely. His arms released you, but you didn’t move immediately.

You didn’t need to.

The game had changed. And while he might’ve quieted you in the heat of the moment, there was still that unspoken tension between you two that would be far from settled. You might’ve won this round, but you knew—Geo wouldn’t let you off that easily.

Not by a long shot.

I didn't want to mess with my husband any longer, I felt bad T-T

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Bunny Boy orrrr Chaotic Bunny?

The hotel room smelled faintly of cheap vanilla candles and plastic packaging from the costume bags scattered everywhere, a chaotic battlefield of fabric and makeup brushes.

You were perched on a chair by the little vanity, balancing a handheld mirror in one hand, carefully working on your eyeliner with the precision of a bomb technician.

Your costume was already half on—something dangerously cute and teasing, something that would probably get you mobbed at the con, but that didn’t matter right now. Right now, you were focused on getting the stupid eyeliner wing even. The dull hum of the bathroom fan filled the background, paired with the occasional squeak of shoes slipping against tile.

You were so engrossed in not stabbing your eye out that you almost missed the bathroom door creaking open.

Almost.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement—and then you heard it. The sharp click-clack of cheap platform heels strutting across the hotel carpet, like a model on the world’s most cursed runway.

You slowly lowered your mirror, blinked, and there he was.

Hyugo. In all his radiant, chaotic, bunny-suited glory.

He struck a ridiculous pose, one hand on his narrow hip, the other thrown into a peace sign near his face like some sparkly anime idol. His bunny suit was baby blue, hugging his lean, youthful frame a little too perfectly, highlighting his long legs wrapped tightly in black fishnet tights. Matching satin gloves covered his hands up to the elbows, and those platform heels? Oh, he was walking in them, strutting, like he’d been born in stilettos.

His teal hair was a chaotic mess of shaggy layers, the thick rat tail behind him bobbing slightly with every exaggerated move. The thick middle strand of his bangs flopped into his forehead while his long side pieces framed his baby-faced grin, the sparkle in his soft, sky-blue eyes practically weaponized.

You just... stared. Blinking slowly. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“TA-DAAA!” he sang out, twirling dramatically.

He finished the spin with a high kick that he almost nailed—his heel skidding a bit on the carpet—but he recovered with a flourish so fast you wondered if he'd practiced that in secret.

"Hyugo..." you said slowly, voice dangerously neutral, setting the mirror down onto the cluttered vanity. "What... the hell... are you doing?"

"Living my best life," he declared, teeth flashing in a too-wide, shit-eating grin. The baby blue bunny ears attached to his headband flopped a little when he gave a dramatic hair flip, like he was on the cover of a 2007 fashion magazine. 

And then—without warning, he strutted over to you. 

You backed up an inch in your chair, instinctively wary, sensing his chaotic energy building like a storm front. You didn't even have time to stand before he spun around, back facing you—and plopped himself right down onto your lap. Full weight.

"Lap dance timeeeee~!" Hyugo chirped.

You choked on your own spit.

The little shit started grinding like he was on a pole, wagging his bunny tail-covered ass side to side with such exaggerated, silly movements that you almost cried. 

He leaned back, resting his head against your shoulder, batting his stupid, gorgeous baby blue eyes up at you. "You like what you see, babe~?" he teased, voice pitching into a playful, breathy whine.

You spluttered, hands frozen in midair, not sure where the hell to even put them.

On his hips? On his waist? Anywhere?!

There was literally no safe place.

Meanwhile, Hyugo was feeling himself, wiggling his hips with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and exactly how much it was breaking you.

You could feel the way the fishnet texture rubbed against your thighs through his movements, could smell the faint sugary cologne he’d spritzed on earlier, could hear the soft, breathy mmms he added for dramatic effect, absolutely laying it on thick.

"You gonna tip me?" he whispered, his voice hot against your ear, grinning like the devil himself. "I take cash, kisses, or compliments~."

You made a small, strangled noise in your throat that sounded vaguely like the death cry of a Victorian maiden. Your face was burning, hotter than a bonfire.

The worst part? He knew it.

You could see it in the tiny, satisfied smirk curling his thin lips. "God, you're—!" you managed to blurt, struggling for words. "You're such a little—!"

"Baby boy?" he offered sweetly, batting his lashes again.

You gripped the edge of the chair so hard your knuckles turned white, breathing heavily through your nose like an angry bull. He was deliberately arching his back now, adding an extra little bounce to his movements, the little rat tail flopping around like a cheerful party favor.

You were going to die.

"You better not do this at the convention," you hissed, trying to maintain some shred of dignity.

"Aww, you don't want me giving everyone else a show too~?" Hyugo cooed, nuzzling your cheek with fake innocence. "You're so possessive, cutie."

He had the audacity to boop your nose with his gloved finger before pulling back with a scandalized gasp.

"Unless..." he mused aloud, a wicked little smile playing on his lips, "...you want a private encore later?"

You shoved him off your lap with a growl, but Hyugo just rolled onto the carpet, kicking his legs in the air like an overexcited puppy, laughing so hard tears were forming in the corners of his glittering eyes.

"You’re insane!" you accused.

"And fabulous!" he shot back, striking another ridiculous pose on the ground like a fallen Broadway star.

You buried your burning face in your hands, muttering curses under your breath. 

The bunny suit squeaked when Hyugo eventually got up again, heels click-clacking as he walked over to the mirror to admire himself—his little blue bunny tail bouncing with every step. "Admit it," he teased, glancing at you through the mirror. "You loved it."

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

The fact that you were still a blushing, frazzled mess was answer enough.

And Hyugo? He knew he’d won this round.

The smug, victorious grin he shot you was just the cherry on top of your slow, inevitable descent into hell. By the time you both actually made it to the convention, you were already emotionally exhausted.

Mostly from fighting the overwhelming urge to throttle Hyugo in his ridiculous, obscenely cute bunny suit every five minutes.

You should’ve known better than to think he would behave.

You should’ve known.

The crowded halls buzzed with energy—people in elaborate cosplays, music thumping from different booths, the smell of popcorn and cheap hot dogs hanging heavy in the air. It was loud, chaotic, and absolutely not a place where you could hide from Hyugo's brand of public humiliation.

You were just trying to mind your own business, flipping through some artist alley prints, when you felt a familiar click-click-click of heels behind you.

You froze. 

"Heeeey, sexy~!" Hyugo’s voice rang out—way too loud.

You turned just in time to see him strutting down the aisle towards you like he was walking a goddamn Victoria's Secret runway.

Heads turned. People stared. Phones came out.

You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

"Stop. Stop it," you hissed under your breath, waving frantically at him, as if sheer force of will could make him disappear. Hyugo, of course, only sped up, heels tapping the floor in a chaotic rhythm as he leaped the last two feet—and latched onto you. Short, gloved arms wrapping dramatically around your shoulders, bunny ears flopping into your face.

"You left me alooooneee," he whined, giving a fake sob loud enough to turn even more heads.

"I'm literally right here," you muttered, mortified beyond words.

But Hyugo wasn't done. Oh no.

This little menace was just getting started.

He turned to a random group of onlookers, smiling sickeningly sweet.

"Isn’t my partner just the cutest?" he gushed, squeezing your cheeks between his gloved hands like a grandma at Thanksgiving.

The group awwed. Someone even snapped a picture.

You were going to kill him. You were going to murder Hyugo in this convention center and use his rat tail to hide the body. "You’re dead," you whispered to him under your breath, seething.

Hyugo just beamed, not at all intimidated, and whispered back: "Bet you'll miss me when I’m a sexy little ghost haunting your bedroom later~."

You very seriously considered whether jail time would be worth it.

But Hyugo, smug and absolutely thriving on your suffering, linked his arm through yours with a little bounce, dragging you deeper into the con floor.

It only got worse.

Every chance he got, he posed for pictures—always dragging you into them like some chaotic little gremlin. Every time someone complimented his costume, he’d spin dramatically and blow you a kiss. Every time someone pointed at his heels and said "wow, you can actually walk in those??" he'd say, "My partner trained me well~!" with an absolutely filthy wink.

You wanted to crawl under a table and die. But...

When you caught a glimpse of him laughing—really laughing, with that genuine, youthful spark in his sky-blue eyes, his cheeks flushed slightly from excitement—you found yourself smiling in spite of yourself.

Maybe you were doomed. Maybe you were already too far gone. Because even though he was an absolute menace...

Even though he was teasing you to death... 

You wouldn't trade this chaotic, bunny-suited, rat-tailed little disaster of a boy for anything in the world. And you knew—even as he blew you another obnoxious kiss from across the convention floor, making you flip him off while your face burned red—that you were utterly, hopelessly, completely stuck with him. 

And somehow? You didn’t really mind.

Not even a little. "ACK—Hyugo!" You take it back...

Back at the hotel room, you barely managed to throw your bag onto the floor before you heard the door click shut behind you—and felt a sudden, heavy weight slam into your back. You stumbled forward, hands bracing against the bed, as Hyugo cackled in your ear.

"You promised me a reward," he sang, arms snaking around your waist, his baby blue bunny suit pressing tight against your back.

"I didn't promise shit—"

"I heard 'good bunny boys get treats~'," he interrupted sweetly, nuzzling into your neck like some needy, chaotic little demon.

You twisted around, trying to shove him off—but Hyugo was relentless. With a gleeful grin, he gave your hips a firm shove, sending you sprawling face-first onto the bed.

You groaned. "You’re heavy, you little—"

Before you could finish, Hyugo climbed on top of you, straddling your hips with those dangerously smooth legs, heels kicked off somewhere across the room. The soft mesh of his fishnet tights brushed your lower back as he adjusted his seat like he owned you.

You sucked in a breath.

He was wayyyyyy too comfortable with this.

He smirked down at you, cheeks flushed pink from excitement, messy teal bangs falling into his mischievous baby blue eyes. "You know," he drawled, voice dropping lower as he leaned down, ghosting his lips near your ear, "you could just surrender now..."

You shivered involuntarily. "And miss out on the fun of making you work for it?" you shot back, smirking into the blanket.

Hyugo made a delighted noise, like you had just personally delivered him a five-course meal. "Oh, we're playing dirty now?" He shifted, grinding his hips down in an exaggerated roll that made you jolt.

"H-Hyugo—!"

He laughed, giddy, before straightening up again, proudly sitting on your lower back like some smug little king.

Then, he started to move.

Slow, deliberate little rolls of his hips—giving you a literal lap dance, but in reverse, you still pinned under him, helpless to escape. The absurdity of it should've made you laugh, but the heat creeping up your spine was making it very hard to focus.

"Mm... look at you," he teased, dragging his gloved hands up your sides, over your ribs, the light friction of the gloves making you squirm. "Getting all flustered from a little grinding? And you call yourself tough..."

You reached back blindly, trying to grab him.

Hyugo caught your wrists with ease, pinning them down against the bed, his grip surprisingly strong for someone in a damn bunny costume. He leaned in again, noses almost brushing, his voice low and sweet, and dangerous.

"Beg," he whispered, lips ghosting over your ear.

You bit your lip hard enough to see stars. This little shit was serious.

"Hyugo..." you warned, your voice barely holding steady.

"Beg," he repeated, more smug now, dragging his fingers agonizingly slow up your arms, over your shoulders, down your chest—never quite touching where you wanted.

It was maddening.

You glared up at him over your shoulder, breathing heavily.

"You’re gonna regret this," you growled.

Hyugo’s grin widened into something absolutely feral.

"Worth it~."

And with that, he shifted his weight again, fully settling his hips against yours, giving one long, slow, grinding roll that made your mind blank completely for a second. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to stay composed. "Ngh—fuck—Hyugo—"

"Language!" he teased brightly, tapping your nose playfully with one gloved finger.

You couldn't decide if you wanted to kiss him or throw him across the room. Probably both. Definitely both. He loosened his hold just slightly, giving you just enough freedom to flip around beneath him. You caught him by the waist, slamming him down onto the bed with a yelp.

Now you were the one straddling him.

His eyes widened, a little gasp escaping those thin lips—and god, he was so red already, his cheeks burning up to the tips of his ears.

"Who's flustered now, huh?" you smirked, leaning down until your noses brushed.

Hyugo just laughed, breathless, beautiful.

"Still you," he whispered, hands sliding up your thighs, teasing the hem of your costume.

And honestly?

You couldn't even argue.

YESS, I KNOW HOW TO WRITE FOR THIS SWEET BABY BOY, so he's is longer for all the hyugo lovers out there.

✑ 𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓁

Buff Bunny—that can dance like a man.

You honestly weren’t expecting the evening to spiral into madness. The plan was simple—or at least, it should've been. Just you and Deryl, chilling at his place, knocking out the group project that was already eating your sanity alive.

No chaos. No disasters. No getting sidetracked.

You had even come prepared: laptop, notebooks, highlighters, a giant ass coffee.

Fool. You foolish, foolish soul.

Because this was Deryl.

And Deryl plus "normal" was like... lighter fluid plus a bonfire.

You were sprawled out across the living room floor, papers and pens scattered around you in what could only be described as a beautiful mind collapse, lazily scribbling notes while the TV played some random sports rerun in the background. Deryl, ever the energetic host, had promised to grab food while you worked.

"I'll be back in a sec, I swear!" he'd yelled over his shoulder, vanishing into the kitchen like a golden retriever chasing a stick.

You half-listened to the sounds of him clattering around. There was some humming. Some cabinet doors slamming. A loud whoop that rattled the walls. You sighed, underlining your notes for the third time, trying to focus.

Then—"FOOD’S HERE!!" The words echoed through the house like a goddamn battle cry.

You perked up immediately, like Pavlov's dog.

Food. Real food. Greasy, heavenly food from your shared favorite burger spot—the only thing you were living for at this point.

You pushed yourself up with a groan, knees cracking, and padded toward the kitchen. "Better be my double cheeseburger, Deryl," you called, rounding the corner—

—and immediately lost all ability to form coherent thought. Because standing there, bright as a goddamn traffic cone, was Deryl. In a bright orange bunny suit.

Deryl. In a BRIGHT ORANGE BUNNY SUIT. 

Bright. Orange. Bunny suit.

Not just a hoodie with ears, no — the full-body furry monstrosity, complete with a little cotton tail bouncing when he moves. Matching floppy ears bobbing on his head. Furiously orange polyester clinging to every inch of that massive, buff-as-fuck body—hairy legs and muscular thighs on full display beneath the ridiculous shorts.

Both hands were proudly perched on his hips, like he was posing for a magazine spread titled "DISASTERS MONTHLY."

And to top it all off—

The biggest, brightest, shit-eating grin you had ever seen split his face from ear to ear, green eyes glittering with mischief, tears of laughter already brimming at the corners. He had a burger in one hand, a stupidly wide grin on his face, and you—

—You stood there. Frozen. Absolutely brain-melted.

Not a single logical thought survived the apocalypse happening inside your head. You blinked once. Twice. The bunny ears flopped. "...what," you croaked out, your voice cracking like a dying engine.

Deryl’s laughter exploded, loud and contagious, as he leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, trying and failing to catch his breath.

"Y-you—the look—ON YOUR FACE—!!" He doubled over, wheezing like he'd run a marathon, one hand slapping the counter for balance.

You just stared.

You stared at the fluffy white tail attached to his ass.

You stared at the fact that his thighs looked like they could crush a watermelon. You stared at the unholy union of pure chaos and sex appeal standing proudly before you, like this was the most normal Saturday activity.

Finally, after a solid thirty seconds of internal screaming, you managed to force oxygen back into your lungs. "Deryl..." you started slowly, voice deadpan. "...did you answer the door like that?"

He gasped between bouts of laughter, wiping a tear from his eye. "Hell yeah, I did!!"

Another uncontrollable fit of cackling. 

You dragged a hand down your face, reeling. "The delivery guy—"

"Bro fistbumped me!" he interrupted proudly. "Said I had 'mad drip.'" He mimed the fistbump like it was some sacred ritual, bunny ears flopping with every exaggerated motion.

You were going to die. Right here. 

Buried under the weight of this absurdity.

"Why—" you tried again, your voice halfway between a sob and a laugh, "would you even—when—where did you even GET that—?!"

Deryl straightened up, looking offended at your lack of appreciation.

"Preparedness," he said solemnly, puffing his chest out. "You never know when life’s gonna call for drip." He struck a dramatic pose, flexing one bicep with the bunny paw glove on.

You physically staggered backward, clutching the doorframe.

He looked so goddamn ridiculous. So stupidly hot. So perfect. You covered your mouth to stifle the completely unhinged giggles bubbling up from your chest.

Deryl noticed immediately.

"OHHHH YOU THINK IT’S FUNNY NOW, HUH?!" He charged at you, arms outstretched like a wild animal.

"Deryl—Deryl don't you fucking DARE—" You tried to retreat but there was no escape. He grabbed you in a massive bear hug, lifting you clear off the ground like you weighed nothing, the absurdly soft fur of the bunny suit brushing against your skin. You shrieked, kicking your feet helplessly as he spun you around the kitchen.

"WHO'S LAUGHIN’ NOW, HUH?!" His laugh was pure evil joy, bright and golden and impossibly loud.

You pounded weakly on his shoulder, half-dying from laughter yourself. "PUT ME DOWN YOU GIANT LUNATIC!!"

"No can do!!" he sang, bunny ears bouncing. "Buff Bunny rights!!"

By the time he finally set you down, you were both breathless, faces flushed, grins splitting your cheeks.

You stumbled back, barely keeping your balance. 

He held you steady, hands massive and warm on your arms, that damn playful smirk still on his lips. You looked up at him, chest heaving, trying to find some shred of dignity.

Deryl just winked, tilting his head so the bunny ears flopped cutely to one side. "So..." he said, voice low and teasing, "what's the verdict?"

You swallowed thickly, the sheer ridiculousness and ridiculous hotness of it all frying every neuron in your brain.

"...You're never taking that off, are you?"

He grinned, impossibly wide. "Only if you say please," he purred.

You opened your mouth to respond—and immediately shut it again, defeated, face burning so hard it might've caught fire. You turned sharply on your heel and stomped back toward the living room, muttering curses under your breath.

Behind you, Deryl burst into another fit of hysterical laughter. 

"HEY!" he called after you, voice full of teasing sunshine. "DON'T ACT LIKE YOU DIDN'T LIKE THE VIEW!!"

You flipped him off without turning around, biting your lip to hold back the giddy laugh threatening to spill out. Because... damn it. He was right. Before you can escape fully, you hear Deryl lunging for you. "AHT— NO—" you shriek, trying to dodge, but he's faster—because of course he is, the bastard.

Big hands clamp around your waist, lifting you clean off the floor like you weighed nothing.

"DERYL! Please, not again.” You beat your fists against his shoulders, but he only laughs — that big, rumbly, dangerous laugh — and deposits you right onto the kitchen counter like you were some kind of misbehaving cat. He moves in close, trapping you there, his arms caging you in as his thick thighs press against your legs.

You glare at him.

He grins wider, leaning his face dangerously close to yours.

"You look sooo cute when you're mad," he coos mockingly, poking your cheek.

"Let me go! I'm hungry!" you snap, trying to shove at his chest, but it's like trying to push a wall. A big, hot, stubborn wall.

"Man," Deryl says, tilting his head thoughtfully, the teasing note in his voice dropping an octave lower, making your skin prickle. "I'm so hungry... I could eat you."

Your breath catches.

He’s still smiling, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—something sharp, focused. Something that makes your stomach flip upside down. His hands flex on the counter, muscles shifting under his skin.

You meet his eyes fully—and realize—

He’s not entirely joking.

You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the way he’s crowding you, not even bothering to hide the way he’s looking at you now. Not just playful, but heavy, molten—like he's seriously considering it.

Your mouth goes dry.

A shiver dances down your spine, and you suddenly forget what air is.

Deryl laughs, low and wicked, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost over your lips. He leans in even closer, until your noses almost brush. "You gonna let me?" he murmurs, voice like a slow burn against your skin.

You swallow. Hard.

For a second, all you can do is stare at him—at the wild curls spilling messily under the bunny ears, the way his stubble roughens his jaw, the sharp green of his eyes glowing like mischief and hunger tangled together.

You should say something. You should shove him away.

Instead, you just breathe, heart hammering, caught — pinned between his arms, his thighs, and his devastating grin. And Deryl? He knows it. Oh, he knows it. He taps your nose with one finger, mischief twinkling in his eyes. "What’s the matter, little bunny? Cat got your tongue?"

You almost punched him. Almost.

But when he leans back with a victorious laugh, grabbing your burger from the counter and offering it to you with a wink, you take it from his hands with a shaky glare, ears burning, knowing full well he won this round.

The worst part?

You kinda didn’t mind losing to him.

now writing him, I was a little lost because I don't recall much of his personality, but I tried—not sure if i'll be writing him as sadly no one talks about him...

[reidrum]

porcelain doll | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

a/n: writers block is a bitch fr but somehow this came out! i just wanna say that if you relate to reader or just have qualms in general about intercourse that its okay and its normal and you're still a wonderful human being at the end of the day ok that is all i love you mwah

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, fingering, making out, no p in v sex but talks about it, reader has an ambiguous reason for it hurting cuz there are like so many gdm reasons it can hurt it's ridiculous, hurt/comfort, fluff, afab reader, spencer is a loving and supportive boyfriend, i proofread this once sorry

summary: you'd been keeping quiet about something personal that you knew you should tell spencer but just couldn't find the right time for, but now it's all come to a head in a hot heat of the moment and you're forced to confront it

wc: 2.6k

_______________________________________________

you meant to tell spencer about it when you first started dating.

it’s not something that comes up to discuss in a natural context, like over coffee or at work. by the time you and spencer had actually started dating, you hoped there would be a quiet moment where you could tell him, but even when soft moments came and went your anxiety was the ruling emotion and prevented you from telling him.

that brings you to this moment right now— you straddled over spencer’s lap on his couch with your arms around his neck, his on your waist, wildly kissing him. you had just come home from the bar with the girls, and spencer couldn’t help himself with how pretty you looked as he pulled you to the couch and perched you on his lap.

still being in the somewhat early stages of your relationship, your intimacy with him never went past making out, with you most of the time tapping out after getting too overwhelmed. and spencer always respected your boundaries.

don’t get it wrong, you both still had a lot of fun when things got heated. if you could kiss him every second of the day you would. but being able to feel how much fun he was having always left a pang of guilt in your heart after always stopping. he’d always be heavily panting, trying so hard to hide the discomfort in his pants, and the most you could do in return was dissociate and live in false ignorance about it. it didn’t help that he still so devastatingly kind to you after.

but here you were on his couch tonight, and something felt different. a desire you hadn’t felt before taking over your senses as your bodies intertwined. it’s like every time you’re with him, he makes you almost forget all the insecurities that eat away at you.

almost.

spencer moves his mouth down your neck, leaving a trail of hot love bites before he finds your sweet spot. you angle your head more so he can get better access, and moan out at how fucking good it feels.

he moves his hand to the waist of your shorts, looks up at you silently asking for permission to remove them. you nod and he maneuvers them off, returning to straddle him. his hands move to knead the flesh where your hips meet your thighs, every movement delicate and intentional. it’s like with every touch he transfers his love for you through his fingertips to drive you absolutely crazy.

you subconsciously grind down on him, putting a pressure he wasn’t expecting as he groans lowly in your ear, “fu-uck.” it warms your heart a little, knowing the effect you have on him. your hands tangle in hair and pull firmly letting spencer moan into your mouth as he moves a hand further down your body.

“this okay still?” he breathlessly asks as he toys with the lining of your panties.

you nod again, not trusting your words at the moment. a sinking feeling starts to brew in your gut, as you can easily predict where the next events are going. he’s being so kind to you, and you feel sexy with the way he’s eating you alive with his eyes and touches. the guilt would chip you away if you had led him on this long only to stop right before the good part, just because you couldn’t handle it or something.

but he starts to stroke you outside your panties, and you have to admit that it feels vaguely good. you continue to bury your head in the crook of his neck in the hopes of masquerading any facial expressions contradictory to your words. you just want spencer to feel good, and this is the first step to reaching that goal.

spencer takes the soft breaths blowing in his ear as a sign to keep going, and hooks a finger on the cloth to pull it aside. he runs a single digit up and down your slit, swiping by your entrance to gather the wetness to spread around. when he circles back to give your clit attention you shakily moan out his name and his arm grips you tighter around your waist. you feel his finger descend again and prods around for the entrance again before gently sliding in.

the last five minutes you had been praying repeatedly and silently in your head, please let it be different this time, please don’t let me ruin this perfectly great relationship, please let my body just do what it’s meant to do.

but your prayers are left unheard, and all you can feel is hot, burning pain.

it tears through you, a feeling incomparable to walking on fire rocks even. it’s overwhelming, all consuming, things you would typically describe a normal sexual experience but here your body was, in a cruel twist of fate by being on the complete opposite end of that spectrum.

most of all, it just fucking hurts. point blank, you don’t see it subsiding anytime soon. you hoped the sentiment of making this good for spencer would overtake the signals being sent to your pain receptors. but it doesn’t, it actually intensifies the emotional pain in your heart that you know will weigh on you once this is over.

spencer being the darling lover he is holding you so gently, and yet instead your body betrays his gentle loving touches and receives them with malice. 

how dare you?

after a couple minutes, you can’t take it anymore. the panic starts to rise in your chest— from the pain, the guilt, all crashing down like an avalanche preparing to leave you stranded in the rubble.

“spencer…” you grit out.

“yeah baby?” he hums.

“can we-, i think i need to…” you strain. the pain is spreading throughout your body like a forest fire, uncontainable and devastating.

spencer slows his ministrations and pulls back a little, noticing the faint red rings forming in your eyes from the unshed tears, “hey, what’s wrong?” he pulls out his finger complete, subtly wiping it on his pants (which you’ll gawk at later because, who is this man?). even after the removal it’s left you scorned, and you feel it breaking your resolve fast.

“are you okay?” spencer tries to peer into your eyes again, voice laced with worry and dread.

you open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. you’re in shock, you think. and you’re feeling a lot of emotions, too many emotions all huddled up in your head begging for control.

spencer sits still below you deeply concerned and confused, “sweetheart, what’s going on?” he desperately tries one more time.

you think your brain has finally settled on what to feel.

mortification.

you squeeze your eyes shut, harshly rubbing them with sweaty hands, “i’m okay, i’ll be right back.” and you don’t give him time to rebuttal as you swing off him and bolt to the bathroom in record speed. after you shut the door and lock it, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. and then everything else falls out too.

your arms clutch your stomach in distress as the panic settles in you, sliding down the wall as you sit on the floor with your knees tucked under your chin. tears blur your vision, and the deep breaths are counterintuitive as they seem to make you more and more lightheaded.

a faint knocking seems to cast a line to bring you back down, and another firmer knock solidifying it.

spencer softly says your name, “can we talk? i just want to know that you’re okay.”

a pang of guilty shoots up your heart and you let out a big sniffle inadvertently, and spencer finds an unknowingly matching pang shooting up his own heart.

“i’m sorry if i hurt you, sweetheart.”

that was the final blow, and you fully begin to sob on the bathroom floor. how selfish of a person were you to let him feel guilty for something that was entirely your fault?

“you didn’t do anything,” you say between cries, “i’m just, being weird.”

spencer isn’t convinced, “will you let me in?” he says softly.

you contemplate the outcomes. he comes in, you tell him about your irregularity, he gets upset with you for not telling him and because you don’t work. or you don’t let him in, he gets upset with you and your stubbornness, deciding it’s no longer worth it to deal with you and he leaves.

solid choices, you think.

swiping at the tears falling still, you think you can’t feel any lower than you do right now. so you reach up and unlock the door but don’t move to open it.

he hears the click of the lock turning and knows he has to open the door. the handle turns and spencer pokes his head through, “i’m coming in, okay?”

you don’t respond, your head still finding solace in your bunched up knees. you faintly hear the door creak open and a figure move in.

if spencer’s heart wasn’t clenching before, someone’s now got it in a death grip with how distraught you look is making him feel. he doesn’t enter your bubble, he doesn’t feel it’s appropriate at the moment. instead he sits in the open doorway, hoping it offers you a comfortable space to know that he’s there but not enough to overwhelm you.

you both sit in silence for what feels like forever, spencer knows it’s ten minutes and thirty two seconds, when you let out the smallest and faintest, “i’m sorry.”

“you didn’t do anything,” he immediately says, itching to move closer to you, “i just want to know what happened, angel.”

your eyes scrunch up in frustration, “ugh, it’s not-“ you falter, this was not how you pictured this conversation going.

he waits for you to continue. “i have this…thing.” you start.

“thing..?”

why does it feel so embarrassing to say out loud, he has three phds and hunts serial killers this cannot be the worst thing he’s heard.

it’s definitely the most vulnerable though.

you turn your body 180 degrees so you’re not facing him, thinking it would be easier to confess to him if he’s not staring you down, “when i like, put things down there… it hurts.”

“what kind of hurt?”

“it’s like a…really intense pain. that doesn’t go away.”

spencer ponders for a couple seconds, “is that what happened a couple minutes ago?”

you nod your head into your knees, letting the fresh hot tears wet your kneecaps. it’s humiliating.

he inches closer, “angel, did you think i was going to be mad?”

you sniffle, “are you not?”

a tentative hand rests on your back, “not at all,” he whispers, “i was just really worried about you.”

worried. people have been angry, apathetic, even sad (for themselves) when you told them. but never worried.

you suppose spencer reid has always been different, defying any preconceptions anyone previous had imposed on you. he always offered you kindness and love when you couldn’t find any for yourself. it was unfair, how much he loved you, and how you couldn’t show him how much you loved him back.

you clear your throat, “it just makes me feel…broken? to not be able to do the one thing my body is made to do. in the past it’s been a dealbreaker for a lot of people, and understandably so.”

spencer has moved to sit in front of you, inches away. he reaches a hand up to push a tendril of hair behind your ear, letting his palm rest upon your jaw. his eyes hold nothing but love, and he waits patiently for you to continue.

“i’m really sorry i didn’t say anything, i meant to tell you when we first started dating,” your voice gets higher as the emotion floods your throat, “but everything was going so good, i didn’t want to ruin it.”

you add one final blow before receding, “i thought when i told you, i would offer you an out to go sleep with some other girl just so you could have that experience.” you lament.

spencer lets your words sit in the air for a few moments before softly saying, “can i hold you?” 

he thinks it’s better to have you in his arms before he talks, because as much as his words could comfort you he thinks it can’t hurt for you to feel physically held together after all that’s torn you down.

if he wasn’t watching you so intently he would’ve missed the faint nod you give him. you’re scooped into his embrace with your head tucked under his chin and into his neck. he has one hand supporting your back and the other drawing letters into your thighs, and leans his chin to rest atop your head.

“first of all, please don’t ever feel like you have to ‘offer me an out’, especially for things that are really serious like this.”

“but it’s not fai-“ you try to argue.

“no. you can’t do that. you won’t do that. i don’t care what you’ve been told in the past, but loving and having you means holding every part of you, especially the ones you try to hide. i am not here to pick and choose what i want.”

he holds you the way you would a porcelain doll, achingly beautiful yet terrifyingly fragile.

“my sweet girl, you are not broken. i promise. penetration is not the end all for sex, and it’s not the only way to have sex. studies show that 75% of women feel pain during penetration, sometimes it can be related to stress or anxiety, which i’m sure on top of all that you deal with, that me leaving for cases all the time can’t help.”

he cups your cheek with his warm palm and angles your face to meet his eyes.

“what matters to me the most is that you feel good, and if you don’t feel good then it’s not worth doing in the first place.” he whispers, “if this is something you want to work on in the future, i will be there to help and support you however i can. but if you don’t want to do anything, i will still be there to support you. always. there is no dealbreaker for me, you are it.”

with red stained eyes you look up at him, “are you sure?”

“i’m sure,” he reinforces, “i love you. i don’t think a version of me exists where i am not loving you. you occupy an embarrassingly large amount of my brain, and there’s a lot of stuff in there.” you giggle and spencer feels flowers blooming in his chest.

you sigh and wrap your arms tighter around him, “i love you too, spence.”

you both sit in silence, basking in each others presence.

“you looked so beautiful tonight, i don’t think i told you when you came home.” he softly speaks, stroking your hair.

fiddling with a button on his shirt you reply, “thank you, honey. penny told me to buy that dress, said it’d drive you insane.”

he breathes out, “she was right. i don’t even know if i said anything to you, i was borderline delirious seeing you come home to me.”

you lean up to place a smiley kiss on his neck, “i’ll always come home to you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“i think i’ll be having you forever.”

“woah,” you smirk, “that sounds borderline stalkerish. better be careful, my boyfriend’s an fbi agent.” 

spencer’s eyes narrow, “i could probably take him.”

“eh.”

“eh?”

[sarshles-cheescake-li]

Link Click, internet slang, and Chinese culture

On the Chinese internet, there's a nickname for Link Click called Shiguang Daidaoren, meaning "the blade-bringers of time" instead of "the managers of time," the original title. Calling something "blade" is Chinese internet slang for something being angsty; whether it be derivative content or the originals themselves. Another meme is that Link Click isn't zhiyu (治愈，healing), which it is tagged as on Bilibili, but zhiyu (致郁，causing depression).

Link Click, especially its first season, is a deeply emotional and sentimental show. And it's a shame that so much of it gets not so much lost in literal, linguistic translation as much as it does in cultural, contextual translation. Many people can understand Emma's pain of being away from her parents in a new city, working a difficult job. But watching the scrolling comments on Bilibili, you get the cultural context of it -- the massive migration patterns within China from rural to urban, the children growing up and having to shed their local fangyan (方言) or, less formally, tuhua (土话)("speech of the locations" and "old-fashioned words," respectively) in exchange for Beijing Mandarin. This massive nation, nearly twice the population of Europe and only about 6% smaller in terms of area, is so diverse as to have created (what is close to) an immigrant experience for its citizens entirely within its borders. You visit your parents on Chunjie (春节）, lunar/Chinese new year, on packed trains during the largest singular human migration event on Earth, annually. And when you get home, you are faced with something different from the cities you now live in -- everything from the buildings to the furniture to the clothes they wear. I hadn't realized how deeply I missed the gaudy, garish mianao (棉袄，coats) and mianbei (棉被，cotton blankets) until I saw familiar shades of too-bright burgundy in the hands of Emma's parents. The concept of this original-home, laojia (老家, old-home) is so strongly baked into our lives that every time I meet another Chinese person, I cannot but help but ask them 你老家哪儿啊? Where is your original-home? And even though I know nothing about Chinese geography, every time I hear the answer, a little piece slots into place nonetheless.

In slang, if something made you cry or otherwise feel an emotion you weren't expecting to feel, you refer to it as pofang (破防，breaking defences). And maybe it says something that an expression of human emotion is viewed as a failure in some defences, but that's introspection for another time. Watching on Bilibili, with its hundreds of comments scrolling by "My defences have been breached" and sobbing onomatopoeia, people in the comments saying that they miss their mothers and fathers -- I, too, miss my family. When Cheng Xiaoshi, in Chen Xiao's body, tried to speak his host body's local variation and came up with butchered dongbeihua (东北话, words of the east-north), I nearly fell out of my chair. It was the sound of home, of my grandmother telling us to hush around noon because our neighbours were napping and my grandfather showing me how to play spider solitaire.

Cheng Xiaoshi's breakdown in episode 5 hits hard for its vulnerability. "I'm scared of the dark" has the same literal meaning as "我怕黑," sure, but there is something devastatingly childlike in that three-syllable declaration of fear. Where English so often derives meaning from complexity, from winding metaphors and beautiful prose, Chinese can derive breathtaking meaning from less breath than it takes to say the word analogy. 我怕黑 is stripped of any grown-up pretenses of control or dignity. It is the barest this statement can be: I. Scared. Darkness.

And what he says following, too. 我害怕一个人. Longer yet no less potent. Alone, or lonely, has many translations in Chinese. 孤独. 寂寞. 孤单. 单独. Many more synonyms for all the different ways you can be lonely. But 一个人 is, once again, an almost child-like way of saying it. Before you have the vocabulary to express these complex emotions, 一个人 is a perfectly working expression. Translating it character-by-character, it means one singular person. It is something you say when you've been left behind. When you've been made to face everything by yourself. When the world is so, so, big, and you are just one singular person, with no companions to stand with you.

And, ah, Li Tianxi's Chinese nickname, 小希. It is the last character of her full name, with a "little" shoved right in front. It is an affectionate way to call someone younger than you. It is different from Xixi, its English rendition, because a repetition of the last character is a more generalized, affectionate nickname, whereas diminutives are almost always reserved for someone younger than you, when used in real life. The diminutive says don't be scared. I'm here now. I'll handle it.

There are endless details in Link Click that make everything about it seem a little bit more like home. The word 面馆 which means something a little, subtly different than "restaurant" or "noodles shop," a difference lost without the context of the phrase 下馆子 and the way adults say it with the gladness of once-children who only ate meat on new years. The "honorifics" as English calls them, to me more of just -- ingrained parts of someone's name. Within the snap of Mandarin syllables there is meaning and memory in every character. Jie, mei, di, ge, lao, da, xiao -- they are more than their literal meanings. They are a relationship, a promise.

Perhaps I am overthinking this, awkwardly Chinese as I am: too localized to be considered first-generation, too stubbornly attached to relate to second-generation. Maybe these linguistic subtleties only exist and matter in my mind, a writer of both languages (though I must say, my Chinese prose leaves… much to be desired) with a knack for pedantics. Regardless, I hope other Chinese fans of this show share this feeling. And surely, other people will, too. All the rural children who left home to pursue higher education and opportunities in faraway cities; the raised-in-poverty who spent their childhoods dreaming of buying their family new coats; the speakers of languages long since abandoned by their childhood friends. What a delight it is to see yourself in stories, neither exception nor abnormality but a norm. What a joy it is to be one of one point four billion.

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 16: The One About That Time I Shot an Arrow into the Air

“…It fell to earth, I knew not where; for so swiftly it flew, the sight; could not follow it in its flight.”

Archery has always been one of my fortes in life. I have absolutely no idea why, but I’m strangely quite good at it. My father, of course, attributes it to my ancestors; something passed down to me in my genes. So, I’m not sure that any arrow I shot into the air wouldn’t naturally find itself in the direction of its intended target. Today, that target would almost certainly be in the jugular of a Cerberus-like creature. Ah, yes, that mythical hellhound with three heads that guards the entrance to the Underworld. Not only does it dictate who can enter the realm of Hades, but also who can leave. And I’m not fond of creatures that would rather devour you alive than let you leave of your own freewill. Plus, could you imagine having three heads with three different personalities? Ugh, that would get confusing quickly. And, even worse, could you imagine all the in-fighting? I mean, an arrow to the throat – if it didn’t dismantle the beast – would almost certainly silence it. Luckily, we don’t have any three-headed dogs in this fandom…

Where am I going with this? Well – besides down a long and winding path that draws attention to the fact I enjoy poetry and archery – actually, I chose today’s poem for a specific purpose. If you haven’t figured it out from my previous cracks about the Kraken, I also like Greek mythology. In fact, learning about Greek mythology at around the age of 11 – yes, that defiant age where we’re no longer interested in Barbie (not that I was ever interested in Barbie) but we’re also not cool enough to be considered teenagers – was the first time I remember finding myself “thinking outside of the box.” And by that, I mean asking the question that I probably should not have said out loud: “If Zeus is a myth, does that mean God is fake, too?” That went down like a lead balloon (and, I hope, no one takes offense to reading that now; it is not meant with any disrespect). My mother was, of course, telephoned by the school and, when I returned home, she greeted me with (something along the lines of) a simple: “Did they answer your question? No? Then I suggest you find it for yourself.”

We all have our own truth, don’t we? Even in this fandom, we are each tasked with choosing our own path. Weeding out facts from speculation and speculation from rumor. Choosing what we want to believe over what is being pushed on us. Overcoming our willingness to follow blindly versus our refusal to be backed into corner. I suppose that’s why I’ve always liked Greek mythology (and, perhaps, storytelling in general) – because it helps us navigate life’s challenges by better understanding human nature. It’s also one of the reasons why my favorite story has always been the trials and tribulations of Eros and Psyche.

Ah-ha! See, I told you I had a purpose for bringing up those damn arrows!

Yes, Eros was the Greek equivalent of the Roman Cupid; that weird little dude who fired love arrows like a bouquet of flowers at a wedding. But Eros wasn’t some creepy little cherub in a cloth diaper; he was the devastatingly handsome God of Love. And he fell in love with the equally beautiful human Psyche. That part about her being human, however,managed to get Psyche some major side-eye from Eros’s mother, Aphrodite. In retaliation for humans worshiping Psyche’s beauty over her own, Aphrodite sent Eros down to earth to pierce Psyche with one of his love arrows so she would fall madly in love with a hideous monster (unfortunately for the Cerberus, it wasn’t them). But Eros defied his mother and, unbeknownst to Aphrodite, kept Psyche for himself hidden away in a castle. There, Psyche lived – mostly happily – with Eros visiting her every night. Eros promised Psyche she could live there indefinitely so long as she never looked upon his face (hence why he only visited her in darkness). But humans have this uncanny knack for being curious and, of course, Psyche peeked. Well, fuck! Haha, I won’t ruin the rest of the story for you except to say, yes, Eros was royally peeved at Psyche’s betrayal, fled their home, and sought refuge with his bitchy mother (because, of course, he did). Devastated, Psyche went clambering up to her pseudo-mother-in-law’s shrine to beg for forgiveness and Aphrodite, being a bit of a bitchy goddess, gave Psyche a series of impossible tasks to complete to prove her worthiness. Amazingly Psyche did in fact complete each of these four tasks but only because she managed to get a little help from some fantastical friends. Well, except for that final task for which Psyche was warned – don’t look in the fucking box. Damn humans.

Like all stories passed down from generation to generation, there are multiple versions of this myth, particularly when it comes to who helped Psyche complete her four tasks. Sometimes it’s one god(dess), other times it’s multiple; sometimes it’s earth’s creatures (the ants, the plants, and the flying things). But my favorite version is the one where Eros was the one pulling those invisible strings – or, at the very least, keeping an eye on Psyche from the shadows – because no matter how angry he was with her, Eros still loved Psyche and wanted to protect her.

Why do I bring this story up? Well, for starters, if you didn’t notice (because you were too focused on carriages and mirrors), Bridgerton Season 3 made quite a few parallels between Colin and Penelope and Eros and Psyche, even referring to the latter by name at the end of the fourth episode. The show also brushed on the importance of trust, the consequences of betrayal, and the idea that love can conquer all. Funny thing is I never thought Colin to be much of an Eros; he made a better Psyche, in my opinion. I mean, he was the one to peek into Penelope’s secret life!

But Colin’s real-life counterpart, Luke, makes a rather entertaining Eros.

On December 16, when Luke reposted to his Instagram stories a link to Nicola’s “Part 1” of her 2024 Year, the fandom went wild. And I’m not talking about just the Lukolas going insane with excitement; the Jakolas were having a field day, too – but not in a good way. The unease they’d almost certainly felt with those coordinated airplane and “Polin” posts from October returned with a vengeance when Luke resurfaced in support of Nicola – the woman for whom he consistently comes out hiding. I realized then that the one person who could simultaneously make the Lukolas’ hearts flutter and the Adjacents’ blood boil was Luke (i.e., our Eros could make Psyche rejoice while making Aphrodite lash out in anger).

If you really think about it, Luke has pulled us out of the black waters of the River Styx multiple times, making him the perfect Eros to our Psyche. Yes, our Psyche. The fandom is absolutely the Psyche of this story. After all, the fandom was the one who betrayed Luke with our collective reaction to Papsmear (but, in the fandom’s defense, that was a shitty fucking day). And, of course, that wench Aphrodite is collectively all the side story bullshit, from the Adjacent narratives to rag-mags sticking their ever-growing noses into places they don't belong.

As we finish out the year, I thought it would be fun to give Luke some credit where credit is due. In other words, I thought I’d highlight four times Luke “Eros-ed” (i.e., “rescued”) us from some mucky ass shit. This is not every moment Luke came out of hiding to do something wonderful; these are simply my top four moments where I believe Luke single-handedly resuscitated the fandom. You’re welcome to share your best Luke moments in the comments.

No. 1 - That Post-Papsmear Thing That Everyone Ignored:

Fuck, yes.

I am starting with the most overlooked event in the Lukola-verse – Luke’s post-Papsmear Cressida story. This is the taproot that keeps my faith in Lukola from falling over during a storm – Luke taking one for Team Lukola by promoting Season 3 using the scene from Ep. 6 where Cressida entered the Mondrich Ball and Colin pulled Penelope aside and told her he wouldn’t let Cressida ruin their evening. Yeah, yeah, Luke totally missed the target with that post but – again, in the fandom’s defense – everyone was still reeling from the sudden-but-not-so-sudden materialization of Antonia at the London premiere. In hindsight, though, you know you want to give him an “atta boy” for basically throwing shade at the Lutonia narrative while using a massive social media platform to do so. It was jaw-dropping, brilliant, and ballsy as fuck.

If you’re totally lost about how entertaining this Cressida story was, go read Entry 1 to be my blog. But, seriously, how have you not read it already?

No. 2 – Delivering the Cake:

Alright, fast forward three months (yes, three goddamn months!) to September 7 when Luke posted pictures from his stay at the Puente Romano resort.

No big deal, right?

Wrong!

It was a big fucking deal because, for starters, Antonia creeped in and posted random pictures of herself at roughly the same time Luke posted his resort pictures. And, of course, Luke had to like Antonia’s Instagram post. To make matters worse (gasp!) Luke’s had palm trees in his pictures which were oh, so reminiscent (but, not really) of palm trees posted by Antonia the previous day to her Instagram stories. Oh my God! And, then the real kicker? Luke’s slide deck included him eating a picture of himself from the London premiere sans Nicola! The horror! I mean, what probably started out as a cute post by Luke turned into a full-on Lukola heart attack within 30 minutes or less!

But then Luke pulled out a defibrillator and revived the fandom. Almost immediately.

After presumably hearing the cries from the Lukola fandom that he’d cut Nicola from the London premiere image, Luke demonstrated through his Instagram stories that (a) he was eating part of a cake (he was even darling enough to put the cake emoji with a smiley face), and (b) that the cake never had Nicola’s image on it to begin with (meaning, he didn’t remove her from it). Thank you for that clarification, Luke. Seriously, the fandom appreciated it.

After they recovered from their near-death experience, the Lukolas finally took the time to look at the images Luke posted. A not-so-random chaise lounge; a random white shirt; a restaurant called El Pimpi (which is a word used for the people who delivered messages to a ship’s crew and passengers); Luke throwing up the peace sign with his now infamous digits in – what appeared to be – the reflection of a glass table; and a reference to cake. It was Lukola- and/or Polin-coded shit. And, to make it just a smidge better, there was no visible reference to Antonia anywhere.

And, yes, I will cut in here to acknowledge that Antonia would, on October 25, include a lone picture of a balcony which was identical to the one Luke posted in his – what I like to call – “clarification stories” from September 7. Do I care about Antonia’s balcony? Not in the least. Could she have been at the resort? Sure. In fact, I’ve always found the idea of Antonia being present quite comical since Luke made it fairly obvious he omitted something (ahem, someone) from his Instagram post and instead filled it with random shit that seemed Lukola- and/or Polin-coded. Plus, if you want me to be perfectly honest, “insinuation” posts from Antonia stopped doing it for me months ago.

Back to what I saying… We must give Luke a round of applause for placating an entire fandom with something as simple as a cake emoji. Bravo, bravo!

No. 3 – Shutting Down the Mean Girls:

We closed out September with Antonia riling up the fandom by posting Instagram story after Instagram story, none of which were worth a second glance from a Lukola except for the “phone screen” one (see “Entry 7: The One Where the Queen Asked, ‘Did That Go the Way You Thought It Was Gonna Go?’” for reference). Oh, wait, there is another story – just for my own amusement – on October 1, Antonia reshared a story where she was labeled “Aphroditi.” Rather convenient for my story today, isn't it? Any ways, the Lukolas were a bit high-strung by October 2 when Nicola announced via Instagram that she had been named as part of the Time 100. Luke liked the post – but apparently to the haters on X he didn’t do it motherfucking fast enough. These weird-ass people do actually exist – the ones that genuinely believe Instagram likes (and the speed thereof) equate to true love.

Any ways, Luke apparently decided he was having none of that bullshit and stepped in on October 3 with his Polin-themed “Mean Girls” story. It was a throwback to a conversation he and Nicola had had in, I believe, 2022 on, haha, X.

“On October 3rd, he asked me what day it was.”

“It’s October 3rd.”

Luke captioned the story, “Xx.”

Not only did the fandom rejoice that Luke had returned to post something after nearly a month away, but the post included a throwback to Nicola, and it came on the heels of Halley Brisker’s now legendary “Nicola lately” post. Yeah, the one with Luke in the background (seriously, convince me it was someone else). Luke’s story also seemed to be one hell of a clapback to a rabid pack animal on X who faulted Luke for not leaving a comment on Nicola’s Time 100 post.

“Xx.”

No. 4 – The Littlest Things:

I debated over choosing Luke’s People magazine interview for the fourth moment, but that interview – although it made the fandom incredibly happy – didn’t pull our heads out of our own asses. So, I decided instead to go with the little things Luke has done over the past few months, namely, joining in on the Like Wars but in his own oh, so subtle way.

Let’s start with Antonia’s September 21 post of – honestly, who the hell cares? She posted and we knew Luke’s obligatory like was coming. It just took 10 ½ hours for Luke to get to it and it was only given after Nicola posted to her Instagram stories pictures from a concert she had attended. Was the fandom a bit deflated Luke liked Antonia’s post? Of course! But it was also fun to see the like come hours after Luke had already been online and on the heels of Nicola popping up online.

On October 11, we had a similar event happen. Antonia posted to her grid and Luke seemingly ignored it for roughly five hours. But, while Luke was ignoring her post, Antonia was going hard at it with Instagram stories and TikTok videos (Nicola, for her part, seemed to be playing her own game on social media during this time). Luke finally liked Antonia’s post and Antonia went silent thereafter. Then, on October 12, Luke officially made it back from his October 4 “Brb” moment and posted “Somewhere in Mayfair” to his Instagram stories. Let the fandom rejoice!

But I’m not stopping there. Let’s not forget about Luke and Nicola’s coordinated “Polin” pictures on October 21 or that, while Antonia was “rolling pasta” on November 17, Luke made it a point to go back and like Nicola’s Dr. Who post from November 15. On December 6, when Luke coughed up a like to Antonia’s grid post, he also handed a like out to Nicola at the same time (and a few others). Do you see a pattern starting to form?

Honestly, I believe Luke is owed a standing ovation for the way he has taken control of his own narrative and managed to deflect from the so-called “importance” of these bullshit Instagram likes. Although Nicola has historically attempted to distract the fandom from Antonia, in my opinion, it was always Luke’s responsibility to diminish the importance of Antonia’s role in his story. And, for the past several months, he has been doing just that – in the quietest way possible.

I’ve decided Luke is a bit like a shadow. Inconspicuous – sometimes even completely invisible – but when the light hits just right, it’s impossible to ignore his immense presence.

When Luke posts, or when he coyly plays around with the Instagram likes – even when he likes Nicola’s posts – it somehow resonates differently with the fandom. Nicola could post her year-end stuff and the fandom would be, like, “Oh, that’s cool.” But, when Luke reshares her post to his stories? “Holy fuck, that’s awesome!” It's a "different energy on set." Somewhere in the middle of all the bullshit that goes on within the fandom, Luke found his own truth. The “Bad Guy” who was “on a break” during Hot Boy Summer somehow became our hero; the shadowy figure that pulls us out of the water and sets our heads back on straight. Over and over again. It's been so subtle, we've barely even noticed.

I’m going to end this entry with the Longfellow poem I quoted at the beginning, mainly because I like it, but also because it’s about something that cannot be easily seen once released into the world but, if found, can have an everlasting effect on us.

“I shot an arrow into the air; it fell to earth, I knew not where; for so swiftly it flew, the sight; could not follow it in its flight;

“I breathed a song into the air; it fell to earth, I knew not where; for who has sight so keen and strong; that it can follow the flight of song?

“Long, long afterward, in an oak; I found the arrow, still unbroke; and the song, from beginning to end; I found again in the heart of a friend.”

P.S. In the story, Psyche is rescued by Eros (hurray!) and is made the Goddess of the Soul.

[beneathashadytree]

We need double fish dick sizes /j

And you shall get them nonnie!! I hadn’t thought of them before, but when you sent in this ask I sat down and brainstormed for a hot minute, so here come the headcanons I have about Rafayel’s Lemurian form‼️ NSFW ahead, obviously, monsterfucking tropes (literally nothing is realistic here), and reader is gender-neutral!

To anyone else reading this, my requests are still closed!! These are just my ramblings, or old requests I had🫶🏽

Tip jar!

Masterlist

Now, Rafayel’s Lemurian form has an entirely different lower half, obviously, so it does make sense that finer details of his anatomy change too

I would say that he has two… appendages, not cocks per se, and I’ll explain this in a minute

What does resemble a human cock, is really nothing short of absolutely pleasurably torturous, and would be quite literally physically impossible for a normal human to take

10 inches in length, and that’s just me trying to censor things a little… so yes, no one can take him to the hilt (let’s be —ironically—realistic, people)

Girth is pretty complicated, and here’s why:

He’s got a really wide, flared base, but it’s rather thin there, and then he grows narrow in width until his tip

After the flared base, he’s actually got a rounder circumference, so while the base feels more of a stretch, his actual length is what makes them feel so full once he’s buried inside them

Rafayel’s cock has a delicious upward curve near his tip, and it’s made all the better by the slightly angular curves to the mushroom-head

Bonus points for the thick vein that runs along the underside! It’s almost ridge-like, and pairs perfectly with the slight ridges along the sides

I’m a firm believer in the fact that everything related to Rafayel is insanely pretty, so yes, even his Lemurian cock is bathed in gorgeous shades of deep purple, lavender, and a sweet bubblegum pink that flushes a deeper fuschia when he’s past his breaking point of arousal

Now that we’ve gotten his Lemurian cock out of the way, let’s talk about his second—but no less pleasurable—“member” so to speak

I imagine that he hides both under a well-hidden flap along his tail’s midline, right where his human crotch would be, so once that’s pulled back and his cock coaxed into full hardness, you can find his second tentacle-like cock underneath it

It’s thin, even more so than his human cock, is roughly 12 inches long (not very practical, but nothing about his devastatingly beautiful Lemurian form is) and a lot more flexible than you would think—which is good for its two uses

The first is prepping his beloved to take him, which is definitely no easy feat for anyone

He produces a lot of water-resistant slick there, which can help lubricate them easily in order to make the slide more comfortable for them, but it has the side effect of acting almost as an aphrodisiac, which (if in someone whose body can’t take that) may lead to it being too draining to keep up with him and their combined insanely high libidos at the moment

The second—which ties to the first—is that it makes it easier to curl inside his lover and reach their most pleasurable sweet spot, causing them to naturally gush around him and pull orgasm after orgasm before he could even attempt to slip inside their warmth

Again, Rafayel’s Lemurian form is dictated by his biology more often than not, so it’s no surprise that his cum is thicker (to avoid being washed away) and comes out in copious amounts, all for breeding purposes

The Lemurian race was dying out long before they were threatened by external factors and such, so procreation was a very important part of their mating rituals

You can toss that aside though, because it’s purely biological and will only be determined by whether or not his partner can and/or would want something like that; for Rafayel now it’s simply an instinct to be closer and rut deeper into them, so much so that they can’t tell where he ends and they begin

His cum looks quite pearlescent and actually pretty breathtaking, oddly enough; I truly believe it glimmers a little, especially if you look at it under the moonlight and catch the almost gem-like shimmers in its stickiness

Fair warning, it’s quite salty in terms of taste (though not hazardous in composition; he’s all about safety first you know!) and may be a little too much the first time his lover tries to swallow his release down

But that’s nothing a few kitten licks at his pulsating tip won’t acclimate them to, even if it does earn a strangled, breathy moan from him and him shooting his second load of the night on their tongue 🫶🏽

All in all, having sex or even just foreplay with Rafayel’s Lemurian form is overwhelming in the best ways possible—and definitely not for the faint-hearted!!

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[luvly-writer]

Aretia: The importance of Light and Hope

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

The night was still, the distant sounds of scouts patrolling and dragons breathing in their sleep just barely audible beyond the quiet crackle of the fire. Violet stood beside Brennan in one of the many balconies of Riorson House, her eyes catching on the flicker of movement near one of the stone walls.

Xaden was leaned back against it, dark cloak draped lazily around his shoulders. Y/n stood in front of him, laughing as she tried to fix the twisted braid in her hair, only to have Xaden reach forward and begin undoing and redoing it himself, his brows furrowed in concentration. Every so often, she’d laugh again—light and soft and so devastatingly human—and he’d glance at her like the sound alone could keep him breathing.

“They’re insufferably cute,” Violet muttered, sipping from her cup with a crooked grin.

Brennan smiled faintly beside her, but it was quieter, more thoughtful. “Do you see it?”

Violet looked at him. “See what?”

He nodded subtly toward the pair. “How she’s brought light back into him.” He paused, eyes distant with memory. “There was a time Xaden didn’t laugh. Not really. He did what needed to be done—always calculated, always commanding. And then… Y/n came along. And somehow, despite everything—despite death and war and that infernal weight he always carries—he’s warmer now. Lighter.”

Violet’s gaze softened, her heart pulling just a little.

Brennan glanced at her again. “You don’t realize how much that matters until you see what it does to the people around them. How it gives others permission to feel more than just fear or duty. She’s managed to bring a little light into the heart of all this darkness, Violet. And she did it just by loving him.”

Violet looked back toward them, and this time, she watched differently—saw the way Xaden tucked a strand of hair behind Y/n’s ear with such gentleness, how her smile steadied him like an anchor in a storm.

She nodded slowly. “Yeah… I see it now.”

Later that night – Inside the Riorson Estate, after most have gone to sleep

Y/n had just finished tying her hair up, the Tyrrish silk from earlier now woven gently into the braid that rested over her shoulder. She was curled up in one of the cushioned window alcoves in the war room, a book open on her lap, soft candlelight painting her features in gold.

Violet walked in quietly, a blanket draped around her shoulders, her silver hair slightly tousled from the wind outside.

“You okay?” Y/n asked, offering a small smile as Violet settled across from her.

Violet nodded, then hesitated—eyes flickering over Y/n’s face as if trying to find the right words.

“Brennan said something earlier,” she finally said, voice soft. “About you.”

Y/n raised a brow, closing the book but keeping a finger between the pages. “Should I be worried?”

Violet laughed, shaking her head. “No. Quite the opposite, actually.” She paused again. “He said you’ve brought light into all this. Into Xaden. And… I think he’s right.”

Y/n blinked, surprise flickering across her features. “I—” she faltered, because that wasn’t something she’d ever aimed to do, not intentionally at least. “I just… love him.”

“I know,” Violet said. “And that’s the thing. You never made it about proving anything. You didn’t try to change him or fix him. You just… stood beside him. Kept showing up. Kept being you.” She gave a breath of a laugh. “And somehow, without trying, you’ve given him back pieces of himself he thought he’d buried.”

Y/n was quiet for a moment, heart tight in her chest. “He’s done the same for me,” she whispered.

“I believe that,” Violet said, smiling. “But I just wanted you to know—I admire you, Y/n. Truly. For your strength, your heart, the way you lead without even realizing it. You’ve become part of this rebellion in more ways than one.”

Y/n swallowed hard, the emotion hitting deeper than expected. “That means more than I can say.”

Violet reached forward and gently squeezed her hand. “You’re not just the girl who loves the brooding heir anymore. You’re the one the rest of us look to now, too.”

That night – Their shared room in Riorson Estate

The fire had died down to a soft glow. Xaden was already in bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on Y/n’s hip as she curled into his side. Her fingers traced lazy patterns along the scar on his chest, the silence between them warm and comfortable.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, voice low, barely breaking the stillness.

Y/n hummed, then tilted her head slightly so she could look up at him. “Violet said something earlier.”

“Should I be concerned?” he teased, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“No,” she said, smiling softly. “She told me Brennan said I bring light into all of this. That… I bring light into you.”

Xaden’s hand paused on her back, fingers flexing slightly before he exhaled through his nose, quiet. “Sounds like her brother’s been paying too much attention.”

She laughed softly and nudged his ribs with her elbow. “I’m serious. Violet said… she admires me. That I never tried to fix you, just stood beside you. And that without realizing it, I’ve helped give you back pieces of yourself.”

His throat worked as he turned toward her fully, brushing her curls back from her face. “That’s because you have,” he said quietly, almost reverent. “You didn’t just stand beside me, Y/n. You walked straight into my chaos and didn’t flinch. You’ve seen every dark, broken piece and loved me anyway.”

Her breath caught, and she pressed a hand to his cheek, thumb stroking the sharp line of his jaw.

“I never thought I had to fix you,” she whispered. “You were never broken to me.”

Xaden leaned down, kissed her forehead, then her temple, then the edge of her mouth like he was memorizing her all over again.

“You are light, Y/n. And I’d be lost without it.”

She curled tighter into his chest, burying her face there as his arms wrapped securely around her. “You’d find your way back to it,” she murmured.

“Not if it’s you I’m trying to find,” he said against her hair. “Because then I’d never stop searching.”

She didn’t say anything else, just pressed a kiss to his skin, heartbeat steady against his, and slowly, slowly, they drifted off to sleep—safe, wrapped in each other, and seen.

A few days later...

Riorson Estate – Council meeting hall

The heavy doors creaked as they shut behind the king’s envoy, the last of the formalities sealed with the gilded stamp on parchment.

“By decree of the crown,” the envoy had said, “Xaden Riorson is to have his rightful title restored. Duke of Tyrrendor.”

There had been no celebration yet—just the weight of history settling on his shoulders. Centuries of Tyrrish pride, the ongoing rebellion, and ruin etched into the stone of the estate that now belonged, once again, to the rightful heir. He stood in silence, gaze flicking toward the tall windows overlooking the path into the village, already longing for the only thing that would make this moment mean something.

As if summoned by the ache in his chest—she appeared.

Y/n.

Walking through the open gates with the afternoon sun wrapped around her like a blessing. Her hair was braided in intricate Tyrrish knots, woven with threads of red and gold. Flowing crimson silk swept behind her, a traditional Tyrrish dress billowing gently in the breeze. Gold jewelry kissed her neck and wrists, and the sigils embroidered into her robes shimmered like runes of ancient power.

Xaden didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

Ridoc let out a low whistle. Bodhi actually clutched his chest. Garrick muttered a stunned, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The women of the squad just giggled, some whispering about how unfair it was for two people that attractive to exist in the same timeline.

And Xaden?

He just stared, absolutely ruined.

As she approached the steps, she looked up and spotted him—her expression softening with a smile that shattered him.

“You—” His voice caught, rough and reverent. “Gods, Y/n…”

She blinked, surprised. “What? Is everything alright?”

“You’re…” He stepped down the stairs toward her like a man in a trance. “You’re dressed like Tyrrish royalty.”

“I wasn’t going to wear it,” she murmured, tugging at the sleeves. “But the ladies insisted. Said I looked like a duchess and—”

He didn’t let her finish. He cupped her face gently and kissed her—deep and slow—like she was air in a room he hadn’t realized he’d been suffocating in.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.

“They were right,” he whispered. “You look like my duchess.”

Y/n’s eyes widened, and she looked around. “Wait—did they…?”

Xaden nodded. “The king returned the title.” His hands slid down to her waist, pulling her closer. “But I don’t care about any of that unless you’re beside me when I carry it.”

Her smile was slow and glowing. “You’re stuck with me, Duke Riorson.”

From behind them, the squad groaned in unison.

“Too much,” Ridoc said, fake gagging.

Y/n just laughed and kissed Xaden’s cheek. “Let them suffer.”

Later that evening...

Riorson Estate – Xaden’s Chambers

The golden light of late afternoon filtered in through the tall windows, casting warm glows over the stone walls and catching in the red and gold threads of the robes she wore. Y/n stood in front of the mirror, fingers gently undoing the ornate pins in her hair, her expression unreadable—too quiet.

Xaden leaned in the doorway, watching her with that familiar, unshakable reverence. But as the last silk wrap slid from her shoulders and she stood there in the simple black undershift, he noticed it.

The tension in her shoulders. The way her jaw clenched, her brows furrowed. Something inside her was unravelling far faster than the gold silk on the floor.

She turned toward him slowly, arms folding across herself—not to tease, but to shield. Her voice was quiet. “I shouldn’t have worn any of that.”

Xaden’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

She let out a small, humorless laugh. “Because I’m not a duchess. I’m not royalty. I’m a second-year cadet from a coastal village in Navarre. A fighter. I’m supposed to be on the sparring mats, not letting old ladies braid my hair in silks while the world is burning.”

She looked away, eyes glassy with guilt she hadn’t voiced before. “And I know I haven’t missed a class or a session. Not one. But still—I feel like I shouldn’t enjoy this. Like I'm betraying the war by… breathing in moments like this.”

Xaden was in front of her before she could finish that thought.

His hands came to her face, gentle but firm, tilting her chin up until their eyes met. His voice was soft, but steady. “Y/n. You are allowed to hold joy and responsibility at the same time. You’re allowed to fight like hell and still let yourself live.”

She blinked rapidly, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“You wearing this doesn’t make you any less of a warrior. Doesn’t make you any less the woman who’s bled and sweat beside me in every battle and training yard.” His thumb traced her cheek. “You are both, love. A girl from the coast who clawed her way here with steel, silk, and stubbornness. And the woman who’s won over every room she walks into, including this entire gods-damned providence.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he kissed her softly—slow, grounding.

“You didn’t choose this life for comfort. But you do deserve the moments that remind you what you're fighting for.”

Y/n let out a shaky breath, pressing her forehead against his chest as his arms wrapped around her, anchoring her.

“Then don’t let me forget,” she whispered.

“Never,” he murmured into her hair. “You are the fiercest woman I’ve ever known, and that’s with the silk.”

The next day...

Riorson Estate – Inner Courtyard

The midday sun filtered gently over the estate’s gardens, where Y/n was seated on a stone bench, her hair half-done and her laugh soft as one of the older maids fussed over the silk ribbons she was weaving into it.

Around them, the gentle buzz of daily estate life carried on—guards training in the distance, dragons flying,cadets training, and the muffled clatter of a pot being stirred in the kitchen wing. But here, under the shade of climbing jasmine, it was peaceful.

“She’s nearly finished,” said Kaia, one of the estate’s longest-serving maids, eyes twinkling as she gently tied off the braid with a twist of vibrant gold and scarlet silk.

Y/n smiled at her in the mirror of the hand-polished silver plate on the bench beside them. “You’re spoiling me again.”

“Oh, darling,” Kaia said, voice warm and just a little teary as she adjusted the silk with the care of someone handling precious memories. “We should’ve spoiled you more. You come in here all sharp edges and fight-hardened eyes, and yet—yet you still smile at us like we matter. You say please and thank you. You smell like fruit and sunshine even when you’ve been training all morning. Your perfume? Like the summer harvest—pineapples and bananas and the sweet tang of island fruit. It follows you like your shadow, and even that’s become a comfort around here.”

Y/n’s cheeks warmed bashfully, but Kaia pressed on.

“You are everything a Rider must be—fierce, quick, clever with your blade. But you are also everything a girl is allowed to be. Your bows and ribbons. Your perfume. The way you paint your nails even if they sometimes chip after a sparring session. And now, you’ve let us tie Tyrrish silk into your hair and wear the old braids of our mothers without blinking, like you were born to carry them.”

She paused, her fingers grazing the final silk loop gently, reverently.

“I used to worry this house would never feel like home again—not after the apostasy. But then you came in, and suddenly there’s color in the hallways again. Laughter in the kitchens. And now—” Her voice cracked just a little. “Now I see the woman who will one day walk these halls as our duchess, and it makes me believe that maybe, maybe, we will survive this war. Because how can darkness win when someone like you stands against it?”

Y/n, who had remained quiet the whole time, reached out and squeezed Kaia’s hand.

“You’ve given me a home I never thought I’d have,” she said softly. “And I swear, I’ll protect it. All of you.”

Kaia just beamed, brushing a tear from her cheek before gently nudging her to stand. “Now go show that brooding man of yours how lucky he is.”

Y/n stood, braid trailing down her back like a banner of fire and silk, and laughed. “He already knows.”

Later that night... – Private Balcony off the War Room

Xaden stood with his hands braced on the balcony railing, eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the Tyrrish cliffs, wind pulling through his hair. The weight of the rebellion’s planning still lingered in his tense shoulders, the recent meeting with Brennan filled with supply chain concerns, new strategy routes, and looming Venin movements.

But then he heard the softest of footsteps behind him—and the shift in the air that only she ever brought.

He turned.

Y/n stepped out, the braid trailing down her back wrapped in red and gold silks, lips painted with the faintest hue of red, and the wind catching the flow of her sleeves like something out of a myth. She looked radiant—his radiant light—and something in his chest loosened just at the sight of her.

“Gods,” he breathed, taking a slow step forward. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not yet.”

He reached for her waist and pulled her flush against him, his hand curling possessively over the silk at her hip. “What’s the occasion?”

She hesitated for just a beat. “The maids braided my hair and started talking. Said they love that I’m… that I’m both a fighter and feminine. That I smell like fruit and sunshine, that I smile even when the war feels heavy. One of them said that seeing me—like this—makes them believe they’ll survive this.”

Xaden stilled, hand tightening slightly.

“That’s what pretty much everyone see in you,” he murmured. “Your light. That hope.”

“I didn’t know how much I needed to hear it,” she said quietly, looking up at him, “until they said it.”

His thumb gently stroked her waist. “They’re right, you know. You’ve changed this place. You’ve changed me.”

Y/n leaned into him, letting her forehead rest against his chest. “I’m just me.”

He wrapped his arms fully around her and kissed the crown of her head. “Exactly. You. The girl who fights like a storm and still wears bows in her hair. Who smells like fruits and bleeds in war. You’re everything I never thought I’d be allowed to have, allowed myself to wish. Everything I didn’t realize I needed.”

She looked up at him, teasing now. “So you like the perfume?”

He smirked. “I’d bottle it and wear it as armor if I could.”

She laughed and kissed him softly, and Xaden melted into her like he always did—utterly, entirely.

And down in the courtyard, one of the maids peeking up through a window grinned and whispered, “Told you. Already the duchess of Tyrrendor.”

Author's note: Ugh! I adore these chapters so painfully. When writing this, I had the idea of making her his balance (light/shadow; sunshine/grumpy; soft/harsh), which inevitably progressed into making her the other half of leadership. Xaden is the protector, lieutenant, war minded, strategist, and prepared to fight constantly. Even if Y/n has that too, I wanted her to differentiate from Violet by making her walk amonst people. In the word's of President Snow, "Fear does not work as long as they have hope" and that is Y/n. A ruler who give hope, while her counterpart gives safety. She is still a fighter by all means, but she is sweet and light by nature. I don't know how many people will catch/ read this, but if you do, highly appreciated. They are literally yin and yang.

Taglist: @eepyfaerie @dreamdragonkadia @hiraethjules @nikfigueiredo @galaxystern08 @taleiaargenis @minidemont @poeticbookwormcat @eternallyrosyfire @shadowhuntyi @bubble300 @messageforthesmallestman @iheartshopping @lagrandeourse @readinf @barbreadsbooks @optimisticsoulstarfish @locatinginspo @lxnvmvrzx @im-a-weirdo-for-life

If you want to be added to the taglist, leave a comment. <3

[manic-sapphic]

Failsafe puts on stilettos and does a tap dance on my heart for a lotta reasons, but these are the ones i feel like ranting on today~

i can’t get enough of this moment. when adora finally sees it and takes the first opportunity she gets to say it right to this bitch’s face--

it seems like the whole episode are these shared, full-realizations of the other’s trauma and that, while their experience of it differs and so it produced distinct effects for each of them, it’s still very real and has taken its toll on them both--

and is still taking its toll.

and it’s a savage slaughter on my emotions when catra calls out sw ^^ for her typical tricky bull shit and she audibly says “why are you surprised by this?!” & immediately her voice gets lost in the others' and their indignant words in defense of adora, but catra goes on to say something like:

“she doesn’t care about adora! adora can’t even care about herself!”

and that’s it. the moment you know: catra’s gotten to the bottom of it. she’s figured it out and she's prob so angry at herself for (due in part to her own trauma tho) not seeing it sooner.

all those times she said adora just needed to be the hero, it was quite literal in a way far more unhealthy than catra had ever realized. any problem that arose; if there were lives on the line; adora needed to fix it, no matter the cost. if it had to be someone, it needed to be her. a necessity of which praise was a small perk but for which glory was never the goal. on the contrary, it was even more devastatingly toxic for adora than that.

want is not a sin. there are many clarifications i could make to that, but if you're a decent human being, i shouldn't need to.

and yeah, they both fall prey to the trauma of their careful grooming one more time.

but ultimately, they both embrace love in order to overcome it.

catra decides that if adora can’t let up and simply has to do this, she’s going to do it with her. disregarding the insecurity that adora doesn’t need her, so she’s just following her around; instead, catra stands beside adora with the conviction that she’s there because that’s where she wants to be.

and adora finally allows herself to want love. as adora. just adora.

not only acknowledging that she deserves it,

but even letting herself accept it.

<3

[tofics]

TOFICS FAVORITES

Below I have listed a collection of my favorite works of fanfiction that I have read in the past year. All of the creators on this list are absolutely incredible and a gift to the writing community. Thank you for doing all that you do and sharing the results with us. 💓

All stories are listed in alphabetical order. Please heed the warnings on the respective posts. 💘 - a special favorite 💭 - extra thoughts

Dean Winchester

How Dean, Beau and Soldier Boy would act while you're in labor by @zepskies Summary: How different Jensen characters would react to you being in labor.

If You Want It To Be by @zepskies Summary: When your car breaks down after a hunt, Sam and Dean tow you back to the bunker for Christmas. This time of year gives you and Dean a little courage to be honest about what you both want. And what you want, is for him to see you.

Imagine: Dean gives you an impossible choice by @zepskies Summary: Even though you're Sam's girlfriend, Dean is in love with you.

Ladies With Experience by @hintsofhoney 💘 Summary: When Dean makes an off-handed comment about "preferring ladies with experience", you try (and fail) to not let it get under your skin. You're a virgin, but you've done just about everything else, and when you talk to Dean about it, he offers to be your first. He's your best friend, and you've been in love with him forever... who are you to deny him?

Maine Coon by @artyandink 💘 Summary: Dean initially hated your small touches. He used to feel weird with them on his skin. But now he craves them. He craves the high of feeling like a human, and you’re the best hit he’s ever had.

Smoke Eater by @zepskies 💘💘 Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he's also known to break a few hearts. He's starting to crave something he's never had, though. Something stable. Something real. That's when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.

Stitches by @dewwinchester Summary: Dean texts you for help, and you drop everything for him.

Too Many Beds by @mind-empty-just-fictional-people 💘 Summary: You want nothing more than an excuse to sleep next to Dean again.

Joel Miller

A Deeper Purpose by @punkshort Summary: Living in Jackson during the apocalypse doesn't do anything to curb your desire to have a child. The problem is, most of the men in town are unavailable... except one.

Bedridden by @strang3lov3 💘 Summary: Joel is sick and refuses to rest, so you knock him out the best way you know how.

Christmas After All by @mrsmando Summary: The holiday spirit has evaded you since the world ended. Now, you have a chance to enjoy it again - in Jackson - with Joel by your side.

Crave by @razrbladekiss Summary: There's only one thing that Joel craves, and it isn't the mental fucking torture of an overly stubborn twenty-something teasing him 'til he's blue in the face. And balls.

Dark Daddy!Joel by @strang3lov3 Summary: A dark and twisted version of Joel. 💭(My personal toxic guilty pleasure.)💭

Enough by @criticallyacclaimedstranger Summary: You daydream about what your relationship with Joel could be like. 💭(This is the fic that inspired Broken!)💭

Gimme What I Want: A Fic in Texts by @atticrissfinch ⁉️ Summary: The wrong number that texts you ends up being a man much hotter than you'd ever expect... 💭(I know the author changed blogs, but I can't find them anymore. If anyone knows their current @, please let me know so I can link the story accordingly!)💭

Have A Good Night by @punkshort 💘 Summary: Every week like clockwork, the same devastatingly handsome man comes into the grocery store where you work to buy flowers. It's not until he asks you out when you realize the flowers aren't for his wife or girlfriend.

Heavenly Bound by @ozarkthedog 💘💘 Summary: The world crumbled before you could experience the touch of another. Joel does his best to keep you innocent for as long as he can. 💭(I seriously think about this fic like at least once a week.)💭

Me On You by @luxurychristmaspudding 💘💘💘 Summary: After a night out dancing and a lift home turns into something more, you learn something about your dad's buddy. Joel Miller fucks. 💭(Quite literally one of the best literary pieces of fanfiction I have ever read in my entire life.)💭

older!boyfriend Joel Miller by @cavillscurls Summary: A collection of stories/imagines about older!boyfriendJoel & younger!girlfriend reader.

Phonophilia by @ozarkthedog Summary: Joel Miller loves how responsive you are.

Seeing Red by @strang3lov3 Summary: Joel's sorry that your period sucks, but he's reached the end of his rope with your attitude.

Sensational by @sinsofsummers 💘 Summary: You've tasked Joel with teaching you about all of the things you missed.

Stay Awhile by @mrsmando 💘 Summary: You & Joel are travelling to Jackson, and make the most of a well-needed rest stop along the way.

Roommates by @punkshort 💘 Summary: Your roomate, Maria, introduces you to her boyfriend's brother. You hit it off immediately, but when you find out the true nature of his profession, you both decide to remain just friends. But once the four of you eventually move in together, things get... complicated. 💭(Favorite AU!Joel!)💭

Texas Heat by @skbeaumont Summary: You've just finished a Masters back home in England, and, with little idea of what you want to do next, decide to spend the summer in Texas, staying with your mum's cousins, the Adlers. What you didn't bank on was living next door to Joel. The two of you strike up a friendship, and then something more, as the Texan summer heats up.

Weaved Around Your Finger Like Yarn by @moonlight-prose 💘💘 Summary: He never made space in his life for love in the aftermath of destruction. The after of his life he once thought would extend past decades of gray hair, smile lines carved in around his mouth now set in frowns and sneers. But snowfall and alcohol blur the lines for both of you when winter comes to Jackson.

Bucky Barnes

All the Apple Cider and No More Haunted Houses by @witchywithwhiskey Summary: You and Bucky Barnes have a love-hate relationship - you love him and you believe he hates you - but when your friends insist on going to the scariest haunted house attraction in the area, the experience ends up forcing your real feelings for each other out into light.

Only For Him by @witchywithwhiskey 💘 Summary: When you crash your brother and his friends' beach vacation, things get a little messy, but your brother's best friend Bucky Barnes is determined to take—and keep—what's his.

Wedded Bliss by @gutsby Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

[ironcade]

Blood Upon the Snow

Chapter Two

poly!141 x fae!reader [previous] [ao3] [next]

summary: People often hide things between the lines of what is spoken and what is not. You know this all too well. So does Kyle Garrick. It becomes a dance between you two as your try to decipher what lies beneath the surface. Thus begins the hunt for intentions, threats, and possible deceptions. Trust does not come easily in foreign lands.

It was always a habit, a second nature really, to dissect a person upon first meeting them. Your eyes were attentive, observant in the way they deconstruct the very details that make each person individual. In a way, you studied them, memorizing the traits of every human around you. Eventually, you might need to steal away with that mask. 

“Please let me know if you need to take a rest, your Grace,” the accented and gentle voice of the man you’d been introduced to as Kyle stated, drawing your eyes away from the portrait of your betrothed.

Kyle Garrick was a beautiful man. His complexion was dark and rich, with hardly a blemish to it. A bit of facial hair decorated his lower face, all of it kept neat. When you met his eyes, you noted them as a deep brown color that you could get lost in. His features were soft, rounded, and overall, you couldn’t help but describe this man as devastatingly attractive. The energy he carried was… almost like a river. It was steady, strong even, but the undercurrent was intense. If he wanted to, he could easily wash you away without an issue. It both resonated with you and concerned you in equal parts.

You two were slowly moving through the halls of the castle, arms loosely looped together. After greeting the King and obtaining a few introductions, you had been carted off by Kyle to take a short tour of your new home. The King had insisted he had things to do and Kyle seemed keen on performing a threat assessment of you, if only politely. Although, the end goal was to take you to your room so that you might ‘rest’ after such an arduous journey. 

There was going to be no complaints from you. Roach had vanished with the other servants to get your things removed from the wagons and to get acquainted with his new residence. Köing, your ever present shadow, trailed behind you and Kyle, accompanied by Orbonne guards. A respectful distance was kept, you noted, giving you some relative space with the General. 

“Your kindness is appreciated, Sir Garrick,” you replied with a slight bow of your head.

The man in question chuckled slightly. “Please, I prefer Kyle with you, your Grace,” he told you, a smile lighting up his features. It wasn’t entirely forced, you decided. However, it was definitely meant to disarm you. 

Trust was a rare commodity it seemed, leaving both of you on edge despite the friendly words and tones used between the two.

This fear was new. Most of your life, you had been protected and adored as you were. Your parents, the human ones at least, always saw you as their child. In a way, you truly were. They had taken you in, embraced you as a gift of the fae. While you were not their blood, you were still the part of their child that remained. It was their skin that you wore, their hair and eyes and smile. It was their sickness you feigned. 

However, no longer were you hidden within the walls of the duchy Lorraine. You had traded a safe, known gilded bird cage for a shadowy land known only as the enemy. In some ways, you might have been happy. You had grown up with the expectations that you’d remain forever hidden, never able to truly seek a life outside the identity of the sickly second born. There was the fear that you’d be discovered for what you were and something would happen to the Duke and Duchess. Sure, life might have been full of luxury and wealth but… Could you never truly be yourself?

Now, though, things have changed. Not only were you no longer to be hidden away, but you were now about to be thrust into a limelight you never truly wanted. 

All you wanted was a life, a chance to figure out who you were. Something you would never get. 

“Kyle it is, then,” you stated, deciding if the man wanted to forgo proper decorum you didn’t particularly feel the need to argue at this moment.

Kyle gave a grateful smile before continuing to escort you down the halls. A careful eye was kept as you, as if he was attempting to look within you. He had hoped to learn something from the way you held yourself. Weakness perhaps. 

“I hope your journey fared well,” he spoke again, prodding subtly. 

You nodded your head. “It was entirely uneventful by most standards, I believe,” you replied simply. 

This had Kyle raising an eyebrow as you. “By most standards?” He echoed in question, indicating he wanted more from that statement. 

“Well, given my poor health, I have rarely found myself beyond my home. This means that everything has been a new experience,” you told him, offering him the perfect image of a naive noble, living life for the first time. “The people, the places, even the food. Have you ever had venison before? I hadn’t! I quite liked it,” you continued, a small semblance of energy finding itself in you.

Kyle chuckled slightly, softening just barely as you spoke. He listened intently, his eyes watching you with an interest that was now more amused than cautious. “Is that so? I shall pass that on to the cooks,” he hummed. “Any other requests I can tack on?”

You brought your free hand up to tap your lip, thinking on his question for a long moment. “One of the knights mentioned that there is a dessert called Cranachan? It sounded quite nice,” you explained, looking up at Kyle. "The fruits they described were rare so I would love a chance to taste it."

He snorted in response but nodded. “I’ll be sure that you get a taste of it. Soap’ll get a kick out of that,” he muttered that last bit to himself. 

“Soap?” You questioned, not quite sure who or what that was a reference too. 

“Ah, yeah. Soap. You know, the one with the awful haircut? Introduced himself as Johnny?” Kyle explained. “We call ‘em Soap. Name we gave him as a joke. Sort of stuck.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, thinking back to your introduction to the core court. Running through the faces, you finally landed on the one. Brunette man with a hairstyle you’d never seen before. Long hair down the middle of his head, but shaved extremely short on the sides. Some braids were tangled in the mess. His eyes were a bright blue, beaming with so much life. He had the strangest accent of all the men you’d met.

“Oh, I remember. Is he a foreigner like me?” You asked. Kyle shook his head in response. 

“No. He is from a territory to the north. Was absorbed a few generations back, but they have always had their own sort of dialect and culture,” he explained. “It’s where Cranachan is from.” 

Understanding tugged at your features, lightening your expression. “I see. I suppose I have a lot to learn about my new home then,” you mumbled. Your gaze shifted away from Kyle and towards the walls of the corridor you two treaded down. 

Dread settled into your flesh once more. A twisting desire to run, to escape was reignited anew. You had been reminded of your circumstances. The unknown stretching before you. It created a sense of discomfort that reflected in the tension now coiling in your muscles. 

Kyle adjusted his arm in yours, attempting to garner your attention. “There is time for that, your Grace. You only just arrived. Do not fret,” he told you gently.

Your eyes settled on him for a moment before giving him a weak smile. “You are too kind,” you told him softly. 

This earned you a squeeze on your arm.

Silence followed the two of you all the way to your room.

–

“So? What is your take on my… spouse to be?” 

Sat at the giant oak desk, John was leaning back in his chair. His eyes were settled upon Kyle, watching him with an intensity that indicated how severe the conversation was. Scattered across the desk were reports of various sorts, but on top were the reports he had attempted to gain on his Drelzhan engagement. They held very little information. 

Kyle inhaled before crossing his arms over his chest. “Naive is the most notable thing,” he explained. “Anxious too. They clearly are underprepared for this arrangement,” he continued. 

This earned a huff of indignation from John. He glanced towards Johnny, who was sitting up against the desk, oddly silent. Simon was nowhere to be seen, having been given the orders to inspect everything brought with the delegation. He then sighed and brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“I am not the least bit surprised this is the route Kalista went,” he grumbled, clearly irritated.

Johnny snorted. “Cunt knew what she was doing, trappin’ you into this,” he growled, his words jumbled together in his incredibly thick accent. “Told ya not to go through with it,” he added, earning a soft glare from the older man. 

“Don’t start this again,” John snapped. “I wasn’t about to get dragged into another bloody war. Besides, it’s not like we’re losing out here,” he grumbled. “We basically get free access to the ports with this agreement. If they are as sickly as rumors claim, then I doubt they’ll get in the way.”

This earned a loud sigh from Johnny. “If ya say so Cap,” he stated. He then stood up and stretched out. “Gonna go make sure Simon hasn’t made any of the new help piss themselves yet.” 

The man moved around the desk, approaching John. He then leaned down and gave the King a soft kiss. Standing up, John gave Johnny a look before musing, “Not a Captain anymore.”

“You always will be to me,” Johnny teased. He made a quick exit after that, shooting Kyle a flirtatious wink on the way out. “See you later, Gaz,” he called on his way out. 

After the door shut, John shook his head and slowly stood up from his chair. He began to approach a nearby window, peering out. Kyle, in turn, moved to take up a place beside him. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, not really studying anything specifically as they admired the world beyond the castle walls.

“I think you’ll like ‘em, John,” Kyle eventually spoke. 

This earned a side eyed glance. “Oh? What makes you think so?”

Kyle continued to stare at the world beyond. “You tend to collect broken things.”

[strawberriesandhotmen]

Ruin Me: Part 1

a/n: Wrote this to answer a request from my lovely @ur-candy-gurl. Shane is actually a baddie so I really enjoyed writing this. I hope y'all enjoy, I'd love to hear your thoughts 😘.

pairing: Shane Walsh x fem!reader

CW +18: swearing, HEAVY angst and enemies to lovers, they’re both delusional, lowk rushed this but I was on a deadline, next part WILL be spicy can confirm

word count: 2.1k

The notion of a constant was foreign to you, as it was to most people. Having something always around was not a common occurrence, and for those who were fortunate enough to have something like that, they were left without anyone to relate to. Even less people possessed a constant since the outbreak, such things being ripped from them devastatingly, destructively.

But the outbreak had, rather uncharacteristically, granted you that which it typically took away.

A constant.

And that is what Shane was for you.

This unchanging, invariable absolute that refused to leave you to yourself, refused to even vacate the very recesses of your thoughts. It was a sick joke the universe was playing on you, you would think to yourself, to have found yourself in a group of survivors with such an unbearable human being.

But unbearable didn’t even begin to describe him, no, because there were so many factors to the ways in which Shane unwittingly, and at times, purposefully, tortured you day in and day out. It was as if he lived and breathed to see your ire, witness your irascibility.

What scum, you thought. Pompous, self-righteous scum.

It didn’t help the dynamic a single bit that Shane was older than you, and by a decade at that. It only heightened his feelings of superiority, you were sure, and made you feel small whenever you were in his presence.

Never mind his broad shoulders or annoyingly perfect hair. Forget those puppy dog eyes and perfectly ridged nose.

Never mind him. Forget him.

He wasn’t for you.

And Shane? He had even less positive feelings towards you, the infuriatingly beloved young woman of the group, always traipsing around in your little tank top and jean shorts like you owned the place. It was ridiculous, he thought, that you had arrived after him and already had the entire camp wrapped around your pretty little finger.

Not him, though. No, Shane wouldn’t be caught dead giving into one of your presumptive demands or, God forbid, allowing his gaze to linger too long on those plush thighs of yours. He was only a man, after all. At least, that’s what he’d tell himself when you caught him staring for too long and he poorly disguised his intrigue with a scowl. A scowl you deciphered all too well.

You didn’t let him get in your head, though, as you were sure he was trying to. You went on about your business each day, trying and failing to avoid him.

Shane Walsh.

The absolute bane of your existence.

“You mind hoppin’ off that pampered little ass of yours and helpin’ us pile these Walkers, princess?” You grimaced as Shane’s grating voice made its way to your ear, already commanding you to jump knee deep into cadavers at the ass-crack of  dawn. That was not what you had planned for this particular morning, and you weren’t one for spontaneity.

“I do mind, thank you for being considerate enough to ask.” You sent him the most condescending smile you could muster, kicking back on a tattered lawn chair and crossing your legs in punctuation. While you caught the predictable roll of his eyes, you missed the way he started towards you, blissfully unaware of his impending proximity until he hoisted you to your feet with a grip on your wrist.

Dick.

“You’re an asshole, Walsh.” You spat childishly, trudging over to the pile yourself after yanking your wrist from his hold. If he was going to force you into manual labor, you would at least walk on your own.

“You flatter me.” He deadpans, huffing as he pushes past you to hurl another body onto the burn-pile.

You’re glowering, stewing in your own dissatisfaction as sweat beads on your forehead, trailing down your chest in the most uncomfortable fashion possible. Damn Shane for disrupting your well-planned daily routine. It wasn’t that you were entirely averse to hard work; hardly, in fact, but you valued predictability in such chaotic times. And, as usual, he had soiled that.

“Careful with pullin’ your face around like that, princess. Wouldn’t wanna wrinkle too early now, would ya’?” You rolled your eyes, tossing him a scowl before shooting back,

“Yeah, you’d know a thing or two about wrinkles, wouldn’t you, old man?” The words came out less scathing than you had intended, holding more of a teasing air to them. No matter, though; Shane could catch offense from an inopportune gust of wind if it caught him at the wrong time.

“Hey, watch it. Didn’t your mama teach you to respect your elders?” He snapped, pointer finger aimed at your panting form. You merely smirked, chuckling to yourself before responding.

“Only when they act their age.” You punctuated your words by tossing another carcass onto the pile, wiping your bloodstained hands on the grass.

“Smartass.” He grumbled, muttering to himself as the work continued. The two of you completed the pile in silence, and by the time it got down to the last one, you were beat.

“Last one’s yours, Shane.” You delegated, gesturing to the broken body before you. He scoffed, shaking his head and returning the gesture.

“Not a chance, sweetheart. He’s all yours.” With an eye roll, you decided against arguing for the twentieth time, bending down to grab an arm and a leg. Just before you were able to grab hold-

“FUCK!” You shouted as the monster shot up, peeling hands curling into your hair as it fought to drag you down. You flailed violently in a futile attempt to escape, screaming at the top of your lungs. It wasn’t the best approach, considering it would likely just end up attracting more Walkers, but you were focused on the one you were currently entangled with. 

“Dammit, woman!” Shane practically teleports over to you, ripping the Walker away from you before decapitating it with a nearby axe.

Your hero.

You scrambled backward until you collided with Dale’s dilapidated RV, clutching your dirt-stained knees to your chest and trembling violently. That was close. Too close. 

Much too close.

“Shit, princess, you okay?” In your traumatized state, you didn’t catch that the nickname was now said with more sincerity than before, void of its previous mocking. He knelt in front of you, a calloused hand smoothing hair away from your face much more tenderly than you would have expected from him. When you looked up through glossy eyes, you noticed his brows pulled tightly together, and he seemed almost…distraught?

This wasn’t right. He wasn’t right. This entire new dynamic was making you extremely uncomfortable, and you just couldn’t take it anymore.

You had to get away from him.

───── ⟡ 𖥸𖥸𖥸 ⟡ ─────

You had successfully, by some miracle, avoided Shane for the past three days. Perhaps it was because he was avoiding you too, or, more likely, just letting you have your space. He assumed, rather mannishly, that you were simply shaken up by the attack and it had nothing to do with him whatsoever.

If he was even a little more perceptive, he would have noticed you were entirely normal around every other person, except for him.

Stupid, stupid man.

This particular day, you had been more grumpy than usual, stomping around the camp in a cloud of your own frustrations. Not entirely immature, but that was the last thing you cared about at the moment.

“Shit, princess, watch where you’re going!” Shane’s words felt like a gunshot - dramatic, yet descriptive - snapping you out of your internal wallowing. You stumbled over your own feet, sending him a venomous glare.

“Fuck off, Walsh.” You snapped, trudging forward until his hand wrapping around your wrist stopped you in your tracks. You whirled around, fully prepared to give him a mouth full, but he stopped you.

“What the fuck is your problem, woman? I save you from almost getting your fuckin’ head chomped off, and now your head’s so far up your ass I’m worried you’ll get stuck there.” You stood dumbfounded at his typical Southern hyperbole for a second or two before shaking your head.

“I don’t have to explain shit to you. Now let me g-”

“Bullshit.” He cut you off, only tightening his grip further. That pissed you off good. “You owe me one anyway, so let this be it.” As much as you wanted to scream in his face how you didn’t owe him anything, he was right. He had saved your life. So the least he deserved, you supposed, was an explanation for your behavior (even if it was his fault).

“You just…you’re…you got too close, okay?” You finally spit it out after making a proper fool of yourself with that stuttering, yanking your wrist away and crossing your arms. He blinked, clearly extremely confused before crossing his own arms. “I got too close when I was forced to pull you away from a Walker that was about to bite your head off? Literally?” You rolled your eyes at his understandable misinterpretation, huffing before explaining yourself.

“I mean after that, dipwad.” He sent you a childish look at the insult before schooling his expression. Gathering that he still wasn’t entirely clear on your meaning, you decided to explain further. “When you…when you touched my face and stuff and…like the kneeling and…I don’t know.” His eyebrows dropped when he picked up on your point, his arms falling to his sides.

“Oh.” Well, you didn’t like that tone at all. Not one bit.

“What do you mean ‘oh?’” You questioned, definitely too harshly for the crestfallen look on his face. Was he…embarrassed? Disappointed? You couldn’t tell, and it was killing you. His eyes darted around in the silence, and he shifted his weight back and forth.

Typical.

“Didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” Where the hell was this coming from? Shane Walsh, the man who lived for your discomfort, was now guilty for having made you feel such a way?

This apocalyptic world was seriously fucked.

“Shane, what is the deal? Why are you all…nice all of a sudden?” He formed his lips into a thin line, finally sparing you a glance. He seemed to bite his tongue at your subtle jab, deciding that was a conversation for another time.

“You really don’t get it, do you? I didn’t think you were that dense.” Your eyebrows shot up at his accusation. “Dense?” You echoed harshly, taking a step toward him. “What the f-” 

You never got to finish that sentence. You never got to ream him for getting you all flustered, fucking up your mind to the point of no return. He hadn’t left your thoughts for weeks, and now he surely never would.

Because before you could get one more word out, his lips were on yours. Hot, heavy, heated. It was all a clash of teeth and tongue, his hands in your hair, your bodies pressed together until there was not an ounce of air between you.

It was possessive, claiming, and yet so tender all at the same time. He backed you up to the nearest tree, out of earshot from the rest of the camp.

“Where the hell did this come from?” You breathed, panting as you held his face to break the kiss. You searched his eyes almost desperately.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, princess.” He blurted out in a huff, resting his forehead against yours. “Just couldn’t justify it to myself, you bein’ so young n’ all.” He muttered, almost like he was still trying to get past it himself. “Just couldn’t help m’self anymore.”

And then he was kissing you again, answering everything you hadn’t known you’d been praying for, fingers in his hair, chest against his. You pulled away once more, just to breathe, and whispered the words you’d wanted to all along.

“Ruin me.”

[nanamineedstherapy]

The Cleanest Line

Satoru Gojo x F!Reader + Alpha!Nanami Kento

Omegaverse (but make it dystopian no power AU), less-smut-focus, plot-heavy, dark sci-fi, psychological, a lil bit feral.

Summary: Not your usual Omegaverse. No soulmates. No scent kink. Just systems of control, state-sanctioned affection, and the slow rot of being wanted for what you represent—not who you are. If that lands, you’ll know. If not, it wasn’t meant for you. File under: cyberpunk grief, bio-political horror, quiet longing. “This felt like Psycho-Pass fucked Black Mirror, had a baby with DHB, and that kid married Fallout in a neon chapel.” – @mullermilkshake (Not an Omegaverse reader. Obsessed anyway.) TW: Suicidal ideation, mentions of male sexual assault, reproductive coercion, sugar baby contract. Song rec: “Shift (Alt Version)”—courtesy of @mullermilkshake, best consumed during Nanami’s club scene. (Purple lights. Hollow eyes. Let it rot something.) A/N: This fic is complete in concept, structured in full. Updates will follow. Thanks to @madwomansapologist for the original conversation that sparked this. And to @mullermilkshake—for the ruthless encouragement, the line edits, and the unholy enthusiasm.

Ch - 1: Artificial Devotion

The club was cold.

Not in temperature—nanogel walls sweated pheromone condensate, and the neon strips lining the ceiling ran in slow, breathy pulses to match the alpha-major rhythm embedded in the music—but cold in the way that places become when you walk into them hoping to die.

Nanami Kento nursed a drink he didn’t want, watching his colleagues pretend to enjoy each other's company. All around him: glossed-over omegas wrapped in synthetic lace, alphas bragging about their quarterly bonuses loud enough for the AI bartender to adjust their alcohol ratios mid-convo.

He didn’t belong here.

He wasn’t even sure he belonged anywhere.

Thirty-seven years old, in a city run by precision-coded intimacy and behavioral sync algorithms, and still too human to find solace in the way life had softened into something preprogrammed.

He had told himself that he’d come tonight to blow off steam.

What he didn’t say—not even to the digital assistant that monitored his vitals—was that he’d considered leaping from his office balcony earlier that afternoon.

Briefly. Coldly.

Like a man checking for rain before stepping outside. Not dramatic, not desperate. Just… tired. He hadn't known what exactly he was living for anymore.

The club pulsed like an artificial womb—slick, violet lighting; walls exhaling perfume-grade pheromones; AI bartenders offering cocktails calibrated to your mood profile. His colleagues laughed, their laughter pre-loaded with something synthetic. Happiness was a setting now, not a feeling.

He sipped quietly, drinking the kind of liquor people ordered when they had nothing left to prove. His fingers itched from the edges of his suit—custom-tailored, thread-count in the thousands, nanofiber-enhanced for pheromone neutrality. He wore it like armor. Because in this world, alphas weren’t allowed to be tired.

And Nanami Kento was so, so tired.

Then he saw them.

At the far end of the club—past the scent diffusers, past the private glass booths pulsing with dopamine-sync strobes—were two omegas. Kissing. Messily, unprofessionally, like they hadn’t gotten the memo that they were supposed to perform chastely in public.

One was undercut-white-haired, pale-skinned, tall, even more than Kento, and devastatingly beautiful, almost pretty in a soft way, but athletic enough that you’d second-guess reading him as an omega.

The other—

The other was so soft Nanami felt sick.

Small-framed, wide-eyed, dressed like someone who didn’t know what they had or how it could be taken. Except she did. It was there in the stiffness of her spine, in the way she smiled like she had claws in her pocket. Still, her laugh sounded like something unfiltered—something from a childhood not yet eaten by the city.

They danced like no one told them they shouldn’t. The tall one—29, Satoru, the AI in Nanami’s neural HUD whispered, flagged from old security archives—kept his hand pressed to the small of her back. Not sexual. Anchoring. Possessive. Instinctual. Like he’d taught himself not to flinch every time someone got close enough to smell what he really was.

One of them was... radiant. Hair catching the light like gemstones, laughter spilling out like water over clean glass. The other—striking in a way that made people pause, second-guess. Not just because he was an omega, but because he refused to shrink himself. Lean but solid. Shoulders squared. Movements practiced. Calculated masculinity, tailored to hide his designation in plain sight.

He still tried to find out her name.

But like all cosmic jokes, she was untraceable. No social records. No work profile. No digital footprint except her face caught in Satoru’s archived posts like a ghost he carried forward.

Nanami didn’t say anything. Didn’t approach. Just watched. Quietly. Then he left the club before midnight and deleted his suicide plan from his biometric scheduler.

Nanami didn’t kill himself.

That night, he went home and told the AI to dim the lights. He took a pill and laid in bed, letting it dissolve on his tongue while the system softly narrated his vital signs. “Your heart rate is elevated. Should I initiate meditation protocol?”

He turned it off.

He dreamt of them.

Even then, a year ago, Nanami had felt it—something wrong in his bones. Not envy. Not lust. Something worse. Hope.

A year later, they lived in his penthouse.

Not his, technically.

Nanami had paid for it, signed the contract, but he’d never set foot inside.

It was an arrangement.

Satoru had strictly only agreed with this living situation—smirking, self-assured, the scent of defiance and desperation threading beneath his perfectly calculated smile.

The girl—the omega, Nanami reminded himself, trying not to give her a name in his head—hadn’t said anything at first. She let Satoru speak for her.

Which made sense. Childhood friends, raised together in the cracks of the system. Both omegas. Both determined not to be destroyed by it.

What Satoru was willing to give wasn’t companionship.

It was access.

Nanami would never touch them.

That was the first line.

He’d fund their living—apartment, bills, security upgrades—and in return, Satoru would send content. Homemade videos. Just the two of them. Sometimes playful, sometimes unbearable in their intimacy.

Not pornography in the traditional sense. Something worse. Or better.

Nanami couldn’t decide.

He hated himself for watching.

Hated himself more when he didn’t.

He’d never been there. He paid the rent, the maintenance fees, the AI subscription plan for their domestic system. He wired money into a private omega protection fund. He received videos every Sunday, each one timestamped and watermarked.

It wasn’t porn.

Not really.

They didn’t perform.

Sometimes it was Satoru pushing her against the glass window, sunlight catching the outline of her body as if she were being worshipped by the city skyline. Sometimes it was soft, tangled limbs and muffled giggles, her wrist looped lazily around his neck while his eyes looked somewhere past the camera, like he was daring someone to turn it off.

Sometimes Satoru didn’t appear at all. Just her, on her stomach, whispering what she’d eaten that day. Her voice always had a tiny upward lilt, like she wasn’t sure if he’d listen. He always did.

Nanami didn’t touch himself to the videos.

It felt wrong.

Like praying in the wrong direction.

And now… things had changed.

It started subtly. A message on his secure line from her. Just one at first:

“Thanks for the apartment. It’s really nice.”

Nanami hadn’t known how to respond. He’d stared at the words for an hour before sending: 

“You’re welcome.”

Then some logistics: 

“Do you want the next video to be in the bath?”

Nanami let her decide.

Then more came. Curious, polite, always late at night.

Then one, weeks later: 

“Do you like talking to me?”

He hadn’t known how to answer.

But he had.

And now, he couldn’t stop.

Satoru didn’t know, not at first.

Or maybe he did and pretended not to.

But the tone of the videos changed.

The kisses grew sharper. The glances darker. Satoru began looking directly at the lens, sometimes.

Not in seduction. In challenge.

And Nanami… wanted more.

But Satoru hated him.

Of course he did.

Nanami had money, power, an alpha designation.

All the things Satoru never wanted—but needed. Satoru would’ve sold pieces of his soul to keep her safe. Nanami was just the buyer.

And she?

She started texting him.

At first, she asked practical questions.

What kind of shampoo do you use? Do you want different lighting in the videos?

Then it changed.

Have you ever been in love? Does it scare you to be alone?

Nanami answered honestly.

Because he didn’t know how not to.

He started checking his messages during meetings.

Leaving his AI on read.

He told himself it was harmless.

But Satoru noticed.

In the next video, his grip on her thigh was possessive. He stared straight into the lens like a threat.

It wasn’t just about sex.

It was about territory.

Nanami was trespassing.

So Nanami thinks about biology often now.

He wasn’t a fool.

He knew omegas weren’t safe.

Not in this world. Not even beautiful ones. Maybe especially not them. They were luxury assets. Like watches, like cars. Accessories for alphas to parade at tech expos and corporate galas. Something to flaunt. Something to break.

He’d seen what this world did to omegas. Especially beautiful ones.

Male or female—it didn’t matter.

If your scent was sweet, if your body responded, society would wring you dry and leave you doped up on suppressants in a clinic ward.

Even male omegas weren't spared.

If you didn’t wear the right modulator or travel with a protection drone, you were a walking target.

Nanami had seen it happen.

A male omega sobbing in an alleyway behind a corporate tower, slick on his thighs, scent torn out of control. No one helped. They just stepped around him like a glitch in the system.

Satoru knew that too.

And that was what Satoru fought against. Every breath he took was an act of rebellion. He worked out obsessively. Changed his gait, his posture. Wore a synthetic pheromone mask in public, registering neutral. His muscles weren’t for vanity—they were armor. Nanami knew the signs. He’d read too many case files.

The irony was that Satoru would’ve made a perfect alpha.

He had the spine for it, the ego.

The raw violence coiled just under the surface.

The only thing he didn’t have was the biology.

And still, Satoru never let anyone else care for her during heat. Not once. Even if it wrecked him. Even if it meant holding her through three-day highs on nothing but stubbornness and instinct. Even if it meant pretending he couldn’t smell her crying from another room when she thought he was asleep.

That’s why Satoru hid.

He wore synthetic scent blockers and took hormone suppressants. He worked out not for vanity, but to pass. His body a shield. Muscles built out of fear, not desire.

When Satoru looked at her, it was like his whole nervous system reoriented.

Nanami saw it.

Saw the way Satoru watched her in heat, as though his biology demanded he give everything—and still, he never touched anyone else.

No one else during those days. No play partners, no safe rut havens.

Just her.

He didn’t just love her.

He was defying his own body for her.

Keeping them off the streets should’ve made Nanami feel righteous, noble.

He was the one protecting them, after all. Feeding them.

He wasn’t exploiting them—he told himself that often enough.

But the truth was, he envied Satoru.

Hated how naturally they belonged to each other. Hated that he was the outside variable. The one they used, not the one they chose.

Then one day—

She asked to see him.

Not Satoru. Not the AI. Her.

“I think it would help. Ruru’s upset.”

“But I want to try. You’re not a stranger anymore.”

The phrase hit Nanami like a brick.

Not a stranger.

Nanami had frozen when the message came.

Not because he didn’t want to—but because he did.

Too much.

He hadn’t felt like a real person in years. Not since his own designation had turned into an executive liability. He wasn’t a man. He was an alpha unit—pre-programmed for dominance, responsibility, sacrifice. He hadn’t been touched with affection in a decade. People touched him for status. For gain. For fear.

He agreed.

Satoru allowed it, reluctantly. Nanami knew it wasn’t out of trust—it was pride. Satoru needed to prove something. That she’d come back home after. That whatever he had with her was immune to money and desire and every other transaction coded into the world’s algorithmic guts.

They met at a rooftop bar in District 8. Neutral scent zone. No pheromone amplification allowed. No synched lighting to manipulate mood. Just glass, wind, and silence.

She wore blue.

A long-sleeved dress, modest, simple, but her scent still reached him faintly when she leaned forward.

Not expensive. But it looked like she’d picked it because she liked how it felt. Not for him. For herself.

Satoru sat next to her, one arm draped casually along the back of her chair. Not touching, not claiming. Just… there.

Nanami didn’t know what to say. They didn’t talk about the arrangement. Not directly.

He took a breath but couldn’t smell them—not with the room’s filtration—but he could feel the weight of them. The bond. The history. A gravity so dense it warped space around them.

He thought: I’m an intruder.

He thought: I want to stay.

They talked. Mostly her and Nanami.

Satoru stared at his drink. When he did speak, it was precise. Measured. But underneath—rage. Fear. Resentment of biology.

Not jealousy, exactly. Something older. A wound too deep to scab.

When she smiled at something Nanami said, Satoru’s fingers twitched. Not out of anger, but like a muscle remembering pain.

Nanami saw it.

Saw the way he leaned in after, nose brushing her neck, like he needed to remind himself that she was still his.

That they were still real.

That Nanami hadn’t rewritten the bond just by being better.

The only thing Satoru asked him was why he never tried to meet them earlier. Nanami said something about boundaries.

The girl smiled faintly. “Do you ever wish you were someone else?”

Nanami looked at her, then Satoru. “Every day.”

And then, a silence so complete it buzzed.

He went home that night and didn’t open the new video.

He sat in silence, AI lights dimmed to night mode.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

He wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t old. He wasn’t unkind.

But he wasn’t needed either.

Not like Satoru was.

He couldn’t sleep that night.

His AI assistant dimmed the lights further, played calming synthwaves keyed to his biorhythm, but nothing helped. He lay awake, feeling Satoru’s gaze still boring into him.

Not threatening. Just… knowing. Like Satoru could see the exact shape of his desire and found it pitiful.

Nanami wasn’t angry.

He just wanted something real.

Not bought.

Not bartered.

He wanted her to text him because she missed him.

He wanted her to laugh at something he said, not because it was part of the game, but because it was him.

But in this world, omegas weren’t people.

They were collectibles.

Dress them up, parade them at galas, fuck them behind closed doors.

Male, female—didn’t matter.

The cruelty was non-discriminatory.

Satoru had survived that.

Refused to bend to it. Refused to let her bend to it.

Even if it meant breaking himself in the process.

Nanami knew now that Satoru wasn’t pretending to be an alpha.

He was something else entirely.

A shield.

And Nanami wasn’t sure if he wanted to break that shield… or be the one she chose when she finally didn’t need it anymore.

He started to fantasize—not about her naked. 

But about breakfast. About pouring her tea. About Satoru frowning when she tried to climb on counters barefoot. About small, trivial acts that didn’t belong to someone like him.

He didn’t want to own her.

He wanted them to want him.

And that, he knew, was the cruelest desire of all.

Because wanting her meant wanting to be chosen over someone who had already given up the world to protect her.

And what had Nanami given?

Nothing.

Just money.

He stared at the last message she sent before bed.

“Today, I thought about what it would be like if we all had dinner. Like a real one. You cooking. Satoru making fun of your apron. Me stealing dessert.”

Then:

“Would you want that?”

His fingers hovered over the reply.

Then dropped.

“Yes.

More than anything.”

---

A/N: This isn’t about heat. It’s about hierarchy. If something stayed with you—cool. If not, scroll. For the masochists still here:

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All Works Masterlist

[aeyumicore]

So sad to see that you might not be writing for lnds anymore:((( But we were lucky to have you for as long as we did.

What was your favorite thing that you've ever written? For lnds or for anything else?

ahhh!! this lowkey made me kinda emotional given that i’ve been very much considering myself done with writing with writing (lads) lately.

my favorite thing that i’ve written, which is actually for lads, is the ending part of sylus’s misty invasion (lost oasis). i am very invested in sylus's lore and i very much by into the (self-indulgent) theories that he and mc were tested on together as children in the same lab, and that's how they met. maybe that's how they both got their aether cores. but some how they were separated, mc lost her memories, but sylus retained his and was further tested on.

that's what i centered this little blurb around, and the ending of lost oasis of course.

i very much teared up when i wrote this LOL idk why sylus is such a bias wrecker for me. he literally holds my heart in a chokehold.

copying it here because why not -

excerpt from sylus's misty invasion - lost oasis

The night air is brisk, sounds of ancient handbells ringing out softly as the dark sky twinkles with distant stars. A nearby bonfire rages, the sound of crackling of wood mixing with the distant chime of bells. And yet, it’s Sylus’s large body holding yours that keeps you warm against the gentle night breeze of the desert. 

The hammock the two of you cuddle in swings lazily, Sylus’s fingers languidly stroking your hair as he tells you myths of the Gods and humans that once resided in this very valley. 

“What about your world? What was your life like as a kid?”

Sylus is still as his body cradles your own, his fingers crushing the blossoms that had fallen into his palm. He hesitates for a second before saying, “Nothing special. I struggled to survive.”

Your heart clenches painfully at his words. His voice is nonchalant, yet something about his words is melancholic. Eerily wistful. 

“I never imagined that one day, we’d be sitting in a place like this. Having discussions about the world,” you whisper.

You look up to catch Sylus staring at you. For a brief second, you catch the emotions in his eyes. They’re desperate, pleading with yours. For what, you’re unsure. He quickly blinks, the cerise orbs returning to their natural state.

“Do you think we’re talking about the same world?” His voice is unbearably gentle, his words confusingly cryptic, as if edged with a double meaning that you can’t quite grasp.

“I’m not sure,” you confess softly.

There’s a brief moment of silence. You continue, “Today is when people give flowers to each other in Linkon, but…”  Your voice trails off. You gently dust off the fallen petals that’d landed on his shoulder, hand reaching to brush over his heart as you pick up a branch of the delicate flowers off his abdomen.. 

“Could those flowers bloom in this kind of soil?” You ponder aloud, holding the cluster of fallen and wilting blossoms, so different from the vibrant and thriving ones you’re familiar with in Linkon.

You glance up at Sylus again. The shadows of the palm trees above you obscure one side of his face, the other half haloed by the soft glow of the moonlight. He looks threateningly ethereal. The pools of carmine in his eyes glow as they search yours. Like earlier, they glimmer with inexplicable emotions that seem to plead with yours. Begging you for…something.

But he doesn’t speak, instead taking the cluster of wilted blossoms from your fingers. He twirls them in his fingertips, inspecting them carefully. He strokes the browning petals, a strange look of nostalgia flickering across his face. 

You don’t understand, but you reach out for his hand, squeezing his fingers in yours. He squeezes you back, still looking mournfully at the flowers in his fingertips, almost as if remembering a painful memory. 

Finally, Sylus turns to you. His smile is devastatingly beautiful and tragic all at once, his finger moving to tuck the loose strands of hair behind your ear.  His piercing red eyes bore straight into your soul, the faint luminosity of his Aether core beating behind them.

“I’ve seen far more beautiful flowers bloom in this desert.”

© aeyumicore 2024.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

[doeeyedseer]

Some positive things said about elain.

“Elain had always been gentle and sweet—and I had considered it a different sort of strength. A better strength. To look at the hardness of the world and choose, over and over, to love, to be kind. She had been always so full of light."

"I gazed again at that sad, dark house—the place that had been a prison. Elain had said she missed it, and I wondered what she saw when she looked at the cottage. If she beheld not a prison but a shelter—a shelter from a world that had possessed so little good, but she tried to find it anyway, even if it had seemed foolish and useless to me. She had looked at that cottage with hope; I had looked at it with nothing but hatred. And I knew which one of us had been stronger."

"'Elain nodded, smiling up at me, and it was tentative joy—and life that shone in her eyes. A promise of the future, gleaming and sweet. "

"But Elain, the flower-grower, the gentle heart"

"She had come alive here and her joy was infectious. There wasn't a servant or gardener who didn't smile at her, and even the brusque head cook found excuses to bring her plates of cookies an tarts at various points in the day. I marveled at it, actually- that hose years of poverty hadn't stripped away that light from Elain, Perhaps buried it a bit but she was generous loving and kind- a woman I found myself proud to know, to call sister."

“Beautiful—she’d always been the most beautiful of us. Soft and lovely, like a summer dawn.”

“That smile grew, bright enough that it lit up even Azriel’s shadows across the room.”

“Elain quietly washed his face. Combed out his hair and beard. Straightened his clothes. She found flowers—somewhere. She laid them at his head, on his chest. We stared down at him in silence. “I love you,” Elain whispered, voice breaking.”

"The Cauldron seemed to realize what she’d done, too, as his head thumped onto the mossy ground. That Elain … Elain had defended this thief. Elain, who it had gifted with such powers, found her so lovely it had wanted to give her something … It would not harm Elain, even in its hunt to reclaim what had been taken.”

"Nesta was wrong, Cassian realized, to think Elain as loyal and loving as a dog. Elain saw everything Nesta had done and understood. "

"For a moment, I just stared at my sister, the wisdom she'd spoken. Not a whisper of those oracular abilities. Just clear eyes and an open expression. "

"I think she’s kind, and I’ll take kindness over nastiness any day. But I also think we haven’t yet seen all she has to offer.” A corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Don’t forget that gardening often results in something pretty, but it involves getting one’s hands dirty along the way.”

"She loves her garden. Always loved growing things. Even when we were destitute, she managed to tend a little garden in the warmer months. And when - when our fortune returned, she took to tending and planting the most beautiful gardens you’ve ever seen. Even in Prythian. It drove the servants mad, because they were supposed to do the work and ladies were only meant to clip a rose here and there, but Elain would put on a hat and gloves and kneel in the dirt, weeding. She acted like a purebred lady in every regard but that."

"and Elain was so gentle, so sweet …"

“My sister Elain can convince anyone to do anything with a few smiles.”

“Elain, who had been gentle and sweet. Elain, who was to marry a lord’s son who hated faeries …”

“Even wasted away by grief and despair, Elain’s beauty was remarkable. Hers was a face that could bring kings to their knees."

“Nesta met her sister's warm brown eyes. When human, elain had easily been the prettiest of the three of them, and when she'd been turned High Fae, that beauty had been amplified. Nesta couldn't put her finger on what changes had been wrought beyond the pointed ears, but Elain had gone from lovely to devastatingly beautiful. Elain never seemed to realize it.”

“Including Elain, who is more than capable of defending herself against the darkness of the Trove, if she chooses to. Don’t underestimate her.”

“Elain, mourn as she might for the life she would have had with Graysen, had found a place, a role here. Tending to the gardens of Feyre’s veritable palace on the river, helping other residents of Velaris restore their own destroyed gardens—she had purpose, and joy, and friends: those two half-wraiths who worked in Rhysand’s household. But those things had always come easily to her sister. Had always made Elain special."

"I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. "

"Lost to whatever fog of memory had crept over him, he was smiling mildly at his beloved Elain, the only one of us who bothered to really speak to him at all."

"There was a slight sparkle in her brown eyes.As if she’d been enjoying herself with them. I put a hand in my chest, leaning against the wood panels of the stair wall. Rhys’s hand covered my own a heartbeat later. “that was what I felt,” he said, “when I saw you smile that night we dined along the Sidra,”

“Some were as lovely as you, Elain,” Rhys said from beside Feyre"

"I smiled at my sister, memorizing her lovely face, and wiped her tears away. "

"My sister was beaming, content- prettier then I'd ever seen her, even in her simple muslin gardening dress. Her cheeks were flushed beneath her large, floppy hat.

"Her face had somehow become more beautiful- infinitely beautiful, and her ears...Elain's ears were now pointed beneath her sodden hair."

"The cauldron purred in Elain's presence as the King of Hybern slumped to his knees, clawing at the knife jutting through his throat. "

"The faelights gilded Elain's unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. "

"Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had filled out since those initial days in the Night Court. Gone were the sharp angles, replaced by softness and elegant curves."

"Her sister turned toward her, glowing with health. Elain’s smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the windows."

"I'll do it," Elain said, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. She didn't wait for either of us before she strode out , graceful as a doe."

"Her mouth tightened, the only sign of anger in her graceful countenance. "

"but something in me eased at that laughter, at the light thay returned to Elain's eyes. A light I wouldn't see dimmed further. "

Bonus:

" I knew they’d both die the moment that power hit them. Anything, I begged the Cauldron. Anything— The king’s hand began to drop. And then halted. A choking noise came out of him. For a moment, I thought the Cauldron had answered my pleas. But as a black blade broke through the king’s throat, spraying blood, I realized someone else had. Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.”

“Elain was the only one who guessed. She caught me vomiting two mornings in a row. " She nodded toward Azriel. "I think she's got you beat for secret-keeping.".

“I mean, she’s been brave when she had to be, but she’s never been confrontational.”

“But I wonder if everyone has spent so long assuming Elain is sweet and innocent that she felt she had to be that way or else she’d disappoint you all.” He sighed toward the ceiling. “With time and safety, perhaps we’ll see a different side of her emerge.”